This book was published in 2022 to little fanfare. It came out of what is IMO the highest-quality micro-press, Corona/Samizdat. Seriously, it's on the same level as Dalkey or New Directions. Much as I like to brag that I discovered this book when it was truly obscure, I admit I only read it in January/February by which point it had been picked up on by many within Pynchon's fanbase. So much for my contrarian taste ...

The tale is a satire of an American plantation owner named Bradley Pinçnit in the 60s. There's a man named Dyxsov, which should be enough to convince any Pynchon fan to read it.

I'm a firm believer in the idea that an author's words speak stronger than even the most skillful reviewer's (which I am not):

In this place, outside elements are rendered useless. Gusts of wind eddy through a barricade of limbs and leaves and are left diminished in a subarboreal world where they harmlessly whirl, confusing lightweight materials such as finely woven garments and crocus leaves. This expansive canopy of intermingling oaks shelters a swath of land and its occupants from the brunt of discomposing forces pestering lime besetting sin.

Call me presumptuous, but that introductory paragraph is the greatest description of the South since Faulkner put pen to paper.

Throughout the rest of the book, Stickley's erudition, particularly his vocabulary, looms large. Normally, this would leak to obfuscation, confusion, a stilting of the rhythmic beauty found in that excerpt; however, he somehow continues this gravity-defying performance. To say each sentence is more beautiful than the last is one of the most tired clichés, so in my pretension I'll resort merely to this apophasis. One can understand, appreciate every sentence without a dictionary despite near every page having an unfamilar word.