Xstabeth
A Novel
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- 3,99 €
Description de l’éditeur
INCLUDES 'PREQUEL' THE TOWER THE FIELDS THE TRANSMITTERS
'This book spoke, it said "read me" from the very first sentence as if it were alive, it gave me visceral joy' Kim Gordon
'Reading [Xstabeth] feels like being cut open to the accompanying sound of ecstatic music' Edna O'Brien
'Prepare for more of that inimitable Keenan narrative voodoo brilliance' Wendy Erskine
In St Petersburg, Russia, Aneliya is torn between the love of her father and her father's best friend. Her father dreams of becoming a great musician but suffers with a naivete that means he will never be taken seriously. Her father's best friend has a penchant for vodka, strip clubs and moral philosophy.
When an angelic presence named Xstabeth enters their lives - a presence who simultaneously fulfils and disappears those she touches - Aneliya and her father's world is transformed.
Moving from Russia to St Andrews, Scotland, Xstabeth tackles the metaphysics of golf, the mindset of classic Russian novels and the power of art and music to re-wire reality. Charged with a consuming intensity and a torrential rhythm that pulses with music, it is an offering of transcendence and a love letter to the books of Chandler, Nabokov and Dostoevsky, by a writer who is rewriting the rulebook of contemporary fiction.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Scottish music writer and novelist Keenan (This Is Memorial Device) delivers a bizarre treatise on love and art in the early 1990s. Aneliya, a young Russian woman and daughter of a striving musician who dreams of fame but mostly performs Leonard Cohen and Nick Drake covers, falls in love with his "famouser" musician friend Jaco. After Jaco sets up Aneliya's father with a gig that's recorded and released under the name Xstabeth, the recording becomes a cult phenomenon and changes their lives. The narrative is split between the main story and fragments theorizing on Xstabeth written by former students of a writer named David Keenan, who killed himself in 1995 ("Ennui is the most beautiful concept of all. It is melancholy fallen from grace," one of them writes). The sections narrated by Aneliya are emotionally gritty and gloomy. They also have no punctuation other than periods: "I thought to myself what kind of a Russian speaks like Shakespeare. Like Dostoevsky. Surely. Like Tolstoy. Perhaps. Like Solzhenitsyn. No doubt." Throughout, Aneliya questions the nature of art—"a neurotic activity"—and dances around the text's driving question: "Where does significance come from?" As the music writers wax extendedly on their esoteric subject, they land on occasional flashes of brilliance. Sometimes this odd text makes beautiful sense, but more often, it doesn't.
