Cannibals

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY ١٠ فبراير ٢٠٠٣

The stateside debut of British novelist Collins is a collection of 88 micro-vignettes told in the voices of various hipsters, glamour girls and sexual adventurers, most of whom have nothing to do with one another. Individually, these wee pieces hold few surprises in terms of plotting and barely have a chance to get off the ground. Together, they form an intense but unfocused portrait of urban anomie in the United States and England. A chapter called "Goosebumps" opens with a nameless, gender-dysphoric character having an erotic interlude with a man named Cameron; the next chapter, one of the strongest, is about a man who viciously hangs his own dog for the crime of mating with an inferior breed. Many of the pieces sketch decadent young jet-set types who discuss vomiting onto other people's shoes, modeling gigs, designer labels and how bored they are with love and life. Jilted lovers obsess, junkies rationalize, mothers express disappointment. Sometimes these scenarios unfold in a few sentences, then it's on to the next mini-drama. The longest of the pieces are often poignant and well-turned, as in "Li," in which a woman shares a galvanizing one-night stand with a jockey. But there are far too many six-line chapters that, while edgy, are simply too brief and vague to make an impression. Collins is a talented artist; one wishes he worked on a larger canvas.