I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like [Paperback]

Justin Isis pounces onto the literary scene in his first novel published by the avant garde Chômu Press as a voice so strange yet so very well practiced at his nascent craft that he bears close observation. I WONDER WHAT HUMAN FLESH TASTES LIKE is a title of one of the ten stories in this 'progressive involvement' technique of novel writing and if that title doesn't capture the attention of a wide and sophisticated audience then the cover art by Colwyn Thomas most surely will! The book is presented as a collection of short stories, and yes, they each could stand alone as each has a theme and a beginning and an end, but when read consecutively they feel like peeling an onion as the narrator takes us through experiences one by one that demystify him, allowing the reader to begin observation in the early stories as a voyeur and lead to feeling of involvement in this odd artist's life as a confidant.

All of the stories take place in Japan and each of them involves the narrator encountering a female figure who may or may not be real (the girls may be a part of the artist's creative side of his brain, part of his writing skill). Justin Isis keeps our attention by bringing such odd concepts into the line of the stories as bizarre methods of self gratification, cannibalism, spontaneously strange physical encounters with his females, horrifying incidents of killing pets, and so forth. Yet we are always given the option of considering these incidents to be imagined or dreamed - a very wise technique in developing stories that might otherwise lose the reader.

As an example of how Isis accomplishes this is as follows: 'Yeah, he said. It's another dream I had, about this fox that turns into a girl. I guess it's more like an outline, there's not that much description. I mean, I think technical proficiency is a waste of time. You can spend your whole life learning to write or draw everything perfectly and it won't mean anything if you're not saying anything new. What's the point of life if you don't have any ideas?' And continuing in the dialog of the title story the author writes: 'You might be wondering what the connection between foxes and eating human flesh is. The truth is that there is none, but by calling my story that, I force whoever reads the story to make some kind of connection. That's part of my strategy, to force the reader to make connections between things they wouldn't necessarily connect. If it's successful, it taints their everyday system of association with new associations that I can impose. That's the power artists have, to reorder how people see the world.'

Such is the insight of this intelligent and gifted young writer, Justin Isis. And so flows this endlessly fascinating stream of bizarre tales that challenge us to look at the weird, the impossibly improbable encounters he introduces to us at face value and then realign our probable provincial concepts to open windows of possibility. Prepare to be shocked into new ways of thinking - and then prepare for his next novel that simply must not be far behind! Grady Harp, January 11

Justin Isis' `I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like' is never less than interesting. The style is measured, reflective and smooth, suiting the anomie of the characters and in nice contrast with their obsessiveness it yet underlines. In the book's last story, he assumes the convention of someone outwith the writing who knows the main character both inside and out while, as narrator, knowing more.

With dialogue he introduces another character he's not presuming to know except from externals. Surface characteristics of others are described. There's an odd sentence: `no one cared if they were fifteen ...since there was obviously nothing for them to enjoy,' as if the criterion for the older characters envisaged would be the pleasure or not of the fifteen year olds in their midst. There's no peep beyond the appearances of these older characters. The narrator projects onto their impassive surfaces what his protagonist would impute to them, either himself imbuing that character with his own characteristics or identifying with him. It's like a dream where only what's enough to identify a person from life is dreamt.

The protagonist in `A Thread from Heaven' is called Park, a Korean name. His mother's name is also Park, the equivalent of our surname, presumably the father's. Fathers are conspicuous by their absence, a factor in homosexuality. Park copies his in giving to his girlfriend what his father had to his mother. Mothers exist to indulge their children without intrusion. The children take that they're provided with funds for granted.

The father had been a young doctor in Gwangju, which may or not equate to Guangji, in China. I'm no cunning oriental linguist, and nothing much more is ostensibly made of this cause for alienation in Japanese society. Park's success with girls could be put down to his stated beauty rather than any daring exotic appeal. Foreigners are described as standing out but as if Park himself were integral. Yet Park is an alienated character and the narrative tone detached, deadened even. Some of this could be put down to his being unacceptable; and his not being accepted could also account for his knowingly putting himself in a punishing situation at the hands of a superior boy. Park's masochistic, save for the want of an orgasm which would've controverted Pack's heterosexuality at a stroke, regardless of how many girls he was having to prove otherwise. Come to think of it - and all of this is retrospective thinking - the pieces of Park are picked up by his friend's mother, a further countering by the narrator of any adverse sexual connotation being put upon the character he identifies with. Park's inclination to his friend's mother isn't however taken much farther, having served its purpose. Park also exhibits sadism, towards girls.

The majority of the characters are alienated. That they are could be put down to adolescent disconnectedness. Park matter of factly dumps his girlfriend, because of a romantic idealisation - he determines is only that - for another girl; and the girlfriend is mostly concerned for the temporary loss of status entailed in not having a boyfriend, going on to cut Park's hair in no very vengeful way. She's not saving face, covering emotion up, because there's no emotion to cover up.

Park's friend has a romantic fantasy of his own. He takes in Park's philosophy and while acting in accord with it provides as consequence a merger in his art that Park takes extreme exception to. I didn't understand why at a first reading. It's only art, after all, wish fulfilment, which in the circumstances prevailing could be shrugged off or even found flattering.

Park is a thief and liar. He makes, as his friend has remarked, excuses. He doesn't keep his word. He gives it to be agreeable, when he's being imposed on, knowing he won't keep what'd inconvenience him. You'd think then the last thing he'd do would be to admit he's read what he shouldn't when he need say nothing but he makes quite clear he has and that he won't be countenancing the realisation of his friend's fantasy for him. When his friend resorts to emotional blackmail, he is again quite categorical. He acts out of his usual character perhaps because of an implicit fear of the unstated homosexuality, goad to heterosexuality, but that does not provide explanation enough of his subsequent overreaction to his friend's art. What does is his self-regard. The friend has trumped him at his own game; Park's reality is being determined by the friend's art. That's insupportable.

I've been trying to figure out the best way to describe 'Human Flesh' for the past few days and have come to the conclusion that it actually not only defies description but genre as well.

Though technically a collection of short stories, it is best viewed as a segmented novel; each story builds on the previous entry.

Set in modern Japan, 'Human Flesh' begins minimalistic, almost raw in its descriptions of characters and scenery. Everything has a shadow puppet quality about it and where it might lack in meat it gains in a disjointed, almost surreal nature. Many times you are left wondering if certain scenes were figments of wild imaginings or a disturbed reality for the characters.

As the stories continue to grow, so does the weight of the characters and their lives. Things begin to flesh out, taking on a feeling of a twisted biography. You begin to view the world at a different angle.
Even as the stories draw you in there is still a slight taste of the alien about it all. And you can't help but want more.

Towards the end of the novel (for lack of a better term) most of what can be taken away relies heavily on personal interpretation. What one reader might view as morally reprehensible, another might understand and sympathise with the longings.

'Human Flesh' is hard to fully describe. In many ways it reminds me of a Jackson Pollock or an avant-garde film. It's something that needs to be experienced to be understood.