In 1984 or so I read T. M. Wright’s A Manahattan Ghost Story and it changed my life. Up to that point I wanted to be a journalist and was in college studying that as a major and mass communications as a minor. I’d written or started some short stories at that point but nothing serious.
Wright changed that. His ability to weave a tale that chills and causes you to think came across so easy I thought I could do it. And man, was I wrong. 30 novels later he’s still as brilliant as the day I first read him a quarter of a century ago.
Eyes of the Carp may be his best yet. At a scant 125 pages or so, it says far more than many 500 page door stops that have felled entire forests and still say nothing. It is to his credit that a book which leaves more questions in the readers mind once finished still feels satisfying.
Protaganist Kevin is a serial killer. Or he may not. What is certain is he is one fucked up dude. I don’t think I’ve ever read a novel that delves so deep into a person’s psyche and exposes all the neuroses and dysfunction su successfully. If Kurt Vonnegut wrote horror he would write a novella like Eyes of the Carp and I can’t think of higher praise.
This isn’t a beach novel. It’s not light reading. It demands you pay attention and draw your own conclusions. In the hands of a lesser writer this would be pretentious twaddle. In the hands of a master like Wright it shines like a beacon of intelligence in a sea of mediocrity.
Published by Cemetery dance it’s available from Amazon.com. Go there now and order a copy. Kevin’s waiting for you.