The Fluid Mirror, by EugenPetrascu (A Brief and Wholly Inadequate Review)
If, during my extensive presence here in our theProse.com village (albeit as resident madwoman) I have accrued any clout worthy of any sort of consideration whatsoever, even in the smallest degree, I would like nothing more than to utilize that influence in the furtherance of this novel.
I will not lie to you my dearest fellows, the fact is that The Fluid Mirror shocked me egregiously. Those of you who know me know full well that I am not easily shocked, so in consideration of my disposition, and in light of the possibility that my ravenously open mind is mistakenly called into question by this statement, I would like to explain why it shocked me. The culprit was not, as might otherwise be suspected, the vivid pornography of the first scene; that chapter written with all the semi-intentional audacity of an unspoken adolescent fantasy (An inception given, I might accuse in hindsight, to appall and repel any would-be-reader not open to naked reflection of himself.) It was rather the subsequently beauteous insight into the scope and breadth of humanity which unfolds itself between the written lines. The author of this writing, by my harshest and most severe estimation, is a prodigiously talented individual. His is an artfully artless art; an earnest exploration of existence in all of it's full and glorious dismay. Please, lose yourself in it as I have.
The book in question can be found here:
It should be noted in conclusion that Eugen Petrascu has not requested, nor has he even given his permission, for me to erect this pedestal by which I now display him in this manner. And for my crime of passion, I can only beg for his merciful forgiveness. He is sure to disapprove, in the humble manner of all excellent craftsmen, my unbridled and disturbingly personal unveiling of his efforts.