Tag Archives: Book Reviews

Review of “RB” to appear in Romanian Journal, Alecart

The following review is to appear in the Romanian literary journal, Alecart:

Neuronic Revolutions: Harold Jaffe’s Revolutionary Brain

(Liana Vrajitoru Andreasen)

Have you ever wondered what foments in the brain of a revolutionary, what genetic mechanism or extra-circuits keep guard against the apathy and carelessness that numb our neurons? The newly-published book by Harold Jaffe, Revolutionary Brain, suggests a few possible answers. In part shocking, as history also tends to be, in part a meditation, this collection of poems/essays/fiction is a revelation with a fresh taste of revolution, an unveiling of the present moment in the form of active art, reflective art, “crisis art.” Many of the live frames that he captures with something akin to a director’s eye are those moments that move fast past us, barely noticed by the world’s population preoccupied with the illusory elixir of consumerism. Jaffe’s book freezes in amber the moment of “crisis” – and I am not referring here to the most obvious events of recent history, but the subtle writhing of the souls that refuse to be complacent, deviants going in circles in the labyrinth of a stratified society, fists shaken at the sky, or at our contemporary world. All of these are ephemeral pearls of the new millennium, which the writer gathers carefully before they turn to sand. He purposely breaks with tradition, precisely to capture that neuron that doesn’t conform, doesn’t let itself be multiplied and defined, so that in the end it’s hard to explain to what genre to attach his lists, news reports, dialogues and sparks of humanity that come to light from the apocalyptic jungle of a world in decay, as much in danger as the glaciers that are disappearing before our very eyes. The writer forces us to confront the demons of complacency that are crushing our creativity in favor of consumer entertainment.

The revolutionary brain is not only a metaphor for anti-complacency. In the text “Revolutionary Brain,” Jaffe invokes a little known fact, that after the death of certain leaders of the radical German group Red Army Faction, their brains disappeared and were said to have been stolen by scientists and examined in Frankfurt laboratories. We read: “According to the pathologist, Meinhof’s 1962 brain surgery in which a benign lesion was excised generated her transformation from a talented, ambitious journalist to co-founder and intellectual leader of the revolutionary Red Army Faction” (117).

Many of the volume’s texts are manipulated news that, without the writer’s ideas and aesthetical perspective, would otherwise disappear from the public conscience without a trace, without a moral that future generations can derive knowledge from. In a dialogue with a formerly homeless person, Dewey Birdsong, we find out that spirituality is not reserved only for the privileged. This homeless man built with his own hand a mountain that he named “Salvation Mountain,” and when the mountain was declared an object of art and started to bring him money, Dewey used that money for his project, so that the mountain (still growing) is now unique in the entire world. Dewey confesses:

    At first when someone even mentioned me being an artist I’d correct’em.

    No, no, that ain’t me.

    But then it happened so often I got to feeling I should feel good about it.

    Shoot, I don’t care what people call it.

    If they want to push the mountain as art, boy, I’m glad you like that artwork. [laughs]

    Just so “God is Love” is up there and folks can come and draw their own conclusions.

    (104-5)

In one of the shocking, intriguing “lists” from Revolutionary Brain, the voices of people about to be executed rise from the pages as if they were still alive, asking us to understand them, to listen to them:

      Date of execution: January 16, 2002
      Offender: Horace Allen #987225
      County: Liberty
      Last Statement:

    Members of Mrs. Lackey’s family, like I said, I take responsibility for the death of your daughter in 1989.

    I am deeply sorry for the loss of your beloved daughter.

    I am a human being also, I know how it feels.

    I cannot explain and can’t give you no answers.

    I can give you just one thing.

    I’m’a give a life for a life.

    I am not saying this to be facetious.

    I hope yawl find comfort in my execution.

    As for me, I am happy, that is why you see me smiling.

    I am glad to be leaving this world.

    I am going to a better place.

    I have made peace with God, I am born again.

    I hope you get over any malice or hatred you feel.

    God bless yawl.

    (12)

This list, placed at the beginning of the book, contrasts with a list of pornographic sites toward the end of the volume, one that exemplifies the obsession with death, the return of the longing for death that consumer society tries in vain to shield us from. The artist has the obligation to record even these throes of the immoral soul in search for water on an empty, deserted earth. More than that, the artist is not only a man, but a creature of the planet, just like a rabbit that screams in agony, an elephant about to vanish from the earth, or a whale on whose body we placed a “delete” button. The writer explains this preoccupation for subjects that others would exclude from the realm of art:

Art that responds to a crisis is situational, hence created rapidly rather than painstakingly   revised and refined.

Crisis art is directed rather than disinterested; more closely related to art as process than product.

Crisis art is keenly aware of text and context.

Crisis art often works best collaboratively.

(25)

Polemical, refusing to hide in plain sight, Jaffe is a voice that means to be subversive, but at the same time it is full of humanity. It is a voice of confluences, neuronic short-circuits between the internal and the external, between global and spiritual spaces.

Liana Andreasen grew up in Romania and came to the US for more “learnin’.” Her steps took her to Maryland for an MA and New York State for a PhD. Since “way leads on to way” as Frost says, she journeyed on and reached South Texas. Mainly interested in modernist fiction and poststructuralist theory, she published articles in journals such as The CEA Critic and Quarterly Review of Film and Video, and a few short stories. She co-manages STC’s Interstice

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Larry Fondation on “Revolutionary Brain”

Larry Fondation’s insightful review will appear in Black Scat Review #3 in June.

Revolutionary Brain

By Harold Jaffe

    The end of a life is always the end of a life.  Even bad guys were once swaddling babes.  Since 1976, the State of Texas has executed 493 people – not all of them bad, or even guilty.  But bad is not the point.  “Thou shall not kill.”  The State kills.  In cold blood.

    In his latest book, Revolutionary Brain, Harold Jaffe fires an opening salvo – and indeed it is a rocket shot – with a text called “Death in Texas.”  Jaffe quotes the last words of 15 executed inmates.  The 16th murdered prisoner, Jimmy Blackmon, refuses to speak.

    In fiction, non-fiction and docu-fiction, Jaffe has taken on aspects of our society before – celebrity, serial killers, violence, addiction.  Now he is taking aim at the entire contemporary culture.

    We live in a time of radical disjuncture, discontinuity and disruption.  Social media and, especially the Smart Phone, have created the Instant Society.  Conversations are disrupted by the beep of an incoming text message.  Wonder what movie won the Best Picture Oscar in 1983?  You can look it up – right away!  Power is concentrated, but farther away than ever – even recalling Steinbeck’s famous line near the beginning of Grapes of Wrath:  “Well, who do I shoot then?”

    The sound of the last century was the clang of machinery; the sound of this one is the ever-present beep.

    We have lost our ability to relate and engage.  The result is greater marginalization – more distance, not less – and a focus on trivia and entertainment, yielding a further rupture of meaning.

    Nothing matters more than info-tainment – not our friends, not politics, not the planet.

    Jaffe faces the onslaught – our “hugger-mugger” culture, as he calls it.

    “Truth-Force” opens with an interrogation about whether to execute a torturer or release him, and it ends with a recitation of ten repeating “couplets:”  “Avert your eyes.  Don’t avert your eyes.”

    Several lists of “Things to Do” include taking a bath while on Ecstasy; drinking cognac; and, collecting female hair from airline baggage, then encoding your fantasies on your Smart Phone.

    “Pet Girl’ mimes an internet-style news item in which a girl on a leash held by her boyfriend is kicked off a London bus for being a “freak.”  She concludes by saying what she does “isn’t hurting anyone.”  The bus company issues an apology.

    It’s the way Jaffe cants and assembles the pieces that packs the power.  It’s Julia Kristeva’s “abjection,” with an even further twist.  Our empathy is pulled towards justice – but through shock and mud.  And more than a small part of the shock is simply how quotidian shock has become in the age of “entertainment for profit,” as Jaffe describes in an interview with novelist Joe Haske.

    Jaffe’s response employs a montage technique.  (Indeed he treats Andrei Tarkovsky and James Whale in the volume.)  What he achieves is a kind of postmodern Plato’s Cave.  Jaffe re-orders false reality; he then re-layers reality so we actually see it.

    An archetypical Jaffe inversion occurs in his piece “Freeze-Dry:”

    “Doctors are attempting to freeze-dry a severely disabled girl, 9-years old, to keep her child-size at her parents’ request.  Born with static encephalopathy, she can’t walk or talk, and has the mental capacity of a month-old infant.

    “Watch the child twist her mouth grotesquely and emit animal noises:   [Video]”

    Of course, there is no video; it is a book.  The reader is left to ponder this crazy conundrum.  Above all, Harold Jaffe makes you think.

    Los Angles-based artist, Guillermo Bert had a recent exhibition, called “Encoded Textiles,” at the Pasadena Museum of California Art (PMCA).  Bert traveled to his native Chile, and collected traditional stories there from native peoples.  Then, using special software, the artist translated their stories into barcode patterns, which were woven into textiles by indigenous weavers.  The results appear strikingly similar to the patterns and forms of historical Native American weavings.  Bert turns the symbol of price, of commodity, into story.  The effect is powerful.

    Though dissimilar in its deployment of technology, the project struck me as similar in vein to Jaffe’s:  to use formal innovation to turn technology against itself in the service of genuine story and real meaning.

    Similar to digesting visual art, Jaffe’s book forces us to see anew.  As in the plastic arts also, Jaffe uses form to serve content, and vice versa.  The “essays and quasi-essays” in the book vary from a few lines to 12-page pieces; from do-lists to interviews; from Q&A to exposition.  In each case, Jaffe adjusts the form precisely to match the social and aesthetic purpose – eye-opening in every case.

    Revolutionary Brain does not content itself solely with cultural critique; it also moves towards prescription.

    Perhaps my favorite text, while not prescriptive per se, is the title piece.  Jaffe describes the authorities’ removal of the brains of the three top leaders of the revolutionary German group, the Red Army Faction (RAF).    All three allegedly committed suicide in German prisons in 1976 and 1977.  The RAF, also know as the Baader-Meinhof Gang, fractured post-WWII European capitalist hype with a series of bombings and kidnappings of industrialists – parallel to, but more dramatic than, the Weather Underground in the United States.  The radical German group spoke of “Nazi capitalism” — an eerie echo in these times of record inequality between rich and poor.

    Elsewhere and throughout the book, Jaffe advocates engaged art and animated activism.

    “Crisis Art” begins with a quote from Woody Guthrie:  “This guitar kills fascists.”  Jaffe then points to a number of artist-activists – Chilean women making protest tapestries to depict the harsh brutality of the Pinochet regime; a Thai artist who set up temporary food and shelter spaces for the homeless; Welsh women setting up a “peace Camp” to demonstrate against nuclear weapons.

    The piece concludes with an imperative for artists and non-artists alike:  “The primary obligation is not to avert your eyes; to bear witness.”

    Perhaps with Harold Jaffe bearing witness to our times, we may be able to hear the screams above the constant din of our century’s seminal beep.

***

Larry Fondation is the author of the novels Angry Nights and Fish, Soap and Bonds, and of Common Criminals, a collection of short stories. His fiction focuses on the Los Angeles underbelly. His two most recent books feature collaborations with artist Kate Ruth.

Fondation has lived in LA since the 1980s and worked for fifteen years as an organizer in South Central Los Angeles, Compton, and East LA. His fiction and non-fiction has appeared in a range of diverse publications including Flaunt (where he is Special Correspondent), Fiction International, Quarterly West, the Los Angeles Times and the Harvard Business Review. He is a recipient of a 2008-09 Christopher Isherwood Fellowship in Fiction Writing

Tyrone Nagai Reviews Revolutionary Brain

The following is forthcoming in the Journal of Experimental Fiction (JEF).


Revolutionary Brain: A Review

by

Tyrone Nagai (February 28, 2013)

Reading Harold Jaffe’s Revolutionary Brain: Essays and Quasi Essays should be done with both a wide arc that considers the multiple interconnections among the 19 texts as well as precise focus on the book’s epigraph by Julia Kristeva: “as abject—so the sacred.” Throughout Jaffe’s tome, which covers a broad spectrum of topics from “Anal Acrobats” to “Salvation Mountain,” the common denominator is Kristeva’s notion of the “abject.” Kristeva defines the “abject” as the physical and emotional reaction to disintegration in meaning caused by the disruption of the relationship between subject and object, or self and other. In Kristeva’s theorizations, reactions to the abject in the form of horror, vomit, or fear come naturally from experiencing shit, sewage, gaping wounds, or a human corpse. And as the epigraph suggests, Jaffe’s essays and quasi-essays attempt to show this breakdown in the established hierarchies of meaning, social structure, and power relations as not only abject but perhaps as sacred too, for Kristeva argues that one of the means of purifying the abject is through art. Moreover, by reimagining the essay through docufiction, verse, memoir, and agitprop, Jaffe articulates an unrestrained polemics on contemporary political, social, and cultural dogma. His innovative use of form melds with the provocative content to push readers out of their comfort zone and into a space where the intellectual and imaginative must work together to form understanding.

The opening narrative, “Death in Texas,” consists of a list of last statements by death row inmates. Their date of execution, name, prison identification number, and county are the only details given besides their last statement—which must be completed in three minutes or less according to Texas law—yet Jaffe is able to evoke a range of ethnic identities, spiritual orientations, and emotional states. Varying combinations of guilt, love, forgiveness, acceptance, and justice all intermingle in the prisoners’ words, and perhaps this ultimately serves as an indictment of not only the use of capital punishment in Texas, which leads the U.S. in executions, but also the silencing of dissenting voices that come from the margins.

“Crisis Art” reads like a more traditional essay in terms of its form, and it seems to extrapolate from Kristeva’s words in the epigraph. In this text, Jaffe provides numerous examples of crisis art—or “the use of cultural means to effect social change or a wider social awareness”—in order to make the case for more activist-oriented art work. Jaffe’s knowledge and understanding of crisis art’s history and effectiveness especially illuminate his abilities as a writer, scholar, and political thinker. While some may view crisis art as something ephemeral and in need of a “cause” in order to harness its energy, Jaffe instead makes the case for crisis art as a response to the dominant culture that can endure and inspire long after the immediate crisis fades away.

“Freeze-Dry” is a compact text of 48 words about attempts to freeze a nine-year-old girl with severe developmental problems that have left her with the mental capacity of a one-month-old. Perhaps what’s most startling is the last line: Watch the child twist her mouth grotesquely and emit animal noises [Video]. By imitating a hyperlink, this line is suggestive of Guy Debord’s notion of the spectacle and contemporary culture’s turn to an actuality mediated through abstract imagery enabled by technology: “Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation.” In other words, the girl’s predicament is broadcast for the world to watch, yet genuine sympathy or compassion remains inhibited while the possibility of individual emotional catharsis remains, like drivers passing a fatal accident on the highway.

In a related way, “Anal Acrobats” amplifies this concept articulated in “Freeze-Dry” by focusing on U.S. culture as a whole, which Jaffe describes as “pocked with noise, blandishments, spectacle, shameless contradictions, brazen lies, squalid apologies.” In turn, Jaffe suggests that the people enveloped by this culture “need extremity beyond extremity to dodge the collective torment we are forbidden to acknowledge.” And how does this extremity express itself? And what is forbidden? Through mainstream acceptance of anal acrobats (porn stars engaged in anal sex), Jaffe proposes that “anal” has become a substitute for “death,” which, in his words, is officially suppressed in the U.S. One can think not only of the silenced inmates on death row in Texas but also the prohibition against filming the flag-draped caskets of soldiers returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. And in a world of “beautiful people wannabes (who may be Tea Partiers in real time)” the destruction of the natural environment caused by “profit-mad industry” with assistance from cynical politicians becomes the impending death we are all too scared to face.

“Pet Girl” is a brief text about a young woman who is led around on a leash by her boyfriend. It serves as a set up for the following story “Animals,” which also seems to connect with “Anal Acrobats” in the sense of interrogating the juncture where “surplus profit metastasized electronically.” Here, notions of property, sexism, slavery, and animal rights intermingle as a trickling thought in the background of the story rather than the forefront, and the text makes a logical transition into the next essay.

“Animals” makes leaps from Jorge Luis Borges’ mythical creature, the A Bao A Qu, to Sri Ganesh, elephant-son of Lord Shiva, and to the poaching of elephants and other animals on the African savannah. From there, Jaffe makes a series of quick turns, touching on Clarice Lispector, Buddhist monks, Upton Sinclair, Gandhi, and “Lord Rama, whose animal familiar was Sri Hanuman, a monkey, infinitely superior to human kind.” The rapid fire references and images accumulate and intersect like a montage to build a larger, more evocative scene. In some ways, Jaffe is pointing to human beings as creatures without conscience and animals as the ones with true dignity and wisdom.

“Fear” is a one-page exchange of questions and answers between two unidentified voices that pontificate about cognac and how it inspires them to become “unafraid.” It is through this imbibing of spirits that one of the characters is able to ultimately lose their fear and becomes merciful, thus suggesting an inhibition against such sympathetic feelings.

“Iso” seems to be linked to “Fear” through the character Qa, whose name evokes the question-and-answer format of the latter story, yet Qa seems to serve as an alter ego that is forced to navigate the strife and anxiety of the present. In terms of style, “Iso” reads like a long jazz riff with the rhythm and burst of a poem. The stream of consciousness associations flow freely, encompassing red-winged blackbirds, Mississippi, Robert Johnson, alienation, Oedipus, zombies, cinema, “the 1%,” and dissident art.

“Sacrifice” initially draws on Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1986 film of the same title to bob and weave its way through a discussion of the meaning and purpose of both real and ritualistic sacrifice in the context of a “diseased earth is in the throes of dying.” Antonin Artaud, Marquis de Sade, Adolf Hitler, the Holocaust, Gustav Mahler, John Brown, slavery, and Pierre Paolo Passolini all appear in “Sacrifice” as Jaffe uses brief anecdotes to illustrate different forms and outcomes derived from both actual and perceived “sacrifice.”

“Bride of Frankenstein,” based on the 1935 film, questions the idea of who or what is a monster by closely following the plot of James Whale’s iconic work. In the process, Jaffe reveals glimpses of the inner lives and personalities of three writers: Mary Shelley, Percy Shelley, and Lord Byron, all of whom appear as characters in the film.

“Things to Do” (1) is a short text with a strong poetic, and it suggests ingesting Ecstasy (uncut), taking a warm bath, and sitting “naked, cross-legged on the Navajo rug loving the world and everything in it” for two hours and forty-five minutes. Perhaps Jaffe is pointing out an ironic truth in that the much maligned ingestion of Ecstasy comes precisely at a historical juncture where the commoditization of time has become an omnipresent, 24/7 actuality in which even love can be ingested in pill form and measured with a clock.

“Truth Force” takes a darker turn in that it deals with torture, violence, and execution as political practice. The story appears to take place in a Spanish-speaking country in Latin America where a military junta has seized power, enlisted a professional torturer from the U.S., and commenced abducting, interrogating, and executing poor and indigenous insurgents. What makes the story stand out is that Jaffe adopts the perspective of the insurgents, and he excavates the process of how they transformed from being nonviolent protesters using Gandhi’s philosophy to being violent revolutionaries in the mold of Che or Trotsky. In short, the insurgents quickly realize that they must fight state-sanctioned violence with their own righteous violence. In their case, there is no other way to work for political change.

“Hijab” continues in a political direction, but the focus is on the anti-Islamic micro and macro aggressions perpetrated by national governments, such as those in France and the U.S. “Hijab” involves two alternating refrains that reset the discourse each time. The first one, “French technocrat and Muslim teenager at the entrance to the lycée outside Paris,” grounds a discussion about the politics of forcing Muslim girls to remove their hijabs before entering public schools. The Muslim teenager only known as Mille, a girl wearing a hijab, rightfully points out to the French technocrat that other African and Caribbean students in France are not required to remove their dashikis, bubas, kaftans, jubbahs, or dreadlocks when they attend public schools. In addition, Catholic nuns are never asked to remove their head coverings. Interspersed with this conversation is a second refrain, “Two global reprobates slouching outside the Bourse, in Paris.” Here, two characters wax and wane about 9/11, McCarthyism, genocide, the internment of Japanese and Arab Americans, female and male circumcision, Nicolas Sarkozy, William James, and the veil as metaphor for various political “curtains,” such as the Iron curtain, bamboo curtain, etc. But, when the discussion reaches the so-called Muslim curtain, one reprobate explains to the other that “the greatest horrors will be wreaked by the other side,” i.e., the West.

“Russian Roo” opens with “See the wizened humanoid in his motorized wheelchair flying a tattered American flag, the flag that maimed him in the war and afterwards.” The disembodied voices of the story discuss the writer Graham Greene’s anti-war novel The Quiet American and the rumors that he played Russian Roulette and smoked opium. But, embedded within this narrative is another one about disappearing the so-called “robotic leaders” and deleting the “corrupt institutions,” which seems to circle back to the opening line: “See the wizened humanoid in his motorized wheelchair flying a tattered American flag, the flag that maimed him in the war and afterwards.”

“Things to Do” (2) veers away from the explicitly political subject matter of the previous three texts by presenting a type of fetish involving women’s hair taken from lost or delayed airline luggage. The last line encourages one to “Encode your fantasies of the hair-owner’s most intimate gestures on your smart phone.” While this tale may seem like a non sequitur, it could be read as an inverted metaphor about corporate surveillance, the invasion of privacy, and the U.S. obsession with air travel security and terrorism in the post-9/11 environment.

“Salvation Mountain” is an interview with Dewey Birdsong, the creator of Salvation Mountain in Slab City, California. In some ways, this text echoes “Crisis Art” in the sense that Dewey has no formal training as an artist, sculptor, or painter, but he is nonetheless making art as a spiritual act in much the same way that crisis artists make art for a political cause. For Dewey, he wants to spread the message that “God is love,” and Salvation Mountain is his testament to Jesus. He survives on the donations and charity of others, and he lives simply in an old truck on the site of the mountain. While Revolutionary Brain often slashes at dominant discourses to peel away their veneer and reveal the fundamental rot and ugliness beneath the surface, “Salvation Mountain” offers a rare glimpse of the sublime.

Like some of the other far-ranging essays in the book, with their intellectual leaps and cultural bounds, “Weep” crisscrosses various persons and political causes to interrogate both the fear and anguish that can move one to tears. From Marlon Brando crying at the casket of assassinated Black Panther leader Fred Hampton to the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, and many points in between, “Weep” ultimately ends with what may be considered the overarching thesis of Jaffe’s book: “Weeping animals, plants and stones, traverse the benighted globe, commencing in the west, swaying south, east, north. Even as I walk hand-in-hand / hand-in-paw, weeping, I stand sad-eyed by the gravest, the worst-suffering. I pass my hand over their heads. They are impressive in their weeping. Tormented, restless, they weep until bloody, fruitless wars are over. Climate change acknowledged and addressed. Dehumanizing post-capitalism hacked, disempowered. The invisible colored poor made visible. The twisted made sound. Enslaving technology disappeared. How long will all that take?”

“Revolutionary Brain,” the title essay of the book, explains the odd but true story of violent revolutionary Ulrike Meinhof, whose brain was preserved and studied, without her family’s permission, by neurologists after her alleged suicide in prison in 1976. Psychiatrist Bernhard Bogerts had secretly examined Meinholf’s brain for 15 years, and he concluded that surgery in 1962 to remove a brain tumor may have influenced or even caused Meinholf to co-found the revolutionary organization Red Army Faction, which led a series of political killings and kidnappings intended to overthrow the German state in the 1970s. While the surreal nature of this tale makes it interesting by itself, its placement alongside the other essays raises questions about the nature of political resistance and the extremities that dominant actors in the state will go to medicate, sanitize, suppress, or otherwise deflect attention from the inequality, oppression, alienation, and exploitation—all byproducts of dysfunctional governmental and economic systems—that lead to insurrection and revolt. What’s more, Jaffe ends this story with a section titled Revolution Post-Mill, which might appear to be a separate text, but it is actually the second part of “Revolutionary Brain.” Revolution Post-Mill is a list of pornographic web sites, but Jaffe treats them in a way to emphasize their not so hidden racism, sexism, and homophobia. While, on the one hand, the dominant culture casts pornography in a questionable moral light, it is simultaneously a multibillion dollar business controlled by similarly structured corporate entities that administer other sections of the mass media. When placed so close to the story about Meinhof, one can’t help but see how direct political action, such as that carried out by the Red Army Faction, becomes nothing more than a distraction given the heaps of attention paid to online pornography, and this seems to return to the issues raised in Jaffe’s “Anal Acrobats.”

The final text, “Things to Do” (3), offers not a call for liberation through revolution, escape through self medication, or inner peace through meditation, but an enunciation by Joseph Roth: “The world worth living in is doomed. The world that will follow deserves no decent inhabitants.” While some may see this as fatalistic and pessimistic, prolonging the status quo is no longer an option for writers like Jaffe. The Earth is dying. Sustaining our current political and economic trajectories will not result in continuous ascent into greater wealth and prosperity for all. Rather, we are rapidly consuming our way into oblivion. If there is a hope, perhaps it resides in Revolutionary Brain.

*

Tyrone Nagai received his MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. His work has appeared in Fiction International, The Strip, New Verse News, and Armageddon Buffet.

His review of Revolutionary Brain, forthcoming in the Journal of Experimental Fiction.

New Orleans Review Praises Revolutionary Brain

The New Orleans Review calls Harold Jaffe’s Revolutionary Brain “an accessible read that offers neither authoritative explanations nor easy resolutions to today’s problems of digital overload; instead, the book, by its own example, attempts to illustrate how art and activism can shock us out of complacency.”  Read the entire review, here: