BIBLIOFILE
Kapow! Press chapbooks
by various authors
(Kapow! Press, 22 pages, $4 each)

Like being given an exquisitely wrapped gift, only to expose a well-meant yet useless item, the unveiling of Kapow! Press' illustrated poetry series in miniature is disappointing. Chicago poet Shappy's sensitive little poetry boy is the most impressive of the lot. Heavy on the pop-culture references, uncomfortably funny and strange as hell, this mental soundtrack is accompanied by drawings reminiscent of the lovable losers from the Andy Capp or B.C. comic series. Drawn by Sam Henderson, of MagicWhistle comic fame, they are a fitting accompaniment to the well-worn themes of self-obsession and alcohol.

Local talent Kevin Sampsell contributes with a minikin titled Etiquette for Evil. With his own brand of original scenario, Sampsell takes the reader on a high-strung journey into the mind of a reformed Catholic. This is a land where the devil wears "filthy and/or torn" socks, enjoys sticking his hand in your mouth and has a strong dislike for Mickey Rourke. Schizo mastermind Ivan Brunetti's drawings complement Sampsell's words with an exaggerated style, producing a most lovable Prince of Darkness.

While the freak-show illustrations of The Misfit Clique are expertly done by David Lasky, a wunderkind in the mini-comics underworld, the poetry of Juliette Torrez comes off like a sophomore's first draft. Comic artist Rafael Navarro, best known for his pulp comic Sonambulo, illustrates The Girl with the Glass Eye in a minimalist's chiaroscuro. It's a shame some of that dramatic depth hasn't influenced author Kenn Rodriguez, who embarrasses himself with laughable metaphors involving Mexican food. Lisa Warner

Mary and O'Neil
by Justin Cronin
(The Dial Press, 243 pages, $21.95)

In the last decades, the literary standard for mainstream contemporary fiction has been set by the Iowa Writers' Workshop. By now, Iowa grads' work sounds pretty much the same, which is why it's so comfortable--and predictable--to read. So it's exciting when one of these hardworking McHacks tries something we've never seen before.

Justin Cronin's debut, Mary and O'Neil, explores life's unpredictability in a series of linked pieces. In the first segment, "Last of the Leaves," O'Neil's parents visit him at college. It's a long, richly detailed tale, steeped in New England nostalgia and the smell of burning leaves, that ends tragically, providing a springboard to O'Neil's adulthood. The book continues with well-drawn scenes plucked from his life as well as the experiences of those near him--his sister and Mary, the woman he marries. Some scenes venture into the dangerous territory of sentimentality, but Cronin usually treads cautiously.

Mary and O'Neil is a perfect example of the Iowa formula: the correct balance of character development, description and plot. But the author adds an unexpected element that most male writers wouldn't touch: feminine intuition. From the first piece, the women possess, to varying degrees, an ability to grasp the metaphysics of life in a very physical way. A few of these portrayals are over the top even for metafiction, such as when Mary, reeling from an abortion, is visited by the spirits of her future children. But Cronin uses a delicate touch to examine things that have baffled male scribes since the dawn of paper. It's very refreshing. Thanks, oh hallowed Iowan, for trying something different.
Susan Wickstrom

The Body Artist
by Don Delillo
(Scribner, 124 pages, $22)

Don DeLillo's first novel since 1997's epic Underworld is a far sparer work. At 125 pages, The Body Artist details the unusual period of grief experienced by performance artist Lauren Hartke following the suicide of her husband. What makes her grief unusual lies in what she discovers upon returning to her rural New England home: a small, fragile man, apparently unable to produce anything other than cryptic non-sequiturs, sitting in his underwear in an upstairs room.

The pleasure of reading DeLillo is not merely that he is immensely talented, but that he is nearly fearless. The mundane, married-couple-breakfast scene that opens The Body Artist is material most writers would compress or skip; DeLillo expands it, investing breakfast with mystery and beauty. His strings of words, at their most breathtaking, are both well-wrought and true: "She moved toward the table and the birds went cracking off the feeder again. They passed out of the shade beneath the eaves and flew into sunglare and silence and it was an action she only partly saw, elusive and mutely beautiful, the birds so sunstruck they were consumed by light, disembodied, turned into something sheer and fleet and scatter-bright." It's difficult to respond to passages like that with anything other than a quiet "Yes."

It would be disingenuous to claim that I understood every bit of The Body Artist. It is, at times, intellectually obscure. But complete understanding isn't required for enjoyment, and DeLillo expects his readers to do a little work. His considerable skill is evident on nearly every page, so it's well worth the reader's effort.
Dan DeWeese