The cover proclaims this to be A.E. Van Vogt's "rarest novel" and celebrates the amazing luck that the publisher was able to re-discover the work and print it for all the masses. Of course, that would be in the early sixties and I myself chanced upon the book here in the next century. Odd.
At first startling was that I'd never heard of Van Vogt, and I consider myself a fan of genre fiction - especially high-minded, conceptually-confusing science tales that deal with the making and breaking of the universe. I've since finished the short novella (one of the reasons I chose it first to make sure I got the behkuhwik project running) and was both amazed with the concepts yet unimpressed with the writing. The cliches run wild and numerous times Vogt doesn't even try a new, individual image but the book's shortcomings in the literary sense didn't keep me to finish. Think time-travel, paradox, egotistical male protagonist, and generally amazing notions of existence. Of course, after finishing, I learn that Philip K. Dick (in my top 5 authors of all time) cites Vogt specifically as an influence. Cool shit
I give it 2.768 points out of a possible 4.000.
Cheers. The next read? Maybe David Foster Wallace. Maybe Herman Wouk. Maybe a re-read of Roberto Bolano.
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