This reads like Nostradamus TV, if he ever had that medium, he’d be making strategic commentary that might be quoted centuries later.
Humanity is on a course of self destruction. If the brain can’t be rewired quickly, the planet is going to be destroyed. But don’t let that thought get in the way of a good story.
It’s very English. It’s a novel that should be lugged in with other British novelists, from Douglas Adams to, well John Gartland. The Guardian said Orgasmus ‘was Leslie Thomas of Science Fiction.’
The book is a visual feast. It’s got it all. Sometimes you are left wondering, who is doing the tripping, the reader or the writer. Yep, it’s that fucking good.
Only love can bridge the gap between the primitive and higher part of the brain.
Watch more TV, you say. Visuals are streamed from the Neocortex.
How about a pinch of love? Distributed in aerosols? Or just popped, like a pill should be.
This book is a raunch across the paradigms of this century.
Now that doesn’t make sense.
The author isn’t concerned who is right and who is wrong on the ideological front. What matters is that all the fruit cake groups join together in an orgy of love in the fostering spirit of peace.
He wants us to think about how our blindness is leading us to extinction.
This book has hints of Perfume. But it’s far more sensual and the objective is less selfish.
If only radiated medicine can be distributed, there might be hope for humanity.
‘It’s what Huxley called ‘the gatekeeper’, or the ‘limitation valve’ switched off, the brain lights up with new connections like a bloody Christmas tree.’
The jungle beats are usurping the porn beats of Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft”. The subliminal resonates with primal screams of back beats ‘and overdubbed with a menagerie of groans and whispered cries.’
The prophet of the absurd has a message.
‘Make love, not war.’