Post Subject: A Fable by Oliver de la Paz

I so enjoyed this 2015 book by Oliver de la Paz. Post Subject is a series of letters, all addressed to “Dear Empire" At the beginning section of the book, these missives telescope from a general, generic, high-level but tender view of a world. The empire is presented with pieces of itself “These are your boardwalks” “These are your engines” “These are your refugees” . . . There are few specific characters, one being an artist, another her son. The artist is a beautiful individual counterpoint to the empire. The book does read like a magical-realist fable, a bit of Calvino, a bit of Garcia Marquez. As the book moves to the second section, the undertones are ominous and the intensity increases. There are disasters. The book seems timeless, possibly because time has lost meaning. The speaker is omniscient and complicit. The book leaves the reader indicted and scarred, in a beautiful way, reminiscent of Kaminsky’s Deaf Republic or Gonzalez’ Book of Ruin. Buy here.

From "These are your skies.”

. . . There is only so much debt my heart can make. I hand myself over to you. I let you ransack. The night is copper, and you are the gleam off the slickened streets in my bombing sites. You are the gleam.

From “These are your evenings.”

The buoy near the furthest atoll is a constant. Red light. None. Red light. None. The boats are moored against their own destruction. They pitch like restless horses. We, from the shore, are nervous. We, from the shore, are listening for the lighthouse. We listen for its shine.

“These are your refugees”

Dear Empire,

These are your refugees. The tents they use to cover their heads are made of a soft, translucent fabric. When winds spill down the mountain, the tents inflates like the sails of a ship. The whole valley is adrift in an arid sea. And when the sun strikes the tents, you see the shadows of the people against the rippling curtains of silk:

Here is a family the silhouette of the mother is turned to one side, then disappears as the walls of the tent fold inward. And here is a child with a ball. Here is an old woman with her back pressed against the walls of cloth, craning her head as though she were listening to music from beyond the camp. As though she were filled with the expectation of water in a very hot month.

From the mountains above the camp, the tents are the egg sack of a giant amphibian, the living hearts beating clear in a clutch of embryos.