Benjanun Sriduangkaew, And Shall Machines Surrender. Prime Books, 2019. Pp. 108. ISBN 978-1-607015-34-5. $9.99.
Reviewed by J. Moufawad-Paul
There is a Julius Eastman composition, “EN,” that uses the constraints of four pianos facing each other, with one pianist directing, each playing a sparse set of themes. Through timed disunity and unity—the latter generated by the directing pianist counting down aloud at key moments—EN is one of the most elegant and complex contemporary compositions. Somehow it manages to generate a stunning depth, lacking in longer pieces with less constraints, despite and because of its minimalist boundaries. I first heard this piece played live at the 2015 Venice Biennale, curated by the late Okwui Enwezor, and was floored by its “less is more” structure.
If we think of Benjanun Sriduangkaew’s novella
And Shall Machines Surrender as a composition, it is similar to this Eastman piece. A limited number of characters, two points of view, and a short period in which the present action plays out. At the same time, Sriduangkaew strips down her always beautiful prose: it is less ornate and dense than her other works—a kind of velocity and immediacy are imported into her style so that it becomes stream-lined and slightly spartanized—but still sings. Just like Eastman’s minimalism. Within these constraints something dense and complex coalesces. Something entirely cinematic.
There are times when a novel’s mythology precedes its publication. Adel Abeda’s The Velocity of Inertia is precisely this kind of novel and, as such, it is difficult to review. Edited and rewritten by Abeda’s wife, the critically acclaimed photographer and poet Rika Zorne, the literary presentation of Velocity is beyond reproach; you cannot read this book without being impressed by its style. But Zorne’s participation in the publication contributes to its mythology since the awareness that every sentence of Abeda’s draft was rewritten by Zorne immediately makes the reader suspicious of the quality of the original manuscript. Moreover, it reminds the reader of Abeda’s absence and the fact that the authorial void might be more interesting than the novel.
