Pablo D’Stair’s Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate review

We learn on page 13 that our narrator has killed someone. But on page 9, a man the narrator later calls Montgomery, begins following him. This reverse in chronology sets the tension for all of Pablo D’Stair’s Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate. Simply put, this short novel is a study in paranoia. We’re voyeurs to Kaspar’s consuming mistrust, witnesses to a man’s destruction—possibly, self—as he tries to place a stranger’s cryptic knowledge of the murder.

We never learn the true circumstances of the relationship between Kaspar and his victim beyond the superficial, which allows the story to focus on the concept of paranoia, instead of the circumstances of this particular case. This distance is impressive considering the amount of time we spend inside Kaspar’s head. And this uneasy “alone” time allows for the nuances of Kaspar’s condition. He reveals his paranoia quite articulately, generally:

I lifted the bourbon to my mouth, but almost immediately retched, a thought stabbing me, that Montgomery had somehow known I would buy just that bottle, had held his penis over the bottle lip, voided himself into it, somehow resealed it. (104)

But during the times of deepest paranoia, the narration itself adopts a jumbled, burnt-tongue quality. The story gets intentionally incomprehensible for full passages, but always remains linguistically pleasing:

For a minute, five minutes, for a little while, I felt I’d not done anything to deserve a speck of the nightmare I roamed headless, ugly though. (61)

This focus on concept, along with the sparing use of the run-on sentence construction hints at a Jose Saramago novel, but Pablo D’Stair manages enough of his own style to set Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate apart quite nicely.

I leave you with these beautiful quotes on paranoia:

But why would he call the police? How would he know she wouldn’t be back? Where had she been? It was senseless. I felt I was trying to reason with the rules to a card game invented by a six-year-old. Was it all just to screw with me, still? (43)

I was some creation, some meaning, Montgomery artist, me his art. (52)

I walked passed, though the door, trembled up a cigarette, got t to my mouth, was up the block, another block before I thought to light it. (114)

Review by Caleb J Ross

Visit:
Pablo D’Stair (the author)
Brown Paper Publishing (the publisher)

Buy:
From Amazon.com