Lost Memory of Skin

“If Russell Banks hadn’t become a writer, he thinks he would have wound up stabbed to death in a barroom brawl. He is the son of a two-fisted, drunken New England plumber, and the grief of fatherly combat resonates through his work like the background radiation of the big bang.” –Amazon

Visceral.  Lost Memory of Skin evoked a visceral response.  On more than one occasion, the act of reading it left me downright queasy, stomach tied in knots.  Mr. Banks has penned a brutal bare knuckled novel that punched my buttons, left me prose drunk and reeling.  It’s a literary left hook to the conscience, and certainly unsuitable for the faint of heart.  Dark matter indeed.  By turns vile and sublime, I often found myself watching the clock at work, desperate for the day’s toil to be done, so that I could go home and read some more.  I could not get enough.  I am not ashamed to admit that on more than one occasion I lied to friends and lovers in order to climb back in the ring with this one.  I hung with it to the final bell, and all I can say is, Russell, you beat me up, but I feel you, I really do.