...a deathly serenade...

misunderstood, from this, in more ways than one,
with critics and readers constantly forgetting how
humorous he actually was. In hindsight, he was
rashly categorised as a poet or deemed a writer of
dark works. Neither labels I felt were correct. It
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
seems that the label, comic novelist, although one
he constantly refused, is a closer reflection of his
work at times. The essay by the famous critic,
Robert Howarth, entitled: Understanding The New
Black, published in the New York Review of
Books, fittingly said of Franz's work:
"Confronted with death, his work is as if, arriving at
a funeral, you are then overcome by the most riveting
conversations you've ever had, a gluttony of hilarious
jokes of the worst variety; as trying not to laugh
becomes simply futile, and, of course, the most
expensive V.I.P wine. You feel naughty when you
read his work, he tempts with images and words, then
makes you realise that you are still at a funeral. It's a
bit like life, or at least the best parts of it. Poignant."
On the same row, the presence of, Alton
Gordunov's, Port de bras, written in 1930's Soviet
Russia, is of significance for numerous reasons:
Firstly, this book was long known to be a
favourite of his, evidenced when he said of the
book, "quite possibly it's one of the most unsung
modern-day masterpieces, an authentically
elegant scream that resonates with me, and I
hope to help produce the screenplay as the studio
asked." – The Paris Review, 2013. Secondly, in
the same interview published in the Paris Review
he was asked why this book resonated with him
and he went on to give a long explanation that I
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