Blake Butler: Sky Saw

“Blake Butler, mastermind and visionary, has sneaked up and drugged the American novel. What stumbles awake in the aftermath is feral and awesome in its power, a fairy tale of an ordinary family subjected to the strange, lonesome agony known as daily life. There Is No Year is a merciless novel cleansed of joy, pumped full of fear and awe.”

— Ben Marcus

“If there’s a more thoroughly brilliant and exciting new writer than Blake Butler, . well, there just isn’t. I’ve literally lost sleep imagining the fallout when There Is No Year drops and American fiction shifts its axis.”

— Dennis Cooper

“Blake Butler is a daring invigorator of the literary sentence.”

— Gary Lutz

PRAISE FOR NOTHING

“The klieg-light intensity of Butler’s writing intimates that there is something fundamentally terrifying about what each of us does every single night, which is to pitch our minds and bodies into oblivion.”

— Time

“The primary effect of sentences like these is a powerful immersion. Reading them, we are running “Blake Butler” as a kind of executable software program in the hardware of our heads.”

— New York Times Book Review

“Think David Lynch. In the waking dreamscape where Butler’s thoughts spin out of control, he could be De Quincy’s opium-eater wandering through a Dali painting by way of a poem by Antonin Artaud.”

— Atlanta Journal & Constitution

“…a disorienting, fractal-edged portal into [Butler’s] increasingly elastic perception of consciousness, space-time, and metabolism.”

— The Onion A/V Club

“There are some cues from the sprawling internal monologues of Nicholson Baker and the genre-defying non-fiction of William T. Vollmann in this expansive exploration of sleeplessness, but Butler is a writer unto himself. Simply put, you haven’t ever read a book like Nothing before. It’ll keep you up at night”

— Creative Loafing Atlanta

“Lyrical…A weird, waking-dream of a memoir superbly illustrating the relentless inner spin of the insomniac.”

— Kirkus

PRAISE FOR THERE IS NO YEAR

“[There Is No Year] is a thing of such strange beauty that digging for answers of your own will yield the rewards that only well-made art can provide.”

— New York Times Book Review

“There is no novel like Blake Butler’s There Is No Year. . Unexpectedly riveting, totally original, and frequently funny.”

— Denver Post

“Calling Blake Butler’s There Is No Year a novel is akin to calling René Magritte’s The Treachery of Images a pipe; both works subtly expand the framework of their respective disciplines by challenging an audience that has solidified its expectations after centuries of familiarity and repetition.”

— Time Out New York

“Dystopian and sinister.”

— Nylon

“An endlessly surprising, funny, and subversive writer.”

— Publishers Weekly

“A smoke signal on the horizon of the American literary landscape. . [As] if Gertrude Stein wrote the script for a Kenneth Anger film set inside of a Norman Rockwell painting to be produced for YouTube with a John Cage soundtrack. . [Butler’s prose offers] ecstatic pleasures. . it bursts and cracks with inventions and constructions.”

— Creative Loafing

“This artfully crafted, stunning piece of nontraditional literature is recommended for contemporary literature fans looking for something out of the ordinary. Recommended for students of literature, psychology, and philosophy, as the distinctive writing style and creative insight into the minds of one family deserve analysis.”

— Library Journal

Now

White cone descended in sound blister

There were the people having skin removed: to make the hood over our last evening

Cone, White cone, colored destroyed, slipped between the wall air and the bodice of the sacrificial mothers making money from the rummage of their wombs, unto the cone

Our homes turned on their sides, the sound of the descent fixed with the ripping split the image of our vision into ten and ten again, we watched the fluelight strobe from softer planets in the vision of the fly, our begging formed a prayer

The cue meat of our perfect flayed-red bodies had been for hours there arranged, stood up on gray dots in White silence for the cone, we called it god, we called our bleating mothers named into the fold of needless seeing, this could have ended where it began, could have spared the retch of splitting selves, where the anger of the firmament released a golding dew

In the patterns of the people I could see the homes bumping through the frame of dirt rising magnetized to match the cone, the other color was a skin box inscribed with the numbers of our names, and someone begging inside the begging to be released from infinite fits, as this could yes go on forever and this would yes go on, numbers remained, sod remained fit to our cerebrums where we touched inside the fold, becoming only ever one mass body, the blubber of metal lungs and unending crystal squeal

Under the sever of the folds of each skin there were mirrors being turned up toward the gold, to fix the light back at itself and in beam of it the air began to mold white and formed with cones along the bristle, there were corridors there eaten into nothing, there were the blind becoming tongues, crumpled hard under a coarse hold where no one wanted and the sandwiches were worm, the fire leading backwards into long globes where the holes would let you fall forever among dough, the cribbing of the muscles, the asking of the child, how to as well exit this wrecked body before it hits the ground under the ground, and under that, the chew

Now our unraveling for evenings and the columns of the replicating bell, a cord of child milk rising in pink glisten for the city lamp and making every person see themselves before themselves with tubes removed, the index of the body bopped with big sheaths of silver foiling, catching words where there were words, though there were very few, the colds came rolling, cinder burst in spume, chocolate winter, no condition, a bottle of the night, the words went on and on repeating in no hours crammed between, the crust eroding on the clocks, rams the size of nowhere folding through the granule of the teeth, where anyone had been bitten for any year at all, I did not know what to say, I did not know what to say or could be needed, the hammer of the grunt, pig babies falling out of holes surrounding, wired, what I needed was this flesh

No, what I’d needed was not anything about a body, it was a small leak over the house, where all these animals were writhing and making little purple pockets from their sweat, by which hand over hand for hours one might climb into a blue mark that had corroded just across the gray, the mink of all the skies folded to one sky again quilted in the money of our night, a face just behind it, I heard seething, with its flabby lips and neon teeth, speaking into our white cylindrical air with all the language to be given back to zip, back to the mime behind the moon’s boob squirting ugly milk all in this life, and still no one here would stop me from Become, no one could gather at my knees, the gnats having strengthened all such bulbs around us that the speaking even would not fit, and nothing left and wives dividing, and the money in my snatch, for every hour of the day a bed bloated stone-sized on the face of waters that had risen over all old glow, all the powerwires farting bloating pellets