THE PLOTINUS

Imprisoned for his lack of streamlined perfection, a subversive eco-guru (or perhaps ordinary human man) finds solace in the minute remnants of the natural world that infiltrate his cell.

The narrator of this dashingly absurd novel has been imprisoned for the crime of appearing outside his dwelling in possession of a “knobby stick” whose organic imperfections offend the robot Plotinus, which apprehends him. Stripped of his coveralls, shoes, socks, and stick, the narrator is flung into a closet whose only aperture aside from the locked door is an air vent set high up in the wall. Here he is attended solely by the Plotinus, who arrives clanging and screeching to deliver ancient breakfast rolls or punish forbidden hoarding of dust and twigs. Rather than succumbing to his deprivations, however, the narrator sets himself the task of “consider[ing] the positive aspects of exile and of [his] diminished circumstances,” as he raps his knuckles against the air vent in the coded sequences that translate into the novel. In addition to the Plotinus, the narrator has another caller: the gullible Vector, who, “cloaked in his Ginza and treading air,” pops in to marvel over the narrator’s own organic knobbiness and quest to become “a thing that knows nothing beyond what it is.” The narrator fully expects to spend his incarceration, which will surely equate to the rest of his life, trading the pseudo-mysticism of his memories with the Vector for the twigs, sacks, and crumbs the Plotinus will shortly discover and whisk away. But then a third entity enters his orbit: a hornet who flies in through the air vent and stings him on the knuckle. The insect, whom he names Smaragdos, becomes the central focus of the narrator’s impressive powers of attention and offers a way of reinhabiting the world outside his closet. Ducornet’s latest is replete with figures that represent mankind in all its vainglorious hubris to great comedic effect while echoing the familiar sorrow of humanity’s severance from, and ultimate destruction of, the natural world that gives us both our meaning and our memories. It is a surreal novel that, nonetheless, feels disconcertingly real. Ultimately, whether or not the Plotinus succeeds in breaking our narrator’s spirit, the Vector succeeds in mythologizing his failing body, or Smaragdos succeeds in living her alien life alongside his own, the reader is assured that what will be left for us is the truism that “the poor will inherit the earth. (Such as it is.)”

An inscrutable wonder of a book that rewards a reader’s attention with its own returned gaze.