In Suicide by Language, Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino masterfully stretches a sweater into the definition of novel.  His often comical and ironic textual inventions that make up the storyline could leave the reader on a beach wondering whether the protagonist is beneath the deep blue or somewhere darker.  Be warned: All is well, Corky.  The only magic wand that may free the reader from St. Thomasino’s page-turner is a Portable Jung or Flowers of Evil.  

 

—Rich Murphy

 

Coming. . . .