The Strangest
about the bookabout
Michael Seidlinger has dared tackle one of the literary classics of the 20th century literature and reimagined it for the 21st: and in Albert Camus' anti-hero Meursault, at once apathetic and violent, unable to connect with his fellow humans, Seidlinger exhumes a perfect metaphor for the Internet Generation. Zachary Weinham, anchorless in terms of morals and committed to nothing except commenting on comments and their comments etc., finds himself involved in the sinister machinations of Rios, someone he meets in a bar, and allows himself to be set up—whether out of apathy or a desire for self-destruction it's hard to tell. A murder ensues. Shunned by his friends and associates, not sure of what he has gotten into, Zachary heads for confrontation with society-and his own moral values.
"For a line to exist, it would first have to be crossed."
“Step back Camus, your anti-hero has been fragmented and dispersed via the free-fall of social media. Michael J. Seidlinger's re-visioning enters the anthropocene without apology or oxygen masks, and asks us to take the trip toward self discovery as if the self was moving particles. A kick-ass ride. A beautiful dismemberment.”
—Lidia Yuknavitch, author of The Small Backs of Children
“If anyone at any time is in search of a novel that renders the dysphoria and fragmentation experienced by the first generation to live through social media, then he or she should begin with The Strangest. Like Camus, Seidlinger does not so much describe anomie as write from it; the result is a strangely resonant book that feels, above all else, honest.”
—Will Chancellor, author of A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall
“The world that Michael J. Seidlinger navigates in The Strangest is one in which the dying battery of a mobile phone provokes more emotion than a dying tree or child, told by a man whose sole value lies in the affirmation of his online persona, each comment and ‘like’ tallied one by one. Not since Seidlinger's last book have I encountered the chilling terror of Paul Bowles and his dissonant, virtually toneless minimalism, nor the evisceration of contemporary life that Michel Houellebecq delivers, ruthless as a diamond with a broken heart. Camus himself, I think, would affirm this homage to his famous book, with a solemn nod, perhaps, and the crushing underfoot of his last cigarette. For myself, I'm as nauseated as I am lifted, as redeemed as appalled. If you want a vision of life without a soul yoked to a vision of ways to smash it, step into this void. The lesson is relatively short, but its benefits are sure to go on and on.”
—D. Foy, author of Made to Break
About The Author / Editor
Preview
One morning was different. It proved to be different enough. I was at the bars, but when one of the officers started getting close, I went to the far end of the cell. There's a part of the cell that remains shadowed even during what I figure is high noon. It is my idea that they don't see me there.
If they don't see me, maybe I don't exist.
I don't exist, and they don't so much as bother me.
They don't feed my fears.
They had been doing that a lot the past couple days.
Questioning, always questioning. I came to the conclusion that I was guilty. But that wasn’t enough for them. Officers and prisoners and the occasional person that doesn’t look like they belong in a prison, only stopping by, they question. With their gaze, they question.
With their words, they question.
My idea did not work. They saw through shadows.
"You got a call."
And then, tapping on the bars, "Let's go. Now."
I go along, cuffed at wrists and cuffed at the ankles.
The officer doesn't want to hold my arm but has to, security reasons; he holds my arm with two fingers, the least amount of holding he can get away with, and we walk quickly.
in the media
Related Interest
Related Interest
The Strangest
about the bookabout
Michael Seidlinger has dared tackle one of the literary classics of the 20th century literature and reimagined it for the 21st: and in Albert Camus' anti-hero Meursault, at once apathetic and violent, unable to connect with his fellow humans, Seidlinger exhumes a perfect metaphor for the Internet Generation. Zachary Weinham, anchorless in terms of morals and committed to nothing except commenting on comments and their comments etc., finds himself involved in the sinister machinations of Rios, someone he meets in a bar, and allows himself to be set up—whether out of apathy or a desire for self-destruction it's hard to tell. A murder ensues. Shunned by his friends and associates, not sure of what he has gotten into, Zachary heads for confrontation with society-and his own moral values.
"For a line to exist, it would first have to be crossed."
“Step back Camus, your anti-hero has been fragmented and dispersed via the free-fall of social media. Michael J. Seidlinger's re-visioning enters the anthropocene without apology or oxygen masks, and asks us to take the trip toward self discovery as if the self was moving particles. A kick-ass ride. A beautiful dismemberment.”
—Lidia Yuknavitch, author of The Small Backs of Children
“If anyone at any time is in search of a novel that renders the dysphoria and fragmentation experienced by the first generation to live through social media, then he or she should begin with The Strangest. Like Camus, Seidlinger does not so much describe anomie as write from it; the result is a strangely resonant book that feels, above all else, honest.”
—Will Chancellor, author of A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall
“The world that Michael J. Seidlinger navigates in The Strangest is one in which the dying battery of a mobile phone provokes more emotion than a dying tree or child, told by a man whose sole value lies in the affirmation of his online persona, each comment and ‘like’ tallied one by one. Not since Seidlinger's last book have I encountered the chilling terror of Paul Bowles and his dissonant, virtually toneless minimalism, nor the evisceration of contemporary life that Michel Houellebecq delivers, ruthless as a diamond with a broken heart. Camus himself, I think, would affirm this homage to his famous book, with a solemn nod, perhaps, and the crushing underfoot of his last cigarette. For myself, I'm as nauseated as I am lifted, as redeemed as appalled. If you want a vision of life without a soul yoked to a vision of ways to smash it, step into this void. The lesson is relatively short, but its benefits are sure to go on and on.”
—D. Foy, author of Made to Break
About The Author / Editor
Preview
One morning was different. It proved to be different enough. I was at the bars, but when one of the officers started getting close, I went to the far end of the cell. There's a part of the cell that remains shadowed even during what I figure is high noon. It is my idea that they don't see me there.
If they don't see me, maybe I don't exist.
I don't exist, and they don't so much as bother me.
They don't feed my fears.
They had been doing that a lot the past couple days.
Questioning, always questioning. I came to the conclusion that I was guilty. But that wasn’t enough for them. Officers and prisoners and the occasional person that doesn’t look like they belong in a prison, only stopping by, they question. With their gaze, they question.
With their words, they question.
My idea did not work. They saw through shadows.
"You got a call."
And then, tapping on the bars, "Let's go. Now."
I go along, cuffed at wrists and cuffed at the ankles.
The officer doesn't want to hold my arm but has to, security reasons; he holds my arm with two fingers, the least amount of holding he can get away with, and we walk quickly.