Forward:
Every time you open a left wing newspaper and ask yourself where is the colour, sting and venom in the language? Where is the workers' clouded blood, their throats hoarse with haz-chems, their skins leathering in swathes of stinking volatiles? Where is their spit, like melted onyxes, streaked with a thousand unexploded angers? You should save yourself a lot of research and turn immediately to the short stories and writings of Oscar Zeet, who is Hal Alexander.
Every time you turn the page of another left wing paper, and feel you are a production worker looking at cricket-net rolls of fly-screen wire, constantly unfolding -- as each page is turned -- and the little square eyes of galvanic fluid in the fly-screens blink out their lives before you -- you should turn immediately to the short stories and writings of Oscar Zeet, who is Hal Alexander.
When you listen to Trade Union leaders who are as careful and correct in their speech as HSC school- senior-girls' debating teams (and so coerced by anti-worker laws), you should immediately sieze hold of Oscar Zeet's short stories and writings, sit back, tip up a tinny and laugh, chortle, and cackle to your complete and unadulterated (and completely subjective) satisfaction.
Zeet's language is alive, skips like shrimps in shallow Arafuras, and skims over the coagulated norms of the left, like coruscating flying fish in the Carpentaria moonlight. Zeet, you've made it!
Every time you open a left wing newspaper and ask yourself where is the colour, sting and venom in the language? Where is the workers' clouded blood, their throats hoarse with haz-chems, their skins leathering in swathes of stinking volatiles? Where is their spit, like melted onyxes, streaked with a thousand unexploded angers? You should save yourself a lot of research and turn immediately to the short stories and writings of Oscar Zeet, who is Hal Alexander.
Every time you turn the page of another left wing paper, and feel you are a production worker looking at cricket-net rolls of fly-screen wire, constantly unfolding -- as each page is turned -- and the little square eyes of galvanic fluid in the fly-screens blink out their lives before you -- you should turn immediately to the short stories and writings of Oscar Zeet, who is Hal Alexander.
When you listen to Trade Union leaders who are as careful and correct in their speech as HSC school- senior-girls' debating teams (and so coerced by anti-worker laws), you should immediately sieze hold of Oscar Zeet's short stories and writings, sit back, tip up a tinny and laugh, chortle, and cackle to your complete and unadulterated (and completely subjective) satisfaction.
Zeet's language is alive, skips like shrimps in shallow Arafuras, and skims over the coagulated norms of the left, like coruscating flying fish in the Carpentaria moonlight. Zeet, you've made it!
Let's hear it for Oscar! Denis Kevans 15.4.1998
