no rings, no bouquets

a review of Gary Lutz’s Divorcer

It’s as if divorce has seeped into the structure of these stories, like a rot in the grain of their language; something sweetly corrupt that can’t be cut out of them. It’s buried deep in their syntax, motivating the phrasing that estranges the opening of any errant sentence from its end. In each of the book’s seven entries, words are put to work on pulling something apart – a family, a body, a memory of bodies together – in ways that render how life’s breaking points really feel when reached. Shards of language are arranged into snapshots of how things are, as Lutz puts it, painfully ‘halved’.

read the rest at 3:AM Magazine