The Atlas

I have heard for many long months in 1995 that "the book event" of the year was coming my way. I was sent many pretentious postcards. The real event as far as I'm concerned was by a familiar name: The Atlas by William Vollmann may have been the book those people were talking about all along. Let the idiots who never read equate length with importance, as they flounder in their non-experiential innerspace, there is not a writer out there who can write as luscious sentences as Vollmann can! This can not be denied. The Atlas, his tenth book, takes us all over the world. Vollmann concentrates this time on the form of the prose poem. And you know what? He is definitely a master of the genre. I have dipped into this book many times in my red velvet smoking jacket while drinking a bourbon.These characters are so real and Vollmann's sentences vibrate with a sort of uncanny brilliance, that I am changed every time I read these lines. Some of the characters appear in previous books: Brandi the whore still lurks in the Mission, the journalist and the photographer from Butterfly Stories, while other stories take place in Canada, Sarajevo, and Burma. These stories are sad and funny, and continue to provoke and disturb. In "No Reason To Cry" Vollmann offers this jewel: "A case can be made that if a girl is going to get AIDS there is no reason to cry while she is getting it."Vollmann is a major American writer.

William Vollmann is not only a living master of the English language canon, he is one of my very favourite authors, personally. When I try to put into words my feelings on this trim, palindromic thing of beauty, I always initially feel as though I were plastered against a sheer rock face. With a crayon, I imagine I have to scribble down my tiny thoughts, judge a collection of stories more honed and polished and moving and perfect than anything I write will ever be. I never feel worthy of the task, but the other beauty of Vollmann is that his work seems to suffer under no pretense... -he- doesn't make me feel ignorant and unwashed and unworthy. I just prostrate myself before any writer skilled enough to make great literature slide into the reading mind like silk.Yes, his stories are sometimes bleak, and they are not for everyone. Anyone unsettled by an author who pulls no punches and shirks no vital detail, no matter how disturbing, need not look here. But if you can stand up and look out at Vollmann's snapshots of this incredible world, I can promise you that it will never look exactly the same to you again.

Why do I like Vollmann? Because he never judges a person. Whereas everybody and their friggin uncle are judging him all the time. I admire the writer who can say what he has to say and stand by those words. I've seen Vollmann on book tour twice here in Chicago. The first was for Butterfly Stories and the second was for The Atlas. When he asked the small crowd of students at Northwestern University who had read the Atlas, I raised my hand and told him that the Rifles was a better book. Some of the students snickered and Vollmann replied "Well that's a good book to." Honestly it took several readings of the Atlas to finally appreciate it. My favorite stories are the African and Canadian stories. Read this one while you're traveling alone. (Alex Sydorenko, July 1999, Chicago)

"The Atlas" is very unique in the way it is written. It strikes me as being a combination of diary, prose, and an empathetic statement about a seedy side of life all over the world.I never read anything like it before, and it was very interesting, and the elaborate descriptions Vollman made brought me into a very dark world. Most of the characters had many rough edges to them, but still projected compassion. The series of stories tied together by the seedy environments,consistent writing style, and compassion .I picked up this book when I was feeling down, and it picked up my mood.Other than that, it was damn good writing.