By Pseudo-Leopardi, A Necrezuta, F Pilastru, I Imaculata
Pseudo-Leopardi’s Cantos for the Crestfallen, the following translated for the 1st time from the Romanian unique, is a breathless expiration of most unlikely pessimo-mystical wishes for the immanent past. In a series of thirty one verses channeling the spirits of Cioran, Dante, and the poet’s eponym, the Cantos testify to life’s senselessness, the need of being beheaded, and the affection of saints. it truly is an intoxicated and uncompromising imaginative and prescient: The identify of you / Who modify one atom of my sigh is now afflicted from lifestyles.
“Not for the reason that Die Nachtwachen (The Nightwatches), released in 1804 below the pseudonym of Bonaventura, a German Romantic of often-attributed but arguably nonetheless doubtful id, has there seemed this sort of ebook as Cantos for the Crestfallen. additionally written by way of an unknown hand, one soaking wet in a philosophy and poetics of an apocalyptic tone, the latter identify competitors its predecessor in either secret and depression. even as that the authors of those works tear the masks from the darkish face of the inhuman comedy, they perform a reckless wit that makes the blackness of our lives blacker nonetheless. Cantos for the Crestfallen particularly flows with grotesque conceits that vacant into an ocean of tears, eventually drowning its reader faraway from the sight of land, of domestic, and of hope.” – Thomas Ligotti
“Like his namesake-by-declamatio, the writer of Cantos for the Crestfallen has controlled to condense all human afflictions into one solitary fusion of depression, a distress with the teeth adequate to chew the hand off each nescient and conciliatory phantasm. And but to underpin this breathless, virtually throttled, ennui (his personal sigh even “drowning in air”) there's the unravel and the bitterness of a love affair long past fallacious, the unrequited affections, the uncooked feels of the world’s interminable spurning; and it all a lie, a necrophile’s symphony tapped out through a center made ash of, a center crawling up a corkscrewed backbone to die within a brain.” – Gary J. Shipley
“Pseudo-Leopardi’s Cantos exhale a spirit of blackened occidental sufism that might make your head spiral.” – Pir Iqbal the Impaled
“From the enhaloed entrails of a forgotten workstation comes those Cantos for the Crestfallen. those poems describe not anything and enact everything—litanies of a moldering sunlight refusal.” – Rasu-Yong Tugen, Baroness de Tristeombre