Yarrow Paisley’s first full-length collection, I, No Other is a cerebral defibrillator you forgot had been implanted until it routinely – and unexpectedly – shocks you back to life. They may hurt at times, dear reader, the jolts of these agitations, but it is a vital hurt.
With a cast of narrators on the brink of discovery in all its forms, I, No Other collects Yarrow Paisley’s most exquisite absurdist interludes.
His new collection of narrations—I, No Other—explores the gamut of chaos that can erupt when you suppress the baser impulses lingering beneath the surface of your consciousness. His prose bursts with what can seem like inscrutable absurdities, as bizarre events manipulate timelines, bodies, and any lingering shred of literary convention.
Paisley's voice reshapes your skull as you read his work. That voice is formal, alluring, unmoored. The author scoffs at political correctness while shining a laser beam on sexuality, cultural norms, and societal hypocrisy. Warning: be prepared to be triggered. Or to laugh out loud.
Lewd, lascivious, lovely; surreal, strange, sinister. The prose adrip with the lusty syrups of paranoia. To be read by candlelight in a velvety boudoir in which you are about to be forcibly deflowered by the ghost of a distinguished Russian-American entomologist.