Binding

Two Pink Horses

Jeffrey Stewart

  

Synopsis:

In the tradition of When Rabbit Howls, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, and The Snake Pit, this novel by Jeffrey Stewart tracks a young man’s encounter with and final release from paranoid schizophrenia. And like all good literature, this novel reaches beyond the moment to encompass larger themes: for its protagonist, Karl the small, is not only struggling with an emerging schizophrenia that increasingly boulders his life with unexpected moments of delusion, but he is also dealing with the emerging tugs of adulthood. Karl’s offbeat humor works for a while to stave the problems, and indeed, his humor gives the reader a great many insights into the ludicrous machinations of the business world and the Mormon society that surrounds Karl in his home state. But then quips, puns, and humor turn sour as Karl is subjected to psychotic episode after psychotic episode until the resulting break with reality become catastrophic. But then a peace emerges at the end of this novel to save Karl from complete tragedy, to indeed leave him as an operating, normal human--albeit our concept of normality has certainly been enhanced by the novel’s end.

This novel offers hope to anyone who’s ever suffered from various forms of the disease of schizophrenia—whether personally or through contact with another. It also offers comforting insight into the limits of societal boundaries, and the power of a human’s will over seemingly insurmountable brick walls.

ISBN 0-942979-75-3, Trade paper, $12.00                     Sale $6.00

ISBN 0-942979-76-1, Library binding, $25.00                Sale $12.50

165 pages

   
   
   
   
   
About the Author: 

I served in the US Air Force during the 1980s and worked as a

photographer and photo processor. During my time in England I became

acquainted with four English women, in some ways similar to those depicted in The Education of Douglas Finney, and traveled with them and other American GIs around Europe and Asia over a period of four years. Though the novel is a work of fiction, my experiences certainly act

as a basis for it. The "clash of cultures" between Americans and British could, at time, become quite comical. I set out to depict

the humorous side of the American/British conflict I experienced. This culture clash could also, from time to time, resemble the tragic, as the novel shows.

I respectfully dedicated the novel to the memory of Karen Latham, who died in a traffic accident in England and who is buried in the East Anglian village of Hemingford Grey, a real place that is one of the settings in the book.

I began by writing poetry while living in England in the 1980s.

During the '90s I wrote the novel Two Pink Horses, a story about a young sufferer of adult onset schizophrenia. I enjoy writing short comic stories, many of which can be described as absurd. I currently live in Utah but am always looking for a means of escape. My faithful companions are: one dead rat and a bicycle named Nigel.

 Excerpt From the Book:

 “The Moon is about a hundred miles away,” Karl the Small said silently to nobody.
    “Black rocks, like strange abstract sculptures, like evil carvings of artist madmen, jut out in all directions and look terribly threatening. The caves there are cold, a little like huge refrigerators, except without the smell of leftover tuna salad, stale cheese or sour milk, and without those rattling refrigerator motor noises. I had a dad once, in olden times, who, from time to time, would take his family to the Moon. I mean the family I once had—my family. The dad liked to get away from it all, he’d say. It all being what one might call civilization. The car rides with this dad always caused me to become slightly nervous, I must say. The mom was always a nervous wreck at such times too. Nick the older brother hated going on these trips, but could not be described as being nervous in any sense of the word. Why would some members of this beloved yet tiny clan be nervous? Why were they afraid of the old man? It was that rock-hard face of his, those angry lips, the harsh words. Even if the old man said nothing, no harsh words at all, the fear still raged. I’d like to go to this Moon again sometime, this jagged Moon, without the dad. Perhaps I’d arrange a charity concert there—for the homeless on the planet Zorgrieg. Or perhaps discover the ruins of an ancient Indian civilization buried deep underneath the lava rocks. Or perhaps just bounce deliciously like a crazy beach ball over the rubbly mountains. It is simple to get to this Moon: drive down Highway 26 towards Arco and Carey, to the middle of Nowhere. The outskirts of Nowhere, anyway. To get to this Moon, I must now say, requires no space travel at all. Unless your starting point is somewhere other than this deliciously green-blue blob called Planet Earth.”

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