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| $15.50 CDN 152 pp. ISBN 978-0-9810117-8-3 |
Description: Literary Fiction, Postmodern Hypnotic
Herein lies the danger of the practice..., for if the mesmerist is corrupt of
heart, foul of mind, and diseased of soul—
—the vital fluid which he projects will be tainted...
Vital Fluid is inspired by the uncanny performances and fascinating life of John-Ivan Palmer, the top
stage hypnotist in America today.
Deceptively simple on the surface, delicately complex throughout the subtext, Vital Fluid masterfully
merges two parallel story lines distanced by time and culture in this satiric alternate history / modern
fantasy exploration. Two rival hypnotists are pitted against each other in an increasingly bizarre
series of performances across an absurdly chaotic America; while, woven in like fine silk, a pair of
Victorian era mesmerists match mystical wits before the intolerant and intolerable European
Bourgeoisie.
Review quotes:
A masterpiece... there are no words to describe the eerie dream this book is to me.
____~ John-Ivan Palmer, hypnotist, comedian, author
Tom Bradley is one of the most exasperating, offensive, pleasurable, and brilliant writers I know. I
recommend his work to anyone with spiritual fortitude and a taste for something so strange that it
might well be genius.
____~ Denis Dutton, ARTS & LETTERS DAILY
I tell you that Dr. Bradley has devoted his existence to writing because he intends for every center
of consciousness, everywhere, in all planes and conditions (not just terrestrial female Homo sapiens
in breeding prime), to love him forever, starting as soon as possible, though he's prepared to wait
thousands of centuries after he's dead.
____~ Cye Johan
BIO:
Tom Bradley is an American novelist, essayist and writer of short stories. He is the author of The
Sam Edwine Pentateuch, a five-book series, various volumes of which have been nominated for the
Editor's Book Award, the New York University Bobst Prize, and the AWP Award Series in the Novel.
His essays and short stories are anthologized extensively in America and in Europe.
Herein lies the danger of the practice..., for if the mesmerist is corrupt of
heart, foul of mind, and diseased of soul—
—the vital fluid which he projects will be tainted...
Vital Fluid is inspired by the uncanny performances and fascinating life of John-Ivan Palmer, the top
stage hypnotist in America today.
Deceptively simple on the surface, delicately complex throughout the subtext, Vital Fluid masterfully
merges two parallel story lines distanced by time and culture in this satiric alternate history / modern
fantasy exploration. Two rival hypnotists are pitted against each other in an increasingly bizarre
series of performances across an absurdly chaotic America; while, woven in like fine silk, a pair of
Victorian era mesmerists match mystical wits before the intolerant and intolerable European
Bourgeoisie.
Review quotes:
A masterpiece... there are no words to describe the eerie dream this book is to me.
____~ John-Ivan Palmer, hypnotist, comedian, author
Tom Bradley is one of the most exasperating, offensive, pleasurable, and brilliant writers I know. I
recommend his work to anyone with spiritual fortitude and a taste for something so strange that it
might well be genius.
____~ Denis Dutton, ARTS & LETTERS DAILY
I tell you that Dr. Bradley has devoted his existence to writing because he intends for every center
of consciousness, everywhere, in all planes and conditions (not just terrestrial female Homo sapiens
in breeding prime), to love him forever, starting as soon as possible, though he's prepared to wait
thousands of centuries after he's dead.
____~ Cye Johan
BIO:
Tom Bradley is an American novelist, essayist and writer of short stories. He is the author of The
Sam Edwine Pentateuch, a five-book series, various volumes of which have been nominated for the
Editor's Book Award, the New York University Bobst Prize, and the AWP Award Series in the Novel.
His essays and short stories are anthologized extensively in America and in Europe.
Excerpt:
Only one person remains. Hulking by the beer concession is a very large middle-aged woman with strange vacuum-eyes. She wears a black bra under a loose
tank top. A faded tattoo between her deflated breasts makes her cleavage look like a seismic crack in a granite wall. Her whole big body is flexed, like a single
anguished muscle. She stares at Phil with a mindless kind of appetite.
___He knows this big weird woman all too well, and averts his eyes.
When the sun returns, it catches up with Phil speeding along the ruler-straight interstate, cutting across the prairie toward the eastern slope of the Rocky
Mountains. He’s trying to make it to his next gig on time.
___He reaches into the back seat and grabs a well-worn old book: The Life and Times of LaFontaine the Mesmerizer. Steering with his right hand, he holds the
book in his left and begins to read. Moving his eyes back and forth from the page to the road, Phil gradually starts spending more time reading than driving.
___The needle on his speedometer climbs ever closer to the eighty mark.
It’s 1874, and LaFontaine is having one of his usual triumphs. Huge and perfect, a demigod with a mountain of shining black curls on his head, he stands on
the stage of the freshly built Paris Opera House.
___The place is a marvel of neo-baroque opulence, with marble statues, jewel-studded arches, crystal chandeliers, and gold-leafed pillars gleaming
everywhere. The vast dome overhead features a fresco of God in his Heaven being serenaded by hundreds of plump, rosy angels.
___Several princes are in the audience, along with marquises, duchesses, and various other continental glitterati of the time, each dressed more beautifully
than the next. It’s a capacity crowd and they’re all on their feet loudly expressing their amazement and their love for Monsieur LaFontaine, the greatest of all
mesmerizers.
Doing eighty now, Phil has dropped the book and removed his hand from the steering wheel. He has mentally traveled across the Atlantic and back in time, to
share the soul of LaFontaine.
___Phil does the same thing with LaFontaine that Biff did with Jerry Lee Lewis: synching his eloquent lips, mirroring his facial expressions, mimicking his grand
gestures to perfection. Phil’s eyes are shut just as tightly as Biff’s were, as the car speeds along.
LaFontaine bows gracefully as a ballet dancer, as red roses rain down on him. He waves massive, white-gloved hands through the air like a magician or a priest.
___Stretched out before him is a young noblewoman, completely under his power. She looks like an angel in a white satin gown. Her body is suspended
between two intricately carved rosewood chairs, which touch only the back of her neck and her ankles.
___“You hear only my voice,” LaFontaine tells her, and what she hears is magnificent. “Your will is not your own, but has merged with the vital fluid that
emanates from my mind...”
Only one person remains. Hulking by the beer concession is a very large middle-aged woman with strange vacuum-eyes. She wears a black bra under a loose
tank top. A faded tattoo between her deflated breasts makes her cleavage look like a seismic crack in a granite wall. Her whole big body is flexed, like a single
anguished muscle. She stares at Phil with a mindless kind of appetite.
___He knows this big weird woman all too well, and averts his eyes.
When the sun returns, it catches up with Phil speeding along the ruler-straight interstate, cutting across the prairie toward the eastern slope of the Rocky
Mountains. He’s trying to make it to his next gig on time.
___He reaches into the back seat and grabs a well-worn old book: The Life and Times of LaFontaine the Mesmerizer. Steering with his right hand, he holds the
book in his left and begins to read. Moving his eyes back and forth from the page to the road, Phil gradually starts spending more time reading than driving.
___The needle on his speedometer climbs ever closer to the eighty mark.
It’s 1874, and LaFontaine is having one of his usual triumphs. Huge and perfect, a demigod with a mountain of shining black curls on his head, he stands on
the stage of the freshly built Paris Opera House.
___The place is a marvel of neo-baroque opulence, with marble statues, jewel-studded arches, crystal chandeliers, and gold-leafed pillars gleaming
everywhere. The vast dome overhead features a fresco of God in his Heaven being serenaded by hundreds of plump, rosy angels.
___Several princes are in the audience, along with marquises, duchesses, and various other continental glitterati of the time, each dressed more beautifully
than the next. It’s a capacity crowd and they’re all on their feet loudly expressing their amazement and their love for Monsieur LaFontaine, the greatest of all
mesmerizers.
Doing eighty now, Phil has dropped the book and removed his hand from the steering wheel. He has mentally traveled across the Atlantic and back in time, to
share the soul of LaFontaine.
___Phil does the same thing with LaFontaine that Biff did with Jerry Lee Lewis: synching his eloquent lips, mirroring his facial expressions, mimicking his grand
gestures to perfection. Phil’s eyes are shut just as tightly as Biff’s were, as the car speeds along.
LaFontaine bows gracefully as a ballet dancer, as red roses rain down on him. He waves massive, white-gloved hands through the air like a magician or a priest.
___Stretched out before him is a young noblewoman, completely under his power. She looks like an angel in a white satin gown. Her body is suspended
between two intricately carved rosewood chairs, which touch only the back of her neck and her ankles.
___“You hear only my voice,” LaFontaine tells her, and what she hears is magnificent. “Your will is not your own, but has merged with the vital fluid that
emanates from my mind...”
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