07/10/2025
EQUUS PRESS SEPTEMBER RETROSPECTIVE
27. Louis Armand, ANIZAR (2024)
ANIZAR unfolds as one of the clearest late articulations of Equus Press’s necromodernist poetics — a mode defined by recursion, glitch, and historical compost. The novel opens in a sun-bleached Alentejo, where “history, too, may be a dream, but we are not the dreamer.” It stages existence as theatre: a crumbling proscenium in which thought, language, and flesh perform their own decrepitude.
Armand’s protagonist, Albufarkas — “last of a long line of deadletters that turn up after the postal system’s been abolished” — becomes a necromodernist archetype: a revenant of obsolete systems, half-alive among the ruins of meaning. A key passage encapsulates this poetics of exhausted recursion:
“You die & the image of something dies w/ you. From now on just a settling of dust, the sifting of pixel-decay, slow data-rot, mildew on the motherboard… skeletons gradually unfleshed on the holodeck.”
Here, Armand fuses the medieval and the digital, the Gothic and the algorithmic: human decay expressed through the lexicon of obsolescent computation. The result is a syntax of entropic consciousness, where self and system decay at the same rate — a linguistic compost heap of “entropy and effluent.” Albufarkas’ dialogue with his alter ego, Antifarkas, literalises the necromodernist split between self and shadow, thought and its automated echo.
ANIZAR extends the poetics of Vampyr/Glitchhead and A Tomb in H-Section into a Southern European allegory: an archaeological fever-dream of empire, simulation, and entropy. As the narrator muses, “We live – oh we say we live, but heaven help us! – in a tide of vexatious effluent… we’re in the toiletcleaner, it’s drinking us!” This grotesque humour — both scatological and metaphysical — marks Armand’s writing as a literature of aftermath, where history survives only as data noise, waste, and parody.
In the necromodernist constellation, ANIZAR is the post-Cartesian counter-novel: a book conscious of its own decay, of “the room you could imagine walking into in a novel without a plot.” It reads like a transcript from civilization’s memory leak — one that insists, perversely, on continuing to write.
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