Gods died. Everyone understood that. JŠnos just didn't understand why it had to be his problem. They gave him ropes and tools and maps and told him to do the right thing. No one provided any details on how to choose a god.
"Get out there and bring us back a good one," Ferenc had said, handing him grandpa's best stalk-pick. "Glad it's not me," his brother added.
Now JŠnos was halfway up a vine ribbed like a vast stalk of celery thicker than a dozen elm trunks. In the distance, vine mites the size of cattle cleaned their host. The ground was lost deep in the clouds below. Grandpa's pick seemed a small thing to trust with his life, old and rusty as it was, so he used safety lines, even though they slowed him down.
"Miracles, fresh miracles." His mother had rubbed her hands with gleeful greed. "It cost me a lot to get you this job -- don't mess it up."
JŠnos climbed higher, until the first god nodules were visible around him. They were pouty sacs with a little nipple at the free end. This particular vine had
Well, it started out very well and then it went ... weird.
Stream of consciousness or avant-garde writing is not easy to write. Even in the midst of it, there has to be something elemental for the reader to grasp and these three vignettes: G: Godstalk; O: Godstock; D: Gottschalk have intriguing elements, but the end result is simple confusion.
This story transcends meaning. Perhaps readers are intended to admire the shapes of the various letters rather than to try and discern a message from the sequences of letters.
Whatever the author was hoping to do seems not to have happened.
As one reviewer points out, this is senseless. I'd go further to say it's unadulterated rubbish. Word-painting and nothing more. Void and avoid.
Why is this book even here. Totally senseless