This Russell Edson novel is so weird it doesn't even make it on the lists of weird novels. Any reader familiar with the author's oddball, offbeat prose poems (what some term "microfictions") will have a good sense why this is the case.
For those folks not the least bit acquainted with Russell Edson, herein are gathered a bushel of Edson-esque features from The Song of Percival Peacock that will provide a small taste of what's to be found in this one-of-a-kinder that has created its own category within the world of the novel: hyperweirdism.
I sprinkled in several medieval woodcuts that, to my eye, express some of the novel's unique spirit. Russell Edson was himself both a writer and illustrator who worked in a number of mediums, including woodcuts.
Right from the get-go in this short novel (144 pages) we are treated to a dose of vintage Russell Edson bizarre home sweet home under the heading: MAYONNAISE. Here's a snatch of dialogue where Mr. Peacock, the new master of the house, continues his efforts to extract information about a missing chair from his servants, in this case, the Maid:
"I was trying to say that because of my rheumatism I like to undress in the kitchen, and put mayonnaise on my body, and just let it soak in. It's necessary for me to completely undress, said the Maid.
Yes, yes, you're covered with mayonnaise and naked, screamed Mr. Peacock.
You're talking so loudly I can barely gather my thoughts, said the Maid.
I'm all nerves, screamed Mr. Peacock.
I've told the Caretaker to keep out of the kitchen a thousand times. So many times I caught old my Hardcock by the window peeking in, said the Maid.
I don't want to appear rude. And I sympathize with your maidenly modesty. It's perfectly natural your not wanting to be viewed with mayonnaise all over you. But I'm very anxious about the missing chair, said Mr. Peacock."
The flaky aesthetic of The Song of Percival Peacock shares much with Conspirators of Pleasure, a 1996 film by the Czech creator Jan Švankmajer. Link to a 3 minute clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfvHN...
When I watched Conspirators of Pleasure years ago, this 85 minute film nearly weirded me out. I had the same experience with the twisted sexuality in The Song of Percival Peacock. Curiously and perhaps not so coincidentally, both Russell Edson and Jan Švankmajer thrive in the shorter form as per the below Edson prose poem and Švankmajer shorty:
THE TREE
They have grafted pieces of an ape with pieces of a dog.
Then, what they have, wants to live in a tree.
No, what they have wants to lift its leg and piss on the tree . . .
Jan Švankmajer 3 minute film:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXe9l...
Did I mention twisted sexuality back there? It isn't long before the master of the house, Mr. Peacock, alternately called Mr. Sleepycock, Mr Beddycock, Mr. Horsecock, Mr. Pussycock, Mr. Freecock, Mr Weeweecock by his Caretaker and Maid, is dealing with upset to his traditional ideas about order as the master-servant relationship is turned topsy-turvy.
And that's shake n' bake chaos as in the Caretaker crawling into bed with Mr. Peacock to feel the warmth and touch Mr. Peacock in his delicate places. The Maid walks in and gives Mr. Peacock hell for all his carrying on in such ways with the Caretaker. A yelling match ensues until the Caretaker gives Mr. Peacock a good whack on the head with a hammer.
Some days later Mr. Peacock wakes up wearing a chastity belt and all his cloths are gone. No problem, the Maid tells him, she has a nice flowered dress he can wear since she always wanted a daughter. Outrageous events escalate, adding even more torque to contorted sexuality as Mr. Pussycock deals with the bird of his displeasure.
However, even with such kooky, grotesque and comical curlicues (I laughed out loud on nearly ever page), through the magic and power of Edson's storytelling, we are compelled to keep turning the pages to see what further antics poor Mr. Weeweecock must contend with in his self-proclaimed role as master. By the way, all this Edson-esque bedlam bestows fresh and expanded meaning to that time-honored phrase "to the manor born."
In point of fact, we shouldn’t feel too sorry for Percival the Horsecock since he judges his servants having no more humanness than oxen in a field. Maybe not a bad development when Maid and Caretaker assume the roles of mother and father for that uppity Mr. Freecock.
What are we to make of all this? Should we revoke Russell Edson’s license to write such novels? Actually it is too late since Russell Edson, born 1935, passed on into the mica glitter of stars in 2014.
With an entire career creating such off-the-wall writing, is it any wonder Russell lived his entire life in solitude with his wife Frances in a small house on Weed Avenue in Stamford, Connecticut, eschewing the demands of literary notoriety? For Edson fans, we enjoy every morsel of his imagination. My recommendation here for readers new to Russell Edson is to pick up a collection or two of his prose poems prior to taking a whack at this singular, out-there novel.
"I do not permit people to touch my body. The flesh is not only the house of the soul, but a vehicle, including intake ports as well as exhaust ports; not to mention areas given wholly to the reproductive cycle. These areas are of particular note. They grow more meaningfully terrible in direct ratiio to one's growing sense of modesty, said Mr. Peacock." - Russell Edson, The Song of Percival Peacock
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