THE ILL LITERATE

£5.00

By Adnandus Dyzantae

ISBN: 978-1-84747-645-6
Published: 2008
Pages: 225
Key Themes: autobiography, abuse, bullying, schizophrenia, family support, recovery


ALSO AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK

Description

This book is a memoir in which I've grappled with everything from mental illness to romantic frustration, from mysticism to homelessness. Thought is out of my mind's league, asides that which can come into being through my pen. I hope to have encapsulated something new with a stroke of something ancient. I cannot remember a time when I had the mental concentration to read without being suspended in an imprisoning haze, a dungeon's embrace. I would love to tell you in detail what my book is about, but I'm afraid I can't, as I havenít read it. - Adnandus Dyzantae

About the Author

Adnandus Dyzantae is 31. He lives in Hampstead with his mother and sister. He has read only one book in his life and flicks through prefaces, due to an absence of concentration. He spent 8 years alone in the wilderness of mental illness before being diagnosed by a psychiatrist at 24. Adnandus hopes medication and CBT will help him in his quest to gain some degree of formal education so he can continue his passion for writing. Reading still produces feelings of negative absorption within him, causing acute psychological discomfort. Yet he's written prolifically (some 300 poems) since dropping out of school at 17. This is his first book in prose. Adnandus writes from brain to paper without returning to change a single word of his work...probably because it would involve reading! He also composes music and lyrics. None of his work has been publicly seen before.

Book Extract

I was dressed like an undertaker and he looked like a corpse. We held hands. The streets were as a paedophile priest; on the surface bright white like the purity of an angelís taste buds, but lethal to those hearts who rely on feet for walking, hideous black tar marinating in the ice. He was the antithesis of one for whomís hand mine did long for, welded fingers seeping into palms whose love lines were loftier than the heavens. A face as ancient as GodĎs, clad also with a flaming white beard, his face sunken as though time had drained it of not only ninety percent of its life, but twice that number. Itís temperature from a rosy height to below freezing. His clothes wereas a costume, fitting for this drama that was his inside life. Relics bound to his body by the urine that departed his bladder free of social graces, when it whimsically or sadistically wanted to. A brown raincoat and a tweed trilby loyally protecting his shy skin from the viciousness of winterís mini tempests.

I had a ponytail back then and a head of static crinkled hair gravity chose to ignore. My pronunciation was like a half eaten apple, part aristocrat, part cockney. Me not knowing which of the two was the consumed portion of the fruit. I wore a bright red bandana which sort of gave the impression that I was a lighthouse, the rest of me dressed in black. Was he a ship I was guiding through the waves that taunt the genius swimmers of the night with the womb like propriety over sharks they have?

We continued to hold hands. It had been forever since I had experienced human touch, and I felt something soften in me, an escalating tenderness which I the boy kneeled down to as I guided he the tramp through ice sculptures of roads themselves. I wanted to help him reach his destination, even if it was the one which I had anticipated without him having a clue of.

A beautiful girl blessed us with a gaze which exclaimed we stroked her heart, and I couldnít help feeling a little adulated at my would-be philanthropy, excited at her perception of me. In my other hand was a flask which was first filled with tea when tea first filled manís consciousness. It was his fuel.

The moon was emperor of the sky, and the ice emperor of the earth. Both charmed by their likeness and tone. Brilliant or deathly cold. Angelic or like two Klu Klux Klan members with their mutually binding eyes leaping to and fro one another. He told me once again that I should wear a feather in my hair, but I would only wear one freshly plucked from an angelís wing, and only pigeons on this night did bound.

We reached the lavish abode to which we had first set off to. The surroundings were the polar opposite of him, and underlined him with a vengeance. He tapped on the window which shunned his reflection and then we stopped holding hands.


  • Model: e-book
  • 198 Units in Stock


This product was added to our catalog on Wednesday 14 May, 2008.