Guest Post by Uvi Poznansky – “The Descent into a Different Realm”

The Descent into a Different Realm


Uvi Poznansky


Author of “Twisted”, “A Favorite Son”, “Apart From Love”, and “Home”

I feel so elated to find out that every day, lately, great customer reviews are being posted for my new release, Twisted. They are quite elaborate, and with lovely eloquence they do their best to describe what this collection of dark tales is about. In spite of this I promise you: until you read the book yourself, these reviews will mean next to nothing to you, because there are so many different parallels and connections that can be drawn between the tales.

 Here is one such connection: two of the tales—The Hollow and ‘I Am What I Am’— make use of an elevator, which is more than a transportation device. It is a symbol of how difficult it is to descend from the realm of the living into the realm of the dead. In I Am What I Am the elevator falls from the surface of the ground down to hell. Here is how it is described by the protagonist, Job’s wife:

 But now, this here was like no elevator I had ever seen before. How can I begin to describe it to you? Space was tight. In distress I looked up—perhaps by force of habit —to cry, to say a prayer. Stones, torn roots, autumn leaves, most of them already rotten, even tiny lizards and worms were soaring over us in a big swirl, bouncing from time to time off the walls, and then being blown up and away with a big spit, straight off the top of this thing. After a while you could breathe again, if you were so inclined. I was not. In the shadows, if you dared brush your fingers around you, you might feel the mud slipping upward along the walls as we went on falling. Then came various outlines, various shells and pebbles and hairy seaweed, all floating across a layer of damp air. From time to time a fish skeleton swam by, lit from inside, like the neon signs at the top of that hotel in Jerusalem. And then, puff! The skeleton hit the elevator wall and crumbled to dust. Layer after layer rose away. Water, vapor, gas; cold, hot, toasty. All the while the floor kept accumulating hairy strands of algae, crumpled insect wings, chopped off lizard tails, split-open pebbles, coal dust…

 And here, is quite a different description, no longer in the first language but rather a bit remote. The elevator itself is airy and nearly transparent, because it exists only in the mind of the protagonist. Another difference is that here, it falls from the tenth floor and we will never know where it would land. Here is the elevator in The Hollow:

 That was when, with a clap, she closed the book, then went through the missing door. With one easy step, which helped her ignore how final it was, she was flying, her hair pointing up, blowing wildly in the vertical wind. At first she avoided spreading open her arms, for fear of scraping them against the walls. Then, she heard her laughter, swirling loud and free, because there were no walls, only papery architectural designs around her. Sliding dreamily down, she was closer and closer to where she was headed all these years.

 All the tales are from a decidedly female point of view, which was noted by one of my reviewers, Top 1000 Amazon reviewer Sheila Deeth. Here is what she says:

What is woman? Uvi Poznansky’s four curious tales in her Twisted collection find various answers to this question. Is a woman denied existence if we hide her name, or if we define her just by relationships to man? Does the female sculpture come first or second to the creator’s hand? Does death create, destroy or preserve, and can imagination fly… From lilting poetry to feline’s fearsome claw, these pieces draw the reader in, enticing with intriguing depths and surprising with sudden light. Twisted, puzzling, but perfectly put together, the collection has the feel that it was meant to be this way, no random grouping of fiction but a twisted exploration that turns and returns this reader to the singular question: What is woman?


For more information about Uvi Poznansky and her work, follow these links.


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