If you don’t want to read the review, that’s cool and everything. But I do recommend you read Jackson’s collection. It really is beautiful and beautifully bizarre. Ali Smith described it as “[w]itty, multilayered, and beautifully written : a startling and memorable collection” in a review that is obviously a little more focussed on reviewing than raving, as I did, about Jackson’s inside-out universe of gigantic bodily organs. If you’re curious, these stories feature a seductive and sweaty egg, a root system of cancer that taste a little like liquorice, playful, puppy-like (and ever so slightly predatory) sperm and an enormous foetus that hangs like a zeppelin over the city. Oh! Oh boy!
Trigger warning: my review does mention everyone’s go-to-guy for criticism of unassailable blob monsters in art; good old Žižek. I know he gets some people’s goat. But, in this context, think of him like a ghostbuster. Just with a tirelessly Lacanian take on every ooze and sluice of sexy ectoplasm he catches sight of. “Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?” / “Yeah, well, your mom!” etc., etc.