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I am the Brother of XX

A wife is suspended in a bird cage; a thirteenth-century visionary senses the foreskin of Christ on her tongue: Fleur Jaeggy`s gothic imagination knows no limits. Whether telling of mystics, tormented families or famously private writers, Jaeggy`s terse, telegraphic writing is always psychologically clear-eyed and deeply moving, always one step ahead, or to the side, of her readers` expectations. In this, her long-awaited return, we read of an `eerie maleficent calm, a brutal calm`, and recognise the timbre of a writer for whom a paradoxical world seethes with quiet violence.