“I recall a passage from Freud’s –’Civilization and its Discontents’, which I read years ago. Well, it surmises the aspect of emotions and thoughts being detrimental to an individual psyche only if the mind allows to get affected by these parameters. Fundamentally, what Freud claims is that a human being should be sensitively “dead” in order to escape susceptibly of caustic pain. I reckon, old Siggy’s state of unconsciousness did not entirely grasp the capricious brain functioning. It is rather impossible for any individual on this planet to let go of the past or a few unresolved feelings that are embedded deep within the dark corners of one’s heart. That is why we fear the idea of depressed thoughts, seditious beliefs and when the going gets tough we stumble upon ‘medicinal nirvana’. Frank is a typical case of a mind jumble dreadfully perplexed in a quest of something…..everything.
Frank Fisher comes across as one of the many squalid druggies who raise a couple of eyebrows flocking for couple of EZ Widers and “tiny fake roses in glass tubes” with a handful of Sudafed sachets stuffed in their back pockets. The sly smirk on the cashier’s face signals the prospects of a further acquisition of quite a few ‘baggies’ from the nearby street corner. A rough sketch of Frank’s survival infers nothing more than he being a mere a drug addict who tries to pen a jagged script whilst greatly relying on Bonnie to hook him up with his trance concoctions. Gradually as the outer layers of Frank’s disheveled persona gets peeled off, a childlike vulnerability illuminates through the rigidity of his drugged exterior. Perceiving Frank’s character brings out a medley of emotions ranging from anger to empathy to a heartfelt grief. (How wrong was Freud eh?)
Who the fuck is Dusty? Ooh! Dusty is my favorite character or is he a sort of a moral fiber. Anyhow he is a pathway to Frank’s rescue from the eternal self-chase. Dusty to me is quite a bloke in the plot. I have been fairly lucky this past week with couple books. It is an absolute thrill to read manuscripts of fresh writers. Firstly, since they write with such gusto that every penned word enlightens their charmed persona. Secondly, commercialized capacities and over zealous editors do not muddle their views and expressions. Broken Bulbs is a bona fide, satirical symbolism of a troubled soul and worth assessing every bit.
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