Nameless

Nameless is, like many of Grant Morrison’s other works, a story that starts out straightforward and descends into gibbering lunacy. We begin on an occult space mission–think 2001: A Space Odyssey crossed with John Constantine: Hellblazer and a dash of Inception. By the end we’re drowning in an exquisite stew of rampant destruction, duality, unusual tarot cards, and feminism. The story in between is confusing to the point of being infuriating, but it’s also a beautiful and engaging work of art. Chris Burnham, Nathan Fairbarn, and Simon Bowland are a brilliant artistic team whose work appears ooze appears, crawl, shriek, and burn across the page. Morrison has injected his book with years of research as a “chaos magician” (all helpfully explained in the back of the hardcover edition) that put the finishing touches on a fascinating literary spell. It’s a disorienting read, and that’s how the author likes it. I’m pretty sure he was taking some interesting drugs while writing, and in the end I’m grateful to have been invited along on his trip.