Books by John Fraser
Published by Aesop Publications
John Fraser is the author of 20 books. All Fraser's books are published by Aesop Publications, most recently Three Beauties (2015). He is writer and musician, and was born in London. He has worked in the UK (Cambridge, Leicester and Reading), Canada (Sudbury and Kitchener-Waterloo), and Italy (Bologna, Ferrara and Rome). He now lives near Rome.
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The distinguished poet, novelist and Booker Prize nominee John Fuller has written of Fraser’s fiction:
'One of the most extraordinary publishing events of the past few years has been the rapid, indeed insistent, appearance of the novels of John Fraser. There are few parallels in literary history to this almost simultaneous and largely belated appearance of a mature œuvre, sprung like Athena from Zeus’s forehead; and the novels in themselves are extraordinary. I can think of nothing much like them in fiction. Fraser maintains a masterfully ironic distance from the extreme conditions in which his characters find themselves. There are strikingly beautiful descriptions, veiled allusions to rooted traditions, unlikely events half-glimpsed, abrupted narratives, surreal but somehow apposite social customs. Fraser’s work is conceived on a heroic scale in terms both of its ideas and its situational metaphors. If he were to be filmed, it would need the combined talents of a Bunuel, a Gilliam, a Cameron. Like Thomas Pynchon, whom in some ways he resembles, Fraser is a deep and serious fantasist, wildly inventive. The reader rides as on a switchback or luge of impetuous attention, with effects flashing by at virtuoso speeds. The characters seem to be unwitting agents of chaos, however much wise reflection the author bestows upon them. They move with shrugging self-assurance through circumstances as richly-detailed and as without reliable compass-points as a Chinese scroll.'
Of Fraser’s Animal Tales, Fuller wrote:
'It convinces me that he is the most original novelist of our time. His work has become an internal dialogue of intuitions and counter-intuitions that just happens to take the form of conversations between his inscrutable characters. But really it is a rich texture of poetic perceptions, frequently reaching for the aphoristic, but rooted in sidelong debate and weird analogies. When I return to his books it is like finding the rare fruit spirit in the drinks cupboard and realising that it wasn't just for special occasions, but is at all times superior to Pilsener or Merlot. I now class him as a latter-day surrealist. The things I like about his work are always rooted in wit (‘Mongolians . . . are the Turks who stayed behind’; ‘[Animals] have had their day . . . .Or if they haven’t, they must try a little harder’). And of course the pure invention, the nanospillikins, the collection of genitals. What has struck me recently is how toughly he writes. Not, of course, like the butch Hemingway, but with the talking directness of someone with a secure vision.'