Layers of the Real:
On B.R. Yeager’s ‘Amygdalatropolis’
A review by Mike Corrao
B.R. Yeager, “Amygdalatropolis”
Schism2, 2017
200 pages, hardcover, $10
B.R. Yeager’s debut novel “Amygdalatropolis” (Schism2, 2017) is a work of destruction and hopelessness. We observe the actions and behaviors of a young man who goes under the moniker of /1404er/ as he wanders through the insecure and violent parts of the internet, discussing LiveLeak videos, snuff films, and torture porn with an anonymous body of strangers, all seemingly sitting in the same position as he, spending their days the same way he does, and secluding themselves in the same self-induced hermitage. /1404er/ rarely leaves his room, often making frozen dinners in his microwave and ignoring his mother who speaks to him through the door.
“Amygdalatropolis” is a novel of meticulous design, made with a prose structure that can be broken down into three components, which Yeager constantly shifts between. Each page often occupied by at least two of the different forms of writing. The first is the surface prose, that which depicts the physical world. “/1404er/ had binged and re-gested five Western articles about hikikomori and forwarded them to his mom.” These sections appear in standard paragraph format. Here, we see the narrator as he sits at his computer, yells through the door to his mother, and hesitantly creeps through the hallway towards the bathroom.
The second component is represented in series of text chats, primarily between members of the protagonist’s favorite forum, /1404er/. Although these conversations occasionally occur in other forums / chat rooms, they primarily happen here, where each user is given the same moniker of /1404er/. “►/1404er/ (Wed) 16:23:44 No.1000683188 / Hey, I need help finding a one particular drug that’s illegal in my country.” The decision to label these users with a uniform name rather than with the overarching title of ‘anonymous’ creates an unsettling image, in which multiple consciousnesses occupy the same form. There is a sense that every word typed out is coming from the same source, as if each /1404er/ (including our narrator) has been joined into a hive mind. Or as if a cult has seduced each into the same customs and behaviors. And with the ultraviolent tendencies and fantasies of the forums users, this anonymity becomes haunting and almost otherworldly. “►/1404er/ (Fri) 23:11:32 No.10006857651 / You killed someone for being inebriated and poor.” It instills in the reader a sense that the world outside of the protagonist’s room is hysterical and apocalyptic. The internet then feels like hinterlands. Like a wall of voices climbing out of the void, or out from the skulls of random figures.
►any killers?
►/1404er/ (Fri) 22:33:29 No.10006857519
Be honest: how many people have you killed?►/1404er/ (Fri) 22:35:02 No.10006857524
0, what about u ?►/1404er/ (Fri) 22:35:59 No.10006857525
never killed a man who didnt deserve it
Yeager utilizes this layer as another author might utilize setting. In the abstract qualities of the voice, in the outward confessions of violent desire, a room is created. One made of mouths or vocal chords. There is always something to be said, regardless of how unimportant or narcissistic it may be. As if these—practically—nameless voices must speak in order to perpetuate their existence. The Computer of Yeager’s novel occupies simultaneous roles as both God and planet. Gaia. The divine setting. Both physical and abstract, imbued with place and personality.
The last component of the text is written in italics, and this section appears the most enigmatic out of the three. Where in the other two you can identify a source or location (the first depicting the physical world, and the second depicting the computer / forum), this last one feels cosmic and unidentifiable. An unknown voice. “Tears—perfect and photoreal—stream and buck from their cheeks, and the scraps of flesh shredded and bunched on the lips of the portals’ edges’ render immaculately.” It seamlessly shifts between the settings of the first two components. At times trivializing the body’s faculties, and at other times turning the actions of a videogame avatar holy. This third layer is where I found myself drawn. Often I find that I have trouble getting excited about works of realism, or even work that’s just grounded in reality. With these first two layers of the prose, I found myself more fascinated by form than content. And this is not to say that the content was lacking, but that it wasn’t the kind of writing that I gravitate towards. But with the inclusion of this third layer, we begin to enter a rather abstract space. One where the voice of the text cannot quite be placed. It is spoken as if by a cleric drifting through the void. One that will break down your own body as easily as a hunter breaks down a deer. It is the voice of mass murders and cultish violence. “They were machines like a human body; a body covered in boxes. And they stretched as tall as to crack the atmosphere.” There is a distant certainty in the way it speaks. Unlike its predecessors, this layer has the power to recontextualize everything around it. The empty violence of the chat logs becomes legitimate and unstoppable. The banal hermitage of the physical descriptions become holy and devote. Sitting in front of The Computer becomes equally mundane, pathetic, and grotesque. In other words, these short passages scattered throughout the book completely changed how I read the paragraphs around it. These sections changed the novel from exaggerated realism to a metaphysical wandering.
This novel never really feels like it’s all happening in one house. It never feels as physically restricted as it actually is. With the use of these italicized sections and these chat logs, the author turns /1404ers/ bedroom into a city. But one in which every facet of the surrounding white noise is created from violent desires and explicit sexual fantasies. The protagonist is constantly surrounded, but at ease with what he hears. He’s not only become numb to this stimulation, but participatory as well. “Amygdalatropolis” uses its form to highlight the ways that we have begun to commute and wander without using our bodies. The internet becomes a new kind of cosmopolis where the body travels in stasis. And to this degree, the experience appears metaphysical, as if /1404er/ is meditating or performing astral projections. Yeager has taken the common practice of living on the internet and revealed to us the aspects we had not initially thought about, that these self-curated neurorealities are no less real than the room the computer is in, and oftentimes they appear more real, exposing us to new people, new spaces, new information. They are the wealth of all knowledge, all access.
“Amygdalatropolis” is an exploration of the unsettling violence of our existence, and the strange neurorealities we find ourselves in on a daily basis. Constantly moving between these three styles of writing, Yeager creates a space of constant flux. Where the reader’s view jumps between digital and physical like a light flickering on and off. The novel is gruesome and fascinating. Occupied by ultraviolent silhouettes and ominous deaths. Here, “Amygdalatropolis” balances between the unique and the universal, creating an atmosphere of technological gore. Where we talk through closed doors as the wall of voices lists the names of everyone they’ve ever wanted to hurt, destroy, fuck, or disappear. And where the grotesque actions of the body become virtual and distant, still violent but obscured by the ambiguity of their ontology. Does anything really happen, or is the wall of voices simply lying to us?
Mike Corrao is the author of “Man, Oh Man” (Orson’s Publishing, 2018) and “Gut Text” (11:11 Press, 2019). His work has been featured in publications such as Entropy, Minor Literature[s], and The Portland Review.