In early 2014, Anti-Oedipus Press will publish [[ there. ]] by celebrated avant-novelist, hyper-critic, and uber-professor Lance Olsen. Here's a description of the book:

Written during Olsen's five-month stay at the American Academy in Berlin, [[ there. ]] is part critifictional meditation and part trash diary exploring what happens at the confluence of curiosity, travel, and innovative writing practices. A collage of observations, facts, quotations, recollections, and theoretical reflections, it touches on a wide range of authors, genres, and places, from Beckett and Ben Marcus to David Bowie and Wayne Koestenbaum, film and architecture to avant-garde music and hypermedia, the Venezuelan jungle and Bhutanese mountains to New Jersey mall culture and the restlessness known as Berlin. [[ there. ]] is an always-already bracketed performance about how, by inhabiting unstable spaces, we continually unlearn and therefore relearn what thought, experience, and imagination feel like.

If you are unfamiliar with Olsen's work—you shouldn't be. FInd out more about him at his website and check out his latest book, Calendar of Regrets.


We are delighted to announce the informal acquisition of Barry Malzberg's absurdist, meta-SF novel Galaxies to reprint in paperback form. Contract negotiations are underway. Here's the cover description that appeared on the 1975 mass market paperback:

Fortieth-Century Space Probe! The diabolically clever Bureau had superbly trained their space pilot, beautiful Lena Thomas. Nothing could go wrong in an age where science had conquered the universe. In one of their fifteen faster-than-light ships, Lena would reach beyond the over-populated Milky Way, carrying her grotesque cargo: seven programmed prosthetic engineers to give advice and comfort, and 515 dead men sealed in gelatinous fix. Exposed to the unskilled ultraviolet of space, they would gradually become the living again! But the omniscient Bureau was not aware of the black galaxy in Lena's charted path. And Lena's ship fell into it, fell through twenty-five billion miles of hyperspace, into the lifeless, timeless expanse of the dreadful pit . . . The cyborg engineers couldn't help Lena now. She was totally alone except for the awakening dead! If she geared the ship up to tachyonic drive, would she break out of the terrifying black hole? Or would she destroy the universe?

Sounds like stock pulp SF, complete with exclamation points for effect. But Galaxies is SO much more — a truly unique and wildly satirical schizoanalysis of SF social and cultural machinery. Anti-Oedipus Press welcomes Barry aboard and thanks him for his company.