Tom Bradley’s novels are not portents of things to come, but are hypnotic forays into the things that cannot be changed — just as one of the cheap arguments by the US for the justification of nuclear build-up was that atomic weapons could not be disinvented, so may as well manufacture more. The events cannot be erased any more than we can pretend nuclear bombs are simply fiction. Tom is not a preacher of that gospel of hope and change, for the inherent cynicism of his novels betrays an absurdist streak that always brings us back to the beginning of the circle: it’s too late. Not that Tom walks around with a sandwich board bellowing that the end is nigh — no, the end was nigh long ago, and the horrific events of Hiroshima and Nagasaki only serve to carve the last piece of punctuation on history’s epitaph.
Kane X Faucher spends an evening with “7’2″ ginger-furred yeti” Tom Bradley whose new book is out in early August.