The impression by the end is of conceivable dark and silence or an indefinite approximating towards them. At the last the voice speaks over herself with a possibly apocryphal story about Franz Kafka. Kafka looms large in this. His parables free up narrowing limits. Something expires before our very eyes before the last syllable and what we end up with is that odd kind of actuality Beckett in a letter writes down, i.e.:
‘… the pigeon helping with its wing the too frail branch on which it lights.’
Richard Marshall reviews Joanna Walsh’s Shklovsky’s Zoo, with images by Maja Nilsen.