Kornwolf by Tristan Egolf

Kornwolf? You mean werewolf? Or is it The Blue Ball Devil? And where in hell (pun intended) is this surreal God forsaken landscape Egolf refers to as Pennsyltucky? Asking questions such as these only led me to wondering in circles trying to locate a straight line of reasoning anywhere within the pages of Tristan Egolf’s third, and sadly last, novel. Yes, it is a novel about small rural town life, journalism, boxing, the Amish community, the crazed depravity inherent in American Puritanism and of course, werewolves. A heady and potent concoction that is bound to result in some gut punching, head spinning, eye gouging and nostril blocking fun, as Egolf draws a picture so vivid it makes one wish they digested their lunch before assuming reading positions. After a bout of googling some of mentioned locations I can in fact confirm that there is an area in rural Pennsylvania referred to as Pennsyltucky by them smug city folk. To my enormous disappointment the map of Pennsyltucky does not contain little stars with names such as “Intercourse”, “Blue Ball”, “Bird-In-Hand” or “Philth Town”. However, Egolf’s portrayal of human baseness, mischief and carnal animalism is more present, immediate and physical than any map that denies knowledge of such. As fan of dischordia, reporter Owen Brynmor, sows seeds of panic and anxiety throughout the Basin with tales of “The Blue Ball Devil”, backed by a scanner photograph that not even he can explain, a hellish secret buried deep within the heart of the Amish community begins to rear its ugly, pungent, snarling head. Under the light of the blue moon all forces will come to a head and the Kornwolf will reveal its deadly fangs. Egolf’s writing is at once surprising and natural, drawing pictures with corn and excrement blended together masterfully. It’s rare to find writers today that still use language with visual imagination, that aren’t afraid to mix metaphors or invent a word. Egolf uses language like a playground, where one can always construct new creations out of the existing building blocks, and the result is extremely refreshing. The one thing that a reader may find fault with here, is that upon many occasions Egolf will engage in a story line that will not lead anywhere except to maybe drawing parallels with other more conductive storylines, which leads to queries such as “Well what about that Roddy guy?” But in the end it’s all part of the fun, and fun in literature is dangerously underrated. As for me, I’m with Tristan all the way. This book made me want to set haystacks on fire and spray paint dirty words on community centers. Screw continuity and flow, LONG LIVE DISCHORDIA!