Originally I had trepidations when I thumbed through Mitch Cullin's second novel, Branches, because it is in prose poem form. Having read Cullin's first book, Whompyjawed, I was looking forward to another novel, not a poem. But soon after digging in for an evening with Branches, I discovered it is a novel in every sense of the word, despite its form. Considering all the cross-pollination of literary forms these days, it only seems a fitting contemporary form to tell the story of Sheriff Branches, a minor character in Whompyjawed.

Again, as in Whompyjawed, Cullin describes the vast West Texas landscape surrounding the town of Claude with the masterfulness of a sorceror, knowing to use just the right words to evoke feelings of loneliness and desolation inside the reader. And these feelings, alongside the strange black and white illustrations of Ryuzo Kikushima, are a fitting background for the eerily complacent voice of Sheriff Branches. Cullin strips away conventional morality and lets Branches loose, like a sinister storm bubbling to life over the horizon. Through memories, we learn about the forming of Branches and his version of the law. Cullin uses this past to parallel Branches's stepson, Danny. And even though Branches and Danny are brought up differently, like a vicious circle, a similiar conclusion is reached between them, ending in a spooky showdown. Leaving one wondering, "Which one is the lesser of two evils?"

Eery in its matter-of-fact violence, Branches is original and a great follow-up to the coming-of-age Whompyjawed.

Clearly a one sitting read, this versified monologue careens between present and past with abandon, leading the reader through the bizarre mind and adventures of a lawman of the new West. The style of writing is riveting, with fascinating contrasts between the sometimes revolting episodes and the beauty of language and landscape. While quite different from Cullin's first novel, Whompyjawed (a more peaceful delight), this short exploration of misused authority is captivating and chilling, and continues the author's insights into the foibles of the characters of West Texas.

Cullin's "Cosmology of Bing" is quick read. It is filled with insight on how unrequited longing cripples happiness. The silent character of the novel, Susan, sits like the Greek chorus, observing events and making comment via her poetry, which is quite beautiful and good. The mixing of the two forms, poetry and fiction, is a major accomplishment of this smart novel. The subplot of Nick's adventures in college with the gang of pie throwers who attack the Christian right with cream pies is marvelous diversion. Bing Owen comes across as the bisexual counterpart of George in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe," an emotionally stunted alcoholic aging professor who has substituted outward propriety to mask inward anger and longings. Where the novel is weak for me is that Bing is so humanly flawed that he's not likeable. Nick's naieve association with the professor reads well, and is counterpointed by Nick's relationship with his soulmate/roommate Takashi. Cullin has created a wonderful tale, a bit on the dark side, that explores the inner emotional landscape, and keeps it fun with the surrounding events of college pranks. This is a very good book; one you won't want to miss.

Cosmology of Bing is a brilliant and fascinating read with compelling perspectives on the lives of students and faculty at a top private university, covering both their separate and intertwined worlds. There are rare, compelling, revealing and often painful perspectives on life and realities. There is Professor Bing Owen and his once beautiful wife, a brilliant poet struck prematurely with tragic health, and Nick Sulpy, a student Bing loves, and Nick's roommate Takashi. The book has wonderful characters and is spun through a yarn with fascinating metaphors on the realities of life on this earth and the vast universe beyond. Cullin's book is not what one always reads about universities, but is a rare insight into what literally occurs on campuses. I bought it via the NYT review, and found the super assessment to be be monumentally valid.

As a fan of Mitch Cullin's fiction, I am continually surprised and entertained by the structure of his novels. THE COSMOLOGY OF BING with its introspective young-old characters best reveals Cullin's broad skills as a writer, storyteller, poet, and an appreciator of fine art. Cullin appears to be exploring his own possibilities and creatively expanding his style. However, without doubt in any format he is a keen observer of life, whether that life is a cat's, or a cactus, or a complex set of wants and needs.

This, Cullin's fourth novel, seems to pick up where WHOMPYJAWED, his satisfying first, left off. Willie, the hobbledehoy of the first, manifests as Nick in the fourth. Since Cullin's second book, BRANCHES, aggravated next by TIDELAND, an anxious anticipation accompanies my reading of his fiction, whether COSMOLOGY's plot situations call for it or not. Cullin creates a worrying, subtle suspense. Questions arise from the reading.

Some answers appear,then vanish, like the eerie lights of Marfa,Texas. Cullin does not disappoint, and he doesn't make excuses for his characters' foibles, no more than those mystery lights disappoint, or can be explained away. Just why did Bing's grandmother bite him? Pittances of cash for effort and petty exchanges of self between Susan and Bing are annoyingly funny and believable. The importance of meaningful work,the interdependence of friends and lovers, students and teacher, the essentials of trust in give and take -- these issues are the woof and warp of the novel. All are deftly woven into whole cloth.

THE COSMOLOGY . . . is tender, sly, and amusing in ways that readers of Larson's "The Far Side" cartoons can appreciate. No football. No boy in a not-so-abandoned well. No Barbie doll heads, or human taxidermy. A bit more grope and grizzle than I generally choose for pleasure reading. (No denying humans being human.) With Cullin one must un-expect the expected. Nothing he writes is merely gratuitous. Cullin's contract with readers is a contract of beneficence.

An excellent collection, with exceptionally vivid characters. Not all of the stories struck me with the same weight, but the ones that did--"Voice Of The Sun," "Wormwood," "Viv's Bidding," "Totem"--are among the best short fiction I've read in a long while. Lesser pieces like "Sifting Through" and the title story are still better than most, though they seemed somewhat brisk in their presentation. A minor qualm, and one that may have gone unnoticed if it weren't for the quality, length, and richness of the other stories. A highly recommended debut of short fiction.

An incredibly written, insightful, flat-out great collection of stories. Loved the shift of regions and locales, but it's the strong characters that move these stories along. The ending story about the Alaskan boy just concluded the whole thing beautifully. 2002 has just begun, but this one will probably remain high up on my list.

Both poetic and thrilling, the best thing about this novel in the texture: the language and visual imagery are both stunning. This is a wonderful take on a twisted childhood, and so it's no surpirise Terry Gilliam will direct the movie version: the surreal and dreamy misprision is right up his alley. One might quibble that the voice of the narrator in the novel would be beyond that of a child, but the payoff of the reading experience is probably worth the suspension of disbelief.

"Tideland," Mitch Cullin's third novel, is at once similar and different than his first two novels, "Whompyjawed" & "Branches." First, the background takes place in the vast wilds of West Texas - loosely connected to the two prior novels. (In Whompjawed, Sherriff Branches - the narrative voice in Branches - has a cameo appearance. And, completing the circle, in Tideland there is a mention of Willy Keeler, star football player in Whompyjawed. - So, we can assume Tideland takes place in the same region as the first two...) Cullin, using the eyes of Tideland's narrator Jeliza Rose, again shows his gift for capturing surrounding. The look through a small girl's imaginative world born amongst the surrounding Johnsongrass, the mesquite, fireflies, etc. It takes on a magical quality, without being overly sentimental. It reminded me of a juvenile book I read years ago, "Behind the Attic Wall" by Sylvia Cassedy. Except I felt that a large portion of the middle section of Tideland could have been eliminated with. Some might appreciate the "real time" aspect of it, but I have to say it became an annoyance the way it began to loop, day to day. When Jeliza Rose finally meets the odd duo of Dell and Dickens, it is a sigh of relief.

In Tideland, Cullin seems to extemporize many of the odd details amongst its pages. Like Jeliza's father's obsession with Denmark, bog men, his rockabilly past, onto the imaginative worlds of Jeliza and Dickens', etc. Most of these details seem to have no purpose other than being creative. But I, personally, appreciated it, and also encourage Cullin to cut loose more in the future. Which leads to a criticism of Tideland. Throughout much of the novel Jeliza's voice bounces around from extremely naïve to Salinger's Teddy gifted, making connections and observations most adults may pass over. In Whompyjawed, Cullin's sense of tact, control, and believability in the narrator's voice is impeccable. As is Branches, for that matter. But in Tideland, I got the definite sense that Cullin wanted to breakout and away from the boundaries of Jeliza's voice. And though Jeliza often mimicked things heard or learned from her father/mother, there's a different feeling that Cullin interjected himself, his creative observations in place of the limited capacities of Jeliza's.

And though saying what I have, Tideland is darkly funny, creative, and an interesting read. Its plots (once into gear) twist into unexpected places of the heart and imagination at the drop of a hat. And even though I do not recommend Tideland as highly as his first two efforts, Cullin is a great talent to be reckoned with. Watch out.

Tideland seized my imagination from the first page, and I think most readers will follow Cullin's extraordinary conceptions with astonishment and delight. Told in the past tense, thus suggesting a good deal of time has passed before its telling, Jeliza-Rose's adventures among the mesquites are haunting, strange, and often beautiful. Her encounters with the odd pair of Dell and Dickens come at a welcome time, yet leads us down an even darker path of family secrets and hidden boxes of dynamite.

Considering Tideland came just months after Cullin's Branches and only a few months before his equally wonderful but different The Cosmology of Bing, one can only imagine what this very talented and singular storyteller has up his sleeve next. Until then, I highly recommend the curious world of Tideland, which is a work of so unusual a nature as to throw new light on Cullin's already brilliant career.

...Whompyjawed does not describe a world I want to live in; it's a nightmare. The girlfriend is a date rape victim, not a virginally, repressed teenager. So I assume, by "sexual fantasy" you are referring to the attempted date rape scene. Ramona is a battered prostitue, not a temptress or good friend of the mother. Mom is not a waitress unless that is a new name for a hooker, especially on tax return forms.

There are many journeys through books that I want to take; this book is not one of them. If you find yourself wading through this violent roadtrip, choose an exit ramp as quickly as possible.

Told with from the perspective of a high school football player, Whompyjawed is an honest, engaging, and truthful account of teenage angst, confusion, and questioning. Rather than gloss over or play down the multitude of conflicting feelings young men feel, the author displays them without making excuses. Overall, it is a funny, sometimes sad, and good novel with characters that are finely drawn and believable. I recommend this book to both teenagers and high school teachers, as it gives some needed insight to the problems young men are facing in this uncertain age.

Written with a unique voice and evocative sense of place, Mitch Cullin's debut novel, "Whompyjawed," is a complete triumph. The novel focuses on the inchoate and often inarticulatge yearnings and existential questioning of its protagonist, Willy Keeler, whose prowess in high-school football affords him the opportunity to escape the prospects of a dead-end life in Claude, Texas. "Whompyjawed" gains its stature from its reliance on the compelling, believable and authentic voice of its protagonist; Willy not only plays a great game on the gridiron, he speaks a great game as well, whether it be through his many internal monologues or external conversations with a series of memorable secondary characters who help compose the texture of his life. Cullin's memorable description of Claude, once fefined as the "real ass of nowhere," could well be compared with the atmosphere established in Larry McMurtry's "The Last Picture Show," Kent Haruf's "Plainsong" or Larry Watson's "Montana, 1948."

It would be all to easy to caricaturize Willy Keeler's life: star football player, dates the gorgeous but virginal daughter of a repressive high-school principal, reluctant victim of paternal abandonment, observer of family disintegration, unknowing pawn of his football coach who is simultaneously paternalistic and cynically manipulative. These truths, however, grossly simplify the complexity and depth of the protagonist's life. Keeler, despite every inducement to play it safe, constantly questions his actions and tries to invent acceptable understandings of his life's direction. Football, Texas style, becomes a powerful metaphor of competition, deception and self-definition. Coach Bud's professed concern for Willy's future unravels under championship pressure; the adult's supposed maturity disintegrates as he blandly risks Willy's health for victory. Ultimately, Cullin destroys our culture's image of high-schoool football coaches as role models for innocent youth.

Willy's increased disaffection with his high-school sweetheart, Hanna, leads to a powerful sexual fantasy and attachment to one of his mother's abused, broken friends. The author's treatment of adult and adolescent sexuality is one of the novel's special achievements. As well, Cullin sympathetically examines the multi-faceted and disastrous consequences of a fractured family. In a manner reminiscent of Sherwood Anderson in "Winesburg, Ohio," the characters in "Whompyjawed" suddenly and unpredictably become alive to each other, briefly, but powerfully, illuminating their deepest selves to each other. Willy's mother's brief and pain-saturated soliloquy about her family's past is perhaps the best of many epiphanies streaking across the novel's pages.

Though many of the moments of this novel are whompyjawed askew -- odd or off-centered -- the novel rings true. "Whompyjawed" will remain with the reader long after its conclusion.

I wanted to like this book, I truly did. But in the end, it left me completely unfulfilled.
Here is my main problem with the book. Many novels, as does this one, start in the present and then flashback to the past to see how the protagonist actually made it to this current place. However, in order for this to work, a reader's attention must be grabbed at the very beginning to make us truly wonder and care about how things became the way they are. In this book, the present (as it starts out) is very bland and uneventful. The past, as we find out later, actually had some good twists and turns. However, by the time we get to the previous events, we really don't care about the main character or his predicament.
While some of the descriptions are quite good and vivid, this short book will leave most readers completely unmoved.

As unsettling as it is revealing, Undersurface is bold attempt at merging Hitchcockian mystery with social commentary. On one level it is a simple tale of mistaken identity, in which the protagonist finds himself living in sewage tunnels to escape capture for a crime he may or may not have committed; on another level it is a heartbreaking, sometimes surreal character study of a man losing his grip on reality. More than anything, it is the insight into the character's mind that drives this novel along. To say more could ruin the ending. I'll only add that this vivid, finely written book won't be for everyone, but for those who enjoy the melding of genres and well-envisioned plot twists it certainly won't be a disappointment.