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“AN EXTRAORDINARY ACHIEVEMENT!”
—Montreal Gazette
York Mackenzie is a man hungry in mind and body for self-liberation. Leaving behind his lover, John, and a past that included marriage and a forced separation from his beloved son, York flees to the heat of Morocco—and is swept into the press of warm bodies in the streets of Marrakesh, drawn to the boys dressed like birds of paradise. But it is the joyous and uninhibited Kebir who leads York into a world whirling with color, movement, deep pleasures, and fevered interludes. Dreams, fantasies, and realities soon become indistinguishable . . . his seductive odyssey takes him into an increasingly dangerous territory of flesh and soul . . . a hilarious motor trip with two British gays and a fateful decision to accompany a tantalizing stranger into a remote walled Kasbah leave York ready to make his life-wrenching choice. This rich, wildly exuberant epic of Eros regained is a feast for the senses, an evocation of ecstasy, an interweaving of emotions. HELMET OF FLESH is a grand achievement by an important literary voice.
Quote: Hold onto your burnoose. Bernice. To open Helmet of Flesh is to embark on a roiling, rollicking camel ride. The latest from Canadian author Scott Symons has the protagonist careening through the Atlas Mountains of Morocco and ambling down the dank, pissy alleys of Marrakech led by sloe-eyed Arabian boys. Along the way he picks up a variety of gaudy and eccentric fellows. But for all its fun, there are some flaws.
To title this book with a gratuitous referral to a particular part of the male anatomy which has very little to do with the book is, if anything, misleading. Though sexual orientation is a fundamental aspect of the gay approach to life, it is our spirit which sets us apart from the greater society. Ironically, gay spirituality is one of the underlying themes of the misnamed Helmet.
While It does have its torrid moments, Helmet is simply a rather interesting story about York, a very uptight man, reclaiming his spirit and, thereby, giving vent to his bottled up emotional and physical selves.
My gripe about York (and this is just my opinion) is that he is such a weenie. From what I can tell, he is probably in his mid-thirties, bearded, comely (if not beautiful), and a somewhat astute observer of the world around him. That’s the end of my praise for him. Throughout the book. York is either tired, suffering from sun stroke, vomiting, or recovering from wounds. If he's not physically debilitated, he’s just plain dumbfounded. If ever a guy needed to be plopped into the topsyturvy world of Marrakesh, it's York.
Almost the minute this lump lands in Morocco, the fun begins - if not for him, at least for the reader. Immediately, York is enchanted by a young Arab named Kebir who remains loyal to him throughout the book. Fast on the heels of Kebir are two Englishmen: the inimitable Colonel Tony and a princely guy named James who always wears ascots.
Unbeknownst to York, the Colonel is really just a sergeant with a sad history and plenty of skeletons to be rattled. James, who claims to work “in communications", is a clerk in a telephone office. He is remarkable, though, in a number of ways — one being that even in the middle of the largest desert in the world, James is always able to come up with a few bottles of wine. The incredulous York asks. “Where does he keep them, in his shoes?"
York and Kebir are soon tooling through the Atlas Mountains with the extraordinary twosome in a large and luxurious Jaguar sedan. James is an avid photographer, his flash going off constantly, adding a fireworks effect to the already bizarre happenings. The Colonel is along because he likes to drive like a maniac and is looking to truly experience Arabian youth — again.
The band has a riotous time. They get hexed by the evil eye, almost run the Jag off the tortuous mountain roads, get mugged and robbed, and nearly get arrested when James vents his predilection for S/M action. When York last sees The Colonel and James, the Colonel is reeling out of a caravan tent with a seemingly mortal wound.
James is in an ecstatic trance, dancing like a dervish around a huge bonfire with some less than friendly tribesmen wielding knives. York, our hero, can’t take it — he passes out.
He awakens in "Le Tout Hotel Des Amis" (which is really an aviary of rare birds). He first meets the flamboyant Claude, a painter who has a penchant for capes and pantaloons. Then, there is Bertrand. The godly beautiful Bertrand lies around naked in a heroin reverie, his huge snake, raucous macaw. and flute near at hand.
All these characters (and there is a host I haven't mentioned) all seem to be exiles or on the run. Each becomes an icon of one meaning or another to York as he searches for himself. Helmet Is full of symbols and satire.
York (the messenger of Symons) is an astute observer. Through his eyes, the reader can really get a feel and flavor for that part of the world. What makes the descriptions so vivid is that York often falls into reverie over his home in Osprey Cove, Canada. The garishness of Marrakech jumps boldly out after a description of a rather straight-laced, quiet little fishing town.
York is also a diarist, writing everything down. And I mean everything - often in clipped, fast moving sentences which drop articles and conjunctions. The author, too, slips into this mode at times, especially when the action requires it. While I think this technique gives the book some punch and roll, others could find it irritating.
The serious reader should ignore the title and buy a book cover if he wants to read it on the bus. It‘s worth the trouble, for "Helmet of Flesh" is a book into which you can sink your teeth. It really is a very good read - often lyrical, often hilarious, often philosophical, often sensual. Symons has more or less resurrected the psychedelic, kaleidoscopic genre we saw during the late sixties and early seventies, though the focus is not on drugs but on the soul. The occasional blue cloud of hashish does wend its way through the plot but, after all, this is Morocco.
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