I was sent a copy of THE YEAR UNDER THE MACHINE by its author, Peter Danielsson.
It’s a lovely object, dark and compact with a beautiful finish to the hardback case.
Each chapter is no more than a paragraph or two long: each one an epigram, a recounting of a diary entry, a fragment of a witness testimony. One person’s story of the year under the Machine.
I don’t know who came up with the name, but I suppose it was a journalist. It was actually misleading; there were no mechanical parts, no gears, no pistons. Just a motionless pitch black disc overhead.
For some reason the name stuck, maybe because it didn’t feel right to call it something we all recognised. It wasn’t a spaceship, a UFO or a flying saucer. No-one could explain how it arrived or what happened to the people who vanished. So we might as well call it something completely different.
The Machine.
It is a starkly affecting piece of work about a slow-motion end of the world, one which progresses by making each of us more alone. Each section is framed by a large piece of energetic black and white abstract art, into which we read the action of the Machine:
THE YEAR UNDER THE MACHINE is a full experience. I found it completely inspirational.
Check it out and order your own copy at this link here.