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404_error: memoir of a nobody

by RG Vasicek & Zak Ferguson

978-1-9996964-9-8. Paperback, 96 pp. Publication date: December 2022. Equus Press: London & Prague. Price: € 10.00 (not including postage).

Order directly from Equus Press, or via Amazon US or UK.

An anti-memoir like 404 Error comes along maybe once a century. Be happy to be alive at this very moment! You, of all people, can get your hands on this strange & petite book right now. For the cost of a pilsner, or two, or three. Guaranteed to get you drunk enough to cope with your anti-reality. As for the writers, who are they, are they real, who cares? This book is machine-made. A pocket machine that requires no batteries. Get yours & impress your friends. 

“A collaboration, between two undergrounders on an undergrounder press: Capitalism-&-schizophrenia reigns in 404 like Noise: the genre characterised by the expressive use of copy-&-paste, a kind of overabundant madness within a musical text: and 404 Error is akin to this: to watching dead empires in decay, to the screams of zooNOsISE part 1: a highstress horrorshow: of two men making a Frankenstein, on the 88th floor of a concrete block tower.”Peppy Ooze

“The hero of 404 Error by RG Vasicek & Zak Ferguson is error itself. You can catch a glimpse of the collapsing world by presenting the perspective seen from the error. This is a prescient work, and 404 give a signal of awakening to those who wander the hollow surface of social media. It seems to be the best literary work for hardweb building. Let’s hurry to the pharmacy to find hardweb!”Kenji Siratori

“The error is here, single cells immersed in a concrete code. A society that is disquieting, undesirable, a lime green glow that is terrifying. RG Vasicek and Zak Ferguson get to the bleak kernel of human-crafted landscapes, crystal ashtrays, access zones, particles of synthetic telepathy. This novel details the psychological effects of industrial, societal, and ecological developments, icy crusts and kitchen garbage, nervous systems that transcend human perceptions. The authors have landed upon the sand because they’re squid beings, dark matter, webcams. This is the blurb, a standard response code that captures link rot and funky caching, the supernatural of Paul Scheerbart, the Age of the Pussyfoot by Frederick Pohl, or the mini sagas of Brian Aldiss. This novel is the mythopoesis of electronic circuitry, venous-stained textiles, cyanide pills and toolboxes full of narcotic ampoules. Access free protocols where a certain dystopian state projects data streams and viruses like sensory satiation.”Shane Jesse Christmass

“An Internet that has overtaken the physical world. Hackers and users high on celestial squid ink navigate a cyberscape more real to them than the tactile world, a space where every thought, dream, and desire is made manifest and the only thing you risk losing is your mind. Join Darius[z] as he struggles to maintain his hold on his self while his connection to the virtual world malfunctions and his two concurrent realities overlap, blur, and distort. It’s just simple IT maintenance, or it would be if Darius[z] knew where he began and the digital world ended. 404 error. As the system unspools it threatens to pull loose the tenuous threads of Darius[z] himself. Past, present, and future merge as all the thoughts that he ever has had, or will ever have, erupt in a confluence of perception and time. Will Darius[z] survive? Will anyone? Does Darius[z] even care? Does anyone? 404 error. The future is now. Or at least it soon will be.”Jeffrey Howe

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"Modernity today is not in the hands of the poets, but in the hands of the cops" // Louis Aragon
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“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for?…we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us” // Franz Kafka, letter to Oskar Pollack, 27 January 1904
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