Brandon Hobson achieves through a sort of literary pointillism what other writers attempt with more. The precision of the text serves to amplify each section against the next. The result exponentially magnified beyond the scale of its dark sentences.
The Levitationist is brilliant and sinister, full of the marvelous and unexpected, wild yet measured, with the surreal, hermetic logic of dreams or prophecy. "It's either our imagination or the plumbing," one of Brandon Hobson's searching and tortured characters guesses, and he's right: it's the continual fairytale transformation from the mundane to the insane that gives this magical book its lift.
She left parts of herself around the house for her promiscuous husband to find. It became a sort of game. When he came home early in the mornings, after staying out all night, he would often find a mouth, a hand or tongue, a breast, at times even a finger. She never once left her vagina for him. She kept it hidden, as always, in the one place she knew he would never look.