Christopher Nosnibor: purveyor of fine postmodern fiction since 1975
Who is Christopher Nosnibor? He is a UK-based writer who is terminally disaffected and maladjusted. His writing is not easy to categorise, spanning a range of styles and including reviews and essays as well as works of fiction and poetry. One thing that connects all of his work, however, is a strong and unique voice and an unswervingly non-mainstream and wholly uncommercial approach to writing. Such a refusal to sell out or compormise means his work is not widely available, but that is not to say his output is in any way inaccessible. Nosnibor has devoted a considerable amount of time to becoming an invisible author. He also claims to be a 24/7 enigma, and has appeared as a featured author on the BBC website. Don't believe everything you read....
Publications to date are THE PLAGIARIST (2008); Postmodern Fragments: Writings on Work, Technology and Contemporary Living; Bad Houses (2006), a collection of short stories, A Call for Submission and C.N.N. (2007) - a multimedia extravaganza produced in collaboration with Stuart Bateman. August 2010 will see the belated appearance of his simultaneous narrative novella, From Destinations Set.
More recently, Christopher has been spreading the virus on-line, with his work appearing via a number of channels. These works span short works of fiction, essays and poetry, and, as a regular writer for Whisperin' and Hollerin', gig and CD reviews. January 2010 saw the publication of the anthology Clinical, Brutal... An Anthology of Writing With Guts which he has edited, and this has been followed by the novella From Destinations Set.
He has also completed three full-length novels, Exiled in Domestic Life and its sequel, Rusty Bullet Wounds, as well as THE PLAGIARIST. THE PLAGIARIST was published as a hardback edition in May by Clinicality Press. The paperback followed toward the end of August. See the News page for more details.
He is currently seeking a publisher (or someone willing to help him in this task) for Exiled. There's a plot synopsis as well as the first three chapters by way of a taster on the Exiled in Domestic Life page, which can be found on the menu on the left. Anyone interested in assisting with bringing this project to fruition, please get in touch.
The purpose of this site is to draw together all of this by providing direct links to all of Christopher's work both on-line and in print. Links can be found on the Publications page. Exclusive content will also be made available here, beginning with the short story 'His 'n' Hers' which can be found on the Website Exclusives page.
Finally, this site will be the place where any news updates regarding new publications, etc., will be provided. As Christopher invariably has a number of projects in the pipeline, it is anticipated that there will be a reasonable amount of news over the coming months. Watch this space - and follow him on twitter, for links to new music reviews as they're posted, and more.
The world is a fairly rancid place, primarily on account
of those who populate it. Try as I might to convince myself
otherwise, no matter what arguments I presented to myself, my
conclusion remained ever the same. There was simply no contesting the
evidence, and no avoiding the fact: people stink. The smell of
humanity is not merely an unpleasant whiff, but a rancid stench,
reminiscent of putrefaction, a stagnant cesspool of fetid, decaying
flesh. Like a maggot-laden pile of offal sweltering in a pungent
miasma in the summer sun in a narrow lane at the back of a black
market butcher’s, or the rotting jellied foetal remains out the
back of a back-street abortionist’s, humanity’s decomposing stink
rises in a dense cloud of fermenting foulness. It is not the
industrialised nations’ emissions of chlorofluorocarbon gasses
collecting in the atmosphere that is causing the accelerated
depletion of the ozone layer, and the attendant warming of the globe,
but the particles of moral decay and value erosion which are forming
a thick film in the lower layers of the atmosphere of this filthy
planet that are our self-spawned nemesis. To this end, my own very
existence often proved problematic to me. The best action I could
effect was damage limitation on a personal level.
A
14-year old doughball in an XXL Slipknot hoodie, emblazoned with a
barcode and the classic slogan ‘People = Shit’ lolled past.
You’re part of the problem, not the solution, kid. Give it up
already. There’s no doubting the accuracy of the statement: it’s
true, people do = shit, but Slipknot are people, however hard they
like to pretend otherwise. Their hunk of turd fans are also found to
be lurking amongst the lower echelons of the ‘people’ category,
and within the ‘fat, spotty dumbass’ subcategory thereof. Fact of
the matter is, some people ≥ than others. Some people ≤ than
others. Some people ≥ shit than others. But fuck it, how can they
conceive to set themselves apart from the rest of society while
subscribing to all of that corporate rock bullshit? And Slipknot, of
all bands! So little to say, and so few words to say it with. There’s
a distinct lack of eloquent rock icons right now. Perhaps that’s
largely correlative with the distinct lack of eloquent rock fans. All
of the literate musicians are on the breadline, living in bedsits and
hovels, unable to get a record deal, unable to get any gigs while all
of the labels have thrown their money at droves of baggy long-shorts
wearing bearded illiterates who can’t even get a decent sound out
of a guitar, and all the venues are booked up with pogoing
trainer-wearing goatee-sporting generic corporate rock emulators. The
rest of the literate musicians have given up and have either had to
trade in their artistic aspirations for sensible haircuts and
soul-crushing careers in teaching and administration, or are holed up
in their hovels trying to write the great American novel.
from Rusty Bullet Wounds (unpublished).