The Machine in Ward Eleven by Charles Willeford
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I hesitate to call this a "redux" of another Pulp category, but it does continue Willeford's excellent work in "Pick Up."
I say this in the sense that in that earlier novel, the hero is also (self)committed to a (nearly)psycho ward. The difference here is a stylistic (and internal logical) consistency where the patient isn't entirely aware of all the details. He says as much, and yet as the teller of the tale, where does that put us to judge the facts on the face of the telling?
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