Bodycount by Manuel Marrero (2025, Expat Press)

Language Is Illiterate

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

— Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Some books are one thing; others are many things. This book is many things.

At some point in each review, I make a lazy comparison for readers less invested in critical writing. I may as well get it out of the way here, in case that is all you are looking for. You can then repeat it as though it were your own insight, slotting it neatly between the familiar refrains of 2016 right-wing nostalgia about “RETVRNing” and “what they took from us” (they took nothing from you; the absence was always your own).

This book is Nick Land meets Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. There you go. There’s your soundbite. Goodbye.

Bodycount is Manuel’s third “novel”, a designation that ultimately falls short.

The artwork is simplistic, reminiscent of a Traveller’s Companion edition from Olympia Press, and, as far as I can see, there is no traditional blurb on the back of the book or anywhere else. It is an unassuming object, giving nothing away about its contents.

Part autofiction, all poetry, part geopolitics and part spiritual manifesto, reading Bodycount is to inhabit the mind of someone attempting to fathom the unfathomable.

I usually use a single line from a book as the subtitle for these reviews. This is the only book I have read where almost every line could serve that function. It contains hundreds of micro-sentiments, written with such precision and economy of language that any one of them could open onto a sustained analytical reading of the work. As I write this, I still have not decided which of the many highlighted sentences to choose. That alone tells you what we are dealing with here. Every word has purpose; every sentence carries weight.

Yes, it references the internet, as well as “The Scene”, but it is neither an internet novel nor a scene novel. These elements are necessities for someone positioned at the forefront of it all, as founder of Expat Press. Manuel elaborates on this role, what it entails, how it wears on him. The book becomes a peephole into a locked room: one you might think you wish to inhabit, but by its conclusion, may decide you do not.

It is also bold in its political standpoints, almost immediately. This is where the Landian comparison arises, drawn as much from his recent tweets as from anything else. Manuel shares a sense of velocity, and an eloquent lack of restraint, when discussing the current “state of things.”

As for its spirituality, which is woven throughout everything previously mentioned, it is the purest part of the book, the beating heart among the organs. Manuel’s spirituality feels old-world, as though it comes from grandparents rather than parents. Our parents are too close to us to inspire; perhaps grandparents let us down less. And perhaps they are closer to God. This is, of course, conjecture on my part, simply how it felt to me as I read.

I read some of this book in the bath, where I do much of my reading, as it is a place I know I will not be disturbed. As my housemates chatted nonsense, I slipped my ears beneath the water to drown them out, replacing their inane chatter with the sound of my own heartbeat, while my eyes danced across the prose on the page.

I consumed entire chapters in what felt like seconds, feeling as though I was being dragged along by someone who had seen more of everything than I had.

By the time I had finished, I remembered why I started my X account, why I began writing again, and why I began reviewing books. Suddenly, it all made sense once more, and for that, I am grateful.

You can, and should, buy Bodycount, here. You should also pick up Moth Girl by Calvin Westra whilst you are on the Expat Press store.