“False-Positive” is an author's kiss of death. Beginning in the silence that precedes thought, it slips between sleep and jolts of bad conscience. Comprised of fragments struggling to find a pulse, the work fails to achieve form. It will not gather or cohere. It cannot be satisfied.
Peterson's latest is the record of a book nearly aborted, as forlorn as a teddy bear in back of a stolen car, and best viewed as a cry from a rented room during the latest pandemic. Unearthed one day from layers of ash, it could prove to be as time sensitive as a doomsday document.
