Literature is no longer promulgated by the meek, the pale and the cloistered‹the timid crabs of a wild shore. Nor is it penned in the plush bedrooms and dark parlors of a cold and distant elite. In his boldly progressive second novel, ³On a Flying Fish,² David Applefield ¹78 establishes himself as the quintessential buccaneer-author, marauding through not only the high seas of adventure, but the hard streets of literary stoicism.

At once an engrossing murder mystery and an unflinching portrait of racial injustice, Applefield¹s multi-layered story oscillates between two plots, from the cobbled avenues of Europe to the thick tangle of the West Indies. In Frankfurt, a disillusioned book editor struggles to publish an enigmatic manuscript, to the perpetual chagrin of a histrionic girlfriend, who pines incessantly for his attention. Meanwhile, a beleaguered writer, presumably the author of the manuscript, travels to Santa Roseau, where instead of tranquility and solitude, he discovers corruption, deceit and injustice. The story flashes between sequences of high drama and stark realism, between love and adventure.

Yet for all its attention to plot development, suspense and intrigue, ³On a Flying Fish² is, above all else, a reflection on the craft of storytelling. With a romantic cynicism that felicitously merges Faulkner and Bukowski, handsome description and sardonic wit, Applefield unravels some of the mysteries and dilemmas of writing. His analogies reflect not only a remarkable breadth of travel experience, but a lifetime study of literature. Never glib or ingratiating, the story moves through the processes of writing‹the egocentricity, the obsession, the epiphany, the self-loathing and of course, the ineffable joy of creation. A tale of many faces, ³On a Flying Fish,² is a beacon of hope for those of us who constantly look to the novel, not as a changeless anachronism, but as a channel of perpetual reinvention. In a word, Applefield¹s second novel deserves the highest ranks of praise.