No, he is not some 18th-century British landmark. He is a writer who was schooled at Columbia and perhaps there exists a connection between him and Ben Marcus that contributed to his eventual contribution to Marcus' anthology "The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories." Despite possible collusion, his piece "Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned" was entirely worth a look-through. The voice of the narrator coupled with the diction makes the story. It's as though Beowulf existed, knew the prominent and forerunning epic was written about him and his secret identity is Samuel Jackson as Jules from Pulp FIction. He's like the actor/wrestler Rowdy Rodney Piper, kicking ass and chewing gum, except he's all out of gum. You want conflict? How about this: "Sons of bitches three weeks' boat ride off were fucking up our summer and were probably going to need their asses whipped." So our grisly but lovable host, Harald, goes off with his posse of vikings for some healthy marauding.
Juxtaposed with the machismo and utter brutality of these men is their sensitive love for women. Harald reveals his intense love for his wife Pila and their soon-to-be-born twins. One of his buddies, Gnut, falls in love with a one-armed woman from the village they attack. They steal her away from her father, beating the smack out of him in the process. Tower includes disturbing of intense violence in Tarantino fashion, divulging the reader with the art of a "Blood Eagle" which involves carving slits in the victim's spine and playing puppet master with their lungs and arms. Absolutely absurd. And finally, we are given a typical reflective ending one would expect Tower is up to: an attempt at a meaningful elaboration dealing with carnage, fear, and love. It works sufficiently, but does not reward the reader upon further readings of the story. It comes close, though, but cannot be taken seriously given the tone of the whole story. Here's a little bit from the end (spoiled!) that begins with one of the most ridiculous things a savage pillager could say:
"Where had the good times gone? I didn't know, but when Pila and me had our little twins and we put a family together, I got an understanding of how terrible love can be. You wish you hated those people, your wife and children, because you know what awful things the world will do to them, because you have done some of those things yourself. It's crazy-making, but you cling to them with everything and close your eyes against the rest of it. But still you wake up late at night and lie there listening for the creak and splash of oars, the clank of steel, the sound of men rowing toward your home."
I am interested in reading more of his work, even moreso after reading this condemnatory comment (directed to Mr. Towers and the MFA alike) online by a Mr. "Johnny Zhivago":
"Down through the Valley" by Wells Tower was about the phoniest bit of nonsense I've ever read. It is because of Tower and the horde of MFA grads that I seldom read fiction anymore. The thing is so calculated rather than lived.... One senses that this is a person who has never lived life; never been married, or had children, or even is that experienced, yet he writes about "Life" -- and that is what it is, "writing about life" as if for a college course, rather than being art, which is life itself.
I allow room for such dismissal, but methinks it befitting to see for myself how pretentious this author may be.
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