by A.Stephen Engel, 372 pages, $15.95, ISBN 978-0-9819891-3-6 

"Mad Men, media dystopia, buoyed pandemics of financial, health, and climate-change uncertainties—Topiary's 'Plantman' [unveils] an insight into media archaeology, feasting on discourse and archived disclosures."
—Peter J. Blank, Chief Creative Officer, FT Search

"A bold, dark, difficult vision, Topiary might be best described as Thomas Pynchon doing George Orwell while channeling Diane Ackerman. . . Engel paints his frightening landscape with obsessive grace, and readers will be compelled to follow."
—Kirkus Discoveries

"Topiary is absolutely brilliant, a hugely important piece of work."
—Derrick Jensen, author of A Language Older Than Words, The Culture of Make Believe and Endgame

"Adam Engel's Topiary is the sort of social satire that a novel ought to provide. It murders the dictatorship of the present with a sentence."
—Curtis White, author of The Middlemind, Requiem and Memories of My Father Watching Television

"It's the Bill Burroughs rendition of The Canterbury Tales. Topiary is hot to the touch and full of emotional fish, thoughts and images."
—Douglas Valentine, author of The Phoenix Program, TDY, The Strength of The Wolf and now also the newly-available The Strength of the Pack.

"Like every life form on this over-manufactured planet, Plantman is alone with his mythic destiny search of the Only Real Magic which can refresh & refertilize Earth."
—Barbara Mor, author of The Great Cosmic Mother.

"A stylistic tour-de-force. . ." John Zerzan, author of Twilight of the Machines, Elements of Refusal, and Running On Emptiness.

"Engel takes the reader on a hilarious, mesmerizing journey in which every sentence either stings or soothes. Plantman is an Everyman of our contemporary era, and Topiary is a major work."
—Dr. Ian Kerner, author of She Comes First

About A. Stephen Engel

A. Stephen Engel was once sixteen and roamed tree-lined streets and wide green schoolyards under cerulean suburban skies. He believed he was Shelley, and that his tiny girlfriend, who worked in a shoe-store, was Mary Shelley. Now he is probably only you, or someone you know. Who knows, really? He could be anyone, maybe even me... But he is no longer Shelley, nor will he ever know Mary again.