Pachyderme occupies aspace similar to Kazuo Ishiguro's The Unconsoled. It's bizarre, magical, dreamlike, fuzzy. We know the scenes, the people, the places. We recognize that a story or a couple stories even are unfolding, but there's dissonance. There's a blurry bleary sort of drunkeness that sets in, making discerning the what and the wherefore difficult.

There is a mystery here to unravel and Peeters unfolds it in fits and starts across 88 pages. His art is lush and dreamy. There's intrigue afoot. And it may even be that you finish and don't know exactly what happened. So you read it again. And things clear up some. So you read it again and things clear up a little more. And maybe you understand and maybe you feel like you're now a part of something.

Or maybe you just close the book, confused and troubled, wondering what it was all for.

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