The Romantic and The Vile releases on August 21st.

My newest novel: The Romantic and The Vile, will be released in bookstores and online retailers on August 21st.

I look forward to seeing you at the various readings and meet-and-greets in Toronto, Vancouver, Copenhagen, Frankfurt, and Paris.


When a private Monégasque banker discovers a mysterious journal at a bookstore, he decides to ascend the spiralling staircase of the writer’s cavernous mind.

A philosophical journey of existential discovery, Neil Meyollner begins to reflect on his monotonous life and contemplates embracing the changes and theories that cued the journal’s provocative existence.

The Romantic and The Vile is an investigation of mortality, happiness, and love.
— Excerpt from The Romantic and The Vile

Available in paperback and hardcover on Amazon, Indigo, Barnes & Noble, and select retailers. 

Digital preorders are available on Amazon Kindle, Kobo, and iBooks.

Available in both softcover and hardcover.

Art's Engineered Design

There is an engineered design in art; moments and experiences are calculated towards an aesthetic, logical, moral, and social end. The goal is to achieve temporal unity. He who is marked for death dies; she who is supposed to fall in love loves like never before; he who is heartbroken is pained; she who is cold is unmoved. Whether by elation or despair, things must go as far as the temporal units will permit, and always with surgical precision. Each methodical moment is bound by the last and the next; the waving tide of agony turns only when things have gotten as despairing as they can get. The artist then, must be a simultaneous fusion of a brilliant neurosurgeon and a surreal engineer who designs and forms a triad among the cornered square of love, agony, beauty, and death. There may be agony, love, and death without the beauty; and there may be love, agony, and beauty without any death. There may even be agony, death, and beauty without love. Sometimes there is not even a triad but the full square: love, death, beauty, and agony; all four simultaneously, instantly, or consecutively moving in the direction of the permitted temporal units. But there may not be love, death, and beauty without agony. Agony is compulsory. … It’s all agony.

Spurv i Regnen. Sparrow in the Rain

Today the chilling cold was accompanied by the rain and would not cease. The day wasted in a River View Suite, lethargy in the Borgo San Jacopo Restaurant, drowning in the light-tasting wines of the Fusion Bar rather than the southern bank of the magnificent Arno. The pattering followed and persisted every window passed or looked upon. I saw the sparrow outside at the bar, and only that one time. She was perched on the windowsill outside the bar, where the slogging raindrops tried to beat her down. But she was a distant arrow; rebellious, monstrous, flickering her wings outside and becoming a blur in the downpour as she crossed the Ponte Vecchio and flew towards the Uffizi. All day both of our thirsts were unquenchable, and I wanted to let her in like I had done before, but she was gone and I had not opened the window of opportunity in time. When one of the porters tired to make small-talk by asking if I was all alone in the suite, I gave him a scornful look that made him slouch his shoulders. The Family Suite; that’s what it was called. That’s what he’d said with that killer, two-faced Italian smile.

Then on the Ponte Vecchio the raindrops spiralled and looped around my hair. I was lost going across to find out if it had been the same sparrow from back in those oddly accented streets with impossible pronunciation. The rain filled the blue but greening water of the Arno… the aroma of petrichor, along with its soothing sound made me forget the rain and enter a desolate land of deep sinking silence. To be lost, however briefly, was a liberation from the chains of recognizable roads and the instagrammable walls and sights of old, ancient towns trying desperately to reinvent themselves. Outside the Uffizi I saw, or thought I saw her again. With her little, wet wings outstretched and immediately rising from one of the garden statues — Venus — after seeing me, she moved into a fluid trance and flew away. She pushed the rain away like a tired and departing God. Watching her rise towards the thick, thundering sky, I attempted to capture the rapture of her fixed ascension. Just the day before the sun had been out, shining on the Arno as it does on wonderful women and the men who in vain chase them. Now, once checked into the Family Suite, the sun is gone and there is only the rain. Always the rain.

— An excerpt from a forthcoming novel.

Rough draft of the manuscript.