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Inner Tube
A young man, in flight from the wreckage of his life and his memory, takes a job in a television network's kinescope archive where his endless viewing of old shows in the course of his job begins to infect his mind
- GenresNovels
209 pages, Hardcover
First published July 12, 1985
11 people are currently reading
265 people want to read
About the author
Hob Broun
3 books6 followersHob Broun (born Heywood Orren Broun; 1950 in Manhattan, New York, U.S. - December 16, 1987, Portland, Oregon, U.S.) was an author who lived in Portland, Oregon. Following the publication of his first novel, Odditorium, Broun required a spinal surgery to remove a tumor that ultimately saved his life but resulted in his paralysis. Subsequently, he wrote two books by blowing air through a tube that activated the specially outfitted keyboard of a computer. Using this technology, he completed a second novel, Inner Tube, and wrote the short stories contained in a posthumously published collection entitled Cardinal Numbers. He was working on a third novel when he died of asphyxiation after his respirator broke down in his home. He was thirty-seven years old.
Broun was born in Manhattan and graduated from the Dalton School. He attended Reed College in Portland. He was the son of Heywood Hale Broun, the writer and broadcaster, and the grandson of Heywood Broun, the newspaper columnist.
Broun was born in Manhattan and graduated from the Dalton School. He attended Reed College in Portland. He was the son of Heywood Hale Broun, the writer and broadcaster, and the grandson of Heywood Broun, the newspaper columnist.
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
June 26, 2007
Hob Broun--son of famed television personality Heywood Hale Broun--became a quadriplegic in 1984, due to complications arising from the removal of a cyst from his spinal cord.
I had the distinct honor of serving as one of his medical attendants, for the better part of a year, while I completed my Bachelor's Degree at Portland State University.
I watched him write the novel "Inner Tube" with a crude word processor whose keystrokes were controlled by a blow-tube-- hooked electronically to the CPU, as well as an "alphabet template" from which to manually construct words, sentences and paragraphs. Hob wrote this novel, letter by agonizing letter, with nothing but his mind, and his breath. There were no computers, to speak of, back then--and certainly no Voice Recognition software.
"Inner Tube" is Mr. Broun's second novel. His first, entitled "Odditorium", was written before the terrible medical mishap which paralyzed him from the neck down. For his third novel, "Cardinal Numbers"--again, composed in the same manner as "Inner Tube"-- Hob won the 1989 Oregon Book Award, posthumously.
Hob Broun is without a doubt the most courageous, dynamic,
and spiritual individual I have ever met--and one helluva writer. I take much strength from my memories of our time together. Hob passed away in 1987. His amazing fictional voice is definitely worth revisiting.
I had the distinct honor of serving as one of his medical attendants, for the better part of a year, while I completed my Bachelor's Degree at Portland State University.
I watched him write the novel "Inner Tube" with a crude word processor whose keystrokes were controlled by a blow-tube-- hooked electronically to the CPU, as well as an "alphabet template" from which to manually construct words, sentences and paragraphs. Hob wrote this novel, letter by agonizing letter, with nothing but his mind, and his breath. There were no computers, to speak of, back then--and certainly no Voice Recognition software.
"Inner Tube" is Mr. Broun's second novel. His first, entitled "Odditorium", was written before the terrible medical mishap which paralyzed him from the neck down. For his third novel, "Cardinal Numbers"--again, composed in the same manner as "Inner Tube"-- Hob won the 1989 Oregon Book Award, posthumously.
Hob Broun is without a doubt the most courageous, dynamic,
and spiritual individual I have ever met--and one helluva writer. I take much strength from my memories of our time together. Hob passed away in 1987. His amazing fictional voice is definitely worth revisiting.
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November 8, 2018Discussed this book here: https://youtu.be/_4DlkrydOgQ
February 7, 2014
I was completely taken with this novel. The brilliance of the language and images, the short-chaptered, time-defying review of the narrator’s life, the emotions, the coldness, the despair, and the joy in reading something so incredible.
I haven’t read Broun’s first novel yet, but I'd like to think that having to blow through a tube to select each letter made the author’s every choice extra important, focused his mind, and helped him write something great.
I found a used copy of this long-out-of-print novel just before it came out as an e-book, but not realizing how incredible it was, I let it sit on the shelf for a few months. Now, there is no reason not to read this book, unless you reject the level of technology that allowed it to be written. Broun has been resurrected. What a gift (his and the publisher’s)!
I haven’t read Broun’s first novel yet, but I'd like to think that having to blow through a tube to select each letter made the author’s every choice extra important, focused his mind, and helped him write something great.
I found a used copy of this long-out-of-print novel just before it came out as an e-book, but not realizing how incredible it was, I let it sit on the shelf for a few months. Now, there is no reason not to read this book, unless you reject the level of technology that allowed it to be written. Broun has been resurrected. What a gift (his and the publisher’s)!
January 28, 2015
Telcom overload and the eternal emptiness of the desert (juxtaposed against L.A. naturally), unfolding over 53 fragmentary, out-of-order television channels. But really centerstage here is Hob Broun's singular voice, stylishly snappy and conversational even as it draws deep connections across its material. You'll know from the moment the first chapter opens. Though nothing can quite sustain that, especially as the book drifts towards its close. Great though, and still widely available though forgotten.
June 30, 2025
insane this is out of print: https://5cense.com/25/1227.htm
June 26, 2018
Broun could flat-out write. It's hard to believe that with books as good as Inner Tube, plus his intriguing back story, that he was out of print for so long.
May 10, 2021
The fact that the author and this book are so unheard of is a tragedy. I only found Inner Tube by dumb, utter luck.
4.5 stars, perhaps? I’m uncertain.
4.5 stars, perhaps? I’m uncertain.
October 8, 2020
Inner Tube by Hob Broun was his second novel. Broun was born in Manhattan and a graduate of the Dalston school. He attended Reed College in Portland. After the publication of his first novel Odditorium he underwent surgery to remove a spinal tumor. The operation left him paralyzed from the neck down. Using a keyboard operated by expelling air he wrote Inner Tube and a collection of short stories. Twenty-five years ago this December he died at home when his respirator failed.
Inner Tube is listed a novel, but not so much in the traditional sense. I would put it somewhere between a novel and Naked Lunch. It is a series of short chapters all by an unidentified narrator. They tell a story, but not exactly in any special order. It seems more like a stream of consciousness that has been shuffled a bit.
What I like about the book is the incredible use of language. Some of the descriptions took me back. I knew exactly what meant and had a vivid image the television with the “wood cabinet and the golden speaker cloth.” I know this television. We had it in our living room in the 1970s. I remember the weave and the irregular thread of the cloth that made that cover. I even remember the Zenith logo affixed to the cloth. His mention of a small cactus spine that worked its way into his hand had me searching my hands. The spines that are so small and transparent that you cannot see them, but only feel the in it is irritation in a general area. I lived through that feeling much more often than I would have liked to. Other simple sentences bring a wealth of imagery: “The sunset, laced with hydrocarbons, was a deep purple.” or the more crude, “Breakfast cereal arrived in my duodenum like bark chips.” His longer sentences can also bring that imagery to almost art:
A boiling mass of ocean miniaturized, tightened in a square. Color-coded, like the iodopsin-secreting cone cells of the human retina, 900,000 phosphor dots twitch and fluoresce on the aluminized screen. And I watch, under siege. Electron guns, red, blue, and green, fire information particles, their inexhaustible ammunition, at 167 miles an hour. Weaponry controls and commands. So I watch.
Although the story seems a bit jumbled, I was intrigued by the short chapters and they all held my interest and obliged me to read on. Perhaps I was too caught up in the details to see the big picture. Nonetheless, I was mesmerized by the book. I have read some other reviews and yes, there is a story that can be followed. Perhaps it is like a painting where you are caught up in the shading, use of color, and perspective and forget the subject of the painting because it is just the means to showcase the true art. I am not usually one to rain praises on contemporary fiction as something that has potential to live on or as something that will still be considered great in twenty or fifty years, but I think Inner Tube will make that cut. Sometimes it nice not seeing the forest for the trees.
Inner Tube is listed a novel, but not so much in the traditional sense. I would put it somewhere between a novel and Naked Lunch. It is a series of short chapters all by an unidentified narrator. They tell a story, but not exactly in any special order. It seems more like a stream of consciousness that has been shuffled a bit.
What I like about the book is the incredible use of language. Some of the descriptions took me back. I knew exactly what meant and had a vivid image the television with the “wood cabinet and the golden speaker cloth.” I know this television. We had it in our living room in the 1970s. I remember the weave and the irregular thread of the cloth that made that cover. I even remember the Zenith logo affixed to the cloth. His mention of a small cactus spine that worked its way into his hand had me searching my hands. The spines that are so small and transparent that you cannot see them, but only feel the in it is irritation in a general area. I lived through that feeling much more often than I would have liked to. Other simple sentences bring a wealth of imagery: “The sunset, laced with hydrocarbons, was a deep purple.” or the more crude, “Breakfast cereal arrived in my duodenum like bark chips.” His longer sentences can also bring that imagery to almost art:
A boiling mass of ocean miniaturized, tightened in a square. Color-coded, like the iodopsin-secreting cone cells of the human retina, 900,000 phosphor dots twitch and fluoresce on the aluminized screen. And I watch, under siege. Electron guns, red, blue, and green, fire information particles, their inexhaustible ammunition, at 167 miles an hour. Weaponry controls and commands. So I watch.
Although the story seems a bit jumbled, I was intrigued by the short chapters and they all held my interest and obliged me to read on. Perhaps I was too caught up in the details to see the big picture. Nonetheless, I was mesmerized by the book. I have read some other reviews and yes, there is a story that can be followed. Perhaps it is like a painting where you are caught up in the shading, use of color, and perspective and forget the subject of the painting because it is just the means to showcase the true art. I am not usually one to rain praises on contemporary fiction as something that has potential to live on or as something that will still be considered great in twenty or fifty years, but I think Inner Tube will make that cut. Sometimes it nice not seeing the forest for the trees.
April 10, 2013
The first chapter will stay with me for a long time, and the plot contained within these two or three pages grabbed me. Which is interesting, because I wasn't expecting much in that way
The grasp loosened, I stuck with the sentences.
The sentences.
The grasp loosened, I stuck with the sentences.
The sentences.
October 10, 2014
Shades of Denis Johnson and Sam Lipsyte, on whose rec. I read the book. Though the shades of Johnson and Lipsyte don't add up as well later in the novel as they do at the start.
July 6, 2015
check out this book if you want to read lots of cool insect metaphors
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews