Monday, August 13, 2018

Buried Shadows

Buried ShadowsBuried Shadows by John Howard
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This reading year has been chock full of great short story collections. Reggie Oliver's Mrs. Midnight And Other Stories, Alcebiades Diniz's opium-dream-like Lanterns of the Old Night, Paul Willem's The Cathedral of Mist, and Laird Barron's Occultation and Other Stories were all outstanding reads. I think I may have used up my allotment of superlatives on the stories contained in these collections.

Now I'm wondering if I shouldn't have kept a few of them in reserve. The quality of John Howard's writing met with perfect timing. I have been eyeball deep in "hauntology", with a focus on that-which-was-but-was-not. Not nostalgia, per se, but a mis-remembering of the past that has little concern with trying to accurately recall the past. For the absolute best delve into hauntology, go to Rouge Foam's entry on "Hauntology: The Past Inside the Present". Better pack your things. You're going to be a while . . .

This book as artifact is amazing, as I've come to expect from Egaeus Press. It has heft and texture not normally found in most books. The cover and end-papers show a crumpled, slate-colored map of Berlin. Throughout the book are illustrations based on the work of the mysterious Balthasar Holz, architect and theorist.

Of all things, I was most struck by the typography of the title on the cover. The "overtyping" lets the reader know that we are delving into the era of typewriters that didn't have the ability to correct themselves. That's actually an amazing touch. I know that the stories herein will either take place in or evoke some time from the 1890s to the 1970s because of the typography. Egaeus gets all the details right!

And the stories do not disappoint . . .

My current fascination with hauntology seems to have found voice in Howard's story about the ghosts of Berlin, "To the Anhalt Station". Here, the line between past and present is blurred, with a sense of fascination and loss for the events one never saw, but one sees now, out of time, against the grain of chronology. Anachronostic haunting is contagious, it seems. Four stars, bordering on Five.

If you had asked me to point to the perfect example of Magic Realism a week ago, I'd point you to Borges or Marquez. But now, I'd point you to "Mr S. and Dr S." This story is so finely-honed that you're unlikely to find another quite as good. I've tried, myself, to write an original doppleganger story. Trust me: it's no small feat. In Howard's tale, dopplegangers, possible traitors, Vigilance Police for a potential dictator, all mingle in this very weird tale of mistaken(?) identity. The mere fact that the characters even exist as they do provide a mystery worth plumbing, but Howard is careful not to reveal all. Why would he? The unanswered questions posed between the lines of this story allow you, the reader, to explore the streets of this city yourself, without a guide. Five stars for five Mr S.'s.

"Least Light, Most Night" first appeared in the Aickmann's Heirs anthology. You can see the tribute in the focus on the atmosphere and environment, as well as the open-endedness of the weird here. Weird because it's eerie (I'm using both words in the sense Mark Fisher defines them in his excellent work The Weird and the Eerie), because something fundamental is missing, namely closure. Four stars for this understated story that forces you to again read between the lines.

When I was a teenager, I was legally "banished" from a place that I loved. It's a long story involving the war on drugs. But I was literally, physically and legally cut off from my family, home, and friends. It kept me out of prison . . . of a sort. So I read "The Defiant Sky" and ached with that sense of longing that only the banished know. You need not have been banished from anything to enjoy the story, but it does intensify the effect, and the sting homed deep into my heart. This is a story of defiant hope and belief wherein the city of London becomes a means to an end. A mysterious end that isn't an end. Five stars.

Sex and murder and . . . architecture? Yes, it's as strange as it sounds. "Buried Shadows," the title story, was not my favorite. Not bad, but not terribly compelling, either. Three stars.

"Numbered as Sand or the Stars" is a humor-filled, yet deathly-serious foray into man's ability to adapt to new regimes that overlap the place where one lives, where one has grown. This thread interweaves with that of, of all things, economics and inflation. Issues of old versus new class structure and political power undergird all of it. The economy of cosmic-horror in the form of regime change and geography. It is in this story that Howard shows his most whimsical side, eschewing, for but a moment, the normally restrained, careful (yet mystically-charged) prose:

He dreams of muttering and booming stars, the stars flung across the black sky like icing sugar. He runs and jumps among them, sliding along the frozen waterfall of the Milky Way and playfully hurls galaxies into the speckled blackness as if they were dinner plates or the flat stones he loves to skim across the river as it flows around the base of Castle Hill. The stars open their eyes and mouths to him, until each one is a silent exclamation or scream, wide as a zero. Then all the stars are zeros. Mihaly turns in fright but there is no Earth. All the zeros - every nought, every loss, every pain he can imagine - flow across the black sky and mount up over him like a wave about to break. Then Mihaly is falling through a tube or shaft made from the glowing rings of nothing. He looks down and can discern no end as he plummets. He breathes in to take a tremendous scream, his mouth opening wide in an empty zero. The zeros start to force their way into Mihaly's throat, threatening to drown him in nothings at all. All the time he is still falling. He cries out for his parents, the Emperor, and all the members of the Order of the Valiant he can name.

Five stars turning to the best possible nothings ever.

"The Shape and the Colour of the Moon" is one of the more beautifully dark stories I've read in a long time. First published in a Machen tribute anthology, it reads as if the ghosts of Machen and Borges where whispering in Morrisey's ear when we wrote "Every Day is Like Sunday". Transformation and devotion to the City behind London drive the subtle, evocative plot. I could drown in this grey story. Five stars.

"More Than India" is an emotional gut-punch of a story. A rather melancholy older man makes the acquaintance of a young rower on the River Thames. But the older man's life is now a sort of palimpsest of his younger life, and the faint words of his earlier story are starting to show through. A ghost story without ghosts, this is a powerfully emotional story worthy of five stars.

"You Promised You Would Walk" is an engaging exploration of Berlin and the cyclical nature of time that mentions and evokes Dr. Caligari. I feel like Howard "telegraphed" a little in this story, that I caught on far too soon to spoil the latter part of the story. I'll blame Twilight Zone: The Movie, as there is a similar vignette in there (though with much more deadly and deserved results). Still, this was more subtle and nuanced than TZTM. Four stars.

"The Floor of Heaven" is a dream - that dream where you know that there is someone, somewhere, who you have absolutely met, where you've absolutely been, but when you go to find that place and that person, they are impossible to find, though you know you are there. This is how I dream of England. Often. Like I'm back there, but the people and places that should be there are gone. It haunts me, not with potential terror, but with a dreamstate longing, a reaching that is unable to grasp, though I can feel the air moving between my fingers as the object of my desires - the sense of firmness of place and surety of remembered experience in physical space - escapes me. Now I think I am truly beginning to understand the tragedy of Tantalus in full. There are times when I yearn for my time in England, or at least my mis-remembering of that time, that place, those people. It breaks my heart and invades my dreams, repeatedly and unexpectedly. This story captured that specific feeling of pathos that I really don't have adequate words to describe.

And all the stars turn to noughts, to loss, to pain. Sweet pain. May it never stop hurting.

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Saturday, August 4, 2018

Gyorgy Ligeti: Of Foreign Lands and Strange Sounds

György Ligeti: Of Foreign Lands and Strange SoundsGyörgy Ligeti: Of Foreign Lands and Strange Sounds by Louise Duchesneau
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Though I am an avant-classical enthusiast, I am by no means an expert. I cannot read music and the instrument I play is electric guitar, and that, badly. But I'm willing to learn a few things, even if I clearly don't have time or the gumption to become a true aficionado. So you'll please excuse this layman's delve into a work that would speak far more clearly to the musically-trained. And yet, I can't help but think that while the intellectual appreciation of the book might be somewhat heightened by such training, my enjoyment of the book was only slightly hampered by my admitted ignorance. One need not have a thorough understanding of musical notation to appreciate Of Foreign Lands and Strange Sounds .

In fact, I wonder if such an acute focus on the music on the page itself might not get in the way of really enjoying the exploration of Ligeti's creative mind. Chapter Eight, in fact (which I would argue should have been Chapter One or Two, for the sake of the untrained reader), "Rules and Regulations: Lessons from Ligeti's Compositional Sketches," an essay by University of Washington Professor of Music Theory Jonathan W. Bernard, is an enlightening look into the many different methods Ligeti used to notate his own music-in-progress. Bernard shares a loose taxonomy of the "sketch types" Ligeti used while composing: Jottings, Drawings, Charts, Tables, and finally, Music Notation. Color plates in the middle of the book showing Ligeti's original papers augment the reader's experience. Here, one can get a more visceral feel for what Ligeti's music "looks like" on paper - a wonderful thing for those of us who are visual-kinesthetic learners! If you, like me, have little or no musical training, I would recommend starting with Chapter Eight.

There, now that you've read Chapter Eight, turn to Chapter One: "'We play with the music and the music plays with us;: Sandor Veress and his Student Gyorgy Ligeti," by University of Calgary Musicology Professor Friedemann Sallis. This will give you the background on Ligeti's early studies, the discipline instilled in him by Veress, and his growth both with and against those teachings, much of which was (later) pushed by political circumstances around him, especially the suppression of folk traditions and traditional folk music by the mid-20th-Century Communist regimes in Eastern Europe.

Now that one has this background, the reader can (should?) then skip up to Chapter Seven, written by Ligeti's long time assistant (and co-editor of this volume), Louise Duchesneau: "'Play it like Bill Evans': Gyorgy Ligeti and Recorded Music". Here we explore Ligeti's like and dislikes and take a deep delve into his personal record collection! I found this fascinating, not just because of Ligeti's wide interests (he took a liking to Supertramp at one point, after being introduced to their music by one of his students), but because Duchesneau here outlines the entirety of Ligeti's career, conveniently parsing his music into several distinct phases. Though the borders between these phases were not always crystal clear, sometimes they were, as in the time when he rejected "Modernist" work and returned to his Hungarian folk roots after a many-decades-long absence or, more properly, intellectual exile (partially self-imposed, partially imposed by the external chilling effect of having to flee oppression of expression).

From there, one may read the rest of the book in order (yes, you have my permission), as the sequence of Chapters Eight, then One, then Seven, will give you all the under-girding you need to contextualize the other essays, which vary from examinations of specific pieces to poetic connections, Ligeti's fascination with African music, his appreciation for and the influence on his music by the principles of chaos and fractals, Stanley Kubrik's use of Ligeti's music in his movies (an amazing cross-media examination that my Humanities professors would have loved), and impressions of those who were his students.

One theme that ran through the book, whether explicitly or implicitly, was that of a man un-moored from his homeland who longed to retain some aspect of that homeland which he had left, but who was not blindly beholden to the place of his birth and childhood. This is where the book connected with me emotionally, rather than just intellectually. I am an American citizen, born in Germany into a U.S. Air Force family, and have lived all over the world. Though I love the place I live now, it has taken me many years to call any one place "home". With the recent passing of my parents (who lived in California, though I only lived there for three years, and two of those years as a married man not living at home - not to mention the fact that I was very happy to leave California when that opportunity presented itself), I feel even more "unmoored" and adrift in the world. While Madison has become home, largely because we raised our children here and do genuinely love this city, I still get the occasional sharp pangs of wanderlust in me and long to just begin walking and keep on walking until I can walk no more. But where would I walk? Of course, I would explore new places, I can't help myself or my curiosity. But I have a longing, at times, to go back to see the places I have been before, the places I have lived before, with the full knowledge that some of those places, most, really, don't actually exist as I knew them then. The air base I lived at in England is now a British spy base, and I could not go back and see the places where I spent considerable time. The little town in Minnesota where I lived with my grandmother for a year, has grown from about 3,000 residents to over 17,000, The base I lived at in Italy has been essentially demolished and replaced by a city. The base I lived at in the Philippines may still be under volcanic ash, so far as I know. And the military hospital I was born in now bears almost no resemblance to the place my parents knew. But I still want to see these places, at least once. Ligeti, I think, shared some of the same sentiments, if not the same feelings, given the loss of family members to the holocaust, his flight from his homeland, and his itinerant life abroad. Perhaps I am just projecting, but we wanderers tend to understand each other. The feelings of humans displaced (whether voluntarily or not) are complex and often shared in their complexity and intensity, at least that has been my experience in talking with others who have moved frequently, particularly those who have moved to places where their language was not the local tongue, where they were strangers in a strange land.

Paul Griffiths, in his essay "Invented Homelands: Ligeti's Orchestras" captures the connection between these experiences and Ligeti's creative drives perfectly:

The Violin Concerto is the richest of his invented homelands, and may persuade us that feelings of belonging are complex, ambiguous, mutable and probably illusory.

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Saturday, July 21, 2018

No Man's Land: View from a Surveillance State

No Man's Land: Views from a Surveillance StateNo Man's Land: Views from a Surveillance State by DeSieno Marcus
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Outside of an introduction by Ariel Shanberg outlining the aesthetic purposes behind DeSieno Marcus' photographs and an outro by Martha A. Sandweiss delving into the technologically transgressive nature of the project, this book is all about the photographs. The simple design lets the photos breathe in a startling way.

Once one understands (through reading Sandweiss' essay) the subversive nature of Marcus' methods, the landscapes take on a decidedly hauntological tone, but in a twisted way. Rather than fostering a vision of a past that never was hoping for a future that never will be (as in the Ghost Box Records oeuvre, for a musical example), Marcus' photographs subvert our inner version of the "wilderness" by tricking us about our assumptions. Without context, one looks at these photos and thinks that they are beautiful vintage photos of the world's great wildernesses. The astute observer will see that there are sometimes elements - a line of power poles, for example, or a graded road - that indicate that these are not necessarily old photographs and that the photographer might have used old techniques to emulate antique photographs. This is true . . . partially.

The true hauntological element comes in when one realizes that the way Marcus produced these photos was by hacking into trailside and wilderness security cameras. He then sets up a wooden camera (complete with bellows and brass fittings) and shoots a picture of his computer screen. Then, using "a waxed paper negative process", he creates images that look as if they were shot in the very early days of daguerreotypes.

Genius. Pure, subversive genius.

Of course, this opens up a whole Pandora's box of questions: Since he is hacking into security cameras, who is watching who? And if you happened to be on the trail or in the landscape at the time Marcus "took" his photographs (I use the word intentionally) and you are now viewing those photographs, are the observer and the observed the same? Or, through Marcus' manipulation, has the observed changed in some way because of the nature of the transformation? Furthermore, what about the purposes of the trailside cameras? Are they "secure"? Do they reach the objective of their "security" if they can be hacked by an outsider, then viewed by the world, at least in a frames'-worth snapshot in time?

The hauntological implications are really quite staggering. How often do we fool ourselves into accepting a certain vision of "the past," when, in fact, that vision has been manufactured in the present? I was a child of the '80s - graduated high school in 1987, if you must know - and it is easy for me to listen to music, for example, that was created recently, but that I swear could have been present at that time, but absolutely was not. The retrowave synth movement is the classic example of this. Listening to it, I can say that, yes, it evokes the way it felt to be a teenager in the '80s (I realize I am generalizing my nostalgic feelings and applying them to millions of people, which I have no right to do, since each individual experience of that decade was different), but if asked to provide examples of where and when I heard such music, I am hard-pressed to come up with good examples. I suppose the movies Tron, Escape from New York, and Blade Runner and their soundtracks provide the best readily-accessible example, but not every movie in the '80s was Tron, Escape from New York, or Blade Runner. In any case, none of these soundtracks are identical to the retrowave music being produced today (and vice-versa), so, really, even the nostalgia I feel when listening to new-retrowave music is not truly memory, it is a reflection of my present views of the past, not a mirror of the past itself, an imposition of my present mind laid on top of my muddle memories of the past. My memories of the past are haunted by the phantoms of the present and my present impressions are haunted by the underlying memories of the past.

Which begs the question: Am I even myself? The question . . . haunts me.

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Wednesday, July 4, 2018

The Potemkin Mosaic

The Potemkin MosaicThe Potemkin Mosaic by Mark Teppo
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

There is no linearity to Mark Teppo's incredible The Potemkin Mosaic. If you are looking for a straightforward plot and real-world logic, look elsewhere. This will sear your eyes out of their sockets. This is the realm of dream, of astral fields, of the hidden tunnels of gnosis and the far-depths of psychology.

Perhaps we should start with the book's blurb:

TH3y want you to be TH3iR agent.
Harry wants you to be free.
Nothing is what it seems, but everything herein actually happened.

Ten years ago, dream doctor Harry Potemkin realized someone was editing his identity, in much the same way that he ventured into the minds of his psychologically damaged patients. In order to discover how he was being changed, he started a dream journal. He also built a lexicon, a persistent record of the symbolic markers that would enable him to remap his consciousness should it become severely fragmented.

Ten years ago, Trinity Pharmacopoeia was about to release a new neurological nootropic called Atramabor, a drug that would revolutionize how we sleep and dream. Teh first promotional commercial for Atramabor aired once, and was then mysteriously pulled. Lawsuits, contending that subliminal messaging was hidden within the thirty second spot, were filed. Within six months, Trinity Pharmacopoeia canceled all plans to release Atramabor. A year later, the company dissolved.

Harry Potemkin never woke up from his dreams. In fact, there is no evidence he ever existed.

Nor are there any copies of the Atramabor commercial, though there are documented interviews with individuals who claim to have been changed by what they saw. All corporate records regarding Trinity Pharmacopoeia have been expunged from state and federal databases.

And yet, the battle between Potemkin and Trinity is very real. It continues to this day. TH3y know he can stop them, unless TH3y get to him first.

The Potemkin Mosaic is Harry's exploration of his fragmented dream psyche. This is the only record of his identity.

TH3y want you to read it, because this is the only way Harry can be caught.

And this is as straightforward as anything gets with this . . . novel? Yes, novel. Originally produced at the sadly defunct Farrago's Wainscot (where your's truly had a few pieces of fiction published), The Potemkin Mosaic, in its original incarnation, was a hypertext novel of incredible depth and complexity. When I first heard that Mark was going to try to wrestle this non-linear virtual text into something less non-linear, in physical format, I was skeptical that it could even be done. But he's pulled it off with panache.

It would be one thing, a minor miracle, if Teppo pulled off the structural heist alone. But he's gone way beyond that. The prose is compelling, the subject matter an esotericist's dream . . . literally. Take, for example, the entry on page 163 entitled "Cage"(with the zodiac symbol for Aquarius underneath - the book is full of symbols and interesting typography):


"Black Iron Prison" is the term you'll hear used by the modern seeker of gnosis. It's a reference to the Archonic Construction of the Universe, a theorythat multi-dimensional intelligences are preventing us from realizing our full spiritual and cognitive potential by locking our minds in these psychic prisons.

There are a number of analogous mythological scenarios strewn throughout history, so as a cosmological definition, the Archonic Construction of the Universe is as good as any. It benefits from being connected to Philip K. Dick's paranoid visions, which any competent oneironaut appreciates.

Modern culture suffers from a lack of decent mythological canon. We should make our own, because, really, we are children of the 3rd millennium. It's time we believed in our own gods.

Which brings me back to the concept of cages. We continue to be trapped by second-millennial constructs. Hell, even the apocalyptic terror of the end of the first millennium still pervades our psyches. We're still too busy looking over our shoulders to realize the first apocalypse of the third millennium is rapidly approaching.

That's another story. I'll get to it later.

Cages. No man can ever be imprisoned against his Will. Crowley knew this once, though he forgot it shortly after the other initiates and adepts started fawning over his "transmission from teh desert." Yes, you can cage the flesh and you can even lock the mind into a cell, but the Will is unbreakable.

Jung gave it a different name - "individuation" - but didn't allow himself the freedom to imbue it with any lasting power. Freud (the last black magician of the twentieth century, frankly) had managed to bind Jung tightly enough that the Swiss psychologist never truly realized he had been . . . caged.

Now, you could just turn the page and continue, reading the entry on Casual Disarray (with the symbol for Virgo under it), but what's this? To the side of paragraph 4 is a reference:

* fragmentary
p. 209

And to the side of the last paragraph:

* burnblack
p. 26

I like the side of burnblack. Let's turn there. It reads (starting with a triangle character, which I'm not able to replicate here because my html skills suck):

"Burnblack, o falling star!"

I've tried to find the source of this quote, but it has eluded me. Like a number of the mythological and symbolic elements within my dreams, I'm starting to believe it as an admixture. There is a fusion going on in my head, and I can't quite tell if it is a matter of too much time in the Oneiroi or too many days and nights of being under the influence of narcotics, hallucinogens, and other psychotropic compounds. My head is already warped enough.

More likely,
burnblack is of archaic origin, possibly some lost bit of biblical apocrypha. A reference to the fallen angels. Or maybe the first of the fallen ones.

Quomodo cecidisti de caelo, lucifer, fili aurorae?

How else would you describe the back of a being who was not burned by the fire of his wings, but was burned by the fire of his fall? And, as my hand unconsciously strayed as I was writing down my dream: "sun-darkened (burnblack, o falling star!)" If God is the sun and you have been cast away from his grace, would not "sun-darkened" accurately describe your state?

To be burnblack is to be fallen. But falling is necessary to find the path to ascension. At least, one must be willing to fall - one must understand the fall.

Quod est inferius est sicut quod est superius, et quot est superius est sicut quod est inferius, ad perpetranda miracula rei unius.

Finally, some use for those two stifling years of Latin classes - from before the experiments and the drugs. Not all of it was wasted time.

Again, in the margins, we are given the choice to seek out "labyrinth", "fire", or "descent", with corollary page numbers. Or, you could just continue reading, going to the facing page titled "IV The Library" and attempt to forge a linear path through this labyrinth. But you won't. Your curiosity will pull you to another side entry and you will travel down the rabbit hole until you feel that you, yourself, are "living the dream" of Harry Potemkin. Oh, and incidentally, for those who were wondering, and I know some of you were wondering, this book was published the same year that David Bowie's Blackstar was released, though the original hypertext novel was published nine years earlier. Methinks they were on the same wavelength, if not tapping into the same esoteric substance.

Potemkin reaches into the ethereal, grasps its strands, and becomes enmeshed in the mists of dream, puncturing the veil, from time to time, in sudden moments of startling lucidity, only to find that beyond that veil is another and another and another. It is an ambitious work, a labyrinthine carnival that leaves the reader clutching at the ever shifting walls of reality and perception - the author's, the reader's, and that of Potemkin himself. Read, wander, lose yourself, and try to find yourself again. Sleep easy, if you can.

The original hypertext novel is still available here, but I strongly recommend you pick up the physical book, which is both a little more manageable and a little more unruly than the original, in good ways. Good luck. See you on the other side.

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The Children of Gla'aki: A Tribute to Ramsey Campbell's Great Old One

The Children of Gla'aki: A Tribute to Ramsey Campbell's Great Old OneThe Children of Gla'aki: A Tribute to Ramsey Campbell's Great Old One by Brian M. Sammons
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

When I began this book, I took the following note: "On a bit of a Lovecraftian kick, but it will soon pass. I won't say I'm burning out on it, but I'm . . . more wary than I was in the past."

After reading this volume, maybe I'm leaning more toward the burnout stage. A few stories herein have kept me from the brink of just saying "Quatsch" to everything with the descriptor of "Lovecraftian". But there was a fair amount of dreck. On average, was it worth reading? Yes. The really great stories in here are really great. Perhaps you need the bad to highlight the good, like a diamond atop mud. But having to clean off all the muck is getting old. Perhaps I had high hopes, because I enjoyed Ramsey Campbell's The Inhabitant of the Lake & Other Unwelcome Tenants, despite his self-reproachment for the immaturity of some of the stories. Maybe that's the problem - writers taking cues from an unstable source. Some of these writers were able to fashion gems, others cheap baubles, still others, broken, useless shards.

Nick Mamatas's "Country Mouse, City Mouse" was, as I expect from Mamatas, well-written and dipped its toes in explorations of tolerance and diversity. It expands the "universe" of Campbell's work by extending its reach. But I didn't find it all that horrific, outside of the fatalism expressed at the end. Three stars to this tale.

John Goodrich's "Tribute Band" isn't the sort of story I normally like. But what should have been a hackneyed story of rock and roll gone wrong was actually really enjoyable. It's a little "cute" and somewhat predictable, but the voice is distinctive and likable. The balance between folksy structure and challenging vocabulary is excellent. I just plain found myself drawn in. Three stars. Better than I would have guessed!

Robert M. Price's "In Search of Lake Monsters" is as pulpy as they come, with all the trappings one would expect. Then again, it had all the trappings one would expect . . . Still, I enjoyed it a lot. Four stars full of guilty pleasure. Sometimes you just can't really explain why you like a story, you just do. That's the case here.

While Pete Rawlik's "The Collection of Gibson Flynn" has an intriguing twist ending, the buildup paid so much homage to Lovecraftiana that it read like one giant inside joke, a pastiche of itself, mythos masturbation. The ending saves it from the realms of hackneyed mediocrity, but only just. Three stars, barely.

Outside of the intriguing title, W. H. Pugmire's "The Secret Painting of Thomas Cartwright" was uninspired and not nearly as intriguing as the title. Two forgetful stars.

Edward Morri's"I Want to Break Free" is a lesson in tension: the push me, pull me between cosmic forces and self-will, the intestines of genius and insanity, even the fence-hopping from pop culture references to literary stylistics. This story has VOICE. Punch. Chutzpah. Up to this point, the best story in the anthology, and it's not even close. I want to read more Morris! Five stars.

I'm admittedly out of touch with the weird fiction world. So this was the first Scott R. Jones story I've ever read. I am impressed. "The Spike" is a deep exploration of the alien-ness of, not Gla'aki, but a piece of Gla'aki. It's like Roadside Picnic but with the horror turned up to eleven. The writing is sparse, punchy, yet descriptive. Five stars.

I am certain that Thana Niveau must have better work than "The Dawning of His Dreams," given her publication history. This . . . I don't know what to call it, a story, I guess, did absolutely nothing for me. It's a hot mess. As an editor, I would likely throw this thing across the room. One star, because it was written. That's the best I can do.

William Meikle's "The Lakeside Cottages" featured a narrator that was too clever and self-aware by half. It read like a Call of Cthulhu session with a narrator who seemed to possess great knowledge of the Old Ones, which might be great for a recurring character, like an occult investigator, but didn't work in this one shot. Still, okay. Three stars for the three eyes of Gla'aki.

I have high expectations for Orrin Grey's fiction, and "Invaders of Glaaki" didn't disappoint. Yes, I'm a sucker for '80s nostalgia, and this story is full of it. But it takes things in a horrific direction. Imagine The Last Starfighter meets cosmic horror. I am not a big fan of second-person viewpoint, but it kind of worked for the story. I enjoyed this. Four stars.

Sorry, but Tom Lynch's "Scion of Chaahk" is a Campbell pastiche while Campbell is pastiching Lovecraft. I . . . just . . . can't . . . Maybe I'm just done with pulpy mythos fiction? Two stars.

Konstantine Paradias' "Cult of Panacea" is everything that Niveau's earlier story could have been. Yes, it's a history, but its presentation in the context of the story makes sense and forms a bleak, resigned picture of what it means to be a cultist of Gla'aki in the far-future wake of Earth's decrepitude and demise. It's rare to find a science fiction horror piece like this. It held my interest well. Four stars.

I think it's time to admit to myself that I do NOT like mythos pastiches, especially those that are trying to be funny, but are not very funny. Josh Reynolds' "Squatters Rights" just hit all the wrong buttons for me. I'm becoming leery of these Cosmic Horror Mythos-inspired anthologies. I'll finish this one. There have been some great stories here. But not this one. Two stars and my tastes are a-changin'.

Lee Clark Zumpe shows considerable writing skill through most of "Beneath Cayuga's Churning Waves," then ends flat. The ending was a disappointing deus-ex-machina, which could have been the ending to just about any detective thriller. It was as generic an ending as I could think of, like something right out of a "You Too Can Write Detective Stories" formula book. The story is still worthy of four stars, but the ending felt so tacked on that it doesn't deserve a fifth.

Despite a number of poor stories in here, some shine. Tim Waggoner's "Nature of Water" is one such. Simultaneously flipping the horror on its head and embracing it, this is a tale of horrific redemption. What could have easily been revenge schlock, Waggoner turns into an emotionally meaningful, yet terrifying end, deftly avoiding the obvious. Wonderfully written and full of pathos, I loved this story. Five stars.

That's three reality-show stories now. I'm tired of them. This one, "Night of the Hopfrog" by Tim Curran, claims to be the raw transcript of video for a ghost-hunter style show. But then where is all the parenthetical notation coming from? Who wrote these notes? The story would be more effective without them actually. Even then, with proper editing, I would only give it two stars. I never liked reality TV anyway.

The fiction ends on a strong note with John Langan's "Mirror Fishing," which subsumes Gla'aki in folk tradition that blooms into cosmic horror. The characters are wonderfully complex, from the young Pat to his tutor in the ways of Auld Glaikit, Lisa. The descent into the depths of Gla'aki's fractal-dimensional realm is amazing, and the folksy conceit refreshing. I enjoy those tales where human folk conception maps onto true cosmic horror in a sort of cargo-cult worship of those things that we cannot understand. This is a story that will stick with me for a while. Five stars.

Mathematically, I'm coming in at an average just above three stars. I'm rounding down to an even three, which seems about right. On average, The Children of Gla'aki is . . . average (despite the high praise Campbell heaps on ALL the stories in his afterword). The heights are really high: There are a few truly amazing stories in here. But the depths . . . well, Gla'aki himself will be well fed by some of these stories sinking to the bottom of the lake. I suppose some of the danger in editing such an anthology is that, in order to fill a word count and get readers, you might take a few pedestrian stories from "name" writers. I've never hewed to that philosophy myself, when editing. I only take the stories I love. If they happen to be "name" authors, that's helpful. But I also love giving the underdogs a chance. You have to start somewhere, right? Maybe at the bottom of the lake.

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Saturday, June 9, 2018

Cthulhu: Dark Fantasy, Horror & Supernatural Movies

Cthulhu: Dark Fantasy, Horror & Supernatural Movies (Gothic Dreams)Cthulhu: Dark Fantasy, Horror & Supernatural Movies by Gordon Kerr
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

My introduction to Cthulhu and H.P. Lovecraft's work came in 1982 when a friend in junior high school handed me a copy of Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, vol. 1. I drank it up, digested it, and developed a taste that has lasted for a long time. With age, though, I'm wondering if it hasn't lost a little of its savor. Maybe it's just that when I discovered Lovecraft, it was rare . . . extremely rare . . . to find anyone else who had even heard of Cthulhu. Now, he's everywhere. I don't want to sound like the curmudgeonly old guy who complains about how things used to be, but the ubiquity of Lovecraftiana has probably made me a little lazy in the imagination. With the possibility of bombarding all the senses with all things Mythos-related, maybe my senses have had enough.

That's not to say that I didn't find this book enjoyable. I enjoyed the art a great deal. And the fact that a friend gifted me the book makes it all the more sweet (thanks, Tom - love ya, dude). Some of the pieces in this book are outstanding. Peter Siedl's Dark Young is an iconic piece - one that every Mythos lover should have on hand. And Cloud Quinot's image of a Prometheus-scale statue of Cthulhu will throw the hardened Lovecraft-phile into brooding meditation. Rick Sardinha's greyscale of a squatting Cthulhu enveloped in stars is dark and suitably mysterious.

But some of the images cheapen Lovecraft's creation. There's really just no other way to characterize it. Bringing Cthulhu entirely into the light makes the Old One just not that scary. And it's the initial frisson I had while first reading "The Call of Cthulhu" that I enjoy.

Perhaps I'm jaded. The (too) many narrative sections were much too conversational and casual for my tastes and left me feeling like I had just been read a wikipedia article by someone who was trying too hard to be my friend. Don't get me wrong: it's a valuable introduction to Cthulhu, but for one who's been exploring this creature/milieu for decades now, it's just a bit too twee. I'd say if you're a hardened veteran of the psychic wars*, this book isn't for you. If you're new to Cthulhu and Lovecraft, this is a good stepping stone. Welcome to R'lyeh.

*No, the song I've linked has nothing to do with Cthulhu, but I'll take any excuse to point you toward one of my favorite guitar solos of all time.

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Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Traitor's Purse

Traitor's Purse (Albert Campion Mystery #11)Traitor's Purse by Margery Allingham
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I picked this book up on a lark. I happened to be in a book store in Door County and saw this mystery on the cheap paperback shelf and thought "I haven't read a good mystery in a while. I'll give it a try."

Keep in mind that Traitor's Purse is one in a series of mystery novels about Albert Campion. I had no knowledge of the background of the character. I swore that if I got too lost and felt that I would need to back-read one of the preceding novels, I was going to lem the book. Thankfully, that didn't happen.

The reason is, the main character starts out waking up in a hospital bed with no memory of why he is there or even who he is (I've kind of experienced this myself, after my back surgery years ago). Tabula Rasa right from the get-go; we learn to know Albert Campion as he gets to know himself. And it sort of works.

I have to wonder, though, how much of the plot Allingham actually knew as she wrote the novel. It seems to meander, at times, with several oddly-placed sidenotes. Toward the end, things felt thrown-together. The reveal-ation of Campion's memories is very, very clumsy. It could have been much better had I felt that Allingham had a stronger auctorial voice. Strength of prose can carry an otherwise mediocre work to new heights, especially in a mystery novel (or, at least, it did in the few mystery novels I have read). I kept hoping that the novel would resolve itself more strongly and really come together, but it never really did.

I am, of course, lacking all context. Maybe if I had read a Campion novel or two before, or even one after, I might have a stronger connection with the plot. But maybe this is why I largely don't like reading series - give me what I need as a reader, please. In the words of Queen: "I want it all, and I want it now!"

I enjoyed the novel, but was often confused. More confused than I felt I ought to be. The most appropriate quote to describe how I felt is found in the book itself:

"He was trying to fit together a jigsaw puzzle without knowing what sort of picture the pieces were expected to make."

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Thursday, May 24, 2018

Occultation and Other Stories

Occultation and Other StoriesOccultation and Other Stories by Laird Barron
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Barron is a writers' writer. Believe me. Writing is hard work, and one can clearly see the results of Barron's efforts. It's a mean trick to be able to write so beautifully, and yet so brutally. The universe of Occultation and Other Stories fits in a dark niche between Algernon Blackwood's "The Willows," Brian Evenson's Dark Property, and Hemingway. It's a rough and tumble corner on the interstitial edge between body horror and high literary tradition, with some elements of cosmic horror. Though his work has been called "Lovecraftian" (a term I am beginning to hate), Laird Barron's work is so much more than that. It is far from pastiche, and his writing chops are far better than old H.P.'s.

Take, for example, the first story in the collection. How do you take a novel's worth of sweeping cosmic horror on an epoch scale and a deep-reaching character relationship and cram it all into a 27 page story? I have no idea. But if you read "The Forest," you can see the results. Here, Barron out-Lovecraft's Lovecraft, but without the treacle. This is a horror short that is as fulfilling as any literary novel, if not more fulfilling (and with hardly any "filler"). Five not-everlasting, but very long-lasting stars. Enough time to see constellations reshape themselves.

The title story shows a deft, deceptive hand, using anecdotal side stories and strange shadows to distract the reader long enough and convincingly enough to sneak up and smack the reader in the back of the head with the ending. Four stars for "Occultation".

"The Lagerstatte" is Barron at his subtley-rotting, understated, insidious best. Danni, the protagonist, may or may not be coming out of, or at least working her way through a fugue-state brought on by the accidental deaths of her husband and son, compounded by a long history of family misfortune. It's an excruciating tale, but wrapped up in familial "softness". Five stars.

"Mysterium Tremendum" is one of the best stories of cosmic horror I have read in a long time. Take Blackwood's force of nature, Lovecraft's cosmic scale and alien-ness, Ligotti's pessimism, add a layer of sheer terror and outright creepiness and you will start to get the idea. But that's only the start. Add depth of character and plausibility of setting and you've hit the 2nd layer. But there is so much more. Five stars.

I wondered at the title "Catch Hell," at first. But I can't think of a more appropriate title for this occult-drenched folk-horror story of oedipa-electrall revenge(???). Somehow, Barron has made every character in this story broken; every character a perpetrator, and every character a victim. Five stars.

When avant garde performance art goes wrong and the observer becomes the subject, "Strappado" is the result. Horrific for its understatement, this tale will work into your brain and leave all sorts of uncomfortable holes. Five brutal stars that I'd like to forget, but can't.

What is "The Broadsword"? A story, the name of a hotel, a weapon cutting through the veil around this world. It is a ghost story, an alien invasion, a revelation of cosmic terror, and a deep dive into drunkenness and insanity. It is all of these things, all at once, so sudden that the lines between them is indistinct, but slowly unfolding, like a cancer of thought and soul. Five stars.

"--30--" is as visceral, brutal, as primal a story as I've ever read. I'm still not sure if the narrator was insane or not, whether it was not all some grand hallucination. And, whether it was hallucination or reality, was it all engineered by the government or not? And how to Toshi and Beasley, from the first story in this collection, figure into all of this? Are they only peripheral or is there something going on in the off-stage shadows with these two? With so many questions left unanswered, one must ask "but did you like it with all these questions"? Yes, I liked it because of the questions! Five stars

"Six, Six, Six" blindsides you. Who is the bad guy or gal? What is evil? Who, even, is the protagonist? Tough questions, none of which are answered by the last, stunning line of the story. This thing was crafted and crafted well. You can feel the work that was poured into this story, but you can't see the cut marks on the marble, so to speak. Brilliant story, brilliantly written. Five stars.

Yes, you can see the work that went into these stories, but they are so clean and smooth in their execution that you don't notice the chisel marks. That is the beauty of Barron's craft and what sets his work above that of most of his contemporaries, especially those writing in the horror and dark fiction genres. Few are his equal. Precious few.

I don't think there is such a thing as a "good guy" in Barron's stories. At least not in this collection. The vagaries are so well conceived, though, that the reader finds himself spinning in circles in the dark, waiting for a blow to the back that may or may not come. It's a chilling sensation, and worth experiencing again!

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Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Looming Low Volume I

Looming Low Volume ILooming Low Volume I by Justin Steele
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Back in the early 2000s, there was a proliferation of speculative short fiction anthologies, a couple of which I edited. It was a kind of golden age where the internet was available as a tool, but it had not yet been saturated by so much dreck; a time when an author (or editor) still strove to have their work published in hardcopy, but when electronic communication (mostly in the form of message boards) allowed one to get one's name "out there" without having to spend a mint doing it.

When I saw the premise and cover of Looming Low, Volume 1, my heart skipped a beat. Or, rather, my heart hearkened back to those days of yore when Leviathan, Redsine, Polyphony, Flesh & Blood, Earwig Flesh Factory, Indigenous Fiction, and many, many others were within easy reach, if you knew where to look. I knew that Sam Cowan's Dim Shores press had been attracting a bevy of "name" horror authors, as well, so I thought I'd take a chance, albeit a fairly "safe" chance, since I knew that a few of these authors were going to have quality work included.

Story by story, here are my notes:

This is the first story I've ever read by Kurt Fawver. "The Convexity of Our Youth" uses a Millhauserian voice to tell a tale of transformation of children into orange balls. The syntax is satisfying and on the paragraph-level the writing is spectacular. But the story itself just wasn't to my liking. Too bland for such mechanically great writing. Three stars.

A.C. Wise "The Stories We Tell About Ghosts" was overly predictable, some of the kids in the story didn't speak like kids, and the plot was lackluster. The writing was technically sound, but had no real distinctive voice, nothing to set it apart. Two very disappointed stars.

Michael Wehunt's "In Canada" is a disturbing peek into the innocent mind of insanity, especially regarding questions of identity. It's a little predictable, but provides an excellent glimpse into the inner world of one gone mad vis-a-vis an outer world gone mad. Four stars.

As I've come to expect from Brian Evenson, his story "The Second Door" is exceptional. My favorite so far. Mix a vaguely post-apocalyptic setting with a narrator who may be slipping from reality, or, possibly reality is slipping away from him (or, perhaps, this strange reality is very real), then throw in the quandary of a language breakdown, and you've got a recipe for a beautiful disaster. Five stars.

Mill's "The Christiansen Deaths" was pretty standard fare, with an ending paragraph that showed a reaction that just seemed to accept the outre as very matter-of-fact. This lessened the impact of the story greatly. Still, it was well told. Three stars.

Betty Rocksteady's "Dusk Urchin" is a surreal (in the classic sense of the word) horror that relies on the unsteady mind of the main protagonist. The atmosphere is excellent and the fragility of the main character makes for an excellent unreliable narrator. At times the voice felt a little forced, but maybe that was the intent of the author. Four stars.

"The Gin House, 1935," by Livia Llewellyn, is the tale of Lillian, whose life, badly lived, becomes a transformation back into . . . Ah, ah, ah! No spoilers. Five stars for this tricky tale.

"This Unquiet Space" did absolutely nothing for me. Just nothing. Two stars.

Sunny Moraine's "We Grope Together, and Avoid Speech" is a plotless sketch, though sketch isn't the right word - perhaps "tableaux" about walls of mouths. It's as weird as it sounds, and creepy, both because of the delight the narrator takes in the description of these strange . . .entities, and because of the devious invitation at the end, where readers become implied characters in the not-story as the fourth wall itself melts away. Five stars!

"Heirloom," by Brooke Warra, is a morbidly poignant story about twins literally separated at birth. While separated, though, they are never fully apart. And that is the horror of it all. Weird folk horror. Four stars.

There's more than a little absurdism in Lucy A. Snyder's "That Which Doesn't Kill You". But it's not so ridiculous that it strays into pure silliness. Four stars.

Codependence, conspiracy, and slippage between realities dominate Simon Strantzas' outstanding tale "Doused by Night". There is a lot of density to this packed short story, with a whole unseen plot-between-the-lines undergirding the surface plot(s). Five stars.

Kaaron Warren's "We Are All Bone Inside," while well-fleshed out (readers will note the irony of that phrase), didn't do a lot for me. Three stars.

Lisa L. Hannett's "Outside, a Drifter," is not my usual fare. I've never been a huge fan of "body horror," but this story can't be pigeon-holed that easily. It is a strange sort of dark fantasy story about love and sacrifice and business. The folksy cadence of the story is an acquired taste, but I found it satisfying in the end. Four stars.

Lristi DeMeester's "The Small Deaths of Skin and Plastic" was strange and creepy, but lacked substance. Three stars is all I can muster for this story.

Scott Nicolay's "When the Blue Sky Breaks," outside of some clever syntactical moves, was decidedly "meh" for me. A rather weak story with linguistic potential. Two stars.

I admit it: I'm a bit of a prude when it comes to my literature. So I'm not big on erotica or sex scenes. But Craig Laurance Gidney's "Mirror Bias" is so incredibly well-written, I'll give it a pass. A big pass. A five star pass. The writing is exquisitely beautiful. I will be seeking more of Gidney's work, for sure. He is a masterful wordsmith.

"Boisea Trivittata" by Anya Martin was good. But I've seen this trick before. Ann VanderMeer and Jonathan Carroll both did similar things many years ago, and they did it better. It wasn't a bad story, just a tiny, tiny bit hackneyed (although I suppose that using the word "hackneyed" means it's been done many, many times before). If you haven't read VanderMeer's or Carroll's stories, then you might like this better than I did. Three stars.

Michael Cisco's scintillating "Rock N' Roll Death Squad" is a study in ultraviolence that belies the supposed exhiliration of mass murder. It's a bit like seeing A Clockwork Orange from the inside out, but lacking pathos - a horrifying thought indeed! Unfortunately this also means it doesn't really connect enough with the reader on an emotional level, though it explodes in the brain, more jazz than blues. Four stars.

"Alligator Point," by S.P. Miskowski has a cinematic sensibility. I could easily see this turned into a short movie. It's the sort of psychological tension-builder that Hitchcock would have loved. Four stars.

Jeffrey Thomas's "Stranger in the House" delves into the abyss of self-identity and its loss. It's a good story, well-written, but not as impressive as most of Thomas's work. For that, turn to The Endless Fall and other Weird Fictions. I hate to do this, because I really do love most of Thomas's work, but in this case, I can only honestly give three stars.

Christopher Slatsky's "SPARAGMOS" explores the shadows of dementia, family, and corporate evil. It's a disturbing, yet mildly comforting view of a dystopia and the mercy of forgetfulness. Four stars.

Richard Gavin's "Banishments" is an excellent foray into social media deception and its supernatural consequences. A very creepy story, I found myself thumbing back every couple of pages seeking more clarity on what had happened earlier. It might have been the piece-meal way in which I had to read the story (because: life), but it felt a little muddled at the beginning. Still fully worthy of four stars, though!

One of my favorites in this anthology, "The Sound of Black Dissects the Sun," by Michael Griffin is focused on dark ambient music (which I listen to a lot) and the occult. It's a reality-bender with a narrator that I felt some sympathy for, which might say some disagreeable things about me. Flattery aside, the pacing, atmosphere, and voice were just about perfect. The story "fits itself" well. Five stars.

I admit that when I started Nadia Bulkin's "Live Through This," I was underwhelmed, at first. By the end, however, I found myself swept up by this story of communal guilt in the face of the void. This was a long, slow burn sort of story that lasts, with a very satisfying character arc and a sort of folk-horror creepiness throughout, but folk horror from the inside. Well worth the read and well worth five stars.

Gemma Files' "Distant, Dark Places" is everything I expect a Gemma Files story to be: well-researched, with characters exhibiting a range of human emotions, and conspiracy-horror on a cosmic scale. You'll never look at the moon and stars the same way after reading this. Four stars.

On average, that's about three stars. And, though the book came with a beautiful bookmark and cardstock poster of the cover, I'm not inclined to bump it up. Bulkin, Griffin, Gidney, Strantzas, Moraine, Llewellyn, and Evenson have produced some outstanding work here. And many of the other stories might be five-star tales, in another reader's eyes. But the lows were, well, pretty low. And while I'm certain that other readers will look at my own edited anthologies and think that some of my selections were suspect, at best, I have to stick to my guns. Perhaps my taste has changed a little. Or maybe it hasn't changed at all, and it's just been that long since I've seen an outpouring of the sort of thing I love. In any case, I can't let nostalgia blind me.

That said, this anthology has encouraged me to take up editing again. Things are still in the nascent stages, but plans are afoot. Dark, nefarious plans . . .

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Saturday, May 5, 2018

Party of One: The Loners' Manifesto

Party of One: The Loners' ManifestoParty of One: The Loners' Manifesto by Anneli Rufus
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Most people who meet me in person have a hard time believing that I self-identify as a loner. They see me as pretty gregarious and comfortable in most social situations, even among total strangers. I'm not terminally shy, as they say.

But, in all honesty, I am very comfortable, MOST comfortable, being alone. Thankfully, my wife understands this about me and knows that there are stretches when I'd rather go down to my writing area and spend time there, writing pen in hand, trying to churn out books and games and books for games, more than anything else in the world. And those times come often. Being around people takes energy away from me. I have to give the energy. It is when I am alone that I recharge, where I find my spiritual/emotional reserve. Again, this doesn't mean I'm anti-social - far from it - but I am very careful about where and how and how often I expend my energy to be in the presence of others for long stretches. As a child, books were among my best friends. And I loved nothing more than to get on my bike, alone, and go exploring. That was the height of pleasure for me as a young one. And as a teenager living in England, I loved taking the train and bus down to London to go explore, again, alone. Of course, I did these things with other friends, as well, but I was often more than comfortable being my own best friend. And I still am.

So when I saw the title: Party of One: The Loners' Manifesto, I felt compelled to read the book. Even loners want to find "kindred souls", to be validated for their feelings, and to enjoy others' lone experiences (from a respectable distance). Note carefully where the apostrophe falls in the title. Loners want to know about other loners. Ironic? You be the judge.

Rufus covers a broad range of topics. One that struck me was the culture or anti-culture of being alone. I had not thought about how my life as a loner is facilitated by the idea of American individualism. I couldn't live as a Japanese person, for example, and be mentally healthy. At least I wouldn't be viewed that way. And I wouldn't have that American ideal to fall back on when my natural state was hedged by the notion of community-above-all. This makes me think about all the places I've lived and how this relates. I was raised in the military, having lived in Germany, the Philippines, Italy, and England, as well as in the south, midwest, east, and west before I had turned 21. And I mean lived in, not just visited. Every few years Dad would get orders and we would move. It's just what we did. People sometimes ask if it was hard, and I reply "I don't think so. It was just life. I didn't know any other way." Partially as a result of these frequent moves, I learned to live with and like myself. Perhaps this was a way of dealing with a life wherein my group of friends was constantly shifting, where I wasn't sure if I would ever see any of my childhood friends again in my lifetime (and I haven't seen most of them. In fact, it's extremely rare for me to see any childhood friends because we are scattered all over the planet and I am enough of a loner to have avoided High School reunions my whole life). Underlying all of this movement, though, was the idea, entrenched in my head, that I was American - my father was a member of the US military, and I was raised with this from day one, how could I not identify with the stars and stripes when it was all that I had known?

These first sections of the book were different than I expected, mostly in a good way. Rufus' insight into the layers of the loner/non-loner dichotomy, especially as they relate to popular culture, are compelling. I had not made the connection that most pop culture worships the loner (because pop culture is created by loners, for the most part), while at the same time being marketed to the non-loner crowd. I had to think about that for a while. But how else do you account for the burgeoning of "geek culture"? Not that all geeks are loners (far from it), but there is, I suspect, a much higher proportion of people who identify as "geeks" who are loners. I don't have any evidence for this, but it seems like a safe supposition.

On the subject of friends, Rufus points out that, yes, loners have friends, some very good friends. But they tend to choose depth over breadth, and their friends need to understand when the loner needs to be alone. My experience, exactly. I never quite understood those who held what I thought were multiple shallow friendships. I always looked for something deeper with the few friends that I had, sometimes at the cost of great heartbreak.

While Rufus did strike some familiar chords in me, the book, by and large, missed the mark. I have to register strong disagreement with p. 107, 1st full para, last sentence. Here, the author speaks of internet usage (which she calls "an absolute and total miracle" for loners). In examining the thoughts of those who criticize the use of the Internet because it keeps children from enjoying the outdoors, Rufus states:

they claim [the Internet] keeps kids from playing healthy games outdoors. They say it is a procurer for perverts, a weapon in hate crimes. Underlying all this, of course, is the real reason for their dismay: The Internet legitimizes solitude. The real problem is not that kids don't play outdoors, but that they do not play with other kids.

I understand the sentiment that led to this, but it's hyperbolic in the extreme. And this hyperbole, along with the assignation of ill-intent to those who don't understand loners, gets really tedious throughout. The book is passionate, but heavily flawed. And the reason for the flaws is that it is over-passionate. There's a lot of catastrophizing on the part of the author, a sensationalist approach that is intended to put non-loners in a bad light for thinking such evil thoughts against loners.

In later chapters, Rufus points out that many criminals, particularly violent criminals, are automatically labeled "loner" when, in fact, their need for social attention drives them to their acts. It is terribly ironic that many who kill do so because they lack meaningful relationships with others. Still, the militant stance against media and police who make the false assumption that every serial killer is a loner is a bit off-putting. The writing here, at times, reminds me of why I hate The Catcher in the Rye so bloody much.

The chapter on artists is fantastic. There is an eloquent series of anecdotes about how artists tend to be loners (though not always). And this, on artists, is compelling:

Artists hear what no one else hears. They see what no one else sees. They say what no one else says. They must. And to do this, they traffic in the slippery yield of their own souls. They bring to earth the wrack and lode of depths that only they can reach and still come back alive.

This is the kind of passion I can get behind!

Unfortunately, Rufus falls, yet again, into the trap of making assumptions about how masses of other people feel. The chapter on religion is a train-wreck, full of a whole litany of falsehoods and bad assumptions about loners and religion. At least she had the sense to quote Thomas Merton, but it isn't enough to save that chapter. It's a morass.

In her defense, Rufus does hit on some emotionally tough subjects that hit close to the heart. The whole idea of loners being viewed as crazy is an uncomfortable one to face, especially when one prides himself on being a loner and maybe a touch different, though not altogether insane. This is a deep emotional kernel of self-identity that I had to view through the microscope and am still thinking about, especially with the recent death of my parents, one of whom, my Mother, was clinically depressed and had borderline personality disorder her whole life. Being viewed as a touch crazy doesn't much bother me. In fact, I wear that badge proudly! But being viewed as outright nuts because I prefer to spend time with myself and lock myself away for hours on end (particularly when engaged in creative endeavors), that has the potential to hurt.

Sane or not, is book worth your reading time? Perhaps. For those who self-identify as loners, take this with a big grain of salt. Rufus' militancy might not reflect your own feelings. I know it didn't reflect mine. Maybe if I was still a teenager, I could get behind her rancor a bit more, but I'm over that phase. And for non-loners who read the book: please don't assume that every loner you know feels the same way as Rufus about how you view them. It's simply not true. What is true is that all of us are complex, subtly-shaded individuals, some of whom would rather be in a dark corner for awhile, alone, re-energizing.

So don't be offended when I ask you, maybe quite bluntly, to leave me alone! We'll all be better for it. Ugly caterpillars become beautiful butterflies when they come out of the cocoon. But they have to undergo their marvelous transformation all alone.

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Thursday, April 5, 2018

The Cathedral of Mist

The Cathedral of MistThe Cathedral of Mist by Paul Willems
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Willems was called "A sorrowful, distinctly Belgian Italo Calvino". I don't take this lightly, as Calvino is one of my favorite authors of all time. So I went into this little volume reading with my emotional and intellectual guards up.

They didn't stay up for long. They couldn't. What my heart shielded me from, my mind let slip past. And when my thoughts were strong, I melted, emotionally. These works wove their way through me until I thought, by the end, that perhaps I was the titular Cathedral of Mist.

The opening story,"Requiem for Bread," is sorrowful and beautiful, a plaintive story of love, longing, and death. The title acts as a kind of magnifying glass to the tale itself, focusing one in on its disarming simplicity, while opening the reader to a shocking, yet touching, emotional state. It is a dream of a story; exquisite.

"An Archbishop's Flight" is a journey into northern decadence, as if Huysmans had gone to the arctic to die and kept a journal until the very end. A delightful dream-state vignette. There was no real plot to speak of, but that isn't the point of this type of story, is it?

"Cherepish" is agonizing tragedy distilled down to the last paragraph. What a gut-punch! The dreamlike imagery and slow, methodical pace caused me to let my emotional guard down even further, then "Pop!" - like an unexpected kick straight to the ghoulies! This story broke me. It left me on my knees, in agony, wondering what hit me.

"In the Horses Eye" is a beautiful and awe-full story narrated in a voice somewhere between Algernon Blackwood and Calvino. Gorgeous and dark, this story venerates the power of words and our potential intimacy with them.

"The Palace of Emptiness" is . . . "squicky" is the word that comes to mind. An abandonment of love for the soul-shattered void of co-dependence. There is no hope in this story. None at all. It is the most uncomfortable thing I've read in a while. Horror writers would do well to look, not at the subject matter here, but the emotional state generated by Willems' words. When your writing leaves the reader in the same state, you might just have something worth publishing there.

"The Cathedral of Mist" is compelling and smacks strongly of Borges. It isn't quite magic realism, nor is it truly "surreal" in the strictest sense. But it is weird, rife with things that should not be, but are. This isn't to say that it is a dark tale. Far from it. I found it rather light and airy, despite the ominous title and explicitly dark setting. But there is, because of this strange optimistic taint, a strong sense of loss, in the end. And, in fact, this story is, really, all about loss: The tangible evidence of a miracle can never be erased quickly enough. Miracles belong only to the moment, and live on only in memory.

After the six stories, two essays, one on reading, and one on writing, are included. Here, the intellectual echoes of Calvino are strongest, particularly Calvino's Six Memos for the Next Millenium. Willems' chapter on Reading is the most beautiful reflection on the act I have ever read, which sounds almost incestuous but is perfectly right in so many ways. It really is beautiful. For example, this paragraph:

Time's traces are everywhere in the libraries of old houses . . . libraries are dials of darkness and shadow whose hours I like to picture as blue or violet, slowly dyeing the pages of their books. Extraordinarily evocative remnants.

Willem's essay on writing is, like the very act itself, a burbling up of disparate thoughts that somehow form a coherent idea. But what that idea is, exactly, will differ from writer to writer and reader to reader.

I find myself closing this book as if waking from a dream. And like some mornings, I just want to crawl back into bed, close my eyes, and dream some more.

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Thursday, March 22, 2018

Haunted by Books

Haunted by BooksHaunted by Books by Mark Valentine
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

How could a true bibliophile resist such a title as Haunted by Books? Add the fact that it was written by Mark Valentine and the siren's lure was irresistible. Having recently read Valentine's stellar collection The Nightfarers, I was altogether hypnotized by the prospect. One might say "possessed".

But, like all unrealistic expectations, some aspect of anticipated pleasures are bound to disappoint. Thankfully, the disappointments here are few.

For example, the chapter on Aickman I found to be a bit of a stretch. The exposition on a couple of lines of Aickman's writing, lauding the complexity hidden beneath so few words, just wasn't very convincing to me. Aickman's a great writer, but looking at the same text as Valentine, I think he's stretching the evidence to the breaking point.

And if Valentine was hoping to encourage me to read Vernon Knowles' work, his attempt was a spectacular failure. If he was warning me away from it, mission accomplished! Still, a poignant story.

I also had a hard time seeing the influence of hermeticism in Vansittart's work, judging purely from Valentine's essay. I'm sure he is a fine writer, but how can you title an essay "Secret Names: The Hermetic Fiction of Peter Vansittart" and not have a hint of hermeticism in the essay? I felt a little cheated by the title, though it did spawn in me a number of thoughts which I shall be taking down in my writing notebook. So it's not all a loss.

These disappointments did not last long, however. I found much to like in this volume. Heart-rending stories about writers who nearly rose to prominence, then faded to obscurity, abounded. As it a bevy of accounts regarding anonymous writers or well-known writers whose works have been lost to time. And not a few books were added to my "must read someday" list: Mary Butts' Armed with Madness, Morris' Bretherton, The London Mercury (which I should like to see resurrected), and the lost volume A Book of Whimsies - lost to me, anyway, as I can't find any reference to it outside of Valentine's essay. I am haunted by the absence of these books.

Valentine is at his best when he is digging through the layers of creation, showing how a writer does what they do. Valentine's analysis of Walter de la Mare's Seaton's Aunt is the sort of essay that makes me want to be a better writer and reader and gives me the tools to do so. It is a careful unpacking of a subtly horrific story that gives a peek behind the panels at the gears that make the story move. Fantastic stuff.

Valentine uses Sax Rohmer's The Orchard of Tears as a digging tool to uncover the shadowed trends and hidden interstices of occult movement happening at, or just before, the writing of the novel. I am fond of these socio-intellectual archaeologies. They are so rare and so rarely done well. I could stand to read a book filled with such insightful essays.

Digging among the dead stirs up ghosts. And there are ghosts of all different kinds here.

The essay on Charles Welsh Mason was everything I hoped for: a thoroughgoing assessment of an extremely interesting writer whose career faded into the mists of time under most mysterious circumstances. This sort of essay was what I thought of when I first saw the title Haunted by Books. Fascinating and eerie.

As a young man growing up in the time of James Leslie Mitchell, I might have loved his fiction, particularly his shorter works. Alas, I was born to late and am probably too jaded to fully appreciate his work. But maybe not. There is a certain wistful longing for simpler times in me. I am a haunter out of time, it seems.

Valentine's premise of the inverse relationship between the amount of esoteric/occult content in a book and the book's popularity (at least among mid-twentieth-century readers) is interesting. Readers want a glimpse of the occult, but they don't want to read a text that might imply that they have actually learned something of esoteric teachings. Interesting fiction/non-fiction dynamic there. These readers are haunted by longing, but unable to receive revelation, in a sort of limbo of faith. A literary purgatory.

I should give a copy of The Fifth of November to my daughter and see if she can figure out it isn't Shakespeare. I constantly tease her about Shakespeare being Francis Bacon or Robert Marlowe. She has acted in several Shakespeare productions and actually been paid professionally to do so on a couple of occasions, and I'm a Dad, so I can't help teasing her about Shakespeare's reality or lack thereof. I suppose I am, in some strange way, haunting her with my own notions of literature. Poor woman!

"Or Opaline Algol" is a sweet, sweet mystery - an anonymous poet of significant talent remains, somehow, completely anonymous. The texts drop hints of the author, but never enough to reveal them. This is what I anticipated when I first read the title Haunted by Books: The identity of the poet is just around the corner, but when you spin around it to look down the hall, you only catch faint, ectoplasmic wisps dissolving up into the ceiling.

The story of the Johnsonians is poignant and possibly the most well-written essay in this entire book, so far. Valentine's personal anecdotes of his childhood are creepy and insightful into his mode of thinking. Haunted by books, indeed!

"What Became of Dr. Ludovicus" is a fascinating archaeology of creativity and the vain quest to seek publication, only to later become lost to the sands of time - except for the correspondence between the two authors who were working on it. It's like an epistolary novel that might or might not have ever existed. A little eerie by reason of omission. What is not seen is usually much more terrifying than what is perceived directly.

"Wraiths," the long-lost poetry of some fin-de-siecle would-be-writers which have been utterly lost to the sands of time, are the perfect haunters for this book. Beautiful words like a vapor, or so it is rumored.

"The Piccadilly Goat" was the most entertaining, whimsical essay of the book. It reads like a turn-of-the-(20th)-Century Harpers article and hits all the right notes. Absolute perfection.

The final essay sends the reader off into the atmosphere of what might have been. A wonderful way to end this eclectic, but intellectually-upward-spiraling work. The reader finishes the book with a sense of awe, as of watching spirits rise from a graveyard through the illuminated fog on a moonlit moor.

footnote: Special thanks to Acep Hale for his generous loan of the book to me.

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Saturday, March 17, 2018

Rule Dementia!

Rule Dementia!Rule Dementia! by Quentin S. Crisp
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I admit it: sometimes I will take an author's introduction as a challenge to see if they live up to their own assessment of their work. But given that Crisp has here included two introductions: one from 2004 - a somewhat trite and generous assessment of his own work, and one from 2016 - an apologia, of sorts, for the former; I am stuck between the two Crisps. At times, the work in this volume seems naive (as hinted at in his 2016 forward), but I believe that this naivete is intentional, that Crisp wants at least some of his protagonists to be so full of innocence that their loss of the same is all the more tragic. The feelings that I felt the strongest while reading this volume were sympathy, pathos, sadness, and pity. All of this, of course, was set against the foil of "happiness", and by that I mean "self satisfaction" of the characters, some of whom are unwholesome chaps.

"Jellyfish Joe" is a beautifully-written story of a messiah, of sorts, who forms a cult based on the metaphysical philosophies of the jellyfish. It is an interesting meditation on the interface between naivete and faith and the reactions to the ultimate test of one's deeply held beliefs and spiritual experiences. What if miracles happen in spite of the miracle-worker, where the Messiah considers himself a complete fraud, but his followers do not? This story digs deeply at the very nature of faith. It gets in your heart and brain and is extremely poignant, especially for those of us who have equal doses of religious faith and incredulity warring within us. Four stars.

Remember those episodes of the X-Files that were intentionally self-effacing, goofy as heck and, yet, somehow sinister? That's what "The Haunted Bicyle" "feels" like. And more on the goofy side, with an intellectually-clumsy narrator and some weird characters and situations he encounters. I'm having a hard time describing this story, and that's good! There is one little self-referential slip regarding surrealism. Nothing is less surreal than saying you're surreal. And I don't know that the character meant it in jest.

Despite this slip, Crisp is very good at portraying whimsical awkwardness. Or is it awkward whimsy? In either case, it is strange and playful and I like it in a twisted sort of way.

"The Haunted Bicycle" has one foot in Bizarro-land, one foot in the old English ghost story, and one foot firmly planted ankle-deep in William S. Burroughs' grave. Lurking behind it is a veil (eventually rent) of cosmic horror and more than a touch of insanity. And, yes, the story is about a haunted bicycle. Five crazed stars to this unclassifiable, yet utterly delightful story.

"Zugzwang" is one of the most effective stories of paranoia I've ever read. A relative of mine (through marriage) was once clinically diagnosed with paranoia. I've spoken with him about it a couple of times, and it's a scary, helpless twisting of reality. This story is a fair fictional approximation of the disorder, with a touch of cosmic horror, which makes it truly disturbing. Four stars, only because of the unlikelihood of the relationship that begins it all, which is rather jarring and requires a self-conscious suspension of disbelief.

"The Tao of Petite Beige" is an esoteric story about pornography addiction, if nothing else. The occult journey, a sort of sublimation from banality to heaven to hell, portrayed therein is compelling, the ending predictable. It is a beautifully written story, as evidenced here in the paragraph before the very final moments of the story:

Paul floated, seemingly without volition, closer to the mouth of the alley, the two celebrants still holding his arms. The crowd slowed in its approach, like backed-up water, the trickle that passed through picking up speed again. As Paul observed the movement of bodies at this bottleneck, a word rose inexplicably to the surface of his mind to describe it - 'fulfilment'. His life was narrowing down to this single channel. Soon he would be sucked in. All the wide, glittering detail he had come to think of as his very life would be jettisoned as redundant. When he thought about 'life' becoming 'fulfilment', about an aimless ocean becoming a stream, he could not suppress a sharp sense of loss, something like the dizzying panic he had been feeling of late just walking the streets of the wide world. Here in the eddying before the final entrance to that fulfilment, the sad waters of the ocean he was to leave forever seemed to toss and pitch, like water about to run away through a crack in the earth's surface. In those waters he saw so much, he never realised his life had contained such heartbreaking detail - his long years of failure, Mother, drunken conversations with friends that had to end somewhere and yet still seemed to be going on, relationships that never started, loves and lusts never told (just count them), studies that were never made use of, clothes worn and thrown away, music listened to and tired o, places seen from the window of a moving train and never visited, letters lost or gathering dust, days wasted - all this was running away down a crack in the ocean floor. And though there was panic and sadness attached to this wide world, that too was running away. Paul was feeling more and more detached. Fulfilment!

Four stars, with a warning that this story is for adults only!

"The Waiting" is the kind of story that you read and the bottom drops right out from under you. A cosmic conspiracy on a grand scale. There are strong echoes of Thomas Ligotti here, but Crisp's own peculiar voice is always in the background. Four stars

Crisp certainly knows how to tug at the heartstrings, then rip them clean out. "Unimaginable Joy" is an ironic title, a double-entendre. You cannot imagine joy, and there is a conspiracy afoot to ensure that this is the case. It is beyond you. Any joy you think you might have grasped was only a hazy mirage. Only those who embrace the void know true joy, but it is not joy as you think of it! A heart-rending story of innocence lost and the victory of debauchery. Don't read this on a down day. It will not help your mood. Five depressing stars.

When you hear the name Quentin S. Crisp associated regularly with the names Reggie Oliver and Mark Valentine, you can bet that the work is going to be of excellent quality. And so it is. It's not as dignified as Oliver or as intellectually suave as Valentine's work, but Crisp does fit in with them like the somewhat awkward kid at the back of the smart-kid crowd, the one who laughs a bit more than the rest, but you know has a wicked brain brewing up schemes in there that no one else will - or ought to - see in public.

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Monday, February 19, 2018

Modern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada and Surrealism

Modern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada and SurrealismModern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada and Surrealism by Michael Benedikt
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Reading a play that is meant for the stage is always a dangerous proposition, especially when we're talking about plays that represent the Creme de la Creme of Surrealist and Dada theater. As with any collection, this is a mixed bag. I include some (though not all) of my notes herein as a crude guide to my thoughts as I read these works:

The shadow of Jarry looms large, it seem, in Modern French Theatre. The overview provided by Michael Benedikt is a great guidebook to the evolution from surrealism to dadaism to the modern avant garde. A valuable guide for those of us who aren't steeped in knowledge of these movements.

"King Ubu" is ridiculous in too many ways to count. I can see how this led to riots, given the dramatic realism that had evolved before its debut. And I can see how this clearly led to surrealism. Bawdy and entirely nonsensical. I loved it. I would love to see this played live, but I question how American audiences would take it, given the current administration. Sometimes truth is equivalent to, if not stranger than, fiction.

There were whiffs of Monty Python throughout this collection, starting with Cocteau's in "The Wedding on the Eiffel Tower". I would not be surprised to learn that the Python troupe was thoroughly familiar with these plays.

Radiguet's "The Pelicans" was . . . well, it was drop-dead boring. Meh!

I quite liked Tzara's "The Gas Heart". Highly experimental and, while it's not meant to be taken seriously (the playwright is explicit about this), the brain seeks meaning anyway, ridiculous as the search might be.

Okay, I get that the whole point of Automatic Writing is that it isn't to be edited. But Breton's play, "If You Please," needs editing. Except Act 4, which is beautifully edited.

Aragon's "The Mirror-wardrobe One Fine Evening" is definitely the most dramatic of these plays so far, as well as being one of the most poetic.

Salacrou's "A Circus Story" is the closest thing I've read to a Loony Toons show in written form. Insert Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig, etc, etc, stir, let rise, feast.

Daumal's "En Gggarrrde" = The Beatles' most psychedelic years condensed into a four page play.

Vitrac's "The Mysteries of Love" has pretty much zero redeeming qualities. It is not cutting-edge, it is not clever, there are no stretches of exquisite prose, not even any funny nuggets. There is nothing at all to recommend this play except that (SPOILER) a member of the cast shoots a member of the audience at the end. Frankly, that audience member might already be bored to death before the end anyway.

"Humulus the Mute" is just plain wicked. Hilariously funny, but so sardonic. This is dark humor at its best!

Robert Desnos' "La Place de l'étoile" is a sometimes funny, sometimes disquieting look at love. The writing reminded me mostly of Sterne in Tristram Shandy, which is meant as high praise in every way. This is one I really wouldn't mind seeing on the stage, a surreal feast.

All-in-all, worth the read, but probably more worth seeing on the stage. Break a leg. In fact, break all five of them.

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