The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

 

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The poet Rilke here constructs a supposed prose novel which is, in my eyes, a series of extended free-verse poems. I find myself closing the book (after revisiting a few key passages a second and third time) harboring the same feelings one has after visiting a world-class art museum for a day, say the Vienna Secession Building, the Art Institute of Chicago, or the Saint Louis Art Museum. One is amazed, nearly overwhelmed by the breadth of the work housed therein and left haunted by the lingering ringing of the brain and eyes from being assaulted by so much beauty at once. One doesn't often think of the curation of the museum: the hard work done by those behind the scenes who labor to present the work of the artists, performing a sort of sacral homage to, or even worship of, the works. Of course, the best curators do all they can to let the artwork speak for itself. They disappear, are unseen and un-lauded, but it is their presentation that lets us enjoy the works to their fullest.

I use the analogy deliberately, as Rilke here presents a series of literary/poetic "portraits" of events from the life of Malte Laurids Brigge. If you're looking for plot, you won't find much of it here. But you will find several vignettes, in no particular order, from scenes of an obsessive unrequited romance to family drama to a very well-done ghost story that set my neck hairs on end with it's sudden unexpectedness. Rilke is a curator of these beautiful, often dark scenes, but also the creator.

It is strange, then, that through Brigge (and we cannot know if the author shared the character's observations), he seems to question whether a creator is necessary at all for drama, in particular and, by implication, all art, even the work he is writing at that very moment.

All of my poems . . . originated in a diferent manner, and so they are not poems. - And when I wrote my play, what a mistake I made. Was I an imitator, and a fool, that I needed a third person to describe the fate of two people who were making things difficult for each other? How easily I fell into the trap. And I ought to have known that that third person who is present in every life and every literature, that ghost of a third who has never existed, is quite without meaning, and must be disavowed. He is one of the pretexts of Nature, who is always trying to distract humankind's prying attentions from her inmost secrets. He is the screen behind which a drama occurs. He is the noise that precedes the voiceless silence of true conflict. One has the impression that every dramatist to date has found it too dificult to speak of those two who are in fact the crux; the third, precisely because he is so unreal, is the unproblematic part of the task, and they have all been able to deal with him. From the very start of their plays, one senses their impatience to bring on this third person. They can hardly wait. Once he makes his appearance, all is well. But how tedious it is if he is late: nothing whatsoever can happen without him, everything comes to a standstil, drags, and hangs fire.

There are shades of Samuel Beckett here, a precursor, perhaps, to the disappearing narrator of his (in)famous trilogy Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnameable. But in the end, Brigge abandons the notion of abandoning creators and concludes that all that is left for him is to write.

And write he does. Beautifully. As one might expect, the words are carefully chosen, but with the "novel" form, Rilke is allowed more leeway in his choices. He is not as constricted in his word choice, not beholden to the multivalent nature of poetry. He is allowed to breathe a little, and while I am enamored of Rilke's use of words in his poetry (particularly auf Deutsch), there is something to be said for being able to ease into this work without so much cerebral demand.

That is not to say the work is easy. Far from it. The displays that Brigge (i.e., Rilke) constructs are not presented in an overall exhibition that follows any sort of discernable order. The narrative "jumps" through time and space; so much so, in fact, that many have rightfully called the novel plotless. If you've followed my reviews or blogposts, you'll already know that I don't mind and, in fact, sometimes prefer books and stories that end without clear resolution, so plotless books are merely a reverse-extension of such endings. I don't mind not having a plot, but those who do will really struggle with this work and it's "jumpiness". But if you're one to wallow in beauty and big ideas and not feel compelled to have an end toward which you are driven, you'll do just fine.

Note that the lack of plot does not mean that there is a lack of progression. On the contrary, as philosophical queries blossom from Brigge's pen and the answers beckon from afar, one can see a simultaneous growth of a man coming to grips with the inevitability of death, even as he shrinks from societal norms, eventually casting those "norms" aside altogether, at least as a philosophical exercise, flattening the supposed hierarchical distinctions between mendicant and monarch. Ultimately, Brigge becomes answerable only to (insert your favored name for God here) for his writing. But in seeking divine approval, he (and we) falls short of favor, a mimetic travesty of the great "I Am":

Outwardly, a great deal has changed. I do not know how. But within and before You, Lord, within ourselves and before You who look on, are we not without action? We do discover that we do not know our part; we look for a mirror; we should like to remove our make-up and whatever is false and be real. But somewhere a forgotten piece of our disguise still adheres to us; some trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not realize that the corners of our mouths are twisted. And thus we go about, a laughing-stock and a demi-being, with neither a real existence nor a part to play-act.

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Murder Mayhem Short Stories

 

Murder Mayhem Short Stories by Christopher P. Semtner
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This . . . behemoth was bequeathed to me by my daughter a couple of Christmases ago. After staring at its metallic cover for far too long, I finally took the plunge and began reading it eight months ago. I'm a slow reader, and I did a lot of other reading at the same time, so it's no surprise that it took me this long to get through this beast.

I was tempted to use the word "Leviathan" instead of "behemoth" above, but I co-edited Leviathan 3, so that would be confusing to say the least. After editing Leviathan 3, we had several reviewers who lazily defaulted to the age old "wisdom" that short fiction anthologies are, by their very nature, "uneven". I'll argue to my dying day that Lev 3 was anything but uneven. We loved these stories and were excited for each one of them to see publication, else they wouldn't have been included in the collection (and it wouldn't have won a World Fantasy Award, I believe).

Alas, sometimes the pundits are right. It's a rare thing when I find a short fiction anthology that doesn't have at least one disappointing story in it. Sacrum Regnum I and Sacrum Regnum II jump to mind as anthologies that are near perfect. But such gems are rare.

Murder Mayhem Short Stories is not one of those gems. But it's not terrible, either. It is, in reality, quite uneven. It does show that many stories that are considered "classics" are classics for a reason. Even after many years and many readings, they still shine. There were a few offerings here by "classic" authors that didn't appeal to me, but there are some amazing stories here, as well. On the contemporary front, however, I have to say that the level of literary worth was much, much lower, on average, than those of the "classics". It should go without saying, but I'm saying it anyway.

Here are my notes about each story. I'm sure I'll slay some sacred cows here, and some will consider my opinions dross. Those are the dangers of reviewing such an eclectic bunch of stories (although they all do center, more or less, around the theme of murder). So here are my notes (possibly slightly modified since I've had time to meditate on them and the stories):

The first story, "The Wendigo Goes Home," by Sara Dobie Bauer was, well, "meh". It's a fine story, but nothing all that original, if I'm being honest. Dialogue was fine, but characterization might have been a little stronger if the story had a little breathing room.

I think that "The Death of Halpin Fraser" is the first Ambrose Bierce story I've ever read. Though the dialogue is dated and a bit stilted, this was a solid story of madness and murder. For some reason I'm reminded of True Detective season one, though the cosmic horror here is only implied. It's a good little spooky outing, and I'd like to read more Bierce, which is a good thing because the next tale is also his.

Bierce's "The Moonlit Road" may be one of the most depressing short stories I have ever read. The clever use of a transcription from a medium gives us the ghost's perspective of events (after those of the innocent son and guilty husband are presented). The ghost's recounting is the most tragic of all. Bierce successfully subverts our expectations in an emotionally-impactful way.

Take Shakespeare's"Comedy of Errors," remove all the funny bits and replace then with tragedy, but keep all the elements of mistaken identity, and you essentially get Steen Steensen Blicher's "The Rector of Veilbye," though not half as clever as The Bard.

Michael Cebula's "Funeral" is very clearly not my kind of story. Revenge stories are not my thing, especially when the revenge is precipitated by child abuse. Just no.

At first, I thought the narrator of "Into the Blue" suffered a debilitating kind of synasthesia, but in time I figured out that Carolyn Charron was using colors for great thematic effect. A good story, only slightly too-much "on the nose," but not enough to throw the story off.

G.K. Chesterton's "Dr. Hyde, Detective, and the White Pillars Murder" might be one of the more enjoyable pieces of detective fiction I've read because it unashamedly mocks the very tropes of detective fiction in the actual dialogue between characters. The key here is subversion, and Chesterton is a master of it, flipping "the detective story" inside out, exposing all of its weaknesses; makeing a great story of it.

Wilkie Collin's "The Traveller's Story of a Terribly Strange Bed" might win the prize for weirdest title, but the story is exactly what it says it is "on the tin," so to speak. It's a little corny, but clever.

"Who Killed Zebedee?", another Wilkie Collins story, was . . . not terribly thrilling. It's a middling tale of murder with a not-very-suprising culprit.

Dickens being Dickens in his story "The Trial for Murder" slowly builds what becomes a sustained narrative about justice from the grave. The dead have much more influence than we might think on the proceedings of this life. The building dread sustains for a long time under Dicken's adept hand, but the twist of the pen at the end takes this story to the next level.

Dick Donovan, in "The Problem of Dead Wood Hall," proved decisively that an indecisive outcome is sometimes more interesting than a case that is neatly tied-up with an evidentiary ribbon. To quote Deep Purple "It's not the kill, it's the thrill of the chase". Satisfaction might be demanded, but the lack of full deliverance is a sort of deliverance itself.

James Dorr's "Mr. Happy Head" is a surreal tale of suffering, cruelty, and possession. The prose is intentionally simple and thus impactful. This is a disturbing tale that will have you reading between the lines to know exactly what horrific things are happening or have happened (it's difficult to tell which). Time and space and memory and acts slip and slide over each other, often greased by blood.

While easily predictable, th plot of Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Brazilian Cat" was satisfying. Yes, there distant rings of the Holme's stories, but that has to do with Doyle's writing style instead of anything that can be directly or indirectly associated with Sherlock. Besides, the crime scene was far too messy for the great detective to stoop to investigate this open and shut case.

Tim Foley's "Nineteen Sixty-Five Ford Falcon" is as creepy for its sales-pitchy narrator as for the story itself. An intriguing story, but not a very satisfying read.

"Mama Said" was far too simple with a telegraphed ending that did not surprise or satisfy at all. I appreciate the effort Steven Thor Gunnin put into getting inside the narrator's head, but I found it all so hackneyed. A forgettable story, sorry.

I'm still trying to figure out why Kate Heartfield's "Six Aspects of Cath Baduma" is included in this book. It's a fine high-fantasy story. Yes, it's gory and grim, but it just doesn't fit in anywhere here. Maybe the editors wanted to show "breadth" in the stories, but this is way out in left field. Still a decent story.

William Hope Hodgson's tale "The House Among the Laurels" is a short story about his famous detective Carnacki. It is an outstanding tale that keeps one on the edge of one's seat. I love this sort of "Occult Detective" narrative, complete with pentagrams, candles, and ghost-hunting equipment. I would gladly read a book full of these tales.

Another Hodgson story, "The Thing Invisible" sees Carnacki blindly searching in the dark for a ghost in a chapel and exercising his mind by way of . . . engineering?

At the beginning, I expected David M. Hoenig's "Freedom is Not Free" to turn into a Blade Runner pastiche. But Hoenig's plot twists took this in a different enough direction that it wasn't just a cyber-noir copycat. I really enjoyed this piece and it deserves to be considered on its own merits, which are high in my eyes. By the way, if you've even wonderd what the pineal gland is for . . . well, you'll see.

ETA Hoffman's "Mademoiselle de Scuderi" is, essentially, a disney princess story of a poor girl and her wrongly-accused lover escape the clutches of a well-meaning, but ruthless judge, by appeal to the king through Mademoiselle de Scuderi. It's complicated. And well written, if a little over-wrought and even more archaic than Hoffman's other stories (those I've read, at least). Still a good mystery.

Liam Hogan's "How to Build a Mass Murderer" is clever. It's got an interesting twist or two, but it didn't strike me as anything spectacular. Color me jaded.

Is Robert E. Howard's "Pigeons from Hell" a Conan story? It has a panther! And walking dead! And lots of gore! And . . . pigeons? No, it doesn't pass the Conan test, but it is a fantastic and horrific pulp read. There were some nice twists that balked at predictability. And he takes some not-so-subtle pot-shots at Lovecraft, which was funny (to me).

"The Two-Out-of-Three-Rule," by Patrick J. Hurley is a reminder that if something seems too good to be true, it is. I have to admit I hooked into this story about a bunch of roleplaying nerds pretty quickly. It was a good tale, solidly told, with some defiance of expectations. It wasn't a vampire story, which I thought at first. It's worse than that.

I could see the ending of "The Well" from ten miles away, but that still didn't spoil W.W. Jacobs' handling of a well-told tale (pun intended) that read like something straight out of a pulp-horror comic.

At first, while reading Franz Kafka's "In the Penal Colony," I thought "this may be the most boring, tedious Kafka story I've ever read". Thankfully, about 3/4ths of the way through, things got really, really interesting and increasingly horrific. The staid and true bureacracy as mental/emotional torture gave way to physical body horror, which suited me just fine.

I really enjoyed "Getting Shot in the Face Still Stings" by Michelle Ann King. It's a tale about time, persistence, and the patience of an angel. No, wait, the patience of a demon. I really enjoyed this snappy little story.

As colonial and condescending as ever, Rudyard Kipling delivers a simple tale in "The Return of Imray". A classic case of Orientalism, but still a good read.

"Shared Loss" by Gerri Leen just wasn't my kind of story. "Slight" is the word I'll use for it. Not my cup of tea.

I've read a lot of Lovecraft, including the present story, "The Hound". I know what's coming. And I know and am annoyed by how Lovecraft contradicts himself in the same text. But there's just something about his writing that "rings," that isn't apparent on the page. The writing no longer amazes me as it did when I was young, but it still "rings".

I have a soft (and invisible and squishy) spot for Lovecraft's "From Beyond". Bizarre as it is, and despite the mad ravings of Tillinghast (nice name, by the way), Lovecraft shows more restraint here than in other stories, and I think the story is stronger because of it.

K.A. Mielke's "Drive Safe" is just short of predictable. It's an okay story, but is kind of buried in the immensity of this collection. Maybe this book is too big for it's britches?

Edith Nesbit's "In the Dark" is chilling, a somber tale. Nesbit sets the tale up wonderfully with the opening paragraph (too long to share in this update). It's an entrancing riddle that unfolds in such a way that one is still left puzzled at the end. An aickmanesque story of the highest calendar, and I can't give any praise greater than that.

The other day, my son asked "dad, what's the word for when someone walls another person up to kill them? 'Immurementing'?"

My answer, which he knew I was going to say: "Amontilladoing". We both had a good laugh at Fortunato's expense. Of course, Poe's story, a classic, gets five stars (and a lot of bricks).

Arthu B. Reeve's "The Azure Ring" combines all the disciplines of chemistry, ethnography, capitalism, law, and detective work into one fabulously boring story.

Daydream? Ghost story? Liminal magic realism? It doesn't matter. "Recreation with the Paralytics" is a numinous tale, in any case. It will lull you into its own sacral reality, chestnuts, wheelchairs, and all.

As I began to catch the cadence of Alexandra Camille Renwick's "Redux" I thought "okay, I can tell where this is going". And I could. Clearly. Thing is, it was a tight story, so there's that.

A suicidal skin walker? Yep, that's what we have in Fred Senes's "The First Seven Deaths of Mildred Orly". Not bad. Not great.

Robert Louis Stevenson's archaic gait in "Markheim" is clunky, to say the least. This I a tale that shows its age, as well. But the internal psychology profile of a murderer is well-realized and enough to make the reader squirm in the seat a bit.

Bram Stoker feeds the fuel for Edward Gorey in later years with his harrowing, yet somehow hilarious (to me, at least) "The Dualitists". I cringed, then laughed out loud. Am I a bad person for finding such a shock of egregious violence outrageously funny? Probably. I'll save you a seat in Hell.

Contrary to the excellent story preceding it in this collection, I just could not get into Stoker's "The Burial of the Rats". It probably "just me," but I never felt fully engaged with the story.

"Mister Ted" by Donald Jacob Uivlugt uses a tried and trite trope: the evil toy that commits murder. It's an old tale, gone thin by this time in western cultural history. But Uivlugt does a nice job of exploring the evolution of the protagonist's not-nice psychology.

Ethel Lina White's "Cheese" is a high watermark of neo-noir (in attitude, if not in the trappings). From beginning to end, it is sharp and powerful, twisting expectations and pulling the reader into its trap. It's a brilliant piece of fiction. Five stars. One of the best stories in this collection.

Sardonic, with a touch of grim humor, "Corpses Removed, No Questions Asked," by Dean H. Wild just didn't do it for me. Just not my thing.

Etiquette, murder, and the upending of propriety. What else would one expect from Oscar Wilde. Unsuccessful murder is the (dis)order of the day in "Lord Arthur Savile's Crime: A Study of Duty". As usual, Wilde mocks the stubbornness of the aristocracy in this grim comedy of manners that makes its point without being too blatant.

I'll admit that I rolled my eyes ten paragraphs in to "Fragments of Me". I thought "trite" and "hackneyed", which might be true. But Nemma Wollenfang does such an excellent job of tying out the emotional impact of Multiple Personality Disorder, that I ended the story truly impressed.

Tallying up everything, I count ten stories I put at "5 stars". That's a good bunch. I also have four "1 stars". You can probably see where this is heading: The average was, as you no-doubt guessed, 3 stars. I will say that the high points were high points. But the notion of short story anthologies being, on average . . . well, average, holds in this case.

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Blood and Pomagranates

 I have the privilege, once again, of having been published by the unstoppable Mount Abraxas Press. This time, I present toyou Blood and Pomegranates, a novella of the fantastic, wrapped up in luxury, as is usual from Mount Abraxas. Like all MA books, this is a limited edition, and I'm not sure how many are left, but you can find out by emailing the publisher direct at exoccidente@gmail.com. Usually, Ziesing's Books carries copies, but I don't see any there at the moment, unfortunately. 

Blood and Pomegranates is the tale of conjoined twins who carry the brunt of a family curse levied generations ago. After a journey into the bowels of the Earth beneath Renaissance Brindisi, Italy and an audience with The Five-Headed Emperor and his angelic eremitic herald, the twins, one a beautiful imbecile, the other a deformed genius, become enmeshed in matters criminal and arcane.

Here are some photos of the artifact itself:

And with that little bit done, it's high time I returned quill to paper! More to come, I'm sure!

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Heilung Ritual at Riverside Theater, Milwaukee, WI 20 April 2024

 I love music. Particularly live music. I'm not rich, so I have to be choosy about what shows I go to see. I do, however, have some bands on my "must see a live show before I die" list. These are, currently:

Sunn O)))

Om

Heilung

Bohren und der Club of Gore

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Well, now I can scratch one off that bucket list. On April 20th, I drove to Milwaukee, all on my lonesome, to see Heilung live. As soon as I saw that they were going to be playing Milwaukee, I assessed my finances and sprang for tickets. 

Let me start by saying that Heilung does not perform concerts. They hold rituals. You'll see this clearly in the video below (which I did not record - my point of view would have been about ten rows back from the stage - which I thought was a great spot to be able to see the whole show from, honestly). It all began as a classic "opening the circle" ritual, but with a strong emphasis on man's interface with nature (listen to the prayer): 

I did get this snapshot of the opening of the ritual, but I was too enmeshed in the ritual to take videos. This was an immersive event. Some of the howling and yelling you hear are me! 

As you might imagine, this "show" was trance-inducing and more participatory than any other show I've been to. And that isn't because the band was trying to get people to participate ("Scream for me, Cleveland!"). On the contrary, Heilung doesn't have to elicit anything from fans. We were all participants. Here are dome of the photos I took:

A couple "closer up" pictures of two of the main leaders of the ritual, Kai Uwe Faust and Maria Franz.

More shots of the ritual. You'll note that this show was not for children (and I didn't see any younglings at the show). Though the spear-women were, um, painted, they did not have tops on. Given that this was to reflect a bronze-age viking/germanic ethos, this makes total sense. But, fair warning, don't bring your younger children to a Heilung ritual! And if you're offended by such, stay away.

 

I am singling this picture out because it epitomizes just how beautiful a Heilung ritual can be. I passed up dozens of opportunities for beautiful shots like this because, as I have already said, I was "all in" on the ritual and the music and only allowed myself to snap a photo when something shocked me into a need to capture the moment. This was one of those moments.

These are the last two pictures I took, the second one being that of Kai drumming on a shield with a lit torch. This ushered in the closing of the ritual, which was a dionysian free-for-all with a din of screamingand howling, fire lighting up the night, bursting through the darkness, and body-surfing spearmen carried aloft by the crowd like heroes! 

On a personal note, when I bought the tickets, I did not know that two days after the ritual, I would be giving my two weeks notice at my then-current job. Given the circumstances that pushed me to leave that job for another, which I will explain elsewhere (but involve, at it's heart, a deer), this is a stunning convergence to me. In many ways, this event was a ritual that was, in part, for me, and gave me courage going into that uncomfortable conversation wherein I gave my notice. Am I finding meaning where it's not there? You decide for yourself. I know what I know and I feel what I feel. This was the closing to a chapter of my life that I am glad to leave behind. Thank you, Heilung, for providing the bridge between two worlds.

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