Friday, December 24, 2021

Strange Epiphanies

 

Strange EpiphaniesStrange Epiphanies by Peter Bell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Let me begin with the end. The end of the book, that is. It's an utter delight to see a well-researched explanatory essay at the end of this book of outstanding tales. Unlike an academic volume, it's not relegated to endnotes in a smaller font. "Marie Emily Fornario: A Historical Note" tells as strange a tale as any of the others included in Strange Epiphanies. The referent, the fine tale "M.E.F.," which I will comment on later, is bolstered by having this little essay in the back of the book. In fact, the whole volume is given more credence, if you will, once the reader realizes the careful research that Bell has done for this one tale. I have no doubt that he put a huge amount of work, as well as a bit of a personally revelatory experience, into the writing of "M.E.F." - he must have put a similar amount of work and craftsmanship into the other works, as well; and it shows!

The first story, "Resurrection," ticks off all the checks on the folk-horror list. Quite predictable, but still well-written. The emotional state of the protagonist at the end is an interesting twist. I've read my fair share of folk-horror (both fiction and non-fiction) in the past year, so perhaps I'm a little jaded. Despite knowing the trajectory before it happened, this was a satisfactory story. Four stars burning in effigy for this little tale.

"M.E.F." is pretty much perfect from beginning to end. I tend to like creepy stories that hint and infer, rather than openly shock. There's a certain warmth to the narrator not only accepting fate in this tale, but gently, smoothly easing into it. A kind of radiance of oncoming ineffable transformation suffuses the story. It glows with grayness. Five stars for this wonderfully gloomy, yet comforting story.

Similarly, "The Light of the World" has a sense of completeness that is hard to describe. It is wrapped up very neatly, perhaps just a touch too neatly, but only enough to strain credulity a bit, definitely not enough to ruin the tale. A satisfying read about destiny and connections across time and space, like a full literary meal. Having lived in both the UK and Italy, I greatly appreciated the descriptive settings, which Bell brings to light perfectly.

I'm usually a much bigger fan of "creepy" than "scary". "An American Writer's Cottage" was just plain scary. Here are my notes after reading it: I've put the book down, but every flash or shadow has me spooked. I'm hoping to never discover any heretofore-unseen attic doors in this house. I can't even think about that right now. Time for me to go hide under the covers until I can sleep.. I will state that the frisson caused by this one was acute and made for a nice change of mood from the other tales, without clashing with them.

I've read a lot of creepy doll stories in my day, but "Inheritance" has to be among the best. The creepiness is beyond bounds, but what makes the story marvelous is it's strangely redemptive ending, an unexpected conclusion that, through its banality, pushes the story into the transcendent. You may have read a creepy doll story like this, but the resolution is nothing like anything you've read before. Five stars.

While reading "A Midsummer Ramble in the Carpathians" I was mostly listening to the black metal band Reverorum ib Malacht. There could not be a more appropriate soundtrack to this gothic novella, which is redolent with illness, dreadful forebodings, and sweeping vistas of dark beauty. I hate mentioning the "V" word, but Transylvania + illness + wolves + Vlad = . . . well, you do the math. This was an amazingly realized story. Here is a sample of the beautiful prose:

"We crossed the pass soon after one in the afternoon; already, overhead, it was growing as dark as the hour preceding dusk. As we looked back, dismayed, clouds were seething over the cold, a grey, flowing cataract. The air rapidly assumed a torrid weightiness that sapped the very limbs, and made even breathing a trial. A helm of steely-grey hid Peleaga's brow, as if readying for conflict; yet across his southern slopes fell beams of an angry sun, escaping through a rent in the dismal heavens, colouring the mountain's sheer, black precipices in a dread, coppery lustre. Clusters of lesser summits nearby partook of this exhibition, streaks and splashes of the same fiery pigments colouring the wasteland, as if some great slaughter had been done there, in the old days of the world. At last, after insupportable tension, Vulcan's fire seared the firmament, again and again, like sparks shooting from a multitude of Satan's forges; ushering in a downpour such that we could see not a thing before us, and with blasts so terrifying that our ponies were grievously affrighted."

It is this prose and the method of hinting and inferring that I referenced earlier that steers this V-word story clear of the hackneyed tropes of the past. I sometimes get cagey when I encounter this subject in a story, but in Peter Bell's hands, the old subject takes on fresh new life . . . or undeath. Five stars for this tale, as well.

Finally, From the title to the last paragraph, "Nostalgia, Death, and Melancholy" weave a cohesive triptych of . . . well, just what the title says. This is the kind of tale that seems to meander until you find you're on a one-way path and there's no other way, yet the plot didn't feel forced in the least bit. Furthermore, there's an emotional depth here (nihilistic, to be sure) that one doesn't often find in horror shorts. Five stars here.

What a marvelous collection (plus essay) Bell has constructed here! It has been a while since I've read a collection with so many powerful supernatural stories - and I read a lot of collections of supernatural stories. Strange Epiphanies ensures that Peter Bell will sit on the shelf right next to Robert Aickman, on my shelf, at least. This is one you must find and read and savor. I'll be coming back to this one again in the future.

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Sunday, December 19, 2021

Sphinxes & Obelisks

 

Sphinxes & ObelisksSphinxes & Obelisks by Mark Valentine
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I am always edified by reading a Mark Valentine book. Inevitably, I pick up new words I was unaware of or that I had never paid attention to (Divagation was the first such word in this volume - found on page 1), I learn about obscure authors from Valentines explorations into the recondite corners of literature, in the case of his non-fiction, or the strange corners of irreality in his fiction, and I am always struck by his understated sense of humor, which pops up at the oddest of times (this chronological quirkiness is part of the charm, I suppose). buying a book by Mark Valentine is never a wasted dollar. Reading the introduction to this book alone justified the cost.

The problem, of course, is that Valentine sets my wallet on fire with his discoveries and revelations. The first urge to go hunting here was spurred by the essay on Riccardo Stephens. Last time I followed Valentine's recommendation, I absolutely fell head over heels for the works of Mary Butts, whom I had never heard of before reading about her in Valentine's outstanding Haunted by Books. Tempting. Yet again, so tempting. Get thee behind me Mark Valentine!

Does this mean that I take the Valentine bait hook, line, and sinker? Well, okay, in terms of his fiction and poetry, yes. But his nonfiction, while amazing, sometimes shows holes. For example, Valentine's review of Asquith's anthology The Ghost Book is . . . nothing special, to put it bluntly. Maybe the first instance I've seen of Valentine "phoning it in," as they say. Given the source material, though, no one can blame him. Still, I was a little disappointed with the essay. I suppose that with Valentine's prolific output, one is bound to find a dud. Soon thereafter, the essay on Nephele, or at least the idea of the novel, I found intriguing, but not necessarily compelling.

Thankfully, this was just the warmup act. He soon hits his stride, as one should expect:

In his essay "Phoenician Rites and Chaldee Roots," Valentine carves a labyrinth, a sort of archaeology of an intellectual maze that meanders from Shakespeare to Machen to Homes and Watson. This is the sort of wandering intellectual exercise that I love and that Valentine excels at. What is the thesis? Um. I'm not sure there is one. What is the conclusion? Ditto. Do I care? No. Not all who wander are lost . . .

Anyone, really, could have written the essay "The Summoner of the Sphinx," but only Mark Valentine could do it with such ease and panache! A documentary-style exploration of one of the most memorable magic tricks ever could fall flat quite easily, but here the event is given all the observational filigree it deserves, with some subtle nods to the kitsch, properly ensconcing the event in both its historical context and our modern notions of tomfoolery.

Continuing in the vein of the Valentinian educational program, I think I learned more about William Hope Hodgson in Valentine's essay "The Wonder Unlimited" than I have ever known before. Not biographical details, dates and such, but really about him - his sense of humor, brusqueness, and so forth. An interesting glimpse into the author's personality by way of his most obscure work.

One thing that stood out to me on reading this particular volume is the personal detail that Valentine shares about himself and his work. A very interesting and highly personal essay on "Tin Mine Gothic" provides a peek behind the curtain to see what brought Valentine to his interests (and, ultimately, his own writing). I really enjoyed this. It makes this volume absolutely and unarguably his.

"A Fashion in Shrouds" is just the sort of quirky essay I love. In it, Valentine explores the sartorial choices (or compulsions) of the (un)dead. Through ghost stories, both (supposedly) veridical and literary, Valentine traces the evolution of ghostly dress with a dry sense of humor that causes soft laughs in barely-perceptible whispers on fog-enshrouded moors.

Library ephemera (both personal and public) are the subject of the literally-titled "Stuck in a Book," a delightful examination of the sometimes strange, sometimes ironic physical bits and bobs one finds in a used book. Valentine's insight is keen, his research formidable, and his humor only a touch morbid.

"The Saracen's Head" takes an ubiquitous object - the pub sign - and traces the history of England's fascination with the motif of the Saracen's Head. It's a piece of pseudo-Foucaltian "Archaeology of Knowledge" examining the entrance of the motif into the English public imagination. This is the sort of thing doctoral theses are made of, or could be, if expanded to about 100 times its page count. Fascinating.

Lastly, we are given a fly-on-the-wall view of intrepid bookhunters Mark Valentine and John Howard (who are also two of the best living authors writing today - might I strongly, Strongly, STRONGLY recommend Howard's The Voice of the Air?) as they spend a Sunday looking for hidden treasure in the "Passages in the West". this was fascinating and appropriate at the end of one of Valentine's non-fiction collections. One sees Valentine's encyclopedic knowledge of recondite authors and works at play here, as well as a glimpse into his relationship with a fellow-book lover and the people who sell these paginated treasure chests.



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Friday, December 10, 2021

3 RPG Campaigns I'd Like to Run

 I've run several RPG campaigns across several systems. As I have gotten older, it seems more and more difficult to run campaigns, partly because I am a player in an ongoing weekly AD&D 2e campaign and an intermittent (usually every few weeks for me, to be honest) DCCRPG campaign. With Life(tm) responsibilities such as they are, that's really all I can get in on a regular basis. I try to attend two conventions a year (Gameholecon and Garycon), which is great for one-shots, but not great for campaign play. So, suffer an old man to dream for a minute or two about a trio of campaigns I'd like to run in my lifetime. They need not be long and for at least one of them, there would be a definite ending point. But something more than, say, twenty 4-hour sessions appeals to me. Here they are, in no particular order:

  1. I recently discovered Troika RPG I've only played in one session (at this year's Gameholecon) and absolutely loved it. The adventure I played in was actually a converted Dungeon Crawl Classics adventure, but I got a good feel for the simplicity of the game and its shunning of musty old fantasy tropes in favor of something more expansive, something more along the lines of the New Wave of '60s and '70s science fiction and fantasy (Moorcock, Harrison, et al) than the '50s pulps. Elric instead of Gor, The Pastel City versus Cimmeria. You get the gist. In my mind, the absolutely perfect setting for this is The Ultra Violet Grasslands by Luka Rejec. An explicitly psychedelic setting like this is just the thing to riff off of the (slightly subdued) wackiness of Troika. This could spiral completely out of hand in short order, depending on what the player group is like. And "out of hand" would be precisely the goal with this. Throw on some good psych-rock, generate those half-crazed Troika characters, drop them in the world and GO!
  2. I've played lots of Call of Cthulhu one-shots and even dared to run a few (3 = a few, no?) in my day. One of those three is a scenario which I wrote up and which I am now trying to get into publishable form to foist it upon the masses. I don't want to spoil much, but it involves rabbits, Pan, a mysterious hill above a small English village, and the BBC. It is possibly the most "me" RPG scenario I've ever written (though most who know my work probably think that Beyond the Silver Scream is "that" scenario, and while I do still love it and am awfully proud of it, I think what I have for this CoC adventure is going to be much better. Sorry to disappoint, but this one is closer to my heart.). In my mind, and vaguely outlined on paper, I have a whole campaign that can arise from this scenario. For the time being, I need to focus on getting this first bit publishable and published, but after that, you can expect a decidedly non-Mythos campaign (though chock FULL of cosmic horror - just not the kind of Derlethian stuff that has been hackneyed to death) that eventually ends at the Bosnian Pyramid of the Sun. I am leaning heavily into pagan European tradition both for this scenario and for the eventual campaign as a whole. Forget all you know about tentacles and oozing creatures from another dimension - rather, you should be very, very wary of those hares in the hill!
  3. I love Traveller. I've called it "the simplest RPG system out of this world," and I mean it (PS: is it gauche to quote yourself? Probably . . .). And, though I truly believe that the Traveller system is adaptable to just about any kind of scenario you can concoct (high fantasy, cosmic horror, whatver), I also love the setting. So my overly simplistic idea is this: A band of mercenaries are making a jump that goes suddenly wrong. They end up deep in Zhodani space (maybe in the Eiaplial sector?) with their jump drive inoperable and effectively destroyed for good. They have to find their way back to the Imperium through or just around Zhodani space. This could be a campaign that could go on for many, many years, should the players play it right. Or it could be done in one session if they are foolish.
So, there you have it. 3 campaigns that I want to run, but need to find the time (and the right players) to run. Maybe when I retire I can run all three at once, who knows? Come to think of it, it could be interesting if they somehow intersected each other. Hmm . . . ideas, ideas . . .

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Addendum: Looking at my shelves, a Call of Cthulhu campaign that mixes Berlin the Wicked City with the Trail of Cthulhu supplement Bookhounds of London suddenly sounds very, very tempting.

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Sunday, December 5, 2021

LP Review: Skáphe, Wagner Ӧdegård

 I've always had pretty diverse interests in music. In high school, I predominantly listened to heavy metal and punk, but I also listened intently to funk, classical music, and, of course, '80s pop. Since then, I've expanded my repertoire to include celtic music, synthwave, and, one of my favorites: "uncategorizable".

I only occasionally blog about music. I suppose it's easy to just let music be in the background of my life. This is contradictory to my life as a young man, when music was right at the forefront. It really was one of the most important things in my life, because I could afford it to be so. With crazy schedules, kids, work, and life trials in general, music has become something I turn on when I'm doing other things

Yes, I've attended live concerts for many years (especially pre-Covid) and always enjoy that release. But only recently have I really honed in on music like I used to as a kid. Maybe it's because of my discovery of my old record player after my parents died. It's a crappy little red and white job with a terrible little speaker. A real piece of junk. But it works still, and I love it. Finding it was like finding a piece of myself. For a number of years, vinyl LPs were passé, a relic of the past. Then people figured out that they liked the uncompressed sound of non-digital media. This has dovetailed nicely with my recent (within the past few years) desire to turn back to analog in my life. So I've started buying vinyl again. Not in any kind of big volume. I still buy digital albums and CDs because they are conveniently portable and easily accessible. But in a few rare cases, when the music is, in my eyes, worth it, I've bought vinyl. Again, this is rare, and I only reserve such buys for albums that I think are truly unique, something different than the rest, something that needs to be celebrated and admired in a different way. Because vinyl is more expensive and because it is such a more intentional media than digital forms, I am reserving LP buys for special items. I'd like to go through a few of these here. I don't know that this will become a regular thing on my blog, but who knows what the future holds? In the meantime, I need to briefly share three albums that I found "worthy" of buying on vinyl. 

Skáphe

First up is the last one I bought, chronologically, Skáphe's third album, cleverly titled Skáphe(cubed) (sorry, I can't get the typefont to work with superscripts). 


Now, my picture, taken in low light up in my writing area, does not do the cover justice. It is a brilliant red cover, absolutely striking. If I didn't think it would scare my grandchildren, I'd put it on the wall as the cover art (by artist Karmazid) is stunning. To further cement that fact, here is the back cover:


But what about the music? Last night, I hearkened back to my childhood and listened. Just sat and listened with no distractions. I wasn't reading or writing or eating while I listened, I gave it 100% of my full attention. 

Of course, I had listened to the album digitally before I bought the analog version. Now, I am not normally one to like a whole lot of "Black Metal" or "Death Metal". For me, I can only take them in small doses. But I continue to search and sometimes find something I really, really like, something compellingly different than the others in these sub-genres. I'm open to have my mind blown by something out of the ordinary, something spectacular, and here I found it!

With raw, staccato drumming and vocals that blur the borders, such as they are, between Black Metal and Doom Metal (which I listen to quite a bit), this album rides in a liminal space that is rarely visited. The long slow glissando of harmonic guitar notes over pulsating drums and fairly complex rhythmic forms give a psychedelic edge to the songs, but do not slip into the realm of the quaint psychedelia that is ubiquitous in the metal scene. This retains a razor-sharp edge because of its uncompromising production values. Even short "melodic" episodes are loden with anguish, which explodes into outright howling despair. The contrast takes the music out of the muddy depths of much of today's Black Metal and transforms it into something like a dark ritual ecstasy. It's easy to lose yourself in the whirling abyss with this as your soundtrack.


Ur Törnedjupen and Nattslingor

Next up is a pair of albums by Death Metalist Wagner Ӧdegård, except neither of these are Death Metal albums. In a move reminiscent of Bohren & der Club of Gore, a German death metal outfit that turned to extreme downtempo "doom jazz", Ӧdegård here goes in a completely different direction. These are the sort of albums that would drive record store owners absolutely crazy because they don't fit into any neatly-marketable categories. Now, I have a special place for that sort of media (especially when it comes to books) as it is, again, in those liminal spaces where I find some of the greatest works of art, literary or aural.

 Ur Törnedjupen is evocative of a soundtrack to a lost folk horror film, newly re-discovered in some dusty archive in the basement of an obscure university library, which has been lurking in the stacks for decades, yearning to be found by some hapless student whose curiosity is about to unleash something sinister on the world. The instruments listed for this album are pump organ, accordion, Arturia Minibrute, voice samples and "lots of vinyl noise". The sheer atmosphere on this album is suffocating. But my words can't do it justice. It really has to be heard to be understood. Though I was careful not to let my visual focus wander to the art, book covers, and ephemera that fill my writing area, I had the films Begotten, The Seventh Seal, and particularly Nosferatu kicking around in my skull as I listened. The music has a sort of dreamlike ambiguity, for lack of a better term, that is unsettling. However, the closest analog to the mood I feel when listening to this is that which I feel when watching much of the work of The Brothers Quay (who are, incidentally, my favorite directors). The occasional admixture of vocals that mimic a muted and slightly twisted Gregorian chant give a pseudo-religious - or perhaps blasphemous - tone to the whole.



Nattslingor continues in the same vein, but with more of a Russian sepia-tone silent movie than black-and-white horror vibe. The instrumentation is nearly the same, but the first part of the record feels more documentary than artsy, if that makes any sense at all. 


Still, these albums are definitely cut from the same cloth and should be listened to in rapid succession, in an endless loop, if you can somehow manage it. This is an aural vortex you need to give yourself up to. To help that, the effect of the circular paper label on the center of the vinyl itself absolutely mesmerizes as it spins. Movement manifests as the silhouette of a devil "pulling" an Elder Furthark "*Ansuz" rune in a never-ending circle, lending a hint of something sinister which blooms into full-flowered demonic and ghastly mode on side B. My only regret is that it doesn't spin widdershins. But your brain will, believe me: it will!


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Saturday, December 4, 2021

The Delicate Shoreline Beckons Us

 

The Delicate Shoreline Beckons UsThe Delicate Shoreline Beckons Us by Jonathan Wood


At 71 pages (in the paperback edition, at least) this is a slight book, but it is by no means a trifle. The introduction by Mark Valentine is a treat in and of itself, as Valentine's essays usually are. When I finished the essay, I had the impression that I was about to read something along the lines of "Morrisey's 'Every Day is Like Sunday' meets Alan Moore". I was not far off, though I had a more Oscar Wilde sense than Alan Moore. Whatever the comparison, the book works and it works well.

Fans of Wood's prose and poetry will find much to like here. Were I to quote a particularly beautiful selection of prose from the book, I would be quoting the entire book! This does not, however, mean that the voice is delicate (which belies the title). Rather, there is a workman's voice throughout - an intellectual narrator who is steeped in a workman's frame of mind. It makes for a very interesting voice that sometimes shows a crass edge to the smartness, a sort of "knowing" of how the base man lives while delivering that knowledge in some clever turns of phrase:

The landlord is the sort of bloke that likes a crafty half-pint in a pint glass that he hides just under the corner counter next to the old whiskey tumbler with the 'hunting with hounds' coloured transfer on the side of it. The hunstman's head has been worn off by the repetition of the same fat fingers day in and day out, raising the tumbler to the optic of the finest blended and then down again with precision and native speed, to ensure his Missus does not catch him at it too often. There's nothing better than an alcoholic running a pub and using all the camouflage at his disposal so do do and to do it well and with pride. The faded thick cardigan fits him perfectly as he raises his fourth double blended of the day to his lips and down the hatch, evoking all that he could ever want to see from his past as it tumbles like dying gulls into the vortex of the open grave of the rest of his life.

Again, while Wood's depictions of brutal lives hit hard upon the consciousness, the words themselves are gently deceiving. Wood is very sly, surreptitious in his dripping of hints. He is a careful craftsman, just like his narrator. Even the "slips" that the narrator commits as the plot unfolds are intentional, but don't seem intentional on first or even second reading. There is a sleight of hand there, a very pleasant sleight of hand, that sneaks in, ultimately, for the throat. It is an artful strangulation, so well done that one must examine it again and again, like a football player watching film in slow motion to improve his game, in order to catch the moments when the fingers clasp the trachea. Such sweet suffocation!

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Carl Otto Czeschka Illustrations 1895-1900

 

Carl Otto Czeschka Illustrations 1895-1900Carl Otto Czeschka Illustrations 1895-1900 by Thomas Negovan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Perhaps it has something to do with having spent half my childhood in Europe (Germany, Italy, England), or maybe it's just a matter of taste; regardless of the impetus, I am a hardened europhile (if there isn't such a word, I just made it. You're welcome, Shakespeare lovers). And while Americans are exposed to European art, cinema, literature, etc. now more than ever, I tend to dive into some of the more obscure, recondite works that my co-patriots (can I use that term in this context? Again, you're welcome) might miss either because of lack of interest or lack of exposure. This is particularly true in my taste in books and literature. For example, I've met few Americans who know the works of Géza Csáth, Marcel Schwob, Paul Willems, or Hanns Heinz Ewers. More are aware of the works of Kafka, obviously, or even Gustav Meyrink, but there is a treasure trove of great literature that is only recently being brought to the attention of American audiences.

In terms of visual arts, however, we Americans are more well-versed in the breadth and depth of the European tradition due, I think, largely, to the timing of the Renaissance, when the United States simply did not exist as a nation. Most of our modern western art springs from techniques developed in the Renaissance. Sure, there are many, many exceptions (Fauvism, Japonisme, etc), but by and large western art is rooted in European precedent.

Still, we Americans have much to learn. On the whole, I am amazed at the cultural illiteracy of the masses here. Yes, I'm an over-educated snob, yes, I'm a cultural elitist. So shoot me (that most American thing to do, N'est-ce pas?). I was born in Europe. Half of my childhood was spent there. I am a Europhile and I am frankly appalled at how Americo-centric my "home" nation is.

Now that my ranting is over, let's proceed on learning a tiny bit more about European art. For this purpose, I am giving my strongest recommendation to "read" ("see?", "meditate upon?") Century Guild's absolutely fantastic presentation of Carl Otto Czescha Illustrations 1895-1900.

Normally, I would take a moment here to introduce the person whose artwork is under consideration, Carl Otto Czescha. But I don't want to spoil that aspect of the book for you. Thomas Negovan has collected and collated a great deal of information that is otherwise scattered across physical and virtual archives so thinly as to be ghostlike. Czeschka's life alone makes for an interesting biography. It's an inspiring story, to say the least.

Not only is the research well done it is well-presented. The narrative of Czescha's life and career is written in a font somewhere between gothic and art nouveau. I have no idea what the font is, but it is beautiful and appropriate to the atmosphere and work. I have the hardcover copy of the book (limited to 650 copies - get yours), rather than the deluxe slipcase edition (limited to 150 copies - #lust), which has a different front cover. But I presume the inside pages are identical because, let's face it, who wants to lay out the same book twice?

The artwork is, as one might expect, absolutely stunning. Should you require visuals, I'll point you to the Century Guild Salon episode where Negovan and Kat Handler explore the book in depth, answering listener questions (yes, a few by me - I can't help myself) along the way. Note that these are Czeschka's early works, in a different "voice" than his later, more geometrical works, but obviously drawn by the same deft hand. Many of the works are collected from the Allegorien published by the Wiener Werkstatte around the turn of the 20th century and some are from children's books, if I remember correctly. You'll note several "ex libris" book plates, as well, and I have to say that as a booklover, I am tickled pink (that sounds so painful) by the fact that so many of these are from this artistic sub-sub-sub-genre. I love ephemera, and here you get snapshots of such ephemera in abundance.

The art itself is dreamlike or, in some instances nightmarish. For those of us with both a strong romantic and morbid streak, it's a perfect place to land. Czeschka's sinuous figures ooze into the eyes and brain with such ease! Subject matter includes oh-so-many faeries, mermaids, fruit and flowers in abundance, angels, and even a few appearances by Death. The mythopoeic energy here is strong, echoing loudly even though these illustrations are only a little over a century old.

In publishing Carl Otto Czeschka Illustrations 1895-1900, Century Guild has yet again provided a window into which we can peek to see a seminal artistic vision from an artist whose work resonates both backward in time to the pre-Raphaelites and, hence, to medieval art, and forward in time to the 1960s and '70s, the influence of which continues even today.

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Saturday, November 27, 2021

The Night of Turns

 

The Night of TurnsThe Night of Turns by Edita Bikker
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Labelling Bikker's The Night of Turns as simply "Folk Horror" does the work a dis-service. Yes, it is that, and you will find a few familiar tropes and an atmosphere that hews closely to other works of folk horror ("The Wicker Man" and "Wakewood" I am looking directly at you). But this novel is much more than that.

The story is told from the point of view of an outsider who is taken into the caravan-community known as the Caravan of the Burnt Woman, one of many caravans who travel "the path" and who play "The Game of the Goose". All of these terms are important, all are part of the weave of the rich culture that Bikker (which I strongly suspect is a pseudonym) helps the reader seep into. One becomes indoctrinated, through shock and sympathy, to the intricate, unarguably logical world that is overseen by the mystical, alien entity known as "The Beekeeper".

But readers of a modern civilized bent must question and test the logic of this world against the logic of their own. At times, Bikker's insight into our modern, individualist, capitalist society, one based on loss of the past and hope in the future, seems incontrovertibly convincing. But the price, the sacrifice required to embrace these seemingly logical "truths," might be too much to swallow. If nothing else, readers who pay close attention to the unfolding arguments (sometimes stated blatantly, other times seeping into the readers awareness through subtle plot turns and dialogue) must question their own assumptions about how societies work and how they ought to work.

To call this work "horrific" or "idyllic" over-simplifies the complexity of the psychological and sociological events that take place. This is not a place of easy answers. Even the conclusions that the narrator comes to have a distant hint of doubt nested within them; but this should not come as a surprise when one considers that the society in which she is being indoctrinated eschews "safety" as a thing to be avoided for the sake of the community. And if that last statement feels confusing and, perhaps, intriguing, this gives the potential reader all the more reason to read the work and, more importantly, ruminate on what it is saying.

This is not your "typical" Folk Horror novel, but an intelligent exploration of what it means to be an individual, of what it means to be a part of a community, of the place hope has in the individual psyche, and of our embracing of the safe and the secure. It's a many-layered mental/emotional/philosophical exercise in the guise of horror; rewarding, yet painful. Like any good exercise, it is well worth the pain.

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Wednesday, November 10, 2021

Cold Print

 

Cold PrintCold Print by Ramsey Campbell
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I've previously reviewed most of the early stories in this volume in my review of The Inhabitant of the Lake and Other Unwelcome Tenants. On re-reading these stories (which I'm not going to re-review here), I think they've lost some of their initial luster. Perhaps this is because Campbell continues in the same vein in many of the stories that are contained in Cold Print, but that are not in Inhabitant, which makes the stories in the middle of the volume feel like a hackneyed copy of . . . himself? I find myself possibly having fallen out of love with these stories because there's little original in them.

After the original series of Lovecraft pastiches, it becomes clearly apparent that Campbell is experimenting with grammar, vocabulary, and form. This gets more than a little tedious, at times. I found myself thrown out of the story, in these instances, partly because I fell into some of the same traps as a younger writer, and I feel a degree of self-loathing when I see this immature claptrap.

Before you think I hated this book, I didn't hate it. I should probably launch into my story notes so you can get a more holistic view of my thoughts and feelings while reading. Again, I am going to avoid commenting on stories I already reviewed in my other Campbell review except to say that they did not stand the test of time and were much more flat and blasé the second time around.

"The Church in High Street" is, yes, a derivative work of Lovecraftian horror. But there are hints of Campbell's own style peeking out, a certain restraint and cleverness that veterans of Lovecraft will notice as different (and, in my case, refreshing). Take, for example, this sentence:

In High Street at last, the moon hung over the steeple of the hill-set church like some lunar diadem, and as I moved the car into a depression at the bottom of the steps the orb sank behind the black spire as if the church were dragging the satellite out of the sky.

"The Will of Stanley Brooke" is most definitely Campbell's own, no mere mimesis of Lovecraft. The story's understatement carries the full shock of the unrevealed reveal. The old trope of the sudden change to a person's last will and testament takes a new twist.

"Before the Storm" is an atmospheric piece contrasting wildly divergent viewpoints that come together in the ultimate moment of horror. Ultimately effective, this tale comes short of greatness by the distracting use of too many adverbs, to put it plainly. And that's exactly the problem - so many words ending in "-ly," with many of them straining (and sometimes brazenly breaking) the limits of good grammar. Now, I'm all about breaking grammar rules to make a point, but doing it by a flurry of words ending in "-ly" just seems so . . . juvenile?

The title story is not only effective, but there is some knockout writing here, regardless of genre. For example, the sentence fragment: He closed his eyes again; the room and bookcase, created in five seconds by the neon, and destroyed with equal regularity, filled him with their emptiness .
.
, is a brilliant way to pull the reader's senses into the story - much more effective than any of Lovecraft's indescribable horrors, which he goes on to describe ad nauseum. Here, Campbell's restraint is his strongest selling point. There is also a certain whimsical nihilism that cuts deeper than HPL's cosmic horror, not because it is bigger, meaner, or scarier, but because it is altogether unfair. The main character, Strutt, is an undeserving victim, chosen seemingly at random, which somehow makes it seem more personal, as if the universe is just picking on him for no good reason other than to make him suffer. This is more Ligotti than Lovecraft.

Normally, I would love a piece such as "Among the Pictures are These". Its a catalog, of sorts, a "story" format of which I am fond. There were lots of good descriptions, but not enough meat behind the images to discern any innovative or shocking story between the lines.

The Tugging" was frequently too precious about it's nods to fans of Lovecraft's work. There were a couple of momenta when Campbell's mastery of prose shone through, standing out from the discordant and inconsistent stream-of-consciousness, but so much was obscured by the looming form of HPL that one might title this story "The Shadow Over Campbell". Just when it looks like he is going to shine, he eclipses his own voice by calling out too barefacedly to his predecessors.

The main trope of "The Faces at Pine Dunes" is well-worn, close to worn out for those familiar with Lovecraftian fiction. As with the previous story, at times, Campbell's prose gets in it's own way, but at other times it is brilliant. If this was the first time I had read such a story, I would be elated. As it is, I found it very "swingy," up and down, which is a bit disappointing, frankly. It's not a bad story, but it's not great, either.

"Blacked Out," the penultimate story in this collection, hits all the right notes of atmosphere and tone. Yes, you know the end two pages into reading it, but Campbell's slow revelation of the inevitable is plenty to carry the reader along for the ride. His engagement of all the senses here is laudable, and the careful restraint actually bolsters the crescendo. Definitely one of the better stories herein.

As I read "The Voice of the Beach," I'm listened to the album "Stay Down" by Two Lone Swordsmen. Honestly, I can't think of a more appropriate soundtrack, especially the song "Spine Bubbles". It's like that song was written for reading that story! "The Voice of the Beach" is cosmic horror without all the words and names. You know, no Nyarlathotep, no squamous or Eldritch anything. This is exactly what I was hoping for: cosmic horror in Campbell's voice with only the faintest hint of HPL so far away that you can hardly hear him. Now, if the collection had started in this vein and continued from there, I might like it a lot more. Not bad, just too much HPL taint. Too little Campbell, a little too late.

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Thursday, October 28, 2021

Troika! Numinous Edition

 

Troika! Numinous EditionTroika! Numinous Edition by Daniel Sell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I had ordered this book quite some time ago, but with the state of the mail system from the UK to the US, it arrived literally two days before I was to play in my first game of Troika! at the Gameholecon RPG convention. I crammed as much as I could, but it wasn't until I was at the table and saw the game in situ, if you will, that I saw, firsthand, just how innovative it is.

I've respected Daniel Sell's work for quite some time. With a blog entitled "What Would Conan Do?" how can you possibly go wrong by following his advice, let alone playing in a system that he created? I'd been following Daniel's blog for many years and learned a fair amount from it - and I am a very experienced gamer, so it takes some practical and stylistic fireworks to impress me on the gaming front - so I knew that Troika! would be something special. At least that was my expectation.

And my expectations were exceeded.

This isn't a D&D clone. It's an altogether different system, as if D&D had been created in another dimension where psilocybin spores fill the air, the sky is pink and cream, and anatomy doesn't behave like it does in our universe. That said, the system is incredibly light and simple. In places, most notably in its treatment of initiative, in the simplicity and broad implications of spells, and in the non-standard monsters (each replete with their own "mien" table to determine the mood of a specific being encountered at the time of the encounter), the system is downright innovative.

Simple, innovative, and incredibly quirky - what's not to like?

Like I said, I've been doing this RPG thing for a long time (since 1979, to be exact), and I've seen a lot of systems come and go. Having read through the book and played a session of Troika!, I have a strong feeling that this one is going to become a favorite of mine (ranked up there with AD&D, DCCRPG, Call of Cthulhu, and Traveller).

As with the aforementioned RPGs, it's the mix of system and setting that I enjoy. There are no maps, but the implied setting reads something like the cross between a Michael Moorcock novel, a Hawkwind album (well, this one in particular), and a really, really cool acid trip. I'm thinking that The Ultraviolet Grasslands and The Black City might be the ultimate campaign setting for this game. Oh, my. Now I really, REALLY want to run a campaign of this! Where are my six-siders? I'm ready to roll . . . er, role . . . I mean . . . you know.

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Wednesday, October 27, 2021

Red Shift

 

Red ShiftRed Shift by Alan Garner


"This is a 156 page paperback from the '70s, written for teens. How hard can it be?"

"Does the name Samuel Beckett mean anything to you?"

(not a quote from the book - this is my brain speaking to itself.)

Let me start by saying "don't read this book". At least, not yet. Trust me, you're going to need some help here. If I had not heard The Folk Horror Podcast (now defunct, I believe) episode about Red Shift, I don't know that I would have found this book as quickly as I did. I most certainly would NOT have understood what was going on. The gentlemen on that podcast did a great job of analyzing both the novel and the television version of Red Shift. Sure, they spoiled it like a renegade piece of shrimp left under the couch for a month, but, honestly, without spoilers, I don't know that I would have understood half of what was going on.

This is a hard book. Get some help, then read it!

My facetious comment about Beckett was, well, not really all that facetious. In fact, I'd say that most of Samuel Beckett's short stories are more easily comprehended (though not his "big three," which are among the most challenging works I've ever read). It's okay to have a help, a guide. Dante had his Virgil. I would recommend finding The Folk Horror Podcast episode on Red Shift, then reading
This is a book that will bear re-reading, at least for me. I had glimpses of a psychological and emotional depth that peeked out from between the lines every once in a while, but since I was struggling to "keep up," these were acknowledged and quickly darted away from my conscious mind. Next time I read this, I want to dive in headfirst, even though I know it's going to break my heart even more than it did the first time (thank goodness I didn't read this as a teenager - I don't think I ever would have recovered from that depressive episode). Next time, I'm telling Virgil to stay put. Next time, I'm going at it alone, going in without a crutch, facing this head on, and taking my lumps.

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Tuesday, October 19, 2021

Major Poems and Selected Prose by Algernon Charles Swinburne

 

Major Poems and Selected ProseMajor Poems and Selected Prose by Algernon Charles Swinburne
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

One would think, given the title Major Poems and Selected Prose that the main focus of any good, thorough review would be on the poetry.

This is neither a good nor a thorough review. There's just not enough time, and I don't have the energy to do a meaningful analysis. Swinburne is just too BIG! But there are notable highlights which I must . . . highlight . . . notably . . . nevermind.

We begin with poetry, of course. Swinburne's epic tragic poem "Atalanta in Calydon" is representative of much of his work as it seems to have little to do with Atalanta or Calydon, only as Atalanta is a prompt, of sorts, to Meleager's ultimately fatal actions. Normally, I'm not big on introductions that effectively spoil the entire story before it happens, but in this case, it helped a great deal to be able to understand what was actually happening throughout.

As one might expect, the intertwined themes of Eros and Thanatos predominate throughout. For an example of the admixture of both, I quote, in full, "Anima Anceps":

Till death have broken
Sweet life's love-token,
Till all be spoken
That shall be said.
What dost thou praying,
O soul, and playing
With song and saying,
Things flown and fled?
For this we know not -
That fresh springs flow not
And fresh griefs grow not
When men are dead;
When strange years cover
Lover and lover,
And joys are over
And tears are shed.

If one day's sorrow
Mar the day's morrow -
If man's life borrow
And man's death pay -
If souls once taken,
If lives once shaken,
Arise, awaken,
By night, by day -
Why with strong crying
And years of sighing,
Living and dying,
Fast ye and pray?
For all your weeping,
Waking and sleeping,
Death comes to reaping
And takes away.

Though time rend after
Roof-tree from rafter,
A little laughter
Is much more worth
Than thus to measure
The hour, the treasure,
The pain, the pleasure,
The death, the birth
Grief, when days alter,
Like joy shall falter;
Song-book and psalter,
Mourning and mirth.
Live like the swallow;
Seek not to follow
Where earth is hollow
Under the earth.


Among this and other gems, "Dolores" is one of the more amazing long-ish poems I've read. Again, it's easy to see why Swinburne is so renowned among poets. I don't know that I could write such a beautiful, despairing, mocking, and yearning poem if I took the rest of my life to do it. Brilliant.

And though Swinburne's archaic language and structure can sometimes be off-putting, at other times, he is melodious. "On the Cliffs," for example, is as much a song as a poem. Its sibilance is astounding and fluid. It feels natural, like poetry often doesn't.

Though death and love are frequent foci of attention, the strain of atheism is strong throughout Swinburne's work, an odd thing for a poem written in 1880. Odd as in rare, not as in "bizarre". Swinburne was openly antagonistic to religion in a way that wouldn't be expressed with any regularity until after the Great War.

The masterpiece in this volume is the long epic poem "Tristram of Lyonesse," which requires an attention and stamina like that of reading Ulysses or anything by Beckett. It exacts a toll on the brain! And yet, it is a rewarding, bittersweet opus on love, betrayal, and tragedy.

Confession: I have "wronged" a couple of people in my life. Two, specifically, that I can remember. Many, many years ago. But my actions still sting. When I read Iseult's lament herein, that sting returned, after, what, 35 years now? Such is the power of good poetry. Good poetry digs deep, and sometimes it hurts like hell.

Swinburne might be considered a straight-up Romantic poet, but "A Nympholept," a sort of hymn to the god Pan and, hence, to the winsomeness of Nature, is as thoroughly a Symbolist piece as I've ever read. This would pair well with a good long stare at a Gustave Moreau painting, for sure.

After the poetry is a mixture of criticism, essays, and what must be short pieces of fiction (unless I misread and they are sensationalized early journalism, but I think not). Swinburne's first critical essay here is absolutely scathing and brutal. He tries to pass it off as an unemotional exercise meant to help the poet in question, but the shots he takes are lethal, if on the mark.

Swinburne's review of Les Fleurs du Mal is pretty good.

Mine's better.

While reading his essays, I had a bit of serendipity: last month my wife and I visited the Chicago Institute of Art, which hosts Dante Gabriel Rossetti's "Beata Beatrix". And herein is an essay, heretofore unknown to me, by Swinburne about, among other things, that very painting. It's got me thinking about how the internet has made such art widely available, but how tawdry jpegs are in comparison to seeing the artwork in person. Is such ready access to art a good thing if the secondhand reproduction is so poor and if it is impossible to adequately represent the piece on a screen, given the subtleties of the original? Discuss . . .

Finally, one last quote from the book that I found amusing and true, from a piece that is an exceprt from Swinburne's erotic novel Lesbia Brandon:

It's odd that words should change so just by being put into rhyme. They get teeth and bite; they take fire and burn.

Indeed they do.

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Tuesday, October 12, 2021

The Complete Stories by Mary Butts

 

The Complete StoriesThe Complete Stories by Mary Butts
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Occasionally, very occasionally, one stumbles across a writer whose writing changes one's entire outlook on the act and product of writing itself. There are various degrees of such a revelation, and I've discovered these insights several times. But once in a long while, a very long while, another's writing fundamentally cracks an author's foundation, forcing them to look at their own output with new eyes. It's not just a function of imposter syndrome (believe me, I experienced that when I started graduate school - I still reel a bit from that experience, twenty years gone now), it is a serious reconsideration of the craft of writing, a hard look at the deep structure, the longue durée, if you will, of one's writing history. Mary Butts' The Complete Stories has caused such a paradigm shift in me.

Now, I don't desire to mimic her exquisite work. She has her voice(s) and I have mine. But reading Butts' writing has caused serious self-reflection on the craft of my own writing - not the placement of verbs, the number of adjectives to use, the clever use of a semicolon, but the thought process that comes long before the pen actually bleeds onto the paper and the act of sounding out both the phraseology and subtle meaning of the words chosen. Reading this book is causing me to think much more carefully about my writing. This does not, however, mean that I plan on showing more restraint in my writing (as one book reviewer publicly advised that I do many years ago . . . what was his name? I forget. The world has forgotten). On the contrary, I feel a sense of impending freedom, a return to some of the vigor of my more experimental works, but with a more steady, sure hand.

What is it that has caused this epiphany? Honestly, it's hard to tell. It's not the subject matter, which is usually a social situation of some kind or another, oftentimes within or involving a group of bohemian artists and decadence (though long after the demise of Bohemia as an independent kingdom and the decadent movement). It's not the characters, though I thought the characterizations were good, sometimes great - I would LOVE to see an entire novel or perhaps even more of the main antagonist (and he is just that) in "Honey, Get Your Gun". It's not the setting - often Paris from the 1920s to the 1930s (?) is interesting enough, but not so astounding as, say, Berlin during the same period. It's not the plots; many of these stories seem essentially plotless or the plot is so subtle as to be barely detectable.

Honestly, the subtlety itself may be the "it" I am looking for. It can be thoroughly off-putting at first, but once one has caught the rhythm of a Mary Butts story, one knows one is ensconced in it. There really is no escape, once you've given yourself up to the mystery. And I mean that quite literally - not mystery as a genre (there is precious little of that ilk here), but the mystery of "just what the heck am I reading?" followed by the slowly dawning realization that . . . it just doesn't matter! If you allow yourself into these stories, you will often come out of the other end not knowing exactly what happened, but knowing that something significant happened, maybe even something with meaning. The fact that you will continue to quiz yourself on what the meaning is . . . well, that in and of itself gives the story some meaning, doesn't it?

As I review my notes to the stories, I see more question marks than in any other review I've done. The Complete Stories is baffling, frustratingly so, at times. But the fact that so many of these short tales have lingered in my mind so long and so powerfully, attests to their staying power, despite (or perhaps because of) a lack of full comprehension in my reading.

In other words, if you're one of those people who must have closure in your stories - don't read this book. You're going to hate it.

If, on the other hand, you are comfortable with or even excited by vagaries in fiction, this is your book. I should have guessed I would enjoy it, given my rather open-ended acceptance of "difficult" texts and Mark Valentine's praise of Mary Butts' work. At first, though, it was tough going. I had to accept that there was much that I did not understand and let myself feel that this was okay. Walk by faith, I guess, stepping into the darkness until only one step ahead is visible, as the old allegory goes. I'm glad I took each story as its own step (sometimes a series of steps). I can't say exactly where I arrived, in the end, but here is my journey, with commentary on each story:

I noted that, from the first story: If "Speed the Plow" is any indicator, I am going to like Mary Butts' work very, very, very much. The stream of consciousness of Beckett, but the poetics of a Huysman or a Rilke peeking out from behind the banalities. This is off to a smashing start. This is the type of writing one has to go back and reread each paragraph, partly for comprehension, but, really, mostly for the sheer awe inspired by the writing.

Did I understand "In Bayswater" from beginning to end? No. It's convoluted, a bit of a mess. But that prose is exquisite. And I was able to follow along well enough the first time through. A second reading would do much to tie it all together, but I'm not ready for that now. Some other time. Still good enough in structure to carry on and beautiful, beautiful writing and dialogue. Borderline decadent.

"Bellerophon to Anteia" is the Corinthian hero's underworld journey, but it is unlike any other hero's underworld journey, full of grief and regret and a pyrrhic victory, at best.

The trees, that were a row of whistles for the wind, grew small out of the bright grass.

Call me petty, but little gems like this one from "Angele au Couvent" are what make Mary Butts' stories "sing," despite their sometimes choppy presentation. Like diamonds against a foil of black construction paper. There is a certain charm there that I must admit I like.

"Angele au Couvent" - what to make of this? A young girl in school, perhaps studying to be a nun (?) comes to the realization that she will never find happiness there, but only in literature. And yet, the story ends with a beginning that does not hold much hope for a "literary" future, but rather the edge of a life storm where she will be tossed about to and fro by the ravages of society. Or perhaps it is not?

"In the Street" is a short monologue by . . . who knows? A madwoman? A spurned lover? A cast off whore? All of these things, perhaps, or none of them. This is a woman that Beckett would have heard in his mental echo chambers, a "lost one," a vagrant or, perhaps, a mad princess. It is so hard to tell. And by hard to tell, I mean "telling". She is all of these and less and more.

Is "The Golden Bough" a retelling of the Fisher King set in 1920s London? Difficult to say, though there is the self-sacrifice. But here, at least two of the characters are self-admittedly mad, having been institutionalized at one point. And yet, one questions who here is sane and who is not? Perhaps the cast of unreliable characters will never allow the mystery to be unraveled. Could it ever be? Should it?

What happened "In the South"? Something very old, ancient, even. Something undying, like eternity, like love. And what is signified by the terms "brother" and "sister"? Something deeper and more meaningful than shared parentage, something unknowable and absolutely unbreakable.

Young Mary finds that being overshadowed by the Holy Ghost and seeing an angel is . . . complicated and wrought with danger in "Maddona of the Magnificat".

"Widdershins" is an unravelling labyrinth of social entanglement. Dick Tressider discovers that no instantaneous magic can give him the standing he desires and, in fact, he might never attain the status and place he desires. At least this is how I interpret this choppy narrative, but of flotsam swirling in an undoing.

"The Dinner Party" is a social labyrinth that we are taken through from the view of a wanderer therein. At the center lies the Minotaur, and it is every bit as horrifying as that terrible beast. Perhaps even more so for the facade of "culture" around it. An outstanding expose of manners and social pressure. Devastating, in the end.

I had to reread "Brightness Falls" to fully grasp it (though it is not "graspable" and intentionally not so). On the second read, I realized how absolutely masterful the story is. My favorite up to this point. Is it about jealousy and winsomeness, or witchcraft and liminal dimensions, or hypnotism and a Freudian obstacle course? I take the fantastical view myself, with an acknowledgement of the humor veined throughout.

What happens to old, perverse Greek heroes when they seemingly retire from . . . hero-ing? "The Later Life of Theseus, King of Athens" sheds some light - and some darkness - on those golden years. Just remember that, as the economists say, "debt never sleeps". And it will be repaid. It will.

A bit of a dark comedy of manners does not allow one to simply laugh off the sinister story "In Bloomsbury," about a staid aristocratic family and their beastly (their word, I think) cousins from South Africa. It's a disturbing commentary about racism, colonialism, and the upper-class sense of superiority. And yet, here Butts' dexterity with language is clearly apparent. She describes the dawning realization of murder - fratricide and matricide, no less - in beautiful terms:

"Essential daylight, colourless and clean" filled the room. The fire sulked. The hour was unpropitious for the turn of the event. Besides, what were we to do? Julian went on: "I made an under-statement. They spoke of their victims in the plural: referred to "them." The woman, I suppose, their stepmother." Situations which sink in. All their little peculiarities which had hitherto delighted us, reseen in this light. Revision at dawn. Of murder; of blood on black ivory skins. Polished boxwood and scarlet; two bodies who would stay dead.

"Friendship's Garland" seems to be about transitions, from old age to young, from human sociality, with all its pretense and stresses, to the seclusion of nature and the accompanying opportunity to see oneself in their purest form.

"Green" may be a story about a newly-married couple and the interpolation of an old "friend" of the husband who may or may not have been a lover in the midst of what may or may not be a love triangle in which the husband's mother (also admired of the husband's may or may not have been ex- or maybe not-ex-lover) may or may not have interfered in said maybe-but-maybe-not affair. It's all so platonic and careful.

I got a strong du Maurier vibe from "The House Party," with echoes of Trilby throughout: a group of decadent friends, all of whom might or might not be gay, who negotiate the intricacies of social standing and sociality, all with a sinister background character (in this case, The Pimp) who inadvertently reveals things about oneself to oneself. One of the stronger stories in the first half of the book.

"Look Homeward, Angel" is a somber piece that shows a restraint absent from earlier stories. Perhaps it is this sense of restraint that makes it so emotionally affecting. There's a certain resigned sadness here, in the liminal space between memorial and grief. This is one of Butts' later stories and it's maturity shows. It's the most beautiful story in the volume so far, absent of hyperbole and all the better for it.

"The Guest" is about, well, the guest . . . to a husband and wife and a "friend" of vague intentions. Vague enough that the guest himself takes umbrage with the whole affair (or is there really an affair)? All is not as it seems, except for the excellent writing. The stream of consciousness bits are portrayed parenthetically, which makes for much easier reading comprehension.

A fictionalized account of the true story (!) of the young Julius Ceasar being kidnapped by pirates whom he later came back to crucify, "A Roman Speaks" presents the general on the cusp of assuming dictatorial power. Here Caesar presents his story of capture, life among the pirates, ransom, and his promised crucifixion of his captors (who thought it was a joke until it happened). An interesting insight into the man.

Friends meet friends and become enemies in "The Warning," a cautionary tale (telegraphed by the title). Sometimes it's best to keep one's associates siloed away from each other. We've all had this experience, but never so eloquently.

Mary Butts' work demands your attention. In some tales, every word counts. "Mappa Mundi" is a truly weird tale that requires your focus as a reader. The diligent reader is well-rewarded here. I had to go back and reread several sections twice, but once I got my focus and the brain grasped what was happening - or what might have happened - a door opened into a labyrinth . . .

"A Lover"? A lie. A deceit that makes a mockery of love, even of friendship. Dissimulation cracks its head open against The Truth, and one lover must simply walk away. This seems to be a theme in many of the stories in this collection. Deceit couched in the most beautiful of words, but what are words, other than masks? Layer upon layer of fiction. All of it false, yet speaking truth.

I have not fallen in love and had my heart broken in the city of Paris after finding that the object of my devotion had been thoroughly corrupted by an evil sorceress and her coterie of cruel followers; not until I had read "From Altar to Chimney-piece". This story will stick in my brain for a long, long time. The ambiguity of supernatural power next to social corruption is delicious and wretched. Butts is a master.

Butts channels M.R. James in "With and Without Buttons," and the story is James-worthy, but with a hint of dark comedy throughout. A delightful, creepy story, with Butts' trademark turns of phrase scattered here and there . . . like stray gloves . . .

"After the Funeral" pulls off a triple-feat by putting the focus on a dead woman after her funeral, damning the shallowness of sociality, and showing a myth, albeit a private one, in the making. It is the echoes of the tale, between the lines, outside of the actual words, which interest me the most; that life beyond the veil, or that death. One wants to walk past the foreground and find the underpinnings.

Chaos reigns in "The House" as two pairs of renters sublet while on vacation. In the meantime, a new landlord purchases the property. Not-quite Jeeves and Wooster funny, nor Howard's End dramatic, Butt's story is . . . alright. With a touch of understated flair. Very English, one could say. Everything's alright. "Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way . . .".

A young, self-loathing American overseas practices cynicism with great elan. As stated earlier, I would love to read an entire novel about the main character in "Honey, Get Your Gun " a miscreant antihero that Nick Cave would be pleased to celebrate in one of his darker songs. It's a gloriously dark rumination and one of the more compelling characterizations I've ever read in this short of a piece of fiction. Depressing; oustanding!

There are bushels of bitter melancholy for such a small piece as "In the House". Poverty, death, unfulfilled promises, the breaking of familial trust, and decay are all suffused throughout. A poignant piece, but very depressing if you dwell on it too long. Sadness incarnate.

"Lettres Imaginaires" is a one-sided correspondence from a spurned woman who may or may not be a goddess to a man who may or may not be a god. Butts captures the sense of loss and the yearning for the repair of a broken heart one encounters when one is essentially abandoned. The narrator here, though, is smarter by miles than I was as a young man who encountered similar circumstances.

"A Vision" is simply that, a hallucinatory terrain trodden by mice, macaws, and angels, with a stark lesson in the futility of taking on the essence of God (even successfully - no, especially successfully). Assuming the character of God might incur the greatest flaws of all. Perfection is not all it's cracked up to be.

Scrying is the preferred method in "Magic," a purely meditative piece on the ascent into light, the descent into darkness. This could bear several readings, which is no small task for such a small story.

"Change" is actually about the lingering after-effects of change, specifically the ironies of being disinherited by one's wealthy family and living a life of poverty and shame - which has it's own richness and pride . . . of a sort.

The next tale is less about "A Magical Experiment" than it is such. Written in the 1920s in France, you can guess where the strong surrealism came from. It's largely nonsensical, but at certain moments it is startling. Probably the story most influenced by Crowley, though it would be easier to analyze if it was clear who was who. I need more context to understand this experiment.

"The Master's Last Dancing" is a bacchanalian riot of dance and violence and the shedding of all social graces. I can imagine the room full of flappers and gents in a Berlin jazz club, though this dance took place decades after that, another place, another time. Some things are timeless? A shocking, sad, story that asks, in the end, if it is actually funny or not?

"Fumerie" contends for my favorite piece in this volume. It's a decadent how-to guide, told in demonstrative vignettes and sometimes outright instruction, on the world of the opium smoker. I smoked opium twice, and it's a good thing I couldn't get my hands on more, because I really, REALLY liked it. This sometimes tongue-in-cheek piece of realism presents the sociality of the pipe with all its quirks. Brilliant.

The final untitled story is slight, but underscores the recurring theme of expatriate Americans in Paris, their brashness and clash of ideas or style with the locals. I suppose this story needs to be here for the volume to be The Complete Stories, but Butts has done this theme much more ably in other stories.

Strongly recommended!!!

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Saturday, September 18, 2021

Gustav Klimt: Complete Paintings

 

Gustav Klimt: Complete PaintingsGustav Klimt: Complete Paintings by Tobias G. Natter
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I first saw this beautiful book at the gift shop of Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum when my wife and I visited there in 2019. I lusted after the book, but I had already shot my wad on book spending, mostly when we visited the "booktown" of Hay-on-Wye, Wales. Keep in mind that I had just consumed possibly the largest amount of art treasures (consumed with my gaze, that is) that I had ever seen. And I have visited a fair amount of art museums in my day. So, for me and this book to look out across the room and catch each other's eye was nothing short of love at first sight. Of course, one sets themselves up for failure when they romanticize a relationship that has not yet happened, and we did hit a couple of rough spots in our little 663 page fling. But all in all, I'm wrapped up in the afterglow. We loved and we loved with great gusto. Granted, it was all one sided - me indulging in the beauty of my lover. Love is sometimes like this.

As with any great book, I learned a great deal. I had never actually read a bio of Klimt (sorry, Wikipedia - I'm seeing someone else), and his life had a fair amount of twists and turns, from his young talent being recognized and rewarded, to the deaths of this brother and father (which greatly affected him), to the many, many love affairs he had (he sired 14 children - yes, you read that right). Klimt was a very, very interesting person.

This is not to mention his skill as an artist. His early work was intimately tied with some background in architecture and his greatest commissions were for artwork in state buildings or upper-class residences. Many of the "paintings" you've seen are actually murals. The cover of the book itself is a prime example of this. I was very excited to read the section about the secession building in Vienna, which my wife and I visited. He didn't do all of the art on the building, but he had a very, very strong influence on it, being the official leader of the secession movement. It is, to be candid, one of the most beautiful buildings I've seen in my life.

Taschen, the book's publisher, spares no expense in showcasing the fabulous art. For instance, pages 119-122 are a four-page full-color fold-out spread of the Beethoven Frieze. This is only one of four such fold-out spreads, if I am counting correctly. I didn't realize these fold-outs were a part of the book when I first purchased it (the book is bought wrapped tight in plastic). The book is littered with beauty. It's almost overwhelming. Such is Taschen!

I sort of knew that Klimt did portraiture, but I was unaware that he drew so many beautiful portraits. Klimt was a master at capturing personality. The Portrait of Rose von Rostborn-Friedmann is a good example. There is an adventurous spirit there (she was an alpinist who was one of the first women to scale two notable peaks), with a strong, sensual attractiveness that equals her pioneering elan.

As I alluded to earlier, I didn't agree with the editors all of the time. At first, I didn't buy the argument that Klimt was influenced by the Fauves after his golden period. The colors were all wrong: not fauvist at all. Later, though, I could see some Fauvist influence in the backgrounds of his later portraits. It wasn't as obvious as the authors portrayed it, but it's there, I'm willing to concede. Also, It's in landscapes, Tobias Natter (the editor) claims, that Klimt is most like the Symbolists. While I see that in some of his landscapes, I think it's in his mosaic works that I see the resemblance in a more profound, concrete way. Yes, the early landscapes are ethereal and hazy, like some of the Symbolists, and even his portraits show influence from Fernand Khnopff and Jan Toorop, but the outright iconography in his golden, bejewelled works speaks more to the mythic and symbolic to me than either his landscapes or portraits.

If you think Klimt's paintings are good, take a look at his drawings. The editor calls them "a parallel universe, existing alongside his painterly ouvre". So very true. Klimt's paintings and drawings are two sides of the same coin, each distinctive and each valuable. As with coins (I've collected a few medieval silver coins), one recognizes that both are beautiful and equally valuable, but any given viewer tends to prefer one over the other. It's obvious how Klimt's paintings have endured, but his much less-well-known drawings show a deft hand that might be overshadowed by the renown of the paintings. One thing I appreciated about the book's presentation of the drawings is that the editors chose to view Klimt's drawings not just through the lens of subject matter, but through the lens of mood and emotion. While they aren't always convincing in their categorization of this drawing or that, the mere attempt is bold and causes the reader to look at Klimt's drawings in a different, more interesting light.

Klimt's obituary provides great insight into the artist's influences, providing, with hindsight, a great window into his creative world:

What initially struck the viewer as being Klimt was not him, but something with which he was connected. Japan, China, Byzantium and the ancient and modern Orient. Italian and modern English Pre-Raphaelitism. French decorative and magical painting of the Moreau kind, Low Countries mysticism from the region of Khnopff, with colonial goods and gods in between. But if he took something from everything, it was because he was nothing less than an eclectic. He simply used this as nourishment and transformed it into Gustav Klimt.

The end of Klimt is, however, not quite the end of this review. I love works that push me into other stories, and this book is no exception. Here, the never-finished portrait of Ria Munk, who committed suicide after her scandalous affair with Hanns Heinz Ewers has stolen my attention. I will take many things from this book, but this portrait and the story before it, around it's unfinished creation, and it's aftermath (pushing well into the World War 2 era - Ewers was a noted Nazi supporter who was later considered "deviant" by the regime) is the sort of thing that epic myths are made of.

I think I'll be feeling the influence of this book for a long, long time.

Gustav Klimt is dead: Long live Klimt!


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