Technic and Magic: The Reconstruction of Reality

 

Technic and Magic: The Reconstruction of Reality by Federico Campagna
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I had high expectations for Technic and Magic, since it had come so strongly recommended by my favorite podcast Weird Studies. I was excited for the prospects the book held, but I must admit that, at first, the setup felt a little . . . pedantic? For some reason, the Ralph Bakshi animated movie Wizards seemed appropriate to the opening salvoes of Campagna's analysis. And while I do love that movie, I did not want to simply read a book that was a rehash of the overly-simplistic "technology bad, magic good" argument. Also, I am often suspicious of works that explicitly or implicitly identify themselves as Marxist or Neo-Marxist critique, mainly because these forms can so often be idealized and lacking nuance. But in this case, I can see the utility of these arguments because of the natural mapping of scientific to economic power structures and people's blind faith in those structures. Honestly, I felt the book was largely apolitical, or at least dismissive of both liberal and conservative attempts to subsume interpretations of "reality" under their respective rubrics. Not directly dismissive, but passive, really. I honestly didn't feel like Campagna was concerned with politics here. Or at least, he barely nodded in that direction. This is a book about an individual's view of and participation in "reality". If anything, it's a touch anarchic.

Campagna's outline and explanation of the basic structure of Technic's version of reality felt well-reasoned and organized. Of course, that's easier when one realizes that Technic's overarching "power" comes from the use of linguistic strictures as a way of describing and categorizing . . . well, everything. The logical extreme of the argument is that "if it can't be explained in words, it's not real". I'll leave it at that, but there Campagna does an excellent job of breaking down how this "power" (this is my word, not his) radiates out to encompass all aspects of the way we think about reality. And before you go asking "what is reality," I'm not going to go over it, as Campagna takes an entire chapter to describe in detail what he means, and I'm not about to transcribe an entire chapter of a philosophical work. He wrote the chapter so I don't have to. Sorry / not sorry.

i worried that the second half of the book would not provide some practical examples of alternative paradigms that can provide some kind of escape from the Technic-al world. Without this, this text becomes sheer nihilism, with an especial emphasis on how we are trapped en masse. If one were to finish the book halfway through, the end result would likely be deep depression. Campagna laid out the skeletal structure of the "Magic" reality system, and I was skeptical if he could clothe those bones with flesh (the unsubtle reference to Ezekiel is intentional, by the way).

The arguments on the Magic side seemed a little more subtle, a little less cogent than the arguments about the structure of Technic. Can we think / work our way into a Magic reality? Can we even picture, clearly, what a world outside of Technic would look like? I hoped so, but I had my doubts that Campagna could effectively lead the way.

The main reason for my distrust while reading the second half of the book was that the biggest weakness of Campagna's book was a lack of examples. Perhaps he felt that pulling discrete data out of context was too "Technic" of a move, but a couple of case-studies would have gone a long way in more fully understanding the theory that is the kernel and the whole of his "Magic" proposal.

However, in the last chapter, through the use of "Secret," "Initiation," and the "As If" motif, Campagna gives some hints (though not outright instruction) as to how one can begin to implement Magic reality while living in a Technic world. This saves the book from the pile of pseudo-philosophical texts that present all the problems, but provide no solutions; or, at best, they present the need for "further exploration". But this is not what I came here to seek. Thankfully, Campagna does provide some starting points for a new way of thinking, a magic way of thinking.

It must be said that "Magic" here is not about illusion, but there is a strong element of the trickster throughout this last section. It is more, however, about tapping into the ineffable in the way that only you, as a "self" can. This is strongly opposed to the Technic view of the individual as a cog in the machine of ever-more efficient production and becoming. It is about Being, not Becoming.

Campagna ends on a hopeful note, albeit an open-ended note. As with all difficult texts, the reader is left to ponder what is presented and start on the path to reaching their own conclusions.

I think this book is necessary. It's not a utopian piece, at least not on the societal level. In fact, Campagna makes it clear that Magic is just one more way to contextualize reality beyond that of Technic. And while he doesn't, alas, provide any other concrete examples, he has shown a way (though not the way) to reconstruct reality, along with a roadmap or intellectual structure of how one might find their own way. He's taught us, as it were, how to fish. It's up to us to outfit ourselves and find the best places to drop our nets.

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Get to Know Me! TTRPG Edition

 Okay, let's do this thing . . . This is as of December 2022. Things might change in the next . . . days? Weeks? Months? Anyway, here is a snapshot in time in relation to me and my relationship with TTRPGs;

1. It was a toy store in the lower level of Southroads Mall, Omaha (maybe Bellevue?) Nebraska. Can't even remember the name of it. My mom had bought me the AD&D PHB (1st edition, of course) for Christmas, 1979, and I bought the Holmes box set there, along with Dragon Magazine #33 in 1980. The first *gaming* store I bought something at was Aircraft Hobbies, Bellevue, NE, where I bought The Traveller Book in 1981. 

2. Probably the one I created in the mid-90s: Glamwell. It was a haberdash of Greyhawkian baseline, with a strong dose of Tekumel, and elements from Jorune. I still have all the notes. I even created my first website (now very defunct and no longer available) for that world. It was gaudy as heck and I loved it.

3. Lassiviren the Dark, from the AD&D Rogues Gallery, made a strong impression on me as a kid. In my adult years, at a gaming convention, I sat down to play an all-evil PC game with Alan Hammack as DM. I was the first one there and so he let me pick from the characters. I saw Lassiviren and said "Oh, heck yeah, that's who I want to play". He said "That's who I played in Gary's campaign". Good thing we were on the same level as the bathrooms because I nearly shat myself. I had completely forgotten that he, Al Hammack, had originally played Lassiviren. So I got to play the wily assassin for that game. Well, until I (or Lassiviren) was killed by a bouncing lightning bolt that our lead mage had stupidly cast in the inner chambers of an arch-devil. Way to go. Needless to say, we all died horrible deaths, but Lassiviren was the first to go. And I couldn't have been happier!

4. The first TTRPG I bought directly from the creator was Black Sun Deathcrawl by James MacGeorge. Now I game with James online on Saturday mornings and have been to a concert with him. Good times. 

5. I honestly don't know. It's a toss up between Gamma World 1st edition, AD&D 2e, Classic Traveller, DCCRPG, and Call of Cthulhu. I honestly don't know. 

6. Pheelanx Durrowphael: My entirely chaotic (and, to be honest, borderline chaotic evil by the time that campaign finally fizzled out after five years straight) 1/2 elf Magic User / Thief. He had a penchant for wild magic and just all around chaotic action. If it caused chaos, he was totally in the deep of it. As a result, he got caught up in the blood wars in a limited way, for instance, grabbing a fairly powerful devil (not and arch-devil, though) and dragging him (via teleport - but that's a different story) into the Abyss, to abandon him there once he had attracted the attention of several demons in the area. My DM took the idea of the Deck of Many Things and created a Wand of Many Things, which combined ten different tables of variations on the Deck of Many Things. He would use that wand a LOT, which got him in serious trouble a few times and got him out of serious trouble more than once. That many random results gave a lot of leeway for chaos, and Pheelanx loved every minute of it. It's a wonder he survived, but somehow, he did . . . barely. 

You'll note that some of his stats are preternaturally high. This is the result of using that Wand of Many Things so many times. I think he embraced chaos so much because, as a rule, he was very, VERY lucky!

7. As a rule, if I spend money on a TTRPG, I play it. Life's too short . . .

8. Favorite TTRPG for its art: Has to be Skyrealms of Jorune. Wow. Just wow. Incredible art. 

9. Favorite TTRPG for its writing: The Call of Cthulhu 7th Edition Keeper Rulebook, Chapter 10: "Playing the Game". Everyone who runs any TTRPG of any system at all should read this chapter. I think I learned (and re-learned) more about running a game reading this than the previous, oh, 25 years or so of advice I had read before it. Yes, it's that good.

10. I have not yet played a journaling game, but I recently bought and reviewed Thousand Year Old Vampire, so I will be playing it, maybe this next year. 

11. I've played more hex crawls than I can number. But I prefer point crawls over hex crawls. 

12. I've designed many dungeons. I've published and sold a few of those dungeons. 

13. Outside of doing historical fencing with metal swords and daggers, no. But I have done rapier and dagger matches. Got kicked in the nuts the first time I did that and learned really quickly that historical fencing is not a sport, it's COMBAT!

14. See Wand of Many Things in section 6, above. Best. Magic. Item. Ever.

15. I played a really flirty thief character in the last Greyhawk campaign. He had . . . relationships. Um, yeah. 

16. Certain designer? Not really. I'm pretty loose and free with who designs what. If I like it and I think I can use it, I'll buy it. If not, I won't. 

17. I try to play a new TTRPG at every con I attend (usually I get to Garycon and Gameholecon each year). I'd like to play Vaesen in 2023. Tried to get in on a game in 2022, but they sold out quickly!

18. I'm going to answer the question I wanted to be asked here: What is the most memorable confrontation you've had with a villain in a TTRPG? The flirty thief I mentioned in section 15, above, Ryn was his name, was going through Return to the Tomb of Horrors. That is one tough mofo of a module, let me tell you! Anyway, we were squaring off with some Death Knights (yes, plural). We were getting pounded pretty good. Ryn had been saving a Potion of Gaseous Form for an outright emergency, and this was it. But rather than slink away while the rest of the party died, he made one last desperate attempt, a do-or-die proposition, to save the party. I asked the DM if gaseous form would allow me to enter a small hole, say 1/4" in diameter or so. He agreed, so Ryn, in gaseous form, snuck into the nostril of one of the Death Knights (who did not realize what was happening and failed his save and Magic Resistance rolls), then, once he had wiggled down to where the chest cavity was, shut off the effect of the potion. Ryn literally exploded the Death Knight from the inside out, essentially piercing the thing with his pair of magic daggers. The Death Knight was wearing platemail, so Ryn suffered substantial damage, but managed to hold on with just a couple of hit points left. And that was the end of the Death Knight. True story!

19. I don't know what this means. Yes, I have bled before. Sometimes profusely.

20. I was introduced to TTPRGs indirectly by one of my dad's friends named Bill Walters, in 1979. He actually gave me a copy of the Steve Jackson metagame "Rivets," which I became enamored with. Before he had a chance to get me to play a TTRPG, though, we moved from San Vito AFB, Brindisi, Italy (where Bill and my dad were stationed) to Sartell, Minnesota to live with my grandma while dad was getting cross-training. While in Minnesota, I discovered and bought the Official Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Coloring Album. We then moved to Offutt AFB, Omaha, Nebraska. A few months later, Bill was reassigned to Offutt and, with my mother's permission, he whisked me off to play D&D with a bunch of people 2 - 3 X my age. And the rest is history. 

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A Trick of the Shadows

 

A Trick of the Shadow by R. Ostermeier
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Broodcomb Press is doing some amazing things. Their trade paperbacks are, first of all, beautiful books - about the best quality you'll ever see in a TPB. Secondly, they are distinctive. There is no mistaking a Broodcomb book for something else, which speaks to their dedication to a tight, easily identifiable aesthetic; so kudos for that.

But what really stands out is, of course, the prose. I've previously reviewed The Night of Turns and Upmorchard and noted the style of both. They are smooth and and clean, and yet idiosyncratic, especially Ostermeier's voice. There's a certain "tic" that I can't quite suss out that is a sort of literary fingerprint. I'd have to spend more time than I have to pull out an example, but I know it when I read it. Something for me to watch when I next read another Ostermeier book (which I will). I'd love to know how much crafting goes into the writing - how many rewrites, edits, notebooks full of scratched out paragraphs, etc. I know my own experience, but what I wouldn't give to watch Ostermeier write a couple of stories from beginning to end.

And how do the stories in A Trick of the Shadow fare? I liked all of them, loved most of them. There were two that didn't hit home for me, but that's because of my personal tastes, not because of any fault on Ostermeier's part.

To start, Ostermeier folds Mark Fisher's notions of the weird and the eerie in on themselves in "A Tantony Pig". It is a disconcerting method, to say the least, and deeply affecting. I rarely get legitimately scared while reading a story. This was one of those that scared me, even with the lights all on and other people in the house. The unexplained mysteries left behind in the wake of the story make it even more effective. There's a lingering aura that one feels long after reading the closing words.

In "finery" the old phrase about the clothes making the man is transformed and split into the clothes making the woman and the woman making the clothes. Both are inextricably sewn together, the weave and weft of what one wishes to be and what one one must admit she is.

"The Chair" is as disturbing as the title is banal. A strange device may or may not allow one to see another's dreams. I'm reminded somewhat of the Christopher Walken movie "Brainstorm", but this is much more disturbing on a personal level. Children's dreams meet adult problems in this story of the loss of innocence amidst family dynamics where no one, yet everyone, is to blame. A strongly affecting story!

While I do like vagary in short stories, I don't like downright inscrutability. I found "The Object" more affecting than effective. Yes, there was an emotional response to reading it, but the utter chaos of the elements didn't work particularly well for me. Utter nihilism and loss, without some stirringly emotional connection feels empty and a bit academic. I supposed nothing's more horrific than academia. Still ... I liked the story, but didn't love it as much as I loved the others.

Body horror just isn't my thing. And "The Intruder" is all about body horror. It was highly unpleasant and disturbing, just like the experiences of the main character. The story was "clunky," and maybe that was by design. If so, it clearly engendered discomfort in this reader. Not that I like my reading comfortable. Au contraire. But stories that leave me feeling almost physically ill are not for me. Maybe for you? If so, this story is definitely for you.

I love folk horror. For folk horror of a different sort, "The Bearing" is hard to beat. The rurality and ritual tropes are present, but the horror doesn't arise from the strange inhabitants of the area. In fact they are trying to prevent the evil from gaining a foothold. Or a hoof-hold. One is left wondering if they actually succeeded, and the need for an annual rite all but ensures that some day they will get it wrong. But only once.

The longest story in the collection, "Bird-hags," is not easily categorizable, which means it's right in my wheelhouse. Part psychological horror, with a slight flicker of body horror, but a huge dose of cosmic ur-horror from the depths of our dreams, this novella hits many different notes, but hits each one soundly. The cosmic aspect is something disruptive to our world, yet uncaring. Not malevolent, just uncaring. I believe this is the sort of thing that Lovecraft was striving for, but Ostermeier uses far more simple language to greater effect, in this instance. This is possibly because the horror here is so darned personal. Perhaps it's because the narrator, while an adult, is showing the story from his childhood point of view, where innocence is slowly being eroded away.

A Trick of the Shadow is another gem in the Broodcomb Press crown. Gaze into it and let it dazzle your eyes! You will . . . see things . . .

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Rayguns & Robuts an RPG Review

 Take one part Flash Gordon and one part Space Riders, mix liberally with system-agnostic role-playing game accoutrements and package in a digest-sized comic book. This is Rayguns & Robuts by Planet X Games.

Look at that fantastic sea monkey spoof. This gives you a pretty good idea of the mood of the whole thing. It even comes with a soundtrack!

And what do you get for your hard-earned deneros? Well, here's the TOC:

Yes, all that tasty goodness with a brief explanation of what "system agnostic" means. In short, no, you're not going to compromise your religious values by using this supplement (well, maybe you are, but there's no guarantee). What you will do is use the brains you've been gifted to slide the narrative pieces here into an existing game structure. Best to use this with a system with which you are familiar (I would suggest DCCRPG or The Simplest RPG System Out of This World, but you can use whatever you feel like. The offerings here are not tied to any particular system. There is almost no crunch here. You want crunch, you add crunch. You do you, man.

So, you might ask "is this a campaign world"? Well, yes and no. Mostly no. You'll find in here many heroes, antiheros, robuts, and worlds. The narrative descriptions act as signposts or "points of interest" in a potential campaign universe, but you fill in all the gaps. It's what we do with TTPRGs, right? Rayguns & Robuts is a starting point or, more properly, several starting points and waypoints. What's the end game? Up to you. Incidentally, I've been thinking that this could provide great material for a campaign that starts in the Ultraviolet Grasslands, then goes off-planet. If I were to do that, I'd be sorely tempted to use the Troika! RPG as my system. 

Well, if it's not a full campaign world and doesn't have any rules, what does it do for me? What am I paying for anyway?

You are paying to have your mind BLOWN! I'm listening to some heavy psych metal while I'm typing this and, you know what? It's entirely appropriate. R&R is a mind-expanding supplement meant to crack the spaces between your synapses clean open and let psycho-pulp laser pistols, killer robots, cyborg chimps, and astro-zombies worm their way through into the depths of your brain. This is all about vision and mental expansion, it is, dare I say it, a prompt for your imagination to run wild. And all this without the use of mind-altering substances (or with, if you prefer - I won't judge). I don't want to spoil all the fun by telling you about every little detail to be found herein, just be aware that there is a depth to the ouvre of this work. A "voice" if you will, like a writerly voice, that is unique and memorable and, above all, playable.

You are also paying for some of the best eye candy I've seen in an RPG supplement. Artists Ed Bickford, Lawrence Hernandez, Je Shields, Dan Smith, and James V. West (who did some of the art for my own Beyond the Silver Scream) provide a shockingly-effective visual treat that is eclectic, yet "of a piece". Think of the movie Heavy Metal (one of my favorites of all time), where several different artists come together to form a complimentary work of art that is greater than the sum of its p(art)s. 

There is an adventure in the back, which should provide a good starting point (or later waypoint, if you like) for a potential campaign. Now, I am partial to adventures with environmental hazards, but I realize that not everyone likes these. But if you do, you're in for a treat. Sure, there are a couple of monsters, but player characters are much more likely to accidentally bump themselves off than to be killed off by sentient (or at least semi-sentient) nasties. Not saying they won't be killed off by those nasties, but they are more likely to succumb to environmental hazards.

Don't you succumb to the hazards. Go buy this thing, already! Strongly recommended for acid-tripping psychonauts out to defeat killer machines - or those who want to be. Grab that raygun and GO!

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Asterix und die Goten

 

Asterix und die Goten by René Goscinny
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

As a kid, I grew up with Asterix, having discovered him when we moved to Italy in 1975. Asterix and the Goths was one of my absolute favorites. They're all great, but there was something about all the factional infighting among the various tribes of Goths that I found hilarious.

Fast forward to 2019, when my wife and I take a long-anticipated trip to Europe. A large part of that time was spent in Austria, with a couple of days in Germany (Frankfurt and Munich). We stopped in multiple bookstores, including a comic book store in Vienna and a used bookstore in Munich. I was specifically looking for this Asterix book auf Deutsch, but I could not for the life of me find it. Several stores had ALL of the Asterix books in German, except this one. Then I remembered that one of the speech bubbles had a Goth chieftain, who had just been thumped on the head with a club, swearing up a long string of explicatives (I thought of my German-swearing grandmother when I saw this). The swear words were represented by lots of different symbols, including (gasp) a swastika.

Then it dawned on me: the book had been banned because it has a Nazi symbol in it.

Germany, Austria, I love you, but . . . seriously? I'm all about punching nazis, but really?

Anyway, I eventually found a copy . . . on Ebay. I bought it right up because who knows how many of these will survive?

It's kind of strange how things turn. Banning books, in particular . . .

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Waystations of the Deep Night

 

Waystations of the Deep Night by Marcel Brion
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I recall a night. It was probably 1982, if I've triangulated correctly. In Bellevue, Nebraska, a suburb of Omaha. My friend Ray and I were staying at our friend Shawn's house. Shawn's dad was kind of a celebrity to us. He had a killer conversion van (though, unfortunately, no barbarians painted on the side), a copy of Rush's 2112 in the tape deck, and he knew the guitar player from REO Speedwagon. Pretty cool to us 13 year olds!

Back then, young teenagers were pretty "free range". I recall Saturdays and summer days where I would ride my bike for hours, covering many miles, just sort of going from place to place, running into friends, creating adventures. There were no helicopter parents back then. At least I didn't know any. Needless to say, Shawn's dad was not a helicopter parent. We stayed out in the conversion van, listening to Rush while playing Tunnels & Trolls, with no adult influence whatsoever. It was bliss.

When it comes to exact details of that night, I can only recall a couple. After finishing our T&T session, we went out for a nighttime stroll. It was one of those strangely surreal nights where the three of us seemed like the only people out on the streets. We went to Top Dog Hot Dog for the arcade games as much as for the hot dogs. I recall playing Moon Patrol, Zaxxon (I still suck at that game), and then playing the Centaur pinball game (still my favorite board) until they closed at about 11 PM.

Then, we wandered. I can't tell you where all we went and what all we did, though I am certain involved a lot of trespassing and maybe some breaking and entering.

What I can tell you about is the feeling I had. Did I mention that we had stayed awake the entire night before that night? No? It's true, we had been awake for close to 36 hours straight before the night began. For those of you who have done this, first of all, don't continue. I have first-hand experience of a loved one becoming temporarily psychotic and having to be hospitalized in the psych-clinic due to lack of sleep. It's terrifying to see from the outside. I wonder if I hadn't experienced something similar that night. How could I know? When you're in the middle of psychosis, your thoughts seem pretty logical (even hyper-logical, to coin a term) to you.

I want to say there was a dulling of the senses, but "dulling" doesn't describe what I felt. It was more a compartmentalizing of the senses. The "I" in "me" was one step removed. I heard things, but it was as if it was from a distance. Vision came as if from a television or movie screen. Even my own voice felt like it emanated from somewhere outside or "behind" me. It was summer, but my skin felt numbed. A high-pitched whining continually sounded from the back of my skull.

And I felt like anything was possible. Everything, though one step removed from my senses, was alive and full of potential. I wouldn't have been surprised by a miracle, and wouldn't have been taken aback by the end of the world.

Since then, I've had a few other experiences late, late at night that I won't detail here. There is some kind of physiological and psychological reaction to the deep night that makes each of those experiences to feel "of a piece," as they say. And the same is true of the stories in Marcel Brion's excellent Waystations of the Deep Night.

The title story is exactly what you would expect from such a title: an oneiric tale straight out of a de Chirico painting. I'm honestly shocked that the Brothers Quay haven't done a short film based on this story. It would be a perfect fit, as Brion's painterly prose is beautifully imagistic. Or is that magicistic? Borderline majestic. It's everything I hoped for, judging by the title. Dark and refulgent, at once.

"The Field Marshal of Fear" is a quiet, somber piece, but steady as marching feet. The short, simple sentences, however, do not fail to evoke a stupendous sadness, an eternal drudgery experienced by the dead veterans of wars long since won or lost. A graveside sleepwalk, full of night's heaviness.

In "The Fire Sonata," Brion's voice reminds me of Calvino, but with a sinister edge much sharper and darker than anything the Italian master wrote. I had to split this story into two readings, and I had high expectations for the concluding read. My expectations were met and then some! This could have been an episode of the Twilight Zone that Rod Serling would have been proud of. That's the highest praise, coming from me, as TZ is my favorite shoe of all time.

I would swear David Lynch had written "Incident on a Journey," had I not read it in this collection. The ending came as no surprise, but the inevitability of the tale made it all the more uncomfortable and awkward, like you know you're walking into a trap, but there is no way to avoid it, so you take in every excruciating detail and just watch in desperate silence as the void closes in on you, closer and closer.

Though it could be read merely as a fabulously well-written eerie tale (in the Fisherian sense), "Dead Waters" is, pardon the pun, much deeper than that. It's a story primarily about agency, manipulation, creation, and causality, with many of the characters being potentially marionettes or God Himself, or neither. There are no clear answers, but plenty of compelling questions about what transpires on dark streets. This was the most blatantly "dreamlike" story in the collection, and a deeply-intriguing read.

"La Capitana" is a child's long, slow fading into a dream-world of potential adventure beyond the seas. It is simultaneously happy and sad, bittersweet, full of hope and, yet, utterly hopeless. Imagine your eight-year-old self on a boring, sunny afternoon, given the power to disappear into mysterious dreams of exotic lands on a ship named "La Capitana," a name that you gave the ship, because it is yours, in dream.

"The Glass Organ" was every bit as ephemeral and strange as the object in the title implies. It is a multi-faceted story, but tenuous, images slipping onto one another, transforming into a world that may or may not exist.

"The Lost Street" is a more traditional ghost story. I use the word "more" intentionally, as it is not a fully-traditional ghost story. There are enough more surreal elements that take this beyond the realm of, say M.R. James and approach Bruno Schulz by way of Dali.

Overall, Brion's stories evoked a visceral familiarity within me, feelings I've felt mostly when I've had too little sleep (day or night) and some of the oddities of life in the deep night. Here's sampling of what I mean - Brion describes it much better than I do, from the story "The Glass Organ":

That nocturnal stroll through a park that merged imperceptibly with the forest - certain domestic trees having recovered their wild freedom - already contained within it the qualities of a labyrinth. I didn't choose paths. When several opened before me, I accepted now the darkest, with the childlike hope of encountering a marvelous creature, now the brightest, for the pleasing reward of a downpour of moonlight like a narrow stream between the serried darkness of the trees. Concerns about time or direction would have diminished the sense of the unreal that I received from the night. To let myself be carried along by it, to consent to the paths it offered me, ah! the sheer bliss of no longer choosing. What did it matter if dawn overtook me in the middle of the forest or at the first houses of a distant village? The joy of abandoning myself to the indefinite character that moonlight bestows on deeds and things ruled out any directed action on my part. There was nothing I sought, nothing I fled. For several hours I was at peace with myself, relinquishing both desire and regret, indifferent to wherever, in the end, I must inevitably arrive, not caring whether that place was one of fulfillment or one of oblivion.

This is how it feels to flee into the deep night.

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The Beauty of the Death Cap

 

The Beauty of the Death Cap by Catherine Dousteyssier-Khoze


I admit that I have a certain soft-spot for "plotless" books. And while The Beauty of the Death Cap isn't completely plotless, the plot is a mere wisp, a skeleton or an apparition, if you will. But it's barely necessary in this book.

The central conceit of the book is the gradual peeling away of layers around the ultimately sociopathic Nikonor (a name of a "certain Slavic, vaguely menacing quality"), his various career pursuits, love of mycology, and his paranoia, engendered by his twin sister. This is all done in a tongue in cheek manner, but by the end, we realize that the tongue is boring completely through the cheek and exposing a bloody mess. It's not a horror book, nor a psychological thriller; no, this one really does defy categorization. You hear that about many books, but this one means it. I can't think of any subgenre in which this book comfortably sits outside of grim humor, and that's not really a genre so much as an attitude. And The Beauty of the Death Cap has that attitude in spades.

This isn't some clumsy, oafish attempt at morbid slapstick, though. Any book that begins by quoting Pliny the Elder either can't take itself seriously or is full of sinister deceit. Or both. I learned the hard way that here it was both.

Take a look at my limited notes:

I do appreciate a good, mildly-neurotic narrator.

I absolutely love this snarky, secretly-insecure narrative voice.

Just keeps getting drenched in gentlemanly insidiousness. I love the narrative voice, but despise the narrator. Okay, who am I kidding? I love the narrator, though I should despise him.

What's so grimly beautiful about this book is the progression one sees in Nikonor's revelations. The old analogy of peeling onions is apt. One could be moved to tears by the recognition of the narrator's growing (or is it just more and more obvious?) psychosis. And it stinks and stings, but you just can't help but keep digging deeper, like you're some kind of OCD psychiatrist who has to see what makes this man tick.

Or you just have a morbid curiosity. Okay, let's face it, it's the latter. We can't wait to see the ultimate end to this oncoming train wreck. We have to stay till the end. We are, as they say, "completists".

Along the road (strewn with bodies in our wake), we get some deliciously devious and understated gems, such as this:

I have long been in the habit of cooking for myself, which is useful when one lives in autarky. This way, I am not forced to depend on a sullen, nosy, or preachy cook. Marie came back to work for me for a few months after my mother moved to Creuse (three or four years after my father's death), but I must admit that the co-habitation did not proceed smoothly. Age had embittered her; she muttered constantly under her breath and had to be handled with kid gloves. She talked endlessly about Anastasie in the most outrageously hagiographic terms, and had the further audacity to ask me completely inappropriate questions about old Legrandin (I wonder if she hadn't carried something of a torch for him in her youth) and, in the evenings, after dinner, she had acquired the habit of wandering morosely - and suspiciously - down to the fishpond.

Claiming that I was spending more and more time in Paris, I eventually dismissed her completely, sweetening the deal with a goodly sum to ensure her a comfortable retirement (and assure me of her eternal gratitude). Thus we parted on the very best of terms; I even went so far as to accompany her to the train station in Ussel. Just as she was climbing with astonishing agility into her compartment, I surprised her with one last parting gift: a packet of the dried parasol mushrooms she loved so much.

And so Marie returned to her native Indre, and I never heard anything of her again (I must also admit that I have never been in the habit of following the obituaries in the various regional newspapers too closely).

And so it goes. On and on in a similar vein until things really come to a head and the plot resolves.

But, really, the plot is just a side issue. I can take it or leave it.

I love how Catherine Dousteyssier-Khoze turns the banal into the fantastical, but without any truly outre methodology. Perhaps this is reflective of the psychoactive qualities of some mushrooms. Common fungus, really, until you eat one. It reminds me of Max Blecher's Adventures in Immediate Irreality a bit, or Roland Topor's The Tenant, but with a more gentlemanly approach (I use the term very loosely). Dousteyssier-Khoze nudges the imagination, just barely, but it's enough to push the reader into phantasmagoria, even without such things explicitly appearing on the page.

It just seems appropriate that the push into morbid fantasy would not take place via ink on the paper of the book, but in the reader's head.

Which might say something about the reader.



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S.S.O.T.B.E. Revised: An Essay on Magic

 

S.S.O.T.B.M.E. Revised: An Essay on Magic by Ramsey Dukes
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Ramsey Dukes: When you had me, you really had me. But when you lost me, I wondered if you had had me or not? I'm confused.

You're not quite the savior that some readers and reviewers would have you to be. Then again, I sense that you wouldn't really want that anyway. You're a smart cookie, though, if a little muddled toward the end. But, then again, I think you want to at least appear muddled, for the sake of banishment, if nothing else. At times you are incisive, and that's when I like you best. You are, after all, writing for some kind of audience, so it pays to be clear. On the other hand, you are writing for another kind of audience where secrecy itself is the goal. I get it. I mean, I really get it, in an esoteric sense. But I don't, in an artistic sense.

Then again, you're not much of one for art in spite of having created a good piece of it in S.S.O.T.B.M.E. You outline, quite incisively, I must add, a paradigm of paradigms: Art versus Religion versus Science versus Magic. Not "versus" in terms of territory, as all of these paradigms can and often do inhabit the exact same territory at the exact same time, but "versus" in terms of direction and, hence, perspective and viewpoint.

It really is all about the attitude, isn't it? But I think that your focus on Science, Religion, and Magic entirely misses the fact that you, or your book, is utterly encased in Art. You can't escape it, so you scoff at it, like a defiant prisoner spitting at his jailors. But that spittle doesn't remove the chains, buddy. You're stuck in art, and there's no banishing it. Even a Magic circle has to be drawn, no?

Reminds me of Heidegger's critique of Descartes, in some ways. You've made some assumptions and, by doing so, you've entirely missed the opportunity of questioning those assumptions. Unable to break out of your own bubble, you're blind to your own work. But, again . . . .maybe you always wanted it to be that way.

Because, as we both know, silence is Golden. And not just reflective of that rare metal substance. This is a gold more refined, beyond the material sphere. I know you know what Gold I'm talking about. And yet, I wonder if you haven't missed the real luster of Gold and traded it in for fool's gold.

Then again, playing the Fool is not a bad thing, now is it?

I'm not telling.

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The Robot Novels: The Caves of Steel / The Naked Sun

 

The Robot Novels: The Caves of Steel / The Naked Sun by Isaac Asimov
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It was probably around 1977 that I became fully aware that this specific edition of this novel had sat on my dad's bookshelf, probably since before I was born. It's strange to say, but that freakish cover with the vacuum-cleaner robot was a fixture in my house, as I said, likely from before I was born, to the day of my father's death in 2018. The stranger thing, I suppose, is that I have not read it until now. When my parents passed away (both within two months of each other - but that heartbreaking story is for another day), we got rid of most of their books. Many I had already read or owned, and most of the rest I wasn't terribly interested in. Dad had purged his collection back in the '90s or so, and, well, mom read romance novels almost exclusively, so . . .

But this one I kept. I can't look at the book without thinking about my dad. He was a huge fan of science fiction and of Isaac Asimov in particular. I gave some of the Foundation material a go some time ago, but wasn't floored by it. It was . . . good. But didn't strike me as amazing. But I had read many other books that my dad had (or had recommended to me) and he read some that I gave to him.

And what did my dad see in The Robot Novels? I can't tell you, but I can tell you what I saw.

First off, I'm convinced that Asimov wasn't really a science fiction author. At least not with this book. Sure, it's got all the trappings - robots (obviously), enclosed cities cut off from nature (the "Steel Caves" referred to in the first novel), spaceships, and blasters. But really, this is a noir novel along the lines of The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep.

Secondly, Asimov was a product of his time. The use of the term "boy" for robots, the undercurrent of sexism, etc. While these things are not as blatant as, say, Lovecraft's racism or the sexism of E.E. Smith's Triplanetary, you can sense that Asimov was writing at a time when society was starting to "deal" with these subjects.

Lastly, Asimov is a good, solid writer. But don't expect anything fancy. Like its noir predecessors, The Robot Novels are a working-man's prose work. I'm not sure if this was an intentional choice by Asimov or the next step in science fiction writerly-ness, one step removed from the pulps. But there seems to be a neo-Hemingway sensibility to the prose itself. Nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. And the job, as they say, needs doing.

Overall, I really enjoyed the read. The plot was a twisty as you'd expect from a quasi-noir novel in a science fiction setting. The characters, while showing their "age," were interesting and while not three-dimensional, they were also not two-dimensional, filling some fractal character space in between. Will I read it again? Probably not. But I might be convinced to dip into another Asimov down the road, who knows?

To tie this one off, one of my proudest moments as a writer came when I was able to tell my dad that my story "The Auctioneer and the Antiquarian, or, 1962" was to appear in Asimov's magazine. He was effusive in his praise, something that was counter to his demeanor most of the time. It really is one of my happiest memories of my dad. Little did I know that ten years later, he would be gone and I would be collecting from his belongings the copy of the magazine that I had sent to him.

Folks, ten years can slip away very, very quickly.

Hold on.

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The House of Silence

 

The House of Silence by Avalon Brantley
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

RIP to the late Avalon Brantley, whose novel, The House of Silence was released in the same year she sadly passed away. It sounds like a platitude, but it's not: Brantley's passing was a true loss of some incredible young talent, and The House of Silence is proof-positive of her excellence as a writer.

Truth be told, for the first 100 or so pages, I found little to no evidence that this was a horror novel.

I should have been more careful . . .

Brantley will pull your heartstrings with sympathy and respect for the protagonist, she will make you love them for all their weaknesses and foibles: but she is only setting you up for a long, loooooong plunge into horror.

And what kind of horror? All kinds. Brantley here plays with tropes of gothic, folk, supernatural, cosmic horror, psycho-geographical, and post-apocalyptic horror, and even a dose of what feels like sword and sorcery. She has claimed that Poe was "Virgil to my Dante", and it shows in all the right ways. This is no pastiche, but an infusion of Poe. But even more so, this work rings with echoes of Gene Wolfe's best work, especially in terms of a non-linear plot, replete with long memory gaps, flash-backs that might be flash-forwards, and just an overall churning of time itself.

Furthermore, there is a great deal of vagary regarding who is and is not a friend or foe. The mistrust engendered here adds to the confusion, occasionally knocking the reader off their balance. This is true right up to the end, where friends become foes and foes become friends - ulterior motives are hidden until they explode on the scene, but in an organic way. Nothing here feels forced.

It's rare to read a novel that has so many disparate elements ("something for everyone to love/hate") and yet feels like a tightly-coiled whole, especially when said novel has a staccato structure and such whirling emotional highs and lows, all of it done in a highly poetic style that flows like a river.

A river of blood.

Those who know, know . . . You really should know!

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The Ballet of Dr Caligari and Madder Mysteries

 

The Ballet of Dr Caligari and Madder Mysteries by Reggie Oliver
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

With few exceptions, I have come to love the work of Reggie Oliver. While I was lukewarm about Flowers of the Sea , I was head-over-heels about The Complete Symphonies of Adolf Hitler and Other Stories and Mrs. Midnight and Other Stories . I had heard mixed reviews from readers I respect and admire, so I was curious where this volume would fall.

I began with misgivings. While the opening story, "A Donkey at the Mysteries," had some great moments, the ending fell a bit flat for me. I loved the subtext of unknowingly participating in rites one does not understand, but I was hoping for a moment of anagnorises that never materialized. The story had momentum, a series of setups, then . . . nothing. If this was authorial intent, the potential was under-utilized. Perhaps this is because I had read and quite enjoyed Brian C. Murarescu's investigation into ancient Greek and Roman cults of psychedelia(?), The Immortality Key . I had been (pardon the pun - but I am a dad) keyed up for the read, but was disappointed. Not upset. Just disappointed. Have I mentioned I'm a dad?

The second story was a touch better. "The Head" is a double entendre laced with Oliver's bleak humor. It's a strange admixture of sitcom and dread horror that devolves into an absurdist experimentalism. I really do like the two main characters (as much as one can like a madman and a disembodied head), and, as with other works by Oliver, his characters really shine. A worthy story, not his best, but a good read nonetheless.

When I started to figure out the subject matter of the third tale, I was prepared to be really, really disappointed. As a rule, I hate werewolf stories. But I might have to make an exception for "Tawny". I didn't love it, but this English social comedy with a lycanthropic twist was an amusing read.

Then, suddenly, the collection hit its stride. "The Devils Funeral" is peak Oliver. Clergy, madness, corruption, decay, and the near simultaneous death of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Charles Darwin as a sideshow that leaves lingering questions. The question that keeps being posed is "who is the enemy"? It's a seemingly simple question with a dastardly labyrinth of possible answers and meanings, most of it unanswerable and meaningless. Existentialism reigns above. And, as above, so below.

A sinister comedy, or a comedic tale of horror? "Baskerville's Midgets" displays Oliver's insider's insight into the actor's life beyond the stage. This (and other stories about the intersection of horror and theater) is a story that only Oliver could have written. His background as an actor, playwright, and fiction author find a fitting culmination in this story, which will have you checking under your bed for (?).

Oliver next completes an M.R. James fragment "The Game of Bear". The transition, though carefully documented, would be fairly seamless without the indicator, which only serves to sever the tale in two. Oliver does an admirable job of mimicking James' voice, particularly in the climax of the story. Of course, James did put a strong personal stamp on the structure and tone of the English ghost story, so no surprises here.

"The Final Stage" is an existential tale that only one who has acted onstage can fully appreciate; not only because of the settings and situations, but because of the attitude that one must take to truly become immersed in their characters, not just the willful suspension of disbelieve, but the willful deceit which one must not merely engage in, but wallow in, if one is to be "a brilliant actor". There is a price to pay. But how are the funds exchanged? Does the character take from the actor, or the actor from the character? The economies of "real" life and faux-life are powerfully in play here.

With the introduction of a certain trope about mid-way through the story, I was ready to write off "The Endless Corridor" as just another vampire story. It is not just another vampire story. It is, in fact, much more nuanced and much more sinister than that trope led me to believe. Oliver, with considerable panache, twists the old trope into something entirely new and more horrifying. My trepidation was allayed, but my frisson was piqued.

Oliver continues to unveil the "back" of the theater in his mystery "The Vampyre Trap," an excellent, if old-fashioned tale of jealousy and ambition behind the curtain. One wonders who the actors are and who the characters are, as these roles become muddled. What better place for a murder or three in a place whose sole purpose is deceit and drama? There are strong resonances between this story and "The Final Stage" earlier in the volume, not because of direct subject matter, but because both hint at a certain sinister something taking place behind the masks of the masks of the masks.

The title story is the most brilliant story in the volume, but only those who have watched Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari will fully appreciate its impact. If I were to teach a class on the "O'Henry ending" I would show the movie, then have students read this. Textbook. And fantastically well-crafted. This is a Reggie Oliver masterpiece; one of his best stories ever.

How can I resist a story about one of my favorite eras of painting, that of the Pre-Raphaelites? I can't. Nor can the protagonist and victim(s) of "Love and Death" resist the alluring illusion of beauty, over-shrouded by the absolute victory of decay and death. Everyone in this tale is caught in this trap. Perhaps only the reader can escape. Perhaps not. But the allure remains.

"Porson's Piece" is as solid of an English ghost story as I've ever read. The village in which most of the action takes place shares half a name with <a href="https://forrestaguirre.blogspot.com/2020/06/a-day-hike-in-cotswolds.html>a village in the Cotswolds that my wife and I hiked through in 2019</a>, and I think I might know some of the "fictional" spots described. One path in particular (a photo of which is at my blog) was described in such a way that I cannot shake the feeling that this very path was the one Oliver here described. This added to the verisimilitude for me, but maybe I am just hallucinating, like the main character. Or maybe not.

Oliver begins "Lady With A Rose" with an ekphrasis of a Titian painting. The story is erudite and the characters colorful (pun intended), but not as startling as many of his other works. The final "twist" was to be expected and sort of just . . . ends there.

This collection has some real gems in it, but the opening and closing stories were unspectacular. An odd way to construct a collection.

The great in this collection carries the less-spectacular tales. Perhaps I've read too much of Oliver and am a bit jaded? I don't think so. He still astounds me, at times. I would hate to discourage anyone from reading "Porson's Piece," "The Ballet of Dr. Caligari," "Baskerville's Midgets," or "The Devil's Funeral," all of which were outstanding stories. But I can't give it a perfect five. Nor can I drop it to an "average" rating of three stars. I'm firmly in the four camp with this one.

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Thousand Year Old Vampire

 

Thousand Year Old Vampire by Tim Hutchings
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Three years ago, I started an ill-fated attempt to run a snail mail RPG campaign. Part of the issue was my own motivation, some that of my correspondents. I think we were all enthusiastic about the prospect, but in retrospect, I think we (more importantly, I) foundered on the rocks of chance. Or precisely not-chance. Though we all had strong characters and motivations, compelling settings and circumstances, the few interchanges became quickly mired in a sort of "all-over-the-place-ness" where we started off in different directions and didn't want to push each other into our own individual story-arcs. At least that's my observation.

We were missing, in essence, that random-determined-ness that is the generative catalyst for roleplaying games. Without stochasticity and a push from fate, I foundered on being centered on my own story. By design, there was no game master - we were all equal players - and, thus, no one moved the narrative along. And this, I'm afraid, needs to happen. Otherwise we are cats without herders. There needs to be a shepherd, whether in the form of a human or just an algorithm, even a simple algorithm.

So why am I going on and on about this failed attempt in a review of Thousand Year Old Vampire? After all, this is a solo RPG game, not a group play game such as I attempted.

Other Goodreads reviewers have complained that Thousand Year Old Vampire is nothing but a series of writing prompts, essentially. I think this is unfair and doesn't acknowledge the potential depth of solo play one might encounter in a session or sessions of TYOV. Now, that said, I have not yet played the game. As I do (and I will), I will report on my blog regarding the playability of the engine. For now, though, I'd like to concentrate just on the book itself (which, incidentally, is the most beautiful RPG book I now own).

Yes, one playing the game should be ready to do some writing. There are two ways to play it, quickly and slowly, and the slower version will require some writing . . . and eradicating. There is a diary, which need not be extensive, but needs to be written. Experiences and memories are gained and lost though the course of the game. The Vampire is, in essence, a palimpsest in the truest, most physical sense of the word. This is part of the horrific tragedy of it all: losing one's humanity, friends, family, and memories in the course of immortality.

To generate these memories and experiences and losses, there are a series of prompts throughout the book. Each time a prompt has been given and the experience had (or lost), the player rolls a d10 and a d6. By subtracting the d6, one generates a number between -5 and +9. This tells them how many prompts (and which direction) to move within the book. Each prompt has three possibilities which are to be used, in order, first, then second, then third, if one falls on the same prompt more than once. Statistically speaking, the likelihood of worming their way down (I use the phrase intentionally) to the third prompt is very, very low, so such events are typically very big deals.

Now, I haven't read all the prompts, because I'm saving them for my own foray into the unlife of a vampire. But the mechanic is brilliant, and I can see it working in principle, if not in practice.

This is what my snail mail game lacked: the prompts. Therefore, I wills et about getting a series of prompts written up for my own snail mail campaign. I'm hoping to take the best of TYOV, De Profundis, and English Eerie (which I am hoping to use as inspiration for both prompts and the method of navigating them) and do a more manageable campaign that lasts.

As a warm-up, I'm going to live a thousand years and see where that journey takes me in the meantime. I am both eager and terrified to embark.

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Upmorchard

 

Upmorchard by R. Ostermeier
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

My expectations were high for this little book. The publisher, Broodcomb Press, is making some fantastic limited-edition books centering, it seems, around tropes of (mostly folk) horror set (mostly) in south-western England. This is the second Broodcomb title I've read, after the outstanding The Night of Turns, by Edita Bikker. I have heard great things about Ostermeier's work, and their short-story collection A Trick of the Shadow sits on my shelf waiting . . . looming . . . staring . . .

But for now, my attention is turned fully to Upmorchard. It's a beautiful little book, perfectly sized in both dimensions and content, for my tastes. I'm not sure of the word count, but I'd guess it is in the long novella range, a slice of reading (and writing) I have come to love more and more.

Though I would ultimately characterize this as horror fiction, there is little by way of horror until the stark, terrifying end, which took me by surprise. Yes, there are hints and foreshadowing, but nothing that fully prepared me for the revelation(s) at the end. There are no jump scares here, but Ostermeier keeps much cleverly hidden, only revealing enough to prime the reader a tiny bit for what is to come. And even then, the story retains a great deal of mystery regarding the strange stones and their origin, as well as the motivations and secrets of the characters. Here, Ostermeier takes cues from the great Robert Aickman. If you're looking for a tidy ending where everything is explained, forget about it. You're going to have to do some work thinking about this.

That doesn't mean it's inscrutable. Far from it. The prose style is easy and quick reading, sprinkled with some amazingly clever "tricks," if you will, to keep the reader engaged and paying attention. Take this little bit, for example:

The drop was sheer, and the water below was filled with sharp. There was no need for a related noun. The hole was filled with water and sharp.

Breaking the fourth wall? Not quite. But not quite not breaking it either. I like these kinds of nods to the reader occasionally, but without an accompanying corny wink and smile. Ostermeier gives just enough acknowledgement to the reader's intelligence to involve them, but not so much as to call them out in a crass manner.

What is the story about? I'm not about to give the plot away (which is the primary danger in writing reviews about novellas), but suffice it to say that it is strange, witty, human, and contains supernatural elements. One thing that makes it stand out from other dark novellas I've read lately is the light it sheds on the tyranny of academia. This seems to be a theme throughout, and one I can understand, given my experiences in graduate school and the experiences of friends and acquaintances who work in the academy. Yes, the horror is external to those considerations, but they definitely play a part in driving the plot forward.

It's a proper book-as-artifact in itself, worth the investment. But you'll want to find a copy soon, as Broodcomb is making a name for itself among those who read the literature of the fantastic. Don't miss out!

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Anatomy of the Devil

 

Anatomy of the Devil by Walerian Borowczyk
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I have to admit that I was brought to this book by three facts: 1) The Brothers Quay, my favorite movie directors, supplied a nifty postcard to go with the book, and I am just a sucker for all things Quay, 2) I like small presses and small bookstores, and 50 Watts Books, from whom I procured the book, is both, and 3) I have am slowly becoming enamored of work in translation (to English) by heretofore little known or unknown authors from Central and Eastern Europe.

Who is Walerian Borowczyk, you ask, and why have you never heard of him? Why had I never heard of him until I picked up this book?

"Boro" as he was affectionally known by those who worked with him, was a Polish movie director who later expatriated to Paris, whose work was highly influential on certain key movers in experimental cinema. Watch his short film Renaissance and tell me that this didn't have an influence on both Jan Svankmajer and The Brothers Quay. The imprint is unmistakeable. As far as Boro's personality and work with others, I'll refer you to the excellent interview with the translator of these tales, Michael Levy, in which he gives an insider's view of what it was like to work with Boro. It's an excellent little biographical window.

One of the things that Levy makes clear in his interview is that Boro didn't want to be known as a cinematographer who happened to write. He wanted to be know for his "art," as he terms his writing, on totally separate terms from that for which his films were known. So let's just the stories on their own merits.

We start with "Blessed Poverina, Patron of Wicked Little Girls," which walks us step-by-agonizing-step through what appears to be a seduction to engage in pedophilia. Spoiler: nothing of that sort happens, but two people die. However, you won't see it coming. The voice of the tale is meticulous, exacting, but with a good deal of soulfulness, too. A hint of cynical humor underlies it all.

The first word that comes to mind regarding "The Golden Room" is askance. The whole story, from title to history to plotline to resolution, feels like a look askance - with a dim glimmer of decadence - something barely seen, peeking out of the shadows. But all on the psychical plane, not the physical (though physicality plays a central role in this sidelong maze). A delicate story, construction-wise. Borowczyk does an excellent job of walking the swaying tightrope over what could have spiraled into full-fledged kitsch. He doesn't fall.

The title story is too clever, by far; meaning that by breaking the fourth wall it loses some of its savor. Still a clever story, but it would be even better, much better, near perfect, in fact, with the last line removed. The tail, in this instance, takes away from the body (and the tale).

Part surreal, part linguistic exercise, part absurdist, part history lesson; in the end, we learn in "The Beauty of the Disorient-Express" that absolutely none of it matters. Carpe diem is the appropriate action here, all pun-infused intellectual acrobatics aside. This very short story (if it can even be called that. "Anectdote,"perhaps?) contains everything and nothing, with full emotional vigor!

"Manuscript Found in a Briefcase" - Victor, you naughty, naughty boy. And such a clever way to invert the waking world into the world of dreams. Not a groundbreaking story, by any means, but that inversion - so very clever.

I obviously missed something important in "The Inheritance". Perhaps it was a well-regarded family name, a symbolic spiritual reference, or a famous event I am unaware of. Or maybe the story was just that banal. I don't have a clue.

I'm not sure who "Ralph Krutmann" is, but I did like this blasphemous, sordid little ditty (in the form of a three-act play) of cosmogical shenanigans among the powers that be.

Man's best friend might not be in "The Gold Washers," an intense, stress-inducing story, to say the least. It's a trifle of a story, but well-told.

"The Ear. Signed Vincent" is a very . . . erm . . . Stylish story. The sort of thing you'd read in The New Yorker. Here Van Gogh may or may not travel in time to a Tokyo art collector. It might be real, it might not. The difference in your "take" might reflect if you're subscribed to Asimov's or The New Yorker. It's a little too hyperbolic for my tastes, but I'm no great critic.

It's a mixed bag, if I'm being honest. I was hoping to be submerged in a marionette-infested darkness (did I mention I like The Brothers Quay?), and though some of Boro's stories approach the darkness, few of them actually dive in for any length of time. I guess not every Central and Eastern European author can be a Marcel Schwob, Géza Csáth, or Stefan Grabinski, eh?

But, hey, if you can recommend any other Central or Eastern European authors with a dark, weird bent, please do let me know in the comments!

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The Dream and the Underworld

 

The Dream and the Underworld by James Hillman
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Clearly an innovative work, I could not help but think that Hillman's admixture of psychology and esotericism was often strained, or at least at odds with itself. This is what happens when one tries to wrest both psychology and mythology out of their "traditional" contexts (the ones our intellects are accustomed to) and place them in a new, unique relationship. Hillman eschews many aspects of Freudian and Jungian analysis, while embracing others (particularly the idea of "depth psychology") in his new paradigm.

My issue in trying to fit The Dream and the Underworld in my head is the habit of Hillman in seeming to reject certain aspects of the waking world in relation to the sleeping world.

What one knows about life may not be relevant for what is below life. What one knows and has done in life may be as irrelevant to the underworld as clothes that adjust us to life and the flesh and bones that the clothes cover. For in the underworld all is stripped away, and life is upside down. We are further than the expectations based on life experience, and the wisdom derived from it..

This seems intuitive, on the face of it. But later in the book, Hillman espouses the need for therapy (which inevitably takes place in the waking world) that encourages the patient to immerse themselves in their dreams and simply run with it. There's really no clinical diagnosis taking place (none that I can see, anyway) beyond just encouraging people to dream and dream deeply, rejecting any imposition of waking world ideas on the sleeping world.

There's a certain pedantism present also. For example, Hillman lists three "habits of mind that impede grasping the idea of the underworld as the psychic realm": Materialism, oppositionalism, and christianism. I see his points and at least partially understand each one, but I find it interesting that rather than explain how the underworld can be understood as the psychic realm up front, he first sets out to imply that misunderstanding such is an error in judgement. That may be true, but there is little coaching (as one should expect from a clinical therapist) on how rejecting these impediments help the patient to get any kind of resolution to their issues.

Now, I probably sound like I hated this book, but that is completely untrue. I laud Hillman for "freeing" the dreaming world from the waking world. Rather than trying to translate dreams into waking world analogues, he encourages us to dive deeper, to plumb the depths of the underworld, with the understanding that it is a dangerous, strange place, an internal hell (in the Classical Greek and Roman sense of the word, not in a Dante-ish sense) that is intentionally separate from our day-to-day experience.

I admit that after having read this, I have allowed myself to delve deeper in my dreams, to leave the workaday world behind, and have felt a fresh breeze of good mental health, as a result. Ironically, one of the dreams I have had since reading this, a darkened hell-scape in which I met three witches over a pentagram, resulted in one of the most resful nights of sleep I've had in years. There was no night terror, no fear at all, really. I felt that I was embracing the place and that these crones were more guides than guardians. I don't remember all of the details, nor do I want to. I want the incentive to return and see where things go now.

One personal note: Hillman notes that dreams and death are closely intertwined, as if dreams were a practice run for death (which is reminiscent of the argument that Brian Muraresku makes in The Immortality Key that practitioners of ancient religion may have descended into the underworld by "dying" while taking psychoactive drugs in the well-known phenomanon of "ego-death" that often occurs while tripping on a heroic dose of psilocybin, for instance). Sometime during the early stages of the Covid outbreak, before I moved to my current home, I had a profound, extremely intense dream in which I saw and spoke with my deceased maternal grandmother (another crone, perhaps?). I saw her crystal-clear, as I remember her when I was a child, but with bright light streaming from her - an angel in the darkness, you might say. We spoke briefly, and I had the most profound sense of love and gratitude that I had felt in a long, long time. The dream ended when I "burst" with love and "died". I have no other way of putting it. I exploded with love and felt it in every single atom of my body, then, I simply expired. I awoke shaking and crying (for joy, not for sorrow), but felt physically exhilirated (resurrected, perhaps?), ready to face the many changes that were taking place in my life at that time.

I was told by a friend once, who had clinically died after a stroke, then came back, that "dying was the coolest thing I've ever felt." If that's what dying feels like, I'm really not worried about it at all. In the meantime, though, I'll be satisfied to dream a little deeper. I've still got a lot of things to do in the waking world!

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Descended Suns Resuscitate

 

Descended Suns Resuscitate by Avalon Brantley
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I had heard rumors about Brantley, but only read a couple of short stories before getting my hands on Descended Suns Resuscitate thanks to Zagava Books' publication of the collection in paperback. As others have pointed out, she sprang on the scene with 2013's Aornos to immediate acclaim. As one other reviewer states, Avalon seemed to spring forth onto the scene like Athena from the head of Zeus, fully-formed and at the height of her powers . This volume is a testament to the breadth of her writing prowess and a sad vision of what might have been, as she passed away at the age of 36. I have a (again, paperback) copy of The House of Silence, which I am definitely looking forward to reading after having enjoyed this volume so greatly. My only wish is that she had lived longer and that we could have seen the full growth of her substantial talent.

Before the fall of the Roman empire was its decline. We are thrust headlong into this decline in "The Way of Flames," an incredibly-well researched tale of corruption and, ultimately, collapse. The story is immersive, one feels what it would be like to be on the edge of a civilization that is about to be plunged into utter random chaos and oblivion. I now may have learned everything I need to know about Rome.

I dare not reveal too much about "Hognissaga". Though the subject matter might be a subject of which I have lost interest long ago, Brantley has enjindled a flame in me with this story. I was nearly as surprised as the young prince in the tale. But I can't tell you why, for fear of . . . No, I've already said too much, even if in vagiries. Oh yes, the mis-spelling is intentional.

John Dee meets a demon in "The Dunwich Catharsis," but not the kind of Renaissance demon one might expect. The story is a nested framework of letters, books, and conversations about a heretical Christian sect replete with revelations aplenty, both light and dark. A fabulous tale that gives one pause and sends the reader to the history books to peel away fact from fiction, if such a thing is even possible.

Love meets necromancy meets revenge in "The Regretting Pond". But what is the emotional toll of one who weaves such a web of vengeance. Can satisfaction ever come from justice's answers to tragedy? Or are some festering wounds, no matter how ill-deserved, best left to rot? Moral ambiguity abounds in this tale of love lost. Who is justified in their taking from another? There are more questions than answers here.

"The Last Sheaf" is a folk horror story with all the expected tropes. Not as evocative as the other stories thus far, it is still "effective". Had I not read a fair amount of folk horror lately, I might not be as jaded about it. It's very well-written, with enough twists to set it apart from many stories of its ilk. But nothing spectacular. Still, I'm glad I read it.

"The Window Widows" is a Scottish ghost story par excellence. Perfectly told, when it needed to be, and perfectly untold at just the right moments. Brantley paints with a chiaroscuro-heavy brush here, and it works amazingly well. This is the kind of short story writers of the "weird" should aspire to. A perfect economy of "weird" and "eerie" in a credulous, if sublimely-poetic, voice.

Take, for instance, this description, which sets the absolutely spectral undertone for this chilling tale:

The day that followed was hardly fit to be called so. Heavy clouds blanketed the close tangles of leafbare trees nearest the house, turning the world into vague shapes and textures, and when the wind rose up it seemed to rip shreds of the fog and send them fleeing across the world, like ghaists in flight from a greater ghaist ,or perhaps born therefrom.

Brantley assumes the persona of an avatar of the dread goddess Kali in "Kali Yuga: This Dark and Present Age". It's a piece of social existentialism bordering on despair for modernity and its paramours. The voice is beautiful, with echoes of Beckett and Burroughs, with all the darkness engendered in the same names. But it is clearly Brantley's own apocryphal tale which, like Beckett and Burroughs, no one will heed.

An afterword by Brantley gives the provenience of each story. She lays out the influences for each story and gives some insight into her writerly process. A valuable scrying stone into the work of a writer who was taken from the world far too soon.

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