Dark Arts

 

Dark Arts by Eric Stener Carlson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Let me start by saying that I absolutely love Tartarus Press. In fact, I just had Mark Valentine's most recent collection from them show up in my mail this past week. My first Tartarus book was a copy of Meyrink's The Golem, which a good friend of mine gifted me many, many years ago. I think I own about twelve volumes from Tartarus, most of them hardcovers (though I'd have to verify that number). I've never been disappointed by a Tartarus publication. Unfortunately, that streak may have come to an end with the current volume. Carlson's Dark Arts isn't bad, it's just not up to par with the other Tartarus books I've read. I suppose not every volume can be outstanding. I also just encountered what I would consider Wakefield Press's weakest volume that I've read so far. Maybe it's a bad batch. Maybe it's just me, who knows? But I have to call them like I see them. And here is how I see each of the stories in this volume:

Can a story in which not one, but four deaths occur (one being an alleyway murder) be considered . . . comforting? Soft? Even loving? Carlson tells just such a tale in "Golden Book," in which an Ikiryo meets a young girl destined for her first encounter with death. This story is more of a blessing than a curse, as dark as it is.

"Coffee Shop" was ripe with dazzling poetics. Unfortunately, the incredible potential of the plot and language was unrealized. I wanted so much more than what the ending had to offer, but then again, that might have been the point of this story of trapped desperation?

I feel the same way about "Divining Rod" as I did about the last story. So much poetic potential, so little punch. This tale seemed to meander, directionless, like a series of disjunct writing exercises strung together on a frayed, insubstantial plot line. But again, maybe that was the point? I'll never know. Or maybe that is the point and I'm just too shallow of a reader to realize it?

I thought that maybe I would warm up to Carlson with the next tale. "Leopard-Spotted Scarf" is a touching (if tinged by horror) tale of a woman daring to become her childhood self, yet again. It's a bittersweet tale that doesn't telegraph the surprise ending, though one can likely figure out what's happening beforehand from the subtle cues left by the narrator. It's a Twilight-Zone-esque tale, which is one of the highest compliments I can give a story

Alas, the relative highs of "Leopard-Spotted Scarf" weren't reached again over the next few stories. "Corridor" is full of anticipatory horror past and present. Two journalists wait for the terrorists who are about to take them hostage. One has suffered throughout his life from an extreme neurosis about what will happen to him in the future. The other is terrified by the prospect of capture and death. But in this case, one's terrors can atone for the terror of another. A good (not great) tale of strange redemptions.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the thread of "Bradycardia". The heady mixture of dream and waking life, along with what might be psychosis, goaded along by a manipulative lover(?) gets almost too convoluted. There's a fine line between complex and incomprehensible, and I wavered over both sides of that line throughout.

The premise of "Stray," a story told by a dog about his many previous lives, was, to be honest, not to my liking. But Carlson handled that premise with tenderness and an ongoing emotional charge that won me over. I didn't like the idea, but the execution was handled by such a deft hand that I couldn't help but love the story.

Mood and atmosphere dominate "Strasse 60, Berlin". This story has a heightened sense of tension that gives it a higher ceiling of dread and eeriness than other stories thus far in the collection. The press of confusion is palpable. Chronology is shuffled and the narrator is misdirected by the phantoms of his own memories. A disconcerting, very effective story. This was more of what I had hoped for.

"Salt" is an excellent story of gaslighting by an authoritarian regime. It's a twisted narrative of unraveling untruth and an emotional gut punch to a narrator that may or may not be insane, but is absolutely in a lot of trouble.

Despite a baldly-telegraphed "twist" and some pushy histrionics, I rather liked "Monsieur Machine". Delivery aside, this was an excellent tale of love and ambition coming into stark contrast, then resolution of the dialectic. Given its mechanistic themes, there is an evocation of emotion that moves the reader while horrifying at the same time. Here love and loss combine to create awe and the awful.

I liked "I Loved You at Your Darkest," but didn't love it. Pardon the horrid attempt at a pun. Yes, the story twisted in an unexpected way, but resolved too quickly, in my mind, with the narrator able to make logical leaps using clues that shouldn't have evoked his conclusions. Another good, but not great tale, straining my belief a touch too much, which was the kiss of death (another horrible pun, given the plot).

I heard hinted echoes of Dhalgren in "The Atelier," a dystopian post-disaster (and pre-even-bigger-disaster) tale set in a fractured Europe held together by authoritarianism. But Delaney's novel was far superior to this tale, which is only a faint, thin shadow of the former. I found rays of hope in the hopelessness, but, again, this story just wasn't really "for" me.

Again, it's not a bad collection, just not up to my expectations of Tartarus' usual work. Do I regret buying it? No. I don't think I can ever regret buying a Tartarus title - they are, to me, the height of craftsmanship and elegant design. Would I buy it again, knowing what I know now? Also no. Like I said: maybe it's just me. High expectations + more experience over time = jadedness, I suppose. Then again, maybe it's not just me. You'll have to decide for yourself.

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The Mill: A Cosmos

 

The Mill: A Cosmos by Bess Brenck Kalischer
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I believe this is the lowest rating I've given to a Wakefield Press title yet. It makes me sad, because I love what Wakefield does: bring fantastic obscure works in translation to light in the English-reading world. They've done some fantastic work in the past (including the amazing work of Marcel Schwob, Marcel Bealu, Otto Julius Bierbaum, and, most remarkably, Jean Ray). So, you'll excuse me if my expectations are sky high . . . but they are.

My unrealistic expectations were met with the introduction to this volume. As with every other Wakefield Press book I've read, the translator's introduction, this time by W.C. Bamberg, is worth the ticket price alone. It's an extremely evocative piece about this essentially unknown author: well-researched (with a hint of the historiography involved, even), captivating, sympathetic, and enlightening. This is the fine scholarship I've come to (unfairly?) expect from Wakefield. At times, the writing in the introduction out-paced the writing in the actual story.

It didn't take long after reading the introduction to become somewhat disenchanted. What seemed to start out as a staccato poesis descended into pure Dada. I understand that makes the work "of its time," but that doesn't excuse near-incoherence. Yes, the story is about a woman holed up in a sanitorium, but the experimental form . . . well, the experiment just didn't work for me.

The section "The Island of Destiny, or Encounter with the Caliph" was the first truly coherent narrative of this work. It started on page 25 and sustained through page 32, but I have to admit that making it to this section was a feat in and of itself. I've read plenty of stories with insane (or at least highly neurotic) and unreliable narrators, plowed my way through some notoriously difficult prose (Proust, Joyce, and Beckett, I'm looking at you), and read more than my share of stories about madness. But the first 25 pages of Kalischer's work here had me nearly leming the book, but I decided to press ahead. It is a short work, after all, and I'd bested tougher (though better-written) material.

After that the narrative gets wobbly, teetering on the edge of coherence, threatening to fall into Dada at any moment. It's sometimes difficult to discern between playful intellectual brilliance and an utter collapse of reason. It's almost as if Kalischer weaves in and out of each, with no warning about what direction she is turning; blind curves ahead. Sure, the narrator is struggling with mental illness, but a reader needs some kind of compass, even a weak one. Still, I pressed on.

Lest you think this ship has utterly sunk, that all was lost, that's not true. Later, near the end, I uncovered "On Sirius". It is by far the best section of the book. It's a gentle, smoothly flowing prose poem, not entirely lacking disjuncture, but not as chaotic as some earlier sections of the book. It is a piece that is of a piece, well-put-together, but not stodgy. I can (and have) wrap(ped) myself up in it. It is comfortable, but not so cosy as to be uninteresting. If the entire book was written this way, it would be at least a four-star book for me. Alas, that can't be. The neurotic narrator, like most humans, had a long string of near-coherence which, of course, wouldn't last.

However, I didn't mind the ending being disjointed. In fact, I think it worked quite well, given that we had a comfortable baseline in "On Sirius" from which we could jump off. The tragedy of this last section felt real and poignant. A good ending, given what came immediately before it. But the first part of the story started off in such a stark, jarring manner that I just couldn't make the connection with the narrator until halfway through the book. In fact, I wonder what the book would have read like had it begun with "On Sirius" and the erstwhile early material was tagged on to the back of the story (after the sanitorium episodes)? Possibly a stronger narrative? Unfortunately, Kalischer isn't around to ask for a rewrite.

Still, kudos yet again to Wakefield for presenting a work obscured by history and doing so with all the reverence and academic rigor it deserves. Yes, it fell short for me, but that's not stopping me from continuing to dip in the stream of Wakefield works. In fact, there's another waiting on my shelf right now that I am eager to read. I'm still on the Wakefield train and won't be getting off any time soon!



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Goodreads Sucks More? Again?

 Well, Goodreads has done it again. And by "it" I don't mean anything good. Exhibit A:

I have a long history with Goodreads, and I've got the receipts to prove it. I tried Booklikes, but, well, I didn't like it. Why? I can't even remember, that was so long ago. Suffice it to say that I stuck with Goodreads and for a time considered it my only social media.

Given the message above, that is coming to an end. I did send a "WTF?" message to Goodreads. I don't expect a response, but you never know. They've surprised me before by actually responding to my questions about a previous move they had made. But, I admit, my email back then was much more restrained and well-thought-out than my kneejerk reaction tonight. 

I posted a message there asking anyone who wants to keep contact to message me ASAP and I would exchange emails with them. 

As with other changes, I suspect that this is just the tip of the iceberg. I cannot fathom the reasoning behind this, as it is one of the things that keeps Goodreads members connected. The conspiracy theory side of me wonders if other social media applied pressure to make Goodreads less of a social media and more of a commercial enterprise. Or maybe Goodreads just did that themselves. What? Following the almighty dollar at the expense of actual human interaction? That's never happened before, has it? 

Ugh.

My selfish fear (outside of losing direct contact with many people whose opinions I greatly appreciate) is that Goodreads is up to something even bigger. You'll note that many of my blog entries/reviews use the HTML template that Goodreads provides. So, there is a possibility that I will need to (somehow) transfer essentially all of my book reviews from Goodreads to my blog which, frankly, sounds like the height of tedium. 

I can't shake the feeling that this will lead to me being online even less (and I've already taken many steps out of the virtual world and back into the analog world).

Well, let's see what happens. Will this finally be the death knell for Goodreads as a viable venue for enjoying books with other book lovers in a meaningful, personal way? Maybe. As with all things, time will tell.

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The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy

 

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

In my quest to "use what I have," a subset of "minimalism," I'm digging back into books that I have read before, but not yet reviewed. I believe I picked up this (now very beat up) copy of Laurence Sterne's The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy as an undergraduate at BYU. I don't exactly remember why I chose this book. I think I just spotted it on a bookshelf in a used bookstore near campus, read the back copy, and decided to give it a try. I was a humanities major as an undergrad, so it behooved me to read "classics," and this was one classic that I had never heard of until that point. I was young and dumb then and didn't have the toolkit to really analyze literature quite yet. I was building that toolkit.

Turns out, for this novel, I didn't need a toolkit.

Because Tristram Shandy defies analysis.

Plot? You've got to be kidding. The main character isn't born until page 170.

Setting? The vast majority of the story takes place on the grounds and house of the Shandy estate, though several pithy journeys wind their way into the narrative. There is a section on France (largely dismissive and with much of the "action" taking place at night, unseen by Tristram himself).

Speaking of which: Action: If you're looking for acts of heroism, you'll hear some referred to, mostly by Corporal Trim, the (extremely lovable and innocent) servant of Tristram's Uncle Toby. These are viewed with a simplistic eye and lack any of the bombast of most modern thrillers. Teh highest levels of excitement are reserved for 1) references to battles in which characters (most notably, Uncle Toby) have been wounded, 2) arguments between servants and, sometimes, their masters, 3) arguments about the birth of the boy and his naming, and 4) philosophical arguments.

Philosophy? The novel is lousy with it, but philosophers are often misquoted (whether intentionally or not is difficult to tell), misidentified, and their words maladjusted to whatever argument is being presented at the time (which is coming from Tristram's father most of the time).

Culture? Here we are hitting something important and, ostensibly analyzable. But who has time to learn all the mannerisms of mid-18th century England? Thankfully, the novel is also lousy with endnotes (and I don't mean "bad" when I say "lousy," I mean "infested, as with lice"). It's a whimsical window to the England of the 1700s. America didn't even know what it was missing.

Structure? Ah, mmm, about that . . . the only structure here is digression. It reminds me of the time as a grad student I had to learn to read French, after having studied German for four years and Swahili for two. French . . . has no structure. Everything is an exception. This drove me absolutely batty. In fact, "French for Reading Knowledge" is the only class I ever failed in college. It doesn't help that the teacher had us construct sentences from scratch for the final, something we were never taught and never instructed to study. We were taught to read, which I could do pretty well. But then the final came and we were supposed to construct a bunch of sentences from nothing in French. I'm still pissed about that one. Anyway, after studying the firm rules of German and Swahili grammar, with a couple of idioms sprinkled here and there (and easily recognizable, for the most part, from context), I was thrust into the spaghetti code of French "grammar", where, I will repeat, everything is an exception, with very few rules that I could fathom.

But as much as I hate(d) French, I love the digressions of Tristram Shandy. And this lack of structure, this worship of the digression, is by design. To quote Sterne:

Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine; - they are the life, the soul of reading; - - - take them out of this book for instance, - - you might as well take the book along with them; - one cold eternal winter would reign in every page of it; restore them to the writer; - - - - - he steps forth like a bridegroom, - bids All hail; brings in variety, and forbids the appetite to fail.

The heart and soul of the book, then, is The Digression. Not just those used by the author in creating the "story," but also by each individual character in telling tales of yore, quoting philosophers (poorly), and even in the manner in which they read certain treatises and tell certain tales, themselves full of digressions.

And what of the characters? Here is where Sterne hits his highest notes, particularly in the characters of Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim, two grizzled veterans, stout of heart and dedicated wholeheartedly to their "hobby horse" of large-scale reproductions of military campaigns in which they participated. I really fell in love with these two warm-hearted characters and their banter, which, of course, spilled into, yes, even more digressions.

Speaking of the "hobby horse," here Sterne, though a pastor, is far from innocent in his insinuations. This novel is bawdy. Thoroughly so. To the point that I am shocked that Sterne didn't lose his clerical office. As any shrewd Englishman would, however, he hid the bawdiness in euphemism, some of the most clever euphemisms I have ever heard (and I was raised around soldiers who would make you question the physical ability of one to stick one's body parts into the suggested receptacle - the physics are staggering).

So, I say pishposh to all the deep post-modern analysis of the academy. This is a novel that is meant to be read and enjoyed, not dissected and analyzed. It's a morass of facades, innuendo, and false leads, baroque in its segues and sidestreets, and all the more beautiful for its chaotic complexity.

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Journey Across Breath/Tragitto Nel Respiro

 

Journey Across Breath/Tragitto Nel Respiro by Stephen Watts
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Watts prose-poem straddles the line between fiction and non-fiction, much as the mountain environs that serve as both a setting and character are an interstitial zone, suspended between nations. Time is not only fluid here; it is a swirling, mangled time"line" tied up in itself at odd angles, where chronology is dictated by the mind of the observer. Here, one can see family members as they were long before the observer was born, or as they will become after the subject has died. It is a dance, not of Chronos, but of Kairos, with the participants and the music ever-changing, but all of a theme. This pseudo-memoir is the perfect coffee table book, if your coffee table is a half-rusted folding table next to a ratty wooden bar stool in a concrete building with a rough-hewn door and without glass in the window-panes in the Italian alps. But this little cottage must be warm with family and laughter and tears, all stirred together by Watt's exquisite penmanship.

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Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

 

Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said by Philip K. Dick
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This may be my favorite Philip K. Dick novel to date. It's got all the "typical" trappings of a Dick novel: Dystopian setting, drugs that really do alter reality, flying cars, synthetic humans - but the sappy title isn't just treacle. There is some real emotional depth to this story. Even more so than The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. This is one of his later novels and one wonders, after this foray, what emotional depths he might have plumbed had he lived longer.

This work is, as one would expect from Dick, complicated, mystifying, even misleading, at times. But here, I'm not just referring to the plot, I'm referring more specifically to the characters. All of them evoke sympathy, pity, and annoyance, at the least, downright loathing, at worst. There really is not one "stock" character here; even the most "vanilla" of the bunch, Herb Maime, shows an underlying depth of psychological complexity burbling under his seeming obsequiousness. And though the action largely follows along with the actions (and inactions and reactions) of Jason Taverner, one might argue that the real central character is Police General Felix Buckman. Or perhaps it is Buckman's sister-wife, Alys, who we learn has perhaps inadvertently caused the reality-shift that Taverner suffers. Honestly, it's difficult to tell who the "main" characters are, as all have a level of complexity and plot-involvement that might argue for their position as protagonist.

If this seems like a hopelessly-twisted story of hopelessly-twisted people . . . it is! And the strangest thing of all: Dick claimed that most of this book was non-fiction. Yes, you read that correctly. Now, Dick's psychosis is well-known, as is his chronic drug use. So, you might just blow this statement off as crazy-talk. And maybe it is. But if you are one of the many people who suspect that there just might be something to the Mandela Effect, well, you can see how the author could have viewed this book as largely non-fiction. Of course, the Mandela Effect had not been named as such when Dick wrote the book (Mandela was imprisoned on Robben Island at the time the book was written), but the idea of multiple universes laying one on top of the other, or side by side, with the possibility of a cosmic slip in-between realities and timelines, is one of the foremost features of Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. In essence, it is the plot.

Furthermore, the emotional depth and complexity of these characters were not created at an intellectual remove from the pen. They seem to emerge as organic, living beings, people, or at least reflective of people, who Dick knew and loved (and lost). Really, the science fiction here is merely a (multidimensional) doorway into a world of love, pain, guilt, self-doubt, and forgiveness, with spaces of emotional numbness in-between. Here, the inner world is what matters, and the outer world, or, more appropriately, outer worlds (and the slippages between them) is merely a catalyst for human emotion, a window into the soul.

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Gravensteen's Weapons

 I love to travel. The Wanderlust is a core part of who I am. I was born "overseas," as a child, I moved every three years or so, and when "overseas" my family travelled for vacation as often as possible. 

One natural consequence of travel is to come home with photos to remind us of the good times we had and the interesting places we saw. Technology makes it easy to take as many pictures as we want. However, I've found that looking through a screen at the things that are immediately around me forces a one-step remove from the actual experience. I intentionally try to limit my screen time while on vacation; after all, why would I travel halfway across the planet just to be online? But, despite my best efforts to analogize, I'm often sucked into the camera eye and miss the saturation of experience that can occur while I am immersed in a new place. So, I've made efforts to limit how many pictures I take while travelling. Of course, I'll take some photos, but whereas I might have taken a hundred photos a day in the past, I've tried to limit myself to something more like half of that. Even then, I have a lot of photos to "dump".

This last April, I was able to travel to Germany for work. After this, my wife and I took a week-long stay in Belgium. We were "stationed" in Antwerp - our Air BnB was literally 100 feet from the train station - and travelled out to Ghent, Bruges, and up to The Hague, Netherlands. I took a lot of pictures that week, as Belgium has some of the most beautiful architecture I've ever seen. When I look at the photos on my phone, I'm overwhelmed. So, I am trying to parse out these photographs into batches that are a little more digestible in order to blog a bit more clearly about my trips.

We'll start with Castle Gravensteen, AKA Castle of the Counts in Ghent. I'll include pictures of the castle itself in another post (or posts). 

Being a dutiful D&D nerd, of course I toured the castle! And, of course, I took photos of some of the weapons displayed there. This shows maybe half of the weapons there (again, I tried to limit pictures so I could actually enjoy the experience in the moment). For you other D&D nerds, hopefully this will provide some inspiration for your own games. Or, perhaps you might just enjoy the beauty of these killing tools. 

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