Carlos
This is a collection of horror stories that Derleth wrote for Weird Tales in the '40s. Fairly high quality pulp horror, though Derleth does have the unfortunate habit of recycling plots, with tales of posthomous revenge making up at least half the stories in this collection. Another prevalent element is that of loneliness, often that of a child who has lost an important parental figure. Derleth paints this quite skillfuly, so the air of sadness it lends to those stories feels more like a personal touch than a recylced trope. Only a story or two really achieve something novel enough to place them above quality pulp horror.
Sadly, I found this book to be a major disappointment. I'm huge fan of British comedy and science fiction–Monty Python, Douglas Adams, Dr. Who, Neil Gaiman–and something of an autodidact lit geek, so this novel which promises the exploits of a special agent who has to travel into the novel Jane Eyre in pursuit of a villain sounds right up my alley. So, what went wrong?
Let's start with the world building. While Fforde's alternate universe England is quite inventive, it's also tonally weird. England has been locked in the Crimean War all the way into the present day (circa 1985), with no end in sight, and the government appears to be controlled by a large corporation dubbed (unsubtly) the Goliath Corporation. OK, so this is some sort of dystopia, right? But wait, thanks to cloning, scientists have been able to bring dodos out of extinction, and it turns out that they make great pets! Like, OMG!, is that cute or what? The Eyre Affair may be the only dystopic novel I've read in which the Breads and Circuses are intended as much for the reader as for the regime's subjects. (Oh, if only Big Brother had thought to provide everyone with messenger owls, 1984 could have been a much more amusing novel!)
Second, there's the use of names. As Roger Ebert once said, “Funny names, in general, are a sign of desperation.” I'd like to amend that slightly to say, it's really a bad idea for a novel to feature characters whose names are vastly more interesting than their personalities. Heroine Thursday Next gets a pass, as does main baddy Acheron Hades, but I can't think of anything funny about Paige Turner, Victor Analogy or Alexandria Belfridge.
Oh, and let me just say, Acheron Hades' motivation to engage in villainy for no reason because pointless wickedness is the purest form of wickedness? I know it's supposed to make him seem particularly evil, but it just makes him seem arbitrary. I kept expecting the revelation that he was an escapee from a second-rate potboiler.
The biggest failure, though, is how panderingly The Eyre Affair wields its metatextuality. Dead British authors are like celebrities in Fforde's England. People change their names to John Milton out of devotion. Robo-Shakespeares quote the bard from every corner. Surrealists somehow manage to spark riots. (This joins with the whole Crimean War aspect to give the sense that England is terribly stagnant. None of the authors that inspire devotion ever saw the 20th century. And surrealism is controversial enough to spark riots? Really, how very quaint.)
The scene that really put me off, and which should have inspired me to quit the novel, was the performance of a Rocky Horror version of Richard III, after which a couple of the characters discuss how much they love classic literature. There's something a little jarring about seeing a camped up production of Shakespeare held up as an expression of deep love, as if the Thursday Nextiverse (or even Fforde himself) completely misses the point of camp. Does Fforde think people bring cutlery to midnight showings of The Room because they feel Tommy Wiseau is an auteur?
It may be hyperliterate in its use of references, but the effect often feels superficial. In the action revolving around the titular novel, Jane Eyre is reduced to a damsel in distress and Rochester to a straightforward hero, the complex characters I so loved in their original context reduced to cardboard cutouts. Fforde is like a lobotomized Borges, finding ways to dumb down the literature he loves instead of finding new and interesting depths.
So, sorry, just did not enjoy this novel. I have to confess though, if I ever got a hold of one of those devices to travel into literature, you know the first thing I'd do? Carpet bomb Fforde's England with copies of every major modernist and postmodernist work from the last century. I'd like to think I'd be treated as a liberator.
Interesting retelling of The Horror at Red Hook, shifting much of the emphasis to an African-American confederate of Robert Suydam.
In lieu of an analysis, here are strong and weak points –
Strong:
LaValle treats the themes of immigrants and poverty in early 20th century New York with much greater insight than HPL, turning one of his ugliest stories into a look at marginalization and resistance.
The characterization is solid.
The plot moves nicely and keeps the tension up.
Weak:
The prose is serviceable but sometimes clunky.
It significantly cuts down the plot, which means the climax comes nowhere near the psychedelic weirdness of the original.
An intriguing experimental novel from poet/songwriter Cohen. It's a very Leonard Cohen book, fascinated with Catholic themes of suffering and salvation, concerned with the outsider's place in Canadian society. Some of the more outrageous elements feel very much of its milieu (of Hunter Thompson, Tom Robbins, etc) but Cohen's poetic way with language elevates it.
Teatro Grottesco is the latest collection of Thomas Ligotti short stories and represents the mature phase of his fiction. In this mature phase, Ligotti's style has shed much of the baroqueness of his earlier style, which made him seem an obvious heir to Poe and Lovecraft. However, Ligotti's sparser style, which often emphasizes the banality of places and people, is probably even more potent in capturing the sense of existence as nightmare, which is one of the main cruxes of the Ligottian tale. If, as appears quite possible, Ligotti does not return to writing fiction, this collection will serve as a brilliant summing up of his thematic and narrative interests.
“The Fall of the House of Usher” is arguably one of Poe's most Gothic stories, a tale of hereditary doom that might be tricky for the reader to get into but also quite likely to haunt the imagination thereafter. McCammon takes a risk in crafting a story so obviously inspired by Poe's classic story but he succeeds in crafting a contemporary Gothic tale with strong horror elements.
The first chapter of the novel starts things on a strong note, presenting a fascinatingly sinister picture of one of the Usher clan as he confronts Edgar Allan Poe over his writing of a story about the family. Poe swears he thought it was purely fiction, that perhaps he heard about them second-hand and subconsciously worked the family into a story he thought he had dreamed up.
It sets the tone well, making it clear that while connected to Poe's story, McCammon intends to make Usher's Passing his own story and to update the old Gothic theme of the doomed family line. From there, events leap forward to the present day. Rix Usher is called back to the family home near Asheville, North Carolina, by his father, Walen, who is dying from a hereditary terminal illness which enhances the senses of its victims. The Usher family has prospered in the years since that encounter with Mr. Poe, growing incredibly wealthy off of the business of manufacturing weapons. They now possess a large estate in the mountains of North Carolina, dominated by a large, though unused, mansion they call The Lodge. The estate has its own Gothic reputation, and the locals tell stories about The Pumpkin Man, who snatches up children, and his monstrous feline companion, Greediguts.
At home, Rix has to contend with his mother Margaret, who is in denial regarding her husband's impending demise; his arrogant brother Boone and his fading Southern Belle of a wife; and his sister Katt, whose glamorous lifestyle conceals dark secrets. Rix's latest novel has been rejected by his publisher, and his return inspires thoughts about writing the Usher family history. While delving into the old documents in the library, he begins to uncover secrets and mysteries of the family.
McCammon's handling of the story's connection with its inspiration is well done. Poe's presence is certainly felt, from little story details to the climax of the book, but done with a light enough touch that it doesn't feel smothered by allusion. McCammon captures the traditional Gothic feeling of the doomed family and their imposing ancestral home, whose ominous presence reflects the family's own history. He gives these elements a very contemporary and Southern twist, giving the Usher's the Faulknerian feel of a family whose riches based off of the blood of others, but who have gained a certain measure of respectability thanks to their wealth and endurance. As the events of the novel unfold, the depths of the Usher family's crimes become explicit, and the judgment that falls across their house in the climax is worthy of Poe's original tale.
The book contains one short novel, a novella, and three short stories, revolving around the city of Veniss. Reminiscent of Harrison's Viriconium in the way the portrayal of the city changes so much, while some elements reappear from story to story. Not quite as memorable as Vandermeer's Ambergris, but an interesting blend of dystopian science fiction and dark fantasy elements.
Maybe because I'd heard so many good things about it, this book was something of a disappointment. It's an intriguing premise of a book, sort of a scaled-down version of House of Leaves, doing for possession/exorcism what HoL did for haunted houses. (There's even a Navidson reference.)
The story at the center is of a teen, Marjorie, whose erratic behavior leads one of her parents to believe she's possessed and bring in a priest to perform an exorcism. The exorcism becomes the subject of a reality TV program, which makes up another layer of the story. This is all being recounted by Merry, Marjorie's younger sister, as an adult. There's also a blogger whose posts comment on the reality show, who turns out to be adult Merry writing under a pseudonym.
It's an intriguing premise that never quite worked for me. Though the writing style was pretty good, it didn't reach the kind of complexity to story needed. Merry appears to be inspired by Merricat from We Have Always Lived in the Castle– She even poisons her entire family near the end of the story–but her voice never achieves the perfect balance of sinister and innocent, knowing and naive that Jackson achieved. While Tremblay can be complimented for even trying, the failure leaves something of a hole in the emotional heart of the novel.
The blog entries are a particular weak point. Some people hate the Johnny Truant sections of HoL, but at least Johnny felt like a real character. The blogs are written in a quirky, hyperactive style which winds up feeling like the narrative equivalent of the Steve Buscemi “How do you fellow kids?” meme. They also feel superfluous, the analysis they provide not serving to deepen the story but more to lampshade some weaker elements (some pretty direct rips from “The Exorcist”) and flatter or impress the reader (shout-outs to “The Castle of Otranto”, “The Haunting of Hill House” and various other Gothic classics).
The central premise of the title is the notion that stories and ghosts are analogous, possible stand-ins for each other, an interesting idea the novel never quite lives up to.
While Noctuary features some strikingly powerful stories, it's not an entirely successful collection and would seem to be a small let down from Ligotti's previous collection, Grimscribe. This may be because Noctuary, like Ligotti's debut Songs of a Dead Dreamer, is a transitional work. With Songs, it's clear that Ligotti was working to combine his literary influences with his own original voice and ideas to create something strikingly original yet very much within the tradition of weird fiction. This project would find it's full articulation in Grimscribe. Seen from the perspective of Songs and Grimscribe, Noctuary would seem to represent a step backwards or a sort of exhaustion. Ligotti has, of course, always trafficked in exhaustion whether Alice's weary adulthood as she faces her last adventures or the narrator's dismissal of horror stories in Nethescurial; yet realms of exhaustion often prove to be rather fertile for the generation of new horrors.
Among it's horrors are the death god of “The Prodigy of Dreams,” the supernatural vengeance of “Conversations in a Dead Language,” and the Lovecraftian dreams of “Mrs. Rinaldi's Angel,” all quite strong stories that feel somehow slight in this collection, as if Ligotti is spinning his wheels. One story, “The Tsalal,” while arguably along the same lines as much of the stories in Grimscribe, stands out because it is so powerfully crafted, perfectly structured and with the sort of shockingly inevitable ending that marks Ligotti's best work.
Other tales, such as “The Medusa,” in which an eccentric scholar seeks out the fabled monster whom he believes to be lurking in the every day world, or “Mad Night of Atonement,” in which a Nyarlathotep-like showman reveals the true will of God, feel markedly transitional, attempting to go a step beyond the previous confines of weird fiction, yet never quite making the leap. These stories, despite moments of brilliance, are somewhat disappointing, lacking the powerful build and surprise of Ligotti's previous works. Ligotti has, I believe, started to chafe against the bonds of his own chosen idiom, though this can be seen only from the perspective of his later work. With such collections as Teatro Grottesco, Ligotti would dispense with much of the Lovecraftian baroqueness of his earlier style, leaving behind the dark gods and forbidden texts, as well as stylistic flourishes, for a more banal and bleaker world. If stories such as “Medusa” and “Mad Night” disappoint, it is probably because Ligotti has already begun the process of trying to break free of his earlier style.
The final section of the novel is the Notebook of Night, a collection of brief vignette, rich in language and imagery but often nearly plotless. These also reveal Ligotti experimenting with how best to express his own dark concepts. This is my favorite section of the collection, since even those that don't quite work as tales still are full of wonderfully sinister atmosphere.
A group of Argentine criminals have got what could be a great heist planned out. They will grab the municipal payroll in a daring daytime robbery, then cross the river and slip into Uruguay until the heat dies down. The gang includes Gaucho Dorda and Nene Brignone, who are lovers; Cuervo Mereles, who swaggers with outlaw charisma; and Malito, a cold-blooded and calculating man and their defacto leader. The robbery goes off as planned, but they soon find themselves on the run, guns blazing as they drive their getaway car through the streets of Buenos Aires. Though the events related in Money to Burn seem outrageous enough to belong to a Tarantino film or a pulp crime novel, Ricardo Piglia as invented nothing in this hypnotizing tale of crime, loyalty and vengeance.
Piglia has a minor personal connection to the story, having met Mereles' ex-girlfriend in 1966 while on a train ride to Bolivia. During the trip, she told Piglia a confused and seemingly incredible story of the man she had been in a relationship with and the crimes he had been involved in. Though he never saw her again, he became fascinated by the story and began to research and attempt to write about it. It was a project that he ended up setting aside for the better part of two decades, only to return to and finish later.
Plata Quemada is a novelistic retelling of true events, with Piglia acknowledging where the historical record is ambiguous or incomplete. The only license taken is in the extent to which we get inside the heads of those involved, not just the criminals but also the police who are hunting them. What emerges is a fascinating portrayal of criminality and politics in Argentina and Uruguay of the 1960s, as well as an unforgettable portrayal of characters far outside the pale.
A modern reimagining of 1001 Arabian Nights wherein an outcast young woman relates a series of tales over several nights. Valente's prose echoes that of a transcribed oral tradition, with its parallelisms and colorful metaphors, for an oft engrossing series of adult fairy tales. Feminist in perspective, though never heavy handed. Simply delightful.
It'd be easy, as with Dead Until Dark/True Blood, just to say, well, it turns out that the pay cable adaptation is better than the original. Admittedly, this has that problem where all of supporting characters are really bland and one-dimensional but were given something like depth (or at least the illusion of depth).
The main problem was that Dexter himself really wasn't that funny or interesting. There were a few moments of a sort of dark lyricism, but much of his narration was just pedestrian, with a sort of marginal cleverness. There were a few moments where Dexter broke into alliteration, which only recalled Humbert Humbert from Lolita, a character who is genuinely funny, disturbing and strangely seductive. (All things Dexter attempted to be, yet fell short of.)
Overall, I wouldn't say it was terrible, but I'm not really tempted to continue on with the rest of the series.
Some men will put on elaborate, expensive, likely illegal masques of questionable Jungian imagery rather than suggest their friend go to therapy.
The books have lost a little of their impact since I read them back in high school, but the first three are still classics of comedy science-fiction. The last two novels (and the short story Young Zaphod Plays it Safe) have their moments, but I started to get the sense Adams was sort of tired of writing them by this point. I think what sets these apart from those authors (Christopher Moore, Terry Pratchett, Jasper Fforde, etc.) is that beyond the real sense of the absurdity of existence, the foibles of humanity and how most of us are trying to do the best we can in this crazy, mixed-up galaxy.
My second-favorite novel named The Flamethrowers.
I'd be curious to read more of Kushner's work, but if she ever publishes a novel called Hopscotch or The Seven Madmen or The Mad Toy, I'll probably skip it.
I was already aware of the consensus that “Titus Alone” was widely considered a severe let-down after the first two Gormenghast books, so my expectations were low to begin with. However, despite the obvious shift from those earlier works, Peake's talent, his love of language, his creativity and his knack for unique characters still shine through, so that while a little tricky at first, I soon found myself enraptured in the story just as I had with the previous novels.
It is hard to leave Gormenghast behind, both for Titus as well as the reader, and at first the feeling of reading a Titus novel set outside the realm of Gormenghast is a disorienting one. Peake doesn't make it any easier by setting the rest of Titus' adventures not in our own world (Wouldn't that be something, Gormenghast like some Gothic Shangri-la, a mythical kingdom lost to time and cartography?) but in a strange dystopian realm with a mix of old and futuristic technologies. Here he meets up with people who have never heard of Gormenghast and believe Titus to be mad. Though Titus finds new friends in this strange land, he also finds sinister enemies with he must contend. Though arguably not the ideal end to the series, especially since the ending leaves things open ended, it was still good to follow Titus' adventures for a little bit longer.
The book struck me as a sort of cross between The Eyre Affair and House of Leaves, combining the sort of inventive alternate realities of Fforde with the pomo typographical play of Danielewski. As with most X meets Y formulations, this one does not really do the book justice. Despite Hall's invetive metatextual world of word sharks, un-spaces, thought virus tycoons and conceptual boats the emotional core of the story is the protagonist's attempts to come to grips with the past and his own grief, guilt, memory. (A comparison with the movie Memento might also be apt, though Shark is more hopeful, less nihilistic.) An engaging, playful, but also very moving book.
"But I thought that was what poetry is, Mr. Harrow: circumspect. If it wasn't it would be just talk."
I thought I would enjoy this, and for the first few chapters I found the familiarity of it encouraging. Consider the premise: a young woman at a Bennington-like college, her literary aspirations, the lecherous married professor into whose circle she drifts, the peculiar roommates, her sense of alienation, and the suggestion of something darker lurking at the edges. Because I've had the good fortune to have read Ms. Jackson's (Don't call her Shirley) brilliant, hypnotic, disturbing [b:Hangsaman|131177|Hangsaman|Shirley Jackson|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1302734503s/131177.jpg|1825944], reading Beasts filled me with a powerful sense of deja vu.
Admittedly, the part of Hangsaman where the heroine, Natalie Waite, befriends and is charmed by a youngish professor and his somewhat unhinged wife makes up only a small part of the novel. It's as if Oates had decided to rewrite the older novel by concentrating only on the relationship with the professor and turning all of the subtext into text.
It might have worked. Oates is definitely a talented enough author to pull it off. Still, I found myself approaching its violent conclusion not with tension or glee but a sense of indifference, a lazy shrug. Maybe it is just the comparison with Hangsaman. Jackson knows how to zig when you think she'll zag, knows how to pull you into her protagonist's headspace as if the text had magic properties.
For all of its modern Gothic gestures, Beasts feels disappointingly linear, it's characters surprisingly flat. When it finally brings on its lurid revelations, they felt like the punchlines to jokes I had already heard.
Interestingly, circumspect means “cautious, prudent, or discreet.” I'm still asking myself whether the novel was too cautious or if it would have benefited from some discretion.
Near the end of the book, the philosophical melding of Lovecraft, Zen Buddhism and Schopenhauer and its meditation on a cosmic nihilism capable of erasing the relative nihilism that afflicts our contemporary lives made me begin to wonder if perhaps just as physicists have postulated that the universe moves inevitably towards a heat death, perhaps human consciousness moves inevitably towards a thought death, in which the piecing together of disassociated knowledge is the genesis of the new Dark Age. Which I guess isn't much of a review, and is something inspired by the book instead of taken from it. Still, if the above intrigues you, I suspect the book will as well.
Overall, a fun read, but the central conceit (Mythos story filtered through the prose and personality of important counterculture figure) feels a little creakier than it did in Move Under Ground.
It's always hard to know what to say about a classic, what with so much having already been said. I already knew quite a bit about the book, so it felt slow to me at first, but as it went on, it got much better, haunting in more than one sense of the word.
A thought-provoking look at Ghana and Ivory Coast, which produce about two-thirds of the world's supply of cocoa beans, and the contributions, both good and bad, that the cocoa industry makes to the lives of the people of those countries. Ryan goes beyond superficial impressions to show how the cocoa trade developed in these countries and how a lack of government accountability and investment have prevented the producers from reaping all the benefits from their role in the chocolate industry.