a flowery collection of Decadent fairy tales; the capital D means that these flowers are evil and they aren't even flowers, nor are these fairy tales a flowery collection of Decadent fairy tales; the capital D means that these flowers are evil and they aren't even flowers, nor are these fairy tales actual fairy tales. they are gemstones, precisely cut into floral shapes, entrancing to the eye, beautiful but dead; they are contes cruel, anti-fairy tales full of magic and awe, yet cold, ruthless, heartless. the intrepid young knight is no courtly rescuer, he is a savage raised to hate his father or women or both; his adventure is a waste of his life. the princess isn't human, she's made of silk and pearls; she shall be literally undone by a malevolent mouse. the fairy has kept her paramours enchanted; when another callous young knight appears, champion of Jesus, her lovers shall waken into putrescence, melting horribly into the ground. we never meet Snow White or her dwarven rescuers; the wicked Queen is halted on her mission of vengeance by the passing of Christ's Magi, and is soon torn apart by wolves. these are lovely, slight, and often nihilistic tales, with only one happy ending in sight. it did feel a bit out of place to see the lovers reunited, the girl's journey rewarded, the boy's heart unfrozen... but good for them. and good for decadent Jean Lorrain, journalist, Marcel Proust's old foe: he let one happy ending slip through, at least....more
a lot of beautiful libraries! but also a fair amount of ugly ones, mainly in Italy, which was surprising. whether beautiful or ugly, all of the librara lot of beautiful libraries! but also a fair amount of ugly ones, mainly in Italy, which was surprising. whether beautiful or ugly, all of the libraries in this massive, library-sized book (could easily kill a family of four with it) have been around for centuries - a few for over a thousand years. as far as "beautiful" goes, I think Spain, Portugal, Germany, and maaaaybe Brazil all tied for runner-up. second to the Vatican of course, which in a surprise twist is tied for first place with the relatively homey library at Eastnor Castle in England. besides the cozy castle library, all of the beautiful libraries look like hallucinogenic showrooms rather than anything usable. except for those that favor white pigskin bindings for books set in white shelves within white and pale blue walls; those libraries look like a sinister version of heaven (and also not usable). all of the ugly libraries look like wonderful settings for a creepy gothic adventure, but are certainly not places I'd like to visit because *dust*.
if you read the copious notes, expect to see the words "Rococo" and "Baroque" so many times that you'll never want to see those words again. the writer Elisabeth Sladek also leans very heavily on the words "sumptuous" and "magnificent" - the latter at one point is used twice in the same sentence, which should be a crime.
per my close friend Wikipedia, "The Grand Tour" was the 17th- to early 19th-century custom of a long trip through Europe, with Italy as a key destinatper my close friend Wikipedia, "The Grand Tour" was the 17th- to early 19th-century custom of a long trip through Europe, with Italy as a key destination, undertaken by upper-class young European men of sufficient means and rank when they had come of age.
this is a book of photographs, posters, postcards, other ephemera (and some brief introductions and commentaries) of various Grand Tours. it is organized into six itineraries - "classic tours" per the publisher - so the countries are not pleasingly grouped together but scattered throughout the book, which is certainly inconvenient and counter-intuitive. although I suppose if one is using this as a vehicle for fantasizing in a very organized way about being on a Grand Tour back in the day (which, yes I was), I suppose there is logic to how the book is arranged. amusingly, parts of North America, South America, and Africa are all crammed together in the last tour. that would certainly be some kind of itinerary, going to New York and then the Niagara Falls and then Canada and then down to Mexico and even further down to Brazil and then all the way across to South Africa!
anyway, despite the confusing structure of the book, I had a lot of fun looking at the countless photos (often colorized) of various countries - clearly from the very last part of the era noted by Wikipedia, since photography didn't really exist in prior times. such a fascinating window onto European countries and various colonial destinations during that era. good Lord, swimsuits were completely terrible back then! and all of the posters and postcards and luggage tags were fabulous - some wonderful art to ogle at. my edition is one of Taschen's mega-sized volumes, literally too heavy and large for most coffee tables, which just adds to the decadence of it all. idly flipping through these huge pages over the course of several nights, with Poirot on Britbox in the background, was an enjoyably transporting experience.
I spent a lot of time poring over that last cross-section, imagining what a sea voyage on one of those plus-sized steamers would be like. the poster helpfully labels each of the areas as 1st, 2nd, or 3rd class - would definitely not want to be traveling in 3rd class, yikes!...more
Two novellas and one short story, all gorgeously written. Unfortunately, the tales are not equally satisfying. They each take place in Tanith Lee's veTwo novellas and one short story, all gorgeously written. Unfortunately, the tales are not equally satisfying. They each take place in Tanith Lee's version of Marseilles, named Marcheval. The collection is misnamed; a more appropriate title would be SCHADENFREUDE. The focus is almost entirely on the internal, the psychological and the emotional, with no real interest in depicting a lushly atmospheric setting - and I rather expected lush atmosphere, given the author. The city itself comes across as fairly anonymous and not particularly different. Ok despite my whining, this is an estimable book, the prose is wonderful and each story glistens with striking imagery. For Tanith Lee fans like me, it is well worth reading. It is put out by the invaluable Immanium Press, who appear to consider it their mission to make sure Lee's more obscure titles remain accessible. Many thanks to them!
"Not Stopping at Heaven" - 3 stars An older woman marries a greedy young pig who's after her money and comes complete with an equally piggish mistress. Unfortunately for all three, this older woman has something quite horrible inside her that enjoys coming out to play. And by "play" I mean breaking each and every bone in her tormenter's body before sadistically killing said tormenter. This was an uncomfortable tale, possibly because each character is realistically rendered and none of them are remotely sympathetic. Verdict: satisfying.
"Idoll" - 2 stars A drab orphan comes to live at her snooty relatives' home, and it mystifies me that a family of merchants has the temerity to act snooty to anyone, even an orphan. He said snootily. They sneakily worship a skeletal doll ensconced in the attic because why not. The orphan also finds worship of this mercantile idol to be strangely enjoyable, and in the end, life/death-affirming. Verdict: less than satisfying.
"The Portrait in Gray" - 5 stars Alice mourns the death of her brother, who has died by his own hand, lovelorn over the heartless and vicious Eugenie. Unfortunately for the fair Eugenie, the celebrated painter Alice is nicknamed M'alice by those in the know. This novella takes elements from The Picture of Dorian Gray and puts them at play in an enjoyable revenge plot. The imagery here is stunning, from the portrait of the icy and thoroughly evil Eugenie in all of her crystalline beauty to the portrait itself, which portrays Eugenie's sickening and hideous interior, suddenly exposed for all to gape at. And M'alice has more revenge than a scary painting in store for Eugenie... Verdict: extremely satisfying!...more
"The Scourge and the Sanctuary" - an occultist breaks into an empty penthouse and finds that it is not empty and that you cannot trespass i
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"The Scourge and the Sanctuary" - an occultist breaks into an empty penthouse and finds that it is not empty and that you cannot trespass into a place that is your own home. This luxurious little story served as a reminder to me of the themes that entrance the author (and that entranced me, especially The Academy Outside of Ingolstadt)... intensely personal exploration of mysteries and Mysteries, occult spirituality as both practice and perspective, the mortification of the flesh as gateway to moving beyond this mortal coil, maps and meanings hidden within landscapes and architecture. The story also functions as an introduction, of sorts, to the tenets of Gnosticism and a rejoinder to the idea that "apostasy" is actually, well, apostasy. All in all, a pleasingly light read, he said sardonically, made all the more pleasant by the stylish violet prose and stylized artificiality that I've come to expect and always appreciate when reading this talented author.
"Permutations of the Citadel" - a desk clerk at an opulent hotel explores the strange physical dimensions of his workplace, inbetween the occasional rendezvous with a much older woman; meanwhile, his friend constructs elaborate yet obscure jests to play upon the hotel guests and the hotel itself. This was a tantalizing story of searching beyond the mirror for an alternate place, an alternate path. Studying maps and musing over measurements, traveling through various doors and entranceways, ascending strange staircases and descending onto stranger balconies the curious fellow goes, not sure of what he is looking for but seeking it nonetheless. I was reminded of the author's glittering Abyssinia, which portrays a similarly shifting landscape. Murphy has a bit of a misstep when detailing the words of a priestess encountered on the other side - much too literal, too explicit. Fortunately, the rest of this absorbing vignette is steeped in the ambiguity that I crave from such journeys.
"The Salamander Angel" - how can you not love that title? This is the most structurally ambitious piece that I've read yet from the author. "Salamander" juggles multiple perspectives, letters & articles, and a wry narrator in its depiction of various characters engaging in various occult activities in an unknown city. It all leads to a phantasmagorical finale (if "finale" can even be used - perhaps "beginning" is more appropriate) in which a meteoric lodestone, the demon star Algol (a personal favorite), and a statue of the titular angel herald transformation within and without. Astral projection, statues coming to life, bizarre letters sent and burned, portals opening, arcane rituals enacted, synaesthesia and Stendahl syndrome all have a happy home in this uplifting tale of people getting what they want. Reading this novella made me look forward to efforts of similar narrative complexity put out by Murphy. However, those other efforts will hopefully be reviewed by a more attentive editor! There are a number of disappointments on a technical level in the writing - errors that could have easily been corrected by an editor who cared enough to point out the misuse of certain words and who had the courage to tell this splendid occultist that sometimes his prose veered regrettably towards the self-parodic. Still, all in all, this was a very enjoyable story. And the most openly witty yet by Murphy.
"A Book of Alabaster" - an erudite loner plays a game that leads to strange places. Color me surprised to find a Damian Murphy story that is about a video game! I'm so used to more rarified settings from him, and would not have imagined that the interior of an outdated video game would prove to feature many of his hallmarks. I'm not remotely a gamer, so this story about an increasingly hallucinatory virtual adventure felt much more foreign to me than any baroque hotel could ever feel. Although a bit overwritten at times, the story effectively portrayed the protagonist's insular life, his questionable memories, and of course the landscape of the game itself. The imagery of a game avatar entering the body of a threatening, macroscopic angel that is all eyes and flame was wild. Despite retaining the motifs and themes of his other works, this is the most straightforward "tale of horror" that I've read so far from the author.
"The Music of Exile" - a poetess is instructed in the art of maintaining rather than traversing liminal space; a luminosity from within is displayed, feared, and at last understood; houses and altars are explored and evaluated; a radiant dawn is avoided and a radiant darkness is embraced.
At first I was discomfited to realize that I was actually reading a story about poetesses and their craft, with actual examples of their poems (never, ever my thing). But soon enough, I left that discomfort behind when in a flash I realized that this was the Damian Murphy who first enchanted me. Sadly, with that knowledge came an uncomfortable reevaluation of the prior stories. Alabaster's focus on the horror the horror, and its gotcha ending, suddenly felt rather cheap... Citadel's permutations and Sanctuary's scourges seemed like too-obvious warm-up exercises for superior works like Abyssinia and Ingolstadt and this story... Salamander's narrative complexity now seemed to be a path towards mainstream fiction (all that cross-cutting between various POVs!) that I am relieved Murphy chose not to take. Of course, I still enjoyed all of those tales, they all remain of value. Fun stuff.
But "Music of Exile" just feels so much more pure, so much more a distillation of what the author himself is all about. The oblique storytelling, the hypnotic cadence, the chilly characterization built from psychological ambiguity rather than from stylized caricature, the overtly formal dialogue, decadence and hallucinatory landscapes as givens rather than as goals, prose that is dreamily strange yet crystalline rather than lushly overripe and at times overly cooked, bizarre imagery that somehow feels bizarrely natural when placed within a tale that is less a narrative and more a spiritual journey, and above all, the calm even zen-like confidence on display. Although I'm a bit sad that this story revealed the preceding stories' flaws so clearly, I'm mainly delighted that the collection ended with such a masterful display of Murphy's skills. By the time I closed this book, my eyes were wide open again to his unique talents.
Beautiful little jewels of stories, of varying hue and setting. Fanciful mini-biographies, richly imagined, of diverse tone and mood. The masks of TraBeautiful little jewels of stories, of varying hue and setting. Fanciful mini-biographies, richly imagined, of diverse tone and mood. The masks of Tragedy and of Comedy, sometimes interchanged within the same tale. Wee concertos of shifting arrangement, from the Renaisance style to the Baroque, to the Classical and then to the Romantic, and on to Modernism. Marcel Schwob may have been taught in the Modernist school but his music embraces all movements, all lives, imaginary and otherwise.
These stories, or essays, or trifles, or charming, knowingly plagiaristic oddments, were written near the end of the 19th century and collected in 1896. And yet their irony and romanticism, their frequent nihilism and their occasional hopefulness, feel so modern.
They are all excellent, but my favorites were the sardonic yet mind-expanding "Lucretius" and the bit of fabulist whimsy "Suffrah" and the mean-spirited, frequently over the top "Cyril Tourneur" and of course the four pirate tales that close the book on a mordant and distinctly anti-piratical note. The final story is also excellent, if rather self-excoriating: "Messrs. Burke and Hare" implicitly compares the author's recounting of "imaginary" lives to the dark deeds of a pair of murderers who induce their victims to tell the story of their lives before murdering them, and later, changing tactics, enjoy making a dramatic miming mockery of those lives while murdering them.
I beg to differ, Marcel! Surely you're not as bad as that.
♪ ♫ ♬
"Empedocles" - in Ancient Sicily, a healer and resurrectionist is worshipped as a god; inevitably, the flames of Mt. Etna shall prove he died a mortal.
"Herostratus" - in Ancient Ephesus, an angry virgin shall bring fire to the temple of Artemis; and so proceeds to an evitable conclusion of torture and erasure.
"Crates" - in Ancient Thebes, a philosopher shall live as a dog in the streets; as with all good dogs, he shall rank affection over hygiene.
"Septima" - in Ancient Hadrumentum, a spurned slave shall beg the dead to intercede; as with all such lovelorn lovers, only death can cool their heat.
"Lucretius" - in Roman Times, a Stoic nobleman loves a murderous African; a lesson is learned about atoms swelling and joining and retracting, much the same as love and life.
"Clodia" - in Roman Times, a noblewoman is accustomed to influence and incest; a lesson is learned about how the toxic will poison their own stock, their own selves.
"Petronius" - in Roman Times, an aesthete moves from languour to spinning tales of adventure to wanderlust; a lesson is learned about how life is fullest when at its dirtiest.
"Suffrah"- in Fabled North Africa, a wizard tricked by Aladdin reads signs in the sand; alas, the gift of immortality may mean a living death.
"Fra Dolcino" - in the Holy Roman Empire, a monk takes the apostlic path; alack, the Lord's Word will not protect a band of thieving apostles.
"Cecco Angiolieri" - in Renaissance Italy, a malcontent nurses grievances against his father and against Dante; the nature of Chaos shall provide him a tumultuous life.
"Paolo Uccello" - in Renaissance Italy, a painter devotes all of his attention to creating the perfect series of lines; the nurture of Order shall provide him a life devoid of life.
"Nicolas Loyseleur" - in Medieval France, a judge tricks and lies to Joan of Arc; torture is his recommendation but it is the judge himself who shall end tormented.
"Katherine the Lacemaker" - in Medieval France, a woman's life is a downward spiral of degradation; a tortured life shall end in mud, in murder.
"Alain the Kind" - in Medieval France, a child of war shall become as those who kidnapped him; a life of thievery and murder shall eventually end in torture.
"Gabriel Spenser" - in Elizabethan England, a brothel's brat becomes a fetching drag actor; fate will declare that identity may change, but death comes to all.
"Pocahontas" - in the New World and the Old, a king's child becomes rescuer then captive then honored guest; destiny will decide that identity may change, but death comes to all.
"Cyril Tourneur" - in Jacobean England, a dramatist's life shall be dramatised; it is clear that Marcel Schwob had much admiration but little love for this strange moralist. LOL!
"William Phips" - in treacherous waters, a treasure hunter shall attain his goal; pity the man who achieves their goal and still has some life yet to live.
"Captain Kidd" - in treacherous waters, a gentleman shall become a predator; pity the pirate's victims, and pity the pirate himself, haunted by his prey.
"Walter Kennedy" - in treacherous waters, a roustabout shall become a pirate captain; pity the impatient corsair who minces words with a patient Quaker.
"Major Stede Bonnet" - in treacherous waters, a gentleman of Barbados shall become as his idol Blackbeard; pity the fool whose childish dreams encounter an adult world.
"Messrs. Burke and Hare" - in treacherous London, two knaves listen to stories and end those storytellers' lives; and so this author Schwob finds certain... commonalities....more
"Faust's Grandson" - you may want to offer your soul to Satan, but He may think such a paltry offering is... rather droll.
"The Mystery Woman" - you ma"Faust's Grandson" - you may want to offer your soul to Satan, but He may think such a paltry offering is... rather droll.
"The Mystery Woman" - you may idolize that girl and put her atop a pedestal, but She may just want to be... a merry tramp.
"Fantastic Tram" - you may think you're chasing her across time and space, but You are actually just.. sleeping off a binge.
"The Incredulous Parrot" - you may delight in the choir of lovely young maidens, but It compares them to... a load of camels.
"Pierrot and His Conscience" - you may mix with throngs, give all of yourself to a girl, but Your Conscience is... unimpressed.
"The Emerald Princess" - you may long for that strange and serpentine beauty, but Fate will turn fierce love to fiercer... hate... and then back to love again... to everything, turn turn turn, there is a season...
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Four wispy delights; I've already forgotten them. But I do remember liking them! Like four little chocolate truffles.
One novella: "The Emerald Princess". A decadent extravaganza about a handsome pearl fisherman, his brave brother, a surreal journey through a series of nightmarescapes, and a Princess with the tongue of a deadly snake. 'Tis a bitter kiss that awaits the would-be ardent lovers she picks from the peasant crowds: what follows is short-lived bliss in her luxurious palace, some brief erotic grappling, and then an agonizing death. Champsaur must have written this one in the throes of a delirium, or perhaps was rhapsodical after overindulging in an absinthe binge. The prose is gorgeous, as befits a tale that reads like a particularly adult story from A Thousand and One Nights. Unfortunately for me, I found Champsour's lack of interest in explaining exactly why the painful deaths of countless charmed young men and especially one very brave servant girl were actually even necessary. Why Princess why? That lack of motivation really set my teeth on edge. Well, I guess that's decadence for you: an ornate style covering a beautiful but heartless body. (view spoiler)[ Bonus irritation points for overuse of the word "nacreous" (which I blame on the author) and a misunderstanding of what the word "cupidity" actually means (I blame it on the translator). Cupidity is about money not love, for chrissakes consult a dictionary! (hide spoiler)]
There is one pure gem in the mix, "Pierrot and His Conscience". One evening, Pierrot rises from his grave to visit the Parisienne nightlife, to see if much has changed in the half-century since his death. And next to him rises a lovely damsel, his Conscience: always by his side, always respected but ignored, and clad in charming counterpoint to his vestments of pearl-white with ebony flair: she saunters about dressed all in black from head to toe, save for the occasional flash of white. Together they stroll through the crowds of gay Paree. And together they are disappointed about how tawdry things have become, sensuality replaced by a cheap lack of style and above all, a depressing cupidity. Things go from bad to worse when amorous Pierrot is fooled by a cruel, cunning woman who at least has style to burn. It ends in sighs, as the depressed pair return to their graveyard home. Alack & Alas for the remorseless wheel of time and the inevitable degradation of Parisienne party people!
This story was perfect from beginning to end. The style is sinuous and the characters plaintive, but best of all were the vivacious descriptions of the corrupted night life and the visions of how much more superior was the society of yesteryear. Of course one can't help but roll eyes at the idea of Old Man Felicien moaning and groaning about how things are just so tacky nowadays unlike the good old days when everything was so much more real and full of passion and and and boo hoo hoo. But I can't fault him, I sure do the same thing. Things were definitely cooler back when I was cool! Kids these days just don't know what they're missing etc etc etc....more
French dandy Philippe Julian was an illustrator, art historian, biographer, and occasional writer of fiction. His interests: the morbid, the grotesqueFrench dandy Philippe Julian was an illustrator, art historian, biographer, and occasional writer of fiction. His interests: the morbid, the grotesque, the ornate; homoeroticism, transvestism, sadomasochism; and above all, decadence. And thank you very much Wikipedia for letting me know about all of those sides of him. I would have just left it at "Philippe Julian was super perverted" if it weren't for my good buddy Wikipedia dropping some knowledge on me. And thank you very much Sketchbook for their review of this, which reminded me that I've had this squirreled away for a couple decades, unread. Anyway, it sounds like Julian was a man after my own heart. Although I have yet to mess with transvestism. One of these days...
So yeah this book is what one would call deliciously decadent. It's a dessert dish featured as an entree, followed by more dessert dishes, oh and they are all made of poison. A toxic confection. It is basically a series of stories told to a young Frenchman by a blind Scandinavian beggar in Cairo, recounting that beggar's former life as a bored student abroad who is willingly kidnapped and delivered into a very strange court existing on an Egyptian peninsula. And there he finds that the sex is plentiful (and free!), the days are hot and the nights are cool but um also pretty hot, the men are women, the women are men, the servants are enslaved, the children are for sale, the ruler is one of the last remaining survivors of the Russian aristocracy and her guests are various famous authors & aristocrats & assholes. Eventually, everyone's ridiculous ambitions combined with a ghastly but understandable uprising by those exiled from this court to some awful backyard will cause it all to end in flames, murder, atrocity, and an almost offhand blinding of our poor Nordic stud who should probably have kept his own ambitions in check and escaped long ago with one or more of his girlfriends and some filched royal jewels. Plus the novel features a highly intelligent baboon named Monsieur who is basically the only decent individual in the entire cast.
SPOILER sweet Monsieur survives!
I enjoyed it all well enough. What is it saying? Not much, just appreciate the slow decadent ride. You already know that really really really rich people are capable of doing some really really really fucked up things, and hey the same goes for the middle class people and the poor people as well. Doing really fucked up things to each other is surely a hallmark of the human race.
However I do wish the decadence of the story was matched by equally decadent prose. I kept imagining what someone like Angela Carter could have done with this. Swoon at the thought of all of that overripe prose put in service of such a diabolical narrative! But Julian is an unfortunately dry writer, probably due to his time spent as an historian and biographer. And I don't like my decadence to be served dry, I prefer it overly sauced....more
such pretty nightmares. oh the monstrous architecture, the pastel-hued romance, the flora the fauna the statuary, the opaque surrealism of it all. I wsuch pretty nightmares. oh the monstrous architecture, the pastel-hued romance, the flora the fauna the statuary, the opaque surrealism of it all. I was particularly surprised by the idea of the Green-Light District: a bordello, of sorts, where unwilling sisters provide a nighttime pastime for melancholy spirits. shudder/swoon. such pretty nightmares, although that last chapter was quite disgusting.
synopsis: an alchemist covets his niece's jewelry, and more....more
these characters are dangerously overripe fruit fit to burst, to spray fluids and seed everywhere, juices sickly sweet and pungently sour a
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these characters are dangerously overripe fruit fit to burst, to spray fluids and seed everywhere, juices sickly sweet and pungently sour and acridly bitter, their flesh glossy, their innards rotting. they love their melodrama and they! love! their! exclamation! points!! they arrive on this island paradise ready to break down and ready to break each other down. they are witches and warlocks, actresses and groupies, innocent twins and a predatory 14 year old, priests and virgins and whores of both genders. they burst all over each other while playing various inexplicable games and enacting various inane rituals, all created solely to reveal their hollow cores and lack of soul, and to provide what skeleton there is of a plot. the characters and the story itself teeter constantly between seething malevolence and outraged shock.
this is a rarified world of sophisticates who are basically garbage people. it also appears to be a view of Straight World through a very dated gay lens. the women are mainly over the top, theatrically emotional divas - drag queens turned into women but who have no relation to any women that I've ever met. perhaps I should spend more time with sophisticated garbage people? there is a trans woman as well, treated respectfully by the other guests but quite cruelly by the far from woke author. the men are all studs, their bodies drooled over, fit and hung and hairy (even the priest and even the boy - whose oversize equipment and fuzzy legs are repeatedly described), all ready to fuck with your head while feigning interest in fucking your body. toxic predators, with a smattering of prey. the book itself is quite toxic in its hilariously overheated take on human nature, power, secrets, and sexuality. well, straight people have written gay characters as vicious predators for who knows how long, so I suppose turnabout is fair play. but that doesn't make the book any less noxious, and obnoxiously written. I imagine the lesson to be learned here, the underlying theme, is a fairly reductive one: trust no one, not even yourself; you are probably better off dead.
the book is pretentious, silly, and trashy, yet enjoyable in the way that a bad movie is enjoyable. a bad movie of the excessively mannered, melodramatic, arty sort. it takes itself all too seriously which makes it a pleasing experience to laugh at it. you have to understand that it is telling you nothing useful about the human condition and that its attempt at ambiguous storytelling is a joke; there is nothing in The Vampires that is actually worth understanding. but it is also a lot of fun at times, a rickety rollercoaster tour of garbage lives, a water ride where everyone is drenched and everyone's clothes have to come off. the book has a garbage perspective on relationships, gender, life itself. but! it! is! still! a lot! of pretentious! trashy! silly! stupid! mean! fun!
These varied stories drawn from various themed collections and deploying a variety of styles also varied dramatically in quality.
I first became aware These varied stories drawn from various themed collections and deploying a variety of styles also varied dramatically in quality.
I first became aware of the author via his story "Dancing Boy" in A Book of the Sea, which was the highlight of that collection. And so I thought I knew what I'd be getting into when I started this: it would be a collection of psychologically astute, empathetic tales of misunderstood people who are led astray by folklore, the elements, their own poorly understood motivations, other people, the world itself. The writing would be evocative, the themes subtly introduced, the prose precise.
The themes do remain intact; all artists will bring their personal perspectives to their works, and those perspectives are processed via the themes they choose, or that perhaps appear unconsciously. And so Valerie and Other Stories details the journeys of various outsiders, people misunderstood and who lack understanding of their identities. They are led astray or afar by many things: the moon and the woodlands, their emotions and lusts, their faith in other people, the lack of clarity in their own intentions. Fragile things, one and all.
What I didn't expect was how much of a chameleon Insole turned out to be! The man has a wide range of skills, no doubt. I think most of these stories were tailored to reflect the subjects of the collections where they first appeared. And so there are stories about stars and temples, faerie and films, philosophical ideas. The wide differences in both subject matter and story style can be jarring and a bit off-putting. At times, Insole overreaches, and sometimes overwrites.
The differences between three stories were particularly noticeable to me: "The Binding" and "A Blue Dish of Figs" and the title story are all about mortal incursions into strange otherworlds (and vice versa). I felt that the "The Binding" was the more traditional and unsurprising of the three but also the most resonantly mythic, and the most successful. This story of a changeling and her mother who seek to break a cycle of exploitation is perfectly told. "Blue Dish" is more challenging, more experimental in its style, and overall is an absorbing but flawed, at times frustrating piece; it is about a schoolteacher following her fey student into places unknown. And I often quite disliked the stilted, artificial "Valerie" which concerns itself with a haunting childhood friendship (although for some, other readers consider this to be one of the stronger stories). I also was not a fan of Insole's more explicitly referential stories: "The Slaves of Paradise" uses the marvelous film "Children of Paradise" as a starting point and "Salammbô and the Zaïmph" is obviously indebted to Flaubert; I thought both were beautifully written but strained, overdone, and rather pointless.
My favorites were the first and last pieces, "The Binding" noted above, and "Dance for a Winter Moon". "Dance" is a haunting depiction of the cruelty of fate and the perhaps inevitable destiny of those who become part of a culture but in the end, do not truly understand that culture. "The Abdication of the Serpent" channels the master Clark Ashton Smith in its gorgeous descriptions of a fascinating society, the romanticism of its elderly hero's quest, and its almost overripe, hallucinatory dreaminess. And the brilliant "The Hill of Cinders" - the star of the collection - is a novella both mysterious and mordant, perfectly paced, full of dire irony. It is, essentially, about the evils that men may accomplish if nihilism and self-interest are their guides, the cyclical quality of those evils as they reappear again and again throughout time, the lack of understanding within such men of why they do these things, and the ashes of failure that are the appropriate ending for such lives. Curiously enough, fellow readers saw a certain neutrality in this tale that I did not, as if the author perhaps sympathized with the repugnant protagonist and his battle against systems of power, against his home, country, the family of mankind. I did not see any such thing; to me, the moral stance on display was crystalline.
Insole's spiritual interests are decidedly pre-Christian, so I thought I'd amuse myself by using Biblical verses to synopsize each story:
"The Hill of Cinders" - Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
"The Binding" - You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.
"The Slaves of Paradise" - Good were it for that man if he had not been born.
"Dance for a Winter Moon" - The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, before the day of the Lord comes.
"A Blue Dish of Figs" - The mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
"Salammbô and the Zaïmph of Tanit" - For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality...
"Dreams from the Apple Orchards" - Put no trust in a neighbor; have no confidence in a friend; guard the doors...
"Valerie" - Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me.
"The Abdication of the Serpent" - For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.
A totally trifling thing I noticed: the author repeatedly uses the image of saliva running from mouth to pillow as a way to denote a debauched or deluded character. C'mon, Colin! Doesn't everybody drool in their sleep? At least a little bit?...more
synopsis: the fossilized gargoyles play games in their ancient castle above the Czech town of Moldau; the confused and angry peasants plot revolt fromsynopsis: the fossilized gargoyles play games in their ancient castle above the Czech town of Moldau; the confused and angry peasants plot revolt from below. young violinist Otakar dreams of his destiny to become Emperor; his aristocrat lover Polyxena dreams of a bloodthirsty ancestor finding new form within her young body. the old whore Lizzie is a protector and embraces the human kind; her old lover, Dr. Halberd, regains his own humanity as he descends into senility. the eerie, clownish village idiot Zrcadlo is a puppet for dark forces and shall channel nemesis; a drum shall beat, made of his skin. it is Walpurgis Night again, a time of bonfires and feasts, of burning witches and of orgiastic embrace: a time of change has come.
this surreal and scabrous death-farce laughs a dead hollow laugh - all the better to conceal its deep mourning for the human kind and all of their works. Walpurgisnacht scours everything in sight: no surface shall remain unabraded, no skin unflayed. change may be painful but the transformation is necessary. Meyrink names and then exorcises many demons: the backwards-looking aristocracy, mired in their memories, senescent; the forward-looking revolutionaries, savage and foolish and terminally myopic, lusting for power.
a compelling tale, fascinating in its implications. most interesting to me: the idea of old evils being projected into new bodies. Otakar: remade into a vessel for fascist supremacy, a tool for the Empire to be reborn. Polyxena: willingly possessed, a receptacle for the decadence of years past, an instrument for aristocracy's renewal of control. Horrifying Zrcadlo: undead jester, a channel and a mirror. Your worst fears and your darkest self and your barely-forgotten crimes shall be mimed by Zrcadlo, for all to see. Unknowable forces will animate him, distant powers will speak through him, he will break minds and suck life away. Zrcadlo will be the drum that beats for a terrible change. 'Tis Walpurgis Night, a time for metamorphosis! *shudder*...more
The castle is the man: austere, remote, full of a blinding light. The two visitors are the man: the first, a cynic and manipulator, a friend and a foeThe castle is the man: austere, remote, full of a blinding light. The two visitors are the man: the first, a cynic and manipulator, a friend and a foe; the second, a seeker and a secret-keeper, a lover and a lure. The forest is the man: all paths lead back to him; all paths are the same. The murderer is the man: he takes the dagger and uses it. The murdered are the man: he yearns to dream and so slashes his own throat; he attempts to escape and so stabs his own back. This castle has been built for one; and so a man shall live alone.
In his afterward, Gracq makes clear his scorn for "symbolic explanation" and the excruciating finiteness of saying this equals that. Gracq is a surrealist; he eschews the finite. Gracq would no doubt scorn my first paragraph. Scorn me, Gracq! You make your mind all too clear, your characters like Jungian archetypes, the castle itself a metaphor, as with forest and path and grave, as with secret passageway from basement to bedroom. Sometimes the inside is easier to read from the outside. I am on the outside of the castle, evaluating it, contemplating its inhabitants. Gracq lives inside that castle. Which of us sees the forest for the trees?
In his afterward, Gracq makes clear his love for the classic gothic, for Mysteries of Udolpho and House of Usher and the like; he writes that The Castle of Argol is paean to such works. This fascinating book has little in common with such works. Those are works of darkness, fields of shade and shadow concealing murky human emotions, twisted narratives shaped by those twisted emotions, layers hiding layers. Quite unlike those gothics, this is a work of shining, scouring light. A clear path is cleared. A radiant clarity is achieved, for protagonist and for reader looking into the castle, from the forest and from the paths below.
The book's incandescence dazzled me. Gracq's focus on the spatial is a hallmark of this story's brightness: the castle mapped out so deliberately, so clearly; the protagonist's body described so carefully, so lucidly; the forest and weather and other elemental things rendered with perfect understanding of how such things look and sound and feel. A painter's eye, and an architect's. The characters' mutual longing for something beyond themselves is illustrated over the course of disparate set pieces. My favorite: the three of them at sea, ecstatic and delirious, swimming ever outward, no matter if to their deaths: a brilliantly lit scene, illuminating their disengagement with mortal things, their inchoate, barely understood search for the unmapped territories, the ineffable, those ideas not to be described with mere verbiage, or made knowable through easy symbolism. These characters live in light; they yearn to be blinded by their own enlightenment.
Synopsis: a rich young man buys a castle in the country; all levels are explored....more
as a precocious 13-year-old lad, our narrator - nicknamed "Lord Snooty" by bullying classmates - becomes infatuated with an archaic automaton named Toas a precocious 13-year-old lad, our narrator - nicknamed "Lord Snooty" by bullying classmates - becomes infatuated with an archaic automaton named Toxine, sadly not functioning. even more sadly, she is soon sold after his father witnesses a certain indiscretion. and so creating his own Toxine becomes an overriding obsession; as an insane adult, he engineers faulty mannequin after faulty mannequin, until realizing that it is human flesh that must be subsumed by porcelain and gears. enter a new boarder - a lass ripe for his plucking and remaking.
this is an exceedingly uncomfortable story. overripely romantic in our protagonist's pretentious, heavy-breathing depictions of his love for Toxine, and gorgeously written at that. but sardonic distance and lush prose can't prettify a story about an abused runaway finding a different sort of abuse at the hands of a madman. fortunately, Capricious Calder remains sharply aware of such timeless ills as the Male Gaze, the desire to turn women into perfect dolls, the nostalgia for the old ways of Submissive Wife and Man the King, Man the Creator. his horror tale swoons at, not with, its anti-hero's sickness....more
these bejeweled wisps of stories seek to transport their readers to exotic lands and states of mind redolent of Lord Dunsany and Clark Ashton Smith. tthese bejeweled wisps of stories seek to transport their readers to exotic lands and states of mind redolent of Lord Dunsany and Clark Ashton Smith. the atmosphere is thick and overripe, the prose is richly purple. the characters are dreamy poets and mournful lovers and melancholy death-seekers, all with hair of sable and clad in silks. it was a pleasant enough excursion, pain-free. however, amidst the fragrance of jasmine and rose, betwixt the towering walls of adjectives, between the endless inventory of various precious gems and metals, I also caught a distinct scent of... amateurishness. a disappointing aroma!...more
...and so the golden pheasant will find itself ensnared, perhaps willingly. will it be reborn? the golden path will always lead to transformation. per...and so the golden pheasant will find itself ensnared, perhaps willingly. will it be reborn? the golden path will always lead to transformation. perhaps this golden pheasant will become a golden phoenix...
Damian Murphy scores a third time with me, in this absorbing tale of teen Valérie's sojourn outside of Tours, France. Valérie is likewise absorbed, first with the hallucinatory wallpaper in her chateau, which appears to be leading her... somewhere. And then with the appropriately named Séraphine, a local aristocrat and perhaps enchantress, and with a book and a keepsake that belongs to that strange woman, items that appear to be keys for Valérie to use... somehow. And finally with that mysterious top level in Séraphine's manse, which surely leads... someplace.
the author's prose is as elegant and pellucid as ever. mystery delivered with clarity. the transparency of the prose and careful pacing grounds the narrative's waking dream ambiguity. this novella is built with both dream logic and the real world logic of realistic characterization. unlike the protagonists of my past two experiences with this author (The Academy Outside of Ingolstadt and Abyssinia, both amazing), I understood who Valérie was immediately. she was automatically real to me in her reactions to her surroundings, her father, an admirer, her schoolmates, and her fascination with the unknown, with rituals that could help her to move beyond the prosaic and the knowable. even the mysterious Séraphine became a very real person to me: a spellbinding predator who preys upon Valérie, but who will also be a useful tutor - or perhaps tool? - to help Valérie take that next step onto the golden path. in the end, the student will no doubt rise above and beyond the teacher....more
a box of charming confections, if stories that nonchalantly discuss gateways to other dimensions, clockwork devices that can end it all, and various ha box of charming confections, if stories that nonchalantly discuss gateways to other dimensions, clockwork devices that can end it all, and various haunting entities bleeding into our world to lead us astray could be considered either charming or confectionary. the feel of these yarns is soft, gauzy, wispy. despite the frequent bits of weird horror, this is a collection of dreamy sighs rather than fearful gasps. The Connoisseur is a stylish and erudite gentleman of leisure, often seen gazing wistfully at a striking view or a melancholy painting before pouring a cup of exotic tea or a thimble of even more exotic liqueur then sitting himself down to slowly unspool his various cozy tales of unsettling portals and vaguely threatening extradimensional disturbances. the authors Valentine and Howard write similarly, their prose a rarified pastiche of the classic weird fiction style. probably best not to be greedy, and to enjoy these lovely little treats a bit at a time and not all in one fell swoop. except for one misstep (the overly arch "Hesperian Dragon"), I enjoyed them all. I especially liked the strange rocking-horse creatures that bear their riders to bizarre dreamscapes in "The Craft of Arioch" and the Cubist building whose architecture encourages otherworldly encroachment in "Lucifer Cafe" and the Mysteries-reenactment gone awfully awry of "In Violet Veils" and the sinister anti-orrery of "The Lost Moon". my favorite was the very atmospheric "The Prince of Barlocco" - although calling any of these pieces 'atmospheric' feels rather obvious, as they are each dripping with it....more
A beautiful collection of stories. Diverse in tone and varied in subject. Despite the frequent and welcome scent of old school decadence that perfumesA beautiful collection of stories. Diverse in tone and varied in subject. Despite the frequent and welcome scent of old school decadence that perfumes many of these tales, what makes them resonant is Schwob's clear empathy. It is the unifying factor amidst so much that is unalike.
The book and the stories within are well-known for springing from sources other than their author's mind. Schwob often lifted entire sections from the archaic originals. And so they are not original - and yet they feel original, thanks to his own force of personality, visible in his elegant style, the free-floating sense of longing and melancholy, the noted empathy, and the sardonic wit.
"He believed that all had been said, and forgotten," ... "His art was the gift of choice and amalgamation. He found the origin of all his books. He was not unaware that his were made of the debris of many others."
Highly recommended for admirers of Borges and the like.
"The King in the Golden Mask" - in his decadent court, the king masked in gold wonders what lies beneath; sadly, he comes ill-equipped for the disease called reality.
"The Death of Odjigh" - at the end of time, Odjigh the wolf-slayer searches for signs of life; happily, life will often spring from death.
"The Terrestrial Fire" - as the world burns, two adolescents flee to the sea, huddling in a barge; happily, love is born, and baptized with flame.
"The Embalming Women" - in the Libyan desert, two brothers find a strange oasis populated by odd women; sadly, a corpse's kiss is cold comfort indeed.
"The Plague" - two Florentine youths leave their plague-ridden city in search of adventure; sadly, an old jest becomes less than comic.
"The Faulx-Visaiges" - across the countryside, masked bands of men enact various depradations and atrocities; happily, torture can have therapeutic value.
"The Eunuchs" - in ancient times, drinkers of pink wine ruminate on their bucolic past lives, young and free, before slavery; sadly, what has been taken seldom returns.
"The Milesian Virgins" - in Miletus, a wave of suicides: virgins found hanging from rafters; sadly, Athena's mirror has supplanted the promises of Aphrodite.
"52 and 53 Orfila" - in an institution for seniors, passionate rivals coo and flirt over a doddering gent; happily, enforced exile remains the best way to handle a tramp, of any age.
"The Sabbat at Mofflaines" - a knight is invited to attend a merry dinner celebrating His Infernal Majesty; sadly, small minds will seek to curtail such merriments.
"The Talking Machine" - an invitation to attend upon a certain machine is issued by a talkative old crank; happily, a machine may choose to make its own pronouncements.
"Bloody Blanche" - in an evil Count's lair, a child-bride over-indulges in food and wine; happily, gouts of blood - and schadenfreude - will prove a nutritious supplement.
"The Grand Brière" - in the swampy French countryside, a hunting party sets out; happily, one member of the party finds she can hunt more than birds.
"The Salt Smugglers" - on board a slave galley, an opportunity for escapes arises; happily, for some, slavery is where the heart is.
"The Flute" - on board a pirate ship come a blind man and his eerie flute; sadly, reminders of childhood and now-empty lives will seldom turn a pirate's frown upside down.
"The Cart" - during a moonlit night, two knaves review their latest misdeeds; sadly, blood is a stain that is difficult to remove.
"The Sleeping City" - from the Jolly Roger come crew and captain, to a silent city full of once-living statues; sadly, nostalgia and tribalism will increase this city's population.
"The Blue Country" - in a dark and dreary unknown city live a lively young lass and her hunchbacked little friend; happily, a dream country can become a destination.
"The Return to the Fold" - in haughty Paris, colorful circus performers from the country invade a dance hall; happily, the countryside lacks both haughtiness and Parisiennes.
"Cruchette" - during the heat of the day, two convicts on a chain gang consider escape with a water bearer; sadly, escape from labor does not mean escape from jealousy.
"Bargette" - spying a barge heading South, a dreaming maid departs in search of flowers and other wonders; sadly, the grass is ever greener wherever we do not go....more
this was a lovely way to start off 2020. written with fairy tale prose and engaging the potential darkness of classic weird fiction (primarily Arthur this was a lovely way to start off 2020. written with fairy tale prose and engaging the potential darkness of classic weird fiction (primarily Arthur Machen) with a light, friendly touch - as if that darkness is nothing to be afraid of, as if the night and the haunted forest and spells & rituals and enchanted books and of course bloody revenge were things of delight, necessary to the happiness of those who remain outside of the staid mainstream, and who have been abused by those that live there. a charming message! I will take my vengeance served with a bit of honey, a pinch of floral herbs, and served in a dainty teacup, thank you very much.
Nina Antonia appears to mainly be a music writer. there is much music in this book as well. I loved the way it was written (despite the occasional overreaching, despite a bit of the obvious) and I loved the beautiful production that Egaeus Press made of the book. I loved its various settings, including New Forest and a manse beside it, a family-run antiquarian bookshop, and a magical cottage hidden in the middle of London. I loved its queer romance and how it wants to give the tragic poet Lionel Johnson a happy place beyond his death. I loved how it made worship of the natural and supernatural worlds feel right. is paganism just another word for letting go of our fetters - another path? there are many such words, and paths.
gorgeously written, mind-bending, appalling, cruel, ambiguous, stark, lush, radiant, sepulchral. all of my favorite things! in different combinations,gorgeously written, mind-bending, appalling, cruel, ambiguous, stark, lush, radiant, sepulchral. all of my favorite things! in different combinations, of course. nine stories from one of my favorite writers; all of them interesting, many of them utterly brilliant.
authors can't help but put themselves into their writing, on one level or another. I can't help but wonder how much Carter put of herself into the three stories set in Japan - "A Souvenir of Japan" & "The Smile of Winter" & "Flesh and the Mirror". they detail the troubled romance of an older English woman and a younger Japanese man, the inevitable disintegration of that romance, and its bleak aftermath. there is a lived quality to her descriptions of a lovely small town, an anonymous big city, and a dire beach - as well as an understanding of Japanese culture and character that manages to have complete self-awareness of her status as an outsider who can never really understand: her thoughts on Japan are cuttingly critical, even-handed, and eventually self-abnegating in her realization that true understanding is beyond her. likewise there is an exceedingly personal feeling to the description of this ill-fated romance - the kind of "personal" that is so intimate it can be difficult to read. I'm not sure if all three stories are actually even detailing the same love affair, but there is a distinct (and tragic) continuity. of the three, "A Souvenir of Japan" is perhaps the most breathtaking in its transition from a description of pleasant country life to its bitter deconstruction of the all too fallible qualities of man and woman.
authors also can't help but put their obsessions onto the page; indeed it is often those obsessions that cause a writer to even write. Carter's obsessions are well-known: a fascination with gender and power, the subversion of both of those things, and the violence that can come when they engage with each other. both of those obsessions drive two of the strongest and strangest pieces: "Master" is the horrific tale of a cruel Great White Hunter and the native girl he enslaves - and who in turn becomes an even greater, crueler hunter; "The Loves of Lady Purple" details the horrific life of a fabled whore with a heart of utter darkness, and the literal puppet she has become. the push and pull when gender and power (or the lack of it) meet are also central to the collection's most confused and therefore weakest story - "Elegy for a Freelance" - which takes place in some bleak future London about to burn in riotous flames, and gives a snapshot of an absurd terrorist cell making its first group decision to take its first life - that of its own leader, a deranged and murderous idiot.
Carter is perhaps best known for bizarre, mordant, lusciously written, postmodern fantasias The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman, The Passion of New Eve, Nights at the Circus, and The Bloody Chamber (as well as Heroes and Villains, a grim post-apocalyptic anti-romance that deconstructs, wait for it, power and gender). I think fantasia is what she does best and it is certainly what made her one of my favorites. in addition to the previously mentioned "Lady Purple", the collection includes three more and each one provoked very strong reactions from me. I was revolted and depressed by "The Executioner's Beautiful Daughter", which despite being brilliantly written, had an analysis of certain elements of human nature that was so dark (and literally disgusting) that my mind rejected what it was reading and I had to take a long break from the book before moving on. I was wonderfully perplexed and fascinated by the hallucinatory "Reflections", which features a man being forced through a looking-glass into a sort of Reverse World by a villainous, violent young woman and her hermaphrodite guardian; it soon becomes clear that he is perfectly willing to be just as villainous and violent in his attempt to escape. I was enchanted by "Penetrating to the Heart of the Forest", a spellbinding story about an Eden in the heart of a jungle, the darkness that lies beyond a village of happy naturals, a journey into that darkness, and um twincest. because hey, why not? things like a positive depiction of two siblings making love under the Tree of Good and Evil are just par for the course to Carter.
do people really need trigger warnings? if you do, most definitely avoid Angela Carter: you will no doubt be triggered, again and again and again....more
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