Erskine Caldwell, a Southern writer who sympathized deeply with the working class and who often wrote about racism and poverty, is seldom read. DespitErskine Caldwell, a Southern writer who sympathized deeply with the working class and who often wrote about racism and poverty, is seldom read. Despite being an acclaimed, bestselling author in his day. Alas, the vagaries of fate, or at least of enduring literary acclaim. "Where the Girls Were Different" is a Steinbeckian collection of weird, sad stories. Small-town and rural life are examined, often in a rather off-puttingly coy and ambiguous way e.g. the title story made little sense to me, other than perhaps as a caution for boys who long for loose women - apparently, the girls are not much greener on the other side, and boys should never trust the tall tales of other boys. I felt similarly about other stories detailing a medicine-seller scammed into a marriage, a neglected wife found drowned while her husband was busy flirting with her friend, a woman who receives an out-of-town visitor who appears disinterested in her despite her hopes, a boy who finds himself unable to propose to a girl he likes, a paralyzed man who wishes he wasn't paralyzed because his wife can barely support him. Etc. The humor was weird and off-putting; the narratives depressing.
I appreciate that Caldwell channeled his disgust at anti-black racism into a couple of his stories, but oh man, those stories were hard-going. "Savannah River Payday" has two subhuman rednecks traveling around with a black man's corpse on the hood of their car as they argue, fight (one loses an ear; he is surprisingly nonchalant about it), drive into town to get rid of the body, and then forget about that task after doing some drinking and more fighting in a bar. And "The People vs. Abe Lathan, Colored" - about an elderly black man who is first evicted, then brought up on false charges when he pleads with his landlord to change his mind - was about as hopeless an experience as one could imagine.
Overall, I admired Caldwell's politics so much more than the actual stories he wrote to express those politics. Much like with Steinbeck, his talent at crafting memorable prose is undeniable, despite the near-constant bleakness on display. But man, the difference between the cover of the book and what lies beneath! My copy:
Clemence Housman is perhaps best known for being an activist in the English suffragette movement of the late 19th century and as a co-founder of SuffrClemence Housman is perhaps best known for being an activist in the English suffragette movement of the late 19th century and as a co-founder of Suffrage Atelier, an artist's collective. As a member of the Women's Tax Resistance League, she spent a brief time in prison, released shortly after her imprisonment due to protests by supporters. (Thank you Wikipedia for that useful information!) Clearly she was a remarkable person, influential in an important movement and a source of great support for women.
She is also the author of my favorite classic horror short story "The Were-Wolf." The story is enchanting, evocative and layered and beautifully written, in my estimation a perfect work. It was written in 1896 and can be found in many places, including Masters of Horror.
I wrote all of that to avoid getting to this point: I completely loathed her novel The Unknown Sea. What a crashing disappointment. Just dreadful to read and weirdly offensive to me on a spiritual level. "Offensive on a spiritual level" - what does that even mean? Again per Wikipedia, each of her works is a 'Christian fantasy' that dramatises religious themes. (An aside: I will have to reread "The Were-Wolf" another time, with that knowledge as a lens.) As someone interested in spirituality and as a person who loves God - I doubt I qualify as a 'Christian' per se, but Christianity is the faith with which I feel the most connection - her interest in spiritual matters is something that would usually increase my own interest in her writings. Her faith is not the cause of my irritation with this confounded book; the irritation comes from her interpretation of that faith.
The story is about a young coral-fisher, a foundling from a place where folks have lighter hair and complexions (Scandinavia?) taken in by swarthier folks further south (the Mediterranean?) - in a seaside village. I mention the physical appearances because they are described almost obsessively by the author as well, so I imagine they were of some importance to her. The child is the sole survivor of a shipwreck and is named 'Christian' due to the inscription on the necklace found upon him. Although his parents are kindly (despite his mother's religious fanaticism), the villagers surrounding them are a brutal, violent, suspicious, and superstition lot who never accept the boy and give him the moniker 'The Alien'.
The novel starts out fine, although the prose is strangely stilted in comparison to "The Were-Wolf" - the writing made this far from easy or pleasurable to read. Hardy young sailor Christian survives a storm by landing on the Isle of Dread, which is always avoided by locals. On its shore, he spies a beautiful and naked young witch. He falls instantly in love, imagining his foot upon the footprint she left on the island's sand. (I did enjoy that strange, oddly sweet image.) But when he meets her in person, she teases and taunts him, and secretly chooses to send him back to the safety of his village, where she will somehow slowly and utterly destroy his life - the other options she rejects being to either kill him instantly or to keep him on her isle.
And so Christian is returned to his village, and in short order the villagers rise up against him, torturing him and leaving him for dead. He survives and loses his mind, becoming a man-child. A girl who has also been taken in by his parents is set up to be his wife, but the marriage never occurs - both Christian and the girl understand that his infatuation with the witch is an insurmountable barrier, despite her own love for him. A rival attempts to murder him; he regains his mind and nearly kills that rival, staying his hand only because of his promise to his mother to never return evil with evil. Throughout the novel we see Christian continually turn the other cheek, despite his great strength and the injustices heaped upon him. He struggles and struggles and struggles; he meets the witch again and again; his mother guilt-trips him again and again. In the end, he returns to the Isle of Dread one last time, where the witch not only continues to spurn him, but makes sure he understands that she is the architect of the ruination of his life. He dies alone and rejected, a martyr, his body lost at sea. But his self-sacrifice shall apparently redeem the witch - she realizes the error of her evil ways, rushes to a nearby convent, dies. His father has also died, his mother continues on, his stepsister remembers him sadly, as does his rival. And then they move on. The author makes sure that the reader knows that there is no happily ever after on this mortal coil, for anyone, in a nihilistic final chapter that details how all of this will be forgotten, time will march on, no lessons were learned, and the only happiness to be found is that of the afterlife.
Turn the other cheek, be rejected and harmed, turn the other cheek, be preyed upon, turn the other cheek, die alone and broken-hearted. Your reward shall be in Heaven. What the fuck kind of allegory is that supposed to be? Christian is clearly a Jesus figure, but come on. Is this how the author viewed the trials and tribulations of Christians? Lord in Heaven, her perspective on Christianity was revolting. The Unknown Sea is misery porn at its most hysterical and self-indulgent. I'm so glad Housman had other interests....more
Robert W. Chambers is now known mainly for his King in Yellow stories, but this prolific author wrote so much more, and not often in the supernatural Robert W. Chambers is now known mainly for his King in Yellow stories, but this prolific author wrote so much more, and not often in the supernatural vein. he is the least respected of the weird fiction authors, perhaps because of his strong interest in poetic romanticism, a perspective that comes across as rather airily aristocratic, and a ton of completely forgotten "popular novels" on his resume.
I imagine him like so: back from his summer abroad in France spent taking in the artists' quarters of Paris and the French countryside, falling in and out of love, he invites his weird writer friends over, much to the chagrin of his prim relatives. and so they join him: metaphysical naturalist Algernon Blackwood, malevolently acerbic journalist Ambrose Bierce, weird and morbid shut-in H.P. Lovecraft, the broodingly handsome William Hope Hodgson - as obsessed with the sea as ever, long-winded mystic Arthur Machen, and my personal favorite, the extremely mannered, eccentric, and always stylish Clark Ashton Smith. together they discuss the Arcane, and Other Dimensions, and the Horrors of the Modern World. it is a heady afternoon, the air thick with pipe smoke, the flights of imagination long and digressive. the servants come and go, agog. Robert steps out of the smoking room; a young lady's servant has dropped off her card and he must reply to her immediately. she's his most recent obsession and so he takes his time writing a flowery reply, begging the pleasure of her company and extolling her virtues. while he's busy with his affairs, his peers chuckle rather condescendingly at him. ah, Robert: a sensitive fellow and talented author, but perhaps not quite at their level - not a deep one, despite his efforts. takes himself a bit too seriously while his writing is not serious enough. perhaps a bit too eager to publish, one could say. but certainly very well-meaning! and charming as well.
an imperfect book, made perfect by its imperfections. perfection is cold; this is a warm book, hot at times. complex and flawed and all too human; angan imperfect book, made perfect by its imperfections. perfection is cold; this is a warm book, hot at times. complex and flawed and all too human; anger and mourning and judgment doled out in equal measures. Du Bois' sad and often seething voice rings from the page. surprisingly lush and stylized prose across 14 essays, mood pieces, personal narratives, even a short story. all are complex. an experience both nourishing and scouring, and far from an easy read. but should it be? the book is America's dark night of the soul... a spiritual dryness, loneliness, existential doubts... a guide to the Black Belt, a history of a people kept low... but in the end, the wounded soul will still survive.
PROGRESS NOTES (some adapted from posts in GR group The Readers Review)
Chapter I: "Of Our Spiritual Strivings" - Du Bois' prose is dense and really beautiful. He has such a gift for poetic phrasing and metaphor. I was struck in particular with his description of "the tyrant and the idler... the Devil and the Deep Sea" and his "two figures ever stand to typify that day to coming ages" - the embittered old white man who has lost sons in the war and sees himself supplanted; the enslaved black woman, nurturer and caregiver and victim of constant abuse. - I loved the passage "there are today no truer exponents of the pure human spirit of the Declaration of Independence than the American Negroes" and another later that notes that the original American fairy tales and folklore are indigenous and African-American - I was reminded of Albert Murray's writings in his collection The Omni-Americans.
Chapter II: "Of the Dawn of Freedom" - I was unfamiliar with Freedmen's Bank. reading about how its collapse put freedmen so far back - on top of the lie of "forty acres and a mule" - was startling, disturbing.
Chapter III: "Of Mr. Booker T. Washington and Others" - an extended critique of Booker T. Washington. I'm very sympathetic to Du Bois' pillars of voting/civil rights/higher education as where the thrust of black advocacy should be (in Du Bois' time). But as a fan of Washington as well, it was also hard for me to fully agree with the critique.
Chapter IV: "Of the Meaning of Progress" - probably my favorite chapter so far. the descriptions of his two summers teaching were so beautiful and the melancholy of his return so palpable. just such gorgeous prose in this chapter. the end of Josie was so heartbreaking. all that said, there was a slight sourness to some of the depictions of the students. overall it wasn't enough to really bother me, it was just a little startling. I suppose Steinbeck did the same when describing the residents of various small towns. but then I actually haven't loved that when reading Steinbeck either.
Chapter V: "Of the Wings of Atlanta" - another impressive chapter. reads like a sermon against Mammon, with Atlanta as a stand-in for all such cities undergoing industrialization at no small cost to its people. - it was interesting how up-front Du Bois is about how some folks are suited for college and others for vocational schools: "that of the million black youth, some were fitted to know and some to dig; that some had the talent and capacity of university men, and some the talent and capacity of blacksmiths; and that true training meant neither that all should be college men nor all artisans, but that the one should be made a missionary of culture to an untaught people, and the other a free workman among serfs." I appreciated that realism when it comes to humans (of all colors) and was reminded of similar stances from current sociopolitical writers, from center-left John McWhorter to far-left Marxist Freddie de Boer, whose Cult of Smart I just read. interesting synergy between the three.
Chapter VI: "Of the Training of Black Men" - I was often bored & irritated by this chapter, although the point being made here is clearly close to Du Bois' heart. I could never disagree with the benefits of higher education, for those so suited, so basically in alignment? - a bit turned off by the snobbery in one part, when describing black college graduates: "they have not that culture of manner which we instinctively associate with university men, forgetting that in reality it is the heritage from cultured homes, and that no people a generation removed from slavery can escape a certain unpleasant rawness and gaucherie, despite the best of training." - very turned off by the classic Du Bois stance that I first came across in college: that the way forward is for a relatively small number of educated to lead the uneducated masses, i.e. "They already dimly perceive that the paths of peace winding between honest toil and dignified manhood call for the guidance of skilled thinkers... Above our modern socialism, and out of the worship of the mass, must persist and evolve that higher individualism which the centres of culture protect." I had a flashback to my college self, an ardent socialist, shaking my head in disbelief when reading that. as if uneducated folks can't understand organizing.
Chapter VII: "Of the Black Belt" - brilliantly written and very depressing dirge about Georgia. such hopelessness in this chapter. fucking cotton!
Chapter VIII: "Of the Quest of the Golden Fleece" - Du Bois anticipates modern arguments about systemic racism with these powerful quotes: "Once in debt, it is no easy matter for a whole race to emerge" "The underlying causes of this situation are complicated but discernable. And one of the chief, outside the carelessness of the nation in letting the slave start with nothing, is the widespread opinion among the merchants and employers of the Black Belt that only by the slavery of debt can the Negro be kept at work." - fucking cotton
Chapter IX: "Of the Sons of Master and Man" - one of the most absorbing, rich, yet also uncomfortable chapters so far. I really appreciated how he very specifically lays out the various ways that blacks and whites of the South are divided and how their division exists on all levels: political (particularly in regards to the vote), economic, and perhaps most sadly of all, social. - my discomfort with this chapter comes from what feels like classism e.g. his outrage that "the best" of black people (i.e. most educated and politically/economically/socially sophisticated) are separated from "the best" of white people, in a way that is unique to the South. And that discomfort comes from a certain Leftism in my own political perspective, rather than any feeling that Du Bois is actually wrong in any way. Perhaps I just chafe at this constantly repeated label "the best"... - a quote - and thesis - that is deeply uncomfortable but remains very relevant to today's world: "But the chief problem in any community cursed with crime is not the punishment of the criminals, but the preventing of the young from being trained to crime." Imagine saying such a thing now in regards to black Americans! At worst, a person would be branded a racist. At best, a Glenn Loury.
Chapter X: "Of the Faith of the Fathers" - black faith & spirituality is sketched, from its roots in African religions to its transformation into Christianity, to its use as a tool to engender submissiveness within slavery ("Christian humility") to its ecstatic identification with Abolition as the great freedom finally come, to the post-Emancipation divide between Northern black radicalism and Southern black compromise. - "The Music of Negro religion is that plaintive rhythmic melody, with its touching minor cadences, which, despite caricature and defilement, still remains the most original and beautiful expression of human life and longing yet born on American soil."
Chapter XI: "Of the Passing of the First-Born" - this amazing, and amazingly sad, recounting of the short life of Du Bois' son can barely be summarized. how to summarize an infant's death? Du Bois mourns the boy and yet wonders if the child is better off dead, rather than to live and grown in a country that despises him. - from Wikipedia: His son, Burghardt, contracted diphtheria and white doctors in Atlanta refused to treat black patients.
Chapter XII: "Of Alexander Crummell" - the life of a black priest - his three temptations: Hate, Despair, Doubt - Bishop Onderdonk: "I will receive you into this diocese on one condition: No negro priest can sit in my church convention and no negro church must ask for representation there." Alexander Crummell: "I will never enter your diocese on such terms."
Chapter XIII: "Of the Coming of John" - childhood playmates Black John and White John both leave their small town to become educated in the greater world. Black John's education drives the joy from his eyes, but he'd rather be unhappy than ignorant. White John's education changes little in the man. the two return to their birthplace. White John is welcomed but bored, oh so bored, by the hick town that is no comparison to the fun and the women of the big city. Black John is welcomed and then shunned; his education has transformed him into someone humorless, uppity, overly concerned with such unattainables as justice and equality. the two crossed paths in the big city once, to their mutual discomfort. and they cross paths again, back at home, to their mutual destruction. - this is a perfect story. I was reminded of Leonid Andreyev's Lazarus in its multi-leveled, parable-like narrative, the awful beauty of its prose, and the depths of its despair
Chapter XIV: "The Sorrow Songs" - “Your country? How came it yours? ... Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song - soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. Around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation's heart we have called all that was best to throttle and subdue all that was worst... Our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood-brotherhood. Are not these gifts worth the giving? Is not this work and striving? Would America have been America without her Negro People?”...more
An ideal vacation: the isle of Capri, warm and sunny; a community of idiosyncratic expats, amusing and lively; ferocious natives, sardonic and sly; coAn ideal vacation: the isle of Capri, warm and sunny; a community of idiosyncratic expats, amusing and lively; ferocious natives, sardonic and sly; colorfully dressed religious cultists, rustic and merry. Conversation and parties and conversation and art forgery and conversation and natural disaster and conversation and a deadly street battle and conversation and murder and so many conversations on all sorts of fascinating subjects. Art forgery is fine if it becomes a reason for a billionaire to hand money over to a proud friend. Natural disaster is fine if it's only ash to be dealt with; the volcano's eruptions mainly harm those boring mainlanders. A deadly street battle is fine if it's natives versus cultists, plus it gives everyone something to talk about for a little while. Murder is fine if the victim is a swindling louse and the murderess doesn't make a bloody fuss about it. A history is delivered: the island once ruled by an eccentric despot; his eccentricity has become the lifeblood of the island itself. A visitor arrives, an Anglican Bishop of Africa, already shown a different way of living in Africa; now ready and open to new ways of thinking. This rather stuffy but kindly gent finds his mind suddenly opening to all sorts of new possibilities. Now rename the isle of Capri: it shall be called "Nepenthe". The south wind blows hot, dry, and strong in this beautiful place; it causes all sorts of minds to expand in all sorts of directions.
The author was a scandalous man and an expat himself, on the island of Capri and elsewhere. He wrote lauded travel books and was friends with a variety of fascinating people. A suave perspective on the vicissitudes of fortune and life, an exciting interest in exploring all the different ways of thinking and being. Prose that is deliciously descriptive but never overcooked, sophisticated and ironic, pitiless and empathetic, amused and always highly amusing. I think this was his only book of fiction. Or should that be "fiction"? No doubt much of this was cribbed from his own life, the actual people he knew and the actual place he lived. Either way, the book is perfection; why bother writing more fiction if you've said all that you need to say?
This is a dream of a book and I wanted to stay dreaming, so I prolonged the experience as much as possible. The wit, the elegance! It gave me so much to smile at, be shocked at, and above all, to think about. So much food for thought. I love being around smart, individualistic people and I love being around people who enjoy life and I love being in a setting that is warm, breezy, colorful, surrounded by water. Full of things to do, people to meet, and above all, ways to relax. I love when something makes me both think and feel. I want to live in this book.
"Something had been stirring with him; new points of view had floated into his ken. He was no longer so sure about things. The structure of his mind had lost that old stability; its elements seemed to be held in solution, ready to form new combinations."
"They produce a new kind of public, a public which craves for personalities rather than information... Men cannot live, it seems, save by feeding on their neighbour's life-blood. They prey on each other's nerve-tissues and personal sensations. Everything must be shared. It gives them a feeling of solidarity, I suppose, in a world where they have lost the courage to stand alone. Woe to him who dwells apart!"
"That venerable blunder: to think that in changing the form of government you change the heart of man. For surely we should aim at simplification of the machinery. Conceive, now, the state of affairs where everybody is more or less employed by the community - the community, that comfortable world! - in some patriotic business or other. Everybody an official, all controlling each other! It would be worse than the Spanish Inquisition."
"What is all wisdom save a collection of platitudes? Take fifty of our current proverbial sayings - they are so trite, so threadbare, that we can hardly bring our lips to utter them. None the less they embody the concentrated experience of the race, and the man who orders his life according to their teaching cannot go far wrong. How easy that seems! Has any one ever done so? Never. Has any man ever attained inner harmony by pondering the experiences of others? Not since the world began! He must pass through the fire."...more
"...the purest and gentlest words would still have seemed too brutal..."
he is a delicate flower, anxious and yearning, planted carefully in his rarifi"...the purest and gentlest words would still have seemed too brutal..."
he is a delicate flower, anxious and yearning, planted carefully in his rarified little garden box. the little flower loves his little world, the neat orderly rows and the carefully chosen colors and the long talks about poetry and scripture and love. the little flower dreams of an abiding love. the gardener has planted another flower alongside him, a girl flower. except this flower is not a real flower, it is but a thing, a lovingly crafted and dainty little creation, subtle and submissive, well-versed in poetry and scripture and so able to converse with ease with the boy flower. and yet she is not a real flower. she is not a real girl. her lack of reality confounds and irritates; even more confounding is the gardener's insistence that this creation of his is a creature that lives. this unliving object is but a toy for the gardener, one that he can make enact his own version of femininity, a puppet that moves from simpering, saintly tease to self-loathing religious mania. he can use this toy to torment the poor little boy flower. he can give it bizarre motives and turn it toxic, harmful to both boy and itself. he can make his toy die, and does, all the better to give the boy flower a broken heart. the poor little boy flower moons over his absent toy, that un-girl, as if he and she ever had a real relationship, as if she were ever even real, and not simply a project of the gardener. the poor little reader can only sigh and roll his eyes at such a sad display....more
What a woman! So say the residents of the village Carlingford, women and men alike, as they stand by thoroughly impressed by the marvelous LucillaWhat a woman! So say the residents of the village Carlingford, women and men alike, as they stand by thoroughly impressed by the marvelous Lucilla Marjoribanks, big of frame and hearty of appetite, and all of 19 years of age, as she goes about her business, arranging their social calendars and establishing who's boss, blithely laughing at the idea of marriage - she has more important things to do, such as caring for her widowed father, making sure their living room fabrics bring out the best in her complexion while making just as certain that there is a minimum of drama, malice, and hurt feelings to bother any of her fellow villagers. What a woman! So says her cousin Tom in wonder, helplessly smitten, and so says her protégé Barbara Lake, more venomously, foolishly thinking herself a rival. What a woman! Lucilla herself may say, when considering herself privately, blithely aware that she was born to do good, a bold woman but a subtle one, armed with the knowledge that she certainly knows what's best for her, and for all.
What - a woman? say the residents of the village Carlingford, when considering who should crave the forging of their own destinies. Surely no woman could crave such a thing, not a Barbara Lake with her dark, sultry eyes and her longing for a more comfortable life, nor a Lucilla Marjoribanks, who despite being efficiency personified, would certainly not hope to live a life guided by her own standards, and not those of society. What - a woman? say the citizens of 19th century England, and elsewhere, when considering who should be allowed to vote. Surely no woman would be interested in such manly matters as political representation and the running of government - heaven forfend!
What a woman, says Mrs. Oliphant of Lucilla Marjoribanks, proud of her flawed but always delightful creation, a character that is an exemplar of sympathy towards others, a model of efficiency, a general in a gentle war against any who would control her or otherwise foolishly attempt to get in her way. What a woman, says this reviewer of Mrs. Oliphant, in awe at the author's calm and unfussy style, her dry humor, her deep empathy for her heroine, her charming and sardonic portrait of a village that is just one stop on the journey that is Lucilla's life.
What a woman: all hail Mrs. Oliphant! The bearing of a dowager empress, the rather weary kindness of a saint, the mischievousness of a clever child, and the thoroughly unsentimental heart of a realist that still recognizes the human in us all...
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
synopsis: pirates can have a heart; children, never.
I have a shelf called "World of Insects" where I put literary novels whose perspectives on human nsynopsis: pirates can have a heart; children, never.
I have a shelf called "World of Insects" where I put literary novels whose perspectives on human nature are cold and detached; these stories often function as dissections. They provide examples of how humans lack a moral compass and follow predictably selfish behavior patterns. I have another shelf called "These Fragile Lives" with books that illustrate how humans are a complex and delicate web of emotions. These warmer stories depict human nature with a certain empathy. A High Wind in Jamaica belongs on both shelves. This off-putting but still quite absorbing anti-adventure has a dual perspective. The writing is both sardonic and sunny, at once disturbingly realistic and gorgeously poetic; the tone is light that conceals darkness; the narrative is a wonderful series of surprises yet is also one that is bleak, deterministic. The pirates are sympathetic until one is reminded that some men want adult things from a child. The kids are delightful until one is reminded that some children aren't overly concerned with truth or kindness. Remind me to never go on a pirate adventure with either children or pirates!
To all the carefree youth who weren't born a century or two ago: I may not understand you, but I do want to be helpful. The "weird" in this book's titTo all the carefree youth who weren't born a century or two ago: I may not understand you, but I do want to be helpful. The "weird" in this book's title is a form of the word "wyrd" and so the definition is of course not from the modern usage, but the archaic one meaning "fate" or "destiny". And so the book is essentially titled Wyllard's Fate.
This goes a long way in explaining what some have found to be frustrating: it is very easy to figure out who the mysterious killer is. I don't think Braddon had much intention to make this that kind of a mystery, despite the identity of the killer being a problem that must be solved by the protagonist. And so this is not an actual whodunit; nor was Lady Audley's Secret. But the formidable antagonists of both novels have much in common, much that fascinate.
The novel features many characters but the central figure, the source of all the theorizing and contemplating and fantasizing and diagnosing and psychologizing (not a word), is the rich, cultured hunk known as Julian Wyllard, decidedly New Money, and the magistrate of a Cornwall village in which an unknown young lady has met her untimely death. There is a lovely, vaguely tragic Mrs. Wyllard, her careful and vaguely tragic former fiance Squire Heathcoate, Mrs. Wyllard's passionate and vaguely tragic cousin Bothwell, and the Squire's sister Hilda, who is also lovely although not quite tragic - but give her time. And there are some juicy supporting characters, especially a tragically decadent villainess who has nothing to do with the main plot but still provides the most sensations in this book - which is considered a "Victorian Sensation" novel. She's no Lady Audley, but she has a similar poison-confection appeal.
I do wish the central characters were as sensational. I liked this book overall and often loved it, at least when Braddon is illustrating a place and conveying an atmosphere and telling us how a character looks. She is excellent at evoking sensations - at making the reader's senses come alive when reading her plentiful descriptions. The book is set in various locales in Great Britain and France, and I felt every one of those locations, especially the Cornish countryside and bohemian Paris. Gorgeous atmosphere, evocative settings. And I certainly saw exactly how characters were dressed, understood why they were dressed that way, and what it meant about them. Enthralling stuff, eh? Well, kinda!
It's unfortunate that - except for weird Mr. Wyllard - the central characters are so dull, despite their admirable habit of walking around in interesting settings. They refuse to come alive except in the most insipid of ways. And so my enjoyment of the book was almost solely around the senses, and the occasional guest star popping up to make me smile. Braddon is very generous with the bit players and she makes the backdrop, at least, a compelling one....more
my first foray into Benson since reading the Mapp & Lucia novels was... not so great? I get why this is a classic of the murder mystery genre, perhapsmy first foray into Benson since reading the Mapp & Lucia novels was... not so great? I get why this is a classic of the murder mystery genre, perhaps because it was one of the first, but also because the alternately dry & arch wit and the precision of the prose that would make the Mapp & Lucia books such a treat are both here, in full. unfortunately, the mystery itself is pallid and the main impression for me of the narrative was spinning wheels. Benson is an impudent fellow, and I love that about him, but this felt like more of an experiment than something he took seriously.
that said, one of the things that makes Benson special is his ability to get into the heads of monstrous characters and so making them, somehow, rather less monstrous and rather more comic. the villain of this novel, spry old attorney Mr. Taynton, is one such wonderfully monstrous creation. (and that was not a spoiler, it's clear what kind of person he is by the second chapter.) my God, all the damage & manipulation he cheerfully enacts, while still making sure both his ego and his optimistic nature remain fully intact. and still wishing the best for all of his victims, whose problems he really, really sympathizes with, despite being the person who actually created those problems. he slays....more
wow the villain in this one is something else. a cringing, submissive old man, always trying to do his kindly, helpful best for everyone, he's like Dowow the villain in this one is something else. a cringing, submissive old man, always trying to do his kindly, helpful best for everyone, he's like Dobby from the Harry Potter novels. he will literally have a heart attack if someone says something too upsetting. he plays the fucking flute! much like Dobby, I wanted to strangle him whenever he appeared. unlike Dobby, he's also a secretly conniving villain who has killed before and is planning to kill again. watch out for the overt do-gooders! they are probably up to no good. and they definitely have their eyes on jewel-encrusted chalices e.g. "The Luck of the Vails"
this is a very slow-burning suspense novel about an introverted young man who decides to come out of his shell and stop being such an asshole, and in short order finds a social life, loyal friends, and a lovely romantic partner. unfortunately he also finds an elderly uncle who comes to live in his mansion and has... certain plans for him.
I love E.F. Benson's writing in this one. elegant, often richly descriptive, full of arch dialogue, very literary (although "literary" in a particularly old-fashioned way, which will be off-putting to many modern readers). I know him mainly for his Mapp & Lucia novels - why does Mapp always come first? - and the wit in that series appears throughout this book, despite it also being an often tense thriller, of sorts. particularly in the wonderfully offhand and insulting way that the positive characters talk to each other. loved that, reminded me of the earlier years of my own social circle. and it was a good way to contrast the heroes from the villain, who is completely obsequious to everyone, which natually gets on their nerves. no one likes a flute-playing suck-up....more
Darlings, you simply must witness the Mayoral Melee in Tilling! Watch in delight as Rome burns and Co-Empresses Lucia and Mapp fiddle away. And with sDarlings, you simply must witness the Mayoral Melee in Tilling! Watch in delight as Rome burns and Co-Empresses Lucia and Mapp fiddle away. And with such zeal, such zest! This finale will be your final opportunity to enjoy these razor-witted human lawn darts in stiff competition against each other, and against the rest of Tilling, and against all notions of good sense and human decency. Yes, darlings, we have come to the end of Benson's Mapp & Lucia Saga!
E.F. Benson finishes his 6-book poison pen letter to English village life with a squeak and whimper rather than an unseemly roar. He presents to his devoted readers not a devastating conflagration but instead a colorful yet still deadly easy-bake oven. 'Tis sad but only fitting: the Mapp & Lucia novels, despite the perfection of a couple books and the near-perfection of three more, were always a minor affair. Brittle constructions. Dainty old knick-knacks arranged on an aunt's shelf that you may long to sweep aside and smash underfoot, but you know will eventually be packaged up carefully and perhaps sold at a public market, or stored in a dusty attic or damp basement. But don't smash those cherished antiques - they still retain value!
Benson was clearly, as the hoi polloi say, "over it" when he wrote this volume. Despite the potentially momentous tragicomedy of a duel between Queen and Queen, Mayor vs. Mayoress, he instead chose to ramble a bit and rework old bits, as if he were perhaps a bit bored with his monstrous adult-sized cabbage patch kids. His formerly comic confection Georgie - now the Mayoral Consort and still cutting a striking figure in a ruby-colored velvet suit - is less a figure of fun and more of an author stand-in. Poor Georgie is rather bored now of all of Lucia and Mapp's royal antics. Alas, boredom will strike us all at some point! Could it be the inevitable default and terminus of the human condition? We shudder and perhaps perish at the thought.
But darlings, I do hate to end on such a plaintive, pathos-ridden minor note myself. The book is still a worthy creation, a painless slip-n-slide that you can glide merrily upon while fully dressed. Even a Benson who is rather bored and at his most in need of a nap on the garden room chaise and then perhaps some light refreshment with friends after, is still a Benson who is a raconteur of the first form. Although the first five novels in the series can be enjoyed at any time and at any place and in any state of mind - as long as that mind is poisonous and petty, like mine - the sixth can be enjoyed as well. But perhaps it should be enjoyed after tossing back a generous flute of champagne. Better yet, the whole bottle. Why not? Everything is better with champagne! Indeed, these novels are the literary equivalent: fizzy and light, sparkling and fun, and an absolutely necessary dietary supplement for bored dilettantes, society climbers, gossipy matrons, provincial Karens, and every other sort of malicious, self-absorbed queen. Ah the pretty-ugly things. Lucia & Mapp are the queens of such queens!...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...
⚜
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
In 1967, Joan Lindsay wrote one of my all-time favorite novels, the fey little classic Picnic at Hanging Rock. 30 years earlier, at the age of 40, LadIn 1967, Joan Lindsay wrote one of my all-time favorite novels, the fey little classic Picnic at Hanging Rock. 30 years earlier, at the age of 40, Lady Lindsay took a break from her genteel lifestyle of painting watercolours, writing various articles and plays, and of course traveling abroad, to pen a parody of colonialist adventure: the rather lengthily titled book here, authored under the also lengthy name of its imaginary protagonist, "Serena Livingstone-Stanley".
The book is amusing and slight. Its tone is archly faux-naïf and its comedy is broad; every character is a caricature and wince-inducing malapropisms occur in nearly every sentence. Which eventually became rather tiring. In general, I'm not one for purely comedic novels, and this one was quite one-note. Still, it is a trifle, and all trifles are at least a wee bit amusing. The novel was not painful to read and I often smiled at its mean-spirited wit. In particular at its satiric take on the English (Lindsay was Australian), who are almost all grasping for money, lying through their smiling teeth, stealing from each other, and having a determinedly, strenuously merry time of it. Except of course for our two spinster protagonists, sisters, one curmudgeonly and the other completely inane. It is the latter who is the author of the journal entries and letters that form this story. Watching them get robbed blind by their more cynical compatriots was less enjoyable than I thought it would be.
Lest anyone think this book is racist, what with that eyebrow-raising title: never fear! The natives are exactly as doltish and base as the English. Everyone is mocked in this book, no matter the race or gender or occupation or title. Lindsay has an even hand when it comes to laughing at people. It should also be noted that the natives are actually vegetarian spinach-eaters. Well, until they aren't.
The book includes a bunch of photos of Serena, her sister, and the people they meet while on the island of Pondelayo. They are actually photos of Lady Lindsay and her various friends, posed in tableaux on her estate's grounds. Ha!
Darlings, you simply must view the outrageous exhibition on display in Tilling! Art should of course both enlighten and revivify - but sometimes it muDarlings, you simply must view the outrageous exhibition on display in Tilling! Art should of course both enlighten and revivify - but sometimes it must shock as well! And this display will shock the bonnets right off of your heads! Who knew the charms of provincial life in a small town would be but pleasant cover for all of the bloodthirstiness, public humiliation, devious politicking, and cuttingly passive-aggressive "compliments" running rampant in this arena? The cozy cobbled lanes of Tilling run rosy-red, pink, and carnelian with the blood of these artistes at battle!
One might query: who are these terrifying gladiators, these untrammeled champions of village social life, social discourse, and social isolation, these artful artisans specializing in sneaky subterfuge and bold attack? Who are these exterminating angels on display?
And one would answer: the tableaux of course features the fearsomely repressive matron Mapp and that shining social light Lucia! Two portraits of animal cunning, claws long and teeth sharp, lips curled in deadly smiles!
This series recounts their overweening ambitions to dominate what constitutes the "high society" of various wee villages. This installment has expanded their fearful reach: now all of Tilling lies in harm's way - not just the crème de la crème! Mapp & Lucia trade blows (verbal) and homes (in need of redecorating), run for local council, generously donate (or comment acerbically on those donations), and invest their savings in the stock exchange - all in the public eye, with that public being the prize itself in their long games. Mapp & Lucia have, as they say, "leveled up" in their continuous Game of Queens.
But it is E.F. Benson himself that remains High Queen! His arch prose, his acidic wit and sadistic levity, his marvelously cruel and caustic portraits of egoism and "altruism" never fail to amuse those likewise cruel and caustic in nature. Namely, this reader. All Hail the Queen!...more
synopsis: birds of a feather flock together, which spells trouble for the human race. humans are mainly the same under their skins, which also means tsynopsis: birds of a feather flock together, which spells trouble for the human race. humans are mainly the same under their skins, which also means trouble for the human race, at least when these birds of prey come a'cawing.
Question: what is the Holy Spirit? one of The Trinity? a conduit between man and God? a sacred path towards revelation for tragic humankind, always running up that hill of their own making? per Isaiah 11:1-2, is the Holy Spirit a bringer of the following spiritual gifts: wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord? is the Holy Spirit a reckoning for humanity - Nemesis? is the Holy Spirit a flock of birds that will bring destruction to most but true self-awareness to the brave few; pigeons from hell that shall leave all cities in dust in their wake, and humanity reborn?
Answer: all of the above!
this book is certainly not what I expected it to be. Frank Baker wrote this striking renunciation of modern society over 80 years ago and it somehow remains relevant. the fear of the dehumanizing effects of technology and office life; the inability to recognize the spectrum of sexuality and the hypocrisy of adult prurience; the willingness of arms manufacturers to sell to any bidder, no matter how dangerous that bidder may be or how unaligned that bidder is with the manufacturer's home country; the stultifying insistence on proscribed gender roles; the frequent hypocrisy of organized religion; the ability of government to look the other way; the refusal to see how humanity destroys its own environment; the challenge that humans have in connecting with each other and in seeing themselves for who they truly are... it's all there, in 1936 when this was first written and of course right now in 2019. this is a strangely timeless novel. how soon is now?
the tale is told as a rumination on The Times Before the Fall, from an elderly man who survived that Fall, recounting it to his descendants in a post-apocalyptic but apparently idyllic pastoral future. it is intellectual and emotional, dry and passionate, dreamy and nightmarish, prosaic and completely surreal. an odd and unique book, and certainly deserving of a much wider readership. EXTRA BONUS POINTS: bi hero....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
And by "fête" we mean slaughter, darlings! Indeed, things shall get bloDarlings, you simply must join us for...
AN ELIZABETHAN FÊTE AT TILLING VILLAGE!
And by "fête" we mean slaughter, darlings! Indeed, things shall get bloody, or at the very least, quite tense. Lips will be curled and stares will be cold and words will be delivered with a certain sardonic disdain - or perhaps a bright, cheerful condescension. Such things are par per il corso when it is Queen versus Queen!
Which Queen shall triumph? Shall it be the formidable Queen Elizabeth Mapp? She does have the home advantage. Her frugal and abstemious ways and means have commanded the upper classes of Tilling for who knows how long. They march in lockstep to her lovingly militaristic tunes, during bridge parties and afternoon teas and art openings; they are carefully watched, reviewed, and evaluated on a daily basis from her sitting room window. Bloody Liblib has successfully and brutally stamped out any hint of insurrection. All hail her dark and malevolent majesty!
Or shall it be that brilliant interloper, Queen Lucia Lucas? After holding her quaint village of Riseholme in thrall for who knows how long, she has grown bored and comes to Tilling for the summer... or perhaps longer? She will bring delightful dinner parties featuring Lobster à la Riseholme, generous deployment of la lingua italiana, heaps of Mozart duos on piano, and healthy bouts of calisthenics on that quaint cinder path - or in the kitchen when weather is inclement. Golden Lulu seeks to expand both minds and her personal empire. All hail her fair and benevolent majesty!
But perhaps it shall be Nature that triumphs? There is a tide...
No matter who shall prevail, in the end, the true winner is the reader! Benson pokes, pinches, smacks, slaps, and scours the idle somewhat-rich of Tilling Village and the results are as tart and tasty as a lemon bar. Surely it was a stroke of genius, or some such mind-state, to bring the two "heroines" of past novels together in this ferocious battle of will, clenched teeth, and frosty "compliments". Darlings, I was simply dying to see who shall rise and who shall fall in this deadly war. You simply must come to this delicious bloodbath!...more
A rather awe-inspiring piece of sacrilege. Had to ignore my status as a God-lover to enjoy it, but hey Beware of Lazarus, he does not bring Good News!
A rather awe-inspiring piece of sacrilege. Had to ignore my status as a God-lover to enjoy it, but hey these are godless times so that didn't turn out to be so difficult. Sorry, God. I will make it up to You later.
The author posits the raising of the dead man Lazarus by Jesus as a return of the living dead. But more than that: the returned Lazarus is not just dead-alive, he deadens those he casts his gaze upon. This Lazarus emits a field of entropy. To meet Lazarus is to be consumed by the realization that life is futile and meaningless; to meet Lazarus is not to meet Death, it is to meet the emptiness of Life, of existence itself.
Profoundly pessimistic and chilling in its disillusionment. A refutation of Christian ideals and goals. All your joys become ashes in the mouth, dust in the wind. There is no escape because there is nothing to escape to. And yet its nihilism does not bore, it excites. This is horror, gorgeously written and beautifully challenging horror.
Examining the often bitter and ultimately sad life of its Russian author, the once highly-praised Leonid Andreyez, considered the father of Expressionism in Russia (thank you, Wikipedia)... one realizes that the man was not simply a fiery or embittered radical, he was an idealist. One who empathized powerfully with humanity's struggles. As are many of the atheists that I know.
“I want to be the apostle of self destruction. I want my book to affect man’s reason, his emotions, his nerves, his whole animal nature. I should like my book to make people turn pale with horror as they read it, to affect them like a drug, like a terrifying dream, to drive them mad, to make them curse and hate me but still to read me and… to kill themselves.”
Oh, Leonid. I know you don't mean that last part....more
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