synopsis: the man is two men in one man and he lives with himself, by himself. these men overlap and they talk the same way and they talk to, at, and synopsis: the man is two men in one man and he lives with himself, by himself. these men overlap and they talk the same way and they talk to, at, and across each other. they watch each other carefully because they are enemies, or at least antagonistic roommates. headmates?
précis: the man has a bird and the bird is the man and the man loves the bird and the man wants to kill the bird who is himself. the bird talks too much, knows too much. there is a history of murders, or accidents; a car tampered with, a wife fell down a well. these are the man's memories. there is a bad smell in the house, something is rotting. is it a memory? that neighbor downstairs better watch herself, else she become another of the man's memories.
summary: the man watches the street and sees them: the interlopers. he catalogues them. are they coming to get him? the reader is an interloper as well, sorting through the man and his memories, by turns confused, dismayed, amused, intrigued, annoyed, appreciative. at least this reader, this interloper felt this way, thought this way, eager to create both connection and distance between himself and the man in the book who is two men and a bird, much like the reader is also two men but with a cat but no longer. I miss that cat.
abstract: the writer is T.M. Wright and after leaving pulp horror behind, paperbacks from hell full of strange ambiguity and shifting identities, he wrote 4 experimental novels, at the twilight of his life, experimental novels full of strange ambiguity and shifting identities. these narratives aren't stable. but they have their patterns, a logic model. I wish T.M. Wright were still around, creating unstable narratives and strange identities. I miss that T.M. Wright....more
Children with a godless nature, children of a godless Nature. the children are born on an island, rising from mud. they are born ravenous. the childreChildren with a godless nature, children of a godless Nature. the children are born on an island, rising from mud. they are born ravenous. the children walk to another island, the island of New York. the children slide through walls, mimic voices, devour all those around them, die; the cycle starts anew. some children survive by forgetting, they become like little humans, and then like big ones, they survive by forgetting who they were, they mimic until they become like us. fake it 'til you make it, kids!
this third book in the creepy, quiet series has Wright in a generous mood: we learn quite a bit about these little beings. and what I learned was fascinating! this sorta-sequel (the books are directly connected but feel like standalones) is a rare case of explaining more while still retaining mystery and ambiguity. I was just as creeped out as ever.
the book is episodic, which means we get to see these wee monsters in a variety of settings among a host of humans who may or may not be former Children. unfortunately, Wright's ability with characterization suffers here, with a gallery of mainly unpleasant and unmemorable characters. except for the leader of the Children, creepy quiet Seth, all grown up and ready to lead the kids on a fun trip to a place where food is plentiful. NYC is like a big buffet to these tykes. and except for a non-Children child - a sweet and careful lil' burglar - who finds himself trapped in a tenement filled with seniors, a gang, and some hungry Children come to visit. perhaps Wright just liked writing about children and Children more than he enjoyed writing about predictable (but delicious) adults....more
"I see you only as a moving mass of spiky puzzle pieces, Mr. Whitehouse; it's as I've always seen you, as if you don't quite exist."
Wright playfully o"I see you only as a moving mass of spiky puzzle pieces, Mr. Whitehouse; it's as I've always seen you, as if you don't quite exist."
Wright playfully offers up his own puzzle: who are these apparitions appearing to Denver Whitehouse and why was Sally Pinup murdered? Except that's not really the puzzle, not at all. Surprise! The jigsaw you are working on actually looks nothing like the image on the box! The author offers scant clues, but a review of Wright's particular interests should help the player solve this conundrum: the fracturing of identity; secret histories and how our memories reshape our pasts; making a home inside one's own made-up stories. But are such stories truly made-up if you can live in them?...more
Who knows what lurks in the minds of men, deranged and otherwise? I keep my dark thoughts buried deep, rarely bringing them out to play, content with Who knows what lurks in the minds of men, deranged and otherwise? I keep my dark thoughts buried deep, rarely bringing them out to play, content with letting them skulk in corners and closets, locked away in my memory palace, and other places. Others are not so content to leave such things buried; they prefer to live in those thoughts, to make them their windows upon the world. To exult in those thoughts - but in a cunning kind of way, savoring a taste here and there, fooling one part of who they are into thinking that those other parts are barely there. Kevin is one such Other.
T.M. Wright is a nimble writer, and an idiosyncratic one as well. The Eyes of the Carp is one of his last works and it showcases both his agility and his weirdness. Perhaps at this late stage in his career he just didn't give a fuck. And so he went for it: his narrative completely ignores traditional storytelling structures. The reader fully lives in Kevin's head - but it's not some rote, heavy-breathing "mind of a serial killer". Kevin's stream of conscious is an unfamiliar one for this genre, and exciting to behold. It's quirky and fun and endearing because Kevin is quite the thoughtful oddball; it's devious and sinister and appalling because Kevin is also completely, murderously unhinged. He's fooling himself, of course, but he often fools the reader as well. People who are experts at compartmentalizing their emotions and thoughts and private goals are often very good at fooling people. But imagine what we'd see if their inside were on their outside!
But I don't want to compartmentalize this brilliant novella as the story of some serial killer - no matter how devious, deluded, and fascinating that killer may be. It is much more: a ghost story full of creeping dread, featuring a house with secret windows hidden between two walls; a philosophical treatise on the nature of communication and connection and identity; a modernist take on the unreliable narrator and stories that travel through time and memories; a Final Journal for a brilliant writer, musing on the worlds we build to live in, contemplating all of the houses - both external and internal - that comfort and entrap us.
It is also funny as hell! I laughed out loud a lot, often while being wowed by the expert prose, impressed by the bizarre yet true insights, and disturbed by all of the creepiness. This was a thrill to read on many levels....more
sitting with my nephews in their backyard one evening, i decided it was time to scare the innocent lambs. it was a big backyard with many shadowy cornsitting with my nephews in their backyard one evening, i decided it was time to scare the innocent lambs. it was a big backyard with many shadowy corners; i pointed at the furthest dark spot and said to the duo, "Why don't you ask your friends to join us? I didn't know you invited anyone over. It's weird that they're just standing there watching us, not saying anything..." try as they may, they couldn't make out anyone in that far dark corner of their yard; unsurprisingly, neither of them ventured over to see what i was pointing at. i have a pretty good poker face when i want, so i just kept looking over at the spot while they looked back and forth between me and that shadowy place, not sure if i was joking. finally i murmured, "It's so strange that they're being so quiet..." and slowly got up to check out the corner. one of them grabbed my arm to hold me back and they both whispered nervously "No Uncle Mark, don't!"
and so The Quiet Children were born. i've used those silent lil' sentinels hanging out in dark spaces with much success over the years, scaring kids of course but also a good number of nervous adults who probably should know better. ha!
Nursery Tale is full of such creepy children, born of the earth, human in appearance but definitely not human, pattering through the yards and on the rooftops and up your staircase and into your bedrooms, curious and hungry. very hungry!
T.M. Wright's follow-up to his buried classic Strange Seed broadens the canvas while sacrificing a good amount of ambiguity. his prose didn't have quite the same hypnotic effect on me here as it did in Strange Seed, and I'm not sure that making the horrors relatively straightforward was the best decision. still, this is an enjoyable read and a good example of the Quiet Horror subgenre. Wright is an accomplished author and although he sacrificed the claustrophobic intimacy of the first novel, his decision to widen the scope made this experience quite a different kettle of children. he certainly can't be accused of sticking to a formula. a variety of characters are swiftly but carefully introduced and sometimes just as swiftly dispatched. the kids are made much more deadly, which made this novel quite a bit scarier than its predecessor. his critique of development sloppily encroaching on nature was on-point but never belabored. and his strange lil' creations remain as eerily threatening and oddly sympathetic as ever. poor tykes! all they want is to find some warmth and nourishment. like a house, with people in it!
synopsis: a range of citified homeowners and their children move into a new, upscale housing tract located next to a sprawling forest with children of its own. peculiar incidents accumulate....more
a couple move near the forest where one of them grew up. something comes out of the forest. the couple enter a forest of their own, a forest of uneasya couple move near the forest where one of them grew up. something comes out of the forest. the couple enter a forest of their own, a forest of uneasy dreams where each day brings something inexplicable that they force themselves to treat as normal. or maybe it is all actually normal after all - to the forest at least, and to the things it creates.
Strange Seed hit a wonderful sweet spot for me. the rain was pouring, the trees were shaking, the wind was crashing into walls and windows. I could almost imagine I was in the middle of nowhere on the edge of a forest rather than locked in the middle of a bustling city full of lights and cars honking. I made it two-thirds of the way through, went to bed, woke up to a sunny day, and finished it off. it turned out to be just as creepy when read to the sounds of birds and people under a blue, sunny sky. a superb book and a sterling example of quiet horror. which apparently is an actual sub-genre of horror. I was so excited by that idea that I quickly made a shelf for it.
these covers sure don't feel like "Quiet Horror" to me, but for some reason I love them:
Wright is excellent with the prose. he writes like he's dreaming: sharp details combined with a hazy story, prosaic reality walking hand in hand with unfathomable unease, people acting like everything's perfectly normal when they should be screaming at the bizarre weirdness going on around them. Strange Seed's story is both delicately nuanced and disturbingly awry. questions go unanswered. ambiguity reigns. don't read this if you want pulpy thrills or in-your-face horror. read this if you have an interest in contemplating disturbing things at a leisurely pace.
so the forest is home to many things and many things are born there. new things, young things, curious things. a boy becomes a man. the man subjugates himself to concrete reality. he meets a woman. the woman subjugates herself to the man, and the house, and what comes from the forest. the woman enters a dream and decides to live there. the man wakes himself up from his dream of reality and joins her. into the woods they go! ah, nature. it lives forever.
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