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Darker with the Lights on
Driven ceaselessly, hypnotically forward by a powerful, deeply felt narrative force, the stories in this debut collection pull off that rare trick of captivating the reader, while twisting the form into truly new shapes.
Comprising, compelling stories made memorable by an imagist’s flair for photographic observation and unsettling, often startling, emotional landscapes, Darker With the Lights On introduces a mesmeric new literary talent with seismic potential.
"One of the most startlingly brilliant and original debuts I've ever read. Hayden is one hell of a talent." – David Collard
Driven ceaselessly, hypnotically forward by a powerful, deeply felt narrative
"Very, very fine fictions, which captivate and seduce the reader ... Beautiful, luminous, and written with poetic economy and precision." – David Winters
Comprising, compelling stories made memorable by an imagist’s flair for photographic observation and unsettling, often startling, emotional landscapes, Darker With the Lights On introduces a mesmeric new literary talent with seismic potential.
"One of the most startlingly brilliant and original debuts I've ever read. Hayden is one hell of a talent." – David Collard
Driven ceaselessly, hypnotically forward by a powerful, deeply felt narrative
"Very, very fine fictions, which captivate and seduce the reader ... Beautiful, luminous, and written with poetic economy and precision." – David Winters
208 pages, Hardcover
First published September 1, 2017
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Displaying 1 - 27 of 27 reviews
March 1, 2018
This is my second book from the excellent and intriguing Republic of Consciousness Prize shortlist, and the second short story collection. I was lucky to find a copy in my local independent bookshop, the wonderful Five Leaves, as I gather the initial edition is now sold out. It is difficult to avoid comparing it with Attrib. and other stories and like Eley Williams, David Hayden is a very promising writer.
For me this collection is less consistently brilliant, but the best stories are quite startling and full of memorable imagery. Others made less of an impression and seemed wilfully elliptical or dream-like, and a few of them are macabre and bloodthirsty, especially Leckerdam of the Golden Hand, in which a violent drunk describes his own murder by his children and what led to it. Others deal with the nature of art and literature, and there are plenty of ideas and wit. One of my favourites was Reading, which centres on the idea of an afterlife which is characterised by the last book a person read. Some, including Light, which gives the collection its title, are brief impressions lasting less than a couple of pages.
Once again I find myself struggling to find the right words to review this one, but it is another fine collection - if the rest of the shortlist are this good the prize deserves a higher profile.
For me this collection is less consistently brilliant, but the best stories are quite startling and full of memorable imagery. Others made less of an impression and seemed wilfully elliptical or dream-like, and a few of them are macabre and bloodthirsty, especially Leckerdam of the Golden Hand, in which a violent drunk describes his own murder by his children and what led to it. Others deal with the nature of art and literature, and there are plenty of ideas and wit. One of my favourites was Reading, which centres on the idea of an afterlife which is characterised by the last book a person read. Some, including Light, which gives the collection its title, are brief impressions lasting less than a couple of pages.
Once again I find myself struggling to find the right words to review this one, but it is another fine collection - if the rest of the shortlist are this good the prize deserves a higher profile.
January 20, 2020
E lei cosa sta leggendo?
“Non c'era possibilità di fuga. Per nessun altro tranne me perché intravidi un varco tra gli alberi dove cresceva un giardino con un sentiero che portava sul retro della casa dietro a cui stava tramontando il sole. Sbattei le palpebre e m'incamminai in avanti, sempre più in fretta, oltrepassai il camino, salii le ampie scale, entrai nell'atrio, superai innumerevoli porte ed entrai in qualcosa che somigliava all'oscurità – un lungo corridoio che terminava con uno specchio. Corsi incontro al me stesso che mi aspettava immobile nel vetro: una ragazza, un cane, una sedia, un vecchio stanco che, man mano che mi avvicinavo, si voltava avviandosi lungo il corridoio riflesso per poi accovacciarsi nella penombra di una porta. Mi avvicinai e lui si rialzò e divenne una donna e ora eravamo nelle nostre giuste posizioni. Io mi muovevo e lei si muoveva. Io ero il mio stesso altro”.
David Hayden scrive poesia in forma di racconto. Storie scritte in modo così accurato, ispirato e equilibrato da porre il lettore in uno stato di estasi sublime. Davvero, una lettura capace di spingerti sull'orlo della follia, privarti del pensiero, stringerti il cuore in un battito aritmico e discontinuo, sul fragile abisso emotivo. Prima di morire, si è innocenti. Indiscutibile la maestria di questo scrittore esordiente, di cui si conoscono poche cose e che è qui pubblicato da una casa editrice indipendente, l'obliqua e imprevedibile Safarà. Naturalmente, sono arrivato a leggere questi racconti, che ritengo un oggetto artistico elevato e indispensabile, grazie al consiglio di un caro amico scrittore. Sembra che questi racconti siano fondati sull'espressione di inconscio e immaginazione, esplorino la latenza del desiderio, si risolvano costituendo un'intermittenza e impermanenza dell'essere umano alle prese con il reale. Sono racconti strani, surreali, nonsense, illogici: non fanno dell'esistenza quella astrazione matematica, quel teorico pellegrinaggio che si legge altrove; invece, mantengono una morbida compattezza, senza innamoramenti per il vuoto, il tempo della narrazione e della rêverie è sempre concreto, afferrabile. Lo scopo di qualsiasi gioco è l'abolizione della realtà biologica. Cosa accade a un uomo che cade dall'alto, una casa è costruita di ricordi, un banchetto si consuma a base umana, un padre possiede i figli con odio e ne viene ucciso, i piccoli momenti portano a fruttuose resurrezioni, l'aldilà è il nostro ultimo libro letto, i minatori piangono e le lacrime irrigano la terra, tutto è spostato rispetto alla realtà, ma non sono sogni, sono cose che accadono realmente. “In profondità, la felicità è impossibile”. Ci sono notti che dimostrano come il buio sia un vantaggio assoluto. Il corpo ha paura di essere smembrato. Ogni speranza è eccessiva se riposta solo nelle cose. Siamo figure senza un perché. Il tempo libero è l'origine del senso. Il mare è in agguato, il mare vince. Siate generosi con voi stessi, correte a procurarvi questo libro: così saprete cose che pochissime persone sanno.
“Le case sono luoghi familiari perché vi si fa ritorno di continuo. Il tempo è nella fragranza del ritorno, e non si tratta di pane appena sfornato, bucce di limone, foreste di pini innevati o il collo della madre; non è solo caffè stantio, fumo stantio, sudore stantio, odore acre di detersivi e gli intensi, indicibili effluvi che negli edifici nuovi o vecchi si ripropongono nell'aria viziata del quotidiano; è il substrato che creiamo, da soli o insieme agli altri, con le esalazioni chimiche racchiuse nella nostra pelle, con le scelte che facciamo, o che qualcun altro fa per noi, ciò che assorbiamo, ciò che appare all'esterno e tutto quello che era lì prima di noi e che ancora possiede una traccia in grado di imporsi. La fragranza del ritorno a casa è tutto ciò che abbiamo fatto ed è stato fatto e che ci viene restituito in un attimo, appena la porta si apre”.
“Non c'era possibilità di fuga. Per nessun altro tranne me perché intravidi un varco tra gli alberi dove cresceva un giardino con un sentiero che portava sul retro della casa dietro a cui stava tramontando il sole. Sbattei le palpebre e m'incamminai in avanti, sempre più in fretta, oltrepassai il camino, salii le ampie scale, entrai nell'atrio, superai innumerevoli porte ed entrai in qualcosa che somigliava all'oscurità – un lungo corridoio che terminava con uno specchio. Corsi incontro al me stesso che mi aspettava immobile nel vetro: una ragazza, un cane, una sedia, un vecchio stanco che, man mano che mi avvicinavo, si voltava avviandosi lungo il corridoio riflesso per poi accovacciarsi nella penombra di una porta. Mi avvicinai e lui si rialzò e divenne una donna e ora eravamo nelle nostre giuste posizioni. Io mi muovevo e lei si muoveva. Io ero il mio stesso altro”.
David Hayden scrive poesia in forma di racconto. Storie scritte in modo così accurato, ispirato e equilibrato da porre il lettore in uno stato di estasi sublime. Davvero, una lettura capace di spingerti sull'orlo della follia, privarti del pensiero, stringerti il cuore in un battito aritmico e discontinuo, sul fragile abisso emotivo. Prima di morire, si è innocenti. Indiscutibile la maestria di questo scrittore esordiente, di cui si conoscono poche cose e che è qui pubblicato da una casa editrice indipendente, l'obliqua e imprevedibile Safarà. Naturalmente, sono arrivato a leggere questi racconti, che ritengo un oggetto artistico elevato e indispensabile, grazie al consiglio di un caro amico scrittore. Sembra che questi racconti siano fondati sull'espressione di inconscio e immaginazione, esplorino la latenza del desiderio, si risolvano costituendo un'intermittenza e impermanenza dell'essere umano alle prese con il reale. Sono racconti strani, surreali, nonsense, illogici: non fanno dell'esistenza quella astrazione matematica, quel teorico pellegrinaggio che si legge altrove; invece, mantengono una morbida compattezza, senza innamoramenti per il vuoto, il tempo della narrazione e della rêverie è sempre concreto, afferrabile. Lo scopo di qualsiasi gioco è l'abolizione della realtà biologica. Cosa accade a un uomo che cade dall'alto, una casa è costruita di ricordi, un banchetto si consuma a base umana, un padre possiede i figli con odio e ne viene ucciso, i piccoli momenti portano a fruttuose resurrezioni, l'aldilà è il nostro ultimo libro letto, i minatori piangono e le lacrime irrigano la terra, tutto è spostato rispetto alla realtà, ma non sono sogni, sono cose che accadono realmente. “In profondità, la felicità è impossibile”. Ci sono notti che dimostrano come il buio sia un vantaggio assoluto. Il corpo ha paura di essere smembrato. Ogni speranza è eccessiva se riposta solo nelle cose. Siamo figure senza un perché. Il tempo libero è l'origine del senso. Il mare è in agguato, il mare vince. Siate generosi con voi stessi, correte a procurarvi questo libro: così saprete cose che pochissime persone sanno.
“Le case sono luoghi familiari perché vi si fa ritorno di continuo. Il tempo è nella fragranza del ritorno, e non si tratta di pane appena sfornato, bucce di limone, foreste di pini innevati o il collo della madre; non è solo caffè stantio, fumo stantio, sudore stantio, odore acre di detersivi e gli intensi, indicibili effluvi che negli edifici nuovi o vecchi si ripropongono nell'aria viziata del quotidiano; è il substrato che creiamo, da soli o insieme agli altri, con le esalazioni chimiche racchiuse nella nostra pelle, con le scelte che facciamo, o che qualcun altro fa per noi, ciò che assorbiamo, ciò che appare all'esterno e tutto quello che era lì prima di noi e che ancora possiede una traccia in grado di imporsi. La fragranza del ritorno a casa è tutto ciò che abbiamo fatto ed è stato fatto e che ci viene restituito in un attimo, appena la porta si apre”.
September 18, 2017
Update as now read for the second time.
An article in The Guardian, several years ago, reported:
"Psychologists from Washington University used brain scans to see what happens inside our heads when we read stories. They found that 'readers mentally simulate each new situation encountered in a narrative'. The brain weaves these situations together with experiences from its own life to create a new mental synthesis. Reading a book leaves us with new neural pathways.
My favourite books are the ones where you can almost feel those new neural pathways developing. Hayden's short story collection is one of those books. It looks at things from a new angle and it uses language in different ways. As you read, you can feel your brain being re-configured.
And we can all learn from Philip in the story about Sorry the squirrel teaching children how to read.
"Mr Sorry, my name is Cynthia. What happened next?"
"Noriko, Boz and Fizz went to the Teddy Bear Mountain, having lots of adventures on the way. Fizz found his very own teddy bear to hold and love forever. The End."
"What happened then?" asks Philip.
Just because a story ends in the book you are reading, that doesn't mean the story has actually ended.
---------------------
ORIGINAL REVIEW
---------------------
"Reading can slow time to a drip, drip or push it on in a rushing, sinewy torrent like a snow-fed river in spring. Books let you circle around time, find the root of time, lose time, recover time. People will tell you that reading - especially stories - is a waste of time. Don't believe them for a second."
Darker With The Lights On is published by Little Island Press, one of the UK’s small, independent publishers. On its website, Little Island Press says it "…is an independent publisher of fiction, poetry and essays. Founded in 2016, it publishes innovative, intellectually ambitious writing in elegant, hardback editions designed by the award-winning design studio typographic research unit."
This book certainly fulfils that mission statement - it is innovative and intellectually ambitious. I read an ARC so I can’t comment on the elegant, hardback edition.
It is wonderfully refreshing to read a collection of short stories stories written by someone who lives in the same world you do but who seems to see that world with completely different eyes. And by someone for whom words seem to make sense in different combinations to those you are accustomed to.
I don't know whether my favourite stories are the ones that make sense or the ones that don't! Those that make sense tell fascinating, wonderfully observed and bizarre tales. Those that make less sense are simply beautiful to read. Perhaps my favourite of all is Memory House which layers weird images on top of each other and yet gradually builds a story out of things that don't seem to be making any sense.
There are thought provoking observations:
"Not at all," he replied, "being intimately involved with things that are more permanent than one's self is a lowering experience, in my opinion. The alternatives - flowers, food, wine, music - we have them, enjoy them and when they go, we are still here, remembering. Few events give me greater pleasure than the demolition of a familiar building, fortunately a common event. Books might well be the worst of the household ephemera: dry husks that, slab by slab, rise in great, whispering walls, entombing their owners. The essence of a book is another thing entirely, not the words as such but what lies beneath the words, that is what can set you free. That is why libraries are so important, as long as one does not linger too long in them. If I have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I've finished reading."
Or
"Tonight I picked up the guitar and held it for a time, but did not play. Sometimes that can be as good.”
There are sentences you have to read a couple of times to realise what they are painting a picture of:
"Eye-held toffee wrappers turned the sky yellow, pink, green, a better blue, scented the air with caramel, crackled sweetly in hand; all gone except the colours that press behind like the bruise of the world. All smiles. Drift on that awhile…”
There are other sentences that arrive completely unexpectedly and then are gone.
Sometimes the narrative direction is clear. At other times, I found it best to let it wash over me and to just enjoy the extraordinary use of language.
As you have probably worked out, I really enjoyed reading this. It’s a book to blow away some of the cobwebs. Some of the final stories seem to throw caution to the wind and are really "out there". It is a book I will definitely re-read: I think it might be a book where reading one story a day over a longer period would make sense.
4.5 stars. I’m not sure I can go to the full 5 stars, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened when I read it again.
My thanks to Little Island Press for the ARC.
An article in The Guardian, several years ago, reported:
"Psychologists from Washington University used brain scans to see what happens inside our heads when we read stories. They found that 'readers mentally simulate each new situation encountered in a narrative'. The brain weaves these situations together with experiences from its own life to create a new mental synthesis. Reading a book leaves us with new neural pathways.
My favourite books are the ones where you can almost feel those new neural pathways developing. Hayden's short story collection is one of those books. It looks at things from a new angle and it uses language in different ways. As you read, you can feel your brain being re-configured.
And we can all learn from Philip in the story about Sorry the squirrel teaching children how to read.
"Mr Sorry, my name is Cynthia. What happened next?"
"Noriko, Boz and Fizz went to the Teddy Bear Mountain, having lots of adventures on the way. Fizz found his very own teddy bear to hold and love forever. The End."
"What happened then?" asks Philip.
Just because a story ends in the book you are reading, that doesn't mean the story has actually ended.
---------------------
ORIGINAL REVIEW
---------------------
"Reading can slow time to a drip, drip or push it on in a rushing, sinewy torrent like a snow-fed river in spring. Books let you circle around time, find the root of time, lose time, recover time. People will tell you that reading - especially stories - is a waste of time. Don't believe them for a second."
Darker With The Lights On is published by Little Island Press, one of the UK’s small, independent publishers. On its website, Little Island Press says it "…is an independent publisher of fiction, poetry and essays. Founded in 2016, it publishes innovative, intellectually ambitious writing in elegant, hardback editions designed by the award-winning design studio typographic research unit."
This book certainly fulfils that mission statement - it is innovative and intellectually ambitious. I read an ARC so I can’t comment on the elegant, hardback edition.
It is wonderfully refreshing to read a collection of short stories stories written by someone who lives in the same world you do but who seems to see that world with completely different eyes. And by someone for whom words seem to make sense in different combinations to those you are accustomed to.
I don't know whether my favourite stories are the ones that make sense or the ones that don't! Those that make sense tell fascinating, wonderfully observed and bizarre tales. Those that make less sense are simply beautiful to read. Perhaps my favourite of all is Memory House which layers weird images on top of each other and yet gradually builds a story out of things that don't seem to be making any sense.
There are thought provoking observations:
"Not at all," he replied, "being intimately involved with things that are more permanent than one's self is a lowering experience, in my opinion. The alternatives - flowers, food, wine, music - we have them, enjoy them and when they go, we are still here, remembering. Few events give me greater pleasure than the demolition of a familiar building, fortunately a common event. Books might well be the worst of the household ephemera: dry husks that, slab by slab, rise in great, whispering walls, entombing their owners. The essence of a book is another thing entirely, not the words as such but what lies beneath the words, that is what can set you free. That is why libraries are so important, as long as one does not linger too long in them. If I have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I've finished reading."
Or
"Tonight I picked up the guitar and held it for a time, but did not play. Sometimes that can be as good.”
There are sentences you have to read a couple of times to realise what they are painting a picture of:
"Eye-held toffee wrappers turned the sky yellow, pink, green, a better blue, scented the air with caramel, crackled sweetly in hand; all gone except the colours that press behind like the bruise of the world. All smiles. Drift on that awhile…”
There are other sentences that arrive completely unexpectedly and then are gone.
Sometimes the narrative direction is clear. At other times, I found it best to let it wash over me and to just enjoy the extraordinary use of language.
As you have probably worked out, I really enjoyed reading this. It’s a book to blow away some of the cobwebs. Some of the final stories seem to throw caution to the wind and are really "out there". It is a book I will definitely re-read: I think it might be a book where reading one story a day over a longer period would make sense.
4.5 stars. I’m not sure I can go to the full 5 stars, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened when I read it again.
My thanks to Little Island Press for the ARC.
February 20, 2018
Now on the outstanding shortlist for the 2017 Republic of Consciousness Prize for 'gorgeous prose and hardcore literary fiction' from small, independent presses.
Little Island Press is an independent publisher of fiction, poetry and essays. Founded in 2016, in its own words it "publishes innovative, intellectually ambitious writing in elegant, hardback editions."
Having started with poetry, it has this year moved into fiction, including David Hayden's Darker with The Lights On.
The connection with poetry is apposite for many of the stories in the collection are more prose poems than stories. Beautifully written at the sentence level, with stunning images (particularly the use of colour) and sublime prose, but rather surreal and at times one is left a little wondering how each paragraph, sometimes each clause, relates to the preceding one.
I look up through the glass and into the massing sky, bruised silver-grey and violet, and raise my arms, my hands, thinking through the sudden pain in my head, and see a frozen lark fall at great speed before exploding on the concrete path, scattering its music all around the garden in numberless, glittering fragments.
My appreciation of the collection was stronger in the pieces with a clearer story and sense of direction. To give a few highlights:
In Play, a professor delivers an over-complex lecture on the philosophy of play while the students listening bicker amongst themselves and comment on his discourse:
'Pichard argues in his 1955 book Play in Play that the objective of all play is the abolition of biological reality. I parse the words and gain their sense but don't really know what they mean.
...
Paradoxically Pichard stresses the essentially embodied nature of play. On investigation this turns out to mean nothing more than that one needs a body in order to be able to play. It is the kind of dressed-up statement of the obvious that is presented as an intellectual breakthrough but is, in fact, a banal utterance with no analytical power whatsoever.'
'Have you heard that he writes most of the papers that he cites?' Said Sameh.
'He pseudonymously dialogues with himself reserving his scything vituperation for authors who are in fact himself,'said Sameh.
Sameh concludes (a sentiment I remember from more obscure maths lectures at University):
'I will work on the assumption that he is giving us the questions, and the answers in outline, for the end of year exams and see where that takes me.'
In Auctioneer, the eponymous character explains why he believes in disposing of objects and gives the most eloquent rationale I have come across for my own habit of not keeping books:
Being intimately involved with things that are more permanent than one's self is a lowering experience in my opinion. The alternatives - flowers, food, some, music- we have them, we enjoy them and when they go we are still here, remembering. Few events give me greater pleasure than the demolition of a familiar building, fortunately a common event. Books may well be the worst of the household ephemera: dry husks that, slab by slab, rise in great, whispering walls, beginning their owners. The essence of a book is another thing entirely, not the words as such bit what lies beneath the words, that is what can set you free. That is why libraries are so important, as long as one does not linger too long in them. If to have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I've finished reading.
There is humour too. In How to Read a Picture Book, a cigar smoking talking squirrel (!) gives a group of children a very neat explanation of the different elements of a story for children, while in Last Call for the Hated a man experiences persistent, obvious but rather low-level hostility from the populace, such as smearing toothpaste on his door and ostentatiously serving the person behind him first in the chip-shop queue.
And in Reading, an older man apologetically approaches a younger as they wait on a train platform:
'I know something very few people know. There are small occasions of magic still lodged in the world. Books... Books are enchanted. Not in the way that people imagine. Not in the sense of wordy transits of delight wrought by restless writers, but something very specific and universal. When you die - when you die - you revive in the world of the last book you were reading before your ... demise. I can tell that you don't believe me and I don't expect you to but - because I like you - I wanted to warn you. What are you reading at the moment?'
'Management Accounting for Non-Financial Specialists'.
'That's bad'.
I must admit at times I found it more difficult to get a grasp on some of the other stories but as Hadyden himself explains in the Irish Times (https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/yo...) this is a deliberate technique:
Thanks to Little Island Press for the ARC.
Little Island Press is an independent publisher of fiction, poetry and essays. Founded in 2016, in its own words it "publishes innovative, intellectually ambitious writing in elegant, hardback editions."
Having started with poetry, it has this year moved into fiction, including David Hayden's Darker with The Lights On.
The connection with poetry is apposite for many of the stories in the collection are more prose poems than stories. Beautifully written at the sentence level, with stunning images (particularly the use of colour) and sublime prose, but rather surreal and at times one is left a little wondering how each paragraph, sometimes each clause, relates to the preceding one.
I look up through the glass and into the massing sky, bruised silver-grey and violet, and raise my arms, my hands, thinking through the sudden pain in my head, and see a frozen lark fall at great speed before exploding on the concrete path, scattering its music all around the garden in numberless, glittering fragments.
My appreciation of the collection was stronger in the pieces with a clearer story and sense of direction. To give a few highlights:
In Play, a professor delivers an over-complex lecture on the philosophy of play while the students listening bicker amongst themselves and comment on his discourse:
'Pichard argues in his 1955 book Play in Play that the objective of all play is the abolition of biological reality. I parse the words and gain their sense but don't really know what they mean.
...
Paradoxically Pichard stresses the essentially embodied nature of play. On investigation this turns out to mean nothing more than that one needs a body in order to be able to play. It is the kind of dressed-up statement of the obvious that is presented as an intellectual breakthrough but is, in fact, a banal utterance with no analytical power whatsoever.'
'Have you heard that he writes most of the papers that he cites?' Said Sameh.
'He pseudonymously dialogues with himself reserving his scything vituperation for authors who are in fact himself,'said Sameh.
Sameh concludes (a sentiment I remember from more obscure maths lectures at University):
'I will work on the assumption that he is giving us the questions, and the answers in outline, for the end of year exams and see where that takes me.'
In Auctioneer, the eponymous character explains why he believes in disposing of objects and gives the most eloquent rationale I have come across for my own habit of not keeping books:
Being intimately involved with things that are more permanent than one's self is a lowering experience in my opinion. The alternatives - flowers, food, some, music- we have them, we enjoy them and when they go we are still here, remembering. Few events give me greater pleasure than the demolition of a familiar building, fortunately a common event. Books may well be the worst of the household ephemera: dry husks that, slab by slab, rise in great, whispering walls, beginning their owners. The essence of a book is another thing entirely, not the words as such bit what lies beneath the words, that is what can set you free. That is why libraries are so important, as long as one does not linger too long in them. If to have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I've finished reading.
There is humour too. In How to Read a Picture Book, a cigar smoking talking squirrel (!) gives a group of children a very neat explanation of the different elements of a story for children, while in Last Call for the Hated a man experiences persistent, obvious but rather low-level hostility from the populace, such as smearing toothpaste on his door and ostentatiously serving the person behind him first in the chip-shop queue.
And in Reading, an older man apologetically approaches a younger as they wait on a train platform:
'I know something very few people know. There are small occasions of magic still lodged in the world. Books... Books are enchanted. Not in the way that people imagine. Not in the sense of wordy transits of delight wrought by restless writers, but something very specific and universal. When you die - when you die - you revive in the world of the last book you were reading before your ... demise. I can tell that you don't believe me and I don't expect you to but - because I like you - I wanted to warn you. What are you reading at the moment?'
'Management Accounting for Non-Financial Specialists'.
'That's bad'.
I must admit at times I found it more difficult to get a grasp on some of the other stories but as Hadyden himself explains in the Irish Times (https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/yo...) this is a deliberate technique:
“When I took that specificity away, I ended up with something that became much, much more interesting, more uncanny, and more generalisable to people’s experiences of different kinds of discomfort. Taking the specifics out, the recognisable accents and language, for me anyway it made it more interesting, it made it stronger, it made it possible to develop the theme of the story more strongly.A striking debut and a unique piece of writing. At times I did feel a rather inadequate reader, like the professor in Play - I parse the words and gain their sense but don't really know what they mean. - but the writing was always beautiful at the word level and the stronger stories highly memorable.
Thanks to Little Island Press for the ARC.
January 29, 2023
'I looked at these words after class and they don't make any sense,' said Scott.
...
'What does it mean?,' said Lena.
'It means: "You can read this but can you read..." then it's just gibberish as far as I can tell. Or it's a code written in the same lettering.'
'He's taunting us,' said Scott.
'He doesn't care about us,' said Lena. 'He's playing with himself.'
p. 151
The least liked of the six Republic of Pretentiousness ... err, Consciousness Prize shortlist nominees, apparently awarded to the most egregiously incomprehensible drivel foisted on an unsuspecting public by a micro-publisher employing fewer than 5 - and read by fewer than an average of 88 - people (according to GR ratings). Most of these 'stories' (and I use the term extremely loosely) seem to have been composed under the influence of ayahuasca and/or magic mushrooms and/or LSD. I couldn't tell you what any of them were about five minutes past completion.
The collection should have been called 'Nuder with the Clothes on', since it is a prime example of what I term 'Emperor's New Clothes' writing: compositions that no one really either understands nor likes, but which they fawn all over themselves about, because they assume it is just THEM. I suppose I'll have to be the little boy laughing his head off and calling a spade a spade.
PS: I have just been informed that there was a 21st short story that, due to time and monetary constraints, was deleted from the initial edition of the book. Here, for the first time, is that expurgated story, and I am delighted to be able to bring it to his adoring public!:
Benign Tumor
By David Hayden
The abruptness with which I stood from my bed caused me to examine the eggshell coloured nail on the middle toe of my right foot with an intensity I had not felt in over seven hours. The sound of the sea came in the window, covered by cerulean curtains through which I spied a sparrow the size of a hawk, floating in the ether. I tried to detect the smell of tea or coffee, but then remembered that I hadn't made any yet, and that my Keurig was on the fritz anyway. I traversed the mauve threadbare rug that lead to my utilitarian bathroom and fondled the shower door which was an AK-47 which was a dachshund which was a Kosher dill pickle which was a 1987 recording of Schubert's Concerto for Violin and Cello which was a paperback novel which was a vibrating sex toy.
In Barcelona I sat at a café and opened my tablet to see if my boss had sent me any urgent messages. 'Henry', he had IM'ed me, 'There is something I need you to take care of for me. It is of vital importance that you....', and at that point my Wi-Fi faltered and I decided it was not a good day to take in the Gaudi Museum. I walked north, noticing that although it wasn't quite noon, the shadows of the trees were tilting slightly to the left.
The anaconda reared its head from the sofa and I delicately stepped over it as I shut and locked the fuchsia door. The door knob seemed to smile at me as I smirked at its impudence. I sat at the bus stop, where an older woman was insistently pulling down her puce knee-length skirt, and simultaneously put a ratty pound note in her pocket. She had long tapered fingers, with a magenta polish on alternating nails. She dug the middle finger of her left hand into her right ear, and examined the glob of ear wax she extracted. She turned to me and said 'Cyril', using the name I had not answered to since I lost my virginity to my parish priest at the age of seven, 'I am your father. My name is Celeste.' (less)
...
'What does it mean?,' said Lena.
'It means: "You can read this but can you read..." then it's just gibberish as far as I can tell. Or it's a code written in the same lettering.'
'He's taunting us,' said Scott.
'He doesn't care about us,' said Lena. 'He's playing with himself.'
p. 151
The least liked of the six Republic of Pretentiousness ... err, Consciousness Prize shortlist nominees, apparently awarded to the most egregiously incomprehensible drivel foisted on an unsuspecting public by a micro-publisher employing fewer than 5 - and read by fewer than an average of 88 - people (according to GR ratings). Most of these 'stories' (and I use the term extremely loosely) seem to have been composed under the influence of ayahuasca and/or magic mushrooms and/or LSD. I couldn't tell you what any of them were about five minutes past completion.
The collection should have been called 'Nuder with the Clothes on', since it is a prime example of what I term 'Emperor's New Clothes' writing: compositions that no one really either understands nor likes, but which they fawn all over themselves about, because they assume it is just THEM. I suppose I'll have to be the little boy laughing his head off and calling a spade a spade.
PS: I have just been informed that there was a 21st short story that, due to time and monetary constraints, was deleted from the initial edition of the book. Here, for the first time, is that expurgated story, and I am delighted to be able to bring it to his adoring public!:
Benign Tumor
By David Hayden
The abruptness with which I stood from my bed caused me to examine the eggshell coloured nail on the middle toe of my right foot with an intensity I had not felt in over seven hours. The sound of the sea came in the window, covered by cerulean curtains through which I spied a sparrow the size of a hawk, floating in the ether. I tried to detect the smell of tea or coffee, but then remembered that I hadn't made any yet, and that my Keurig was on the fritz anyway. I traversed the mauve threadbare rug that lead to my utilitarian bathroom and fondled the shower door which was an AK-47 which was a dachshund which was a Kosher dill pickle which was a 1987 recording of Schubert's Concerto for Violin and Cello which was a paperback novel which was a vibrating sex toy.
In Barcelona I sat at a café and opened my tablet to see if my boss had sent me any urgent messages. 'Henry', he had IM'ed me, 'There is something I need you to take care of for me. It is of vital importance that you....', and at that point my Wi-Fi faltered and I decided it was not a good day to take in the Gaudi Museum. I walked north, noticing that although it wasn't quite noon, the shadows of the trees were tilting slightly to the left.
The anaconda reared its head from the sofa and I delicately stepped over it as I shut and locked the fuchsia door. The door knob seemed to smile at me as I smirked at its impudence. I sat at the bus stop, where an older woman was insistently pulling down her puce knee-length skirt, and simultaneously put a ratty pound note in her pocket. She had long tapered fingers, with a magenta polish on alternating nails. She dug the middle finger of her left hand into her right ear, and examined the glob of ear wax she extracted. She turned to me and said 'Cyril', using the name I had not answered to since I lost my virginity to my parish priest at the age of seven, 'I am your father. My name is Celeste.' (less)
January 5, 2021
NOW SHORTLISTED FOR THE REPUBLIC OF CONSCIOUSNESS PRIZE
The short story book is published by Little Island Press who specialise in innovative, intellectually ambitious writing.
This debut collection is certainly innovative and ambitious – Hayden writes with at times an almost Kafkaesque sense of the absurd and also with the ability to deliver pointed insights: a remark, for example, in the opening story “Egress” which brilliantly encapsulates the world of high finance.
Many of the stories can at first read seem disorienting lacking an obvious and familiar anchor around which to base one's comprehension and on a first read I preferred the stories where I felt that I understood Hayden’s theme or concept for the story, although often even these stories veer off into a surreal ending.
However on a second read and also aided by this interview in the Irish Times I understood and then was able to fully appreciate the intent behind the technique.
https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/yo...
Hayden is particularly strong when in the world of books, reading and imagination - which is perhaps not surprising given his wide range of experience in this field (publisher, reviewer, editor, bookseller).
“Memory House” is almost Borgesian – taking the concept of the Memory palace technique literally as a way to explore remembering.
“Reading” playfully explores the idea that “When you die you revive in the world of the last book you were reading before your demise”
Hayden also writes with humour, in “How to Read a Picture Book” a man in a squirrel costume educates children on various aspects of picture books, including
Or in “Play” is a lecture on the concept of play.
In “The Auctioneer”, the Auctioneer talks of his indifference to the physical objects he auctions and his opinion that being intimately involved with things that are more permanent than one’s self is a lowering experience and that he prefers The alternatives – flowers, food, wine, music – we have them, enjoy them and when they go we are still here remembering.
Brilliantly (and perhaps I say that because his views reflect my own view on reading) he applies the same concept to books
I will not be looking to give this book away as I will enjoy reading back over the stories, to distil more of their essence.
Ultimately this is a book of stories which brilliantly work on at least two levels - at a macro level as great and entertaining short stories in their own right, and at a micro level in the intricacy of the sentences crafted to make up each story.
Thanks to Little Island Press for the ARC.
The short story book is published by Little Island Press who specialise in innovative, intellectually ambitious writing.
This debut collection is certainly innovative and ambitious – Hayden writes with at times an almost Kafkaesque sense of the absurd and also with the ability to deliver pointed insights: a remark, for example, in the opening story “Egress” which brilliantly encapsulates the world of high finance.
The workers were returning, holding tall white tubes of coffee. They would join those who had stayed all night working on refractory problems, moving in minutely close or stepping back to a global distance to review risk or loss, to find resolutions that would cause money to leap free from wherever it was trapped: in bodies, components, minds or ore; in ideas, longings, irritations, bare possibilities. Everyone labouring to add more to the much
Many of the stories can at first read seem disorienting lacking an obvious and familiar anchor around which to base one's comprehension and on a first read I preferred the stories where I felt that I understood Hayden’s theme or concept for the story, although often even these stories veer off into a surreal ending.
However on a second read and also aided by this interview in the Irish Times I understood and then was able to fully appreciate the intent behind the technique.
https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/yo...
Hayden describes this process of defamiliarisation as a “peeling back”, a way to make the stories stronger both as stand-alone texts, and as a complete collection.
“When I took that specificity away, I ended up with something that became much, much more interesting, more uncanny, and more generalisable to people’s experiences of different kinds of discomfort,” he says.
“Taking the specifics out, the recognisable accents and language, for me anyway it made it more interesting, it made it stronger, it made it possible to develop the theme of the story more strongly .....
“When I read through a story, if I find anything that sounds overfamiliar, unintentionally, then I’ll rewrite it,” Hayden says. “I’ll take it out because it weakens the lines."
Hayden is particularly strong when in the world of books, reading and imagination - which is perhaps not surprising given his wide range of experience in this field (publisher, reviewer, editor, bookseller).
“Memory House” is almost Borgesian – taking the concept of the Memory palace technique literally as a way to explore remembering.
“Reading” playfully explores the idea that “When you die you revive in the world of the last book you were reading before your demise”
Hayden also writes with humour, in “How to Read a Picture Book” a man in a squirrel costume educates children on various aspects of picture books, including
Sometimes when Mommy or Daddy are very tired, they’ll stumble over the words. Say them in the wrong order. Miss a page or two. Fall asleep drooling so that you have to shake them awake and, if you’re lucky, they’ll start over from where they left off and, if not, they’ll say: “Look Max. I have to make supper and clean the kitchen and write a report for work. So I can’t go on reading. Sorry
Or in “Play” is a lecture on the concept of play.
Paradoxically Pichard stresses the essentially embodied nature of play. On investigation this turns out to mean nothing more than that one needs a body in order to be able to play. It is the kind of dressed –up statement of the obvious that is represented as an intellectual breakthrough but is, in fact, a banal utterance with no analytical power whatsoever
In “The Auctioneer”, the Auctioneer talks of his indifference to the physical objects he auctions and his opinion that being intimately involved with things that are more permanent than one’s self is a lowering experience and that he prefers The alternatives – flowers, food, wine, music – we have them, enjoy them and when they go we are still here remembering.
Brilliantly (and perhaps I say that because his views reflect my own view on reading) he applies the same concept to books
Books might well be the worst of the household ephemera: dry husks that, slab by slab rise in great, whispering walls, entombing their owners. The essence of the book is another thing entirely, not the words as such but what lies beneath the words, that is what can set you free. That is why libraries are so important, as long as one does not linger too long in them. If I have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I’ve finished reading
I will not be looking to give this book away as I will enjoy reading back over the stories, to distil more of their essence.
Ultimately this is a book of stories which brilliantly work on at least two levels - at a macro level as great and entertaining short stories in their own right, and at a micro level in the intricacy of the sentences crafted to make up each story.
Thanks to Little Island Press for the ARC.
Read
February 25, 2018This was challenging and perhaps a bit too experimental for what I needed right now. This isn't to say that I didn't enjoy this, as there were many moments throughout the book where I felt quite inspired and emotionally shoved. But as a whole, I did find reading the book to be quite a frustrating experience at times, but that is only because Hayden has made deliberate choices with his narratives that challenge the traditional idea of what a narrative is in what one can call a "story;" he seems to eschew traditional considerations for temporal succession of events in favor of a full embrace of the surreal. There is no single story throughout the book that ever really allows for a character arc per se. There is emotion throughout it all in the form of invasive, grotesque imagery at times, and like any emotion, can be sudden and unbidden. It felt more to me as if Hayden's stories in this book were less "stories" and more the mix and evolution of poetry and dreams taking a more meandering form. Like dreams, the imagery resonated, but its origins or meaning either non-existent or, at the very least, clouded. It just means that reading it can be a more difficult experience than I expected, and while I found some of the stories quite brilliant, others I thought were just being wilfully obtuse.
December 10, 2022
La discontinuità del reale
“Le case sono luoghi familiari perché vi si fa ritorno di continuo. Il tempo è nella fragranza del ritorno, e non si tratta di pane appena sfornato, bucce di limone, foreste di pini innevati o il collo della madre; non è solo caffè stantio, fumo stantio, sudore stantio, odore acre di detersivi e gli intensi, indicibili effluvi che negli edifici nuovi o vecchi si ripropongono nell'aria viziata del quotidiano; è il substrato che creiamo, da soli o insieme agli altri, con le esalazioni chimiche racchiuse nella nostra pelle, con le scelte che facciamo, o che qualcun altro fa per noi, ciò che assorbiamo, ciò che appare all'esterno e tutto quello che era lì prima di noi e che ancora possiede una traccia in grado di imporsi. La fragranza del ritorno a casa è tutto ciò che abbiamo fatto ed è stato fatto e che ci viene restituito in un attimo, appena la porta si apre”.
Un esordio letterario ambizioso, indubbiamente diverso da qualunque libro abbia preceduto questa esperienza di lettura. Hayden dipinge scorci genuinamente surreali, contornati da un'anarchia che abbraccia tanto l'esposizione narrativa quanto i soggetti dei singoli racconti. Come una folgore che squarcia la volta celeste, la fiumana di racconti insegue ora ricordi affastellati da visioni, ora profluvi corporali di sudore e materia fecale, ora pulsioni sessuali represse; e violenze su innocenti, moti di redenzione mascherati da interminabili flussi di coscienza, scoiattoli che discettano di metanarrativa a capannelli di alunni, minatori che allagano le miniere con le proprie lacrime.
Apprezzo il weird - la sua innata peculiarità di gestire il contenuto attraverso un lavoro di sottrazione e discontinuità -, ma apprezzo ancora di più quando lo scrittore riesce ad aprire un ponte comunicativo con il lettore: per dare lustro alla propria esigenza di raccontare, lasciare un messaggio o tributare il proprio estro creativo con quel minimo di accessibilità che favorisca l'entrata negli altrui mondi.
La raccolta è scritta bene e non risulta scevra da momenti riusciti; cionondimeno, resta distante dal mio gusto personale per l'inaccessibilità a livello contenutistico.
-Sortita (cadere eternamente da un cornicione) 3★
-Il banditore (piazzare oggetti mentre si è perseguitati da un lutto) 2.5★
-Fieno (un'epidemia di pianti tra i minatori porta all'allagamento delle miniere) 3.5★
-La casa dei ricordi (camminare nei propri incubi, mentre un estraneo si muove in casa) 3★
-Il pane spezzato (disteso banchetto a base di carne umana) 2★
-Leckerdam Mano d'Oro (patricidio e acquisizione di un braccio divino) 3.5★
-Smembrato (impossibile partorire un commento) 1★
-Dick (uomo immerso nei ciottoli, con il mare ritratto: il senso di una vita) 3.5★
-Una mela in biblioteca (mangiare la mela o essere mangiati dalla mela) 1★
-Mareg (un ragazzo va alla scoperta dei colori: qualunque cosa significhi) 2★
-Ultima chiamata per gli antipatici (alzo bandiera bianca) 1★
-Altrove (una famiglia vive nel proprio aldilà) 3★
-I resti del mondo che fu (riflessioni sul termine del mondo con una cornacchia) 2★
-Come leggere un libro illustrato (uno scoiattolo racconta di racconti) 3★
-Il gioco (discettazioni sul concetto di gioco) 1★
-Lettura (l'ultimo libro letto sarà il proprio aldilà) 4★
-Dopo lo spettacolo (fuori da teatro, di fronte al mare) 1★
-Luci (spostare una cassa pesante: è più buio a luci accese) 3.5★
-Facendomi d'oro (discesa nei sogni di un mondo in fiamme) 2★
-Comodità (individuo naufraga nei propri sogni) 2★
“Le case sono luoghi familiari perché vi si fa ritorno di continuo. Il tempo è nella fragranza del ritorno, e non si tratta di pane appena sfornato, bucce di limone, foreste di pini innevati o il collo della madre; non è solo caffè stantio, fumo stantio, sudore stantio, odore acre di detersivi e gli intensi, indicibili effluvi che negli edifici nuovi o vecchi si ripropongono nell'aria viziata del quotidiano; è il substrato che creiamo, da soli o insieme agli altri, con le esalazioni chimiche racchiuse nella nostra pelle, con le scelte che facciamo, o che qualcun altro fa per noi, ciò che assorbiamo, ciò che appare all'esterno e tutto quello che era lì prima di noi e che ancora possiede una traccia in grado di imporsi. La fragranza del ritorno a casa è tutto ciò che abbiamo fatto ed è stato fatto e che ci viene restituito in un attimo, appena la porta si apre”.
Un esordio letterario ambizioso, indubbiamente diverso da qualunque libro abbia preceduto questa esperienza di lettura. Hayden dipinge scorci genuinamente surreali, contornati da un'anarchia che abbraccia tanto l'esposizione narrativa quanto i soggetti dei singoli racconti. Come una folgore che squarcia la volta celeste, la fiumana di racconti insegue ora ricordi affastellati da visioni, ora profluvi corporali di sudore e materia fecale, ora pulsioni sessuali represse; e violenze su innocenti, moti di redenzione mascherati da interminabili flussi di coscienza, scoiattoli che discettano di metanarrativa a capannelli di alunni, minatori che allagano le miniere con le proprie lacrime.
Apprezzo il weird - la sua innata peculiarità di gestire il contenuto attraverso un lavoro di sottrazione e discontinuità -, ma apprezzo ancora di più quando lo scrittore riesce ad aprire un ponte comunicativo con il lettore: per dare lustro alla propria esigenza di raccontare, lasciare un messaggio o tributare il proprio estro creativo con quel minimo di accessibilità che favorisca l'entrata negli altrui mondi.
La raccolta è scritta bene e non risulta scevra da momenti riusciti; cionondimeno, resta distante dal mio gusto personale per l'inaccessibilità a livello contenutistico.
-Sortita (cadere eternamente da un cornicione) 3★
-Il banditore (piazzare oggetti mentre si è perseguitati da un lutto) 2.5★
-Fieno (un'epidemia di pianti tra i minatori porta all'allagamento delle miniere) 3.5★
-La casa dei ricordi (camminare nei propri incubi, mentre un estraneo si muove in casa) 3★
-Il pane spezzato (disteso banchetto a base di carne umana) 2★
-Leckerdam Mano d'Oro (patricidio e acquisizione di un braccio divino) 3.5★
-Smembrato (impossibile partorire un commento) 1★
-Dick (uomo immerso nei ciottoli, con il mare ritratto: il senso di una vita) 3.5★
-Una mela in biblioteca (mangiare la mela o essere mangiati dalla mela) 1★
-Mareg (un ragazzo va alla scoperta dei colori: qualunque cosa significhi) 2★
-Ultima chiamata per gli antipatici (alzo bandiera bianca) 1★
-Altrove (una famiglia vive nel proprio aldilà) 3★
-I resti del mondo che fu (riflessioni sul termine del mondo con una cornacchia) 2★
-Come leggere un libro illustrato (uno scoiattolo racconta di racconti) 3★
-Il gioco (discettazioni sul concetto di gioco) 1★
-Lettura (l'ultimo libro letto sarà il proprio aldilà) 4★
-Dopo lo spettacolo (fuori da teatro, di fronte al mare) 1★
-Luci (spostare una cassa pesante: è più buio a luci accese) 3.5★
-Facendomi d'oro (discesa nei sogni di un mondo in fiamme) 2★
-Comodità (individuo naufraga nei propri sogni) 2★
January 18, 2020
Il buio a luci accese, esordio letterario di David Hayden è una sorprendente raccolta di racconti molto diversa dalle letture consuete, un'opera a metà strada tra lo sperimentale e il surreale che frantuma le leggi della scrittura e le riscrive secondo la poetica personale dell'autore irlandese.
Storie che scaturiscono dalla collisione di situazioni contrastanti: in Sortita c'è un che uomo si getta dal cornicione di un palazzo ma la sua caduta sembra non arrivare mai a compimento perché il tempo rallenta, ne Il pane spezzato assistiamo ad una scena di cannibalismo nel contesto di una cena elegante, in Smembrato una testa mozzata rotola cantando… e così via.
La storia prescinde dalla logica, sembra dirci Hayden, anzi compito della storia è quello di infrangere le leggi della logica per percorrere sentieri nuovi. In quest'ottica gli oggetti, le situazioni, hanno il solo scopo di ispirare la formazione della trama: "il banditore è indifferente agli oggetti, quel che colleziona sono le storie che abitano le cose", dice la voce narrante de Il banditore, l'essenza di un libro non sono "le parole in se stesse ma quel che c'è sotto, cioè quello che ci può liberare".
"Ogni cosa è un varco verso un altro oggetto o verso un evento", si legge ne La casa dei ricordi, e questo evento può essere del genere più disparato ma deve avere sempre la caratteristica – come detto – di scardinare la realtà, perché l'unica realtà è la finzione, approdo borgesiano che in Dick Hayden eleva a canone della sua poetica.
E così succede che la luce e il rumore acquistino spessore ("dal soffitto si riversa qualcosa di bianco e appiccicoso; è luce", e ancora: "il rumore si gonfia alle mie spalle e poi si allontana incanalandosi prima di ripiombarmi in testa e giù per le scale" e che l'Io che abita la storia sia diverso da quello che la sta narrando (La casa dei ricordi).
Difficile venire a capo di racconti nei quali il tempo si dilata o si contrae e lo spazio mescola reale e fantastico, a volte metafore ed allegorie sembrano darci una mano ad orientarci ma l'impressione è che l'intento dell'autore sia piuttosto quello di farci partecipare al gioco piuttosto che provare a comprenderlo, perché "il gioco non è divertimento. È quello che dobbiamo fare per vivere" e "lo scopo di qualsiasi gioco è l'abolizione della realtà biologica" (Il gioco). Un gioco che, va da sé, è incentrato sulle parole, che "non sono nient'altro che macchie mute finché non si scopre cosa significano, ma quando le si mettono insieme sono capaci di dire ogni genere di cose" (Come leggere un libro illustrato).
E se le cose non sono abbastanza chiare, ecco un esempio preso dallo stesso racconto:
"-Mettete tutti i verbi da una parte e i sostantivi dall'altra, poi leggeteli in coppia in varie combinazioni per ottenere la vostra figura: Coniglio stropicciato, soldato singhiozzante… Su, provate voi.
- Minatore sorridente - dice un ragazzino con la faccia a limone, con in testa un berretto di lana.
- Ottimo. Ora che avete la vostra figura, potete cominciare a chiedervi "perché?" e continuare così finché non avrete la vostra storia."
Storie che scaturiscono dalla collisione di situazioni contrastanti: in Sortita c'è un che uomo si getta dal cornicione di un palazzo ma la sua caduta sembra non arrivare mai a compimento perché il tempo rallenta, ne Il pane spezzato assistiamo ad una scena di cannibalismo nel contesto di una cena elegante, in Smembrato una testa mozzata rotola cantando… e così via.
La storia prescinde dalla logica, sembra dirci Hayden, anzi compito della storia è quello di infrangere le leggi della logica per percorrere sentieri nuovi. In quest'ottica gli oggetti, le situazioni, hanno il solo scopo di ispirare la formazione della trama: "il banditore è indifferente agli oggetti, quel che colleziona sono le storie che abitano le cose", dice la voce narrante de Il banditore, l'essenza di un libro non sono "le parole in se stesse ma quel che c'è sotto, cioè quello che ci può liberare".
"Ogni cosa è un varco verso un altro oggetto o verso un evento", si legge ne La casa dei ricordi, e questo evento può essere del genere più disparato ma deve avere sempre la caratteristica – come detto – di scardinare la realtà, perché l'unica realtà è la finzione, approdo borgesiano che in Dick Hayden eleva a canone della sua poetica.
E così succede che la luce e il rumore acquistino spessore ("dal soffitto si riversa qualcosa di bianco e appiccicoso; è luce", e ancora: "il rumore si gonfia alle mie spalle e poi si allontana incanalandosi prima di ripiombarmi in testa e giù per le scale" e che l'Io che abita la storia sia diverso da quello che la sta narrando (La casa dei ricordi).
Difficile venire a capo di racconti nei quali il tempo si dilata o si contrae e lo spazio mescola reale e fantastico, a volte metafore ed allegorie sembrano darci una mano ad orientarci ma l'impressione è che l'intento dell'autore sia piuttosto quello di farci partecipare al gioco piuttosto che provare a comprenderlo, perché "il gioco non è divertimento. È quello che dobbiamo fare per vivere" e "lo scopo di qualsiasi gioco è l'abolizione della realtà biologica" (Il gioco). Un gioco che, va da sé, è incentrato sulle parole, che "non sono nient'altro che macchie mute finché non si scopre cosa significano, ma quando le si mettono insieme sono capaci di dire ogni genere di cose" (Come leggere un libro illustrato).
E se le cose non sono abbastanza chiare, ecco un esempio preso dallo stesso racconto:
"-Mettete tutti i verbi da una parte e i sostantivi dall'altra, poi leggeteli in coppia in varie combinazioni per ottenere la vostra figura: Coniglio stropicciato, soldato singhiozzante… Su, provate voi.
- Minatore sorridente - dice un ragazzino con la faccia a limone, con in testa un berretto di lana.
- Ottimo. Ora che avete la vostra figura, potete cominciare a chiedervi "perché?" e continuare così finché non avrete la vostra storia."
September 15, 2017
First a note on the edition from the wonderful publisher: it's sumptuous.
The stories themselves are hit and miss, and often feel like over-laboured exercises in style, or non-style. They don't go down easy, which is perhaps the point, but I was often left impressed but scarcely moved, and occasionally annoyed at what I saw as words being marshalled about to suit an exhibition of an abstract surrealist philosophy. The sentences still have to resound and many of them are just there on the page, working away, cogs in a slick machine producing curious artefacts of little utility.
The stories themselves are hit and miss, and often feel like over-laboured exercises in style, or non-style. They don't go down easy, which is perhaps the point, but I was often left impressed but scarcely moved, and occasionally annoyed at what I saw as words being marshalled about to suit an exhibition of an abstract surrealist philosophy. The sentences still have to resound and many of them are just there on the page, working away, cogs in a slick machine producing curious artefacts of little utility.
March 16, 2018
Darker With The Lights On is my last read from the 2017/8 Republic of Consciousness shortlist. This book features a number of separate short stories
In Reading
when you die-you revive in the world of the last book you were reading before your... demise........ (162)
Now, what book would be my ultimate nightmare, I wonder?!
In Darker With The Lights On there are some broadly stimulating stories, some rich language, some unconventional thinking that jolts you, the reader, to contemplate ideas expressed differently.
Alas, the good stuff is far outweighed by the incomprehensible and the wilfully disjointed.
Gumbles Yard excellent review https://www.goodreads.com/review/show... notes Hayden’s explanation, in interviews, that he deliberately “takes the specifics out, the recognisable....” That turned out to be a bridge too far for me.
Hayden works his staples hard.
Colour abounds.
Water and Light are central to several stories.
The spirit of Lewis Carroll, of C.S.Lewis, the flora and the fauna and the magical re-inventions flowed throughout the stories.
Nature, the forests, the sea, are beautiful in a way that people are not. People are lumps of flesh, the gutteral, the coarse, the crude, the vulgar; these are the hallmarks of homo sapiens. People represent filth, grime and decay.
Other reviewers have highlighted the stories that feature books and reading, and in this I concur. In How to Read A Picture Book
“part of the fun is looking for the hidden stuff”(141)
Sadly this was not a book that I ever returned to full of anticipation; more like trepidation.
Individually beautiful passages of prose did not compensate for the (deliberate) crafting of stories whose conclusions mostly bore no relation to what had preceded.
I’m sure it’s my lack of lateral thinking prowess that it to blame.
To finish on a positive note, the physical book itself is beautifully made, the binding is a work of art, and my praise to Little Island Press for the presentation.
So, in The Auctioneer, the observation (twice quoted approvingly in other reviews) If I have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I’ve finished reading, is completely at odds with my own view of books as beautiful, emotive objects. My desire to retain and remember them is powerful. They create for me a similar sense of contentedness that colour and nature awakens in David Hayden.
In Reading
when you die-you revive in the world of the last book you were reading before your... demise........ (162)
Now, what book would be my ultimate nightmare, I wonder?!
In Darker With The Lights On there are some broadly stimulating stories, some rich language, some unconventional thinking that jolts you, the reader, to contemplate ideas expressed differently.
Alas, the good stuff is far outweighed by the incomprehensible and the wilfully disjointed.
Gumbles Yard excellent review https://www.goodreads.com/review/show... notes Hayden’s explanation, in interviews, that he deliberately “takes the specifics out, the recognisable....” That turned out to be a bridge too far for me.
Hayden works his staples hard.
Colour abounds.
Water and Light are central to several stories.
The spirit of Lewis Carroll, of C.S.Lewis, the flora and the fauna and the magical re-inventions flowed throughout the stories.
Nature, the forests, the sea, are beautiful in a way that people are not. People are lumps of flesh, the gutteral, the coarse, the crude, the vulgar; these are the hallmarks of homo sapiens. People represent filth, grime and decay.
Other reviewers have highlighted the stories that feature books and reading, and in this I concur. In How to Read A Picture Book
“part of the fun is looking for the hidden stuff”(141)
Sadly this was not a book that I ever returned to full of anticipation; more like trepidation.
Individually beautiful passages of prose did not compensate for the (deliberate) crafting of stories whose conclusions mostly bore no relation to what had preceded.
I’m sure it’s my lack of lateral thinking prowess that it to blame.
To finish on a positive note, the physical book itself is beautifully made, the binding is a work of art, and my praise to Little Island Press for the presentation.
So, in The Auctioneer, the observation (twice quoted approvingly in other reviews) If I have to buy a book I give it away immediately after I’ve finished reading, is completely at odds with my own view of books as beautiful, emotive objects. My desire to retain and remember them is powerful. They create for me a similar sense of contentedness that colour and nature awakens in David Hayden.
December 3, 2019
A complicated set of tales, full of circuitous lines of thought and deep emotion - sometimes seen at a remove, as if through shards of opaque glass. Isolation and death and decay. Flickers and tangles of Beckett and O'Brien. Not stories to consume but really to walk through, sniffing the air, paying attention. Stories that will stand up to being read many times.
July 14, 2017
Darker With The Lights On, by David Hayden, is a collection of twenty short stories written in captivating, modernist prose. The language is lyrical, in places magical, the plot progression often surreal. There is a dreamlike quality to many of the tales which explore loneliness and reactions to lived experience. The agitation in the telling adds intensity to even the mundane.
The collection opens with Egress, narrated by a man sharing his observations after he steps off a ledge outside his office, high above street level. Whatever his consciousness may be travelling in has not yet hit the ground after several years.
In Hay an engineer is called to solve a problem in a mine being flooded by workers’ tears. His solution turns into a capitalist triumph, for which I constructed my own interpretation. The continuing presence of the giant haystack added to the deviance of this tale.
There follow several stories exploring disconnection: a man coming to terms with the woman in his life leaving by selling their belongings; a house where each physical object is a memory, although it is not clear whose; a man buried in sand as the tide comes in while others dance on the beach; a dinner party where nobody mentions the presence of a charred corpse ceremonially laid on the table.
A number of the tales take enjoyable events and inject them with a quiet malignance. In others there is sudden violence, barely acknowledged in plot progression.
An Apple In The Library has a customer borrowing the eponymous fruit which he consumes and then returns, his hunger sated. At face value this could be a simple metaphor for books, but I consider it unlikely this is all the author intended. In reading prose of such perspicacity I wonder how clever I am expected to be.
Much is left for the reader to ponder; the opacity can be disquieting and sometimes weird. Morbidity and the tarnishing of innocence since childhood is ruminated, although it is not a depressing book.
Dark themes may pervade but attention is drawn by the stunning imagery. Whatever my considerations on each story, I appreciated the author’s weaving of words.
This anthology would, I suspect, offer further insights on repeated readings. It is challenging, vital and eloquent; as unsettling as it is intriguing.
My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher, Little Island Press.
The collection opens with Egress, narrated by a man sharing his observations after he steps off a ledge outside his office, high above street level. Whatever his consciousness may be travelling in has not yet hit the ground after several years.
In Hay an engineer is called to solve a problem in a mine being flooded by workers’ tears. His solution turns into a capitalist triumph, for which I constructed my own interpretation. The continuing presence of the giant haystack added to the deviance of this tale.
There follow several stories exploring disconnection: a man coming to terms with the woman in his life leaving by selling their belongings; a house where each physical object is a memory, although it is not clear whose; a man buried in sand as the tide comes in while others dance on the beach; a dinner party where nobody mentions the presence of a charred corpse ceremonially laid on the table.
A number of the tales take enjoyable events and inject them with a quiet malignance. In others there is sudden violence, barely acknowledged in plot progression.
An Apple In The Library has a customer borrowing the eponymous fruit which he consumes and then returns, his hunger sated. At face value this could be a simple metaphor for books, but I consider it unlikely this is all the author intended. In reading prose of such perspicacity I wonder how clever I am expected to be.
Much is left for the reader to ponder; the opacity can be disquieting and sometimes weird. Morbidity and the tarnishing of innocence since childhood is ruminated, although it is not a depressing book.
Dark themes may pervade but attention is drawn by the stunning imagery. Whatever my considerations on each story, I appreciated the author’s weaving of words.
This anthology would, I suspect, offer further insights on repeated readings. It is challenging, vital and eloquent; as unsettling as it is intriguing.
My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher, Little Island Press.
November 2, 2021
Recensione anche sul mio blog:
https://pleaseanotherbook.tumblr.com/...
La selezione del catalogo di Safarà è sempre originale e curatissima e non fa eccezione neanche questo volume di David Hayden ricco di immagini iperboliche e personaggi fuori le righe. Il mondo messo insieme da Hayden è onirico e surreale che si consuma tra immagini che si rincorrono in pagini ricche di dettagli. Le raccolte di racconti devono avere una caratteristica specifica devono colpire la fantasia del lettore. Uno dei racconti che più mi ha colpito è “Fieno” c’è questo ingegnere Andy che arriva in una miniera che non funziona in maniera efficace perché i minatori piangono e allagano tutti i locali. Questo dolore di fondo che consuma la nostra vita diventa manifesto in questa serie di racconti che tormenta e incuriosisce in una continua scoperta, immagini che si moltiplicano come in una casa degli specchi, fino a che il lettore non arriva alla fine e continua a interrogarsi su cosa ci sarà dopo.
https://pleaseanotherbook.tumblr.com/...
La selezione del catalogo di Safarà è sempre originale e curatissima e non fa eccezione neanche questo volume di David Hayden ricco di immagini iperboliche e personaggi fuori le righe. Il mondo messo insieme da Hayden è onirico e surreale che si consuma tra immagini che si rincorrono in pagini ricche di dettagli. Le raccolte di racconti devono avere una caratteristica specifica devono colpire la fantasia del lettore. Uno dei racconti che più mi ha colpito è “Fieno” c’è questo ingegnere Andy che arriva in una miniera che non funziona in maniera efficace perché i minatori piangono e allagano tutti i locali. Questo dolore di fondo che consuma la nostra vita diventa manifesto in questa serie di racconti che tormenta e incuriosisce in una continua scoperta, immagini che si moltiplicano come in una casa degli specchi, fino a che il lettore non arriva alla fine e continua a interrogarsi su cosa ci sarà dopo.
July 16, 2021
Art. Beautiful prose and lyricism. Experimental. Every story left me with a mental image. I will definitely be revisiting it.
January 22, 2018
I know it’s a shitty cliche but I can’t help but compare David Hayden’s short fiction to David Lynch (and not just because they’re both Davids). Aside from the distinct lack of coffee drinking, pie scoffing FBI agents there are stories in Darker With The Lights On that have the same vibe and texture as Eraserhead or Inland Empire. That Lynchian quality is evoked by Hayden through the off-putting imagery, sometimes violent and askew with reality and the awkward dialogue between people replete with non-sequiturs and allusions to things the reader is not privy to. If I wanted to push past David Lynch I could point to Kevin Davey’s Playing Possum or Max Porter’s Grief Is A Thing With Feathers and remark that I experienced a similar modernist tingle.
But whomever Hayden reminded me of the point is that Darker With The Lights On is a fantastic debut collection of stories. Not every single piece worked for me, some zipped well over my head, and yet many of them were a genuine joy to read. The prose is distinct and poised and requires the reader to concentrate. The themes, which are crystal clear even if the narrative is less so, cover everything from loss, to the fraying of relationships, to the mysteries and wonder of creativity and the imagination. Some of it is unsettling, some of it is laugh out loud funny, some of it is like walking through David Hayden’s dreams. I made a mistake of reading these stories one after the other which I think blurs the impact. To end on a cliche, something you will not find in David Hayden’s work, these are stories that deserved to be savoured
But whomever Hayden reminded me of the point is that Darker With The Lights On is a fantastic debut collection of stories. Not every single piece worked for me, some zipped well over my head, and yet many of them were a genuine joy to read. The prose is distinct and poised and requires the reader to concentrate. The themes, which are crystal clear even if the narrative is less so, cover everything from loss, to the fraying of relationships, to the mysteries and wonder of creativity and the imagination. Some of it is unsettling, some of it is laugh out loud funny, some of it is like walking through David Hayden’s dreams. I made a mistake of reading these stories one after the other which I think blurs the impact. To end on a cliche, something you will not find in David Hayden’s work, these are stories that deserved to be savoured
November 26, 2017
I made them last as long as I could but now I have read them all. gorgeous language lures you into often weird scenarios. some sentences I read over and over again just because they seemed perfect. Maybe I will start again now..
July 24, 2017
Book of the year.
February 20, 2023
Curious collection - a mixed bag but at its best contains some incredibly elegant, almost transcendent, stories with sublime writing (I would put Egress and Lights in this category - the effortless talent of the former in particular is breathtaking).
For the most part stories are modernist experiments, often driven by an absurdist set piece- Beckett is clearly a huge influence throughout, particularly on Dick, which I enjoyed. Hay is another success - the imagery is poignant and parable-like. The Auctioneer and Reading moved me more than many stories manage and had real heft behind them.
Others left me cold, especially in the middle third of the book - sometimes the cleverness of the conceit and the gorgeousness of the writing seemed to substitute for feeling, rather than enhancing them.
Overall I'm not sure how I feel. I found myself flicking ahead to see how many pages were left until the story was finished many more times than normal.. but I would also later find myself compulsively searching for reviews online to try and unpick the meaning of those very same stories afterwards. In a great deal of cases those stories I didn't enjoy have lingered on - so perhaps that's the point.
For the most part stories are modernist experiments, often driven by an absurdist set piece- Beckett is clearly a huge influence throughout, particularly on Dick, which I enjoyed. Hay is another success - the imagery is poignant and parable-like. The Auctioneer and Reading moved me more than many stories manage and had real heft behind them.
Others left me cold, especially in the middle third of the book - sometimes the cleverness of the conceit and the gorgeousness of the writing seemed to substitute for feeling, rather than enhancing them.
Overall I'm not sure how I feel. I found myself flicking ahead to see how many pages were left until the story was finished many more times than normal.. but I would also later find myself compulsively searching for reviews online to try and unpick the meaning of those very same stories afterwards. In a great deal of cases those stories I didn't enjoy have lingered on - so perhaps that's the point.
June 23, 2018
Mostly too abstract for me.
I received "Darker With The LIghts On: Stories" as part of the recent 2017 Republic of Consciousness Prize donation perk where one of the donation levels provided a copy of each of the final 6 books that made the shortlist. "Darker..." was the last to arrive as its original hardcover edition was already out of print at the time the Shortlist was announced and the perk had to await its paperback publication.
Most of the 20 stories in "Darker..." were too abstract for me to follow but I did diligently read through each one of them looking for strands of plot and for something to grasp onto. Many of the stories read like dreams and nightmares as characters talk and act like no one in real life in landscapes that are unreal. There was little humour to be had unless you find absurd situations to be humorous. For instance there was some humour by association in the story "Dick" where the titular character is "buried up to his belly on a cold shingle beach," paralleling Winnie in Beckett's Happy Days. Overall my favourite stories (which also had the most clear plots) came towards the latter half of the book esp. "Reading" (which I did think was extra clever) and "How to Read a Picture Book" (the latter maybe again by association because I'm a fan of the Canadian Scaredy Squirrel picture book series; mild spoiler: the short story also has a squirrel character).
There is no question that the writer David Hayden is an original talent. It is simply that the style won't appeal to everyone. But try the "Reading" story if you get a chance and if you enjoy it as much as I did then give the rest a try at least.
My thanks to the Republic of Consciousness Prize and to publisher Little Island Press for my copy of this book.
I received "Darker With The LIghts On: Stories" as part of the recent 2017 Republic of Consciousness Prize donation perk where one of the donation levels provided a copy of each of the final 6 books that made the shortlist. "Darker..." was the last to arrive as its original hardcover edition was already out of print at the time the Shortlist was announced and the perk had to await its paperback publication.
Most of the 20 stories in "Darker..." were too abstract for me to follow but I did diligently read through each one of them looking for strands of plot and for something to grasp onto. Many of the stories read like dreams and nightmares as characters talk and act like no one in real life in landscapes that are unreal. There was little humour to be had unless you find absurd situations to be humorous. For instance there was some humour by association in the story "Dick" where the titular character is "buried up to his belly on a cold shingle beach," paralleling Winnie in Beckett's Happy Days. Overall my favourite stories (which also had the most clear plots) came towards the latter half of the book esp. "Reading" (which I did think was extra clever) and "How to Read a Picture Book" (the latter maybe again by association because I'm a fan of the Canadian Scaredy Squirrel picture book series; mild spoiler: the short story also has a squirrel character).
There is no question that the writer David Hayden is an original talent. It is simply that the style won't appeal to everyone. But try the "Reading" story if you get a chance and if you enjoy it as much as I did then give the rest a try at least.
My thanks to the Republic of Consciousness Prize and to publisher Little Island Press for my copy of this book.
March 12, 2019
stories in a register I register (Jesse Ball, Ben Marcus, etc.)
January 18, 2023
I get it
October 30, 2018
Aside from the effective last story (Cosy), DWTLO is a self-reviewing collection; I would have a more enjoyable time with the lights off.
January 14, 2019
By turns whimsical, surreal, Gothic, grotesque, darkly macabre and violent, the stories in this collection are beautifully crafted, producing, sentence by carefully constructed sentence, compelling images, even if sometimes the overall point of the story is obscure.
November 1, 2022
Did not like at all - it was a collection of stories that completely failed to engage me. In fact I came away actively disliking what I had read.
Read
November 11, 2018DNF. Tried, found it intriguing at points, but gave up halfway through.
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