A story with disturbing subject matter in which, somehow, the horror is offset by the prose. Extremely short – really more of a short story than a novA story with disturbing subject matter in which, somehow, the horror is offset by the prose. Extremely short – really more of a short story than a novella – which is perhaps just as well. Certainly a ‘good’ rather than ‘enjoyable’ book, yet the memorable voice elevates it. Elevates it where, I’m not sure. Still thinking about it....more
I’ve been scanning other reviews of this, and the words ‘poignant’ and ‘melancholy’ appear a lot, so I’m not quite sure whether I should admit that I I’ve been scanning other reviews of this, and the words ‘poignant’ and ‘melancholy’ appear a lot, so I’m not quite sure whether I should admit that I found it so funny I had to suppress tears of laughter while reading it in public on multiple occasions. Its not that there are any hilarious setpieces in the book or anything like that; Pym simply has such a great ear for dialogue, the small, silly things people say all the time. I found this story very real and likeable and charming. Loved it, will definitely read more....more
(3.5) In a peaceful, comfortable community, a well-off couple watch with horror as three consecutive sets of neighbours are brought to ruin by the hau(3.5) In a peaceful, comfortable community, a well-off couple watch with horror as three consecutive sets of neighbours are brought to ruin by the haunted house next door. The strange thing is that it’s a brand new house. This book is so tied to its very specific milieu – an upper-middle-class enclave in an (albeit unspecified) southern state in the 1970s – that at times I felt I was reading something written in another language. At the beginning, I could have easily abandoned it. Yet it drew me in. For all the ridiculous dialogue and names (oh god, the names) and the narrator’s smug self-obsession, this is a lush, deeply atmospheric novel. It reminded me of The Little Friend, firstly because of the amount of detail we get about the community, so much that the central concern (the house) is sometimes obscured, and secondly in that this is actually to the story’s benefit. If you like slow burns, you might like this: its subtle yet horrifying haunting is a truly effective one....more
First published in 1977, Kay Dick’s previously neglected classic of British sci-fi is to be reissued in 2022, by Faber in the UK and McNally Editions First published in 1977, Kay Dick’s previously neglected classic of British sci-fi is to be reissued in 2022, by Faber in the UK and McNally Editions in the US. Faber describe it as a ‘rediscovered dystopian masterpiece of art under attack’; I’d agree with the ‘masterpiece’ part, but the book’s own subtitle – ‘a sequence of unease’ – is a far better way to sum it up. It’s true, pure slipstream: Anna Kavan’s Ice as set in M. John Harrison’s Autotelia or Christopher Priest’s Dream Archipelago.
They is a cryptic novel-in-stories. It appears to be narrated by the same person throughout, but this is far from definite, and their name and gender remain unknown. In the world they describe, people live under the threat of a group known only as ‘they’. They are human, as far as we know; they move in packs. They appear not to be officially sanctioned, but there’s power in numbers, and one character suggests there might be as many as two million of them. Their methods van be insidious – in the first story, they confiscate the narrator’s books one by one – but they also imprison, maim, kill. They target artists and intellectuals; they disdain (disallow?) love and grief.
I knew I was going to love it when I read this passage:
The fresh canvas was green, all green, every variation and depth of green. Garth turned his face to the wall. Karr’s servant left. Claire laughed. I was ready to die for her.
Such immensity contained within a few lines – the sudden shift from matter-of-fact description to startling emotional depth – is typical of the writing in They. Dick’s prose covers much ground in a few sentences, especially in the first story, ‘Some Danger Ahead’, which is a sort of palate cleanser, divesting you of whatever expectations you may have had.
My favourite chapter in They, ‘The Fairing’, is an extraordinary sequence in which the narrator tries to reach her friend Tom’s house by following his coded instructions (they intercept letters, of course). This story has a fierce tension that nothing else in the book possesses: my heart was in my mouth as the narrator repeatedly got lost, became disorientated, or seemed to be under threat. Yet the most terrifying moment is saved for last, with an ambiguous conclusion that creates an overwhelming sense of dread.
‘A Light-Hearted Day’ is another of the most memorable pieces, partly for its horribly ironic title. The narrator and her friend Sebastian set out to enjoy a beautiful day, but what they encounter is horrific: mutilated animals, violent children, a man taken and killed. When Sebastian is reunited with Fiona, to whom he had hoped to propose, she is ‘cured’ after a spell at one of their retreats, where ‘quick acclimatisation to loss of identity [is] guaranteed’. The characters try to strike positive notes (the beauty of nature, the persistence of hope), but the final scene, a cruel parody, sticks in the mind.
While there are some clear points being made about artistic freedom, the importance of nonconformity and the significance of friendship, I enjoyed They most for its mysteries. It’s most powerful when little is explained. The part of me that loved They is the same part that loves Kavan, Aickman, Nina Allan, Joel Lane, and so on. This is exactly the kind of book I love to see reissued, as I now see the influence, or at least an echo, of They in the work of so many of my favourite writers of speculative fiction.
I received an advance review copy of They from the publisher through NetGalley....more
A perfect little masterpiece of dark comedy, Great Granny Webster is a collection of vignettes about a young woman from a dysfunctional aristocratic fA perfect little masterpiece of dark comedy, Great Granny Webster is a collection of vignettes about a young woman from a dysfunctional aristocratic family. The first (and most memorable) centres on the forbidding figure of the title, with whom the narrator, an orphan, is sent to live for a brief period. Great Granny Webster is a terrifyingly austere woman who strictly adheres to routine and says things like ‘life can never be much of a joke for the thinking person’. This chapter is the funniest and most quotable; nearly every line is a work of art.
‘I have nothing to live for any more,’ she would murmur. I was always astonished by the way her tone sounded so smug and boastful.
In the second part of the book, the narrator meets with her hedonistic aunt, a woman who is Great Granny Webster’s exact opposite, yet equally unhappy in her own way. In the third, the narrator talks to a friend of her father’s, who reflects on the girl’s parents’ and grandparents’ time living in a nightmarishly decrepit Irish mansion. In this way, the whole family history is gradually filled in. There’s also a coda bringing it all together. While nothing is quite as striking as that opening chapter, Great Granny Webster is great all the way through: witty, complicated, haunting. There’ll be more Blackwood in my future for sure....more
Bear strikes me as an odd book to have been reissued in 2021. Obviously it has a splashy, suitably transgressive hook: a woman has a sexual affair witBear strikes me as an odd book to have been reissued in 2021. Obviously it has a splashy, suitably transgressive hook: a woman has a sexual affair with a bear (not a metaphor). But most of what surrounds that is dated, not only dry but also quite niche – Lou’s research mostly went over my head, and I suspect there was some humour in here that I missed. I did like some of the descriptions and observations towards the beginning, when Lou’s character is established: things like ‘the image of the Good Life long ago stamped on her soul was quite different from this, and she suffered in contrast’. As the story wears on, however, Lou becomes more obscure, with the different aspects of her personality failing to fit together to form a realistic whole. Diverting but unmemorable for me, and somewhat of a piece with Mrs Caliban, which I found similarly deadened.
After adoring Harriet Said..., I knew I would want to read more by Bainbridge. But this particular title was not a deliberate choice – I found it in aAfter adoring Harriet Said..., I knew I would want to read more by Bainbridge. But this particular title was not a deliberate choice – I found it in a charity bookshop and picked it up along with a pile of other books. As it turns out, it’s really not my cup of tea.
The Bottle Factory Outing is a black comedy – at first, I thought, not black enough, but later events contradicted that impression – focused on Freda and Brenda, two women who share a bedsit and work at a wine-bottling factory. The pivotal event, the titular workers’ day out, brings to a head various tensions surrounding Freda’s pursuit of the factory owner’s nephew and Brenda’s attempts to evade two male colleagues; all this ends, incongruously, in tragedy. I loved the first chapter, but often felt like I was failing to properly grasp much of the rest, finding characters’ behaviour either incomprehensible or implausible. I suspect some of the humour is era-specific and hasn’t aged very well.
Probably two stars for my personal enjoyment of it and four for its actual quality – so, three as a compromise. (And I still intend to read more Bainbridge!)
Felt very similarly, overall, about this as I did about my first read of the year, Fellowship Point (although the books themselves couldn’t be morFelt very similarly, overall, about this as I did about my first read of the year, Fellowship Point (although the books themselves couldn’t be more different): certain sections are brilliant, but I find I feel lukewarm towards the book as a whole. I loved the discussion between Dr Pilman and Richard Noonan in chapter 3, in which the characters debate how humans and aliens might perceive/define each other’s ‘intelligence’. The idea of the Zone is fascinating, as are the imaginative names and details of all the alien artefacts contained within. However, I struggled to get past the dated aspects – in particular the horrendous depiction of Dina Burbridge – and the fact that I found Redrick such an uninteresting protagonist. I wanted to know so much more about the stuff coming out of/happening around the Zone, not this boring, unpleasant man! Some classic sci-fi novels still feel visionary today; others were clearly groundbreaking when first published, but the effect is dulled by time. For me, this edges rather too far into the latter category....more
(2.5) This edition of Burnt Offerings comes with a compelling introduction, written by Stephen Graham Jones, that really talks up its status as a horr(2.5) This edition of Burnt Offerings comes with a compelling introduction, written by Stephen Graham Jones, that really talks up its status as a horror classic. Jones describes the book as ‘a singular haunted house [story]’, ‘a standout oddball of a beautiful novel’, and says he rereads it every couple of years. The premise is simple and intriguing: a family, sick of city life, are delighted to find a gorgeous (and cheap) country house available for to rent for the summer – but it comes with a bizarre caveat, one that begins to affect them all in strange ways. Sadly, it turned out the introduction was far more interesting than the novel.
I’m always up for a haunted-house tale, and I liked that this one is set during summer – I was hoping for a simmering, palpable sense of atmosphere like that in Water Shall Refuse Them. I was disappointed on that score: while it contains some evocative descriptions of the house, Burnt Offerings doesn’t tend to dwell on context, and there’s little to conjure up the wider setting. Yet the family, too, are shallowly sketched. Marian is arguably the protagonist, and her obsession with the house is conveyed effectively, but her character too often slips into sexist cliche. We learn hardly anything about her husband Ben; even less about their son David. The upshot: I didn’t particularly care what happened to any of them. What makes all this more baffling is that the Allardyces (the brother and sister who own the house) appear in so few scenes and are so well drawn! Their voices are brilliant and it’s so clear who they are. Clearly Marasco has the skill to bring his characters to life; he just doesn’t use it on the main ones, for some reason.
Burnt Offerings may be something of a cult classic, and it may have been groundbreaking in 1973. But in 2022, we’re living in an age of truly innovative and exciting takes on the haunted house trope: Tell Me I’m Worthless, Slade House, Rawblood, Devil House, You Should Have Left, House of Leaves, I could go on. With all those comparisons jostling in my mind, I found the plot of Burnt Offerings relatively slow to get going, the payoff totally lacklustre, and little about the story remotely frightening. I can see potential in the villains – who I’d love to have read more about – but was left cold by the dullness of the central family.
Borges’ stories are so dense – it took me several hours to read this tiny volume (54 pages); I’d usually read a novella twice the length in half the tBorges’ stories are so dense – it took me several hours to read this tiny volume (54 pages); I’d usually read a novella twice the length in half the time. This collection is a perfect introduction to the work of a writer who can seem intimidating to the uninitiated. It has given me the confidence to read more Borges, and that seems to me exactly what these small Penguin Modern collections should do.
I’ve said this before, but there’s a special thrill to reading a famous writer’s work and immediately understanding how they've informed the work of other authors I love – that feeling of a missing puzzle piece clicking into place. From this small selection of stories, I can already see clear influences on some of my favourite books by Nina Allan and Joshua Cohen.
I’ve tried to read 'The Garden of Forking Paths' (1941) in the past and found it impenetrable (ironic, I know). This time I persisted, and although it took me a while (relatively speaking) to have any idea what was going on, by the end I saw its beauty and genius.
'The Book of Sand' (1975) was my favourite, and also the most accessible. (I wonder if that has anything to do with when it was translated – presumably much later than the others given its comparably late original publication date? It's not clear from the information at the beginning of the book.) A fascinating concept and a perfect ending.
'The Circular Ruins' (1941) is a cosmic, dreamlike fantasy, evoking its settings (the jungle and the world of one's mind) with a claustrophobic accuracy.
'On Exactitude in Science' (1946) is a paragraph only, framed as an extract; I would have taken it for an epigraph if not for the table of contents. A perfect example of a passage you have to read a few times to fully grasp its imagery.
'Death and the Compass' (1942) is a labyrinthine murder mystery. Not the sort of plot I expected to find here, and all the more pleasing for that.
In his introduction to The Green Hand (reproduced here), Daniel Clowes cites French comic book artist Nicole Claveloux as a formative influence, despiIn his introduction to The Green Hand (reproduced here), Daniel Clowes cites French comic book artist Nicole Claveloux as a formative influence, despite not having actually read any of her stories until the production of this new edition. The comics in this book were originally published between 1978 and 1980, but until now translations have been scarce and piecemeal, and translated versions have not been collected together before.
The first half of the book comprises five linked stories, collectively titled 'The Green Hand'. The first of these, also called 'The Green Hand', is by far the most arresting. A woman shares an apartment with a huge, very depressed, anthropomorphic bird. She decides to brighten their home by buying a plant. But the bird is jealous of the plant's presence, and hatches a cruel plan to kill it. In the end, the plant is destroyed, and woman and bird have a furious argument, before the woman's body surreally fractures and floats as she pitches through the apartment wall. The scene is absurd, the colours hallucinatory, yet a devastating amount of emotion is conveyed as the woman mourns the plant and rages against the cringing, self-loathing bird.
The second half is made up of seven one-off stories. I particularly loved 'The Little Vegetable Who Dreamed He Was a Panther', an almost too-on-the-nose depiction of the creative's tendency to self-sabotage through procrastination. An interview with Claveloux and her collaborator Edith Zha, included at the end of the book, reveals this story is close to the artist's heart: '[it] told the story of my life; it's my portrait of that time, my desires, my obstacles, etc.'
I'm not going to pretend I've read enough graphic novels or comics to be adequately able to judge Claveloux's influence and impact, but The Green Hand is intense and vivid, full of kaleidoscope colours and dreamlike scenes. It's grotesque, funny and, although it's a quick read, very memorable.
I received an advance review copy of The Green Hand and Other Stories from the publisher through Edelweiss.
In a classic haunted-house setup, a young newlywed couple get caught in a snowstorm and have to take refuge in a hulking mansion inhabited by a motleyIn a classic haunted-house setup, a young newlywed couple get caught in a snowstorm and have to take refuge in a hulking mansion inhabited by a motley gang of strangers. It soon emerges the mismatched group – which includes a TV crew, a parapsychologist and some ex-military men – are there to investigate reports of paranormal activity stretching all the way back to the previous century. In fact, the place is so riddled with phantoms that the current owner wants to, quite literally, blow it up. Various ghostly hijinks ensue, and we learn a little of the cursed house's horrible history.
First published in 1978, Devil in the Darkness unfortunately doesn't read as particularly original or surprising in 2017, and the most frightening incident – the only moment that sent an actual chill down my spine – is never revisited or elucidated in any way. Still, the ending provides a grim kind of satisfaction, and since it's a short book, it's worth the time it takes to read it. Best saved for a dark and stormy night. (And on that note, isn't the cover fantastic?)
In Harriet Said..., the final chapter comes first. We see two girls fleeing across a field, screaming and crying. They run home to their parents to teIn Harriet Said..., the final chapter comes first. We see two girls fleeing across a field, screaming and crying. They run home to their parents to tell them 'what had happened'; the police are called. Only when the story is complete does this scene make sense. However, the dread that permeates the book is not created by the knowledge that some catastrophe will eventually come to pass. In fact, once the creeping disquiet of its plot kicks in, it seems likely this climactic event – whatever it is – will prove a relief.
The narrator, unnamed, is thirteen. Her friend Harriet is older by a year, bolder and prettier too: for the narrator, she is a figure of mingled awe, adoration and envy. The two girls are precocious and unusual, and at the same time terribly innocent in the blithely stupid way of young teenagers. They seek out people, adults, often men, to question and analyse. They have learned how to identify those most receptive to their approach, but probing their subjects with words alone is a game they are beginning to tire of.
Now it was not enough; more elaborate things had to be said; each new experience had to leave a more complicated tracery of sensations; to satisfy us every memory must be more desperate than the last.
For some time, one of their main interests has been a much older male neighbour: Harriet said his name was Peter Biggs and we should call him Peter the Great. But I thought the name Peter was daft so we called him the Tsar. The story is told across the course of a single summer, as the narrator, egged on by Harriet, resolves to push the limits of her 'friendship' with the Tsar. As the long summer wears on, the girls' increasing closeness to this man builds up a palpable sense of unease. It's hard to decide what's more horrifying: the Tsar's (and other men's) behaviour towards the narrator and Harriet, or the blasé combination of guile and contempt with which the girls respond. You feel you are watching people act as their basest selves, hardly understanding what motivates their own conduct.
Reading a character portrait as remarkable as Harriet Said... makes me realise how few adult authors are capable of capturing the nuances of girlhood, and how exhilarating it is when someone gets it right. The two main characters possess an odd sense of jadedness, seemingly aware their youth has already been irreparably sullied without fully understanding what that means. So much of what they do is performative, yet at the same time, this is the life they are living, these are experiences they can never undo. And we get glimpses of their childishness that make it abundantly clear how very immature they still are. One of the pivotal scenes of the book comes when the girls sneak into the Tsar's garden and spy on him having sex with his wife. The narrator's naivety is laid bare when she reacts with unrestrained horror to this spectacle:
Never never never, beat my heart in the garden, never never; battering against invisible doors that sent agonised pains along my wrists, unshed tears dissolving in my head, I crouched against the window helplessly, unable to move.
In its flawless evocation of the strange contradictions of adolescence, Harriet Said... reminded me a little of Bonjour Tristesse, though Sagan's Cécile, at seventeen, looks like a veteran in comparison to these two. That it provoked some disgust upon its publication is no surprise, and it's a rare example of a story that may actually read as even more shocking now than it did in its day. It is powerful, and beautifully written – as well as the characterisation, Bainbridge's descriptions of landscape are wonderful – and altogether feels like a story I am unlikely to forget in a hurry. An author I am very glad to have discovered at last.
First published in the early 1970s, Reunion has recently been reissued and promoted as the next great undiscovered classic after Stoner, although it dFirst published in the early 1970s, Reunion has recently been reissued and promoted as the next great undiscovered classic after Stoner, although it doesn't yet seem to have achieved the same ubiquity. This is a very brief book, but the story it tells is powerful, a microcosm of emotional turmoil and the intensity of youthful attachments.
He came into my life in February 1932 and never left it again. So begins Hans Schwarz's account of his first great love. He has existed largely apart from the other boys at school – neither disliked nor particularly popular – until the arrival of Konradin von Hohenfels. The friendship that develops is so intense it feels more like a romance; of the novels I've read in recent times, it reminded me most of André Aciman's Call Me by Your Name in the sheer power of Hans's attachment and the fact that, as indicated by that opening line, Konradin left such an indelible mark on his life. But this is 1930s Germany, and Hans is the son of a middle-class Jewish doctor, while Konradin's wealthy parents are in thrall to Hitler.
Reunion is so effective, and feels so fresh, because it is always about Hans and Konradin, with history very much in the background – albeit an inescapable, encroaching background. It makes the political very personal indeed. And all roads lead to the bittersweet gut punch of a closing line; the final sentence is as unforgettable as the first.
I bought a copy of this on eBay - it's long out of print - after loving Dan Jacobson's first two books, The Trap and A Dance in the Sun, when I read tI bought a copy of this on eBay - it's long out of print - after loving Dan Jacobson's first two books, The Trap and A Dance in the Sun, when I read them in April. Through the Wilderness is more of a mixed bag: many of the stories don't have the visceral beauty of those novellas, and some of the shorter ones are more forgettable. Jacobson is always at his best when portraying the South African veld, its dusty plains spreading on forever and the sun beating down on whitewashed iron buildings. The stories set in England always seem to lack something, to have a feeling of being drab and hemmed in - maybe that's just the contrast in landscapes, maybe it's a reflection of the author's own feelings, maybe it's deliberate.
I didn't make notes on every story in this collection, but these were my favourites: A Day in the Country: A family are drawn into a violent confrontation while driving back from a day out. Only nine pages long, but full of tension. Beggar My Neighbour: A young boy from a rich white family starts giving food to a pair of street children, imagining himself their saviour, and is perturbed when their reaction fails to conform to his fantasy. The idea of doing something ostensibly noble and/to help others (or wanting to be perceived as helping others) for what are in fact selfish and vain reasons is portrayed so incisively here, and feels just as (if not more) timely today. Fresh Fields: Dreaming of literary success in London, a writer goes in search of his hero, but finds the great man disillusioned and lacking inspiration. The Pretenders: One of the longest stories in the book, in which a film is being made about an American who attempted to establish the 'State of Diamondia' during the South African diamond rush. The cast of characters includes a delusional, ambitious wannabe who aspires to be a famous actor, along with a very old man claiming to be the legendary American himself. This story has a lot going on but it all feels beautifully contained, and the characters are particularly strong. Through the Wilderness: Another of the longest, this is also the most similar in tone to The Trap and A Dance in the Sun. A farmer's son, reluctant to take on the duties involved in looking after the family farm while his father is in hospital, is introduced to a persistent Israelite preacher. Perfectly communicating both the oppressiveness and the vast openness of the veld, the story revisits the themes of Jacobson's first novels, especially in the helplessness the narrator feels in confronting cultural differences and his own ingrained racism.
--- My father had bought the farm after one of the wettest years we could remember in Lyndhurst; he had come to it at the end of summer, when the slopes of the veld were covered in grass that was knee-high, green at the stems, and beginning to go to a silvery-blue seed at the tips. Clouds moved across the sky; and the light, when it fell to the earth, seemed to be taken in by the grass and subdued there. The veld was wide and so gentle one could hardly understand why it should have been empty of people. - The Game
[Michael] was not unhappy in his loneliness. He was used to it, in the first place; and then, because he was lonely, he was all the better able to indulge himself in his own fantasies... It was not long before the two African children, who were now accosting him regularly, appeared in some of his games, for their weakness, poverty, and dependence gave Michael ample scope to display in fantasy his kindness, generosity, courage and decisiveness. - Beggar My Neighbour
In England there was a tradition, after all, of high thinking and bleak living; their own poverty could appear to them almost glamorous. - Trial and Error
... He was proud that what he was feeling had come as a surprise to him; that it had sprung entirely from within himself, insread of having been tainted by words in books and magazines, laid down for him in patterns set by others. In comparison with what he felt as a father it seemed to him that so much else in his marriage and work was mere imitation, a mere groping towards states of mind and feeling he wished to have because he had read or been told they were desirable. - Trial and Error
My father's life had been a ceaseless, unknowing, unswerving trek towards these hideous days and hours; they were the summation of his life as well as its undoing. He had moved through time as through a landscape, distracted by a thousand moods, experiences, possessions, achievements, memories, but always, unfalteringly, in one direction only, in this direction. And as with him, so with everyone else who lived, or had ever lived, or ever would. - Through the Wilderness
... The sun was low in the west, red, growing larger; around it were gathering the clouds that invariably appeared in the western corner of the horizon at that hour, after even the most cloudless days. Those clouds, together with the dust that was always in the air, the flat openness of the country, and the strength of the sun, all combined to produce the most spectacular sunsets, day after day: immense, silent, rapid combustions that flared violently into colour and darkened simultaneously. It always seemed suddenly that you became aware the colours had been consumed and only the darkness remained. - Through the Wilderness
I remember how consoling I found the emptiness of the countryside around me, its width, its indifference, its hard materiality. It was there, it would last. That was something to be grateful for, I felt then, not resentful of, as I had always been in the past. - Through the Wilderness
--- List/order of stories: 1. The Box 2. A Day in the Country 3. The Zulu and the Zeide 4. The Little Pet 5. The Game 6. A Way of Life 7. Beggar My Neighbour 8. Fresh Fields 9. The Example of Lipi Lippmann 10. An Apprenticeship 11. Trial and Error 12. The Pretenders 13. Another Day 14. Sonia 15. Through the Wilderness 16. Led Astray...more
Anna Kavan writes directly out of my head, and I read this brilliant book at exactly the right time. ‘The Old Address’ is so perfect I can barely artiAnna Kavan writes directly out of my head, and I read this brilliant book at exactly the right time. ‘The Old Address’ is so perfect I can barely articulate it: a six-page story that made me both laugh and cry within minutes of picking it up. ‘Fog’ is similarly brilliant; ‘World of Heroes’ absolutely heartbreaking. This is a sort of autobiography through short stories, containing some of Kavan’s most raw, personal writing at the same time as it calls back to much of her other work.
Kavan writes perfectly about drugs – the oblivious, giddy haze; the ominous gap in the high – but I don’t know that this is really just a work of ‘drug literature’, as the edition I read is described. I can’t help but think that to categorise it this way is to diminish it; while the stories that articulate Kavan’s addiction are the most powerful, they are by no means the only great thing about the book (and indeed one does not have to have been a drug addict to be moved by Kavan’s writing about depression, isolation and thwarted desire). Throughout, Kavan interweaves autobiographical details with the unreality that appears most famously in Ice. The stories are full of her favoured motifs (the divided self in ‘Out and Away’, cars as a symbol in ‘World of Heroes’ and ‘The Mercedes’...) ‘Clarita’ is a scene straight out of Who Are You?; ‘A Visit’ and ‘Among the Lost Things’ fevered fables akin to parts of Sleep Has His House. This book is like a path through both the author’s novels and her life.
Posthumous collections can be hit or miss, and are often not as good as those the author published during their lifetime. Julia and the Bazooka is the exact opposite. I’m unsure of how the collection was put together for publication, or if Kavan intended these stories to be arranged in this order, but they work astoundingly well.
If I hadn’t read Kavan before, this collection would make me think: I have to read everything this author has written. As someone who has read Kavan before, it makes me think: I should read all her books again; these stories have given me a new way to see them....more
Robert Aickman defined his own work as as 'strange stories', avoiding terms relating to ghosts, horror or the supernatural because his fiction tends tRobert Aickman defined his own work as as 'strange stories', avoiding terms relating to ghosts, horror or the supernatural because his fiction tends to be rooted in reality, with the exact source of the 'strangeness' often remaining ambiguous. They are frequently unnerving but rarely provide the reader with a clear resolution, which only serves to increase the effect.
This collection sets out its stall with the opening story, The Swords, which to me felt like a bit of a test; I can imagine a lot of people not making it past the beginning of it, and if I'd been in a different mood, I might have abandoned the book here myself. In a particularly distinctive, not exactly pleasant narrative voice, we are introduced to the protagonist, a young man (or a man remembering his youth) who promises to relate the story of his 'first experience' - although it seems to take him a while to get around to it, because first he talks about his job as a travelling salesman, and a visit to a circus in a strange, dank town. When he first meets the woman with whom this experience will end up taking place, the circumstances are nothing the reader could possibly have guessed at. 'The Swords' demonstrates Aickman's ability to take a seemingly ordinary scenario, something that might even be boring, and turn it into something unexpectedly bizarre and queasy.
In The Real Road to the Church, Rosa, a woman living alone on an island where she understands little of the local dialect, comes to understand that her house has a certain reputation - it's where the 'changing of the porters' takes place. This phrase means nothing to her until she meets a wandering cleric, who gives her some advice about how to manage the unusual location of her home, and this leads to a very odd confrontation. 'The Real Road to the Church' seems to inspire a whole spectrum of reactions, which perhaps tend to say more about the reader than the story - some find it depressing, others have said it's one of the most hopeful and upbeat of Aickman's stories. I didn't think it was depressing at all, but there is certainly an unsettling air to the tale, and it's true that almost any conclusion could be drawn from the ending.
Niemandswasser is a confusing story, and for me, the least successful in this collection. It's about a haunted piece of 'no man's land' in the middle of a lake - the brother of Elmo, the aristocratic protagonist, is injured there, and it's where Elmo will later meet his own fate. But stuff about the characters' wider family, the properties they own, their neighbours, and Elmo's totally ridiculously melodramatic response to the end of a relationship is all thrown in, too, and the end result was that it seemed a mess and I didn't really care what happened.
Despite the fact that it won the World Fantasy Award in 1975, Pages from a Young Girl's Journal is often derided in reviews of this book. Unlike the others, its events and the source of its evil are not ambiguous; it uses many themes and devices familiar from typical vampire stories and gothic fiction; it has a historical setting, and is written in the form of a diary. It owes something of a debt to Carmilla, and initially, as the narrator and her family arrive at a dilapidated villa to stay with a contessa and her young, disconcertingly intense daughter, I thought it was going to go in the exact same direction. However, it takes turns that are predictable and yet feel entirely new. At the beginning, the girl is so immature and pompous she reads like a sort of female Adrian Mole; I laughed out loud a few times at some of her choices of words, and at the hilarious repetition of 'farcical'. But her voice changes a great deal over the course of the story (though subtly enough that it doesn't seem different in any obvious way from entry to entry), with the end result that the shift in her character and power becomes palpable. An exceptional example of well-worn themes updated and manipulated to fantastic effect - I immediately wanted to read it again.
The Hospice is both very good and extremely disturbing. After the historical setting of 'Pages from a Young Girl's Journal', it also represents an impressive shift in tone, showing the versatility of Aickman's style. And it is a perfect example of the ambiguity of these stories, as nothing is ever really explained and the ending is rather abrupt after such effective building of tension. On the drive home, a man named Maybury finds himself out of petrol and attacked by a 'cat'; seeking refuge for the night, he stumbles across the deeply sinister 'Hospice'. There follows some of the most nightmarish, dread-filled imagery I've come across in any story - one can imagine this being turned into a very powerful film.
The Same Dog has a great deal of promise, but doesn't come to anything much in the end. A man remembers a childhood meeting with a sinister dog, which left him ill and led to the disappearance, and apparent death, of his friend Mary. In adulthood, he returns to the scene of the incident and encounters - you guessed it - the same dog. The most disturbing thing about this, I thought, was the fact that the descriptions of the protagonist and Mary's behaviour as very young children was described in such a sensual way that it almost seemed to imply a sexual relationship between them, or at least a sexual charge even if they didn't understand what this was at the time - another example of the general aura of oddness and uncomfortable suggestions pervading these stories.
Meeting Mr. Millar might not actually be about anything weird; it might just be about very mundane, though probably illegal, goings-on in a London building. It's hard to tell. The narrator, an editor who's having a rather slow-moving affair with a neighbour's wife, certainly seems to have an overactive imagination, but it's never revealed what exactly it is that the peculiar Mr. Millar - the occupant of a downstairs office in the same building - is up to. (Aforementioned neighbour's suggestion of some kind of time travel is the most intriguing and unnerving thing in the story.) Of course, what happens to Millar in the end is horrible by anyone's reckoning.
The Clock Watcher details the life of a man whose wife has an obsession with clocks. At least, it seems like an obsession, though the events that unfold imply that her very existence relies upon them. There are similarities between this and 'The Swords' - the narrator has a similarly, er, 'unique' voice and, if anything, is even more unlikeable, with blatant displays of racism and sexism peppering his story. It's also similar in that the 'strangeness' relates entirely to the woman - the man is left to observe helplessly, ultimately being abandoned. The fact that the wife is German, and the story takes place in the aftermath of WWII, adds an extra dimension of meaning and suggests the whole thing can be seen as an allegory.
My favourite stories by far were 'Pages from a Young Girl's Journal' and 'The Hospice'. Both of them were genuinely excellent, but the others were such a mixed bag, the overall experience was average. There are definitely things I love about Aickman's style, and unlike many reviewers who have had lukewarm reactions to the book, I consider that ever-present ambiguity to be a strength. If his other story collections contain tales as good as the two I loved, I'll certainly read them, but the problem is that this can't be guaranteed... so if I do get round to them, it probably won't be for a while. ...more
The Driver's Seat is a weird, evasive story in which we are introduced to a chameleon-like protagonist named Lise. In an opening that is instantly unnThe Driver's Seat is a weird, evasive story in which we are introduced to a chameleon-like protagonist named Lise. In an opening that is instantly unnerving, the first scene sees her raging at a shop assistant for daring to suggest she should buy a stain-proof dress - rather than seeing this as a positive, she loudly berates the girl for implying she would spill food on her clothes. Despite having led an ordered, somewhat mundane life - she's worked in the same office for sixteen years - Lise seems to enjoy making a scene and either observing or imagining the aftermath, a pattern of behaviour that repeats itself throughout the story. The book is about a chain of events that unfolds when she takes a holiday in an unspecified location, constantly changing her voice, attitude and demeanour as she encounters a number of odd characters who she repeatedly abandons, moving on to the next strange situation, looking - she keeps telling people - for a man who is her 'type', whatever that may mean. But Spark tells the reader early on that Lise is ultimately murdered, and the mystery of who and how (particularly as Lise always seems to be into control) drives the plot towards a shocking conclusion. I had actually guessed Lise's aim early in the book, but I was still compelled to read on to see if I could come to understand the character and her motivations. However, Lise remains a mystery - she is unreadable and the narrative is unapologetic about that. It's detached, vaguely surreal, and the indistinct nature of the settings adds to its air of unreality. A quick, disconcerting read with a dark heart; I was pleasantly surprised by the sheer strangeness of this novel. ...more
Loading...
