tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37151470799253839002024-02-15T20:35:00.146-08:00THE PAN REVIEWA bi-monthly look at the arts and literary scene.Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.comBlogger143125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-18929479712486501072021-12-11T08:54:00.001-08:002021-12-14T05:31:58.635-08:00The Ghost Sequences by A.C. Wise, Undertow Publications / The Black Dreams: Strange Stories From Northern Ireland, Edited by Reggie Chamberlain-King, Blackstaff Press / Albertine's Wooers<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><b>Editorial:</b> Greetings Panners! So, we come to the last issue of the year. Sadly, it must also be the last issue for the foreseeable future. Yes, a second sabbatical calls. Reason being, a historical novel begun in 2020 has made little progress in 2021. Since I need to ensure I do better than another year of only meagre scribblings, I therefore need to 'get my head down' and commit to the completion of a draft, with no other (or next to no other) writing commitments forthcoming. I can't believe 'Pan' won't return eventually, so I ask my kind readers to keep a look out next year and keep the pagan faith. In the meantime, I hope you all have as good a Yule as is possible in these trying times and as productive a 2022 as I hope to.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Wise
– another new name to me – has had two collections published, </span></span><em><a href="http://www.lethepressbooks.com/store/p256/The_Ultra_Fabulous_Glitter_Squadron_Saves_the_World_Again.html"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The
Ultra Fabulous Glitter Squadron Saves the World Again</i></span></span></a></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">,
and </span></span><em><a href="http://www.lethepressbooks.com/store/p430/The_Kissing_Booth_Girl_and_Other_Stories.html"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The
Kissing Booth Girl and Other Stories</i></span></span></a></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">,
with Lethe Press, and a novella, </span></span><em><a href="https://www.brokeneyebooks.com/store/c25/Catfish-Lullaby"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Catfish
Lullaby</i></span></span></a></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">,
published with Broken Eye Books. Her debut novel,</span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
</span></span></em><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Wendy,
Darling</i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">,
was released by Titan Books in last June. Her assuredness across
genre – based upon this evidence – impresses. </span></span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"> Here,
for example, she handles the horror folk tale ('The Nag Bride') as
well as the SF ('Lesser Creek') and the ghost story. ('How the Trick
Is Done'). Five of the best reveal the assured consistency of a
novelist. 'How the Trick Is Done' - a stage assistant takes revenge
on behalf of her late, love-lorn predecessor against their much
feted, but arrogant, magician. 'Harvest Song, Gathering Song' -
Soldiers meet after battle as a controlling nectar-like drug takes
physical possession for an alien race's future survival.</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Crossing' – A child's early fear is tested by an underwater naiad
of ambiguous intent, whose silent eerie presence will play a key role
in her chosen path as an adult. 'Lesser Creek: A Love Story, A Ghost
Story' – A lovely description of young lost love, eternally played
out upon a trestle bridge overlooking the waters at which they met
their end.</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> 'The
Nag Bride' is a folk-horror classic and the standout tale in an
already strong collection. On the night of a Halloween party, a tale
told by a boy to a girl resonates later in life, first as a found
true crime story, and subsequently as an ongoing curse from the
seemingly immortal Nag Bride.
</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I have
to hand it to Alison Wise; the feminist angle of the curse ensures
reader sympathy with the title character, rather than any distancing
from it, despite her uncanny, supernatural presence. For it is a
curse, self-inflicted by the mercenary actions of those who'd so
casually used and abused her.
</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> *The
cover – alongside that for Kay Chronister's 'Thin Places' – is
one of this publisher's best; a pareidolia of a skull upon a
jet-black background by Olga Beliaeva. In fact, over the past two
years, Undertow's output generally has risen from creditable to
something close to essential. Future releases of this quality should
ensure a readership deserving of it.</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">*Since writing, this excellent cover has deservedly won for Undertow
B</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">ook
Cover Of The Year by Electric Literature. My congratulations to
Alison Wise, designer Vince Haig, and to cover artist Olga Beliaeva.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> * * *</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="text-align: left;">'I don't recall if I saw my first gunman in my childhood nightmares
or on my childhood streets. There were plenty in both and they looked
very much like each other.'</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
So opens Reggie Chamberlain-King's introduction to his latest
themed anthology; one which, in the annals of western uncanny
fiction, perhaps only Lord Dunsany mirrored in his most moving novel,
<i>The Curse Of The Wise Woman</i>; as 'The Troubles' act as the
ominous, omnipresent background to both rural and urban tales of
paranoid hallucination and dread.</p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Chamberlain-King
is a regular contributor to Swan River Press's excellent bi-annual
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Green
Book </i></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>
</i></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">the
paranormal anthologies</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>
Weird Dublin: A Miscellany, Almanack and Companion</i></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
and </span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>White
Noise & Ouija Board. </i></span></span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">Pleasingly,
other than Chamberlain-King himself, all contributors to </span><i style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">Black
Dreams</i><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"> are new names to me.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
In Jo Baker's 'Original Features,' a cheap two-up-two-down harbours
a door, which seems out of place and only discernible to the young
wife moving in. Moyra Donaldson's 'The Woman Who Let Go' sees a woman
left distraught by a break-up, finds sanctuary in a remote cottage
and her own company.
</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
Jan Carson's 'The Leaving Place' is an eerie tale parallel to 'The
Woman Who Let Go' sees a case of incurable pain where the only
curative is final. Michelle Gallen's 'The Tempering' has a daughter
discovering how death has different meanings and motives after her
loving father suddenly suffers a life-changing event.</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
Gerard McKeown's 'The Quizmasters' presents an 'old, muddy Ford
Fiesta' drawing up beside a cyclist and its driver asks him a couple
of innocuous questions about the intended destination. When these
become relentless, the cyclist realises a wrong answer could hold a
darker consequence.</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
Chamberlain-King's own entry – 'The Missing Girl – Extracts fron
an Oral History' – is written as a brief vox-pop account over two
young May Queens' mysterious disappearances between the neighbouring
but socially isolated towns of Bancarrick and Carrigbawn.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">
You may glean from these examples that Ireland's recent political
history is eschewed, instead utilised as a social backdrop to
personal tales. The tales themselves are definitively uncanny, where
the encroachment of danger is quietly threatening and undeniable
while barely acknowledged. An admirable collection.</p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Albertine's
Wooers</i></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; text-align: left;">The sainted George
Berguno's <i>The Sad Eyes of the Lewis Chessmen</i> is the eighth
pocket-sized entry in Egaeus Press's Keynote Editions. Also from
this publisher comes <i>Songs Of The Northern Seas</i>, described as “an
anthology of thirteen tales of the Arctic north." <i>Undiscovered
Territories, </i>an intriguing series of metaphysical fantasies by Robert Freeman Wexler (PS Publishing). Steve Rasnic
Tem's eagerly-awaited latest collection <i>Thanatrauma </i>(Valancourt Books) is now available. Editor Daniel Corrick presents
<i>Ghosts and Robbers: An Anthology of German Gothic Fiction</i> for Snuggly
Books. Zagava are producing <i>Singing and Sighing: Collected Stories
Vol 1</i> by DP Watt. The e</span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">vergreen
Tartarus Press has released <i>The Gypsy Spiders and Other Tales of
Italian Horror</i> </span></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">by
Nicola Lombardi (translated by Joe Weintraub), described as “a
masterpiece of Italian fiction, and a must for all readers of
intelligent contemporary horror. Lombardi’s novelisations of the
Dario Argento films </span></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Profondo
Rosso </i></span></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">and
</span></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Suspiria</i></span></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">,
are well known." Reggie Oliver's eighth collection for the
publisher,<i> A Maze For The Minotaur and Other Strange Stories</i>, has
just been released in paperback. Finally, as Pan went to 'press,' the very welcome news came through that the very long-awaited first-time reprint of Flora Mayor's 1935 collection, <i>The Room Opposite</i>, is out next month in limited edition hardback from Sundial Press.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #fbf6ec; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><span style="color: #fbf6ec; font-family: roadway; text-align: left;">1</span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-51232994267490801712021-10-09T08:44:00.016-07:002021-10-26T07:41:08.127-07:00Pan Review Of The Arts No. XIII<p> </p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>KINGA
SYREK </b>
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">ON ART,
FILM AND BEING EDIE SEDGWICK</span></b></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
KINGA SYREK is a 26-year-old Polish multimedia artist, based in
Krakow. Her 2021 filmed short - 'Too Late' – is a biographical
essay in animated silhouette, based upon the life of artist, model
and 'Warhol Superstar' Edie Sedgwick. (1943 – 71). Utilising
recordings of Sedgwick's voice, and with sound assistance by Robert
Magouleff (who directed Sedgwick in her final film, 'Ciao! Manhattan'
in 1971) 'Too Late' is currently cleaning up awards and prize
nominations around Europe and the USA. Alongside her other art, SYREK
also models as Sedgwick bearing, in dress and make-up, an uncanny
likeness. (See the links below).</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>What
would you say is the current state of Arts funding for student
artists in Poland?</b>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">Generally,
it is pretty good. Young, creative, people with established goals can
count on different grants. I was a recipient of the Diamond Grant,
awarded by the Ministry of Science and Higher Education in Poland,
and I’ve also received a Ministry of Culture and National Heritage
scholarship for outstanding artistic achievement. The best students
compete to qualify for a Rector’s scholarship. There are also
supporting programs organized by heads of the cities and other
organizations.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Before
you began attending Krakow Academy of Fine Arts, what did you want,
or hope, to achieve as a budding artist?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">I’ve
always wanted to be associated with fine arts. Art runs in my family.
My mom is an artist and an art teacher. I am sure that I have art in
my genes. I have always longed to shape my creative workshop. And now
it gets better day by day. Talent is, of course, a necessity, but
what’s most important is hard work and practice. When I decided
that I want to attend the Jan Matejko Academy of Fine Arts, I had
begun taking intensive courses in drawing and painting. I knew that
it is a key to success in this field.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">'Too
Late' is still being nominated for multiple short film awards. How
have the reactions to it affected you personally?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">It feels
like a dream! I jumped for joy when my was selected for an Academy
Awards-qualifying Kraków Film Festival when it had its world
premiere and later, when it has been selected for Raindance in
London, where it will have its UK premiere on November 4th 2021.
Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction had its UK premiere at the
Raindance. I am extremely honored to receive this recognition from
leading film festivals. ‚Too Late’ is my debut film and a
master’s degree project. When I started working on it, I dared to
dream that Robert Magouleff, who was Edie’s friend and a
co-producer of Ciao! Manhattan would produce the soundtrack for my
film!</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It's
fair to say that – in make-up - you're the most convincing 'Edie'
out there. What – so far – has been the most surprising or
unexpected reaction to you dressing as her?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">I was
doing research on Edie for my animated film „Too Late” at the
Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh. It was in the first week of July
2019. One day, when I was at the Museum, a guy from L.A. who visited
the museum went crazy about me. He said that I was Edie! Then he told
me that he cosplayed Andy Warhol for several occasions (like for
Halloween and convents) and that he was VERY upset that he hasn’t
brought his white wig with him. He really wanted me to come to L.A.
for Halloween, so I could be his Edie. I felt like a celebrity, who
met a crazy fan. He even didn’t want to let me go. It was such a
surreal experience.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">With
'Factory Girl,' the recent Nico biography, and the imminent Todd
Haynes Velvet Underground documentary, Sedgwick's star seems on the
rise again. Fifty years after her passing, what do you put down to
her continuing popularity?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">She is
almost like a mythological figure. She is an enigma. Edie had that
unique quality and aura that surrounded her. She IS timeless. She was
incredibly talented. All of these aspects make her very special, plus
her glare in her eyes and a smile that could have light up the room.
I really wish I could have met her in person.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As an
artist, do you think you will ever again draw upon The Factory years
for inspiration? Or do you intend going in a different direction?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">Andy
Warhol’s Silver Factory has been an inspiration for me since high
school. Although, I want to go forward and explore new themes, The
Silver Factory left its mark on my art, and I am sure it is not the
last time I will reference this endlessly inspirational space.</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Huge
thanks to Kinga for her time.</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Check out
her artistic activities here: <a href="https://kingasyrek.com/">Kinga
Syrek | Mazda Isphahan</a> and here:</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/kingasyrek/">#kingasyrek
hashtag on Instagram • Photos and videos</a>
</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">* * *</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>REBECCA
KUDER </b>
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">ON
WRITING</span></b></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">REBECCA
KUDER’s short fiction has appeared in </span></span></span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Los
Angeles Review of Books; Hags on Fire; Bayou Magazine; Shadows and
Tall Trees</span></i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">;
</span></span></span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lunch
Ticket</span></i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">;
</span></span></span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Year’s
Best Weird Fiction </span></i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">vols.
3 & 5; </span></span></span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Rumpus</span></i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">;
and </span></span></span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Crooked
Houses</span></i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
She lives in Yellow Springs, Ohio, with the writer Robert Freeman
Wexler</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">
</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and
their child, where she</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-weight: normal;">
writes fiction and creative nonfiction. Her debut fantasy novel, <i>The
Eight Mile Suspended Carnival</i>, </span></span></span></span><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">is</span></span></span></span></em><em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></i></span></span></em><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">out
now from What Books Press. Rebecca is currently working on a memoir
about the house where she grew up, "which was burned down by the
local fire department as an exercise."</span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>You
wrote your first book, </b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>The
Hole in the Shirt</b></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>,
at the age of seven. Tell me about it and, looking back, did its
inspiration have any bearing – even subconsciously – on your
adult writing?</b></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><i>The Hole
in the Shirt </i></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;">is
a 4 x 5 inch, stapled ’zine, a story I told my dad when I was seven
or eight. My dad lettered most of the words (his handwriting being
tidier than mine). I drew the pictures. It’s about a girl named
Sally and her pet mouse (because there’s always a mouse). There’s
a teeny weeny hole in Sally’s shirt, which she does not notice, and
does not do anything about. Page after page, there’s Sally, and the
hole in the shirt is getting bigger. For a while, she continues not
to notice. “A long time went by...and it got so big that it almost
covered her </span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><u>whole</u></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;">
shirt...and then it got so big that she finally noticed it, and sewed
it up.” The back page is heavy-handedly titled </span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><i>The
Moral </i></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;">and
says, “Whenever there’s a hole in your shirt, sew it up!” A
cautionary tale about procrastination and the importance of noticing,
which aligns with my current alarm over our age of distraction and
disembodiment.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"> Maybe
it’s also a story of dissociation? Being so absorbed in whatever is
in front of a person that they are unaware of what’s happening with
their body? Or maybe it’s the ultimate in mindfulness. Sally is
busy living her life: on the beach, jumping rope, roller skating,
eating ice cream, reading a book called </span><span style="color: black;"><i>The
Book</i></span><span style="color: black;">
(which I’m fairly sure was not intended to depict the bible).</span><span style="color: black;"><i>
Who cares if there’s a hole in my shirt? </i></span><span style="color: black;">(Though
I believe in mending things whenever possible.) Whether the drama of
Sally’s shirt sleeps at the root of my writing, the early
encouragement from adults made me feel like my words and stories
meant something. And the publishing process in 1974—we mimeographed
copies and sold them at the local sidewalk sale, 35 cents
apiece—might have foreshadowed the machinery behind my debut novel,
</span><span style="color: black;"><i>The
Eight Mile Suspended Carnival,</i></span><span style="color: black;">
published by the artistic collective that is What Books Press.</span><span style="color: black;"> In both cases, a certain punk ethos?</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><i><b>The
Eight Mile Suspended Carnival </b></i></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><b>reminded
me of Mervyn Peake's more whimsical and less dark work, such as </b></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><i><b>Mr.
Pye </b></i></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><b>and </b></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><i><b>The
Quest For Corbett</b></i></span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><b>. What were
your actual influences in the original concept?</b></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;">(Though I
haven’t yet read any Peake, I loved the </span><span style="color: black;">Gormenghast</span><span style="color: black;">
TV adaptation, and </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Mr. Pye</i></span><span style="color: black;">
is on the bookshelf. Eager to read it). Influences...back to 1974: a
tornado devastated Xenia, Ohio, which is about nine miles from Yellow
Springs, where I grew up (and live now). That disaster made a huge
impression on me. Our house didn’t have a basement. While the wind
ripped up trees and buildings in Xenia, I hid in the bathtub under a
blanket. After the storm passed, I collected baseball-sized hail to
keep in the freezer. The tornado didn’t strike near me or my hidey
hole in the tub. What haunts is the residual terror. I still get
agitated with green skies, and drag my family and cats to
hide—grateful that the house where I live now has a basement. </span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> T<span style="color: black;">he
first written inkling for </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Carnival</i></span><span style="color: black;">,
in 2001: </span><span style="color: black;">Child gets caught in a
tornado, wakes up in a different place (a different type of
geography) like an homage to Oz but without obvious reference. Second
place not Oz, but weird things happen? Is she a few years older,
having woken up with amnesia? Does she find that through some trauma
or illness (or injury from the tornado) she now can see things, see
illnesses in others? Or if she has amnesia, does she now have the
gift of being able to see the process by which people lose their
memories? (i.e. if we lose memories as we age, would we not be losing
some memory or particle of a memory at all times, at any moment?)
Would she be able to see these memories (experience them) as people
lose them?</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> I had
been working on <span style="color: black;"><i>The Watery Girl</i></span><span style="color: black;">
(see below) which was, elementally, built (in terms of narrative
texture and imagery) on air and water. And I had the idea to try a
story or novella where the imagery centers on metal, metallic lines,
sharpness, the various aspects of metal. The music and persona of Tom
Waits provided inspiration. His hyperbolic, theatrical energy, and
the rusted texture of his music permeates </span><span style="color: black;"><i>The
Eight Mile Suspended Carnival</i></span><span style="color: black;">. That
quality of being patched together through invention, that patina of
dirt and clang undergirds the fictional world—until the flood
comes, and then moss wakes from slumber, and again—sort of—“all
the world is green,” to quote Waits, from <i>Blood Money</i></span><span style="color: black;">.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.42cm; margin-top: 0.42cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"><b>Your
husband (Robert Freeman Wexler) is also an author of fiction. How do
your approaches differ and, while writing an MS., do you ever bounce
ideas off each other; or is that purposely avoided?</b></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;">Our
approaches differ in at least one way: my first drafts are much more
awful than his. (I’m not saying that to be humble.) He’s a great
writer. I’m constantly amazed by his imagination and sentences. We
both write by hand (fountain pen & paper) and often listen to
music when we write together. Mostly things that provide sound
texture, instrumental, such as music by friend Doug Snyder with his
drummer, the late Bob Thompson—look up their Daily Dance</span><span style="color: black;">—it’s
fabulous. Or various projects by Steven R. Smith, Bill Frisell, etc.
One of the best places to write, and the best café in the world is
the Emporium</span><span style="color: black;">,
which is also the village living room. (And they sell wine!) If you
are ever in Yellow Springs, please go see. It’s been impossible to
write away from home during the pandemic, and I miss working at
Emporium.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> Neither
Robert nor I are outliners—we figure stuff out along the way,
grapple through the unknown. We follow clues, guiding ideas, images,
possible destinations. Neither of us are very fast writers. My
process seems more chaotic, generally, than his. I tend to have
several notebooks going at once, and he usually has one. While
writing, we discuss what we’re doing, ask for ideas, and read bits
to each other. When a manuscript is complete, he’s generally my
first reader. At first, it was a bit thorny to share work. I was more
fragile back then. Robert was more accustomed to rigorous feedback
than I was. I learned a great deal about giving/taking feedback from
him (and also from graduate school at Antioch Los Angeles). Through
the years, we have found a process that works, though nothing is
perfect. Sometimes we only mark up the muck, and forget to draw stars
indicating the beautiful bits. I imagine some people would find it
challenging to share work with an intimate. Generally, we understand
what the other is trying to do, so we’re able to frame things
accordingly. I’ve learned how to discern when not to take his
advice (rarely, but occasionally, and more with essays than fiction).
He is much more laconic than I am. He would have answered this
question in three sentences.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.42cm; margin-top: 0.42cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"><b>Your
website 'Manifesto #1' describes a particular interest in the
Uncanny; something you share with myself. As a writer, what draws you
to it?</b></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;">I don’t
recall what started that contemplation, maybe a conflation of
curiosity and boredom? Back in the 1960s and 70s, there were no
digital devices to pacify, to anaesthetize brains on long car trips.
As an only child, maybe I was less lonely imagining raindrops as
sentient and striving toward something? I still revel in slowing down
and intense noticing. Whenever I can just stare outward, watch the
embodied world—and here I recommend Lynda Barry’s daily diary
exercise—I feel more alive and human. More conscious, more calm.
And that ultra specific, focused noticing, what I call image catching
(as Lynda Barry says, </span><span style="color: black;"><i>no detail is
too small or unimportant!</i></span><span style="color: black;">) feeds my
work, helps with specificity. Maybe it helps me notice what to mend,
like Sally finally did with her shirt. </span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> I wrote
that manifesto many years ago, after assigning the exercise to my
creative writing graduate students. Recently I reorganized my
website, and thought about revisiting (or omitting) the manifestos.
But I endorse what’s there—the words are still true. The horse
charm is an early image-apparatus I employ in my essays: something
concrete becomes a portal to the narrative interior. I’ve always
been fascinated with perception—before I ever heard of what people
call weird fiction, which sometimes occupies itself with the stretchy
quality of perception, among other oddities and obsessions.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> Also, why
not be overt about the uncanny? There is magic everywhere, really. By
magic, I mean science, too. Okay, science isn’t only magic, but it
also is (to me). Why do we split these ways of understanding? Also,
there are ghosts and haunts everywhere, and I am okay with that.
Paint the porch ceiling haint blue, literally or energetically, make
peace with any unrest, and move onward toward enlightenment.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.42cm; margin-top: 0.42cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"><b>You've
run various creative workshops for different audiences. What is it
you hope to inspire in delivering these? e.g. Is there a broad,
long-term goal?</b></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;">My goal is
to foster the creative spark, and to encourage more joy in the world.
I like to work with the inner critic. There are tricks that help
reframe the dynamic to encourage dialogue, rather than accepting
internal messages of self-doubt. In my workshops, often, we start
with re-negotiation (inviting the inner critic to step aside). We
draw them as creatures, and write letters that start, “Dear inner
critic...” Get them out of our heads and onto the page. Set
boundaries, and remove at least one pervasive obstacle to what brings
joy. I intend to help others go easier on themselves. It’s very
sacred to be with people doing these exercises and sharing what we
write and draw. Often it seems people exhale after practicing these
tricks.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"> Here’s something fun</span><span style="color: black;">:
write a letter to the inner critic. Write one letter, or more, or
write a letter every day for 30 days. See what happens! Something
will shift, I promise. (When I work with young people, sometimes they
ask if they can use bad words. Yes! You can use bad words.) Ask the
inner critic what they need. I don’t want to exile my inner critic,
because that doesn’t seem realistic, but I want to calm her. I want
to comfort her, suggest that she find something else to do, and leave
me alone. She’s usually scared, and trying to protect me, even if
her idea of protection ends up silencing me, or keeping me paralyzed.
My hope is that people (myself included) can articulate boundaries
with whatever parts of themselves obscure joy.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"> For
generative practices, I depend on the work of Lynda Barry (</span><span style="color: black;"><i>Syllabus</i></span><span style="color: black;">).
Barry generously open sources her classes and exercises.</span><span style="color: black;"> I also adore Ariel Gore (</span><span style="color: black;"><i>We
Were Witches</i></span><span style="color: black;">)
whose awesome and affordable asynchronous classes are held at the Literary Kitchen.</span><span style="color: black;"> And because this is also really about reclamation of self, and
encouraging joy, I recommend Sonya Renee Taylor’s life-affirming
project/book, The Body Is Not An Apology.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.42cm; margin-top: 0.42cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>Your
website refers to an 'unpublished novel, </b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>The
Watery Girl</b></span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>,
finalist in 2012 and 2013 for Many Voices Project at New Rivers
Press.' What are the chances of this one day seeing the light of day
in revised form?</b></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"><i>The
Watery Girl </i></span><span style="color: black;">still shimmers on the
periphery. Years ago when I was seeking an agent, there was interest,
even a couple of phone calls. But no one knew how to market the close
third person perspective of a seven-year-old protagonist in a novel
written for adults. Eventually I abandoned the quest for an agent,
and found a small press that accepted the novel. Sadly, that deal
fell through. Heartbreaking, actually. But that novel is not dead
yet. I can imagine revising, opening the narrative in some way,
adding layers, and perhaps I will. Probably I had to write that
novel, whether it ever emerges between portable covers, so I could
write </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Carnival</i></span><span style="color: black;">,
and so I could be who I am now. Part of evolution. I’d love to
share it with readers some day. Maybe that novel is a cooked stew,
pulled from the heat, set on the back of the stove, and I haven’t
yet eaten it all, or cleaned out the pot. There’s something in
there that still smells good to me.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;">Huge thanks
to Rebecca for her time.</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You can order 'The Eight Mile Suspended Carnival' and check
out Rebecca's activities here:</span></span></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black;">rebeccakuder.com/</span></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">and here:</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/rebeccakuder/">Rebecca Kuder
(@rebeccakuder)</a></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/rebeccakuder/">Instagram photos and videos</a><span style="color: black;">
</span>
</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">* * *</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"><b>Among
The Lilies: Stories by Daniel Mills, Undertow Publications</b></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;">To label
this collection 'folk horror' somewhat undersells it. Certainly, its
territory – of rural period perceptions of birth, blood, religious
intolerance, viscera, death and familial legacy – are its classic
tropes. What elevates Mills's second collection (like his first, The
Lord Came At Twilight) is the exemplary prose.</span></p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> American
genre prose set in the present too often leaves me cold, with its
cheery overuse of pop-cultural references and slang, ensuring a
consistent build of atmosphere and tension is undermind throughout by
a peppering of over-familiarity. Mills wisely avoids this, offering a
more mature approach through his settings in a New England past; a
region known to himself, being based in Vermont state. Indeed, the
source of Mills' attention to regional detail is explained by a
particular focus upon historical crime, researched and delivered for
his podcast; These Dark Mountains.</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />
</span></p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"> The lily
has multiple symbolic meanings, dependant as much upon colour as its
geographical provenance:</span></p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: black; text-align: left;">"The
white lily (foregrounded here) is one of the most important flower
symbols to Christianity. It's mainly a symbol of Virgin Mary's
purity. It's a symbol of majesty too with the Roman myth that white
lilies came from the queen of the gods. Jealous of the beauty the
lily has, she decided to mar its “perfection” with a huge
pistil." (askinglot.com) Euphemism anyone? Also, "a white
lily traditionally symbolizes modesty and new beginnings."
(ibid.). "L</span><span style="text-align: left;">ilies represent </span><b style="text-align: left;">rebirth and
hope</b><span style="text-align: left;">, just as the resurrection does in the Christian faith.
Lilies are also mentioned or alluded to several times in the Bible."
(unknown). With reference to the themes in this collection, I also
especially like that "lilies symbolize that the
soul of the departed has received restored innocence after death."
(unknown).</span></span></p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: left;">It is this definition which best reflects those tales utilising the
flower as metaphor, highlighted in 'Woman In The Wood,' 'Lilies,'
'Canticle' and 'The Account of David Stonehouse, Exile,' the novella
ending the collection. Chance encounters with distant relations –
both physical and supernatural – trigger resolutions of silent
echoes down the ages. Admirably, Mills avoids the cliches of the
genre, such as puritan horror, black goats and witch-burners, by
foregrounding the personal consequences of repression. Where Mills
goes from here – in terms of other territory – will be
intriguing; especially if he can maintain this standard. </span><span style="color: black; text-align: left;">Initially
obscured by the number of his contemporaries, it is now clear that
Mills isn't so much 'among the lilies,' as one risen above the field.</span></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: georgia;"><u>PAN will
return in December</u></span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-35690255505959011392021-08-28T07:21:00.006-07:002021-08-29T06:45:35.001-07:00Pan Review Of The Arts No. 12<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Editorial:
Greetings, Panners. Consider this entry the first of two 'Pan Review
Of The Arts' for this year. Based in Japan<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>,
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>SEAN
MICHAEL WILSON is a comic book writer from Scotland. He has had more
than forty books published by a variety of UK, US and Japanese
publishers. Here, we briefly discuss his latest release; George
Orwell's personal school years revelation on the issue of Class; a
classic essay turned into graphic novel form with illustrator JAIME
HUXTABLE. Following this, a rare treat; a complete original short
tale of space/time portal-jumping by Greece-based author MARIA
PETROU. Pan is chuffed with the honour of its debut here. Finally, an
extended 'Albertine's Wooers' wraps up this Summer's new releases.</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">*</span></b></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Sean
Michael Wilson </b>
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">On
Turning George Orwell's 'Such, Such Were The Joys' into a Graphic
Novel</span></b></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">What
attracted you to turning this particular essay into graphic form?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">In one
way we can say its easy: I really like George Orwell's essays and
opinion pieces and this one is suitable for visualisation because
there is a lot of visual description.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> To look
at that deeper we might ask: why do you want to make a visual version
of something you like? Can't you just like it? Talk about it with a
friend? Do a blog post? Why go to all the effort of making a graphic
novel out of it, when you know that it's going to take months? That
brings out various presumptions and assertions. At root the thing is
a desire to be connected, in some active creative way, to a figure or
idea or work of art you feel drawn too. You want to do something of
your own in connection: a song, a documentary, a book. There is
something pleasurable and meaningful about that. It's a kick for me
to be connected to Orwell, especially as our book has permission from
the Orwell estate and a back cover quote from Orwell's son.
(Richard).</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> But we
can also ask: what does your song/movie/graphic novel add here? To be
worth doing and buying it should add something. In this case the
obvious answer is that it adds visuals. Or we might say revives the
visuals, because Orwell added quite a lot of illustrations in his
letters home from school to his parents. So, we are bringing his
autobiographical story out in a visual form, for the first time (as
far as I know). And that means the graphic novel becomes a thing in
itself, not just a photocopy or 'straight' translation. We have
visualised it in ways that perhaps Orwell himself didn't quite think
of, with visual details that are not mentioned in his text (and could
therefore be wrong in places!). We have also adjusted some of the
text in order to connect the panels and make them flow well. Also, we
have added in new text here and there, to bring conversations that
Orwell only hints at to a more full realization.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> As to
the content: this story has a lot in it. It's talking about the
troubles of childhood, in a way that most can still relate to. It's
talking about the injustice and capriousness of adult authority. It's
talking about class and economic injustice. And its also very
personal and intimate.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What,
or who, informed your own politics and how would you define it?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium; text-align: left;">I
was trying to think about this the other day, about how I first start
getting interested in politics and what made me left-wing, and I
couldn’t remember how it started. But it started very early when I
was 16 or 17. I made a magazine in school when I was 17 and I still
have it as proof of my early inclinations. There’s two pages on it
strongly criticising Margaret Thatcher. So I was already left- wing
when I was 17. And I supported Nicaragua around that time as well. It
was the first campaign I was aware of, while still at school. But I
don’t remember what made me so because none of my family were
left-wing or are even now. So, its a bit of mystery.</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Then
when I studied sociology and politics in university I learned more
about the theoretical aspects and the movements. I also became more
interested in the connection between Politics and Humanities, which
is what I do with my comic books now. I took a course in the
Sociology of Literature, which inspired me. It was taught by a
sociologist who was also a poet: Tim Cloudsley. And my other
sociology teacher, Mike Scott, was also a painter. So, pretty cool
role models and they helped me see how Politics is actually about
pretty much everything. It’s not just about party political things.
It’s about how we organise our lives and societies. </span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I
will say that I’m most drawn to Anarchist or Libertarian Socialist
ways of organising ourselves. It seems to me the most natural and
beneficial way we can do it. I’m still learning all the time, about
the history of the different left-wing movements and doing
approaches, and the successes and failures of past movements. I’m
reading and thinking about it, after. And in doing my own left-
focused books with people like Michael Albert and Noam Chomsky, with
the GFTU and the present one on Ocalan and Kurdistan, I learn a lot
in the process. It seems to me that my attitude and the kind of
combination of political and literary interests is rather
similar to Orwell‘s and that’s partly why I am drawn to him. </span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>One
of the reasons I’m left-wing is because the arguments from the
Right are almost always silly cliched rubbish. If they had better
arguments I could perhaps see you their point of view more, but they
don’t. The great question is why so many people who are not
actually elite capitalists themselves support right-wing views. There
are some reasons but most end up in shooting yourself in the foot. </span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
think the graphic novel is one key route to attracting a younger
generation to Socialism who may, otherwise, feel alienated by what
can be perceived as the dryness of the subject and politics more
generally. How do you feel about this take?</span></b></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium; text-align: left;">As
you know a key problem for the Left is that it’s divided amongst
itself and it seems complicated to learn the various theories and
examples going back around two-hundred years. The other thing is that
while gender and race activism feel like physical things close to
people's identity, the issues of the economic system and class now
feel abstract and only loosely connected to people's personal
experience. (Even if that is quite wrong).</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>So,
yes, comic books can help to overcome that in two ways: firstly, they
have an image of being easy and enjoyable to read. That may be a
cliche but it has a positive effect in terms of not putting people
off, which is a big advantage. Because in my experience quite a lot
of people build up a psychological block to reading things they see
as 'heavy'. The second thing is that having visuals gives a certain
concrete element to the abstract ideas that helps us process them.
Readers can see things like the miners strike or people being
forbidden to have toilet breaks, et cetera. That is not a dumbing
down of the materials; its playing to the way the human brain works
and takes in info, and how we recall it too. Though, one disadvantage
is that a two-hundred page comic can not go into as much detail as a
two-hundred page text-only book can.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>My
own experiences of people is they respond very well to going into
these issues in comic book form, but books in general don’t sell
well enough, so the reach is still limited. But, it definitely can
help, yes. I'm happy that my own books are part of that.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Many thanks
to Sean for his replies. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">You
can check out his latest here: https://seanmichaelwilson.weebly.com/orwell.html</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">*
* *</span></span></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of Space-Time and
the Cat</span></b></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A short story by</span></b></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Maria Petrou</b></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">The
jeep just barely fitted in the narrow alleys. They resembled </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">canyon</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">s
made of old high buildings seeming to lean towards each other, their
roofs almost touching. I was surprised that the car’s body didn’t
scrape against the walls</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
But we had to avoid the main roads; we were going out without the
exit permit. We were,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">virtually</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
illegal. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">I kept looking
in the rear-view mirror for signs of pursuit. </span></span><span>Ι</span><span><span lang="en-GB">
hardly </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">believed I
wasn’t seeing red flashes behind us. Anda told me, swerving the
steering wheel:</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I’m not
sure where exactly we will turn up this way.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>As always…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">She
sighed. “As always.</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Since boundaries are so
mixed up after the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Great
Disaster...”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>It seems to
me like it was yesterday. Like a bad dream. And it seems like it was
ages ago. How much time do you think has actually passed?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I’m not
sure. Last years…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>How many?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie, let me
concentrate. We have to get out and cross The Fusion Place to find,
by any chance, your home.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US"> The
houses were getting lower and lower, until they</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">didn’t exist
anymore; they leveled with the ground, the ground becoming more
sterile and harder until, at last, we reached the desert; a desert
born by the war, of black sand and frozen obsidian lakes, as if the
soil and the minerals had melted from the inconceivable heat</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">of a monstrous volcanic
eruption. A mighty weapon had gone off here;</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">because of it,
scientists called the desert ‘The Fusion Place.</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">’</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
It bordered a large part of the uneven perimeter of the New World,
which actually</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">included the once
central </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">neighbourhoods</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
of a</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">megalopolis</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">with millions of
residents, some of its suburbs, and</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">some fairly close</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
settlement</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">s.</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">At the rest of the
perimeter</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
as far as the eye could see, were only torn earth and debris. Many
search parties were sent this way but, after long fruitless weeks
trudging through the same sad landscape, they returned without</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">success, without
encountering any trace of habitation or life; and the expeditions
stopped. In the press at the time, there was no information about</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">hostilities</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
in the area; the most probable explanation – and most repeated
pattern in </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">world’s
history – </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">was</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
that our adversaries had </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: normal;">thunderstruck</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
us, to make an example,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">while testing their
most improved weapon. Perhaps </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>somewhere
else</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> our country
existed, kneeled, surrendered, lamenting the annihilated historical
megalopolis, not knowing that by a caprice of the universe a part of
it still survived in a fold of space-time</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><u>
</u></span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">There
weren’t landmarks in the desert; you drove straight for twenty, or
thirty, or fifty kilometers; there never</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">was the same
distance, and you never ended </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">up
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">to</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the same spot.
Compasses weren’t very reliable there. After a long process of
trial and error and mulish patience, we had discovered that following
a certain direction we would turn up in approximately the same area;
but without knowing exactly where and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>when
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">– because,
further on</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the
Waste Land lay. A portion of the city that, while</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">dilapidated by the
Disaster, still stood there, and nobody knew why.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
was in the city centre,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the day of the
</span></span><span>Τ</span><span><span lang="en-US">ransposition</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and was shut in. Like
millions of people then, I believed that the long war was</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">raging far at the
borders, that there were many more strategic targets, that the
adversaries would respect our ancient city, full of historic
landmarks. In our dreams! When the first fright passed, when we tried
to return to our homes after the initial </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">shock,
after the eruption, the </span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;">roar
and</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
the turbulence,</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
we discovered that there weren’t roads or houses anymore, just
wilderness. We were in the middle of nowhere. What remained of the
city was crammed with desperate people, who didn’t know if they
still had families or</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">occupation, or
where they </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">would</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
sleep. Of course, initially, panic reigned; but when it was confirmed
that we were cut-off, that there were no more news, communication,
commerce and visitors, that those who were absent that day would
never return and just a few hundred thousands of people remained, the
city organized to deal with the devastation. There were supplies of
food, fuel and energy for almost a decade, if consumption was
controlled, since we were so few now</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>,
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and we would become
self-sufficient if we immediately started designing a new
infrastructure. If we couldn’t communicate with other cities or
nations after some time, we would be convinced we had drifted into
chaos and were alone.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">The</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">State held firm the
reigns. With brief procedures a provisional government was formed, of
municipal officials and military officers; police was essential and
omnipresent. Someone had to organize chaos, enforce order, combat
panic and upheavals. An inventory was needed, to</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">account for how
many permanent residents of the centre were missing.</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
The homeless people like me, had to be register</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">ed</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
lodged and fed. The reaction</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">s
of the dwellers who remained, and at first refused to understand the
situation’s severity and live a more frugal life, had to be
repressed; provisions and</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
employment to be allocated justly to everybody, according </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">to
their skills, </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">whether
they were locals or </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">outsiders.
Of course, this equality</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">didn’t really exist,
and many people</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">were
protesting; but the sinister, grey uniforms were lurking in the
shadows, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">like
ominous clouds</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">,
registering every reaction</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
and remonstrance. Dissidents were relocated for labour to farms and
small factories, constructed at the</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
perimeter</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> of the
cut-off city-nation, and become productive members of our new
society. Thereafter, everybody shut up.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">G</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">radually,
the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">New World was
formed as the regime wished; without </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">upheavals,
with order. They didn’t care about the lowlifes of the underworld –
something that will never change – but about the citizens’
discipline, the acceptance of the police state. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Anyway</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
organized crime died after the blockade and only </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">petty
criminals</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> remained</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">;
burglars, three-card mongers, small-time</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">pushers, poultry
thieves, prostitutes – and a hybridic race was </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">born;
half-legal, half-illegal - the scavengers.</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">In
my previous life I was a civil engineer. That day I had a meeting
with a client. Fortunately, the good man took me in until I could
find out what to do, so I didn’t end up on the streets. After the
first upheavals, when life in the city started to find a pace again,
I applied for lodgings and started seeking work. I didn’t want to
burden my hosts anymore. </span></span><span>Ι</span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">tried to find something
in my field, but the ‘natives’ preferred their</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">acquaintances, and
competition among outsiders for any kind of employment was ferocious.
At last, they gave me a bedsit</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
with a </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">bed</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
and</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> a table, and I
found a job at a gas station; I was working at the pumps, washed</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">windscreens and
sometimes did a</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">repair.
My salary was pejorative </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>–
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">as is always for
the destitute – </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">but </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">I
didn’t have many </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">needs;
food and booze, warm cloths, some books and, little by little, the
house necessities.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> Even
if I could afford it, I didn’t have the heart for</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">entertainment and
outings. I was still shell-shocked from the loss of my home and my
life and mad from pain for my Night, my precious cat, which was left
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">behind;
my little girl, </span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">forever
lost</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">.</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
didn’t have any family to mourn</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
and friends had </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">drifted
away</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> as years went by.
I was living alone, with a void inside me; a hole which sometimes I
could almost see in the mirror, which work and superficial
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">ac</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">quaintances
couldn’t fill. Until I met Night. I longed many years for a kitty,
but I was afraid of the responsibility. Back then, I made many
business trips. Who would care for her when I wasn’t there? I
couldn’t even find someone to water my plants; but, a colleague
convinced me to take in a poor animal in need of a home. They rescued
it from the street and a girl hosted it, but her cats didn’t accept
it. When I went to see her, the little girl came and sat on my lap,
fearless, as if she already knew me</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">;</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
with </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">apperception</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
with trust. And suddenly I felt a bubble swelling inside me, like a
balloon full of helium; swelling, enlarging and filling the black
hole; her apperception, her trust. I took her in without a second
thought. It was love at first sight – for both of us. She was black
silk, molten gold eyes and frolicsome</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">tail</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
lithe like an ancient Egyptian cat; smart, gracious and cuddly. She
was my little black panther, strolling in the ‘jungle’ of my
balcony and fiercely attacking the potted palm in my living room. She
became my family, my child, the apple of my eye. I didn’t need
anything anymore. I was giving and taking inexhaustible</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;">undersigned</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
love. I had never loved anybody so much, and nobody had loved me so
much. Her purring </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">was
the most beautiful music in the world. She was sleeping on my pillow,
waking me up with a kiss. She followed me everywhere. She made me
happy. She made me </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">whole</span></i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.
Whatever happened to me, she was always </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">there</span></i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>.</i></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
had been working at the gas station for about two years when I met
Anda. I was seeing her frequently as, because of her profession, she
needed much more fuel than most citizens</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Gradually, we started
to talk. Before the </span></span><span>Τ</span><span><span lang="en-US">ransposition
she was an antiquarian, but antiques weren’t greatly demanded in
the New World anymore, so she became a scavenger when ‘soap-bubbles’,
as people dubbed the strange time anomalies in the Waste Land, were
discovered.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">She
needed an assistant. My profession counted; as an engineer, I knew
how to spot dangerous buildings which could collapse and crush us,
and discover safe passages. I could use tools and help if the car
stalled. The salary was generous, and I would get a commission if I
was up to the job. I wouldn’t have to rise at dawn and work like a
dog twelve hours for crumbs anymore. And the greatest allure, which I
didn’t divulge until we got to know each other better, was
something I had learned from colleagues of hers; that through a</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
twist of luck my old neighbourhood was part of the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Waste
Land, and time-pockets existed </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">there.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
Perhaps my home was preserved in one of them; perhaps I could get
back in time and search for my baby who could be still living,
rambling</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> somewhere,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>sometime</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
frightened, famished and alone. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, I
accepted.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">The
job’s pressure helped me to be alert, to forget for a while my
depression, and I had </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">real
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">contact with another
human being – </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">despite
the employer-employee relationship, we had become friends and we
depended upon each other for our survival</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
</span></span><span>Α</span><span><span lang="en-US">nd
it preserved my crazy hope, the only thing still keeping me sane;
that perhaps I could find my Night, find within Waste Land’s chaos
the right soap-bubble at the right moment; because, after the
</span></span><span>Τ</span><span><span lang="en-US">ransposition,
the world was scattered, and what remained of our city was a raft
swirling in the ocean of space-time. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-GB">There
were some adventurers who set off </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">to
explore the Waste Land, and discovered that amongst the ruins were
time-pockets which had remained in </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>Before</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.
Nobody knew for sure</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
what</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i> </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">was
left there from Before the Great </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Disaster</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
how and why those pockets were preserved into</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
After</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">, neither
where and </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>when </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">they
exactly were, and if they existed in </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">our</span></i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">space-time</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>.</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
Our presence seemed to affect them, since they moved imperceptibly
after each expedition. ‘Nobody can enter the same river twice’ a
sage had said. The great river of time. The specialists who went to
study them were</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">coming back
increasingly confused and disheartened, and the simple people
believed that the wilderness was haunted. Only scavengers dared to
visit the stern necropolis of After; nobody knew what dangers,
infections</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">or
malevolent ghosts could lurk there</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span>Β</span><span><span lang="en-US">ecause
of this, some guards sometimes looked the other way. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">On
the one hand, their admiration for the</span></span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">
</span></span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255);">scavengers’
swagger, who didn’t know if they would come back next time, and, on
the other, some coins discreetly palmed.</span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: -0.21cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">We
were seeking, like the other scavenges, the most promising
soap-bubbles, and sometimes we wrenched small or big treasures;
information and objects for historians, collectors and artists. </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">From
time to time, money</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">was changing hands
and a scavenger made a </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">hoard.
</span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: medium;">Anda
was looking forward to this hoard. How long had we been searching the
ruins together? Three years? More? We weren’t sure.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Nobody
was sure. Time was relative now. Was it the terrible pressure of the
anti-matter weapons which, distorting the fabric of the universe
itself, </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">warped and
misshape</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">d the fourth
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">dimension and tore </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">its
weft</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">?</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
Before … how many years exactly? At least five or six. More? </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>How
many</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">? Were our
memories so distorted? Scientists were still trying to understand
exactly how</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the
</span></span><span>Τ</span><span><span lang="en-US">ransposition
occurred and where it led us. The</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">fragment which is now
called New World </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>was
catapulted </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>somewhere
else</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">. It wasn’t
that much of a world; just some hundred square kilometers</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">e</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">s,
and then the unknown</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
The city tuned up in a strange dimension of its own – here time
really flowed like a river; </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">one
time</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> wide and shallow,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">one time</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
deep, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">one time</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
fast and turbulent. Sometimes the sunset lasted hours, sometimes
night didn’t fall at all for days, and other times snow fell in
spring along with the blossoms of the cherry trees. Summers were
unpredictable</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">, autumns
long and</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">teary.
The constellations were different</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">At times we saw
luminous, multicoloured veils like the </span></span><span>Ν</span><span><span lang="en-US">orthern
Lights rippling on the sky</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
One could easily lose count of the seasons. And we were encircled by
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>no man’s land</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">,
many kilometers of desert, until the unexplored country of After,
which held inside it time-pockets of Before. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Gradually,
we started to get a feel of the place</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
–</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> if not of the time.
Many roads were impassable,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">buried under avalanche</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">s
of </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">wreckage. But I
didn’t stop hoping that one day I would find my baby and my home. I
was trying to locate</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the right bubble where
compasses didn’t exactly point to the same north… but the horizon
points were more or less stable. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
was patient. I was waiting. I hoped beyond all</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">hope.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For a long time
I had been trying to map, with Anda’s help, the unstable perimeter
of the wilderness, to direct her towards landmarks on old maps which
could be adjacent to our world – monuments, squares, grand
buildings. It was slow and tedious work.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">We
arrived </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">at</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
the Waste Land, at one of the</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">familiar</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
doleful </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">avenues of
After. Everywhere, cement dust, ash, tortured metal and gutted
buildings with wooden beams protruding like broken teeth, and not a
living soul, beneath the eerie shine of a waning moon which seemed
too close and too silver, and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">bathed</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
the ruins with a disturbing opalescent light. The street had the
unnatural quietness of a nightmare. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I didn’t want
to think how it would look at daytime.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Well?” said
Anda.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
think I can</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">get
my bearings</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">This
way.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Are you sure?
The previous times…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">Fuck!
There were so many ‘previous times’; so many failed attempts, so
many roads that led us to</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">dead ends and
downfalls, so many false alarms…</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Yes. Tonight
I’m absolutely sure. I can feel it in my bones. Look, the Great
Arch! We haven’t come across it before. Turn here. Now I know where
we are going.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">And</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">at last, after so many
years I found my home, somewhat shabby but still standing, in a
pocket of Before,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">though without knowing
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>when</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.
And instead of the exultation I was waiting for, suddenly I felt
frightened, frozen. What would </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">have</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><u>
</u></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">remained? What
would </span></span><span>Ι</span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">find?</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">We
ascended to the second floor. The door was open. We turned on the
lamps on our helmets and started searching the untidy rooms. Had
someone been here before us, or it was just the entropy</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">of the </span></span><span>Τ</span><span><span lang="en-US">ransposition?</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Hurry up,”
said Anda; “I’m risking my hide for you.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">In
a cupboard I found my old duffel bag</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
faded from the sun of so many summer campings. Camping? It’s a
laugh. Last time must have been many years ago. Summer? In another
life. After the Disaster, sea doesn’t exist anymore.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I grabbed some
books and objects and tossed them in the duffel bag.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Move your
ass!”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">And
then, from the dark corridor appeared my girl. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Had
I found her at last? Or was I seeing</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
her ghost? Because </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>there
were </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">ghosts in the
Waste Land. I rushed forward, reached for her… and she disappeared.
I staggered dizzily. The floor wobbled. Time flicker</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">ed.
At her place appeared the stray grey cat I was feeding, with the
weakest baby of her litter; a piebald, which was always crying. It
was tiny, much smaller than I remembered, fitting in my palm. Its fur
was dull and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">matted,
its head</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">scabbed,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
almost bald, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">an ugly
pink like a rat’s paw. It seemed</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">at death's door. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Are you
serious?” said Anda. “There’s no way you can get it in.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>There’s no
way I’m leaving it here. It will die.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">It
will die anyway. Doesn’t look like it will survive. The older one
seemed fine.” </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
</span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>The black
one?” I mumbled.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Black? It was
grey.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
saw what I was longing for, a</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
vision</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> born from my
sadness</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">or
had time shifted imperceptibly by my dashing? </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I couldn’t
grab her.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>So, why take
this one?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Don’t you
see it? Don’t you understand? I can’t leave it.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">When
we arrived at checkpoint 12 I still held it in my hands. We managed
to slip out, but we couldn’t avoid inspection upon entering. There
were unmanned passages leading out, without cameras, heat detectors,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">movement sensors and
Geiger counters</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">, as </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
official points </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">of
entry and exit flanking the perimeter had, but it wasn’t certain
you could find them returning. Only checkpoints were stable. The
authorities didn’t care for those going out –where could they
go?– but who, or </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>what</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">,
could get in the oppressive</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">police-ridden, grey and
fragile New World. Until now, not a human soul was found out there;
just rats, and hungry pets gone feral, whom</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">collectors paid dearly
for and pampered. At a dawn we reckon</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">ed</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
we heard faraway birdsong; we had never seen birds, but you can never
know…</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><u> </u></span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">Anda
presented the scavenger’s permit, but the potbellied hulk in the
booth stared at the kitten. </span></span><span>Ι</span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">was so afraid it might
die in my hands, it didn’t cross my mind to hide it. Such a jerk!</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>What is
this?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>It’s a bit
sick…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">He
took it off my hands, laid it on the counter, looked at it,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">raised his arm,
clenched his fingers and crushed the hairless scull with his fist.
Thin, pinkish blood splattered his hand. My mouth opened but no voice
came</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b> </b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">out.
I closed it and just stared at him feeling my eyes bulge, bulge,
spin.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>It wouldn’t
survive,” he said indifferently. “We don’t want monsters in the
New World.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
found my voice and hissed through my </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">teeth
“fucking</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
asshole!”, letting out the breath I’d suppressed all this time. I</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">reached for my knife
but, before I could draw it,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Anda hit me hard on the
belly. I doubled in half, hearing her say “Okay, officer, we are
leaving. No harm done.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">As
she floored the gas pedal</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span>Ι</span><span><span lang="en-US">
shrieked: “You will pay for this, lard-ass! I’ve marked you!”</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Shut
up,” said Anda. “Are you mad? He could have registered</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
us</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Scavengers’
worst fear was to be registered. The permit was</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">expensive</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
the toll high – so when they could they slipped out at night –
and risked their lives each time they entered the Waste Land. While
they were well respected, they had to be very careful. Any asshole
who had</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b> </b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">woken
up on the wrong side of the bed could register</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">you and single you out</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
and then they </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">would
thoroughly scrutinize you at each checkpoint – and some of the
goods scavengers sold couldn’t withstand a careful scrutiny</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
Only </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">connections could
get you off the hook, and we didn’t have many. The New World didn’t
differ from the old in this respect. Anda really had risked her hide
for me; for a few books and another cat than the one I was looking
for. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">When
the checkpoint’s lights were out of sight, Anda braked</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">I unfastened my seat
belt, opened the door and collapsed on the road.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Leave me
alone.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Fuck off.”
I was sobbing and pounding the ground with my fists. “For the wrong
cat! Why the fuck did Disaster play this cruel joke on me?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was crying
with hard, ugly sobs. “Leave me alone. I will go home on my own.”</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">Before
I could realize it, with one hand she grabbed me by the hair</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and with the other
picked up my knife from my belt. She kicked me in the ribs with her
military boot. I curled up, covered my</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>head with my hands
and continued to sob. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Okay,
go home. I will give you your knife back when you’ve cooled down</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">I don’t want you to
slash your veins and leave me without assistance.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She kicked me a
couple more times for good measure, and the car roared away.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
don’t know for how much time I was crying or when I stopped. My
ribs hurt, but I managed to stand up and cope with the half hour’s
walk to my home. Some fucking home! An outsider’s bed-sit with
furniture scavenged from the streets, some books and a view of other
building’s backyards. The only valuable thing was my laptop. Of
course, the Internet didn’t exist any more, but I used it as a
typewriter, recording my thoughts and experiences, and our
expeditions, in the file ‘Now’. It was my diary; an attempt to
put in order my sad, chaotic life</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">which</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">roamed from Before to
After and </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">suffocated on
Now</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">; </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">to
map the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Waste Land; to
track down the most</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">promising passages.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
added the Arch to my</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">incomplete map, which
reminded me of old naval maps I had seen in a museum, in another
life. There were monsters drawn on the four corners of their known
world, along with the sinister</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">warning</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>‘Here may be
dragons,’</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> because
the cartographers of the time didn’t know what was out there, as we
didn’t know where we might end up and what we would find.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>For a week I
wasn’t talking much – mostly I nodded; Anda was watching me
warily. At last, she couldn’t stand it anymore. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Are you still
sulking? What was I supposed to do?” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>She was right,
but I couldn’t get the hideous image out of my mind, or stop
feeling betrayed. I hadn’t mentioned my home again. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She brought it
up, trying to bridge the chasm between us. “Can you find your home
again?”</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
don’t know,” I said sourly. “I have to consult my </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">notes</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Do it, and
when you are ready, tell me.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">It
took me another week to</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">track a shorter route,
using landmarks of our space-time that seemed aligned to</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><u>
</u></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">After; almost
stable points which </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">survived
on both sides of the Fusion.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-GB">This
time we got out </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">off</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
a checkpoint, very cool; a few days back we had found some boxes full
of old DVD’s which were sold dearly. Our reputation grew. When we
arrived at </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>no man’s
land</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">, I led her
toward the previous time’s direction; we passed the Arch and found
again my home’s pocket. It didn’t look shabby anymore, and there
was a lit window on the second floor. We looked at each other. The
small building’s entrance wasn’t locked. We ascended</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
noiselessly</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> to my
apartment. I gently tried the doorknob</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">It didn’t move. Anda
produced her skeleton keys and in half a minute we were in. We
switched off our torches and advanced carefully towards the light. It
seeped out of a door slightly ajar. We approached</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">on tiptoe</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
I looked in stealthily, and jumped back feeling my face drain of
color.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>What’s in
there?” whispered Anda.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
raised a finger across my lips to hush her. We squeezed at the
threshold and we saw… me! The woman’s hair was cut in uneven
levels and she wore a strange, voluminous dress, but she was </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>me</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">,
and she was dandling my little girl, singing to her. I recalled my
earlier vision of Night and uttered a cry. The woman lifted her eyes
and looked at me; our eyes locked. I felt something like an electric
discharge. The floor wobbled; time flicker</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">ed;
the cat and her mistress vanish</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">ed
with the abrupt finality of a burst soap-bubble</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">;
the light was extinguished; I howled. I fainted.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">I
came to my senses outside, on the street. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Anda
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">had dragged me down the
stairs and laid me on the pavement. She was shaking me. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie! Ellie,
are you with me?” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">I
am. </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>Did you see it?</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i><b>
</b></i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">I’m not
seeing illusions?” </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Holy
fuck! I saw it. </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>I
saw you! </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">What the
hell is going on?”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">I
suppose that space-time </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">distortion
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">is very strong here.
Probably we turned up at </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>another
where</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> from a
sidelong road, in a dimension adjacent to </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">our
own, where the Disaster didn’t happen;</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">where
another Ellie still lives with my baby in a different reality, where
life is as I wish.” </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">It’s
impossible! </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Different
realities don’t exist. Only the New World.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US"><i>You
saw it!</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Okay, I saw
it. What are we going to do now?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Let’s
leave</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">at
once. I don’t know if we are safe here. Let me think.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That night I was
a dead weight – luggage. Anda found a healthy dog and two trunks
full of antique clothes. A good haul; our clients were delighted; our
reputation increased.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">The
scavenger’s job is a mix of talent, stubbornness</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
research, experience </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and
intuition. We had them all, and we started to reap the fruits of our
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">labour</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.
But I didn’t dare to mention my home anymore.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Weeks
passed and we hadn’t discussed it.</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Both of us shrank back.
No way would we return there. There were other areas on my sketchy
map which led us to good hauls. We were even more </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">alert,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">concentrated and
careful, fearing that we might end up in a </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>marginal</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
bubble, a Before from which no return would be possible. But as much
as I tried to put it out of my mind, I was feeling the</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">lure</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
of the life I saw winking to me </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">out
of a door pouring light</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>Somewhere else.</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
In an alien reality where I was happy. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">As
a scavenger, I had met many scientists and researchers and I started
asking questions</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><u>,</u></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
discretely trying to gather </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">information,
but I was afraid to tell them what I saw. In the New World you can
never know what may attract the State’s attention to you, or who is
a rat. The official viewpoint of the regime was that </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">now
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">we were completely
alone and cut-off, the known universe was lost, and the soap-bubbles
were parts of our </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>linear
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">past which,
unbeknown to us, were preserved among the ruins. Belief in other
dimensions was considered antisocial, almost heretic, and frowned
upon. Any possible contact with your previous life, as urban legends
said could</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><u> </u></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">happen,
was unacceptable. In the New World you should have a new self. We had
trouble enough with our own</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span>Τ</span><span><span lang="en-US">ransposition.
We didn’t need other dimensions on top of this. I learned about a
few</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">cases</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
like mine, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">of people
who happened to glance for an instant at their life </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>somewhere
else</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">, but </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">they
hadn’t intended it nor could they comprehend what exactly had
happened. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Anda
found the great haul at last. We discovered a large public library,
with </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">some </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">books
eons old, and we were selling it gradually. I managed</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">to stabilize more or
less its co</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">-</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">ordinations,
and almost every day we succeeded in finding it again and returned
loaded. All scavengers envied us. I bought new boots at the black
market. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">But
that half-sighted life still tormented me, like a</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
persistent pain on </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the
ghost-limb of an amputee. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">Anda
caught a severe cold</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">She was bedridden, with
a high fever. It was the chance I had long been waiting for. I spend
the day with her,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">applying compresses on
her forehead, feeding her chicken soup and</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">chatting. About 3 a.m.
I told her “I’m worn down; I’m going home to crash. I will be
back in the morning.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Okay, Ellie.
Thank you.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Don’t
mention it.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">She
wouldn’t thank me if she knew that her gun </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">was
in my knapsack.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-GB">It
wasn’t difficult to find a dusty </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">rust-bucket
parked in a remote alley. Its lock was a joke.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">The
streets were empty. 3 a.m. The black midnight of the soul.
Law-abiding citizens were sleeping the sleep of the just</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">;
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">I could meet only
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">suspicious characters
like me, and amongst us rules the code of silence; I saw nothing, I
know nothing. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-GB">I
got out from a secret </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">passage
and turned back towards checkpoint 12, as if </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">I
was</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> coming from the
desert. The lard-ass was dozing. I pulled down the hat hiding my
smudged face and my hair and honked. He straightened and looked at me
sleepily.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>What do you
want?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wanted to chop
him to pieces with my knife, but I would be nailed. I took the gun
from the passenger’s seat, got out of the car and shoved it in his
face. I smiled.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Do you
remember me, asshole?” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>What…” he
mumbled.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>No? I told
you that I’d marked you.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Recognition
fluttered in his eyes.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>You…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I’m
so glad you remembered me,” I said, and shot him in the belly.
Belly-shots guarantee a slow and very painful death, but I didn’t
have time enough to savour it. And I longed to see the spark of</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">despair in his eyes</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">the realization that
his life ended. When he had howled to my heart’s content from pain
and terror, squirming like a worm cut in half, and understood very
well who I was, I grabbed him by his lapels and we came nose to nose.
I told him “You are dead” and shot him point blank between his
eyes. Just for fun, I shot the camera once. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While the
checkpoints are far from dwellings, I took off as the devil was on my
heels. You could never be safe enough.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US" style="font-size: medium;">I
left the car where I’d found it, went home, cleaned the gun and
shrugged off my bloody shirt. My face in the bathroom mirror seemed
drenched by a red rain, and was plastered with diminutive pieces of
bone and brain matter. I grinned. I walked into the shower.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At 9 a.m. I was
with Anda, smelling of soap instead of gunpowder and blood, cooking
breakfast. The gun was in its place, and she didn’t know that I
knew where she was hiding it.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Of course, the
news spread in our circle like a forest fire. A colleague came to see
how Anda was doing and told us the story. Rumours said that the guard
was murdered before dawn by a scavenger with an illegal haul. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>When he left,
Anda regarded me as though she was seeing me for the first time. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>What?” I
said innocently.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie, did
you do it?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Do what?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Did you kill
him?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Has fever
cooked up your brain? How could I reach checkpoint 12? Flying on a
broomstick?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>With a car…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>That I don’t
have.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Mine…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Anda,
get a grip; what am I? Superwoman? I left whacked; I went home and
crashed for five hours. If you don’t believe me, go down and check
the odometer. Where could I find a gun? My weapon of choice is the
knife. And the murderer was</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>
entering</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">. Do you
think I’m </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i><u>so</u></i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
mad, I would dare to go out alone in the darkness?”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>But he was…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I know very
well who he was. That lard-ass. I will piss on his grave if I find
where it is. The person who offed him ought to get a medal. He did
the world a favour.” </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The distrust in
her glance started to melt like morning dew, and she averted her
eyes.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Come on,
let’s eat,” I said. Good news whets my appetite.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">Anda
recovered soon and we continued our expeditions. I was registering
every new landmark and patiently, with some deceptive </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">to
and fro moves,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> I was
steering her </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">towards </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">my
neighbourhood, </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">circling
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">narrower and narrower</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">like a vulture honing
onto its prey</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
trying to</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">locate
co-ordinations and distances between the pockets of the area. I was
leading her to bubbles we had visited before, observing how they had
changed and which way they had moved, like boats</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
with full </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">sails drifted
by the wind, and how this would affect my inquests; and to new ones,
exploring them, trying to understand if they were significant or not,
if I could depend on them for provisions or</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">shelter while
continuing my search. Some were more distant, didn’t interest me
right now, but the more I learned the better I would be prepared for
any weirdness or problem. It was good to know what I could</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
expect, m</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">ore or less,
there, if I was forced to</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b>
</b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">a</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">hasty retreat
threatened by some ghost, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">the</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">few,
thank God, uneasy </span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">blood-lusting
shadows, which hadn’t yet found rest; or by some new, unimaginable
and improbable danger. My maps were continually enriched. I had
already started to detect some vague routes which were connected.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Although
much speculation had been made about the soap-bubbles, nobody had yet
understood their nature and their significance. Ahead of me lay a
horizon of endless knowledge, the greatest adventure in the world,
greater than the Odyssey; because each one had its own
particularities, era and secrets; </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">a
little different every time, enough to fill my time and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">refresh
my mind while I was</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><u>
</u></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">trying to achieve
my goal. I wondered </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>where
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>how
far </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">into</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Before they could
reach; the Waste Land is vast, and most of it is still unexplored
like a virgin forest. We had never got very far in the past. Who
knows </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>how deep</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
some pockets were, assuming that many realities could coexist inside
them? Who knows what could I discover, or encounter? Dinosaurs?
Unicorns? If so, why not a black cat? </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">Whatever
was laying in wait for me, I wasn’t afraid; to have seen yourself
eye to eye</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b> </b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">was
much scarier than any nightmare the Disaster could have spawned.
Perhaps</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i> there may be
dragons? </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Things and
entities which weren’t yet</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">found in the Waste
Land, hidden in its uncountable, unexplored dimensions? </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">I
was sure. That other Ellie</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
couldn’t be their only inhabitant. Would I meet other people or…
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>other creatures?
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Would I be able to
synchronize</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and
communicate with them, or would we remain presences which tried to
touch each other but failed? Elusive images, unreachable visions…
or maybe hallucinations born of weariness</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
need and obsession?</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
didn’t care if I would meet dragons; I would decide what to do
then. I had my goal. I had the great</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">quest ahead of me. I
was prepared to suffer patiently and make any sacrifices I needed to.
</span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">When
I managed to gather as much</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">data as my impatience
allowed me, I updated my maps for the last time in the New World,
pondered</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">my
chances and started to prepare and buy the provisions I needed. Never
from the same merchant. I didn’t want to arise suspicions.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">And
now I was as ready as I could be. I asked Anda to get out tonight</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and find my home’s
pocket again. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">We
were traveling silent beneath a bloated full moon which dusted
deceptively the ruins with silver glitter; when we arrived at the
Waste Land’s point bordering the bubble of </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>my
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Before, I told her
“Leave me here”.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US"><i>What?”</i></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Leave me
here.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Are you mad?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>No. But I
will become mad if I stay anymore in the New World. I haven’t had a
moment’s peace since I saw my… since I saw that other dimensions
really exist.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie, you
mustn’t say such things.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Don’t play
dumb. You saw it with your own eyes.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>But you can’t
return there! Another Ellie lives there.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
know, but my child exists into this bubble. I saw her twice. When I
tried to grab her that first night, time shifted and we turned up in
a reality where just the grey cat and her baby existed. Who knows how
large this pocket is and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>how
many </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">realities
intersect there? So, if in one of those my Night lives with another
Ellie, I have the same possibilities to find her somewhere alone,
waiting for me to return from work, in </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>another</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
fold of time where the Disaster hasn’t happened</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>.</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
Opportunities will open in front of me like a peacocks’ tail. Every
day, every time I would enter again, at every imperceptible shift,
new possibilities will bloom. I will camp here and search them all to
find her.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>You are
crazy! This is insane!”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Sanity
is a movable</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">holiday.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US"><i>What?”</i></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I stared at her
deadpan.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>How will you
survive?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">As
the strays we find; if they can find food, I can, too. </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">What
the fuck! I can even eat a rat!</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
I have my knife, a gun and lot of ammunition, enough food for some
days, my laptop and a sack full of batteries, my notes and my maps.
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Don’t
worry. I left you</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
copies. We know that in the soap-bubbles useful things exist; canned
food, tools and weapons, even energy. I will explore them one by one
gathering provisions. Surely, I won’t be bored, or in need of
fuel.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
unfastened my seat belt and got out; I hauled from the boot my
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">overstuffed,
faded from the sun of so many old summers, duffel bag,</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">which I had hidden
under our gear. She got out, too.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Ellie…”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">I
wonder. Did anybody enter a </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">bubble
with respect, without</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">greed</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">or impertinence, not
intending to have fun or</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">make a fortune</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">?
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Someone who didn’t
want to</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">extract
but embrace? To be reconciled with the life from which they were torn
off violently and perhaps still exists, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>somewhere?
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Is it possible that
the soap-bubbles</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">react
to our presence, our</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">plunder, moving to
different realities which are created by a living, conscious,
sentient</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">time,
the great stream pervading all levels of existence and of matter,
intersecting infinite dimensions? Who knows what happened to the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>rest</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
of the world? Was it just us who were </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">catapulted</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>somewhere</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>
else</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> by the
super-weapons, or was the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>entire
world</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> shattered for
its hubris, punished for its</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">arrogance, and its
wreckages spinning cut-off, crazily, a thousand lost islands like us
in the infinitive ocean, the blue nowhere? Might it be that time
broke us like a dry twig on its knee and kept in its bosom some
pockets which are, </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">by
virtue,</span></span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
benevolent?</span></span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Realities</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
without war, without animosities, without the Great Disaster? Where
some valiant and dedicated souls would be granted, after their
plight, the Holy Grail of the Correct Moment in Time and unite with
the reality they long for? Could </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>all</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
of Before exist into After?</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">I
had started to </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">shout,</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
gesticulating madly. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">What
do we know about time? </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Might
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">it be that time is
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>sacred?</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
That time is </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><i>God</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
the omniscient</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">,
omnipresent and </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">filling
all things,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"> the
even-handed, the merciful and the punisher? </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">Would
He hear my prayers and have mercy on me if </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">I
beg with bitter tears, if I promise to</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">worship</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Him and pay back
anything He would ask, if I create the Theology of the Soap-Bubble?
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">That,</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
by jumping from one </span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">pocket
</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;">to
</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">an</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"><span style="text-decoration: none;">other</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
my body, my cells, my material substance</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">,
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">my</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">elemental structure,
would</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><b> </b></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">be
changing imperceptibly with each new move, always leaving behind a
minuscule piece of myself as an offering? T</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">hat</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">time would sculpt me,
adding to, and removing from, whatever He deems proper, polishing my
flaws, chiselling my power? That, as I </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">won’t</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
return to the </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">New
World, I would </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">search
and survive popping in and out</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
of Before, dawdling away less and less into After without growing
old,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> gradually
distilling and </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">absorbing
the essence and experience of the dimensions? Having all the time in
the world and even more for my quest, exploring the elusive
time-pockets for my necessities and my child, learning to give and
take, to handle an</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;">
endlessly reconstructing</span></span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
self? Will I be </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>me</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
anymore? I don’t know and don’t care. I will remain an
indefatigable force seeking what</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">it misses until its
last breath. Perhaps I will find it in a world not ruined and grey,
with summers and sea. Perhaps </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">one</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
dawn I will hear birds’ song, and see them flying on the cloudless
blue sky!”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I howled at the
moon like a jackal: “Time, Time, are you here? Will you make me
immortal?”</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anda’s eyes
almost popped out of their sockets. I saw goosebumps on her arms. She
stepped back, terrified, as I approached her.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Ellie?
Ellie, you are out of your mind. What’s all </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">this
nonsense?</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB"> Are you nuts?
Pull it together!”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Her
voice had reached hysteria. She raise</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">d
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="text-decoration: none;">her
hands to fend me off as if I would lash out at her</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">.
Tough Anda had broken,</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">
</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">and inside her was a
little girl trying to close her eyes and ears, to refuse the
implacable reality</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Why
do you want to be lost into Before, </span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">Ellie?
You have me. You have your life.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">What
life? Trying to reconstruct my lost time alone in a shack,</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
mad from pain</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">? Whatever
you say won’t change my mind. I don’t want to live half a life
anymore; I want my real life back. I want my baby back. I want to
wake up!” I shrieked. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anda stared at
me totally freaked out.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Do you
believe this stuff?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Of
course I believe it,” I said hoarsely. My vocal cords ache</span></span><span><span lang="en-US">d</span></span><span><span lang="en-GB">.
“Do you think I’m pulling your leg?”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Ellie?
Ellie, please! You are scaring me!”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Her
eyes </span></span><span><span lang="en-US">brimmed like
flowers filled with rain, but she was trying not to cry, as if crying
would seal the inevitable. I took her hands in mine.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Goodbye,
Anda. You are my only friend and I love you, but I love my Night
more. If I stay I will die from my sorrow. Don’t worry. Assistants
will be queuing at your door.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>We stared at
each other for a while, and then she hugged me. Now she was crying. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-GB">Ellie,
stay with me…”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>No, Anda; no,
my dear. If you want what’s best for me, let me go.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She asked again,
desperate: “Are you sure?”</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>Yes.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The discussion
was over.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I will miss
you, Ellie. We had a good time together. Be careful.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hugged her
back.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>We had a good
time, Anda. I’ll miss you, too. But I will be happier here,
searching for my Night, having a goal at last, a reason to live. The
greatest adventure a mind can grasp. Don’t worry, I will be
careful. I have to stay alive to find her. Go home now.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I stroked her
hair and led her to the car.</span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>As she turned on
the engine, I leaned against the window. </span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">Do
you remember that lard-ass, Anda? </span></span><span><span lang="en-US"><i>I</i></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">
killed him. You were right. I lied.”</span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="RIGHT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US">©
</span></span></span><span><span lang="en-US">Maria Petrou
(2021)</span></span></b></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>* * *</b></span></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Segoe Script, cursive;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Albertine's
Wooers</b></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span><span lang="en-US"><span><span>Collections
just released or soon-to-be include; 'Sacred & Profane' by Peter
Bell (Sarob Press), 'Strange Waters' by Jackie Taylor and 'Accidental
Flowers' by Lily Peters (Arachne Press), the latter described as “a
novel in short stories”… 'Among The Lilies' (Undertow
Publications) … '</span></span></span></span></span><em style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span><span>Dreamland:
Other Stories' (Black Shuck Books) ...'Azerbaijan Tales,' three long
stories and a poem by Albert Power (Egaeus Press) … 'Look Where You
Are Going, Not Where You Have Been' by Steven J. Dines</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></em><span style="color: black; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">
(Luna Press) described as "a hauntingly beautiful collection"
... Brian Stableford's admirable literary sweatshop of translation
continues with an equally admirable continuation of Snuggly Books
unearthing Jean Lorrain with 'Princesses of Darkness & Other
Exotica.' Volume 5 of Brian Showers uncanny Swan River Press
anthologies – 'Uncertainties' – intriguingly features one entry
by the sainted Alan Moore ... Also on Swan River is a new edition of
1924's pleasingly obscure 'The Fatal Move & Other Stories' by
Conall Cearnach. Finally, the equally sainted Steve Rasnic Tem has a
second collection published by Valancourt Books: 'Thanatrauma.'</span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #5a5a5a;"><strong><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;">
</span></span></strong></span><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" lang="en-US" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
</p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-88642655618525934822021-06-26T09:54:00.002-07:002021-06-26T09:57:27.746-07:00I Would Haunt You If I Could by Sean Padraic Birnie, Undertow Publications / Infra-Noir 2020 (2021), Zagava / Albertine's Wooers<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Editorial:
</b>Firstly, a notification sent to
me by Editor, Matthew Walther: 'I
am writing to pass along the details of a ghost story contest being
sponsored by <i>The Lamp
</i>magazine that may be of
interest to readers of <i>The
Pan Review</i>:
<a href="https://thelampmagazine.com/2021/06/24/the-lamp-christmas-ghost-story-contest/"><span style="color: #196ad4;"><u>https://thelampmagazine.com/2021/06/24/the-lamp-christmas-ghost-story-contest/</u></span></a> The winner will receive $1000; two runners up will receive $300 each. All best wishes, Matthew Walther.'</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;">On
his website, Sean Birnie describes himself as 'a Technical
Demonstrator on the Photography programmes at the University of
Brighton, where I deliver beginner and advanced workshops in Adobe
applications such as Photoshop and InDesign, studio lighting, and
preparation for digital print, and install degree shows, among other
things.' </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;"> His
literary art is more evocative of the paintings of Francis Bacon, the
focus being the macabre physical – as well as psychological -
descent of the human condition. The role of infection in
sado-masochistic relationships is the prominent theme across the
collection. In the tales 'New To It All,' 'Like A Zip,' 'Holes' and
'You Know What To Do,' pain is utilised as a weapon of control. 'New
To It All' has the narrator recount the previously unexperienced
sexual habits that (unwittingly?) drew him to his relationships.
'Hand Me Down' finds a new mother's growing paranoia for the safety
of her child turn into something entirely. 'Holes' sees a man's
quickly growing rash spread to his partner after he already harbours
fear for his disappearance.</span></div></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In
'I Would Haunt You If I Could,' again, infection, stains and
encroaching entropy foreground the title tale, and quietly compelling
it is too; especially if, like yours truly, you live as a bachelor in
rented accommodation. 'You Know What To Do' is my favourite here. A
successful new entry in the library of the uncanny, a husband's
obsession with the apparently hidden room behind the cupboard under
the stairs holds a fascination, which may – or may not – be
exerting a dangerous, unspoken obsession.</span></div></span><span style="color: black;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In
'Dollface,' the question that hangs over the narrative is whether or
not a daughter's doll is possessed. Is the father obsessed? (My
hunch). Or, since it bears an alleged physical human trait, is the
doll even a doll? Only the final tale – 'Other Houses' – which
sees the narrator plagued with guilt over the younger sister he
believes he pushed into a pond when children, didn't quite hold my
attention to the end. Still, as with the previous tales, Birnie
displays a superior knack for the uncanny that I so favour. This
collection is a solid addition to the library for lovers of quiet
horror and an undoubtedly assured debut.</span></div></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: black;"><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-style: italic;">Infra-Noir 2020</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
collects all eleven chapbooks, released across last year, in a single
volume. </span><i>'Craft'
</i>- DP Watt's opening contribution demonstrates how the perishability
of art can spawn its own unexpected legacy. In 'The Clerks Of The
Invisible' - the first of two Mark Valentine tales - a dying
bookseller entrusts his literary estate to his chief cataloguer, with
the view to contacting interested agents to seek out a mysterious
book 'that mattered to him most.' The slenderest of tales by
page-count, it is, however, the kind of springboard Orson Welles
might have run with to manifest as an on-screen magnum opus. 'The
Idyll Is Over' shines with beauty, being one of Jonathan Wood's introspective prose
poems.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> 'Codex
Of Light' by Karim Ghahwagi has a monastic society holding
candlelight and its smoke in censorious and holy esteem. 'Posterity'
by Mark Samuels highlights Sybil Court, 'scholarly trailblazer of
posthumous interest in the fiction of Rupert Alderman.' Court feels
her reputation as an Alderman scholar could be questioned by her
academic-only interpretations rather than <i>primary</i> research of
his extant archive. (It's surely no coincidence that the late
fictitious author with increasingly remote, right-wing leanings
shares the initials of another English author of strange stories).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> In
'Ancestor Water' by Rebecca Lloyd (of the great Gothic novel of 2019,
<i>The Child Cephalina</i>) an immigrant daughter, naturalised by her
time in London, discovers her visiting mother alienated by her
Western traits. 'Stained Medium' – the second Mark Valentine –
features a bookish student of modern Gnosticism encounters one aged
whose own experience is revealed as much closer to home. On a not
dissimilar theme, 'The Purblind Bards' by Timothy Jarvis finds one of
a band of bardic outcasts in a seaside town reflect upon what brought
him to his becoming. 'The Wet Woman' - An out-of-condition actor,
about to take on a new film role, is sent by his agent to a health
farm to get back into shape. A late lover and rival adds some dark
interest to his reluctant presence.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"> 'A
House Of Treasures' – Familial intrigue surrounding the presence
and significance of Noah Court – discovered in a unique photograph
- makes for my new favourite Ray Russell tale. 'Home Comforts' –
Sheltering from a downpour in a shop of this name, Megan is shocked
to discover that a stuffed, life-size figure in the window is
referred to as a real person who works next door. To her own
puzzlement, she expresses a determination to purchase it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"> Clocking in at a modest, but sufficient, 187 pages, this is one of
the more accessible Zagava releases, in a form I hope is repeated in
future years. A very worthy primer to this publisher.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span></span>* * *</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Gabriola, fantasy;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-size: 20pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>
Albertine's Wooers</b></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">Reggie
Oliver's eighth collection – <i>A Maze For The Minotaur</i> – is
soon to be released by Tartarus Press...who've also just released a
slipcase of two thorough collections-in-one of Oliver Onions
tales...Swan River Press follows up its popular first <i>Green Book</i>
of 'exclusive' short tales (issue 15) with a second (issue
17)...Valancourt have reissued some choice paperback titles in
hardback. Speaking of which, the British Library's publishing arm has
just released a collection of six-of-the-best by Margaret Oliphant,
<i>The Open Door And Other Stories Of The Seen & Unseen</i>.</div></div>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br />
</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-43557809634588456452021-05-01T09:33:00.003-07:002021-05-05T04:16:22.019-07:00Mills Of Silence by Charles Wilkinson, Egaeus Press / Through A Looking Glass Darkly by Jake Fior, AliceLooking Books<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;">A new
Wilkinson collection is fast becoming something of an event. Again,
in the avoidance of showing his roots, he doesn't disappoint in this,
his third. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"> In 'The
Immaterialists,' the enigmatic Mr Zym was a small publisher of
unlogged poetry whose enigma has outlived his work. But, has his
enigma outlived him? A literary student investigates, despite his
dismissive tutor fearing Zym had "a bubble reputation, long
since popped." The revenant figure of a bald-headed man, close
to the former's rooms, appears portentous, unavoidably bringing
immediacy to his research.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"> Oftentimes, such territory is handled with a dryness that doesn't
quite succeed in engaging, or displays a colloquial familiarity that
too soon dispels the mystery. Wilkinson, however, strikes the
perfect balance. The final line devastates.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"> The
trope of familial psychological breakdown links some of the following
tales. 'A Coastal Quest' sees a woman leave behind her husband and
children to go in search of a 'happier life.' The quest ultimately
reveals her true whereabouts and true role as narrator; as unreliable
to herself as to us. 'The Surrey Alterations' – an uncanny tale
of State coercion, which has – with the best – meaning beneath
it's surface. 'Beyond The Lace' harbours a near-impenetrable
ambiguity, where the initial scenario of a stepfather caring for a
fantasist stepdaughter in the wake of her mother's death in a car
accident gradually shifts as his own perception proves unreliable.
Typical of Wilkinson is his ability to implicate so much in so few
pages.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"> In
'These Words, Rising From Stone,' a male poet appears silently
persecuted by the ghostly presence of a female rival and a curse he'd
purposely overlooked. 'The Private Thinker' – The precocious godson
of a High Court judge invites a related former school 'friend' to
make an inventory of his late father's property. When the godson
encounters the spirit of the Judge, he also discovers another spirit
with what may be an ulterior motive. 'Evening at the Aubergine Cafe'
sees a Godot-like scenario where two men – denied their past
identities and trapped by absent memory in a prison-like edgeland –
live reductive lives around the cafe of the title.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"> SF
territory redolent of 'A Clockwork Orange' predominate over the
following two tales. 'To Sharpen, Spin' sees an abusive familial
relationship the lesser of two evils in a society where personal
identity is <i>passe</i>. 'Septs' continues this theme, where the
featured boy has succumbed, squatting in properties already squatted
in, towards a new pagan dawn.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;">The
virtual life is the norm in the society drawn in 'The Migration of
Memories.' An ingenious tale, with a domestic take on its legal and
personal consequences. A male newly-retired, who finds his domestic
life is anything but his own, forms the basis of 'The Horseshoe
Homes,' with intimations of both <i>The Prisoner</i> and <i>Animal
Farm</i>.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"> 'Mills
of Silence' – a novella – ends the collection. A cloak-and-dagger
tale set in Paris, involving missed appointments, a psychotic former
philosopher and war reporter, rumblings in the next hotel room, the
trail of an elusive walking 'wound,' and the production of miniature
wooden guillotines. Derivative it is not. The ambiguous perceptions –
Wilkinson's hallmark – pervade the narratives throughout.
Speed-reading Wilkinson denies the disturbing effect only achievable
through steady progression. The consequence of so doing reveals, in
all positive ways, that he's done it again.</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;">Synchronicity is defined as '<span style="color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">the
simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related
but have no discernible causal connection.' Whatever the genre,
synchronicity is the guiding creative force for writers. More often
than not, you must make your own opportunities to advance towards
your goal; but, sometimes, fortune – disguised as chance - appears
merely in wait for discovery. For </span></span></span>Jake
Fior – boutique proprietor of Alice Through The Looking Glass, 14,
Cecil Court, London – this book grew out of his specialist field of
interest: <a href="http://www.alicelooking.co.uk/"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">www.alicelooking.co.uk</span></span></span></a></div><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> As
a ruse to avoid her mother, having failed her Maths exam, Fior's
Alice Liddell absconds to the High Street charity shops. The last she
visits displays, amongst the bric-a-brac, a full-length, antique
looking-glass. On getting it back to her room, she discovers a rear
label, a former purchaser name, its owner's name of Bishop Berkeley,
and its provenance from 'the Dodgson sale of 1898.' It is from here
where fact and fiction merge as contemporary <i>objet d'art
</i>related to Carroll find linkage
to Fior.</div></span><i style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i> Through
a Looking Glass Darkly</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> –
subtitled 'a reimagination' – draws upon real-life familial links
between Carroll and The Golden Dawn. Interspersing Fior's version of
Carroll's second 'Alice' text with darker parallel scenes featuring
leadership rivals Aleister Crowley and Samual Mathers in a
metaphorical battle to gain ascendency. (Again, based upon an alleged
historical event).</span></div></i><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> Fior
tells me that, 'a<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">s
an overview I'd estimate that I've retained about 35% of Carroll's
original text and the bravura moments almost verbatim.' He adds: 'The
text itself has some allusions that don't get explained in the
afterword, but I wanted to leave some things ambiguous so that people
can find their own meanings in them.' As a reader, I'd have welcomed
an additional scene or two featuring Crowley and Mathers, those
present being wonderfully evocative; however, as a writer, I
understand how one can get sidetracked by scenes parallel to the
prioritised body of text.</span></span></span></div></span><span style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> This
is, perhaps, more an art book than a conventional novel; more so than
the original work, in content, while the dark presence of Crowley
doesn't deprive the text of its appeal to older children. For any
collector, it is certainly worth purchasing for the additions. There
feature three entirely new Tenniel illustrations, newly coloured by
Kate Hepburn and Fior himself. Images of demons – credited to
E.A.P., 1847 - are augmented by a night sky vista from a
photograph from the 1880s'. Fior himself re-drew Alice in the cover
image of her emerging from the Looking-Glass, hand-coloured, rather
than photo-shopped, heightening the contemporary feel.</span></div></span><span style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> 'It
was quite a meticulous process. There's also been a lot of care in
the design. The Mathers / Crowley sections that intersperse the
central text have a different typeface headline to introduce them.
This is a modern version of the typeface as used on the spine of the
first edition of </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The Wind in the Willows </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">(which is another
reason I'm flattered to be included in The Pan Review).' </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">From
whichever field of interest you come to this book, the production
alone will delight.</span></div></span><span style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I
began by defining synchronicity. You'll note that t<span style="color: #050505;">he
first tale of Charles Wilkinson's third collection is called 'The
Immaterialists.' I'd never heard the term before and wondered about
its definition. In the afterword, about six pages from the end of
Fior's book - entirely different in subject matter and content to
Wilkinson's - the author not only uses it, but tells me. His theme –
eerily enough - is synchronicity.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #050505;"><br /></span></div></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">*
* *</span></div></span><span style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Gabriola, fantasy; font-size: x-large;">Albertine's
Wooers</span></div></span><span style="color: black;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Steve
Toase's first collection - </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-weight: normal;">To Drown In Dark Water</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"> – is out
from Undertow; Paul Draper's slender volume of folk horror – </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-weight: normal;">Black
Gate Tales</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"> – is out via Createspace; Sundial Press are about to
release a paperback version of their out-of-print hardback classic,
the Jamesian </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-weight: normal;">The Alabaster Hand</i><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">; </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">speaking of which, Robert Lloyd Parry's </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Ghosts Of The Chit-Chat</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> has also been re-released in paperback by Swan River Press;</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> a selected 'best of' of Lisa
Tuttle's work</span><span style="font-family: times;"><b><span> </span></b></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">– </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>The Dead Hours Of Night</i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> – is out from
Valancourt; </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>Snuggly Tales Of Hashish And Opium</i> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">gathers
together more themed </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">fin-de-siecle</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> gems – many for the first
time in English - by Baudelaire, Gautier, Schwob, Lorrain and others.</span></div></span></div>
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</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-56002708478005783022021-03-27T08:21:00.004-07:002021-03-28T04:56:42.376-07:00The Death Spancel & Others by Katharine Tynan, Swan River Press / Beatific Vermin by D.P. Watt, (Keynote Edition VII) Egaeus Press / Glamour Ghoul – The Passions And Pain Of The Real Vampira, Maila Nurmi, by Sandra Niemi, Feral House<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Peter
Bell, in his Introduction to this collection, defines a 'death
spancel' ahead of the two tales, which share the name; briefly,
a single strip of flesh, from head to feet, used to, literally, bind
the soul of one passed to one still living; invariably for a
nefarious reason pertaining to the 'Occult.' If this intimates
content of the macabre, you'd be mistaken. Lovers of late Victorian
and Edwardian ghost fiction will assuredly adore the restrained
literary quality of these tales, shining golden, dust-mote beams of
waning sunlight across forgotten rooms of half-glimpsed tenants. <br /> This
may be the most significant collection from Swan River since Henry
Mercer's recovered 'November Night Tales,' five years ago. Known
mainly as a poet and novelist, this – incredibly – is the first
time Tynan's lesser known short ghost fiction has been drawn from her
four original collections, published between 1895 and 1906, and the
era's (inevitable) literary periodicals. Considering their consistent
quality, it is, perhaps, the snobbery ghost stories still receive
from the larger publishing houses, such as Faber & Faber, that
they remained for so long under their radar.<br /> Atypically for most budding writers, the bulk of Tynan's short
fiction didn't appear in print until her middle years. Coming from
comfortable, middle-class Dublin, her formative poetry – though
well-received – sold little. The friendship and encouragement of
new supporters such as WB Yeats, however, helped Tynan branch out
into freelance journalism. Connecting to her roots in Irish
nationalism, "<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">m</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">any
of her articles display an acute social consciousness; among the
issues she regularly tackled were the treatment of shop girls,
unmarried mothers, infanticide, capital punishment, and the education
of the poor. Her rapid production of novels (from 1895 to 1930 she
wrote more than one-hundred pot-boilers) also did much to boost the
family's finances."</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #1f341f;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span></span></span>(Clarke, Dictionary of Irish
Biography).<br /> As well
as the tales themselves, a second strength of this collection are the
short poems, which follow several of these tales, sharing a setting
or theme. So, for example, the tale 'A Sentence of Death,' which
features the ominous appearance of a ghostly carriage, is followed by
the poem, 'The Dead Coach,' while 'The Little Ghost' tale is followed
by a poem of the same name. Far from feeling redundant, these
additions serve to extend and slightly deepen the motif of what has
just played out.<br /> As with
Swan River's previous release – Rosa Mulholland's 'Not To Be Taken
At Bedtime' – cover designers Meggan Kerlhi and Brian Coldrick have
excelled themselves, producing one of the publisher's finest; a
vision of swirling decadence in greens and burnt orange.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />D.P. Watt
returns with a cutdown version of his dystopias; and – particularly
for first-time readers - they are the better for it, their relative
brevity foregrounding the author's strengths in his now established
field.The first – 'These, His Other Worlds' – concerns a
biographical researcher's ambiguous relationship with his subject and
his mysterious obsessions. The pervasive question of the unreliable
narrator soon arises when a dangerous portal appears to have been
opened; but, who, in truth, has opened it? A strong opener and one my
favourites.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
Standing-out elsewhere, 'Noumenon' concerns a shop-window shadow-play
and the meltdown of a life it increasingly reflects. 'Serendipity'
presents a militaristic world of masked pleasure girls, where their
stilled expressions, reflected in their single monikers, are the only
emotive appearances; ones moulded and repressed. 'Clematis, White and
Purple' sees a man's focus upon his unloved view of a derelict shack
and hoardings, and its silent beckoning tenant, hiding another
threat; one as organic and more pernicious.<br /> 'The
Proclamation,' though first published three years ago, feels
especially prescient in this time of pandemic. I wonder at Watts'
intention. It reads to this reviewer as a satire on public idleness
and its societal consequence, where an inner angry voice of ultimate
guilt is too awful – and aweful – to contemplate.<br />
If
Egaeus's 'Keynote Editions' can restrict an author from extrapolation
to produce their best work, it also enforces a discipline, which
allows him / her an opportunity to highlight their strengths.
'Beatific Vermin,' with the best in this series, proves this.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*
* *</div>
<br />In
mid-Fifties' America, KABC was a small TV station, with a small
viewership, running on a shoestring. One night, Hunt Stromberg Jr. -
the station's head honcho – attended the 1954 Bal Caribe Costume
Ball; the time and place to be for all budding Hollywood wannabes to
impress the community's big-wigs and – just maybe – get signed. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"> Amongst the costumed was 31-year-old actor, dancer and glamour model,
Maila Nurmi, whose career was going nowhere. Inspired by Charles
Addams' 'Homebodies' cartoon strip in The New Yorker, she came as her
own version of the Addams Family matriarch. Already of striking
appearance, (prominent cheekbones, upswept eyebrows and heavy-lidded
eyes), thanks to her Finnish parentage, Nurmi's Gothic dress and
make-up easily won the night. Stromberg – before departing - made a
professional approach, wanting her to 'win the night' each Saturday
on KABC-TV. He had access to old horror movies in the public domain
and wanted Maila, in similar costume and make-up, to draw attention
to the unremarkable series by presenting each one in character. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"> She'd
been enigmatically silent at the Bal Caribe. Now, to his delight,
Stromberg also discovered a voice as droll as it was scabrous. Maila,
to avoid copyright issues with Addams, modified her Bal Caribe
costume herself, over-tightening the waist and highlighting the
plunging neckline to more emphasise the 'sexy vampire' look. Thus,
Vampira was 'born.' She described her look as "one part Greta
Garbo, two parts each of the Dragon Lady, Evil Queen (from Disney's
'Snow White')...Theda Bara, three parts Norma Desmond, and four parts
<i>Bizarre</i> magazine."<br /> Partnering Maila with in-house script-writer Peter Robinson, (riffing
on her already droll persona) delivered, each Saturday night, darkly
comic gold. So began two years of national fame and accolade – well
beyond KABC's previous profile - Nurmi would, seemingly, never
repeat. Friends with James Dean and Marlon Brando, she'd already had
a baby with Orson Welles a decade before (whose role here leaves a
bitter taste) she'd had to give up for adoption. So, Nurmi, at least,
had the contacts. Now, she needed this to be a springboard to more
secure acting work.<br /> Sandra
Niemi – Maila's niece – tells the intriguing story, first
objectively and, in the final chapters, personally. A remote Preacher
father, leaving her mother for too long to bring up Maila, her
brother and sister alone, and a consequent alcohol problem, left
Maila growing into the increasingly estranged wild child of the
family, finding only unsatisfying short-term and exploitative work,
but solace in reincarnation and the afterlife.<br />
Nurmi's
last twenty-five years harboured as many personal highs as lows.
Ongoing issues of contractual copyright about the ownership of the
'Vampira' name and image consumed too much of her time. In the
mid-Eighties, she sued the latest horror host Cassandra Peterson,
whose 'Elvira' character she deemed too close for comfort. She lost.
Considering the reneging on promises Nurmi had been expected to
accept since her character's Fifties success, the press and the
poverty this subsequently consigned her to, her feeling of betrayal
was entirely understandable. Yet, like Louise Brooks before her –
of whom she was a fan – her later years brought reflective
appreciation from a new generation to whom her dark <i>double-entendre
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">and anarchic punning</span><i>
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">resonated</span><i>, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">lauded
as being ahead of their time. (Her life's trajectory of rise --- fall
--- rise somewhat mirrored Brooks's own).<br /></span><span style="font-style: normal;"> That
Sandra Niemi saw her cousin only rarely, lends an additional yen for
empathy, not only from Niemi herself as memoirist, but also to this
reader. </span><br /></div>
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</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-11364504685562010762021-02-06T08:05:00.001-08:002021-02-06T08:09:02.572-08:00Double Heart by Marcel Schwob, translated by Brian Stableford, Snuggly Books / Circles Of Dread by Jean Ray, translated by Scott Nicolay, Wakefield Press<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><b>Editorial:</b> Well, well, well. A new Pan review? I surprised myself, unsure as to whether He'd ever be back. These will be occasional entries through the year; more semi-regular than regular. The following two - the first of the year - are shorter and less detailed than usual, since they were written for a start-up newspaper, The Word, rather than my own specifications. I hope you enjoy them, nevertheless. </span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"> I do appreciate you lovely people's ongoing support through your views and 'follows' over the past year. Has anything of significance happened since my last post? (LOL). Seriously tho', I hope you've been able to cope in your own ways. To have children you can't easily school and parents you can't easily see must be a nightmare. Brave heart, friends. You're always in my thoughts here...</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: left;">Originally published in </span><i style="text-align: left;">The Paris Echo</i><span style="text-align: left;"> from 1889 – 91, these
thirty-four brief, dark, but wry tales of French Symbolism very soon
reappeared as the collection </span><i style="text-align: left;">Coeur Double</i><span style="text-align: left;"> in that final year. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> SF / Fantasy author Brian Stableford has produced its debut English
translation with very helpful footnotes, explaining some of their
more obscure colloquial terms. Veering from uncanny mystery ('The
Veiled Man') to lovelorn rural fable ('The Sabine Harvest') to
drug-induced decadence, ('The Portals of Opium'), the diverse
sub-genres are embraced by the main subject that pertained to the
Symbolist Movement - the pre-eminence of Art. </span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Mayer André Marcel Schwob – known mainly outside of France for
the beautiful fairy-tale collection <i>The King In The Golden Mask</i>
(1892) – began his short-lived literary career, and life, as a
journalist. Schwob's father, a civil servant, returned with his wife
from Egypt in the mid-1860s' to live in Chaville (Hauts-de-Seine),
where Marcel was born in 1867. His father proved to be the key
enabler in Marcel's future direction. The former's political
activities embraced Republican newspapers such as <i>Le Phare de
Loire</i>, (The Loire Lighthouse), in which many of the tales in
<i>Double Heart</i> swiftly reappeared, in <i>The Paris Echo</i>,
continuing after Marcel's older brother, Maurice, inherited that
editorship in 1892. </span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 'Very interested in languages,' Marcel studied
philology in higher education until interrupted by conscription into
the military. His experiences in all three disciplines would
influence the content of this, his first collection. </span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> He soon became one of a small group who helped translate Oscar
Wilde's <i>Salome</i> manuscript into French, to avoid the British
law forbidding the depiction of Bible characters on stage. A
contemporary of Proust, and influence upon Borges, Schwob was robbed
of wider fame when, in 1905, aged 37, he succumbed to a chronic
intestinal disorder. It's gratifying, however, that new series of
translations, from both Snuggly Books and the Wakefield Press in the
US, are reigniting his brief light.</span></div>
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</p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span>*<span> </span><span> </span><span> *<span> </span><span> </span><span> *</span></span></span></span></span><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i style="text-align: left;">Circles Of Dread</i><span style="text-align: left;"> follows Wakefield Press's recent reissues of
</span><i style="text-align: left;">Whiskey Tales, Cruise Of Shadows</i><span style="text-align: left;">' and </span><i style="text-align: left;">The Great Nocturnal
</i><span style="text-align: left;">in their bid to reintroduce Jean Ray's short story collections to
a new, English-speaking audience. </span></span></p><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: left;"> Slightly more strange and macabre than Schwob, Ray's work,
nevertheless, resides in similar territory, sharing that writer's
mordant wit throughout. In his </span><i style="text-align: left;">Whiskey Tales</i><span style="text-align: left;"> introduction,
Nicolay cites Ray as favouring 'a wicked whiplash irony, (which)
rapidly developed into a nuanced and unparalleled ability to punch
around corners as his career progressed'; a purveyor of 'show, don't
tell' and 'be careful what you wish for,' adhered to by purveyors of
what's been broadly termed 'horror' ever since. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: left;"> Belgium-born Raymundus Joannes de Kremer (his birth name in 1887)
harboured over two-dozen nom-de-plumes throughout his life - and they
weren't all mere 'pen names.' 1926 – the year after his </span><i style="text-align: left;">Whiskey
Tales</i><span style="text-align: left;"> debut – found him imprisoned, serving a six-year
conviction for embezzlement; though released after two. While
incarcerated, he'd penned novellas and the short tales that would
appear in subsequent collections. His now tarnished reputation
compelled him to write under his second pseudonym: 'John Flanders.' </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><i style="text-align: left;">Circles Of Dread </i><span style="text-align: left;">– his fourth collection and, here,
English translation – reveals Ray at the height of his powers and
just one release away from what would become his most famous work;
the macabre novel, </span><i style="text-align: left;">Malpertuis</i><span style="text-align: left;">, that same year. (1943). This,
produced amidst a record-breaking output of commercial fiction, led
by his pulp-ish, German-sourced 'Harry Dickson' detective series,
which he'd taken over from other writers, and ultimately 'owned' as
sole author. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"> A few weeks prior to his death, in September 1964, he wrote his own
mock-epitaph in a letter to a friend, summing-up how little esteem he
felt writers were held in, in the wider world: "here lies Jean
Ray / A man sinister / who was nothing / not even a minister."</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-61232849796114176582020-01-18T02:55:00.004-08:002020-01-18T02:55:47.731-08:00ANNOUNCEMENT: Pan On Ice<div style="text-align: justify;">
PAN REVIEW UPDATE: I've decided to put Pan on ice for a while. Various
reasons. I/ I'm about to move house. 2/ The eye operation is coming up,
and 3/ Connected to this, I need to maximise time and attention on the
novel I want to finish mid-year. To those whom I've promised reviews,
these will still go ahead, but will be placed elsewhere. I'm hoping Pan
will return one day, but, for the first half of this year at least, is
untenable in continuing to be a commitment. I'd like to thank all His
readers and followers over the last nine years. Your interest and
support has been hugely appreciated. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-79536564365247604582019-11-23T01:50:00.000-08:002019-11-23T07:27:43.737-08:00NO-ONE DRIVING - Strange Stories Released!Greetings, Pan's People,<br />
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Yes, my first full-length paperback collection of uncanny tales is out now:<br />
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https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1707785422 <br />
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If any reader decides to purchase, and likes it enough to drop a swift starred review, that would be wonderful and much appreciated. For those outside the UK, it is also available on several of Amazon's other international sites. While, a lower-priced Kindle version is, of course, also available.<br />
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Thank you and enjoy...<br />
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Mark </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-51883702364756312492019-11-16T07:35:00.001-08:002019-11-16T07:38:33.881-08:00The Ballet Of Dr. Caligari & Madder Mysteries by Reggie Oliver, Tartarus Press / Six Ghost Stories by Montague Summers (with an Introduction by Daniel Corrick), Snuggly Books<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Editorial</b>: Welcome, Pan fauns, to the autumn issue. You'll notice I've still not gotten around to committing to the next PROTA, making 2019 noticeably bare in the 'arts' department. Personal health issues and other writing commitments have combined to demand priority. I won't tempt fate with a deadline, but 2020 should see an improvement in this regard. In the meantime, my strange story collection - <i>No-One Driving</i> - should be available, from Amazon's various international pages, as both a paperback and Kindle option from <b>MONDAY 25TH NOVEMBER</b>. I'll tiresomely plug it again,...and again..., no doubt, once it is. </div>
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The Ballet Of Dr. Caligari & Madder Mysteries by Reggie Oliver,
Tartarus Press / Six Ghost Stories by Montague Summers (with an
Introduction by Daniel Corrick), Snuggly Books</div>
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The signature marks of an Oliver tale are threefold: his unique twist on established horror monsters, his first-hand knowledge of the acting profession, and his specifically English wit. This might just be my favourite Oliver collection to date. In fact, this release – now out in paperback - should ensure him becoming more widely known by surname alone. That his majority output is short fiction rather than novels remains too often considered anathema to greater commercial success.</div>
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'A Donkey at the Mysteries' is another of Oliver's eccentric titles hides a real gem of horror and one of his best, the informed allusions evoking the <i>November Night Tales</i> of Henry Mercer. The narrator recalls visiting by boat the Greek island of Thrakonisos when a student of Classical Antiquity. A book on the locale, procured from his hotel, puts him on the trail of its author and the related presence of a mysterious woman close by. His compulsion only draws him towards a fate that seemed already written. Even more than its telling, I adored its sober and informed telling where his student interest soon becomes yours. More typically Oliverian, 'Baskerville’s Midgets' takes place in the fading days of Rep., where-in two rival troupes of height-restricted acts unwittingly seal not only their own fate in the wider context of changing times, overseen by the jaded disinterest of the narrator’s half-alive landlady. Once the signature territiory of the late Angela Carter, Oliver’s subjective experience reveals him more than up to the task. </div>
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'The Game of Bear' intrigues as being sourced from one of MR James’s incomplete manuscripts. The game of the title, entailing 'stealthy creepings up and down staircases and along passages (to be) leapt upon from doorways with loud and hideous cries,' is, basically, hide-and-seek. Happening present tense during an adults‘ conversation, one of the pair is reminded of the innate fear its sudden shock conclusion had upon him later in life. The daughter of one of their mutual university friends is cited a hostile presence by one of the speakers, whose presence somehow resonated with his phobia. It is from here that James’s MS ends and Oliver takes up the tale, rightly making Caroline Purdue the foregrounded presence. Where a modern writer completing an earlier author’s work is a fraught task, which rarely satisfies, here is a noble exception to the rule. These, and three others forming the book's first half were first published in the complete <i>Madder Mysteries</i> by Ex-Occidente in 2009.</div>
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Subsequently, 'The Ballet of Dr Caligari' neatly parallels the perverted tale-within-a-tale of the classic 1919 film. Here, a young composer is unexpectedly called upon to collaborate on a stage play; a long-held labour of love by an ageing, once feted, choreographer. The denouement is as <i>Grand Guignol</i> as its inspiration. 'Porson's Piece' is as genteel as folk horror gets. Sir Bernard Wilkes is another of Oliver's faded figures; in this case, a former Oxford Philosophy head, with a reputation as a maverick and womaniser. One of his former students – now a BBC producer – means to approach him to take part in an intellectual panel programme. She re-discovers him, slightly dominated by his housekeeper and somewhat haunted by his surroundings. (Hence the title). Genteel, perhaps, but it also delivers a climax with a suitably contrasting chill.</div>
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Clergyman, occult specialist, spook tale anthologist, and theatre buff, the name 'Montague Summers' (1880-1948) has somewhat faded from the literateur's radar over the past thirty years. With the asexual image of a plump Edwardian maiden aunt, with a long-held passion for Reformation-era witchcraft, this is, perhaps, unsurprising. (After converting to Catholicism in 1909, a name change – to Alphonsus Joseph-Mary Augustus Montague Summers – intimated another influence). In terms of output, for genre fans he remains best known as the editor-compiler of the 600+ page anthology, <i>The Supernatural Omnibus</i> (1931), subsequently reissued during the Seventies and Eighties, and still an ideal second-base for those wishing to take the form seriously.</div>
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Summers' own prose has that genteel, middle-class, is-there-honey-still-for-tea echo, so redolent of England's interwar years. It's an acquired taste and one I've less time for today than formerly, my own having branched out into less derivative, more sophisticated, European literature. (Ironically, helped, in part, by Snuggly's own committed catalogue). The first tale presented here feels somewhat rushed and likely – as is pointed out – victim to being 'typed out by a hand not his own.' A bouyant drawing-room wit airs the narrative‘s lungs, although Summers‘ – like Robert W. Chambers and others before him – is at his best when most serious. (Something this reader hungers after). </div>
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The narratives of three of the six, however, have superior focus and, consequently, attention to detail. 'The Governess,' where-in a young woman seeking work is inveigled into a secret, long-held familial feud, plays out a clever, internecine puzzle with a far from predictable climax. 'The Grimoire' features the classic trope of the discovery of an age-old illicit (as in 'un-christian') text, penned by a dark and dubious authority. In this case, an allegedly Roman source, which title translates as <i>The Secret Mystery, or The Art of Evoking Evil Spirits with certain other Most Curious and Close Matters</i>. If a premise lacking in originality, I always enjoy such tales and, here, Summers doesn’t disappoint; as is the case with 'The Man on the Stairs.' In the smoking-room 'of a well-known London club,' a male quartet agree to a £100 wager on surviving the night at the reputedly haunted Cheriton Manor and a portrait of wicked Black Dormer.</div>
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Another two of the six, 'A Toy Theatre' and 'Romeo and Juliet,' feature darkly thespian themes of revenge and murder - no stranger to Reggie Oliver - although the latter bears the finer literary, less declamatory, approach. A short, but mixed bag, yet I’m intrigued enough by the best to purchase the follow-up. A second Summers volume, collecting his remaining genre writing – <i>The Bride Of Christ & Other Fictions</i> – is promised from this publisher next year. On a side note; while not strictly genre works, his <i>Omnibus</i>'s subsequent non-fictional studies, <i>The Gothic Quest</i> (1938) and <i>A Gothic Bibliography </i>(1941) proved just as influential to burgeoning post-war scholars.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-31471159695070443462019-09-07T08:42:00.004-07:002019-09-07T08:42:42.770-07:00<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Editorial:</b> Hello everyone. I'm pleased to announce that the latest Dark Lane Anthology, edited by Tim Jeffreys and featuring my uncanny tale, 'No-One Driving,' is out now. Here's Tim's official notice:</div>
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"Just to let you know, Volume 8 is now available for Kindle on Amazon. </div>
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https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Lane-Anthology-Tim-Jeffreys-ebook/dp/B07XCWNXTG/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=dark+lane+anthology&qid=1567763684&s=books&sr=1-3</div>
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The paperback is only available from Lulu at the moment, but it will be on Amazon within 1-2 weeks. </div>
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http://www.lulu.com/shop/tim-jeffreys/dark-lane-anthology-volume-eight/paperback/product-24236710.html"</div>
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I also have three new reviews for you. November should see the next Pan Review of the Arts with a couple of interesting Q & As' alongside a couple more interesting new titles. Enjoy...</div>
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<b>Sing Your Sadness Deep by Laura Mauro, Undertow Publications / Masterworks by Simon Jacobs, Instar Books / Pareidolia, Edited by James Everington & Dan Howarth, Black Shuck Books</b></div>
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Mauro’s debut collection follows on from her Dark Minds Press novella, shortlisted last year for a British Fantasy Award, Naming the Bones (2017). Impressive it is too, showing an accomplishment and a humane warmth rarely associated with the uncanny. On this evidence, it is enviable that she only wrote her first tale in 2012.</div>
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'Obsidian' is the first of two real gems as an older sister strives to retain care for her younger who is epileptic and possibly autistic. One of the latter’s rituals is to submerge herself beneath the ice of the local lake in the belief she is being called by its aquatic denizen of amoral intent. The jeopardy the elder sister experiences is particularly well-realised as her fears for her younger sister grow. 'The Grey Men' sees the figures of the title hang in the sky above a nervous town like ominous clouds. Their significance remains a mystery until the end when the narrator‘s perspective on events suddenly shifts. 'In The Marrow' sees two young sisters play out their fairyland fantasy as regular visitors to 'the lough' after school. Later, as one lies ill, the other sister appears to bring their fantasy worldview home, convinced she has been exchanged by the little people and her 'real' sister is out their somewhere, healthy, just waiting to be found. A deceptively simple take on the oft-utilised Irish fable of the changeling, Mauro reveals her class in its very economy.</div>
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Mauro won a British Fantasy Award in the ‘Best Short Story’ category for ‘Looking for Laika.’ A tale of considerable charm that never sells-out to cynical sentiment. After her Grandad briefly tells her about the dog the Russian space mission sent into space in the early Sixties, young Beverley asks her older brother – ignorant of the original story - to fill in the details. Adding the apocolyptic plot of the dog’s mission to find a new planet for humans to live on, fires the young girl’s imagination still further. When she later claims to have observed a miniature speceship, what else can the family do but humour her? 'Strange As Angels' is – literally - the one entry of full-bloodied horror, after a bizarre, tiny creature flies into the windscreen of the speeding car of a fractious young couple. As the naive woman begins caring for the wounded find, it inevitably grows into treating her as its mother – with macabre results. Finally, a quick word for 'The Pain-Eater's Daughter, ending the collection. I don't think I've ever read a tale on familial empathy and grief quite as moving; not in the last twenty years, at least, and neither in this genre.</div>
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These six are favourites of the thirteen, only the half-formed 'Red Rabbit' leaving me unmoved. A superb debut then and, despite the inevitable commercial pull of the novel, I hope we don’t lose Mauro too soon as a short tale aficionado.</div>
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Simon Jacobs is from Dayton, Ohio, and currently lives in New York City. This, his second collection. He is the author of the novel Palaces (Two Dollar Radio, 2018), and Saturn (Spork Press, 2016), his debut collection of David Bowie stories.</div>
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<i> Masterworks</i> narratives‘ depracating wit are well balanced with a sense of impending jeopardy and disaster; one very much pertinent to our times. 'Let Me Take You To Olive Garden' sees couples upon the brink of coupling, so rudely interrupted by an unforseeable fate. In 'The Histories' two generations collide as a daughter reaching adulthood discovers – through the destritus of her parent’s past - the transient self-interest that informed her absent father’s own. Re-evaluation of past youth continues in 'Secret Message' as an image of one who died young is recalled by a grieving parent in darker terms. 'Partners' is as short and sweet as the second and third tales where, as with the first, cataclysmic fate arrives to deliver something otherwise closer to orgasm.</div>
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'Masterworks' sees an actorly couple – Priam and Nell - re-create famous works of art from makeshift materials with themselves as characters. First up sees Priam as Jacques-Louis David’s Death of Marat, head towel-wrapped and reclining as if deceased in a bath. The tone swiftly turns comedic as both recreate a small portion of Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights with Priam as Oedipus and Nell (alongside her cat) as the Sphinx. You get the idea. A further dozen classic paintings are reproduced and reflected upon in the form of their personal journals. These 'entries' are entertaining, with a wit just the right side of ribald, intimating an unholy alliance of Reggie Oliver with Michael Frayn.</div>
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'Land' sees the narrator recount an increasingly metaphysical journey from a lakeside mountain cabin he’s been hired to act as temporary caretaker for, by a friend who’s offered him a roof in exchange for maintaining his two pet huskies. When one, which is ill, absconds, the narrator fears for its fate – and his own - as his attention is increasingly drawn to the lake itself inhabited by the 'group of narrow, pale shapes floating in the water' and the unseen world beneath its surface. (A serendipitous echo of Laura Mauro’s 'Obsidian' here). Increasingly Hope-Hodgsonesque in feel, this turns out to be an exemplary novella, a journey upon which I was glad to act as companion. Jacobs has a good comedic voice, bordering absurdist, while never descending to farce. 'Land' also shows him more than competent at the terror tale.</div>
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Pareidolia, a term I was unfamiliar with, is defined on the back cover as 'the phenomenon where the mind perceives shapes, or hears voices, where none apparently exist.' What, I asked myself, could be a better definition of the uncanny? I’m less a fan of anthologies too contrived or proscriptive in their editors‘demand than I am of those – like here - with a broader mandate.</div>
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<i>'I don’t know whether it was Thea who changed the house or the house who changed Thea, but I noticed the house first. The way the woodgrain noticed us back – a thousand faces staring out from narrow panels that warped away from the cabin walls. And when the wind slammed the side of the house, the place would rock and rock and rock and boards would bob and nod. Yes, they said, yes yes yes. Though I hadn’t been aware of asking any questions. Not at the time.'</i></div>
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Sure enough, Sarah Read’s 'Into The Wood' opens the book with real promise. I, too, said 'yes' on reading what could be defined as a prime example of the sub-genre, the reference to the house as a 'who,' a neatly unexpected touch.</div>
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Eliza Chan, according to her website, likes 'to collect folk tales and modernise them with a twist,' and 'Joss Papers For Porcelain Ghosts' well utilises the East-Asian source of the former and setting of the latter. A generation gap is widened by the intimated presence of a familial ghost as a flesh, paper and porcelain observer of events, encroaching from the sidelines. The way the visions impinge upon the domestic scene are almost incidental and pleasingly credible. GV Anderson’s Jamesian 'The Butchery Tree' is an English-type folktale in a more traditional setting where 'legend (had) it the last warriors standing after a great battle met their deaths beneath the boughs. It grew in clay and in summer blossomed red.' In Charlotte Bond’s 'The Lens Of Dying,' a sick old man with a terrible hidden past linked to a warped sense of beauty’s transience, pays the ultimate price for his undiscovered worldview. Andrew David Barker’s 'House Of Faces' is, by just a nose, my favourite tale, featuring the last man on Earth; a classic apocalyptic subject where an increasing madness somehow morphs into a new normalcy at the last address shared with his (lost or deceased) wife.</div>
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So far, this has been my favourite of Black Shuck’s multi-author anthologies, featuring – Chan’s surprising contribution aside – a traditional feel, suited to my own tastes, which never descends to the reactionary or overused.</div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-38272752771404721512019-07-13T08:23:00.003-07:002019-07-31T09:33:38.134-07:00<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Editorial</b>: Firstly, it's great – and rare – for an indie writer's work to crossover, receiving public appreciation, and use, in another sphere. Therefore, huge congratulations to Eric Stener Carlson who's achieved this. Ray Russell of Tartarus Press, wrote: 'A metal band in Switzerland–Rorcal (they tour in Europe and Japan) are huge fans of books by Eric Stener Carlson. They have composed an album inspired by the seven scary stories from his excellent <i>Muladona</i>, (also on Tartarus) and invited the author to record some passages from the book. The result is the album <i>Muladona</i>.' Secondly, a personal plug. My first full collection of strange stories, <i>No-One Driving</i>, is due for publication in paperback and ebook this November. Ahead of this, in September, the sainted Tim Jeffreys is publishing the title tale in Dark Lane Anthology 8. http://darklanebooks.blogspot.com/ </div>
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<b>On Dark Wings by Stephen Gregory, Valancourt Books</b></div>
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Poor taste isn’t something which can be justifiably levelled at Valancourt; for, here again, we are presented with a seasoned, well-practised author whom I’d just recently discovered. Despite being labelled a ‘horror’ author, Gregory’s particular brand leans more toward the subtle and uncanny, where small, psychological breakdowns ultimately impinge. In prose, the antithesis of, say, Stephen King, in using as few words as possible to intimate so much. Bluntly; Gregory turns out to be very much my cup of tea.</div>
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Featuring the original 1983 tale ‘The Cormorant,’ expanded into Gregory’s first novel three years later, consequently adapted for the big screen in ‘87 and reissued by Valancourt in ’13. Six further novels followed; most recently 2015’s <i>Plague of Gulls</i>. You will have gathered by now that Gregory’s field of interest is strictly avian; reflected in this long-awaited first collection of fourteen short tales. The prose is concise, polished, and a joy to the eye, describing encounters less supernatural than chilling in their ominous descriptions of small but scalding existential threats. Favourites include;</div>
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‘The Boys Who Wouldn’t Wake Up’ where an aged headmaster at a boys’ school – vacated for the Christmas holiday - feels the annual encroaching guilt from a wartime tragedy he believes he could’ve averted. By far, the most touching tale with an especially satisfying use of ghosts. In ‘The Theatre Moth’ an Am-Dram script-writer / actor is plagued by a phobia she’s unable to control.</div>
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‘The Drowning of Colin Henderson’ follows the ocean-driven journey of a crewman, swept off deck during a storm and described from a birds-eye perspective, beyond the death up to his discovery. ‘The Progress of John Arthur Crabbe’ features the harboured ‘gift’ of a disabled boy finally revealing itself as something rather less benevolent than darkly self-serving.</div>
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A minority of the remainder feature no supernatural element at all, but still render a subtle serendipity. If you’re a fan of the taut approach of implication rather than lurid delineation, then you’ll find Gregory a master.</div>
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<b>Children Of The Crimson Sun by Karim Ghahwagi, Egaeus Press (Keynote Edition V)</b></div>
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Karim Ghahwagi describes himself as a music video director, photographer and author of both Danish and Libyan descent, born in the United States, but spending most of his life in Europe. He divides his time between Copenhagen and Los Angeles. Basic biographical details, but perhaps useful in understanding the territory of his fiction.</div>
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The title tale opens the fifth in Egaeus's occasional Keynote series, in 16th century Malta, where a young emissary is sent – on behalf of his Abbot – to investigate the unique and ‘distressing spiritual condition’ of a local fisherman’s daughter. Having recently turned Catholic penitent, a genuinely weird tale ensues of hidden motive and questioned faith as unforeseen forces conspire to expose personal revelations as to the emissary’s true purpose. A slow-burner of a tale that harbours depths that reward with re-reading. Some of the geographical and historical detail in the opening pages, perhaps more anticipatory of a full-length novel, eventually give way to a compelling tale of amoral purpose.</div>
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This close-to-novella length title tale is paired with the slightly shorter, ‘A Haunting in Miniature.’ Posted to an obscure village in the Czech Republic, Izabel Jelinek – representative of the Moravian Church – seeks an interview with the local Commissioner to discover the cause of a series of alleged ghostly sightings in the area. Her researches lead her to the local Napoleonic Wargaming Society; a select club of historical re-enactments by painters of model soldiers. This scene is (also) beautifully rendered as we are introduced to its longest serving member, Maximillian Novak, and the silent commitment of its members and the club members’ room is delineated. Ultimately, it is the spirit of an abandoned soul, to which Jelinek can relate, that provides the denouement and quietly effective it is too.</div>
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As with the protagonist of the previous tale, Jelinek’s true motive - and identity - at first appears ambiguous, until the relationship is – by the climax – joined. Again, local history has returned in the form of an unwitting victim and their harboured past.</div>
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<b>Their Dark And Secret Alchemy, Edited by Robert Morgan, Sarob Press</b></div>
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Three longish short tales – Richard Gavin’s ‘Ten of Swords: Ruin,’ Colin Insole’s ‘The Dead of Maridunum’ and Damian Murphy’s ‘The Axis of the Lodestone’ – highlight three of my current favourite authors.</div>
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Richard Gavin’s tale opens on two sisters’ – Desdemona and Celeste - waking in their temporarily abandoned, sprawling lakeside house to a day of what they perceive to be unpredictable, but inevitable, omens. When the younger, more curious, Celeste steals into their parents’ bedroom, she seeks, and finds, a hidden velvet pouch, shaking its contents onto their bed; a series of Tarot-type cards. Picking the cards ‘Ruin’ and ‘The Queen,’ Celeste, memorizing the ceremony once performed by her more expert mother, steals out alone to bury them in the family vault, much to her elder sister’s chagrin. Demanding she returns them before their parents’ get back, Desdemona fears the damage has already been done through her sister’s playful ignorance. Their absent parents – practising experts in the Occult – return to the house to arrange an evening meal as a particular ceremony requiring specific tenets. Unaware of Celeste’s earlier disturbing of fate, the family descend into the consequences of extreme horror.</div>
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I particularly enjoyed the formative scenes with the ambiguity of era. Gavin clearly intended this, since its indefinability increases in significance towards the tale’s end as portals are disastrously breached. An impressive opener. Gavin’s sixth collection of ‘fear and sacred converging’ will be due 2020-21. </div>
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Colin Insole needs no introduction from me. Having swiftly become one of the finest exponents of English folk horror he has, simultaneously, remained beneath its radar. This should – and must – soon change. Of his latest entry, suffice to say that it is so densely plotted – ranging in time from the 14th century to the 1960s’ - that if it were not for the sinister omnipresence of the ubiquitous trickster-clown, the reader could drown beneath the history. Since this ‘history’ is so knowledgeably utilised, you are ensured to remain afloat.</div>
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Murphy’s first collection – <i>Daughters of Apostasy</i>, previously reviewed here – struck an excellent balance between the trajectory of plot, description and pace. With Murphy’s prose here, much product knowledge of his subject is on show, but – from midway - somewhat at the expense of the latter where description's the main focus. Its strongest suit is in the omnipresent enigma of the distant landed boat and the gradual revelation - to the discovery and unexpected significance - of the two-faced God. Greater forward momentum in its middle third may well have attained the tale a fifth star. On a personal note, it’s pleasing that, in a 2017 interview, Murphy cited Insole, John Howard and George Berguno as favourite authors, to which I wholeheartedly concur. You can’t go far wrong with such good taste.</div>
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Collectively, <i>Their Dark and Secret Alchemy</i> showcases three of the best exponents of their genre. </div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-77747445934008470992019-05-18T09:20:00.002-07:002019-05-23T07:27:31.299-07:00Pan Review Of The Arts No. 11<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b>Editorial: </b>Welcome back to the latest PROTA, delayed<b> </b>due to an ailment that has also delayed research for other writing. But, enough about me. The latest collection by the enigmatic Thomas Phillips and a Q & A on translation with the necessary Brendan Connell feature this month. An 'Albertine's Wooers' round-up should - eventually - follow in time. (An intended Q & A with the effervescent Scott Nicolay has had to be delayed due to his own literary commitments, but I hope to follow this up in a future post). Til then...<br />
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<b>And The Darkness Back Again by Thomas Phillips, Zagava Books</b></div>
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We have here – for this blog, at least - a different kind of writer; one who presents his subjects in the form of internal monologues; ruminations veering from mania-prompted obsession to remoter essay-like description. There are several 'Thomas Phillips' currently active in publishing. One first-timers might be most in danger of confusing him with is the mystery / suspense novelist of <i>The Molech Prophecy</i>, although that Thomas Phillips found God in 2003, including his worldview in his work from then. Despite one subtley amusing tale here bearing the title 'Christian Singles,' Zagava’s Thomas Phillips harbours more darkly astronomical concerns.</div>
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Phillips – born fifty years ago in Raleigh, NC – has an alter-ego as composer and musician, Tomas.</div>
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His biog states: </div>
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'Like most of his music, which draws on a range of electronic and modern composition genres, his fiction typically embraces a minimalist aesthetic not unlike certain contemporary French writers associated with Les Editions de Minuit.'</div>
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This is reflected in his writings emotional remoteness, prompting in the reader an almost fundamentalist sense of the uncanny. One might call him, Ligotti – with less blood. In one tale – 'First Light' – the importance of music is equal to that of the words, enabling us to catch a glimpse of his philosophy;</div>
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'....Light is consciousness requiring the dark milieu of abyssal black as juxtaposition, darkness for its own sake, given depth and pressure by the radiance of stars. Light first comes into being. The cosmic Dark Age brings light, space expansion, elements proliferating, the universe cools down until in one small quadrant it starts heating up again, forging illumined, grim ghosts, hauntings of dim minds and hearts.'</div>
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This follows a description of a jazzy CD playing as background to a Floridan family (the state in the grip of 'a lamentable inferno') congregating to prepare for dinner. Phillips had to have a second life in music, since his bias towards describing sounds is so prevalent. 'Pots clank, even the sound of words is jarring, though it’s always contained rather than a harsh meeting of metal.' (Opening line, Children of the Family). 'And it opened its mouth next to your ear...It sounded, starting low, low crackle fizz in the mouth...pitch-high noise that warbled thin wire, gravel guttural anger, and plateaued in volume as one long-drawn, cutting drone coursing into your canal...' ('Throatily').</div>
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In other tales, such as 'Everything Was Explicable,' a character experiences and ill-translates an existential crisis. In their case, a well-healed couple play out their everyday routine, until she sees the shallow futility of her part in their relationship and what – rather than merely who - her husband is. In 'Firehouse,' strongest on narrative and jeopardy, a couple find themselves, late at night, unfathomably deadlocked in their bedroom, with no clues as to who, or what, might be prowling around the rest of their apartment. This could be a metaphor for the collection, which rewards patience with unnerving residues of alienation and quiet terror.<br />
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<b>A </b></div>
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<b>Brendan Connell </b></div>
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<b>(Translator & Author) </b><br />
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<b> </b><b>Brendan Connell</b> (born 1970) is an American author and translator. Though his work often falls into the horror and fantasy genres, it has also often been called unclassifiable and avant-garde. His style has been compared to that of J.K. Huysmans and Angela Carter. Some of his shorter fiction, such as that contained in his collection <i>Metrophilias</i>, has been referred to as prose poetry. His work as author is currently published by Snuggly Books, for whom he also translates both classic and obscure European Decadent texts in partnership with his wife, Anna. </div>
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<b>How did you get into book translation?</b></div>
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BC: Originally, as a young man, my idea was to become a translator of Buddhist texts, so I did studies of Tibetan and some Sanskrit with that goal in mind; and my first published translations were of Chinese poetry that a Chinese friend and I did together. But, thrown off course by unexpected winds, I next found myself in Europe, on the Swiss-Italian border, where I was somewhat cut off from the former opportunities, but presented with new ones in that I was able to have access to a vast wealth of Italian literature, mostly unknown or little-known to the English-speaking world. </div>
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<b>What are your prime considerations when you proceed with a text?</b></div>
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BC: Mainly it has to be a text that interests me. Some people start on texts without reading them first, and experience them as they translate them. Most of what I translate, however, I have read years before, and it has stuck with me enough to decide to proceed. This isn’t always the case, but it usually is. A secondary, and not always necessary consideration, is if it fills a gap in what is available in English. Sometimes marketability also comes into play, but usually this is more of an afterthought than any sort of principal motivation.</div>
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<b>Are there temptations to overly modernise a centuries-old text for a new audience and how might you avoid this?</b></div>
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BC: For me at least, there is not much danger of overly modernising. My approach is to, for the most part, restrict myself to the language of the time the original work was composed. Probably the only case where some modernesation is a good thing is in very old texts, such as those written pre-1700s. In such cases, however, I still would avoid modern terminology, unless for some reason it was apt. The place most to avoid modernesation, I think, is in dialogue, as nothing is more annoying than to read Aristophenes translated into chatty dialogue of the Southern United States or the great heroes of Water Margin cursing like cabbies. Undoubtedly there is a place for such experiments, but then what one is reading is not really a translation. </div>
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<b>Are certain genres harder to translate than others? (Absurdism, for example). </b></div>
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BC: I am not sure that any genre of fiction is more difficult than another to translate, but generally 19th-century texts are considerably more difficult than 20th-century. Sentences tend to be much longer and oftentimes references are more difficult to clarify. Humour is, of course, harder to translate, just as it is harder to write and overreaching attempts have surely sunk more translations than they have saved. A good translation of poetry is more difficult to pull off than one of fiction.</div>
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<b>What do you think makes a successful – as opposed to an unsuccessful – translation?</b></div>
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BC: It depends somewhat on the type of text. For a technical work, for example, meaning is paramount. For a work of fiction, or poetry, though meaning is of course also important, an almost equally important aspect is conveying to the reader an experience as close as possible to that of reading the material in the original language. In the past I used to think that the goal was to translate under the dictum: “How would the writer write this if they were writing in English?” And this, to a large degree, still holds true for me. But it is also true that there are all sorts of things in texts that would never be written in English, and in order to convey those sensations, one needs to be more creative. The translation sometimes needs to carry with it aspects of the original text--aspects which would never normally occur had it been written in English.</div>
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In looking at translations, and comparing them to the original, one will often see cases where the translator has dumbed the original down. In other cases, something that might or might not be an error in the original, the translator has decided to “fix”, though more often than not they are actually introducing errors into the text. At other times, difficult lines or obscure references are struck out, the translator either not understanding them themselves, or presuming that the readers would not understand them. Furthermore, there are translators who push themselves into what they are translating and, instead of delivering the style of the original author, give us their own. All of these things should be avoided. Avoiding them will go a long way to producing a good translation, while the opposite will have the opposite effect. </div>
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<b>Who are your favourite translators – past and present – and why?</b></div>
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BC: There have been so many accomplished translators that to choose the best is difficult. From the Chinese, the groundbreaking work of James Legge stands out, in the past, while more recently the work of Thomas Cleary is noteworthy, especially his translation of The Flower Ornament Scripture. From Chinese and other languages into French, the Belgian priest Étienne Lamotte was a scholar of great profundity, and his translation of the Mahāprajñāpāramitopadeśa, from the Chinese, is an amazing work. </div>
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For present day translators of fiction, I have enormous admiration for Brian Stableford, who has translated such a vast number of texts that it is quite amazing. His great command of the English language and deep scholarship make his work in the fields of Science Fiction, Symbolism, and Decadence of an importance that is inestimable.<br />
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I'd like to thank Brendan Connell for sparing his precious time. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Albertine's Wooers</span></span></i></div>
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Sundial Press have reissued the MR James-inspired <i>Ghost Gleams -Tales of the Uncanny</i> (1921) by WJ Wintle; Swan River Press have collected Rosa Mulholland's equally forgotten tales for <i>Not To Be Taken At Bedtime </i>as well as <i>Bending To Earth: Strange Stories by Irish Women,</i><i> </i>co-edited with Maria Giakaniki; while coming soon from Valancourt will be a new translation of Felix Timmerman's <i>Intimations Of Death</i> (1910), described as 'psychological horror tales worthy of </div>
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Edgar Allan Poe.'</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-64624176354375526852019-03-02T08:37:00.001-08:002019-03-05T14:15:26.024-08:00Blacker Against The Deep Dark by Alexander Zelenyj, Eibonvale Press / The Book Of Flowering – An Anthology, (Edited by Mark Beech), Egaeus Press<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Editorial: </b>Greetings all. PROTA 11 will be delayed until May's 'Pan' when - everything crossed - there should a Q & A with the talented author and translator of European texts, SCOTT NICOLAY (to actually justify it), alongside a first-time European release from Zagava. Meantime, a pair of seriously contrasting collections...<br />
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Incendiary is the adjective that best describes Zelenyj’s fifth collection, since, in so many of his tales, it is destruction which leads, in one form or another, to personal realisation for some, salvation for others. Some from a place of madness; others from love.</div>
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In 'The Priests,' Siamese triplets approach a church seeking salvation from one willing to see beyond mere appearance and thirdhand reputation. Almost a John Carpenter-esque take on <i>Frankenstein</i>, 'their' story is told through key scene depictions of 'their' past treatment at the hands of others‘ that have led to this moment. Perhaps the most complete and satisfying tale here, since the contents could comfortably be expanded into a novella. </div>
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Certain tales echo the feel, less of an 'R-rated Twilight Zone,' (as quoted on the cover) as episodes of <i>The Outer Limits</i>. 'We Are All Lightless Inside' is an example, where the sense of jeopardy holds you from an opening redolent of its pre-titles‘ sequences. A 'Science Research Division' in deep space traps and destroys rogue diseases of monstrous form in containment tanks. One capture proves as personal as it is impenetrable. Gripping stuff and an authentic sense of Sixties-era SF holds the attention throughout.</div>
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Fans of both <i>Blade Runner</i> films should connect with the SF pulp-noir of 'Journey to the End of a Burning Girl.' A level of engagement between the characters, allied to intimations of a greater backstory, suggest a novel along similar lines wouldn’t be the author’s worst option. Elsewhere, 'The Terror Of Broken Places' sees an enigmatic portal beyond mortality offering hope of an afterlife in this short, but affecting, tale. 'Christ On The Sun' is one of the gentler tales where a dream-predicted ‚night of miracles‘ is faced with acceptance of the beauty delivered, rather than an unknown harboured. 'The Children Who Saw the Universe' – A childhood encounter of inexplicable alien activity within a forest joins two friends for life, influencing future life choices that dispelled all previously held notions. 'Engines of Forever' cleverly reverts to the incendiary, where the ‚young‘ protaganists harbour an innocence separate from their programming. The denouement confirms the reader’s suspicions without ever having been obvious at the outset. The uncanny aspect of these ‚nature‘ tales may just breast the craft of those inspired by familiar genres.</div>
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Regular readers will know my view of long original (as opposed to retrospective) collections. To Zelenyj’s credit, he sustains interest through the majority of its thirty-one tales through breadth of emotion and sheer bravado.</div>
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There is no introduction to this quite unique collection, the usual blank rear board meaning the tales alone must direct the reader to its theme. Those familiar with Egaeus should have no trouble discerning the literal nature of its title. </div>
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Mark Valentine has long been a master of evoking much from some fantastical history with a modicum of lovely prose. 'The Pale Sentinels of Asphodel' is just the latest example where a mystical resonance effectively informs the climax. Sheryl Humphrey’s 'Flora's Lexicon' evokes Charlotte Gilman Perkins in time, place and denouement of lovely chills. A love story tainted by familial witchery and regret, it pleases on several levels.</div>
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Ron Weighell’s 'Fugues of the Blue Lily': a collector of arcane literature on opiod addiction, recently bereaved, becomes obsessed in the belief of an ‚objective reality‘ which can be reached with the help of an aged occultist who, having initially indulged him as a student, begins to fear for his sanity as he pushes for ever more dangerous experiences. Reggie Oliver’s 'Lady With a Rose' – The enigma of the deep red rose in a famous painting by Titian hangs over the dilemma of the merits – and demerits – of fakery versus the admirable copy. We know Oliver as an excellent teller of the traditionally linear tale and, for fans, this is just the latest example.</div>
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Colin Insole’s 'Gallybag' features a seemingly abandoned country village, a faded Edwardian photograph of the same, and the search for the featured ghosts of its defiant inhabitants successfully follows-up Insole’s superb second collection Valerie and Other Stories (Snuggly Books, 2018). In Alison Littlewood’s 'Down in the Dendrons,' denial and the awful hidden truth about the fate of the narrator’s late brother finds a strange resolution beneath the brambles of where they both used to play.</div>
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Mat Joiner’s 'Belbyne's Lane': the site of a tragic accident plagues a man as denial and guilt surface, unresolved, as he seeks comfort in his new way of life. A more ambiguous tale that otherwise neatly partners Littlewood’s. Jonathan Wood‘s 'The Absence' is perhaps the most puzzling entry since, like a lot of Woods‘ pieces, it is more a rumination on thought, feeling and place than linear plot. He reminds me of the late John Fowles in his ability to portray detachment as something of ambiguous beauty. It – like a lot of his work - stands re-reading because of this. Again, I enjoyed the majority of the tales (bar one, to frustrate you...), while an unexpected pagan nature-poem from Charles Schneider also reliably delivered. Another high quality release in the Egaeus pantheon.</div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">---ALBERTINE'S WOOERS ---</span></i></div>
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CM Muller's anthology,<i> Twice-Told: A Collection of Doubles</i>, is now available, as is his own tautly-written debut, <i>Hidden Folk: Strange Stories</i>; Simon Strantza's debut <i>Nothing Is Everything</i> (Undertow) and - up for pre-order - <i>This House Of Wounds</i> by Georgina Bruce (also from Undertow). Two recent Tartarus releases worth a mention include <i>The Clockworm and Other Strange Stories</i> by Karen Heuler and <i>Figurehead</i> by Carly Holmes. Finally, a reissue of Jean Ray's 1925 debut, <i>Whiskey Tales</i> (Wakefield Press), features an excellent new translation by Scott Nicolay. More on this in the next 'Pan.'</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-76108897287313519222019-01-05T07:16:00.000-08:002019-01-05T07:18:29.223-08:00Pan Review Of The Arts No. 10 - Decadents Of Europe<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Editorial: </b>Too often, our Anglocentric culture overlooks the past glories of its surrounding environs. Consequently, English translations and, crucially, their unsung translators, are also its victims. Therefore, I hope 'Pan' can act as a modest corrective, enabling near extinct names to finally breathe fresh life. A topic I'll be returning to here on a semi-regular basis. One English name for rehabilitation has been curated by editor, Nina Antonia, who explains how those who proclaimed sensuality and individualism were, at the same time, attracted by the strictures of Catholicism. </div>
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Of Kings And Things by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock, Edited by David Tibet / Incurable – The Haunted Writings of Lionel Johnson, the Decadent Era's Dark Angel, Edited by Nina Antonia, Strange Attractor Press</div>
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Back in the Spring of 2018, Snuggly Books released the first-ever paperback issue of Stenbock‘s <i>Studies Of Death</i> (1894). As something of a novice to the author, I was surprised by the existence of a second; The Child Of The Soul. So, now, thanks to the efforts of David Tibet, Ray Russell and Mark Valentine, the original seven tales have been joyously expanded to fifteen, alongside poems, songs, sonnets and a single essay.</div>
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The engaging economy in Stenbock’s anecdotal approach informs every tale. Studies, as a whole, is a classic, less concerned about Death itself than the loss borne of others‘ greed ('The Egg Of The Alabatross' and 'The True Story of a Vampire') and self-realisation borne of sacrifice ('Hylas,' 'Narcissus' and 'Death Of A Vocation'). The second collection's content is, generally, less concise; however, gems abide. Highlights include 'The Other Side'; a fine werewolf tale, strong in its rendering of the uncanny, with a surprisingly modern sensibility. In 'Faust' – a satirical take on Marlowe and Goethe‘s classic fables – a monk receives a visitation from an 'angel' proclaiming light whilst ill-harbouring darkness. In 'The King's Bastard (or The Triumph Of Evil),' two power-hungry subjects infiltrate the court of a benevolent King and his two unwitting sons to achieve their own nefarious ends. 'A Secret Kept' – a tale of madness – harbours an intruiging backstory, being the real-life case of Jack the Ripper, a suspect of whom Tibet infers was a friend. A short, previously unpublished play – 'La Mazurka Des Revenants' – makes up for in proto-Ortonesque wit and panache what it lacks in innovation.</div>
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The 'Poems, Songs and Sonnets' which make up the second half are a mixed bag. The songs and sonnets are enjoyable, but the initial poems leave much to be desired and very much for the already committed. Metre and rhyme scheme feel clumsy and inconsistent to say the least and you wonder – beside the quality of the other work, in the context of Stenbock’s eccentricities – if this was intended.</div>
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In truth, it is the short tales that represent the beating heart of Stenbock’s philosophy; one of betrayal of the innocent and self-created, by those either with Establishment power or, at least, exploit access to it. Taken as a whole, Of Kings And Things is an important release in the annals of the fin-de-siecle. The richness of the majority of its contents make this a seminal contribution to the movement’s public archive.</div>
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I have often wondered quite why writers of the fin-de-siecle felt such an affinity for Catholicism. Considering their committed individualism, beside the religion‘s dictats and strictures, there seemed a paradox. On enquiry, Nina Antonia offered this explanation:</div>
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“Catholicism, which is a cult of beauty as well as God, appealed to those with an aesthetic imagination. Christ as death lily...no other faith as far as I’m aware is quite as theatrical as Catholicism, it’s high drama all the way... Brompton Oratory for example is like a stage setting of death but it’s very beautiful and emotive. The Decadents sensed that we were tipping into an age of vulgar materialism – as creative beings they understood that the soul needs spiritual sustenance; or, at least, they did back then.”</div>
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Antonia adds how Lionel Johnson, a little known poet of the era, was rebelling against his ‘rigid family piety’ for one ‘incense laden’ that ‘isn’t all English.’</div>
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Antonia follows-up 2017's impressive debut novel, <i>The Greenwood Faun</i> (Egaeus Press) with this biographical offering from the source. Youthfully handsome and faun-like himself, Johnson adhered more committedly to Catholicism, so distancing himself from more his indulgent contemporaries. Like his drinking partner, fellow poet Ernest Dowson, Lionel Johnson refuted such labels as decadence in reference to himself, despite a life devoted to art, aestheticism and absinthe. Was this religious hypocricy, since he was hardly averse to the bottle or relationships with other men? More likely, it’s from the impression given of a reticence, a need for privacy, and a need to protect his conviction in the face of others' mere lip service.</div>
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A student first of Winchester College, then of New College, Oxford, he retired to his latter rooms – - quietly fostering his alcoholism - emerging only for solitary walks – to pen the poems, on friends, contemporaries, melancholy and, inevitably, death, for which he'd soon become known. (Although heartening to read that he was as big a failure at Maths as myself, failing to pass his Oxford entry exam three times before being given a shoe-in by the authorities thanks to his, possibly exasperated, family connections).</div>
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Sharing mutual acquaintances of the fin-de-siecle with Stenbock (but never part of this circle) Johnson was something of a loner and, unsurprisingly, reads as rather more conservative. He appeared no miserablist, however, also having an alleged 'extreme humour,' which intimates mood swings symptomatic of depression.</div>
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The poems dominate the middle of Incurable – one-hundred pages worth - flanked by a few essays and 'ephemera,' making this the first major collection of Johnson's work in decades. Highlights include the essay, 'On the Appreciation of Trifles,' showcasing him at his most paradoxically Wildean. Similarly, among the poems, 'Summer Storm' (dedicated to Harold Child), is a direct hymn to Pan. Personal favourites include 'Light! For the Stars Are Pale,' 'The End,' 'Winchester' and 'Gwynedd.' Being non-theist, I'm less enamoured by the staunchly religious entries. Being an intrinsic part of who Johnson was, however, means these need to be objectively embraced.</div>
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“Have you ever head a Latin Mass?” adds Antonia, reflectively. “It’s exquisite; like an opera for the soul.”</div>
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Lilith's Legacy – Prose Poems and Short Stories by Renee Vivien, Translated by Brian Stableford / The Double Star And Other Occult Fantasies by Jane De La Vaudere, Translated and with an Introduction by Brian Stableford, Snuggly Books</div>
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Like Jane De La Vaudere – and most of the Symbolists – Renee Vivien is a self-reinvention. A Londoner, born Pauline Mary Tarn, her nursery education was in Paris, until the sudden death of her and younger sister Antoinettte’s father when, from the age of 9, they and her mother returned to the English capital. Longstanding friction between herself and her mother forced her solitary return to Paris in her early twenties, where she took up, first with American socialite Natalie Barney, then with the married Helene de Zuylen who became her muse and occasional writing partner.</div>
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Lilith’s Legacy represents all Tarn’s short works, published under her best known pseudonym. (A second volume - <i>Faustina & Other Stories</i> – due from this publisher soon, will feature those penned with de Zuylen under the joint pseudonym, Paule Riversdale).</div>
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The lesbianism as featured is very much out and proud, (you will find few contemporary British authors' getting away with the term 'gaping vagina' in print), despite the fact she was, publicly, rather more cautious and, according to Stableford, even ambivalent. This was surely due to the (to herself unexpected) ostracization from some part of Parisien society in the last few years of her young life. The image of her on the reverse cover, however, displays her individuality with asexual abandon.</div>
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Her prose is redolent with a benevolent relationship with death; like many of her contemporaries, a fate to be welcomed rather than feared. There is, however, an admirable lack of self-pity in tone; that it is not, necessarily, the worst of all worlds. In tandem, it relates her obsession with love (amour) and, clearly, how its autobiographical resonance impinged upon her own relationships, fictionalised here. You don't have to know of them in any detail to read in plain sight between its lines.</div>
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According to her biog., burdened by debt and illness, Vivien took an overdose of laudanum in a failed suicide bid during a return visit to London in 1908. She died back in Paris the following year at the age of 32. Her biog. states the cause as "lung congestion" from a bout of pneumonia, complicated by anorexia, alcoholism and drug abuse.</div>
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A word on the gorgeous cover, startling in its matching primary colours of green, yellow and blue. Utilising a painting by pre-Raphaelite artist Evelyn de Morgan, it shows Clytie – the water nymph of Greek mythology - emerging from amongst sunflowers; a subject that directly references Vivien's personal take on sapphic love.</div>
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These are precious translations in that they represent the only collection of the author’s short tales available in English. Brian Stableford does a sterling job of extracting and interpreting the little information that exists on Jane De La Vaudere, somehow managing to make the lack of background material non-issues. (The back cover teases here, revealing a Gallic-looking woman of high cheekbones and sallow, forlorn eyes, curled hair pinned in the late-19th century style, wearing a kimono and holding an open parasol).</div>
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Born Jeanne Scrive in 1857, in what Stableford refers to France‘s upper bourgeosie, the premature death of both parents suggests she - and possibly her sister Marie - were sent as orphans to the local convent. Scrive subsequently met and married one Camille Crapez who, having inherited the Chateau de la Vaudere, Sarthe, from his mother, styled himself Crapez de la Vaudere. An understandable aversion to publicly utilising her new husband’s prior surname, she followed in his stead, Anglicizing her forename to Jane.</div>
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Like Renee Vivien, La Vaudere became as much art installation as author. Prior to the occupations of novelist and playwright for which she is most known, La Vaudere had focused upon a career as an artist, exhibiting at the Paris Salon.</div>
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Openly influenced by Poe, these formative tales are also an advancement in reflecting La Vaudere's interests in new theories in psychology and mysticism; specifically sexuality and astral projection, which would go on to inform the fiction of Crowley. Thus, La Vaudere represents part of a near-forgotten tradition that bridges both. The nine presented here are all excellent. The first, 'Emmanuel's Centenary,' opens with a statement of her philosophy throughout: „we are certainly reincarnated...(and) the soul that animates us remains...govern(ing) matter in order to organize the living form of human beings. Everything changes, is counfounded and renewed, in the immutable law of amour that governs the world.“</div>
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The hunger for love beyond the material form is the darkly romantic Poe-inspired theme, even down to a character in 'A Vengeance' named Berenice and the disguised preservation of a corpse. Elevating the tales above derivative cash-in is the quality of their telling as much as La Vaudere's primary readings and patent interest in the aforementioned theories, revealed in plain sight.</div>
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'Yvaine' – the longest tale here – harbours the delicious moral ambiguity of the best of the German imagination as a mad genius, down on his luck, relates a claim on the right of visceral revenge against a supposed 'wrong' perpetrated against him. In 'The Dream Of Myses,' an Egyptian priest, guarding the corpse of his late Queen in her tomb, has developed an obsession to reawaken her with the power of his love. When a local girl falls for him, he gradually feels compromised in his devotion, fostering a resentment which proves disastrous.</div>
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The art of the possible, hidden among the short fiction of the past, still holds huge appeal. Recent reissues by the larger publishing houses of the work of Robert Chambers, Blackwood and others proves this. With this in mind, the intriguing 'Double Star' proved rather more accessible a range of adventures than anticipated. A warning to the curious; don‘t pass these by.<br />
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<b>PROTA 11 will be here in March.</b> </div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-19098717563805573322018-11-03T07:41:00.000-07:002018-11-04T01:44:48.070-07:00A Book Review Bonanza<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<b>Editorial:</b> A book review bonanza this month. PROTA 10 - up in January - will be another, but with a running theme - ahead of that desperate 29th March deadline - of <i>Decadents Of Europe. </i>Consequently,<i> </i>Pan Himself is considering a return to his sylvan homeland of Greece where - being a feral creature - the state of the economy is of no concern to Him. Enjoy!<br />
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Life, Be Still! & Other Stories by H.A. Manhood, The Sundial Press</div>
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<i>Wikipedia</i> states that Harold Alfred Manhood (1904-91) "lived in a converted railway carriage in the Sussex countryside, growing his own food and brewing his own cider." Mark Valentine, in his introduction, reveals in more detail how this occurred; a scenario sylvan – and out of reach - to most aspiring writers. His gift was considered so great by his interested publisher that he was financially sustained by Edward Garnett at Jonathan Cape to live out this idealised life, just so he could write. It is just as well then that this selection justifies the considerable delay in its appearance. (An occupational hazard for most publishers, negotiating with author estates).</div>
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This first selection since the author's death showcases twenty-nine of the fruits of his labours; rural fables, described in unique similie. Punctuating prose of ominous beauty are intermittent shocks, their clarion being the attempted crucifixon of a wife deemed by her husband to have cheated on him. ('Three Nails'). Surrounding such moments, it soon becomes clear how the sheer beauty of Manhood's prose not only couches such hateful behaviour in context, but rivals most of his inter-war contemporaries, such as HE Bates and AE Coppard.</div>
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Manhood appears skeptical of the supernatural. His own position on religion is at least agnostic, possibly atheist; not as strident as D.H. Lawrence, but a lot less convinced than, say, Dunsany. On ghosts, he offers dismissive explanations in the few tales in which they're referenced. ('No Ghosts' and 'Shall We Ghost?'). On the last of these, however, the pay-off line does at least leave open the possibility. As Mark Valentine states, referring to 'The Unbeliever': "(it) achieves the delicate balance between atmosphere and incident, indirection and conclusion...between belief and unbelief in vaster forces." If actual ghosts are deemed uncredible, still the uncanny pervades. Valentine rightly adds the comparison with Walter de la Mare and his 'advancing the short tale into tremulous new territory.' This is reflected in a pared down modernity to the prose, though a couple of contemporary references – uncontroversial in their time – might make the modern reader wince. </div>
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Manhood – like Claude Houghton, recently excavated by Valancourt - is just the latest example of a writer undeservedly hidden by time and the prioritised urban upheavals of the Thirties. Sundial have done this author equal favour. A<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">ll seven of Manhood's original volumes of short stories – from which these twenty-nine were selected – will be reissued throughout 2019-20. The first two - </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Nightseed</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Apples by Night</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> – are due to appear in paperback late Spring. Recommended.</span></span></span></div>
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Resonance & Revolt by Rosanne Rabinowitz, Eibonvale Press</div>
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Socialism is a subject rarely chosen as the main theme for a collection; rarer still in the slipstream of the uncanny. A gap in the market, ironically enough, filled in other media, such as with Mike Leigh's latest, <i>Peterloo</i>, but ill-served in new literature. It's therefore welcome – and timely in our age of particularly vile corporate monsters – that Rabinowitz has now had her short work collected. (Only her second standalone release after the well-received novella <i>Helen's Story </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(PS Publishing, </span>2013), that gave voice to Machen's central character and 'victim' from <i>The Great God Pan</i><span style="font-style: normal;">).</span></div>
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Her Jewish heritage adds a second finger to the pulse of such currency, acting as historical backdrop to certain entries. First up though is 'In The Pines,' where the lyrics of an old blues number finds 'resonance' and deja-vu for a woman seeking the remnants of her dead husband at a crash site in a song beyond her memory.</div>
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Subsequent tales of dissentient students coming together for protest are first highlighted in 'Return of the Pikart Posse' and 'Bells of the Harelle.' The latter is this collection's finest, most satisfying tale, deserving of future anthologising. Served mainly by its narrative's sense of urgency, the opening line alone pulls you in: "When King Charles's troops entered Rouen to put down the rebellion, the Harelle, the first thing they did was strip the tongues from the city's bells. I listened as they did so, hidden in the belfry tower with my two lovers, Christophe and Adrian." That's how you do it. 'Return of the Pikart Posse' finds an MA student with "a passion for the past" make tangible contact with the spirit of one with a long-harboured passion of her own. In 'Bells of the Harelle' we are in 14<sup>th</sup> century France and the burgeoning rise of self-determination under the age-old heal of organised religion. </div>
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There are lesser tales. 'These Boots,' 'Keep Them Rollin' and 'Tasting The Clouds' are far smaller windows, rather than visions, into the writer's world and not of comparable quality; least of all of the first four. Two genuine weird tales – atypical presences here – at least reveal Rabinowitz's other abilities. 'The Colour of Water,' and 'The Turning Track' (co-credited with Mat Joiner) are standouts. Rabinowitz is in a position to connect with a readership currently untapped by her contemporaries. I hope she gets the chance to branch out and achieve it.</div>
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Revenants & Maledictions - Ten Tales of the Uncanny by Peter Bell / A Ghosts & Scholars Book Of Folk Horror, Sarob Press</div>
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On the 30th August 2012, I reviewed here Dr. Bell’s first collection, <i>Strange Epiphanies</i> (Swan River Press, 2012). Then, I wrote how 'Bell's historical knowledge lends an outsider's credence to the researcher-protaganist and her ultimate fate.' Fan-fiction only gives lip-service to this territory often, and derivatively, enough. (I’ve been guilty of this myself). Bell, however, like John Buchan before him – of whom he most resembles – also knows his from first-hand experience, rather than merging topographical fact with topographical fiction and hoping for the best. (Again, guilty). Surprisingly, in Bell‘s foreword, Buchan's is the one name as most likely influence left unmentioned. Such authenticity lent credence to his follow-up collections – <i>A Certain Slant Of Light</i> (Sarob, 2014) and <i>Phantasms</i> (Sarob, 2016) - and this, his latest and third with the same publisher.</div>
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The outstanding tales – as ever, traditionally coastal in setting - utilise their central conceit, the encroaching inevitablility of fate, in unexpected directions. For this reason, 'The Virgin Mary Well,' 'The Island,' 'Blackberry Time' and 'The Robing of the Bride' are its gems, ending the collection on a dramatically Gothic precipice.</div>
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In 'The Virgin Mary Well' a young daughter’s knowledge and curiosity appears greater than her scholar father’s during a week’s stay at a holiday cottage in the Isle Of Man. But, is this a tale of precognition – or possession? A long-harboured disease may have left a residual legacy when a lone visitor to the remote island of <i>Eilean Beag</i> is rowed ashore in 'The Island.' Less than eight pages long, it’s admirable just how much detail is communicated in its evocation. </div>
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Nostalgia for a rural landscape painting that resonates into adulthood with a disturbing manifestation defines 'Blackberry Time.' A young housing agent, directed to photograph her next property for prospective sale, comes up against the possible madness of its faded <i>grande dame</i> owner and her obsession for Egyptian <i>object d’art</i> in 'The Robing of the Bride.' Very Conan-Doylish – at his best - its Gothic ending is a fine way to finish the volume. Amongst a quite crowded market, Bell is, without doubt, one of today's finest exponents of the traditional supernatural tale.</div>
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Just as Peter Bell’s traditionalist approach highlights Sarob’s preferences, so, inevitably, does this 'best of' selection from thirty-eight years of the Pardoes' well-respected journal, <i>Ghosts & Scholars</i>. In her Introduction, Editor Rosemary Pardoe posits what constitutes the term 'folk horror. ' Of interest in terms of the linkage to other texts, how useful is nailing a genre's definition remains arguable.</div>
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I've chosen six-of-the-best here that succeed, based upon the following criteria: the first being, if the featured territory is <i>especially</i> traditional, does it succeed as a prime example of the genre? The second being, if it isn’t, does it fulfill its aim without overreaching itself? </div>
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As is the convention in compiling, the first three tales are particularly strong. Michael Chislett’s 'Meeting Mr. Ketchum' sees a couple unwittingly seduced to a seemingly disused burial mound and the unknown presence it still harbours. Chico Kidd’s 'Figures in a Landscape' is the oldest entry, dating from 1980. Told in the second-person, a walking holiday in Ireland becomes an encroachment into a stone-tape re-enactment, which wastes not a line. Next comes Ramsey Campbell’s 'The Burning,' While not a fan of Campbell’s oeuvre, I've often found the short tales superior to the novels and this – in achieving its ambiguous melding of the objective with the subjective – is a fine example.</div>
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The call of a bloodthirsty well is central to Carole Tyrrell’s 'Lorelei.' The most visceral entry and only true historical setting (circa 17th century), it’s well realised without lazy reference to dates and cliche. Christopher Harman’s 'Sisters Rise' sees a school-party whose local historian is roped in as attendant guide and the unwitting focus of the enigmatic Tall Maud. A narrative surprisingly cheery considering the subject. In the definitely downbeat 'Discontent of Familiars,' by John Llewelyn Probert, the neglected-looking home of a long-deceased solitary witch still harbours a 'life' that negatively permeates whatever – or whomever – resides there.</div>
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At least two titles in the second half – in reference to criteria one - lacked the necessary impact through to the pay-off. A contributing factor may have been because of the tales they followed; but neither are they the authors' best. Chico Kidd and Carole Tyrell, however, were a revelation, enticing me to seek out their other work.</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-2328543802624754992018-09-01T09:44:00.000-07:002018-09-25T05:36:37.785-07:00Pan Review Of The Arts - No. 9<br />
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<b>Editorial</b>: Welcome to PROTA 9 - the last PROTA of the year. (November's 'Pan' will be a book review extravaganza). In this issue, we focus on the great Regency author MARY SHELLEY; too often overshadowed by her even more famous poet husband, Percy Bysshe. First up is a Q&A with freelance artist and sculptor, BRYAN MOORE, who recently completed, in bronze, a noteworthy bust of the author on the occasion of the 200th anniversary of the original publication of Mary's seminal novel, <i>Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus</i>. Following this is an equally fascinating second, with Shelley scholar and President of Music Canada, GRAHAM HENDERSON. We end with a double-length review of FIONA SAMPSON's recent biography on Mary. Our fate is sealed where 'er the leaves may fall...<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>sculpture.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<b> BRYAN MOORE</b></div>
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<b>Sculptor</b></div>
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Creator of the Mary Shelley bronze bust on the 200th anniversary of <i>Frankenstein</i></div>
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<b>MA</b>: What originally inspired your choice of subject for sculpting?</div>
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<b>BRYAN MOORE</b>: My choices for the author bronze bust series were always authors whose work that I particularly enjoyed, starting with Lovecraft, Poe, Stoker and of course Mary Shelley. Horror fiction would be nowhere today if it weren't for her Herculean efforts in realizing one of the most daring and original works of all time.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: How have you found the fundraising journey?</div>
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<b>BM</b>: Make no mistake, it's hard work and you can easily stop being an artist and become a full time salesman, but that goes part and parcel in the world of freelance art. My entire career has always been an exercise in selling in one form or another and while it's much easier to sell today with the advent of social media, it's also harder as many other artists are competing for the same dollars that you are. We all have to make our way through life and it's always a struggle no matter who you are or for how long you've been doing your art.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: The fundraising aside, what else did you find the biggest challenge in creating the bust?</div>
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<b>BM</b>: Time and scheduling. There's never enough of it. Also, nailing down a donor location. I get told 'no' far more often than I get told 'yes.' I also have to hear the endless (and quite useless) opinions of others. I tune it out and my attorney handles the rest.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: What reliable pictorial sources for the bust’s creation did you have to hand?</div>
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<b>BM</b>: With Mary Shelley, primarily one portrait by Richard Rothwell, which is the most recognizable image that comes to most folks' mind when they think of Mary Shelley. I also had the good fortune to track down the owner of the Camillo Pistrucci bust of Mary Shelley which was actually done in her lifetime. The owner graciously shot turnaround photographs for me of all the angles of the bust, thereby affording me a great opportunity to envison sides of her that were previously left to the imagination; her profile and the back of that mysterious Regency era hairstyle of hers. I'm very lucky to have had such astounding reference at my disposal. The hardest part was not to simply copy Pistrucci or Rothwell's work as those portraits are only another artist's impressions and not actual photographs. Did I nail Mary Shelley's likeness? I hope so but it's really up to the average viewer of my sculpture to comment on that. Time will tell.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: Your website reveals other bust-subjects with a link to the 'horror' genre. Is there something uniquely advantageous to creating the bust of a subject rather than by a painting or some other medium? If so, what do you think it is?</div>
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<b>BM</b>: As an artist, I could run with my personal passion and sculpt whoever I wanted, but this is a business for me and what is adventageous economically is what I go with most of the time now. I've often found that if an author that I'd like to sculpt is on a t-shirt or a coffee cup or some part of pop culture, then the project will quite likely fund. If it's not, then I don't do it. At this point in my career, there's very little glamour in spending six months of my precious time to end up broke, so I try and go with subjects that I think will fund. It's funny, my next bust is Rod Serling but I'm finding that when I ask anyone under 30 what they think, they have no idea who I'm talking about. I'm clearly a man of my time and who I might like isn't what millenials might like. Seems celebrating literary icons might be a generational thing now. I'd probably make more money if I sculpted a bust of Lady Gaga. Who knows?</div>
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<b>MA</b>: I was particularly pleased you chose Mary since a) busts of women still aren’t anywhere near as common as those for men and b) her own story isn’t really well known outside academic biography. What unforeseen outcomes – personal and / or professional - have you experienced since its completion?</div>
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<b>BM</b>: None at all with the exception of social media "likes" versus people throwing actual hard cash at it. I thought that the feminist and womens studies audience might rally around it en masse as I felt that it was celebrating a very brave, pioneering, female author, but they didn't, possibly because a man was sculpting her and not a woman. What matters at the end of the day is that there's an audience out there for everything and it's your job as an artist to find it and turn it into cash so that you can realize the work. I always chuckle when I hear artists out there claim that they don't do it for the money. That's true when you first pick up a paintbrush or a hunk of clay and do it because you genuinely love doing it, but if you want to be a professional artist, a solid business sense goes hand in hand with that success and it's very hard for a lot of artists to make that work for them. So many other artist pals often ask me for the "secret of my success.“ So, here it is: </div>
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<b> </b>Never stop selling until the lights are off on the midway and the ferris wheel stops turning. Never stop selling. Be enough of a carny to never stop until you turn the tip from the midway and into the tent and take the dime out of their pocket and put it into yours. Never stop seeing everyone as a walking twenty dollar bill. If you do, you don't deserve the money that others were smart enough to reach out and grab. Never stop selling. The lights on the midway are NEVER off. That may sound harsh to some, but the reality is that if you aren't a hard hustler in the world of art, you probably aren't cut out to be a professional artist. </div>
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I'd like to thank Bryan for the giving of his time.</div>
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Check out BRYAN MOORE's work here:</div>
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http://www.theartofbryanmoore.com/project-bust-stoker.html<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">books.</span></b></i></span> </div>
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GRAHAM HENDERSON is President and CEO of Music Canada, a trade association that promotes and protects the value of music and advocates on behalf of its creators. Graham serves on the Boards of the Keats-Shelley Association of America, the Ontario Chamber of Commerce, the International Federation of Phonographic Industries, The Corporation of Massey Hall and Roy Thomson Hall. He an officer of the International Chamber of Commerce’s Intellectual Property Commission and acts as Copyright Rapporteur. Graham is widely recognized as a thought leader for the creative sector. He is a prominent champion of creator’s rights to be fairly compensated, most notably through the 2012 passage of landmark copyright reform legislation by the Parliament of Canada. Graham is also an outspoken champion of music education in Canada and has written and spoken widely on the transformative power of music.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: What was it about Percy Bysshe Shelley, specifically, that first connected with you and what were the circumstances under which this occurred? </div>
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<b>GRAHAM HENDERSON:</b> My very first connection with Shelley was a poem my father gave to memorize. I would have been 10 or 11. It was part of a little binder of typewritten poetry that he had selected. If we were able to recite a poem without a mistake he would give us 50 cents. The Shelley poem he selected was 'Arethusa.' What astonished me then, and astonishes me to this day, was Shelley’s extraordinary mastery of the lyric – enjambment in particular. After that, I can’t say I thought much about Shelley until I encountered him again as part of Kenneth Graham’s “Introduction to English Literature” class at the University of Guelph (Ontario). Perhaps it was the seed sown by my father so many years before that made me susceptible to Shelley. Whatever it was, I plunged in pretty quickly. Without question what appealed to me then was Shelley’s politics. I loved that he was so radical, such a rebel. I also liked the idea that I was studying a poet who for decades had been treated with disdain by the university establishment. This was the Seventies, and Shelley was still living in the shadow of the stern and flawed judgements of Arnold, Eliot and others. It was like I was fighting for an underdog – I identified with him. </div>
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<b>MA</b>: I’ve long found it difficult to reconcile the privilege by which Shelley and his contemporaries lived with the revolutionary politics of their beliefs. (For me, the proof they were doing more than merely rebelling against daddy is in the quality of their subsequent work). This may be because there are no obvious modern-day equivalents. Or are there?</div>
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<b>GH:</b> Unlike many of his privileged contemporaries, I think PBS demonstrated an extraordinary commitment to “walking the walk”. A student of the classical Greeks through and through, he think he knew that words meant little if your actions don’t match. I think he took his poetry seriously – he attempted to undergo the sort of personal imaginative revolution which he believed was necessary for the world to become a better place. In other words he was not a hypocrite. Not sure you can say that about many political revolutionaries. As for contemporaries, surely the best modern example of this Shelleyan spirit was the great Paul Foot. Both would have been viewed by their contemporaries as class traitors – which is to me a badge of honour.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: What did you think of Fiona Sampson’s recent biography on Mary Shelley?</div>
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<b>GH:</b> I think Sampson’s book is a great disappointment in much the same way as was Haifaa al Mansour’s movie version of Mary’s life. In each case, almost everyone around Mary is denigrated in an effort to get Mary up on impossibly high pedestal. Biography becomes a sort of zero sum game. In order to, as she says, "find the girl that wrote Frankenstein," she apparently believes she must ferociously attack everyone around Mary. It feels like the sort of angry, adversarial tone which characterizes social media trolling is insinuating itself into mainstream biography. I always thought what made Mary so special was the fact that she was surrounded by brilliant engaged minds and that she matched them all. Let’s briefly take Sampson’s attack on Claire Claremont for example. Here’s what she writes: "[Claire Clairmont] isn't as gifted or as intelligent as Mary; but these are never the qualities that lever literary men into bed. Jane-Clara-Clary-Claire is much the more typical poet's girlfriend. She is no writerly rival but a nice little singer; her dark curls are obviously pretty; and she has no interests (or indeed pregnancy) of her own to get in the way of her continual availability....Claire...has no compunction about acting out, or at least acting up." </div>
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The tone of this is shockingly condescending – written by a man it would be roundly condemned as nothing short of sexist. As for Percy, well, it is pretty obvious that she considers him to be a monster – and not only that, but she has almost no appreciation for the political dimension of his poetry (despite having undertaken Faber’s selection of Shelley’s verse). She writes, "I became fascinated by Mary Shelley and her most famous novel because of her husband. Back in 2011, I found myself trying to make sense of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poetry. It was a tricky assignment. Percy was above all a creature of his own cultural moment, and nothing dates like a zeitgeist." This is called “telegraphing your punch.” It is also betraying your bias. Before a word has been said about Mary, Sampson places Percy in the trash bin of historically irrelevant writers. He is discarded as a bad, dated poet. </div>
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In her interview with Andrew Marr, Sampson sums up Percy's character with these words: "he obviously liked the ladies, he was apparently a social revolutionary, he was part of a communitarian community." The words "obviously" and "apparently" were freighted with sarcasm and disdain when Sampson used them. Sampson went on to dismiss him as having no "political responsibility" and embracing revolutionary ideas solely for "personal and emotional" reasons. It as if this aspect of his character was somehow inauthentic, incidental and unimportant. This is Sampson's judgement of one of the great political thinkers of his or any era. The great Percy Shelley scholar Timothy Webb once remarked that "politics was probably the dominating concern" of his life. Another great Shelleyan, Terrence Hoagwood, believed that Percy was the greatest English political philosopher of his time. For Pete's sake, this is what Karl Marx had to say: </div>
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“The real difference between Byron and Shelley is this: those who understand and love them rejoice that Byron died at 36. Because if he had lived he would have become a reactionary bourgeois; they grieve that Shelley died at 29 because he was essentially a revolutionist and he would always have been one of the advanced guard of socialism.”</div>
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During the aforementioned interview, Marr says this: “Percy Bysshe Shelley is one of the most disreputable, disgraceful people I have ever come across on the page. I had no idea how awful he was. Almost everybody, certainly every woman, that comes into contact with him either dies or kills herself or is totally destroyed....The only thing that matters to him is Percy Bysshe Shelley."</div>
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Sampson does not say one word about this ridiculous characterization (all of which is based on Sampson’s biography), but she chuckles with evident satisfaction.The most irresponsible thing that Sampson does is to engage in armchair psychological analysis – with the patient having been in the grave for 200 years. Even James Bieri who was a psychologist stayed away from this. For example, Shelley, she suggests, “resembles a type of highly gifted young man who receives a diagnosis of bipolar disorder but remains high-functioning because manifesting only on the manic end of the spectrum”. </div>
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As Professor John Mullan wrote in the New Statesman, “Those who like their biography to be austerely reliable will flinch at the frequent introduction of some piece of psychological guesswork with “it’s hard not to feel”, “it’s hard not to suspect”, “one can’t help feeling”, or “it is easy to imagine”. </div>
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I personally think Mary would roll in her grave were she to discover her friends and loved ones attacked in her name in such an ad hominem manner. At one point Sampson makes it clear that her biography of Mary is designed for the “MeToo” era. To make this work she needed to invent a super villain and she does so with gusto. This is not measured advocacy, it is advocacy with an axe. There is one extremely curious thing about this biography by the way – she has almost nothing but good things to say about Byron – even defending his decision to send little Allegra to a convent where she died. Go figure. I think Lynn McDowell in her review in The Herald summed it up nicely: </div>
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“Biography is meant to be an objective art. Stick to the verifiable facts; maintain an authoritative tone; don’t invite conjecture and definitely don’t play armchair psychologist. Fiona Sampson, a prize-winning poet and editor, has eschewed all four rules as she seeks to get inside the head of Mary Shelley, so intent on seeing everything solely from her subject’s perspective that she becomes almost enthusiastic about attributing blame for what happens.”</div>
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<b>MA</b>: I have my own issues with the biography (reviewed below), but I do think her perspective on Mary’s treatment by her contemporaries, at least, is spot-on. What biographies on either Shelley would you recommend?</div>
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<b>GH:</b> My favourite full length biography of Percy is now James Bieri’s – though Richard Holmes was my go to for many, many years. I would also recommend Paul Foot’s 'Red Shelley' – it was breathtaking to read – a magnificent effort to reclaim the radical Shelley for our modern age. Then, of course there is 'The Young Shelley: Genesis of a Radical' by Kenneth Neill Cameron. The great Shelley scholar Neil Fraistat told me that he was “in awe of that book” – and with good reason. There is also a more recent book by Jacqueline Mulhallen: 'Percy Bysshe Shelley: Poet and Revolutionary.' It is extremely approachable and enjoyable. As for Mary, I think Anne Mellor’s remains the essential biography.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: What are your favourite PBS poems - and / or pieces of prose - and why?</div>
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<b>GH:</b> My favourite poems are the political poems: 'Prometheus Unbound' in particular. I also think 'Julian and Maddalo' is hugely underrated. From his prose, the 'Defense of Poetry.' And of course, his letters, they just sparkle with wit and erudition.</div>
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<b>MA</b>: For someone interested who may never have read PBS, or may be daunted by the prospect, which of his works might act as a good introduction?</div>
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<b>GH:</b> A perfect gateway drug to the works of Shelley is 'Ozymandias.' Here you see the exquisite lyricism for which he is so justly famous, but you also get (packed into a single sonnet), most of his politic philosophy. I would also suggest 'To Wordsworth,' 'England in 1819,' 'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,' 'Ode to the West Wind,' and, of course, 'Arethusa.'</div>
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Many thanks to Graham for sparing his time.</div>
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To learn more, visit www.grahamhenderson.ca </div>
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The Real Percy Bysshe Shelley on Facebook </div>
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(https://www.facebook.com/therealpercybyssheshelley/) </div>
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Twitter (https://twitter.com/Shelley_at_224).</div>
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<b>In Search Of Mary Shelley – The Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein by Fiona Sampson,</b></div>
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<b>Profile Books</b></div>
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It is an occupational hazard for any biographer, faced with a subject who kept either a meagre or incomplete archive, as how best to fill the gaps. I know. One way is to delineate place in its historical context in which these gaps reside. Another is simply to confess the gaps in the text and move on. The first is clearly the preferable option. Then again, it isn't entirely satisfactory either. You ask yourself; what direct effect did these have on the subject? If none seem apparent, based on subsequent research, the biographical gap remains. This is an issue with the opening chapters. Neither of Mary's famous social revolutionary parents – William Godwin (known then for An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, and Its Influence on General Virtue and Happiness (1793)) nor Mary Wollstonecraft (A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792)) are known to have left such relevant, personal reminiscences, certainly regarding their second daughter’s early years. Sampson, understandably, compensates. That compensation, however, reads as too assumption-heavy. The first two chapters are the issue. The first posits the possible scenario around little Mary Godwin’s birth: ‘this must be the scene Mary (Wollstonecraft) imagines as she sends a message for (her husband) William (Godwin) to come and meet his baby.’ Also, ‘what does William feel at this point?...I think he is hovering.’ (p.20). The second about the circumstances of their moving and her early years: ‘For she and Godwin can only approve of such child-centred books,’ and ‘it would be nice to think,’ etc. (p.32). There are other examples. Since subsequent chapters enlighten through academic skill and empathy with the subject, this surmising jars.</div>
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Fortunately, as we reach the growing Mary Godwin’s own journals and work, the biography comes into its own. A profile of the subject swiftly emerges; a woman considerate, compassionate, independent, but publicly shy. In social contexts at least, she harbours a modesty and coolness as 'a devout but nearly silent listener,' she later confesses to holding her back professionally. It is during her impressionable early womanhood - from seventeen to the age of twenty-five - that she meets and falls in love with the simpatico poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley. She appears well aware of his failings, (including the casual affairs and seeming lack of concern for basic domestic upkeep), tolerating them to an extraordinary degree; presumably since she so admires what he represents, sharing - through her parentage - his dissenting beliefs.</div>
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Now released in paperback, Sampson’s latest biography offers valuable re-evaluation of a writer, less in her husband’s shadow than that of her most famous creation. To its credit, it also reveals the callous disregard Mary experienced, once successful, of her husband’s (so-called) friends and contemporaries. Often claiming penury through excessive travel and, no doubt, gambling, the biography reveals how these rich men’s sons drained her of her own modest earnings for all they were worth to help sustain their formerly pampered lifestyles. Promises of future publication were just as easily disregarded once made.</div>
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Among the guilty of Mary’s fair-weather friends are Thomas Medwin, Leigh Hunt, Thomas Hobbs, Jane Williams and Edward Trelawney. (Trelawney at least offered Mary initial support and is by far the most interesting personality of this group). Later in life, Mary would reflect on what she observed of them: ‘violent without any sense of Justice – selfish in the extreme – talking without knowledge – rude, envious and insolent.’ (p. 244) A twentieth century parallel of such a relationship might be seen in that of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath; in that, despite the parallel talent of the wife, the husband is the one feted by the patriarchal establishment, virtually at her expense, while left to casually cheat upon her with other women, under its protection. </div>
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PB Shelley is drawn as one whose idealism finds difficulty shoehorning itself into domestic life. His regular touring absences also suggest an instinctive avoidance of confrontation, with the inevitable consequence of occasional, eccentric outbursts. While Sampson often refers to him as ‘a dreamer,' it is a dearth in empathy by which he is painted; perhaps the very thing he rebelled against in his Tory grandee father, Sir Timothy. What isn't even glimpsed here, however, is the firebrand radical of Oxford so clearly rendered in Heathcote Williams's celebratory prose poem of 2012. Sampson by contrast, portrays an absconding figure who appears to cynically manipulate his own high ideals soon after tying-the-knot in this, his second marriage. This 'normalizes' him, certainly, but it also feels overly partial.</div>
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Occasionally, he also comes over as Byron at his worst, although there is an irony here. Byron himself comes out of his relationship with Mary rather well. Admiring the MS of Frankenstein, and not questioning its authorship, he acts as patron for her as well as for Percy, sending and receiving publisher-related correspondence to John Murray (his own publisher) and others. After Percy’s tragic early death, he continues to advise and trust Mary as proofreader of his own new work, without – surprisingly – inevitable recourse to the bedroom. Clearly, he held more than just a candle for Percy and his oeuvre and his constancy here is admirable. If nothing else, Byron was no flippant, transient dandy and this instance is a further example of how he held fast to certain principles throughout his own short life.</div>
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While the preponderance of biographer surmising takes up the first two chapters, Sampson subsequently unites the seeming contradictions in Mary’s character; from ‘the icily furious intellectual to pint-sized blonde in a fit of giggles’ portrayed in Richard Rothwell’s famous portrait of 1839, to she who believes ‘self-denial…disappointment, and self-control, are a part of our (self) education.’ (p.235). I was left wondering to what extent Mary was less a victim of her husband, than a victim of her own high level of trust and expectation. By the end, I felt I knew as much of Mary as a single biography could be expected to deliver. It is, however, a pity that Sampson didn't draw upon other existing sources to offer a fuller, less partial portrait of her husband.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-71129757062788566042018-07-07T11:56:00.000-07:002018-07-07T11:58:37.659-07:00Pan Review Of The Arts - No. 8<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Editorial: </b>More by
default than contrivance, PROTA 8 is strictly bookish. Our latest
guest contributor is author, bookseller and long-term JG Ballard
aficianado, STEPHEN E. ANDREWS. Here, he convincingly argues for
greater, deeper coverage of literature and its creators across the
media, where too often it is the poorest relation amongst popular
culture. He ends with a related anecdote, both witty and telling. New
releases from Tartarus and Egaeus Press get the regular 'Pan'
dissection and we end with the all-too-occasional round-up under
<i>Albertine's Wooers</i>. Enjoy...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Empire of the Scum:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">J.G. Ballard meets the Pond
Life Literati</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By
Stephen E. Andrews</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are more books in the
world than there any other type of product. I don’t mean copies of
books, but <i>titles</i> as in discrete and specific works. I’m
also referring particularly to professionally published texts printed
in codex form and deliberately excluding self-published and e-books.
This has been the case for many, many decades. In any given year in
the UK alone, around 100,000 new titles are issued, a similar number
go out of print and there are usually around 600,000 different
volumes available to order at any given moment. Globally, these
numbers expand into millions. You might think there must be another
consumer durable that is created and manufactured in greater numbers
and diversity, but you’d be wrong. More than anything, printed
books still define human civilisation.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite this fecundity,
books are invisible to many: in its fixation on sport as the opium of
the people, the mass media’s coverage of literature is neglectful,
tantamount to deliberate starvation. The paucity of book programmes
on television and radio –those that do exist always focus on
authors already famous or whatever the major publishers are currently
hyping – is an international disgrace. Consequently, those of us
who work in the book trade (whether writers, publishers or
booksellers) are like the fish in M. C Escher’s print <i>Three
Worlds</i>, barely visible beneath the surface of a murky pond,
hardly ever breaking the meniscus above us into the oxygen of public
awareness above. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the hierarchy of
literary Pond Life, booksellers like me are the lowest of the low.
Inhabitants of the Empire of the Scum, we can’t ever float like
duckweed on the surface as authors who have ‘made it’ do. We
speak to more readers than any editor or author ever does every
single day. We are quietly influential, but in reality never actually
make any work into a bestseller, except maybe in the town our
bookshop resides in. There’s a rumour that a bookseller did this
with John William’s <i>Stoner</i>, (an almost singular example of a
novel becoming a bestseller some forty odd years after initial
publication) but the fact is that this is a myth. NYRB Classics
reissued <i>Stoner</i> over a decade ago before rights were claimed
by Vintage in the UK some years later, but it was one of that
imprint’s own surface floaters (the default English ‘literary
zeitgeist’ novelist Ian McEwan) talking about the book on national
radio that really got copies of <i>Stoner</i> selling en masse. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some writers recognise
that the committed bookseller is more than an anonymous piece of
software in the mainframe of literature. Instead, they treat us with
respect as collaborators in bringing something special to individual
readers for no more reward than a minimalist wage packet and the joy
of sharing the revelation of neglected but striking art. For career
booksellers, the most important perk of all is meeting one’s idols
and enthusiastically evangelising their works.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One of my favourite
authors is J.G. Ballard. Despite early critical acclaim, Ballard
didn’t cross over into mainstream acceptance from the ghetto of SF
until his autobiographical novel <i>Empire of the Sun</i> was
shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1984. Having entered the book
trade in the autumn this event occurred, I can confidently state that
if this shortlisting (and the press reviews that accompanied it) had
not occurred, Ballard would have remained underwater for most readers
for far longer, possibly eternally. After all, Steven Spielberg would
never have filmed <i>Crash</i>, would he? Like most commentators and
interpreters working above the surface, Spielberg doesn’t really
engage with the obscure: all of his literary adaptations are of tomes
that were already bestsellers. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is where my workmates
and I come in. As a rare example of that mutant amphibian known as
the Writer-Bookseller, I shamelessly promote work I find stimulating
to like-minded readers both in person from behind a counter and in
print. My work on guides such as <i>100 Must Read Books For Men</i>
bought me brief notoriety via Radio 4’s <i>Open Book</i> programme
while my Amazon bestseller <i>100 Must Read Science Fiction Novels</i>
led tangentially to my becoming a contributor to <i>Deep Ends: The
J.G. Ballard Anthology</i>, an (almost) annual collection of prose
and visual works in honour of my icon published by Terminal Press. </span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first piece for this
handsome full-colour illustrated trade paperback anthology was for
the 2016 edition, a lengthy anecdotal essay on what it’s been like
seeing Ballard break through the surface tension from my perspective
as a thirty-year bookseller who had encounters with the great man
himself. <i>Deep Ends: A Ballardian Anthology 2018</i> was published
very recently and features much enlightening and entertaining
material by the likes of Paul Di Fillipo, Maxim Jakubowski, David
Pringle (major veteran genre mavens all) and newer arrivals such as
myself and James Reich (a nascent generation working at shaking up SF
and slipstream writing). Although some of my magnificent peers have
contributed startling short stories that homage Ballard in <i>Deep
Ends: A Ballardian Anthology 2018</i>, I’ve aimed to mesh travel
writing with literary history in a Ballardian context in a piece
entitled 'Me: Capri: Brigitte Bardot,' this heading reflecting JGB’s
condensed novel 'You: Coma: Marilyn Monroe.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To give you an idea what
my writing – and a bookseller’s life – is like, here’s an
anecdote. Some decades ago, Ballard was doing a signing at a large
Hampstead bookshop. Twenty minutes into his stint, no-one had turned
up to get a copy of his new novel inscribed. Ever amiable and
avuncular, Ballard suggested to the bookshop manager that he’d just
be off, as the event clearly wasn’t a happening deal. Two minutes
after the author had departed, a gleaming black sports car darted up
to the pavement outside the shop. Out of the car stepped Bryan Ferry
bearing a pile of Ballard first editions for signing; <i>Crash </i>almost
met 'Re-Make: Re-Model.' Ferry had tried but, like the rest of us, he
could not find a way. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Deep
Ends: A Ballardian Anthology 2018</i> is published by Terminal Press.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Stephen-E.-Andrews/e/B002BM37L4"><span style="font-size: medium;">https://www.amazon.co.uk/Stephen-E.-Andrews/e/B002BM37L4</span></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tree Spirit & Other
Strange Tales by Michael Eisele, Tartarus Press</span></span></h1>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Committed
readers of indie press may be surprised to learn that Michael
Eisele's latest short tale collection is only his second. You could
be forgiven for assuming otherwise since another mature author by
this name had previously self-published four collections and one
novel. (Between 2005 – 2008). Another reason for forgiving such an
assumption is the sheer assured accomplishment of ours. Add the fact
he's made his three-quarter century having previously supported
himself across a wealth of trades and temporary manual jobs that took
in the America of his birth, Germany, Hungary, ending up in the
Brecon Beacons, then such life experience has clearly stood our
Michael Eisele in good stead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Tree
Spirit </i><span style="font-style: normal;">is only Eisele's second
collection - after </span><i>The Girl With The Peacock Harp </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(Tartarus, 2016)
- where even the 'lesser' tales harbour greatness. Again, we are in
the folk-horror territory of fantasy, melding Hoffmann, Carter and
Pullman. The opener, 'Mouse,' is a pleasingly fictitious account of
the struggling, foundling years of Schalken the painter and the
supernatural little familiar destined to immortalise his very soul.
'Sacrifice' drops us into the middle of one dark seeker's ongoing
search for the Tablet of Suliman; one needful of a companion who must
pay for its purchase with her life. The companion he so casually
chooses he soon underestimates. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;">'Come
Not High' is a sole example of SF where an alien race parallel a
Biblical rebirth upon another world. If hardly original in concept,
its presence here is a not unwelcome surprise. The title tale,
however, may become a classic. Aeons ago, a tribe's woodcarver
receives a vision of a tree spirit. She commands him to use his skill
to fashion, and so release, her here in the material world, from 'the
great spirit tree of the forest,' so she may find renewed life upon
the waters of the Great River. Ignorant of the fate such an 'honour'
might bestow, his own, as a consequence, becomes all too clear. The
tale's strength is its quiet sensuality, as the female spirit
gradually draws out the simple woodcarver's love of his craft to
ultimately command his fate. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;">'The
Wife' – along with 'Leshi,' where a wayward son is summoned back to
take over his late father's mountain-top pile – is the entry most
adhering to the Hoffmannesque Gothic; especially in the nature of the
beast to whom she finds herself married. A welcome lightening of mood
climaxes the book in a connected trio of gently humorous folk tales;
'Brown Jenkins,' 'The Gardinel' and 'The Black Man.' This three-tale
arc is narrated by the semi-literate familiar of a rookie witch who
encounters a house, home to one she is feted to replace. These are
both amusing and needful of further sequels' should Eisele ever have
the yen. 'The Nun's Tale,' ending the collection, focuses on the
topic of transfiguration as an elderly Catholic priest recalls his
time as a novice, sent to the Amazon rainforest to seek out a
missionary priestess lost to civilisation. What he found intimates
madness – but in who?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Amidst
the human protaganists, I applaud Eisele for joining Carter and
Pullman in updating the classic fairy tale characters of dwarf, giant
and werewolf while firmly adhering to the tradition. With no appended
credits page, this appears to be first publication for all fifteen
tales. The broad use of the genre unified in the quality of feeling
and mood. You could do no better than prioritising this title as your
main summer read.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A Book Of The Sea, Edited by
Mark Beech, Egaeus Press </span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
resulting submissions that cohere from disparate collection prompted
by Mark Beech's call - enjoy two sets of linking themes. The first
can be defined as the evocation and re-creation of lost art; lost for
the personal spiritual 'benefit' and self-justification of the tales'
protagonists. Good examples abound here from names both new (to me)
and established.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Stephen
J. Clark's 'The Figurehead of the Cailleach' is Buchanesque folk
horror seen through the filter of his artist's eye. As with the best
tales here, it is served by an atmospheric prose that doesn't try too
hard, but rather insinuates with a pace both encroaching and ominous.
In Karim Ghahwagi's intriguing 'Sorrow of Satan's Book,' the
Scandi-sea is haunting atmospheric background to a tale of an
art-obsessed film scholar. He is <i>en route</i> to a pre-arranged
meeting with a screenwriter to discuss the production of a screenplay
for silent film director, Carl Dreyer; only to find, upon arrival,
the police cordon of a crime scene. A metaphysical mystery, it hints
upon the madness that can be borne of inspiration. Colin Insole's
'Dancing Boy' is a small dilapidated boat, the restoration of which
becomes a labour of love for its new owner, ignorant of the curse of
its dark past. Jonathan Woods' 'From Whence It Came' concerns an
artist's growing obsession with elemental nature, the tides, and his
attempts to find the secret, and match, his late feted artist uncle's
'perfection' in paint from the site where he'd once lived.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
second linking theme utilises the more traditional angle of the
protagonist-in-danger spawned by the sea itself. Rosalie Parker's
'Waiting' concerns a young woman – dockside in 18<sup>th</sup>
century England - finding betrayal from the very love that had for
too long sustained her. With no overt horror, the ending intimates
another sense of loss in just how fickle can be an emotion so
powerful. A more overt expression of intense emotion can be read in
Tom Johnstone's full-blooded Lovecraftian 'In The Hold It Waits.' A
crate harbouring an unknown terror, again in the inevitable century,
feted to curse its possessor through events already dire, is
edge-of-the-seat stuff. The tension-steeped prose never falters.
Familiar territory, yes, but graphically rendered. A rare, very
welcome treat is a new tale from George Berguno. (Lauded previously
in these pages). The understated 'Woman From Malta' finds a visiting
protagonist received with suspicion as a series of actions – in the
stead of an unpopular seer - may be more than mere history repeating.
It is, perhaps, the collection's most subtle and sophisticated entry.</span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The high quality of the majority of submissions left an
inevitable few that didn't quite match. The baroque prose-style of
one – while committed and contemporaneous – also acted as an
occasional obstacle to this more general reader's concentration. A
second, interesting in its narrative perspective, lacked the standard
of prose attained elsewhere. This may be Mark Beech's most
consistently successful collection so far. As ever, the use of well
chosen stock period paintings and engravings enhance, rather than
overpower or submerge, the texts. The number of featured authors high
on my unofficial list of current favourites, is also great.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Albertine's
Wooers</i></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Joyce Carol-Oates'
<i>Night-Gaunts & Other Tales of Suspense</i> (Head Of Zeus)
should harbour the uncanny. Snuggly Books have a whole raft of
intriguing new releases, including Colin Insole's <i>Valerie &
Other Stories</i>, a very long-awaited, first-time p/b reissue for
Count Stenbock's <i>Studies Of Death </i>and new collections by
contemporary Decadent-era authors, Renee Vivien and Jane de la
Vaudere; <i>Lilith's Legacy: Prose Poems & Short Stories</i> and
<i>The Double Star & Other Occult Fantasies</i>, respectively.
Finally, for those with more traditional tastes, we have Black Shuck
Books <i>A Suggestion Of Ghosts: Supernatural Fiction By Women,
1854-1900</i>; Victorian-era tales collected for the very first time,
edited by J.A. Mains with an intro by Lynda E. Rucker. </span></span>
</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-84057416159900601102018-05-05T07:33:00.002-07:002018-09-02T03:08:46.690-07:00Pan Review Of The Arts - No. 7<div class="western" style="break-before: page; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Greetings from the height of Spring - post-May Day - and three new offerings. We start with something rather different. A timely opinion piece on how women artists in dance music find themselves at a disadvantage whenever deals are struck between the DJ-Producer and music platform. Male vocalists suffer too, but there is an ongoing legal limbo for the invariably female 'featured' singer. It is a plea, but also a challenge. Next, comes a fascinating Q & A (mainly 'A') with dark short tale supremo of forty years and counting, STEVE RASNIC TEM, as his retrospective collection 'Figures Unseen' is released by Valancourt. Finally, a review of PRIYA SHARMA's impressive debut collection, 'All The Fabulous Beasts.' Slainte...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><i><br /></i></span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><b><i>music.
</i></b></span>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>THE GENDERED CLICK</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>An opinion</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>How male-led technology has deprived women
artists</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Thirty years ago, the new dance music of house,
'rave' and techno also heralded, unseen behind the celebration, a
subtle but decisive shift in the creative hierarchy. With music
production, above playing or even performing, becoming an
increasingly accessible art-form, the producer became the artist; one
considered at least as important, if not more so, than the singer /
songwriter </span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>her</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">self;
for it was mainly women artists who were the faces and voices of this
new medium. The faces as the commercial selling point; the voices for
the soul and, often, beauty, the new producers couldn’t possibly
evoke from their digital electronics alone. The producer then became
the DJ, remixing multiple versions of established hits 'live,‘ and
performing them before club-goers‘; the new audience for this new
form of artist.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"> As technology has become increasingly
sophisticated and accessible since then, the voice, from wherever the
source, has become no more to the successful DJ-Producer than any
other sampled sound, remixed and utilised to serve their whims. In
tandem, the track’s 'lead‘ vocalist had been quietly and
successfully relegated to that of 'featured' vocalist in less than two
years. </span><span style="color: #1d2129;">A decade on, the related ambient
branch known as trance (or ambient trance or psy-trance) demanded
further use of the woman’s vocal as a means to enhance a track‘s
already existing beauty and subtlety of atmosphere. By now, the
DJ-Producer was The Star and – unchallenged - called the shots.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, let‘s define what, and who, we are talking about here. Many
such cases stem from the role of 'featured vocalist,' where a
DJ-Producer invites a professional singer to add their voice onto the
chorus or repetitive 'hook' of the track they've constructed in their
studio. If the vocalist has written neither the lyric nor melody to
that chorus or 'hook,' how it is subsequently used is up to the
DJ-Producer. However, this form of ownership – legally or otherwise
– is often used to encompass those choruses and 'hooks' that <i>have</i>
been written by the vocalist.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Of course, popular music has always
progressed – and thrived – as the technology that produced it
became increasingly sophisticated. This has been the case since
shellac was discarded for vinyl and the CD for the download. However,
the role of creator, and his definition, has since become vague. A
position very much to the DJ-Producer’s advantage. The goalposts as
to who does what and where have crucially shifted, finding no new
home, leaving the woman artist in a legal limbo. The mainly male
DJ-Producers have taken advantage of this, big-time. The
singer-songwriter who has penned the original track and mix she has
contributed her vocal to won’t necessarily receive either payment
or named credit for her work. Not only this, any subsequent remix
will also be out of her control where a fellow DJ-Producer wants to
put his very different signature on the original mix.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"></span><span style="color: #1d2129;"> It is the case
that not all vocalists' write the tracks they appear on; but, to
treat those artists who do the same way, (for independent artists is
who they remain), as if they are merely another worthy sacrifice to
serve the sound, and ego, of the all-powerful DJ-Producer, should be
called out for what it is – artistic theft. Thankfully many artists
have recently gotten wise to this situation and refuse to work in the
'featured‘ vocalist role ever again, now viewing it as toxic.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One singer-songwriter, whose debut release made
the Top 10 in the early 90s,‘ recently related how </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">she receives requests to use her vocals, for
unsanctioned remixes, on a weekly basis. She emphasised that no
permissions to use her name or voice on these remixes have so far
been given for use on any of the big name music platforms. It appears
that, whatever her response, it is casually ignored as is crediting
her as vocalist. </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She says she had previously been burned early in
her career and so, unsurprisingly, has been left somewhat scarred. 'These people can leave a sensitive person feeling like they are
nothing...,' she says. 'I hear it, day in, day out, from fellow
vocalists and it's disgusting, vile behaviour.' She is, however,
moving on. She adds how learning from these experiences has enabled
her to write and record new music and release it through her own
label. She's fighting back – and on her own terms.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Another, Susan Brice (aka CocoStar), recently
reflected:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">'Due
to the birth of the internet and it's grim dilution of most things
(we are in a different time with music), it is mainly male dominated
and throw away. The industry as a whole has not changed at all with
regards to the 'cut throat' stigma which it seems to rely on.</span></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">...
M</span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">ost
businesses in the world have become harder to run due to dilution,
thus creating a plethora of mass production services and items all
easily had at the touch o</span></span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">f
a button. Sad times indeed, but years ago we had to wait for
everything which created a feeling of worth and gratitude for the
individual. There is no waiting anymore for most things For the
younger generations this situation is forcing them into a boredom
vortex in a fake 3D world, which is not their fault.'</span></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This artist adds that she has had at least five
self-penned songs stolen, the rights for which she is currently
fighting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Consequently, such artists have been left to
fend for themselves, leaving them in territory legally impotent.
Rather than farm themselves out to DJ-Producers' whose work they
might otherwise distantly admire, artists, since burned, are now
returning to those whom they’ve worked with in the past and feel
they can still trust. Retreating back to those they know appears the
only alternative. Long-term, this can’t be a settled response,
mitigating against future creative and monetary growth. Some readers
may think, 'well, why wasn't this situation dealt with by the artists
themselves, years ago?' Such protection to become law requires its
recognition in Government legislation. Successive Governments‘ have
proven toothless in this regard; consequently, in the eyes of many
artists, so have The Musicians‘ Union. As someone pro-union
himself, this is disappointing to say the least. </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: small;">According to their
homepage, their mandate here is to "</span><span style="color: black;">lobb(y)
Government to protect these rights on the basis that only a small
number of MU members have regular salaries. Most are Small and Medium
Enterprises (SMEs), whether they are sole traders or members of a
band, and they therefore rely on their copyright and performers’
rights to make a significant part of their income. In essence, their
copyright and related rights are an important part of their ‘product’
and of the diverse income streams that make up their income, and,
like any SME, they have to protect their product</span><span style="color: #1d2129;">."
Fine so far. They add:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">'<i>What
we are arguing for is fair compensation for musicians from the device
manufacturers. These manufacturers are already paying for patents to
software developers and the like on each device sold, and yet the act
of copying onto these devices the ‘software’ the consumer is most
interested in – music - is not currently generating any income for
musicians, unless it is through legitimate download purchases</i></span><span style="color: black;">.</span><span style="color: #1d2129;">'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Under
a page entitled ‘Fair Pay for Musicians’ they state their
recognition that,</span><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">“musicians rely on live revenue
to survive. Income from CD sales is decreasing and illegal
downloading continues, making a sustainable career difficult without
fair pay for live performances.</span><span style="color: #1d2129;">”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: small;"> Still good. Or is
it? Reading between the lines – and looking elsewhere – there is
a disconnect here. This is two-fold. An assumption exists that all
artists are full-time and, being so, must be the sole recipients
requiring MU support. The problem with this line of reasoning </span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>today</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">
is that most women artists in particular </span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>can’t</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">
be full-time due to the very exclusivity of the deals being struck
between the platforms and the DJ-Producers. Allied to this is the
aforementioned lack of permission sought to use a singer-songwriter’s
vocal elsewhere on the track of another DJ-Producer. Such
precariousness for the artist means payment is not only inconsistent
but often non-existent. Thus, maintaining any kind of career – even
as a second-string – is unrealistic. Secondly, if the MU are
mandated to do little more than </span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>lobby</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">,
(and, legally, that’s presumably all they are able to do), then the
Government – not known for having fingers on pulses when it comes
to an artist’s ability to produce – are the final arbiter.
Surely, the MU should be ‘upgraded,’ made independent enough to
make their own rules – specific to artists’ needs – apart from
Government diktat?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">Today, of course, there are many women
DJ-Producers challenging this decades-long patriarchy. Annie Mac,
Lisa Lashes, DJ Heather, Maya Jane Coles, DJ Rap, Ellen Allien and
many others have been well known for years around the clubs of the
world, many owning their own labels. Such a high level of commitment,
e.g. the touring, anti-social hours, hotel stays, hiring and firing
of staff, etc., suggests this much-feted role is no less full-on than
that of any successful, full-time band. It also suggests those
artists with life commitments prioritised elsewhere (be it another
business or to young family) are equally feted to lose out and be
treated not unlike agency workers in other, more regular, jobs; where
a recording contract is a two-sided deal between the DJ-Producer and
music platform, freezing out the artist that actually supplies their
product. While a woman artist </span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>becoming
</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">a DJ-Producer</span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>
</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">may be one way out, it isn't a
solution to the live, ongoing issues of writer credit or vocal theft.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;">The ripping-off of singer/songwriters is
nothing new. It's been going on since the days of Tin Pan Alley and,
subsequently, Colonel Tom Parker. Its latest manifestation resides
with the deals being cut between music platforms and – the usually
male – DJ-Producers. Currently, in the US, The Music Modernization
Act is a bill intended to ensure songwriters have 'a seat at the
table' when it comes to payment and the collection of royalties from
the big digital platforms. One clause, however, has proven
controversial. This would exclude any retrospective legal claims from
those music platforms who have signed-up to it, such as Spotify. The
compromise which ensured their participation. (Update: on the 25</span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><sup><span style="font-size: 8pt;">th</span></sup></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">
April, the bill was passed, unanimously, by the House of
Representatives). This is, at least, the start of some official
recognition and recompense and not necessarily the end of the road.
Meanwhile, independent voices in the field have started up, offering
advise and support to those already established, but suffering the
lack of credit and payment. (See below for an example).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"></span><span style="color: #1d2129;"> Welcome, if
somewhat belated, (if historical social media posts are anything to
go by), are the fans finally coming around to showing some empathy
with their idols‘ situation; the realisation dawning that they may
lose both the work </span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><i>and</i></span><span style="color: #1d2129;">
their favourite artist unless this situation is dealt with. I know of
at least one other case (an artist once interviewed in these pages)
who – while not entirely giving up on her love – has been forced
to work elsewhere due to unreliable payments.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I’d be the first to admit that the dry
concept of regulation in the arts would normally make me very queasy.
However, seeing the ease with which work can now be stolen and
manipulated, and the negative effects this has on the original
artists, surely justifies singling-out this field as a major
exception. With credit and payment being such live issues in music –
and gender-favouring issues at that – certain obligations must be
fulfilled before the DJ-Producer can so casually finger-press that
final 'click.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"> </span>
</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Check out - <a href="http://www.fairnessrocks.com/" target="_blank">http://www.fairnessrocks.com/</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><b>books.</b></i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><b>a Q & A with</b></i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><b>Steve Rasnic Tem</b></i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><br />
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-GB" style="line-height: 105%; margin-bottom: 0.28cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b>FIGURES
UNSEEN collects your more recent work, published since 2000. How do
you think your writing has matured, or changed, over the last
eighteen years, compared to your earliest published work?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Steve
Rasnic Tem:</b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
Actually, FIGURES UNSEEN collects work from all stages of my career,
beginning with my first professionally published short story, “City
Fishing.” I think the confusion is because I selected stories from
each of my collections, and my first English collection, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>City
Fishing</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
didn’t come out until 2000. (There was an earlier, French language
collection </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ombres
sur la Route</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.)
Basically, I tried to select a representative sampling of my short
fiction, a book I could point to when people asked, “What do you
do?” </span></span></span></span>
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">That
said, there is an evolution in my stories from the beginning until
now. When I finally became serious about writing I started out
studying and writing poetry, and my first fiction actually came out
of my experiments writing prose poetry. So these first stories tend
to feature the compression of poetry, use echoes and choruses and
alliteration and other poetic techniques, and they also tend to be
more dream-like and fabulist than the later fiction. They also tend
to be very short.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
initial evolution from that early work largely consisted of learning
how to write longer stories—more narrative-driven, more complicated
plots, more characters, using more than one obsessive theme per
story, etc. The use of language and tone also became more
complicated. What drives me now is more thematic. I’ve been picking
up on events and themes I once found too personally troubling to
write about. One thing about getting older—you tend to grow less
reticent about revealing yourself. You grow beyond embarrassment. </span></span></span></span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b>Several
of the tales in FIGURES UNSEEN feel particularly personal. Familial
grief and loss seem especially foregrounded in tales such as 'A House
by the Ocean,' the seminal 'Wheatfield With Crows,' 'The Figure In
Motion' and 'Firestorm.' Was this conscious on your part? Were you -
perhaps intentionally - working through similar feelings during their
writing?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>SRT:</b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
I think my work has always been somewhat personal, but I’ve gotten
better at incorporating the personal material, so readers are seeing
more and more of it. But even when I’m writing about events which I
haven’t experienced myself, the key is to be empathetic and to make
them personal. Some aspects of writing are very much like acting. You
must try to “inhabit” your characters, especially the
protagonist. Oftentimes problems in tone and awkwardness are due to
the fact that you haven’t learned how to fully inhabit your
character yet. Also, usually when I write about personal material
it’s </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>after</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
I’ve worked those feelings through, not during.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b>I
particularly enjoyed the dark humour of ‘The Poor’ and
‘Crutches.’ I could relate to how I, myself, view the coldly
callous treatment meted out in the former and the sense of inevitable
defeatism in the latter. Do you have a strong sense of social
injustice, the way Governments’ can often treat people and how they
respond?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><b>SRT:</b>
The inherent problem with any government is that it by necessity must
treat people as numbers and percentages to a certain degree in
drafting policy. If it’s a just government then it also tries to
protect and preserve justice for the minorities and outliers whose
needs and sense of identity is at variance with those in the
majority. But still, we’re basically talking about numbers and
percentages here. But human beings are not numbers and percentages.
They’re far more complicated than that, and they expect and demand
empathy. And empathy makes things messy. So messy in fact that there
is pressure to disregard empathy in making policy. There is even
pressure to disregard empathy when leading one’s life. </span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
result I get from all this is absurdity. Much of modern life abounds
in absurdity. And my sense of the absurd is expressed in stories like
“The Poor” and “Crutches” and “Head Explosions” and a
number of others. The only way around this is to find ways to
humanize government, to make empathy into a tool for handling large
numbers of folks. We’re not very good at that yet—maybe we never
will be. One of the reasons we’re not very good at it is that
anytime we don’t understand someone, any time they scare us or
disappoint us or they trigger our own anxieties or even when we just
feel sorry for them, we fictionalize them, we make stories up as to
who they are and what they’re about. And sometimes those stories
are bad enough they veer into prejudice, racism, misogyny, etc.
Perhaps if we were more aware of how we fictionalize other people,
we’d do it a lot less.</span></span></span></span><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b><span style="background: #ffffff;">This
question is, I’ll admit, something of an old chestnut, but it’s
one I’ve yet to reconcile for myself. I’m not a fan of the term
‘horror,’ as describing what I either like or the audience I’d
like to attract. As both reader and writer, Robert Aickman’s use of
the word ‘strange’ is more my starting point; where the ‘weird
shit’ that occurs is almost supplementary, from left-field, rather
than the driving force of the tale. What do you think of the term
‘horror’ whenever critically applied to your own work?</span></b></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="background: #ffffff;">SRT:</span></b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">
I’ve been back and forth on this question over the years. In part
because of its association with movies, “horror” has come to
imply this big emotional response, this open-mouthed,
hands-in-the-air, heart-stopping response to something
incomprehensibly terrible. Well, that doesn’t fit what I write at
all, and it doesn’t fit most of what I like to read. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">I do like
Aickman’s “strange stories,” and to a certain degree I like
“the weird,” but we can get into endless conversations as to
actually what these terms mean. In fact, currently we seem to be
drowning in terms attempting to pinpoint the various shadings of this
literature: “Smart horror” and “Elevated horror” and “the
weird” and “dark suspense” and “bizarro” and “dark
fantasy,” etc. And in the end they really don’t seem to clarify
anything. </span></span></span></span></span>
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But,
whatever we do, the label “horror” never seems to go away. That’s
the one that sticks, inaccurate or not. And I have to say I have
loved a great many things over the years with that label emblazoned
on the spine. So I suppose I have come to just accept the term. Call
my work “horror,” but if you really want to know what I’m about
just read the stories.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b>Of
the current generation, who are your own favourite short tale authors
who you feel are woefully underrated or underexposed?</b></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>SRT:</b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
There are so many—it’s a golden age for this literature in the
short form. As for underrated or underexposed, it depends on the
context—very few names seem to be known everywhere. But here’s a
sampling of people I like to read: Caitlin Kiernan, Simon Stranzas,
Lynda Rucker, John Langan, Kristi DeMeester, Nathan Ballingrud, Mark
Valentine, Jeffrey Ford, too many to name, really.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><b>How
far are you into your latest project and can you hint as to its form
or content?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>SRT:</b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
I’m playing with a lot of things. I just finished a short story I’m
very proud of, “The Parts Man,” which will be in </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Valancourt Book of Horror Stories</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
this Fall. Also coming this Fall is my short story “Thanatrauma,”
another one I’m very proud of, in </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>New
Fears 2</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
In terms of books, I’m half-way through finishing a YA horror
novel, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Summerdark</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
and I’m working regularly on the novel </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Bodies
& Heads</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
a rather strange extension of my short story of the same name that
was in </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Book of the Dead</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">.
It’s hard to say how much I’ve completed on that because I know
I’ll be doing a lot of rewriting. Maybe 35%?</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Huge thanks to Steve for the giving of his time.</i></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">See the Tems' official site here: http://www.m-s-tem.com/tems/blog1.php/home</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">All The Fabulous Beasts by Priya Sharma, Undertow Publications</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Priya Sharma describes herself in her day job
as a doctor and general practitioner, having formerly studied
medicine at university. Certainly, her debut collection reveals an
interest in biological transformation and its effect upon personal
relationships. </span><span style="color: black;">Her</span> best more
precisely invoke what the back cover refers to as her melding of
'myth and ontology.' On a personal level, this is what I try to
achieve in a strand of my own; where an individual in the present
cannot – either by choice or design – surpress their past or true
nature. This is the overarching theme hiding in plain sight behind
the fantasy. Beside this, the bonds of love, lust and loss play out
in familial situations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> 'The
Crow Palace' refers to 'the altar of the childhood rituals that bound
us'; a bird-table gradually constructed in increasing layers, over
years, by the father of twins, and possibly at the expense of their
own home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In
'Egg,‘ a young woman's infertility is bargained away for the
promise of motherhood when a witch with ambiguous intent offers her a
daughter; except this child is in an egg. Once the shell breaks, she
gradually bonds with the offspring as she would any daughter. Yet,
this is only the first test of her commitment. Sharma posits an
interesting dilemma; the strength of a mother's love in the face of
her spawn being a different species.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> 'The
Sunflower Seed Man' sees the secret of a sunflower, planted by the
late husband and father buried beneath it, appear to fulfill its
unknown promise from the perception of his wife, desperately mourning
his loss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In 'The
Englishman,‘ the most affecting tale, Kris Sharma has been away
from India for twenty-five years. On his return to the country, his
wife and old life having passed, he wants to know who he now is and
where he now belongs. In his quest for identity, he stumbles upon an
answer that, ironically, subsumes it. The title then is also ironic,
in that it recognises his definition as one kind of 'Englishman' by
the Asian and another kind in England itself. Such a tale, with its
nod to the human condition, reveals Sharma as a definite cut above
most of her contemporaries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> 'The
Nature Of Bees' is a personal favourite. At an age-old family
community that harvests honey, a woman falls for a handsome, sensual
male whose covert intention is revealed as much wider than she could
have foreseen. (I appreciated the false sense of security intimated
in his depiction as a louche romantic).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> 'Fabulous Beasts' is something of a domestic drama as a father with a
history of violence, having served his time, is released back to the
family home. His view of reintergrating-into-society is to continue
his psycho-sexual dominance from where he left off. However, his
growing children share an ability his self-serving mind could never
encompass.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Sixteen
tales for a debut collection feels excessive. Fortunately, Sharma is
one of those cut-above new voices from whom the best harbour prose, as beautiful as it is visceral, that elevates them above mere horror.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Pan Review Of The Arts - No. 8 will be here in July</b></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-40480331737641843772018-03-03T08:38:00.000-08:002018-03-03T12:02:59.305-08:00Pan Review Of The Arts - No. 6<div style="text-align: justify;">
Welcome back to all Pan's readers from me and a very grateful goat-foot god Himself, who's only just emerged, belatedly, from hibernation. The arts combo here touches upon both painting and - as ever and always - books. While this blog has long been an admittedly self-centered indulgence, (as is His wont), we are always open to new ideas; these, with regard to what aspects of the arts you'd like to see that have yet to be covered. What will be a constant will be the preference for short tale collections over novels, though, as with author HELEN GRANT, those known for both would never be ignored. First up is New Zealand artist VIKY GARDEN, whose uncanny depictions of the self through the years has, I'm pleased to say, quite some way to go. The sole collection from a future BBC scripter in children's fantasy ends this entry. Enjoy...</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-38127921346060872322018-03-03T08:19:00.003-08:002018-03-03T08:19:19.672-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>art.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-NZ"><b>You've
written on your site that you're 'still painting that very first
self-referencing painting – and I can’t or won’t finish doing
so until I feel I’ve got it - which will probably never happen.'
Reflecting on this, what do you feel might be the obstacles to
achieving finality?</b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-NZ"><b>Viky
Garden:</b></span><span lang="en-NZ"> I think it’s my way of saying
I never want to finish – or that I’m aware there really is no end
until the big sleep. All of these paintings are a continuing
conversation I’m having with myself and deep down in my marrow it’s
not something I want to stop. Each time I start a new work I’m
giving myself total freedom but at the same time I’m literally
looking to myself for answers as to how this latest relationship –
mere pigment scraped on canvas, will resolve – what question will
it ask?</span><span lang="en-NZ"><b> </b></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Do you vary the
ways you work – and / or the materials used - when you begin your
latest self-portrait, or is there always a set routine?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>VG:</b>
Until a month ago, my studio used to be a room in the house – so it
was very easy for me to nip in and out at any time and within
seconds, be working. Now I’ve got a separate studio out in the yard
and it requires dedicated time. I make a point of getting all the
admin/chores sorted in the morning and that gives me the afternoons
to spend in the studio.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> For the first 25
years I painted with oils because I had this insane bias against
acrylic paint. Something along the lines of ‘good artists use oils’
– an embarrassing prejudice based solely on the idea that one
learned technique has more value than another. But I found that I was
using smaller and smaller brushes and working with my nose to the
canvas – I was slowly suffocating. I felt the need to challenge my
approach but wasn't sure how to go about it. So I stopped painting. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> This is a
financially suicidal thing to do and I don’t recommend it. But for
two months at the end of 2015, that’s exactly what I did. With
time, I slowly began to give myself permission to think in broader
terms until I got to a point where nothing was standing in my way (it
never had been of course, I was the sole obstacle). In those two
months over summer, I played a lot of backgammon. I’m certain it
helped in a contemplative way <span lang="en-NZ">because</span> in
February 2016 I went back into the studio, put away the oils and
paintbrushes and began painting with liquid acrylic and using bits of
cardboard. I didn’t want anything to remind me of the practice of
oil painting – no paint in tubes and no brushes. It was an enormous
risk because I had no idea how to paint with acrylics or even what it
was I was hoping to achieve.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> If there’s a set
routine, it’s a loose one with a much more random approach to
what’s going to appear on the canvas and why. Working with
abstraction has given me much more opportunity to discover ‘happy
accidents’, those wonderful moments of time where a splash or smear
of paint can determine or reveal an aspect of light or form that
conscious thought and practice often stifles. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Have there been
occasions when your art and the music of your husband Steve, of
Rattle Records, have come together in multimedia projects?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>VG:</b> We tend
to stay in our own paddock with our work. The only time there’s
been any overlapping is when my photography has been used for Rattle
cover artwork and my choosing Rattle music for two of my Youtube
clips. We both work from home so we’re together all the time and
often Steve’s work can be intense (he not only runs Rattle but he
engineers and produces most of the music). To be honest, I’ve never
thought about the possibility of doing any kind of project together
because there never seems to be enough time in the day. That’s not
to say that if something presented itself we wouldn’t consider it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>From your
website, I see you have also sculpted variations of the female torso.
Are you also the model for these and do they represent, as much as
the paintings, this same ongoing search?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>VG:</b> In the
summer of 2013 I produced about a dozen small sculptures. At the time
it was as much about giving myself a break from painting as it was
the desire to learn a new process. The great thing about the torsos
was that for the most part, I was able to think less and simply
produce. There’s something to be said for the physical process of
producing work in this manner – making moulds and casting pieces
(each torso is in a limited edition of 5) and finally, sanding for
hours on end. I was curious and keen to teach myself how to make
sculpture. Apart from a couple of works, they are mostly female
torsos – it wasn’t a conscious decision to base these on me, but
the tendency for me is always to do what I know. These are like
talisman pieces, they each fit in the palm of my hand and are
beautiful forms to hold. I’ve since had one of the pieces printed
larger (using 3D technology) so that in the future I can made an
edition of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>So far, what have
your self-portraits helped you learn about yourself since the age of
fifteen?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-NZ"><b>VG:</b></span><span lang="en-NZ">
It’s so tempting to say ‘everything and nothing’. </span><span lang="en-NZ"><i>Everything</i></span><span lang="en-NZ">
in the sense that they are a visual record of my life for the past 30
years. While I haven’t been too obvious with my narratives, I
clearly recall what was happening at the time when I look back at the
majority of my work. If I was to say </span><span lang="en-NZ"><i>nothing,</i></span><span lang="en-NZ">
it’s because ‘needing to know’ keeps me standing in front of
that easel. In all this time, nothing about ‘our’ language –
the language that exists between </span><span lang="en-NZ"><i>me </i></span><span lang="en-NZ">and</span><span lang="en-NZ"><i>
her</i></span><span lang="en-NZ"> – has changed. I’ve learned
that what feels personal, even intimate, is really universal –
aspects of love and loss, the transitory nature of everything, change
and impermanence. Collectors aren’t buying ‘a portrait of Viky
Garden’, they’re seeing something that resonates their own life
experience.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Do you think
you'd still have wanted to be a painter if consistently using
yourself as the subject hadn't originally occurred?</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>VG:</b> Life is
serendipitous; opportunities arise and if we have the talent, time,
and understanding, we make of it what we will. I didn’t get the
chance to go to art school, however at eighteen I met Steve and for
as long as we’ve been able to, we’ve given ourselves the freedom
to make our own path and trust our own vision. In a parallel life I
could very well have gone to art school, applied myself and perhaps
found influence in a different discipline or practice. I’ve often
wondered, if I wasn’t painting at all and could choose a different
interest, it would probably be based around some sort of archaeology.
I can think of nothing more meditative than carefully revealing and
discovering aspects of our past, what makes us who we are now. In
many ways, I find its very much the same purpose painting serves. </span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A big thank you to
Viky for her time and contribution.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You
can find Viky's official website here: <a href="https://www.vikygarden.com/">https://www.vikygarden.com/</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On
Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/vikygardenartist/">https://www.facebook.com/vikygardenartist/</a></span></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-32864653670846246132018-03-03T08:13:00.003-08:002018-03-03T08:16:09.424-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>books.</i></span></b></div>
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I first heard about HELEN GRANT from her 2013 Swan River Press collection, <i>The Sea Change & Other Stories</i>. Known mainly as a popular novelist for the Young Adult range, her latest - <i>Ghost</i> (Fledgling Press) - cleverly defies reader expectation, with its young protagonist of the title and the resonant echoes of a historical past. </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>What
inspired the plot and choice of setting for </b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Ghost</b></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>?
</b></span></span></span>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Helen
Grant:</b> I've always found real life locations a great source of
inspiration; all my novels and most of my short stories are set in
real places that I have visited. I think an atmospheric location is
not only a rich backdrop to a story, it can also suggest elements of
the plot. For me, an interesting setting is like an empty stage set,
waiting for the characters to appear, and the details of the stage
scenery suggest to me what kind of action might take place. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> Ghost</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
is set in Perthshire, Scotland, where we have lived since 2011. One
aspect of living here that I've always found fascinating is being
able to see the traces of the past in the landscape. I'm fascinated
by the vanished country houses of Scotland – many of them built in
the 1800s and then abandoned in the mid twentieth century when they
became impractical to maintain. Langlands House, the setting for the
book, is not a real place, but it is inspired by some of the derelict
houses I've visited. Most of them are ruinous because when they were
abandoned they were unroofed, and the weather has got in. I thought:
supposing there was a house like this, but someone had just locked
the door and walked away, leaving all the contents inside? Who would
be living in a place like that, and why? And that is where the story
of </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ghost</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
came from. </span></span></span>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Innerpeffray
Library, an antiquarian library near Crieff, was also a source of
inspiration for the fictional library at Langlands House. I liked the
idea of a library that has so many interesting and beautiful books on
such a wide range of topics, but all of them outdated. My heroine
does her best to interpret the world around her with nothing to rely
on but that. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Without
wishing to give away any plot elements, did you decide at the outset
of </b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Ghost</b></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>'s
writing that the old adage of what-goes-around-comes-around would be
a key part of the climax?</b></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>HG:</b>
I knew from the outset what the ending of the book would be. The
final scenes were very clear in my mind even before I started
writing. But I don't really see the ending as being all about
what-goes-around-comes-around. I think it's more about the difficulty
of escaping who we are, and the history that has shaped us. It's very
hard to say any more about this topic without offering any massive
spoilers! </span></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A
real strength of the novel's first half are the tropes of
supernatural fiction being at first suggested, then changed. Was this
always your intention, during the drafting, or did you change your
mind and decide to defy the reader's expectations?</b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>HG:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
This was one hundred per cent intentional. I wanted the reader to ask
themselves what was really happening, and perhaps to make some
assumptions before more of the truth of the situation was revealed.
</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ghost</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
was a very difficult book to write, and I did more rewriting and
editing on it than I have done on any of my other novels. But the
rewriting was largely about the characterisation and some plot
details. I was very clear about the supernatural tropes and their
role in the novel throughout the writing process. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The
</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>feel
</b></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>of
the novel reminded me of Nina Bawden's </b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Carrie's
War</b></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>.
The house, the lone girl protagonist, the family feud and consequence
for which she feels profound guilt, etc. Were such novels for older
children, and / or their TV adaptations, a major influence on your
writing?</b></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>HG:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
No. I recall </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Carrie's
War</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
being on television when I was a child but I have never read it, and
I can't think of any other novel for older children which was an
influence here. I would say that a big influence was Gothic
literature, which also favours tropes such as the isolated heroine
and the intriguingly dilapidated ruin, and often has a supernatural
element. I've always loved classic Gothic fiction, ever since I was a
teenager myself, devouring </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Mysteries of Udolpho</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
and </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Dracula.
</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Combining
my Gothic tastes with my environment of rural Scotland was what
produced </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ghost.
</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>While
the novel form has long been considered – by agents and publishers
- as more commercial than collections of short tales, still might we
hope for a follow-up to </b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>The
Sea Change </b></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>(Swan
River Press (2013)) in the future?</b></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>HG:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
Yes, definitely. I have now written more than enough new stories to
create a new collection, and I really hope to see one come out in
future. However, a few readers did comment after reading </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The
Sea Change</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
that they would like to have seen some completely new fiction in it.
It would be ideal if a future collection included some totally unseen
work - and I haven't had time to sit down and write anything! </span></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I
agree that collections of short stories are seen as a harder sell
than a novel. All the same, ghost stories remain perennially popular.
Personally, I love writing them. A novel of 120,000 words is a big
undertaking, whereas a story of 5,000 words gives a sense of
satisfaction and completion but takes a comparatively short amount of
time to write. I think also that as a novelist there is always this
pressure to produce something similar to the thing you wrote last
time, probably because it's confusing for the readership if you write
a crime thriller and then follow it up with a Gothic romance. But
there isn't the same pressure with short stories. You can experiment
a bit more. I sometimes write ghost stories with quite traditional
settings but just recently I've been experimenting with more
existential stuff and I really enjoy doing that. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>For
me, the traditional ghost-in-a-haunted-house type tale is way past
its use-by date. What is your own view of the ghost in modern
literature?</b></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>HG:</b></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
This is an interesting question. My daughter, who loves classic ghost
stories, admits that some of the traditional tropes are now clichés
but says that to a certain extent she reads the stories for those
clichés. And I think that the traditional setting of the decaying
old house or dank mossy churchyard is used for a reason: those places
genuinely are creepy. I should know – I spend my spare time
exploring places like that! In the hands of a really good writer, I
think they can still come to full and creepy life. An excellent
example in my mind is Neil Gaiman's short story </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>October
in the Chair</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">,
which features both haunted house and graveyard. It's a story which
fills me with tension and dread – and also sadness - every single
time I read it. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I
think though that when we say "traditional ghost…" we are
thinking of a very specific type of ghost: the lingering spirit of
the recently dead. For me, a ghost can be very different from that.
In a recent interview, I was asked (as I often am) whether I believe
in ghosts myself, to which I answered: Yes. I don't believe in things
in white sheets and chains hanging around a graveyard going
"Wooooo….!" But I think it's possible to be haunted. I've
occasionally seen someone in a crowd and thought that it was someone
I know to be dead, and I've dreamed very vividly about people who
have died. Now, I know that I am not really seeing a ghost when I
"see" people in this way, but I think these experiences are
a kind of haunting, because they show that the lost person is still
very present in my mind. I think </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ghost</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
is a book in which the past very much haunts the present, and the
dead reach out of their graves to exert their influence on the
living. Isn't that the definition of a ghost story?</span></span></span></div>
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<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Huge
thanks to Helen for her contribution.</span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1519839017782_2620"></a>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Helen's official
website is at: <a href="http://www.helengrantbooks.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #196ad4;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , "lucida grande" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">http://www.helengrantbooks.com/</span></span></u></span></span></span></span></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Twitter:
</span></span></span></span></span><a href="https://twitter.com/helengrantsays" target="_blank"><span style="color: #196ad4;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , "lucida grande" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">https://twitter.com/helengrantsays</span></span></u></span></span></span></span></a></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-22308347137543306282018-03-03T08:03:00.000-08:002018-03-03T10:17:02.904-08:00The Other Passenger by John Keir Cross, Valancourt Books<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
arrival of John Keir Cross (1914-67) spearheaded the post-war second
wave of BBC script writers for radio and TV. He was mainly known for
his children's fiction under the pen-name, Stephen Macfarlane. <i>The
Other Passenger</i> (1944) was his only collection for adults; issued
under his own.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of the
Portraits, 'The Glass Eye,' 'Clair de Lune' and 'Miss Thing and the
Surrealist' are the best. Of the Mysteries, 'Liebestraum' and
'Cyclamen Brown.' These avoid the usual overwrought reactionism, in
most contemporary horror, where the reader is supposed to respond,
with robotic obedience, to the author's most lurid descriptions,
leaving little room for imagination. These five – though featuring
horrific elements – are as much reliant upon strangeness and, yes,
the uncanny.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In 'The
Glass Eye,' the black humour is beautifully judged, triggered from a
lovely fable of Eastern philosophy, worthy of M.P. Shiel or Vernon
Lee. A woman in her late thirties, unlucky in love, falls for one she
perceives as a handsome ventriloquist at a local theatre. She
initiates an amorous correspondence. When – too late - she learns
the secret behind the act's success, her bitter vengeance reflects
the impotence at her heart – as well as his. This tale may have not
only inspired the memorable 'Ventriloquist's Dummy' entry of the film
<i>Dead Of Night</i> the following year; it might also have gained
Keir Cross entry into screenwriting itself.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Clair
de Lune' opens on an invitation by a platonic girlfriend to stay at a
country retreat amongst a group of bohmeian highbrows, initiating a
dark attachment eternally awaiting the spirit of a fearful young girl
who appears in the garden for the protagonist alone. The title
alludes to the beckoning tune played by ghostly hands upon a
stationary lute in the house. A tale that succeeds, mainly, for its
manifestation of the girl and the period descriptions of the guests.
Intriguing, but not quite followed through, is the <i>raison d'etre</i>
of the shadowy enemy that comes between them both.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of the
sad-older-man-obsessed-with-pretty-young-girl entries, 'Liebestraum'
possesses a subtlety and heart, harbouring a sympathy for both main
characters, right up to the end. A sanitary inspector loses his wife.
Neither husband nor wife loved each other – each knew it - and when
the wife dies while having an affair, he, understandably, feels the
need to break out and find a very different replacement of his own.
Things go well enough, platonically, but something else is going on
within him.
</div>
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'Miss
Thing and the Surrealist' features an artist (of guess which former
movement) and the disparate, disguised identity of his greatest work
that somehow maintains a psychological hold on its creator and
followers; a refreshingly odd diversion from the genre and its
sub-genres depicted elsewhere. 'Cyclamen Brown' is the first-person
narrative about a meeting with a commercial writer of popular song,
who ducks and dives amid the 'racketeers, sharks and toughs' of
Forties London. The character Eddie Wheeler is convincingly drawn.
(Convincing in that he reminded me of someone I know); fast-talking,
no-nonsense, with a depracating wit to his speech. The title alludes
to his mysterious, torch-singing muse who wears a permanent mask on
and off-stage. This is, in truth, <i>her</i> story.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Subsequently, Keir Cross's most resonant contribution to the genre
were, first, with the BBC, as radio script-adapter for anthology
series <i>The Man In Black</i> (1949), (introduced by the
sepulchral-voiced actor, Valentine Dyall), then, in the 50s' and
60s', a return to children's fantasy with entries for <i>Children's
Hour</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He ended his career with a
one-off production of </span><i>The Box Of Delights</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
for </span><i>Saturday Night Theatre</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
(1966).</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
To J.F.
Norris's credit – whose new introduction gives precious background
on the career – he leaves the reader hungry to proceed. The
remaining tales, however, don't truly deliver. The title tale, a
doppelganger re-run, displays much stylish form for little real
substance.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Keir
Cross's approach is hardly ahead of its time, being very much of it.
Like his contemporaries, he has a particular disdain for the
metropolitan lower middle-class. Men are henpecked, wig-wearing,
denture-wearing impotents eager to cave-in their spouse's heads as a
delusional shortcut to dominance. His women are ideal targets for
that era's casual misogyny, depicted as 'little,' 'loathsome' or
excessively fat; sex-jaded burdens on their long-suffering husbands.
Next to Valancourt's exemplary reissues by Forrest Reid, Claude
Houghton, Lord Dunsany and many others, <i>The Other Passenger </i>proves<span style="font-style: normal;">
we'd been spoiled;</span> but, the best of Keir Cross shows what
might have been had he remained longer on the page.</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Pan Review Of The Arts No.7 will appear in May.</b></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-21540922397122586252018-01-06T01:23:00.000-08:002018-01-06T08:41:28.044-08:00Pan Review of the Arts - No. 5<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Editorial: </span>A new year spawns a renewed Pan and here He's very much on the fore-hoof. F</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;">ormer music journalist and weaver of supernatural tales </span><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;">NINA ANTONIA presents her debut novel, </span><i style="color: #222222;">The Greenwood Faun</i><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;"> (Egaeus Press), the first number of the first European fantasy magazine, </span><i style="color: #222222;">The Orchid Garden </i><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;">(Zagava Press) is reissued in facsimile, and composer/musician ROGER ENO offers us a few words on his latest album, </span><i style="color: #222222;">This Floating World</i><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;">. (Never off Pan's Sunday morning playlist). Enjoy.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">books & art.</span></i></b></div>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Did
you come late to the supernatural as a writer, or had you been
writing to the genre for years prior to publication?</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0.05cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Nina Antonia</b>: Although I was always an avid reader of the
supernatural, it took me a long time to find the confidence to
express myself as a writer of the genre. It might have had something
to do with having been a published author in another realm, oddly.
However, the artists that I covered as a rock journalist were never
what you might call mainstream and I’ve always been interested in
‘outsider’ themes and more outré characters. Hence, when I had
my first supernatural piece published, ‘South West 13’ for Egaeus
Press, in their ‘Soliloquy for Pan’ anthology two years ago, it
merged the two strands of fantasy and music, Pan meeting Marc Bolan
on Barnes Common. It was the perfect configuration. I suppose Pan was
the rock- star of his day, nymphs and satyrs his followers, dancing
to his vivid tune. Pan opened the door for me. Unfortunately, the
music industry has become terribly constricted, there is little
freedom left. If you look at Glastonbury at its inception, where it
would have been quite enchanting, especially in such a mythical
setting, to the money making, corporate backed juggernaut it has now
become, there’s little left for dreamers. I doubt that Pan would
be playing the main stage, do you? Esoteric and supernatural themes
have provided me with the latitude that music and its once wayward
crew, used to. We all need a mystical moon to dance beneath. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">How
and when did you discover Arthur Machen?</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>NA</b>: Everything goes full circle doesn’t it? I
discovered Arthur Machen through musician and author, David Tibet,
many years ago. Although David has a band, Current 93, he was also
publishing hard to find supernatural/fantasy titles via Ghost Story
Press, so there was a cross over between esoteric music and
literature. In the misty in-between our path’s crossed and he gave
me a copy of ‘The Hill of Dreams’ and I don’t think I’ve yet
recovered. It was rather astute of David, when I think about it. How
did he know that I’d be so enraptured? Perhaps there’s a little
bit of Pan in every musician that hasn’t sold their soul. No other
writer has had such an impact upon me as Arthur Machen. There is
something very unsettling yet beautiful about his work, a greater
knowledge of ancient things unseen but present, yet very accessible
to read. Machen is a master of his craft, he transcends the page. For
someone like me, who doesn’t believe that what is in front of us
constitutes the entirety of existence and that there are mysteries,
Machen is indispensable. He wakes you up to another reality. ‘The
Greenwood Faun’ is a direct consequence of Tibet having introduced
me to Machen all those years ago. The circle was completed when David
agreed to write something to go on the cover of ‘The Greenwood
Faun.’ </span>
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">How
did you settle on the idea of a sequel to his 'Hill Of Dreams' for
your first novel?</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0.05cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>NA</b>: The idea of ‘The Greenwood Faun’ as a sequel to
‘The Hill of Dreams’ seemed to come out of nowhere, it was an
unplanned yet pressing need that was pleasant but insistent, like
Pan’s pipes. However, I also believe that our inner life much like
the life of dreams, formulates things before we become aware of them.
‘The Hill of Dreams’ is a fascinating work; it reveals new
aspects of itself with each re-reading. Plus, I empathised with
Machen’s struggling author, Lucian Taylor, who loses his way in
life, as he is trying to commit his mystical vision to paper. A book
is a composite of many things – for example Chatterton also appears
as a reoccurring motif in ‘The Greenwood Faun’ based on the
famous Pre-Raphaelite painting by Wallis. Like Lucian Taylor, he is
another young author who sacrifices his life to his art. Late one
winter’s afternoon, when the book was still a phantom, I was in the
vicinity of Euston station. Twilight was ebbing into night and it was
very cold. I looked up and became aware of a young man with hair the
colour of an autumn sunset, that same burnished russet gold of the
Wallis painting. The young man looked like an apparition of the
painting. It was as if he’d just stepped out of the frame. As you
would imagine, he was not in good shape sadly, far too thin, the face
full of suffering, even at a distance. I felt stricken by his despair
but then he literally wasn’t there anymore. It was extraordinary.
Was he corporeal or a vision? Either way, I shan’t forget. London
is full of ghosts. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Writing
<i>to</i> – rather than <i>about</i> the supernatural – requires
a subtle and poetic prose-style that intimates otherworldliness from
often quite familiar settings or situations. After you've decided
upon the plot and characters, do you find this easy to achieve or do
you feel the need to keep re-drafting?</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0.05cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0.05cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>NA</b>: Interesting question: Everyone has a different way
of going about writing. It’s as individual as their fingerprint.
However, there do seem to be formulas that people who have had the
opportunity to study, might be inclined to follow. The main thing is
to find what works for you. I always felt that writing was like
having a palette of paints and finding the right words was more about
discovering what gorgeous things you could do with the mixture of
shades, it’s why the Pre-Raphaelites are so rich, how many shades
of green are there in a Burne-Jones’ portrait? You build a mood
like a colour wash- from emerald to peacock to jade. Gustave Moreau
is another inspiring artist, he creates a bejewelled effect. It’s
like the visual equivalent of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ which
ravishes the mind’s eye. Wilde’s work is brilliantly
ostentatious; Arthur Machen sculpts the intangible from nature and
realistic improbability. Rather than redrafting, I tend to make
layers of impressions. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Of
all the rock stars you've met and written about, who strikes you as
closest to the model of the late-Victorian decadent?</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="break-before: page; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0.05cm; page-break-before: auto;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0.05cm; page-break-before: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>NA</b>: I always thought that Marc Bolan, Prince and Johnny
Thunders were contemporary dandies. Very dainty creatures but they
also strutted like royal peacocks. They are all very mythic and quite
unreal and enchanting. The imagination is captured by people who have
managed somehow to escape being merely flesh and blood and transcend
earthly boundaries to become something we can dream about. You could
include Adam Ant in that canon as well, as Prince Charming but they
have to be at a step removed. Johnny Thunders was rare in that he
could weave that magic even when the going was tough and there was
holes in his shoes. That is the epitome of ‘casting a glamour.’
You can’t let reality seep in even if the rain does. Nico has
always greatly appealed although I never met her but I have written
about her, because she was like something from one of Poe’s
stories, a European relative of the Usher family with an odd little
harmonium on which to play eerie tunes. </span>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Many thanks to Nina Antonia for her time. You can read about Nina and her work here: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">ninaantoniaauthor.com</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">You can purchase a copy of Nina's debut novel here: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">http://www.egaeuspress.com/The_Greenwood_Faun.html</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;">Twitter: @ninaantonia13</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">* * * *</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Der Orchideengarten,
Edited by Alf Von Czibulka, Zagava
Press, (Newly-translated by Helen Grant)
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #0b0080;">
</span><i>"...The art of horror and the horrific
dominate(d) the creative work of all peoples...before they discovered
the beauty in them... That is the cruel truth of this book, but, at
the same time, it is its triumphant testament. Pan lives." (</i>Alf
Von Czibulka, Editor, from Wilhelm Michel review, The Orchid Garden,
Jan. 1919)</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The year
1919 is, perhaps, best known to today's afficianados for the release
of <i>The Cabinet Of Dr. Caligari</i>. Yet, the film was just one
product of this last great generation of the literary and artistic
movement that was Gothic German Romanticism. Since the foundations
laid by the castle-led Gothic had long since passed, 'horror' had to
become more psychologically ambiguous and, dare I say, refined.
Freud's seminal study, 'The Uncanny' (<i>Unheimlich</i>), defining
what John Mullan has precised as 'making strange what should be
familiar,' also found release this year.
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Of
course, it isn't possible to separate the political context of the
material from the historical. Both editor Alfons Von Czibulka and
publisher Karl Hans Strobl were burgeoning fascists' being, at this
formative time, advocates of German nationalism.
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The
fading cannon-smoke of loss pervades this debut issue of four short
tales, two poems and a final page of new book reviews.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Czibulka's
debut editorial unflinchingly states his – and so the magazine's -
nationalist perspective. "Wake Your Sleeping Talents!" he
declaims in the heading. 'Imagine what the German people could
achieve,' he adds, 'if every German were in their </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>rightful
place!</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">'
Almost a century on, this chilling call to arms also sounds an
ironic resonance in pockets of inner-city England today.
Unsurprisingly, not long after this, Czibulka himself would find his
own 'rightful place' in the Nazi Party. </span></span></span>
</span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In
Rudolf Schneider's 'dream' of the title, the protaganist is invited
by a well-dressed man to join in the shooting of innocents by bow and
arrow as some macabre sport of no reason. An inevitable satire on the
recently-ended '14-'18 War. '18. XII. 18' by Paul Frank, and a case
of unwitting Eastern possession unfolds as a dropped diary page for
this very day is pursued by a man who tries to find himself.</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> 'Master
Jericho,' by <i>Orchid Garden</i> publisher Karl Hans Strobl, is the
most traditional, <i>Grand Guignol</i>-type tale. An aged
organ-player, based solely at a local chapel, attracts much attention
from his music at once irresistible and cacophonous. It proves a
source of vampirism. Appropriately, 'Bats' by Max Rohrer is a sonnet
to the night creatures, purveyed in adjectives of Gothic garishness.
Strobl would go on to specialise in literary horror.</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> 'The
Way to the Scaffold' is the fourth and final tale, a reprint of a
Victor Hugo, and – inevitably, but brilliantly - subjective
perception from a prisoner en route to his execution. 'Nocturnal
Visitor' by A.M. Frey is a superbly sensuous and chilling second poem
on hiding from a night terror that itself crouches just out of sight.</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Closing
this debut issue are 'The Greenhouse – The Weird And Wonderful' by
Dr. Max Kemmerich and 'Fantastic Books.' The former feature various
anecdotes on 'mysterious music,' the use of face powder in the 18<sup>th</sup>
century and a mischievous use of the Christ appellation. The latter
are hagiographic book reviews on new titles by contributors.
</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The art
throughout the magazine is spearheaded by Edwin Henel's striking
black, red and yellow cover of a blood-engorged orchid breaking
through the skylight of a greenhouse on a barren, reptilian plain.
(Henel would go on to produce memorable commercial series of scenic
and sporting posters). An image that, perhaps unwittingly, reverses
Czibulka's pronouncement of there being beauty in horror. A
misjudgement that forewarns on the wrongheadedness of fascism. Stark
and striking monochrome work by Paul Neu, Franz Hecht and Wilhelm
Heise also feature in this welcome reissue.</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can purchase a copy of Der Orchidengarteen here:</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">http://www.zagava.de/?post_type=books&p=487</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">* * * *</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "utopia" , "palatino linotype" , "palatino" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>music.</i></b></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This Floating World</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">by
Roger Eno</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">'This
Floating World' is a collection of short piano based pieces which is
a distillation of a method of working and thinking about music I'd
been pursuing for some time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Every morning I'd get up, go
straight to The Clerestory (my studio) and improvise a piece. <span style="color: black;">
I'd then, if deemed necessary, change notes, get rid of elements and,
more rarely, add to the thing. </span>Thus, over months I collected
fifty or so pieces (my memory is pretty shoddy), which I then left
alone. After a while, usually whilst doing other things, I began to
listen to them and select the ones that in some way stood out-this
could be for a melodic idea,an harmonic sequence, the length of gaps
in the piece, the 'colour' of a piece or any number of other passing
considerations.</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I
finally whittled them down to the length of a short album. I tend to
like things that leave you wanting more rather than completely sating
ones interest, which I then very conscientiously put into a running
order. This is an element that I regard as extremely important in an
overall work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I consider this one of my most personal
recordings. 'This Floating World' is unashamedly 'domestic' in its
creative base. The titles mention my eldest daughter, my wife and
features the voice of my younger daughter on 'Empty Room.' The vinyl
album comes with a booklet containing original stories pertinent to
the feel of the music, plus a selection of photographs that I feel
also lend themselves to the flavour of the disc. It also features, on
the final track, my dear old upright piano, which has followed me
around since I was fifteen-years-old. This instrument is a very close
friend of mine.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I love
the openness, the spaces between notes and humility of the music; not
a very humble thing to say, I'll grant you. I like that there is no
real 'focal' point to the pieces, that they just appear live for a
little while and disappear again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> It is this last element which lends
the album its overall title, for there is nothing firm or concrete
here; no stout foundations or secure bases. This album looks at the
world as drift. Roger and out. (Roger Eno)</span></div>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can find out more about Roger and his work here:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">rogereno.com/</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This Floating World is available on the Recital label:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">http://www.recitalprogram.com/this-floating-world/</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3715147079925383900.post-56993347542670419832017-11-04T02:20:00.000-07:002017-11-05T02:35:57.982-08:00Daughters Of Apostasy by Damian Murphy, Snuggly Books<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'The
fictions we partake of,' writes Seattle-based Damian Murphy, 'as with
the fictions we create, bear consequences for each of us that lie
beyond the understanding and control even of their authors.' (From
'The Scourge and the Sanctuary,' p.33).</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This is
particularly the case with psychological studies of protagonists
often labelled under 'uncanny.' As a writer, you can be writing about
yourself without even realising it; or, if you do, your <i>raison
d'etre</i> can be buried deep in your subconscious, manifesting
phobias and hang-ups in dreamscapes that seem, intentionally, to
distance the self.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This
title comprises three short tales – 'The Scourge and the
Sanctuary,' 'Permutations of the Citadel' and 'A Book of Alabaster' -
and two novellas – 'The Salamander Angel' and the first-time
published 'The Music of Exile.'</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'The
Scourge and the Sanctuary' is a a one-sided correspondence from
Theodora at 'River Station South' to Sebastian; two 'river
reporters.' interspersed with an objectively related scene where her
interests are revealed as much astral as environmental. She relates
following three people into a local building that has caught her
interest and finds she has crossed a threshold into a metaphysical
world that infiltrates her very soul, shifting her perception to a
new form of reality; a plot device that links each of the following
tales daughters - and sons - of apostasy.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Permutations of the Citadel' states how Martin 'had always felt that
he might find the means by which to pass beyond the veil of
appearance and into something altogether different.' In this case,
"the cathedral of the senses, he was certain, concealed a hidden
chancel." A quote that links the interests of all five tales
main characters. Martin shares reception duties with astral master
Algernon on the nightshift of a remote hotel. The job is a mere
diversion for a pair with far greater, esoteric interests. For their
own amusement, Algernon proposes re-organising the layout of the map
that hangs beside the staircase. As Algernon commences with its
re-drawing, Martin soon discovers his changes are already taking
place upstairs... My favourite of the three short tales.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'The
Salamander Angel' is the most evocative entry, but also the most
traditional; invocations are summoned from the perspective of three
sets of characters at a church; a set-up, at least, with more than a
hint of Wheatley. The climactic scene of a horde of angels coming to
life upon their pedestals, with calmly murderous intent, is
memorable.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
wonder if old computer games' simplicity, calling more on a gamer's
imagination, was the inspiration for 'A Book of Alabaster.' Stefan
lives alone in a lookout tower on top of a house. To re-engage with
an interest from childhood, he purchases a secondhand computer game
and console, primitive and long unavailable. When it seemingly
becomes infected by a malevolent bug that lives within the program,
his – and its – reality begin to merge into a frightening new
game of cat-and-mouse.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In
'The Music of Exile,' an opulent, snowbound poets' retreat draws
would-be poet Karina there for the third time in as many years.
Already there are three senior literati, including star poet Anna.
Karina – modest about her own efforts – is set an esoteric task
by her, with no clear goal, until the former develops a second-sight,
which - on successful completion – may, or may not, afford Karina a
measure of her mentor's genius. The impression left unspoken is
whether or not this is more a trap to self-destruction by an
ingenious rival.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Decadent exotica and rites of passage initiations, the territory
depicted here, too often succumb to prose far too purple. Murphy just
manages its restraint, succeeding in a balance between taut, economic
narrative and novel evocations that well maintain the concentration.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://www.amazon.co.uk?_encoding=UTF8&tag=thpare-21</div>Mark Andresenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01038293055652376655noreply@blogger.com2