Who says Victorian fiction is dull? You won't think so after reading this book, either focusing on the occult story here or on whlike a 3.7 rounded up
Who says Victorian fiction is dull? You won't think so after reading this book, either focusing on the occult story here or on what's happening beneath it. It reads with that quasi-pulpy aesthetic that I love, although there is some very serious stuff at work here.
The story here is set in the milieu of "upper Bohemia," where
"...mummers, novelists, poets, artists, dilettanti members of parliament, and sensation-hunting visitants from a more aristocratic sphere, made a brave show in the spacious drawing rooms."
It is a place of "at-homes," and it is at one of these gatherings that we first encounter Countess Adrian. The new girl in town, also at the same gathering is young Beatrice Brett, an American woman, medium, and aspiring actress to whom we are first introduced as she makes the crossing from New York to Southampton. It is there that she encounters the painter Bernard Lendon, who is taken with her immediately. These three characters comprise the "He, She, and Another -- the triangle of the human drama!" at the center of this novel. However, as I soon discovered, this is not just another novel featuring a romantic triangle, but rather, as the blurb says, a novel of possession. It is also, as my edition's back-cover blurb states, "A tale where love and the occult collide;" the "vampire kiss" given in this story is only a part of a much larger picture.
I read it twice and had great fun with it both times through. But most intriguing is this: there is a very short line I missed my first time through, in one scene where Lendon and the Countess are talking, where she says that she and "this Agnes Adrian had "gone through a good deal together." It begs the question of not only who or what is this Countess Adrian, but also, if indeed, she ever had a soul. Great food for thought here, when all is said and done; readers of gothic, supernatural and Victorian sensation novels will enjoy this book. I definitely recommend it.
Serious pulpalooza happening here, a book I liked so much that I immediately bought Boothby's The Curse of the Snake.
Some time ago I read Richard MarSerious pulpalooza happening here, a book I liked so much that I immediately bought Boothby's The Curse of the Snake.
Some time ago I read Richard Marsh's The Beetle, which I loved and at the time designated as the literary equivalent of comfort food. Pharos is another I'd put in that category. It also reminds me of some of the movies I'd watch as a kid -- on Saturdays I'd turn on the TV, stretch out on the sofa and watch a show called Creature Feature that ran old horror movies.Woe be to he who interrupted those few hours back then, and woe be to he who interrupts my pulpy reading time now. Actually, I think my horror-fiction reading career began back then, and it all started with this sort of delicious pulpy goodness.
It's not by chance that I mention Marsh's book here, because there is quite a bit of similarity between the two books. While the stories are different, read closely, both Pharos and Marsh's novel reflect the same sort of anxieties centering around the perceived threats to western (read British) civilization and values by an outside/alien/Other. In both books, that threat stems from Egypt, which is not surprising given the context of British imperialism at the time (it's very complicated, and I won't go into it here, but feel free to explore the web if you really want to understand what lies beneath a LOT of late Victorian pulp/horror fiction, including Bram Stoker's Dracula.) The similarities between The Beetle and Pharos don't end there, though -- both are tales of revenge and retribution, but here Boothby gives us a worst-case scenario. It's a page turner, to be sure -- not the best of literature, but who cares?
The Dover edition I have contains the original illustrations by John H. Bacon, which are exquisite; the book itself is hours of just pure, pulpy horror fun. It's not great literature -- in fact, there are some internal eyeroll causing moments, but as far as I'm concerned, it's one that really ought to be in the collection of both horror and pulp aficionados. Pharos is one of the most evil,vile, inhuman, conscienceless villains to make his way into a book; he is someone who will stop at nothing to ensure the success of his horrific plan. He is "as cruel and as remorseless as Satan himself," and god help anyone in his path.
While the mummy aspect won't remind anyone of Karloff here, the book is well worth reading and above all fun, delicious pulpy goodness. It is also a bona fide page turner that I couldn't put down, and a sheer aahhhh read that should not be missed.
Sadly, I'm only midway through and calling it a day on this book leaving it DNF. I say sadly because I'm fascinated with the storyNo. No. No. No. No.
Sadly, I'm only midway through and calling it a day on this book leaving it DNF. I say sadly because I'm fascinated with the story of Lizzie Borden and I was looking forward to yet another take on the story, but midway through I don't see the point in going any further. Oh my god, there's nothing redeeming here. The story is muddled, I can't stand the writing style and the four separate narrative perspectives all bleed together to become one note, meaning I can't tell one voice from the other. Frankly, it's just plain awful.
I see that other readers have loved this book, but evidently I'm not the right reader for it.
The icing on this cake: the blurb from the Saturday Paper has the audacity to put this author in the same league with Patrick Suskind and his book Perfume -- no no no no no. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
I've read a lot of haunting novels before, but really, there's something very unique about this one. Oyster is an excellent novel, one that not only lI've read a lot of haunting novels before, but really, there's something very unique about this one. Oyster is an excellent novel, one that not only looks at the lives of a small group of people living in the outback, but also examines the madness connected with power, secrecy, religious mania and money. Definitely recommended, this is one of the most thought-provoking works of fiction I've ever read. There's nothing ordinary in terms of novel structure, -- the story is not told linearly, but in bits and pieces of looking backward. The characters aren't warm and fuzzy people, so you may not find people here with whom you can identify. They do jump out in 3-D, however, and to me, that's much more important than finding someone likeable. Overall, I found Oyster to be an excellent novel and I can't wait to get to her other books on my home library shelves. Amazing. Simply amazing.
now for the long version:
"People see with the madman's eyes. For true madness has this gift, and this potency, that it makes its own complete world. It has its own space. Others can enter it."
A man known only as Oyster literally stumbles into the small opal-mining town of Outer Maroo, Queensland a few days before Christmas at 2:23 one afternoon. Clad all in white, his clothing stained with blood, he comes into this little off-the-map outback town and things are never the same again. Neither are the inhabitants of this hidden drought-ridden world of its own, where many of the people are happy to be away from the prying eyes of the government. It is a town cloaked in its secrets, which are not made privy to the reader at the outset. What is made very clear is that something terrible has occurred in this place; as the novel unfolds, just what's happened is revealed little by little. Before Oyster's arrival, the inhabitants of Outer Maroo -- -- the cattle graziers, the opal miners and the members of the Living Word fundamentalist congregation all got along just fine. But once the people allowed themselves to be "seduced" by this man, described by one person as being like
"one of those bacterial forces that blindly and ruthlessly seek out the culture that will nourish them,"
life completely changes, and for the worst. This new, uneasy coexistence is also threatened by the "foreigners" who come into Outer Maroo, at first the swarms of Oyster's followers looking for something meaningful in their lives, and then the ones looking for loved ones who had come there and had never been heard from again. Slowly the "foreigners" begin to outnumber the townspeople, a situation which has potential to threaten those who hold the biggest secrets and the most to lose -- and as young Mercy Given notes, when "Jake Digby occasionally arrives with passengers, ... no passengers ever leave with him again." A teacher brought in for the 13 schoolchildren is only one of their number; the arrival of two more who'd come to search for their children at the beginning of the story will be the last.
In this eerie, sometimes verging on the edge of surreal novel, much of what the reader knows is transmitted via Mercy, whose father once led the Living Word congregation. He had built his congregation on the notion that God speaks quietly to each man, and that "No one, no other living soul, can hear what God says to you." With the coming of Oyster, though, Pastor Given's words and his position are usurped by a man who sees the potential of Oyster's usefulness, Dukke Prophet, a man with plenty of secrets of his own and a paranoia that becomes infectious; the Book of Revelation is his testament, hellfire and brimstone are his weapons, and the church is his personal zone of power.
I found this book to be absolutely brilliant, and I would definitely recommend it to people who are looking well beyond the mainstream for an incredible read. It may not be everyone's cup of tea, and I have seen many reviews that call it boring and sleep-inducing. However, on a personal level this novel satisfies my need for the very different. I loved this book. That's all I can say.
Read for my book group, but I'm not keeping my copy. If anyone in the US wants my paperback edition, I will send it to you -- free. Just leave a commeRead for my book group, but I'm not keeping my copy. If anyone in the US wants my paperback edition, I will send it to you -- free. Just leave a comment that you'd like it! ...more
4.5 rounded up. Forgive the uber-long review, but I loved this book and really want to share.
I don't know the last time I've ever been this unsettled 4.5 rounded up. Forgive the uber-long review, but I loved this book and really want to share.
I don't know the last time I've ever been this unsettled by a novel. I started it, was intrigued, picked it up again the next day and read until just after 3 a.m. when I finished it. Then I couldn't sleep for another hour and a half, mulling over what I'd just read and trying to calm the anxiety this most excellent book had caused me. The Night Guest is author Fiona McFarlane's first novel and if this is her first outing, I will probably buy every book this woman writes.
Harry and Ruth Field bought a lovely beachside home up the coast from Sydney after Harry's retirement. Sadly, it isn't too long afterwards that Harry dies, leaving Ruth alone. She's 75, with two sons, one in Hong Kong who is always busy and one in New Zealand. Ruth gets through her day through "symmetry," for example, always starting her journey up a flight of stairs on her left foot, ending it on her right, or believing that if dinner was ready by the six o'clock news, her sons would be there for Christmas. As the novel begins, Ruth awakens at four in the morning after hearing noises in the house. She'd heard these noises before, at a German zoo: "loud and wet, with a low, guttural breathing hum punctuated by little cautionary yelps, as if it might roar at any moment ... like a tiger eating some large bloody thing..." A phone call to her son Jeffrey in New Zealand puts her mind at rest and reminds her that the tiger was likely nothing more than a dream, but she realizes that "something important" was happening. The next day, looking out at the sea, Ruth tells herself that "If one person walks on the beach in the next ten minutes, there's a tiger in my house at night; if there are two, the tiger won't hurt me; if there are three, the tiger will finish me off."
It is then that Frida arrives, sent by the government to be Ruth's carer. A quick conversation with Ruth's son Jeffrey establishes how Frida came to be there:
"A state programme. Her name was on file, and a spot opened up...An hour a day to start with. It's more of an assessment, just to see what's needed, and we'll take things from there."
Jeffrey is delighted at the "good use of taxpayers' money," but Ruth is "not sure about this," thinking she's "not doing badly." But then again, Ruth is somewhat assured because Frida is "Fijian," since Ruth spent part of her childhood in Fiji with her missionary medical parents. And, Ruth tells herself, she's only 75, and her mother had been over 80 "before things really began to unravel."
Things seem to be going well for Ruth with the addition of Frida into her home. Frida extends her hours, and Ruth seems happy when Frida takes on the shopping, bill paying, cleaning, meal preparation and banking. Soon enough the two settle into a comfortable routine. Ruth tells Frida about her life in Fiji, Frida tells her about her brother and her family, and Ruth comes to depend on Frida's help. Up against Frida's boisterous personality, Ruth's own fragile state starts to become obvious, and the reader senses that for Ruth it is somewhat of a blessing to be in Frida's company. But a visit from a friend from Ruth's past starts a long series of waking nightmares that quickly jolt the reader into realizing that all is indeed not well, and events occur that bring Ruth's dreams of being stalked by a predator into a waking reality.
The Night Guest is not an easy book to read on an emotional level. While I won't give away much, first, a lot of what happens is viewed through the lens of Ruth's mind. It's obvious early on that there's something not quite right with her -- she forgets to wash her hair for weeks, she's let her lovely garden become overgrown to the point where the sand is overtaking it, and chores that used to be done dutifully are also neglected. As things begin to take a turn for the worse, it is difficult to pinpoint whether or not Ruth's version of things are anywhere close to lucid and coherent, especially since there is an alternate point of view that gives the reader an impression that maybe Ruth's deteriorating and disoriented mind is imagining things, just as she imagined the tiger in her lounge room. This constant tug between versions of reality (and one of the best uses of reader manipulation I've experienced in a long time) is one of the best features of this novel -- the reader is always trying to decide what's really going on here, and in my case, the tension and sheer aura of menace produced by this story continued to grow up until the very end. Second, this book is incredibly sad and depressing -- there is not one iota of happiness in this book when all is said and done. However, unless the reader's heart is made of stone, the story ultimately should inspire a deep, beyond--gut-level empathy, and make you want to call one of your aging relatives more often. And even though I'm far far away from Ruth's age, I also came away feeling like "Oh my god, I hope I NEVER find myself in this position."
The only niggling thing is that explanations at the end come tumbling in a rather rushed manner, but by that time they don't really matter. As with so many books, in this one, it's more about the journey. The fact that this writer was able, with only words, to produce so much unease inside of me speaks to how well written I found this book to be. There are relatively few books I've read that move me like this one, that keep me up at night, and that still resonate days after reading them. I seriously cannot recommend this one highly enough. I loved this book. ...more
The dustjacket description of this lovely novel of historical fiction doesn't quite do it justice. Burial Rites is based on true events that happened The dustjacket description of this lovely novel of historical fiction doesn't quite do it justice. Burial Rites is based on true events that happened in Iceland in 1828, when Natan Ketilsson and Petur Jónsson were both murdered at Ketilsson's farm in North Iceland. Agnes Magnúsdóttir and Friðrik Sigurðsson were charged with the crimes and sentenced to be executed by Ketilsson's brother. There was a third person involved, Sigríður Guðmundsdóttir, who was also arrested, sentenced to death but then had her sentence commuted to life in prison. Agnes was first held at Stóra-Borg, and then the authorities moved her to Kornsá, where she stayed with a family until she was taken to be executed in January of 1830. According to the author's note, some of the historical accounts of Agnes Magnúsdóttir view her as "an inhumane witch, stirring up murder," but in Burial Rites, Kent sets out to provide Agnes with a more "ambiguous portrayal." While the blurb inside the cover gives you a taste of the story to come, it doesn't begin to cover just how good a writer Hannah Kent really is. She has filled this book with so much more than the story of a murder. Through her excellent use of language, she brings out how nature, the seasons, and the Icelandic landscape not only defined the way that people lived and survived in this time and in this place, but also how people were often left helpless, stranded and in the dark when nature was less than cooperative. Above all, her writing brings out the psychological damage caused by isolation, loneliness and abandonment in an unforgiving environment. If I had to describe this book in one word it would be this one: haunting.
Agnes Magnúsdóttir, abandoned at an early age, spent most of her life moving farm to farm, working as a servant. As the novel opens, she has been sentenced to die along with two others for her part in killing two men at a farm along the sea in Northern Iceland. She'd been kept in irons and chains at the first place after her trial, but then the District Commissioner decided she should be moved to the farm of Kornsá to spend her last days, and the family will be compensated for taking her in. The family at Kornsá is shaken by the news; Margrét, the farmer's wife, protests that she does not want to share her home with "the Devil's children." As Agnes comes to her final home, it upsets the family dynamic, but Margrét puts her foot down, telling Agnes that she will be put to work, and if there is any "violence, lazing, cheek, idleness" or theft, Agnes is gone. A young assistant reverend, Thorvardur Jónsson nicknamed Tóti, also receives official word -- he will be Agnes' spiritual advisor during her final days of life, and is urged to get Agnes to repent and confess before she dies.Tóti, who is inexperienced and counseled by his father not to take Agnes on, becomes the vehicle through which Agnes first starts to unspool her tale, and the rest of the book takes the reader through Agnes' story from her childhood through the fateful day at the farm of Illugastadir, and on to Agnes' last day of life. Each chapter begins with some form of real official document, or a poem, or in one case, an Icelandic saga, all of which have relevance to what's happening in that particular section.
Alternating voices, dreams and portents, superstitions, haunting imagery, and seasonal routines also help to shape this story. It is filled with descriptions of the rhythms of farm life, from communal harvesting and slaughter to living in cramped quarters in a turf-walled croft. But standing above everything that the author writes about is the way she writes it. It's a book that didn't let go of me until the very end, and even then I wasn't finished thinking about what I'd just read. You may be tempted to zip through it for the murder story, but don't. Definitely recommended. Considering that Burial Rites is the author's first novel, it is highly intelligent, sophisticated, and a novel that readers across the spectrum will enjoy. ...more
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