Karl Edward Wagner was a vigorous, gifted writer whose swords and sorcery tales about the barbarian Kane—along with his groundbreaking horror fiction— Karl Edward Wagner was a vigorous, gifted writer whose swords and sorcery tales about the barbarian Kane—along with his groundbreaking horror fiction—is insufficiently remembered today. I recommend the Kane collection Death Angel’s Shadow and the Kane novel Bloodstone as well, but I cannot give my wholehearted recommendation to Wagner’s second Kane novel Dark Crusade.
Most of this has to do with particular difficulties inherent in the Kane character itself. He’s no rough-around-the-edges hero like Conan, no brooding Byronic wanderer like Elric, but something close to a stone cold psychopath, ancient and accomplished in death and evil, perhaps the original Cain himself. Because of this, although Kane may be extraordinarily effective in short tales, he lacks the human sympathy necessary to sustain the reader of novels. In Bloodstone Wagner deals with the problem ingeniously and successfully, but he fails to do the same in Dark Crusade.
Wagner tries his best, compensating in four ways: 1) by extending the length of his superbly written battle sequences (Kane is always marvelous in battle), 2) developing the character of Kane’s enemy General Jarvo from a shallow poppycock into a pathetic—almost tragic—figure, 3) building to a climax in which Kane shifts allegiance, ending up of order and truth, and 4) adding an interesting psychedelic coda involving a wild gate-of-worlds in the Tower of Islsl, a narrative which strives to be a meditation on identity, thereby by-passing the problematic character of Kane.
Alas, Wagner’s fourfold method fails: 1) the major battle bores, for it is much too long, 2) Jarvo is only mildly interesting, 3) Kane’s moral reversal comes too late to restore our sympathies, and 4), the last chapter, “The Lair of Islsl” transparently reveals its origins, as a tacked-on, barely relevant short story.
Still, Dark Crusade is not a waste of time, for it is filled with exceptional prose, vivid scenes, horrific effects, and a pervasive irony. It fails as a whole, but—as the polite curate said of the rotten boiled egg—”parts of it are excellent.” ...more
Bloodstone is the first novel featuring Wagner’s barbarian hero Kane, and—although I had some initial reservations about it, I have to admit that I en Bloodstone is the first novel featuring Wagner’s barbarian hero Kane, and—although I had some initial reservations about it, I have to admit that I ended up enjoying it immensely. I would recommend it not only to anybody who enjoys swords and sorcery and barbarian fantasy, but to anyone who appreciates fantasy centering on a powerful hero.
Why did I have reservations at first? For two reasons, I think, one of which has to do with Kane as a hero and the other with Wagner as a writer.
Kane is the darkest of fantasy heroes--darker than the doomed, Byronic Elric; darker than the lordly and amoral aristocrats of E.R. Eddison’s world. Kane is a near-demonic force, a cursed “wandering jew” of murder, perhaps the first-murderer “Cain” himself. He is brilliant and devious, and—although not wantonly cruel--couldn’t give a fig for morality. He switches sides at will, betrays any ally when to do so achieves his objectives. His heart is as dark as anything spawned by “Monk” Lewis; though he is armed like Conan, he is more like Melmoth the Wanderer. Such a character, I would argue, although he succeeds in novellas, is difficult to sustain in a novel. Evil, however intelligent and inventive, gets a little old after awhile.
As far as Wagner’s style is concerned, it is filled with bravura passages, and is often overwrought. That is one reason why I love his horror stories, for short stories are a lot like snacks: they may be too spicy, too sweet, but that’s okay, it’s not like they make up a meal. But a novel is more like a meal. A purple passage here and there I can take, but purple prose becomes wearisome, after a time.
Neither of these concerns of mine, though, turned out to be a problem. Wagner pulls out all the stops in his accounts of battle, and in his description of Arelartti, the Lovecraftian city inhabited by the Rillyti, degenerate toad-race, but these uses are completely appropriate. The rest of his prose is disciplined and spare, adapted for its particular purposes.
And Kane’s chaotic nature never becomes a problem for the narrative either. I won’t spoil things by telling you how the story develops, but let’s just say that Kane’s self-interest eventual coincides with that of other characters with whom the reader has begun to sympathize, allowing him to revel in the destruction and carnage which brings the novel to a stunning end.
Oh, and that Lovecraftian city and its toad men? Wonderful, just wonderful! I’m a bit of a Lovecraft fan myself, and I found the ruins of Arellarti—and its terrible secrets—one of the best homages to the Dark Master of Providence, Rhode Island, that I have encountered!...more
It is more than a month since I finished the tetralogy The Book of the New Sun, but I have not, until now, reviewed its final volume, The Citadel of t It is more than a month since I finished the tetralogy The Book of the New Sun, but I have not, until now, reviewed its final volume, The Citadel of the Autarch. I am not yet certain I even like these books, let alone how to think about them.
Perhaps this is a sign of Wolfe’s greatness, for writers of genius often require serious reflection and re-reading. (Ursula Le Guin has called Wolfe “our Melville,” and this reminds me that I don’t believe I adequately appreciated Moby Dick until at least my second time through.) I can sincerely say that I am even more impressed with Gene Wolfe’s gifts at the end of this first journey than I was at the beginning of it: his mastery of architectonics, his sly allusiveness, his subtle Christian symbolism, his tasteful manipulation of a deliberately arcane vocabulary, his deft use of detail in the planning of small things, the assurance of his self-aware yet unreliable narrative voice, the majestic confidence with which he builds his world.
Still, there is something I long for in a narrative that The Book of the New Sun fails to provide.
I keep coming back to one of my favorite pronouncements about the arts, a well-known statement of Goethe’s: “Architecture is frozen music; music is liquid architecture.” This strikes me as surprising, yet altogether right . . . but what does it have to say to us about other forms of artistic creation? What about the novel? What of a whole series of novels?
It seems to me that narrative fiction lies directly in the middle of the frozen-liquid spectrum that Goethe’s observation implies. The novel requires of its author an alternation of stasis and dynamism, a balance that—at least in the greatest examples of narrative art—suggests at once a great edifice and a superb symphony.
Although I am sure counter-examples may be found, The Book of the New Sun, in a larger sense, does not achieve this balance. Magnificent in its solidity, like a great Gothic cathedral, it is frozen nevertheless. Its characters are a series of gargoyles perched on finials; its metaphysical framework is a cyclopean roof which only appears to be soaring, a roof of great weight that would smash to earth if not buttressed by expert craftsmanship. And the music of The Book of the New Sun? It is there, undeniably, but for me remains frozen; it is mute, like a score unplayed....more
First published in Beyond Fantasy Fiction (November, 1954), “Upon the Dull Earth” is a bizarre tale-- bizarre even for Philip K. Dick.
It is about a yo First published in Beyond Fantasy Fiction (November, 1954), “Upon the Dull Earth” is a bizarre tale-- bizarre even for Philip K. Dick.
It is about a young woman named Sylvia who can see and communicate with otherworldly creatures who are a little like angels, a lot like fairies (the semi-sinister, not the Tinkerbell kind), and also—given their questionable appetite for lamb’s blood—a little like vampires too. Her fiancee Rick tries to put a stop to this strange form of communion, but an accident occurs that turns Sylvia’s body to ash and transports her to the vampire fairie’s immortal plane. But Rick won’t let her go, and when he tries to bring her back to earth, the consequences change Rick—or the world, or both—forever.
I think the story is a little too crowded with religious symbolism, and a bit too confused to be a masterpiece, but its shift in tone from myth to horror is undeniably effective. I find that it haunts me, and I bet you will too....more
I hate to sound like a broken record, but—as I said at the beginning of my review of The Claw of the Conciliator, the “jury is still out” on The Book I hate to sound like a broken record, but—as I said at the beginning of my review of The Claw of the Conciliator, the “jury is still out” on The Book of the New Sun for me.
True, Wolfe’s world is meticulously constructed, his lapidary prose (enriched by hard words) prepares a supportive mood for his world, and yet the narrator Severian’s artfully cautious tone—no less cautious in moments of candor—causes us (like a torturer) to put to the question every element of this carefully built world. So far so good. It may make for chilly fantasy, but I happen to like chilly fantasy. (My favorites: The Broken Sword, The Elric Saga, and the Viriconium series).
Still, there’s something about the whole project that seems unfocused to me. What is the nature of Severian’s journey? Is he mostly picaro, alchemist, or questing knight—or is he equally all three? I’m now three-quarters of the way through the The New Sun, and I still don’t have a clue.
Still, though, there’s plenty of neat stuff here: the frightening attack of the alzabo, the beast who absorbs and manipulates the personalities of the humans he devours; the encounter with the wily old god Typhon; his capture by the men who wear claws on their hands; the shore-dwellers battle with the floating-island men; and the final fight at Baldander’s castle.
So far, there’s been plenty here to keep me interested, and I look forward to the fourth volume, The Citadel of the Autarch. Still, there’s much here that is still unresolved, and I will be surprised (and extraordinarily pleased) if The Book of the New Sun is brought to a successful conclusion....more
First published in the United States Magazine and Democratic Review, XIV (June, 1844), “The Artist of the Beautiful” is one of Hawthorne’s most succes First published in the United States Magazine and Democratic Review, XIV (June, 1844), “The Artist of the Beautiful” is one of Hawthorne’s most successful tales, a quintessential distillation of his allegorical art.
It tells of the gifted but impractical young watchmaker Owen Warland, who “cared no more for the measurement of time than if it had been merged into eternity,” and who neglects his business in timepieces in order to perfect the construction of a what appears to be a mere toy, “a mechanical something, as delicate and minute as the system of a butterfly's anatomy.” He is secretly in love with Annie, daughter of his former master Peter Hoveden, but although the old watchmaker admires Owen’s talent, he much prefers the practical blacksmith Robert Danforth as a prospective son-in-law.
The story consists of an account of Owen’s labor over—and the eventual fate of—his delicate creation, and of Owen’s fate as well, but at its heart is the exploration of Owen’s true passion: the creation of “the Beautiful Idea,” like the “butterfly that symbolized it” or—as Annie puts it--”the notion of putting spirit into machinery.”
Alas, that the artist, whether in poetry or whatever other material, may not content himself with the inward enjoyment of the Beautiful, but must chase the flitting mystery beyond the verge of his ethereal domain, and crush its frail being in seizing it with a material grasp!
I will not deprive you of learning the rest of Owen’s fate for yourself, and I am sure it will not surprise to learn that—since this is a work of Hawthorne’s—that his fate is not entirely a happy one. Still, though, Owen remains undaunted, for he learns a most important thing:
When the artist rose high enough to achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he made it perceptible to mortal senses became of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possessed itself in the enjoyment of the Reality.
People tell me that Gene Wolfe’s tetralogy The Book of the New Sun is a fantasy masterpiece, but after completing the first two volumes, the jury—at l People tell me that Gene Wolfe’s tetralogy The Book of the New Sun is a fantasy masterpiece, but after completing the first two volumes, the jury—at least this particular one-man jury—is still out.
In my review of the first volume, The Shadow of the Torturer, I praised the superb prose, the vivid descriptions, the realistic evocations of a pseudo-medieval world, and the tantalizing possibility that it may be the culmination of a great civilization (possibly ours) in decline.
All this is equally true of The Claw of the Conciliator, and it has been more than enough to keep me reading. But there is something about the studied guardedness of Severian, protagonist and narrator, that wearies me. I like a hero who, however flawed, I can identify with and root for, and the chilly precision of Severian’s voice—frosty even in his frankest revelations—prevents me from fully committing myself either to his story or his fate. And, not being fully committed, I have come to view Severian’s journeying—however unfairly—as picaresque meanderings, not a quest. (Besides, an event I’d looked forward to—Dr. Talos’ play—disappointed me. I understand it is founding myth, and a commentary on the characters, but it was very long, and I have concluded (pace Gene Wolfe) that Dr. Talos is a very poor writer.)
Still, there are plenty of individual scenes that pleased me here, scenes that remain in the memory: Severian’s interview with the green man from the future: our hero’s use of the Claw to fend off the man-apes, while something leviathan stirs the waters below; a midnight supper with Vodalus, where Severian consumes a lover’s flesh and enters into a kind of communion; the notules, small things that fly through the forest air and try to suck the life-force from Severian; the grotesque diminution of the gorgeous Jolene after the single bite of a blood-bat; and the final spectral dance in the streets of an ancient stone town.
As I said, my jury is still out. Well, let the deliberations begin again! On to The Sword of the Lictor!...more
First published United States Magazine and Democratic Review, XVI (April, 1845). “P’s Correspondence"—although not completely successful—is unusual an First published United States Magazine and Democratic Review, XVI (April, 1845). “P’s Correspondence"—although not completely successful—is unusual and extraordinarily interesting. It is at once an alternate history, a frame-story including an unreliable narrator, a case study of madness, and a satiric commentary on the youthful dead heroes of the previous generation, and what they would have been like if they had lived—as most of us do—to a less romantic and attractive old age.
An unnamed narrator introduces us to his friend P, whose hallucinatory experiences he describes as “not so much a delusion, as a partly wilful and partly involuntary sport of the imagination.” In his letter, P tells us of entertaining great men in London, men whom we know died in their youth but who have continued to live and age in P’s imagination. He seems to relish the fact that in old age these giant personalities have become too ridiculous for greatness, and, even though the occasional memory of a tomb or a terminal biography may frightens him into reality, P. tenaciously maintains his delusion, and continues to gently mock the ruins of great men.
Here are three of P.’s portraits:
LORD BYRON AT 60
He wears a brown wig, very luxuriantly curled, and extending down over his forehead. The expression of his eyes is concealed by spectacles. His early tendency to obesity having increased, Lord Byron is now enormously fat; so fat as to give the impression of a person quite overladen with his own flesh, and without sufficient vigor to diffuse his personal life through the great mass of corporeal substance, which weighs upon him so cruelly. . . Were I disposed to be caustic, I might consider this mass of earthly matter as the symbol, in a material shape, of those evil habits and carnal vices which unspiritualize man's nature, and clog up his avenues of communication with the better life. But this would be too harsh; and besides, Lord Byron's morals have been improving, while his outward man has swollen to such unconscionable circumference. . . .
ROBERT BURNS AT 85
His white hair floats like a snow-drift around his face, in which are seen the furrows of intellect and passion, like the channels of headlong torrents that have foamed themselves away. . . . He has that cricketty sort of liveliness--I mean the cricket's humor of chirping for any cause or none--which is perhaps the most favorable mood that can befall extreme old age. . . . It seems as if his ardent heart and brilliant imagination had both burnt down to the last embers, leaving only a little flickering flame in one corner, which keeps dancing upward and laughing all by itself. . . . Burns then began to repeat Tam O'Shanter, but was so tickled with its wit and humor--of which, however, I suspect he had but a traditionary sense--that he soon burst into a fit of chirruping laughter, succeeded by a cough, which brought this not very agreeable exhibition to a close. On the whole, I would rather not have witnessed it.
NAPOLEON AT 76
There is no surer method of annihilating the magic influence of a great renown, than by exhibiting the possessor of it in the decline, the overthrow, the utter degradation of his powers--buried beneath his own mortality--and lacking even the qualities of sense, that enable the most ordinary men to bear themselves decently in the eye of the world. This is the state to which disease, aggravated by long endurance of a tropical climate, and assisted by old age--for he is now above seventy--has reduced Bonaparte. . . While I was observing him, there chanced to be a little extra bustle in the street; and he, the brother of Caesar and Hannibal--the Great Captain, who had veiled the world in battle smoke, and tracked it round with bloody footsteps--was seized with a nervous trembling, and claimed the protection of the two policemen by a cracked and dolorous cry.
Death Angel’s Shadow is a collection of three novellas starring the barbarian swordsmen Kane, the immortal brother-slayer whose “mark” is his eyes, ey Death Angel’s Shadow is a collection of three novellas starring the barbarian swordsmen Kane, the immortal brother-slayer whose “mark” is his eyes, eyes that “glowed with their own light” like “cold blue gems” that “blazed the fires of blood madness, of the lust to kill and destroy.”
“Reflections for the Winter of My Soul” introduces us to a Kane on the run, traveling through an ice-bound world until a blizzard forces him to seek shelter. There, in the forest lodge of Baron Troylin-- a cold, beseiged environment which evokes the darkest passages of Beowulf, a world where we the monster Grendel might triumph after all. It is an epic, but it is a mystery too. A werewolf is preying on Troylin’s mens, and Kane is the one who must uncover the murderer.
“Cold Light”, with its dusty desert city, feels like a spaghetti western based on a samurai film, only this “Magnificent 9” are not the protectors of poor peasants, but avengers determined to kill our “hero,” the merciless and murderous Kane, even if they have to sacrifice a few peasants to do it. It is true that Kane is wicked and may deserve death, but the nobleman Gaethe—commander of this ruthless squad of mercenaries—is a little too self-righteous to be believed. We want Kane to win, but he is surrounded. Can he escape? And can he save not only himself, but also his blind concubine, the psychically-gifted Rehhaille?
The last of the three novellas, “Mirage,” is a tale in the Romantic Gothic mode, reminiscent of Keat’s “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” Kane is held in thrall by vampire princess in her ruined castle deep in the woods. Her hypnotic love drains his strength a little at a time; can he summon the strength to break free.
Wagner’s prose, even at its least effective (and the prose of Death Angel’s Shadow is uneven at best) is good at painting a scene, evoking a terror, bringing a sword fight to life. If you like Conan, but somehow always wished that he were smarter, darker, more terrifying, then Karl Wagner’s Kane is the hero for you....more
First published in Science Fiction Stories (1953), “The Eyes Have It” is perhaps the shortest of Philip Dick’s short stories. Although on the surface First published in Science Fiction Stories (1953), “The Eyes Have It” is perhaps the shortest of Philip Dick’s short stories. Although on the surface it appears to be a mere bagatelle, it is also a sophisticated exploration if the idomatic structures of the English language.
It is in the form of a monologue by a narrator who wishes to warn us about an imminent alien invasion. He appears to be paranoid, but claims to have evidence, which has found in the text of a novel he recently found abandoned on the bus. However, when he begins to explain his “evidence,” the reader realizes that the narrator is indeed paranoid, and that his paranoia is result of interpreting the metaphors of idiomatic English literally.
Initially, it is the reference to eyes which disturb him, how they “slowly rove about the room,” how they “move from person to person,” until they “fasten” on one. Soon he includes reference to arm, legs, brains as well, building a nightmare vision of fragmented creatures composed of human body parts. The results of his mediations are ridiculous, of course, but very amusing. And more than a little creepy too.
At first this seems nothing more than an amusing story, litter better than a joke. Still there is something here that unsettles me. No, it is not the threat of an alien invasion. It is the fragmented vision of the human person, a dark dream half-asleep in our everyday speech—that is what sticks with me....more
First published in the United States Magazine and Democratic Review, XII (February, 1843), “The New Adam and Eve” is constructed on an interesting pre First published in the United States Magazine and Democratic Review, XII (February, 1843), “The New Adam and Eve” is constructed on an interesting premise:
The Day of Doom has burst upon the globe, and swept away the whole race of men. . . . But the abodes of man, and all that he has accomplished, the foot-prints of his wanderings, and the results of his toil, the visible symbols of his intellectual cultivation and moral progress--in short, everything physical that can give evidence of his present position--shall remain untouched by the hand of destiny. Then, to inherit and repeople this waste and deserted earth, we will suppose a new Adam and a new Eve to have been created, in the full development of mind and heart, but with no knowledge of their predecessors, nor of the diseased circumstances that had become encrusted around them.
We follow the new Adam and Eve as they wander through the now empty streets of Boston and explore the empty private businesses and public buildings: a dry goods store, a church, the court house, a prison, a gallows, a stately mansion (with its paintings, statuary, tall looking glass, master bedroom, nursery, and dining room with the remains of a sumptuous feast), a bank, a jeweller’s shop, the Bunker Hill monument, the Harvard Library, and Mount Auburn Cemetery.
Throughout their journey, Adam and Eve comment on what they see, and Hawthorne comments too, of course. As a matter of fact, he comments too much. This is the gravest weakness of the piece. The voice of Hawthorne comes between the reader and explorations of Adam and Eve, dissipating the melancholy Gothic effects of the setting and the few narrative incidences.
Still, there is good stuff here. My favorite is their visit to the bank:
Adam and Eve enter a Bank. Start not, ye whose funds are treasured there! You will never need them now. Call not for the police! The stones of the street and the coin of the vaults are of equal value to this simple pair. Strange sight! They take up the bright gold in handfuls, and throw it sportively into the air, for the sake of seeing the glittering worthlessness descend again in a shower. They know not that each of those small yellow circles was once a magic spell, potent to sway men's hearts, and mystify their moral sense. Here let them pause in the investigation of the past. They have discovered the main-spring, the life, the very essence, of the system that had wrought itself into the vitals of mankind, and choked their original nature in its deadly gripe. Yet how powerless over these young inheritors of earth's hoarded wealth! And here, too, are huge packages of banknotes, those talismanic slips of paper, which once had the efficacy to build up enchanted palaces, like exhalations, and work all kinds of perilous wonders, yet were themselves but the ghosts of money, the shadows of a shade. How like is this vault to a magician's cave, when the all-powerful wand is broken, and the visionary splendor vanished, and the floor strewn with fragments of shattered spells, and lifeless shapes once animated by demons!
This brief essay, first printed in Pioneer, I (February, 1843), is a fine example of Hawthorne’s mature allegorical style. In it, the narrator and his This brief essay, first printed in Pioneer, I (February, 1843), is a fine example of Hawthorne’s mature allegorical style. In it, the narrator and his friend visit the hall of fantasy where they encounter writers and artists (of course), but also planners of cities and railroads, idol momentary dreamers, social reformers, religious cultists, and ends with the most extreme fantasist of all: Mister Miller, patriarch of the Millerites (later the Seventh Day Adventists) who predicted that the end of the world would come in the year this essay was published, 1843. The essay does not condemn fantasy, but praises it (at least in small doses), but it nevertheless reserves its greatest praise for the great green earth that Miller’s fantasy condemns to destruction:
"The poor old Earth!" I repeated. "What I should chiefly regret in her destruction would be that very earthliness, which no other sphere or state of existence can renew or compensate. The fragrance of flowers, and of new-mown hay; the genial warmth of sunshine, and the beauty of a sunset among clouds; the comfort and cheerful glow of the fireside; the deliciousness of fruits, and of all good cheer; the magnificence of mountains, and seas, and cataracts, and the softer charm of rural scenery; even the fast-falling snow, and the gray atmosphere through which it descends--all these, and innumerable other enjoyable things of earth, must perish with her. Then the country frolics; the homely humor; the broad, open-mouthed roar of laughter, in which body and soul conjoin so heartily! I fear that no other world can show us anything just like this.
The Broken Sword is an essential work of heroic fantasy, as important to the development of the genre as Eddison and Tolkien, Howard and Leiber. If it The Broken Sword is an essential work of heroic fantasy, as important to the development of the genre as Eddison and Tolkien, Howard and Leiber. If it is neglected today, that is partly because it is unique: it stands alone, not part of a multi-volume saga or the trilogies that are fashionable today. But it is also neglected, I believe, because it is a cold book, literally cold in its setting (most of it takes place in winter), but metaphorically cold as well. It is a grim tale, full of hardship and scant of pity, worthy of the old Scandinavian sagas that inspired it.
It tells of the struggle between Skafloc, a human child raised by elves, and of the changeling Valgard (half elf, half troll) left behind in his place. The two are destined to battle each other in the great war between the elves and the trolls, and the Broken Sword—a god’s gift to the infant Skafloc—is fated to determine the course of their dark destiny.
Michael Moorcock loved his book as a boy, and considered it superior to Tolkien. His elf-King Elric of Melnibone, and his fateful sword Stormbringer, would never have existed—at least not in their present form—without the influence of Poul Anderson’s Skafloc and The Broken Sword.
Please don’t let my comment about how cold this book is dissuade you from reading it. I enjoyed this book, and—although its overall impression is a cold one—it contains much variety. Its three most prominent worlds—of the humans, the elves, and the trolls—are each distinctively realized, with their own pleasures and dangers, and the gods, the goblins, the devils and the witches add much to the mix. In addition, the doomed love between Skafloc and Freda is frankly sensual and tender (and heat up the whole novel—even in the dead of winter—just a bit)....more
“The Quest of Iranon,” an early fantasy in the style of Lord Dunsany, was not published until fourteen years after its composition in the magazine Gal “The Quest of Iranon,” an early fantasy in the style of Lord Dunsany, was not published until fourteen years after its composition in the magazine Galleon of 1935. It tells of the wandering bard and prince-in-exile Iranon, who sings of his home city of Aira, a city his hearers do not know and have not heard of, and how he seeks to find Aira through his wanderings. Iranon eventually achieves this quest, but with disastrous consequences.
This is not a bad story, really, but, although it is a good imitation, it reveals little of H.P.’s originality, his characteristic horror or humor.
Here is a representative sample from “The Quest of Iranon”:
Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers, but he was always as before, crowned only with the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.
“Of Withered Apples” was first published in Cosmos Science Fiction and Fantasy (July 1954), but if Philip’s wife Kleo’s memory is correct, it may date “Of Withered Apples” was first published in Cosmos Science Fiction and Fantasy (July 1954), but if Philip’s wife Kleo’s memory is correct, it may date back as early as 1950. With a few other Dick stories of this period--”Beyond the Door” and “Out in the Garden” come to mine—it takes for its consequences a young unhappily married woman who is drawn toward a sexual relationship with something other than human. Here that something is an old apple tree.
The story is simple enough on the surface (and perhaps a little too gimmicky in its ending), but what sticks with the reader is the woman’s profound frustration, the comic dull stupidity of her husband and father-in-law, and the way nature itself calls, through her many manifestations, to the unquellable sensuality in all of us.
Not quite perfect, but close. This is a story that sticks with me....more
First published in The United Amateur (November 1919), “The White Ship” is the earliest example of Lovecraft’s Dunsanian dream fantasies, the most acc First published in The United Amateur (November 1919), “The White Ship” is the earliest example of Lovecraft’s Dunsanian dream fantasies, the most accomplished and developed of which is The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath.
In this story, lighthouse keeper Basil Elton dreams of a white ship that carries him to various marvelous cities, and the narrative ends with the lighthouse keeper’s rude awakening. The accounts of the cities he visits are interesting in themselves, but the structure of the tale seems to cry out for some progression of moods or symbols in these urban descriptions, and I—except for a few whispers of allegory—I have failed to detect any of that. Consequently, “The White Ship” is notable for what Lovecraft began here, not what he achieved. The story just doesn’t seem to go anywhere very important.
Here’s an excerpt, to give you a good example of Lovecraft’s early style (and the closest “The White Ship” gets to an interesting allegory):
Then came we to a pleasant coast gay with blossoms of every hue, where as far inland as we could see basked lovely groves and radiant arbours beneath a meridian sun. From bowers beyond our view came bursts of song and snatches of lyric harmony, interspersed with faint laughter so delicious that I urged the rowers onward in my eagerness to reach the scene. And the bearded man spoke no word, but watched me as we approached the lily-lined shore. Suddenly a wind blowing from over the flowery meadows and leafy woods brought a scent at which I trembled. The wind grew stronger, and the air was filled with the lethal, charnel odour of plague-stricken towns and uncovered cemeteries. And as we sailed madly away from that damnable coast the bearded man spoke at last, saying: “This is Xura, the Land of Pleasures Unattained.”
First published in Startling Stories (January 1954), “A Present for Pat” is conventional, almost “Jetsons” in its cuteness, yet the philosophical side First published in Startling Stories (January 1954), “A Present for Pat” is conventional, almost “Jetsons” in its cuteness, yet the philosophical side of Dick pervades it somehow, transforming what might have been a treatment for a sci-fi sitcom pilot into a dark folktale, a meditation on godhead, the dangers of authority and the unpredictability of fate.
Businessman Eric Black comes back from Ganymede with a present for his wife Patricia: an honest-to-god real god, a little fellow named Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo, overseer of the local weather, whom Mr. Black obtained at a bargain price. Just put a food offering into the cup on his belly, Eric tells his wife, and he will speak to you. Soon the Blacks’ world becomes a comedy of errors involving discussions of religious beliefs and alternate universes, the transformation of people into toads and stones (plus a little alchemy), the firing of Eric Black by his employer Terran Metals, his arrest for the importation of an alien deity, and the return of everything back to (almost) what is was before.
Like I said, the Jetsons. Maybe with a bit of “I Dream of Jeannie” thrown in. Still, the questions raised by “A Present for Pat”—about the arbitrariness of our reality, the supposed benevolence of our environment, the precarious thread we call everyday life—lingers long after the story has been completed....more
Jason Koivu’s Beyond Barlow is the story of a journey, crowded with action and incident. It is the adventure of Ford Barlow, a boy come to manhood, a Jason Koivu’s Beyond Barlow is the story of a journey, crowded with action and incident. It is the adventure of Ford Barlow, a boy come to manhood, a “woodcutter’s giant of a boy,” but although the book has much in common with boy’s adventure tales like Treasure Island and Kidnapped, the suddenness—and occasional viciousness—of its violence set it apart as a story for adults. Still, the forest through which Ford travels is not a Lord of the Flies landscape of naturalistic horror, but rather a real forest, with lessons to teach, a bounty to give, and mysteries to explore.
Ford, barred from home due to an unfortunate accident, soon meets up with The Wayward Boys, boy thieves each distinguished by a notable characteristic: Kellyn the leader, Duff the strong one (“a barrel-shaped ghoul of a boy”), Chandler the smart one, Jakes (born farmer and lover of animals), Cook the cook, Runt the runt, etc. The gang experiences both successes and hardships (more hardships in the winter), and Ford becomes part of the Wayward Boys. Eventually, after many adventures, they encounter a vicious band of career criminals, and find that their way of life—indeed, life itself—is in danger.
There are many things to like about this book, but my favorites are Koivu’s use of genre and the forest his imagination creates.
Koivu uses genres as the best writers do, as colors in his writer’s palette, as tools for producing an effect. The reader knows he is in a land of fantasy because the magistrates of the villages possess strange made-up names and the forest contains a few creatures, both reptile and mammal, which seem foreign to our world. The ghastly and the ghostly are also part of the story, particularly later on, but these gothic touches are merely devices for intensifying the alien impression left on the boys by the most remote parts of the forest. Koivu—as it should be—feels no compulsion to explain his ghosts--or explain them away, for that matter—but instead lets them remain a part of the forest’s abiding mystery.
It is the forest itself that is my favorite part of Beyond Barlow. The Wayward Boys are most likable, not in their thieving or scheming, but in their explorations of the forest, the games they play within it, and the challenges it forces them to face. Jason Koivu, in a brief biography on the back of the book, tells us that he spent his early years in New England “swimming, fishing, and frolicking in the forest.” I for one am not surprised. His forest doesn’t seem at all like a writer’s atmospheric or symbolic creation. No, this is an honest-to-god forest, a true, breathing enveloping forest, one that convinces the reader it will exist long after The Wayward Boys are gone....more
Endless Nights is an enjoyable, albeit unnecessary, addendum to “The Sandman” epic: seven unrelated tales, each one of which featuring one the “Endles Endless Nights is an enjoyable, albeit unnecessary, addendum to “The Sandman” epic: seven unrelated tales, each one of which featuring one the “Endless,” the group of seven sisters and brothers which includes the Sandman (AKA Dream, AKA Morpheus) himself. I did not find any of them particularly memorable (I had to pick up the volume again to remember exactly what they were about) but my favorites are the one about Death (which features a singularly decadent party hosted by a degenerate 18th century count) and the one about Dream (which takes place during a period anterior to all the other Sandman, in happier days when Destruction was still an active member of the family and Delirium was still known as Delight.)
None of these Gaiman tales are equal to the rest of the Sandman opus, but I found the art, if anything, superior to the earlier ten volumes. (The art of the prequel Overture, which came after, is even more remarkable.) I particularly liked Milo Manara’s “Desire,” whose art deceives you into thinking you are reading a conventional romance tale, until the bloody, willful conclusion disabuses you of the notion, Bill Sienkiewicz’s appropriately varied styles in the tale of “Delirium,” and—perhaps above all the others—Barron Storey and Dave McKean’s fifteen experimental portraits of “Despair.”
As I said, this is not an essential work, and—although the stories are entertaining too—it is worth checking out for the art alone....more
First published in Amazing (August-September 1953), Commuter is the kind of thing Philip K. Dick does best: he explores the squirmy, ungraspable natur First published in Amazing (August-September 1953), Commuter is the kind of thing Philip K. Dick does best: he explores the squirmy, ungraspable nature of alternate reality, demonstrates how we never know what’s really happening even at the moment when we are most closely paying close attention.
Transit supervisor Bob Paine learns that a little guy name Crichet has been asking to buy commuter tickets to Macon Heights and that, when is told that no such place exists, immediately disappeared. The next day, Paine sees Crichet disappear for himself. and decides it is time to investigate. What he finds out—and does not find out—makes for a disturbing and thought-provoking story....more
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