Here’s a treat for fans of classic occult horror in the vein of Dennis Wheatley (author of the iconic/legendary novel The Devil Rides Out):
Teeming Brain columnist Stuart Young has edited a volume of five stories in this vein for Hersham Horror Books. Here’s the publisher’s description:
Hersham Horror Books presents five original stories from the minds of Peter Mark May, Thana Niveau, John Llewellyn Probert, David Williamson, and Stuart Young. The fourth anthology in our PentAnth range brings you five more satanic and demonic tales that hearken back to an age when Dennis Wheatley was the king of horror.
Here are the contents:
- Introduction by Stuart Young: “Devilish Inspirations”
- “The Abhorrent Man” by Peter Mark May
- “Little Devils” by Thana Niveau
- “The Devil in the Details” by John Llewellyn Probert
- “The Scryer” by David Williamson
- “Guardian Devil” by Stuart Young
Here is some praise:
“Featuring five stories based around the sadly neglected sub genre of Black Magic and Demonology from some of the best writers working today, Demons and Devilry captures the very essence of what makes for a great horror read. . . . A brilliant anthology, one which manages to perfectly balance stories of a lighter tone with more dark and heavy tones. If you are looking for some demonic fun, then this book is the ideal book for you.” — Ginger Nuts of Horror
“If Demons and Devilry sounds like your particular chalice of virgin’s blood, then you’ll find plenty to satisfy here. Despite the old-school theme, these tales aren’t dated or stale, they’re contemporary homages to the cause of all things arcane and infernal. And with such a stark appearance and title, it’s also a fun book to brandish in public. Dig out the black candles and enjoy.” — Matthew Fryer
“I’m a sucker for stories about demons and devils; they just draw me in and captivate me for some reason. . . . Every story in Demons & devilry is written well and flows at a nice pace. The authors go to great lengths to convey a lot of story in such a small space, and they each do a first-rate job. And as with Hersham’s previous titles, the quality of writing is superb. Each tale is carefully crafted and each writing voice unique. . . . An excellent collection of stories.” — Shattered Ravings
Also of interest: a blog post that Stu published about his experience of editing the anthology, bearing the ominous title “Why I Hate Editing (aka I’ve Edit Up to Here).”
John Langan is a professor, a literary scholar, and the author of the superlatively excellent supernatural horror collections Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Tales and The Wide Carnivorous Sky and Other Monstrous Geographies, as well as the equally excellent supernatural horror novel House of Windows.
In 2010 I interviewed him for Demon Muse. Then in 2013 I shut that site down after a four-year run because of repeated bot hacks, and because most of its aspects had basically been incorporated into The Teeming Brain anyway. But that meant John’s interview was lost.
This regrettable situation is now remedied and reversed, because as of this moment, John’s interview is republished here to join the ranks of the other Teeming Brain interviews that I’ve conducted over the years.
Here’s an illuminating and illustrative excerpt:
JOHN: As I see it, weird fiction is shot through with a deep ambivalence about human knowledge, which may well encode a kind of skepticism towards the Enlightenment’s general faith in rationality. After all, the figures of learning in these narratives are just as likely to unleash the supernatural threat as they are to contain or expel it. The anxiety over epistemology that lies at the heart of what may be my favorite Lovecraft story, “The Call of Cthulhu,” is something that the academy has been struggling with for the better part of the last four or five decades, in the wake of Derrida, Foucault, Lacan, Deleuze, etc. So it’s another level of convergence that I’m only too happy to exploit.
. . . One of my favorite quotations about human consciousness comes from D.H. Lawrence’s Studies in Classic American Literature; in it, Lawrence, arguing with Ben Franklin, asserts that his self is a clearing in a dark forest into which strange gods come and go. I can remember sharing this with a particularly brilliant friend who said that if you could live as if this were true, your life would be remarkable. I can’t say that I’ve succeeded in living such a life, but I’ve remained convinced of the importance of that occulted part of ourselves.
FULL INTERVIEW: “That Occulted Part of Ourselves: A Conversation with John Langan“
Photo courtesy of Ellen Datlow
Sounds of Apocalypse, Part Two
“The Walls of Jericho Fall Down” by Gustave Doré
This is Part Two of contributor Dominik Irtenkauf’s four-part essay “Sounds of Apocalypse.” Before reading it you may want to read Part One, “Roar of Creation and Destruction,” in which Dominik lays the explanatory groundwork for the theme he is pursuing.
The word “apocalypse” derives from the Ancient Greek language and originally meant “the unveiling of secrets.” But since the canonical Christian document by St. John refers to this revealing as the overture to the end of the world as we know it, the idea of the apocalypse became colloquially linked to this very idea: the end of the world. Human beings are able to predict events to a certain degree, and even more, they can imagine worlds and states they haven’t experienced before. However, the mash-up network of fiction and truth, real experiences and second-hand representations (either in personal experience, films, or books), doesn’t really entail different levels of fear, because fear erodes any distinguishable borders. It’s the sheer will to survive which remains intact.
Augmenting this with a term from Georges Bataille, we see that we can almost reach the reality of imaginary events by means of “inner experience”:
I call experience a voyage to the end of the possible of man. Anyone may not embark on this voyage but if he does embark on it, this supposes the negation of the authorities, the existing values which limit the possible. By the virtue of the fact that it is negation of other values, other authorities, experience, having a positive existence, becomes itself value and authority. (Bataille, p. 7)
So can we experience the apocalypse as living beings simply by imagination? The cultural products of the apocalypse meme tell us that it is very possible. Read the rest of this entry
I know that reader interest is very high for this book, which is scheduled for publication this June by Subterranean Press. So here is the full table of contents for those who would like an advance peek. You can click the cover image above or the link below to visit the preorder page and reserve your copy.
Table of Contents: Born to Fear: Interviews with Thomas Ligotti
Introduction by Matt Cardin: “Of Masks and Mystagogues”
PART ONE: ENCHANTING NIGHTMARES (1988-1992)
Thomas Ligotti with Carl T. Ford, Dagon
Carl T. Ford (1988)
Thomas Ligotti with Stefan Dziemianowica and Michael A. Morrison
Stefan Dziemianiwocz and Michael A. Morrison (1991)
Weird Tales Talks with Thomas Ligotti
Darrell Schweitzer (1991)
PART TWO: THIS FUNHOUSE OF FLESH (2000-2003)
The Grimscribe in Cyberspace
John B. Ford (2000)
Disillusionment Can Be Glamorous
E. M. Angerhuber and Thomas Wagner (2001)
Work Not Done
Thomas Wagner (2003)
PART THREE: A NECESSARY DERANGEMENT (2004-2011)
Literature Is Entertainment or It Is Nothing
Neddal Ayad (2004)
It’s All a Matter of Personal Pathology
Matt Cardin (2006)
A Conversation with Thomas Ligotti, The Mumpsimus
Geoffrey H. Goodwin (2007)
Thomas Ligotti Interview, Weird Tales
Geoffrey H. Goodwin (2009)
Interview Nonsense with Thomas Ligotti
David Ableev (2009)
The Damned Interviews: Thomas Ligotti
Tina Hall (2011)
PART FOUR: BORN TO FEAR (2011-2013)
Interview: Thomas Ligotti, The Hat Rack
Nathan Katz (2011)
Thomas Ligotti on Weird Fiction
Weird Fiction Review (2011)
Interview by Pål Flakk, Gateavisa
Pål Flakk (2012)
Born to Fear, Coś na Progu
Sławomir Wielhorski (2012)
Interview with Thomas Ligotti, Wonderbooknow
Jeff VanderMeer (2013)
Recently I’ve been in contact with Patrick Harpur, author of, among other excellent books, Daimonic Reality: A Field Guide to the Otherworld (which long-time readers of The Teeming Brain, and also readers of my A Course in Daemonic Creativity, will recognize as a canonical title around here). For reasons that I’ll probably explain at some future point, I’m presently poring back over my extensively marked-up copy of this book in search of powerful passages that work well in stand-alone fashion. And a moment ago I accidentally constructed a kind of mental step-stone pathway through the text that consists of three separate passages, one from Chapter 7 (“Seeing Things”), another from the epilogue (“The Golden Chain”), and the final one from Chapter 20 (“Approaching the Otherworld”).
For me, these passages, presented below as three separate paragraphs connected by ellipses, present a complete and coherent message of profound power and importance. If you ponder them slowly, they may do the same for you.
Our trouble is that we have been brought up with a literal-minded worldview. We demand that objects have only a single identity or meaning. We are educated to see with the eye only, in single vision. When the preternatural breaks in upon us, transforming the profane into something sacred, amazing, we are unequipped for it. Instead of seizing on the vision, reflecting on it — writing poetry, if necessary — we react with fright and panic. Instead of countering like with like — that is, assimilating through imagination the complexity of the image presented to us — we feebly telephone scientists for reassurance. We are told we are only “seeing things” and so we miss the opportunity to grasp that different, daimonic order of reality which lies behind the merely literal.
. . . The tradition which forms the background to this book is hard to describe, because it has no name. We might tentatively call it, for convenience, the daimonic tradition. Although it appears in many disciplines, such as theology, philosophy, psychology, aesthetic theory, and so on, it is not itself a discipline. It is not a body of knowledge or a system of thought. Rather it is a way of knowing and thinking, a way of seeing the world, which poets and visionaries have always possessed but which even they cannot stand outside of or formulate. Thus one cannot be taught the tradition, for example, as part of a university curriculum; one can only be initiated into it. Simply finding it out for oneself can be, like a quest, an act of self-initiation.
. . . Initiation can be thought of as a general term for any daimonic event which realigns our conscious viewpoint of the world, and introduces it to the Otherworld. If we identify ourselves with the rational ego, then the initiation will be — has to be — correspondingly fierce in order to introduce the whole notion of an otherworldly, daimonic reality. Alienated, we have to be — forcibly, if necessary, it seems — alienized. For, from the daimonic standpoint, we as rational egos are aliens while the aliens, the daimons, are part of ourselves. Alienizing means daimonizing: the rational ego is replaced by a daimonic ego which can slip into different shapes, different perspectives — all daimonic but all defining, and being defined by, soul in multifarious ways. Alienizing means being at ease with the aliens because one is an alien oneself.
For reflections on and specific illustrations of this theme in a variety of contexts, I recommend the following items by various Teeming Brain contributors, some of whom offer quite personal accounts of the type of thing Patrick writes about above:
- “Liminality, Synchronicity, and the Walls of Everyday Reality” by Matt Cardin
- “Horror, Meaning, and Madness: Dangers of Lifting the Cosmic Veil” by Matt Cardin
- “Initiation by Nightmare: Cosmic Horror and Chapel Perilous” by Matt Cardin
- “Nightmares: Dark Roads of Creativity and Vulnerability” by Ryan Hurd
- “To Suffer This World or Illuminate Another: On the Meanings and Uses of Horror” by Richard Gavin
- “‘Till immersed in that mighty ocean’: Perils of Awakening in a Universe of Hungry Ghosts” by David Metcalfe
- “Learned Psi: Training to Be Psychic” by Dr. Barry Taff
Here’s a really nice pair of paragraphs expressing a dead-on and truly significant point, from a review by Margaret Atwood (!) of King’s new novel Doctor Sleep, his much-heralded sequel to The Shining:
King is right at the center of an American literary taproot that goes all the way down: to the Puritans and their belief in witches, to Hawthorne, to Poe, to Melville, to the Henry James of “The Turn of the Screw,” and then to later exemplars like Ray Bradbury. In the future, I predict, theses will be written on such subjects as “American Puritan Neo-Surrealism in ‘The Scarlet Letter’ and ‘The Shining,’ ” and “Melville’s Pequod and King’s Overlook Hotel as Structures That Encapsulate American History.”
Some may look skeptically at “horror” as a subliterary genre, but in fact horror is one of the most literary of all forms. Its practitioners read widely and well — King being a pre-eminent example — since horror stories are made from other horror stories: you can’t find a real-life example of the Overlook Hotel. People do “see” some of the things King’s characters see (for a companion volume, try Oliver Sacks’s “Hallucinations”), but it is one of the functions of “horror” writing to question the reality of unreality and the unreality of reality: what exactly do we mean by “see”?
I’m presently teaching a sophomore college course about horror and science fiction in literature and film. (You can view the syllabus online.) Yesterday’s class meeting was devoted to introducing Mary Shelley and Frankenstein by giving background on Mary’s life and describing the epic, shadowy, amazing, uncanny, utterly mythic summer of 1816, when Mary stayed with Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and Doctor John Polidori at the Villa Diodati near Lake Geneva, Switzerland, and both the literary vampire (leading directly to Dracula seven decades later) and the Frankenstein myth were born out of the group’s heady conversations about ghost stories and cutting-edge science that unfolded around the fire.
More specifically, these horror icons were born from the horror-writing contest that Byron suggested they undertake in order to pass their time during that eerie “year without a summer,” which was marked by Armageddon-ish weather, crop failure, famine, and epidemics in Europe, Britain, and America (with effects in Asian countries as well) as “the last great subsistence crisis in the western world” unfolded when Mount Tambora in Indonesia erupted and blanketed the atmosphere with an obscuring cloud of ash.
I’ve often thought this spontaneous nexus of events — a myth-level natural catastrophe coinciding with the philosophical and literary birth of two iconic/mythic figures in the gothic and horror field — sounds like a fictional tale of its own, something that someone might make up as a dark and fascinating horror story. Maybe that’s why the events surrounding Frankenstein’s birth have long been nearly as famous as the novel itself (a fact helped, of course, by Mary’s account of that summer and the book’s genesis in her introduction to the standard 1831 edition). It has been made into two separate movies — or maybe I’m forgetting that there are more than that — and referenced in partial form many more times, from the introductory segment to 1973’s not-bad television movie Frankenstein: The True Story to the segments involving Mary, Percy, and Co. in the not-bad 1990 film adaptation of Brian Aldiss’s Frankenstein Unbound to the charming prologue of director James Whale’s Bride of Frankenstein in 1935. The summer of 1816 at the Villa Diodati and environs is like a living novel, a manifestation of fiction in history, replete with obvious, even glaring, symbolism, and planted firmly in the gothic horror genre.
And that’s really all I have to say in this hastily written post. I think I’m still riding on momentum from yesterday’s class session, where I did a brain dump about all of these things, leaving it to the PowerPoint presentation that I had put together ahead of time to keep me on something resembling a coherent path as I talked excitedly about a mega-subject that has kept me entranced with fascination for the past 25 years or so.
Add to that, of course, the fact that some people have interpreted Mary Shelley’s description of the “waking dream” in which she received the inspiration for Frankenstein as an episode of sleep paralysis — a supposition made all the more probable, or at least suggestive and evocative, by the fact that she and her family knew Henry Fuseli, the famous painter of The Nightmare, that master image of both the gothic horror genre and sleep paralysis studies, and by the additional fact that she actually gave a deliberate “quote” of that painting in the mise-en-scène of the moment when Victor Frankenstein bursts into the bridal bedroom to find Elizabeth flung backward, dead, across the bed while the monster leers from the window above. James Whale likewise quoted the same staging in his 1931 cinematic vision/version. The fascination factor, as we might call it, is unbelievably high here.
It was a total accident, by the way, and something I didn’t realize until three days ago, that I began teaching this literature course, with Frankenstein as the first assigned text, right as August 30 marked Mary Shelley’s 216th birthday and was being hailed as “Frankenstein Day” all over the Interwebs.
Here: watch these. They’re good medicine, all (especially the last two).