An Homage and Critique of Michael Saler's *As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality* (Oxford UP, 2012)

I'm reading a book of literary history, As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality  (Oxford UP, 2012) by Michael Saler. He treats the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft, and J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth. To really simplify his argument: he is pushing back against literary historians/critics who see genre fiction (i.e. mystery, science fiction, and fantasy) as problematically escapist, as completely severed from this reality. He asserts that these writers created alternative worlds that allowed readers to come to see their own realities as contingent, as "fictional" in a way. He attempts to make a case that the fictional worlds created by these writers opened up a space for their readers to imagine Reality with a capital R as malleable, as subject to change.

Let me just say, I loved Saler's book! For all intents and purposes, this is an homage to Saler's book! A recommendation for you to buy it and read it!

His reading of H.P. Lovecraft's biography and its relationship to the overarching thematic trends in the Cthulhu mythos is very convincing and compelling. I am so inspired by the idea that such an intelligent and serious scholar has turned his sights on Doyle, Lovecraft, and Tolkien. He even talks about Dungeons and Dragons in this monograph, something that delights considering it was published by the Oxford University Press. As a researcher struggling with many of the issues broached in this book, I can truly say it put wind in my sails. And, admittedly, there's a lot in Saler's book that I'm still trying to wrap my mind around.

And yet--

I get the sense Saler wants to see genre fiction and the alternative worlds that emerge from them as pseudo-"didactic" texts, texts that teach a lesson. I don't think he sees genre fiction as didactic in a direct, allegorical way (e.g. the orcs of Middle Earth aren't supposed to represent fascist Germany; Cthulhu is not supposed to be an alienating modernity; Sherlock Holmes is not performing as a perfect modern citizen, etc.). Saler is much more subtle. However, in spite of his subtlety and very convincing analysis (as well as the obvious respect he has for genre), I find his overarching framework slightly unpalatable. He seems to be describing (in a highly sophisticated way) what genre fiction allows its readers to do.

I guess a part of me doesn't prefer thinking about genre fiction in an instrumental context, as if its only worth studying because it serves an important social function. It's seems an obvious, kind of "throwback" argument. "Reading pulp fiction will rot your brain!" says the elitist. "You should read mature art that's truly beautiful." "No," responds Saler, "pulp fiction will make me a better person."


I think all art serves a social function. From an anthropological perspective, art is function. For me, that's a given. But by focusing on this function, some very important elements of art are thrown out of focus. How do I want to approach science fiction, supernatural horror, fantasy?

Uhh... let me get back to you on that.

My Theory of Ridley Scott's * Prometheus*: Liquid Extra-dimensional Gods and Flesh-Portals

So I reviewed Ridley Scott's Prometheus--loved it--but I haven't stopped thinking about it. As I said in my review, I think the film purposefully ends with a bunch of unanswered questions. I don't see that as an aesthetic flaw. It actually one of the elements of the film that satisfied. Indeed, in terms of the theme of the film, the unanswerable nature of cosmic questions is the point!

Anyhow--a past-time around the blogosphere lately has been to offer theories about the film, to attempt to answer some of those questions raised by the movie: who are the Engineers? What are they doing? Where to the Xenomorphs fall into this pseudo-prequel? Well, I'd like to offer a theory.

I'm under no delusion that this is the "correct" theory. I'm not convinced that the film makers have thought that far ahead, and I don't fault the writers for leaving threads untied. That's what brings a story to life! Once you've written everything, have all the "kinks" worked out, it's over. Anyhow, here's some thoughts I have, my vision of what the film's questions answered...

Who are the Engineers? Or, Liquefy Yourself Before Traveling Between Dimensions

The Engineers are android-like creations akin to David the android. They were created by the Xenomorphs to serve them. In the same way David the android serves humanity, the Engineers were created to serve the Xenomorphs. Accordingly, the Xenomorph ship where a lot of the action takes place: this is not an Engineer vessel. No. It's a Xenomorph vessel. All of funerary-looking jars filled with the black goo: those are holding tanks for the Xenomorphs's consciousnesses, the true lords of that ship. We humans, when we want to travel long distances across space, we freeze ourselves in hibernation tanks. The Xenomorphs, though, they turn themselves into a black goo. The liquefy themselves and their consciousnesses into a black goo that has to then be downloaded into organic vessels.

Who are the Xenomorphs? Or, Extradimensional Aliens in Search of a Body

In my theory, the Xenomorphs are extra-dimensional creatures of extreme, inhuman intelligence. They come from another dimension completely distinct from our universe, a place where the laws of science are different: energy, space, matter, consciousness--all of these things are different in their dimension. None of our physical laws apply there. Hence, their strange traveling strategy. Unlike the Engineers and humans, which are creatures of this dimension, they Xenomorphs are traversing not just galaxies and star systems; no. They're traversing the dividing line between different dimensions. Creepy, huh? Why are they leaving their dimension behind? Hmm...

Who are the Humans? Or, Can a Body Be a Portal?

Humans have been grown in order to serve as the "organic vessels/ flesh portals" for the Xenomorphs. In other words, the Xenomorphs need a body of the cognitive and physiological capacity of a human to "port" themselves into this dimension. And so, they had the Engineers create the humans on Earth. They allowed us to multiply until there were enough of us to occupy, to "port" through. As of the late melennium, there are enough of us to bring on the Xenomorphs. The human race has "incubated" or "cooked" long enough. No w that there are enough of us, it's time for the Xenomorphs to finish their trip from their dimension to ours. In this theory the Engineers become a kind of taxi-ing service for the Xenomorphs. Humans are mere vessels/portals that the Xenomorphs will use. They have every right to, of course, because they created us. When they get to earth in goo form, they'll "face hugger" us, incubate in us, and then burst out into our dimension having successfully crossed the dividing line separate their dimension from ours.

What is the Meaning of Human Life?


Here's the horrifying answer furnished by this theory: human life was created to allow a extra-dimension race of inhumanly intelligent alien-gods entrance into our dimension so that they can exploit all of its resources.

***

I struck on this idea by considering the opening montage, when David is caressing all the hibernation chambers of human ship-mates. And then I thought about the parallel between David and the only surviving Engineer. They wake him up, David attempts to talk to him, and then the Engineer rips his head off.

I found this exchange so disturbing. Why would the Engineer do this? Why would he attack David? Kill the humans? The Engineer just woke up and found himself surrounded by humans asking him, "What were we made for?" How does he respond? What could his answer possibly have been? Here's a guess:

"Uhh... you were made so that extra-dimensional Aliens can impregnate you and then make their way into this dimension. You are mid-wifes to our creators, our Gods, who will ill-use you in their attempt to come into this world.

Not the best thing to hear. I assume the Engineer thought to himself that, considering their linquistic skill, the humans and David had discovered what they were and that they were there to stop the long surviving Engineer from "taxi-ing" the Xenomorphs to earth, to complete their transference to this dimension. Hmm... He was going to pour the goo that is the Xenomorphs into the ocean that is the earth's Ecosystem to bring about a new age, the coming of the Engineers's dark gods

But there's a kink...

Why were the Engineers running? What happened? What was chasing them in those holographic displays? Hmm...

I think there were two types of Engineers. (1) Engineers who were loyal to the Xenomorphs; and (2) Engineers who rebelled, if you will. Those were the Engineers who were created by the Xenomorphs who were "eager to kill their parents."

What do you think?

*H.P. Lovecraft's, Book of Horror*: Arthur Machen's, *The Great God Pan* (1894)

A few days ago I discovered a very interesting fiction anthology at my local Half Price Books. It's titled, H.P. Lovecraft's Book of Horror and its edited by Stephen Jones and Dave Carson (New York: Fall River Press, 2008). It's a really interesting idea for an anthology.

It opens with H.P. Lovecraft's famous 1927 survey essay of weird literature, titled, "Supernatural Horror in Literature," and then it proceeds with a story from most of the writers Lovecraft highlights in this essay. So, basically, the anthology starts with a survey of what HPL thought was the best weird literature of his time; and then it gives you a taste of those writers (some forgotten), that he analyzed in his essay. In a way, you're reading the weird literature of the early 20th century with H.P. Lovecraft as your guide. Quite interesting.

I purchased the anthology for a specific story, Arthur Machen's proto-science-fiction / horror novella The Great God Pan (1894) which is widely considered to be a major influence for H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." I read it and I want to share a little about it. Here's some plot:

Plot

It concerns a scientist by the name of Raymond. He has discovered a surgical means by which to allow an otherwise invisible realm of reality to be perceived by the human sensorium. A minor surgical modification of the brain, he has discovered, will allow a human subject to glimpse "the great god pan." I won't give away what that means. Let this suffice: after Raymond performs the surgery on his ward, what she glimpses does not result in something favorable.

Narrative Structure

The story is written quite well. What really strikes me about it is its narrative structure. The story is not related from the perspective of one character; rather, the plot unfolds through the points of view of many different characters, each with their specific knowledge and their specific ignorance. From the reader's perspective, you become privy to certain information as you pick out patterns that other characters, embedded in the storyworld, cannot hope to see. A consequence of this narrative structure is that you, the reader, are the one making all of the connections even as the characters struggle to make the connections. And as these patterns begin to reveal themselves, the horror begins to mount.

Theme

In terms of theme, there's a lot in this story going on with gender and sexuality. The "villain," if you will, is a woman who is strongly implied to be sexually promiscuous. And a component of the horror, it seems, is the idea that she would let so many gentleman into her bed and body. It's strange. As a modern, this obviously doesn't stir as much as it would for, say, a contemporary reader. And yet--there is nevertheless something powerful about the story.

The Danger of Asking "Cosmic" Questions: A Review of Ridley Scott's *Prometheus*

This blog post contains spoilers for the film Prometheus. If you haven't seen the film and intend on seeing it--and you don't want your experience marred--I recommend you stop reading.

***

Recently I saw the Ridley Scott's science-fiction horror film, Prometheus. I loved it! I left the theater with a sick feeling that has been lingering for a couple of days, but it was an experience. And so, I highly recommend it.

It's a beautiful, sublime film in the spirit of such science-fiction / horror classics as Fred M. Wilcox's Forbidden Planet (1956), Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), and Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997). As in all of these films, the tone of cosmic vastness pervaded by horrible, indifferent and god-like creatures suggests to me H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. As in the work of H.P. Lovecraft, in these films (Prometheus specifically) existential questions about the origins of life, the meaning of the universe, the relative location of the human world are audaciously braved. And--*gulp*--answered.

The unifying structure that combines all of these films is that the answers discovered in the course of the narrative are, in a word, horrifying. In Prometheus, however, this theme is taken to a new height. In answer to such cosmic, existential questions as, "What is the meaning of life? Was humanity created? Why was it created?" the film responds with a resounding, hostile, scream-like gargle: there is no answer to these questions! Don't go looking for such answers! Die! 

Weyland Meeting His Maker

Indeed, one of the most powerful scenes in the film was when the explorers have located one of the ancient engineers who is still alive but in suspended hibernation. They wake him up. The elderly Weyland is there, having traversed a great expanse of the galaxy, to ask a question of his maker: "Why did you make us?" After a strange moment where the Engineer-creature caresses the robot creation of Weyland (the android David), he kills the old man.

This exchange--existential question asked, horrible answer given--epitomizes what is going on in a specific tradition of science-fiction founded, I think, by the work of H.P. Lovecraft: cosmic horror. If you go to the stars looking for answers to existential questions, all you will find is horror. Sure, you might discover god, but you might not enjoy just what you discover god to be.

This is why I find the critical reaction to Prometheus somewhat frustrating. Consider the consensus review on RottenTomatoes.com, which rates that film a 74%:

"Ridley Scott's ambitious quasi-prequel to Alien may not answer all of its big questions, but it's redeemed by its haunting visual grandeur and compelling performances -- particularly Michael Fassbender as a fastidious android." (my emphasis)

It's so obvious to me that a major theme of the narrative is that certain cosmic-level, existential questions cannot be answered and should not, perhaps, be asked. The point of the film is that some questions--these cosmic questions--don't have answers; or, rather, the answers are of a scale beyond naive human understanding. Anyway...

To reiterate: I loved Prometheus. I find this kind of story intriguing. It stirs me intellectually and emotionally. But I need to qualify some things. The feeling it evokes is very modern. The reason it satisfies, I think, is because it names a demon, a feeling that many of us "sensitive folks" living in Modernity struggle with: the feeling of oppressive insignificance, anonymity; the unshakable sadness associated with the idea that perhaps life means nothing, that we human beings are just chemical accretions that slop around a rock for a brief span of time, eating, excreting, eating, excreting, multiplying, multiplying. Indeed, I find this kind of story intriguing. To reiterate again: I loved Prometheus. But let me be back off a little bit and say that, although I enjoyed the film--it entertained me--it didn't give me pleasure. The horror genre rarely gives pleasure. The pleasure it gives--if you can call it that--is the pleasure of picking at a wound, or massaging a canker sore in your mouth, or that terrible burn after shooting some liquor. It's the "pleasurable pain" of a horrible feeling confirmed. And so, as much as I liked Prometheus, I liked it conditionally.

Defining the Zombie Apocalypse (Post 1): Not a Fantasy, Not a Sci-fi, Not a Horror

Yesterday I finished reading Compendium 1 of Robert Kirkman's comic, The Walking Dead (issues #1-#48).

First off, I really enjoyed it! I have some minor resevervations that I'll explore in a later post. But, in general, if you haven't read the comic book and love the show (this was how I came to it), I highly recommend it to you. It's so interesting.

But, before I get into discussing specifically The Walking Dead (this will come in a later post), I want to explore some thoughts about the "zombie apocalypse" genre.

It was a strange realization, but when I started seriously considering "the zombie apocalypse" sub-genre, I realized I don't know how to describe it.

Is the "zombie apocalypse" a fantasy?

Well, the dead rising is a common theme in modern fantasy. The icon of the sword wielding hero fighting an animated human skeleton is a common trope in modern fantasy (sword and sorcery specifically). And yet, in many zombie apocalypse texts there is a tendency to attempt to describe the phenomenon of the dead rising in terms of scientific theory. E.g. it's a disease; it's a new micro-organism; it's the result of the earth passing through a comet, etc..

This seems to disqualify it as a fantasy for me, which seems to turn, specifically, on how fantastic phenomena are treated. In fantasy, the appeal is always to magic, the inexplicable. A key element of fantasy is, to my mind, the thesis that all is not explainable through recourse to the observable world.

And so, is the "zombie apocalypse" a science fiction?

Hmm. The appeal to science to explain the phenomenon of zombies seems to make it conform to the conventions of hard science fiction. It is a kind of "extrapolative" genre. It's kind of a thought experiment based upon the initiating question: "what if all the dead rose up?" And yet--it feels wrong to call the "zombie apocalypse" a science fiction as it doesn't manifest any of the familiar tropes of the genre.

The key source of drama in a zombie apocalypse is always the struggles of the survivors. The story seems to emerge from a conflict with Nature (i.e. "Nature" designated as a world filled with zombie). And so, the zombie apocalypse seems to have more in common with the naturalistic survival stories of, say, Jack London, than the speculative stories of H.G. Wells.

Is the "zombie apocalypse" a horror?

Hmm. This feels the most intuitively correct. I'm sure lots of folk would be happy just filing the sub-genre away after glimpsing the gore, the undead, etc.. I'm not willing to do that. There's something about the "zombie apocalypse" that disqualifies it as a horror to me. Before you call BS on me, let me try to make a case for it.

In a "pure" horror tale, the key aesthetic effect is the experience of horror. Thus, the monster (or the ghost, or the demon, or the alien) emerges as a kind of negativity, something that cannot be fully represented or described: you see a flash of a tail, a pair of eyes, some teeth, etc.. The "experience of horror," according to many theorists of the genre, is that moment when our language breaks down, when we can't describe what - that - thing - is. In the "zombie apocalypse," you always know precisely what the horror is: zombies. And in these zombie apocalypse tales, very often the characters become somewhat desensitized to the sight of zombies and move among them, somewhat un-fazed (although their guard is always up).

So, we're back to where we began: how do describe the "zombie apocalypse" genre. I have a working answer. I don't have time to write it up just now. Tomorrow I'll pick up where I left off.

Ἀκέφαλος in H.P. Lovecraft's "Azathoth": The Aesthetic of Ignorance

I recently read a fragment of a novel written by H.P. Lovecraft titled, "Azathoth," which was written in June of 1922.

It's a very interesting, suggestive fragment that the editor of my anthology suggests might be framed as anticipating the The Dream-Quest of the Unknown Kadath.

There's a line in this fragment that stirred some thoughts. Discussing the life and time of the protagonist, the narrator states that he lived in a time when "learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty" (214).

I find this statement so intriguing. It makes me wonder, do scientifici theories "strip" the earth of "her mantle of beauty." Is there something about ignorance, naieve "unknowledge," that makes the world beautiful?

This is definately a question that Lovecraft's work courts and is, to an extent, an answer to.

This passage suggests a more famous passage from Lovecraft's work, the opening to call of Cthulhu: "“We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.” I won't quote the whole opening. It ends with a conjecture that, perhaps, scientific theory will reveal the truly horrific place humanity has in the universe and that we will recoil from it to the "safety" of a new dark age.

By juxtaposing this passge from "Azathoth" on the opening of "The Call of Cthulhu," we start to get a vision of a particular theme in HPL's work, namely, that learning, that theorizing, is the problem.

This pattern brings to mind an ancient greek myth/concept, the Ἀκέφαλος (Akephalos) or Headless Ones. These are humans without heads.

I like to think of Akephalos generally and allegorically, as just folks who... just. Don't. Think.

Though he doesn't say so, for Lovecraft, the Akephalos are the one's who we should envy, the ones who know nothing. Why is knowing nothing good? For Lovecraft, true knowledge is equivalent to horror; ignorance is a precondition, it seems, to the aesthetic experience of beauty.

In a strange way, there is an ethos is much of Lovecraft's work that seems to say, we should envy the headless/mindless ones.

Hmm...

Lin Carter and Clark Ashton Smith's, "The Stairs in the Crypt": Pastiche and the Haunting of Art

Last night I read another Clark Ashton Smith pastiche written by Lin Carter, a short story called "The Stairs in the Crypt." I loved it! It's about a necromancer whose apprentices fail to bury him properly, and, of course, like all necromancers who aren't properly stowed away after death, he rises, organizes an army of ghouls, and proceeds to go about the countryside feasting on the living. This is such an interesting juxtaposition of fantasy and horror. Also, the language is great. Carter does a good job approximating Smith's beautiful language and prose style. It's a wonderful pastiche!

I have to admit something. I'm always slightly disturbed when I read genre fiction pastiches. Why? Well, before answering that let me be as clear as possible and give you an idea of what I think pastiche's are.

A pastiche is defined as "a literary, artistic, musical, or architectural work that imitates the style of previous work" (http://www.merriam-webster.com). It's different from parody, which is "a literary or musical work in which the style of an author or work is closely imitated for comic effect or in ridicule" (http://www.merriam-webster.com).

The key difference between parody and pastiche, one might argue, is the issue of "respect." Both "parodies" and "pastiches" are imitations; however, the significant question becomes, what is the intention of the author? To recreate the aesthetic effect of the work that is being imitated? Pastiche. Or, to make fun of it or to ridicule it? Parody.

No doubt in my mind: Carter is writing pastiches of Smith's work and not parodies. He clearly respects the author's work. And, lo, he has written a very entertaining/provocative story.

And this disturbs me. But why?

A good pastiche haunts my definition of art. A key element of artistic worth, for me, is originality. And, a first principal of a pastiche is its imitative quality. It's key characteristic is its unoriginality. Thus, to truly take aesthetic pleasure in a pastiche requires, I think, one conditionally set aside originality as a key feature of art.

I'm not ready to do that. And yet! A good pastiche written with genuine enthusiasm and, dare I say, love of the original work, has the capacity to trouble my aesthetic first principles.

Developing A "Corpus-Wide Working Familiarity" of H.P. Lovecraft: "What the Moon Brings"

I've decided it's time to re-read all the works of H.P. Lovecraft. Why? Lovecraft is going to be a major topic of my dissertation (I plan on devoting an entire chapter to him). And so, of course, I want to be familiar with his work.

I find developing this sort of "corpus-wide working familiarity" particularly difficult in the case of pulp writers, who tend to write copious amounts of short fiction (in addition to lots of shorter novels). When you're studying a novelists, it's somewhat easy to isolate their major novels and just read them. It's not so easy with pulp writers. First off, they tend to write a lot more; and, secondly, because they write a lot more, it's difficult to clearly delineate what's worth studying from what's not worth studying.

Although I've read the majority of HPL's fiction (is a scattered sort of way) I can't attest to having read it all; and so, I think it's time for me to march steadily through his entire bibliography (as much as is possible).

You might be interested in this PDF version of H.P. Lovecraft's bibliography: H.P. Lovecraft's bibliography. I for one have difficult keeping track of which of his stories I've read.

The first story I read in this effort to develop "corpus wide working familiarity" of HPL was actually a prose poem called, "What the Moon Brings." According to the introductory note in the anthology I'm reading from, it was written on June 5th, 1922, and it was published in The National Amateur in May of 1923.

What's it about? It's about a wanderer who hates the moonlight, which seems to change the familiar to the unfamiliar and strange. Also, the wanderer is stirred by visions of the ocean illuminated by moonlight.

To a large extent the narrative is skeletal. The only thing that happens is the wanderer watches the ocean tide roll out and then he sees a horrible sight: "I watched the tide go out under that sinking moon, and saw gleaming the spires, the towers, and the roofs of that dead, dripping city" (213).

This seems to be a recurring image in Lovecraft, the receding of a veil and the exposure of a secret, usually figured as gross and threatening. I am thinking of a little kid, overturning a rock, and seeing spiders and centipedes and pill bugs.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 25)

Here is serial 25 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


No one spoke for a span after the attack until Tauos commanded that Brol's wound be tended to. Then they began a somber search for their comrades, who they assumed were dead. Eerily, the fog seemed to lift directly after the monsters flew away, and all they found to indicate the fate of their comrades was a steaming pile of entrails. They did not sleep that night and were too frightened to go in search for the Rogue. Some assumed he had died, killed by the monsters. And yet, in spite of their fears, they organized a steady watch and prepared to leave in the morning. Indeed, they praised their god when the light of morning crept in.

By the time they finished telling their story to the Rogue, it was sunset.

Brol sighed as he sat forward: "And what of your scouting venture, slave? Tell me, please, that the settlement in the canyon is rife with fresh-baked bread, soft beds, hot baths, and that the folk who live therein speak the language of my fathers," he said. He shivered. His eyes were darkening. He was perspiring profusely. The Rogue wondered whether it was wise not to have held off on the telling of their long story and to have taken Brol, straightaway, to the settlement for his wounds to be tended.

Brol indeed looked pale. The attack had taken a toll on him. When the Rogue placed his hand on his master's brow, he was not not surprised to feel it burning hot with fever. "I am fine," chattered Brol, pushing aside the Rogue's hand.

The Rogue sighed, for her he knew his report of the canyon settlement would come short of Brol's desire, that all he could say of the settlement was that the folk who lived there were strangers but seemed to be good hosts. He forced himself to tell the whole truth and not to play into the merchant's hopes. He summarized his scouting thus: he wasn't completely sure if the people of the village were to be trusted. He had certain reservations. They were reluctant to discuss their god. Furthermore, he asserted that the merchant's they may seem "primitive," who, being from a city that was at the height of its decadent era, were used to comparatively luxurious amenities. Some of the merchants were offended by this assumption on the Rogue's part. "We're city dwelling folk," Tauos said, "but we've no right to expect a tavern and copper bathtubs this far out in the wild. I'm sure, if these folks will have us, whatever they offer will be appreciated. As to their trustworthiness: I cannot say."

In deliberate unornamented truth the Rogue spoke about their lack of a common language, about their alien culture, and about the strangeness of their customs. Not all of what he had to say was horrible to report, however; he told of the beautiful women, of their healing arts--crude though they were. He also told of the foreboding beauty of the ruins in whose shadow they had built their village. Of these ruins, he clearly articulated suspicions: "There are many folk who have been and who will be. There were many empires that rose and fell before your city of Tabun Stoh was built. For all I know, these folks have once lived in those ruins. For all I know, these folk are the descendants of those who had once dwelt there. That, I cannot say."

The Weirding of the Writing Process: The Protagonist as a Portal (Post 2)

On Friday I started writing about the "narrative function" of the protagonist. And, after some etymological analysis, I "distilled" the characteristics of the protagonist down to three attributes:

1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.

Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.

1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?

I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1

But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.

So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.

Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).

It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.

In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.

The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?

The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.

Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.

I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.

Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.

The Weirding of the Writing Process: Examining the Narrative Function of the Protagonist (Post 1)

Looking back through my February posts I realize I've written very little on the writing of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror. In large part, this is because the time I have to devote to creative has really went down. Why? I'm been working on my dissertation prospectus and so, I haven't had time for creative writing (I don't count the transcription of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants, as creative writing. I'm just mechanically transcribing it at this point. No editing. No revision.). Sure, I've been getting some flash fiction writing in. But the two flashes I wrote this month have been in "realistic" genres. I wrote a literary fiction titled, "Lift," and a hardboiled detective fiction, "I Met Her Seven Times."

Well, this morning I sent out the most recent draft of my dissertation prospectus. And so, I imagine I'm going to have more time to write creatively over the next couple of days as I wait for my adviser's input. 

***

This post I want to ask a question about protagonists. More specifically, I want to meditate on the relationship between readers and the protagonist of a narrative. What kind of a relationship should a reader have with a protagonist? Let's back up: what is a protagonist?

I can feel it. This is going to be a "two parter." This post will set up the problem. Tomorrow I'll try to respond to it.

Anyhow, once again, what is a protagonist? Lord Wikipedia defines "protagonist" this way:

A protagonist (from the Greek πρωταγωνιστής protagonistes, "one who plays the first part, chief actor") is the main character (the central or primary personal figure) of a literary, theatrical, cinematic, or musical narrative, whom ends up in conflict because of the antagonist and with whom the audience is intended to most identify.

So, according to this definition, that protagonist manifests a few characteristics:

1) They are the main character.

2) They end up in conflict.

3) The audience identifies with them.

Hmm..

I find this intriguing. Let me say a little about each characteristic.

1) They are the main character. This implies that there is a "hierarchy of importance" in a cast of characters depicted by a narrative. In other words, this definition implies that there are characters in a narrative who are more important than other characters. Is this always the case? It's a hunch of mine that is has been the case for many narratives since the emergence of "novelistic" narratives or "realistic" narratives. But there are certain types of narratives that do not incorporate a "hierarchy of importance" among their cast of characters. I'm thinking of an epic like The Iliad. 

Yes, Achilles and Agamemnon are important characters in this narrative. And yet, are they the main characters? Are they more important than, say, Hector? Priam? Odysseus? etc. etc.. I'm not suggesting there is no "hierarchy of importance" in terms of the cast of characters that are depicted by the narrative of The Illiad. I do want to suggest, however, something about an intensity of this "hierarchy of importance." 

Let me put this hunch simply: in an epic like The Iliad, there are many, many characters, and they are all important. In more recent, novelistic narratives, there is a demand for a "main" character. Modern readers prefer to know who is important and who is not important. This might be changing.

2) They end up in conflict. This implies that the protagonist has to struggle with something, usually an antagonist. They have a desire or a problem that comes upon them. Can you have a protagonist who doesn't experience a crisis? Who just sits and enjoys themselves? Tea? Reading? Maybe. I don't think this would make a very interesting story. But, I can imagine a narrative where the protagonist experiences no conflict. Perhaps this would originate a conflict in itself. Perhaps for the narrative to begin the protagonist needs to seek out conflict. 

This reminds me of a stem in protagonist. Agon. Agon is Greek for "a comepetition" or "a contest." It's connected to our English work agony, which means, "extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering" (dictionary.com). Pro + agon means "towards the contest." With the meaning of our English word taken into consideration, we can understand "protagonist" to mean, that person who goes forward, faces, and courts, physical and mental suffering. Hmm...

3) The audience identifies with them. Identifies. What does this mean? One definition of to identify (the one I think this particular usage is referring to) is, "to consider (oneself) as similar to another" (dictionary.com). Hmm... So, the audience of a specific narrative should consider themselves similar to the protagonist? I'm not sure about this. I've read a lot of thrilling narratives where the "main character" or "protagonist," if you will, have been repellent to me. I'm thinking of something like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. In terms of fantasy, Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is a borderline villain. I rarely identify with him. I'm definitely nothing like him. And yet, he's still a great protagonist.

There's much more to be said about protagonists. This post is a first step. And yet, this focused analysis of the concept of a protagonist has raised some interesting questions for me. 

Should my readers identify with my characters? 

Should all of my stories have a main character? 

What is the relationship between main characters and conflict? 

In part 2 of this analysis of protagonists, which I aim to write on tomorrow, I will explore this more fully.

"One goes out like a snuffed candle": The Horror of Marjorie Bowen and Other Worlds

I don't usually do two posts in one day. These days I've just been too busy working on my dissertation prospectus. But I find I have a little extra time this afternoon. I'm hanging out at a Caribou Coffee in Mayfield, Ohio, and I want to tell you about an interesting horror writer I just discovered.

Marjorie Bowen (1885-1952)

Her name is Marjorie Bowen (1885-1952). I don't know much about her other than that she wrote historical romances and horror stories. I picked up a collection of her short stories titled, The Bishop of Hell and Other Stories, and I read, "The Bishop of Hell." What a great story!

Some summary: it takes place in London in the late 18th century. It is ostensibly the remembrance of a fellow about a former friend by the name of Hector Geatrix. Hector Geatrix is a horrible guy. Of him the narrator states, "his reckless, his impiety, his boldness terrified even those hardened in wicked ways" (97). But what makes him even worse? He had been ordained a Bishop in the Church. The main crux of the narrative is Geatrix's love affair with a woman who he takes to the continent. I won't give it away, but it ends with a turn to the supernatural, an intriguing image that stirred me deeply.

Let me relate one great quote. Geatrix is meditating on engaging in a duel and the possibility of dying. This is what he says: "There's nothing, not even Hell, Jack--one goes out like a snuffed candle--just blackness, blackness, nothingness, nothingness" (106). I love the repition of the "blackness, blackness, nothingness, nothingness." Such a powerful and yet interesting statement taken in the context of the story's end (which, of course, I'm dying to tell you about. I won't, of course).

Let me try to articulate why I loved this story. First, it's pace. It moves so leisurely and yet relates so many events. In 15 pages you learn the life story of this villain. You learn where he has been, where he goes, and how he ends up. Secondly, in these 15 pages, a complete world is opened up for you. For me, Bowen was able to completely recreate London in the late eighteenth century through passing references to clothing, powdered wigs, jewelry, etc.. This is difficult to do.

Without a doubt, however, the greatest element of this story is how it suggests "other worlds." It folds into the texture of the narrative the idea that there is more to reality than this life. This effect is evoked more through tone than any direct statement. The portrait the narrator paints of Geatrix is disturbing, and it disturbs on a metaphysical level. How? I just don't know.

Anyhow, if you haven't heard of Marjorie Bown, if you haven't read her, then--I recommend this story to you. Wonder, wonderful.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 23)

Here is serial 23 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

He wasn't believed by his comrades, for Paj--very unfortunately--was known among them as being overly superstitious, a religious zealot, and a "jumper-at-shadows". In spite of his vehement ravings, Brol, Tauos, and Rew--who were in spirit the leaders of the caravan--disregarded him. They demanded that he sleep off whatever lunacy the night fog had inspired in him.

They were concerned, however, when Paj pointed out that the one of them, the youngest--his name was Munish--was missing. Brol, Tauos, and Rew, after a quick search of the camp, could not deny this. The young ones were indeed missing. And so they called everyone together, threw stones, and, in this way, enlisted the help of two of the younger merchants, Theis and Farard. They would go out and search for Munish, but they weren't to go out very far. If they could not found the boy, then they were to return to the camp and to call for help if they needed it. They gave them short-blades of Tabunian make and had them march into the darkness looking for their lost comrade.

"It was directly after this that we knew something was wrong, that Paj had been speaking something of the truth about a horror out there in the darkness--though we thought it more likely an animal at this point," said Tauos. He tugged nervously on his long, thin, tightly braided beard.

After Theis and Farard left, bearing trembling blades, it was not long before they heard them gargle screams and their moans began emanating from the fog. Screams and moans became gurgles and then hacking and then became screams again--a perpetual, staccato of hoarse howls. This horrible orchestra of death sounds seeped into the entire camp, and so all of the merchants--the ten who remained--issued from their tents to stand, eyes wide with horror, gazing into the fog, muttering questions to themselves and wringing their hands as the screams went on. None could tell what had happened but all were frightened.

Brol was the only one who shook off his fear and began to organize them. He commanded them to arm themselves, although the two blades they had given to Theis and Farard were their only swords. They had daggers and skinning knives and two bows and some arrows, but no swords. He ordered others to secure the horses, who were, by this point, neighing as loudly as Theis and Farard were screaming in the fog. And they were kicking and stamping and going crazy and threatening to break their reins. After a few moments, when the horses were settled, the moans of pain and screams ceased. Silence lay about the camp.

Brol whispered orders to the merchants. He had them bear torches and to circle themselves around the central fire of their camp, where there was the most light. Something deep within him stirred and he knew an attack was inevitable. And he was right.

Swooping out of the fog were dozens of those read beasts, tongues waggling, monstrous grins on their toothy faces, their many-knuckled fingers dancing with delight. They raked over the merchants with long claws dripping tar, and they cackled evilly: a shrill, razorish laughter.

Female Imagery in Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror (Post 4): Tony Moore's Cover for #19 Walking Dead -- Michonne

As a newcomer to comics and graphic novels, my experience reading The Walking Dead beginning a couple years was wonderful. I loved the immersive characteristics and qualities of the medium. The characters, of course, seem more real because of the interplay between the text and images. But there's something so charged about Tony Moore's cover for issue #19 of the series.

Michonne's entrance in the storyline speaks to her fiery, unstable, strong, beautiful character. She's deeply flawed, as are all the characters in the series. That is where some of the eerie realism of the graphic novels peaks out behind the zombie apocalyptic front.

No one could go through such extraordinary life-shattering events and be the same. This, or course, is what creator Robert Kirkman wanted to do: to write a zombie tale that focused primarily on the survivors. This is why there are several issues where the characters do not even encounter zombies. The real threat, more often, are the other survivors, the other people.

Desperate times do things to people that they wouldn't expect; they change. And this is where the image of Michonne speaks to everything she has endured and will continue to endure.

One of the first things that catch my attention in this image are the colors. Her bright green and blue socks, her fluorescent pink skirt, green jacket, blue vest, and yellow scarf stand in stark juxtaposition to the grey and brown of the surroundings and the pale, dead flesh of the walkers she has chained behind her.

Her colorful outfit speaks to the life she had before all this happened. She was once a different kind of person, one who was perhaps happy, even spirited. Her demeanor, however, creates an additional juxtaposition to the outfit.

She stares ahead, her lips tightly pursed. She has a cold intent, one that she needs in order to survive. (Of course, in the series, we get glimpses into her previous life, particularly what she had to do immediately after the outbreak. It makes sense, then, her intense look.) Her look is closer in tone to the surroundings: unforgiving, unpleasant, a sign that bad things will come.

Outstanding in this image, too, are the way she grips both the chains that lead the zombies (without giving too much away, we learn that they were once important people in her life) and the katana. She is, again, like a force of nature, like the storm that whips the wind around her and brings the dark clouds behind her.

As an image of the female in the realm of the fantastical (and yes, I'm including the zombie apocalypse in the fantastical), Michonne presents a type of reality that transcends simple gender roles. Her strength and frailty, her wrestling with the past and how it will impact the present and future, are characteristics that anyone, under extreme circumstances, could call forth.

But what makes Michonne's character so engrossing is that so few in this world do, or at least do so in the ways she does.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 22)

Here is serial 22 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

An update: I've painstakingly transcribed 8 pages and I'm at precisely 9228 words. That's approximately 1150 words per page! I don't know what I was thinking, typing this up the way I did. 

8 fulls pages of 30 transcribed; 9228 words

I don't know why I'm fascinated with the manuscript the way I am. But, here's another picture of it. Along with my Atlantean sword. 

Please know that the Rogue would never use anything like the Atlantean sword.

Anyhow, here's serial 21!

In spite of Brol's command, the entire entourage had, but a few hours later, huddled themselves into Brol's tent to listen to his conversation with the Rogue. Thus, the tent had become thick with smoke due to the many long-stemmed reed pipes being nervously puffed on. Indeed, everyone sat around smoking, drinking steaming blackroot, and chewing trailcakes which had, at this point, become but barely palatable.

In sober voices Brol and Taous related to the Rogue was had happened. Details were filled in by an occasional merchant who squeaked in animated fashion, and Rew threw in a comment every now and again. Occasionally even Paj chirped out a comment, though he still seemed quite distraught and spent most of the time, his hands wrapped around his knees, rocking and muttering to himself in the corner of the tent. And here was their story, as the Rogue pieced it together.

Perhaps an hour after the Rogue left on Brol's horse, the merchants had a good fire going and were brewing their blackroot and tea and preparing to cook the very last of their salted meat that they had rationed to this point. The stars had come out, and Paj--a cartographer and astronomer--was pressed by the terrible notion that the constellations looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wasn't able to confirm his suspicions and fears with the others as a thick fog rolled in that becloaked sky, camp, and distant canyon. 

The merchants were not concerned, though one or two of the more suspicious young among them muttered some misgivings. In the meantime, the night air had cooled down and this quickened them, made them feel somewhat hopeful. They had no plans to go anywhere that night and they were sure the sun's light would burn away the fog in the morning. The idea that they were approaching swampy lands disturbed them (where did this fog come from, if not a bog or swamp as nearby); but Brol chastised them and led them all in a prayer to their hearthfather god. This seemed to calm them. 

All was fine until the first disappearance was noted. 

Paj was playing a tiny woodflute on the margins of the camp shrouded in fog, when he heard the faint voice of one of his comrade's calling. Screaming? 

Not thinking of the sound as anything threatening, he put away his pipe and moved toward it. A great gust of wind came, lifting the fog like a certain for but a moment. And so, poor Paj got the first glimpse of them. 

Standing over one of his comrades, its pointy chin dripping gore, was one of those beasts. It was quickly flanked by two more who flew out of the darkness--claws outstretched, veiny wings unfurled, eyes like glimmering jewels. They grinned at him, revealing their knife-like teeth; and Paj, horrified, screamed and screamed to the highest heights his lungs could carry him, and turned and ran back to the center of the camp. 

The Best of Weird Tales in 1923: Orville R. Emerson's "The Grave"

So, I recently purchased an anthology of stories from Weird Tales titled, The Best of Weird Tales: 1923. This was supposed to be the inaugural book in a series of book--one for each year of Weird Tales publication. Not really sure what happened, but I'm sure what didn't happen: this was the only edition released.

Gods, I would have loved if they had done the entire series. Alas. Nevertheless, I've very greatful for this anthology, of which I read the first two stories and extremely enjoyed them. In this blog post I want to tell you about the first story, a story titled, "The Grave" by Orville R. Emerson. If you don't recognize this name, don't worry. I don't either. I did some google searches for him, and found nothing. Nothing whatsoever (aside froma  few passing references to this anthology and this *one* story in Weird Tales. I don't know why, but I find his anonymity intriguing.

Anyhow, what's this story about? Well, it takes place during "the Great War," and it is ostensibly written as the memoir of a German soldier who has been trapped in a underground fortress after it has been bombarded by allied rail guns. The story relates his struggles to survive: organizing supplies, rationing food, digging his way out, etc.. It's kind of a demented Robinson Crusoe, if you will. I won't give away the end because I think you should buy the anthology (it's a small press! c'mon!) and read it. But I what to reflect on some really interesting thematic issues.

Confusion and ignorance. The protagonist spends that vast majority of the time attempting to understand his situation. He thinks he will be relieved after the battle is over. He thinks one of the sides will stop to help the soldiers captured in the destroyed fortress. And so he's optimistic. After a while he starts second guessing himself. He then starts trying to keep track of the day and time, but can't, considering he's closed off from the world. And so, he doesn't know how long, i.e. how many hours, weeks, days, months he's been underground. Eventually he starts falling in and out of sleep and starts imagining that he's doing things he doesn't remember. For example, he'll committ to only eating so much of his rations; and, he'll wake up, and more rations are gone. He wonders, did he do this in my sleep?

Historical resonance. Considering this story was written in 1923, a time when the horrors of World War I were no doubt still lingering in the "cultural imagination" in the states, I think there is some intense "allegorical resonance" here. You have a protagonist extremely confused, hearing bombing all around him, struggling with rations, trying to say sane. Is it useful to think of him as a representing of a kind of universal experience of modernity at that time?

Anyhow. I wanted to share this story with particularly and this anthology with you generally. I hope to review more in the future.

Introducing "Flashes of Wonder!," a Monthly Magazine of Genre Flash Fiction

So, a little coffee house writing session has become a pet project: Flashes of Wonder! Let me explain.

The first issue of "Flashes of Wonder"

Background: yesterday afternoon, some friends and I had a flash fiction writing session. After a couple of hours, we produced three flash fictions: a cyberpunk, a supernatural horror, and a dark fantasy. They delighted us so much, we decided to publish them here on my blog. But that's not all.

Print publication: in spite of the fact that I was up quite late last night, I snapped awake at 6 o'clock in the morning. Having nothing better to do (everyone else was asleep), I worked up a print version of the magazine, made 20 copies, and left them at a local coffee shop in Columbus, Ohio. And so, a magazine was born, something I conceive of as a kind of self-indulgent public service.

Preliminary musings: I think of the magazine as a "coffee shop" read, something you might incidentally grab up and get through in the course of a cup of coffee. Furthermore, I don't intend it to be for genre enthusiasts specifically; rather, I aim for it to be "stumbled upon" by people who may or may not read science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Thus, I think of it as a kind of "marketing" endeavor--not for me, or my work, or my friends, or their work, but for the genres.

In Flashes of Wonder! you'll find quick, dirty, and complete science fictions, fantasies, and horrors. No twenty novel cycles. No series. Just short and sweet stories.

Why do the genres of science fiction, fantasy, and horror need a "flash fiction" magazine?

Well, speaking strictly in terms of my tastes, genre fiction has become "swollen" of late. Narratives like George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones have become bogged down with too many characters, sub plots, and descriptive passages. The narrative pace of your typical genre novel these day's is particularly slow. An 800 page novel requires a lot of commitment.

Not so in flash fiction. The flash fiction demands that the writer produce an economic and "tight" narrative.

Also, it's my hunch that there are readers out there who love the ideas behind genre fiction but who don't love slogging through 800 pages.

Why write "flash fiction"?

Well, you can write flash fiction quickly. A lot of my writer friends--who are possible contributors--are also very busy. Getting them (and myself) to sit still and spin a yarn is difficult. And so, the flash fiction is perfect for us because it can be planned, drafted, and revised in, say, two hours. It's a great creative outlet for the novice writer who has professional commitments elsewhere.

Why specifically "genre" flash fiction?

Aside from the obvious fact that genre fiction is awesome? Well, it's a hunch of mine that linking a genre to a flash fiction communicates a lot of information. When you say something like, "this is a 'sword and sorcery' flash fiction," you're communicating a lot of information to your reader. This is great for flash fiction because you have so little space to tell your story. Linking a genre to a flash fiction intensifies it in a way linking a genre to other longer narratives can potentially constrain it.

***

Anyhow, I wanted to more fully document the arrival of this magazine today. I'm sure the project will evolve the longer we do it. Right now my goal is to have one issue a month composed of 3 flash fictions of separate genres.

If you're interested in contributing, then please drop me an e-mail! I have to be up front, though: this is just for fun, and so I can't offer anything other than the possibility of connecting you to an audience.

Opening the Skull's Trapdoor: Coming Up with Story Ideas by Association

Tonight I want to review another essay in the anthology, How to Write Tales of Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction, edited by J.N Williamson. I reviewed another essay in this anthology in a previous post. I had some reservations about this book, but, generally, find it quite useful. Here's a link to my original post: Short Fiction: Making the Premise Conform to the Treatment

The essay I’m reviewing is by Ray Bradbury and is titled, “Run Fast, Stand Still, or, The Thing at the Top of the Stairs, or, New Ghosts from Old Minds.” Talk about a mouth full of a title.

I trust Ray Bradbury. Even though his fiction isn’t my favorite, he’s a celebrated writer in the genres I care about. And so, any advice he gives on writing is worth our attention. 

His essay is somewhat general in approach and offers no pragmatic advice on the actual work of writing. It does, howoever, offer some very good advice on coming up with ideas.

It’s a kind of personal manifesto, an attempt to articulate where his ideas for his stories comes from. The most striking element of this essay is his description of his “list.” 

In this essay Bradbury describes a list of nouns he composed early in his writing career, and of this list he writes, “I was feeling my way toward something honest, hidden under the trap door on the top of my skull.” 

He talks about writing stories based solely on a single noun like “The Lake,” or “The Ravine,” or “The Basement.” In prose that is part revelry and part personal memoir, Bradbury makes a case for composing narratives through a kind of unconscious process of association. In other words, he suggests you think of a few nouns and just start telling stories about them. 

Let me give this a try. The Rock. Can I tell a story about “the Rock.” Hmm…

Let’s imagine a giant rock with a flat plane at the top. It’s kind of a stage, high up in the sky. Below it people gather, late at night. They stare up at the rock, where there is a fire burning. There is a priest up there. A table. A knife. Some burning incense. And, of course, a sacrificial victim.

Whew. That was strange. So it can be done! There be a story there!

Edgar Allen Poe, "The Masque of the Red Death," and Perversity as an Aesthetic Experience

Today is Edgar Allen Poe’s birthday, and so I thought I’d write an homage to one of his best—my favorite—stories: “The Masque of the Red Death.”

This story always stirs me. It’s truly horrifying. And its not just the plot that disturbs—the story of the pestilence, the supernatural elements, the blood, the ghostly personification of the Red Death that drives alls the revelers into the black room. It’s also the tone of the narrator.

If I had to pick one adjective to describe the narrative tone, it would be, perverse.

Generally speaking, a “perverse” something is considered a deviation from the "normal" or what is expected. But I think there’s a little more to it when we describe something as perverse in an aesthetic context. Let me explain.

In art, not only is something or someone “perverse” if it deviates from the norm of things, that perverse thing is a source of pleasure. Pleasure, satisfaction, glee—these are just as important elements to the aesthetic of “perversity” as any deviation from the norm.

That pleasure married with strangeness is the tone of the narrator in Edgar Allen Poe’s, “The Masque of the Red Death.” He’s relating the story of a group of selfish aristocrats who have cut themselves off from the world to escape a horrible pestilence; furthermore, he’s relating the story of how they are inevitably brought down by that pestilence.

And in relating this story he strikes an almost a giddy, pleasured, tone, as if their vain attempts to keep the dangers of the world at bay are laughable. As an artistic experience, I find this quite moving. It effects my body and just the mind: it gives me the shivers. 

In this story we have a 3rd person omniscient narrator who is not “dis-interested” in his characters; he’s quite “interested” in his characters. Furthermore, he seems amused by his characters, in the same way a little kid who is plucking the legs off a spider is amused by arachnids.

Let me be clear: I’m not elevating this sort of perversity for its own sake; Poe’s victory, I think, is to conjure an artistic experience out of this gruesome material.

There’s an image in this story, right after the duke falls dead, that always gets me. All night long the revelers have been avoiding the black room with the red light. The duke dies. And here is their reaction: “Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment […].” This "allegorically resonates" for me: these folks have been avoiding death and ignoring it for so long; and now that they have glimpsed true cosmic horror, they run to their deaths (the black room), embrace it.

When the narrator states at the end of the story, “And the flames of the tripod expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all,” I pecieve a quality of exulation here, a kind of grim rejoicing or celebration of death’s victory that is completely in earnest and completely perverse.

Happy birthday Mr. Poe.

Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction: The Pornographic Nature of Science-Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror (Part 1)

There are many different modes of literary criticism.

• There is evaluation, in which you discuss the merits or flaws of a specific piece of work. This tends to be practiced by book reviewers.
• There is historicism, in which you discuss the historical context of the literary work in order to clarify its meaning for modern audiences. Historians do this quite well.
• There is biographism, in which you situate a specific work into the context of an entire authors oeuvre. Much of the literary criticism done today on famous authors--say, Shakespeare and Joyce--is done in this mode. 
• There is structural analysis, in which you consider the structural apparatuses used by the specific literary format and analyze it in those terms; for example, the formal analysis of metered poetry is a good example of what I would like to call structural analysis.

These are, of course, caricatures of work that is never one of any of these and always a mixture of many modes.

By the way, these are my coinages that more or less resemble other conceptualizations more formally defined by historians of literary criticism. 

But in this post I want to briefly talk about a specific type of literary criticism: aesthetic analysis.

Before proceeding with my micro-discussion I need to answer this question: what relevance does this topic have for aspiring weird fiction writers? Fair enough. Just how is this important in terms of the purported focus of this blog: the writing of science fiction, fantasy, horror?

Hmm...

Here's my argument put briefly: in order to create good literature you need to be able to identify, describe, and distinguish between good and bad writing. You need to be a literary critic to be a literary artist.

This belief is obviously underpinned by a primal, perhaps more controversial belief: I believe that writing is a skill that can be honed and mastered as opposed to the more romantic view of writing as a miraculous expression of singular linguistic/narrative genius. 

For me, writing is just as much like carpentry as it is an inherited gene. In order to produce good writing, you not only need to be talented and creative but you need to be able to identify good writing and discuss its features. 

I don't deny that innate artistic skill and inspiration are *the* key elements of writerly success; nevertheless, I believe with enough commitment and enthusiasm and input, writers can more fully reach their artistic potential. With that said, developing a strong "literary critical" sensibility is a must.

O.k.. Back to aesthetic analysis. I'm not sure what the most proper term is for what I mean by aesthetic analysis as a mode of literary criticism; and so, this is what I mean by it: aesthetic analysis is an attempt to understand the effect of art on the audience of art. 

In other words, it is the study of *drum roll* how art moves us. 

Some folks might call this reception analysis or cognitive poetics. These terms are too precise for me. I'll spare you my many reservations.

Here's the major premise of aesthetic analysis: art effects people in specific ways. In other words, fantasy fills people with wonder! Science-fiction stirs people with a feeling of the sublime! Horror horrifies! Thus, we can think of each type of art as connected to a specific--let us say "emotion."

Fantasy: feelings of the "fantastic."

Science-fiction: feelings of "science-fictionality"

Horror: feelings of "horror."

Articulating things in this way then lets us imagine how each genre sets out to stir within its readers a specific bodily reaction.

And here is where I get to let loose my scandalous though hopefully thought provoking slogan: weird fiction, by which I mean science-fiction, fantasy and horror (by which I mean genre fiction), is fundamentally pornographic. 

Why?! How?! What?!

Well, let me answer this is a roundabout way by indulging in a little literary historical syllogism: 

Premise 1: Because science-fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror are often cited as 20th century phenomenon, "genre fiction" is often defined in contradistinction to the other 20th century literary phenomenon: "high modernist literature" or "pure literary art." 

Premise 2: Modernism attempts to create in its audience a kind of negative emotional state, a kind of emotional, cerebral detachment. Thus, it is considered pure art.

Conclusion: It's "opposite," genre fiction, attempt to stir its audiences emotions. It quickens their pulse, takes their breath away, boggles their mind.

Pornography acts on the body, too.

I'm opening up a big can of worms here and I'll follow up it tomorrow. I'm thinking this may be a 3 or 4 parter. 

But we have taken are first step into understanding precisely how weird fiction works. Understanding how something works then allows us to speculate on its effectiveness. And with effectiveness we then have a means by which to sharpen any value judgments we might deploying in evaluating genre literature. 

"It is good or bad?" becomes "is it effective or ineffective?" 

I'm sure there is payoff here.