"An Echo"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R.
Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be
posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
I don't think I remember this one, at all. Let's see... Oh yes! Now I remember...
A man who has long had (and repeatedly demonstrated) a very strong psychic ability has another of his "spells". On a walk, he happens upon a spot that has a psychic "recording" ready and waiting for a someone able to sense it. He sees a murder replayed before his eyes, but he's so used to this sort of thing, it's almost a yawn. Afterwards, he mentions the episode to a friend, who finds it very interesting, indeed. "Why, confound it, old chap!" he says (or in words to the same effect), "you've just gone and solved the Infamous Whosit Trial!" The psychic dude's all like, "What's the Whosit Trial? I've never heard of that," upon which the TrueCrime-fanatic-friend says, "Then I shall tell you about it in painstaking detail, because I apparently have nothing better to do, and by-gosh, I'm going to inflict my obsession on someone!" A long, boring retelling of the circumstances of a trial ensues. The upshot is that they now have proof that Evil Gold-Digger did kill Hapless Aristocrat-- as everyone pretty much knew all along, though they could never prove it-- but because everyone involved has been dead for years, it doesn't really matter much, anyway. The End.
My Reaction:
Oh, I loved it! I hung over every last word with bated breath! Couldn't you tell, from my glowing, starry-eyed synopsis? Well, it could've been worse, I suppose-- but it hardly even counts as a ghost story. It felt more like a legal thriller with ghostly elements than a genuine ghostly tale. To make things worse, it's made even more boring by the fact that we know all along who the guilty party is/was/whatever.
Tidbits:
-- The only remotely interesting tidbit I could come up with (assuming you don't want to read about more misogyny?) is this:
"The Jury were out for three and a half hours. It was known afterwards that two of them held out for a verdict of guilty, but in the end gave way, and in a quivering silence the foreman pronounced 'Not guilty', which would undoubtedly have been 'Not proven' in Scotland."
I'm not familiar with Scotland's legal system, but that's an interesting distinction. I wonder if "not proven" is only for high-stakes trials-- like murder trials-- or for all trials. I once served on a jury in which I would've been happy to have had a "not proven" option. Some of us had a gut feeling that he was guilty-- and based on what we learned afterwards, I'm nearly positive, now-- but because of the way the evidence was presented and the weakness of the witness, we didn't feel capable of pronouncing a "guilty" verdict. I doubt that the practical difference between "not proven" and "not guilty" is much, but at least it would feel more accurate. It was frustrating to have to say he wasn't guilty, when some of us didn't feel he was innocent. Saying he wasn't proven guilty would've been marginally more satisfactory. (I hope at least that the idiot learned his lesson and stopped drinking and driving. If we'd found him guilty, it would've been a felony, because of his number of previous convictions. Of course, we weren't allowed to hear about those until after the trial...)
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
"A Peg on Which to Hang"
"A Peg on Which to Hang"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A journalist and three of his best chums gather for one of their regularly scheduled golfing vacations. When they arrive at their hotel, the owner informs them that he has only three rooms available and that the fourth man will have to go a short distance away to stay at another (lesser) establishment. The journalist will have none of it, because he has taken pains to reserve the rooms well in advance. (Where is his room, dammit?! He wants his room! He knows you have it hidden away, somewhere. Now, fork it over-- or else!) Sure enough, after the application of a little pressure, it comes to light that there is a fourth room. It gives a bad first (and second, third, etc.) impression, but Mr. Stubborn insists on taking it. He is consequently witness to a haunting, but-- I regret to inform*-- escapes unscathed. A very tidy (if somewhat boring) explanation follows.
* Well! I don't like the guy! ...And he is only a fictional character. Though, if I could wish a less harmless haunting on a flesh and blood person, there might be a few politicians... ahem! Back to the story!
My Reaction:
It was passable. Nothing exceptional, but there are a few creepy moments.
Tidbits:
-- Based on what I can recall of the other short story titles in this volume, I think this one wins the dubious "Creepiest Title" award. Maybe not until you've finished the story-- but when you have... ~shudder~ (As a macabre side note, that must've been one sturdy peg...)
-- "'Looked at dispassionately, the evidence for such phenomena [hauntings] is far more catholic and irrefutable than is the evidence for ninety-nine things out of a hundred which are accepted without question.'" ...Really? I don't think so. The character goes on to recommend a book-- Thirty Years of Psychical Research, by Richet-- as "full and detailed" evidence. I double-dog dare you to find a copy and read it. ;o) (Or maybe you're like me-- completely insusceptible to dares of any degree of dogginess (???). Go ahead, dare me anything you like, and I'll astound you by my ability to not care one way or the other. Go on, do it! I dare ya!)
-- "In how unreal, unearthly a way the moon painted the world sometimes! The view from the window, for example-- how uncertain in a sense, unfamiliar, as if it were a reflection from a mind not his own; certain pictures of Cézanne gave one that tingling, groping 'let me get back to reality' feeling." I'll admit that I couldn't remember any of Cézanne's works, so I looked online (for a couple of minutes only, because... not captivated). I didn't get the tingling, groping feeling, at all. Oh well. (A.P. Ryder seems better suited for that mention.)
-- "Instead of sinking at once into that ten-fathom-deep slumber to which a flawless conscience and eighteen strenuous holes entitled him, he passed into that exasperating border state where detached and leering images come flocking into one's head, endlessly and inanely telescoping one another, composing indefinable patterns, humiliating puerilities, a state where there is neither the controlled rationality of full consciousness nor the deliciously serio-comic pantomime of the land of dreams. 'This region,' he decided, 'is the nearest approach to an understanding of that buzzing, wavering kaleidoscope called lunacy, which the sane person ever reaches. The mind can neither control, nor quite lose control of, these regurgitations of the memory-- for that is what they must be.'"
-- This story reminded me of one of M.R. James' stories set in hotels-- "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad"-- though I'm not sure the two have that much in common, beyond the fact that both involve hotel rooms and ghosts.
-- Anytime I read a scary story set in a hotel room, I always think of the movie titled 1408. It doesn't have the highest rating, but for some reason it's stuck with me, and I still think it's pretty scary... This one, with its setup of "oh, yeah, we do have another vacancy, but..." really brought back the memories-- but that was about it. Tame by comparison.
-- Apparently the room is fine to stay in the rest of the year-- it's just that one night that there's any issue-- but no thanks. I'd rather not stay in a hotel room with that kind of history-- just like I'd probably pass up a great deal on a "murder house". I'd know it was "just a house", but I don't think I could ever feel really comfortable in it. Obsessively remembering what had happened in it would taint it for me. (One of the benefits of living in a house we built ourselves-- or "had built". New houses have no soul, you say? Well, there are no troubling ghosts or shadows of the past, either. A clean slate.)
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A journalist and three of his best chums gather for one of their regularly scheduled golfing vacations. When they arrive at their hotel, the owner informs them that he has only three rooms available and that the fourth man will have to go a short distance away to stay at another (lesser) establishment. The journalist will have none of it, because he has taken pains to reserve the rooms well in advance. (Where is his room, dammit?! He wants his room! He knows you have it hidden away, somewhere. Now, fork it over-- or else!) Sure enough, after the application of a little pressure, it comes to light that there is a fourth room. It gives a bad first (and second, third, etc.) impression, but Mr. Stubborn insists on taking it. He is consequently witness to a haunting, but-- I regret to inform*-- escapes unscathed. A very tidy (if somewhat boring) explanation follows.
* Well! I don't like the guy! ...And he is only a fictional character. Though, if I could wish a less harmless haunting on a flesh and blood person, there might be a few politicians... ahem! Back to the story!
My Reaction:
It was passable. Nothing exceptional, but there are a few creepy moments.
Tidbits:
-- Based on what I can recall of the other short story titles in this volume, I think this one wins the dubious "Creepiest Title" award. Maybe not until you've finished the story-- but when you have... ~shudder~ (As a macabre side note, that must've been one sturdy peg...)
-- "'Looked at dispassionately, the evidence for such phenomena [hauntings] is far more catholic and irrefutable than is the evidence for ninety-nine things out of a hundred which are accepted without question.'" ...Really? I don't think so. The character goes on to recommend a book-- Thirty Years of Psychical Research, by Richet-- as "full and detailed" evidence. I double-dog dare you to find a copy and read it. ;o) (Or maybe you're like me-- completely insusceptible to dares of any degree of dogginess (???). Go ahead, dare me anything you like, and I'll astound you by my ability to not care one way or the other. Go on, do it! I dare ya!)
-- "In how unreal, unearthly a way the moon painted the world sometimes! The view from the window, for example-- how uncertain in a sense, unfamiliar, as if it were a reflection from a mind not his own; certain pictures of Cézanne gave one that tingling, groping 'let me get back to reality' feeling." I'll admit that I couldn't remember any of Cézanne's works, so I looked online (for a couple of minutes only, because... not captivated). I didn't get the tingling, groping feeling, at all. Oh well. (A.P. Ryder seems better suited for that mention.)
-- "Instead of sinking at once into that ten-fathom-deep slumber to which a flawless conscience and eighteen strenuous holes entitled him, he passed into that exasperating border state where detached and leering images come flocking into one's head, endlessly and inanely telescoping one another, composing indefinable patterns, humiliating puerilities, a state where there is neither the controlled rationality of full consciousness nor the deliciously serio-comic pantomime of the land of dreams. 'This region,' he decided, 'is the nearest approach to an understanding of that buzzing, wavering kaleidoscope called lunacy, which the sane person ever reaches. The mind can neither control, nor quite lose control of, these regurgitations of the memory-- for that is what they must be.'"
-- This story reminded me of one of M.R. James' stories set in hotels-- "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad"-- though I'm not sure the two have that much in common, beyond the fact that both involve hotel rooms and ghosts.
-- Anytime I read a scary story set in a hotel room, I always think of the movie titled 1408. It doesn't have the highest rating, but for some reason it's stuck with me, and I still think it's pretty scary... This one, with its setup of "oh, yeah, we do have another vacancy, but..." really brought back the memories-- but that was about it. Tame by comparison.
-- Apparently the room is fine to stay in the rest of the year-- it's just that one night that there's any issue-- but no thanks. I'd rather not stay in a hotel room with that kind of history-- just like I'd probably pass up a great deal on a "murder house". I'd know it was "just a house", but I don't think I could ever feel really comfortable in it. Obsessively remembering what had happened in it would taint it for me. (One of the benefits of living in a house we built ourselves-- or "had built". New houses have no soul, you say? Well, there are no troubling ghosts or shadows of the past, either. A clean slate.)
"The Seventeenth Hole at Duncaster"
"The Seventeenth Hole at Duncaster"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A golf club has gone to considerable trouble and expense to re-do one of the holes on their golf course. This renovation involved tearing through an old forest, which has a strange, eerie reputation among the unsophisticated, rural inhabitants of the nearby village. Now it's time for the first big golfing get-together since the course's reworking, but instead of fun and games, the seventeenth hole becomes the site of mysterious and horrible murders.
My Reaction:
Again, the story's not its freshest in my mind, because I've been reading others since-- but I think this was a pretty good one. Possibly there wasn't as much of an "explanation" as I tend to like, but I think I may want explanations more than the average reader...
Tidbits:
-- When you learn that the contractor's men died of "blood-poisoning of some kind"-- and in the next sentence, that there are rumors that "it had something to do with those skulls and bones they dug up"-- ha! Yeah, that's your first clue to abandon the project. Maybe digging up skulls and bones is more common in England and Europe in general. (Ok, not really. Only in places where people have been living in higher concentration for more hundreds of years.) Around here (in a rural area of the New World), it's not a common occurrence to turn up a skull or two in the garden. ;o) But by European standards-- Digging up skulls? Well, that could happen to anyone. Digging up skulls and having several men die of a mysterious "blood-poisoning"-- and then continuing with the project? That's just stupid. C'mon, guys! Smarten up!
-- "The Secretary took his number three iron, and knew from the moment the ball left the club that he didn't want it back. It was ruled on the flag." ...Huh? (I know very little about golf.)
-- The local people think the forest is not "healthy" and call it "Blood Wood". This is another red flag. (g) (Come to think of it, wasn't there an actual red flag marking the hole? Are those golf flags always red? I'm sure I could look it up in a minute or two, but... *yawn*... Too lazy.)
-- As I indicated before, the "explanation" was a bit lacking, imho. "'Almost certainly the work of our friends the Druids, whoever they were! A mound and an oak-- such places are death traps. Not all the time; the peril is only periodic, why, we don't know.'" Ah, those crazy Druids! Up to their old death-trap shenanigans again! Well, you know what they say-- "an oak and a mound, don't hang around". Yep, yep, yep... You're gonna run across the occasional Druid death-trap-- not as common as the sand-trap*, of course, but still... Keeps you on your toes.
* Look! I made a golf joke!
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A golf club has gone to considerable trouble and expense to re-do one of the holes on their golf course. This renovation involved tearing through an old forest, which has a strange, eerie reputation among the unsophisticated, rural inhabitants of the nearby village. Now it's time for the first big golfing get-together since the course's reworking, but instead of fun and games, the seventeenth hole becomes the site of mysterious and horrible murders.
My Reaction:
Again, the story's not its freshest in my mind, because I've been reading others since-- but I think this was a pretty good one. Possibly there wasn't as much of an "explanation" as I tend to like, but I think I may want explanations more than the average reader...
Tidbits:
-- When you learn that the contractor's men died of "blood-poisoning of some kind"-- and in the next sentence, that there are rumors that "it had something to do with those skulls and bones they dug up"-- ha! Yeah, that's your first clue to abandon the project. Maybe digging up skulls and bones is more common in England and Europe in general. (Ok, not really. Only in places where people have been living in higher concentration for more hundreds of years.) Around here (in a rural area of the New World), it's not a common occurrence to turn up a skull or two in the garden. ;o) But by European standards-- Digging up skulls? Well, that could happen to anyone. Digging up skulls and having several men die of a mysterious "blood-poisoning"-- and then continuing with the project? That's just stupid. C'mon, guys! Smarten up!
-- "The Secretary took his number three iron, and knew from the moment the ball left the club that he didn't want it back. It was ruled on the flag." ...Huh? (I know very little about golf.)
-- The local people think the forest is not "healthy" and call it "Blood Wood". This is another red flag. (g) (Come to think of it, wasn't there an actual red flag marking the hole? Are those golf flags always red? I'm sure I could look it up in a minute or two, but... *yawn*... Too lazy.)
-- As I indicated before, the "explanation" was a bit lacking, imho. "'Almost certainly the work of our friends the Druids, whoever they were! A mound and an oak-- such places are death traps. Not all the time; the peril is only periodic, why, we don't know.'" Ah, those crazy Druids! Up to their old death-trap shenanigans again! Well, you know what they say-- "an oak and a mound, don't hang around". Yep, yep, yep... You're gonna run across the occasional Druid death-trap-- not as common as the sand-trap*, of course, but still... Keeps you on your toes.
* Look! I made a golf joke!
Sunday, September 22, 2013
"'And He Shall Sing...'"
"'And He Shall Sing...'"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A publisher decides to publish a collection of poetry presented to him by a Japanese man. Immediately, strange things begin to happen, and he finally (finally) has to admit to himself that Something is Wrong Here.
My Reaction:
I read the last three or four stories in the collection without pausing to write reviews, so my memory may be a bit fuzzy-- but I think this was one of the ones I liked best in the bunch.
Tidbits:
-- It seems that the publisher was being either very thick-headed or willfully blind, because it was obvious early on that the man who presented the poems had not written them himself. Of course, the publisher had a lot to gain through real or pretended ignorance, so it's not surprising that he might take a while to admit it to himself.
-- "'If poets are determined to inflict on a patient public the dreams they dream and visions they see, it is only fair that they should foot the bill...'" Poetry inflicted on a patient public... Yes, that's about right. ;o)
-- "Indignation brushed the poppies from his eyes..." Never heard that expression before...
-- Don't be surprised if you come across a few things that would be deemed "offensive"-- if not outright racist-- by modern readers.
-- "'...I have always understood that even the shortest experience of publishers sharply stimulates a suicidal neurosis.'" I'm sure the author had fun getting that little jab in.
-- The body hidden under the floorboards reminded me of "The Tell-Tale Heart".
-- The decomposing body creeping up out of the floor and taking its revenge on the murderer and plagiarist, on the other hand, reminded me of something you'd see in a modern horror movie.
-- "Distressed and nauseated, he made no attempt to go to sleep again, but read Pickwick for the rest of the night." It wouldn't be my first choice, but I understand the impulse!
-- The ending was very tidy. Possibly too tidy for some, but I approve.
-- I wonder what finally made up the publisher's mind to stop the publication of the book of poetry. I can see how he might be afraid of retribution if he published it under the wrong name-- not to mention that it would be morally wrong... But why not publish it under the name supplied in the ghostly revisions? Because he didn't know to whom to send the profits? Or because of the violence surrounding the manuscript? It seems a shame to keep a real work of genius in the shadows. I'd probably be too scared and superstitious to publish it, myself, if I were in his place-- but if you attributed it to the right person and donated the proceeds to a charity of some sort, it seems likely you'd be "safe". ...Well, enough of that...
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A publisher decides to publish a collection of poetry presented to him by a Japanese man. Immediately, strange things begin to happen, and he finally (finally) has to admit to himself that Something is Wrong Here.
My Reaction:
I read the last three or four stories in the collection without pausing to write reviews, so my memory may be a bit fuzzy-- but I think this was one of the ones I liked best in the bunch.
Tidbits:
-- It seems that the publisher was being either very thick-headed or willfully blind, because it was obvious early on that the man who presented the poems had not written them himself. Of course, the publisher had a lot to gain through real or pretended ignorance, so it's not surprising that he might take a while to admit it to himself.
-- "'If poets are determined to inflict on a patient public the dreams they dream and visions they see, it is only fair that they should foot the bill...'" Poetry inflicted on a patient public... Yes, that's about right. ;o)
-- "Indignation brushed the poppies from his eyes..." Never heard that expression before...
-- Don't be surprised if you come across a few things that would be deemed "offensive"-- if not outright racist-- by modern readers.
-- "'...I have always understood that even the shortest experience of publishers sharply stimulates a suicidal neurosis.'" I'm sure the author had fun getting that little jab in.
-- The body hidden under the floorboards reminded me of "The Tell-Tale Heart".
-- The decomposing body creeping up out of the floor and taking its revenge on the murderer and plagiarist, on the other hand, reminded me of something you'd see in a modern horror movie.
-- "Distressed and nauseated, he made no attempt to go to sleep again, but read Pickwick for the rest of the night." It wouldn't be my first choice, but I understand the impulse!
-- The ending was very tidy. Possibly too tidy for some, but I approve.
-- I wonder what finally made up the publisher's mind to stop the publication of the book of poetry. I can see how he might be afraid of retribution if he published it under the wrong name-- not to mention that it would be morally wrong... But why not publish it under the name supplied in the ghostly revisions? Because he didn't know to whom to send the profits? Or because of the violence surrounding the manuscript? It seems a shame to keep a real work of genius in the shadows. I'd probably be too scared and superstitious to publish it, myself, if I were in his place-- but if you attributed it to the right person and donated the proceeds to a charity of some sort, it seems likely you'd be "safe". ...Well, enough of that...
Friday, September 20, 2013
"The Red Lodge"
"The Red Lodge"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A painter and his wife and young son take a house in the country for a few months, hoping to enjoy a riverside holiday in pleasant surroundings. Little do they know that the Red Lodge is not the pleasant vacation spot they're expecting... (Dun dun DUN!)
My Reaction:
It has its moments. This is one of the creepier of the stories, so far. However, I think it's somewhat weakened by the hodge-podge of "haunting elements". There's the mysterious green slime and the "green monkey" that apparently goes after children... Then there are the ghostly human figures people keep seeing entering and exiting rooms... Then there's the story (and apparition) of the people being driven to jump to their deaths in the river. The "green monkey" in particular doesn't seem to have much relation to the "origin story" (of the man who arranged for his wife's death in the river-- so that he could replace her with a harem, of course.). I guess you could draw the conclusion that the green monkey-monster-man is one of the victims of the haunting-- perhaps even the original evil husband, himself-- but why is he especially interested in children? It lacks a certain cohesion. That doesn't make it a bad ghost story, but it diminishes its effectiveness, in my humble opinion.
I've repeatedly seen this lauded as one of Wakefield's best works. Maybe I'm missing something, but if this is the best, I don't know if I see what all the fuss is about... It had a few really good moments, but as a whole was lacking that ineffable something that would have pulled it all together into a crescendo. (The kid being terrified by the green monkey-monster-man into jumping into the river-- not enough, evidently.) Possibly this just isn't "my" genre-- or I'm too prone to nit-picking... (Though I will insist that just because I may seem to tear a book to shreds afterwards, it doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the reading!)
Side Notes:
-- This habit of renting out other people's homes and living in them for months at a time seems to be fairly common in British literature (at least, of a certain period). It feels strange to me. Renting a cabin for a week or so seems more normal. I just can't imagine staying in someone else's home for three months! I wouldn't feel comfortable-- and I'd miss my own things at home-- and it would be far too much trouble to bring them all with you-- and I certainly couldn't bear the thought of renting out my own home! Of course, in this instance, I guess the lodge's owner wasn't living there, so it was more like renting a (very nice) cabin than living in someone else's home...
-- The narrator decides not to talk to his wife about the creepy experiences, yet, because "it was conceivable that these phenomena were perceptible only to [himself], being half a Highlander". Highlanders are/were susceptible to paranormal activity, I guess? (g)
-- "'The green monkey won't get me, will it, Mummy?'" Ha ha ha. Sorry, but that just makes me laugh. "Well, now, sonny, that depends on how you behave... I wish I could tell you that the green monkey wouldn't get you, but if you're a bad little boy, there may not be anything I can do about it."
-- The neighbor's dream was shuddery. "'...a certain dream which recurs with curious regularity. I find myself standing at the end of the lane and watching the river-- always in a sort of brassy half-light. And presently something comes floating down the stream. I can see it jerking up and down, and I always feel passionately anxious to see what it may be. At first I think that it is a log, but when it gets exactly opposite me it changes its course and comes towards me, and then I see that it is a dead body, very decomposed. And when it reaches the bank it begins to climb up towards me, and then I am thankful to say I always awake. Sometimes I have thought that one day I shall not wake just then, and that on this occasion something will happen to me, but that is probably merely a silly fancy of an old gentleman who has concerned himself with these singular events rather more than is good for his nerves.'" --The "brassy half-light". I wonder if that's the same beautiful pinkish light that we sometimes get at twilight... --The log-turned-body reminds me of a similar instance in The Willows. --I think I would suffer from serious insomnia if I had a recurring dream like that and seriously suspected that one day I wouldn't wake up...
-- There were a few odd mentions during the course of the story:
-- First, Sedgewick's The Use of Words in Reasoning. (He even quotes from it...)
-- Second, "an article... on a glorious word 'Jugendbewegung', the 'Youth Movement', that pregnant or merely wind-swollen Teutonism! How ponderously it attempted to canonise with its polysyllabic sonority that inverted Boy-Scoutishness of the said youths and maidens. 'One bad, mad deed-- sonnet-- scribble of some kind-- lousy daub-a-day.' Bunk without spunk, sauce without force, Futurism without a past, merely a Transition from one yelping pose to another."
-- After indicating that he wouldn't abandon his family, however terrified he was: "Such things aren't done by respectable inhabitants of Great Britain-- a people despised and respected by all other tribes. Despised as Philistines, but it took the jaw-bone of an ass to subdue that hardy race! Respected for what? Birkenhead stuff. No, not the noble Lord, for there were no glittering prizes for those who went down to the bottom of the sea in ships. My mind deliberately restricting itself to such highly debatable jingoism... [blah blah blah scary stuff monsters&ghosts]." ...What? This was written in the 1920s, I think. What does he mean about the British being "despised" at that point in history? Later-- It just occurred to me... Maybe he was referring to colonialism/imperialism? Clearly this is not one of my (many, many) areas of expertise... ;o)
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A painter and his wife and young son take a house in the country for a few months, hoping to enjoy a riverside holiday in pleasant surroundings. Little do they know that the Red Lodge is not the pleasant vacation spot they're expecting... (Dun dun DUN!)
My Reaction:
It has its moments. This is one of the creepier of the stories, so far. However, I think it's somewhat weakened by the hodge-podge of "haunting elements". There's the mysterious green slime and the "green monkey" that apparently goes after children... Then there are the ghostly human figures people keep seeing entering and exiting rooms... Then there's the story (and apparition) of the people being driven to jump to their deaths in the river. The "green monkey" in particular doesn't seem to have much relation to the "origin story" (of the man who arranged for his wife's death in the river-- so that he could replace her with a harem, of course.). I guess you could draw the conclusion that the green monkey-monster-man is one of the victims of the haunting-- perhaps even the original evil husband, himself-- but why is he especially interested in children? It lacks a certain cohesion. That doesn't make it a bad ghost story, but it diminishes its effectiveness, in my humble opinion.
I've repeatedly seen this lauded as one of Wakefield's best works. Maybe I'm missing something, but if this is the best, I don't know if I see what all the fuss is about... It had a few really good moments, but as a whole was lacking that ineffable something that would have pulled it all together into a crescendo. (The kid being terrified by the green monkey-monster-man into jumping into the river-- not enough, evidently.) Possibly this just isn't "my" genre-- or I'm too prone to nit-picking... (Though I will insist that just because I may seem to tear a book to shreds afterwards, it doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the reading!)
Side Notes:
-- This habit of renting out other people's homes and living in them for months at a time seems to be fairly common in British literature (at least, of a certain period). It feels strange to me. Renting a cabin for a week or so seems more normal. I just can't imagine staying in someone else's home for three months! I wouldn't feel comfortable-- and I'd miss my own things at home-- and it would be far too much trouble to bring them all with you-- and I certainly couldn't bear the thought of renting out my own home! Of course, in this instance, I guess the lodge's owner wasn't living there, so it was more like renting a (very nice) cabin than living in someone else's home...
-- The narrator decides not to talk to his wife about the creepy experiences, yet, because "it was conceivable that these phenomena were perceptible only to [himself], being half a Highlander". Highlanders are/were susceptible to paranormal activity, I guess? (g)
-- "'The green monkey won't get me, will it, Mummy?'" Ha ha ha. Sorry, but that just makes me laugh. "Well, now, sonny, that depends on how you behave... I wish I could tell you that the green monkey wouldn't get you, but if you're a bad little boy, there may not be anything I can do about it."
-- The neighbor's dream was shuddery. "'...a certain dream which recurs with curious regularity. I find myself standing at the end of the lane and watching the river-- always in a sort of brassy half-light. And presently something comes floating down the stream. I can see it jerking up and down, and I always feel passionately anxious to see what it may be. At first I think that it is a log, but when it gets exactly opposite me it changes its course and comes towards me, and then I see that it is a dead body, very decomposed. And when it reaches the bank it begins to climb up towards me, and then I am thankful to say I always awake. Sometimes I have thought that one day I shall not wake just then, and that on this occasion something will happen to me, but that is probably merely a silly fancy of an old gentleman who has concerned himself with these singular events rather more than is good for his nerves.'" --The "brassy half-light". I wonder if that's the same beautiful pinkish light that we sometimes get at twilight... --The log-turned-body reminds me of a similar instance in The Willows. --I think I would suffer from serious insomnia if I had a recurring dream like that and seriously suspected that one day I wouldn't wake up...
-- There were a few odd mentions during the course of the story:
-- First, Sedgewick's The Use of Words in Reasoning. (He even quotes from it...)
-- Second, "an article... on a glorious word 'Jugendbewegung', the 'Youth Movement', that pregnant or merely wind-swollen Teutonism! How ponderously it attempted to canonise with its polysyllabic sonority that inverted Boy-Scoutishness of the said youths and maidens. 'One bad, mad deed-- sonnet-- scribble of some kind-- lousy daub-a-day.' Bunk without spunk, sauce without force, Futurism without a past, merely a Transition from one yelping pose to another."
-- After indicating that he wouldn't abandon his family, however terrified he was: "Such things aren't done by respectable inhabitants of Great Britain-- a people despised and respected by all other tribes. Despised as Philistines, but it took the jaw-bone of an ass to subdue that hardy race! Respected for what? Birkenhead stuff. No, not the noble Lord, for there were no glittering prizes for those who went down to the bottom of the sea in ships. My mind deliberately restricting itself to such highly debatable jingoism... [blah blah blah scary stuff monsters&ghosts]." ...What? This was written in the 1920s, I think. What does he mean about the British being "despised" at that point in history? Later-- It just occurred to me... Maybe he was referring to colonialism/imperialism? Clearly this is not one of my (many, many) areas of expertise... ;o)
Thursday, September 19, 2013
"The Third Coach"
"The Third Coach"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
[in the flattest deadpan voice] Oh boy. Yet another frame story. [end deadpan]
A golfer who routinely plays on a green neighboring a lunatic asylum befriends one of the doctors. Because apparently there is no such thing as doctor-patient confidentially, ethics, etc., the doctor treats his golfing buddy to a little light reading-- the strange and very slightly supernatural tale of one inmate's prior life, which he feels compelled to write and rewrite.
My Reaction:
Well, it was weird. It felt like a long way to go for not much of a wow. Of course, my view of this story is undoubtedly influenced by the fact that I'm getting a little tired of this author's particular hangups-- to the point that I barely bothered to take any notes at all, on this one. There was the same misogyny... ("My mother was a good-tempered slut... Apart from her good temper and her thirst [for alcohol], there is nothing to record concerning her.") ...Also the same grimy layer of crime, hatred, violence, filth, and general crud that seems to encrust the world in most, if not all, of these stories.
Random Tidbits:
-- Alienist. It's an old-fashioned word for psychiatrist or psychologist.
-- "He surveys me quizzingly yet wearily through a pair of rainbow eyes." What are "rainbow eyes"?
-- "'There are drinks and Gold-flakes.'" Are those anything like potato chips, do you think?
-- So. If we are to believe the doctor and accept that the clergyman really was just a normal, kindly clergyman before his accident... That means that everything we read in his "memoir" was just "made up"? Fabricated out of thin air? And so nothing remotely supernatural even happened at all? ...Or what? What's the alternative? That he... wasn't just a clergyman, even though evidently someone must've recognized/identified him... And how would you explain his head injury, if his version of the story were the right one? It doesn't make sense. Not even ghost-story sense! Meh, not impressed.
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
[in the flattest deadpan voice] Oh boy. Yet another frame story. [end deadpan]
A golfer who routinely plays on a green neighboring a lunatic asylum befriends one of the doctors. Because apparently there is no such thing as doctor-patient confidentially, ethics, etc., the doctor treats his golfing buddy to a little light reading-- the strange and very slightly supernatural tale of one inmate's prior life, which he feels compelled to write and rewrite.
My Reaction:
Well, it was weird. It felt like a long way to go for not much of a wow. Of course, my view of this story is undoubtedly influenced by the fact that I'm getting a little tired of this author's particular hangups-- to the point that I barely bothered to take any notes at all, on this one. There was the same misogyny... ("My mother was a good-tempered slut... Apart from her good temper and her thirst [for alcohol], there is nothing to record concerning her.") ...Also the same grimy layer of crime, hatred, violence, filth, and general crud that seems to encrust the world in most, if not all, of these stories.
Random Tidbits:
-- Alienist. It's an old-fashioned word for psychiatrist or psychologist.
-- "He surveys me quizzingly yet wearily through a pair of rainbow eyes." What are "rainbow eyes"?
-- "'There are drinks and Gold-flakes.'" Are those anything like potato chips, do you think?
-- So. If we are to believe the doctor and accept that the clergyman really was just a normal, kindly clergyman before his accident... That means that everything we read in his "memoir" was just "made up"? Fabricated out of thin air? And so nothing remotely supernatural even happened at all? ...Or what? What's the alternative? That he... wasn't just a clergyman, even though evidently someone must've recognized/identified him... And how would you explain his head injury, if his version of the story were the right one? It doesn't make sense. Not even ghost-story sense! Meh, not impressed.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
"Professor Pownall's Oversight"
"Professor Pownall's Oversight"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A man who has long suffered under the conviction that his old school rival has and will always best him, despite the rival's comparative mental inferiority, arranges to humiliate him in a chess tournament. It doesn't go according to plan. Instead of proving his superior chess skillz, he makes a mistake and realizes he's going to lose to his opponent when the game is continued the next day-- so naturally, to avoid the inevitable, ignominious defeat, he murders his rival that night, wins the tournament by default, and is sent on to an international competition. Every game of the new tournament is spoiled, though, when the ghost of his old "friend" stands behind his flesh-and-blood opponent and guides his hand to the one perfect move. Oh well! C'est la vie! What's a fellow to do? He writes extensively on the matches and his brilliant strategies, arranges to have it all published several years into the future, and "disappears" himself. The End-- or is it?
My Reaction:
Nothing strikes greater fear into the heart of man than... chess. Or not? It's an interesting idea-- an epic battle of wills/minds playing itself out repeatedly through time and space-- but as someone who never learned to play chess (and has absolutely zero interest in it), I found the concept of a ghostly chess opponent somewhat dull-- and maybe more amusing than horrific. Also, the protagonist was so abhorrent that he made the whole story feel unappealing.
Specifics:
-- "Chess has been the one great love of my life. Mankind I detest and despise. ... Women do not exist for me-- they are merely variants from a bad model: but for chess, that superb, cold, infinitely satisfying anodyne to life, I feel the ardour of a lover, the humility of a disciple. Chess, that greatest of all games, greater than any game! It is, in my opinion, one of the few supreme products of the human intellect, if, as I often doubt, it is of human origin."
...Chess? Eh... Well, ok, if you say so. It seems kind of boring to me-- but then again, I am merely a woman, so I hardly even exist. (Yeah, yeah, I know some people-- women included-- love chess and that I shouldn't really pass judgement until I've at least learned to play... and I enjoy some games... but... I'm sorry, I think I could-- and likely will-- pass through my entire life without feeling the slightest inclination to learn chess.)
-- "If one avoids all contact with women one can live marvelously cheaply: I am continuously astounded at men's inability to grasp this great and simple truth."
Hm. That actually reminds me of a specific person... and he seems like the type who might obsess over things like chess... Mr. Chess-Genius, I suspect most men find that the company of a woman is worth more to them than the possibility of living "marvelously cheaply". Also, not all women are bottomless pits into which bundles of cash need to be endlessly thrown. (You disgusting pig.)
-- "I feel no remorse. My destruction of Morisson was an act of common sense and justice. All his life he had had the rewards which were rightfully mine... If I had known him to be my intellectual superior I would have accepted him as such, and become reconciled, but to be the greater and always to be branded as the inferior eventually becomes intolerable, and justice demands retribution."
-- "I have just destroyed my chessmen and my board, for no one else shall ever touch them. Tears came into my eyes as I did so. I never remember this happening before."
-- Clearly, the protagonist suffers/ed from a variety of delightful psychological maladies-- but I can't bring myself to pity him. Possibly if he felt like a real person-- a human being-- it would be easier to put yourself in his shoes... But it's only a short story, so why bother? (I'm feeling lazy.)
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A man who has long suffered under the conviction that his old school rival has and will always best him, despite the rival's comparative mental inferiority, arranges to humiliate him in a chess tournament. It doesn't go according to plan. Instead of proving his superior chess skillz, he makes a mistake and realizes he's going to lose to his opponent when the game is continued the next day-- so naturally, to avoid the inevitable, ignominious defeat, he murders his rival that night, wins the tournament by default, and is sent on to an international competition. Every game of the new tournament is spoiled, though, when the ghost of his old "friend" stands behind his flesh-and-blood opponent and guides his hand to the one perfect move. Oh well! C'est la vie! What's a fellow to do? He writes extensively on the matches and his brilliant strategies, arranges to have it all published several years into the future, and "disappears" himself. The End-- or is it?
My Reaction:
Nothing strikes greater fear into the heart of man than... chess. Or not? It's an interesting idea-- an epic battle of wills/minds playing itself out repeatedly through time and space-- but as someone who never learned to play chess (and has absolutely zero interest in it), I found the concept of a ghostly chess opponent somewhat dull-- and maybe more amusing than horrific. Also, the protagonist was so abhorrent that he made the whole story feel unappealing.
Specifics:
-- "Chess has been the one great love of my life. Mankind I detest and despise. ... Women do not exist for me-- they are merely variants from a bad model: but for chess, that superb, cold, infinitely satisfying anodyne to life, I feel the ardour of a lover, the humility of a disciple. Chess, that greatest of all games, greater than any game! It is, in my opinion, one of the few supreme products of the human intellect, if, as I often doubt, it is of human origin."
...Chess? Eh... Well, ok, if you say so. It seems kind of boring to me-- but then again, I am merely a woman, so I hardly even exist. (Yeah, yeah, I know some people-- women included-- love chess and that I shouldn't really pass judgement until I've at least learned to play... and I enjoy some games... but... I'm sorry, I think I could-- and likely will-- pass through my entire life without feeling the slightest inclination to learn chess.)
-- "If one avoids all contact with women one can live marvelously cheaply: I am continuously astounded at men's inability to grasp this great and simple truth."
Hm. That actually reminds me of a specific person... and he seems like the type who might obsess over things like chess... Mr. Chess-Genius, I suspect most men find that the company of a woman is worth more to them than the possibility of living "marvelously cheaply". Also, not all women are bottomless pits into which bundles of cash need to be endlessly thrown. (You disgusting pig.)
-- "I feel no remorse. My destruction of Morisson was an act of common sense and justice. All his life he had had the rewards which were rightfully mine... If I had known him to be my intellectual superior I would have accepted him as such, and become reconciled, but to be the greater and always to be branded as the inferior eventually becomes intolerable, and justice demands retribution."
-- "I have just destroyed my chessmen and my board, for no one else shall ever touch them. Tears came into my eyes as I did so. I never remember this happening before."
-- Clearly, the protagonist suffers/ed from a variety of delightful psychological maladies-- but I can't bring myself to pity him. Possibly if he felt like a real person-- a human being-- it would be easier to put yourself in his shoes... But it's only a short story, so why bother? (I'm feeling lazy.)
Sunday, September 15, 2013
"He Cometh and He Passeth By!"
"He Cometh and He Passeth By!"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A canny, clever lawyer (or something of the sort) seeks vengeance for the supernatural murder of a friend.
My Reaction:
Interesting, though not really a ghost story. It was very clearly inspired by M.R. James' "Casting the Runes". Clinton is certainly a horrifying character. I'm not really finding these very scary, though... No doubt they'd be more effective at night, in a quiet, empty house.
Specifics:
-- Describing the main character's face: "No woman had etched lines upon it..." Gee, how nice. Tell me, do men etch lines upon women's faces, too? Or is that just a one-way street?
-- As suggested above, the antagonist in this story is a 60-something (?) man named Oscar Clinton. He is usually referred to by last name alone. I don't know about you, but when I see "Clinton", there is only one man who comes immediately to mind, which makes for some rather funny reading, considering that Clinton is a womanizing, completely scummy "dirty old man" who dabbles in the dark arts:
-- "...Clinton was in a class by himself. He was-- and no doubt still is-- an accomplished corrupter, and he took, and no doubt still takes, a jocund delight in his hobby." (...Yep, sounds about right.)
-- "Clinton is highly psychic, with great natural hypnotic power." (Explains soooo much!)
-- "[Clinton] then joined an esoteric and little-known sect-- Satanists-- of which he eventually became high priest. And then he returned to what we call civilisation, and has since been 'moved on' by the Civil Powers of many countries, for his forte is the extraction of money from credulous and timid individuals-- usually female-- by methods highly ingenious and peculiarly his own." (No comment.)
-- After Clinton impregnated two maids in his "friend's" home, the scandalized "friend" discovered that "he considered it was his duty to disseminate his unique genius as widely as possible, and that it should be considered the highest privilege for anyone to bear his child. He had to his knowledge seventy-four offspring alive, and probably many more-- the more the better for the future of humanity." *gag*
-- Of course, as usual, Wakefield's treatment of the women in the story is disgusting. The owner of the home (Clinton's "friend") makes it clear to the pregnant maids that they will not lose their jobs and that he will even provide for the illegitimate children (since he takes responsibility for the whole mess). The two pregnant maids are very satisfied with this arrangement-- happy, even-- and the maid who reported the incident after Clinton repeatedly-- but unsuccessfully-- tried her door, also? "...I had the discreditable impression that the Immaculate Third would have shown less lachrymose integrity had the consequences of surrender been revealed ante factum." ...Yeah, I'm sure that's likely. Because most young women would jump at the chance of sleeping with some random, creepy old man. Their chances of marriage are so much better after they've had a child out of wedlock-- and women of their time and station had so many other options open to them. Ugh.
-- As you may have surmised from these tidbits, this story is much seamier than "Casting the Runes". It seems to be a trend in Wakefield's tales.
-- The bit about the pupils of the victim having drawn up into catlike half-moons? Yes, that is creepy...
-- I had to laugh that one of Solan's areas of expertise was the short stories of P.G. Wodehouse-- and Austin Freeman, who was evidently an American basketball player.
-- Of the lawyer's clerk: "Not one of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpracticed by him, and his income was £1,250 per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish." Ha!
-- "...an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and indiscretion-- the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver."
-- Casual mention of The Wallet of Kai-Lung. Also W.W. Jacobs and "Night-Watchman".
-- Clinton's speeches remind me rather forcefully of Dorian Grey and his mentor, whatever his name was. Things like this: "All my life I have been a law unto myself, and that is probably why the Law has always shown so much interest in me."
-- "The man of superior power-- there are no such women..." How sweet.
-- The snuffbox-- "an exquisite little masterpiece with an inexpressibly vile design enamelled on the lid" (and filled with "white powder") also takes me back to The Picture of Dorian Grey. And makes me happy I'm no longer reading that rubbishy novel. Not to my tastes.
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A canny, clever lawyer (or something of the sort) seeks vengeance for the supernatural murder of a friend.
My Reaction:
Interesting, though not really a ghost story. It was very clearly inspired by M.R. James' "Casting the Runes". Clinton is certainly a horrifying character. I'm not really finding these very scary, though... No doubt they'd be more effective at night, in a quiet, empty house.
Specifics:
-- Describing the main character's face: "No woman had etched lines upon it..." Gee, how nice. Tell me, do men etch lines upon women's faces, too? Or is that just a one-way street?
-- As suggested above, the antagonist in this story is a 60-something (?) man named Oscar Clinton. He is usually referred to by last name alone. I don't know about you, but when I see "Clinton", there is only one man who comes immediately to mind, which makes for some rather funny reading, considering that Clinton is a womanizing, completely scummy "dirty old man" who dabbles in the dark arts:
-- "...Clinton was in a class by himself. He was-- and no doubt still is-- an accomplished corrupter, and he took, and no doubt still takes, a jocund delight in his hobby." (...Yep, sounds about right.)
-- "Clinton is highly psychic, with great natural hypnotic power." (Explains soooo much!)
-- "[Clinton] then joined an esoteric and little-known sect-- Satanists-- of which he eventually became high priest. And then he returned to what we call civilisation, and has since been 'moved on' by the Civil Powers of many countries, for his forte is the extraction of money from credulous and timid individuals-- usually female-- by methods highly ingenious and peculiarly his own." (No comment.)
-- After Clinton impregnated two maids in his "friend's" home, the scandalized "friend" discovered that "he considered it was his duty to disseminate his unique genius as widely as possible, and that it should be considered the highest privilege for anyone to bear his child. He had to his knowledge seventy-four offspring alive, and probably many more-- the more the better for the future of humanity." *gag*
-- Of course, as usual, Wakefield's treatment of the women in the story is disgusting. The owner of the home (Clinton's "friend") makes it clear to the pregnant maids that they will not lose their jobs and that he will even provide for the illegitimate children (since he takes responsibility for the whole mess). The two pregnant maids are very satisfied with this arrangement-- happy, even-- and the maid who reported the incident after Clinton repeatedly-- but unsuccessfully-- tried her door, also? "...I had the discreditable impression that the Immaculate Third would have shown less lachrymose integrity had the consequences of surrender been revealed ante factum." ...Yeah, I'm sure that's likely. Because most young women would jump at the chance of sleeping with some random, creepy old man. Their chances of marriage are so much better after they've had a child out of wedlock-- and women of their time and station had so many other options open to them. Ugh.
-- As you may have surmised from these tidbits, this story is much seamier than "Casting the Runes". It seems to be a trend in Wakefield's tales.
-- The bit about the pupils of the victim having drawn up into catlike half-moons? Yes, that is creepy...
-- I had to laugh that one of Solan's areas of expertise was the short stories of P.G. Wodehouse-- and Austin Freeman, who was evidently an American basketball player.
-- Of the lawyer's clerk: "Not one of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpracticed by him, and his income was £1,250 per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish." Ha!
-- "...an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and indiscretion-- the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver."
-- Casual mention of The Wallet of Kai-Lung. Also W.W. Jacobs and "Night-Watchman".
-- Clinton's speeches remind me rather forcefully of Dorian Grey and his mentor, whatever his name was. Things like this: "All my life I have been a law unto myself, and that is probably why the Law has always shown so much interest in me."
-- "The man of superior power-- there are no such women..." How sweet.
-- The snuffbox-- "an exquisite little masterpiece with an inexpressibly vile design enamelled on the lid" (and filled with "white powder") also takes me back to The Picture of Dorian Grey. And makes me happy I'm no longer reading that rubbishy novel. Not to my tastes.
"Or Persons Unknown"
"Or Persons Unknown"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A butler tells a tale of the ghostly terror he witnessed at his last place of employment, where his master was haunted by the spirit of a gypsy-poacher's dog.
My Reaction:
...It was ok. I didn't feel very sympathetic toward the hauntee, though... (Not to say that I liked "Black Jack", either.) I just didn't feel much of a response to this story, period, except for at one point-- to be detailed below.
Specifics:
-- "He spent some time in America, Millin. The United States have much to be said for them, but they're not good for British butlers. Have you been abroad?" Ha! I guess visiting the U.S. gave the old butler "ideas" and weakened his allegiance to the old ways, feudalism, etc.
-- The dog is described as "a big mongrel, a mixture of collie and lurcher". Apparently a "lurcher" is a type of dog, but not one I remember hearing about before. It sounds kind of scary... Lurcher...
-- This was the most disturbing part of the story, in my opinion:
The hauntee (whose name I cannot remember) has just hit the dog with his car. Purposely hit it after failing to hit the dog's owner. Black Jack picks up the dead animal and holds him by the back of his neck. ("'Its face was all bloody and dusty and smashed up.'") The two men exchange threats-- and this happens:
"'Then suddenly his face went hard and fierce and there were tears in his eyes. He shoved the dog's muzzle right into the Guv'nor's face and gave a funny little sharp whistle which seemed to scream in one's head, and he muttered something in some foreign language, gipsy, I guess, and I got the idea that the dog was listening as if it was alive again..."
-- When the butler finds his master dead, he notices something strange about his eyes: "'There was something sort of photographed in them. ... It might have been the head of a dog smashed up and bleeding.'" ...That's something I have heard of before. In the past (or maybe even still), some people believed that the eyes of the dead captured and revealed (temporarily?) the last image the person saw before dying. In the case of the murdered, this might leave a clue to the identity of the murderer. It's a creepy thought.
-- At the very end, there's a reference to "an account of a very, very similar happening in the year 1795 in this country, not ten miles away", which is supposedly called "A True Account of the Curious Events connected with the death of Mr Arthur Pitts". A quick Internet search reveals nothing about it, so I'm not sure whether or not it exists...
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A butler tells a tale of the ghostly terror he witnessed at his last place of employment, where his master was haunted by the spirit of a gypsy-poacher's dog.
My Reaction:
...It was ok. I didn't feel very sympathetic toward the hauntee, though... (Not to say that I liked "Black Jack", either.) I just didn't feel much of a response to this story, period, except for at one point-- to be detailed below.
Specifics:
-- "He spent some time in America, Millin. The United States have much to be said for them, but they're not good for British butlers. Have you been abroad?" Ha! I guess visiting the U.S. gave the old butler "ideas" and weakened his allegiance to the old ways, feudalism, etc.
-- The dog is described as "a big mongrel, a mixture of collie and lurcher". Apparently a "lurcher" is a type of dog, but not one I remember hearing about before. It sounds kind of scary... Lurcher...
-- This was the most disturbing part of the story, in my opinion:
The hauntee (whose name I cannot remember) has just hit the dog with his car. Purposely hit it after failing to hit the dog's owner. Black Jack picks up the dead animal and holds him by the back of his neck. ("'Its face was all bloody and dusty and smashed up.'") The two men exchange threats-- and this happens:
"'Then suddenly his face went hard and fierce and there were tears in his eyes. He shoved the dog's muzzle right into the Guv'nor's face and gave a funny little sharp whistle which seemed to scream in one's head, and he muttered something in some foreign language, gipsy, I guess, and I got the idea that the dog was listening as if it was alive again..."
-- When the butler finds his master dead, he notices something strange about his eyes: "'There was something sort of photographed in them. ... It might have been the head of a dog smashed up and bleeding.'" ...That's something I have heard of before. In the past (or maybe even still), some people believed that the eyes of the dead captured and revealed (temporarily?) the last image the person saw before dying. In the case of the murdered, this might leave a clue to the identity of the murderer. It's a creepy thought.
-- At the very end, there's a reference to "an account of a very, very similar happening in the year 1795 in this country, not ten miles away", which is supposedly called "A True Account of the Curious Events connected with the death of Mr Arthur Pitts". A quick Internet search reveals nothing about it, so I'm not sure whether or not it exists...
Saturday, September 14, 2013
"That Dieth Not"
"That Dieth Not"
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A baronet marries unwisely, grows to hate his wife, and finally gives in to the impulse to kill her. She returns the favor by haunting him-- or is he going mad? (Nah, she's totally haunting him.)
My reaction:
Eh... I wasn't really creeped by this one. The first, pre-murder half of the story was much more disturbing than the haunting half. Maybe it was just me-- and my modern, desensitized perspective-- but most of the haunting (except one part, to be addressed later) seemed fairly mild and lacking in nuance.
Specifics:
-- Of his wife: "She was highly intelligent in a debased feminine way." ...What? Can intelligence be qualified, categorized, whatever by gender?
-- Sadly, I have to admit that I relate to the murderous narrator in his wish to avoid the social scene.
-- The narrator sometimes expresses himself with a sharp, rather cruel wit that reminds me of the little I've read of Oscar Wilde.
-- "And then Ethel went off to twitter in butts..." And then I said, "She whaaaaa...?" I don't know what that means.
-- "To think that I could have been such an utter flaming fool as to have ruined my life by a fortuitous combination of pigment, cuticle-- and the way the blood shone through it, hair-- and the way the light caught it, bones-- and the way their envelope draped around them."
-- "Once I had been fool enough to regard women as mentally almost indistinguishable, and it had been merely by the physical criterion I had separated one from another in my mind." What a great guy!
-- "'Nothing,' I said, 'is worth an awkward pause, not even the exposure of notorious evil-livers. Some people have a sixth sense for knowing how to avoid them. Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.'"
-- The narrator doesn't think too highly of the Riviera:
"What a region! I have cruised the Mediterranean fairly extensively, and it is no Sea for me. What merits the Southern Latins may once have possessed is a matter of opinion; that they retain any today seems to me untenable. A breed of pimps, parasites, and horse-torturers, the choicest surviving examples of that cretin civilisation which is Catholicism's legacy to the world. And it has always seemed to me that members of races vastly their intellectual and moral superiors become debased and degraded when brought into contact with them, though I know the region attracts the worst."
...Wow. How much of that is the author's own opinion?
-- The narrator's wife does seem pretty awful. Are we supposed to sympathize with the murderer-- or just conclude that they deserve one another?
-- The narrator, when meeting Margaret, notices "the lovely junction of her legs and feet", which sounds pretty funny. Are there any "ankle men" out there, these days, or is appreciation of a slender ankle mostly a thing of the past?
-- Until the appearance of a car (and the mention of a "flat-tyre" personality or somesuch), the story felt like it could've been set further in the past than it actually was. Instead, we get a technophile ghost who chooses to make her first appearances through the telephone and radio.
-- Some of Ethel's hauntings fail to give me the shudders-- though the "haunting via technology" concept has endured. (Some of the fairly recent famous Asian horror films come to mind. The Ring... The Grudge... Pulse...)
-- The Grodiest Moment award goes to...
...that time when the narrator wakes in the middle of the night to the feeling of someone slipping into his arms... and the sense of a beating heart... At first, he thinks it's his new wife, but then he gets that creepy-crawly, something's-wrong feeling-- looks-- and sees that it's his dead wife, the woman he murdered several months ago. "For a moment she was warm and whole, and then she glazed, swelled, and burst asunder, and became a seething bladder of corruption." Well, gross.
-- There was an introduction that I skipped because sometimes introductions have a way of assuming that you've already read the book (which is incredibly stupid, since they come at the beginning of the book!) and proceed to give away the story. I intend to go back and at least skim it when I'm done, though...
from They Return at Evening
by H.R. Wakefield
They Return at Evening is a collection of ghost stories by H.R. Wakefield. It's his first such collection, published in 1928. I'll be posting reactions to stories individually.
SPOILERS FOLLOW.
Synopsis:
A baronet marries unwisely, grows to hate his wife, and finally gives in to the impulse to kill her. She returns the favor by haunting him-- or is he going mad? (Nah, she's totally haunting him.)
My reaction:
Eh... I wasn't really creeped by this one. The first, pre-murder half of the story was much more disturbing than the haunting half. Maybe it was just me-- and my modern, desensitized perspective-- but most of the haunting (except one part, to be addressed later) seemed fairly mild and lacking in nuance.
Specifics:
-- Of his wife: "She was highly intelligent in a debased feminine way." ...What? Can intelligence be qualified, categorized, whatever by gender?
-- Sadly, I have to admit that I relate to the murderous narrator in his wish to avoid the social scene.
-- The narrator sometimes expresses himself with a sharp, rather cruel wit that reminds me of the little I've read of Oscar Wilde.
-- "And then Ethel went off to twitter in butts..." And then I said, "She whaaaaa...?" I don't know what that means.
-- "To think that I could have been such an utter flaming fool as to have ruined my life by a fortuitous combination of pigment, cuticle-- and the way the blood shone through it, hair-- and the way the light caught it, bones-- and the way their envelope draped around them."
-- "Once I had been fool enough to regard women as mentally almost indistinguishable, and it had been merely by the physical criterion I had separated one from another in my mind." What a great guy!
-- "'Nothing,' I said, 'is worth an awkward pause, not even the exposure of notorious evil-livers. Some people have a sixth sense for knowing how to avoid them. Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.'"
-- The narrator doesn't think too highly of the Riviera:
"What a region! I have cruised the Mediterranean fairly extensively, and it is no Sea for me. What merits the Southern Latins may once have possessed is a matter of opinion; that they retain any today seems to me untenable. A breed of pimps, parasites, and horse-torturers, the choicest surviving examples of that cretin civilisation which is Catholicism's legacy to the world. And it has always seemed to me that members of races vastly their intellectual and moral superiors become debased and degraded when brought into contact with them, though I know the region attracts the worst."
...Wow. How much of that is the author's own opinion?
-- The narrator's wife does seem pretty awful. Are we supposed to sympathize with the murderer-- or just conclude that they deserve one another?
-- The narrator, when meeting Margaret, notices "the lovely junction of her legs and feet", which sounds pretty funny. Are there any "ankle men" out there, these days, or is appreciation of a slender ankle mostly a thing of the past?
-- Until the appearance of a car (and the mention of a "flat-tyre" personality or somesuch), the story felt like it could've been set further in the past than it actually was. Instead, we get a technophile ghost who chooses to make her first appearances through the telephone and radio.
-- Some of Ethel's hauntings fail to give me the shudders-- though the "haunting via technology" concept has endured. (Some of the fairly recent famous Asian horror films come to mind. The Ring... The Grudge... Pulse...)
-- The Grodiest Moment award goes to...
...that time when the narrator wakes in the middle of the night to the feeling of someone slipping into his arms... and the sense of a beating heart... At first, he thinks it's his new wife, but then he gets that creepy-crawly, something's-wrong feeling-- looks-- and sees that it's his dead wife, the woman he murdered several months ago. "For a moment she was warm and whole, and then she glazed, swelled, and burst asunder, and became a seething bladder of corruption." Well, gross.
-- There was an introduction that I skipped because sometimes introductions have a way of assuming that you've already read the book (which is incredibly stupid, since they come at the beginning of the book!) and proceed to give away the story. I intend to go back and at least skim it when I'm done, though...
Friday, September 13, 2013
Hooked on Murder
Hooked on Murder (Crochet Mystery #1)
by Betty Hechtman
Publisher's Blurb:
When bookstore event coordinator Molly Pink stumbles across the dead body of a crochet group's leader, her complicated past with the woman makes her a prime suspect.
But while Molly's fending off a detective with a personal grudge and navigating the pitfalls of crochet group politics, the real killer remains at large. And it's up to her to catch the culprit-- before she winds up in a tight knot.
My Reaction:
It was kind of boring, to tell the truth. (I know that you non-crocheters are shocked. What?! A "crochet mystery" is boring?! Alert the media!) However, I happen to find crochet very interesting-- and some mysteries, also-- so I was disappointed that this combination of the two fell so far short of the mark. It wasn't unreadable, but I'm not making urgent plans to follow up with the next in the series.
Unless you count Agatha Christie as "cozy mysteries", this may have been my first exposure to the genre. Sadly, I suspect that many "niche cozies" are formulaic and not very well-written-- but that's just a suspicion, and given my lack of experience, I can't really compare Hooked on Murder to the genre as a whole.
Judging it as a standalone novel, I'm afraid I'm somewhat unimpressed. I had to make myself keep reading. Maybe the series improves with the next book...
Specific Comments ("Now with SPOILERS!"):
-- The title feels weird and... misleading. There's no-one "hooked on murder" in the book, as far as I can recall. Clearly the author just wanted a crochet-related title, and this was the best she could come up with. I don't know that I'd do any better, but... it sounds weird.
-- Most of the central characters are in their late 40s or older. (Well, actually there are one or two whose ages I must've missed...) On one hand, this plays right into stereotypes about who crochets. On the other hand, maybe that's the author's target audience.
-- One positive with an older protagonist? When the main character is in her 20s, the 30-somethings always seem faded and "old" by comparison. (That's how they're often portrayed, I mean.) In this case, our protagonist tells a detective that she's 48, "which compared to her perky mid-thirtysomething probably seemed ancient". ...Yeah, it's nice to be in the young, perky age range, for a change!
-- Barry's reaction to the news that his son has joined the drama club at school seems a bit over the top. So you don't want him to go into acting? I get it, but it's just a fun extracurricular at school. Calm down!
-- ...But then the kid wants to be known by his "stage name, Columbia"... :o\
-- I thought it was funny that the main character (Molly, by the way) refers to that one guy as "Lawrence, not Larry" because... either he doesn't "do" nicknames or she can't imagine anyone ever daring to call him "Larry"... (I can't recall which!) And... so what? Maybe he prefers "Lawrence" to "Larry". (I know I do! Of course, I'm also not crazy about her boyfriend's name, Barry. Yick.) Not everyone wants to be known by a shortened version of his/her name. If you "allow" people to call you by a nickname, chances are it will stick, and maybe you don't want to be known as "Mike" or "Micky" or whatever other irritating nickname someone else decides they want to call you. My sympathies lie with Lawrence in this matter.
-- I don't want to overstate my level of crochet expertise, but I'm not a beginner-- and I found some of the tidbits of wisdom from the "experts" in this book to be questionable. Such as...
-- "'Remember, the correct gauge is essential, dears. That's the only way we can be sure the squares will all turn out the same size.'" Eh... Well, gauge is important for garments, yes. And of course all the squares going into the same blanket need to be approximately the same size, but there are other ways of getting them to the same size than obsessing about something that can fluctuate with mood... I don't know; it felt to me like someone just wanted to write about gauge. (Weirdo.)
-- "'Dear, it's not a good idea to mix yarn types in a square. Only a master like Ellen could pull it off.'" Pfft! No, dear. Actually, you can do whatever you want. Maybe since this is a group project you need to all use the same type of yarn-- if that's what you've agreed to do-- but you don't have to be a "master" to mix yarn types. People do it all the time.
-- The difficulty of finishing the afghan felt incredibly contrived to me. I guess the author needed some crochet-related conflict for the book, but how many squares does one blanket need? Even with some of the contributors gone or working slowly, they had two or three experienced crocheters. This book made it sound much more difficult and time-consuming to whip out a blanket than it really is. Yes, it's a lot of work and requires a lot of time, but they made it sound like a monumental effort-- and it's just not-- especially with that many people working on it.
-- The open rivalry between the crocheters and the knitters also felt silly. Maybe that's how a very few crafters behave, but most are adults who behave normally. Which means they don't have noisy, public confrontations over the comparative merits of crochet and knitting. We all have our preferences, but... I don't expect anyone to care what I think, one way or the other.
-- "'Dear, we have to let her go. If she wants to join the knitters, so be it. I never felt she was a committed crocheter anyway.'" ...So, do you have to sign a pledge or take an oath or something to prove that you are committed to crochet? "I solemnly vow to keep to the hook-- and only the hook-- for so long as I may craft."
-- More of the knit vs. crochet stuff at the yarn shop. The knitters look up with (perhaps) "just a note of superiority in their expressions", but the owner/manager says that "crocheters are welcome here." *snort!* Like she's granting them asylum or something! (Well... on Ravelry, I've read "friend-of-a-friend" horror stories about shops that didn't want the business of crocheters, which is hard to believe. If it's true, those must be hobby-businesses instead of real businesses. Anyone who wants to turn a profit wouldn't care if the yarn s/he sold was to be knitted, crocheted, or used for children's cut-and-paste crafts!)
-- I was amused that Molly thought granny squares looked "complicated to make and something [she] could never learn". Molly really needs to work on her self-confidence. Granny squares are easy. I thought everyone knew that... (But yes, they do take a little practice. My first granny squares were far from perfect.)
-- Hook Down the Pounds: The Magic Way to Lose Weight with Crochet. Ah... Well, good luck with that. Unfortunately, I've found that crocheting hasn't done much to reduce my own weight.
-- The audience's reaction to the "hooking down the pounds" concept felt farcical. The whole idea seems to be that if you crochet for five minutes instead of eating a 400-calorie cupcake-- ta-da!-- you've just magically saved 400 calories! Yes, I suppose that's true. Of course, you could spend five minutes doing anything-- including absolutely nothing-- and "save" those same calories. It has nothing to do with crochet. But of course the audience is gushing with excitement, "pushing and shoving" to get to the limited stock of crochet supplies, snatching things out of one another's hands, and walking around in a crocheting daze, not paying attention to where they're going. (Yikes. Evidently there are a lot of simple-minded sheeple in Tarzana.) "The people who were still empty-handed were milling around, looking angry." ...Then "the hookless crowd" notice a celebrity in their midst and ask for his help. "They started complaining to him about the lack of hooks and string." (Ohmybarf. Tell me that's not what it's really like in Hollywood.) Molly comes to the rescue with the most obvious solution ever. (It's embarrassingly obvious.)
-- Some newbies come in asking to see the "murder blanket". Ha! "'Dear, we like to think of it as Ellen's legacy, or the tribute afghan. Nobody is calling it a murder blanket. "Murder blanket" sounds so negative.'" No! Ya think?!
-- Another peeve-- the group politics. The constant jockeying for position. So adversarial. I'm assuming most crochet/knit groups aren't like that, though I've never been part of one-- and if I thought they'd be like this, I'd go out of my way to avoid them. Why does the group need an assigned "leader", anyway? Seems a bit juvenile.
-- ...Regarding the mystery part of the mystery... It was pretty predictable. ...Not much to say about it, really.
-- The protagonist's main character trait is a fondness for red-eyes. (That's a coffee mixed with espresso, apparently. I don't know... I haven't had coffee in years.)
-- The romance segment didn't really do anything for me. I just didn't care one way or the other-- and then there was this: "Barry quieted me the way he knew best. He kissed me with a long, slow, mind-blowing dance of tongues." Ugh! No, no, no! Do not refer to a kiss as a "dance of tongues", I beg you! *gag*
-- On multiple occasions (iirc), people in this book whip out a single crochet hook and hold it aloft-- like, "Behold, I yield my trusty hook, Excalibur!" -- like any size crochet hook will work for any project that comes up. But these are people who obsess about gauge. If you're obsessed with gauge, any random hook won't really work for any project. Most likely it'll work out, but... Just seemed odd to me. Unless you know what size hook you need, you'd bring a range of sizes. At least, I would.
-- "'Yeah, I've taken up the hook.'" ...Why does that make me think of someone "taking the cloth"?
-- "She took a step closer, and I could smell the metal of the gun." Whoa. That must be some seriously smelly metal. But really, how smelly can the metal of a gun be? I think I have a fairly sensitive sniffer, but I don't usually smell metal unless I've been handling it...
-- Molly's inability to get the heck out of the room while Meredith messes around with the duct tape defies belief. Then when she manages to pull the tape off her mouth, she can't summon her voice to call for help?! I know it probably happens, but in this case, it was clearly just to give her an excuse to hang around longer and use her strip of crochet to bind Meredith's feet.
-- The pattern for the granny square washcloth and the recipe for the cake and icing are a fun touch, I guess... but how many people will read a crochet-themed mystery without knowing how to make a granny square?
Friday, September 6, 2013
The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoir
The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoirby Bill Bryson
(Edited) Blurb:
Bill Bryson re-creates the life of his family and his native city in the 1950s in all its transcendent normality—a life at once completely familiar to us all and as far away and unreachable as another galaxy. It was, he reminds us, a happy time, when automobiles and televisions and appliances (not to mention nuclear weapons) grew larger and more numerous with each passing year, and DDT, cigarettes, and the fallout from atmospheric testing were considered harmless or even good for you. He brings us into the life of his loving but eccentric family, including affectionate portraits of his father, a gifted sportswriter for the local paper and dedicated practitioner of isometric exercises, and OF his mother, whose job as the home furnishing editor for the same paper left her little time for practicing the domestic arts at home. The many readers of Bill Bryson’s earlier classic, A Walk in the Woods, will greet the reappearance in these pages of the immortal Stephen Katz. He is joined in the Bryson gallery of immortal characters by the demonically clever Willoughby brothers, who apply their scientific skills and can-do attitude to gleefully destructive ends.
Warm and laugh-out-loud funny, and full of his inimitable, pitch-perfect observations, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid is as wondrous a book as Bill Bryson has ever written. It will enchant anyone who has ever been young.
My Reaction:
First, I edited the publisher's blurb mainly because it was way too long-- but also because parts of it felt misleading-- as does the title itself, imho.
This (a read-aloud with Donald) was my third time reading Bryson's works. The first was A Walk in the Woods, which was amusing or educational in parts, odd in others. The second was... I'm not sure of the title... Life on a Small Island, I think. We were disappointed that it seemed to be geared toward the English-- or at least people more familiar with the lay of the land than we were-- and spent too much time talking about how much things had changed since his first time passing through the area. (Fascinating for a native, but not for us.) We eventually decided that since we weren't enjoying it, it wasn't worth our time, so we left it unfinished.
So, this one... It was extremely uneven, from my perspective. I enjoyed some of it, but not all-- or even most of it...
-- The parts about Bryson's family were probably the strongest sections of the book. Some of the other reminiscences were also entertaining (such as the chapter about the rural town where his grandparents lived).
-- If you grew up in Des Moines, Iowa -- especially in the 1950s/1960s-- you're probably more likely to enjoy this book than are the rest of us.
-- The little "history lessons" took up too much of the book. A few of them were interesting, but at some points, I skipped paragraphs. (Honestly, I wondered if some of them were even accurate. It's difficult to inspire confidence when you bounce back and forth among obvious hyperbole, "embellished" memories, and history.) I wanted a book of humorous personal recollections-- not this author's version of national history. I was annoyed that Bryson couldn't resist the temptation to occasionally inject his political opinions into the book.* It's not funny, Bill. It seems petty, and it alienates a good portion of your audience-- not that you care. (Also, you've spent most of your adult life in England, so... You know what? I don't really give a flying fig what you think about the U.S., politically or otherwise. ~insincerely sweet smile~)
-- There was a little too much "Oh, how things have changed for the worse!" -- "So much has been lost!" -- "Big chain stores and fast food franchises killed the glory of the tiny, mom-and-pop shops and charming diners!" -- "Americans work too much!" -- "Consumerism is evil!" -- etc. I think he tried not to be too preachy, but... I still got that vibe. That obnoxious Baby Boomer attitude. That insinuation of "Thank God I was born when I was, because the world's gone to hell in the meantime, and you kids of today will never know what you missed!"
-- What was with all the gross stuff? I could've done without it-- but if you took it all away, goodness only knows how many pages you'd have to remove.
-- On a similar note: What was with all the profanity? Yeah, I know the 50s weren't as squeaky clean as black-and-white sitcom reruns might have us believe, but... Meh.
-- Some of Bryson's memories that were meant to be humorous were actually more disgusting-- or shocking-- or just plain unpleasant and mean-spirited than they were funny. Take, for example, the bit about going to the lake with that kid he didn't like. We were waiting for something funny to happen, but no. The funny/wonderful part was that some people little Billy didn't like got hurt while he watched. (They hadn't even done anything to him to give him a reason not to like them-- or at least, the memoir made no mention of it, if they had.) Then there's all the hooliganism. (Glorified hooliganism, at that.) Exaggerated for humor's sake? Maybe, but... still not funny. Also, I realize that at a certain age boys develop a natural curiosity about and fascination with the female form, but it was emphasized perhaps a little too often for my tastes. (Didn't the rotten little brat think about anything but naked women?)
Based on other reviews I've skimmed, it seems that Bryson's "travel books" are better than this memoir, so maybe I'll still try one or two of the others-- In a Sunburned Country sounds promising-- but I won't be keeping our (library book sale) copy of this one.
* One of his more obnoxious political comments comes near the end of the thirteenth chapter:
"A quarter of young American males were in the armed forces in 1968. Nearly all the rest were in school, in prison, or were George W. Bush. For most people, school was the only realistic option for avoiding military service."For your reading pleasure: Was author Bill Bryson a draft dodger or draft evader during the Vietnam War? (I leave you to draw your own conclusions regarding the pot calling the kettle black.)
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Dancing Floor
The Dancing Floorby Barbara Michaels
Publisher's Blurb:
For years, Heather Tradescant had dreamed of the journey she and her father would take to England--a pilgrimage to the great gardens of history. Now that her father is dead, Heather is determined to fulfill his dreams. Unfortunately, her request to see the fabled 17th-century garden of Troytan House is denied by the owner. Though unwelcome, she braves the walls of briars and reaches the Victorian manor house beyond. She senses a strange mission of evil lurking, tainting the manor's peaceful beauty. Only then does Heather begin to wonder whether it is only stories of long-vanished witchcraft that haunt Troytan House or whether there is some more modern horror, hearer at hand, and far, far more dangerous.
My Reaction:
For mindless escapism, this was fine. It kept me entertained and reading until the end-- but great literature it ain't. If you know what you're signing up for, there's no call for anything worse than minor disappointment, with this type of book. Personally, I wasn't even that disappointed! (Though... I will admit that it could've been better. See the "tid-bits" section, below.)
(As an aside, I don't really expect great literature from the modern authors I choose to read-- because the modern writers who try to or think they are writing "Literature-with-a-capital-L" tend to churn out the most depressing, dull, utterly hopeless piles of excrement I've ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on-- not to sound too harsh. No thanks. I'll stick with unpretentious authors who know how to write an interesting story that doesn't sap you of your very will to live.)
Some of the reviews I've skimmed have indicated that in this late (1997) novel, it is obvious that when Michaels wrote this, the author was finally beginning to lose her touch or reach the bottom of her creative well. (Incidentally, I think this is the first book of hers I've read since learning that Barbara Mertz-- a.k.a Barbara Michaels and Elizabeth Peters-- had died. She was a prolific author, and she gave her many fans countless hours of amusement and pleasure.) Perhaps I haven't read her best works, yet (because I'm selecting them willy-nilly, with neither rhyme nor reason), or maybe I'm forgetting how wonderful some of the books I have already read were... but I didn't see all that much difference between this and the others I've read.
If you're a die-hard Michaels fan, you'll find this one at least passable. If you've thought the others Michaels books you've read have been only so-so, you might find this one even more lacking than usual. If you're new to the author, maybe this isn't your best introduction. --But I thought it was ok!
SPOILERy Random Tid-Bits:
-- When I first got to know our heroine (Heather), I was glad that at least she wasn't a dazzling beauty. She's a little overweight, taller and more masculine in shape than the supposed "ideal" woman, not especially pretty, and just generally not the feminine perfection that irks the living soul out of readers who are... well, average in the looks department. However happy I was that she wasn't an indisputable beauty queen, I was a bit ambivalent about the early repeated references to her weight/size. I was hoping this wouldn't turn out to be one of those books where a chubby heroine eats a few salads, turns away a couple of desserts, jogs once or twice, and miraculously drops 30 pounds in two weeks. I am glad to report that it wasn't. Heather maintains a strong appetite throughout the book, she does very little exercise just for the sake of exercise, and she doesn't lose weight. (Not that there's anything wrong with exercise and losing pounds to achieve a healthy weight-- but gosh, I just don't want to read about it in a novel that's supposed to be a pleasant escape from reality!)
-- So... We've established that Heather's not "all that" in terms of appearance-- or so she would have us believe. And yet somehow she manages to be the center of nearly all male attention, throughout most of the book. Maybe you think it's her sparkling conversation and sharp wit? Yes, except that most of these men seem to have been captivated before she would've had the chance to display her personality (and her personality, as written, isn't that captivating, anyway). Possibly some people exude a degree of charisma that attracts people, blindly and immediately-- but I think a more likely explanation here is that the author thought that the women reading this book would like to put themselves in Heather's place-- so multiple men at her beck and call it is! It's just... kind of silly.
-- I knew from the beginning that Heather and Jordan would end up together. (Look, I told you last time: It's whichever eligible bachelor she meets first. Well, maybe not always, but the formula does seem to hold true with alarming frequency.) He treats her rudely from their first meeting-- and he's handsome-- so... Yeah, you know the characters that antagonize one another will end up together. It's a tried and true system-- in these types of novels, at least. (Not so sure it holds up in reality!) I didn't mind the predictability... I didn't even mind the fact that they were so mean to one another, at times. I just wish there would have been a little more "promising" interaction between the two before the last scene in the car. C'mon! Give us a little more sizzle. It would make their final admissions of love slightly more believable.
-- Egyptology Watch: "It was carved with designs as exotic as any that ever graced the coffin of an Egyptian pharaoh-- crocodiles, dragons, temples." Also: "a grinning mummy". Must get in those references to Egypt! ;o)
-- "...the infamous Lancashire Witch Craze, which was to end in the death of a dozen innocent people." I don't think I've ever heard much about any of the European "witch hunts", because over here, our focus is always the Salem witch trials.
-- Some of the indicators of Heather's supposed "homeliness" hit a little too close to home... "shoulders broad and square, not gently sloping"... hair that is "dull brown"... eyes "an equally undistinguished brown"... "high forehead, thick unshaped brows"... How rude, actually! And why is it that when an author wants to emphasize that a character is plain, she usually has "boring"-- oh, excuse me, in this case it's "DULL" brown hair and brown eyes? Makes me a little mad. Brown is beautiful! Eh, or something.
-- I had to laugh when the voodoo doll / poppet / whatever that was supposed to look like Heather had "insultingly small" blobs of clay for breasts. Ha ha! Well, at least we won't suffer from undue back pain all our lives, Heather, m'dear. Also-- Whatever you do, if your large-busted (...well, large-everythinged) cashier is making small talk about a pretty bra you're purchasing, and you're trying to be friendly and find something to say back to her on the subject-- whatever you do, don't remark upon the difficulty of finding undergarments that are comfortable. She will make a rudely scoffing sound and you will blush uncomfortably and beat a hasty retreat ASAP. Hey, lady-- shopping for bras is universally awful. Smaller-chested women suffer through it, too!
-- "Resolutely avoiding mirrors (just like a vampire, I thought wryly) I used the comb that had been supplied. I didn't need a mirror to know what I looked like." ...I relate to this a little too well.
-- "He looked me over. I had seen the same expression on the faces of farmers checking out a prize heifer..." Ha!
-- She refers to herself as a "spinster school teacher". What?! She's twenty-five!! Twenty-five!! And it's the late 1990s!!
-- "This piece of paper had survived the man who wrote it by over three hundred years. Even his bones were dust, but his handwriting-- distinctive, individual, personalized-- lay before me. It's impossible to explain the impact of something like that to a person who doesn't feel the pull of the past."
-- Bobby is awful-- a child-psychopath-- but it's still surprising when a child is murdered in one of these books...
-- "Maybe he was the ghost. There had to be one. No servants living in, the cold meal, prepared by a cook who wasn't willing to hang around after nightfall-- yes, it sounded like a conventional Victorian ghost story." Ha! Hilarious, since the last book of this author's that I read (Wait for What Will Come), most of the servants were unwilling to stay around after dark! Of course, in this one, we later learn that the cook goes home because she's married and wants to spend her evenings with her husband.
-- There's a reference to a "heavy date", which sounds very 70s/80s to me. I don't remember people talking about "heavy dates" in the late 90s.
-- It's interesting to see the author's other interests peeking through in all these books. Of course there's Egyptology/archaeology-- that's in just about every book I've read so far. But ever since reading the novel about the jewelers, I've noticed that she regularly works jewels into her books-- either through metaphors or in actual, physical jewelry. There were the fire opal earrings and the cat's-eye ring, for instance.
-- "Cats have long memories, not like dogs." Hmph! Spoken/written like a true cat person. Maybe some dogs forget, but I think most of them are just extremely willing to forgive our failings. I know dogs have excellent memories, because I see evidence of it every day, with my own dogs. Also, hasn't everyone met or at least heard about a dog that was terrified of or aggressive toward men-- or men with a specific feature, such as baldness, let's say-- because it had been mistreated by a former bald, male owner? Many dogs remember things very well.
-- "Have you read Ainsworth and Mist Over Pendle?" More books and authors to look up!
-- When a man-- whom she's literally just met-- calls her "Miss Tradescant", she rather rudely corrects him. Apparently it's "Ms. Tradescant". UGH. Look, woman, get over yourself. "Miss" and "Ms." are both accurate. If you want to write your name or introduce yourself as "Ms.", that's your own business. Personally, I don't see what the big deal is, these days, but by golly, you've got a nerve to jump down some poor guy's throat just because he didn't happen to select your title of choice. Also, maybe it's just me, but the whole petulant insistence on "Ms." feels very 1980s to me. Out-dated, in other words.
-- I was amused/annoyed by everyone's reaction to the crackers, when Sean offers them around. "Some common commercial brand, I presume." "They look vile, Sean. If you like mass produced junk, you should stick to your favorite pretzels and chips." ...Wow. That's the most heated reaction to a snack food that I have ever seen. Who refers to food as being of a "common commercial brand", anyway? And "mass produced junk"? It's a cracker. Of course it's mass-produced! Who makes crackers from scratch (as of the late 1990s)?!
-- The note that's supposed to be from Bob, the missing
-- For the sake of the story, Frank had to take a sudden liking to Heather and decide for some superstitious reason that she must stay in his house and help him restore the gardens. I get that-- but at some point, you wonder why he has such a strong fondness for her when he's known her so briefly. I guess he's just an eccentric trillionaire (or whatever he's supposed to be)-- and there are some emotional barriers between his son and himself-- but it still feels very odd when he remarks that his son's opinions are "inconsequential" when compared to Heather's.
-- I have to admit that it didn't even occur to me, until I saw it mentioned in someone else's review, that the book never resolves the issue of the very title of the book. Ha! There are occasional references to "the Dancing Floor", and various characters react strongly whenever Heather casually mentions it, but I don't think we ever get a good explanation of it. (If we did, I must've missed it.)
-- More loose ends / red herrings: We are given the distinct impression that Heather may have some latent magical abilities-- or something of the sort. She stumbles through the maze and finds the only relatively safe exit. She just happens to have that famous surname-- her ticket into the story. She has that creepy dream about the witch. The cat's-eye ring goes on her finger easily and refuses to come back off. The mysterious cat seems to have a special connection to her and even wakes her when the house is burning. --And so on. But none of it comes to fruition. I guess we're supposed to be satisfied by Jennet's explanation that Heather is part of the "pattern" and has a role to fulfill. It's a little feeble, though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)