My introduction to Cthulhu and H.P. Lovecraft's work came in 1982 when a friend in junior high school handed me a copy of Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos,My introduction to Cthulhu and H.P. Lovecraft's work came in 1982 when a friend in junior high school handed me a copy of Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, vol. 1. I drank it up, digested it, and developed a taste that has lasted for a long time. With age, though, I'm wondering if it hasn't lost a little of its savor. Maybe it's just that when I discovered Lovecraft, it was rare . . . extremely rare . . . to find anyone else who had even heard of Cthulhu. Now, he's everywhere. I don't want to sound like the curmudgeonly old guy who complains about how things used to be, but the ubiquity of Lovecraftiana has probably made me a little lazy in the imagination. With the possibility of bombarding all the senses with all things Mythos-related, maybe my senses have had enough.
That's not to say that I didn't find this book enjoyable. I enjoyed the art a great deal. And the fact that a friend gifted me the book makes it all the more sweet (thanks, Tom - love ya, dude). Some of the pieces in this book are outstanding. Peter Siedl's Dark Young is an iconic piece - one that every Mythos lover should have on hand. And Cloud Quinot's image of a Prometheus-scale statue of Cthulhu will throw the hardened Lovecraft-phile into brooding meditation. Rick Sardinha's greyscale of a squatting Cthulhu enveloped in stars is dark and suitably mysterious.
But some of the images cheapen Lovecraft's creation. There's really just no other way to characterize it. Bringing Cthulhu entirely into the light makes the Old One just not that scary. And it's the initial frisson I had while first reading "The Call of Cthulhu" that I enjoy.
Perhaps I'm jaded. The (too) many narrative sections were much too conversational and casual for my tastes and left me feeling like I had just been read a wikipedia article by someone who was trying too hard to be my friend. Don't get me wrong: it's a valuable introduction to Cthulhu, but for one who's been exploring this creature/milieu for decades now, it's just a bit too twee. I'd say if you're a hardened veteran of the psychic wars*, this book isn't for you. If you're new to Cthulhu and Lovecraft, this is a good stepping stone. Welcome to R'lyeh.
I picked this book up on a lark. I happened to be in a book store in Door County and saw this mystery on the cheap paperback shelf and thought "I haveI picked this book up on a lark. I happened to be in a book store in Door County and saw this mystery on the cheap paperback shelf and thought "I haven't read a good mystery in a while. I'll give it a try."
Keep in mind that Traitor's Purse is one in a series of mystery novels about Albert Campion. I had no knowledge of the background of the character. I swore that if I got too lost and felt that I would need to back-read one of the preceding novels, I was going to lem the book. Thankfully, that didn't happen.
The reason is, the main character starts out waking up in a hospital bed with no memory of why he is there or even who he is (I've kind of experienced this myself, after my back surgery years ago). Tabula Rasa right from the get-go; we learn to know Albert Campion as he gets to know himself. And it sort of works.
I have to wonder, though, how much of the plot Allingham actually knew as she wrote the novel. It seems to meander, at times, with several oddly-placed sidenotes. Toward the end, things felt thrown-together. The reveal-ation of Campion's memories is very, very clumsy. It could have been much better had I felt that Allingham had a stronger auctorial voice. Strength of prose can carry an otherwise mediocre work to new heights, especially in a mystery novel (or, at least, it did in the few mystery novels I have read). I kept hoping that the novel would resolve itself more strongly and really come together, but it never really did.
I am, of course, lacking all context. Maybe if I had read a Campion novel or two before, or even one after, I might have a stronger connection with the plot. But maybe this is why I largely don't like reading series - give me what I need as a reader, please. In the words of Queen: "I want it all, and I want it now!"
I enjoyed the novel, but was often confused. More confused than I felt I ought to be. The most appropriate quote to describe how I felt is found in the book itself:
"He was trying to fit together a jigsaw puzzle without knowing what sort of picture the pieces were expected to make."...more
Willems was called "A sorrowful, distinctly Belgian Italo Calvino". I don't take this lightly, as Calvino is one of my favorite authors of all time. SWillems was called "A sorrowful, distinctly Belgian Italo Calvino". I don't take this lightly, as Calvino is one of my favorite authors of all time. So I went into this little volume reading with my emotional and intellectual guards up.
They didn't stay up for long. They couldn't. What my heart shielded me from, my mind let slip past. And when my thoughts were strong, I melted, emotionally. These works wove their way through me until I thought, by the end, that perhaps I was the titular Cathedral of Mist.
The opening story,"Requiem for Bread," is sorrowful and beautiful, a plaintive story of love, longing, and death. The title acts as a kind of magnifying glass to the tale itself, focusing one in on its disarming simplicity, while opening the reader to a shocking, yet touching, emotional state. It is a dream of a story; exquisite.
"An Archbishop's Flight" is a journey into northern decadence, as if Huysmans had gone to the arctic to die and kept a journal until the very end. A delightful dream-state vignette. There was no real plot to speak of, but that isn't the point of this type of story, is it?
"Cherepish" is agonizing tragedy distilled down to the last paragraph. What a gut-punch! The dreamlike imagery and slow, methodical pace caused me to let my emotional guard down even further, then "Pop!" - like an unexpected kick straight to the ghoulies! This story broke me. It left me on my knees, in agony, wondering what hit me.
"In the Horses Eye" is a beautiful and awe-full story narrated in a voice somewhere between Algernon Blackwood and Calvino. Gorgeous and dark, this story venerates the power of words and our potential intimacy with them.
"The Palace of Emptiness" is . . . "squicky" is the word that comes to mind. An abandonment of love for the soul-shattered void of co-dependence. There is no hope in this story. None at all. It is the most uncomfortable thing I've read in a while. Horror writers would do well to look, not at the subject matter here, but the emotional state generated by Willems' words. When your writing leaves the reader in the same state, you might just have something worth publishing there.
"The Cathedral of Mist" is compelling and smacks strongly of Borges. It isn't quite magic realism, nor is it truly "surreal" in the strictest sense. But it is weird, rife with things that should not be, but are. This isn't to say that it is a dark tale. Far from it. I found it rather light and airy, despite the ominous title and explicitly dark setting. But there is, because of this strange optimistic taint, a strong sense of loss, in the end. And, in fact, this story is, really, all about loss: The tangible evidence of a miracle can never be erased quickly enough. Miracles belong only to the moment, and live on only in memory.
After the six stories, two essays, one on reading, and one on writing, are included. Here, the intellectual echoes of Calvino are strongest, particularly Calvino's Six Memos for the Next Millenium. Willems' chapter on Reading is the most beautiful reflection on the act I have ever read, which sounds almost incestuous but is perfectly right in so many ways. It really is beautiful. For example, this paragraph:
Time's traces are everywhere in the libraries of old houses . . . libraries are dials of darkness and shadow whose hours I like to picture as blue or violet, slowly dyeing the pages of their books. Extraordinarily evocative remnants.
Willem's essay on writing is, like the very act itself, a burbling up of disparate thoughts that somehow form a coherent idea. But what that idea is, exactly, will differ from writer to writer and reader to reader.
I find myself closing this book as if waking from a dream. And like some mornings, I just want to crawl back into bed, close my eyes, and dream some more. ...more