‘“Couldn’t you start making those fancy little boats again and selling them?“ – „They were not exactly boats, Mum. They were copies of the funeral barges the ancient Egyptians used to place in tombs so that dead men had something to get to heaven in.“’
— The Bellboy
Probably most readers of the weird and fantastic genres know her name: Rebecca Lloyd, winner of the inaugural Bristol Short Story Prize 2008 and author of two novels, has written four outstanding collections of stories of different length: The View from Endless Street (WiDo, 2014), Mercy (Tartarus, 2014), Ragman & other Family Curses (Egaeus, 2016), and Seven Strange Stories (Tartarus, 2017). Recently, Zagava has published her novella The Bellboy. Martin Ruf spoke with her about this new book but also about fundamental aspects of her writing in general.
Q: Maybe we should begin with the beginning: with first sentences. Different stories demand different beginnings. But could it be true that you prefer a particular kind of first step into a story: the almost perfectly unobtrusive sentence in which no more than, for example, a single adjective hints at something strange? And does this kind of beginning just come natural to you or is it the result of a patiently developed skill? How do you find your first sentences?
A: The only honest way I can answer this is to say that because I’ve been writing for so long, different elements of fiction writing such as the importance of the first sentence, are not things I consciously think about any longer. I might have done many years ago, and on teaching other people to write, I’m bound to have talked about them. I suppose it’s a bit like when you’ve learnt to swim, you don’t forget how. But if a story I’m writing is leaving me feeling flat, I’m likely to consider the idea of starting it at a different point, and very often I just plunge right into the middle of a drama and weave in the past and future as I go along anyway. I rarely write a linear piece of fiction. Maybe I don’t live in a linear world myself. So I suppose in the end, I’d have to say elements like first lines come naturally to me.
Q: Maybe Lovecraft is right and searchers after horror „haunt strange, far places“. Your stories, however, make an important addition: searches after the weird hardly have to leave their homes. A family reunion or a stroll through the neighbourhood is likely to confront them with all the weirdness they might wish for. Would you approve of such an observation?
A: Yes, absolutely! I came from a strange and disfunctional family myself and although I’ve never written about it directly, it certainly has informed my fiction. In my story Dust to be made into a podcast by Escape Artists in Pseudopod this year, there is a dinner table scene that I did model on my childhood experiences of mealtimes. And I have always felt that all human weirdness is right there under our noses. We just have to look and listen to find it.
Q: No matter how thoroughly you describe your characters, you always let them keep their secrets. This seems to be a fundamental aspect of your attitude towards them – sometimes to an absolutely heartrending effect. What is your attitude towards such character secrets?
A: Well, this is tricky… I think very often the less you say about a character, the more you invite the reader to fill in the missing parts to their own satisfaction and this gives the reader a proactive role in the business… if you think about a story as being a collaboration between writer and reader. A story can be so much more fulfilling if the reader has invested his or her imagination into it. I certainly find as a reader, that if a writer has given me a detailed description of a character, I’m very tempted not to read any further because it suggests that I’m unable to do that job myself. I’m aware that in the 1920’s and 30’s there was a tendancy to give what I’ve always called a police report about the characters, and that was simply a common writing style of the time, found in genre writing rather than literary writing, though. A good example of a writer from that time and a little before who doesn’t reveal everything about a character is Katherine Mansfield, the writer that Virgina Woolf envied.
Q: Most of your stories are weird or strange in the broader sense of the word, and sometimes only a recurrent metaphor hints at a greater reality behind the everyday life of your characters. However, you’ve also written ghost stories in the strictest sense of the term. Thus, my next question is almost inevitable: Do you belive in ghosts and how does this belief or lack of belief influence your attitude towards the writing such stories in particular?
A: That is probably not something I can answer about myself in that I don’t know how I would approach writing ghost stories if I did believe in ghosts, therefore I have no comparison to draw on. But what I’m really interested in when I do write them, is other people’s belief systems, or, if you like, other people’s imaginations and superstitions. I worked in a remote part of Africa for a couple of years back in the day and the lives of the tribal people I lived with were entirely dictated by belief systems and superstitions. Witchcraft ruled our daily lives. It was frustrating. But one of my earlier degrees was in Anthropology, so at least I was equipped to glimpse the real functions of witchcraft there. But I am always terribly aware of the huge limitations superstition creates in people’s lives, as well. (Mind you, having said all that, I have had more than one experience in my own life for which no rational explanation could be found.)
Q: In some of your stories horror is indeed „the soul of the plot“. But it isn’t the theme. The theme is love, faithfulness, friendship or, to quote the title of one of your stories and collections, mercy. Would you like to comment on this important difference?
A: Mercy, would be an example that fits the bill here, and this story was based on the real life of a man called Carl Tanzler, so that’s another example of how horror, like the rat, is always present within a few feet of us, so to speak. However, what was most interesting in Tanzler‘s real life was the attitude of local women to him when what he had done was revealed, and so I was examining a much wider, subtler horror in the story than Tanzler’s behaviour itself. I am drawn to horror, partly because it’s got to be the hardest thing to write about sucessfully, and so it keeps my writing skills honed. But if my characters are to feel real or true, their preoccupations are going to be love, or friendship and so on, or at least an attempt to find those warm and human things. If I then thwart them by creating horror around them … it’s because I’m mean. Not really… but one of the things I‘m interested in examining is where the real horror lies, and that was my intention in my story The Monster Orgorp in Seven Strange Stories with Tartarus Press. So, I suppose again, I’m interested in characters‘ attitudes to the horrible, rather than the horror itself.
Q: An experienced author will probably under almost all circumstances be able to write a halfway convincing tale. But it is almost impossible to create a truly excellent story without a tiny spark of sheer good luck. Do you have made any similar observation? For example, do you have worked with material that didn’t seem very promising at first but finally turned out to be the basis of a complex and really beautiful story? What was, for example, your very first attitude towards the raw material of The Bellboy?
A: I have worked with difficult or flabby material in the past and managed to make it come right, and quite often just for the sheer exercise of doing so. The Snow Room in my collection The View from Endless Street might be one such story. It started merely from a random thought I had about what storage rooms could be used for other than the keeping of physical posessions. But anyway, the three characters in it, soon showed me the way after I inhabited them. I think working with tricky material is more likely to occur for me in the writing of short stories rather than in novellas or novels because I wouldn’t start a longer piece of writing off unless I was pretty sure of it in a number of different ways.
I’ve become interested in how people lived their lives in past times and have attempted to write stories set in the past of late. The Monster Orgorp is set in the 18th century, and The Child Cephalina, yet to be published, is set in 1852. The Bellboy, (originally The Alabaster Boy) is set in the 1930’s. I think your question here depends on what you see as the raw material. For me, the raw material was to do with a kind of eccentricity I don’t believe exists any longer in the 21st century, and as with all of my stories set in historical time, the nub of it was something that happened in reality. My attitude to it, and to things of that nature, is one of awe, I think. How could people have lived that way and how could those things have happened is what I often ask myself. The change of title from The Alabaster Boy to The Bellboy came about because I looked on Amazon and found two or three books called The Alabaster Boy, and so with much regret, I changed it to The Bellboy . . . but of course the main character, Walter Matthews, was a bellboy, so no real harm was done there, except that The Alabaster Boy sounds more mysterious and romantic.
Q: We probably shouldn’t disclose more of the plot of The Bellboy than one can find in the publisher’s presentation. Instead, I would like to make readers aware of some of the more technical aspects, for example your unobtrusive treatment of leitmotifs. Already in the third paragraph you introduce the river motif in an absolutely inconspicuos way. Like a single thread in a complicated texture it appears and vanishes again and again. Do you somehow see such structures in their entirety before your inner eye or are they the result of a large number of rewrites?
A: They aren’t the result of a large number of rewrites, but they are also not structures that I see in their entirety. The simplest way I can describe much of my writing process is to say that I attempt to become each of my characters, to inhabit them in fact, and to go with the flow of where that takes me. No different perhaps from being an actor, except that you’ve got lots of parts to play and nobody is clapping you. Then once inside the head of the character, the things he or she thinks about, may often repeat throughout the story. In the case of the river in The Bellboy, you can see why Walter refers to it from time to time when you read the story. The river was the Thames, a river I love and have written about before… the river for Walter was one kind of escape and his job another. It’s always difficult for me to talk about technicalities in the writing process because I think I probably just feel my way through by instinct, backed, I hope, by simple logic and diligent research.
Q: The fragility of seemingly unchanging conditions or, in a milder form, the sudden broadening of the previously limited perspective of a character are of some importance in your short stories as well as in The Bellboy. Could it be that such epiphanies, no matter whether they are dark or liberating, are a fundamental aspect of your view of the world in general?
A: Yes, and it all goes back to my fascination with how humans in all their fear and frailty behave. I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to quote myself because I think I’ve only ever written this succinctly once: ‘Characters in my stories often create and justify their own darkness, yet find ingenious and sometimes insane solutions for predicaments as they slip between their own invented worlds and the shared world. What interests me most as a writer are the inventive ways in which people deal with what life throws at them.‘ And that is exactly what I observe in real life around me also.
Q: If there is one truth most authors of the weird genre generally can agree upon, it’s probably this: The ability to see the funny side of things and the experience of weirdness don’t go well together. On the other hand some of your short stories as well as The Bellboy show a wry, dark, or grotesque kind of humour. Would you like to say one sentence or the other about this rather intricate relation? I’m thinking of „Teuthida“ although this may be a special case.
A: I think that most authors of the weird are probably wrong then! I don’t think Teuthida is a special case… you know it’s a story about Lovecraft as a boy, I guess? So there was a lot of horror and humour combined in what I read about him before I started writing about him… wish I could’ve done the same in ‘Little Black eyes and Tiny Hands,‘ a story about Aleister Crowley, although there wasn’t much to laugh about in the life of that old fraud. I’ve just had a look at some of my titles, and yes there is humour in a number of them. Where my characters are pompous ones, I can very often make humour out of it.
Q: And maybe a last question. Despite a subtle and recurrent foreshadowing, The Bellboy takes a really sinister turn that comes as a shocking surprise even if most readers will be fearing the worst after they have read a certain part of the novella. What can scare you in literature?
A: As an adult reader, I am still waiting for a piece of fiction that scares me because for a horror writer being scared every so often must be a good thing. When I was a young teenager, I was scared by My Bones and My Flute, (Edgar Mittleholzer 1955) . . . but since then diddly-squat, I’m afraid!
Q: Rebecca Lloyd, thank you for this interview.
A: Thank you for interviewing me, I have enjoyed it.
Over the span of merely a decade, Louis Marvick has developed a unique prose style of rare elegance, complex beauty and a subtle moral attentiveness in the weird genre. After the novel The ‘Star’ Ushak (Ex Occidente, 2010), the novella The Madman of Tosterglope (Ex Occidente, 2013), and a collection of short stories and novellas, Dissonant Intervals (Side Real, 2016), he has recently written a novel in three episodes whose first two parts have just been published by Zagava. Martin Ruf spoke with Louis Marvick about his new book and also about some fundamental aspects of his work in general.
Q: Let us begin with one of the most characteristic features of a Louis Marvick story, the importance of time and place. Some readers could even get the impression that the first line of a new work of yours is written by a particular historical period or a very specific locale itself. How would you answer such readers?
A: Anywhere but the present. We’ve been warned not to fall in love with the past, but why should we respect such warnings if we’re writing fiction? An air of times past confers a glamour even on mundane details like flopping on a bed or sitting in a café. But the farther into the past one goes, the harder it is to feel one’s way. ‘Black Wedding’ and ‘The Red Seed’ and ‘The Mirror of Don Ferrante’ all required research, and the challenge was to avoid conspicuous anachronism while still making the old material seem alive. I would say that time is not so definite as place in my stories. Unless something else is needed, I aim for a kind of pre-Great War tone in the setting and the telling because that is where I feel happiest.
Q: Music seems almost as important to your work. Individual pieces of music, the lives of composers and critics (both real and fictitious), and, maybe as an aside, even the musical qualities of verses and of snippets of foreign languages. Could you try to say something about the ways you integrate music in your stories?
A: I was trained as a cellist and know the repertoire well, grew up on Brahms and Bruckner and Scriabin and Rachmaninoff and in later years have come to love Schubert. Viennese operetta (Kalmán and Lehár) and the Latin American bolero have meant a lot to me. The bolero figured in The ‘Star’ Ushak and Viennese operetta in ‘The Madman of Tosterglope’. I think music lends itself well to spooky intentions because it is immaterial, yet passionate. One can work up the atmosphere yet still be talking about nothing definite. That story about the music camp in Pirna owed a lot to my experience on a cello course at the Salzburg Mozarteum some years ago. In music as in painting and literature, I find I cannot venture very far into modernism.
Foreign languages are a problem. I spend summers in Germany and teach French for a living, but I am not a native speaker of German or French. The danger of memorialising a blunder of usage in a story is very present to me. One of the oddities in ‘Pockets of Emptiness’ came from Dutch place names, which a foreigner can easily confuse. As a precaution, I asked a friend of mine who knows Dutch well to check them. (She said they sounded like ‘funny Dutch names’.) My Spanish is primitive, but I find the lyrics of many boleros extraordinarily beautiful and could not resist the urge to use them in The ‘Star’ Ushak.
Q: Multiple narrative layers; the refraction of the main events in the minds of minor characters; and possibly even the calm flow of your elegant sentences: these are, among others, the means you use to create a distance between the reader and the raw facts of a story. On the other hand you always achieve a great immediacy in what you have to narrate. Could you comment upon this paradox?
A: I’m glad to hear you say that the immediacy is there! Work that achieves wide popularity is usually written in plain style. The reader isn’t supposed to pay attention to the language, which the author tries to make transparent. I enjoy reading stories like that, but I can’t write that way. I work the verbal surface, and the result demands an effort from the reader. In my twenties I was very keen on Joseph Conrad, and I remember the tug of pleasure I felt when a critic remarked that his stories were ‘not so much told as glimpsed intermittently through a haze of sentences’. I can’t remember clearly what happens in any of his books. Can you? Even while reading them, I wasn’t sure what was going on. The same could be said of Thomas De Quincey: it doesn’t really matter what he’s writing about; the point of his writing is to be beautiful. There’s a similar profuseness about Maturin and Le Fanu, despite their intensity. All four of them seem by their example to give a little writer like me permission to expatiate.
Maybe this is the place to mention my basically conservative outlook. The constraint of conventions has been helpful to me. The ghost story particularly is a narrow genre which (in my view) doesn’t welcome radical innovation. When I was young, I tried to write fiction about ‘real life’, that is, fiction not conditioned by the requirements of a genre. I couldn’t do it. But the narrow aim of the ghost story freed me to be inventive within its constraints. In general, I think that the constraint of form is a good thing in the arts. So much premium is placed nowadays on being ‘creative’ at all costs, on producing something unlike everything else; and the impulse is often indulged where no sign of skill or talent can be found. Do I sound like a bitter old man? Then I’ll darken the picture still further. Goethe somewhere says that it would be best if most people simply resisted the urge to create, since all they produce by indulging it is rubbish. I realise this view is repressive and undemocratic, but I share it, especially when I hear somebody who is not Jimmy Page whacking away on his electric guitar.
Q: Not all of your characters are loners, but many of them are isolated in one way or another, even if they are so for only a limited period of time. Obviously, this isolation makes them susceptible to rather unpleasant experiences. Does it create an openness towards different experiences as well? And what could they be? A related point: the ending of almost all of your stories invites in equal measure at least two different readings, the psychological and the supernatural. Could it be that you have a predilection for this particular kind of literary ambiguity?
A: I suppose the protagonists are mostly versions of myself. No wife, no children, getting older and with experience of depression (I’m all right now, though!). The difference between them and me must be in the location of the ‘unpleasant experiences’ you mention. In fiction, one is free to give a form outside one’s mind to persecuting forces that, in real life, are entirely internal. Surely that’s the principle of all the great ‘uncanny’ stories. In ‘Der Sandmann’, ‘The Turn of the Screw’ or ‘Green Tea’ one asks, Is the narrator mad or are these things really happening? So, if I tend to work this vein especially, it’s because it comes naturally to me. I find it harder to develop a story in which the menace is firmly posited outside the character’s mind.
‘Different experiences’—do you mean happier ones? I have tried to take a positive turn in the new story. I wanted there to be camaraderie and friendship among the investigators, including the wise old man, Diderot. To tell you the truth, the model I had in mind was the old Canadian television show, Friday the 13th: The Series. I just loved the rapport among the principals, Ryan, Micki and Jack, and the atmospheric production (‘Curious Goods’).
Q: It cannot be helped, we have to talk about the darkest aspect of your work, violence, vendettas, cruelty, atrocities.
A: I write the cruel and ugly parts of my stories unwillingly. For example, I could hardly bring myself to finish ‘The Red Seed’. But the conventions of scary stories demand ugly moments; think of the ‘odious writhings’ of the wasp in M. R. James. For me, ugliness is a powerful spice to be used with discretion. The predominant tone of my work is meant to be beautiful; I want the reader to be happy reading it. It seems to me there is too much promiscuous violence and ugliness and cruelty about, that swamps every other effect like too much hot pepper in a dish.
But that is not really a satisfactory answer because it reduces ‘violence, cruelty, atrocities’ to a matter of taste. They are more than that. It is difficult to write about them without participating in their spirit, and that complicity is troubling. The truth may be that one has to have a streak of cruelty in one to write well about cruelty.
The first episodes of your new serial, ‘The Friendly Examiner’, add surprising aspects to your body of work. Could you describe some of them?
I love the eighteenth century, and it struck me that the rational tone of the age would make a good foil for uncanny goings-on. Why not have the hero be a rational investigator of apparently inexplicable events? Also, I thought it would be fun to write a pastiche of Augustan style, with consciously placed subordinate clauses, unnecessary amplifications and the like. In developing each episode, my aim was to emulate the pace and humour of Smollett while still tending towards the gloomier effects of the end of the century. (The title, by the way, is from Oliver Goldsmith: he planned to start a newspaper called ‘The Friendly Examiner’.) The learned footnotes are written tongue-in-cheek, of course, and sometimes work to undermine the verisimilitude of the story; but they also show its roots in real eighteenth-century sources and link it to my scholarly work. When my doctoral dissertation was published thirty years ago, one reviewer said it was ‘carelessly punctuated’. In fact, it was the opposite of that; it was over-punctuated, on purpose, on the model of Ann Radcliffe, whose measured style I admired back then.
The names of all my characters have a private significance. Sometimes I am taken with a name and the character grows out of it. The whole of The ‘Star’ Ushak grew out of the names of the principals, which the publisher later made me change: Pelikan Styles and Erwin Carstairs. The other great encouragement for me in that first effort was Sax Rohmer. I admired his dashing style, the way he draws his female characters and his trick of propelling the story by piling one coup de théâtre on another. Robert Aickman also showed me that a story does not have to be resolved in order to be effective. That was a liberating lesson, though I think the principle can be abused. I often begin a story with two or three unrelated themes in mind and an intention to combine them somehow, but with no sense of where the story will go; the ending only becomes clear to me as I approach it.
Another aim in ‘The Friendly Examiner’ was to present the heroine, Fabienne, as a physical and intellectual paragon. It amused me to have her impossible beauty and brilliance affect the action, which stops at times because the men around her are too stunned to carry on. I intended something similar with the character of Ilona Golmassian in The ‘Star’ Ushak. The model for her disruptive power was Isis Klaw in The Dream Detective, though Ilona Golmassian herself was drawn from a friend who looks just like her, a writer and singer in Las Vegas.
Q: But nobody should deceive themselves: there also darker traits. At times not Smollett but Jonathan Swift came to my mind. Or am I spoiled by the more severe satirical parts of some earlier stories of yours?
A: I see what you mean about the ‘satirical parts’ of my earlier stories. They weren’t planned to be that way and I’m not sure they make the stories more effective. I was just following an impulse. At the Dublin Ghost Story Festival this year I asked the panel if humour interfered with the aim of frightening the reader. I think it does. ‘The Canterville Ghost’ isn’t scary, nor are Richard Middleton’s humorous ghost stories. I’m tempted to say that Le Fanu (the best of all) is humourless. (Is that true?) Poe had a kind of heavy-handed humour, but I don’t recall that he used it in his scary stories. The only exception I can think of is Bernard Capes. There’s a ferocious, angry humour in ‘The Green Bottle’ that adds to the reader’s agitation.
Q: You’ve just mentioned the uncanny goings-on in your new novel. It might be useful to add at least one remark without giving too much away. You seriously should warn readers with arachnophobia, don’t you think?
A: Watch out, they’re coming for you! . . . The best preparation I can think of is to read Erckmann-Chatrian’s ‘L’Araignée crabe’ (1860), reprinted as ‘The Crab Spider’ in Hugh Lamb’s The Taste of Fear (1976). The bite of that story will inoculate you against the milder one of mine.
Q: Louis Marvick, thank you very much for this interview.
A: It was my pleasure, Martin.
Avalon Brantley published two books so far with Zagava Ex Occidente Press.: “Aornos” in 2013 and “Descended Suns Resusciate” in 2014.
“Aornos, … , is a tragedy which builds upon what little we know of those spiritual traditions of Archaic Greece which inspired the eleventh book of Homer’s Odyssey, and the vast array of literature (and practice?) which followed him into the underworld—works by Aeschylus, Aristophanes, Silius Italicus, Virgil, et. al.”
The Tales in Desended Suns Resuscitate “come from a different place: from a love of dead words and dust, of sun-faded photographs and the smell of old books. They come from the joy of exploring the works and thoughts and worlds of all those long-dead others before us, the populations of that foreign country where, as L.P. Hartley so perfectly observed, ‘…they do things differently…’. But to delve into their remnants, to fire them again with new passion—is like reanimating ashes, a sort of philologic necromancy. So many former ways of writing, thinking, speaking, singing, loving, being, may be lost to the world, transient as sunset, but I believe that something of their spirit can be stirred again.” (http://newsforavalonbrantley.wordpress.com/)
Instead of an author´s portrait,
the photo on the left shows the
view Avalon Brantley had while
“Descended Suns Resuscitate”.
Q: So who are you, Avalon Brantley? We have my own theories about this, which include: a reputable author using a nom-de-guerre, an American Vril soldier-writer, a decadent bureaucrat, a priest of Osiris?
A: To channel Odysseus, or Pazuzu in The Exorcist, I am No One.
In all seriousness though, identity is a thing of such flux, I think part of my impulse to create is an attempt to grapple with and explore that question. And in a time when many physicists and philosophers will contend that free will (hence identity) is a delusion with which we fool ourselves, questions like that should only stump us more. I think beyond bio-philosophy, in the political arena, such denials of individual identity will bring (and have brought) days of unimaginable anguish and terror. But because I often find myself content to explore the meta-worlds this world contains, by what limited means I have of perceiving them, the inherent “delusions” of being human are not only made more tolerable, even enjoyable, but more true than could be satisfactorily proven to more pessimistic and skeptical minds. I feel a nightmarish future awaits mankind when we can no longer imagine that there is anything but darkness, or worse, nothingness–inside and out–a self-fulfilling and myopic prophecy whereby we become just sentient biochemical silage that once told itself a pretty lie about identity and will, rights and freedom.
Or maybe I really am part of Lord Lytton’s “Coming Race”, who can tell?
Q: How do you feel about your status as a new author of the weird? Particularly in these months and years, when we witness the dawn of Fantastic literature? What else is left to say in a genre which had seemed to say everything it had to say?
A: I think part of the magic of Fantastic literature is that, unlike other literary subgenres which embrace the prevailing (and transient) sociopolitical concerns and agendas of their time, with Fantastic literature the only limit is our own capacity for conception, for imagination. It seems to me the only form of literature with the Protean potential of evolving with us, though in the face of “fresher” fads I guess it’s often mistaken for and derided as low-brow fare, a perennial fad.
There is much in speculative and science fiction that should continue to stay lively and vibrant as this godlike animal we are changes itself and the world around it and strives to cope with the consequences of such change, or potential change. But my fascinations these days tend to be with older works and days rather than in step with any particular genre or movement, especially of futurism. I’d like to think a wider appreciation of the past would emerge in popular culture, but I don’t, so maybe I’m more in agreement with pessimists and cynics than I would prefer.
Q: Your first full-lenght volume was a lustrous little book called “Aornos”. An unique, irrepetible example of what the contemporary Fantastic literature can offer to the discerned literati. What prompted you to pen such a work?
A: Thank you. It came from a long love of the fecund and outré culture of ancient Greece in all its lavish weirdness. I had initially thought to write this as a short story, but the form of a play just felt more true to what wanted telling.
Q: You seem so at ease wandering from era to era. How important is history for your life and oeuvre?
A: Immensely. We are the same creatures we were two hundred or two thousand years ago, with many of the same lusts and drives and failings, and yet how much more have we changed! We are far more skilful at many things, yet pig-ignorant in other ways our ancestors were not; we are softer in many respects, yet more well-rounded; our world is smaller because our scope of it is greater, and yet we find ourselves but specks of dust in a universe we still don’t fully comprehend. The world used to be far larger to us, and the universe far smaller. Being here, now or ever, is such a strange series of paradoxes, such a Great Pageant and Mystery. I find exploring how past cultures have viewed their place in the world and cosmos to be an enriching challenge.
Q: How did you develop this ability to dive into these past worlds?
A: Actually it’s quite a lot of work, but I love it. I immerse myself in literature and history pertaining to whatever era I am focusing on, sometimes with something of a story line in mind, other times simply to be there, to transport myself, and the genii locorum seem to find their own stories along the way. I try to let go of modern cultural presumptions and prejudices as much as possible, and yet to intuit human motivation and tendencies as best I can so that characters may come alive in their own place and time. It’s risky–there are so many ways to lose track and thread, so many ways to be mistaken, so once I’ve committed to penning something, I’m often terrified of getting some little detail wrong, of being unfaithful to the purpose, so it can be stressful to do, but also deeply gratifying.
Q: How would you describe this important contribution to Weird literature which undoubtly “Descended Suns Resuscitate” is? What tradition, if any, have you followed and payed homage to?
A: I’m not sure. While I’ve been hopeful that I am contributing something perhaps a bit different to the genre, I think of these works as “explorations” rather than “contributions”. I guess it’s really up to readers–especially those many so much more thoroughly read than I in the realms of the Weird–to judge where or whether my work fits. I just hope that if the collection is well received, that it is only a modest beginning. There is much more of this making I hope to do, and while I do write some things with no intention whatever of publishing, having an audience and a home for such work as this book collects is important, so I certainly hope these stories bring pleasure to those to whom I am grateful for reading them and esteem to those who have done me the honour letting me present them to the world in such a beautiful way.
Q: Which other writers do you admire in your favorite genres and what especially fascinates you in their works?
A: There are SO many. The sacred books of many religions are a constant preoccupation for me, as are mythology, folklore, alchemy and esoterica. Poetry is an especially indispensable influence on both composition and thought, from ancient poets like Homer, Aneirin and the Gawain poet, to Malory and Milton, to Romantics like Blake, Shelley and Yeats, to Modernists like Pound and Eliot. I should also acknowledge such visionaries as James Thomson, Robert Duncan, Walt Whitman and especially Poe, who was Virgil to my Dante when I first encountered both poetry and fantastic literature, when at the age of six or seven my father began reading him to me.
Dylan Thomas and James Joyce were highly influential in expanding my perception of possibility in language, lending me an ear and eye for hidden gems behind and inside of words. Other favourite authors include Hawthorne, Turgenev, George Eliot, Sir Walter Scott, Borges and Schulz.
In terms of mystical literature, I should mention Jakob Boehme, Thomas Taylor, Crowley, Waite, Kenneth Grant and Jung, and Blake again. Robert Graves, J.G. Frazer, the Grimms, Hoffmann, Lady Gregory and William Morris also helped broaden my horizons by bringing new blood to old tales. I am also enamoured of old Sagas and transcriptions of oral poetry such as the Finnish Kalevala, Ukrainian minstrelsy, and the bardic poetry and ballads of various places and times.
In the realm of weird fiction, M.R. James, Blackwood, Hodgson, Thomas Owen, De La Mare, Dunsany and Chambers are important past masters to me. More recent ones include Wellman, Bradbury, Clark Ashton Smith and Seabury Quinn (his non-De Grandin stories), as well as contemporary magisters such as Ramsey Campbell, Mark Valentine, Reggie Oliver and D.P. Watt.
Q: you contributed to Hieroglyphic acclaimed tribute to Arthur Machen. How important are his books for you?
A: I feel a profound affinity for Machen. I think he was a very gentle soud, sorely misunderstood in his time. machen falls into an old mystical tradition of letters, more fitting i think in the company of Blake and Yeats than with Lovecraft or Ligotti. “The White people”, “The Great Return”, “The Hill of Dreams” and “The Secret Glory” are indispensably beautiful to me. I also found his early years and largely forgotten “Chronicle of Clemendy” endearing for what it was.
Q: Regarding the rise of the eBooks – do you think these will ever be a threat to the printed book?
A: Not really. Too many of us are far too tactile and nostalgic for that. Many recording artists are releasing and rereleasing LPs, and I think that’s a similar phenomenon. No, I think what endangers all books, e- or otherwise, is a surfeit of cheap spoon-fed distraction from all other forms of entertainment media, which I suspect contributes to an atrophy of the core muscles of the imagination. I was read to from a very early age, and once I learned to read I would lose myself in books, in the worlds they birthed in my mind. I think more and more people find themselves completely incapable of doing that, and if one can’t do that, the childish complaint that ‘books are boring’ is perfectly understandable, like music for the tone-deaf.
Q: A technical question: how do you write? Computer, typewriter, by hand?
A: Ultimately, I compose on a laptop. However, I often carry scraps of paper in my pockets with jottings, or use little apps in my phone to record (by audio or text, depending) little moments of sudden inspiration. When I revise I may fall to reading aloud to get the scansion or feel for les mots justes, both for sound and soundness, and in mid-composition I sometimes find myself working with different forms of memory–visual, speech, etc.–which can be a very fragile state during which bits of sentences start floating around in mid-arrangement; if I get interrupted there I tend to completely lose the thread, and this has been known to get me quite cranky and even see me quit for the day.
Q: Where there is Art there is no Devil?
A: But what would the eARTh look like if all the Shadows disappeared?