HP Reanimated



He was having a laugh

Vacant brains, looking to get filled up, were stymied by a Wiki-free day recently, which reminded me of an unpleasant surprise last year, when researching for a review of John Hall’s Five Forgotten Stories, I happened on Wiki’s page on Herbert West -- Reanimator and was appalled to discoverer that critics generally agreed (according to S T Joshi) that HW-R was HP’s "poorest work". As luck would have it, I’d opined in an early post that I though it was his best.

There are several possible explanations for this divergence of opinion, but the more dignified one, for everyone concerned, is offered by Einstein’s observation that any Mensch is only capable of fully comprehending a single philosophy in his/her lifetime.
And possibly there is a parallel situation in art. Perhaps we are only capable of fully appreciating one style, ambiance, mode. If someone’s predilection is gloom, then no matter how much they find themselves laughing at a comedy, deep down they’ll still hanker for misery instead. In HW-R, HP jettisons his overwrought obsessions and writes narrative for its own sake. There’s a sense of liberation detectable from the rollicking sense of fun the stories display -- the very quality glaringly absent from his other stories. No doubt about it, HP took his work far too seriously (he disliked HW-R) and the critics referred to on Wiki clearly take HP  as seriously as he took himself.

One might posit that it is a mistake to take any artist as seriously as he/she takes themselves. On the other hand, I may simply be missing something. It could be that my taste is defective and the part of my brain that should tremble in harmony with the portentous, the melancholic and the profoundly disturbing isn’t in situ.

Off the Rails

The Boston 395
by Jason Derr

available here at Smashwords



The recession dumps James Scottsdale on his mother’s couch. His former life sits in his car, boxed up in cardboard. At this low point a train – a spiritual engine as it turns out – appears in the livingroom when only James is looking. He climbs aboard and sets off on a day-dream journey back to unpleasant but pivotal moments in his past. The train, plus the conductor (a blue-eyed demi-God, or even just plain God), are a sort of ghost of psychodramas past. Just like Scrooge, James is forced to reevaluate the attitudes and decisions that brought him to the present impasse and in doing so, he sees the merit in changing his ways.

The problem I had with this novella was the that the train was too prominent. It grew from a literary device into an all-too real train – that’s to say, overcrowded with people you don’t particularly want to know, and unconscionably slow. The journey was long, and frankly the stops a trifle dull.

And then, how far did the train go, really? The climax of the journey leads James to finally pick himself up and get a job as a teacher. This option is mooted at the start of the story, however, it seems then to be beyond serious contemplation. Presumably this is because James was something big in the city and being a teacher is too much of a come down. Trouble is, we never learn what he was in the city. We don’t know how far he’s actually travelled.

The writing has some verve and there’s a recognisable narrative – but it is stretched rather thinly. The book is simply too long. And then, it is riddled with typos. In particular, there are far too few apostrophes and far too many mixed-up homonyms, such as "here" for "hear" and (memorably) "motor board" for "mortar board."

This is a real pity, because the idea is interesting and Mr Derr has talent. By simply taking more care he could have done so much better.

Literary Interlude

Putting in some warehouse work prior to Xmas, I fell into conversation with one of my temporary colleagues and, as it turned out, he was a bibliophile with a houseful of books.

My interest was perked.

‘What sort of books?’

‘All sorts.’

‘You don’t specialise?’

He mused. ‘I’ll collect anything, really.’

‘Do you happen to have a copy of Euclid’s twelve books? I’ve got a copy from the library at the moment, but I’d like to know what edition might be best to buy.’

Blank look. A moment’s vacant reflection. He said. ‘No.’

‘Well, I’ve noticed he’s difficult to get hold of, second hand.’

‘Oh?’

‘How about Latin? Got any classical texts?’ He was already shaking his head, so I added. ‘Not Greek either – no? Never mind.’

After prying, sifting, and even wheedling, I finally discovered that if he favoured any particular type of book, it was the scientific biography.

‘As it happens,’ I said, happy to rescue the conversation rather than work, ‘I’ve got . . . ‘ It was no good, on the spot I couldn’t remember the author (Lucy Jago), the title (The Northern Lights), or the subject, (Kristian Birkeland).

Going off to haul heavy shit around began to look like the only viable alternative to this chat, but it was the bibliophile’s turn to save the day.

‘You mention you have a library book.’

‘Euclid.’

‘Did you know, they had a sale on at the library last month?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Needless to say, I came home with an absolute stack of stuff.’

‘Such as?’ I wondered aloud.

‘The complete Oxford Dictionary. Twenty-five pounds, that’s all.’

‘Wow . . . which edition was that?’

‘Nineteen Sixty-Two.’

I nodded sagely. ‘Not too old, then.’

‘Oh, it was a fabulous find. I have a real passion for words.’

I was about to say something flip, like – words don’t matter to me, it’s the ideas that count. Words are merely tools. Language is a means to an end . . . but honestly, I liked the guy. And even if I didn't, I’d still hate myself.

‘Yes?’

‘For instance – now I had a really heated discussion about this the other day with a lady friend. She said, Monolith only means a big stone.’

He looked at me expectantly. I duly performed. ‘Hm. Mono – that means just one, and lithos is Greek for a stone.’

‘But you see,’ he said, his excitement mounting as he reached the denouement. ‘It also means something big. Really big. It has two meanings.’

‘Ah – yes. Monolithic. That means, um, overwhelming, massive – ’

‘But it doesn’t have to be anything to do with a stone.’

‘Monolithic – the adjective, no, it doesn’t.’

‘She wouldn’t have it. She wouldn’t believe monolith could mean anything except a big stone, rather something that was just plain big.’

‘Monolithic. It applies to something huge, overpowering.’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Monolith. A great big thing.’

He smiled at me, and after a moment, I said, ‘That’s right.’