Quote from: Yrjö-Koskinen on July 29, 2018, 12:02:25 PM
Clark Ashton Smith - The Dark Eidolon and Other Fantasies (Penguin Classics)
Since CAS's stories were originally butchered by pulp mag editors, much care has gone into restoring them to his original versions (as written or intended). This has restored some of the original allures of his writing - the abstract parts, the massive use of archaic and/or unusual English and many repetitive, strangely meditative passages.
Thanks for the reminder. From the handful of stories I've read, I find his work along with Henry James' and Algernon Blackwood's to be like a sort of linguistic maze. Can be pretty maddening but has these sort of sublime moments. I think some would argue their respective writing styles are indicative of some mental illness, but, meh, not the point. Or is it?
Rodrigo Rey Rosa "Dust On Her Tongue (Translated by Paul Bowles)" (City Lights, 1989) Translations into English are almost always pretty iffy, but in this case, both spoke each other's language fluently, so there were good results. RRR eventually became the heir to Bowles' legal and physical estate, so that should tell you something. That said, Bowles' translations read as faithful to my non-bilingual ears, in that the straightforwardness seems to reflect RRR's speaking style rather than Bowles' prose style (as many of his other translations do, unfortunately). Here, the nebulousness benefits these stories greatly, though - Rosa clearly had a lot of talent before ever even putting any words down, and Bowles' influence is evident. A ton of observation and other influences boil down into stories that few authors match in terms of creating atmosphere and "trapping" the reader. There is an excellent unreliable narrator piece about a Guatemalan ethnomusicologist with maybe one of the better endings in any short story I've read. I really love this kind of fiction, where violence, weirdness and horror are handled as smoothly as descriptions of landscapes, action, or internal monologue. Regarding Bowles and Rosa, I reluctantly admit this could be a case of the student outclassing the teacher; it's that good. If Bowles is one of the best, and he is, so is Rodrigo Rey Rosa.
Jason Williamson "Slabs from Paradise," (Amphetamine Sulphate, 2017) One of my favorites from the inaugural batch as soon as the first piece was over. A departure from other work on said imprint – a collection of portrait-type short stories, almost short enough to be vignettes. Snapshots, or more like selfies, given the themes in this book. Williamson has an observant, quick mind and a working person's gift for creating stories; that is making something from nothing, characters and all. The bleakness here is pretty lived-in grimy and the sense of self-delusion throughout really hits home at many points. Excellent references to Whitney Houston and Adidas Sambas. I used to read a lot of bullshit like Irvine Welsh and JW here just puts all of that to shame. I think "Mad Carol" is my favorite but it's hard to say. Hope we'll see a longer collection of his work from someone at some point.
Matthew Bower & Samantha Davies "Talisman Angelical" (Amphetamine Sulphate, 2017) This title I was least enthusiastic about of all, given I'm not the biggest Skullflower (et al) fan. I realize that's pretty short sighted, though, and all the more from reading it. Going against my expectations, this book was surprisingly coherent and visual despite the obvious role drugged states of all manner play in creation of this type of thing. While it definitely is "this type of thing," it's well-written, with a variety of references that reminded me of Nabokov or Borges, of all authors. This is in some ways what I'd expected Mike IX Williams' writing to be like (it wasn't), and I mean that as a compliment. Surprisingly easy to picture certain descriptions of demonic hallucinations, which I think is saying something. I also see the inverse potential in some of Arvo Pärt's music, which perhaps also says something.
Alex Binnie "Scum" (Amphetamine Sulphate, 2018) Strange that such a talented writer (who was apparently also involved to some extent in a certain seminal PE/industrial outfit) basically left that all behind to devote his life to tattooing. That said, I assume the author was pretty young at the time, which is apparent at times despite his intelligence and coherence. What I mean is that the book is basically structured around repeating one point; to me it's a sort of extended prose poem. What I especially like about it, however, is that I find the message agreeable and see each paragraph as a potential final or second-to-last paragraph in a larger fiction piece. I read this and kept thinking, "what else could this guy have written?" Probably nothing, actually. This should definitely appeal to fans of Ligotti, Houellebecq, and so on.
