All I can think about after reading this review is all the books that, to me, are scary enough that I get the thrill I want out of them—but aren’t as terrifying as 99.9% of all the horror/thriller/slasher movies most people seem to use in order to get their hearts racing. I scare easily, it seems, and much prefer the company of all the Turning of the Screws, Cask of Amontillado, and The Black Spider literary variety of spookiness. Some people like experiencing heart palpitations while sitting in a dark movie theater with their shoes pasted to a floor that was apparently washed with a combination of popcorn shards and Fanta. I like to be sitting somewhere—anywhere—with a blood-chilling book and planning the order in which I need to lock my doors and windows when I get home (start with the bathroom window, because although it’s small, it does allow you the chance to check the shower for any intruders) . . .
Enough about my occasional complexes and bouts of insanity! Here’s the beginning of Patrick’s review (which has real fictional crazies in it):
Gustavo Faverón Patriau’s The Antiquarian, translated by Joseph Mulligan, is a genre-blending novel, a complete immersion that delves into a lesser-used niche of genre: horror, gothic, the weird. There are visual horrors, psychological ones, and dark corners with threats lurking. When what hides in those corners is revealed, more than once I had to rub my cheek and mutter “what the fuck . . .” It also relies heavily on the structure of noir, and interweaves the two genres to the same degree that it integrates literature’s tropes—here led by Borges and theory—with genre’s. Plot and mystery do drive the book, but the intricate prose makes it so that even when you know what is about to be revealed, you want to see the tricks of language that get us there.
After an unsettling Prologue that begins with a list of ancient deaths, and then a narrator trying to find his opening point, The Antiquarian, like a good detective novel, quickly establishes the basic facts of the case and offers up a body. Three years ago, the narrator’s close friend, Daniel, murdered his wife and has been in an asylum for the mentally ill since. When we learn of a second mystery, of a house fire, Daniel’s injured sister, Sofía, her exile to an asylum, and her subsequent disappearance, connections between the two becoming haunting, whether in Daniel’s psychological damage, or something more.
The narrator’s first investigation is a simple and personal one, to remember his friendship with Daniel, how it began and how it grew. Since our detective, Gustovo, is no professional detective, not even the classic semi-professional, but a psycholinguist and seemingly average man, this remembering eases him toward the depths that he’ll plunge into by the end of the novel. It is also the first move to show that Gustavo is a man whose memory is almost lost to him, repeatedly doubted by those he interrogates, in need of recovering as much as the mysteries surrounding the murder and subsequent madness need uncovering. In fact, at times, he seems almost entirely without an identity.
Once the narrator enters the asylum and interacts with the madmen and madwomen inside, it becomes as if he never leaves, the madness infecting him and the rest of the city. The unnamed city is full of the mildly insane, the potentially so, and the deeper into the hospital we venture, the darker the madness is. The little difference, in tone, in sense of reality, between the narrator’s imaginative prose, and the hallucinations of his friend keeps us from finding safe, grounded reality. To lift a repeated image from the book, it is a spiral, turning, turning, into the dark middle, with specters around any bend.
For the rest of the review and some heebie-jeebies, go here.
Randall Jarrell once argued a point that I will now paraphrase and, in doing so, over-simplify: As a culture, we need book criticism, not book reviews. I sort of agree, but let’s not get into all of that. Having finished. . .
Like any good potboiler worth its salt, Fuminori Nakamura’s The Gun wastes no time setting up its premise: “Last night, I found a gun. Or you could say I stole it, I’m not really sure. I’ve never seen something so. . .
Heiner Resseck, the protagonist in Monika Held’s thought-provoking, first novel, This Place Holds No Fear, intentionally re-lives his past every hour of every day. His memories are his treasures, more dear than the present or future. What wonderful past eclipses. . .
If you’ve ever worked in a corporate office, you’ve likely heard the phrase, “Perception is reality.” To Björn, the office worker who narrates Jonas Karlsson’s novel The Room, the reality is simple: there’s a door near the bathroom that leads. . .
I recently listened to Three Percent Podcast #99, which had guest speaker Julia Berner-Tobin from Feminist Press. In addition to the usual amusement of finally hearing both sides of the podcast (normally I just hear parts of Chad’s side. . .
Let’s not deceive ourselves, man is nothing very special. In fact, there are so many of us that our governments don’t know what to do with us at all. Six billion humans on the planet and only six or seven. . .
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .
Many authors are compared to Roberto Bolaño. However, very few authors have the privilege of having a Roberto Bolaño quote on the cover of their work; and at that, one which states, “Good readers will find something that can be. . .
In Josep Maria de Sagarra’s Private Life, a man harangues his friend about literature while walking through Barcelona at night:
When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on. . .
César Aira dishes up an imaginative parable on how identity shapes our sense of belonging with Dinner, his latest release in English. Aira’s narrator (who, appropriately, remains nameless) is a self-pitying, bitter man—in his late fifties, living again with. . .