Review of Ryan Harding's Transcendental Mutilation

I loved Transcendental Mutilation; while keeping in line with the visceral prose that defined his infamous first collection, Genital Grinder, Ryan Harding adds elements of atmosphere, cosmic horror, and weird fiction, which lend a more cerebral and somber dimension to his writing.

Besides its more vague meaning of “spiritual,” the word “transcendental” is also a precise reference to Kantian philosophy, and points to the basic structures of human experience, how the world appears to us ordered in space and time, in causal sequences, presence and absence, quantity, and so on. One of the keys to Harding’s stories is that the basic norms of experience are broken, and the subjects enter into a paradoxical, Lovecraftian realm of mutilation. In “Divine Red” and “Temple of Amduscias,” the rules of space are bent as the insides of buildings are incongruent with their outsides, in “Junk” the law of cause and effect is suspended, and the time in “Angelbait” seems to flow differently from ordinary time.

In the Postcript, the author points out that the story “Down There,” about a girl’s fear of the woods, was partially inspired by The Blair Witch Project. I’m a big fan of that horror flick, and I think the way the evil presence of the witch is suggested rather than shown makes the horror more suffocating; it’s as if the forest itself is cursed, and the protagonists, unbeknownst to them except maybe on a subliminal level, are trapped from the moment they step inside. The same goes for “Down There,” the evil is absent, yet omnipresent in the woods, in the bark of trees, in the foliage, in the shadowy corners. Evil is shapeless and lurks. Not fully something, but not nothing either. A malignant nothing.  

Speaking of nothing, “Temple of Amduscias”,  has a more existentialist element to it as Olivia, the main character, has an obsession with empty, abandoned places. With the faces of the void, the nothing, with hopelessness. The grim mood of this story reminded me of the pessimism pervasive in some other works of cosmic horror or weird horror like Thomas Ligotti, Nicole Cushing, and Curtis Lawson’s The Envious Nothing. 

These journeys through the doors of our perception result in mutilation, but also mutation: “Progression could mean growing new organs and limbs. Perhaps it may also mean losing some of the old ones through an act of transcendental mutilation.” In Ryan Hardin’s universe, like in Clive Barker’s, evil is also an opportunity for transcendence, agony is also a gate toward ecstasy, as it’s showcased in one of the best stories of the volume, “Red Divine.”

I can only skim through the surface of this brilliant, unique collection in this review, but I hope it’s enough to increase the appetite of horror fans. Ryan Harding is an original, powerful voice with a morbid, depraved imagination and a penchant for philosophy. My next stop is Header 3, Harding’s colab with the extreme horror icon Edward Lee.

Review of Mason Marks' The Serpent's Call

Richard Ramirez: “I am beyond your experience. I am beyond good and evil. I will be avenged.”

I really enjoyed this character-driven novel, The Serpent’s Call, especially since it explores the same territory -- supernatural horror where the protagonist is in league with Satan -- as my work in progress, Brass Knuckles Black Magick. Marks and I have a penchant for fanatical, elitist, anti-heroes, proud bearers of the black flame of chaos. Dalton Asher, the main character in The Serpent’s Call, reminded me, among others, of Richard Ramirez and Charles Manson. As a Satanic serial killer, Asher is connected to the nefarious force that feeds on people’s deepest fears, and this force gives him power and control over his victims, revealing their weak, hypocritical, pathetic natures. Predators sense the fear and trembling of the prey, an anxiety that makes their attacks precise, fast, and lethal. Prolific serial killers exist on another plane, a dimension that transcends the tiny world of the sheep, a realm fraught with danger as well as the promise of immortality.

As in his earlier two novels, The Militant and The Malcontents, Marks’ action scenes are graphic and immersive, a result, no doubt, of his experience in military combat. Like any real Satanist, Dalton Asher is a complete misanthrope, and the writing is steeped in disgust for average, normal humans. Loneliness and isolation are the other sides of misanthropy, and Dalton has no choice but to take the solitary left-hand path of the Adversary. The novel's pace is exquisite, and the character of Detective Amara Cruz is well-used to balance out Dalton’s bleak nihilism and create suspense.

A few things have kept me from giving this novel a full five stars. At times, the author switches from first-person to third-person narrative and these changes are a bit confusing. There are a lot of twists and turns at the end of the novel that seem a bit rushed and could have used more stage-setting. The author could have explored more the relationship between Dalton and Satan, as well as the one between Dalton and Amanda Cruz to give his protagonist more depth and create more inner conflict. That being said, this is a great, thought-provoking, supernatural thriller I highly recommend and I look forward to Mason Marks’ future releases!

Review of Curtis M. Lawson's "Couch Surfing through the 12 Chambers of Hell"

I guess I’m becoming familiar with Curtis M. Lawson’s exquisite work because I can trace the origins of this novella, Couch Surfing through the 12 Chambers of Hell, to two short stories the author previously published: “Through Hell For One Kiss,” in his collection Devil’s Night and “Orphan,” in The Envious Nothing. The novella incorporates elements of the two previous stories into an honest and personal narrative about loss, grief, and guilt that is bound to tear at the heartstrings of any reader. 

The main character, Nathan Pharaoh, is a famous musician who is not there for his family when they need him the most. As a result of his neglect his daughter Cloe becomes estranged and kills her mother Dalia and then herself. Nathan is incapacitated by self-hatred and loss. This book is a metaphysical exploration of grief and its stages of anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These emotions blend into each other and can assault the mourner almost at the same time. What Lawson manages to capture accurately and vividly is that the battle against loss, or the struggle to accept loss, takes place mainly at an unconscious level. At the conscious level, depression weighs heavily and reduces the mourner to a zombielike state. Gravity sags all muscles like a constant underground call to surrender to darkness and oblivion, a call that plagues Nathan Pharaoh throughout his journey. The most minor tasks require herculean force. But while the conscious mind is paralyzed, the unconscious self seeks a key to salvation in a journey through mythological dreamscapes. As we learned from Carl Gustav Jung, dreams are mythological battlefields and realms of magic and sacred alchemy. Pharaoh embarks on a journey to find the pieces of himself left in the wake of a personal apocalypse and try to breathe new life into the ashes.

The part I enjoyed most in the story is when Pharaoh enters a pyramid and the walls of the tomb are covered with reliefs depicting stages in his life. When he touches them they replay the scenes in his mind: his first date with Dalia, going on the first tour, and so on. Pharaoh is on the brink of chaos and oblivion and needs to find the key, just like a musician plays the opening keys to a song to get inspiration for ending it or the way a writer might read the opening chapters of a book to figure out how to move on. The reason why I love this scene is because I see the self as a narrative, in a broad sense. Or, to use a metaphor, I think of how we construct our identities as similar to the way a spider spins its web. Now, in a self fractured by loss, the web is mostly destroyed, and he needs to start the process anew building on the strands of silk that weren’t damaged.  

I wasn’t a fan of some aspects of the book, but they didn’t take away from the immersive read. While I’m no expert in mythology, I felt that the symbolism behind the story was a bit cut and dry. The image of the snake as a symbol of chaos, evil or oblivion was overused. The dichotomies had the starkness of Abrahamic religions rather than pagan myths: good vs. evil, dark vs. light, chaos/entropy vs. order, and creation vs. destruction. Ancient mythology usually comes with a mix of these opposites, with deities that incorporate elements of creation and destruction, order and chaos. For example, let’s take one of Nathan’s lamentations: “I was the void in my daughter’s childhood--a ghost, rarely found outside of records and music videos. I was the degradation of something into nothing and now I am nothing given form.”

As paradoxical as it may sound, this passage paints nothingness in an unfavorable light.

(Puts Dissection hoodie on. Turns up Watain’s Lawless Darkness)

In Sumero-Babylonyan mythology, it is creation that is a degradation of nothingness, as goddess Tiamat was in the slumber of uncreation before before lower gods decided to wake her. As a feminine principle, nothingness contains everything in virtual form, blackness is pregnant with everything, and the birth of something is a degradation of the pristine nothingness. Just like sound may be the degradation of a beautiful silence. Or like form may be the degradation of a wordless revelation.

Now, if I remember Jung correctly, the unconscious itself is feminine while the conscious mind is masculine. The conscious mind is rationality and order whereas the unconscious is irrationality and chaos. Nathan Pharaoh’s journey is a quest through the unconscious mind, through chaos, and the solution or the key to his ascension will come from chaos. So, chaos is good, darkness is good, and blackness holds the answers. Not the light of the conscious, ordered rational mind, but the pregnant darkness of the unconscious. The snake will give Nathan knowledge and wisdom. So, to sum up, pagan thinking features a mix of the opposites which Christian thought sets in stark contrast. And, as a reader, I didn’t get the pagan vibe from this text, but it seemed that the narrative flowed from a Christian matrix.

I could wax philosophical for hours about this book, and I’m sure each reader can come up with their own interpretation of this story just like movie lovers have different takes on a David Lynch movie. My point is just this is a work of art that engages the reader both on an emotional and an intellectual level, as all true art should. Go check it out! And check Lawson’s other books while at it!

Interview with author Christopher Zeischegg

Christopher Zeischegg’s Creation: On Art and Unbecoming is a unique, experimental, transgressive book. Zeischegg uses a blend of fiction and non-fiction to describe and convey his deepest hopes and fears as he highlights the role of art as a sacred space for his journey of self-invention and self-discovery. Zeischegg uses different writing formats (essays, memoirs, autofiction, interviews, reviews, and playwriting) and manages to mix them perfectly. The author writes with disarming honesty, making it easy for the reader to identify with the characters and join the intimate dialogue sparked by the text, both on a cerebral and an emotional level. 

Zeischegg has a minimalist yet striking style, elegant yet merciless. The dialogue is witty and incisive. The prose packs so much emotion that, at times, it reads like poetry. Just a couple of my highlights to illustrate: “All my recent life, I’d looked at tasks as pools of quicksand. To dress myself, I dreaded to be drowned beneath my collar,” “My pillow at my cheek, I thought of starting over. But I was weary from the fight I’d lost against my beating heart.”

Although Zeischegg depicts a lot of graphic horror and violence, his message is not reduced to shock value as in some splatterpunk writings, but the gore appears as an external accompaniment to a deep existentialist dread and sense of loss and alienation. In this sense, Zeischegg’s style evokes Thomas Ligotti’s darkest visions. Violence appears like a temporary distraction from an inner, all-consuming agony.

Axl: Hi Chris, thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions. In the book, you mention Dennis Cooper as one of your literary heroes. What other influences do you have? Also, what gave you the idea for the structure of the book, the collage of different writing formats? 

Chris: Of course! I appreciate you reaching out. 

Regarding my influences: In high school, I got into Bret Easton Ellis, probably because of the American Psycho movie and the fact that Ellis is one of the more commercial authors to delve into subject matter that seemed taboo to me at the time--some combination of extreme sex and violence. I think it's pretty common for young people to be interested in that material. I sought out all the most obvious stuff that was available to me at the time, like Gaspar Noe and Takashi Miike films, black metal, etc. 

Then, as you pointed out, I discovered Dennis Cooper in my early twenties. That was exciting to me because he seemed to push those themes beyond anything I'd seen prior. But I think he was also the first writer to make me consciously aware of style. Dennis has this clean, cinematic way of writing that makes me feel like I'm reading an emotional puzzle. I'd never experienced anything that so closely articulated that youthful state of both feeling and being unable to fully express ecstasy, sexual desire, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and so on. 

These days, my influences are more diffuse. At any given time, I have a stack of books I'm reading from authors who inhabit the same small, contemporary press I've become a part of--books published by Amphetamine Sulphate, Apocalypse Party, Rose Books; the list goes on. And I typically have one book I'm reading from a literary juggernaut, like Michel Houellebecq or Laszlo Krasznahorkai, or a lesser-known but equally prolific prose stylist like Dodie Bellamy. 

As for the structure of the book: The stories and essays in the book were written over the course of ten years. Several years ago, I had the idea to throw together a collection of works I had written on themes of art and violence. I'd simply noticed the pattern and thought it would be a fun collection to release between novels. But while compiling the material, I rediscovered a couple of pieces I'd written about my friend, the multidisciplinary artist Luka Fisher. She and I met shortly before the end of my porn career. We went on to do a lot of video work and other strange art projects together. I realized that much of what I'd been putting into the collection was influenced by her in one way or another. In short, she helped to change my life in pretty drastic ways. So, this idea of transformation, of friendship, of some kind of hopeful path forward emerged; I wanted to explore that further. I just put in everything that seemed relevant, and wrote some new material to explain what this was all about; make it more cohesive. 

Axl: This question is about the title: Creation On Art and Unbecoming.  In the Preface you claim that Creation doesn’t refer to artists making art, but to the divine creation of the universe. Regarding the subtitle, On Art and Unbecoming,  you suggest that this book is the end of a cycle: “I’ve essentially been writing down the notion that all of these things I see out there, that I desperately want access to, are out of reach. Whether that’s love, or a relationship to God, or even something like financial stability or self-fulfillment. In my writing, and, in my brain, I feel like I’ve been solidifying that I can’t have any of it.” And later on, “I’m trying to find a revised sense of purpose. Maybe transform my writing into a vehicle to hopefully get more of what I want out of life.” So, why don’t you use Becoming instead of Unbecoming? And what is the connection between your desire for meaning and purpose and the act of divine creation?  

Chris: I may not be able to answer this question in a completely direct manner. If for no other reason, I believe there's some danger in "revealing your gold" too soon. In other words, if you stumble upon something spiritually or philosophically profound and you start to see your life transform in certain ways but you don't entirely understand the nature of what you're on to, it would be fucking stupid to proselytize this to the world. 

But I think a lot of this thought process started in early 2021. We'd all just come out of the COVID lockdowns. For the first time in my adult life, I'd had an entire year off from my interaction with the adult industry and sex work adjacent labor. I'd been retired from performing in porn, and from hustling and camming, for a number of years. But I'd still been working on adult films, as a videographer and editor, semi-regularly. For obvious reasons, that all paused during the pandemic. Then, in early 2021, the job offers came back in full swing.

I remember sitting in my office in early 2021, editing a porn scene. All of a sudden, I had this uncontrollable burst of emotion. I was shaking. Tears were pouring down my face. I also felt incredibly angry. For a week thereafter, I was a fucking mess. My wife said to me, "I've never seen you like this. You need to go to therapy."

So, I took her advice and ended up doing a lot of work on myself.

This is relevant because, prior to that specific emotional disruption, I was writing under the premise that the violence in my work was an affectation I picked up from being interested in aggressive music subculture or Dennis Cooper books, or whatever.

For example, I'd finish a short piece of auto-fiction, wherein I was the protagonist, and it had something to do with my experience in sex work, and it might even include a number of real-life experiences. And it would end with some fantastical violent scenario, and I'd say to myself, "This is all a joke. It has nothing to do with me."

As it turns out, I actually do have massive amounts of trauma associated with my experiences in sex work. And I no longer feel the need to pretend that's not true.

I could go on and on about my own bullshit. But to get back to the nature of your question... I'm 38 years old now. I'm interested in what I'm interested in, and I don't think the aesthetic qualities of horror films or 'transgressive' (for lack of a better word) fiction will ever not be what I'm into. At the same time, I'm now invested in the future, in creating a better life for myself and for my family. That has a lot of implications in terms of how I spend my time in relation to my career, wife, friends, and so on. On a personal level, that also has implications in regards to spirituality, to God.

I'm most hesitant talking about my spiritual life in public, because it's still complicated to me. I'm not sure I know how to define this internally.

When I say that Creation is not about artists making work, but rather a reference to divine creation, I mean that as a metaphor for transformation; my inability to comprehend how life can come from nothing. But I'll also go on record to say this is not just a metaphor to me. It's not bullshit. I surely don't have answers or direction for other people. But in my mind, there's no question as to whether or not God is real.

Axl: Your fiction is very personal and speaks of your private dreams and fears. On the other hand, all art, as your friend Luka Fisher points out, is an act of communication that involves an audience. Since the audience is not given, this involves the additional steps of marketing and “selling yourself.” How do you reconcile these two impulses? Do you think that the commercial aspects of art take away from the authenticity of the creative act?

Chris: Personally, I don’t think marketing or selling yourself detracts you from this.

I’m not sure that starting a novel or any piece of art with the audience in mind is going to tell you something interesting. But I’m also not going to sit here and pretend that the feedback loop doesn’t matter.

One of the reasons Luka and I get along so well is that she’s constantly scheming up ways to get our work in front of people. We were both interested in the relationship our work has with the public. She’s a producer, but maybe in a way that's been frustrating to a lot of the other people she’s worked with, because I don’t believe she’s inherently interested in the financial ramifications of whatever she’s involved with. Plainly speaking, the films and other projects we’ve done together have cost us a lot of money relative to our incomes; none of it has been primed for commercial success. But without her deliberate ploys to get people involved, these ideals in our heads wouldn’t have made it into the world--at least not with the polish or finesse that requires collaboration with artists who are better than us at whatever we’ve asked them to do.

When I think of my literary output, I feel beholden to the publishers who’ve agreed to release my books. Ben DeVos at Apocalypse Party or Philip Best at Amphetamine Sulphate – they’ve put their time, energy, and money into my work. They’re essentially backing me, telling the world that my ideas are worth indulging. How fucking selfish and shitty of me would it be to then sit on my ass and do nothing once the book(s) comes out.

I see some authors complain about not getting enough recognition or money, or whatever, from publishing. People need to understand that there’s nothing inherently valuable about doing this. We’re not feeding people; we’re not saving lives. I believe it’s a privilege to be published, to have someone care enough to sit down and read your fucking book. It requires other people to believe in what you’re doing and contribute in all sorts of ways. I only think it’s fair that you then go out and do your best to make sure it wasn’t a complete waste of their time. Of course, that all depends on your means. I can’t afford a publicist or book tour; it wouldn’t make sense for a release like this. And at the end of the day, there’s always the likelihood that it won’t connect with anyone. 

Axl: There is a pessimistic or nihilistic outlook that permeates your writing, probably stemming from your struggles with depression. At the end of the story “Spell,” the character Whitney addresses the MC: “If you’re done your spell I would have asked if your dreams come true. And if so, whether they still seemed, somehow, out of reach.” So, I wonder if it’s the morbid lucidity associated with depression that makes us unable to enjoy the realization of our dreams. Do you think that someone can return to the innocent joy of assigning meaning and purpose to the world after going through the wringer of nihilism and depression? Thomas Ligotti speaks of consciousness as a disease and the fact that we need to narrow our consciousness to make life bearable. This is a complicated act of self-deception. Almost like a magick trick. Do you think it can work?

Chris: For most of my adult life I've subscribed to a kind of philosophical pessimism. And the depression you reference has been real, though I might describe my experience and indulgence of depression as similar to that of a binge alcoholic. When it's there, it's all-encompassing. But when I'm free of that depression, it seems as though it belonged to a different person. 

Whether or not Ligotti is right in that we need to narrow our consciousness to make life bearable, I don't think it ultimately matters. My current point of view is that I have two options. I can look at the world and say to myself, "The more I discover, the more I learn that none of this matters. It's all fucking meaningless." Or I can look at the world and say, "The more I discover, the more I find out that I don't know much of anything." These days I'm leaning toward the second option. That means that I'm basically a fucking idiot and still have much to learn. Well, I have to learn from somebody. Should I look to the same people I've been studying all my life, who are depressed and miserable? Should I say Emil Cioran is the pinnacle of human expression? Or should I find someone who seems to be experiencing some joy in life, some success, and get their point of view? In all likelihood, I'll do both. But perhaps these happier people are worth looking into. 

Axl: What’s your next writing project? 

Chris: My last novel, the Magician, is currently out of print. So, Apocalypse Party is publishing a 2nd edition later this year with a foreword by Chris Kelso. I believe Christopher Norris has also agreed to do the cover. I like that it's a bunch of Chrises involved. Makes me feel like we're the indie lit versions of Evans/Hemsworth/Pine. Hah. There's also a German translation coming out through Festa Verlag. I believe it should be out by the end of 2024, but I'm not 100% sure. 

Beyond that, I can't divulge too much, except to say I'm always working on a book. With any luck, I'll have another novel out in the next two-to-three years. 

Check out Chris' website at www.christopherzeischegg.com

And IG: www.instagram.com/chriszeischegg

And subscribe to his channel: www.youtube.com/@ChristopherZeischegg

Review of Kristopher Triana's Full Brutal

Thoroughly enjoyed Kristopher Triana’s Full Brutal. Good fiction always gives me ideas so I decided to jot down my thoughts on this beautiful novel. From the start, I was enchanted with Kim White, the novel’s main character, a teenage psychopathic cheerleader bent on demolishing those around her both physically and mentally.

I loved the premise of violence that springs out of boredom or depression, echoing Kierkegaard's idea that “Boredom is the root of all evil.” Triana points out that his experience with bipolar depression bled into the first pages of the novel, when Kim is described as suffering from suicidal ideation, and seasonal affective disorder among other things; she loves that darkness of winter and hates summer, which might seem weird but I can relate to. Everything seems gray and repetitive to Kim but the only thing that brings a splash of color and joy into her life is torture and sexual depravity. After fucking one of her teachers she becomes pregnant but that doesn’t stop her from ruining the teacher and his family. Now, one of my ideas was that Triana could have stopped here and delved into Kim’s conflicted psyche. Fighting depression with violence and dealing with an unwanted pregnancy has all the ingredients of a solid horror story. The pregnancy and unavoidable arrival of spring and summer would only intensify Kim’s dark moods which, in turn, would require deeper plunges into aggression and depravity. Also, given Kim’s elitist outlook, getting impregnated by a nobody would amplify her self-loathing and make her have an abortion, even a self-induced one. These are severe issues that are bound to plague a conflicted teen like Kim and aren’t fully explored in the novel, which detracts from his value and plausibility. Instead, Triana decides to up the ante by adding that the fetus growing inside Kim is a cannibal that would eat her from the inside unless it’s fed human meat. I sensed that the ante didn’t need upping with such a far-fetched addition, and all the psychological drama and horror were there to be explored even if the baby was perfectly normal. While the addition of cannibalism to the story might increase its shock value, it takes away from its artistic value and plausibility. The first part of the novel opens up some narrative venues that are abruptly closed off when the cannibal fetus enters the stage. The ennui and anguish that plague Kim are always mentioned but never shown in her actions. She’s always engaged in sadistic planning, she’s never empty, paralyzed by meaninglessness, zombified, lazy, and destitute like the truly depressed. Triana doesn’t delve into that nihilistic outlook like he does in his novel They All Died Screaming. And that, I think, is a missed opportunity.

This brings me to a point about splatterpunk in general, an idea that echoes some social media posts by Wrath James White. Novels like Jack Ketchum’s The Lost, or The Girl Next Door, or Red offer exquisite psychological portraits that expose the evil in human nature in a realistic framework. Now, a lot of newer splatterpunk, let’s say, Aron Beauregard, sacrifices that psychological realism for the cheaper shock value of the fictional equivalent of ‘80s horror movies. There’s definite artistic merit to both of these trends but they seem to be very different writing paradigms, despite the gray area in between. I feel that Full Brutal started in the first paradigm and then switched to the second one, failing to live up to the more complex and promising beginning. For lack of a better analogy, it was like wanting to see Amadeus and ending up with Basket Case. 

Review of David Peak's Corpsepaint

David Peak’s Corpsepaint is a treat for black metal fans and readers of cosmic horror. As I count myself in both these categories I fully enjoyed this book. Peak’s writing is concise and penetrating, poetical yet punchy, he does an amazing job describing physical and psychological decay and degradation, suggesting pessimism, hopelessness, and damnation. The tone of the book reminded me of B.R. Yeager’s Negative Space as well as the atmospheric horror movie The Witch. Peak is good at conveying the heaviness of a curse, the moral paralysis of being forsaken by a god. His descriptions of the transfigurative power of music come close but don’t match those of another champion of cosmic horror, Curtis L. Lawson, in Black Hearts Boys Choir.

Now, something nagged me while reading Corpsepaint and I think it points to some tensions in the thinking behind the work. Nerding out alert! Black metal clusters together a number of extreme ideologies that are sometimes at odds with each other. With his seminal early albums, Varg Vikenes, the man behind Burzum, influenced Satanic Black Metal (SBM), National Socialist Black Metal (NSBM), as well as Depressive Suicidal Black Metal. Other central acts of second-wave BM like Darkthrone and Mayhem displayed both Satanic and NS sympathies. However, Erik Danielson from Watain is careful in separating the two. "Racial ideas, to me -- from my perspective as a spiritual person -- are really irrelevant. I study other cultures, and I'm interested in radical ideas of viewing the world, but when it comes to racial ideas, I've never really found a speech or text about it that could make sense to me. When we view the world from a spiritual perspective, racial ideas become very mundane, and insignificant. We are talking about an animal that developed into man and that is, to me, where my primary enemy lies. Not in any specific kind of that animal. We are all that animal, and I am completely uninterested in any ideas contrary to that, to be honest."  

The anti-human impetus behind acts like Watain, Funeral Mist, or Inquisition, the satanic desire for liberation and transcendence of human nature is in conflict with any narrow interest in race or the war between races. 

These tensions amongst BM ideologies are reflected in Corpsepaint and the world-views of the main characters. Max and Roland are rebels without a cause marching on a path to self-destruction. “Black metal is not for well-adjusted people,” Max thinks. “Hard drugs and corpsepaint are symptoms of the same disease.” On the other hand, Seph is more into the NS, land and blood side of things. She is dedicated to her community and the preservation of its heritage, something reminiscent of Varg Vikernes’ eurocentrism, except Seph is more focused on her pure Ukrainian heritage and blocking out any Russian contamination, and the decadent modern world in general. (David Peak proves to be a bit of a visionary here, given the war between the two countries that started last year.)  

Now we finally get to what’s been nagging me about this book. Seph doesn’t believe in Odininsm or something that fits NS ideology, but in the Lord Leviathan, which sounds a lot like a god of death and destruction, something that a Satanist would worship. In other words, a god that doesn’t care about races, but is out to destroy all of humanity. Let’s take a closer look at how Leviathan is introduced:

Seph states, “He clears the path to ascend and wages war on the primordial being -- chaos itself, the bornless one -- unleashing the black miasma that covers the world. The war is long and it is difficult, but ultimately the Lord is crowned the victor. He becomes the all-knowing, ever-seeing protector of our lands. From that day forward, He reigns supreme as the Lord of the lords, ruler of the Black Sea, and bringer of peace. And we are all his children. His blood is our blood, the blood of the land’s firstborn son and daughters. He provides the air we breathe, the food we eat, and in doing so, he lives forever within each of us. And in death we return our bodies to the earth, joining our flesh to his flesh, the Lord Leviathan.”

Initially, I was tempted to interpret this through the lens of the Sumero-Babylonyan myth of the goddess Tiamat, the primordial chaos, who was defeated by Marduk. However, Tiamat, being bornless, is also deathless and one cannot kill what is already dead. Thus, even though Marduk proceeds to create the world and mankind, he cannot fully extinguish the principle of chaos that slowly penetrates the created universe and eventually brings about its destruction. So, in this interpretation, Leviathan would be the equivalent of Marduk, a creator god, a god of order, which fits the description of him as “bringer of peace.” Although, even on this view, it’s unclear why Leviathan favors one race or nation (Ukrainians, in this case) over others. The god seems to have local and universal attributes, making its nature difficult to grasp. Incidentally, this is also an ambiguity in the nature of the Christian god, who is both the god of the Jewish people and the god of humanity as a whole. 

But even this line of charitable interpretation is called into doubt when, on the next page, Leviathan is characterized as “formless,” “the black and unknowable abyss that surrounds our world,” “the darkness between the stars,” “always at war with others like him.” These attributes again call to mind the goddess Tiamat, the dark mother of chaos, rather than Marduk, the creator. Moreover, Leviathan’s plan turns out to be the destruction of everything. He shows no mercy to his own people, those of his blood, he’s just ready to swallow the world. However, in an NS framework, one would expect that the creator God would favor one race over others or people exemplifying certain virtues like courage or loyalty, over cowards or cheats. That’s why Odinism and the promise of Valhalla are a good fit for an NS outlook. But there’s no Aryan paradise awaiting the followers of Leviathan, both believers and non-believers are turning to ashes and dust.

We may note that, like many ancient gods, Leviathan has a dual nature; he’s torn between opposites, creator and destroyer, bringer of peace and war, local as well as universal. But this unclear and paradoxical nature makes him a bad story character as the reader has no clue what he is exactly and this drains the emotional oomph of the narrative and its overall cogency.       

Nerding out stops here. All in all, mythological discussions aside, I truly enjoyed Corpsepaint and its portrayal of music as an act of transcendence, liberation, and transfiguration. As Mortuus from Funeral Mist writes, "I choke the human within, to gain the will of a god." 

 

 

 

Review of Curtis Lawson's The Envious Nothing

I  remember having high expectations for Curtis Lawson's The Envious Nothing. They were surpassed
and pulverized. This is a rare treat for horror fans as Lawson expertly integrates elements of body horror, psychological horror, folk, and supernatural horror in a style firmly rooted in Lovecraftian cosmic horror.  In his earlier volume, Black Pantheons, Lawson claims that "Cosmicism is a literary philosophy that suggests we live in a vast, indifferent universe, devoid of any cosmic father figure. If you take it a bit further it is the view that the universe and any higher intelligence within it, is actually malevolent in nature." That early volume features many stories of trickster demons and other supernatural entities bent on torturing humans both physically and mentally. 

In Devil's Night and The Envious Nothing, Lawson departs gradually from that initial characterization of cosmicism and offers a more complex picture of human nature and its relationship with the supernatural. There's a certain moral ambiguity that permeates some of these stories. In "Orphan" or "The Rye-Mother" the main characters are misfits who want to find a place to belong, a place outside the confines of the ordinary world, and beings from beyond the natural order offer their help. In addition, evil becomes more diffuse, so much so it turns into nothing, but it's a dynamic and dangerous Nothing. Lawson doesn't go as far as B.R, Yeager in Negative Space, to strip these otherworldly forces of any human characteristics. Nothingness is described as envious, hungry, vengeful, although those properties are immense and grotesque in comparison to their human counterparts. Lawson here echoes ancient creation myths from the Sumero-Babylonian to the Norse traditions.  The goddess Tiamat is famously described as a primordial abyss, beyond space and time, life and death, both life-giving and vengeful and destructive. By introducing Nothingness as a malevolent force Lawson takes us to the limit of our conceptual scheme, to the realm of paradox, the point where ancient mythology merges with modern physics. If Nothing is envious isn't it Something? Isn't envy a property or a predicate that requires a subject, a substance to have it? How can something be envious while outside space and time? Don't emotions have duration, a certain feel to them? Lawson's power as a horror writer lies in being able to weave imaginative, evocative stories around these perennial cognitive cramps and conceptual dead-ends, and to vividly express that which cannot be told.

I enjoyed all stories in this volume as the author not only spins original tales but uses a variety of literary techniques and forms to deliver them. The reader is never bored and kept on his toes. Stories like "Elvis and Isolde" are so well-crafted that you probably need a strong cup of coffee before delving into them.  The stories that will remain tattooed on my brain are "The Happiest Place on Earth" (it reads like a mix of Stephen King's The Mist and The Girl who Loved Tom Gordon, steeped in deep, thick melancholy), "Secretes of the Forbidden Kata," The Rye Mother" (I have a soft spot for amoral elitist characters and the imagery is stunning) and "The Truth about Vampires," (this one's aggressive weirdness and demented depravity reminded me of Nicole Cushing's "Mr. Suicide") As a small lament, I think some of these stories deserved a larger canvass, maybe a novella or even novel treatment. For instance, "Monsters have no Place in the World to Come," a story about the Hitler Youth, could easily grow into a novel in the vein of Lord of the Flies set against the desolate background of a ruined Berlin. All in all, I warmly recommend this darkly beautiful and challenging book!

Interview with horror writer B.R. Yeager

B.R. Yeager's Negative Space was a mind-blowing surprise of the same magnitude as Curtis Lawson's Black Heart Boy's Choir and Nicole Cushing's Mr. Suicide. All of these novels vividly capture teenage angst and courageously follow their characters into the mouth of madness, to the point where the cold edge of the blade cuts through tender skin. B.R. Yeager does away with the cannon of mainstream horror—the building of suspense to a climax, the protagonist vs. antagonist dichotomy, detailed analysis of the main character's motives and thinking—and reads more like the account of a collective bad trip, the chronicle of the gradual physical and psychological ruination of a group of teens in the small town of Kinsfield. From the outset, we learn that Kinsfield is plagued by a wave of teen suicides. Tyler, the main character, wants to contact the sinister supernatural forces behind that wave, with the help of hallucinogens and black magic. We only learn about Tyler through the lenses of those close to him and can only speculate about the motives behind his erratic and often self-destructive behavior. Reckless and cruel, Tyler is ready to sacrifice himself and those around him in his attempt at transcending his humanity. As with any act of hubris, Tyler is physically and spiritually mutilated by the malignant forces he summoned. The gloomy story and morbid imagery in Negative Space project a thick sense of mystery and doom similar to what you experience while watching a David Lynch film. The nightmarish dreamscapes are like the surrealist landscapes of Dali, and reflect hidden symbols and archetypes. Negative Space is a hypnotic book, with an almost subliminal rhythm and sound it calls us to explore the network of caves and catacombs below consciousness.

Mr. Yeager was kind enough to answer some questions for my blog. 

Axl: First, Mr. Yeager, congratulations on writing such an amazing novel! Although it is very stylized, the reader can guess it's partly rooted in personal experience. Can you please share with us some of the biographical sources of the novel, as well as giving us a sense of its literary influences? 

B.R. Yeager: While I would definitely agree that much of Negative Space is rooted in lived experience, it’s much more complicated than it being strictly biographical. The short version is that the book emerged in response to a close friend’s suicide. Beyond that, there are bits and pieces of experiences taken from my own life, or the lives of people I’ve known, or things I’ve observed, and integrated into the story. But ultimately, it’s all been smeared together in a way that makes it completely fictional. 

Major literary influences would include Kathe Koja’s The Cipher, Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes, Dennis Cooper’s My Loose Thread, Grace Krilanovich’s The Orange Eats Creeps, Philip K. Dick’s Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, The Kybalion by Three Initiates, Blake Butler’s 300,000,000, Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and John Keel’s The Mothman Prophecies. 

Axl: Negative Space seems to fit the subgenre of cosmic horror but at the same time is wildly transgressive and subversive in both content and structure. Where would you place it in the landscape of contemporary horror fiction? 

B.R. Yeager: I have no idea. Honestly, I feel a bit out of step with—or at least not particularly knowledgeable—about the contemporary horror landscape. I tend to have a very broad and personal conception of horror as a genre, which would likely include works that many wouldn’t label as horror. Ultimately, I don’t think it’s my place to square Negative Space into any particular realm within the genre, though cosmic horror and transgressive fiction seem like appropriate tags. 

Axl: In the novel, you introduce the concept of mind without life. The way I understand it, the mind emerges in the brain but it can emerge in any kind of dead matter that has a certain pattern. Is it fair to say that Tyler dies but also preserves his consciousness? Can we still say that he's alive, but more like an astral body? 

B.R. Yeager: I’m becoming more and more hesitant to answer any clarifying questions about the text, not to be an asshole, but mainly because I think any answers I give will be infinitely less interesting than the questions being posed. I will say that this interpretation is a valid one. 

Axl: As a Satanic hero or anti-hero, Tyler seems consumed by the desire for power and control. Is it fair to say that he was used and then discarded by the higher negative force engulfing the town of Kinsfield? Also, did you focus on a group of teenagers because teens are more receptive to the actions of supernatural forces? 

B.R. Yeager: I think you’re correct in that Tyler is more a conduit than an original agitator. I’m not sure I would go as far as to say he was being used by the higher forces at play, as that implies those forces possess a somewhat anthropomorphic will, which I’m not entirely sure is the case. I’d say it’s more akin to a large stone placed in the middle of a stream. The stone diverts the water, but the water is not aware of this action, nor is the water aware of this change (as far as we know). But I could be wrong.

 

(I realize this uncertainty on my part may seem strange. But with this book I wanted to write about the Unknown, and in order to truly do so, it was essential that I kept myself in the dark regarding the inhuman forces at play). 

There were two main reasons I focused on teens. The first was that I wanted to write a horror novel in the tradition of “kids on bikes uncover nefarious forces,” i.e. Stephen King’s IT, or the film The Gate, etc. The second (and more practical) reason is that there has been far less drama and “excitement” (if one could call it that) in my adult life than there was in my teens and early 20s. By making the main characters teens, I had more experiences worth drawing from, in terms of drama. 

Axl: While the novel avoids a standard good vs. evil plot, and there are lots of gray areas, Tyler seems to be at the darker end of the spectrum and Lu at the lighter end. There's also a distinction between the moths and wasps that accompany a nefarious act and the bees that are present when something "positive" takes place. Can you comment a bit about the mythological symbolism of these insects or what made you use them? 

B.R. Yeager: I’m genuinely not sure I can speak to the insects’ relation to broader mythologies. Ultimately, I think these insects are very personal manifestations of aspects of the characters who invoke them. In the book, I did want the divine or the beyond to be accessible through a number of methods and ritual, not a single dogmatic practice, as I believe this to true in reality. As a result, all the magickal or spiritual practices occurring in the book are very personal in nature, and outside of a dogmatic framework or formal institutions. 

Axl: What are your writing plans for 2021? 

B.R. Yeager: Right now I’m co-writing a low-budget horror film directed by Nick Verdi (https://twitter.com/Verdi___Nick) that I’m very excited about. I don’t think I can say much now, but I feel like it’s in a similar vein of a lot of great low-budget debuts, like Abel Ferrera’s The Driller Killer, or Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left, or Gaspar Noe’s I Stand Alone. 

I also have a short story in Hymns of Abomination, which is a forthcoming anthology tribute to Matthew Bartlett, published by Silent Motorist Media. Bartlett is from my hometown, and primarily writes about a fictionalized version of it, so it was fun to play with that world. I’m also in the early stages of my next novel, but that’s likely 3-5 years away. 

Follow B.R. Yeager on Twitter @BRYeager

Interview with horror writer Curtis Lawson

Illustrator Luke Spooner from Carrion House

I've first encountered Curtis Lawson's fiction last year and was blown away by his novel Black Heart Boys' Choir. Lucien Beaumont, the main character, is a musical prodigy who discovers an unfinished song composed by his dead father. Obsessed with completing the song Lucien starts playing a damnation game with the demon Amduscias. I think of this novel as a perfect work, like Athens coming out whole from Zeus' forehead. Lawson's style carries a mathematical beauty and elegance, but at the same time is visceral and emotionally dizzying. When Lawson started promoting his new book, Devil's Night, the title shot up to the top of my TBR list. Devil's Night is a collection of horror stories centered around the legend that every year, the night before Holloween, Detroit, the Motor City, becomes possessed by demonic forces of chaos and destruction. The book is a rocking eruption of original writing fuelled by a devilish imagination. I'd compare it with classics like Clive Barker's Books of Blood or Stephen King's Night Shift as well as more recent works like Joe Hills's 20th Century Ghosts. Curtis was kind enough to answer some questions about his new book and his writing plans.

Axl: On social media, you mentioned Sin City and The Crow as inspirations for Devil's Night. What other books or movies inspired you? And what makes Devil's Night stand out?

Curtis: One of the things I wanted to do with Devil’s Night was explore several different types of horror stories while keeping them tied together in theme and with a loosely connected narrative. The idea for having the stories loosely connect definitely stems from Sin City, but the individual stories all draw from different inspirations.

80’s horror films were a big influence, No One Leaves The Buther Shop being the most notable example of that. Through Hell for One Kiss draws heavily from The Crow. I pretty much lifted the structure of Trashfire Stories from a Batman animated short.

The biggest influence outside of Sin City is probably The Willows by Algernon Blackwood. I wanted to make the environment itself antagonistic, and The Willows is the most exceptional example of that kind of thing that I can think of. The Graveyard of Charles Robert Swede is a direct homage to The Willows.

I suppose I probably drew on IT in regards to creating my version of Detroit. King’s town of Derry is a character in and of itself and I find it to be the best part of the book. 

What makes it different? I think the shared lore and the way in which the stories are woven together makes it stand out from a lot of other short story collections. If I did my job right, the stories also present important questions and shine a light on sensitive issues without judgment or bullshit platitudes. I find it the job of the writer to get people to think, but never tell them what to think.

Axl: In Hideaway Dean Koontz describes Vassago as a rebellious teen whose dark mind attracts a demon, resulting in demon possession. In  Black Heart Boys’ Choir, we have more of a collaboration or pact between Lucien and the demon Amduscias. In Devil's Night, it seems that most characters are trapped by an inescapable demonic force. How do you see, in general, the relation between demonic forces and a character's will? Does the character still exercise any free will? 

Curtis: I suppose it depends on the story. Koontz clearly intended for his demon to be a real thing, so I think Vassago had less free will. It’s been a long time since I revisited Hideaway, so I can’t speak with strong authority on that.  

The dynamic between Lucien and Amduscias in Black Heart Boys’ Choir is different. I leave it intentionally ambiguous as to if the demon is real, but beyond that, even if the reader decides that Amduscias is real in story terms, the character is still a symbol of Lucien’s obsessions, resentments, and trauma.

I suppose there is a question of free will there, but it’s more of a battle between Lucien’s ID (Amduscias) and his ego (Lucien himself). The lack of an avatar for his superego represents how he was failed by society and his parents. That moral compass is simply absent.

I tried to show that by having the adults fail him in some large or small way in each encounter. That’s also why there is no direct dialog from Lucien’s mother and why she pretty much stays hidden away in her room for the entire book. 

Axl: Black Heart Boys’ Choir seems rooted in your personal experiences as an artist struggling for aesthetic perfection. Are some stories in Devil's Night also inspired by personal experiences?

Curtis: Black Heart Boys’ Choir was the most deeply personal thing I’ve ever written. That book was very emotionally autobiographical, and a few of the scenes mirror actual events from my childhood. It was cathartic to write, but it was also emotionally exhausting.

Devil’s Night was a nice change of pace because I wasn’t as intimately attached to the stories. 

D20 is inspired by some childhood friends who grew up in a similar situation to the boys in that story. Breaking Wheel captures my yearning to escape the shitty neighborhoods I lived in and to build a new life away from all that. A Night of Art and Excess ties into the unearned sense of elitism I felt as a teenager– the belief that I was destined for and entitled to bigger and better things and that the world just didn’t understand. 

Those are probably the most personal stories. The rest are just made up of insights and fantasies. 

Axl: Stories like Fire Sermon, This City Needs Jesus, An Angel in Amber Leaves, or The Exorcism of Detroit, Michigan seem to convey an anti-Christian message in the sense that those who want to carry out the work of God seem themselves evil, and angels become demons. But at the same time, a lot of Christian imagery is employed in describing the Devil's Night as a night when the gates of Hell are open. So, I wonder, if you strip away the Christian outlook, what's bad about the Devil's Night. And in what sense does it belong to the devil? 

Curtis: I don’t think I did any of that intentionally… or I guess I wasn’t consciously thinking “Let’s demonize religion.” That being said, I’ve never had much love for the Abrahamic faiths. That shines through in a lot of my work, perhaps to my detriment at times.

As I enter middle-age I’ve grown more tolerant of religion and have even found some allegorical value in Abrahamic myths that I used to abhor, but I think I’ll always have a bit of a chip on my shoulder in that regard.

That being said, I want to express that my problems with religion don’t necessarily extend to the religious. I actually find it quite unfortunate how chic it is to mock people for their belief in God or their adherence to religious tradition.

As for Devil’s Night, I think it is a little glimpse into a much more literal hell than the apostles or Dante ever show us. Have you ever known a really messed up person? A hard drug addict or a career criminal? For people like that every moment is hell because their minds are a minefield of insecurity, resentment, and rage. The real Devil’s Night was an expression of that. It’s the personal hell inside of hundreds of people bleeding into the real world in a tangible way. 

Axl: What are your plans for 2021?

Curtis: I have three short stories scheduled to be published, one in the second issue of S. T. Joshi’s Penumbra journal. I’ll also be publishing a new Adze (a character introduced in Devil’s Night) short story each month via my Patreon page.

For bigger projects, I’m working on a novella for a shared universe project that I can’t really talk about, but that I am extremely excited for. I will say that I get to share a pretty exclusive TOC with a few of my favorite authors. I actually have this huge case of impostor syndrome going into the project, but I hope it gives me a chance to prove that I belong there.

I’ll also be writing my next novel for Weird House Press which is my first deep dive into the Lovecraft Mythos. I’ve been reluctant to play in that sandbox given my deep love for it, but I think I have something interesting to bring to the party. 

You can order Devil's Night here: https://www.weirdhousepress.com/product/devils-night/

You can find Curtis Lawson on Twitter @c_lawson

Instagram @curtismlawson

Facebook @curtismlawson

Interview with horror writer Nicole Cushing

 

Nicole Cushing's novel A Sick Gray Laugh has hit me with the force of a revelation. Recipient of the prestigious Bram Stoker award, Cushing transgresses the boundaries of the horror genre, moving seamlessly between history, philosophy, satire, and nightmarish grotesquery. The novel is thought-provoking and emotionally dizzying. Written in a funny, lighthearted tone, A Sick Gray Laugh has a gloomy, eerie undertone that, coupled with the creepy, outlandish visuals, will haunt the reader long after finishing. The author was kind enough to take the time and answer some of the main questions I have about her novel, but before we get to that I'll offer a brief outline. Noelle Cashman, the main character, decides to write a book about "the overwhelming Grayness that's slathered over everything like a thick coat of snot." Grayness is a soul-crushing disease that affects many small towns, and Noelle is able to establish that the source of the infection is the town of Naumpton, Indiana. Digging into its history, Noelle discovers two utopian cults that settled in the area but were ultimately crushed by civilization. The leader of the first cult was known as The New Moses and preached a synthesis between Christian principles and those of industrial capitalism. Basically, The New Moses claimed that if infused with the divine spirit of moral joy, factory workers and their employers would live in perfect harmony. One necessary step toward achieving this state of bliss was that all members of the cult were to cover their faces with black veils, symbolizing ego death, and their absolute submission to God. The second cult was The Brides of the Holy Ghost who, under the influence of local Evelyn Wilson aka The Great Prophetess, come to believe that sordid Naumpton is the place of birth of the Antichrist and, hating both men and sex, were able to temporarily turn the struggling town into a matriarchy. Studying these two cults, Noelle deduces some of the principles of fighting Grayness. Grayness means order and civilization and should be countered with chaos and madness. Grayness is conformity and coagulation and should be countered with rebellion and separation. Animated by the aggressive weirdness of the two pioneering cults Noelle decides to form her own cult of misfits, built around female supremacy, chaos, and the Principle of Separation.     

Axl: Stephen King famously said, "I recognize terror as the finest emotion and so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I find that I cannot terrify, I will try to horrify, and if I find that I cannot horrify, I'll go for the gross-out. I'm not proud." "A Sick Gray Laugh" doesn't fit neatly into the mold of mainstream horror; there are no monsters (human or inhuman) and almost no gore. How would you describe your brand of horror in relation to King's dictum and more established subgenres like body horror, cosmic horror, psychological horror and so on?

Nicole: You're correct when you point out that my characters don't struggle against traditional antagonists. They struggle against the menacing, palpable atmosphere around them. They struggle against reality. Each realizes they’re a part of a vast, hideous machine, and they struggle against that machine. Often, they struggle against their own brains. Therefore, I don't think King's taxonomy is all that helpful when applied to my work. Instead, I would describe my work as a variety of weird fiction, because weird fiction often depicts an alienated individual’s struggle against their surroundings, or against reality.

However, even that label may confuse the issue. So often, when someone says “weird fiction” they really mean “cosmic horror” or “Lovecraftian fiction” or “Ligottian fiction”.  They use “weird fiction” to refer exclusively to the Anglo-American tradition of cosmic horror, as articulated in short stories. I feel a stronger connection to the Continental European tradition of the weird, and to a couple of weird works from the Middle East and North Africa. Moreover, I feel connected to the tradition of the weird novel. Right now, I’m not interested in short stories.

Don’t get me wrong, I continue to respect and admire the work of Thomas Ligotti. But if you study his work and read his interviews, you soon realize he’s influenced not only by Anglo-American Lovecraftian fiction, but also by the global weird tradition. Upon exploring the international influences mentioned in his interviews I got hooked on them, myself! Therefore, Ligotti has been my “gateway drug” to the global weird tradition (and translated fiction, in general). For me, Ligotti’s work isn’t the final destination of the weird. It’s not a destination at all, but rather a door. And doors are meant to be walked through.

That’s how literature advances. We stand on the shoulders of giants, yes. But we don’t stand on the shoulders of giants so we can look down at the giants. We stand on the shoulders of giants so we can better reach the next frontier.

My work follows in the tradition of novels like The Tenant by Roland Topor and The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I’m also influenced by novellas like The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat, The Hospital by Ahmed Bouanani, The Great Shadow by Mário de Sá-Carneiro, and The Seven Who Were Hanged and The Red Laugh by Leonid Andreyev. Most recently, I’ve been influenced by the novels of Witold Gombrowicz. His work exerted a strong influence on A Sick Gray Laugh.

Lest I seem unpatriotic, I should mention that I feel a kinship with some American weird novelists, too. Shirley Jackson and Caitlin Kiernan, in particular. But neither Ms. Jackson nor Ms. Kiernan weave absurdity into their work. You couldn’t call either of them “playful”. I, on the other hand, revel in gallows humor, and I see writing as a combination of self-discipline and play.

Axl: "A Sick Gray Laugh" features elements of both postmodernism and existentialism. Metanaration and irony are blended with more sombre reflections about the human condition, mental illness, and existential dread. What are your thoughts on mixing these two traditions?

Nicole: I don’t want to quibble too much with your question, but I’m not sure “existentialism” is quite the right label. For me, the phrase “existentialist fiction” conjures up images of Sartre and Camus and Simone de Beauvoir. It implies fiction that advocates for existentialist values. Didactic fiction. That’s not what I’m about. I’m not cheerleading for any particular system of thought.

But I get the gist of what you’re asking, and I can only say that the use of metanarrative and irony to address serious literary subjects is a very old trick. In the 1930s, Gombrowicz pulled it off in his novel Ferdydurke. Kundera’s novels do something similar, although his irony is more muted than that of Gombrowicz. It’s less nightmarishly absurd. One could argue that it goes back much further. Kundera, for example, claims Cervantes and Rabelais as influences. When it comes to matters of style and tone, my work isn’t really experimental. Or perhaps it is experimental, but only in the sense that I’m replicating an experiment that’s been performed many times before. Perhaps my only stylistic innovation is carrying that tradition forward into the realm of twenty-first century weird fiction, spiking it with a shot glass of transgression, and imposing it on a cast of working-class characters scrabbling together lives in the American Midwest. 

 Axl: Noelle Cashman, the hero (or anti-hero) of the novel, is a self-professed nihilist, fan of the work of Thomas Liggotti. She claims all beliefs are ridiculous and warns us against Moronic Hope. And yet, she's very determined to fight Grayness. What's the point of that fight? What is she trying to defend? Wouldn't a pessimist like Liggotti say that the whole world is Gray; that there's no exit? That maybe even Colors are Gray? Doesn't her ambition to destroy Grayness turn Noelle into an optimist? And doesn't her commitment to things Colorful and The Principle of Separation betray the fact she's still a victim of grandiose narratives and Moronic Hope?

Nicole: It’s been a while since my brain was fully marinated in A Sick Gray Laugh. (It’s now fully marinated in my work-in-progress.) But, if I recall correctly, Noelle’s quest is a quest for psychological comfort, above all else. That’s what she’s trying to defend (or, at least, obtain). She’s suffocated, in a psychological sense, and she wants to breathe.

 The fact that she makes an effort to breathe doesn’t really indicate that she’s an optimist. At least, not a capital-O, philosophical Optimist. She’s merely succumbing to the same reflex any suffocated individual feels: the reflex to fight for air.

But, for the sake of argument, let’s assume that you’re correct: she’s an optimist, of sorts. If this is the case, she’s a terrifying optimist, a sadistic optimist, the kind of optimist who is a walking advertisement for pessimism!  

But shouldn’t I be bothered that Noelle contradicts herself? I don’t believe this is a problem because Noelle admits as much. She tells the reader, directly, that she finds it impossible to stay committed to any belief. Her mind is hideously mutable. Her brain is like a kaleidoscope, with one important difference. Instead of constantly changing into various neat and tidy geometrical patterns, it changes into a series of monstrous, foul, asymmetrical blobs.

Axl: Early on, Noelle discovers that The New Moses and his utopian cult use black veils to cover their faces upon their arrival in the New World. To them, face-covering is a means of erasing the ego and ushering in the Utopia of selfless moral joy. Later in the story, Noelle realizes that when wearing her balaclava she has the power to part the Gray Sea just as the original Moses parted the Red Sea. Does this power have to do with suppressing the ego like in the case of the New Moses? And, more generally, what is the role of Noelle's ego in her fight against Grayness. As a wannabe cult leader, she must be prideful and arrogant, which is also what separates her from the conformity of Grayness? Yet, at the same time, her ego must be deemed fluid and illusory by her commitment to nihilism and the unreality of everything. What are your thoughts on this dilemma?

Nicole: There’s a lot to unpack here. Let’s take the questions one at a time.

Does Noelle’s power to part the Gray Sea derive from suppressing her ego? No. It stems from her “re-enactment” (for lack of a better word) of something Colorful. 

What’s the role of Noelle’s ego in her fight against Grayness? Noelle’s sense of self is unstable, bordering on nonexistent. However, her suffering is a very idiosyncratic sort of suffering, the type of suffering that separates her from the rest of humanity (who don’t notice, or at least don’t obsess over Grayness). Her suffering seems distinctly her own. Thus, her suffering seems to confirm her selfhood. If Noelle herself were here to speak to you, she might paraphrase Descartes and say “I suffer, therefore I am”.

Is this a dilemma? I’m not one hundred percent sure. I would call it a complication or a paradox. I try to honestly depict life, and the experience of consciousness in particular. There’s no way to take on those subjects without encountering paradoxes. In many ways, the paradox is the point. I’m not giving the reader a puzzle to solve, or a philosophy to evaluate. I’m giving the reader an experience to be felt and an aesthetic to appreciate. 

Axl: Do you think Satan, as depicted let's say in Milton's Paradise Lost, as the rebel and opposer, would be an agent of Color and Chaos on Noelle's view. Can her outlook be described as essentially Satanic?

Nicole: I’ve not yet read Paradise Lost (though the Norton critical edition is in my to-be-read pile). That caveat aside, I think that even rebellion can be Gray, if it allows itself to become too predictably rebellious. Kneejerk rebelliousness can quickly turn into a dull, tiresome affectation. Only a thin line separates an opposer from a poser.

So I don’t think her outlook can be seen as Satanic. A static Satan is a Gray Satan. For Satan to truly be Colorful, he would need to rebel against himself from time to time. 

You can find a good deal on A Sick Gray Laugh and other horrors at https://bit.ly/3mLLIm2
Follow Nicole on Twitter @nicolecushing and Facebook Nicole Cushing.