I bought this within minutes of learning about its existence. A horror anthology based entirely around doppelgangers, doubles and changelings?! What aI bought this within minutes of learning about its existence. A horror anthology based entirely around doppelgangers, doubles and changelings?! What a great idea! Sadly, it gets off to a bad start: the first story doesn’t so much riff on Taxi Driver as steal from it (there’s taking inspiration from a film, and then there’s lifting some of the best dialogue in cinema history and putting it straight into your story; the latter doesn’t sit right with me). I hoped this would be the low point, but some of the others are even weaker, and the quality level rarely rises above ‘okay but not great’. Only one is truly strong: ‘Who Is That On the Other Side of You?’ by Timothy J Jarvis, which follows two lookalike men on an Antarctic expedition, is compelling and told in an effective format. Other than that... I don’t like being negative about stuff from small presses, but it’s hard to find many redeeming features here....more
(Review written January 2019. Nina Allan’s novelette Neptune’s Trident was previously listed on Goodreads as a separate book; looks like that listing (Review written January 2019. Nina Allan’s novelette Neptune’s Trident was previously listed on Goodreads as a separate book; looks like that listing has now been combined into the magazine issue it was published in. This is a review of Neptune’s Trident only.)
Originally published in issue 129 of Clarkesworld magazine, Neptune's Trident is a science fiction novelette. It's set in a future version of Scotland in which a series of disasters and slow changes have precipitated the breakdown of society as we know it. There's also the phenomenon of the 'flukes', people afflicted by a new sort of infection. Some believe it to be a form of alien invasion, but its exact nature is difficult to define. Caitlin compares it to cancer. At one point, a character makes it sound like one version of a file being overwritten by another: 'their template placed over ours... a kind of bleed-through'.
This story has a similar feel to 'The Common Tongue, the Present Tense, the Known', and like Noemi in that story, the protagonist Caitlin makes a living by scavenging valuable objects from the polluted coast. She also cares for her partner, Steph, who is one of the infected, and who often (increasingly often) glitches into what Caitlin calls 'not-Steph'. (The transition is described in vivid, chilling terms: 'she turned slowly away from the kitchen counter, moving in jerky increments, like a robot... [her] words slightly blurred, as if two identical recordings of her voice were being played over each other, a millisecond apart'.) One day, while selling her finds at the local market, Caitlin meets a parson – a man still wearing a dog collar despite the disintegration of old religions. At first, she takes pity on him, but it soon becomes clear he has extreme views about the flukes, and that his arrival will change the quiet community.
The more explicitly science-fictional of Allan's stories are not usually my favourites, but I do appreciate their attention to detail. Allan's worldbuilding always focuses more on the things that would actually matter to real people, in their day-to-day lives, than stuff like technology and governance. It's the smallest things that make Neptune's Trident real: Caitlin's memories of watching horror films with her brother; the Johnson's shampoo she finds at the beach; the parson's resemblance to a man Caitlin's mother once had a relationship with. The ambiguous ending reflects the void at the heart of this new society, the stillness and silence of the ancient Earth in the face of human disaster....more
One of the silliest books I’ve ever read. The Only Child starts off as enjoyable schlock about a psychiatrist whose latest ‘client’ claims to be a 200One of the silliest books I’ve ever read. The Only Child starts off as enjoyable schlock about a psychiatrist whose latest ‘client’ claims to be a 200-year-old superhuman who inspired the characters of Frankenstein’s monster, Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde and Dracula. He also says he’s her father, despite the fact that they appear to be the same age. After the man kills one of Lily’s colleagues and threatens to frame her, she’s led on a chase across Europe in search of the truth about his history.
Though published in 2017, it feels very much like a mid-2000s adventure novel, what Elizabeth Knox in The Absolute Book calls an ‘arcane thriller’ – like the Da Vinci Code knock-offs that were everywhere at one point, or a less cerebral version of The Historian, which I loved in 2007. Various locations are detailed in risibly clichéd and/or improbable terms (at one point Michael bribes the doorman at a London hotel with a ‘hundred-pound note’). Lily is a predictably beautiful idiot who lusts after every man she meets – including the one who may or may not be her dad – for no reason other than to crowbar sex into the narrative. Things happen so fast that there’s little time to dwell on various revelations or how the characters handle them.
Brainless entertainment can be fun, obviously. And I was having a good enough time at first, which is why I didn’t give up on this despite how ridiculous it all is. But the story loses a lot of steam as it goes along. By the time Lily and Michael were kidnapped by a rogue ex-CIA mercenary (!), I was dying for it all to end. It was an effort to drag myself to the finish line....more
Very well-written, a brilliantly structured plot, yet I struggled through this a bit because it’s so relentlessly bleak. I loved the broken dialogue –Very well-written, a brilliantly structured plot, yet I struggled through this a bit because it’s so relentlessly bleak. I loved the broken dialogue – so true to life, something encountered so rarely in fiction. Reminded me of Lindsay Hunter’s work, albeit with less colour/humour. I would read more by the author, but admittedly not when I’m looking for distraction, escapism or a mood-lifter....more
One of the things I really love about reading is discovering a new(-to-me) author whose work makes me think: YES. This person writes exactly the way IOne of the things I really love about reading is discovering a new(-to-me) author whose work makes me think: YES. This person writes exactly the way I like, and exactly the kind of fiction I crave, and I want to read everything of theirs I can get my hands on. That’s what happened with The Teardrop Method, a quietly haunting speculative novella, accompanied in this edition by an equally spellbinding short story.
In the title novella, Krisztina, a musician, hears the songs of people’s souls. She follows them around wintry Budapest, and in doing so realises someone – a man in a strange mask – is following her. This is a story that’s both disconcerting and beautiful, suffused with melancholy. It contains wonderful evocation of music: its sound and power. The atmosphere is perfect, the setting palpable, and there’s a terrifying/tragic villain, and even a story within a story. But, as Krisztina mourns her late partner and reconnects with her father, it also has that grounding in reality and human connection which I think is essential to good uncanny fiction.
In the linked story ‘Going Back to the World’, we’re with Susanna as she returns to the house she once shared with her ex, Dave, after his suicide. (Dave appears, sort of, in The Teardrop Method; he’s a music journalist who interviews both Krisztina and her father.) There’s arguably a stronger flavour of horror to this story – it’s certainly quite a bit creepier – but it retains the humanity of The Teardrop Method, as well as that sense of quietness that is, somehow, both unnerving and comforting.
This book positions Avery as an obvious heir to Joel Lane – at times I felt I was reading a Lane story. And to be clear, I don’t think Avery is copying Lane’s style at all, more that they both have the same – rare – ability to capture and pin down an ethereal, unsettling mood. I loved The Teardrop Method so much that I’m already prepared to proclaim Simon Avery as a new favourite.
If you love meta novels about lost media – and I do, though I acknowledge it’s a bit of a niche – this is a must-read. I’d describe it as The WitneIf you love meta novels about lost media – and I do, though I acknowledge it’s a bit of a niche – this is a must-read. I’d describe it as The Witnesses Are Gone meets The Unauthorised Biography of Ezra Maas, with a detour via We Eat Our Own. It’s about a mysterious set of tapes, transcribed by an audio historian, with her manuscript, in turn, found and introduced by the author of this book, Campbell himself – the kind of layer-upon-layer, stories-within-stories framing that makes me excited about a story even when I’ve barely begun reading it. At the core of Found Audio is the tale of a journalist who becomes obsessed with finding something called ‘the City of Dreams’. His search takes him all over the world, from the last days of Kowloon Walled City to a chess tournament in Istanbul. It’s a sweeping, extremely propulsive adventure enlivened by a delicious element of uncertainty. For me, the potential scope of the plot was such that the book could have been much longer – twice, three times as long, even. And, all told, that isn’t a terrible problem to have with a book. Wish this wasn’t the author’s only novel!
Reread October 2021. First read September 2017 – original review.
This is my favourite of Hurley’s books. I love it for the rich texture of the languagReread October 2021. First read September 2017 – original review.
This is my favourite of Hurley’s books. I love it for the rich texture of the language and description, its powerful ability to evoke both physical setting and the rhythms of a close-knit, closed-off community. I love the way the horror is so intimately woven into the fabric of the story that you barely notice it’s there. I still don’t know what to make of the ending. So often throughout Devil’s Day you’re trapped within John’s perspective while being drawn to sympathise with another character: Kat when she’s mocked and passed over by the people of the Endlands, Adam when John wants him to jump and he’s clearly terrified. I’ve never been able to unpick John’s motives in this scene, his insistence that Adam swim in the river so uncomfortably mixed up with what happened to Lennie (fresh in our minds because of its proximity in the narrative), his determination bordering on cruelty. When I reread the final chapter this time, I initially wondered whether I’d misread the whole thing, and it’s supposed to be pure hope; but then a few minutes later I’d changed my mind entirely and started thinking that much more of it is supposed to be unreliable than I’d assumed, that there are implications I’d missed at first. But I also love that I don’t know the answer....more
It’s difficult to assign a star rating to this; at points I felt it was giving me exactly what I’m always looking for in a short story collection, butIt’s difficult to assign a star rating to this; at points I felt it was giving me exactly what I’m always looking for in a short story collection, but at other points my interest collapsed and/or the stories weren’t to my taste at all. Opening story ‘House-sitting’, about a man increasingly gripped by creeping paranoia as he stays in a forest cabin, is excellent, as is the closer, ‘White Dialogues’, a sort of ontological horror story in which horrible significance is assigned to the words mouthed by background extras in scenes from films by Hitchcock. Naturally, I also loved a story called ‘Ekphrases’, describing numerous imaginary works created ‘at the edge of death’; and also ‘The Bookcase’, about a man who destroys his own reputation and relationship by retelling a ‘funny’ personal story on a podcast.
The language is surprising and playful, often explicitly so (in ‘House-sitting’, the protagonist rearranges the letters of the titular word until he gets an apparent statement of intention: I unghost site). The book plays with recurring themes: broadly, a person being consumed by events in their imagination; more specifically, the idea of horror of one’s own reflection is repeatedly revisited, and two separate stories (including another standout, ‘Two Guys Watching Cujo on Mute’) seem to retell the tale of a boy with a debilitating fear of dogs. A few of the others, especially ‘Destroy All Monsters’ and ‘Radical Closure’, take a particular approach – a Nicholson Baker-esque attention to the minutest detail of a situation – which I personally find soporific. At these points I found myself skimming over whole passages. I also found a few jaunts into fantasy, such as ‘City of Wolfmen’, unsatisfying.
I didn't know this when I started reading it, but From the Wreck is based on a real incident: the shipwreck of the Australian passenger ship SS AdmellI didn't know this when I started reading it, but From the Wreck is based on a real incident: the shipwreck of the Australian passenger ship SS Admella in 1859. Several rescue attempts failed, leaving victims of the disaster clinging to wreckage for over a week, and 89 people died. One of the 24 survivors was Jane Rawson's great-grandfather, George Hills. The only female survivor was Bridget Ledwith, whose identity was disputed in the years after the shipwreck (two different women wrote to a newspaper claiming to be her).
In Rawson's reimagining of the story, George Hills becomes obsessed with Bridget Ledwith, believing her to be an 'evil spirit', a 'sea creature'. She helped him survive, but those days were a living nightmare. George has what we would now recognise as PTSD and is unable to stop reliving the wreck. His search for Bridget makes him increasingly unstable.
So this could simply be the sad story of a man undone by his memories of a traumatic experience, and by enduring this experience before the psychological impact of such events was properly understood. But we also have chapters told from the perspective of George's eldest son, Henry. As long as he can remember, Henry has had his 'Mark' – it looks like a birthmark to everyone else, but it whispers to him: 'Mark told him things no one else knew'. He has strangely detailed knowledge of life under the sea; memories of a different type of existence.
From the Wreck is an intriguing and enthralling combination of historical and speculative fiction. A well-written, authentic historical tale that occasionally spins into out-there SF and makes it work like a dream. I was just as interested in the world of the human characters – a South Australian town in the 19th century, the 'Sailors' Home' in which George and family live – as I was in the question of whatever 'Mark' was. Certainly more subdued than your average science fiction novel, and effective with it.
Josie's dad was murdered when she was a teenager. Since then, she's changed her last name, moved to New York, and stopped speaking to her twin sister Josie's dad was murdered when she was a teenager. Since then, she's changed her last name, moved to New York, and stopped speaking to her twin sister Lanie. The news of her mother's death takes her back home to Illinois; unfortunately, this coincides with a resurgence of interest in her father's murder, via a Serial-esque podcast aiming to prove the convicted man is innocent. Plus Josie has to deal with the fact that a) she's never told her fiancé the truth about her past and b) Lanie is now in a relationship with her (Josie's) first love, Adam.
Are You Sleeping is a solid entry in the burgeoning Podcast Thriller genre. I read most of it in an airport and on a plane, while I was pretty tired and needed something I didn't have to concentrate on too much. A few days later, I can't honestly say that I have much recollection of the plot, but I did enjoy it while I was reading.
(2.5) Well, this was one of the most peculiar novels I've ever read. I'm almost stumped as to what to say about it.
I'll start with the basics. Set in (2.5) Well, this was one of the most peculiar novels I've ever read. I'm almost stumped as to what to say about it.
I'll start with the basics. Set in New Zealand, it centres on a twentysomething woman, Cynthia, who has what appears to be a passionate obsession with her yoga instructor, Anahera. Cynthia invites Anahera to run away with her, and Anahera, who happens to be in the middle of a divorce, unexpectedly agrees. Cynthia clears out her dad's bank account and the two of them (accompanied by Cynthia's dog, whose name is... Snot-head) buy a boat, the eponymous Baby. Something that Cynthia delusionally perceives as an idyllic escape is interrupted by two things: 1) the two women sort of – inadvertently – kill someone, and 2) a man called Gordon inserts himself into their relationship.
Everything about Baby is strange. The characters' motivations are completely opaque; the dialogue sometimes makes them sound like robots. (The first thing Gordon says when he meets Cynthia and Anahera is 'I am a German man'.) The bubble they exist in seems cut off from reality, and not just because they're on a boat. For all that, there's an irresistible rhythm to it and I wanted to read on – if only in some attempt to figure out what the hell was going on.
I'm surprised to see that numerous other reviewers have interpreted Baby as a comment on millennial lifestyles and Young Women Today. It's so very odd – Cynthia's (and, for that matter, the others') actions so far removed from anything that could be considered normal under any circumstances – that it feels (to me) entirely disconnected from the real world. True, Cynthia obsessively watches reality TV on her phone and treats the machinations of The Bachelor contestants as a kind of guide for life. But Cynthia also appears to be a psychopath, so I'm not sure anything she does should be treated as representative of her generation.
I might have been a bit more generous with my rating, but a few days later I read Melissa Broder's The Pisces – a similarly quirky novel, but much more successful in terms of structure, character development, use of humour, just about everything really. The Pisces is such an assured handling of a lost, idiosyncratic protagonist that it made Baby's flaws more glaring in retrospect. Annaleese Jochems is very young (she was 22 when Baby was published) and obviously very talented; what she attempts here doesn't quite come off, but I'm still excited to read more from her.
I received an advance review copy of Baby from the publisher through Edelweiss.
This novella flips between past and present as the narrator recalls his first love, Thomas. In a small French village circa 1984, the two 17-year-old This novella flips between past and present as the narrator recalls his first love, Thomas. In a small French village circa 1984, the two 17-year-old boys are acutely aware that their relationship is dangerous, but are magnetically drawn to one another. The narrator falls helplessly in love, while Thomas always seems to remain at something of a distance. Lie With Me is also seemingly autofictional – the narrator is named Philippe, has become a successful writer, and has written novels with names plucked from Besson's oeuvre.
I can see Lie With Me being marketed to fans of Call Me by Your Name – like that book, it's a coming-of-age gay romance set in Europe – with Molly Ringwald's translation adding extra celebrity cachet. It is a quick read, very short, perfect for a long journey or a lazy afternoon, designed to be read all at once. Perhaps this brevity and simplicity is part of why I'm having trouble recalling much about it, beyond the basic premise. There's a hint of Fleur Jaeggy about Besson's economical sentences, but for the most part this is a rather pedestrian story. Well-written, with a sort of mildness that makes it slip from the memory as a dream might.
I received an advance review copy of Lie With Me from the publisher through Edelweiss.
A fast-paced, easy, and most importantly very snowy read for Christmas Eve. The only other Dark Iceland book I've read is Snowblind, the first in the A fast-paced, easy, and most importantly very snowy read for Christmas Eve. The only other Dark Iceland book I've read is Snowblind, the first in the series (in English at least), so I've skipped rather a lot. Not that it has any detrimental effect on the reading experience – this works fine as a standalone. It has less of a 'classic crime' feel to it than Snowblind, and could have come from the pen of Yrsa Sigurðardóttir if not for the wishy-washy protagonist. I still think Ari Thór Arason is pretty useless, but the mystery kept me occupied and the setting is wonderfully atmospheric.
The ending is rather awkwardly phrased but I'm guessing it's been tacked on to the translation – it seems to be setting up a flashback to the plot of Fölsk nóta, the first book of the Icelandic-language series.
Claire's house is deep in the countryside, surrounded by woods. She is home alone – her husband Ian is in Qatar for work – and it's been raining for tClaire's house is deep in the countryside, surrounded by woods. She is home alone – her husband Ian is in Qatar for work – and it's been raining for three days when a man turns up on her doorstep. It's Dean, a friend she hasn't seen in over a year. He's come to ask a favour, and to remind her how she once defined true friendship to him: 'agreeing to help them dispose of a body, no questions asked'.
The focus is not on what Dean has done but how Claire lives with her part in it. When we glimpse her impossibly overgrown garden and the mould infecting her home, it becomes clear this may be manifesting in unexpected ways, and ultimately Claire is drawn (perhaps inexorably) back to the woods.
For a novella of just over 100 pages, Body in the Woods is fantastically detailed. Sarah Lotz is such a charismatic writer, imbuing her characters with life. I had a strong sense of Claire's personality from page one. The relationship between Claire and Dean keeps the reader guessing, too – it's unclear whether they're ex-friends, ex-lovers or something even more complicated.
As with Alison Littlewood's Cottingley – which is part of the same NewCon Press Novellas line – the cover isn't very promising, but don't let that put you off. This is a compact thriller, an account of psychological decay and a disconcerting piece of weird fiction all in one.
The cover belies the contents of Cottingley: this is a historical novella which depicts a slow slide into horror, not the lurid gore-fest you might exThe cover belies the contents of Cottingley: this is a historical novella which depicts a slow slide into horror, not the lurid gore-fest you might expect if you spend too long looking at that skeleton-fairy-thing.
The plot is based on the real (well, 'real') story of the Cottingley Fairies. We see only one side of the correspondence between Lawrence Fairclough, who has recently settled in the village with his daughter-in-law and granddaughter, and Edward Gardner, a member of the Theosophical Society and friend of Arthur Conan Doyle. Fairclough has had his own experiences with the local fairies, and is eager to give his account to the men who made the Cottingley photographs famous. But as Fairclough and his family attempt to make further contact with the strange beings, they begin to see a darker side.
Cottingley is compelling partly because of Fairclough's naivety. He's reluctant to accept the true nature of the fairies and slow to realise that perhaps Gardner doesn't truly intend to introduce him to Conan Doyle. Being one step ahead of the narrator makes the epistolary format more satisfying than it might otherwise be. Ultimately, our view is confined to what Fairclough tells us: his account could of course be unreliable. There could always be a rational explanation. But it's hard to convince yourself of that when the creeping horror of Cottingley is so effectively unsettling.
If you have even a passing interest in horror fiction and/or film, you've probably heard the term 'folk horror' used to describe anything from The WicIf you have even a passing interest in horror fiction and/or film, you've probably heard the term 'folk horror' used to describe anything from The Wicker Man to Kill List, from Arthur Machen to Andrew Michael Hurley. But it can be difficult to define exactly what folk horror is. When a so-called genre is so often recognised by how it makes you feel, is it possible to put a label on what does and what doesn't qualify?
Scovell begins by establishing the concept of the 'folk horror chain', exemplified by three well-known examples of the genre: Witchfinder General, The Blood on Satan's Claw and The Wicker Man. The chain has four links: landscape; isolation; skewed belief systems/morality; and a 'happening' or 'summoning'. Many famous examples conform, in some warped way or other, to these requirements. But in the following chapters, the author moves away from this definition, seeking to demonstrate that folk horror is better described as 'a type of social map that tracks the unconscious ley lines between a huge range of media'.
After kicking off with a close reading of the 'unholy trilogy', Folk Horror goes on to examine the roles of topographies, 'rurality' (rural reality) and hauntology, with the final chapter devoted to modern examples of the genre. The hauntology chapter – full title 'Occultism, Hauntology and the Urban 'Wyrd'' – is the most interesting, suggesting folk horror itself is 'haunted by an era', and also the hardest-working. It acts as a vessel for Scovell's core thesis, which isn't about nailing down a definition at all, but providing an explanation for the genre's heyday in the 70s: it was 'the natural mutation of counter-culture idealism', a subversive reaction to a turbulent political climate, and, crucially, a pre-emptive 'tearing of the veil of normality surrounding 1970s popular culture'. No wonder, then, that folk horror has enjoyed a resurgence in the last couple of decades. As Scovell explains, it's a genre which 'treats the past as a paranoid, skewed trauma', but it also has the unique ability to reveal 'the horrifying under-layer of [an] era'.
Folk Horror was an education – it taught me a lot about the roots of a subject I've long been interested in, but had little actual knowledge of. I read it slowly, keeping track of what I'd learned, highlighting key points and references. It's thorough and analytical enough to work as an academic text, and clear enough to be accessible for the average reader. It also gave me a huge list of works to check out, TV and films especially.
So why isn't this a five-star review? I had a few reservations: – The absence of different perspectives. Since the genre rose to prominence in the 70s, many of the most significant examples of folk horror are resoundingly male/white/straight, and Scovell's approach doesn't do much to deconstruct that. I'd be really interested in an anthology tackling ideas around folk horror from a variety of critical perspectives e.g. feminist, queer, post-colonial. (Is there anything like that out there?) – I can't help but feel it would have been better as a book solely about film and TV. There are some, but few, mentions of literature; admittedly, it's hard to talk about TV ghost stories without acknowledging the influence of M.R. James, but when certain stories/novels are referenced, it seems strange to ignore others. When Scovell discusses the 21st-century revival in folk horror, it's odd to see no mention of the mainstream success of The Loney. Similarly, there's some discussion of music, but it's limited. Reading this so soon after Mark Fisher's Ghosts of My Life, it's very obvious how much of an influence Fisher's book has had on the author; the mentions of music (specifically the ouput of the record label Ghost Box) in the final chapter seem largely drawn from Fisher's book, and therefore out of place here. – Pedant alert: the book isn't brilliantly edited. My brain always snags on badly structured sentences; Folk Horror has plenty.
If you are interested in the topic, this is a must-read. It's more than a primer, providing the sort of depth and analysis you can't get from, say, a handful of articles. I'll definitely be hanging on to, and going back to, my well-thumbed copy.
(3.5) The Changeling is a sprawling horror novel that starts out mundane and ends up wildly fantastical. Looking through other reviews, it seems (unsu(3.5) The Changeling is a sprawling horror novel that starts out mundane and ends up wildly fantastical. Looking through other reviews, it seems (unsurprisingly, I guess) that LaValle's 'everything but the kitchen sink' approach is polarising. My feeling is that it doesn't work 100% of the time, but enough of it sticks to make the book worth reading.
Apollo Kagwa is a rare book dealer in New York. He meets Emma, a librarian, and they fall in love and have a baby, whom they name Brian after Apollo's absent father. Determined to be a better dad than Brian senior, Apollo throws himself into the demands of parenting. Emma, though, seems to be suffering severe postnatal depression. Apollo is unsympathetic, but Emma's troubles eventually come to a horrifying climax, and her actions tear Apollo's life apart. In the aftermath, he finds himself on a bizarre odyssey involving witchcraft, a $70k copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, a commune of women and children on an island in the East River, a bunch of internet trolls, a literal gigantic ancient troll, Norwegian folklore and – if you can believe it – more besides.
I wasn't sure about The Changeling to begin with. There's SO MUCH exposition. Too much. Some of it is interesting: I liked that we got to hear about Apollo's parents before meeting him; this establishes his mother Lillian as an important character in her own right. Some of it, however, is extremely overwrought. I would have understood that Apollo loved his son without pages upon pages of parenting drudge and, especially, the interminable chapter about Brian's birth.
But once the story gets going, it gets going. It shifts rapidly from mildly creepy – Emma receiving photographs of her son that disappear after she looks at them – to dark fairytale to full-on horror. I can truly say that, in the second half, I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next or where the story was going to go. There's so much happening that, inevitably, a lot of loose strands are never properly tied up; still, it's never less than ferociously imaginative, so even the bits that don't quite work/make sense are kind of enjoyable.
This short book is structured as a series of meditations on 'white things', from snow and white birds to the more abstract: silence; spirit; the conceThis short book is structured as a series of meditations on 'white things', from snow and white birds to the more abstract: silence; spirit; the concept of 'laughing whitely', a Korean phrase which describes forced, mirthless laughter. The narrator is living in an unfamiliar country, where she knows little of the language, and finds herself reflecting on the brief life and death of her sister – a baby her mother delivered herself at the age of 22; a child who lived for mere moments. The narrator wanders an unnamed city, trying to see the world through the eyes of a sister she never knew. At their best, the bite-sized chapters are striking and moving; at their weakest, they read like Instagram poetry. I found The White Book too ambient to have any lasting effect on me, though it contains many moments of quiet beauty.
You Will Grow Into Them is a surprising and unpredictable collection of short stories, each touching on something strange, supernatural, or inexplicabYou Will Grow Into Them is a surprising and unpredictable collection of short stories, each touching on something strange, supernatural, or inexplicable. They range from seemingly ordinary situations with a touch of darkness (‘Passion Play’, ‘Songs Like They Used to Play’) to the more explicitly fantastical (‘Her First Harvest’ is set in a world where people grow crops of mushrooms on their backs; ‘We All Need Somewhere to Hide’ features demon-slayers and skin-suits), while some mix the two (‘Dogsbody’ is grittily realistic, except for the fact that a chunk of the population are werewolves).
My unequivocal favourite was ‘Songs Like They Used to Play’. It's one of those stories packed with so much brilliant detail and so many original ideas, you wonder how on earth someone could have managed to come up with it. When I attempted to summarise the plot, I found myself writing several paragraphs – not because there’s too much going on, but because it manages the genius trick of weaving together numerous levels of complicated backstory as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. By the time I reached the weird/intriguing element, I had such a strong sense of Tom’s character that I would’ve followed him anywhere. And what a rich journey Devlin takes him on: from an anachronistic childhood spent in TV-set mock-ups of earlier decades, to an odd little York guesthouse with a secret nightclub tucked away at the end of a hidden corridor. Dislocation, regret, dread; a simmering, disquieting atmosphere. Easily among the best short stories I’ve read all year.
‘Passion Play’ opens the book, and it makes a fantastic first impression. The narrator is a Catholic schoolgirl whose classmate, Cathy McCullough, has disappeared. The two girls were assumed to be ‘best friends’ by adults; the truth is more complicated than that (their uneasy dynamic made me think of the narrator and Harriet in Harriet Said...). What is certain is that Cathy had become obsessed with a person – or symbol? – the girls noticed in some church paintings, referred to as ‘the cross-hatch man’. This small and indistinct figure exerts a chilling influence. A beautifully unnerving story with shades of M.R. James, especially ‘Canon Alberic’s Scrapbook’.
Though I didn’t like it as much as ‘Songs’, ‘Dogsbody’ similarly uses realism to ground its fantasy world. Those afflicted by what’s become known as ‘Lunar Proximity Syndrome’ are regarded with suspicion, and the opening scene finds the narrator, Gil, convinced he’s been rejected for a job because of his status. So being a (one-time) werewolf turns out to be a rather effective metaphor for losing one’s place on the career ladder and, consequently, experiencing downward social mobility. There’s violence beneath the surface as Gil struggles with being perceived differently.
In the historical tale ‘Two Brothers’, William is disappointed to find his brother Stephen behaving differently after he returns from boarding school. At first, it seems the new-found distance between them is simply an inevitable part of growing up. But then William meets a strange boy in the woods. I was slowly sucked into this story and, by the end, I wanted more. It reminded me of two enigmatic novels: The Job of the Wasp and The Children’s Home.
Some of the stories – including ‘Passion Play’ and ‘Two Brothers’, but particularly ‘Her First Harvest’ – are beautifully crafted yet seem to end before the most important moment comes. Similarly, I loved the setup of ‘The Bridge’, in which a couple discover a detailed model of their town in the attic of their new home, but found the resolution anticlimactic.
On the other hand, ‘Breadcrumbs’ has one of the clearest resolutions, but takes a step too far into fantasy; it also has the most offputting protagonist in the book, making it my least favourite overall. ‘We All Need Somewhere to Hide’ comes the closest to a conventional horror narrative, with its hard-as-nails heroine and pulpy plot.
‘The Last Meal He Ate Before She Killed Him’ is a dour drama in which a poisoner's punishment is to re-enact the night of her crime for groups of voyeurs. It‘s set within an interesting, oppressive world – perhaps an alternate history? – which I’d have liked to read more about.
The closing story, ‘The End of Hope Street’, feels like a sort of experimental exercise in cramming together and repeating as many banal details as possible. My eyes began to glaze over after a while. It didn’t work for me.
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