In the vein of stories that are completely spoiled by their titles (jk) we have The Strange High House in the Mist.
(Its crazy to me the amount of effort I needed to find non-AI images)
Taking me completely by surprise The Terrible Old Man makes a comeback – I, a. did not expect this to be a recurring character and b. feel a little bad that he’s referred to by his moniker rather than being gifted a name this time, does everyone just know him as “the terrible old man” ?!?. The story opens with a bird’s eye view of Kingsport and how there is a strange house on top of a borderline unclimbable mountain/hill often bathed in mist and next to nothing known about (other than rumours/ramblings from the Terrible Old Man).
Eventually Thomas Olney comes to town and overcome with curiosity decides to investigate. Finding the cliffs unassailable he take a long walk around the other side of the mountain and clambers through untrod bramble to reach the house. Upon reaching it everything seems relatively normalish, but rather closed up. In an odd twist someone comes home and awkwardly catching Thomas next to a window, allows him to clamber in without much concern.
The owner is a young looking but old ‘eyed’ sailor-type who seems happy to hit Thomas with some stories about the house, but as they talk a shadowy figure attempts to enter. The sailor locks the door and instructs Thomas to keep hidden. We never find out the identity or nature of the figure but its sure unsettling.
After a little more convo, perhaps the strangest OTT event happens, basically a parade of sea-beasty/gods appears with a conch-carrying couch just for the two men. The narrative cuts as Thomas happily jumps aboard and goes on some sort of psychedelic sea adventure. The story resumes with Thomas returning down the cliff he shouldn’t have been able to climb and a narrator explaining how he never quite came normal after the adventure or rather came back TOO NORMAL for such a curious guy, that the rumour mills thought some part of him was left up in the house.
That said the way Lovecraft describes this part is a masterclass in unsettling normality Thomas is described: “he never fails to smile correctly with pride when the occasion calls for it.” the most unnerving fictional description of masking that I ever heard and a surprisingly subtle way of being unsettling without saying something unsettling.
There is some lengthy rambling about Kadath and elder Gods but mostly this a very odd tale about not biting off more than you can chew in your searching for excitement beyond the day-to-day. I love the relatively subtle motifs of how Thomas can’t climb up the cliff to the house, but once affected by his adventures somehow can…
I also love the essentially opposite ending than your typical Lovecraft. Rather than being driven mad and/or comatose, the MC of this story is driven NORMAL but something about this is almost worse than the fate of most Lovecraft characters. There is a strange sense of boring repression in the fate of Thomas Olney, again a common theme for Lovecraft is an ambiguity about the supernatural – as if Lovecraft can never quite decide if he actually loves or loathes the supernatural horrors, but perhaps spelt out more explicitly in this story – for example between the scary dark figure and the cool nautical characters visiting the house.
I get the feeling I’ll need to revisit the Strange High House (unlike the other Thomas lol see what I did there?) as there is a lot of depth within its relatively short pages.
For the longest time I’d assumed this story had something to do with a ‘theory’ or a paradigm, I never realized (spoiler alert I guess) that Pickman’s eponymous Model is in fact an artists model LOL
Pickman’s model captures a more humorous tone (as can been seen above), the MC narrates how their aversion to cellars isn’t nearly as weird as ‘Oliver’s Grandfather’s’ aversion to motorcars. The Eliot he speaks to has little to do with the story – just a target for the MC’s strange experience. He describes how Pickman was this beyond brilliant artist, but how sometimes these artists can be a bit over-the-top with their shock and gore.
Yet upon one visit to his friend the MC is shocked to see one particular display of many gruesome demons engaged in all manner of horror and torture – one singular model draws MC’s attention, initially assuming Pickman imagined the beast. However after Pickman sneaks away to perhaps drive away some ‘rats’ Narrator freaks out to look more closely at an attached paper to the demon and find its a photograph of the real thing!
This collection seems to be bundling the shocking endingtm moments 😅
I do enjoy Pickman’s model though and can see why its many folks’ favourite. The funny tone provides an interesting contrast to the horrific ending – and as I think we’ve discussed on this blog before horror and comedy make strange but effective bedfellows. I also like the allegorical nitpicking – Lovecraft doesn’t outright say it, but implies that the natural result of artists dabbling in the shocking is to eventually meet demons.
Although the story is not imho the most exciting or scary of Lovecraft’s, not because of any poverty of story telling but for once perhaps a shortcoming of the short story medium. Of any tale I feel like Pickman’s model would make an excellent longer piece, drawing out the unravelling of Pickman a little further.
Something that does stand out is that the creatures are well described in this story, there is one moment the narrator laments that they won’t be too precise but overall provide a surprising amount of description (perhaps this is why people like this story).
Overall a great story (once again once I don’t think I’d read before) onto the next!
Cool Air has quickly become one of my favourite new reads of Lovecraft. While it has many familiar tropes, its surprisingly toned down at times, but to great effect. Just as a mild example the narrator has not been turned irreversibly crazy by their experience, they are just now put off and uncomfortable around cool breezes, although I’m getting ahead of myself.
Cool Air begins with the narrator explaining that they are put off by chilly temperatures, and promising to tell the story why. Back in the 20s they travelled to New York for journal work, but (just like the current 20s) struggled to find accomodation they could afford. After floating around a few dodgy lodgers the narrator finds a cheap but unnasty and even quaint multi-story building. For a time everything is normal (a very un-Lovecraftian plot moment) however one day MC finds ammonia dripping from the ceiling. The landlady apologies and explains (in the most painfully phonetically written Hispanic accent) that living above MC is an eccentric doctor who on occasion helps tenants but mostly keeps to himself and experiments.
The landlady speaks to the Doc and life resumes, however down the track the MC suffers what they describe as a heart attack and/or seizure. Remembering that the Doctor has helped others in the past, MC drags themselves upstairs and knocks at the doctor’s door.
Doc helps out, and whilst doing so tells MC strange tales of the Doctor considering Death to be his biggest adversary and how he studies all manner of ‘organ preservation’ except he doesn’t mean for transplant or anything he means whilst still in the body. They form a big of a friendship and as Doc treats MC’s heart over time he explains more of his work. Turns out Doc himself has some sort of illness, hence the ammonia stuff where he has basically turned his apartment into a living fridge.
Time passes and Doc tells MC that his disease is progressing and he needs to turn up (down) the intensity of his treatment, Doc starts keeping his apartment borderline freezing and MC starts getting a little creeped out by Doc’s ‘countenance’
It all comes to a head when one fateful day the fridge machinery breaks down. Doc freaks out and locks himself in the bathroom and (possibly) takes his own eyes out. MC desperately tries to source parts and a mechanic to fix the machinery, while hiring a local to deliver endless amounts of ice to the apartment.
MC returns to the apartment only to find a scene, the local caught a glimpse of the Doc and fled to the police – fearing what he will see MC enters the apartment to see a goop trail from the bathroom to the writing desk, and then ending on the couch. He refuses to describe what he sees on the couch, but written on the desk is a desperate note – only to ever be read by the narrator as he burns it later – the Doc explains that he was the main treatment target of his preservation techniques and experiments, that he had in fact been dead for 18 years!!!
My takes
I have to address the slightly cheesy 18 years… 18 years… I had to laugh because it seems a little tacky and overblown within fiction – and like its definitely a sign of the times that the narrator views the whole thing in a state of horror and has to burn all the evidence, (I feel like in 2026 such an experience would immediately be ‘posted’). But what really intrigues me about this story is that sense of plausibility to it all. Unlike many Lovecraft tales its not overtly supernatural, in fact its almost science fiction in trope rather than horror.
And that actually captures much of what I love about this piece, its considerably slower build and slightly more toned down than typical Lovecraft. Compared to say The Music of Erich Zann where almost every scene feels somewhat ‘Tim Burtonish’ Cool Air is very grounded, also unlike other tales there is a healthy cast of minor characters and plenty of description of the environment, it makes everything feel more real.
Themes
Much like my earlier comments the themes of Cool Air are much more grounded than your typical Lovecraft outing, in some respects this is a slightly exaggerated tale of holding onto to someone who is nearing death (although that’s an interesting conundrum that I don’t believe medical care in the 1920s had reached the level where people were debating the appropriateness of prolonging elderly life). Yes a big element is the narrators and surrounding bystanders horror at the nature of the Doctor, but again for the most part the overall issue is quite tame, the Doc does get cranky (and well may rip his own eyes out) but he hardly rampages or impinges on anyone’s rights. In fact the story here is really quite comradely and kind, the Doc is known for helping others, and the bond between Narrator and Doc is quite wholesome overall.
I guess in message Lovecraft is kinda saying not to dabble in dark powers, but also the message is kinda against death. The narrators desperate search for mechanics to repair the Doc’s fridge and the Doc’s speeches about preservation are presented as positive good deeds – not like other tales where characters dabble against their common sense.
Ultimately I really love this story and its always good to pick up a new Lovecraft (to me I mean).
I had a sense of deja ‘not’ reading The Descendent – I’ve definitely read the middle part where the narrator finds the eponymous Necronomicon, but I don’t recall the framing first and last parts about the ‘descendent.’ I’m not sure if this is due to my faulty memory or perhaps this story fragment has been published in part elsewhere…
Sorry backing up, The Descendent is introduced by the narrator who is a curious kind soul trying to help a strange old man who is frightened of church bells. After getting a little closer, but still baffled by the old man, the narrator tracks down the Necronomicon and is half sold, half cursed with the book and shows the old man – who predictably responds poorly.
Eventually old man explains he’s a ‘descendent’ of many generations, stretching back to a Roman commander who was fired for dabbling in the strange and occult. As a young man Northram as is he now revealed, tried to capture dreams of his forebears, and spend his life studying the occult, finding ‘real life’ lame.
We hear nothing more of the modern plane, or what becomes of the Necronomicon. This is not a flaw in Lovecraft’s writing work, as this was a fragment that someone published posthumously. I always enjoy a reference to the Necro, but I suspect this work perhaps was an early draft that went on to inspire other works as there are many familiar, but under-cooked tropes in this short piece.
It’s actually been a minute since I’ve got back into my Lovecraft so looking forward to the next piece!
The original “Death of the Author” was a seminal essay by Roland Barthes that has divided English Classes (blue curtains meme) and internet critics in the decades since. For those unfamiliar, Barthes’ essay makes the claim that literary critique/analysis should be free of the Authortm, whether referring to their intentions, own identity, or whatever biases they may have had writing their work. Put simply: a piece of work should be interpreted through its own merit, entirely separate from that of its creator.
Its a topic I dearly love to talk about, however, for once I’m not here to litigate that discussion (much) – instead I’m using the title in a (hopefully clever) way to launch into a discussion about a different sort of author death.
something something irony
Artificial Intelligence.
To say that A.I. has been disrupting the writing and indeed whole art scene is the sort of understatement that you don’t need a citation for. In the past few years I’ve heard of authors using AI to mass produce novels, authors getting cancelled and accused of using AI, and (ironically can’t find the source for this one) even AI detection articles being quickly absorbed/scalped by AIs to cover their own tracks.
While A.I. might not have killed the author, its most definitely has raised a few ? about the significance of writers in the modern era.
Sure we have ghost writers, Clippy and spellcheck and not to mention skillful/demanding editors; published works have never quite been as pure of a solo effort as we like to think, but I would say A.I. has created a situation further than we’ve had, of an immeasurable chasm between reader and writer.
For sure, we never truly known the inside of an authors head, not just their intention but the process and effort that went behind a particular piece of prose – was it something scribbled while half asleep, lines agonized over for a period of years, or a bitter struggle with their editor? Heck even the author themselves might not fully remember their own input after x amount of rewrites and years since the book was created, maybe they wrote drunk, edited sober, and promoted drunk again… But what you can say with some confidence, is that behind a piece of work, someone(s) did struggle behind these words. And of any artform I feel like writing is the most ‘plugged into’ someone else’s brain, as in you spend a long while connected to their words and nothing else.
A.I. writing makes a most horrific mockery of this idea of connection. Even if the paragraph above of knowing something of the writer is delulu or cope you’re at least looking in the right direction. If you read something by A.I. what’s behind the writing is completely unknowable, even to the model itself (cosmic horror anyone) and not in a cool, mysterious way, in a crunchy targeted advertising algo-rhythm way. Maybe the author died in the 1960s with Barthes’ essay, but when you read something written by A.I. the author was never alive to begin with. There is no ‘process’ or rather there is a process, a mechanical predictive model that slaps word after word onto page based entirely on probabilities. In some respects this is the argument between Entertainment versus Art writ gargantuan. I admit that previously I’ve been somewhat blaise about that one because the two concepts can live together pretty harmoniously IMHO, until you introduce AI anyway. Bringing me to my first specific argument
Does it matter if something I enjoy is A.I.?
There’s quite a few videos and articles comparing and contrasting A.I. to real writing and full transparency, when they run a test: I couldn’t tell the difference (much to my annoyance). I would love to know Barthes’ perspective on this topic because it seems based on his essay that he would actually be fine with it – that we should base our judgement on the qualities of the product not its manufacture.
But I have multiple problems with this – let’s assume for the sake of argument that A.I. are producing entertaining, readable books that are indistinguishable from real material.
First of all let me use a potentially trite and even snobbish analogy – package baking.
Let me be clear – I have zero problem with anyone whipping up a cake from a box in general. But what I would have a problem with in such a person claiming to be a baker. There is nothing wrong with a simple consumable process for a wee treat, I just think that most would agree that baking from a packet doesn’t contribute to the process of baking overall.
So before accusations of snobbery abound, I’m not actually saying that self-mixed baking is even necessarily better than right-out-the-box, I’m pretty sure I could prove that idea wrong myself. Let’s ditch the analogy for a minute and admit that there are some terrible writers out there (or more appropriately some terrible works that exist from some writers who are the WIP themselves). What I am saying is that there is a nebulous thing in existence that is ‘writing’ that is ‘literature.’ Whether you are writing pulp, fanfiction, or 1000 page novels you are contributing to this. As writers and readers we all draw on our experience with the written word and contribute to it further.
Now I suppose A.I. does the same thing sort-of in the same way a LLM Girlfriend really loves you for you. Artificial Intelligence churns out words based on what has come before and your lousy prompts, it doesn’t learn through the process – or to be specific the A.I. learns how to better be obsequious to its prompter. A.I. doesn’t have any spontaneous inspiration in the middle of a sentence or come back to a paragraph after a long walk in a forest, it always just picks the next most probable word and goes for it. Even if something is produced that resonates with readers (and it might let’s be objective) the process is such that that will only matter for churning out the next slop.
Imagine we return to our analogy and you’re a judge the Great British Bake-off. Somehow one of the contestants has snuck a box-cake into the show and even more amazingly that cake is judged the winner! Congrats A.I. can produce a great novel! But where to from there? That winner moves on and realizes not only are they reliant on that cake-mix they can’t do anything new or exciting because they don’t know how to make cakes and they have no process to generate new or interesting recipes. No-one else can come and learn from them or develop their craft further, except perhaps by reading the box… They can only produce more store-bought cakes.
Back to books (got whiplash yet?) A.I. technically can produce novel and new and weird things (I presume) but it creates a paradox. Yes when human beings write they are drawing on what’s come before and when stories enter our squishy brains we draw on our real experiences, even if they are imagined. A.I. is always drawing on what’s come before in a literal and mechanical sense.
And where we go from there is the biggest divergence. Despite decades of trying to create them there is no definitive formula for a story, when we write we not only draw from the past, we also create and shape the future. A.I. shapes the future by adding to the material they already scalp from, creating a hallucinatory feedback loop that will either collapse in on itself and/or produce such endlessly flat nonsense the process will be pointless.
Lets just have a quick look at something Chat GPT produced for me 😅 Prompt: a weird piece of flash fiction
Every morning, the town woke up two minutes earlier than the day before.
No one noticed at first. The clocks adjusted themselves politely, the sun arrived with a quiet sense of obligation, and the birds sang like they always had—just slightly ahead of schedule.
By Thursday, Margaret found herself pouring coffee before she’d even opened her eyes. By Sunday, the baker was already closing shop before customers remembered to get hungry.
Children complained of dreams being cut off mid-sentence. Conversations began before greetings. One man swore he’d finished an entire argument with his wife before she had even started it.
The mayor called a meeting, which concluded before it began.
Panic spread, but too quickly to be felt.
On the twelfth day, the town woke up yesterday.
On the thirteenth, it didn’t wake up at all.
Somewhere, two minutes later, everything continued as usual—without them.
I have to say this piece is an absolute abomination generally, but its interesting to me that I don’t think A.I. can interpret ‘weird’ properly. It is a little creepy to me that the premise does work as a great story prompt God only knows (somewhat literally, A.I. has no introspection/there isn’t anything to introspect) where the prompt came from. Its funny to see how the events don’t make sense, like apparently only some things are getting earlier – and then the punchline is what? The town has just disappeared, I also like how there is one named character but everyone else is generic…
Back to the point – even if ChatGPT produced an enjoyable thought provoking piece of work, it really now only exists as a piece of digital landfill, clogging up the next A.I.’s prompt. For sure a real human writer may get inspired by a work and go on to create their own. In a way, much like micro-plastics line our blood-brain barrier A.I. may exist in our body of work our ‘Literature’ much in the way box-cake could inspire a real cook (just not through its process or inspiration just purely as the product).
In conclusion of this section – my argument is that while one ‘good’ A.I. story might not matter in the grand scheme of things, the overall process is an abomination one that puts our own brains at risk.
The Reserection of the author:
My next points are a little harder to articulate (which is part why writing for yourself is so important), but while Barthes may have believed that writings should stand on their own regardless of the authors intention (a stance I actually agree with) that doesn’t mean that there isn’t importance in the writer’s intentions and motivations (implicit or explicit) in putting together a book.
When an A.I. ‘writes’ there is no intention, or rather the intentions are purely mechanical layers of prompting. Not only does A.I. have no wants and needs in writing the story its biases and background are statistical. In some respects the themes of A.I. writing is truly emergent, at least emergent in the sense that it may accidentally put together something with meaning. What I’m trying to say is that while an author’s intentions can and sometimes should be separated when interpreting their work its actually impossible conceptually to literally do that in the books creation.
To use a concrete example Tolkien did not intend for Lord of the Rings to be an allegory for anything:
“I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history – true or feigned– with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse applicability with allegory, but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.”
Really he agrees with Barthes, but what I’m saying is while perhaps there shouldn’t be domination of the author in the readers experience there most absolutely IS domination of the author in the author’s experienceof creating the book. The inspiration to create comes from many places, and while we might not be able to directly see or touch it, and might even avoid thinking about it when analyzing books, it most certainly is there – just as much as an author’s knowledge of grammar and spelling. Its part of the sinew and connective tissue of a story.
Ironically the prompts to A.I. sort of supercharge this idea of author ‘domination’ with A.I. the author isn’t even held back by the constraints of having to produce language themselves, they can demand theme of the LLM. Somehow the intention of the “author” is front and centre of A.I. stories while at the same time being essentially absent.
This contradiction begs the question: why bother? To be sure, I don’t always read to deeply plum the depths of the author’s mind or intention, it depends on the piece. And sometimes I do predominantly wish to be entertained in some way shape or form of writing, but what I can tell you is I absolutely never ever pick up a piece of work to simply be exposed to an algorithm’s interpretation of an “author” that doesn’t write.
Some Humble Pie on Copyright and Theft
Years ago (11 to be exact) I wrote a slightly ranty piece about idea theft:
Back in those days it was beyond common for new writers to be paranoid about posting anything online for fear of other people taking their hard earned ideas and running straight into success with them. To be fair its a horrible thought, and its kinda difficult to be realistic about it since we do tend to treat our own ideas like precious babies. Basically however the point is that even if people tralled the net for ‘ideas’ they still have to produce good works from them which is most definitely ‘the hard part.’
Nowadays I wouldn’t agree with any of my points. A.I. do steal your ideas, either directly or as part of their scalping process. And also thanks to A.I. humans can steal your ideas and shove them into prompts. So in 2026 I would be cautious talking about ideas and sharing work publicly online.
The End?
The saga of A.I. is really still in full swing, I haven’t really touched on my thoughts on power and water usage and the inherent corruption of its usage (that’s not a conspiracy the billionaires are quite open about it) – but in short even if A.I. produced great books I would avoid them on those grounds.
Strangely in writing this I suspect an emerging field of study will be how A.I. writing affects and impacts people and whether there are notable differences in the produce and the impact on people – that actually does fascinate me slightly.
But I don’t care.
I can’t remember if I’ve written about this before but one of the magical things about reading is the invisible threads that pull us all together. Especially readers, as all having this intensely lonely experience, somehow still sharing something in common with countless other people. There is something distinctly unmagical and highly Matrix-like of the thread to the ‘writer’ being an LLM chain and some chud prompter with the audacity to produce their work as ‘writing.’
When I first started penning this essay I assumed I’d be preaching to the choir (and I probably am) but I was shocked with a small amount of research how much “A.I. Writing” is (potentially) going on, like any bubble it may actually be that there is any amount of content talking about the subject, and then little actual material (of merit) being produced.
Sadly I think even when the A.I. bubble does eventually burst, writing will still be a function that lingers on. Too many CEOs who can’t be bothered writing emails and I feel like all the “can I still be a writer if I don’t read” types will be all about it. Hopefully there are some strong legal or consumer backlashes against publishing fiction though.
So for those in the same choir as me I don’t think this essay was needed as we’re intuitively against A.I. slop, but I hope I’ve managed to articulate some of the deeper importance of a human brain and soul being behind a book. There is probably another post somewhere about discussing how much is too much A.I. input and help which I’ve save for later!!
This is probably the most ranty but also thoughtful I’ve been for a while on the topic – would love to hear others thoughts on the topic and comments:
Almost more of a poem, Azathoth is I think the shortest Lovecraft piece I’ve read. Reminding me a bit of Memory not just in length but in theme, Azathoth seems to describe a time where “wonder went out of the minds of men;” and a solo unnamed figure (are they supposed to be Azathoth perhaps??) lives a strange meagre life in some form of city apartment that overlooks the windows of other apartments.
But despite this bleakness our figure experiences: “Noiseless infinity eddied around the dreamer and wafted him away without even touching the body that leaned stiffly from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men’s calendars the tides of far spheres bare him gently to join the dreams for which he longed; the dreams that men have lost.”
There is some suggestion they pass away in this state, which would be consistent with some other ‘dreaming’ stories: “And in the course of many cycles they tenderly left him sleeping on a green sunrise shore; a green shore fragrant with lotus-blossoms and starred by red camalotes.” Buts its highly vague.
Despite the shortness of the story, there is a reasonable amount to unpack here – firstly we have a oft visited theme of Lovecraft of the sort of spiritual decline of humankind. The implication that science and academics have taken the magic out of the world, and people have ceased to dream. Interestingly is a brief line in Azathoth about our figure taking up an apartment that looks out on the windows of other apartments. An intriguing juxtaposition of an outlook that speaks to the level of ‘overcivlization’ occurring but also the use of the idea of windows as sorts of gateways implying that our figure is set up to absorb dreams even in this bleak world.
Its interesting to me that Lovecraft laments modernization, yet often creates stories that praise and portray positively signs of civilization. Its a classic bias especially towards the likes of the Roman Empire seeing its advancement as somehow better or more noble than the modern condition (despite the fact said advancement would have been much the same [well I assume to some extent] as all people at all times seem to lament change like that).
Doing a bit of lore gathering it turns out this piece is in fact unfinished – which explains in part why its named after one of Lovecraft’s elder gods but doesn’t actually contain ‘Azathoth’ its kinda werid because I don’t mind this short piece as is – I don’t want more of it or everything explained!!
I quite like my Chuck Wendig so was very happy to pick up an ARC copy of The Calamities on Netgalley.
For the most part this book was right up my alley – sinister supernatural horror mixed with an Illuminati-like mob family and a none-too innocent protagonist trying to make sense of it all. And the story certainly starts with a bang, while initially Wendig doesn’t shove too much lore and magic in the reader’s face – when he does throw something your way its turned up to 11/10.
Despite the at times grotesque and OTT magic, the story is balanced by the MCs being solidly placed as the underdogs in the story. Mourning in particular is a compelling protagonist being somewhat torn between an heir apparent to all this mayhem and having a small shred of conscience. While I had a couple of quibbles with the book its got some hella strong scenes and sure ends with a bang and a great setup for the sequel.
What are my quibbles?
Well first the balance of the characters. At the beginning I was enjoying Mourning’s story and it felt kinda abrupt and like his tale was put on pause to introduce Key, but I came around to liking her too. Dragging another P.O.V. into the mix didn’t land quite as well and finally the completely random appearance of Silas just felt kinda tacked on and I didn’t have much buy-in to the group as a rag-tag foursome. It was annoying to get interested in Mourning and then have him sidelined for a lot of the middle.
And speaking of the Middle the pacing of this book was a little sluggish – for a gruesome bloody adventure with over-the-top villains and hellish stakes, it felt like the book dallied around a lot between epic confrontations. It felt the book needed a harsh edit and could have been 3/4 and making it far more action orientated and tight.
Quibbles aside – great book, keen for the next one!!
For a bit of backstory (I was going to assume that everyone knows the plot of Shawshank Redemption but that might be showing my age a bit), Shawshank Redemption is a relatively unread novella by Stephen King, adapted into a mega seen movie directed by Frank Darapont. I’m not going to summarize the whole story, but basically the vast majority of the plot is set around a group of men imprisoned in Shawshank Prison, and explores ideas about friendship, power, truth, and life ‘Get busy living or get busy dying’ is the main philosophical point.
There are a great deal of emotional moments in the film, one in particular (referenced above) is a sequence where Brooks, a ‘lifer’, is finally due for parole after 50 years. As an elderly man who has spent most of his life in prison, Brooks freaks out and holds another fella hostage and threatens them with a knife, in the vain hope he will be denied his freedom. It doesn’t come to be, and Brooks is released into a world that has completely moved on. In a sad and touching sequence we see Brooks struggle to adapt to modern (1950s) life but fail, sending one last letter to his friends telling them that he “isn’t going to stay” before taking his own life.
I don’t think there is much debate that its a tragic and sad scene – however something floored me about the comments section. While perhaps not a majority, many many people discussed Brooks’ original offending (only revealed in the book, not the film AFAIK) and basically stated that they no longer sympathized or cared about his demise.
Now while I resisted wading into the comments further (everybody clap for me) the conversations did prompt my own disorganized rant, across many elements, so bear with me below:
Fiction and Empathy
One of the beautiful things about fiction is creating a pathway into other people’s lives. Multiple studies have shown that reading frequently aids empathy and understanding of others – however its not just as simple as simply being put in the shoes of fictional people, after all (and more on this later) fictional people aren’t actually real. I think its the process of being placed in other perspectives that is essentially practice for real empathy.
Now I have to do a quick sidebar and admit that its a little spurious of me to be talking about reading so much when the main focus on this thread is a FILM and I actually haven’t read the OG novella – please forgive.
I’m sure it needs a citation but we know that reading rates are down, especially in the good ol’ U.S of A. and I think that is part of what was bubbling away is this lack of Empathy, although not just as a skill but also a choice…
Black/White Thinking
A really interesting sign of mental unwellness is the mildly ironic concept of Black/White thinking. I say its ironic because its better described as categorical and absolutist thinking… For example IF Brooks = murderer THEN = no empathy. Because here’s the thing. I don’t think a single person sympathizing and being upset with Brooks’ final moments didn’t care about his past offending or didn’t factor that into the situation. While many spoke about the horrifying impacts of prison life on the man, its not like anyone was saying he never should have been there etc etc.
I’m not saying that people who I disagree with are mentally unwell, what I’m saying is there is a larger modern trend that seems to go hand-in-hand with anti-intellectualism and other bad faith trends of highly categorical thinking. Certain tranches of the population seem to struggle with the complexity of the human condition – people are either good or bad (or somewhere along that sliding scale rather than good AND bad). To be fair it is a struggle to accept and process people’s complexities, our brains are somewhat wired to simplify and justify our perspectives. But I think its reasonable to expect a high level of this sort of thinking for books and film, as fiction is ultimately right there for us to consider with low-consequences, different perspectives and complex morality, in some respects that’s kinda the point!! Because…
Fiction isn’t real
This is a weird one, and I’m not sure I’m fully on the right side of history with this it!
People are strangely obsessed with Canon. Despite the fact that all fiction and stories are chopped up segments or fragments of information delivered into our brains to create the experience of a story. Perhaps there is some debate about non-fiction but in the case of fiction there is no ‘reality’ or ‘true-story’ the fragments ARE the story. In the film of Shawshank redemption I don’t believe Brook’s original crime was ever revealed, although you vaguely knew he’d done something bad because he’s a lifer in high security prison. It’s only in the book that its shown that he murdered his own family…
You might accuse me of burying the lede here but there is something very weird about people making judgements about a film sequence based on information contained with the book ‘source material.’ Brooks isn’t real. Neither book nor movie are real. Changing your judgement of a situation (to be less empathetic specifically) from a film based on book intel is very very weird. I’m not saying there is no connection or not interesting analysis and considerations to be made, debating scenes across mediums and adaptions but to have a sort of emotional/judgmental reaction is tbh somewhat unhinged.
“I can’t look at Brooks the same” was one comment.
Like wtf, fiction is all made up. We have presented with fragments of unreal lives that provoke emotions in us. The movie tells a particularly tragic tale about Brooks, the book perhaps a different one, they aren’t the same. This is like getting pissed of at movie Professor X for the behaviour of comic book Xavier!
Now don’t get me wrong – I’m not judging people for being affected by this character’s history, and nor am I judging them for struggling with the complexities of the situation presented to them. What I am judging them for is in fact the lack of struggle. Contending with the strange shades of grey that self-inflicted death of a previous inmate and once murderer is understandable and I would argue necessary.
Sure there is no ‘correct’ way to interpret a book, but I like to say that some ways are more correct than others. I’d like to emphasize other elements of moral blurriness within the story: The prison warden is a corrupt snake who uses the prison labour for person financial gain through cheap labour and bribes, the head guard is the violent sociopath who has murdered and maimed multiple inmates.
Who are of course not innocent either, even Andy Dufrene heavily implied to be innocent of the murders he is imprisoned for is also ambiguous in guilt. He doesn’t defend himself in court and never really speaks about the situation…
The point is however the whole film and story is steeped in these grey areas and chooses to explore its themes through the setting of a 1950s max security prison – judging a tragic character for their crimes is a bit like watching The Office and not finding it funny because the setting is boring.
Refusing to engage with the emotional quality of a scene because of a snap judgement (of a character that doesn’t actually exist) is a concerning sign. For the millionth time people can debate and interpret complex moral situations how they like but the key work is engage. Fiction is this amazing miracle of an opportunity for us to experience a connection to situations, people, times ands settings that we will never actually experience ourselves and throwing roadblocks up against this is some dumb shit.
What the Moon Brings begins with probably my most favourite opener in literature:
“I hate the Moon – I am Afraid of it-”
But its actually the strange depth of the rest of the line that I like: “for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous.“
Obviously in context things can look scary at night time – but the deeper subtext, the idea that sometime outside of your control can drastically change your perspective on something once loved (mental illness / social media anyone).
Anywho the story itself is quite short, but surprisingly dense in material. The MC is out for a summer stroll, but starts to freak out as the moon seems to reveal hidden things in the ocean. This is a Lovecraftian freakout, where they see faces they in fact want to interact with them. They are both drawn to and repulsed but what the Moon reveals.
The faces seem to fade and disappear and as the MC tries in vain to see them again they instead see disgusting sea-worms, and eventually some sort of crowned, hooved, icon appears from the receding water. MC is so freaked out by this appearance they throw themselves into the water “gladly and unhesitatingly” presumably to be feasted on by the sea-worms.
There is a surprisingly amount of pathology woven into this short piece. I already alluded to my first note. There is something at once insightful and mundane about Lovecraft’s comments on the moon. Like I said it seems to represent the way that our perceptions can change things, even if the things themselves haven’t changed. I did suggest this is like mental illness – somewhat alluded by the comments about familiar loved things being unfamiliar and hideous (not longer enjoying favoured activity is a classic depression sign.)
It may not just be that though – light is often considered a symbol of revealing truth, knowing too much about things you like can make them seem different and horrible.
And yet typically the mor is revealed the more you can’t stop ‘looking.’
Which is my feel for the strange interest the MC has in the faces under the water. Before the Icon appears all sorts of strange citylike structures are revealed and this seems to really disturb the MC even before the icon shows itself. Its not that anything in particularly is disturbing in nature or implication, its just ‘too much’
What really fascinates me about this story is that ending – despite everything happening above, the MC gladly throws themselves into the (shallow) water to be feasted on by sea-worms with a gentle implication that’s all our fates. I’ve seen this and felt this (not the sea worms part) but where anxiety becomes so overwhelming you end up throwing yourself straight at the source to either just get it over with and/or find oblivion.
So just read Hypnos – and its uh…. surprisingly horny?
No, not that one
Don’t get me wrong – I know there can be a lot of interesting interpretations of Cosmic Horror, but let me share some of the quotes from this story and you can make your own mind up.
BTW the context is that MC opens the story lamenting that death is preferable to dreams, because death you don’t have to come back – a pretty darn dark opening even for Lovecraft. The reasons for MC’s lamentation is that they once encountered a fellow dreamer and well – as promised I’ll let the quotes speak for themselves:
“actually beautiful; and touches of grey in the thick, waving hair and small full beard which had once been of the deepest raven black. His brow was white as the marble of Pentelicus, and of a height and breadth almost godlike.“
Wait as I cut and paste this it sounds like Lovecraft is saying this man has a beyond massive forehead, but maybe that’s what he’s into??
“I said to myself, with all the ardour of a sculptor, that this man was a faun’s statue out of antique Hellas“
“I told him he must come home with me and be my teacher and leader in unfathomed mysteries, and he assented without speaking a word. Afterward I found that his voice was music—the music of deep viols and of crystalline spheres. We talked often in the night, and in the day, when I chiselled busts of him and carved miniature heads in ivory to immortalise his different expressions.“
As to what they get up to…
“Of our studies it is impossible to speak, since they held so slight a connexion with anything of the world as living men conceive it. They were of that vaster and more appalling universe of dim entity and consciousness which lies deeper than matter, time, and space,“
“those rare dreams beyond dreams which come never to common men, and but once or twice in the lifetime of imaginative men“
“Then we both tried together, and with exotic drugs courted terrible and forbidden dreams in the tower studio chamber of the old manor-house in hoary Kent.“
“What I learned and saw in those hours of impious exploration can never be told—for want of symbols or suggestions in any language. I say this because from first to last our discoveries partook only of the nature of sensations; sensations correlated with no impression which the nervous system of normal humanity is capable of receiving.“
“the general character of our experiences by calling them plungings“
Cough, maybe I’m telling on myself, anyway the pair continue to experiment with ‘dreams’ things take a bit of a turn when MC’s partner goes further into the depths and MC cannot follow, something happens and partner awakes screaming. They attempt to reverse their situation, and taking as little sleep as possible. When they do sleep they seem to age quickly, especially partner.
This vigil against sleep continues until partner succumbs to an unwaking long sleep and a mysterious anti-light shines down from the stars – MC briefly looks into the light along with partner whose eyes open and silently screams. Try as he might MC can never recall what he saw in that vision but then a twist, when the police and social workers come to see what the screaming was about:
“They have said, I know not for what reason, that I never had a friend, but that art, philosophy, and insanity had filled all my tragic life.”
And of the one final stone bust which is all that remains of MC’s partner: “They say that that haunting memory-face is modelled from my own, as it was at twenty-five,“
Hmmm, that does rather put an odd spin on my romantic theories doesn’t it!!
In all seriousness Hypnos does feel a strange step further than many of Lovecraft’s works. We are no strangers to risky research gone awry but Hypnos throws a lot more ambiguity into the mix as well. I recommend This Post which covers a lot more ground on the complications of homo-eroticism in literature – what I’m also interested in is the Fight-Clubesque implication that there never was a friend in the first place.
It seems like most interpretations are that MC’s friend was real enough but was taken supernaturally and its just the wider community who are none-the-wiser but imho that fails to take into account why the final statue is deemed to look like MC when he was younger.
Lovecraft’s works are loved for being vague, but I think Hypnos is the best I’ve read so far at genuine literary ambiguity – it doesn’t really matter canonically whether the friend was real, what matters is the implication(s) of that fact in how you interpret the story. For example if you take the tale to be a cautionary on experimentation and living outside of societal expectations then considering the friend ‘real’ gives a message of risk and loss, that your partner may go too far, and wider society will even deny their existence after they pass.
Whereas if we take the friend to be some sort of hallucinated young self of the narrator we get a more philosophical message, rather than ‘don’t experiment with strangers’ it almost seems to be a lesson about growing up, that indulging your young self is destructive. It’s weird because as I’ve mentioned numerous times one of Lovecraft’s major themes is this ‘lost youth’ idea, that there is no paradise like being young but ultimately trying to recapture it is not just foolishly fruitless, but actively dangerous. Hypnos is consistent with that theme but a much starker and stranger communication, youth is represented by this beautiful friend who seems to push further in dreamlike experimentation but also decays faster – and ultimately in a strangely insightful twist the narrator denies his own youth, which is somewhat what happens to us all psychologically in the sense we oft lament our lost youth but once that grieving is over almost forget we ever were in fact young.
Lonely Power Poles 