Arthur Machen's 150th

 Image by the inestimable Andrea Bonazzi

The fault I find with so many so-called horror-tales (particularly including my own) is that the object of horror too swiftly becomes too solid and concrete. It takes a master of the pen, such as Machen and yourself, to create a proper SUGGESTION of unseen and unknown horror. The illusive shadows lurking at the back of the brain are so much more monstrous and blood-chilling than the children of the actual mind. I’m not saying this like I’d like to say it. But the rustle of leaves when there is no wind, the sudden falling of a shadow across a door, the furtive trying of a window-catch, the sensation of unseen Eyes upon one, these give rise to speculations more monstrous and terrors more cosmically icy, than any chain-clanking apparition, or conventional ghost, that appears in full glory. When a writer specifically describes the object of his horror, gives it worldly dimensions and solid shape, he robs it of half its terrors. Somewhere, somehow, there must lurk in the dim gulfs of our racial memories, titanic and abysmal horrors beyond the ken of the material mind. For how else are we able to half conceive and fear entities we are not able to describe? Seek to draw their images for the conscious mind and they fade away. We cannot shape them in concrete words. Well, I seem to be repeating myself without saying yet what I’m trying to say. But I’ll say this: humanity fears floods and starvation, foes and serpents and wild beasts, but there are fears outside these concrete things. Whence come these fears from the OUTSIDE? Surely in its infancy mankind faced beings that live today only in dim ancestral memories, forgotten entirely by the material mind. Otherwise, why is it we half-visualize in that other, subconscious mind, perhaps, shapes beyond the power of man to describe?
 - Robert E. Howard, Letter to H.P. Lovecraft, ca. September 1930

A big anniversary for Arthur Machen, one of the finest practitioners of the uncanny weird tale, an influence on countless authors, and one of the great under appreciated progenitors of modern horror. For my part, I haven't written much on him: for whatever reason I never "got" The Novel of the Black Seal or The White People, so I guessed he wasn't for me.  But then I read "The Great God Pan," and man did I get it. He truly masters the technique of horrific suggestion in a way I've only seen equalled by Blackwood. I reread it recently, and it remains one of my top twenty horror stories. When I get back on 80 Years of Conan, I'll be discussing "The Great God Pan" and its possible influences on "The Frost-Giant's Daughter."

I don't have much else to say, so here's a great post on the man's work from Stewart Lee.

Bite-Sized Blog: Adventure Author News

Preview of "Kalina & the Baba Yaga," which goes on sale from Black Hearted Press on Hallowe'en 2012, with a launch party at 55 Parnie Street, Glasgow at 7pm.

Another round-up of links and musings before Hallowe'en, featuring Conan novelisations, Howard reviews, Howard-inspired poetry, Machen, Lovecraft, Lewis, Saunders and Smith.

The Review Show does a drive-by on Howard

After all that heavy emotional lifting Germaine does, it's time to send you into the weekend on a slightly lighter note. Here's comedian Stewart Lee with a selection of his favourite books, most of which appear to be out of print - should that tell us something?
 - Kirsty Wark's condescending lead-in to Stewart Lee's discussion of Robert E. Howard, Arthur Machen and Nina Hamnett on The Review Show, and yes, it should tell us that The Review Show needs to learn how to use %&$@ing Google

The more I think things are getting better, that people are finally starting to let go of the old myths, the more angry I get when something like this comes up.  Mike Chivers of Necronomania sent me this, and I simply have to discuss it.

Warning: I am seriously ticked off by this.

Dammit, They Stole My Idea: Rare Exports and Christmas Tales of Terror

In the depths of Lapland's Korvatunturi Mountains, 486 metres deep, lies the closest guarded secret of Christmas. The time has come to dig it up...

So goes the synopsis of the Finnish film Rare Exports, a tale of terror of that time-honoured Christmas tradition of turning Santa Claus into a figure of terror.  In theory, it isn't hard to imagine why: a great bearded man who can travel to every household on the planet in a single night, commander of hordes of elves who do his bidding, someone who somehow knows every human child's behavioural patterns... Yeah, it doesn't take much to turn that into a psychological chiller.



Alright, in fairness, the idea of doing a darker tale around the sinister early legends of Santa Claus is probably one many people have had before.  Darker fairy tales are not new: indeed, fairy tales were dark from the beginning.  The idea of twee, safe, happy fairy tales is a recent and short-lived phenomenon.  That's why I have to laugh at all those authors and directors who give the pretense of making "new and imaginative takes on cosy fairytales," especially when they pale in comparison to the Stygian horrors of the timeless folk traditions.  Even the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen.

Still, from what I can see from the trailer and elsewhere, Rare Exports seems to rely on the concept of Santa as a not-quite-human, possibly supernatural demon from the dark past of European folklore.  In other words, the Joulupukki taken to its logical conclusion.  I can't discern more than that, and since the film seems to be a Raimi-esque comedy-horror, it might not even try to explain it further than "Santa's a lot darker than you Coca-Cola drinkers thought."

Me, I was instantly reminded of the many "Little People" works inspired by Arthur Machen, particularly Howard's "The Little People."  I'd often wondered about applying such ideas not just to fairies and elves, but to other traditions like Santa Claus.  As I think you could expect, their history stretches all the way back to the Hyborian Age.  I'll get into more detail as a sort of "Christmas post," but let's just say Walking In The Air, With Burning Feet of Fire isn't the only tale of terror that can be spun from the white whiskers of Father Christmas...