Count Luna by Alexander Lernet-Holenia

 

Count Luna 

by Alexander Lernet-Holenia

The Gothic Short Stories of Mary Shelley

The Gothic Short Stories of Mary Shelley

A review of two volumes published by Hesperus Press

American Midnight: Tales of the Dark

American Midnight: Tales of the Dark

Stories selected and introduced by Laird Hunt

A book review 

Pandemic read: "The Scarlet Plague" by Jack London

Pandemic Read: 

"The Scarlet Plague" 

by Jack London

Prince of Persia? - William Beckford's "Vathek"

"The History of Caliph Vathek" 

by William Beckford

Spanish Modernist classic : Miguel de Unamuno's "Niebla" (Fog) translated by Elena Barcia

"Niebla" by Miguel de Unamuno

Translated by Elena Barcia

Sins of the Father: "The Marquise of O—" by Heinrich von Kleist

"The Marquise of O—" by Heinrich von Kleist

A review of the Pushkin Classics edition

(translated from the German and introduced by Nicholas Jacobs)

Bohemian rhapsodies: "The Last Bell" by Johannes Urzidil

"The Last Bell"  

Short stories by Johannes Urzidil 

(translated by David Burnett)

Unlikely cult classic: "Madonna in a Fur Coat" by Sabahattin Ali

"Madonna in a Fur Coat" by Sabahattin Ali

(translated by Maureen Freely and Alexander Dawe)

Review of an unlikely cult classic

Mirth in Venice: Antal Szerb's "Oliver VII"

"Oliver VII" by Antal Szerb

A book review

Having encountered Antal Szerb through his best-known work Journey by Moonlight and its companion piece, the non-fiction travelogue The Third Tower: Journeys in Italy, I was initially surprised at the high spirits of this novel, especially since it was written whilst World War II was raging, changing Europe's landscape forever. True, there were humorous passages, as well as an underlying gentle irony, in "Journey by Moonlight", but Oliver VII is an all-out comic novel, with a convoluted plot worthy of opera buffa.

The eponymous protagonist is the monarch of the fictional European realm of Alturia, in an unspecified period "before the War". Rather than conclude a dubious treaty with a neighbouring state (which includes a royal marriage into the bargain), Oliver sets up a coup against himself and escapes from the country. Against the backdrop of a "stagey" Venice, described as a theatre set "where the whole scene sometimes seems to wobble", Oliver joins a group of seasoned con -men and, after several twists and turns, ends up impersonating himself. The novel is peopled by farcical characters, mistaken identities, hilarious set-pieces and even a walk-on part for a panto dame. At times, I felt that the book was midway between the old-world comedy of P.G. Wodehouse and the more biting satire of Evelyn Waugh. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the dialogue in Len Rix's brilliant translation contains a number of Bertie Wooster-ish exclamations, and that it is the appearance of a journalist on the scene (think Scoop) which propels the plot to its upbeat denouement.

 
As the novel progresses, one starts to realise that it is closer to the darker "Journey by Moonlight" than appears at first glance. Surely it's no coincidence that, like Mihaly in the earlier novel, Oliver escapes to the back streets of La Serenissima in a bid to discover "real life". The parallels between the two books (and their autobiographical aspects) are explained in greater detail in the translator's afterword. The work acquires greater poignancy when one discovers discover that this work was the last written by Szerb before, as a Catholic with Jewish ancestry, he was murdered in a labour camp.

This book is another winner from the "Pushkin Collection" series.

Horror and decadence : A review of "The King in Yellow" by Robert W. Chambers

Horror and Decadence

A review of "The King in Yellow" by Robert W. Chambers

I cannot forget Carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men’s thoughts lengthen in the afternoon...

The term "weird fiction" could have been coined to describe “The King in Yellow”. First published in 1895, and reissued in a deluxe "gift edition” by Pushkin Press, it features elements of horror and the supernatural and even a touch of science fiction and yet fits uncomfortably under any of these categories. It is frankly, just plain “weird”. 

The book consists of four short stories which are linked by some common characters and, more importantly, by a recurring leitmotiv, a mysterious play called “The King in Yellow”. This play is, purportedly, a work of such evil genius that whoever reads its second act descends into madness and despair. Chambers uses a technique which would later greatly inspire H.P. Lovecraft (he applies it to great effect in his Cthulhu stories) – we are never actually told what the play is all about, the narrators in each story merely make vague references to its contents, leaving us to surmise what evil horrors this banned work might hold within its pages. 

The first story – “The Repairer of Reputations” – is set (like the fourth) in an imagined future America of the 1920s and sets the macabre tone of the work. It is narrated by a young man just out of a mental institution, who has delusions about ruling America in allegiance with the powerful “King in Yellow”. This story recalls Poe in its portrayal of obsession and madness, leading to a bloody denouement. The second tale, "The Mask", is a sort of “Pygmalion” in reverse. Set in France, it tells of a sculptor who discovers a chemical solution which can turn live beings into statues. This story introduces a new ingredient to the mix – the bohemian milieu beloved of fin-de-siecle, decadent literature. It is not uncommon in such works to encounter a fascination with the Catholic faith, or at least, its cultural trappings. This is the case with “In the Court of the Dragon”, in which the protagonist seems to be pursued by a demonic church organist. This sinister predator is likely just a tired musician escaping to the loo during a longish sermon, but to the narrator, fresh from reading that abominable play, he comes across as a malign figure sent by the King in Yellow to claim his soul. “The Yellow Sign” takes us back to 1920s America, but we are again in a world of artists and their models. There is also the presence of a Catholic church, such that at first, the atmosphere is not far removed from that of the previous story. This time round, however, the haunting is not done by an organist but by a “worm-like” churchyard watchman who, it seems, is possessed by the King in Yellow and is after the Yellow Sign, a curious gold clasp found by the narrator’s model.

Chambers’ short story collection originally contained six other stories, but it is only the first four which are linked by the “King of Yellow” theme. So it makes sense for this edition to be limited to these four tales which, partly thanks to Lovecraft, have achieved cult status amongst lovers of weird fiction.

Cover of the first 1895 edition

Hardcover, 160 pages

Published October 26th 2017 by Pushkin Press

Although Chambers was an American author who lived and worked in New York, in his youth – precisely between 1886 and 1903 – he had studied art in Paris, which might explain why his weird tales seem to breathe a decadent French air.  That curious mix of horror and sentimentality, fixation with Catholic motifs alongside a penchant for esoterism, has the slightly overpowering fragrance of fin-de-siecle Paris.  When one thinks of France and decadent literature, one of the first composers who come to mind is Debussy, with his settings of Baudelaire and Verlaine, and his languourous works inspired by Mourey (Syrinx) and Mallarmé (Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune).    

Less known are his unfinished attempts at operas based on Edgar Allan Poe – The Devil in the Belfry and The Fall of the House of Usher.  Of the latter, all that remains is an incomplete libretto and piano sketches for some of the scenes.   What Debussy could have made of Poe’s masterpiece is an intriguing question.

André Caplet (1878 – 1925) is best known for his orchestrations of piano works by Debussy.  He was also a composer in his own right, especially of vocal and choral music. His Mass for 3 voices has the type of French sentimentality would would have been familiar to the demon organist of In the Court of the Dragon.  Caplet was also a fan of Poe, composing two works inspired by The Masque of the Red Death.  Here’s Conte Fantastique, for harp and string quartet:

If esoterism is your cup of tea, some of the works of Erik Satie (1866 – 1925) can strike a chord, even though his ventures into the otherworldly should be taken with a generous pinch of salt.  By 1891, Satie was the official composer and “chapel-master” of the Rosicrucian "Ordre de la Rose-Croix Catholique, du Temple et du Graal".  This led to “ritual” compositions such as Sonneries de la Rose+Croix. These rythmically fluid, chant-like piano pieces can, with hindsight be considered ground-breaking avant-garde works.

Zoom forward to 21st Century America, and a work based directly by Chambers’ The King in Yellow. Melody Eötvös (born 1984) is an Australian-born composer now based in the US, some of whose compositions are inspired by literature of the dark sort by the likes of Neil Gaiman and James De Mille.  “The King in Yellow : Three pieces for Six Instruments” won the Soundstream Collective National Young Composers Award.

Melody Eötvös has now written a follow-up in the shape of an opera:

For a more filmic experience a hugely enjoyable track by Graham Plowman which would work brilliantly as a soundtrack to an imagined horror movie...

Grim(m) tale? The Jew's Beech by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff

The Jew's Beech by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff

Annette von Droste-Hülshoff (1797-1848) was born into an aristocratic Catholic family near Munster and spent most of her life in rural Westphalia. She never married and rarely tasted city life. This notwithstanding it appears that she was well aware of the prevailing literary trends of the day and her apparently "limited" life experiences did not stop her from exploring deep philosophical issues in her works.

Take this strange novella - "The Jew's Beech". It is, ostensibly, a murder mystery inspired by true events - the unsolved murders of a forester and a Jewish moneylender - which were recorded in the archives of the author's family. The story itself however is just a pretext for an exploration of such themes as good and evil, the corruptibility of young minds and the stifling prejudices which, in a small community, can cloud the minds of even the best of people. 

Annette von Droste-Hülshoff was primarily a poet and Die Judenbuche is her only piece of prose. For better or for worse, it is very much a poet's work. Let's start with the weaknesses first. A master storyteller could have made a nail-biting thriller out of this. Von Droste-Hülshoff however seems blissfully unconcerned about narrative conventions. Many facts are left unexplained, new characters appear with barely an introduction, the structure sometimes feels lopsided with flashbacks and flashforwards. Then there is the famously obscure ending, which lends itself to multiple interpretations and raises more questions than it answers. It leaves one wondering whether the author was being consciously obscure - a proto-(post)modernist, if you will - or whether she was merely unable to tie up the plot's loose ends. 

But in the novella's weaknesses lie also its strengths. The work is rich in allusion and metaphor - chief amongst them the striking image of the lone beech tree of the title. Although the book is firmly rooted in reality, the atmosphere conjured up by the novella is straight out of Brothers Grimm - magical forests, eerie apparitions and unsettling premonitions abound. Indeed this has been justly described as a "Gothic" work - it has many of the genre's tropes and is close in style to the literature of the "Uncanny" exemplified by Hoffmann and like-minded authors.

Alma Classics edition cover

English editions of this novella are rare. The Oneworld Classics edition I read (now reissued as part of the Alma Classics series) uses the 1958 translation by Doris and Lionel Thomas and includes an introduction and timeline.

It may not be "entertaining" in the usual sense of the word and is ultimately frustrating as a murder mystery, but this strange work is certainly worth reading.

Vacanze italiane : Antal Szerb's "Journey by Moonlight"

An Italian Honeymoon - Antal Szerb's "Journey by Moonlight"

On honeymoon in Italy, Mihály chooses a solitary nocturnal ramble in the back alleys of Venice over the pleasures of the bridal bed. It doesn’t take a psychology guru to realise that the marriage is not off to the best of starts. His wife Erszi knows that, this being her dreamy and eccentric Mihály (rather than her practical first husband Zoltán), the explanation for his erratic behaviour is most likely complex and slightly illogical. And that’s exactly what it turns out to be. 

After a (not so) chance encounter with an old acquaintance - János Szepetneki – Mihály decides to recount to Erszi his obsessive youthful friendship with siblings Tamás and Éva Ulpius, to whose “ring” he belonged together with said János and the ascetic Ervin. Oiled by a bottle of Italian wine, and egged on by Erszi’s insistent questions, Mihály implicitly reveals (despite his protestation to the contrary) that his relationship with Tamás and Éva had strong erotic overtones and that this might have something to do with his strange and evident discomfiture with the marital state. What is certainly clear is that Tamás’s eventual tragic death left a long-term mark on the close coterie of friends.

This long “psychoanalytic” session reminded me of a very different novel – Murakami’s Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage . And, like Murakami’s, this novel does develop into a “pilgrimage” of sorts - its first part ends with Mihály, not altogether innocently, contriving to catch a wrong train and separating himself from Erszi. In the subsequent parts of the book, we follow Mihály as, against the backdrop of an Italy exotic, magical, seductive and frightening, he tries to recapture the decadent aura of his youth.

Antal Szerb’s 1937 “Journey by Moonlight” (or, to give its title in its literal translation, “Traveller and the Moonlight”) is one of the best-known of modern Hungarian novels. It certainly deserves to be much better appreciated outside Szerb’s native country. Like all great classics, it is a multilayered work which lends itself to a variety of readings. It is, in its own weird way, a comedy of manners, with a streak of playfully sardonic humour always bubbling just beneath the surface. It is also a novel of “magical realism” written before the term was invented. It is an exploration of pre-World War II society – indeed, at its most obvious and superficial level, it presents to us a cast of characters who are all trying, unsuccessfully, to escape the bourgeoisie they find so suffocating. 

But, as translator Peter Czipott points out in the insightful afterword to this Alma Classics edition, a major theme in the novel is Szerb’s exploration of “nostalgia”. What Mihály is after are the dreams and ideals of his youth, now sadly replaced by humdrum, everyday life. But is it at all possible to go back in time? At one point towards the end, one character warns another not to try to live “someone else’s life”. But, the novel seems to be telling us, our youthful selves are as distant from us as “someone else”.

Szerb was not primarily a novelist, but a literary scholar who published respected works on the history of Hungarian and world literature. He lived for a time in Italy – his descriptions of the country are partly autobiographical but, in a quasi-postmodern twist, they also (knowingly) reflect common literary portrayals of the Bel Paese which Szerb knew so well through his studies. Indeed, one cannot help feeling that this is not the Italy of the Italians, or even that of the Rough Guides and Lonely Planet. This is, by turns, the darkly fascinating and haunting Italy of the Continental Gothic novels, the decadent Italy of fin-de-siecle writers (Mann’s Death in Venice comes to mind), Goethe’s sun-washed Land, wo die Zitronen blühn...

Journey by Moonlight might not always be an easy read, but it certainly is one which repays the effort and which is likely to reveal new depths if revisited. This Alma Classics edition is highly recommended, not only for its fluent translation, but also for its useful explanatory notes.

This edition published February 24th 2016 by Alma Classics (first published 1937 as Utas és holdvilág)

***

What music to go with this novel?  Two suggestions:

Elisabeth Grummer sings "Kennst du das Land...", a Goethe setting from the opera Mignon, by Ambroise Thomas

And then, of course, some decadent Mahler, now forever linked with the haunting images of Visconti's Death in Venice: