A brief entry, but one I feel is worthwhile all the same. I have mentioned several notable authors of literary horror and, as writers of dark fiction, these are obviously of interest to us. However, as readers it is also our responsibility to explore outside our chosen genre. This is so important to our development as well-rounded and researched writers, and yet it is easily overlooked, or forgone in favour of choicer reads. We fall into ruts, where we read material we know we'll love, as opposed to that which might challenge us. It's easily done!

Taking chances with different authors and genres can be extremely influential when it comes to writing. We  find ourselves faced with a plethora of different characters, settings, and plots. Unfamiliar lexis broadens our vocabularies, we lose ourselves in strangely structured narratives and delight in the regenerating effects these have on us. Tired old tropes are turned on their heads. Language we would have never otherwise used lights our imagination and, most importantly, we are offered a glimpse of the world from someone else's perspective. This is the real beauty of reading, after all; that rare, unmatched insight into the world around us, however light or dark or somewhere in between, as seen from a completely fresh point of view.   


So read widely. Stretch those literary wings and throw yourself into the unknown; who knows what tricks and voices you'll bring back with you.  

Before summer fully takes hold here in the UK (the sun has been shining with increasing regularity, although I don't doubt we'll have some rain yet. . . ) I would like to take a look at another forefather of supernatural fiction, Arthur Machen. This Welsh writer (1863-1947) was a 'general man of letters and a master of an exquisitely lyrical and expressive prose', who wrote 'some dozen tales long and short, in which the elements of hidden horror and brooding fright attain an almost incomparable substance and realistic acuteness.' Undeniably a master, he proved extremely influential in inspiring a number of equally renowned writers of the dark and occult and is responsible for a number of thematic legacies, which, even today, continue to make ripples in the glassy pool of the genre. 

One overarching theme of Machen's writing is the obsession with the existence of a 'second world', an uncharted place invisible to the naked eye. In his most famous works, 'The Great God Pan,' this place is referred to as the Pan of the title, and to witness it is to risk the undoing of the self, the soul and sanity as the real world loses all consequence. This wild, untamed world draws on a number of natural fears; those of wild places, of primal urges and of the unknown, and it is perhaps these, as much as his writing, that are responsible for the mounting sense of fear that pervades the story.

This theme is also most noticeable in 'The Novel of the Black Seal', a part of his episodic novel, The Three Imposters. Here too there is a drive towards discovery of an unknown place lurking beneath our own, heralding back to our most primordial times and then further. . . This short novel expands on this theme, however, by introducing another of Machen's enduring legacies, which is, to quote Lovecraft, himself a devout advocate of Machen's, 'the notion that beneath the mounds and rocks of the wild Welsh hills dwell subterraneously that squat primitive race whose vestiges gave rise to our common folk legends of fairies, elves and the 'little people.'

This theme does not discredit his previous cosmic, otherworldy theme but expands on it, giving rise to inhabitants of that place and a whole host of associated fears. He places them, once again, in the wilds, where the imagination decrees such things less farcical, and he integrates them into the established order of our own pre-existing mythos; namely Welsh legends.

The influence Machen exerted over the supernatural genre is immense. I have already mentioned Lovecraft, whose story 'The Dunwich Horror' so closely resembles 'The Great God Pan' as it could have been a retelling. Certainly, it is at the very least a pastiche. His own Cthulu Mythos;  the theory of another, greater cosmic dimension, also mirrors Machen's theme of a second world, invisible to the naked eye, as does the interbreeding between the inhabitants of these places and human society. Wilde and Conan Doyle were other notable followers of Machen's fiction, and it almost goes without saying, except to stress it for the relevance of this blog, that his work held much literary standing.

Unfortunately, Machen suffered severe financial hardship in his final years, something I am sure all writers are familiar with at one point or another in their lives. After a period of intense public interest in his writing, this seemed to reverse, and he struggled to survive with what he had left. A final testament to his literary recognition, however, came in 1943. A literary appeal, supported by a number of renowned writers in their own rights, proved his saving grace and afforded him the luxury of living out his last years with relative financial safety.


Arthur Machen, 'The Great God Pan', Great Tales of Terror and the Supernatural, ed. by Phyllis Cerf Wagner, Herbert Wise, (New York: Random House Inc., 1994) pp. 579-632
Machen, 'Novel of the Black Seal', H.P. Lovecraft's Favourite Weird Tales, (New York: Cold Spring Press, 2005)                          

Discovering their niche is an important development in any writer's life. It signifies interests inherent to them, a 'brand' by which their writing might be recognised and an overarching theme (or collection of) that runs throughout their fiction. In this interest let me talk briefly about Friedrich Nietzsche, a nineteenth century German philosopher whose Apollonian and Dionysian concept greatly fascinates me for the way in which it reflects my own beliefs and those suggested in my writing.

In his essay 'The Birth of Tragedy', Nietzsche proposes the philosophy, which draws its terms from the Greek deities Apollo and Dionysus respectively. Whilst these gods do not directly oppose each other, nor the spheres they encompass, they are both used to encapsulate a set of ideals by which two differing portraits of man can be painted. But what are these ideals?

At its most simplified, the Apollonian side of man is recognisable by his propensity to create order out of chaos, to establish the unknown, to follow reason, logic and all associated areas of the mind, from consciousness to dreams. Dionysian man, on the other hand, is the domain of raw emotion, of primitive urges, unconscious desire, intoxication and chaos. Neitzsche proposed that both these aspects were part of man and that their fragile balance enabled the truest and most powerful art form, that of tragedies, not replicated nor successfully demonstrated since those of the ancient Greeks.
      
The concept is well read and its influence is deeply seeded in a number of areas, from philosophy and literature to psychology and critical theory. As with all concepts and philosophies, however, its impact and understanding is also personal. I am particularly enamoured with his descriptions of the Dionysian side, which so closely mirror my understanding of people as wild, instinctual creatures possessing of base urges. This belief has been a feature of my writing from the outset, but it was not until I stumbled across Nietzsche's concept and read into it that I recognised the similarities and noticed this 'trend' in my own writing. And if a niche is anything, it is that; a reoccurring set of ideas, beliefs or motifs throughout a number of pieces of writing. 

Through this awareness, my own understanding of this belief developed, as did my writing to reflect it. As writers, we have a duty to learn as much as we can about ourselves and our interests, so read, research, discover your own niches and through these discoveries grow closer and more intimate with your craft.


Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy: Out of the Spirit of Music, (London: Penguin Classics, 2003 (first published 1872))

Every so often research reveals little gems, as was the case with an article I recently found. Its subject matter relating directly to the topic of this blog, I felt compelled to share it with my readers, with the possibility for discussion. At the very least, it makes interesting and encouraging reading.

The article, one 'Horror Goes Highbrow' by Josh Dzieza, describes the recent trend for horror fiction targeted outside out the mass market. I don't profess familiarity with the author and can't speak for his integrity, but the headline certainly caught my attention and I'm glad I read on because it contains some very promising material.

Not least of this was the described trend for writers with more literary reputations delving into horror. He names a number of such writers (see article for details) who have shown these inclinations. Certainly, this is one way to successfully marry the genres. I have discussed many techniques here for implementing theory and tradition into horror fiction, in order to increase its literary integrity and tone. What Dzieza is describing is the approach from the other direction; writers well-accustomed to writing highbrow literature turning their hands to horror tropes.

Personally, I find this an extremely exciting development. I don't belittle horror as genre fiction; all writing has its place and its audience and there is a very strong mass market for the genre. Indeed, most of my own fiction to date is genre based, if not with literary tendencies. However, I am continually seeking to develop this aspect of my writing and for writers with similar aims, who strive to write more serious, contemporary fiction with horror/supernatural elements, this article displays an encouraging shift in horror fiction.

Horror is more than vampires and zombies; it is the darkness of society, of gender, theology and people. It is the world we live in and the more literature that explores this, the better.              


Josh Dzieza, "Horror Goes Highbrow", 'The Daily Beast', last updated 30/10/11, date accessed 05/03/12,  http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/10/30/horror-fiction-goes-highbrow-in-new-novels-and-granta.html

One means of maintaining literary finesse within horror fiction is the manipulation of critical theory in order to demonstrate academic integrity, ability and to complement the text itself. Critical theory opens up a text to literary and theoretical discussion and is a convention of literary fiction, where subtext is of special importance. As writers of horror, it is in our interest to explore theories (critical and psychoanalytical) that develop and benefit our genre. Examples already covered include the Uncanny and the Fantastic. Here I would like to take a step further and explore Kristeva's theory of the Abject. 

Let me begin by saying this is one of the more complex theories I have encountered. My own understanding of it is still developing and by no means comprehensive. I will discuss what I understand by the abject and its intricacies before exploring its uses to us as writers of contemporary literary horror, and we'll take it from there.

According to Julia Kristeva, the abject was a term used to describe the human reaction when faced with something that threatens the established order of meaning and/or life. The theory is that when an individual is faced with the abject, or when they find themselves in an abject space, they exhibit revulsion (read: horror, vomiting, a physical recoiling) from the abject, in order to distance themselves from it and so preserve themselves and the established order of their life, as they understand it.

As it reads at the moment, the above description is very vague. The abject is more than 'something dangerous' (although it does not exclude this); it is something that reminds us of our mortality and our reality. It is not the gun that is abject, for being able to kill us. It is the resulting victim, the corpse, that it abject, because it is the living stripped of life, of Self, of Identity. We are living, yes, but we can die. We are intelligent, we have distanced ourselves from the animals, we have established an identity as Self, but we are still flesh and blood and hunger and animal and Other beneath this. The abject forces us to confront these truths and in confronting them we must flee or else threaten to be reduced by them. The classic example is the corpse, and I will use this here for ease of argument: 

When faced with a dead body, it is natural to be repulsed and revolted. This much is not questioned and widely recognised. It is 'normal' to react this way. The reason that we do so, however, is because the corpse represents the abject. It demonstrates the fate awaiting all living creatures and, therefore, us. It is human but not human. A person but without identity. And it is inescapable. These truths challenge the established meaning we all have as a living, breathing people with our own distinct identities. And so we flee from the corpse, or turn back from it, so that we are not faced with the ugly truth of the matter. Human waste is similarly abject. It is made by us, it comes from us, but it is not us. It is base and germ-ridden and so we expel it and dispose of it. Other examples are women's bodies, from which we are made but are forced to distance ourselves from, in order to first realise an identity; motherhood, for similar reasons; cannibalism, because it represents the consumption of dead bodies, which should be recoiled from and not eaten; even decay, because of the way in which it poisons, sickens and ultimately kills us. 

We distance ourselves from these things to preserve our lives and our identities, and so they illicit abject responses in us.

What use is this, then, to the writer of horror fiction? It should be obvious by now that, whether understood and acknowledged or not, the abject is a strong and violent response. It is also something that everyone, writer or reader, is familiar with. The strength of the abject response relates to its use in horror fiction, where we we can turn it to effective literary use. It is an excellent and visceral means by which to horrify readers.                           

Often, its use does not need to be orchestrated. By definition, the abject deals with subject matter that we typically encounter in horror fiction; bodies, sewers, death and wounds, to name a handful. These are staples of horror fiction for good reason. But the abject can be taken further, too, if it is understood. Why not set that narrative in the wilds, where established societal meaning breaks down or is non-existent?  This dissolution of order and meaning, which reminds us of our bestial roots and wild origins, can illicit the abject. Why is the father the murderer - why not the mother, from whose very womb the protagonist was born? When your character walks into a room and is faced with a corpse, aka. death, why not make that corpse his twin brother, forcing him to stare down at his own face, broken and bloodied and reduced to a state of death?

Essentially, Kristeva's abject is an extremely powerful and primal tool for generating feelings of horror and revulsion in your readership. Nor does it have to be completely understood to be employed. It is a universal theory that, at its roots, challenges us to face our own mortality, our identity and our bloody, bestial ancestry.


For further reading, regarding 'jouissance', women in horror and other aspects of abjection, see: 
Atomic, Tonija, 'Women's Roles in the World of Horror', 
http://www.darkriverpress.com/women-in-horror-by-tonija-atomic.html 
Felluga, Dino. "Modules on Kristeva: On the Abject." Introductory Guide to Critical Theory. Last updated 31/01/11. Purdu U. Accessed 18/02/12. http://www.cla.purdue.edu/english/theory/psychoanalysis/kristevaabject.html 
Pentony, Samantha. " How Kristeva's theory of abjection works in relation to the fairy tale and post colonial novel: Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber, and Keri Hulme's The Bone People." Accessed 17/02/12. http://www.otago.ac.nz/DeepSouth/vol2no3/pentony.html  

Given the nature of this discussion, and that his name keeps reoccurring, I would like to dedicate some time to M. R. James, a writer of literary horror if ever there was one. As I research them, these brief character studies might make more of an appearance throughout the evolution of the blog. Time will tell, but for now, our current subject: 

M. R. James (Montague Rhodes) was first and foremost a medieval scholar and academic. It is this, perhaps, that accounted for the academic tone of his writing, if not the antiquarian characters - more on this later. Certainly, he was a learned man. Born in 1862, he was also a Victorian gentleman and this too influenced his fiction. Stylistically his stories are distinctive, a trait that can be evidenced by his enduring name and informal title as 'father of the classic ghost story'.

When James began writing his supernatural tales, the conventions of the genre were still very much Gothic ones. I have covered these qualities already in this blog without needlessly repeating myself; suffice to say James redefined the rules of the genre. He could be seen to modernise it for his then Victorian readership, making it familiar and frightening in whole new (lingering and shocking) ways. Regarding the Jamesian ghost story, there are three characteristics: 

1. Setting, which usually took the form of a picturesque English environment, or similarly characterful English placing; an ancient town from somewhere on the continent; or a place of learning, such as the universities James was so familiar with.              

2. Protagonist, who was generally a well-mannered, inquisitive but naive young man with a history of academia (the 'antiquarian' hero of earlier). 

3. The inclusion of an object, be it artefact, archaeological find or tome, which incurs the supernatural force to involve itself in the story. It might summon the supernatural, or be a haunted object in itself.   

These Jamesian traits set the scene for each of his ghost stories, providing a formula with which he could explore the supernatural. There was also a very Jamesian 'pace' that I must mention; in each story he creates an innocuous environment to begin with. He does this through tone and style, so that often the reader might even be mistaken for thinking they're reading a guidebook or other such informative piece of prose (he acknowledges this likeness in some cases, before dismissing it). He then uses atmosphere as a means of building tension. This is never described better than by the man himself:
"Two ingredients most valuable in the concocting of a ghost story are, to me, the atmosphere and the nicely managed crescendo.… Let us, then, be introduced to the actors in a placid way; let us see them going about their ordinary business, undisturbed by forebodings, pleased with their surroundings; and into this calm environment let the ominous thing put out its head, unobtrusively at first, and then more insistently, until it holds the stage." Ghosts and Marvels

These are the classic elements of a Jamesian ghost story and their effectiveness is demonstrated by the lasting nature of his work. Certainly, there are tricks to be learned here, by writers seeking to demonstrate techniques of suspense and atmosphere.

There is one final quirk of his stories, which I feel has been immensely influential in their development, and this is that many of them were written informally for the purpose of entertaining close friends each Christmas Eve. This is important for a number of reasons. It displays their narrative potential; to be read aloud, to be shared. It also explains their familiarity; James wrote of personal places; universities, antiquarian characters and devices, Suffolk and Norfolk, which both his close friends and he would recognise and be able to relate to. Finally, his stories' potency relates to their form. As narrative tales told first to an audience of friends, they had to impress. They had to deliver. They had to scare. And as far as this reader is concerned, they do - his stories are masterful tales of slow-building terror, inhabited by half-glimpsed shadows and figures under the moonlight. They are resonant and affecting and inspirational. Favourites of mine include 'The Mezzotint' and 'The Ash-Tree' and if you read anything by this supernatural master, I recommend these two.  

James died in 1936. He never married, which is a sad thing, certainly, but his legacy lives on through his unsettling and inspirational prose.


M. R. James, Ghost Stories, selected and introduced by Ruth Rendell, (London: Vintage Books, 2011 (first published titled A Warning to the Curious, 1987))
M. R. James, Ghosts and Marvels, (Oxford, 1924)

Now that we've looked at some of the traditions and techniques surrounding literary horror, I thought it was worth reassessing what we understand by the term. This is in no small part inspired by a recent discussion into the subject and I aim to do this periodically throughout the blog as our understanding develops.

We have established so far that literary horror emphasises character-based narratives over flashy, complex plots. This is true of most literary fiction, where the pace is typically slower, the voice more introspective. Plot and pace are important, of course; a story is still being told, but it is not paramount here. The most interesting and engrossing literary fiction is that which explores people, the worlds they live in and the stories they have to tell.

We have also established that there is a wealth of literary precedence for high-brow horror. But where does this leave us today? What does the term 'literary horror' mean now?

The answer is, quite simply, nothing. Literary horror is not a pre-set genre with its own definition but a pairing of two individual terms. At its simplest, it could be used to describe more eloquent and sophisticated horror fiction, but I think a deeper, more conclusive definition is deserved. Certainly, for those of us who aim to write more character-driven horror, this is worth considering. More interesting is the paradox between these two terms; literary fiction juxtaposed with genre fiction. Both draw from very different writing conventions in order to meet the prerequisites of their genre and target differing markets. 

How then do we compromise this? How do we define literary horror? The answer lies, once more, in the past.    

It is true that a stigma surrounds horror today. The genre as a whole is polluted by 'splatter-gore' and pulp fiction, which serve to entertain the mass market without thought for literary or cinematic merit. And to give these sub-genres their dues, they must entertain and satisfy their markets, or they would not keep resurfacing. But these violent and/or action-driven sub-genres have damaged the wider integrity of horror until the mere mention of the term invokes associations of blood, sex and violence.

This was not always the case. There existed a time when 'literature' and horror were not at odds. The example raised in my aforementioned discussion was the work of M. R. James, whose ghost stories, told to friends over Christmas Eve each year, helped define the supernatural genre. He was - and still is, long after his death - a literary figure and his stories reflected this. They placed emphasis over circumstance, situation and the protagonist: 

'Let us, then, be introduced to the actors in a placid way; let us see them going about their ordinary business, undisturbed by forebodings, pleased with their surroundings; and into this calm environment let the ominous thing put out its head, unobtrusively at first, and then more insistently, until it holds the stage...' M. R. James 

His were antiquarian characters, steeped in history and academia, his ghosts 'odious' and 'malevolent.' By establishing a literary tone through his writing and interposing his ghosts gradually, he successfully navigated the boundary between literary and horror. And he did it well. 

By this understanding we would define literary horror as 'fiction pertaining to the traditions of the horror genre, explored through literary voice and style.' This goes beyond sophisticated horror fiction; it successfully demonstrates the ability to scare through the examination of character (and therefore self) and represents a truer, more emotive genre of fiction. In this way, the two genres are not only married - they complement each other.

I am sure this understanding will change as we discuss the subject further, but for the moment let us fear literary horror: the most monstrous hybrid of all.   


M. R. James, Ghost Stories, selected and introduced by Ruth Rendell, (London: Vintage Books, 2011 (first published titled A Warning to the Curious, 1987))