Nemonymous
Grimscribe
Eventually to complete my recent reviews of stories on this SONGS OF A DEAD DREAMER section on TLO, i.e. the stories having now been reread in the Penguin Classics collection:
DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH LABYRINTHINE EYES
A new grooming, a new con trick, after that of the Chymist. This is again a narrator clear to us about the narration's own tricks, a hypnotist, illusionist and memory-mesmerist, with a beautiful somnambule as an assistant. (This first section of the book headed 'Songs of a Dead Dreamer' is entitled 'Dreams for Sleepwalkers'.)
Here the narrator's stage show is, for me, an immaculately textured word-ballet akin to a cinematic Last Year at Marienbad, with 'singular optic organs' at the end of windshield-like metronome spokes, and other eyes' descriptions owned by the narrator's sight, too, as well the somnambule's.
But the grooming does not stop there, as if even the story's freehold author himself, I infer, is preparing himself for a lifetime of such prestidigitation of illusion, such, dare I say, horror-grooming, because he knew, even back then, when this story was first published, that -
"They wanted the death stuff, the pain stuff. All that flashy junk. They wanted cartwheels of agony; somersaults through fires of doom; nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life."
And then the reader sees what is sunken beyond those eyes: a "rotting profundity". And worse.
Who is deceiving the deceiver, illuding the illusionist? Is it Death or "Dr. Reaper"? Whose self is unselfing whose self?
This may be a significantly amazing story about which I had completely forgotten over the two generations between my first encounter with it and just a few minutes ago.
(An extract from my on-going review of the Penguin Classics collection.)
DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH LABYRINTHINE EYES
A new grooming, a new con trick, after that of the Chymist. This is again a narrator clear to us about the narration's own tricks, a hypnotist, illusionist and memory-mesmerist, with a beautiful somnambule as an assistant. (This first section of the book headed 'Songs of a Dead Dreamer' is entitled 'Dreams for Sleepwalkers'.)
Here the narrator's stage show is, for me, an immaculately textured word-ballet akin to a cinematic Last Year at Marienbad, with 'singular optic organs' at the end of windshield-like metronome spokes, and other eyes' descriptions owned by the narrator's sight, too, as well the somnambule's.
But the grooming does not stop there, as if even the story's freehold author himself, I infer, is preparing himself for a lifetime of such prestidigitation of illusion, such, dare I say, horror-grooming, because he knew, even back then, when this story was first published, that -
"They wanted the death stuff, the pain stuff. All that flashy junk. They wanted cartwheels of agony; somersaults through fires of doom; nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life."
And then the reader sees what is sunken beyond those eyes: a "rotting profundity". And worse.
Who is deceiving the deceiver, illuding the illusionist? Is it Death or "Dr. Reaper"? Whose self is unselfing whose self?
This may be a significantly amazing story about which I had completely forgotten over the two generations between my first encounter with it and just a few minutes ago.
(An extract from my on-going review of the Penguin Classics collection.)
