Ligotti: The first story I read that is usually classed as a specimen of weird fiction was Arthur Machen’s “The Great God Pan.” I didn’t fully understand the story, but I felt immediately captivated by it. There was a real whiff of evil behind the events of the narrative. I then read other stories by Machen — “The White People,” The Three Imposters—and sensed that I had found a world where I belonged: a kind of degenerate incarnation of the Sherlock Holmes tales I loved so much. Immediately after reading Machen, I read Lovecraft and recognized the resemblance between the two authors, no doubt because Lovecraft was influenced by Machen. I was never enamored of the Weird Tales writers. There was nothing distinctive in their style, and their plots were embarrassingly conventional. Lovecraft wrote in one of his letters that he felt that writing for Weird Tales had a detrimental effect on the style of his later stories, and I think he was right.
I feel that there are occasions with each of these authors—Ligotti, Kafka, Machen—in which their stories portray a similar kind of "transformation". Machen's The Three Impostors – or tranformations has such passages; mutation of landscape, or the rather unfortunate metamorphosis in the White Powder novella. Of Tom's work, I especially think of "The Shadow, the Darkness"—a transformation, a change or possibly a 'waking-up' of sorts, in more ways than one.
I haven't visited my copy of Kafka's collected tales for few years now, and am mostly drawn to his "Metamorphosis". I'm currently reading Amerika, and it feels different somehow, compared to the short stories and The Trial.
An Imperial Message
The Emperor--so they say--has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death--all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs--in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvelous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door--but that can never, never happen--the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.
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