Horror and madness…
I made notes, with headings and categories. Whenever I read, whenever I am to write about a book, I do this. I wrote Horror and I wrote Madness, and then I filled the empty space.
The world is collapsing under the weight of its own faeces…
How many times have I expressed this thought? In those exact words, in fact? The world…the world…ack, I am tired of it. Let it collapse. Let me be at the bottom, the very bottom. Let me take the full weight upon my chest. Let me die first.
Write about the book. Give praise. Oh, of course, the book. My eyes shifted across the pages, from one end to the other, line after line, from top to bottom, and I cannot say that I was made unhappy.
I was talking to Vivien from Budapest. She moved to England in order to be a writer. We spoke about writing, of course.
I never read anything, I said, and think ‘I can’t do that.’ Not Tolstoy, not Dostoevsky, not Proust, not Mann. I consider myself equally capable. Their works are, after all, only words. Words, that’s all. Words, in pleasing combinations.
I gave her a copy of Ted Hughes’ Crow. I opened it and read to her:
When Crow cried his mother’s ear
Scorched to a stump.
When he laughed she wept
Blood her breasts her palms her brow all wept blood.
The world is collapsing…
I don’t consider any writer to be a genius. I believe that I am mad. Sickness and horror. What an awful business life is. I was speaking to Eve too. She said that her dead sister is at peace, and that in this way she envies her…
Eve is disappointed, not mad. Already, at nineteen. I told her: peace is a human concept and therefore it cannot apply to the dead.
I wrote about The Red Laugh. Once, somewhere. Not here. I made notes, at least. Here:
Wild fiction 8 tortured brain 8 Terrible raving of a mad world 9 All mad 11 strange and terrible globes 12 abyss of horror and insanity 15 cloud of insanity 19 bloody savage nightmare 24 silence 8 neither slept nor eaten 19 dead men 25 pallor 25 are you afraid? 26 red laugh 27 lunatic wards 29 hair 37 constantly looking for something behind their backs 39 everything strange 39 filled with horror 43 hallucinations 50 dance on the ruins 84 afraid of going mad 101 hatchet/knife 102 black abyss 106 fingers/wild dance 109
Like a terrifying, beautiful poem.
Wild fiction. Tortured brain.
Terrible raving of a mad world.
Everything strange, filled with horror.
Hallucinations. Dance on the ruins,
Afraid of going mad.
Something about a shell whizzing through the air like a witch…
That was my favourite line. The most pleasing combination of words. The witch. Andreyev could have written only that and his standing with me would have been assured. Perhaps he should have.
The Red Laugh is split into two parts, with a kind of intermission holding them together. The intermission spoiled my enjoyment slightly by spoiling the atmosphere. It deflates. In opening the book you are dropped immediately into a strange, almost surreal landscape. The intermission takes you out of that by taking the narrator out of the war, or at least out of the centre of the battle, and sending him home to die. The unreal becomes the real. The intermission is grounded, domestic, and somewhat tedious.
Whenever I write about the book I feel grubby…
As though I am lowering myself…
In the first part, there is a sense that anything could happen; that the action is not subject to the familiar laws of reality, because what you are reading isn’t reality, but a kind of horrible dream.
The world as a horrible dream…
The world as a horrible dream from which you cannot awake, and which you cannot avoid except through death.
Death is the absence of everything…
It’s not a dream.
As in a dream, the world of the first part of the book lacks form, or has it only to a minimal degree.
‘Where are we,’ asked somebody…
Everybody laughed, but their laugh was interrupted by a rough, indignant voice that sounded out of the darkness…
The lump with the protruding leg was thrown aside…
This is one of the ways in which The Red Laugh is frightening.
One stumbles around in the dark; hands groping, grasping at air, but occasionally slithering over something unidentifiable and unpleasant to the touch; eyes trained on the darkness, which is uniform, but in which, perhaps as a trick of the brain, one sometimes sees vague shapes.
The men, if they are men, do not know where they are going, only that they must go. No. Only that they are going….
It is clear to me, and to you too no doubt, that I do not have the patience or passion for this anymore. For writing. For writing about books, specifically. There was a time when I enjoyed the exercising of my imagination, when I was stimulated by the execution of a good idea. Now I can hardly bear to form a sentence, and I do not look for novel ways to express myself. My achievements in life cannot be the combining of words into a pleasant sequence, especially when that achievement is recognised by me alone.
Most of the time it is painful to speak, never mind write…
I’m oppressed by words…which I now find…
Words, like schoolchildren…snot-nosed and uncouth. My own, at least.
The Red Laugh is the laugh of horror and madness; laid on your back, eyes wide; mouth wide, swallowing the debris of a quickly collapsing world…