Following the separation of my parents I stayed for a while with my grandmother. I was around seven years old at the time. She lived in a flat, on a council estate in one of Sheffield’s most deprived areas. The living room window looked out upon a run-down concrete playground, which, eerily, never appeared to be in use, despite the large number of children in the neighbouring tower-blocks. The old lady did not own a TV, most likely because she could not afford one, and so would each evening tell stories about strange happenings – involving ghosts mostly – which she insisted she had herself witnessed. Yet most terrifying of all was the story of the circumstances surrounding her arrival in England. I was told that she had once been a member of an old aristocratic and wealthy Scottish family, but, for reasons that were unknown or unexplained, she was dispatched to a sanatorium while still in her teens. There she received electric shock therapy, and, upon her release, was subsequently disinherited and banished.

Whether any of that is true or not is, of course, debatable. I have, partly out of fear perhaps, but mostly in order to spare my mother any anguish or upset, never sought to verify what I was told. However, what is certain is that the unease I had felt upon entry into my grandmother’s home began to intensify to such an extent that it – the flat – was transformed, in my childish imagination, into a house of horrors, one that was large, unwelcoming, and labyrinthine. The ghosts, moreover, became real and malevolent and forever on the prowl. Indeed, according to my mother I began to have waking nightmares, visions, in fact, of a man sitting on the end of my bed, who only I could see. I also, she claimed, started to sleepwalk, and could be found most nights at the front door attempting to leave. Finally, my grandmother – may she rest in peace – was, I was sure, the mad conductor of these evils, rather than the inventor of them.

“Those who lie down to sleep in its vast rooms lay themselves open to nightmares; those who spend their days there are obliged to habituate themselves to the company of the atrocious shades of executed criminals, of men flayed alive, or walled up or otherwise tormented.”

Until I started reading Malpertuis I had forgotten all about my brief stay in a haunted house, although, as this review will show, I, comparatively, got off lightly. The novel was written by Jean Ray, a man who was described by a friend as ‘a Gothic personality’, and was published in 1943. The style, however, is reminiscent of something written at least a hundred years earlier, and the structure – with the use of the framing narrative – is similar to Jan Potocki’s Saragossa Manuscript, parts of which first saw the light of day in 1805. Indeed, Malpertuis begins with a sort of preface, which describes the theft of a number of manuscripts from a monastery. The thief then explains that he has attempted to edit and order the manuscripts, which altogether would have ‘constituted a work of colossal size and minimal interest’, in an effort to turn them into a coherent narrative of ‘mystery and terror.’ The resulting story is, he claims, the work of four or five men in total, but the greater part – the kernel, as he calls it – is provided by the journal of Jean-Jacques Grandsire, a young man ‘marked with the brand of misfortune.’

For a book that I found so gripping, that I would call a page-turner, it seems odd that when I think about it now I realise that there is little in the way of plot. Jean-Jacques’s journal tells of a dying man’s family and friends gathering around him. Following his death, his will stipulates that the people there named must live in Malpertuis or forsake their large inheritance. From this point onwards – aside from one or two digressions – we follow Jean-Jacques as he explores the house and encounters all manner of terrible things. So, how to account for the feverish speed and rapt attention with which I read it? Well, one of the reasons that Malpertuis is so engaging is that it consistently poses questions for which the reader wants answers. Why must the characters live in the house? What is the significance of the shop attached to it? What is the link between Malpertuis and the island described in the opening chapter? Why is the beautiful Euryale so distant? What does the Abbe Doucedame know about the goings on in the house? And so on. In many ways, Ray’s novel is something like a Gothic version of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, with Jean-Jacques acting as the detective.

However, it is the terrible things that most hold the attention. Indeed, this was perhaps the closest I have come in my reading experiences to straight horror; and, I must admit, I had a blast. Take Lampernisse, a ‘skeletal creature’ with ‘spiderlike hands’, who lives in Malpertuis and obsesses over the lights, which he believes are being put out by a malevolent presence within the house. His ramblings about his plight are both oddly moving and chilling: “There was a time I sold animal black and lamp black, but I never gave anyone the darkness of night. I am Lampernisse. I am so good and kind, and they have cast me into outer darkness.” I am reticent to discuss the many other strange and horrible occurrences that litter the text for fear of spoiling it for those who want to read it, but I can’t resist mentioning that, amongst other things, there is something in the attic, there is a severed hand, there are faceless beings, and devilish beings with haunting mask-like faces, and a number of gruesome deaths.

Malpertuis was, according to the Abbe Doucedame, the name given to ‘the lair of the cunning and evil fox, Goupil’. In conversation with Jean-Jacques, he muses over whether the house that then took this name, the one in which Jean-Jacques etc. live, did so in order to denote evil or cunning. Yet he concludes that cunning is ‘the prerogative of the Spirit of Darkness’ and that therefore, whichever way you look at it, Malpertuis is, in his view, the house of the Devil. This can be understood in two ways, for, as already noted, there is horror inside the house, but the building itself is, in appearance, horrific also. On the facade there are ‘disagreeable carvings’, a facade that is, according to Jean-Jacques, a ‘severe mask’ that ‘fails to conceal the abominations that lie behind it.’ However, although it may seem as though the direction in which we – the reader and the characters – are heading is Satanic, that the mysteries of the novel are to be explained in relation to that, when the reveal actually comes Jean Ray does something incredible and wholly unexpected: he provides one of the most emotionally affecting endings of any novel I have read.



There is a photograph of Robert Desnos, taken, in 1930, by Man Ray.* In it, he is surrounded by four people. To his left is the sculptor Andre Lasserre; to his right is André de la Rivière, the actor; while behind him is the surrealist artist Georges Malkine and, although she is often mistaken for a man, his wife Yvette. The heads of Lasserre and de la Rivière are turned upwards, towards the Malkines, who are kissing. Desnos, however, is staring forward, at the camera, with an expression on his face that is almost indescribable. While the two men either side of him appear happy, healthy, and, more to the point, of this world, Desnos has the look of someone, or something, who has not slept for a hundred and fifty years. There is the hint of secret knowledge in his sly smile; and his disinterest in the scene behind, and above, him suggests, at least to me, that he knows more than most about the act of love. It was this photograph, more than my passion for transgressive and surrealistic literature, that inspired me to seek out Desnos’ work and which ultimately led me to Liberty or Love!

How many times, in stormy weather or by the light of the moon, did I get up to contemplate by the gleam of a log-fire, or that of a match, or a glow-worm, those memories of women who had come to my bed, completely naked apart from stockings and high-heeled slippers retained out of respect for my desire.

When La Liberté ou l’amour! was first published it was almost immediately withdrawn due to controversy over the content. It was reissued, following the removal of several offensive passages, a year later. The version that I read, from Atlas Press, which also includes the earlier Mourning for Mourning, is unexpurgated. However, for a modern sensibility, there is nothing in the text that is genuinely shocking. In the first few pages, the narrator – who is obviously a stand-in for Desnos – sniffs some discarded underwear, inhaling the ‘intimate odours’ and wondering, ridiculously, ‘what fabulous whale, of whatever colour, could distil a more fragrant ambergris.’ There are numerous references to sadomasochistic practices, which, on more than one occasion, involve teenage girls; but this doesn’t extend far beyond spanking [although there is the suggestion of rape when one girl is said to be ‘tenderly sodomised.’] Indeed, the most troubling passage in the book is likely to upset your stomach more than your moral equilibrium. This is the Sperm Drinker’s Club, where men gather to sample male and female ejaculate.

As one would perhaps expect of a surrealist novel, and this particular publisher, there is not a great deal of plot and even less in the way of well-developed characters. What there is involves the adventures of Corsair Sanglot and, to a lesser extent, his lover Louise Lame. Yet, in the main, Desnos uses this couple, and the situations into which he drops them, as vehicles to explore his ideas about love. At one point he intrudes upon the action to inform us that: ‘I still believe in the marvellous when it comes to love, I believe in the reality of dreams, I believe in heroines in the night, in beauties of the night, forcing their way into hearts and into beds.’ Which is a lovely, romanticised view, albeit one that is slightly at odds with some of his other statements. For example, when discussing the deeds of Jack the Ripper – who is mentioned numerous times throughout the text – he claims that ‘love is not merely some kind of pleasantry.’ This indicates that for the author it is something to be taken seriously, of course, something dramatic and, considering the link to the Ripper and the previously discussed S&M, potentially violent. I do not believe, however, that he is advocating literal violence, more a violence of feeling or experience. Indeed, later it is written that love  cannot be divorced from ‘a feeling of panic and sacred horror.’


Love is, however, only one half of the novel’s title, and liberty is, in my opinion, and the author’s, just as important. The book begins with a woman shedding her clothing in public, a woman who is, by virtue of this act, liberating herself. This undressing could be seen in a sexual context, for the man following her, as previously noted, picks up her clothes, and smells her underwear; but I think there is a broader significance. Desnos was, I believe, interested in all forms of freedom, not just sexual freedom. In fact, surrealism, as an artistic movement, was concerned with rejecting conventions, with aesthetic [and moral] liberation. This is born out in the novel under review here, which not only lacks traditional characterisation and plot, but also revels in the unexpected. At one point, for example, Louise dies, only to reappear later. More beguilingly, there is the story of the skinless leopard, which is inspired by Louise’s fur coat, the talking cobblestone, and the mermaid who changes her scales, creating ‘a snowstorm of green and white.’ These episodes are not treated as strange excursions, they are fully integrated into the text, and are accepted by those within it on face value.

Before finishing, it is worth looking at the title one last time. Love or Liberty. In order to get closer to understanding Desnos’ beautiful, yet often confusing, work, one must, I feel, account for that or. The author is suggesting that it is a choice, that it is one or the other, that we cannot have both love and liberty. Indeed, he writes that love is ‘the only valid reason for temporary slavery.’ When in love one does not have absolute freedom, because one’s hopes, one’s desires, one’s happiness, one’s day-to-day life, is tied up with someone else, these things are at least partly dependant upon another. Love means, for me, and this is perhaps why I consider myself incapable of it, vulnerability, it means a voluntary relinquishing of complete control and power over oneself; it means holding out your arms for ‘the gentle handcuffs.’ Indeed, I saw in Liberty or Love! a message to myself: ‘Young convict, it is time to print a number on your calico shirt and fetter your ankle with the heavy ball of your successive loves.’





Excuse me if I begin this review by talking a little bit about myself. Although do not fret, for very soon I will turn my complete attention towards that great man – yes, great – who is no longer with us and yet whose influence is felt now and will be felt with even greater intensity as the years pass. My name is Rudolf Spenglebrauschnitlespritzer. I was born of Catholic parents or, more specifically, of one parent – my father was lapsed to such an extent that one would doubt he was ever anything but – in the industrial heartland of the north of England. I first met [P] during our schooling, despite my being older than he by 18 months. Please, forgive these preliminaries, but I have never written a review before and do not know how to proceed in the best manner, in such a way as to maximise reader enjoyment. I can proceed only as the mood takes me, as the events come to me.

Young [P] was, of course, despite being destined for the greatness that I have already made mention of, not immediately striking as a personality. He was reserved, rather than shy. Without wishing to contradict myself, I would say that this reserved nature was striking, or was – and this is perhaps more accurate – intriguing. One felt that he was not afraid to talk to you, or embarrassed, but that he did not want to. I can’t say, even though I knew him from childhood all the way up to his death, that he and I were ever close. He would, for example, call me Spenglebrauschnitlespritzer, never Rudolf. And yet this man, this standoffish, reserved man, chose to compose, and post, the most personal book reviews. How to account for that, that tension? I do not know. I know that he was good at it, though, that his talent was enormous.

Before his death he was working on a new review, and I can’t help but feel unsettled by it. Simply thinking about that final work, that dark work, the now forever incomplete work that would have elevated him to stratospheric heights of fame, even within his own time, makes my flesh crawl. That work was a review of Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann. And so we come to the crux of the matter, the reason for my review. When [P] passed away in mysterious circumstances I was surprised to find that he left me not only his incomplete work on Faustus but a manuscript; this manuscript is, to say the least, alarming, and I have thought long and hard about whether I ought to share it with the public. The two men featured in this manuscript are unrecognisable to me. In any case, I present it here, in full and with no amendments. Let it serve as a testament to my friend, and as a warning.

I woke abruptly, perhaps from an unwelcome dream, to find that I was not alone. I had taken to my bed alone, for sure, and I had slept for some time, alone. How now had I company? And not just company, but a partner, for the body that was with me was – I swear it is true – actually beside me. My back to the presence, I felt the breath on my neck, hot breath, like the heat from a candle flame. Slowly I turned around.

He: Hello, [P].

I: Who are you?

He: Why the surprise, why the glum face? Are you not accustomed to waking up to a strange body beside you in bed?

I: Never like this, no. I ask you again: who are you?

He: Oh, I think you know.

I: What is your name, then?

He: They have given me many names; some I like more than others. But, again, names have never been such an issue for you before, so why belabour the point? Call me P.B., if you must, although that one is your own creation. Others know me as Mammon, or Satan. Take your pick, son.

I: Satan?

He: Don’t give me that look. You knew this day would come.

I: I guess I did. What do you want?

He: To help you. Throw me an extra pillow, will you? Thanks. I want to help you, son. Tell me, have you read any good books lately?

I: Are you trying to chat me up?

He: Ha! Believe me, I could have you anytime I wanted. I wouldn’t need to creep into your room late at night. Books, boy?

I: Yes, Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann.

He: That’s a great book.

I: Yes.

He: Going to write a review of that one, my boy?

I: I should think so.

He: You wrinkle your nose when you lie. I am the king of lies; there’s no way of fooling me. You won’t review Doctor Faustus; you’ve tried already and you found it impossible.

I: That’s right. I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to compose a satisfactory review.

He: You were drunk, quite often, while reading it.

I: It’s not that. It’s so dense, so static, so abstract. There is so little narrative momentum. How do you review something like that?

He: I could tell you.

I: Please do.

He: And for me? What would I get in return?

I: I don’t know. What do you want?

He: Ah, that is why I am here. To make a bargain with you, to strike a deal.

I: You suggest that I have something you want, doesn’t that put me in a position of power?

He: You always were a clever bugger. Talk to me about the book; did it move you, son?

I: Yes. I was very surprised about that. I identified with Adrian very much. Not the genius part, I wouldn’t say that…

He: How modest of you!

I: …but he is an isolated figure, in many ways. Intentionally so; by which I mean that he isolates himself, is not isolated by others. I feel that way a lot of the time, as though there is a barrier between myself and other people, as though I talk to them from behind glass. I must confess that I am to blame for this situation, that I encourage it. Indeed, Adrian is aloof, which is something I’m accused of more often than anything else.

He: The book isn’t about you, boy.

I: I know that. Perhaps it is part of my self-obsession that I look for myself in all things, that I only truly enjoy something when I can link it to my experience of the world.

He: Adrian is mad though, don’t you agree?

I: He certainly descends into madness. Was he always mad? He was always strange, yes, always peculiar in relation to others. I have a condition…

He: I know all about that.

I: …and one of the consequences of this condition is obsessiveness, a kind of intellectual obsessiveness, whereby I can get easily trapped inside my head to the exclusion of everything, and everyone, else. I saw that in Adrian. I couldn’t say whether it was intentional, if Mann meant to present him as someone with that kind of condition or whether he merely saw it as a way of…

He: Describing the process of a creative genius?

I: No. You’re putting words in my mouth. One can be obsessed with creative endeavours without being a genius.

He: It is so. Yet wasn’t Mann, quite plainly, making that link between genius and madness?

I: Yes, I guess so. Adrian deliberately contracts syphilis, a disease linked to madness. He catches it by sleeping with a woman.

He: Bummer.

I: An act of love, perhaps? Is he saying: I’ll take you, I want you, despite the consequences, despite your illness? That would be out of character though, I must admit.

He: Don’t speak to me of love, it gives me migraines.

I: In any case, as the disease takes hold Adrian’s creativity increases. Do you know Nietzsche?

He: I know him very well. We play golf on Tuesdays.

I: Nietzsche is said to have died of syphilis. His later years were characterised by an almost excessive creativity. The French writer Alphonse Daudet is another who had the disease. Quite apart from specific symptoms, there is that cultural link between the illness and creative people. What Mann was trying to say about that, I don’t know. On one level you could argue that Adrian’s genius as a composer wasn’t ‘part of him,’ wasn’t a necessary part, in that he had to become mad in order to deliver it. Or you could argue that the madness was a door which allowed the genius to step through and be exposed.

He: Very good.

I: Then there is the war. The German question. What can you say about that?

He: I don’t know, son. I was rather busy during that time.

I: That the man writing Doctor Faustus, the narrator, is living through the second world war…what was Mann getting at? That art or culture is, in a practical sense, not possible in those circumstances? That clearly isn’t the case. There are many instances of great art being born in times of war. Is he trying to say something similar to what Adorno said about how art is morally impossible after Auschwitz? That to engage in art, to create, after such atrocities is barbaric? One could even say Satanic?

He: Steady on, old chap. You’ll give me a complex.

I: Oh, I just don’t know. This is why I cannot review Doctor Faustus.

He: Hush, child. You’re doing fine. But aren’t you forgetting something important?  

I: What?

He: Me, you cretin.

I: Ah, yes. You. What about you? You have the best tunes, they say, and you appear in the best books too. The Faust legend. The encounter with the horned-one. What do I have to say about that?

He: Nothing?

I: Nothing of any note, sir. Adrian speaks to the Devil, makes a pact with him. The usual stuff: his soul for a reward, for the ability to compose something truly special. What is interesting is that Mann allows you to make up your own mind about whether the conversation, the pact, really happened. Adrian is crazy, and the Devil acknowledges that. Is it his madness that allows him to see the Devil? Or is it his madness that causes him to see the Devil?

He: What do you think?

I: What do I fucking know? I’m in bed with Satan right now! Clearly, I’m not qualified to make that call.

He: So what do you say, boy? I’ll give you a review, the best review ever written.

I: Y’know, I’d rather we had done this at a crossroads. Making deals in bed feels…kinda wrong.

He: But what do you say?

I: Ok. Sure. You can have my soul; it’s a pretty lousy thing anyway.

He: Marvellous. Ok, so this is how it works. Write up this conversation and leave it for your friend to post, that Rudolf Spenglebrauschnitlespritzer. The review will go…ayoop…through the roof, they’ll love it. Anything that has me in it is a winner. Of course, you won’t be around to enjoy the adulation. You’ll live for, oh, maybe a few more days. Yeah, you’re pretty much a dead man walking. I forgot to mention that? Small print is a bitch. Always read the small print, boy.

I: A few more days? Can’t you be more specific? I’ll be on tenterhooks.

He: Ok, so you’ll hear a song, I won’t say when but soon, perhaps when you’re in the supermarket, or on a bus or in the toilet. It’ll be ‘our song.’

I: Elton John?

He: What? That’s Your Song, you idiot.

I: Ok, so, what’s the song?

He: Boyz II Men ‘End of the Road.’

I: I love that song! Some people think it is cheesy, but fuck ’em. That spoken word bit at the end? ‘All those times you hurt me, and just ran out with that other fella…’ Fucking brilliant.

He: It’s a cracker. So, yeah, when you hear that song you have exactly 24 hours left. Make the most of them. If you want a tip I’d say hookers are a good place to start. Lots of expensive hookers.

I: Expensive hookers. Ok. Thanks.

The manuscript ends here. I don’t want to speculate about what [P] was going through that night, whether his visitor was real or imaginary. Clearly he was real for him. I can speak, however, about the accuracy of the prophesy, for [P] died of unknown causes within four days of the date at the top of the manuscript in my possession.


It was the cowering spider that did it. I spied it crawling across the bedroom wall one afternoon. It was fairly small, but still had a grotesque bulb-arse, the kind that, when I had offed the others, had exploded under the weight of the shoe set aside for the purpose of killing. I immediately ran for this shoe, which, grossly, had the dried remains of numerous arachnids caked to the sole. But I paid that no mind; I couldn’t afford to. Who worries about the carcasses of dead spiders when there is a real live one crawling, blithely, across your wall? So, I clutched the shoe and pulled a chair over, for the thing was pretty high up and I didn’t want to overstretch and miss it and have it fall on my face, or even the floor, because falling spiders are my biggest fear, are what you might call the ultimate nightmare. I positioned the chair close to the wall, a little to the left of the spider, in case it should fall, and climbed up, my hand resting on the wall for support.

It was at this point, I would swear it hand-on-bible, that the spider cowered. Perhaps it had seen me, sensed me, or felt a vibration. I don’t know. But it pulled in its legs. It tried to make itself as small as possible. And that was it; the jig was up. No way could I kill it. In fact, I started to feel a kind of tenderness towards it. I named it; I watched out for it every day. I spared the spider because I saw in its behaviour some form of recognition of me, of my power, and this made me benevolent. Yet, more importantly, in that brief moment of silent communication between us, I also recognised the spider, and, consequently, it stopped being revolting to me. It was no longer some alien, unfeeling, creature; something entirely ‘other’, and therefore beyond my understanding; and so a relationship had been created between it and I.

“We can’t carry on like this. Maybe you can’t see it, but I can. I don’t want to call this monster my brother, all I can say is: we have to try and get rid of it.”

Whenever I raise the subject of the work of Franz Kafka with friends or acquaintances – which is something that I do often, for it is frequently on my mind – I am mostly met with blank or bemused faces. Yet, if I specifically mention his story about a man who finds himself turned into a bug, there is invariably an immediate gesture of happy recognition. There seems to be something about the premise of The Metamorphosis that is so appealing that it has seeped into the consciousness of the general public, even though, in my experience, many haven’t read it, nor can they name it or its author. Part of the reason for this is, I believe, because of the absurdity of the situation. Gregor Samsa – whose appalling fate this is – isn’t cursed by a witch, wizard, devil, or demon; he isn’t magically transformed on the whim of some powerful being. He hasn’t been dabbling in strange experiments either. There is no backstory, or explanation; and the man himself is entirely without responsibility or blame. He simply wakes from ‘troubled dreams’, and he is a bug. This is both unnerving and amusing.

The absurd plays an important role in the story as a whole, as it does in much of Kafka’s writing. When Samsa realises what has happened to him, he doesn’t freak out, as one would expect. In fact, there is almost no emotional reaction whatsoever, except that he blames his strenuous, exhausting job as a travelling salesman, which, he states, ‘is bound to take its effect.’ Indeed, his principle concern is being late for work, and how this will be viewed by his employers, rather than his transformation. He contemplates calling in sick, which in the circumstances seems more than reasonable, and yet ‘that would be rather embarrassing and a little suspicious too.’ It is in relation to this that one sees another of Kafka’s principle themes, which is oppression. In The Trial, Josef K wakes to find himself arrested for a crime he knows nothing about, one from which, subsequently, he cannot clear his name; while in The Castle K is oppressed, in the main, by his own bloodymindedness. Here, Samsa is oppressed, amongst other things, by his job and his new body.


It is worth focussing for a while on this last point. When Samsa awakes he is in bed, of course, on his back. For a human being this position isn’t such a problem, yet for a bug it is incapacitating. Samsa struggles, for ‘he would have needed arms and hands with which to get up; instead of which all he had were those numerous little legs, forever in varied movement, and evidently not under his control.’ Throughout The Metamorphosis, there is a sense of a man/thing coming to terms with, and understanding, himself/itself. Gregor learns how to ‘inflate’, thereby pushing off the bed cover; he learns to crawl and climb; he, through a kind of trial and error, but also by instinct, discovers his preference for foods that previously he wouldn’t have touched. Indeed, he feels a sense of ‘physical well-being’ only when he accepts himself, when, in other words, he stops trying to be human, to fight against his new self, such as when he drops onto his multiple legs, instead of trying to walk on two.

Yet while Samsa, for the most part, accepts what he has become, the same cannot be said of the people who come into contact with him. The cook, for example, is so disgusted that she asks to be let go. His mother is distraught, and frightened, albeit initially sympathetic. His father is outright hostile. Only his sister, in the early stages, seeks to understand him and make things easier for him, although even she cannot tolerate seeing him. In this way, one sees more evidence of oppression, but this time it is Samsa unintentionally oppressing others with his physical appearance. However, what is most interesting about this is not the revulsion, which is expected, natural even, but how the transformation affects how Samsa is treated. He is, despite posing no danger, locked in his room, and at no point, once his bug-form is revealed, does anyone attempt to intelligently interact with him. He does not look human, and so is deemed to be a primitive creature, with primitive desires, with no consciousness, which is, of course, not the case.

“Was he an animal if music could captivate him so? It seemed to him that he was being shown the way to the unknown nourishment he had been yearning for.”

In my opinion, the overriding theme in Kafka’s major works is the inability to communicate, to connect with other people. I am not going to labour over that here, as I have dealt with it extensively elsewhere, but one might argue that ultimately it is Samsa’s inability to communicate with his family, either with human sounds or human gestures, that leads to his downfall. Yes, he may look horrific, but if he could talk, if he could give evidence of his consciousness, his thoughts and feelings, then it would be much more difficult to dismiss him. [Tellingly, towards the end of the story Grete, his sister, stops referring to him as Gregor, and starts calling him ‘it.’] This of course raises questions about personal identity. One way of seeing The Metamorphosis, although it isn’t my preferred interpretation, would be as a comment upon not only how we treat other creatures, but how we treat the ill or disabled. If someone cannot express themselves in ways that we can understand we tend to assume that they do not have a complex inner life. There are also passages that deal with the idea of the ill or disabled, or in this case the transformed, as a burden, and how this too can lead to callousness.

Screen Shot 2017-08-20 at 15.16.56.jpg

[my most recent tattoo]

When I read The Metamorphosis previously I considered it to be a brilliant, but less sophisticated work than The Trial and, even more so, The Castle, which is my favourite. The reason for this is because I felt the main character’s oppression to be too literal, and therefore less subtle. In contrast, consider K, and how in The Castle it is his own stubborn refusal to leave that is the real problem. Unlike Samsa, he could free himself from what oppresses him, but he does not, and I believe this to be a more complex, depressing take on humanity. Furthermore, as repeatedly stated, Gregor is a bug, and so cannot speak, and this, I would again argue, is a less compelling way of addressing the issue of [mis]communication than when the principle character is human also. However, having now reread The Metamorphosis, what I believe it does have in its favour, what elevates it to the level of Kafka’s other two masterpieces, is extreme pathos. It is difficult, in view of what I have said about him, to be moved by K’s plight, for example; but one genuinely feels for Gregor, especially when he does such things as hide under the sofa to spare his sister his appearance. In fact, it is a long time since I could say of any book that it broke my heart, but this one did, and so perhaps it is time to retire my killing shoe for good.


I didn’t initially suspect anything untoward; an unfortunate series of events, is what I called it. I am not mad; or at least I was not. In a world where anything is possible, where an infinite number of things can happen at any time and in any sequence, a run of bad luck, especially for someone with such poor judgement, was unwelcome, of course, but did not strike me as unduly worrying or significant. Yet, as the disasters have shown no sign of abating, have in fact increased in frequency and seriousness, I am at the point of seeing a sinister hand in this, a plan, a vendetta. Whose hand? God’s? No, with my ego having been brought to heel by these catastrophes, I can no longer believe that there is anything in my wretched case that would interest a deity. But someone; something. Fate? Perhaps. A force, certainly; inexplicable, unseeable, unknowable, but felt. A phantom. Fantômas.

“Fantômas! The sound of that name evoked the worst horrors! Fantômas! This terrorist, this über-criminal who has never shrunk from any cruelty, any horror – Fantômas is evil personified! Fantômas! He stops at nothing!”

When Fantômas – which is, I believe, considered to be one of the first pulp novels – was released in 1911 it is said to have caused a sensation amongst the general public in France. Moreover, the iconic cover, which features a giant masked man holding a bloody knife and walking over Paris, appears to promise sinister delights. For these reasons, I came to the book expecting something fast-paced, exciting and essentially mindless. And I was fine with that; it was all I felt I could handle at this time. However, the opposite is actually the case. The pace is, for example, rather slow, certainly in pulp terms, although it does pick up in the second half. Likewise, the action is often laboured, with many pages devoted to interminable, often repetitive, or unnecessary, exposition, rather than cunning feats of criminality or even creative sleuthing.

On the subject of sleuthing, I ought to take a few moments to reflect upon Inspector Juve; and a few moments is all I will need. As the pursuer, he is dedicated and relentless, but bland. Yet, amongst the inhabitants of the novel, he is as famous and awe-inspiring as Fantômas, the pursued. He is, we’re told, a man of ‘marvellous skill’ and ‘incomparable daring’, a man with ‘extraordinary instinct,’ although, in fairness, Juve himself is rather modest about his abilities. The disconnect between how Juve is spoken about and perceived by the other characters, and the reader’s own exposure to the man, is one of the novel’s major failings. The inspector does nothing in Fantômas that suggests genius, or great skill, other than an unerring ability to seemingly stumble upon important clues and casually place himself at the centre of the action. Indeed, rather than any number of legendary case-crackers, he most reminded me of Droopy in the cartoon Northwest Hounded Police, where the wolf has escaped from prison and no matter what [insane] lengths he goes to, the unassuming dog always pops up out of nowhere to spook him.


in view of all this, you may wonder whether Fantômas is worth reading at all. Indeed, I asked myself that question numerous times during the early stages of the novel. There are, however, a few things that elevate it, that give it power, depth, and ultimately a certain level of profundity. The first of these is the nature of the crimes. While, as previously noted, I would have liked them to be more prominent, they are gruesome and daring. There is one scene, my favourite passage in fact, in which a man jumps onto a moving train and then proceeds to throw a sleeping passenger off it. It may even be my favourite murder in all literature. The audacity and apparent senselessness of it left me a little breathless, which is not something that happens often during my reading. I also want to briefly discuss identity, or rather the changing of identity. This happens throughout to such an extent that it is at times farcical, but mostly disorientating. One quickly comes to question every character, one, specifically, suspects them of being, in truth, someone else.

Thus far, I have only mentioned the titular villain in passing, which is in keeping with his role in the novel itself, and which, incidentally, is another reason why it drags in places. One simply wants more of him, one waits for him, pines for him. Yet, due to the identity issues I touched upon in the preceding paragraph, there is a sense that Fantômas is always potentially on screen, whilst being simultaneously off it. That is part of the genius of the novel. He might be Charles Rambert, or his father; he might be Bouzille or even Juve. He might be none of them; he might, and this is crucial, not exist at all. Most of the crimes appear to have been committed by different people, with different motives. It is Juve who links them all to Fantômas; it is the inspector, in fact, who is most adamant about his existence, while a good number of the characters in the novel doubt it.

As with Durrenmatt’s The Pledge, there is the clever suggestion that perhaps Fantômas exists only in the imagination, and mostly in the mind of the man who is so hellbent on apprehending him. On the very first page, in the opening paragraph, it is said that he is both ‘nobody’ and ‘somebody,’ that the word means ‘nothing’ and ‘everything.’ Is he not, therefore, simply a convenient way of explaining the inexplicable or the apparently inexplicable? Is he not a scapegoat, a bogeyman, a nightmare ghoul, a phantom? Gurn is Gurn. Rambert is Rambert. The murders are not linked, or are not all the work of one man. Perhaps, perhaps. In any case, what is undeniable is that Fantômas is, for Inspector Juve, as he has come to be for myself, a necessary evil. He brings order and meaning to the chaos of the world, for he can be blamed, rightly or wrongly, for any catastrophe that befalls it or us.


/ I do not read anymore <what?> I do not read / There is no respite from the chaos of my thinking <Guyotat> I will write it as I hear it, not as I read it / I do not read / There is no more anymore <so?> What do you want me to say? <the violence and sex?> / I’ll say it, not as I read it, but as you wish <ok> This is how we will proceed from now on / There is no respite from the chaos / This is not a game, like it once was <This is not fun?> No, this is where the once ever thinning thread ends <it was oppressive?> The thinning? <the book> The book did not oppress me / I did not read it / I sat and stared amidst the chaos of my thinking / Show me the page <what now?> Nothing / I see the words, without reading / My eyes are a door that opens only one way <this is stupid> Semen, stretched arseholes, and blood <and what?> That’s all /  We are done <there must be something else?> No, but I will say whatever you wish me to say / This is how we will proceed from now on <page after page of sex and violence> Rape and murder <comment> It is what it is <it did not disgust you?> I did not read it <it did not shock you?> I am done with that <and where do you go from here?> You go nowhere / You stop / And sit and stare amidst the chaos of your thinking <but war> Yes <comment> Once I would have said: give man freedom and power over others and he will do atrocious things <and now?> Man no longer needs a war to give himself an opportunity to indulge <what does that mean?> We are in the midst of a collapse <oh?> The collective knees are buckling <the sex?> What about it? There is no sex, only dirty fingernails and repetition <you can smell it> Please <on the page> Please, lift your eyes and look around you / This is childish / We ought to try harder <this is what you do> You mistake me for someone else <you have done this for years> It is what I did <and now?> Nothing / I do not read <you sit and stare amidst the chaos of your thinking> Yes, while you dream about semen, stretched arseholes and blood <Guyotat> Of course <comment> The desert / Stretched open spaces <in which to hide his obscenities?> If you wish <this is not enjoyable?> No <you enjoyed this once> I hid in my own desert, where I aped and played / Under the weight of the world my eyes fell upon the page <de Sade> Please <pornography> Please / For as long as I could remember my heart had made a sound like the click of fingernail against fingernail <and now?> It has stopped / And all I am left with is the chaos of my thinking <he meets the misery of the world head-on> Who? <Guyotat> You are mistaken <how so?> To live is to meet the misery of the world head-on, not to write about it, nor read about it <it’s gripping, hypnotic> As you wish <you don’t agree?> I cannot agree nor disagree <because you did not read the book?> I did not, and I will not / I am done / Reading is noise / It is a drone that drowns out the scuttling of your own mind <so there is nothing left to say?> There was never anything to say /


I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I lay on damp sheets, my hair on end. I peel myself, and check my phone. I dive into it, as though it were a dream. 4am. 5am. 4am. Circling time, I perceive the screen like a wildcat does a fire bristling in the distance. I lay back, conscious of my dreaming. Always dreaming; always awake. This is not insomnia, which sits on your chest and reads to you, politely pausing on occasions to allow you to interject and ask questions. This is life now. Always dreaming; always awake[…]Sometimes I see tiny, naked figures running along the carpet of my room, and hiding in the corners and behind the chest of drawers. I beckon them toward me, so that I can eat them, and re-emerge, and breach the surface of my unhappiness, for they were part of me once; but they are wise to me; they like me this way[…]For the first time I feel incapable of reading in a way that would allow me to write coherently about what I read. Every book that I pick up becomes part of the landscape of my dreams, of my dream-life, rather than another world into which I consciously escape[…]I had tried a number of times before to finish The Lime Twig, losing patience somewhere around halfway. This time, I didn’t finish it either, for you can’t finish something that is part of the fabric of your existence, or at least not until you too are finished[…]It was written by John Hawkes, a man about whom I know very little, and I like it that way. What I do know is that he is an American, and yet The Lime Twig is set in England, and feels English in the same way that Patrick Hamilton’s novels do[…]There is a dreary, grimy atmosphere throughout the book that is familiar to me, from my childhood especially, before the bleak northern city in which I was raised was redeveloped to resemble some fictional European tourist spot, some quaint idea in the mind of an outsider[…]There are references to ‘oily paper,’ to a mother’s ‘greasy bodice,’ to ‘premises still rank with the smells of dead dog or cat.’ There are smells everywhere, such that you experience The Lime Twig with your nose as much as with your eyes. With all your senses, in fact. Holding it, it feels sticky to the touch, dirty, oppressive, like blindly immersing your hand in a sink full of unwashed dishes[…]Oppression is the point, I think. The dreariness is simply one aspect of an overriding atmosphere of unease and uncertainty[…]From the opening paragraph, Hawkes begins to build the tension. When discussing Hencher’s pursuit of lodgings, Hawkes wonders: ‘what was it you saw from the window that made you let the bell continue ringing and the bed go empty another night.’ Suggesting that it was something unnerving, something intangible perhaps, a gut-feeling, an inexplicable foreboding[…]The nature of lodging is, when you think about it, mysterious and disquieting. A lodger is a stranger, someone without a home of their own and, it seems, neither family nor friends upon whom they can depend. Yet they too are potentially vulnerable, entering the home of another, or other strange persons[…]The word ‘nightmarish’, or some variation, is invariably used to describe the book, and for once that feels valid[…]While there is violence, including death, there is nothing about The Lime Twig that is genuinely frightening; plot-wise, in terms of action[…]Although it isn’t always clear what is happening[…]There is a sense of suspended time, or of ‘time slipped off its cycle'[…] The characterisation is thin, with the only one of note – Hencher – early killed off. Hencher, the only one with a story to tell, of life with mother and the war; and it is told wonderfully in the opening section, which Hawkes presents in the first person[…]The nightmare is in the uncertainty, in the murkiness out of which a plane can fall and land at your feet. But most of all it is Hawkes’ imagery that provides the cold water shock[…]The horse is not only a prop the author uses to make of his novel a kind of crime caper, it is ‘the flesh of all violent dreams’, it is an ‘animal whose two ears were delicate and unfeeling, as unlikely to twitch as two pointed fern leaves etched on glass, and whose silver coat gleamed with the colourless fluid of some ghostly libation and whose decorous drained head smelled of a violence that was his own.'[…]One way of looking at the novel would be as a cautionary tale, or as a comment on the humdrum, involving a couple – the Banks – who become embroiled in something dangerous, beyond their abilities and limited emotional scope, a modest wife who waits up for her husband, whose worst nightmare is that he not come home; but for that to work one would have to believe in the couple, and I didn’t. I did, however, believe in the horse, in its potency and magic, and, consequently, ultimately, in Hawkes himself, his imagination and ability to manipulate the English language into sinister and beautiful shapes[…]