There is something extremely fitting about Tales of Horror being almost impossible to find (buried). The publisher will have it for you two months down the road. Amazon doesn’t have it at all. Prices for used copies soar into the ridiculous (“cash changed hands”). The Notre Dame library lists it as existing—but only in the dark, dark void between checked-out and in-circulation, that ominous, unhelpful: “Not on shelf” (“And then Nothing”). Already a number of us in class are approaching this book as an oddly elusive text, simultaneously bold and impossible to pin down.
And that feels about right. There is too much in Laura Mullen’s Tales of Horror to even brush (“cut by a knife”) in a single blog post, too many mysteries to have a final unveiling or an exorcism, too many opportunities to slip through the solid floor—so I present you instead with a salvo of my most distinct impressions.
Dangerously Genre Savvy: Horror and Sexuality/Suspense and Titillation
True story: a majority of our most enduring classic works of horror claim to be, at their hearts, love stories. Jonathan and Mina Harker’s relationship drove the plot of Dracula. Leroux’s phantom acted out of maniacal lust. Lon Chaney’s Quasimodo was such a shocking character because he was as heartbreaking as he was repulsive. Horror and love are irrevocably linked with each other in the cultural and artistic canon, no matter how you look at it. Or it might be this: horror is not linked with love so much as it is to the gestures of love—to intimacy, to sex, to sexuality “…and so, he smiled, ‘seductive,’ or ‘frightening’” (80).
Horror is all about the body, about how it may be turned into object, broken apart, put back together and most importantly, invaded. Norman Bates stabbing Marion Crane in the shower was intimate invasion; vampires have long been regarded as sex symbol as well as monster; lycanthropy is a disease, perpetrated by a penetration of the body and growing—reproducing—under the skin. Frankenstein’s monster was so abhorrent because it not only stemmed from grave robbing (invasion of the most solemn sort) but because it was a birth outside the normal reproductive cycle, an existence minus the requisite human intimacy. The term “body horror” is virtually repetitive, as there can be no true horror without a physical, human form (“corpses piling up”).
And Mullen knows this. Mullen appropriates this, plays with this, turns this on its head so that it acts out its own cliché and then surprises us anyway. Explicitly, we are told by the Doctor that the story of the house is a “love story first of all” (15), a line which will be repeated and repeated throughout the book—both in questioning (what could possibly a love story about this?) and in reaffirmation, so that we as readers become hyper aware of all possible “love” connotations, attuned to terms of intimate contact both explicit and subtle to the point where the blade through the fog, the “mouths opening all over her body” or “his open palm began its slow crawling towards me” (66) become indicators of sexuality as overtly as “those large, soft, full, white breasts” (80), until every act or image of horror takes on a tone of Victorian romance gone wrong, lust at the forefront and revenge in the wings except that, like any good mystery, we can’t be certain who has done what or who desires whom.
And this lack of knowledge—inability to move forward, to complete—is as vital to the horror genre as it is to the erotic. The monster is most frightening before we see it, the characters are most interesting when we do not know who will live, and every blind corner is another racket on the EKG. See also: love stories are only good before the characters get together, romance novels know that foreplay and titillation are more engaging that what comes after, 97.8 or something like that percent of harlequin plots boil down to “will they or won’t they.” Except Laura Mullen’s will they/won’t they is have they or haven’t they? Are they or were they? And will the floor just open up and swallow them all for before they do?
We’ll never know. Mullen does not allow us to know. The suspense goes on indefinitely, the issue (the main course, the brains, the proof, what everyone wants to say) is skirted, the sentence never ends. These ominous rumors of.
Working within the knowledge of these clichés and elements—that is, dangerously aware of the genres in which she is working—Mullen constructs a Frankenstein’s monster out of every novel moment which made us hold our breaths, the men arming themselves to mount their final assault, the footsteps in the fog before the shape is revealed, the low top of the dress which allows glimpses but fails to satisfy, the hand creeping forward to. It’s marvelous.
TL;DR: Discuss, if you’d like:
- Horror as domination, both sexual and otherwise. In what ways does power over others function in Tales of Horror?
- Other relations between horror and sexuality: i.e., why does the sexy girl always die in slasher films? In what ways does horror as a genre reinforce morality and gender roles, and in what way does Mullen interrupt or disturb these traditions?
- In what ways is Tales of Horror a stereotypical work in the gothic style? In what ways does it manipulate and deviate from this style?
- What is the ultimate effect (for you as a reader) of the lines which cannot complete themselves, the events which cannot be expressed, the story that refuses to be told? If the suspense is truly indefinite, how can it be suspense at all?
- For fun: We all have things that scare us; what was the most unsettling element/event for you in this book?
Someone in the Back: Audience, Drama, Identity
In just a few seconds I’ll get around to copious amounts of meta language which work their way into the book, but for now, here’s a slightly different element, connected rather intimately itself to both horror and a meta-awareness of textuality. I was fascinated by the figures which appeared, disappeared, and reappeared (much like ghosts themselves) in the form of the audience/the crowd throughout the book. These figures were not an audience in the direct, broken-fourth-wall sense, as if Mullen (or her characters) were pointing at us, the readers. Instead, they existed as body, a chorus, the spectators to the experiments of a mad doctor, forcing themselves bodily into the text at impossible, private moments: “He stood in the street/ watching the lighted windows go out, one by one./ There is something, he whispered to the fog, that I think you should know./ ‘A love story!’ Someone in the back row gasped in disbelief” (18) and “With one hand I waved the crowd of closely pressed onlookers back” (89) and in the seemingly crucial moment of the “she” waking: “‘It could have happened,’ a voice chimed in (too eagerly?), ‘to anyone’” (97). At any given moment the “we” is capable of bursting into a multiplicity of people—perhaps is constantly that multitude?—distorting the proportions of the room and the fragmenting the sensations of the events until they become spectacle, intensely.
Which works itself quite nicely (read as: eerily) into two other noticeable aspects of the text: the overt use of staging and dramatic terminology, and the collapse of identity and speaker. As Kim’s notes on the first pages point out, the book is brimming with clauses, lines, and silences which seem to indicate attention to the arrangement and movement of characters across a scene/space—even going so far as to state things like “Dr. Silence came on stage again” (16), the back row, the collective referred to somewhere I can’t find now as “characters” (and flimsy ones at that). The horror story, then, takes places inside another dimension, shifting from a retelling or a written account to a living body, violence enacted (re-acted) against the “real” figures, capable then of being enacted against any audience member, barely contained. This is probably why the horror play was a staple of theatre in the past, making the audience into accomplices of victims of invasion. (And yet dramatic productions are also necessarily distancing; we perceive them as production, duplication, falsehood. They are easy to distrust in a way which writing is not—that is, even the truest play is filled with actors, fakers. So, does the existence of dramatic staging and language in the text make us complicit and increase its terrifying nature—or does Mullen use this language to highlight the sensation of spectacle, of artifice, of inability to communicate directly without the need for costuming, on-stage/back stage/off-stage?)
Although this is already getting way, way too long, I don’t feel like any blog post on Tales of Horror would be complete without some mentioning of the destabilization of speaker and character identity, which stems in part of this seeming chorus, from this crowd of voices jammed into the text at any given moment. Are the italics thoughts, or a new voice? Who has the British accent? What role does the gardener really play? Are the doctor and the professor the same people? Is the speaker female, male, both? Different from section to section? Who is the girl who will not wake up in relation to those who describe her? At one point the husband is a late husband, at another he seems alive at the table. At one point it seems as if the female speaker breaks the window, but only a few pages later, it’s the male character’s hand which is bloody. And there is also (blank) to contend with. Nothing felt certain or constant to me.
This, of course, plays directly into horror conventions as well, the destabilization of the self produced as a byproduct of invasion and producing an opening for invasion, the spaces between the surety of self filled by the cacophony from the back row, the echoing ghosts. This again seems to illustrate Mullen’s command of and ability to distort the conventions of the horror/gothic form into something that suits her purpose, erecting a stage and then refusing to clarify who will play each role.
TL;DR: Discuss, if you’d like:
- What is the role of the “back row”? How the crowd which appears and disappears function in your reading of this book?
- Does the use of staging, the attention to scene, character, interlude distance you from the text? Serve as the necessary dimension to bring the violence to bear? How does this book operate as a text which attempts to be drama—not screenplay, but actors already on the stage?
- What did you make of the shifting speakers? (Or am I the only one who thought they were shifting?) What effect does the indefinite use of pronouns have on your reading? What does changing gender of speaker (actor) say about binaries in genre?
- How does the set-up of the book, featuring Overture and Interlude, operate in terms of preparing us to read this a dramatic piece?
(A Word of Explanation): Meta language
This is the very last (full) impression, I promise. And it will be short. The use of meta-language and the existence of that level of self-reflexivity are redolent in this text. I hardly have to point them out: the prologue is labeled “belated,” we get snippets like “’Connected,’ but how?” and “But there didn’t seem to be a beginning” (19), and “I sit here and spin these stories about you (and then undo them of course)” (67), so that work begins to resonate not only as a construction/narrative/poembook about an imagined event but as a work devoted to understanding the very construction of that narrative/work. The book operates out of the gothic tradition and into the gothic tradition, dissecting like an experiment on a table the methods by which clichés have been produced, how characters become stock… even going so far as to dump what seem like slush pile queries onto the page and use book reviews to alert us about the “surprise ending” (which, at least in my eyes, never came, but which should have come if this were a tale of horror).
The meta aspects of the text demand our attention almost as effectively as the horror elements themselves do, insisting that we suspend our suspension of disbelief in order to attention to things we might otherwise have let go—the characters, she insists, are shallow, and yet I did not have that thought until she provided me with it. She intentionally undermines the setting and body built and peopled for this work in order to present us (implicate us, becoming the disembodied hand reaching out to us) readers with a tongue-in-cheek break from the horror, which, in an utterly bizarre and quite stunning way actually pushed me right back into the text by highlighting the “storyteller” dimension, by teasing out the implied and understood meanings of words to materialize (and dematerialize) them, foreignize and make them ominous, calling attention to all the standard failings of language to convey everything we swear it can convey. Lovely.
Discuss, if you’d like:
- What do you make of the inability of characters to express events in writing (particularly the Pastoral Interlude)? What role does the unread yellowing paper play in the book, and why does it ultimately have to be burned?
- How did you read the meta aspects of the book?
And, last, last, last, I promise, just to make sure I’ve covered some extra bases too, more discussion questions:
- In what ways do the “proof” and “cure” language of this book work into last week’s concept of writing as the Pharmakon? How does “proof” (either dead-orphan writing or living logos speech) operate in this text? What is the “cure” here?
- Joyelle suggested that she reads this as a novella, but I read it more like a book of poetry. How do you understand this text? Is it a novella, poetry, occupying the space in-between? Something else entirely? Can this text be read as a narrative, or does it fragment itself, branch off along the web, so many times that it insists on a different reading? If it is not narrative as a whole, what is the significance of the narrative elements?
-How does repetition function in this text? I'm thinking especially of page 54 here. Lines, phrases, images and scenes are repeated over again over throughout the work. Why? In what way do these scenes act like "sites of crises"? What does the repetition say about the ability to reach a conclusion?
- What do you make of the book’s subtitle “A flip-book”? What does that suggest about how we should be reading this? For fun: This book is listed a “Choose your own adventure” in our library. What does that suggest about how we should read it?
- What do you make of the French? Did anyone try to translate any of it? If you didn’t, how do you see it working in the text? As code? As ghost-voice?
Now I’m shutting up. For real.