I don’t write vampire stories, and I probably never will. I could argue at length that the whole vampire thing’s been done to death, only to proved wrong by a magnificent piece of contemporary fiction. I’ll leave it to others to decide. I do, however, write stories of revenants, my Returned, who are darker than most vampires and seriously lacking in capes or erotic dread. As I sold one of these stories, A Stranger Passing Through, to an anthology the other week, here’s a taster from another part of the sequence, purely for fun:
the seven, of assyrian legend
You ask what we are. We are crippled children, vomited from our graves – sick, secretive and self-destructive. This is how it has always been, since long before crosses and crescents, or the pointless spattering of holy water.
They say that Assyria was at its height when the first of us came forth. We are liars, though, and I suspect that the tale was invented to make us sound more grand. Each of us returns to the world alone, in darkness and ignorance, filthy and half-mad. Try making that sound romantic.
This isn’t a fiction of Gothic clans, or fancy societies and ancient blood-lines. I could no more ‘sire’ another one of the Returned than I could give birth to a horse. It’s a doom, a punishment, whatever you want to call it, and we bear it on our own. It’s not a way of starting a new family and settling down with kids.
Are we all as monstrous as the ones I broke that night in Chelsea? Not quite. Some take their minds down other paths, quiet exercises in futility. I know a Catholic priest, Father Michael, who’s been Returned since the seventeenth century. Every thirty or so years he finds a small, godforsaken parish and does the Lord’s work until he’s been there too long, or until he runs out of ways in which to feed without causing serious harm.
Father Michael clings to his theories of redemption. That this is our Purgatory, and we must live with what we are until we find release. I remember sipping a good brandy and watching him across the dining-room table, many years ago. County Sligo, a broken-down parochial house. He’d just taken Evening Mass. I told him that I didn’t believe in Purgatory, the Day of Judgement or the Easter Bunny.
“Then maybe you need belief, of some sort. Maybe that’s what will free you.”
“It hasn’t done much for you,” I said, which was unkind.
“Not yet.” He poured me another brandy, unruffled. “But the Lord is patient.”
Father Michael is still waiting for his God to notice him.
And then there’s Lucas. Lucas was borderline, on the edge of total shut-down, when he found colour. And apparently I had to hear all about it. Spring, 1969, it must have been, because he was still living in the hotel at King’s Cross. One of those hotels where he was the only actual resident, and the other rooms saw ten or more occupants a day, scoring, screwing, stabbing. It was a symphony of curses and banging doors, the sound of flesh on flesh and broken springs.
I had kept up with him because he’d saved me from serious damage towards the end of the Second World War. It’s a long story, for another time, but because of that incident, I called on him whenever I was in London for a while. I was growing more reserved, more distant from my kind. He was travelling inwards in a different way. Obsessive compulsive, they might call it now.
I kicked my way past the prostitutes and the dealers, found the lift broken again, and took the stairs. Lucas was waiting for me, his door already open. He ushered me in without a word. His single room had been converted into a sort of bed-sitter. You could sleep and sit in it, certainly, but not much else. Lucas waited, expectant. His narrow lips were tugged into a smile, wrinkling up his face. He’d not been young when he was Returned.
“Well?” he asked.
The room was blue. Which is to say, everything in it was blue, every single thing. The walls had been painted a pale, morning sky colour, but at the edges they merged into a summer blue, more intense. He had taken a rickety wash-stand and painted that in shades of turquoise, while a desk and chair were indigo and ultramarine. I could identify twenty, maybe thirty shades of blue without even having to squint.
“What is it? You’ve taken up interior decorating?”
“No.” His smile widened. “I’ve found the point of it all, don’t you see? If it’s all blue, then it’s right. That’s how I put it right, see? I take an apple, and it’s all yellow and red and messed up, but if I paint it blue, then it’s OK.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “So, how come you’re not wearing blue clothes, Lucas?”
He looked ashamed. “I’m not ready. I have to start on the outside, then move in towards me. I’m painting the corridor, over the next week, so the room is like a centre-piece for the whole floor. I’ve spoken to the owners.”
The owners. A filthy middle-aged couple who took their cut from the deals that went on up there and only washed the linen when it stood up on its own. They lived in the basement, in conditions worse than the rooms they rented out. What would they care?
“Nice.” I didn’t need to say much, because he filled up the next two hours with a non-stop lecture on the harmony of the colours, and how he couldn’t walk the pavements outside without blue leather shoes which had their soles painted… blue. If he’d been in Santa Monica or somewhere like that, he could have become Professor of Hippy Madness. In London he was just eccentric.
He was obsessional, no doubt about that. We ate fried potatoes, dyed blue before cooking, blue eggs, blue everything. The food dye went everywhere, and not all the paint around the room was properly dry. I watched his stained fingers as we ate. I remembered those fingers tearing open a man’s rib-cage, scattering innards across a field in France. A red day, not a blue one.
“I’m aiming for green next, maybe in a year or two,” he shared with me.
“That might make meals easier.” Nothing had tasted bad, but there was something wrong about a plateful of blue food. At least next time I would be able to enjoy the salad. Lucas nodded, lost in his colours and his dreams.
As far as I know, he’s still there. One day I’ll find out which part of the rainbow he’s up to.
You can feel better now that you know the truth. Or you can feel worse. It doesn’t much matter to me. If there is a Heaven, it doesn’t want us. If there is a Hell, it cannot hold us.
We are Returned.
####
Coming up next, our mid-week medley. That’ll be mid-week, probably.
The Gothic, the fantastic, the strange and the supernatural. These are our hunting grounds, and so it’s a pleasure to be interviewing Brian J Showers of Swan River Press today. An Irish publishing house, Swan River Press was founded by Brian in 2003, and boasts a wonderful range of classic and contemporary works in these fields.
Before we go over to our guest, we were browsing the Swan River Press list and noticed mention of Dorothy Macardle (a fascinating woman in her own right and an Irish author). This interested us because in 1941 she wrote a novel called Uneasy Freehold which was later adapted into a film called The Uninvited (1944) starring Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey.
Not only is this a great classic ghost film, but it was nominated for an Academy Award, and a few years ago it was chosen by Guillermo del Toro as one of his six favourite ‘fright flicks’. Here’s the trailer:
To add one of our regular trivia offerings, did you know that the lead screenplay writer for The Uninvited was none other than Dodie Smith – the author of I Capture the Castle and 101 Dalmatians? Bet you didn’t.
Swan River Press are planning an edition of stories by Macardle which have supernatural or mythic elements, reprinting her collection Earth-bound for the first time in many years, along with four additional tales, still under the Earth-bound title.
original cover (courtesy tartarus press web-site)
We quite fancy having a look at that, which should be out soon. For now we must crack on with our interview and stop getting diverted. Let’s hear from Brian J Showers…
greydog: Brian, many thanks for joining us. As a bit of scene setting, we should point out that you’re from Wisconsin originally, and yet you seem to have immersed yourself in Dublin and in Irish literature. What is it about the Irish and their literary tradition which drew you in so deep?
brian: There’s no doubt about it: Ireland’s contributions to genre and world literature are myriad and substantial, but I’m not certain there’s a “tradition” per se, at least where genre is concerned, as one would be hard pressed to find literary pedigrees between Stoker and Dunsany, or Maturin and Mervyn Wall; they all took inspiration from different sources, and in turn influenced disparate strands of literature (as opposed to being links in a chain). Of course I’m probably completely overthinking the question. I suppose I’m drawn to Irish literature simply because I landed in Ireland all those years back, and I was lucky enough that a big pile of books by Irish authors broke my fall. There are a lot of resources available to me here in Dublin—in the archives and libraries and even walking the city’s streets—and much I can explore first hand, so why not?
swan river press
greydog: Although you yourself write (about which more later), let’s talk about Swan River Press, which you founded. You made a deliberate decision to produce high-quality limited editions, finely bound—we believe that you even tried your hand at bookbinding yourself. Does this stem from a love of old-style volumes which have that tactile and visual appeal all of their own?
brian: I decided to publish high-quality hardbacks because that’s what I like reading. Apart from enjoying a good story, the haptic experience of reading is something I deeply appreciate. The weight of a book, the thickness and texture of its pages, even the volume’s dimensions and width of its margins—it all informs the reading experience. I buy a lot of small press books as well, like Tartarus Press and Egaeus Press. Anyone who has read their books will have familiarity with this experience. Since starting Swan River I’ve become very sensitive to book production values, and that contemporary mass market paper rankles my fingertips!
Perhaps this is all just a personal preference, but I will say this: I’ve read M.R. James’s “A Warning to the Curious” numerous times in modern paperback editions, but I once had the pleasure of reading this familiar tale in a first edition copy, and not far from Aldeburgh where the story is set. The experience was profound. Like I’d never read it before. It was the same story, yes, the same words, but somehow reading it that time and in that edition was . . . well, it was unique. The font, the ragged-cut pages, the typesetting—it made the story fresh again. I hope some day someone will pick up a Swan River Press edition and experience a similar sort of excitement.
greydog: Your authors range from those long gone to contemporary writers. Was that the intention right from the start, or did the idea of showcasing contemporary authors such as Reggie Oliver, John Reppion and Rosalie Parker come later?
brian: When I first started publishing, I think it was mainly because I wanted to work with other authors—which would kind of imply they’re still alive, right? It’s important to showcase contemporary writers and it’s something I’d like to do more of. If it’s to be of any value, then genre literature must continue to evolve and develop, authors must be allowed to showcase the fruits of their imaginative labours, and it’s the duty of publishers to ensure that’s possible.
The other side of that coin is seeking out and reprinting the lost and forgotten, which has its own challenges. Being an Irish publisher—and the only publisher in Ireland to specialise in literature of the fantastic—I also feel it’s my job to represent Irish writers, both living and dead, as best I can. So I’ve got these three impulses influencing my publishing choices. Given that I only publish five or six books per year, it can be a struggle to get a good mix each year. But I try.
greydog: And of the classic writers, whose works were you most pleased about being able to offer?
brian: Of course I’m proud of them all for various reasons. When I choose to publish a book, classic or otherwise, it’s because I’ve a genuine passion for it and would like to share it with others. I got a lot of good feedback on Mervyn Wall’s The Unfortunate Fursey, which was a real treat to publish. It’s a novel that had been in print on-and-off over the decades and already commanded a dedicated cult readership, so it was a privilege to connect a few more people with Wall’s masterpiece of satirical fantasy.
I was also proud to republish a lost Le Fanu novella, “The Fatal Bride”, in Reminiscences of a Bachelor, which hadn’t seen the light of day since 1848. We revived it just in time for his 200th birth anniversary in 2014. And then in issue six of The Green Book I ran a short story by Bram Stoker that I’d discovered while mucking about in the archives—it turned out to be his second ever published story, a ghost story no less, and had been previously unknown to scholars. Moments like that make everything worth it.
greydog: Your journal, The Green Book, is produced twice a year and was praised by editor Ellen Datlow. It contains articles on Irish Gothic, supernatural and fantastic literature. Would you describe it as an easily accessible journal, or is it more for those with scholarly inclinations?
brian: The Green Book is meant to be smart, but accessible; scholarly, but readable. It’s very much modelled on Tartarus Press’s excellent journal Wormwood, edited by Mark Valentine. I suppose I started The Green Book so as to have a venue in which to print those bits and pieces I’ve come across over the years that I couldn’t otherwise incorporate into a book, but felt deserved exposure anyway. Like that lost Bram Stoker ghost story I mentioned above or playwright Christine Longford’s long out-of-print introduction to the Penguin edition of Uncle Silas. I also wanted a place in which to publish thoughts and explorations by others, like Steve Gronert Ellerhof’s essay on Ray Bradbury’s sojourn in Ireland and Nicola Gordon Bowe’s portrait of Lord Dunsany as a collector. Although The Green Book might come off as a fairly niche sounding publication, I’m happy at the variety we’ve accomplished over the years, and I hope it continues for many more.
greydog:You’re currently collaborating with Liberties Press to publish Uncertainties: Twenty-Two Strange Tales. How did this come about? Is it your first collaborative venture with another publisher?
brian: I’ve worked with other publishers as a writer before, but, yeah, on this level I believe it’s the first time I have collaborated with another publisher in this way; as an editor, but with quite a bit of freedom to shape the project how I’d like it. Essentially Liberties are the publisher here, and I commissioned stories from authors who have worked with Swan River in the past—and some who haven’t, but who I’ve been wanting to work with anyway. Uncertainties presented a marvellous excuse to do that.
The goal is to maybe find a new audience for Swan River authors, while Liberties can deliver to their readers the types of stories you don’t normally find on the shelves here in Ireland. John Connolly wrote the introduction (which was very good of him) and he makes the astute observation that Ireland was once a powerhouse contributor to the canon of the literary uncanny—we’re talking Melmoth, Dracula, Uncle Silas, Dorian Gray—but for one reason or another we’ve not done a whole lot since the early twentieth century. Certainly the scene here pales to the thriving small press communities in the UK or Canada. Anyway, I’m excited to see how the book is received—I hope people like it.
the dublin ghost story festival, by alisdair wood
greydog: Swan River has also announced the Dublin Ghost Story Festival, which is to take place on 19-21 August 2016. Adam Nevill is Guest of Honour and John Connolly is Master of Ceremonies. What can attendees look forward to there?
brian: They can look forward to a great time! I feel like we’re hosting a party or something. Mainly I found I really enjoyed going to the UK to attend conventions like World Horror or Fantasycon. I meet such great people there, I come home with a pile of wonderful books, brimming with ideas. I’d always wanted an excuse to lure all those people to Dublin, which is a great city to visit. I mean, it makes a lot of sense to host a ghost story festival here too, especially given the city’s connection to genre literature. But what can attendees look forward to? We’re hoping to keep the emphasis on the social—we want to give people the time to talk about and celebrate the literature that brings us together. We’ll have panel discussions, a dealers’ room, a performance of M.R. James’s ghost stories by Robert Lloyd Parry, a good few pints of Guinness, and I’ll be giving tours of the city’s darker corners. What could go wrong? You should come along!
greydog: We’d love to – but writing is a harsh mistress when it comes to time. We should move on to Brian J. Showers the writer next, but first we’ll mention that a big chunk of greydogtales has been in honour of William Hope Hodgson, who influenced our own fiction. Hodgson of course set The House on the Borderland in a remote part of western Ireland. Are we right that you’re an enthusiast of his work?
brian: I love The House on the Borderland. Absolutely love it. I collect editions of it as well. Although Hope Hodgson was English, and wrote the novel in Wales, I like to think of it as the great Irish novel. Tongue in cheek, of course. I suspect Hodgson just needed an exotic setting, like Transylvania, though unlike Stoker he’d actually visited the location where he was to set his most famous fiction. I know some people don’t like the second half of the narrative, where the Recluse has that fabulous cosmic vision that would give Stanley Kubrick a run for his money, but I think it’s a remarkable imaginative achievement. And the attack of the swine-things—why hadn’t someone turned this into a mind-bending cult film long ago? The book holds a real magic for me, and I give it a re-read on occasion. One of these days Swan River Press will publish an edition too. It’ll be a real indulgence, an extravagant affair, one of these days . . .
rathmines, circa 1910
greydog: Your books The Bleeding Horse and Old Albert are both set in Rathmines, a part of old Dublin and one not known to us. Maybe you could say something about the fascination of the area, and why you chose it as a setting.
brian: Both The Bleeding Horse and Old Albert are comprised of a series of linked supernatural tales, all set in the same south Dublin neighbourhood. The stories—all fiction, mind—combine history, geography, folklore, and the uncanny; I’m always pleased to hear that people enjoy them. The Bleeding Horse won the Children of the Night Award in 2008, which is pretty cool too. My interest in Rathmines is pretty simple—it’s where I live. Naturally I wrote about it. It’s where I landed when I first came to Dublin, and it’s where I still live today. I was drawn to the history of the neighbourhood, the long stretch of brooding Georgian terraces along the main road, the back mews, the decaying flats—all presided over by the giant green dome of St. Mary’s Church and further down the road the red-brick clock tower of the Rathmines Town Hall clock. To be honest, my official response to your question was to write those two books. I’ve a few more stories about Rathmines I’d like to tell. I’ll get to them eventually.
greydog:You’ve also edited a collection of essays on Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. What in particular interests you about Le Fanu?
brian: That would be Reflections in a Glass Darkly published by Hippocampus Press in 2012, which I co-edited with Gary Crawford and Jim Rockhill. I’m proud to say the book was nominated for a Stoker award too; our intent was to assemble the definitive Le Fanu sourcebook, compiling all the primary sources we tend to refer to ourselves time and again—now all in one place. Le Fanu, for me, is like a neighbour. He lives down the block from me. He’s an author who has grown increasingly familiar to me over the years—hell, I live down the road from where he’s buried and on certain Sundays clear his grave of weeds.
As a writer, I’m drawn to that sense of melancholy and inexorable doom found in so many of his stories.“Green Tea”drew me in, but there’s plenty more to explore, and even re-reads prove fresh. I’ve heard commented frequently enough how absolutely modern some of his stories feel, and I think that’s true. It’s a pity he’s not taken more seriously as even a minor Irish author. The Irish Arts Council are now resident in his house on Merrion Square, but I get the impression they’re not too bothered about him. Anyone who visits Dublin should really make the effort to visit Chapelizod. Find yourself a nice place in the Phoenix Park just near the churchyard wall and read “The Village Bully”. The geographical details described in the story are still there, and you can watch the climax of Le Fanu’s tale unfold before your eyes.
greydog: Dublin’s actually on our touring list – our editor-in-chief is very fond of Ireland, having been a number of times. While you’re here, feel free to share anything coming from Swan River Press this year – or do you have more fiction of your own in the pipeline?
brian: I’m sat here answering these questions in a pub in Rathmines, just across the road from St. Mary’s College, where Old Albert is set. Were the music quieter, I’m sure I could hear the clock tower tolling away the hours. Sadly, I’m not moved to write any more of my own stories—at least not just yet. In another window I’m copy-editing Fritz Leiber’s The Pale Brown Thing, which I’ve had planned for publication for a while now—I’m happy to announce here that it’ll be our next book after Dorothy Macardle’s Earth-Bound.
For those who don’t know, The Pale Brown Thing is an early version of Leiber’s classic and World Fantasy Award-winning novel Our Lady of Darkness. Leiber apparently regarded both versions as “the same story told at different times”, the way one might recollect memories with variation—and in his afterword, John Howard explains why he thinks the two texts should happily exist side by side, each worthy of exploration. The Swan River Press edition is notable not only because it will be the first time The Pale Brown Thing has been reprinted since 1977, but also for the foreword by the Californian poet Donald Sidney-Fryer.
Donald knew Fritz when the latter had moved to San Francisco and was writing Pale Brown Thing/Our Lady. Why is that so exciting? Those already familiar with various aspects of Leiber lore will know that not only is The Pale Brown Thing semi-autobiographical, but Leiber also worked into the narrative thinly disguised versions of his friends. Donald Sidney-Fryer, who is now in his eighties, appears as one of the novel’s most memorable characters: the flamboyant decadent Jaimie Donaldus Byers.
sidney-fryer
greydog: Strange that you should mention Donald Sidney-Fryer. Only a few days ago we posted a piece about plans for a biographic film on Clark Ashton Smith, and he has apparently been a key source for that project (see the emperor of dreams).
brian: It’s a real privilege to correspond with Sidney-Fryer (who signs his letters to me “Donaldo”) while preparing this book. It’s been worth it for that experience alone. It’ll be a great book for sure.
greydog: Being serious Leiber fans, we look forward to it – we’ve never actually read The Pale Brown Thing. But for now we must thank you for sparing so much time, and let you get back to work.
brian: Right, that’s me. I’m going to close the lid on my computer and have another pint before they toss me out. Wish me safe home. I’m fairly certain the Blackberry Man is still lurking somewhere out there.
####
Nervous listeners may be reassured to know that Brian returned safely, and his endeavours continue. You can find out lots more about Swan River Press at their own website. Indulge yourselves – and don’t forget to look out for the Uncertainties collection, due out in June.
Come back with us in time, dear listener, to a very special moment. Picture, if you will, two attractive, light-hearted people, very much in love and determined to do good in the world. Now forget that. Burn the picture. Replace it with an eccentric Yorkshire drunk who works in a pub and a tough Sarf London girl who has just finished university. Add the fact that they aren’t exactly going out, and are constantly arguing, and you have today’s True Story…
the author’s pantry, circa 1979. every cask contains the same essential food group.
Note: This may be seen as a cautionary tale of two inexperienced people doing it wrong, or a heart-warming story. We do NOT recommend it as a set of dog rescue guidelines.
So, it is 1979 (probably). She who is now our editor-in-chief finds this dog wandering the streets. It is a sad dog, a Staffordshire bull terrier who looks very lost. It has a name and a phone number on its tag. It is called Rocko. Obviously, after consultation, we call the number. Again and again. There is never any reply. The police can get no further than we can, and we’re pretty much pre-chip or database times here. Days later, no Rocko or similar Staffy has been reported missing, and no-one we ask can think of anything helpful.
We are stuck. We have never rescued a dog before. We don’t know where Rocko came from, and we don’t want the dog to be put down. We’ve been told the dog pounds may go down that road. Thirty plus years into the future, of course, we will have lots of options – shelters and rescue organisations we can trust. But we are young, so we try to look after the poor soul.
Rocko is soft. This is the sort of dog who looks at you apologetically if you tread on its paw by accident. The aggressive urges of a lump of plasticine. And Rocko is a she. We call her Rufus, because we do not like the name Rocko. Then we find that our editor cannot have dogs in her bedsit, due to an arsy landlord. Fortunately, the rest of the team (your not-as-drunk-as-he-used to-be author) is temporarily living in a disused room at the university when not assisting Tetleys Brewery in their life=beer mission. As we are not really supposed to be there, Rufus might as well not be there at the same time.
not rufus, but the nearest we could find
Rufus is delighted to have a new home (single room piled high with books and old crates). She is walked, well-fed and cuddled. She has teeth which can bite through a tin of dog-food – and do – but never gives so much as a nip to people. She is lovely. Dogs need company, so we don’t want her on her own too often. So one day, because of work shifts, sunspots or something else we completely forget now, Rufus is sent to stay with a mutual friend who has some spare time and access to a bit of grassy wasteland. During this time she wanders off, causing panic, but soon toddles back, and is overjoyed to be re-united with us.
We realise that she needs a proper home. So we take her to some parents far away from where we live, parents who do not know that they have always wanted a dog. They certainly don’t know that they have always wanted a large hungry Staffordshire bull terrier with a boy’s name and a girl’s parts.
After a certain amount of sarcasm, Rufus is housed by the sea with people who are there all the time. A perfect ending. Except for the fact that Rufus turns out to be not only pregnant (thanks to that grassy wasteland expedition) but very heavily pregnant. Parental sarcasm gets close to boiling point, but is survived.
Rocko who is Rufus is now Rusty, as a certain mother refuses to call a pregnant Staffordshire Rufus. A large litter of confusing pups is born. Some look Staffie-ish, some look more like golden retrievers. Amazingly, these are all farmed out to various other sarcastic relatives, and at last Rusty is comfy at home. She becomes a basking seal who occupies the sofa every day and is doted over by that certain mother. Rusty is always delighted to see us when we head coast-wards, and lives to a ripe old age. Actual perfect ending – in the end.
So what’s this got to do with lurchers and longdogs? Hang in there. Many years later, with another old dog at home but a bit worn out, editor-in-chief goes to Battersea Dogs’ Home and struggles back up north with a young, utterly bonkers dog found roaming the streets of London.
It has clearly been damaged by some horrible experience(s), and is rather hostile to anyone except the immediate family. By hostile, we mean a tendency to bite people’s calf muscles when alarmed, by the way, not merely bad-tempered. To the family, this little bundle of legs is loyalty exemplified, and like Rocko/Rufus/Rusty, is hugely affectionate, with never even the hint of a nip to our young son.
the late and adored lunatic jade, our very first lurcher
It is, yes, a lurcher. It is also definitely a she, and she is Jade. Spayed this time, thank goodness. Although she’s gone now, again at an advanced age, we loved her very much and she is one of the reasons why this site is called greydogtales. And she began our deep affection for lurchers. So there.
Next time: The obvious feature to follow this one – an interview with the owner of Swan River Press, Ireland’s only publisher of Gothic, fantastic and supernatural fiction…
Clark Ashton Smith was not a lurcher. And this post was supposed to be about our horde of little donkeys, but we came across something which needed a mention at the right time. Which is around now. As great enthusiasts of Smith’s weird fiction, we spotted plans by film-maker Darin Coelho Spring to make the very first biographical film covering Smith’s life and work. What a good idea, we thought. So in the hope of drumming up support, we invited Darin to call in and say a few words.
We should have an introduction to Smith himself first, but we’ll keep it short, because the best thing to do is to read his works, many of which are available new or second-hand.
Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961) was born in California, self-educated, and by the age of seventeen was already selling stories to magazines. He was very well-read and a prolific writer of both poetry and prose. His influences varied from Lord Dunsany to Helena Blavatsky (co-founder of the Theosophical Society) and the Arabian Nights, and as a result he produced many truly original stories of lost worlds, tales of lands which never were, which also echo legends of Atlantis and pre-history.
Some of his more sorcerous tales might be said to foreshadow the Dying Earth series of Jack Vance. The language and names he used were rich and poetic, evoking matters on the edge of comprehension, and yet his stories remain surprisingly accessible as well.
arkham house collection
Our own favourite is his land of Averoigne, less fantastical than the others but just as eerie, which has the feel of medieval France with its dark forests and isolated taverns. We’ve talked before about our love for stories like The Colossus of Ylourgne (see twelve tales which linger). Here’s an Averoigne tale on audio from Ghastly Tales, for you to get the feel.
One notable aspect of his career is that from 1933 to 1936, Smith, Robert E Howard and H P Lovecraft were the leaders of the Weird Tales school of fiction and corresponded frequently, which lead to Smith participating in what Lovecraft playfully called “yog-sothothery”. Others later coined the term Cthulhu Mythos to cover this branch of weird fiction.
Smith died in 1961 after a series of strokes, leaving behind him not only his writing but also a considerable amount of art. His ashes were scattered in his home town of Auburn, California. Not Auburn, East Riding of Yorkshire, the drowned village besides which we run the longdogs, but we like the connection.
Enough of that. Let’s turn to Darin to talk about the film he’s making…
greydog: Hi Darin, and welcome to greydogtales. We know that you’re in the middle of filming and running your campaign, so we’ll stick to a few quick questions to bring people up to speed. Firstly, why Clark Ashton Smith? What drew you so strongly to his story?
darin: One reason is my close proximity to Auburn, where Smith was born and spent most of his life. I was raised and still live in Placerville, California, which is about 45 minutes from Auburn. They are sort of sister cities and both historic Gold Rush towns. I only found Smith’s writing a few years ago and was pleasantly surprised that a pivotal figure in the field of fantastic literature was from my general area. As soon as I started reading his work, I was immediately drawn in by his unique vision and style. That he is poet, fantasist and outsider artist is just a winning combination in my book!
necronomicon press
greydog: We’re not experts in the various possible approaches which can be used in biographical films. Do you intend to treat Ashton’s life in a linear fashion, era by era?
darin: The film will mostly follow his life in linear fashion but with digressions.
donald sidney-fryer
greydog: To what extent is Donald Sidney-Fryer, who met Smith, edited volumes of his poetry and wrote a biography of Smith, The Emperor of Dreams, involved in the project?
darin: Donald is interviewed extensively in the film, reads some poetry and appears in historical CAS locations. He was also instrumental in supplying me with contacts, information and books. He really has been immensely helpful and giving of his time.
greydog:Tell us something about the other people you’re interviewing for the film.
darin: I went to Harlan Ellison’s house to interview him. What an experience! He really thinks highly of Smith’s prose style but is “too hard hearted” for poetry. I went to Seattle to interview S.T. Joshi and Wilum Pugmire. Joshi is obviously a great interview subject as he has edited numerous Smith editions and gotten him into Penguin Classics. He also provided important material relating to Smith’s relationship with H.P. Lovecraft.
I really wanted to meet and interview Wilum Pugmire because when I first sought information on Smith there was nothing on Youtube except Wilum’s wonderful videos. I love those videos and got to appear in one after a night of no sleep. I interviewed the young Weird poets K.A. Opperman (Kyle) and Ashley Dioses to show Smith’s continuing legacy and influence. I will also be interviewing Ron Hilger, Scott Connors, Jack Foley and Bill Dorman.
cas swamp feeder sculpture
greydog: His use of language was extraordinary, he wrote an enormous amount of poetry and over a hundred pieces of short fiction. He also painted, and produced some fascinating sculptures. Will you be reflecting on his actual output, or concentrating primarily on life events?
darin: Yes, I will spend a lot of time on his created worlds and individual works. “The Hashish-Eater” and “The City of the Singing Flame” will receive special attention. I have also filmed some artwork and sculptures and have scanned 70 photos so far.
arkham collection with cas sculptures on cover
greydog: The Weird Tales triumvirate of Clark Ashton Smith, H P Lovecraft and Robert E Howard never met, and only E Hoffman Price, to our knowledge, ever met all three of them. HPL might be seen as the letter-writing glue which held the circle together. To what extent do you explore these relationships in the film?
darin: I find his 15 year friendship and correspondence with H.P. Lovecraft fascinating and important; I plan on highlighting it in the film. Their poems in dedication to each other are moving.
greydog: And as a final bit of curiosity, Smith spent most of his life in his home town of Auburn. For our many listeners who will know nothing of the place, is there anything in the nature of Auburn or that area which is reflected in Smith’s work?
darin: Auburn and the foothills of Northern California are reflected in some important Smith tales. “Genius Loci” and “The Devotee of Evil” take place in or near Auburn. “The Devotee of Evil” even makes reference to a famous Auburn murder. “The City of the Singing Flame” takes place on Crater Ridge in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, which is now a ski resort!
Many of his poems have a poignant relation to place but, unlike Lovecraft, Smith didn’t celebrate or mythologize his hometown. He really was an outsider and many times wished to not only leave Auburn but leave the U.S. In a letter to R.H. Barlow he stated “I could never live in any modern city, and am more an ‘outsider’ than HPL. His ‘outsideness’ was principally in regard to time-period; mine is one of space, too.”
greydog: Thanks for talking to us, and we wish you all the best in getting the film together. We’re looking forward to it.
darin: Thanks for spreading the word!
If you want to know more and to support Darin’s project, then do go and have a look at it on Indiegogo and check out the rewards you can win as a backer.
We also note that the spoken word label Cadabra is putting out a limited edition release of Clark Ashton Smith’s poetry, so this seems a good time to mention it.
Clark Ashton Smith Inferno Cover
On June 3, the label will release “Inferno”, which will feature Smith’s horror poetry, with in-depth liner notes written by scholar S. T. Joshi and artwork by Cadabra founder Jonathan Dennison. This EP apparently marks the first time any of Smith’s poetry has been released on audio.
And here’s a closing treat – another from Ghastly Tales, the classic (non-Averoigne) story The Abominations of Yondo, narrated again by Martin Yates.
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We’re done, and need lurcher time. Back in a couple of days or so with more weirdities from all over the place. Don’t forget to subscribe if you want to be warned when the lurchers turn up, or keep your head down when it gets scary here…
