Thomas Ligotti

Ligotti writes very well. The best stories here are very good indeed, but like many collections of horror stories, they shouldn't all be read at once. As I proceeded into the second volume here (Grimscribe), I started to notice a sameness in the themes. Ligotti is always writing about hidden horrors, and the characters encounter them in a number of creative ways, but in the end it all amounts to the same thing. The obvious influence here is Lovecraft; however, Ligotti's writing is much more refined. Although he does like to use a wide vocabulary including some unusual words, his writing is always under control. It always has a tone that invites the reader in--but again--don't read these all in a row or your pleasure will definitely be reduced.… (mer)

(I only read half of this book, that is, all of the Songs of A Dead Dreamer section)

This is the kind of book that makes me really dislike writers. Ligotti seems like one of those guys who has spent way too much time in creative writing classrooms and workshops, reading a lot of middlebrow short fiction. I reckon that in every story I read I encountered 3 or 4 pointlessly esoteric words that could have (and should have) easily been edited out, words that the author probably wrote down in a moleskin somewhere so he could whip it out later and suss up his prose. When I first started reading this book I thought the fluffy language was an affectation of the first person narrator; I was disappointed to find that even in the third person stories there is a neckbeard-with-a-thesaurus-on-a fan-fiction-website level of purplishness. The author really seems like he can’t help himself.

The intro to the edition I read compared Ligotti to Kafka, which I had heard before and which attracted me to this book. This is a terrible comparison. Kafka is a profoundly funny writer, and Ligotti most definitely is not. Kafka mourns for the loss of humanity brought on by unconscionable systems. In this volume Ligotti offers little proof that he has ever interacted with another person. This is the profound loss of experience and inspiration that comes from finding your artistic voice through the academic and workshop pipeline - you write as a writer for other writers and not from any unique conception of reality, a conception that can only be built to satisfaction by finding something to say before your start blabbering away, pulling crossword puzzle words out of your moleskin.

I was reminded reading this of an extreme metal festival I once went to. The first couple bands I saw play were pretty cool. But after a few hours I became aware of, and exhausted by, the overbearing pressure of “genre” - these bands were so caught up in being metal that they became clownish. I started to get bored. Then one band had the gall, the brash iconoclasm to play a major chord. It felt like the roof was about to tear off to reveal god’s burning, beautiful eye placidly considering this flock of sheep play Halloween dress up. There are no major chords in this book. It’s all one twisted, cranky carnival music box that becomes a parody of itself after a while. I guess that’s always the risk when you are a “genre” writer.… (mer)