Mark Fisher is difficult to pin down as a writer. He is best known as a political philosopher, or perhaps some appreciate him more for his ontological musings. But for me, Fisher is first and foremost a hipster blogger. To be clear, I don't mean to be dismissive of Fisher with that label, I only mean that he is consistently at his best when he is pontificating on the complex minutia of some niche piece of media.
Of his published works, 'Ghosts of My Life' is probably the strongest example of his impassioned, even panicked, musings on some cultural fixture only vaguely acknowledged outside of specific subcultures. It would be easy, then, to reduce 'The Weird and The Eerie' to a continuation of Fisher's meandering essay style from 'Ghosts of My Life' or his blog 'K-Punk'. In many ways that reduction might be accurate, but 'The Weird and The Eerie' is unique in its stylistic and philosophical marriage to Freud's essay on 'The Uncanny'. Where 'Ghosts of My Life' was self indulgent enough to thoroughly explore all the parameters of Fisher's fixations, 'The Weird and The Eerie' is altogether more restrained. It focuses resolutely on its titular subject matter, often at the expense of any other political or ontological analysis.
Where Fisher's 'Capitalist Realism' was about the political supplanting the psychological, and 'Ghosts of My Life' was about the ontological supplanting the political, then 'The Weird and The Eerie' returns its attention to the psychological with a singular focus that feels distinctly out of character. Unfortunately, this is to its detriment. While the book isn't without insights, many of the essays feel dispassionate, a truly fatal blow for an author who's greatest strength is his almost disproportionate passion for what he writes about. His definitions of the titular 'weird' and 'eerie' are compelling and will likely stick with me, but this is likely the one Fisher book I will never return to.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
4.75
I feel ill equipped to properly reflect on this novel in any way that would do justice to the enormity of its contents. The novel seems to so expertly reflect on cruelty that it is often nearly cruel itself. Its scope is massive, yet its most memorable moments always focus on that which is most minuscule, often shifting its language from something distinctly modern, to something dreamlike, and then to that of a Jewish fable as the characters' emotional states require. The book's narration often adopts the language of antisemitism and other bigotry to illustrate how its characters are being perceived by others and how its characters might be viewing themselves. This is often done to great and terrible effect, but there were points in which the novel felt needlessly unkind and condescending towards its female characters. The Last of the Just attempts to tap into the great lineage of Jewish writing with a religiosity and humanism that is both timeless and distinctly of its moment in history. Whether or not it succeeds isn't for me to say, but I can say it brought me to tears at various points throughout.
If you're looking into William Joseph Martin's (formerly known as Poppy Z. Brite) notorious queer splatterhouse opus, then you likely already have some sense of what you're getting into with this one. Its indulgences in sexuality and gratuitous violence is genuinely difficult to read, and I almost gave up on the book multiple times right up to the last few pages.
Exquisite Corpse lacks the campy revelry, magical realism, or self conscious introspection that marks most of the splatterhouse lit that is actually worth reading. Instead it ambitiously attempts to grapple with the cruel confluenceof queerness and violence that became the dominant culural narrative for gay men in the eighties and nineties. Most characters in the book are HIV positive and nearly all of them have received, witnessed, or inflicted grotesque violence by the end of the book.
This willfully tasteless literary construction might've amounted to something genuinely compelling if it hadn't undermined itself by depicting its serial killer characters as romantically powerful and hyper inteligent super villains. For all of the literary talent on display, which is by no means meager, the end result feels juvenile in its romanticization of serial killers. The monstrous characters would have better served the the book's emotional and thematic needs, no matter how sweetly nihilistic they might be, if they had been allowed to be altogether more pathetic than enticing.
Junji Ito's earlier works, while occasionally rough around the edges, really illuminate how enduring his talent for unsettling stories is. These early stories lack a lot of the otherworldly or "eldritch" horror that characterizes much of his most recognizable work, instead evoking the quality of uniquely twisted urban legends. Still, Ito's mastery of pathos, body horror, and ecstatic madness, along with his penchant for young moralistic heroes trying to withstand a world of nihilistic horrors, gives this collection a quality that is uniquely his.
This is a book about intimacy. About who we keep at arms length and who we let get close, and how that closeness fulfills, hurts, and changes us into something new. About how the myriad of social interactions and perspectives mapped onto the membrane of society are refracted through our own diverse neurology and traumas. In typical Porpentine fashion, these themes are explored using grotesque, violent, and frequently sexual imagery, but she always manages to extract something hopeful and even kind from the ensuing gore.
Freud often has moments of genuine insight, only to undermine them by making bizarre leaps in logic in order to relate everything back to his seemingly endless fixation on genitals. My favorite examples from this particular essay are that men find the notion of losing their eyes uncanny because they fear the loss of their testicles, and that people find being being buried alive uncanny because of a repressed desire to return to the womb. Incredible stuff!
Still, Freud's description of the almost recursive relationship between the canny and uncanny is genuinely quite brilliant, and his attempts at defining something so ephemeral as "uncanny fear" are thought provoking, if not quite as convincingly universal as he might hope.
Said's Orientalism is an enduringly relevant and compassionate work, with a writing style that is equal parts dense and charming. Said's wit and academic integrity allow him to engage with his subjects both compassionately and ruthlessly, often critiquing their lack of academic rigor and artistic merit as much as their racism. My only complaint is that the thoroughness and breadth of Said's evidence can sometimes bring the book's pacing to a crawl. This book is mandatory reading for any study of post-colonialism or humanism.
"One cheats himself as a human being, if one has respect only for the style of high culture".
With reverent seriousness and a wink and a nod to academic rigor, Sontag charmingly lays out her treatise on Camp. She acknowledges as she does so, that by attempting to define the sensibility, she is flattening or "betraying" it somehow. But what is camp if not the flattening of all things into revelatory artifice? Truly a delightful read.