The Ways of the Bookish
Ray Russell, Rosalie Parker, Mark Valentine and myself, St. John the Evangelist Church, Langcliffe, North Yorkshire (picture by Jo Valentine)
One of my godsons mentioned to me today that I had not posted anything in a while. My feeble excuse was that I had been working on something for weeks, not sure at all what to do with it (and in fact, I may never post it.) But Christian did have a point: if you have a blog, there is some expectation that you will occasionally post something on it.
I thought I might write about the latest literary rabbit trail I have run down. It all begins with Arthur Machen, of course. I was aware of him for a number of years—but in the same way as so many other authors that I have never read. This began to change with my exposure to Darkly Bright Press, the publishing venture of my now friend Christopher Tompkins. Machen was a prolific writer, on the same scale as Chesterton, I would think. Christopher posts a new piece of Machenalia every week, and publishes about a book a year from Machen’s oeuvre. If interested, a good place to start would be his latest offering , Mist and Mystery (available at the website and Eighth Day Books.)
With Christopher and his lovely wife, Shary, recently in Wichita.
Why the sudden interest in this author? From the Friends of Arthur Machen website there is this:
Machen's fiction reveals a man who was at war with the stifling scientific materialism which was the dominant world-view of his time, and this is echoed in his non-fiction works, which include literary criticism, cultural history, and spiritual polemic, all of which justify his memory as 'the apostle of wonder'.
That sums it up about as well as anything I could say.
In short order, I was an enthusiastic member of FOAM. And through my correspondence with the society, I made the acquaintance of Ray Russell and Mark Valentine, who are, I think, two of the very pillars of the group. Both are quite exceptional authors in their own right, in the genre of “weird fiction,” for lack a better phrase. I am currently working my way through their collections of short stories and novellas. So many of them remain absolutely haunting in my memory. Both Mark and Ray have been avidly collecting books since their teens, which makes their reminiscences of books and bookmen some of the most fascinating reading around.
Ray and his partner Rosalie Parker own Tartarus Press, based in a remote village in North Yorkshire. Rosalie, I might add, is also an accomplished writer in this genre. Perhaps due to her, I may never trek across the Yorkshire Moors again without an occasional glance back over my shoulder! The Tartarus Press publications are fine, collectible volumes that will take pride of place on your shelves.
As I was going to be in North Yorkshire for five nights last July, we made plans to meet up. This turned out to be one of the most enjoyable days of my entire five weeks of travel. Ray and Ros and Mark and his wife Jo met my friend Mark and I at the “Ye Old Naked Man” in Settle, a busy market town on the south edge of the Moors. The conversation flowed as if we had always known each other.
Afterwards, they led us for about a mile and a half along a secluded pathway up into the village of Langcliffe, as I listened to talk of Denton Welch, Jocelyn Brooke, and Roger Dobson, among others. We ended our walk at the idyllic Church of St. John the Evangelist. Mark and Ray, among other talents, also know where all the used book stalls are located. This church has a permanent used book store on its west end. People donate and others come in and browse, and leave some money behind on the honor system. I picked up an Eliot and a Swinbourne. Before we left, they pointed out the bright green cloth covering the altar. It seems that back in the 1940s, Lord Halifax, onetime governor of India, was visiting a parishioner during one of their fundraising campaigns. He donated his dressing gown to be fashioned into the new altar cloth.
We ambled back down into Settle, where down a narrow alley, they led us into Mr. B’s Curiosity Shop, a junk store with a few shelves of books. At that shop, I believe it was Ray who put a battered first edition of Walter J. C. Murray’s Copsford in my hands as something I should definitely purchase. He was right. From there we stopped in a garden for tea and cake, as it was about 3:00 pm. Before we split up and went our separate ways, we walked over to the carpark, where Mark pulled five or six of his books out of the boot of his car for me. These two gracious couples represent the very best of England, in my view. When I return, I hope I can repay their hospitality.
Digging deeper, I discovered Mark and Ray also published the journal Wormwoodiana, dedicated to alternative literature, as well as neglected and over-looked works and authors. This publication ended earlier this year, but the Wormwoodiana blog continues on. I recently read through their blog entries back to 2009, compiling a list of books and authors I want to pursue. I have particularly enjoyed two of them I have read in recent weeks.
The first is These Charming People by Michael Arlen (1924). In one story, Major Hugo Cypress was applying for a position in Iraq. His interviewer was Major-General Sir Tobias “Tornado Toby” Blast.
“Sit down, Major.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sir Toby poised pencil over paper,
“Education?”
“None, sir.”
“Where were you educated?”
“Nowhere, sir.”
“Idiot. Where were you at school?”
“Eton, sir.”
“Shake,” said Sir Toby.
They shook.
“What qualifications for this job in Iraq? Think before you answer.
“Thank you, sir.”
Hugo thought.
“Can’t think of any, sir,” he said at last.
“Languages? French?”
“Very guarded, sir.”
“Can you live on your pay?”
“Live on anything, sir.”
“Hum! Any private means?”
“Very private, sir. Never seen them.”
“How d’you live in London, then?”
“Pretty well, sir.”
Another new favorite is I’ll Tell You Everything, by J. B. Priestley and Gerald Bullett (1933). The protagonist, Simon, has come to believe his life may be in danger, which leads him to Mr. Mantis’ gun shop and an interchange with someone behind the counter he mistakes for Mr. Mantis.
“Now may I take it that you want an instrument for the purpose of shooting?
“Of course. What else could I want a revolver for?”
“Ah, a revolver. Pardon me, sir, you said a pistol; and though a revolver is a pistol, a pistol is not necessarily a revolver. May I ask what sort of object you intend to shoot?”
“Oh, just people, you know,” said Simon. “Men and women.”
“Quite, quite!” said Mr. Mantis. His eyes shone. “It’s a pleasure to hear of the old sports being revived…I have the very thing for you…It’s a pretty little dueling pistol, sir, originally of French invention, but now manufactured in America. For the rough and tumble of an Officers’ Mess, for a Hunt Supper or a Literary Party, I would recommend a somewhat heavier weapon. But for ordinary drawing-room use you can’t do better than have a Reville Carter…She’ll pick you off a Baptist minister as nicely and neatly as heart could wish.”
“But—why a Baptist minister?” asked Simon.
“Why not?” said Mr. Mantis simply.
In light of the gun-craziness of contemporary American culture, this is black humor indeed. Additionally, the book contains a hilarious takedown of Owen Mosley’s fascists, dubbed the “Britishers.”
I’m not sure where this rabbit trail will eventually take me, but I am enjoying the journey so far.