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Praised by Peter Straub for going "furthest out on the sheerest, least sheltered narrative precipice," Brian Evenson is the author of ten books of fiction. He has been a finalist for the Edgar Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, and the World Fantasy Award, and the winner of the International Horror Guild Award, and the American Library Association's award for Best Horror Novel. Fugue State was named one of Time Out New York's Best Books of 2009. The recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship and three O. Henry Prizes, including one for the title story in "Windeye," Evenson lives in Providence, Rhode Island, where he directs Brown University's Literary Arts Department.
188 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2010
Against the far wall, beside the one entrance to a tunnel, was a figure. Bernt went toward it, shining his flashlight. It was a body: an old woman, slight of frame, wearing old and frayed clothes. She had been dead a long time. Her skin had been eaten away, her eyes were gone.Uncharacteristically I was listening to music as I read this second-to-last story in Evenson's collection Windeye. I find that reading while listening to music is usually ill-advised but on rare occasions literature and music do intersect in my consciousness to great success. In this case the band Ritual Howls happened to fit Evenson's tale 'Grottor' like a tight black glove. As I slowly meted out my last few minutes with Windeye I allowed myself to sink even deeper into its word tank with the aid of this aural darkness surrounding me.
"Who is it?" Bernt asked.
"Who's what?" asked Grottor. "That? Don't worry about that, that's nothing."
"How can a body be nothing?"
"When it no longer holds a person," said Grottor flatly. "Then it's nothing."
And even though there was so much else that remained uncertain, so much that remained unclear in his mind, all his anxiety quickly found itself adhering to this issue: was it a baby or was it a doll? Or had there even been anything at all? You may never know, claimed the therapist, in one of her rare, unhelpful moments of utterance. This, of course, he knew was true, but he knew it well before she stated it. Was this what he was really paying her for, to spend most of an hour saying nothing and then offer a brief statement that didn't seem even to have the benefit of being gnomic or mysterious or deep, a statement that was merely obvious?And finally 'South of the Beast', which could perhaps serve as a visceral metaphor for Evenson's writing process:
South of the beast he pored through the bodies, searching for occasions where, in the membrane still integumented between flesh and bone, language had become caught and not yet worked free of a corpse. In one body, he found a fluster of wronged syntax, knotted in the cartilage of the knee; in another, the slick pulse of a word, that, at a touch, split apart and grew cold before he could swallow it. He could feel the words leaking from his own body as well, and he himself grown faint and speechless, a dark grammar weeping from his side.This collection is one of the best story collections I've read in years. Evenson's command of language and the micro-worlds he creates is absolute. He concocts a viscous blend of horror with noir, gothic, the surreal, the absurd, and the folkloric. It's pitch-perfect in its presentation: entry into his environments is immediate and all-consuming. There wasn't a single story here that didn't work for me at least on some level. It's so rare to find that, and the much more frequent alternative I encounter is frustrating enough that I often find myself taking a break from short story collections altogether. Thankfully every once in a while I come across one like this that restores my faith.
