Thomas Ligotti

Life is a nightmare that leaves its mark upon you in order to prove that it is, in fact, real. And to suffer a solitary madness seems the joy of paradise when compared to the extraordinary condition in which one's own madness merely emulates that of the world.

So...Thomas friggin' Ligotti...

Damn.

I took two long months to go through this book's 31 stories, because I realized very early on that Ligotti's subject matter and narrative style were not the same as most authors. This was not a book show more to be chewed through, but instead to be consumed in small, careful bites, savouring not just each story on its own, but virtually every carefully constructed sentence.

I don't know that I'd necessarily call this horror fiction. There's absolutely horror elements strewn through here. But there's also fantasy and perhaps a touch of science fiction, with a dollop of Lovecraftian cosmic horror mixed in to add a little spice.

Honestly, if I were to tag Ligotti's particular genre as anything, I'd simply term it "weird fiction"...because it's certainly weird.

There's not necessarily a lot going on in a Ligotti story. Don't look for action, or fight scenes, or love scenes, because there are none. Instead, his stories are home to very troubled individuals who have to go through situations and come to some sort of quiet, but impactful realization. But the settings they go through these situations in is what truly makes this weird. At times, the world seems just like ours, only he may shine a light on a darkened, previously ignored corner we hadn't noticed before. Other times, you've never experienced a world like this, or a house like this, or a person like this.

"We sleep...among the shadows of another world. These are the unshapely substance inflicted upon us and the prime material to which we give the shapes of our understanding. And though we create what is seen, yet we are not the creators of its essence. Thus nightmares are born from the impress of ourselves on the life of things unknown. How terrible these forms of specter and demon when the eyes of the flesh cast light and mold the shadows which are forever around us. How much more terrible to witness their true forms roaming free upon the land, or in the most homely rooms of our houses, or frolicking through that luminous hell which in pursuit of psychic survival we have name the heavens. Then we truly waken from our sleep, but only to sleep once more and shun the nightmares which must ever return to that part of us which is hopelessly dreaming."

Through the two months of reading these strange and wonderful (and I mean "wonderful" in the truest meaning of the word...these stories are full of wonder) stories, I struggled with how to describe Ligotti's writing. His lexicon is massive, and he busts out words I've never read before...but they're always the precisely right word. Always.

But it's more than that.

There's horror authors who come at a story like a serial killer to their victim, hacking and slashing, ripping and tearing, with no thought of finesse or subtlety. Probably a Graham Masterton type.

There's horror authors who come at a story like a butcher. They're still cutting, but now there's more expertise, more finesse, but it still gets messy. But you'll end up with some prime cuts. Probably someone like Joe R. Lansdale's horror stuff, or Skipp and Spector, back when they still liked each other.

Then there's the horror author surgeons. Now there's a lot of skill involved. There's subtlety, and there's true purpose. Their cuts are precise, and there's no wasted movements. Think Stephen King, Clive Barker, or Jack Ketchum.

And then there's Ligotti. He's the Hannibal Lecter of horror authors. He's got the requisite background knowledge and skill that he doesn't need to make a single cut. He cuts by getting into your mind. He flays with the precision of the words and thoughts not only that he uses, but that he puts into your mind, where they'll ricochet like small bits of targeted shrapnel. And if he does decide to actually cut, he has the most expensive instruments. The sharpest. And the steadiest hand. And when he cuts, he'll leave you forever changed. The scars won't be visible, but they'll always be felt.

That's what his writing is like. These stories, this author, are not to be read. These stories are to be experienced.

Behind the scenes of life lurks something pernicious that makes a nightmare of our world. show less

Ligotti's first story in his first collection is "The Frolic," features a serial killer who seems to have supernatural abilities. Yet, in contrast to most psychopaths, real-world and fictional, he has no sense of grandiosity but an awareness of his own insignificance. Conspiracy reminds me of that story, in that Ligotti sets out to slay every illusion that one might hold about life, about mankind, about the universe, yet seems to realize the futility of this mission. A fascinating work of show more disillusionment. show less

This is one of those books that makes me feel dumb. And I mean that in the best way.

Thomas Ligotti is a deep thinker, and he's very good at pulling together disparate strings of thought into one incredibly cohesive whole. His fiction is unlike anyone else I've ever read, and it's something I come back to time and again, because it's just that good.

There's authors out there that I enjoy. There's authors out there I revere. And then, there's a very, very small group of authors out there that I show more wish I could write like, but know I'll never be able to. Ligotti is pretty much at the top of that list.

In this tour de force essay, Ligotti lays out his argument against humanity continuing, why life is a futile endeavour, and why consciousness is both indefinable and a scourge to humanity.

It's bleak as hell, and compelling as hell. I've always enjoyed a bleak point of view, I find it fascinating. I'm a pessimist, and I'm far too cynical for my own good, but Ligotti makes me look like...I don't know, the love child of Tony Robbins and Richard Simmons, maybe?

I listened to the audiobook of this, but halfway through, I ordered a hard copy of it, because I know it's something I'm going to want to come back and study in more depth.

Because I know I didn't pick up even half of what Ligotti is laying down.

Because this is one of those books that makes me feel dumb. show less

(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 show more 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. show less