Thomas Ligotti

(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

Ligotti hooked me through his philosophical treatise The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. HIs pure pessimistic-nihilism intrigued me: it is better not to exist at all, consciousness is not a gift but pain.

The stories in this collection are an embodiment of this philosophy, often extending it to its highest conclusion.

Of all the stories, the one that captivated me most was the one with the bungalow. Ligotti captures the feeling of loneliness and isolation terrifyingly well, focusing not show more just on the concept of being truly alone but also at the pure annihilating aspect of it on the psyche.

The final story with Grossvogel is another standout. His thesis: there’s an underlying shadow in the world that must be experienced through the body. This shadow not just permeates through everything, it also destroys any and all meaning that dares to come near it. Ultimately, there’s no light, no hope, no dreams, just pure, black nonexistence. And isn’t that sweet? The joy of not existing at all.

I hope Ligotti produces even more stories, but the next time around, please skip the Lovecraftian language. It feels derivative rather than nostalgic at this point. It’s also a chore to read. show less

Ligotti is primarily an author of supernatural horror. In this book of philosophy he reveals his ideas and sources about the necessity of horror that consciousness brings about. That is, horror comes from consciousness, making our awareness not a benefit but a detriment; a conspiracy against us.

In search of this conspiracy, Ligotti finds himself enamored by an obscure pessimistic philosopher, Peter Wessel Zapffe, and spends much of the early portions of this book expanding the ideas Zappfe show more laid out in "The Last Messiah". Later Ligotti branches out to other philosophers, mystics, and neuroscientists to round out many of the claims that he treats axiomatically in this work.

One of my first criticisms of this work is that consciousness is presented as a human exceptionalism, limited to only homo sapiens. Plenty of research continually suggests otherwise. This does little to deter the arguments put forth in this book, as conscious life is deemed a horror, and thus would only expand the horror.

Ligotti advocates for a pessimistic totality, often celebrating philosophers who took their own lives. While many philosophers, mystical systems, and scientists treat such nihilism as a starting point, Ligotti doesn't want to hear it. Pessimism is alpha and omega here, and any attempts to deviate are a heresy.

This leads to perhaps a more robust criticism of this work. While Ligotti certainly understands many of the works he cites, his treatment of any deviation from this full-tilt rocket into the abyss shows an inability to engage with or present counter arguments to anything outside of such dogma. Schopenhauer's Will-to-Live and mystical concepts of ego-death are mocked and simplistically dismissed, yet never engaged with, among others.

In a philosophical work I would be much more critical about such an error, however, Ligotti readily admits that he is not a trained philosopher, and that this is more of his version of Lovecraft's "Supernatural Horror in Literature". The last chapter reveals this method quite well as various literary devices are explained via the concepts presented earlier in the book, with a focus on supernatural horror as a guiding genre. The way Ligotti weaves philosophy into storytelling is a great example of just how highbrow horror can be.

The Conspiracy Against the Human Race also functions well as an overview of pessimistic philosophy and related currents. At times this becomes redundant, but this is due to Ligotti deftly showing the relationship between disparate paradigms and consistently reinforcing the arguments that he starts the book with. Same abysmal destination, many rockets to choose from. The only real choice available in this book is the decision to hang around this planet much longer or catch a ride. show less

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