May 9, 2013
Winter Semester 2013: The Books I Read

Here’s a list of all the books I read from January to April 2013, organized by author/editor’s surname.

César Aira: An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter
Algernon Blackwood: Best Ghost Stories of Algernon Blackwood
Robert Bloch: Dragons and Nightmares
Gilles Boulenger: John Carpenter: The Prince of Darkness
Ray Bradbury: Something Wicked This Way Comes
Judith Butler: Gender Trouble
James M. Cain: The Root of His Evil
Ramsey Campbell: The Doll Who Ate His Mother
Truman Capote: The Grass Harp
Anne Carson: Autobiography of Red
Louis-Ferdinand Céline: Journey to the End of the Night
John Clute: The Darkening Garden: A Short Lexicon of Horror
Mark Z. Danielewski: House of Leaves
Jacques Derrida: The Gift of Death and Literature in Secret
Jacques Derrida: The Animal That Therefore I Am
Jacques Derrida: Genres, Genealogies, Genres, and Genius: The Secrets of the Archive
Philip K. Dick: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Fyodor Dostoyevsky: The Gambler
Jack Ketchum: Off Season
Stephen King: Skeleton Crew
Stephen King: Insomnia
Stephen King: Under the Dome
Arthur Machen: The Great God Pan
Richard Matheson: A Stir of Echoes
Charles Maturin: Melmoth the Wanderer
Herman Melville: Billy Budd, Sailor
Frank Norris: McTeague
Sylvia Plath: Ariel
Edgar Allan Poe: Selected Writings of Edgar Allan Poe
Eden Robinson: Blood Sports
Marcel Schwob: The Book of Monelle
Tim Underwood & Chuck Miller (eds.): Fear Itself: The Horror Fiction of Stephen King
Tim Underwood & Chuck Miller (eds.): Feast of Fear: Conversations with Stephen King
Matthew Vollmer: Inscriptions for Headstones
Horace Walpole: The Castle of Otranto

May 6, 2013
Transverse Engine

This is magic realism in a Honda civic and the driver’s eyes are segmented like an insect’s. He quotes pop literature, perceives new colours, chain smokes cigarillos. He cruises rising crenellations of concrete hell, puffs grape smoke through the holes in his cheeks. We forget the goons in the back, ageless deadbeats who pass the test with designer clothes. They’re passing joints, they’re smoking hash, they’re packing the bong, they’re silent like a nuclear bomb. We navigate the voids of unseen avenues, we scoff at the abject and we ponder substance dualism. Someone says Daddy choked me with a skip rope when I was a kid and that’s why I’m lonely, that’s why I’m angry, that’s why I smoke, but nobody hears him. The station changes on its own accord, jumping from static to static, spectres of glitch pop and audio snow. We throw sizzling butts at a sick-faced vampire thumbing for a ride, we shower him in sparks, we laugh, we smoke avarice, we burn endless fuel. We’ve got five years left and ain’t it a shame, five years left and the gauge keeps dipping from “F” to “E.”

April 22, 2013
My 10 Favorite Horror Novels/Novellas

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Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin (1820)

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Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (1818)

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House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski (2000)

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The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen (1894)

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It by Stephen King (1986)

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The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka (1915)

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The Turn of the Screw
by Henry James (1898)


The Obscene Bird of Night by José Donoso (1970)


Dracula by Bram Stoker (1897)


The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson (1886)

Honorable Mentions: The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe, At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft, The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

April 9, 2013
Phantasm

Fuck, I say, fuck, the chainsaw is out of oil and the chain seizes and the saw won’t work without the chain, and the thing, the threat, is on the other side of the room, or maybe outside the house, or maybe closer than I think, hovering over the desk that’s become my bunker and the thing is an archetype, the savagery of collective unconscious, all aberration and bad intent, and the fucking chainsaw is out of oil, and a door opens, or maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me, maybe, just maybe it’s someone coming to help, or maybe it’s the thing exhaling air that smells like a morgue, dragging impossibly long limbs along the floorboards, scraping fingernails along the door, and I drop the chainsaw because the fucking thing is out of oil and I dash across the room like a squirrel dodging BB shots, because there’s something in the room with me, and I wish I had asked someone to join me, I wish this sabbatical was a populated place, I wish there was somewhere to go, because I can hear it dragging, I can see the shadow, I can hear the breathing, I’ve been here before, I’ve yelled at the screen, I’ve closed the book…

April 3, 2013
Open Call For Submissions

infraread:

Submit poetry, prose, and everything in between to us. We will publish it on our blog.

We look forward to hearing from you.

-The Inframantics

March 28, 2013
Discount Shrine

A song reserved for
headache sifting
in thrift store dust.
Political stage dress,
the sneezing smell of
drum machine overdose.
The floundering slurs
of semantic oppression,
a half-priced candidate
splatters the aisle to
leave a lasting mark.

March 24, 2013
Jacques Derrida Seminar Entry #7: The Work of Mourning (Sarah Kofman)

“At first I did not know—and I in fact still do not know—what title to give to these words.

What is the gift of a title?

I even had the fleeting suspicion that such a gift would be somewhat indecent: it would imply the violent selection of a perspective, an abusive interpretative framing or narcissistic reappropriation, a conspicuous signature there where it is Sarah Kofman …”
Jacques Derrida, The Work of Mourning

Here, in the introduction of his memorial piece for Sarah Kofman, Derrida already reaches an incredible aporia. He acknowledges that the existence of a title is innately laden with the (im)position of its author. In this piece, and elsewhere throughout the collection, Derrida grapples with the impossibility of mourning. How can the written word be, in fact, for the other, to the other?

Through his decision to efface the necessity of a title, Derrida aims to make the subject, Sarah Kofman, the centre of the piece. Nevertheless, he still encounters (and struggles with) the expansive distance that is established through written language. While he writes compassionately and fondly of Kofman, he cannot breach the paralyzing restrictions of personal inscription.

That is, although he makes a specific effort to sidestep “the violent selection of a perspective,” the entirety of his memorial essay is inevitably imbued with that very thing: the calculated and impossible encoding of perspective.

March 22, 2013
Tenement Echoes

It’s the way he smokes, you know? On these nights, more often than not, we’ll go without speaking. We’ll remember those terrible halls, and we’ll remember superstition and the backsides of mirrors. We’ll look at parking lots cluttered with the dormant body of a population ascending and we’ll wonder just how the fuck it went so far. And he’ll keep chasing the light, a verse in slow burn, and for a moment that bead of ember will just hover in space. And then it’ll drop, flick, spark, and blink out. And sometimes there’ll be a rabbit down there and for a moment, just a moment, I’ll look at it looking at me. And I’ll really see it looking at me, and I’ll wonder what it’s like down there, low on the ground between the boots of corporate dread. And we’ll know that there was a time, or maybe a moment, or maybe an imagined gap, when we could wax poetic while slogging through absent reminders of the written word. And maybe he’ll mention this image he saw in a film once, or an image from a story his father told him, where three guys sat at the back of a room under a neon sign that said “(A)basement Turned Heavenward.” And we’ll laugh because really, when it comes down to it, even the saddest meditations are bullshit. And he’ll take a final drag, always the deepest, and we’ll trap ambition in a dark room with sleeping gas.    

March 18, 2013

My reading of “Medusa” by Tomas Boudreau

(Source: ssemblage)

March 18, 2013
Jacques Derrida Seminar Entry #6: Derrida - “I don’t know why we are doing this”

“What is ‘living with the animal’? What is ‘cohabiting’ with the animal? That is the question of mitgehen and mitexistieren. The animal can mitgehen with is in the house; a cat, for example, which is often said to be a narcissistic animal, can inhabit the same place as us, it can ‘go with us,’ ‘walk with us,’ it can be ‘with us’ in the house, live ‘with us,’ but ‘it doesn’t exist with us’ in the house.” —Jacques Derrida, “I don’t know why we are doing this” from The Animal That Therefore I Am

Here, I think Derrida taps into the line of reasoning that leads to the justification of human violence and brutality against animals. Although we are aware of animals as tangible, visible, and present (to an extent), we are susceptible to an ancient and perpetuated notion of the animal as nonexistent in a “human” context.

I believe this connects with a Cartesian perception of the human as “above” her world, as transcendent, as utterly separate from his environment. While the animal is believed to be immanently connected with nature and the natural world, the human is graced with the privilege of extracting from that world. Paradoxically, however, the human can justify brutal means of extraction by virtue of Darwinian logic. In other words, we have the right to slaughter to excess because it is the “natural” way of things.

In other words, the animal cannot “be” in the same way that the human can be, because it is imprisoned by its status as an element of the natural environment. Nevertheless, the human’s self-proclaimed transcendence can be validated by Darwin’s “survival of the fittest” theory.

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