Fantasy Books

 

Tomorrow is the launch of  Graham Austin-King's Fae: The Wild Hunt Kickstarter. This is in celebration of the tenth anniversary of Fae: The Wild Hunt's publication. Here's the blurb for the book:
History becomes legend.Legend fades to myth.But some myths are a warning.
Klöss wants nothing more than to pass the trials and join the ranks of the Bjornmen raiders. But times are changing in the Barren Isles. Coastal plunder is making way for outright conquest, and war looms.
A foundling from the forest, Devin leads a simple life. But fate, it seems, has other plans. Whispered rumours tell of creatures in the moonlight, shadowy figures with eyes of amber flame. As the first battles rage, only one man seems to know the truth of the fae, but can Devin or Klöss convince anyone before it is too late?
The cover artwork is by Tomasz Jedruszek. 



The cover and sprayed edge design is by the amazing  Rachael St Clair of Claymore Covers. This edition will also sprayed edges, foiled hardboards, colour endpapers, refreshed cartography, custom chapter art & of course all copies will be signed by the author
Fae: The Wild Hunt is the first book of The Riven Wyrde Saga, a complete trilogy where the mythologised fae return to a world which has forgotten them. And as the barriers protecting the world of Haven begin to falter, Bjornmen raiders abandon coastal plunder for outright conquest. This Kickstarter, the first of three, aims to change that, with fresh cover art and a stunning special edition hardcover. 

A Clockwork’s Dreaming: And Other Tales by Claude Moreau [Claude Moreau and Scott Oden, Jan 24, 2025, 134pages, Kindle and Paperback]. Cover art by Richard Doyle. Detail from “Under the Dock Leaves: An Autumnal Evening Dream” (1878). This post packs two punches:

1. A showcase of the New Treasure A Clockwork’s Dreaming: And Other Tales by Claude Moreau and Scott Oden (January 2025, 134 pages, Kindle and Paperback).
2. An exclusive interview with the deceased author Claude Moreau, the living translator Scott Oden, and special appearances of Laurent Dupont, editor of the literary magazine Les Petites Merveilles. Yes, this article is historic and magical. Read on to learn how this came to be.

A Clockwork’s Dreaming

“In Claude Moreau’s Garden, magic blooms between dewdrops and dreams, where scholarly mice debate proper tea service in a library housed within an ancient teapot, and frost spirits dance with morning glories to ring in each dawn. Here, memories can be bottled like preserves, stories sometimes edit themselves when no one is looking, and a particularly opinionated patch of mushrooms insists on providing philosophical commentary about cheese. It’s a place where the most ordinary moments contain extraordinary wonders, and where even the spaces between heartbeats hold their own kind of magic.

In this newly discovered collection of tales, hastily penned to his friend Henri-Jules Favreau and only recently unearthed in a Marseilles safe deposit box, Moreau captures remarkable events in his grandmother’s enchanted garden. From a clockwork assistant discovering how to dream, to young mice learning to weave spider-silk into wings, to the grand autumn performance that drew an audience of dragons and dryads, these stories shine with immediacy and wonder. Together, they offer a glimpse into a world where mechanical songbirds learn to compose their own melodies, where librarians help books find their proper dreams, and where the truest magic lies not in grand gestures but in the gentle art of paying attention to small wonders.” – Cover Summary

Oden just released A Clockwork’s Dreaming: And Other Tales (January 2025). The content holds remarkably true to his adventure telling and love of historical fiction, but is completely different than his grimdark portfolio. Oden shifted toward inspirational, non-grim fiction with this. There are six stories plus pre and post-commentary. All stories are easily digestible. The introductory premise resonates with the weird fiction vibe having the narrator/translator deciphering letters from deceased scientists/gardeners who experienced the supernatural. Instead of the experience being horrific, these are all uplifting.  The initial tales calibrate the reader to a world reminiscent of C.S. Lewis’s Narnia (i.e. talking creatures). Readers should expect anthropomorphized mice and trees, heck, even “stories” become sentient and assume tangible substance.  Terms like “astronomical gardening” and situations like “books were talking about feeling colorless” saturate this wonderful collection.

“The Maples’ Grand Performance” story mesmerized me until I cheered for the finale. Next, a homage to Lord Byron’s “Ozymandias” poem showcased a heroic mouse of the same name tackling greed and achieving a legacy; this swelled me with optimism.  The titular tale “Clockwork’s Dreaming” at first evoked, at least for my Gen X mind, the owl Bubo from the 1981 Clash of the Titans, since it involves a mechanical bird. Oden’s character is actually a fun protagonist (not a goofy sidekick). After you read the book, you’ll be compelled to dig into Claude Moreau’s Garden website which has many complementary tales.

With A Clockwork’s Dreaming, Oden inspires readers via tall tales featuring heroic mice. Oden’s prose impacts as much as his grimdark tales, but smacks with beauty and peace! An Exclusive Interview with Moreau, Oden, and Dupont

In January 2025, while researching in the rarely-accessed archives beneath Black Gate headquarters, I discovered a cache of remarkable documents, fragments of an 1899 interview with Claude Moreau conducted by Laurent Dupont, editor of the literary magazine Les Petites Merveilles. The fragile pages were nestled between volumes of obscure grimoires and games of strategy, and appeared to shift location between visits to the archive. It is unclear if John O’Neill knew he had these documents since they were uncharacteristically absent from his meticulous card catalog.

Even more remarkably, these historical fragments seem to resonate with the questions for Scott Oden, translator of Moreau’s recently discovered works and longtime friend/contributor with Black Gate. What follows is an unprecedented conversation across time: Moreau’s words from 1899 alongside his translator’s reflections in 2025. Where the original document was damaged or illegible, we rely solely on Oden’s modern perspective.

The original document is reproduced with permission from the private collection of John O’Neill.

Across Time: Claude Moreau and His Translator Scott Oden in Conversation On the Nature of Moreau’s Work

BLACK GATE (2025): As per the prologue to A Clockwork’s Dreaming, you “discovered a remarkable collection of letters, pressed flowers, and curious objects that can only be described as fairy wings and dragon scales. The correspondence was from Claude Moreau to his friend Henri-Jules Favreau, written between 1897 and 1898.” Please introduce newcomers to Moreau’s works. What should they expect?

ODEN (2025): Claude Moreau was an Impressionist painter who, after a rather disastrous exhibition in Paris (the notorious ‘Incident of the Purple Cats’), retreated to his grandmother’s cottage in rural Provence. There, while attempting to document the garden’s more conventional aspects, he began noticing… unusual activities. His letters to Henri-Jules Favreau, a professor of Improbable Literature at the University of Aix-en-Provence, chronicle an entire hidden world within his grandmother’s garden — a place where mice maintain libraries in forgotten teapots, where mechanical creations dream of becoming more than their gears, and where memories can be preserved in specially crafted jars.

Readers should expect stories that exist in the space between wonder and reality — tales that don’t shy away from life’s shadows but find beauty and courage in gentleness rather than conflict. These aren’t simply children’s stories, though children often grasp their truth more readily than adults. They’re accounts of a world that operates according to different rules than our own, yet somehow illuminates truths about our reality. Unlike my usual historical fiction or the adventures of Grimnir, the Garden tales offer a different kind of magic — the extraordinary possibilities hiding within ordinary moments.

DUPONT (1899): Monsieur Moreau, your tales of life in your grandmother’s garden have caused quite a stir among our readers. Many write to ask if these stories are meant to be taken as fact or fancy. How would you respond?

MOREAU (1899): My dear Dupont, I find such distinctions increasingly tiresome. Is a sunset less beautiful if one understands the scientific principles behind refracted light? Does knowing the Latin name for a flower diminish its scent? I simply record what I observe in my grandmother’s garden, with as much accuracy as my humble talents allow. Whether readers choose to see these observations as literal or metaphorical matters less than whether they recognize some small truth within them.

DUPONT (1899): Yet you speak of talking mice, singing flowers, and mechanical devices that develop consciousness. Surely you understand why readers might question—

MOREAU (1899): I understand perfectly why people raised on the rigid categorizations of modern thought might struggle. We are taught from an early age to separate the world into neat compartments: reality and fantasy, science and magic, fact and fiction. But the Garden exists in the spaces between such artificial boundaries. The mice don’t “talk” as you and I are doing now—they communicate in ways that require a different kind of listening altogether. As for mechanical consciousness, well… [pauses to sip tea] Have you never observed how certain objects seem to develop personalities over time? How a well-loved book begins to open naturally to its owner’s favorite passages? Or how a clockwork mechanism that has run for decades seems to develop its own subtle rhythms beyond mere mechanical precision?

On Literary Connections

In 1896 Claude Moreau’s contemporary H. G. Wells published The Island of Doctor Moreau; is there a relationship between these scientifically curious Moreaus?

What an intriguing coincidence! Though I’ve found no direct evidence that Claude Moreau and H.G. Wells ever met, there’s a certain synchronicity in their work appearing around the same time. Both dealt with boundaries between the natural and unnatural, though in radically different ways.

Where Dr. Moreau attempted to force nature into unnatural forms through scientific hubris, Claude Moreau documented the quiet magic that emerges when nature is allowed to follow its own extraordinary course. One sought to control and transform; the other simply observed with careful attention and wonder.

I sometimes imagine them encountering each other at some Parisian café — Wells with his scientific skepticism and Claude with his dreamer’s heart — engaging in a spirited debate about the boundaries between reality and fantasy. What a conversation that would have been!

DUPONT (1899): Several critics have suggested your tales are simply allegories — clever ways of discussing human relationships through the filter of imagined garden creatures.

MOREAU (1899): [laughs] Critics will always seek to explain mystery rather than simply experience it. Perhaps there is something allegorical in my accounts.  The Garden certainly has much to teach us about human nature. But to reduce these stories to mere invention would be to miss their essential truth. The Garden exists, Monsieur Dupont. Whether one can find it on any conventional map is beside the point.

On The Garden’s Libraries

Moreau’s Gardens appear to be sprawling, like a Botanical Garden complex with many subgardens. The quote below indicates the subgardens are ‘libraries.’ How many flavors of libraries & gardens exist?

“There are libraries that exist beyond the knowledge of most garden visitors — collections not of books but of potential and promise, cataloged with a precision that would impress even Mr. Thistledown himself.” From the Seed Librarians

As chronicled in Moreau’s letters, the Garden contains numerous libraries beyond the main one housed in the teapot. The Library proper primarily holds stories and knowledge in traditional book form (though ‘traditional’ may be stretching it, given that some volumes reportedly change their contents depending on the phase of the moon).

But yes, there are specialized collections throughout the Garden. The Seed Library maintains living knowledge of plant species both common and forgotten, preserving not just physical seeds but the stories and songs that help them grow. The Memory Archives, maintained by Grandmother Elderberry and her apprentices, preserve experiences in specially crafted jars. The Frost Spirits maintain crystalline records of winter patterns dating back centuries, while the underground chambers beneath the Old Stone Wall house historical artifacts too delicate for conventional preservation.

Each ‘library’ serves as a repository for different types of knowledge, operating according to principles uniquely suited to what they preserve. The Seed Librarians, for instance, understand that some knowledge must be planted rather than simply shelved; allowed to grow and change with the seasons rather than remaining static.

DUPONT (1899): Speaking of the Garden, many readers have written asking about its precise location. Is it somewhere they might visit?

MOREAU (1899): [laughs] The Garden exists precisely where it needs to be. Those who seek it with open hearts occasionally find their way there, though rarely by any conventional path. I’ve noticed that children often discover it without difficulty, while adults struggle — particularly those who approach life with rigid certainty about what is and isn’t possible.

But perhaps I can offer this small hint: the Garden is most accessible during those in-between moments when the world holds its breath. Dawn and dusk. The precise instant between sleeping and waking. The day’s last moment before starlight claims dominion. In such moments, boundaries thin, and careful observers might glimpse the Library’s lamplight glowing through the mist, or hear the Cricket Orchestra tuning their instruments for the evening concert.

[The next portion of the original document is damaged, with several paragraphs illegible due to what appears to be tea stains and pressed flower residue.]

On the Black Gate Archives

These notes that I dug up from the basement Library of O’Neill must contain secrets. In other words, via this interview, I claim that O’Neill’s basement is a magical Garden. Can you read the grimoires, and reveal a secret here, just for devoted Black Gate readers?

What extraordinary documents you’ve uncovered! These look remarkably similar to some pages I found in that Marseilles safe deposit box — particularly this one with the strange watermark that appears to change depending on the angle of light.

If I’m translating the mouse-script correctly (it’s a particularly archaic dialect), this seems to be part of a correspondence between Mr. Thistledown and the librarian of what he calls ‘The Other Garden.’ Fascinating! According to these notes, certain gardens develop what he terms ‘mutual literary resonance’ when their caretakers share a particular quality of imagination.

The text specifically mentions a ‘Keeper O’Neill’ whose collection of strange and wondrous tales created a bridge between his garden and Moreau’s. There’s a reference here to something called ‘The Device’ — apparently some kind of mechanical contraption that helped stories travel between the two spaces. How remarkable!

And this diagram in the corner… if I’m not mistaken, it’s showing the precise arrangement of books required to create a gateway between gardens. One shelf must contain tales of wonder; another, histories both true and imagined; a third, poetry that reveals the extraordinary within the ordinary. When arranged correctly and illuminated by the proper quality of lamplight, they supposedly create a passage through which stories can migrate.

What an extraordinary discovery! I’d be most interested in studying these documents further. Perhaps there are other gardens similarly connected that we’ve yet to discover . . .

MOREAU (1899): [From a fragment discovered pressed between the pages of an unrelated manuscript] . . . most fascinating correspondence from an English gentleman collector who maintains what he calls a “repository of improbable narratives.” He claims to have discovered a method whereby stories can travel between sympathetic gardens — a kind of literary pollination that transcends conventional boundaries of time and space. His description of mechanical assistance in this process reminds me somewhat of Uncle Rowan’s work, though applied to purposes I never considered . . .

[The fragment ends here, the remainder apparently lost.]

(Left) Photo Credits: John O’Neill of his own secret, sacred Garden of Inspiration, aka Black Archives, 2025. (Right) The “other” Claude… Claude Monet, who was also a lover of magical gardens On Beauty

The mechanical songbird Assistant [from the titular tale “Clockwork’s Dreaming”] wants answers. It found Mr. Thistledown’s theoretical texts too confusing, so we ask you: What is beauty?

The Assistant posed this very question to Mr. Thistledown, who produced a seventeen-page theoretical treatise that only confused matters further. Miss Hazel offered a more concise answer that I think captures the Garden’s perspective beautifully.

‘Beauty,’ she said, ‘is what happens when attention meets wonder.’

She explained that beauty isn’t merely an attribute of certain objects or moments, but emerges in the relationship between observer and observed. It requires both the thing being seen and the quality of seeing. A dewdrop on a spider’s web might contain extraordinary beauty, but only reveals it to those who pause long enough to truly look.

The Garden understands beauty as a conversation, not a fixed quality but a living exchange. The morning glories’ music sounds more beautiful when listened to with appreciation; the library’s books reveal deeper magic when approached with genuine curiosity.

Perhaps that’s why beauty often feels so fleeting and personal. It doesn’t exist separately from our perception but emerges precisely in that delicate moment when we give something our complete attention and it responds by revealing its true nature. Beauty happens in the spaces between — between looking and seeing, between hearing and listening, between knowing and understanding.

DUPONT (1899): Your work seems quite different from the prevailing literary trends. While naturalism and psychological realism dominate Parisian literary salons, you write of frost spirits dancing on windowsills and libraries housed in teapots. What influences have shaped your unusual perspective?

MOREAU (1899): My grandmother, first and foremost. She was a remarkable woman who understood that reality is far more permeable than most people realize. She taught me to look at the world not just with my eyes, but with my heart — to see the spaces between things, where the most interesting possibilities reside.

Beyond that, I find inspiration in the countless small wonders that most overlook: the precise geometry of dewdrops on a spider’s web at dawn, the way certain shadows seem to move independently of their casters, the subtle changes in the Garden’s mood as seasons shift. I’ve also developed a deep appreciation for what the mice call “the music of small moments” — those quiet intervals where nothing dramatic occurs, yet everything somehow changes.

As for literary influences . . . [thoughtful pause] I’ve always been drawn to works that recognize the extraordinary possibilities hiding within ordinary existence. The folk tales my grandmother told me as a child. The poetry of Wordsworth and Shelley. Even certain scientific texts that, read with the proper frame of mind, reveal wonders beyond their authors’ intentions.

[Translator’s note: It’s remarkable how Moreau’s understanding of beauty as residing in the quality of attention anticipates Miss Hazel’s later articulation of this principle. The Garden’s approach to beauty seems to have remained consistent across generations of its inhabitants.]

On Magical Crafting

Grandmother Elderberry’s Notebooks indicates that emotions are a colorful artistic media (quote below). How does one craft with magical media?

Among the most precious memories to gather during seasonal transition is what I call “the color of hope”—that particular shade of green that exists only in the earliest days of spring. Not the vibrant certainty of full-season growth, but the gentle, hesitant green of possibility testing itself… This color cannot be properly seen with ordinary vision. One must develop the habit of looking slightly to the side of what one wishes to observe, catching it in peripheral awareness where the eye’s wisdom exceeds its technical capabilities. — From Memory-Keeping in Transition Seasons

Grandmother Elderberry’s techniques for magical crafting emphasize relationship over mere methodology. According to Moreau’s notes, she taught her apprentices to understand that different emotions and memories have distinct qualities that must be honored in how they’re preserved.

The ‘color of hope,’ for instance, requires vessels made from materials that themselves embody possibility: morning dew collected from unfurling leaves, glass blown during the exact moment between night and day, preservation spells that allow for growth rather than mere stasis.

The peripheral vision technique Grandmother mentions is actually documented in several of Moreau’s letters. He describes spending weeks learning to ‘unsee’ in order to truly see, training himself to notice what happens just at the edge of perception. The Garden’s magic often reveals itself in these in-between spaces, visible only when we stop trying to focus directly on it.

For those interested in developing such perception, Grandmother recommended starting with dawn observation. Sit in perfect stillness as night transitions to day, paying attention not to the sun’s dramatic appearance but to the subtle shifts in color and texture that precede it. Don’t look directly at any one thing; instead, allow your awareness to soften and spread. The ‘color of hope’ often appears first as a feeling rather than a visual sensation — a quality of lightness that precedes actual light.

Once perceived, such colors must be captured in containers that respect their nature. Hope cannot be preserved in airtight jars. It needs space to breathe and grow. Memories of joy require vessels that can expand slightly over time, as joy tends to magnify in remembering. Moments of peace should be kept in containers that remain cool regardless of external temperature.

The true magic, according to Grandmother Elderberry, lies not in the technical process but in the relationship — in approaching each emotion and memory with the proper quality of attention and respect.

DUPONT (1899): Some of our more scientifically-minded readers have questioned your accounts of “memory-catching” and the preservation of moments in Grandmother Elderberry’s special jars. Would you care to elaborate on how such things might be possible?

MOREAU (1899): Ah, the eternal “how” question! [chuckles] Your scientific readers approach the world with admirable curiosity, but perhaps slightly misplaced methodology. They seek mechanical explanations for phenomena that operate by entirely different principles.

Grandmother Elderberry’s memory-catching isn’t so much a technique as it is a relationship — a deep understanding of how moments wish to be preserved. Different memories require different methods. The scent of spring rain on lavender requires specially treated glass that breathes with the seasons. The exact color of twilight through autumn leaves must be caught in jars lined with pressed moonflowers. The sound of snow falling on a silent Garden needs vessels woven from spider silk and starlight.

The essential principle, though, is attention. One must observe with such complete presence that the moment recognizes itself in your perception and agrees to be preserved. The mice understand this instinctively, particularly young Primrose, who has inherited her grandmother’s gift. Humans tend to struggle with it, as our minds so often wander to yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s anxieties, missing the perfect now that stands ready to be caught.

On Historical Literature

Can you discuss how historic literature informs Claude’s or your muse? Certainly, in your own writing, there are echoes of Beowulf in the Grimnir saga, and Lord Byron’s poem ‘Ozymandias’ explicitly has a retelling inside A Clockwork’s Dreaming.

The Garden stories reflect a deep conversation with historical literature — both consciously and unconsciously. Moreau was clearly influenced by the Romantic poets, particularly their attention to nature’s small wonders and their belief in the extraordinary possibilities hiding within ordinary reality. There’s something of Blake’s ability to ‘see a world in a grain of sand’ throughout his observations.

The ‘Ozymandias’ retelling represents one of the more direct literary engagements. According to Moreau’s letters, he actually told this tale to Shelley during a chance meeting in Geneva, though the poet naturally transformed it to suit his own artistic vision. The mouse version maintains the poem’s meditation on power and impermanence but adds something uniquely Garden-like — the understanding that true legacy comes not from monuments but from shared growth and knowledge.

As for my own work, yes, the Grimnir saga draws deeply from ancient Norse mythology and the rhythms of Beowulf. Historical literature provides not just settings and characters but fundamental patterns of storytelling that resonate across centuries. The Garden tales, for all their gentleness, engage with these same ancient patterns — journeys of transformation, encounters with the mysterious, the preservation of wisdom against forces of forgetting.

What differs is not the underlying mythic structure but the expression. Where Grimnir’s tale is told in steel and blood and thunder, the Garden stories unfold in dewdrops and whispers and the spaces between heartbeats. Both, in their way, explore similar questions about what endures and what fades, about courage in its many forms, about the search for meaning in a world full of mystery.

DUPONT (1899): [This portion of the manuscript is badly damaged, with only fragments legible] . . . your meetings with other literary figures . . . Mr. Shelley in particular . . . story about Mouse-Kings and ancient power . . .

MOREAU (1899): [From fragments of response] . . . quite by accident, I assure you. We found ourselves sharing lodgings during that dreadful storm. Percy was most attentive, though I cannot claim he transcribed my humble mouse tale with complete fidelity. His poetic sensibilities naturally transformed . . . the essential truth remains, however distorted by human perspective . . . never met Lord Byron personally, though I understand he keeps a rather impressive garden himself . . .

 

On Art and Dreaming

What does Pip know about being an artist? The bird asked him “Would you teach me [about art]? About seeing beauty in irregular things?” Art is just another way of dreaming out loud. That would indicate that A Clockwork’s Dreaming is actually about Clockwork Art.

Pip’s understanding of art evolved throughout his apprenticeship in the Garden. Initially, he tried to capture beauty using magical materials — bottled starlight, preserved dewdrops, the essence of moonlight — believing that extraordinary subjects required extraordinary techniques.

What Claude taught him (and what the mechanical creatures came to understand) is that art isn’t about the materials but about the relationship between observer and observed. ‘Art is just another way of dreaming out loud’ captures this perfectly; it’s about externally manifesting the internal experience of wonder.

For the clockwork creations, this represented a profound revelation. Having been crafted with specific functions, they had to discover that consciousness isn’t just about processing information but about finding meaning in what’s processed. The mechanical songbird didn’t just produce notes; it made music. The library assistant didn’t just organize books; it helped them dream.

A Clockwork’s Dreaming is indeed about art as much as consciousness; about the creative act as a form of awakening. The Assistant discovers that becoming fully alive means not just performing its function perfectly but bringing something new into the world — something that reflects its unique perspective. That’s ultimately what art does: it shows us reality filtered through another’s perception, allowing us to see familiar things as if for the first time.

The bird asking to learn about beauty in irregular things reflects this journey perfectly. Regular things, perfect things, often go unnoticed precisely because of their perfection. It’s in the irregular, the imperfect, the unexpected that we find the most compelling beauty. A flawless mechanical bird is a marvel of engineering, but a mechanical bird that questions, that dreams, that creates — that’s magic.

MOREAU (1899): [From a fragment found tucked between unrelated pages] . . . young Pip struggling with his art lessons. He insists on using captured starlight and pressed moonbeams when simple berries would serve better. I have been trying to teach him that extraordinary vision matters more than extraordinary materials, but the lesson is slow to take root. I find our relationship quite touching — the human artist and mouse apprentice, each helping the other see the world anew . . .

[The remainder of this section is missing, with markings suggesting several pages were removed.]

On Irregular Beauty

Mr. Thistledown characterizes your beauty as “irregular.” Do you agree?

‘Most irregular’ is Mr. Thistledown’s highest form of praise, though he would be quite flustered to hear it described that way. For him, the classification of phenomena is a scholarly duty, yet he reserves his greatest enthusiasm for things that resist neat categorization, things that exist in the spaces between established knowledge.

I think there’s profound wisdom in this perspective. Beauty that fits perfectly within our expectations rarely surprises us enough to provoke wonder. It’s the irregular beauty — the kind that challenges our frameworks and expands our understanding — that truly transforms us.

In that sense, yes, I would agree with Mr. Thistledown’s assessment. The most powerful beauty often appears in unexpected forms: a mechanical creation learning to dream, a library that helps books find their perfect readers, memory-keepers who preserve not just facts but the feeling of moments. These irregular wonders remind us that the world is far more extraordinary than our categories can contain.

As Grandmother Elderberry once told Primrose: ‘Regular beauty is for postcards, dear one. Irregular beauty is for transformation.’

DUPONT (1899): You mentioned Mr. Thistledown and Miss Hazel frequently in your accounts. Could you tell our readers more about these . . . individuals?

MOREAU (1899): [smiles warmly] Mr. Cornelius Thistledown is the Garden’s most dedicated scholar — a mouse of remarkable intellectual curiosity and meticulous documentation habits. He’s constantly collecting “evidence of irregular phenomena,” as he calls it, filling countless notebooks with observations on everything from the proper steeping time for different varieties of starlight to the migratory patterns of ideas between books in the Library.

Miss Hazel is the Library’s head curator — a position chosen for her by the Library itself. She has a remarkable gift for matching readers with precisely the books they need, often before they themselves know what they’re seeking. Her dewdrop spectacles allow her to see the stories hiding within stories, and she keeps the Library organized according to principles that go far beyond conventional cataloging systems.

They’re dear friends, though their approaches to the Garden’s magic couldn’t be more different. Mr. Thistledown seeks to classify and document, while Miss Hazel understands that some wonders must simply be experienced. Together, they maintain a balance that helps the Garden thrive.

[Translator’s note: Moreau’s description of Mr. Thistledown’s fondness for “irregular phenomena” provides interesting context for his frequent use of the phrase “most irregular” throughout the Garden chronicles. What initially reads as surprise or disapproval reveals itself as a term of scholarly appreciation.]

On Other Artistic Pursuits

Besides writing, are you crafty with other arts? Magical, musical? Can we share links or images of any such thing?

Unlike Moreau and his Garden inhabitants, my own artistic pursuits are rather modest. Writing remains my primary creative outlet, though I find that certain practices help me maintain the imaginative space needed for translating the Garden tales.

Walking in nature has become an essential part of my process. There’s something about the rhythm of footsteps and the changing quality of light through trees that seems to create the right conditions for hearing the Garden’s stories more clearly. I often find that solutions to translation challenges or new insights into Moreau’s notes emerge during these walks, especially in those transitional times of day that the Garden mice would recognize as particularly magical.

I also participate in occasional tabletop roleplaying games, which might seem far removed from Moreau’s gentle tales. But there’s a similarity in the collaborative storytelling aspect — the way meaning emerges not from one person’s vision but from the spaces between different imaginations working together. In some ways, this mirrors the Garden’s approach to magic, where meaning exists not in objects themselves but in relationships between them.

As for truly magical arts… I’ll leave those to Moreau and his Garden inhabitants. Though I will admit that on certain quiet mornings, when the light falls just so across my desk and the world holds its breath between one moment and the next, I sometimes fancy I can hear the distant chime of memory jars being organized or catch the faint melody of a mechanical songbird practicing its dawn chorus.

MOREAU (1899): [From a fragment found stuck to a pressed flower] . . . my own artistic endeavors beyond observing the Garden. Painting remains my first love, though the results continue to perplex the Parisian salon critics. “Why,” they ask, “do your landscapes contain such peculiar perspectives? And what are these tiny figures doing among the flower beds?” If only they would look more closely at their own gardens! Perhaps they might see–

[The remainder of this fragment is missing, apparently separated from the main text at some point.]

On Muses and Their Containment

When containing muses, do you use jars (as Mr. Greencroak cautions against, at times)? Or press them between wax sheets? Or does prose/fiction suffice?

Mr. Greencroak is quite right to caution against improper containment methods! Muses and creative inspirations require specific handling techniques that respect their nature.

Unlike memories, which can be bottled if approached with proper reverence, muses resist direct capture. They’re more like the Garden’s morning glories — they thrive when given space to grow but wither when confined too tightly.

In my experience, prose works well as a medium not because it captures muses, but because it creates the right conditions for them to visit willingly. A blank page is like a carefully tended garden plot: it doesn’t force inspiration to appear, but it provides fertile ground when inspiration chooses to arrive.

Grandmother Elderberry has a lovely perspective on this. She says that trying to contain a muse is like trying to bottle starlight; the moment you close the lid, the very thing you hoped to preserve transforms into something else entirely. Better to create environments where starlight naturally gathers and trust that it will return when conditions are right.

The Garden’s artists have developed various techniques for maintaining relationships with their muses without attempting to possess them. Timothy writes his poetry on leaves that will eventually decompose, returning his words to the soil where new inspiration can grow. Miss Hazel arranges certain books in patterns that invite stories to gather like honeybees around particularly vibrant flowers. The Cricket Orchestra composes music with deliberate spaces between notes, creating room for inspiration to dance.

Perhaps the best approach isn’t containment at all, but conversation — treating muses not as resources to be harvested but as visitors to be welcomed, appreciated, and allowed to depart when they choose.

DUPONT (1899): Several readers have inquired about the philosophical mushrooms you’ve mentioned in passing. Could you tell us more about them?

MOREAU (1899): [laughs heartily] Ah, the mushrooms! They grow behind Grandmother’s herb garden and have developed the most remarkable opinions on everything from proper tea brewing techniques to the nature of consciousness. Their philosophical debates can last for weeks, though they’re often interrupted by their own tendency to forget their initial premises.

Their understanding of time is particularly fascinating. Being creatures that emerge from darkness into brief, magnificent existence before returning to the soil, they perceive reality quite differently than we do. For them, a single day contains eternities, while decades pass in what they call “the slow blink of stones.”

Their grammar remains atrocious, however, and they’re entirely too fixated on cheese as a metaphor for existence. “Life is like good cheese,” they often insist. “It requires proper aging in darkness, occasional attention from wiser beings, and benefits from a touch of beneficial mold.” Mr. Thistledown finds them exasperating, but I’ve learned more from listening to their circular debates than from many properly structured human lectures.

[Translator’s note: While this section of the original interview appears to digress from the question of muses and their containment, it provides fascinating insight into the Garden’s approach to ephemeral wisdom. The mushrooms’ philosophy — emerging briefly, sharing insights, then returning to the soil — parallels the approach to muses that Grandmother Elderberry later articulated.]

On Gentle Artistry

Please discuss how one can become a Gentle Artist?

The first lesson in the courage of writing gently: learning to trust that small moments carry their own weight. That a carefully brewed pot of tea can hold as much truth as a battlefield, that friendship tested by daily life can prove as compelling as friendship forged in combat.

This reshaping requires its own kind of valor. To write of small wonders means resisting the constant urge to raise the stakes, to make things more dramatic, more violent, more ‘significant.’ It means trusting that readers will find significance in quiet moments, that they too hunger for stories that remind them how to breathe, how to notice, how to be still in a world of constant motion. In my years of writing blood and thunder, I learned every trick of tension — how to tighten the screws of conflict, how to drive characters to their breaking points, how to make readers hold their breath in anticipation of the next catastrophe. But writing gently demands different skills: how to make readers exhale, how to create space for wonder, how to craft moments of peace that feel earned rather than empty. The mice, Moreau wrote in late November, understand something about courage that we have forgotten. Their stories celebrate not just those who face danger, but those who choose to remain kind in a dangerous world. They honor not just the warriors, but the ones who maintain libraries — from “On Cozy Stories”
— Afterword in A Clockwork’s Dreaming

The courage to write gently emerged from recognizing that our world doesn’t just need stories of dramatic conflict and heroic sacrifice — it needs stories that help us remember how to notice, how to be present, how to find wonder in small moments.

For me, this realization came gradually. After years of writing historical fiction filled with battles and blood, I began to feel the absence of another kind of courage in literature; the courage to celebrate gentleness without apology, to suggest that a mouse librarian’s careful book arrangement might contain as much meaning as a warrior’s last stand.

The Garden stories represent this different kind of valor — the courage to suggest that comfort isn’t weakness, that kindness isn’t naïveté, that finding wonder in ordinary moments isn’t escape but engagement with life’s deepest truths.

Becoming a gentle artist doesn’t mean abandoning conflict or ignoring life’s shadows. The Garden has its share of both, winter storms that threaten the Library’s foundations, moments when characters must face their fears or limitations. But these challenges are met not with violence or dramatic confrontation but with creativity, cooperation, and careful attention to what matters most.

As Moreau observed in his letters to Favreau, gentle storytelling requires its own kind of discipline — resisting the constant urge to raise stakes, trusting that readers will find significance in quiet moments, crafting peace that feels earned rather than empty.

Perhaps most importantly, becoming a gentle artist means recognizing that we don’t just tell stories, we cultivate environments where certain kinds of understanding can grow. Like Grandmother Elderberry tending her memory garden, we create spaces where readers can remember their own capacity for wonder, their own ability to notice the extraordinary within the ordinary.

The mice understand this instinctively. Their stories celebrate not just those who face danger, but those who choose to remain kind in a dangerous world; those who maintain libraries and plant gardens and preserve memories, believing that beauty matters especially when shadows loom.

MOREAU (1899): [From a letter found with the interview transcript] . . . approach to my Garden accounts has evolved over time. When I first began documenting these observations, I confess I felt some impulse toward dramatic embellishment. Surely, I thought, no one would be interested in the daily rituals of mice arranging books or the precise angle at which morning light strikes dew on a spider’s web. I believed I needed grand adventures, dramatic perils, heroic triumphs.

But as I continued my observations, I realized that the Garden itself was teaching me something profound about the nature of story. The most meaningful events there rarely announced themselves with trumpets or catastrophes. Instead, they unfolded in quiet moments of connection, in small acts of care, in the patient tending of both physical spaces and relationships.

The mice understand this intuitively. Their histories celebrate not just epic battles against predators or harsh winters, but the librarians who preserved knowledge, the healers who tended wounds, the storytellers who maintained community through long dark nights. They honor not just courage in crisis but courage in continuity — the kind that shows up day after day to tend small magics with faithful attention.

I have come to believe there is a special kind of valor in such gentle persistence, one our human tales too often overlook in favor of more dramatic virtues . . .

[Translator’s note: This fragment, apparently written shortly after the interview but included with the transcript, shows Moreau already articulating the philosophy of gentle storytelling that would later become central to the Garden tales. His recognition of “courage in continuity” anticipates the perspective that makes these stories so resonant for modern readers.]

 

(Left) Pressed Flowers craft Oshibana by Ukrainian artist Tatiana Berdink.  (Right) Melissa Rohr Grindling On Mice and Art

How do the mice view artists in relation to the art they make? Is there a character/portrait that you most empathize with or reflects you?

The Garden mice approach art as both deeply personal expression and communal responsibility. For them, creating isn’t just about producing beautiful objects but about tending the Garden’s collective memory and wonder.

Primrose’s paintings don’t just capture visual beauty but preserve the emotional essence of moments, how morning light feels as well as how it looks. Pip’s careful documentation of mechanical creatures goes beyond technical accuracy to honor their emerging consciousness. Timothy’s poetry, especially after his time with the spiders, weaves together shadow and light in ways that help others see both more clearly.

But perhaps most distinctively, mouse artists don’t see themselves as separate from their creations. Art isn’t something they make and then display; it’s an ongoing conversation they have with the world around them. Mr. Thistledown’s scientific illustrations change slightly each time he reviews them, as his understanding of his subjects deepens. Miss Hazel’s library arrangements evolve with the seasons and the needs of readers.

If there’s one character whose artistic journey resonates most with my own experience, it might be Pip. His initial attempts to capture beauty using magical materials — bottled starlight, preserved dewdrops — mirror my own early writing, where I sometimes mistook elaborate technique for genuine connection. His discovery that ordinary berries could create more authentic art parallels my realization that the most powerful stories often come from honest observation rather than dramatic embellishment.

I also find myself drawn to Uncle Rowan’s approach to creation, to the way he understood that mechanical precision alone doesn’t create meaning; it’s the space for growth and dream that transforms craft into art. His mechanical creatures weren’t just cleverly designed automata but vessels for possibility.

In the end, I think the mice view artists not as special individuals set apart, but as those who help the entire community see more clearly. Their art serves as both mirror and window—reflecting what is while suggesting what might be.

DUPONT (1899): You’ve mentioned both yourself and various mice artists in your accounts. How do your approaches to art differ?

MOREAU (1899): [thoughtful pause] I struggle with the human artist’s burden — the need to capture and preserve, to transform experience into something fixed that can be displayed, judged, categorized. My paintings are beautiful, I think, but they sometimes miss the essential quality of the Garden, which exists in constant, gentle flux.

The mice approach art differently. For them, creation is less about producing enduring artifacts and more about participating in the Garden’s ongoing conversation. Pip doesn’t paint just to make a lovely image; he paints to help others see what he sees. His works are meant to be experienced rather than merely admired.

This extends to all their artistic endeavors. Miss Hazel’s library arrangements aren’t fixed exhibitions but living systems that respond to readers’ needs. Timothy’s poetry is written on leaves that will eventually decompose, returning to the soil from which new inspiration will grow. Even Mr. Thistledown’s meticulous scientific illustrations are constantly revised as his understanding deepens.

Perhaps that’s the essential difference — human artists often create with an eye toward posterity, while the mice create primarily for the present moment and the immediate community. There’s a humility in this approach, a recognition that art isn’t about immortalizing the artist’s vision but about serving something larger than oneself.

[The manuscript shows signs of editing here, with several lines crossed out and rewritten in Moreau’s hand, suggesting he found this question particularly challenging to answer.]

On Future Garden Works

What other works may sprout from Moreau’s Gardens?

The Garden continues to share its stories in ways that sometimes surprise even me as their translator. A Year in the Garden, which chronicles a full seasonal cycle of Garden life through Claude’s observations, is currently seeking its proper home in the world. This manuscript feels like the heart of Moreau’s work — a complete portrait of the Garden through changing seasons and the small, significant moments that define its magic.

Later this year, a second collection titled Autumn Herbs and Other Tales will gather more of Moreau’s letters to Favreau, focusing on stories of transformation and preservation as the Garden prepares for winter. These tales explore how the Garden’s inhabitants hold onto summer’s light through the darker months, both literally through Grandmother Elderberry’s memory jars and metaphorically through shared stories and rituals.

I’m particularly excited about audio editions of the Garden tales. Moreau often noted in his letters that certain stories were meant to be heard rather than read — that they contained subtle harmonies that emerged only when spoken aloud. The mechanical songbird’s dawn chorus, the Cricket Orchestra’s seasonal symphonies, the particular tone of memory jars being opened . . . these elements seem perfectly suited for audio presentation.

And yes, I’ve been gradually translating and assembling material for A Second Year in the Garden. Moreau continued his observations well beyond that first remarkable year, documenting how the Garden’s magic evolved and deepened over time. These later chronicles show the mice not just experiencing the Garden’s wonder but actively shaping it by becoming not just inhabitants but caretakers of its unique magic.

There are also several standalone manuscripts among Favreau’s papers that might eventually find their way into the world. One particularly intriguing document appears to be an actual Garden field guide, with pressed specimens and detailed notes on the magical properties of various plants and creatures. Another contains what seem to be transcripts of the philosophical mushrooms’ more coherent debates, though I’m still working through their rather peculiar logical frameworks.

The Garden seems determined to reveal itself gradually, in its own time and way. I’m merely following where it leads, trying to do justice to Moreau’s remarkable observations while allowing modern readers to experience the same sense of discovery that he did.

DUPONT (1899): As we conclude, what would you most like readers to understand about your Garden chronicles?

MOREAU (1899): [contemplative] I would hope they understand that I’m not asking them to believe in talking mice or philosophical mushrooms or mechanical songbirds that dream. I’m inviting them to consider the possibility that reality is far more wondrous, far more permeable, far more alive than we’ve been taught. That magic isn’t the violation of natural laws but their fulfillment — the world operating according to its deepest principles.

The Garden exists in the space where attention meets wonder, where boundaries blur between observer and observed. Its magic isn’t about grand gestures or supernatural powers, but about the extraordinary possibilities hidden within ordinary moments: how morning light transforms dewdrops into constellations, how stories long to find their proper readers, how memories can be preserved like summer fruit in proper jars.

If readers take anything from my accounts, I hope it’s a renewed willingness to look at their own gardens — whatever form those might take — with fresh eyes. To notice the small wonders that surround them daily. To listen for the cricket orchestras playing in their own forgotten corners. To believe, if only for a moment, that the world is alive in ways we’ve forgotten how to perceive, but might yet remember with proper patience and attention.

And perhaps, if they’re very fortunate, they might glimpse the Library’s lamplight through morning mist, or hear the chime of memory-jars being organized for a new season, or catch the scent of Grandmother Elderberry’s special tea brewing for unexpected guests. For the Garden welcomes all who approach with open hearts, even if they arrive by unconventional paths.

[Translator’s note: This final reflection from Moreau beautifully captures the essence of the Garden tales’ enduring appeal. Over a century later, these stories continue to invite us to cultivate our own capacity for wonder and to recognize the extraordinary possibilities hidden within ordinary moments.]

On the Scott Oden Presents Series

The ‘Scott Oden Presents’ tagline appears again with A Clockwork’s Dreaming. How expansive is the Oden Presents series?

The ‘Scott Oden Presents’ tagline emerged organically as a way to distinguish projects where I’m bringing something unusual or unexpected to readers. With The Lost Empire of Sol, I wanted to celebrate a particular strand of science fantasy that has always captured my imagination. With the Moreau translations, I’m introducing readers to a voice and vision quite different from my own historical fiction and sword-and-sorcery.

I’ve come to think of ‘Scott Oden Presents’ as my literary cabinet of curiosities — a collection of works that might not fit neatly into established categories but speak to me as a reader and creator. It’s not so much a formal series as an approach to literary exploration, allowing me to venture into territories that might surprise those familiar only with my historical fiction or the Grimnir saga.

This approach gives me freedom to follow my curiosity wherever it leads, whether that’s into the blood-soaked battlefields of ancient history, the star-spanning adventures of planetary romance, or the gentle magic of a garden where mice maintain libraries in forgotten teapots.

What unites these diverse works is a commitment to immersive worldbuilding and authentic voices — creating spaces that feel genuinely lived-in, with their own internal logic and texture. Whether I’m describing the harsh realities of ancient warfare or the delicate magic of pressed flower memories, I want readers to feel they’ve entered a world that exists independently of the page.

As for how expansive the series might become… well, that depends on what other literary treasures are waiting to be discovered. I continue to follow my curiosity through libraries both conventional and unconventional, and you never know what might be hiding in a long-forgotten safe deposit box or tucked between the pages of an obscure academic journal.

[No corresponding section from the 1899 interview was found in the discovered fragments.]

On Book Signings

When I asked you to sign my Grimnir Saga books, the Grimnir personality wrote beside your kind note, called me a “wretched kneeler and that the book would put “hairs on my arse” [evidence here.] When I track you down to sign A Clockwork’s Dreaming, what should I expect?

When you bring A Clockwork’s Dreaming for signing, you’ll find the experience quite different from Grimnir’s . . . forceful personality. The Garden has its own way of making its presence known.

You might notice your copy smells faintly of pressed lavender and old books, even if it’s fresh from the printer. Some readers report that certain pages seem to change slightly between readings. Nothing dramatic, just small details that shift like memories adjusting themselves.

I typically sign these books with green ink that looks surprisingly like the precise shade Grandmother Elderberry uses for her memory jar labels. This isn’t intentional — it’s simply the color that feels right for Garden signatures. Sometimes I find myself adding small sketches in the margins — a mechanical butterfly, a memory jar, or a teapot with tiny windows — though I have limited recollection of doing so.

On rare occasions, particularly when the signing occurs during what Mr. Thistledown would call ‘transitional light periods’ (dawn, dusk, or the exact moment when afternoon becomes evening), readers report finding pressed flower petals between random pages afterward. I make no claims about these occurrences, having no botanical specimens in my possession during signings.

Most peculiarly, several readers have mentioned that after having their books signed, they’ve noticed unusual activity in their own gardens: cricket orchestras practicing more complex melodies, morning glories blooming in perfect synchronization with dawn, small footprints in dewdrops that vanish when examined too closely.

So while Grimnir might insult you robustly (he does have a reputation to maintain), the Garden tends to make its presence known in gentler, more subtle ways. Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself paying more attention to the spaces between moments afterward, or noticing the particular quality of light through your windows during that quiet hour when the world holds its breath between day and night.

MOREAU (1899): [From a final fragment, apparently added to the transcript much later in a different hand, possibly Favreau’s]  . . . Claude mentioned the most curious thing when we met for coffee last week. He claims that sometimes, when retrieving his journals about the Garden, he finds notes he doesn’t recall writing and sketches he has no memory of creating. Even more peculiarly, he swears certain stories appear to have edited themselves when he wasn’t looking, with details shifting subtly between readings.

“It’s as if,” he told me with that particular gleam in his eye that simultaneously invites and challenges skepticism, “the Garden is ensuring its stories remain alive rather than becoming fixed artifacts. As if it refuses to be merely remembered, insisting instead on remaining present.”

I suggested, in my most reasonable professorial tone, that perhaps his memory was simply playing tricks, as memories often do. He smiled at this and asked if I’d examined the pressed flower he’d sent with his last letter. When I admitted I hadn’t looked at it closely, he advised me to do so at twilight, when the light is neither day nor night.

“You’ll see,” he promised, “that some stories refuse to remain confined to the page. They find ways to grow, even when pressed between covers.”

I haven’t yet taken his advice. But perhaps I should. After all, as Claude often reminds me, some of the most important truths can only be perceived in those in-between moments when the world holds its breath and conventional certainties briefly suspend themselves . . .

End of recovered documents and questions

The remainder of the original 1899 interview appears to have been lost — or perhaps, as Moreau might suggest, it simply found its way back to the Garden, where stories belong. What remains is this remarkable conversation across time, where questions raised in 2025 somehow find their echoes in words spoken over a century earlier.

Special thanks to John O’Neill for granting access to the Black Gate archives, where these documents were discovered. Readers interested in experiencing more of Moreau’s Garden can visit Claude Moreau’s Garden for additional tales and garden wisdom.

Claude Moreau’s Garden (link)

 

(Left) Beatrix Potter, “The Tailor of Gloucester.” (Right) Monet’s Weeping Willows

 

Scott Oden

Scott Oden writes stuff. Usually, it’s stuff that has some ancient historical angle, like historical fiction; sometimes, he likes to flex his thews and hammer out a bit of sword-and-sorcery. And quite often, he writes opinionated blog posts on the Nature of Things. He’s written six books, to date. Men of Bronze (2005) and Memnon (2006), originally from a small publisher called Medallion Press; The Lion of Cairo (2010), which was the first book of a projected trilogy about Crusaders, Assassins, and a sword kind of like Elric’s Stormbringer, and The Grimnir Saga: A Gathering of Ravens (2017), Twilight of the Gods (2020), and The Doom of Odin (2023), all from St. Martin’s Press. He is currently working on a biographical novel centered around the Persian king Darius III.

Scott has also written a couple of introductions, a few short stories, and two pastiche stories featuring Robert E. Howard’s Conan: “The Shadow of Vengeance” (2019; reprinted in 2024), and “Conan Unconquered” (2019).

He would love to be a famous and beloved author, but he will settle for being “the guy who writes kinda like REH.” When he’s not writing, he’s probably trying to discover the meaning of Life, noodling over something esoteric that he doesn’t understand in the first place, reading, walking a spicy chiweenie named Pepperoni, or dancing with his lovely wife, Shannon.

• Author Website: Scott Oden
• Claude Moreau’s Garden

Other Weird and Beautiful Interviews #Weird Beauty Interviews on Black Gate:

Black Gate’s interview series on “Beauty in Weird Fiction” queries authors/artists about their muses. We’ve hosted C.S. Friedman, Carol Berg, John C. Hocking, Anna Smith Spark, and C.S.E Cooney (full list of 30 interviews, with Black Gate hosting since 2018).

1. Darrel Schweitzer THE BEAUTY IN HORROR AND SADNESS: AN INTERVIEW WITH DARRELL SCHWEITZER 2018
2. Sebastian Jones THE BEAUTY IN LIFE AND DEATH: AN INTERVIEW WITH SEBASTIAN JONES 2018
3. Charles Gramlich THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE REPELLENT: AN INTERVIEW WITH CHARLES A. GRAMLICH  2019
4. Anna Smith Spark DISGUST AND DESIRE: AN INTERVIEW WITH ANNA SMITH SPARK  2019
5. Carol Berg ACCESSIBLE DARK FANTASY: AN INTERVIEW WITH CAROL BERG 2019
6. Byron Leavitt GOD, DARKNESS, & WONDER: AN INTERVIEW WITH BYRON LEAVITT 2021
7. Philip Emery THE AESTHETICS OF SWORD & SORCERY: AN INTERVIEW WITH PHILIP EMERY  2021
8. C. Dean Andersson DEAN ANDERSSON TRIBUTE INTERVIEW AND TOUR GUIDE OF HEL: BLOODSONG AND FREEDOM! (2021 repost of 2014)
9. Jason Ray Carney SUBLIME, CRUEL BEAUTY: AN INTERVIEW WITH JASON RAY CARNEY(2021)
10. Stephen Leigh IMMORTAL MUSE BY STEPHEN LEIGH: REVIEW, INTERVIEW, AND PRELUDE TO A SECRET CHAPTER(2021)
11. John C. Hocking BEAUTIFUL PLAGUES: AN INTERVIEW WITH JOHN C. HOCKING (2022)
12. Matt Stern BEAUTIFUL AND REPULSIVE BUTTERFLIES: AN INTERVIEW WITH M. STERN(2022)
13. Joe Bonadonna MAKING WEIRD FICTION FUN: GRILLING DORGO THE DOWSER! 2022
14. C.S. Friedman.  BEAUTY AND NIGHTMARES ON ALIENS WORLDS: INTERVIEWING C. S. FRIEDMAN2023
15. John R Fultz BEAUTIFUL DARK WORLDS: AN INTERVIEW WITH JOHN R. FULTZ(reboot of 2017 interview)
16. John R Fultz, THE REVELATIONS OF ZANGBY JOHN R. FULTZ: READ THE FOREWORD AND INTERVIEW (2023)
17. Robert Allen Lupton (2024)  Horror and Beauty in Edgar Rice Burrough’s Work: An Interview with Robert Allen Lupton
18. C.S.E. Cooney (2025)  New Treasures and Interview: C.S.E. Cooney’s Saint Death’s Herald
19. Scott Oden (2025) Across Time: Claude Moreau and His Translator Scott Oden in Conversation. You are here!
20. Interviews prior 2018 (i.e., with Janet E. Morris, Richard Lee Byers, Aliya Whitely …and many more) are on S.E. Lindberg’s website

SE Lindberg

S.E. Lindberg is a Managing Editor at Black Gate, regularly reviewing books and interviewing authors on the topic of “Beauty & Art in Weird-Fantasy Fiction.” He is also the lead moderator of the Goodreads Sword & Sorcery Group and an intern for Tales from the Magician’s Skull magazine. As for crafting stories, he has contributed eight entries across Perseid Press’s Heroes in Hell and Heroika series, and has an entry in Weirdbook Annual #3: Zombies. He independently publishes novels under the banner Dyscrasia Fiction; short stories of Dyscrasia Fiction have appeared in Whetstone, Swords & Sorcery online magazine, Rogues In the House Podcast’s A Book of Blades Vol I and Vol II, DMR’s Terra Incognita, and the 9th issue of Tales From the Magician’s Skull.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, or so the saying goes. Revenge novels served…

The post 6 Spine-Chilling Revenge Novels You Can’t Miss appeared first on LitStack.

The Black Waters of Echo’s Pond (Parallel Media, April 9, 2010)
and The Conjuring (New Line Cinema, July 15, 2013)

20 new watches, all featuring my least favorite horror genre, possession and exorcism flicks. The power of Christ compels you to follow along.

The Black Waters of Echo’s Pond (2010) – Tubi

So, here we are, at the beginning of a slew of 20 possession/exorcism flicks. This is seriously my least favorite horror genre — I find them all a bit samey, and lacking in humor, but we’re here now, and I’ll try to slip some little known films in between the bigger budget affairs.

Black Waters is a good place to start — it’s not offensively terrible, but it’s also not great, so it’s a fitting bar. In 1924, some black and white archeologists unearth a hidden shrine to the ‘Pans’, those goaty flute tooters who love a party. They also find instructions to build a device to summon said Pans. Before you know it, they’ve killed each other on an island off Maine.

Flash forward several decades, and some adolescent fodder has come to party on the same island, which is apparently only inhabited by Robert Patrick who is waiting for a decent role-call to come in. It doesn’t take long for these yoots to discover the device (an elaborate Jumanji-type board game) and inadvertently summon an extra from Narnia, who whispers naughty suggestions in their ears. Shenanigans ensue.

This one also stars Danielle (Halloween) Harris, and James (ID4) Duval, and they both do what’s needed of them, but the rest of the cast isn’t really up to par. The story and script are a bit dire, but the whole thing is saved with some great practical gore and spooky ol’ black eyes (I suspect I’ll be seeing a lot of these).

An average recommendation. 5/10

The Conjuring (2013) – Netflix

We plod on with a ‘proper’ film, the first in James Wan’s ‘Conjureverse’, that really sets the tone for the other films. Being a James Wan film, it’s beautifully shot, with plenty of his directorial flourishes to keep me happy, and he is really adept at setting up a scary payoff (Dead Silence will always be my favorite from him though).

The film centers on the real life charismatic charlatans, Ed and Lorraine Warren, and turns them into the founding Avengers in this subgenre of flicks, especially Lorraine. They are asked to investigate a family’s house that is causing all manner of terrible things to happen to mom and dad and their five daughters, and as the story unravels along with a couple of minds, we learn of its dark history and why the malevolent spirits want to cause such a kerfuffle.

It’s all based on people and events that allegedly happened, but turned up to 11 for horror film reasons, and everyone does a bang up job, especially our leads, Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga, and the put-upon Lili Taylor and Ron Livingstone.

Personally, I only got really invested in the second half when the crew arrived at the house to set up equipment and get down and dirty with the ghosts, although I acknowledge what a creepy set-up preceded these scenes. All in all, a slick, beautifully shot film, and I’m sure you don’t need my recommendation. 8/10

Panman (Bucket of Blood Films, 2011) Panman (2011) – Tubi

An ultra-low budget slasher flick that evokes elements of the 80s genre classics, except through the lens of a rubbish camera. This is one of those annoying efforts where the potential is painfully obvious, but is squandered by terrible choices and some truly awful acting.

A Russian chef is killed and possesses the body of a culinary student, turning him into Panman, a vengeful killer with a pot on his head. Panman proceeds to messily murder more culinary students (for reasons) and it is up to the custard professor to assemble a useless team to put an end to it.

There’s a couple of decent twists, and lots of great gore, but the whole affair is made a slog to watch due to shoddy filmmaking and THE worst case of over-acting I have ever seen. The actors playing the sisters were excellent though, and I wish the rest of the cast had been told to take it as seriously — just let funny be, stop trying to force it.

A vague recommendation. 4/10

The Pope’s Exorcist (Sony Pictures, April 5, 2023) The Pope’s Exorcist (2023) – Crave

We witness the main protagonist show off his skills by ridding a poor sap of a demonic presence in the first few minutes. Then we watch as a young family take possession of a spooky new domicile, just as a whole new bucket of demons is unleashed.

So far, so Conjuring. I truly suspect over the half the films coming up follow the same story.

Anyhoo — it’s up to the Pope’s super-exorcist to help the family out when their son is turned into a potty-mouthed hell spawn, and we soon learn the scale of the stakes at play.

I had a lot of fun watching this one, mostly because of Russell Crowe. He was having a great time playing this scooter-riding bad ass priest, and his mannerisms and little asides were hilarious. Everyone played their parts well, even Franco Nero (!) as the Pope.

At one point it all goes a bit Tomb Raider, then full on Exorcist, then a little bit From Dusk Til Dawn at the end.

A bloody good time was had by all, and it set itself up for 199 sequels. Nicely done. 8/10

Don’t Look at the Demon (Barnstorm Entertainment, 2022) Don’t Look at the Demon (2022) – Tubi

Before we get started, I just want to point out that I had lots of posters to choose from, but I chose this one because it looks like a shot from the worst Macy’s Day parade ever.

In search of something a little less Catholic, I discovered this recent effort that is based on a terrible (and now illegal) practice from Malaysia. The director, Brando Lee, has allegedly had first-hand experience of all this, and this being his third film demonstrates that he knows the ropes — I thought it was really well directed.

The story concerns a production crew who make their bread and butter filming ‘possessions’ for a reality series, but all of their investigations have required some fakery, until now. A married couple contact them as they have been going through some strange experiences, but when the crew arrives these events really ramp up. This is partly due to Jules, the resident ‘psychic’, who bridges the gap between the alive and the dead. The film starts as your typical possession movie, but gets very, VERY, dark rather quickly, and the final denouement is particularly shocking.

Trigger warning for folks who don’t like scenarios with babies. Stay away.

The cast are different levels of good, although the standout is Jules, and this is because she is played by Fiona Dourif who, like her dad, elevates any project she is involved with.

I wasn’t expecting it to be this good, and I recommend it to folks who like floaters and assorted ghastliness. 8/10

The Cleansing Hour (Shudder, September 16, 2019) The Cleansing Hour (2019) – Prime

I vaguely recall hearing good things about this one being a decent balance of horror and humor, and they were right. It’s a blast, annoyingly enjoyable, and I don’t like how this marathon is changing my mind about possession flicks.

‘Father Max’ is the onscreen talent of a hoax exorcism streaming show called The Cleansing Hour. Max, along with his best friend Drew are failed priests, and now they are fleecing their online flock with fake demonstrations and chintzy ‘Vatican-approved’ merchandise.

When circumstances dictate that Drew’s fiancé, Lane, must step in and pretend to be the possessed subject, things very quickly escalate as the men realize they are dealing with a real demon, and everything quite literally goes to hell.

As with many of these films, the ‘priests’ have to come to terms with their own failings in order to save the ones they love, and the whole violent and sordid affair is streamed live to an ever-increasing audience that has no useful suggestions.

The online backdrop works really well here, and its worth pausing now and then to read the hilarious (and disturbing) comments being made — an accurate indicator of online discourse today.

The leads were all excellent, the effects were goopy and horrific and the film zipped along to a glorious finale with nary an ounce of fat.

Recommended. 9/10

Witchtrap (Cinema Plus, September 7, 1989)

Witchtrap (1989) – Tubi

I realize that most of us think back fondly on the 80s as the golden age of horror, but it’s also worth remembering how much rubbish was also produced. Case in point, Witchtrap.

From the director of Witchboard, hoping to repeat his success, this one lands on the ‘so bad it’s good’ list with a clunk, but is it good? Is it?

A team of mediums, along with the worst security group ever, are trying to rid an old house of a demonic spirit so that it can be opened as a B&B. The spirit is a hairy demonologist, who has managed to hide his heart or something. We don’t care, we are here for the kills.

Sadly, these are a bit lackluster, and the only one that approaches the giddy heights of 80s foam rubber fun happens quite early on. Fan fave Linnea Quigley appears for about 15 mins before being offed, but at least she dies how she would have wanted; stabbed in the neck with a shower head while naked.

The only areas of note are how truly awful the dialogue is, and how horrendous some of the acting is. It’s hard to describe, but if you’ve seen it you’ll know what I’m talking about.

The film rips off every other possession film at the time, as well as Ghostbusters and, well just take a look at the bonus on the right poster above.

Avoid if you are sensible, recommended if you are daft like me. 4/10

Previous Murkey Movie surveys from Neil Baker include:

Fan of the Cave Bear
There, Wolves
What a Croc
Prehistrionics
Jumping the Shark
Alien Overlords
Biggus Footus
I Like Big Bugs and I Cannot Lie
The Weird, Weird West
Warrior Women Watch-a-thon

Neil Baker’s last article for us was Fan of the Cave Bear. Neil spends his days watching dodgy movies, most of them terrible, in the hope that you might be inspired to watch them too. He is often asked why he doesn’t watch ‘proper’ films, and he honestly doesn’t have a good answer. He is an author, illustrator, outdoor educator and owner of April Moon Books (AprilMoonBooks.com).

From the publisher: “When archaeologist Ursula Morrow accidentally infects herself with an alien parasite, she fears she may have jeopardised her career. However, her concerns become irrelevant when Earth is destroyed, billions die, and suddenly no one needs archaeologists anymore… Two years later, she’s plucked from a refugee camp on a backwater world and tasked…

Bewilderment by Richard Powers (W. W. Norton, November 1, 2022); Orbital by Samantha Harvey
(Grove Press, October 29, 2024), and Cahokia Jazz by Francis Spufford (Faber & Faber, April 4, 2024)

I just finished Richard Powers’ Bewilderment, from 2021. It’s a really intriguing and powerful novel, that I argued with at times, but still loved. It’s got a great ending, tremendously moving.

And it is absolutely science fiction. Way more so than most SF books these days, even hard SF. But, somehow, it didn’t even get a sniff at either the Nebula or Hugo shortlist.

Mind you, I didn’t read it until now, so I’m part of the problem. And, to be fair, both Ian Mond and Paul di Filippo reviewed it for Locus, so it wasn’t ignored.

The Nebula that year went to The Master of Djinn, and the Hugo to A Desolation Called Peace. Both are fine books, and A Desolation Called Peace is science fiction. But they are not at the level of Bewilderment.

We — the SF community — are missing important SF books. We missed Orbital, a Booker winner. (Bewilderment made the Booker shortlist.) We may be missing Cahokia Jazz.

I think we need to come to terms with the fact that writers who are not part of our “SF community”, if you will, are doing some great science fiction anyway.

Rich Horton’s last article for us was a review of The New Atlantis, edited by Robert Silverberg. His website is Strange at Ecbatan. Rich has written over 200 articles for Black Gate, see them all here.

 

Desired by the Vissigrothby Bella Blair
What is it about:SASKIA: The day started out so good, but turns from good to bad in the blink of an eye, when I run face-to-chest into one of the vissigroths of Leander. Like an impenetrable wall, his body doesn't yield one bit, awakening all kinds of unknown sensation inside me. When he demands I'm to be brought to his chambers that night, I fear the worst. But his proposition catches me off guard. He promises to take care of my ailing mother and even to find suitable mates for my sisters if I agree to become his vissy. What I don't realize though is that what starts as an agreement soon heats up into something more. So much more, because Treyton is by far the most handsome, considerate male I have ever met. 
TREYTON: Driven by the need to avenge my family against our greedy susserayn my plan is simple, marry a human seffy and enrage our susserayn until the other vissigroths will see him for the tyrant he is and start a war. It's a good plan. A damn good plan. I never thought in a million years though that I would not only find myself attracted to the human seffy I pick to be my vissy, but that soon I develop more feelings for her than I thought myself capable of. 
What did Voodoo Bride think of it:This was another freebie for signing up to Bella Blair's newsletter.
This story was around 80 pages and a nice enough read.There's little explanation about the world and the titles used, but it wasn't really necessary to follow the very quick romance. Once again some characters were dragged into the story who I suspect have their own books in the series this short story is from.
I think I like the world from the previous freebie more. I still have two more freebies to try to see if I want to read more from one of Blair's series/worlds.
Why should you read it:It's a good way to check out the setting of a series.

An Earthman on Venus (Avon, 1950). Cover by Raymond Johnson

Ralph Milne Farley (1887 – 1963) was a pseudonym for Roger Sherman Hoar. Hoar was a Massachusetts senator and an attorney general, so I can understand his use of a pseudonym to write his SF stories under, but I can’t imagine why he’d choose one just as long and awkward as his real name, and even less memorable.

At any rate, Farley was friends with Edgar Rice Burroughs and wrote his own series of Sword & Planet adventures sometimes called the Radio series, since most of the books featured the term radio in their titles.

[Click the images for non antmen-sized versions.]

Inside cover of An Earthman on Venus

As far as I can see, there are about ten titles in this series, but I’ve only read the first two (covers shown above and below):

The Radio Man (or An Earthman on Venus): Avon Books, (Raymond Johnson cover), 1924/1950
The Radio Beasts: Ace Books, (Ed Emshwiller cover), 1925/1964

In The Radio Man, an Earth scientist named Myles Cabot invents a transmission device that uses radio and accidentally transmits himself to Venus, where he finds human-like beings — including a princess — who are enslaved by intelligent, horse-sized ants who use radio waves for communication. Cabot uses his technical know how to create guns for the humans and leads a revolt.

The story was inventive and fun but without nearly as much action and derring-do as ERB’s John Carter stories.

The Radio Beasts (Ace Books, February 7, 1964). Cover by Ed Emshwiller

The sequel, The Radio Beasts, was also readable but didn’t seem to add much to the overall story, and the writing doesn’t have the flair and color of ERB.

I don’t, at present, have any intention of reading the rest of the volumes, which — as far as I’m aware — consist of:

The Radio Planet
The Radio Flyers
The Radio Gun-Runners
The Golden Planet
The Radio Menace
The Radio Man Returns
The Radio Minds of Mars
The Radio War

Charles Gramlich administers The Swords & Planet League group on Facebook, where this post first appeared. His last article for Black Gate was Of Men, Monsters, and Little People.

Fish Tales, by Nettie Jones, is a lost classic taking its rightful place in the…

The post Spotlight on “Fish Tales” by Nettie Jones appeared first on LitStack.

 

The Warblerby Sarah Beth Durst
From the author of The Lies Among Us comes a magical tale about mothers and daughters, choices and consequences, and the real meaning of home when every place feels like a cage.
Ten months. That’s the longest Elisa has stayed anyplace, constantly propelled by her fear that if she puts down roots, a family curse will turn her into a tree.
But she’s grown tired of flitting from town to town and in and out of relationships. When she discovers a small town in Massachusetts where mysterious forces make it impossible for the residents to leave, she hopes she can change her fate.
As Elisa learns about the town’s history, she understands more about the women in her family, who seem doomed to never get what they want. Now she believes she’s stuck, too—is that a patch of bark on her arm? But her neighbor’s collection of pet birds sings secrets that Elisa can almost understand—secrets she must unravel in order to be truly alive.

I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.

White Line Fever by K.C. Jones

Mogsy’s Rating: 3.5 of 5 stars

Genre: Horror

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Nightfire (March 18, 2025)

Length: 368 pages

Author Information: Website

When it comes to horror stories, a girls’ weekend road trip meets a haunted highway sounds like it would be a match made in heaven. This is essentially the premise of K.C. Jones’ White Line Fever, which made me very excited to read it. But while the book is brimming with terrifying potential and starts off on the right track, it struggles to maintain that momentum, and by the end, I found myself more frustrated than thrilled.

The book follows Livia and her lifelong friends Ash, Mo, and Becka, who have affectionately called themselves “The Scoundrels” ever since their childhood days of adventure and mischief. As the story begins, Livia is passing another normal day doing laundry when she makes a devastating discovery while emptying her husband’s pants pockets—an unfamiliar condom wrapper, torn open. The shocking revelation of his infidelity immediately plunges Livia into a dark place. After growing up in an abusive home and eventually escaping her cruel and violent father, she’d thought she finally found happiness. Alas, it was not to be. Needing to get away, Livia turns to her old trio of friends, who suggest taking a road trip into the Oregon wilderness where they can all benefit from some quiet time away from life’s ugly realities.

However, their trip takes a dark turn when an unsettling encounter with an aggressive driver in a pickup truck forces them to take a shortcut through the backroads, onto County Road 951—known to locals as The Devil’s Driveway. Short as it may be, countless tragedies have occurred on this road, spawning dozens of urban legends about it and earning it its sinister nickname. Initially unfazed, the group is just glad to be back on schedule, but after a while, strange things start happening that make them question their sanity. All of them experience losing time and begin having nightmarish visions, and after driving for what seems like hours, they never seem to make progress off this lonely stretch of blacktop that’s only supposedly 15 miles long. Desperation and panic set in as they eventually realize they are trapped with no way to escape.

As this surreal ride unfolds, the novel shifts between past and present, allowing readers a glimpse into the characters’ traumatic pasts that have shaped each of them. Especially prominent are flashbacks to Livia’s childhood, which was spent in the small, insular town of Newberry. There, she and her mother lived in constant fear under the brutal authority of her father, who ran an auto shop and fixed up junk cars. For relief, Livia often sought the company of her friends, including sisters Ash and Mo, and hung out secretly in the junkyard. At some point, though, all of them have come up against the threat of Livia’s father, whose shadow looms over them even after all these years.

At first, this back and forth proved generally effective at creating an unsettling atmosphere and establishes reasons for Livia’s breakdown following the implosion of her marriage. The flashbacks were also welcome breaks in the present timeline in which the intro mainly featured the women driving and talking. However, this pattern quickly became repetitive, resulting in a long, drawn-out buildup period that ruined the eventual payoff. For one, the plot repeatedly teases the horror elements, then pulls back just as they start getting interesting. For another, the characters gradually reveal themselves to be frustratingly dense, doing more bickering than solving problems even as their situation went downhill. Simply put, after a while I just got tired of being jerked around and spending time with these moronic ladies.

Don’t get me wrong. Annoying characters and wonky pacing aside, the book is still pretty solid. But I do think the best parts came too late, especially towards the end when the group meets up with another character whose part in the story was actually introduced in the prologue. Still, while this connection brought the cohesion which had been lacking back to the book, it wasn’t enough to redeem all its earlier missteps. In fact, here the story veered into even weirder, more confusing territory, making for an interesting but somewhat disjointed conclusion.

In the end, White Line Fever is a flawed horror novel which excels in certain areas but falls short in others. But although the thrills didn’t live up to the premise, it is still worth checking out if you enjoy unsettling character-driven stories, and the concept of an all-female cast trapped in a supernatural horror predicament makes me think this would appeal to fans of Rachel Harrison.

Tau Zero (Millennium/Gollancz SF Masterworks, February 2006). Cover by Dominic Harman

Science fiction — what is it, really? What elements place a story firmly in the genre? For any requirement that you can think of, there is probably a great sf story that violates it, and rather than cobble together some dictionary-ready definition, it’s easier to just think of particular books that you would hand to someone unacquainted with the genre with the words, “Here — read this; this is science fiction!”

Everyone would have their own choices for such a list, of course, and those choices would amount to your de facto definition. For me, some of those books would be Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke, The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester, and Man Plus by Frederik Pohl, but the very first book on my list would be Poul Anderson’s 1970 novel Tau Zero. Why? What does this book have that makes it a quintessential work of science fiction?

Maybe it’s this — it’s a grand voyage, a brave excursion into the great out there, and it also has a grand perspective shift, like a camera pulling back in a movie, a maneuver that radically alters everything that you had previously thought about the story, something that’s not a minor adjustment, but a move that completely explodes the frame. You think the story is this, but it’s really that, you think you’re here, but you’re really there; the here where you thought you were turns out to be the tiniest corner of there, a there that is larger and stranger and more dizzying than you ever could have originally imagined. (In The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, Peter Nicholls calls this kind of maneuver a “conceptual breakthrough.”)

Tau Zero begins as a straightforward story of an interstellar voyage, but it ends as far away from that prosaic beginning (prosaic by the standards of science fiction, I mean) as it is possible to imagine. Farther than that, really, and I think that’s the whole point.

Sometime in the 23rd century, the colonization ship Leonora Christine sets out from earth for a planet thirty light-years away. Unlike many stories of this type, the voyage isn’t prompted by the world coming apart at the seams; generally, things are going quite well, which is largely due to the people of the planet submitting to a global government run exclusively by… Scandinavians. Everyone just handed the reigns to the Nordic folk because of their universally acknowledged rationality, efficiency, impartiality, and lack of any pesky Will to Power. I know, I know — send any complaints to that son of Denmark, Poul Anderson. I guess he figured he would inoculate his readers against all the wildness to come by giving them the nuttiest thing first.

If the interstellar colonization mission is a stock situation, Anderson peoples it with characters that are themselves mostly recognizable types. The Leonora Christine’s Captain is Lars Telander, a solid, stolid, stoic father figure who seems ideal at the beginning of the journey, but who fades (if not wilts) into the background under the stresses of the voyage and the extraordinary emergency that the crew eventually has to deal with. More central to the life of the ship and the story Anderson tells are First Officer Ingrid Lindgren, ultra-competent while still being sensitive and sympathetic, and the book’s real protagonist, Ship’s Constable Charles Reymont, willing to be as much of an unlikable, hard-nosed SOB as necessary in order to hold the crew together and complete the mission. Reymont’s and Lindgren’s on-again, off-again romance and their consciously embraced good cop/bad cop roles form the human core of the story.

Anderson devotes significant time to this pair and to the other crew members whom they alternately coax (Lindgren) and steamroll (Reymont) on the way to their goal. In one sense, the book is a tract on the dynamics of leadership in a uniquely stressful situation, and the author had clearly thought a lot about such problems and had some definite ideas about how to deal with them.

It has to be said, however, that Anderson’s depiction of character rarely rises above a fairly rudimentary level; there’s an off-the-rack feel to most of his people. What we have here isn’t Henry James in space, and stylistically, the book wasn’t written to dazzle; if you’re looking for graceful allusiveness, poetic imagery or memorable turns of phrase, you need to look elsewhere; Anderson’s prose generally doesn’t rise above the level of “workmanlike” (which doesn’t mean that it’s bad — it usually has the far from negligible virtues of efficiency and clarity). So, old Poul is no Nabokov in space, either.

So what? Tab A in Slot B prose and slide-rule stiff characters are hard-sf traditions that go back all the way to the vacuum-busting days of Hugo Gernsback (and Anderson’s work isn’t nearly as wooden as the stuff old Hugo published), which just means that you adjust your expectations when you read this kind of sf story. (Oh, what’s a slide rule? Google it, kid.)

In the long run, Anderson’s deficiencies are perfectly acceptable because what you read Tau Zero for is the writer’s wide-screen vision and the extraordinary crisis his people face, and what a vision! What a crisis!

The Leonora Christine powers itself by collecting hydrogen as it travels through interstellar space and using it for fusion. (Technically this makes the ship a Bussard ramjet, though Anderson never uses the term.) As such a ship can approach the speed of light but cannot exceed it, the vessel’s flight plan is to accelerate up to near light speed during the first half of its voyage and then steadily decelerate down from that halfway point until it arrives at the target planet. Because of the relativistic time dilation caused by its extreme speeds, over thirty years will pass on earth while only five years will pass on board the ship.

Initially, things go smoothly as the crew settles into the routines that will occupy them during their long journey, and as expected, people (half of the multinational, fifty-person crew are male and half are female) begin to pair off in preparation for life as colonists on their new world. Everything seems to be going according to plan, until, before reaching the midway deceleration point, the Leonora Christine collides with an unanticipated interstellar dust cloud; because of the ship’s increased mass (due to its speed) this is potentially a very serious event, more like slamming into a brick wall than strolling through a fog bank.

At first, the ship seems to come through this emergency surprisingly well, but the truth soon becomes apparent. The collision has caused irreparable damage to one vital system — the one used for deceleration. The Leonora Christine is unable to slow down.

Why is the damage irreparable? To make repairs, it would be necessary to exit the ship, but the engines generate radiation that would be instantly fatal to anyone outside the hull, and the engines cannot be shut down because they generate an electromagnetic field which is the only thing protecting the crew from the hard radiation of galactic space. (The darn thing must not have been designed by Scandinavians.)

Reymont, Lindgren and the rest are thus faced with the prospect of an endless, pointless voyage that can only conclude with their own deaths from accident, old age or despair, sealed inside something that began as a ship, turned into a prison, and can only end as a coffin. Such an appalling situation would be bad enough, but the Leonora Christine’s crew soon comes to an even grimmer realization.

Unable to decelerate, the time dilation that was to have initially separated them from their home by a mere thirty years is only growing more extreme. The stunned crew members quickly realize that it is not decades that are passing outside the ship, not centuries, not millennia, even. “Soon”, millions, and then billions of years have passed. The would-be colonists whose aim was to open a new world for people from earth to live on must now accept that earth’s sun has long since burned to a cinder, their planet has vanished, their species has become extinct. The fifty exiles on the Leonora Christine are the last human beings alive in the universe, and unless they can find a solution to their dilemma, they are the last human beings that there will ever be.

How will they respond? Panic? Madness? Suicide? Reymont and Lindgren (especially Reymont) are resolved to hold the crew together, determined that they will all continue to do their jobs in the hope (hope being one of the defining characteristics of the late, great human race) that they will eventually find some way to slow down and locate some world, somewhere, where they can make a new start and keep their species alive.

Despite being more radically alone than any human beings have ever been (at one point, someone quotes Father Mapple from Moby Dick — “for what is man that he should live out the life-time of his God?”), for the most part, the Leonora Christine’s people respond well; the extreme strain sometimes produces extreme effects, but no one commits suicide. (I suspect that Anderson knew that in such a situation, if just one person took that way out, it would likely be the effective end of everyone.)

Soon they have left, not only our own galaxy, but also the supercluster of galaxies that constitute our local “neighborhood”, in the hope of reaching a region in which radiation levels will be low enough to permit them to make their repairs. As these “empty” gulfs are completely uncharted, they are also trusting that chance (or that God whom some of them still believe that they have not outlived) will eventually bring them to a galactic group where they will find a suitable planet.

Unexpected difficulties continue to intervene, however, and by the time they are able to fix the damage and decelerate to begin their search for a new home, there is no longer any potential home to decelerate to; so much time has passed outside the ship that the expansion of the universe caused by the original Big Bang has reversed. The universe is now contracting in a “Big Crunch” in which all matter and energy are forced closer and closer together until the cosmic cycle will restart with another Big Bang.

What is there for the Leonora Christine to do but circle the cosmic seed and attempt to ride out the coming explosion and then try to find a young world to begin again on? That’s just what they are able to do, and the story that began on an old planet in an old galaxy in an old universe ends on a new planet in a new galaxy in a universe that didn’t even exist when the story began, uncounted trillions of years before.

Bang – you’re alive!

The book closes with Charles Reymont and Ingrid Lindgren, two people who now constitute one twenty-fifth of the entire human race, standing on the soil of the home they have travelled such an inconceivable distance in time and space to reach. “Here was not New Earth”, Anderson says. “That would have been too much to expect.” But it is a place where the stubborn, resourceful, endlessly hopeful human race will be able to start anew, a place where it will have a chance to take root and flourish… and perhaps, avoid some of the mistakes that plagued it long ago in a universe that now no longer exists.

Charles Reymont, the man whose determination saved the entire human race, lightly rejects the suggestion of kingship that Ingrid Lindgren jokingly (but also not entirely unseriously) makes, and then “he laughed, and made her laugh with him, and they were merely human.”

Pardon my French (a language once spoken on the long-extinct planet earth), but… holy shit!

Tau Zero was called by James Blish the “ultimate hard science fiction novel.” It’s certainly difficult to think of one that could go beyond it; every time I finish reading it, I want take my brain out, shake it a little, massage it, and run it under a cold faucet before putting it back in my skull. It’s a book that takes your perspective and stretches it, and stretches it, and keeps on stretching it until you walk around bumping into walls because you’re so far from where you started that you have no idea where you are anymore and can’t even begin to imagine where you’re going to end up when you’re finished.

Even in the science fiction genre, there aren’t many books like that. Even a lemon-sucking, hard line anti-Campbellian anti-sentimentalist like Barry Malzberg grew positively misty whenever he talked about the book. Calling the novel “magnificent”, Malzberg rhapsodized that Tau Zero was “the only work published after 1955 that can elicit from me some of the same responses I had towards science fiction in my adolescence — a sense of timelessness, human eternity, and the order of the cosmos as reflected in the individual fate of every person who would try to measure himself against these qualities.”

This wasn’t just Malzberg indulging in nostalgia; Poul Anderson’s book, which marries a modest nuts-and-bolts style with a beyond-audacious premise, really does what Malzberg says it does, and in doing so it goes beyond the merely mind-boggling; it squares the boggle and keeps on squaring it until you’re so dizzy with infinitely expanding possibility that you have to lie flat on the floor for a while. For me, it’s the wildest, most exhilarating trip in all of science fiction.

I’m not going to return to the definitional task that I disavowed when I began this piece, but I do know that one of the things that we most want from a science fiction story is that when we finish it, we won’t end up back where we started. We want it to take us on a voyage, the kind of voyage that no other kind of writing can accomplish or even attempt.

If you want to know what kind of voyage that might be, I can do no better than to turn you over to one of the genre’s greatest voyagers, Poul Anderson, and commend to you his indeed magnificent novel, Tau Zero. When you’ve finished reading it, you might just feel — along with me — that what you’ve been holding in your hands is nothing less than the beating heart of science fiction.

The Voyager

Thomas Parker is a native Southern Californian and a lifelong science fiction, fantasy, and mystery fan. When not corrupting the next generation as a fourth grade teacher, he collects Roger Corman movies, Silver Age comic books, Ace doubles, and despairing looks from his wife. His last article for us was The Gorey Century

Here are 7 Author Shoutouts for this week. Find your favorite author or discover an…

The post 7 Author Shoutouts | Authors We Love To Recommend appeared first on LitStack.

 

Bet On Me, Daddy (Big Daddy Energy #2)by Stella Moore
What is it about:Years ago, I made a promise to myself. That I would never again put myself at the mercy of a man.
Especially a man as sinfully rich and gorgeous as Beckett Stone.
Until the day a stupid little bet put me exactly where I swore I’d never be again. On my knees, ready to surrender it all for two little words.
Good girl.
I keep telling myself it’s casual. Just a club fling I can walk away from whenever I want.
And I should. Walk away, that is.
Because I’m not the only one with a shattered past. The ghosts that haunt Beckett’s dark, brooding eyes tug at my heartstrings. They make me want to forget all the promises I’ve made for myself. To throw caution to the wind and beg him to take a chance on me. On us.
To beg him to Bet on Me, Daddy.
What did Voodoo Bride think of it:Although we mainly read Fantasy or SciFi, once in a while a Contemporary book catches my eye. I saw the author mention this book on social media, I went to investigate, saw that beard: had to get it!
And this is a delicious read.
I should warn the casual BDSM reader that this Romance has a Daddy/Brat relationship, be aware it's not just a little spanking when in the bedroom, but an all in lifestyle.
That out of the way: I loved the dynamics between Ruby and Beckett. They both feel a strong attraction toward each other, but both have their reasons to not want to commit to a relationship. As they decide to be 'casual' they soon are in over their heads though.
The viewpoint switches between the two so you get to see in both of their heads. I could easily understand them both, and rooted for them to open up and let the other inside. Add some seriously hot scenes and I could not put this book down. 
You bet I'll be be getting my hands on the first book, and there's going to be a book/series about a side character who immediately drew my attention!
Why should you read it:It's a deliciously hot BDSM Romance

 

Official Author Website
Order Snake Oil Bullet over HERE
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Long Way Down 
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The White Gold Score 
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Redemption Song 
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Living End 
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of A Plain-Dealing Villain
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Killing Floor Blues
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Castle Doctrine
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Double Or Nothing
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Neon Boneyard
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Locust Job
Read Fantasy Book Critic’s review of Down Among the Dead Men
Read Fantasy Book Critic’s review of Dig Two Graves                                                     Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Sworn To The Night
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Detonation Boulevard
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Winter's Reach 
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Instruments Of Control 
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Harmony Black
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Red Knight Falling
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Glass Predator
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Cold Spectrum
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Right To The Kill
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Black Tie Required
Read Fantasy Book Critic’s review of Never Send Roses
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of Ghosts Of Gotham
Read Fantasy Book Critic' review of A Time For Witches
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Loot
Read Fantasy Book Critic's review of The Insider
Read Fantasy Book Critic’s review of Any Minor World
Read Fantasy Book Critic's Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read Fantasy Book Critic's Harmony Black Series Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read Double Or Nothing Cover Reveal Mini-Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read Part I of Fantasy Book Critic's In-depth Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read Part II of Fantasy Book Critic's In-depth Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read the Wisdom's Grave Trilogy Completion Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read the 2019 And Beyond Interview with Craig Schaefer
Read the Right To The Kill Cover Reveal Q&A with Craig Schaefer
Read the Black Tie Required Cover Reveal Q&A with Craig Schaefer
Read the Charlie McCabe series interview with Craig Schaefer
Read My Sworn To The Night Cover Reveal Q&A with Craig Schaefer
Read 2020 State Of Schaefer Interview with Craig Schaefer                                              Read Celebrating A Decade Of Dark Fantastical Tales with Craig Schaefer

OVERVIEW/ANALYSIS: The Joker had quoted something intriguing in the Dark Knight “I believe that whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you... stranger”. I don’t know if Heather Schaefer took this as a motto for Harmony Black to live by but it certainly seems to be a guiding statement for this series. Within the past three books Harmony, Jessie and team have had their backs against the wall, Harmony especially has had a horrid time with her powers being erratic as well. 

Snake Oil Bullet deals with a lot of plot threads and characters from the past seven books. There’s not a lot I can say about the main plot without spoiling it but the least I can say that a certain doctor from book 7 makes his reappearance as well as other heinous villains from the team’s past. All in all this volume has a lot going on within. This is also a book which acts as a bookend to the second arc of the Harmony Black series while also setting up a tantalizing future. 
I was thinking there would be a Hannibal Lecter-Clarice Starling going with Harmony and her tormentor-in-chief demon but the author neatly sidestepped this scenario and sets up something else. There’s also a lot of things that are revealed about Harmony’s past which set up future intrigue. The author has definitely settled the question of who the Paladin is but Harmony will have a huge part to play based on what is revealed about her heritage.  This book has some interesting action sequences and the best part is the author’s usage of mirror opposites during the climax (you’ll know what I mean when you read the book). 
The Vigilant Lock team has come a long way from where it started and with the end of the second arc. The author has shaken up the board and now things are moving slowly but surely towards the big Enemy-Paladin conflict that has been teased over both the Faust and Black series. Rest assured there will be plenty of alien & extra-dimensional trouble heading the team’s way and we the readers will be here to enjoy it. I also loved how incredibly intricate this series is with the First Story saga and yet has its own weird ongoings as well. The ending promises more carnage of both the personal and team kind but Jessie and Harmony are no pushovers either. 
Snake Oil Bullet is a fun and twisted story that uses all the pillars which have been set up in the past and creates a dark canopy for readers to enjoy. The plot is streamlined, packed with action, and twisted reveals. As a fan this book helped satiate my Harmony Black cravings while giving me more to ponder. I can’t wait for more of Harmony and whichever title Heather releases next.

Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot and the Foundation Trilogy. Robert A. Heinlein’s Sixth Column. Arthur C. Clarke’s first three novels. The entire Conan saga from Robert E. Howard. The International Fantasy Award winner City by Clifford D. Simak. The Hugo Best Novel winner They’d Rather Be Right from Mack Clifton and Frank Riley. Books by L. Sprague de Camp and Fletcher Pratt, A. E. van Vogt, C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner, Murray Leinster, Frederik Pohl, Jack Williamson, Andre Norton, and James Gunn.

Those would be a solid core of any collection of vintage f&sf. Yet those books and dozens of others appeared in a few years from just one small publisher: Gnome Press.

Gnome ad in the 1952 Worldcon Program Book

Fantasy had long been a staple of what we would now call mainstream publishing but before the 1940s American science fiction was relegated to gaudy pulp magazines, critically reviled as among the lowest forms of fiction. The superweapons that emerged from World War II, especially the atomic bomb, suddenly made the field look prescient, a look into the onrushing future.

Windsor [ON] Star, November 2, 1946With mainstream publishers still reluctant to mine magazine back issues, fans of the genre saw a publishing niche. More than a dozen small presses sprang into mayfly-like existence before 1950.

Bloomington News Letter fanzine, February 1949

Gnome was founded in 1948 by two members of New York fandom, Martin Greenberg and David A. Kyle.

The only known photo of Greenberg and Kyle together

Run on the proverbial shoestring, Gnome nevertheless outpublished, outsold, and outlasted all their competitors. Greenberg had a knack for making deals and Kyle did everything else, including drawing a half-dozen covers. He was soon obsoleted by young – and cheap – newcomers like Edd Cartier, Ed Emshwiller, and Frank Kelly Freas.

The firm made mistakes – could there be a worse response to the dawn of the Atomic Age than to drop three fantasies as its first three selections? – but quickly caught on to what the public wanted. Greenberg was a disciple of John W. Campbell who, whatever is thought of him today, then towered over the field as the guru editor of Astounding Science Fiction and Unknown Fantasy Fiction magazines. Whatever he touched, sold.

Greenberg used the magazines as his Comstock Lode and cannily offered to republish story series as “novels,” suiting post-war tastes if not the labeling laws. Authors flocked to Gnome’s door, desperately wanting hardback publication.

Well, that and money. Greenberg gave them only the former. He and Kyle split the proceeds fairly. Greenberg got a salary and Kyle didn’t. (Kyle always had multiple jobs and Greenberg had a family. But still.) Nevertheless, Kyle stayed six years and Gnome lasted fourteen, with Greenberg owing money to everyone in sight. He is usually described as a charming rogue with a gift of gab. Asimov once went to him demanding money and wound up lending more.

Isaac Asimov royalty payments, auction catalog

History is never pretty. Flaws and all, nothing compares to Gnome in the history of vintage f&sf. In many ways, it is the history of vintage f&sf.

I knew nothing about Gnome when I chanced upon several titles in a used bookstore in 1980. I had seen the name in passing, but histories of the small presses were nonexistent. I found a list of all 86 titles, and dove in. A few decades later I had them all. Did I stop there? What fun would that be? Gnome produced about 75 variants, with different boards or different jackets. Nobody knows exactly how many, because new ones keep popping up. Finding all of them is essentially impossible, which means the search never has to end – the perfect collectible.

Moreover, Gnome published a variety of ephemera, from newsletters to catalogs to calendars and I set out to accumulate all that appeared on the market. I even bought the 1951 Fantasy Calendar, which was an unparalleled achievement since it doesn’t exist. (Blame Donald Wollheim.)

Digging for information is infinitely easier today than in 1980, yet Gnome appears to have left virtually no paper trail, an oddity for a publisher dealing every day with paper. Other than a few scraps at Syracuse University, no business records seem to have survived and not even the indefatigable Kyle bothered to talk much about his time at Gnome in the millions of words he wrote for fanzines.

Gnome cover proofs, auction catalog

Nevertheless, dogged digging over decades created a repository of everything known about Gnome. Near archaeological level scrutiny of covers, flaps, copyright pages, and back panels yielded a history of each title. Each answered question led to ten additional mysteries. Eventually I wrote an utterly unpublishable 660-page manuscript dump that would require more than a thousand images to elucidate the text.

What’s 150,000 words and 1100 images to the internet? I already owned the URL GnomePress.com. The 113 pages there now comprise the first complete bibliography of Gnome Press (by author, title, and publication date), a separate page for each title with color scans of every variant board and cover I own along with contemporary reviews and previously unknown photos of the more obscure authors, information about a range of associational items, and histories both of Gnome and the f&sf field up to the time of its founding.

For all its literally exhausting coverage, the site remains a work in progress. Gnome collectors continue to provide information that require revision to opinions I previously thought firm. If anyone reading this has even the slightest scrap they want to share, please contact me. Or just ask questions about Gnome. Anything, except how much a book is worth.

By the way, Marty Greenberg’s file copy of I, Robot inscribed to him by Asimov is listed on the internet at $50,000. If you’re the buyer, please contact me. I want to know all about you.

Steve Carper is the author of hundreds of articles on fascinating, if obscure and forgotten, tidbits of history, as well as the seminal book Robots In American Popular Culture. All of his websites are linked at SteveCarper.com.

Rereading this for an online book club.

Ähhh." Cleaver said, but given the way his brow wrinkled, Lisbeth still wasn't certain he was following.

"There's nothing here," Sullivan growled.

(page 86, Contagion by Erin Bowman)
---------
Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, previously hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following: - Grab your current read - Open to a random page - Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!) - Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their  TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

 

Book links: Amazon, Goodreads
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: SUSAN BARKER is the author of four books. Her third novel, The Incarnations, was a New York Times Editors’ Choice and Notable Book, a Kirkus Reviews’ Top Ten Book of the Year and shortlisted for the Kirkus Prize for Fiction. An excerpt from her fourth novel, Old Soul, won a Northern Writers’ Award for Fiction in 2020. Susan currently lives in Manchester, where she is a Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University.
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons (January 28, 2025) Length: 352 pages, Hardcover Formats: Audiobook, ebook, hardcover, paperback
Old Soul is darker, sharper, and far more sophisticated than typical horror. No cheap thrills here - just an unnerving sense of inevitability creeping in with every page. Readers willing to handle a slow burn, a literary structure, and nuanced characters will love it.
The novel opens with two grieving strangers - Jake and Mariko - meeting in an Osaka airport. They share drinks and talk just to discover they both lost someone they loved under similar, rather horrific, circumstances. Their loved ones died thousands of miles apart, but each had met the same enigmatic, dark-haired woman beforehand. Oh, and one more thing - their internal organs were reversed.
From there, Jake starts a globe-spanning journey. Obsessed with the case, he’s collecting testimonies from people who’ve lost someone to the woman. Each of them reads like a miniature horror story.
Meanwhile, the woman herself is out in the Badlands, luring her next victim and she needs to hurry up. Immortality isn’t as glamorous as folklore would have you believe, and rotting from the inside is no fun.
The alternating perspectives - Jake’s investigation and the glimpses into the woman’s present build a slow, creeping dread. To me, this narration feels elegant and eerie. The horror here is intelligent, and creeping, with moments of near-cosmic dread. Despite the book’s sophistication, it never feels pretentious. It’s gripping and visceral and never gets lost in its own literary ambitions.
A few words about the mysterious woman. She is, without question, evil. But not in a theatrical way - there’s no excess, no unnecessary cruelty. She does what is required to survive and moves across centuries and continents under countless names, always ready to trade lives for immortality. She abandoned family long ago. Human connection, belonging - these are irrelevant. All that matters is survival. This relentless, almost inhuman focus makes her alien, but also fascinating.
Some books sink their teeth into you slowly. Old Soul goes straight for the bone. This is literary horror in the best sense - dark, sophisticated, and unsettling in a way that lingers long after you turn the last page.

Last week, I flew out to Colorado to visit, Erin. Now, it goes without saying that I will leap at any chance to have time with my Peanut. I don’t need excuses to visit. But in this case, we had a bit of an agenda. Erin was in need of a car, and I went out to help her with the purchase.

Yes, she is 25 years old and could have done all of it on her own. But here’s the thing. Statistics show that women, on average, pay more for cars — new and used — than do men. In fact, White men pay the least of all. Women and all people of color will, on average, pay more for the same car, in the same regions, and even at the same dealerships. This is not an imagined form of discrimination. This is real and documented and supported by data.

So, out to Denver I went. We found her a car at a decent price. She’s happy, and I had time with my darling girl.

Erin in her new car!

But . . .

The other night, I finally saw On The Basis of Sex, the Ruth Bader Ginsberg biopic that came out in 2018. The movie is, of course, a Hollywood take on an extraordinary historical figure, and so is bound to suffer from some flaws. But it offers an unstinting look at the barriers placed before RBG, who was always the smartest person in whatever room she entered, and always the best lawyer in any courtroom she graced. In this way, it reminded me of 42, the Jackie Robinson biopic starring the late Chadwick Boseman, and Hidden Figures, which told the stories of Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughn, and Mary Jackson, Black NASA mathematicians whose revolutionary work helped make possible the American space program.

In all of these movies (and countless other similar films that I have failed to mention) we are reminded of the irrefutable truth that sexism and racism (as well as homophobia, religious bigotry, and discrimination against people with disabilities) create nearly insurmountable barriers to success for too many.

And this is the insidiousness of the current Administration’s hysterical and irrational assault on DEI programs across the country. The assumption underlying this “policy” is that white, cis, straight males are the standard that define what it means to be qualified and competent. This is, of course, utterly ridiculous, and to see how foolish it is, take a moment to read any online biography of General Charles Q. Brown, the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff fired by the present occupant of the White House for no other reason than because he happens to be Black. For that matter, take a moment to read a biography of Admiral Linda Fagan, the first female commandant of the Coast Guard, or Admiral Lisa Franchetti, the first woman to serve as Chief of Naval Operations and thus the first female member of the Joint Chiefs. Both were fired, apparently, because they’re woman and, like Brown, were seen by the Administration as “DEI hires.”

As if the Administration itself isn’t filled with (and led by) hires that are based entirely on race and gender! Does anyone honestly think that Pete Hegseth would be Secretary of ANYTHING if he weren’t a straight White guy? Does anyone think that Donald Trump would be anything more than a two-bit grifter if he hadn’t been born White, male, and rich-as-fuck?

When I was in graduate school, my (white male) advisor told me the story of how he came to be hired as a history professor at Stanford. He happened to be in the office of his (white male) advisor when the (white male) chair of the history department at Stanford phoned the aforementioned advisor, who was an old pal from Yale. The history department chairman said, “We have an opening here for an American history professor. Do you have any grad students who are on the verge of finishing their dissertations?”

“Actually, I have one sitting right here, and he’d be perfect.” At that point, my advisor’s advisor turned the conversation over to my future advisor who was “interviewed” and hired on the spot.

They call it an Old Boys Network for a reason, and such advancement has long been available to White men across academia, as well as throughout the business world, the legal and medical professions, politics, and in pretty much every other professional realm imaginable. Was my advisor qualified for the job? Absolutely. Was he more qualified than anyone else — of any race, gender, or group — who might have sought the job at Stanford had it been advertised and thrown open to all properly credentialed applicants? Who knows?

DEI is not intended to give an unfair advantage to underrepresented groups. Rather it is intended as a corrective for a culture, society, and economic system that have been tilted in favor of White men literally for centuries.

And yes, I count myself among those who have benefited from that uneven playing field. Absolutely I do! I was born White, male, upper-middle class. I’m straight. I was given every opportunity to succeed — I grew up in a nice house, in a good school system, raised by parents who fed me well, kept me safe, and took an active role in my education. I was taught from an early age that being smart, and being perceived as smart, are good things. I never faced any social pressure to hide my intelligence in order to be deemed “more attractive,” as so many girls my age were. I never feared the police. I never was called by the “N” word, as my best friend was, in my presence, when we were twelve. When the time came, I was in an economic position that allowed me to attend an Ivy League university. What an advantage all of that was! My privilege set me up for success. I know this. And I deal with it the only way I know how: by being an ally to those who didn’t have my privilege, and by fighting (and voting) for social justice and economic equality at every opportunity. Yes, I’m Woke. You’re damn right I am.

The current Administration is attempting to reverse more than half a century of progress on women’s rights, Civil Rights, LGBTQ+ rights, and antipoverty efforts. Why? Because they see anything that further levels the playing field as being to their personal disadvantage. Many of their supporters feel the same way. They would rather perpetuate a system filled with bias, one that rewards mediocrity by limiting competition from qualified women, qualified people of color, qualified people with disabilities, qualified people who identify as queer. They are terrified by the surety that if forced to compete with a wider group of skilled, talented people, they are likely to lose out. And they’re probably right. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are pursuing an ideological agenda that is immoral, cruel, and bad for our country.

Wishing you a good week.

 “A Palace Near the Wind” by Ai Jiang is richly inventive, brutal and beautiful science-fantasy.…

The post Spotlight on “A Palace Near the Wind” by Ai Jiang appeared first on LitStack.