I don’t know why, as a secular Jew, I am fascinated with crises of faith, and with Catholicism in particular, but the topic is a lifelong preoccupation. In this light, I was eager to dive into Christopher Beha’s Why I am not An Atheist: The Confessions of a Skeptical Believer.
A little context can go a long way, especially when it’s from knowledgeable guides. My first encounter with Vernon Lee’s uncanny fiction came when I read the collection The Virgin of the Seven Daggers. I will confess that I don’t remember much else about it, the fact that I was reading it in 2020 goes a long way towards explaining that. I enjoyed Lee’s work enough that I was excited to see a new version of her 1890 collection Hauntings published with a conversation on the book (and Lee’s work) by Gretchen Felker-Martin and Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya.
No man in America has ever stood up so persistently and effectively for the dignity of human nature, knowing himself for a man, and the equal of any and all governments. In that sense he was the most American of us all. He needed no babbling lawyer, making false issues, to defend him. He was more than a match for all the judges that American voters, or office-holders of whatever grade, can create. He could not have been tried by a jury of his peers, because his peers did not exist.
Speaking these words from the vestry of the First Parish meetinghouse to the citizens of Concord, Massachusetts just two weeks after John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry, Henry David Thoreau saved his cause.
Ever since I first sat down with Nathan Ballingrud’s collection North American Lake Monsters, I’ve been enthusiastic about his work. The stories in that collection and its followup, Wounds, abounded with moments of dread both primal and existential. Film and television adaptations followed; then Ballingrud zigged when I expected him to zag, via the novel The Strange, set in an alternate past where other planets in the solar system can sustain human life without any sort of terraforming.
Is the idea of a crime taking place in a locked room the most primal version of the mystery novel? As a young reader, I devoured plenty of mystery stories, beginning with the Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown and graduating to Agatha Christie’s novels. Lately, I’ve been exploring the world of John Dickson Carr, whose mysteries also revolve around crime scenes that defy logical explanations.
He’s Peter, she’s Wendy, but this is no storybook romance. From the first pages of Bring Your Lover Back, the rockiness of this relationship is palpable—even before the reader learns of the small velvet box stuffed deep in Peter’s jacket pocket. But Peter’s ability to delude himself sends him on a journey of desperate efforts to win her—or someone—to love.
You’d be amazed at how much mileage a story can get from a plant behaving like an animal, or vice versa. One of David Lynch’s early short films, The Grandmother, was about a kindly old woman who grows from seeds planted in the earth. Is it disquieting? Yes. And it’s no surprise that one of the most unsettling stories in Tomás Downey’s new collection Diving Board (translated by Sarah Moses) is about a horse that’s also a plant.
In this time of Trump, our political discourse is thick with mythology of a more temporally immediate sort than the Greeks or Vikings were ever able to cook up…