Thursday, April 23, 2015


James O'Meara reviews BLACK HOUSE ROCKED! By Paul Bingham and Emril Krestle! (And released by my tiny imprint, HOPELESS BOOKS.) 

Oooh, and he liked it. Score! 

An excerpt:

Jackson’s ensuing adventures are a kind of blood-drenched Magic Theater, a tour of the Western Lands under the guidance of el hombre invisible himself. I must confess, I rather missed our grittier, down-home visit with Jackson and his fellow small town glue huffers, but Bingham’s way with language keeps you going on.

Some lines are worthy of Chandler himself:

“He likes to live in a nutshell. All complete, but can’t hit back, when the world starts cracking.”

And check this out: I am apparently "one of the leading voices of the anti-natalist movement," saith O'Meara. Some may find this a dubious compliment, but I wear it with stinking, rancid, human pride.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

I'm in the Cahiers Octave Mirbeau!

Anyone care to purchase this year's Cahiers Octave Mirbeau? Along with the usual collection of scholarly essays on one of the great underrated writers of the 19th century, you will get the chance to read my first published essay in French. Mine is considerably less learned and scholarly than the rest; it's half a translator's note for my soon-to-be published translation of Dans le ciel (In the Sky), but mostly it's a paean to the immeasurable value of translation work as an apprenticeship in novel writing.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Hey antinatalists: kill yourself, durrr: Brainstorm

I'd like to brainstorm  at least somewhat clever responses to the ever-so-bingo retort: "So why don't you just kill yourself then?"

Couple of mine:


You needn't condone life to accept yours.

And you needn't accept yours to enjoy things.

Because I'm not a crack addict living in a Dumpster. (But my kid could be.)

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

A final attempt to get my braincrush on Ligotti out of my system

Because when your influences show, it's worse than showing your panties.

Did it never occur to you people that this place may be too awful to be random? A mean retarded Maker gloats over your strange seductive minds, these bitter conscious soap bubbles he’s trapped in his weak meat soup. Why would the godshead sentence itself to so many centuries of such bad gruel? Is this joke so funny it’s worth the taste of raw blood forever? How bitter to be the ultimate butt—a “person"—to ride, awake, within the gross blood pudding, wishing only to be immortal—and yet you cry to see God grin and drool as he gorges your flesh down, idiocy omnipotent. So pleased to have made a walking joke that never stops begging for mercy! How nightmarish, to always know he will have the last bite. Do I want morphine when I die? Which is worse? To be awake to feel this obscene bully tear the last of you from your shell, or to be spared the last of your memories? What’s the worth of a memory that can only be held for never? For whose benefit would you savor that last beautiful sunset drenched in pain? The moment it happens, the personality stew you’re so disgustingly proud of is gone.

Or perhaps there is no god. Perhaps, as is possible with all questions, there is no answer. But doesn’t it all seem too elaborately perverse to be an accident? Perhaps the best comfort is to think that we really are in hell and we truly enjoyed our mortal sins in a former life. I hope they were more delicious than we here can imagine.