books, page 16 of 134

If you read Julia Briggs’ 1977 history of the English ghost story, Night Visitors, it’s easy to believe that the ghostly or supernatural tale had a brief, M R James-inspired flourish in the early twentieth century, before becoming moribund — nothing but, as she puts it, “a vehicle for nostalgia, a formulaic exercise content merely to recreate a Dickensian or Monty Jamesian atmosphere”. But it’s writers like John Metcalfe (1891–1965), whose output bridged the classic (M R James) with the more thoroughly modern (Robert Aickman) eras of the British weird, who give the lie to this. Judging by the sixteen stories and one novella collected in Nightmare Jack and Other Stories (Ash Tree Press, 1998), Metcalfe was no pasticheur of M R James or any other writer, and certainly no indulger in the nostalgic, as his tales were, in the main, set in modern times (his modern times), and betray clear signs not only of that modernity — references to psychoanalysis, aeroplanes, the World Wars — but perhaps also of the modernistic. (It’s true he included some time-worn, even clichéd elements, such as two early stories where the supernatural is tied to the stolen jewelled eye of a foreign idol. But nobody could accuse either “Nightmare Jack” or the so-insanely-funny-it’s-not-funny-at-all “The Smoking Leg” — which TED Klein quite wonderfully calls “jocularly bloody-minded” — of being in any other way traditional.)

But, I don’t want to make it sound as though this is something I’ve always known. I’ve only recently been prompted (thank you, Peter!) to read Metcalfe, and it’s doing so which got me thinking how little I know of the between-and-post-World-Wars British weird. It’s those same World Wars that Briggs gave as the reason the British ghost story (in its broadest sense) declined. As she says:

“The Great War had not only trivialised invented horrors… it had also catalysed changes in society which affected the ghost story less directly but no less fundamentally. Atheism and agnosticism were now more widely tolerated, and totally materialistic philosophies were far commoner than heretofore.”

But, through the lens of Metcalfe’s fiction, it’s easy to see why this explanation — that the Great War achieved a surfeit of real-world horrors thus ending the demand for them as entertainment, and that the loss of religious attitudes made the supernatural ridiculous to the general reader — are inadequate, if not about-face wrong. The very surfeit of horror, combined with an inability to channel it through traditional beliefs which might have ameliorated its force, left the writers of the World War generations (and Metcalfe served in both conflicts) with a massive psychic load to deal with, and no ready-made form with which to do so. The world had gone insane — not once, but twice — and while some people no doubt returned to their lives as though nothing had happened, some were left reeling. The ghost story as nostalgic/formalistic exercise may have been dead, but the tale of the outright weird was very much a live issue.

Nightmare Jack contains stories from across Metcalfe’s career, starting with his first collection, The Smoking Leg, which came out in 1925. The story “The Smoking Leg” shows how far we are from the air of amateur antiquarians and bachelor academics, as here we’re dealing with not one but two alcoholic doctors, plus an unfortunate Burmese boy, as main characters. The first doctor engages in what’s either a cruel prank or a desperate attempt at smuggling, using the poor boy as his unwitting surgical mule. The artefact — the inevitably cursed eye of a idol — proceeds to not only smoke, but causes ships and people to burst into flames. There’s something about the tale, a teetering on the edge between being very darkly funny and barely holding onto any semblance of sanity, that characteristically marks some of these early Metcalfe stories. I get the feeling there was a certain amount of turbulence going on beneath the surface (certainly, Metcalfe’s mental health suffered during his lifetime), of a writer riding the wave of material he just didn’t know what else to do with except craft into these barely-contained eruptions of the dark and strange.

Others from the same era defy any resolution into either a supernatural or psychological explanation, such as “The Double Admiral”, where a retired admiral is haunted by what at first seems like nothing but a distant smudge on the horizon. Resolved to confront this irrationality, he summons two friends to row out to sea and face it. The smudge, in turn, comes towards them, revealing itself to be their doubles… But then, does the admiral die, to be replaced by his double, or is he somehow restored to life and health, only changed in some way? The story, evidently, isn’t about answers, but about a sheer, haunting strangeness that has no answer.

There’s a lot of haunted individuals in these stories, most of them driven to face the source of their obsessions, only to be rewarded with oblivion. One man is haunted by the mostly missing memory of an experience he had at a certain house, which he strives to find once more; another is haunted by his attempt to escape from a prison by digging a tunnel, a moment he constantly relives; a third is haunted by the sense of evil he gets from a remote location, and which may in fact be down to his straying into an entirely different dimension.

There’s more edge-of-the-razor humour in at least one of the stories from Metcalfe’s 1931 collection, Judas. “Mr Meldrum’s Mania”, like “The Smoking Leg”, might be intended as a joke — it certainly seems to be satirising psychoanalysis, as the only explanation given for what occurs to its protagonist is a wildly over-specific memory of seeing a particular illustration on a particular page of a book as a child — but it’s so loaded with the distress of its main character, it’s hard to read as anything but horror. (It recalls, to me, Daphne du Maurier’s “The Blue Lenses”, in its depiction of the isolation caused by a horror only perceptible to one person.)

With “Mortmain”, from the same collection, it can seem at first we’re in more traditional ghost story territory, with a newly-married couple honeymooning on a boat trip around the English coast, apparently pursued by the wife’s (dead) former husband’s boat. But it’s the nature of that husband which takes the story into a very un-traditional sense of wild irrationality:

“Humphrey must plainly have been mad. He had taken to affronting everybody by getting himself up in a sort of parody of female attire—had let his hair grow long, his beard as well, and had affected a shirt-blouse and skirt.”

And it’s not just eccentricity: the man also drenched a dog in paraffin and set it on fire. Not the sort of thing you’d find in M R James.

“Mortmain” brings to the fore Metcalfe’s relish for language — particularly when evoking the repulsive:

“Something was happening, impending, in the clouds. Above a bloodshot wrack piled banks of rutilous vapour were slowly moving—wreathing and twisting into flaming whorls and spirals and strange convoluted forms. Dark, ragged clots converged upon a festered core, showing a ruddy glow. The scene had a malignant and yet tawdry splendour, a sordid glory which was that of a lost world. Swollen, faeculent masses discharged tardily into a crimson vortex. It was as if the heavens themselves were rancid and dissolved—displayed the specious beauty of corruption.”

One of my favourite tales in this collection, for sheer strangeness, is “Brenner’s Boy” (first published in 1932). It starts with an ex-navy man struggling to recall exactly what he agreed to when he bumped into an old admiral he’d previously served under. Did he really say he’d look after the man’s troublesome boy for a bit? Then the youngster turns up, though with the strange air of having done so on his own steam, and proceeds to be rude, wilful, and obnoxious to everyone, breaking things and constantly straying beyond the bounds of social acceptability. For a while, the protagonist feels too constrained by his inability to recall how much he’d agreed to, and not knowing how to deal with the social aspects of this very awkward situation. The feeling is very much like the sort of tangles of polite constraint and supernatural effrontery in Robert Aickman’s stories. In fact, I’d say, it’s having read Metcalfe that Aickman’s oddities start to make a little more sense — not in terms of resolving into sense, but from pointing to, perhaps, something of a common origin. (Quite what that origin might be, though, is another thing altogether…)

The longest story collected here (and which has recently been published on its own, by Valancourt Books, in the US) is the Turn of the Screw-esque novella, The Feasting Dead (first published in 1954). The narrator’s boy Denis starts spending time in France with distant relations, until things are suddenly broken off. The thing Denis most seems to miss about his overseas visits is an odd “friend” he made — they used to go out and “catch moles” and do other boyish things — only, this is an old man, a gardener or servant, who suddenly appears in England one day and ensconces himself in the narrator’s home. From this point, the narrator finds Denis growing more distant, and the mystery around this unprepossessing “friend” only growing deeper — the man, whose name is Raoul, comes across as so much of a nothing. Strange noises are heard from the boy’s room at night, poltergeist-like sounds (“nightly thumpings, hummings and (a new ingredient) derisive hootings”). When the narrator confronts Raoul, it turns into a struggle, and the man seems to disappear from underneath him. Denis runs away, and the narrator heads out to France, sure that’s where his boy has gone. There, he learns something of the nature of this creature that’s preying on his son:

“They called these—these preposterousnesses, or the cast of mind that fostered and engendered them, ‘sans noms’—simply that. The ‘nameless’. . . .”

Obviously some sort of vampire, it’s the very opposite of the aristocratic, darkly charismatic Count Dracula. It’s here Metcalfe’s love of language comes to the fore again, in the words his narrator struggles to find to describe this thing: “This lay-figure—this fantôche, this hollow puppet”, “this most supreme and consummate nuisance”, “this kind of molestation, or superstition of a molestation”, or best of all, this “eerie lummox” — exactly the sort of floundering for understanding caused by the “totally materialistic philosophies” that, as Briggs would have it, put paid to the ghost story. As the narrator himself admits:

“You might suppose a recent world-war would have knocked such nonsense out of [the superstitious locals] but—suddenly, and wryly, I laughed at myself—though it wasn’t at all funny. Yes, that was rich! Talk of the pot and kettle. . . .! For I was equally in thrall to a grotesque myth with any of the folk I was deriding.”

That Metcalfe’s fiction is deliberately exploring the overlap between the supernatural and the psychological is evident, here — even to his narrator, who says, “The case is fairer game I fancy for a psychical researching bloke, or a psychiatrist.” Those two being pretty much the same, as far as he’s concerned.

But perhaps the key thing here is those noises in the boy’s bedroom. Of them, the narrator says:

“Poltergeists, I had heard, were regarded as the prankish play of a surplus vital force or energy; and it was just after this force’s flow, from Denis, had been stimulated but yet deprived, temporarily, of its accustomed receptacle in Raoul that the impish manifestations, centering round my boy, were commonest.”

Poltergeists, as I said in my review of The Haunting of Alma Fielding, are that peculiarly modernistic eruption of the supernatural, a wilfully irrational upwelling of the suppressed into nonsensical violence, more like psychic grenades lobbed into the world of the living than the work of reasonable ghosts.

That poltergeist-like irrationality — even if poltergeists themselves don’t actually appear — seems like a marked characteristic of Robert Aickman’s fiction, and of Metcalfe’s, too. It’s the sense that, only a very short distance beneath daily life, there’s a bubbling away of violent, irrational, and overwhelming forces that we’ve only avoided this far through chance. A very cosmic, even Lovecraftian idea — “The Colour Out of Space” might well have been a Metcalfe tale, if written with an alcoholic haze to its prose style. Metcalfe’s tale, “The Bad Lands”, makes a close companion to Lovecraft’s. And, what do you know, Lovecraft commented on this very story in Supernatural Horror in Literature, saying it contains “graduations of horror that strongly savour of genius.”

Some more Scottish YA folk-fantasy… First published in the UK in 1970 as The Bodach, and in the US in the same year as The Walking Stones, this was then re-released in paperback in the UK under the more Earth-mysteries-friendly US title in 1976.

“Bodach” is Gaelic for “old man”, and the Bodach of the title lives in a Scottish glen, a storyteller and possessor of the Second Sight. Living close by are the Campbell family — shepherd Ian, his wife Kitty, and their ten-year-old son Donald — and one evening when the Bodach is visiting, the old man foretells that, the next day, three men will come to the valley, one with a forest on his back, one with lightning in his hand, and the third bringing death. Sure enough, the next day, three men — all called Rory — turn up. One has a sack of seeds for planting a forest, the other has the plans for a new hydro-electric dam to be built in the glen, and the third has the responsibility of turning on the dam and flooding the glen (thus bringing death to it). They offer the Campbells and the Bodach modern, new houses in the nearby town (with “electric light, hot and cold running water, an electric stove, a refrigerator and washing-machine — everything, in fact, that a modern house should have”), and while the Campbells accept (Ian is to get a new job, too, working as a forester under the first Rory), the Bodach says, politely but firmly: “you will never flood this glen until I give you leave to do so.”

Work progresses for two years. The day the dam is due to be turned on (by Royalty, no less), the Bodach stands as one of the crowd — but suddenly, he’s there in the glen. Knowing they can’t turn on the dam till he’s safe, men are sent to get him, but every time he’s about to be caught, he reappears somewhere else. Things continue like this till the end of the day, and the dam hasn’t been turned on. That evening, the Bodach tells the now twelve-year-old Donald why he’s using this skill of creating a “Co-Walker”, a double, in this way. There’s a circle of thirteen standing stones in the glen, and:

“Once every hundred years, they say, these stones move from their places. They walk to the river and dip their heads in it, then they go back to their places and stand fast there for another hundred years.”

The Bodach wants to see this wonderful event. But before he can, the two of them encounter a creature from the Otherworld, the Bean nighe, the Washer at the Ford, whose appearance foretells death. The old man saves the boy from becoming its victim, but only at his own expense. Now knowing he’s going to die, and so maybe not to get to see the stones walk, he asks Donald to see them, and passes on his gift of the Second Sight to the boy (which he’d always meant to do anyway). The Bodach falls ill and is taken to hospital, so Donald must use his new abilities (creating his own “Co-Walker”) to keep the dam from opening, then gets to see (I hope this isn’t a plot spoiler, as it’s in the title of the book) the stones move.

There are already connections between this book and two other Scottish YA novels I’ve covered on this blog. The Washer at the Ford appeared in Winifred Finlay’s Beadbonny Ash — though there she didn’t portend death — and The Grey Dancer was also about a glen being flooded due to the creation of a hydro-electric dam (and there was also a cyclical supernatural occurrence, too). The Walking Stones is a lighter book than either, aimed at a slightly younger audience. The threat level is low, and none of the characters is really villainous (one of the Rories is clearly tempted to flood the valley even with the Bodach in it, but is persuaded otherwise). Usually I find books aimed at pre-teens to be too light for my tastes, but The Walking Stones has a bit of an edge (with the death of the old man), plus a genuine scene of wonder and weirdness when Donald gets to see the walking of the stones. It’s an evocative and mystical moment, very nicely written, with strands of wreathing mists gathering about the stones, then becoming the long white hair and flowing beards of old men.

For Donald, the protagonist, it’s basically a tale of initiation, as he’s granted the power of Second Sight. Any modern book of this type (or even The Dark is Rising, from a few years later) would use the idea to be the first in a long series, with Donald going on to fight all sorts of Otherworld perils, but here, there’s no sense that’s going to happen. Donald, we can be sure, is going to live just as quiet a life as the Bodach did, telling tales of wonder and mystery, and providing a little Second Sight and Otherworldly wisdom to his local community. (Will it be a strange and lonely life? We’re not told, though Donald does rather sensibly express some doubts as to whether he wants the gift of the Second Sight.)

Like so many similar books of the era, there’s a sense of old ways — along with both their faerie dangers, and their supernatural sense of wonder — being erased by the encroachment of modern technology — with its greater ease of life, but paucity of wonders. Compared to the Bodach, we’re told, “there was no one on the television who knew stories as strange as the ones he told, or who could tell them half so well”. But Donald is handed the baton, and becomes just such a storyteller for the next generation, ensuring the old ways, wisdom, and stories aren’t quite going to die out just yet.

Hodgson’s The Night Land is perhaps the most abridged/reworked of 20th century fantasies. First published in 1912, it was immediately and severely cut by Hodgson himself into The Dream of X, so as to secure US copyright; in 2011, James Stoddard produced The Night Land: A Story Retold; and in 2023 an abridged edition was issued as part of the MIT Press’s “Radium Age” series of proto-SF classics. All this is perhaps an expression of what many critics and readers seem to feel, that Hodgson’s novel is a mix of great elements and the not-so-great, and might be fixed with a little tinkering. It was hearing about the Radium Age abridgement that prompted me to re-read The Night Land — but I went back to the original, knowing otherwise I’d spend my reading time wondering what they’d left out.

Although it was the last of Hodgson’s novels to be published, I like the idea put forward in Sam Gafford’s “Writing Backwards: The Novels of William Hope Hodgson” that it was the first to be actually written. It certainly has the feel of a first novel, compared to, say, The House on the Borderland. The Night Land has more rough edges, along with that rawness of sentiment that can come through in a first novel (particularly, perhaps, a fantasy one), before publication makes a writer self-conscious of what he’s doing.

The plot, for such a long book, has a fairy-tale-like simplicity. After a framing story where we learn this is a manuscript produced in the 17th century by a man recording his dreams/visions of a far-future self, we’re projected into the Earth’s end days. The sun has died and humanity has retreated to the Great Redoubt, a massive, multi-city pyramid surrounded by a barrier of protective Earth Current. Beyond the barrier is the bleak and terrifying Night Land, a region of darkness populated by monsters and even more perilous Forces of Evil. The narrator’s strong telepathic abilities allow him to pick up a distant voice from a previously forgotten Lesser Redoubt — and what’s more, the woman he’s in contact with uses a name that makes him believe she may be the reincarnation of the lady his 17th century self loved and lost. When he then receives a communication that the Lesser Redoubt has fallen, he sets out on a lone quest to find her, and bring her to the safety of the Great Redoubt.

Critics of the novel, while almost always praising its originality and vision, tend to raise two key complaints about The Night Land. The first is about its style. C S Lewis, for instance, says it has “a foolish, and flat archaism of style”; Lovecraft calls its “attempt at archaic language… grotesque and absurd”; and among contemporary reviews, the Dublin Daily Express (9th May 1912), said “people who look to find pleasure in a book do not care to be engaged in a constant struggle with a repellent style.” But the book also has its defenders on this count. Michael Moorcock, in his often vituperative Wizardry and Wild Romance, says “This is archaism used to much livelier effect than [William] Morris’s.” And, back among the contemporary reviews, the Morning Leader (19th April 1912) brought in literary precedent, saying the book’s manner is “a mixture of Pepys, Meredith, [historical novelist] Mr. [Maurice] Hewlett, Defoe, Mr. Kipling, and the Bible”, before adding: “The book is so unusual, so great a tour de force, that we really are uncertain whether it is magnificent or silly—or neither: it is certainly impressive, but not at all convincing.”

For me, I have no problem with the style, which seems natural to both the strange world and the archetypal story Hodgson is telling. He does occasionally come up with a clunker:

“And mayhaps your sympathy shall tell you just how I to feel in the heart.”

But more often he uses the artificiality of the style to evocative, even occasionally playful, effect, as in this description of one of the Night Land’s small fire pits:

“And the noise that it sent out was strange and slow, and it did seem to gruntle gently unto itself in that lonesome hollow, as that it had made a long and quiet grumbling there, through Eternity. And oft was it still, and made no sound; and again would give an odd bubbling in the quietness, and send off, as it did seem, a little smoke of sulphur, and afterward fall once more upon a quiet.”

If I have any complaint about the style — and this is the first thing I’d cut if I were doing an abridgement of the book — it’s the narrator’s frequent appeals to his reader for sympathy or understanding:

“And surely all this to be plain to you, and to be over-plain; for, in verity, I tell to you, and over-tell, until that I should be weary; and mayhap you to be the more so. And, indeed, I not to blame you; but only to hope that your understanding, which doth mean also in general your hearts, doth be with me all along my way. And, indeed, this my tale to be not easy told.”

But equally, Hodgson may be simply reminding his readers that, although this story is set in the far future and in a very strange environment, it’s still a tale about human beings, with the same basic human concerns we have today. If nothing else, it lends the narrator a hint of vulnerability, which ultimately has the sympathising effect he’s asking for.

The other major sticking point with critics is the love story. Lovecraft, of course, objects, saying the book is marred by “nauseously sticky romantic sentimentality” (a phrase which can’t help making me think of the number of sugars Lovecraft used to pile into his coffee). Fritz Leiber says the love story “mars rather than embellishes” the book, and C S Lewis, while praising The Night Land’s “unforgettable sombre splendour” of imagery, felt it was “disfigured by a sentimental and irrelevant erotic interest”. Interestingly, none of the contemporary reviews I’ve found make any objection on this point.

For myself, while it’s true that reading The Night Land can occasionally feel like you’re the awkward third with a couple who are goo-goo in love (“and I kist her, and I told her that I did be surely her Master, in verity, and she mine own Baby-Slave”), the book’s subtitle is “A Love Story”. The love story can’t be cut. And it’s not merely the spine of the tale, it’s the core of book’s meaning. Hodgson may, in The Night Land, be sentimental, but it is an honest sentimentality. The love story is not some sop to what a reading public wants, but the expression of something he deeply believes in.

After all, in the imaginative strangeness of the Night Land, Hodgson’s work is shot through with cosmic horror: with massive, unintelligible, anti-human forces just waiting to not only stamp out our hero, but inflict some deep spiritual harm to him (which has led it to become standard practice for people venturing into the Night Land to have a suicide capsule embedded in their wrist, so they can end their life rather than fall into the clutches of the Powers of Evil lurking out there). But Hodgson’s horrors aren’t entirely of the Lovecraftian sort — they’re not beings of such cosmic immensity that humankind are insects they crush without noticing. These things are drawn to humanity. They cluster around the Great Redoubt, wanting to get at the people inside. Human beings, then, have value in Hodgson’s cosmos. And that value, at least in the mind of Hodgson’s narrator, is typified by love, “for our love did make all the world holy”. The Night Land, meanwhile, is characterised by its loneliness (“and everywhere there was abundance of rock and lonesomeness”) and inhumanity. Its most fearsome element is the mysterious House of Silence — which could well be The House on the Borderland at some latter stage in its journey through the eons — but this, crucially, is balanced by the final words of the novel, used to describe the state of the narrator’s union with his beloved: “the House of Joy”.

There is, though, an element within the love story that raises stronger objections. This is the sadomasochistic strain that creeps in from soon after the narrator finds his Maid in the desolation of the Night Land. It starts with him giving her a smack on the hand for refusing to eat all the food he gives her (she’s trying to save it in case he needs it later). This leads to him later shaking her, then twice actually whipping her — the second time after violently baring her shoulders. There are hints she perhaps takes some enjoyment in this (the narrator catches her kissing the strap he used as a whip), but after the second time, she stops speaking to him, and makes exaggerated play of serving him as a slave (which only annoys him more). Hodgson has already established that his far future culture makes use of public punishment, where miscreants become “human signposts of pain for the benefit of others”. This may partially explain — along with the narrator’s youthfulness — why he lashes out when reasoned argument is all that’s required. (And the narrator certainly takes no account of how traumatised the Maid must be.)

But there is another element to the sadomasochism. We learn, early on, that the narrator prepared for his venture into the Night Land with unspecified privations, after which “yet was I sweeter in spirit because that I stood lean and pure, and much poor dross and littleness had been burned from me”. As part of this, he has “withholden from that which doth weaken and taint the spirit”, which can’t help sounding like a Victorian euphemism. Hodgson’s narrator is clearly invested in sexual abstinence — the Maid remains a maid throughout the journey — as in:

“And so I to think, and did presently ponder with a great and strange pity upon they that did not yet have met the Beloved, and they mayhap not to have kept all for the Beloved; but to have been light with that which doth be the Treasure…”

The sadomasochistic element in their relationship bubbles over in that portion of the journey where the couple are least in danger, and so when their youthful energies aren’t entirely taken up with simply surviving. It doesn’t exactly take a Freudian to argue it might just be sexual tension between the two of them, finding the only outlet it can, in their prurient world. It ends, though, when they’re faced with a genuine threat once more, in a spectacular eruption of sword & sorcery levels of violence, with an attack by twenty of the bestial “Humpt Men” who haunt those parts. It’s a sequence that seems straight out of a Frazetta painting, and proves the Maid to be no wilting and helpless child. After that genuinely threatening violence, the pair thankfully seem to have got all that whipping and slave-play out of their system.

Those two elements — the archaic style and the love story — aside, all but the most fantasy-averse critics agree The Night Land is wildly impressive for the sheer weird inventiveness of its landscape, and the strange beings that inhabit it. If its primal horror derives from anything, it’s Bosch’s fire-pit-studded hells and Goya’s “Saturn Devouring His Son”.

One of the most effective things about the Night Land itself is that, dark as it is, it’s alive with sounds: screams, cries, shouts, a constant hint of movement. A giant man or a pig-tusked thing might suddenly appear, rushing by while the narrator hides, then is gone. And there are the stranger beings and Evil Powers, too: the hooded Silent Ones, who only kill those who walk on their road, or the mysterious and enormous Watchers (“mountains of living watchfulness and hideous and steadfast intelligence”), or the terrifying Night Hounds. One Force of Evil the narrator encounters is accompanied by a whirring sound and seems to resemble “the trunk of a great tree, that did show in the glowing”: utterly abstract, and all the more frightening for it. Moorcock & Cawthorn in Fantasy: The 100 Best Books best sum up this menagerie of cosmic horrors:

“They are creatures of the unconscious, vast dim forms from the nightmare-spawning shadows beyond the lamps of Reason, their powers and purposes never clearly delineated. Only the lesser and purely physical menaces can be met with muscle and the biting fires of [the narrator’s weapon] the Diskos.”

Starting out on this re-read of The Night Land brought back to me the feeling from my first read, of how vulnerable and imperilled the narrator was in his journey into that vast and monster-haunted darkness. This time I also felt there were moments of distinct resonance with Tolkien: Frodo and Sam’s venturing onto the road before Minas Morgul (there’s a road and a city in the Night Land, too, though we never see the city up close), and even more, the Two Watchers that Sam has to face outside the Tower of Cirith Ungol. (Douglas A. Anderson says, in Tales Before Tolkien, that Tolkien likely read The Night Land in the 1930s, so this may have been a genuine point of influence.)

For Lovecraft “The last quarter of the book drags woefully”, but for me the last two chapters have a sustained tension and almost symphonic grandeur. The ending works so well precisely because Hodgson has earned the right to lean so heavily on what is, by this point in his epic narrative, no longer sentiment but archetypal human emotion, raised to the nth power. Perhaps all that silly love-talk and the endless descriptions of the Maid kissing the food tablets before she hands them to the narrator pay off, in some way, as long as you’re willing to let them.

The Night Land is one of those early masterpieces of fantasy which is so powerful simply because it has so little precedent, because it was written before any conventions existed. Hodgson pulled this thing out of his imagination wholesale, like some lone Ahab beaching the White Whale with a fishing rod.

As to abridgement… I can certainly see parts I’d have cut. The narrator never fails to tell us how many hours he walked each day, at which points he sat down to eat and drink (and to justify himself every time he eats more than the amount he rationed himself), as well as how he searched for a place to sleep, and whether he washed, and how long he slept, and how he ate when he woke, and so on. It all seems rather mechanical, not to mention a little boring, in the face of the visionary weirdness of the Night Land itself. But perhaps that’s the point: Hodgson is making his narrative real, by placing such humdrum details in contrast to his cosmic horrors. And perhaps the very length of the text itself adds to the feeling that, having read it, you’ve witnessed — even been a part of — this immense fairy-tale journey.