After Engulfment by Ellen Greenham

I’ve looked at cosmic horror before on this blog in the case of individual works—is Stephen King’s Revival cosmic horror? or Lem’s Solaris?—and certainly some of my all-time favourites, from Alien to HP Lovecraft, are, but I’ve never been sure I could properly define “cosmicism”, or say why the horror in cosmic horror is “cosmic”. Ellen Greenham, in this 2022 book from Hippocampus Press (full title: After Engulfment: Cosmicism and Neocosmicism in H. P. Lovecraft, Philip K. Dick, Robert A. Heinlein, and Frank Herbert), on the other hand, can:

“The principal tenets of cosmicism are that the universe operates as an indifferent mechanism, without purpose or direction, and the human creature is not only insignificant but exists as a biological mutation or accident of elemental and chemical stellar processes.”

I’d add—or at least, this is an aspect I’ve latched onto in my look at, say, Roadside Picnic—that cosmicism presents the universe as being vast, and far weirder than we could ever expect, to the point of being overwhelmingly incomprehensible. (Though this could be seen as a bleaker variant on the sense-of-wonder of science fiction.)

In my Mewsings on Stapledon’s Last and First Men I called cosmicism the religious aspect of atheism, but I might instead say it’s a worldview not just with no God, but with an oppressive God-shaped absence, to the point where the universe seems not merely indifferent but actively hostile. As Greenham says:

“The hallmark of cosmicism embodied within Lovecraft’s corpus is the apparent lack of anything even remotely like human emotion and morality being employed in the process of human eradication. Lovecraft’s others simply swat the human creature as that creature in turn swats flies.”

Why “cosmic”, then? To the Ancient Greeks, cosmos was opposed to chaos; it was order and certainty. The idea of the “cosmos”, then, relies on having a cosmological model—an ordered mental model of how the universe works. But, as Greenham points out, such models, however accurate they may seem, inevitably fail, for “a cosmological model, like a map, is only one particular view and not the territory itself”. For her, there is always an ineradicable degree of chaos that makes the universe ultimately resist any attempt to turn it into a tame and knowable cosmos.

Philip K Dick’s Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, cover art by Peter Gudynas

The horror of cosmic horror is all about incursions from the “outside”—the depths of space, other dimensions, other orders of being—but this “outside”, as Greenham says, “is simply the territory beyond the parameters of the cosmos”. “Outside” means outside one’s cosmological model. The thing that turns this into horror (as opposed to the sense-of-wonder of discovering something new), is that the outsideness is so extreme it doesn’t merely reveal flaws in the cosmological model, it shatters it so thoroughly that it destroys the protagonists’ very notion of themselves.

In cosmic horror there are usually two outcomes: madness or death. In this book, Greenham maps out an expansion of the ideas of cosmic horror into what she calls neocosmicism, and adds a third response, engulfment, a term that still captures something of the sense of fear and loss of self (as experienced by many a Lovecraft protagonist), but points to a way “the human creature” (as she refers to you and me) can move beyond a merely negative outcome:

“By choosing to be engulfed by the universe, rather than simply observe it from a distance, the human creature in neocosmicism can move beyond what stops and destroys it, to enter a vitalised engagement with the universe and with others.”

Being engulfed, one may drown, or one may (like the protagonist of Lovecraft’s “Shadow Over Innsmouth”) be transformed and take to the alien environment as one’s new home. But the transformation must be profound.

Heinlein, The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag, cover art by Peter Gudynas

The primary Western cosmological model for centuries has been what Greenham calls “the Genesis model”, where humanity, God’s favoured creation, is “significant in its world”, and where there is a “moral code bestowed upon it by that God”. When this was assailed by the key ideas of the 19th and 20th centuries (the revolutions started by Darwin, Freud, Einstein, and others), it was replaced by “the Machine Universe”, one “without emotion or human morality”, ruled by “the cold equations” of the laws of physics. Caught between these two worldviews, you’re in what Greenham calls “the Schizophrenic Universe”, which is “no longer one stable thing or another”, “an alien and schizophrenic landscape that has become strangely separate from the human creature within it”. The way forward to a new understanding—or to a new way of relating to the universe without a full understanding—one must face the “gaping black hole between cosmos and universe” which Greenham calls the void. For, “the light,” she says, “can never be truly understood without knowledge of the darkness also”.

The void, of course, seems empty, meaningless, a frightening vacuum. But it has a useful purpose in this neocosmological process. Like Nietzsche’s abyss, its job is not so much to be stared into as to stare back: “The void is thus named because its function is to make void, to empty the full; to turn the human creature into a tabula rasa.” To accept a new notion of what the universe is, you must—painfully, if necessary—get rid of the old notions first, even if it means throwing everything out.

Dune by Frank Herbert, cover art by Bruce Pennington

At this point, the universe becomes “a proving ground”, where “the human creature enters a relationship of ‘lethal proximity’ with the universe”. A prime example is the planet Arrakis in Herbert’s Dune, whose harsh conditions have resulted in the super-tough Fremen, a people who’ve learned to live with the “cold equations” of their particular environment. The apparent hostility of the universe, then, becomes a spur: the successful entrant into the proving ground is “facing imminent threat so that… [it] might also engage its vitality”. Ultimately, though, the idea is not to just become a machine for survival, but a human being that survives, one that seeks to find “whether it is possible to survive in the cold equations with emotion and empathy intact”.

All this points to a new relationship with the vast, sometimes hostile-seeming universe. Against the apparent insignificance of humanity that’s a given in cosmic horror, Greenham’s neocosmicism points to how the very hostility of the “proving ground” can lead to a new sense of significance: the proving ground may weed out those who can’t survive its ultra-harsh conditions, but “Gardeners do not remove weeds for the sake of the removal”. There is, then, an ultimate aim: to turn oneself into a creature that fits this universe, perhaps even adds something to it. This can, Greenham says, even be a liberating view, for:

“…in remaining indifferent to whether the human creature succeeds or fails, the universe nullifies any sense that creature might have of striving for a final result, thereby releasing that creature from the requirement—real or illusory—to be bound by a sense of finitude.”

In the end, the idea is to no longer see the individual human being as a thing contained in, and oppressed by, a vast universe, like a pea rattling around in an enormous box, but as a part of it, and perhaps even (in John Wyndham’s phrase) “the crown of creation”—the human that triumphs against incredible odds, and retains their humanity, and not because a god deemed that it was always going to be so, but through their own efforts.

Olaf Stapledon

Reading Greenham’s book, I kept thinking of one author she doesn’t mention, Olaf Stapledon, in particular his Last and First Men. Stapledon has some of his future races of humankind actively engage with the sort of ideas Greenham writes about. They see their role as surviving in the universe as it is, not as they wish it to be, and being prepared to accept that the end must ultimately be a tragedy—the universe’s “cold equations” (literally cold: they face the dying of the sun) will win out, but in the meantime, their role is to seek the fulfilment of their particular nature within this universe: “man is a fair spirit, whom a star conceived and a star kills”. And Stapledon adds something I think Greenham doesn’t mention, as far as I recall, a willed returned to that science-fictional sense of wonder. Stapledon’s future humans “render the universe that intelligent worship which, they felt, it demanded”, and learn to “admire the Real as it is revealed to us, and salute its dark-bright form with joy”.

It’s an excellent study of an idea that could really be applied to so much I’ve previously written about on this blog. (Reading it didn’t require an extensive knowledge of the writers she covers—I’m certainly not very familiar with Heinlein, or with Herbert beyond the first Dune book. I’m tempted now to read some more in the Dune series; not so much with Heinlein.)

You can hear Greenham interviewed on episode 152 of the Udda Ting Podcast (don’t worry about the Swedish intro, the interview itself is in English), on most podcast apps or here at Soundcloud.

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The Penny Tin Whistler by Sylvia Fair

Gollancz 1976 HB, art by Sumiko

This is Fair’s second novel for pre-teens/young adults, published in 1976. It has a number of similarities with her previous book, The Ivory Anvil, in that it combines a light touch of fantasy with a gentle tale about children exploring a landscape. Here, there’s a bit more of a threat to the landscape—though, again, a light one—and like the previous book there’s a mystery from the past to be solved.

The landscape in this case is the area surrounding a canal in rural Derbyshire. The Atkins family have just moved into Bickley Mill, a disused water mill in need of renovation. (Their father, a teacher, tells them it’s going to take two years to get it into the state he wants it in, including completely replacing the plumbing and installing an interior staircase, as at present the only way to get to the bedrooms is via outside steps. 1970s dad that he is, he intends to do all this work himself, with a little help from his kids.) In their spare time, the kids, twins Rachael and Rowan, explore the canal, and get to know Mr Benson, whose job it is to care for it. Like the mill, the canal is basically disused, and Benson is battling to keep it going, as he knows certain local forces—farmers and factory-owners—would rather it was closed for good. People dump rubbish in it, and others engage in outright vandalism. Unlike similar books such as The Grey Dancer and The Walking Stones, the threat to the canal isn’t a threat to a whole rural way of life, then. Rather, it’s an interesting piece of the past, one that adds charm to the landscape, and provides a habitat for local wildlife, including kingfishers, ducks, moorhens, swans, frogs, water voles, pike, carp, tench, roach and woodpeckers. Part of the appeal of the The Penny Tin Whistler is being allowed to dwell in this country environment with the kids as they explore it. (There’s even a map, spread out over three pages at the start of the book. It seems to have been cut off, though, and there was presumably meant to be more of it. I suspect the author, who was an artist and I’m guessing is the one who drew it, wanted it to be a fold-out. I certainly wanted it to be a fold-out.)

The fantasy aspect is, as with Sioned in The Ivory Anvil, a sort of enhanced sensitivity to people and to the past. Twins Rachael and Rowan have a telepathic bond: they’re always aware of where one another is, and though they can share thoughts, they’ve agreed not to be too intrusive. It also turns out, though, that they can pick up lingering memories from the past. It’s nicely done, as when Rachael finds an out-of-the-way nook under the ivy and finds herself thinking:

Me. Dressed in green,
Cat’s cradle,
Hairy string,
Knotted, beneath the ivy.

Only, she knows the “Me” isn’t herself. She’s picking up someone else’s memories. Rowan, meanwhile, gets impressions in his dreams. After some investigation, they discover that a pair of young twins like themselves used to live at the Mill, but were separated when they were evacuated during the War, after which their grandfather, who lived at the Mill and was their only family, died, meaning they never returned. (One slight niggle: why were they evacuated from such a rural spot?) Rachael and Rowan realise that these twins, being younger than themselves, and whom they know never returned, might never have been able to find one another after that separation, and perhaps that’s why they’re picking up these memories. (The title of the novel comes from what Rachael and Rowan call one of these twins for a while, as Rachael senses her, at one point, playing a penny tin whistle.)

Gollancz 1976 HB back cover, art by Sumiko

As with The Ivory Anvil, the investigation is dotted throughout the daily life of the twins as they go to school, help with the house, and explore the canal. But the quiet pace of the story never feels boring. The only complaint I have about the book, plot-wise, is it leaves its resolution so late that some points aren’t fully resolved. One of these is that, in order to fully access his dreams and learn where the lost boy-twin might be, Rowan has to mentally detach from the telepathic bond he’s shared with his sister since birth. This is a scary moment for him, and he wakes the next morning to find himself without it for the first time—in part, though, appreciating the sense of individuality and privacy that comes with it. But is it permanent? I’m supposing it is, but I felt there had to be at least one revisit, one exchange between the pair about the loss of their deeper connection, or something like that, just to resolve the issue. (The other main plot point that doesn’t get resolved is that, although the lost twins are located, we never get to see them, or know they’ve got together again. Perhaps that might have proved too emotionally weighty a scene compared to the rest of the book, but still, I felt it was needed.)

I found two reviews from the time, one positive, one negative. Juliet Page in the Times Literary Supplement wrote:

“Sylvia Fair knows well how children think, talk and act, and her twins, with their grouches and enthusiasms, are the genuine article. Though steeped in atmosphere, this adventure is set firmly in the everyday world of plumbing, homework, and conservation… As Sylvia Fair admirably demonstrates, it is possible to be both down-to-earth and enchanting. Her novel is to be thoroughly applauded; it is one of those delightful children’s books that reanimates one’s own memories of magical times spent in secret places.”

But Stuart Hannabuss in The Times, dismissing the book as “a generic package” in comparison with her previous novel, goes on to say:

The Penny Tin Whistler with its children in telepathic contact with spirit children of the past and with its workable theme of saving a canal, evokes a mood like Lucy Boston’s Chimneys of Green Knowe, but does little to bind the themes together or to pin down the people. Children grow used to themes cropping up again and again, but have every right to expect that a story should do its own work.”

(I wonder if he expected child readers to all be as well-read as himself.)

To me, The Penny Tin Whistler seemed a perfect follow-on from Fair’s previous novel, and I’d have been happy to read more in the same vein, but her next books were for much younger readers. At least she got a good cover, this time, though.

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Heartwood: A Mythago Wood Anthology, ed. Dan Coxon

PS Publishing 2024, cover by Vince Haig

I was immediately intrigued by this anthology of all-new stories set in the world of Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood. I wavered a bit over reading it, at first, as generally I’m not so much into fictional worlds as I am the works of individual creators, but all the same I was intrigued to see what other writers might make of Holdstock’s ideas, when there’s so much to explore. What finally decided me was the thought that, if nothing else, these stories were sure to throw some interesting light on Holdstock’s own work.

It’s an anthology of roughly two halves. First, we have the stories of people coming to the wood and encountering the mythagos it generates. A lot of these had the same basic pattern (which isn’t a criticism): childhood memories, or the rumours of something strange going on, usually combined with some loss either in the past or the present, would draw someone to the wood, and there they would start to see that characteristic flickering at the edges of their vision. What worked in this sort of tale was the way it was presented. John Langan’s “Et in Acadia” (not a typo), for instance, is told entirely by a group of adult siblings, reminiscing about their terminally ill brother, and the strange games he led them in as children. Here, it’s the unreliability and variability of memory—particularly of childhood viewed from many years later—that allows the magic to leak through: what’s accepted as a child can only be revealed in all its true strangeness when it’s revisited as an adult. My favourite of this type of story was “Voici Les Neiges d’Antan” by Chaz Brenchley, about the easy friendship of an adolescent boy and girl, who have for years been entering a wood near where they holiday, spending time with what they know is no ordinary being—either a fairy or a mythago—but now one of them decides they want to take things further, go deeper into the wood and meet something different. It’s written with a very light touch, but hits the sense of loss—which is embedded in Holdstock’s work and pretty much every story in this collection—spot on.

The other main type of story, here, is tales of mythagos themselves. These often take place entirely within the woods. They tend to be the more impressionistic or experimental pieces, relying less on plot and more on a sort of evocation of the strange state of being that a mythago must experience. Just to name a couple of favourites, I liked “Mad Pranks and Merry Jests” by Jen Williams for its refusal to be consolatory, and “Calling the Tune” by Lucy Holland, which presented, in scenes scattered across time, the development of a particular mythago from its originating event to its most characteristic, archetypal form, and then to a modern-day manifestation. (And one of the points of interest throughout this anthology is how modern elements get integrated into the world of Ryhope Wood, such as podcasts, mobile phones, internet rumours and the mythago-seeking subcultures that chase those rumours.)

There are a few stories that don’t fit either type. Adrian Tchaikovsky’s “Paved with Gold”, for instance, in which London is treated as a mythago-generating landscape, was perhaps more the sort of thing I was expecting from this anthology, applying as it does Holdstock’s idea to new landscapes. Tchaikovsky brings out some good ideas, such as how national myth-figures, in their mythago forms, might have a particular attraction for certain ideologies. Another story I immediately liked was “Into the Heart” by Alan Stroud, set in a scientific institute where a mythago has been captured for study—but, of course, there’s no possibility of scientific observation of a mythago, because the observer is as much a part of it as its originating myth.

As to the light these tales threw on Holdstock’s work: one thought I found popping into my head after reading some of them was “mythagos aren’t therapy”. In a few of the stories, it seemed, the mythagos went out of their way to work towards the sort of resolution—in one case, I seem to recall, even laying out a psychological explanation in modern terms—that just didn’t fit with the far more savage process in Holdstock’s novels. Can it, though, be said that Holdstock’s mythagos aren’t therapy? There’s certainly a psychological need behind them—one view of the Huxley family’s interactions with the wood, and in particular with the mythago Guiwenneth, is that it all stems from the loss of Jennifer Huxley, George’s wife and the boys’ mother, and their attempt to compensate for that. I’m pretty sure it’s stated in one of Holdstock’s novels that myths emerge when there is an irreversible change or loss. Myths and mythagos certainly have some sort of cathartic purpose, then, but the way that plays out in Holdstock’s novels is usually savage and excoriating. It’s the therapy of being stripped back to nothing and reborn—as in Tallis’s “I feel violated, consumed; yet I feel loved” from Lavondyss. Harsh, savage, dangerous and difficult, it’s hardly consolatory. Just look at how the mythago Guiwenneth plays out in interaction with each of the Huxley males: all of them lose her, usually multiple times, just as they lost their mother. It’s as though the mythago idea of therapy is to keep hitting you with the trauma till you’re so covered in scar tissue it no longer hurts.

Another thing that stands out is just how strange Holdstock’s own imagination could be, in those savage moments that produced, for instance, the image of a rider bound in burning straw on the back of a wild-running horse. There was something just so dark and archaic in his imagination, and it’s only when you see his ideas in other hands that you realise just how unique to him those moments were. (I think Maura McHugh comes closest, in her story, “Raptor”.)

I will say that I was surprised how many of the tales in Heartwood returned to Ryhope Wood. I’d expected a lot more different locations from around the world, and myths from different cultures. (Perhaps there could be a follow-up anthology, Mythago World.)

Mythago stories are tricky. At what point does a mythago story become just a ghost story, or a monster-in-the-woods story? I still don’t know if I could tell what made the mythago idea so characteristically different. (In the first book, it was perhaps the science fictional approach to fantasy material, but that’s not so much true of the subsequent novels.) Certainly, though, a lot of the writers in this volume—clearly fond of Holdstock’s work—have grasped it.

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