Stories from another
time
by Guido Eekhaut
Hopefully John Crowley will one day take his
rightful place amongst the innovating storytellers of our time. This
is a bold remark, certainly when made concerning a writer who is as
good as unknown with the literary public, whose books are hard to
find, whose reputation is one of a writer’s writer. Those, however,
who have read Ægypt, who have read his shorter work, know him
for the careful and eloquent literary craftsman he is. They know
that if lists will be drawn up of writers surviving their times,
Crowley’s name will be in those lists often enough.
Crowley is not a easy writer. He
demands much of his readers, not only in the way of patience – if he
uses plots at all, they are never fast-paced – but as well in the
way of background knowledge. He is not an easy writer because his
tales are never concerned with dramatic events. “The adventures of
the characters in my novels are existential, but I don’t believe
they are exactly moral. I believe that they are aesthetic,” he
explains in a 2001 interview. “I am not a moral writer. I am not
concerned in my fiction with what you should do or not do in life,
or what’s good or bad. I’m trying to explore the dilemma of
characters who are creations in a book – which is, in effect, a
Gnostic dilemma: souls who find themselves in a world that they
suspect is not merely fallen or bad but entirely unreal, including
their own histories and natures.”
The grand scale on which the
four-book cycle that started with Ægypt (1987) is based, will
probably disorient a number of readers. But Crowley’s starting point
is very simple – problematically simple even, since the premise
touches the very foundations of our believe in reality.
Occasionally, he states, the world as we know it, changes in its
most crucial form. The last time this happened was in the late
sixteenth century, the age of – amongst others – Giordano Bruno and
John Dee (who are both in the book). The possibilities of magic that
had been present before that time, simply ceased to exist.
Even more problematic is the fact that after this
shift, most memories of how the previous world worked, disappeared.
A few echoes remained, but they became the stuff of superstition,
myth, and the last vestiges of occult sciences. “Once the passage
time is past,” says Crowley in the same interview, “you can’t find
evidence that there was a time the world was open to other
possibilities. Those other possibilities are all a dream.”
His books then are novels of ideas –
if you want to know all, or nearly all, about Gnosis, you’re in good
hands.
Crowley has been – like so many other valuable
writers – cornered in a genre for which he does feel nostalgic, but
which he would better have avoided. Or perhaps not. Fully in the
mainstream, he would probably not have found a faithful audience as
he did now. He has, however, never gone along too much with the
genre’s themes, and if he did, like in Great Work of Time, he
transformed them so that the became his own. In an older interview
he tells of the sort of reader who will compare books with whatever
literature is top of the class – and compare them not within a genre
but with the Nabokovs and Pynchons of this world. And that sort of
comparison is one we’re allowed to make as well concerning Crowley
(one has only to read – carefully – is latest novel, The
Translator). Crowley has been fortunate enough to be able to
write his own sort of books, not having to churn out potboilers to
make a living (remember Philip Dick, with whom Crowley shares an
active interest in the Gnosis).
The stories in this collection are in one way
different from the novels. Where the novels may read as
straightforward mainstream fiction for dozens of pages on end, only
to be occasionally interrupted by some esoteric twist or detail, the
stories never hide their fantastic origin or intention. Where the
novels – and I’m specifically thinking of the Ægypt-cycle –
are greatly missing in plot (not that anyone suffers for that), the
stories often have a concentrated plotline.
There’s a lot of melancholy in Crowley’s fiction.
I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being called a Romantic. No surprise even
when many of his stories have a British historical background, going
as far as recreating an undisputed British Empire that survived all
through the twentieth century (in Great Work of Time).
Crowley feels perfectly at home in Tudor or Victorian mansions,
easily finds his way in “little seaside provincial libraries”,
places devoid of postmodern intensions. He longs for steadiness, for
the beckoning power of deep and meaningful historical context. He
looks wearily about him, at our world, and writes (in The Reason
for the Visit): “The whole physical world, the man-made part
anyway, seems to alter utterly every few years.”
His world is one where things do not have to
change, where “a wood fire in 1820 made a vicarage parlor smell as
the same room smelled in 1720, or 1620 – those hands you touched
touched hands that could touch hands that were held in the old, old
changeless circle around the old, original fire.” In Great Work
of Time Crowley imagines an alternate present (and past) in
which the First World War ended after a year, without the carnage of
Flanders’ fields. The British Empire did not lose it’s power to
America, and Germany never had to go through it’s fascist period.
All this slowed down scientific and technological progress (war
usually is a great incentive for inventors) and the nineteen-fifties
still see slow travel with transatlantic Zeppelins. A peaceful, slow
and unchanging world, compared with which our world is one of
violence and disaster.
There’s a lot of diversity in this collection,
from sheer fable (The Nightingale Sings at Night) over
classic semi-horror (Antiquities) to straight SF (Snow).
Crowley however never feels the need to confront his writing with
whatever literary or genre trend is accepted at a certain moment.
That makes his stories timeless. And since they are timeless, they
do tend to look fresh and new and all that, even if some of them are
a quarter of a century old. Whatever technological gimmick Crowley
would be temped to use, he is never going to get caught in
scientific explanations. He doesn’t need to. Inventions simply work,
and nobody should care too much how they work. His worlds – whether
in the future or in the past or somewhere in between that isn’t
really the present – have a lived-in, unbreakable quality. He is at
home in them. And ready to welcome the reader.
John Crowley: Novelties & Souvenirs; collected
short fiction. HarperCollins, New York, 2004. Paperback, 338 pp.,
ISBN 0380731061.
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