William Allison (August 27, 2000)Just before I moved, I received an email from Niki, regarding "The Hospice". She said:What exactly is the meaning of this story? Are youI had to defer taking action on account of moving and such, but I promised to try to help (though from her second question it seemed that she knew of my intellectual reputation). The other day I did manage to turn up a copy of COLD HAND IN MINE in only the ninth box I checked (1979 Berkley, goofy cover). I've read the story, and well, I'm directing her here for assistance <sound of despairing laughter, fading to a groan>. Actually, I *do* have a couple of thoughts, but I'm going to do a reread and then do a followup to this post (at this point I just want to get the ball rolling).
even able to shed light on the subject for me? Can
you possibly direct me to someone who can?I know several folks have recently mentioned "The Hospice", so we ought to be able to give the story a good workover a.b.g-f style...
I brought this up to Almahu, keeper of the Aickman web site, and she has placed some thoughts (since she lurks here and doesn't post) at: http://www.prairienet.org/~almahu/2cents.htm
What do you say gang? Let's manacle ourselves to our PC's and talk turkey until the light fizzles out and the undertaker arrives!
(As an odd aside, I had dinner out yesterday and ordered roast turkey, which arrived on a massive plate. I couldn't finish it, and when the waitress said "are you sure you don't want any more?" I moved my legs to make sure I hadn't been fastened to the table...)
Bill A. (who stuck with spaghetti today...)
---
alt.books.ghost-fiction FAQ
http://home.epix.net/~wallison/abgf_faq.htmloOo
rbadac (August 28, 2000)
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! She didn't throw the plates on the floor, did she?Re-reading it tonight!
rbadac
oOo
Christopher Roden (August 28, 2000)
I hope you remembered to gas up the car, Bill, before going too far out of your way.CR
oOo
Adam Walter (August 27, 2000)
Hmmm, I'm not sure I want to explicate this one and nail it to the classroom corkboard. I don't have answers for it, but that doesn't bother me. If someone ends up saying the story is all about homophobia or about anti-semitism in 17th century France, I may be sent 'round the bend.
However, anyone who's read my recent posts knows that I do, at times, like to take an Aickman story with one or two side dishes. Lately I've been thinking this story goes well with that recent tasty film "Eyes Wide Shut" and another film, Martin Scorsese's black comedy "After Hours" from 1985.oOo
Jim Rockhill (August 28, 2000)
A great story, but it has been a while since I last read it. I remember finding it terrifying when I first read it. Back to the book.Jim
oOo
Mark Dillon (August 28, 2000)
As I have not read this one in years, please take my comments with a pillar of salt --But I recall a sense of human lives burning on the edge of darkness, as the elderly residents -- trapped in the hospice and also within their own decaying bodies -- gobble food as fast as possible, hurry hurry hurry... time is running out.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light...."
And in the final scene, the Aick man, lost in the night and waiting for someone to pass by; not long to wait, now.
"Horseman, pass by!"
Mark Dillon, with apologies for any false impressions.
oOo
rbadac (August 28, 2000)
All right, settle down, you lunatic! Go re-read it like the rest of us!rbadac, trying to give Mark his shot, but he keeps squirming
oOo
Mark Dillon (August 29, 2000)
I shall squirm until the members of this newsgroup comment upon my Neo-hysterical analysis of Aickman's "Hospice."And I had my shots *last* year -- against rabies, Skin-mite Rebellion Syndrome, and Decaying Enzymatic-Activity Disease (DEAD).
Let me add, as well, that it takes a lot of glue-sniffing to perfect the art of False Memory Criticism. So there!
Mark Dillon, desperately in need of kleenex.
oOo
rbadac (August 29, 2000)
Bravo!!rbadac, who likes an unrepentant nut
oOo
Robert Kunath (August 28, 2000)
The Hospice" is an interesting choice. I enjoy everything by Aickman (I've even begun to find ways to like "Growing Boys"), but "The Hospice" is one of the stories that has been a tougher nut to crack for me. Like a lot of us, I am going to have to do some re-reading before I hazard any comments of my own. I thought I would pass along a brief commentary on the story that I found in the collection in which I first read "The Hospice": Marvin Kaye's *Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural*. Here's what Kaye had to say:"The late British fantasist RA wrote many wholly original terror tales and edited several numbers of the Fontana series of 'great ghost stories.' I considered including 'The Hospice' in my earlier anthology of ghost stories, but rejected it because I honestly couldn't unravel its meaning. But over the intervening years, 'The Hospice' has continued to haunt me; any work of fiction that exerts such a powerful hold on the imagination must be some sort of masterpiece. Therefore I am rectifying my earlier error by including the tale here. Its power is undeniable, and some, though not all of the mystery is dispellable upon a second reading. But the terror cannot be banished that easily."
Robert (ready to swot up some Aickman)
oOo
Christopher Roden (August 28, 2000)
The St James Guide to Horror, Ghost & Gothic Writers has S. T. Joshi writing this about 'The Hospice':'One of Aickman's strangest stories ('The Hospice') involves a travelling salesman forced to lodge in a roadside inn, where he meets a bizarre group of individuals all eating voraciously and is finally driven away in a hearse.'
Rest assured that this is not a further attack on Mr Joshi's views. I quote it because that is what he wrote. Though I can't help feeling it's a somewhat inadequate summary of a story which seems to have a much deeper meaning, even if I haven't yet put my finger on exactly what that deeper meaning is. What does surprise me about Joshi's short essay on Aickman is that, although he describes Aickman's 'exceptional gifts as a writer - a prose style of impeccable fluidity, urbanity and elegance . . . a keen insight into all aspects of human psychology . . . etc', he does not attempt to relate this into something greater.
If any modern writer of the weird had something approaching the world view Mr Joshi bemoans as so lacking in M. R. James, I would have thought Aickman might qualify, and that Joshi might have been more impressed by the fact than he appears to have been. Instead, he writes that 'Aickman's stories appear to be full of symbols meant to reach "the unconscious mind"; but that symbolism is at times very obscure and, I believe, related to personal symbols that conveyed meaning for Aickman but which he was perhaps not entirely successful in conveying to others. Nevertheless, Aickman was such a skilled writer that one can enjoy his work even if one does not fully understand it.'
Can that really be the case? Can we truly 'enjoy' something we do not fully understand? Is it not more a case that, where there is something in Aickman that we don't understand we kid ourselves into believing it enjoyable (perhaps because others tell us it is so), but are continually frustrated and being unable to crack the nut, as it were? Is that truly enjoyment, or is it masochism?
Uncommitted to Aickman, but progressing. Enjoyed 'The Hospice' but I certainly didn't fully understand it. I do think, however, that it helps to interpret 'Hospice' if we use the more generally accepted modern sense - a place for those with no hope, the terminally ill, those for whom there is no way back. Just a few thoughts.
Christopher Roden
oOo
Adam Walter (August 29, 2000)
Christopher Roden wrote:
> Can that really be the case? Can we truly 'enjoy' something we do not fully understand?...Perhaps some people do need to kid themselves, but I am not sure that such people make up a significant percentage of Aickman's fans.
Personally, I seek out writing which is interested in the abstract and the irrational. My feeling is that our world today is obsessed with only one portion of the human mind, which is perhaps even less than half of mind's total space. Today, we're interested in reason and the conscious mind and linear thought, to the exclusion of the unconscious and irrational--something that ancient cultures celebrated in an effort to balance the human experience.
If I can't tap directly into each and ever one of Aickman's symbols, I can at least enjoy his "symbol matrix" by experiencing it in his stories. And that, for me at least, is an exhilarating ride.
One of the best books I've come across in recent years is by surreal poet Robert Bly, "Leaping Poetry." In this book Bly argues: "In ancient times, in the 'time of inspiration,' the poet flew from one world to another, "riding on dragons".... They dragged behind them long tails of dragonsmoke.... This dragonsmoke means that a leap has taken place in the poem. In many ancient works of art we notice a long floating leap at the center of a work. That leap can be described as a leap from the conscious to the unconscious and back again, a leap from the known part of the mind to the unknown part and back to the known." I know I'm not the first to compare Aickman's stories to poetry, but I may be the first to insist that he has Dragonsmoke!
For some people, fiction is entirely about "the closely plotted" story or carefully planned character progression. God save me from mechanical, mathematical stories. Give me Dragonsmoke.oOo
Randy Money (August 29, 2000)
Christopher Roden wrote:
> Can that really be the case? Can we truly 'enjoy' something we do not fully understand?...Maybe "enjoy" isn't the right word, Christopher. I find it an awkward word for expressing my admiration for books like _Red Dragon_, _The Haunting of Hill House_ and _Absalom, Absalom!_ . "Enjoy" is visceral; in this context, it seems ghoulish. Does one really "enjoy" watching people in extremis, going through whatever god-awful tortures life (and/or the writer) tosses at them? Well, no. Not really. What we enjoy, I think, is the author's invention and creativity. When we're lucky, as with Aickman, Jackson and Faulkner, we may even enjoy the prose in which they couch their stories.
Maybe "appreciate" is a better word. I appreciate the care, invention, creativity and passion these writers bring to their work. I appreciate that they show me something about life that maybe I hadn't realized before, or needed reminding of.
On the other hand, I enjoy the hell out of Robert Bloch.
Yours ghoulishly,
RandyoOo
Adam Walter (August 29, 2000)
Randy Money wrote:
> Maybe "appreciate" is a better word.Oh, yeck with that, Randy. I enjoy Aickman! :)
I could read The Houses of the Russians or The Hospice every week and enjoy them more each time.oOo
John Brower (August 29, 2000)
Christopher Roden wrote:
> Can that really be the case? Can we truly 'enjoy' something we do not fully
> understand? Is it not more a case that, where there is something in Aickman
> that we don't understand we kid ourselves into believing it enjoyable (perhaps
> because others tell us it is so), but are continually frustrated and being unable
> to crack the nut, as it were? Is that truly enjoyment, or is it masochism?
I would make a musical analogy.
I have listened to modern classical music and jazz for 30 years.
Some of it I "got" immediately, some impressed me with its intelligence and imagination but I didn't enjoy it, and some was beyond my comprehension and barely distinguishable from noise.
Years of listening and discussing has educated me so that some of what impressed me I now enjoy, and I can distinguish more readily between composition and noodling around.
My hope is that re-reading and discussing authors like Robert Aickman (whose work I love) will move some of the stories I don't "get" into the realm of enjoyment.
John B.
~-------------------------------------------------------------~
"You'll never make it. Give up now. Quit squirming. You idiot. Who
cares? Surrender. It won't work. Aha! Told you so." -- Matt Groening,
LIFE IN HELL (1982)oOo
William Allison (August 29, 2000)
Christopher Roden wrote:
> The St James Guide to Horror, Ghost & Gothic Writers has S. T. Joshi
> writing this about 'The Hospice':> 'One of Aickman's strangest stories ('The Hospice') involves a travelling
> salesman forced to lodge in a roadside inn, where he meets a bizarre group
> of individuals all eating voraciously and is finally driven away in a hearse.'To which I would have appended "after unwittingly having caused one of the guests to murder another".
-snip-
> Can that really be the case? Can we truly 'enjoy' something we do not fully
> understand? Is it not more a case that, where there is something in Aickman
> that we don't understand we kid ourselves into believing it enjoyable (perhaps
> because others tell us it is so), but are continually frustrated and being unable
> to crack the nut, as it were? Is that truly enjoyment, or is it masochism?Was it HPL who opined that the creation of the weird atmosphere was as (or more) important than the story itself? I honestly enjoy Aickman, even if all I can say after finishing a story is: "Wow, that was strange!" About eight years ago I read COLD HAND IN MINE and PAINTED DEVILS. Two things I recall from that were my having nightmares every night while reading the books, and quickly forgetting the details of the stories (but not the "feel") afterward. Last several months I've revisited RA by reading WE ARE FOR THE DARK, DARK ENTRIES, and POWERS OF DARKNESS, to see what an older me would think, and I still enjoy him - perhaps even more due to a comic element I hadn't noticed in my first go round. The weird atmosphere, the "Wow, that was strange!" feeling was still there. That a "touch of strange" should be enough to get me by is evident by a glance at my (at this point virtual) bookshelves. Most of my library is supernatural and fantasy fiction, with a little SF and mystery mixed in. What SF I have tends to be along the lines of Jack Vance ("soft" SF), as I never was interested in the science and gizmos that got someone to a far planet, but rather, what exotic worlds they arrived at. My favorite part of 2001 (the book, as the movie doesn't do it justice) is when the ship goes through the Star Gate and things get really wild/weird. That I don't/can't understand some of the goings-on in an Aickman story is just part of the kick... I think if I were a reader favoring hard SF, mysteries, or thrillers, where things are explained (if only at the end), Aickman would be frustrating indeed...
> Uncommitted to Aickman, but progressing. Enjoyed 'The Hospice' but I certainly
> didn't fully understand it. I do think, however, that it helps to interpret 'Hospice'
> if we use the more generally accepted modern sense - a place for those with no
> hope, the terminally ill, those for whom there is no way back. Just a few thoughts.I've a few too, but they will now have to wait until tomorrow. At best I can perhaps hope to find a niche to inhabit within the edifice rbadac has just constructed for us... [see below]
Bill A.
oOo
rbadac (August 29, 2000)
Disclaimer: If you haven't read Aickman's "The Hospice" yet, you probably shouldn't read this. If you *have* read it, and think you know what it's about, well then you probably shouldn't read this either. But if you *haven't* read "The Hospice", but you want to *sound* like you have, at some obscure hoity-toity literary cocktail party, why then, read on stranger, I've got you a whole line of bullshit all worked out.
Part One: Good Fare, Some Accommodation
The Old Dark House Syndrome again. Where would weird stories be without it? There's something so convenient about sending one's protagonists on journeys through unfamiliar country, by circuitous and doubtful routes, then bringing up a storm, mechanical failure, or, in this case, simply having them run out of gas; with night coming on, what else are they to do but seek shelter at the first place, the worst place they can find? I know, I did all this in "The Recluse". See? It IS a recurring trope.
Puzzle as I might, I could not decide whether the "playing-card club" shaped sign of the Hospice was right-side up or upside-down. If the words "some accommodation" were written "curved round the downward pointing extremity of the club", wouldn't this imply that there was yet more sign available for this purpose, making the sign itself not precisely "club-shaped"? or were the words written along the periphery of the lowermost of the three spheres that constitute a "club", inverted?
I tried booting my cat to see how far he would go, and he went pretty far. He hates it when I'm reading Aickman. I'm satisfied by this controlled experiment that Maybury would easily have lost sight of the cat after it scratched him and he kicked it, and I'd already determined that the injury to his leg was necessary to make him limp (thus putting him at a disadvantage), and also to show Bannard the blood later.
"Hospice" has two or three definitions: it can be merely a lodging for travelers, especially one kept by members of a religious order; it can also be a home for the destitute; it can also be a home for the ill, especially the terminally ill, probably the most common modern meaning. I think it's safe to assume that, in this story, every one of these definitions is applicable. To the list, I would add "nuthouse". No phone, no magazines or newspapers, no windows, all locked up at night, all the help looking like gymnasium staff, and a Neanderthal named Cromie on "night duty". The inmates are perceived as needing rest and quiet, also as possessing "appetites" of one kind or another, which the Hospice is determined to satisfy. In true weird fashion they could also be dead, as they dress in funeral clothes to eat dinner and require the heat to be turned up high. Of course there are two schools of thought here (see Lovecraft's "Cool Air").
But asylum seems more plausible, particularly considering the case of the fettered diner, with whom they've apparently had some trouble, the evening wear merely a dress code (like, in a psychotic way, Bannard's identical pyjamas), the heat to keep them drowsy and complacent. No coffee to excite them. It's just as well, some of the characters seem on a hair-trigger anyway. Mulligan, the lady in the dining room who serves Maybury, especially doesn't need to be dusting any Ming vases. She takes the cooking almost as seriously as a Jewish mother.
Part Two: Touch It. God, What Are You Waiting For? Touch It.
Maybury meets the mysterious Cecile in the lounge later, who had been seated in parallel fashion to him at dinner. This exotic and unhappy- looking hottie only serves to disconcert him profoundly. He is, after all, a married man, and his wife must be getting pretty worried about him round about now. But after having Cecile's head in his lap Maybury is finding it hard (ahem) to think clearly. Then there's that perfume of hers, which later, in a quote of Iago's from *Othello* is given soporific qualities.
Literary references in Aickman are practically obligatory, and are the reason why you probably shouldn't sit down to read him without a) a damn good dictionary, b) Benet's Reader's Encyclopedia, and c) a Shakespeare concordance. In Moliere's play, "The Misanthrope", Alceste has made a vow to speak and act with complete honesty, abandoning all the little lies society sanctions in the name of propriety. Though he has his choice of the false prude Arsinoe or the gentle and sincere Eliante, who does he pursue? Why, the conceited little flirt Celimene, embodiment of all he purports to despise. In vain, of course. Never let the little head do the thinking. Misanthropic Alceste goes off in the end without any of them. Maybury has only slightly better luck.
What makes me think Moliere has anything to do with this? *Je pense; donc je suis francais*. Aickman's little trollop is named Cecile Celimena.
Part Three: What Can You And I Do For One Another, Old Man?
Falkner, the keeper of this loony bin, puts Maybury up for the night when he conveniently forgets that the diesel in the Hospice vehicle (a big caged van, no doubt) is of no use to replenish Maybury's petrol. Cromie was able to start the car, after nearly tearing it up ("Most of Cromie's work is on a big scale", Falkner explains), but is of no help for this more fundamental deficiency. No matter, Maybury can bunk with Bannard tonight, who is either a pushy little queen or a homicidal maniac or both.
Lights out early, but who can sleep under these conditions? Bannard's pyjamas are too small for Maybury. Doubtless Maybury would prefer to slip into something more comfortable, like Cecile (I've really got to quit writing porno on the side). But Bannard has got all excited by the blood on Maybury's leg, and he sneaks out during the night. A bloodcurdling scream, several of them actually, and Bannard returns, reeking of Cecile's perfume. He looks different, older. He wants to chat. "Is your wife pretty?" he asks Maybury. "Does she really turn you on, make you lose control of yourself?" He argues for infidelity on Maybury's behalf, asks more "fishing questions" than Cecile ever did. Somehow Maybury persuades him to go to bed and leave him alone. Pity, he went to all that trouble, too, just to make Maybury happy.
Part Four: No Charge
Vincent, the handsome but unresponsive staffer, brings tea the next morning, eight pieces of toast that are only a prelude to the Brobdingnagian breakfast waiting downstairs. Maybury has had his fill of this place, though; he's ready to bolt. Falkner informs him that there has been a death during the night, and allows Maybury to waive the bill and catch a lift with the hearse when it leaves with the coffin. He rides in back, presumably with the dead Cecile, and gets off at the bus stop. The undertaker's man says that he should not have to wait long. If the hearse comes back that way, he'll have an opportunity to say, "Room for one more inside, sir", but hopefully Maybury will have caught his bus by then.
Does this story *mean* anything? Heck no, it's just another strange story, another waking nightmare, another exercise in compounding disturbing and nebulous events for our entertainment. Does it mean anything that we like that sort of thing? I suppose so. As with any other fiction, we suspect that the Universe really is like that, but we need a vaccination against it periodically, so that the sickness doesn't kill us outright.
If Falkner is a loose allusion to William Faulkner, it could only be in connection with his novel AS I LAY DYING (1930), in which the Bundren family accompanies the coffin of their mother Addie on a memorable journey to Jefferson, MS to bury her. That's pretty tenuous, though. Equally tenuous is the possible reference to St Bernard, patron saint of mountaineers, who was famous for taking care of travelers, and established two hospices in the Alps.
rbadac
oOo
Adam Walter (August 29, 2000)
rbadac wrote:
> I tried booting my cat to see how far he would go, and he went pretty far.
> He hates it when I'm reading Aickman...I'm not sure if this post was a commentary or an alternate narrative. But I like it!
I just have to mention that I also have now tried the experiment with both of my cats, and I found one hitch. Both my cats made an awful lot of racket during the exercise (neither of them being very scientifically minded). But then perhaps Maybury encountered a mute cat?
Which brings me to this: I think that a lot of the terror in Aickman (especially true of this story in particular) is that, when he does not give a story a concrete supernatural manifestation, the eerieness of the narrative comes from a cumulation of improbable possibilities (and don't start on the Aristotle, it's been too long since my lit. theory days).oOo
Christopher Roden (August 29, 2000)
Delightful, rbadac, though I feel some sympathy for your cat.Now, tell me, what's the hidden significance of the hotel's sign being shaped like a 'club'; and what are we supposed to read in Cécile Céliména being related to the composer Chaminade?
And when did Maybury get to go back and pick up his car?
CR (who's being particularly careful of the amount he eats right now).
oOo
rbadac (August 30, 2000)
Thanks, Chris! I'm still working on those, but this "silent animal" thing blackfrancis brought up [see below] threatens to derail my thought processes.My private theory on the car is that Maybury, not wanting to have anything else to do with the place, wrote it off, so Cromie converted it into a racer and entered it in several trials, winning for himself a number of medals before settling down with his prize money to raise Aberdeen sheep with Cecile, who wasn't the one who died (it was actually Mulligan, who had a fit of apoplexy when the guy in fetters kept sending her back for after-dinner mints she later discovered he was secreting in his socks for later), while Bannard was soon cured and left to open a very popular salon in Houndsditch (in the company of Vincent) and Falkner closed the Hospice for renovations and later re-opened as a substance-abuse treatment center.
But that's just a theory.
rbadac
oOo
Christopher Roden (August 30, 2000)
If it was reopened as anything, I think the location should have been Torquay, rather than the West Midlands, and that Falkner was bought out by Basil Fawlty.CR
oOo
Jim Rockhill (August 30, 2000)
rbadac wrote:
> What makes me think Moliere has anything to do with this? *Je pense;
> donc je suis francais*. Aickman's little trollop is named Cecile Celimena.Aha! Aickman's names always seem to mean something and I drive myself crazy trying to figure them out. Eventually we are going to have to have a READER'S GUIDE TO ROBERT AICKMAN along the lines of those fat volumes devoted to each of the works of James Joyce, explaining line by line what this reference means.
(Snip - all done reluctantly in the interest of space)
> rbadac
As always amusing and illuminating.
Jim
oOo
Burl Veneer (August 31, 2000)
Since others have already dissected this tale pretty exhaustively (well done!), I'll just add a few comments from the sidelines...
rbadac wrote:
> Part One: Good Fare, Some Accommodation
> The Old Dark House Syndrome again. Where would weird stories be without
> it? There's something so convenient about sending one's protagonists on journeys
> through unfamiliar country, by circuitous and doubtful routes, then bringing up a
> storm, mechanical failure, or, in this case, simply having them run out of gas;
> with night coming on, what else are they to do but seek shelter at the first place,
> the worst place they can find? I know, I did all this in "The Recluse". See?
> It IS a recurring trope.Aickman likes to play games with the tropes; one expects the Old Dark House to be inhabited by a dissipated gentleman with a lone servant, and the obligatory dinner to take place with just the protagonist and the gentleman at a long table in a dark, damp dining room. In this case the house is nearly full up with guests, and well-staffed (in the sense that there are many staff, not that they are particularly good).
> Puzzle as I might, I could not decide whether the "playing-card club"
> shaped sign of the Hospice was right-side up or upside-down...I understood the club to be hanging upside-down, i.e. with the stem upward. What does it mean? I will perform a tenuous extrapolation from an instance of supposed symbolism that Aickman documents in his autobiography (my copy of which I am STILL trying to locate, ransacking the boxes still unpacked after my household relocation). He states that he placed the Japanese suit of armor in the hotel in "Ringing the Changes" because he had seen one once and it scared him, inexplicably. So, I think he probably saw exactly such a sign, including the wording, and it struck him as so odd that he wrote a strange story around it.
> I tried booting my cat to see how far he would go, and he went pretty far. He
> hates it when I'm reading Aickman. I'm satisfied by this controlled experiment
> that Maybury would easily have lost sight of the cat after it scratched him and
> he kicked it, and I'd already determined that the injury to his leg was necessary
> to make him limp (thus putting him at a disadvantage), and also to show
> Bannard the blood later.One of my pet theories on Aickman is that he includes signposts in his tales to tell us "We are now departing from reality, here is where the fun begins." I see the animal bite as such a sign, as the "venom" mentioned could possibly be hallucinatory, thereby throwing Maybury's subsequent perceptions into question.
> No phone, no magazines or newspapers, no windows, all locked up at night,
> all the help looking like gymnasium staff, a Neanderthal named Cromie on
> "night duty". The inmates are perceived as needing rest and quiet, also as
> possessing "appetites" of one kind or another, which the Hospice is determined
> to satisfy. In true weird fashion they could also be dead, as they dress in
> funeral clothes to eat dinner and require the heat to be turned up high. Of
> course there are two schools of thought here (see Lovecraft's "Cool Air").The "guests" seem to be suffering from varieties of world-weariness (though I suppose I should say Weltschmerz in light of recent discussions), or to simplify, depression. It's odd, then, that the "cure" administered at The Hospice amounts to extraordinary facilitation of depressive behavior, i.e. eating and sleeping. Hair of the dog? On the other hand, there's no alcohol, so never mind. (Hmm, huge servings of heavy food in an uncomfortably warm setting with no alcohol... could be my wife's grandmother's house!)
> Part Three: What Can You And I Do For One Another, Old Man?
> Falkner, the keeper of this loony bin, puts Maybury up for the night when he
> conveniently forgets that the diesel in the Hospice vehicle (a big caged van, no
> doubt) is of no use to replenish Maybury's petrol. Cromie was able to start
> the car, after nearly tearing it up ("Most of Cromie's work is on a big scale",
> Falkner explains), but is of no help for this more fundamental deficiency. No
> matter, Maybury can bunk with Bannard tonight, who is either a pushy little
> queen or a homicidal maniac or both.The Cromie segment contains one of my favorite lines: "But violence proved effective, as so often."
And what is that other, large vehicle, anyway? Falkner's allusions to it are downright menacing, which is a credit to Aickman's skill.
> A bloodcurdling scream, several of them actually, and Bannard returns,
> reeking of Cecile's perfume. He looks different, older. He wants to chat.
> "Is your wife pretty?" he asks Maybury. "Does she really turn you on, make
> you lose control of yourself?" He argues for infidelity on Maybury's behalf,
> asks more "fishing questions" than Cecile ever did.Speaking of "fishing questions," Cecile's initial encounter with Maybury strikes me as something personal to Aickman:
"What did you say your name was?"
"Lucas Maybury."
"Do people call you Luke?"
"No, I dislike it. I'm not a Luke sort of person."Substitute "Robert" and "Bob" and I'd wager it's an exchange that Aickman had more than once.
> Part Four: No Charge
> Falkner informs him that there has been a death during the night and allows
> Maybury to waive the bill and catch a lift with the hearse when it leaves with
> the coffin. He rides in back, presumably with the dead Cecile, and gets off
> at the bus stop. The undertaker's man says that he should not have to wait
> long. If the hearse comes back that way, he'll have an opportunity to say,
> "Room for one more inside, sir", but hopefully Maybury will have caught
> his bus by then.So what *did* eventually happen to his car? Remember it is a company car; presumably the company will retrieve it. That's what *I* presume, at least.
Thanks for initiating this rereading, Bill A, and thanks to the rest of you for your enlightening comments. Especially Jim [see below], the Falkner connection is fascinating.
Bill B., "The Remora"
"Those who read these words of wit..."oOo
Jim Rockhill (September 1, 2000)
Thanks Bill. I just went back through the earlier discussions of Aickman tales begun on this board and preserved at Almahu's site. I was very impressed with the level of insight during even the most jocular moments, and learned a lot, especially about "The Same Dog" and "The Trains." It takes several people to tug out all those threads without destroying the weave, even if we are dealing with the hirsute tweed worn by a certain wooden individual found elsewhere in Aickman.Does anyone know why rbadac hints that Wendley might be the ghost in the latter, but never tells us why, his statement "more about this later" notwithstanding?
Also, since references to these books are almost as maddening as blackfrancis' comment concerning silent animals [see below], does anyone know if there is any truth to the rumor that Tartarus might be reissuing Aickman's autobiographies in a single volume?
Jim
oOo
blackfrancis (August 30, 2000)
"It was somewhere at the back of the beyond." This opening line alone should be the indicator that nothing in this story will be explained. What does this statement mean? What is 'it'? Is 'it' the Hospice? Is 'it' the supposed short cut? No. It is the story itself. 'It' is Aickman's ideas and the nightmarish worlds he shows us.First off, the character Maybury has, like a Kafka character, absolutely no control of his situation from start to finish. For varying reasons he takes a short cut, eats too much, shares a room (and bedclothes) with a stranger, and finally takes a ride in a hearse. The situation is dictated by the people/forces around him. This is a frequent device used by Aickman. The central character as puppet, that can only react to the strange parade of weirdness around him/her. "The Fetch" , "The Swords", "The Trains", etc. are other examples.
Next, "The Hospice" seems to be a template by which many of Aickman's stories can be fitted. The travel to a strange location which move toward an arrival at some structure - house,church,hotel,castle - where the arc of the story takes place. "The Inner Room" and "The View" are examples of this. There are exceptions, "The Clockwatcher" comes immediately to mind, but this is a largely recurring idea. "Into The Wood" is a superb example. A story which in many ways is like an opposite to "The Hospice". Instead of continual rest like at the Hospice, the Kurhus of "Into The Wood" is a haven for insomnia. But that's another discussion.
The emotional detachment and humorous tone set "The Hospice" apart from much of Aickman's other tales. This story is more like a joke or a trick designed for a thrill. You really do not care for Maybury, in fact he is somewhat unlikeable, but you get wrapped up in what weird thing will happen next. It's like M.R. James and his christmas stories - written to amuse and spook the reader and writer. There is no apparent 'deeper' meaning other than what a reader would make up. Some of the other, above mentioned Aickman tales could be better dissected. Not that "The Hospice" is inferior, it's just different. Even for Aickman.
A Few Notes:
The cat Maybury kicks is silent. ALL animals in Aickman tales (no pun) are silent. Remember the dog in "Ravissante" or how about the birds in "The Stains" and "My Poor Friend". I myself, unlike rbadac, do not kick my animals, but they all get their nightly beatings. And I can say that they all make some noise, except the lizards croaking is minimal. The appearances of silent, totally quiet beasts in Aickman tales is one of those things that picks at the back of your brain.
Finally, Sir Walter Besant and James Rice wrote a story called "The Case of Mr. Lucraft" which Aickman put in the Fontana books (3rd, I think). This tale has the same weird quaffing and gorging theme. Eat up!!!
-blackfrancis
oOo
Adam Walter (August 30, 2000)
blackfrancis wrote:
> "It was somewhere at the back of the beyond." This opening line alone
> should be the indicator that nothing in this story will be explained.Poet Robert Bly often tells traditional fairy tales when he is in a conference setting. He uses an age-old method for opening the story. It goes something like this: "We honor the four directions, North, South, East, and West. And we go now to the fifth direction." This is much the same thing as Aickman's opening for "The Hospice." It indicates that we're moving into a spiritual territory not to be found on any map in the physical world. Possibly the spiritual world lies on a vertical plane--as N,S,E, & W are all horizontal directions.
> "Into The Wood" is a superb example. A story which in many ways is like an
> opposite to "The Hospice". Instead of continual rest like at the Hospice, the
> Kurhus of "Into The Wood" is a haven for insomnia. But that's another discussion.Yes, there are many similarities. Whereas the inhabitants of "The Hospice" seem bound to the building by a nightmarish secret they all share, the strangeness of the Kurhus sanitorium in "Into the Woods" is almost a misperception. The Kurhus is actually more like a strange monastery where the inhabitants are pursuing an inner truth which eventually leads to transcendence. They seem odd only to the uninitiated; in fact their "oddness" is perceived almost like the mark of Cain.
> The emotional detachment and humorous tone set "The Hospice" apart from
> much of Aickman's other tales. This story is more like a joke or a trick
> designed for a thrill. You really do not care for Maybury, in fact he is somewhat
> unlikeable, but you get wrapped up in what weird thing will happen next.I have to disagree there. I do care about Maybury, in as much as I experience him as a very vivid viewpoint character. I worry about the wound he gets... and I worry about his remaining faithful to his wife! I will agree that the 'meaning' of this story will be largely personal to each reader--like many of the best poems.
oOo
Jim Rockhill (August 30, 2000)
Interesting points, b.f. I too kept trying to get "Into the Wood" - what a great story - out of my head while reading "The Hospice." I do however find "The Hospice" a much more serious tale for all its farcical moments than you do and find that there are critical moments when Maybury IS given a choice over what happens; much that follows it seems to me is dependent upon that choice.As to your mention of Kafka, if we had not seen it before and someone published Kafka's "The Country Doctor" as a long lost Aickman tale, how many of us would be fooled? Of course if it showed up as a long lost Gogol tale I might be willing to take the finder's word for it too. Your note about the silence of Aickman's animals is going to haunt me now. I am going to have to check that out. The exceptions I can call immediately to mind are not actually animals, but things or persons acting or sounding like an animal without our being sure that they really are. I am going to have to look at "The Same Dog" and a few others again.
The mention of so many other Aickman titles in your post makes me wish I could find more time to read and re-read his tales than I have had. I am afraid if I read too many at one time, I will miss even more in them than I already have.
Jim
oOo
blackfrancis (August 31, 2000)
Jim, this is the fourth time I have tried to post. This computer keeps losing the connection. I just wanted to say your post about "The Hospice" [see below] was quite impressive. Thanks for bringing out the fact that Aickman was fond of terrible puns. Remember Helen and Ellen/ Black and Brown the rommmates from "Marriage"?
You're right on about Kafka. I have been starting to think, that like Maybury, K's characters bring it upon themselves also by the choices they make. But I do differ from you in that I think the choices are very limited. What's Maybury suppose to do walk home? Granted, he should never have gotten there in first place.
About that animal noise, you got me on "The Same Dog" that animal makes plenty of noise. I was wrong to say ALL Aickman animals are quiet. I amend that to animals without leading roles in the tales. Somehow that slipped my (limited) mind at the time.
Apologies for the mention of so many Aickman stories in my post. I tend to see his work as a large whole and I constantly cross-reference characters, ideas, themes, and images with each other. Bad habit. Anyway, thanks again for the useful post. Hopefully, it will be stuck on the Appreciation site. It should be.-blackfrancis
oOo
rbadac (August 30, 2000)
blackfrancis wrote:
> The cat Maybury kicks is silent. ALL animals in Aickman tales (no pun) are
> silent. Remember the dog in "Ravissante" or how about the birds in "The
> Stains" and "My Poor Friend". I myself, unlike rbadac, do not kick my
> animals, but they all get their nightly beatings. And I can say that they all
> make some noise, except the lizards croaking is minimal. The appearances
> of silent, totally quiet beasts in Aickman tales is one of those things that
> picks at the back of your brain.
AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?????????
rbadac, who concerns himself with the oddest things
oOo
blackfrancis (August 31, 2000)
Is that a rhetorical question? If not please specify the "this" in your question.blackfrancis
oOo
rbadac (August 31, 2000)
What does "silent animals" mean in Aickman! It's got to have some significance!I think Aickman is impressed with/afraid of animals, and therefore uses them as devices.
rbadac
oOo
blackfrancis (August 31, 2000)
Agreed. It is significant, I think, because they are otherworldly. I tend to interpret it that they do not exist save for in the character's mind. They are imagined, or rather - products of the unstable mind. In fact in Ravissante the narrator even says they did not exist or that they were not "real". Or someone else might say [they were] ghosts/demons/phantoms etc. The fact that the cat ("The Hospice") is not seen or heard is rather alarming. In "Bind Your Hair" the pigs make no sound except the rustling of the leaves with their noses, they don't grunt or snort. Maybe he is using them as omens, or maybe these appearances are just to heighten the mood. Who knows.blackfrancis
oOo
Jim Rockhill (September 1, 2000)
This is a fascinating point you have brought up, and it has been driving me crazy.
For what it might be worth (anyone have a wooden nickle?), the dog in "Ravissante" has always reminded me of the entrance of the poodle (an early manifestation of Mephistopheles) near the beginning of Goethe's FAUST.Jim
oOo
deathbird44 (September 2, 2000)
[Aickman & Silent Beasts]All this discussion of Aickman's work is fantabulous stuff. I have not much to add that a simple "Duh?" wouldn't express well enough, and will spare the group the monotony of a gazillion replies consisting only of that.
However, Black Frank's comments regarding the recurring images of apparently silent animals in some of RA's stories has unsettled some dust in this creaky old cranium.
For example, in "The Hospice", are we sure the critter in question is a cat? Is any animal actually ever glimpsed in the odd biting incident? Perhaps it's simply some hobgoblin of the subconcious, an ephemeral apparition given momentary life by the eerie & foreboding aura surrounding the rest house. Maybe, just maybe, it's no animal at all. Or maybe it is just a fast cat. Who knew?
As for "Ravissante" - who knows if the damned thing actually is a poodle and not some otherworldly manifestation which only coincidentally goes by the name "Fifi"?
I don't recall silent birds in "The Stains", but as for "My Poor Friend" a cursory reread may do much to convince that those weren't birds at all. Heck, just take a look at Edward Gorey's illustration for the cover of PAINTED DEVILS which might be closer to the truth. Here we may have another example of perfectly bestial "children" which also seemed to appear in "The School Friend", and perhaps others. And, though I don't wish to spoil the tale for anyone yet to read it, it seems likely that the alleged "silent birds" that crop up at the end of the tale may not only be non-birds, but ghosts as well (as well as the mysterious woman glimpsed concurrently).
Meanwhile, in the context of the quiet critters discussion, it's surprising that nobody seems to have mentioned perhaps the most obvious and disquietingly weird occurrence of such in Aickman's stories (at least to my eyes) - the semi-surreal cows in the equally oddball rustic fields of "Hand In Glove".
And then of course there's the matter of that nearby church...
John
oOo
Jim Rockhill (September 3, 2000)
Now how are any of us supposed to get any sleep after that?
Very interesting, John. I look forward to the group eventually discussing all of the tales you mention, especially "Hand in Glove". And of course, thanks again to blackfrancis for bringing these "silent animals" out into the open for us.Jim
oOo
deathbird44 (September 6, 2000)
Phew, I was afeared that post would actually have the effect of easing its readers into slumber. Muchos gracias on the feedback, Jim. As for "Hand In Glove", apparently it was written for the Magazine of Fantasy & Sci-Fi. I read it in a secondhand library copy of THE BEST HORROR TALES FROM that mag - and a pretty excellent anothology of stories that was, too. Highly recommended. Aickman's bizarre story was the stand out for me though. A lucky find, and a pretty weirdly memorable story.John
oOo
Jim Rockhill (September 6, 2000)
You are welcome. I first read "Hand in Glove" in a special issue of F&SF devoted to British authors. It sported a cover devoted to the river battle between Martian war machines and British dreadnoughts in WAR OF THE WORLDS. I would not list this among my top 5 favorite Aickman tales, perhaps, but it would make my top 12. As far as easing anyone into slumber, I suppose this recent intensified attention to Aickman is probably driving those on a.b.g-f who do not care for him crazy, but we can always hope for converts.Jim
oOo
Jim Rockhill (August 30, 2000)
I apologize to rbadac and the group for what follows. I am aware that rbadac has written a piece on this same tale, to which I look forward to reading, but feel Aickman's work is sufficiently rich and allusive to invite a multitude of readings. Hopefully this will arrive alright. When I wrote it yesterday, the unfamilar p.c. I was using failed to save my writing and corrupted the floppy disc to which I had attempted to save it, necessitating my writing it all over again.Robert Aickman "The Hospice"
Almost halfway into "The Hospice," Robert Aickman, as if defying the reader to make sense of the tale, attributes the following sentiment to his protagonist, Maybury:
"He preferred problems to which solutions were at least possible. He had been warned against the other kind." Robert Aickman THE COLLECTED STRANGE STORIES. (Tartarus Press and Durtro Press, 1999) P. 69.
Aickman has filled this tale with so many symbols, I doubt anyone could account for everything that occurs or appears in it. The more often we read it, the more these symbols and patterns emerge; hence my own random thoughts on the tale. First of all we come across those passages related to dislocation, beginning with the first line and growing ever darker as the tale progresses:
"It was somewhere at the back of beyond." P. 61.
As early as the first page, Aickman suggests that though Maybury's present dislocation may have been accidental, he should have known better, he should have learned from previous mistakes and he will be penalized:
"He was one who . . . preferred to follow a route ‘given' . . . and, on this very occasion, as on other previous ones, he had found reasons to deplore all deviation." P. 61.
"The straightforward had been genteelly avoided. As often in such places, the racer-through, the taker of a short-cut, was quite systematically penalized." P. 61.
One gets the sense that some of this blame may be related to his treatment of his wife and family, as during these thoughts that come to him as his roommate Bannard wakens in the dark and slinks out of the room:
"At the best, he had never seen himself as a first-class husband, able to provide a superfluity, eager to be protective. Things would be quite impossible if he were to lose a leg." P. 75.
"Thinking about Angela's plight, and how sweet, at the bottom of everything, she really was . . ." P. 76.
The encounter with the animal that gashes his leg, presumed, but not known to be a cat, seems to act as his introduction to the world of The Hospice, as if he had been fetched, "in media vita." There is a distinct sense that Maybury is lost in more than just a spatial sense, as the following exchanges with Cecile suggest:
"I do not watch television."
"Quite right. It's almost entirely a waste of time."
"If you do not wish to waste time, why are you at The Hospice?"***
"My tank's almost empty. As a matter of fact, I'm lost. I've lost my way."
"Most of us here are lost." P. 68.His dislocation takes on ontological and spiritual connotations as in this passage,
"That whole evening and night, from soon after his commitment to the recommended route, he had been in doubt about his place in the universe, about what people called the state of his nerves." P. 76.
One of the remarkable things in this story that repays repeated reading is Aickman's knack for burying an ominous or illuminating insight within the bourgeois, maundering cliches of his characters, as if they had been given a brief glimpse of what is really occurring without having the ability to grasp it. Here, that last clause almost dismisses the graver, almost cosmic gravity of that which precedes it.
Even more interesting are the characters, reminiscent of the cast for some darker, inter-cultural version of Lord Dunsany's "The Exile's Club." It is as though several figures from a Jungian collective unconscious have momentarily bubbled into existence.
Falkner, the man presiding over The Hospice, is a good example of this mix. His name, derived from falconer, reminds us of the legend of Julian the Hospitaller whose symbol in Medieval and Renaissance art is the falcon. He established a hospice to atone for mistakenly murdering his father and mother and is considered the patron of travelers and innkeepers. But there is something more ominous to Falkner than this. Maybury, surveying the diners shortly before Falkner's first appearance, reflects,
"they were one and all eating as if their lives depended on it . . . it was as if all had spent a long unfed day in the hunting field." P. 65.
Aickman seems to attribute another medieval motif associated with the falcon to Falkner, best summarized by this quotation from "The Corpus Christi Carol,"
"Lully, lullay, the falcon hath born my mate away"
in which the falcon bears the living away to death. When Falkner sends for Cromie to assist in providing petrol to Maybury, he says, "I will fetch him" (p. 71). Not content with this, Aickman also adds some of the characteristics of a trickster god to him. Like the Green Knight in both Irish and Arthurian myth, the ruler of Annwn in THE MABINOGION, and doubtless others, one of the situations into which Falkner places Maybury is the presence of a beautiful, love-starved woman with whom the hero is supposed to behave honorably. Gawain and Pryderi succeed at this, but presumably only the reappearance of Falkner prevents Maybury from acquitting himself any less well than he has already. Another motif that appears in such legends, especially those associated with the underworld, is the prohibition against eating anything proffered in such a place, since eating such food places the eater in thrall to the host. Falkner allows Maybury to leave, but only after first leading him on a fruitless chase after petrol in the moonless, starless night and then only in the close company of a corpse in the back of a hearse. The Green Knight always returns a second time, assured of returning the blow to the hero on his own terms. For this reason, I do not find the final lines of the tale reassuring in the least:
". . . Maybury alighted unobtrusively when a bus stop was reached. One of the undertakers said that he should not have to wait long." P. 81.
Failing Falkner's hospitality might we not expect him to send someone else, possibly Cromie, next time? Or is Falkner satisfied that Maybury, like Cecile, is beyond whatever refuge, redemption or continued existence he or anyone else at The Hospice might offer, and therefore given up to the grave and annihilation?
Being fond of appalling puns, such as "Mary Land" in "The Same Dog," Aickman names his protagonist, Maybury. May he be Buried in a stifling existence too full of restrictions, cautions and the need to avoid risk at the expense of really living, as was the protagonist of Henry James' "The Beast in the Jungle"? Or May he be Buried by his inability to learn from his mistakes, his inability to appreciate what he has, and his inability to love or be anything to anyone aside from himself? Either way, and I suspect the latter, someone may bury Maybury before too long.
Cecile Celimena, supposedly related to Cecile Chaminade, a composer of graceful, witty, charming works with little depth, is first likened by Maybury to a "model" and is described in peculiarly decorative terms. Compare this passage describing Maybury's first description of The Hospice's interior, with a later description of Cecile:
"One could perhaps feel that a few upholstered occupants should have been designated and purveyed to harmonize also." P. 63.
"It struck Maybury that the rich way she was dressed might almost have been devised to harmonize with the rich way the room was decorated." P. 68.
She is beautiful, but apparently all surface, clothing, jewelry and flesh. While eating, she has an expression of "sadness, suffering and exhaustion" (p. 66). Considering her passion later on it seems paradoxical that she should decline Maybury's offer to order her coffee, by saying,
"No, no. Coffee is not right; it is stimulating, wakeful, overexciting, unquiet." P. 69.
Could this be because what stimulates her is not taste, but her tactile sense? She refers to the enormous quantities of food consumed in The Hospice as a "restorative," but although this food is offered to the residents in enticing terms, its consumption is mandatory and exhausting, not something that anyone actually enjoys eating. She cannot tell the difference between feelings related only to the senses and those of a more abstract, inner nature such as love,
"Life would be impossible otherwise. All these people without enough food, living without love, without even proper clothes to keep the cold out." P. 69.
She likens Vincent to a Greek God, but dismisses him, because he is impotent, as if love too were nothing more than a tactile experience. When Maybury tells her she certainly is not without clothing herself, she asks if he wishes to touch her clothes, then forces his hand "against her silky breast," exclaiming "Touch it!" (p. 69). It is characteristic of Maybury at this point that shortly after musing upon his resistance to temptations of this sort and his inability to ever lose all control, he is soon "caressing her more intimately." If the other residents "Live to eat," she lives to touch,
"What is life for, for God's sake." P. 69.
It is this exclamation that apparently dispatches Vincent, who has all the presence of a statue erected to some supplanted, sylvan god. Maybury cannot resist following his departure by "remarking naively," "Thank the Lord" (p. 69). The tale is ambiguous as to whether Vincent has had to leave the room at the mention of God, as Maybury seems to think, or in order to inform Falkner and the others of what he perceives as Cecile's blasphemy. Cecile has stated earlier, "I could not live without The Hospice" (p. 68). By morning, she will no longer be alive and on her way out of The Hospice in a hearse. In her excitement, she has violated a taboo.
Cromie is like some dark, prehistoric god - possibly a Cro Magnon deity or a later incarnation such as the horned Celtic god Cernunnos - part animal and part human. His presence might also refer to the stag that accompanies Julian the Hospitaller. Falkner speaks to him as he would "to a friendly retriever," though Maybury finds this "burly, but shapeless and shambling figure" (p. 71) far from friendly. While his large misshapen hands tear at the dashboard of Maybury's car, Falkner reassures him, though not us, by stating,
"Most of Cromie's work is on a big scale." P. 72.
as ominous a line as any in this story, hinting as it does not of the size of Cromie's usual deeds, but of their scope. I cannot help imagining Cromie as Cernunnos, in his guise of Herne the hunter, abroad at night hunting the souls of the lost.
The seemingly innocuous Bannard is even more mysterious. He goes out of his way to avoid seeing or discussing Maybury's gashed leg,
"I come here to forget things like that," he said. "We all do," P. 75.
but slinks out of the room afterward to murder Cecile. He has enjoined Bannard to be quiet while preparing for bed, warning him,
"When once you've woken people who've been properly asleep, you can never tell. It's a bad thing to do." P. 74.
then seems to undergo some kind of change, once Maybury, apparently against custom, turns off the light,
"(I)t seemed to Maybury as if he were no longer there, that Bannard was not an organism that could function in the dark." P. 75.
Eventually, however, it becomes clear that Bannard does still exist.
"In the end he thought that he could detect Bannard's breathing, far, far away. So Bannard was still there. Fantasy and reality are different things."
His departure, the horrible series of screams that follow and his reappearance, "slithering into his bed" (p. 75), carrying the scent of Cecile's now narcotizing perfume prove that he, or something awakened within him, can indeed function in darkness. When he awakens Maybury later in the night, sitting beside him on the bed, lamenting his loneliness and asking increasingly private questions about his family, Bannard seems different in appearance and expression - "twice as old, and twice as sad" - though using some of the same expressions and mannerisms. Although this exchange is as embarrassingly comic as the Monty Python "Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Say no more" sketch, it also has its ominous elements. The altered Bannard tells Maybury what he would do if he had his wife and son, asks him if his wife has not been supplanted by another, referring to Cecile whom he has just murdered, and finds fault with Maybury since the latter's marriage has not changed his life or transformed everything. It is as if Maybury had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Bannard's attempt to justify The Hospice's way of life falls on unsympathetic ears.
"I'm not saying there's no suffering here, but where in the world are you exempt from suffering? At least no one rots away in some attic or wretched bed-sitter more likely. Here are no single rooms. We all help one another. What can you and I do for one another, old man?" PP. 78-79.
After taking the wrong route, the animal attack, the outrageous meal, his near-seduction, the teasing late-night search for petrol, the screams in the night and his encounter with the transformed Bannard, Maybury awakens, mistaking Vincent for his wife and finding that "several of the people looked new or at least different" (p. 80), but finding Bannard returned to his former self. Are, as he remarked earlier, fantasy and reality different things? Some of his perceptions have altered and some have returned to their former state, but it is not clear whether the man himself has changed. Is the sight of his wife imploring him to "Wake up!" an indication that this has occurred or is it too late for him?
The mystery and this tale will endure longer than any solution we can offer.
Jim
oOo
Christopher Roden (August 30, 2000)
Thanks, Jim. Now that should definitely end up in Jessica's weird reviews!
CRoOo
Jim Rockhill (August 30, 2000)
Thank you, Chris.oOo
rbadac (August 30, 2000)
Holy shit.rbadac, who means that in a good way. How many of *you* read like this?
oOo
Christopher Roden (August 30, 2000)
I'm sorry, but that last comment was totally UNreadable.CR
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Jim Rockhill (August 31, 2000)
Uh, thanks(?)Jim
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rbadac (August 31, 2000)
Ha ha ha ha ha ha!! Relax, Jim! It was a great article!rbadac, whom no one understands
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Jim Rockhill (September 16, 2000)
Actually, RAHbadac. I did understand and was just joking. Very flattering. Thank you.Jim
oOo
rbadac (September 16, 2000)
Rockhill and rbadac fans: look for an upcoming feature to be co-authored by both of them. That's all I'm gonna say for now.B. Traven
oOo
[Compiler note: Here's some info from THE ANCIENT MYSTERIES READER, edited by Peter Haining (Doubleday, 1975); p.197-198: "...B. Traven (1890-- ), an American author who has lived in almost total seclusion in Mexico for nearly half a century. Little is known of the man other than his work, although one writer, Charles Miller, believes his real name is Berick Traven Torsvan, and that he was born in poverty in Chicago. ... Understandably, legends about this strange man have proliferated. Some have maintained that no such person exists-- Traven being merely the pen name for a group of writers-- while among the wilder rumors was one that he was actually the President of Mexico, Lopez Mateos. (President Mateos,, in fact, had to call a special press conference to dispel this rumor, so persistent did it become at one time!)"]
rtttt01 (September 18, 2000)
I'm very sorry, but RAHbadac just sounds too much like "rubber duck". This is one of those times I'm going to be wilfully ignorant and continue saying ARbadac. I hope, rbadac, that since I only "say" it in my mind from probably many miles away, it won't offend you too greatly.- Todd T.
oOo
rbadac (September 18, 2000)
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha !!! "Rubber duck"!!!!I'm changing my name as of now!! Quack!!
rubbaduck
oOo
Jim Rockhill (August 30, 2000)
Bill [A.],Thanks for giving us the opportunity to discuss such a complex tale.
[later post]
I am ashamed to say I skipped over your reference to the website, already having ROBERT AICKMAN: AN APPRECIATION bookmarked at the computer I borrow, and had not noticed that this was a link specifically devoted to "The Hospice" until just now. Almahu's distillation of what might be at the heart of the tale is very interesting.
Jim
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Mark Dillon (August 31, 2000)
Jim Rockhill wrote:... an excellent mini-essay on "The Hospice." Well done!
> The mystery and this tale will endure longer than any solution we can offer.
I agree.
In my view, symbols in art or narrative are most powerful when they resist paraphrase and act instead as signposts labelled "Night country."
There are times when an artist, faced with the uncanny or the unknown, can only point and whisper, "Look!" And then we, too, can only peer in silence towards the night country.
Mark Dillon
Quebec, CanadaoOo
Jim Rockhill (August 31, 2000)
Thanks, Mark.I like your "night country" analogy. Metcalfe, Aickman, Kafka, Tem, Campbell, Etchison and Ligotti, to name a few, encroach on this landscape very successfully.
Although it has been done well, one of the devices I like least in horror fiction is the appearance of the solution in the final paragraph, tied as if in a neat bow. Mark Schorer & August Derleth seem compelled to repeat this device time and again in their collection COLONEL MARKESON &c. I have not seen the text used in Midnight House's new Birkin collection, but the appearance of just this device at the end of "Ballet Negre," weakens an otherwise fine story; Birkin has made the situation quite clear beforehand, and his spelling it all out this way is a bit irritating. The tale works for me just fine on subsequent readings minus that final passage.Jim
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Randy Money (September 1, 2000)
Just to note, the epigram to _Cold Hand in Mine_ is,In the end it is the mystery that lasts and not the explanation.
-- SACHEVERELL SITWELL
"For Want of the Golden City"
That seems like a likely epigram for all of Aickman's works.
Randy
oOo
Adam Walter (August 31, 2000)
I just want to say how much I appreciate the two wonderful readings of "The Hospice" (and all the time that went into the posts!) by Rbadac and Jim Rockhill.
It has been something like a week since I discovered this newsgroup. Now I'm going on vacation for 2 1/2 weeks. Hopefully, I will be able to check in from time to time and won't miss any of these fascinating discussions.
I'll leave you all with a poem that pretty well communicates the sort of experience I have whenever reading Aickman. It's a Robert Bly poem, and since I've mentioned him more than once in the past few days I know I'm running some risks here. But I've pretty much been reading Aickman in one hand and Bly in the other lately...READING IN A BOAT
I was glad to be in that boat, floating
Under oak leaves that had been
Carved by crafty light.How many times during the night
I laughed, because She
Came near, and stayed, or returned.The boat stopped, and I woke.
But the pages kept turning. I jumped
Back in the book, and caught up.I was not in pain, not hungry,
Friend, I was alive, sleeping,
And all that time reading a book.
(from MORNING POEMS)
oOo
Jim Rockhill (August 31, 2000)
Thanks for the kind words and the poem, Adam. Have fun.Jim
oOo
Randy Money (September 1, 2000)
Random Thoughts on reading Aickman's "The Hospice" and articles on same by rbadac and Jim Rockhill
or
Teasing (Debatable) Meaning from a Story1) "We haven't had that vintage here since nineteen-sixty-nine." -- from "The [Hospice] California"
2) Where do the differences between a nursury, an old folks' home and an insane asylum begin to assert themselves? Are there differences? Maybe, more important here, where's the overlap in service and behavior?
3) Has anyone considered the story in terms of a "hothouse" analogy? Pardon me if this is sexist, but I've known two older women who did very little in their adult lives, their husbands taking care of house and car, buying groceries, paying all the bills, doling out money when needed. When the husbands died both women displayed the kind of nervous, jittery behavior one would expect from someone so sheltered over many years. I always considered them "hothouse" women, their attitudes and behavior reminding me of those pedigreed pets that are pampered and fawned over, with the resulting dislocation, fear of solitude and feelings of hopelessness and helplessness when they are no longer protected. The characters in "The Hospice" are rather like "hothouse" people -- nervous, jittery, sure they don't want stimulation, yet constantly looking for same. Then the treatment of them by the staff is rather like the treatment by some teachers of their charges. And, too, their precise lay-out at fertilizing -- er -- dinner seems rather along the lines of tomato plants in a row. And let's not forget the heat. From Falkner's point of view, Maybury's departure would be rather like sending one's produce to market -- in a sense, a form of death. That's not an easy analogy though, if we assume, as rbadac does, that Cecile has died. What if it wasn't really Cecile who died, but, in Hospice terms, Maybury? He does, after all, have to ride in the back of the hearse. Or -- more to back this up below -- his leaving in a hearse, regardless of who died, is symbolic of rejoining a world of risk.
4) Satire. Look at Cecile's concern over the unfed masses, stated in a tone of incipient despair and a rather Garbo-esque, swan-like fade into Maybury's lap -- or rather, across his thighs -- in an "eat, drink, and screw merrily for tomorrow we may die" pose. Meanwhile Maybury keeps a stiff upper lip while, apparently, trying to keep a not-so stiff lower extremity. Is it me, or are both poses rather stereotypically British?
5) Hmmmmm ... Cecile's perfume might have rather an orchid quality, you think? An orchid in a tomato hothouse.
6) Is there an implication of little difference between sex and pain, sex and terror in the curious incident of the screams in the night? An implication of vampirism/ victimization in Bannard's changed appearance on returning from Cecile? If he's murdered her, is there an implication of connection between sex and death as in, "le petit morte"?
7) More on satire. I assume because of Aickman's interest in the canal system, that he was an outdoorsman. The modern urbanite, who shuts him-/herself up tight in our Tupperware cities might, if I'm right about Aickman, have been contemptible to him. Maybury's fear and avoidance of risk -- as symbolized by his disconcertion and discomfort of being alone on a road without a map -- has led him to avoid sensation as surely as the residents of the Hospice; he is, on his own, a perfect candidate for the eternal limbo, the eternal pergatory, of the Hospice. I think this ties in with Jim's comment,
> His [Maybury's] dislocation takes on ontological and spiritual
> connotations as in this passage,> "That whole evening and night, from soon after his commitment to the
> recommended route, he had been in doubt about his place in the universe,
> about what people called the state of his nerves." p. 76.8) But with Jim's statement,
> Being fond of appalling puns, such as "Mary Land" in "The Same Dog,"
> Aickman names his protagonist, Maybury. May he be Buried in a stifling
> existence too full of restrictions, cautions and the need to avoid risk at the
> expense of really living, as was the protagonist of Henry James' "The Beast
> in the Jungle"? Or May he be Buried by his inability to learn from his
> mistakes, his inability to appreciate what he has, and his inability to love
> or be anything to anyone aside from himself? Either way, and I suspect
> the latter, someone may bury Maybury before too long.I disagree. The cat that bites him is a reminder of the reality of a world where risk is inherent in living; The Hospice is the sanctuary from pain and risk; yet, the sensuality of Cecile and her advances not only serve to remind him, uncomfortably, of his manhood, they also stir him to remember fondly his anchor to the outside world of risk and pain, his family and specifically, his wife. (Bannard's later questioning spurs those memories further.) His sentimental attachment to them is what drives him to leave such stultifying sanctuary and take his chances in the world. Still, as Jim says, embracing the world means risking that, "someone may bury Maybury before too long." (Nice call on the James story, Jim. Hadn't thought of that at all, yet I think it resonates off Cecile's cry, "What is life for, for God's sake." While her answer seems to lie in sensation, Maybury's may lie in a fuller love.)
9) If I'm right (if one can ever be right in interpreting a story), then Jim's statement,
> Is the sight of his wife imploring him to "Wake up!" an
> indication that this has occurred or is it too late for him?is too dire. It's not that it's too late for Maybury, it's that he must act now or it will be too late. For once in his life, he must make a decision on his own, immediately. His decision, however is not an affirmation of a happy ending: The ride in the hearse makes it clear that his decided course is fraught with risk and like all courses eventually leads to death. The undertaker's remark that, "he should not have to wait long," emphasizes that life is unknowable, unplanned, unlike the sterility of the Hospice.
10) Lastly, I don't know Aickman's politics, but if I'm on the right track (please pardon the possible railroad analogy in an article on a canal fanatic), the Hospice could almost stand as an emblem of a welfare state, minimizing risk, but also enforcing a certain childishness, an eternal adolescence on its inmates.
I don't see this story as being as bleak as some of the statements here have made it out to be. It is dense -- as rbadac's and Jim's identification of analogy and allusion certainly show -- and it does not see life as unsparing of pain and suffering, risk and loss, but it comes down on the side of taking those risks, finding only stagnation in the Hospice.
Randy
(of course, I may be full of hogwash, the name "Maybury" may refer to an old Andy Griffith show with Bannard as Maybury's answer to Barney Fife, etc., etc., etc.)oOo
[Randy Money wrote an article on "The Hospice" for the Conspire - Exploring Literature website. The site's stated goal is "furthering excellence in internet literary publishing". Randy has a regular column there.]
Jim Rockhill (September 1, 2000)
Thanks, Randy. This is what I love about this group and discussing Aickman here in particular. We could all be right or all be wrong. I believe that one's response to Aickman's tales is so tied into one's own experience and emotions that there are multiple possible interpretations. I personally think the story is as dire as I describe it, but am willing to accept that your points may be equally valid.oOo
Adam Walter (September 14, 2000)
Randy Money wrote:
> I don't see this story as being as bleak as some of the statements here have
> made it out to be. It is dense -- as rbadac's and Jim's identification of
> analogy and allusion certainly show -- and it does not see life as unsparing
> of pain and suffering, risk and loss, but it comes down on the side of
> taking those risks, finding only stagnation in the Hospice.I know I'm a bit late responding to this post, but I wanted to say that I agree with Randy. We know that Maybury was "one of the lost" for an evening, but I see no clear indication that he will continue in that state beyond the end of the story. A few of Aickmain's protagonists do seem to escape their nightmarish adventures unharmed, and Maybury seems to be one of the lucky ones.
I compared this story earlier to two films, Eyes Wide Shut and After Hours. The ending is very similar with those films. The protagonist has been drawn, for a single night, into a world he didn't know existed, a world of indecipherable menace--and in the end he is dumped out the other side a little frazzled and more than a little afraid, but essentially unharmed. Such an experience may be either a blessing or a curse. It all depends where the character takes it. A person could become morbidly obsessed with it, or it might jolt one to awareness and lead to a more active mode of living.
~Adam Walter
ooOoo