Ghosts, Dreams, Nothingness
(GOH talk, Beneluxcon March 2012)
Dear Beneluxcon, welcome, and I hope you're sitting
For a long time, I used to enjoy frightening children...
Maybe I should take a little step away from that opening... I was asked
for a short piece of writing, to feature in your first Progress Report.
By chance, the short pieces that came to hand seemed to define an area
of interest, a misty place where dreams, science fiction and classic
horror meet. Since nobody threw them back, I decided to make that shadowy
place my theme for this talk. So, this item has been governed by chance:
but that's okay. Some people complain about the huge role random coincidence
plays in weird tales, as if the writers were just lazy, but to the initiated,
the fact that there's no reason on earth why fearful uncanny events
should happen to the characters in the story is part of their awful
charm... Anyway, I'm going to talk about ghosts, how I first met them,
where they led me; and what I think about all that spooky stuff.
I'd better start on that shocking confession.
For a long time, I used to enjoy frightening children...
The first child I enjoyed frightening was of course myself. Now this
may surprise you, but as a small child I was known for reckless bravery.
When the Clover Club gang -a clandestine association in the local hood,
to which I belonged from when I was about five years old- believed they
had spotted a dead horse, in the dirty, swampy valley behind the houses
across the street, which was our playground (much to our parents' dismay).
I was the one who took up the dare, and approached the awful, tumbled
thing. It was a rotting horsehair sofa, that somebody had thrown out.
There were other occasions. When there was a ball to be rescued, a challenge
to be delivered to the bullies, I could usually be fooled into volunteering.
Brave, oblivious, or pitifully gullible, I would cheerfully
wander into trouble. Yet often I was very scared, when there was no
good reason. The green rushes by the stream in our damp valley could
seem inimical; silent watchers. A covered alleyway (we called them "ginnels"),
near my house, frightened me terribly. Something my mother had said,
had made me believe it led directly to my great-aunts' house in the
country town of Lancaster, hundreds of miles away. I was convinced that
if I took one step into the gloomy passage, all time and space would
be snatched away. And weird things did happen. I knew they did. Once,
when I was walking my little sister home from school through the alleyways,
on a very foggy winter's afternoon, a strange dog appeared. It had such
an air of purpose, such an uncanny grin: I was terrified. "What
do you want?" I quavered. The dog said "Bones", and went
on its way. This really happened. It really did.
The second child I frightened was my little brother. He was four; I
was twelve. I would be ordered to take him with me, on errands; maybe
to the Co-op store in Blackley village (a "village" that had
long been devoured by the drab streets of Manchester). It was a dull
walk, usually silent in my memory. There were few cars in those days;
the endless houses seemed to hold their breath. I enlivened it by tormenting
the little boy. I would deliberately change our route; turning a corner
or so was enough to confuse him. Then I'd suddenly say, Oh, no! We've
slipped out of time. We're in the Land of Ghosts and Witches! In proof,
I'd point out to him that nothing looked quite right. I'd tell him that
I was trying to get us out, but then my escape would fail. We'd find
ourselves in an even worse weird-dimension, called The Forty Years.
We could go home now, but other people would be living in our house.
Our Mama and Papa were dead. Our cat was dead. Our sisters had grown
old, gone away and wouldn't recognise us!
It never failed. Of course it didn't, since I'd also managed to terrify
myself, just by imagining all this loss, this limitless disaster....
My behaviour was inexcusable. But I told very good stories, at this
time, having taken over the mantle of family storyteller from my father;
fantasy epics free from scary head-messing, So it wasn't all bad. I
think he recovered, and forgave me in the end. He even seemed flattered,
when I later dedicated a novel called Kairos, to him, because it was
distantly based on our inter-dimensional tours.
I only remember one actual ghost story in my family's legends. It was
about a man who had hung himself from the gas bracket in one of the
bedrooms at "15 Forge Lane", the house where my father was
born. Sometimes at night you could see a shadow against the wall, swinging,
swinging. I don't recall the source of this item, I can't believe it
was my father -he never tried to frighten us; I know it didn't impress
me much. To me, a ghost is a feeling, not an apparition. A strange or
dreadful secret, hinted at in the sad light of afternoon on a grubby
street corner. A nameless wrongness, in an innocent-seeming illustration
in a children's book... Not some boring dead person with emotional issues.
Yet I recognised my favourite poison at once, when I discovered the
ghost story in print for the first time: the ghost story as a work of
art, in an antique collection called Great Tales Of Terror And The Supernatural,
that I picked out of a heap of second-hand books at a Jumble Sale.
Perhaps it's true that great art always makes things worse, before making
them better. Great drama seem to consist of people saying out loud,
and bringing into the open, things that are kept hidden in real life,
because in real life we are generally trying to keep the peace, and
hide our wounds. We even have a tradition (in modern Europe, anyway,
and I suspect it may be much older) that says the greatest artists are
rejected, and die in poverty, because they've refused to bow to fashion,
and shown us the real world, in ways we don't want to see it. Maybe
even great ghost stories are utterly different from the spooky tales
that people tell, huddled round the stove on a dark winter's night -or
huddled over the keyboard, composing for an online paranormal forum
-because they show us our experience of "the supernatural"
as it really is. Maybe... When I imagine the masters, Arthur Machen,
or M R James, reinventing the literary ghost story, in the closing decades
of the nineteenth century, I think of that scene in the comedy thriller,
Crocodile Dundee. You remember? When an unsuspecting New York mugger
tries to take down our leather-faced Aussie hero? Mugger says, this
is a knife! Paul Hogan draws his big shiny, crocodile disembowelling
blade from inside his jacket. Naw, mate. This is a knife...
M R James says: Oh, you people like to snuggle around the fire on
Christmas Eve, telling scary stories, do you? Okay, don't blame me if
you can't sleep for a week. THIS is "scary"-He holds out
his closed hand, he opens it, and there's nothing there.
Nothing at all. And yet...
I was lucky to find the Great Tales collection, at such a young age.
I now rank some of the stories that thrilled and chilled me, when I
first met them, as formative influences on all my writing. When my wicked
taste for terrorising children surfaced again, after lying dormant for
years, and I wrote ghost stories as Ann Halam, I would put an author's
note in the back of the book, naming my sources, and encouraging young
readers, kindred spirits, to seek out the greats. Of those sources three
stories in particular stand out - "Oh Whistle And I'll Come To
You, My Lad", by M R James; "Green Tea", by Sheridan
LeFanu, and "The Great God Pan", by Arthur Machen. I'm going
to use those three as my scriptural texts, for the rest of this frightener's
At some point in this session somebody is probably going to ask me,
"But, do you believe in ghosts?" Actually the answer is no.
If there were ghosts around (I mean, those dead people with issues),
we'd know about it, is my attitude. And we don't... But I have to admit,
there are certain locations that seem unnaturally productive of these
creatures that don't exist. In England there's the county of Suffolk,
just across the North Sea from us here. Maybe it's something about the
lonely history of the region. Maybe it's the silence, and the cool,
colourless light. The land is very flat in Suffolk; the skies are very
wide, and even today, the long beaches can be very lonely, especially
in winter, at twilight. M R James, Grand Master of the ghost story Renaissance,
set many of his tales in Suffolk. One of them, and to my mind one of
the most memorable and successful of all ghost stories, has the odd
title "Oh Whistle And I'll Come To You My Lad".
It goes like this. A fussy, self-righteously rational scholar takes
a cold, seaside holiday in winter, by the North Sea. Poking around in
some mediaeval ruins he finds an ancient metal whistle, with a Latin
inscription that reads, in English, who is this who is coming? He takes
it back to his hotel, cleans out the caked sand and tries blowing. To
his surprise it makes a sound. He tries again, and out comes a thrilling,
penetrating musical note, that paints pictures in his head. The hotel
room is spacious, it holds two beds. That night, as he lies unable to
sleep, Perkins can hear someone else tossing and turning, very close
to him. He doesn't pay much attention, he's too busy watching, in a
kind of waking nightmare, a traveller fleeing along the shore, pursued
by a sinister, formless thing. The next morning the other bed in his
room, which he knows he's never touched, is all tossed about.
Something has answered the summons, and come looking for him. It haunts
his nights, it grows strong enough to attack in daylight. But he never
sees it, it never touches him. It just almost frightens him to death,
by taking shape from a bundle of bedclothes, with an intensely horrible
face made of crumpled linen-
What makes this wisp of a story so compelling? There are sane, sensible
adults (I will put my hand up) who have found themselves unable, for
years afterwards, to sleep in a room with a second, empty bed in it,
after reading Oh Whistle And I'll Come To You. M R James believed his
secret was that he used contemporary settings and ordinary people, so
that a wicked, unseen, unknowable world suddenly intrudes into the safety
of daily life, rather than clanking its chains in a gothic crypt. But
his stories were picturesque historical pieces when I met them, and
still effective. He said the trick was never to explain your ghost...
(Why does the whistle summon a malign wraith? We have no idea). But
grisly serial killers also strike at random: there must be something
else going on. Maybe it's the humour. Oh Whistle And I'll Come To You
My Lad is the title of a slightly naughty popular song of the time,
with a lyric by the Scottish poet Robbie Burns. It invites us to see
young Mr Perkins as an unwise virgin, terrified by his unwelcome suitor
-and sympathise, and share his terror, and laugh at him, all at the
same time. The "ghost in the sheet costume" is absurd in itself,
and was already an old joke in M R James's day. Yet what people remember,
what makes us shiver, is that empty face of crumpled linen.
We have been tricked into being afraid of nothing, and yet it isn't
funny at all. This nothing destroys Perkins's rational worldview; he
won't recover. He can never un-know that the material world is a veil,
and things from beyond this veil can invade his reality, take over his
mind, in ways he cannot possibly understand. This is the essence of
classic supernatural terror, the genius of the golden age of the ghost
story. It's not the storyteller's skill at clothing in spine-tingling
fiction one or two ghastly unexplained incidents. It's the casual, offhand
destruction of all rational explanations.
It doesn't have to be like this. It wasn't always so! Before the Christian
Era (and Mediaeval Christians seems to be the bad guys, in Oh Whistle
And I'll Come To You, but Perkins, with his rational, modern views,
is clearly heir to the certainties of Christianity), there was no such
dreadful rift between the Visible and the Unseen Worlds... Christianity
severed our connection with the Land of Ghosts and Witches, when it
took the sting out of our relations with the dead. At last, dead people
had somewhere definite to go, and things to do. They were no longer
assumed to be hanging around, paying off old scores; in need of food
and nicely decorated houses; or, depending on their rank, more dreadful
forms of appeasement. They had a life, so to speak... The change didn't
happen all at once, obviously. A less optimistic view of the unquiet
dead survived for a long time. I remember being utterly terrified by
an English retelling of the story of Grettir the Strong, (a hero of
the mediaeval Icelandic sagas), and Glam, the solid, corporeal ghost
who curses him. But gradually, inexorably, as Christianity became more
formal and abstract, and science and technology gained power, all the
unseen beings and influences, previously found in nature, were banished.
So we were protected, but protection came at a price. Arguably, when
we broke off diplomatic relations with the ghosts and demons, we were
forced to lose touch with the natural wildlife life of our own minds,
and maybe even to lose touch with the true nature of the universe itself.
In the Pre-Christian era in Europe, as far as we can tell from the civilisations
that left their written records, common or fireside ghost stories were
as popular as they are today. There were urban myths about haunted houses
and spooky graveyards; there were were feasts of the dead, and other
rituals of ancestor worship. But the ghosts made immortal by great Classical
writers, shadows of their former selves indeed, had no power to terrify.
You could hire a medium to call up the spirits of the recently deceased,
the way Saul got the Witch of Endor to summon the prophet Samuel, but
the shade would tell you nothing you didn't know, and the whole experience
would just be very depressing. That terrifying invasion of ordinary
life, central to the ghost story in modern Europe, had no parallel.
Literary heroes invaded the sad world of the dead, and fed them on blood,
to see what the poor shades had to say. In Homer, when Odysseus meet
Agamemnon's ghost, and the murdered king recounts his humiliating fate,
it's a vision to arouse pity, not horror.
He knew me at once
When he'd drunk some blood, he wept aloud,
shedding many tears, stretching out his hands,
keen to reach me. But he no longer had
any inner power or strength, not like
the force his supple limbs possessed before.
I looked at him and wept.*
Murasaki Shikibu's mediaeval Japanese novel, The Tale Of Genji,
-product of another technology poor, non-Christian and highly developed
culture, like Ancient Greece- gives a harrowing account of a living
ghost. The Rokujo lady, a sensitive, highly sophisticated older woman,
is terribly jealous when her younger lover, the glorious Genji, marries.
Without her knowledge, and against her conscious will, part of her soul
goes wandering, possesses and eventually kills Genji's wife, when she's
weakened by childbirth. All the Rokujo lady knows is that she's been
having horrible nightmares, and wakening to find that her beautiful
hair smells of the incense used in exorcism. She has no idea of the
terrible truth, until Genji, present at his wife's deathbed, recognises
the evil spirit. It's through his reaction of shame and horror that
the Rokujo lady finds out what's been going on... There's a name for
these living ghosts, they're called ikiryo, they're spawned by
intense emotions, like guilt or jealousy; you can even haunt yourself.
Did people "really believe" in ikiryo, at the Imperial
Court in Heian Japan? Yes and no, I suppose. I'll at least bet there
were some uneasy jealous ladies, having very creepy dreams, when that
episode of Genji started going the rounds. No, I'm a Uniformitarian:
I'm sure our experience of the Immaterial World -in a state of nature,
without "progressive" theories getting in the way- is the
same now and in every culture as it has always been, for the last forty
or a hundred thousand years. But there may have been a loss of intensity;
a degree of fade-out. Tell me, dear Beneluxcon people, when did you
last see the Milky Way? If you've ever seen it in anything like its
ancient glory, anywhere in crowded modern Europe, you've been lucky.
Years ago, I travelled to West Africa, to climb Mount Cameroon, in the
footsteps of Mary Kingsley. We slept high up on the mountain, in a corrugated
iron hut. I got up and went outdoors, looking for the little toilet
shack. I saw, I swear, Van Gogh's starry, starry night, whirling above
me, and I understood the power and intensity of the night sky, in ancient
human culture, as I'd never understood it before. We've created so many
artificial forms of dreams and visions, down the centuries: maybe our
internal worlds have suffered their own light-pollution. Maybe our meetings
with the wildlife of our minds -including meetings with our dead- really
did seem like actual experience once, and this archaic state is faintly
remembered in our "supernatural" stories.
History is a spiral (a helix of semi-precious stones, as Delany said
of Time). We return to the same state, but in different material conditions;
technology converts feats of the imagination into feats of the possible.
Have we returned, as those who run in terror from the Great God Pan
are held to return, to the very source of our fears? Are we about to
re-enter a seamless world where immaterial "visions" and material
"realities" are equally valid? Some of you or all of you will
have seen the movie Inception, the blockbuster thriller about lucid
dreaming. I'm sure most of you have read, or otherwise consumed, fiction
about exciting adventures in wrap-around cyberspace. But these are fictions.
Quite possibly we need no fantasy science, but only the real life technology
of the 21st century: the human mind is so malleable, so quick at making
new connections. We already talk (some of us, anyway) as if we recognise
our actual selves, in the mirror of a video-game avatar, or a social-networking
"timeline". How long will it be before the clever jelly in
our heads bridges the gap, and we feel ourselves to be those potent
other selves, adventuring in fantastic otherworlds. Or feel ourselves
to be those living ghosts, escaped from our control, burrowing viciously
into our friends' online lives?
But even in Victorian days, the phenomena of dreams and visions could
be recognised as perfectly natural: and still something wicked, something
invincibly evil, might creep through that opened door between the Seen
and the Unseen-
Sheridan Lefanu's "Green Tea", an account of such a visitation,
struck me as being a very long story, when I was a child. It is rather
long, around twelve thousand words or so, but it seemed interminable;
except not in a bad way. The form is a kind of Sherlock Holmes story,
the Watson role taken by an un-named narrator; presumably Le Fanu himself,
whose friend Dr Hesselius -of Leiden, by the way-is a "metaphysical
doctor" with amazing powers of deduction, and encyclopaedic knowledge
of the diseases of the soul. This particular case is told through a
series of letters, from Hesselius himself to a colleague called Van
Loo; in which Hesselius describes his meeting with an interesting patient,
the development of the curious disease, and the unhappy outcome.
The patient, the Reverend Jennings is a quiet gentleman, very wealthy
in a lonely, sombre way. Of course, Hesselius knows what's going on,
and pretty much exactly how Jennings is afflicted; just by observing
him. When the haunted clergyman finally makes his confession, it seems
his downfall was a study of "the religious metaphysics of the ancients".
Long hours of fascinating research needed some kind of stimulant. He
became addicted to Green Tea, and then one night, on a lonely omnibus
ride, he found he'd acquired an unwelcome companion, a nasty little
spectral monkey with glowing eyes.
It follows him everywhere. It gets between him and his prayers; he can't
give a church service. It creeps across the carpet, when he's having
tea with society ladies... He has no idea why he's being persecuted
like this, but he's driven to suspect that he has somehow raised a demon
from hell. And nothing can save him, since it has been given licence
to destroy him.
I still love the slow, stealthy pace of "Green Tea": it matches
the silence of gloomy rooms where footsteps sink into three layers of
turkey carpet. The darkness of Victorian evenings, before the candles
were brought in; the emptiness of the Richmond omnibus at night, where
poor Mr Jennings first meets his nemesis. I even like the old-fashioned,
confusing layers of narrative, a distancing device much copied by later
classic ghost story writers.
There are two really wonderful things in this outstanding example of
the spook story without a spook. The first is that spectral monkey -always
described in visceral detail, although it doesn't even crumple a sheet,
the torment is all in Mr Jennings's head. The second is Le Fanu's deft
suspension of two opposing states of belief. This is a disease of the
mind -obviously. There's nothing supernatural going on. Dr Hesselius's
expert diagnosis is "hereditary suicidal mania" (or in our
current jargon "paranoid schizophrenia"). But what if a genuine
demon from the pit, and a "hallucination" can be one and the
same thing? Each as real as the other? When the world visible and the
world invisible are one continuous fabric; when ideas are as much things
as things are ideas, is it any comfort to be told that the horrors pursuing
you are "only in your mind"?
The Reverend Jennings didn't find it so.
The third story in my spooky (or should that be spookachtig?),
roll of honour is "The Great God Pan", by Arthur Machen, the
story I invoked as having such an enduring influence on my work, in
your First Progress Report. This is a very well-known work (in supernatural
horror circles). Part of its fame may be due to Machen's authentic Occult
credentials, gratifying to those who take the Occult seriously. There's
also the strong sexual content -outrageous when it was first published-;
which even quite recently (before the female authored sexy-horror phenomenon
took off) gave Machen a special frisson.
This is another many-layered narrative. The first passage is set in
the Welsh Marches, a region of England almost as haunted as Suffolk,
on the beautiful, remote estate of a latter-day evil magician, who has
decided to open a young girl's mind to the Unseen, by cutting some vital
cells out of her brain. Poor Mary wakes up a hopeless idiot. "But
she has seen The Great God Pan" says the magician -the nature god
Pan here standing for all the powers beyond the veil of matter. Nine
months later she's delivered of a child* -a girl, named "Helen
Vaughan" whose mysteriously horrible development we then follow.
At first in fragmentary records kept by Mr Clarke, the magician's witness.
Later, in London, through the accounts of a succession of men about
town, friends who come to realise that a society "femme fatale"
variously known as Mrs Beaumont, Mrs Herbert, Mrs Vaughan, is literally
delivering her well-connected lovers alive into hell. Whereupon the
lovers complete the process by committing suicide, which I'd call a
really stupid move, in the circumstances...** The amateur occult detectives
trap her, they prove they have enough evidence to ruin her reputation,
and she obediently kills herself -in death revealing her true nature,
as her outward bodily form dissolves, first becoming both male and female,
then descending through bestial stages to a pool of primordial slime.
As a child, I was entranced, titillated and mystified by "The Great
God Pan". Just untangling the "sensationalist" documentary-style
narrative was a puzzling feat. As an adult, need I say I have serious
problems with the morality of this tale, even leaving aside the atrocious
child abuse in the opening? Strip away the shuddering cloud of weird
mystification around Helen Vaughan's career, and we see that at a time,
and in a culture, when -man or woman- any sex life outside wedlock was
fraught with risk and criminality, poor Helen joins a casualty list
of female scapegoats.
Say instead that she gave the well-connected boyfriends syphilis, and
you get the picture.
(Me, I just wish she'd found the right person, in that "city of
resurrections", London of the Naughty Nineties. Someone omnivorous
and good-natured, who wouldn't judge her for being a hermaphrodite,
and bit of a beast in bed. Maybe HRH Edward, Prince of Wales-)
But my deep-rooted admiration for "The Great God Pan" survives:
because it wasn't a history of "monstrous evil" that attracted
me. It was the feeling of immanent revelation in the first passage of
the story, when the evil magician outlines his wicked plan. His means
are atrocious, but his project is thrilling: to open up a conduit, a
physical not a metaphysical connection, between the world of matter
and the world of spirit. To span the abyss, and make the fertile nothingness
of the cosmic aether interchangeable with the solid world of flesh...
In the end, I would owe whole suite of fantasy technologies, in the
Bold As Love sequence, to Machen (I call my version of the magician's
project "breaking the mind/matter barrier"). I owe him, too,
for a very sinister alien Weapon Of Mass Destruction; but that was from
The nineteenth century in Europe, golden age of the ghost story, was
a time of grim social divisions in England; great poverty, and enormous
wealth. Intellectually, there was war in heaven, as Charles Darwin's
"On The Origin Of Species" seemed to challenge all rational
authorities, and throw us back into a state of bestial chaos. Semi-occult
Germanic and Nordic metaphysics, developed in response to the Materialism
of the Eighteenth Century, attracted daring Victorian gentlemen (Swedenborg
is extensively quoted in "Green Tea"); while the even more
daring turned to very dubious Magicks. And what is the lesson of all
this? I don't know, but I know that Machen and his peers stood on the
eve of a new century, and on the brink of a scientific revolution, led
by a humble patent clerk, that would tear the veil between seen and
unseen, between being and nothingness, asunder - opening the way to
the creation of monstrous weapons beyond even their wild imagining.
We should be careful what we fear, because fear can be made flesh...
Or maybe the lesson is this (a genre lesson). Lucretius, the Roman poet,
in his long poem De Rerum Natura (On The Nature Of Things), asked his
readers to imagine -a very science fictional project, this- they could
carry a spear to the very end of the universe. Stand there, and hurl
the spear into the abyss. If you hear a clang (version #1), then you
know that your spear struck something material, so there's more material
out there. If you hear nothing (version #2), and the spear just vanishes,
that means there's more space out there. Either way, you've performed
a mental experiment to prove that the universe has no end, of course.
Maybe we could characterise Science Fiction as the set of fictional
worlds where we cast our imaginary probe into the unknowable, and "hear
the spear strike something". Fantasy would cover the set of fictions
where the abyss returns no material response to our challenge; nothing
but the promise of its endless mystery.
Interestingly, you could argue that real, serious science currently
seems to favour version #2
*Quotation from Book 11 of the Odyssey, trs Ian Johnston
**As a child, given a girl called Mary was giving birth to a supernatural
child with no human father, I was sure "Helen Vaughan" represented
some kind of Antichrist. On later reading I'd argue that Machen at least
hints at a repellent, but less blasphemous alternative.
*** M. John Harrison's homage to this classic, a story also called "The
Great God Pan" (Other Edens, ed. Christopher Evans & Robert
Holdstock; Unwin, 1988), features some caustic, down to earth suggestions
-sad, silly, but still very unpleasant- as to what Machen's "nameless
horrors" might have looked like, and their likely effects.
**** It was The Novel Of The White Powder
Full text of "Oh Whistle And I'll Come To You My Lad", by
kind permission of the James estate: http://www.fadl12200.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/mrjframes.html
Full text of "Green Tea":
"The Great God Pan" is widely available as an online text,
this is the Gutenberg project version: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/389/389-h/389-h.htm
Online sources checked on 13th March 2012
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