McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories Book

Its lurid cover does not lie: McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories is an intentional and (a McSweeney's trademark) ironically self-aware reconstruction of a particular kind of story'the pulp fiction of the early 20th Century, purple prose written in haste for pennies per word and printed for immediate consumption, without much thought for posterity. Despite its being fourteen years old as I write, this anthology still feels fresh, even timeless, because of that particular focus. And yet... the only phrase that gets repeated on this book's cover is also true; these are "All-New" stories (or at least they were at the time), written by an incredible powerhouse stable of authors, many of whom are even more well-known now then they were in 2004.

Editor Michael Chabon's Introduction talks a fair amount about "genre"'to the point that I'm tempted to define a genre author as one who gets defensive about being called a "genre author." While that wouldn't be fair to the writers included here, it is true that all of the stories in McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories'even the ones by more lit'ry authors'venture outside the strict and pallid confines of mimetic fiction. Every one contains somewhere, somehow, at least a hint of the speculative, the supernatural, the eerie and outré.

The book starts with Margaret Atwood (who has occasionally been, shall we say, defensive about genre herself). "Lusus Naturae" is, from its title onward, a tone-setting work, reminiscent of one of Richard Matheson's punchy short stories from the 1950s. I don't want to quote its last lines directly, but Atwood's final paragraph left me simultaneously with a grin and a chill down my spine.

Mirrors figure prominently in Atwood's tale, and that theme continues in David Mitchell's "What You Do Not Know You Want," a slow fuse of a story burning to its quick bang of an ending. I will quote an early line from this one:Mirrors are my friends no longer.
'p.12
I'd read Jonathan Lethem's "Vivian Relf" before, in Men and Cartoons. What I said then was that this story "explores the difference between what matters and what we think matters'and how even the same encounters may not have identical impacts for everyone involved."

Ayelet Waldman's "Minnow," a story of motherhood and loss, was hard for me to read without flinching. I am reminded of the chilling, indelible rendition of O. B. Rozell's Of Winners, Losers, and Games that I saw performed by Donna M. and Kevin B. 'way back in high school, long before I ever thought of being a parent myself.

"Zeroville," by Steve Erickson, was an interesting distillation from the eponymous novel, which I thought was amazing. This take, though, seemed kind of choppy; in this case I think the longer version was better.

The Stephen King story is'well, it's what King does best, isn't it? He did later turn "Lisey and the Madman" into part of a novel, as the notes at the end of this book (p.324) suggest.

"7C," by Jason Roberts, was exemplary science-fictional horror, that stood out for me the way it must have done for the judges of the venerable August Van Zorn Prize committee.

You know how Heidi Julavits' "The Miniaturist" will end, almost from its beginning'in that, it's like Stephen King's Pet Sematary, which I could only ever read once due to that same terrifying inevitability. Or perhaps a better fit would be a different King's novel, Small World. But Julavit's story is no less scary for all of that...

"The Child," by Roddy Doyle, revolves around the horror of being hounded for something you can't even remember having done.

"Delmonico" is a good evocation of noir fiction, with a world-weary narrator, set in a bar, whose bartender is... uniquely qualified. Daniel Handler (yes, that Snicket guy) writes for grown-ups this time.

Charles D'Ambrosio's "The Shape of Things" was, perhaps, my favorite among all these stories'and D'Ambrosio's a local (Portland) author, too, although I hadn't heard of him outside these pages. Amid the endless fields of Ioway (sic) corn, a fugitive couple find something like what they've been looking for...Where are you going, my little one, little one?
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two, turn around and you're four.
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of the door.
'p.219
"The Devil of Delery Street" by Poppy Z. Brite was a sweet breath of fresh air, not nearly as dark as I'd expected.

I'd encountered China Miéville's "Reports of Certain Events in London" previously as well, in Looking for Jake. This tale of what the kids these days call "urbex" (well, of a sort) turns out to be the kind of thing you want to be true, even if you'll never be able to tell whether it is.

Joyce Carol Oates fits right in here, with "The Fabled Lighthouse at Viña del Mar," based on a fragment by Edgar Allan Poe.

And, finally, Peter Straub's "Mr. Aickman's Air Rifle," though slow and excessively mannered to start with, manages to bring McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories to a satisfying conclusion.

The stark, black-and-white interstitial illustrations by Mike Mignola also deserve at least a mention.


On a somewhat-related note... I feel a little funny about giving a plug (unsolicited, I assure you) for a place I haven't yet been, but I found out about Portland, Oregon's Peculiarium at the same time as I acquired this book, at Wordstock 2017, and it seems to offer much the same aesthetic'nostalgic, pulpy and offbeat'so the two have wormed their way into my mind together and are now inextricably linked. The same may happen to you... beware... beware... BEWARE!