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4.0 out of 5 stars
Quiet and tight., May 10 2004
Poppy Z. Brite, Wormwood (Dell, 1994)This relatively early collection of stories (her first collection, and third published work, previously known as Swamp Foetus), collects stories written between 1986 and 1992. Perhaps the most interesting thing about the book is watching the progression between the earlier and the later stories; you can tell before getting to the end (each is dated) which are which, after an example or two of each. This isn't to say the earlier stories are bad, they're just raw. And raw is not a bad thing. In fact, it can be quite charming, especially when one encounters another two Steve and Ghost stories ("Angels" and "How to Get Ahead in New York"), which also happen to be two of the longest in the book. It's rather odd to have watched an author create her own shared world and remain its sole inhabitant. Steve and Ghost aside, there's a lot of fun stuff here for the discriminating fan of viscerally atmospheric (if that makes sense) horror. Brite's tales are not for the squeamish, but she never treads into the realms of Robert Deveraux (or, for that matter, her own novel Exquisite Corpse). Even the zombie story, which is a genre that basically invites excess gore (especially since Peter Jackson's wonderful film Dead Alive), has more of a quiet, dignified air about it (albeit one with some language that may make some neophytes squirm a bit in a different way). Very good stuff. It's easy to say in hindsight this is the beginning work of a very gifted author, so imagine I'm saying it in 1994 and have amazing powers of presentiment. ***
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2.0 out of 5 stars
Some good...others not, Feb 5 2004
On the whole I enjoyed most stories, but after Drawing Blood and Lost Souls, which I loved, there's no comparison...Also, the abortion story in this book, the pregnant girl in another had me wondering...Does Poppy hate women? If you've read all her works you'll know what I mean...
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4.0 out of 5 stars
Poppy, Goddess of Nerves, Oct 17 2003
Imagine the body of a beautiful young oriental woman laying in front of you. She doesn't move or flinch. You can touch her anyway and anywhere you want. And you do so. But all of a sudden she gives you the look, that special unnameable glance. But not from her eyes in her face, but from the one between her legs. Yeah, and what do you have to say then, tough guy? Do you declare yourself insane on the spot, or do you have enough sense in you to realise you're just stuck in side the narration of Poppy Z. Brite's 'Xenophobia'? Hey, come on. Don't be shy. You know she gives you really a treat, right?
Brite proves she's at her best when the dying flesh is being transformed into an object of art by her blossoming language. (But beware, Brite's blossoming words do bleed a bit, once and a while...)
The eroticism of death and decay is pictured with even more astonishing beauty in another story called 'Calcutta, Lord of Nerves'. My favorite, if you care. It's a tale of wandering through a city that is in pain and in a far state of decomposition itself, for it is buried underneath piles and piles of lepers, dead people, and sometimes undead people. It's a second rate metropolis, who's alleys are filled with deceases, ritually decapitated victims, the stench of the undead, and the eager hands of the Goddess Kali.
This story is more than just 'eerie sadness, haunting silence and explicit solitude', described in a voluptuous, sexy language. It's the literary equivalent of the crede 'mutilation is art'. And this art is being depicted in broad strokes, showed and staged franticly beautiful, screened in Panavision, and not just outspoken in fancy lines and disposable horrorcliche's.
And this is what makes 'Calcutta, Lord of Nerves' more than just a movie of the year. It's a whole new literary cinema of it's own.
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