|Author Paul La Farge (Photo: Carol Shadford)|
“The only real horror in most of these fictions,” Edmund Wilson wrote in The New Yorker in 1945, assessing the weird tales of H.P. Lovecraft, “is the horror of bad taste and bad art. Lovecraft was not a good writer. The fact that his verbose and undistinguished style has been compared to Poe’s is only one of the many sad signs that almost nobody any more pays any real attention to writing. . . . The Lovecraft cult, I fear, is on even a more infantile level than the Baker Street Irregulars.” Like Wilson, I’ve given Lovecraft’s work an ample tryout; several over the years, in fact, always in the hope that this time something will click into place, that his vaunted visionary genius will make itself known to me. Unlike Wilson, I’m actually a fan of horror and supernatural literature, and so more than averagely credulous in these things. Yet for all the dread I’d love to feel from Lovecraft’s interminable tales of New England backwaters beset with ancient curses, extraterrestrial miasmas, and subterranean succubi, I too find him turgid, absurd, and not the least bit unnerving.
I say all this not to slaughter a sacred cow, but to make it clear that an enjoyment of Paul La Farge’s new novel, The Night Ocean (Penguin), does not depend on being an admirer of Lovecraft’s writing, let alone a member of his cult. Though Lovecraft is the novel’s gravitational center, it’s more the man than the writer who is on display – or who is refracted, rather, through the reverence, resentment, or obsessive curiosity of other characters. The narrator is Marina, a modern-day New York psychologist. She’s married to Charlie, a journalist whose specialty is lovingly detailed stories about unknown but singular people. Dogged yet oddly fragile, gifted at “immersing himself in obscure and beautiful facts,” Charlie is uniquely susceptible to the mystery that triggers the novel’s action.
In the early 1930s, H.P. Lovecraft answered a fan letter from one Robert H. Barlow, a Florida teenager and connoisseur of weird fiction. The correspondence led to Lovecraft staying with Barlow’s family in rural Florida in the summer of 1934, and again the following summer; the two met in New York in the interim, and again in Lovecraft’s hometown of Providence, Rhode Island, in 1936. They collaborated on a handful of short works – including the 1937 story which gives La Farge’s novel its title – but for Lovecraftians, the mystery has always been the precise nature of the no doubt deep communion between the cadaverous, forty-something New Englander and the skinny, nearsighted boy genius. Was it merely a commingling of like minds and morbid imaginations, or was it also a love affair? If the latter, was it Platonic or physical?
Lovecraft died of intestinal cancer in 1937 at the age of 46. Prodigal in several fields, Barlow first moved to Kansas City to study art, and then to Berkeley to study anthropology (under Alfred Kroeber, father of science fiction giant Ursula K. Le Guin). Lovecraft had named Barlow his literary executor; after trying to get some of his late mentor’s unpublished work printed, Barlow, then unknown in the subculture of weird-fiction fandom, became a target of rancorous attack from that quarter. Perhaps partly as a result, he left America, taking a teaching position at a Mexico City college. He published voluminously on Aztec history, and in 1951 committed suicide, leaving a note that read: “Do not disturb me, I wish to sleep a long time.” It was rumored that Barlow had lately been threatened with exposure of his homosexuality.
These events alone would seem to provide ample material for a novel. But they’re merely the jumping-off point. Meshing fact and fiction, La Farge constructs a hall of mirrors around the narrative. Aside from Lovecraft and Barlow, the real people brought in as imaginative actors include Edward R. Murrow, ‘zine pioneer Forrest Ackerman, and Lovecraft biographer and scholar S.T. Joshi. During Barlow’s Mexican sojourn, a seedy young man in a suit turns up – a part-time student, user and dealer, gay cruiser. His name is Bill, and it becomes clear before long that he is William Burroughs – who actually studied under Barlow in 1950. Later, in New York, a man named Lee appears, talking to a different character in a different time: like a bad penny, Burroughs has come around again, though by now he is “William Lee,” imminently the author of Junky (1953), the pulp story of a heroin addict. Another rich side-stream is given to the Futurian Literary Society, a gang of writers, editors, fans, and leftist agitators who caused a legendary ruckus at the First World Science Fiction Convention in New York in 1937. Here particularly, The Night Ocean recalls – and even makes an East Coast bookend to – Jake Arnott’s The House of Rumour (2012), which revolved partly around the Mañana Literary Society, a Los Angeles-based klatch of sci-fi writers including Robert A. Heinlein, Anthony Boucher, L. Ron Hubbard, and others.
La Farge is not necessarily after a resolution to the Lovecraft-Barlow perplex (basically, did they or didn’t they?), though he fabricates fairly graphic sexual details in the form of excerpts from “the Erotonomicon,” supposedly Lovecraft’s cryptic diary of his Florida debauches with and without Barlow. (The book never existed, but its title apes that of the Necronomicon, a likewise nonexistent book of cultic evils referenced in numerous Lovecraft works.) Rather than sex, La Farge’s quarry and theme is story itself, the clashing needs – upon which both mythic and modern societies are based – for irresolvable mystery on the one hand, and comprehensible narrative on the other. Each of the novel’s puzzles, charades, and unveilings tracks back to some story left unfinished, some story that swallows a character and may or may not carry him back to the shore of reality. Mention is made of the phenomenon, partly documented, mostly fantasied, of “pseudocide”: writers falsifying their deaths to escape the fame they’ve created. Such a theory – that Robert Barlow faked his own demise, purchasing a Mexican death certificate and coroner’s report – enables the later appearance of a character claiming to be the still-living Barlow, and thus does a Lovecraft associate (Sam Loveman, another real-life figure) reference the mysterious disappearance of another writer friend, Ambrose Bierce, in Mexico in 1913: “I still dream of going to look for him.” At the novel’s beginning, Charlie is assumed dead, having disappeared after escaping from a mental hospital; searching for him, Marina tracks down the man who has claimed to be Barlow – and instead of any final resolution, finds still more stories within stories.
|From left: Lovecraft, Robert H. Barlow, Barlow’s mother, older brother.|
It’s a canny move on La Farge’s part to make Marina the narrator. Not a Lovecraft fan, or even much of a dreamer, she brings the skeptical, sometimes flippant counterpoint of the outsider, and offsets somewhat the novel’s fanboyish weave of fantasy and precocity. Other than observing, from a devoted but increasingly exasperated remove, the spiral of Charlie’s obsession, Marina is for most of the novel not a determinant, only a recorder of sights seen and stories heard. That changes in the novel’s last third, when her search for Charlie brings her face to face with “a biographical vampire, a person who stole other people’s lives because he had no life of his own.” It is the perfect climax and culmination for a story about stories, a fantasy about facts: Marina, the novel’s centering consciousness, the outsider and skeptic, joins her loved one and all the others in an underworld where people recede and disappear, swallowed by the stories they have read, told, believed, stolen. Hence “the night ocean,” both as a primal image and a real place – the place, in fact, where the novel ends: dark waves and cold beach, dim figure gesturing in a distance that may be real or may be the other side of death. Stories can be dangerous that way; as Charlie says to Marina, “Once you get deep enough into a story, you start seeing things.”
– Devin McKinney is the author of Magic Circles: The Beatles in Dream and History (Harvard, 2003) and The Man Who Saw a Ghost: The Life and Work of Henry Fonda (St. Martin’s, 2012), and a contributor to the anthologies Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (Cambridge, 1999) and Screening Violence (Rutgers, 2001). Formerly a music columnist (The American Prospect Online), blogger (Pop with a Shotgun, Hey Dullblog), and TV writer (The Food Network), he writes regularly for Critics at Large and the pop culture site Hi Lobrow. He works as an archivist in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife and their three cats. His latest book, Jesusmania! The Bootleg Superstar of Gettysburg College, was published earlier this month.