"I have a little shadow
that goes in and out with me
And what can be the use of him
is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me
from the heels up to the head
And I see him jump before me
when I jump into my bed." - Robert Louis Stevenson
I could not help quoting one of my favourite poems from Stevenson's beautiful, mesmerising collection "A Child's Garden Of Verses" in describing just what his greatest, darkest, most hauntingly philosophical and profound work means in totality. We have all read "The Strange Case of Dr. Jeykill and Mr. Hyde" countless number of times and its reputation as a dark moral parable about the eternal battle between God and Satan within the confines of an individual's soul has not even diminished by a margin. And yet, it is when you relate this tight, tautly written, unremittingly unsettling and even meditative novel to Stevenson's own trademark penchant for portraying moral complexity and his own strict Calvinistic upbringing in childhood, not to forget the fascination with human duality and fears of the darkness of night both manifest in his poems and other novels, that you realise just how potent and powerful a story it had always been from the beginning.
It owes its origins, reportedly, to a nightmare that Stevenson experienced one night; he woke up and confessed the same to his wife and then started fleshing the bare bones of his disturbed, distressed imagination into a little novella that is so many things for so many different readers at the same time. A spine-chilling horror story? Yes, it is that already. A mind-numbing mystery that refuses to let the reader up till the final, devastating last page? Yes, no doubt about it. An eerie, electrifying detective story with the most functional means for the most effective excitement and suspense? Yes and unforgettably so. An incisive, atmospheric and lucid portrait of London, of its alternating shades of affluence and depravity, of its dignity and moral perversity? Yes, it is that too.
But even these words fail to do it justice. The simple, pure, elemental terror, unease, dread and even perverse excitement that one feels in reading it, even after nearly a century and a half since it was first published, cannot be describe in mere words, actually. Even in its economy and linearity, the novella packs in the most stealthiest, sneakiest and most devilish surprises that you never see coming even as you read it now and Stevenson's beautiful, elegantly tailored prose, poetic yet precise, inspiring a whole breed of storytellers to model their own style on his balance of drama and detail, like Conrad, Maugham, Buchan, Greene (his own nephew as well), Le Carre and so many more, never ever falters in gripping your attention like a vice.
Paired alongside this inimitable classic is a lesser-known work by Stevenson - a three-act narrative called "The Suicide Club". And while the title would have made the reader feel already uneasy, it is when one starts reading it that one is assuredly aware of being once more in the complete grip of this writer's undeniable skill in balancing genres together. There is macabre humour, there is spine-chilling terror and there is a mounting sense of impending doom and dread but each of the three parts combine together to also cram in more MacGuffins, red herrings, femme fatales, sinister kingpins, daredevil anti-heroes and also a rich, dazzling blend of suspense, intrigue and adventure, than you can find in most films, even by the ones directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Call it, perhaps, the first of those rollicking novels on which Graham Greene modelled his "entertainments" - as intoxicated with a sense of peril and excitement as a glass of whiskey taken neat and also laced with something darker and possibly even fatal.
Two excellent, haunting, atmospheric novellas in one slim edition, packing much more excitement, terror, drama and mystery than most huge blockbuster novels written by the likes of Stephen King. What else can one ask for?