What do you think?
Rate this book
The Horned Man
"Unputdownable…a masterpiece of chilling, mesmerizing control." ―Michael Dirda, Washington Post The Horned Man opens with a man losing his place in a book, then deepens into a dark and terrifying tale of a man losing his place in the world. As Lawrence Miller―an English expatriate and professor of gender studies―tells the story of what appears to be an elaborate conspiracy to frame him for a series of brutal killings, we descend into a world of subtly deceptive appearances where persecutor and victim continually shift roles, where paranoia assumes an air of calm rationality, and where enlightenment itself casts a darkness in which the most nightmarish acts occur. As the novel races to its shocking conclusion, we follow Miller as he traverses the streets of Manhattan and the decaying suburbs beyond, in terrified pursuit of his pursuers. Written with sinuous grace and intellectual acuity, The Horned Man is an extraordinary, unforgettable first novel by an acclaimed writer and poet of unusual power.
196 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2002
86 people are currently reading
648 people want to read
About the author
James Lasdun
47 books122 followersJames Lasdun was born in London and now lives in upstate New York. He has published two novels as well as several collections of short stories and poetry. He has been long-listed for the Man Booker Prize and short-listed for the Los Angeles Times, T. S. Eliot, and Forward prizes in poetry; and he was the winner of the inaugural U.K./BBC Short Story Prize. His nonfiction has been published in Harper’s Magazine, Granta, and the London Review of Books.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 110 reviews
July 9, 2015
I found out about The Horned Man through reading Nicholas Royle's First Novel: it's one of the, er, first novels the central character of that book is preoccupied with. When researching some of those first novels which I hadn't previously heard of, the intriguing plot summary of this one immediately jumped out at me, and I tracked down a secondhand copy on eBay. As I read it, however, I became aware of a significant number of similarities between the two stories...
- The protagonist works at a university: he narrates his own story, and his account is unreliable. This can clearly be said of The Horned Man's Lawrence from the very beginning - we learn that he's a professor of gender studies and on the university's sexual harassment committee, but a few pages later he's having an inappropriately graphic fantasy about his therapist which appears to contradict his status as a paragon of political correctness. Like Paul in First Novel, Lawrence does some very odd things in the name of 'research' - for a start, he claims he is seeing the aforementioned therapist for this reason, and his later is even stranger than Paul's dogging activities.
- A solitary figure who seems to have lost his family in circumstances that remain unclear: it's not quite the same, as Lawrence is childless, but it's clearly the case that his wife has left him, and until the end of the novel the reader is kept in the dark about the reasons for this. And he is certainly a lonely character, an Englishman in New York with no family and no real friends in the city.
- Brief, ill-advised affair with a colleague: Again there are differences, as here the 'affair' is experienced by Lawrence almost involuntarily, and it also takes place in the present and has nothing to do with the breakdown of his marriage. However, it does take place with a colleague and the detachment the protagonist feels from the situation is similar.
- A secondary male character who the protagonist is drawn to: Lawrence's obsession with Bogomil Trumilcik, a (sometimes literally) shadowy figure who Lawrence suspects of breaking into his office, is the linchpin of the plot.
- Unclear what is real and what is fiction: As with First Novel, this increasingly becomes the case as the story progresses. By the end you realise that what is described could be complete fantasy, or that the main character could be the victim of a terrible conspiracy... Or both, of course.
- Both works owe an obvious debt to Paul Auster. Royle actually references Auster directly in his narrative (his protagonist has a fantasy about being friends with Auster and his wife, Siri Hustvedt) but in Lasdun's book the influence is more superficially obvious, largely due to the New York setting.
The funny thing is that if I'd read this first, there's a possibility I would have given First Novel a (slightly) lower rating for being derivative; but then, if I hadn't read First Novel, I probably wouldn't even have known this book existed. I would still say First Novel is the better book, but I was surprised by how much Royle was evidently influenced by Lasdun's debut.
Another similarity: I read both books all in one go. The Horned Man is a compelling story, even if only because of its intense strangeness. It does something unique with its setting, turning New York into a claustrophobic place - not a flaw in the narrative, but rather an obviously deliberate choice by the author, emphasising Lawrence's isolation and disorientation. Although I can't say I was entirely satisfied with the ending, I thoroughly enjoyed the arc of the story and the protagonist's urgent, quietly dramatic narration. All in all, a pleasing discovery.
- The protagonist works at a university: he narrates his own story, and his account is unreliable. This can clearly be said of The Horned Man's Lawrence from the very beginning - we learn that he's a professor of gender studies and on the university's sexual harassment committee, but a few pages later he's having an inappropriately graphic fantasy about his therapist which appears to contradict his status as a paragon of political correctness. Like Paul in First Novel, Lawrence does some very odd things in the name of 'research' - for a start, he claims he is seeing the aforementioned therapist for this reason, and his later is even stranger than Paul's dogging activities.
- A solitary figure who seems to have lost his family in circumstances that remain unclear: it's not quite the same, as Lawrence is childless, but it's clearly the case that his wife has left him, and until the end of the novel the reader is kept in the dark about the reasons for this. And he is certainly a lonely character, an Englishman in New York with no family and no real friends in the city.
- Brief, ill-advised affair with a colleague: Again there are differences, as here the 'affair' is experienced by Lawrence almost involuntarily, and it also takes place in the present and has nothing to do with the breakdown of his marriage. However, it does take place with a colleague and the detachment the protagonist feels from the situation is similar.
- A secondary male character who the protagonist is drawn to: Lawrence's obsession with Bogomil Trumilcik, a (sometimes literally) shadowy figure who Lawrence suspects of breaking into his office, is the linchpin of the plot.
- Unclear what is real and what is fiction: As with First Novel, this increasingly becomes the case as the story progresses. By the end you realise that what is described could be complete fantasy, or that the main character could be the victim of a terrible conspiracy... Or both, of course.
- Both works owe an obvious debt to Paul Auster. Royle actually references Auster directly in his narrative (his protagonist has a fantasy about being friends with Auster and his wife, Siri Hustvedt) but in Lasdun's book the influence is more superficially obvious, largely due to the New York setting.
The funny thing is that if I'd read this first, there's a possibility I would have given First Novel a (slightly) lower rating for being derivative; but then, if I hadn't read First Novel, I probably wouldn't even have known this book existed. I would still say First Novel is the better book, but I was surprised by how much Royle was evidently influenced by Lasdun's debut.
Another similarity: I read both books all in one go. The Horned Man is a compelling story, even if only because of its intense strangeness. It does something unique with its setting, turning New York into a claustrophobic place - not a flaw in the narrative, but rather an obviously deliberate choice by the author, emphasising Lawrence's isolation and disorientation. Although I can't say I was entirely satisfied with the ending, I thoroughly enjoyed the arc of the story and the protagonist's urgent, quietly dramatic narration. All in all, a pleasing discovery.
May 12, 2009
I learned that to repress a desire is to be ruled by it.
I learned that unicorns aren't all virgins and rainbows.
One of my most treasured random finds, a piercing and illuminating exploration of gender, memory, and desire. Modern fiction rarely dazzles me--not because I feel it to be inferior but because I often wonder if I really get it. This one engages, delights, and devastates all at once, written in clearheaded yet entrancing poetic prose, navigating the treacherous bridge between reality and what we construct in our heads as reality, never letting the reader know exactly where s/he is until it's too late for the protagonist. Cautionary tale and existential murder mystery in the vein of a more academic American Psycho or a less meta City of Glass.
I wish I were reading it right now.
I learned that unicorns aren't all virgins and rainbows.
One of my most treasured random finds, a piercing and illuminating exploration of gender, memory, and desire. Modern fiction rarely dazzles me--not because I feel it to be inferior but because I often wonder if I really get it. This one engages, delights, and devastates all at once, written in clearheaded yet entrancing poetic prose, navigating the treacherous bridge between reality and what we construct in our heads as reality, never letting the reader know exactly where s/he is until it's too late for the protagonist. Cautionary tale and existential murder mystery in the vein of a more academic American Psycho or a less meta City of Glass.
I wish I were reading it right now.
March 2, 2018
Sinister. Freakish. Surreal. Dissonant. Bizarre. Absurd. Hallucinogenic. Discomfiting.
Also, I giggled a few times.
Also, I giggled a few times.
March 9, 2015
Here goes very a fine slice of literary gothic/psychological thriller fiction, one that kept me reading with great interest all the way thru. This reader was excited not just by the creepy, dark story, but by the very high quality of the writing. Lasdun writes deceptively simple prose in which stunning sentences grab one's attention like jewels catching candlelight in a darkened chamber.
From the very beginning, one senses that there is something not quite right with the narrator, England-born Lawrence Miller, a journeyman professor who currently resides in New York City and teaches at a nearby college. He seems to believe that someone - most likely a disgraced former colleague - is out to get him in some way, drag him into some sort of nefarious mess. He notices strange things in his office and comes to believe that someone has been messing around in there. Miller is your classic new age, pro-feminist man. He serves on his school's aggressive sexual harrassment committee, which has a "presumption of guilt" policy, and comes very close to being a persecutory organization. He sees himself as proper and decent, yet his wife has left him for some unclear reason, possibly his own actions, and that clearly has him upset. He tries to discuss his problems with a psychotherapist, but is unable or unwilling to reveal very much about himself in their sessions.
As the story continues, the central mystery deepens: does Miller possess some sort of split personality, or does he indeed have enemies conspiring to do him in? His behavior becomes more strange, but also more amusing. He seems to be searching for clues to what is being done to him, while the reader is picking up scattered information concerning who he really is. This might sound like pretty standard psychological thriller stuff, but Lasdun's writing is more elegant than your average paperback scribe's, and more full of dark, absurdist humor as well. This book deserves a place in the canon of literary mystery/suspense tales.
From the very beginning, one senses that there is something not quite right with the narrator, England-born Lawrence Miller, a journeyman professor who currently resides in New York City and teaches at a nearby college. He seems to believe that someone - most likely a disgraced former colleague - is out to get him in some way, drag him into some sort of nefarious mess. He notices strange things in his office and comes to believe that someone has been messing around in there. Miller is your classic new age, pro-feminist man. He serves on his school's aggressive sexual harrassment committee, which has a "presumption of guilt" policy, and comes very close to being a persecutory organization. He sees himself as proper and decent, yet his wife has left him for some unclear reason, possibly his own actions, and that clearly has him upset. He tries to discuss his problems with a psychotherapist, but is unable or unwilling to reveal very much about himself in their sessions.
As the story continues, the central mystery deepens: does Miller possess some sort of split personality, or does he indeed have enemies conspiring to do him in? His behavior becomes more strange, but also more amusing. He seems to be searching for clues to what is being done to him, while the reader is picking up scattered information concerning who he really is. This might sound like pretty standard psychological thriller stuff, but Lasdun's writing is more elegant than your average paperback scribe's, and more full of dark, absurdist humor as well. This book deserves a place in the canon of literary mystery/suspense tales.
February 21, 2022
This was my introduction to the writing of Landun, and I'm pleased to report I will get back to him.
This is the account of an English expatriate to upstate New York, rather like himself, who seems to be steadily descending into madness, as the line between reality and imagination becomes increasingly blurred.
Lawrence Miller, the narrator, is a newly appointed lecturer in Gender Studies at the Arthur Clay College. One of the predecessors of his office, Barbara Hellermann, was murdered by an unknown assailant in the subway, a few weeks before, and the other, a Bulgarian academic called Trumilcik, left after being accused of molesting his female students. Trumilick had just adapted a Kafka short story for the stage, in which the hero is pursued by two mysterious ping-pong balls with lives of their own. Kafka's surreal influence is present throughout.
Miller discovers a hideout burrow between their two desks, where someone has clearly been sleeping, along with a steel bar (a murder weapon?), and a note with Latin insignia and unicorns on it. The mysterious occurrences get more baffling; bookmarks move around books, and he finds a large turd on his desk.
A lot may remain unexplained, but there are no superfluous sentences in the writing.
Rarely have I read something that conjures up such intensity; there is a feeling of watching Miller's everyday life in huge detail, and yet this is a slim book of less than 200 pages.
A descent into madness - maybe... but how can we be certain that the reader’s point of view is less deluded than the narrator’s.
Indeed that, is the real fun in reading the novel.
This is the account of an English expatriate to upstate New York, rather like himself, who seems to be steadily descending into madness, as the line between reality and imagination becomes increasingly blurred.
Lawrence Miller, the narrator, is a newly appointed lecturer in Gender Studies at the Arthur Clay College. One of the predecessors of his office, Barbara Hellermann, was murdered by an unknown assailant in the subway, a few weeks before, and the other, a Bulgarian academic called Trumilcik, left after being accused of molesting his female students. Trumilick had just adapted a Kafka short story for the stage, in which the hero is pursued by two mysterious ping-pong balls with lives of their own. Kafka's surreal influence is present throughout.
Miller discovers a hideout burrow between their two desks, where someone has clearly been sleeping, along with a steel bar (a murder weapon?), and a note with Latin insignia and unicorns on it. The mysterious occurrences get more baffling; bookmarks move around books, and he finds a large turd on his desk.
A lot may remain unexplained, but there are no superfluous sentences in the writing.
Rarely have I read something that conjures up such intensity; there is a feeling of watching Miller's everyday life in huge detail, and yet this is a slim book of less than 200 pages.
A descent into madness - maybe... but how can we be certain that the reader’s point of view is less deluded than the narrator’s.
Indeed that, is the real fun in reading the novel.
May 7, 2023
Bu kitabı okurken o kadar yoruldum ki... Arka kapağındaki yazı oldukça abartılı. Onu okuyup aldanmayın.
May 9, 2013
The only reason I didn’t stop reading this book after 100 pages is because I needed to finish it for an English assignment. The Horned Man follows the story of Lawrence Miller, a gender studies professor, as he tries to puzzle out a conspiracy to frame him for a murder. It starts with little things that grab Miller’s attention: his bookmark moving from where he placed it and a mysterious phone call made from his office in the early morning hours. But then things begin to escalate quickly as Millar slowly loses his grip on reality. It sounds like a very interesting book, which is why I picked it for my assignment, but the over usage of language and the bland storytelling made this book more a chore than anything else. I must admit that the book was suspenseful, even compelling at times, but the ending was so anticlimactic that in the end it didn’t even matter. By the time I actually reached the ending I didn’t care anymore, the events leading up to the conclusion had just become too strange for me.
James Lasdun has a beautiful vocabulary and a knack for description but, sadly, it’s put to waste in this book. Objects and events were described to the point of overkill and the advanced vocabulary took away from the story. I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone, but if you’re looking for a quick and dirty read that will leave you wondering what just happened this book is definitely for you.
James Lasdun has a beautiful vocabulary and a knack for description but, sadly, it’s put to waste in this book. Objects and events were described to the point of overkill and the advanced vocabulary took away from the story. I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone, but if you’re looking for a quick and dirty read that will leave you wondering what just happened this book is definitely for you.
February 12, 2019
Such a peculiar book. Lasdun's writing is wonderful; so much so that sometimes I find myself lost in the prose not knowing what exactly it was I had just read. The Horned Man is not for those who want answers or resolution. By the time the final page is turned you'll find yourself with more questions than you had at any other point in the book. But, oh are there some fantastic scenes within! I should really mark my own copy so that I can open it anytime and read my favorite parts. When Lasdun gets a scene or a paragraph right, he nails it. From the opening paragraph, to when Lawrence finds the "secret space" in his office, to his visit to the Cloisters, to the most surrealistic moment in the book (you'll know it if you've read it); these are all fantastic.
This book is dark, smart, uncomfortable, and it is unlike anything you'll ever read.
This book is dark, smart, uncomfortable, and it is unlike anything you'll ever read.
April 23, 2020
Inexplicable at times and familial at others, The Horned Man is a labyrinth of paranoia and a tale of obsession. The style echoes Edgar Allan Poe in Gothic storytelling. There is little dialog to wake the reader who is left to meander and dream. A first-person voice in guise as an unreliable narrator moves this deeply dark surrealism along.
September 6, 2020
The writing style didn't fit the story.
Here we have a man who is completely delusional about his own actions, particularly actions against females. The story is his "journey" of becoming aware of what women think of him / how they have experienced him negatively.
Instead of writing in an engrossing fashion where the clues Lawrence finds are shocking to the reader, exciting, or stirring up mystery, we just see these things as nothing. A little perplexing maybe, but nothing that stirs the heart or keeps the suspicion mounting.
The limitation of writing in first person limited really hurt this book. While it's nice to really get inside the head of the protagonist, Lasdun could have written in third person limited and still include first person insights. That way the reader would be more invested and thrilled than just slogging along.
Don't get me wrong, the ideas in this book are fabulous and need to be discussed. I'm glad a story like this exists, but the execution of it left me bored. Lasdun's writing is great, just not utilized in a fashion that fits the story.
Here we have a man who is completely delusional about his own actions, particularly actions against females. The story is his "journey" of becoming aware of what women think of him / how they have experienced him negatively.
Instead of writing in an engrossing fashion where the clues Lawrence finds are shocking to the reader, exciting, or stirring up mystery, we just see these things as nothing. A little perplexing maybe, but nothing that stirs the heart or keeps the suspicion mounting.
The limitation of writing in first person limited really hurt this book. While it's nice to really get inside the head of the protagonist, Lasdun could have written in third person limited and still include first person insights. That way the reader would be more invested and thrilled than just slogging along.
Don't get me wrong, the ideas in this book are fabulous and need to be discussed. I'm glad a story like this exists, but the execution of it left me bored. Lasdun's writing is great, just not utilized in a fashion that fits the story.
July 16, 2013
What a weird book. I really liked it. It's complicated and playful, and kind of really feminist? I think? Or at least centrally concerned with issues of gender and masculinity and sexual power.
So the narrator is this pseudo-enlightened, progressive gender studies professor, but actually may or may not be an abusive violent stalker type. If he is an abusive violent stalker type, he is incapable of recognising himself as such, and instead believes himself the victim of a vast conspiracy to frame him: which, this lack of self-awareness seems to me a plausible model of the mental state of abusive violent stalker types. At the end, he considers himself a martyr to this conspiracy, apparently orchestrated by his shady Eastern European evil twin - the real villain. So: some kind of mischievous critique of white male British/American middle-class college gender studies professors who consider themselves the height of sensitivity and sophistication in matters of gender and sexual politics? But in fact are equally as capable of sexual violence as anyone else? Or something?
The thing is, this novel is so deliciously ambiguous that myriad readings are possible: including one that is the exact opposite of that above. It's that quality of ambiguity and plain old weirdness that I liked most of all. Also, the writing is gorgeous.
So the narrator is this pseudo-enlightened, progressive gender studies professor, but actually may or may not be an abusive violent stalker type. If he is an abusive violent stalker type, he is incapable of recognising himself as such, and instead believes himself the victim of a vast conspiracy to frame him: which, this lack of self-awareness seems to me a plausible model of the mental state of abusive violent stalker types. At the end, he considers himself a martyr to this conspiracy, apparently orchestrated by his shady Eastern European evil twin - the real villain. So: some kind of mischievous critique of white male British/American middle-class college gender studies professors who consider themselves the height of sensitivity and sophistication in matters of gender and sexual politics? But in fact are equally as capable of sexual violence as anyone else? Or something?
The thing is, this novel is so deliciously ambiguous that myriad readings are possible: including one that is the exact opposite of that above. It's that quality of ambiguity and plain old weirdness that I liked most of all. Also, the writing is gorgeous.
November 12, 2011
I finished reading The Horned Man this morning after breakfast. It is an extremely odd book. I have absolutely no recollection of buying it; it’s possible, but somewhat unlikely, that it was a gift.
I’m not sure how to characterize it. I guess I’d describe it as the story of one’s man’s descent into apparent madness. The story is a first person narrative by Lawrence Miller. Significant parts of Lawrence’s backstory are left unsaid, so the reader is frequently left wondering what is going on. Lawrence is an interesting, but not very likable, man. I found his, perhaps, delusional fantasies disturbing and found myself in the uncomfortable position of identifying with him far more than I would like.
The writing is engaging and as we learn more about Lawrence his grasp on reality becomes more and more tenuous. Or, he becomes more and more aware of the conspiracies against him. It’s never quite clear; to either Lawrence or the reader.
The ending is even stranger than the rest of the book, and we are left knowing, it seems, even less than when we started.
I’m not sure how to characterize it. I guess I’d describe it as the story of one’s man’s descent into apparent madness. The story is a first person narrative by Lawrence Miller. Significant parts of Lawrence’s backstory are left unsaid, so the reader is frequently left wondering what is going on. Lawrence is an interesting, but not very likable, man. I found his, perhaps, delusional fantasies disturbing and found myself in the uncomfortable position of identifying with him far more than I would like.
The writing is engaging and as we learn more about Lawrence his grasp on reality becomes more and more tenuous. Or, he becomes more and more aware of the conspiracies against him. It’s never quite clear; to either Lawrence or the reader.
The ending is even stranger than the rest of the book, and we are left knowing, it seems, even less than when we started.
February 1, 2011
Awesome. A very strange, well written and never dull tale of self-realization, gender, and memory. I read it in one 3-hour sitting and started reading it faster and faster by the end, delirious to know what happens next. Made me think of the chilling, fantastical stories of Kafka (mentioned in the book), Poe and O'Connor. Skip the movie one night and read this instead.
November 27, 2007
Not the best ending, but an interesting, Kafkaesque modern Gothic look at gender roles and the sexual puritanism of our era. The vocabulary will definitely keep you on your toes, and the language is amazing. Kafka meets Fight Club meets Stevenson.
August 28, 2008
weird and wonderful but maybe slightly disappointing at the end (or maybe i don't get it). Hitchcockain, Nabokovian - give it a whirl.
January 31, 2010
This book was a NY Times best book of 2002 and the reviews on the back were excellent. It was engrossing to a point by admittedly I just didn't get it
August 10, 2021
An unreliable narrator takes a trip through the looking glass. Or, it could be subtitled, Kafka in Academia in the Era of Me, Too.
May 16, 2013
“…vials all over the sidewalk like mutant hailstones…” (23).
“ ‘Just time for a quick smoke before the girls find my balls’” (30). *I’d like to say that one day.
“He remembers how, without explanation, the official then handed him a small sachet marked BENZALKONIUM CHLORIDE, how he opened it, mystified, to find a towelette inside, and realized it was for cleaning his finger, and had to choke back tears of joy at this marvelous grace note in the official procedure, noting merely as an added glory that the towelette doesn’t actually remove the ink but simply smudges it all over his hand” (35).
“…one knee bent, the toe of her other foot swiveling in its suede ankle boot on the concrete floor, like the compass needle of her prevarication” (37).
“…so that I would have seen the middle six inches of my body had I been sitting there spying on myself last night…” (50).
*On page 54 I found a replica of a scene (or I guess it’s not a replica if this was published first) that I recently read in Lasdun’s short story collection, It’s Beginning to Hurt. I hate it when that happens; perhaps I’m being childish, but I always feel cheated in such situations (Antonya Nelson!).
“In faded green ink, the handwriting as neat as a row of pines on a mountain ridge…” (78).
“Inside, fragrances such as only the action of long centuries can distill out of worn stone, polished elm, dust, silver, and old glass, hung in the tall rooms” (90).
“It was expensive, but just having it in my possession seemed to bring me a step closer to some hypothetical moment in the future when I would have the opportunity to give it to her” (94).
“The town was just a series of new residential developments: twenty or thirty identical houses in each, with identical blobs of shrubbery out front and big signs offering units for sale. I had seen these kinds of places on summer days. The people you saw drifting around in them wore pajama-like clothes, as though their conception of leisure was inextricably bound up with the idea of sleep” (95).
“A little later I was striding up Mulberry Street, key prematurely in hand as I had envisaged, my mind plunging forward into the question of what exactly I should do with Turmilcik’s rod when I retrieved it from under the desks” (104). *Hello sexual imagery!
“It was on the blotter, a least…” (105). * “It” refers to a pile of human excrement in this case. I love the detail.
“…the letters pennanted with so many jibs and serifs they seemed to be fluttering in their own private breeze” (113).
“With my high cheekbones and smooth chin, I reminded myself of some film actress from the forties, the bruise and black eye not altogether ruining the effect” (130).
“Over the bridge and all along the Palisades the rain kept the traffic at the same funereal adagio” (133).
“The upturned chairs were approaching like a herd of inquisitive cattle. I paid and left” (147).
"From the train station, in its lake of gray tarmac..." (166).
"The blue mailbox on the corner had a weird, stressed air about it, as if it were willing itself to come to life so that it could scuttle away on its little legs" (166).
*I quite liked this insane little book. The main character would fit nicely in a Nabokov novel.
“ ‘Just time for a quick smoke before the girls find my balls’” (30). *I’d like to say that one day.
“He remembers how, without explanation, the official then handed him a small sachet marked BENZALKONIUM CHLORIDE, how he opened it, mystified, to find a towelette inside, and realized it was for cleaning his finger, and had to choke back tears of joy at this marvelous grace note in the official procedure, noting merely as an added glory that the towelette doesn’t actually remove the ink but simply smudges it all over his hand” (35).
“…one knee bent, the toe of her other foot swiveling in its suede ankle boot on the concrete floor, like the compass needle of her prevarication” (37).
“…so that I would have seen the middle six inches of my body had I been sitting there spying on myself last night…” (50).
*On page 54 I found a replica of a scene (or I guess it’s not a replica if this was published first) that I recently read in Lasdun’s short story collection, It’s Beginning to Hurt. I hate it when that happens; perhaps I’m being childish, but I always feel cheated in such situations (Antonya Nelson!).
“In faded green ink, the handwriting as neat as a row of pines on a mountain ridge…” (78).
“Inside, fragrances such as only the action of long centuries can distill out of worn stone, polished elm, dust, silver, and old glass, hung in the tall rooms” (90).
“It was expensive, but just having it in my possession seemed to bring me a step closer to some hypothetical moment in the future when I would have the opportunity to give it to her” (94).
“The town was just a series of new residential developments: twenty or thirty identical houses in each, with identical blobs of shrubbery out front and big signs offering units for sale. I had seen these kinds of places on summer days. The people you saw drifting around in them wore pajama-like clothes, as though their conception of leisure was inextricably bound up with the idea of sleep” (95).
“A little later I was striding up Mulberry Street, key prematurely in hand as I had envisaged, my mind plunging forward into the question of what exactly I should do with Turmilcik’s rod when I retrieved it from under the desks” (104). *Hello sexual imagery!
“It was on the blotter, a least…” (105). * “It” refers to a pile of human excrement in this case. I love the detail.
“…the letters pennanted with so many jibs and serifs they seemed to be fluttering in their own private breeze” (113).
“With my high cheekbones and smooth chin, I reminded myself of some film actress from the forties, the bruise and black eye not altogether ruining the effect” (130).
“Over the bridge and all along the Palisades the rain kept the traffic at the same funereal adagio” (133).
“The upturned chairs were approaching like a herd of inquisitive cattle. I paid and left” (147).
"From the train station, in its lake of gray tarmac..." (166).
"The blue mailbox on the corner had a weird, stressed air about it, as if it were willing itself to come to life so that it could scuttle away on its little legs" (166).
*I quite liked this insane little book. The main character would fit nicely in a Nabokov novel.
December 4, 2013
Fantastic, surreal, confounding, disturbing, and engaging are terms that capture Lasdun's book for me. If his writing weren't so good at creating a believable voice for the troubled protagonist, I question whether the twists and turns would have worked. Lasdun has a gift for descriptive language that captures the changing scenes and the confused, tormented mind of his main character. His extensive use of metaphor and simile are both illustrative and sometimes overdone for my taste.
That said, this book is a unique look into the mind and psyche of a British academic (a professor of gender studies) who came to America through the INS, married, separated, and became obsessive about the loss of his wife who he still yearns for. His intellectual interweavings reveal his belief that he is somehow being watched (stalked even), potentially implicated in murder, and persecuted by an evil figure. It's a book that commingles issues around marriage, sex, abuse of women, supernatural forces (real and perhaps perceived), and submission.
It's a strange book that keeps you reading. I was disappointed by the ending which left too much unresolved for my taste, but it kept me entranced.
That said, this book is a unique look into the mind and psyche of a British academic (a professor of gender studies) who came to America through the INS, married, separated, and became obsessive about the loss of his wife who he still yearns for. His intellectual interweavings reveal his belief that he is somehow being watched (stalked even), potentially implicated in murder, and persecuted by an evil figure. It's a book that commingles issues around marriage, sex, abuse of women, supernatural forces (real and perhaps perceived), and submission.
It's a strange book that keeps you reading. I was disappointed by the ending which left too much unresolved for my taste, but it kept me entranced.
April 6, 2023
I'll be honest, I read this almost purely on the basis of Lasdun's paranoia, reported in his memoir On Being Stalked, that its subject matter would lend credence to his stalker's suggestions that he was sexually inappropriate to her (though they both agree that, actually, he was not). The central character does initially seem to be the quintessential author-insert character -- a mediocre would-be writer, with the author's own nationality, who is improbably lusted over by various female characters despite his apparent lack of interesting or attractive features.
But the plot pretty quickly takes a turn for the bizarre, and then another turn for the even-more-bizarre. Lasdun does a great job of not only of crafting a compelling thriller but also, I think, of skewering the milquetoast author-insert trope, which he leverages well to his advantage. It's a very paranoid read -- also true, of course, of Lasdun's memoir -- but also very intelligent. Would recommend to anyone looking for a short Twilight Zone-y thriller.
But the plot pretty quickly takes a turn for the bizarre, and then another turn for the even-more-bizarre. Lasdun does a great job of not only of crafting a compelling thriller but also, I think, of skewering the milquetoast author-insert trope, which he leverages well to his advantage. It's a very paranoid read -- also true, of course, of Lasdun's memoir -- but also very intelligent. Would recommend to anyone looking for a short Twilight Zone-y thriller.
September 12, 2018
Lasdun writes great prose and I loved this book - my favourite genre, the unreliable narrator, in this case a paranoid lecturer whose character is revealed not so much in what he relates about his own thoughts and opinions but what is unveiled by the actions and words of others he meets and deals with. Reading the other reviews however I was surprised by how few mentioned that the story is bloody hilarious, in a nervous, twitchy kind of way. Lawrence Miller life spirals downwards in a twisty thriller Kafka meets Hitchcock and the reader doesn't know what to believe, except that it's not Miller who is clearly at least confused, if not completely delusional. Unsettlingly brilliant. For fans of New York Trilogy or Pale Fire. I'd also recommend Seven Lies, his next novel.
September 8, 2016
I admit to being spoiled lately with excellent books, but this was not one of them. In all fairness, I have never been a fan of Kafka, and this is so very much in that voice (I also relate to Camus). Having been so involved in either Russian novels or modern-day fantasy, cynical and raw, this was too tortured snag for me. I mostly wanted to smack the main character and throw the book across the room. I kept reading it out of a sadomasochistic belief that it would get interesting. Alas, no . . .
May 17, 2014
My partner shared Joe Haldeman's quote "Bad books on writing tell you to "WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW", a solemn and totally false adage that is the reason there exist so many mediocre novels about English professors contemplating adultery.” I was reading "The Horned Man" at the time, and it made me think about the author's insightful and GOOD commentary on some of the absurdities of a academic work, which I know of secondhand. This was a compelling and enjoyable read, which was harrowing in its seemingly rational first person narrative descent into irrational behavior,
October 4, 2014
This is a darker type of fiction than what I normally read, but I recently met Mr. Lasdun and wanted to expose myself to his writing. I liked this book more than I expected to -- it is a complex and mysterious page-turner. I have to admit I did not totally understand the ending, but that did not make it any less of a satisfying read.
November 6, 2019
I did not like this at all. It was reminiscent of something I've already read, but I suspect that I would forgive or enjoy that if this were a story I liked. But though it seems reasonably well written, allusive, and snappy, that didn't stop it from being a deeply unlikable journey, and not at all redemptive. I don't want to be in this head without a point.
February 19, 2011
Gave up after 120 pages. The author can turn a phrase, but I was never convinced that he could tell a story. I finally realized that I just didn't care about learning anything more about the character or his predicament. So I punted.
January 18, 2018
What in the hell just happened?
May 24, 2018
Enjoyed reading this novel, but if there was anything to be "got" in the ending, I didn't "get" it.
Read
April 17, 2021I had to take some time to think about this one before reviewing. Lasdun is great at building up suspense; the further I got into the book, the more excited I felt, anticipating what the end would reveal. The unreliable narrator is really well done, especially considering that the reader catches on to his unreliability early on. The experience of reading this reminded me of reading The Dinner, or Remainder, two books I loved. I just have a couple issues with it:
Overall, The Horned Man is a pretty engrossing psychological thriller. Its pace is slower than most and the 'thrill' is more of a creeping horror, but I actually think that's what I liked most about it.
Overall, The Horned Man is a pretty engrossing psychological thriller. Its pace is slower than most and the 'thrill' is more of a creeping horror, but I actually think that's what I liked most about it.
May 25, 2019
This was a strange little story, reminiscent of the kind of thing I remember as set reading for certain modules when I was studying literature. It has that post-modern quality of nothing being 'actual' - there doesn't seem to be one particular 'truth' to the fictional world; the events that occur in the plot could be read a variety of different ways. Still, somehow, there was a strange and satisfying circularity to events in the story which meant that although the conclusion doesn't provide you with certainty, the book still feels whole. I always find reading this sort of work strange (although I like it), because many of my most-read genres (e.g. fantasy) usually encourage wholehearted abandonment into the story and it's world, and have an expectation that you'll take what's indicated to you about the fictional world by the writing as read, where as this is the kind of book that seems to want to actively make you conscious of being a reader, and think about the story as something you're interacting with. I think this is the reason that although I find post-modern stories interesting, I rarely give them five stars - I think something I value about reading is the chance to suspend all sense of myself and the wider world, and it takes a very rare and special book for me to sacrifice that feeling and still love a book (I think Lolita might be the only such book that has achieved that for me). My reservations about the book are all to do with personal preference rather than the quality of the work itself, which I found fairly flawless.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 110 reviews