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248 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
For several weeks, I've been trying to pin down how to characterize the stories in this collection and, in a sense, the rest of Brian Hopkins's catalogue. And now I think I've come as close as I'm going to get...
At its core, Hopkins's fiction evokes and explores Existential Horror. This subgenre is often absorbed by Cosmic Horror—the horror of the insignificance of existence. But Hopkins pulls in exactly the opposite direction. His horror is profoundly significant and personal. He writes not about existence's cosmic horrors, but rather its quotidian horrors: the mortal fear, sickening doubt, oppressive solitude, and gnawing guilt that are among the dividends paid on human consciousness. Where a large slice of horror fiction draws its tension from the Other—either an Other that dwarfs mankind and renders it terrifyingly impotent, or an Other that draws mankind into an uncanny valley of recognition—Hopkins's vision is utterly committed to the self. And like cosmic horror which can inspire expansive awe and isolating despair, Hopkins existential horror swings, from moment to moment, from the glorious to the gut-wrenching. He celebrates and commiserates on the breadth of human awareness and experience. And in so doing, Hopkins consistently achieves the most cathartic writing I've encountered.