The Nightmare Factory

by Thomas Ligotti, Poppy Z. Brite (Foreword)

In the realm of the supernatural, Thomas Ligotti is the master of stylish, eerie writing of the highest quality. This new edition brings together his collected short stories with 'Teatro Grottesco', a sequence of new stories not published before.

Contents:
The Frolic (1982)
Les Fleurs (1981)
Alice's Last Adventure (1985)
Dream of a Mannikin (1982)
The Chymist (1981)
Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes (1982)
Eye of the Lynx (1983)
The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elise (1996)
The Lost Art of Twilight (1986)
The Troubles of Dr. Thoss (1985)
Masquerade of a Dead Sword (1986)
Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech (1983)
Dr. Locrian's Asylum (1987)
The Sect of the Idiot (1988)
The Greater Festival of Masks (1985)
The Music of the Moon (1987)
The Journal of J. P. Drapeau (1987)
Vastarien (1987)
The Last Feast of Harlequin (1990)
The Spectacles in the Drawer (1987)
Flowers of the Abyss (1991)
Nethescurial (1991)
The Dreaming in Nortown (1991)
The Mystics of Muelenburg (1987)
In the Shadow of Another World (1991)
The Cocoons (1991)
The Night School (1991)
The Glamour (1991)
The Library of Byzantium (1991)
Miss Plarr (1991)
The Shadow at the Bottom of the World (1990)
The Medusa (1991)
Conversations in a Dead Language (1989)
The Prodigy of Dreams (1986)
Mrs. Rinaldi's Angel (1991)
The Tsalal (1994)
Mad Night of Atonement (1989)
The Strange Design of Master Rignolo (1989)
The Voice in the Bones (1989)
Teatro Grottesco (1996)
Severini (1996)
Gas Station Carnivals (1996)
The Bungalow House (1995)
The Clown Puppet (1996)
The Red Tower (1996)

Genres: Horror, Short Stories, Fiction, Fantasy, Weird Fiction, Lovecraftian, Collections

551 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1996

About the author

Thomas Ligotti is a contemporary American horror author and reclusive literary cult figure. His writings, while unique in style, have been noted as major continuations of several literary genres—most prominently Lovecraftian horror—and have overall been described as works of "philosophical horror", often written as philosophical novels with a "darker" undertone which is similar to gothic fiction. The Washington Post called him "the best kept secret in contemporary horror fiction"; another critic declared "It's a skilled writer indeed who can suggest a horror so shocking that one is grateful it was kept offstage."

Reviews

[Eliasdgian · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Τους έδειξε την οδό για τον εφιάλτη, δε μπορούσε να τους δείξει όμως τη διέξοδο απ’ αυτόν. Δεν υπάρχει διέξοδος για τον εφιάλτη από τη στιγμή που έχεις φτάσει τόσο βαθιά μέσα του”.

Αν θέλει κανείς να γευτεί τον τρόμο, το Εργοστάσιο Εφιαλτών του Thomas Ligotti είναι το λάθος βιβλίο. Διότι, με εξαίρεση το εναρκτήριο διήγημα της συλλογής (‘Το Παιχνίδι’), σχεδόν κανένα από τα υπόλοιπα δεν θα μπορούσε να χαρακτηριστεί κλασική ιστορία τρόμου. Ούτε αίμα θα συναντήσει κανείς στις σελίδες των διηγημάτων του, ούτε εκείνη την αίσθηση της ανατριχίλας που συνοδεύει συνήθως την ανάγνωση ή τη θέαση μιας (καλής) ιστορίας φρίκης.

Το λοιπόν, η κατάταξη του Εργοστασίου των Εφιαλτών στην κατηγορία ‘Horror’ είναι άστοχη και αδικεί, κατά τη γνώμη μου, το ίδιο το περιεχόμενο του βιβλίου, αν και μετά βεβαιότητας προσθέτει αναγνωστικό κοινό. Το ίδιο εσφαλμένη είναι, επίσης, και η ένταξή του σε λίστα/ες με τα κορυφαία βιβλία τρόμου ever written, παρότι – το ομολογώ - μια τέτοια λίστα με οδήγησε στην ‘ανακάλυψή’ του!

Κι αφού δεν είναι βιβλίο τρόμου, τι ακριβώς είναι το Εργοστάσιο Εφιαλτών; Και γιατί ακριβώς αξίζει όλον αυτόν τον ουρανό από αστέρια (4,33 average rating/Goodreads) κι ένα σωρό βραβεία [Bram Stoker Award for Best Fiction Collection (1996), World Fantasy Award Nominee for Best Collection (1997), British Fantasy Award for Anthology/Collection (1997)];

Διότι, ακριβώς, κάθε διήγημα της συλλογής είναι μια μυστηριακή τελετή. Μια πρόσκληση σε μυσταγωγία με πρωθιερέα τον Thomas Ligotti, που, μέσα από μια διαβολεμένα όμορφη γραφή, καθοδηγεί/κατευθύνει τον ευλαβή αναγνώστη του σε κόσμους αλλόκοτους και παράδοξους, στις σκιές των οποίων ελλοχεύουν απόκοσμα πλάσματα• σε φασματικά σύμπαντα και παράλληλες, ονειρικές πραγματικότητες, όπου μορφές ζοφερές, υπερφυσικές και αλλότριες αναδύονται από τα βάθη της μνήμης και παλεύουν να αποσπαστούν από τις σκιές.

Weird fiction λέγεται το λογοτεχνικό είδος στο οποίο θα μπορούσε να εντάξει κανείς τα διηγήματα του Εργοστασίου, αλλά και πάλι η κατηγοριοποίηση ενός καλλιτεχνικού έργου μικρή σημασία έχει• αυτό που μετράει τελικά είναι ότι: (α) η φαντασία του Ligotti δεν έχει ταβάνι, και (β) η γραφή του είναι εφάμιλλη των τεράστιων Lovecraft και Poe (ο συμβολισμός του πρώτου και ο λυρισμός του δεύτερου συνυπάρχουν αρμονικά στις γκροτέσκες ιστορίες του The Nightmare Factory).

Οπωσδήποτε δεν είναι ένα ακόμη page-turner βιβλίο, οι σελίδες του ‘βγαίνουν’ με (αρκετό) κόπο, και – κακά τα ψέματα - κανείς δεν πρόκειται να τρομάξει διαβάζοντάς το. Συνεπώς, κατανοώ απόλυτα αυτούς (τους πολλούς) που το παράτησαν στα μισά, δικαιολογώ κι εκείνους (τους ακόμη περισσότερους) που δεν θα το ξεκινήσουν ποτέ. Αλλά, προσωπικά, χαίρομαι που ξεναγήθηκα στις εγκαταστάσεις του Nightmare Factory του Ligotti, απαρνήθηκα, έστω για λίγο, τις βεβαιότητες του κόσμου μας, περιπλανήθηκα στο Teatro Grottesco, και ντύθηκα τα πέπλα των ονείρωνεφιαλτών ενός εξαιρετικά ταλαντούχου συγγραφέα.

[Shawn · Rating 5 out of 5]

This collection compiles stories from Songs of a Dead Dreamer, Grimscribe: His Lives and Works, Noctuary & Teatro Grottesco into one big volume.

Following my recent decision about large reviews, I'll present this in a three-tiered format (short to long) with the story by story analysis left for the last tier (and presumably only of interest to those who have read the book). Those who hang in for the long haul can see how often I abuse the shortcut word "titular!"

I decided to re-read this, starting back in early 2013, because I wanted to feature Mr. Ligotti in the 350th episode of the Pseudopod podcast and needed to reacquaint myself with my favorite stories so as to choose which one would best fit the audio format of the podcast (as opposed to just defaulting to my favorite, "Gas Station Carnivals"). In truth, my life was also in upheaval and I needed a reliable author & thoughtful body of work to slowly absorb and enjoy in the gaps between all my scheduled readings for my job, my podcast and my personal reading list. I eventually chose "The Bunglaow House" as our 350th episode (and later featured "Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes" - as our 434th episode (part of an informal, month-long tribute to Ligotti's influence on the genre) and securing these stories unexpectedly led me into direct email contact with the man himself, which was a wonderful thing (iirc, I was able to introduce him to the darkly sardonic hilarity of Brother Theodore!). On completing my re-reads of my favorites, I decided it made sense to eventually work my way backwards through the rest of the stories, using the insight I'd gained to wrestle with the pieces that I'd had trouble with the first time - taking the whole at a much more leisurely place than my mind-numbing mass consumption back in the day, because if I'd learned one thing back then it was that (much like Robert Aickman and Dennis Etchison) you really need to take your time with Thomas Ligotti, really let the stories settle into your psyche as you muse over their parts and overall effect and how they relate to each other. I finally finished this re-read project in late 2015 and have held off composing this review because I knew it would be a large amount of work. And so, here we are again...

FIRST TIER
If you're a genre reader, interested in the areas of weird fiction and horror, you owe it to yourself to check out Ligotti's work. It's challenging and obsessive and requires more attention and respect than your average "plot-forward" writing styles but if you feel that's a good thing then you really should check out Thomas Ligotti. One of the most (if not *the* most) evocative writers currently working in genre, he's amazingly adept at creating a moody, gloomy feel - an underlying tonal canvas on which most of his stories are inscribed.

If you're a non-genre reader, you may have heard of Ligotti through Penguin Books' recent reprinting of his works in Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe (making him 1 of only 10 living writers Penguin has published in the US). If that's the case, and you find the idea of some darkly philosophical short fiction up your alley, you should certainly give this collection a try (then again, tracking down this edition nets you some of his best stories NOT in the Penguin book). Essentially - about half the stories here are solid winners or completely excellent, with a chunk of "almost greats" and just a few misfires.

SECOND TIER
Before we get into the exhaustive story-by-story examination, let's take a look at some general thoughts I had rereading THE NIGHTMARE FACTORY. There's been a lot of critical writing on Ligotti recently so I'm not going to delude myself that anything I say below hasn't already been explicated by someone more academic or knowledgeable.

Why should you read Ligotti other than for the enjoyment of interesting, effective stories? I imagine fans (and especially other authors) of weird fiction could learn an awful lot from reading and paying attention to Ligotti's work - especially as he exemplifies (to my sensibilities at least) an instructive path of how one transcends from being merely a writer of weird genre fiction to the level of quality Lit-Genre writer. Achievement, in this case, comes through eschewing the drive to merely compete in the "novelty" sweepstakes of "ideas" - the chosen path, and the undoing, of many genre writers ("yeah, but what if the werewolf was an astronaut on the moon!?!" "what if I took this boring old trope and deconstructed it?") - and instead embracing the real challenge of writing fiction, writing "what you know" (that is to say "what you KNOW TO BE TRUE") - making the work artistically subjective and thus driven by your strongest impulses (while having honed the story construction skills and writing chops to make the "objective"/genre elements serve their purpose and not merely exist as window dressing on a boring lit story). It's a difficult path to tread - incompletely understood or outright rejected by quite a lot of modern genre writers as it involves juggling two sets of writing skills and goals, some of which are complimentary but some of which are contradictory. Ligotti achieves a lot through a thorough interrogation of tropes - realizing they are as much lifeblood as cliche in the genre field - embracing them for their secrets, and examining their origins and resonances, instead of just merely rejecting, deconstructing or mocking them. And then, a skill at finding ways to have these interrogations resonate with his larger personal concerns. This is where the subjective aspect of art comes in, because Mr. Ligotti, much like Videodrome, has a philosophy...

But first, let's talk about those construction skills and writing chops. As illustrated in this collection, Ligotti has a solid grasp on tone (gloomy and oneiric most of the time) and a respectfully dense, compacted style of writing that is not particularly in the modern mode or to current taste. It might seem contradictory to praise the density of an author's prose and yet claim he exhibits great economy of style, but such is the case - Ligotti has great skill at eliding or outright removing unnecessary detail from a story. This leads to a rather intense, obsessive quality that his best work exhibits (similar to director David Lynch's very distinctive cinematic moods) while also giving the reader a lot of bang for his buck (the sheer quantity of conception an average story contains puts many current toilers to shame). You may understand (or not) the characters in a Ligotti story - understand (or not) what *drives* them - but the author isn't very concerned with you liking them, caring for them or identifying with them. They are people because the text tells us they are people, not because of any personal resonance they may have with you and your experiences (which, stylistically, reinforces the overall philosophy of the pieces) - the main characters are frequently oddballs, misfits and outcasts. Many are dubious occultists (or borderline charlatans) whose willingness to play with the concept of reality opens them to unexpected and unwanted intrusions. Often, these individuals find their hermetic worlds cracked open by a larger (or is it, actually?) force, allowing a truer(?) reality to leak in (and since the main characters are almost always our sole source of orientation in the doings, our ability to judge the notorious "untrustworthy narrator" is upended - who can tell what is true in a milieu so unreal?). Which is, of course, somewhat Lovecraftian - but not a studied Lovecraftianism, as Ligotti also succeeds in defusing and dodging the easy, cult-of-personality pathways that infuse so much work in that area (generally by avoiding specific names of books, deities, cities and the like) and merely working with and expanding the ideas. In Ligotti, as in Lovecraft, "The Universe" or "Higher Powers" care nothing about our human scale, but in Ligotti there is also a sense that these hierarchies of seeming "order" are unfathomable and nonsensical, and yet also cluttered, overwrought, trite facades - hollow mockeries of their preceding and superseding forms, puppets commanding puppets commanding puppets with the "truth" being the illusion of command, the invalidity of the bare framework to support anything. We may dazzle and distract ourselves with the details, but if we peer too long at any one facet, we perceive the cracks through which a black, empty wind howls.

Other themes arise as well - repetition, memory and dreams, paranoia, insomnia, somnambulism, illness, the flâneur nocturne, shared delusions (folie à deux, occasionally folie à groupe or folie à culture, even), the creative artist (artistic drives, art movements and groups - sometimes under attack by consensus reality or outside forces), "one step removed" patterns being traced back to origins, even possibly some dabbling into the concepts underlying chaos magick.

In terms of construction, many of his stories are like elaborate, oblique Chinese boxes and story elements often reoccur (without any clumsy indications that he is "world building" or creating a "Ligottiverse" - for example, elements of "The Bungalow House" are reflected in "Gas Station Carnivals" and "Teatro Grottesco"). Like Aickman and recent Ramsey Campbell work, Ligotti is also willing to experiment with writing approaches that could be misinterpreted as "clumsy" or "inelegant" (in particular, the repetitions in "Gas Station Carnivals" read to me as stylistic flourishes intended to reinforce the sense of obsessive workings of a febrile mind). Many stories turn on hazy evocations of oneiric or mnemonic visions and narratives, easily unseating the reader from reality. Another aspect of his works I like (and which I feel a very personal connection to) is the way Ligotti uses urban ruin and decay as a backdrop, and the way it differs from, say, the use of same in Ramsey Campbell. In Campbell, urban decay is a history of a place, the markers left behind by life, people, politics and time having worked-over a particular space. In Ligotti, it feels more like a generalized given, a stage backdrop, a modern stand-in for the default "old dark woods" of fairy tales. Ligotti really strives for (and succeeds at capturing) the mood of certain eerily sublime modern urban tableaux - abandoned warehouse districts and back-alley neighborhoods at twilight, old store fronts, moonlit main streets. He communicates a sense of how architecture and atmosphere affect psychology (and his attention to details - in buildings, furniture, decor and dress - speak to a Decadent influence in his writings). In a way, he requires attentive, respectful readers because he may so *baldly* give you what you're expecting that you may be surprised, distracted or detoured from the overall point. In a way, Ligotti's fiction is not as inscrutable as Aickman's, but easily as enigmatic. And in a way, his fiction is self-selecting - those who sample it looking only for surfaces will quickly reject it and never look back.

And now, on to the intensive third tier, possibly of interest only to those who have read the works already.

THIRD TIER (dare you enter???)
So, I figured I'd start with the small number of stories that, even on re-reading, I found didn't work for me - which might seem odd but this is intended as a complete record of my rereading of the book, so for posterity (and my sieve-like memory), here we go. I should note that a number of stories did upgrade on my re-read, so it was definitely a good plan to go back and reread the whole thing.

"Eye of the Lynx" - A man gets a tour of an S&M club (with Ligottian filigree) but in the end, as is often the case, roles are reversed. A simple story, and interesting to see a modern scenario such as this (which strips away some of the usual archaic mystique). Still, a bit thin.

"The Christmas Eve of Aunt Elise" - this chronicles endless disgruntled yuletides spent at an Aunt's overdecorated house, where the hostess tells stories of a neighborhood home which was disassembled on the death of the owner, and then discovered to have mysteriously returned overnight. This yarn then folds itself into the main narrative, and then folds again and again - in a way I found a bit too vague and unsatisfying.

"The Troubles of Dr. Thoss" - In an off-season resort town, Aib Indrys (an uninspired, insomniac illustrator) finds himself haunted by whispers and reports of the titular character (a vague "mad doctor" figure and something of a sin-eater - or perhaps Thoss is the doctor's homunculus assistant?) . After wandering into (and being driven from) a somnambulistic sermon at a church, Indrys returns home to find his illustration finished, and settles into sleep and a dream of a singular house call.... I liked the setting and feel of this story (Indry's "collaborations" with old engravings reminded me of Max Ernst's collage work) but, again, found it the tiniest bit too vague and unsatisfying - like sketches in a dream of a horror scenario.

"Masquerade of a Dead Sword" - interesting for its atypical setting in a Michael Moorcock-esque "decadent sword and sorcery" milieu (one could argue, also resonances with Poe's "The Masque Of The Red Death") - this follows a motley-clad tatterdemalion sword-for-hire (plagued by visions of madness held in abeyance - or perhaps exacerbated by - magic spectacles) as he attends the Duke's masquerade (in the garb of a Fool) to complete his assassination mission, only to discover a terrible truth. Also interesting as it echoes another tale ("The Spectacles In The Drawer") and has some stylistic differences from other stories, unfortunately the game-playing with identity and ambiguity afforded by the masquerade makes for a confusing and muddled climax.

"Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech" - A man approaches Dr. Volke (a sorcerer or charlatan) for help with a romantic spat. Volke, after discoursing on the horror of puppets, suggests an ambiguous ambush of the targets, with disturbing results. I found the ending to this one choppy and unsatisfying.

"The Journal of J.P. Drapeau" - This struck me as similar to M.R. James's Stories I Have Tried To Write, as it is extracts from the diary of a writer totally unconnected to the real world, peppered with images, ideas, incidents and concepts that, perhaps, could not sustain a full story of their own. Some nice shout-outs to Georges Rodenbach's "Bruges-La-Morte."

"Vastarien" - Classic Lovecraftian "eldritch dreamer" character, transposed here into a real-world tale of the actual, unsatisfying search for "forbidden texts," the endless wrestling with mundane esoteric systems - with diligence finally rewarded in a strange, basement-level bookstore through the overseen assignation between a bookseller and his odd customer. Some nice dream visions of the city and the central concept of the much-desired text as neither a grimoire or a gateway, but as the "thing itself" (and prompt for lucid dreams), but again...

"Conversations In a Dead Language" - Another atypical story - combining snide, obsessive Halloween trick-or-treater interactions with an abusive mother figure and intimations of child molestation - this seems oddly personal, and yet almost a standard "hideous Halloween revenge" story with an implied (again, atypically) rough and brutal ending.

(Yup - so long it has to be continued in the comments section below!)

[Nickolas B. · Rating 2 out of 5]

Θα προσπαθήσω να εξηγήσω όσο καλύτερα μπορώ γιατί βάζω μόνο 2,5/5

Κάποιες ιστορίες ήταν πολύ δυνατές και θύμιζαν έντονα ανακολουθίες σε όνειρα ή καφκικές καταστάσεις. Μου άρεσε αυτή η εναλλαγή ανάμεσα στην πραγματικότητα και το όνειρο. Επίσής βρήκα κάποιες ιδέες πολύ πρωτότυπες ειδικά τις 2-3 τελευταίες...

Όμως η γραφή του Λιγκότι ήταν το κάτι άλλο. Αισθανόμουν ότι δεν μπορούσα να περάσω ανάμεσα από τις λέξεις. Ότι με έπνιγαν οι προτάσεις και οι παράγραφοι. Τόσο πυκνή γραφή που στο τέλος έγινε κουραστική και ενοχλητική. Συν τοις άλλοις δεν μπόρεσε να μου δώσει κάτι από τρόμο ή έστω μια ανατριχίλα..

Σίγουρα το γράψιμο του είναι κοντά σε αυτό του Πόε, μόνο που ο μέγιστος Πόε ήξερε να χειρίζεται την γλώσσα και τον τρόμο με έναν μοναδικό τρόπο που αποδεικνύεται για ακόμη μια φορά πως δεν μπόρεσε κανείς να επαναλάβει...

ΥΓ: Και κάτι ακόμα... Οι χαρακτήρες των ιστοριών... Απλά κινούνταν σαν φαντάσματα στον χώρο. Κανένα βάθος, καμια ανάλυση. Για μένα τα πιο δυνατά αναγνώσματα ξεκινάν από την δόμηση των χαρακτήρων τους, οπότε είχα ακόμη ένα λόγο να κατεβάσω την βαθμολογία μου...

[blondie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Εξαιρετική η γραφή του Ligotti και πολύ καλή και η μετάφραση πολύ προσεγμένη. Επιλέγει με κόπο την κάθε λέξη και την θέση της ώστε να σε βάλει στο mood που θέλει. Με τις λέξεις δημιουργεί έντονη ατμοσφαιρα σε κάθε ιστορία. Δεν είναι τόσο τρομακτικός όσο σου αφήνει μια αίσθηση διαστρέβλωσης και νοσηρότητας.
Δεν ήταν όλες οι ιστορίες του εργοστασίου τόσο δυνατές, αλλά αρκετές ήταν εξαιρετικές!
Γοτθικό πομπώδες ύφος γραφής!

[Odisseas Panagopoulos · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Βλέπεις, δεν υπάρχει καμιά μορφή στο τζάκι. Ο καπνός χάθηκε, χάθηκε μεσ'από την καπνοδόχο, έξω στον ουρανό. Και δεν υπάρχει τίποτε στον ουρανό, τίποτε που να διακρίνω εγώ μεσ' από το παράθυρο. Υπάρχει το φεγγάρι, φυσικά, ψηλά, ολοστρόγγυλο. Όμως δεν πέφτει πάνω του κάποιος ίσκιος, μπρος του δε σαλεύει ένα χάος καπνού πνίγοντας την εύθραυστη τάξη της γης, δεν απλώνεται ένα σύννεφο από εφιάλτες τυλίγοντας μέσα του φεγγάρια, αστέρια, ήλιους. Δε βλέπω ένα συσπώμενο,έρπον σχήμα να κηλιδώνει τη σελήνη, ούτε το σχήμα ενός μεγάλου παραμορφωμένου καβουριού να χιμά τρέχοντας λοξά, μεσ'από τους μαύρους ωκεανούς του απείρου, καταπάνω στη νήσο της σελήνης, να έρπει με τα αναρίθμητα κορμιά του πάνω σ' όλα τα περιστρεφόμενα νησιά του μελανού διαστήματος. Το σχήμα αυτό δεν είναι η καρκινωματώδης ολότητα όλων των πλασμάτων, ούτε ο παχύρρευστος ιχώρας που ρέει μέσα σ' όλα τα πράγματα. Νεδεσκέριαλ δεν είναι το κρυφό όνομα της δημιουργίας. Δε βρίσκεται μέσα στα δωμάτια σπιτιών και πέρα από τους τοίχους τους... κάτω από σκοτεινά νερά και σε φεγγαροφώτιστους ουρανούς απ' άκρη σε άκρη... κάτω από τον γήλοφο και πιο ψηλά από το κορφοβούνι... στο φύλλο του βορρά και στο ανθός του νότου... μέσα σε κάθε αστέρι και στους ανάμεσά τους άδειους χώρους... μέσα στο αίμα και το οστό, σε κάθε πνεύμα και ψυχή... ανάμεσα στους άγρυπνους ανέμους αυτού και των πολλών ακόμα κόσμων... πίσω από τα πρόσωπα νεκρών και ζώντων.
Δεν πεθαίνω μέσα σ'έναν εφιάλτη. "

Ένα μικρό δείγμα αυτού του καταπληκτικού και από άλλον πλανήτη συγγραφέα.

[Μιχάλης Μανωλιός]

Στα συν:
+Γράψιμο: Έτσι θα έγραφε ο Λάβκραφτ –αν ήξερε πώς να το κάνει. Ο χειρισμός της γλώσσας στην πένα του είναι πραγματικά απαράμιλλος. Από την πρώτη παράγραφο έχεις τη βεβαιότητα ότι όχι απλώς ξέρει τι κάνει, αλλά έχει απόλυτη επίγνωση ότι το κάνει τόσο μα τόσο διαφορετικά από όλους τους άλλους. Δεν μπορώ να φανταστώ έλλογο αναγνωστικό ον που να μην θαυμάσει την απόλυτη έλλειψη ασυνέχειας στις λέξεις και στις έννοιες στα κείμενά του. Γράψιμο χωρίς την παραμικρή ραφή. Βαθιά υπόκλιση.
+Ατμόσφαιρα: Ευστοχία 100%. Θέλει αυτό, πετυχαίνει αυτό. Θέλει το άλλο, απλώνει το συγγραφικό χέρι του μέσα στο κεφάλι σου και ρυθμίζει το μυαλό σου καταπώς γουστάρει. Η ατμόσφαιρα είναι το δίχως άλλο ένα από τα αποτελεσματικότερα όπλα του. Πολλά μπράβο.
+Όνειρα: Σχεδόν πάντα βαριέμαι και ξενερώνω όταν διαβάζω περιγραφές ονείρων σε βιβλία, και προσπαθώ να τα ξεπετάξω όσο πιο γρήγορα μπορώ ακόμα κι αν γνωρίζω ότι έχουν ουσιώδη σημασία για τη συνέχεια. Στον Ligotti όμως, συνάντησα μερικά από τα πιο εντυπωσιακά και ατμοσφαιρικά όνειρα που έχω διαβάσει ποτέ. Πολύ δυνατές εικόνες, μεγάλο βάθος, εξαιρετικά έντονο μετείκασμα. Πολλά ευχαριστώ.

Στα πλην:
--Αυτό το υπέροχο γράψιμο είναι πηχτό και αδιαπέραστο σαν τσιμέντο έτοιμο να στερεοποιηθεί. Δεν προχωράει με τίποτα. Διαβάζω δυο παραγράφους και πέφτω τέζα –δεν μπορώ να βγάλω πάνω από δύο δεκασέλιδα διηγήματα την ημέρα.
--Διάλογοι. Ή μάλλον η έλλειψή τους. Μου έλειψαν πολύ οι διάλογοι, Thomas, με έσκασες χωρίς αυτούς. Με έκανες να συνειδητοποιήσω τον ρόλο τους ως οξυγόνο της ανάγνωσης όμως, και σ’ ευχαριστώ γι’ αυτό. (Και στον Λάβκραφτ λείπουν οι διάλογοι, μέχρι να πέσεις πάνω σε έναν ακόμα πιο κακογραμμένο από τον προηγούμενο και να θυμηθείς "ευτυχώς που είναι τόσο λίγοι".)
--Θεματολογία: Οι ιστορίες της συλλογής “Songs of a dead dreamer”, μου φάνηκαν όλες σχεδόν ίδιες! Αυτή η αίσθηση ότι η πραγματικότητα δεν είναι πραγματική και ότι αντιπροσωπεύει μια άλλη είναι διάχυτη σε τόσα πολλά διηγήματα που ήρθε και προστέθηκε πολύ άχαρα στο πρόβλημα της αδιαπέραστης (από μένα τουλάχιστον) γραφής.
--Χαρακτήρες. Η (προφανώς συνειδητή και εννοείται σεβαστή) συγγραφική επιλογή της μη ανάπτυξης χαρακτήρων σ’ εμένα είχε το αποτέλεσμα να βλέπω τον εκάστοτε πρωταγωνιστή / αφηγητή μόνο ως μια κινούμενη κάμερα που σκοπό είχε να μου δείξει (με μεγάλη επιτυχία) αυτές τις τόσο ατμοσφαιρικές εικόνες και να μου περάσει (χωρίς μεγάλη επιτυχία) αυτά τα πένθιμα και σκοτεινά συναισθήματα.
--Τρόμος. Η τρομομεζούρα του Ligotti σ’ εμένα ίσα που ξεκόλλησε από το μηδέν σε μια σκηνή ονείρου, κι αυτό ήταν όλο. Και σίγουρα φταίει γι’ αυτό και η μηδενική ανάπτυξη χαρακτήρων που καθιστά την ταύτισή μου μαζί τους πρακτικά αδύνατη.

Αποτέλεσμα: Εγκατέλειψα το βιβλίο, έχοντας διαβάσει περίπου το μισό και έχοντας δώσει στον Ligotti μεγαλύτερο περιθώριο απ’ ό,τι σε άλλους συγγραφείς που τους παρατάω στο ένα τρίτο ή και νωρίτερα.
Μπορώ να κατανοήσω απόλυτα όσους πίνουν νερό στ’ όνομά του, πολύ πιο δύσκολα όσους λένε ότι τρομάζουν με τις ιστορίες του, αλλά ο συγγραφέας αυτός δεν είναι σε καμία περίπτωση για τον συγκεκριμένο αναγνώστη. Πενθώ γι’ αυτό.

[Μάριος Δημητριάδης · Rating 5 out of 5]

Από που να αρχίσω;
Πάει καιρός που ήθελα να διαβάσω αυτό το βιβλίο και τελικά τα κατάφερα. Ό,τι είχα ακούσει για το εργοστάσιο εφιαλτών, βγήκε σωστό. Είναι μια μοναδική εμπειρία. Αρχικά η πρώτη ιστορία δίνει μια γρήγορη σφαλιάρα τρόμου που δεν εκπροσωπεί το ύφος όλης της συλλογής. Είναι όμως απλά ένα ζέσταμα. Στη συνέχεια, όσο προχωράς, βυθίζεσαι όλο και βαθύτερα στο βούρκο του ευρηματικού μυαλού του Thomas Ligotti. Οι κόσμοι που δημιουργεί, οι παράξενες εικόνες, η χαοτική φαντασία που έχει για τα πάντα και η απίστευτη γραφή του, είναι μερικά από αυτά που μου έκαναν εντύπωση κάθε στιγμή, σε κάθε σελίδα. Πολλοί θα πουν: "δε κατάλαβα τίποτα" ή "πολύ δύσκολη η γραφή του" και ίσως εν μέρη να έχουν δίκιο αλλά η απάντηση είναι ότι αυτό το βιβλίο χρειάζεται ΠΟΛΥ μελέτη. Χρειάζεται διάβασμα ξανά και ξανά και πιο προσεκτικά. Και είμαι σίγουρος ότι κάθε φορά θα ανακαλύπτεις κάτι ακόμη. Αυτό έχω σκοπό να κάνω κι εγώ. Να το διαβάσω μέχρι να στύψω και την παραμικρή εικόνα, και τον παραμικρό υπαινιγμό και τον πιο καλά κρυμμένο τρόμο που έχει χαντακωμένο πίσω από τους αλλόκοτους κόσμους του. Γιατί αξίζει...γιατί έτσι πρέπει. Ο Ligotti είναι φαινόμενο που χρειάζεται μελέτη. Επενδύστε!

[Waffles · Rating 5 out of 5]

Great horror for those who prefer atmosphere and dread over character-driven plot. It took me a few years to acquire the taste, but now I'm hooked. Ligotti is one of the giants of American horror (the others being Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft). The Nightmare Factory collects most of Ligotti's previously published stories as well as some that were new to the book. In an interview Ligotti described his style as an attempt to read like awkwardly translated East-European literature.

[Liz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Κι εκεί που πλανιέσαι ξετρελαμένος στους σαγηνευτικούς του κόσμους, η τελευταία ιστορία τελειώνει, κι αυτός ο θεός ο Λιγκότι σε πετάει έξω και σου κλείνει την πόρτα κατάμουτρα. Και τώρα;

[Κωνσταντίνος Κέλλης · Rating 5 out of 5]

Move over, Stephen.
I'm sorry Clive and H.P. It's not you, guys, it's me...
Actually, it's not me either. It's Thomas Ligotti.

Long story short, this collection blew me away. Horror short stories can't get better than this.

[Rodrigo Tello · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un delirio total pero muy bien escrito, relatos que cuesta leer e incluso entender pero que a la vez son pequeñas obras maestras la mayoría de ellos. Ligotti es el Philip K. Dick del horror gótico más filosófico y desquiciado

[Ken · Rating 5 out of 5]

It is a style of writing that I cannot clearly identify. It feels alienated both from both reality and the characters. The stories read like Lovecraft, only with a more 'matter-of-fact' tone.

[Mark McLaughlin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ligotti always offers creepy literary perfection, and this collection is no exception! Great stuff!

[Robert Parkinson · Rating 5 out of 5]

The greatest concentration of top quality weird fiction I own.
An absolute master of the form.

[Samael · Rating 2 out of 5]

Este es mi primer libro de relatos de terror y la verdad que he acabado un tanto decepcionado.

Es curioso como Thomas Ligotti tiene muy buenas ideas y conceptos que podrían llevar a grandes relatos, pero a mi parecer, no los sabe explotar.

He tenido muchas veces la sensación en algunos relatos que con solo usar ciertas palabras de índole lovecraftianas ya era suficiente y desde luego no lo es.

Dejo la puntuación de cada relato a continuación:

El retozo: 5 Estrellas. Este es el relato que mas me ha gustado, cada vez que lo recuerdo se me eriza la piel.

El ultimo festejo del Arlequin: 2,5-3 Estrellas

La sombra en el fondo del mundo: 4 Estrellas

Teatro Grottesco: 2,5/3 Estrellas

El arte perdido del crepúsculo: 4 Estrellas

El doctor voke y el señor Veech: 3 Estrellas

El manicomio del doctor Locrian: 3,5 Estrellas

La secta del idiota: 2,5 Estrellas

La musica de la luna: 3,5 Estrellas

Vastairen: 3,5 Estrellas

Los anteojos del cajon: 3,5 Estrellas

Nethescurial: 3 Estrellas

A la sombra de otro mundo: 3 Estrellas

La escuela nocturna: 4 Estrellas

El Glamour: 3 Estrellas

La señorita Plarr: 3,5 Estrellas

La medusa: 3 Estrellas

El Tsalal: 4,5 Estrellas

La Voz de los huesos: 3 Estrellas

Severini: 2,5 Estrellas. No se cuantas veces se puede repetir en un relato Cloaca tropical pero parece que muchas.

Las ferias de gasolinera: 2,5 Estrellas

El bungalow: 3,5 Estrellas

La torre Roja: 3 Estrellas

Nota global: 2,5 Estrellas. Muchas historias han sido aburridas.

[Matt · Rating 5 out of 5]

I didn't have time to read all the stories in this (library copy), but Ligotti truly is a master of transferring dreamlike atmosphere onto the printed page. Stories that stuck out for me as far as creepiness include "The Frolic," "The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elise," and "Glamour." He's been called the modern-day Poe or Lovecraft, and I can definitely see why. I just wish his books were easier to find!

[Victor · Rating 5 out of 5]

Es un excelente libro. Lo primero que leo de Ligotti. Extrañaré no tenerlo en la mesita de noche, cada noche y leerlo antes de dormir para tonificar la materia encargada de los sueños.

Siento que debo hacerle especial mención a los cuentos que realmente me gustaron:

-El retozo
-El último festejo de Arlequín
-El doctor Voke y el señor Veech
-Vastarien
-La Medusa
-El Tsalal
-La voz de los huesos
-Las ferias de gasolinera
-El bungalow
-La torre roja

Lectura altamente recomendada.

[Jaime · Rating 1 out of 5]

Ligotti escribe bien, muy correcto y todo, pero no tiene un gramo de emoción en su cuerpo. Recomendado a los lectores fanáticos de Lovecraft y del horror intelectual, flemático y (desde mi punto de vista) estéril. Mas de 20 relatos, de los cuales ninguno logro impactarme.

Me tarde 6 meses en acabarlo, termine docenas de libros antes de este, esto da una clara idea de la tortura que fue leerlo.

[Lilith Dew · Rating 2 out of 5]

He esperado un poco para hacer la reseña de este libro. Porque llegó a mi con la invitación de que sus relatos recordaban a Lovecraft y su universo. Bien, pues no. Ni de coña. Me aburrí leyendo, me enfadé por lo mucho que me aburrió y mi opinión después de desconectar un poco sigue siendo la misma.

Puede que me hubiera tomado este libro de forma diferente si no lo hubiese sentido desde el principio como un intento fallido de terror lovecraftiano. Porque la escritura es notable y en ciertos relatos absorbente, pero es que no tiene ni una pizca de alma. No tiene esa chispa que toda historia debe de tener. Y eso ha sido por mucho lo que más me ha decepcionado.

Las dos estrellas son solo por lo muchísimo que me gustó el primer relato.

[Molly Moore · Rating 5 out of 5]

I honestly don't even know where to begin in writing a review of Nightmare Factory... and I'm absolutely certain I can't be objective. I accidentally discovered this book - and, by extension, Mr. Ligotti - during an early morning at work last week. Reading only the Washington Post's blurb at the bottom of the front cover ("The most startling and unexpected literary discovery since Clive Barker"), I set it aside and made up my mind to peruse it later. Little did I know then that I'd be ending my day with a new favorite author.

Thomas Ligotti has a way with words the likes of which I've never encountered. Each of the short stories in this collection (and many of them are indeed very short) is a grand and macabre production, opening with a dim spotlight fading in over an abstract stage... and ending with a sudden downward flip of the houselights. He writes in riddles, philosophies and brush strokes. His work is insightful, poetic and completely out of its mind. He makes no sense and yet makes all the sense in the world. At once, he terrified, elated, amused and destroyed me.

Some of my favorite stories from this particular book are Alice's Last Adventure, Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes, Masquerade of a Dead Sword, Conversations in a Dead Language and the Prodigy of Dreams. His introduction ("The Consolations of Horror") is also incredible. Even the foreward, written by Poppy Z. Brite, is an excellent read. All in all, Nightmare Factory is an exquisite example of the art and emotional depth so often deemed dormant in the horror genre. I daresay Ligotti gives Clive Barker a run for his money.

[Bradley · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the greatest horror book that I have ever read.

[D Muerte · Rating 5 out of 5]

If You decide to confront this Behemoth of Corruption, know this:
You will be, as I am now, forever changed. You will see things you wouldn't see before (they were there all along, you just couldn't see). You will be plagued by the most grotesque, abject, absurd and nonsensical of Nightmares. So, think twice before entering this madness-inducing monstrosity grimoire. You've been warned.

Here are some passages that may help you not to venture into his haunted pages:

"There are those who require witnesses to their doom. Not content with a solitary perdition, they seek an audience worthy of the spectacle—mind to remember the stages of their downfall or perhaps only a mirror to multiply their abject glory."

“Windows are the eyes of the soulless,”

"The entertainer gave herself no introduction and started singing a song after lethargically strumming her guitar for a moment or so. I did not recognize the piece, but I think any song would have sounded strange as rendered by that girl’s voice. It was the gloomy and unstudied voice of a feeble-minded siren locked away somewhere and wailing pitifully to be set free. That the song was intended as mournful I could not doubt. It was, however, a very foreign and disorienting kind of mournfulness, as if the singer had eavesdropped on some exotic and grotesque rituals for her inspiration."

"If things are not what they seem and we are forever reminded that this is the case—then it must also be observed that enough of us ignore this truth to keep the world from collapsing. Though never exact, always shifting somewhat, the proportion is crucial. For a certain number of minds are fated to depart for realms of delusion, as if in accordance with some hideous timetable, and many will never be returning to us. Even among those who remain, how difficult it can be to hold the focus sharp, to keep the picture of the world from fading, from blurring in selected zones and, on occasion, from sustaining epic deformations over the entire visible scene. I once knew a man who claimed that, overnight, all the solid shapes of existence had been replaced by cheap substitutes: trees made of flimsy posterboard, houses built of colored foam, whole landscapes composed of hair-clippings. His own flesh, he said, was now just so much putty. Needless to add, this acquaintance had deserted the cause of appearances and could no longer be depended on to stick to the common story. Alone he had wandered into a tale of another sort altogether; for him, all things now participated in this nightmare of nonsense. But although his revelations conflicted with the lesser forms of truth, nonetheless he did live in the light of a greater truth: that all is unreal. Within him this knowledge was vividly present down to his very bones, which had been newly simulated by a compound of mud and dust and ashes."

“We sleep,” he read, “among the shadows of another world. These are the unshapely substance inflicted upon us and the prime material to which we give the shapes of our understanding. And though we create what is seen, yet we are not the creators of its essence. Thus nightmares are born from the impress of ourselves on the life of things unknown. How terrible these forms of specter and demon when the eyes of the flesh cast light and mold the shadows which are forever around us. How much more terrible to witness their true forms roaming free upon the land, or in the most homely rooms of our houses, or frolicking through that luminous hell which in madness we have named the heavens. Then we truly waken from our sleep, but only to sleep once more and shun the nightmares which must ever return to that part of us which is hopelessly dreaming.”

"As I proceeded across the grounds of the school, I felt certain changes had occurred since I was last there. The trees looked different somehow, even in the faint moonlight which shone through their bare branches. They had become so much thinner than I remembered, emaciated and twisted like broken bones that had never healed properly. Their bark seemed to be peeling away in soft layers, because it was not only fallen leaves I trudged through on my way to the school building, but also something like dark rags, strips of decomposed material. Even the clouds upon which the moon cast its glow were thin or rotted, unraveled by some process of degeneration in the highest atmosphere of the school grounds. There was also a scent of corruption, an enchanting fragrance really—like the mulchy rot of autumn or early spring—that I thought was emerging from the earth as I disturbed the strange debris strewn over it. But I noticed that this odor became more pungent as I approached the yellowish light of the school, and strongest as I finally reached the old building itself. It was a four-story structure of dark scabby bricks that had been patched together in another era, a time so different that it might be imagined as belonging to an entirely alien history, one composed solely of nights well advanced, an after-hours history. How difficult it was to think of this place as if it had been constructed in the usual manner. Far easier to credit some fantastic legend that it had been erected by a consort of demons during the perpetual night of its past, and that its materials were absconded from other architectures, all of them defunct: ruined factories, crumbling prisons, abandoned orphanages, mausoleums long out of use. The school was indeed a kind of freakish growth in a dumping ground, a blossom of the cemetery or the cesspool."

“That’s very possible. You can never tell with this instructor. He’s a Portuguese, you know. But he’s been all over and knows everything. I think he’s out of his mind. The kind of thing he’s been teaching should have gotten him into trouble somewhere, and probably did. Not that he ever cared what happened to him, or to anyone else. That is, those that he could influence, and some more than others. The things he said to us. The lessons in measurement of cloacal forces. Time as a flow of sewage. The excrement of space, scatology of creation. The voiding of the self. The whole filthy integration of things and the nocturnal product, as he called it. Drowning in the pools of night…”

"In the most unconscious hours of darkness, when the rest of the rectory’s population was in slumber, Fr. Sevich would leave the austere comforts of his bed and, seating himself at a window-facing desk, would pour over the contents of a certain book, turning page after page and stopping every so often to mouth some of the strange words inscribed upon them. Somehow these were the sentences of his own mysterious biography, a chronicle of truly unspeakable things. In the formation of the priest’s lips as he mimed the incantations of a dead language, in the darting movements of his tongue between rows of immaculate teeth, one could almost chart the convoluted chronology of this foreign man. How alien is the deepest life of another: the unbelievable beginnings, the unimaginably elaborate developments; and the incalculable eons which prepare, which foretell, the multiform phenomena of a few score years! Much of what Fr. Sevich had endured in his allotted span could already be read on his face. But something still remained to be revealed in his features, something which the glowing lamp resting upon the desk, joined by the light of every constellation in the visible universe, was struggling to illuminate."

"Grotesque expressions were molding themselves into the darkish grooves of ancient bark and the whorls of withered leaf; pulpy, misshapen features peered out of damp furrows; and the crisp skin of stalks and dead seeds split into a multitude of crooked smiles."

"The sinister, the terrible never deceive: the state in which they leave us is always one of enlightenment. And only this condition of vicious insight allows us a full grasp of the world, all things considered, just as a frigid melancholy grants us full possession of ourselves. We may hide from horror only in the heart of horror."

"Nothing that asks for your arguments is worth arguing, just as nothing that solicits your belief is worth believing. The real and the unreal lovingly cohabit in our terror, the only “sphere” that matters."

"...personal well-being serves solely to excavate within your soul a chasm which waits to be filled by a landslide of dread, an empty mold whose peculiar dimensions will one day manufacture the shape of your unique terror?"

"We may hide from horror only in the heart of horror."

"From time to time during my childhood, the striking dreams that I nightly experienced would become brutally vivid, causing me to awake screaming. The shouting done, I sank back into my bed in a state of super-enervation resulting from the bodiless adventures imposed upon my slumbering self. Yet my body was surely affected by this nocturnal regimen, exercised harshly by visions both crystalline and confused. This activity, however immaterial, only served to drain my reserves of strength and in a few moments stole from me the benefits of a full night’s sleep. Nevertheless, while I was deprived of the privilege of a natural rest, there may also have been some profit gained: the awful opulence of the dream, a rich and swollen world nourished by the exhaustion of the flesh. The world, in fact, as such. Any other realm seemed an absence by comparison, at best a chasm in the fertile graveyard of life."

"Do you know what dreams are?” she asked quietly, and then immediately began to answer her own question. “They are parasites—maggots of the mind and soul, feeding on the mind and soul as ordinary maggots feed on the body. And their feeding on the mind and soul in turn gnaws away at the body, which in turn again affects the mind and the soul, and so on until death. These things cannot be separated, nor can anything else. Because everything is terribly inseparable and affects every other thing. Even the most alien things are connected together with every other thing. And so if these dreams have no world of their own to nourish them, they may come into yours and possess it, exhaust it little by little each night. They use your world and use it up. They wear your face and the faces of things you know: things that are yours they use in ways that are theirs. And some persons are so easy for them to use, and they use them so hard. But they use everyone and have always used everyone, because they are from the old time, the time before all the worlds awoke from a long and helpless night. And these dreams, these things that are called dreams, are still working to throw us back into that great mad darkness, to exhaust each one of us in our lonely sleep and to use up everyone until death. Little by little, night after night, they take us away from ourselves and from the truth of things. I myself know very well what this can be like and what the dreams can do to us. They make us dance to their strange illusions until we are too exhausted to live. And they have found in you, child, an easy partner for their horrible dancing.”

"Of course, there have always been writings of a certain kind, a primeval lore which provided allusions to the darkness of creation and to monstrosities of every type, human and inhuman, as if there were a difference. Something profoundly dark and grotesque has always had a life in every language of this world, appearing at intervals and throwing its shadow for a moment upon stories that try to make sense of things, often confounding the most happy tale. And this shadow is never banished in any of these stories, however we may pretend otherwise. The darkness of the grotesque is an immortal enigma: in all the legends of the dead, in all the tales of creatures of the night, in all the mythologies of mad gods and lucid demons, there remains a kind of mocking nonsense to the end, a thick and resonant voice which calls out from the heart of these stories and declares: ‘Still I am here.’ And the idiot laughter of that voice—how it sounds through the ages! This laughter often reaches our ears through certain stories wherein this grotesque spirit itself has had a hand. However we have tried to ignore the laughter of this voice, however we have tried to overwhelm its words and protect ourselves by always keeping other words in our minds, it still sounds throughout the world."

"We were inviting chaos into the world, we knew this. We had been intoxicated by the prospect of an absolute disorder. With a sense of grim exaltation we greeted the intimations of a universal nightmare—the ultimate point of things"

"He first spoke to me on a night which I had spent wandering the tattered fringes of a city. It might have been a city like this one, or any city. What matters is the mute decrepitude I found there among a few condemned buildings and vacant lots gone wild. I had all but forgotten my own name, who I was and what world I belonged to. And they are not wrong who say that my reason perished in the radiant face of unattainable dreams for the future. False dreams, nightmares! And then, in that same place where I had traveled to hang myself, I heard a voice among the shadows and moonlight. It was not a peaceful voice or a consoling voice, but something like an articulate sigh, a fabulously eloquent moan. There was also a man-like shape slumped down in a corner of that sad room which I had chosen for my ultimate refuge. The legs of the figure lay bent like a cripple’s upon the broken floor, the moonlight cutting across them and leaving the rest of the body in darkness—all except two eyes that shone like colored glass in the moonlight. And although the voice seemed to emanate from everything around me, I knew that it was the voice of that sad thing before me, which was the Creator’s earthly form: a simple department store manikin."

"The pact of bones and blackness, the voice declaimed to him. The collection of shadows…shadows binding bones…skeletons becoming shadows. And he came to understand other things: the land stripped of flesh…the reeking earth ripped clean and rising into the great blackness. This reverberant discourse had made him its student, imparting theories and practice: bones pummeled into purity…parts turned to brilliant particles…the shadows seeded with the voice of skulls…the many voices within eternal blackness…the tenebrous harmony."

"This figure always spoke to them in his uniquely cryptic way, his sleeptalking voice fluctuating in its qualities and even seeming to emanate from places other than his own body, as though he were practicing a hyper-ventriloquism. Similarly, his body itself, as I was told and as I later imagined to myself in my apartment, appeared to react in concert with the fluctuations in his voice. These bodily changes, the others said, were sometimes subtle and sometimes dramatic, but they were consistently ill-defined—not a matter of clear transformation as much as a breakdown of anatomical features and structures, the result being something twisted and tumorous like a living mound of diseased clay or mud, a heap of cancerous matter that slowly thrashed about in the candlelight which illuminated the old shack."

"For some time I had dreamed of being delivered from the suffering of my delirious episodes, and from all the suggestions and sensations that went along with them—the terrible vision that exposed all living things, including myself, as no more than a fungus or a collection of bacteria, a kind of monumental slime-mold quivering across the landscape of this planet (and very likely others). Any deliverance from such a nightmare, I thought, would involve the most drastic (and esoteric) procedures, the most alien (and illicit) practices. And, ultimately, I never believed that this deliverance, or any other, was really possible. It was simply too good, or too evil, to be true—at least this is how it seemed to my mind."

"My body—a tumor that was once delivered from the body of another tumor, a lump of disease that is always boiling with its own disease. And my mind—another disease, the disease of a disease. Everywhere my mind sees the disease of other minds and other bodies, these other organisms that are only other diseases, an absolute nightmare of the organism."

"Deliver the self that knows the sickness from the self that does not know. There are two faces which must never confront each other. There is only one body which must struggle to contain them both."

"Dalha D. Fine Arts was a hole in the wall. One would think it no trouble at all to keep up the premises where there was so little floor space, just a single room that was by no means overcrowded with artworks or art-related merchandise. But no attempt at such upkeeping seemed ever to have been made. The display window was so filmy that someone passing by could barely make out the paintings and sculptures behind it (the same ones year after year). From the street outside, this tiny front window presented the most desolate hallucination of bland colors and shapeless forms, especially on late November afternoons."

"It has always seemed to me that my existence consisted purely and exclusively of nothing but the most outrageous nonsense. As long as I can remember, every incident and every impulse of my existence has served only to perpetrate one episode after another of conspicuous nonsense, each completely outrageous in its nonsensicality. Considered from whatever point of view—intimately close, infinitely remote, or any position in between—the whole thing has always seemed to be nothing more than some freak accident occurring at a painfully slow rate of speed"

"The term “motions,” as I bothered myself to discover in the course of my useless research into the subject, was commonly employed at one time, long ago, to refer to various types of puppets, as in the statement: “The motions recently viewed at St. Bartholomew’s Fair were engaged in antics of a questionable probity before an audience which might have better profited by deep contemplation of the fragile and uncertain destiny of their immortal souls.”

"The little man is so much littler these days.
Soon he will know about the soft black stars."

[Carlos Filipe R. Matos · Rating 5 out of 5]

Thomas Ligotti is known for the lovecraftian style horror. There's nothing about Lovecraftian lore here, but the atmospheric landscapes and weird-looking towns that may or may not be within someone's dream.

You can see Lovecraft written all over Ligotti's stories, all the dread, the insanity, the mind-blown descriptive scenery, it's all there.

I didn't enjoy all of these short stories. Sometimes, the prose was overly descriptive, with words being repeated unnecessarily, as if the author was trying to make it more beautiful at the expense of the story's purpose. Perhaps I shouldn't have read this whole thing in one sitting.

I read somewhere that Ligotti is also a philosopher, and he has a book called The Conspiracy Against the Human Race, which is a series of essays on his philosophical pessimism, nihilist and antinatalist views. So that explains it — there's always more philosophy than necessary in every story.

Don't get me wrong; it's a 5 stars review for a reason.

[Jesus Flores · Rating 3 out of 5]

Algun dia sacaré bien el promedio, pero como toda colección de cuentos, tienes desde muy buenos, a algunos que no.

El autor hace mucho uso del recurso de que el narrador cuenta cosas que alguien más le conto, o de no contarte todo, de hablar más de lo que siente el narrador o de su impresión, que mostrarte lo que ocurre. En algunos cuentos funciona, en otros no, y en otros incluso termina siendo decepcionante.

Aun asi, los cuentos que me gustaron son myy. buenos, y de otros que no he de reconocer su buen oficio en transportarte a una atmosfera tetrica..

3.3 stars

[Ricardo Sanchez · Rating 5 out of 5]

Las pesadillas de Ligotti llegan en fragmentos.
La oscuridad es una constante en estos paisajes oníricos donde el terror acontece desde el soñador.
La belleza de la literatura de Ligotti recae en lo grotesco: lo inconcebible y lo irreal, el sueño detrás del sueño.
Un libro que debes de leer si eres fanático de la literatura de terror.

[sergeist · Rating 4 out of 5]

Esta selección de cuentos -casi da reparo usar dicha palabra en este caso- recopila mucho de lo más representativo del autor. No todos los relatos están construídos bajo una misma premisa pero sin duda, mis favoritos son todos aquellos en los que el autor introduce algún elemento atípico dentro de un mundo real como el nuestro.
Aquellos en los que se sitúa en mundos más fantásticos, se me hicieron cuesta arriba, quizás motivado por la falta de un estado de ánimo apropiado o una momentánea intolerancia a un lenguaje excesivamente barroco -posibles vestigios de su pasado como crítico literario- cuando me he topado con cuentos en los que la ampulosidad del lenguaje me ha asfixiado, casi siempre coincidiendo con los relatos de mundos sobrenaturales.

Ligotti retrata especialmente bien el miedo que sentimos -que quiere hacernos sentir-, sus influencias impregnan de forma nada velada su forma de escribir: las atmósferas de Lovecraft, los microuniversos de Borges, el ritmo de Poe o la naturaleza del miedo de Barker... y por encima de todo, su amor por la literatura.

Enumerando aquellos relatos que me han convencido más, he de destacar el que abre el volumen: "El retozo". No me extraña que entusiasmara de tal modo a David Tibet (Current 93) como para dedicarle primero un tema (The frolic), después algunos discos (I have a special plan for this world, In this foreign land, Faust) y finalmente la cuidadísima reedición de algunos de sus títulos descatalogados.

Prosigo con los que me parecen más notables: El último festejo de Arlequín, Teatro grottesco, El arte perdido del crepúsculo - su particular interpretación de los vampiros, La música de la luna - de los pocos que engarza partes más oníricas sobre otras realistas, La medusa -posiblemente el mejor de los más extensos, Las ferias de gasolinera y El bungalow.

Hay motivos y patrones recurrentes -que no menciono para no matar el elemento sorpresa- aunque siempre encuentra la manera de dar una vuelta de tuerca a lo ya leído; queda patente su maestría a la hora de tejer los hilos que poco a poco nos van atrapando en sus historias, combinando siempre de forma original los ingredientes que usa con mayor frecuencia.

Recomendable para cualquiera que guste de pasar un poco de miedo sin renunciar a la calidad literaria.

[Sandra Kambouri · Rating 4 out of 5]

Από το πρώτο διήγημα ή, μάλλον, από την πρώτη παράγραφο του πρώτου διηγήματος συνειδητοποίησα ότι αυτό το βιβλίο δεν το διαβάζεις για να περάσεις απλά την ώρα σου. Αυτό το βιβλίο για να διαβαστεί σωστά, θέλει απόλυτη προσήλωση. Θέλει ν' αδειάσεις το μυαλό σου τελείως απ' όλα και μετά να το πιάσεις στα χέρια σου. Το ίδιο το βιβλίο, δεν σε αφήνει να συγκεντρωθείς σε αυτό που διαβάζεις. Φεύγει το μυαλό. Δημιουργεί εικόνες. Τρέχει. Δημιουργεί εφιάλτες. Μπλέκεις αυτό που διαβάζεις με αυτό που φαντάζεσαι.
Δημιουργεί απίστευτη ατμόσφαιρα, ειδικά αν αποφασίσεις να το διαβάσεις νύχτα με το φωτάκι του διαβάσματος μόνο αναμμένο. Βλέπεις σκιές εκεί που δεν υπάρχουν. Ακούς θορύβους από το πουθενά.

Παρόλο που αυτές οι μέρες δεν είναι και οι ευκολότερες για μένα, και το να συγκεντρωθώ μοιάζει αδύνατον, κατάφερα να το διαβάσω αν και όχι δίνοντάς του την προσοχή που του έπρεπε. Γι' αυτό και άργησα τόσο να το τελειώσω. Χρειάστηκε να ξαναδιαβάσω 2 και 3 φορές την ίδια παράγραφο σε αρκετές περιπτώσεις, για να μπορέσω να συλλάβω το νόημα που ήθελε να δώσει. Κουράστηκα. Αλλά δεν μπορώ να αμφισβητήσω ότι η αφήγηση ήταν αριστουργηματική. Δημιουργεί αυτόν τον φόβο που υποβόσκει σε κάθε βήμα. Σε κάθε σκοτεινή γωνιά. Σε κάθε φύσημα του αέρα. Πίσω από κλειστές πόρτες. Στα υπόγεια. Στο σκοτεινό τελείωμα μιας σκάλας. Στο βάθος του ορίζοντα... Παντού. Σίγουρα μένει σε εκκρεμότητα για να το διαβάσω άλλη μία φορά όταν θα βρίσκομαι σε καλύτερη κατάσταση.

Μην το πιάσετε αν δεν είστε έτοιμοι γι' αυτό. Χρειάζεται όλη σας την προσοχή αλλιώς μάλλον θα σας κουράσει και θα σας φανεί δυσνόητο. Και δεν του αξίζει τελικά αυτός ο χαρακτηρισμός.

[Darran Mclaughlin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Superb. I haven't read very much horror since going through a phase of reading everything Stephen King, Dean R. Koontz and James Herbert wrote as a kid. I dipped into it, reading Edgar Allan Poe, House of Leaves and Lost Souls by Poppy Z Brite, but I didn't really look into Horror to try and find the serious writing as I have with crime writing, science fiction and fantasy. Whilst you often hear the likes of Georges Simenon, WIlliam Gibson or China Mieville being praised as writers worthy of being discovered by people who don't usually read genre writing, horror didn't seem to have any writers that prompted the same critical enthusiasm.

Ligotti is that writer. I have read some interviews with him and some appreciations of his work and he a unique and fascinating writer. He is compared to Edgar Allan Poe and HP Lovecraft by many, but he is also deeply influenced by writers such as Kafka, Borges, Nabokov and Bruno Schultz, as well as thinkers like Schopenhauer and EM Cioran. You can detect these influences in his work, but his style is absolutely unique.

It's a shame his work is almost impossible to get ahold of without paying outrageous amounts of money through Amazon, but Jeff Vandermeer said in a recent blog that he's working on an introduction to a Penguin Classics edition of Thomas Ligotti's work, news of which gives you an idea of how good he his.

[Jail Flanagain · Rating 2 out of 5]

Thomas Ligotti is a very talented but really frustrating writer. His concepts are way more developed than most horror writers. Also his writing is dense and difficult in a genre where most are content to write in a eazy to read schticky way, so in these ways he's refreshing. But more often than being refreshed, I was frustrated by his lack of followthrough. Much like Lovecraft, whom he clearly admires, his stories have strong beginnings and interesting ideas but when rarely any interesting endings or answers for the reader. Which can be fine to a certain point, see the work of Robert Aickman, but while in Aickman's writing is often myterious and disturbing, it is always clear that at least Aickman has some kind of meaning beneath his confusing front.
Many of the stories here have really great beginnings and concepts, I just wish they had led somewhere interesting. "The last feast of the harlequinn" starts off with many intriguing ideas but then turns into the pulpiest horror conventions imaginable: a shrieking blond on an altar being menaced by monsters. In fact, despite Ligotti's intellectual front, a great deal of the stories here are really just old school horror misogyny dressed up in yesterday's literary affectations. Anyway, I wish this was better.

[Jason · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ligotti has, like his prose, slowly but without failure snuck up on me and resigned me to the basic truth that I'm probably never going to discover another writer who can make me feel such universal dread, but yet love it all. He's firmly made himself the main attraction of my reading schedule, and it's a shame that I'll have to re-read him to do that rather than expect new books, which he doesn't seem too intent on writing. Regardless, reading a story of his again always suggests something that didn't strike you on original reading. No reader can claim to love every morsel of output of their given favourite author, and it's no different for me with Ligotti, but a vast portion of his work, even the pieces that are and will most likely remain a puzzle to me, still amaze me to the point of madness. There's a lyricism to his writing that I haven't loved since reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, although I make no suggestion that there's similarities. You really need Ligotti's situations and ideas to be 'your thing' to really appreciate his work, even if some of it leaves you confused. Stories with mannequins, innumerable shadows, unnamed towns, masks. These can be obscure things at times, but I love it all.