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304 pages, Hardcover
First published March 28, 2023
What happens when we feel that something — or someone — is present to us, and yet we can’t say how? A silent figure. A visitor. An indefinable change in feeling of a room. Something is there, unmistakably so. And try as we might, if someone asks how we know, we cannot explain it. We just know it. We just feel it. This is a felt presence.
If you go looking for feelings of presence, the first stories you come across almost always involve snow. Lots and lots of snow. Blank expanses, extreme conditions, the enormity of nature — all seem to combine to conjure silent figures, as if some spaces appear tailor made for feelings of presence.
At Durham, we have worked with a wide range of remarkable people, reporting some of the most unusual experiences you could put into words. Voices, visions, presences; psychosis, dissociation, trauma; spirits, telepathy, and demons. But we have never had to try to work with data as slippery as what we got from the Edinburgh writers. Appropriately enough, it wasn’t hard to feel like you were being spun a yarn sometimes.
In trying to understand felt presence, I have heard about the visceral visitors of psychosis, the harbinger of ill health among Parkinson’s sufferers, the doppelgänger of an intoxicated playwright, and a robot that can conjure a ghost. I have listened to stories of saviors but also pursuers, a stormy voice that only visited in the calm, and fellow travelers who aren’t always expected. I have been told about evil personified, heard of animal confidantes, and even been offered a theory on how to create such presences myself.