Day 8: A Book That Scares Me

Once again, today’s challenge was daunting enough for me to put it off for a few days while I gave the question some thought. Pinpointing a book that has scared me, really instilled fear, is far more difficult than I thought. I first thought about books like Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World, Shelley’s Frankenstein, or even Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, but although those dystopian novels did certainly fill me with a sense of dread about our future and what the kind of world that we can potentially create, it was not fear in a classic sense; my heart didn’t race, my palms didn’t sweat. Then I thought about the works of authors and poets like Edgar Allen Poe and Robert Browning whose work, although clearly dark, is really more beautiful than scary. I didn’t have to check under the bed after reading “Porphyria’s Lover.”

I searched in my memory for a time when I felt truly scared while reading a book, the kind of visceral fear that forces you to keep the light on (even as an adult), and as embarrassing as this post may be, the book that holds this distinction is none other than The Amityville Horror, written by Jay Anson.

The book recounts the experiences of the Lutz family after they move into the now infamous house on 112 Ocean Avenue near Long Island. The dust jacket describes the story as follows.

In December 1975, the Lutz family moved into their dream home, the same home where Ronald DeFeo had murdered his parents, brothers, and sisters just one year earlier. The psychic phenomena that followed created the most terrifying experience the Lutz family had ever encountered, forcing them to flee the house in 28 days, convinced that it was possessed by evil spirits. Their fantastic story, never before disclosed in full detail, makes for an unforgettable book with all the shocks and gripping suspense of The Exorcist, the Omen, or Rosemary’s Baby, but with one vital difference – the story is true.

Clearly the story is fiction, but there was something about the book’s journalistic style that gave it a “scarier” edge. Moreover, I read the book while I was still quite young, maybe 13 or so, after having already watched the movie. The combination of the imagery of the film (as terrible as it was), combined with the vivid descriptions in the book (of the red room, the eyes in the window, of Jodie, and of the little girl singing whenever she entered her room) I was downright scared. I can honestly say that I slept with a light on for years after reading that book. Even more potentially embarrassing is that I reread the book several years ago (I was probably 34 at the time), and I was still scared by it.

A lot of that can be explained (or rationalized), by the fact that I am a product of a Catholic school education, and for better or worse, anything dealing with devils, demons, or possession really do still scare me. I think those Irish nuns really implanted the fear of the devil deep in my subconscious, that no matter how skeptical and rational I am, books like this one will always have the power to elicit a true fear response from me. And let me just add that nothing can or will ever convince me to move into a house with those windows that look like eyes….

Here’s the first part of a segment about the Amityville haunting on that old tv show, “In Search Of”. Creepy.

Enjoy!

To Do…

Earlier today, Marc Schuster at Abominations posted this comic, and as an obsessive list-maker myself, I have entire notebooks devoted to planning future lists (I’m not kidding), I just had to share this.

I also recently read his soon-to-be released book, The Grievers, which was fantastic. I’ll be writing about it as soon as this week settles down a bit.

Cosmological Matryoshkas!

I saw these last night on Open Parachute, and immediately went on a hunt to find out how to acquire them. The bad news, they are not for purchase, but the story behind them is sweet. They were made as a gift, by a man whose girlfriend was studying astronomy, the best “just because” gift I have ever seen.

Day 7: A Book I Can Recite/ Quote

Although there are books that I have read repeatedly, from which I can quote (or at least paraphrase) bits and pieces, such as Huxley’s Island, Tom Robbins’ Another Roadside Attraction, or maybe even Shakespeare’s Hamlet or Henry V, there are none that I can really quote with any degree of respectable accuracy, from memory (ok, maybe with the exception of Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs & Ham).

The words that I do tend to internalize, verbatim, tend to come from poetry instead of prose. I can recall with relative ease many of the works by poets such as Allen Ginsberg, Lord Byron, William Carlos Williams, and Percy Shelley. It’s the lyrical, almost musical, nature of poetry that makes it easier for me to remember. I have an uncanny ability to recall song lyrics, even from terrible songs, after only a couple of listens. Anything set to music seems to go right into my long-term memory, and poetry shares that same musical quality.

Writing this post is making me remember a wonderful poetry anthology titled Beowulf to Beatles: Approaches to Poetry. I came across this book by chance. I had just moved to DeKalb, Illinois and was feeling incredibly homesick until I found this great old used bookstore right on the main street. I remember walking in and feeling intoxicated by the smell of the old books with their yellowed pages. My homesickness melted away as I browsed the shelves, and I walked out with an old ratty copy of the book, who’s $1.50 price tag fit right into my budget at the time. In this book, as the title implies, the poetry of Byron sits comfortably next to the lyrics of Bob Dylan, just as they do in my mind.

It’s an old textbook, I believe, but a great addition to anyone’s library, certainly anyone who loves either poetry or music. I loaned my copy to someone years ago and haven’t seen it since, but inspired by this post, I just re-ordered it; a used copy, just like I remember it.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar!

Reblogged from Motley News:

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That is IT! I have HAD it up to my pre-menopausal eyeballs! Ladies, and men who support women and see us as your equals, it is time to get MAD! Or get even MADDER! Time to be vocal, time to stand up for our rights!!! I am going to rant, and I mean rant hard! This may end up being a babble-fest, but damn it, I’ve got to get this off my chest. Or should I say breasts, as I am a woman and freakin’ damn proud of it! …

I normally try to stay away from politics here, but this is one issue that really has angry lately, and this morning I came across this post that captures my sentiments just perfectly.

Day 6: Favorite Young Adult Novel

Before I begin this post, an admission… I don’t think that I have ever read a “Young Adult” novel, even as a young adult. I have a vague memory of being forced to read a book titled My Darling, My Hamburger my freshman year of high school, and I also remember finding the book as ridiculously bad as the title. As a result, although it’s the only young-adult book I’ve read, I would hardly call it a favorite, and my memory of it is too dim to even begin to write about it.

I will also admit that I considered skipping day six of the challenge entirely, or maybe just stating that I didn’t and hadn’t read any young adult fiction and leaving it at that. But that changed when I spoke to some of my students. I casually mentioned this book challenge to one of my groups, and quickly the class was consumed by reading suggestions from the students. I was so thrilled by their enthusiasm that I decided that we could take a break from history for a while and talk about books. After a good half-hour of plot summaries and excited interruptions by other students with their own suggestions, I was given a short-list of books, (The Book Thief, Hunger Games, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian) and I promised to buy and read one of them for today’s challenge.

During my lunch time, I headed over to the nearest bookstore and weighed my options. The Book Thief looked excellent, but I didn’t think that one night would be enough time to give it a good, thorough read, and the other books just didn’t appeal to me, except for Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children I’ve always had a bit of an attraction to darker stories, and as I flipped through the pages of the book I was immediately captured by the Victorian era photographs of very odd, and a bit creepy, children. And what a perfectly Gothic title. The decision was made and I walked out with the book.

The story, written by Ransom Riggs, brings those photos to life as the characters that populate this eerie little book. The protagonist is Jacob, a sixteen year old boy who begins to discover that there is much more to both him and the world around him than he could have ever imagined, and that the seemingly apocryphal stories his grandfather used to tell him were grounded in strange, and often disturbing truths. The story itself unfolds in a home for “peculiar children” on a windswept island off of the coast of Wales. The house, although destroyed in a Nazi bombing in 1940, still exists in some kind of a temporal loop, where these children remain safe and hidden. After the sudden and violent death of his grandfather, Jacob embarks on a quest for answers, armed only with the strange photographs his grandfather used to show him, and a mysterious letter. The story that followed was enjoyable, if not a little predictable, and although I did get pretty engrossed in the narrative, I thoroughly disliked the ending which made a sequel all but necessary (and after checking the author’s website, part two has already been confirmed).

What I loved the most about this book were the photographs, and at times the descriptions of the characters that seemed to make those photos come to life. I’ve always tended to get lost in old photographs, creating stories in my mind about who the people were, and what kind of lives they lived. I did it often as a child, constructing entire worlds from my great-grandmother’s treasure trove of old turn-of-the-century photographs, and I still occasionally find myself doing it, specially when looking at those same old amber-hued images. In this book, Riggs does the very same thing except he takes it much further, he builds an entire narrative based on a group of old photos, giving those strangers both a voice and a story. That the photos he based the book on were filled with strange and eerie images of seemingly supernatural children just added the enjoyment that I derived from the book.

As an interesting side note, Riggs acquired the photographs used in his book from the archives of several major collectors. After looking at nearly 100,000 photos, he finally settled on several hundred, out of which he selected 44 to use in this book.