Dallas' Book Report: Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe (1985)

      

 Thomas Ligotti has been called "the best-kept secret in contemporary horror fiction." At least as far as The Washington Post is concerned, and to an extent--that is correct. Ligotti existed in the liminal spaces of horror fiction for many years, building up a dedicated following but never quite breaking it into the mainstream like Stephen King or Dean Koontz has. That is until 2015, when his duology collection of short stories, Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe, was released by Penguin Classics. As an owner of this collection, the front cover caught my attention immediately with its dismal and humorous design. The man looks like the rapper Drake became a cheap clown who smokes to cope with the fact that he is behind on his mortgage, and the stress of it all aged him up considerably. In fact, that kind of sums up Thomas Ligotti himself in several ways. 
        Can someone give this man a hug? I'm not one for saccharine displays of affection towards those who are having a "bad day." The most one will get out of me (unless you are very close to me) is a pat on the back. But in the case of Thomas Ligotti, it seems like the man has been long overdue for a hug, some therapy sessions, and a pat on the back for years to come. Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe show just how dark and nihilistic horror fiction can be. But is it any good?
        To put it simply, yes. But in good conscience I cannot recommend the collection to most readers--horror fans or not. The usual suspects of a lack of recommendation are not because there is anything too gory or frightening about it, but because of the subject matter. The main crux of the horror of Ligotti is his insistence that existence itself is a mistake and his use of horror fiction to drive the morose point home. Unlike other horror authors who depend on creatures that go bump in the night or axe-wielding maniacs to induce scares, Ligotti's work is filled with a slow-burning existential dread. There is no literal monster to defeat, like a lot of other horror yarns, because the monster is something intangible and far more frightening--the absurdity of life itself. 
        Is this the only reason for not recommending this collection of short stories? Far from it, the author's writing style might seem off-putting to many readers as well. While reading, I was awestruck by the seemingly overuse of purple prose which, while written exquisitely, had me doing literary double takes to make sense of what was happening on the pages of this tome. Ligotti doesn't just explain what is happening in his various stories--he extrapolates to a poetic level. 
        While this was not my first rodeo with Ligotti's writing, that claim to fame goes to his non-fiction book Conspiracy Against the Human Race, I was expecting at least a little more variety of horror stories. Ligotti, although he does the trick well, is kind of a one-trick pony: Life is bad, the world is a prison, and everyone is helpless to do anything about it. While not entirely wrong about a few of those things, there is a sense that the themes begin to bleed together so much that it becomes pointless to even read the rest of the collection.  
        Admittedly, I enjoyed what I read from Ligotti. It might not be the forte of many, but for a cynical grumpy-pants curmudgeon like me, it is up my alley. Might seem weird to say that, considering the stones I may have seemed to cast on Mr. Ligotti's work. However, if there were to be anything from Ligotti's collection of stories I would recommend, it would have to be Frolic, which is his easiest and most streamlined story in regards to themes; less existential nihilism and more typical psycho-on-the-loose story, kind of like a slasher flick without the blood. After that, The Chymist is an evocative and creepy tale with an unreliable narrator at the helm, complete with a great twist ending. And finally, Ligotti's (in my opinion) magnum opus, The Last Feast of Harlequin, sums up Ligotti in a bite-sized manner in the best way possible. 
        I enjoy his work for what it is: being a certified sourpuss and all. But your milage for misery may vary.