The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again

The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again returns to the themes of 1997’s Signs of Life (which by coincidence I read for the first time a couple of months before this). Weathered by time, the new treatment is considerably less dramatic, the intricately eroded extrusions of a formerly vast sandstone tower, or a non-conformist friend who has long outgrown the need to spread discomfort. The results, I suspect, will only further strengthen Harrison’s reputation as a luminary of literature to be relished by future generations, as much as they may further refine his audience range today.

Much like Signs of Life, Harrison’s new novel features an aimless man drawn to work for a wild outlier, and details his on-off relationship with a somewhat feckless woman. China, evergreen boy racer and co-founder of a business business transporting medical waste, becomes Shaw, a man who drifts through life and crisis with equal confusion. Choe, the gnomic wildcard demagogue, becomes Tim, an entrepreneur who apparently makes money – not that money is ever seen, or really discussed – shipping esoteric theories around the country along with bottles of what is packaged as water. Isobel, and her literal desire to become a bird, becomes Victoria who has a severe case of ennui in pursuit of brief glimpses of the inexplicable. The characters have all grown past the need for melodrama in their lives, instead intent on exploring their own beliefs and psyches.

The plot, as much as it exists, isn’t really critical to an understanding of the book. Suffice to say the Other is given form and once you change you don’t come back. It’s rarely glimpsed in off-colour skin and diminutive figures, flashes of something almost – but not quite – odd enough to concern people. There’s is a recurring refrain of The Water Babies, those closest to change increasingly obsessed with the book.  Meanwhile Shaw visits his mother who is succumbing to dementia, and never questions what Tim tells him, and Victoria renovates a house and fails to integrate with a Welsh border town community.

Shaw, who frames the novel, exists with a lack of awareness of his internal world that makes him an absence, a symbolic collection of dialogues and actions that trouble us as much as his limited experience of the events of the novel trouble him. His fragmentary mother – both her mind and the endless half-siblings fracturing her role as his mother – collected through photos is a metaphor we relate to. Combined with Victoria’s incomplete house and unknown father, the mystery is available to us as a set on discrete elements which only crystallise if we impose alignment on them.

Meanwhile Victoria (who is much more likeable than Shaw, with her enthusiasm and drive to engage with people) inhabits, inherits and renovates her estranged mother’s house, all the while trying to find out who she really was. It’s her relationship with Pearl that gives us the closest interaction with the Events of these times, but even these are deliberately underplayed. Shallow ponds, inches deep, that have no impact on the grass they submerge are the portals, seemingly innocuous but resolutely one way. We can only deduce what they contain, never confirm.

Harrison’s work is increasingly punctuated with teleological questions that create an impressionistic world. It’s a metaphysical exercise in creation as a means, not an end. Narrative becomes a flood of ideas, images, sensations and intertextual references, collated around the blithely unaware protagonists. It’s because Harrison seems perfectly at ease with the mechanics of the illusion, arbitrary yet universal, and instead has focused on deconstructing the spell, that the unwary may find themselves disrupted by this book. There’s no easy leading through the maze to be had, instead an invitation to get lost, to walk the intertwined pathways and find your own way home.

It’s why he remains a cult figure, despite Light having been a sales hit (when a fraction of those people made it to the wondrous Empty Space, for instance). Most people don’t like it if you make the form a subject of interrogation, abandoning high stakes and the hero’s journey, placing the tension off-stage and spending as much time roaming the scenery as you do with the characters. It’s like Waiting for Godot (frequently just as funny as well) crossed with Koyaanisqatsi. It’s all a bit weird, but not in a way you can easily describe to those who haven’t seen.

The feeling is that of an errant film crew realising the next series of Grand Designs they’re making equates to precisely zero achievement from any perspective, and, so shorn of the compulsion to create narrative out of everything, they take their cameras up into the hills to find the experiential world (and possibly some psilocybin), whilst in the town below the vast and wild idea that a separate evolutionary line is emerging gleefully skips into the sunset with their truth.

Ultimately Shaw raids Tim’s secret closet – Tim doesn’t care, having passed on long before – and discards an anodyne body into the Thames. It’s a potentially frustrating moment for the unwary, where the many questions implied in the book are discarded with a similar ease. If you haven’t found your own answers by that point you’ll need to take a punt on ‘What actually happened’. It’s in the snippets of overheard conversations, passing strangers’ phone calls, and excised clauses of radio stations, that we must assign our meanings. Shaw could be any of his mother’s children; Victoria has left it too late to know her mother; the other people are our future, or our past, or something else. The text exists as cascading strata of potential context, and any desire to assign the Author’s meaning will lead to dissatisfaction.

This isn’t to suggest Harrison is teasing us, instead that he has perhaps spent a career trying to isolate prose, even the constituent images, with uniquely intractable yet fascinating results. Of course your mileage may vary – that’s the whole point.

Black Friday and the flesh-eating elephant in the room

Sometimes you encounter unlikely bedfellows at exactly the right time. This happened to me with Song-ho Yeon’s Train to Busan (2016), Wolfgang Streeck’s collected essays, How Will Capitalism End? (2017) and Black Friday. They sit together so well it’s frightening.

First, a quick precis of Streeck’s hypotheses: We’re screwed.

A slightly longer one is that capitalism is consuming itself at an ever increasing pace. We are fleeing a series of crises, from global inflation in the ’70s, to soaring public debt in the ’80s, to public debt in the ’90s and ’00s, reaching a peak in the global financial crisis. With neoliberal agendas of deregulation expanding and technocrat governments, shepherded by undemocratic bodies like the ECB and IFS, firmly established globally. The effects? Wanton inequality, and a slow-burn cataclysm on the horizon.

But what does that have to do with zombies?

The watershed ‘zombie moment’ for recent generations was George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968). Suddenly we were all vulnerable, as the domestic world turned on itself. Touching on racism, domestic violence, and the corruption at the heart of the American Dream, zombies were no longer individuals trapped in slavery, they were normal people. Zombification became amoral and our response to it the subject of judgement.

By Dawn of the Dead (1978) the focus had shifted to consumerism eating itself, where the only route to survival was to grab every luxury item you can and barricade yourself in the garret. Skip ahead to the 2004 remake and rage zombies trashed the shopping centres. Consumerism gets nihilistic as you take your jollies where you can, because isolation is only a temporary solution.

Come 2017, Train to Busan the tropes are established. Yeon lays waste to his nation in moments, leaving his heroes with the clothes on their backs. It’s not clear his zombies are vulnerable in any way until the final scene. This cannibalistic singularity is an assumed inevitability. And who are our key figures hoping to survive? Why, two proud exponents of the capitalist system, a system explicitly implicated in the release of the film’s virus.

There are obviously countless variations of the zombie metaphor, but it seems to me this trend towards rage zombies fetishises our impotence in the face of consumption. The weight of climate change and over-population is inescapable. The apocalypse will be anthropogenic because we are all aware, consciously or otherwise, our civilisations are eating themselves.

Busan offers two angles on neoliberalism – one deathbed redemption and one true to the system till the end – but they are token manifestations against a system gone mad. They are simplifications for us to anthropomorphise. Aspects of a narrative we consume. Flesh to be eaten.

Of the two – Yeon and Streeck – only Streeck offers any real solutions, however little faith he has in their actually coming to pass. Regulation and an enforced redistribution of wealth and power. Fundamental and wholesale changes to our financial and political systems. A democratic phoenix from the ashes.

It’s true that Yeon has the Redeker Plan to fall back on: Lock the gates and damn anyone outside them. But narratives need completing where reality doesn’t. And the despair of Song-ho’s completion seems all too reasonable when coupled with Streeck’s bleak warnings.

Perhaps this is why, on that Train to Busan, I found myself drawn to Yong-guk and Jin-hee, two teenagers betrayed by the older, richer, Yon-suk. This capitalist fuck (to use the scientific classification) throws a young girl to the monsters to save himself. Her boyfriend, overcome with grief and trauma, lets himself be eaten by her. The scene is staged like a corrupted Romeo and Juliet.

That despair is all too familiar in a UK where the older generation has betrayed the younger. The panacea of Black Friday doesn’t work on me. Worse, the feverish quality to our festivals of consumption disturb me.

The only question seems to be: When the end comes, will it be slow or quick?

Empty Space in the Kefahuchi Tract

On a long-haul flight, I read M. John Harrison’s Empty Space: A Haunting, the final part of his startling Kefahuci Tract trilogy. I found it compelling, bewildering, funny and shot through with an ennui of the uncategorisable. This is an immediate, pre-rationalisation, attempt to explain why.

For those not familiar with his work, Harrison is a ‘writer’s writer’ who has long-inhabited a fuzzy post-genre territory. Liminal is a word often used. Transitional, cross-border ideas. Given Empty Space: A Haunting includes space opera, pseudo-noir, occultism and near-as-dammit-future-as-to-be-today fiction, you can see why. To take it further, Harrison is interested in lacunas, singularities and our relationship with the incomprehensible. Like VanderMeer’s Area X and the zone of Roadside Picnic/Stalker, this is one of the defining characteristics of the Kefahuchi Tract.

This capstone to a trilogy serves to unite the narrative strands woven in Light and Nova Swing, but my feeling is the narrative is just one aspect of what’s important with Harrison. I could tell you the key events, and you wouldn’t receive any particular wisdom about these books. In fact, it would probably mislead. Matthew Cheney’s review for Strange Horizons explains why that is:

Character lists and plot summaries do no good because the story of these characters is a series of patterns (of differences and repetitions) that, in terms of plot, do not function through traditional causality; and, in terms of character, do not function in terms of traditional psychology. We can cluster words of the text into concepts of character, plot, and setting without any trouble—but these concepts don’t do much within our habitualized logic of narrative sense […] Most of what happens and where it happens is comprehensible on its own surface terms, related in regular English words. But unlike puzzle pieces or falling dominoes, the events of Empty Space don’t knock one by one into the next; instead, they flow like falling rain or the code that scrolls down the assistant’s arm.

What is so striking, instead, is the rich allusive web of the books. In the far-future sequences, where the Tract has fallen onto the planets of the beach, meaning is both ubiquitous and out of reach. Commoditised nostalgia lets the Assistant live like a 1950s housewife (complete with misogyny and inadequate dominant males), people choose which era Marilyn Monroe they want to be and much, much more. And yet ghosts walk among them, adverts live to literally pursue their demographic, viral code infects people and alien artefacts periodically wander out of the Tract and try to pass themselves off as human.

As with Ulysses, you could track every allusion Harrison makes if you wanted – something Cheney nods to. It would take years, and no doubt prove fascinating, but wouldn’t give you the shape of the book. Instead, you’d end up with a mysterious symbol, an occult ritual of post-its, pins and hyperlinks, and perhaps a sense of earned value embracing a profound loss Harrison would appreciate, given wit like this:

Renoko felt that kitsch was a product of an event he named ‘the postmodern ironisation’, prior to which it could not exist: before that, the objects you could now describe as kitsch were actually trash objects. ‘Without the operation of irony on trash,’ he maintained, ‘there would be no kitsch.’ To him, the postmodern ironisation  was like the Death of History or the coming Singularity. ‘Everything was changed by it. Nothing could be the same again. It had the irreversibly transformational qualities of a Rapture.’

But what about this empty space? Throughout the book, space is reeling with stuff. The infinite void teems with data, bizarre physics, dust and sensory experience. Everything is soaked in synaesthesia, so you taste and touch and smell the hyper-reality of eleven-dimensional space. It is slick, viscous and rich. The physical realities presented are overwhelming. The empty space is all within, in the dissonance of our comprehension even as we define things by what we don’t know about them. To quote:

In addition, physical limitations seemed to apply. The past was clear enough to see, but you get as if you were engaging with it from to far away. Sometimes speech failed completely, and Anna could make herself known only in other ways, via the weather, for instance, or showers of emotionally-charged objects. It was as if the universe she now inhabited had suffered brain damage, and was experiencing a confusion not between different senses but between different states of energy and matter. She was reduced to a kind of practical synaesthesia. She was reduced to the use of theatre, metaphor, symbols and emotions. She tried everything, but remained an epiphenomenon of her own life, a figure distantly semaphoring tragic news from a hill.

We are Liv and Antoyne, retreating from the cargo hold which contains alien artefacts and what’s left of Ed Chianese, after he returns from the Tract. We are the Assistant, pursuing herself, never able to communicate across the breach. We are Anna, finally escaping the legacy of her serial killer husband, Michael Kearney, by becoming the singularity that is the Aleph. Same as the Assistant, she finds harmony in the simultaneous acts of self-destruction and becoming.

Amidst this swirl of lost people, incapable of defining themselves, awash in this excess of stuff, I found solace in the objects. There are moments of consistency, stable points to latch on to. You see it when objects are experienced the same way by different people. Even when they are bizarre, like a vulva protruding from a wall, there is a security to be had knowing that thing will always be seen in a particular way.

That consistency of description becomes our Rosetta Stone. Harrison is a liminal writer, interested in our relationship with the unknowable. The empty space is within us; we know where the ghosts live.


Some thoughts on S. – The words

So after all the gushing of my previous article on Doug Dorst and J.J. Abrams’ meta-bonanza, S. an important question remains unanswered – is it a good book?

The problem here is that all of the ambition which makes for such an incredible artefact comes back to bite Dorst and Abrams. They neatly demonstrate one of the real risks with writing meta-anything which is this: it’s all too easy to sell empathy and emotion short in the pursuit of complicated architecture. You still need a good story and characters, or you’re screwed.

What it all comes down to is that, of the two key stories at work – The Ship of Theseus, and the relationship between Jen and Eric, the two students writing in the margins – only one commands any empathy. Straka’s masterpiece, which supposedly has hypnotised readers and critics alike for decades, feels sterile. Perhaps this is because it is made first and foremost to provide the roots of all the other narratives, but Dorst’s adopted style feels staid, denying any real access to S’s inner world. Add in the pervading mystery of who S is and you start to hear the echoing tones of hollowness.

The Ship of Theseus takes a while to really get going, and when it does you find yourself looking back at the opening chapters and wondering why they’re there. As far as I can tell they are there to establish S’s amnesia, one mostly absent character and not much else. S’s amnesia is integral to the meta-story so it becomes the tail wagging the dog. Somewhere along the line Dorst lost site of Straka’s work being a book in its own right.

Once you start juggling potential identities for Straka you then have lots of names (handily codified into acronyms just in case you were keeping up), dates and events outside the book to manage as well. Now I’m not normally one to complain about asking the reader to do some work, but it started to feel like a bit of a chore.

It’s something I suspect Dorst realised as well though, because one of the possible identities for this Straka chap is that of a pirate. No one takes it seriously but Jen says at one point that she likes the pirate idea best. It’s exciting, it’s engaging and I agree! Ok, ok, it’s not as considered or meaningful as the actual resolution, but it would have been less wearying to read.

In fact, some considerable mental agility is also required to successfully read S. because the marginal notes are everywhere and most pages require you to hold The Ship of Theseus in your head whilst you catch up with Jen and Eric. The only other things that made me work that hard are William S. Burroughs and The Illuminatus! Trilogy, both of which try to replicate narcotic dissociative experiences (AKA being reeeeeeeally fucking high) on paper. But it’s also only a matter of time before you start thinking how conveniently arranged the marginal notes are in terms of understanding their story. There are a few notes that jump ahead to tease, but mainly it’s all laid out for you. In such a meticulous work it acts as another brick in the barrier between you and an empathetic connection.

The other major issue I have with The Ship of Theseus is its ending. For one thing it’s a massive tease without the meta-story, banging the final nail in the coffin of its chances as a standalone work. For another, it smacks of an anachronistic populism. It’s hard not to read the book today and think, ‘Hey, that’s a hip message. I can get on board with that.’ Except it was supposedly written in 1949. Ok, admittedly it’s the same year as 1984 was published, but it’s just a little too convenient, you know?

All of that said, Jen and Eric are very real creations, leaping out of the page at you (literally, if you open the book too quickly) and the strongest parts of the book are undoubtedly their confessional moments. The anonymity of writing notes allows them to confront their demons together. There is a very real sense of two people meeting, coming to know each other and then peeling away the layers of their defences. There is something genuinely intimate – perhaps even to the point of feeling invasive – about their story. But these moments are over far too quickly.

So there you have it. Maybe this makes me a churlish bastard but however wonderful I think aspects of S. are the whole left me dissatisfied. It’s a real labour of love and I can appreciate how elegant the structure is, how much thought went into it and that if nothing else it is A Beautiful Thing. But part of me wishes Dorst and Abrams had taken the time to leave it alone, then come back to it and realise, ‘You know, I’m not sure I care about this S guy…’

Some thoughts on S. – the paper

This morning, over breakfast, I finished reading S. the singular and vastly ambitious work of Doug Dorst, based on J.J. Abrams concept. This genuinely is one of the most interesting and exciting books I have seen in a very long time and it deserves attention for some important reasons.

Trying to describe S. is something of a minefield, where every step you take explodes into a fistful of questions that you don’t want to answer because, well, you need to experience it for yourself. What I can tell you is that S. is the story of a fictional tale (that’s near to being a tautology I realise, but bear with me), The Ship of Theseus, written by one V.M. Straka. The protagonist is the eponymous (of the overall work, if not the story he inhabits) S. who has no idea who he is, and who is promptly Shanghaied into service on a mysterious, and nameless, ship.

The problem with this (fictional) V.M. Straka is that no-one knows who he really was and his identity was a closely-guarded secret up to and beyond his death. As you can imagine, academics (in the world of S.) have a great interest in discovering who Straka really was, indeed his identity is posited as a grail of contemporary literary studies.

So far, so linear, right? However, this is just the first thread because the artefact you hold is presented as a library book printed in 1949 (first edition, none the less), complete with Dewey decimal reference on a spine sticker, withdrawal stamps and the lot. There are footnotes throughout from the translator, who may or may not have amended the text of The Ship of Theseus. And critically, in the margins, on and around all of the text you have notes left by two student Straka-philes who want to know his real identity just like everyone else. Pretty cool, eh? Except that there’s more – these two students come to know each other through this book, leaving notes, postcards, photos, newspaper clippings and even doodles on napkins. Meta, meet the twins Meta-meta and Meta-meta-meta and their mother Recursion.

There are a lot of things about S. that interest me, so much so that this will be the first of two articles. Whilst the artefact and story are intrinsically intertwined there are two key discussions. One is the how it works as literature, which I will come to later. The other is what it represents for publishing.

The first thing to acknowledge is that as a piece of physical production it’s incredible. This is hardcore book porn of the filthiest kind: a debossed hardbound book with slipcase, 4/4 printing with each page designed to appear stained by time and with 20-odd inserts (including one (what meta-joy!) that is an insert into an insert). Lord knows how they’ll make any money off it when Amazon are selling it at half price, but bless them for making it.

Once you are past the inevitable craven moments of stroking that come with first opening it, however, the thoughts begin. What have they made here? How am I meant to read it? Do I start with the story then go back and do the footnotes? What about the photos? Does it matter that I don’t know who is writing the notes at the start? Or how many of them there are? And why does it feel like I’m reading the internet?

Because that’s what this book is: It’s hypertext fiction finally being produced with gusto and a full budget. Except it’s a physical book, not a website. In fact, I can’t really see how it would work as a digital format. It’s futurist but dependent on its traditional routes, swilling the meta-irony round its mouth with gleeful hedonism. It’s hard not to think of David Foster Wallace disappearing down the rabbit hole of footnotes within footnotes and digressions that subsume the narrative, mining the depths of literary form for something irreducible. However it feels like this is a lifeline back to reality, to a place between the real world and the prodigal depths. This isn’t Infinite Jest, S. is a tightly controlled work, intricately planned and surprisingly open to interpretation but also concise, coherent and contained in its own right.

It’s hard to shake the feeling you are browsing through a private wiki or Google Doc – especially as the marginal notes get more personal and confessional. I also find it hard to think of it in any other terms. When you are flicking ahead 50 pages on the instructions of one of the marginal notes, where you can’t help but glance around, you realise you’ve just clicked on a link before you finished reading the article you started at. In part, the result is that to read S. successfully requires a greater tolerance for tension and uncertainty than most books I know. You are tapping a stream of information, of multiple stories, not reading one book.

After all, these marginal notes aren’t chronological, so the story of the readers comes at you from all points of their story. Think The Time-Traveller’s Wife without the handy date references. In fact, you start to feel very grateful that they had different colour pens. You start to notice that the red ink is more faded than the black so it must be older. You become an archaeologist without realising it.

This is the single greatest joy of the book, the way it puts you into a range of positions without any coercion or effort. It throws four narratorial voices at you, a bunch of missing identities, gives you no help with chronology and teases you with huge unknowns right from the outset. Yet as you read you accept all of this. Your relationships with the literary and physical are simultaneous. You read words that explain one mystery, another is unfurled in the texture of a napkin.

That napkin really is something else by the way – all of these inserts are produced on appropriate stock, made as authentic as possible. The napkin really is two-ply loose weave, the ink over-saturating the paper. The photo really is glossy with the watermarks striping the back. Newspaper clippings are aged and ragged-edged. Everything speaks as an artefact, the medium embraces the message.

All of this gushing does have a point. Both within the publishing industry and without, there has been a lot of discussion about what the growth of ePub and digital formats means for publishing and ‘The Book’.

For a while now I’ve been telling people that the mass-market paperback will go the way of the dodo and that digital will take over. Maybe it won’t die out, but at some point reading devices will become ubiquitous and the mountains of unsaleable second-hand copies of E.L. James and Dan Brown books will turn in to un-accessed files taking up space on every burgeoning hard drives.

I’ve also been telling people that print won’t die any time soon. Instead it will become the preserve of high-end and beautiful works. Coffee table books, photography collections, graphic novels and gorgeous hardbound books, to name a few – the neophytes can’t deny that we will always enjoy creating and owning beautiful things.

Hypertext fiction, enhanced ePubs, augmented reality and all the other blurring lines between technology and interaction are coming. Our artistic relationship with these mediums is in many ways nascent, first fluttering its eyelids open to play with new ways of interacting. S. may well be remembered as one of the first books that transcended the format of The Book.

Ambrose Bierce and The Devil’s Dictionary

Ambrose Bierce is a figure worth of some attention. Whilst I haven’t yet delved into the details of his life, from the examples given below, you’ll see that he was a man possessed of a fearsome wit. Further, anyone who manages to shroud the circumstance of their own death in mystery, whilst in the company of Pancho Villa and in the vicinity of Chihuahua can be taken to be an interesting character.

I came back around to one of his more famous works, through the ever intriguing Drabblecast. This work is The Devil’s Dictionary and it is available in ever-convenient website format. In the website’s words:

Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary was a newspaper weekly first collected as a book in 1906. While the book represents diabolical appetites, and derides pretense, it should be noted that Bierce generally reserved his severest ridicule for those who benefit most from the status quo. It’s easy to imagine him a century later relying less on casual political incorrectness, to pay better tribute to those who couldn’t overindulge enough on the prosperity that took place.

So why am I telling you about all of this? Well here are some examples:

BACKBITE, v.t. To speak of a man as you find him when he can’t find you.

BAROMETERn. An ingenious instrument which indicates what kind of weather we are having.

CONGRATULATION, n. The civility of envy.

CONSERVATIVE, n. A statesman who is enamored of existing evils, as distinguished from the Liberal, who wishes to replace them with others.

QUORUM, n. A sufficient number of members of a deliberative body to have their own way and their own way of having it. In the United States Senate a quorum consists of the chairman of the Committee on Finance and a messenger from the White House; in the House of Representatives, of the Speaker and the devil.

HERSpro. His.

TRUCEn. Friendship.

TYPEn. Pestilent bits of metal suspected of destroying civilization and enlightenment, despite their obvious agency in this incomparable dictionary.

Mr Bierce, I salute you. I’m off the read The Meaning of Liff again.

Something I learned in 2011

UPDATE – 13th January 2012: I’ve tracked down some of the easier ones (i.e. they were in the Apple dictionary). Some of the obvious portmanteaus stand out now, such as embranglement. I’ll check on the rest as soon as I get near my Compact OED and magnifying glass.

Nick Cave knows a lot more words than I do. Having just read And the Ass Saw the Angel (intensely graphic and atmospheric like the more recent, and excellent, Death of Bunny Munroe, but also more formless and difficult to keep a grip on) I have discovered that Nick Cave has quite a wide vocabulary. F’rinstance:

Adumbrate – ˈadəmˌbrāt; əˈdəm-|

verb [ trans. ] formal

report or represent in outline : James Madison adumbrated the necessity that the Senate be somewhat insulated from public passions.

  • indicate faintly : the walls were not more than adumbrated by the meager light.
  • foreshadow or symbolize : what qualities in Christ are adumbrated by the vine?
  • overshadow : her happy reminiscences were adumbrated by consciousness of something else.
Afflatus – |əˈflātəs|

noun formal

a divine creative impulse or inspiration.

Cachinnations – |ˈkakəˌnāt|

verb [ intrans. ]

poetic/literarylaugh loudly.

Caducity – |kəˈd(y)oōsitē|

noun archaic

the infirmity of old age; senility.

Caliginous – |kəˈlijənəs|

adjective archaic

misty, dim; obscure, dark.

Claque – |klak|


a group of people hired to applaud (or heckle) a performer or public speaker.

  • a group of sycophantic followers : the president was surrounded by a claque of scheming bureaucrats.
Conceptus – |kənˈseptəs|

noun ( pl. -tuses ) technical

the embryo in the uterus, esp. during the early stages of pregnancy.

Corvine – |ˈkôrˌvīn|


of or like a raven or crow, esp. in color.

Formication – |ˌfôrmiˈkā sh ən|


a sensation like insects crawling over the skin.

Horripilation – |hôˌripəˈlā sh ən; hə-|

noun poetic/literary

the erection of hairs on the skin due to cold, fear, or excitement.

Hypertrophia – |hīˈpərtrəfē|

noun Physiology

the enlargement of an organ or tissue from the increase in size of its cells.

  • excessive growth.
Murine – |ˈmyoŏrˌīn|

adjective Zoology

of, relating to, or affecting mice or related rodents.

  • Murine rodents belong to the family Muridae, in particular the subfamily Murinae of the Old World.
Paludal – |pəˈloōdl; ˈpalyədl|

adjective Ecology

(of a plant, animal, or soil) living or occurring in a marshy habitat.

Perfervid – |pərˈfərvid|

adjective poetic/literary

intense and impassioned : perfervid nationalism.

Rebarbative – |rəˈbärbətiv|

adjective formal

unattractive and objectionable : rebarbative modern buildings.

Stridor – |ˈstrīdər|


a harsh or grating sound : the engines’ stridor increased.

  • Medicine a harsh vibrating noise when breathing, caused by obstruction of the windpipe or larynx.
Theophany – |θēˈäfənē|

noun ( pl. -nies)

a visible manifestation to humankind of God or a god.

Virescent – |vəˈresənt; vī-|

adjective poetic/literary


Granted, I suspect a percentage of these are portmanteaus, deliberately malformed constructs produced by the mute and self-educated narrator. I still find myself in a uniquely piqued position, however, so that I will endeavour to identify all of them over coming weeks and update the list here.

It is entirely possible that I will then start using them in conversation, intentionally or otherwise. For this I apologise in advance.