The Three Imposters, by Arthur Machen: ***3/8

My friend Craig suggested I read this book, as it is one of his favorite recent discoveries. I quickly understood why. The book is essentially a series of connected stories, all of which could stand on their own. In fact, a couple of the chapters are included as short stories in other collections - notably "The Novel of the White Powder" and "The Novel of the Black Seal." Although at first it seems that each of these stories is an individual, unrelated experience, deeper connections begin to appear as the stories progress. This is a classic instance of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts, which considering the quality of the individual parts is quite impressive indeed. I loved so many things about the novel, from the Dickensian lead characters to the atmosphere of turn-of-the-century London to the horror growing from each tale. It's funny, intriguing, and horrifying all at once. I also love the story-within-a-story approach, which Gene Wolfe uses to great effect throughout his novels. Wolfe's Peace in particular is in that style, but many of his others include that approach as well. Machen's Imposters collection comes close to being simply a themed collection of short stories, but it's most definitely not, and the result is a staggering success. It's also very well-written, with readable but intelligent prose.

Machen works in a similar world as other better-known early horror/fantasy writers including Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith, and I would recommend Machen to fans of either. There's a similar level of imagination at work here, though this book also has touches of Sherlock Holmes-style mystery. I'm excited to read other works by Machen. A note: the first few pages of the book are extremely confusing. After the introduction, it becomes much easier to read.

Quotes:
pg. 24: "I heard the men talking to one another of the great profits to be made on the virgin soil of America, and two or three, who were mechanics, expatiated on the wonderful wages given to skilled labour on the railways and in the factories of the States. This talk usually fell dead after a few minutes, and I could see a sickness and dismay in the faces of these men as they looked at the ugly brush or at the desolate expanse of the prairie, dotted here and there with frame houses, devoid of garden or flowers or trees, standing all alone in what might have been a great sea frozen into stillness. Day after day the waving sky-line, and the desolation of a land without form or colour or variety, appalled the hearts of such of us as were Englishmen, and once in the night as I lay awake I heard a woman sobbing and asking what she had done to come to such a place."
(Spring 2005)


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