Peter Straub

One of the great American authors has died. It's been several years since I read Peter Straub, who passed away a few days ago, but decades could pass and I'd still remember his work. He had the rare gift of combining the dead honest impression of human experience with the supernatural, and both aspects were enhanced by the juxtaposition. Ghost Story is his best known work and it's remarkable for its no bullshit vision of its characters who are intimately tied to something very strange.

He had a little bit of an internet presence in later years but I think he was too honest for this place. One of the things I'll always remember is a post he made to Facebook years ago that felt like such a marvellous anachronism. Just an honest impression of his experience at a convention of some kind. It read like a piece of published journal by an author in the '70s, like some lost Beat work or Gonzo journalism. At the time I thought, "This is great, this is exactly what the Internet needs. But he's going to catch hell." And that's just what happened. Unseen people spoke to him quietly and impressed upon him the importance for someone in his position not to say anything mean about anyone. His unflattering description of the event speaker was just that--unflattering, not really insulting. It was just part of an honest relation of his experience. But he had to apologise for it. Sometimes the internet is like the kind of person who needs therapy the most, it's therefore the same kind of person most likely to bludgeon a therapist to silence.

But fortunately, we'll always have his books. Like other great works of literature, these potent pieces of honesty are gifts for generations to come, remedies always waiting for you on the shelf.

Twitter Sonnet #1619

A plain idea was rendered weird for time.
Delaying thought, the status sucked the life.
For bread it seems is such an awful climb.
The morning bell could cut like butcher's knife.
The choice of grain diverts the stream to east.
Another pair of strangers dog the fan.
Behind the oven mitt we harvest yeast.
Another morning dropped before the pan.
The grim decisions filled a hot balloon.
In matters grave, the rapid footage dates.
But never old grew folks in Brigadoon.
Recycled scandals catch diminished rates.
Awarded dreams are broke with gentle horns.
Of this the panting crow forever warns.