Today I want to write about a certain joy I'm experiencing knowing that the old Leisure Books horror stable has, to some extent, been replaced by Deadite Press.
I was a member of Leisure's horror book club, and got small orgasms when their monthly box of books lobbed against my door. It's not often that horror comes to you in a surprise package like the one Leisure used to send. For their troubles, I paid them about twelve bucks a month. Hardly a fortune considering the work that goes into a book. I wasn't a fan of all the Leisure authors, and I must admit I read a dozen pages of some books and abandoned them. That was rare, though.
When it comes to horror, some themes just don't float my boat these days. I take a dim view of voodoo stories and voodoo rituals. Fuck off with that. I'm almost beyond being convinced to read another haunted house story. They've been done to death -- literally. Perhaps that's why writers keep writing them. It's arrogance. A belief that their haunted house story will be a fresh one. I'm sure it can be done, but it's hard to work up the energy to read another. New zombie stories are still appearing on bookshelves. I avoid them. Zero interest. Vampires? Time to lay them to rest for a while. Twilight pussified the genre while broadening one side of its audience. The side with vaginas and braces.
If you're on the fringes of or deep inside the horror community, you probably know about the demise of Leisure and the company's shabby treatment of its writers. Film distributors treat their filmmakers like this pretty much all the time, so Leisure's disrespect for writers didn't seem too shocking to me. Terrible, yes, and unforgivable, of course, but not shocking to someone who's been fucked upside-down and sideways by film distributors. Some Leisure authors such as Brian Keene, Bryan Smith, and JF Gonzalez extricated themselves and their book rights from Leisure and fled to Deadite; others are still untangling the mess Leisure left them in. There are rumors, however, that Amazon may offer refuge and some outstanding checks. I wish these folks well.
Deadite Press is an imprint of Eraserhead Press, the home of the Bizarro genre, and base of Bizarro Central. Deadite is releasing both new books and re-releasing older books. Some of Leisure's old horror titles are turning up on Deadite in refined versions with vivid new covers and in trade paperback size. As far as I know, Deadite doesn't have a monthly book club set-up, but their books are very reasonably priced and can be accessed via a link on their site. The link usually carries you through to Amazon. Titles I've purchased recently have been Like Porno For Psychos (Wraith James White), Genital Grinder (Ryan Harding), Hero (JF Gonzalez/White), The Cage (Brian Keene), The Dark ones (Bryan Smith), All You Can Eat (Shane McKenzie), and Take the Long Way Home (Keene).
The presentation of their books and cover art is really impressive and provocative; you get the impression that the folks behind Deadite really do give a flying fuck about what they're doing. Their love shows. I've yet to see any crappy art like the shit poor old Ray Garten had to endure with Leisure's release of Bestial and Ravenous. Masterton's Blind Panic got fucked up the nasal passage, too. Gary A. Braunbeck's Coffin County paperback had a cover that was conceptually strong but poorly executed. It would hardly have jumped off the shelf at you.
To be fair, Leisure, under editor Don D'Auria, did a lot of things right, too, by getting behind some terrific writers and bestowing some books with potent cover art. Now, some of these guys and gals might argue that Leisure got close enough behind them to slip an unwanted penis (at least financially) into any available orifice, but it needs to be said that Leisure did create a profile for authors like Keene, Smith, Gonzalez, and Wrath James White, a profile that's enabled them to soldier forth into brighter theaters of literary combat. Sad really that it all had to end in a sweaty clusterfuck. Still, these four and others have migrated to Deadite and word from them has been that Deadite are good people whose definition of getting behind you involves check writing, promotion, and timely sales reports instead of fiscal rape.
Leisure's very impressive cover art for Lee's The Golem.
The not-so-striking art for Braunbeck's Coffin County.
I hope anybody who gives two hoots about horror gives Deadite a decent shot. I don't work for them, have no professional affiliation with them (not yet, anyway!), and don't receive free books for review. I just wanna see 'em doing well... because, if they're doing well, you're getting good horror at a bargain price. That's nothing to blow snot at.
This is disturbing, stunning artwork, and I'm sure writer Mary SanGiovanni is happy with it. A book cover is so important because, despite the mantra, people do judge books by it. I know I do! Honestly, shitty, generic artwork puts me off. Art needs to evoke a feeling, a milieu, a landscape of the mind -- if it doesn't, the words beyond the covers become irrelevant to the unconverted browser because it's a 'No Sale'.
I haven't read the book yet (it's ordered!), but I already know that the arresting looking (in a dark, perverse way) Ms. San Giovanni is a very talented writer who imbues her work with an uneasy dread.
Giovanni scores again with killer cover art!
Her debut novel, The Hollower (an '07 release from the defunct Leisure horror line), was a focused piece of protracted anxiety about a thing with the ability to fuck with the deepest aspects of your self. It read smoothly and felt fresh.
"Sometimes no matter how vigilant you are, you can't keep loved ones safe" is the blurb that Bloodletting Press is using to tout the merits of this novel, a short one at one-oh-seven pages with a limited print run of one-fifty.
Kudos to the illustrator and to Bloodletting for marketing this novel with feeling.
Gotta say it: It turns me on when women write horror because they're breaking the mold. If a woman wants to go dark, she's got my attention.
Other female writers (not all horror) I admire are Caitlin R. Kiernan, Kaaron Warren, Louise Cooper, Katie Hickman, Alice Vachhs, Billie Sue Mosiman, Susan Hill, and Enid Blyton.
One of the saddest horror stories of 2010 was the demise of Leisure Books' horror line and ousting of editor Dan D'Auria. For several years, Leisure published two paperback horror novels a month from literary luminaries such as Brian Keene, Wrath James White, JF Gonzalez, Bryan Smith, Edward Lee, Ray Garton, Gord Rollo, Richard Laymon, Simon Clark, Mary Sangiovanni, Tim Lebbon, and many others. I was a member of their horror book club and always looked forward to the thud of that cardboard box of pulp goodness on my doorstep. When they started sending me books from other publishers, I smelt a James Herbert-sized rat.
For many of Leisure's authors, the end, like most ends, was a messy affair. Advances had not been received. Pending releases hung in holding patterns. Anger spilled over into blogs.
With 2011 now upon us, so is some very good news. Deadite Press, a specialty publisher with solid horror bona fides, has embraced and will be releasing the past and future work of Leisure lifeboat authors Brian Keene, JF Gonzalez, Bryan Smith, and Edward Lee, to name a few.
Deadite is already an active horror publisher and has demonstrated a healthy jones for extreme, wild, and deliciously subversive material. They also publish works from Bizarro writers such as Carlton Mellick III (Apeshit), AndreDuza (Necro Sex Machine), Adam Pepper (Super Fetus), and Robert Devereaux (Slaughter House High).
Upcoming novels from Deadite include re-publishings of the Guy N. Smith-inspired Clickers books (there are two so far) from JF Gonzalez -- if you haven't read his Survivor, you ought to, because then you'll know what it feels like to be ass-raped through your eyes. Jack's Magic Beans is coming from Brian Keene; and Bryan Smith has Highways to Hell, a new short story collection, and The Killing Kind 2, on the way.
Baby's First Book of Seriously Fuck-Up Shit, by Robert Devereaux, sounds like a must-read based on title alone; it hits stores in March. Other upcoming Devereaux titles include Santa Steps Out, Santa Conquers the Homophobes (a certain reader of this blog had better watch out!), and Book Three of the Santa Chronicles
Wrath James Wright, who wrote the troubling Succulent Prey, has His Pain out in September, and Population Zero available for immediate fondling.
Already available from Deadite and recommended is Edward Lee's Trolley No. 1852, a tale so much in the Lovecraftian tradition, it's backstory is that it was written by Lovecraft himself when he was skint. From what I've heard, the dark scribe was skint most of the time. The stories within this framework involve a strange sex club that smells like a more gentlemanly version of Ray Garton's den of slut vampires in Live Girls. By gentlemanly, I'm not suggesting that nothing much happens in Lee's club but cigar smoking and cricket chat -- on the contrary, much perversion occurs, but it's seen from Lovecraft's more sexually conservative point of view, and not described with the relish Mr. Lee is famous for.
Leisure has gone, but Deadite survives, and should thrive with its new roster of warped wordsmiths.
Here's a more official rundown of the blood-, gore-, and semen-soaked magic upcoming from the publisher:
February Urban Gothic by Brian Keene Jack’s Magic Beans by Brian Keene Clickers by J. F. Gonzalez and Mark Williams Clickers II by J. F. Gonzalez and Brian Keene
March: A Gathering of Crows by Brian Keene Take the Long Way Home by Brian Keene Baby’s First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit by Robert Devereaux (a new collection of short fiction)
April: Highways to Hell by Bryan Smith (a new collection of short fiction)
Coming later in 2011
The Corporation by J. F. Gonzalez
His Pain by Wrath James White
The Killing Kind by Bryan Smith
Freakshow by Bryan Smith
Depraved by Bryan Smith
Dark Hollow by Brian Keene
A Gathering of Crows by Brian Keene
Darkness on the Edge of Town by Brian Keene
Castaways by Brian Keene
Ghost Walk by Brian Keene
Ghoul by Brian Keene
Dead Sea by Brian Keene
Kill Whitey by Brian Keene
The Conqueror Worms by Brian Keene
The Conqueror Worms: Selected Scenes from the End of the World by Brian Keene
The Rising by Brian Keene
Walking Wounded by Robert Devereaux
Santa Steps Out by Robert Devereaux
Santa Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux
Book Three of the Santa Chronicles by Robert Devereaux
Leisure Books is an imprint of Dorchester Publishing, a large publishing group.
Currently guided by Dan D'Auria, they are a unique presence in mass market publishing because they publish two horror novels a month. In a recent interview (sorry, but I can't find the source) D'Auria did not discount the possibility of bumping the two to three. It will depend, of course, on market forces. I hope sales maintain an upward curve. Twenty-four mass market horror books a year in a country with almost 300,000,000 people (plus the rest of the world) just doesn't seem right, does it? Jesus, do most of those people really prefer American Idol and Dancing With The Stars?
These titles are from a very different era of Leisure horror. None of the authors are currently writing in the genre, if at all.
JN Williamson, a legend of sorts, died in 2005. He wrote novels and edited a shitload of horror anthologies.
William Essex, the author of Slime ('88), wrote material similar to that of Britain's Guy N. Smith, and he shared Smith's love of the lurid. Slime was a fun read, not particularly realistic, and it featured a cautious afterword by Essex warning us of the dangers of chemical contamination.
The slime of the title crawls, oozes, and eats stuff (like fingers) in the style of The Blob. One minute you've got a hand, the next minute you've got stumps. In runs along that tract.
Essex was actually John Tigges, a prolific author of pulp such as Kiss Not the Child, Vessel, Monster, and The Curse. Monster ('95) was his last horror novel.
If anybody could be considered America's answer to Guy N. Smith, it was Tigges (aka William Essex).
Fangs, from Richard Forsythe, was a woman-into-wolf novel, but not a werewolf novel per se. There was more than one, too. I picked it up for fifty cents in the mid-80's and read it on a train to Sydney. In retrospect, I found it readable in a Jack Ketchum way. Salty prose. Good characterization. Gruesome where it needed to be. Certainly not Ketchum subject matter, but a cut above writing-wise.
I have not read Forsythe's Bishop's Landing. If anybody has, please tell us about it.
When I was a lad, the second hand bookshops of suburban Melbourne were full of JN Williamson books. He was a prolific bugger. He died with thirty-five novels to his name and even more short stories and collections he'd edited.
I always liked his straightforward, no-frills style.
Consider this from the opening of Premonition:
"The naked, old white man sitting expressionlessly in the corner of the room was both completely bare and indescribably old. He seemed propped there and left, idly, the way some might lean a dilapidated umbrella against the wall, forgotten until one just had to use it again. His corded sinews and veins, products of a long life spent in ceaseless labor, appeared to be the ribs of the umbrella, his nearly emaciated body the shaft."
Aside from "expressionlessly", which doesn't read easily to me, this paragraph does a great job of conveying age and disregard.
Written in '81 and dedicated to JN's wife Mary and agent Ray Puechner, Premonition is a gripping read.
I'm not crazy about the cover, though. It's just bland. It's hard to picture an editor seeing it and signing off on it. "Awesome cover, guys! Print it!" What were they thinking?
These days, Leisure has asserted itself as the premier mass market publisher of horror. They have a horror book club, too, of which I am a member. No other mass market publisher (at this time) reliably puts out two titles a month.
Would Leisure publish the likes of John Tigges and Richard Forsythe today? I'm not so sure.
I love this image from the paperback edition of Bentley Little's The Ignored (Signet; June, '97).
The book takes an extraordinary conceit and turns it into an extraordinary novel.
The carousel has nothing to do with the book. It evokes creepiness, as anything carnival-esque often does, and it renders a foreboding atmosphere.
There a lot of Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes in that cover. A feeling that trouble is on the horizon.
How do you graphically represent a subculture of people who are, literally, invisible those around them? How do you portray The Ignored?
In this case, Signet decided not to.
Although the carousel and coloring is impressive, it's also generic. Because it's so unspecific, it gives the browser no idea of what's inside the book in terms of story.
Does such a tactic miss the opportunity to connect with readers who are unfamiliar with Little's work?
You tell me.
The back cover circles the concept by personalizing one man's dilemma -- nobody notices him. It does not propose the premise in a more general sense such as:
"What if nobody noticed you anymore? Would that make you angry? Or would that make happy? Think of the possibilities. If you really were ignored, you could get away with murder."
That's the premise in a nutshell, but the blurb doesn't go there.
Should it?
I'm curious because The Ignored has been ignored by many horror fans. Along with The Mailman (my favorite Little book) and The Store, it's in my top trio of the author's amazing works. But when I mention it to colleagues or on-line buddies, few have read it.
I sense that Little himself gets ignored by the horror community. Am I right or wrong? You guys are part of the horror community, so fess up. Is Bentley Little on your radar?
Little isn't active on on-line forums and blogs like authors such as Brian Keene, Jack Ketchum, Bryan Smith, Edward Lee (to some extent) and Michael Laimo.
Leisure's stable of writers make their presence felt on-line. Writers like Little and John Saul do not.
Saul had an active forum at one time, but he scaled it right back. There are some websites devoted to Little, too, but they're infrequently updated. There is no dedicated web presence.
I consider myself a very dedicated fan, and I actively follow new and old authors. My sense is that Little is doing himself no favors by maintaining an MIA status on-line. Am I off the mark?
Today, I think an on-line presence for an author is essential. A presence in one place propagates to others.
Stephen King has an official site. If there's anybody who could justify not having an official web presence, it's King, but he has one, anyway, because it keeps the King brand in the stratosphere.
MacDonald's do the same thing. Do they NEED to advertise that they exist? Not necessarily, but they keep on advertising because they have competition. They advertise to keep the brand (and brand loyalty) at a healthy fever pitch.
I'd like to see a stronger Bentley Little web presence because I think his work is amazing.
Admittedly, I don't always like the way he rushes to resolve his stupendous premises, but I'm totally drawn to his perverse imagination, and his black as pitch humor.
He's up there with the finest writers of the fantastique in the world.
Little is with Signet, not a publisher associated in the public mind with horror. Saul is with Ballantine, a publisher of mass market fiction; they publish horror, but they're not known for it. And much of their horror has been shifted to the "Fiction" list.
Leisure Books, on the other hand, is strongly identified with horror (at least for fans), even though they have robust Romance, Western and Thriller imprints; their parent is Dorchester.
Bentley Little's work gets very decent distribution; I can always find his titles at Borders or Barnes and Noble. Sometimes he's in "Horror", often he's in "Fiction". Since "Fiction" is a larger category and more diverse, that may be a better thing for him.
Here's the crucial question: Is the web pointing readers to writers they don't know, or is the presence of an author's book (in sufficient quantities) on physical bookshelves enough to drive sales?
I say Yes to the first question, and No to the second.
There is an interesting assumption when one sees many copies of a single author's book. To me, at least, it indicates popularity. Demand. But it's not enough these days because on-line retailing is booming while in-store sales are receding like George Costanza's hairline.
Let's return to Stephen King once more. He's everywhere. His books are so plentiful they cause the shelves to sag. Few authors have the shelf sagging weight of Stevie. His competitors can only attempt to shift attention from the mighty K-L category of horror authors which now includes King and Keene, Koontz, Ketchum, Laymon, and Little. Despite his power to splinter the timber of bookshelves, King remains a potent web presence.
The rumpus on Little is he's a shut-in, a reclusive fellow who prefers not to spend his precious time on planet Earth on-line. He wants to focus entirely on writing. Nothing wrong with that.
But if the wordsmith who's been called a "master chef of the macabre" and "the horror poet laureate" by Mr. King wants to elevate his "brand" in the horror and general book buying community, a web home is essential. How the web home is managed is up to the author and/or publisher, but it's a necessary evil than can no longer be... ignored.
When you tear open your monthly horror book package from Leisure and this baby falls out.
Check the fuckin artwork... Je-e-e-e-e-e-s-u-s!!!
If this doesn't give you a hard-on, Boys (and Girls), you're a card-carrying eunuch.
I look so forward to my Leisure box each month.
It's a bloody great bargain, and it lobs right at your door.
Ed Lee's Big Head must be creaming in its jeans at the sight of this.
If the book is half as as good as the amazing art, I won't be able to walk tomorrow.
Congrats to Dan D'Auria, Leisure's Head Honcho, and Monsieur Lee, for this splendid horror package.
Also slipping out of the box was:
Not as great a cover, admittedly (bit generic), but anything by Ray Garton is a must-read for me.
I've had a loose connection to Mr. Garton for a while, even though we've never met or spoken.
I wrote the first couple of drafts of the screenplay adaptation of Live Girls for a producer who is holding the rights.
The writing was an interesting experience.
I believe I'm now the second writer listed on imdb because others have done subsequent drafts.
In this strange business, it's not unusual for new writers to be hired to scribble a brand new draft if the financing of the project changes hands or the country of production is shifted.
Bestial sounds mighty interesting. It's a multiple werewolves novel.
Better put the "Do Not Disturb" sign out tonight.
I'm no necrophile, but I wouldn't kick this out of bed. Would you? Tell the truth. Nobody's judging you here.
Last night, I re-watched the amazing Riding Giants ('04). In the film's most stunning sequence, surfing legend Laird Hamilton somehow rides this mind-boggling wave in Tahiti.
This ride has not been equaled, and he's clearly a guy who pushes himself not just towards the edge, but beyond it.
Aside from some freaky diving incidents and a fondness for an unofficial "sport" that involves pressing myself flat against a rock moments before a wave pounds that rock, my extreme edge pushing is mostly confined to books and films.
Since I was six or seven, I have been the go-to guy for shocking images, shocking books, and shocking films, at least in my own neighborhood. When I was growing up, I pursued my love for and curiosity about the EXTREME with vigor and studious discipline.
I even attracted a handful of apostles, some of whom are still good friends today, but, back before the internet, it was rare for someone to come to me with something that I hadn't seen or would be shocked by.
Being the go-to guy for SHOCK is not a role without pressures. You are expected to perform. Your life becomes a non-stop version of "Show-and-Tell", a game I loved at primary school almost as much as Truth and Dare. It was an opportunity to show my fellow students and teachers exhibits from my growing collections of monster mags, horror paperbacks, deformed dolls, movie ad mats, and medical photographs of babies with hydrocephalus (Water on the Brain, which is, more accurately, excess spinal fluid).
The bottom line for this go-to guy was this: it was pre-internet, I had pocket money for income, and my sources of SHOCK were drying up.
It wasn't until I took a part time job as a Mcdonald's "chef" that I was finally able to enrich my collections somewhat.
Something changed in me when I started reading a lot of horror. Books like Denis Giford's Horror Movies provided images, and those images stimulated my imagination, allowing me to develop ridiculous expectations of how good these movies would be.
Horror books (literature), however, were about ideas, and while reading them and reading hundreds of books that weren't horror, I learned about "context".
dictionary.com, a trusted source of mine, defines context as a "set of circumstances or facts that surround a particular event, situation, etc."
My awareness of context changed the way I looked at horror.
For me, next came "contrast" , which my source defines deftly as:
"opposition or juxtaposition of different forms, lines, or colors in a work of art to intensify each element's properties and produce a more dynamic expressiveness."
I discovered these elements of good art because I was becoming bored with non-stop bloodiness and frustrated by would-be apostles who expected me to have an orgasm every time they showed me a gory picture I'd seen a hundred million times.
I guess I was maturing, but I wasn't articulate enough to explain why gore and blood on its own was no longer doing it for me.
Instead, I opened myself up to something new...
When I was sixteen, I met a fellow fan through a letter I had published in Starlog magazine.
He was a Gerry Anderson fanatic. Already married at eighteen, his little home in the Melbourne suburb of Chadstone was filled with amazing GA toys such as Lady Penelope's FAB1, chauffeured by Parker... ... fantastic Captain Scarlet merchandise...
and a Joe 90 doll.
After months of GA-themed get-togethers, my new friend and his wife hit me with something I wasn't expecting one sunny Sunday arvo:
...and...
Keep in mind that XXX-rated films were only legally available in most states in Australia for a couple of years in the mid-80's.
Even now (yes, in 2009!), they are officially banned from sale in all states.
They are available by mail order from Canberra, the nation's political capital (why isn't that surprising?), and the Northern Territory (which is 99.9% desert, .1% people).
Back when my Gerry Anderson-loving buddy hit with with an impromptu showing of the film that made Linda Lovelace a household name (in some houses) and Bambi Woods a legend, VHS had just been born and hardcore was unseen in Australia. There were hardcore magazines available from companies like Color Climax, Seventeen, and Private, but there was nothing that moved. Moving AND having sex was illegal Down Under.
For almost three hours, I watched a lot of moving and shaking and grinding and oral intercourse.
I was excited, shocked, and changed by the experience.
That the films, in hindsight, were not diamond examples of X-rated filmmaking was of no import.
Finally, SOMEONE had shown ME something that pushed me beyond my edge, and for that I was eternally grateful.
Which brings me almost full circle to Samuel R. Delany's Hogg. And context. And contrast.
Nobody thrust Hogg at me, but I started to hear about it.
Whenever I stumbled upon or cyber-hunted lists of Most Shocking Novels or Books That Ought To Be Banned, this Hogg book would always show up. Throw an on-line Perversion Party and Hogg would always RSVP. Was this a sign? Were I required to take action?
Tracking down a mint copy of Hogg was a challenge a couple of years ago; it seems to be less so now.
The on-line reviews were very mixed. Was it extreme? There was a chorus of agreement there. Was it art? Divided. Was it well written? No consensus on that. Should it exist? Some thought not.
I read Hogg. Not in one sitting. It took me several days. That was because I had not stop along the way to confront nausea. I had never confronted that while reading before, so it was a strange but wonderful experience. It's not like I hadn't read some potentially stomach churning stuff. I'd gotten through most of Peter Sotos's work, Jim Goad's three volume Answer Me collection, and some of Dennis Cooper's raw, literary ejaculations. I read the Marquis De Sade's most popular works before I turned eighteen, and I've seen underground films I wish to God I could unsee.
Still, Hogg got to me. It's supposed to.
Set in the early 60's, it is about a revolting rapist/pedophile named Franklin Hargus ("Hogg") who takes an eleven year old boy, the narrator, under his wing, and subjects him to a deviant lifestyle that both brutalizes and excites the boy.
Hogg himself personifies the far extremes of perversion, if that is possible to imagine. His pig-like behavior includes urinating and defecating in his pants, which he never changes. He engages in rape, necrophilia, sexual torture, and gross humiliation of his victims.
The book is a tour de force of human darkness -- an unforgettable experience for the reader/accomplice, and heaven and hell for its characters.
What it does lacks is contrast. It is all black and no white. The non-stop incidents of gross sexual perversion form a nauseous chain that does become repetitive after a while. I know that's part of the point, but it does retard the reading experience.
Is this perversion without context?
Absolutely not. What happens is fully contextualized by the novel's milieu. Zelany drags us through a world of extreme human desire that doesn't feel like it is outside of possibility.
Most of the sexual activity is male to male, although there is an occasional incident of abuse with a female.
Originally written in '69, then personally revised a few years later, it was not published until '95 because no publisher wanted to touch it.
It is quite an extraordinary novel, and one you should read at least once, if only to test your repulsion parameters.
If you take some of the book's many sexual excesses out of context, you will find that contemporary fetish pornography has finally caught up with Hogg.
These titles, from a leading European fetish distributor, capture some of Hogg's anarchic, almost psychotic sexuality.
Of course, they do it less artfully, but no less honestly (which explains the high repulsion factor).
Samuel Ray Delaney is best known as a leading science fiction writer. His 20-plus novels, which include Einstein Intersection, Empire Star, and Triton have been highly acclaimed.
Hogg is certainly his most confronting work.
Some (those who find it objectionable) have called it "pornography" in an effort to reduce its status as literature.
Of course, that label assumes that pornography is a bad thing; the label is also predictably condescending.
So is it pornography? Does it turn the reader on?
It didn't turn me on sexually, but it fried my brain like few books have.
Its power has remained with me long after I turned the final page.
After Hogg, where to now?
SHOCK LITERATURE is going in one direction...
...and becoming more mainstream, while SHOCK PORNOGRAPHY continues to push the international envelope...
In the first category, you can pray for context and contrast, and sometimes you'll get it. JF Gonzalez's Survivor (2004) is Leisure Books' most extreme title so far, and very highly recommended.
In the second category, I'm sure you'll get your dose of SHOCK and some gentle edge pushing right here... Bring your own bone, though.
