REVIEW: Another - Yukito Ayatsuji

• Year first published:  2009 (Japanese), 2014 (English)
• ISBN of the edition I read:  0316339105
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Yen On
• My rating (out of 5):  4.5

Somehow, despite having already seen the anime of Another AND having read the manga version, I had completely forgotten the major twist at the end of the story. Granted, it's been a couple years, but even still...how could I have forgotten something that big?

Whatever the reason for this, it worked out perfectly. Reading this novel version of the story (which actually came before the anime and manga) I was just as surprised by the twist ending as I was when I first experienced the story in those other formats. I mean that literally - even the very sentence before the big reveal, I still couldn't remember/piece together/guess the ultimate twist. And considering how crazy of a finale it is, this was definitely ideal.

Much like I said of The Tokyo Zodiac Murders in my review of it last week, "the journey matters here, too." In fact, as shocking as the ending was to Another, I would argue that it wasn't even the best part of the book. Brilliant and great, yes - but not the best. 

For one thing, Another is exceptionally paced. Barely a page goes by without some sort of clue, image, or bit of dialogue that set my mind reeling, trying to figure out how it all fits in. Of course it's quite standard for a mystery/thriller/horror to often leave you questioning what is happening - those moments are often half the fun of the book. You read a new tidbit and try to fit it into your theory of what's really going on. In this vein, no book has made me ask nearly as many questions as Another. Every step of the way, the story continually evolves - whether subtly or overtly - and is jam-packed with at least a dozen hefty twists, each of which alters the trajectory of the plot in unpredictable ways. 

Perhaps the most fantastic element of Another, though, is how brazenly original the entire experience is. It starts out as a fairly typical, rural-Japanese-high-school, maybe-ghost/curse story, but very quickly - though subtly - begins to steer away from this. Rather, to be clear, I should specify that it steers away from the common tropes of this. (It still takes place in a rural Japanese high school, etc.) One can almost imagine that Ayatsuji began by saying, "How can I start with this common horror setup, but then completely turn it on its head?" At least, whether or not this was his thinking, it's precisely what he did. Importantly, he accomplished this while still giving us a smooth story that felt fully realized - never jarring, never far-fetched, always ten steps ahead of the reader.

If you want a highly unique, engaging psychological horror - and especially an Asian horror, which, as I discussed previously, tends to handle the psyche of horror better than American literature - Another is easily one of the best out there. I can't imagine I'd actually forget the ending yet again, but I'm sure I'll still be reading it again anyway.

(And, for what it's worth, the manga and the anime versions are absolutely first-rate as well - I'd happily give a 4.5 to all three formats of the story.)

REVIEW: The Strange Library - Haruki Murakami

• Year first released:  2005 (Japanese), 2014 (English)
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780385354301
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
• My rating (out of 5):  4

Why this book took nine years to hit our shores, I'll never know. Maybe we just weren't ready for it. In fact, even though I've loved Japanese literature for quite some time now, I think I may not have been ready for The Strange Library until recently.

To be sure, The Strange Library is an aptly named book. It is mighty strange, indeed. A young boy goes to the library - his normal, everyday library - to return a couple books when he quickly gets tricked into becoming a prisoner in the library's deep, labyrinthine basement. Oh, and one of his jailers is perpetually dressed like a sheep but fries up some amazing donuts. So. There's that, I guess.

Going into it, you might miss the fact (as I did at first) that this is actually a children's book (Murakami's only children's book, as far as I know). Once that realization hit me, the book suddenly took on a whole new hue. Before that moment, I was beginning to dread having spent $18 on this 96-page book which is half pictures. (Highly nonsensical pictures, mind you.) Once I was able to absorb the book as a whole, though (which only took about half an hour, cover to cover), I realized that I was in the presence of greatness.

There's certainly something deeply metaphorical going on throughout the book. And I'll be the first to admit that at least half of it is completely lost on me. Sometimes this is a hindrance to understanding and appreciating the story. Sometimes, though, just being in the presence of - what we assume is - an elaborate metaphor is reason enough to enjoy the journey. The Strange Library fits snuggly into this second category.

Why the sheep outfit? Why the donuts? What's with the tax records of the Ottoman Empire? I have no idea. But it all comes together in a magical, whimsical package.

Again, considering that this is a children's book, surely the metaphor - whatever it is - will be missed by most. If we can take it as a Tim Burton-esque, creepy-with-a-touch-of-adorable story, though, then The Strange Library is a tightly-bound, quirky, wonderful nightmare that I am certain I will come back to repeatedly - and, in fact, will probably share with my five-year-old son this Halloween season.

REVIEW: The Tokyo Zodiac Murders - Soji Shimada

• Year first released:  1981 
• ISBN of the edition I read:  1782271384
• Publisher of the edition I read: Pushkin Vertigo
• My rating (out of 5):  4

On page 231 (out of 316) of this serial-killer murder mystery, Shimada breaks the fourth wall and interrupts his own book. He says, in part:

All of the information required to solve the mystery is now in your hands, and, in fact, the crucial hint has been provided already. ... Let me throw down the gauntlet: I challenge you to solve the mystery before the final chapters!

What a fantastic, fun invitation. And it’s okay by me.

At this point, I set the book aside for a week. Once I proceed on to the next page, there’s no going back. You can’t unread things.

One week later, when I came back to Zodiac again, I was precisely zero percent closer to having figured out even the first thing about the solution to the murders.

This is one thing I love about Zodiac. The final solution to the crime was, quite simply, cosmic. Unlike The Devotion of Suspect X, though, (another Asian mystery which I read and reviewed a few weeks ago here), Zodiac is not merely a novel about its finale. Yes, the final act is the best part, but the journey matters here, too.

For one, it matters in the way I’ve already described: the author actually directly challenges us to figure out the case before the characters. Even beyond this element, though, we are still left with excellent pacing (at least once you finish the first part of the book, which is a bit of an overly-long exposition about the crime, more than it is actual plot), an ingenious crime, and a secondary character who is enjoyable and attention-grabbing throughout (even if he does make fun of Sherlock Homes, which is only barely forgivable).

All of this perhaps sounds as though I am building up to a stellar rating. And I wish I could say that I am. There is a sizable flaw, though, which I can’t really ignore:

Zodiac is the perfect example of the translation leaving us to wonder who is to blame for the stiff style of writing. Is it Shimada’s form which is rigid, or Ross and Shika Mackenzie’s translation? As I don’t speak Japanese, I can’t say. (And, as I explained in my blog The Art of Translation, pt. 3, I try very hard not to blame the author directly for this.)

Nevertheless, we have a rather colorless set of words and sentences to tell us a very colorful story, which can be somewhat distracting. 

This rigidity is worth forgiving, though, so that we can experience a truly unique mystery - and incredible payout - that serves as one of the highest examples of the genre.

On Koji Suzuki's Ring Hexalogy

Remember Gore Verbinski’s 2002 horror movie The Ring (starring Naomi Watts)?

Well I don’t, because I fell asleep halfway through. 

Luckily, though, this remake of the 1998 Japanese movie Ringu at least introduced us in the West to what is actually a great series of Japanese horror stories. (In fact, we can basically thank Verbinski for starting the Japanese horror craze on our shores altogether.) 

Before even the Japanese film Ringu, though, was the 1991 Koji Suzuki novel of the same name. The book was immensely popular (rightly so) and spawned what is - at least so far - a hexalogy of books:

Ring

Spiral

Loop 

Birthday (a collection of three novellas)

S*
Tide*

(As S and Tide have not yet been translated into English, I haven't read/can't discuss them. But S is finally getting its US release in just a couple months!)

If you've seen any of the movies in the series - whether any of the five Japanese movies or four American - you're probably at least mildly familiar with the overall trope:

A mysterious video tape appears, filled with eerie, disturbing images. At the end of the tape is a message - something to the effect of "You will die in seven days, if you don't..." But of course the end of the tape cuts off, and you don't really know what you're supposed to do to avoid being murdered. Well shucks.

Oddly, this is more or less the basic premise of all of the movies...and yet only the first novel. 

Much like the movie sequels, I had expected the second book, Spiral, to continue on the mystery of the killer video tape. And yet, to my pleasant (if morbid) surprise, Spiral ended up taking the story in a wildly different direction. Weird that the movies (and even the five-part manga series, which I haven't yet mentioned) all basically ignored the overall story from this point onward.

Ring is a stylish, incredibly inventive psychological horror. (See The Four Main Types of Horror for a reminder, if you need.) It features the dreadful mood and tension so predominant in the genre, and a terrifying mystery that unravels like a slow poison - contrasting wonderfully with the protagonist's veritable race against the clock. (And, by the way, if you haven't seen the movies nor had the ending ruined for you, the book really is highly clever and surprising.) 

Spiral, though, gives us half a psychological horror, but smoothly moves the book into more of a body horror. Clever transition, that. Instead of the book being all about a mysterious, deadly, supernatural object, we now have a scientific/medical approach to the entire ordeal. 

Equally clever is how the third book, Loop, takes the body horror of Spiral, then moves the series in the direction of sci-fi. Here, many of the scarier elements of the series are lost, but replaced with what is a truly mind-blowing coup d'etat compared to everything else in the series. 

(And, lest I forget: Birthday mostly goes back to the psychological brand of horror, which makes sense, considering that two of the three novellas in it are prequels to Ring.)

It's a smooth trick that Suzuki plays on us throughout the series, morphing the genre each step of the way.

More than even this unique genre-shift, though, is the way Suzuki plays with everything we think we know about the universe of Ring:

Most stories give us at least some sort of a resolve by the end. Even if it's not entirely complete, we generally have a good idea of the how and the why behind everything. 

Indeed, Ring basically unravels the history and secrets of the video tape by its final page, much as you'd expect would happen. And yet only a fraction of the way into Spiral, I found myself a bit dumbfounded, asking, "Wait - that's what's actually going on here?" What we discover in Spiral completely subverts what we learned in Ring.

It was a fantastic trick which I, at least, didn't see coming. 

Perhaps even more fantastic is that, by the end of Spiral, we realize what's really going on...but only until halfway through Loop, when we are doubly dumbfounded and doubly shocked to find out what's actually, really, for-reals-this-time going on. 

People often use the phrase "tour de force" when describing a book. I don't generally like the expression in this sense (one, because it's become highly overused, and two, because most books really aren't actually "tour de forces"), but I can think of no more appropriate book/series that has earned the label. 

The way the series evolves from Ring through Spiral and into Loop - in both the shifting genres, as well as the genius plot evolution - is nothing short of mind-bending. Give it a go.

Asian Horror v. American Horror

Really, this topic could easily be a book. And I don’t think I’m qualified to write that book. Despite this, there are plenty of observations I’ve made along the way – and things that make me tend to enjoy Asian Horror more than American – so there’s clearly something there worth discussing.

And, I hope it goes without saying that I’m speaking in broad strokes here – of course there are exceptions to the ideas I’m about to discuss. I’m sure there are plenty of Asian authors/film directors/video game designers who create their medium in a more “American” way, so to speak, and vice versa.

Aside from these exceptions, though, I tend to prefer horror media that comes out of Asia (especially Japan) more than that which comes from our own shores. Why is this? 

The easiest way to answer this question is to begin with my earlier post The Four (Main) Types of Horror. The last of the four sub-genres that I discussed there - and the one I identified as being my favorite - is Psychological Horror. 

That said, the most direct way I can explain why I enjoy Asian Horror more than American is to say this: 

Asian Horror tends to be more psychological than American. 

It's really as simple as that. 

If you think about the horror/thriller media that is produced in the U.S., you often see tales of gratuitous serial killers; violent monsters; evil, megalithic corporations; etc. We have Stephen King, the Hannibal Lecter series, and the Saw movies. 

To sum it all up - admittedly in a very general way - we tend to produce highly violent clashes of external, opposing forces, which are most often solved by the use of power. In a word, our horror is often

BIG 

Of course all of this has its place. Sometimes, this sort of media is exactly what I'm looking for. Though the Resident Evil movies don't contain a fraction of the quality of their video game counterparts (their Asian-made video game counterparts, I should add), dang it if I don't have a blast watching them anyway. (Guilty pleasures, for sure.)

Asian horror, though, tends to focus much less on these bombastic power plays and more on the psyches of its key players. Gone are the enormous explosions, set pieces, and over-the-top violence, all replaced by the tiniest details that add up to an overwhelming sense of dread. In a word, Asian horror is often very 

small

- in all the right ways, though.

Rather than Asian horror focusing on an archetypal hero (or group of heroes), we are usually given an everyday person who must wrestle with his or her own demons just as much as - in fact, usually more than - whatever dark force is at the center of the plot. Of course seeing Bruce Willis kick @$$ is fun, but there's something much more psychologically, intrinsically gratifying in seeing someone overcome their fears and their past and their inner darkness.

We might even say that American horror tends to be like a huge painting, full of color and gunfire and monsters, which we can absorb all at once. Even before finishing it, we can already see that the hero(es) will overcome The Evil - which is always Someone/Something Else.

Contrasted to this, Asian horror tends to be more of a puzzle, the gray-shaded pieces of which we're only handed one at a time, each of which ratchets up the tension more and more all the way up through the end, when we ultimately realize that this was never a painting, nor a Something Else - it was always a mirror. 

REVIEW: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

• Year first released:  1818
• ISBN of the edition I read: 
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Signet Classic
• My rating (out of 5):  5

Frankenstein's nameless monster, pleading with us, 

wondering how we've come to misunderstand the original story so badly.

Now that I’ve read both The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Frankenstein in close proximity to another, I realize that each suffers from the opposite problem of the other. As I explained in my review of Jekyll and Hyde,

[W]hat most people consider to be the heart of the story is actually left a complete mystery from the reader until over two-thirds of the way into the book. Nowadays, you go into the book knowing precisely what Dr. Jekyll is up to, when his actions are intended to be shrouded in a deep, eerie mystery - and, in fact, are meant to be the ultimate twist of the book.

In other words, most people nowadays already know the biggest secret/climax of the book before they even pick it up.

Frankenstein suffers from the obverse of this: what you think is the climax actually happens only a quarter of the way into the book.

Most modern adaptions of Frankenstein present us with the long-bearing struggle of Dr. Frankenstein as he tries, fails, tries again to create a monster – all the while growing insane, digging up graves, and being hounded by suspicious villagers/police officers – until, finally, just in time for the perfect thunder storm, he is able to accomplish the feat with a suspiciously timed lightning bolt striking his lab. “It’s alive! It’s ALIVE!”

And then he says, “Oops,” and the monster kills him. Or something like that.

…yeah, except none of that happens in the original. Like…none of that. No, really: none.

The edition I read of the book was 223 pages long. In it, Dr. Frankenstein succeeds at creating the monster on page 55. And neither before nor after this feat are we given scenes of police dodging, corpse desecrating, villagers mobbing, or storms lightninging. (Yes, I know that's not a word, but you get the point.)

Oh, and there's no hunchbacked assistant named Igor. Nor just a hunchback. Nor just an assistant. Nor just an Igor. But that's neither here nor there.

Weird how things evolve like this.

In fact, as you might suspect from everything I’ve explained so far, the actual creation of the monster is a far cry from the real heart of the book. Rather, the weight of the plot rests on what happens to the monster – and to its creator Dr. Frankenstein – after the monster is made (and immediately escapes). And it’s in this tale where the book truly shines, whilst simultaneously frightening us.

The fact that Dr. Frankenstein is able to create life out of non-life is certainly interesting, but not necessarily frightening on its own. What becomes of his new breed of life, though...

Well.

It’s one thing for a book to show us the inner workings – and, by extension, the inner depravity – of man. This is, for example, what Jekyll and Hyde excelled at so fantastically. In Frankenstein, though, Shelley creates for us a monster made in the image of man, but which is not a man – and, in so doing, creates for us a powerful exploration of many of the other ways in which depravity can take shape, while also serving as a perfect parallel to man himself, in his glory and gluttony. 

The monster's arc is a clear highlight of the book. Yes, the monster is certainly criminal, but his rise and fall - his misunderstandings about how the world works, the complete lack of compassion and empathy he is shown at every turn - make us wonder who is really at fault here. In fact, as Frankenstein himself wonders aloud time and again, we are forced to ask how deep the fault actually lies on him. What line has he crossed? Are the blood of the monster’s victims actually on Frankenstein’s hands? Is it ever okay to play god like this?

Taking the novel to be a look at both blind ambition and moral ambiguity, it would be harder to find a more fitting tale – which is, no doubt, what continues to make it such a powerful, lasting book 199 years after it was first published. 

REVIEW: Witches! The Absolutely True Tale of Disaster in Salem - Rosalyn Schanzer

• Year first released:  2011
• ISBN of the edition I read: 
• Publisher of the edition I read:  National Geographic Society
• My rating (out of 5):  4

Despite what we may sometimes hope, not all horror belongs to the realm of fiction. The bookstore is rife with true crime books, some representing cases which have been definitely solved, others which to this day remain unsolved (and, unfortunately, some which may forever remain unsolved). Yes, there are plenty of twisted individuals in our world and our history – about whom fascinating, disturbing stories can be told – but sometimes the scariest events don’t revolve around individual people so much as cultures and ideas that, scarily, become the norm. Nazi Germany can certainly be an example of this. And, as Schanzer points out with her book Witches!, so, too, can the Salem Witch Trials.

If the very essence of the “trials” weren’t horrifying enough – which they certainly are, you’ll realize only a couple pages into Schanzer’s book – Witches! also contains a selection of eerie, even disturbing woodblock prints (done by Schanzer herself) which masterfully represent the terrifying ideas that ran rampant through Salem in the early 1690’s. Considering their gruesome imagery, I don't think "beautiful" is quite the right word for them - they're certainly fantastically done, though.

If you’re unfamiliar with anything regarding the “trials” (except for the fact that they existed), Schanzer’s book is certainly a great intro to the subject. She does an excellent job at displaying the moods and culture that surrounded the horrifying events that lead to the torture and executions of dozens of people – women mostly, but also a few men – through the spring and summer of 1692.

It’s also worth pointing out: the subtitle of the book, The Absolutely True Tale of Disaster in Salem, is highly apt. Unlike many other writings on the subject, Schanzer does not present us with loads of conjecture (there is some bits in there, yes, but she is always very careful to point out what is fact versus what is inference). There is no imagined dialogue in the book, no guessing at what any given individual may have been thinking at one point or another throughout the happenings. Witches! truly deserves the moniker of “Absolutely True.”

All of this leads into my one half-complaint about Witches! though, which, I freely admit, must be presented with a grain of salt:

I was careful to say that this is a “great intro” to the subject for a reason. Witches! really is only an introduction to the subject matter. Though there’s good information in the book – and it is expounded very well – it ultimately only scratches the surface of that fateful year. The story which Schanzer weaves for us is really quite simple.

Then again, Witches! is targeted for 10-13 year-olds, which is, for better or worse, precisely what it feels like. This simplicity is probably just about right for that age range. The writing style, too, was certainly meant for the pre-teen crowd.

I can’t, per se, hold this simplicity and writing style against the book, of course. It wasn’t written for me. It was written for kids 20 years younger than me. Trying to look at it from that perspective, I imagine these complaints are probably a wash. Would a pre-teen think this book has lots of good information? – likely, yes. (Also, note that I tried to give the book a numerical rating taking into consideration this viewpoint.)

I bring up these complaints, though, to point out two things:

First, I’m jealous these wondrous woodblocks are to be found in a children’s book, rather than in an “adult” book on the matter. Clearly we need to have more illustrated "adult" books.

Second, I’m actually a big fan of children’s books, many of which seem to transcend ages and become tales in which anyone and everyone can find joy and inspiration. Unlike such timeless children’s books, though, Witches! has an “upper age limit,” so to speak.

If you’re looking for recommendations on good horror books, I would say that Witches! has the potential to be one of them. It’s a deeply troubling story presented in a wondrously eerie package. And, unlike most other horror you’re likely to encounter this Halloween season, Witches! has the added bonus of being both educational and Absolutely True. I would almost say that these things alone make it worth adding to your reading list – merely keep in mind that you may find the depth of information and the writing style a bit beneath your age (depending on how old you are).