3 Wyrd Things: Nina Antonia

For '3 Wyrd Things' I ask various creative people whose work I admire to tell us about three oddly, wonderfully, weirdly British things that have been an influence on them and their work:

- a book or author,

- a film or TV show,

- a piece of music or a musician.

Image courtesy of Romi 

This month: Nina Antonia

Nina Antonia is a chronicler of the decadent, a former music journalist renowned for biographies of Johnny Thunders & the New York Dolls.  More recently however, she has gained acclaim for her uncanny authorship, penning articles for that venerable journal of the strange, 'Fortean Times', for which she has written three cover stories.

Her books include 'Incurable' a collection of writings by fin-de-siècle poet Lionel Johnson featuring a biographical introduction by Antonia which 'The Gay & Lesbian Review' described as "gorgeously written", plus occult explorations of Oscar Wilde in 'A Purple Thread: The Supernatural Doom of Oscar Wilde' & 'Dancing With Salomé – Courting the Uncanny with Oscar Wilde & Friends'. 

Lionel Johnson returns in ghostly form in Nina's first novel, 'The Greenwood Faun.' Inspired by Arthur Machen, the novel is a decadent evocation of Pan let loose in Victorian London, originally published by Egaeus Press and now available again in a very limited deluxe edition on the Snuggly Books imprint, PurpleBeardedUncle, with a paperback edition following at the end of April from Snuggly.  She has also contributed strange stories to anthologies published by Swan River Press, Nepenthe Press, Egaeus & Hellebore. 

You can follow Nina's work at...

https://ninaantoniaauthor.com/

................................................................ 

Image courtesy of Tartarus Press 

Book
Arthur Machen – ‘The Hill of Dreams’

Though it is a rare occurrence, some books can alter your consciousness if not your life. I cannot remember exactly when David Tibet gave me a copy of ‘The Hill of Dreams’ by Arthur Machen but it was to have a profound effect on my perception of literature and my own isolated journey as an author. It’s unfortunate that the use of the word ‘magical’ has become cheapened by overuse, much like ‘enchantment’ until we forget their transformative and oft precarious essence. Few writers have transcended the page like the mystical Welsh author Arthur Machen (1863 -1947). His work teeters between reality and vision, opening the doorway to an ineffable vista of primal evil, esoteric enticement, ancient magic, arcane secrets, incipient sorcery and disturbing beauty. Machen believed that great literature should induce an ecstatic rapture, intoxication redolent of mythic rites and revelries. To read his work is to drink deep of the wine proffered by Pan. That he was descended from a long line of Welsh clergy is discernible in his portrayal of good and evil and the certainty of the unseen. The wild countryside of Gwent which so enchanted him as a child acted as an initiation into legends of Celtic Lore and the mystery of Roman ruins, themes he would often return to in his writing. He would later describe this numinous yearning as the ‘faint echoes of the inexpressive song that the beloved land always sang to me and still sings across all the waste of weary years.’ However as much as he loved the intangible music of his surroundings, like Lucian Taylor, the doomed author in the semi-autobiographical novel ‘The Hill of Dreams’, Arthur moved to London to pursue a literary life. As vulnerable as his fictional character might have been to poverty and loneliness, Machen was never destined to become a garret specter, unlike Lucian Taylor.

.Arthur Machen arrived in the city at a pivotal moment. As the Victorian age waned, a sublime turn of the century phenomenon occurred in English art and literature which is usually typified by the work of Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley, although they did not bloom in isolation. From this decadent tumult ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ germinated as did ‘The Hill of Dreams’. They are of course very different books yet both feature the dissipation of the central character and possess an exquisite morbidity. Lucian Taylor is seduced by a beatific pagan revelation whilst Dorian Gray succumbs to the gorgeous phantoms of profanity. However, Machen was never part of the Decadent milieu and gravitated towards intellectual bohemianism and the pursuit of esoteric knowledge. The 1890’s were an extraordinary time, the uncertainty of what lay ahead creating a creative and psychic frisson that saw an occult revival running parallel to the Decadent’s perverse romanticism. As well as taking a job cataloguing arcane manuscripts, Arthur joined the Golden Dawn, which is still regarded as the most significant magical order the U.K. has ever produced. Fellow Golden Dawn luminaries included his close friend, the mystical scholar, A.E. Waite, W.B. Yeats and Algernon Blackwood. Although these occult intersections do not define Arthur Machen’s work, they are still integral to it, an indefinable shadow of otherness. I have wondered too if he learned to protect himself, psychically, in a way that the hapless faun-like Lucian Taylor was unable to do, as he is pulled into a nightmarish vision where he discovers that ‘All London was one grey temple of an awful rite, ring within ring of wizard stones, circled about some central place, every circle was an initiation, every initiation eternal loss.’

Ultimately, Lucian Taylor dies at his writing desk, surrounded by sheaves of an illegible manuscript in a shabby, damp little room from what appears to be an overdose of laudanum – opium in alcohol – or an equivalent fatal potion. He has perished in pursuit of a phantasmagorical idyll. As if pursued by Lucian’s struggle, ‘The Hill of Dreams’ although written between 1895-1897 wasn’t published until 1907. Personally, I consider it to be Arthur Machen’s finest creation but it is the more lurid ‘The Great God Pan’ that is his most referenced work. My own novel ‘The Greenwood Faun’ begins with the rediscovery of Lucian Taylor’s manuscript. Once deciphered, ten copies are made up of a book capable of altering the very filaments of the recipient’s soul. ‘Whilst content, sympathetic font and attractive design are vital, these ingredients alone do not imbue a tome with magic or mischief. Metamorphosis requires the persuasion of other realms and elements. A transcendent alchemy brushed ‘The Greenwood Faun’ reawakening Lucian Taylor’s voice in the very fabric of the pages….’

TV
Lost Hearts

M.R. James was as unsparing of his child protagonists as he was of the adults who find themselves at the mercy of malevolent supernatural forces. The high rates of Victorian child mortality probably influenced his writing although there is a distinct lack of sentimentality, so prevalent in an era saturated by images of angels carrying tots heavenwards. In ‘The Residence At Whitminster the youngsters are dispatched after looking into an evil scrying glass. Frank, the fortunate child dies aged 12, with the certainty of a blessed reception whilst the accursed Lord Saul, 16 and unnaturally pale, returns as a particularly wretched spirit eternally pursued by demonic entities. Of all the children in M.R. James stories, only the orphaned 12 year old Stephen Elliot in ‘Lost Hearts’ manages to survive, helped by the ghosts of Phoebe and Giovanni, who are about the same age as him. The story itself is brief but chilling, set in the grand surrounds of Aswarby Hall, Lincolnshire which belongs to Stephen’s older cousin the reclusive Mr. Abney, who in an apparent act of charity takes the boy in. To add credence to the tale, Aswarby Hall did actually exist and matched the author’s description of it. Sadly, it was demolished in 1951.

In his introduction to ‘Ghosts and Marvels’ (1924) M.R. James loosely sets out the principles for writing haunting tales ‘Let us then be introduced to the actors in a placid way; let us see them going about their ordinary business, undisturbed by forebodings, pleased with their surroundings; and into this calm environment let the ominous thing put out its head, unobtrusively at first, and then more insistently until it holds the stage….’ Using this subtle formula, Stephen’s first few months, his settling in period at Aswarby is quite idyllic. At Mr. Abney’s instructions, the elderly affable housekeeper, Mrs. Bunch feeds the lad well and offers kindly advice. In the housekeepers cozy quarters we learn of Stephen’s ragamuffin predecessors, Phoebe Stanley possibly a gypsy girl and Giovanni Paoli, a Hudy-Gurdy playing Italian tinker, both of whom have mysteriously vanished. ‘Lost Hearts’ first aired on December 23rd, 1973, as the first in a BBC series of ‘Ghost Stories for Christmas’. The majority of literary adaptations fail to do justice to the original however the televised version of ‘Lost Hearts’ heightens the presence of the ghost children to terrifying effect. Bathed in blue light, it appears that all of their blood has been quite literally drained from them. By suggestion, dream, vision and the sound of faint laughter, the ghastly wraiths make themselves known to Stephen, gradually revealing their terrible fate.

Our own perceptions always intrude on how we receive information. Although watching the same production or reading the same book, each person will filter it according to their own experiences. I saw ‘Lost Hearts’ when it was first shown at the age of 13, aligning with Phoebe, Giovanni and Stephen. As a child I was particularly isolated and emotionally estranged from my parents. Needless to say, ‘Lost Hearts’ petrified me, although I understood nothing of Abney’s esoteric interests, I knew that adults were capable of being monstrous. For the longest time I couldn’t walk up the staircase without recalling the ghost children gliding towards the study, their long twisted fingernails on the banisters, poor bloodless creatures whose hearts had been torn from their chests so that Abney could harness the occult powers of Simon Magus and Hermes Trismegistus. As well as being a classic ghost story, in modern terms it is also a tale of child abuse. My own heart had been torn out, metaphorically, by my parents. Sinking into early depression, I thought more on death than was probably usual. But the haunted realm became a refuge and eventually a way of diffusing trauma that would later influence my writing.

Music

The Rolling Stones - Child of the Moon

‘Child of the Moon’ which was released as the B/side of ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ in May 1968, is a crepuscular lilt in the Rolling Stone’s esoteric alignment that would culminate with ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ If the band seemed insular & no wonder with all of the drug busts they were forced to endure at this juncture, Mick Jagger remained as canny as a conjuror when it came to absorbing the currents of the counter-culture & creatively reincarnating them. As he told Melody Maker journalist Roy Carr ‘You can’t play or write outside the mood of the times, unless you live on a mountain.’ Magic was in the incense plumed air and The Stones found themselves at the fashionably dangerous epicenter of an epoch deemed to be the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. When Keith Richard’s house, Redlands, was raided in February 1967, it transpired that Marianne Faithfull’s book of choice was ‘The Great God Pan’ by Arthur Machen. The glimmer, the glow, the glittering show of the Stone’s glamour drew pop Warlock’s, including Crowley acolyte and film maker Kenneth Anger into their fantastical constellation. At Anger’s behest, Mick agreed to create the soundtrack via his new moog synthesizer for the short if powerful flick ‘Invocation of my Demon Brother.’ Despite telling writer David Dalton that the Stone’s were ‘dilettante’ when it came to magic, Anger described both Anita Pallenberg and Brian Jones as ‘witches’. He also had Richards and Jagger in mind for the leading roles in his cinematic satanic opus ‘Lucifer Rising.’ The film-maker envisaged Keith as the dark prince, Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub, to Mick’s Lucifer. Genuinely sinister, Kenneth Anger was not a man to be trifled with. Another au courant film maker with dark leanings, Donald Cammell, was also enamored with the Stones. After all, if you film someone do you not capture something of their soul? Kenneth Anger regarded Donald Cammell as Aleister Crowley’s ‘Magickal Son’ and not without good reason. Residing in gentle, leafy Richmond upon Thames, Donald’s father, Charles, had embarked upon a book about ‘The Great Beast’, a.k.a Aleister Crowley who had conveniently moved into a nearby flat. Aleister would occasionally visit for dinner, leading Donald Cammell to claim that as a child he had sat upon Crowley’s knee and grown up in a household immersed in ‘Magick.’

Does whatever we intuit have ramifications? The shadows hadn’t yet converged on the Stone’s destiny when they recorded ‘Child of the Moon’. I often wondered if the song was a nod to Anita Pallenberg, with her flaxen halo of hair and feral crescent shaped smile. If any woman was capable of casting a spell, it was Anita who had bewitched both Brian Jones and Keith Richards. Of course, the song’s title evokes Aleister Crowley’s 1917 novel ‘Moonchild’ in which an attempt is made to create a semi human entity via magical intent and astrological planning. The reverse of the abrasive, driving ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’, ‘Child of The Moon’ endeavors to capture the ineffable, a luminescent vision at the end of a mythical highway whilst the music and Jagger’s vocals are strangely drawn out as if they are trying to reach us from a faraway shore. Anticipating the age of the video, director Michael Lindsay Hogg was enlisted to shoot a short promo film of ‘Child of The Moon’ featuring the Stones. Hogg had established his reputation as the director of pioneering pop TV show ‘Ready Steady Go!’ The promo as if by sleight of hand demonstrates the growing separation of the Stones from Brian Jones who arrived late to the shoot at a farm in Enfield and had to be filmed separately. If there is a story to be told, it is the addition of three female figures – a child, a startled woman played by Eileen Atkins and Sylvia Coleridge who portrays the eldest of the female trinity. One is tempted to wonder if they are portraying the ‘Maid, The Mother and The Crone’ the triple Goddesses in Celtic mythology who are intrinsically linked to the phases of the moon. It is only the older woman who breaks through the Stone’s semi circle comprising of Mick, Keith, Charlie and Bill, walking towards a white horse, another transformative mystical symbol. Brian Jones meanwhile, is seen peeking like a nervous sprite from a hollow tree before retiring into darkness.

It is easy to decode the promo film of ‘Child of The Moon’ as a series of cinematic auguries, particularly the death of Brian Jones on July 3rd 1969. The Stones had ‘Drawn Down The Moon’ or in pagan terms summoned ‘The Goddess’ though I suspect it had more to do with the spirit of the times than any conscious working. The song captures the Rolling Stones on the cusp of darkness and light, barely a month later they would record ‘Sympathy for The Devil’. Of course some might find this a fanciful reckoning but the storm was gathering that would culminate at the Altamont Speedway Free festival on December 6th, 1969, in Tracy, California. The unfortunate decision to have the Hell’s Angel act as security as well as the distribution of badly manufactured LSD combined with the unseasonably cold weather at a bleak location lacking toilet facilities, medical aid or tents was to have serious ramifications resulting in a largely traumatized crowd and several fatalities. At Woodstock, 4 months earlier, there was birth, at Altamont, death. The dreadful spectacle was captured by the Maysles Brothers in the documentary ‘Gimme Shelter’ peaking with The Stone’s performance. Now joined by Jone’s replacement, the brilliant Mick Taylor, the Rolling Stones are vividly menacing until it becomes evident they are presiding over a feast for the flies. During ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ a young man high on methamphetamine, Meredith Hunter, waves a revolver and is stabbed by one of the Angels, who then stomp on his body. No one least of all the Rolling Stones would have wished for such a grievous outcome.

The Stones brief flirtation with the left hand path faded along with the decade. Kenneth Anger did eventually make ‘Lucifer Rising’ minus Mick and Keith although Marianne Faithfull appeared in it as Lilith whilst Donald Cammell was cast as Osiris, Egyptian god of the Underworld. It all tallies, as Marianne had once described Cammell as ‘The Dracula of The Scene’ and he did indeed vamp off Jagger in the indescribably grimy glory of ‘Performance’ undoubtedly the greatest cinematic invocation of the 1960’s. As the last of the sickly sweet scent of incense lingered over Notting Hill sunset, Jagger – the changeling prince- reinvented himself as an international social butterfly. In May 1971, he married his reflection Bianca Perez-Mora Macias in a Catholic ceremony in St. Tropez. Pictures of the couple show Mick Jagger sporting a large gold crucifix.

..........................................................................................

If you enjoy what we do here on Wyrd Britain and would like to help us continue then we would very much welcome a donation towards keeping the blog going - paypal.me/wyrdbritain

Affiliate links are provided for your convenience and to help mitigate running costs.