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His father had fled Hungary when the Communists took over. He had trudged through miles of snowy wastes to get into the West. He ended up in New York. He met an Italian woman, they married, and he began to work and never stopped. His eldest daughter went to Duke, the second to Stanford, and his only son was in accelerated classes at an exclusive independent school catering to the children of the nouveau riche. One of these classes was mine.
It was a math class and he was its top student. He had lobbied to skip the class all together, but the faculty informally decided that he was not ready for the next level. Needless to say, he was not pleased.
I was a teacher exacting to the point of pedantry. I believed that mathematics was the only discipline that admitted of right and wrong answers. It suggested that an apparently chaotic world possessed some underlying certainty. The words "right" and "wrong" had long since been driven out from moral discourse. They had to stay in math.
I had also come from a background that still believed, as a friend once put it, that "education is painful." An education without struggle is not an education. It is only a passive absorption, like watching television.
The more my reputation as a merciless grader grew, the more resistance I met from students, parents, and teachers. This made me only the more fanatical. I upset many kids by grading them harshly. I consoled myself using the usual half-truths. If these kids were to be heading off to top-notch universities they had better become accustomed to failure. If they were to be heading into the workplace, they had better become accustomed to precise and fixed demands from their employers. I was not there to make them happy. I was there to teach them math.
But I never upset anyone so completely as I did that Hungarian boy. In one part of a solution to a problem, he had added some numbers incorrectly. He then used this incorrect sum in the remainder of the solution. The final answer was wrong. I marked it as such. He received no credit. As a result, he received his first imperfect score of the year.
When I handed the papers back, he flipped his over and saw the grade and immediately looked troubled, but also skeptical. He flipped through the pages until he found the wrong problem and then he blurted, "Come on!"
I shuffled papers around on the table at the front of the room.
"Come on!' he repeated. "You've got to be kidding me! This is - this is -"
I walked to the chalkboard and took a piece of chalk and turned and started in on the lesson.
"Mr. Eliot?" he interrupted. "This is crazy! This is totally unfair!"
"The answer is wrong," I said calmly.
"But only because of a dumb addition mistake! Come on! You know I know how to add!"
"I can't know that unless you demonstrate it. I can't know it through" - angered by his aggressive, indignant interruption, I waved my hands theatrically - "sheer speculation."
"You didn't have to mark the whole problem wrong for such a little, stupid mistake -"
"Joseph?"
"Come on -"
"We can talk about this after class-"
"This is bullshit." He scanned the room for support from his peers. "Bullshit!"
"Joseph." I resumed the lesson. I hated them all. They did nothing but attack me. They had no idea how much self-sacrifice teaching entailed. You gave them everything and all they gave you was complaint. They were accustomed to getting everything they wanted. I wanted to show that them there were things they could never get, no matter how much they whined and stamped their feet. I wanted to show them that mathematics turns a deaf ear to pleading, and to the dictates of social class. The god of math, as the mathematician Erdos used to say, is the Supreme Fascist.
But they didn't see this. I was the Supreme Fascist. Their anger grew as the lesson proceeded. I was talking to myself. All my explanations rebounded off their wall of juvenile hate. Joseph didn't look at me.
When the class finally ended, all the students left the room except him. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to repeat the conversation. I had so many other, less futile and insignificant things I could be doing than stonewalling a grade-grubber. And I couldn't imagine he could think up an argument to persuade me to retract.
He repeated what I had said at the beginning of class, and I repeated my responses. He proceeded to push my buttons. "I have never had a teacher who is so stubborn about perfect answers.... How can you be so mean.... You just don't want to give perfect scores so that you look smart.... You look for the smallest things that could be wrong.... I'll bet the other teachers don't grade like this."
Finally I said, "Look. You want the stupid points? That's all you care about, isn't it? You don't care about being good at math. You could be a total idiot at math and as long as you get the points, you wouldn't complain. Right?"
My voice was on the verge of exploding with contempt. His eyes were beginning to shine with nascent tears and his bottom lip began to quiver. He stammered, "What do you mean?"
"I'm saying, 'You want points? Here you go. Here's some points. I can give them away. They mean nothing to me. They mean nothing to anybody but you. So here you go.'" I walked over to him and took his test from his hands. I wrote the number 100 on the front and handed it back to him.
"There you are. Everything is fixed now. Problem solved. It doesn't change the fact that you added those numbers wrong."
He was aghast. He looked at the paper. "I don't want the points," he said.
"What do you want then? What do you want? What do you want?"
He had tears coming down his face now. The answer was so obvious. He wanted his fix. He wanted me to tell him that he was perfect, as every teacher, mentor, and parent had told him from the minute he was born. He wanted me to admit that he was smarter than I was. He probably was, and had probably been smarter than every last one of his teachers, but I couldn't let him live any longer believing in his perfection. Because the longer he was shielded from his imperfections, the more devastating the discovery would be.
This is what I thought then, anyway. That he was an entitled, miserable perfectionist that craved my praise. Being a miserable perfectionist myself, I should have known what he actually wanted. Because being a perfectionist is a curse. And the more your imperfections collide with your standards for yourself, the more miserable and lonely you become. Then, all you want is compassion. That's all you want.
He didn't get any from me that day. None. He slunk out of the room as if he had been beaten with a stick of rattan. He got that 100, though. He got that 100.
Relations between us became much more cordial after that. He had learned a great deal about how the only judgment that mattered in the end was your judgment of yourself. He was humbled. He took more joy in learning. He even learned to laugh at himself when he made mistakes. We became as chummy, as a teacher and a student can become.
One day about five months later, I was a teaching a different class when the head of the English department walked hurriedly into my room. His face looked very grave.
"Come here," he said.
"Hi, Bob," I said.
"Come here now." The words were like blows of a hammer.
I followed him out of the building and to the faculty room. As I approached the door, I could see that the room was filled with teachers. Either we were canceling school for the fun of it or something had gone terribly wrong.
I squeezed myself into a corner. I could see that many of the teachers' eyes were red from crying. More teachers kept coming in.
At last the school counselor made the announcement that Joseph had killed himself that morning.
One of the teachers wailed, once, and then there was silence. We all entered that quiet dream world of tragedy, a world you could only look at by staring straight ahead without thinking or feeling anything.
The mourning never really ended that year. For weeks, probably to this very day, the teaching of mathematics, the teaching of anything but compassion, was absurd. But I don't know how to teach compassion because I never learned it myself. I don't want to teach anything. I don't want to teach anything ever again. Except this. Except this.
© 2001 Kenneth A. Champeon Kenneth A. Champeon (kchampeon@yahoo.com, http://www.geocities.com/kchampeon) graduated with honors from the University of Chicago in 1995. He is a freelance teacher and writer, currently living in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
Ira and I sat on the old rotting porch staring up at the starless sky. Holding hands, we gently rocked back and forth in our separate Granny and Grandpa rocking chairs. Our grandson, Tom, had made them for us for our 50th wedding anniversary.
We didn't talk to each other on this night. Only listened to the wind whistling through the pines that covered our yard and surrounded our home like a protective mother's arms.
Both in our own world of thought, I could see a clear picture of the day Ira had proposed to me almost fifty-one years ago. I had only been a young girl of sixteen at the time, Ira a year older.
"Would you be my best girl, my wife?" Ira had asked on bended knee. I remember how his bright green eyes had shone when I looked down into his handsome, boyish face and said I would. He had swept me off of my feet into his strong arms and had kissed me long and hard. I shiver now as I recall that loving kiss.
"Cold, Ruth?" Ira asks me now, breaking my reverie.
I smile warmly at my longtime husband and softly say, "No, dear."
We return to the peaceful quiet with only the squeak that our rockers make on the worn out porch boards.
Back in my nostalgia I sink, moving on to our spring wedding where I wore a gown of white to represent my purity. All of our friends and family attended our festive occasion. We had danced and danced until my legs could no longer carry me. Even then, Ira had swung me around in his arms, his heart full of joy.
When our party was finally over, Ira and I left for a cozy little inn set in the middle of town. We didn't go off for a honeymoon. We had decided to save our money and use it to help build our dream house instead.
Ira and his father worked for six months before our first and only home was built. With five bedrooms inside this love nest of ours, we were expecting a big family.
Our first child, Ira Jr., was born in my eighteenth year. My long, painful labor began on this very porch early one morning as I was seeing Ira off to work. When I cried out from my first contraction, Ira had come running back. Then he had left to fetch the doctor who was to deliver our first small bundle of happiness.
Late the next night, Junior was born. Due to the length of time my bringing in a new member of the James' family took, Ira had had worry lines etched deep in his face making him look far beyond his nineteen years.
I look at him now in the darkness of this humid summer night and can see deeper lines that cover more than his forehead. Permanent lines that remind me of the many years we've spent together.
After having Ira Jr., we went on to have three other children, only one of which was a girl. Mary Lou was our youngest with Pete and Mason in the middle.
As our children grew, we still carried on as newlyweds. It seemed to everyone that our life was perfect. And they were right. But now the memory of Mason's death surfaces. An extreme flaw in our perfect world. Ira and I had been strong when we dealt with this. We had clung to each other and supported the other when we had our worst days. The memory of Mason's unexpected departure from us is too painful, so I don't linger here.
It's getting late now and my eyelids are so heavy. Ira appears to be wide awake though, so I don't want to leave him out here by himself.
I make another selection from my memory bank and withdraw it. This one is much closer to the present. It's the day before our 50th anniversary.
For the whole week prior to our actual day, Ira had been bringing me a gift a day. On this day, however, Ira had not brought me any gifts. Instead, he had just come home at lunchtime (he refused to retire) and had taken me in his arms, leading me to our country-decorated bedroom. With the same passion from our younger years, he had made love to me. I was so taken back with the surprise of it all, yet it was so wonderful.
Instead of going back to work, Ira had stayed home and we had spent the rest of that sunny spring day in each others arms. A smile spreads across my face now. I'm ready for bed. I can no longer hold my eyes open.
"Ruth," Ira says, startling me. He has gotten out of his chair and is standing in front of me. I must have dozed off for I didn't see or hear him move.
"Ruth," he says again, taking both of my hands. "If I asked you to marry me all over again, would you?"
"Ask me," I say, unsure of what he is up to.
As I am looking up at Ira, he goes down on one knee. I can hear the creak of old tired bones and boards as he takes his position.
"Ruth, will you be my best girl, my wife for another fifty years?"
I look down into Ira's much older face and say yes again. The moon is above us now and in its light I see Ira's green eyes shining as brightly as they did on the day he proposed so many years ago. He doesn't sweep me into the air this time. Too many years have gone by for that. Instead, he pulls me to my feet into his arms and leads me inside our elderly house. Tenderly, he kisses me before leading me back to our bedroom.
After all these years, the romance still burns radiantly in our life. In this day and age of constant break ups and divorce, I know our romantic marriage is one of rarity. And I know this night will be a special memory in my heart, just like the others.
* Written in 1992 at the age of 17, recently published at Shyflower's Garden.
© 2001 Angela Giles Klocke Angela is the publisher of several online zines for writers and parents, like The Writing Parent and Parents Like Us. She owns a publishing business -- http://www.klockepresents.com, has had several articles published throughout the WWW and is at work on a novel. She can be e-mailed at agklocke@klockepresents.com.
Ann stood by the classified desk, chewing on the earpiece of her sunglasses and looking over the form that "Hi I'm Mindy!!" had handed her. The girl behind the counter was 20-something, blonde and dressed all in chocolate brown, skirt, shirt, shoes.
"Excuse me," she said to Mindy, who was using a pen cap to clean her nails, "I don't see anything on here that applies to me."
Mindy looked at the woman, noting the perfectly polished nails and the hair dyed a color of red that did not occur in nature. "Okay, well if there's nothing in the boxes you can use the bottom of the form to write your own. What did you want to say?"
"Single woman, almost desperate, seeks male not so," she said smiling, her lipsticked lips not touching her teeth -- like a dog snarling.
"Ha, that's pretty good, I like when no one chooses SWF or DWF, anything else?"
"How about, 'not tattooed, but lightly pierced'?'"
"That's good, too. I notice we get a lot of ads that list fetishes and such, have any?"
"I've been dating for 27 years, I'm fetished out!" Her penciled eyebrows pointed down her shadowed nose.
"No desires to diaper a guy or have him wear your underwear?"
"I think I said almost desperate!" Ann leaned against the counter making doodle cats on the form.
"Well, you could jump into your interests. Hobbies?"
"I'm interested in not entering old age alone. My hobbies are quiet nights and sleeping in and foreign movies that don't allow me to divert my attention." She stood straight and then shrugged, "My hobby is feeling sorry for myself."
Mindy sighed, "Always better to go with something active, volleyball, jogging, bungee jumping?"
"I think I did all of those last week: jogged with a volleyball with bungee chords attached."
"Listen, umm," Mindy glanced down, " Ann, look, can I ask you a personal question?"
"More personal than diapering men?"
"Yeah." she smiled, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder, "what's the big deal? So you're by yourself, are you so bad?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean does the thought of being alone scare you or the idea of the world seeing you alone and filling in the blanks that gets this almost desperate state going?"
"The distinction between alone and lonely? Is that it?"
"That and more. Between solitary and solo and loneliness and alone, what is the breaking point for you?"
"Do you have a boyfriend, Mindy?"
"Huh? No, well, I'm married."
"So what's the deal for you?"
"Look, I'm just asking. You're the one writing a single's ad."
"No, Mindy, what you're saying is, 'I got mine and why the hell can't everyone accept their situation'?"
"I don't think there's any reason to get mad. I was just asking."
"Well, look, Sweetie, your job is to get my ad into this paper. That's what your boss pays you for, right?"
"Yes, m'am, now. 'Single woman almost desperate.' What else?"
"Standard fair: Forty-ish, slim, active and intellectually interesting, music lover and sports enthusiast."
"Alright, would you like to pay for this now or be billed?"
"Here, put it on my card. When will this run?"
"It will be in tonight's edition."
"Okay. And, Mindy, I didn't mean to snap but if I had a hundred dollars for every 'accept your life' comment, I could buy a man. Girls who 'have it' just don't understand."
"I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry."
"Alright. Have a nice day."
"You too."
"Mindy, any more ads for me before you leave?" Mr. Mackey asked.
"Yes, sir, one moment. Let me just fix this typo. Here you go."
Mindy handed him the yellow ad slip and reached for her jacket.
"Hmm, let's see. 'Single woman almost desperate seeks male not so, looking for role playing and some funny fun, let me be the mommy.' Gees, it's amazing some of these people can walk down the street, isn't it?"
"It is Mr. Mackey. I'll be glad my new job won't involve this 'personal contact'. But it has been a learning experience."
"You can't ever get too much experience. Good luck on your next temp job Mindy. Maybe we'll work together again."
"Maybe we will sir, maybe we will. Goodbye."
© 2001 M. E. Hope I consider myself a lay poet and writer struggling to work the short story. My first short story that really moved people was my fantasy short, "Patty versus Secretariat", in which our 27 year old part Shetland mare beats the Triple Crown winner in a match race. (Poetry Retreat)
When the summer had gone out of his life, he turned
Not inward, as those who thought they knew him said he must,
Or even, as the old are want to do, with spittle on a breakfast chin
Confuse reality with times they once long held as truth
He, unlike the brethren in this waiting room to hell, escaped
In spirit, though his wasted form remained, confused
And holding hope to those he once held dear, who dared not dream
Or even linger on a thought of freedom or repeal
He had this way, a trait confined to him, of holding light
And as a spirit in a van Eyk daub, anointed those he deemed in need
To lift them to a higher plane, where they, seeing all as all is seldom seen
Remained, aloof, exalted from all pain, and weakness once a mortal thing
No more confined them to its greed
I knew him at the end, held his brown-blotched hand and felt the bones
Compressing through. His nails, rutted and deformed, where decades of a
Farmer's toil had scored their furrows in this record of his pain,
Dug deep, as though enforcing his determination to remain.
And in the space, the room once held for him, a lady now, fragile
And confused appeared, blanketing his memory with her needs.
I called again, when snow and haw-frost slicked the blackened elms,
A suitcase, of the battered kind stood waiting, angled and confused,
To think that all he was, was now confined within its label-stickered shell.
© 2001 Thomas Ollerhead
Oh section three you waving railroad flat full of boxes
You weaving bike
I have this spy
I'm in the half-lotus
With cowboy boots on
& a bottle of whiskey
With a crazy straw
& I have sunglasses
I am twelve
& I have this key to
Oh should I come over
It's hard to come over
She did the butterfly
& lost some teeth
I hit a ball
You have ripped jeans
We have this
I have this
Your racist tatts
Yu on the side of Gideon?
My name is EINo.
© 2001 Daniel Brenner
where the streets
go nowhere and the blind
follow willingly
where the widows live
behind closed curtains and
the dogs slip their
leashes
i'm here
i've always been here
a believer in the man who
murders horses
a mouth screaming
for vengeance when the children
begin to disappear
and i've been in love with
the poet's wife for
too long now
i've stood outside her house
in the twilight shadows
and cursed my lack of words
i've walked back
to my own four rooms and
taken my anger out on the woman
who lives there
in the morning
we both cry for forgiveness
as clouds gather along the
spines of the hills
by noon
there's rain and rumors of
a statue weeping tears of blood
in a village to the north
we've been raised to fear
the unknown
and this is what we do
savagely and gracefully
and always
© 2001 John Sweet
Poet W.S. Merwin was born in New York City and lived in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey. His father was a minister and Merwin wrote hymns for his father's services as soon as he was able to write. He studied writing at Princeton University under writers such as John Berryman, who had a tremendous influence over him. He dedicated his best-selling collection of poems, The Moving Target, to his other writing professor, R.P. Blackmur. Merwin completed some post-graduate work at Princeton in the romance languages and it is translations of foreign works which has also contributed to Merwin's deserved fame.
In 1950, Merwin settled in Majorca, where he served as a private tutor to the son of Robert Graves. Graves' interest in mythology became a dominant force of influence in Merwin's works. In 1952 Merwin won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award for his first collection of poems, A Mask For Janus. The work is composed of poems which are formal and neo-classical in style and content. He would continue to write such poems for the next decade, leaving behind him a legacy of written work which is rich in imagery and description.
In 1960, Merwin wrote the "Drunk in the Furnace," a collection of poems which was more autobiographical. This style of writing was a definite shift from his prior work which featured an emphasis on mythology and animals inspired by legends, similar to the work of Blake.
In the 1960's Merwin also began to experiment with his work and I feel that the work produced in this decade is second to none. In it we can see a collection which is chaotic and dynamic and filled with irregular line and meter. Merwin was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1970 for "The Carrier of Ladders." It is his most influential text and the works in it return to the concept of legend, while focusing on more personal themes through the context of legend.
The work he produced in the eighties, most specifically, "Opening the Hand" and "The Rain In The Trees" see Merwin returning to revise previous themes in ways which develop a somewhat Eastern philosophy. Like his earlier work, the later poems are filled with dynamic images and a closer relation to the natural world. Merwin lives in Hawaii and is involved heavily in environmental issues. We see these concerns best expressed in his later poems.
Merwin is one of the great poets of all time. I believe he has no equal. His work is original in that it has changed over the years through experimentation with both form and content, while still holding on to the same universal truths which have made him a Pulitzer Prize winner.
Begin with the phrase "I wish" and fill up a page with short phrases. If you get stuck then begin with the phrase again. DO not go back and look over what you have written for a day or two. Then sit down and trim what is repetative and begin to flesh out the poem. Hopefully several distinct subjects of non-memory will evolve which will allow you room for future poems.
You've read about W.S. Merwin in our Poetry Cafe. Now, experience Merwin's Pulitzer Prize winning, "The Carrier of Ladders," and many other great poems collected in a single book. From our Poetry Editor, Dr. Christopher Kurtz, "The Carrier of Ladders" "... is his most influential text and the works in it return to the concept of legend, while focusing on more personal themes through the context of legend."
The next day, Jane found Joe in the lounge, and handed him the notebook. "Look," she said. "I did just what you said, and my roommates thought I was out of my mind. I have to admit, though... it was fun!"
Joe grinned. He opened the notebook, and began to read.
After a moment, to Jane's horror, Joe began to read aloud.
"No!" shouted Anna. "Please don't open that box!"
"Oh yes," the madman growled. "I just have to see what's in it."
"Please," Anna whimpered.
He smiled and opened it. "Aha," snarled Tom.
"I see what you've been hiding all these years," the madman, smiling gleefully, breathed.
Jane was furious. "Are you making fun of me?"
"No," said Joe, raising his eyebrows innocently. "I was just trying to get a feel for how the dialogue would sound."
"And?"
"Is Tom the madman? Or is someone else present?"
"The madman is Tom."
"It's not clear. Lots of writers make that mistake," he said.
"Anything else?"
"Well," said Joe, "I think you've gone a bit overboard with your description."
"How so?"
"Snarled, whimpered, shouted, growled, breathed. It's all quite dramatic, but sometimes characters just 'say' things."
"I wanted to avoid repetition," Jane said.
"Don't worry about it too much," said Joe. "That word, 'said' is transparent. Most readers won't even notice it. It's only required when the writer needs to show who's speaking. A lot of the time, the writer can avoid the tags entirely."
"You're kidding."
"No, really."
Jane sighed. "You think I should get rid of those words?"
"Some of them are appropriate," Joe said, nodding. "I liked the first three sentences. But after that, it got old. 'Breathed' is way over the line. Come on, everybody breathes while they talk."
"Okay."
"One more thing," he said. "Don't put too many words between your quotes and the verbal tag. It's confusing. Have your characters say it, then explain how they said it or what they did in the meantime. Use normal word order unless there's a valid reason to do otherwise."
"Gosh," Jane said, looking down at her shoes. "Did you like anything about it?"
"Yes." Joe reached out a hand and pulled up on her chin, forcing Jane to meet his eyes. "I did. I want to know what was in that box."
Jane shrugged. "I don't know. I'm still having too much trouble with dialogue. It doesn't feel natural to me."
"Well," sighed Joe, "I can give you an exercise to help practice writing it."
Jane listened eagerly. What would he suggest? Perhaps he'd ask her on a date?
This month's exercise is to make a bright and dark list of your attributes as a writer and business person. The bright list will show your your attributes. The dark list will show you areas to improve on. A writer must be two people, a creator and a business person. Are you ready to be both?
Being the creator is the easy part. You get to sit around and think up new ideas and no matter how crazy or unreal they are you can put them on paper and make them sound true. You can use your life experiences as the meat of your work, telling your deepest darkest thoughts to the world, or by keeping a tight PG rating on how you actually live. No matter how truthful you are, or how much you outright lie and embellish, people will accept your work.
You decide what goes on paper and what stays in your mind, you decide what to publish and it is here the writer's true challenge comes in.
Being the business person can be crushing for some, natural for others. It depends how easily you can bifurcate and the distance you are able to keep from your work once it's completed. Some people see their work as a parent sees a child, but you need to see your work as an agent does -- a marketable product in a sea of other marketable products. Otherwise you need to hire an agent or resolve that you will always be a "starving artist" unless Lady Luck comes your way.
There is no Lady Luck. She is a myth created by starving artists the world over. She rides the "ship" that never comes in. There is only grit, perseverance and lots of rejection. With more and more acceptances as you learn the trade while polishing your art. You must make your luck and the way to do this is not necessarily to be a better writer, but to be more business minded.
Check out all the crap on the shelves at your local bookstore and you'll know this to be true. Checking these books of well-marketed words of little substance that have "made it" should not inspire you to emulate the hollowness for cash, but inspire you to make the available selection better by your own creations as a writer. There are gems out there, and no, Lady Luck isn't wearing them.
Last month, our webmaster, Caroline Baker gave you her preference for S. Morgenstern's The Princess Bride, and this month you get to learn about my love of Clive Barker's horror. We are an eclectic group here at Mocha Memoirs, and we read everything in just about any genre you can think of!
Clive Barker is not for the squeamish, especially in this collection of short stories which launched his career and had Stephen King touting him as "the future of horror." Two of my favorites in this collection are, "Jacqueline Ess: Her Will and Testament" in which a woman literally kills men with her mind, and "The Yattering and Jack" in which demons possess a Christmas turkey for a humorous twist on the horrific. Although these short stories are not, perhaps, Clive Barker's best work throughout his industrious career, they point to the beginning of immense achievement for a man who would be director, playwright, painter and darned good writer.
Perhaps you are more familiar with Barker's work as a Film Director on the Hellraiser series which has been known to creep even me, the lover of gore and psychological horror, out. Or maybe you're familiar with his work directing Lord of Illusions, or his wonderful longer fictional tales such as Weaveworld and Imajica.
Still, Books of Blood is often overlooked by Barker fans despite its impact on hjs career. Clive Barker has won both the British and World Fantasy Awards and with "Books of Blood," he takes you through a series of intense horrors, nightmares and personal demons.
Whether it is in his short stories from the beginning of his career, or his later works in multigenre fiction like The Great and Secret Show, Barker is a career author to be watched and one of the most imaginative minds I've ever read. He's not half bad as a visual artist either and has even branched out to titillating gamers with his masterpiece of gaming horror, Undying.
If you haven't come in contact with the creative work of Clive Barker, I strongly recommend that you do. Start with Books of Blood.
