Posted by billward on Oct 28, 2022
A Trip Into “The Willows”
This October, Take a Trip Into “The Willows” by Brian Murphy Writing something original about “The Willows” is about as fraught a proposition as having something original to say about The Lord of the Rings. First published in 1907, Algernon Blackwood’s tale is widely recognized as, if not the finest horror/suspense story in the English language, certainly in the conversation. Many have extolled its virtues, and none other than H.P. Lovecraft considered it to be the finest supernatural tale he had ever read. Nevertheless I’ll make an essay of my own here as to its potency, and why it’s worth reading. Not all horror need be jump scares or gore. The most effective stories in the genre build and sustain a sense of dread. Of being watched, turning quickly, and finding nothing behind you. But the terror persists. In his non-fiction study Danse Macabre, Stephen King described a hierarchy of horror writing that placed terror at the apex (fear of the unknown/inner dread), followed by horror (outwardly showing horrible things), and finally, splatter (the gross out). Wrote King: “I recognize terror as the finest emotion and so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I find I cannot terrify him/her, I will try to horrify; and if I find I cannot horrify, I’ll go for the gross-out. I’m not proud.” There is terror in “The Willows.” No gore to speak of, unless you count a vaguely sketched corpse or two. Not any full-monty depiction of the unnamable, ghosts and goblins and zombies lurching through the night, the stuff of horror. Its power is in suggestion. Adding to the terror of the story is its “based on true events” authenticity. Blackwood drew upon personal experience for “The Willows,” two separate events a year or so apart centered around the same haunted isle. From a 1938 introduction to the tale: As I look back to revive old memories… of a journey down the Danube in a Canadian canoe, and how my friend and I camped on one of the countless lonely islands below Pressburg (Bratislava) and the willows seemed to suffocate us in spite of the gale blowing, and how a year or two later, making the same trip in a barge, we found a dead body caught by a root, its decayed mass dangling against the sandy shore...
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