By Peter Haining
A PICTORIAL historical past OF HORROR tales:
Two Hundred Years of Illustrations from the Pulp Magazines
This booklet is largely a page-for-page reprint of Haining's prior booklet entitled "Terror: A heritage of Horror Illustrations from Pulp Magazines." there isn't any new fabric. the one distinction is it's a hardback with diverse disguise artwork. whereas it's particularly thorough in visually documenting the evolution of horror representation from the "penny-dreadful" magazines of the Victorian age in the course of the pulps of the '30s and '40s, it has a big shortcoming -- many of the luridly colourful pulp journal disguise photos are reproduced in B&W. That makes for a really monotonous learn. nowadays, more recent books in regards to the pulps constantly reproduce the covers in excellent colour. Why they didn't see healthy to do this within the '70s and and '80s is a secret and a disgrace. anyone must revisit the topic of horror pulps and do it right.
4to, modern illus bds with lurid photo of monster attacking a dozing lady, 176pp. Lavishly illus in color and in B&W. Many artists are represented: Mary Byfield, Henry Anelay, John Gilbert, Sidney Paget, Margaret Brundage, and so on. those illustrations are regularly fascinating.
A dinner party of nightmares in photographs, rescued from the crumbling pages of lengthy lifeless periodicals. levels over 2 hundred years of gory, ghoulish and terrifying from the 1st Gothic engravings of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein to that wealthy and sundry treasure residence of horror illustrations
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Jacqueline is whispering something as well, but voices raise and none of us can hear what she's saying. I stare from the window for a while, not joining in the exchange. It soon becomes so that I can't tell who is saying what, who wants to go, who wants to stay. Through all of it I hear Jacqueline's whisper, a background to the argument that will always be there when it's over. I know that we will hear her soon, and I know what she will say, because I'm thinking it as well. "Quiet," I say. The word breaks through at just the right moment, and the kitchen falls almost silent.
I remember sitting in The Hanbury's garden in Caermaen drinking Marston's Double Drop, a golden ale with a fruity malt aroma, a bright and yeasty taste with a bitter, caramel finish, cool going down and calm as it dulled my senses, while all around us families ate basket meals and bickered, kids scraped their knees hiding beneath the heavy timber tables, mothers fussed and spread sun cream and fathers ruffled their sons' hair and smiled as their daughters ran off to find other girls, sit in the shadow of the hedge, play with their dolls and pretend to be mothers themselves.
Old flowers are brown and fading, whilst new ones shine through. I kneel and cup one bloom, staring at its random perfection, and I try to remember my wife's face. I close my eyes, but there is a shadow blocking her out. All I can recall is the knowledge of her tears and pain as the plagues took her away. " I ask. Still only her tears, and my memory's response is her angered cry as she felt herself slipping away. I definitely need a drink. There's not much left, but that has not prevented us all from drinking every day.