Further Thoughts on Clive Barker

A young charlatan psychic masturbates near the road to the dead—and pays the price with his flesh; two warring European villages strap their citizens one upon another, children included, to do battle to the death as hulking giants; the ghost of Marilyn Monroe plucks out a man’s eyeballs and stuffs them deep inside her special no-no place; a woman carries on an illicit affair with a murderous ape (yes, an ape), in a twisted homage to Edgar Allen Poe; a man becomes trapped on a subway train with a psychotic butcher; a mammoth pig devours the bodies—and spirits—of young schoolboys; and a poor, exasperated demon, cannot, no matter how hard it tries, unsettle the placid owner of the house it possesses.

Yes, folks, atrocities of all sorts abound in Clive Barker’s Books of Blood, Vol. 1-3. There were moments when I, the hardened and cynical horror junkie, wanted to look away from the page, but couldn’t, having found myself hooked as easily as Frank with his puzzlebox. Never has anything so putrid, so vile and repulsive, come across as lyrical and damn-near poetic enough to be called “great literature.” Barker’s a hell of a writer, to be sure, and he deserves every ounce of praise he’s received over the years.

And, again, I have to ask myself: How the hell is it that it took me so long to discover this man? Books of Blood, Vol. 1-3: pick it up, if you haven’t already.