ramonoski
Grimscribe
Mirrors seem to be one of Ligotti's recurring images, either as something that reflects back the weird into the world (e.g. "The Medusa", "The Dreaming in Nortown") or, perhaps more importantly, as part of the imagery that constructs the description of that unfathomable greater darkness (see: "The Frolic", "I Have a Special Plan for this World").
...all there can be is mindless mirrors laughing and screaming as they parade about in an endless dream.
And, of course, "The Spectacles in the Drawer".
Reading this story I couldn't help but being reminded of two things: the first is a quote by Borges from "Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius", which states that mirrors (and fatherhood) «are abominable, because they multiply the number of men.» Borges' remark isn't necessarily spot-on with Ligotti's, but I feel there is some kind of, let's call it 'conceptual sympathy' between both takes.
The other things I was reminded of was a story by Spencer Holst, possibly written in the early 70's, titled "The Mirror Story." (And please forgive the long post, but I feel the context is necessary for what I'm trying to get at.)
It concerns a shy poet who resorts to wearing a disguise so he can socialize and earn a living as a fortune teller at a night-club. His mask is actually a one-way mirror: he can see the people in front of him, but they can only see their own reflection.
A girl who works at the club takes an interest in this poet (she doesn't know the poet is in love with her, because he can't talk to people unless he has his mask on), so one particularly slow night she sits at his table, and he's wearing his mirror. She says "look, I don't want you to tell me my fortune. I want to know something about yourself." But before he can express the way he feels about her, she produces an oval mirror from her handbag, places it in front of the poet's mask and asks "what do you see?"
Here the narrator makes a digression to explain: when one stands between two mirrors, inevitably one's reflection ends up blocking the way. But here, the poet is looking through a mirror into another mirror, but this mirror can only reflect the mask, which is a mirror, and so forth. So the poet only sees two mirrors reflecting each other into infinity, and hears a voice asking "what do you see?"[SIZE=+1]
"He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move." the narrator tells us. "And for seventeen years he hasn't moved. He still sits, exactly in that same position, a catatonic in a mental hospital—he's fed though a tube, and is incontinent, and has completely lost contact with the outside world."[/SIZE] And, perhaps not unlike Victor Keirion, the poet has actually retreated somewhere inside his mind (or some other layer of reality, depending on one's interpretation). The story ends with the narrator offering a couple possibilities of what may be going on in the poet's newfound unearthly live. But we never get to know what it was he experienced or saw.
But when I asked the lunatic what it was that saw itself within these mirrors ... he only looked and smiled, then he laughed and screamed.
On the other hand, we have a fair idea of what Plomb saw in those mirrors of his—or, rather, thought he saw. The unnamed narrator's description or what Plomb can expect to see in his blood is rather fantastic and telling. But the narrator is, after all, an educated man, a connoisseur of the occult and forbidden ways. Only, he doesn't share Plomb's curiosity or enthusiasm because he's come to the realization that secrets can only "function as tools in the excavation of still deeper ones, which, in turn, will suffer the same corrosive fate."
But his plot was to simply keep Plomb entertained and get him off his back. He wasn't counting on Plomb trying to increase the experience, and certainly wasn't expecting Plomb to use endless mirrors (mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors...) to exacerbate the effect. His plot backfired terribly and, unwittingly, became a victim of his own devices.
So there is something about mirrors. They can not only reflect, but also increase something to infinity. And maybe infinity, even just the idea of it, is too much for most, if not all of us.
...all there can be is mindless mirrors laughing and screaming as they parade about in an endless dream.
And, of course, "The Spectacles in the Drawer".
Reading this story I couldn't help but being reminded of two things: the first is a quote by Borges from "Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius", which states that mirrors (and fatherhood) «are abominable, because they multiply the number of men.» Borges' remark isn't necessarily spot-on with Ligotti's, but I feel there is some kind of, let's call it 'conceptual sympathy' between both takes.
The other things I was reminded of was a story by Spencer Holst, possibly written in the early 70's, titled "The Mirror Story." (And please forgive the long post, but I feel the context is necessary for what I'm trying to get at.)
It concerns a shy poet who resorts to wearing a disguise so he can socialize and earn a living as a fortune teller at a night-club. His mask is actually a one-way mirror: he can see the people in front of him, but they can only see their own reflection.
A girl who works at the club takes an interest in this poet (she doesn't know the poet is in love with her, because he can't talk to people unless he has his mask on), so one particularly slow night she sits at his table, and he's wearing his mirror. She says "look, I don't want you to tell me my fortune. I want to know something about yourself." But before he can express the way he feels about her, she produces an oval mirror from her handbag, places it in front of the poet's mask and asks "what do you see?"
Here the narrator makes a digression to explain: when one stands between two mirrors, inevitably one's reflection ends up blocking the way. But here, the poet is looking through a mirror into another mirror, but this mirror can only reflect the mask, which is a mirror, and so forth. So the poet only sees two mirrors reflecting each other into infinity, and hears a voice asking "what do you see?"[SIZE=+1]
"He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move." the narrator tells us. "And for seventeen years he hasn't moved. He still sits, exactly in that same position, a catatonic in a mental hospital—he's fed though a tube, and is incontinent, and has completely lost contact with the outside world."[/SIZE] And, perhaps not unlike Victor Keirion, the poet has actually retreated somewhere inside his mind (or some other layer of reality, depending on one's interpretation). The story ends with the narrator offering a couple possibilities of what may be going on in the poet's newfound unearthly live. But we never get to know what it was he experienced or saw.
But when I asked the lunatic what it was that saw itself within these mirrors ... he only looked and smiled, then he laughed and screamed.
On the other hand, we have a fair idea of what Plomb saw in those mirrors of his—or, rather, thought he saw. The unnamed narrator's description or what Plomb can expect to see in his blood is rather fantastic and telling. But the narrator is, after all, an educated man, a connoisseur of the occult and forbidden ways. Only, he doesn't share Plomb's curiosity or enthusiasm because he's come to the realization that secrets can only "function as tools in the excavation of still deeper ones, which, in turn, will suffer the same corrosive fate."
But his plot was to simply keep Plomb entertained and get him off his back. He wasn't counting on Plomb trying to increase the experience, and certainly wasn't expecting Plomb to use endless mirrors (mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors...) to exacerbate the effect. His plot backfired terribly and, unwittingly, became a victim of his own devices.
So there is something about mirrors. They can not only reflect, but also increase something to infinity. And maybe infinity, even just the idea of it, is too much for most, if not all of us.
