Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Dear All,

It is a bit like in that fine tale by Neil Gaiman, in which a merry group of decadent gourmands, after trying all sorts of outrageous foods, come to the conclusion that the last specialty they still have to taste is a roasted Phoenix. So they start looking for the elusive bird-god, they eventually manage to find one, they cook it and well, the end is pretty obvious. Let's just say the cheeky gourmands died in the end (I hope my memory is not failing me in such an embarrassing way).

Infra Noir is more or less that Phoenix. It could have very easily killed us all, but somehow we managed to survive it.

After many changes and delicate disasters, Infra Noir is now finally out. The copies will be shipped to Germany in one-two days, meaning that by next week Jonas will have your copies in the mail. Jonas also told me he still have available a couple of Lettered copies, so please get into contact with him at jonas@zagava.de as soon as possible.

A cautionary note to all those waiting for an eventual reprint of Infra Noir (or any of the six books within) by the occasionally random small press. That is not going to happen. The books of Infra Noir are exclusive to Ex Occidente Press and Zagava and they will remain so.

A few quick photos attached (the slipcase for the book is missing from the photos; the slipcase / box will be ready from my bindery later today). The book contains over 100 photography, so it would have been impossible to make photos of each page of the volume.

We are very proud and happy with this book and we hope you will enjoy it as well.

Thank You all.

Salut,
Dan

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Dear all,

here finally are the first photos of the dustjacketed softcover edition of "Infra Noir". Due to paper-supply problems both edition will arrive slightly delayed mid of this coming week in Düsseldorf and will be shipped speedily thereafter from here.

VERY few of the Roman-numbered deluxe edition are available via email only (jonas@zagava.de)
Get the standard version on the website - Zagava

Cheers!
Jonas

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Dear all:

While Infra Noir has finally (!) been shipped from Bucharest to Düsseldorf and will arrive here by courier on Monday,


we proudly announce the publication of:



This collection of 7 new stories comes as hardcover edition, limited to 75(!) exemplars only, bound in black fabric, with red silk bookmark ribbon, illustrated colour endpapers after a painting by Thomas Phillips and frontispiece.

In addition to being a fascinating author and painter, Thomas Phillips is also a renowned composer, who has shared the stage with Francisco Lopez, the mighty Sunn O))) and members of Opera McGill, among many others. So we thought it would be a splendid idea to attach a CD (see below) with music especially composed by Thomas Phillips.
A book with a soundtrack!

Like its precursor, The Light is Alone, Malingerer is what might be called a discursive inverted cross. On one level, it aims to exhibit various manifestations of Satanic practice because, quite simply, the latter’s representation in the horror genre offers a perverse but delectable pleasure; the liminality of horror always entails an element of fun. And yet the collection is also devoted to perpetrating a kind of violence against those evils that are distinctly unpleasant, specifically the Luciferian nature of religious and political fundamentalisms, abominations of conscience. Hence Malingerer’s alignment with the aesthetic diabolism of Lovecraft’s powerful oeuvre, among those of other esteemed writers and thinkers, while it carefully critiques and collapses the convoluted bigotry that, for better and most certainly for worse, found such sublime, unholy expression in the picturesque city of Providence.

(shipping starts in 2 weeks already!)
www.zagava.de

All my best wishes,
Jonas

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I have just received my purchased deluxe copy of INFRA NOIR:

http://dflewisreviews.files.wordpres...4/08/infra.jpg

I am astonished as never before at the book's design inner and outer. Has to be seen to be believed and then appreciated. Artwork galore amid aesthetic materials...no words can do it justice. Linear as well geometrically dislocating.

Contains:
Smoke by Mark Valentine
Inflammable Materials by Thomas Strømsholt
The Unfolding Map by John Howard
Soot by Dan Watt and Andrzej Welminski
The Salamander Angel by Damian Murphy
The Slaves of Paradise by Colin Insole

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

"A cautionary note to all those waiting for an eventual reprint of Infra Noir (or any of the six books within) by the occasionally random small press. That is not going to happen. The books of Infra Noir are exclusive to Ex Occidente Press and Zagava and they will remain so."

I thought that once the book goes out of print, the publishing rights revert to the author... meaning that any press can be free to reprint them, if the author decides to allow it...

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I understand this statement to mean that the authors have expressed their clear intention not to immediately (or at all?) re-publish the texts elsewhere, which seems like a noble gesture, but if you look at some of the material in this very, very handsome volume you will probably agree that even in this time of many of the Ex Occidente books being re-published by other publishers in adequately big editions, most of this content seems far too adventurous for anyone else to even consider touching.
I love the Mark Valentine and the DP Watt "books", all very much out there with the best that is currently being done as far as risk-taking and imagination is concerned. This is a book the publishers and authors can truly be proud of. Plus that "standard edition" is a superb production which I wouldn't think twice about purchasing had I been so unlucky to miss out on the deluxe edition, which design-wise is the book of the year for me so far.


Ohh... and "Malingerer" the new book by Thomas Philipps is due any day now, too! I thought his "The Light is Alone" was a stand-out entry in the Editions de l'oubli canon. Should be very interesting.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

”Wow,” said my wife as I unpacked the Infra Noir books. ”There’s so much to gaze at and study that I hardly even know where to begin ...” I should add that, unlike me, she is not stricken with the book-disease. (She may be now though). Anyway, she expressed my thoughts almost to the letter: Infra Noir is truly an extraordinary object – a thing of beauty, a joy forever ... Pride, such a strange feeling to me, is perhaps what I feel by having some of my short texts included in this amazing book which contains material by authors infinitely better than me; a humble kind of pride ...

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Ahhh! I have the slip-cased Infra Noir in my hands. A "reading copy" is en route. Cotton Gloves for reading on order. Most exquisite book triumph imaginable and object of unholy fetishism. I need a copy for every room in the house, and another for the custom-made leather book-holster I am having designed for it. This is not a book - it is a hand grenade! Congratulations to all involved.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I have been reading Infra Noir numbered edition since the beginning of the week. 'Experiencing' might be a better description than reading. The synthesis of content and design really is something to behold. Congratulations to all involved, this is outstanding stuff.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I'm way behind on my reading and have yet to read the latest Avalon Brantley as well as Infra Noir. Now another book has been placed on my tower of to read-books, as Thomas Phillips' Malingerer arrived today. I'm delighted to that it is dedicated to the true Danish king, our exiled monarch in Dallas, Texas.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Dear MadsPLP,

I am truly delighted to see the dedication of Malingerer recognized. Hails KD!

And many thanks for picking up the book. Hope you enjoy!

Very best,

T/

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

https://dflewisreviews.files.wordpre...ling.jpg?w=990 https://dflewisreviews.files.wordpre...ing2.jpg?w=990

I have just received my purchased copy of

MALINGERER by Thomas Phillips
Zagava MMXIV

My previous review of a Thomas Phillips book from Zagava / Ex Occidente Press here: https://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com...omas-phillips/

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Finally, a powerful tribute to Fernando Pessoa, one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

This is wonderful news. Pessoa, the Portuguese writer of Proustian Selves.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Even those who do not think very much of my stories have been kind enough to enjoy my efforts as a book collector. My books have not come to me on account of any fortune. I am honoured to be the son of a postman and I spent all my own working life in an office. The books came from countless hours in obscure bookshops, patiently studying the shelves. They perhaps also came to me because of a certain oblique sensitivity, an alertness to books that had been overlooked. But even that is probably the product of long practice.

A lot of my writing other than fiction has been an attempt to revive the work of then-unread writers, who are now beginning to get some proper attention at last: for example, Ronald Fraser, Claude Houghton, Mary Butts, even Arthur Machen who, when I started to celebrate him, thirty years ago, with my late friend and co-editor Roger Dobson, was out of print and known only to certain savants.

But I have also been pursued by the question that is several turns further on in the dark corridor of neglected literature: what about those whose writing has vanished almost completely? That is what Wraiths is about. By delving in obscure memoirs, I have written a study of a handful of Eighteen Nineties decadent poets so rare and elusive, so enigmatic, that their verses never appeared at all, and are virtually completely lost. For one we have a single line; for another, two stanzas; for the others, only fervent memories of what their work was, in all its strange glory.

I have also added an essay on a little-known aspect of that fine and fervent Nineties poet, Ernest Dowson. With a friend, he wrote a Jekyll & Hyde-ish shocker (his term) which they tried in vain to get published. That too is now lost. But by studying the letters between the two authors, I have tried to revive an idea of what the book might have been – perhaps even a rival to The Picture of Dorian Gray or The Great God Pan.

Mark

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

... whilst "Dreams of Ourselves - An Appreciation of Pessoa" will be ready to ship from Düsseldorf this coming Monday, December 1st, all of the envelopes containing the card, revealing the heteroniminous authors' names are sealed already! - Zagava

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Dreams of Ourselves
https://dflewisreviews.files.wordpre...pg?w=300&h=268
I have just received my purchased copy of this luxurious, richly artworked book…
288 pages – No. 31 of 110 numbered copies
DREAMS of OURSELVES
Stories and novellas from Quentin S. Crisp, Jonathan Wood, Colin Insole, Andrew Condous, Mark Valentine, Damian Murphy, John Howard, Rhys Hughes, Adam S. Cantwell, D.P. Watt, Avalon Brantley.
Les Editions de L’Oubli MMXIV
Zagava / Ex Occidente Press
I am particularly intrigued by the prospect of this book as it seems to be operating a form of Nemonymity (author late-labelling) that was operated in NEMONYMOUS 2001 – 2010.
My previous reviews of this publisher’s books linked from HERE
https://dflewisreviews.files.wordpre...pg?w=300&h=246

Interview - Jonathan Wood
 

Dear Friends

The excellent Jonathan Wood gave an incredible interview to me. The prose, so exquisite and complex, punches the very essence of the Wood prosody. The link for this curious interview (a Portuguese translation will be made soon):

http://bibliophage.postach.io/interview-jonathan-wood

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

WRAITHS and A DISTILLATE OF HERESY | THE DES LEWIS DREAMCATCHER REVIEWS
My review of WRAITHS by Mark Valentine, a review written earlier today before I reminded myself about what he had written above.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Unexpectedly I couldn't resist starting the Damian Murphy book today.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Dear friends,

I am updated my blog (in English and Portuguese as well) with a review of the exquisite and unique book/project by Dan Ghetu: “Dada Gnosis”. The links are below:

http://bibliophage.postach.io/dada-gnosis (in English)
http://bibliofagia.postach.io/dada-gnosis (in Portuguese)

Best for all,

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Thanks. That's given me much food for thought regarding 'Dada Gnosis'.
I did a wordless review of it here when it first came out.

PS: Rhys Hughes and I collaborated on a story 'The Broom Cupboard of Crossed Destinies' in the 1990s, as a nod to Calvino's 'The Castle of Crossed Destinies'. This will be republished soon in a Rhys Hughes collection.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Thank you so much for the Rhys Hughes reference. Yeah, your excellent reviews are a terrific tool for my reviews and interviews (your review reference now is mentioned at my review).

Best,

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I have just received my purchased copy from the publisher…

bump ->
 

- Necro Post -

One of my favorite threads, one that I have strolled through for years, before I even registered.
For new arrivals, this is a history of the influential press, now legendary.
The impact and legacy of this press cannot be underestimated.
Brilliant production design, attention to craft, as in crafting books as works of art.
The overall run of titles is dizzying. When considering the quantity of releases, especially in such a brief amount of time, especially from a tiny press, the mind boggles.
Off topic sidesteps in the thread are frequent, and generally of substance.
What counts as a review? Thoughts on the secondary market. Finding decent weird channels in an era of self publication overload. The perils of too many choices.
The real impact of the press, however, were the trove of new authors. The publisher had an uncanny talent in spotting talent, then putting his faith between boards. And, as mentioned earlier, the release schedule was breathtaking.
The reaction was giddy. It was as if the cave of treasure yawned open.
Everyone ordered, then fretted impatiently, wondering when the books would arrive - or if they would arrive.
Unlike other presses, members invariably gushed when the books arrived.
(Unfortunately, for me, most of the comments are akin to fashion statements. "How beautiful!" "Dazzling!" "Need to read this with white gloves!" Of in-thread reviews, though, next to nothing. Come on! How hard is it to scribble five to ten sentences?)
To be sure, problems surfaced, increasingly or simply more evident near the end of the thread.
One-man shows are not always the best organized. International mail can be unpredictable.
Despite the best of intentions, there were bruised feelings on several sides.
You buy direct, you fill your library with the glow of exclusivity. On rare occasions, things will go wrong. Faith is always a precious commodity.
This is - was - one of the finest presses for readers of this forum.
I have bumped it, for the curious, for newcomers, for archivists.
Most of you will be in for a treat with this.
Good luck one and all.

Re: bump ->
 

T​he last post on this thread is from Des​ in 2015. It is now 2019. 44 hardcover books have been released in the last four years.

So, not quite dead yet.

Thank you for the rather encouraging sentiments, Zaharoff.

For constant updates, announcements, pictures of the books, presentations texts, recommendantions, reviews, etc there is always my small FB page and my email Newsletters. I have no interest in polluting this forum again.

Thanks.


1. And I'd be the King of China by Mark Valentine
2. The Lustre of Time by John Howard
3. Splinters of Horn and Ivory by Thomas Stromsholt
4. The Imperishable Sacraments by Damian Murphy
5. The Boy who Played with Shadows by Quentin S. Crisp
6. Golem of Bucharest by Andrew Condous
7. The Hill of Cinders by Colin Insole
8. Ruination in Bloom by Charles Schneider
9. The Siren of Montmartre by Leopold Nacht
10. The Haunted Sleep by Jonathan Wood
11. Transensience by Avalon Brantley & Lockett Hollis
12. An Ossuary for M.P. Shiel by Harold Billings
13. The Exaltation of the Minotaur by Damian Murphy
14. Conflagration by D.P. Watt
15. Lanterns of the Old Night by Alcebiades Diniz
16. The Daughters of Lilith by Harold Billings
17. Seduction of the Golden Pheasant by Damian Murphy
18. Out There by Quentin S. Crisp
19. A Vampire of the Soul by William Charlton
20. Cloistered by Ravelled Bones and Ruined Walls by D.F. Lewis and Slawomir Wielhorski
21. Visit of a Ghost by John Howard
22. The Academy Outside of Ingolstadt by Damian Murphy
23. Europa by Karim Ghahwagi
24. Ruins of Eden by Harold Billings
25. Abyssinia by Damian Murphy
26. Deeper Flowers Thrive by Oliver Smith
27. Gas by Eric Stener Carlson
28. The Gift of the Kos'mos Cometh!, A Homage to Night and Cosmos (Edited by Damian Murphy & Geticus Polus)
29. And the Whore is This Temple, A Homage to Temples (Edited by Damian Murphy & Geticus Polus)
30. All is Full of Hell, A Panegyric for William Blake (Edited by Damian Murphy & Geticus Polus)
31. Wound of Wounds, A Homage to Emil Cioran Boxset (Edited by Damian Murphy & Geticus Polus)
32. Shiloh by Philip Fracassi
33. A Spy in the Panopticon by Damian Murphy ​(​Boxset​)​
34. A Sunday in Oursel and Other Tales by Gerard Prevot
35. Orient Air Express by Paul Morand
36. The Eleven Thieves and Other Tales from the Night Land by Glynn Owen Barrass
37. Tears for Europa by D.P. Watt ​(​Boxset​)​
38. The Sorrows and the Furies by Thomas Stromsholt
39. The Dance of Abraxas by Benjamin Tweddell
40. ​The Metapheromenoi by Brendan Connell
41. The Rhododendron Boy by Colin Insole
42. Psalms of the Magistrate by Damian Murphy​
43. Serpentine Supplications by Stephan Friedman
44. The Deepest Furrow by Jonathan Wood

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

So according to S.j. Bagley:

““reminder that dan ghetu, the dude that ran ex occidente ('from the west'), press... organised a compliation album in tribute to corniliu codreanu (founder of the iron guard, the fascist party in romania allied with hitler's germany) and donated the money made from it to a modern fascist offshoot of the iron guard.”

Very disgusting and disappointing to hear. Won’t be getting my money, that’s for sure.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

This post reminded me that Ex-Occidente was supposed to put out a Cioran tribute, but I totally forgot about it. I just found out they did in 2017. Wound of Wounds: An Ovation to Emil Cioran. Damian Murphy and D.T. Ghetu (editors). Cheapest copy currently on the net is $325. Out of reach for me. I wish these publishers would show some mercy on us 'mere' readers and release a kindle version.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I'd be interested in and receptive to hearing a response from Ghetu.

As for the pricing, I too am often dismayed about missing out on certain books, such as the Heiroglyphics Machen Tribute and the odd Sarob Press volume. Publishers like Zagava and Snuggly have been doing god's work resurrecting OOP ex occidente stuff.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Regarding Wound of Wounds: An Ovation to Emil Cioran, I once asked if there's copy available and there are still some left for 120 euro. I am intrigued because there is a Justin Isis tribute but money is tight right now so I'll see if I can buy it next year.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Check the cloth boards for a book I have designed and published a few years ago. GOLEM OF BUCHAREST, by Andrew Condous. That should answer all your questions. I hope!

A free PDF of WOUND OF WOUNDS is available to anyone interested in reading it. Actually, free PDFs are available for almost all (but not all) of the books I have published.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

Respectfully, having googled, I may be ignorant of the symbolism involved, but I don't see how those boards address the original accusation concerning Cordeanu.
I am also told you edited and published a magazine called 'letters to nuovo europae' (sp?) which was dedicated largely to supporting far right artists.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

The PDFs are available free as Dan has said. Anyway I will just post it in here for convenience...consider this an advertisement for the book...

The Aristocracy of Weak Nerves

From the outside, there is nothing at all lurid or even Romantic about the Zoo: its facade suggests a nondescript university facility, perhaps a kind of research station. But it would be a mistake to imagine the building as anonymously bureaucratic or in any way forbidding. The large entranceway, with its tasteful iron gate spread wide during business hours, suggests easy access; and having passed through this gate, the visitor is able to take in the general arrangement of the Zoo, which is exceedingly simple and linear. The exhibits are housed in cages whose layout forms a rough rectangle, which encloses an open central area where it is possible to rest and take refreshment at the sparsely-furnished cafe (where, after all, a touch of humor has crept in; there is no food and only two drinks available: water and strong black coffee. Smoking, of course, is permitted).

The cages are all large and spacious, fitted with iron bars. This, the Impresario assured us, was not intended as a concession to any kind of camp or kitsch aesthetic, but merely as a clear instantiation of the Zoo’s nature, one that would make it instantly understandable without any need for explanatory material or sensationalist signposting. A more “modern” facility, the Impresario explained—one with less spartan furnishings—would have been viewed by the exhibits as an attempt to somehow obfuscate the Zoo’s nature, which in turn would have cast the entire affair into bad taste. So: simple iron bars on spacious cages, and all of them unlocked, the exhibits being free to leave at any time.

It is really a simple arrangement, and no doubt contributes to the Zoo’s appeal, as there is nothing to distract from the exhibits themselves. The Impresario—I must refer to him by this title, which he chose himself over the more obvious Zookeeper, Warden or even Administrator, all of which would have been more accurate, but which he did not feel fully expressed his role—classified them by their relative energy levels instead of their stated philosophical positions. Although I quickly grasped the logic of this system during my period of employment, it perhaps requires some explanation, particularly when the metabolism and mindset of a particular exhibit would seem to be at odds. Some of the more vehemently misanthropic specimens, including one—a Dutchman who claimed that all of existence was a single, hellish and infinitely sustained thought in the mind of a malevolent God who was both everywhere and nowhere—were talkative and even forceful, commanding; sometimes even cheerful, if almost always in a rather brittle sense. These Argumentatives were exhibited in the northwest quadrant of the Zoo, regardless of the extremity of their views, which the Impresario considered less important than their willingness to engage visitors in debate, or, more commonly, to simply lecture at or even hector them. The selling point of the Argumentatives, then, was that they would "become talky”—and as the northwest quadrant was closest to the main entrance, they were in most cases the first exhibits that visitors would encounter. As they followed the path of the Zoo’s perimeter through the northeast and southeast quadrants, the energy levels of the exhibits decreased, reaching their lowest point in the southwest quadrant, which housed the Depressives. These consisted of exhibits with views as diverse as those of the Argumentatives, but who all for the most part remained silent and bedridden. The extreme Depressives (referred to as Catatonics) rarely moved, and some had even been outfitted with drip feeds and catheters despite remaining conscious; watching them was entrancing, meditative. When they rolled onto their sides and faced the visitors, their expressions seemed dead, lost inside themselves.

It might be thought that this progression would deflate the tension of a visit rather than build it to any sort of satisfying pitch or climax, which is in a sense correct, but suited the experience the Impresario wanted. Having encountered the Argumentatives, most visitors would by now already be in an agitated or at least preoccupied state, so that the sight of so many men—and they were almost all men, the female exhibits being a comparative rarity—lying on their sides would invite either quiet reflection or else spur the visitors to take the lead in interacting with the Depressives. All who paid entrance to the Zoo were free to call out to the exhibits or otherwise engage them in conversation or debate, which, emboldened by the intellectual provocations of the Argumentatives, they often did throughout the rest of their tour, even with Depressives or Catatonics who were not inclined to respond. This complete freedom naturally resulted in visitors who chose to simply take out their daily frustrations or other repressed grievances on the exhibits, arguing with the Argumentatives and deriding the Depressives as useless parasites, slugs of society, weaklings, damnable heretics, or whatever other epithets they preferred. This always struck me as somewhat of a dubious pleasure at best, but it contributed to the Zoo’s revenue. Most of the exhibits were thoroughly inured to the abuse and would pay it no mind, although some of them—almost always Argumentatives—tirelessly responded in kind, resulting in some memorable shouting matches. Other visitors, of an empathetic, charitable or merely perverse disposition, would struggle to get the exhibits “back on their feet” with suggestions of a changed medication regimen, religion, positive thinking, and all manner of other cures and palliatives. For the most part this was a futile exercise, although the Zoo occasionally did lose exhibits to these “missionaries,” as the Impresario called them. On more than one occasion an exhibit checked himself out only to return weeks or months later, chastened by his stay in the outside world. The Impresario accepted these prodigals with perfect magnanimity.

“‘If children were brought into the world by an act of pure reason alone, would the human race continue to exist? Would not a man rather have so much sympathy with the coming generation as to spare it the burden of existence, or at any rate not take it upon himself to impose that burden upon it in cold blood?’ You there, with the red hair—have you asked Mommy and Daddy about any of this? No? Now might be the time to start. In the proper spirit of love, of course. The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous...”

I can recall these words with intense clarity, including the initial quotation, which was delivered in a tone of suitably ironic pomp. It was spoken to me on my first childhood visit to the Zoo by a Romanian Argumentative with a somewhat pinched countenance and an impressive shock of greying hair. This figure, who I would personally attend to in his later years, was more of a Reflective than an Argumentative—not much of a real philosopher, although he always drew a lively crowd of visitors eager to hear his latest extemporaneous epigram. He meandered greatly and often contradicted himself, but there was something calming about his voice, despite the literal meaning of the words it often conveyed.

On that visit I detected a definite conspiratorial tone of reassurance from several of the other exhibits, and in this I was not alone; my eventual coworkers would later share their own stories of entering the Zoo for the first time and sensing the same thing. Our parents had already taken us to nursing homes, animal zoos and fairground haunted houses, and the Zoo seemed to recall all and none of them at the same time. There was a hint of the classroom about it too—some obscure and unhealthy pedagogy. Having seen so little of life, we could not really understand what the exhibits were saying, but their words carried a curious, mocking authority—all the more curious because authority of any other kind was never thought to be mocking. It was unclear to what extent our parents intended a Zoo visit to function as a kind of inoculation against the exhibits, or whether exposure to them had no deeper meaning than any other spectacular attraction. Certainly the Zoo had its elements of spectacle, to which a cautionary meaning could be ascribed, but the sense that we were witnessing in the exhibits a state of degradation to which we too might fall if not careful was mostly undercut by the intellectual brilliance of the Argumentatives, and those Depressives who, however pitiable, retained a kind of grave dignity.

Unable to forget the words of the Romanian Reflective, I later returned to the Zoo on my own. Now free to wander at my leisure without the scrutiny of my parents, I spent an entire day observing and listening to the exhibits. Most of them openly denounced procreation, civic pride, religion, hedonism, personal identity and meaning of any kind—things which young people have been taught to value, even if only in the abstract. To hear the foundations of society and even the self dismantled with such thoroughness left me with a numb feeling that was not altogether unpleasant.

As I have said, the exhibits would discourse freely with all who paid the entrance fee. Some of them argued that they were in fact free, while we visitors were the real exhibits; that is, that the Zoo was less a prison, or even a sanctuary, so much as the only existing island of liberty. This kind of reversal delighted me. As I grew older and continued to visit, I was never sure to what extent I agreed with any of the exhibits, or whether agreement was necessary or even meaningful. The Impresario did not seem to care either way, and when as a young adult I entered his office to apply for a position, I learned that philosophical stances of any kind played no role in the interview process. Apparently those who were inordinately attached to any of the exhibits’ views were not regarded as suitable candidates for employment; an attitude of neutrality or even indifference was preferred. Still, it was difficult not to become convinced by the exhibits, so that even after I received my uniform and set to work cleaning their cages and bringing them their meals, I often found myself electrified by a chance remark, certain that I was at last seeing reality accurately.

There were a number of regular occurrences. Apart from learning the habits and routines of the exhibits, we staff and attendants became familiar with the route followed by the Tobacco Creeper as it made its way around the Zoo. The Tobacco Creeper was either a misshapen homeless man, an extremely old, bent-backed woman, a mental defective of some kind, or an arcane synthesis of the three. Its facial features were indeterminate in the extreme, and those we could make out beneath its gauze mask displayed great deformity: clouded, half-closed eyes, a crushed nub-nose and hideously smooth skin, perhaps the result of long-ago burns. Apart from the mask and the rags tied around its head, it wore the hood of its ratty old jacket up, and usually concealed its eyes behind a comically large pair of sunglasses that might once have been worn by some grand old dame at a seaside resort in the distant past. Its hands were protected by cloth wrappings, and more tightly-wrapped rags covered its legs and feet.

The Tobacco Creeper would creep from cage to cage, picking up the fallen tobacco and butts discarded by the exhibits, with which it would carefully assemble its own cigarettes. Its movements could be startling; at times it would slump over and fall forward before righting itself at the last moment and bounding ahead in a manner reminiscent of a kangaroo. Sometimes it would crawl on its belly like a soldier or a snake before suddenly standing upright and then just as suddenly slouching against a wall. Despite its appearance, it never displayed any ill will, or even a desire to communicate; perfectly mute, it wished nothing more than to collect its daily supply of stray tobacco and smoke its grubby cigarettes in silence. Over the years it had achieved the status of a beloved pet, and the exhibits would reach out from their cages to stroke its rag-swaddled head. Somewhat alarmingly, children and other young visitors seemed enamored with rather than terrified of it; perhaps in its obscurity and awkward but unflagging motion they saw something of themselves. A picture of the Creeper at the entrance assured their parents that it was an authorized element of the Zoo rather than an escaped exhibit or unwelcome indigent. It was the closest thing the Zoo had to a mascot.

Most of the exhibits agreed that life consisted of a brief interval of awareness crushed between infinitely longer slabs of nothingness. This sandwich of nihilism they nevertheless attributed numerous flavors, almost all of them unpleasant. There were sardonically hateful exhibits and tormented, hypersensitive ones whose adherents—for a number of them attracted regular visitors who recorded or scribbled down their utterances—fancied them full of compassion and pity, as well as exhibits who, despite their various medications, seemed to exist in a constant, violent contortion of unbearable anxiety. Others were dull and mild on the surface but would expound on the depth of their agony if questioned.

Some of the exhibits were occasionally mauled by hope. They went into paroxysms, or at least looked troubled and almost lovelorn. A few attempted something like productivity, briefly recording their thoughts or even beginning more ambitious treatises and disquisitions. But hope invariably faded, replaced with paralyzing despair or mere indifference. We came to anticipate these periodic upswings of mood, which followed their own generally predictable schedules, giving the impression that the mind or perhaps temperament of each exhibit was a single gear, and when taken together they formed a kind of mechanism, a groaning piece of industrial clockwork prone to eruptions of steam and unexpected noises. This negative philosophical machine was the Zoo’s totality, a strange and seemingly purposeless assemblage lumbering forward erratically, powered by a spectral flame suspended in vast inner darkness, a harsh grey light of diseased vitality that flickered briefly before extinguishing itself with no great fanfare.

If the Argumentatives and Depressives alike had their share of supporters, certain exhibits in particular drew a regular contingent of devoted visitors. The Romanian was always a popular draw, as was the Unperson, an exhibit who claimed to be no one, a functional human robot. Although he did not seem to be suffering in any sense, he belonged nowhere else and so had ended up at the Zoo. He was immensely suggestible, and there were reports that some of the staff sexually abused him, although I never witnessed this. Mostly he posed for photos with visitors who took advantage of their ability to dictate his facial expression to him. On command he would break into a smile of perfect optimism, or else assume a morose, preoccupied appearance.

“There is no one inside me,” he would say, sitting perfectly still on the bed inside his cage. “I am neither alive nor dead.”

I have said that the exhibits were free to leave at any time, but there was one exception who was interned permanently and whose cage was locked, his personality evidently being considered so unsuitable for outside existence that the possibility of his return was not even contemplated, much less permitted. Naturally the status of this "Extreme Case" who had been judged utterly incompatible with, if not actively deleterious to society, attracted great interest. I remember my own sense of mingled trepidation and excitement upon approaching his cage for the first time. Later, when I had commenced my employment and become familiar with him, I was able to witness the effect that his reputation had on first time visitors. Most of them expected something in the manner of the more abrasive Argumentatives: a ranting lunatic advocating human genocide, or some other embodiment of explicitly criminal derangement. But the exhibit was a small and unimposing man who usually wore heavy red or brown sweaters and an old woollen hunting cap with a peaked brim; his clothes on the whole were too large for him. His features were mild, and in fact he resembled a certain avuncular children’s television host who had been popular in my youth, although I did not impart much significance to this coincidence. The exhibit took pains to always situate himself in front of his desk, seated and facing away from visitors, so that the glow of his large computer monitor haloed the back of his head. He did not complain about his condition or express any other statements of suffering, much less expound anything like a coherent philosophy. Instead, he carried out the same repetitive task on every day of every year I observed him. The large monitor could be read easily enough; at any given time the exhibit was logged into OkCupid, viewing a woman’s dating profile. Often the profile differed, although routine observation revealed that the exhibit only ever examined the same three women. The first was a thickset blonde university student, the second a frail middle-aged woman with dark hair and glasses, and the third a severe-looking teenager with a shaved head, dressed in what looked to be a man’s suit. The exhibit often stared at these profiles for hours without moving, and when he glanced away it was always to return his attention to the sheets of paper arranged on his desk. These were covered with cursive scrawls, and it was clear that the exhibit was engaged in writing out a long letter by hand. His expression as he wrote was neutral, and at certain points he would return his attention to the screen again, becoming lost in the profile before him. When the concentration of visitors outside his cage became too great and the Extreme Case sensed that they demanded some sort of show, he would finally turn to them and deliver a few words, usually nothing more than a simple, bland greeting. Once I saw a group of boys remaining in place even after the other visitors had departed in disappointment; evidently they were still expecting a horrific malediction or some sudden torrent of transgressive wisdom.

“Don’t expect too much out of life,” the exhibit told them at last. The boys listened to him solemnly, as if attending to the words of a priest. The exhibit seemed to be speaking with great insincerity.

All of the exhibits—or aristocrats, as the Impresario sometimes called them—had considered suicide, but it was generally agreed to be too late for it to make any difference. Despite this widespread resignation, the Zoo contained a Euthanasia Booth for any exhibits who decided to permanently and expeditiously escape from themselves. The booth was used very infrequently, but remained one of the Zoo’s chief attractions, as many visitors ardently wished to witness an exhibit ending their life. During my period of employment I can recall only a single instance of the Booth fulfilling its function, and this occurrence involved a professor from Frankfurt who the Zoo had exhibited for twenty years. On the day she chose to leave her cage and follow the path that led to the Booth, an alarm of sorts went off, and a funereal but rather tinkly piece of piano music was piped through the Zoo’s PA system. The combination of a rare female exhibit with a rare public death commanded the immediate attention of both visitors and staff alike, and the atmosphere of excitement could be compared to that preceding a parade at Disneyland; all those present were encouraged to stop what they were doing and attend to the upcoming suicide. Young visitors absorbed the atmosphere of solemn spectacle and immediately ceased their chatter, while older ones took out their cameras and other recording devices. As the professor passed, we received the impression of a snow leopard or some other noble creature leaping from a precipice to extinguish itself in a flash of wild glory, although from the outside the scene was nothing more than that of a middle-aged German academic, in noticeably poor physical condition, with short dull dun-colored hair, conveying herself to the Euthanasia Booth as if carrying out a particularly tedious and routine errand. Once known for the passionate rhetoric of her essays on Hölderlin, she left no note of any kind and evidently did not feel the need to explain her decision, which had been to a great extent foreshadowed by her written works of nearly half a century before. All that remained was to enter the booth, strap herself into the chair and insert the IV for her lethal injection—steps she undertook with stolid efficiency. The Romanian Reflective seemed visibly affected by her death, and I can recall him speaking to himself as I passed by his cage:

“Too late now to escape time. Too late to lament, Sofia. It is not only too late for death, but too late to lament it. What vitality remains is only the flat hum of a refrigerator, ever-present, keeping our despair cool in the surrounding fire of the self. Boxy and remote. We cannot be unplugged...”

The Romanian seemed to be mumbling, trying to marshal his thoughts into more impressive aphorisms, but it was clear that age had affected him, and he quickly trailed off.

A few resolutely suicidal exhibits disdained the Euthanasia Booth and determined to assert themselves by way of an unwitnessed and individually enacted death. On three occasions I discovered exhibits who had managed to hang themselves with bedsheets or other crude garrotes fashioned from the materials present in their cages. In these cases, the Impresario instructed us to simply call the coroner and have the corpse removed rather than sound the alarm and invite all to see, even though this would presumably have satisfied the visitors.

The Impresario’s precise psychology was a matter of speculation amongst we employees, although few definite conclusions were ever reached. He had apparently conceived the Zoo along with several other unorthodox business schemes while still a young man, and it had been the only one of his ideas to have resulted in much profit. He was unfailingly courteous to his workers and seemed almost apologetic to the exhibits—some of whom went so far as to curse him and his family on a regular basis. The Dutchman once referred to him as “a cockroach feasting on the excrement of our misery,” while a particularly vociferous American Argumentative, who was convinced that the human race must drive itself extinct in order to “return balance to the planet,” regularly worked himself up into a froth of venom whenever the Impresario passed, spitting in his direction and throwing small objects. The Impresario seemed more embarrassed than anything, and absorbed the imprecations with a bowed head. He disdained to play the showman, too, and rarely interacted directly with the visitors, preferring to let the exhibits speak for themselves. In matters of maintenance and general upkeep he could be fastidious, and he paid great attention to the physical condition of the exhibits, bearing as he did the cost of their health care. Most of them required medications of various kinds, and the majority were afflicted with ailments that seemed partly psychosomatic but still required regular attention. Digestive disorders were common, as were skin conditions and poor dental hygiene. Despite these trials, many of them were exceedingly long-lived and persisted well into their eighties and nineties, clinging to life even as their conditions steadily deteriorated.

After five years of employment, I still did not feel that I had exhausted the Zoo’s mysteries, but I had become familiar enough with them that my work had lost much of its glamour. The insights of the exhibits—their stripping away of social illusions, the cold honesty that had once seemed so urgent and upsetting—had been reduced to tics and truisms, philosophically unassailable but no longer carrying the force of a revelation. I had thought of leaving before, but a sentimental attachment tied me to the Zoo, and in the end it was a sudden whim that eventually caused my resignation. For a long time rumors had circulated among the visitors, describing secret exhibits or areas of the Zoo not open to the public. The content of these supposed hidden rooms varied depending on the account, but it was almost always spoken of as being too upsetting for general exhibition, either for intrinsic moral reasons or because it would somehow reflect negatively on the prejudices of the public in a way that would affect the Zoo’s continued existence. My coworkers and I naturally had access to almost every area of the grounds and had never come across such a room, but we were not immune to the rumors and still sometimes speculated on what the Impresario might be hiding. On the day in question I had wandered over to the administrative area on my lunch break to discuss the condition of a Depressive who had recently transitioned to full Catatonia. The Impresario’s office was not particularly large, but it bore the mark of his meticulous nature: clean carpet beneath, family photographs framed on the walls with an even amount of space between them. It was not unusual for him to offer the staff coffee during situations such as this, and I always accepted. Now the conversation trailed off as I faced him across his desk, our empty mugs resting in front of us, and after a moment’s deliberation, I idly mentioned the hidden room.

“It does exist,” the Impresario said, as if the matter was of no great importance. “I could show you, if you want. Would you like to see it?”

I nodded my assent, not taking him entirely seriously. He stood, returned our mugs to the sink and then led me through a door behind his desk that opened onto a long corridor. I was familiar with the layout of the building and had some idea of the dimensions of this corridor, but I had never passed through it before, much less entered any of the rooms along its length. If asked, I would have guessed them to be storage areas for Zoo records, which was how they were designated on the maps provided to the staff. The Impresario walked to the end of the corridor and stopped in front of a door, which he then unlocked and motioned for me to follow him inside.

The first thing I noticed was the room’s sole occupant: a small, naked child. This rather corpulent little boy, who looked barely old enough to read, was clearly a tenant and not a prisoner, as the room was furnished with a couch and comfortable-looking bed, and there were no restraints or any other ominous implements present. With that said, there was no television and no books, and nothing else with which the boy might occupy himself. He did not have any obvious sources of food and water either, although he had been provided with a toilet, and I watched as this naked child pissed into it with no trace of shyness, the pale golden stream sustaining itself in a clear arc before breaking into desultory dribbles. He seemed entirely unconcerned with either of us.

"Is this it?" I asked.

"Yes, this is it."

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

First of all, do not read my responses to you as a sort of an apology or explanation. I do not owe you anything, let alone an explanation. It will be weird for you to ask for that and it will be inappropriate for me to actually do that. This particular topic happens to pop up on this forum once every five-six years, which amuses me copiously. You are new to this. I thought the subject has been properly explained by me in the past and I have no intention to repeat myself, just to please you and some other edgy bloke. Mistakes I have made when I was 19-20 years old are just that: mistakes. I remember telling the late Joel Lane about all of this nine-ten years ago, before publishing his THE TERRIBLE CHANGES collection and he, Joel Lane, an Antifa member (I might be wrong but I am pretty sure he was actively supporting Antifa) told me to "chill" because there is nothing I have to apologize for. That coming from an Antifa activist, half Jew and homosexual gentleman. Yes, Joel Lane had that kind of noblesse in his heart, which is dearly missed.

Another entertaining fact, THE TERRIBLE CHANGES was supposed to be called FROST FLOWERS but I've told Joel that I would rather not go with that title, since "Frost Flowers" is the name of a Death In June song. He was amused by that and he told me that if I insist we can change the title to THE TERRIBLE CHANGES. Which is what we did.

I also had an issue with the title SECRET EUROPE, the collection I have published for Mark Valentine and John Howard. I've told Mr. Valentine at that time that the title carries a certain connotation, which will make the book appealing to "certain people" (right-wing people, more precisely). Mr. Valentine told me it is nonsense and that he will like to keep the title as it is. Which is what we did.

More recently, I also had some second thoughts about D.P. Watt's "Manifest" text which came published on the back of a large poster (in TEARS FOR EUROPA collection / boxset). A very powerful essay, no doubt, but I thought some people will immediately accuse him of being a "fascist". You know how people are these days, right? Right. It proved to be a false alarm. No one accused Dan Watt of "fascism". Because of course, that would be a plain stupidity. But still, I was not very comfortable while reading that essay the first two times.

Since then I have worked with and published more left-wing, plain anti-right wing, anarchist, communist, libertarian writers than any other small press around. Doesn't matter? Oh well.

So, you have checked the boards for GOLEM OF BUCHAREST by Andrew Condous and you do not get the symbolism? How weird. Because a man pissing on a large swastika is a pretty straight-forward symbolism to me. That artwork was chosen by me and not by the author, as Andrew can confirm. See the cloth boards, as I have very clearly said. Not the dust-jacket, as you have probably checked online, in a hurry.

Do you know any other fascists who put the image of a dude pissing on a swastika on the cover of their book?

But, anyway, if that's making you feel better and more righteous, feel free to call me a fascist, a national-socialist, a national-anarchist, whatever you want. :)

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

"Necro Post - One of my favorite threads, one that I have strolled through for years, before I even registered. For new arrivals, this is a history of the influential press, now legendary. The impact and legacy of this press cannot be underestimated. Brilliant production design, attention to craft, as in crafting books as works of art. The overall run of titles is dizzying. When considering the quantity of releases."

I thought that this might be a great opportunity to quote this passage from another poster, since it matches my own experience. I too, came to TLO after years of reading the threads about Ex Occidente/Mount Abraxas (and also Ligotti)!

Zaharoff said it best, but I will repeat that this small independent publisher has done more to promote literary-quality, weird-surrealist-occult fiction than any other in the world today. And their editions are object of beauty in themselves. I'm always eager to see and hold the next release from (now) Mount Abraxas.

Political litmus tests for authors and publishers are not even a consideration for me and in fact are a turnoff. (text deleted in interests of peace)

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I have no idea whether the editor in question is a fascist or not, so I won't comment on that. I hope he isn't and that instead he's just not good at arguing online.

I'm only here to say that posting on a forum that you're not buying books from a seller is absolutely nothing like the state-mandated burning of books. This has nothing to do with censorship whatsoever. There isn't any lack of imagination involved in not supporting fascists. They feel entitled to enough things without being entitled to your money as well. I commend any people engaging in a boycott of writers who fund fascist causes. The 'literary horror' or 'philosophical horror' small press scene has a fascist problem worth pointing out, however awkward others find it, and consumer boycotts are the free market in action and not left-wing tyranny. It's the exact opposite.

Pretty sure that's all I had to add. Oh yeah, and also: the reactionary dominance of the ole spook fiction scene is finally falling out of fashion in this post-Mark Fisher spectral world, and Antifa are AWESOME!!!!

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I haven't seen any kind of censorship in this thread, let alone the 'worst kind' (!?). People can buy or not buy whatever they like, and people don't have to agree with the reasons for their purchases or non-purchases. Nobody has censored anybody. I'll leave it at that as these discussions just make me stop liking this place for a while. Things were getting better. Sort of.

Re: Ex Occidente Press
 

I'm going to close this thread for a week or so before things get more confrontational, at the suggestion of a wise TLO member, so that everyone can have time to cool off.