‘Interior Darkness,’ A Conversation with Peter Straub:

By Mark Rubinstein

The Huffington Post

THE BLOG

02/16/2016 07:51 am ET | Updated Feb 16, 2017

Peter Straub

Peter Straub needs no lengthy introduction. As a novelist and poet, he has received many literary honors including the Bram Stoker Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the International Horror Guild Award. In 1965, he earned a B.A with honors in English from the University of Wisconsin at Madison; and one year later, an MA from Columbia University. In 1969, he moved to Dublin, Ireland to work on a Ph.D and began writing professionally. Peter collaborated with Stephen King on two novels, The Talisman and Black House.

Interior Darkness, a collection of 16 short stories written over the course of years, demonstrates Peter Straub’s uncanny ability to blur literary genres and pen short stories ranging widely in length, style and tenor, providing a highly entertaining and unusual volume.

I understand something traumatic happened to you when you were seven years old. Tell us about it, and how it affected you and ultimately, your writing.

I was crossing a street near my house while I was coming home from school. I neglected to look to my left; the next thing I saw was the grill of a car racing toward me. I realized it was way too close and I would never get out of the way in time. An unearthly terror seized me. It was unlike any sensation I’d ever had. It was almost an out-of-body experience. Time was altered so that the car seemed to advance slowly toward me in a series of frames—closer and closer. Then, I experienced a merciful blank.

I was severely injured. I think I died for a while out there on the street. After the accident, came a year of absolute misery, anger, and real unceasing terror. I was totally unprepared to deal with an event of such emotional magnitude.

I underwent a long-term recovery in the hospital. I formed a certain stance toward authority in order to negotiate this awful journey of deprivation and pain. And, I had to deal with adult hospital personnel who couldn’t understand my emotional trauma. My bones were set poorly, and I developed an abscess. Nobody believed there was a problem, but I felt intolerable pain. Finally, my leg had to be re-broken. Imagine having to tell a seven-year old, ‘We’re sorry, Peter, it didn’t go well and we’re going to have to break your leg again.’

It was a long and wretched experience that darkened me forever. It gave me problems I’d have been much happier not to have had.

I did not want to be an injured person. I did not want to be different from others. I did my best to act as though it never happened.

A year later, when I could walk in an almost-normal fashion, I rejoined my class after having missed a year of school. I tried to fit right back into the stream of things and did my best to impersonate a normal child.

In essence, I don’t think I was a child anymore. Kids my age struck me as baffling; they were incapable of talking about anything serious.

My natural inclination toward reading was intensified by the long period of time when I couldn’t do much else. In fact, reading was a golden escape from pain and travail. I was mad about books, and frustrated because I couldn’t talk about them with other eight year olds. I didn’t realize my impersonation of a normal eight year old was flawed. Report cards said, among other things, ‘Peter is talking to himself a little less this year.’ (Laughter). Everyone was telling me to shut up. Actually, I was trying to seal off the space in my mind that kept me so scared.

I had no idea how frightened I had become of nearly everything. Death had come for me—out of the blue. As far as I knew, it could happen again at any time. I was too young to emotionally handle these traumatic circumstances and their aftermath.

The fear never dissipated; it merely became submerged. My impersonation of normality became more accurate, and during adolescence, my anger and disdain seemed normal.

When I became an adult, I wanted to make a living writing because I loved books and narrative. I loved the idea of telling stories, and writing fiction was all I ever wanted to do.

At that time, The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby were hugely popular. I thought I’d give that genre a crack. It felt right—immediately. I felt at home, yet didn’t really know why. Of course, I later realized I was dealing with the material of fear. I was channeling it into my writing. I was all too familiar with fear and understood it so well. I could describe it and could induce it in readers. As is often the case in life, paradoxically, the worst thing that ever happened to me turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

So your own frightening narrative eventually became part of your oeuvre.

Yes. The realization only began to crystalize when I was in my forties. Once I got it, I understood that this horrible event I had been told to forget or minimize was actually a central part of my life.

That realization inspired my writing and I think my work went up a notch.

Speaking of your work ‘going up a notch’ your writing is often lyrical. Some would even call it ‘literary.’ How do you feel about your books being classified as horror novels?

That’s a very complex issue for me. It’s occupied more space in my thinking than I should admit. Even when I was happily writing novels intended to scare people, I knew they’d be labelled horror, but I wanted to write books that were as good as they could possibly be. I didn’t want my novels to be limited by the conventions or expectations of any specific genre. If I didn’t write well, I would have felt I had done a disservice to my gift.

As my work evolved and went beyond the definition of a specific genre, I thought it would be agreeable to have readers say, ‘This isn’t just a mystery, horror, or crime novel. This is actually a novel. It has those other elements in it, but it’s a satisfying work of fiction.’

That was my conscious goal, and as it turned out, readers stayed with me. They were moved by these books. I was very, very pleased.

You know, you never really write the book you thought you were going to write. There’s always a more perfect version of it somewhere in the world. I’m still pleased with the books I wrote in the 80s and 90s because I think they were fresh.

I’ve felt for a long time now, really well-written novels, no matter the genre, are worthy of being called art or literature. Take for example, science fiction, a genre which has mutated beyond recognition. If the book is well-written, it becomes a more serious read, one that is not only enjoyable, but is also a profound way of exploring the relationship between the narrative and life.

My favorite story in Interior Darkness is “Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff.” Tell us a bit about it.

It started when I reread Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener. I was stunned by it. It was a work of genius. Part of what was so stunning was that it was enigmatic. It had depth within depth, a quality I love that there’s more to understand than what first meets the eye. Rereading it made me feel I wanted to work with that kind of material and see what would happen. After reading Melville’s story, Otto Penzler invited me to contribute to an anthology about revenge. I realized I could write a Bartleby kind of story having to do with revenge. When I decided to do that, it all fell into place. The story instantly expressed itself in a style I love: it’s slightly parodic, but also incorporates affection along with Nineteenth Century diction; and allowed me to make points about the character without being explicit.

After I’d written a couple of pages, I realized I could end the story in the same voice with which I’d begun it, and have transformative things happen in the middle of the story. I didn’t realize Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff would be like a vaudeville team. ( Laughter). In a way, the story wrote itself. When Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff had something to say, the words just came out. I just wrote it down. That’s the way it felt.

How do you decide an idea is best for a short story as opposed to being the core of a novel?

I always felt I was emotionally wired to be a novelist. I wanted to write long-form fiction, spending between six months and three years on a single piece. I love interior complexity, which works best in novels. After three or four novels I tried writing a short story.

I took a year off from writing after Stephen King and I wrote The Talisman. After that hiatus, I felt I’d grown rusty, like a musician who could only play an octave on a musical scale. I decided to work on the short story, Blue Rose. I wanted it to be a lead-up to the novel Koko. I thought it would help me hone my writing skills by opening up the avenues in my brain that had been dormant. I loved writing that story.

Unlike with a novel, I’m quite clear about where I’m going when I begin writing a short story. There’s less movement; it’s more manageable; and I won’t have to work on it so long. There’s also a limit to the number and kind of chances I’ll take as compared to a longer work.

With short stories, I can do whatever I like. There were times when I wanted to write short stories but felt I couldn’t afford to take the time. I had to earn a living and meet the costs of everyday life. I had bills to pay. They were paid by writing novels.

What question are you asked in interviews more often than any other?

(Laughter). The question I’m asked most often is, ‘What is it like to work with Stephen King?’

Why do you think that one is asked so frequently?

Steve is a master. As time goes on, he’s become more and more beloved by a vast array of readers. And, as time goes on, he’s more and more productive! There’s a demonic deal somewhere in the works there. (Laughter). The man is a miracle.

You’re hosting a dinner party and can invite any five guests, living or dead, from any walk of life. Who would they be?

Let me think. I’d like to include Hart Crane and Jack Kerouac. So long as they don’t get drunk, they’d be wonderfully interesting. I’d also invite the English psychiatrist, Christopher Bollas. He’d add some rich insights to the conversation. I’d love to have Marilyn Robinson there. She’s one of the most brilliant writers currently breathing. I’m just stunned by her talent. For precision and good manners and to lend some wit to the gathering, I’d invite Marianne Moore, the poet. She and Kerouac might hate each other, but that could make for some fiery conversation.

What’s coming next from Peter Straub?

There may be a third collaboration with Stephen King. We have the germ of a story firmly in place. All we need is time during which we’re both free. Then there’s a book I’ve been working on for a long time. It’s tentatively called Hello Jack.

Congratulations on the publication of Interior Darkness, an engrossing collection of stories taking the reader into an interior world of darkness mixed with comic relief and written with haunting literary beauty.

Mark Rubinstein’s latest novel is The Lovers’ Tango.

Follow Mark Rubinstein on Twitter:

www.twitter.com/mrubinsteinCT

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mark-rubinstein/interior-darkness-a-conve_b_9242276.html

Mark Rubinstein Novelist, psychiatrist, physician:

After earning a degree in business administration at NYU, Mark Rubinstein served in the U.S. Army as a field medic tending to paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division. After his discharge he returned to college, went to medical school and became a physician, then a psychiatrist. As a forensic psychiatrist, he was an expert witness in many trials. As an attending psychiatrist at New York Presbyterian Hospital and a clinical assistant professor of psychiatry at Cornell, he taught psychiatric residents, psychologists and social workers while practicing psychiatry. Rubinstein's high-octane thrillers Mad Dog House (2012) and its sequel, Mad Dog Justice (2014), were both finalists for the ForeWord Book of the Year Award. His 2nd thriller, Love Gone Mad, was published in September 2013 and his novella, The Foot Soldier (November 2013) won the Silver award in the 2014 Benjamin Franklin Awards competition, in the Popular Fiction category. His novella, Return to Sandara, (October 2014), won the gold IPPY Award for Suspense/Fiction. Before turning to fiction, he co-authored five self-help books on psychological and medical topics. His latest novel, The Lovers' Tango, won gold medal in popular fiction at the 2016 Benjamin Franklin Awards. To learn more, please visit:

http://www.markrubinstein-author.com

Two great minds:

Behind the scenes photograph of one of the greatest collaborations.

Director, Stanley Kubrick, and author, Arthur C. Clarke, working on 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).

Photographer unknown.

The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe:

Originally published in 1845

This version published in: Richmond Semi – Weekly Examiner,

dated: September 25, 1849.

The Raven, illustrated by John Tenniel (1858)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow,

From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door; –

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" –

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore –

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before –

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster,

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of 'Never – nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing,

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp – light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp – light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee,

Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!  – prophet still, if bird or devil!  –

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –

On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!  – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting –

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp – light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

The Raven, by Gustave Dore (1883)

 

In memory of Edgar Allan Poe.

January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849.

Happy Birthday …

… to my favorite actor, Jack Nicholson.

Born April 22, 1937, he turned 80 today!

I’ve been a lifelong fan of his movies and I’ll be blogging on my favorites in the future.

He made the role of Jack Torrance, in The Shining (1980), his own.

Happy Birthday, Jack!