Arthur Machen's "N"

 I recently reread the Arthur Machen story, “N,” and have been thinking about its place in the canon of writings that have influenced the modern psychogeography movement, as well as the underlying mystical concepts that Machen employed in writing it. I find it easy to connect those ideas to Novalis’ Magical Idealism, as well as his theories about poetry and the Golden Age.

     The first time that I read “N,” I was initially troubled by what seemed its lack of a central message or point, beyond being a celebration of the streets of London and the pleasures of exploring urban life in general. Lin Carter, the fiction writer and historian of the fantasy genre in literature, praised Machen’s ability to make the streets of London and the stories that he found there into a veritable Arabian Nights. Carter described the world of Machen’s episodic novel, The Three Impostors, as “Bagdad on the Thames.”

    It took me several readings to see beyond the sumptuous urban landscape that Machen describes in “N”, and also, his characters as more than just former or current practitioners of dérive, the term that Guy DeBord and the Situationists used to describe an activity where “one or more persons during a certain period drop their usual motives for movement and action, their relations, their work and leisure activities, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.” [Guy Debord, "Theory of the Dérive," Internationale Situationniste #2 1956] Psychogeography was the name that the Situationists gave to the study of this type of activity, but the term is now commonly used to refer to its practice as well, having superseded dérive, at least in the English-speaking world.

    Machen’s “N” begins with a social gathering of old men who share their glorious memories of the streets of London during the bygone era of their youth. These nostalgic reveries lead to a discussion of a magical park in the (fictional) neighborhood of Canon’s Park, in Stoke Newington, part of an inner London borough. One of the old men mentions that a cousin once visited Canon’s Park and found a place there that possessed unearthly beauty. Another of the participants in the discussion, who grew up in Stoke Newington, insists that no such park exists. A short time later, one of the participants in the discussion, who has been curious about this mysterious park, encounters a mention of it in a book. The author of the book puts forth several strange theories related to the park, which he glimpsed for a moment with his own eyes. At one point, the author of the book writes, “Some have declared that it lies within our own choice to gaze continually upon a world of equal or even greater wonder and beauty…This method, or art, or science, or whatever we choose to call it is simply concerned to restore the delights of the primal Paradise…” An acquaintance of the author, who shows him the mystical park, suggests, based on ideas that he attributes to William Law and Jacob Böhme, that matter itself was, before the Fall, “a soft and ductile substance, which could be moulded by the imagination of uncorrupted man into whatever form he chose it to assume.” I want to remark that this is an idea which somewhat resembles Novalis’ Magical Idealism with its belief in the power of the imagination to mold reality itself, as well as his thoughts on the Golden Age as a state of the individual’s oneness with all things, physical and spiritual, that he derived from Hemsterhuis. It is also important to note that Novalis equated the Golden Age with the innocence of childhood, and to recall that the old men at the beginning of the story reminiscence about the London of their youth as a kind of lost paradise which has passed away forever.

     This may be a moment to comment on something that I noticed about the structure of the story. Aside from my struggling with the unfolding theme, which I came to comprehend only with difficulty, I realized that Machen’s method of piecing together the story by having a character compile its elements from random conversations, careful enquiries, and books, was something that I had encountered before. The slow buildup of evidence of the impossible, or at least the supernatural, leading to an incredible conclusion, reminded me—on a purely literary level—of certain stories of Jorge Luis Borges, “La otra muerte,” for instance. It’s interesting to note that Borges was a huge fan of Machen, and also of Novalis.

    But to get back to the story and its theme: eventually, more reports of the park, which appears to be a veritable Garden of Eden, convince the old man who was part of the original group at the beginning of the story that the place actually exists. He meets a young man one day on the streets of Stoke Newington who verifies its existence as well. The story ends rather abruptly, which I think was partially responsible for my initial feeling that it seemed to end up somewhere, but personally, I couldn’t tell where that was. However, several re-readings finally led me to the conclusion that those who experienced the Edenic park were true psychogeographers. They were all people who experienced and accepted the park as a magical place because they came to it without agendas, certainties, or calculations. As in childhood, they were able to see the world and its wonders with innocent eyes and imagination, in the “ambience of play,” [Debord], and without needing or desiring to commodify or rationalize their experience. The old men who had only their memories of a lost Eden, and who were “now sitting among desolate rocks, by bitter steams,” having lost their way (like the young apostate in Hesse’s Die Morgenlandfahrt [«Er hat es sich schwergemacht, den Glauben wiederzufinden…»]), could not return to innocence. But those who saw and encountered the prelapsarian park were still living the experience of wonder, and the city and the world were still places of “magical habitations, supernal dwellings, more desirable to the eye than the fabled pleasure dome of the Eastern potentate, or the bejewelled hall built by the Genie for Aladdin in the Arabian tale.”

We Act in Faith

We act in faith - and miracles occur. In consequence, we are tempted to make the miracles the ground of our faith. The cost of such weakness is that we lose the confidence of faith. Faith is, faith creates, faith carries. It is not derived from, nor created, nor carried by anything except its own reality.

                                                                                   --Dag Hammarskjöld, Vägmärken

This is a great paradox. People who make miracles the basis for their faith run the risk of encountering all sorts of skepticism, doubt, and even theological problems. Faith can’t be about miracles, because it springs from a higher certainly. Miracles are gifts, but the greatest gift is faith. I have, myself, witnessed probable miracles on a few occasions, given the definition that a miracle is an event that entails divine intervention in the suspension of natural physical law. But what is that compared to faith; to the relationship with God from which true faith is derived? What does faith need but the love of the Other, the person that one has faith in?

     St. Alonzo Rodriguez (in his Autobiography) said of his own supernatural experiences: “So great is my aversion to such things that I would prefer not to speak or write about them and that no one should know of them. For they bring more danger than profit and the world esteems them highly, though there is little light in them, when it should make much of solid virtues. Sanctity consists in the love of God and of one’s neighbor, and in profound humility, patience, obedience, and resignation, and the Imitation of Christ our Lord.”

     In his Das Allgemeine Brouillon (a title which I borrowed when I give this space a name), Novalis said, “All faith is wondrous and wonder-working.”

December 12, 2025

 

Nach dir, Maria, heben

Schon tausend Herzen sich.

In diesem Schattenleben

Verlangten sie nur dich.

Sie hoffen zu genesen

Mit ahndungsvoller Lust –

Drückst du sie, heil'ges Wesen,

An deine treue Brust.

 

Following you, Mary,

A thousand hearts are eagerly arising.

In this shadowy life,

They long only for you

And hope to be healed

With a sense of joyful expectation—

If you, holy one,

Will press them to your faithful breast.

 

                     —Novalis, Hymnen an die Nacht

Submitting

 

I want to talk for a bit about the strange ritual of submitting work to literary journals. There is so much about it that remains utterly arbitrary. I ask myself: why do I enter my work into these literary beauty pageants that feature work from writers who are more educated, talented, and inspired than me? Why, too, is the work that ends up being accepted so often the stuff that I feel is not the best or most exciting and is certainly not the work that I expected to be popular or trendy. I sometimes feel like the writer in one of Akutagawa’s stories who is asked to write an eulogy for a person that he was barely acquainted with, and he slaps together a trite, mawkish, flippant, and affected piece, only to find that it gets a sincere and powerful emotional response when it is read at the funeral. On the other hand, a short story that he has just published is torn to shreds and cruelly mocked by a prominent literary critic, leaving him to wonder how a piece of writing that he put together with no real effort or dedication has succeeded so well with its audience while a work that he poured his heart and soul into did not.

     Every writer who submits work must decide when a piece is ready to be reviewed by editors and be able to fly on its own. I suspect that this moment comes for most of us when we feel that everything “works” in a piece of writing, the language, the story, the pacing, and the ending. But I know there are works I have written and carefully edited that I immediately wanted to improve upon as soon as they were published.  A word here, a comma there, a bit of added color. I am constantly making little changes even after a piece has been published, perhaps because I’m secretly hoping for the opportunity to one day publish a “canonical” version, perhaps in a book. One of my children is a filmmaker, and he says that he always sees small details in his films that he would like to change, “mistakes” that probably nobody else ever even notices, once his work is in the public eye. But where does the perfecting of a piece end? I think of the painter Apelles in John Lyly’s Elizabethan drama, Campaspe, who, when asked by Alexander the Great when his portrait of Campaspe will be finished, answers, “I’ll never finish: for always in absolute beauty there is something above art.”*

     I think that anyone who does a lot of submitting has probably made mistakes in carrying out the submission process, which is almost always done these days by email or through a submission manager. Some mistakes are the types of things that would have been easier to catch in the days of paper submissions (something that I was briefly familiar with at the beginning of my writing and submitting endeavors, before submission managers became the thing). But maybe submission managers and email are really not to blame for my mistakes. I’ve sent cover letters with the wrong story name, and I have even sent the same story or poem or essay—I can’t remember which—to the same journal twice, and I’ve done a host of other things which probably cause editors to question not only my professionalism but also my sanity. On every occasion it’s been accidental, but it still speaks volumes about my ability to carry out simple tasks. And I know that editors are busy people trying to do their best while being snowed under by endless submissions from people like me. Submissions are always a gamble, but I’ve probably not helped my odds on more than one occasion by—again, accidently—not following a journal's guidelines to the letter. I continue to submit, and maybe make an occasional mistake in the process of doing so, but it’s a necessary step in getting my work out into the sprawling literary world.

 *I converted this quote into “modern” English for clarity

Dreams

In wunderliche Träume flossen die Gedanken seiner Seele zusammen. Ein tiefer blauer Strom schimmerte aus der grünen Ebene heraus. Auf der glatten Fläche schwamm ein Kahn. Mathilde saß und ruderte. Sie war mit Kränzen geschmückt, sang ein einfaches Lied, und sah nach ihm mit süßer Wehmut herüber. Seine Brust war beklommen. Er wußte nicht warum. Der Himmel war heiter, die Flut ruhig. Ihr himmlisches Gesicht spiegelte sich in den Wellen. Auf einmal fing der Kahn an sich umzudrehen. Er rief ihr ängstlich zu. Sie lächelte und legte das Ruder in den Kahn, der sich immerwährend drehte. Eine ungeheure Bangigkeit ergriff ihn. Er stürzte sich in den Strom; aber er konnte nicht fort, das Wasser trug ihn. Sie winkte, sie schien ihm etwas sagen zu wollen, der Kahn schöpfte schon Wasser; doch lächelte sie mit einer unsäglichen Innigkeit, und sah heiter in den Wirbel hinein. Auf einmal zog es sie hinunter. Eine leise Luft strich über den Strom, der ebenso ruhig und glänzend floß, wie vorher. Die entsetzliche Angst raubte ihm das Bewußtsein. Das Herz schlug nicht mehr. Er kam erst zu sich, als er sich auf trockenem Boden fühlte. Er mochte weit geschwommen sein. Es war eine fremde Gegend. Er wußte nicht wie ihm geschehen war. Sein Gemüt war verschwunden. Gedankenlos ging er tiefer ins Land. Entsetzlich matt fühlte er sich. Eine kleine Quelle kam aus einem Hügel, sie tönte wie lauter Glocken. Mit der Hand schöpfte er einige Tropfen und netzte seine dürren Lippen. Wie ein banger Traum lag die schreckliche Begebenheit hinter ihm. Immer weiter und weiter ging er, Blumen und Bäume redeten ihn an. Ihm wurde so wohl und heimatlich zu Sinne. Da hörte er jenes einfache Lied wieder. Er lief den Tönen nach. Auf einmal hielt ihn jemand am Gewande zurück. »Lieber Heinrich«, rief eine bekannte Stimme. Er sah sich um, und Mathilde schloß ihn in ihre Arme. »Warum liefst du vor mir, liebes Herz?« sagte sie tiefatmend. »Kaum konnte ich dich einholen.« Heinrich weinte. Er drückte sie an sich. »Wo ist der Strom?« rief er mit Tränen. »Siehst du nicht seinen blauen Wellen über uns?« Er sah hinauf, und der blaue Strom floß leise über ihrem Haupte. »Wo sind wir, liebe Mathilde?« »Bei unsern Eltern.« »Bleiben wir zusammen?« »Ewig«, versetzte sie, indem sie ihre Lippen an die seinigen drückte, und ihn so umschloß, daß sie nicht wieder von ihm konnte. Sie sagte ihm ein wunderbares geheimes Wort in den Mund, was sein ganzes Wesen durchklang. Er wollte es wiederholen, als sein Großvater rief, und er aufwachte. Er hätte sein Leben darum geben mögen, das Wort noch zu wissen.

 

The thoughts of his soul flowed together in strange dreams. A deep blue stream shimmered from the green plain. A boat floated on the smooth surface. Mathilde sat and rowed. She was adorned with wreaths, sang a simple song, and gazed at him with sweet melancholy. His chest was heavy. He didn't know why. The sky was serene, the tide calm. Her heavenly face was reflected in the waves. Suddenly, the boat began to turn. He called to her anxiously. She smiled and put the oar into the boat, which continued to turn. A tremendous fear seized him. He threw himself into the stream; but he couldn't get away; the water carried him. She beckoned; she seemed to want to say something to him; the boat was already filling with water; yet she smiled with indescribable sincerity and gazed serenely into the whirlpool. Suddenly, they were drawn downwards. A gentle breeze swept over the stream, which flowed just as calmly and brilliantly as before. The terrible fear robbed him of consciousness. His heart had stopped beating. He only came to when he felt himself on dry ground. He must have swum far. It was a strange region. He didn't know what had happened to him. His mind was gone. Thoughtlessly, he walked deeper into the land. He felt terribly weak. A small spring flowed from a hill, sonorous as chimes. He scooped a few drops with his hand and wet his dry lips. Like an anxious dream, the terrible event lay behind him. On and on he walked; flowers and trees spoke to him. He felt so comfortable and at home. Then he heard the simple song again. He ran after the music. Suddenly, someone held him back by his robe. "Dear Heinrich," called a familiar voice. He looked around, and Mathilde caught him in her arms. "Why did you run from me, dear heart?" she said, breathing deeply. "I could barely catch up with you." Heinrich wept. He pressed her to him. "Where is the river?" he cried with tears. "Don't you see its blue waves above us?" He looked up, and the blue river flowed softly over their heads. "Where are we, dear Mathilde?" "With our parents." "Will we stay together?" "Forever," she replied, pressing her lips to his and clasping him tightly, so that she could not tear herself away from him. She spoke a wonderful, secret word into his mouth, which resonated through his entire being. He was about to repeat it when his grandfather called, and he awoke. He would have given his life to remember that word.

                                                                                     -- Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

How much of my work has been inspired by dreams! Yet where do dreams come from? Last night I dreamt of something that I knew could only happen in a dream. And yet, at the time of the dream, I was certain that it wasn’t a dream. I am one of those people who could not ride a bike until I dreamed that I was riding one. (This is not an uncommon phenomenon.) People often speak of finding solutions to their problems in dreams. I have never received the “solution” to a problematic story in that manner, but I have received true inspiration for some of my stories. A satisfying dream always has a good story at its core. Not to mention new experiences, plenty of exciting action, interesting settings, and sometimes even a lesson. But in the end, our dreams fade, and so often upon waking we forget—and know we have forgotten—some pivotal insight that was given to us in a dream.

New Poem

A new poem of mine that I am very proud of was just published over at Packingtown Review, a very attractive journal out of Chicago. I’m really honored to be in their pages. I also had a poem published in a print journal recently, but the publisher asked that contributors hold off announcing that their work was featured there until the official release this fall. Although it’s their Spring Issue and has already been printed, they are going to officially release it this fall with their online Fall Edition as part of a launch celebrating their journal’s 20th anniversary. Seeing these poems get published has been a nice break in the midst of spending so much time—like so many other people—working with the anti-Trump resistance. But for now, the struggle continues, and hopefully my writing will, too.

"Woe to you who are rich"

 

“Woe to you who are rich,” said Christ with no reservations or explanations. He did not say this so that others might multiply in his name reservations and explanations until we are given to understand that he meant the opposite.

     There exist among us, as you know, castes of thieves, the Grounds. “Castes” is not the right word, for they are only tribes of poor pariahs. However, they look upon robbery as their function in society and even have their own code of honor and sacred books! Foreigners who make a study of the peoples of India are astonished at so monstrous a custom. They are right, but let them also look at home and the world over. They will see that there is a caste of thieves everywhere and, horror of horrors, it is even the first and the most honored. It is the caste of the rich and mighty.

     The rich man will never set his hand to the plough. Not that he is afraid of hard work (he will work willingly enough at hunting and on the golf course), but because the code of honor of his caste forbids it.

     What is the function of the rich man in society? To interfere with those who go to work, wait for them at the turn of the road and hold them up for ransom.

     With the loot they amass they can give themselves up to play, or else to business and intrigue, or win fame, or wallow in debauchery, according to their tastes and opportunities.

     As for the worker, he works both for himself and for those who do nothing, and the less these do the more important they take themselves to be and the greater their weight.

                                                                      --Mahatma Gandhi, quoted by Lanza del Vasto in Gandhi to Vinoba