I have read some of the poor reviews here and wonder if M. R. James's reputation can survive into the 21st century given our jaded sensibilities. He is a restrained writer in full command of the impression he registers in readers. He leads them quietly down a rationalist path, then suddenly springs the trap with a ghastly breach of ordinary reality on the unprepared reader and protagonist alike. And he does so as economically as possible, leaving the readers' imaginations to fill in the fullness of a horror that lurks in a dusty corner, behind a bolted door, beneath a sheet, a pillowcase, or in the depths of a crypt, a tunnel or a well. The lack of satisfying explanation adds to the frisson of terror. He never shows more than necessary or feeds the appetite for the explicit or the garish. I think Gattis's approach here mirrors James's. He conjures a foreign realm of which the self-satisfied and superior English rationalist is entirely dismissive. The ugly Englishman ignores local lore, religion, and customs. He thereby puts himself into the crosshairs of an evil he is entirely incapable of acknowledging much less combatting. And if we understand the full import of what he has awakened, we needn't stare it in the face to find it frightening. The looming shadow of an unholy figure, the flash of a half-consumed visage and wicked laughter from the wings is enough.
