BOOK REVIEW | House of Leaves

Darkness and Self

Review by KATHRYN CHILDS

As a self-defined experimental writer (my debut self-published [at the age of twelve] novel Henry’s Closet featured a board game between narrator and reader as well as numerous form-defying and fourth-wall breaking segments), I easily and willingly celebrate anything which taps into that nowhere space between prose and lived life. The absurdity that defines what it is to be alive cannot always be totally and rightly captured by a journey into the land of articulated, oft perfected, prose, but it might be breeched by an intentional rejection of the language arts—not via lyric, as does poetry, nor script, as do plays (although both manage to, by subverting form, reach beyond communicable expectations toward, as John Keats coined, a readerly dwelling made of “uncertainties, mysteries, and doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”), but via an almost embarrassingly self-assured disregard for structure of any kind.

Perhaps this is why upon reading Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves for the first time at twenty-four I fell into such a marked and reverent state of blasphemous worship for the ends of earths to which the craft of wordsmithing can go. At last, I thought (though House of Leaves had been out for twenty-three years already and amassed a cult following mirroring near few other novels): a work that showcases the kind of twisted, morose, infuriating, genre-defying, topsy-turvy writing that has been inside me all of my life—a tradition-bucking fiction that (based upon the book’s continued popularity decades later) resonates with readers everywhere. But why?

House of Leaves is a story of, and for, the mind. Its content—excessive in its convolutedness right up to the threshold at which even the most dedicated reader might consider its constantly digressing narrative unworthy of their attention—is a labyrinth both physically and thematically, insofar as it forces the reader to examine the memories, fears, and identities we each cling to by exposing the (often fatal) same in its characters.

The “house” in House of Leaves can be understood as a metaphor for the perplexity of self within each of us. Environmental darkness is a constant (and not in any way subtle) symbol for the emotions and demons each character finds themselves having to confront within themselves, and the literal unknown of what lies within the landscape of the ever-changing, always-growing house may be understood as a motif for the mystery and chaos we encounter every day by virtue of having breathing, moving, changing interior lives.

The protagonist Will Navidson’s obsession with exploring the expanse within his newly purchased home and this obsession eventually leading to his near demise might be understood as humans’ masochistic search for meaning and self-fulfillment at the expense of, ironically, the very relationship we seek to master. After all, Navidson’s insistence upon reaching the edge of the house in service of his film is, at the end of the day, a project of the ego and of crafty, perhaps subconscious, evasiveness. The message could be interpreted, then, as a warning: enter [the “house”] at your own risk.

All of this takes place within a textbook-like written record by the late and deranged “Zampanò,” recovered and extensively footnoted by the equally crazed “Johnny Truant.” The text includes wayward notes, poems, screenplays, photographs, letters, mazes, red-edited copy, and more, all as part of a storytelling ambition so grand the reader is as awed as she is engaged.

Tying it all together is Danielewski’s singular voice as a writer: his unwavering command of language, his surrender to the book and to the house as subject. Above anything one might take away from conquering the likes of these pages is the truth that a tale this massive—a tale as tall as the one Will Navidson told with his camera, by virtue of pushing himself to the edge of himself—rarely appears at the whim of an artist. It demands to be made.

In one of Johnny Truant’s final footnoted musings, he writes: “Of course there will always be darkness, but I realize now something inhabits it... Sometimes it seems like a cat, the panther with its moon mad gait or a tiger with stripes of ash and eyes as wild as winter oceans. Sometimes it’s the curve of a wrist or what’s left of romance... Sometimes it’s even just a vapor trail speeding west, prophetic, over clouds aglow with dangerous light. Of course these are only images, my images, and in the end they’re born out of something much more akin to a Voice, which though invisible to the eye and frequently unheard by even the ear still continues, day and night, year after year, to sweep through us all.”

Perhaps the book’s sustained appeal is due to this unapologetic, hyper-meta delve into the kind of cliff’s edge humans seem unable to ignore. Where, House of Leaves appears to be asking, is the ultimate end? How far into the labyrinth is too far, and will we ever, with the right amount of definition, obsession and drive, come face-to-face with the “monster”? Should we even try?

Kathryn Elizabeth Childs is a contributing member of the Tethered Literary community. She was featured in our winter issue with her work, Words on Women. (https://kathrynchilds.portfoliobox.net/works)

You can also check out her curated reading list on Instagram, https://www.instagram.com/tethered_literary/p/DIZ1KVsSVYv/

When we recently put the call out to our community of past contributors, Kathryn was gracious enough to share this book review. The Tethered community invites past contributors to share other literary offerings they have in the form of a book review, author interviews, or any kind of literary neat-o-keens.