Tag Archives: df lewis

The Only Climax – Filthy Creations #7

I am delighted to report that I have just received “Filthy Creations 7” – Editor: Rog Pile. Consultative Editor: Craig Herbertson. Contact: oldbooksandmagsATyahoo.com

YouTube Video about FC#7: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHBmxkopbYY&feature=player_embedded


This contains fiction by Franklin Marsh, Penni McLaren Walker, Charles H Galloway, Robert Mammone, Craig Herbertson, David A Riley and me.

There are also amazing examples of internal artwork by Rog Pile – like the one below.



The Workshop of Filthy Creations – from Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’. Horror the Only Climax. With or without victims.


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Chômu Press Interviews Me


Those who subscribe here to Chômu Press’s news-update emails may receive a brand new interview with me.

Don’t take my word for it but find out there why Tendring is now Trending.

<<An interview with author, publisher and legendary weirdmonger, D.F. Lewis, of whom Rhys Hughes has said, “The simple truth of the matter is that after Lewis is dead he’ll get a blue plaque on his house. Most other writers won’t.”>>

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Good Enough To Eat?

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A Watch and a Myrtle Leaf

I didn’t know what a myrtle leaf looked like, so I Googled it. There was then some consensus that there could be no consensus on a typical myrtle leaf.

So I started dreaming up my own version.

“Why a myrtle leaf?” you ask. Except you are not there to ask it. I could have a conversation with myself until I decide you were there watching me winding my watch slowly, methodically, in absent-minded, staring silence.

“Watches don’t need winding these days,” you say to yourself, as if doubting my existence, unless I existed in your past.

You find a book of leaves on the bookcase, Google having vanished into the future history of never.

So much more satisfying to look things up in real books. So much more creative to pass your time drawing a myrtle leaf on a sheet from a sketching-pad. You took my box of crayons.   You could imagine all sorts of arrow-like tendrils radiating from the central pad of the hybrid leaf. Then you started to draw in great swirls. When you were little you conjured up all sorts of shapes from the unfinished drawings that became more like scribble than attempts at forming real things.

I drew two pointers from the centre of your leaf – and the numbers 1 to 12 around its periphery. You smiled. Happy that it sold for millions at a fine art auction. ‘The  Myrtle Leaf Watch’ by me, not you. Future search engines permitting.

[Written as a speed-writing exercise with a random title at last night’s Clacton Third Thursday Writer’s Group.]

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A rare review

Pleased to discover today a rare review of ‘Nemonymous Night’ (Chômu Press) posted early April:

“D F Lewis has created his own blend of fantasy, sci-fi and strangeness… […] Perhaps that was the scariest thought of all – that my world was actually merely a construct and somehow by reading this book I had stepped in D F Lewis’s world and couldn’t go back.”


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The Wind Through The Keyhole – Stephen King


The Wind Through the Keyhole: A Dark Tower Novel

My on-going real-time reviews of THE DARK TOWER novels by STEPHEN KING. These reviews are intended to be virgin first-reading real-time-review extrapolations without benefit of any other information about them.

[All my real-time reviews are linked from here: http://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com/ or just the Stephen King ones: https://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2011/02/18/my-real-time-reviews-of-stephen-king-the-dark-tower-etc/]

There is no guarantee how quickly the review below will progress, whether it be days or years.


first published 2012 – this edition Hodder & Stoughton hardback 2012 (first British edition) purchased from Amazon UK and received today.



Pages 3 – 8

“Oy was beyond them, at the edge of the circus-painted raft, looking rapidly down at his own reflection.”

So early into my retrocausal ‘inquel’ reunion with my friends of this story-world-made-real, I did not expect such personal confirmation to me in this way from the author himself of my theory in earlier ‘Dark Tower’ real-time reviews that I am Oy or Oy am me.  Retrocausal is the key word, the ka word, I guess, something that I’ve been harping on about ever since I invented Cern Zoo. Here, we (Roland, Eddy, Susannah-Detta) find Oy talking to an old man. I, you see, am an old man, too – in real life as the reader of this book. Well, it is good to be back; Jake is somewhere ahead. [I made acquaintance with someone called Jake today for the first time by email after having read his excellent stories a few weeks ago. Retrocausality and Serendipity]. (27 Apr 12 – 6.30 pm bst)

Page 8 – 13

“‘Are ‘ee ready?’ Bix asked them. His eyes were nearly as bright as Oy’s.”

I feel an uncanny power upon me. That Bix is the old man’s name. (Bix B9 Benign??)  He is the ferryman with a raft to take the ka-tet bank to bank, I guess. Just like the reader does by reading it. Nothing happens at all if left unread. Meanwhile, oy myself wonder about ‘The Path of the Beam’ and how it has been affected by this retrocausal diversion to pre-Calla. We’re in a new billy-bumbler ball-game for we readers who read (about Mia’s Farrow et al) ‘The Dark Tower’ in its pre-ordered, pre-ordained order – till now. (28 Apr 12 – 2.15 pm bst)

Pages 13 – 35

“‘And if you come back this way, stop and visit awhile with old Bix. Tell him of your adventures.'”

As Starkblast approaches, Roland prepares to thread the wind – or the wind threads him – with two inner stories. One of which his Mother told him, as a child, about the Wind through the Keyhole. Stories so huge, I guess, that as inner stories they eventually become outer ones. Inner and outer in or out of synergy? Filleting each other for primacy? (28 Apr 12 – 6.45 pm bst)


Page 39 – 56

She might have been knitting a blanket, but held before that barrel of a body and breasts so big each of them could have fully shaded a baby from the sun, whatever it was looked no bigger than a handkerchief.”

Like fantasy and the handkerchief-sized paper page in this book I read and on which such fantasy is literally stained in the sahpe of words. So… O any Ebook readers of this story eat your hearts out, as you think you truly follow (like me) a younger Roland and his callow companion on their inner-story quest to save a community from the skin-man. Commissioned by his father. Things I vaguely recall from reading the Dark Tower books heretofore come back to me piecemeal, making them even more real than I actually thought of them before. Time within earlier time within future time within earlier time… There is something fiction-magical, fiction-magal about the name Stephen King – a character in these books – that makes me believe I ought to read this excresence to a once thought-to-be-whole canon of truth. With any other author and I wouldn’t have bothered. Even with other authors I might generally prefer to King are not worthy of such second thoughts of completism. Only King, at his best or his second-ratest… (29 Apr 12 – 9.35pm bst)

Page 56 – 76

I loved it myself; the sound of the wind has always made me think of good times and far places.”

Although considered by the locals as too young for the job, Roland and his companion are set to deal with the skin-man – as his father once dealt with the Crows… “…‘here are the billy-bumblers sitting all a-row and scenting the air. They know, don’t they?‘” (30 Apr 12 – 6.50 pm bst)

Page 76 – 96

At least the wind, which was still strengthening, was at our backs.”

Poignancy among the skin-man kill; as a boy is comforted about his dead dad. A whodunnit for Roland and Jamie to tease out the culprit when in human form. One of the salt-miners or someone else? Currently, I’m not sure where this is all going. Even the style, oddly salted itself, drags meaningfully… (1 May 12 – 6.50 pm bst)

Page 96 – 116

Stories take a person away. If they’re good ones, that is.”

Cooling his bootheels, Roland continues – with hypnotism – to whodunniticise the boy whose dad died at the ‘hands’ of the skin-man: and tries to scry the skin-man’s markings not as an animal but as a human for future identity purposes: and, a story-within-a-story-within-a-story as a by-product or retrocausation of that hypnotism: as they prepare to face the danger of gittin that skin-man: the story within the story within a story being ‘The Wind Through the Keyhole’ that his Mother once told Roland as a child (Roland here in first person singular nekkidness as a young man being told about himself by an older manself with a mind to the Child as Father of the Mind): and it’s just like us readers being hypnotised back into the dark-towering layers of ‘story’ we were once told by a mother-King (without the ‘fu’) in a backdrop of our minds or of our single mind… “now working against the wind.” (2 May 12 2.30 pm bst)




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A Proposal For Independent Publication

In the mid 1990s, Margaret B. Simon (now Margaret Ballif Boston) and DF Lewis collaborated by snail mail to produce the following fine and rarefied fictions – many of which were published during that era by an equally fine and rarefied Small Press:

the horn’s last rite
reaching for nadir
crystal toppings
the silver saraband
a skip for heroines
only one I
bleak mansions
ultimate creative
the good neighbour
unread story
strafed by starlings
tendring hundred
the anatomy of the total
the locker room
brunch at the charnel cafe

About 24,000 words in total

Would anyone now be kind enough to publish them in a book for us?

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Weirdmonger Remainders

Just dip your nibs into the inkwell and write: readers write as well as authors, I say. And until you read the rest, it was never written at all. Reading something ensures it will be written. But writing something does not ensure it will be read. Any old fool knows that!

(That is an extract from my real-time review of ‘The Wolves of Calla’ by Stephen King.)


WEIRDMONGER: The Nemonicon: The Synchronised Shards of Random Truth and Fiction – Prime Books 2003 / Prime-Cold Tonnage 2004

As of today, the only copies of WEIRDMONGER remaining – other than the 3 or 4 that I am personally holding back for future free competitions (eg here) — are shown on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, as follows (paperback unless shown):

$226.98 (new)

$29.99 (used – condition seems debateable)

$998.99 (used)

£100 (Abe books, same copy also shown as used on Amazon site)

£250 (Abe books – signed hardback)

£52.99 (used)

EDIT (14 Apr 2012): The £52.99 copy has now vanished!

As far as I can see, the £100 copy has my signature on it?

Please note, as I have confirmed before, ‘Weirdmonger’ will never be an ebook or reprinted.


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Stamp this book on your consciousness – it’s coming soon


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My first and only published novel

I have just re-read Nemonymous Night (Chômu Press, June 2011) in its full beautiful regalia as a book. And I wonder if it is a metaphorical suicide-bomb now planted on my bookshelf, knowing how close I am to my bookshelf…

More thoughtfully perhaps, having indeed just re-read this my only published novel, I deem it the worthy culmination of a lifetime tussling with fiction. I shall continue to deem it thus, I feel, even if the critical reaction to it is negative, but I certainly trust that most of its readers will gain value from the adventurous Jules Verne-ian plot together with its apocalyptic and acquired accoutrements.

Nemonymous Night, the Last Balcony story collection and the Weirdtongue novella are the only works of mine I would like to remain in existence after I’ve gone into my own nemonymous night. But, obviously, I have no say in what is kept and what is not.  And the earth may vanish before I do.

Please forgive any sign of pretentiousness that may be discovered in this statement.  And sincere thanks to the publisher of Nemonymous Night.


The two quotes inside the book – the words from an Elizabeth Bowen story were discovered after completion and acceptance of the novel – and the ‘Carcosa’ words from Karl Edward Wagner were published in the mid-1990s, and the novel mentions a ‘lethal chamber’ and an anchovy!


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Nemonymous Night – cover

Already on Amazon for pre-order.

The cover of my first novel NEMONYMOUS NIGHT has just been released.

Artist: Heather Horsley. 

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Two Reviews of ‘Weirdtongue’


“Lewis has created something original, social commentary, jokes, pathos, fantastical worlds, all through the power of words and it stands out like a beacon in the sea of post apocalyptic, zombie repetitiveness.”


“D.F. Lewis is an extraordinary narrator and storyteller, and one is swept away by the feast of words…”


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The whole of my lifetime work with Elizabeth Bowen Quotes is now in a book

The Megazanthus Press Book: Real-Time Reviews Vol 3 is now out and in my hands. It looks wonderful. And there is a real treat within. Please see the end of the contents list below.

As is common with this series, it is a direct imprint from the internet and contains no contents lists. The list is therefore below.

This contains RTRs for:

LOST PLACES by Simon Kurt Unsworth….3

THE WOUNDS OF EXILE by Reggie Oliver ….22


XARGOS by Frances Oliver….40

OBLIVION’S POPPY by Colin Insole….42

OCCULTATION by Laird Barron…57

THE SATYR by Stephen J Clark….70

THE AUTUMN MYTH by Joel Lane…..79

THE COANDA EFFECT by Rhys Hughes….83

MAD MATINEE IN BAKU by Albert Power….98

NORTHWEST PASSAGES by Barbara Roden….107

THE SONS OF ISHMAEL by George Berguno….121

THE GHOSTS OF SUMMER by Frances Oliver….132

THE DEFEAT OF GRIEF by John Howard….148

My very popular, many years’ worth on-line work at quoting from Elizabeth Bowen’s fiction. You will not quite believe the power of these extracts from every novel chapter and every story…… Pages 158 – 415 inclusive


This is the book and further details by clicking on it:


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Occultation – by Laird Barron

I’m due to start below another of my gradual real-time reviews of fiction, turning leitmotifs into a gestalt.

And it is of the collection entitled ‘Occultation’ by Laird Barron (Night Shade Books 2010).

There is no guarantee how long it will take to complete this review, whether days or years.

CAVEAT: Spoilers are not intended but there may be inadvertent ones. You may wish (i) to take that risk and read my review before or during your own reading of the book, or (ii) to wait until you have finished reading it. In either case, I hope it gives a useful or interesting perspective.

All my real-time reviews are linked from here: https://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2010/09/07/df-lewis-real-time-reviews/

The Forest

“The smell reminded him of hip waders, muddy clay banks and gnats in their biting millions among the reeds.”

It is as if we are here to gather, by the sometimes hard-reached tenacity of reading mature fiction, the occult motes – from Nodes and Nadines – yes, to gather the Snail Cone truths  that cohere from the backhead masks of this memorable story’s words themselves: the cosmic cancer of retrieval through memory or photographs or re-modelling, through a highly satisfying texture of prose and dialogue alchemically made to breathe real situations and filmic dramatis personae in exotic heat that wavers for me from the work of Mike O’Driscoll towards Graham Greene or Malcolm Lowry or Ian McEwan laced with Lovecraft or Henry S Whitehead….perhaps ending up with a Barronial style I have yet to fully explore and nail…. (26 Nov 10)



“– I think you might have an enlarged prostate.”

Almost can be seen as a continuation of the previous story (soaking up more styles), now by co-whoring rather than cohering, benchmarked by a psycho-delia-cooked Henry S Whitehead reading his own lips, with continentally punctuated dialogue as a couple in a Barton Fink room watch an <again dangerous visions ‘title’ is a black blob> grow inferentially into further cosmic cancers between the stars, except the claustrophobic ending is probably the most frightening I have recently met.  Only beds ride on the back of snail cones, not universes, but that may be irrelevant to the story.  A story I loved. (26 Nov 10 – three hours later)


The Lagerstätte

“The crimson seam dried black on the bedroom wall.”

A substantial story of a being haunted by a survivor’s guilt regarding two late loved ones, husband and son.  I am incredibly impressed by the traction of text that this book generally so far presents, with horror for horror’s sake, a bit like all our lives … yet with a meaningful undercurrent that horror thus transcended into an art form of character/plot machination makes one’s own life another satisfying, if painful, traction beyond the trivial it would otherwise be. That’s the only way I can explain it. However, there is almost a glut of horror images here, albeit horror images quite beyond the run-of-the-mill gore, skirting poignancy that has not quite yet brought tears to my eyes. Cf: the ‘external os’ and ‘worm-cored rod’ of the two previous stories respectively and here the lagerstätte… (26 Nov 10 – another 3 hours later)



1 & 2

“I sometimes wondered if it’d been accidental or closer to the protagonist’s opt-out in that famous little novel by Graham Greene.”

So far a more ‘compos mentis’ story than the previous three, one about two modern couples as a foursome of friends  – one of whom (the narrator) is dreamy while also naturally searching (as we do) the net as part of life’s own plot . They are presumably preparing to use their chance discovery in a shop of ‘The Black Guide’ book (aka ‘Moderor de Caliginis’ 1909) for an already planned trip…  [I idly speculate: a Strantzaic trip as in ‘Cold To the Touch’? – but my sleepiness intervenes as it does with the Narrator.] (26 Nov 10 – another 4 hours later)


3 & 4

“Every channel  was full of snow and shadow, except for the ones with the black bar saying NO SIGNAL.”

Fulsome sexual-laddish characterisation by protagonism and dialogue; premonitions of their trip-to-come, via the gavinostic Guide, possibly story-ripe with dolmens and occultation; eventually the  past backdropped and projected by the dialogue’s cleverly spawning the ghosts of people previously spoken of  … and protagonists as they may become one day, given the foresight that fiction, ‘in media res’, cannot fully achieve, except possibly in the head of the narrator or reader, if not officially in that of the author himself. (27 Nov 10) 

5, 6 & 7

“A city boy was always a stranger…”

I continue travelling story-pleasingly with the lads as they trace ley-line diagrams of outdoors plot-action along with our narrator’s more inward, arcane diagrams from the fatefully-owned Guide – and I wonder if the erstwhile <‘external os’ and ‘worm-cored rod’  […] the lagerstätte>  are here soon to fuse as a boner in unending circle? (27 Nov 10 – two hours later)

8, 9 & 10

“He recoiled like a worm zapped by an electrode.”

Powerful stuff that is blair-witching even me out.  Like its style. The brash encounters with gut fights, the spunky, spooky elements. The tooth wrenching out, the nose bone being put back into joint, nearly shooting oneself in  the foot. The nether-pit that seems somehow to be waiting for me to fall beneath the words into it, like the one old humpin’ Tom fell into before he became a ghost?  The ‘animal’ shapes that ‘drain’ away into that pit? Mighty stuff. No spoilers. Only wrenchers.

“From there the anonymous author claimed it to be an hour’s hike to the dolmen.” (27 Nov 10 – another two hours later)

11, 12, 13, 14 & 15

“‘This is weird,’ said Victor. ‘You guys think this is weird?'”

Journey’s end. But my ‘vanilla life’ does perhaps need to release its deadbolt and let the weirdnesses in, ever since nearly being enticed as a small child by an oldish person (or oldish to me, then) into a shrimp-hut on the quagmirish backwaters where I lived in the Fifties.

But that gives no clue to the ending of the happenings of this story. Its bottomless pits where lurk McMahonites and Strantzals and Cardinals and Gavinals and Unsworths and Gaffries and Duffies and Barronial Lairds: their faces in the the pit, enticing me towards darknesses I cannot credit.  Or, rather, me enticing them back out, but to what?

But that gives no clue as to the ending of the happenings in this story. Or the way its striking prose ignites its denizens and their musical ‘dying fall’, their symphonic coda’s endgame-expedition of lads-into-men. You will need to read it for that. Just be persuaded by an older person who has read it. Even if he hasn’t lived it for himself … yet.

[Writing a real-time review is a special reading-journey on the internet – a journey that takes place within a single reading mind, beset by all the foibles of the moment.  The question is: does this affect the journey itself, i.e knowing one is publicly describing that journey as it happens?] (27 Nov 10 – another hour’s hike later)


Catch Hell

“…priests walking with their heads on backwards…”

Much of Barron is generously sown with wonderful sentences that make you think that’s neat but then it expands in the mind and means even more. Also there is strong sense of ‘genius loci’ as there is in this story – a hybrid European /American lodge in America with statues, folklore-rich, run-ins with ruins, a place of a weekend-away feel where a child-haunted couple visit (difficult to summarise their abrasive relationship and past, their Satanic algorithms that develop with the plot exponentially) – a ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and Paul Finch (eg ‘The Baleful Dead’) and Reggie Oliver (eg ‘You Have Nothing To Fear’) catch-hell-all, with nightmarish-mutant Romance Fiction elements…. “I’ve never seen so many weathervanes in one place” – “occasionally he meets up with a lost hiker” – “What the fuck do you know about academia, Cock-ring?” – “It wasn’t the end though. There’s no end to hell.” (28 Nov 10)



“A password!”

This is a story where the author’s skills truly come together. Literary prose style to die for. Horrors to work out.  Another ‘dying fall’.  Kenshi and Swayne’s sexual reunion in an Indian tourist resort. Characters not to die for exactly, but to keep in abeyance in case you need them in a lucid dream.   And a ‘dangerous’ art installation or happening, that the protagonists foolhardily approach with ‘Eyes Wide Shut’. I just wonder which colour-of-door reader I am of this whole book as it leads me further along its audit trail of leitmotifs….? (28 Nov 10 – two hours later)


The Broadsword

1 – 7

“…an old school radical who’d done too much Purple Haze in the ’60s…”

The Broadsword Hotel – a sort of ‘House of Leaves’ where Pershing lives with bugged paranoia and other buggage from his life – and the prose flows so sweetly (is it because I’ve been drinking wine this evening?) and there is Updike here, too, and Beat poets and more.  I think Barron is either the Nadal or Federer of Weird Literature. And I’m not sure which of these he is nor am I sure which writer is the other one? (28 Nov 10 – another 4 hours later)

8 – 16

“…spent months hiking the ass end of nowhere with a compass and an entrenchment spade.”

Pershing exchanges his House of Leaves for a House of Stars, amid his tangible-in-the form-of-his-guilt guilt as a previous trip’s dead friend speaks through vents — and his own age generation of once fearing ‘A bombs’ and green men from Mars – the darknesses or spaces between the strantzaic suns and the emotions as transparencies or palimpsests and a reprise of the Mysterium Tremendum trip as a trip indeed. They had trips in the 60s they never came back from, I guess. Maybe, I did. Maybe, I didn’t.  The choice of red or blue door notwithstanding. (28 Nov 10 – another 2 hours later)



“In the animal kingdom, paranoia equalled sanity.”

This is essential Barron, I guess. Substantial and very effective, a remote research station where, alone, another exponentially abrasive couple seek more from fleshy interstices than from corners of any loving affection, all mingled with lucid dreaming (I hope or fear this whole book is a lucid dream or at least a mutant Thing movie that will not take my eyes out one  by one but only if I am willing to believe in it or is that disbelieve in it?) with afForestation, coyotes, weird insects in potentially cosmic swarms, a lagerstätte os as trip-discovered horn, occultation…

He covered his good eye…” (29 Nov 10)


Six Six Six

Despite its title, I had a confident feeling this would be a gentlin’-out, a coda to this enormously impressive weird symphony of a book – and in many ways this haunted house story about a young couple, a house inherited after the husband’s father’s death, could easily have been a fulfilment, a rounding-out, a gestalt-confirmation. But instead I’m left shaking.  To the flickering of a Muybridge and a Reichian drumming.  It’s as if my lantern will be pushed out as a catharsis of impulsive ricochet between author and reader. To the sudden sound of a helicopter crashing…

[I shall now read for the first time Michael Shea’s introduction in the book, but I will not be back here again to say anything more.] (29 Nov 10 – two hours later)



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