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House of Leaves
by Mark Z. Danielewski
Reviewed by Ted Gioia
Some novels experiment with language or plot or
chronology. But how about a work of fiction that
takes typography to the next level?
I can tell that you’re hesitant. Okay, could I interest
you in an exciting novel featuring heroes who combat
the ultimate evil . . . a house with lots of extra space?
And I mean lots of space.
Hmmm, still not taking the bait. But wait, there’s more
(as the infomercial announcer says). This book also features a hidden
code in the footnotes, and it spells out secret messages for those who
figure out the rules. It includes a pioneering index—yes, full of
mistakes; I’ll admit the page numbers were hastily compiled—but
which lavishes readers with entries for and, in, so, dark and all, among
others. Starting on page 64, the author provides the longest list of
photographers outside of the master files at Getty Images. The inside
covers can double as a random number generator. Hell, this book even
has words in different colors. And I save the best for last: there are
several pages that you can’t read without a mirror.
Wait! Don’t run away!
Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s not easy to pitch House of Leaves, Mark Z.
Danielewski’s strange magnum opus, to the skeptical. And this book
can be so frustrating, that there were times I wanted to toss it out the
window, and let the gardener rake it up. House of Leaves, please meet
pile of leaves.
Any yet . . . And yet . . .this is also a feverishly creative book unlike any
other you have encountered. If I hadn’t persevered with this volume
from beginning to end, I would never have believed that a novel in the
new millennium could hold so many surprises. Don’t let the gimmicks—
and, yes, there are lots of gimmicks here—fool you: House of Leaves is
an exhilarating, spooky, mind-bending experience.
But this book is not for the faint of heart. I’m not just talking about the
macabre Stephen King-ish atmosphere in this iconoclastic novel—
which is downright creepy at times. Even more striking is the way this
book forces readers out of their comfort zone. Danielewski gives you
no quarter, no place to hide. There are a handful of books I have
encountered over the years—such as Heidegger’s Being and Time or
Joyce’s Ulysses or Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow—that possess a “will
to power,” an ambition to dominate the reader. You must address
books of this sort on their own terms, or not at all. House of Leaves is
one of those works. It sets its own rules, and you can play or walk away,
but not much in-between.
For those who are patient in tackling this monster, Danielewski delivers
a brilliant conventional novella in epistolary form toward the close of
his book. This section has been published separately as The Whalestoe
Letters, and is well worth reading if you don’t have the courage to enter
the whole House of Leaves. Yet don’t kid yourself: this incisive story-
within-a-story only gives you the smallest glimpse of what this author
has constructed.
And what has he constructed? Take a night in the funhouse with the
doors locked. Mix in the mutterings of mad academic pushed over the
brink by a persnickety tenure committee. Add footage from a
surrealistic film auteur, the worldview of a tattoo artist, the
metaphysics of fortune-teller, the tricks of a vengeful print shop devil.
Simmer over a fire of burning reference books. Spice with various
fonts. That is the closest I can get to describing House of Leaves.
For someone like me, who doesn’t skim or speed read fiction, the only
thing scarier than reading House of Leaves is the idea of re-reading it.
Yet I am tempted to do so, if only to consider some of the alternative
angles to this text. You could read this book as a savage commentary
on literary and artistic criticism. You could read it as a verbal
equivalent of a labyrinth, or as some sort of a Borgesian nightmare
brought to life. You might look at the genre-oriented aspects of the
story, and classify it as a horror tale or a romance or a Philip-K-Dick-
sian exploration of a universe gone crazy. There are many doors into
House of Leaves, although I am still unsure about the exits. Put simply,
in an age that has a fetish over deconstructing the text, this is one text
that will keep you busy for a long, long time.
Connoisseurs of “serious fiction” have mostly given this book the cold
shoulder, but I think they might just be afraid. Who can blame them?
House of Leaves runs counter to almost everything praised or
promoted in the current literary environment, where even the most
daring writers seem happy to follow the rules, stick to the established
norms of narrative fiction. Danielewski has brought a unicorn to the
dog show, and all the other pet owners are scowling.
Yes, there have been imitators—check out the cutting parody, House of
Pancakes or, even better, read Steven Hall’s The Raw Shark Texts
which shows that Danielewski’s model can inspire punchy commercial
fiction. But there is only one House of Leaves. Don’t just take my word
for it. On your next long trip, make sure it’s the only book you bring
along . . . if you dare.
by Mark Z. Danielewski
Reviewed by Ted Gioia
Some novels experiment with language or plot or
chronology. But how about a work of fiction that
takes typography to the next level?
I can tell that you’re hesitant. Okay, could I interest
you in an exciting novel featuring heroes who combat
the ultimate evil . . . a house with lots of extra space?
And I mean lots of space.
Hmmm, still not taking the bait. But wait, there’s more
(as the infomercial announcer says). This book also features a hidden
code in the footnotes, and it spells out secret messages for those who
figure out the rules. It includes a pioneering index—yes, full of
mistakes; I’ll admit the page numbers were hastily compiled—but
which lavishes readers with entries for and, in, so, dark and all, among
others. Starting on page 64, the author provides the longest list of
photographers outside of the master files at Getty Images. The inside
covers can double as a random number generator. Hell, this book even
has words in different colors. And I save the best for last: there are
several pages that you can’t read without a mirror.
Wait! Don’t run away!
Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s not easy to pitch House of Leaves, Mark Z.
Danielewski’s strange magnum opus, to the skeptical. And this book
can be so frustrating, that there were times I wanted to toss it out the
window, and let the gardener rake it up. House of Leaves, please meet
pile of leaves.
Any yet . . . And yet . . .this is also a feverishly creative book unlike any
other you have encountered. If I hadn’t persevered with this volume
from beginning to end, I would never have believed that a novel in the
new millennium could hold so many surprises. Don’t let the gimmicks—
and, yes, there are lots of gimmicks here—fool you: House of Leaves is
an exhilarating, spooky, mind-bending experience.
But this book is not for the faint of heart. I’m not just talking about the
macabre Stephen King-ish atmosphere in this iconoclastic novel—
which is downright creepy at times. Even more striking is the way this
book forces readers out of their comfort zone. Danielewski gives you
no quarter, no place to hide. There are a handful of books I have
encountered over the years—such as Heidegger’s Being and Time or
Joyce’s Ulysses or Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow—that possess a “will
to power,” an ambition to dominate the reader. You must address
books of this sort on their own terms, or not at all. House of Leaves is
one of those works. It sets its own rules, and you can play or walk away,
but not much in-between.
For those who are patient in tackling this monster, Danielewski delivers
a brilliant conventional novella in epistolary form toward the close of
his book. This section has been published separately as The Whalestoe
Letters, and is well worth reading if you don’t have the courage to enter
the whole House of Leaves. Yet don’t kid yourself: this incisive story-
within-a-story only gives you the smallest glimpse of what this author
has constructed.
And what has he constructed? Take a night in the funhouse with the
doors locked. Mix in the mutterings of mad academic pushed over the
brink by a persnickety tenure committee. Add footage from a
surrealistic film auteur, the worldview of a tattoo artist, the
metaphysics of fortune-teller, the tricks of a vengeful print shop devil.
Simmer over a fire of burning reference books. Spice with various
fonts. That is the closest I can get to describing House of Leaves.
For someone like me, who doesn’t skim or speed read fiction, the only
thing scarier than reading House of Leaves is the idea of re-reading it.
Yet I am tempted to do so, if only to consider some of the alternative
angles to this text. You could read this book as a savage commentary
on literary and artistic criticism. You could read it as a verbal
equivalent of a labyrinth, or as some sort of a Borgesian nightmare
brought to life. You might look at the genre-oriented aspects of the
story, and classify it as a horror tale or a romance or a Philip-K-Dick-
sian exploration of a universe gone crazy. There are many doors into
House of Leaves, although I am still unsure about the exits. Put simply,
in an age that has a fetish over deconstructing the text, this is one text
that will keep you busy for a long, long time.
Connoisseurs of “serious fiction” have mostly given this book the cold
shoulder, but I think they might just be afraid. Who can blame them?
House of Leaves runs counter to almost everything praised or
promoted in the current literary environment, where even the most
daring writers seem happy to follow the rules, stick to the established
norms of narrative fiction. Danielewski has brought a unicorn to the
dog show, and all the other pet owners are scowling.
Yes, there have been imitators—check out the cutting parody, House of
Pancakes or, even better, read Steven Hall’s The Raw Shark Texts
which shows that Danielewski’s model can inspire punchy commercial
fiction. But there is only one House of Leaves. Don’t just take my word
for it. On your next long trip, make sure it’s the only book you bring
along . . . if you dare.
conceptual fiction