I don’t approve of ghosts, from the sublime (I generally just mouth the words ‘Holy Ghost’ in church, as I don’t want to pledge allegiance to something I can’t help but envision looking like the traditional sheet-based model) to the ridiculous (I would charge all ‘mediums’ with fraud). If ghosts were invariably like poltergeists (the Mrs Thatchers of the spirit world), I might have more time for them. But as it is, I just want to shake them and tell them to sort themselves out.
Having said that, Adam Macqueen’s Haunted Tales is a cracking little book. As befits a writer who went to Private Eye for work experience and never left, it’s knowing and waspish; nonetheless, the stories read like a labour of love. I was only half way through the first – the beautifully named and heartbreakingly perfect ‘The Wrong Teletubby’ – when I thought of the John Barth line: ‘In art, as in love-making, heartfelt ineptitude has its appeal and so does heartless skill – but what you want is passionate virtuosity.’
This is a collection set mostly in the modern world of social media and panic rooms, played out by urban twinks and jaded downsizers. I was happy to note that there is no ‘funny business’ between the living and the dead, as is increasingly the case in contemporary ghost stories. M.R. James and E.R. James never should meet. But it’s striking that the stories are as much about love as about death – in short, that love is stronger than death.
Macqueen is an elegant writer, and you can feel him fastidiously resisting the temptation to pile on the cheap thrills when one plain line will be far better.
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