R.R. Ryan

“There was much to intrigue her: chromatics of the night, brilliantly hued, dramatically spasmodic; great buildings, like sleeping mammoths—to the right, to the left; before, behind. Throngs. Lights. Hoots. Murmurs. Vile discords, like imprecations spat from the jaws of Jagannatha. In short, the diapason of night sound in a vast city . . . And then, after a radiant succession of glowing windows, dull, dismal thoroughfares . . . destination.”

“The whole collection was here. Large as the compartment was, it seemed crowded. Odour prevailed. Artificial ventilation has its own humid smell, and to this was added a curious sickly emanation from the acid over which they lay or stood; but neither of these was sufficient to drown the animal stink that accompanied most of these semi-human specimens.”

R.R. Ryan’s “Freak Museum” is erudite weirdness--like the best from that Weird era of the thirties. As if M.R. James had lent Lovecraft his antiquarian’s dictionary for H.P. to retool H.G. Wells’ “The Island of Dr. Moreau”. However, Lovecraft didn’t need a fatter vocabulary; James was fusty yet fun enough on his own; Welles was far more philosophical; and Ryan didn’t need their help anyway. A rarity in that she wrote supernatural fiction in a time more often ringing with male voices. Sure, some of the character’s names are a bit cutesy—but then so are Dickens’, at times. And sure, some characters are flat—only introduced to become fodder for the repugnant Octopus or torn to pieces by the other menacing creatures in the bestiary. And, OK, the climax falls a bit short. But, all in all, an affecting and arresting piece of smart, pulpy, weird-ass prose.

Jesus. Just look at all those letters: R.R, M.R., H.P., H.G. Do you think writers back then were trying to hide something? Like silly outmoded names from mustier times. Or the fact that, despite the camouflage of initialism, sometimes a girl had to play by the rules in an old boys’ club.… (más)