Baroque Intensity: Lovecraft, Le Fanu and the Fold
Patricia MacCormack
Gothic sensibility is a haunted one. Protagonists are haunted by memories, by ghosts and supernatural beings, by the uncanniness of the unfamiliar made familiar and the familiar made unfamiliar, and by their own selves – which are often alienated, not known to themselves, impressionable and frequently ill. However illnesses of the brain and of sanity - particularly those pathologies which conflate phantasy with reality or, worse still, elucidate reality as an arbitrary apprehension of experience and phenomena - make the crises of the Gothic protagonist more than just dark fairy tales, lamentations or nightmares from which they can escape. The incarnation of so-called hallucination as capable of effectuating action and physical transformation enacts a versimilitudious conflation which is that of the material and the perspectival, of thought as real and reality as always and already a version of thought – the sensible is material. Captain Barton’s proclamation in J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s ‘The Familiar’ that ‘it was a reality’ expresses the inherent multiplicity of reality (my italics). The haunted Gothic protagonist lives in a particular world, a world of agreement between rational people (usually men, women are constantly running off to enjoy cacodaemonic copulations with vampires, werewolves and other assorted hybrid incarnations of seductive turpitude.) This protagonist is alienated from that rational world, but not entirely within a world of delirium. Hallucination describes the presence of an unreal within the world of a real, an intrusion of a not-there into what is there, be it a feeling which manifests itself through paranoia, nostalgia, a haunting ghost, mourning or simply the idea that the protagonist himself is alienated from the world as not really there: ‘The interior sense, it is true, is opened; but it has been and continues open by the action of disease.’(3)
Delirium is a complete colonisation of the real by phantasy. All becomes hallucination. Surely then if all becomes hallucination, hallucinations are reality. The memory of a former shared social real can either become the haunting ghost or a devolved mode of perception. Delirium does not refer to things in the world that are not there, or a covering of the world by a different world. Delirium is an altogether otherworldly perception of the world, or, more precisely, the acknowledgement of the world as multiple, as concurrent palimpsest, as a teeming multi-plateaued incarnation rather than a singular space which we occupy. Hallucinations are otherworlds intruding or slipping between the cracks and hollows of any one singular plane of perception. In Gothic these slips are the point of the supernatural or the horrific. They must be exorcised to reiterate the protagonist as a person within society. Baroque does something quite different with similar phenomena. Killeen emphasises that ‘the fear of marginalisation – rather than marginalisation itself – [is a] central feature of the Irish Gothic tradition.’(4) Paranoia and the compulsion to be cured of one’s perspective-altering pathology show that marginalisation is not a threat but rather that inclusion is always a tentative and arbitrary phantasy. Marginalisation excludes, but the fear of marginalisation finds the protagonist teetering on that very margin, on the in-between, oscillating precariously within the crack and hollow. The protagonist is within the fold, a key idea of Baroque posited by Leibniz which will be extrapolated later in this article. In Gothic the protagonist encounters these other worlds, but rather than elements of those worlds intruding through singular symbols as hallucinations, the Baroque protagonist is folded within these worlds. These worlds are simultaneous with the real world but apprehensible at different frequencies, through different planes and via different streams of physics, and are thus folded with the real world. The question for the Baroque protagonist is not whether the hallucination as symptom can be cured, but to what extent the otherworld will be welcomed and thus entire perspective altered? The Baroque protagonist in Gothic fiction is the one that dies. There is no cure for the Gothic pathology, but the death of the Gothic protagonist is the birth of the Baroque. While the protagonist may ‘die’, there is rare evidence that this death is not the end. The Baroque protagonist is not haunted by a dead relative or friend, but at best haunts his own former world. Usually however, Baroque literature loses interest in the former worlds and seeks to explore these new worlds, or the stories cut off at the point of death of the protagonist because our perception from this world makes an encounter with any post-death/post-reality perception difficult at best. How can one describe the indescribable, show the entirely visible within the dark, explain form through non-Euclidian physics, or through systems where it is the in-between not the demarcated that constitutes communities of non-dividuated individuals? Baroque heroes love their symptoms, welcome their pathologies, and die only in order for their perception of what constitutes life to be reborn.
Great Gothic monsters come from alternate genealogies or, more correctly, they are non-genealogical. The vampire and werewolf are both hybrid and repeat cellularly through infection rather than reproduction. The created monster, such as Frankenstein’s creature, is similarly hybrid, both alive and dead. This monster prefers the dead world but as he is already dead what he seeks is a world of dreaming. Vampires and werewolves perceive in the otherworlds and dream in this one. They awake at night because for them the real world is a phantasy, an ethereal adventure, lucid dreaming through monstrous bodies of light. Otherworldy monsters are Gothic from the perspective of a society that wishes to banish them, Baroque from the perspective of the protagonist relinquishing that society. Let’s face it, most victims of these monsters are willing victims. The vampire does not repeat itself but brings the victim into a different mode of perceiving the world. The wolf is the becoming-animal of the human. Werewolves and vampires collapse the bifurcations which sustain social reality – male/female, human/animal, material/phantasmatic, repellent/attractive, monstrous/godly, devolved/evolved. Unsurprisingly the most willing victims of these monsters are frequently those who are to an extent already alienated from the normal or dominant perspectives of society – women, the solitary, the intellectual, the homosexual, the alienated, and the reclusive. All of these have, to an extent, already forsaken that reality which Baroque seductions redeem them from. Using two stories by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, ‘Green Tea’ and ‘The Familiar’ as examples of Irish Gothic stories, and reading them with the work of H.P. Lovecraft, particularly ‘The Dreams in the Witch-House’, this article will attempt to posit Le Fanu as, beyond a Gothic teller of tales, a great writer of the Baroque.
Baroque perspectives in all these stories come from hauntings which exceed entities. Buildings that could be seen as forerunners of the skewed angles of the skewed perspectives of the skewed mad-doctor Caligari in Robert Weine’s The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920) are present in all of the stories. These are buildings within this world but outside of traditional perspective. In Lovecraft’s ‘Dreams in the Witch-House’, the protagonist Gilman lives in the town of Arkham, a town which exists on two layers, the present apprehensible and the simultaneously apocryphal:
When ‘Green Tea’s’ protagonist Mr Jennings
London, like Arkham, is a mythic city, and must have been particularly so for the Gothic reader used to rolling hills and grand isolated houses. Arthur Machen matched the pagan lands of Wales, occupied by Pan and his acolytes celebrating saturnalia, with the streets of Holborn in a number of his tales. Piccadilly Circus is a point of multiple convergences from all directions. It is a place always in-between and in excess of a singular geographical point. Le Fanu’s Mr Jennings and Captain Barton both die in their houses, and redemption of Lovecraft’s Gilman comes with the fall of the witch house. While houses in Gothic have usually been associated with the uncanny, in Baroque they are neither familiar nor unfamiliar, but, through the contemplations and studies of the occupants, they evoke accesses to the other concurrent planes. Gilman’s study of the Necronomicon and other grimoires teach him of ‘abstract formulae on the properties of space and the linkage of dimensions known and unknown.’(7)
The most basic definition of what constitutes the Baroque is that of what, after Leibniz, Deleuze calls the fold. The great difference between the Gothic and the Baroque is that of relations. Leibniz writes: ‘The reality of a corporeal substance consists in a certain individual nature; that is, not in mass, but in the power of acting and be acted upon.’(8) The Gothic protagonist exists as an entity who fears his potential and ability to be acted upon – paranoia comes from his desire to prevent such actuations and their affects. The Gothic protagonist is a form within the world who fears the world will come within them. The Gothic is alienated from and alien to, a dialectic relation which sees mass defined as form, where borders are more important than qualities. The nature of a thing is not self-authored. In the Baroque one’s nature depends entirely on the forces and malleable, supple forms with which it folds, at every turn unique and unpredictable. Baroque interpretations see forms as made up of many smaller parts and being part of larger systems, always teeming as aspects rather than forms and infinitely multiple. The self is not known to the self because it is always more than a single expression and less than an individual. Baroque entities exist within what Deleuze calls a pleat of matter. Leibniz emphasises that through creating and existing within relations or pleats all form and thus all reality is purely perspectival. Neither form nor substance can be apprehended as a totality. ‘Each body has its degree of firmness and fluidity; It has its fluidity or divisibility of itself, but its firmness from the motion of bodies.’(9) This means that the plagued individuals are themselves constituted differently and as their forms are more and more effected by the otherworldly forms they are further extricated from the human world. In Baroque stories, transformation occurs when the affective bodies which constitute the form of the individuals are constructed through limits and firmness found in other structures – other incarnations of matter, via otherworldly versions of form and through other, non-Euclidian physics:
The art of Lovecraft’s otherworldly entities is created with Baroque craftsmanship. The terrace upon which Gilman finds himself ‘was a veined, polished stone beyond his power to identify, and the tiles were cut in bizarre-angled shapes which struck him as less asymmetrical than based on some unearthly symmetry whose laws he could not comprehend.’(11) Many of Lovecraft’s otherworldly creatures and gods are based on conical or curvilinear physics. Lovecraft and Le Fanu’s characters literally spiral out of control within a narrative chronocentric and linear world, a world based on single and dividuated tangents with either predictable or able to be contemplated retrospectively. These characters spiral as the multi-plateaued worlds exist within each other, compressed into a single substance of expression that is a spatial system of fluid forces and affects. Gilman, Barton and Jennings all die in an abstract way. In each case their deaths are unexplained but in Gilman and Jennings’ cases explicitly material and gory – the form of their matter directly attacked as complete, opened up to create ‘withins’ of the body rather than a dead form. Death re-pleats and creates new pleats, symbolically evincing the within that the otherworlds have penetrated and the exit point by which the characters have folded entirely into those worlds through reorienting and re-expressing flesh through different force-form. Gilman’s corpse is presented with ‘virtually a tunnel through his body.’(12) Discovery of Jennings’ body elicits a horrified response ‘what I saw there I won’t tell you. He had cut his throat with his razor. It was a frightful gash.’(13) Barton is found to have vacated his body, and near him on the bed is ‘a deep indenture, as if caused by a heavy pressure, near the foot of the bed.’(14)
‘Green Tea’, ‘The Familiar’ and ‘Dreams in the Witch-House’ all describe certain hybrid creatures which act as the navigator gatekeepers between the two worlds. In ‘Dreams’ Gilman is terrified by the strange creature Brown Jenkin:
If enough people experience a sympathetic delusion how then can we constitute the reality from which this delusion departs? Is reality as perception based on aggregate verification or majority agreement? Baroque philosophy, with its emphasis on reality as perspectival rather than totalised, and things defined not through their material form but the forces of matter, breaks down the possibility of sanity bifurcated from insanity. If force is felt, reality has presented through material effectuations, whether or not these effects are caused through a clear causal relation that can be perceived from within and without or not. The hybrid monster is the symbol par excellence of any encounters between binaries as unnatural compositions. The werewolf for example is not half man-half wolf but a fold of man and wolf that creates a unique hybrid. The werewolf also creates a hybrid world, folding not simply animal and human form but animal and human kingdoms. Brown Jenkin has enough of man and animal to be disconcerting and not enough to give it an apprehensible or comprehensible form, thus its force and function are similarly unknowable. When Lovecraft states it speaks all languages he refers back to the access to these worlds via grimoires, as presumably infernal and occult languages form a large part of the lexicon. Jennings’ gatekeeper being is a black monkey creature. The primate is the encounter between anthropomorphic animal and devolved human. But devolution can also refer to otherworldy evolution or nature. Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll becomes ape-like when he transforms but not as a reference to regression. He is stronger and yet more diminutive and lithe. His turpitude seems more intellectual and refined than base. Jennings’ monkey-familiar causes the most trauma when he speaks, but Jennings’ access to meaning and perception itself has shifted to a different plane: ‘The thing began to speak to me […] Yes; speak in words and consecutive sentences, with perfect coherence and articulation; but there is a peculiarity. It is not like the tone of a human voice. It is not by my ears it reaches me - it comes like a singing through my head.’(16) To think is to invoke or access an unknowable. Knowledge comes by accessing the already present, knowable or encountered. According to Leibniz knowledge is not truth because the predicate always precedes the subject, or the predicate is the subject and so the unfolding of knowledge is causal but in the opposite direction to how we understand knowledge.(17) Truth is only navigated in a flawed manner through descriptions or definitions of material encounters and effects – retrospectively and chronologically. Truth is only found in the simultaneous and immanent, the encounter or event, through which material alterations testify. Jennings does not hear within a dialectic structure. Like Brown Jenkin, the monkey speaks in a way that comes to Jennings immanently, not as language as such – a singing or a multi-lingual tittering – but is nonetheless able to be ‘heard’ and understood. The monkey becomes particularly angry when Jennings says his prayers. The investment in language here is evident. The monkey speaks the most evolved of all languages, or at Le Fanu’s time of writing, the most mystical, which is psychic or telepathic exchange. The demonic version of such discourse comes, we are told in Le Fanu’s interpretation of Swedenborg ‘when seen by other eyes than those of their infernal associates, present themselves, by “correspondence,” in the shape of the beast.’(18) Language is an indispensable tool for this creature, ‘With wicked genii there is also a fluent speech, but harsh and grating. There is also among them a speech which is not fluent, wherein the dissent of the thoughts is perceived as something secretly creeping along within it […evil spirits] would speak to him, with the intention to destroy him.’(19) The simultaneity of the fluent with the influent doubles metonymic, and confuses metaphoric, linearity. The languages clearly avoid emphasising which is which and, as they are simultaneous, it is impossible to extricate them. The languages may be incommensurable but they are nonetheless ‘heard’ and understood. Jennings’ alternate mode of perception and the conflation of speech with song further pleats the elements of his linguistic relationship with the monkey, proliferating and making conical the linearity of dialectic communicative speech. ‘The formal element of the fold is not attained. This formal element appears only with infinity, in what is incommensurable and in excess, when the variable curve supersedes the circle.’(20) The fact that Jennings can hear the monkey already tells of his irreducible pleating with the creature, his openness to its force and the folding of worlds which occurs through his relation with the monkey.
Captain Barton’s elusive small man in the fur hat signs his notes ‘The Watcher’. Like Jennings and the Witch of the Witch-House, Barton has a familiar. His familiar is not a hybrid animal man, however, it is an uncanniness - as the stranger is both shadowing him as a doppelganger and facing him as an antagonist. ‘You may as well think, Captain Barton, to escape from your own shadow as from me; do what you may, I will see you as often as I please, and you shall see me; for I do not want to hide myself, as you fancy.’(21) Barton finds in this familiar a fellow citizen of a world with different gods. He exclaims ‘there is a God – a dreadful God’.(22) The majority of Lovecraft’s stories revolve around the otherworlds occupied by his pantheon of the elder gods and ancient ones which exist in other universes folded with ours and which are, sometimes, able to be perceived through slips in space. Barton does emphasise what he felt from the stranger was unlike anything human. Which makes Barton himself something beyond a human thing, as the familiar is familiar more as him than to him. In Lovecraft’s ‘The Outsider’ the protagonist announces ‘I dreamed and waited, though I knew not what I waited for.’ We discover that this protagonist is himself the outsider, the elder god who observes the world of humans in the half life of mirrors and window panes. (23) In ‘The Familiar’ the Watcher acts as the familiar who occupies the fold and reorients its inflections. The Watcher is not to be feared as he emphasises, but as Barton inflects within the new world or parallel vortex, the Watcher becomes more emphatically perceptible and his acts and powers more violently felt. At his first experience of the Watcher Barton sees nothing – ‘no form or kind was visible there’ (24) – but later laments his new sight: ‘if death could come without the dreadful sight I am doomed to see, I would gladly close my eyes this moment upon the world.’(25) We see here Barton’s is not the ordinary world occupied by ghosts but a world perceived entirely differently, just as so many of Lovecraft’s protagonists encounter madness not because of what they see but how they see. The ultimate deity of Lovecraft’s pantheon, the squid-dragon Cthulhu is ‘a darkness’ with ‘a positive quality’, ‘it moved anomalously in a diagonal way, so that all the rules of matter and perspective seemed upset’.(26) In Lovecraft’s ‘The Shadow Out of Time’, Peasley’s ‘disturbances were not visual at all, but concerned […] more abstract matters.’ (27) Barton’s most telling revelation comes when he finally expresses his perception of the horror:
Revelation is both the point of apprehension and biblically of course the end of the world, the time of punishment. Barton is reminded frequently that his inflection within this new world comes as a punishment for an abstract or unclear indiscretion, which may or may not be breaking the heart of a young girl. Barton’s point of sight is not the revelation that brings to light something that pre-exists in the dark. This sight encounters the beyond, which is also the within, whose workings are non-Euclidean and only ever partially revealed because only ever able to be partially experienced and understood by current and former occupants of the ordinary world. Leibniz writes ‘for as there is an infinity of possible worlds, there is also an infinity of laws, some proper to one world, others to another; and each possible individual of any world includes in its notion the laws of its world.’(29) As the Baroque is a non-dialectic structure perception is never total, including perception of the self. The self’s own dark places encounter the otherworld without the self being able to observe them but which nonetheless expresses affects upon this other world. It is Barton’s effectuation of powers upon the world through the gate (which is the heart of his forsaken paramour) that proves this. Barton’s perception, like the perception of so many of Lovecraft’s protagonists, is a dream perception. It perceives in twilight, half awake, half asleep, half phantasy, half reality, half memory, and half nostalgia for a world that is not lost but present and inaccessible. Of course this is a nightmare form of dream perception. It is lucid dreaming, not a series of vague simulacra experienced in a paralysed body but the becoming-body-of-light. Lovecraft’s protagonists find their reality and identity through their ‘dream quests’ and dreams in the witch house. As cited in the prefix above, Barton observes: ‘It was not a dream […] I was in a different state - I felt differently and strangely; and yet it was all as real, as clear and vivid, as what I now see and hear – it was a reality.’(30) Barton is inherently within his otherworld, and increasingly can only be perceived through that world. The laws of the world are within him as he is within them, and similarly the modes of possible apprehension are within him as he them. Thus when Barton is ‘found’ in his bed with the mark of the former, or possibly, current presence of an invisible entity, we are not sure if he has ‘died’ or is dead but dreaming, as is the Cthulhu of The Necronomicon. Lovecraft precludes ‘The Outsider’ with a quote from Keats’ ‘Eve of St. Agnes’:
In an extraordinary, but nonetheless fascinating, coincidence Le Fanu preceded Lovecraft’s daemonic pantheon with his story in reference to the figure of The Watcher. Rather than being a hybrid, The Watcher occupies hybrid space, the unrevealable revealed, the inapprehensible apprehended, the imperceptible perceived. To see and to perceive in a way that allows observation and description which can then be agreed upon and validated by other subjects comes only from irreducible extrication from that object. The dream state is a threshold which is not selected from either dreaming or waking but is everything to itself as ambiguous and ambivalent. The dream state is the pleat of the Baroque fold, like a three-dimensional möebian band. The Necronomicon is an apocryphal grimoire often consulted in the stories of Lovecraft and is generally conceded to be a text written by Lovecraft himself and circulated as authentic. A grimoire is a book used to invoke demons, itself a form of gate or dream state, and involving rituals and sermons which, when spoken aloud, activate the inflecting of the human and daemonic worlds. Again the importance of speech is emphasised. In The Necronomicon the watcher is the entity which must be called up to act as intermediary between the human and the elder god or demon. The watcher both stands at the gate and is the gate: ‘The Watcher comes from a Race different from that of Men and yet different from that of the Gods.’(32) According to The Necronomicon the watcher may appear sometimes as an animal and sometimes as a man. Le Fanu’s watcher/familiars span both animal and man in his stories also, and Lovecraft’s ‘Dreams’ shows us both at once. The rituals of The Necronomicon require passing through seven gates. Each gate is made up of the sigils, or seals, of the various deities and inhabitants of the otherworlds. Their names are incanted in a foreign language indescribable with human voices and thus their seals are their names. The watcher of ‘The Familiar’ expresses dread warnings to Barton (but in a friendly way), with his first note, not dissimilar to Abdul Alhazred’s warnings to the reader of The Necronomicon. Barton seeks a reason or even a way to read this note and source its author:
The Necronomicon’s watchers are necessary friends to the human who performs invocations, but these watchers will nonetheless devour the human if the human departs the sacred realm. As an artifact, the strange letter with foreign paper and a signifying seal is reminiscent of the sculptures on the staircase of the witch-house which Gilman finds on the balustrade. Both Barton and Gilman don’t know the meaning of what they are seeing because they don’t know how to see or perceive them.
Le Fanu’s ‘The Familiar’ and ‘Green Tea’ end enigmatically. Both stories are observed from an outsider’s point of view where the recounting of experiences from the harangued protagonists becomes increasingly myopic. The final scenes of each seem particularly unresolved. Both end with the cadavers’ of men, but men in their bedrooms – dead but dreaming – yet the corpses do not seem to herald the death of the entities or spirits which have occupied these men. The confusion of all witnesses, including the reader, to both the events and the death scenes is testament to the fact that it is not the story which is incomprehensible but the mode of comprehension that prevents encounters with the story. We get the feeling these men have escaped rather than died and we are left in a teeming world, but with an empty perception while they have achieved a higher, if nonetheless terrifying, state of awareness. If nothing else, it is this point of escape through dimensions which emphasizes the world of Le Fanu as Baroque. There is no return of equilibrium - the summaries and diagnostic inferences about the cases by the medical author seem deeply unsatisfying - and no happy or sad ending as we seem to be minor points in an elaborate narrative of which the tales represent only a fragment. If we do not inflect ourselves, including our logic and our compulsion for a punctuated and resolved narrative, with Le Fanu’s world we cannot encounter his writing. Gothic is concerned with structure, Baroque with substance that leaks without and proliferates within frames. ‘The gothic underlines the elements of construction, closed frames, airy filling; Baroque underlines matter; either the frame disappears totally, or else it remains, but, despite the rough sketch, it does not suffice to contain the mass that spills over and passes above.’ (34) Le Fanu’s tales read like dream-work, they are lucid but only in an in-between state, to the extent we open ourselves up and fold with the perceptibilities and imperceptibilities of the stories. As the concurrent simultaneous spatialising of narrative is reflected in the stories, so too the Baroque becomes the mechanics of all possibilities in the moment, interacting within and through each other. ‘Beyond time there is a sensation as of awaking from the utmost impossibility of existence from the mad dreams we call reality; the stupidities we call will.’(35)
1. H.P. Lovecraft, ‘Dreams in the Witchhouse’, At the Mountains of Madness and Other Novels of Terror (London: HarperCollins, 1993), p.305.
2. J. Sheridan Le Fanu, ‘The Familiar’, In a Glass Darkly (Ware: Wordsworth Classics, 1995), p.62.
3. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar,’ p.33.
4. Killeen, Jarlath, ‘Irish Gothic: A Theoretical Introduction,’ Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies 1: October 2006.
5. Lovecraft, ‘Dreams’, pp. 305-306.
6. Le Fanu, ‘Green Tea’, In a Glass Darkly (Ware: Wordsworth Classics), p. 5.
7. Lovecraft, ‘Dreams’, p.306.
8. Leibniz, W.G., Philosophical Writings (London: Everyman, 1995), p 81.
9. Leibniz, Writings, p.86.
10. Deleuze, Gilles, The Fold: Leibniz and the Baroque (London: Athlone, 2001), p.4.
11. Lovecraft, ‘Dreams’, p.323.
12. Lovecraft, ‘Dreams’, p.345.
13. Le Fanu, ‘Grean Tea’, p.29.
14. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, p.67.
15. Lovecraft, ‘Dreams’ p.310.
16. Le Fanu, ‘Green Tea’, p.25.
17. Leibniz, Writings, p.75.
18. Le Fanu, ‘Green Tea’, p.12.
19. Le Fanu, ‘Green Tea’, pp.11-12.
20. Deleuze, Fold, p. 38.
21. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, p.40.
22. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, p.49.
23. Lovecraft, ‘The Outsider’, The Haunter of the Dark and Other Tales (London: Harper Collins, 1994), p.12.
24. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, P. 37.
25. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, P. 62.
26. Lovecraft, ‘The Call of Cthulhu’, The Haunter of the Dark and Other Tales (London: Harper Collins, 1994), p. 95.
27. Lovecraft, ‘The Shadow Out of Time’, The Haunter of the Dark and Other Tales (London: Harper Collins, 1994), p. 477.
28. Le Fanu. ‘Familiar’, p. 49.
29. Leibniz, Writings, pp. 53-54.
30. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, p. 40.
31. Lovecraft, ‘Outsider’, p. 11.
32. The Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, The Necronomicon (New York: Harper Colllins, 1977), pp. 69-70.
33. Le Fanu, ‘Familiar’, p. 39.
34. Wolfflin, Heinrich, ‘Renaissance and Baroque,’ cited in Deleuze, Fold, p. 123.
