J. A. Cuddon – Penguin Book Of Horror Stories
Posted by demonik on September 1, 2007
J. A. Cuddon (ed.) – The Penguin Book Of Horror Stories (Penguin, 1984)
Introduction – J. A. Cuddon
Anon – The Monk Of Horror, or The Conclave Of Corpses
Anon – The Astrologers Prediction, or The Maniac’s Fate
James Hogg – The Expedition To Hell
Prosper Merimee – Mateo Falcone
Edgar Allan Poe – The Facts In The Case Of M. Valdemar
Honore de Balzec – La Grande Breteche
Henry James – The Romance Of Certain Old Clothes
Guy de Maupassant – Who Knows?
Robert Louis Stevenson – The Bodysnatcher
Emile Zola – The Death Of Olivier Becaille
Ambrose Bierce – The Boarded Window
M. R. James – Lost Hearts
H. G. Wells – The Sea Raiders
William Hope Hodgson – The Derelict
Perceval Landon – Thurnley Abbey
John Russell – The Fourth Man
Franz Kafka – In The penal Coloney
A. M. Burrage – The Waxwork
E. F. Benson – Mrs. Amworth
Augustus Muir – The Reptile
John Metcalfe – Mr. Meldrum’s Mania
William F. Harvey – The Beast With Five Fingers
William Faulkner – Dry September
D. K. Broster – Couching At The Door
Lord Dunsany – The Two Bottles Of Relish
Evelyn Waugh – The Man Who Liked Dickens
Geoffrey Household – Taboo
L. P. Hartley – The Thought
Gerald Kersh – Comrade Death
Carl Stephenson – Leiningen Versus The Ants
Yvor Winters – The Brink Of Darkness
Monica Dickens – Activity Time
Robert Graves – Earth To Earth
Ray Bradbury – The Dwarf
Muriel Spark – The Portobello Road
John Lennon – No Flies On Frank
Dawn Muscillo – Sister Coxall’s Revenge
Dorothy K. Haynes – Thou Shalt Not suffer A Witch …
Patricia Highsmith – The Terrapin
Roald Dahl – Man From The South
Will F. Jenkins – Uneasy Homecoming
J. N. Allan – The Aquarist
Vilas Sarong – An Interview With M. Chakko
Vault Of Evil 
interesting failures of weird fiction no. 1. “the aquarist” by j.n. allan. | themenaceofobjects said
[…] It is a story that has no heart and is written like an exercise, as clinical and inevitable as its narrator. At its core “The Aquarist” is a dense block of prose that fails to hide the fact that the plot is hackneyed and predictable from the beginning. The florid prose withers under such severe literary conditions and becomes more of a weedy emptiness than a buxom garden. The unity and consistency of the theme with its underlings of simile and metaphor are not powerful enough to make up for the lack of ingenuity. The imagination is restricted entirely to overworked prose techniques, leaving the tale incongruous, like a massive set of arms and shoulders balancing atop a pair of scrawny, wobbling legs. It is a curio piece and a brain-dulling failure, but one worth investigating for its sheer strangeness and its value as a study in why technique cannot always overcome worn ideas. It can be found in The Penguin Book of Horror Stories. […]