The Seance

The closest I have ever come to passing out was as a teenager, riding the Shockwave at the Six Flags in Gurnee. I remember my peripheral vision going dark, and then the rest of my field of vision clouding over, until all I could see was a pinhole of the sun. I was holding onto consciousness by a thread, terrified that if I passed out all the way, the Shockwave would break my damn neck.

People don’t pass out much these days, except from heat or Obama’s awesomeness. That’s why I was glad to read The Séance, a moody little novel that takes place back in the day when fainting was de rigueur. Why did women used to faint so much? If I were a woman in the 18th century, I’d probably wear a fake moustache filled with smelling salts. Of course, if I did that, I’d probably already be declared a witch, or a freak, or a mustachioed hussy. Oh, and did you know women could be scared to death back then? It’s true. I read it somewhere.

Anyway, this book reads like A.S. Byatt had a threesome with Poe and Stoker: the delicate mannerisms, the nested narratives, the creepy, mysterious house in the middle of nowhere.  It’s a short book that’s long on atmosphere, not particularly creepy or horrific, but a worthy read nonetheless. Plus, it’s mostly told from the perspective of a couple of heroines, which is useful, because it allows the reader to experience fainting firsthand.