House of Leaves: Finally Finished

A few years ago I came across a reference to this strange book by Mark Danielewski, House of Leaves, about a photo journalist and his family who move into a mysterious house in Virginia that seems to have these nearly infinite spaces behind walls and closet doors. But the book is not just about the house; it's about a movie, The Navidson Record, that the photo journalist made about these mysterious dark spaces within the house. No, that's not quite right. It's really about an old blind man named Zampanò, who dies under mysterious circumstances and leaves behind a trunk filled with the remains of an enormous incomplete manuscript that purports to examine the Navidson film (which may or may not ever have existed), and an obsessive young man named Johnny Truant (certainly not his real name), who loses himself in the process of editing and publishing the old man's book.


Now this is not my kind of book. First, it's a sort of horror story, which is not a genre I favor, although I am a fan of Edgar Allan Poe and Mary Shelley, and I enjoy classic horror films like The Uninvited and The Changeling and (of course) The Shining. Second, it's a mystery; again, not one of my favorite kinds of literature, although I have read a few by the usual stars, Hammett and Chandler and du Maurier, and I admire Hitchcock above nearly all other directors. But the thing about House of Leaves I most object to is that it's a puzzle book, and a sort of academic puzzle book at that, filled with footnotes and learned references to authorities (real and imaginary), as well as numerous allusions to other works and authors and filmmakers. Nor do the tricks end there: There are also diagrams, lists, bibliographies, appendices, exhibits, photographs, drawings, weird typography (pages printed upside down, sideways, and at odd angles), and multiple languages (mostly translated).


Still, despite my misgivings, I read every word this time. (I've started reading this book several times previously, but usually abandoned the effort after a quick foray that soon revealed what was going on.) And I have to say, it was much as I expected. Yes I got that Johnny Truant's life seemed to parallel both Zampanò's and Navidson's, that they were all haunted by the darkness and the nameless horror that was at the center of the house in Virginia and resonated with the personal horrors at the center of their own lives, which each experienced, but in a personal way. I read every complicated page and seemingly endless footnote -- well, maybe not every word of those endlist lists of books and films and photographers and architectural features. I double checked references to confirm what I suspected was imaginary or reassure myself about what I thought was real. And, of course, I read nearly every pornographic detail of Truant's descent into madness, although the details were obvious male fantasies, as all pornography tends to be.

Finally, yes, I was entertained, but I still came away thinking what an immense amount of effort I'd expended. And like every reader of this book, I suspect, I have compiled many theories on what it's really supposed to be about, if it's really about anything (another theory). Then one late night last week, getting ready for bed I checked the Turner Classic Movie channel and saw they were showing Fellini's La Strada; you know, the one where Anthony Quinn plays a strong man  who travels around exhibiting feats of strength, with Giulietta Masina as his waifish companion and Richard Basehart as a fool who stirs things up between them. Well, I couldn't resist watching a bit of an old classic I'd seen decades ago, so I settled back to enjoy the movie, and then suddenly I realized what Quinn's character was called. The  tortured strong man's name was Zampanò!

Suddenly, it all came clear. The book was like a journey, a road, La Strada. At the end of the Fellini movie, Quinn tries to bury himself in the sand; thus, he's blinding himself, but then he was blind all along, wasn't he? That is why he failed to appreciate Giulietta Masina until after he abandoned her to her fate (and ultimately death). Now he's haunted by her absence, just as all the characters are haunted by absence in The House of Leaves. The number 9, which figures prominently in the book, especially near the end, is obviously another such reference to Fellini: what comes after 8½? This is just the sort of wacky stuff you'll find throughout The House of Leaves. If you dig such nonsense, I recommend you try to read the book. Otherwise, well, life is brief and art is long.