Yesterday was the 100th birthday of Edward Gorey, one of the most unique, unclassifiable artists that this country has ever produced. Though he died in 2000, he has a continuing cultural presence; he certainly lives on in my life and in the lives of a great many people.

Back in the incumbency of Jimmy Carter, when I was studying theater and living in the dorms of California State University Long Beach, one year I had a roommate named Scott. Scott didn’t fit into our tight-knit little community very well, and while I’ve always prided myself on my ability to get along with everyone, I didn’t get along very well with him. We had a bumpy year together, but I will always be glad that we were roommates, because Scott introduced me to the work of Edward Gorey, and that was a priceless gift that I can never repay him for.

Edward Gorey was a man of many talents — He did scenic and costume design for the stage, winning a Tony Award in 1978 for his costume designs for Dracula (his set design for that production was also nominated) and several of his stories are about ballet, which was one of his supreme passions. Additionally, he did highly individual book covers; for several years he did them for Anchor Paperbacks (including, among many others, editions of H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds, Franz Kafka’s Amerika, and T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats), which are highly prized today simply for their Gorey covers. He also edited and illustrated a collection of classic ghost stories (1959’s Edward Gorey’s Haunted Looking-Glass) and did covers and illustrations for several of the supernatural mysteries of John Bellairs.

Beginning in the mid-1950’s, Gorey wrote and illustrated his own very short books, and these are the works that his fame mostly rests on. (Many were published under absurdly comical names that are anagrams of his own, like Ogdred Weary or Mrs. Regera Dowdy.) Visually, they are almost always set in the Victorian or Edwardian era (the closest to our own time that I can ever remember him coming was the 1920’s) and are full of bizarre, grotesque, violent, comic, cryptic, and occasionally supernatural incidents, often involving children; in fact, they are usually “children’s books” in form if not in content. The original small hardcover volumes are hard to come by and are pricey when you can find them, but there are four large omnibus volumes, each collecting a dozen or more of the short works — Amphigorey (1972), Amphigorey Too (1975), Amphigorey Also (1983), and Amphigorey Again (2006).  

The first thing of Gorey’s that I ever read was “The Hapless Child”, which chronicles the travails of a lovely little girl named Charlotte Sophia. When the story begins, she’s safely ensconced in the bosom of her loving family (“Her parents were kind and well-to-do.”) Then her father, a military man, is reported killed in a native uprising and her grieving mother wastes away and dies, leaving the girl in the cold, utilitarian hands of the family lawyer, who loses no time in sending her to a boarding school where students and staff range from the merely unsympathetic to the positively sadistic. Things rapidly go from bad to worse, and from this point on, the hapless child is subjected to every horror that could befall a person in the most lurid melodrama, all rendered by Gorey in deadpan language and meticulous pen-and-ink images. Things don’t end well for the poor child, and the first time I read her tale, tears rolled down my face, but they weren’t tears of sadness; I was literally shaking with laughter. (Once the story almost got me thrown out of the college library where I was supposed to be working, when I showed it to a friend who was unacquainted with Gorey. We just couldn’t control ourselves.)

It does no good to try and explain to someone who is appalled by “The Hapless Child” rather than delighted by it that what’s being mocked is not the suffering of an innocent child (there was no Charlotte Sophia — Gorey made her up) but rather the reflexive, self-indulgent sentimentality of a hypocritical era and of readers still shackled to its sticky standards. (And one of the things that makes Gorey a complex artist is that he both recognizes the deficiencies of the Victorian age while at the same time clearly adoring many aspects of it.) Either Gorey lands with you or he doesn’t. For myself, there’s nothing that I like more than a good, Gorey story.

Other Gorey delights are “The Willowdale Handcar”, a series of strange, seemingly disjointed incidents that can, with a little imagination and a close examination of the illustrations, be connected into a coherent (if admittedly dark) narrative. (The story features The Black Doll, a sinister, featureless figure which haunts the edges of many of Gorey’s works.) Gorey could be genuinely frightening, as in “The Insect God”, in which huge insects kidnap children and mercilessly sacrifice them to their chitinous deity, and “The West Wing”, a succession of wordless images showing various rooms in a house that you definitely wouldn’t want to spend any time in. (Gorey could make a patch of peeling wallpaper radiate unease.)

Gorey would sometimes make mere objects his protagonists. In “The Inanimate Tragedy” Pins, Needles, a Glass Marble, a Four-Holed Button, and a Piece of Knotted String become embroiled in conflicts and misunderstandings that end in murder and suicide, if those terms are applicable to the fates suffered by a Half-Inch Thumbtack and a No. 37 Penpoint. Gorey would probably say that the word “tragedy” is no more out of place with junk-drawer contents than it is with the equally mundane and transient objects that we call human beings, and in “The Abandoned Sock” you feel genuine apprehension for the sock who foolishly deserts his mate on the clothesline to go adventuring and gets used for a dust rag, chewed by a dog, caught in a tree, and picked apart by birds to use for their nests until nothing is left of it. Does the sock’s life (which it found “tedious and unpleasant” when it was pinned on the line next to its dull mate) turn out all that differently from our own personal dramas?

One of Gorey’s most famous stories is “The Doubtful Guest”, which sees an odd, penguinish-looking creature attired in tennis shoes and a striped scarf turn up one night at the house of a settled, respectable (boring!) family and proceed to turn things upside down. Without ever uttering a sound, the uninvited visitor eats the plates at dinner, tears chapters out of books, suffers fits of bad temper during which it hides all the bath towels, safeguards objects that it takes a liking to (like expensive pocket watches) by dropping them in a pond, eerily sleepwalks up and down the hallways at night, and otherwise disrupts the placid routines of the baffled family, who have no hope of ever going back to life as it was, because “It came seventeen years ago — and to this day / It has shown no intention of going away.” (Many of Gorey’s stories are written in verse.) You understand the family’s frustration and despair, but you may also feel that a little unpredictability might do them some good. I have my own Doubtful Guest — a college friend of my wife made him for me, and I was delighted to learn that Gorey had several himself, that admirers had made and sent to him. (I have a Black Doll too, but that I had to buy.)

Gorey did several alphabet books; the most well-known (images from it have appeared on calendars, tee-shirts, coffee mugs etc.) is “The Ghastlycrumb Tinies.” Here dewy-eyed tots come to shocking and painful ends (“A is for Amy who fell down the stairs / B is for Basil assaulted by bears / C is for Clara who wasted away / D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh). Gorey doesn’t imply that these grim events are the children’s faults, but he doesn’t imply that they aren’t, either.

Gorey wasn’t uplifting or heartwarming, (except perhaps in “The Pious Infant”, the story of Henry Clump, a little boy who is too good to live long, and thank God he doesn’t) but now and then justice is served, as it is in “The Bug Book”, one of the few Gorey stories that’s not in black-and-white. In this tale of collective security and well-earned retribution, a peaceful group of bugs have their happy society wrecked by a new bug in the neighborhood, a big, brutish interloper who, despite their best efforts to be friendly and welcoming, “broke up their parties” and “waylaid them whenever they went visiting.” After a secret meeting in the dead of night, the problem is solved by squashing the obstreperous insect flat with a big rock. His remains are placed in an envelope addressed “To whom it may concern” and a pleasant and lively social life is resumed (in Gorey’s world, clearly the happiest of happy endings).

The great Literary critic Edmund Wilson (he who disparaged detective stories and sneered at Tolkien and Lovecraft) was an early admirer of Gorey; he found the artist’s singular little books pleasingly suggestive and allusive. “I find that I like to return to them,” Wilson said. The critic was wrong about a lot of things, but he was right about Edward Gorey. Over almost a half a century, I too have continued to come back to Gorey’s strange, sinister, darkly comic world. There is truly nowhere else like it.

Edward Gorey, this contradictory man who loved attending classical ballet (he was present for every performance of the New York City Ballet for twenty-five straight years) and watching “trash TV movies on the USA Network” was sui generis, the sort of one-of-a-kind genius who can only be appreciated and enjoyed, never imitated or emulated. The mark he set was too high for anyone else to reach… or maybe it would be more accurate to say that it wasn’t too high, exactly; rather, it was too far off to the side.

Whatever deserted house, sinister garden, enigmatic landscape or dimly-lit stage your eccentric spirit now haunts, Edward Gorey, happy birthday to you. Your ashes may have been scattered to the four winds, but your work goes marching on; I fully expect your macabre miniatures to be around for at least another hundred years.

---

Thomas Parker is a native Southern Californian and a lifelong science fiction, fantasy, and mystery fan. When not corrupting the next generation as a fourth grade teacher, he collects Roger Corman movies, Silver Age comic books, Ace doubles, and despairing looks from his wife. His last article for us was Reading for the End of the World Redux