Down to a Sunless Sea by Mathias B. Freese

Down to a Sunless Sea, a collection of fifteen well-crafted stories, should appeal to genre readers, at least a certain segment of them. Mathias B. Freese constructs mostly situational depictions of character, and his skill with this character development is considerable. With fewer words than most writers, he is able to convey depth and subtlety in character, and while his choices tend to be damaged, alienated, scarred individuals, his empathy towards their plight and situation makes them accessible. I say that this collection should appeal to genre readers because the otherness of the characters is not unlike the otherness sometimes explored in speculative fiction, although in this case through a more mainstream lens. If Kurt Vonnegut, J. G. Ballard, and Barry N. Malzberg could cast this type of narrative spell, then so too can Mathias B. Freese (though there is no specific resemblance to the above writers).

The short narratives that make up the stories tend to be heavy on incident and slight on plot, at times resulting in a sense of being adrift while reading. This may or may not be intentional, and while there is enough psychological continuity and strength of voice and tone to carry most pieces, some suffer from this lack of under-plotting. Freese’s stories might be even more resonant if the ideas and events were as finely developed as the characters they occur to; while we care, we could care more. There is also a sense of thematic repetition (characters who have suffered physical abuse and torture, characters who are unable to form relationships or are dysfunctional in other fashions, Jewish/Nazi motifs), which may be most simply avoided by reading the collection in small doses and interspersing it with other writers’ works. Freese’s strengths as a writer are numerous: his attention to detail, his firm control of difficult subject matter, his compassionate but unsentimental portrayal of human suffering, his expert handling of dialogue and voice, and the economy of his storytelling. He is an ambitious writer: those looking for fully-plotted, entertaining pieces should look elsewhere, since Freese employs his technique in the exploration of darker, more formless fare, and his aesthetic leans more heavily towards a literary sensibility.

Because these pieces are more successful (and likely intended) to establish an emotional connection with the reader through character, and often don’t build dramatic tension in the ordinary sense of a linear progression of increasingly challenging events, I’ll quote a few lines from each story to give potential readers a flavor of what they will encounter. Hopefully this will also capture some of Freese’s writing skills.

“Down to a Sunless Sea” sets the reflection-focused tone of the collection, replete with reminiscences from Adam’s early life in Brighton Beach. There is an unusual intensity in the character’s honesty, and originality abounds in the numerous idiosyncratic details stored in the writer’s eye. Despite this craft and several readings, I found the story’s central meaning—following from Adam’s realization of the fundamental “ineffable” quality of his childhood experiences—difficult to penetrate, and well, somewhat ineffable, which is no doubt a reflection of my own limitations, not the writer’s. From the second paragraph:

Another incident at that time was also perplexing. As he peered at a Kodak display for a Brownie, he pressed his nose up against a drugstore window, for he had come too close, unattending. Attracted to the pinwheel motion of the display mechanism, the resistance of the glass made him aware that he had bumped up against it.

The narrator of “I’ll Make It, I Think,” one of the standout stories, is a physically deformed “young adult” who shares his innermost thoughts about his experiences and day-to-day life. The psychological plausibility is impressive, and the piece is poignant and touching. Freese achieves genuine pathos through an appreciation of the protagonist’s plight, and part of the strength of the tale is never explicitly allowing him to become pitiful or self-absorbed, nor downplaying the sexual urges and frustrations he must endure. From the fourth paragraph:

Funny, when I’m shaving I often cry without any reason at all. I just stand there and cry. Stuffing Ralph, that’s my bad hand, into my mouth, I think I’d look better if I ate up my mitt—or lopped it off with the razor. I just stand there crying, hoping no one hears me.

Dread and absurd humor commingle in “The Chatham Bear,” which, as is noted in the collection’s foreword, is based on true events. The narrator lives in Canaan, rural New York, and a black bear is spotted several times in the neighboring town of Chatham. One can’t help but feel that the name place of Canaan is not accidental, and the intrusions of the bear, “like some great white whale,” hold metaphorical significance. The story, written in a journalistic manner, shifts from the bear-related events to a dog story, and describes abusive characters in its final scene. While I found this transition interesting and revealing of a deeper meaning, it also seemed a little abrupt. From the seventh paragraph:

Donald was going to work. As he was about to turn the ignition on, he froze. From out of the mist the oval-haired mane and protruding snout of a bear broke through, as if a U.S. postage stamp moved his way, an ursine species to collect.

The eponymous and very young “Herbie” has dreams of shining shoes with his pal, Serge, and said plans collide violently with his father’s physical and emotional abuse in several gut-wrenching bouts of resistance, terror, and fear. This is another outstanding piece; the abuse, especially through dialogue, is evoked with terrifying believability, with no moralizing or heavy-handedness anywhere in sight. There is also no neat resolution, though the final paragraph reveals sinister implications of the kind of transformation that may be consuming Herbie. From the third section:

When his father’s complexion scrambled off his face, it became a drum, taut and featureless, beating out every conceivable reason against such an undertaking. Herbie retreated, drawing tight-fisted in his chair.

In the dialogue-driven “Alabaster,” a young boy finds himself having a conversation with an old woman when her daughter is momentarily away from her. Mother and daughter are Holocaust survivors, and the uneasy conversation sucks the boy in with the story of how “a darkness came,” but, to be sure, “not a fairy tale darkness.” A stunning moment of revelation involves the mother rolling up her arm sleeve and displaying a very uniquely horrific imprint from her past. One feels that though this exchange may not be long-lasting, profound forces are at work and the exchange—the connection—will be life-altering for the boy. From the second paragraph:

Both mother and daughter bore a fatigue, as if vampirically ravished. Few children spoke to them, although adults greeted them courteously. The daughter was more accessible, friendlier than the mother. Her mother responded to questions and remarks about the weather or daily events fitfully. I sensed primitively that there was a quarantine about these two.

The events of this macabre, darkly humorous story literally involve “Juan Peron’s Hands,” which the somewhat demented narrator has removed them with a machete from the title’s politician as he lies buried in his crypt. The first-person narration consists, wisely, of short, matter-of-fact declarations, such as “I wanted his head—only a thought,” and dictums of twisted truth like “Once you have held a dead hand everything is imaginable—and possible.” These thoughts not only double as exposition and character development, but they also emphasize the grotesque by underplaying it. I felt like the story could have benefited from more length, but size, as they say, isn’t everything—it’s how you use it that counts. From the third paragraph:

Breaking into the crypt was of no concern. Peron was always accessible. It was the method.

“Little Errands” prove much too large a burden for the unstable narrator of this Beckettian window into consciousness. Freese shifts gears in the writing here, so much so that one seems to be reading an altogether different writer, which is certainly a testament to his craft. The paragraphs are long, the thoughts rambling and teeming with reversals, repetitions, confusions, and contradictions. This stream-of-consciousness narration illustrates how even the most mundane task, in this case the mailing of letters, can serve as a metaphor for someone’s internal state. Again, my reservation with this piece would be its brief length: it is more of an evocation than a fully-formed portrayal of this kind of constantly self-doubting mind for which the very notion of identity is uncertain. From the opening paragraph:

I mailed the two letters, one is a parking ticket, the other partial payment for new carpeting. Or so I thought, I’m not sure that I mailed them, although I did close the slot and open it again to check. The letters were not there, or so I thought. I was in a rush. I opened and closed the tray again. The letters were gone.

The article-like “Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Father Was a Nazi” strikes me as an odd mix of satire, critique, and maybe even contemporary mythmaking. The story, written in 1991 and therefore somewhat divinatory in its social whimsy, delivers exactly what the title promises, reminding us of Schwarzenegger’s father whenever mention is made of the latest news in his son’s Hollywood career. In this instance, Freese’s technique didn’t work for me. I found the piece neither funny nor thought-provoking, and repetitive despite the fact it’s only four pages long. If the crimes of Arnold’s father are supposed to be a literal reminder of something, I’m not sure what, and if their insertion into the present day only partially creates irony—there just isn’t enough to be ironic about here. From the opening paragraph:

He with the horizontal seam for a mouth, Arnold speaks with an Austrian crawl. And the skin plates of his chest shingle that inverted triangular torso. Late at night while the infant Schwarzenegger sleeps and a Shriver cuddles close, Arnie swims with Leni Riefenstahl.

“Echo” explores the friendship between the narrator, who fashions himself mostly normal and certainly capable of love and human connection, with Jonathan, who by all accounts seems self-absorbed to the point of where his chosen insularity eventually severs all relationships with others. The characters and their relationships are crafted astutely, and there is enough strangeness in Jonathan’s behavior to generate suspense of sorts. Despite this, I found the piece somewhat affectless, and the end seemed at arm’s length from the usual elegance and understatement of Freese’s endings. Not having a real context for Jon’s “narcissistic attraction,” I felt neither involved nor surprised by the outcome. In short, too much navel-gazing in this tale. From the second paragraph:

It doesn’t rest with this Semitic beauty of the streets. It is only a backdrop, for Jon feels that early events and individuals, for whatever reasons which up to this day he cannot sort out, deeply imprinted upon him.

The titular “Young Man,” another lesser entry, lives his entire life “between what is and what should be.” The story is heavy with exposition and feels more like it describes the outline of a character than a real character. The attempt to convey the young man’s inner workings is reduced to several generalizations and few particulars, making it difficult to suspend disbelief or generate emotional attachment. The foreword describes it as an “almost free verse prose-poem,” and as such, it didn’t work for me. From the third paragraph:

Perhaps what could be said of him was that he was aware of an inner discrepancy—a lack of congruency—and choked daily on its bone.

The first-person “Nicholas” of this accomplished story tells us of his experiences at school in “slow class” with his teacher, one Mrs. Skalen. Freese succinctly reproduces the angst, resentment, insecurity, and hostility inherent in Nicholas and his forcible instruction. The narration, peppered with his creative insights into the injustice of his situation, contains numerous spelling and grammatical mistakes that reflect Nicholas’s illiteracy. He almost defies us to take his side and oppose the school system, and while several of his attacks are spot-on, we can never fully buy into his point of view, borne as it is out of pain and frustration and not objective assessment, despite the fact that, after all, “even Jesus coulnt write and he never went much from home.” From the second page:

Goin to school is puttin in hard time. I think after school life is puttin in time too, escept I do it for a boss. My mom is like that.

“Billy’s Mirrored Wall” explores the idea of pain being transmitted from one generation unto the next, a notion also touched upon in several other pieces, for example “Herbie.” Here, it is addressed too explicitly for my tastes, and though this story’s pace was pleasant and the details intriguing, I didn’t find the characters particularly memorable (which in a story of this nature, pretty much seals its fate for the reader). From the opening:

Billy was a wiry boy at twelve, and I remember how he got up to the plate and bounced the Spaldeen several times, its pinkness drawn repeatedly to his hand from the macadam surface of the schoolyard as if in gravitational relationship.

“Unanswerable” is a study of leaps in terror and lapses in judgment. The first-person narrator dramatically recalls the horrific experience of being thrown into water and left to sink or swim by his “Dad” Gunther on a trip to Coney Island at the age of five or six. The broken trust is never healed and leads the protagonist to speculate about the “core puzzle” of human beings, namely our ability to objectify others and, through this lack of empathy, commit atrocities against them. I found this latter premise interesting, but didn’t think it sufficiently well-integrated into the story, and found its presentation too expository to be effective. From the second page:

Sailing numbly in the air, an object sent off by another object, I remember distinctly the emotional disembowelment as I dove through the water. I blanch even now as I recall the terror.

“For a While, Here, in This Moment” plunges us deep into despair, alienation, and self-dissociation. Shattering identity is a subject that threads through several of the stories at hand but is perhaps nowhere as finely crafted as here. Numerous images convey the rollicking sense of sickness and the implacable interior disintegration of the protagonist, whose “fear is like a bungee jump into nothingness.” The Foreword notes that this story was written for the author’s daughter, and there is a warmth that shines through. The one chord that strikes amiss for me is the inclusion, once again, to a reference of the Holocaust. From the first page:

In my sickbed I am eons old, cubits wide, a glacial mass, a mile high, and biblically huge. Gulliver tethered by molecular weight and viral turpitude, I am adrift in the Sargasson Sea. I am unseen, huge as I am.

There is a striking image at the heart of “Mortise and Tenon,” one which perfectly condenses the emptiness that assails Clare’s son, Edward: “a museum of only frames, enclosing emptied spaces, mortised and tenoned to one another.” The frames, which serve to geometrically encompass a segment of representational reality, take on a life of their own, just as Edward’s inner self does. This story also seems an appropriate stylistic coda to the collection, ending on a note of menace. From the third paragraph:

As she strolled triumphantly through the gallery, her son Edward beside her, she wended her way through the clutches that surrounded each print or painting. The young Edward observed how Mother made her way through the groups in order to bring him close up to the painting. People stepped aside for his mother, and he found that curious and not a little remarkable in that nothing was ever said.

If the general ideas presented in these summations of the stories and the writing samples appeal to you, you will find much to enjoy in this slim but substantial work. If you enjoy stories in which, for the most part, Things Work Out, don’t say you weren’t warned. A flashlight may be insufficient, for the sunless sea of the human soul is deep and foreboding indeed.

Publisher: Wheatmark (November 2007)
Price: $11.86
Trade paperback: 148 pages
ISBN: 1587367335