![]() ![]() It is a book about Claire Cronin being haunted by her very nature. ![]() ![]() The Things’ presence is scattered in a work that growls and hums impatiently about the weird nexus of being a horror fan, navigating through depressive states and cherishing and battling devotional sentiments – or, putting it differently, being a human being stalked by its own shadows. These creatures roam through the pages, amongst a painful, yet clear prose and a carnival of distorted IMDB horror synopses, which punctuate and pierce the book. I had to confront my wounds incessantly and traverse them against my better judgement.Ĭronin’s book, reduced to its bare bones, is a great ghost story, haunted by three main phantoms: horror, faith, and depression. Reading Claire Cronin’s Blue Lights on the Screen made me, with grace and tenacity, spiral in on myself and the fate, even in the most minute sense of the word, which was cast upon me. This time, the influence binding my fingers is much clearer. I’m writing these considerations on a minor inconvenience in my biography as a man forced to confess, once again compelled by an outer power. Whoever or whatever sets my limbs in motion notwithstanding, my main takeaway from this unflattering possession has always been that – as secular as my belief systems might be – I was still a vessel for something other than me, the host for a logic which will never be my own. My compulsion is, for my devoted parents and me, a figure contested by the Devil, the angelic spheres and the possibility of a slight form of autism. But the source of this motion was – and still is – hotly debated in my family torn, as always, between Catholic fervour and the imprecise geometries of psychology and psychiatry. Nowadays, I have learned (reluctantly) to control this imperative, relegating it to the basement of my life as a somewhat private fact. My arms cease to be me, and they are moved by a will which compels from afar. If a thought or an emotion proves itself to be a little too much to bear, something calls – from above or below, it is hard to tell – my upper appendages and forces them to flap around, crashing on my body. Since I can remember, I was gifted with the need to move my arms every time something attacks or delights my nervous system. This devotion certainly stems from a contingency in my biography – a minor detail in the grand scheme of my character which touched me, irreparably, with its jittery motion. All that spasms on its own accord in one’s body is holy to me. I have always nurtured an admiration for the compulsive. ![]()
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