The best classic tales of mysteries beyond the veil

I find H.Rider Haggard's famous tales of adventure (e.g. King Solomon's Mines) pretty disgusting: bunch of white guys in southern Africa, where they can slaughter and loot at will, far from the constraints of “civilised” society.

But “She” is one of a kind. A perilous wilderness, where the people who put pots on the heads of strangers have a very sinister outlook on life (these are cooking pots, and this is a stranded population, desperate for protein). Their immortal goddess (originally Ancient Greek?) lives in a tomb, doesn't seem to eat or drink; talks like a spoilt, entitled Victorian debutante, and fascinates our hero.

I imagine the author, a humble civil servant when not dreaming of glorious gory derring-do, met young ladies of her kind socially, and was snubbed a few times. She pays... and I won't spoil the horror of it for you, but it's pretty bad! A guilty pleasure, a mystery in the school of Indiana Jones, but with real passion and real spookiness.

R.Murray Gilchrist was a Derbyshire man from a good Derbyshire family, liked or loved by the local people he met and helped, but a loner, a total oddity in the wild English Peak District of a hundred years ago: who wanted to be an artist of all things.

His stories are grotesque, sad, touching, and strange; all at once. He doesn't seem to set out to frighten the reader, not at all, but there's a sense of eerie, rather dreadful, longing that will haunt you. As Ellis Reed says (read the article), this was Lovecraft before Lovecraft, but with no cute tentacled monsters to lighten things up. Don't read them all at once.

George MacDonald was a Scottish preacher who turned to fantasy fiction, and became a sort of Victorian superstar: “Queen Victoria gave copies of Robert Falconer to her grandchildren. Everybody read his books—Lewis Carroll, John Ruskin, H.G. Wells, Charles Dickens, Edna Lyall, Mark Twain . . . as well as the queen herself.”

I don't think I can explain the attraction to modern reader, you'll get it or you won't: I first met his novel-length “romances” (Phantastes and Lilith) when I was eight, suffering after a horrible trip to the dentist, and found the stories very weird and comforting. Whereas most “fairy tales” are quite brutal, if you're paying attention.

A Japanese ghost story, set in an imaginary, contemporary, Japanese town by a Singaporean first novelist.

I picked this out at Brighton Library because I liked the cover, but Clarissa Goenawan's Rainbirds has survived the goodreads treatment, so hopefully she's a writer to watch (I mean, there will be more of these).

Readers have recalled Haruki Murakami, because it's allegedly Japanese, and a bit off-kilter, but to me this dreamlike narrative seemed fresh and floating: ungrounded, not alienated. I thought of another Japanese writer, Kazuo Ishiguro, & The Buried Giant: a misty, off-kilter take on Arthurian Britain, in which everyone seems either asleep, or else making the journey the dead make to wherever they go, while dreaming the novel's action...

No, I give up, I can't explain the charm, you'd have to try it and see, & yes, those are goldfish, not any kind of birds on the cover, and no, I don't really understand about the "rainbirds", but they're in there.

Sent off to the old Derbyshire farm to convalesce, Penelope Taverner opens a door, steps into the world of the tragic stand-off between Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth of England, and hardly notices she's time-travelling.

She's just there, among people who dress a little strangely: accepted as exactly what she is, the daughter of an old family connection, come to stay for a while. Nothing can be done. Mary of Scots can't be saved; nor can the courageous Babingtons. It's intense and a bit voyeurish in a way, because the time-traveller is always going to walk away unharmed from tragedy, if not untouched.

I loved this story when I was a child, but what I notice most as an adult writer is Alison Uttley's method with the time travel: a real innovation. No clunky explanation, no clever rationale. It's all about hints and glimpses, haunting fragments; drifting into each other, clinging like spiderweb, to create a sense of a dimension where time doesn't pass.

History is never dead meat. It's always about living people, and their different but equal versions of the world.