Snowbound by Bram Stoker

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The artwork is mine; the cover design is by Lookatcia.

Presenting my latest book for Alma, the Spanish publisher for whom I’ve illustrated several classic novels and story collections. The new volume is my second Bram Stoker title after Dracula in 2018 which, for the sake of convenience, I’ll refer to it by its English title. Snowbound: The Record of a Theatrical Touring Party was a collection of connected stories first published in 1908, 11 years after Dracula had established Stoker’s reputation. I wouldn’t call Snowbound a bad book but if you’ve read Dracula or Stoker’s more popular short stories it’s a disappointment, with no supernatural content and little to recommend it elsewhere. The first episode introduces the framing device: a group of travelling players are marooned by heavy snow while travelling on a train through the wilds of Scotland. To pass a dark and freezing night the troupe entertain themselves by relating memorable anecdotes from their careers, anecdotes which I imagine Stoker either heard from others or experienced himself during his years working for actor-manager Henry Irving. In place of the spooky tales one might expect from such a premise we’re offered a succession of vaguely comic episodes mixed with more serious drama, with a couple of the pieces being related in very broad “Oirish” and Cockney accents. The Irish episode is especially bizarre considering that Stoker was Irish himself; it reads like the kind of thing you’d get from an English writer trotting out lazy stereotypes.

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My endpapers design.

There are other flaws I could mention but I’ve undersold the book enough as it is. Snowbound has never received much attention in the past, it wasn’t even reprinted in English until 2000. In my previous books for Alma I utilised a style which combined collaged backgrounds with hand-drawn elements in order to create illustrations whose engraved appearance made them seem like products of the period in which the stories were written. More recently I’ve been moving away from this style but the success of the previous Alma editions, Frankenstein in particular, obliged me to maintain some continuity with the look I’d created for Dracula. As it turned out, several of the Snowbound illustrations are entirely hand-drawn, with engraving-like textures used in the shading. The biggest departure from the previous books is the addition of an extra ink colour to the artwork, an effect that was fun to play with when creating different lighting effects. As to the pictorial details, several of the anedotes take place in the United States, hence the presence of an American steam train with an elevated smokestack, the spelling of the word “theater” on a poster, and so on.

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Having mentioned Frankenstein I ought to also mention the recent Polish edition of the novel which reprints my Alma illustrations. This is a large-format hardback from Materia, a pubisher who don’t seem to have a proper web presence outside those Meta plague sites that I never link to. The book is on sale anyway. Meanwhile, I’m currently working on another new book for Alma which will feature ten full-colour double-page illustrations. More about this later.

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Weekend links 818

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The Bookworm (no date) by Arthur Paunzen.

• New Cabaret Voltaire: Nag Nag Nag (Live 2025 Single Edit). Good to hear they’ve reinstated the Patrick Moore dialogue sample, something that’s on the studio version but usually missing from live recordings. The single is a trailer for a forthcoming album based on the group’s recent anniversary tour.

The Mysterious Castle in the Carpathians (1981), a wacky Czech comedy, one of many directed by Oldřich Lipský. With a story by Jules Verne, music by Luboš Fišer, and steampunk props by Jan Švankmajer.

• More new music: Butch’s Guns by Sunn O))); Sidings by Craven Faults; Frequencies In The Fog by Rod Modell.

What strikes me most is the difference between people who’ve learned to construct what I call “containers for attention”—bounded spaces and practices where different modes of engagement become possible—and those who haven’t. The distinction isn’t about intelligence or discipline. It’s about environmental architecture. Some people have learned to watch documentaries with a notebook, listen to podcasts during walks when their minds can wander productively, read physical books in deliberately quiet spaces with phones left behind. They’re not rejecting technology. They’re choreographing it.

What we think is a decline in literacy is a design problem, says librarian Carlo Iacono

• At Colossal: “Striking photos by Peter Li capture the soaring majesty of sacred spaces.”

• At Public Domain Review: The Eight Horses of King Mu, Son of Heaven (ca. 1300).

• At the BFI: Brogan Morris selects 10 great political thrillers.

• At Dennis Cooper’s: Roland Topor’s Brain.

• RIP Robert Duvall and Tom Noonan.

The Book Lovers (1997) by Broadcast | Tiny Golden Books (2000) by Coil | Library Of Solomon Book 2 (2011) by Demdike Stare

The Kingdom of the Gods

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Looking for more Theosophist art turned up The Kingdom of the Gods (1952), a book by Geoffrey Hodson with illustrations by Ethelwynne M. Quail. Hodson was a Theosophist scholar with a predilection for the clairvoyant visualising of transcendent beings. Several of his books are descriptions of encounters made on his travels, commencing at a modest level in 1925 with Fairies at Work and Play. Fairies are a somewhat trivial subject for Theosophical students, which may explain why Hodson’s later books move on to accounts of angels in their various forms, before arriving at descriptions of fully-fledged gods, a type of divine life which in Hodson’s telling is more populous than we realise. A note at the beginning of The Kingdom of the Gods states that Ethelwynne Quail’s paintings were made originally for slide projections which Hodson used in his lectures.

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Most of Hodson’s gods are lower-order beings of a kind that the Romans termed genius loci, the spirit of a place, while their depictions are nebulous, bird-like renderings like some of the “thought-forms” depicted in the 1905 book of that name by Charles Webster Leadbeater and Annie Besant. The determination of the Theosophists to make the invisible manifest on paper or canvas may explain the attraction of the religion for so many artists. One of the illustrations in Thought-Forms shows Gounod’s music forming over a cathedral tower like a polychrome mushroom cloud; a decade later, the Theosophy-inspired Luigi Russolo was doing something similar with his Futurist painting, La Musica. Geoffrey Hodson would have been delighted by the mystical artists of the 1970s, especially Gilbert Williams and Robert Venosa. Some of Ethelwynne Quail’s spirits might be sketches for Venosa paintings, his early works in particular, which have the same sweeping lines but rendered in a meticulous, crystalline manner.

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Weekend links 817

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The Silken World of Michelangelo (1967) by Eduardo Paolozzi.

• “By the late 19th century, representing time as a line was not just widespread—it was natural. Like today, it would have been hard to imagine how else we could represent time. And this affected how people understood the world.” Emily Thomas on the evolution of our thinking about the nature of time.

• At Green Arrow Radio: Bill Laswell and the Cosmic Trip, in which the indefatigable performer/producer talks about his career and Cosmic Trip, a new album by saxophonist Sam Morrison.

• At Public Domain Review: Snail Homes, Bog Bodies, and Mechanical Flies: Robert Testard’s Illustrations for Les secretz de l’histoire naturelle (ca. 1485).

• Among the new titles at Standard Ebooks, the home of free, high-quality, public-domain texts: Continental Op Stories by Dashiell Hammett.

• The winter catalogue of lots for the After Dark: Gay Art and Culture online auction. Homoerotic art, photos, historic porn, etc.

• New music: The Third Mind. A Sonic Tribute to the Dreamachine by Various Artists.

• Mix of the week: DreamScenes – February 2026 at Ambientblog.

A Conversation with Tarotplane by AJ Kaufmann.

• RIP Bud Cort.

Timewhys (1971) by Tonto’s Expanding Head Band | Time Be Time (1990) by Ginger Baker | Time Scale (2009) by Belbury Poly

Maurice Leloir’s Three Musketeers

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Just after Christmas I watched the recent French film adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo, after which I resolved to finally read The Three Musketeers, something I’d been intending to do since reading The Count of Monte Cristo four years ago. I’m currently two thirds of the way through The Three Musketeers and enjoying it very much despite the familiarity of the story. (I’ve watched Richard Lester’s two-part film adaptation many times.) For the most part, the novel avoids the flaws which make Monte Cristo a laborious read (Umberto Eco described the latter as “one of the most exciting novels ever written and on the other hand…one of the most badly written novels of all time and in any literature”), but The Three Musketeers isn’t without flaws of its own. I don’t think too many people would regard the lack of descriptive detail as a flaw per se—this is an adventure story, after all—but I enjoy a well-crafted description, and Dumas’s sketching of costume and place ranges from the scant to the non-existent. We’re told, for example, that d’Artagnan is a member of the King’s Guard, and that the Guards and the Musketeers are identifiable by the differences of their uniforms. But I don’t recall any instance when we’re told how these differences are manifest, or even how any of the principle characters dress from day to day. The same applies to the settings; much of the novel is set in the Paris of the 1620s but Dumas ignores any scenic description in what would have been a darker, muddier and altogether less salubrious city than his own Paris of the 1840s.

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All of which brings us to Monsieur Maurice Leloir (1853–1940) and his illustrations for the novel which were published in a two-volume edition in 1894 (Tome 1 | Tome 2). Leloir was a painter and illustrator with a considerable knowledge of French historical dress; in 1907 he became the founding president of the Société de l’histoire du costume. His illustrations of The Three Musketeers, therefore, may be taken as authoritative when it comes to the costuming of the characters. Leloir was very good with everything else, as it happens; his characterisation is better than those of an earlier edition which makes d’Artagnan and friends barely distinguishable from each other, something not helped by the barbering habits of the day which had every gentleman sporting the same elaborate moustaches.

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Most of Leloir’s illustrations are placed vignette-style inside the page but a few of the larger ones run across two pages, especially those involving fights or other action scenes. And there are many illustrations, what you see here is a very small sample. A couple of them so closely match scenes in the Richard Lester films that I’m sure the books must have been referred to for details of costuming. Douglas Fairbanks certainly saw them; after playing d’Artagnan in his own film production of The Three Musketeers he invited Maurice Leloir to advise with the costuming of another Dumas adaptation, The Iron Mask, in 1929.

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