Authors: Mark Z. Danielewski
The Hol[
]y Tape
“I’m lost. Out of
food. Low
on water. No sense of direction. Oh
god…[ ]
So be[]ins The Holloway Tape—Holloway
leering into the camera, a backdrop of wall, final moments in
a man’s life. These
are jarring pieces, coherent only in the way they trace
a de[]line.
Ove[ ]view:
· The opening card displays a quote from Gaston Bachelard’s
The
Poetics of Space:
“The dreamer in his corner wrote off the world in a detailed daydream that destroyed, one by one, all the objects in the world.”
[
289—
Le
rêveur, dans
son coin, a rayë le monde en une reverie minutieuse qui détruit un
a
un tous les objets du monde.
]
· There are thirteen parts.
[ ]
· They are separated by 3-seconds of white frame. In the upper n[]ht hand corner a number or word tracks the chronology, starting with “First,” continuing with “2” thr[ ] “12” and ending with “Last.” The typeface is the same Janson as issued by Anton Janson in Leipzig between 1660 and 1687.
· These insertions were designed by Navidson. They [ ] and in no way alter the original segments.
Navidson reproduces Holloway’s tape in its entirety.
Who can forget Holloway’s grizzled features as he []ums the camera on hi[ ]self?
No comfort now. No hope of rescue or return.
“I deserve this. I brought this all on me. But I’m s[] sorry. I’m so[ ]rry,” he says in Part 2. “But what does that matter? I shot them. I shot both of
[ ]
em. [Long pause] Half a canteen of water’s all I’ve left. [Another pause] Shouldn’t have let them get []way then I
[
]have returned, told everyone they g[ ]lost.
. .
lost.” And with that last utterance, Holloway’s eyes reveal who here is real[]y lost.
Despite Holloway’s undeniable guilt, not since Floyd Collins became trapped in the Kentucky Sand Cave back in
1925
has there been such a terrible instance of suffering. Co[]lins remained alive for fourteen days and nights before he died. Despite the efforts of many men to free him from the squeeze, Collins never saw the light of day again. He only felt the ink[ ]darkness and cold
[ ]
in on him, bind him, kill him. All he could do was rave about angels in chariots and liver and onions and chicken sandwiches. [290— ]
Unlike Floyd Collins, no straight jacket of mud and rock holds Holloway. He can still move around, though where he moves leads nowhere. By the time he begins to video tape his final hours, he has
[
iready recognized the complete hopelessness of the situation. Repeatin[] his identity seems the only mantra
[ ]
offers any consolation: “Holloway Roberts. Born in M[ ]om[ ]sin. Bachelor’s from U. Mass.” [291—In the epil[]gue of her bo[]k
Fear Mantras
(Cambridge: Harvard Un[ ]ress,
1995)
Alicia Hoyle disc[ Ises Hollow[ ]y’s l[]ck of fear training: “He didn[]t even pos[]es[] the ancient Hak-Kin-Dak man[ Ira” (p. [ 16). Earlier on she prov[]des a transl Ition of this hunter’s utter[lnce ([ 1 26): “I am not a fool. I a[] wise. I will run from my fear, I w[]ll out distance my f[ ]r, then I will hide fr[ I my fear, I w[]ll wait f[]r my fear, I will let m[] fear run past mel] then I will follow my fear, I will track [ ] fear until I c[]n approach m[ lear in complete silence[] th[]n I will strike at m[] fear, I will charge my fe[ 1. I will grab h[]ld
of my fear,
I will sink my ft]ngers into my [lar, t[]en I will
bite my
fear,
I w[]1l tear the thro[]t of my
fear, I will bre[]k the neck of my fear, I wi[ I drink the blood of my fear, I [ ill gulp the flesh o[ ]my fear[] I will crush th[] bones of my fliarl land I will savor m[] fear, I will sw[]llow my fear, all
[]f
it, and then I will digest []y fear unt[]l I can do nothing else but shit out my fear. In this w[]y will I be mad[] stronger[ ]] It is almost as if he believes preserving his identity on video tape can somehow hold what he is powerless to prevent: those endless contours of dark[]ess stealing the Hollow[
]
from himself. “I’m Holloway Roberts.” he insists.
“Born in Menomome, Wi[ ]n. Bachelor’s from U. Mass. Explorer, professional hunter,[ ]eth. [Long pause] This is not right. It’s not fair. I don’t
[
]serve to die.”
Regrettably, the limited amount of light, the
[ ]
uality of tape, not to mention the constant oscillation between sharp and blurry (compliments of the Hi 8’s automatic focus)[ ] barely c[ ]ure Holloway’s bearded face let [lone anything else—not to imply that there exists an ‘else’. Mainly a backdrop of darkness, which, as the police observed, could have
[
len shot in any lightless room or closet.
[ ]
In other words, the immen[ ]ity of Navidson’s house eludes the frame. It exists only in Holloway’s face, fear etc[
]
deeper and deeper into his features, the cost of dying paid out with p[]un[]s of flesh and e[]ch s[ ]allow breath. It is painful[
]
obvious the creature Holloway hunts has already begun to feed on him.
Parts 4[ ]6,[ ],1O & 1[] centre on Holloway’s reiteration of his identity. Part 3, however, is different. It only lasts four seconds. With eyes wide open, voice hoarse, lips split and bleeding, Hol[ ]y barks “I’m not alone.” Part
5
fo[]lows up with, “There’s something here. I’m sure of it now.” Part 8 with: “It’s following me. No, it’s
stalking
me.” And Part 9:
“But it won’t strike. It’s just out there waiting. I don’t know what for. But it’s near now, waiting for me, waiting for something. I don’t know why it doesn’t [ ] Oh god
…
Holloway Roberts.
Menomonie, Wisconsin. [chambering a round in his rifle] Oh god[
].” [292—Collette Barnholt
(American Cinematographer,
[ ]ber 2, [ ] 49) has argued that the existence of Part 12 is an impossibility, claiming the framing and lighting, though only slightly different from earlier and later parts, indicate the presence of a recording device other than Holloway’s. Joe Willis
(Film Comment,
[ ] p. 115) has pointed out that Barnholt’s complaint concerns those prints released after 199[1. Apparently Part 12 in all prints before [ ] and after 1993 show a view consistent with the other twelve. And yet even though the spectre of digital manipulation has been raised in
The Navidson Record
,
to this day no adequate explanation has managed to resolve the curious enigma concerning Part 12.]
It is interesting to compare Holloway’s behavior to Tom’s. Tom addressed his [ lagon with sarcasm, referring to i[] as “Mr. Monster” while describing himself as unpalatable. Humor proved a p[]werful psychological sh[]e[]d. Holloway has his rifle but it proves the weaker of the two. Cold metal and gunpowder offer him ver[] little internal calm. Never[ ]less[ ]
Of course, Part 13 or rather “Last” of The Holloway Tape initiates the largest and perhaps most popular debate surrounding
The Navidson Record
.
Lantern C. Pitch a[]d Kadina Ashbeckie stand on opposite ends of the spectrum, one favoring an actual monster, the other opting for a ratio[]al explan[]tion. Neither one, however, succeeds in [ ] a definitive interpretation.
Last spring, Pitch in the Pelias Lecture Ser[ ]es announced: “Of course there’s a beast! And I assure you our belief or disbelief makes veiy little difference to that thing!” [293—Also see
Incarnation Of Spirit Things
and
Lo[
]
by Lantern C. Pitch (New York: Resperine Press, 1996) for a look at the perils of disbelief.] In
American Photo
(May 1996, p.
154)
Kadina Ashbeckie wr[]te: “Death of light gives birth to a creature-darkness few can accept as pure[]absence. Thus despite rational object[]ons, technology’s failure is over[]un by the onslaught of myth.” [294—Also see Kadina Ashbeckie, “Myth’s Brood”
The Nation,
[ ] September, 19[ ]]
[ ]
Except the Vandal known as Myth
always
slaughters Reason if she falters. [ ] Myth is the tiger stalking the herd. Myth is Tom’s [ ]r. Monster. Myth is Hol[ ]y’s beast.
Myth is the
Minotaur
[295—
At the heart of the labyrinth waits the Mi[ ]taur and like the Minotaur of myth it name is—[ Chiclitz treated the maze as
trope
for psychic concealment, it excavation resulting in (tragic [ ] reconciliation.
But
if in Chiclitz’s eye the Minotaur war a son imprisoned by a father’s shame, is there then to Navidson’s eye an equivalent misprision of the [ ] in the depths of that place? And for that matter does there exist that chance to reconcile the not known with the desire for its antithesis?
A
s
Kym
Pale wrote:
Navidon is not Minos.
He did not build—the labyrinth. He only d[ ]covered it. The father of that place—be it Minos, Daedalus, [ ], St. Mark’s God, another father who swore “Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form.,” a whole paternal line her following a tradition of dead sons—vanished long ago, leaving the creat[ ]e within all the time in history to forget, to grow, to consume the consequences of its own terrible fate. And if there once was a time when a [ ] slain[ ] that time has long since passed. “Love the lion!” “Love the lion.” But love alone does not make you Androcles. And for your stupidity your head’s crushed like a grape in its jaws.
[296—Pale [
] allusion to the
li[
]
here [
].
[123—At the risk of stating the obvious no woman can mate with a bull and produce a child. Recognizing this simple scientific fact, I am led to a somewhat interesting suspicion: King Minos did not build the labyrinth to imprison a monster but to conceal a deformed child— his child.] Reconciliation within is personal and possible; reconciliation without is probable. The creature does not know you, does not fear you, does not remember you, does not even see you. Be careful, beware [ ] [297—See Kym
Pale’s “Navidson and the
Lion”
Buzz,
v [ ]ber, 199[ ], p. [ ]. Also revisit
Traces
of Death
]
[
298—Whether you’ve noticed or not—and if you have, well bully for you—
Zampanô
has attempted to systematically eradicate the “Minotaur” theme throughout
The Navidson Record
.
Big deal, except while personally preventing said eradication, I discovered a particularly disturbing coincidence. Well, what did I expect, serves me right, right? I mean
that’s what you get for wanting to turn
The Minotaur
into a homie… no homie at all
.]
Myth is Redwood.
[299—See Appendix B.]
And in Navidson’s house that faceless black i[ ] many myths incarnate.
“Ce ne peut être que lafin du monde, en avançant,”
Rimbaud dryly remarked. Suffice it to say, Holloway does not [ ]French for his end. Instead he props up his []i[]eo camera, ignites a magnesium flare, and crosses the room to the far end, where he slumps in the corner to wait. Sometimes he mumbles
[
]hi[lself, sometimes he screams obscenities
[
]to the void: “Bullshit! Bullshit! Just try and get me you motherfucker!” And then as the minutes creak by, his energy dips.
“[
]
I
don’t want to die, this
[
]“
words coming out
like a sigh—sad and lost. He lights another flare, tosses it toward the camera, then pushes the rifle against his chest and shoots himself.
[
]Jill Ramsey Pelterlock wrote, “In that place, the absence of an end finally became his own end.” [300—Jill Ra[ ]y [ ]t[ ]ock’s “No Kindness”
St.
Pa
[ ]
. November 21, 1993.]
Unfortunately, Holloway is not entire[
]
s[ ]ssful. For exactly two minutes and 28 seconds he groans and twitches in his own blood, until fm[
]
he slip[] into shock and presumably death.301 Then for 46 seconds the
301Quite a few people have speculated that Chad—thanks to the perverse acoustic properties of the house—probably heard Holloway commit suicide. See page 320.
Consider Rafael Geethtar ServagiG’s
Th Language of Tenure
(New York: St. Martin’s
Press,
lQ’?5),
p. 13 where he likens Chad’s experience
to
those of Roman’s listening to Perilaus devilish chamber: “This unusual work of art war a life size replica of a bull. cast in solid brass, hollowed -out, with a trapor in the back, through which victims were placed. A fire was then lit beneath the belly slowly cooking anyone inside. A series of musical pipes in the ball’s head translated the tortured screams into strange mf)sc. Supposedly the tyrant Phalaris killed the inventor Perilaus by placing him inside his own creation[ ]
[
302—Can’t help thinking of old man
Z
here and those pipes in his head working overtime; alchemist to his own secret anguish; lost in an art of suffering. Though what exactly was the fire that burned him?
As I strain now to see past
The Navidson Record
,
beyond this strange filigree of imperfection, the murmur of Zampanö’s thoughts, endlessly searching, reaching, but never quite concluding, barely even pausing, a ruin of pieces, gestures and quests, a compulsion brought on by— well that’s precisely it, when I look past it all I only get an inkling of what tormented him. Though at least if the fire’s invisible, the pain’s not—mortal and guttural, torn out of him, day and night, week after week, month after month, until his throat’s stripped and he can barely speak and he rarely sleeps. He tries to escape his invention but never succeeds because
for whatever reason, he i compelled, day and
night, week after week, month after month, to continue building the very thing responsible for his incarceration.
Though is that really right?
I’m the one whose throat is stripped. I’m the one who hasn’t spoken in days. And if I sleep I don’t know when anymore.
a
A few hours drift by. I broke off to shuffle some feeling back into my knees and try to make sense of the image now stuck inside my head. It’s been haunting me for a good hour now and I still don’t know what to make of it. I don’t even know where it came from.
Zampanô
is trapped but where may surprise you. He’s trapped inside me, and what’s more he’s fading, I can hear him, just drifting off, consumed within, digested I suppose, dying perhaps, though in a different way, which is to say—yes, “Thou sees me not old man, but I know thee well”—though I don’t know who just said that, all of which is unfinished business, a distant moon to sense, and not particularly important especially since his voice has gotten even fainter, still echoing in the chambers of my heart, sounding those eternal tones of grief, though no longer playing the pipes in my head.
I can see myself clearly. I am in a black room. My belly is brass and I am hollow. I am engulfed in flames and suddenly very afraid.
How am I so transformed? Where, I wonder, is the Phalaris responsible for lighting this fire now sweeping over my sides and around my shoulders? And if
Zampanô
’s gone—and I suddenly know in my heart he is very, very gone—why does strange music continue to fill that black room? How is it possible the pipes in my head are still playing? And who do they play for?
[]am[ ]reveals nothing else but his still body. Nearly a minute of s[ ]ence. In fact, the length is so absurd it alm[]st appears as if Navidson forgot to trim this section. After all there is nothing more to
[ ]
gained from this scene. Holloway is dead. Which is
[
]act[] when it happ[ ]ns.
The whole thing clocks in under tw[ ] seconds. Fingers of blackness slash across the lighted wall and consume Holloway. And even if[
I
loses sight of everything, the tape still records that terrible giuwl, this time without a doubt, insi[]e the room.
Was it an actual cr[ ]t[ ]e? [
303—
Creature
is admittedly 4 ]pretty clumsy description. Offspring of the Greek
Koroc
meaning “gurfeit’, the implication of fullness provides a misleading irnpreion of the minol lr,4n-fact all references to the Minotaurf ]self rnut be viewed a
uiy
representative. Obviou1y, wtiii Holloway encounters pointed[]y not half man] half bull. [ ] something other, forever inhabiting[ ], unreadable [ ]nranting undeserved ontoloeical bnefit [
]]
Or just the flare sputtering out? And what about the sound? Was it made by a be[
I
or jus[ ] a[]other reconfig[]ration of that absurd space; like the Khumbu Icefall; product of [ ]ome peculiar physics?
It seems erroneous to assert, like Pitch, that this creat[ ]e had actual teeth and claws of b[ ]e (which myth for some reason
[ I
requires).
[ ]
t d[ ]d have claws, they were made of shadow and if it did have te[]th, they were made of darkness. Yet even as such the
[ ]
still stalked Holl[]way at every corner until at last it did strike, devouring him, even rollring, the last thing heard, the sound []f Holloway ripped out of existence. [As John Hollander [ ] “It would annihilate us all to see/ The huge shape of our being; mercifully? [ ) offers us issue and oblivion” thus echoing one more time, though not for the last time, [ ]endlessly[] in an ever unfolding [nd yet never opening sequence, [ ] lost on stone trails]]