Books To Bury Me With: Ira Rat

The book I’d want to take with me to the grave:

I only have a dozen memories from before high school—and about as many since. One that stands out is my cousin reading me "Survivor Type" by Stephen King from Skeleton Crew. I was about seven. A week later, I got a paperback copy, and read it to shreds on the playground while the recess attendants tutted me, convinced I was headed for hell. It's probably one of the defining moments of my childhood and shaped me into who I am today.

 

The first book that hit me like a ton of bricks:

My Dead Book by Nate Lippens. I don’t remember why I clicked on Nate's page on Neutral Spaces, but I printed every story he had linked that day. When this book was published, it drew from many of these individual stories, but the editing process elevated it to something incredible. I own all three editions and will be first in line if a fourth is released.

 

The book that’s seen more of my tears, coffee stains, and cigarette burns:

Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut. As a broke high schooler living in a trailer park, I'd spend my lunch money on cigarettes, CDs, and books, often re-reading the same books. I must have read it half a dozen times back then and probably that many times since then.

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." Over the years, this has become the unofficial motto for the performance aspect of my “art.”

The book that shook my world like a goddamn hurricane:

Books of Blood by Clive Barker was catnip to my twelve-year-old horror-obsessed mind. It, along with Skeleton Crew by Stephen King are probably the books that made me want to be an author from a very young age. 

 

The book I wish I’d discovered when my liver was still intact:

I’m not sure what to put here, so I will put 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane, because — a.) it deserves to be mentioned, and b.) I’ve been reading it every few months since someone compared my chapbook, The Medication, to it. A chapbook I wrote when a few of my organs were shutting down, and they threw me on a couple fistfuls of pills a day. One of those organs had to be my liver (🤷🏻), but I can’t remember. It was fun times all around. 

The book I’d shove into everyone’s hands if I were king of the world:

SUPER cliché, but as a press runner, I'm proud of the books we've published by other authors. Each one excites me enough to do the carny routine at conventions. I’m still pushing The God in the Hills by Jon Steffens, which is the first novella we did. People need to read that, and everything else.

 

The book that nearly drove me to madness:

Another cliche, but Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs, is one of those books that leaves a deep impression on you. You’re either for or against it, and I’m all for it. So many writers try to be experimental but are just gibberish. There are just as many writers trying to be edgy but are just hateful and crass. This is one of the only books I can point to that developed its own style, and 65 years on nobody has been able to touch it. 

 

The book I can’t keep my hands off of, no matter how many times I’ve read it:

Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite. On the surface, it’s a vampire novel that came out at the pinnacle of the 90s vampire craze, but this book is so well written and has a unique spin that all the other books from that period wish they could have come up with. It’s southern gothic. It’s dirty realism. It name-checks everything I was into (or would shortly be into) when I first read it, from William S. Burroughs to The Cure. It, along with writers like Clive Barker and Brian Hodges led me astray from mainstream horror.

 

The book I’d hide in the back of my closet, pretending I’m too highbrow for it:

Book of the Subgenius it’s the pinnacle of trash culture. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a holy book for a parody UFO cult. It’s a form of Americana that is more authentic than baseball and apple pie. We’re all crazy here.

 

The book that left a scar I wish I could forget:

If I could forget the scar that Closer by Dennis Cooper caused, all it would do is lead to an Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind infinite regress of forgetting and rescaring. Which I might like a little too much, so it’s a good thing that I can’t.

 

The author who made me think, "Now that’s a soul in torment":

Arthur Rimbaud, it’s the typical teenage bullshit heartache, but he writes it so well. I just quoted the line “I think I'm in hell, therefore I am.” to open a story. I first read him when I was around twelve. It probably directly led to my goth phase a couple of years later. 

 

The book I’d get a tattoo of if I had the nerve:

So many people hate Brett Eason Ellis these days, but he wouldn’t even be in the conversation if it weren’t for the sheer audacity and skill of Less Than Zero. I can’t think of an author who read it and came out the other end the same. Either stealing whole styles or reacting against it.

 

The book that made me question everything I thought I knew:

I finally finished it, but I can see why so many people are obsessed with the Atrocity Exhibition by J.G. Ballard. I’ve read so many books inspired by it that it’s not funny, but it still holds up. It will probably ruin the next two or three things I try to write.

 

The book that’s so damn good I’d never loan it out:

I don’t loan books.

 

The book that’s been my companion through the darkest nights:

I’ve read Shock Value by John Waters a million times. It is one of those bibles for misfits that, when you’re of a certain age, makes it feel like there is a place in this world for people who color outside the lines. 

 

The book I’d throw in someone’s face during a heated argument:

The Bible is the only book I can think of that fits this category. It’s a goddamn slog, but I made it through it in high school. Cover to cover, minus the bits about all that begetting. People have written and will write a million books about this and that, and all I have to say is that a better editor was needed. Needless to say, I’m not in its fan club despite some exquisite passages. 

 

The book that reminds me of a lost love or regret:

There is an exquisite sentimentality to a lot of the writing of Thomas Moore. Forever, Your Dreams, Alone, When People Die, etc., but especially when it's nearly nihilistic, it feels like trying to cover up a wounded heart that feels familiar to me. 

 

The book I wish I could have written, but know I never could:

The Stranger by Albert Camus. It’s the perfect amalgamation of a philosophical treatise and pulp novel. Something I’ve been trying to do with my work since the beginning. However, cosmic indifference (as compared to cosmic nihilism) just isn’t a sexy philosophy. Maybe if I was French I could get away with it?

 

The book that makes me want to drink myself into oblivion:

Women by Charles Bukowski. Nearly every writer I know of a certain ilk has gone through a Bukowski phase—even if it's just a third-rate cosplay of the drunken bohemian lifestyle. I certainly had my years of being half in a bottle, trying to eke out a dozen coherent sentences before sending them off to some zine I'd never hear back from. Bukowski is the archetype of the horrible person who's a damn good writer but goes on to inspire thousands of insipid clones. I'm glad I crawled out of that phase as quickly as I did—still a damn good book.

 

The book that’s been my refuge from the world’s cruelty:

There is no refuge.