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On a summer evening in deserted downtown Manhattan, a door admitted us, one by one, into a dim interior where King Pentheus, in Dionysus in 1969, would be torn apart fictively by literally naked maenads.ĥIn H.G. Portals can admit bodies and minds into Secret Gardens or Houses of Pain. But you would wonder.ģAnything can be a portal, hinting at powerful new possibilities.ĤA single paragraph can lodge itself in one’s mind-a single sentence, even (“We made him wish we had used a cob.”). Within the dark interior they glimpse a flaying bench and swarms of flies buzzing around “pale fungoid shapes” (74) while a whistling dwarf pounds and scrapes You would not want to venture through the portal of that barn, any more than through the doorway of the homestead house in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. So clearly did we see this that we picked out the little peg driven through the palm of each one. Suddenly we guessed that it was fashioned of human hands fastened to the wall. Like a jewel in its chain, it was the central link of a narrow gable frieze which appeared to be formed of brown spiders. Over the dark door on the gable-end a skull was nailed fast, showing its teeth and seeming to invite entry with its grin. 2In Ernst Jünger’s On the Marble Cliffs, which appeared in the same year as No Orchids for Miss Blandish (1939), the narrator and his brother find themselves gazing down upon a barn in a clearing.