Things have been rather hectic for a good long while, so my reading has not been "up to snuff" the past few months. Nonetheless, I have managed to read:
(by Nathaniel Hawthorne):
Dr. Grimshawe's Secret -- a novel left unfinished and unpolished at his death, cobbled together by his son Julian, with some editorial changes -- a very interesting little piece which varied from some of Hawthorne's most impressive prose to some of his worst, with a fair amount in-between
The Scarlet Letter -- one I read many, many years ago, but not since... and I've been missing a fantastically good book as a result. The writing here is superb, and the air of eeriness and the presence of the unseen permeates the book, handled in a manner which alternates between a naïve intensity and a finely artistic understatedness
Fanshawe -- his first novel, of which he later destroyed all copies he could find. Seriously flawed, but with some fine touches here and there
The House of the Seven Gables -- Lovecraft calls this "New England's greatest contribution to weird literature" and, while I wouldn't go quite that far, I do think he's not off by much. A finely crafted, well-balanced novel, with a great deal more going on than the surface would lead a casual reader to believe; and the chapter with Judge Pyncheon's vigil remains in itself one of the greatest eerie passages in literature
The Blithedale Romance -- another quite flawed performance, but one which nonetheless holds the interest; a quirky set of characters based (at times loosely) on those Hawthorne knew at Brook Farm, and with a powerful denouement which will not easily be forgotten
The Marble Faun -- somewhat less balanced than Seven Gables, but also more subtle in its suggestion, this is one which would repay repeated readings; the central air of mystery and guilt which permeates the latter part of the novel are handled with considerable strength, and the novel's only major flaw is Hawthorne's provoking comment in the afterword, where he indulged in his periodic vice of being just a bit too coy in tone
Twice-Told Tales, Mosses from an Old Manse, The Snow-Image, an odd little collection titled after the short story "The Great Stone Face" (all of the above being story collections), and some other unfinished "romances" published as "Septimius Felton", "Septimius Norton", and "The Dolliver Romance", along with a fragmentary piece, "The Ancestral Footstep", his English and American notebooks (in the edition prepared by his widow, Sophia Hawthorne), and a volume of his letters (two others to go).
His short stories are quite wide in both tone, manner, and subject, but at his best (a significant percentage of the time), he is an unique and marvelously effective writer with a light touch, given to allegory but not often to deleterious effect; more frequently concerned with pathos and a quiet melancholy than a fevered depiction of the unreal (though such exceptions as "Ethan Brand" certainly show he can be quite strong in that line); a writer sadly underread today, and deserving of much more consideration by those who love fantasy and the weird, as well as American literature in general.
Aside from this, several selections of essays, Wasp, by Eric Frank Russell, a handful of Sturgeon, a Spider Robinson tribute to Robert A. Heinlein (The Free Lunch); and am working on reading Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, an intriguing book which goes from the crude and rough to the lyrical in its approach.
I have also read Bierce's In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians and am in the midst of reading Can Such Things Be?, both of which I have read before, though not for many years. Those I will address at another time, save to say that I think my appreciation of Bierce has grown with the years, and while his approach can at times seem rather angular, his precision is remarkable, and his ability to turn irony to horror (and vice versa) is one of the most unusual experiences in all my reading....