Hearts of darkness

Richard Burgin is a horror writer with a brain. Instead of possessed automobiles and reanimated pets, his new and selected story collection, The Identity Club (Ontario Review Press, $24.95), is littered with damaged souls who, in an effort to escape their cubicle-cramped existences, seek solace in pills, hookers and violence. Or, as in the title story, his characters swap their own dreary personalities with the personas of famous dead artists.

If Walden author Henry David Thoreau maintains that "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," then Burgin adds a dash of quiet horror to the contemporary herd. Indeed, his characters' hearts simmer in their own darkness before lashing out. Compared to the mainstream fiction that surrounds it on the bookshelves, The Identity Club is like a bullet casing lodged in a Hallmark display. You feel compelled to admire its dangerous beauty. Burgin's characters appreciate beauty, too -- like the second-person narrator of "The Urn" who finds the ideal trash can in which to dump his victim: "You remember staring in disbelief -- it was like the perfect marriage of geometry and fate."

Burgin's 11 books have been widely reviewed in major newspapers and magazines, and his stories have won prizes and appeared in best-of anthologies. Critics deem him a keen observer of our era's growing ennui. But even though many of his protagonists are bankers and sales reps, Burgin doesn't see The Identity Club as being symbolic of a certain psychological moment in our history.

"My stories don't come out of some grand design to document something," says Burgin, during a recent phone interview. "Kafka didn't know he was being Kafkaesque. He wasn't thinking about documenting alienation. He was writing out of an inner necessity. I simply pick a character's profession because it fits in with the theme of the story."

An example of matching profession with theme is "The Spirit of New York," in which a marketing whiz perfects the use of fear and desire, primary emotions Madison Avenue elicits in order to make us buy things. The story's unreliable narrator becomes a leader in the ad field; at the same time, he nurtures his sadistic pleasure in frightening subway passengers. He creeps up on them -- but not before transforming into a monster.

"Hopefully, a character's occupation lends itself to the caution of a story," adds Burgin.

Sure, the thrills derived from The Identity Club are intellectual, but they also pack a visceral wallop, making a Burgin a kind of horror writer. It's a label he barely shrugs off.

"I don't care about being classified," he says. "I do it to others, so it's only fair. It's true that I write a lot about fear. That's because the human race is in denial about how afraid we really are. I end up writing about man's cruelty as much as his kindness. It's how I see things. If people label me a writer of darkness, it's because I write about feelings men don't like admitting to."

Stories like "Bodysurfing" showcase disturbing points of view that are alluring in their clarity. For instance, Lee, the story's nihilistic protagonist, convincingly illustrates the fetishism of pro sports. Does Burgin ever find himself agreeing with his dark characters?

"I agree with a lot of my characters, sure" he says. "But ultimately I'm not Lee. I don't want to commit suicide in Costa Rica."

Despite dialogue being a particular strength of Burgin's, he has no desire to be a screenwriter.

"If I'd grown up in L.A., I'd probably be writing screenplays," he says. "Living in New York on the East Coast, however, I learned that being a writer meant writing books. No one gave thought to movies; it just wasn't considered. Besides, I wouldn't have a clue as to how to write a screenplay."

But Burgin is, in fact, a musical composer, and The Identity Club also boasts a CD of 20 songs he's written over the years. A blend of jazz, pop and classical, Don't Go There will surprise you with its sweeping melodies and sly lyrics. Burgin characterizes his style as "accessible art songs," for lack of a better pigeonhole.

"We're a very genre-obsessed culture," he says. "I guess it's because we have to make it easier to funnel artists into the places where they can reach an audience. But I don't see why one has to fall into a 'cubicle,' whether in music or writing -- or in an occupation."

Richard Burgin
Thu., Feb. 2, 7 p.m.
Marjorie Barrick Auditorium, UNLV
4505 S. Maryland Parkway
895-3533
free