Something is quite strange about the darkly magnificent personage known as Adam Henry Carrière. Due to my infatuation with the literary magazine he edits, Danse Macabre--an immediate and enduring draw I might add--I have been gauging its exploits carefully: the stamina of the monthly releases; and the “coloratura” as he calls it, of the wide-ranging contents, which include flair from the baroque to the avant grand guignol; and much much more, through a circuitous and nonlinear route, even an occasional sojourn in Elysium.
It seems, perhaps, within the bounds of a mere mortal to orchestrate this web of continuous offerings, which include many cadenzas of vast quality. Possible albeit unlikely. And yet now, Danse Macabre not only supplies with vigor its monthly issue, but also links to an associated blog, known as DM du Jour. Even more, it is opening up, even as I speak, as a gateway into a whole new aspect of publishing. Books of poetry. Novels. Memoirs. And “feuilleton,” whatever that is.
And so my question becomes, Can a mere mortal, even one with highest aptitude at full flourish, preside over so many branches of art, which appear to be bursting forth like a severed Hydra neck to roar in multiplied might? The answer, my friends, is no. And so my conclusion is that Carrière is no mere mortal, has a preternatural existence of uncanny powers, or perhaps is a member of a secret literati, aka some kind of illuminati.
I suppose I lean toward the latter. If you go to the “Inner Sanctum” of Danse Macabre there is a Rédacteur Exécutif who claims 22 pseudonyms. And a capo di scrivania europeo from Nairobi and England, expert in French, who writes as a ghost. And an Assistant Editor, Pacific, who is also Editor-in-Chief DM du Jour, and who lives in Paekakariti, NZ on the Kapiti coast near whales and seals.
Could these Inner Sanctum Mandarins stand as the foundation not only for Danse Macabre but all the roots and tentacles that protrude from Danse Macabre and, indeed, wrap around and under the magazine, such that it is unclear which came first, what, when, and where?
I don’t know, I can’t fathom, it is all so dizzyingly mysterious. And yet the quality of the offerings makes me swoon and pine for more.
PS: See three of my poems in the latest DM issue, 62 Anvil, here: