Status
Available
Call number
Collection
Publication
New York : Mysterious Press, c1988.
Description
In this fascinating exploration of satanism, from sixth-century Persia to the present day, famed crime fiction writer Arthur Lyons describes the currents and directions of a doctrine as old as the monotheism of western man. 16 pages of photos. Advertising in New York Times, Los Angeles Times and other print media.
User reviews
LibraryThing member absurdeist
Uncle Sam wanted you, and so did Satan!, circa 1988, when a grimacing, bald, human-goatee'd-gargoyle named Anton Szandor Lavey, stared straight into my eyes out of the pitch black background of the chilling cover of the book - the grotto-ish shadows of his eyes on me - me - seemingly calling all
Very disappointing read, I remember, spell or no spell. Who cares if Sammy Davis, Jr. spent some time as a converted satanist after he was a converted Jew? - or vice versa? I forget. Not me! Where were the disembowelled black cats, I wanted to know? The human sacrifices? The blood? The lighted candles at each point of the pentagram? The gore?
Instead, we get mediocre, sensationalized history of mostly the rather dull Church of Satan, rather than those, admittedly, less formally flamboyant, but far more wacky and, ergo, interesting, in my opinion, self-styled weirdo-satanists so infamous throughout the 1980s.
Perhaps in 1988, the book was mildly compelling, so-so shocking, but even then it reeked of the type of conspiratorial, spurious reportage spewed like untreated sewage by the National Enquirer. Today it's completely trivial. I review it only because Hallowe'en draws nigh.
And sorry, grainy black-and-white photos of the Black Mass just weren't very evocative to my lurid imagination (nor were they very scary! which was a huge bummer since my friends and I were hoping to get scared by the book) and Anton LaVey's (what feels like), omnipresent, iconic portraiture throughout the pages of this pulpish book, just didn't do anything for me after awhile, as perhaps his features and me-me-me, faux, plagiarized philosophy might have done for me had I been around gettin' my groovy-groove on back in those Easy Rider days.
Back in the days when Charles Manson, mentioned as a satanic sidekick in the book, an occult dabbler ("sur-prize sur-prize sur-prize!" as Gomer Pyle might say), abruptly extinguished the idea that the hippie-era, which spawned these satanic shysters, led by the former, alleged lion tamer himself, the evil incarnate carny, Anton LaVey, would go on free loving and tuning-in and turning-on and dropping-out (or wait, that's Timothy Leary's spiel, not LaVeys) and casting their silly satanic spells forever. Didn't happen. And let's just pretend this review didn't happen either, and that I didn't read this stupid book a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . .
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rebellious dweebs like me to buy it, the book, Satan Wants You. Foolishly, perhaps under the subliminal influence of LaVey's sinister satanic spell, I bought it. Very disappointing read, I remember, spell or no spell. Who cares if Sammy Davis, Jr. spent some time as a converted satanist after he was a converted Jew? - or vice versa? I forget. Not me! Where were the disembowelled black cats, I wanted to know? The human sacrifices? The blood? The lighted candles at each point of the pentagram? The gore?
Instead, we get mediocre, sensationalized history of mostly the rather dull Church of Satan, rather than those, admittedly, less formally flamboyant, but far more wacky and, ergo, interesting, in my opinion, self-styled weirdo-satanists so infamous throughout the 1980s.
Perhaps in 1988, the book was mildly compelling, so-so shocking, but even then it reeked of the type of conspiratorial, spurious reportage spewed like untreated sewage by the National Enquirer. Today it's completely trivial. I review it only because Hallowe'en draws nigh.
And sorry, grainy black-and-white photos of the Black Mass just weren't very evocative to my lurid imagination (nor were they very scary! which was a huge bummer since my friends and I were hoping to get scared by the book) and Anton LaVey's (what feels like), omnipresent, iconic portraiture throughout the pages of this pulpish book, just didn't do anything for me after awhile, as perhaps his features and me-me-me, faux, plagiarized philosophy might have done for me had I been around gettin' my groovy-groove on back in those Easy Rider days.
Back in the days when Charles Manson, mentioned as a satanic sidekick in the book, an occult dabbler ("sur-prize sur-prize sur-prize!" as Gomer Pyle might say), abruptly extinguished the idea that the hippie-era, which spawned these satanic shysters, led by the former, alleged lion tamer himself, the evil incarnate carny, Anton LaVey, would go on free loving and tuning-in and turning-on and dropping-out (or wait, that's Timothy Leary's spiel, not LaVeys) and casting their silly satanic spells forever. Didn't happen. And let's just pretend this review didn't happen either, and that I didn't read this stupid book a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . .
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Language
Physical description
xv, 192 p.; 24 cm
ISBN
0892962178 / 9780892962174
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