Ultimately, I’m interested in this ambiguous moment that draws the viewer
in through photographic beauty, through repulsion, through some kind of
tension. I have always been fascinated by the poetic condition of twilight.
By its transformative quality. Its power of turning the ordinary into something
magical and otherworldly. My wish is for the narrative in the pictures to work
within that circumstance. It is that sense of in-between-ness that interests me.
– Gregory Crewdson
Many writers also manage to strike this balance between beauty and repulsion.
Valente and Angela Carter strike me as two great examples. See here:
They fell on me, which is pretty much how zombies do anything... But they
didn't bite me, and finally my father threw back his head and bellowed. I know
that bellow. I've always known it, and it hasn't changed. They pulled away, panting,
exhausted... And my father limped over to me, dragging his broken left foot-they
don't die but they don't heal. I tried to set it once and that was the closest I ever
came to getting bitten before that night on the river.
He stood over me, his eyebrows crusted with old fluid, his eyes streaming tears
like ink, his jaw dislocated and hanging, his cheeks puffed out with infection. He
reached out and hooted gently like an ape. To anyone else it would have been just
another animal noise from a rotting zombie, but I heard it as clear as anything:
Caitlin, Caitlin, Caitlin. I had nowhere to go, and he reached for me, brushing my
hair out of my face. With one bloody thumb he traced a circle onto my forehead,
like a priest on Ash Wednesday. Caitlin, Caitlin, Caitlin.
His blood was cold.
- Catherynne M. Valente, "
The Days of Flaming Motorcycles"
And a great example from Carter can be found