Leaving the House

**Post contains general spoilers for House of Leaves** 

Introduction

For years I have been enamored with the world surrounding Mark Z. Danielewski’s novel House of Leaves. By chance, while browsing YouTube I happened upon a video titled “MyHouse.WAD - Inside Doom’s Most Terrifying Mod” by Power Pak. Being a lifelong Doom enjoyer, I clicked on the video completely oblivious to what would transpire. Upon learning the mod was based heavily on House of Leaves, I sought out the book, found it on Amazon, clicked “Order”, and awaited the delivery. What would follow would be years of personal turmoil, triumph, and ultimately a stark realization that I seek to share with you today.


Like a number of people who have attempted to enter the House, I initially had trouble immersing myself into the work. I am no stranger to academic papers, but the writing itself, coupled with the printing and design choices, really made me struggle. I would pick up the book and put it down a number of times, telling myself the next time I’d get farther. Sometimes I would; other times would see me fizzle out way sooner. I was enthralled with the idea of the book, and soon began to get frustrated with myself. Why could I not finish this piece that I so desperately wanted to read? In the midst of this process, I was also navigating a number of personal health diagnoses and struggles, one of which happened to be an adult diagnosis of ADHD. This path of struggle and self improvement was pivotal in my comprehension of this work. Apparently, all it took was altering my brain chemistry to finally reach what I am calling my finish line with House of Leaves.


Attempting to decipher this work appears to be a right of passage in certain circles of the internet. I have scrounged through many theories, viewed visual essays on the subject, and have done plenty of postulating of my own. However, there were none that fully registered with my soul. Outside of rigid academic analysis, I feel there is too much emphasis put into the paranormal or mythological when it comes to the house and I could not fully subscribe to any notion that held that belief.


In this writing, I seek to outline my own thoughts on Danielewski’s classic. I believe House of Leaves serves as a metatextual metaphor for human growth and the agonizing pursuit of betterment, wherein the house is the book itself. It is not haunted, nor is it a deity or other entity. It is simply a physical representation of the psyche. As the reader, we act simultaneously as the explorer (navigating the dark like Navidson or Johnny), but also the self sabotaging “Minotaur”. We encompass the idea that true healing is achieved not by conquering the maze, but through the painful and ultimately necessary act of letting go. 

De-Mythologizing the Void

The idea that the house is a haunted space or possessed by demonic forces is a rather common theory among online forums, but is one that I feel ultimately detracts from the true nature and horror of the book. It’s easy to pin things we don’t understand on an outside force. External threats abound in daily life, so projecting that fear onto a supernatural entity is almost second nature. However, that shifts any responsibility away from the characters and by extension, us. Recognizing the ever-shifting house as something internal, the human psyche, is infinitely more grounding and terrifying. The house never acts maliciously on its own. On first inspection, it is nothing more than a quaint, quiet house in the Virginia countryside. It only truly becomes "alive" when Navidson, Holloway, or even the reader start projecting their traumas, flaws, and insecurities into the space. A darkness that stems from inside a human being, combined with the dread of not knowing what depths await in such a tangible environment, demystifies the horror into a primal, real world example that is always within grasp. We do not need a cosmic deity for that.


This psychological landscape extends into the physical book you hold in your hands. The book is the house, which then in turn becomes the labyrinth manifest. The text and design choices of the printed copy force us to feel trapped and borderline manic, mimicking anything from a simple panic attack to more intense physical or mental trauma. Even if you’re lucky enough to have never experienced such struggles in your personal life, the act of reading the text is designed to make you feel like you’re trapped inside a mind that has. Physically twisting and turning the pages, backtracking to read footnotes, or rereading a chapter for clarification mirrors Navidson’s expeditions into the dark hallways. It mirrors the mind itself. While there are copious references to the mental health disorders or trauma in the text found both within itself and online, one thing I think is seldom noted is how the weight of unfamiliarity, claustrophobia, and hostility can also be exactly what we experience when one begins the path to growth.


As humans, we seek to build comfortable routines. For many of us, these routines help hide our internal struggles. Following them diligently can help us feel safe while staying stagnant in a familiar place. The prospect of growth, of stepping into the unknown, can be terrifying. Especially when it requires confronting the very things that caused our trauma in the first place. Yet, this pain is often a vital necessity on the road to progress and recovery, and the house serves as a stark reminder of this truth. Navidson bought what he thought would be a place of sanctuary. A place to fix his failing marriage with Karen and to hopefully escape his guilt he carries over Delial. He wanted safe, comfortable, familiar. But no matter how hard you try to remain in place, your psyche will not let you hide forever. It often behaves exactly like the house, upheaving the very things we try to throw into the void when we least expect it. 

Becoming the Monster

That void, the endless expansive labyrinth of your mind, is often haunted by many things. The textual and proverbial Minotaur haunting the house is not a single, unifying entity. Instead, this Minotaur acts as not only a symbol for the trauma the characters experience but also as you, the reader. As you continue to read and obsess over decoding every tidbit Johnny and Zampanò left you, rereading the text to find answers to a question that may not exist, you are building your own labyrinth and becoming your own Minotaur. While the characters ultimately face themselves in this manner and are chasing their trauma, we are setting ourselves up mentally to become copies of them; endlessly spiraling to find some semblance of comfort, of normalcy, to understand and make sense of that which faces you.


In doing so, you not only are becoming the very obstacle you seek to overcome but also perpetuating the cycle of grief and instability. It is often easier to continue to pour effort into a complex problem than it is to do the messy work of letting go with no answers. Navidson meticulously measured walls and recorded miles of film, while Johnny ignores the real world to catalog footnotes for a story that may not even be real. Just as we flip back and forth through this tome. We often trick ourselves into thinking this fixation is productive or is justified as a pursuit of knowledge, but instead it is a defense mechanism that keeps us safely distracted in the maze so we don’t have to face the invulnerability of letting go.


Every time the word “Minotaur” appears in Zampanò’s chapters, it is crossed out with red ink. Sometimes whole sections are suppressed. He tries desperately to remove the beast and any mention of it from the text. This is no coincidence. The monster is nothing more than a projection, just like the rest of the house. Johnny warns the reader in the beginning that if you keep reading, the house will start showing up in your life. It will make you look over your shoulder and feel like the walls are closing in. The moment you, the reader, choose to obsess over those passages, fixating on the monster that doesn’t exist or being drawn in by any character’s trauma, we are creating the Minotaur. We copy the madness. It cannot be erased; it can only be fed.

The Act of Letting Go

When we starve that hunger, we can finally begin to feed the rest of our being and begin the process of recovery. The mere idea sounds antithetical to the process of healing. But often we must silence that part of ourselves that seeks to maintain normalcy so we can feed the eager soul and allow it to blossom. 


Take Navidson, at his absolute lowest point. Consumed by his grief, he set forth into the labyrinth one final time. Freezing, injured, and surrounded by an endless abyss, he realizes and accepts the fact that he cannot document, measure, or control this place. His last act here is to sit in absolute darkness, burning his copy of House of Leaves to stay warm while giving him light to read a comic. When confronted with his fate, he chose to starve his obsession, stealing the labyrinth’s power and silencing his need for answers. This ultimately saves his life, as his choice of survival over his innate pursuit of knowledge allows Karen to find him and bring him out. Johnny healing as well mirrors Navidson’s in many ways. When he finally packs up Zampanò’s papers and leaves the familiarity of his dark, dingy room, he lets go of the trunk that started his descent into madness. The realization that cataloging another man’s trauma was just a defense mechanism keeping him from facing his own childhood grief starves his Minotaur and allows him to actually begin recovering. Both of these men had ample trauma to face and overcome, but looking beyond that the core action here is the release. It is applicable regardless.


That brings us to, well, us. The reader. No matter your background, your ethnicity, your upbringing, or anything else about you, there is a unifying factor to House of Leaves. When we open those pages, we begin a cycle of exploration and thus create our own labyrinth. We are the final character. Our need to decode every last bit, to glean every morsel of information we can from every reference, footnote, and message perpetuates the story and creates another Johnny. Another Navidson. Another house. The only way to break this cycle, to grow and to learn from your actions, is to close the book. That’s it. Sometimes, there is no good answer. Often, there is no direct answer at all. In order to return to your life and proceed down a better path, whether it be from the hollowed halls of this book or something you’ve experienced in your past, you must starve that portion of yourself that seeks to remain trapped. You must let go, and leave the house for good.