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Determined to discover the truth, Will travels to London, knowing that if he succeeds, he will be plunging into depths of horror worse than anything he has experienced so far. His journey will take him to Socotra, the Isle of Blood, where human beings are used to make nests and blood rains from the sky--and will put Will Henry's loyalty to the ultimate test.
538 pages, Hardcover
First published September 13, 2011
‘You may have fallen long ago over the edge of the world, John, but I have not. Not yet anyway. To show mercy is not naïve. To hold out against the end of hope is not stupidity of madness. It is fundamentally human. Of course, the child is doomed. We are all doomed; we are all poisoned from our birth by the rot of stars. That does not mean we should succumb like you to the seductive fallacy of despair, the dark tide that would drown us. You may think I’m stupid…a madman and a fool, but at least I stand upright in a fallen world.’Will Henry’s journey in this novel is about his decision regarding on which end of the spectrum he will reside.
If I would speak plainly, I would call it das Ungeheuer, but that is only my name for the me/not-me, the unwinding thing that compelled and repulsed me, the thing in me--and the thing in you--that whispers like thunder, I AM.Even more impressive for me, was Yancey’s skill in tying in the primary narrative (i.e., the search for the magnificum) with Will’s personal journey. I thought Yancey really raised the bar again with his marrying of these two pieces:
You may have a different name for it.
But you’ve seen it. You cannot be human and not see it, feel its pull, hear its whisper like thunder. You would flee from it, but it is you, and so where might you run? You would embrace it, but it is not-you, and so how might you hold it?
Its name is Typhoeus magnificum, the Magnificent Father, the Faceless One we cannot help but turn and face. The One of a Thousand Faces that is there when we turn to look, and then looks back at us.He is right, you will, and it is wondrous and troubling and brilliant.
It is the magnificum. It lives in that space between spaces, in that spot one ten-thousandth of an inch outside your range of vision. You cannot see it. It sees you. And when it sees you, it does not see you. It has no conception of you. There is magnificum and nothing else.
You are the nest. You are the hatchling. You are the chrysalis. You are the progeny. You are the rot that falls from stars.
You may not understand what I mean.
You will.
“Please, do not leave me, Will Henry. I would not survive it. You were nearly right. What Mr. Kendall was, I am always on the brink of becoming. And you – I do not pretend to know how or even why – but you pull me back from the precipice. You are the one… You are the one thing that keeps me human.”
“What of men? I can’t think of anything more banal. I have no doubt — no doubt whatsoever — that once it has obtained the means to do so, the species will wipe itself off the face of the earth. There is no mystery to it; it is our nature. Oh, one might delve into the particulars, but really, what can we say about the species that invented murder? What can we say?”
“You are the nest. You are the hatchling. You are the chrysalis. You are the progeny. You are the rot that falls from stars. You may not understand what I mean.
You will.”
“We are hunters all. We are, all of us, monstrumologists.”
"The world grows smaller, and little by little the light of our lamps chases away the shadows. All shall be illuminated one day, and we will wake with a new question: 'Yes, this, but now... what?'" He laughed softly. "Perhaps we should turn back and go home."
"Sir?"
"It will be a seminal moment in the history of science, Will Henry, the finding of the magnificum, and not without some ancillary benefit to me personally. If I succeed, it will bring nothing short of immortality- well, the only concept of immortality that I am prepared to accept. But if I do succeed, the space between us and the ineffable will shrink a little more. It is what we strive for as scientists, and what we dread as human beings. There is something in us that longs for the indescribable, the unattainable, the thing that cannot be seen."
"Why do men pray to God, Kendall? I've never understood it. God loves us. We are his creation, like my spider; we are his beloved... Yet when faced with mortal danger, we pray to him to spare us! Shouldn't we pray instead to the one who would destroy us, who has sought our destruction from the very beginning? What I mean to say is... aren't we praying to the wrong person? We should beseech the devil, not God. Don't mistake me; I'm not telling you where to direct your supplications. I'm merely pointing out the fallacy of them- and perhaps hinting at the reason behind prayer's curious inefficaciousness."And yes, that was from Kearns, because who else would have said something so morally grey in such an elegant way?
Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?
The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way.
"'You shouldn't be out here!' he screamed.
'Neither should you!' I hollered back.
'I will never sound the retreat! Never!'
He shoved me toward the stern and turned his back upon me, planting his legs wide for balance and spreading his arms as if inviting the fullness of God's wrath upon his head. A burst of lightning flashed, thunder shook the planks, and Warthrop laughed. The monstrumologist laughed, and his laughter overtook the wind and the lashing rain and the thunder itself, trampling the maelstrom under its unconquerable heels. Is it any wonder the power this man held over me- this man who did not run from his demons like most of us do, but embraced them as his own, clutching them to his heart in a choke hold grip. He did not try to escape them by denying them or drugging them or bargaining with them. He met them where they lived, in the secret place most of us keep hidden. Warthrop was Warthrop down to the marrow of his bones, for his demons defined him; they breathed the breath of life into him; and, without them, he would go down, as most of us do, into the purgatorial fog of a life unrealized.
You may call him mad. You may judge him vain and selfish and arrogant and bereft of all normal human sentiment. You may dismiss him entirely as a fool blinded by his own ambition and pride. But you cannot say Pellinore Warthrop was not finally, fully, furiously alive.