3.5 – 4 stars
Until this re-read I would have ranked this as one of my least favourite Crowley novels. I still think that of his first three (_The Deep_, _Engine Summer_, and _Beasts_) that I would rank it third simply because I love the other two so much, but this proved to be an excellent read with a lot more to it than I had remembered. I never fully realized until this recent re-read of Crowley’s works just how many of them involve some kind of post-apocalyptic setting, or at the very least a society in significant decline. _Engine Summer_, his post-apocalyptic pastoral, is the obvious example, but the theme also features in _Little, Big_, _Ka_, and this novel. There’s also a definite autumnal feel to Crowley overall and even works like _The Deep_, _Flint and Mirror_, and _Lord Byron’s Novel_ have an elegiac air of decline and loss to them. Another recurrent theme I’ve come to notice in Crowley: communes and unconventional communities. _Engine Summer_ has both Little Belaire and the people of Dr Boots’ List, _Little, Big_ has both the community of family dependents of the Drinkwater clan and the literal commune of George Mouse’s inner-city farm, and _Beasts_ has Candy’s Mountain. Each of them is a half-hearted attempt to find utopia, all of them are flawed, yet they are also not without their charms and something to say about the desires and hopes of those who made them, desires and hopes that live within all of our hearts to one degree or another.
In _Beasts_ America has collapsed, splintering into different autonomies, with the remnant of “the Fed” anxious to claw back its lost power. In a moreau-ian twist genetic engineering has led to the creation of human-animal hybrids, the most prominent of which is the Leos (the only experiment that has proven able to reproduce), which at this time are a dwindling nomadic people led by the charismatic Painter. With a name like beasts, it’s not surprising that Crowley populates his novel not only with hybrid characters, but some that are fully animal in nature. He does an excellent job in entering into the perceptions of these characters and presenting them in a way that is, while understandable to the reader, somewhat alien to us as well. These aren’t simply people in animal costumes, they are creatures that are truly other from us.
The plot of the novel revolves around the byplay of decline and possible return. The most obvious case is Painter, the ‘King of the Beasts’, whose air of messianic power and charismatic sway over those he meets lends momentum to his bid to find true freedom for his people in the face of humanity’s opposition. There is also Sten Gregorious, the son of another charismatic leader, this time of the Northern Autonomy, portrayed as a true ‘golden boy’ heir-apparent upon whom the hopes and desires of his people are pinned as the Fed, and their scientific arm USE (Union for Social Engineering), make a power play to regain control of the Autonomy and also wipe out the Leos in one fell swoop.
Crowley plays with a lot of ideas in this novel. The saviour-king is certainly front and center. Painter comes across as an almost religious revelation to those who follow him: the human outcast Caddie, Meric a refugee from utopia, and Sweets the dog (the goodest boy of all). Sten, the golden child and heir-apparent of Jarrell Gregorius, is a symbol for his people thrust into a limelight he doesn’t desire; a semi-Arthurian figurehead set up as a figurehead against the tide of invaders intent on taking control. Crowley also explores the dichotomy of man and beast. Men, or “old Adam”, are the failed lords of creation constantly trying to gain the upper hand over their circumstances and the world around them, while the beasts have a perhaps more pure and ‘honest’ approach to the world, taking things as they come. Our main differences, according to Crowley, primarily reside in our differing consciousnesses. Beasts live in the ‘forever now’ and rely mainly on instinct, while humans are the ones that have been “…wounded into consciousness.” Our consciousness is what brings time and its ravages to the human psyche, not to mention the pain of memory, loss, and the unending hunger for more in a future that is perhaps as unattainable and unreal as the lost past. This dichotomy would seem to imply that the condition of humanity is blatantly worse, but without consciousness you can have no stories and I think, after reading much Crowley in the past year, I can say that to him it is Story that makes us what we are. Consciousness, and the burdens it puts upon us, is perhaps simply the price humanity pays for our stories; ultimately the price we pay for meaning. Are they truly just fictions, or is there something real, perhaps “realer” than stark reality, to them?