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187 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1984
There is no delight the equal of dread. If it were possible to sit, invisible, between two people on any train, in any waiting room or office, the conversation overheard would time and again circle on that subject. Certainly the debate might appear to be about something entirely different; the state of the nation, idle chat about death on the roads, the rising price of dental care; but strip away the metaphor, the innuendo, and there, nestling at the heart of the discourse is dread. While the nature of God and the possibility of eternal life go undiscussed, we happily chew over the minutia of misery. The syndrome recognizes no boundaries; in bath-house and seminar room alike, the same ritual is repeated. With the inevitability of a tongue returning to probe a painful tooth, we come back and back and back again to our fears, sitting to talk them over with the eagerness of a hungry man before a full and steaming plate.For all of Barker's attachment to prose detailing the reduction of the human form into bloody chunks of offal, and his fondness for the loss of bowel control, both of which are most assuredly on display here, the man clearly can write and his stories are generally both imaginative and evocative.







"There was pain without hope of healing. There was life that refused to end, long after the mind had begged the body to cease. And worst, there were dreams come true."
"Democracy is still a new cult: It’s not lost its superficial glamour yet. We’ll give it another century, and have the best of them then.”
"On reflection, of course, that seems laughably naive. To think she wouldn’t have known that she contained such a power. But it was easier for me to picture her as prey to such skill, than mistress of it. That’s a man speaking of a woman; not just me, Oliver Vassi, of her, Jacqueline Ess. We cannot believe, we men, that power will ever reside happily in the body of a woman, unless that power is a male child. Not true power. The power must be in male hands, God-given. That’s what our fathers tell us, idiots that they are."
**
"She’d gone through her life, it seemed, looking for a sign of herself, only able to define her nature by the look in others’ eyes. Now she wanted an end to that. It was time to deal with her pursuers."
"Still, men would be men. Maybe Aaron would be different, though perhaps he too would go back in time into the human world and forget what he was learning here. The creatures who were his fathers were also men’s fathers: and the marriage of semen in Lucy’s body was the same mix that made the first males. Women had always existed: they had lived, a species to themselves, with the demons. But they had wanted playmates: and together they had made men.
What an error, what a cataclysmic miscalculation. Within mere eons, the worst rooted out the best; the women were made slaves, the demons killed or driven underground, leaving only a few pockets of survivors to attempt again that first experiment, and make men, like Aaron, who would be wiser to their histories. Only by infiltrating humanity with new male children could the master race be made milder."
"Everyone in his narrow world, it seemed, was hurt and broken. Everyone was suffering; and yet the source, the heart of the suffering, was nowhere to be found.
Only Phillipe had pointed an accusing finger: at Lewis himself."
"La vida era larga, repetitiva y corrosiva, y si no te andabas con ojo, pronto empezabas a pensar que era mejor morir antes que prolongar la existencia en la cloaca en que te habían metido."