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504 pages, Hardcover
First published July 12, 2016
A mountain...skinned and hewed, it's every surface shorn into planes and pitted...with apertures, terraced, and graven images - graven images most of all. Such detail that it pained the eye to prove it.The Nonmen we meet, the last of the proud race, have sequestered themselves in a Mountain Mansion, surrounded by carvings, inscriptions, and remembrances of their past as futile attempt to stave off the madness they are doomed to succumb to. Their memories have become an archipelago of pain, with only the strong, emotionally charged memories resisting the rising tide of oblivion. Since identity is inexorably linked to our memories the erosion of their non-violent, non-traumatic memories leaves them with less and less of their former selves to hold on to. We see the coldly logical conclusion of this condition in the mumbling husks of countless Nonmen lost into the inky black depths of the mountain.
"How could such a thing be?"
"Endless life is endless ambition."
"You think you've lived through 6 million years, but you haven't the faintest notion what that really means. The weight of all those memories is like an ocean of liquid hydrogen, compressing itself into metal. Every new experience I choose to remember, every new moment of existence, only adds to the crush."And that was from a creature engineered to handle that sort of deep time. Any creature forced to exist so much longer than its natural lifespan like the Nonmen were is going to break down psychologically. It isn't something we see a lot of in fantasy writings and I applaud Bakker for treating it with the weight it deserves (as well as exploring of such a fate would impact a culture and their decisions).
"You think we worship the Hundred because they are good? Madness governs the Outside, not gods or demons - or even the God! We worship them because they have power over us."In any event it was interesting to see how the Gods tried to bring about their desire to kill Khellus. We saw in The White Luck Warrior an agent of one of the gods (aptly named The White Luck Warrior). He could see how the Gods see, outside of the flow of time. He knew what would happen, seeing himself already eating a pear, or crossing a field, or standing over the dead body of Khellus. He was a master of circumstance and unstoppable because he already knew what was going to happen, where people would be, what they would be doing. No keen intellect or stout body could protect against him because everything has already happened.
The spirits tell me they can dry the seaProtocol of reading: “suffered the peculiar, dislocated sense of horror that comes with watching doom unfold at a distance—a cavernous knowledge … a recognition like a hole” (377).
And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks,
Yea, all the wealth that our forefathers hid
Within the massy entrails of the earth.
"Mu'miorn!" the in-between soul that had once been Sorweel cried.
Clack ... Clack ... Clack ...
Gloom hooded the Great Entresol and Mu'miorn vanished among tangled shadows. Holol had been sheathed. Luminance filtered down from above. Pallid bodies roiled in the black.
Oinaral lunged toward him, resplendent before the horrid surge. He leapt into him, tackled him about the breast ... The youth glimpsed the Haul, bulbous black framed by ceilings stark with illumination. They sailed past the floor, and emptiness pulled them down and away.