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218 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1948
“He was an unfortunate man, this Fursey. After he had left the monastery, he permitted himself through stupidity to be married to a witch, an aged, spent and decrepit hag; and, through a deplorable lack of attention to what was happening around him, he inadvertently inhaled her sorcerous spirit as she lay dying, and so became unwillingly a sorcerer himself.”
“What some of you people don’t realise,” he explained to the mournful Librarian, “is that in this country we don’t want men of speculative genius or men of bold and enquiring mind. We must establish the rule of Aristotle’s golden mean. We must rear a race of mediocrities, who will be neither a danger to themselves nor to anyone else.”
Fursey was a man who enjoyed food, and his eyes nearly fell from his head when he saw what he was expected to eat. There were huge dishes on the table loaded with strings of entrails, carrion and putrid garbage. The black-clad attendant had set up a brazier beside the table, and when anyone seemed diffident about consumption of the food placed before him, he was immediately threatened with red-hot iron plates. To convince the delinquent that he was in earnest, the attendant directed attention to a leg-crushing machine in the background. Fursey ate with difficulty as the hag beside him had apparently taken a fancy to him and retained one of his hands in her lank claw all during the meal. Between courses she made love to him cackling girlishly.