Dæmonomania (Ægypt, Book 3)
John Crowley
Language: English
Pages: 437
ISBN: 2:00251261
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In the world of Dæmonomania—volume three of John Crowley's stunning Ægypt cycle—the concerns of everyday life are beginning to transmute into the extraordinary and to reveal the forces, dark and light, that truly govern their lives.
So it is for Pierce Moffett, would-be historian and author, who has moved from New York to the Faraway Hills, where he seems to discover—or rediscover—a path into magic, past and present. And so it is for Rosie Rasmussen, a single mother grappling with her mysterious uncle's legacy and her young daughter Samantha's inexplicable seizures. For Pierce's lover Rose Ryder, another path unfolds: she's drawn into a cult that promises to exorcise her demons. It is the dark of the year, between Halloween and the winter solstice, and the gateway is open between the worlds of the living and the dead. A great cycle of time is ending, and Pierce and Rosie, Samantha and Rose Ryder must take sides in an age-old war that is approaching the final battle... Or is it?
The Queen of Bedlam (Matthew Corbett, Book 2)
The Supernatural Worldview: Examining Paranormal, Psi, and the Apocalyptic
Wasn’t you doing those things. That was made up. That was just a game.” Later on, when in a kind of awed pity he would look back upon himself in these days and hours (as we do when remembering an unspeakable dream of self-mutilation or confinement, how could I do that to myself, for what reason), it would be this moment that he would feel with the sharpest pangs. He had already been judged, condemned, dragged by grinning torturers down dungeon stairs, but it was now that the oubliette opened.
Young Venetian nobleman, who had come to know his work (but how? Bruno had once lived in kindly Venice, but that was long ago) and who now invited him to come teach him the arts he knew: Memory, Mathesis, Magic. This last word however the young man did not write. Bruno began to wrap up his business. He had conceived a plan, a plan which involved the Images, the Pope, the Church, the statues, the palaces of his memory, the new King of France, and the end of the world as it is. He was still.
Sat at her table, the cat materializing silently there on the Formica to be given a pellet of bread she rolled in her fingers. Winter light in a place that was hers, a life at last her own or becoming her own. Because she had given it away, this time though for real. Who loses his life shall have it. For so long, since some time in college maybe, she had come to lose great stretches of time, nights and days but mostly nights, unable to describe them to herself or replay them except as you.
Disasters, just as coincidental, just as perfectly appropriate, were also alterations of the world that you had made, reverse miracles? Or were they the work of other powers, other persons, as good at this as you or better? If you can choose any of it, you might have to believe you choose it all: that at any moment you stand at a crossroads you yourself have drawn. Winky Dink, that was the little guy’s name on TV. Helpless little foolish little. Hurry, kids. Hurry and help. Who would do that.
Wickedness, pride, lust, and luxury had at last given those devils egress from their land (God shaking His head sadly in Heaven, Who had seen it coming) and access to our world and our days. Now it seemed they walked or flew over the earth in legions, herding the wicked like cattle toward their pens, contracting with the desperate and the proud for their immortal souls, their signatures in blood smoking on the parchment; or in female form hovering over men in the night to steal their seed as the.