Fantasy Masterworks #1: Gene Wolfe, Book of the New Sun: Shadow and Claw

We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges. When soldiers take their oath they are given a coin, an asimi stamped with the profile of the Autarch. Their acceptance of that coin is their acceptance of the special duties and burdens of military life - they are soldiers from that moment, though they may know nothing of the management of arms. I did not know that then, but it is a profound mistake to believe that we must know of such things to be influenced by them, and in fact to believe so is to believe in the most debased and superstitious kind of magic. The would-be sorcerer alone has faith in the efficacy of pure knowledge; rational people know that things act of themselves or not at all. (p. 14 US, p. 17 UK)

I have already reviewed at length the first two volumes of this US/UK omnibus (The Shadow of the Torturer and The Claw of the Conciliator), but for this series of short commentaries on the Gollancz Fantasy Masterworks series, I thought I'd focus a bit on a few minor points of interest to myself. In particular, I want to focus more on the ways that Wolfe's first two volumes appear to be influenced by the blind Argentine author/poet, Jorge Luis Borges, whose motifs have been cropping up lately in several authors' fictions that I've been reading.

The first possibly Borgesian element is that of Severian's purportedly eidetic memory. When re-reading this omnibus for the fourth time this week, I was struck by the surface similarity to Borges's Funes. Now while the two authors employ the use of near-perfect memory differently in their stories, it is interesting in how each author's character have similar quirks about them. But it wasn't until near the midpoint of The Shadow of the Torturer that explicit references to Borges' signature stories begin to appear.

Severian's visit to Ultan's Library, with its labyrinthine passages and seemingly infinite number of shelves, not to mention its blind curator, is a direct homage to Borges himself and to stories such as "The Library of Babel" and perhaps The Book of Sand. Severian's conversation with Ultan bears some passing resemblence as well to how Borges would often frame his stories. Perhaps at a later time I'll go into more detail in regards to Borges' stories, but this is not the time.

Later on, in The Claw of the Conciliator, the influences are even more apparent. The section concerning Father Inire's mirrors and the fish that appears in them, are taken directly from Borges' "The Fauna of Mirrors," with the fish being at the center (China Miéville was also influenced by this short fiction when writing The Tain). The metaphysical explanation behind the mirrors and its form of travel/reality mirror similar discussions in several of the stories found in Ficciónes.

Being a fan of both authors, re-reading each for those subtle little bits leads to the accretion of semantic layers with each successive reading of the text. Whether it be discovering the multitude of ties connecting the two authors (throwing out mentions of Dr. Talos' play, Baldanders, and the like) or noting the level of skill that went into crafting these passages, Wolfe's Shadow and Claw is not only worthy of being "a" Fantasy Masterwork, it perhaps is THE fantasy masterwork of the past century. Its layers add to the re-reading experience and each successive read, for me, has led to a deeper awareness and appreciation for what Wolfe accomplished with his masterpiece. His The Book of the New Sun novels are among the most important novels of the second half of the 20th century, regardless of whatever shallow genre classifications might be used.

Gene Wolfe on some contemporary styles

From the recent Clarkesworld Magazine review:

Style and voice seem crucial to a short story but are easily turned into abstractions.

Style has become a bucket of worms, thanks to the deteriorating standards of the public schools. The chief style I see in student stories is American Illiterate. It shows up in published stories sometimes too. "Should an enemy warrior cross that line, kill them!" Well, that's okay if the order-giver is an illiterate. Unfortunately, the illiterate is just about always the author. Other than that, the style should suit the story. Imagine The Wings of the Dove as told by Huck Finn. It would be funny for ten pages, but...

If you're asking about the author's voice, or the narrator's, it's so closely linked to style that I see no point in discussing it separately. If you mean the voice in which each character speaks, each must be different. The butler mustn't sound like the footman, even though neither is an important character. This is one of those truths that students reject out of hand. They reject it because everybody sounds alike.

To them.

Come and think of this, this could also be tied in to the continuing discussion on reviewers' styles, not that I would ever do that, right?

Considering that I just finished my second day of in-service training today, funny how Wolfe's statements dovetail nicely with what high school English teachers have said for years about student writing and comprehension of literature. But I suppose some might disagree with this assessment and with Wolfe's comments. Perhaps someone reading this has something to say?

Best of 2007 Countdown: Gene Wolfe, Pirate Freedom

It is rather fitting that on the twelfth and final day of my countdown of the twelve best 2007 releases ends on Christmas Day with this particular book. Over his long and illustrious writing career, Gene Wolfe often has mixed in elements of Christ's birth, life, death, and resurrection in symbolic and/or allegorical forms into many of his most famous novels. And here in his latest, Pirate Freedom, the Christian elements stand out the most.

As I said in my earlier review, the main character, Christopher, is a priest from the early 21st century who somehow finds himself transported back to the Caribbean world of the late 17th to early 18th century. A world full of cultures clashing, mixing and mingling to form outlaw bands on its murkiest and most hidden shores, this provides the setting for a tale that not only explores the development of the pirate mythos, but it also deconstructs many of the legends that have grown in the succeeding three centuries. But more than even that, there is this sense of a Confession here, not just of Father Christopher confessing his deeds and misdeeds as Pirate Crisofóro, but that of a deep sharing of one's life for another to behold and to judge. While that might sound like a harsh bit, it is far from it and this sense of Christopher's life being laid out for us to judge makes for a more straightforward tale than what is usually Wolfe's wont.

Pirate Freedom is not Wolfe's deepest or most powerful work. But it is an extremely well-done work and is more "accessible" for the general reader than many of his longer works. It is for the typically high quality of the prose and characterization, not to mention the sometimes poignant confessions that occur throughout the novel, that it has made my Best of 2007 Countdown.

Gene Wolfe, Free Live Free

One of the more common criticisms of Gene Wolfe's work that I have come across when browsing certain spec fic forums is that as talented of a writer that he is, that too often his characters are too distant from their experiences. While I suppose having a far future torturer with an eidetic memory or a Roman mercenary with a form of amnesia might make for some difficulty in relating to a Severian or a Latro, I just cannot see how after a read of Wolfe's Free Live Free that people could claim that Wolfe is incapable of writing accessible and sympathetic characters. While this short piece will not be as long as the previous ones (due in equal parts to the nature of the narrative and to time constraints), I would offer up this novel as an example of Wolfe's versatility as a writer.

Free Live Free is set in Chicago, sometime in the late 1970s or early 1980s (the novel was published in 1984 as a limited-edition before its 1985 mass release). There is an old dilapidated house owned by one Benjamin Free (yes, the last name is indicative of something that transpires in this novel) that is due to be demolished under eminent domain, so a freeway can be built. Some days before the scheduled seizure, there is an advertisement that appears in the local paper offering free rent in exchange for the renter(s) finding a particular item within the house that needs to be returned to Free. This ad draws four salt-of-the-earth types: the out-of-work unlicensed private eye Jim Stubb; the occultist Madame Serpentina, who has a tendency to speak in a mish-mash of languages when she wants to impress people; the rather chubby but perceptive prostitute/sexual therapist Candy Garth; and the ever-broke salesman Ozzie Barnes.

While this story of hunting for a mysterious object might sound as though it would be wandering too close to Dan Brown territory, Wolfe's novel is much more about the characters. Wolfe has taken the time to build up each of the characters and as the story progresses, their characters deepen while remaining true to their inner cores. Here is one example of this, near the beginning of the novel, as Ozzie Barnes is talking with Benjamin Free:

Free looked over his shoulder. "Interestin' you should say that. Because, Mr. Barnes, I been just now wonderin' about yours. The black part in a man's eye usually gets big in the dark, just like a cat's. When I lit this here candle, I noticed only one of yours acted so. Your one there looks about the way it always did, I believe."

"It's glass," Barnes admitted. "You don't think it looks too unnatural, Mr. Free?"

"Never noticed it till now."

"I'm glad of that. Sometimes I think I see people looking at it when I'm making a call. Appearance is very important in sales, and someday, when money's easier, I'll buy a better one. The best are made in Germany, but they cost a bundle."

"It looks fine," the old man told him. "It's the most natural thing about you."

"It would be better if the others, especially Madame Serpentina - "

"You don't have to worry about me. I'll be gone anyways, just like I told you. When I got you people in here, I kind of hoped they'd leave the old place stand because folks was still livin' here. It ain't goin' to work, though, and I know it. I look at my walls, and I can see that big, black ball comin' through 'em."

"I'll do what I can, Mr. Free," Barnes said. "I know the others will too."

"I believe that, Mr. Barnes."

"I know that none of you - except for Madame Serpentina - think a hell of a lot of me. Just a bunch of talk, a hand-pumper and a back-slapper. But I don't walk away from my friends, Mr. Free. Not unless I'm forced to."

Free nodded. "You're a bigger man on the inside than on the outside, Mr. Barnes. I knew it when I seen you hadn't got nothing for yourself last night 'fore you brought our grub to us. There's a few like you." (pp. 41-42).

Each of the characters receives this sort of introduction early on, before the plot dynamics kick into high gear and the foursome find themselves wandering around Chicago, looking for clues as to this mysterious object that Free alluded to and which must be turned over to him, if he can be found again. While there are certainly elements of the mystery novel here, it is how these four characters interact with each other and their city that makes for an enjoyable story. While not overtly SF until the last pages, when the mysterious object is revealed and its use explained, it certainly is a work that might serve as an easier introduction to Wolfe's writing.

Gene Wolfe, Peace

Unlike Wolfe's New Sun or Soldier series, Peace is a single novel that's only a shade over 260 pages. However, this 1975 novel perhaps contains within its pages even more levels of symbolism and meaning than either of those two more well-known novels. I recently re-read it for the second time and after scouring the web for other takes on it, I think it is safe to say that it is a novel that can be viewed as a lament on aging and dying, a murder mystery akin to Flann O'Brien's excellent 1967 novel The Third Policeman, a look at memory palaces and how a talented author can use them to construct a vivid story, not to mention perhaps being one of the more terrifying horror novels that I have ever read. But these interpretations only scratch the surface of this remarkable novel. While Wolfe's other works almost beg for multiple re-reads so the reader can reap the maximum benefit, Peace practically demands it.

Alden Dennis Weer on the surface appears to be a somewhat embittered old man struggling through the last days of his life. Suffering from a stroke, Weer reminisces about scenes from his childhood, all the while reflecting upon certain rooms in his old Midwestern house. Weer's stories, at first apparently devoid of fantastical or symbolic elements, comprise the majority of this story. As Weer shuffles his stoke-damaged body throughout the house, he remembers various scenes from his life. In the next few paragraphs, I shall highlight some of these scenes and how they stood out, not to mention that I shall hazard a few guesses as to their purpose and intent.

In these first passages that I quote (from pages 52-55), we see Weer as a young boy, morbidly fascinated with the idea of dead bodies and disinterment, but pay close attention to the tone in which these words are delivered:

"Aunt Olivia, if Ming-Sno dies, or Sun-sun, can we bury them here?"

"What a thing to say, Den. They're not going to die."

"When they get real old." Actually I would gladly have killed them on the spot for the fun of the funeral. Sun-sun, who had been sniffing at a woodchuck hole, had dirt of his nose already.

"Why do you want them to be buried here?"

"So somebody a long time from now will find their heads and be surprised."

Here we get the first talk about disinterment and the finding of the dead. This discussion shall be seen in a refracted form later in the novel. In the next part of this scene, we see a possible connection between young Alden (Den) Weer and the mythic but terrifying dragon, again something that is hinted at elsewhere in the novel in other forms:

A moment later we were at the top; while the professor and I sat down to rest, my aunt, facing into the wind, took off her wide hat and loosed the jet-headed pins that held her hair. It was very long, and as black as a starling's wing. Professor Peacock took a pair of binoculars from a leather case on his belt and said, "Do you know how to use these, Alden? Just turn this knob until whatever you're looking at becomes clear. I want to show you something. Where I'm pointing."

"A dragon," my aunt Olivia said. "The claws of a dragon, imprisoned in an antediluvian lava flow. When Robert cracks the rock, he will be free and alive again; but don't worry, Den, he is a relative of Sun-sun's."

While the dragon often represents a Satanic-like figure in various religious texts, it is the entrapped claws that I believe represent something more key here - entrapment. I will discuss this later, but first, the conclusion of this scene in which the first hint of secret, well-hidden murders is revealed:

Through smaller and more closely set tree, through blackberry brambles and thickets, the five of us passed around the shoulder of the hill; then, over grass now drying in the first summer sun, to its top. This was a higher hill than the first, though the ascent (on the side we had chosen) was easier, and I recall that when i looked from its summit toward the hill from which we had seen the cave, I was surprised at how low and easy it appeared. I asked the professor where the town lay, and he pointed out a distant scrap of road to me, and a smoke which he said came from the brick kilns; not a single house of any sort was visible from where we stood. While my aunt and I were still admiring the view, he tied a large knot - which he told me later, when I asked, was called a "monkey's fist" - in one end of his rope and wedged it between two solidly set stones. Then, with a sliding loop around his waist, he lowered himself from the edge, fending off the stones of the bluff with his legs much as though he were walking.

"Well," my aunt said, standing at the edge to watch him, with the toes of her boots (this I remember vividly) extending an inch or more into space, "he's gone, Den. Shall we cut the rope?"

I was not certain that she was joking, and shook my head.

"Vi, what are you two chattering about up there?" The professor's voice was still loud, but somehow sounded far away.

"I'm trying to persuade Den to murder you. He has a lovely scout knife - I've seen it."

"And he won't do it?"

"He says not."

"Good for you, lad."

"Well, really, Robert, why shouldn't he? There you hang like a great, ugly spider, and all he has to do is cut the rope. It would change his whole life like a religious conversion - haven't you ever read Dostoyevsky? And if he doesn't do it he'll always wonder if it wasn't partly because he was afraid."

"If you do cut it, Alden, push her over afterward, won't you? No witnesses."

"That's right," my aunt Olivia told me, "you could say we made a suicide pact."

But there is more to this than just the presage of murders in the still of the night that go unsolved. It is the direct reference to Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment's Rashkolnikov that I believe holds a key to understanding one layer of the narrative, that of from what point in "life" is Alden Dennis Weer speaking? More on this later.

This extended childhood memory scene does not come to a full stop, but instead branches out into other stories. One that might hold some interest for readers is that of Mrs. Lorn's resurrection egg, a finely-crafted easter egg that serves not just as an embodiment of virtues not otherwise seen in this novel, but also it could be viewed as being the counterpoint to the action transpiring in Weer's stories. It is the bidding on this egg that leads into other stories, but I thought I'd bring it up as a point to consider when trying to make up your own interpretation of this novel.

One particular story that has baffled many readers is that of the pharmacist Mr. T (no, you're not the only one to think of B.A. Barracus here, I promise!) and his orange. I have come across many interpretations of this "orange" in a web search, but the one that seems to best fit my own reaction to the scene is that of transmutation. Not only is there the sense that the pharmacist might be dabbling in alchemy, but with the rather grotesque figures that he is able to produce by injecting his concoctions into things like the orange (witness the woman with hands at her shoulders), there is a biological transmutation that seems to be occurring as well. But based on the passage below, I suspect there might be a third type of transmutation going on, a change from the rather ordinary into the bizarre grotesqueness that often is a key element in ghost tales, such as the one Mr. Smart appears to be telling, with this event serving as the transition:

"So, as I said, my room was the one at the back of the house, which was large and a nice enough room, but hadn't much in it but a high bed, a rickety chair, an old dresser, and an chromo - I think it was 'The Stag at bay' - and me. Well, I drifted off looking at that yellow moon and thinking about Mr. T's orange; and then I woke up.

"The moon wasn't shining right in at the window the way it had been, but was off at a slant, so just a little spot of light hit the floor in one corner. That made the rest of the room darker than it would have been otherwise. I sat up in bed, listening and trying to look around: there was someone besides me in that room, and I was as sure of it as I'm sure I'm sitting here in Miss Olivia's parlor. I'd had a dream, if you want to call it that, and in the dream I was lying in that bed like I was, and there was a terrible face, a horrible face, just within inches of mine. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and as I did my hand touched a spot of damp on the sheet that I knew was none of my doing." (p. 137).

But yet this dampness is not immediately explained, although one might presume by the following description of "stickiness" that it might not have been perspiration or water, but perhaps blood instead. No, instead we are launched into an explanation as to why Mr. T has been dabbling in alchemy, why we see an armless woman with hands on her shoulders, not to mention the dog boy. But yet that bit still remains in the mind, unresolved, even as the frame story shifts from that ghost tale of Mr. T's transmutations to other memories of Alden Dennis Weer regarding Mr. Smart, until we get to this scene with Dr. Black (who had been Den's childhood doctor) that closes the third chapter:

"Doctor, I have had a stroke."

He laughs, shaking his big belly, and smooths his vest afterward. There is a gleaming brass spittoon in one corner, and he expectorates into it, still smiling.

"Doctor, I am quite serious. Please, can I talk to you for a moment?"

"If it doesn't hurt your sore throat."

"My throat isn't sore. Doctor, have you studied metaphysics?"

"It isn't my field," Dr. Black says, "I know more about physic." But his eyes have opened a little wider - he did not think a boy of four would know the word.

"Matter and energy cannot be destroyed, Doctor. Only transformed into one another. Thus whatever exists can be transformed but not destroyed; but existence is not limited to bits of metal and rays of light - vistas and personalities and even memories all exist. I am an elderly man now, Doctor, and there is no one to advise me. I have cast myself back because I need you. I have had a stroke."

"I see." He smiles at me. "You are how old?"

"Sixty or more. I'm not sure."

"I see. You lost count?"

"Everyone died. There is no one to give birthday parties; no one cares. For a time I tried to forget."

"Sixty years into the future. I suppose I'll be dead by then."

"You have been dead a long, long time. Even while Dale Everitton and Charlie Scudder and Miss Birkhead and Ted Siniger and Sherry Gold were still living, you were almost forgotten. I think your grave is in the old buring ground, between the park and the Presbyterian church."

"What about Bobby? You know Bobby, Den, you play with him sometimes. Will he become a doctor, eh? Follow the family profession? Or a lawyer like his granddad?"

"He will die in a few years. You outlived him many years, but you had no more children."

"I see. Open your mouth, Den."

"You don't believe me."

"I think I do, but my business now is with your throat."

"I can tell you more. I can tell - "

"There." He wedges a big forefinger between my molars. "Don't bite or I'll slap you. I'm going to paint that throat with iodine." (pp. 164-165).

This scene can be taken one of two ways. One, since Weer reveals that he has had a stroke, we might be seeing a person (or perhaps that person's anima, or soul/spirit) who is reliving moments from his life almost involuntarily in an almost dream-like setting, with the rooms of his house serving as symbols for these scenes. Or conversely, we could be reading a ghost's account of his former life, considering that supposedly ghosts dwell most upon the traumas and key points of their lives to the exclusion of other events. While I can see why many would believe the former, I have come to the conclusion that the narrator Weer has already died. Below is one such bit of evidence that I offer up in support of this belief. Weer is chatting with a librarian with the topic dealing with the attrition of his family over time, before this intriguing bit is said:

"Various things. Let's just say that I'm conscious from time to time that my skull is being turned up by an archaeologist's spade."

"You shouldn't feel dead before you are, Mr. Weer."

"That's the only time you can feel it. You're like the people who tell me I talk too much - but we're all going to be quiet such a long time."(p. 177).

It is not so much a vapid conversation (which it could be, taken by itself), but that this theme of disinterment mentioned earlier reappears here as a little hint. Conversely, just before this scene occurs, there is a brief allusion of sorts to the image of Mr. T's orange:

What was her name? I can't remember it, I who pride myself upon remembering everything. And of course there will be no coffee. The drawers of this desk are nearly empty, but not completely so. A few stale cigarettes, a picture of a girl caracoling a clockwork elephant before the eighteen-foot-high orange in front of this building, the orange that shines like a sun by night. In a moment I will leave this place and find my way back to the room with the fire, where my bed is, and my cruiser ax leaning against the wall. (p. 174).

There are at least three things going on in this brief passage. First, it is but one of many asides, a reference not to a past event alone, but also to Weer's "present," such as it might be. Second, the orange reappears, perhaps to stand for yet some other transmutation, perhaps not. Finally, there is this mention of a "cruiser ax." If you pay close attention to the narrative, there are many allusions to all sorts of weapons, from axes to swords. I suppose some might argue that these are just hints that Weer might be a bit violent, considering the numerous deaths that occur around him, but which are never followed to their conclusion. I suspect that might be the case, but I am not completely convinced of that, although it certainly is plausible.

I spoke earlier about the possibility that Weer is dead and is living in a sort of hell. Part of what led me to consider this hypothesis is found in a book Weer finds that Mr. Gold possesses:

When he [Gold] was out of sight, I walked to the back of the store where his office was. There were several books on his table, and I picked one up. It was Morryster's Marvells of Science and, opening it somewhere near the middle, I learned that though it was a mortal sin to do so, the man who wished might, if he knew the procedure, summon devils or angels, "and this not by fayth, for he that doth as he is instructed shall gayn his end, whether he believeth or no." And that angels are not, as commonly pictured, men and women whose shoulder blades sprout wings, but rather winged beings with the faces of children; and that their hands grow from their wings, and in such a way that when their wings are folded their hands are joined in prayer. That Heaven is (by the report of the summoned angels) a land of hills and terraced gardens, with cold, blue freshwater seas; that it is shaped like an angel - or, rather, like many for (like Hell) it repeats itself over and over again, always different and yet always the same, for each angel Heaven is Perfect, as each is Unique; and that the various angel Heavens touch one another at the feet and wingtips, and so permit the angels to pass from one to another.

And again that Hell is a country of marshes, cindery plains, burned cities, diseased brothels, tangled forests, and bestial dens; and that no two devils are of the same shape and appearance, some having limbs too many, some limbs too few, others with limbs misplaced or with the heads of animals, or having no faces, or faces like those long dead, or the faces of those whom that hate so that when they see themselves reflected they detest the image. But that all of them believe themselves handsome and, at least compared to others, good. And that murderers and their victims, if they were both evil, become at death one devil. (pp. 211-212).

Not only is there a sense of the grotesque in Weer's depictions of his childhood (see the earlier passages about burying the Pekingese dogs and, of course, Mr. T's strange orange), but again there is that passing reference to the merger of murderers and evil victims into a single devil in Hell. While there certainly are other, more mundane explanations, there seems to be a circumstantial body of evidence mounting in this novel for the argument that Weer is trapped in some sort of a personal Hell, reliving his past in flashes before certain decisions are made. But it is in the final pages of the novel, where the sidhe are referenced in relation to long-lost geese, that we get the final clue: Weer's aunt Olivia's voice comes to him from the intercom, asking "Den, darling, are you awake in there?"

Perhaps this story is but like a dream of pastiches finally coming to a close. If so, it certainly would be more of a nightmare. But I suspect what we are seeing is the residual memories of a ghost haunted by its own past, realizing in its remembrances of former events that it is guilty of some terrible wrongs. While these wrongs are only hinted that (there are certain unexplained deaths that otherwise would have to be due to Weer's actions), I cannot help but to conclude that like O'Brien's narrator in The Third Policeman, Weer has been condemned to relive his past misdeeds. If so, then Peace is a very ironic title for this complex, nuanced novel. Peace is the furtherest thing from the events in Alden Dennis Weer's narrated life.

Gene Wolfe, Latro in the Mist; Soldier of Sidon

To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain't got no name
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game.

Bob Dylan - "Only a Pawn in Their Game"

I choose these lyrics to serve as an epigraph for this essay because they serve to link the stories of Severian and Latro together. As I hinted at throughout the New Sun articles, Severian is in many ways a pawn in the game of the Hierogrammates, being used to help further their aim of replicating the "master race" that spawned them in a previous universe. The fact that these beings appeared in the guise of "Holy Servants" serves as a sort of parallel to Latro's story. It is because of this that I decided to write a single article on the Latro/Soldier novels before moving on to the Long Sun (and later the Short Sun) series.

In many senses, Latro is the opposite of Severian. Where Severian boasted of his eidetic memory, we quickly learn that Latro (or brigand or mercenary in the language of the times) suffers from a Memento-like memory loss, where each morning is a tabula rasa, or blank slate, for this Latin-speaking mercenary soldier who finds himself a captive in the aftermath of the battle of Plataea in 479 B.C. Serving in the Persian Emperor Xerxe's army, Latro was wounded in that battle and awakes to find that he has no sense of identity. While his language skills are intact (we learning over the course of the three Soldier novels to date that Latro can communicate in Latin, Greek, Persian, Phoenician, Hebrew, and Egyptian), he has no sense of Self. However, this injury seemingly has "blessed" him with the ability to see and to communicate with the gods of the ancient Mediterranean world. But before I continue with a concise plot summation, I want to quote a bit from the beginning in order to underscore Latro's condition:

I write of what has just occurred. The healer came into this tent at dawn and asked whether I recalled him. When I said I did not, he explained. He gave me this scroll, with this stylus of the slingstone metal, which marks it as though it were wax.

My name is Latro. I must not forget. The healer said I forget very quickly, and that is because of a wound I suffered in a battle. He named it as though it were a man, but I do not remember the name. He said I must learn to write down as much as I can, so I can read it when I have forgotten. Thus he has given me this scroll and this stylus of heavy slingstone metal.

I wrote something for him in the dust first. He seemed pleased I could write, saying most soldier cannot. He said also that my letters are well formed, though some are of shapes he does not know. I held the lamp, and he showed me his writing. It seemed very strange to me. He is of Riverland.

He asked me my name, but I could not bring it to my lips. He asked if I remembered speaking to him yesterday, and I did not. He has spoken to me several times, he says, but I have always forgotten when he comes again. He said some other soldiers told him my name, "Latro," and he asked if I could remember my home. I could. I told him of our house and the brook that laughs over colored stones. I described Mother and Father to him, just as I see them in my mind, but when he asked their names, I could tell him only "Mother" and "Father." He said he thought these memories very old, perhaps from twenty years past or more. He asked who taught me to write, but I could not tell him. Then he gave me these things. (p. 1).

It is in this child-like sense that the twenty-something Latro begins his tale. We quickly learn of his meeting with the Mother of the gods (presumably Gaia, although she is known by many names and guises, as we learn during the course of the novel) and he is directed to visit a particular temple of hers in the lands south of Riverland (Egypt) if he wishes to regain his memory. As he learns this and recovers his strength enough to escape his captivity (he is being held near Thebes, Greece), he is accompanied by a young slave girl, Io, and a black captive from the lands of the Nysa, which are rumored to be south of Nubia (itself south of Egypt). The first two books in the sequence, Soldier in the Mist (1986) and Soldier of Arete (1989) (which were combined in 2003 to form Latro in the Mist), are devoted to his travels through the Greek city-states of Rope (Sparta), Thought (Athens), Hill (Thebes) in search for answers to his identity. Along the way, he encounters the sun god (Apollo) via the prophetesses of the serpent (Python), who continue to direct his travels through Thrace (near the Bosporus) and into the Persian-controlled lands of the Levant. Near the end of the first book, as Latro reaches the city of Sestos, he has an encounter with the daughter of the many-named goddess who is directing his travels:

I turned and saw a girl of perhaps fifteen sitting on a stone behind me. Her gown was woven of somber autumn foliage, yellow, gridelin, and russet, and a stephane with an ebon gem was on her brow. Though she sat with her back to the moon, I could see her face clearly; it seemed hungry and ill, like the faces of the children who sell their bodies in the poor quarters of cities.

"Soon you will wonder what became of your book," she said. "I will keep it for you; now take it, and leave my door."

When she spoke, I was more afraid of her than of the abyss; perhaps if I had not feared her so, I could not have done as she instructed me.

"I have rolled it tightly for you, tied it, and pushed your stylus through the cords. Put it through your belt. You have much to do before you write again."

I asked, "Who are you?"

"Call me Maiden, as you did when we first met."

"And you're a goddess? I didn't think - "

She smiled sourly. "We still meddled in the wars of Men? Not often now; but the Unseen God wanes, and we are no longer lost in his light. We will never be wholly gone."

I bowed my head. "How may I serve you, Maiden?"

"First by taking your hand from your sword hilt, to which it has strayed. Believe me, your blade is powerless against me."

I dropped my hands to my sides.

"Second, by doing as I instruct you, and so relieving me of the necessity I laid upon myself for Mother's sake. You recall nothing of this, but I have promised to reunite you with your comrades."

"Then you've been kinder than I deserve," I said, and nearly stammered from the joy that flamed in my heart.

"I act for my mother, and not for you. You owe me no thanks. Nor do I owe you any. If you had accepted your beating like any other slave, my task would have been easy."

"I am not a slave," I said.

She smiled again. "What, Latro? Not even mine?"

"Your worshipper, Maiden."

"Smooth-tongued as ever. No man outreaches his gods, Latro, not even in falsehood." (pp. 299-300).

This scene serves to highlight just where Latro, virtually helpless in his shell of amnesia and near identity loss, stands in relation to the gods and goddesses of Ancient Greece. He is not an equal, he is but a slave, a pawn to whatever game they wish to play with him. After all, no man "outreaches his gods," and it is this sense that Fate or Higher Powers or whatever label these forces might wear are the ones in control in a unilateral power relationship that serves as a major thematic element in this series. After all, what can a single man, bereft of even of his sense of Memory, do when such elemental forces manipulate him? And when this manipulation is reinforced by the subtle and not-so-subtle machinations of those who travel with him, is it any wonder that most feel a sense of pity for Latro, similar to what one might feel towards the destitute that we meet on our own travels in life during our own searches for understanding and clarity in a world full of mist?

It was not given to men to escape death, Themistocles said, but to the immortal gods alone; for a man the sole question was whether his death brought good or evil to his fellows. (p. 557).

This quote from Soldier of Arete touches upon a second theme embedded within the Soldier series; that of how does one live honorably in a world where failure and deceit abound and that death seems to be the only end for both good and evil men alike? As we watch Latro deal with his companions, we see that for the most part, he treats them much more honorably than he in turn is treated by them. While Latro does not make this explicit in his writings, a judicious reading of the chapters and the descriptions of his interactions with a few in his party reveal that while Latro forgets ever anew the sources of disagreements and distrusts, his companions often use this guilelessness as a weapon against Latro. But in the end, this quote of Latro's defines himself well against the machinations done using him:

A man's life is indeed short, ending in death. If it were long, his days would be of small value. If there were no death, of none. Let him fill each day with honor and joy. Let him not condemn himself or another, for he does not know the laws of his existence or theirs. If he sleeps in death, let him sleep. If while sleeping he should meet a god, he must let the god decide how well or ill he lived.

The god he meets must rule upon a man's life, never the man himself. (p. 612).

In many ways, Wolfe's narrative has shown how it isn't what a person knows, but rather what that person does that defines that person's identity. It is a point that is reiterated in the third volume, Soldier of Sidon, where Latro has traveled from his homeland (Italy, which is the hinted destination at the end of Soldier of Arete). Along the way down the Nile, where he has been directed to go by both the Persian satrap (governor) and his mysterious divine patroness, he experiences the Egyptian underworld judgment:

"You stand before your judges," the bleeding man said. He was the chief judge of that court, a handsome man sorely wounded. He wore a white crown with two plumes. "We shall question you, and you will answer us honestly. You cannot do otherwise."

We nodded. "We cannot." We knew as we spoke that it was true.

"I am Strider of Annu," sid a god. "Have you done iniquity?"

"I have not!" We all said this.

"I am Burning of Kher-aba," announced another. "Have you robbed by violence?"

"I have not!" we said.

"I am Fenti of Khemennu, "declared a third. "Have you broken the nose?"

"Yes, as a boxer," we said.

"I am Am-bhaibitu of Qereret," said a fourth. "Have you stolen?"

"Yes," we said, "we took the Horses of the Sun, doing the bidding of the Lady of the Beasts." This theft has left my mind now, yet I must have known it then. (p. 94)

And so it goes through 42 Egyptian gods until the bleeding one (almost certainly Osiris, who was murdered by his brother Set(h) and then resurrected) ends the questioning:

"You are not without sin." The bleeding man rose. "But not without merit. Go to the scales."

We did, and he came after us. Sesostris was waiting there with the monster-woman Ammut. A baboon crouched beside them, holding a reed pen and a tablet.

"Will you bless him?" the bleeding man asked Sesostris.

"I will," said Sesostris, and gave us his blessing. It filled us, and we knew them that we had been empty.

"He has been blessed by Sesostris," the bleeding man told the gods who sat in judgment. "Shall he be subjected to the ordeal? Stand."

Five rose. They were the faceless god, the god of the Underworld, the Eater of Blood, the Eater of Entrails, and Neb-hrau.

"Osiris will take your heart for the weighing," Sesostris explained. "Do you see the feather in the other pan?" His hand directed our eyes to the scale.

We did, and said that we did.

"It is Maat, the Law of Ptah," Sesostris told us. "If Maat rises above your heart - "

Ammut said, "I get it and you," and licked her lips.

"But if your heart rises above Maat," Sesostris continued, "it will be returned to you, and I will conduct you to the Field of Reeds."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the man called Osiris motioned for Shade, Name, and Ka to stand aside and thrust his bleeding hand into my chest. For a moment I felt my heart fluttering in his hand like a captured bird.

When it was gone, I was empty of life. I had not known that a man might be emptied like a wine skin, but it is so; I longed to be full once more, and feared I would be cast aside.

Laid upon the scale pan, my heart sank. It had no sooner done so than it rose, higher than the feather by the width of my hand. At once it sank as before, only to rise once more.

"He still lives," the bleeding man declared to all the gods, "and should not be here." Picking up my heart, he returned it to me and spoke further, but so overcome with joy was I that I did not hear him. Only my delight remained. (pp. 98-99)

In this scene, we see just how Latro's life is judged by his actions and not by his memories or sense of guilt or innocence. While he is released due to still being alive, the reader is left with this impression that perhaps underneath his apparent loss of memory and identity, that perhaps in the end it is a matter of what one does with his or her life that determines the shape of one's life. Since this series is still incomplete, one can only speculate as to which direction Wolfe will take this train of thought.

Also, there are hints in the series that Latro is a werewolf. I saved this for the last because it too is something that is left unresolved due to the incompleteness of the Soldier series. But there are a few hints buried within the text that allude to this possibility:

"Look under the sun, if you would see!
Sing! Make sacrifice to me!
But you must cross the narrow sea.
The wolf that howls has wrought you woe!
To that dog's mistress you must go!
Her hearth burns in the room below.
I send you to the God Unseen!
Whose temple lies in Death's terrene!
There you shall learn why He's not seen.
Sing then, and make the hills resound!
King, nymph, and priest shall gather round!
Wolf, faun, and nymph, spellbound." (p. 33)

This bit that a sibyl (yet again a recurring motif in Wolfe's novels, as recalled by the one that appeared in The Claw of the Conciliator) prophesied about Latro is reinforced near the end of Soldier in the Mist in this scene:

I knew too that it was a man. Beneath the wolf's snarling mask was the face of a bowman; the paws that held the woman were hands even while they were paws. ravening, the wolf dragged itself toward me. Yet I did not fear it, and only fended it from me with the point of my sword.

"More than a brother," it said. "The woman would have robbed me." It did not speak through its great jaws, but I heard it.

I nodded.

"She had a dagger for the dead. I hoped she would kill me. Now you must. Remember, Latro? 'More than brothers, though I die.'"

Beyond the wolf and the woman, a girl watched me - a girl robed with flowers and crowned. Her shining face was impassive, yet I sensed her quiet pleasure. I said, "I remember your sacrifice, Maiden, and I see your sigil upon it." I took the wolf by the ear and slit its throat, speaking her name.

I had come too late. The woman writhed like a worm cut by the plow, her mouth agape and her tongue protruding far past her lips.

The Maiden vanished. Behind me someone called, "Lucius...Lucius..."

I did not turn at once. What I had thought the woman's tongue was a snake with gleaming scales. Half-free of her mouth, it was thicker than my wrist. My blade bit at its back, but it seemed harder than brass. Frantically it writhed away, vanishing into the night and the mist.

The woman lifted her head. "Eurykles," I heard her whisper. "Mother, it's Eurykles!" With the last word she fell backward and was gone, leaving only a corpse that already stank of death.

The man-wolf was gone as well. The man lay in his place. When I touched him, his beard was stiff with blood, his bank bent like trampled grass. His hands thanked me as he died.

"Lucius..." The call came again. It was only then, too late, that I sought for him.

I found him beside the broken eagle. He wore a lion's skin, but a spear had divided his thigh and a dagger had pierced his corselet of bronze scales. THe lion was dying. "Lucius..." He used my own speech. "Lucius, is it really you?"

I could only nod, not knowing what to say; as gently as I could, I took his hand.

"How strange are the ways of the gods!" he gasped. "How cruel." (pp. 315-316).

Not only do we get the "more than a brother" reference from the man-wolf towards Latro to signify his probable affliction, but a knowledge of the Greek historian Herodotus (whom Wolfe dedicates this series) and his reference to "Eurykles" will reveal quite a few more shades of meaning to this narrative. Combine this with the mysterious slaying at the end of Soldier of Sidon (which I do not cite in part because I need more time to process that scene, preferably with more information from a hopefully forthcoming Soldier novel in the near future), and one begins to see so many layers of story/thematic meaning here that one cannot help but to wonder if or when Latro will escape the horrible manipulations of these conniving gods of antiquity and be free to live a happy life. Perhaps the arrival of his "wife" (perhaps Io, perhaps his original wife from Italy; the story doesn't specify) at the end of this third volume will lead us into new lands and new gods or perhaps the Unseen God who looms large in the background. One can only hope...and ponder, just what it means for Latro (and maybe ourselves) to be just only a pawn in their game.

Gene Wolfe, The Urth of the New Sun

Having cast one manuscript into the seas of time, I now begin again. Surely it is absurd; but I am not - I will not be - so absurd myself as to suppose that this will ever find a reader, even in me. Let me describe then, to no one and nothing, just who I am and what it is that I have done to Urth (p. 1)

These words which open Gene Wolfe's The Urth of the New Sun, serve to describe the difficulty many readers have had in placing this book in context with the four-volume The Book of the New Sun. It has been referred to by Wolfe and others as a "coda" of sorts, a little piece separate in mood and tone from the preceding volumes that is nonetheless attached as an addendum that refers back to the prior work as a basis for its own story. Published in 1987 due to a request from Wolfe's editor, David Hartwell, that there be at least something that explained what happened to Severian and the mysterious "New Sun," The Urth of the New Sun has confounded and frustrated numerous readers over the past twenty years. As I have done with the previous volumes, I plan on discussing a few thematic elements in the book (while admitting that there certainly shall be fascinating elements that I will not touch upon, similar to how I left certain areas blank in the other New Sun books so readers could discover/discuss that themselves), so for those who fear "spoilers" like elementary kids fear cooties, this post might not be for you.

The story opens ten years after Severian has returned as Autarch to Nessus. Now known as Severian the Lame due to the injury he received in The Citadel of the Autarch, Severian is finally ready to assume the task hinted at in Father Inire's letter (a letter which bears careful reading for its shifts in style); he is going to seek to bring the New Sun to Urth, so that the old, red sun might be rejuvenated and that life on Urth might be renewed. Severian has boarded a seven-sided, multi-masted "ship" that sails "between the suns" and dips and darts in time. This ship is set to leave Severian's universe for the "higher" one of Yesod, seeking that a "white fountain," which is a mass of energy/matter spilling from that universe into the next-lower (or Severian's) one, could be used to replace the matter lost by Severian's sun (which apparently has had a small black hole enter it, draining it of matter). It is this quest and its immediate aftermath that has frustrated and appealed to so many of Wolfe's readers.

Like the ship mentioned above, the narrative seems to dip and dart back and forth like a darning needle through time. Severian encounters all sorts of people on this ship, some of whom have been sent by Abaia to thrawt Severian's quest. Of those who wish Severian to fail, one fears the changes that are predicted to occur. Severian himself reflects back to when he was part of Dr. Talo's play (found near the end of The Claw of the Conciliator), in which his "character" speaks these lines:

In future times, so it has long been said, the death of the old sun will destroy Urth. But from its grave will rise monsters, a new people, and the New Sun. Old Urth will flower as a butterfly from its dry husk, and the New Urth shall be called Ushas. (p. 65)

This prophecy, which extends from the time of the Conciliator, contains an interesting word: Ushas. This name, derived from the Hindu goddess of the dawn, symbolizes a dawning of a new age, one which becomes even more apparent as Severian finally comes into full contact with the Hierogrammate Tzadkiel, who is named after the Angel of the Mercy of the Lord according to Cabbalistic tradition.

Severian has known the entire time that his journey shall end in a trial, a trial in which if he fails, he will be emasculated, transformed into an androgyne, and Urth shall be fated to die a cold, wintry death as seen in the vision of Master Ash's house back in The Citadel of the Autarch. But as he goes, he comes to discover there are more levels to this journey and trial than meeting up with the most holy of slaves. The scene below is from the ship's arrival at Yesod (which is apparently the name given to the planet as well as to the universe). Pay close attention to the wording:

One of the cloaked women mounted a seat and clapped her hands for quiet. Because the sailors' high spirits had not been fueled with wine, she was soon obeyed, and my riddle answered: through the thin walls I could hear, however faintly, the rush of the icy air of Yesod. No doubt I had heard it before without being conscious of it.

"Dear friends," the woman began. "We thank you for your welcome and your help, and for all the many kindnesses all of you have shown us on board your vessel."

Various sailors spoke or shouted replies, some merely good-natured, others glowing with that rustic politeness which makes the manners of courtiers seem so cheap.

"Many of you are yourselves from Urth, I know. Perhaps it would be well to determine how many. May I see a show of hands? Raise one hand, please, if you were born upon the world called Urth."

Nearly everyone present raised his hand.

"You know that we have condemned the peoples of Urth, and why. They now feel they have earned our forgiveness, and the chance to resume the places they held of old -"

Most of the sailors booed and jeered, including Purn, but not (as I noted) Gunnie.

"And they have dispatched their Epitome to claim it for them. That he lost heart and concealed himself from us should not be counted against him or them. Rather we consider that the sense of his world's guilt so manifested should be reckoned in their favor. As you see, we are about to take him to Yesod for his assize. Even as he will represent Urth in the dock, so must others represent it on the gradins. None of you need come, but we have your captain's permission to take from among you those who wish to come. They will be returned to this ship before it sailds again. Those who do not should leave us now." (p. 112-113)

Although it had only been alluded to until then, Urth had been "tried" and found guilty by the Hierogrammates, with the black hole afflicting the sun being their punishment. Although no specific reason is given to this point, one may presume it might be related to issues of rapaciousness and cruelty towards fellow humans and other beings. Severian, in both a symbolic and very real sense, is standing trial as the "epitome" of humankind. It is his character and his flaws that shall be put on trial by Tzadkiel, to see if Urth is worthy of mercy. In some senses, this scene of a single man (for in the end, nervous as he was and despite his desire to flee, Severian did present himself for judgment) standing in place of all of humanity parallels that of Christ on his cross, bearing the weight of Original Sin in traditional Catholic/Orthodox Christian teachings. As this trial progresses (I am being vaguely purposely, in case some might not have heeded my warning and are reading this before reading the book), Severian sees his life and the characters within it flash before him. It is the testimony of his enemies that speaks most clearly of the person that Severian was on Urth. It is based on this testimony that Tzadkiel grants him the white fountain, or "New Sun" to bring back to Urth.

However, this scene, climatic as it might seem, occurs roughly halfway into the novel. Severian has to travel back in time/place, using powers granted to him by Tzadkiel (some of which pre-manifested themselves to an extent, as we saw in certain scenes in the original four volumes). It turns out that Severian was not just the Conciliator, but also Apu-Punchau, who was seen briefly in the last part of The Claw of the Conciliator.

But this plot summary only scratches the surface. While some people struggled mightily with the hither-thither time-traveling aspects of the story, I think those were done to highlight how the character of Severian had grown and developed. Also, these scenes help to make clear something that until now I had only hinted at in the previous reviews.

Artifice and manipulation run rampant behind the scenes in the New Sun universe. Not only has Severian purposely neglected to share important occurrences in the story, but also there are strong hints that these Hierogrammates are stand-ins or analogues for angels. While my interpretation might not be the best in some regards (doubtless, others can jump in and share theirs in the comments section), I would argue that Wolfe purposely used the Kabbalah as a starting point for showed a theosophy that while on the surface might seem to be a just and merciful one, ended up being just one more layer of manipulation. The Hierogrammates, godlike as they might appear, are little more than creations of human-like beings from another universe who sought to replicate their image in another universe. Tzadkiel reveals this in conversation with Severian during the trial phase and it becomes quite apparent that the Hierogrammates themselves are acting upon little more than pre-programmed messages from those mysterious beings that are never seen in the Solar Cycle novels. God is off-screen, "outside" the action taking place. In fact, some like Peter Wright (see his book Attending Daedalus for his take on the Solar Cycle books) have argued that what we see in Severian's trial is but the beginning of the manipulation and not its culmination.

Why does Urth need a "Conciliator?" Why does it have to worry about scourges such as Vodalus and Agia? What were they "rebelling" against in the first place? Severian does note in passing in The Citadel of the Autarch their rebellion against "humanity," but this never really is covered openly - unless one decides, as Wright did in his book, that Severian, like the Autarchs before him, has been co-opted by the Hierogrammates to act as their "agent" on Urth. Urth has not been cooperative with the Hierogrammates' desired goals, which apparently are to take these human analogues to their old masters and to build them up to becoming them in all but the most exact of measures.

While there is much to this, I am uncertain if Wright's view is the most apt here. While he does point out the "wolfish" symbols about them (the wolf almost always appearing in some guise in Wolfe's novels), I suspect that a more traditional religious reading of Severian's trial might be as key to understanding the story as Wright's arguments for Wolfe making a case for the insidiousness of manipulation and artifice (symbols standing in place of Truth being the main one). But then again, perhaps there are more keys to be found in the other books of the Solar Cycle, which I shall review over the next week or so, albeit not necessarily in the format that I've done the New Sun books.

Gene Wolfe, The Book of the New Sun: The Citadel of the Autarch

My memories have always appeared with the intensity, almost, of hallucinations, as I have said often in this chronicle. That night I felt I might lose myself forever in them, making of my life a loop instead of a line; and for once I did not resist the temptation but reveled in it. Everything I have described to you came crowding back to me, and a thousand things more. (p. 211)

This quote from the second chapter of the concluding volume to The Book of the New Sun, The Citadel of the Autarch, serves as a foreshadowing of what the reader (as well as Severian, of course) shall experience in the course of the reading. As the series winds to a close, events and people touched upon in the previous volumes return for a time, not to mention that there is a "loop" of an even more literal sense of the word that Severian experiences during the course of this novel. So with this in mind, those who have not yet read this volume may want to wait until they have read it, since there shall be some thematic discussions as well as my first extended look at the character/personalities of Severian himself.

War is hell. It rends, it tears, it shreds its sometimes willing victims apart in ways that go beyond mere physical or emotional trauma. It is a product of two groups of people manipulating others into attempting to destroy one another. It is rather fitting that after the encounter with Typhon in The Sword of the Lictor and Severian's clash with the giant Baldanders (where Severian's sword, Terminus Est, is destroyed), we discover that Severian has gone north to where the forces of the Autarch are battling the Ascian invaders.

Wolfe does not skimp on displaying the horrors of war, having himself been a Korean War veteran. We see not just touching elements such as Severian's discovery of a dead soldier's letter (perhaps intended to hark back to a similar scene in Erich Maria Remarque's classic World War I novel, All Quiet on the Western Front), but also encounter soldiers from both sides of the conflict. While some might make the argument that the Ascian prisoner, Loyal to the Group of Seventeen is little more than a caricature of Cold War era representations of Soviet propagandists being like puppets parroting phrases learned over the course of a lifetime under an inhumane regime, I would counter by noting that this person, who in the story he tells "as translated" demonstrates quite a bit of awareness of the world, albeit shaped in a way that is very difficult for us to fathom. It is as though the worst hints of manipulation that we've seen in the earlier volumes have come to fruition in this rather decent person who cannot speak in more than platitudes that his homeland forced his people to adopt.

But this book is much more than just about the horrors of war. In many senses, this book is devoted to reintroducing characters and showing them in new lights. For example, Severian's old nemesis, Agia, has grown in her time away from Severian. Where earlier she seemed to be devoted solely to her hatred of Severian, her actions and eventual escape from the climatic scene with the wounded Autarch puts her in a Vodalus-like opposition to Severian. It is no longer just a simple personal affair but rather that her opposition has come to symbolize a sort of selfish, "anti-life" rebellion similar to that of Vodalus's against the Autarch, which Wolfe makes explicitly clear in a passage near the end of the book.

We also learn more about Dorcas and her tragic reunion with her now-elderly husband, plus we get further hints in regards to Severian's paternal ancestry. While Dr. Talos and Baldanders do not appear in this volume, there are more than enough hints given that the two represent artifice and its counterfeit nature against the "trueness" that is represented in the Autarchs. And speaking of the Autarchs, or "self-rulers," while much more about their origins is explained in the coda Urth of the New Sun, it becomes quite obvious by the end of the volume that they are the rightful rulers of Urth because they recognize that rule involves much more than just dominion over another. It involves a self-sacrifice and a heavy burden of sacrifice and commitment to the needs of others. It is for this reason, Severian reminisces, that the Autarchs have not been descended from a prior Autarch but have come from people of human origin who usually are not the greatest in any of their fields. After all, pride is an insidious thing that can emerge from the glories of greatness and greatness often is antithetical to being truly concerned with the rights of all.

And so over the course of these four volumes, the reader has encountered many base and treacherous characters. From greed and the thirst for dominion over others, we have seen people such as Vodalus, Agia, and Typhon lust. There is no love involved in their quests for power and, in Typhon's case, immortality. We have also sensed that behind this lurks the nihilistic impulses of Abaia and Erebus, those aptly-named beings who symbolize the darkness and coldness which threaten not just the physical Urth but also the spiritual well-being of its inhabitants. We have witnessed the results in the persons of the Ascians, as Severian so eloquently notes in this passage:

These Ascian soldiers had a rigity, a will-less attachment to order, that I have never seen elsewhere, and that appeared to me to have no roots in either spirit or discipline as I understand them. They seemed to obey because they could not conceive of any other course of action. (p. 352)

But opposed to these horrors is a sense of responsibility and of duty to be just and to love what can be loved among the peoples and creatures of Urth. Much has been made about the calls for the New Sun over the course of the novels (and much more on this when I review Urth of the New Sun), but in the scene where the last Autarch passes along his responsibilities to Severian, there is a passage that sums up quite well the good/evil conflict that has occurred:

"You were right to hate me, Severian. I stand...as you will stand...for so much that is wrong."

"Why?" I asked. "Why?" I was on my knees beside him.

"Because all else is worse. Until the New Sun comes, we have but a choice of evils. All have been tried, and all have failed. Goods in common, the rule of the people...everything. You wish for progress? The Ascians have it. They are deafened by it, crazed by the death of Nature till they are ready to accept Erebus and the rest as gods. We hold humankind stationary...in barbarism. The Autarch protects the people from the exultants, and the exultants...shelter them from the Autarch. The religious comfort them. We have closed the roads to paralyze the social order..."

His eyes fell shut. I put my hand upon his chest to feel the faint stirring of his heart.

"Until the New Sun..."

This was what I had sought to escape, not Agia or Vodalus or the Ascians. As gently as I could, I lifted the chain from his neck, unstoppered the vial and swallowed the drug. Then with that short, stiff blade I did what had to be done. (p. 356).

There are no clear-cut decisions to be made; only a choice of evils. Urth is an imperfect world and each choice is fraught with evil possibilities or consequences. In such a world, it is hard to hold hope, Wolfe seems to be arguing, but yet, somehow, people have managed to do so. Until the New Sun. A phrase laden with symbolic meanings of rebirth and renewal. A phrase that hints at the washing away of the old creation in ways akin to the language of Revelations. And who is to bring this New Sun?

No other than Severian. A Torturer who shows mercy in spite of the strictures placed on him. A self-deceiving and not always likable person who has undergone so many changes during the course of his travels. A person who finds a holy relic, only at the end to learn this:

At that time I did not think of it, being filled with wonder - but may it not be that we were guided to the unfinished Sand Garden? I carried the Claw even then, though I did not know it; Agia had already slipped it under the closure of my sabretache. Might it not be that we came to the unfinished garden so that the Claw, flying as it were against the wind of Time, might make its farewell? The idea is absurd. But then, all ideas are absurd.

What struck me on the beach and it struck me indeed, so that I staggered as at a blow - was that if the Eternal Principle had rested in that curbed thorn I had carried about my neck across so many leagues, and if it now rested in the new thorn (perhaps the same thorn) I had only now put there, then it might rest in anything, and in fact probably did rest in everything, in every thorn on every bush, in every drop of water in the sea. The thorn was a sacred Claw because all thorns were sacred Claws; the sand in my boots was sacred sand because it came from a beach of sacred sand. The cenobites treasured up the relics of the sannyasins because the sannyasins had approached the Pancreator. But everything had approached and even touched the Pancreator, because everything had dropped from his hand. Everything was a relic. All the world was a relic. I drew off my boots, that had traveled with me so far, and threw them into the waves that I might not walk shod on holy ground. (p. 367).

We have come full-circle; the symbols that shaped Severian's journey have mostly been unraveled. We create relics, Wolfe appears to argue, because we need them to remind us of the Increate/Pancreator. We need material things to remind us of the spiritual, for which we ever seem to be grasping. Severian is not a perfect man, but he has sought to relieve himself of his impurities. He has been through the fires of temptation, especially with Typhon, but now he is changed. He is not a Christ, but he certainly has become the ideal of a Christian, some might argue based on Wolfe's liberal sprinkling of Christian symbols throughout the narrative.

And that rose carved into that tombstone? It is a symbol for Catholics and Eastern Orthodox for the Virgin Mary and also for Christ. The fountain? It is the well-spring of the Water of Life, or of the Christ of St. John 7. The spaceship? It symbolizes the next step in Severian's life.

And the tomb itself? It is empty. Not the way that Christ's tomb is empty, but empty nonetheless due to the matter of time, which shall be addressed in the Urth of the New Sun review. Hopefully these reviews have encouraged people to re-read and to re-consider this masterpiece of literature. I know I did not touch upon everything and that some of my interpretations certainly can be challenged. Nonetheless, a work like this deserves nothing less than honest people arguing over matters of interpretation, no?

Gene Wolfe, The Book of the New Sun: The Sword of the Lictor

The Sword of the Lictor, the third volume in Gene Wolfe's The Book of the New Sun series, contains some of the most revealing and troublesome passages in the entire series. In this volume, readers begin to see somewhat clearly for the first time just how deeply layered Severian's adventures are and perhaps the astute reader can begin to sense the strings of narrative manipulation that are occurring both within and outside the written narrative. Since I shall be exploring a few passages and discussing certain events in great detail, it is highly suggested that those who have not yet read this volume refrain from reading it if they value plot details over thematic explorations.

The storyline is again resumed after yet another break in the action. We learn that not only did Severian reach Thrax and assume the office of lictor (the office itself being fraught with religious and civic meanings dating back to the Roman Republic), but that Severian once again abandoned his post and was exiled on account of showing mercy to a female prisoner. As he and Dorcas (for a time, only) flee the city, they have a fierce discussion that ultimately leads to Dorcas's departure. Traveling alone, Severian has many encounters, from the fierce alzabo, from a gland in whose head the magical elixir used in the "diabolic eucharist" of The Claw of the Conciliator is drawn, to the ultimate one with the giant Baldanders that concludes the volume.

While these adventures may provide scenes of amazement and speculation for those reading it for the first time, I want to concentrate on a few lengthy passages from this volume that I believe holds much of importance for interpreting the off-stage events of this series. The first is from the second chapter, as Severian is reflecting upon the innate savagery of humans:

One of the keepers of the Bear Tower once told me that there is no animal so dangerous or so savage and unmanageable as the hybrid resulting when a fighting dog mounts a she-wolf. We are accustomed to think of the beasts of the forest and mountain as wild, and to think of the men who spring up, as it seems, from their soil as savage. But the truth is that there is a wildness more vicious (as we would know better if we were not so habituated to it) in certain domestic animals, despite their understanding so much human speech and sometimes even speaking a few words; and there is a more profound savagery in men and women whose ancestors have lived in cities and towns since the dawn of humanity. Vodalus, in whose veins flowed the undefiled blood of a thousand exultants - exarchs, ethnarchs, and starosts - was capable of violence unimaginable to the autochthons that stalked the streets of Thrax, naked beneath their huanaco cloaks.

Like the dog-wolves (which I never saw, because they were too vicious to be useful), these eclectics took all that was most cruel and ungovernable from their mixed parentage; as friends or followers they were sullen, disloyal, and contentious; as enemies, fierce, deceitful, and vindictive. So at least I had heard from my subordinates at the Vincula, for eclectics made up more than half the prisoners there. (pp. 16-17)

Man's inhumanity to man. This is one of the oldest forms of conflict, as presented in innumerable literature classrooms across the globe over countless centuries. Homo homini lupus, which Wolfe might have been hinting at in a double entendre form with his talk of the savage dog-wolves. This comment, when viewed in light of Agia's greed and implacable hatred of Severian in the first two volumes as well as the scene of Morwenna's public humiliation and execution in Saltus that opens The Claw of the Conciliator, reinforces the notion that the ancient and exhausted world of Urth is just as full of hatred and pettiness as our own. The fact that it is an executioner making these observations only serves to underscore the irony behind the perhaps-misplaced faith that many have in the upward progression of humans via their own efforts.

Severian's encounter with the two-head Typhon about two-thirds of the way into the novel serves to illustrate a related concept: that of the loss of freedom and the chimera of dominion. Typhon, former ruler of Urth and apparently other world chiliads (or thousands) of years before Severian's time, has been revived somehow by the power of the Claw (Typhon shall also be discussed later outside the New Sun series). He exists as he does due to his appropriation of the slave Piaton's body. This is but the first of many signs in the two short chapters that Typhon appears of the insidiousness of power and its corrupting influence on those who desire to wield it. Typhon, playing the role of the New Testament Satan, tempts Severian with the offer of control of Nessus in exchange for swearing allegiance to him. Severian, although sorely tempted, resists and literally casts out Typhon from the mountain top where the two had their confrontation. Although the religious parallels are obvious and do serve to reinforce many of the religious symbols presented in the earlier book, it is the notion of freedom as opposed to dominion that is central to this scene, as we shall soon see when Severian encounters two other people in his travels after this volume.

Backtracking a bit to the discussion that Severian had with his little namesake (speculation abounds as to if this might be a parallel Severian from another time or even his own son, but I shall not weigh in on this, at least not for now), there is one other scene, rather lengthy, that I want to quote, as it underscores Wolfe's views on freedom and responsibility:

"Severian, who were those men?"

I knew whom he meant. "They were not men, although they were once men and still resemble men. They were zooanthrops, a word that indicates those beasts that are of human shape. Do you understand what I am saying?"

The little boy nodded solemnly, then asked, "Why don't they wear clothes?"

"Because they are no longer human beings, as I told you. A dog is born a dog and a bird is born a bird, but to become a human being is an achievement - you have to think about it. You have been thinking about it for the past three or four years at least, even though you may never have thought about the thinking."

"A dog just looks for things to eat," the boy said.

"Exactly. But that raises the question of whether a person should be forced to do such thinking, and some people decided a long time ago that he should not. We may force a dog, sometimes, to act like a man - to walk on his hind legs and wear a collar and so forth. But we shouldn't and couldn't force a man to act like a man. Did you ever want to fall asleep? When you weren't sleepy or even tired?"

He nodded.

"That was because you wanted to put down the burden of being a boy, at least for a time. Sometimes I drink too much wine, and that is because for a while I would like to stop being a man. Sometimes people take their own lives for that reason. Did you know that?"

"Or they do things that might hurt them," he said. The way he said it told me of arguments overheard; Becan had very probably been that kind of man, or he would not have taken his family to so remote and dangerous a place.

"Yes," I told him. "That can be the same thing. And sometimes certain men, and even women, come to hate the burden of thought, but without loving death. They see the animals and wish to become as they are, answering only to instinct, and not thinking. Do you know what makes you think?"

"My head," the boy said promptly, and grasped it with his hands.

"Animals have heads too - even very stupid animals like crayfish and oxen and ticks. What makes you think is only a small part of your head, inside, just above your eyes." I touched his forehead. "Now if for some reason you wanted one of your hands taken off, there are men you can go to who are skilled in doing that. Suppose, for example, your hand had suffered some hurt from which it would never be well. They could take it away in such a fashion that there would be little chance of any harm coming to the rest of you."

The boy nodded.

"Very well. Those same men can take away that little part of your head that makes you think. They cannot put it back, you understand. And even if they could, you couldn't ask them to do it, once that part was gone. But sometimes people pay these men to take that part away. They want to stop thinking forever, and often they say they wish to turn their backs on all that humanity has done. Then it is no longer just to treat them as human beings - they have become animals, though animals who are still of human shape. You asked why they did not wear clothes. They no longer understand clothes, and so they would not put them on, even if they were very cold, although they might lie down on them or even roll themselves up in them." (pp. 97-98)

Cruelties happen. Harsh dictators like Typhon, only concerned with their well-being and status, occur from time to time in human history. At times, these people and those misfortunes are confronted. But when people abdicate their right to determine their own futures as best as they can, when they deny the common natures of other people and instead treat them in ways that we label as being "inhumane," when people abandon hope in favor for living any which way they live, are they in fact "human?" In this passage, as well as the one already cited above, Wolfe appears to be arguing that no, no they are not "human" in the sense of how people ought to be. These man-animals, the zooanthrops of this volume or the man-apes of Claw, are the products of the self-dehumanization that Wolfe argues that occurs when one has given up their responsibility to be a true human being. This discussion, I believe, sets up the later discussions that Severian will have in Urth of the New Sun. It bears repeating that freedom and self-determination are as much of an undercurrent in this series as are the religious symbols that appear. In fact, one might argue that the two are just two sides of the same coin.

Although there is still the scene with Baldanders to explore, I wish to do that in relation to the final volume, so I shall stop here. Again, Wolfe's dictum at the end of each volume is apt. If you do not wish to read on, I understand, as there is much that I myself have not touched upon.

Gene Wolfe, The Book of the New Sun: The Claw of the Conciliator

In discussing some of the themes and plot developments in the first volume of Gene Wolfe's Book of the New Sun series, The Shadow of the Torturer, I took pains to insure that I did not address certain thematic elements that would reoccur in deeper and sometimes more explicit detail further in the series. So as will be my practice in the coming volumes, I will not be going further than the book read, although since this is my third time reading the series as a whole, there might be a few occasions where I slip up and discuss events out of order. So for those wanting to know more about the symbols of the rose, the fountain, and the spaceship that were found on the tomb in the first volume, I shall not discuss that at length until I review the fourth volume, The Citadel of the Autarch.

There were certain characters and situations that I did not elaborate much upon when I wrote my theme-oriented review of The Shadow of the Torturer. Before I delve much into the plot development and the possible themes embedded in The Claw of the Conciliator, I want to spend a bit of time discussing a few characters that first made their appearance in the opening book in the New Sun sequence.

Thecla, the Chateleine who once was was the Autarch's leman (in this specific example, quasi lover, as we shall see later in this volume) before being seized and brought to the Torturers because of certain papers that implicated her as being associated with Vodalus, is in many senses the half-overlooked center of this series. We only learn the basics about her torture and how the diabolical Revolutionary drove away her will to live. I did not note it in the first review, but one could make an argument that the Revolutionary serves to represent our tendency to find faults in ourselves, often to the point of us committing what many Christians might call the most insidious of the Seven Deadly Sins, that of sloth/despair. In the course of the narrative, Severian stops at the point of exploring just what were the exact effects of the Revolutionary, but based on his passing comments, the hypothesis that I presented above might be developed from it.

Thecla's personality, which later we learn is often petty and cruel, is important not so much because we "witnessed" her torture and suicide, but because of a recurrent theme in this volume, one that was hinted at earlier with Dorcas's rising from the pond: resurrection of the body. A great many of the events that occur in this volume revolve in some point around the resurrection of the body or soul, or conversely, around the decay and corruption of both body and mind.

Jonas, a companion from afar who joins Severian near the end of the first volume, is one such example. Wounded in an attack about two-thirds into this volume, Jonas's body of cells and metal represents a sort of a reverse cyborg; a machine clothing itself in human parts in order to repair some prior damage. Severian's attempts to "heal" Jonas are only partial, but this melding of the biological with the mechanical in the person of Jonas perhaps could be viewed as a metaphor for the interactions between the physical body and the spiritual soul. However, the text is ambiguous on this point and I do not have citations to present to support this point.

Jolenta, the Nessus barmaid who becomes part of Dr. Taltos and Baldanders's travelling troupe, serves as an example of this mind/body union. Altered by Dr. Taltos's arts, she has become a thing of beauty and of desire, but yet there is a sickness within that mutates from a metaphorical matter into a very real and visible disorder near the end of the book. Her façade has crumbled and what we see then is now related to what the astute reader might have perceived soon after the first encounter with her after her transformation.

Dr. Talos, that mad scientist whose skills have managed to create simulacra of life, beauty, and truth. The composer of that play near the end which serves to foreshadow the concluding two volumes of Severian's saga. The fox-like creature, so clever and so manipulative, the apparent source of so much subterfuge. I have read elsewhere that some have postulated that Talos is based on the mythological Cretan creature of bronze that guarded the island, while others have noted his role as artificer as being but an extension of this attempt to replicate life via mechanical means. I side more with this second explanation, as Talos (and by extension, Baldanders) seem at first to have goals so similar to the more mystical bringing of the New Sun (or the second blooming of life on Urth), but whose means betray their real end goals.

By now, perhaps you are weary of my digressions and wondering just why I haven't discussed the plot of The Claw of the Conciliator. While it may seem as though I have digressed and not have attempted to explore the "story" of this novel and its strengths and weaknesses, in many ways I have covered just that, albeit via those seeming detours of character study. While The Claw of the Conciliator certain can be read on the surface level as the continued travels of Severian and friends from the gates of Nessus to the outliers of Thrax, to understand why the multitude of events such as Severian's second meeting with Vodalus and what transpired there occurred the way they did means adopting some of Severian's own approaches towards telling his story.

There were quite a few lacunae in this tale. Not only does the opening chapter pick up on the other side of those colossal gates of Nessus, in the town of Saltus (some commentators have noted that since the action apparently is set in South America, that Nessus may be the corruption of Buenos Aires and Saltus may be the alteration of the Argentine province/town of Salta), but the tone of the narrative changes. The careful reader has already noted, doubtless, that while Severian's eidetic memory has left him sharing all sorts of petty little details such as the stories from the brown book from Ultan's library in Nessus that he took after Thecla's suicide and his banishment to Thrax, there is so much that he is skipping or deigning to downplay. The open lies and lies by omission that will later become a hallmark of Severian's character are more on display here.

Also, the scene about halfway into the novel where Vodalus and his associates invite Severian to partake in what Wolfe later called a "diabolical eucharist" of consuming Thecla's body while drinking an elixir from an alien creature known as the alzabo (more on that in the next volume) is a turning point in the narrative. Lies of omission or not, the Severian "voice" that we have encountered to date appears to be singular in nature, but slowly after this scene, the thoughts and personality of the consumed Thecla emerge and occasionally the "Severian" we encounter on the pages of the book is somehow different; sometimes Thecla in tone, sometimes Severian, other times an amalgamation of the two. This partaking of the body and receiving something of the mind/spirit of the deceased is a sort of a perversion, some might say, of the Catholic/Orthodox doctrine of the Real Presence of the Christ in the wine and bread consumed in the Eucharist. It certainly something whose ramifications will become more evident in the succeeding volumes.

As I said earlier, resurrection motifs abound in this volume. From the healing of the man-apes (how did those creatures evolve or perhaps devolve over time?) to the partial healing of Jonas to the nigh-useless attempt on Jolenta, the blue gem that Severian carries, the legendary Claw of the Conciliator, serves to highlight this theme of healing in the midst of death and suffering. While I will address the theme of suffering later in the fourth volume review, it bears to keep this matter in mind as one reads these volumes.

The allusion-filled play near the end that Severian, Dorcas, Jolenta, Dr. Talos, and Baldanders perform (before I forget, there are a couple of scenes that I'm purposely leaving out as I need to wait until the fourth volume to discuss them at length) serves to foreshadow what lies underneath the journey of the exiled journeyman Torturer. From the Persian names for Adam and Eve to the mention of the "dawn" of Ushas (herself a Hindu deity of the dawn), the eschatological interpretation of the New Sun is presented in a way that seems opaque at first, but which yields so much fruit once the series is complete. Since I am writing this review with those who have just finished reading The Claw of the Conciliator for the first time, I will pause here. After all, the road again is not an easy one to travel.