By Fred Chappell
Usually stated in lists of the world's most sensible horror novels, Dagon tells the tale of Peter Leland whose ancestral secrets and techniques emerge to plunge him right into a global of terror and degradation. using the Mythos constructed by way of America's nice fantasist, H. P. Lovecraft, this novel transforms conventional Gothic parts into an severe, scarifying, smooth paintings. a global bestseller, Dagon was once provided the easiest international booklet prize via the French Academy and has ignited lively debate approximately its innovative method of its fabrics. Readers were recognized to maintain their condominium lighting fixtures burning all evening whereas analyzing this tale. "I am in truth confident that Fred Chappell is likely one of the best writers of this time, one of many infrequent and important few who're really 'major.'" - George Garrett, writer of loss of life Of The Fox and The Succession. writer of thirty volumes of fiction, poetry, and nonfiction, Fred Chappell has two times gained international myth Awards, has seemed in over fifty anthologies, and has accrued a few dozen or so literary prizes together with Poet Laureate of the kingdom of North Carolina. Retired after 40 years of collage educating, he lives in Greensboro, North Carolina, and worships cats.
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Additional resources for Dagon
Ain't you a sight? She didn't laugh, but turned away and disappeared again. Grasping the post, he pulled himself shakily upright and shook his head hard, trying to clear it. He staggered to the rocking chair and folded into it and began to drink again. That was Mina's way, that was always her way: she simply appeared and disappeared when she liked, everything was always under her control. He remembered that only a few weeks ago he had day-dreamed that when she had finished the life of his body she would have it discarded—dumped—in the fields under the brutal sun.
Now what do you think you're doing? She had come to the doorway. I couldn't find the handle for it. What? I can't hear for you mumbling like that. I couldn't find the handle, he said. It's right there on top, she said. Oh. He put the table fork back and got down the handle and lifted off the eye. A few coals were live in the bottom of the firebox. He stuffed the shirt in—it didn't seem likely that it would burn—and set the eye back. He got the handle out and held it, a curious warm cast-iron thing, the tip of it shaped like a square-toed shoe.
Now he had guessed that this was her motive in keeping him, to observe how far downward he had gone. He had become a queer experimental animal; Mina used him purposely to try to gauge through him the fiber of the whole species. And he too felt a chilly detached curiosity. How far into this rushing darkness could a man go? When he had devoured his heart, what was there to push the machine along? At what point was this machine no longer recognizable as himself? He glimpsed a blurred moment of illumination: at that bodiless point—whenever, wherever it was—that the humanity in him melted, disappeared, the universe rested.
Dagon by Fred Chappell