The New Weird.

by Ann VanderMeer.

Acknowledgments.

THANKS FIRST AND FOREMOST to Jacob Weisman and Jill Roberts at Tachyon Publications for making this experience so positive and energizing. Secondly, thanks to the editors and translators we met on our 2006 trip to Europe whose conversations helped stimulate our interest in doing this anthology, especially: Martin Sust, Michael Haulica, Horia Ursu, Luis Rodrigues, Jukka Halme, Sebastien Guillott, Toni Jerrman, Hannes Riffel, and Sarah Riffel. Thanks also to Cheryl Morgan, Jeffrey Ford, Darja Malcolm-Clarke, Konrad Walewski, Nick Gevers, Kathryn Cramer, David Hartwell, and everyone else with whom we discussed "New Weird." Finally, thanks to all of the wonderful writers in this book, who were all very kind in allowing us to print or reprint their work.

The New Weird: "It's Alive?"

JEFF VANDERMEER.

ORIGINS.

THE "NEW WEIRD" EXISTED long before 2003, when M. John Harrison started a message board thread with the words: "The New Weird. Who does it? What is it? Is it even anything?" For this reason, and this reason only, it continues to exist now, even after a number of critics, reviewers, and writers have distanced themselves from the term.

By 2003, readers and writers had become aware of a change in perception and a change in approach within genre. Crystallized by the popularity of China Mieville's Perdido Street Station Perdido Street Station, this change had to do with finally acknowledging a shift in The Weird The Weird.

Weird fiction typified by magazines like Weird Tales Weird Tales and writers like H. P. Lovecraft or Clark Ashton Smith back in the glory days of the pulps eventually morphed into modern-day traditional Horror. "Weird" refers to the sometimes supernatural or fantastical element of unease in many of these stories an element that could take a blunt, literal form or more subtle and symbolic form and which was, as in the best of Lovecraft's work, combined with a visionary sensibility. These types of stories also often rose above their pulp or self-taught origins through the strength of the writer's imagination. (There are definite parallels to be drawn between certain kinds of pulp fiction and so-called "Outsider Art.") and writers like H. P. Lovecraft or Clark Ashton Smith back in the glory days of the pulps eventually morphed into modern-day traditional Horror. "Weird" refers to the sometimes supernatural or fantastical element of unease in many of these stories an element that could take a blunt, literal form or more subtle and symbolic form and which was, as in the best of Lovecraft's work, combined with a visionary sensibility. These types of stories also often rose above their pulp or self-taught origins through the strength of the writer's imagination. (There are definite parallels to be drawn between certain kinds of pulp fiction and so-called "Outsider Art.") Two impulses or influences distinguish the New Weird from the "Old" Weird, and make the term more concrete than terms like "slipstream" and "interstitial," which have no distinct lineage. The New Wave of the 1960s was the first stimulus leading to the New Weird. Featuring authors such as M. John Harrison, Michael Moorcock, and J. G. Ballard, the New Wave deliriously mixed genres, high and low art, and engaged in formal experimentation, often typified by a distinctly political point of view. New Wave writers also often blurred the line between science fiction and fantasy, writing a kind of updated "scifantasy," first popularized by Jack Vance in his Dying Earth Dying Earth novels. This movement (backed by two of its own influences, Mervyn Peake and the Decadents of the late 1800s) provided what might be thought of as the brain of New Weird. novels. This movement (backed by two of its own influences, Mervyn Peake and the Decadents of the late 1800s) provided what might be thought of as the brain of New Weird.

The second stimulus came from the unsettling grotesquery of such seminal 1980s work as Clive Barker's Books of Blood Books of Blood. In this kind of fiction, body transformations and dislocations create a visceral, contemporary take on the kind of visionary horror best exemplified by the work of Lovecraft while moving past Lovecraft's coyness in recounting events in which the monster or horror can never fully be revealed or explained. In many of Barker's best tales, the starting point is the acceptance of a monster or a transformation and the story is what comes after. Transgressive horror, then, repurposed to focus on the monsters and grotesquery but not the "scare," forms the beating heart of the New Weird.

In a sense, the simultaneous understanding of and rejection of Old Weird, hardwired to the stimuli of the New Wave and New Horror, gave many of the writers identified as New Weird the signs and symbols needed to both forge ahead into the unknown and create their own unique re-combinations of familiar elements.

THE SHIFT.

Nameless for a time, a type of New Weird or proto-New Weird entered the literary world in the gap between the end of the miniature horror renaissance engendered by Barker and his peers and the publication of Perdido Street Station Perdido Street Station in 2000. in 2000.

In the 1990s, "New Weird" began to manifest itself in the form of cult writers like Jeffrey Thomas and his cross-genre urban Punktown stories. It continued to find a voice in the work of Thomas Ligotti, who straddled a space between the traditional and the avant garde. It coalesced in the David Lynchean approach of Michael Cisco to Eastern European mysticism in works like The Divinity Student The Divinity Student. It entered real-world settings through unsettling novels by Kathe Koja, such as The Cipher and Skin, with their horrific interrogations of the body and mind. It entered into disturbing dialogue about sex and gender in Richard Calder's novels, with their mix of phantasmagoria and pseudo-cyberpunk. It could also be found in Jeffrey Ford's Well-Built City trilogy, my own Ambergris stories (Dradin, In Love In Love, etc.), and the early short work of K. J. Bishop and Alastair Reynolds, among others.

Magazines like Andy Cox's The Third Alternative The Third Alternative, my wife Ann's The Silver Web The Silver Web, and, to a lesser extent, David Pringle's Interzone Interzone and Chris Reed/Manda Thomson's and Chris Reed/Manda Thomson's Back Brain Recluse Back Brain Recluse along with anthologies like my along with anthologies like my Leviathan Leviathan series provided support for this kind of work, which generally did not interest commercial publishers. Ironically, despite most New Weird fiction of the 1990s being skewed heavily toward the grotesque end of the New Wave/New Horror spectrum, many horror publications and reviewers dismissed the more confrontational or surreal examples of the form. It represented a definite threat to the Lovecraft clones and series provided support for this kind of work, which generally did not interest commercial publishers. Ironically, despite most New Weird fiction of the 1990s being skewed heavily toward the grotesque end of the New Wave/New Horror spectrum, many horror publications and reviewers dismissed the more confrontational or surreal examples of the form. It represented a definite threat to the Lovecraft clones and Twilight Zone Twilight Zone doppelgangers that dominated the horror field by the mid-1990s. doppelgangers that dominated the horror field by the mid-1990s.

FLASH POINT.

The publication of Mieville's Perdido Street Station Perdido Street Station in 2000 represented what might be termed the first commercially acceptable version of the New Weird, one that both coarsened and broadened the New Weird approach through techniques more common to writers like Charles Dickens, while adding a progressive political slant. Mieville also displayed a fascination with permutations of the body, much like Barker, and incorporated, albeit in a more direct way, ideas like odd plagues (M. John Harrison) and something akin to a Multiverse (Michael Moorcock). in 2000 represented what might be termed the first commercially acceptable version of the New Weird, one that both coarsened and broadened the New Weird approach through techniques more common to writers like Charles Dickens, while adding a progressive political slant. Mieville also displayed a fascination with permutations of the body, much like Barker, and incorporated, albeit in a more direct way, ideas like odd plagues (M. John Harrison) and something akin to a Multiverse (Michael Moorcock).

Mieville's fiction wasn't inherently superior to what had come before, but it was epic, and it wedded a "surrender to the weird" literally, the writer's surrender to the material, without ironic distance to rough-hewn but effective plots featuring earnest, proactive characters. This approach made Perdido Street Station Perdido Street Station much more accessible to readers than such formative influences on Mieville as Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast novels or M. John Harrison's Viriconium cycle. much more accessible to readers than such formative influences on Mieville as Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast novels or M. John Harrison's Viriconium cycle.

The truth of this accessibility also resides at the sentence and paragraph level, which in Mieville's case house brilliant, often startling images and situations, but do not always display the same control as those past masters.* Yet, by using broader brushstrokes, Mieville created much more space for his readers, a trade-off that helped create his success. (Ultimately, Mieville would also serve as an entry point to work that was more ambitious on the paragraph level. In a neat time traveling trick, one of his own touchstones, M. John Harrison, would benefit greatly from that success.) Yet, by using broader brushstrokes, Mieville created much more space for his readers, a trade-off that helped create his success. (Ultimately, Mieville would also serve as an entry point to work that was more ambitious on the paragraph level. In a neat time traveling trick, one of his own touchstones, M. John Harrison, would benefit greatly from that success.) Quite simply, Mieville had created just the right balance between pulp writing, visionary, surreal images, and literary influences to attract a wider audience and serve as the lightning rod for what would become known as New Weird.

THE DEBATE.

But Mieville wasn't alone. By the time Harrison posited his question "What is New Weird?" it had become clear that a number of other writers had developed at the same time as Mieville, using similar stimuli. My City of Saints & Madmen City of Saints & Madmen, K. J. Bishop's The Etched City The Etched City, and Paul Di Filippo's A Year in the Linear City A Year in the Linear City, among others, appeared in the period from 2001 to 2003, with Steph Swainston's The Year of Our War The Year of Our War published in 2004. It seemed that something had Risen Spontaneous even though in almost every case, the work itself had been written in the 1990s and either needed time to gestate or had been rejected by publishers and thus there was a need to explain or name the beast. published in 2004. It seemed that something had Risen Spontaneous even though in almost every case, the work itself had been written in the 1990s and either needed time to gestate or had been rejected by publishers and thus there was a need to explain or name the beast.

The resulting conversation on the Third Alternative Third Alternative public message boards consisted of many thousands of words, used in the struggle to name, define, analyze, spin, explore, and quantify the term "New Weird." The debate involved more than fifty writers, reviewers, and critics, all with their own questions, agendas, and concerns. public message boards consisted of many thousands of words, used in the struggle to name, define, analyze, spin, explore, and quantify the term "New Weird." The debate involved more than fifty writers, reviewers, and critics, all with their own questions, agendas, and concerns.

By the end of the discussion, part of which is reprinted in this anthology, it wasn't clear if New Weird as a term existed or not. However, over the next few years, with varying levels of enthusiasm, Mieville (and various acolytes and followers) promulgated versions of the term, emphasizing the "surrender to the weird," but also a very specific political component. Mieville thought of New Weird as "post-Seattle" fiction, referring to the effects of globalization and grassroots efforts to undermine institutions like the World Bank.* This use of the term "New Weird" was in keeping with Mieville's idealism and Marxist leanings in the world outside of fiction, but, in my opinion, preternaturally narrowed the parameters of the term. This brand of New Weird seemed far too limiting, unlike the type envisioned by Steph Swainston in the original message board discussion; her New Weird seemed almost like a form of literary Deism, a primal and epiphanal experience. This use of the term "New Weird" was in keeping with Mieville's idealism and Marxist leanings in the world outside of fiction, but, in my opinion, preternaturally narrowed the parameters of the term. This brand of New Weird seemed far too limiting, unlike the type envisioned by Steph Swainston in the original message board discussion; her New Weird seemed almost like a form of literary Deism, a primal and epiphanal experience.

The passion behind Mieville's efforts made sure that the term would live on even after he began to disown it, claiming it had become a marketing category and was therefore of no further interest to him. Despite Mieville's lack of interest, by 2005 the term "New Weird" was being used with some regularity by readers, writers, and critics.

That the term, as explored primarily by M. John Harrison and Steph Swainston, and then taken up by Mieville, has since been rejected or severely questioned not only by the initial Triumvirate but by several others speaks to the fact that most New Weird writers, like most New Wave writers, are various in their approaches over time. They are not repeating themselves for the most part.* Cross-pollination of genres, of boundaries occurs as part of an effort to avoid easy classification not for its own sake, or even consciously in most cases, but in an attempt to allow readers and writers to enter into a dialogue that is genuine, unique, and not based on received ideas or terms. Cross-pollination of genres, of boundaries occurs as part of an effort to avoid easy classification not for its own sake, or even consciously in most cases, but in an attempt to allow readers and writers to enter into a dialogue that is genuine, unique, and not based on received ideas or terms.

I myself reacted violently to the idea of New Weird in 2003 in part because it seemed that some writers wanted to claim it, falsely, as a uniquely English phenomenon; in part because I continue to champion artistic discussion and publication of "genre" and "literary" work within one context and continuum; and in part because it did seem limiting inasmuch as the term was most useful applied to specific works rather than specific writers (almost impossible to "enforce," given how labeling works).

In retrospect, however, my rejection of the term seems premature because as used in the message board discussion, "New Weird" was just a term on which to hang an exploration and investigation of what looked like a sudden explosion of associated texts. While much of the discussion may have been surface, much of it was also incisive, rich, and deep. With less concern about holding onto "territory" and control, from everyone, those discussions might have led to something more substantive.

EFFECTS IN THE "REAL" WORLD.

The other reality about the term "New Weird" has little to do with either moments or movements and more to do with the marketplace: Mieville's success, through his own efforts and those of his followers, became linked to the term New Weird. A practical result of this affiliation is that it became easier for this kind of fiction to find significant publication. It wasn't just "find me the next Mieville" firstly impossible and secondly corrosive but "find me more New Weird fiction." As an editor at a large North American publishing house told me two years ago, "New Weird" has been a "useful shorthand" not only when justifying acquiring a particular novel, but also when marketing departments talk to booksellers.* Confusion about the specifics of the term created a larger protective umbrella for writers from a publishing standpoint. Many books far stranger than Mieville's have been prominently published as a result. Confusion about the specifics of the term created a larger protective umbrella for writers from a publishing standpoint. Many books far stranger than Mieville's have been prominently published as a result.

I know that without New Weird, it would have been harder for me to find publication by commercial and foreign language publishers. This is probably doubly true for writers like K. J. Bishop, who had not already had books out by 2001. In a trickle-down effect, I also believe this atmosphere has helped decidedly non-New Weird writers like Hal Duncan, whose own brand of weirdness is much more palatable in the wake of the "New Weird explosion."*

The other truth is that even though heroic fantasy and other forms of genre fiction still sell much better than most New Weird books, New Weird writers partially dominated the critical and awards landscape for almost half a decade.*

In a similar way, New Weird has become shorthand for readers, who don't care about the vagaries of taxonomy so much as "I know it when I read it." For this reason, writers such as Kelly Link, Justina Robson, and Charles Stross have all been, at one time or another, identified as New Weird. These reader associations occur because when encountering something unique most of us grab the label that seems the closest match so we can easily describe our enthusiasm to others. (The result of both carefree readers and some careless academics has been to make it seem as if New Weird is as indefinable and slippery a term as "interstitial.") The effect of New Weird outside of England, North America, and Australia has been various but often dynamic. New Weird has, in some countries, already mutated and adapted as an ever-shifting "moment" as well as a potent label for publishers. In some places "New Weird" has become uniquely independent of what anyone associated with the original discussion in 2003 now thinks of the term and its usefulness. For example, in Finland you can say without equivocation that Kelly Link is New Weird.

In addition, as alluded to earlier in this introduction, many of the writers associated with New Weird and collected in this volume are already transforming into something else entirely, while new writers like Alistair Rennie (whose story is original to this anthology), have assimilated the New Weird influence, combined it with yet other stimuli, and created their own wonderfully bizarre and transgressive recombination.

This speaks to the nature of art: as soon as something becomes popular or familiar, the true revolution moves elsewhere. Sometimes the writers involved in the original radicalism move on, too, and sometimes they allow themselves to be left behind.

A WORKING DEFINITION OF NEW WEIRD.

Following the aftermath of all of this discussion, research, and reading, the opportunity to create a working definition of twenty-first-century New Weird now presents itself:

New Weird is a type of urban, secondary-world fiction that subverts the romanticized ideas about place found in traditional fantasy, largely by choosing realistic, complex real-world models as the jumping off point for creation of settings that may combine elements of both science fiction and fantasy. New Weird has a visceral, in-the-moment quality that often uses elements of surreal or transgressive horror for its tone, style, and effects in combination with the stimulus of influence from New Wave writers or their proxies (including also such forebears as Mervyn Peake and the French/English Decadents). New Weird fictions are acutely aware of the modern world, even if in disguise, but not always overtly political. As part of this awareness of the modern world, New Weird relies for its visionary power on a "surrender to the weird" that isn't, for example, hermetically sealed in a haunted house on the moors or in a cave in Antarctica. The "surrender" (or "belief") of the writer can take many forms, some of them even involving the use of postmodern techniques that do not undermine the surface reality of the text.

This definition presents two significant ways in which the New Weird can be distinguished from Slipstream or Interstitial fiction. First, while Slipstream and Interstitial fiction often claim New Wave influence, they rarely if ever cite a Horror influence, with its particular emphasis on the intense use of grotesquery focused around transformation, decay, or mutilation of the human body. Second, postmodern techniques that undermine the surface reality of the text (or point out its artificiality) are not part of the New Weird aesthetic, but they are part of the Slipstream and Interstitial toolbox.

THIS ANTHOLOGY.

We hope that this anthology will provide a rough guide to the moment or movement known as "New Weird" acknowledging that the pivotal "moment" is behind us, but that this moment had already lasted much longer than generally believed, had definite precursors, and continues to spread an Effect, even as it dissipates or becomes something else. (And who knows? Another pivotal "moment" may be ahead of us.) In this anthology, you will find a "Stimuli" section that includes both New Wave and New Horror examples, along with work by fence-straddlers like Simon Ings and Thomas Ligotti. You will also find an "Evidence" section that pulls New Weird examples from pulp and the literary mainstream, from dark fantasy and from foreign language sources. To highlight just a few of these selections, China Mieville's "Jack," stripped-down and gracefully gruff and ironic, revisits the New Crobuzon of his novels, in much the same way as Jeffrey Ford revisits a proto-Well-Built City setting in "At Reparata." Other highlights include the Brian Evenson's Beckett-Kafka-esque take on Gormenghast in "Watson's Boy," the unabashed decadence of K. J. Bishop's "The Art of Dying," and the frenzied post-New Weird grotesquery of Alistair Rennie's "The Gutter Meets the Light That Never Shines," a story original to this anthology that showcases the effect of combining New Wave and New Horror elements with pop culture and comics influences.

The "Symposium" section preserves the beginning of the message board thread about New Weird begun by M. John Harrison in 2003,* along with Michael Cisco's essay from the year after, and three pieces written specially for this volume: scholar and writer Darja Malcolm-Clarke's "Tracking Phantoms," an exploration of her changing views on New Weird; writer K. J. Bishop's "Whose Words You Wear," her thoughts on the effects of labeling; and "European Editor Perspectives on the New Weird," which charts the influence and permutations of the term across several different countries. Finally, in "Laboratory" we asked several writers existing outside of or on the fringe of New Weird along with Michael Cisco's essay from the year after, and three pieces written specially for this volume: scholar and writer Darja Malcolm-Clarke's "Tracking Phantoms," an exploration of her changing views on New Weird; writer K. J. Bishop's "Whose Words You Wear," her thoughts on the effects of labeling; and "European Editor Perspectives on the New Weird," which charts the influence and permutations of the term across several different countries. Finally, in "Laboratory" we asked several writers existing outside of or on the fringe of New Weird* to create a round-robin story that showcases, in fictional form, their own manifestation of the term. This section was never meant to be a complete story more a series of vignettes but the results are cohesive and fascinating. to create a round-robin story that showcases, in fictional form, their own manifestation of the term. This section was never meant to be a complete story more a series of vignettes but the results are cohesive and fascinating.

Ann and I still have reservations about the term New Weird, but in our readings, research, and conversations, we have come to believe the term has a core validity. The proof is that it has taken on an artistic and commercial life beyond that intended by those individuals who, in their inquisitiveness about a "moment," unintentionally created a movement. It is still mutating forward forward through the work of a new generation of writers, as well. through the work of a new generation of writers, as well.

Finally, anyone who reads the initial New Weird discussions will find that the term arose from a sense of curiosity, of play, of (sometimes bloody-minded) mischievousness, and from a love for fiction. We offer up this anthology in the spirit of the best of that original discussion.

New Weird is dead. Long live the Next Weird.

1)By Mieville's own admission, and not meant as a pejorative here. By Mieville's own admission, and not meant as a pejorative here.2) Mieville attempted to place this political element within a complex, multifaceted context, but the reality of how ideas are transmitted meant that this complexity was stripped away as the thought spread and was re-transmitted, each time more constraining and less interesting. Mieville attempted to place this political element within a complex, multifaceted context, but the reality of how ideas are transmitted meant that this complexity was stripped away as the thought spread and was re-transmitted, each time more constraining and less interesting.3) The constant flux-and-flow of support and lack of support for New Weird in the same individuals would be taken as "waffling" in a politician. In a writer, it is part of the necessary testing and re-testing connected to one's writing, as well as part of the need to continually be open to and curious about the world. The constant flux-and-flow of support and lack of support for New Weird in the same individuals would be taken as "waffling" in a politician. In a writer, it is part of the necessary testing and re-testing connected to one's writing, as well as part of the need to continually be open to and curious about the world.4) By now, this effect may have begun to fade, like all marketing trends, but the writers blessed by its effects now have careers autonomous from the original umbilical cord. By now, this effect may have begun to fade, like all marketing trends, but the writers blessed by its effects now have careers autonomous from the original umbilical cord.5) Inasmuch as there is a "Godfather" or "protective angel" of New Weird, that person would be Peter Lavery, editor at Pan Macmillan, who took a chance on Mieville, Bishop, Duncan, me, and several other "strange" writers. Inasmuch as there is a "Godfather" or "protective angel" of New Weird, that person would be Peter Lavery, editor at Pan Macmillan, who took a chance on Mieville, Bishop, Duncan, me, and several other "strange" writers.6) At the same time, New Weird has largely failed to penetrate the awareness of the literary mainstream, probably because of its secondary-world nature, which is almost always a barrier to breaking out of the genre "ghetto." At the same time, New Weird has largely failed to penetrate the awareness of the literary mainstream, probably because of its secondary-world nature, which is almost always a barrier to breaking out of the genre "ghetto."7) The catalyst probably being comments by Steph Swainston. The catalyst probably being comments by Steph Swainston.8) Felix Gilman being an exception a new writer who unabashedly points to New Weird influence. Felix Gilman being an exception a new writer who unabashedly points to New Weird influence.

STIMULI.

The Luck in the Head

M. JOHN HARRISON.

UROCONIUM, Ardwick Crome said, was for all its beauty an indifferent city. Its people loved the arena; they were burning or quartering somebody every night for political or religious crimes. They hadn't much time for anything else. From where he lived, at the top of a tenement on the outskirts of Montrouge, you could often see the fireworks in the dark, or hear the shouts on the wind.

He had two rooms. In one of them was an iron-framed bed with a few blankets on it, pushed up against a washstand he rarely used. Generally he ate his meals cold, though he had once tried to cook an egg by lighting a newspaper under it. He had a chair, and a tall white ewer with a picture of the courtyard of an inn on it. The other room, a small north-light studio once occupied so tradition in the Artists' Quarter had it by Kristodulos Fleece the painter, he kept shut. It had some of his books in it, also the clothes in which he had first come to Uroconium and which he had thought then were fashionable.

He was not a well-known poet, although he had his following.

Every morning he would write for perhaps two hours, first restricting himself to the bed by means of three broad leather straps which his father had given him and to which he fastened himself, at the ankles, the hips, and finally across his chest. The sense of unfair confinement or punishment induced by this, he found, helped him to think.

Sometimes he called out or struggled; often he lay quite inert and looked dumbly up at the ceiling. He had been born in those vast dull ploughlands which roll east from Soubridge into the Midland Levels like a chocolate-coloured sea, and his most consistent work came from the attempt to retrieve and order the customs and events of his childhood there: the burial of the "Holly Man" on Plough Monday, the sound of the hard black lupin seeds popping and tapping against the window in August while his mother sang quietly in the kitchen the ancient carols of the Oei'l Voirrey. Oei'l Voirrey. He remembered the meadows and reeds beside the Yser Canal, the fishes that moved within it. When his straps chafed, the old bridges were in front of him, made of warm red brick and curved protectively over their own image in the water! He remembered the meadows and reeds beside the Yser Canal, the fishes that moved within it. When his straps chafed, the old bridges were in front of him, made of warm red brick and curved protectively over their own image in the water!

Thus Crome lived in Uroconium, remembering, working, publishing. He sometimes spent an evening in the Bistro Californium or the Luitpold Cafe. Several of the Luitpold critics (notably Barzelletta Angst, who in L'Espace Cromien L'Espace Cromien ignored entirely the conventional chronology expressed in the idea of "recherche" of Crome's long poem ignored entirely the conventional chronology expressed in the idea of "recherche" of Crome's long poem Bream into Man) Bream into Man) tried to represent his work as a series of narrativeless images, glued together only by his artistic persona. Crome refuted them in a pamphlet. He was content. tried to represent his work as a series of narrativeless images, glued together only by his artistic persona. Crome refuted them in a pamphlet. He was content.

Despite his sedentary habit he was a sound sleeper. But before it blows at night over the pointed roofs of Montrouge, the southwest wind must first pass between the abandoned towers of the Old City, as silent as burnt logs, full of birds, scraps of machinery, and broken-up philosophies: and Crome had hardly been there three years when he began to have a dream in which he was watching the ceremony called "the Luck in the Head."

For its proper performance this ceremony requires the construction on a seashore, between the low and high tide marks at the Eve of Assumption, of two fences or "hedges." These are made by weaving osiers usually cut at first light on the same day through split hawthorn uprights upon which the foliage has been left. The men of the town stand at one end of the corridor thus formed; the women, their thumbs tied together behind their backs, at the other. At a signal the men release between the hedges a lamb decorated with medallions, paper ribbons, and strips of rag. The women race after, catch it, and scramble to keep it from one another, the winner being the one who can seize the back of the animal's neck with her teeth. In Dunham Massey, Lymm, and Iron Chine, the lamb is paraded for three days on a pole before being made into pies; and it is good luck to obtain the pie made from the head.

In his dream Crome found himself standing on some sand dunes, looking out over the wastes of marram grass at the osier fences and the tide. The women, with their small heads and long grey garments, stood breathing heavily like horses, or walked nervously in circles avoiding one another's eyes as they tested with surreptitious tugs the red cord which bound their thumbs. Crome could see no one there he knew. Somebody said, "A hundred eggs and a calf's tail," and laughed. Ribbons fluttered in the cold air: they had introduced the lamb. It stood quite still until the women, who had been lined up and settled down after a certain amount of jostling, rushed at it. Their shrieks rose up like those of herring gulls, and a fine rain came in from the sea.

"They're killing one another!" Crome heard himself say.

Without any warning one of them burst out of the melee with the lamb in her teeth. She ran up the dunes with a floundering, splay-footed gait and dropped it at his feet. He stared down at it.

"It's not mine," he said. But everyone else had walked away.

He woke up listening to the wind and staring at the washstand, got out of bed and walked round the room to quieten himself down. Fireworks, greenish and queasy with the hour of the night, lit up the air intermittently above the distant arena. Some of this illumination, entering through the skylight, fell as a pale wash on his thin arms and legs, fixing them in attitudes of despair.

If he went to sleep again he often found, in a second lobe or episode of the dream, that he had already accepted the dead lamb and was himself running with it, at a steady premeditated trot, down the landward side of the dunes towards the town. (This he recognised by its slate roofs as Lowick, a place he had once visited in childhood. In its streets some men made tiny by distance were banging on the doors with sticks, as they had done then. He remembered very clearly the piece of singed sheepskin they had been making people smell.) Empty ground stretched away on either side of him under a motionless sky; everything the clumps of thistles, the frieze of small thorn trees deformed by the wind, the sky itself had a brownish cast, as if seen through an atmosphere of tars. He could hear the woman behind him to begin with, but soon he was left alone. In the end Lowick vanished too, though he began to run as quickly as he could, and left him in a mist or smoke through which a bright light struck, only to be diffused immediately.

By then the lamb had become something that produced a thick buzzing noise, a vibration which, percolating up the bones of his arm and into his shoulder, then into the right side of his neck and face where it reduced the muscles to water, made him feel nauseated, weak, and deeply afraid. Whatever it was he couldn't shake it off his hand.

Clearly in that city and at that age of the world it would have been safer for Crome to look inside himself for the source of this dream. Instead, after he had woken one day with the early light coming through the shutters like sour milk and a vague rheumatic ache in his neck, he went out into Uroconium to pursue it. He was sure he would recognise the woman if he saw her, or the lamb.