Chapters (42)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- City of Saints and Madmen
- Dradin, in Love
- 1
- The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of the City of Ambergris
- 1
- The Cage
- 1
- The Transformation of Martin Lake
- The Strange Case of X
- Shriek: An Afterword
- AN AFTERWORD TO THE EARLY HISTORY OF AMBERGRIS
- PART I
- 1
- 5
- PART II
- 1
- 4
- A (BRIEF) AFTERWORD BY SIRIN
- Finch
- MONDAY
- 1
- TUESDAY
- 1
- WEDNESDAY
- 1
- THURSDAY
- 1
- FRIDAY
- 1
- SATURDAY
- 1
- SUNDAY
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Illustration credits
- NOTES
- Notes 2
- Also by Jeff Vandermeer
- A Note About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
Duncan did not make friends. He did not have a woman friend. When I visited him, during breaks in my own art studies at the Trillian Academy, at his rooms at the Institute, he could not introduce me to a single soul other than his instructors. Duncan must have appeared to be among the most pious of all the pious monks created by History. (I had friends. Your infrequent trips to visit meant your idea of my life in that place was as narrow as that sliver of emerald light in the Spore that you keep going on about. I needed to converse with people to test out my theories, to gauge dissent and to begin to realize what ideas, when expressed to others in the light of day, evaporated into the air.)
Recognizing both his genius and his desire for lack of contact, the Institute, its generosity heightened by the small scholarship our father had endowed it with as well as the memory of him walking its hollowed halls, had, by the second semester, isolated Duncan in rooms that expanded with his loneliness. My brother’s only window looked out at the solid, unimaginative brick of the Philosophy Building, giving him no alternative to his vibrant inner life. (This was, after all, the point of the Institute—to focus on the unexamined life. Nothing wrong with that.)
As if to embody the complexity and brittle joy of his inner life in the outer world, Duncan slowly covered the walls of his rooms with maps, pictures, diagrams, even pages torn from books. Ambergrisian leaders stared down impishly, slightly crooked, half-smothered by maps of the Kalif’s epic last battle against the infidel Stretcher Jones. Bark etchings by the local Aan tribespeople shared space with stiff edicts handed down by even stiffer Truffidian priests. James Alberon’s famous acrylic painting of Albumuth Boulevard formed the backdrop for a hundred tiny portraits of the original Skamoo synod. The bewildering greens and purples of Darcimbaldo’s “The Kiosks of Trillian Square” competed with the withered yellows of ancient explorers’ maps, with the red arrows that indicated skirmishes on military schemata.