Daemonomania is John Crowley’s third novel in his Aegypt Cycle. It continues the story from Love & Sleep and The Solitudes, which blends New Age occultism, historical fantasy, postmodern metafiction, and realistic narrative into a characteristic mix. Modern-day melancholic Pierce Moffet is losing faith that his transcription of Fellowes Kraft’s posthumous novel will ever be complete. Rose Ryder’s child, Sam, is epileptic, forcing her to find medication and to live between her daughter’s seizures as if the next one will never happen–all the while fighting a custody battle against her ex-husband Mike Mucho, who has lately fallen in with the Christian cult known as The Powerhouse.
Meanwhile, in the sixteenth century of Kraft’s novel, John Dee and Edward Kelley are deeply engaged in the task of transforming base metals into pure gold. In the court of Rudolph II in Prague, Kelley speaks with an angel through Dee’s crystal glass: Madimi, who appears to him at first as a young child and leads them onward to enlightenment. In another part of Europe, the heretic philosopher Giordano Bruno is wandering and lecturing at various venues, before his fateful trip to Venice, where he is finally arrested, a prelude to his execution in Rome for daring to prove that the universe is infinite in size.
‘Daemonomania,’ rather than meaning “mass craziness about demons,” means “Sorcerers stuck on demons or maybe Demons stuck on sorcerers, or witches. […] Mania means attachment, obsession: the maniac is somebody obsessed with or stuck on something” (117). The novel is itself stuck on the idea that demons might be present–or perceived to be present–in small town Kentucky in the 1970s, an unlikely time and place if I could ever think of one. But this was the New Age, the era of hippies and draft dodgers, cults, and new sects, known as the Age of Aquarius. Ghosts, werewolves, and spirits can all be found in this strange, alternative world, which shares a space with the familiar world of car brands and drafty apartments.
Pierce, having a melancholic disposition, meaning he is a cold and lonely scholar who rarely shaves, educates himself in the art of magic bonds from a treatise of Giordano Bruno, which suggests that love forms the tightest of bonds. Crowley derives some of these ideas from Couliano’s Eros and Magic in the Renaissance, and soon he tests his knowledge on his girlfriend Rosie Rasmussen–engaging in another type of bondage. He wishes to have her all to himself and constructs a magic emblem to tie her to him more strongly–but soon she comes within the gravitational pull of The Powerhouse.
Ray Honeybeare leads the cult, which teaches that God only wants the best for everyone, and, since Jesus saved humanity from our sins once and for all, we are now capable, with God’s help, of attaining whatever we wish for: a new car, a new house, a winning lottery ticket, a daughter saved from epilepsy. Rosie feels empowered by this possibility for wish fulfillment, as do Mike and Bobby, the hospital worker with an ancestry of lycanthropy that stretches back at least to the sixteenth century. But when Rosie begins to say that history is a sham and that the Holocaust never happened–because God could never let such an evil thing occur–Pierce begins to see the danger in this supposedly harmless prayer circle.
The universe is coming to a crisis; Pierce and Rosie find themselves on opposite sides of divide in history that will see the birth of a new world and the destruction and forgetting of the old.
Brian Attebery in his essay, “Tolkien, Crowley, and Postmodernism,” calls Crowley’s previous novel Little, Big the point where fantasy fiction becomes indistinguishable from postmodern fiction. The same might be said about Aegypt in general and Daemonomania in particular. Crowley invokes the classic test of proving the Holocaust as a way to question excessive historical relativism, which tends to creep up in postmodern intellectual experience. Furthermore, his frequent pastiching of Kraft’s non-existent novel and his multifaceted allusions to Renaissance literary genres align this fantasy novel with a distinctly postmodern aesthetic.
Which raises the question: can we even call Daemonomania a ‘fantasy novel’? Does the name of this genre do it justice? Around 95% of the novel is plausible, give or take, allowing that the sixteenth-century scenes, in which the magical is more likely to occur, are understood to be diagetic fictions, that is, excepts from a novel written by Kraft that exists as a text in Pierce Moffet’s world. The fantastic is communicated either in a deadpan manner or by implication–in one scene, Mike sees something like a rat flit down a corner of a hallway, but it is also suggested that it is another character’s disembodied, traveling soul. Is a car crash a portent or an everyday setback? Is an epileptic young girl truly possessed by demons during a seizure? This is the sort of fantasy in Daemonomania, the kind that makes you entertain the thought that pre-scientific and scientifically enlightened readings of nature are somehow both legitimate descriptors of the world.
The final book of the Aegypt series Endless Things promises to be about Pierce Moffet’s quest to modern Prague, where he will likely try to uncover the discoveries of Dee and Kelley, while following in Fellowes Kraft and Boney Rasmussen’s footsteps, who made a trip to Europe decades ago. Where shall this brilliant series end? I cannot wait to find out.