The Great God Pan - The Original Classic Edition
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I came to know about Arthur Machen and his work through the brilliant mastermind of H.P.Lovecraft; his references, both in fiction (The Dunwich Horror makes a very clear statement about Machens influence in his body of work) and non-fiction (Supernatural Horror in Literature), ultimately inspired me to go search something about this author. Needless to say, I found virtually nothing in any bookstore. It was during a trip to Madrid, Spain, where I finally found a book by Machen containing The Great God Pan and many others. I was shocked. <p> The Great God Pan was the first story I read by Arthur Machen, and I only had to read the first few pages to know I was going to like it. Indeed, I did, although it was a little short for my taste. <p> The ideas Machen makes you travel through are some of the finest in horror literature, and the Cosmic view of Pan, is very near the likes of Lovecraft. One can easily see where the influence Machen exerted over Lovecraft is. The only difference is that Machen did believe in some supernatural force existing within the Universe, whereas Lovecraft was the complete opposite. <p> Dark Pagan Horror is what Machen delivers, and he does so with such a style, elegance and wit, you just cant help but to stay with it until you are done.
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THE GREAT GOD PAN
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Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke watched him drearily as he bent over a row of phials and lit the flame under the cruci-ble. The doctor had a small hand-lamp, shaded as the larger one, on a ledge above his apparatus, and Clarke, who sat in the shadows, looked down at the great shadowy room, wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and undefined darkness contrasting with one another. Soon he became conscious of an odd odour, at first the merest suggestion of odour, in the room, and as it grew more decided he felt surprised that he was not reminded of the chemist's shop or the surgery. Clarke found himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and half conscious, he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that he had spent roaming through the woods and meadows near his own home. It was a burning day at the beginning of August, the heat had dimmed the outlines of all things and all distances with a faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer spoke of an abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost tropical. Strangely that wonderful hot day of the fifties rose up again in Clarke's imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading sunlight seemed to blot out the shadows and the lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and heard the myriad murmur of the summer.
"I hope the smell doesn't annoy you, Clarke; there's nothing unwholesome about it. It may make you a bit sleepy, that's all." Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was speaking to him, but for the life of him he could not rouse
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