Until I read The Three Impostors, I had never heard of Arthur Machen. I had to read that one twice before I "got it," but after I did, I was in awe of his talent. I snatched up this one when Dover had it on sale, and I am even more in awe now. I have since discovered that Project Gutenberg has even more of his works available for free, and I can assure you, they will soon find their way onto my Book Reviews.
    Machen was born in Caerleon, Monmouthshire, Wales in 1863, and unlike his tragic characters, he lived to the ripe old age of 84, dying in England in 1947. He was the son of a vicar, but was profoundly influenced by the Celtic/Roman/Medieval/Pagan history of the area, working these themes into his writing. He is known for his "weird fiction" and was not always successful during his life, often shocking his Victorian audience.
    This volume contains two separate stories. The Great God Pan is much like The Three Impostors in that it consists of segments that come together at the end and wrap up the mystery. Sort of, although I have found with Machen's writings that one cannot grasp his full meaning with just one reading. Still, I found these easier than The Three Impostors, most likely because I was familiar with his style. Parts of The Great God Pan were published separately beginning in 1890 in Whirlwind magazine, then Machen developed it into a whole novelette and the entire work was published in 1894.
    In this one, a scientist, Dr. Raymond, invites Clarke to witness a "minor" surgery on the brain of a young woman who lives with him, named Mary, in order to lift the veil into mysteries beyond what we normally perceive. He called this "seeing the great god Pan." His experiment was "successful" as such, but the shock mentally and emotionally disabled Mary for the rest of her life.
    The Greek god Pan was associated with nature and especially sexuality in ancient times. He was half man and half goat. However, in my research, I have not found anything to associate him with the devil or evil, although to the Victorian mindset, paganism and sexuality most likely were associated with those two elements. In Machen's novel, they certainly are.
    We jump ahead, then, hearing no more of Mary, but of an orphan named Helen Vaughan, whose guardian sends her to the country to live. Here she becomes friends with Rachel, who witnesses evil, then strangely vanishes. We jump ahead again, and hear about Mr. Herbert, who has been ruined by his evil wife. As the story progresses, we are able to trace the damage done by Dr. Raymond, and I won't say more or it will give away the secrets.
    Below are two images from Wikipedia about Pan. The first is a statue of Pan having sex with a goat, a statue from Villa of the Papyri, Herculaneum. The second is a depiction of Pan in which the caption reads, "Sweet, piercing sweet was the music of Pan's pipe."

    Of the 236 pages in this Dover volume, Pan only takes up 66. Machen provides introductions to both, and they are as fascinating as his novels, enabling us to peer into the mind of this great creator. He took his critics seriously when then said he was copying Robert Louis Stevenson's style, so The Hill of Dreams made a huge break from Machen's former method.
    It is the story of Lucian Taylor, the son of a country vicar in Wales who longs to be a writer. Machen wanted to write a story about someone who was isolated emotionally, creatively, spiritually even when among people, a "Robinson Crusoe of the soul," as Machen put it. Much of it is autobiographical, according to information gleaned from the introduction, but perhaps even more frightening is its similarity to many of us who are gifted with the artistic and creative nature, myself most definitely included. Thankfully, neither I nor Machen have carried it to such tragic and pathetic extremes, but there was still much I could relate to.
    Lucian's father is a free-thinker, so they are therefore scorned by the rest of the religious community, and quite in poverty. Lucian reads, but classics and serious literature, while everyone else he knows is more interested in sports and light entertainment. He goes to school for a while, but then must quit because of financial problems. His mother dies while he is at school. His father is a kind and gentle man. Lucian spends his time exploring the beautiful countryside, and one day comes upon a steep hill where at the top lies an ancient Roman fort. He falls asleep and awakens to find himself unclothed or partially unclothed. He believes he is surrounded by fauns or other pagans, and is ashamed because he believes something evil has happened. For the rest of his life, he is haunted by the fear that he has been initiated into some occult rite. This becomes his Hill of Dreams.
    Meanwhile, his hatred toward humanity grows—the people of the town who are materialistic, shallow and pretentious. He especially hates women, though Machen did not. (He was happily married twice—devastated when his first wife Amy died of cancer in 1899, but married Dorothie in 1903.) He wants to be a writer, and finally sends off a manuscript to a certain publisher. After months he still has heard nothing, so he writes to inquire. He is told that the reviewer has had a cold, and the decision will come soon! He of course is rejected, but shocked when he finds that another book has just been published—in which he also discovers that 80-90 pages have been stolen from his manuscript! His father, usually calm, is infuriated and urges him to fight this downright theft, but he says he won't win, and lets it go.(This actually happened to Machen with this book, which is why it was not published until 1907, ten years after it was written!!).
    He becomes filled with hopelessness and despair, especially when he learns that the relative who was expected to give him financial support has now refused because he is considered a loser who won't get a real job. (Boy, does that sound familiar.)
    One evening he is walking home when he crosses paths with Dr. Burrows, who suggests a shortcut. He takes it, but finds himself totally lost in the growing darkness. He finally sees familiar ground, and runs into Annie, a neighbor he has adored. They kiss and she comforts him, unlike any other woman he has ever known. But she is going to visit her sister for a while, and ultimately they never see each other again.
    After this, his whole vision changes. He becomes obsessed with the memory of Annie, performing self-mutilations on his body to prepare and sacrifice for her. He painstakingly prepares an illuminated manuscript for her, and immerses himself in the Roman history of the area, imagining he lives in ancient Rome. Finally another relative unexpectedly does give him money. He gives part of it to his father, then invests the rest so he can live in London, where he feels he will be able to do his best work. But his obsessions, perfectionism, and fears merely follow him.
    This work is considered by many to be Machen's masterpiece and while I still have not read many of his works as of this writing, I certainly do agree that it is an astounding work of art. It meticulously delves into the mind of the creative artist, and while exaggerated, at least as far as his own life, there are many other great creative people to whom this story would probably even apply more literally. One of the elements that makes it so profound is his ability to paint a sharp portrait with words. There is little dialogue in the story; it mostly consists of Lucian's thoughts and vivid descriptions of the environment. Therefore, to close this review, I will supply some quotes.
    The first one is about cider. Old Mr. Morgan invited Lucian in to taste some, and though he doesn't really want it, he takes it. It is given to him by Annie, and he realizes how attracted he is to her. He is glad he has tasted the cider, because it is very good:

The drink was really good; not thin, nor sweet, but round and full and generous, with a fine yellow flame twinkling through the green when one held it up to the light. It was like a stray sunbeam hovering on the grass in a deep orchard, and he swallowed the glassful with relish, and had some more, warmly commending it. Mr. Morgan was touched.

    In the next quote, Lucian had reached the height of his disgust with humanity, especially the people who lived nearby, and even more especially, those pretending to be such good Christians. After this outburst, however, he was deeply frightened by his thoughts concerning the devil, and feels great guilt:

Lucian looked into his own life and his own will; he had not been consciously malignant, he had never deliberately aided in oppression, or looked on it with enjoyment and approval, and he felt that when he lay dead beneath the earth, eaten by swarming worms, he would be in purer company than now, when he lived amongst human creatures. And he was to call this loathsome beast, all sting and filth, brother! "I had rather call the devils my brothers," he said in his heart, "I would fare better in hell." Blood was in his eyes, and as he looked up the sky seemed of blood, and the earth burnt with fire.

    And here's an impression of the local ladies:

His old ideals were almost if not quite forgotten; he knew that the female of the bête humaine, like the adder, would in all probability sting, and therefore shrank from its trail, but without any feeling of special resentment. The one had a poisoned tongue as the other had a poisoned fang, and it was well to leave them both alone.

    Here is one where he is becoming obsessed with the sensuality of the sense of smell, as he is on one of his imaginary journeys into ancient Rome, his garden of Avallaunius, as he named it:

The stained marble of the pavement gave a cool reminiscence of the Italian mountain, the blood-red roses palpitating in the sunlight sent out an odour mystical as passion itself, and there was the hint of inebriation in the perfume of the trellised vines. Besides these, the girl's desire and the unripe innocence of the boy were as distinct as benzoin and myrrh, both delicious and exquisite, and exhaled as freely as the scent of the roses. But there was another element that puzzled him, an aromatic suggestion of the forest. He understood it at last; it was the vapor of the great red pines that grew beyond the garden; their spicy needles were burning in the sun, and the smell was as fragrant as the fume of incense blown from afar. The soft entreaty of the flute and the swelling rapture of the boy's voice beat on the air together, and Lucian wondered whether there were in the nature of things any true distinction between the impressions of sound and scent and color. The violent blue of the sky, the song, and the odours seemed rather varied symbols of one mystery than distinct entities. He could almost imagine that the boy's innocence was indeed a perfume, and that the palpitating roses had become a sonorous chant.

    And this last quote might possibly hold true for both Lucian and Machen—the ideal of writing:

"Literature," he re-enunciated in his mind, "is the sensuous art of causing exquisite impressions by means of words."

    This book truly is a literary feast for the senses, a masterpiece of fiction, and I highly recommend reading it.

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