Horns of Mind
In the select passage from the chapter titled The House of God from Lindsay Clarke’s The Chymical Wedding, a character delivers a parable-like tale that veers into the surreal, serving as both allegory and critique of a society divorced from deeper spiritual meaning. Set against the backdrop of a party, the story reflects the novel’s ongoing exploration of alchemy—not only as a physical transformation, but as a spiritual and psychological one. The image of men sprouting pen-shaped horns from their foreheads—symbols of sterile intellect and disconnected eroticism—echoes the novel’s deeper concern with the fragmentation of the self and the loss of sacred union. The tale, told with sardonic humor and mythic overtones, acts as a mirror held up to a civilization that prizes sensation and cleverness over generative, integrated being:
‘Let me tell you a story,’ he said. ‘It’s about a country. A country where, after centuries of shame over their base animal nature, the people thought they’d finally broken free. Suddenly it was all body beautiful, capito? Sex was everywhere. Everyone wanted their share. Appetite and sensation were the order of the night. Are you with me?’
I nodded, amazed by the sudden lucidity of his voice.
‘And then something entirely unanticipated transpired. At the centre of their foreheads the men began to sprout horns — single, cartilaginous little horns. Like unicorns, you might think, but without the grace, without the mythic majesty. No, these horns were stubby little spigots right at the centre of their brows. In some, inevitably, they took the shape of pens.’ He smiled at me, sulphurously, again. ‘Being an educated young man, you will, no doubt, have recognized them already as secondary pricks. And what fun they were! Giving head took on a delicious new twist. Also, unlike the true generative organ skulking between the thighs, they carried with them no risk of pregnancy. Everyone could be as horny as they liked and all that was e-jac-u-lated from these splendid little temple stopcocks was a thin thrill of ideas, a harmless spurt of ink.’ He sniffed, downed the measure. ‘The only pity of it was — and some said it was a small enough price to pay for so neatly ducking the inflexible laws of generation — the only pity of it was that when they tried to make love the damned things got in the way.’
I laughed, as much at the doleful expression on his face as at the story. ‘It’s a true story, damn you,’ he growled. ‘A true story. And I need to pee.’ He got up and staggered out of the library. I waited a longish time, and when he didn’t come back, went out to look for him.
In the panelled hall the party was dispersing, hurriedly. I saw Neville Sallis, pale but beaming as he dismissed Ralph Agnew’s apologies. ‘Water off a duck’s back,’ he was saying without conviction. ‘Really. Don’t give it another thought.’
‘He can be . . . difficult, I’m afraid,’ Ralph persisted.
‘Poetic licence no doubt. Not every day one meets a sacred monster.’
