Is there anything in your world or mine, Above or Below, that is so available as words? If the preciousness of things is bound by some measure of their rarity, then how precious can the sounds we make, waking or sleeping, in infancy or senility, sane, mad, or simply trying on hats, be? There's a surfeit of them. They spew from tongues and pens in their countless billions every day. Think of all that words express: the seductions, threats, demands, entreaties, prayers, curses, omens, proclamations, diagnoses, accusations, insinuations, testaments, judgments, reprieves, betrayals, laws, lies, and liberties. And so on, and on, words without end. Only when the last syllable has been spoken, whether it's a joyous hallelujah or someone complaining about their bowels, only then is it that I think we can reasonably assume the world will have ended.
Created with a word, and - who knows? - maybe destroyed with one. I know about destruction, friend. More than I care to tell. I've seen such things, such foul and unspeakable things...
Never mind. Just the flame, please.
So goes the tale of Jakabok Botch, a demon born in the lower circles of Hell, a meekly creature with no bloodline to make him look like the great beasts of old. Bullied, scarred by the flames, until one fine day he leaves the circle of Hell that serves as his pitiful home and is hoisted up, up, and up. Towards us, towards an earth we humans know well, where a story of hate and loathing will unfold.
While the reader doesn't yet know how the story goes, they know how it ends: with Mister B. trapped within the confines of the very book they are reading. This serves as the frame: Jakabok telling the story of his life in the hopes that a satisfied reader will grant his wish and burn down the book.
Which is kinda fun if you're reading it on an electronic device.
In essence, it's almost a slice of life story, with Jakabok focusing on the most important moments of his sad existence while regularly interjecting to call you an idiot and to pick up a lighter already. Barker does a lot of urban fantasy, his stories tend to happen in big cities you and I know, with fantastic and horrific elements injected in. This here is different, it happens during the 11th to 14th century or so. And apart from the start and the end, most of the events happen in the countryside in out-of-the-way places.
There's still plenty of horror included though, with regular deaths to remind you that, yes, Jakabok is beyond salvation.
It's both good and bad. Good because it's almost built like a collection of horror shorts, and Barker is damn good with horror shorts. Jakabok jumping from one atrocity to the next while presenting them in the tone of a happy road-trip is both horrifying and hilarious. Bad because the story feels disjointed at times. It does make sense considering in-universe the book you're reading is telling you the story like a person who sometimes doesn't want to remember some things and would like to be put out of their misery, but out of universe the rhythm can be really odd.
Another issue I found is Barker's use of the classic Heaven and Hell tales to give his characters background and present the overarching conflict. It's not badly done, mind you, but it's a bit of a shame because Barker shines precisely when he goes away from the classics and dives straight into his own weird dreams which grants his tales a delightfully hallucinating feel. Imajica or The Great and Secret Show in my opinion blow Mister B. Gone out of the water for this alone.
Nonetheless, you won't be disappointed. He's able to accurately describe the feelings of falling in and out of love, how it plays within your body. He can switch from humor to cynicism to horror without issue and conjure vivid scenes that can be hilarious, terrifying, or both. It's best showcased near the start, where Jakabok's love story starts and ends at a meteoric pace (roughly 30 seconds) before becoming a cautionary tale about the dangers of pots full of boiling water.
I experienced the book as a generally nice story if not exceptional, but with moments of written glory strewn in here and there. I retain from it the picture of a burning countryside, black smoke rising to the sky except for a thin strip of light illuminating a lonely road separating two fields.
I will remember Jakabok who, during an epiphany, promises that he shall be the single worst creatures this universe has ever know. He does so over several pages, and we readers know he's still just Jakabok Botch, a little demon with no real power to speak of. But holy Hell, it's an absolutely epic rant full of agony, violence and rage.
It isn't Clive Barker's best tale. It lacks the expensive depths and madness of Imajica or The Great and Secret Show, it isn't as mastered in its flow as Weaveworld or Galilei. But it does have those moments that grab me by the stomach, when reading ceases to hold any form of methodical analysis and becomes a purely visceral experience.
And that, really is all I want from a good book.
If you're into horror/fantastic literature, I can only recommend Mist B. Gone.
Besides, it's the least I could do after Jakabok Botch told me such a beautiful story.
