In a culture dominated by the religion of the absolutely autonomous individual will, how free is it possible to be? What does absolute freedom look like?
In Catatonia, Nicholas Shelley declares himself the new freedomâs avatar--the Apex of the Evolution of the Individual. He has even written its Manifesto--âWho Cares?â. It is a chilling document.
He sends the Manifesto to Bella Benfont, the young woman who happened upon him while he was in a catatonic state, standing in the rain, earlier that day as the novel opens.
It is her brother, Richard, however, who becomes obsessed with the Manifesto. But he has his own consuming idea which even surpasses his idolâs with the expressed intent to offer humankind an alternative to the false freedom of Christ and the Catholic Church: the freedom of the Living Dead Man.
Nicholas is impressed with the young guy but ultimately finds his solution ridiculous. He has moved on from what he calls âNicholas 1.0â and âNicholas 2.0â. The New Man--âNicholas 3.0â--has a new plan and new mantra.
He plots a coming out party for The New Man. It will be his greatest triumph yet--and a fiery one.
In a culture dominated by the religion of the absolutely autonomous individual will, how free is it possible to be? What does absolute freedom look like?
In Catatonia, Nicholas Shelley declares himself the new freedomâs avatar--the Apex of the Evolution of the Individual. He has even written its Manifesto--âWho Cares?â. It is a chilling document.
He sends the Manifesto to Bella Benfont, the young woman who happened upon him while he was in a catatonic state, standing in the rain, earlier that day as the novel opens.
It is her brother, Richard, however, who becomes obsessed with the Manifesto. But he has his own consuming idea which even surpasses his idolâs with the expressed intent to offer humankind an alternative to the false freedom of Christ and the Catholic Church: the freedom of the Living Dead Man.
Nicholas is impressed with the young guy but ultimately finds his solution ridiculous. He has moved on from what he calls âNicholas 1.0â and âNicholas 2.0â. The New Man--âNicholas 3.0â--has a new plan and new mantra.
He plots a coming out party for The New Man. It will be his greatest triumph yet--and a fiery one.
At the intersection of two busy city streets, a man
stood in the pouring rain on the sidewalk unmoving. His
head was bent forward, his eyes focused on a spot below in
the puddled sidewalk. His clothes were soaked and
blackened. He wore no raincoat or jacket, just a cotton t-
shirt and jeans. Long strands of black hair clung to his
face. Pedestrians splashed and scurried around him. Blinded
by umbrella edges, the man's legs would suddenly appear
beneath their blurred line of sight. Then they would jump
aside to avoid him or occasionally, seeing him too late,
barge into the figure blocking their path. The standing man
was collecting bumps and curses by the minute but seemed
completely unaware of any of it. He was also unaware that a
young woman was videoing him with her phone from several
yards away.
"What's this? A protest of some kind?" she thought,
water dripping off her baseball cap. âWell, at least he's
not going to set himself on fire. Not today anyway.
3
Performance art? That could explain anything and everything
these days."
Another pedestrian, a Catholic priest, had been
watching the stationary man with growing interest from the
protection of an awning covering the entrance to a bodega.
The young woman noticed his approach and shifted to bring
the priest into the frame. The crisp white square of the
Roman collar at his throat glowed in the dimness of rain
and spray and mist. Weaving his way to the man through the
streaming crowd, he arrived beside him and lifted his
umbrella higher to shelter them both.
Minutes passed as they stood together, silent and wet.
Then the priest, juggling his umbrella, removed his black
raincoat and placed it gently over the other's shoulders.
Passersby slowed to wonder at them but buffeted by the
determined flow of the crowd were forced to move on and
they quickly forgot the odd couple.
"Move for Chrissakes!" a voice growled at the young
woman. She hopped off the sidewalk and into the street.
Even a man standing motionless in the rain could be an
Instagram hit, #whatisawtoday. The priest's act of kindness
prompted a more compelling hashtag, #kindnessofstrangers.
4
Noticing her, the priestâs face lit up. He waved at her
dramatically to come closer. Still videoing, she joined
him, but slowly and frowning.
"Oh, thank you for joining us. I can't seem to rouse
him."
Now, close up, the priest reminded her of an actor, of
that Irish actor, Peter OâToole.
"Who is he?" the girl asked, turning off her phone and
sliding it into her back pocket.
"I have no idea," the priest answered. "Do you?â
"No. But I think he's faking it," she said with a
skeptical eye on the priest.
"Oh no, I really don't think so. I did think so but
I've been watching his eyes. I'm pretty sure he hasn't
blinked."
"I think you're faking it, too, by the way,â she said.
Her earlier suspicion that she might be witnessing
performance art when the man was standing alone seemed even
more plausible now. This âpriestâ was altogether too
animated, too creepily eager to please. If indeed he was an
actor attempting to persuade her to believe he was a
priest, he was a bad actor. She expected the two of them
would break out laughing any moment.
5
But the priest went on, committed to the part. âOh GOD
yes!" He answered her accusation with a large smile that
could have been seen from the back of the house. Rather
than defending himself, it was if she had handed him a most
appreciated compliment.
"I've been faking it all my life. So clever of you. You
see right through me."
"So you're not a real priest?" she said, with a smirk
of satisfaction.
"Well, yes I am," he insisted. "I have the documents to
prove it. Somewhere. But yes, yes, I've been one for forty
years. But I've never in all that time felt like one.
Whatever one is supposed to feel who is one.â
"You mean, a priest."
"Yes, one of those. Just never felt like I fit in in
real life.â He went on in a confidential whisper. âSo I've
felt like a fake priest every day for forty years.â
Perhaps he was a real priest. Perhaps he was a bad
actor pretending to be one. She didnât care.
âThis is all too weird--sorry--but don't you think we
should, like, do something?" she said nodding toward the
man.
6
"Oh PLEASE," the priest said, lifting his head as if
dodging a projectile, "don't say 'like'!"
"'Like?'" the girl said, too surprised to be offended.
"Yes, well, no. Not the word. The usage! It should be
banned by Papal decree!..You seem an intelligent person and
I was just getting to 'like' you. Yes, but I used it the
proper way. When you used it, you might as well have said,
'Do you think we should, I'm stupid, do something?â"
For a moment, the young woman thought she was going to
turn and walk away leaving him to do whatever it was he
might decide to do.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I've overwhelmed you--â
"Certainly not," the girl shot back at him.
âForgive me anyway, wonât you? When Iâm nervous I come
on a little too strong. Then to answer your honest
question, I have no idea what to do. Which is why Iâm
nervous. Why don't you try?"
"What can I do? We don't even know what's wrong with
him.â
"Catatonia?" the priest suggested with a lift of his
eyebrows and a questioning smile.
"You mean, he's, I'm stupid, stuck like that?"
7
The priest roared with delight at this but caught
himself quickly in deference to his new friendâs condition.
"Oh my God, you are a treasure! But, yes. I think so."
"Isn't it rare?"
"Oh no," the priest protested smiling even more broadly
now. "I have a classroom full of catatonics."
Evidently this was intended to be a great joke. The
girl frowned back at him, shaking her head. She moved
closer to the silent rain-soaked man and bent slightly to
peer up into his downturned eyes.
"He's not dangerous, is he?" she asked. "I mean, he's
not going to wake up and knife me or anything, right?"
"I don't think so. I hope not," the priest said, the
first note of seriousness creeping into his voice.
"Thanks. That's very reassuring."
But suddenly, the priest reached out and pushed her
back a step. There was concern in his eyes. "Hold on a
minute. Listen. I feel I've been very irresponsible.
Neither of us are equipped for this. I should call 911."
"So he could be dangerous?" the girl asked, unnerved by
the priest's sudden reaction and now feeling there might,
in fact, be real danger here.
8
"Well, we just don't know, do we?" the priest said.
"What if he harms you? I wouldn't be able to forgive
myself. We've been having a jolly little talk here under,
as you say, the weirdest circumstance in which two people
meet for the first time. I--I don't even know your name!
I'm Jim Flynn, by the way. And I desperately want to avoid
our next meeting to be in the parousia."
"Wait a minute, you're Father Jim Flynn. From St.
Augustine's?"
"Yes!" the priest nearly shouted but caught himself again. With the slow-dawning realization that he had so stupidly allowed this pleasant, unsuspecting young woman to put herself at risk, her abrupt and surprising reaction to his name came as a gift of grace (as he liked to think all things came) and in his typically dramatic fashion, left him enraptured. "How do you know me? Isn't this the most incredible of coincidences? It's wonderful, isn't it? Sometimes I think coincidence is more like a god than God. Perhaps coincidence is God. It resembles a hand of fate at times so convincingly, even the modern Epicurean must wonder, don't you think?"
"Yeah, well, whatever," the girl said. It was clear she
hadn't understood a word he had said. "But how I know you
9
is, my brother talks about you. He's a junior at St.
Augustine's. Richard--Richard Benfont."
âYes, of course, Richard...Oh dear," the priest said,
placing the name. "Oh dear, oh dear."
"What?" the girl asked anxiously.
"A classroom full of catatonics, I said. I'm so sorry!
Once again, for perhaps the millionth time in my life, I
have to abjectly apologize for my big mouth. I was just
making a joke, a bad joke. Richard is not one of my
catatonics. Your mind may rest on that.â
She noticed that he was suddenly looking at her in a
new way, as if trying to place her.
"Father, look, I'm just going to touch him softly and
if that doesn't work I'll wait with you until an ambulance
comes. I don't know where he'd hide a knife if he had
one...I'm Bella, by the way."
Now the girl reached out slowly, pushed aside the
raincoat and touched the man's bare wet arm, rubbing it
gently up and down.
"Hello in there. Anybody home?" she offered softly with
a weak nervous smile.
At first, there was no reaction, but as she continued
rubbing his arm it moved. Slowly, slowly, his arm drifted
10
up to wipe the hair from his face. The girl stepped back.
She saw that his lips were thin and small, too small for
the width of his jaws. His cheeks were flat, almost
indented, making his face seem like a mask. His nose was
long and straight--a good nose. But it was his eyes that
disturbed her. Too close together, perhaps, in that flat
expanse of dead-grey tissue but so black it seemed
impossible any light could penetrate them.
Having brought her into focus, the manâs face took on a
mean and threatening expression. He turned to the priest
who was leaning in toward him, his face close and anxious.
The man stepped away in alarm.
"Ah!" said the priest, "you've returned to life.
Welcome back. Can we help you in any way? Wouldn't you like
to go somewhere and get warm? Dry off? You must be so
uncomfortable. I know we are and you've been standing here
much longer. Come, come with me. You, too, Bella." And he
gently took the man's arm. But the man pushed his arm away
roughly. With his drenched hair like black slashes across
his face, he became a truly threatening vision. The priest
moved away from him under the pressure of it but Bella
stepped even closer and took the manâs arm, which he
11
allowed or perhaps did not feel or notice. The rain had
stopped.
"I'll take him wherever he has to go, Father," she
said, removing the priestâs raincoat and handing it back to
him. To the priest, she sounded calm and capable and he was
much relieved by this. Yet, ironically, Bella Benfont was
now herself acting a part--that of a confident, level-
headed, not-easily-frightened young woman. The truth was
that, for as long as she could remember, she had lived in
fear of her own cowardice and for just as long had fought
it with very mixed results. In the last few minutes, she
had felt the old enemy rising again. She could not bear the
thought that it might win this round, not in front of this
priest. So she had stepped forward, acting quickly and
without thinking. Shaking but determined, she turned and
led the man away. The priest watched them go.
"GOD BLESS YOU BELLA!" he called after them. "AND YOU
TOO YOUNG MAN!"
After a few steps, her charge shrugged off her guiding
hand and sped up unsteadily, leaving her behind. But very
soon he was staggering badly yet he kept going even picking
up his pace and not once looking back at her.
"Hey," she called after him. "Are you OK now?"
12
Up ahead, the manâs hands had begun to tremble and his
body was shuddering violently. A moment later he collapsed
on to his hands and knees, breathing fast and shaking all
over. Bella ran to him and dropped down beside him,
throwing her arm over his back. The flow of pedestrians had
fallen off and they were nearly alone on the street.
"You saw," the man mumbled into the pavement.
"Yes," Bella answered softly.
"It happens...when it wants to happen."
"You're freezing! I mean, God, you're completely soaked
through--câmon, let me help you up--can you stand?--Iâm
going to call an Uber."
She heaved the shivering figure onto his feet and
fumbled her phone out of her pocket. She ordered the car
and looked around to see that the man had staggered several
steps away and seemed to be heading blindly into the road.
âHey-hey-hey! Wait up. I've got an Uber coming. Just
stand here." She sprinted up to him and grabbed his arms.
Now she held him close as they both stood by the curb.
"I-I-don't b-b-believe in g-g-gratitude,â the man
suddenly said but his voice came with very little force and
Bella did not hear him.
13
"Don't talk. I didn't realize. . . I mean, this thing
you've got, it's really awful, isn't it?"
âThis is what happens. After. Don't need a car. I live
just d-d-down there." He pointed across the street with a
shaking finger.
âOK, c'mon, I'll walk you home." She took his arm,
holding it firmly, and with her other arm around his back
they crossed the street looking like a pair of lovers.
A few blocks down a street with several boarded up
houses on both sides and almost all of the rest run-down
and shabby, they stopped in front of a dirty white single-
story ranch that had two entries, the front door for the
main, larger part of the house in which all the windows
were boarded up, and another door which seemed to be a
secondary entrance to an addition or attached apartment set
back from the front of the house. There was a window beside
this door which was not boarded up. The man listed onto the
dirt path leading to this door and together they mounted a
broken step to a small porch.
The man opened the front door (it was unlocked) and
they entered a scene of dishevelment and decay that took
Bella's breath away. It was a single large room with a
single door in the back wall into a bathroom. This door was
14
open, or rather the doorway was open, as the door itself
leaned against the wall beside it. It had been ripped from
its frame. Bella could see pieces of the wooden doorframe
still screwed into the hinges. Nails had been pounded into
the door from which hung several pairs of jeans. In the
main area, sweaters and sweatshirts and T-shirts, socks and
shoes, were scattered across the floor and piled onto every
surface. The long low couch along the right wall evidently
also served as the man's bed. A sheet and blanket were
crumpled up in a pile near one end with a throw pillow
peaking out from between them. A low coffee table in front
of it sat at an odd angle to the couch, as if the man had
kicked it out of the way upon waking. The center of the
room was taken up with a large square table and three
matching chairs. There was a laptop computer on the table
crowded into one end by a chaos of dirty plates, used
coffee cups and drinking glasses and assorted silver ware.
A hotplate at the table's other end, surrounded by cans and
jars and three stacked cooking pots with handles, was
connected to an extension cord that ran across the floor to
the single outlet in the wall opposite the couch. There was
no rug on the floor and no ornamentation or artwork on the
walls. There were no bookshelves or closets. The walls
15
themselves as well as the ceiling were stained with years
of grime, possibly from a former heavy smoker, and the
yellowed and filthy wallpaper was peeling off in several
places. In the ceiling over the table hung what must have
been the original fixture. An old and fraying electrical
cord extended from a hole in the cracked ceiling and
twisted down toward a small ancient glass globe covered in
dust and grime. Inside, dead insects threw spotty shadows
on the table top.
It was several moments before Bella recovered from her
first reaction of disgust and even alarm to notice that the
furniture beneath all the detritus was in fact new and very
expensive. It might have been lifted straight out of a
Crate and Barrel showroom. The rocking chair positioned in
the corner in front of the one window which looked out onto
the street was sleek and minimalist, with a tubular frame
wrapped in light blonde leather. The couch was long, low,
grey, and uncomfortable-looking in classic Swedish design.
Both the table with its matching chair set and the coffee
table were made of blonde wood with tubular steel legs.
As the initial shock wore off, Bella's first clear
thought was that she had made a terrible mistake. Her
constant battle with the charge of cowardice which she was
16
so quick to level against herself and in which she had won
her most recent round back on the street, had gotten her
into this situation. "What have I done?" she thought. "What
am I doing here? Look at how he lives! What kind of a crazy
bastard have I got myself hooked up with! Oh God, I just
want to go home!" Without realizing it she had begun to
back toward the front door. She bumped up against it and
pressed herself into it.
"Go ahead, run away," the man murmured in a dead voice.
He had stumbled into the room and now stood weak-kneed,
propping himself upright with his hands pressed and splayed
against the table top, his head hanging loose.
âWell, what do you expect?â she responded with a
defensive glare.
âI expect you to run away,â he murmured. Then he turned
slowly, leaning his back against the table edge for
support, slid along it to the nearest of the three chairs.
He fell sprawling onto it, legs fanned out, hands between
his thighs, his head thrown back as if it was too heavy to
hold up. Bella knew that he was watching her, though
because of the angle, it appeared that his eyes were
closed. A slight twitch of his lips greeted her.
17
"You. Look. Ridiculous," he said, each word requiring
its own breath to escape.
Bella felt that was exactly how she must look and,
ashamed, stepped purposefully away from the door and into
the room. She searched for a dry towel and found one tossed
in a corner.
"If you want to see ridiculous, look around," she said,
throwing the towel over his shoulders. She could not see
those black eyes and was glad of it.
For a long time neither spoke nor moved, but finally
with an effort the man began to adjust himself into a more
normal sitting position. His breathing had become less
labored and color was returning to his flat mask of a face.
He began to study her more closely. His eyes moved over her
as if he was seeing her for the first time.
She had dark brown hair cut short with a natural curl
that softened her square jaw and accented her brown eyes.
She was not pretty in any conventional sense. Most people
would not notice her in passing. But there was something
about her that acted on certain people very strongly, those
that happened to be face to face with her like store clerks
or pizza delivery drivers. If anyone afforded her more than
a mere glance, they would sense a kind of aura of
18
femininity about her. It was a subtle effect. She was not
outgoing and did not expect to be noticed or particularly
wish to be. But in the way she held herself, in the
unconscious movements of her body, and especially in the
loveliness of her hands, which were long and thin with
beautifully molded fingers, she displayed a kind of genius
for evoking sympathy and good-feeling in others. Yet--and
adding to the effect--of all this she was completely
unaware. In fact, her own image of herself was as a very
ordinary, inconsequential person, unattractive but at least
not repulsive, unintelligent but not a complete dope, flat-
chested, narrow-hipped, with a nice enough smile and decent
teeth.
âWhat,â the man challenged as he watched her eyes
assess the space.
"Nothing. I mean...how can you live like this?"
"Rich parents," he said with a sneer.
This produced an involuntary snort of nervous laughter.
âWow, itâs a wonder what money can buy these days,â Bella
said with a sideways glance anticipating some kind of
reaction but he ignored the comment.
19
"I told them I'd disown them if they didn't support me
without question. And of course they did. But I will disown
them anyway.â This he pronounced with evident pride.
They were silent for a moment, each now more at ease
with the other.
"Why did you think I was going to run away?â Bella
asked at last, hoping her voice sounded matter-of-fact,
indifferent.
"I'm surprised you're still here.â
"What's so surprising about it?"
He tilted his head and peered at her from half-closed
eyes, contemptuously but also somewhat amused. Earlier that
morning, before his fit had stopped him in his tracks, he
had been on his way to a meeting with his uncle whom he had
not seen in years. He had been anticipating this reunion
with a nearly frantic intensity. Of course, now he had
missed the meeting but was only waiting for the after
effects of the attack to end before starting out again. His
amusement arose from her question, to which the answer was
that her presence had truly surprised him. In his weakness,
he had been forced to abide her help and now as he regained
control of himself, his contempt for her was only surpassed
by his contempt for that weakness. But, then again, he
20
considered, perhaps there was...Yes. Why not? Letâs have a
little test.
âSince you're not going to run away, sit down."
Bella moved to the far end of the couch, the only space
free of tossed off clothing, inspecting it critically,
perhaps for bugs or evidence of mice. She wiped at the
fabric while not actually touching it then lowered herself
onto its edge.
The man had watched her movements with interest, but
Bella was growing accustomed to his penetrating manner of
looking at her.
âIsn't it about time you told me your name?â she said.
"You first," he said.
"Bella."
"Bella what?"
"Benfont. Your turn."
âNicholas."
"Nicholas what."
"Shelley."
âWould you please change into dry clothes. It's
uncomfortable trying to talk to someone whoâs
uncomfortable."
21
Nothing in his demeanor changed and she at first
wondered whether he had even heard her, but then decided
his silence was due to a kind of ongoing assessment, as if
he were trying to make a decision about her candidacy for
some project or purpose.
Finally, he stood and, steadier now, walked through the
clutter to the bathroom. He emerged dressed in a black
hoodie with the hood up, black pants and black Chuck
Taylors. Sitting on the edge of the couch with her elbows
on her knees and hands clasped, Bella involuntarily jerked
upwards.
"Oh! Now I get it," she said half-smiling with sudden
insight. "You're antifa! Where's your balaclava?"
He came to an abrupt halt in front of her, as if he'd
walked into an invisible wall. Standing only a few paces
away, between her and the table, his mouth hardened and
almost disappeared as his lips tightened and shrunk. He
turned the nearest of the kitchen chairs toward her and
sat.
"First of all, I am not antifa. Let the children rage.
They are inconsequential. In the extreme!" He paused,
regarding her with his attitude of precise and focused
attention.
22
"Here's a situation and I'd like to know what you think
of it," he finally said. It was clear to Bella that some
kind of decision had been made, and in her favor.
"OK," she said, taking a deep breath of relief and
leaning forward.
"You are sitting at a red light," he began, "waiting for it to change. The oncoming cars have an advance green light so they get a head start of a couple of seconds before your light turns green. You are bored and turn your attention to the drivers in these cars as they slowly accelerate toward you. Maybe only three or four cars pass by you before your light turns green, but in those few seconds it dawns on you that you are a whole universe unto yourself, not a part of any other, and they are too. And you realize that all along you've taken it for granted that your universe is the only one that matters, because of course it is the only one that matters. And yet there they go, those other drivers in their cars, unconsciously secure that their universes are each the only universes that matter, each one representing an absolute denial of your own certain existential knowledge that there can be only one pure universe--your own. Of course yours is the only universe that matters! How dare they exist! And with that,
23
the light changes and you drive off to pick up the milk,
feeling a little sick in your tummy."
He stopped and Bella watched him, waiting for some
direction, but none came. "I don't know what you want me to
say," she said. "What am I missing?"
Nicholas didn't answer but rose in disgust from his
chair and turned his back to her, then planted his hands on
the table top again, leaned forward and dropped his head,
the same posture he had taken earlier.
Bella was all too aware of the inadequacy of her
response but was so completely baffled by his 'situation',
what it meant and what he expected her to say about it,
that she couldn't even feel guilty for having disappointed
him. She felt lost and suddenly very tired.
"I--I--" Bella began, but he interrupted her.
"No, no, don't speak."
"I should go. I don't feel--"
"Run away,â he demanded into the table top.
With effort, Bella lifted herself off the couch and
shuffled to the door. She reached for the doorknob but
stopped and turned back into the room and joined him at the
table. She scanned the rubbish, found a torn-open envelope
24
and a ballpoint pen. She wrote on the envelope, slid it
between his hands and left.
"Bella 737-8550"
After several minutes, Nicholas raised his head (his
eyes had been closed the whole time) and saw the note on
the table top in front of him. Absently he crumpled it up
and rolled it away, just another item of rubbish. Alone
now, his eyes swept over the disorder in the room and he
found that it calmed the disorder inside him. In fact, he
used the room and its chaotic contents as a kind of
touchstone to remind and reassure himself in those moments
of doubt which he was struggling to make less and less
frequent. To remind himself that he had risen above the
human rubbish all around him. And to reassure himself that
an occasional slip backward--as with the little test--was
only to be expected. He smiled. He was rather impressed
with himself, remembering how the early doubts, so intense,
so debilitating, had left him longing for the comfort and
warmth of the rubbish heap of ordinary life. And why was
that? Because of self-pity! And cowardice! Now, months
later, he could call up the memory like an anti-Muse, not
to be inspired by but to be repulsed by. And thus had he
won significant victories over himself.
25
He glanced up at the wall clock. He would be very late
for his uncle but he didnât care. He was fully recovered
now and there was a small precious flutter of excitement in
his stomach.
"Breathe. Just breathe." He closed his eyes and took
several deep breaths. When he opened them again, they fell
upon the crumpled note on which Bella had written her cell
number. With a quick, sharp motion, as if trying to hide
the action from his conscious mind, he retrieved it and
hurriedly stuffed it in his pocket. Then he left slamming
the door behind him.
When Bella notices Nicolas on the street in a catatonic state, letting the rain fall down and people blunder past him without awareness, she films him before intervening, believing him to need her help. Also, watching Nicolas is Father Flynn, a Catholic priest and teacher, and unbeknown to Bella prior to their serendipitous meeting, a good friend and confidant of her mother. In trying to help someone who they believe needs assistance, they both, but mainly Bella, find themselves thrown into a situation of uncertainty and questioning; this, for Bella, will have an enormous impact on her and her family.
Bella's kindness to Nicolas leads her to escort him home and she finds that he lives a life of regimented chaos - his home is unkempt but he has nice furniture, showing that he is not short of money - and when he shares with her his ideology or his manifesto, this acts as a catalyst, exposing Nicolas' nihilistic views to her wider circle with dire consequences.
This is a difficult book to discuss: for the most part I understood what Crane was trying to do and there is no doubt that he can write but it was not always easy. There were parts of it that had strength, like the way that the book starts, and the character of Eleanor and its message but there were many more parts where I was emotionally detached from the characters and the action of the story, and these moments made it hard for me to become fully immersed.
That being said, in many ways, it is a thought-provoking novel: Nicolas has, for Bella, a vulnerability and she becomes curious about him when he shares his world view. He is offering an alternative view to the purpose of life in a time where Catholicism and the church are waning. There is a lot of discussion about the power that Christianity holds over people, its motives for doing this, and the hope of an afterlife. Angela, Bella's mother, in particular demonstrates its hold; by putting her faith in her faith first, she is at risk of isolating herself from her loved ones.
When Nicolas is supported in his ideas by Richard, Bella's brother, Crane shows how dangerous acolytes can be when presented with a negative ideology with no boundaries, and chaos descends.
Interesting idea which earns three stars but at times, difficult to read.