by Unknown
Not that, in the final balance, I am the most credible person when it comes to speaking of matters of the heart. I look back through these pages and I see, not the tale of heroism and true love that I must confess I’d hoped to write when I began, but the tale of how I became a loveless man who could barely summon enough empathy within himself to write a decent greeting card. A man who was weak and inconstant; a man without the strength to act, but who allowed himself to be acted upon by others without protest.
And it would be nice to draw some sort of overarching moral from all of this, wouldn’t it. It would be nice to point a finger at some omnipresent moral force that made me what I am; to blame Society, or Dynamos, or Women, or all those men who are lesser than myself, or everything but my own failure to listen to the music of the world instead of its noise.
But I think that I have had enough of blame. I think that it’s time to begin.
I’ve had enough of stories and lies; enough of silent scribbling. Enough of gears and engines. Enough of daydreams and false futures. Enough of virgins and dynamos.
One word from you is all I want, she said. Just speak one word, and we’ll begin.
Enough of wasting time.
It is time to put down the pen; time to clear the throat. Speaking is a different thing altogether from writing. The spoken word has different properties, and different powers. If I have learned anything from writing down my own tale, it is this.
The machines of this place are failing, and the woman and I are here all alone. The perpetual motion engine, as brilliant and beautiful as it is, is running down—nothing lasts forever. But before this little world falls out of the sky there might still be time enough for redemption. There is still time for me to say the words that I should have had the courage to say at the beginning.
There is still time, perhaps, for one more miracle.
Hello, Miranda.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Michael Wood and Adam Gussow made useful comments on early drafts of the opening pages of this novel that ended up determining its final direction.
Elements of the look and feel of the setting were inspired by discussions with Daniel Novak, Nicholas Brooke, and Robert Bowen.
Daniel Robinson, Keef Owens, Robert Bowen, and Drew Purves were kind enough to read an earlier version of this novel in its entirety.
Jeffery Renard Allen gave me helpful advice when the time came to stop writing (and rewriting) the novel and start attempting to publish it.
My literary agent, Susan Golomb, provided an invaluable critique of the manuscript and worked hard to find this novel a good home. In addition, I’d like to thank Rich Green, Casey Panell, Jon Mozes, Corey Ferguson, and Terra Chalberg.
Thanks to all the people at St. Martin’s Press who helped to transform these strings of ink marks into an actual book. In particular, my editor, Michael Homler, has been all I could have wished for and more.
Finally, thanks to my family, for a list of reasons that would run as long as the book itself.
—Dexter Palmer
March 13, 1996
May 4, 2009
Princeton, New Jersey/Tampa, Florida
