The Architect
by Connell, Brendan
The mad and mystical Körn Society, based in Ticino, Switzerland, sets
itself the task of building a grand, soul-uplifting Meeting Place for
its members. An inspired architect, a visionary in stone, must be found,
and one such is available: the mysterious and unpredictable Alexius
Nachtman. But is he perhaps too visionary? This is the effect of his book of sketches:
“Huge edifices, megastructures, poured from the leaves. Bridges
which spanned oceans, towers which stretched into the clouds, huge
fortresses which looked as if they could withstand the destructive force
of an Armageddon. Vertical cities rose up from desert plains in
startling anaxometrics, while spatial cities, cities built fifteen or
twenty meters above their counterparts, stood forth as visions of
utopian architecture, only to be outdone on subsequent pages by floating
cities, vast nests of hexagonal pods resting atop lakes and oceans.
Structures which straddled the earth and others which burrowed under it.
Buildings which brought to mind lost civilizations or seemed to be the
habitations of beings from another world . . . ”
Despite doubts, he is hired. And so, in this adventure of marble and
mortar, of machines and workmen, of cult and manipulation, the most
bizarre construction project since Babel commences its Cyclopean growth.
Written by a contemporary master of the decadent and grotesque, The Architect is like Greek tragedy on hallucinogens—a brilliant, stylish short novel of eccentricity and decay.
itself the task of building a grand, soul-uplifting Meeting Place for
its members. An inspired architect, a visionary in stone, must be found,
and one such is available: the mysterious and unpredictable Alexius
Nachtman. But is he perhaps too visionary? This is the effect of his book of sketches:
“Huge edifices, megastructures, poured from the leaves. Bridges
which spanned oceans, towers which stretched into the clouds, huge
fortresses which looked as if they could withstand the destructive force
of an Armageddon. Vertical cities rose up from desert plains in
startling anaxometrics, while spatial cities, cities built fifteen or
twenty meters above their counterparts, stood forth as visions of
utopian architecture, only to be outdone on subsequent pages by floating
cities, vast nests of hexagonal pods resting atop lakes and oceans.
Structures which straddled the earth and others which burrowed under it.
Buildings which brought to mind lost civilizations or seemed to be the
habitations of beings from another world . . . ”
Despite doubts, he is hired. And so, in this adventure of marble and
mortar, of machines and workmen, of cult and manipulation, the most
bizarre construction project since Babel commences its Cyclopean growth.
Written by a contemporary master of the decadent and grotesque, The Architect is like Greek tragedy on hallucinogens—a brilliant, stylish short novel of eccentricity and decay.