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    The Mind Parasites
    The Mind Parasites
    The Mind Parasites
    Ebook299 pages6 hours

    The Mind Parasites

    By Colin Wilson and Gary Lachman

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    Wilson has blended H.P. Lovecraft's dark vision with his own revolutionary philosophy and unique narrative powers to produce a stunning, high-tension story of vaulting imagination. A professor makes a horrifying discovery while excavating a sinister archaeological site. For over 200 years, mind parasites have been lurking in the deepest layers of human consciousness, feeding on human life force and steadily gaining a foothold on the planet. Now they threaten humanity's extinction. They can be fought with one weapon only: the mind, pushed to--and beyond--its limits. Pushed so far that humans can read each other's thoughts, that the moon can be shifted from its orbit by thought alone. Pushed so that man can at last join battle with the loathsome parasites on equal terms.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMonkfish Book Publishing
    Release dateMay 15, 2013
    ISBN9781939681089
    The Mind Parasites

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    • 5/5
      I really loved how this book makes you think about consciousness and the potentials it holds. I will say, the story is a little scattered, though loose ends are all tied up eventually. That doesn't take away the sense of their being 3 different stories in one. But despite that, I still think the novel is worth reading and that it holds very powerful inspiration.

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    The Mind Parasites - Colin Wilson

    e9781939681089_cover.jpg

    Colin Wilson has also written

    THE OUTSIDER

    RELIGION AND THE REBEL

    THE AGE OF DEFEAT

    THE STRENGTH TO DREAM

    ORIGINS OF THE SEXUAL IMPULSE

    BEYOND THE OUTSIDER

    INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW EXISTENTIALISM

    RASPUTIN AND THE FALL OF THE ROMANOVS AN

    ENCYCLOPEDIA OF MURDER (WITH PAT PITMAN)

    EAGLE AND EARWIG (ESSAYS ON BOOKS AND AUTHORS)

    CHORDS AND DISCORDS (ESSAYS ON MUSIC)

    SEX AND THE INTELLIGENT TEENAGER

    VOYAGE TO A BEGINNING (AUTOBIOGRAPHY)

    THE OCCULT

    and these novels

    RITUAL IN THE DARK

    ADRIFT IN SOHO

    THE WORLD OF VIOLENCE

    NECESSARY DOUBT

    THE GLASS CAGE

    THE SEX DIARY OF GERARD SORME

    THE BLACK ROOM

    THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE

    e9781939681089_i0001.jpg

    The Mind Parasites © 1967 by Colin Wilson. New afterword by Colin Wilson © 2005, new preface by Gary Lachman © 2005. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher except in critical articles and reviews. Contact the publisher for information: Monkfish Book Publishing Company 22 Market Street. Rhinebeck, N.Y. 12572

    Printed in the United States of America

    Book and cover design by Georgia Dent

    Art from Getty Images

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Wilson, Colin, 1931-

    The mind parasites : the supernatural, metaphysical cult thriller / Colin Wilson.

    p. cm.

    eISBN 9781939681089

    1. Thought and thinking--Fiction. 2. Mind and body--Fiction. 3. Supernatural--Fiction. 4. Parasites--Fiction. I. Title.

    PR6073.I44M56 2005

    823’.914--dc22

    2005024097

    Bulk purchase discounts for educational or promotional purposes are available.

    Monkfish Book Publishing Company

    22 Market Street

    Rhinebeck, New York 12572

    www.monkfishpublishing.com

    Table of Contents

    Colin Wilson has also written

    Title Page

    Copyright Page

    Dedication

    RETURN OF THE MIND PARASITES

    ORIGINAL PREFACE BY COLIN WILSON

    PREFATORY NOTE

    (THIS SECTION IS TRANSCRIBED FROM A TAPE RECORDING MADE BY DR. AUSTIN A FEW MONTHS BEFORE HIS DISAPPEARANCE. IT HAS BEEN EDITED BY H. F. SPENCER. )

    AFTERWORD FOR THE MIND PARASITES

    ABOUT THE AUTHOR

    FOR AUGUST DERLETH

    WHO SUGGESTED IT

    I must, before I die, find some way to say the essential thing that is in me, that I have never said yet—a thing that is not love or hate or pity or scorn, but the very breath of life, fierce and coming from far away, bringing into human life the vastness and the fearful passionless force of non-human things .. .

    BERTRAND RUSSELL

    Letter to Constance Malleson, 1918,

    quoted in

    My Philosophical Development p. 261

    RETURN OF THE MIND PARASITES

    I FIRST CAME ACROSS The Mind Parasites some time in late 1977, when I was a young New Waver, living in Los Angeles, making a living leading my own ‘power pop’ group, The Know. For the last few years I had been reading a great deal of, well, shall we say, unusual literature: Aleister Crowley, H.P. Lovecraft, Gurdjieff and Ouspensky: practically anything I could find on magic, the occult, mysticism and higher states of consciousness. Part of the inspiration for my fascination (or, as my girlfriend at the time considered it, obsession) with the peculiar canon of books the study of which has since become a lifelong occupation, came from one of the members of the band I had just left. Before breaking out on my own, I had been the bassist with the New York group Blondie. But after writing a couple of hit songs for them, and conquering New York, San Francisco, London and other cities, I decided it was time to start my own group. Aside from a few gold records, one of the things I walked away from Blondie with was an interest in the occult. The guitarist—the lead singer’s boyfriend—was deep into horror films, voodoo, black magic, Satanism, and other kitschy aspects of magic and the supernatural. Although I regarded all that (except for the horror films) with several grains of salt, and had never been interested in the occult before, I did find some of the books in his library interesting. One in particular caught my eye; its torn cover and soiled pages suggested it had already been through the counter-cultural wringer a couple of times, and when I slipped it off the shelf one afternoon, I expected nothing more than a good read. Little did I suspect that it would change my life. The book was Colin Wilson’s The Occult, and after a week transfixed behind its pages in my dilapidated room on the Bowery, I emerged a different person.

    By the time I moved to Los Angeles a year or so later, I was a dedicated Wilson reader, and since those early days I’ve had the great pleasure of visiting him in his home in Cornwall several times, and of writing about his work (see, for example, my book A Secret History of Consciousness (2003)). Back then I scoured second-hand bookshops for his work, paying high prices for out-of-print copies, and devoured the UK paperback imports that Papa Bach, a legendary but now long-defunct bookshop in Santa Monica, used to stock. Los Angeles in those days was a book fiend’s delight, and if you were, like myself, ravenous for works on magic, the occult, the paranormal, higher consciousness and esotericism, then you could hardly have asked for a better place to live.

    Although by the late ‘70s the ethos of the love generation had been replaced by the aggressive nihilism of punk, the remnants of an earlier, more magical and mystical time remained. Great bookshops like Gilberts on Hollywood Boulevard and the Bodhi Tree (where, oddly enough, I later worked) specialized in books on Eastern and Western mysticism, the occult and the offbeat in general. But even the mainstream shops had healthy sections on the occult, and often the remainder tables were filled with cheap reprints of occult classics, books by people like A.E. Waite, Sax Rohmer, Algernon Blackwood. What we call the New Age hadn’t yet started—I mark the beginning of that with the publication of Marilyn Ferguson’s The Aquarian Conspiracy in 1980—and the atmosphere was more one of exploration and intellectual adventure—as well as sheer fun—and not so much the, to my taste at least, pious sentimentality associated with so much of contemporary ‘spirituality’. There were Israel Regardie’s books on magic and The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Francis King’s books on Crowley, reprints of works about Gurdjieff and Ouspensky; there were Stan Gooch’s books on Neanderthal man, Lyall Watson’s work on the paranormal, Geoffrey Ashe’s books on Glastonbury and the Arthurian Legends. Even respected names from an older generation, like Arthur Koestler, were devoting important works to phenomena like telepathy and synchronicity and attacking entrenched positions in scientific reductionism. And, of course, there was Colin Wilson. Maybe it was me, but it seemed that almost everything worth reading then was coming over the pond (and across the Rockies) from England. I always had a ‘thing’ for England and English writers—maybe that explains why I’ve wound up living here—but I can’t recall any American writers at the time who were producing anything like the sort of stuff I, and a handful of other esoteric Anglophiles, were greedily absorbing. Come to think of it, I can’t think of many now, either.

    There seemed to be a ‘movement’ of some kind among these writers, an association of minds all concerned with a shared idea: the possibility of a breakthrough, a mutation or transformation in human consciousness. The limits of the Cartesian/Newtonian mechanistic dispensation were clear. Hard-line Darwinians had reduced human beings to pretentious apes, and in various forms academic psychology had practically made it a dogma that we were all little more than stimulus-response marionettes. Philosophy and literature too, were little better off. Anglo-American philosophy argued that all the interesting questions, those about meaning and purpose, were nonsense; their European counterparts were mired in neo-Marxist rhetoric or submerged in unreadable post-structuralism prose. And practically all ‘serious’ literature was dedicated to the proposition that human life was meaningless or, if it had any meaning at all, it was social, political or personal. There was nothing transcendental, nothing beyond the necessity of satisfying our immediate animal and political needs. The only area in which any sense of excitement, optimism and vision still remained was in the taboo realm of popular culture, in science fiction, fantasy and weird fiction. After more than a quarter of a century, it strikes me that, aside from a few exceptions, the climate still hasn’t changed that much.

    It would have been a dreary time indeed for anyone with any enthusiasm for knowledge, purpose and heightened experience, if it weren’t for these great books coming over from the UK. And of all the books I assimilated then at a rate I find difficult to match or to even come close to now, none had so great and immediate an impact on me as The Mind Parasites. On one of my regular forages for Wilson’s books (which involved enormously long walks and bus rides, as I hadn’t yet learned to drive, and being without a car in LA is a form of madness) I found an old US paperback edition. It was a Bantam, I think; sadly, I no longer have it, a result of having shipped my library across countries and oceans too many times. But that copy became the focus of a kind of ‘cult’. After I read it I loaned it to a friend, and after he read it, he did the same. Because we had enjoyed it so much, even people who had no interest in science fiction or ‘higher consciousness’ read it, and for a while it was a kind of joke to raise an eyebrow and, nodding knowingly, say mind parasites, eh?, whenever anything went wrong.

    On my first reading I burned through it in a day or two, only breaking away for necessities like sleep and band practice. Then I read it again, more slowly and deliberately, taking time to copy out scores of passages, meditating on lines like Human intelligence is a function of man’s evolutionary urge; the scientist and philosopher hunger for truth because they are tired of being merely human. The greatest human problem is that we are all tied to the present. Man is a continent, but his conscious mind is no larger than a back garden…man consists almost entirely of unrealized potentials. I cannot be contented to know that the endless realms of mind now lie open for man’s exploration; this does not seem enough.

    I could go on, but the problem with picking out stimulating one-liners like these is the same problem I encountered when I first began to copy out the many aphorisms that pop up in Wilson’s gripping narrative like sign posts on the way to the Absolute: when do you stop? I found back then that I could easily wind up simply copying the book itself. And now, having re-read it again nearly thirty years after my first encounter (and at this point I have no idea how many times I have re-read it), I still find the same problem. In many ways it strikes me that the narrative, as compulsive as any good thriller, is really an excuse to get to these hard gems of thought. Most readers know that Wilson wrote the book in response to a challenge by August Derleth, best known as the man responsible for saving the weird writer H.P. Lovecraft’s work from undeserved pulp oblivion. But although the interdimensional horrors that plague mankind are cut from Lovecraftian cloth, they are really only an excuse for Wilson’s protagonists to plunge into a dizzying exploration of their own minds. The real subject of the novel is human consciousness, and in many ways I emerged from my recent rereading with the feeling that the real ‘mind parasites’ are ourselves. We take our minds, our inner worlds, for granted, and do practically nothing to develop their real potential. That this potential exists, and that it is, if not limitless, at least far greater than any of us ever suspect, is the message that Wilson, in dozens of books, has been trying to get across to his readers for half a century. In The Mind Parasites he does this in an entirely new way; at least I can’t think of another book that brings together as disparate influences as Lovecraft, Husserl’s phenomenology, the history of consciousness and the Romantic movement under the same page-turning narrative roof. Or perhaps that is not entirely correct, as Wilson pulled the trick off again when he followed up The Mind Parasites with its sequel, The Philosopher’s Stone, which many consider his finest novel. I hope that this reissue of Wilson’s first existential-horror classic is successful enough for its publishers to consider bringing The Philosopher’s Stone back in print as well. And then there’s The Space Vampires…

    Novel? Well, I guess that’s a matter of opinion. There isn’t the character development that we usually associate with novels. This book, along with all of Wilson’s fictions, is really a fable of ideas, philosophical investigations that use the form of the novel—with story, action, characters and dialogue—to embody an exploration of reality. The medium is not looked upon with much encouragement these days, but Plato employed it, as later did Borges, so it has a respected pedigree. Wilson once scandalized the English literary establishment by stating that H.G. Wells was probably the greatest novelist of the twentieth century, and that his late novels—which many consider rather poor examples of his genius—were the most important of the many he wrote. Perverse opinion for its own sake? No; Wilson rates Wells highly because Wells used the novel to attack reality, not merely to portray it accurately, or even to explain it (and God help us from the spate of books ‘explaining’ everything nowadays), but to dig into it, to break open its complacent surface and get to the fiery life beneath. The only other novelist that Wilson rated as highly was the Austrian Robert Musil, author of the unfinishable philosophical epic, The Man Without Qualities. Readers of The Mind Parasites may not share Wilson’s opinion on Wells, but they may feel, I think, that after reading this welcomed republication, that they have something like a literary pickaxe in their hands.

    —GARY LACHMAN

    January 2005, London

    ORIGINAL PREFACE BY COLIN WILSON

    THE STORY OF HOW I came to write a ‘Lovecraft novel’ for Arkham House is a curious one. Several years back—it must have been about 1959—I had stopped at the Dorset farm of an old friend—an American named Mark Helfer. The setting of this place would have delighted Lovecraft. The small town of Corfe Castle is little more than a village, with winding streets and an ancient inn that sells superb beer. The castle itself is an impressive ruin dating back to the seventh century, and from its ramparts you can look out over the ‘wind blasted furze’ of Hardy’s Egdon Heath. To get to Mark Helfer’s farm, you turn under an ancient bridge, then climb a steep and narrow road into the hills. And finally, on a high, exposed hilltop, you reach the grey stone farmhouse, many hundreds of years old, with its thick walls and tiny windows. Its ceilings are low; the floors are of stone slabs; it has that smell of age and coldness which is not unpleasant.

    And there I lay in bed at half past eleven at night, the bedside lamp flickering (for the electricity was produced by a dynamo that thumped away in the distance), pleasantly drunk on Mark’s home made cider. (In England, all cider is alcoholic.) But I felt like reading before I dropped off to sleep, so I poked around the room for a book. And apart from old bound volumes of Punch and the Illustrated London News, all I could find was a book called The Outsider and Others by H. P. Lovecraft.

    The title interested me for a simple reason. Some three years earlier, I had been hurled into notoriety by the completely unexpected success of my first book, The Outsider, a rather heavy tome on existential philosophy. It had become an overnight best seller—to the publisher’s amazement—and was translated into sixteen languages within the course of a year. I knew my title was not original. The Negro writer Richard Wright had written a book of the same title in the early fifties. Camus’s L’Etranger, called The Stranger in America, is translated into English as The Outsider. There are at least three more novels of the same title. Still, I felt that my use of the word had a certain originality, for before my book, an outsider had simply meant somebody who didn’t belong. (‘We can’t have that bounder in the club. He’s a demned outsidah’.)

    I opened the Lovecraft book—I’d never heard his name before. It was an old, black-bound edition, printed in the late months of 1939, and it was on crumbling yellow paper that smelt musty. And before falling asleep I read The Outsider, The Rats in the Walls, and In the Vault, the story about the mortuary keeper who chops off the corpse’s feet to make it fit the coffin.

    I knew immediately that I had discovered a writer of some importance. So the next morning, when I left, I borrowed the book. And driving back towards my home in Cornwall, I brooded on the question of the horror story, and the type of imagination that produces it. I brooded to such good purpose that as soon as I got home, I began to write a book called The Strength to Dream, in which Lovecraft figures largely.

    I must confess that my estimate of Lovecraft would not have pleased his most ardent admirers. The view I expressed in that book was that, while Lovecraft was distinctly, a creative genius in his own way, his pessimism should not be taken too seriously: that it was the pessimism of a sick recluse, and had about it an element of rassentiment , a kind of desire to take revenge on a world that rejected him. In short, Lovecraft was a 19th century romantic, born in the wrong time. Most men of genius dislike their own age, but the really great ones impose their own vision on the age. The weak ones turn away into a world of gloomy fantasy.

    Well, the book appeared in England in 1961, and I thought I had done with Lovecraft. But later that year, I found myself in Providence, lecturing at Brown University. There I met the Blake scholar Foster Damon, who looks and sounds like Mark Twain, and he showed me the house where Poe had lived and told me of legends that still survived. But here, in this town of clapboard houses, with its streets ankle-deep in leaves, my imagination was haunted by another writer Lovecraft. I found that his stories now returned to mind a dozen times a day. I went and looked at the house in which Love-craft had lived; I spent hours in the university library reading Love-craft’s letters in manuscript, and a thesis that somebody had written on his life and work. Here I read for the first time The Case of Charles Dexter Ward and The Shadow Over Innsmouth. And I had to admit that there was something about Lovecraft that makes him very hard to dismiss. In many ways, I found him more impressive than Poe. Poe’s imagination was simply obsessed by death. In some ways, his most typical story is The Premature Burial, which is the kind of nightmare that might occur to any of us. Basically, Poe is a gentle romantic, a lover of beautiful, pale women and ancient Gothic mansions set among wooded hills. Lovecraft is not so concerned with death as with terror. Poe is pre-Dracula; Lovecraft is very much post-Dracula. Poe’s world is the world we all live in, seen through eyes that were always aware of ‘the skull beneath the skin’. Lovecraft’s world is a creation of his own, as unique and nightmarish as the world of Heironymus Bosch or Fuseli.

    I found the address of Arkham House in a bookseller’s catalogue, and wrote to enquire what books of Lovecraft were still available. The result was a friendly letter back from August Derleth, who knew my work. As a result of some of Derleth’s comments, I made several alterations of the Lovecraft sections in the American edition of The Strength to Dream, (although he still considered it unfair to Lovecraft). And, at some point in our correspondence, Derleth said: ‘Well, if you’re so critical about Lovecraft, why don’t you write a fantasy novel, and see whether it’s any good…’

    For a long time, it was only an idea floating in the back of my mind. Whenever I thought about it, I always came up against the same problem—a problem that has also given some trouble to Derleth, Robert Bloch, Donald Wandrei, and various other writers in the Lovecraft tradition. It is this. You begin your story with the old house or farm or whatever it is, and its queer goings-on. Then the narrator goes to investigate. Then Something Awful Happens—a rotting corpse knocks on the front door, a monster with tentacles on its belly tears down the wall, etc. This is inevitably the climax of the story, and it is hard to think up something that really terrifies you enough to make you terrify the reader.

    And then one day, when writing a chapter on phenomenology in a book about my own kind of existentialism, I saw the solution—monsters inside the mind… The result is my first fantasy novel—and probably the only one I shall ever write.

    e9781939681089_i0002.jpg

    But to return to Lovecraft. I am now willing to admit that my assessment of him in The Strength to Dream was unduly harsh. But I am still no nearer to understanding why Lovecraft exercises such a curious hold upon my imagination, when the work of Arthur Machen, for example, strikes me as only mildly interesting.

    I suppose what makes Lovecraft both good and bad is the fact that he was an obsessed writer. And this is also the reason that so few of the works in the Lovecraft tradition have touched the same level of imaginative power. August Derleth or Robert Bloch can capture the Arkham atmosphere and style excellently, but it doesn’t express their true centre of gravity as writers. Bloch is really himself in the all-too-possible horrors of Psycho, with its motel rooms and atmosphere of realistic nastiness such as you might find in the pages of any True Detective magazine. As to Derleth, his finest work is in a sphere far removed from horror or fantasy—books about everyday life in Sac Prairie, about the changes of season, the animals and birds. (His work reminds me in many ways of that of a much underrated English novelist, Henry Williamson, author of Tarka the Otter, as well as of that strange nature mystic, Richard Jeffries.) He is a writer in the great American tradition of Thoreau and Whitman—even, to some extent, of Sinclair Lewis.

    This explains why Lovecraft has remained unique, in spite of the number of writers who have been fascinated by his mythical world and by his style. He created the Cthulhu Mythos out of inner necessity, as Blake created the Prophetic books out of inner necessity.

    e9781939681089_i0003.jpg

    All of this amounts to admitting that Lovecraft possessed genius. And it is this, I think, that makes him basically a tragic figure. It also links him with my own ‘Outsider’ thesis, and with the present novel.

    My starting point in The Outsider was that, round about the year 1800, a strange change came over the human race—or over an important part of it. Quite suddenly, there appeared a new sort of man,—romantic man. In the days before the ancient Greeks, romantic man would have been regarded as wicked and dangerous. Because some deep instinct tells him that man is not a mere insect, a ‘creature’, but is, in some important sense, a god. The Greeks called this sin hubris, and it was punishable by madness and death. And that is why the fate of so many of the romantics would have confirmed the Greeks in their view that these men were wicked and dangerous. When you come to think of it, the list of men of genius who died insane, or in accidents, or of tuberculosis, or committed suicide, is terrifying and impressive. Shelley, Keats, Poe, Beddoes, Holderlin, Hoffmann, Schiller, Kleist, Nietzsche, Van Gogh, Rimbaud, Verlaine, Lautreamont, Dowson, Johnson, Francis Thompson, James Thomson . . . the list could be extended for pages. And these are only some of the famous ones. How about all the would-be poets and artists who never made the grade and died quietly in some dirty lodging house?

    Now all romantics have one thing in common. They are like those Greek sailors who heard the Syrens’s song, and prefer to fling themselves overboard rather than return to the dull world of everyday existence. Or like the lame child in the Pied Piper who describes how, when the Piper played, he heard of a ‘joyous land’, ‘where everything was strange and new’, and who now spends the rest of his life mourning for the lost vision. Most people seem contented to plod through commonplace lives; the romantic has glimpsed something beyond the commonplace. All romanticism is summed up in that great sentence of Axel (in the play by Villiers de Lisle Adam), ‘As for living, our servants will do that for us’.

    There is a great novel by the British writer L. H. Myers (who committed suicide in the 1940’s) called The Near and the Far, and its opening chapter has the perfect symbol of the romantic longing. It takes place in India in the 16th century, and opens with the young Prince Jali standing on the top of a palace, looking out

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