John Crowley’s Daemonomania

When the world ends, it ends somewhat differently for each soul then alive to see it; the end doesn’t come all at once but passes and repasses over the world like the shivers that pass over a horse’s skin. The coming of the end might at first lift and shake just one county, one neighborhood, and not the others around it; might feelably ripple beneath the feet of these churchgoers and not of those tavern-goers down the street, shatter only the peace of this street, this family, this child of this family who at that moment lifts her eyes from the Sunday comics and knows for certain that nothing will ever be the same again.

And through the world ends sooner for some than for others, each one who passes through it – or through whom it passes – will be able to look back and know that he has moved from the old world to the new, where willy-nilly he will die: will know it though all round him his neighbors are still living in the world, amid its old comforts and fears. And that will be the proof, that in his fellows’ faces he can see that they have been left behind, can see in the way they look at him and that he has crossed over alive. (17)

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