The Unholy Consult: Book Review and Discussion

I just finished The Unholy Consult, the final book in R. Scott Bakker's Aspect-Emperor series, and the latest release in the overall Second Apocalypse series. This series has taken me as many as six months to read in totality, which is a shocking number in retrospect; but then, I really shouldn't be shocked. This series has consumed my life, and for a good reason. Alongside GRRM's ASOIAF, I think Bakker's book series is probably among the most formative series' that I have read in terms of how I see fiction. As an aspiring author, this means it has had a profound influence on how I want to write my own stories. It's just a shame that I am not nearly as skilled as Bakker is in so many respects, haha. But I can try.

I've been working on the first arc of my own epic fantasy series for years now, inspired by the political intrigue of Martin, the long-term story structure of One Piece, and the abrasive characterization of Abercrombie. I started this series with all those influences explicitly in mind. I'm now working on the fourth draft of this first arc, and I had started Bakker during that editing process. Even still, Bakker is likely going to have a monstrous impact on my writing, especially for the long-term story of my series. ASOIAF has an apocalyptic storyline, but it wasn't until I read Bakker that I got over my prejudice against storylines like that and decided to incorporate one into the long-term story of my series. My series, because of Martin, has its horrific aspects, but it wasn't until I read Bakker that I heard the term Epic Horror Fantasy and realized that I really wanted to lean into that kind of label.

But these are the minor influences. Most of all, Bakker taught me the ways in which I can lean into philosophy, especially metaphysics, and use it explore interesting ideas regarding consciousness and free will and morality. I have always had an interest in philosophy, and I've always put some of that thinking in my books. Yet, there were still numerous ways in which I was avoiding doing certain things with my story because I thought the philosophy might be too dense, or that it might not work for the story. Not anymore. Bakker has shown both the possibilities and perhaps some of the things I might want to avoid as I try to make my story more philosophical.

And somehow, Bakker taught me just how far I could take the fucked-up elements in my stories. And this is after Martin taught me that exact same lesson. Bakker's books are probably the darkest and most depraved books that I have ever read, and it never feels shoe-horned or inserted for pure shock value. Maybe people just have different thresholds. Either way, Bakker pushed me in ways that I have not been before, and I indulged in the experience every step of the way.

The Second Apocalypse was a challenging read. I don't think it is perfect, and I might even have a fair amount of criticisms, but my overall experience is overwhelmingly positive.

Overall (No Spoilers)

The Unholy Consult caps off Bakker's love story, and it ramps up the depravity and degeneracy to a horrid degree. One scathing single-star review described the first 30% as "super gross and repetitive gay snuff porn." And . . . uhh . . . yeah. Kinda. Except Bakker makes you want it to happen. Every page of this story unfolds in a powerfully natural way, especially with the darkest moments.

I think those first moments of the story are my favorite because of the way it portrays the culmination of what has been building for the last book. We left off with the Ordeal only becoming more and more consumed by the effects of the Sranc meat, and the unconsensual homosexual cannibal murder sequence is neatly brought forth. As usual, it's not just what happens, but the way in which it happens. Bakker has an unparalleled ability to present these sequences in a way that is so unsettling and also beautiful in the debauched way that Bakker's violence consistently is.

Continuing from this, there is another way in which this plotline develops that I did not see coming, and it also provides a culmination to a character arc that is so satisfying from a storytelling perspective. This is also the development that I know pissed off many people (in a good way). Some readers talked about how they had to put the book down at this point or even wanted to hurl the book across the room because their connection to this character was so profound. That says all you need to know about its power.

Before I move on to the ending, I'm thinking I will touch upon the prose, as that is worth talking about in the wake of the commentary I provided in the last review. As I talked about, I think my two biggest problems with Bakker are (1) the density of his prose and (2) the abuse of abstract descriptions with little to no concrete grounding to make sense of what is going on. The first is somewhat ambiguous with regards to what is too much, and the more I think about it, I think the biggest problem is the second point. The Great Ordeal leans into these problems, proving the book to be the most difficult to read and understand. Thankfully, I think that Bakker's writing is nowhere near as confusing in The Unholy Consult.

Where TGO had climactic scenes playing out in ways that left me baffled, and in all the wrong ways, I barely had that feeling in this book. And Bakker still managed to keep the philosophical scenes ever present in the story without falling into this trap. I don't know if this was Bakker improving on his perceived mistakes in TGO or he just had a different intent in mind for these scenes. Either way, I thought there was improvement in this sense, at least.

In the previous books, I was questioning the point of the White-Luck Warrior storyline. I thought the storyline felt shoehorned in, and I did not like how the storyline seemed to wrap up in TGO, especially. Unfortunately, I don't think that sentiment really changed for this book. I did not despise what ended up happening, but I did not like it either.

The final battle in this book is as amazing as any of Bakker's battles. We get an extended fight sequence with the book's namesake, and it hits you with its intensity and brutality almost every step of the way. Bakker's ability to synthesize the omniscient perspectives with the more grounded ones to provide a full experience of the battle is quite simply amazing. While reading TGO I remember wondering if Bakker was failing to include enough third person limited in his battles, but I never got that feeling in this book.

One small thing that I did find a bit cringy was the "gamergate dragon" who fought one of the main characters (described as such by one of Bakker's fans). I thought the scene was a bit ham-fisted and cringy. Now, I'm a dude, and I also thought the "I am no man" scene from LOTR was too on-the-nose, so maybe this is just me. Someone mentioned that this might just be Bakker overcompensating in response to the accusations of misogyny that he's gotten. The speaker dismissed this. But it really does feel like overcompensation. While I did criticize the female characters in the very first book, I never really cared to malign Bakker's character in the process. I'm not eager to do that now, either. What matters is that I thought the story lost some of the cool factor because of this.

Among the best parts involves the revelations during Kellhus's confrontation with the Consult. Obviously, I can't go into any specifics, but you can rest assured that this will likely be the biggest section of the spoiler part of this review. Bakker develops the story in ways that loosely connect to some of the philosophizing that I did in the TGO review. It is also what seems to be the first step in some respects, with so much more ripe and ready to be unpacked in the later series. And there is also a plot twist that I did not catch, but seems so obvious in retrospect. Partly, this is because of my expectations; and these almost left me disappointed. Thankfully, Bakker carried through the implications of this twist in ways that made me know this had to happen and was totally worth it.

There are two other plot twists that happened around the same time as the above one that are also both very well done and compelling. As usual, I can't really say anything else without seriously spoiling things, so I have to leave it there.

When I read the last line of TUC, I was immediately satisfied. I know that others actually took a while to come around, and they had to mull over the story and even reread sections, but I never had to do that. Part of it might be due to the fact that I always look ahead so I know how many pages I have left (without spoiling myself, of course); in contrast, many others have talked about how they read that last page, turned to the next and saw that the rest of the book was just appendices. The other part is the fact that I love unhappy endings when they fit the story. And finally, I know there is more to the story, overall.

As for that last bit, I am both satisfied and eager for more with regards to where the story stands now. TUC is the perfect ending. The only reason I want more (aside from the general desire to read more Bakker), is to get more discussion on Bakker's metaphysics. TUC, as I mentioned, spins the worldbuilding in interesting ways, but I still have questions. I don't need every detail filled in, but there are certain elements that seem obviously ripe for development.

Finally, I think there might be a number of different nitpicks. True to my characterization, they don't really matter for enjoyment, and they might even be explained in the third series, but they are still worth mentioning. Unfortunately, that will have to wait for the spoiler section.

Conclusion

This should be it for the non-spoiler section. Overall, I loved the book. I think it beats out The Warrior Prophet, which was my previous favorite in The Second Apocalypse series. I think I will give it a 9/10.

The Meat of the Review (Spoilers)

The Orgy of Death

Where to begin? My goodness. I especially loved the gay snuff porn sequence at the beginning of the story. And the way in which it was portrayed felt so real and necessary for the story to progress. The Ordeal is on the other side of Dagliash and the terror that unfolded there. They are out of Sranc to consume, yet the effects of the Sranc meat have not worn off. Proyas realizes that he must do something to prevent the Ordeal from annihilating itself; if no target is provided, then one will be found. Proyas provided direction for the Ordeal's worst tendencies and set them on the sick and wounded led by Sibawul. The latter walked across the corpse-ridden river in the end of TGO, and this was their purpose.

An excellent choice on the part of Bakker was portraying the sequence from the perspective of Proyas and the Ordeal, only to suddenly flip to Sorweel and Serwa to provide an outside perspective. I swear this is one of my favorite writing techniques: where you make the reader think something is so natural and inevitable (to the extent that you can, heh), and then smother them with the brutal reality through the simple act of head hopping. The scene where Proyas is cannibalizing Sibawul is particularly heavy. "'Should I eat him?'"

Why not?

There are no outs. There are no simple ways to clean the slate. Even as the effect of the Meat wears off, the men of the Ordeal are still plagued with the memories of what they had done. And this is a problem in its own right. The Ordeal's success is threatened by a lack of morale as the men are convinced that they damned themselves in the effort of achieving salvation. Proyas tells them it was necessary in order to make it to Golgotterath, and he is right, but this is hardly a comfort.

In comes one of the more brutal plot twists in the story. Kellhus returns from his trek to Momemn and his recovery of Esmenet and Kelmomas, and he looks upon the Ordeal in the aftermath of all this terror. And he blames Proyas. He accuses his Exalt-General of working for the Consult and gives his army a scapegoat for all the guilty memories of atrocity that would have killed their fighting spirit. The following exchange caps all this off:

"No! No! If I were strong ... you need only command me! I would have committed any atrocity in your name!"

A rueful breath. "That is the universal vanity of Men, is it not? To presume they can know all their decisions, past and future ...

"No, old friend. I see more of you than you can fathom. You would have balked, assumed that I had to be testing you somehow. If you did not question me, if you assumed me good, then you would have questioned my command. This is why I tore down your conviction. To be uncertain is to embrace the expedient. By trammelling your faith I assured you always reached for the nearer club, that you always found for hunger when you cast your sticks."

Golgotterath ... Even so distant, it nevertheless managed to loom, to stir some kernel of primeval alarm. "Then ... why denounce me?

The beloved face did not flinch. "Because your life is worth the lives of millions."

I loved how careful and deliberate Bakker (and Kellhus) was with these decisions. I remember thinking to myself that I wasn't entirely clear on why Bakker chose to use Proyas in this way. But when this exchange happened, everything seemed to fall into place. The idea that people who are uncertain are more likely to do easy (and terrible) things is such an interesting point about human motivation. I feel like it will stick with me for my own writing projects. It is extremely subtle analyses like this that make Bakker's portrayal of Kellhus so compelling. As I am sure I have mentioned before, Kellhus is not just compelling as a concept, he is also well-executed; it is so easy to fall into the trope of cartoonish "manipulation," where the smart character has no real explanation or plan, but is effectively a supernatural force that wins because that is how the story is written.

The betrayal of Proyas was also one of the few things that made me feel the horror of the moment. I'm not an emotionless reader, but I tend to indulge in excitement from a more abstract level: I got excited when the Red Wedding happened, even though I liked Robb Stark just fine. I could recognize the potential and excellence of the story and that always overrides any emotional connection I might have to this or that character. The Proyas betrayal was not much different, but even still, I was left floored by the sheer coldness of the development. This was such a profound cruelty that even I felt something beyond the mere adrenaline rush of reading another ballsy plot development.

Another thing that occurred to me at this point of the story is how Bakker managed to get away with writing cold blooded betrayal like this. Social groups break down eventually if there isn't enough social trust, and you often read stories where the villains fail precisely because of this. I could say more on this, but for the sake of time I simply want to point out that Bakker managed to portray the betrayal of Proyas and Saubon in ways that avoided the inevitable problems of social trust dissolving. Partly, it is the fact that people don't know that the betrayals by Kellhus have happened, but also because of the other more important things on people's minds: the memories of their actions under the influence of the Meat.

Before moving on, it is worth mentioning that I liked the way Kellhus's intentions upon abandoning the Ordeal were tied as much to the simple need to leave the Ordeal as they were to the need to acquire Esmenet. I wondered why he would leave the Ordeal just for Esmenet (he apparently doesn't know), but you eventually grasp that he was just filling his time. His absence was the main point, not the quick trip south.

The Immaterial Warrior

Now it's time to talk about one of the more negative parts of the story. The White-Luck Warrior simply created tension in the story. And that tension is one positive. So, I guess I can start this section by talking about that. I liked the tense scene during the Last Whelming where Chucky sees that Sorweel is about to kill Kellhus, even as the latter is utterly oblivious. The scene is actually kind of strange in that the scene itself was well written, with the surrounding context making it problematic. Bakker expertly brings Sorweel into the situation, emphasizes Kellhus's vulnerability, and pushes the progression of the scene to such an extent you feel Sorweel might succeed. In the context of the scene. On the other side, I knew nothing was going to happen by thinking about the story on a higher level. Obviously, Kellhus is not going to die at this point in the story.

But there are other broader implications, too. Chucky's immunity to the tricks of the Gods is reinforced in this scene, and the aftermath with Kellhus still not grasping what is going on is ominous in its own way. And the context of the ending pays off this new kind of tension in the most catastrophic and profound way you can imagine. So, I can recognize that this is not all bad.

However, the impression I get from this climactic scene is that Bakker just haphazardly axed what was otherwise an important storyline from the story before the real stuff could start happening; and the implications regarding Chucky, which were kind of redundant, were just shoehorned in later on to make the scene seem like it had to happen. Was the point of the White-Luck Warrior literally only to hint at Chucky's immunity to the Gods by failing twice? Is that it? I imagined the White-Luck Warrior would show up the final conflict. I imagined there might be important plot developments, and perhaps he might even be responsible for Kellhus's failure; most importantly, I hoped there would be thematic or metaphysical developments tied to the culmination of this plotline. But do we get any of that? I wondered why an entire book was named after something so peripheral, and I now I wonder why he was ever included at all. Like the Momemn plotline in TGO: beef it up or cut it.

The execution of the White-Luck Warrior's reintroduction was also a problem for me. I did not like how Sorweel kind of just became the White-Luck Warrior one day. Maybe I missed something. I'll readily admit that. But I can't help but compare Sorweel's transformation to the introduction of the first Warrior. The first had this Bakker-esque introduction where this wretched old woman had sex with a man while on her period (who cares whether that makes sense). And my takeaway was that this was what led to him gaining his divine abilities. What is Sorweel's transformation to this? What was the point of that original scene if someone can just wake up one day with the needed abilities?

And I've mentioned this before, but I still cannot appreciate the way Bakker writes the Warrior's passages. They make no sense.

Assorted Musings

Before moving on to the important parts of the story, I want to touch upon an assortment of things in the story that are worth bringing up.

I.

The first has to do with the empire. The beginning of the book is quite clear that my previous assumptions were wrong about the empire's role after Kellhus returned. I had assumed that the empire was being saved and that it would play a role in the future of the story in a much more direct manner, at least in the sense that it would have been part of Kellhus's plan. But that was immediately put to rest when Kellhus left the empire behind and told Esmenet that he only returned to acquire her.

Kellhus's suggestion that he was acting on some impulse he did not understand was questionable, but I also immediately grasped the implication. It reminded me of Kellhus's full-blooded son in TGO and how he had realized that he was also driven by inexplicable impulses. The suggestion seems to be clear: Dûnyain do not seem to have escaped the trap of determinism. Even they seem to have a nature.

And it was at this point that I started to wonder what Kellhus was up to. It is worth asking why Kellhus is trying stop the apocalypse at all. Indeed, I remember from a discussion of The Thousandfold Thought a very interesting suggestion regarding Kellhus's motivations when he killed his father. A commenter had argued that Kellhus knew his father would switch sides to the Consult because he would determine that to be the best way to master his situation (close off the world from the Outside). This has some sense to it, but it immediately made me wonder why Kellhus was not doing the same thing. Why would Kellhus seek to stop his father rather than join the Consult, as well? Kellhus's motivations are an important thing to question. Bakker, up to this point in the story, has simply taken for granted that he wants to stop the apocalypse, but why, when the Gods are the way they are? Unfortunately, I didn't speculate about this too deeply, as this was only at the periphery of my thinking. But the ending pays this off in a perfect manner. I will talk about the specifics in the section on the final confrontation.

II.

Another quick mention would be when Mimara pointed out that Nautzera, who had essentially gotten Inrau killed, had been right all along. The goal had been to uncover the Consult, and Inrau had agreed to the risk, even. And this revelation is precisely what followed. Yet, it had never crossed Akka's mind that Nautzera had been in the right. He had always despised the man for what he did. I appreciated this exchange because it both shows the imperfection of Akka and the powerful implications of there being differing perspectives. It was a passing moment, but still a cool little nugget for Bakker to throw into the story.

III.

While I am on the topic of Akka, I think it's also worth mentioning that we still don't understand the source of Akka's dreams. There were some revelations. Some of the scenes basically laid the groundwork for the reveal that Nau-Cayuti was the original No-God, and that the line of prisoners being herded like cattle was part of the desperate effort to revive the No-God. But there wasn't that much more laid out for us. Akka never learns what the dreams are about, it's simply implicit for the reader, and so Akka never really does anything as a result of the dreams. They seem to have existed for worldbuilding alone.

Further, there are no hints as to who the source of the dreams is. I speculated that it was Kellhus who had sent the dreams, but that seems less obvious, if not outright false, at this point. Finally, I think I am still vague on what Kellhus was planning when he helped Akka get to Ishual. We still don't really know what this was all about. It's also important to note that Akka's dreams were bound up in this scheme as well, and I have no idea what that is all about if Kellhus is not the source of the dreams.

This is part of the reason that I am not satisfied with this being the end of Bakker's overall story. I can appreciate the ending of The Aspect-Emperor, and of TUC, but there is so much background information that needs filled in that I think The No-God series is an absolute must.

IV.

Tangentially related is how Kellhus and Akka contrast in this series. The former has elaborate plans that are enormous in implication, yet are so well thought out. That Kellhus knew he would have his Ordeal eat Sranc, that he planned for their descent, that he planned to abandon the Ordeal and have Proyas take over, and then finally planned to use Proyas as a scapegoat, is stunningly meticulous—but it also seems plausible when you think about what Kellhus would know from the outset.

In contrast, Akka has little to no plan whatsoever. Sure, he works things out in advance. He organizes the Slog of Slogs and leads a daring excursion into the Sranc infested North, where he believes he will get information on the location of Ishual. Yet, we are repeatedly reminded throughout the story that Akka basically has no idea what he is doing. That a map turns up in the Library of Sauglish is a strange coincidence that is more ominous than anything. He has no plan for engaging with the Dûnyain when he gets to Ishual. He doesn't reevaluate what he is doing when he learns that Lord Kosoter is a lacky of Kellhus. And then his last ditch effort to make something of his Slog of Slogs is to bring Mimara up to gaze upon Kellhus with her Judging Eye. This was never the plan. It's just his fallback. And it's worth asking: then what? What will the Judging Eye say and what is Akka going to do then? Convince people? Lol. This is never specified.

Akka's inane trek across Earwa literally leads nowhere, because Mimara never actually sees Kellhus with the Judging Eye. Perhaps the implication is that it would not show damnation, as Ajokli could very well be in charge. But maybe not.

And why the hell didn't Bakker have Mimara look at Kellhus and see that his soul was saved? The reader's expectation is that Kellhus would be as damned as any, so to have it develop like this would be world shattering, and make us question what the hell the implications were. I don't think readers would have guessed the ultimate twist if this had been thrown in as the final conflict finally took off. And I think the final moments, when Mimara sees the No-God behind the hologram of Kellhus, would actually be improved with this background knowledge thrown in.

I'll admit this point kind of transformed into a complaint. My original intent was to compare Kellhus and Akka over their plans or the lack thereof. My thinking was that this was on purpose. I'm not sure that I grasp the point, but the contrast seems to be glaring. Perhaps the point is the irony, where Akka might survive and maybe even save the day, while Kellhus seems to have failed. At the same time, Kellhus is dead, but not done, so maybe Kellhus hasn't failed; at least not yet.

V.

Something that I talked about in TGO was the manner in which the arc had fallen. The book suggested that the arc fell in a way that violated humanity's understanding of causality. The effect of the arc crashing into earth had preceded the actual arc. I was rather taken with this, speculating about the possibility of interesting metaphysical twists later in the story.

The explanation was provided in TUC. It turns out, the arc has a high-tech mechanism called an inertial inversion field, which was utilized when the arc fell. While Bakker is obviously vague about this, I think the implication is obvious. This "field" disrupted the fall of the arc and slowed it down upon impact, with the effect of blowing out the ground before the arc hit. This created the illusion of violating causality, as the field's effect preceded the arc's arrival.

The explanation makes sense and is the simple and easy one. Perhaps I am somewhat disappointed that Bakker didn't use this to truly fuck with our understanding of reality, but that was a rather bold expectation, anyhow. And I guess this frees me up with my own writing. At least I know I won't be outright stealing some of his ideas.

VI.

For these last two points, I am going to switch to talk about the story's metaphysics, generally, as well as touch upon an interesting philosophical debate that this series heavily addresses.

In the first appendix of TUC, Bakker provides an account of the metaphysics of the world of Earwa. Notably, it is suggested that the stars are embedded in a sphere that is a fixed distance from the earth. This accounts for why the stars do not move relative to one another depending on where on the globe you are standing. If the stars were suspended in faraway void, this would lead to a parallax effect, which I just described. The "Outside" that is regularly referred to is beyond this sphere containing the stars.

I don't think Bakker's point is that this is actually how the world works, however. This argument against stars sitting suspended in void is not necessarily refuted by pointing to a lack of a parallax effect. We know this because people made the exact same argument about our own world. We also don't see a parallax effect for our stars. The catch was that the stars were so far away that the effect was negligible. My thinking is that Ajencis is in a similar position. He is making the best argument he can with the evidence he has at hand, and that has led him to the wrong conclusion. Which is why seeking more evidence is always a good idea!

VII.

Lastly for the assorted musings section, I want to talk about the free will vs. determinism discussion. Namely, I want to talk about my thinking on the debate and how I think most people aren't really approaching the issue in the correct manner.

The primary issue, as with basically every debate, is definitional. People simply take for granted what free will actually means, and its meaning is generally implicit in how terms are juxtaposed with one another. I will start by outlining two possible definitions for free will, the differences of which could have profound implications. (And I am not suggesting that these definitions are jointly exhaustive of all the options. That may be the case, but I do not know that).

1. Free will is when one's Will is an uncaused cause.

2. Free will is when one has control over one's actions.

There are a few clarifications to make. The first definition is what the free will vs. determinism dichotomy assumes. By juxtaposing free will with determinism, free will has to be a violation of what determinism describes. And determinism simply suggests that all things are determined via causal relationships. If one's Will is uncaused, then it cannot be determined by any causal relationship.

The second definition, however, is not actually at odds with determinism at all. Theoretically, one can have control over their actions while still understanding that all their behavior is determined by causal relationships with prior events. Additionally, this definition is the one that seems relevant to the question of personal responsibility. Are you in control of yourself or are you not?

And it also highlights that these two ideas are separate, even though they are often conflated with one another. I think I will start by providing an example that will highlight the difference and make it more concrete. Here are two scenarios: Suppose you are physically forced to leave a room; and this is to such an extent that they pick you up and force you out. The second scenario is similar; you still leave the room, but this time around, you choose to leave the room.

Presumably, there is a distinction between these two scenarios. In one scenario, you have no free will in that circumstance, and in the second, you do; and in one scenario you have responsibility, but not in the other. But it is only the second definition that seems to capture this fact. This is because you are not in control in the first scenario, but you are in the second. If you use the first definition, though, the difference between the two scenarios is not necessarily captured. You could posit that the second scenario is completely determined, and conclude that there is no free will in that scenario either. But if neither scenario exhibits free will, then what is the distinction between the two? Presumably, they are different. Our intuitive understanding of responsibility is distinguished by the comparison. But if free will is not what accounts for it, then what does?

This thought experiment is meant to show that the second definition makes more sense when trying to account for responsibility for one's actions. And the reason people think that free will is so important, and the reason people are so loathe to part with it, is because of responsibility and its role in morality. Morality seems impossible if no one has free will and therefore no responsibility for their actions. Further, by distinguishing the two definitions, I am also arguing that the question of whether our behavior is determined is not actually relevant to whether we have free will.

I think people might still balk at this. There is this very powerful belief that people hold that if our behavior is determined (especially since these prior causes are outside of us), it implies that we do not have control over our actions. I reject this assumption, however, and I will present another example to explain why I think it is wrong. Ultimately, the fallacy is failing to understand the implications of being part of this world.

We understand that hormones influence human behavior to a large degree. Testosterone, for example, exacerbates status seeking behaviors in people. If you have higher levels of testosterone in your blood stream, this takes an existing behavior (status seeking) and makes the tendency to behave in that way greater. Hormones do not wholly determine the behavior, but they do play a role in determining it. This is part of the reason why men predominate positions of high power and why patriarchy is so prevalent in the first place. If the majority of people seeking to rule are men, it allows them to then create institutions that often explicitly exclude women or use them in other ways. Patriarchal societies can obviously be mediated, but it still involves working against certain tendencies.

Now, let's suppose that we are talking about an individual man's actions. He is a controlling bastard. He always has to be on top. And this is accounted for by his high levels of testosterone. Suppose that someone claims, "he isn't responsible for his behavior. He didn't choose to be controlling, the testosterone is simply making him that way." This claim reflects the position that I intend to refute. Namely, it conflates the two definitions of free will by assuming that testosterone is an outside cause (though not necessarily a determinant) of our behavior.

This is false. Testosterone is not outside of us; it does not make sense to say that testosterone led the man to be controlling, as opposed to him choosing to be controlling. The man's choices were made because of his higher levels of testosterone. Testosterone is part of the causal story for why the choices were made in the first place; it is not an alternative to him making choices. This is because testosterone is part of what makes the man up in the first place. The man is the testosterone, in a sense. Or put in a more nuanced manner, the testosterone is just one part of the whole that is the man.

This is the implication of being part of the world. Once you try to understand who we are, we break down into component parts just like anything else. The emergent whole that is you is not some separate entity or metaphysically distinct entity.

What this means is that a hormonal explanation does not actually imply that you are not in control of your actions. The man is in control of his actions; his testosterone is simply part of the causal story for how his control over his actions manifests in the first place. We are part of this world, and this means whatever control we have over our actions will manifest deterministically.

In conclusion, when asking ourselves whether we have free will and are therefore in control and responsible for our actions, we should use the second definition. We should not be asking whether our behavior is determined, we should be asking whether we have control over our actions. This is taken with the knowledge that determinism does not undermine our control, but simply explains it.

This does not mean that there aren't complications over what it means to have control over one's actions. The basic idea would be that we are an entity that exists as a whole, and which makes choices in response to outside influences. Some examples are obvious. Being physically cast out of the room is an obvious example of not being in control. Others are less so: If a man puts a gun to your head and you choose to leave on pain of death, you are making a choice, but are you really in control? How is this lack of control accounted for? What if the man takes something you value and casts it without the room, leading you to chase after it? What if the man lies to you, leading you to leave the room?

These are relevant questions to ask, as much of the decisions we make in life are made in the context of incentives like these—even the gun example (the government). I'm not claiming to have all the answers. And this section has expanded enough, anyhow.

What matters is that free will can exist even as behavior is determined, because free will is the question of whether you have control over your actions.

VIII.

The reason this discussion of free will matters is that I'm not sure how I am supposed to interpret a lot of the discussions of free will in this series. I can't assume that Bakker has my view of free will. Indeed, it seems that he is an eliminative materialist, which means he denies that mental states exist at all. Or, at least, that our conventional views of the mind are wrong. This probably means that he denies the existence of a Will altogether, thus rendering the question of whether said Will is free or not to be irrelevant. Unless he is suggesting the existence of a Will by showing that even the Dûnyain are driven by things they don't understand.

Even still, the implication of someone like Kellhus influencing people's behaviors is a terrifying prospect. It suggests that behavior is almost wholly determined. And even by my definition, it seriously questions whether people have control over their actions. At what point does Kellhus have control over someone? The fact that Kellhus can have such profound influence alone has discomforting implications.

Final Confrontation

As I was reading the story, I could tell that my overall assessment of the story was going to depend on the final confrontation and the wider implications of everything that unfolded. I knew Kellhus would fail if only because people mentioned that the book was a ballsy and pessimistic ending, so that wasn't what I was worried about. What I cared about was the how.

And Bakker did not disappoint. If this was the absolute end, then I might have had problems with some of the open ends, but the revelations that did come along were excellent.

I.

The first revelation is the fact that the Inchoroi were no different from the Sranc, that they were not naturally occurring creatures, but were created by something greater to serve a purpose. I never considered this, but I love the implication. The Inchoroi were set up throughout the series as this mysterious alien race with some queer purpose, but the mystery is then kicked up a step to the Arc itself. Because the Arc itself, it turns out, is a kind of artificial intelligence that is orchestrating everything. As before, I did not guess this, yet it follows so naturally from what we already know. The Inchoroi and their Tekne seem to be a strictly scientific materialist view of life, all to such an extent that they consider living creatures to be highly complex machines. Indeed, they can even create life from scratch and craft them for particular purposes. That artificial intelligence is at the core of this is such a natural development.

What is funny is that it never occurred to me while reading that this implied something beyond the Arc. Who created the Arc? Or how was it created? This is not something covered in TUC, but it is absolutely worth asking. Maybe the implications are not as important as we think. Maybe the Arc is operating independent of its creators. Or maybe it was created for some purpose involving a war against what are considered to be the Gods.

Before I started this book I briefly considered and then dismissed the possibility that the Gods were really just aliens and that they were in a war with the Inchoroi, and vice versa. I can't remember why I ultimately dismissed this, but if it does become true, then perhaps the Arc is something that was created as a part of this war.

Maybe this anticipates too much information from Bakker. He likes to keep things ambiguous, so maybe the Arc won't ever be explained. Maybe the thematic implications of it being AI are more important. I guess we will have to see.

A quick addendum, something that I just considered, are the implications of AI and the soul. The suggestion does seem to be that human beings have souls in his story. And I discussed in prior reviews about how the No-God is a philosophical zombie, this accounting for why the Gods can't see it. But it also occurred to me that the Arc's AI might also be invisible to the Gods, but for a different reason. I mean, the Arc also lacks a soul, but the reason is less that the Arc is a physical copy of a human; it's more a metallic machine that is alive. If the Gods are indeed blind to the Arc as an AI, then this would be another interesting way in which Bakker is playing around with consciousness.

II.

The next major revelation is another one that I failed to guess. I was actually mixed on the implications at the outset, though I'm positive on them now. Because the Consult attacked the Dûnyain and destroyed their home of Ishual, they took some of the monks prisoner. Bad idea, lol. And naturally, the Consult was then enslaved and taken over by the Dûnyain. I was initially mixed because I was so excited to see the Inchoroi vs. Dûnyain conflict that had been hyped until now. I remember the scene where Cnaiur was talking with the Consult and they laughed off Kellhus and his power, only to be chastised by the barbarian for underestimating such a terrifying power. But it didn't take me long to realize that this twist is actually a confirmation of Cnaiur's warning. And the Consult and the Inchoroi are not the same thing, anyway.

In any case, this is another twist that feels so natural. When Kellhus revealed his suspicions, his reasoning made the development seem so obvious. How could it not happen?

III.

TGO seems to point the reader toward thinking that even the Dûnyain have a nature that drives them, and that this is to master and dominate their circumstances so they can attain the Logos. By using reason, they are able to understand how things, especially people, work. And by understanding what comes before, one can then control what comes after. In other words, the Dûnyain are no different than Sranc—which are programmed to murder, molest, and masticate the flesh of humanity; they simply follow a different programming.

But Bakker does not stop there. He spins this in a number of different and interesting ways. The first has to do with Kellhus's motivations. As I mentioned earlier, there is the question of why Kellhus wants to stop the apocalypse at all, particularly if he killed his father, knowing the man would side with the Consult because of his Dûnyain nature.

Bakker provides his answer. Kellhus is trying to master circumstances just like any other Dûnyain, but his contingencies have led him to conclude that the best way to do this is to master hell itself, instead of trying to cut humanity off from it. Kellhus is in opposition to the Consult because he thinks the response to the reality of damnation is best mastered by enslaving hell itself. And if the Gods are just aliens, or if the nature of the afterlife is something more complicated than the typical Christian assumptions, then this would provide an avenue for Kellhus to do this.

I love just how neatly this accounts for everything. Bakker truly did think this through.

But, even better . . .

IV.

I think my favorite aspect of the final confrontation has to be how Dûnyain philosophy was reinterpreted in response to different developments. As Kellhus points out, they each had different contingencies upon entering the world and exposing themselves to everything the Dûnyain were ignorant of.

This started in TGO, where Kellhus's full-blooded son is exposed to the Judging Eye. He quickly reinterprets Dûnyain philosophy such that the Logos was understood to be the Judging Eye, rather than a passive principle or an active god. And because the Judging Eye was the ultimate measure of all things, it had profound implications, including the suggestion that the Dûnyain had gone completely wrong.

Bakker continues this, by showing that there are two other potential pathways that a Dûnyain can follow based on the contingencies they come into the contact with.

For the Dûnyain that took control of the Consult, they concluded that the Tekne, the strange technology and the underlying materialist philosophy, was the basis for the real Logos. As Kellhus points out, instead of using reason and the Logos as a principle to master causality, they concluded that all things in reality, including reason itself, was just a mechanism of the causal order. In order to attain the Logos, they must take advantage of the reality that all is just machine. The Arc seems to be a tool, a mechanism in reality, that they can use to master the situation they find themselves in with the Gods. Closing off the world from the outside is now the new goal and manner in which they will master their circumstances.

But then there is a third way. And that is Kellhus's way. Kellhus points out that his contingency was not the Tekne (or the Judging Eye, for that matter), but the Gnosis and later the Daimos. I'll admit that how this particular path works is not as clear overall. I don't know why Kellhus mentioned the Gnosis. I do understand why he mentioned the Daimos, as the Daimos is all about enslaving entities in hell. The problem arises from the fact that the Gnosis was the focus in the story, and the Daimos was barely mentioned at all. I only understand the latter because of the appendix. Either way, the idea is that through the Daimos, Kellhus understood that he could master hell itself by enslaving it. So, his reinterpretation of the Logos seems to involve something from the Daimos (and the Gnosis, too?).

Setting aside the vagueness, the general idea communicated here—that there are different historically contingent reinterpretations of the Dûnyain philosophy—is such a fascinating concept to me. It reminds me of the social constructionist accounts of science. Basically, in philosophy of science, there are interpretations of the scientific process and the conclusions that it produces, suggesting they are not as absolute as some scientists would have you believe. If you rewound the clock and tweaked a variable here and there, we might have a very different view of reality that is as imperfect as it is now under quantum mechanics.

And this relates rather subtly to some of my speculations in TGO review about the nature of the Judging Eye. There, I had considered that the Eye might be reinterpreted such that it is not actually the basis of justice, but merely reflects the subjective judgments of the user. The story does not proceed in that manner exactly, but a similar idea is communicated with the Judging Eye merely being one possible Absolute alongside different possibilities.

The ultimate implication seems to be that there is no real Absolute and that the Dûnyain are merely following their nature which leads them to assume there is an Absolute in the first place.

V.

This might be further confirmed by the revelation that Kellhus was not necessarily in control, all along. While Kellhus believed that he was going to enslave hell and master circumstances in that way, it turns out that Ajokli, the trickster God, seemed to be the one really in control. Bakker is not clear with the exact manner of this control. Was Ajokli in complete control, or did Kellhus strike a deal? Or was Kellhus using Ajokli? And how often was this manifest? If Ajokli was controlling Kellhus, was it just in the Arc, where hell most strongly resides, or was he using Kellhus throughout the story? TUC does not answer this for us.

And would Kellhus be so reckless? It's not hard to imagine him suspecting a trick from a literal trickster God, so maybe he wasn't so lacking in control.

VI.

The final confrontation also reveals who the No-God is. It starts with the Consult claiming that Kellhus was the No-God, as his Dûnyain brethren try to reason with him and convince him to take up his role. When this initial reveal came, I had a mix of emotions. It seemed to confirm the theory that I had posed before, based on the naming scheme of Bakker's super series trilogy. The fact that Bakker thought the title of the No-God series was a spoiler was also what made me think this was the answer. But I was also kind of disappointed. I don't entirely know what it was. Maybe the fact that I expected it made it seem like the simple answer. I don't know.

But then, Kellhus wasn't actually the No-God.

The reason Kellhus heralded the Second Apocalypse was because his son, Chucky, was the No-God. This is yet another twist that seems so obvious in retrospect, but after scanning through my review of TGO, there does not seem to be any discussion of this possibility. I certainly remember hearing of the possibility, but for some reason I never took it all that seriously. I guess it might have something to do with my assumption that Chucky and the No-God were simply parallels in terms of the philosophical principle being touched upon. It's kind of like how the Amiolas and Chucky shared that parallel, while lacking any other connection. It also probably has to do with the fact that Chucky seems to have dual consciousness, which isn't the same thing as a philosophical zombie.

And since I mentioned philosophical zombie, I am beginning to realize that this "spoiler," as I called it, seems to be more of a fan theory than it does a direct idea coming from Bakker. I doubt that Bakker will be all that explicit with it, but I am now considering the possibility that the No-God was never intended to be a philosophical zombie at all. Maybe Bakker has another idea in mind, something connected to that dual consciousness. The fact that the previous No-God was Nau-Cayutas should also make us question whether that previous Anasûrimbor had some kind of dual consciousness. Basically, we just don't understand what or if there is an ultimate purpose to this choice of characterization.

This is not really a criticism, but I am a little let down that we don't know much, if anything, about the No-God. The reason is obvious. The entity has only just been introduced, and the next series is literally titled "The No-God," so I imagine some of the deeper discussions are being saved for that later story.

I also laughed when Bakker described the Consult Dûnyain's moment of realization. They see Chucky gloat about being invisible to the gods and just looked at one another like, "would you look at that." Such a great image.

VII.

Before I move on to talk about the very ending of the book, I want to have another indulgent discussion about the metaphysics of Bakker's world and its relation to ethics.

Basically, I think I would join the Consult.

I know how that sounds. But let me explain. I promise I'm only marginally evil.

But seriously . . . something that possessed me in the beginning of reading this book—admittedly because of the metaphysical discussion in TGO—is that my stance on a lot of these issues are not exactly in line with whatever Bakker's characters seem to take for granted. But you really have to dig beneath the heaps and heaps of depravity to understand any of this.

The Consult are characterized by a certain sexual energy that makes them among the most sickening villains in any book series that I have ever read. At the same time, Bakker adopts the inverse of most authors who want their stories to be morally grey. While other authors tend to shade their villain toward the white by giving them sympathetic motivations, Bakker only slightly does this, instead choosing to shade the good guys toward the black such that they would be the villain in any other series. Once you get past the disturbing elements (is that a good thing?!), you might eventually ask yourself which side you might actually be on in if you were cursed to be in this world.

The first considerations are the wanton violence and the gross sexual energy of the Sranc and Inchoroi; but it doesn't take long to recognize that humanity is not all that different. Perhaps not to the same degree, but Bakker really takes it close. As I have already discussed, there is an entire section of this novel where humanity basically becomes Sranc, and this was all a necessary ploy to get the Great Ordeal to Golgotterath. As I asked as far back as my Darkness review: what untold atrocities can be justified in the name of stopping the apocalypse?

Eventually, you think beyond the tactics of either side, understanding that they are close enough in character, and you have to consider the goals. The Consult seeks to close off the world from the Outside, stopping the Gods from damning theirs and other's souls; they have to instigate an apocalyptic event to do this, however. And then Kellhus seeks to stop the apocalypse, though the ending suggests that he mainly wants to dominate and master hell itself; and he is willing to engage in whatever wanton brutality he needs to in order to achieve this end.

And in TGO we find that there is a wider context to all of this. The Gods are impossible to please. They damn nearly everyone in existence, and this is not even necessarily for reasons of justice, though that might be the story surrounding it. The Gods are entities that feed off humanity. They damn souls for the purposes of consumption—all so they can feed off people's suffering. The Consult, then, is in opposition to that.

The assumptions of Bakker's characters are largely that it is selfish and morally reprehensible to want to save one's soul from damnation. And the characterization of the Consult might confirm that, as they seem to primarily operate on the assumption that people will want to save their own soul. Though that might just be a pragmatic recruiting process. And it's also worth mentioning that Kellhus is hardly motivated by altruism either; and wanting to stop the apocalypse is not necessarily altruistic—you can do it to save yourself rather than for others' sake.

Regardless, one of the basic assumptions of the characters in the book is that the Gods are just and that the Consult is evil for wanting to escape this justice. And this is where my own view of the situation really starts to skew sharply away. I have many, many hot takes and philosophical atom bombs that I have to carefully drop with discretion. One is about the ethical nature of Gods and the afterlife. I have very esoteric ideas about ethics, but I won't bore you with the details. What matters are two implications of my view. One is that I reject the idea that a God or Gods can provide a moral foundation even if they exist, so the question of atheism has no bearing on ethics.

The second and more important implication has to do with the afterlife. The general idea is that if there is a God or Gods, and if they have the power to create and/or send us to an afterlife as a punishment or reward, then any ethical theory purporting this as just ultimately collapses into a might makes right theory of ethics.

I reject deities as a moral foundation. And the key thing that distinguishes a deity from a human is their capacity to send souls to one afterlife or another. As such, what a disagreement between these two conscious entities ultimately comes down to is the fact that the deity has power over their subjects. It is the only reason anyone even takes Gods seriously in the first place. They have the power to send you to hell, and that alongside an assumption of self-interest, is the ultimate reason people follow them. People rationalize their moral frameworks within the incentive structures they find themselves within, even if this incentive structure is divine and immutable.

You can point out that the Gods created their subjects, but if we can question anything, then why not the idea that we are subject to our creator? Technically, parents are the creators of their children, yet most would not suggest that children are always subject to their parents, especially once they grow into adulthood. It's easy to think of exceptions. Tywin and Tyrion Lannister. And does the capacity to create someone necessarily imply that they also have the capacity act as their moral judge? The word "capacity" is also being used again. Not arbitrarily. The suggestion is that the power to create someone means that power should be extended such that they can act as a moral judge and then eternally damn them.

Ethics based in the Divine is a variant of might makes right ethics. This seems rather obvious to me, and with the backdrop of Bakker's metaphysics, it is rather easy to accept given that the Gods are just part of the eternal cycle of consumption and excretion. But my suggestion goes beyond that. Religious people miss that their ethics is ultimately just might makes right (something they likely reject in name) because they just so happen to agree with the values upheld by those proposed Gods. After all, their God holds the right morals, and the Gods of Bakker's universe do not. The problem with saying this is that it necessarily supposes an ethical standard over and above the Gods, something that they themselves are evaluated relative to. If Gods are the ultimate ethical standard by their very nature as the creator of all things, then it is logically impossible to even conceive of an immoral God. We can only conceive of a God that doesn't align with our personal ethical standards.

This philosophical diatribe ultimately just means that I have no reason to bow to the Gods in Bakker's universe in the first place, and that is because I don't think might makes right is a legitimate way to ground values. Indeed, depending on what my own personal values are, I might even conclude that the Gods are the real oppressors. It's just too bad I have to commit genocide in order to oppose them. But like Kellhus can justify almost any atrocity in order to stop the apocalypse, what might I be able to justify to oppose arbitrary eternal suffering?

"There is power in base savagery, in the desire, let alone will and capacity, to commit monstrous acts. All violence is equally ancient. To match a wicked foe abomination for abomination was to whisper in his ear while he slumbered—for the righteous were no more potent than when they were ruthless also."

But, holy shit, I'm not done. This does seem to highlight one key difference between Kellhus and the Consult. Kellhus is the embodiment of pragmatism. His atrocities serve some end. Though that seems less so the case for the Consult. There really is no end to justify the sexual energy of their minions. They did not have to make the Sranc that way. At the same time, while I just made the case for why the Consult might have an end goal worth fighting for, I can point out that Kellhus might not have an end goal worth fighting for after all (what does dominating hell mean?).

So, what does this come down to? Kellhus uses means only insofar as they serve his end; the Consult is a bit more flashy with their means. Yet, Kellhus has a terrifying end in mind that will likely make things worse for humanity, and the Consult's end is something I find to be more respectable.

Of course, they are all just Dûnyain, and they just want to dominate everything. The very assumption that any of this serves anything other than the continuation of the cycle is a cute thought. "To live is to consume and to exude, to excrete and to chew, to turn upon a thousand hidden alchemies, rheumy transformations of what we lust into what we abhor ... or love."

Ending

This is the last section of the review/discussion (finally). For the most part, this is just a scattering of discussion about the final pages.

I.

Cnaiur comes to mind first. As he appeared in the previous book, we get to see more of him in this one. At the beginning of TUC, we get to see Moenghus snap from the stress of being tortured while in Ishterinbinth; this is particularly expounded by the fact that Serwa was the one they were trying to break, and she did nothing to stop the torture. He abandons Serwa and Sorweel after the latter two have sex, and he ends up with the Scylvendi and his true blooded father.

I think there was one major thing from Cnaiur that stood out to me: "'Had they faces like fingers, you would cry out for swords and fire. But no, they possess souls like fingers instead. Their perversion can only be guessed, argued, and never seen!'"

Like what we've seen from this variant of the philosophical barbarian trope so many times before, he provides excellent insights into the world and the characters that Bakker has written.

But the main reason I brought up Cnaiur in this section is because of the last scene that we get with him. We get to see him go full-Sibawul, charging into a horde of Sranc buck-ass-naked and going apeshit. Before him, the No-God thunders forward, ripping through the landscape. Cnaiur, seemingly possessed, is somewhat ambiguously killed in the end after failing to see the No-God in the midst of the whirlwind. The reason for Cnaiur's inability to see the No-God is most likely due to his possession by Ajokli, who has his own bone to pick. While Cnaiur hates the Anasûrimbor line for his own reasons, Ajokli has also just failed after Chucky caused the death of his last host. This pairing goes on a rage-filled rampage to confront the No-God, only to succumb to the whirlwind of death.

Apparently, this is the first scene that Bakker thought of in the entire Second Apocalypse series. The series was quite literally built around this scene. I'll have to admit the scene doesn't hit me in quite the same way as it probably did Bakker. I find it rather interesting that it was this scene of all scenes. But I guess that's how it is.

II.

There is another brief thing that happened right before Cnaiur's walk that has to be mentioned. Cnaiur leaves the Scylvendi under the charge of Moenghus, despite everything. But this scene's perspective is what stands out. For some reason, Bakker chose to write this scene in the second person, referring to Moenghus as "you." And there is no immediate explanation or reason. I'm left with only questions and I'm not sure I even have much speculation to add.

What I can say is that the second person is only used in a Kellhus chapter in the TGO, from what I remember. Except this prior use is not as blatant and is even less clear: "There is a head on a pole behind you. And it cannot be moved." The only connection I can think of between these two scenes is the trickster God Ajokli, though he is only hinted at in that Kellhus chapter. Bakker seems to have something in mind, but we will have to see. I will be on the lookout when I reread this series.

III.

This book has the ultimate futile ending. Kellhus effects this elaborate plan, so well thought out, and he is killed in the last moment in the blink of an eye. All because he decided to keep his killer son alive for the sake of his wife; and he himself admits he is breaking the rules for her. As we all feared that this incarnation of brutal pragmatism might be the most terrifying thing of all, it turns out that his failure to strictly adhere to this principle was what ultimately led to his failure to stop the Consult.

Even worse, when you think about the events in a broader sense, you begin to realize that the only way in which the Consult managed to get their hands on Chucky and put him in the carapace was because of Kellhus's effort to destroy Golgotterath. If Kellhus hadn't launched his Great Ordeal, Chucky would never have been discovered, nor would he have been captured. The very effort to stop the apocalypse, helped bring it down upon them. Knowing Bakker, this was absolutely on purpose. The only question is whether this is the mid arc low point of the series, or if things are going to get a whole lot uglier in the future.

IV.

Baker suggested that Kellhus was dead, but not done.

There are two ways in which this might be interpreted:

One is that Kellhus's children will carry out the rest of his plans and potentially stop the No-God before it kills everything. Similar to how the Consult incorrectly concluded that Kellhus was the No-God when it was really his son, his other children might be functional extensions of himself.

The second interpretation is that Kellhus created a contingency for himself in his scheming to take over hell. The idea that he wouldn't at least try this seems to be rather ridiculous. Maybe Ajokli will have a part in this. Maybe the fact that Ajokli switched to Cnaiur in a seeming rage suggests not. Or maybe the answer is a mixture of these two possibilities.

V.

"So did the Great Ordeal of Anasûrimbor Kellhus perish in salt and butchery."

Conclusion

This was the longest review/discussion that I have ever written. I don't apologize. It was a right and proper indulgence, as with all things I do. Overall, I loved the book (and series). I think it beats out The Warrior Prophet, which was my previous favorite in The Second Apocalypse series. I think I will give it a 9/10.

Video:

No Spoiler: https://youtu.be/If7v9zgzXSg

Spoiler:

Part 1: https://youtu.be/XZ6Ad6yhGLw

Part 2: https://youtu.be/S074AUVgu6U