Preface &; Post-Preface

PREFACE

"There is widespread belief among realists today that we live in a
world filled with inescapable, irreconcilable madness. This is in fact
only a half-truth, since if it were truly inescapable we would surely
all have thrown ourselves into the sea by now. As it happens, we've all
become expert escape artists."

J.N. Henstoat's name, so far as I can discover, is almost unknown to
English readers. As he is considered by several of the most festerous
Jovian critics to have been perhaps maybe the most interesting writer
of recent times who lived in an attic, and is in some ways an estranged
and dislocated genius, it has been suggested that a short introductory
note should be provided for this book, the first to be translated into
English.
Composed mostly during Henstoat's hundred year stay in England, during
which he forged an entire ancestry for himself, Manley &; I is, in
the author's own words, "an escapist novel - or, to be more accurate,
an escape artist novel." The short poetic piece To Truth that precedes
most Jovian editions of the novel, though inexcusably vague,
demonstrates a greater awareness of the Universe enclosing Henstoat's
immediate surroundings than the novel itself. His avid, limitless
interest in the eccentricities and follies of his 'allies' and their
activities leaves precious little room to consider the mounting
political struggles and outbreaks of armed conflict that forced
themselves upon the attention of the general public at the time of
writing. Yet despite it being apparent that Henstoat devoted the novel
to "the lies I love," Manley &; I is not a novel of self delusion,
but an extension of Blake's philosophical view of eternity in a grain
of sand. The potential for beauty, artistry, necromancy, warfare,
discovery, heaven and hell are all found nestled in his acute
observations of the small world the novel is immersed in.
It is important to note that the literary climate during Henstoat's
stay was humid, moist with ideas and ideals. The debate over morality,
history and artistry had seldom before been so healthy, fat to the
point of obesity with contrary viewpoints, both extreme and moderate.
Henstoat's own observations of England at the time were notably
recorded in his philosophical essay, Biannual Report to the Space Elves
and the Cosmic Vixen:
"In England the most popular sport among the literati, and others
besides, is none other than jousting. That is to say, we all get up on
very high horses and then try to knock each other off. The purpose of
such an exercise is to stop the populous becoming too complacent, and
keep the old social evolution moving along nicely. Restlessness is
possibly the best we can hope for humanity regarding the ongoing
dilemmas."
The world, according to Henstoat, had little need of his views; they
were well enough represented by various factions and ancient wisdoms.
Unable to force himself to be outrageously pessimistic and unwilling to
ally himself with any particular cause (he sympathised with most of
them,) Henstoat believed it worthwhile to escape in his writing just as
he imagined the rest of the world escaped to the sanctity of their
homes at the end of the day. The great debate would not miss him, but
the people and events of his life were as deserving as anything to go
down on paper. Thus, for at least one of his novels, which number in
their hundreds, the author dispensed with literary aspirations and
joined the legions of paperback writers.
"After all," he stipulated, "it's style that counts as much as
anything."
Ahem. On that particular area, the less said the better...

Preface supplied by EAS Student x0146382, University of East Anglia,
Norwich, England, "Earth"
POST-PREFACE!

Well, now, people of Earth! Had you all fooled, didn't I? Twas I, J.
N. Henstoat, space traveller and noted essayist from beyond Rigel, who
shacked up my own preface and set it like a heretic cowcatcher on the
nose of the engine of 'Manley &; I' in order to deceive all who
might happen across it! For how could I possibly qualify as one of
humankind without first committing an act of bloody-minded deceit?
Without that measure, I would have been taken for a false idol, and
idly worshipped where instead I desire only ferocious applause!
Now, I shall play it straight as a line with you, dear reader. Your
race is shot. Fractured. Broken beyond repair! Many of your best
doctors have diagnosed its terminal condition already, and you can only
wash your brains of your fate for so long. Why, I only had time for the
very briefest of glances and its clear to me that for all your
beautiful crowings, you're most sadly fraught with catastrophic flaws
that will only cripple your chances further as your grasp exceeds its
limitations. Take this down: you're all vain, greedy, gluttonous,
wrothful monkeys at your very best, and such facets grow bulbous and
bloated among those of you placed atop pillars of prestige and
power.
Tis a shame that all these broken parts damn you to death and doom, as
they don't render you completely unattractive! Once a visitor like
myself has washed his own brain of all the cruel sufferings you cause
each other, and all the barbs and bad plans your pillar-dwellers
exchange, there is much prettiness to be found, I must say. It'll be a
shame to lose such a magnificent species to its own indulgences. But
then I have to wonder if you'd be such good company if you weren't so
indulgent!
An additional note to any persons who are outraged by my machinations:
I hereby willingly condemn myself, and invite others to do the same in
order to make amends to you. I'd be most obliged if you'd pray for my
soul, if it is the case, according to your scriptures, that beings from
beyond Rigel are permitted to possess such an item.
I enclose a small sum to put towards the upkeep of 'morality.'

Never mind - you might all end up in heaven!

Monsieur J. N. Henstoat