The first time Edgar Molloy took the elixir, he saw God.
Not God in the way that Victorians understood God—the stern, distant patriarch of church sermons and Sunday school textbooks. God in the way that Baudelaire understood God, or Rimbaud, or the men who gathered in Soho salons and spoke of art for art's sake and the pursuit of extreme experience: something vast and terrible and beautiful, something that existed beyond morality and reason and the...
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