Shriek Voices

Music by Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Tim Powles, Marty Willson-Piper
Words from the book Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer

Appears On:

The three overlapping passages on this track are from Shriek: An Afterword. See below for exact citations.

Narration

[Consisting of overlapping voices...]

There might as well not be a Silence, a Machine, an underground.
I feel as if I have emerged from a bad dream, into the real world.
It does not seem possible that one person should be able to lead two such lives...

...personal responsibility and is as irresponsible as those religions that attribute deeds to the sun, moon, or sea. We are, ultimately, responsible for our own actions, our own history, and our own happiness. I do not refute any claim that the gray caps are vile and degenerate creatures, or that they have not influenced our city in a negative way. But they have not done so with intent. Their story is not that of an overarching conspiracy, of careful control over centuries, but instead the pitiful tale of a subjugated race that acts with the same instinct and lack of planning as any of the lower animals. For us to confer intent upon them—or to seek intent from them—turns us into victims, unable to fashion our own destinies. I reject such crackpot ideology.

One of the strangest things about the war for me was the calm in the midst of the violence that sometimes came over people—a state of grace, or denial, perhaps. I can remember watching from the end of a street as a fungal bomb blew up a few blocks away. It was one of those hideous creations that, dissolving into a fine purple mist, travels forward from the impetus of the blast and enters the lungs of anyone in its path, making them brittle statues that disintegrate at the slightest touch or breath of wind. I ducked into a side alley, even though I was already immune...

...as people ran by, screaming. There was no help for them, no help I could give. Across the street, though, I saw a man in a long overcoat standing calmly by a lamppost. He had on thick glasses and he had covered his nose and mouth with a mask of cloth. As the mist washed over him, bringing with it the usual, if incongruous, smell of limes and lemons, he did not panic. He just stood there.

Original Text from Shriek: An Afterword:

The first part of the narration [0:05–0:24] is from Shriek: An Afterword, Part One, end of Chapter 8 – p. 160 (Ltd. Ed. p. 148).

All my research, even the gray caps themselves, seems remote, unconnected. There might as well not be a Silence, a Machine, an underground. I feel as if I have emerged from a bad dream, into the real world. It does not seem possible that one person should be able to lead two such lives at the same time.

The next part of the narration [0:09–1:18], voiced by Marty Willson-Piper, is from Shriek: An Afterword, Part Two, Chapter 4 – p. 293 (Ltd. Ed. p. 281).

Time and again, apologists blame the gray caps for our own follies and misdeeds. Such a position abrogates personal responsibility and is as irresponsible as those religions that attribute deeds to the sun, moon, or sea. We are, ultimately, responsible for our own actions, our own history, and our own happiness. I do not refute any claim that the gray caps are vile and degenerate creatures, or that they have not influenced our city in a negative way. But they have not done so with intent. Their story is not that of an overarching conspiracy, of careful control over centuries, but instead the pitiful tale of a subjugated race that acts with the same instinct and lack of planning as any of the lower animals. For us to confer intent upon them—or to seek intent from them—turns us into victims, unable to fashion our own destinies. I reject such crackpot ideology.

The final part of the narration [0:14–0:59 and 1:08–1:36] is from Shriek: An Afterword, Part Two, Chapter 1 – p. 219 (Ltd. Ed. p. 207).

One of the strangest things about the war for me was the calm in the midst of violence that sometimes came over people—a state of grace, or denial, perhaps. I can remember watching from one end of a street as a fungal bomb blew up a few blocks away. It was one of those hideous creations that, dissolving into a fine purple mist, travels forward from the impetus of the blast and enters the lungs of anyone in its path, making of them brittle statues that disintegrate at the slightest touch or breath of wind. I ducked into a side alley, even though I was already immune—the purple mist would encounter and be neutralized in my lungs by the green mist already residing there—and watched as people ran by, screaming. There was no help for them, no help I could give. Across the street, though, I saw a man in a long overcoat standing calmly by a lamppost. He had on thick glasses and he had covered his nose and mouth with a mask of cloth. As the mist washed over him, bringing with it the usual, if incongruous, smell of limes and lemons, he did not panic. He just stood there. As others were brought up short in midflight, rendered motionless, their eyes rolling into their sockets, a light purple fuzz hardening on their lips and eyebrows, crawling up their legs, this man stood there for a moment, and then went on about his business.