In darkness, she walks the labyrinth. Confused. Lost. But not alone.
In the Paris of 1970, the hippie revolution has yet to crash land and Minnette searches hungrily for a way to enlightenment. She finds it. Or she finds something and the path of her life is set. But, by the beginning of the 21st Century, Minnette is haunted by the shades of recurring dreams and recurring memories, unsure whether the city around her is as solid as it appears. She looks back on her life's search—and on a winter's evening in Toledo when, for a moment, the gates to another world may have opened—and feels the defeat of a life thrown away. But something moves in the shadows, something that comes closer each evening.
Combining a mind-spinning vision of another reality just a step away, with sensual, impressionistic prose, In Dreams the Minotaur Appears Last is the latest novel from the author of Vitus Dreams and High City Walk.
Ancient buildings gathering out of the gloom, lanes winding, curling almost back on themselves sometimes so it was difficult not to think of serpents, a dragon in an etching she half-remembered from one of Guillaume's books, dragons like huge slow-worms, slow-worms like serpents under each step upwards, serpents with their mouths locked around the tail of the serpent in front of them, bodies twining one on top of another, vertebrae making the foundations, cobbles and stone setts and concrete patches making the lanes and passages over them, her feet making their own way, or something anyway guiding her, through twilight condensed out of an afternoon compressed by clouds low enough and dense enough to be lost in the twilight of their own making, twilight cold, nose running, teeth aching against the cold, finger-tips aching, ache almost like the need to reach out and touch someone, shivers hunching shoulders under Afghan, fur collar a white shadow in the murk seen from the corner of an eye as she climbed, feet neither of lead nor ice nor like something under her command, a tiny worm of unease and self-reflection twitching, flexing, never strong enough to murmur, faint as the wan streetlight hanging above the next sharp turn, the flickering-black-flickering-white spilling from the television by a ground floor window in an otherwise empty room, never strong enough to murmur faintly that this was not sensible, that this climbing-twisting-climb deeper into the old town was odd, perhaps unwise, perhaps—but the unease and self-reflection faded with the light from the lantern mounted high on the bend in the lane, with the last glimpse of the empty room, and, hands fisted against the frost beginning to shimmer dimly, dimly glinting under each step, she walked, climbing along steep lanes and tight passageways, diverting along alleys that left her breathless, flushed features a spark against the air, sweat drying to needles by the time she reached the next lane, the next cobbled road, taking turns as they appeared, following the ways open to her, feet making their way or something, anyway, guiding her.