The Angel's Game

Throughout the book, the author explores the idea that narrative is one of the most powerful tools of the Devil. When David suggests that Corelli hire a theologian rather than a fiction writer to create his religion, Corelli says, "Everything is a tale, Martín. What we believe, what we know, what we remember, even what we dream. […] We only accept as true what can be narrated" (180). This statement reinforces the idea that in a universe full of mystery, humanity behaves not in accordance with objective verifiable truth but with emotional truth, which is best conveyed through fiction writing. In the hands of people like David and Corelli, that results in dark consequences. The author also draws a direct connection between David's narrative and the narratives of various political leaders of the 1930s and 1940s, whose tales of fear and victimhood cause the deaths of millions of individuals in the Spanish Civil War, World War II, and the Holocaust. He even goes so far as to suggest that David's cursed manuscript causes these atrocities.

Corelli attributes the power of fiction to a matter of biology. He says:

It is part of our nature to survive. Faith is an instinctive response to aspects of existence that we cannot explain by any other means, be it the moral void we perceive in the universe, the certainty of death, the mystery of the origin of things, the meaning of our lives, or the absence of meaning. There are basic and extremely simple aspects of existence, but our limitations prevent us from responding in an unequivocal way and for that reason we generate an emotional response, as a defense mechanism. It's pure biology (251).

Seen through this lens, the fiction writer's job—whether writing supposed scripture or crime yarns—is to manipulate these biological limitations on our ability to understand the world in order to provide humanity with the comforting illusion of order, morality, and coherence, even if the universe itself is chaotic, amoral, and inexplicable. Again, by appealing directly to humanity's biological needs, fiction takes on enormous power.

Yet, when Cristina reenters David's life, the author offers a strong counterpoint to the idea that persuasive and resonant fiction is a tool of the Devil alone. In an effort to rouse Cristina from the catatonic state caused by her encounter with Corelli, David writes a story based on the old photograph of Cristina holding a stranger's hand. After writing the first pages, David falls "fast asleep, for once dreaming and believing that words, even my own, had the power to heal (532). Indeed, the story manages to lift Cristina out of her dissociative state, and David now learns, albeit too late, that storytelling can be therapeutic and profoundly transformational in a positive way.

As David's manuscript grows and the rough outline of its plot begins to surface, another one of the book's major themes emerges: the role fear and victimhood play in giving narrative its dark edge. When describing his manuscript, David says, "The mechanics of the plot were impeccable and would work equally well for any creed, race, or tribe. Flags, gods, and proclamations were the jokers in a pack that always dealt the same cards" (338). Here, the author explores the concept that the animating factors behind communities that conspire violently against a perceived "other" often have little to do with the specific contours of the ideologies or nations involved.

Rather, these leaders and their followers are called to action through more fundamental shared qualities of grievance and in-group pride. It is why ideologies as diverse as European Fascism, Soviet Communism, Islamic fundamentalism, and Western Populism can all be easily plugged into these universal narratives of grievance, with often violent results. This is a view that's grown more popular of late, particularly with the rise of populist groups in the West. As the Indian essayist Pankaj Mishra writes in his book Age of Anger, "Gun-owning truck drivers in Louisiana have more in common with trishul-wielding Hindus in India, bearded Islamists in Pakistan, and nationalists and populists elsewhere, than any of them realize" (Mishra, Pankaj. Age of Anger. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. 2017.).

This emphasis on speaking to readers' victim complexes is one that Corelli hits upon hard. He tells David, "The first step for believing passionately is fear. Fear of losing our life, our status, or our beliefs. Fear is the gunpowder and hatred is the fuse. Dogma, the final ingredient, is only a lighted match" (369). With this quote, Corelli neatly outlines the basis by which large groups of otherwise non-violent people are compelled to participate or become complicit in violence. It also supports the theme that victimhood and grievance are not the result of particular cultural or religious traditions; rather, the traditions are merely the match that lights the fuse of social unrest. 

Traditionally, artists frown on art produced in a mercenary act of commercialism and instead prize true creative expression. In The Angel's Game, the author cleverly suggests an inversion of this philosophy, at least with respect to malevolent madmen like David. For example, when David describes the turning point in his life following the accident on the rails, he frames it as a conflict between commercial writing and true art—the death of Ignatius B. Samson and the birth or rebirth of David Martín:

Ignatius B. Samson had been left lying on the rails in front of that tram, exhausted, his soul bled dry, poured into too many pages that should never have seen the light of day. But before departing he had conveyed to me his last wishes: that I should bury him without any fuss and that, for once in my life, I should have the courage to use my own voice (115).

When Martín announces the death of Ignatius to Barrido and Escobillas, they make a mockery of David's ambitions, along with those of any so-called true artist who seeks to express themselves for reasons beyond mere commercial interests. At this point in the narrative, the attitude of Barrido and Escobillas sounds extraordinarily cynical, but as the book progresses and the fruits of David's devotion to self-expression in pursuit of an artistic legacy turn rotten, it almost feels as if the author himself sympathizes with the publishers' sardonic view on the matter. After all, a silly detective yarn isn't going to start a war or crush its author's psyche.

This becomes clearer the more time David spends on the manuscript. Before long, the venom that flows from his fingers to the page is his soul's truest artistic expression. The death and destruction his words ultimately contribute to across the world serve as a compelling argument that the value placed on soul-bearing honesty in artistic expression may be misguided and sometimes actively harmful to humanity. In other words, Barrido and Escobillas may be right about commercialized fiction being of more value to the world than true lasting art, at least for writers like David with malevolence in their hearts. Even David admits, "Perhaps it would have been better for everyone, especially for me, if Ignatius B. Samson had never committed suicide and David Martín had never taken his place" (246).