The Eye of Wilbur Mook — Reading Notes

Mirror, Mantra, and the Mechanics of Cowardice

Hickey uses the mirror as a recurring device to externalize Wilbur's internal state. In the opening, Wilbur surveys himself approvingly—firm skin, clear blue eyes—then undercuts the image with the admission that he has “the soul of a rabbit.” The mantra “Every day in every way I am getting braver and braver” is repeated, but the narrator immediately declares it false. This pattern of self-assessment followed by narrative contradiction creates a rhythm of hope deflated. Later, in Merlin's castle, Wilbur again studies his reflection, but now the mirror is absent; instead, he sees himself through Merlin's calculating gaze. The shift from literal mirror to metaphorical one—being sized up as an ingredient—deepens the theme. The prose lingers on physical details (lamb's wool slippers, reddish-brown hair) to ground Wilbur's ordinariness, making his fantastical predicament feel more absurd and poignant.

Two Kinds of Recklessness: Arthur and Wilbur

Hickey contrasts Wilbur's timidity with Arthur's absolute fearlessness through parallel dialogue and physical description. Arthur is introduced with “a clear ringing laugh” and eyes “with an expression of complete fearlessness.” When Merlin asks what he would do against five-to-one odds, Arthur laughs and says he would fight even at fifty to one. Wilbur “thrilled to the words,” while Merlin “shuddered slightly.” The exchange reveals the story's core irony: both extremes are dangerous. Merlin's plan—to brew an Elixir of Caution using Wilbur's eye—literalizes the idea that courage and cowardice are transferable substances. Hickey avoids moralizing; instead, he lets the absurdity of the premise (a coward's eye as a potion ingredient) carry the weight. The prose remains brisk, with short action beats (“He raised the sword in a salute … and was gone in a cloud of dust”) that keep the tone light even as the stakes darken.

Pace and the Compression of Time

Hickey manipulates narrative pace to mirror Wilbur's helplessness. The opening morning scene unfolds in real time—washing, dressing, mirror-gazing—creating a sense of mundane routine. Then, with a single paragraph break, Wilbur is transported to Merlin's castle via “a cloud of smoke, a horrid visage.” The transition is abrupt, leaving the reader as disoriented as Wilbur. Once in the castle, time slows again: Wilbur and Merlin sit on stone couches “for some hours” in silence, the stillness “wearing Wilbur down.” The dialogue that follows is measured, each line a negotiation. This alternation between rushed transitions and static waiting emphasizes Wilbur's lack of agency. He is moved by forces beyond his control—first by his mother's voice, then by Merlin's magic. The pacing itself becomes a commentary on his passivity, making the eventual confrontation with Arthur feel both inevitable and unsettling.

Readers should pay attention to how Hickey uses small, domestic details—a clock reading eight o'clock, a pair of lamb's wool slippers—to anchor the fantasy. The story's brevity (under 12,000 words) means every mirror scene and mantra repetition carries weight. Notice also how Merlin's offhand remark, “My father was an incubus,” is delivered without elaboration, leaving the reader to wonder how much of the Arthurian lore is being reimagined. The excerpts end before the elixir is brewed, so the resolution remains uncertain; the pleasure lies in watching Hickey balance farce and genuine unease.

I’ve always treasured how Wilbur Mook’s mirror-gazing in Hickey’s tale feels less like magic and more like the quiet dread of an empty reading room. That private tremor echoes in The Outcry — Edition Insights, where even a painting’s silence seems to hold its breath. Both books understand that courage often hides in the pause before speaking.