January 24, 2026
The Sin Eater
Even though the first sentence of the book was “When you finish reading this book, you will die,” Emilio couldn’t put it down. The book was titled The Sin Eater, and told the story of Fagan Bancroft, the wealthy scion of the Bancroft dynasty, and his dissolute life. And of course he was “wealthy,” because only the wealthy could afford a sin eater. The rates charged by the company were exorbitant—but, as the filthy rich regularly demonstrated, commensurate with the service they provided: the transference of your sin liability to a sacrificial lamb. In a word, salvation.
That in itself is a pretty good story, but not enough to risk your life for. The danger was, Emilio found himself attracted to Fagan’s sin eater, Dario—such a vivid and resourceful character with whom, if truth be told, Emilio secretly identified. There was no chance he could squelch his urge to follow his fate to the end. Even if he couldn’t help wondering about an author who would kill you for reading his book.
Still, as Emilio read, he entertained various subterfuges with himself: “I’m just skimming through the book, I’m not really reading it”—“I’ll skip an occasional page so I couldn’t be said to have read the book”—“I’ll read up to the last page, then stop (Liber interruptus).” Whether any of those ploys would really work, he didn’t know—but he did know he was not skimming or skipping at all, and like the story he was reading, he didn’t know where that Adamic attempt to hide from God would lead. Or exactly what sort of jurist God would prove to be, should the matter come to trial.
And how could he not equate the anonymous author of The Sin Eater with God? How like that noted clergyman to disappear into his creation only to pipe up at odd moments to say don’t do something or you will die.
“Sin eater” was less a profession than a caste. “Profession” suggests something freely chosen, while “caste” denotes something inflicted by birth. And who could possibly be so desperate as to choose the fate of a sin eater? Yes, they lived in rarefied and insulated luxury, but that was only to keep them in the ripened state necessary for effective sin eating. Who would lose their soul to gain the world? Everyone knows only too well the fate of a soul saturated in sin—whether your own or someone’s you’ve taken on—sin is sin. In a word, damnation.
Such stakes—salvation and damnation! But what do those words actually mean? Emilio couldn’t help but note Fagan Bancroft’s understanding of them: salvation, a continuation of one’s consciousness in a jump to the platinum level of the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed. And damnation: the continuation of one’s consciousness under the floor joists of many mansions in a state of bankable misery and torment. Consciousness—such a sad fate for something so hard-won in the journey of humankind. And while on the surface that might seem unjust, a moment’s reflection would amply demonstrate the consistency with the laws of physics, economics, and common sense. Energy and matter are complementary, there are no free lunches, and you get what you pay for.
A sin eater eats the sins of his master during the master’s life—with a final feast of any surplus at the Viewing. In Fagan Bancroft’s case there was sure to be a fat surplus at the end. Emilio read with relish the rich account of the man’s profligacy: he gorged on the world’s most savory foods, prepared by his personal staff of bitchy but brilliant, constantly feuding, chefs; he kept a harem of sex slaves, many of them on the younger side; he drove fast cars, flew fast airplanes; killed big animals; flitted from one paradisiacal locale to another; and spent extravagant sums on the world’s slickest, most talented sophists to justify it all; and, as we’ve seen, had a highly effective sin eater in the hole.
What made Dario so effective?
His ethic of applying his utmost to every task he undertook, including the sin he ate so thoroughly and with such gusto. A boon for the lecherous Fagan, but also for himself. For in that surrogate delight he, clever lad, had had an epiphany concerning the nature of the reciprocal energy flow between master and slave.
Was that the source of the book’s suspense?
Of course—the resourcefulness of the hero in the face of overwhelming odds.
The fact was, Dario was gifted with the species of imagination that didn’t see the conventional demarcations and boundaries of consensus reality, and the resulting discreteness of things, events, and ideas—but something more permeable. In short, he had decoded the interconvertibility of his ostensibly one-way relationship with Fagan, a move which kept him thinking, and Emilio reading. In time, he devised a plan—a plan to reverse the direction of the energy vectors of that unholy bond based on nothing more than a belief in himself, and the recognition that justice does not predate the situation where it applies, but must be won situation by situation. And that’s when his inability to see the conventional lines between things came in handy. He nullified the proposition that he was Dario and Fagan was Fagan. Who eats whose sin is a two-way street.
Yes! Emilio would read to the end. He would not put it down, author be damned—with the same faith as his daring hero, Dario. Where goes he, there go I. Because didn’t it always come down to risking damnation to bet on yourself?
Knowing you have to finish the book to find out if it works?
Such is the power of art.