68 pages • 2-hour read
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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of graphic violence, animal cruelty, animal death, child abuse, and death.
Ambrosia is a complex symbol that initially represents scientific hope but is ultimately revealed as a parasitic agent of corruption. Its name, a reference to the food of the Greek gods on Mount Olympus, immediately contextualizes it as both supernatural and beyond human comprehension. At first, it promises a miraculous cure for the ’Gets and functions in the narrative to develop the theme of Scientific Hubris and the Perversion of Knowledge through the scientists’ belief that it can conquer any ailment. Dr. Felz describes its potential as a “universal healer,” a substance that could “[w]hitewash […] all the sickness in your body, fixing you completely” (47), a statement that unconsciously and ironically points to the superficial qualities of its healing properties—whitewash covers up what lies beneath but doesn’t eradicate it. This initial perception drives the entire trillion-dollar mission to the deep, casting the ambrosia as a divine key meant to unlock humanity’s salvation. The successful, albeit unsettling, cancer mouse experiment seems to confirm its power, cementing its status as the ultimate scientific prize and justifying any risk or suspension of ethical considerations to obtain it.
However, the ambrosia’s true nature is not to heal but to assimilate and transform, perverting the very concept of life. This is most vividly expressed through the recurring examples of bodily mutilation throughout the novel. The guinea pig treated with ambrosia becomes an unkillable, savage creature whose body defies death even after being decapitated. Clayton notes that the substance seems to cover its host in the “thinnest skein,” sending roots inside that “can even twine around atoms” (172), suggesting a complete and terrifying consumption of the host’s being. Dr. Westlake’s self-mutilation and eventual absorption into a monstrous hive reveal the psychological horror it inflicts, twisting the desire for a cure into a grotesque transformation. The ambrosia does not offer a return to health but a horrifying new form of existence, turning the quest for knowledge into a catastrophic act of self-destruction.
The deep, referring to the furthest reaches of the ocean’s depth, is a powerful symbol, representing the vast, primordial unknown and functioning as a metaphor for the dark, unexplored abysses of the human subconscious. The crushing physical pressure of the deep sea directly parallels the immense psychological pressures of isolation, grief, and fear that the characters endure, linking the setting to the theme of The Fragility of Mental Health Under Extreme Pressure. As Al warns Luke before his descent, “You’ll be entering another world, really and truly” (52), highlighting the deep as a realm fundamentally alien to human experience, where the rules of the surface world—and the mind—no longer apply. This environment is not merely a backdrop but an active antagonist, its immense pressure and absolute darkness serving as a crucible that systematically breaks down the characters’ mental fortitude.
The symbol’s power is amplified through the characters’ dreams and nightmares. The deep seems to dissolve the barrier between the conscious and subconscious, making the characters vulnerable to their own inner demons. Luke’s recurring nightmares of his abusive mother and his lost son, and Al’s guilt-ridden dreams about a deceased sailor, are not just symptoms of stress but deep-seated traumas that are actively manipulated by the malevolent influence of the abyss. These experiences suggest that the true horror of the deep is its ability to access and weaponize personal trauma. The external abyss merges with the internal one, demonstrating that the most terrifying voids are within the haunted landscapes of memory and the mind.
The holes that appear in the walls of the Trieste are a symbol of a breach in the fabric of reality, representing the collapse of humanity and the ingress of cosmic forces into the human world. Discovered by Dr. Westlake, these rifts are supernatural doorways between the rational, ordered space of the station and an external dimension of pure chaos. They are the physical manifestation of the novel’s central horror: the idea that the barriers protecting humanity from the unknown are fragile and can be violated. Westlake’s journal describes the unsettling influence of the hole in his lab, which exerts a mental “pull” he compares to “some kind of, of claw I suppose, sunk into the tissues of the brain” (145). This demonstrates that the holes are not passive openings; they are active conduits for a malevolent intelligence that preys on psychological vulnerability.
The holes function on a thematic level as a cosmic parallel to the characters’ internal wounds. Just as the holes compromise the integrity of the station, the characters’ personal traumas create psychological openings that make them susceptible to the abyss’s influence, building the novel’s exploration of The Vulnerability of Unresolved Trauma. Luke’s childhood memory of the “Tickle Trunk,” a menacing object from which a terrifying hand emerges, prefigures the horror of the holes on a personal scale. It establishes a pattern of forbidden doorways and the monsters they contain, linking his specific trauma to the universal, cosmic horror invading the Trieste. The holes thus represent the terrifying intersection of internal trauma and external malevolence, suggesting that the mind’s vulnerability is an open invitation for the monsters of the universe to enter.



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