"The Diamond Lens" by Fitz James O'Brien is a riveting science fiction tale that delves into the world of microscopy and the ethical dilemmas it presents. As the protagonist becomes obsessed with a unique lens that reveals a microscopic universe, the boundaries between reality and obsession blur. O'Brien's narrative challenges readers to question the limits of scientific discovery and the moral implications of unchecked ambition.

Fitz-James O'Brien lived only 33 years -- from 1828 till 1862 -- but in his brief life he left a mark that endures today. O'Brien endures because he was a remarkable writer. Remarkable indeed He had a way of blending of hard fact with almost-fanciful fantasy, juxtaposing technology and mysticism, creating convincing and scientific settings that play against the otherworldly romance. For all the weird fancifulness -- these days O'Brien is read mostly as a successor to Poe -- his work has qualities we now associate with science fiction: O'Brien clearly researched the field of microscopy before he wrote _The Diamond Lens_; it reads in places like hard SF. (Jacketless library hardcover.)

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1885 edition. Excerpt: ... meaning: desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the baker's assistant, to Amelia, the daughter of the dry-goods retailer, who is always selling at a sacrifice in consequence of the late fire. That may be Tom himself who is now passing me in a white apron, and I look up at the windows of the house (which does not, however, give any signs of a recent conflagration) and almost hope to see Amelia wave a white pocket-handkerchief. The bit of orange-peel lying on the sidewalk inspires thought. Who will fall over it 1 who but the industrious mother of six children, the youngest of which is only nine months old, all of whom are dependent on her exertions for support 1 I see her slip and tumble. I see the pale face convulsed with agony, and the vain struggle to get up; the pitying crowd closing her off from all air; the anxious young doctor who happened to be passing by; the manipulation of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of the victim, the litter borne on men's shoulders, the gates of the New York Hospital unclosing, the subscription taken up on the spot. There is some food for speculation in that three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt, who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to perceive that he is destined to lurk, as it were, through life. His bad, flat face -- or, at least, what can be seen of it -- does not look as if it were made for the light of day. The mire in which he wallows now is but a type of the moral mire in which he will wallow hereafter. The feeble little hand lifted at this instant to smite his companion, half in earnest, half in jest, will be raised against his fellowbeings forevermore, Golosh Street -- as I will call this nameless lane...