Piranesi

[asakiyume]

I adored the time I spent in the presence of the narrator of Susanna Clarke's Piranesi, a man who communes with the infinite House that is his world, who takes care of so many things: recording the tides (because the House encompasses an ocean), cataloguing the statues (the House is full of statues), leaving offerings for the bones of the dead, and paying attention to the birds who share the House with him.

I knew from the beginning that we would have to learn the truth about the narrator, who reveals from the first pages that there's more to him than he himself realizes. And it's easy to see that his partner-leader in scientific endeavors, the Other, is not worthy of the high esteem the narrator holds him in.

I knew the mystery would unfold, and it did, in a satisfying fashion, but what was most important to me was how the heart and outlook of the narrator would survive that unfolding. The man who wonders this:

Is it disrespectful to the House to love some Statures more than others? I sometimes ask Myself this question. It is my belief that the House itself loves and blesses equally everything that it has created. Should I try to do the same? Yet, at the same time, I can see that it is in the nature of men to prefer one thing to another, to find one thing more meaningful than another.

The man who gathers bedding for an albatross nest, who moves the bones of the dead out of the way of flood tides, who laughs when rooks nibble at his ear to see if it's edible. The man who realizes

that the search for the Knowledge has encouraged us to think of the House as if it were a sort of riddle to be unravelled, a text to be interpreted, and that if ever we discover the Knowledge, then it will be as if the Value has been wrested from the House and all that remains will be mere scenery.

The sight of the One-Hundred-and-Ninety-Second Western Hall in the Moonlight made me see how ridiculous that is. The House is valuable because it is the House. It is enough in and of Itself. It is not a means to an end.

I didn't worry, though--I think the narrator's calm faith kept me calm. There's a tenderness pervading Piranesi that was utterly lacking in JS&MN. How did Susanna Clarke discover it? I don't know, but I'm deeply glad she did. And I say that as someone who loved JS&MN--they're just very different stories, and that's all right: the House has many Halls, enough to amply accommodate many kinds of stories. As our narrator would--and does--observe, "The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite."

PS: Between JS&MN and this, things that I perceive Susanna Clarke loves:

rain
mist
doors
thresholds
portals
puddles
reflections
scintillations
antiquities
ruins
inundations
vastness
trees that pierce
black feathers
birds
whirlwinds
rituals

Comments

[littlerhymes]

I loved the Narrator! Tenderness is such a good way to describe that quality in this story.

[rachelmanija]

I knew you would appreciate this.

I love almost everything on your list of things that you perceive Susanna Clarke loves. That may explain a lot.

[threemeninaboat]

I loved it too.

[sara]

It is a really lovely book and I'm glad I bought it in hardcover.

[osprey_archer]

It's such a good book! And so unlike anything else I've ever read: I think that quality of tenderness that you mention is actually quite unusual in a novel.

[shewhomust]

You make me want to read this book, which I admit I have been nervous about ...

[amaebi]

I didn't like JS&MN, ultimately, but it sounds as if I will like this a lot.

[troisoiseaux]

I definitely want to re-read this book, but so many people have commented on the similarities to The Magician's Nephew that I want to read that first.

[marycatelli]

It's amazing

[genarti]

Yes! I loved that tenderness and kindness so much -- the way the Child of the House starts out naive, and gradually ceases to be, but stays someone who is both reflexively and deliberately kind. (And I love your list of things Susanna Clarke loves; I love many of them, too.)

[skygiants]

I liked it very very much, but it's interesting to me to see people call it warm because to me it felt both tender and cold -- a set of descriptors that don't often go together, but the sense of isolation that pervaded the book is difficult for me to separate from a visceral feeling of chill.

[pjthompson]

I have already gushed in your follow up post. After finishing Piranesi I thought I really should give JS&MN and I got about halfway through it. I was enjoying it immensely, but I just needed a break. It's still sitting on my To Be Read table waiting for me, but I'll probably reread Piranesi first.