asakiyume: (Dunhuang Buddha)
People commented at the time that Piranesi came out that you could read in it Susanna Clarke's experiences with chronic illness, and, primed for that, I can see it, but talking to the ninja girl this morning, I was thinking about it more in terms of death and rebirth (or death and afterlife), and I was thinking: it's a really a daring choice to center your story on a person after death, so to speak, a person who's in eternity.

I really viscerally disliked 17,776, another story that deals with being in eternity, but this one I viscerally loved. I think it's because of the sense of inherent meaning, work, purpose, and peace that pervades the narrator's existence in Piranesi

And even though I said that it deals with a person who's in eternity, maybe it matters/helps that actually, even though that's the sense the story gives, he actually *isn't*. He's still mortal and even thinks about his eventual death. So really it's a rebirth story. But rebirth requires death, and I'm thinking of the really painful, awful bits, where the narrator finds the scraps of Matthew Rose Sorensen's agonized, furious entries as he feels himself, essentially, dying. He's full of pain and hatred--understandable. And yet the narrator, the Child of the House, feels none of those things anymore.

I like that the story doesn't deny the suffering and yet lets the Child of the House's outlook be enduring.

Piranesi

Oct. 2nd, 2021 10:08 pm
asakiyume: (feathers on the line)
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
asakiyume: created by the ninja girl (Default)
I wrote this brief essay on bridges in Susanna Clarke's faerie for Apex Magazine back in September 2010. How long, long, LONG ago that seems now.

Anyway, there's been some interesting conversations among my DW friends about Clarke's short-story collection The Ladies of Grace Adieu, and on [personal profile] sovay's suggestion, I thought I'd repost it here:

In “Tom Brightwind, or How the Fairy Bridge Was Built at Thoresby,” a short story of Susanna Clark’s in the collection The Ladies of Grace Adieu, the fairy Tom Brightwind is persuaded to build a bridge connecting the depressed little town of Thoresby to the outside world.

He promises to do it in just one night. Not hard, you say, because he is a fairy. True, but what was interesting to me was how he did it. He didn’t magic up a bridge out of clouds and air. He didn’t even magic up masonry and float it into place. No: instead, he uses his magic to summon horses and workmen from their sleep, along with an architectural student (who comes equipped with a book that has an image of a bridge by Piranesi, which is to be their model), a stonemason, and an engineer.

The engineer must direct the workmen to build the bridge. It doesn’t go smoothly:

By two o’clock Henry Cornelius [the architectural student] was in despair. The river was not deep enough to accommodate Piranesi’s bridge. He could not build as high as he wished. But Mr. Alfreton, the master mason, was unconcerned. “Do not vex yourself, sir,” he said. “Mr Wakely [the engineer] is going to make some adjustments.


But eventually the bridge is built, and the enchanted laborers all find themselves drifting back to sleep (the story doesn’t tell us how or when they make it back to their homes again).

I was intrigued by this method of building the bridge, especially given the fantastical fairy bridges in Faerie itself, as conceived by Susanna Clark in Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. In this excerpt, the (human) magician Jonathan Strange describes one such bridge:

Then suddenly I passed under an arch and found myself upon a stone bridge that crossed a dark, empty landscape. The bridge was so vast that I could not see the end of it … It was much higher than any bridge I have ever seen in this world. The ground appeared to be several thousand feet beneath me.”


That bridge, I fancy, was not build by architects, stonemasons, and laborers roused from their sleep. One can’t imagine them knowing how and where to begin to build such a thing. That bridge, moreover, lies along the “King’s Roads” in Faerie:

The King’s Roads lead everywhere … They were built by magic. Every mirror, every puddle, every shadow in England is a gate to those roads.”


So a fairy bridge, built in Faerie, is built by magic, and is beyond real in all dimensions and attributes. But a fairy bridge, built in this world, even by magic, must adhere to the laws of physics, must take into account statics and stresses and load-bearing members … and river depths. So maybe that’s why, even when built by magic, a bridge in this world requires an engineer, a stonemason, and many workmen.

Then again, maybe it was all down to the whim of Tom Brightwind. What do you think?

Image is "A View of Part of the Intended Bridge at Blackfriars, London," and I use it for illustration purposes ... can you guess why? I will tell: it's because it's by Giovanni Battista PIRANESI

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