Piranesi

 

“The House is valuable because it is the House. It is enough in and of Itself. It is not the means to an end.”
― Susanna Clarke, Piranesi

Second books are hard. Especially if the first was a massive success. They must live up to a high standard, even more so than as they ought to – all books ought to meet high standards, to my mind – because, let’s face facts, they have big shoes to fill. Piranesi was one such.

I confess that I did not purchase this sophomore effort when it was first published. I read its blurb and found it less inspiring than Susanna Clarke’s first effort, the celebrated Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. How could this slim volume compare with a work ten years in the writing, I wondered.

Long story short, having recently consumed a number of videos in which reviewers praised it, some even declaring Piranesi better than Ms Clarke’s much lauded “masterpiece,” I finally bit the bullet and read it.

What did I think? I think it’s good; but I do not believe it anywhere near as good as Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. My opinion. But, to be fair, they are very different experiences. JS&MN is epic in scope (some might find it daunting, in length, in style, and in pace); it’s Georgian, and Dickensian. Piranesi, on the other hand, is contemporary. JS&MN is replete with myth, and indeed history; Piranesi lacks this. That said, it is evocative of other works: Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s prints, “Imaginary Prisons”; Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave”; with allusions to C.S. Lewis’ Narnia. This is not to say that it lacks style. It positively radiates this. But given its narration style, Piranesi is lacking in that we, the reader, never truly understand how Piranesi’s world came into being.

Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s “Imaginary Prisons”

Piranesi’s world is a labyrinth of rooms, each lined with statues: of animals, and lovers and kings, and monsters of every imagining. It’s hinted that these rooms were possibly dreamed into being. That’s all well and good; but one wonders how flocks of birds and schools of fish find their way into a universe dreamt into existence by humans, if indeed we did do just that. There are tides, and seasons, and night and day; but no inhabitants other than our limited cast of players. Though interesting, I did not find myself convinced of its existence, regardless that it does indeed exist.

What I did find intriguing was Piranesi, himself, his having been altered by his world. Why is he called Piranesi? That is explained – a little; but not completely; suffice it to say that he is christened that by the only other soul he knows. One must work a little, reading outside this work for greater illumination. Speaking of that other person, I was also intrigued by the cast of players within this morality play. Far too many spoilers would be risked by discussing them in any detail here. Suffice it to say, I was left questioning most of their motivations. Why do they do what they do? To what end? Enough on that.

I was, however, most pleasantly surprised by the novel’s denouement, if not its conclusion, for reasons left unsaid – sit would be criminal to spoil the experience. It is most profound.

Piranesi is worth a read. More so, I believe, if you haven’t read JS&MN. Even if you have. As already noted, they are very different experiences. But each is as surreal as the other. I, personally, found Ms Clarke’s first effort a far more immersive and satisfying one. Perhaps this novel is as deep, and tightened to only its essential elements, but I still prefer her weightier tome. That said, I’m still pleased to have finally read Susanna’s sophomore effort.

 

“Perhaps even people you like and admire immensely can make you see the World in ways you would rather not.”
― Susanna Clarke, Piranesi

A Short Stay in Hell

Cover design by Matt Page

Know your audience. That’s good advice; and I ought to listen to that voice in my head that tells me not to venture where I’m sure to embark when I’m about to open my mouth and gush forth to someone I already know will not appreciate (or perhaps even tolerate) the subject raised. But sometimes enthusiasm and the desire to share overwhelms that wisdom and I find myself doing just what it warns me not to.

Point in case: I’ve mentioned my having read the novella “A Short Stay in Hell” to two souls outside my household. One was a reader. He, I already knew from past discussions, read widely, and wished to read more widely still. He had, it turned out, already read Steven L. Peck’s novella of 2009 and was wildly enthusiastic it, telling me that he had found himself spiritually disconnected from himself after having completed this short work. The other, not a reader, was instantly dismissive of both it (which he declared, before hearing me out, stupid) and me, inferring – my projection – that I was crazy to have even wanted to read such a thing; or anything at all, I imagine.

I ought to have never broached the subject with the second person in question: He (who’ve I been acquainted with for decades), to my mind, has never been a deep thinker: he professes to enjoy SF, but has never read science fiction – indeed, he could not name a single SF author to save his life; he watches science documentaries, but never ponders anything beyond the mere facts he’s consumed. Am I being dismissive of this individual? I suppose I am. But one wonders how someone can not ponder what eternity truly means in context of the human experience if come face to face with the very question. Or am I unique in this?

I mention this because this short work, this novella in question, does exactly that. It explores how we, finite beings with limited perspective, might weather eons of existence.

Illustration by Erik Desmazieres

The premise: a devout Morman passes away, and discovers that he is being sent to Hell because he is not a disciple the true faith. What faith, do you ask, as he does, is the true faith? Zoroastrianism. The protagonist had never even heard of Zoroastrianism. Neither had those others seated before the surprisingly amicable demon who was processing them. The demon looks horrific, but is amicable, and quite apologetic concerning their fate. But he is also businesslike in the application of his task. Each is whisked off to their individual hell without much delay. But before their dispatch the demon mentions that, unlike Christianity’s dire eternal damnation, Zoroastrianism’s hell is only temporary, merely a short stay while the soul earns its redemption for not believing what it ought to have. Our protagonist, our amicable demon notes, was an avid reader in lie, and so decides he knows the exact sort of destination that should suit him.

Dis, by Stradanus

Soren (our protagonist) suddenly finds himself next to an unimaginably vast bookshelf, a hell apparently modelled after Jorge Borges’ Library of Babel, one decidedly and horrifically similar to Dante’s City of Dis, that appears to stretch unto eternity, up, down, left and right. Across a not overly wide chasm is another identical wall of shelves, where, like those culturally similar souls he finds himself among (all American, all Caucasian, all in their peak of youth and fitness), innumerable other souls mill about, as he must, searching for a selection of volumes describing their personal life story, detailed to second. This will be no quick or easy task, given that the library contains every possible book, even those comprising gibberish, random symbols, books of all As, all Bs, books where the text of “War and Peace” has every second letter an A, or B, or asterisk, or ellipsis. One wonders how long our protagonist might have to search such a library to find his biography?

The book is essentially an exploration on how this might affect a human intellect, or soul, as it were, should it find itself in such a hell. How the monotony experienced might drive one to eons of depression. Or to madness. Or cruelty.

What it truly terrifying is how countless eons, innumerable billions of years, the lifespans of consecutive universes, are only a sliver of eternity. How short is a short stay in hell when compared with eternity?

This book is indeed philosophy. It is also heartbreaking and horrific.

Its intent was lost of the second soul I spoke with; but he also has no interest in faith or philosophy. Or deep thought of any kind, I imagine.

Its meaning was not lost on the first. Or on me.