More than anything, it is the gentleness of this novel that I love. It has the most extraordinarily soft touch, one of wonder and grace, of beauty andMore than anything, it is the gentleness of this novel that I love. It has the most extraordinarily soft touch, one of wonder and grace, of beauty and light. Part of this is Piranesi himself, who is a character so without dark and selfish ambitions and so wholly dedicated to reverence, discovery, worship and consideration.
His whole world is the House. An enormous, seemingly endless structure of halls in various stages of decay or ruin. Each hall is lined with statues of different proportions and themes, some halls are mostly intact, some have caved in, some are flooded with rain, some are flooded by the sea. The sea that surges up in tides, the greatest threat of the house, unless, of course, you know it and anticipate it. Piranesi does. Piranesi knows the House intimately, and the House is what he dedicates his life to. He enjoys its splendor, he bears witness to its beauty, he takes care of its dead and is grateful for its gifts.
As childlike and naive as he seems (and often is), he is also a scientist. He approaches questions, doubts and mysteries with a rational mind wanting to uncover the truth. It was honestly quite surprising just how reasonable, insightful and aware of his own shortcomings (and the shortcomings of his methods) he is. This novel would be a lot longer if Piranesi was only half as capable of critical thinking. He has a remarkable talent for looking at the world and accepting it as it is, even as it changes, even as he learns its darker secrets. This also sets him apart from the only other living person in the House: The Other. The Other is in pursuit of a Great and Secret Knowledge which he believes will grant him incredible powers. He is, to the reader’s discerning eyes, clearly a Bad Guy, but to Piranesi he is a friend, even if they do wildly differ on their approach to and appreciation of the House. The Other thinks it (and Piranesi) valuable for what they can give him, however Piranesi knows the truth of it:
“The House is valuable because it is the House. It is enough in and of Itself. It is not the means to an end.”
Which is, in itself, a beautiful way of thinking about anything. It’s how we should all be thinking. And I believe it might give Piranesi this sense of equilibrium, because if the House is enough in itself, then so is he. The wisdom and the gift of the House is not the power it might hold, but its very existence, Piranesi understands this innately, and so it gives him what seems to be its true gift: Peace.
Piranesi is also a novel of transgressions, of stepping beyond boundaries both moral and physical. Transgression, apparently, can also mean the spread of the sea over land areas which cannot be a coincidence. The House, those who inhabit it and those who pursue it are all transgressive but in wildly different ways. And transgressions are transformative; whether it was done by or to you, you don’t come out the other side the same. It can define you and unmake you. Remake you (?). I found this aspect of the story endlessly fascinating.
Especially fascinating is the way the novel deals with identity and the crucial act of identifying. Identifying yourself, others and the world around you. The way we choose to do this says more about us than about the thing we're trying to identify. Piranesi, for instance, is a name given to the narrator by the Other and is likely not his real name. I was curious about the title of the novel and I looked it up, and it was a delightful discovery. Knowing the meaning of the name unlocks a deeper understanding of how the Other views the narrator and the world around him. And, if you know how to apply it, also unveils part of the mystery of the story. (view spoiler)[Giovanni Battista Piranesi was an 18th century architect. He is most known for his etchings of Rome and “Imaginary Prisons”; a series of drawings depicting massive labyrinthine rooms of a somewhat fantastical nature. Fictional Piranesi is, of course, trapped in one such place, which is at first a prison and then eventually a home. (When is a prison not a prison? Oh, when you forget yourself and love it.) Clarke’s Piranesi is given his name by the man who trapped him in the first place, which, as the text states, is a cruel joke indeed. (hide spoiler)]
As dark as the story gets it never loses its soft touch. The kindness of the House might be infinite, but so seems the kindness of this novel. So much of it is Piranesi, who simply floored me as a character. I adore him. As deep as my love is for Piranesi as deep is my hatred of some of the other characters. Truly, if I could sink my hands into the pages of this novel I would strangle them myself. Rarely have I been so livid while reading anything, I’m genuinely amazed Clarke managed to drag it out of me.
It is a very different novel than I anticipated, but it is undeniably a Susanna Clarke story. It has the telltale wit, depth and attention to detail that is so integral to her as an author. Her vision is clear, her ambition high and her execution, as ever, unwavering.
“May your paths be safe, [...] your Floors unbroken and may the House fill your eyes with beauty.”...more
This book runs in weird circles and I had a hard time keeping up. It tells the story of the present, as well as the past, but the past is jumbled, chaThis book runs in weird circles and I had a hard time keeping up. It tells the story of the present, as well as the past, but the past is jumbled, chaotic and the story it tells is almost reversed, it’s randomized, you never know what bit you’re gonna get next – and though we might forget it, we're suddenly faced with the reality that the past and the present are forever intertwined.
Juan travels to the town, Comala, his mother is from, a place she left many, many years ago, and on her deathbed sends Juan back to, to get what’s his from his father. Comala is a ghost town, a literal ghost town, inhabited by those who died, but could never leave, memories that are stuck, a pocket of the past refusing to move on.
It’s soaked through with death; the deaths of those who passed long ago, the ghosts that they’ve left behind, as well as the deaths to come, and importantly: the death of the future we longed for, but could never have. The death of a dream, a ghost-like utopia that only ever existed in the minds of those who lived there.
I wish I’d read it as a physical book, I longed to be able to leaf through the pages to find relevant passages. Especially considering we start with Juan arriving in the city, and his story is largely chronological, but in between this story is the story of the past, the story of his father Pedro Páramo, the town, the people in it. This is not chronological, it appears and disappears without ado, no explanation, we’re left to figure out what just happened on our own. This is what makes this story really great; it’s confusing. You feel as out of sorts and alone and helpless as Juan, you understand as little as him, until it all, somewhat, comes together in the end. The past will always be obscured and out of reach, it’s made the present what it is, so as much I wanted to make these tidbits of the past (they take up more than half the novel) shine a clearer light on what was happening in the present, the present also helped understand the past.
The ghost town didn’t come out of nothing. What needs to happen for such a thing to be?
It’s a bizarre, uneasy novel that’s really, really difficult to explain. And I don’t know enough to give it the attention it deserves. But it's worth reading....more
Shahrnush Parsipur was - is - persecuted in Iran, where she’s from, for this book (among other things). Partly because she dares talk about, you know,Shahrnush Parsipur was - is - persecuted in Iran, where she’s from, for this book (among other things). Partly because she dares talk about, you know, sex, virginity, female sexuality. Topics that are not to be mentioned ever.
‘Women Without Men’ does reference the title of the Hemingway work ‘Men Without Women’. I haven’t read the latter, but in the afterword to this book, it says it’s a book where ultimately a life without women isn't particularly satisfying. The same (but in reverse) is the case of ‘Women Without Men’, in a way.
It consists of five stories of five vastly different women, who nonetheless have a lot in common. They’re all confined by their family and society to a very narrow way of life. They all have very little freedom of movement or thought, and each strive, in their own way, to break their captivity and be free to pursue a different way of life.
The separate storylines converge in the end and the women meet at a single house they help build and maintain together. In the house there’s also a gardener (incidentally a man, but of the somewhat invisible kind), who tends the garden where one of the women has planted herself in an attempt to become a tree.
It’s a mixture of harsh reality and magical-realism. The magical elements present themselves without much ado and add depth and great character to the novel. The odd, fantastical elements are very poignant and quite stunning.
The house they all live in and the life they share together may seem utopic, but it’s not the case at all. Having escaped the confines of their former position, whatever it was, and the men and norms that kept them trapped, they work steadily towards a new way of life. However, it’s not a life in female isolation; the solution is not an all-woman utopia.
What these women need, what Parsipur tries to convey, is that they need this utopian space to learn to be free. It’s not the final stop. It’s where they unlearn all the restrictions that’s been put on them, and reflect on what they desire to get out of life.
For some it means transcending the human body, to transform into nature and start anew, to some it means returning to life almost as it was before, but all of them with a new spiritual freedom. It’s not, in the end, a feasible project to live without men, nor is it possible. Women without men is rather women without the narrow idea of what a woman can and should be, an empty place she can shape as her own, where she can find herself.
It’s an odd novel, because it moves in so many ways, and the ending may seem somewhat disappointing or anticlimactic, but there’s a strength to it, an insistence that women are allowed to become their own people, to talk about sex and virginity and politics. Each character present a different story, each needing the same and separate things, each getting their own ending, and the result is a complex, strange and wondrous novel.
It’s very different from the video installating – the art piece based on the book – that I’ve seen. In the videos the women never meet, each story remains separate, and there are alterations to each of them, but both novel and film are very powerful means of telling such a story. I recommend the book, but I also recommend the art installation, should you ever come across it. It’s a lot harsher, but very rewarding.
Original review:
Holy shit.
I've seen the film(s) based on this book. It was an art installation at Aros, the museum in my city (Aarhus Museum of Art). I had no idea it was a book first. I thought the title sounded familiar and this is why. It was an incredibly moving experience to see it. The different stories were split onto three huge screens in a dark, black room, so you got to watch them in random order. They were harsh, but beautiful. I hope it's still there....more
"I have always believed that the goodness of life was somewhere beyond my grasp, that the shadow of failure was hanging over me. Every obstacle seemed "I have always believed that the goodness of life was somewhere beyond my grasp, that the shadow of failure was hanging over me. Every obstacle seemed like a slope that could lead me back to where I came from: a nice shiny new car borrowed for a while and a bit of sunshine, one kid on top of you, the other shoving dirt in your mouth. What a nerve-wracking thing it is to be given hope."
What a beautiful, thought provoking, profoundly surprising and courageous book. I was approached by the author with an offer to read it in change for a review, and I accepted. Something I'm grateful for, as I'm not sure I ever would have found this book on my own. And what a story I would have missed out on. So thank you, Daniel, ever so much for sending me a copy, and of course for writing it.
The prose is magnificent. Some of it reads like a Siken poem ("I look briefly for those shaggy monsters of my youth"), some of it cuts straight to the heart and some of it perfectly captures the blandness, and the hopelessness of existence. There's a bleakness to it, and a hopefulness at the same time. It's imagined in gray with specks of vibrant colors. The mountain is a lush green, the ocean is beautifully blue, Mr. Spackle sparkles like spilled glitter in sunshine, and all the while our protagonist is black and white, his workplace is gray, his apartment is a faded brown. And the ghosts are white, with shades of color that have long gone.
It's the perfect mix of real, superreal and unreal. It's about the limits of fantasy, about imagination as a tool for healing, about the people around us who save us daily and how unbelievably difficult it can be to accept to feel anything, once you've been broken so bad you've wished again and again you didn't have a heart at all.
I guarantee you this book is no what you expect. The words fall together seamlessly and the story flows, taking you with it. It might be about redemption and forgiveness. It might be about something else. But whether it be his childhood, his 22-year-old self getting drunk in Nagasaki, or the wounded business man in Tokyo, part of his tale will get to you. You'll recognize it.
Most of all I'm impressed that Daniel Clausen managed to write a story that could have been so goddamned sad, so utterly hopeless and dark, and instead it filled me with optimism. His observations on so many subjects is unnervingly spot on, and he presents a lot of human issues in a light that is both humoristic, clever and deeply serious.
"Debra used to say that Justice existed, but that he was just a no good lazy dog who liked to take shortcuts, shirk his work, and sneak out for a drink. On his worst days, he would try to cheat on you with your sister when you had your back turned. All he needed was a good kick in the rear end and a reminder he had a job to do. I wanted to kick the fucking cigarette out of Justice's mouth and say, 'Listen fucker, get back to work or I'm going to kick your anemic little ass'. And because Justice is weak-kneed and likes expedients, he would get back to work, no problem."
And haven't we all, at one time or another, agreed with this description of justice? He can be cruel in his absence.
I cannot recommend this book enough. I'm honored to have received a signed copy, and will hopefully be reading more from this author in the future. For now, let me cherish having read these 240 pages, and met, if only briefly, the ghosts of Nagasaki....more
“He had spent so much time cloaked behind his screen name, a mere letter of the alphabet, that he no longer thought of himself as anything but an alif“He had spent so much time cloaked behind his screen name, a mere letter of the alphabet, that he no longer thought of himself as anything but an alif – a straight line, a wall. His given name fell flat to his ears now. The act of concealment had become more powerful than what it concealed.”
I love that this book is set in the Middle East. Most of us, no matter where we live, are probably a little guilty of ignorance when it comes to what goes on in any part of the world that isn’t ‘close’ to us, either geographically or politically. I know I’m very guilty of this, at least, I learned this as recently as last week, when, on my way to school, I met a young woman who asked me for directions. She spoke in rough, but understandable English, and explained she was going to the dentist, so I offered to follow her there.
On our way I made small talk (as you do), I asked her what she was doing in Denmark. Oh, she was a Syrian refugee. I wasn't expecting that, but I was very curious. I asked her if she was ever going back. No, she said, it was awful back there. In her village, if you were Kurdish they’d come and kill you, if you didn’t pray at the ordained time, if you wore your headscarf wrong etc., you could be beaten up or killed.
I thought ‘Shit. This has definitely not been on the news’.
Which just shows how much we CAN know, no matter how hard we pay attention.
And that is what makes fiction so absolutely stunning and mind blowing at times, because it gives authors an opportunity to show others how their part of the world works. To let us in on what we cannot understand unless we get to experience it.
Even living in a democratic, critical, free-speech country correct information - or information at all - isn't a given. In countries where information is sparse, and what you're given is propaganda or censored scraps, imagine how much twitter can matter? Facebook? Youtube. Put one picture out there and you can never take it back. There's only so much damage control you can do.
Of course some governments are shitting their pants, of course they're working overtime banning websites. They should be scared.
‘Alif the Unseen’ is honestly a refreshing book in every way. I have a hard time telling you exactly what I loved the most about it, all of it was simply one brilliant surprise after another. There’s love, there’s action, there’s sorrow, there’s religion, hacking, programming, Djinns, worlds-within-worlds and basically everything you’d want from a contemporary, urban sci-fi/fantasy story. I particularly dig that programming is such a huge part of the plot, because it’s often overlooked, which is ridiculous, because today’s youth are incredibly tech-savvy. We spend more time on a computer than we do anything else, so why not make it a strength? And not a sign that we’re lazy and need fresh air.
I’m also very fond of Dina as a character. And bless G. Willow Wilson for letting her be strong while not compromising her own femininity or personal beliefs and principles. In a way her and Alif represent two very different aspects of, I suspect, much of the youth of the middle-east, they’re modernism vs. traditionalism. Except we’re shown the immense strength that can come from both of those things, and they can easily co-exist, even thrive in the light of one another. Alif is strong because he has a set of skills; Dina is strong because she has a set of beliefs.
It really is a delightfully fresh, original, intelligent and thrilling book. It treats its subject with huge respect, while still being fearless in the face of it. On top of that there are definitely not enough books out there that deal with the growing threat of online surveillance and censoring (especially not in the middle-east) and that the enemy (and hero) in the future might very well be unseen.
"They will wake up one morning and realize their civilization has been pulled out from under them, inch by inch, dollar by dollar, just as ours was. They will know what it is to have been asleep for the most important century of their history.”
Our future is not in the hand of the one who holds the sword, but the one who taps the keyboard....more
I have struggled for very long with how to review this book. Normally I can manage to spew out something at some point, but this has had me puzzled foI have struggled for very long with how to review this book. Normally I can manage to spew out something at some point, but this has had me puzzled for so long. I simply don’t know how to say what I want to say about it.
It was not what I expected at all. I expected a sweet, coming of age book. The kind of book you didn’t necessarily have to take too seriously or think about for too long. Instead it was an incredibly tender and profound book that asks questions I don’t quite know how to answer.
Imagine if you, whenever you ate something (no matter what it was), could taste the feelings and emotions of the person who made that particular food item. Imagine if this happened some random day, and never went away. And not just, say, “Oh, she’s feeling happy” or “she’s a little sad today”, but every layer of every emotion they’ve had while making it. You feel exactly what they felt. It’s a very original idea, and explains completely what people who, for some reason, feel left out, must feel like. What having a special talent or ability can do to you, what kind of pressure it puts you under.
The ability she’s suddenly burdened with (because it is a burden) is surreal, of course, but the situations it puts her in are very realistic. How does one deal with one’s family? What will your friends think? How do you explain this seemingly inexplicable thing to them? How do you live a normal life, when you have to live every day with something that seems so abnormal?
You find meaning in it, of course you do. You find a way to deal with it and you accept yourself in the end, but the how and the why and everything in between is so amazingly interesting and so well described in this.
The story with the brother is what really got to me. It was so tender and so tragic and so beautifully described. The circumstances that these people are in might seem magical or overly surreal, but they translate into something very real.
They can be metaphors for mental illness, autism, substance abuse, not living up to the expectations people have of you, or the expectations you have of yourself. Or they can be exactly what they seem. It's so normal and so surreal at the same time. And yet it showed me so many very human things, and I was incredibly touched by it.
More than anything this is about family, about making things work when they seem to fall apart, about being honest about yourself and trusting each other. And about coming to terms with who you are.
Ah, magical realism. I know what you are now. You're when the supernatural, the surreal, the magical exists alongside the normal, the realistic, 4.5/5
Ah, magical realism. I know what you are now. You're when the supernatural, the surreal, the magical exists alongside the normal, the realistic, the regular, and it’s harmonious. Everyone accepts it. Ghosts are real, fish can swim through air when it rains for 11 years, people can float up into the sky and disappear.
What it means is this: One Hundred Years Of Solitude is a novel of utter wonder.
Reading this was a lot like being mildly misplaced. Like you went out for a stroll, entered the house of some hospitable strangers, who fed you, cared for you and delighted you, but made you slightly uncomfortable too, and slowly you realized you’d accidentally wandered into a parallel universe that was only slightly different from your own. The whole thing leaves you a little shaken.
It’s a cyclical novel, a story of circles. A novel where everything repeats itself, where people take the names of their forefathers and make the same mistakes. It’s the story of a nation, of a continent, condensed into the story of a single, small town in the middle of nowhere; to the makings and doings of the Buendiá family. Wars are fought, love is found, ((view spoiler)[often in family members, does incest have some sort of significant literary meaning? Only half joking. (hide spoiler)]), love is lost, and time moves in endless circles, from birth to death, rise to ruin, a repetition, an echo, slowly fading away.
One upside is that because it’s such a circular novel, and because all those people who are named the same thing are meant to mirror each other, you don’t have to keep clear in your head who’s who, how they’re related or who did what; think of them as one person, because they basically are. (I exaggerate slightly, but honestly, only slightly).
It’s written in prose that’s languid and lush, but with a constant threat of devastation and ruin lurking underneath, the feeling that something has inevitably broken and cannot be fixed, but must be brought to its conclusion. That José upon José, Aureliano upon Aureliano will be born until the end touches the beginning.
It’s the kind of book that you experience. So I’m not gonna say anything more....more
I was extremely surprised by this book. Let me tell you why (it's a funny story):
On the Danish cover it says "Pi's Liv" (Pi's Life), but I hadn't notI was extremely surprised by this book. Let me tell you why (it's a funny story):
On the Danish cover it says "Pi's Liv" (Pi's Life), but I hadn't noticed the apostrophe, so I thought it said "Pis Liv" (Piss Life) and I thought that was an interesting title at least, so perhaps I should give it a go. So I did. And... what I read was not at all what I had expected (I thought it was a book about a boy growing up amidst poverty and homelessness). It wasn't until I looked up the book in English I realized the title wasn't "Piss Life". I was deceived for longer than I like to admit and, well, not only about this.
When I first read it I also thought it was based on a true story. I'm not sure why I thought this, I must have misread something (I vaguely recall thinking the prologue was instead an introduction). It was a sad (and ehm, slightly humiliating) day when I discovered the truth lay elsewhere. I guess your romantic beliefs must die someday, and that was the day for me.
See, it's easier to believe in the world and be optimistic about it, when you also believe that world capable of containing a boy and a tiger co-existing on a lifeboat for 7 months and surviving.
The truth is this book probably changed my life, not in any grand, extraordinary way. But with the small things, the small observations. Like how Pi was afraid to run out of paper, to document his days in the lifeboat, and instead he ran out of ink. Like how he chose to embrace three religions, not just one.
This book, and Pi especially, represent and embody a way of life that I admire. It's not about believing in God, but about what it takes to believe in something, anything really. Yourself, the world, goodness, life, God.
If it seemed real enough for me to believe it had happened, perhaps the real world is indeed a place where it could happen. And that's what I want to believe, even if real life might tell me otherwise....more
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