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Notes -
So, what are you reading?
I'm trying Donnelly's Atlantis again. I was interested in him from the Shakespeare authorship question, but now I'm wondering if the mythology of Atlantis has any relevance to new world/indigenous issues. If nothing else I have discovered the rather neat new world art of Waldeck, said to be Egyptianized. Backlog is not moving.
I just finished Piranesi on the train, and even though I pirated the book, I'd like a refund. I have only so much time under the sun.
I genuinely do not understand what people see in that soggy lump of seaweed. Like Jesus Christ, at best, I can call it beautiful prose wrapped around a shaggy dog story - a trite allegory about domestic violence if I squint, or take off my glasses.
I do not care about spoiler tags. I think I'm doing people a favor if I spoil the "book".
A man lives in an infinite House of halls and statues. He catalogs the statues. He catalogs the tides. He journals about cataloguing. Around the halfway mark we confirm what any reader with a pulse suspected by page 40: he's a kidnapped academic named Matthew whose memory got shredded by the House, and the smug prick he calls "the Other" is the guy who trapped him there to use him as a research instrument. A policewoman walks in, tells him this, the villain drowns on schedule, and our boy returns to England, where he is gently sad and visits the House sometimes on weekends. Also, this nigga fruity. He's as sweet as a sugar plum, but the only characters getting an action in the story are the seagulls and albatrosses.
You've got a quadrillion pages about statues, and then the ramifications of an entire parallel world are buried under seagull shit without so much as a "huh". Like, you can just go there. You can take pictures and upload them to Wikipedia. You could dump nuclear waste in the place, if nothing else. The poverty of imagination of the characters is rivaled only by that of the author.
I started out knowing nothing about the book. I wish I could return to that idyllic state, but I suspect that I'd just end up in an endless cycle of re-reading it because there are rave reviews written by raving idiots. What a waste - I genuinely enjoyed Johnathan Strange.
I personally enjoyed Piranesi after having it recommended on The Motte, so you may encounter other defenders.
To your point about why it is so widely liked, Piranesi's reading level, length and content combine to create a book that anyone can pick up and that almost everyone will feel has more there than appears. Some other examples would be The Old Man and the Sea (definitely offers what is promised), a great deal of Hesse, or The Alchemist (I strongly believe does not fulfill its promise). Piranesi is kind of like an "insight porn" genre of novels.
Personally, I thought the setting was extremely aesthetically pleasing and I liked the idea of the statue world as a sort of aesthetic clearinghouse for the world. While the book does not do too much with the latter idea because it is so focused on the main character who is not a type to grapple with the sci-fi genre implications, I found this reasonable and realistic, though I would tend to agree that the fundamental real world plot was excessively mundane.
A reasonable take, but I object strenuously to the conflation of "human being with a frontal lobe tries to be sensible about the situation they're in" with "sci-fi genre implications".
I didn't expect a rat-fic, or the story suddenly morphing into the SCP foundation. But there is a profound lack of curiosity or grounding inherent to the setting. It's wooly, wishy-washy set dressing.
The existence of an enormous navigable alternate reality is arguably the largest discovery in human history. And almost nobody gives a shit!
You don't even need to go straight to: SELLAFIELD II: NOW WITH INFINITE STORAGE CAPACITY
(not that I'd complain)
Think smaller. Archaeologists. Ecologists. Fluid dynamicists trying to understand tides without an obvious ocean. Materials scientists sampling statues. Cosmologists asking where the light and energy come from. Biologists sequencing the birds. Intelligence agencies having a collective seizure. Philosophers becoming even less employable than usual.
There should be forty competing Nature papers and an armed perimeter around the portal within a few months.
Even if this isn't directly covered in the story itself, it's the kind of thing that deserves a passing reference in an epilogue.
And the whole conceit of a random police woman reading a diary (or something, I'm not going back to check) and swooping in to save the day? Bruh. To say the book has a plot takes all the generosity I have left to give. She can teleport into another dimension on a whim and this isn't given like... any investigation at all? And she doesn't just take an iPhone with her to upload hours of footage? Is everyone concussed? Does the author care? I don't know, but I'm evidently aggrieved.
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Small world, my fiancée finished reading that the other day and loved it.
I'm not saying that's grounds to call off marriage, but I'll shake my head and sigh on your behalf. Women keep this kind of "literary fiction" propped up, though men seem to have given up on books so we can't complain too hard.
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These statements seem contradictory. It's been several years since I read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, but I specifically remember having similar criticisms of that book. (If magicians are so powerful, why has magic been forgotten outside Britain, and why is this book set in a retreading of the Napoleonic Wars rather than in a magician-ruled alternate history?)
It's been a good dozen years since I've read the book. I'm sure the worldbuilding had holes big enough to drive a bus through, but at least there was effort put into something more interesting than "spoopy house with statues and birds and fish and tides." I suspect there's Backrooms fanfic that's higher quality than Piranesi, which is damning to hell and back with faint praise.
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