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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.
It's not really an alternate reality, it's a world of platonic ideals. I don't think making it a nuclear waste dump would be a good idea, what is the platonic ideal of radioactive uranium?
Anyway, the book is the equivalent of lying on the beach doing nothing but just enjoying the sun, the sounds, the ocean spray, the languid have-nothing-important-to-do-ness. If that's not your thing I can't make it your thing. Honestly you could take away the tiny plot that exists and the book would still be as popular.
Either you love the main character or you don't. The book tries to make you feel pity for him but also envy him because you don't feel love and appreciation the same way he does. He's having the time of his life with statues, careful observations, and his little expeditions. You pity him for his ignorance and you envy him for his innocence. It's a narrow emotional space but Clarke inhabits it well.
Look, if you can litter the place with packets of crisps, you can throw a fuel rod in there. I'm sure it'll keep.
If I wanted a book that sells itself purely on vibes, I'd settle for a scented candle, which is cheaper and comes with a lid. My real complaint is that it threatened to have a plot. It kept gesturing at one at regular intervals, like a waiter who walks past your table holding the bill and never stops.
I dare say that it's "women fiction", which isn't necessarily a condemnation - it's clearly popular with its target audience. It's a light little fruity pink drink, presumably, and I drink my fair share of those. You can easily point to equivalent male slop, not that we read as much. But pretty prose does not a good story make, by my standards. It may remain popular, but I'm here to shake my fist ineffectually.
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