... at the very point at which the Other has declared he will kill me if I become mad, I have discovered that I am mad already! Or, if not mad now, then certainly I have been mad in the past. I was mad when I wrote those entries! [loc. 1490]
There are, as far as Piranesi knows, two living humans in the World: himself, and the Other. The World is synonymous with the House, an apparently-infinite labyrinth of rooms populated by marble statues, ornaments and the occasional skeletal remains of other humans. Piranesi has spent years exploring the House, from its lower, tide-scoured rooms to the heights where birds and clouds and stars soar above him. He records his explorations, and the small events of his life -- albatrosses nesting, a conjunction of tides, a dream inspired by the statue of a faun -- in a series of journals.
Yet from the beginning we are aware, as Piranesi is not, that the Other is an outsider. He brings multivitamins and cheese sandwiches to supplement Piranesi's wholesome diet of mussels, seaweed and fresh-caught fish: he carries something that is probably a mobile phone. The Other is impatient with Piranesi's fascination with the House, and demands that Piranesi direct his energies to discovering the Great and Secret Knowledge that (so he believes) is hidden somewhere within the endless rooms. And he warns Piranesi about an incomer, an enemy, who will endanger Piranesi's very sanity.
Piranesi -- which he's aware is not his name, but a pseudonym bestowed by the Other, a referent to labyrinths -- is content, self-sufficient and without any memory of a time before the House. But the coming of 16 (the sixteenth person to exist, after himself and the Other and the thirteen people whose skeletons are hidden in the House) forces him to reread old journal entries, question his own identity and discover some hard truths.
Piranesi ('Piranesi') is a delightful protagonist, a holy innocent wholly appreciative of the immeasurable Beauty and infinite Kindness of the House. In contrast, it's very easy to dislike the Other for his contemptuous treatment of Piranesi, especially as more backstory is exposed. (I confess I am fascinated by the events of Christmas 1976: but that is another story, and not Piranesi's at all.) Clarke's skill in weaving a crime plot into an ontological experiment is admirable, and her pacing is exquisite. Though in many ways this is a very different book to Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, it's just as consummately structured, plotted and written.
A compact novel rather than a short one: there are depths here, and shadows of other stories, and much left unsaid. And the ending ... ouroboros. The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite.
Is it coincidence that I suffered a bout of labyrinthitis immediately after reading this?
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