‘piranesi’ review: susanna clarke turns to modernist magical realism

Susanna Clarke’s famous 2004 novel _Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell_ seamlessly combined the traditions of contemporary category fantasy and the traditions of the 19th century novel to

create a sprawling literary comedy of manners, fairies and adventure. In her new novel, _Piranesi_, Clarke is still working with fantasy literature, but here she crosses it with postmodern

magical realism—Borges, Calvino and Marquez go through the Narnian wardrobe this time, rather than Austen, Trollope and Dickens. The result is substantially shorter, and perhaps less

accessible. In terms of invention and beauty, though, it’s a fitting heir to Clarke’s first book. Piranesi is the name (or one name) of the main character, a man who lives in an enormous

house filled with statues. The lower chambers flood with tides. Piranesi spends his days writing in his journal about the House (always capitalized), mapping the labyrinth of rooms, chatting

with birds (albatrosses, rooks, and more), fishing, and comforting and caring for thirteen skeletons. Twice a week, he meets with a  mysterious “Other” to compare research notes. The Other

believes the House contains the secret to old, forgotten knowledge, which will allow him to exert control over minds, fly, and achieve other wonders. Piranesi humors the Other, but he

himself is not that interested in the project (what minds are there to control in this mostly empty world, anyway?) _SEE ALSO: HOW ‘JIRO DREAMS OF SUSHI’ HELPED A WRITER REDISCOVER HIS

VOICE, AND WRITE A NOVEL_ The odd barely populated House is a fairly obvious Borgesian meta-fiction. Like a book, the House is a closed-in, private world, filled with symbols—statues, the

flight of birds—which can be interpreted in a variety of ways. Many of Piranesi’s observations on the nature of the House are also observations on the nature of fiction. “The search for the

Knowledge has encouraged us to think of the House as if it were a sort of riddle to be unraveled, a text to be interpreted,” Piranesi thinks. But then he realizes, “The House is valuable

because it is the House. It is enough in and of itself. It is not the means to an end.” Art and beauty—the statues, Clarke’s novel—are valuable as art and beauty, not because they lead to

power or dominion. The strange amorphous, art-for-art’s sake description of rooms in the early part of the book gradually winds its way towards a clearer plot. Piranesi, we learn, is

suffering from memory loss. Like many a pop hero, from Jason Bourne to Captain Marvel to numerous Final Fantasy characters, Piranesi, has what might be called plot amnesia—he doesn’t

remember who he is or any of the important events that brought him to his present self.  Plot amnesia is a common pulp approach to meta-fiction—it decks Joyce and Nabokov out in ninja-wear.

In plot amnesia stories, the main character starts off in the same position as the reader: neither knows their past, their purpose, or their world. They set off together on the adventure to

learn who they are and what they’ve been. Piranesi is in the House, as you are in the book, and he wanders through it to learn his own identity just as you do. Clarke deftly weaves together

highbrow and lowbrow so Piranesi as reader is both symbol and story. To read _Piranesi_ is to be the labyrinth and the traveler in the labyrinth, which is poetry and prose. Memory loss isn’t

just a pulp trope; it’s also an indicator of trauma. Piranesi has forgotten, we learn, because he needed to forget to keep himself whole. Since forgetting in turn is a kind of metaphor for

immersing yourself in the world of the book, the novel then becomes about losing yourself in the novel. It’s also about grief and finding comfort in art.  Piranesi “lived among statues:

silent presences that brought him comfort and enlightenment,” Clarke writes. Other people are dangerous, cruel, or just annoying. In the House Piranesi can be alone with his thoughts,

communing with the albatrosses. Art is safe.. It’s not _just_ safe though. “I said this is a perfect world,” one character says towards the end of the book, “But it’s not. There are crimes

here, just like everywhere else.” Piranesi’s utopia is a refuge from violence, but that means it’s also a reminder of violence. You don’t need a retreat unless there’s something to retreat

from. Piranesi’s utopia is moving and affecting in part because it’s also melancholy.  His quiet, methodical kindness, and his faith in the House, protect him from looking up at what he

can’t face or fix. Escapism in this context is a kind of defiance, and a kind of bravery too. The end of the novel doesn’t exactly provide justice, and closure is only provisional. Piranesi

is a gentle man, and a gentle book. It wants to leave doors open for its characters and its readers. “When this world becomes too much for me, when I grow tired of the noise and the dirt and

the people, I close my eyes and I name a particular vestibule to myself, then I name a hall.” _Piranesi _is a novel to revisit—a house you can open again, with statues touched by quiet

thoughts and strange tides.