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A review by masonanddixon
The Mirror Thief by Martin Seay
4.0
“The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.” - William Shakespeare
Does the mirror reveal ourselves, or merely limit the self to that which can be seen, that which already exists, thus destroying originality? Can we separate ourselves from the disappointing plane into the silvery alternative reflected in art? Can we even answer those? The Mirror Thief beautifully sets up these questions through three metaphorically interlocking narratives of Venice and the thieves within them. One, a Vegas noir with shadows of Ellroy and Delillo, the next a Bellow or Joycean take on life as a grifter in late 50s Venice Beach, and the final a less academic take on Umberto Eco's style set in 1500s Venice. Each of these having in someway to do with a book of poems called The Mirror Thief. If the meta fictional David Mitchell gears in your brain are turning you aren't wrong. (though the book is far more subtle in its themes than Cloud Atlas) Each of these stories in someway is a discussion of interpretation and originality w/r/t the questions above. Ultimately, the book shys away from answering these questions in favor of becoming a Ginsbergian howl at the systems that contain and keep us from being true to ourselves, or even prevent us from knowing ourselves at all.
The only think keeping me from giving this the full five stars is how much better Martin Seay is at being a literary writer than one of genre. The action and expository scenes, though here for a character reason I can't reveal, come off as clunky— greenhorn. The dissonance between "Patterns proliferate, as if in terror of blankness: geometric, vegetal, endlessly elaborated. Every surface seems vented, weightless, shot through with numberless holes." and "He stabbed a man through the breastbone." is great and Seay never fully resolves it. Thus leaving this loose baggy monster less a singular piece as fractured mirror. Deillo this ain't.
PS: The book, like DFW, is also steeped in Richard Rorty's philosophy of mirrors, but unlike DFW's later work doesn't really contend with them so much as accept them. So be warned if Rorty annoys you as he does so many philosophers.
Does the mirror reveal ourselves, or merely limit the self to that which can be seen, that which already exists, thus destroying originality? Can we separate ourselves from the disappointing plane into the silvery alternative reflected in art? Can we even answer those? The Mirror Thief beautifully sets up these questions through three metaphorically interlocking narratives of Venice and the thieves within them. One, a Vegas noir with shadows of Ellroy and Delillo, the next a Bellow or Joycean take on life as a grifter in late 50s Venice Beach, and the final a less academic take on Umberto Eco's style set in 1500s Venice. Each of these having in someway to do with a book of poems called The Mirror Thief. If the meta fictional David Mitchell gears in your brain are turning you aren't wrong. (though the book is far more subtle in its themes than Cloud Atlas) Each of these stories in someway is a discussion of interpretation and originality w/r/t the questions above. Ultimately, the book shys away from answering these questions in favor of becoming a Ginsbergian howl at the systems that contain and keep us from being true to ourselves, or even prevent us from knowing ourselves at all.
The only think keeping me from giving this the full five stars is how much better Martin Seay is at being a literary writer than one of genre. The action and expository scenes, though here for a character reason I can't reveal, come off as clunky— greenhorn. The dissonance between "Patterns proliferate, as if in terror of blankness: geometric, vegetal, endlessly elaborated. Every surface seems vented, weightless, shot through with numberless holes." and "He stabbed a man through the breastbone." is great and Seay never fully resolves it. Thus leaving this loose baggy monster less a singular piece as fractured mirror. Deillo this ain't.
PS: The book, like DFW, is also steeped in Richard Rorty's philosophy of mirrors, but unlike DFW's later work doesn't really contend with them so much as accept them. So be warned if Rorty annoys you as he does so many philosophers.