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A review by terrypaulpearce
The Narrator by Michael Cisco
1.0
I always try to give any book, especially one that's been very highly recommended, 100 pages before I give it up if I'm struggling. This was really, really hard to manage to do that with, and I really can't imagine reading the other 344 pages for love nor money.
I hate 'the emperor has no clothes' reviews. There's no such thing as objectively how good a book is. If it got published, somebody loved it (in this case, China Mieville and Jeff VanderMeer really love it too), and there's no reason why my opinion is more objectively true than theirs.
But a book is an interaction between the words on the page and each reader, so let me try and tell you what kind of reader I am. If you're any way similar, there's a chance you'll be as lost as to this book's appeal as I am.
I don't mind complexity and some level of obtuseness and difficulty (my favourite book is Infinite Jest), but I need something to hang onto (I gave up on Gravity's Rainbow). I love wierd (The Vorrh? 5 stars. Annhiliation? 5 stars). I love odd societies and worlds (The Glass Bead Game? 5 stars. Engine Summer? 5 stars). I love sumptuous prose (Ben Myers' The Gallows Pole, Sebastian Barry's Days Without End). I love a good dark mien (William Gay's Provinces of Night, Anna Kavan's Ice).
So, qualified thusly, here's my opinion. Accentuate the I in each of these. I found this virtually unreadable. I was lost. I found the characters paper-thin and impossible to care about. I found the prose only so-so, and the language often odd seemingly for oddness' sake. Weird tense changes and grammar snafus seemed without reason or good effect. Concept after concept was vaguely introduced in a way I found impossible to care about or remember in case of later return to said concept. The whole experience seemed like reading the Addams Family's shopping list. Nothing to grip onto, nothing to care about, nothing to admire.
I wouldn't normally bother going into such depth, but I'm genuinely confused, I think is the thing. It's not the author's fault, but when a dust jacket puts something 'in a different kind and league from almost anyone writing today (Mieville), and compares it to Kafka (VanderMeer), I expected to at least be able to admire it, even if I found it tough going. Instead I am mystified as to what anybody could see in it.
Maybe the biggest clue should have been VanderMeer comparison to *early* David Lynch. It did make about as much sense to me as Eraserhead...
I hate 'the emperor has no clothes' reviews. There's no such thing as objectively how good a book is. If it got published, somebody loved it (in this case, China Mieville and Jeff VanderMeer really love it too), and there's no reason why my opinion is more objectively true than theirs.
But a book is an interaction between the words on the page and each reader, so let me try and tell you what kind of reader I am. If you're any way similar, there's a chance you'll be as lost as to this book's appeal as I am.
I don't mind complexity and some level of obtuseness and difficulty (my favourite book is Infinite Jest), but I need something to hang onto (I gave up on Gravity's Rainbow). I love wierd (The Vorrh? 5 stars. Annhiliation? 5 stars). I love odd societies and worlds (The Glass Bead Game? 5 stars. Engine Summer? 5 stars). I love sumptuous prose (Ben Myers' The Gallows Pole, Sebastian Barry's Days Without End). I love a good dark mien (William Gay's Provinces of Night, Anna Kavan's Ice).
So, qualified thusly, here's my opinion. Accentuate the I in each of these. I found this virtually unreadable. I was lost. I found the characters paper-thin and impossible to care about. I found the prose only so-so, and the language often odd seemingly for oddness' sake. Weird tense changes and grammar snafus seemed without reason or good effect. Concept after concept was vaguely introduced in a way I found impossible to care about or remember in case of later return to said concept. The whole experience seemed like reading the Addams Family's shopping list. Nothing to grip onto, nothing to care about, nothing to admire.
I wouldn't normally bother going into such depth, but I'm genuinely confused, I think is the thing. It's not the author's fault, but when a dust jacket puts something 'in a different kind and league from almost anyone writing today (Mieville), and compares it to Kafka (VanderMeer), I expected to at least be able to admire it, even if I found it tough going. Instead I am mystified as to what anybody could see in it.
Maybe the biggest clue should have been VanderMeer comparison to *early* David Lynch. It did make about as much sense to me as Eraserhead...