Having recently sent a copy of The
Scar to my brother, whiling away his own personal lockdown in a northerly
island town, to keep him amused – he does love a bit of the so-called ‘New
Weird’ (including my own personal favourite, Jeff VanderMeer) – between musical
projects and his day job driving for Tesco, I left off Tristram
Shandying for the time being so that I, too, could follow up the New Crobuzon
trilogy begun in Perdido Street Station.
And I was immediately reminded of the only criticism I can genuinely level at Miéville.
I loved Embassytown (very much) and The City & The City (almost as much), and in truth I can’t recall if I was irked by this perceived flaw in either of them, but I felt the creeping ire throughout the pages of Perdido.
Hey ho, before that, first, the plot synopsis, for those of you who like that sort of thing. The story starts with an elicit liaison between a peculiarly grotesque fat guy and an insect – this is not too weird, given the city of New Crobuzon is actually situated inside the ribs of an ancient dead behemoth, and there are people made of cactus. He’s a scientist and amateur thaumaturge, and she’s an artist who makes sculptures with her spit. They’re both mavericks and outsiders, wilfully disdainful of the establishment, whether academic and legal (him), or cultural (her), and their peaceful breakfast scene is probably the only scene without an explicit crisis.
He heads off into a rather unusual and foolish commission from a crippled birdman, and she to her new artistic commission as sculpture for a truly grotesque crime boss who is addicted to body modification in a most terrible way. On the way, he somehow sets loose a family of monstrous moths who devour minds, and is forced to enjoin an interdimensional spider, who likes to cut off policemen’s ears, to help defeat them.
It may sound patently ridiculous, and in retrospect it is, but it hangs together so very well that it is immediately forgiven, and any echoes of other fantastical works can be ignored. He cites Mervyn Peake as an influence, and it definitely has a Gormenghast feel to the breadth, complexity, and overall the pervasive presence of the city. In fact, it wouldn’t be overstating the case to make a favourable comparison of Perdido to that seminal work.
However, here comes the unironic but knowingly self-referential criticism. Miéville’s prose can be flabby and verbose, to the point of purpleness. Notwithstanding his great creative talent and the tight plotting of such a mammoth beast, and not forgetting his mastery at weaving horror, fantasy and noir thriller together to the point that any credulity the reader may choose to hoard is swept away, he does sometimes go on a bit. I’ve just read the prologue of The Scar and it’s already all ancient darkness and trembling aether, squids and waffle.
Yeah, I know, right?
Ahem. My point made, I will return for another bite of the feedback sandwich. Perdido Street Station is a brilliant novel. Alone it would be a foundation upon which British fantasy could be built into future generations, but there are more of them. I am genuinely excited to push through my own nonsensical peccadillo to get stuck into books 2 and 3, and strongly urge you to put aside any legacy huffing and puffing out of cheeks at the thought of reading something so derisory as a fantasy novel.
It is immensely rewarding reading.
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