Alana McCool
I really love a first person POV story, and journal entries works really well as a framing device in Piranesi. Because the narrator only knows what is at hand, and only shares what they think is right to put down in their journal. And what is at hand is memory, flashes written on my own heart, building the House of the Blessed Child.
I remember years ago I was on the north shore of O'ahu during the winter, when the waves can grow to 50 feet high, and they thunder down on the beach. And when I think about that I can feel the thunder again. The House is a soundscape, a feelscape, I can hear and smell and touch in my body the great ocean, that thunder, the spray and mists, see the quality of light on statues, feel the warmth and also the ice cold of winter shore, hear the calling of all sorts of birds, the quiet of the Drowned Halls. It is very Proustian the way it grows as the Blessed Child writes his journal, just a little taste and the whole space fills out.
It reminds me of the game Myst some, that kind of solitary atmosphere. But in Myst, you are alone and feel strange. The Blessed Child does not feel strange, he is home. And it is only when others come into the House and dredge memories that he feels anything is wrong. Why would he want to leave?
Why would I want to leave?
Thank you to @hardybooks for recommending this.
I really love a first person POV story, and journal entries works really well as a framing device in Piranesi. Because the narrator only knows what is at hand, and only shares what they think is right to put down in their journal. And what is at hand is memory, flashes written on my own heart, building the House of the Blessed Child.
I remember years ago I was on the north shore of O'ahu during the winter, when the waves can grow to 50 feet high, and they thunder down on the beach. And when I think about that I can feel the thunder again. The House is a soundscape, a feelscape, I can hear and smell and touch in my body the great ocean, that thunder, the spray and mists, see the quality of light on statues, feel the warmth and also the ice cold of winter shore, hear the calling of all sorts of birds, the quiet of the Drowned Halls. It is very Proustian the way it grows as the Blessed Child writes his journal, just a little taste and the whole space fills out.
It reminds me of the game Myst some, that kind of solitary atmosphere. But in Myst, you are alone and feel strange. The Blessed Child does not feel strange, he is home. And it is only when others come into the House and dredge memories that he feels anything is wrong. Why would he want to leave?
Why would I want to leave?
Thank you to @hardybooks for recommending this.