Sylvie

It is rare to have a work so deeply resonate with me and my distinct perception of the world, my autistic sense of alienation from other women and from society. I deal with so much pressure to conform to “the factory”, but it eludes me, will always elude me. I am constructed differently, constructed from the stardust of a remote galaxy. One day, perhaps, something will descend from the sky to take me home.

The problem with collections of this sort is how uneven they tend to be, but there are moments when Gaiman's talent shines; moments, even, of brilliance. Still, it is largely merely “pretty good” with the occasional outright misfire. I loved Neverwhere and Coraline when I was young, and this collection, while it did not bowl me over, has convinced me that I should revisit Gaiman as a novelist now, in my 30s.

This reminded me of the much more recent novel by Sayaka Murata, Earthlings, a personal favorite and likewise pronouncedly Japanese novel on pining for a sincere expression of being. The agents of desire repression, desire for an authenticity precluded by society, are described in both via mechanistic terms, machines and factories, accompanied by a sense of such profound alienation that the narrators declare themselves inhuman. There's a Deluzian analysis of the two waiting to be exercised that I might some day undertake. There is so much to process here-I'll be sifting through the memory of many passages for months to come, I'm sure. Exceptional, and an essential read for the queer and the deviant.

Here, in grief, things tumble into their constituents, into inanimacy, an unknowing, or in some instances a knowing too well that supercedes reductive language. Pride and vanity bear through carrying out a woman's revenge, one metted towards all but the man upon whom it was fixed. While it is not allotted so much direct pronouncement as other concerns, the tragedy and sorrow of womanhood is perhaps the most pronounced theme, everpresent as undercurrent, rising occasionally to wash away the bridge or drive a rushing log through the ford. After some chapters I had to set it aside and go for a walk. Impeccably written, at times genuinely visceral.

Perdido Street Station was such a momentous reading experience when I was younger. It was flawed, with its occasionally unconvincing characterization, the pacing, the occasional clunkiness of the dialogue, but the way the city lived, the atmosphere, elevated it above itself. The City & The City has a hell of a premise. It has the occasional sentence that makes me envious. Occasionally I feel for the characters. But on the whole, it is unconvincing. I don't buy it. I read a line and I think, you know, that feels forced, that feels written, something someone put in this character's mouth more than what the character would say. I don't buy it. I buy his architecture and his conceits, some of his turns of phrase, but not his characters or his plots.

I've seen interviews with China and he's such an insightful, articulate speaker who clearly has a tremendous amount to offer. I have Kraken on my shelf. It might be a bit before I get to it, but I will, and I'm going to be in it with the hope of being enraptured, because China so clearly has the capacity, somewhere, to be properly enrapturing.