The Top Ten Books I’ve Reviewed On This Blog

I’ve been running this blog for – as of a few days ago – seven years now. Long time. Fair few books reviewed over that time (though nowhere near as many as I’d have liked). So, with the seven year mark gone by, and the weather being wet and cold and dreary, I thought it might be nice to draw up an updated countdown of the best books that I’ve reviewed over that time.

There is, however, a slight complication. In recent years, a lot of my reading has been two big re-read projects of the works of two of my favourite authors – Robin Hobb and Terry Pratchett. This means that any brief list would be overrun by their works – in particular, I’ve reviewed around 35 of Pratchett’s Discworld novels, and a lot of them are very, very good. A list of Discworld novels with a couple of other things thrown in just doesn’t seem that useful.

So, a compromise: this is a list of the ten best books I’ve read in the last 6-7 years, but with only one book per author. Just for fun, I’ve also thrown in the opening paragraph or two of each novel.

So, here we go….

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The Affirmation, by Christopher Priest

I thought that this was a nice book, and that it was a distant book, and that I was disengaged from it, and then I found I had fallen into it like falling into quicksand, like being trapped in a gin that closes slowly in quicksand. I have finished it now, and I am honestly fighting the urge to flail around with my body, because it feels as though there are ants crawling on me, or something sharp inside me. It doesn’t literally feel like that, because I’m not mad, but it feels like something – not emotionally, it feels like something, it is a bodily sensation and those are the images that something provokes. Most of me doesn’t want to think about this book any more, because it is physically painful – or rather, it is painful, and it is painful in a physical, bodily, phenomenal, sensational way, although I feel no physical pain, because I’m not mad.

The book is a dream that turns into a nightmare, except that instead of turning into a nightmare, you suddenly look around in the dream and realise it has been a nightmare all along. And I say that even though nothing particularly nightmarish occurs. Rather, because emotionally, responsively, even physically, my experience of reading was an experience of a nightmare of being trapped, of being unable to escape.

I am not mad, but I have the capacity for madness latent within me, as an unrealised mode of action, as it were. We all do; many of us actually are mad, in quiet and hard-to-notice manners; i’m not, but I think I have more awareness of how I would be if I were mad, and how similar it is to not being mad, than most people; but I don’t know whether that is because I am actually closer to it, or just because I have paid more attention to myself than many other people pay to their own selves. In any case, this book holds a mirror up to that potential madness, even calls to that madness, and that is one reason why it is painful – why it is frightening, even. But it isn’t the only reason, I don’t think. And don’t worry, I’m not mad.

Apparently I’m not alone in this. Reading a few reviews, many others agree that this is a book that makes you question yourself, that strikes into the heart of you. It’s not just me being mad.

The Affirmation is one of Priest’s earlier works. It tells two stories. The first is the story of Peter Sinclair; living in London, he is made unemployed (amongst other misfortunes) and goes to the countryside to pull himself together, deciding that it will be therapeutic to write his autobiography, to set things straight in his mind. Before long, however, he realises that some truths about himself are best expressed through metaphor, and his autobiography becomes a novel: about Peter Sinclair, an inhabitant of Jethra in the feudal kingdom of Faiandland. The second story is the story of Peter Sinclair, an inhabitant of Jethra in the feudal kingdom of Faiandland; some years before he was made unemployed and retreated into the countryside to pull himself together by writing an autobiography; now, however, he has got over all that, and is embarking on a journey into the Dream Archipelago, to collect first prize in an unusual Lotterie.

This isn’t artistic bilgewater, irony for the sake of postmodernism. It’s an examination of madness so complete and so uncompromising that it is entirely possible that all the characters therein are wholly sane, and only the structure of the novel itself, its realities and its timelines, produces confusion and uncertainty. It’s like a part of the ground that has been folded up and turned into a hot air balloon – it is rooted in the world, it is made out of the world, but suddently you realise it has lifted off all by itself. It is unlike artistic bilgewater because it manages to be by itself – it is not a morass of things thrown in from the world, something anchored in conflicting ways. This is one of the rare books that has no anchor, no meeting point with the world, with life. You don’t know what I mean by that, but it’s possible that after you’ve read the book you might.

There is nothing groundbreaking in this novel intellectually.  Likewise, as the title suggests, Nietzschean ethics are considered quite prominently, but not in a way that will be novel to the philosophically literate; likewise the questions about the nature of personal identity. Novelists often come by coincidence to philosophical places, but so much of the meat of this novel is drawn directly from, and in the style of, philosophical thought-experiments, that I think Priest either is following a guide or else is a natural philosopher. This is a philosophical novel, of the kind analytic philosophy is not meant to have – all it lacks in that regard is depth, conviction, and originality.

The book is many things. It is a searing study of schizophrenia; it is a philosophical treatise; it is trip into an imaginary world; and it is an exploration of the nature of writing, and in particular the nature of being a novelist.

The genius of the book is not the intellectual content – not even how these questions interact with one another – but the delivery of that content. It is masterful – though as I said at the beginning, it is a slow and inorexable read rather than a thriller. The pace is slow, the objective obscure, and the viewpoint character(s?) are uninspiring and dull. By the end, however, that is the point – the dullness, the reality, of Peter Sinclair delivers more in the way of payoff than a more charismatic (and hence less immediate and normal) character could have provided.

The Affirmation is a more sincere book than The Prestige; it is more meaningul, and it is better constructed. It is not, however, written quite so well, I don’t think – the voice of Sinclair is somewhat less powerful in its ability to express much with little than are the voices of Borden or Angier – and stylistically it is much more within itself, achieving itself more fully but attempting less (while intellectually being far more ambitious than the later book:  The Prestige at times feels like a book written to flex muscles, while The Affirmation feels written for a purpose). If I have a concern about Priest from these two novels, it is that they are a bit too similar in tone and style and preoccupations.

I still want to throw something at a wall. It’s the only way to escape the circles of thinking, sometimes; and even that doesn’t work. Nothing can escape from The Affirmation, including the reader, even after the book is finished. It is a self-constraining circle of a novel, an event horizon. It will stay with me for a long time, but in part because it was inside me before I read it.

I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything more useful or concrete, and for this all being such useless waffle. The subject matter of the book, if there is any matter to it (and this not a book where one can simply say what happens – even the paragraph I’ve said already about that is nonsense, both spoiling the book, or its first few chapters, and being made a lie of, a mockery of, by the book itself and its contents) is all spoiler, and is all impossible to speak about even if it weren’t. Speaking about it anchors it to the world, imposes a perspective. And it’s too slippery a novel to do that with.

Adrenaline: 3/5. Not an exciting book. The narrative voice is bland and boring, and very little happens. This is ameliorated by the mounting emotional response to the book, a tension and fear, like the moments in a conspiracy thriller just as you know you’re about to find out how big the conspiracy is. It engaged and captured me, but it didn’t run away with me.

Emotion: 4/5. The narrator is somewhat distant, and all the other characters are tertiary to him. However, his bland, direct, simple, open way of speaking about his life makes it impossible not to empathise with him, and more than empathise – or perhaps empathise for him, rather than with him. Beyond that: real and vivid feelings were provoked in me, of the sort of restlessness found in nightmares of pursuit or of imprisonment, feelings of childish helplessness. I do not give it full marks because its inexorable approach meant that the power didn’t kick in until near the end.

Thought: 5/5. The philosophical content is ground-breaking neither in hypothesis nor in solution, and although complexity is gestured at it is not made manifest. The plot is intriguing but is not a mystery. I don’t know how to explain why this gets full marks. Perhaps because talking about it – and this is only one manifestation of the process of assimilating the novel, of coming to terms with it – places my words, as you can see, at or beyond the limits of what are sayable. I don’t know if that counts as thought, but I’m going to say that it does. It makes my head spin, at least.

Beauty: 4/5. There is nothing wrong with the writing, but it is intentionally plain. There are beautiful moments and images, but the greatest beauty is the book itself. Considering the book, I feel the edges of the sublime impinging upon me, a power before which the mind and the tongue dissolve away. But too much of the actual content of the book is too plain and ordinary for full marks here.

Craft: 5/5. There are things about this book which are not perfect, but they are not the fault of the author, rather inherent flaws in the nature of the project. Priest has a mastery of prose, character, construction, and conceit. It is not, I think, as well written as The Prestige (encouragingly, as it was written more than a decade earlier), but it has a greater unity and coherence of form and concept. Priest is a brilliant novelist, and this is how you write a novel. Specifically, it is how you write this novel, and that may put you off if you don’t happen to like the novel he chose to write, but I can’t find any serious problem with how he wrote it.

Endearingness: 3/5. Even just thinking about it now, it compels me. It has a place in my affections, and I will return to it many times. But it’s also not a curl-up-in-front-of-the-fireplace read. It’s too painful for that, and too cold.

Originality: 4/5. To be honest, while it’s all distinctive, none of it – the plot, the structure, the conceits, the philosophy – is wholly unique. But it’s very well done!

Echo: 1/2. As this review says, it had a physical impact on me – not the usual deadness and deafness, but a frustration and fear and… thinking about it, perhaps it is a little like thinking about death. But it is an insidious book rather than an overwhelming one, I think, and I was left still able to walk in a straight line.

Overall: 6/7. Very Good. People say this may be Priest’s masterpiece. I thought it wasn’t as good as The Prestige. I can see how people might disagree, though. This was more focused, smaller, more direct, more perfect, while The Prestige was more of a sprawler (despite its modest length), protean, chaotic. I think the later book wins out in my reviews because they are generalist reviews, and The Prestige ticks more boxes – there are angles from which The Affirmation is better, but there are more angles from which The Prestige is indisputably very good. I think the biggest thing missing from this novel was excitement – either through intention or inexperience, there wasn’t that brilliant ability to wring heart-pounding thrills from the simplest language and events that so impressed me in The Prestige. But I have no doubt that this book reaffirms Priest’s place as one of the great modern novelists, and makes me want to go and read his entire back-catalogue. I won’t, because there are so many other things to read. But right now I want to.

The Prestige – Film Version

Well, I’ve followed up reading the book with watching the film. My response is… mixed.

First things first: I enjoyed the experience greatly. It was a good film, well made, perfectly entertaining.

Second thing: it strikes me that this is one of the few times in life when, after the diverging of two roads, the road not taken is quite visible, yet can truly never be stepped back on to. What I mean is that either you read the book first and then the film, or you watch the film and then read the book. Neither is superfluous: they go together well. But I think your experience of both will be irrevocably altered, depending on the order.

I watched the film having seen the book; this was both good and bad. On the good side, I knew what was going on. I think that this is a confusing film, and one which many people will either not understand, or else get only a small part out of. Concentration throughout is essential, and little is done to make things clear or comprehensible. Knowing the plot in advance made it clear how things all fitted together, and so the constant flashbacks (to three different time-periods from two different perspectives) did not trouble me.

The bad – the film puts far greater emphasis than the book on the nature of the secrets of the two main characters. As I knew the tricks, a lot of the impact was lost – particularly at the end, when I wished I still had the naivity that would allow me to enjoy those revelations afresh. In this respect, it would have been better to read the book after seeing the film. The book is more subtle, and knowing the secrets is less of an issue (one of them is revealed very early on) – and, what’s more, the book is more complicated, with more twists in the plot, so knowing the film does not spoil all of the book. The film is not particularly subtle, and so watching it while knowing the secrets was a bit painful in places – the hints at Borden’s secret were clever at first but became increasingly obvious.

The film is more spectacular, as one would expect, but it is also more intentionally confusing – the fewer plot twists are made more twisty by greater complexity in the way they are told. This, as I say, may mean that many viewers lose some of the value of the film – but at the same time, I think it is essential. A masterstroke, even. Faithfully adapted, The Prestige would have made a very long, rather dull film. The Nolans did not adapt it faithfully. They did not adapt it anywhere in the vicinity of faithfully. They ripped it into pieces and put back together something vaguely in the image of the original.

…which is exactly what they needed to do. The result is not faithful to the original – but it is loyal. It is, perhaps, what Priest would have written, had he written the novel as a film. Some things became possible; others had to be avoided. I was struck when watching it by Angier’s method of adapting Borden’s trick – taking something intriguing but not with mass appeal, and massively ramping up the showmanship. The showmanship oozed from every change they made, major or minor – where Tesla experiments, in the book, on an iron rod, in the film it is on a magician’s top hat. More fanciful, perhaps, but better showmanship for the silver screen. The resulting magic trick was not as good as Priest’s original, just as Angier’s first revamp was less satisfying than Borden’s – but it is more accessible.

In fact, here I must admit that I was only ever half-watching the film, because a third work of art was grabbing my attention: not the book, not the film, but the adaptation of the book to film. Because it was artistic – it was brave, it was bold, it was elegant, it was constantly surprising, it was knowing, it was respectful, it was confident. The Nolans could have simply transferred the events to screen; they could have written the best film they could have written, inspired by the book. Instead, the web they created linking the film to the book is convoluted and enticing – rather than regarding the book as a melody to be transposed, they broke it up into an array of motifs, and arranged and inverted and expanded those motifs to fit the demands of the new form. To take a single example: the bouncing of a rubber ball is drawn out of a single scene in the book to become a key motif throughout the film. The result is unique to the film, yet feels completely in keeping with the book. Elsewhere, scenes are thrown through the timelines, lines of conversation are taken from one speaker and given to another… a large part of the film emphasises questions about Borden’s life that are only raised in the book in a few brief sentences by Angier – as though it were Angier writing the film, not Borden, nor Priest. This is new – but it is not disloyal, because the film is not breaking new ground, but only exploring paths named and outlined in the book. It is ‘close to’ the book in the sense of being entirely parallel to it.

The film is not as good as the book. It is shorter, it is simpler, it is more confusing, it is vastly more simplistic in terms of character and theme (in particular, I feel Angier is unjustly made the villain of the piece), it is more heavyhanded and the ending is severely lacking. The film is not as good as the book (because the story is not well-suited to the screen) – but the artwork of the adaptation itself may be, and certainly it’s hard to see how a better film could have been made of the book (except, perhaps, for a little more work being put into the ending).

That said, the film by itself was worth watching – a good film, but not a great one.

Reaction: The Prestige, Christopher Priest

I have now read the first two sections of The Prestige. I am experiencing the unusual sensation of desparately wanting to read on, and being able to, and being yet unable to, not because, as sometimes occurs, the wave of my wish for the book not to end has built itself into a tangible barrier to further progress, but because I have read a full meal, and feel too sated to attempt another course.

It is remarkable to me that I am only one third of the way through this book. It feels like I have finished reading something entire. The second section of the book could easily have stood as a novella in its own right – a mysterious novella, it is true, and one that leaves much unexplained, but all unexplained in a perfectly suitable manner, all symbolically, thematically, concluded.

The first section is capable. It is slow, and mildly intriguing; the protagonist is sketched out sparsely but adequately. It is only a set-up; it needs be no better than that. The second section is superb. Priest is masterful in his efficiency; despite the dry, clean, Victorian writing, my pulse was racing at points; in particular, the way he described the magic tricks was surprisingly exciting, given that it was a verbal description of an essentially non-verbal, and essentially inactive, spectacle; Priest manages to supply the exact attentive eye that we would cast onto the scene, yet never sounds detached, and never loses his grip on the distinctive voice of the narrator. That narrator, we are supplied hardly any data regarding, yet by the end I felt him to be solidly real, solidly believable, and, while not being predictably ‘likeable’ as many fictionable people are, I found him… respectable. More, he evoked empathy – I want him to do well, not because I like him, or because I see myself in him, or project myself into his position, but just because he’s a decent human being. Except, of course, that he is a fiction, and lives only in a novel. It is rare, but not unusual, for an author to so display humanity as to provoke genuine empathy for his characters; it is extremely rare to be able to do so in so short a span, with so little in the way of biographical anecdote or telling detail.

If I have two concerns, they are that the voices of the first and second sections are too similar, and that the later book will fail to live up to the promises made by this section – not in quality, but in content. It is hard to see how the book can progress without devaluing, undermining, even mocking, existentially, this section, toward which I now feel curiously protective.

I do not know whether I can continue to read tonight; or, rather, I know that I cannot continue, but I am unsure as to whether I must. Although there is time for more reading, I do not think that there is time to tackle the entire next section before I must sleep; I think I would have to do that to find any peace at all, and even then, would I not have to read on until the end? I certainly cannot do that tonight. But… I do not feel able, either, to simply stop where I am.

I must read more of Priest’s work. Even though I have not yet encountered much of the machinery that lies underneath the plot of this book, for which contrivances Priest is generally acclaimed, the prose alone is of high enough quality to make me want to read more of it.

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I read the third section last night. I thought it was not long, and it wasn’t, although when I had finished I looked back with surprise at how much I had read. This morning, I read through to the end, and again I am amazed by how much that was; the second section, I think, is simply heavier than the later ones, and so feels more like half a book than the less-than-a-third that it truly is.

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The Prestige is not a particularly long novel – under 400 pages, it feels both longer and shorter. Longer, because of the span of time involved and the degree of detail; shorter, because it is so easy to read, and so dramatic. It addresses – my first thought here was to say ‘chronicles’, but that would be misleading in its intimations of direction and completion – a feud between two Victorian stage magicians, Alfred Borden and Rupert Angier; central to the story is a pair of similar, perhaps identical, illusions that they perform. Their story is told through two accounts, one from each magician, and is framed by a story of a meeting between two of their descendents.

There can be no doubt that the novel is immensely good. I can muster only four real complaints against it:

–          The framing story is decidely less powerful than the period tale itself. It feels as though there could be much to explore here, but it is not given enough time or attention; furthermore, elements of the framing story would appear to have consequences for the events of the period tale that are not addressed. The back cover drives the ‘effects of their rivalry have affected even the current generation’ angle – but as these are not the children of Borden and Angier, nor even their grandchildren, but their children’s grandchildren, and as there is only the slightest sketch of any events of the intervening century, this impact, which might be thought central to the novel, is greatly watered down, and the events of the ‘present day’ feel more like a coincidence than a consequence; a coincidence that splashes us in the face with modernity as we attempt to immerse ourselves in an alien time.

–          Relatedly, the ending is a disappointment. It was not, by itself, bad; in a lesser book, it would have been brilliant; but it did not live up to the expectations raised either by other readers or by the rest of the novel. It did not so much leave loose ends as leave entirely new and loose beginnings and middles; I don’t understand the point of it in the novel, although as a scene in its own right it was executed superbly. The whole of the book felt like a built-up to some shattering revelation (not of the mere magical kind, but of something dramatic or philosophical), and I felt that there was none, leaving me with a strange, heightened but deflated sensation. Just as Borden’s account by itself could have stood as a novella (and was, I think, the best part of the book, although that is hard to judge), so too this book could, and perhaps should,  have been (or, who knows, might yet be, though it seems unlikely) only the first part of a trilogy.

–          The entry of unmistakable speculative elements is left too late in the novel, and is too sudden, and consequently feels unearned and unfair to the reader. John Campbell once said that it was impossible to write a science fiction mystery novel (which is what this is, at heart, though it is also more than that), because the author would be free to pull out explanations that could not be known to the reader in advance, negating the pact under which a mystery is considered (Asimov wrote The Caves of Steel to disprove this point) – in this case, his concerns are borne out. That the speculative elements – which toy with the appearance of possibility for a moment before leaping into the unsupportable – do not wholly sink the novel, and in the end appear justified, is a credit to the author, but it is also a handicap that the novel has to work to overcome. As a reader used to overwhelmingly fantastical fair, I forgave the author his foibles – but I do fear that many readers used to realism, not given any warning by the cover or by reviews, and lulled into false understanding by the realism of the early parts of the book, may throw down the book in disgust when they realise what is going on.

–          Finally, the book is full of contrivances and concepts that are eye-catching and ultimately unexplored. Fascinating ideas that could have been the basis for a book – some of them ideas that maybe should have been the basis for THIS book – are given no more than a superficial paragraph or two of musing, or even less. Half a dozen books could be written from the bones of this one.

None of these complaints, in the end, stop this from being a truly enjoyable and impressive work of literature. None of them, in that sense, are genuine problems. Rather, they frustrate me, because they serve as hints of what could have been an even better book. I hope that Priest, clearly an enourmously talented writer, is able (or perhaps has been able) to write a book that lives up to the whole of the promise of this one.

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Adrenaline: 5/5. A perfect score does not mean a perfect novel. It means only that I could not ask for more. So, there are probably more thrilling novels than this one – but it is impossible to hold that as a flaw in any way. Repeatedly, my heart was racing, even at things objectively, or in the hands of poorer writers, not that thrilling, and despite a prose style that would never seem, at first glance, to be rousing or fast-paced. Indeed, the writing appears slow, ponderous, old-fashioned. Yet I was gripped; I put it down once, to eat, and once again, to sleep, and not for a third time, save in obedience to nature. I wish I knew how that excitement was accomplished. If I had one complaint on this score, it would be that perhaps the beginning might be a little slow for some readers, but that is a minor issue.

Emotion: 3/5. I was disappointed, in that I had been expecting something more affecting at the end; but I would recommend the book as regards the affective experience. The central characters all feel extremely real, and their pain is empathised with even when they are not entirely sympathetic. It lacks perhaps a knock-out punch, but was continually affecting throughout.

Thought: 5/5. It is true that some ideas are not fully explored; but there are so many ideas! I was puzzling my way through this from the start – not only the simple mystery of how the magic tricks might be performed, but the dramatic mystery surrounding every character (the limited viewpoints cast the motivations and even actions of the other protagonists in shadow, and no viewpoint is entirely candid from the first about their own situation), and the literary mystery regarding the status of the text itself (the accounts of Borden and Angier are texts-within-a-texts, of dubious reliability, and part of the framing story is told in the first person; what’s more, at the heart of affairs lie – or perhaps do NOT lie – some simple secrets that have implications for every other word of the novel). I don’t get the feeling that I’m going to be thinking about this for weeks to come, but my brain was thoroughly taxed as I was reading it.

Beauty: 4/5. The prose is superb, if you care for its style; I do. It is old, and it is sometimes long-winded, but it is never flamboyant, never unclear, never affected. The magic tricks – both those performed by Borden and by Angier, and those performed by Priest – are stunning, and there are many highly cinematic scenes. I score the book down because of the slight disjointedness of its construction, because of the superb but incongruous ending, and because the flight to speculation felt inelegant and unearned.

Craft: 5/5. Again, not perfect – I think the modern scenes could have been improved, and the end more fully integrated – but I could not ask for more. In particular, the whole novel was a magic show – not just with the obvious literary deceptions, but with the continual misdirection, redirection, and reconsideration. Everything is plotted superbly. The prose and the characterisation were likewie exceptional, and even the dialogue was unobjectionable, once allowances are made for time period. In fact, some lines of dialogue in the Angier section do appear quite off – but I felt that this was intentional, as they appeared very much as dialogue will appear when it is written down after the fact by a man with no ear and an eye only for the content. There are few things that are as sure signs of skill as the ability to succesfully replicate artlessness. Also of particular note: at one point, near the end, I laughed out loud in stunned disbelief when the author revealed something that was obvious in hindsight but that I had unaccountably neglected to think of at the time. Not only was it obvious, it was exactly the sort of thing I should have been on guard for, and thought I WAS on guard for, but it still slipped by me.

Endearingness: 4/5. The ‘flaws’ I note above mean that I do not adore this book. In addition, it might be added that although there is much excitement, there is little progress, and although I empathise with all the characters and vaguely like some of them, I never felt the sort of bond that inspires love. I remain, to a degree, detached. That said, it is impossible not to hold it in some high but decorous degree of affection.

Originality: 5/5. I am unable to think of any serious elements in which this was derivative, predictable, or overly familiar. Where I may have predicted events at times, this seemed an intentional characteristic to enhance drama – and even when something seemed familiar or understood, the presence of so many misdirections meant that no safe surety could be felt in any conclusion, even those that proved to be correct.

Echo: 1/2. I confess, I expected more of an impact on reaching the end, but as I have said, it felt more like the first act of something than a stunning-to-the-knees conclusion.

Overall: 7/7. Brilliant. Oh, I know, it could have been better. It’s not the best novel I’ve ever read. I’m not shaken to the core. I’m not going to instantly go out and read all his other books. But… 7/7 does not mean ‘perfect’. This is, I think, at the lower end of brilliance – but it is more than ‘very good’.  Even if I look with a more critical eye at the scores I gave above, and try to mark it down, it is still ‘very good’ at the very least. And as I have not been so critical with the other books I have given my reaction to, it would be unfair to do so here. It’s not the best novel I’ve read, but it’s the best novel I’ve read in the last year. It is a rare thing – a book that is entirely literary (the most snobbish postmodernist could not deny its merit), and yet entirely readable. If you don’t mind the prose (which is old-fashioned, but far more accessible than genuinely Victorian novels), and you don’t mind being confused a little (not by what is going on, for it is entirely clear, but by its significance), I can’t imagine you not liking this book.

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[Incidentally, a strange and heretical thought occurs to me: if I had to compare Priest’s writing to that of anybody else, it would be Isaac Asimov. Bear with me – I know that sounds strange. Asimov’s prose is not usually acclaimed, and it is nothing like Priest’s – in realisation. But where Priest does mirror Asimov (albeit while being a far better writer) is in the aim, the essence, of his prose – clear, sharp, precise, determined not to distract, and functional. It’s a quality much acclaimed in a populist novelist, but Priest is able to use it for more literary purposes. Also like Asimov, Priest’s ‘action’ scenes are not sensationalist, but functional – they advance the plot, and perhaps raise the pulse along the way, but are never allowed to take over. Also like Asimov, the characters are never truly explored – they are sketched out effectively and efficiently through telling details, without really giving much away about what goes on inside them. The result is that we feel we know them, even though we know little about them. And, again like Asimov, Priest centres his novel on intellectual concepts – The Prestige is not an action book, though it is exciting, nor a character study, though it has strong character, nor even really a mystery, though it is mysterious – everything, as in Asimov, has its function in addressing us to The Ideas (not in the sense of, say, Leibowitz, where the aim is thinking itself; Asimov’s, and Priest’s, Ideas are like fireworks or canapes – the aim is more to enthrall and inspire us than to teach us, I think). Priest happens to do every part of this better than Asimov, and he does more around the sides as well; the book is brilliant not because of any overwhelming quality but because it does everything well and most things very well. It may also be that this is not the case with every novel of his – I have so far only read the one! – and it is likely that the parallel comes to mind because I have just read The Caves of Steel. And I certainly admit that it is a counterintuitive connexion. I think it’s an interesting thought, though.