Perdido Street Station [Mass Market Paperback]

So, you may be asking, why did I give this five stars? Because once the story got going, I couldn't put it down, flaws and all. Mieville's imagination is nearly boundless and it's a book, love it or hate it, that's unlike anything else. And in the Weaver, a spider-like god that walks the web of reality, Mieville has created one of the most interesting and wonderfully bizarre characters I've ever come across. The minute he/she/it stepped on the page, I was enthralled. Always. I'd reccomend checking this one out for the Weaver alone.

And even though Perdido felt aimless at times (a tighter plot would have done wonders), certain scenes were so amazing that I doubt I'll ever forget them. The chapter involving the Ambassador of Hell was simply brilliant, and it's just one amongst the many.

Though Perdido is not without its faults, its pros far out-weigh the cons, especially in the latter half. For the patient and open-minded, this is not a book to pass up, for it will definitely make an impression and probably a lasting one.

Miéville is not Peake, and I think one does him a disservice by a comparison which can only disappoint. “Perdido Street Station” has a richly detailed setting, painted with all the stops pulled out and a loving eye for the small particulars that create the big picture. But where Peake populated his stories with well-rounded, memorable, idiosyncratic, living, breathing beings, Miéville ‘builds’ his characters like he builds his city, creating props for his fantastic stage rather than personalities. I caught myself wondering, in fact, if it’s not New Crobuzon, who is the true protagonist of the story.

The story ...

Whose story? Isaac’s? Yagharek’s? New Crobuzon’s?

Yagharek with his lyrical, introverted voice came more alive for me than Isaac did, but he was not really given enough room to be the protagonist; he’s more of a catalyst and the frame that tries to hold this sprawling behemoth (pardon the pun) together. Which again leaves the city. The characters don’t really drive the plot, the city does -- this steaming, moving, writhing conglomeration of streets, buildings, machines and populace. And it does not merely drive the main plot, but throws out a multitude of independent little polyp arms, plot lines that lead back to themselves or nowhere in particular. A baroque monster, ugly, frustrating, barely comprehensible at times and utterly fascinating.

What’s it about? Responsibility? Consequences? Guilt? Who we are and what makes us who we are? Maybe.

Why read it?

Because it’s beautiful in the sense that wrought iron is beautiful: Twisted, sooty, pockmarked, it retains the opulence of a bygone era, and yet, or maybe thus, compels with its lush seduction.

It starts laboriously, like the steam engines it portrays so well. But it’s worth staying with, picks up steam after the first third and sweeps the reader along with the inescapable force of a runaway train. A grotesque nightmare ride, the sweaty, haunted feeling of which lingers long after you closed the book.

For all the suction it develops, however, it doesn’t get you anywhere fast: It lingers over style and architecture, takes you on philosophical detours, develops extra themes, supernumerary characters, subplots and a teeming imagery with an abandon that overwhelms at times. It evokes the dizzy sense of wonder the unspoiled visitors of a medieval fair might have felt, their impressions not blurred by speed, but by sheer multitude and alienness.

“Perdido Street Station” doesn’t lend itself to ten-minute-sittings, but will rather reward readers who are ready to stop and take the plunge, who will immerse themselves in the bizarre richesse of this magnificent steampunk epic. Let the rivers Tar and Canker carry you along, sit back and enjoy the ride.