For the entirety of the time it took to journey through this extraordinary novel, I found myself transported. I was utterly immersed in another reality, a world so vivid and captivating that it felt as though I had truly fallen in love with it.
Now, as I emerge from the pages of this book, I contemplate my next literary venture, perhaps another world to explore, or maybe even a return to the familiar comfort of my own. Yet, the enchantment, the profound affection for the world I just left behind, lingers still.
Is this love born of fantasy, or does it hold a deeper resonance with reality? I am inclined to believe it is real.
After all, isn’t every form of love, in some measure, shaped by the landscapes of our minds?
How does an author weave such potent spells? How does a reader become so utterly captivated? And how might we capture such profound experiences in the tapestry of our own lives?
SPOILER WARNING
This exploration delves into some of the significant themes woven throughout the novel. While plot details will be discussed only as necessary to illuminate these themes, and antagonists will be identified without revealing the intricacies of their actions or ultimate fates, some readers may still consider certain elements to be spoilers. Reader discretion is advised.
Reality or Fantasy? Blurring the Lines in New Crobuzon
During my formative years as a teenager, I immersed myself in the realms of fantasy and science fiction, diligently curating my literary tastes.
I cultivated a rich inner world, a vibrant fantasy life that served as both escape and sanctuary. Instead of denying the challenges of my reality, I constructed elaborate worlds within my mind, refuges where I could restore myself, find solace, and heal.
These mental landscapes were not passive escapes; they were rigorous workouts for my mind. I engaged with complexity, embraced intellectual and emotional exertion, and celebrated the power of rationality and imagination. These elements became the building blocks of my self-identity, the tools I used to construct the “me” that I am.
Fantasy became a realm of dreams and aspirations, a space for action and achievement, and a haven for relaxation and stress management.
From Imaginary Battlefields to Literary Worlds
Computerized war games were not part of my childhood landscape. My battlefields were crafted from the earth itself, with plastic soldiers, metal tanks, and model airplanes. Our house stood elevated above the ground, and beneath it, in the hard-packed soil, I sculpted intricate worlds. Hills and valleys, islands and oceans took shape, the terrain of my youthful imagination.
Battles raged across these miniature landscapes and in the airspace above. Matches became cannon fire, claiming the lives of my infantry. Model airplanes, suspended from the floorboards above, engaged in fierce aerial dogfights, until one or the other spiraled down into a hillside or the still waters of my imaginary sea.
Long before the advent of Google Earth, I charted these territories. I compiled atlases of warfare, drew maps adorned with legends, and even taught myself German script to inscribe my dreams onto each page. I envisioned “libraries fat with forgotten volumes,” and among them, mine.
My aspirations shifted from engineer to cartographer, and finally to diplomat. I was drawn to the allure of the foreign and exotic, dreaming of becoming a traveler, an intermediary, a communicator, an advocate, a negotiator. I imagined myself mastering the opening gambit, playing trump cards, unraveling puzzles, solving complex problems, perhaps even indulging in the rarefied air of diplomacy, bridging divides between disparate peoples and perspectives.
Ultimately, I realized that I didn’t need to seek fantasy solely in literature; I myself was a creator of fantasy, an architect of my own imaginative world. I drew my own map, and in that world, I was my own legend.
As fantasy and science fiction evolved, my literary interests shifted toward works that explored the nuances of human relationships and the complexities of the world we inhabit.
Haruki Murakami’s novels became a touchstone, resonating deeply because of their unique approach to reality. He seemed to employ fantasy not as escapism, but as a lens, a method of perception, an instrument to dissect and comprehend the real world.
Then, China Miéville burst onto my literary horizon, arriving with the force of a V2 rocket, akin to something unleashed from the pages of “Gravity’s Rainbow.”
“Perdido Street Station” (“PSS”) lingered on my bookshelf, unread for years, even after I had experienced and admired “The City and the City.”
It was the inception of a Traveller Discussion group dedicated to Miéville’s works that finally spurred me to take the plunge and discover what lay within the pages of “Perdido Street Station.”
It was then, amidst the labyrinthine streets and fantastical creatures, that I realized I was falling in love with a novel, a world, and an author’s singular vision.
“What Trick of Topography Is This?” Unveiling New Crobuzon
What sorcery did Miéville employ to so utterly captivate me?
Let me articulate it as best I can…
“Perdido Street Station” is, fundamentally, the saga of a city: New Crobuzon. (Even now, I must carefully enunciate its name, a city I have only ever spoken in the silence of my mind, a word still tasted hesitantly on my tongue.)
New Crobuzon is strategically positioned at the confluence of two rivers, the Tar and the Canker. Where they converge, they birth a new entity, the River Gross Tar, a body of water that seems to alchemically transform the essence of both its origins.
New Crobuzon is an Industrial Age City-State Republic, teeming with a vibrant populace of diverse beings. Trade, commerce, radical ideas, soaring ambitions, crushing failures, profound suffering, and abject misery intertwine within its bustling streets.
The city exists on a precarious precipice, a delicate balance where even the slightest tremor could send its intricate structure cascading into ruin, like Einstürzende Altbauten.
And, inevitably, peril does emerge, threatening to deliver that fatal nudge. But when the hour of need arrives, so too do those who will rise to meet it.
In Miéville’s masterful hands, however, the city’s salvation isn’t solely reliant on a singular hero. Instead, it’s a collective, a band of unlikely individuals – men and women (and beings beyond such classifications) – who step into the fray.
These are not your archetypal heroes, just as the antagonists they face are far from ordinary adversaries.
They are more akin to an indie ensemble, a “bande à part” in the spirit of Godard or Tarantino. One might even call them a “motley crew,” were it not for the fact that Miéville has already reserved that moniker for one of the principal antagonists.
They are a ragtag assembly of outcasts, united by their unconventional tastes and perspectives (1).
(1) Outre: (a) Departing from the usual or proper; eccentric; (b) Bizarre; outlandish (as in, an outré costume). Example: “My first mental development had in it much of the uncommon – even much of the outré.” – Edgar Allan Poe.
A Pulp-Fueled, Dickensian Adventure
Even as I write this, the realization deepens: “Perdido Street Station” is a rich tapestry woven from threads of Charles Dickens, classic British Imperial adventure narratives (reminiscent of Biggles and his daring exploits), pulp fiction sensibilities, B-movie aesthetics, French cinematic flair, Hollywood remakes, and even the spirit of low-budget Italian genre films.
To quote critic Don D’Ammassa from the Introduction to the “Encyclopedia of Adventure Fiction” (via Wiki):
”An adventure is an event or series of events that happens outside the course of the protagonist’s ordinary life, usually accompanied by danger, often by physical action.
“Adventure stories almost always move quickly, and the pace of the plot is at least as important as characterization, setting and other elements of a creative work.”
D’Ammassa emphasizes danger as the central focus of an adventure novel.
He posits that Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities” qualifies as an adventure novel due to the constant peril faced by its protagonists, who are perpetually threatened with imprisonment or death.
Conversely, “Great Expectations” is deemed not to be an adventure, as “Pip’s encounter with the convict, while adventurous, serves merely as a plot device to advance the primary narrative, which is not fundamentally an adventure.”
While this distinction may hold intellectual merit, applying such rigid classifications to “Perdido Street Station” feels reductive.
The novel is a hearty stew of elements, where adventure is inextricably intertwined with character development, intricate world-building, and thematic depth. To dissect it into primary and secondary components would diminish its holistic impact.
Suffice it to say that the initial intellectual engagement quickly evolves into a breathtaking, rollercoaster-like narrative experience.
A Romance Both Medieval and Modern
Beyond its scientific and philosophical dimensions, the romantic core of “Perdido Street Station,” particularly its overt eroticism, immediately resonated with me.
In my exploration of adventure’s role in the novel, I encountered a Wiki discussion that illuminated my appreciation for the romance at its heart:
” Adventure has been a common theme since the earliest days of written fiction. Indeed, the standard plot of medieval romances was a series of adventures.
“Following a plot framework as old as Heliodorus, and so durable as to be still alive in Hollywood movies, a hero would undergo a first set of adventures before he met his lady. A separation would follow, with a second set of adventures leading to a final reunion.”
This framework provides a surprisingly apt abstract summary of the plot trajectory of “Perdido Street Station.”
Viewed through the lens of medieval romance, Isaac, our protagonist, can be seen as a knight errant (albeit a decidedly unconventional one), embarking on a quest and encountering a series of wondrous and perilous adventures.
While later iterations of this romantic tradition often adopted ironic, satirical, or burlesque perspectives (e.g., “Don Quixote”), “Perdido Street Station” seems to reside within this more nuanced lineage.
Isaac is no traditional hero, nor is he a stereotypical anti-hero. He is a postmodern Everyman – perhaps a bit ungainly, nerdy, and scientifically inclined – who rises to extraordinary circumstances when called upon.
There’s ongoing debate within the Discussion Group regarding Isaac’s perceived naiveté, particularly stemming from his choice to eschew a conventional academic path in favor of pursuing his more unconventional scientific visions.
I wouldn’t characterize this as naiveté, but rather as idealism – an idealism that compels him to immerse himself in the gritty realities of his pursuits, even at the cost of personal comfort and conventionality.
Unlikely Partners: The Dance of the New Woman and the Imperial Adventurer
I borrow the subheading from Teresa Mangum’s review of Lee Anne M. Richardson’s study, “New Woman and Colonial Adventure Fiction in Victorian Britain: Gender, Genre, Empire.”
If we consider Isaac as a kind of Imperial Adventurer, then Lin embodies the spirit of the New Woman, engaging in a captivating dance with him.
Their dance is not only intriguing due to its steps, but also because of their very beings.
New Crobuzon is not solely populated by humans; it’s a melting pot of sentient life forms, many echoing creatures from ancient religions and mythologies.
Lin is a Khepri, possessing a human female body crowned with the head of a scarab beetle.
She is an artist with an avant-garde sensibility, while Isaac is the ostracized scientist who finds himself drawn to her, despite the social taboos surrounding their unconventional connection.
Their relationship is a rich tapestry of sensory experiences: sight, scent, taste, touch, lust, and profound sexual pleasure, even in the face of physiological differences.
While some readers express discomfort with this aspect, I found it to underscore the authenticity of their love, a love that transcends conventional boundaries and expectations. I found their connection deeply convincing and intensely erotic.
While my familiarity with erotica and pornography is not extensive, Miéville’s portrayal of this relationship resonated deeply and stirred my imagination.
It requires a writer of exceptional skill to craft scenes of affection and desire that resonate as powerfully as those between Lin and Isaac.
Mothrotica: The Erotic Horror of the Antagonists
Intriguingly, Miéville mirrors this erotic intensity in his depiction of the novel’s primary antagonists.
The threat to New Crobuzon emanates from colossal slake-moths, creatures that feed on dreams.
We witness their transformative lifecycle, from larva to pupa to adult moth, caterpillar to cocoon to winged horror.
During pupation, the moth’s larval structures dissolve, giving way to the formation of adult features.
The pupa exists in a dormant state, typically immobile and sessile. They draw sustenance from the psychic energy, the subconscious emanations of those around them. They drain the dreams of New Crobuzon’s inhabitants, leaving behind mindless, mute husks.
Their feeding is described in almost explicitly sexual terms, and having fed, the slake-moths become sexually active and fertile. They engage in a disturbing ballet of looping, falling, stroking, touching, arousing, copulating… in a manner that is both visceral and unsettlingly ecstatic.
This is undeniably grotesque, even though Miéville employs a similar evocative language as he does for Lin and Isaac’s intimacy.
The horror intensifies with the knowledge that slake-moths are “efficient, brilliant predators” with no natural enemies to check their devastating power.
However, the juxtaposition of their non-sentient sexuality with the passionate connection between Lin and Isaac prompts a question: why is their sexual activity so repulsive, while the eroticism of the protagonists is celebrated?
The answer likely lies in the profound otherness of the slake-moths, their alien nature pushing them beyond the boundaries of relatable experience. Perhaps it is sentience, or the perceived lack thereof, that distinguishes human sexuality from something perceived as monstrous.
Even the scarab beetle head of Lin pushes the boundaries of some readers’ comfort zones. There seems to be a threshold, a point at which sexual experience becomes too divorced from human norms to be readily embraced or enjoyed.
Yet, Miéville compels us to confront these boundaries, to contemplate sexuality, transgression, and pleasure beyond the confines of our comfort zones.
Rape as a Violation of Choice: Ethical Complexity
To avoid spoilers, I will refrain from naming the specific character, but one individual in the narrative is subjected to a punishment for an act of rape.
While such an act is unequivocally criminal and morally repugnant in our society, within the context of New Crobuzonian society, it is not penalized as a crime against the body, but rather as a violation of a person’s fundamental right to choose.
Thus, rape is framed not as an offense against the physical self, but as an assault on the mind, a denial of the victim’s autonomy and freedom of will.
The severity of the penalty might be comparable, or even greater, but Miéville utilizes this conceptualization of the crime to test Isaac’s ethical framework.
Initially, Isaac struggles to grasp the gravity of the offense, viewing it through the lens of his own societal norms.
However, as he reframes the act, translating it from an abstract infringement of choice to the brutal reality of physical rape, his empathy shifts, and he begins to comprehend the profound violation experienced by the “victim,” Kar’uchai.
Kar’uchai, however, rejects the label of “victim,” and simply implores Isaac to respect the laws of her society and the justice system it deems appropriate. She cautions him against imposing his own cultural interpretations onto their social context, urging him to understand their laws on their own terms.
Ultimately, despite his personal affinity for his friend, Isaac chooses to respect the sovereignty of Kar’uchai’s society, acknowledging its right to define and enforce its own practices, customs, and laws.
While the act remains a moral and criminal issue, Isaac’s perspective evolves to encompass a broader understanding of cultural relativism and the complexities of ethical judgment across different societies.
In this quasi-Victorian Steampunk era, judging another society solely through the prism of one’s own cultural values is presented as a potentially flawed approach.
Isaac’s “Principia Mothematica”: Unleashing Crisis Energy
Isaac’s scientific pursuits are multifaceted, encompassing interests ranging from Unified Field Theory, where he champions Moving Theory over Static Theory.
However, his most pertinent area of expertise in the battle against the slake-moths lies in the realm of crisis energy and his groundbreaking invention: the crisis engine.
So, what exactly is crisis energy?
This is profound and complex territory, so… pay close attention.
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We are dealing with the inherent energy contained within matter itself, within any object.
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There are three fundamental types of energy: kinetic, potential, and crisis.
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Kinetic energy is the energy an object possesses due to its motion.
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Potential energy is the energy an object holds by virtue of its position, when it is poised on the verge of change, on the cusp of altering its state (for example, an object lifted high, ready to fall).
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Crisis energy, however, is the energy intrinsic to an object simply by virtue of its being, its existence. It is not contingent on motion or position. It is inherent, residing within the object regardless of its state or location. Within any object, regardless of its apparent stability, reside immense internal tensions. If an object can be driven towards a state of crisis, a point of imminent transformation or transmogrification, this crisis energy will manifest and become tappable.
Isaac’s ambitious goal is to tap into, channel, and harness this crisis energy. Success in this endeavor would effectively unlock a perpetual energy source, achieving the elusive dream of perpetual motion.
He achieves this breakthrough by constructing a crisis engine, a device capable of channeling and amplifying this raw energy.
While Thomas Pynchon’s “Gravity’s Rainbow” explores the concept of entropy, “Perdido Street Station” delves into its antithesis: the maximization of energy.
The precise workings of the crisis engine remain shrouded in secrecy. (I’ve already revealed too much. I may face repercussions from the Moderator General for divulging even this much.)
Ethical Quandaries: The Construct Council and Moral Calculus
Ultimately, the fate of New Crobuzon’s war against the slake-moths rests upon Isaac and his revolutionary crisis engine.
Faced with a city-wide threat, diverse alliances are proposed.
Isaac finds a crucial partner in the Construct Council, a nascent artificial intelligence, a machine on the cusp of achieving “constructed intelligence”—a mechanical form of sentience. This is a calculating intelligence striving for self-construction, aiming to ascend a hierarchy of intellect.
While Isaac collaborates with the Construct Council, he harbors a deep-seated distrust, recognizing its inherent lack of empathy and moral compass:
”It’ll do whatever it has to – it’ll lie to us, it’ll kill – to increase its power.”
Therefore, he refuses to grant the Construct Council unrestricted access to the immense power of the crisis engine. (Cue dramatic suspense.)
Just as Isaac grappled with ethical objectivity in the context of rape, he adopts a similar stance in the war against the slake-moths.
The Nectar of the Subconscious: Dreams and Sentience
The slake-moths are dream-eaters, preying on the subconscious. They detect and devour hidden thoughts, guilty secrets, anxieties, joys, and dreams:
“They drink the peculiar brew that results from self-reflexive thought, when the instincts and needs and desires and intuitions are folded in on themselves and we reflect on our thoughts and then reflect on the reflection, endlessly… Our thoughts ferment like the purest liquor…not the meat-calories slopping about in the brainpan, but the fine wine of sapience and sentience itself, the subconscious. Dreams.”
They leave their victims intellectually and emotionally vacant, husks of their former selves.
While calculating machines might replicate rationality, they cannot replicate morality. They can achieve consciousness, but not conscience:
” I do not dream. I am a calculating machine that has calculated how to think. I do not dream. I have no neuroses, no hidden depths. My consciousness is a growing function of my processing power, not the baroque thing that sprouts from your mind, with its hidden rooms in attics and cellars.””
Miéville’s underlying message seems to be that rationality alone is insufficient to define humanity. We require our passions, our moral compass, our capacity for empathy and sentiment. Sentience alone is not enough; we need sapience, the wisdom born of experience and feeling.
Isaac, the brilliant but outcast scientist, has mastered reason, yet he comes to realize its limitations. He has confronted the Enlightenment ideal and discovered that there is “More Than This.”
Reason may grant us a glimpse through the keyhole, but to truly open the doors of perception, we need something more profound, something that encompasses the full spectrum of human experience.
The Transformative Power of Love
Transformation, transgression, and translation are recurring motifs throughout “Perdido Street Station,” the movement from one state of being to another.
Lin finds herself in a “bastard zone,” while Motley is trapped within a “ruptured moment.”
Perhaps, love is the transformative force, the remedy that can bridge divides and heal wounds.
The romantic in me wants to believe that Miéville views love as a rapturous moment, a force that stands alongside or even transcends pure reason.
The relationship between Lin and Isaac offers a crucial insight into the transformative potential Miéville envisions.
Their love, unconventional and transgressive as it may be, is woven from “filthy and loving invitations,” “jokes and apologies and compliments and lust.”
Lin yearns “to come home every night to freshly mixed fruit salad and theatre tickets and sex.”
Isaac, in his simpler desires, would be content to gaze into the eyes of his scarab queen and hear her query, “How was it, treasure?”
And perhaps, in the quiet hours of the night, their voices might intertwine in a shared declaration: “I Love You, I Love You, I Love You.”
Ultimately, it is for each reader to decide: is this a love worth embracing? Is the world of “Perdido Street Station” a world worth exploring and falling in love with? For me, the answer is a resounding yes.
