A fuddy-duddy on Perdido Street
Just finished reading Perdido Street Station, by China Miéville. Am flummoxed. Quite a read, a page turner, but I never read a book before that only contains bad memories for me. I think back on it and squirm and sigh. The art of revulsion.
It’s in the steam punk genre with more that a smidgen of pustule chic. What it reminds me of is the postmodernist concept of “the abject” by Julia Kristeva. The personal abject is those parts of a person that are excreted, things that were inside of us that eventually go outside, such as mucus and feces. If you’re interested in the social abject, go here.
It also reminds me of the story that the first time Ravel’s Bolero was performed in public, some people ran screaming from the theatre. How can a book be so horrible, so consumed by rot and scum and filth? I don’t know, but it does seem to be a logical end to horror, such writers as Robert Louis Stevenson and his Jekyll and Hyde evolving over time into this, abberation as normalcy. Unearthly levels of violence to the psyche, at least for an old guy who’s used to old ways.
I bet when Miéville was a kid he was majorly into popping zits.
I tweeted on this book yesterday @TomYHowe Perdido Station: bloated vile mutant slimy scum turgid viscous poisoned bilious insectile viscid spewing excretion putrid chancreous feces
That was just an example of the author’s standard diction.
Puke on,
LWIII
You know, I once read Stephen king’s The stand. The big uncut version where he got to add back in all the stuff his editor originally had the foresight to remove. I probably enjoyed the first two or three hundred pages, but then I started to hate it. I loathed reading that book, despised every page turn and wanted to not only put it down, but throw it at the author if I could. Looking back though it’s hard for me to not have fond memories of the time I spent reading it. It’s interesting to me how you can dislike a book and in the end have a hard time discounting it.
I know what you mean Jake. I feel diminished to have the thoughts of that book inside me. Violated somehow, the minor remnants of my innocence reduced even farther. Sure would never recommend anyone read it. Kind of like mind rape. But still am ambivalent about the experience. Humans are weird.
Haven’t read it and I cautiously never will, but one question is on my mind now: how does it compare to Mary Poppins? http://bit.ly/110cxz
That’s an interesting question Ron. I kind of doubt Pamela Travers was a huge innocence person. Her character Mary Poppins was definitely no Pollyanna type, a lot harsher than people generally realize. Innocence may be overrated. It can be dangerous.
“Innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm.”
~ Graham Greene
Innocence is probably like everything else, to be good it requires balance or moderation. Make sure not to read Miéville’s book unless you like wallowing in filth and scum, though. I’m definitely throwing away my copy so no one else has to suffer through it. Poisonous. And I generally like gross stuff.
Thanks!