Near the beginning of China Melville’s Perdido Street Station, Isaac acquires a beautiful, colorful caterpillar that immediately sets on to do fuck all - it just sits on its cage, looking more and more faded by the day, its behavior progressively more sluggish, until Isaac is about to give up on it.
Until well over a third into the book, the little grub miraculously springs to life after some time spent on a rather unusual diet, and begins wrapping itself into a cocoon. Yagharek and Isaac stare at it.
“Well…” he said. “Better late than never. Finally, what I bought it for in the first place. The thing’s pupating.”
After a while, Yagharek nodded slowly.
“It’ll soon be able to fly,” he said quietly.
“Not necessarily, old son. Not everything with a chrysalis gets wings.”
“You do not know what it will be?”
“That, Yag, is the only reason I’ve still got the damned thing. Wretched curiosity. Won’t let me go.”
I can’t think of a better way to describe the book itself. Damned bloated thing, with beautiful but useless spots of colour here and there, but some wretched curiosity keeps me hoping it’ll pupate and turn into something that will fly.
And I (superficially) know a fellow who loves that book more than, maybe, dear life. Had me on high hopes. Just goes to show one review ain’t ever enough.
It’s the pompousness that bores me to tears. Mieville certainly has a way with words, but unfortunately he uses them to write paragraphs full great sounding combinations that mean absolutely squat. While this isn’t from the book, it might as well be:
“I breathe. And as the cold raspy autumn wind of the derelict city passes through the perpendicularity of my consequences, I subcutaneously animate and feel the electrolisis, embedding every tiny particle of the dust diaspora in my clorophilliac tendrils.”
The first time it’s interesting, and you eat every word like juicy morsels. After a while, the appetite is gone and you swear that if you have to swallow yet another overconstructed sentence, you’ll throw up.