Let’s Read Perdido Street Station by China Miéville – Chapter 2


Chapter 2 continues to highlight the strengths of Miéville’s writing, which is – his vocabulary, his evocative descriptive phrases, his sympathy.  It’s is, overall, an excellent second chapter.

This time we are firmly within the perspective of Lin, the khepri.  This is important, because it allows the opportunity to explain properly what the khepri are.  The women, we learn, are strongly sentient, artistic, and engaged members of the city of New Crobuzon.  There is xenophobia, and they are somewhat ghetto-ised, but they are a thriving part of the city.  The males, though, are not.  Lin despises them, and it’s clear that they are second-class citizens when compared with the females.  In this, the khepri become interesting – they aren’t just humans with bug heads.

Lin travels to the primary khepri area of the city.  There are sculptures that the women create (she finds them artistically tired compared with her own creations), and there are males.  The female, if we remember, is human from the neck down (though red like a cooked lobster) and a scarab beetle from the neck up.  The males seem to be just scarabs.  They skitter about on the ground and Lin does not care, and is even pleased, when her cab rolls over one and squishes it to death.  Males do not think, exist purely to mate and eat, and are not capable of creating or appreciating the art of the female khepri.  They are wholly different, and it is understandable why Lin might wish to look to another species for a romantic liaison.  Put simply, romance between male and female khepri is impossible, and if her body from the neck down is capable of erotic expression, then sexual satisfaction doesn’t exist between the genders, either.

While Lin visits the khepri quarter we are afforded an example of how she sees the world.  Literally how she sees it.  .Miéville spends some time trying to articulate the way a khepri female sees the world, and as can be expected it is the segmented, many eyed (many viewed?) world of bug vision.  For lack of a better term.  This is interesting, and Miéville really stretches his vocabulary  to explain it to us.  But it doesn’t go anywhere.  We read it here on page 20, we learn that Isaac was interested in this method of viewing the world and studied it, and then to my memory it’s never really brought up again.  Lin is, disappointingly, more often human than she is khepri.  If she really does view the world through a thousand segmented parts, how come the narrative still focuses on the kinds of methods of seeing a normal human would employ?  Wouldn’t the focus be different?  The nuance?  But it isn’t.

Lin purchases some material with which she can create her art, and the chapter ends.  There’s not much to it.  But it is a good chapter because it helps explain who Lin is, and what she is.  Miéville can’t quite pull it off, but we don’t know that yet.  This chapter is very strong in the way with which it promises to explore the concept of what it means to be a khepri in a human world.  He drops this pretty quickly, but it’s enticing when it arrives.

The other primary character in this chapter is the city.  Again, there are nice descriptions which help evoke a strong impression of what kind of city it is.  I have excerpted an example:

Her rooms were nine floors up.  She descended the tower; past the unsafe eighth floor; the seventh with its birdlime carpet and soft jackdaw susurrus; the old lady who never emerged on the sixth; and on down past petty thieves and steel workers and errand-girls and knife-grinders.

Knife-grinders!  A building where there are knife-grinders (ie multiple), thieves, and steelworkers and an ‘unsafe’ eighth floor is a city oozing mystery.  Later:

Lin turned the corner onto the cobbled road around Sobek Croix.  Cabs waited all along the iron fence.  A massive variety.  Two-wheelers, four-wheelers, pulled by horses, by sneering pterabirds, by steam-wheezing constructs on caterpillar treads … here and there by Remade, miserable men and women both cabdriver and cab.

This paragraph tells us a lot about the city.  One – it is economically interesting because there are lots of cabs, and a variety of them.  Two – there are horses and ‘pterabirds’, but also technology-powered cabs and something mysterious – what is a Remade?  We find out, but learning that a Remade can be ‘miserable’ and ‘both cabdriver and cab’ suggests and unpleasant merging of technology and … magic?  Or just even worse technology?  There’s a lot here, and it’s just cabs.

Great stuff.

Please take a look at my Let’s Reads page for other chapters from this book, and works.as they are added.


Let’s Read Perdido Street Station by China Miéville – Interstitial 1 and Chapter 1

It is not, I’ll admit, a great opening.

Fantasy novels often weigh themselves down with prologues and quotes from non-existent texts or poems.  It’s part of the furniture of the genre, I suppose.  Perdido Street Station opens with a five-page piece that is entirely in italics and which is not, for quite some time, clear as to its perspective or purpose.  It relates the impressions of a person come new to New Crobuzon, an immense, sprawling, wretched, reeking city, but it’s for us, the brand new reader, to find a footing.  We don’t yet have a core from which to understand the story, and thus the vague phrasings from this section fall flat.  And why is it vague?  To keep the identity and purpose of this character a secret.  And why is that?  Exactly.

Finally, the use of italics further distances the reader.  Whenever I read a section of a text in italics I always feel as though I am reading something in parenthesis, and that impression does little to engage me.  Keep in mind this is the first five pages – this should be engaging.

The first chapter is much, much better, however, and I would like to make special mention of the first two pages where the feel of the city is set down.  Miéville is the first fantasy writer I’ve read who mentions paprika at all, let alone on the first page of the first chapter.  The use of specific smells (rather than, say, ‘the morning air smelled of cooking’) really helps to bring the city to live.  I can believe a city where paprika and cinnamon are used.  It’s not all good, though, as descriptions such as ‘toys’, ‘earthenware products’ and ‘countless other goods’ are used.  It’s important not to be wordy, but the cooking description was so effective it becomes a shame that the next paragraph somewhat spoils it.

We move on then to two primary characters, both of whom will be point-of-view characters throughout the novel.  Isaac and Lin.  Isaac is a human (it’s never made clear, but most citizens of New Crobuzon are presumably human) while Lin is a khepri.  People are people, but khepri are not – they are human up until their neck, with their head similar to a scarab.  They cannot speak, which of course means they can’t kiss.

Miéville touches on, but never really uses, the concept of xenophobia.  It is here in the first chapter, when Isaac laments the fact that his artist girlfriend Lin is able to flaunt her other-species partner, while he cannot.  And that’s about as far as it goes, because to go any further wouldn’t really work for the rest of the world he has created.  This is a world (we will learn) filled with other species, but, far worse, is also a world where people can be Remade, which can be minor (the fingers on their hands replaced with thumbs) or major (horrors created to be organic machines of death or utility), or anywhere in between.  In this world, what time for xenophobia?  Certainly it would be present in some areas, but Miéville is never quite able to convince us that a bohemian artist and a renegade university professor would have any trouble being together.  He tries, but it doesn’t work.

And yet.  It will become clear, but the relationship between Isaac and Lin is arguably the strongest part of this novel.  When they are together, or involved with one another in some way, the novel is at its best.  They are the axis upon which this novel turns.  It is refreshing in a fantasy novel to have a loving couple together from the start, and for them to be both erotically and romantically interested in one another.  I believe their relationship.  It doesn’t serve primarily as plot.

In all, a good start.  New Crobuzon is developing its character, and Isaac and Lin, theirs.  The ending of the chapter, which sees Lin presenting herself as vulnerable to Isaac is touching, but its difficult to understand why there isn’t an analogue for Isaac, too.  It makes of him a taker in the relationship, and that’s unpleasant (and never acted upon).  Perhaps he should have made himself vulnerable, too.

It is, though, a real shame about that first part all in italics.  Almost a deal-breaker, honestly.

Please take a look at my Let’s Reads page for other chapters from this book, and works.as they are added.

Railroad Perfection – #23

Sam – Laziness, I suppose.  But I don’t want to romanticise it, or try and spin what is clearly a weakness into a kind of noble strength.  Nope, it’s just laziness, nothing more.

Felicia – Such an odd thing to say.  Can’t you just be happy?  For us?

Sam – I’m happy but critical.

Felicia – Happy but critical?

Sam – Yes.  I should have done this years ago.  I don’t know why it took me so long.  I’ve thought about that, and –

Felicia – Yes?

Sam – Well, every answer I come up with falls back into the trap I mentioned before.  Romanticising.  Glorifying the act of waiting, of vacillation, of indecisiveness.  And I just don’t want to do that.

Felicia – You certainly talk about it a lot for someone who is trying to avoid the idea.

Sam – Cute. Wait, why are we inching toward a fight?  Today of all days?

Felicia – I don’t know.  Habit.  I guess?  It’s pretty poor of us.  I’m sorry, Sam.

Sam – I’m sorry.

Felicia – I’m glad we.  Well.  It’s still weird to say, but I’m happy that you asked, and –

Sam – Yes.  Me too, yes.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Railroad Perfection – #22

Holly – And I would say to everyone that it was going to happen, and when it didn’t I just hoped they would forget I said anything.  And it would build in me and I would think about it all of the time, and weeks would pass, and I’d look back, and think, my god, it was three weeks ago.  What happened?

Jean – What happened?

Holly – Nothing.  I don’t know.  Time went by.

Jean – You’ve heard that promises are made to be broken?

Holly – I’ve heard it, but that doesn’t mean –

Jean – But you’ve heard it?

Holly – Yes.

Jean – I promise things to myself all of the time, and I break them every day.  It’s easy.  Shouldn’t be.  But none of this is new or interesting.  What I am saying to you, Holly, is – so what?

Holly – What?  What do you mean, so what?

Jean – So what, you say things and they don’t happen.  Laziness is easy to forgive.  A lack of ambition is easy to forgive.  So what and so what.

Holly – I didn’t realise –

Jean – No.

Holly – Jean –

Holly – No.  Holly, no.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Railroad Perfection – #21

Victor – I didn’t want to.  I don’t know.  I never dreamed I would be a taxi driver.  It’s not something people aspire to.  But I became one, and you know what, I pretty much loved it right off the bat.  Absolutely so.  I know I was putting off life when I started – the dreams I had! – but after a while I settled in and realised that my dreams had changed.

Georges – For the better?

Victor – For the different.  Easy as that.  I thought I was a complex man but in reality I am a simple man.  Wait.  Stop.  I don’t mean to say that taxi drivers are simple.  I’m getting muddled.  What I mean is that I thought I wanted a life of the mind.  And I had it, for a while.  I still have a hard-bound copy of my PhD thesis.  It contrasts the pacifist writings of Rolland, Tagore, Russell and Hesse against the popular and prevailing tendency of the mainstream press and public intellectuals to rabidly welcome the onset of war.  I think I did some really good work.  Even now, listening to Beethoven takes me back to those endless nights of research and reading and annotating.  I listened to nothing but Beethoven while I studied, primarily because of Rolland’s connection to the writer, and my connection to him.  But it’s all gone.  Not Rolland – he speaks to my intellect and my soul in a manner which has never been equalled or approached by any other writer – but the need to operate in that sphere.  That’s gone.  Instead, I want to enjoy the fruits of other people’s minds, and to use my hands and feet and body to make a living.  So, I drive taxis.  I talk to people.  I open doors for ladies and I pour drunks out of the back seat.  I make cabinets on the weekend, and I sell them for a small amount.  I restore furniture.  And I’m happier than I have ever been.

Georges – For a long time I played the cello.  I still do, but not as much.  I was very good.  Very good.  I wanted to play in front of kings and presidents, and it seemed that for a short time I might have even been good enough for that.  I wanted my work to be discussed in newspapers, and my name to be known.  God help me, it almost happened, and that ‘almost’ haunts me.  Now?  I busk.  And nobody cares.  And I live on the edge of financial ruin at all times, and I am so egotistical that because I cannot command presidents or kings in my audience, then I will not perform for anyone but the common man, for free, or for what they will offer me.

Victor – And it’s glorious?

Georges – Oh, yes.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Site Note – Due to circumstances outside of my control (Thanks, TPG!), I was without internet for several weeks.  I apologise, and the posts will resume from today.

Railroad Perfection – #20

Jacques – I read a book last week –

André – Well done!

Jacques – Funny.  Yes.  And it posited that London never existed, that the photos, videos, recollections, songs, paintings, and so on were not forgeries, exactly, but clever subterfuges from other cities stitched together to create an entirely fictional place.

André – Seems beyond fishy to me.

Jacques – I know.

André – And you read the whole thing?

Jacques – Sure.  It was small, maybe 100 pages.  I was bored at a café, and I found it wedged between a Jodi Picoult novel and an old copy of Shantaram.  His primary idea was that humanity, though capable of murder, rape and exploitation, was nevertheless unable to completely annihilate an entire city.  Said it couldn’t be done “without the tears of God falling like lava upon us for our sins”.

André – So, the book was religious?  A fundamentalist thing?

Jacques – Not exactly.  Every time it was clear that he had argued himself into a hole, he would bring up God and explain away the problem.  But otherwise, no.  Pretty weak reasoning, obviously, but I liked the idea of God having tears of lava.

André – It’s a nice image.

Jacques.  Yes.  He thought that clever French dramatists were primarily responsible for the faked images, and that the Germans and the Poles had collaborated to create the videos.  All of the other stuff was a by-product of “persuasive creativity” and, he said, spoke positively of humanity’s ability to create fanciful and wonderful things.

André – I’ve been to London.  A long time ago now.  I was eleven. I don’t remember much, but I do remember holding my father’s hand while I ate an ice cream.

Jacques – All fake, according to this fellow.  Subtly implanted by the French.

André – I have a memory of eating the ice cream and watching those red uniform wearing guards, the ones with the black plume hats.  But I’m sure that part, at least, isn’t true, because I mentioned that to my father once and he said we didn’t see anything like that.

Jacques – Blame the French!

André – And the Germans, and the Poles.  I suppose it could be true.  Memory is pretty fickle, and I’ve forgotten so much.  But I doubt it.

Jacques – Yes.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Railroad Perfection – #19

Trent – Let me just say – I need to say it – that I wasn’t sure I would agree to this and come along.  I didn’t think anything bad was going to happen, but I sort of assumed that it wasn’t really necessary, that we had said all that needed to be said, and that whatever you thought this might achieve, it probably wouldn’t.

Claire – And?  And now, that you are here?

Trent – Look outside.  The trees rush by.  Sometimes I think I can relax my eyes and slow down the trees until I can see each one individually.  And behind them, mountains.  I’ve never seen a mountain.  Not a real one, just hills we like to flatter with grandiose names.  I made the right choice.  I want to be here, with you, seeing this together.

Claire – But that’s not enough.

Trent – No, I know.

Claire – The smell in the morning, and the smells in the evening, just as it becomes dark, it reminds me of your brother’s wedding.

Trent – Don’t.

Trent – Which smells?

Claire – The smell of.  Well, to me it smells like potential and excitement, but really what I am smelling is crispness and, in the evening, wood chips and smoke.  It always reminds me of his wedding.

Trent – I still haven’t decided if we should go.

Claire – Trent, we’re here.  We might never be here again.

Trent – But I don’t. It’s hardly meaningful, is it?  It’s just one enormous monument.  He isn’t there, not really, and neither is Anna.  It’d just be for me if I went.

Claire – No.  Perhaps.  I’m not really sure.  They died here, but they aren’t here, or anywhere really.  It’s so strange to think that they have completely gone, that everyone who died was just – vaporised, I guess.  It’s like a science fiction.

Trent – I just don’t know.  We’re so close.  I watch the trees go by, I relax my eyes and it seems like everything is moving slower, and I just don’t know.  What if I choose wrong?

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Railroad Perfection – #18

Patience – Oh, no, it wasn’t like that at all.  But I can see your side of things.  It’s less about the order of events and more about my – your – perception of it.  I don’t much care for numbers, or solvable things, but I do like to understand why someone does what they do.  Myself included.  And I’m never really sure, but I try to understand.  And myself included there, too.

Harmony – It’s funny how Dad always wanted to answer for everything.  Or not an answer, but the answer.  The pure essence of what an answer could be, distilled into as few words as possible.  Whatever it was needed to be exactly explained, its circumference perfectly circumscribed, or else it was all nothing.  I know I must have driven him mad.

Patience – Until –

Harmony – Until Mum died.  Of course.  Obviously.  He’s changed.  So much.  He talks to me now with these big sad eyes, blue eyes, and he looks so down, even when he’s happy, and even when things are good, and I just don’t know what to say.

Patience – For him, it was a permanent darkening.

Harmony – He told me once that all of the colour had leeched out of everything, and that music no longer made sense to him, as though he couldn’t connect the beat to the rhythm, and that all food was like dust.  He would never have said anything like that ten years ago.

Patience – I never felt like that.  Never.  I was sad.  Of course.  Obviously.  But I never.  I think perhaps that we are primed from birth to expect that our parents will die, that they’ll go first.  They have to be pushed aside to make room for us, their children.  That’s why they had us in the first place.  And we know they need to make space.  It’s suffocating, when they aren’t dead.  Sometimes.

Harmony – I have a little yellow scarf that she gave me.  I don’t wear it.  It’s somewhere.  Somewhere.  I don’t know.  I’m pretty sure I never threw it out.  And he asked about it, not two weeks ago, asked me if I had it and knew where it was.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Railroad Perfection – #17

Anton – Go on.

Sandra – But that’s really it.  There’s no more to it.

Anton – That’s all you can say?  I say all of that, and you have no response?

Sandra – I did respond.  I agree with you.  I agree with everything.  What else can I say?

Anton – But, I just.  I don’t understand how I can talk for all of that time and you say so little back.

Sandra – I don’t know what you want from me.  You say things.  I listen, and I think about it, and I process your words.  And then I agree.  Sometimes I don’t, but this time I do.  I’ve thought about it and, Anton, you are right.

Anton – I suppose from my perspective I want to hear the reasoning.  The thoughts.  Not just the final outcome.

Sandra – I’ve never.  Sometimes when I think about something.  No.  Let me try.  Often when I think about something I don’t really think about the topic, or the arguments, or the words.  I think in colours.  I let colour wash over me, and whatever feels right is what I go with.  Blue is the colour of agreement.  Or at least it feels like blue.  It’s also the colour of sadness.  Memory.  Forgiveness.  Yesterday.  Regret.  Confidence.  I love blue.  I felt blue wash over me, and then I agreed with you.  Blue how I love you blue.

Anton – Paz?

Sandra – No, Anton.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series

Railroad Perfection – #16

Gerald – I don’t know what I am going to see when I get there, and I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle it.

Sonya – He’s still our son.

Gerald – No, I know, but.  I’ve never.  When I was very little we had a neighbour, Mr Smythe, and he was missing an arm, his left.  All of his shirts were pinned up on the left side, all of them, and as he didn’t have a wife or family I knew that he must have done it himself.  And I remember thinking how sad that must have been, to take a good shirt and pin up one of the arms because you knew it would never be used.  I would say that to myself when he walked by, never ever ever ever will I use me left arm, and I’d imagine the voice of a troll, even though Mr Smythe was unfailingly cheerful and polite.  And I think he liked me and my family, because he was always talking to mum and dad, and every birthday he sent me a card, by the post, even though he lived next door.  I’ve kept them.  But.  I couldn’t get that troll voice out of my mind, and I could never stop staring at the pinned up shirt arm.

Sonya – Your son is still your son.  He’s not a troll, or anything.  He’s just himself.

Gerald – Yes, but I worry that my inside self won’t see that, and that while I will be all smiles on the outside, what will I think on the inside?

Sonya – We can pretend, dear.  I’m worried, too.  I am.  I remember the first time he was sick, really ill I mean, and I didn’t know what to do, and nothing helped, and he was screaming and crying and unable to help himself.  And I hated him for a while, then, but it wasn’t his fault.  I don’t want to hate him now, either.  And it’s not his fault.

Gerald.  No.  No.  No.  Our poor boy.  Poor, poor boy.  I can’t imagine he is looking forward to seeing us, either.

Part of the Railroad Perfection series