The novel establishes Susanna Clarke as one of our greatest living writers.
Piranesiis out September 15.
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Unable to explain their anguish, their isolation is total.
But just a few years after the book came out, Clarke withdrew from public life.
Eventually, even Clarkes communications with Pringle slowed.
And then, about a year ago, a dazzling manuscript unexpectedly arrived in Pringles in-box.
It was the most extraordinary thing, she said.
There was the book complete.
That slim volume, titledPiranesi,is not the sequel Clarke had once alluded to in interviews.
She is one of those writers who use the tools of fantasy to talk to us about ourselves.
His nickname is Piranesi.
And then there is the simple thrill of turning the pages to find out what will happen next.
One of the few things Piranesi does know about himself is that hes a scientist.
As for the World, its not one we have seen before.
As far as he knows, the universe has only ever contained 15 people.
The Other meets with Piranesi twice a week for no more than an hour at a time.
Everyone else is dead; Piranesi tends to their skeletons religiously.
His life in the House wasnt always so blissful, however.
Unable or unwilling to either gaze inward or dwell in the past, he is eternally and joyfully present.
Then she fell ill.
But how I take a stab at look at it now is that I still have a lot left … Not everything about the Wind was bad, he writes, looking back at those terrible months.
Clarke reminds us that theres nothing ordinary about Piranesis way of seeing the world.
The labyrinth can also be a prison, especially if one is driven by ego.
The scholar who meets with Piranesi twice a week doesnt register the beauty of his surroundings at all.
Just endless dreary rooms all the same, he says, full of decaying figures covered with bird shit.
The city was desolate and lonely, but as we wandered aimlessly, we realized we were not alone.
On Putnam Street, we stopped to look at one of those ubiquitous lions that guard peoples gates.
It had been painted so that rivulets of blood appeared to be streaming from its eyes.
The Beauty of the House is immeasurable, he writes, its Kindness infinite.
