Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi is one of the strangest and most original novels of recent years. At 245 pages, it is short; it is also almost impossible to describe without robbing it of its central pleasures. What can be said is this: the novel takes place in an enormous House, the narrator keeps meticulous journals about his life there, and gradually – through the accumulated details of those journals – something else comes into focus. To say more is to damage the experience. Piranesi rewards readers who approach it without foreknowledge and trust the strangeness.
The narrator calls himself Piranesi, though the name was given to him by someone else and he is not sure it is really his. He lives in the House, which is infinite – or appears to be – its halls lined with statues and periodically flooded by tides that rise from the lower levels and recede. He eats fish and foliage. He knows only fifteen people in all of existence, most of them dead. He knows one other living person, whom he calls the Other.
Piranesi keeps journals, and the novel is structured as excerpts from those journals. The journals have a date system based on events in the House (the Year the Albatross Came to the South-Western Halls; the Year I Discovered Twelve Dead People in the Fourteenth Vestibule). This system is one of the novel’s many precise details that feel wrong in ways that accumulate slowly into comprehension.
The House operates by its own logic, and Piranesi is a careful observer of that logic. He maps it, catalogs its statues, tracks the tidal patterns, records bird behavior. He is a scientist of his own world, methodical and thorough, and his methodology is both a source of comfort and one of the novel’s central mysteries.
The narrator is one of the most unusual characters in recent fiction. He is gentle, curious, and deeply at home in a world that should be frightening. His relationship to the House is the relationship of someone who has made a place entirely his own through attention and care. He knows every statue in every hall he has mapped. He grieves when a bird dies. He maintains the bones of the dead with ceremony and love.
As the novel progresses and Piranesi begins to understand more about his situation, Clarke tracks the emotional consequences of that understanding with great care. The revelations are not triumphant; they are complicated and sad in ways that make the novel more rather than less moving the more Piranesi comes to know.
Clarke published her first novel, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, in 2004 to enormous acclaim. She then spent sixteen years not publishing another novel, partly due to illness. Piranesi arrived in 2020 as proof that the long wait had not been wasted. It is a completely different kind of book from Jonathan Strange – shorter, stranger, more intimate – and it demonstrates that Clarke has more than one mode.
The novel draws on a tradition of British fantasy that includes writers like Ursula K. Le Guin and the Inklings, but it does not feel derivative of any of them. Its closest relative might be the fiction of Borges, in its use of an impossible architectural space as a vehicle for philosophical and emotional argument, but the emotional register is warmer than Borges typically permits himself.
The House is many things. It is a mystery to be solved. It is a prison. It is a mind. It is a world complete in itself. Clarke does not restrict it to one meaning, and the novel benefits from this openness. Readers will find different things in the House depending on what they bring to it.
Readers who want fiction that genuinely surprises – that does something they have not encountered before – will find Piranesi extraordinary. It is not a difficult book in the sense of being hard to understand; it is a strange book in the sense of operating according to its own rules. The strangeness is not obstruction; it is the experience.