A Review in Quotes — The Book of the New Sun — Book 1, Chapter 1

One of my “someday” goals is to write a review of my favorite novel of all time: Gene Wolfe’s tetralogy The Book of the New Sun. But, as Creedence Clearwater Revival reminds us, someday never comes. And that’s certainly true in this case, because the very idea of writing a review of a book that has stayed with me for coming up on 20 years, by the writer I probably admire more than any other, in the same league as Tolkien and others who breathe that rarefied Olympian air, is instantly paralyzing. What could I say that hasn’t been said before?

So I’m taking a different approach. Rather than try to capture a structured precis of all of my thoughts in the form of a single review, I’m going to review the book piecemeal — chapter by chapter, quote by quote — and fractally, under the assumption that by focusing on small pieces of this masterfully wrought work, I’ll inevitably capture something of the experience of the whole, and what it’s meant to me. And because my primary goal in writing about fiction is to sharpen my ability to do it myself, I will be focusing as much as possible on the craft. It’s in the name of this publication, innit?

I. Resurrection and Death

Still wet from Gyoll we waited. In the recesses of my mind we stand shivering there even now. Just as all that appears imperishable tends toward its own destruction, those moments that at the time seem the most fleeting recreate themselves — not only in my memory (which in the final accounting loses nothing) but in the throbbing of my heart and the prickling of my hair, making themselves new just as our Commonwealth reconstitutes itself each morning in the shrill tones of its own clarions. [1]
— Gene Wolfe, The Shadow of the Torturer (The Book of the New Sun*, book one): Chapter I: Resurrection and Death

Then, without further ado, let us dwell on this sublime paragraph. It occurs at the beginning of the last paragraph of the first page of the novel. The speaker, the writer, is Severian, the torturer’s apprentice, who we learn has just nearly drowned, and now stands waiting with his fellow apprentices — boys, all, ranging from maybe ten to fourteen or so — at a locked gate at twilight. Through the mountain fog and the wrought bars of the gate, they can dimly see guards approaching, carrying weapons and lanterns.

The rhythm of these sentences builds subtly, and in more ways than one, all of which are characteristic of Wolfe’s style in this book. Still wet from Gyoll we waited. Read it out loud: it’s iambic, like Shakespeare, but shorter — trimeter, rather than pentameter. Take a line like this one from Hamlet: I must confess I feel myself distract. The “iambic” pattern lies in the alternation of stresses. Using caps to indicate stress: i MUST conFESS i FEEL mySELF disTRACT. So: Still WET from GYOLL we WAITed. It’s a small touch, following an exchange of dialogue, and deploying a syllabic pattern characteristic of dialogue.

Then: In the recesses of my mind we stand shivering there even now. This sentence builds in length, of course, and it also moves us from a concrete, physical detail into Severian’s mind. The move is seamless: first we are with the river-soaked boys in the night; and then we are explicitly with them, shivering, within Severian’s mind. Hold that thought.

Finally, the third and final sentence — a soaring philosophical reflection, launched by the two propulsive sentences preceding it. I’ve returned to it many times over the years, for comfort in times of chaos or with wonder at the tiny, seemingly insignificant moments of my life that seem to be stamped indelibly on my memory. Just as all that appears imperishable tends toward its own destruction, those moments that at the time seem the most fleeting recreate themselves…

And we learn that those moments recreate themselves not merely in his mind, but physically, so that, in a subtle but palpable way, we are suddenly and simultaneously with Severian the shivering boy and Severian the man who is recounting this tale, who shivers — as do we — in sympathy. We feel the throbbing of his heart, the prickling of his hair — again these very concrete, specific, evocative details.

And then we are soaring philosophically again, launched by those very sensations …making themselves new just as our Commonwealth reconstitutes itself each morning in the shrill tones of its own clarions. Wolfe will dwell on the mysterious power later, and so will I as this series ambles along. But just this makes me think: what is a country? An empire? You can point to it on a map, you can scoop up some soil, but these are not the country. Where is the country? Isn’t it in the symbolic actions that summon it into being, that make it real, that give it its power? And yet, a country is a real thing — even those who would deny it behave, perforce, as if it’s true. So what is reality?

These are the kinds of questions Wolfe raises with apparent effortlessness. And the move these sentences make: from concrete, dramatically charged details and action through to lofty philosophical musings, is characteristic of The Book of the New Sun as a whole. Reading it for the first time, I felt like Gabriel Garcia Márquez reading Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” for the first time. I didn’t know you could write like that. It changed the way I write and think forever, though some of those changes have been longer in the gestation than others.

That’s all for Chapter 1. I intend for this to be an ambling, shambling series, so Chapter 2 will come when it comes. If you’ve read the book, or intend to, let me know in the comments, or drop me a line. ’til next time…

⃤ AR

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