Been a minute since I had anything to say about a book, partly because I haven't successfully made as much time for leisure reading this year, but also because the time I did allot was wasted on such thrilling ventures as a George Saunders rewrite of A Christmas Carol and the worst crime novel I've read in my entire life. So, having now only parsed a fourth of one of his books, it's a compliment to Wolfe that he's left me with thoughts aplenty.

Wolfe's language is singular; it's gnotted and chewy, intentionally obscure; the po-faced 'translator's note' left at the end of the book freely admits that the words used do not necessarily accurately reflect the objects of the story's world. This haze extends past the words. I find Severian a uniquely inscrutable character. He experiences a conventional heroic fantasy story that never gives him cause to question himself. He is, from birth, spirited away to a magical guild that teaches him in their ancient and noble ways, before he is eventually forced to strike out on his own, cast aside due to an offence spurred on by a human love outlawed in this regimented organisation. He travels the land, is hustled by a conwoman (who loves him anyway), survives a duel to the death, and finally, at the end of this part, takes his first steps into the wide world beyond the wall he has been entrapped within until that point. There is a Brandon Sandersen novel with this exact plot synopsis somewhere in his oeuvre, I'm sure.

So why is Severian so vicious? Why do his companions feel like shadow puppets? Why is he still so submissive toward the entrapment of his youth, a tradition borne entirely on the methodical suffering of others? And why, despite that, were Severian's words on women the first element to get a true eyebrow raise out of me? Perhaps a sign that I, as a reader, am too deferential to the author, or maybe an indicator that Wolfe works very well to disguise the effect of his protagonist's learned embrace of torture on his psychology for much of the book. Severian covets the physical Thecla but even more so the material Thecla. She is the first and last time he believes something to be above the butcher's knife. Once he leaves the Citadel, the only knowledge he is armed with is how to cut. So women fall over him, and in line with him, or under his blade. Cast in a metaphysical play, he is the creeping figure of death, capturing the whitened avatar of innocence. He thinks of these things as silly misunderstandings of his character (he's a man of people, a philosophical ally to the rebels!), but I'm not convinced.

I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that the framing device of this novel is that of a totalitarian dictator recounting their rise to power. Were I to read a biography of the youthful exploits of Xi Jinping, what perspective would I be bringing to it? I certainly wouldn't expect fidelity to events as they transpired, even if the author swore to me that he was incapable of forgetting. At best, I'd expect a past massaged to make the man of now appear righteous and inevitable. When Severian recalls a vision of his former master, he is told by this avatar of the man he respects above all others, the consummate representation of the grand traditionalism he values more than anything, in no uncertain terms, that he will be king and that his people will give themselves to him, like dogs. His psyche tells him this because he already knows it. Whatever mask he must wear, he wears dutifully, because all people are just meat ready to be cut, and it's not their fault they don't understand that, but it is his duty to use it, because he does. Aiga and Dorcas, rendered in prose equally lurid and slobbering by Wolfe, are characters described in only one of two ways. Either how they look and feel to Severian, or how successfully they defer to Severian. Aiga's soul is cut in two for her betrayal, and Dorcas ascends past the wall with Severian for her loyalty. I'm not trying to tell you what it means, I wouldn't know with so much book left, but it's an interesting place to leave the perspective character after an entire novel of fantastical adventures.

And they are just so fantastic. Taken as conventional fantasy, Wolfe's world is so cubist that even just the winding descriptions of red-stained cages and dust-covered libraries in the first half become page turners. I forgot now, prior to the duel's wonderful non-sequitur conclusion, seemingly the sole moment of action the book is building towards, that Wolfe actually did deploy a brilliantly kinetic chase sequence earlier. His decision to languish and wander is not borne out of necessity, but out of a desire to soak in the beautiful malaise, in the dead skies and unwalkable roads. The Botanical Garden was such a treat to experience. Excited for more.