In taking its sweet time to “set things up,” this slowest of slow-burn books takes over 500 pages to get around to even considering doing what is arguably its most important job: getting its reader to care about someone, anyone, who is centrally involved. There are simply too many protagonists here. Though we spend a lot of time seemingly inside their heads, watching them think (we certainly don’t spend that time watching them actually do much of anything until the mad scramble and ex-machina interventions of the last 50 or so pages, when the book suddenly remembers it should at least pretend to be a novel for a bit), they nonetheless seem thinly, roughly sketched, in part because there’s nothing all that interesting or striking about what or how they think. And the book has such a short attention span for its own myriad subplots that it shifts focus from character to character every five pages or so (no exaggeration—and the vignettes are often shorter still), so that nothing ever gains narrative momentum. There will be hints of incident, something very nearly about to happen, and our POV character of the moment will suddenly look away before saying or doing anything, retreat further into their head once again, the scene will end before it’s begun, and we’ll leave one fairly flat, propositional character aside to focus on another for a few pages. In these fragments of scene, which comprise 95% of this book, we might suspect, if we place great trust in the author, that we’re seeing the planting of narrative seeds, but the form of the fantasy “epic” being what it often is, these won’t bear fruit for hundreds and hundreds of pages, if they do at all.
About that form: it’s the first, most obvious, and least sophisticated criticism to make, but it’s often true, and certainly so here: these books are too long. This is partly just a consequence of the usual infamous fantasy bloat, of 150 pages of incident being given 700 pages of presentation, with only a small portion of the lavish extra ever convincingly justifying itself as part of what the serious fans call, with a sort of propellerhead technicality and undue authorial charity, “world-building.” (Shouldn’t all this “world-building” leave you with a strong sense of the world?) The rest truly is quite often just describing or summarizing in 10 sentences (or in 20, or in 35) what could be said clearly and compellingly in 2 or 3, even without sacrificing vividness.
But the other formal problem is that these “trilogies” and “tetralogies” are not series of stories at all. The individual volumes do not follow narrative patterns of rise and fall, do not chronicle developments at other time scales than the very long term, do not satisfy as stories ought to. The “series” that is four 800-page “novels” is usually really a single tumid 3200-page novel wrapped in four cardboard covers rather than one. (This is perhaps the other genre legacy of Lord of the Rings, which was famously written as one big book but was cut up and published as three. And it’s one of the many things that sets “series” like these apart from other proper series like spy novels or mysteries, which wouldn’t dream of making you wait three or four long books to see Poirot finally solve the case.)
This is all certainly how it is here. Shadowmarch is not a novel. It’s the first 40 chapters of a 200-chapter novel in four gigantic parts. And reading it as anything else is like spending a week feeling like you’re about to sneeze and the sneeze won’t come. I’m going to give the second volume a chance because of how much I liked Williams’s Memory, Sorrow and Thorn, because I’ve heard this particular “series” really picks up after the first “novel,” and because a lifelong soft spot for this genre makes me a bit more prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt, even with loads of other reading commitments professional and personal. But we’re off to a bad start here.