I keep wanting The Crimson Petal and the White. I know that’s stupid: I already own a copy, and why would Faber write the same book twice? Nevertheless, when I see his name I hope for another book as immersive, with a narrator as slyly insinuating to lead me into the labyrinth.
It’s particularly stupid to hope for that when I’m well aware that what I’m holding are two novellas. There simply isn’t room.
The novella is an odd form, when you think about it. It’s not exactly a long short-story, not exactly a short novel. It sits between the two and, at its best, can combine the economy of the one with the depth of the other. The danger is that it combines the sparseness of the short-story with the bagginiess of the novel and that, I think, is what’s happened with The Hundred and Ninety-Nine Steps. It rushes where it should linger and lingers where it should rush. Oh, there are other problems. There’s a subtle dissonance set up between the story in the manuscript and the romantic element, and there’s certainly something a bit off about the romance itself, but the main problem, for me, is that there are too many elements to it and not enough fleshing out. I wasn’t taken, frankly.
The Courage Consort, on the other hand, I did rather like. I liked the way the characters were drawn, the development, the humour of it. I very much liked the line:
“Bad pop music lasts for ever. Johann Strauss. Herman’s Hermits. Father Abraham and the Smurfs. These things will never die, even if we put a lot of effort into killing them.”
Mostly because I’m not a nice man, of course. Strauss is for dancing to. If you’re listening to him then you’re doing it wrong. And Andre Rieu can take a running jump.
The Courage Consort is a novella done well.
So I’m going to give this volume three stars on aggregate and never, ever read The Hundred and Ninety-Nine Steps again.