This is an interesting book to review, because it is actually the three books comprising Jeff VanderMeer’s Ambergris Trilogy, all bound together in one massive tome: City of Saints and Madmen; Shriek: An Afterword; and Finch. These works are united by their setting—Ambergris, a fictional city full of mushrooms, which grow with such frequency and size that it is rare for the book to go more than a few pages without making mention of some sort of fungal growth. The city is also noteworthy for its history of conflict with the “gray caps,” a race of short, subterranean humanoid creatures, whose presence in the novel serves both as a disquieting reminder of the city’s violent past and as an ominous portent of further violence to come. The humans of Ambergris, on top of negotiating those rather unusual threats, have to deal with the normal issues faced by a city: politics, religious differences, money troubles, and conflicts with foreign powers, to name a few particularly common sources of difficulty. I will give my thoughts on each work shortly, but first, a few overall impressions:
- Ambergris has proved to be a remarkably versatile setting. I was consistently amazed by the sheer variety of genres and tones that VanderMeer employed throughout these three books. I have read his Southern Reach Trilogy, and I went into this expecting the same sort of creeping, strangely beautiful horror that those books specialize in—and to be clear, he delivered that in spades—but I was not expecting the many other treats this book had in store: clever satires of academic writing, inventive detective fiction, a surprisingly moving story of a series of broken relationships, I could go on. There’s something here for everyone.
- Of particular note is VanderMeer’s sense of humor. In Southern Reach, moments of outright comedy are few and far between, so this book was my first exposure to the full extent of his knack for filling narrations with witty asides, which served as a good tonal counterweight to the bleak states of his characters’ lives.
- Also, to clarify: do not allow the two preceding bullet points to mislead you. The horror of this book is unrelenting and deeply effective—I struggle to think of any other books that have made me literally shudder as I read them with quite the frequency that this one did.
- The stories take place in a variety of times, and from a variety of viewpoints; each new story recontextualizes the events of those which came before it, as we see things from a new perspective—the narrators, while generally reliable to a point, have their limits. They aren’t usually consciously deceptive, though they can be, at times, but it’s far more common for them to allow their biases to color their perceptions, and sometimes they’re just flat-out wrong. It is our responsibility to sort out the truth for ourselves as readers, a deeply engaging and rewarding process.
And that’s as much as I can say without getting into specifics. Let’s get into specifics!
City of Saints and Madmen, the first of the three books contained in this one hefty volume, is a collection of short stories, united only by their setting, the eponymous city. I enjoyed it greatly, but I don’t have much to say about the collection as a whole beyond that fact, so it’s time to look at each of the stories individually.
(For those of you following along at home, the shape of my review is something like this: {Review of Ambergris (Reviews of City of Saints and Madmen *[Reviews of “Dradin, In Love,” “The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of the City of Ambergris,” “The Cage;” “The Transformation of Martin Lake,” and “The Strange Case of X”]; Shriek: An Afterword; and Finch)}. *You are here.)
“Dradin, In Love” is the first story of the collection, and also, in my opinion, the weakest. This is not to say that the story is bad, by any means—it isn’t, but something has to take the bottom slot, and I’m afraid that this is it. Our eponymous lover boy is a priest, who has arrived in Ambergris after a long and arduous mission trip in the jungle, and has fallen madly (pardon the pun) in love with a woman he spotted in a shop window. Using a dwarf he meets on the street as a middleman, he sets about trying to woo her with various gifts. To the discerning reader, it will be immediately apparent that Dradin is not playing with a full deck—this was not as apparent to me, on my first read through, but even I could tell that he was being taken for a ride. As the story progresses, Dradin ventures out onto the streets of Amberis during the Festival of the Freshwater Squid, an anarchic and violent yearly celebration which is alluded to throughout many of these stories, but never fully explained (this, to be clear, is not a complaint). As the festival grows ever more hellish and violent, so too do the predicaments that Dradin finds himself in. After narrowly escaping a trap laid by the dwarf—in collaboration with some gray caps—Dradin is able to make his way into the shop where he first saw his love… only to realize that she was nothing more than a mannequin. He picks up “her” remains, and decides to throw himself into the river. As I said at the start, this is by no means a bad story. The realization that Dradin is a madman whose mind never fully recovered from the horrors he faced in the jungle (in particular, the fever that he caught) makes the story’s more frustrating beats much more understandable in retrospect, and I cannot imagine a better way to introduce a reader to the city of Ambergris than through the eyes of a delirious lunatic. The Festival of the Freshwater Squid, in particular, is a very interesting aspect of this story—while it may, on one’s first reading, seem like the product of Dradin’s fevered imagination, future stories more or less confirm that the horrors it contains are pretty much business as usual for Ambergrisian festivities. It’s a fantastic story, which makes its status as my least favorite of the bunch all the more exciting: nowhere to go but up!
While I enjoyed the last story well enough, it was “The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of the City of Ambergris” that truly helped me appreciate how brilliant Ambergris is—it is, full disclosure, my favorite story in City of Saints and Madmen, and may well be my favorite work in the entire Ambergris series. Written as a history primer for visiting tourists, this story is a delight from start to finish. Its “author,” the historian Duncan Shriek, is clearly frustrated by the limitations placed on him by the conditions under which he is writing, and makes frequent asides through footnotes as he tells the history of Ambergris. While he attempts to maintain a detached tone throughout the document, it becomes increasingly clear that he holds fairly heterodox views on some aspects of Ambergrisian history, and that he has fallen from grace as a result of these opinions. He regularly calls out several of his academic peers in the footnotes, with historian Mary Sabon serving as the target of much of his rancor—though he also seems to possess a certain begrudging respect for her. The observant reader will soon realize that the bad blood between the two has to do with far more than just a disagreement about historical facts. Even without those subtler moments, “The Hoegbotton Guide” is a remarkable read. It covers a vast period of time, but Shriek is an engaging and clever narrator, and tells the events in a very natural way—much like the best teachers of history in our world, Shriek understands the importance of creating a narrative when teaching others about a region’s history. The guide is densely researched (which is to say, richly imagined), and every page makes passing reference to a half dozen historical events or figures that I would gladly read a whole book about. VanderMeer has, through this story, achieved one of the greatest accomplishments in fiction: he has created a city that feels more real than many that actually exist in this world. Many of the events Duncan touches on in this work will come up in the rest of Ambergris: Cappan John Manzikert’s slaughter of the gray caps and subsequent founding of Ambergris, various wars with foreign powers great and small, and the various works by the great composer Voss Bender (of whose talents Shriek does not appear to hold a very high opinion, by the way) memorializing these major occurrences; despite all of these significant discussions, there is one event which stands out above all the rest, one event which casts a shadow over every other story in Ambergris: The Silence. I will not describe it in detail here—both for the sake of brevity (a phrase I write as something of a private joke between myself and any reader brave enough to make it this far; brevity has never been a strength of my writing, as you now know), and because nothing I could write about it could come close to matching the power with which it is described by Duncan Shriek. The Silence is the defining question of Ambergris: every character, whether they know it or not, is responding to it, in some way. Thought by many to be an act of vengeance by the gray caps, some instantaneous act of bloodless genocide to pay back Manzikert’s initial massacre, it is an uncomfortable, constant presence in the mind of many characters, a trauma of the sort that impacts every generation to follow. Shriek’s interpretation of The Silence, the careful reader will note, does not appear to be the same as the prevailing opinion. More on that later. I have not even begun to scratch the surface of all that makes this story so special, but I hope that I have conveyed my enthusiasm for it in this portion of the review. A masterful piece of writing.
“The Cage” is a definite change of pace. Perhaps the most straightforwardly Weird-with-a-capital-W-Weird bit of fiction in this collection, it follows Robert Hoegbotton, founder of the omnipresent company Hoegbotton & Sons, early in his career. Chronologically speaking, this seems to be the first story in the collection—in every other story, Hoegbotton & Sons is a well established force in the city, but here, we are shown a much leaner, scrappier organization. Hoegbotton has become obsessed with the gray caps, and starts purchasing properties that have sat abandoned since The Silence—an event which occurred about a century ago. What’s more, he also arrives at any house which has fallen victim to a gray cap attack, purchasing anything he can. This story begins in one such house, and, after a very close brush with fungal death (one which I will avoid describing in detail, both for the sake of brevity—ha, ha—and because thinking about it still makes my skin crawl), he escapes with an item that the gray caps left behind—a cage. While it appears to be empty, it also possesses an unusual weight, as though it contains some sort of invisible creature. Hijinks ensue. At the very end of the story, Hoegbotton comes face-to-face with the monster from the cage, and accepts that his life may be over, because he believes that this creature holds the answer to the only question that matters: The Silence. Hoegbotton, as a protagonist, falls somewhere between Duncan and Dradin. While he is not an outright madman, he has allowed his obsession to consume him, and throws himself into any situation that might contain an answer with an almost suicidal dedication. I have been light on details when describing the plots of these stories, and this one has been given an especially slim recap, a fact which I regret, but will not revise. A wonderful story.
“The Transformation of Martin Lake” is an example of my favorite kind of story: it is a work of art dedicated to a different work of art. It follows the eponymous artist, a painter, from two different perspectives: quotes from Janice Shriek’s writings on his paintings serve to split up the narration, which follows Lake as he drifts through various circles of artists in the days following the disappearance of the great composer Voss Bender. If the last three stories were not enough to clue the reader in on the fact that this book’s various narrators are only telling partial truths at best, this story will open their eyes beyond any doubt: Janice’s interpretations are almost entirely wrong. This fact, coupled with the outright horror of the circumstances that brought about Lake’s sudden flash of inspiration, serves to provide some pitch-black comedy, but is also a powerful statement about the importance of [blah, blah, you get where this sentence was headed]. “The Hoegbotton Guide” is my indisputable favorite story of the collection, but “Martin Lake” is a strong contender for second place. I have written far less about it than I have about the other stories in City of Saints and Madmen, because much of what I want to say about it will probably come up when I start writing about Shriek: An Afterword. This was a deeply unsettling, surprisingly moving story, and I cannot recommend it enough.
“The Strange Case of X” is an interesting story to write about. It jumps between first- and third-person narration as it follows the interrogation of a man in some sort of prison or asylum, and I hesitate to write much more about the story than this simple fact, because of the elephant in the room: its ending. To call the ending a “twist” feels almost patronizing—it is apparent that our mysterious patient is an author from Earth fairly early in the story’s runtime; part of the fun of reading this story comes from just how brazen it is, the way that it dares you to assume that VanderMeer would be so bold as to write himself—and a copy of City of Saints and Madmen—into his own novel. It’s not just a source of Twilight Zone-esque fun, of course; it also features some truly potent writing, as “X” discusses the ways in which Ambergris began drifting into his everyday life, growing in the real world—or at least, in his mind—like one of the mushrooms found within the city. In some cases, this sort of wink at the audience can take the reader out of the work, but in this case, the effect is quite the opposite—by reminding us of the fictional nature of Ambergris, by revealing his method, VanderMeer strengthens his hold over the reader; Ambergris continues to grow steadily more real than our own world; “The Strange Case of X,” which may itself have been written by its narrator, eventually describes not just X’s inability to truly tell Ambergris and reality apart, but also our own. Or at least, my own.
All in all, City of Saints and Madmen is a fantastic collection. Wildly imaginative, beautifully written, and endlessly thought-provoking, it is so rich that there are entire subplots that I have neglected to allude to simply because I refuse to rob the reader of the joy of discovering them on their own; there are characters who appear in multiple stories and enrich our understanding of both works by virtue of their behavior, jokes with punchlines that are only clear in hindsight, mysteries that only grow more maddening the more we learn about them, a seemingly endless torrent of information and ideas to take in and turn over in our minds long after we have finished reading. I hope that my enthusiasm has been clearly conveyed. For that reason, I hope that you, dear reader, will understand the importance of what I am about to say: City of Saints and Madmen is, in my opinion, the weakest of the three books in Ambergris. That’s right. It’s Dradin all the way down, baby. Okay, we’ve still got a lot of ground to cover, so there’s no point in wasting time with meaningless transitions (beyond this one, of course). It’s time to move on to Book Two.
Shriek: An Afterword is an almost indescribably powerful novel. While Janice Shriek, the first—and, to her knowledge, only—author, began the manuscript as an afterword (go figure) to Duncan Shriek’s “Guide to the Early History of the City of Ambergris,” it very quickly morphs into something else: a memoir; a eulogy for her brother; a swan song; a final scream of pain from a woman who feels truly, utterly alone in the world. All of these are present in the final document, which makes the presence of her brother, Duncan (who appears in parenthetical notes all throughout the work) even more striking. His comments—by turns exasperated, wry, caring, furious, sad, wistful, cryptic, and sometimes all of these things at once—enrich the story that Janice weaves. She is, at times, an exhausting narrator—pretentious, spiteful, biased, conceited—but not only is she aware of that fact, Duncan is as well, and does not hesitate to call her out for these traits. He will often address her directly in his comments, but she does the same thing at times, speaking to Duncan in a more rhetorical manner, unaware that he will see her words and respond to them. The result is a novel with a fascinating style: dialectics without dialogue, two characters constantly soliloquizing to each other and admitting things that they would never actually say in face-to-face conversation. Janice regularly raids Duncan’s journals (a decision which outrages him initially, though he quickly forgives her), and draws from them to extrapolate Duncan’s feelings about certain events which he does not describe—generally, to wildly incorrect results, as Duncan seems to take no small amount of pleasure in informing her. As a result, many of the chapters feel deeply intimate, as though we should not be allowed access to the words that they contain—the only greater violation of written privacy than reading someone’s private correspondence is surely reading their journals, and Janice is dedicated to putting both on full display. (It occurs to me that I have been quite hard on poor Janice. To be clear: I like her as a character; I cannot imagine anyone leaving this novel without some level of affection for her. Like any real loved one, Janice is imperfect, and so her flaws are doubly frustrating, as compared to those of some hypothetical stranger.)
Remember Mary Sabon, the historian Duncan mentions repeatedly in “The Hoegbotton Guide to the Early History of the City of Ambergris?” Well, wouldn’t you know it, there is some history there—she is a former student, and lover (yikes!), of Duncan’s, who has dedicated herself to destroying his legacy. Let me tell you, Janice has some thoughts about all that. Mary is the novel’s voiceless third main character, a source of obsession for both of the siblings—Duncan’s obsessive love, and Janice’s obsessive hatred. Duncan’s fixation on Mary is the only thing that can rival his pursuit of all information about the gray caps and The Silence, just as Janice’s intense dislike of her is the only thing that can rival her fixation on destroying herself. (If I am hard on the siblings, I think it is because I see all of their flaws—Duncan’s stubbornness and pride; Janice’s penchant for self-destruction—and none of their strengths—Duncan’s intelligence; Janice’s… well, I’m sure that she has some strengths on display in this novel—in myself.) Those are the axes around which this story turns: Mary, The Gray Caps, Janice’s Social Life—not necessarily in that order.
With all of these plates to keep in the air at once, you’d think that Janice would struggle to stay on track, and you would be right! This novel is full of digressions, false starts, and asides, all of which
[Apparently, Goodreads has a character limit, and I have exceeded it. I refuse to cut out anything that I have already written, and so, the remainder of this review will live on only in my Google Docs. Shriek and Finch are both incredible reads, and I recommend this entire collection wholeheartedly. Email me if you want the full review, I guess. Hopefully my future reviews will be somewhat shorter, lol.]