One book, and part of another, from what was intended to be a series of at least six, judging from the prefatory sonnets, because who doesn't write those first when writing fantasy novels? Interrupted by the author's death, and granted, it's not like death is an uncommon element of fantasy novels, but whether or not it's the context, he does seem especially present here. The opening line (after one of those sonnets, obviously): "It has been said that, if a person is going to die, he should do it in the morning: when the day is new and clean and full of unanswerable questions, when the sun has just risen to cast an afterglow on the things that have been done by night. It has also been said that, if a person is going to die, the circumstances are irrelevant." The last, of what we have: "When I am done with death and homeward turn." One of the key characters, a great sorcerer who knows his end is not far off. One of the images, reminiscent of our world yet subtly other, is of Death not as the reaper who cuts all corn, but as a dancing master: "Who or when or whether, you and I shall dance together." And really, that something is common in fantasy doesn't necessarily mean a thing when it comes to Aspects – notwithstanding the ludicrous blurb of the UK edition at least, which has several errors of fact embedded within an overwhelming error of tone, combining to give the impression of something much more fantasy yet far less fantastical than the book itself.
So if there are no Archmages, and the reference to a sorcerous machine gun is misleading (dammit, at least call it a mystical machine gun so we can do a Phonogram callback), what is Aspects? Well, bear in mind that perhaps Ford's best-known novel was The Dragon Waiting, which notoriously contains no dragons, though does have vampires and Mithraism, while otherwise hewing close to our Renaissance in a way I would often find trying. After all, if you can change things that fundamental yet still find history following the same course for centuries, what reason to suppose anything the characters can do will derail its further continuation? But Ford carried it off there, and does something similar here, with a world which is not quite our nineteenth century, but still a recognisable reflection. There are minimi instead of minutes, but they still come in sixties; railways are called ironways; the city in which we open has no monarchy anymore, another name and geography, but is still more Victorian London than not. Again, this is exactly the sort of thing which can easily be annoying even to the seasoned reader of fantasy – if tea and muffins are still tea and muffins, what was the point of dicking around with names for the clock? Yet again, he pulls it off somehow, not least because of the little places where their manners or phrases include something our world does not have, but could have been improved by. Even the organisation of duels – and misleadingly we open with a duel – feels in some ways a little neater. Not that it's all about neatness; much of the plot, in so far as there is one, and there isn't so's you'd notice, concerns constitutional reform, and the odd little byways which accumulate in law are exactly the sort of thing which ring true if you grew up in a country where a man called Black Rod has an inexplicable yet key role in the operation of government. If you think somewhere along the lines of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, you wouldn't be on the wrong track, or perhaps The Goblin Emperor's less showy cousin. A lot of the parallels which came to mind were outside fantasy, though. I suspect the parliamentary stuff might bear some kinship to Trollope, if the thought of reading Trollope didn't fill me with quite such ennui; some of the cattiness in offices obscuring life and death stakes echoes The Sandbaggers.
But it's the end of the parliamentary session, and thereafter the action – such as it is – moves out of the capital to Strange House. Where, yes, the name is on the nose (though cf Wolf Hall), but it's here that Aspects moves up from intriguing to delightful. Peter's Friends would not be an unfair comparison, or – and the cover made me think of this a little too – The Secret History. But really it's more Iris Murdoch at her best, that sense of a fabulous social bubble where a varied assembly of remarkable people fascinate in themselves, but more so for their enviable bond. Here it's reified, some of the group also comprising magically linked pairs who may or may not be lovers, or exclusive if they are, but who can sense each other with a thought, whisper across the miles like the ultimate DM. All introduced to the reader through the person of a newcomer, of course, who at first feels abashed and misled, before being shown that there are more ways than she's known for people to be, and even more for them to interrelate, and that she is welcome in this world. That sense of new vistas opening up reminds me of first reading Murdoch, or de Beauvoir, but becomes even more seductive when you consider Strange House itself, perfect expression of a setting which so joyfully has magic, and good conversation, but also (at least for the well-off and forward-looking) hot water and electricity, not to mention a wargaming set-up to die for, without it ever feeling like a mere wishlist (another lovely detail: yes, we see a fair bit of a game that has a similar role in this world to chess in ours, but is much more exciting. However, unlike so many created worlds with their one culturally defining game, here there are lots of other games too, for different tastes and moods, which is what you want, isn't it, even besides making the world feel so much more solid). There's even a wonderful section about how the last stage of the journey is part of the love of a favoured retreat – except it's not a retreat, it's an advance – which made me think of a few dear places from younger days.
Which brings us neatly to the melancholy woven through this, because heavens forbid we ever get a story about a lovely place that just stays lovely (well, Blandings aside, but even there you need to watch out for aunts). Because Strange himself is getting on, and so there's that note of the tragedy of knowing you'll have to go when you've just got your life how you like it - and of missing what comes next. Except, of course, that because that happened to the creator, it will never happen to the creation. Perhaps Strange would have died; perhaps this fellowship would have been broken. It is the sort of thing stories feel obliged to do, after all. But now, like Keats' urn, they can stay in this moment forever. Doubly so, because it's not easy to guess where the story was headed; it's not just a case of pausing Butch Cassidy before the carriage doors open. Especially when there's a recurring motif within the story of stories which have different endings depending which version the teller favours. For me, all this is the opposite of a problem. But if you do read for resolution more than mood, well. Similarly, all the outfit descriptions, and meals, are exactly the sort of thing I know some people skip, whereas for me they just deepen the sense of somewhere I'd love to hang out. It's not altogether idyllic; there are difficulties, and illnesses (the agonised search for blame among those around the afflicted only deepened by the extra possibilities of help and harm magic opens up). And there's politics, of course, which is never a happy arena, especially not in a world close enough to our own that "It's simply the nature of politics that they tend to become about politics, rather than issues." But even when it comes to something like a magic-user's penalty for overreaching, here it's not because they made a bad roll, or a simple plot convenience, but something much more like a neurodivergent meltdown made literal, a sorcerer who needed some quiet after a working, only to find noise where it was not expected. Which, in decades of reading and watching and playing this stuff, is the truest rendering I think I've ever seen. And all tying in to that central issue, the one at which the title hints, the one which bounces off the setting's main religion with its one goddess of multiple aspects: the idea of trying to see people as completely as one can. Ironic for an incomplete book, of course, but still to be treasured.
Ironic too that, 15 and a half years on from Ford's September death, a story so very firmly set as summer becomes autumn should, after so long a wait, arrive in spring. Certainly I'd recommend waiting a few months for better effect. But even read out of time, Neil Gaiman's introduction is beautiful and moving to the extent that I almost forgot the period - and we're talking more than a year here - where Gaiman was one of the parties most publicly agitated about how Ford's situation made clear why writers should always appoint literary executors, because Ford's family just didn't care about his work, and then it transpired, near as I could work out, that the literary associates had all just been using the wrong email address or something and actually his family were all for putting the work into print again because honestly, why wouldn't you be? If nothing else, free money! Which said, I suppose there are some books which you might want to bury. Case in point: searching 'Ford Aspects' on Goodreads also brought up The International Jew: Aspects of Jewish Power in the United States, by Henry Ford! The worst of it was, there were multiple records for the bastard thing so I ended up spending a good ten minutes tidying the editions of a hateful man who, by popularising the automobile, also played a key role in humanity's impending death by fire regardless of race. Ah well, at least I got to read such Aspects as we've got first, though for all I said (and meant) up there about the consolations of its being unfinished, the complete set is still joining Firefly and Big Numbers on the shopping list for if I ever find myself in a better parallel.