Viriconium (M. John Harrison)

[Calibandar]

Dylan

Frankly, who really ought to be giving two shits whether or not Tolkien's Balrog had wings or not?

Those who care. And I've seen thousands of people who care, I really have. That alone is far, far more than the number of people who I have ever seen react positively to reading an MJ Harrison book, since you want to play the popularity card by referring to some obscure award poll on a website.

Harrison doesn't leave things so disorganized that the reader cannot puzzle together a meaning .

Deornoth's opening post above says you're wrong.

Deornoth,

The long and short of it is that Harrison is not interested in those sort of questions. In fact he will frown on them in the same way that he will frown on anything that did not come to his plate directly from his own ass.

[williamjm]

I read the Fantasy Masterworks edition (all the short stories collected together) and just got completely lost with it. The book was very atmospheric but what was it all about? Was there a guy timetravelling through loads of different Viriconiums? Were there just loads of Viriconiums connected in some strange way? I have no idea but hopefully you do

I think the stories contradict each other (even the name of Viriconium changes) so much that you shouldn't really try to find any story connection between them (although The Pastel City and A Storm of Wings might be consistent with each other). For the most part I think they are internally consistent except for maybe some of the weirder shorts. Although I like Harrison's writing style, I do prefer it when he's at least reasonably comprehensible (as in The Pastel City, A Storm of Wings, Light, Signs of Life or The Course of the Heart). Some of the short stories in Viriconium just didn't make any sense, however - particularly the last one partially set in Manchester which ended with somebody looking at his neighbour cutting his lawn and then thinking "Viriconium!"

[Larry.]

Cali,

When you have read all of the book, perhaps you could comment more effectively on it rather than just taking your opinions and recasting them as being some truism? There isn't a "popularity" thing at question here - if anything, I've acknowledged multiple times that MJH's work is not going to appeal to everyone...or by extension be "popular." So why mention that? It's a straw man argument, since I'm not interested in "popularity," only in noting that the work is not for everyone.

As for the story itself, it sounds like the reaction is little different than what many have about elements of Gene Wolfe's writings. But yet Wolfe is highly regarded; same for MJH in some circles. To pretend otherwise is tantamount to arguing that there can be only one interpretation of an author's worth, which naturally I believe is bullshit.

But enough of this circular argument. I'm going to finish reading the book at hand and see if I can give my informed opinion on its possibilities. To do otherwise is to simply wander away from the original question, n'est ce pas?

[Max the Mostly Mediocre]

Also, I agree on the idea that too much attention to detail can detract from a story. Criticism of a movie like, say, Saving Private Ryan for using the wrong type of sights on a sniper rifle scope is an exercise in meaninglessness. Inconsistentcy or lack of realism in tiny details rarely detracts from a story. (Also, the balrog's wings were made of "shadow and flame." It doesn't matter how big they were, it definitely wasn't using them for lift.) But as with everything, a balance has to be struck. For an experience to be an experience, the reader generally has to understand to some degree why things are happening, what significance it has in relation to other places/people/events. That requires the "realization." And while I prefer the realization of a world to have a strong component of mystery, I'd never advocate leaving the reader fill in all the blanks themselves.

The problem for something like SPR is that a lot of the appeal is how 'realistic' it is. Therefore everything that is not 'realistic' can detract from the experience. The beach sequence is harrowing, but then the Americans push off the beach after a mere 20 minutes. That's jarring. On the one hand, you have something that--so I've been told--does a superb job of capturing the confusion and terror of battle. On the other hand, the battle lasts a mere 20 minutes, whereas the actual battle lasted quite a bit longer. Compare to the beach sequence in Flags of Our Fathers, which doesn't end with victory, but merely ends.

And then, well, the greatest--arguably the greatest, at least--TV show evah (The Wire) is pretty damned uncompromising in its worldbuilding and 'realism'. That realism makes the show vastly more effective, not less.

Which isn't to say that all stories need to be realistic. It's not even to suggest that all great stories need to be realistic. It is not to suggest that realism and detail equate to one another. It is to say that whenever possible, the details should be considered and if included made to conform as closely to reality as possible.

Provided one's not trying for a mythological or fantastical take (300, anyone), at any rate.

[diabloblanco18]

The problem for something like SPR is that a lot of the appeal is how 'realistic' it is. Therefore everything that is not 'realistic' can detract from the experience. The beach sequence is harrowing, but then the Americans push off the beach after a mere 20 minutes.

Correct. I actually thought the movie's lack of realism detracted a great deal from its quality. Obvious Example: Why the heck a squad is being sent after a single guy? But the example I gave earlier, about the sniper rifle scope...that's irrelevant. Whether or not they get it correct has no effect on the plot, characters, tone, etc., and the only people who will give a shit are the hardcore WWII geeks. Who cares?

Then again, given what I've heard, the case with Viriconium isn't a matter of minor details.

[Larry.]

I read the Fantasy Masterworks edition (all the short stories collected together) and just got completely lost with it. The book was very atmospheric but what was it all about? Was there a guy timetravelling through loads of different Viriconiums? Were there just loads of Viriconiums connected in some strange way? I have no idea but hopefully you do

OK, I just finished reading the omnibus. The books (remember, these were three novels and a mosaic novel collected together from the early 70s through the mid 80s) deal with madness, despair, longing, and the shifting "nature" of dreams and our perceptions of reality. Viriconium is a "layer" of text, not necessarily a single physical city (Uriconium, etc.) and while I'd be careful about trying to connect the novels too closely together, I'd argue that MJH was more interested in exploring discontinuities rather than having a linear narrative.

There's much more on this in a book Michael Moorcock wrote about fantasies. I'll scan through that later tonight or tomorrow and let you know if there's any more insight into matters. I plan on waiting a bit before I write a review of this book, since I like to chew upon Harrison's writing a bit more.

[Larry.]

Deornath,

I'm going to be quoting a huge section (parts of pp. 61-63) from Michael Moorcock's excellent writing on epic fantasy, Wizardry & Wild Romance: A Study of Epic Fantasy, that I recommend for people here to read:

To my knowledge only a few writers now produce epic fantasy which makes conscious literary use of exotic landscape. One of these, M. John Harrison, began experimenting with the form in his The Pastel City. His dying world of the far future derives a fair bit from [Clark Ashton] Smith and [Jack] Vance, owees a trifle to [J.G.]Ballard, but his landscapes illuminate a personal vision:

Dawn broke yellow and black like an omen over the Cobalt-mere, where isolated wreaths of night-mist still hung over the dark, smooth water. From the eyots and reed-beds, fowl cackled; dimly sensing the coming winter, they were gathering in great multicoloured drifts on the surface of the lake, slow migratory urges building to a climax in ten thousand small, dreary skulls.

The Pastel City

, 1971

Like [Fritz] Leiber, Harrison is a long way from the oral tradition which so influenced [Lord] Dunsany, but very much in the literary tradition of [Robert Louis] Stevenson, and none the worse for that. Moreover, Harrison has developed his work in recent years to arrive at his own specialized kind of fantasy where the epic element exists only in backgrounds, in memories, in ruins, in ancient landscapes and as the subject matter of the story itself. He concentrates on the lives of his characters, on the images of their old and threadbare world, on the scenery. What violence is permitted in his stories is shown always as useless, seedy, misconceived, the last resort of despairing fools. landscape is of paramount importance to Harrison; the landscapes of Viriconium, his antique city, are an indivisible part of the personalities who occupy them. One is reflected in the other. They might even be the same. A Storm of Wings (1979) was the second Viriconium book and another advance into Harrison's individual territory. But it was not until In Viriconium (1982) that he seemed to break almost completely with any earlier formal influences:

The death and defection of his only allies left him alone in a place he hardly recognised. In one night the plague zone had extended its boundaries by two miles, perhaps three. The High City had succumbed at last. Lat he was to write:

"A quiet shabbiness seemed to have descended unnoticed on the squares and avenues. Waste paper blew round my legs as I crossed the empty perspectives of the Atteline Way; the bowls of the everlasting fountains at Delpine Square were dry and dust-filled, the flagstones slippery with birdlime underfoot; insects circled and fell in the orange lamplight along the Camine Auriale. The plague had penetrated everywhere. All evening the salons and drawing rooms of the High City had been haunted by silences, pauses, faux pas: if anyone heard me when I flung myself exhausted against some well-known front door to get my breath it was only as another intrusion, a harsh, lonely sound which relieved briefly the stultified conversation, the unending dinner with its lukewarm sauces and overcooked mutton, or the curiously flat tone of the visiting violinist (who subsequently shook his instrument and complained, 'I find the ambience rather unsympathetic tonight.')

"This psychological disorder of the city was reflected in a new disorder of its streets. It was a city I knew and yet I could not find my way about it..."

Harrison's fantasies increasingly reflect his concern with the origins of our imaginings and why we should need (or want) to create fables and mythologies. In this he shares something in common with a number of modern writers, including Ursula K. Le Guin (see, for instance, Threshold, 1980), Robert Holdstock (Mythago Wood, 1984) and, as ever, J.G. Ballard who, in this respect, has been an enormous influence on the younger generation of fantasists...

Hopefully that'll give you a somewhat better picture of what MJH was aiming to accomplish with those Viriconium novels/stories.

[Stego]

Oh, look at the poll results here as well. Surprising?

That poll just shows that people are stupid.

The first thing one must do before they earn the right to an opinion is read every book on the list. (Whatever list we're talking about here.) That is obviously not occurring if anyone has chosen Vinge or Harrison or 'no award' over Cormac McCarthy.

There are stupid people and tasteless people everywhere you look, but I have a hard time believing that many literate people could have such a lapse in judgment.

[Azmure]

There are writers who I read for clarity of story, realism and believable characterisation, such as GRRM. Then there are writers who I read for different reasons, like experimenting with structure and style, testing the boundaries of language and imagery, and exploring different themes and concepts in an abstract, non-linear fashion. Harrison is one the latter writers.

Do I think he is a great worldbuilder or storyteller? No. Do I agree with all of his opinions on literature in general and fantasy in particular? No. Do I think he is a very talented wordsmith, who has made a significant contribution to fantasy and science fiction? Yes. Absolutely.

But I agree that the last story in the Viriconium collection left me feeling as if someone had tried to beat me to death with a rubber chicken.

[Deornoth]

Hopefully that'll give you a somewhat better picture of what MJH was aiming to accomplish with those Viriconium novels/stories.

Thanks for that DF, that does put things into perspective a bit more. Not sure that I'd re-read 'Viriconium' though (just to see if I really got it)

[Larry.]

Azmure,

I think you said about 99% of what I would have said about why I like reading MJH. And as for that last story...it was probably one of the weakest stories of his that I've read to date.

Stego,

I voted on there despite not having read the Bova, Wilson, or Moriarty. I voted Wolfe, because I liked his story just a tad bit better than McCarthy's. But those two and MJH I would hold worlds above Vinge's book, to be honest.

[Calibandar]

I voted on there despite not having read the Bova, Wilson, or Moriarty

So, you can vote on a poll of which you haven't read half of the nominated books, but you take issue with other people who speak out a dislike of Viriconium because they could not bring themselves to completely finish an amateur piece of work?

I'll allow you to do some of your beloved navelgazing to establish just how hypocritical that is.

On a related note, I'm not one of those who believe anyone should necessarily judge a book only when it has been read completely. Many people maintain a 100 or 150 pages rule to sample a book and personally I think that is long enough. Especially if you've got a lot of reading experience. Sometimes a dud is just a dud.

[Larry.]

Yes Cali, I did so, based on having glanced through/having read most of the others' prior work. Is it 100% the best take I could have done? Of course not. But I acknowledged that I based it on a partial read-through of the majority of the reads, which is certainly better than what you've done here or elsewhere, when you make proclamations. Considering my comments on the poll were directed to another, I guess you've forgotten the basic tenets of an ABC conversation, haven't you?

As for the "navelgazing," no...it was more like shaking my cojones around

[Larry.]

I guess I'll revive this old thread to serve as a place for my essay on MJH's first Viriconium story, The Pastel City:

Some seventeen notable empires rose in the Middle Period of Earth. These were the Afternoon Cultures. All but one are unimportant to this narrative, and there is little need to speak of them save to say that none of them lasted for less than a millennium, none for more than ten; that each extracted such secrets and obtained such comforts as its nature (and the nature of the universe) enabled it to find; and that each fell back from the universe in confusion, dwindled, and died.

The last of them left its name written in the stars, but no one who came later could read it. More important, perhaps, it built enduringly despite its failing strength - leaving certain technologies that, for good or ill, retained their properties of operation for well over a thousand years. And more important still, it was the last of the Afternoon cultures, and was followed by Evening, and by Viriconium. (p. 3)

With these two opening paragraphs, M. John Harrison might as well have stuck out both hands and shot a double bird, saying "Fuck you!" to those who wanted their fantasies to contain copious references to an imagined "history" that would shape everything to follow. After having endured reading several epic fantasies over the years where it seemed that the author was bent on explicating his/her imagined "past" at the expense of creating an interesting, well-written, meaningful story, Harrison's bold declaration in those two paragraphs that he wouldn't delve into any sort of imagined "past" unless he absolutely had to was rather refreshing. I had first read his Viriconium stories back in 2007, but when I began re-reading them for this review project, it was as if I were reading them anew.

The first Viriconium tale, The Pastel City (1971), however is in many ways the most straightforward and "familiar" tale. Barely over 100 pages long, it resembles a typical fantasy quest novel with its weather-beaten, soldier-slash-poet protagonist, a dwarf companion, and a city of ruins. However, Harrison twists each of these stock elements into forms that are often quite unsettling for readers expecting revelations about the setting (or "world," as some would insist on calling it, probably to the author's chagrin) and the unfolding story. The key, I believe, is in Harrison's prose. Take for example his introduction of tegeus-Cromis, the above-mentioned soldier/poet:

tegeus-Cromis, sometime soldier and sophisticate of Viriconium, the Pastel City, who now dwelt quite alone in a tower by the sea and imagined himself a better poet than swordsman, stood at early morning on the sand dunes that lay between his tall home and the grey line of the surf. Like swift and tattered scraps of rag, black gulls sped and fought over his downcast head. It was a catastrophe that had driven him from his tower, something that he had witnessed from its topmost room during the night.

***

He worried more, for instance, about the beauty of the city that had fallen during the night than he did that it was Viriconium, the Pastel City. He loved it more for its avenues paved in pale blue and for its alleys that were not paved at all than he did for what its citizens chose to call it, which was often Viricon the Old and The Place Where the Roads Meet.

He had found no rest in music, which he loved, and how he found none on the pink sand.

For a while he walked the tideline, examining the objects cast up by the sea: paying particular attention to a smooth stone here, a translucent spiny shell there, picking up a bottle the colour of his cloak, throwing down a branch whitened and peculiarly carved by the water. He watched the black gulls, but their cries depressed him. He listened to the cold wind in the rowan woods around his tower, and he shivered. Over the pounding of the high tide, he heard the dull concussions of falling Viriconium. And even when he stood in the surf, feeling its sharp acid sting on his cheek, lost in its thunder, he imagined it was possible to hear the riots in the pastel streets, the warring factions, and voices crying for Young Queen, Old Queen.

He settled his russet shovel hat more firmly; crossed the dunes, his feet slipping in the treacherous sand; and found the white stone path through the rowans to his tower, which also had no name: though it was called by some after the stretch of seaboard on which it stood, that is, Balmacara. Cromis knew where his heart and his sword lay - but he had thought that all finished with and he had looked forward to a comfortable life by the sea. (pp. 7-8)

Within that passage, there lies a major clue as to where Harrison will later take the Viriconium setting. "Whatever its citizens chose to call it," "his tower which also had no name" - those two little asides give a hint to the maplessness of the area, revealing that there is no single, concrete association of a name to a place. Viriconium, or whatever it might be called, depends strongly upon whatever associations the people in the area have formed to deal with this surviving ruin of an incomprehensible, ancient culture. Whereas other authors might have been tempted in their first or latter volumes to explore that mystery, perhaps to reveal it, "tame" it (as Harrison said in an essay on his tales) and "claim" it as something that feels "real," Harrison sets the stage for what he accomplishes in his later Viriconium stories; he deconstructs this fallacy, revealing secondary-"world" creations as being hollow, empty substitutes for the reality around the reader.

As I read The Pastel City, I found myself slowing down to read and re-read almost every single paragraph. There is a richness in Harrison's prose that makes reading each sentence a pleasure. Look again at the passage quoted above. Say it aloud, listening for the rhythms. There is a music of sorts in Harrison's writing, a music that is haunting and seems to come from a place within us that isn't a discoverable, tangible country. Hamlet perhaps, in speaking of this "undiscovered country", might be closest to describing the effect of reading The Pastel City (and even more with A Storm of Wings and In Viriconium). Harrison's prose matches his literary ambitions and that provides this story and its "sequels" with power.

The plot itself is rather straightforward. tegeus-Cromis and his dwarf companion, the annoying Tomb the Dwarf (decked out in a scavenged powersuit, toting an axe), along with an awakened bird-like creature, cross ruinous landscapes, like the Rust Desert, to return to the City to help the Young Queen, Jane, in her fight against the Old and the northern tribes that are invading. But against this backdrop, Harrison drops in comments such as this:

During the Birdmaker's monologue, Methvet Nian had wept openly. Now, she rose to her feet and said:

"This horror. We have always regarded the Afternoon Cultures as a high point in the history of mankind. Theirs was a state to be striven for, despite the mistakes that marred it.

"How could they have constructed such things? Why, when they had the stars beneath their hands?"

The Birdmaker shrugged. The geometries of his robe shifted and stretched like restless alien animals.

"Are you bidding me remember, madam? I fear I cannot."

"They were stupid," said Birkin Grif, his fat, honest face, puzzled and hurt. It was his way to feel things personally. "They were fools."

"They were insane towards the end," said Cellur. "That I know." (p. 80)

Unlike many other fantasy novels, especially those of Tolkien and others who sought to create an image of the past as a sort of lost, idyllic paradise, Harrison introduces the notion that the past might have its own horrors, that there are certain things that best ought to be left forgotten and unexplored. But if the past is that horrible, then what about the cultures that seek to emulate it and to bring back the revenants of those times? Near the end of the story, Cromis's task accomplished, he says this to Tomb, who wants to create an army of men revived from the memories of the Afternoon Cultures:

"They are too beautiful, Tomb; they are too accomplished. If you go on with this, there will be no new empire - instead, they will absorb us, and after a millennium's pause, the Afternoon Cultures will resume their long sway over the earth.

"No malice will be involved. Indeed, they may thank us many times over for bringing them back to the world. But, as you have said yourself, they have a view of life that is alien to us; and do not forget that it was them who made the waste around us." (p. 104)

That commentary on the past and the present is a cautionary one, one that is heightened by what follows after, when confronted by Methvet Nian:

"My lady, we regarded the Northmen as barbarians, and they were." He laughed. "Today, we are the barbarians. Look at them!"

And when she turned to watch the choreography of the brain, the celebration of ten thousand years of death and rebirth, he fled.

He ran toward the light. When he passed the corpse of his dead friend he began to weep again. He picked up his sword. He tried to smash a crystal window with its hilt. The corridor oppressed him. Beyond the windows, the dead brains drifted. He ran on.

"You should have done it," whispered Birkin Grif in the soft spaces of his skull; and "OUROBUNDOS!" giggled the insane door, as he fell through it and into the desert wind. His cloak cracking and whipping about him, so that he resembled a crow with broken wings, he stumbled toward the black airboat. His mind mocked him. His face was wet.

He threw himself into the command bridge. Green light swam about him, and the dead Northmen stared blindly at him as he turned on the power. He did not choose a direction, it chose him. Under full accleration, he fled out into the empty sky. (p. 104)

As I read the end, I felt as though all things had come full-circle, or rather that there were layers imposed upon layers and that the story had become not about an imagined place and the deeds done within that created setting, but rather that Viriconium (or whatever its name might be) was an idea, a notion of how people view their own pasts and presents. As we age and death makes us silent, how can those who follow understand what we have written on our hearts? It is fitting that The Pastel City closes with this exchange between Cromis and the Queen:

Later, he made her look at the Name Stars.

"There," he said. "You will not deny this: no one who came after could read what is written there. All empires gutter, and leave a language their heirs cannot understand."

She smiled up at him, and pushed her hair back from her face.

"Alstath Fulthor the Reborn Man could tell you what it means," she said.

"It is important to my nature," he admitted, "that it remain a mystery to me. If you will command him to keep a close mouth, I will come back." (p. 108)

And with that, the transition to A Storm of Wings and its mysteries begins. Looking forward to re-reading it in the next few days, as The Pastel City has left me wanting to go further into the void, seeking to see not what comes after, but rather to discover what lies within my own perspective of time and place.

[BookWyrm]

I've always been reluctant to seek out a copy of Harrison's Viriconium. So many people seem to think it garbage, that I've always kept it low on my list of priorities, and new priorities kept coming into the list, starting with a higher priority than Harrison....... I guess one of these days I'll seek out a copy and give it a shot. I enjoyed the opening to the Pastel City, so why not?

[Shryke]

That article certainly made me want to give it a try. Hopefully he writes better then he blogs.

If nothing else, it'll make it easier to yell at Dylanfanatic in these literature threads.

[pat5150]

I guess I'll revive this old thread to serve as a place for my essay on MJH's first Viriconium story, The Pastel City:

Larry,

No offense, my friend, but all these essays demonstrate that you have WAY too much time on your hands. You need a girlfriend and a few hobbies, methinks!

Patrick

[williamjm]

That article certainly made me want to give it a try. Hopefully he writes better then he blogs.

I didn't think much of the blog posts by him that I saw, but when he manages to remain relatively coherent he does write some very good stories. If you pick up one Harrison book, I'd recommend his space opera Light as being his best work.

[Larry.]

Larry,

No offense, my friend, but all these essays demonstrate that you have WAY too much time on your hands. You need a girlfriend and a few hobbies, methinks!

Patrick

Uh...it only took an hour or so to write that. If anything, I'd love to have spare time, but I don't anymore. At least not until late May, when my teaching contract expires and I have to look for work. Thinking there might be some freelance stuff I'll be doing, so perhaps this might be part of the resume?

As for the gf, well...there is this girl that claims possession of me. Does that count?

[Larry.]

I've always been reluctant to seek out a copy of Harrison's Viriconium. So many people seem to think it garbage, that I've always kept it low on my list of priorities, and new priorities kept coming into the list, starting with a higher priority than Harrison....... I guess one of these days I'll seek out a copy and give it a shot. I enjoyed the opening to the Pastel City, so why not?

The Viriconium books are polarizing because of conscious writing decisions by MJH, but for those who aren't put off by those choices, they tend to think he's one of the greatest writers of the 20th century. I happen to think he's up there with Gene Wolfe, if that helps.