(no subject)

[proximoception]

The Solitudes, the first Aegypt installment, was scarcely inferior to Little, Big itself. Exquisitely written and thought-out all through; and happy, the happiest book I've read since Operation Shylock. Something about the subject of breaking out does this, maybe, authors following their characters into rejuvenation, freed space? Maybe the converse is what made Love and Sleep uneven, the author dropping back into confused contingency along with his characters (the theme being intrication, the Hermetic version of the Fall). Many sections are still great, but the ornament, finish and sustained exhilaration are gone--and feel long gone. The first third is particularly excellent, but such a departure, like we're in a new novel entirely by some other John Crowley. He seems to be getting back on track toward the end, but I thought so too at various points in the middle, little marches of felicity quickly lost among strangenesses or mere goings-on. Actually, a development two thirds of the way in shocked me like nothing I can remember reading ever has. I got used to it eventually, it wasn't entirely out of step for Crowley, but I'm not sure it worked the way he wanted it to. Hard to know in cases like this whether the book failed you or you failed the book. Anyway, still mostly a success, but I'm taking a little break before getting into Daemonomania, and not just because of eye trouble.