on 18 July 2012
I've always believed that fiction is, at best, very problematically related to the real world; and this, to a degree, is the reason why I don't review many so-called "realist" novels, as I find the greater part of that entire genre to be so much hubristic mulch. Having read Railsea, China Miéville's extraordinary riff on Moby Dick, I'm pretty sure that he feels the same way. The metaphorically loaded setting allows for an exuberant and playful examination of not only the ways that narrative relates to anything `real', but the fundamental relationships between literary texts, and the fact that meaning isn't some solid unity of ideas offered up by the writer, but a reader-created end point: a subjective culmination of interpretation, reading history and individual political and moral proclivities.
To achieve this examination, China Miéville has written a book rampant with puns, false references, deliberate misappropriations of the literary canon, and an absolute obsession with the idea of salvage, re-use and doubling. Reading Railsea, I was continually reminded of Roland Barthes' seminal essay `The Death of the Author', and the continental notion that all texts are "a tissue of quotations" taking cues from "innumerable centres of culture", leading in countless directions all at once; a concept for which, if you want to be twee about it, the Railsea itself stands as a great big metaphor. In Railsea, China Miéville challenges the implied directionality of narrative by having his narrator constantly break the fourth wall and tease the reader with questions and misdirects about the plot's chronology, its twists and turns and doubling-backs. Not only is this a nice nod to Moby Dick's "Call me Ishmael" reader address, which likewise serves to undermine the reader's confidence in the narrative's reliability, but it's also a pleasing echo of the meandering, looping, back-peddling trains that dominate the book's imagery. To this extent, I'd hazard to describe Railsea as the first example of post-structuralist teenage fiction I've ever read ("a book for readers of all ages" is how it's being marketed, and in plotting and characterisation at least, it definitely is a YA novel - a raucous teenage bildungsroman with an attendant absence of the profanity and sex that so colours China Miéville's other work). It's also gloriously silly. But characteristic of Miéville's oeuvre, there's plenty here for grownups like ..er.., I guess... me. Indeed, Railsea might also be the world's first example of teenage fiction to contain an impassioned discussion about the vagaries of the floating signifier. And this isn't just some tendentious post-facto theorising on my part; Railsea delights in its roots and, much like the inhabitants of its setting, it forges its own identity by melding together what the past has left behind: there's a kind of traditionality here that manifests in the book's iconography, language and events. Railsea is literary salvage.
Parenthetically, I should note however that i) the book isn't some pompous and grandiose attempt to re-write Moby Dick; Miéville treats his sources playfully - substituting the White Whale with the "bone-yellow mole" is daft, and the text knows it - and ii) I hope what I've said above doesn't give the impression that Railsea is unoriginal or in any way plagiaristic - it's as fiercely creative and as protean as you'd expect, albeit within a specific literary mode.
And that mode is the `Sea Quest'. While I'd hesitate to use the word `uncanny', Railsea unremittingly presents the reader with the familiar tropes and literary procedures of classic maritime adventure stories, albeit deracinated from their original contexts and placed instead within a world that has endured at least one apocalypse, one alien visitation and a whole miasma of climate change. The Railsea itself, for example, is more akin to a vast desert than an ocean; criss-crossed with so many rail lines that a train can, via some vividly described switching mechanisations, pretty much travel wherever it wants. If this seems counter-intuitive (trains unbound by the conventional limits of track to act more like ships than, well, trains), then you'd be right: Railsea's defining aesthetic is this re-placing of traditional maritime staples within a steampunk or fantasy (or whatever you want to call it) world.
The protagonist, for instance, is your prototypical cabin boy with ideas above his station; he's charmingly presented - likeable in a way that so many over-ambitious and precocious heroes of modern teen fiction just, aren't - his journey is driven more by the impetus of curiosity and investigative clout than some flood of Big, Important events beyond his immediate control. There's also a tentative back-story that hints at a personal childhood tragedy but without wallowing in the melancholic; a level of authorly restraint which I found particularly refreshing. This hero is knowingly named `Sham', which is not just a further indicator of the layers of fakery and salvage that pepper the narrative, but also a wry joke on Miéville's part; an expression of comic humility over what he's doing to Moby Dick. There are pirate ships, slave galleys, wrecks, sea monsters (okay, okay `Rail'sea monsters - both organic and mechanical), mutinies, bawdy ports, cannon battles and sea lore; and while it's impressive quite how many facets of the classic sea adventure Miéville has managed to cram into the book, there's the occasional passage that's just too much, and smacks more of genre trope box-ticking than anything serviceable to the plot - notably a marooning on a desert island/`Man Friday' sequence that the book could probably do without, and a few too many pirate chases, which eventually begin to stifle the plot and hinder the momentum.
But why, Tomcat, you ask, why this explicit focus on form? Well, these relatively abstruse concepts of genre appropriation, doubling, copies of copies, and a narrator that calls into question the reliability of his own story - these are the foundations of Railsea's structure, rather than some patina achieved through a gimmicky prose style and just pasted over the narrative. Obviously the fiction works on a literalized level, so you don't have to be into the theory of storytelling to enjoy the book - but it's always nice to know that such ideas underpin the writing, rather than simply sugar coat it. The central message of Railsea might be: narrative is unreliable and ungraspable and tricksy, but let's embrace it all the same.
The obligatory treasure map, for example, is a description of a photograph of a photograph - a kind of blurry remove from the original landscape in much the same way that Railsea is a blurry remove from Moby Dick, or Literature is removed from the everyday, waking world. A copy: the same, but not the same. It's a mise-am-abime that serves as a metaphor for the way texts reproduce themselves within other texts. What the treasure hunters are following isn't a faithful reproduction of the real world - it's a, kinda... sham. Such problems of authenticity are comically counterpointed in the book's Ahab analogue - the damaged and obsessive Captain Abacat Naphi (note the Captain Ahab anagram) - whose prosthetic arm is eventually exposed as a fake fake - a shell covering very human insides. This offers a pleasing bathos to the apparent nobility of her quest to kill the White Mole, and exposes her "philosophy" (as she calls it, as if she's read and understood Moby Dick on a level that most of us couldn't) as being as much about glory and a constructed personal narrative than it is about revenge. What's significant to Naphi isn't that her arm was really lost, or that the White Mole dies at her hands, but that there are stories of her arm being lost and that there are stories about the White Mole dying at her hands; stories to be reproduced and told over and over. One of Railsea's most memorable passages is the description of previous captains' successful hunts - Naphi is captivated by these: she wants to be a story. What's significant is the narrative representation of her adventure - Naphi's "philosophy" isn't a quest for revenge, but a quest for narrative.
[END OF SPOILERS]
I'm wary of making any grand claims that China Miéville adheres to theory x or theory y; but a challenge to the veracity of narrative is unquestionably part of Railsea's aesthetic. There's more that I could go into, such as the quasi-devotional Moletrain refrain of "Well grubbed Old Mole", which is actually a direct quote from Marx, which is actually a deliberate misquote of Hamlet etc. but I don't want to get too list-like in exploring these kinds of removes - hell, there's loads of them!
Sorry if you were hoping for a more comprehensive overview (whooops), but there are plenty of great Railsea reviews that focus on plotting and characterisation, and even some good debates over its suitability as teen fiction etc. etc. - and I encourage you to check these out. For what it's worth, I think Railsea is amazing - and if none of this narrative theory stuff is your particular brand of literary tote bag, don't worry - the book has baddies and goodies and chases and violence and jokes; and monsters too - in buckets.
Miéville's obvious affection in writing for the younger reader is apparent & this story chugs along at an intelligently playful clip. In short it narrates the varied concerns & efforts of Sham ap Soorap, begrudging doctors apprentice aboard the mole-train Medes; under the auspices of Captain Naphi as she hunts the yellow - sorry: ivory - coloured mole-cum-behemoth known as Mocker-Jack, & the effects of his unwitting discovery of evidence that there is an end to the interminable tangle of tracks known as the Railsea.
The initial impression I had when I started reading was that this was similar in feel to Iron Council: an old western-feel yarn atop a train, however, as the story untangles it becomes clear - by the introduction of electrical devices & ruminations on epochs known as the Computational Era - that this is not the case. The use of such at first seems anachronistic, but the disparate parts are juggled sagaciously in the apt hands of Miéville so that it becomes a kind of fluid-disparity; elision with dulcet prose.
The story works on many levels and is what - in this reviewer's humble opinion - transcends the book from good to great.
The story is a yarn-that-rips as it riffs from Melville's (Moby) Dick with clever word-play, use of alliteration, sportive solecism and playful portmanteau (unsnarlable & decidalise being my respective favourites); the cheeky nomenclature of the Railsea's Deities (That Apt Ohm, the godsquabble to name a few); the clever use of ferro- prefixing anything nautical; the various types of salvage (nu-, arche-, alt- & dei-), & of course all that is enticingly hinted at or left unsaid between the lines (pun most definitely intended).
At first I thought the use of the ampersand purely a stylish literary quirk but oh what a fool I was for thinking Miéville would do anything so whimsical...
& = the Railsea, or more specifically: the tangle the Railsea represents. It's allegorical mastery & this reader was unashamedly impressed!
Miéville's penchant for political allegory is also present and becomes most demonstrative toward the end of the novel with effective imagery and extended metaphor. I loved it again; an eloquently detailed left-wing dig at right-wing state monopoly capitalism.
I have enjoyed Miéville's word-travails to other weird and bizarre reaches of his literary mind but none as much as Bas-Lag, of which Railsea is relishingly reminiscent. & if you're a Miéville fan, particularly a Bas-Lag Miéville fan, you will certainly not want to miss this.
The similarities to Iron Council are blatant but superficial & one cannot help but think of The Scar's Avanc when the Medes is chasing Mocker-Jack.
Was this intentional then, a kind of elided version of Scar and Council; Bas-Lag for younger readers? I'm not sure it matters but it does interest me. Unfortunately I no longer fall under the genre of young-adult and I did approach this with guarded optimism, however, if you overlook the unnecessarily short chapters and simplified plot you'll still find a story brimming with inventive ideas and cannily deviceful.