This is one of those short books that impacts you sometimes like a punch in the gut, and sometimes with a far more quiet, lingering power. Beautifully written in a spare, but often lyrical, style and intimate first-person voice, it has the quality of a fairytale or allegory. Narrated by a man we know only as the "Magistrate" in a far-off province of the "Empire," the title becomes increasingly ironic and ominous. There's mention of muskets, and of sun-glasses, but otherwise this is both timeless and of no place. Most dystopic literature is explicitly set or implied to be in our future, as a warning. But despite those two rather modern devices, this feels like it could be a tale of Ancient Egypt or China or Rome or the British Empire. This isn't so much a tale of the past or the future but of a timeless cycle. We are the barbarians. We are the empire. It's a pitiless, even bleak, sometimes horrifying story. The narrator spares the reader nothing, and nothing is spared him. Published in 1980, I think it's only gained power with the years. Had I read this before the events of 9/11, maybe I could have distanced myself from feeling implicated. But having seen the fear those events brought to America, having heard the defenses of torture, the details of its practice, meant this often was a very disturbing--even if rewarding--read.
