This book has received a lot of praise, and a lot of awards--it won the Hugo, World Fantasy and Locus Awards for Best Novel of 2005 and was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize. I could in the beginning see why it might appeal. Clarke writes as if Jane Austen, or at least Georgette Heyer, is her native language. This sprawling novel is filled with an ironic tone and sprinkled with phrases, words, spellings of the Regency period: “grateful for the information,” “entirely astonished,” “sensible of the honour you do me,” “shewing,” “chuse.” There are references to such historical figures as Lord Byron, Mrs Radcliffe and Matthew Lewis and the Duke of Wellington and King George III are minor characters. I have to admit the Jane Austen fan in me was tickled at first. The book reads at times like it’s an enormous in-joke for aficionados of the period. And every once in a while, (a “while” being once every hundred pages) there were some gripping scenes--particularly the one where Mr Norrell brings York Cathedral to life.
But if the tone and era it’s set in is reminiscent of Austen, it lacks her humor and wit--and economy; the prolixity is more Dickens, but without his gift for unforgettable characters. The pacing was awful--so little happens in hundreds of pages. The long footnotes a la Terry Pratchett did not help. When the footnotes weren’t short and pointless they were irritatingly long and pointless, going on for pages and bringing the flow of the narrative to a stuttering stop. Nor, unlike say some other leisurely-paced fantasy novels such as Peake’s Gormenghast, did it repay with great imagery and lovely, lovely prose. I found Clarke’s writing repetitive in its wording and dull. It didn’t help that except for a few secondary characters, such as Stephen Black and Arabella Strange, the characters were unlikeable and just not all that interesting--particularly Mr. Norrell. The characters weren’t revealing much complexity or hinting at growth over hundreds of pages. And here is this work of alternate history where magic has been discovered--and it changes nothing.
Generally, the rule of thumb is that if a book doesn’t spark your interest within 100 pages, you should let it go--it’s just not for you. I’ve had a few novels get off to a very slow start in the first 100, even 200 pages, to finish favorites--Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove and Robin McKinley’s Sunshine come to mind (and Gormenghast). I was ready to give up though after 150 pages when I came across a quote from Neil Gaiman calling Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell "the finest English novel of the fantastic written in the last seventy years." I’ve loved what I’ve read of Gaiman--so I plunged back in. I’m sorry I did. The more I stayed with the novel, the slower going I found it. Having pushed to the half-way point, I felt I had invested so much I should push through the rest. But then I realized that if you’ve read over 400 pages of an 847-page book, and you only feel increasing suffering, it’s time to bail. Life is too short, and the list of great books unread too long, to persist.
