The Habitation of the Blessed by Catherynne M. Valente

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The Habitation of the Blessed by Catherynne M. Valente is the first volume in a trilogy titled A Dirge for Prester John. I should have drawn a warning from the title. This is a real dirge in that the book mourns the death of Prester John. It certainly reduced me to a state of grief and lamentation. I got about halfway through and then threw it on the ground in disgust.

Let’s back up a little bit. As I worked by way through school, I read Xenophon’s Anabasis in the original Greek. Now you may think this a silly boast but, as anyone who has struggled through a book about a group of mercenaries tramping across an empty landscape can tell you, some journeys are good for the soul. It may have passages of great tedium, but there are some interesting discussions on leadership and philosophy on the way. So, I can forgive an author for boring me to tears if, as in Xenophon’s case, it’s worth it to get to the sea and safety.

Catherynne Valente sees the world of Prester John in black and white

So in our frame story, Brother Hiob is tramping across the countryside of Northern India, leading a pilgrimage in search of Prester John. In a small group of native huts, he meets a woman. She takes pity on them and leads him to a tree. Perhaps our hero is unfamiliar with the story of Eden but, when it appears this tree sprouts books rather than apples, he never hesitates. With shaking hand, he pulls down a volume only to find a worm eating its way through the pages. Ah, such are the metaphors when words may fall prey to the worm as it snakes its way through the letters and devours meaning.

Curiously, all this and the following triptych of narratives are written in some fascinating, not to say exquisite, language. Rather like Xenophon who could turn a phrase in perfect Greek, so Ms Valente can write some mean sentences. You find yourself stopping, caught by a clever insight or wanting to take a moment to appreciate some deeper meaning. Except all this brilliance seems to have been put in service to a narrative vacuum, supposedly enlightening us about Prester John and the magical world he accidentally stumbles into. Put another way, very little actually happens and what does happen is not interesting.

As a passenger, you can be in a wonderful seat with a fantastic view as your means of transport wends its way through the countryside, but if you don’t want to get where the transport is taking you, nothing is going to make you feel any better.

I wondered if my atheism was a factor in the invincible prejudice I found rising in my gorge, so I passed the book over to my wife. She’s as pious a Catholic as it’s possible to get this side of the pearly gates. But she only lasted some thirty pages before giving it back to me, demanding to know whether I had paid out good money to buy this s***. I smiled in apology and admitted my error, pointing out in my defence that Ms Valente is considered one of the best of the newish crop of writers. She snorted derisively and went back to browsing the Bible.

As a family, we are unanimous. The content of The Habitation of the Blessed is completely indigestible to the godless and pious alike, and no amount of pretty writing can hide it. It’s entirely possible that, in her other books, she harnesses her undoubted talent for words to tell a good story. Sadly, I have no enthusiasm to find out.

For a review of another book by Catherynne M. Valente, see Deathless.