I honestly have no idea how to write a review about Sarah Perry’s third novel, Melmoth. It was recommended to me by her marketing rep, who I met at last year’s NCTE conference, and her description of it was pretty close to what this review will be: a rambling, convoluted attempt at describing the awesomeness of a minimalist plot based in generations of mythology and folklore, chock-full of images, feelings, memories that stick with you like gum on your shoe and force you to face your own mortality and what we owe each other, punctuated with “you know??” and “does that make sense??”, and wrapped in a blanket of impending doom and bliss. Does that make sense?? So OF COURSE I had to read it. And it was everything she said and more.
I’m going to encourage you to read Alex Preston’s review in The Guardian because it will capture all of my feelings much more eloquently than I could. But I promised you a review, so here goes nothing.
So. The plot. The main plot features Helen Franklin, a British translator who has self-exiled herself to Prague to atone for a situation from her past for which she feels tremendous guilt. A colleague and friend, Karel, introduces her to the myth of Melmoth, a figure based on the medieval legend of the Wandering Jew and updated by Perry to transform the Melmoth character, usually a male figure, into a women from early Christian times who, in her own torment and punishment, menaces others into facing their sins and hopefully taking on her mantle of miserable atonement. Melmoth (or Melmotka in Czech) is not a comforting figure, and after Karel disappears, Helen delves deeper and deeper into the legend through a “collection of texts that speak of a wraith-like figure who appears at times of great sorrow, beckoning ‘with an expression of loneliness so imploring as to be cruel’” (Preston). These “primary” sources higlight frist-hand encounters with Melmoth: a Czech boy who encounters Melmoth while being marched to Theresienstadt during WWII; a British lord who writes his wife about an old woman he meets at an inn and her brush with Melmoth years before; and a young woman in Cairo who recounts a Turkish beggar’s experience with Melmoth after his work supported the political systems that led to the Armenian massacre. All of the vignettes explore some aspect of observation and action and the consequences thereof. Through it all, we learn more and more of the circumstances around Helen’s self-exile, and Melmoth creeps closer, a feeling of dread enveloping everything.
I’ve been working on this review for days (actually weeks, at this point), and it is SO HARD to describe this book and why I liked it. Let’s start with this: it’s masterful writing. Simple, clear, evocative, Perry is a force to be reckoned with, and her creativity and mastery of the craft is endless. I cannot tell you how many times the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my back tensed up as I sensed Melmoth’s figurative and literal presence throughout the story. One of the things that is marvelous about this book, and that my new friend raved about, was how often the great villains of literature tend to be men, and yet Perry has turned the story of Melmoth on its head, making a villainess for the ages. Perry is aware of the history around this character: her structure is inspired by Irish playwrite Charles Maturin’s 1820 Gothic novel Melmoth the Wanderer, while her Melmoth is more inspired by the tale of the Wandering Jew. Melmoth the Watcher in Perry’s story is one of the women who denied Jesus’s resurrection. She is both piteous and terrifying, familiar and other. We feel for her because we understand her human weakness, and we fear her because of what she represents and where our weakness could lead us. She is rooted in her history and grows beyond what previous iterations envisioned.
Aside from the titular character herself, Perry creates several distinct narratives around the various encounters, and each story, its location, and its characters are all specific and fully realized. And these characters are gorgeously, tragically human. Yes, in some cases their actions are deplorable and in others they are done out of faith or love, but they are all human trying to account for their time in this world. Even in their worst moments, Perry does not cast judgement–that is Melmoth’s job after all–and we can view these characters with the full range of emotions they deserve. It’s just remarkable, and months later, images from all parts of the story flash through my mind and tug at me, making me think I should reread it.
Ultimately, Melmoth is about both the importance and the cost of bearing witness. When is the role of observer one of goodness or one of evil? When is action better or worse than standing by? To whom or to what are we held account? There are no clear answers, and Perry certainly doesn’t make things any clearer. But I desperately encourage you to spend a few days exploring those questions with Helen and her friends. You won’t be sorry. And remember: Melmoth is watching.