My dear reader, I must forewarn you before it becomes too late. Before you have stumbled into a morass of inane literary criticism from which you can not extricate yourself. This review is offensive, insipid and completely devoid of intelligence. It has no value, no critical merit; it is the dung of God’s lowest creature. Please dear reader, heed my warning. Quickly shut your eyes, plunge these misguided ramblings into the fire, and bask in your salvation. Lift your arms to the sky and let the warm light of Our Savior fill your heart.
For the strong-willed fools, or the criminally insane, who shall persevere in reading this missive, I only ask you of one thing. If women or children are in the room as you read this, ask them politely to leave. Let their souls remain innocent and playful, like nymphs splashing and cavorting in the shallows of Lake Edersee. Some discussions are best left for the company of gentlemen, not because of their sternness of character, but rather because of the utter lack of common sense which plagues the masculine gender. Stupidity is our saving grace.
For those foolhardy enough to continue, I fervently pray for you. My only solace is that my nonsensical blabbering will end shortly, which hopefully will limit the terrible scarring done to your soul. If however you wish damage onto my person after reading this letter, pray I remind you that you’ve been warned.
Where to begin? I daresay, the beginning. Utterly cliché, I admit, but you have been warned of the lacking nature of your narrator, of the utter drivel that would spew forth from my quill. Do you now comprehend the lowness of my character? There is still time to stop and turn away; salvation beckons, grab her hand.
We have only just reached the beginning and already I digress. It will likely not be the last time, fair reader. (I shall attempt to keep them to a minimum, though.)
Now let us take The Somnambulist. I speak here of the book, and not the inscrutable man for whom this work was named; I shall talk of him shortly in good time. This literary oddity, authored by a Mssr. Jonathan Barnes, lately a resident of London (whether he is housed upon a ward or not, I could not tell you, dear reader), is disgustedly entertaining, a pleasure I’m reluctant to admit, for polite society would likely view this work as twisted. Mssr. Barnes possesses an incredibly vivid imagination; in fact, it is a rather queer imagination, one which makes me question whether Mssr. Barnes is a gentleman of respectable standing. I do not wish to impugn his reputation (which by all accounts is sterling), but he writes of fantastical (and disreputable) things in which most gentleman would not be so well versed. To wit, in this literary excursion there is most hideous murder, there are worshippers of false idols, and there is (I shudder to even write these words; may Our Savior forgive me) a man who has congress with bearded ladies. (I shall pause why you regain your composure.)
That man happens to be conjurer Edward Moon, a man of extraordinary talents; a man with a mind so shrewd he’s able to unravel the most confounding mysteries. The conundrum is but a child’s toy to him. But despite these unrivaled gifts, Edward would never succeed without his loyal confidante and friend, the impervious Somnambulist. What type of being the Somnambulist is I dare not speculate (however, I sincerely doubt he is a man), for he can receive great violence on his person and suffer no ill effects. Stab him with a sword, pierce his heart, yet he does not bleed. I could proclaim witchcraft at this point, throw up my hands in supplication and pray for forgiveness, but even Mssr. Barnes would not promote such evil arts in a book made generally available (no Englishman would, it’s unfathomable.)
Soon, dear reader, the most depraved murder is committed, a man is thrown to his death from a tower; the villain who perpetrated this foul, dark act vanishes without a trace. The constabulary is confounded, witchcraft may be assumed, so they turn to Edward Moon and the able-bodied Somnambulist in their desperation. Naturally Moon employs his prodigious talents for the good of the state; he is not a rapscallion or degenerate (unlike the characters in those tasteless bodice-rippers penned by Madam Jane Austen. For shame Madam. My only solace is her works will be forgotten in ten years.) However during the course of his investigation Moon discovers a plot most insidious, one that threatens the very pinnacle of civilization, our fair city, London (Pray do not claim this to our prodigal colonists for they will vociferously disagree with this fact, being the obnoxious and ungrateful savages they are. America. Mark my words, in twenty years, they will come back, hat in hand, to the Empire.)
Mssr. Barnes writes with tremendous vigor and aplomb, crafting an entertaining story, despite some low subject matter. The language wonderfully approximates a faux Victorian style, complete with clever asides and a conversing narrator. Mssr. Barnes, though, does write situations which seem incongruous and mind-boggling, almost to the point of surrealism. (Please, this is England Mssr. Barnes, leave the -isms to the French.) Often, as I read, the narrative struck me as odd for the sake of being odd.
The first two acts of The Somnambulist are quite fetching; I’m wary to admit, I even guffawed occasionally; it is the third act where I felt the need to walk out of the theater, in a slightly indignant huff. Mssr. Barnes’s hand at this point is too evident, the narrative becoming too contrived. Only our Lord’s hand should wield such power. I found myself greatly disappointed in the outcome, much like taking spirits with the gentlemen after a fine dinner, only to discover the conversation insipid and dull. With a heavy heart, I write these words: the ending, gold in hand, wouldn’t have even pleased one of our city’s notoriously undiscriminating harlots. (Being a proper gentleman who does not fraternize with these unseemly creatures, I could never validate this claim.)
Though a sinful deviant, Edward Moon is a wonderfully intriguing study, a man who I’d love to share a cigar and snifter of brandy with as he regaled me with his incredible adventures. The Somnambulist, though, was an utter mystery to me; one I craved more of throughout the course of the narrative. Moon’s sister was, unfortunately, nothing more than a superficial plot device, never offering any enlightenment of her brother’s soul.
Mssr. Barnes displays great promise, (For those who claim I am predisposed to my countrymen, I would say this even if Mssr. Barnes was a repugnant American), a vivid imagination, and a pleasing writing style. But like the tragedies of master playwright Shakespeare, events get messy in the third act. However, unlike the tragedies of master playwright Shakespeare, the third act is unfortunately disappointing.
The Somnambulist by Jonathan Barnes
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