Anathem — Neil Stephenson
Rating: 5/5
It’s been a while since Neil Stephenson wrote something that could be categorized as straight science fiction. There was Snow Crash, and The Diamond Age (both of which were outstanding, by the way), but most of the rest of his fiction has been based at least mostly in the real world (or real history), not a speculative extrapolation of it.
So it was time for him to revisit science fiction. And while he’s been off writing other great novels, his authorial powers have only grown. He returns triumphant to the genre, and brings one of the best, most powerful novels I’ve read in years with him.
Anathem is a novel of human beings on a world called Arbre, humans who have a long and intricate history stretching back to a man named Cnoüs, who had a vision of a perfect geometric figure — an isosceles triangle. Cnoüs had two daughters, each of which interpreted the vision differently. One believed he had seen a pyramidal structure in a perfect heaven, and those that followed in her interpretation revere her as the mother of religious thought on Arbre.
The other daughter believed he had seen an ideal, perfect geometric form — a window into a world of pure geometry. Those that followed her path became known as theors, practitioners of a scientific discipline that combines aspects of pure mathematics, physics, natural history, and philosophy.
Eventually the theors, partly of their own accord and partly under coercion, retreated into Concents, monastic enclaves where participating theors (known as avout) could work uncorrupted by the Sæcular world outside, and where they would be safe from suspicion and interference. Different theoric orders developed over time, based partly on philosophical inclination and partly on the degree of isolation to which they committed.
Unarian theors pledge to shun the influence of the outside world for a year at a time. Decenarians pledge for ten years, Centenarians for one hundred years, and the mysterious and reclusive Millenarians for a thousand years, far longer than the lifetime of any individual theor. Only on the pledged date will the gates of a given order open to the outside, allowing the Sæcular to come in and the avout to go out into the world.
The novel follows a young Decenarian fraa, or male avout, as the day of opening (Apert) approaches. Erasmas believes that contact with the outside world, and the upcoming choice of order he faces, is the most significant event facing him. Little does he know that something has arrived in orbit around Arbre — something that will cause unprecedented upheaval amongst both the Sæcular Power and the avout.
Neil Stevenson is firing on all cylinders in this novel. All major pillars of the craft of writing are on full display: his characters are fully-realized, warm, human, and very sympathetic; his premise and worldbuilding is top-notch; and the plot is a masterpiece. He deftly takes you farther and farther afield than you thought you could go, until by the end he’s revealed deep insights about the structure of his universe, and about existence itself. Perhaps only Greg Egan and Gene Wolfe amongst the science fiction authors I’ve read have reached as far, and as successfully, as what Stephenson does in Anathem, but I find Stephenson’s characters and pacing to be superior to Egan’s.
The book includes a lot of math and science, but also includes much about the fundamentals of scientific reasoning and the underpinnings of philosophy and rational thought. It’s heavy going at times, although it never bogs down and greatly rewards the effort made to decipher the dense insights.
Honestly, it’s truly amazing to me that I was able to buy 1000 pages of this man’s crystallized thoughts for $5.00 at Costco. Since I need to say something at least vaguely negative to make this not be a complete groveling session, I’ll say that Stevenson still ends his novels abruptly, almost jarringly, and that was a slight disappointment. All told, though, I can’t really recommend this book strongly enough. It’s almost a must-read for any fan of science fiction — hard or soft.
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