Piranesi Review

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

“I wander the corridors not in search of escape, but to understand the beauty hidden within solitude.”

Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi is not merely a novel—it is an experience, a meditation wrapped in the trappings of fantasy. To read it is to step into a vast and haunting world, where reality bends and solitude whispers its own peculiar wisdom. It is a book that doesn’t rush to reveal itself; instead, it asks the reader to listen, to observe, and to let its mysteries unfold in their own time.

The story follows its narrator—named Piranesi by the only other living person he knows—as he carefully navigates the endless halls of a surreal House filled with sweeping staircases, towering statues, and an ocean that ebbs and flows within its walls. His life is one of quiet devotion to this world, tending to its strange rhythms, recording its wonders, and believing, with an almost childlike reverence, that the House is benevolent and all-giving. But beneath this seemingly peaceful existence lies a creeping sense of something forgotten, something lost.

"The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite."

There is something hypnotic about Clarke’s prose. The way Piranesi speaks about the House—how he maps its vastness, how he reads meaning in the flight of birds and the changing tides—makes it easy to be lulled into his world. And yet, as the novel unfolds, there is a growing awareness that something is not right. The House, for all its grandeur, might not be the sanctuary it appears to be. The Other, the only person Piranesi converses with, treats him with an unsettling mix of familiarity and detachment, leaving the reader to wonder: is Piranesi truly alone, or merely imprisoned?

One of Clarke’s greatest strengths is her ability to balance beauty with unease. The book reads like a puzzle box—intricately designed, full of hidden compartments, each discovery adding another layer of understanding. But rather than being plot-driven, Piranesi is propelled by the slow unraveling of perception itself. Who is Piranesi? How did he come to be here? And if the House is all he has ever known, what might exist beyond its endless halls?

"Birds are not difficult to understand. Their behaviour tells me what they are thinking. Generally it runs along the lines of: Is this food? Is this? What about this? This might be food."

Not everyone will love the pacing. At times, I found myself lost in descriptions that, while beautiful, seemed to slow the momentum of the story. This is not a book that follows a conventional narrative arc—it is a meditation on solitude, memory, and the nature of reality. While some may find its slow, deliberate reveals frustrating, others will be captivated by the way Clarke gently leads us toward revelation rather than dragging us to it.

Ultimately, Piranesi is about how we construct meaning—through memory, through the things we choose to name, through the spaces we inhabit. It is about the quiet dignity of bearing witness, of finding beauty even in isolation. And perhaps, more than anything, it is about the question of freedom: is it about leaving a place, or learning to belong to it?

For those willing to surrender to its quiet, labyrinthine spell, Piranesi is a book that lingers, echoing long after the final page is turned.