Anathem

Anathem leads you down a garden path: The first few chapters happen in a compound that seems a lot like a monastery here on Earth, except that it’s sort of like a university too. The avout who live inside its walls study philosophy and theoretics, having contact with the outside world for only ten days each year.

“Avout”? Stephenson invents words that straddle the two perspectives, like “concent” (the compound isn’t quite a convent; it studies thought, so let’s bring in some of the word “concentrate’) and “saunt” (revered thinkers aren’t saints, but savants, which kind of works if you remember how Latin U and V are the same letter). Indeed, the book title itself is one of these, a cross of “anthem” and “anathema”. The words soon become familiar, and depending on the context, and maybe your prior knowledge of classical languages and religious rituals, you can figure many of them out, but if you don’t want to, there is a glossary at the end of the book.

It all feels very comfortable and familiar. And then Erasmus, the relater of the story, is pulled from this safe environment and thrust into the outside world, which resembles a version of our own in a slow decline. The world needs the help of Erasmus and others from the concent, and from other similar communities across the planet. This is a global crisis, and it has something to do with something in the sky.

From here, the story snowballs alarmingly in ways that would spoil the surprise for me to even hint at. Every step is plausible, but the plot grows exponentially and the climax is out of this world.

All through the story, the characters engage in Dialog, extended discussions covering seemingly random topics like philosophy, geometry, nuclear physics, the many-worlds hypothesis, and consciousness. These topics are very much not random, though, and they play a pivotal role in the plot.

Stephenson borrows heavily from the classics, deliberately, with reasons that turn out to be sensible in terms of the plot. It’s clear that he’s having fun breaking the fourth wall. If you’re not trained in philosophy you’ll probably fail to link the historical characters mentioned in Anathem with their equivalents in Earth history—I certainly did—but it doesn’t matter a lot. There’s plenty of references you will still get.

I’ve read a few Neal Stephenson books, including his classics Snow Crash and Cryptonomicon. I feel compelled to point out that Stephenson is normally terrible at writing endings, but with Anathem he lands a satisfying denouement.

I first tried reading Anathem back when it was relatively new, but couldn't get past the first 100 pages or so. Now, having the benefit of a decade more worldly knowledge (such as the history of the Catholic church, Western philosophy, etc.), I've finally finished it and I can say that it was an incredible read.

Is it an collection of philosophy dialogue? Is it an action-adventure novel? Is it actually just Snow Crash presented differently?

Yeah, kind of, but it's also a book that gets exponentially more exciting as it goes on and also says some pretty profound things. (The profound things are, unfortunately, fiction, but it would be a high bar for an action-adventure novel to also truly advance philosophy.)

So if you're considering reading this, just know that you shouldn't worry too much about the made-up words - you'll understand them in due time - and that the crazy stuff starts happening 1/3 of the way through and even crazier stuff 3/4 of the way through.

In writing an action-adventure novel based on philosophy and physics though, I think the author has run into a bit of a conundrum: it's too rigorous for readers wanting a fun read yet not rigorous enough to hold together well when the crazy stuff starts happening. That is, he takes a long time to set up a theoretical foundation for what happens, but as he stretches the theory to advance the story, he stretches a little too far and leaves a lot of holes.

Some novelists pander to their audience. Others challenge them. Neal Stephenson might be determined to make his audience feel stupid, in the nicest possible way.

The American novelist has long been considered one of the great madmen of science fiction, a towering intellect who synthesizes technical mumbo-jumbo and a Monty-Pythonesque capacity for silliness into daunting tomes as entertaining as they are impenetrable. Stephenson mashes up genres with the flair of Thomas Pynchon and the intellect of William Gibson, and the release of each new Stephenson epic is an event in sci-fi circles.

Now, after flirting with historical fiction in his Baroque Trilogy, Stephenson has returned to his roots with a vengeance. Not only is Anathem a sprawling exercise in world-building and philosophical ramblings, it is his fifth novel in a row to weigh in at nearly 1000 pages.

Set on the fictional yet oddly recognizable planet of Arbre, Anathem concerns itself with the goings-on of a ‘math’, a sort of monastery where, instead of concerning themselves with all things theological, the monks (or the ‘avout’) are more akin to scientists, clad in robes and seeking deep scientific and philosophical truths. The narrator, Fraa Erasmus, is a Decenarian, an avout who establishes contact with the world outside the math’s walls only once every ten years.

Once outside, events are set in motion through the observance of strange lights in the sky. Erasmus is sent beyond the walls (or “extramuros”) to find Fraa Orolo, a fellow avout who may hold a key to the purpose of the lights, but who had been subject to an anathem, an excommunication whereby the avout has been “ejected from the math and his or her work sequestered.”

Like Frank Herbert’s seminal work Dune, a large part of mastering Anathem’s dense narrative is coming to grips with its new set of words and definitions, aided through a handy glossary. Past that, the great challenge (and arguably the fun) of Anathem is wading through literally hundreds of pages of quantum mechanics, parallel universes, and enough philosophy to pummel the reader’s brain into tapioca.

One’s reaction to Anathem is likely going to correspond to one’s tolerance for sentences such as “Following the Reconstitution, he was made patron Saunt of the Syntactic Faculty of the Concent of Saunt Muncoster.” Many will find it gibberish; many others will appreciate Stephenson’s refusal to make things easy.

As intriguing and entertaining as Anathem can be, however, it may serve better as a primer for Philosophy 101 than it does a novel. Unlike his previous works such as the magnificently complex Cryptonomicon, Anathem never fully establishes a successful balance between the science and the narrative.

Too often, the plot becomes bogged down in Stephenson’s exploration of philosophical ideas at the expense of clarity. While the attempt to co-mingle theorems with popular entertainment is admirable, Anathem never manages to connect with the reader on an emotional level.

While hardly a disappointment, Anathem ultimately reveals itself as Stephenson’s weakest effort in some time. There is far too much exemplary work on display to consider Anathem a failure, but coming from Stephenson, the fact that it’s not a resounding success is a surprise indeed.