Sarah Perry’s 2016 The Essex Serpent is a fantasy, but not
in the way you might expect from its cover.
Yes, it deals with the apparent
reappearance of a mythical river monster in coastal Essex in 1893. Villagers
are drowning, missing and hysterical by turns. There’s definitely something
lurking beneath the water.
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The Essex Serpent (2016) |
But the true fantasy of the novel
in its depiction of the nineteenth century. Instead of the oppressive and
gloomy setting we’ve come to expect in women-focused historical fiction,
Perry’s world is one of glorious possibility, where science and religion
harmonise, widowhood brings freedom to roam around the beautifully-described
countryside unharassed, and true friendships survive even the messiest of
sexual encounters.
The blurb led me to expect a
thrilling search for a living fossil, but instead what impressed me most was the
novel’s strong impact on my visual imagination. Whether she’s describing rustics
skinning moles, a consumptive surrounding herself with beautiful shades of
blue, a delectable meal or a sheep stuck in the mud, Perry entrances with her
language, pulling you into the pages.
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Sarah Perry (1979- ) |
The Essex Serpent is
also a master class in point of view, with Perry moving deftly between her
characters’ heads, exposing the nuances and misunderstandings that come with
many of our social interactions. Her omniscient voice is the most Victorian
aspect of a book, which felt to me, despite critical comparisons of the novel
to Dickens, Collins and more, largely modern.
Less successful was the central
character, Cora Seaborne, who suffers from two issues often seen in
protagonists—an underexplored tragic backstory and an inexplicable ability to
make most of the supporting characters fall in love with her. Yet the
eccentricity of Cora’s interests (in geology and evolution) and her
well-rendered relationship with her (presumably autistic) son keep her
interesting. I cared about her story despite these minor quibbles.
One thing I loved about the novel
was Perry’s refusal to simplify—to make the characters who believed in religion
foolish and those who pursue science bastions of rational progress. Every
character in the novel believes in something—in the serpent, counting feathers,
housing reform, open heart surgery. And that meant that, while the novel does
play at the limits of credulity for a ‘realistic’ work of historical fiction, I
kept believing to the end.
Which novel would you like the
Secret Victorianist to read next as part of the Neo-Victorian Voices series?
Let me know—here, on Facebook or by tweeting @SVictorianist.
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