I read a book yesterday.

I deliberately didn�t use an adjective, because I can�t settle on one. Yes, it was fantastic; terrific; well-written; thought-provoking; well-told. All of them, though, limit it in some way.

It was Christopher Priest�s The Prestige, and I read it in a single day.

On the surface, it�s a story about a contemporary journalist, certain he had a twin brother in his childhood yet with no records to prove it, who rediscovers his family history. His great-grandfather was a stage magician, an illusionist, and was engaged in a bitter rivalry with another illusionist.

In the murky depths of the unfolding story, however, it�s much more than that. The story passes from the journalist, to his great-grandfather, to the woman who has contacted the journalist, to her great-grandfather who is, of course, the rival illusionist. By the end, you realise that the story isn�t about any one character really; if I had to pin down a character I�d say the story revolves around the rival illusionist, but even so, each portion of the narrative is so interwoven with the rest that they cannot stand in their own.

It takes a large part of the novel before the reader begins to suspect, and eventually realise, the central conceit of the novel. One or two minor aberrations in storytelling style are put down to a charcter’s tortured conscience, until three-quarters of the way through, the diary of the rival journalist reveals those aberrations for what they truly are. Robbed of a mystery? Hardly. The rival illusionist goes on to create what actually stands as the central conceit of the novel, and as a reader, you don�t feel cheated at all.

The layers involved are masterfully created, and well-revealed at the correct moments. Technically, this book is a fantasy; well, it revolves around a fantastic concept. But, well, it�s also science fiction � just science fiction set at the turn of the twentieth century. And it really could be a thriller, too. Well-written books that challenge genre fascinate me. It means the author had a story to tell, and chose not to be chained to a genre�s expectations. (As opposed to an author who simply cannot stay within a genre�s requisite boundaries; that�s just bad writing, and produces an unsatisfactory book.)

Let�s look at that for a moment, actually; it�s relevant. If you write within a genre, there are certain tenets you have to bide by. However, you�re not bound to turn out a stereotypical cardboard story; far from it. Genre writing means you have to push the envelope from within those boundaries, find some way to tell the story anew, involve the tenets in such a way that creates a unique example of the genre.

By deliberately not choosing a genre, Priest has kept his readers from settling comfortably into a set of expectations. (It also means he reaches a broader audience, but that�s beside the point.) Without knowing what guidelines he�s writing by (if he�s writing by any genre guidelines at all) a reader can�t run down a mental checklist and say, �Okay, I expect A, B, C, and D from this book, now I�ll sit down and mark them off as I go.� (No, I don�t actually know of anyone who does this consciously, but it does happen subconsciously, and if you’re deprived of something, you end up unsatisfied. Well, no, I do it consciously if the book is dreadful: �Oh yes, there�s the requisite B event; now C must occur.�)

The Prestige surprised me in that Priest didn�t truly explain the fantastic/science-fictional elements at all. The last three or four chapters could have been expanded; he could have showed his readers how clever he was. He didn�t. He left the reader holding a book and blinking a bit at the end. I turned back a dozen or so pages and reread the ending, in fact, just to make sure I didn�t miss the revelation.

I admire authors who are secure enough to do things like this. No, you don�t have to explain it all to the masses. Assume we�re intelligent and let us figure the nuances out. In addition, an author who bucks the trend of a tragic or a happy ending and leaves the reader with a handful of loose ends snarled with knots is a courageous one. As humans living messy lives, we generally like our fiction (in form of film, or story, or whatever) to have nice, tidy endings, where everyone gets what�s coming to them. I love stories that don�t actually end. The main episode being told concludes, but the characters and their lives go on, without a perfect, pat �The End� to crown the tale. In general, however, I believe that I am in the minority, alas. The general populace needs that �The End� on the screen or on the final page of the book to contain the story, to know that there was a Beginning, a Middle, and an End. (Not that I think we can blame this on junior high English teachers.)

Life�s not like that, though. There is no Beginning other than birth; there is no End but death, and even then just because we can�t turn the page to see what happens after that final breath doesn�t mean that there is nothing to see. Our lives are intricate, with several different events and stories happening simultaneously. After an event, an episode, we go on � changed, perhaps, but we go on, our lives rarely altered in any major, drastic fashion on the surface. I like to have that sense in a story as well. Granted, storytelling is by its nature artificial; yet I enjoy a sense of reality to it. Reality doesn�t mean a stream of consciousness, an every-event-that-happens-in-a-day sort of reality; that would be too boring for words. Storytelling, however, doesn�t need to be about apocalyptic events. It can be intensely personal.

Which is what Christopher Priest�s The Prestige is about. Two men, their secrets (personal and professional), their lives becoming more and more challenged with obsession and physical secrecy. Their descendants, deeply affected by those professional secrets. The processes by which magic (stage and scientific magic) can occur. And, of course, the consequences.

Apparently he�s written at least eight other books. You can be sure I�ll be tracking them down.