Reflections in Stone

Piranesi grabbed me right away. As a fan of liminal spaces, I was drawn into Susanna Clarke’s vast, mysterious labyrinth — a House filled with endless halls, shifting tides, and massive statues that invoke both grandeur and unease. The setting is dreamlike and strange, but also richly constructed and oddly comforting. Clarke does a fantastic job of crafting a world that feels ancient and sacred, yet unknowable.

The House is odd — both hopeful and hopeless at the same time. There’s a sense that maybe the next room will contain an answer, a key, a revelation. But more often, it’s just another chamber filled with statues. Though each one is different, the sameness becomes almost oppressive. Yet that’s the beauty of the storytelling: Clarke communicates the emotional weight of endless repetition without ever making the reading feel tedious.

Piranesi, as a narrator, is perfect for this world. He’s full of curiosity and thankfulness, sincerely appreciating the small wonders of his daily life. There’s a gentle purity to him — he makes the most of his circumstances, even though he’s often naive. Reading from his perspective is like seeing through a lens of lost innocence. He invites you to believe in the House the way he does, even when that belief is called into question.

Without getting into spoilers, I’ll say that I didn’t expect the ending — not at all. I thought Piranesi might be a manifestation of the House itself, or a construct of “the Other,” some kind of cosmic caretaker. But Clarke took the story in a more grounded, human direction. And having finished it, I can’t imagine a better ending than the one we got. The fact that Piranesi maintains his consciousness — doesn’t just revert back to who he was before — gives the story emotional weight and a real sense of growth.

What’s stayed with me most is the idea of the statues. They feel like reflections of people and concepts from other worlds — ideals frozen in time. There’s something poetic about living among those reflections, rather than the chaos of real people and real ideas. It’s simpler. Easier. And maybe, in a strange way, more peaceful.

Piranesi is a short book, but it lingers. Like the echoing footsteps in a marble hall, it stays with you long after you’ve left the House.