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From the acclaimed author of The Rehearsal comes a novel about a young woman on trial for murder in nineteenth-century New Zealand.
On a blustery January day, a prostitute is arrested. In the midst of the 1866 gold rush on the coast of New Zealand, this might have gone unnoticed. But three notable events occur on that same day: a luckless drunk dies, a wealthy man vanishes, and a ship's captain of ill repute cancels all of his business and weighs anchor, as if making an escape. ...
From the acclaimed author of The Rehearsal comes a novel about a young woman on trial for murder in nineteenth-century New Zealand.
On a blustery January day, a prostitute is arrested. In the midst of the 1866 gold rush on the coast of New Zealand, this might have gone unnoticed. But three notable events occur on that same day: a luckless drunk dies, a wealthy man vanishes, and a ship's captain of ill repute cancels all of his business and weighs anchor, as if making an escape. Anna Wetherell, the prostitute in question, is connected to all three men.
This sequence of apparently coincidental events provokes a secret council of powerful townsmen to investigate. But they are interrupted by the arrival of a stranger: young Walter Moody, who has a secret of his own...
THE LUMINARIES is an intricately crafted feat of storytelling, a mystery that reveals the ways our interconnected lives reshape our destinies.
Winner of the 2013 Man Booker Prize
Winner of the 2013 Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction
"Catton provides descriptions of her characters that are meticulous and precise...The result is a finely wrought fun house of a novel. Enjoy the ride."—Chris Bohjalian, Washington Post
"Irresistible, masterful, compelling...The Luminaries has a gripping plot that is cleverly unravelled to its satisfying conclusion, a narrative that from the first page asserts that it is firmly in control of where it is taking us...[Catton is] a mistress of plot and pacing..."—The Telegraph (5-star review)
"The type of novel that you will devour only to discover that you can't find anything of equal scope and excitement to read once you have finished...Do yourself a favour and read The Luminaries."—The Independent
"Note-perfect... [Catton's] authority and verve are so impressive that she can seemingly take us anywhere; each time, we trust her to lead us back ... A remarkable accomplishment."—Globe and Mail
"A very clever, absurdly fun novel that reads like a cross between a locked-room mystery, a spaghetti Western, a game of Sodoku, and Edwin Drood."—New York Magazine
"To say that The Luminaries is daringly ambitious in its reach and scope doesn't really do it justice."—The Wall Street Journal
In Eleanor Catton's intricate and enthralling novel The Luminaries, the only thing missing may be a deadly snake or two slithering down a bedpost to strike an heir whose fortune is coveted by an evil twin. Catton's plot certainly has everything else: smuggled gold, shipwrecks, opium, forgery, stolen identities, séances, Chinese, Presbyterians. Had Robert Louis Stevenson or Wilkie Collins managed to collaborate with Joseph Conrad or Amitav Ghosh, this might have been the result. But Catton is far more than an inspired mimic, as the novel's opening scene makes gloriously clear.
On the evening of January 27, 1866, twelve men have gathered in the smoking room of a hotel in the gold-mining town of Hokitika, New Zealand. A newcomer observes that "...the studied isolation of each man as he pored over his paper, or leaned forward to tap his ashes into the grate-conspired to form the very type of bodily silence that occurs, late in the evening, on a public railway — deadened here not by the slur and clunk of the coaches, but by the fat clatter of the rain." Young Walter Moody, freshly arrived from Scotland to prospect for gold, is at first unaware that he has disturbed a private conference. Yet the air is heavy with tension, conveyed in glances and silence.
Catton's portrait of Moody ("His grey eyes were large and unblinking, and his supple, boyish mouth was usually poised in an expression of polite concern"), of the premises ("The view through the two small windows that flanked the hearth was over the hotel's rear yard, a marshy allotment littered with crates and rusting drums?"), and of Moody's voyage ("The seething deck, the strange whip of light and shadows cast by the sails that snapped and strained above it?") lure the reader into a shadowy world, dense with secrets. Within a few pages, the plot's broad wheel begins to revolve around the events of a single night in mid- January. A reclusive drunk is found dead in his cabin, where a fortune is later discovered; an opium-addicted prostitute lies unconscious on a nearby road; a rich prospector vanishes. The twelve men, each connected in a different way to these dramas, have met to sift for the truth. The unlikely gathering includes a banker, a Maori carver, an opium peddler, a political fixer, and a prison chaplain. They soon learn that Moody has traveled on a ship captained by Francis Carver, whom they suspect of murder and other crimes. What's more, Moody has legal training. He agrees to listen to their story, to become, as he later concludes, "the unraveler."
There is much to unravel. Indeed, Catton adds so many layers and twists that, at about 500 pages in, the reader may flounder. Who is the father of the prostitute's dead baby? Did Moody see a bloody phantom aboard Captain Carver's vessel? How could a stray bullet, aimed at the heart, vanish? Whose gold has been sewn into a mistress's gowns? Who is whose half brother? Then there is the novel's astrological template, the author's introductory reference to "...the Age of Pisces, an age of mirrors, tenacity, instinct, twinship, and hidden things?" and her declaration of faith "...in the vast and knowing influence of the infinite sky."
These proclamations aside, Catton's prose rarely soars. It remains wonderfully earthbound with descriptions of weather and light, of mannerism and speech that vividly evoke a wild place and its disparate inhabitants. Hokitika, for example, is first glimpsed as "...a shifting smear that advanced and retreated as the mist blew back and forth," and its river waters are "...grey and opaque as a pewter plate." Of Carver, Catton writes, "There was a heavy quality to his features, as though they had been hewn from some kind of mineral; something elemental and coarsely grained that would not polish?" and of the town jailer, "He had always been irreproachable in his conduct, and as a consequence, his capacity for empathy was small." Her dry humor is similarly acute. "It was, on reflection, rather early in the day to be drunk," one character admits to himself when thrown into conversation with a clergyman, but "...from his accent Balfour knew at once that he was Irish; he relaxed, and allowed himself to be rude."
When the missing prospector suddenly reappears, a fresh wind enlivens the churning narrative, explanation makes way for action, and a tense courtroom drama further heightens the suspense. Finally, Catton ascends to view her characters from a celestial height in poetically spare closing chapters that shine like the gold at the novel's heart.
Anna Mundow, a longtime contributor to The Irish Times and The Boston Globe, has written for The Guardian, The Washington Post, and The New York Times, among other publications.
Reviewer: Anna Mundow
A Sphere within a Sphere
27 January 1866
Mercury in Sagittarius
In which a stranger arrives in Hokitika; a secret council is disturbed; Walter Moody conceals his most recent memory; and Thomas Balfour begins to tell a story.
The twelve men congregated in the smoking room of the Crown Hotel gave the impression of a party accidentally met. From the variety of their comportment and dress—frock coats, tailcoats, Norfolk jackets with buttons of horn, yellow moleskin, cambric, and twill—they might have been twelve strangers on a railway car, each bound for a separate quarter of a city that possessed fog and tides enough to divide them; indeed, the studied isolation of each man as he pored over his paper, or leaned forward to tap his ashes into the grate, or placed the splay of his hand upon the baize to take his shot at billiards, conspired to form the very type of bodily silence that occurs, late in the evening, on a public railway—deadened here not by the slur and clunk of the coaches, but by the fat clatter of the rain.
Such was the perception of Mr. Walter Moody, from where he stood in the doorway with his hand upon the frame. He was innocent of having disturbed any kind of private conference, for the speakers had ceased when they heard his tread in the passage; by the time he opened the door, each of the twelve men had resumed his occupation (rather haphazardly, on the part of the billiard players, for they had forgotten their places) with such a careful show of absorption that no one even glanced up when he stepped into the room.
The strictness and uniformity with which the men ignored him might have aroused Mr. Moody's interest, had he been himself in body and temperament. As it was, he was queasy and disturbed. He had known the voyage to West Canterbury would be fatal at worst, an endless rolling trough of white water and spume that ended on the shattered graveyard of the Hokitika bar, but he had not been prepared for the particular horrors of the journey, of which he was still incapable of speaking, even to himself. Moody was by nature impatient of any deficiencies in his own person—fear and illness both turned him inward—and it was for this reason that he very uncharacteristically failed to assess the tenor of the room he had just entered.
Moody's natural expression was one of readiness and attention. His gray eyes were large and unblinking, and his supple, boyish mouth was usually poised in an expression of polite concern. His hair inclined to a tight curl; it had fallen in ringlets to his shoulders in his youth, but now he wore it close against his skull, parted on the side and combed flat with a sweet-smelling pomade that darkened its golden hue to an oily brown. His brow and cheeks were square, his nose straight, and his complexion smooth. He was not quite eight-and-twenty, still swift and exact in his motions, and possessed of the kind of roguish, unsullied vigor that conveys neither gullibility nor guile. He presented himself in the manner of a discreet and quick-minded butler, and as a consequence was often drawn into the confidence of the least voluble of men, or invited to broker relations between people he had only lately met. He had, in short, an appearance that betrayed very little about his own character, and an appearance that others were immediately inclined to trust.
Moody was not unaware of the advantage his inscrutable grace afforded him. Like most excessively beautiful persons, he had studied his own reflection minutely and, in a way, knew himself from the outside best; he was always in some chamber of his mind perceiving himself from the exterior. He had passed a great many hours in the alcove of his private dressing room, where the mirror tripled his image into profile, half-profile, and square: Van Dyck's Charles, though a good deal more striking. It was a private practice, and one he would likely have denied—for how roundly self-examination is condemned, by the moral prophets of our age! As if the self had no relation to the self, and one only looked in mirrors to have one's arrogance confirmed; as if the act of self-regarding was not as subtle, fraught and ever-changing as any bond between twin souls. In his fascination Moody sought less to praise his own beauty than to master it. Certainly whenever he caught his own reflection, in a window box, or in a pane of glass after nightfall, he felt a thrill of satisfaction— but as an engineer might feel, chancing upon a mechanism of his own devising and finding it splendid, flashing, properly oiled and performing exactly as he had predicted it should.
He could see his own self now, poised in the doorway of the smoking room, and he knew that the figure he cut was one of perfect composure. He was near trembling with fatigue; he was carrying a leaden weight of terror in his gut; he felt shadowed, even dogged; he was filled with dread. He surveyed the room with an air of polite detachment and respect. It had the appearance of a place rebuilt from memory after a great passage of time, when much has been forgotten (andirons, drapes, a proper mantel to surround the hearth) but small details persist: a picture of the late Prince Consort, for example, cut from a magazine and affixed with shoe tacks to the wall that faced the yard; the seam down the middle of the billiard table, which had been sawn in two on the Sydney docks to better survive the crossing; the stack of old broadsheets upon the secretary, the pages thinned and blurry from the touch of many hands. The view through the two small windows that flanked the hearth was over the hotel's rear yard, a marshy allotment littered with crates and rusting drums, separated from the neighboring plots only by patches of scrub and low fern, and, to the north, by a row of laying hutches, the doors of which were chained against thieves. Beyond this vague periphery, one could see sagging laundry lines running back and forth behind the houses one block to the east, latticed stacks of raw timber, pigpens, piles of scrap and sheet iron, broken cradles and flumes—everything abandoned, or in some relative state of disrepair. The clock had struck that late hour of twilight when all colors seem suddenly to lose their richness, and it was raining hard; through the cockled glass the yard was bleached and fading. Inside, the spirit lamps had not yet succeeded the sea-colored light of the dying day, and seemed by virtue of their paleness to accent the general cheerlessness of the room's decor.
For a man accustomed to his club in Edinburgh, where all was lit in hues of red and gold, and the studded couches gleamed with a fatness that reflected the girth of the gentlemen upon them; where, upon entering, one was given a soft jacket that smelled pleasantly of anise, or of peppermint, and thereafter the merest twitch of one's finger toward the bell-rope was enough to summon a bottle of claret on a silver tray, the prospect was a crude one. But Moody was not a man for whom offending standards were cause enough to sulk: the rough simplicity of the place only made him draw back internally, as a rich man will step swiftly to the side, and turn glassy, when confronted with a beggar in the street. The mild look upon his face did not waver as he cast his gaze about, but inwardly, each new detail—the mound of dirty wax beneath this candle, the rime of dust around that glass—caused him to retreat still further into himself, and steel his body all the more rigidly against the scene.
This recoil, though unconsciously performed, owed less to the common prejudices of high fortune—in fact Moody was only modestly rich, and often gave coins to paupers, though (it must be owned) never without a small rush of pleasure for his own largesse—than to the personal disequilibrium over which the man was currently, and invisibly, struggling to prevail. This was a gold town, after all, new-built between jungle and surf at the southernmost edge of the civilized world, and he had not expected luxury.
The truth was that not six hours ago, aboard the barque that had conveyed him from Port Chalmers to the wild shard of the Coast, Moody had witnessed an event so extraordinary and affecting that it called all other realities into doubt. The scene was still with him—as if a door had chinked open, in the corner of his mind, to show a band of graying light, and he could not now wish the darkness back again. It was costing him a great deal of effort to keep that door from opening further. In this fragile condition, any unorthodoxy or inconvenience was personally affronting. He felt as if the whole dismal scene before him was an aggregate echo of the trials he had so lately sustained, and he recoiled from it in order to prevent his own mind from following this connexion, and returning to the past. Disdain was useful. It gave him a fixed sense of proportion, a rightfulness to which he could appeal, and feel secure.
He called the room luckless, and meager, and dreary—and with his inner mind thus fortified against the furnishings, he turned to the twelve inhabitants. An inverted pantheon, he thought, and again felt a little steadier, for having indulged the conceit.
The men were bronzed and weathered in the manner of all frontiersmen, their lips chapped white, their carriage expressive of privation and loss. Two of their number were Chinese, dressed identically in cloth shoes and gray cotton shifts; behind them stood a Maori native, his face tattooed in whorls of greenish-blue. Of the others, Moody could not guess the origin. He did not yet understand how the diggings could age a man in a matter of months; casting his gaze around the room, he reckoned himself the youngest man in attendance, when in fact several were his juniors and his peers. The glow of youth was quite washed from them. They would be crabbed forever, restless, snatching, gray in body, coughing dust into the brown lines of their palms. Moody thought them coarse, even quaint; he thought them men of little influence; he did not wonder why they were so silent. He wanted a brandy, and a place to sit and close his eyes.
He stood in the doorway a moment after entering, waiting to be received, but when nobody made any gesture of welcome or dismissal he took another step forward and pulled the door softly closed behind him. He made a vague bow in the direction of the window, and another in the direction of the hearth, to suffice as a wholesale introduction of himself, then moved to the side table and engaged himself in mixing a drink from the decanters set out for that purpose. He chose a cigar and cut it; placing it between his teeth, he turned back to the room, and scanned the faces once again. Nobody seemed remotely affected by his presence. This suited him. He seated himself in the only available armchair, lit his cigar, and settled back with the private sigh of a man who feels his daily comforts are, for once, very much deserved.
His contentment was short-lived. No sooner had he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles (the salt on his trousers had dried, most provokingly, in tides of white) than the man on his immediate right leaned forward in his chair, prodded the air with the stump of his own cigar, and said, "Look here—you've business, here at the Crown?"
This was rather abruptly phrased, but Moody's expression did not register as much. He bowed his head politely and explained that he had indeed secured a room upstairs, having arrived in town that very evening.
"Just off the boat, you mean?"
Moody bowed again and affirmed that this was precisely his meaning. So that the man would not think him short, he added that he was come from Port Chalmers, with the intention of trying his hand at digging for gold.
"That's good," the man said. "That's good. New finds up the beach—she's ripe with it. Black sands: that's the cry you'll be hearing; black sands up Charleston way; that's north of here, of course—Charleston. Though you'll still make pay in the gorge. You got a mate, or come over solo?"
"Just me alone," Moody said.
"No affiliations!" the man said.
"Well," Moody said, surprised again at his phrasing, "I intend to make my own fortune, that's all."
"No affiliations," the man repeated. "And no business; you've no business, here at the Crown?"
This was impertinent—to demand the same information twice—but the man seemed genial, even distracted, and he was strumming with his fingers at the lapel of his vest. Perhaps, Moody thought, he had simply not been clear enough. He said, "My business at this hotel is only to rest. In the next few days I will make inquiries around the diggings—which rivers are yielding, which valleys are dry— and acquaint myself with the digger's life, as it were. I intend to stay here at the Crown for one week, and after that, to make my passage inland."
"You've not dug before, then."
"Never seen the color?"
"Only at the jeweler's—on a watch, or on a buckle; never pure."
"But you've dreamed it, pure! You've dreamed it—kneeling in the water, sifting the metal from the grit!"
"I suppose ... well no, I haven't, exactly," Moody said. The expansive style of this man's speech was rather peculiar to him: for all the man's apparent distraction, he spoke eagerly, and with an energy that was almost importunate. Moody looked around, hoping to exchange a sympathetic glance with one of the others, but he failed to catch anybody's eye. He coughed, adding, "I suppose I've dreamed of what comes afterward—that is, what the gold might lead to, what it might become."
The man seemed pleased by this answer. "Reverse alchemy, is what I like to call it," he said, "the whole business, I mean—prospecting. Reverse alchemy. Do you see—the transformation—not into gold, but out of it—"
"It is a fine conceit, sir,"—reflecting only much later that this notion chimed very nearly with his own recent fancy of a pantheon reversed.
"And your inquiries," the man said, nodding vigorously, "your inquiries—you'll be asking around, I suppose—what shovels, what cradles—and maps and things."
"Yes, precisely. I mean to do it right."
The man threw himself back into his armchair, evidently very amused. "One week's board at the Crown Hotel—just to ask your questions!" He gave a little shout of laughter. "And then you'll spend two weeks in the mud, to earn it back!"
Moody recrossed his ankles. He was not in the right disposition to return the other man's energy, but he was too rigidly bred to consider being impolite. He might have simply apologized for his discomfiture, and admitted some kind of general malaise—the man seemed sympathetic enough, with his strumming fingers, and his rising gurgle of a laugh—but Moody was not in the habit of speaking candidly to strangers, and still less of confessing illness to another man. He shook himself internally and said, in a brighter tone of voice,
"And you, sir? You are well established here, I think?"
"Oh, yes," replied the other. "Balfour Shipping, you'll have seen us, right past the stockyards, prime location—Wharf-street, you know. Balfour, that's me. Thomas is my Christian name. You'll need one of those on the diggings: no man goes by Mister in the gorge."
"Then I must practice using mine," Moody said. "It is Walter. Walter Moody."
"Yes, and they'll call you anything but Walter too," Balfour said, striking his knee. "'Scottish Walt,' maybe. 'Two-Hand Walt,' maybe. 'Wally Nugget.' Ha!"
"That name I shall have to earn."
Balfour laughed. "No earning about it," he said. "Big as a lady's pistol, some of the ones I've seen. Big as a lady's—but, I'm telling you, not half as hard to put your hands on."
Thomas Balfour was around fifty in age, compact and robust in body. His hair was quite gray, combed backward from his forehead, and long about the ears. He wore a spade-beard, and was given to stroking it downward with the cup of his hand when he was amused—he did this now, in pleasure at his own joke. His prosperity sat easily with him, Moody thought, recognizing in the man that relaxed sense of entitlement that comes when a lifelong optimism has been ratified by success. He was in shirtsleeves; his cravat, though of silk, and finely wrought, was spotted with gravy and coming loose at the neck. Moody placed him as a libertarian— harmless, renegade in spirit, and cheerful in his effusions.
"I am in your debt, sir," he said. "This is the first of many customs of which I will be entirely ignorant, I am sure. I would have certainly made the error of using a surname in the gorge."
Excerpted from The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton. Copyright © 2013 Eleanor Catton. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Posted November 2, 2013
A remarkable book both for the thoroughly engaging story and for the amazing use of the English language. Though the story could have been told in far fewer pages, it would have been a completely different and diminished reading experience. The plot is so well-conceived and so imaginatively presented that it is impossible not to be caught up.
Twelve diverse men, each implicated in events surrounding a recent death and disappearance, meet to share information in hopes of determining the actual culprit, as well as what actually happened that night. A hermit and former gold-miner is found dead in his mountain cabin. On the same night the mining town’s wealthiest young man disappears, and the miners’ favorite whore is found senseless from opium overdose in the middle of the road. In the hermit's cabin is found a fortune in retorted gold.
And so the story unfolds as each tells what they did and know, each agreeing to honor the secrets of the others. At the meeting’s end, each goes forth to use the information gained to further their joint purpose. As new facts come to light, and old relationships are likewise revealed, the depth of the deceit evolves and the web becomes more tangled.
The characters of these men, and the other interrelated townspeople, are meticulously explored and revealed, in language so perceptive and expressive, that the reader knows each, his character, motivations, and goals, intimately.
Mystery readers who are unaccustomed to this lavish writing style will still thoroughly enjoy the book, even if they are reduced to skimming. B&N please remove the unrelated reviews . . .
34 out of 36 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 17, 2013
Posted November 30, 2013
The language is beautiful and poetic but in the style it's written the story is J-U-S-T...T-O...S-L-O-W. I hung in for 267 pages (out of more than 750) and then had to bail.
8 out of 14 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 6, 2014
Wonderfully written, thrilling plot, engaging story. Excellent. Absolutely love submerging in this unique universe of poetry, emotion and profoundly described characters. Could not put it down. And not at all too long. Didn't want it to end
5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 16, 2013
An absolutely wonderful book. The review by eagle3tx states it perfectly. I was completely enthralled throughout. Beautifully written and creatively told. Yes, it is long, but I wouldn't strike a word from the pages. I highly recommend it.
4 out of 5 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 10, 2014
I can see why it won the Man Booker Prize. I took off early from work and stayed up past midnight to finish. Very creative book and beautifully written.
3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 3, 2014
Wonderfully engaging story! Kept me enthralled the whole way through - couldn't put it down! The writing is superb and evocative. Yes, it is long, but not a word of text is wasted.
3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 11, 2013
Posted May 9, 2014
Posted February 26, 2014
Ms. Catton, while a promising young author, has bitten off more than the reader can chew. I hung in until the bitter end enjoying the language but never quite getting through the characters' surfaces, nor understanding point of the zodiac references, and bitterly disappointed in the lack of resoluntion. I think the Booker Prize judges may have quit before they got to the ending, too.
1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 7, 2014
Posted December 11, 2013
If you like solving puzzles you will love this book. Catton throws out all kinds of pieces of the puzzle and just when you think you are lost, he puts part of the puzzle together for you. I enjoyed this book a lot.
1 out of 15 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 9, 2014
Well, this book prompted a whole lot of late night writings and rantings as my diary/notebook/sketchbook ran out. I am sure I missed some key points in the reading, however, when the book started to reach the end, I couldn't put it down and I didn't want it to stop. Favorite reading place/drawing place/writing place?? Bathroom....only time I get to myself!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 6, 2014
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Posted May 20, 2014
I looked forward to reading this book long before I actually read it, and I had high expectations. I must admit that the book was a big letdown. It was an interesting story and time period, but there were way too many characters and plot lines to remember. I think the author could have trimmed the story way down and achieved the same end result.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 11, 2014