Teaser

Everyone’s doing Vurt. Sticking feathers in their mouths until they don’t know what reality is. But Vurt is not without its side effects, as Scribble knows only too well . . .

Review

Vurt is one of those books that I would never have read were it not an award-winner. As you may be aware, I’m slowly pecking away at the shortlists of various prestigious science fiction literary awards. In 1994, Vurt won the Arthur C. Clarke Award. Of course, the authors these awards are named after aren’t necessarily indicative of the type of book you’re likely to find among the nominees. Even so, I’m rather surprised that Vurt was not even nominated for the Philip K. Dick Award, because Noon’s writing has far more in common with Dick than it does with Clarke.

What is this book about? I think that’s a key question when it comes to reading a book. Even more so when reviewing one. Usually, there’s fairly simple core to a book. In the case of Vurt, I could say it’s about a young man who wants to rescue his lost sister. That is technically true, but it also wildly misses the mark. Because what this book is also about, is drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. When it comes to what the book as a whole is actually about, I can honestly throw my hands up and say that not only do I not know, I also don’t particularly care.

I don’t do recreational drugs. I don’t intend to. Nor do I have any inclination to consort with those who do. It could be that this book is a wholly accurate depiction of what taking drugs is like. If so, well done to Jeff Noon. However, what it is above all else, is weird. The titular Vurt comes in many forms, but is somewhere between traditional drug, and a way to access a virtual reality. Hence the name, I would imagine. The book constantly switches between what I assume to be the real world, and the contents of various drug trips. There are seemingly some rules, and ways the imbiber can control their hallucinations, but ultimately none of it really makes sense to me. I also don’t really understand when or where the book is set. Some bleak version of the North of England, I think, with Manchester at least being namechecked. But there’s never anything solid for me to latch onto. Nothing coherent to hang the rest of the book from. You may now be seeing why I make the Dick comparison.

Vurt is Weird with a capital W. It’s Philip K. Dick by way of China Mieville. There are some points which I’d be tempted to call overwritten, were it not for the fact that I have no doubt Noon is in total control of his craft. This is a book loaded with shock and awe, but the shocks are delivered in such a constant barrage that they rapidly lose their impact, while the awe is at the way the story is told, not the story itself. This is a book filled to the brim with brilliant sentences and vivid imagery, but nothing holding it together.

On a mental level, I checked out somewhere towards the end of the novel. there’s too much going on here, yet none of it seems to hold any deeper meaning. It’s just a bunch of horrible people doing drugs and killing each other. Good ideas, and good writing, but a weak central narrative. It is a theoretically interesting book, and I certainly don’t regret reading it, but I’m also not inspired to track down and read more of Noon’s work. there is definitely an appeal to this sort of book. The sort that skews more towards literary experimentalism than traditional storytelling, but it’s not appealing to me personally. A sad case of ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’ Though I suspect it’s a little bit of you as well, Vurt. You’re just too weird for your own good.

Book Stats

• Vurt Series #1
• First Published in 1993
• 345 Pages