Melmoth: A Novel

By Sarah Perry

From the internationally bestselling author of The Essex Serpent—soon to be an Apple TV+ Series

“Masterful...scary and smart, working as a horror story but also a philosophical inquiry into the nature of will and love. Perry did as much in her richly praised novel The Essex Serpent, but this is a deeper, more complex novel and more rewarding.”—The Washington Post

In Melmoth, Sarah Perry’s breathtaking follow-up to The Essex Serpent, a mysterious dark-robed figure has roamed the globe for centuries, searching for those whose complicity and cowardice have fed into the rapids of history’s darkest waters—and now, it is heading in our direction.

It has been years since Helen Franklin left England. In Prague, working as a translator, she has found a home of sorts—or, at least, refuge. That changes when her friend Karel discovers a mysterious letter in the library, a strange confession and a curious warning that speaks of Melmoth the Witness, a dark legend found in obscure fairy tales and antique village lore. As such superstition has it, Melmoth travels through the ages, dooming those she persuades to join her to a damnation of timeless, itinerant solitude. To Helen it all seems the stuff of unenlightened fantasy.

But, unaware, as she wanders the cobblestone streets Helen is being watched. And then Karel disappears....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780062856418

Sarah Perry

Sarah Perry is the internationally bestselling author of The Essex Serpent, Melmoth, and After Me Comes the Flood. She lives in England.

Book preview

Part 1

Look! It is winter in Prague: night is rising in the mother of cities and over her thousand spires. Look down at the darkness around your feet, in all the lanes and alleys, as if it were a soft black dust swept there by a broom; look at the stone apostles on the old Charles Bridge, and at all the blue-eyed jackdaws on the shoulders of St. John of Nepomuk. Look! She is coming over the bridge, head bent down to the whitening cobblestones: Helen Franklin, forty-two, neither short nor tall, her hair neither dark nor fair; on her feet, boots which serve from November to March, and her mother’s steel watch on her wrist. A table-salt glitter of hard snow falling on her sleeve, her shoulder; her neat coat belted, as colorless as she is, nine years worn. Across her breast a narrow satchel strap; in the satchel, her afternoon’s work (instructions for the operation of a washing machine, translated from German into English) and a green uneaten apple.

What might commend so drab a creature to your sight, when overhead the low clouds split, and the upturned bowl of a silver moon pours milk out on the river? Nothing at all—nothing, that is, but this: these hours, these long minutes of this short day, must be the last when she knows nothing of Melmoth—when thunder is just thunder, and a shadow only darkness on the wall. If you could tell her now (Step forward! Take her wrist, and whisper!) perhaps she’d pause, turn pale, and in confusion fix her eyes on yours; perhaps look at the lamp-lit castle high above the Vltava and down at white swans sleeping on the riverbank, then turn on her half-inch heel and beat back through the coming crowd. But—oh, it’s no use: she’d only smile, impassive, half-amused (this is her way), shake you off, and go on walking home.

Helen Franklin pauses where the bridge meets the embankment. Trams rattle on up to the National Theatre, where down in the pit the oboists suck their reeds, and the first violin taps her bow three times against the music stand. It’s two weeks past Christmas, but the mechanical tree in the Old Town Square turns and turns and plays one final pleasing strain of Strauss, and women from Hove and Hartlepool clasp paper cups of steaming wine. Down Karlovy Lane comes the scent of ham and woodsmoke, of sugar-studded dough burnt over coals; an owl on a gloved wrist may be addressed with the deference due to its feathers, then gingerly held for a handful of coins. It is all a stage set, contrived by ropes and pulleys: it is pleasant enough for an evening’s self-deceit, but no more. Helen is not deceived, nor has she ever been—the pleasures of Bohemia are not for her. She has never stood and watched the chiming of the astronomical clock, whose maker was blinded by pins before he could shame the city by building a better device elsewhere; has never exchanged her money for a set of nesting dolls in the scarlet strip of an English football team; does not sit idly overlooking the Vltava at dusk. Guilty of a crime for which she fears no proper recompense can ever be made, she is in exile, and willingly serves her full life term, having been her own jury and judge.

The lights change—the crowd surges on—Helen is taken on the noisy tide and pitches up against an iron railing, withdrawing her gloves from her pocket. It is then she hears—above the noise of wealthy Koreans bound for the brass-clad riverboats moored down in the dock—her own name lifted on the wind coming off the river. Helen—Helen Franklin!—called frantically, as if perhaps she’s dropped her purse. She looks up, gloved hand to mouth, and sees—standing still beneath a street light, coatless and shivering—a tall man, blue-shirted, clutching a large dark object to his chest. Eye meets eye; an arm is raised. Yes?—imperious, impatient—Yes! Come here, would you? Come here now, please. The man plucks at the fabric of his shirt as though that half-transparent silk irritates his skin: within, his body is violently shaking.

Karel, says Helen, who does not yet move. It is Karel Pražan, who constitutes precisely half her complement of friends and acquaintances, their friendship struck up in the café of the National Library of the Czech Republic, there having been no free tables available that morning. He is tall, and carefully thin; his dark hair always gleams against his scalp; his shirts are silk, his shoes suede or calfskin, according to the season; he is not handsome, but gives the illusion of it, and seems always to have only just shaved. But even at this distance, jostled by passing children in bright padded coats, it is possible to make out the grayish pallor, the sunken eyes, of a man who does not sleep. The cold has touched his lips with bluish dust; the arm that clasps the object to his shaking chest is locked in place as if all the joints are fused. Karel, she says, and moves unhurriedly towards him. Ten paces on she sees he holds a document file, its leather black and coarse; it is worn pale at the edges from much use; it is bound three times with a leather cord. The street light gleams on a mark in the corner, but she can’t make it out. Karel? she says. Put on my scarf. What’s happened—where is your coat—are you hurt? A likelier thought occurs. Is it Thea? She pictures Thea, his partner and certainly his better half, lifeless in her wheelchair on the ground floor, eyes fixed at some point beyond the plaster ceiling, taken—as they’d always feared—by another clot of blood to the brain in the night. Thea? Karel is impatient. What? She’s fine—no, I don’t want it—he pushes fretfully at the offered scarf, then surveys her as if he cannot think why she has troubled him.

You will get ill.

Take it back! I won’t. I don’t care. Look: I suppose we should sit down. He looks about, as if he might simply sit cross-legged on the pavement; then he lifts the leather file, and shakes it at her. She sees it is heavy, stuffed with documents and stained with water; he moves his thumb, and reveals in the corner a rubbed gilt monogram reading J.A.H. She notes with unease how he holds it with both avarice and distaste, as if it were an object he had coveted all his life, only to find that having paid the asking price it had a foul smell. It’s no good. I shall have to tell someone, and you of all people will bear it. I mean—he breaks off, and laughs without merriment—I believe she could walk up and look you dead in the eye and still you’d not believe it! Not a word!

She? Who is ‘she’—have you taken this file, Karel—does it belong to some friend of yours? You ought not to play your tricks.

Oh . . . He grows vague. You’ll see. He begins then to walk on; calls over his shoulder that she must keep up, as though she were a child, and a tiresome one at that. She follows him down a cobbled alley beneath a stone arch which is hardly ten yards from the tourists’ thoroughfare, but which you would certainly not find, were you ever minded to try. He pushes open a painted door, slips between heavy curtains drawn against the chill, and sits—beckoning—in a dim corner. The place is familiar—the wet fug on the windows, the green ashtrays, the 40-watt bulbs in their green glass shades—and Helen’s anxiety diminishes. She sits beside her friend (he shivers, still), removes her gloves, smooths the sleeves of her cardigan over her wrists, and turns to him.

You must eat. You were already too thin; you are thinner now.

I don’t want to eat.

All the same— Helen gestures to a girl in a white shirt, orders beer for Karel, and for herself, only water from the tap.

You think me ridiculous, says Karel. He neatens his hair, serving only to demonstrate that he has aged five years in the short course of a week—lean face gone over to gauntness, stubble glinting white. Well, perhaps I am. Look at me! I do not sleep, as you see. I sit up at night, reading, and re-reading . . . I didn’t want to bother Thea, so I read under the covers. With a torch, you know. Like a boy.

And what have you been reading? The beer is brought; the water, with its single cube of ice.

What was I reading, she says! Not a wasted word. How like you. Already I feel better—how could I not? In your presence it all seems—fantastic, bizarre. You are so ordinary your very existence makes the extraordinary seem impossible. I mean it as a compliment.

I’m sure. Tell me, then—Helen places her glass more precisely in the centre of its paper mat—Tell me at least what you’ve been reading—is it this, here, in this file?

Yes. He shakes out a Petra cigarette, and lights it on the third attempt. Take it. Go on. Open it up. The look he gives her then is one almost of malice: it puts her in mind of a child concealing spiders in a bag of sweets. She reaches for the file—it is very cold, having taken up more than its fair share of the night air; she unwinds the cord, which is bound tightly, and gives her trouble with its knots and turns; at last it gives unexpectedly—the file opens, and there spills out across the table a sheaf of yellowing paper. There, says Karel. There! He stabs it with a forefinger then retreats against the wall.

May I look?

If you want—oh wait, wait—the door is wrenched open, the velvet curtains billow—"Is it her—has she come? Do you see her?"

Helen turns. Two boys come in—eighteen, no more, swollen with pride in earning a day’s wages and spending it well. They stamp snow from their workman’s boots, bawdily summon the waitress, and turn their attention to their phones. It is only men, says Helen. Two men, quite ordinary.

Karel laughs, shrugs, rises once more in his seat. Don’t mind me, he says. Lack of sleep, you know—it’s only—I thought I saw someone I knew.

Helen surveys him a while. Anxiety and embarrassment move across his face, and she feels curiosity sharpen in her like a hunger. But kindness wins out—he will speak, she thinks, when he can—and she turns to the manuscript. It is written in German, in a tilted copperplate as difficult to read as it must have been to master; there are crossings-out, and numbered footnotes: the effect is of a palimpsest pulled from museum archives, but the title page is dated 2016. Separately, fastened with a paperclip, one typed sheet of Czech is dated the preceding week, and is addressed to Karel.

It’s not intended for me, says Helen, turning the page face down. Unease causes her to say more sharply than she intends: Ah, I wish you’d just tell me what’s the matter—you’re behaving like a child having nightmares. Wake up, won’t you!

I wish I could! I wish I could! All right. He draws breath, places both hands flat upon the document, and remains very still for a moment. Then he says—casually, easily, as if it has nothing at all to do with the matter at hand—Tell me: do you know the name Melmoth?

Melmoth? No. I’d remember it, I think. Melmoth—not Czech, is it? Not quite English, either . . . She says the name a third time, and a fourth; as if it were some new thing placed upon her tongue which might well taste bitter. This has a curious effect on her companion; it seems to animate him, to cause an avid shining in the bruised sockets of his eyes.

No, why would you: it meant nothing to me, a week ago—a week! Is that all! There is again that unhappy laugh. Melmoth—she . . . his hands dabble on the sheets of paper with a curious action that puts Helen in mind of a man fretfully soothing a bad-tempered cat. D’you ever feel, he says, the back of your neck prick—all the hairs lifting there—as if a cold wind had come into the room and hunted you out, and only you? It’s nothing, you say to yourself—what’s the English phrase—the goose walks over your grave?—but if you knew! He shakes his head; lights another cigarette, draws deeply, stubs it out. It’s no use. You wouldn’t believe me, and would be foolish if you did—here: take this, take the letter. He slips the typed sheet free from its paperclip. I’ll get another drink (God knows I’ll need it) and leave you to read—take it, go on, aren’t you all curious, you women, always putting your ear to the door?

Helen is poised between a dark sea and a certain shore. Karel has never, in the years she’s known him, shown fear of any kind, nor any inclination towards superstition, or to giving credence to legend. The change that has come over him is nothing less than the change from mortality to immortality: it all at once occurs to her, as it never has before, that he’ll die; that death already has its imprint on him, on the days he’s not yet lived, like a watermark on empty sheets of paper. He is at the bar, leaning with a stoop to his shoulders that is all the more troubling for being unfamiliar. She thinks how tall he had seemed, how upright his bearing, when he first approached her in the library café, there having been no other tables free. May I? he’d said in Czech, and not waited for her response, but having sat down turned his attention to some incomprehensibly complex diagram (intersecting circles; lines converging on a point), and to an apple pastry. Her own cup of black coffee, bitter and cold, was set beside a pamphlet which she was translating from German into English at the fee of nine pence a word. They had looked, Helen felt, like a peacock and a sparrow; Dr. Karel Pražan in a violet cashmere sweater, Helen Franklin in a cheap and colorless shirt. Certainly nothing more would have come of the encounter had Thea not arrived. Helen, looking up, had seen a woman of middle height and late middle years, standing with her hands in the pockets of woolen trousers with a deep hem, stooping to kiss Karel on the crown. Her hair was short and red; she smelt of cologne. She gave Helen a merry appraising look. Have you made a friend? she said to Karel in English; and Helen had blushed, because the inflexion, if not precisely unkind, had been disbelieving. Karel looked up from his notebook and surveyed Helen with vague surprise, as if in the intervening minutes he’d forgotten she was there; then said swiftly in Czech that he was sorry to disturb her, and that they would leave her in peace.

Conscious of a desire to wrong-foot this elegant pair, Helen had said in English, Please don’t go on my account: I’m leaving, anyway, and begun to return her work to her satchel.

Thea then had brightened, with the sudden blaze of delight which Helen later learned was characteristic of her ability to take pleasure at any time, from any source. Oh, but that accent—you have brought me home in my time of exile! London? Essex, perhaps? Stay, won’t you—sit, let me bring more coffee—Karel, insist she stays—she is leaving, and I won’t have it! There had been then a look of understanding that passed between Karel and Helen—there is no use at all resisting, I’m afraid; it’s all right, I quite understand—which was a surer footing for friendship than any Helen had felt for years.

And indeed there had been no use resisting. That weekend, Helen Franklin—who resisted pleasure and companionship as assiduously as a Trappist avoids conversation—was welcomed into an apartment where Thea stirred a copper pan on the stove, and Karel sat at a scrubbed table measuring the depth of a curve on a convex glass disk. He was, she discovered, attached to a university department, his subject that of the history of the manufacture of glass, and all its uses both domestic and industrial. It’s a telescopic mirror, he had said, greeting his visitor with very little interest, and no sign of abandoning his task, so the curve must be the depth of a parabola, and not a sphere.

Helen took off her coat and gloves, and handed Thea a bottle of wine (which she herself would not drink). Then obeying a gesture from her host she sat at the table, and folded her hands in her lap. Tell me about it, she said.

I am making a reflecting telescope, he had said, grinding the mirror by hand, as Newton would have done, back in 1668. He set down the glass and showed her his hands. They were rough, and looked sore; remnants of some white paste adhered beside the nails.

Thea put bread and butter on the table. She wore on a long silver chain a curious green pendant, rather like a flower cast in glass. The copper pan spat on the stove. He will never finish it.

The focal length, said Karel, is half the radius of curvature. He looked at Helen, who could not suppress her old pleasure in being taught, and listened with unfeigned interest as he explained his intention to create a mirrored surface by evaporating a layer of aluminium.

All that evening she watched her hosts. Thea, who had ten years on her partner, mothered and petted him—cuffed him, sometimes, if she felt he overstepped the mark (Don’t be nosy, Karel—let her keep her secrets!). To Helen she was attentive and warm, though always with faint amusement, as if she found her guest odd, but not unpleasantly so. Karel, meanwhile, had an air of cultivated irony, of indifference, which slipped most when he was watching Thea, which he did with a kind of loving gratitude; or when treating Helen as if she were a pupil. Later Helen understood that his partner and his subject were really all that ever occupied his thoughts—that he was like a man who dines so well on the dishes he likes best that he has no appetite for anything else.

Helen—refusing wine; accepting only a very small portion of meat—said to Thea, Do you teach at the university too?

I am retired, said Thea, with a smile anticipating Helen’s protests that surely not—surely she was nowhere near retirement age.

She was a barrister, back in England, said Karel. He gestured to shelves that bowed beneath the weight of legal textbooks. She still keeps her horsehair wig, over there in a black tin box. Then he said, with as much pride as if it had all been his own doing, She chaired a government inquiry, you know. Could have taken a title, if she’d wanted it. He took her hand, and kissed it. My learned friend, he said.

Thea offered Helen buttered potatoes in a porcelain dish. Seeing her guest decline—seeing the half-eaten food on her plate, and the few sips taken from her glass of water—she said nothing. It had been all work, and no pleasure, she said. So I took a holiday in Prague, and that became a sabbatical, and that became a retirement. And then, of course, there was Karel.

Karel accepted a kiss, then looked with disfavor at Helen’s plate. It seemed he lacked his partner’s tact: You’re not hungry? he said; and then, You’re very quiet, I must say.

Helen said, So they tell me.

Well, then. Thea put down her fork. How long have you lived in Prague?

Twenty years.

And what do you do?

I work as a translator, though my German is better than my Czech.

How wonderful! What are you working on at the moment—Schiller? Peter Stamm? A new edition of Sebald?

An instruction manual for operating Bosch power tools. (Helen smiled then; and she smiles now, remembering.)

I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed! And tell me: was I right—are you from London, or from Essex?

Essex, I’m afraid.

Ah. Well, that can’t be helped. And you came to Prague because—?

Helen flushed. How could she explain her exile, her self-punishment, to these smiling strangers? Thea saw it: Forgive me! I never quite lost the habit of cross-examination.

If our guest were in the dock, said Karel, I wonder what the indictment could be? He peered at Helen over a glass of wine, then drank it. There was a flash of dislike in Helen then—for the pair of them, with their good clothes, their warm apartment, their ease; for their unlooked-for hospitality, their charm, their way of wheedling out confidences. But it was swiftly extinguished, because Thea said, with a repressing pat on Karel’s hand, and a mollifying smile, Did either of you see that old man in the library the day we met, crying over a manuscript? What do you think he was writing—love letters, perhaps, to some man or woman long dead? And later, helping Helen into her coat, I have so loved having you here—won’t you come back, and we can talk about England, and all the things we hate about it, and how much we would like to go home?

All this Helen recalls with a kind of disbelieving fondness, because they are gone now, those easy evenings; have seemed, in the few months since Thea’s stroke, to have actually been erased. And now she is at this small table, with this glass of water—with this new Karel: stooping, uneasy, a little frantic. If whatever was concealed in that file, wrapped three times in leather cords, has had such malignant power, might it also disrupt her peace of mind? But—no!—it is impossible. That peace of mind, so hard won, is buttressed with stone. She draws the sheet of paper towards her, and reads: My dear Dr. Pražan—How deeply I regret that I must put this document in your hands, and so make you the witness to what I have done . . .

Helen Franklin, having read the letter, feels no chill—no lifting of the fine fair hairs at the nape of her neck. She greets it with interest, no more. An old man, confessing some long-forgotten sin (my fault, she murmurs: my fault, my most grievous fault), which doubtless could not, these days, tweak the eyebrow of the most ascetic priest. Nonetheless (she draws the paper towards her; reads: my pen is dry, the door is open), there is something curious in its fear and longing that is something very like the half-shamed anxious glances of her friend (she is coming!).

Karel returns with food: slabs of beef, thick gravy seeping into porous dumplings. Well? he says, with a not quite pleasant grin. Helen takes the offered plate; eats deliberately, in small bites, and without pleasure.

Poor chap, she says. Old, I suppose? Only a very old man or a very affected one would use a typewriter.

Ninety-four. He looked as if he’d been pickled in vinegar, put in a jar. ‘You will outlive me,’ I said. ‘Bring vodka to my funeral.’ He laughed at that.

Helen notes the tense. He has died, then? No beer for me, thank you. She sets down her fork, and gives him a quick kind look. You know, it would be simpler if you just told me about it. If you told me all about it—the old man, and the woman you think you see. I don’t like mysteries or surprises. How many times have I told you? I don’t like them at all.

He laughs then—shrugs—clears his plate. The boys in their workman’s boots have gone; in the corner a student sits smoking over her books. Karel returns the sheaf of papers to its file, and the tremor has gone from his hands. All right, he says. I’ll tell you everything. That is: everything I have seen myself. The rest, we leave to Josef. He glances at the file. And yes, he is dead. There is a long, silent moment: each bows their head, a little foolishly, out of mere good manners. Then Karel lights a cigarette from the candle on the table, leans back against the painted wall beside the velvet curtain, and says: I met him first where I met you: in the library, in the morning, very early, six months ago at least . . .

Morning, very early, at least six months ago: the National Library of the Czech Republic at the Klementinum, and a kind light shining on the pale bell tower of the Jesuit college it once had been. Karel, on compassionate leave from Charles University, Thea having suffered her stroke, went daily to his library desk to escape his guilt and shame. The woman in the chair for which ugly ramps had been fitted in his home was not—he could not pretend otherwise—the woman with whom he’d passed a decade. Thea, who could hardly cross the road without acquiring a dinner companion, or someone with whom to attend the Black Light shows for which she had a child’s love; Thea, with her look of someone you could not trust with a secret, but to whom you’d tell it anyway—this Thea had, he feared, been effaced. On the steel footplates of her wheelchair her well-shod feet turned weakly in; her capable hands lay listless in her lap, or fumbled at the pages of a book. Karel found himself unsuited to the task of carer, which had been always Thea’s role: who was there now to pet Karel in his childish moods, when he must clean, and carry, and press analgesics and distalgesics and antiplatelets from their foil packets, and carry them to Thea on a saucer? He wept onto burnt toast, and wished the tears were more sorrowful than angry. Thea said, Oh get out, be off with you: do you think I need you under my wheels all day? Off to the library with you, and bring me something good to eat. Released from his duties—relieved, and guilty at his relief—Karel went to the Klementinum from Monday to Saturday, sat himself at desk 220 as he always had, photographing, mumbling, taking notes; in the afternoons (these being her allotted hours for work) meeting Helen in the café for cakes filled with poppy-seed paste.

On perhaps the second week—spring indecently in bloom—his gaze was drawn by an elderly man seated across the cork-tiled aisle at desk 209. He could not later say what it was that had made him look—a sudden movement, perhaps? The sound of a pencil’s frantic scratching?—only that for several minutes he could not look away. The man wore a heavy coat, despite fine weather, and sat very still save for the motion of

Reviews for Melmoth

[lisamlane-535627 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The mythical spirit Melmoth is brought to the attention of a lonely translator in Prague, who learns that Melmoth appears to those bearing horrible guilt. As the story unfolds, you realize she has guilt of her own.Sarah Perry is an extraordinary writer. People call this novel Gothic, and I suppose it is that, but it is also grounded in the reality of human behavior, and what people may do so that they don't have to face their own culpability. If it sounds like a downer, it isn't, because Perry's writing is ornate and complex, pulling the reader along.

[castlelass · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

“When I was a child they told me you wander the earth watching all that’s most base and most wicked in mankind – that wherever sin is greatest you are there, and you are the witness. They said you come to those in the blackest despair, and hold out your hand and offer friendship, because your loneliness is so terrible.” – Sarah Perry, Melmoth

Set in present-day Prague, Helen, an English woman, has been working as a translator of instruction manuals for twenty years. She leads an austere life. A friend and scholar, Karel, tells her of the legend of Melmoth, which he has been researching, and gives her reading material. This material relates to historical atrocities, where Melmoth is believed to have been watching. These bits of historical material are used as “nested stories” within Helen’s narrative. Helen begins to catch glimpses of a shadowy figure following her. She believes it is Melmoth, for Helen is harboring a dark secret of her own.

Themes include conscience, guilt, loneliness, and remorse. Perry establishes Melmoth as a witness of the behaviors that people try to hide: “When she turns her eyes on you it’s as if she’s been watching all your life – as if she’s seen not only every action, but every thought, every shameful secret, every private cruelty.” The story provides a sense of reality melded with folklore, the possibility of something unexplainable lurking, following, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The one being followed experiences a build-up of fear and anxiety, questioning if some nefarious presence really is “out there.” It’s just a superstition, right?

It took me a while to figure out what was going on with this book, and I never got completely immersed in it to the point of feeling scared, but it definitely generated a feeling of discomfort. It reads like a 19th century Gothic novel and Perry excels at creating a dark, cold, haunting atmosphere. While quite unsettling in places, it also contains a possibility of redemption, and the ending is extraordinarily well-constructed. Recommended to readers looking for a disquieting read with a thought-provoking message.

[lisahistory · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Creepy in a really interesting way, Melmoth is supposedly a spectre who comes to take people away at some point in the ethics of their life. But Melmoth isn't the point, but rather the behavior of the characters and the ways they justify what they do, particularly during the early war years in eastern Europe. Beautifully written.

[adrianburke_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Typical lit waffle

[jorgeousjotts · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a bit difficult to review. It does have a unifying theme tying things together through Melmoth, but is otherwise largely a collection of essays, almost, of people from a wide variety of times and places. None of the characters are terribly likable... to me, but their stories are interesting and thought provoking. Perry has good human insight, so they're well developed. And the writing feels like every word was very intentionally chosen, almost like poetry. There's a lovely quality to it. The writing conveys information without necessarily spelling everything out plainly. Which someone will either enjoy and feel clever for understanding what is implied, or be annoyed by and feel unnecessarily put upon to decode the subtext. =D It took me a fair while to finish, because I felt like I needed time to ponder on what I'd read, before tackling the next part. But it was worth the effort. Also the narrator on the audiobook does a great job.

[gwendydd · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This novel is basically a bunch of different stories all centering on the legend of Melmoth, a woman who witnessed the resurrection of Christ but denied it, and has been cursed to walk the earth for eternity. She watches other similar sinners, and tries to get them to join her in here lonely wandering.There is a frame story, in which several people become obsessed with the legend of Melmoth and read various stories of people who believed Melmoth was watching them and observing their secret sins. The frame story gets a little over-wrought: the characters in the frame story are all exceptionally intelligent people, and they all get implausibly paranoid about Melmoth. Perry seems to be trying too hard to create a creepy atmosphere, and it falls a bit flat.However, the various stories about sin and evil are very interesting. The stories are very different, taking place across a lot of different times and places, but they all have something in common: a person either committed or was witness to a misdeed, and did not speak up about it, and caused the suffering of someone else. For instance, there is an Ottonian bureaucrat whose paperwork paves the way for genocide, but who denies to himself that he played a role in anyone's death, and a German boy who has an opportunity to prevent some Jews from being taken by Nazis but does nothing. There are smaller crimes too, but all of them are crimes of cowardice - people who have an opportunity to prevent a travesty, but do nothing because it's easier. All of these people are consumed by guilt, manifested as Melmoth, who knows what they did. I've seen a lot of reviews calling this a masterpiece, and I think that's an exaggeration. The book certainly leads to a lot of interesting reflection about the nature of evil, and the capacity of love to conquer evil, but the execution feels a bit forced, and the ending is perhaps a bit too tidy.

[ken5me5old5mate · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I read the Essex Serpent, mainly because I come from Essex, and thoroughly enjoyed it so I came to this with expectations. They were not disappointed. A softer darker read that dwells in one or two places and times to bring to life this creature that heralds death, Melmoth. A satisfying read to be enjoyed in bed.

[gpangel_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Melmoth by Sarah Perry is a 2018 Serpent’s Tale publication.I have not read ‘The Essex Serpent’ so I had no preset expectations for this book. The main draw for me was the advertised Gothic tone. The book delivers on that front, in spades! The folklore is exquisitely utilized in this crackling good tale of horror and suspense.Melmoth is a legendary figure said to have witnessed Christ’s resurrection, but then later denied the truth of what she saw. As such, she is now doomed to wander the earth in eternal loneliness, witnessing the dark deeds of humanity. Misery loves company, so Melmoth offers her hand to those at the crux of their darkest moments of despair, imploring them to join her.Helen Franklin, is an unassuming woman in her forties, working as a translator in Prague. Suddenly, her friend, Karel, hands her a manuscript describing encounters with Melmoth the Witness. The he suddenly disappears, and Helen begins to feel as though she’s being watched.As the story progresses, it becomes clear that our humble Helen Franklin is hiding a dark secret as she finds herself drawn into the fantastical tales of lore contained in the manuscript.Oh, my goodness! What a deep, heavy, atmospheric story!! This book is supposed to be based, at least in part, on the 1820 Irish Gothic novel ‘Melmoth the Wanderer’ written by Charles Maturin. I am only slightly familiar with the premise of that book, so obviously, it is not necessary to have read it in order to enjoy this book- although I am very interested in reading it someday.This is the type of story I can get lost in. It is a very creepy story that continually kept my nerves on edge. The setting and scenery couldn’t have been created a better atmosphere. The spine-tingling horror is delicious, but there is also an exploration of profound topics. The story is about seeing, witnessing and about accountability and redemption, with a conclusion that will knock your socks off.The writing is superb, capping off this finely layered deliciously chilling story!!4 stars

[sheiladeeth_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Melmoth blends short story with novel, telling the present-tense tale of translator Helen and her friend Karl, together with dark tales of cruel history. It’s all given in an appealingly Victorian style, the narrator begging the reader to “look,” then slowly drawing the cloth away on crimes of the past.Suddenly tragic and haunting, then switching again to that question of “who pulls the strings,” Melmoth offers a witness to crime, a carrier of despair, and a lingering thread of hope. It all draws together toward an ending that’s powerful and makes the reader want to read again.Melmoth is a slow, dark read, sometimes confusing, oddly enthralling, and deeply evocative. The characters are flawed and broken, the legend is dark and sad, and the shifting scenes of Karel’s rediscovered manuscript are horrifyingly real. A novel of human brokenness, and a legend of need, it’s a cool, dark, slow, mysterious read.Disclosure: I think I preferred the Essex Serpent, but this one’s a good read too.

[eyejaybee · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This has been the most disappointing book I have read so far this year. I hadn’t particularly wanted to read it in the first place having found myself in a minority of one if not liking Ms Perry’s previous novel, The Essex Serpent. (In fact, I couldn’t bring myself to read much more than the opening pages). I had been given a copy of Melmoth, and, with perhaps characteristic ingratitude, had left it to one side.However, having seen the very effusive reviews of it, I decided to give it a chance, and was very pleasantly surprised by how engrossing the opening sections were. These introduce the principle characters in modern day Prague where Helen Franklin is living in straitened circumstances, earning a meagre living by translating technical documents from German or Czech into English. Despite having lived there for several years, she has made just two friends: Karel, an academic working at the university, and his now-disabled wife Thea.As the novel opens, Helen encounters Karel in the streets near the university and, obviously disturbed by some upheaval, he passes her a sheaf of documents and asks her to read them, although he warns her that her life will never be the same again.it was at this point that my enchantment withy the story wavered (well, plummeted, really). I found the story within the story to be poorly constructed and simply tedious, and unfortunately it simply served to reconfirm my prejudices from the opening of The Essex Serpent.

[sturlington_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Helen Franklin is living in a self-imposed exile in Prague, where she meets Karel and through him is given a manuscript describing an encounter with a woman named Melmoth. Melmoth, often described as a child's fairy tale, is an immortal witness to the worst crimes of humanity; she is often glimpsed like a shadow, watching. Like Karel, Helen becomes obsessed with Melmoth and tracking down other stories about her. The novel consists of these stories intertwined with the mystery of how Helen came to be in Prague and what she is atoning for. This short novel is long on atmosphere. I thought the story-within-a-story format worked well here, and I found those stories of the past more compelling than Helen's present story. I wouldn't call this horror so much as existential, musing on the sins we are capable of committing and the guilt we all carry, and what we can do with that.

[kakadoo202 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A bit confusing in the end. To figure out what is real and what it not.

[krwerner-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was cautiously optimistic about Melmoth. I have read Sarah Perry's novel The Essex Serpent and found her to be a talented writer. My main complaint with The Essex Serpent was that there were too many story lines and the ending felt a bit abrupt. Based on the publisher description, I thought that there was a good chance that Melmoth would appeal to me more and I hoped it would be a bit more focused. Unfortunately, I have the same complaints about Melmoth that I had with The Essex Serpent. There were just too many story lines and characters that I wasn't as interested in and not enough time spent with the main character Helen, who I did find compelling. Much of the book is written as accounts of people who have encountered the mysterious Melmoth throughout history, and many of these dragged for me. I will say that my interest increased in the second half of the book, and I enjoyed the parts about Helen and her past the most. It might be that Sarah Perry just isn't the writer for me.

[kbuchanan_25 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really wanted to love this book, as I loved "The Essex Serpent," but this one didn't click as easily for me. The real strength of "The Essex Serpent" was the strength and pull of its setting, making for an enveloping, atmospheric read that was a worthy homage to the gothic genre it emulated. We don't really get the same thing here. Perry's Prague never coalesced in the same way, partially because we don't spend a whole lot of time here. The back and forth through different primary sources and stories leaves little time for a fully-developed central story, and I often found myself dreading the return of the frame narrative. I found the small vignettes created by Helen's research into the mythos of Melmoth the Witness to be much more interesting than the book's main thread. I don't feel I ever really developed a real idea of Helen or Thea, and the pacing toward the work's conclusion felt somewhat off for me. There are more than a few glimpses of Perry's obvious talent for great scenes, elegant writing, and lasting images, but it couldn't quite overcome the feeling of emptiness at the center of this book for me. Even if this one didn't quite hit the mark, I still enjoy Perry's style and look forward to her next endeavor. And, if nothing else, "The Essex Serpent" remains one of my favorite historical fiction novels of the past few years! Thanks to LibraryThing and the publisher for the advance reader's copy of "Melmoth."

[lauranthalas-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Hooray, I finally finished this slow, semi-tortuous read. Overall I thought the plot was boring, slightly confusing, and certain parts were unnecessary to the plot. If this wasn't part of a book club, I would have bailed.

[cariola_6 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I always hate starting off the year with a disappointing read. I loved Sarah Perry's last book, The Essex Serpent, and was really looking forward to Melmoth. There were elements of the supernatural in The Essex Serpent, but it was, to me, much more a story about characters, their relationships, and the struggles they faced in Victorian England. Here, although there is a psychological element, Perry seems to have been overwhelmed by the creepy and the desire to write a book that would appeal to readers who are love both literary and creepy books. Unfortunately, she failed. The result is a book that seems to have been based on a lot of research that the author didn't quite know what to do with. To a great extent, she just shoves that research into the book as research done by her characters, surrounded by a rather week plot.The legend of Melmoth the Wanderer (known variously by other names) exists in many countries. One of the women who found Christ's tomb empty on the third day, Melmoth later denied that anything miraculous had happened and was condemned to wander the earth looking for a companion. She's depicted as the typical wraith: draped in swirling, filmy black cloth, he eyes hollow, her feet bloody from centuries of walking. Helen Franklin, the novel's main character, has lived in Prague for over 20 years. A quiet, solitary, mousy woman who translates equipment manuals for a living, she has befriended Karel, a professor, and his English wife, Thea, recently wheelchair-bound by a stroke. One day Karel calls her, frantic to set up a meeting, at which he thrusts into her hands half of a manuscript. It contains the research of Josef Hoffman, an elderly man who has recently died; the focus is reported sightings of Melmoth, who has a history of appearing to people in desperate situations or consumed with guilt. Shortly thereafter, Karel disappears, leaving Helen to watch over Thea and to continue reading the documents he has left her. The more she reads, the more she has a sense of being followed. Is it Melmoth? Or is it a secret from her past? Things start to both fall into place and get crazier when Thea gives Helen the second half of Hoffman's manuscript.All I can say, in conclusion, is that I was mightily disappointed. The plot is transparent, the "surprises" not very surprising, and the structure weak. I would have given the book a lower rating if it hadn't been for Perry's fine writing. And I suppose one could read it as a study of human cruelty and selfishness, something we should all be attuned to these days.

[brangwinn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I am glad I finished the book. At times the concept seemed to much for me. I struggled with the concept that people could be so caught up in the writing of an old man who told the story of a woman who denied Christ and was doomed to walk the world forever. And yet, I had to keep reading to see how Helen could regain the life she wanted, and not be consumed by Melmoth. And the real scary part of this book, is not the mythology but the cruelty of humans.

[janerawoof · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A modern gothic. Helen Franklin, working in Prague, is given papers which are first-person accounts of persons having seen and had interaction with a mysterious "Wandering Jew"-type woman: Melmoth, sentenced to wander the earth and observe evil that humans do. Helen herself had perpetrated a mercy killing and other characters had done some sort of evil: e.g., a Philippine pharmacist's assistant, a Jewish family in the 1930s, a low-level Ottoman bureaucrat. The story was eerie and the best thing about it was the author's conveying the atmosphere through her style: the overhanging sense of mystery and dread. Sometimes I had goosebumps from her descriptions.

[ridgewaygirl · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Helen lives quietly in Prague. She rents a room from an unpleasant old woman and earns her keep translating appliance owner's manuals and medical brochures into English. She dresses plainly and stays out of the way. But despite that, she's dragged into life when she shares a table in a crowded cafeteria with a Czech man who is researching the story of Melmoth, the mythical woman condemned to walk the world on bloody feet, witnessing the cruelty of man towards his fellow man. What follows is both Helen's story, but also earlier stories, from a woman burned at the stake in sixteenth century England, to a boy living in the Czech countryside, the novel moves back and forth though time. Sarah Perry has done a beautiful job with the pacing and plotting, everything is revealed at the right time, and the novel comes together beautifully at the end. [Melmoth] reminded me of Geraldine Brooks's People of the Book. Sarah Perry is rapidly becoming one of my favorite authors. I'm eager to read whatever she writes next.

[hairball_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I began Melmoth without any knowledge of the legend, or any idea of the parameters of this specific novel—this sort of “story-blindness” is pretty rare. (I had read The Essex Serpent, but the two books aren’t particularly similar.) The novel’s overarching story takes place in a Prague that’s supposed to be modern, but struck me as uncomfortably ahistorical. None of the characters are meant to be pleasant, so when some are offered redemption at the end, it rings false—or perhaps I prefer comeuppance.High marks for the character of Melmoth.

[perednia_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Part myth and fable, part mystery, part love story and the concept of free will -- wonderful novel by the author of The Essex Serpent.

[indygo88 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Melmoth, a woman in a dark cloak who appears in the shadows and encourages others to join her in her seemingly lost wanderings as she haunts certain other "lost" individuals, is a legend that's been carried on through the ages. Helen Franklin, British but living in Prague for quite some time, catches wind of these haunting tales and can't help but feel that there are eyes watching her. When her friend Karel disappears mysteriously, the tale of Melmoth invades her thoughts more convincingly and she can't shake the feeling that something is amiss.This story sounds intriguing and mysterious, with many Gothic undertones. I was quite excited to receive an advanced reader's copy, especially with deckled edges and such a beautiful cover. But unfortunately, that's where the fascination ended for me. This novel started out slow and never picked up pace, and sadly, I gave up about one-third of the way through. As with many Gothic tales, it was very atmospheric, yet also very dark and depressing. But I really couldn't connect and found that it dragged relentlessly. The main character of Helen was dull and flat. And the formatting of the book -- not organized in chapters, but rather long descriptive paragraphs that more or less ran together -- was just not conducive to adding to my reading pleasure. While I do think Sarah Perry is mostly gifted in her writing, I think her style bogged itself down in this one. Perhaps I gave up too quickly, and I don't do it often, but when I find myself not looking forward to picking up my book, it's time to move on.

[joeltallman · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

At first, this book suffered in my mind in comparison to Sarah Perry’s earlier novel, The Essex Serpent, which I enjoyed very much. The story here, about a translator working in Prague who encounters a tale of Melmoth the Witness (in this version, a ghostly wraith of a woman who is alive through the ages, tempting the guilt-ridden to join her in her damnation and solitude), didn’t involve me enough at first. The interwoven stories and manuscripts telling of different people encountering Melmoth at different points in history, seemed too disconnected to make a fully rounded whole. Even though the ending—revealing Helen Franklin’s own much-foreshadowed guilty act—was satisfying for me, I still saw the other mini-tales as unsatisfying and uneven. And yet. The stories have stuck with me. I’m glad I waited a while to write this review. I’ve found myself pondering—and even dreaming about—the characters in this book, their guilt and the possibilities for forgiveness, or at least carrying on in some positive way. In the best and most literal way, this turned out to be a haunting novel.

[maureencean · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Maybe not the full 4, but close enough. Thanks to Library thing for the ARC and here I offer my honest review. I'll start off by suggesting that you read other people's reviews, because I find them much more articulate in writing about the style of the book. I can tell you it was actually creepy. I considered that I might need to stop reading it at night. I will look to see if other authors have taken up this legend. I also liked this book better than her first, The Essex Serpent. I loved the "primary sources" from the literature being scattered throughout the book. The piece relating to the Armenian Genocide was particularly poignant, while the young Czech was horrible. That last sentence notwithstanding, it was a fun read and went pretty quickly, I enjoyed it.

[wickabod · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I find it impossible to approach reviewing Sarah Perry's new novel without referencing her prior novel THE ESSEX SERPENT. Like so many readers, I fell in love with that book. It was an absolute and unexpected delight -- one of my favorite novels of recent years.Just as in THE ESSEX SERPENT, again a haunting monster figure looms large. And in both books, there's the question of whether it's real or all in the imagination. But here's where the books differ. THE ESSEX SERPENT was rich, warm, and bursting with life. Ultimately, the monster didn't matter -- it was just a way to frame the story around some fully realized and truly wonderful characters. It was the lives of these characters that made the novel so memorable. They were all too human, and in their troubles and weaknesses and joys, I found myself caring very much about what happened to them. And, really, that's a sort of definition of good fiction and what it can do.While THE ESSEX SERPENT was full of humanity, MELMOTH by contrast I found cold, flat, and strangely lifeless. I thought that the "monster" and the heavy mood of Gothic doom and gloom overwhelmed the characters and the plot (such as it is). There's only one true character who emerges, and I felt like even she remains a sort of stranger to us. To an extent, I think that's what Perry was aiming for here, and I get that. Helen is supposed to be mysterious and distant, with her spare and drab life of penance for some monumental transgression in her past. But, I'm just not sure it all works. Perhaps it simply took too long to reveal Helen's sin and how it shaped her adulthood. By the time we got that crucial backstory, I had sort of lost interest in Helen and her plight and whether or not there would be redemption for her in the end. Even worse, instead of the dread we were supposed to feel, it all unfortunately started to seem a bit ridiculous to me. (Seriously: enough with the jackdaws already!) This, I suppose, is always the risk with "monsters" or anything supernatural. It's far too easy to veer from scary in the direction of silly.MELMOTH is a clever book in its structure, and I respect very much what Perry was trying to accomplish with it. She clearly is not short on imagination or talent. Her writing is often lovely, and there's much fine prose to appreciate here. But it just never really spoke to me and I didn't find it entirely successful. It truly pains me to write a lackluster review of MELMOTH, which I had so wanted to like. Regardless, I will still look forward very much to whatever she writes next. (Thank you to Custom House for a complimentary advance copy in exchange for an unbiased review.)

[mckait · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I read and Loved The Essex Serpent. The characters were quirky and alive and the book was slow paced and sometimes dark but compelling. I looked forward to Melmoth. I was sadly disappointed. Thea and Helen were faded and dry Karel dismissive and bland. Josef was the one who nearly sent me over the edge. I didn't care about his story, so drab was his thread in this story. Nothing but despair and sadness. I made it about 75% through, and then only because it was the only book I had with me while waiting for a late to arrive friend. I would just say no and I would not recommend it.

[dianaleez · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I expected to like Melmoth. I really did. "The Essex Serpent' is one of the best books that I've read in years, and I truly had high hopes for this one.Alas. It was a slow starter. Really slow. And it was depressing. This is not a time of my life when I can afford to read depressing. The news is bad enough.So I'm going with three stars because it can't be as bad as I think it is.

[sarahlu82 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was excited to have the opportunity to read and review Sarah Perry’s Melmoth for LT Early Reviewers, after reading and enjoying The Essex Serpent last year. If you have enjoyed Sarah Perry’s previous work, Melmoth does not disappoint. The book is short (my ARC measured 245 pages) but she packs in so much about human nature, guilt, regret, and redemption that it was much more satisfying than many books of the same length. It was eerie and atmospheric and ended with just a little bit of mystery remaining, which is my favorite way for a book to end.

[dono421846 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A novel spin on the myth of the Wandering Jew, Melmoth invites the reader to consider the weight of private sins and punishments. The focus of the narrative is Helen, a drab translator who refuses herself pleasures of any kind; it will well toward the end of the book before we learn why. The driving action centers on her exposure to the myth, and how it plays on the perceptions and consciences of various characters. A weakness of the tale, for me, is that Melmoth is portrayed inconsistently. Is she a force of good who punishes the evil, or of evil who is simply attracted to people who are also evil? We seem to get bits of both. Helen is not evil, although she has committed some questionable acts. In fact, we tend to like all those stalked by Melmoth. Is the lesson that ordinary people are deserving of supernatural judgment and condemnation? It's not really clear. For that reason, although this book's framework could have conceivably supported something more philosophically provocative on the nature of evil and the consequences of individual choices (I'm thinking along the lines of Camus, perhaps), instead we merely get a solid gothic ghost story.

[5hrdrive · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Creepy gothic tale with some modern touches. Slow moving most of the time, but that just allows the tension to build up to a shocking climax. I wouldn't recommend this to anyone who is suffering from depression, it'll surely worsen that! Very well done... two enthusiastic thumbs way up!