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A remarkable work of the imagination and magical realism, "Nights at the Circus" is one of my favourite novels, and one I can always turn to to remind me that writing is an artform of limitless possibility.

The characters and setting are rich and vibrant and, while I don't particularly enjoy fantasy or sci-fi works, Carter's world here is like that of Gabriel Garcia Marquez: anything is possible, but what happens always seems hauntingly, and depressingly, real. The difference between this and a Marquez work is that our protagonist is a reporter from the equally real world of fin-de-siecle England who finds himself unable to ascertain the boundaries between reality and fantasy. I acknowledge that not everyone will "get it", although I think that is BECAUSE there is nothing to get. This isn't a book with one meaning to be found on the last page, nor a book in which the fantastic elements are hiding some kind of comment on the 'real world'. This is instead a work of boundless beauty and effervescent figures living in an historical era, as all historical eras are: filled - or so it seems from our viewpoint - with possibility and impossibility. What it means, if anything, is for us to open our eyes to the world, even if - at the end of the day - seeing won't necessarily mean believing. Anything is possible but nothing is as it seems. Accept the confusion, relish it, and live amongst it. Or that's what I think, anyway. ( )

An odd novel. I really enjoyed the first segment, the interview and tales of Sophie Fever’s childhood. Everything after that was confusing, so many characters, locations.. I didn’t really understand what was going on with the plot, couldn’t tell who the main characters were anymore and the ending was just odd. I really wanted to enjoy it but I’m left wondering if maybe I’m confused because I struggled to pay attention, or if I struggled to pay attention because the plot was confusing. ( )

Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter gives us the story of Sophie Fevvers, the “Cockney Venus”, who in 1899 was a famous aerialist who had all of Europe applauding her. Sophie is tall, blonde, curvy and beautiful. She was raised in a brothel as a foundling, never knowing who (or what) her parents were. Her main claim to fame is that she professes to be part woman, part bird and she is joined on the opening pages by Jack Walser, an American journalist who wants to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Fevvers act consists of her flying up to the trapeze where she performs a high wire routine. And although she is nothing special at this artistry, the crowds come to see her display her six foot wingspan. After speaking to her, Walser finds himself spellbound and follows her as she joins the circus on it’s Grand Imperial tour across Russia to Tokyo with plans to go on to America.

I almost gave up on this book but I pushed through and I actually found myself rather enjoying parts of it. This is a bizarre story told in earthy, bawdy language that has the author telling us how women are used and abused by men. Pretty much every woman character is a victim who is being manipulated by a man. Ultimately although the author’s writing is rich and imaginative, I had difficulty becoming engaged by this surreal story finding it a little overdone and somewhat silly. ( )

The fanciful rendition of about half a year in the life of a winged woman aerialist and the young journalist who follows her into the circus, along with her foster-mother companion and a crew of improbabilities on the hoof. In the first section the aerialist Fevvers tells Walser her history in such densely styled language that it is like trying to navigate thickly tangled underbrush to reach elements of story. The middle section, with the circus is a collection of dirty shift origin tales and character introductions, much more clearly presented, but murky in content and even wilder in its dark fancies. The final portion is a dispersal of both characters and character with a sort of neatly folded amputated limb of an ending. I'd say it was more memorable than enjoyable, but I'll only know in a year or to if it was memorable enough to cling to my sieve of a mind. ( )