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Struggling to survive in the Cleft--a dry outcropping of rocks where they are sheltered from the worst of the desert's heat--Anna nevertheless manages to use what few resources she has to instill in her grandson a love of both science and nature, as well as some cryptic lessons about the value of humility, personal responsibility toward others, and a curiously abstract wisdom about the relationship between language and reality that perhaps might be described as a form of religious faith (at least insofar as the word applies).
Yet Atrus's simple life changes when one day at age 14, his long-absent father, Gehn, abruptly appears on the rim of the volcano above their home. Having spent the last decade-and-a-half in the unseen ruins of the nearby D'ni city, Gehn has decided it's time for the son whom he's never met to learn the ways of the ancient civilization from which he, Anna, and Atrus supposedly come. Against Anna's wishes, Gehn takes Atrus down through a vast network of caves below the volcano's caldera to the massive underground cavern holding the ancient D'ni capital. There, alone in the ruins of an abandoned city buried inexplicably three miles beneath the Earth, Gehn sets to work teaching Atrus the D'ni civilization's greatest accomplishment--the so-called "Art" of physically creating new worlds by writing about them in books.
Via the Art, the D'ni once managed to build a vast inter-dimensional empire, with specially trained D'ni writers working to bring into existence endless varieties of worlds containing everything their citizens required.
And yet as Atrus begins to master the basics of the Art, and the enormous power which the D'ni harnessed via their ability to shape reality with nothing more than language itself, he simultaneously comes to see that his father's single-minded pursuit of this ancient knowledge is a goal that is far from without consequence. The underground ruins of the D'ni city hide evidence of numerous atrocities, with the majestic D'ni palaces containing secret rooms filled with skeletons chained to desks--prisoners clearly forced to bind books for the ancient D'ni writers until they died of exhaustion. Likewise, as Atrus comes to more fully grasp the tremendous power that the D'ni possessed via their ability to literally write worlds into being, he also simultaneously comes to see that the haphazard manner by which his own father has pursued this knowledge comes at a price that is far greater than anyone should ever be willing to pay.
Main Review
Like the games that gave rise to it, Myst: The Book of Atrus is a story about the consequences of imperialism and colonialism. That is, it's an epic fantasy novel which deliberately orients itself in the generations immediately following a cataclysmic war, but which focuses not on the details of this war itself, but instead on the dilemmas faced by the three sole survivors of a supposedly great civilization as they struggle to confront the problematic histories they are now forced to inherit.
Perhaps it's for this reason that despite this novel's sometimes questionable writing and frequently awkward dialog, after recently rereading this book I couldn't quite find in myself the conviction needed to dismiss it as a piece of video game hype rendered stale by the twenty-plus years that have now passed since its publication.
Among the most commonly successful works of epic fantasy, a surprisingly small number have shown more than a passing interest in directly interrogating the nationalist epics they derive so much of their mythos from. There are many stories in this genre revolving around exiled kings who set out to reclaim lost thrones, or lone warriors who seek to galvanize an entire nation against an ambiguously foreign threat, but we almost never see stories in this genre interested in examining the inverse of this material--books which ask the characters (and readers) to question the simplistic justifications and moral certainties of these foundational myths of the fantasy genre.
Core to The Book of Atrus's story of the three survivors of an ancient civilization is a surprisingly sharp examination of nationalism, and the solipsistic narcissism in which it is rooted. There is an echo in this novel's minimalist cast of many of the more common fantasy archetypes. In the form of Atrus there is a young boy seemingly destined to inherit the mystical knowledge and power of a lost civilization, and in the form of Atrus's father, Gehn, there is a wandering explorer who has spent decades in the ruins of an ancient kingdom pursuing a power which (he believes) represents his birthright. Yet The Book of Atrus manages to infuse these familiar tropes with a critical perspective that still comes across as fresh and inspired, even more than two decades after publication.
One example of how The Book of Atrus plays with its genre comes early on. Shortly after Gehn returns to the Cleft where Anna and Atrus live, Atrus overhears a heated conversation between his father and grandmother. Having explained his intentions of taking Atrus down into the ruins of the D'ni city, Gehn describes to Anna the desire he has for his son to learn to respect the history of the civilization from which all three of them come. Gehn is an individual who has at this point spent more than a decade working to record and preserve evidence of the accomplishments of the D'ni civilization, and now--having finally uncovered the basic principles underlying the magical Art which the D'ni once used to create new worlds--he is prepared to offer his only child all he knows.
However, Anna rightly responds to Gehn's lofty goals by pointing out that Atrus is a 14 year old boy who up until that morning had never even seen his father's face. How can Gehn expect a child to follow a total stranger down into a dangerous and unfamiliar realm, taking him away from the only home he's ever known in the process? It's here that Gehn's temper breaks, and when Anna insists that "Atrus belongs here" in the Cleft (rather than in the ruins of the D'ni city) he responds:
"Here?" There was an incredulity in Gehn's voice. "And where is here? Nowhere, that is where. A hole in the ground, that's all it is. Yes, and that's all it will ever be. This is no place for a son of mine. No place at all." (p.81)
There's a very simple reading which The Book of Atrus could easily have levied upon Gehn at a moment like this, since due to a somewhat heavy-handed prologue, we as readers already know Gehn to be a character who left Anna caring for his son in the wake of his wife's death during childbirth. As a result, the cavalier manner by which Gehn now dismisses the lives that Anna and Atrus have struggled to build for themselves in the intervening years implies him to be a man all too eager to shrug the task of child-rearing off on the nearest woman he can find. After all, Gehn only thinks to return to his son's life when Atrus is on what he deems to be the cusp of adulthood, a fact which implies he wishes to view himself as Atrus's father, but also refuses to accept the responsibilities of caring for a child which this role entails.
To be clear, this reading of Gehn's actions is not mistaken. He is presented by the novel as an irresponsible and absent father, and yet The Book of Atrus simultaneously examines these failures from a much broader social perspective when it links Gehn's shortcomings as a parent to his driving ideology towards the D'ni and what he thinks they represented. As Gehn and Anna continue their argument over Atrus's future, Gehn begins attacking not only the home Anna has built in the desert for herself and Atrus, but also the esteem for the D'ni civilization which he feels Anna does not hold. The exchange between both characters reads:
"You never valued it, did you?" he continued, not sparing her. "You never cared for it the way I cared. But I am not having that for my son. I want him to know about his past. I want him to be proud of it, the way I am proud of it." He bristled with indignation. "I will not betray him the way you betrayed me!"
"Gehn, how can you say that! I did my best for you!"
"Your best? And how good was your best? This hole in the ground you call a home? Is this your best?" (p.83)
This exchange brings an unexpected insight to Gehn's character--indicating that it's not merely a desire to preserve the history of the D'ni civilization that has motivated him to spend more than a decade in the ruins of this ancient city. Instead, Gehn is driven by a conviction that his identity as one of the last surviving D'ni citizens means that he is in some way owed something which Anna's humble but pragmatic life in the desert lacks.
That is, in taking pride in what he sees as his heritage, Gehn has become a person who defines himself so strongly by his link to a civilization that was destroyed many years earlier that he cannot accept a future in which that civilization might be absent. As a result, Gehn responds to Anna's simple but pragmatic ability to find a way to live without the D'ni as if this in and of itself were an insult to him--as if Anna's willingness to build a home in the desert for herself and his son were somehow a betrayal of what he feels he is owed from life.
This fact, when coupled with the way Gehn claims ownership of Atrus in the above paragraph (as though he sees both the D'ni city and his son as items of property to which he is entitled), leads the book to the simple conclusion that Gehn is a nationalist. Continually pining for the supposed glory of a ruined civilization he himself can only recall in foggy childhood memories, Gehn has rooted his own sense of personal worth and identity so firmly in what he thinks the D'ni were that he is incapable of accepting a future in which they might no longer exist.
These themes are continued as Gehn leads Atrus down through the caves below the volcano's caldera to the ruins of the D'ni capital. Here, as readers we are introduced to an intriguingly unique world that quickly becomes one of this novel's strongest features. Enclosed in a massive cavern, the ruined buildings of the D'ni city are described in intricate language, with this uninhabited realm being lit by a lake of bioluminescent algae that pulsates with the slowed cycles of a vast subterranean ecosystem.
Yet despite its vivid descriptions, the empty D'ni city also looms in the story as a foreboding presence. Both Gehn's and Atrus's explorations of this world reveal a realm scarred by the unseen catastrophe that mysteriously claimed the lives of everyone who once lived here, and this past--when coupled with the ambiguous way in which The Book of Atrus never directly explains what it was that destroyed the D'ni civilization--only increases the sense of unease which these portions of the book produce.
Who really were the D'ni, and why was their city destroyed? Just as with the Myst games, The Book of Atrus excels most when it leaves these questions up for the reader to consider on their own time--producing an ambiguity that is almost as interesting to ponder as the answers which were ultimately given by later books in the series. Meanwhile the novel's main storyline unfolds in the foreground, with Gehn's obsessive attachment to his own view of D'ni history soon leading him into a conflict with his son which illuminates the vast ideological gulf that exists between these two characters.
Criticisms (Plot Spoilers Follow)
Unfortunately The Book of Atrus does have some flaws that extend deeper than its occasionally heavy-handed writing and awkward dialog. While this novel takes as it's underlying themes the dangers of imperialism and colonialism, these are also story elements which the authors ultimately prove incapable of exploring with the care they demand.
Soon after arriving in the D'ni city, Atrus begins his own studies of the Art, and under his father's instructions sets to work on the monumental task of writing his own "Age" (as such worlds created by the D'ni were called). To help in his son's studies, Gehn introduces Atrus to the people of a world that he himself claims to have written into being--the dryly dubbed "Age 37." Here, on an island accessible via a portal in the first page of an ancient D'ni book, Gehn has used what little he already understands of the D'ni language, and used the Art to take control of Age 37's forces of nature. Posing as a deity to the indigenous civilization he's encountered on this world, Gehn has begun the task of constructing his own patch-worked amalgamation of D'ni culture and government. Essentially, in demanding that the residents of Age 37 cast off their original traditions and beliefs, Gehn has created an alternate society wherein he assumes the role of an authoritarian ruler, even producing a distorted cult-like religion which he demands that the residents of this world follow unquestioningly.
It's in this portion of the story that The Book of Atrus introduces the true cost of Gehn's narrow and single-minded pursuit of the Art and its power. In addition to the unease which Atrus instinctively feels at his father's proclamation that the D'ni were a race of gods (due to their supposed ability to, in Gehn's eyes, create new worlds with their writing), Atrus himself also soon learns that there's a more immediate threat which the people of Age 37 now face due to his father's actions.
As a consequence of the sloppy manner by which Gehn wrote the original Age 37 book (simply copying entire passages of D'ni text verbatim from unrelated volumes he did not fully understand) the planet of Age 37 has slowly begun crumbling in on itself. As contradictory statements written into this world's underlying reality begin tearing rifts in space and time, numerous sinkholes have been opening in the areas surrounding the main village. All the while, out on the ocean entire landmasses have begun vanishing into thin air, as if the very existence of this world itself has begun to fluctuate.
Realizing the danger, Atrus vows to win over his father's favor so that he might one day be made sole ruler of Age 37--working in secret to uncover the exact source of the damage that Gehn has enacted upon this world's reality before it's too late.
It's through this setup that The Book of Atrus could have but didn't examine the toxic influences that colonialist systems of power can have on even well-meaning individuals. Atrus's genuine desire to use his own limited knowledge of the Art to help the people of Age 37 is tempered by the ways in which he emulates the inherently unjust power structures which Gehn has already created--a system of government in which Gehn casts both himself and Atrus as dictators who must be obeyed unquestioningly. The result is that even as Atrus does his best to form meaningful relationships with the residents of Age 37, he still remains aloof and distant from the people he is seeking to help.
This distance is reflected directly in the novel's text, since with only a few seemingly random exceptions, the people of Age 37 are referred to primarily with generic signifiers rather than names (i.e. "the girl," or "the old woman").
To be clear, this all could have worked, and with proper care the theme of how Atrus's interactions with the people of Age 37 embody a clear example of the colonial gaze (with Atrus continually seeing those around him as living simple lives permanently removed from his own) might have become a tremendous asset to the novel's plot. This could have been the story of a well-meaning protagonist who sets out to do good with the power and authority he has been given, but whose efforts are ultimately thwarted not by some external evil, but instead his reluctance to examine and critique where this power and authority comes from.
Had The Book of Atrus taken the time to more fully explore the politics underlying Atrus's interactions with the people of Age 37, then the story would have become a genuinely subversive critique of colonialism. We could have had a novel in which Atrus attempts to correct the damage to Age 37's reality which Gehn has already enacted, all while ignoring or even outright disparaging input from the people whose lives he claims to be trying to save.
As the book stands however, Atrus's efforts to save the people of Age 37 from the threat that Gehn has brought upon them are eventually thwarted not by his own disinterest in these people's lives or experiences, but instead yet another manifestation of Gehn's hubris. Ultimately, the tragic fate of Age 37 and it's numerous (and largely unnamed) residents serves only to advance a relatively minor plot point--Atrus's belated realization that the Art does not in fact create new worlds as Gehn claims, but rather merely builds "links" to worlds that have always existed.
While certainly an interesting world-building concept for the novel to introduce, Atrus's true failing in this portion of the book is never adequately examined. Ultimately, Atrus and Gehn both witness the destruction of Age 37 and the deaths of the many people who live there, with Atrus realizing the extent to which his father has failed to grasp the science of the Art and how it truly operates. This realization in turn propels the novel into its final act, with Atrus working to prevent Gehn from bringing the same fate upon the residents of the other worlds he plans to write.
Yet because Atrus never seems to directly confront the way that Gehn's failures have already manifested in his own actions, this critical turn in the narrative comes across as hollow.
Concluding Thoughts
In the book's final chapters the quality of the novel's storytelling unfortunately begins to deteriorate. Scenes cease to flow into one another, and instead take on a jarring, lurching effect which makes the text sometimes feel more like a sequence of half-finished short stories and vignettes than a complete novel. A few famous locations from the original games make token appearances (such as Myst Island, and Riven), but even as there are glimmers of intrigue as iconic characters and places emerge, the novel never quite feels whole like it did in it's earlier chapters. By the time the story reaches its final conclusion (a conclusion which, to be fair, will be instantly recognizable to anyone who has ever seen the opening cinematic cutscene of the original 1993 Myst game), it's all started to feel more like the authors are hopping from one unrelated plot point to the next as they struggle to tie this story in to the video game franchise that shares its name.
And yet, despite not always carrying its themes well, Myst: the Book of Atrus does at least attempt to carry them. In spite of its failures, this novel still retains a sincerity in theme and subject that partially makes up for its more severe oversights. The result is that The Book of Atrus is not well-written exactly, but as a consequence of this fact it does manage to be one of those strange novels whose faults can be just as rewarding to examine as its successes.
Ultimately, The Book of Atrus represents something that's original and (at times) thoughtful. It left me wishing that there was more. Not more novels in a series necessarily, or more games to play, or even really more of the book I had just read. Just more.
I'm aware that that's not exactly glowing praise, but can I suggest that it's also not scathing criticism, either?