SOLENOID

A beguiling novel that plunges deep into subterranean conspiracy theories while questioning the nature of reality.

“You can’t sow the world with dreams, because the world itself was a dream.” The 27-year-old protagonist of Romanian novelist Cărtărescu’s waking-dream book is a teacher who has a decidedly Dostoyevskian discontentment with the world: He wanted to be a writer, but one particularly sharp-tongued critic, calling a poem of his “a pointless whirlpool of words,” stopped his literary career in its tracks. Now, at the beginning of the novel, he finds himself battling the lice that are epidemic among his students. Parasites are much on his mind throughout this sprawling narrative. So, too, is death a constant preoccupation: Why should he, why should anyone, accumulate knowledge and experience only, in the end, to be annihilated? When not pondering the eternal void, the young man is suspended in a kind of nightly dream state courtesy of the titular solenoid that the previous owner of his house, a protégé of Nikola Tesla’s who spent a long career inventing very strange things, not least of them this particular electromagnetic contraption, left behind, thanks to which, our narrator says, “I always slept aloft, floating between the bed and ceiling, occasionally turning over like a swimmer in a lazy, glittering light.” It’s not the only solenoid hidden away in the back alleys and tunnels of Bucharest, and one day the city itself will float away. Before then, however, our teacher and his girlfriend, a physics teacher smitten by theosophy, are drawn into the occult world of a group called the Picketists, condemned by the regime but capable of all kinds of mischief, whose members include a surprising number of people who figure in what passes for our teacher’s ordinary life. Cărtărescu writes poetically and philosophically (“What visceral and metaphysical mechanism converts the objective into the subjective?”), and while the story doesn’t always add up, it’s full of arresting images and eldritch twists that would do Umberto Eco proud.

A masterwork of Kafkaesque strangeness, brilliantly conceived and written.