Weighty, sloppy, thought-provoking, ill-disciplined, moving, incredibly-researched, boring, electrifying, intelligent fantasy.
This one very nearly became the first book on my abandoned pile a great many times, it is a novel that demands work from you in exchange for the most meagre of rewards for roughly 60% of it's length. When you're writing double-spaced, large-font airport trash that's one thing, but when you've penned a granitic ~500 page tome you've really got to have your pacing and prose locked down tighter than this.
The Stress of Her Regard is a book that attempts to re-contextualise almost everything modern fiction has led us to understand about vampires whilst weaving them into the fabric of our history, the dominant Abrahamic mythology and all the stories that have dogged every human civilization about human-like creatures among us that eat the flesh and drink the blood of our friends and neighbours. A novel that proudly wears it's Literate badge pinned to it's Poetic Canon chest whilst simultaneously trying to tell a linear genre-piece narrative about people attempting to fight vampires with garlic and iron stakes. So; not a book stymied by lack of ambition.
This fascinated and impressed me initially when I heard it, so I'll share it with you: Tim Powers takes documented history of the time and weaves into that a semi-plausible backbone of fantasy to account for why the records are contradictory, or -in this case- why the great poets all seem to suffer from the same ailments and have their thoughts pulled in similar directions (did you know: Byron's physician Polidori is credited with having written the first English vampire story?). He intersperses passages from journals and letters at the beginning of chapters in a way that sometimes grates as only quotidian clever-cleverness can, but occasionally makes the spine tingle from top to tail.
Powers, for all his many laudable qualities (some of which I will laud shortly), is not -unfortunately - someone who could be accused of consistency. I've never known someone do such unstinting, painstaking research before only to get the feel of the time period he clearly knows better than his own utterly wrong. Make no mistake, if you were to give Powers a date he could tell you what Lord Byron ate, how he was disposed towards the world and why. In light of this; why do Byron, Shelley and Keats (and Michael Crawford, our fictional protagonist) talk like academically inclined Americans?
I'm not asking to be subjected to Master and Commander or Pride and Prejudice (in fact I'm asking never to be subjected to either ever again), but people saying "I guess" and "What the hell" in the early 19th century is glaring. Plus later they seem to be aware of DNA and atomic theory (they don't use those names but this is sparse cover for the mistake, especially when the concepts are used as expository wiffle to make tenuous, unnecessary "sense" of his proposed silicate life-forms).
As well as this we're lumbered with an -initially- inert protagonist who is steadfast in his refusal to ask the obvious, sensible questions of people around him who understand what's going on. Then comes the worst of all narrative sins: Excessive description.
This can be forgiven -if not overlooked- in some cases (later in this very novel, for example, my annoyance at being told what he was eating for an entire paragraph barely registered because Crawford had a goal he was pursuing and clear motivations as to why) but following some useless twerp around the continent while he refuses to take control of the situation is bad enough without being assailed by constant descriptions of what the stuff he was doing looked like and how he felt about it. It's enough to know that he shovelled ballast into a boat in order to escape pursuit, telling me that it was a task he quickly took pride in, what the ballast consisted of, how it smelled, that he was worried he wouldn't get paid for his work and how his hands hurt from the shovel are not things that interest normal people.
There are other gaping flaws in the text, as well. Such as how immortal timeless hyper-monsters with seemingly infinite magical powers manage to be just stupid enough to be repeatedly outwitted by humans with iron sticks, the bizarre way he writes out languages in Latin, French and Italian to show that he can then translates them immediately afterwards (either put it in English italics or just be proud of your pretension and refuse to translate for us proles) and why the Nephilim seem to need to drink a fluid consisting mainly of salt-water with some carbon and nitrogen for sustenance when it's explicitly and repeatedly stated that they existed before men and other carbonate life-forms did.
However, once you make it past that 60% breakwater the book comes together with the inevitable satisfaction of a sunset. Plot threads twine together, tabs find slots you hadn't realised were even slots, characters start to break free of the dreamlike ennui in which they wandered and things happen because our motley crew of flawed, real people want them to. There's also a story of genuine love as a force for redemption and hope that's handled with such touching honesty and tenderness that you'd have to have a silicate heart to be unmoved.
It's a terrible shame he didn't start the novel that way.
P.S. As an irrelevant aside, TSoHR was republished in 2008 to cash in on the vampire craze and this very nearly convinced me to give the book five stars and a fake review because the idea of someone reading the Twilight quadrilogy then picking this up because it's also nominally about interspecies romance makes me laugh like a child.