On the very first line of anthologist Michael Cox’s debut novel THE MEANING OF NIGHT, our narrator has admitted to killing a total stranger just to see how it feels, then following it up with a delicious oyster supper.

His name is Edward Glyver (or Glapthorn, depending on his ruse), a 19th-century gentleman who believes his crime is unseen, but quickly receives clues and outright notes of blackmail that strongly suggest otherwise. Thus, his first-person murder mystery isn’t a whodunit, but a whosawmedunit?

Before he can answer, Edward jumps back in time to relate the story of his upbringing, as well as that of his longtime rival from school, famed poet Phoebus Daunt. They weren’t always enemies; indeed, they were friends until Edward was wronged by Phoebus, resulting in our narrator’s expulsion – an incident he has vowed never to forget and spends the book making good on that promise as he comes to terms with his secret lineage.

Sprawling and mannered (and sometimes, with a wink, delightfully ill-mannered), THE MEANING OF NIGHT is an accurate representation of a Victorian “sensation novel,” a la Wilkie Collins. As such, the dense work tops the scale at a wrist-aching, toe-breaking 700 pages. Its length may put off some, but the overall journey is quite rewarding.

In voice (and predisposition to footnotes), its first 100 pages reminded me of Susanna Clarke’s JONATHAN STRANGE & MR. NORRELL, though absent of all elements of the fantastic. Admittedly, the pacing suffers a bit once the clock is wound backward (where it remains until it works itself up toward the climax); one could argue much of the information being dealt is superfluous, but Cox rather ingeniously has a hidden purpose to it all, with the final 100 pages packing as much of a feverish punch.

Another minor quibble may be the abundance of names; then again, what Victorian novel wasn’t rooted with huge family trees? But essentially, Edward’s confession stands as a revenge story between two – perhaps three –  players, and they’re all that truly matter. When boiled down to that cold-hearted core, MEANING is uniformly excellent. –Rod Lott

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