"Dear Emma does not waste her energies upon novels like other women" – Susanna Clarke.

The first act of magic involves statues. The second main character does not enter until one-third of the way through. I have read this novel described under the guise of 'Children's Books' and while I would not dispute this to be true, I worry that it does a disservice to the pages I am leafing my way through.

I worry that the Austen vibes (and splashings of Victor Hugo too?) could be lost on an unsuspecting prepubescent reader searching for Harry Potter. And then I worry that I am a literary snob (I am most definitely this, too).

People may think a little goes a long way. I agree. And yet, this book is powerful in its over-indulgence. I could take or leave the archaic spellings and the sprawling back notes and yet this would take away something. The spells are cast in magic (or magic) and you cannot help but be beholden.

It turns out, I do not believe in casting spells sparingly. I like them spinning out openly in front of me, unspooling, and cooling in threads around my feet.

Not to be outdone by the scholarly accompaniments, I have done my research too. The origins unfurled their limbs in 1992, 20 years a slave to the literary de jour, 20 years to find their feet, square, steadfast, shoulder-to-shoulder, storing in their accomplishments.

The reader cannot help but find their way too. This novel does blur the lines and takes great delight in sending up the genres it attempts to uphold; the protagonists can be lifeless at times, marionettes of spaces they wish to imbibe, bloodless, dancing in the eaves; but this does not detract from its small delights.

It is a light, held up to the candle of our expanding times. These are lives, spiralling out to the edges of their times, hedging me in, further and further, deeper and deeper in until I am an Abeba, softly breathing in.

Disappearing into the darkness, "think of me with my nose in a book"; think of me this way too.

My mum has chosen my next book. So, let's see. My husband did not take too kindly to my passing swipe. Let's take a look at how I do.

Read part one of The Unreliable Narrator's review of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke.

The Unreliable Narrator is originally from Northamptonshire and has lived in Penarth for almost five years. They will be writing a book review for Penarth Nub News every Saturday, whether it's based on a treasure found in a second-hand book shop or a glossy hardback from Griffin Books.