I have an unwavering love for bridges.

During my childhood, I dedicated a significant amount of time to designing them and constructing models.

I am enamored with pictures, photographs, and books that feature bridges, and I am equally fascinated by the engineering aspects.

I find great joy in sitting on bridges, beneath them, and simply looking at them, as if it makes me feel whole.

I have a particular affinity for the Forth Bridge in Scotland. Ever since I first saw it in The 39 Steps (directed by Hitchcock) and later when my Dad took me there when I was 10, it has held a special place in my heart.

I also like Iain Banks, who was raised on the Fife side of the Forth Bridge.

So, when I read this remarkable fantasy set within the girders of the Forth Bridge, where the bridge becomes a universe, it's no wonder I gave it 5 stars.

There is also a neat parable called The Bridge by Kafka, and Annie Lennox has some connection to it as well.

This deep-rooted love for bridges has truly shaped my perspective and interests.

This review contains a mild spoiler. I don't know if you can call it a spoiler, because the Amazon book description as well as the Publishers Weekly review both give it away. I think that's a crying shame, although it's not really a spoiler that would take a lot of brain cells to figure out on your own. Anyway, I wouldn't mention it in my review if it weren't a key reason why I disliked the novel. Are you ready? Here it is:

It's all a dream.

Sigh. This book was written 25 years ago, but even then the "it was all a dream" scenario wasn't really all that fresh or interesting. It takes a heckuva lot of talent to pull it off without getting readers to feel like they've wasted their time. After all, absolutely anything can happen in dreams, and so it's never really a surprise when anything does. Say goodbye to plot, conflict, tension, drama, or any of the other structural bits and pieces that authors use to guide their storytelling. The most you can do with "it was all a dream" is connect it in some way to reality and hope that the bridge is meaningful or profound in some way.

The metaphor of the bridge is a pretty hefty one here. Suffering from amnesia, our narrator is fished from the waters around a bridge. This is no ordinary bridge. It's so large that it seems to have no beginning or ending, and an entire civilization lives among its beams and girders. This is, in fact, a really cool idea and worth exploring. Meanwhile, our narrator is asked by his therapist to provide him with examples of his nightly dreams. Since he doesn't remember his dreams, he makes them up. At first. This is also a pretty interesting concept, and the narrator's dreams - both real and fake - are pretty fascinating stuff.

But it's really all just a fictional gumbo. The narrative voice slips and slides for no reason other than to increase the disorienting effect of the dreamscape. Different stories - including one about a warrior and his smart-mouthed familiar - gain and lose prominence as the book goes on. The narrator, inexplicably, makes it off of the bridge and into a city that appears to be at war. Then he comes back. Then there's a desert. Back and forth. Up and down. There's no consistency to any of it, but that's because it's a dream, you see.

The thing is, no one likes to be told about your dreams. It doesn't matter how cool your dream is to you, or even what cool ideas there are in it. If you start to explain your dream to someone and it lasts longer than a minute, they'll start getting that glazed look in their eyes. I felt the exact same way about this book. Once it became apparent that this was all just some kind of coma-dream, it developed a hollow, very aimless feeling, and I ended up wishing it were over sooner.

Banks does include a description of the narrator's life when he was awake, and it's actually kind of impressive how well he conveys an entire life with such economy of language. You speed through his childhood and school years and well into his adulthood, marking his successes and failures and even the size of his bald spot. Much of his life centers around an unconventional relationship with a woman. But, even though it's nifty how slickly Banks condenses this man's personality and life into such a small space, the guy and his history aren't especially compelling. Even the kinda-sorta open relationship that he has feels just as hollow and aimless as the dream world he spends most of the book inhabiting. And no, it's pretty clear that that isn't the point of the book.

While it was probably a ton of fun to write and while there are elements here and there that are imaginative and stimulating, the whole experience is ultimately as unsatisfying as trying to remember the details of your own dreams an hour after waking. It's ultimately unsuccessful, and you end up wondering why you're even bothering.

Con Banks adheres to a principle: he never writes the same story twice. And this is no easy feat, as at some point or another, all writers fall into self-plagiarism.

The story is fascinating. John Orr, our protagonist, lives in a place that isn't really a city. It's an enormous bridge where there are trains, trams, cities, airplanes that fly over the bridge for no apparent reason, dirigibles... and everything is inside the bridge. John suffers from amnesia and periodically visits the office of a doctor to whom he tells his dreams as therapy. These dreams are important to the story as they are yet another protagonist. But John is intrigued by this bridge. He asks and asks, but no one knows or wants to answer him. He tries to find the Library to get answers, but it seems that no one knows where it is located. It seems that John is lost until he meets a young woman... And this is a love story.

Banks writes very well and never disappoints. He knows how to tell a story and surprise with each of his books. It's a pity that he is only known by lovers of science fiction and fantasy.

I had to admit that the book was somewhat transparent. It was like a clear pane of glass through which I could easily see what was coming. I kept hoping that it would become something more than what the first chapter proposed. I was eager for some unexpected twists and turns, some depth and complexity that would draw me in and keep me hooked. But sadly, the main plot was always revealed way before it was time for it. There was no suspense, no mystery, no excitement.

The only really interesting bits were the ones that turned out to have no real connection to the story. It was as if the author had taken a few random ideas he had laying around, mashed them together haphazardly, and then, as the deadline was fast approaching, decided that the work was good enough and called it a day. The result was a sloppy, transparent, and bland piece of writing.

Can't say I recommend it as a novel. It lacks the structure, the pacing, and the character development that a good novel requires. However, it could cut it as a decent short collection of short stories. The individual bits that were interesting, if taken out of context and polished up a bit, could make for some enjoyable reading. But as a whole, the book is a disappointment.

A man suffering from amnesia resides on a colossal bridge that houses an entire city. He is tasked with describing his dreams to his doctor in an effort to recover his lost memories. However, instead of being honest, he tells lies to his doctor and keeps his true dreams to himself.

Inside his apartment, his TV now only displays an unconscious man lying in a hospital bed. Does he recognize this man, or is this yet another dream? And if it is a dream, then what is real?

When Banks first emerged on the literary stage, his debut work, "The Wasp Factory," was acclaimed as a (disturbing) triumph. I would contend that "The Bridge" (his third novel) is far more excellent. It is a combination of literary fiction, science fiction, and fable. The story showcases Banks' characteristic allure, cleverness, and warmth that he is widely known for. It is wonderfully imaginative and an absolute delight to read.

4.5 Stars

I truly desired to fall in love with this novel. The concept of a series of dreams and a protagonist on a quest to uncover their meaning

and ultimately an escape was highly intriguing to me. It seemed like an idea that was brimming with the potential for unrestrained strangeness and creativity within the dreams themselves, all born entirely from metaphor. It already had a built-in mystery that should have been captivating. I was eagerly hoping for something along the lines of Murakami's Hardboiled Wonderland at the End of the World or a story that truly embodied the Kafkaesque feeling.

However, what I actually received was weak characterization. This made the protagonist's search for the meaning of the bridge lackluster and unengaging. The mystery was underdeveloped and felt obvious and cliched by the first one-third of the book. There was a failure to fully embrace the off-kilter and frustrating nature that Kafka was known for. Additionally, the dream world was so boring and unremarkable that it was almost remarkable in its very unremarkableness.

Perhaps this book was more original and gripping when it was first released in a time when these types of stories hadn't been done better countless times. But in the present day, there is very little here to find interesting. It would be a better choice to watch Jacob's Ladder instead.

I must admit that I have never read anything more interesting and special so far..oh, and more fascinating. Here and there I didn't even really know what was actually happening, but... it was worth it. That directness. There is no playing around, no plot twist, but we are collecting the clues of the answers in advance and piecing them together ourselves..

I had never read anything by Banks before, so I had no idea what was waiting for me. And if I ever get my hands on any of his works again, I will pounce on it...

This kind of writing style really吸引了me. It makes me feel as if I am actively participating in the story, rather than just being a passive reader. The simplicity and directness of the language also add to the charm of the book. I found myself completely沉浸in the world that the author had created, eager to uncover the mysteries and solve the puzzles.

I would highly recommend this book to anyone who is looking for a unique and engaging reading experience. It may not be for everyone, but for those who appreciate a different kind of storytelling, it is definitely worth a try.

A surreal trip through the mind of a man in a coma, "The Bridge" takes the reader on an extraordinary journey across a bizarre dreamscape. The imagined worlds are intricately interwoven with the life of the man whose mind we are delving into (or, at least, think we are). I was truly amazed by the vast number of different settings that Banks managed to explore in the text without it feeling overly cluttered. In fact, it made me question why "it was all a dream" -type plots are often regarded as clichéd. This story serves as a testament to the psychological richness of this premise, where the boundaries between reality, memory, dream, and fiction become delightfully blurred. There is indeed a wealth of elements to explore and analyze in the world of the bridge, with allusions to class, sexuality, psychology, Scottishness, and more.

I also found the relationship between the world of the bridge in the man's mind and the real Forth Bridge quite fascinating. The way the imaginary bridge seemed to blend different cityscapes and historical periods into a strange mishmash added an extra layer of intrigue. However, at times, I felt that the sections describing episodes from the man's life didn't seamlessly blend with the zaniness of the bridge. These parts created a dichotomy between "the real world" and "the world in the man's mind" that was a bit too distinct for my taste. I found myself longing for Banks to have maintained the ambiguity and weirdness, the confusion between what is real and what is imagined. I'm not entirely sure if the book requires all the lengthy biographical chunks. They almost seem to belong to a different book compared to the sections set on the bridge. On the other hand, the variations in style and tone are precisely one of the reasons why I enjoyed this book so much. So, I'm rather on the fence about it.

All in all, "The Bridge" is a great - albeit weird - read. It is perfect for anyone who has an interest in richly layered, psychologically engaging stories.

Car crash, coma, awake inside with amnesia. Life seems good on the surface. Nice apartment, fine dining, and money to spare even for luxuries. But there are many curiously ordinary things. Living on a huge bridge that fades into the distance towards unknown landfalls and with an obscure history.

"Why do I have the impression that Brooke isn't really listening to me? This happens sometimes. I talk to people, but a sort of emptiness seems to come over them. As if the face is really a mask, with the real person hidden behind it. Normally, they're pressed up against the inside like a child with their nose against a sweet-shop window. But when I'm talking to them, trying to make a difficult or unacceptable point, they lift the internal self away from the mask and turn inward... Perhaps it's me, I think. Maybe only I have this effect on people; nobody else does. Well, this is paranoid thinking, I suppose." p. 64

Trapped inside a bed: "I don't have to be here, you know. I could be any damn place I want to. Here in my mind, in my brain, in my skull (and that all seems so ob-). No. (No because 'It all seems so obvious now' is a cliché, and I have an in-built, ingrained, indignant dislike of clichés (and cliques, and clicks). Aktcherly, the bit about clicks was stretching a point (mathematically nonsense because if you stretch a point you get a line, in which case it isn't a goddam point anymore, is it?) I mean, what is the bloody point? Where was I? (Damn these lights, and tubes, and being turned over, and getting jabbed; a chap can lose his concentration, don't you know...)" p. 97

Life in Scotland in the 1970s and '80s. Music and cars, drink and drugs, work and success, conversations, love. 1974: "He worked, he got on. His mum and dad were proud of him... he had a bigger and better BMW instead of the Cortina. John Peel played reggae on night-time Radio One. He bought 'Past, Present and Future' by Al Stewart. 'Post World War Two Blues' very nearly made him cry. 'Roads to Moscow' actually did once, and 'Nostradamus' annoyed him. He played 'The Confessions of Doctor Dream' a lot, lying with the headphones on, spreadeagled on the floor in the darkness, smashed out of his skull and humming along with the music. The first track on the eponymous second side was called 'Irreversible Neural Damage'. p. 190-191

"...They argued, but always amicably. He was never able to explain quite why they got on, or how. Perhaps because in the end neither took anything the other said seriously. Perhaps because neither of them took anything they said themselves seriously. Perhaps because neither of them took anything at all entirely seriously. They did agree it was all a game. Elvis Presley died, but he cared more that Groucho Marx died in the same week..." p. 195-196

"She looked up at him, a sort of ironical, roguish expression on her face. 'Do you really love me?' she said, apparently unbelieving. He shrugged. 'Fraid so.' 'You're a fool,' she chided gently, lifting one hand to play with a lock of his hair, smiling at it. 'You think so,' he said, lowering himself for a moment, kissing the tip of her nose. 'Yes,' she said. 'I am fickle and selfish.' 'You are generous and independent.' He brushed some wind-blown hair away from near her eyes. She laughed, shook her head. 'Well, love is blind,' she said. 'So they tell us.' He sighed. 'Can't see it myself.'" p. 205

American politics 1984: "'Those idiots!' he fumed to Stewart. 'Another four years with that dingbat in charge!' Christal-fucking-mighty! A senile clown surrounded by a gang of xenophobic reactionaries!'... Ronald Reagan had just been elected for another term; half the people who could have voted in the election, hadn't. 'Why don't I get a vote?' he raged... if that buffoon's liver-spotted finger hits the button my old man's dead; probably all of us are; you, me, Andrea, Shona, and the kids; everybody I love... so why don't I get a vote?' 'No annihilation without representation,' Stewart said, thoughtfully..." p. 242-243

"They'd talked about a story mentioned on television and in the press that week, about an émigré Russian engineer living in France who'd crashed his car in England. A lot of money had been found in the car and he was under suspicion of having committed a crime in France. He had apparently gone into a coma, but the doctors seemed to think he was faking. Devious bastard, us engineers..." p. 260

Yet another life: "... Ah coold tell this wiz all goantae be anuthir toatil wayste of time an ah wuznae very pleased alredy, but at leest ah thought, there shoold be this byootifull sleepin lassy; ment tae be ded luvly, supposed to wake up with a kiss; whit ahmm gonatae giv her shoold make her really fukin lively, ah thoght. But its a man! 'Aw fuk! Just a room an a man lyin in bed all white-faced an asleep. There's these big things like metal chests on theyre sides all clustered around him an wee bit things like strings attached tae him. Fuk aw else. Ahm about to slit the basturts throate jus on generil principils when this bit ov the waw suddenly starts talkin to me, an this painting appeers on it, only the paintin moves! Its a wumin's fayce; a no-bad lookin lassy with red hair. 'Don't', she sez..." P. 161-162

Somewhat later: "...I suppose three hunner odd years is no a bad score, but bugger it, I still don't feel ready to die, but looks like I've got no choyce in the matter. The familiar tried a few things (no choyce for him either; he's stuck with me), but nothing's worked so far and I think the wee bastard's run out of ideas; trust him to bugger things up now, when I could really do with his help. He says he's still got some irons in the fire, whitever that's supposed to mean. Either giving up golf or thinking about torchering somebody..." p. 250

"The flying castle is sitting on this hillside; we landed it here weeks ago after visiting this planit where they claim to be able to make people live for ever. Whatever they did, it didn't work on me and the wee familiar (they said they'd no experience with something like us, a swordsman and a familiar). The familiar... gave away half the magic gear that we had – crystal balls that fortel the future, enchanted sub-machine-guns, magic missils and that sort of stuff. But didn't give all the good stuff away; kept the flying castle itself and some bits and pieces like a jacket that flies, the Universal Translator and a few tonnes of invisible platinum in the hold. Even found some new batteries for the old dirk; the 'knife-missile' as the familiar calls it. Its batteries ran out about a century ago and it was just a no very sharp knife after that what I kept for sentimental reasons..." p. 252

The life of Alexander Lennox in our world – of the 1970s and 1980s – is very nearly all exposition, viewed through his mind. Some of this I found trying, soporific even. I suspect that at least some of it is autobiographical. Mr Banks was a car buff and Alexander buys and swaps a lot of different cars. Alexander lives in Edinburgh where Mr Banks also lived and his best friend lives in Dunfermline, across the Forth, where Mr Banks was born and later came to live. Both Alexander and Mr Banks admire the Forth Bridge. There is much reference to the popular music. This is perhaps a means to mark time. I have a friend who used to keep track of the years by remembering which albums had come out. Even though I am of the same generation as Mr Banks, almost none of the musicians are familiar to me. Too Scottish? Too progressive?

The coma patient had the smallest part, but one of the more poignant. I cannot begin to guess if this has any basis in fact. Can patients in a coma be aware of their surroundings?

John Orr (if that is his name), living on the bridge, was always entertaining, moving socially from the top to the bottom, finding love and losing it, travelling from the strange and obscure to the horrific.

And Conan – or whatever name our "swordsman" bears – is hugely delightful speaking an understandable Scots dialect driven purely by instinct to pillage and plunder.

All in all a somewhat demanding book, but like all good literature worth taking the trouble to understand – to try to understand, to connect disparate elements, try different interpretations of the flood of symbols, some obvious, some obscure. To really come to grips with this I should reread the book immediately. Hardly a "wayste of time" but I ain't gonna.

This is, first and foremost, a love story. As a confessed Romantic, this is my favorite Iain M. Banks book.

But it is much more than a love story, even if it is one that resonates very powerfully within me. It is also a vision of the wonders and depths of human fantasy. It shows how every single one of us holds the potential for wonder.

In a way, it is Whitman's quote given form:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

The story seems to embody the idea that we are all complex beings with a multitude of emotions, thoughts, and dreams.

And I love Bridges. There is a special place in my heart for the two Firth of Forth bridges. They stand as symbols of human engineering and beauty.

Maybe it's the way they span the water, connecting one side to the other. Or perhaps it's the sense of history and grandeur that they exude.

Whatever the reason, they add another layer of depth and charm to this already captivating story.

Overall, this book is a masterpiece that combines elements of love, fantasy, and the human spirit in a truly remarkable way.

A curious, unsettling and mesmeric journey unfolds as we delve into the mind of a man who lies comatose in the hospital after a terrible accident.

What particularly intrigues and amuses me are the man's dreams within dreams. Conceptually, it brings to mind the film Inception. He goes to great lengths to fabricate these dreams to appease his psychologist.

There are likely numerous deeper meanings and allusions at play here. I suspect they are quite personal and perhaps only truly meaningful to Banks himself.

Yet, it is fascinating to catch a glimpse of the dreams that are playing inside the man's mind. As he struggles to regain his identity, he is cast about by the whims of his subconscious. It's like peeking into a hidden world that is both strange and captivating, leaving us with a sense of wonder and a desire to understand more about the inner workings of the human mind.

Wow. What an incredibly crazy and ambitious book this is.

It's definitely not the sort of work that an author could produce as a debut.

To me, it seems as if there are countless books and films that have been inspired by this piece of literature.

This is a testament to Banks's wild and highly creative imagination, as he was coming up with such innovative and unique ideas before anyone else.

I was able to identify all kinds of elements that would later appear in other works: hints of Inception, The Matrix, Alex Garland's The Coma, and even the transcription of Scottish dialect that would show up in Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting several years later.

This was initially a tough book to get into, but I'm extremely glad that I persevered.

It gradually became something truly enormous, something brilliant and breathtaking, much like the giant structure of the bridge itself.

I still feel a bit sentimental whenever I read Iain Banks.

I ration his books and have been trying not to read them all at once, especially since his passing.

While reading this particular book, I thought about how tragic it was that he died so young at the age of 59.

However, when I read sections like this from the 80s, I can see evidence of his ebullience back then, a quality that I don't believe he ever lost.

I truly hope he lived his life in accordance with this quote and had no regrets when he died:

Damn it I wanna do things! I want to travel the Trans-Siberian, go to India, stand on Ayers Rock, get sodden wet in Machupicchu! I want to surf! I will get a hang-glider; I want to go back to the Grand Canyon and get further than just the rim rock this time, I want to see the aurora borealis from Svalbard or Greenland, I want to see a total eclipse, I want to watch pyroclastic displays, I want to walk inside a lava tunnel, I want to see the earth from space, I want to drink chang in Ladakh, I want to cruise down the Amazon and up the Yangtze and walk the Great Wall; I want to visit Azania! I want to watch them push helicopters off the aircraft carriers again! I want to be in bed with three women at once!

And here's a quote that we can probably all relate to:

No, I don't know where I am.
No, I don't know who I am.
Yes of course I know it's all a dream.
Isn't everything?