What Is The Somnambulist Book About?

A friend shoved 'The Somnambulist' into my hands saying, 'You like weird? Here’s your weird.' And boy, was she right. Imagine Sherlock Holmes if he’d teamed up with a sideshow act and stumbled into a Lovecraft story. The plot kicks off with Moon investigating a seemingly straightforward murder, but soon he’s knee-deep in doppelgängers, secret experiments, and a villain who’s basically Victorian London’s worst roommate. Barnes’ world-building is deliciously immersive—you can practically smell the Thames’s grime. The Somnambulist himself is a mystery wrapped in enigma; his scenes are equal parts touching and unsettling. What I adore is how the book winks at classic detective tropes while dunking them in surreal horror. That scene with the ‘ghost’ theater performance? Pure nightmare fuel. It’s not perfect—some twists feel rushed—but the sheer audacity of it all left me grinning like a loon.

I stumbled upon 'The Somnambulist' during a weekend bookstore crawl, and its eerie cover instantly hooked me. The novel blends Victorian mystery with supernatural twists, following Edward Moon, a stage magician turned detective, and his silent, milk-drinking giant partner, the Somnambulist. Their cases unravel into something far darker—government conspiracies, grotesque murders, and a secret society pulling strings. Jonathan Barnes’ prose feels like a macabre love letter to penny dreadfuls, with London’s foggy alleys dripping with menace. What really stuck with me was how it juggles absurd humor (like a villain obsessed with bad poetry) and genuine horror—those last chapters still haunt my dreams.

Moon’s flawed brilliance and the Somnambulist’s eerie presence make an unforgettable duo. The book doesn’t just solve crimes; it peels back layers of reality until you question who’s really pulling the strings. If you enjoy Neil Gaiman’s 'Neverwhere' or Susanna Clarke’s weird historical vibes, this’ll be your jam. Just maybe don’t read it alone at midnight—trust me on that.

Barnes’ 'The Somnambulist' is a carnival mirror of a book—distorted, fascinating, and a bit grotesque. Moon’s investigations start as quirky period-piece mysteries but spiral into something far weirder, like if 'Doctor Who' took a grimdark detour. The titular character’s childlike innocence contrasts brutally with the story’s violence, making his moments oddly poignant. I devoured it in two sittings, equal parts horrified and delighted. That scene where Moon confronts his own failures? Chef’s kiss. Not for the squeamish, but perfect for fans of layered, genre-bending chaos.

Reading 'The Somnambulist' felt like falling down a rabbit hole lined with velvet and razor blades. Edward Moon’s London isn’t just a setting; it’s a character—gaslit and grinning, hiding teeth. The story’s structure mirrors Moon’s magic tricks: misdirection everywhere. Just when you think it’s a detective romp, Barnes yanks the rug out with body horror or metaphysical dread. The Somnambulist, mute and towering, becomes this heartbreaking symbol of lost humanity amid the chaos. Minor characters shine too, like the jaded inspector who’s seen too much (relatable).

Critics call it ‘steampunk,’ but that’s too tidy—it’s more like Dickens on absinthe. The climax, with its surreal bureaucratic horrors, stuck with me for weeks. If you dig messy, ambitious stories that prioritize vibe over neat resolutions, this’ll thrill you. Fair warning: that milk-drinking detail? You’ll side-eye dairy forever after.