Personal Interpretation of "Piranesi"

A few weeks ago, I turned the last page of Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. Yes, I’m aware—I’m late to the party. The novel follows the story of a man trapped in a labyrinthine world whose existence feels vast and confined. At first, I didn’t see the book as something that lent itself to psychological interpretation. But as I revisited the passages I’d highlighted, I began to see connections—threads that could be woven into my own experiences and even tied to psychological theories. It’s funny how a story can reveal new layers when you step back and let it breathe.

When we first meet Piranesi, we know as little as he does about how he ended up in this strange, endless world. His name itself isn’t even his own; it was given to him by “The Other,” the only other inhabitant of this place. The Other is an older man, wise in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling. He meets with Piranesi regularly, almost ritualistically, and their conversations are a lifeline in an otherwise solitary existence.

Writing inculcates habits of precision and carefulness. The second is to preserve whatever knowledge I possess…

Writing, as a whole, has always been something I’ve approached with a sense of caution. From a young age, I was taught to respect the power of letters and words and to understand how much meaning they can carry within them. This reverence for the written word is deeply ingrained in both my Swedish and Lebanese heritage. On my Lebanese side, particularly, the written word in the Arabic language holds a profound significance. It’s not just a means of communication; it’s a symbol of identity, faith, and the rich tapestry of Islamic civilisation. Every curve of the Arabic script feels like a bridge to history, culture, and something greater than myself. (https://openjournals.library.sydney.edu.au/SSR/article/download/114/134).

On the other hand, writing has also played a significant role in my journey in psychology. Reflective practice, a cornerstone of personal development for many practitioner psychologists, is something I’ve tried to incorporate into my life. It’s a tool that encourages you to look inward, to examine your thoughts and actions, and to grow from that self-analysis. As an aspiring psychologist, I’ve dabbled in reflective writing, although I’m not always consistent. It’s a practice I admire and one I hope to strengthen over time.

However, reflective writing isn’t exclusive to psychologists. Take journaling, for example. For many, it’s a form of therapy, a way to process the chaos of life. Journaling asks you to dig deeper— or sometimes, to let go and skim the surface. It can be a space to think intensely, to unravel complex emotions, or to let your thoughts flow without judgment. The beauty of journaling lies in its flexibility; there are no rules, no right or wrong way to do it.

I’ve tried journaling, though I’ll be the first to admit I’m inconsistent. There are weeks when I pour my thoughts onto the page and others when the notebook sits untouched. But even in my inconsistency, I see the value in it. It’s a practice I want to return to, refine, and make a more permanent part of my life. Writing feels like a journey in all its forms—one I’m still learning to navigate.

Is it disrespectful to the House to love some Statues more than the others? I sometimes ask Myself this question. It is my belief that the House itself loves and blesses equally everything that it has created. Should I try to do the same? Yet, at the same time, I can see that it is in the nature of men to prefer one thing to another, to find one thing more meaningful than another.

 Reflecting on this quote, I interpreted Piranesi’s view of the House as something divine—perhaps even a deity in its own right. He contemplates whether favouring specific creations over others diminishes them, as if admiration itself could be an act of neglect. This dilemma troubles him, for it suggests a kind of disrespect toward the House’s totality. Yet, he also recognises the inherent nature of human beings—our tendency to form preferences, hold opinions, and see beauty differently.

This struggle resonated deeply with me. Growing up in a religious household, I was constantly caught in the web of conflicting interpretations. I lived in fear of transgressing the values instilled in me, constantly questioning whether my thoughts or actions strayed from the path I was taught to follow. Looking back, I trace my habit of overthinking to these early years—when I felt vulnerable to the shifting tides of doctrine and expectation, uncertain of how I should think, behave, or even exist.

This uncertainty led me to withdraw. I receded into solitude, trapped in my mind, struggling to navigate a world that seemed rigidly divided into black and white. There was no space for ambiguity, no room for interpretation—only rules, absolutes, and the suffocating weight of self-doubt.

It wasn’t until later, as I widened my perspective that I began to see the world differently. I understood that life does not have to be confined to the interpretations of a select few. Instead, we must seek our own way, discovering what aligns with our nature. Whether in philosophy, exercise, sport, or even the food we eat, the right path is not universal—it is personal. And in that realisation, I found a sense of freedom I never knew I needed.

The World feels Complete and Whole, and I, its child fit into it seamlessly.

When I first came across this quote in the book, my mind immediately drifted to the concept of positive thinking and the idea of an internal locus of control. At the time, it felt like a gentle reminder of something I’ve always believed in, even if I don’t always practice it perfectly—that our mindset, choices, and how we interpret the world around us can shape our reality. As I’ve come to understand it, an internal locus of control is the belief that we can influence the outcomes in our lives through our actions and decisions. It’s the opposite of feeling like a passive bystander in your own story.

I remember learning about this concept while doing my undergraduate studies at Stirling, and it struck me as both empowering and daunting. It was empowering because it suggested that we’re not entirely at the mercy of external circumstances and daunting because it places a particular responsibility on us to take ownership of our lives. People with a strong internal locus of control tend to have a more positive outlook, are more motivated, and cope better with challenges. It’s as if they carry an invisible compass, guiding them through life’s uncertainties with a sense of agency and purpose.

But it’s not just about optimism or blind positivity. It’s about recognising that we can choose how we respond even in adversity. This idea has stayed with me, especially when life feels overwhelming. I’ve noticed that when I lean into this mindset and remind myself that I have some degree of control over my reactions and decisions, I feel less weighed down by stress. It’s like a psychological safety net.

That said, I’ll admit it’s not always easy to maintain. There are days when external pressures feel so heavy that it’s hard to believe in my own agency. In those days, the idea of an internal locus of control can feel more like a lofty ideal than a practical tool. But even then, I try to remind myself that it’s not about being perfect—it’s about striving, about making small choices that add up over time. And maybe that’s the real beauty of it: it’s not a fixed trait but a practice, something we can cultivate through reflection and intention.