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The other Messerschmitt veers toward the Seine. The roofs shake again, this time from below. Something comes up from inside Paris. A pale tree-wide tendril, shaggy with bright foliage. It rises. Clutches of buds or fruit the size of human heads quiver. It blooms vastly above the skyline. The German pilot flies straight at the vivid flowers, as if smitten, plant-drunk. He plunges for the vegetation. It spreads trembling leaves. The great vine whips up one last house-height and takes the plane in its coils. It yanks it down below the roofs, into the streets, out of sight. There is no explosion. The snagged aircraft is just gone, into the deeps of the city."
That description of a WWII aerial battle is beautifully written. But in China MiƩville's "The Last Days of New Paris," the language isn't figurative. It's literal.
After the jump, my review.