Making my way to the end of the second book in Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast trilogy. Simply put, this is proving to be one of my very favorite reads of all time. Written between 1946 and 1959, they tell the fantastical tale of Titus Groan, the 77th Earl and Lord of Castle Gormenghast. The books are utterly unlike anything else I've ever read, being fantasy in the sense that they take place in a giant castle that more or less encompasses the whole of the character's universe, but so far there hasn't really been anything supernatural; quite the contrary, it's all marvelously mundane, more Downton Abbey than Middle-Earth. Peake's writing is a thing of wonder, given to exhaustively long sentences, head-hopping, meandering asides, and all the other great tricks that modern critics rail against as a matter of course--even at his most purple, Peake is a virtuoso of the language, with a glorious wit. Take these three examples, being descriptions of several principle players, as indicative of the style:
The chief valet of the old Earl, Mr. Flay:
"Mr. Flay appeared to clutter up the doorway as he stood revealed, his arms folded.... It did not look as though such a bony face as this could give normal utterance, but rather that instead of sounds, something more brittle, more ancient, something drier would emerge, something more in the nature of a splinter or a fragment of stone. Nevertheless, the harsh lips parted. "It's me," he said, and took a step forward, his joints cracking as he did so. His passage across a room -- in fact his passage through life -- was accomplished by these cracking sounds, one per step, which might be likened to the breaking of dry twigs"
And good Doctor Prunesquallor:
"The doctor with his hyena laugh and his bizarre and elegant body, his celluloid face. His main defects? The insufferable pitch of his voice; his maddening laugh and his affected gestures. His cardinal virtue? An undamaged brain."
And finally, the horrible cook:
"Abiatha Swelter, who wades in a slug-like illness of fat through the humid ground mists of the Great Kitchen. From bowls as big as baths, there rises and drifts like a miasmic tide the all but palpable odor of the day's bellytimber. The arrogance of this fat head exudes itself like an evil sweat."
Obviously, Gormenghast won't be for everyone, but as a lover of the fantastical, the Gothic, the grotesque, and the sublime, I'm finding it to be both a hoot and a holler.