J.G. Keely's Reviews > The Gormenghast Novels
The Gormenghast Novels (Gormenghast, #1-3)
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J.G. Keely's review
bookshelves: fantasy, reviewed, urban-fantasy, uk-and-ireland, favorites
May 14, 2007
bookshelves: fantasy, reviewed, urban-fantasy, uk-and-ireland, favorites
I know of no author in all of the English language who is like Peake, or who could aspire to be like him. His voice is as unique as that of Milton, Bierce, Conrad, Blake, Donne, or Eliot, and as fully-realized. I am a hard and critical man, cynical and not easily moved, but there are passages in the Gormenghast series which so shocked me by the force of their beauty that I snap the book shut, overwhelmed with wonderment, and take a moment to catch my breath.
I would drop my head. My eyes would search the air; as if I could find, there, the conclusion I was seeking. My brow would crease--in something like despondency or desperation--and then, of its own accord, a smile would break across my face, and I would shake my head, slowly, and laugh, and sigh. And laugh.
Peake's writing is not easy fare. I often needed room to breathe and time for contemplation, but he is not inaccessible, nor arduous. He does not, like Joyce or Eliot, require the reader to know the history of western literature in order to understand him. His story is deceptively simple; it is the world in which he sets it that can be so overwhelming.
Peake writes with a painter's eye, which is natural enough, as he is more famous as an illustrator than a writer (the only self-portrait in the National Portrait Gallery). He paints each scene, each moment, in such careful, loving, playful detail that it can only be described by the original definition of 'sublime': a vista which is so grand and beautiful that it dwarfs our humanity, evoking a wonder akin to fear.
But Peake's writing is not so entirely alienating; on the contrary: he is vividly concerned with life. Gormenghast is the story of a life starting at birth, though our hero only got as far as the cusp of manhood before Peake was seized by malady and death. Each character is brightly and grotesquely alive. The 'fantasy' of this book is not, like so many epics, magic signifying moral conflict. The magic of Peake's world is the absurdly perfect figures that people it.
They are stylized and symbolic, but like Gogol, Peake is working off of his own system of symbology instead of relying on the staid, familiar archetypes of literature. Unusual as they may be, there is a recognizable verisimilitude in the madness imbued in each. Their obsessions, quirks, and unpredictability feel all too human. They are frail, mad, and surprising.
Like the wild characters of his sketches, Peake writes in exaggerated strokes, but somehow, that makes them more recognizable, realistic, and memorable than the unadorned reality of post-modernists. Since truth is stranger than fiction, only off-kilter, unhinged worlds will seem real--as Peake's does. This focus on fantastical characters instead of fantastical powers has been wryly dubbed 'Mannerpunk' or a 'Fantasy of Manners'. It is a much more enveloping and convincing type of fantasy, since it engages the mind directly with visceral artistic techniques instead of relying on a threadbare language of symbolic power. Peake does not want to explain the world, but paint it.
Tolkien can certainly be impressive, in his way, but after reading Peake, it is difficult to call him fantastical. His archetypal characters, age-old moral conflict, and epic plot all seem so hidebound against the wild bulwark of Peake's imagination. The world of Gormenghast is magical and dreamlike, without even needing to resort to the parlor tricks of spells, wizards, and monsters.
Peake's people are more fantastical than dragons because their beings are instilled with a shifting and scintillating transience. Most dragons, fearsome as they may be on the outside, are inwardly little more than plot movers. Their fearful might is drawn from a recognizable tradition, and I question how fantastical something can really be when its form and behavior are so familiar to us.
Likewise Peake's world, though made up of things recognizable, is twisted, enchanted, and made uncanny without ever needing to stretch our disbelief. We have all experienced wonder, confusion, and revelation at the world, so why do authors think that making it less real will make it more wonderful? What is truly fantastical is to find magic in our own world, and in our own lives.
But then, it is not an easy thing to do. Authors write in forms, cliches, archetypes, and moral arguments because it gives them something to work with; a place to start, and a way to measure their progress, lest they lose themselves. To write unfettered is vastly more difficult, and requires either great boldness, or great naivete.
Peake is ever bold. You will never catch him flat-footed; his pen is ever moving. He drives on in sallies and skirmishes, teasing, prodding, suggesting, and always, in the end, he is a quantum presence, evading our cumbersome attempts to catch him in any one place. Each sentence bears a thought, a purpose, a consciousness. The only thing keeping the book moving is the restless joy of Peake's wit, his love and passion for his book, its places, characters, and story.
He also has a love for writing, and for the word, which is clear on every page. A dabbler in poetry, his careful sense of meter is masterful, as precise as Bierce. And unlike most fantasists, Peake's poetry is often the best part of his books, instead of the least palatable. Even absent his amusing characterization and palpable world, his pure language is a thing to behold.
In the introduction, Quentin Crisp tells us about the nature of the iconoclast: that being different is not a matter of avoiding and rejecting what others do--that is merely contrariness, not creativity. To be original means finding an inspiration that is your own and following it through to the bitter end.
Peake does that, here, maintaining a depth, pace, and quality that is almost unbelievable. He makes the book his own, and each time he succeeds in lulling us into familiarity, we can be sure that it is a playful ruse, and soon he will shake free again.
Alas, not all readers will be able to keep up with him. Those desiring repetition, comfort, and predictability will instead receive shock, betrayal, and confusion. However, for those who love words, who seek beauty, who relish the unexpected, and who find the most stirring sensation to be the evocation of wonder, I have no finer book to suggest. No other fantasist is more fantastical--or more fundamentally human.
My Fantasy Book Suggestions
I would drop my head. My eyes would search the air; as if I could find, there, the conclusion I was seeking. My brow would crease--in something like despondency or desperation--and then, of its own accord, a smile would break across my face, and I would shake my head, slowly, and laugh, and sigh. And laugh.
Peake's writing is not easy fare. I often needed room to breathe and time for contemplation, but he is not inaccessible, nor arduous. He does not, like Joyce or Eliot, require the reader to know the history of western literature in order to understand him. His story is deceptively simple; it is the world in which he sets it that can be so overwhelming.
Peake writes with a painter's eye, which is natural enough, as he is more famous as an illustrator than a writer (the only self-portrait in the National Portrait Gallery). He paints each scene, each moment, in such careful, loving, playful detail that it can only be described by the original definition of 'sublime': a vista which is so grand and beautiful that it dwarfs our humanity, evoking a wonder akin to fear.
But Peake's writing is not so entirely alienating; on the contrary: he is vividly concerned with life. Gormenghast is the story of a life starting at birth, though our hero only got as far as the cusp of manhood before Peake was seized by malady and death. Each character is brightly and grotesquely alive. The 'fantasy' of this book is not, like so many epics, magic signifying moral conflict. The magic of Peake's world is the absurdly perfect figures that people it.
They are stylized and symbolic, but like Gogol, Peake is working off of his own system of symbology instead of relying on the staid, familiar archetypes of literature. Unusual as they may be, there is a recognizable verisimilitude in the madness imbued in each. Their obsessions, quirks, and unpredictability feel all too human. They are frail, mad, and surprising.
Like the wild characters of his sketches, Peake writes in exaggerated strokes, but somehow, that makes them more recognizable, realistic, and memorable than the unadorned reality of post-modernists. Since truth is stranger than fiction, only off-kilter, unhinged worlds will seem real--as Peake's does. This focus on fantastical characters instead of fantastical powers has been wryly dubbed 'Mannerpunk' or a 'Fantasy of Manners'. It is a much more enveloping and convincing type of fantasy, since it engages the mind directly with visceral artistic techniques instead of relying on a threadbare language of symbolic power. Peake does not want to explain the world, but paint it.
Tolkien can certainly be impressive, in his way, but after reading Peake, it is difficult to call him fantastical. His archetypal characters, age-old moral conflict, and epic plot all seem so hidebound against the wild bulwark of Peake's imagination. The world of Gormenghast is magical and dreamlike, without even needing to resort to the parlor tricks of spells, wizards, and monsters.
Peake's people are more fantastical than dragons because their beings are instilled with a shifting and scintillating transience. Most dragons, fearsome as they may be on the outside, are inwardly little more than plot movers. Their fearful might is drawn from a recognizable tradition, and I question how fantastical something can really be when its form and behavior are so familiar to us.
Likewise Peake's world, though made up of things recognizable, is twisted, enchanted, and made uncanny without ever needing to stretch our disbelief. We have all experienced wonder, confusion, and revelation at the world, so why do authors think that making it less real will make it more wonderful? What is truly fantastical is to find magic in our own world, and in our own lives.
But then, it is not an easy thing to do. Authors write in forms, cliches, archetypes, and moral arguments because it gives them something to work with; a place to start, and a way to measure their progress, lest they lose themselves. To write unfettered is vastly more difficult, and requires either great boldness, or great naivete.
Peake is ever bold. You will never catch him flat-footed; his pen is ever moving. He drives on in sallies and skirmishes, teasing, prodding, suggesting, and always, in the end, he is a quantum presence, evading our cumbersome attempts to catch him in any one place. Each sentence bears a thought, a purpose, a consciousness. The only thing keeping the book moving is the restless joy of Peake's wit, his love and passion for his book, its places, characters, and story.
He also has a love for writing, and for the word, which is clear on every page. A dabbler in poetry, his careful sense of meter is masterful, as precise as Bierce. And unlike most fantasists, Peake's poetry is often the best part of his books, instead of the least palatable. Even absent his amusing characterization and palpable world, his pure language is a thing to behold.
In the introduction, Quentin Crisp tells us about the nature of the iconoclast: that being different is not a matter of avoiding and rejecting what others do--that is merely contrariness, not creativity. To be original means finding an inspiration that is your own and following it through to the bitter end.
Peake does that, here, maintaining a depth, pace, and quality that is almost unbelievable. He makes the book his own, and each time he succeeds in lulling us into familiarity, we can be sure that it is a playful ruse, and soon he will shake free again.
Alas, not all readers will be able to keep up with him. Those desiring repetition, comfort, and predictability will instead receive shock, betrayal, and confusion. However, for those who love words, who seek beauty, who relish the unexpected, and who find the most stirring sensation to be the evocation of wonder, I have no finer book to suggest. No other fantasist is more fantastical--or more fundamentally human.
My Fantasy Book Suggestions
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Reading Progress
Finished Reading
May 14, 2007
– Shelved
May 26, 2007
– Shelved as:
fantasy
June 9, 2009
– Shelved as:
reviewed
June 9, 2010
– Shelved as:
urban-fantasy
September 4, 2010
– Shelved as:
uk-and-ireland
January 27, 2012
– Shelved as:
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I would like to think that a mind of such a wit and comic brilliance as Peake's would quickly understand that the appellation 'Mannerpunk' in part ridicules codified classification. Beyond this, though I know he considered his works to be serious and artistic, I think he recognized that to breathe life into his world, there is a necessary degree of both the unwieldy and the uncouth.
Of course, Peake was never the sort to stop at the point of necessity.
I guess I'm hostile to the whole use of 'whateverpunk' in genre fiction. I've read steampunk, cyberpunk, splatterpunk, and apparently mannerpunk. I've liked plenty of the stories, but I rarely get a punk rock feeling from them. Those names seem insecure, like sci-fi geeks (I'm one) trying to act badass. I never hear William Gibson calling his work cyberpunk. I think most great authors would reject having their writing tacked on to some kind of scene. I get the joke with mannerpunk, but I still doubt Peake would have embraced it as the summation of his style.
In interviews of Gibson's that I have read, he has utilized the terminology of the various sub-genres he has influenced, and those titles came from groups of writers who grew to utilize and adopt them on their own merit.
The original etymology of the suffix 'punk' comes as you said from the movement of the late seventies (I'll avoid 'early eighties', as the movement is widely considered a miscarriage). However, it is less the music itself than from the social movement which is to be evoked its use.
The sense that the new writers were not creating ideal worlds, but still worlds which explored the concept of humanity and change. In that sense, 'punk' becomes the same rejection of the familiar and the overwrought which burdened music at the time.
The later applications were not based on that social connection, but rather on the related genre conventions (and even writers) of these new subdivisions of genre fiction. They were still painting a world which rejected 'technology as savior' or often, anything as capable of saving humanity from itself. The point is no longer the pseudo-spiritual apotheosis of man, but our general continuance even as we move into an incomprehensible and transhuman future.
That such genres as Steampunk do not imagine a literal future should in no way remove them from the philosophical and sociological debates of the fraying edge of this side of post-modernism.
I would agree that genre definitions should be generally rejected, and that in cases where they fit, the work is often not worth reading; 'mannerpunk' is an extreme and ironical instance of sub-classification. Even 'fantasy' and 'sci fi' have become venerable and, in most cases, practically useless as far as the social goals, philosophies, and metaphysical explorations of the works they try to confine. I prefer 'speculative fiction', but like mannerpunk, is a term which lends itself to an often comical uselessness.
I think that there are very few writers who would accept any particular definition as a summation of their style; indeed, the most base and monomythic fantasy authors always seem to say in interviews how they don't consider themselves to be in the fantasy genre.
However, the irony here is that the basic definition of mannerpunk does serve as a summation of Peake's own style; namely, that his stories are not filled with magic, nor historical realism, nor action, nor picaresque, but are generally defined by the fantastical and symbolic nature of the characters. Indeed, Peake's works cling to this much more strongly than most other authors forced into the genre; this is mainly because it takes a great degree of talent to write a book where action and plot building occur on the level of characters, and there are always too few Great Pens.
However, he is also a poet and an artist, and I would suggest that there is depth and meaning in his work beyond simply its method of execution. In that sense, Mannerpunk agrees with you entirely, like 'pataphysics or Pastafarianism, in that it exists chiefly as a conceptual exercise and secondarily as an attempt to rationalize or categorize.
Of course, like any genre fiction, there are those who have taken inspiration from something grand, sweeping, and half-thought, and turned it into something more easy to digest and less revolutionary. I cannot say this entirely firsthand, except to point at Moorecock's Gloriana as an example of a slight watering-down of Peake's work.
Peake was a man of great humor and a width of dream, the span of which we may see streaking off beyond the horizon in his various works. Truly, I would that Mannerpunk could somehow be more than a joke at the fact that mankind so rarely supersedes its barriers, and that even when it does, such acts go generally unpraised and unrecognized. In that sense, it is certainly failure, but it is a failure in the same sense that any great aphorist points to what is patently illogical, and yet which is seemingly an inescapable part of the human process.
Hume would tell me that there is a divide between what is and what we think ought to be, and that this divide cannot be spanned by ideal, and not by correctness of rationale, an that we have never succeeded in bridging it by great thought or argument. It is a gulf left by dreams deferred, and it would be foolish for us to pay more consideration to the finger than to the moon it points to.
The individual may still bridge by ideal and dream what the mass cannot cross; and though no human can create without flaw and misunderstanding, we may still paint glimpses of the greater. Peake does so, and I would suggest that the reversal in Mannerpunk's own definition speaks to the particular qualities and methods it hopes to enclose. Mannerpunk is funny in the sense that all jokes are pain, and its definition reaches that same humor since a voracious reader knows that any attempt to categorize holds a pain all its own.
I suppose it's more ironic to have an ironic genre with a straightforward name, but I think that would be a joke beyond me, so I cannot endorse it.
Now, a straightforward genre with an ironic name, I perhaps could get behind.
It's good to know the term is out there, though. If I meet someone who says they write mannerpunk, I'll say "What, like Mervyn Peake?" and I guess they'll say "Yeah, kind of" or "Yeah, but-"
I'm with you on the term speculative fiction, though. For me, the more generalized, the better. Especially with writers like Joe R Lansdale, who tread into whatever genre they please when telling a story.
My favorite thing about this discussion of Gormenghast is that I'm thinking about the book again. In my review I bitched about feeling bored by the novel's pace, but I'm surprised how vividly certain scenes and characters are reoccurring to me. I keep thinking about Steerpike scaling the walls of the castle, and that room filled with the painted roots of a long dead tree. After I finish my current reading, I might tackle the second novel, much sooner than I expected.
And finally, not to derail this discussion or anything, but I have to protest your assessment of punk in the eighties. I don't see how you can just dismiss a decade of such ferocious music and activity in a single sentence like that. A miscarriage? Black Flag, The Dead Kennedys, The Circle Jerks, Minor Threat, The Bad Brains... widely considered miscarriages by who?? Sure, a lot of them were born ugly, and they never stopped screaming, but they were all very much alive!
Of course, one might think the better metaphor would be an abortion: something promising that was pulled out too soon. Of course, that begs the question: what is the maturity of punk? The answer to which seems a bit too oxymoronic to delve into.
My review of Gormenghast also comments on the difficulty of reading Peake's minute and laborious plotting; though I respected Peake's skill and goals, he was by no means a rollicking joyride. If I'd found it easier, I likely would have finished the other two installments by this point.
I've been reading a lot of Britwave comics lately, and Urban Fantasy has become an overly-predictable glut on the market. From Mieville to Gaiman to Morrison, you see the same tropes popping up again and again; there's the sewers of London, the aforementioned hobo, the 'spirit' of the city, &c.
I don't mean to argue any particular point here, and thank you for providing me some exploratory space in consideration of things I may have otherwise left for granted. I'm really not much for convincing people. I don't even like to do it to myself.
Incredibly interesting review and followup discussion. Thank you both!
P.S.: I am going see what other reviews you have out there. I believe that although I do may not always agree, I will find them to be as interesting. I am a sucker for a well-written review.
But, I was trying to write a defense of that book against the prevailing opinion, and it's easier to write directed praise with the aim of dismantling a preconception rather than the rather more nebulous task of praising something that is generally well-respected.
I really have to disagree with that statement - The plot is very predictable, and the use of caricatures instead of characters flattens them and makes them so repetitious and predictable it is painful at times.
If the book only had a decent plot and round characters, the authors ability to paint with words would not have gone to waste... I felt as it I was reading a book meant for 10 year olds, except for it's language.
Likewise, there are characters such as Titus himself, or Steerpike, or Fuschia who do indeed change throughout the course of the story, in their approach, motivation, energy, desires, and other aspects. Yes, there is a lot of slapstick on the surface, but there are also many subtle interpersonal conflicts and poignant moments between the characters, that I feel makes them much more than simple figures of fun.
LOVED your exceptionally helpful review -- & ordered the trilogy because of your SOFT AND MUSHY influence.
Seriously, after Spenser, Mallory, Langland, Coleridge, Lewis & Tolkien, I do not care for much fantasy literature except hard sci-fi. Net even very fond of gothic novels. It was your review which persuaded me that I would be missing some wonderful literature if I failed to read this trilogy.
Thank you.
Yet you keep referring this as a character-driven novel, which is what all great literature is. I'll get around this once I finish some other things (Circumstances aren't friendly to difficult books). I hope I'll like this. Parts of it sounds really my thing. The opening line is pretty great, too.
I'm not terribly familiar with his work--of course, I know him well by reputation, but I haven't tackled him yet. Certainly, I have every reason to expect that I will like him, when I do pull him off the pile.
I'm against the condescension in the literary community for the art of film, as if movies and TV shows are inherently inferior to books. And yet Peake's Work seems difficult to adapt to film, if not outright impossible.
When Peake says that someone collapsed on the ground looks as if they've been washed up by a tempest, that creates a more vivid image than an ACTUAL image of someone lying on the ground.
It's just incompatible.
Yeah, agreed. I mean, I don't want to say it couldn't be done, perhaps someone like Terry Gilliam could do it, with a high enough budget, but it certainly wouldn't be easy.
Now that I think about it, I'm almost sure Wes could do it. Watch "The Grand Budapest Hotel" if you haven't. Tons of Matte Paintings, peculiar characters... Exactly what Gormenghast would need.
In the meantime, I'm composing themes for all the characters. :)
Of course, I'm glad the suggestion proved worthwhile for you.
This reviewer has got the balance just right. It was clearly no easy task for him to finish the book even though he is a well-read person; yet his criticism appreciates how the author pushed the boundaries of fantasy in his work, and he gives Peake his unique place in literature.
Brilliant review!
(As for readers who review works 'prematurely'--either half-reading, or else reading but not really comprehending; perhaps step back, and tell yourself that you aren't yet the reader for this sort of work and for now, incapable of criticizing what you can't appreciate).
I read the trilogy first perhaps 30 or 40 years ago--in the Ballantine paperback editions-- and reading it again now is even more powerful.
I've read somewhere that the original printings of Titus Alone do not completely correspond to Peake's manuscript, but I don't know the details.
This is an unusual book in that even though I might rave about it, there is no one I've ever met I'll recommend it to. Thank goodness for Goodreads.
I liked your thoughtful review of Gormenghast. It actually made me wish I'd liked the book more than I did.
However, I have to take exception to your use of the term 'mannerpunk.' That has got to be the worst misnomer I've ever heard. It's got 'military intelligence' beat, hands down.
I wouldn't want to walk up to the ghost of Mervyn Peake and tell him he was writing mannerpunk!
But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we should add 'punk' to everything. Like: Hey, did you read the new pastrypunk book by Martha Stewart?
I really did enjoy your review, though.