By Mervyn Peake, finished Wednesday 20 August 2008
A year and more ago, halfway through Gormenghast, I stumbled. Reaching Irma Prunesquallor’s party for the scholars, I found myself in the midst of a chapter of such awful dryness and tedium, brimming with excruciatingly exact narration of the embarrassments and humiliations endured in the course of a social event, that I gave up on the book altogether.
Looking back, I should have leafed beyond the page I halted on. If I had, I’d have found that mere pages away was excitement, danger, despair and the resumption of a thrilling narrative that had momentarily withered away. While forensic examinations of social mores have their own merit, authors must bear in mind their debilitating effect on the human soul. Almost any other book I would simply never have picked up again.
When reviewing a book of such grandeur and depth, it seems churlish to focus on its flaws. But consider: Gormenghast should have cemented Peake’s place as the greatest post-war English novelist, and despite its failings, it remains one of the most compelling novels I’ve ever read. It should never have taken me so long to complete, and now I have, I’m half tempted to simply start again.
A year and more ago, halfway through Gormenghast, I stumbled. Reaching Irma Prunesquallor’s party for the scholars, I found myself in the midst of a chapter of such awful dryness and tedium, brimming with excruciatingly exact narration of the embarrassments and humiliations endured in the course of a social event, that I gave up on the book altogether.
Looking back, I should have leafed beyond the page I halted on. If I had, I’d have found that mere pages away was excitement, danger, despair and the resumption of a thrilling narrative that had momentarily withered away. While forensic examinations of social mores have their own merit, authors must bear in mind their debilitating effect on the human soul. Almost any other book I would simply never have picked up again.
When reviewing a book of such grandeur and depth, it seems churlish to focus on its flaws. But consider: Gormenghast should have cemented Peake’s place as the greatest post-war English novelist, and despite its failings, it remains one of the most compelling novels I’ve ever read. It should never have taken me so long to complete, and now I have, I’m half tempted to simply start again.