When I was reading book three of the Gormenghast trilogy, right off the bat it became quite clear that one probably shouldn't be speaking of a trilogy and rather of a duology that comes with a third book attached, a third book that was supposed to be only the first part of a new cycle.
Titus Groan and Gormenghast together form a pretty close-knit story though, with most every plot line being resolved within its combined 735 pages, barring the jumping blood story line, which can only be resolved by a continuation which of course follows its central 'jumping' protagonist; the Seventy-Seventh lord of the groan line, deserter and heretic; Titus Groan himself, and which story line, as it should be a circle; a journey that leads back to its beginning, can never now be completed due to Peake's untimely death.
However, the duology that is actually set in Gormenghast is almost incomparably beautiful to any other work I've read.
It's immediately skyrocketed into my all-time favourite pieces of literature, and that pretty much solely because of its style and its incredible artistry; and of course because of Peake's uniquely memorable characters, who are frequently mocked for their absurdities and their eccentricities.
The imagery of these characters, their descriptions, the deportment of character: all these occasionally come across as cartoonish in a way that reminds me of the early Mickey Mouse cartoons, with exaggerated posturing, pantomime and an almost impossibly wild variety in motion.
As for story:
The story shouldn't really be to anyone's liking, because even though the great story beats are really quite good, they are also just a little too slow in how they flow, with a prose-style that's just a little too pedantic. But at the same time any and all objections are just swept away by that same determined pedantry, the incredible dedication of its style, that is perfectly maintained throughout the two books, and just how beautiful it is, and how dazzling its imagery, bombastically momentous or intimately close.
Or when emotions are so pervasively present in a scene, so perfectly conveyed, like where for instance in Book 2 Gormenghast:
Poor old Bellgrove, a man whose gentle heart should be universally adored by the hordes of schoolchildren but who, for some unexplainable reason just don't respect or even like him, who is so alone and yet with such foolish determination clings to his pride; reasoning it is better to be aloof and austere than to let glimpse the true heart inside. Peake's belabouring of these points, and all the attention to building it up for something is just perfect, and he lets it serve as set-up and preamble to various memorable scenes throughout the book, but here in particular; as we have been familiarized with Bellgrove already, we are introduced to another scene with him, a scene with the potential to be both formative and momentous, and where Peake draws back a whole swathe of the curtain yet further, opening us up to pity and love for this kind-hearted old man.
And then immediately afterward, before the pity can begin to rule, Bellgrove is given a moment where he earns a connection with a young boy, but which, before it has even been given a single chance to bloom, is immediately endangered by the appearance of another character, who at not a single other point since the start of book 1 has shown much compassion, or if he has, that compassion has always been tainted with mockery for the eccentricities of others, however so gently.
But, at the same moment the timorous heart quails (mine), weary of yet more kindness withdrawn in the face of outside mocking scrutiny, this other's heart, against all expectation, opens itself also. And instead of kindness denied, we are treated to a moment of deep compassion.
In this scene everyone's slate is wiped clean with the pitying love one carries for a poor lonely child, someone who has been pushed into a place ordained by ritual, a child has been denied the simple act of being himself.
Bellgrove drops his defenses, acts out of character and is transported to a more simple and a more honest time, while the other man, showing the depths of his subtle understanding, alters his usual eccentric approach into one of straightforward acceptance and camaraderie.
It's very unexpected and very lovely.
The books are filled with scenes like this.
Incredibly sweet or horrible resolutions given an incredible depth of feeling by an almost ridiculous level of dedicated build-up.
And there are indeed quite some horrible resolutions in this story, and in a way that makes me feel that it walks very close to tragedy. And in fact; half of the reviews I've read, all the write-ups or descriptions one sees will belabour the terribleness, the nastiness, the mockery, the grotesquerie, the horrible violence, and sure, yes, there's some of that, but for every single hair-raising one of these, there's 10 of the above; the quiet scenes, infinitely pleased and infinitely pleasing, in and of themselves, with themselves; art celebrating itself.
Though it must be said that the nastiness, the grotesquerie, and the violence are really nice also. And that in fact these are also heightened by the pre-amble, the endless set-up and the complete delight in language. It's an effect akin to a movie setting up a good jump scare, except here, generally, these instances aren't sprung upon us, oh no. The few I've read, I've seen, have been effortlessly built up, tension-building like it's nobody's business accompanied to a gradual darkening in tone, to then plumb depths of horror and villainy that are quite unexpected if you're familiar with the sweet gentleness of some of the book's other scenes.
It took forever to read these books, but I'm so glad I just took the time to let everything connect with me, seep in and carve out a place in my most memorable reading experiences.
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Even though the long-time leisurely handling of the omnibus caused quite the wear and tear.
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Some spoilers if you are familiar with any of the characters in the book.
Of rebellion in the Castle, of
rebellion against the rebel, and of the
strange verisimilitude in the
comportment, outlook, and inner
landscape of various teachers.
Truancy, and a comedy of death.
Of horrible death, accidental, stupid,
preposterous and silly,
and profoundly tragic. as it ever is.
A party of professors. New love,
for old persons. The lion shook his
mane, stretched his claws, hid his teeth
and won her heart, birdlike and shrill
though it is.
Murder awry. Like a balrog blazing
from on high, to a struggle in mud
and in water. Choke the life, still the pulse.
A grave miscalculation indeed.
From the depths he rises to the peak,
though iron ritual coils stronger than ever,
But there rests just time, and unbreakable will.
Formality, mere, the striking of these links.
But eyes are watching, and ears have heard.
1 to 2, 2 to 3, and 3 to 5, and the rollcall
isn't done. How many more will be added
to the hallowed halls, the glorious dead?
A chase into regions of madness and despair.
The peacock struts, unhinged with the echo of fire.
For the love of home, unmask the lord of lies,
and die in triumph.
Rampant murder and storming heat.
Ritual denied, spat upon. Heresy. Blasphemy.
Water, lightning, lust and hate.
The end of age, and hereditary fate.
Deluge and flood. Calamity,
and ritual suspended, in survival.
The animal's red ether. Carnage,
brilliance suspended, in blood-thirst.
Lovelorn. Melancholy.
I love you so,
my dark and lonely soul.
Heartbreaking tragedy,
in the ease of water.
Climax.
Boats in water, in fire, in rain.
Deepest shadows and golden light.
Crimson blossom of rage and violence.
Desperation. Exhaustion. Madness.
Hate. Murder. Vengeance.
Nowhere to go. Magnetic,
but one path before you.
Silver knives in the moonlight.
Of the mad and how they crow,
how they lust and how they want,
these upstart rebels both.
Aftermath and healing.
Scars of flesh, slime on stone,
the broken remains of love.
The jumping blood.
Rejoice.
Jumping blood,
rejoice.
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