It's a mystery how this masterpiece came to be so misunderstood. Burgess' favorite among his novels (and mine), this work is a tour de force: a novel about Napoleon in four movements that follow the structure of Beethoven's "Eroica" symphony (originally dedicated to Bonaparte; then, when Boney crowned himself Emperor, re-dedicated "to the memory of a fallen hero"). Burgess has reconciled the repetitive, cyclic nature of music with the novel's need for narrative forward motion brilliantly, yet his text mirrors the musical structure with uncanny detail -- both short- and long-term. Tempo, texture, key changes, rhythm -- all are there in the book. (For rhythm, check out the beginning of the third chapter while listening to the Eroica's scherzo.) The true miracle of this book, however, is that independently of its stylistic conceit, it is profoundly insightful and profoundly moving. Try reading the second chapter -- counterpart to Beethoven's Funeral March movement, and describing the retreat from Moscow -- without emotion. Or the final chapter, about Napoleon's exile on St. Helena, his surprising friendship with his English gaoler's young daughter, and his death. (Here, Burgess replicates Beethoven's theme-and-variations structure with passages in different literary styles: Austen, Henry James, et al., yet without any feeling of pastiche.) Musicians resented the book because they thought it trivialized Beethoven by "making" his symphony "be about" Napoleon. Literary types resented it -- well, probably because they could never bring off such a feat, themselves. Or because they thought a book about Napoleon should be at least four times as long. Try this book, enjoy it, and be grateful for such a gift of words.

The imagery almost seems true to life except that the actual decay of civilization as depicted in this book hasn't actually occurred (yet). The story is unsettling, so much that the reader can't avoid feeling as though he could be one of the characters...or perhaps wish he was. Who wouldn't want to live in a world of complete chaos where the government is so corrupt that the average citizen gets away with whatever crime or decrepit act he wants as long as the authorities don't care (what authorities)? Overall, a very realistic story, and well written. Thank you for your honesty Mr. Gold!

There is something rather sadistic in Alan Bennett's portraits of self-delusion in "Talking Heads." In contrast, his short plays (originally teleplays) about very British Soviet spies are more open to complexity. The most interesting characters are Coral Browne as herself in "An Englishman Abroad" and the queen in "A Question of Attribution," though Burgess and Blunt are multidimensional in ways none of the talking heads are. The scene of the queen and Blunt which was played so well by Prunella Scales and Edward (or was it James?) Fox in the BBC production is brilliantly written. Bennett is, indeed, a master at writing lines that give away or seem to give away more than the character understands-or seems to understand. The audience knows best with the "artless" talking heads, but neither Blunt nor the audience can be quite sure if the queen has toyed with him or is as straightforward and concerned with concrete facts as she presents herself as being. "Who did what?" is also very much in question in the "Titians" Blunt is examining and in the puzzle of who was running the spies who were eventually revealed.

For the most part, there is wildly violent entertainment and then there is remarkably provocative art and seldom do the two overlap. One of those rare occasions is Anthony Burgress' 1962 transgressive classic, A Clockwork Orange. At first, the tale of Alex, a malicious, young degenerate of the future, seems like a warped, little shocker, full of madcap language, malevolent intentions and stomach-turning violence. As the novel progresses, though, it is soon evident that Mr. Burgess is carefully surveying an important subject matter: juvenile delinquency. Through portrayals of Alex's parents, he comments on Dr. Spock-style principles. Through portrayals of the government and prison system, he comments on what type of society produces these baby-faced killers (One as amoral and creative as the delinquents themselves). And through the main character's vivid naration he explores the surprisingly human thoughts and motives behind this appalling behavior. Most often when one walks into a theater, turns on the TV or opens a novel and squeems, the said media's creators are attempting to vend cheap thrills. But not always. Mr. Burgess' brilliant and alarming book and the stunning Stanley Kubrick film based upon it are instances when true artists looked the seedier side of human nature in the face and produced poignant works of art from their observations.

I had first heard about this controversal novel through the constant padories and tributes of the film adaption. I wanted to see the film for a long time, but it soon gave way to me reading the novel before I saw the film.
Please note, the book and film are TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT VERSIONS. In best intrest, I suggest reading the novel and igorning the film. Kubrick's version is a wonderful peice of work, but I felt robbed of that feeling I had after I had finished the novel, so I regret seeing the film.
Onward, shall we? The plot deals with a teen rebel named Alex, who, along with his gang of "droogs", terrorize the streets of London by raping, killing and barging into homes of those whoever they wish. Suddenly, Alex is left in abandonment by his friends and is arrested in a failed break-in. He is sent to a faclity to undergo a radical experiment inwhich he is "reprogramed" into a model citizen.
Burgess' novel is grand and explores the meaning of a person's personalty and well-being. He also states the questions Is it right to control a person's personality and his free will; as well as the set up of such a program, is is right to do so? While the vocabulary is often confusing and can leave the reader dumb-founded, Burgess based it on the slang of the British and the Russians, which has promted many to formate their own lists of translations, which are proven helpful.
The novel left me amazed and pondering those questions for the longest of time. If you are looking for a good, thinking man's novel, this is a must read.

After following a few violent days in the life of Alex, the anti-hero of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange, and his friends (his 'droogs' in the slang of the time), we're obviously supposed to be shocked when we he declares, after murdering an elderly woman, "And me still only fifteen.."

Yawn.

Maybe when written in 1962 this was shocking. Post-Columbine High School, most people have become numb to violent acts committed by children. The fact that Alex and his gang's favorite pastimes are spreading terror, theft, and rape, may even seem tame by today's standards. Yet we should be appalled, none the less. Not at his age, but with the cavalier attitude towards death and the destruction of the lives of others.

It is a well known fact that Burgess was dismayed at the success of A Clockwork Orange. In the introduction to the 1986 reprint, which included the "missing" 21st chapter, never published in the United States before (more on that later), Burgess says he would "be glad to disown it for various reasons, but that is not permitted." While ACO survives, other works of his that he values more, "bite the dust." Such is the life of an artist. Our humble narrator is a 15-year old leader of a small gang of droogs. The four spend their after-school hours wreaking as much havoc as they can muster. Of course, boys being boys, someone has to lead the pack.

As the result of a power struggle within the little group, during a bungled robbery attack, Alex takes one across the glazlids, and is left blinded for the police to pick him up.

Though sentenced to spend 15 years in prison, a stroke of luck gives Alex the opportunity to participate in a new experimental aversion treatment for violent criminals. He emerges from prison a changed, if not particularly new, man. The violent impulses are still there, but he is overwhelmed by nausea whenever they rear their ugly head.

Enter Politics.

Now a "victim" of the state, the opposition political party that is fighting the government's recent crackdown on violent crime seizes upon Alex's plight. He becomes their poster child for overthrowing the oppressive regime in the next elections. Tormented by his present condition, Alex attempts suicide by leaping from a window. His failure only draws attention to the issue (the opposition is delighted) but prods the government into righting its previous "wrong" by changing Alex back to his old self.

"I was cured all right," the original American version ended. So now our little droog is back to the way he was; violent, chaotic free will and hormones raging. Ready to prey on society once again, only now with a good paying government job from his new friends.

The new version or, perhaps I should say, the original version (now available in the U.S.) has an entirely different ending. In the final chapter, our "young thuggish protagonist grows up. He feels bored with violence and recognises that human energy is better expended on creation rather than destruction." This version, Burgess believes, is a true novel as it is founded on the principle that human beings change. The old American version was a fable as are all fictional works that fail to show change in human character.

The prison chaplain, who befriends Alex, puts it succinctly when he says, "When a man ceases to choose, he ceases to be a man... It may be horrible to be good."

He warns the pre-treatment Alex, "You are passing now to a region where you will be beyond the reach of the power of prayer. A terrible terrible thing to consider. And yet, in a sense, in choosing to be deprived of the ability to make an ethical choice, you have in a sense really chosen the good. So I shall like to think."

Burgess, like his jailhouse preacher, is a strong believer in free will. They are appalled that government could decide to take away one's ability to make decisions between right and wrong. If that happens, a person is no longer a person and the fact that they will no longer harm anyone else is secondary to the fact they have been harmed themselves. Then what is the point of punishing criminal behavior?

Which brings us to the final, omitted (dare I say censored?) chapter. In the original novella, and the revised American version, Burgess' character has a sort of realization that maybe the life of violence he has lead is not the right way. Maybe he should even get married and have kids - not that he would be able to control them any more than his parents did him, but just maybe... Is this a true conversion in Alex? Or is it the idle prattle of a common street thug? Burgess intends for us to believe that it's the beginnings of a true change.

Suppose it is. That's not a hard thesis to support. Alex himself recognizes that something is changing. "There is something happening inside me," he says, "and I wondered if it was like some disease or if it was what they had done to me..." But Burgess fails to take the cue from his own character.

Perhaps out of resentment for the original omission of his last chapter, Burgess refuses to even recognize that maybe it was the punishment he received that has lead to the new Alex. Instead, he gives all the credit to Alex's free will. Perhaps. After all, as he says, "The important thing is moral choice. Evil has to exist along with good, in order that moral choice may operate."

And so it must.

Gore Vidal does a wonderful job bringing the fifth century B.C. to life. Most of the historical material that is available from this time period tells the story from the Greek point of view, though it is likely the Persians thought of Greece in the uncultured and unwealthy way that Vidal portrays. More importantly, the novel presents eastern thought of the period in a very clear, concise manner. Questions are raised not only pertaining to the narrator's Zoroastrian religion, but also pertaining to Buddhism and Confucianism. The benefits and pitfalls of each are described in detail. This is the first Gore Vidal novel I have read, and I will certainly delve into more.

Historical fiction, particularly from classical times or earlier, can either be great or believable; I'm not certain it can be both. To make a story entertaining, it must be comprehensible to modern readers, couched in impossibly modern motives. Robert Graves's Claudius complained about this in reference to an assessment of Livy's histories (meant to be understood as an inside joke, as Graves was happily doing the same thing). No matter what period Vidal inhabits, his narrative figures have a modern, cynical eye, informed by ages of experience that the originals could not have enjoyed.

This engaging story is based on a coincidence of history -- that in one lifetime of travel, one man could have met Zoroaster, Socrates, Democritus, Confucius, and the Buddha. THE Buddha. Persian ambassador Cyrus Spitama does this -- it's a lot of shoe leather, but barely possible -- and combines this epic journey with a pesonal search for the origins of the world. At the end, he comes up empty (as we all must), but still feisty: still Vidal's standard narrative persona (Charlie Schuyler), but a bit tougher.

A lot of the book uses Cyrus's Persian/Greek viewpoint (he's mixed blood) to skewer the Age of Pericles. I enjoyed the hell out of that, since I've always been unimpressed by the Greek ideal. It sounded nice, sparked a lot of clever talk, but lasted only a lifetime in its purest form before it was snuffed out. But we're still talking about it, so there must have been something there. At least Vidal gives us an alternative story of that perilous time.

Our narrator in "Creation" is Cyrus Spitama, son of a Persian father and Greek mother, grandson of Zoroaster and friend to Xerxes. Cyrus is old and blind, he has ended up in Athens in his last years, dictating the story of his travels and his life to his nephew and scribe, Democritus. In each of the places he describes - Babylon, Cathay, India, Greece, cities of Persia - his main focus is on the religious customs, particularly various creation myths. It is no secret that Cyrus definitely favors the one (male) god that created everything, we live one life - it's good versus evil and then there's either heaven or hell.

There is so much crammed into this book, which is both its' strength and weakness. There are so many characters in this book, especially in the parts dealing with the Greeks, that it sometimes reads more like a history lesson than page turning fiction. Over the course of his life Cyrus comes to know Darius & Xerxes, both Great Kings of Persia, Zoroaster, the Buddha, Confucius, Socrates, and Li Tzu, quite amazing for a single individual. Even so, it's the scope of this book that makes it so interesting, I thought the trips through what is now India and China were the best parts. Who were the Aryans, really?

In spite of its weaknesses, I can't think of any other work of fiction that introduces so many customs, traditions, and philosophies of the ancient world and also encourages an awareness of the vastness of human civilization and history.

Poor Edwin Spindrift, a proper Doctor of Philosophy and a lecturer on Linguistics passes out during one of his classes in Burma and is sent to London only to be diagnosed with a brain tumor. On the eve of his operation Spindrift awakens suddenly with an urge to escape the hospital. He starts off searching for his wife, so he could get some money from her, but he ends up unsure of what exactly he is searching for.
This is my first Anthony Burgess novel, and I was not disappointed. Burgess' description of the dark side of London is so detailed you can practically feel the grime. His characters are colorful caricatures, giving the book substance, especially the masochist kettle-mobster who swears that Spindrift is "kinky".
The linguistic aspect of the book is a little over the top; whenever Spindrift goes on about a word, the root of the word, it is a bit dull. His lecture on cockney, however was informative and amusing. There are several laugh out loud moments. R. Dickie, Spindrift's hospital roommate is so affable it's a shame he's only in the first few chapters. The most amusing part of the book, however, is when Spindrift is jailed in a flat, and in the middle of trying to escape suddenly becomes distracted by a dirty magazine.
I gave this book a three stars, but I think it's more a 3 ½. Edwin is a charming hopeless character who you can't help but cheer for. And at 260 pages the book is also quick read. It certainly won't disappoint.

Anthony Burgess (the late), author of many books including, "A Clockwork Orange," brings another masterful piece of literature to the English language.

"The Doctor is Sick," showcases Burgess tallents as a linguistic master with a control of and look at the English language in its many forms. Burgess' use of the English language as a plot moving device is at the same level of pure genius that it reached in his most famous novel, "A Clockwork Orange."

At the same time, this is a sentimental tale that looks at the modern world and its tendancy to dehumanize and objectify people. Funny, and comedic in an off kilter satirical way, this novel tries to bring the humanity back to the protagonist, the sick professor, Edwin Spindrift.

The story shows the same cyincal look towards the hospital, and specifically mental health issues, that were later seen in the second of Burgess' "Enderby" tales.

This is truely the story of the humanization of Dr. Spindrift and his joining the "real" world for the first time in his life. A wonderfuly written, bittingly satrical and greatly humorous book, this is a must read for anyone who enjoyed "Clockwork," the widely read "Complete Enderby," or any of Burgess' other works of fiction.

There is an insider look at the medical world, Burgess, who himself was diagnossed with a brain tumor, brings his own knowledge of the condition and adds to it the satire on British institutions that was a common theme in his fiction.

Anthony Burgess shows us that humanity is sick as much as the good doctor, and that it might be out tendancy to lose the human in the machines of every day life, that is the real problem.

I bought this book after being mesmerized by "A Clockwork Orange"

While nothing like ACO (except for Burgess's masterful use of language), this book was every bit as riveting.

Dr. Edwin Spindrift, a linguistics professor in Burma, is diagnosed with a brain tumor. He, accompanied by his oddball wife, goes to London for medical treatment.

In the hospital, the mellow Spindrift meets a whole assortment of people: unique patients, arrogant insensitive physicians, cold uncaring nurses, rude orderlies, distant medical technicians, and the people who love them. Confused, bored, and exasperated with painful medical tests, Spindrift "escapes" the brain ward to disappear into nighttime London.

Misty and cold "civilized" London is very alien to the doctor, who has grown accustomed to sunny tropical Burma. Fascinated and horrified at the same time, Spindrift wanders the dark recesses of a Modern Western City in search of... something. Or maybe he's just running.

Spindrift runs into some very strange and utterly believable people. He finds himself in unusual, bizarre situations, every one of them genuine and real. More at home with language and words than with people, Spindrift is nevertheless spellbound by the alien Londoners with their colorful speech and habits.

After numerous adventures (or misadventures), he finds himself back in the stark, bright, antiseptic hospital. The hospital being so very alien in its own way, Edwin Spindrift PhD wonders just how many of those bizarre memories were real... in retrospect, things seem so amazing.

The story is a bit dated yet enough has remained the same (proof that some things may never change) that Spindrift's wild trip is still understandable and imaginable. It's a story of perceptions, or false perceptions. TDIS was one of those rare books that I had to set down sometimes to THINK about what I had just read. I hadn't done that with a book in a long time. I enjoyed not only reading this book, but thinking about it, too.

A very sly tale. Highly recommended.

If you are looking for a fairly short, easy to digest introductory guide to Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake, this is it. Anthony Burgess, in addition to being a witty novelist and critic, also had the chutzpah to publish an abridged version of Finnegan's Wake, so you know he knows his stuff! This is not a page by page explication of Joyce's complex works, ala Gifford or Gilbert, but more like a defense for the intelligent reader who may be wondering if these novels are worth the time.

It is wonderful that the cover of this June 2000 paperback reissue has features an image of Joyce looking away, his face hidden from the reader. Joyce remains an enigma-- a sparkling inspiration to readers who enjoy thinking about the questions and don't care about definitive answers.

If you've read A Clockwork Orange or Nothing Like the Sun and are curious about Anthony Burgess' critical work, this is one of his best performances.

Author on author, linguist on linguist. A great read for, if nothing else, to see how one great British mind interperts another. Reissued for a good reason.

Without a doubt, an attempt to read the works of James Joyce, one of the most demanding authors to live (and one of the best as well) comes with no small amount of trepidation. But thankfully, the Joycian disciple Anthony Burgess has written the book for both the neophyte and the seasoned lover of Joyce's work. ReJoyce features pretty much all that is needed to tackle his canon. The fascinating autobiographical sketch and the analysis of the early works are merely a fitting prelude to the bulk of the book, which is devoted to Joyce's dizzying last two novels, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. The critical analysis of the last two is both brilliant and eminetly approachable, and more than any of the other volumes of scholarly work on Joyce's last two novels, Burgess's analysis helps to make them both understandable and enjoyable. Without a doubt, ReJoyce is among the best guides to Joyce out there on the market now, and well worth it for both the longtime reader or the newcomer to Joyce

Cyrano -loosely based on the actual Savinien Cyrano de Bergerac, an early predecessor of science fiction- is a swordsman for the French King Louis XIII. He is also a man with an extraordinary gift for poetry and versification, as well as the owner of an extremely large nose. He is deeply in love with his cousin Roxanne, but she happens to love Cyrano's friend and colleague, Christian. So, being a good fellow and having a quixotic nature, Cyrano accepts to speak of love to Roxanne, impersonating Christian. Under her window, in the dark, Cyrano recites love poems so well crafted, that Roxanne falls even more in love with Christian, who is the supposed lover. After that, both men leave to fight at war. Roxanne shows up at the siege of Arras, to bring food to the soldiers. There, for reasons I won't spoil here, their love affair comes to an abrupt end, leaving their relationship unfulfilled. What comes next shows the true heroic nature of Cyrano, his strength of character, and his loyalty to his friend, but also to his eternal love for Roxanne. This play, which has originated at least a couple of good movies and several tv interpretations, is a homage to the Romantic spirit so rare in our greedy and selfish times. It is full of beautiful images and scenes, and Rostand's writing is perfect for the task. Read it first, and if you haven't seen the movies, watch them. Cyrano is a grand character that will remain as an epytome of chivalry, loyalty, and emotional strength. Not to forget.

If there's one thing that has me miffed, it's those ridiculous academic critiques of this play. Yes, it's unrealistic, yes, it's energetic to the point of insanity, yes, the character of Cyrano is particularly vulnerable to the ridiculous Freudian analyses that Lit. professors are obsessed with. But the essence of this work, what makes it breathe, are the very qualities so mocked by elitists: its color, its flamboyance, and above all its wonderfully unashamed idealism.

First of all, this is entertaining reading at its best: a combination of witty repartee and laugh-out-loud humor, balanced with emotional depth that is subtle yet wrenching in its intensity. With just a few lines the scenes come alive, with characters whose brash gallantry is reminiscent of Dumas' Musketeers.

All this virtuoso treatment finds a focal point in the character of Cyrano, who is at once comic and tragic: his biting wit provides a facade for a soul in torment, for his sensitivity to beauty makes his own ugliness that much more painful. Yet there is so much fire and pride in Cyrano that never once does he beg for our pity, and endures the pain of thwarted love with the same charisma and bravery with which he does battle.

The contradiction between Cyrano as he is inside--a veritable furnace of eloquent passion--and his markedly ugly exterior, is his tragedy. Through the vehicle of this contradiction, Edmond Rostand explores the nature of love, particularly regarding how much of it is dependant upon exteriors. Yet this theme does not smother the tale, which is such a heady mixture of beauty, hilarity and subtle insight that it fairly intoxicates. My only complaint, upon finishing it, was that it had to end.

Anthony Burgess steps out of his psycodelic shell to bring a down to earth translation of the worlds greatest love story. Rostand created a tale true to the human heart filled with romance and poetry, but it took Anthony Burgess to bring the story to the modern reader. There are no 'thee's' or 'thou's' in this adaption, just natural, modern writing. In essence, Burgess did not translate Rostands classic play, he wrote the story over as a poem. Burgess did Rostand the greatest honour, making Cyrano De Bergerac, a wonderfull romance, and beautiful story accessable to modern audiences

Probably one of the first examples of journalistic fiction, Defoe's "A Journal of the Plague Year" is a pseudo-eyewitness account of the London plague of 1665. Writing this in 1722, Defoe casts himself into the role of his uncle whom he calls H.F. and who recounts the events in grisly detail but with magnanimous compassion. Aside from the prose, the book has a surprisingly modern edge in the way it combines facts about a sensationally dire historical event with "human interest" stories for personal appeal. It seems so factual that at times it's easy to forget that it's just a fictitious account of a real event.

The plague (H.F. writes) arrives by way of carriers from the European mainland and spreads quickly through the unsanitary, crowded city despite official preventive measures; the symptoms being black bruises, or "tokens," on the victims' bodies, resulting in fever, delirium, and usually death in a matter of days. The public effects of the plague are readily imaginable: dead-carts, mass burial pits, the stench of corpses not yet collected, enforced quarantines, efforts to escape to the countryside, paranoia and superstitions, quacks selling fake cures, etc. Through all these observations, H.F. remains a calm voice of reason in a city overtaken by panic and bedlam. By the time the plague has passed, purged partly by its own self-limiting behavior and partly by the Great Fire of the following year, the (notoriously inaccurate) Bills of Mortality indicate the total death toll to be about 68,000, but the actual number is probably more like 100,000 -- about a fifth of London's population.

Like Defoe's famous survivalist sketch "Robinson Crusoe," the book's palpable moralism is adequately camouflaged by the conviction of its narrative and the humanity of its narrator, a man who, like Crusoe, trusts God's providence to lead him through the hardships, come what may. What I like about this "Journal" is that its theme is more relevant than its narrow, dated subject matter suggests: levelheadedness in the face of catastrophe and the emergence of a stronger and wiser society.

Daniel Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year is an interesting volume that blends fact and fiction quite indiscriminately, as the author intended. It is easy to forget it is fiction as it reads as fact (and it seems likely there are enough actual facts strewn throughout as to enhance this perception). Defoe was less concerned about these issues concerning fiction and non-fiction than modern readers and writers and it is fascinating to see an example of the early beginnings of novel writing. The style could frustate some readers (there is virtually no attempt at characters and only small strands of a narrative per se) but the descriptions of a town in crisis were both gripping and fascinating. An unique volume.

When a subject is gruesome it attracts notoriety. Unfortunately, if it is real, it loses it. This story of the the affects of the Plague in London in 1665 should be required reading for all people of all civilized countries. How the Plague started, how its spread was covered up initially and why, how the government was forced to respond, what happened to the economy and the outlying regions - these things could happen any day in any year in any country. Look at the news archives of the spread of SARS, how the government in (I think) Indonesia enacted house quarantines, how the Chinese economy was distablized. This is a very real warning and will not lose its timeliness as long as people build cities and economies. He is not just describing what happened but giving us warning and ideas for how it can be handled better.

I have never read anything quite like this!

The first book revolves loosely around a newborn Titus Groan that is heir to the earldom of Gormenghast and it's Castle, an archaic, monolithic, stiffly-traditioned place. Throughout the first volume, we meet various members of the castle staff, the royal family and even a few commoners. You'll love Peake's unique way of portraying characters with his hilarious attention to detail. I don't think I'll ever forget the eccentric Mr. Flay or the effeminate Dr. Prune... The Antagonist, Steerpike, has got to be the most villainous, calculating creature I've come across in any book. He's someone you'll love to hate, but also admire. Since this is one of those rare books in which you can easily become attached to the characters, I'll warn you, Peake is not hesitant to dispose of them!

At first, there doesn't seem to be a definitive plot to follow. But, as the story progresses and Titus matures, you begin to see that he is feeling more and more strangled by this static castle life. But, Titus and nearly all of the castle's dwellers are ignorant of what lies beyond Gormenghast. It's important to note that the reader is also kept in the dark. You get the impression that Gormenghast "Was, is and always shall be." And if it's inhabitants have ever dreamed of lands beyond, it is doubtful that any could consciously imagine any other place.

The truth is revealed in book 3. Believing there is nothing left for him, Titus does the unthinkable and abandons his castle, his people and more importantly, his duties as the 77th Earl. The world Titus finds is quite unlike his own. So different in fact that he begins to doubt it ever existed. Even as the reader, I couldn't help wondering if Titus imagined it all during some delirious state of mind. But, the ending satisfies...

I highly recommend this trilogy to lovers of fantasy and haters alike. This work is not classifiable fantasy in a strict sense, as there aren't any mythical beasts or obvious magics. It's kind of a mish-mash of fantasy, sci-fi and drama. But make no mistake, you'll reserve a spot for this classic epic right next to Tolkien. (Though I'm not comparing the two, each is a classic in it's own right).

Well do I remember the momentous day in 1975 when a good friend loaned me a copy of Titus Groan and suggested I might enjoy it. Enjoy it? I was hooked from that first glimpse of the Hall of Bright Carvings; utterly transfixed by strange but compelling stories of the denizens of Gormenghast: a weird place and weird people, to be sure, but not so weird as to be beyond recognition. Peake's prose is masterful throughout; his characters are so profoundly realised that you really do feel you know them: Fuschia, Prunesquallor, Steerpike, Titus himself, my personal hero Mr Flay...wonderful. The narrative has been critized for being ponderous, but bear in mind this is a "big read" and it is best absorbed at a steady pace. The action, when it comes, is all the more startling: consider the cobweb-strewn battle to the death between Flay and the loathsome Swelter, and in Gormenghast, Titus's deadly encounter with Steerpike (now evil personified) amid the stifling ivy. "Titus Groan" and "Gormenghast" are famously more satisfying than "Titus Alone", written when Peake was seriously ill and fading fast, but even "Titus Alone" has some strangely affecting characters and situations. Its strangeness is more disturbing than the first two books however, which are totally enthralling. Since that first encounter over 25 years ago I have re-read this trilogy many, many times, always with more enjoyment than the time before. I made a chess-set with characters from the book (grey scrubbers make great pawns) and have enlivened many a dull day at work by likening some of my colleagues (in my minds eye, of course) to some of Peake's so-called grotesques...the Civil Service is not without its Barquentines and Sourdusts, not to mention the Deadyawns and Cutflowers! This is one book (along with the Bible) I would just not want to be without.

This trilogy seems to be an underground classic of sorts, and it's certainly not for everybody. Yet in the simple premise of a child born and raised under the burden of royalty and rituals, Peake has fashioned a work that is unlike any other. No other author has yet created a world more vivid, more beautiful in its decay, or more heartbreaking. Trapped by the oppressive weight of his lineage and birthright, Titus Groan is sthe story of the birth and childhood of the title character, the Seventy-Seventh Earl of Gormenghast - as well as the tale of the castle and its many inhabitants. The second volume continues on with his life and his dreams of freedom and escape, while the third - reviled by many - breaks away from the setting of Gormenghast to trace the journey of Titus Alone. Though the third is weaker than the first two, it is perhaps the most vividly grotesque and unsettling. All three form a work that will most likely never be equalled by contemporary fantasy writers. Worthy of scholarly consideration. In one of the editions published by Overlook Press, there are critical reviews of Peake's trilogy. Worh a look if you can obtain this volume.