The Worm Ouroboros

Well, it took me 15 months and a stack of dictionaries, but I've finally finished this epic! I feel as much a sense of accomplishment in the reading as Eddison might have felt in the writing of it!

I don't recall it having been so laborious from my first time of reading back in my teenage years, but I guess without internet reference rabbit-holes to fall down, it would be faster, though somewhat more archaic and obscure.

Anyway, the plot takes precedence over character, and there's barely any plot to speak of, so what you are left with is a framework over which Eddison drapes his sumptuous language, weaving moods and reveries, sometimes loud, brash and theatrical, at othertimes delicate fretworks of bejewelled, gilded traceries. It's show more definitely a love/hate book, and I've needed my own mood to be right to enter into Eddison's world, but I was happy to take my time and approach it as a feast of many courses, rather than a fast food binge. show less

Prendiamo un azzimato signore inglese di inizio 900: studia ad Eton ed al Trinity College di Oxford, è membro della Viking Society for Northern Research, frequenta gli Inklings dove conosce Tolkien e C.S. Lewis, lavora per il governo britannico nella Board of Trade ed ottiene ben due cavalierati (quello dell’Ordine di San Michele e San Giorgio e del Molto Onorevole Ordine del Bagno).
Questo signore ha tre grandi passioni letterarie: le saghe nordiche (tanto da tradurre in inglese la Egil’s Saga e scrivere un romanzo su un personaggio dell’epoca vichinga, Styrbjörn the Strong), Saffo ed Omero ed il teatro dell’epoca Giacobiana (Shakespeare e Webster)
Mettiamo che nel tempo libero questo signore decida di scrivere lui stesso un show more romanzo ambientato in un mondo fantastico (il pianeta Mercurio) dove mescola tutte le sue passioni letterarie usando (sicuramente in maniera voluta) un inglese arcaico inframmezzato da sonetti e poemi reali dell’epoca giacobiana.
Ne esce fuori un mondo nobile e barbaro allo stesso tempo, pieno di intrighi machiavellici, cruente battaglie ed atti eroici popolato da creature della mitologia classica e abitato da personaggi che nulla hanno da invidiare a Omero e Shakespeare: malvagi re stregoni, filosofi, spietati guerrieri, nobili principi e splendide dame. Un mondo i cui palazzi superano in splendore e magnificenza o terrore quelli del nostro mondo, e le cui minuziose descrizioni lasciano senza fiato.
Questo è l’ambientazione in cui il nostro scrittore, Eric Rucker Eddison, fa svolgere le intricate ed avventurose vicende dei tre fratelli Juss, Spitfire e Goldry Bluszco, signori di Demonland e dei loro arcinemici, i re Gorice di Witchland.
Parliamoci chiaro: non è un libro semplice, vuoi per la lingua, lo stile, i temi e così via. Non lo si può leggere tutto d’un fiato anche se si vorrebbe andare avanti ed ancora avanti. Volendo fare un paragone lo si può considerare come un buon vino da meditazione o un distillato invecchiato, uno di quelli da bere a piccole sorsi e a piccole dosi ma i cui aromi, le sue sfumature incantano e sorpendono.
In definitiva un libro fuori dagli schemi che dovrebbe essere letto da tutti gli amanti del fantastico. show less

Summary: A heroic fantasy of the warfare between Witchland and Demonland, including the quest to rescue Goldry Bluszco, after he is banished by spell to a remote mountain top in revenge for defeating and killing King Gorice XI of the Witches in a wrestling match.

This is a work of heroic fantasy that was praised by the likes of J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Ursula LeGuin as inspiration for their own work. And certainly the ideas of transport to an alien world, heroic quests, and great, and often seemingly hopeless, contests against evil powers find their roots in this work.

I came across this work first around the time I discovered The Lord of the Rings and saw Tolkien’s commendation. I never picked it up until recently, perhaps show more because of the obscurity of the title. Ouroboros refers to the worm (a term often used for dragons or serpents) who swallow their own tail, forming an endless ring. It is a symbol worn by the king of Witchland, and the idea of an endless cycle figures in the conclusion of the work, which I will not give away for those who haven’t read it.

The story is told through the eyes of one “Lessingham” who is transported from Earth to Mercury, where this story takes place. After the early chapters, Lessingham disappears from the story, not to reappear at the conclusion. The story really begins with brothers Juss, Spitfire, and Goldry Bluszco, and Brandoch Daha, the Lords of Demonland receiving the diminutive ambassador of Witchland who asserts the Kingship of Gorice XI, King of Witchland over Demonland. The Lords of Demonland decide to contest this via a wrestling match between Gorice, famed for his wrestling prowess, and Goldry, a formidable wrestler in his own right. If Goldry wins, they submit; if not, they retain their independence. Goldry defeats and kills Gorice XI, and in vengence, his son casts a spell that transports and imprisons Goldry on a distant icy mountain top. Juss and Brandoch think he is being held in Carce, the capitol of Witchland, and only learn in defeat and escape through an ally, of the spell that has sent him far away.

This sets up the remainder of the book, divided between the quest to rescue Goldry, and the wars against Witchland. Juss and Brandoch Daha pursue a year-long quest, including a battle against a terrifying manticore taking them to the mountain castle of Queen Sophonisba, who tells them Goldry can only be reached by finding the egg of a hippogriff, back in Demonland. Meanwhile, Spitfire unsuccessfully resists an attack by Duke Corsus on Witchland. He takes the castle, Krothering, of Brandoch Daha, and lays it waste. Brandoch’s sister escapes when Gro, a spurned adviser of Corsus turns traitor and helps her get free. Ultimately, Gro will turn traitor once more. Juss and Brandoch return in time to expel Corsus and the forces of Witchland, then Juss finds the hippogriff egg, rescues Goldry, leading, after defeat of the fleet of Witchland, to the climactic battle before the gates of Carce.

The book is not an easy read. The language is influenced by Elizabethan English (an odd choice for events taking place on Mercury), including written texts in period English (which sometimes look like the writing of someone who is spelling challenged–which may help in deciphering it). Some may contend that this is far simpler than Tolkien’s passages in Elvish, the languages of Dwarves, Orcs, and the Dark Tower. Some might complain about all the different names and kingdoms (in addition to Witchland and Demonland, there are Ghouls, Goblins, Imps and Pixies!). Eddison helps us somewhat with a chronology summarizing the relations of all of these at the end of the work.

What I struggled with, and perhaps it is an artifact of the heroic fantasy genre, is that I do not see any of the characters grow through the quests and battles they face. Courage and heroism there is in abundance, as is deceit, betrayal, and dark arts. But in the end, the horrors and travails of war, and the conquest of evil do not seem to eventuate in the love of peace or the wise pursuit of a better world. The main characters only seem to be defined by the quests and battles, perhaps an earlier version of Klingons who think it a shame to die a peaceful death.

On the one hand, it raises the question of whether tension, or some threat, is necessary to out the best in human beings, or whatever human-like races these beings are. And yet, these figures cannot envision quests that don’t involve killing or dying or battle. Is there not also a heroism that heals, that pursues peace, goodness, truth, and beauty–sometimes in the resistance of evil and deceit and ugliness–but also in the creation of cultural goods? As influential as this story was, what I saw in Tolkien that I miss in Eddison is a richer heroism, one capable of growth, that fights evil when it must but loves hearth, home, song, and good food, and a world where these might flourish. show less

The language is delightful, but one can't help but agree with Tolkien's assessment that what underlies the entire saga is "an evil and indeed silly 'philosophy'" and the ending has one wondering indeed if Eddison admired "arrogance and cruelty."

Let's be perfectly clear, I am not giving this book four stars because it's a great novel. It's not even a good novel. It's a terrible goddamn novel. But sometimes being unique, interesting, weird and precious is more important than actually being any good.

Before I read this, I had thought Lord of the Rings was a unique and unprecedented literary event, and the primal fountainhead from which the modern high fantasy genre flowed. Reading Dunsany did not sway me of this opinion, but reading Eddison has. Most of what is special about the Lord of the Rings, in particular the faux-archaic prose style evoking the rhythms of the pagan epics that inspired it, is right here, published over a decade before Tolkien's famous novel was begun.

Unlike show more the Lord of the Rings though, this book is not an exercise in carefully constructed world-building. In fact, it's a goddamn mess - there's some kind of weird frame story about a modern Englishman astrally projecting to the planet Mercury that's summarily discarded and then never mentioned again in the second chapter, all of the people and place names are weird apparently random nonsense strings that the author came up with when he was 10 and refused to change when the story was later committed to novel form, the author can't make up his mind whether the peoples of his world are human or not, everyone worships the Greek pantheon for some reason, and the supposed protagonists are sketched so poorly that Tolkien, of all people, was able to lambast the novel's characterization with no fear of being accused of hypocrisy.

What is so lovable about the book is its sheer force of idiosyncrasy. The descriptive prose so rococo you'd swear the author was having you on. The verbatim-reproduced letters of the characters who, in medieval style, lack standardized spelling. Two whole chapters of mountain climbing - not of things happening while ascending a mountain, but about nothing but the mechanics of getting up there. The way the characters will recite 16th century poems and songs that the author meticulously attributes in his end-notes. The way the characters will recite ancient Greek poems that the author meticulously attributes in his end-notes making sure to let you know the translation is his. YOU WILL NEVER FIND ANOTHER HIGH FANTASY NOVEL ANYTHING LIKE THIS ONE. show less

The Worm Ouroboros is one of the great granddaddies of fantasy, sandwiched between Lord Dunsany, who was an influence, and J.R.R. Tolkien, who received its influence. As such, it’s a kind of a bridge, but one that harkens back to earlier eras, drawing on elements of the great Norse and Germanic sagas and combining them with Elizabethean prose and, at times, Victorian sentimentality.

A bit of backstory about the edition pictured. First published in 1926, Worm was re-released in paperback form in 1967 by Ballantine Books, with a cover by Barbara Remington who also did the covers of the first official paperback of The Lord of the Rings trilogy (without even having access to read them, though it does appear she got to read Worm.) show more Ballantine was clearly trying to capitalize on the trilogy’s success. This was the same paperback I saw in the library of my SF-loving uncle who was a member of First Fandom, and the book I picked up to read as child… … and immediately put back, for the thickness of the prose. It seemed too adult for me, too heavy and ornate. Happily, forty years later I sought again to tackle it, and I was glad I did.

Eddison, though not a professor like Tolkien, was a scholar of the same things that interested him, and using those same materials he created an amazing pastiche of heroes, villains with outlandish names and all too human flaws, mythic creatures, mighty battles, and quests. I found the prose still heavy, but also delightful and surprising. The book is not to be savored quickly. Like a rich desert it is best small slices, the simplicity of the action aiding in this.

Eddison’s world is planet of Mercury, though it’s clear this is just lip service to the otherworldly aspect; no retrograde summers here or lead-melting temperatures. The countries of Demonland, run by good guys Lord Juss, Goldry Bluzco, Lord Spitfire, and Brandoch Doha, and Witchland, led by Gorice the reincarnating sorcerer-king (he gets 12 turns, like Dr. Who) and his generals, come into conflict when expansionist Witchland demands freedom-loving Demonland submit to its rule. The four lords say nay… and the action begins with a nude wrestling match, a death, a sorcerous storm, the loss of Goldry Bluzco who is exiled to the top of a frozen mountain peak, and his rescue; there’s an immortal Queen on the mountain who makes her entrance with a momentous chord, and intrigue in the sorcerer-king’s court, including a Lady MacBeth subplot; there’s also manticores and hippogriffs, a treacherous advisor, and talking birds… it sounds complicated, but was all pretty straightforward, presented by the author as a rousing he-man tale told around the fire, not an examination of more complicated themes, as Tolkien’s work was.

I also think Eddison was not as serious about it; I could tell he was having a rollicking good time with the writing and evinced an impish sense of humor about it as well. For example, many of the bizarrely-named characters and places — Fax Fay Faz, Pixyland, and Lord Spitfire — came from childhood make-believe games he played with his friends. Admittedly, these names were a big hurdle for a serious reader to get over at the beginning of the book, but eventually I became normalized to them, and I do admire Eddison’s boldness for incorporating pieces of his own childhood like that. Other names, particularly those of the Impland mountains, sound based on Tibetan and Nepali, not surprising since the author was an accomplished mountaineer and likely read first hand stories of Himalayan ascents, which shows in sections of the epic.

The framing device of the book is also a hurdle to overcome: an English bloke named Lessingham astral-projects in the company of a talking bird who takes him to Mercury, where he serves as incorporeal fly on the wall narrating the first chapter’s events. This device is soon done away with however, and the story proceeds in a normal way. The narrator never returns, but at the end, you’ll see why; it has to do with the book’s title.

The main draw of the book, however, was lots and lots of ornate language and hyper-descriptive porn (18th-century poetry was also an influence)… there was sky and sunset porn, landscape porn, food porn, mountaineering porn, Galadriel-beautiful-virtuous-lady porn… oi!

I’ll open up the book at random to give a sample.

" Men were roused and lights brought, and Brandoch Daha surveyed that which he held pinioned by the arms, caught by the entrance to the fortalice; one with scared wild-beast eyes in a swart face, golden era-rings in his ears, and a thick close-cropped beard interlace with gold wire twisted among its curls; bare-armed, with a tunic of otter-skin, and wide hairy trousers cross-stitched with silver thread, a circlet of gold on his head, and frizzed dark hair plaited in two thick tails that hung forward over his shoulders. His lips were drawn back, like a cross-gained dog’s snarling betwixt fear and fierceness, and his white pointed teeth and the whites of his eyes flashed in the torch-light. "

Now that’s thick. (And also, unfortunately, a stereotypical “savage” character, but the book was written in the early twentieth century.)

There were also a fair amount of archaic words, which to my mind added to the enjoyment: martlet, fustian, myriapod, deflagration, alembic, to name a few. The prose also demands the work not be evaluated as one would a more traditional novel, as the prose IS the novel and its main draw. But, I’ll go there anyway.

The plot reduced to its basic form is silly and kind of slapdash. Some crucial events are skipped over, and some subplots could have been skipped for a tighter work. There are few female characters in the story, but they are strong presences, often acting as the voices of chivalry and reason. The villains receive more examination from the author than the heroes; they are presented as having flaws, in the Greek tragedy sense, that facilitate their downfall, while the heroes, though having their quirks, are steadfastly noble and manly. All this should be easy to snark on, but I can’t, because the author himself didn’t seem to be totally serious about it. There were also surprising moments of emotional resonance at times despite the over-the-top pathos, such as when Lord Juss finally rescues his brother and believes him to be dead, and thinks all his sacrifices have come to nothing.

Like Tolkien, there was also a fair amount of Ho-yay! — elements that from a modern viewpoint could be interpreted as showing male homosexual desire. There’s that nude wrestling match, and many other sections where the men’s bodies are lovingly, sensually described. This may just be par for the course for writing of that time period, or from the ancient sagas that influenced the author.

In conclusion, I do recommend that both fantasy readers and writers tackle this work, daunting as it may seem. It’s a both vital piece of history of the field and an inspiration. show less

I‘d first read it when I was around 13 and picked it up again now. At the first chapter in “Demonland”, I was sure I wouldn’t get through it and didn’t understand how my younger self had managed. Then, with the wrestling match, I was captured, and read on in sheer delight. This time round, what’s outstanding is the way the sexual relations implied are consensual and very discreet as would be standard in most literature of the time. There is a stronger sensuality in these books which evokes the atmosphere of sex, rather than references or allusions to the act itself.

You might like to consider E. R. Eddison, unfortunately almost forgotten these days, but in his time counted among one of the premier fantasy writers -- the man show more who Tolkien's publisher asked for a blurb for “The Lord of the Rings”. His novel “The Worm Ourobouros” and the three novels of the Zimiamvian series deserve to be rediscovered. They're not easy reads, and maybe not for a contemporary reader of SF. But for lovers of language, they're a must-read.

“The Worm Ourobouros” is a fine example of a feudal fantasy not in decline, where the heroes are thoroughly heroic and entirely human, where magic is real and as deadly to its practitioners as to those who suffer its effects, where sex is vitally important, omnipresent but not explicit, where violence is conducted on a massive, monstrous scale, but is again not explicit in its descriptions.

After reading this, I don’t look forward to another sloppily paced contemporary Fantasy novel, full of characters (who will disappear for 4-5 episode stretches) making frustrating decisions and being treated along the way to pages worth of exposition, some of which will be be delivered during sex scenes, just because. And when some Fantasy novels are afraid your attention may be waning, it will jolt you back with some extreme violence. Thank God we still have stuff like “The Worm Ourobouros” to get back to when we want to treat ourselves to something good SF-wise.

NB: This blog is mainly is for the books that slipped through the net of full-length “reviews” and normally one or maybe two people read them, grumbling that there's fantasy in what was a fantasy-horror-SF grab-bag…This time, because it's the Post-Summer doldrums, this review might become a bit more noticeable (or not).



SF = Speculative Fiction. show less