Excerpt from Titus Groan, first volume in the Gormenghast series.

Steerpike is headed toward performing a dastardly deed.

---

Chapter: Thirty-Eight


Steerpike's return to the castle's heart was rapid and purposeful.
A pale sun like a ball of pollen was hung aloft an empty and faded
sky, and as he sped below it his shadow sped with him, rippling over
the cobbles of great squares, or cruising alongside, upright, where
at his elbow the lit and attentuate walls threw back the pallid light.
For all that within its boundaries, this shadow held nothing but the
uniform blackness of its tone, yet it seemed every whit as predatory
and meaningful as the body that cast it - the body that with so many
aids to expressiveness within the moving outline, from the pallor
of the young man and the dark red colour of his eyes, to the indefinable
expressions of lip and eye, was drawing nearer at ever step to a tryst
of his own making.

The sun was blocked away. For a few minutes the shadow disappeared
like the evil dream of some sleeper who on waking finds the substance
of his nightmare standing beside his bed - for *Steerpike* was there,
turning the corners, threading the masses, gliding down slopes of stone
or flights of rotten wood. And yet it was strange that with all the
vibrancy that lay packed within the margins of his frame, yet his shadow
when it reappeared reaffirmed its self-sufficiency and richness as a
scabbard for malignity. Why should this be - why with certain slender
proportions and certain tricks of movement should a sense of darkness
be evoked? Shadows more terrible and grotesque than Steerpike's gave
no such feeling. They moved across their walls bloated or spidery with
a comparative innocence. It was as though a shadow had a heart - a heart
where blood was drawn from the margins of a world of less substance than
air. A world of darkness whose very existence depended upon its enemy,
the light.

And there it was, there it slid, this particular shadow - from wall to
wall, from floor to floor, the shoulders a little high, but not unduly,
the head cocked, not to one or other side, but forward. In an open space
it paled as it moved over dried earth, for the sun weakened - and then it
fainted away altogether as the fringe of a cloud half the size of the sky
moved over the sun.

___

From Titus Groan, a scene of moonlit death. The ending
occasioned grief, since I was hoping for a different outcome
than occurred.

---
Knives in the Moon


The moon slid inexorably into its zenith, the shadows shrivelling to
the feet of all that cast them, and as Rantel approached the hollow
at the hem of the Twisted Woods he was treading in a pool of his own
midnight.

The roof of the Twisted Woods reflected the staring circle in a
phosphorescent network of branches that undulated to the lower slopes
of Gormenghast Mountain. Rising from the ground and circumscribing
this baleful canopy the wood was walled with impenetrable shadow.
Nothing of what supported the chilly haze of the topmost branches
was discernible - only a winding facade of blackness.

The crags of the mountain were ruthless in the moon; cold, deadly
and shining. Distance had no meaning. The tangled glittering of the
forest roof rolled away, but its furthermost reaches were brought suddenly
nearer in a bound by the terrifying effect of proximity in the mountain
that they swarmed. The mountain was neither far away nor was it close
at hand. It arose starkly, enormously, across the lens of the eye.
The hollow itself was a cup of light. Every blade of the grass was of
consequence, and the few scattered stones held an authority that made
their solid, separate marks upon the brain - each one with its own
unduplicated shape: each rising brightly from the ink of its own
spilling.

When Rantel had come to the verge of the chosen hollow he stood still.
His head and body were a mosaic of black and ghastly silver as he gazed
into the basin of grass below him. His cloak was drawn tightly about
his spare body and the rhythmic folds of the drapery held the moonlight
along their upper ridges. He was sculpted, but his head moved suddenly
at a sound, and lifting his eyes he saw Braigon arise from beyond the
rim across the hollow.

They descended together, and when they had come to the level ground they
unfastened their cloaks, removed their heavy shoes and stripped themselves
naked. Rantel flung his clothes away to the sloping grass. Braigon folded
his coarse garments and laid them across a boulder. He saw that Rantel
was feeling the edge of his blade which danced in the moonlight like a
splinter of glass.

[snip]

As Braigon fought he wondered where Keda was. He wondered whether there
could ever be happiness for her after himself or Rantel had been killed;
whether she could forget that she was the wife of a murderer; whether to
fight were not to escape from some limpid truth. Keda came vividly before
his eyes, and yet his body worked with mechanical brilliance, warding off
the savage blade and attacking his assailant with a series of quick thrusts,
drawing blood from Rantel's side.

As the figure moved before him he followed the muscles as they wove beneath
the skin. He was not only fighting with an assailant who was awaiting for
that split second in which to strike him dead, but he was stabbing at a
masterpiece - at sculpture that leapt and heaved, at a marvel of inky
shadow and silver light. A great wave of nausea surged through him and
his knife felt putrid in his hand. His body went on fighting.

[snip]



Keda's trance had fallen from her in a sudden brutal moment and she had
started to run towards the Twisted Woods. Through the great phosphorescent
night, cloakless, her hair unfastening as she climbed, she came at last to
the incline that led to the lip of the hollow. Her pain mounted as she
ran. The strange, unworldly strength had died in her, the glory was gone -
only
an agony of fear was with her now.

As she climbed to the ridge of the hollow she could hear - so small
a sound in the enormous night - the panting of the men, and her heart
for a moment lifted, for they were alive.

With a bound she reached the brow of the slope and saw them crouching and
moving in moonlight below her. The cry in her throat was choked as she
saw the blood upon them, and she sank to her knees.

Braigon had seen her and his tired arms rang with a sudden strength.
With a flash of his left arm he whirled Rantel's daggered hand away,
and springing after him as swiftly as though he were a part of his foe,
he plunged his knife into the shadowy breast.

As he struck he withdrew the dagger, and as Rantel sank to the ground,
Braigon flung his weapon away.

He did not turn to Keda. He stood motionless, his hands at his head.
Keda could feel no grief. The corners of her mouth lifted. The time
for horror was not yet. This was not *real* - yet. She saw Rantel
raise himself upon his left arm. He groped for his dagger and felt
it beside him in the dew. His life was pouring from the wound in his
breast. Keda watched him as, summoning into his right arm what strength
remained in his whole body, he sent the dagger running through the air
with a sudden awkward movement of his arm. It found its mark in a statue's
throat. Braigon's arms fell to his sides like dead weights. He tottered
forward, swayed for a little, the bone hilt at his gullet, and then
collapsed lifeless across the body of his destroyer.


___

You're right, this doesn't appeal to me at all... When I try to read this, my mind starts to wander and I can read those scenes ten times and still not have the foggiest idea what it is all about. In my opinion this wordy style is diametrically opposed to Rand's focused style, I really don't see anything common in them.

The styles are very different, yes, maybe even "diametrically opposed." That was my point, that the styles are very different -- however, IMO, both very good and thus interesting to compare. I gather that you wouldn't agree about the "moonlit" style being "good." I on the other hand love scenes which convey the mysteriousness of moonlight, tales of ghostly castles, "The Highwayman," Walter de la Mere's "The Moon," etc. I'm the ultimate night person.

Ellen

___

I split the a couple posts off a thread in "Chewing" and gave it a home over here in books as a topic of its own. By moving the book excerpt over here, I am simply trying to keep the forum somewhat organized and the threads on topic. Just minor housekeeping.

Here is how it began...



Here is Ellen's introduction to the excepts

Ellen
Thanks for reminding me of this series. I once heard Robert Smith list it among his favorite books. I had intended to keep an eye out for it, but forgot all about it.

Anyone any thoughts on the BBC cinematic-conversion to a miniseries?

Apart from any symbolism, overall I thought of the story-line as a nightmare that Alice would have after falling down the rabbit-hole and THEN dreaming that she fell asleep.

J-D