Gissa Bokcitatet

Tackar! En förfärlig skitbok vill jag minnas att jag tyckte det var.



"Like a vast spider suspended by a metal chord, a candelabrum presided over the room nine feet above the floor boards. From its sweeping arms of iron, long stalactites of wax lowered their pale spilths drip by drip, drip by drip. A rough table with a drawer half open, which appeared to be full of birdseed, was in such a position below the iron spider that a cone of tallow was mounting by degrees at one corner into a lambent pyramid the size of a hat.
The room was untidy to the extent of being a shambles. Everything had the appearance of being put aside for the moment. Even the bed was at an angle, slanting away from the wall and crying out to be pushed back flush against the red wallpaper. As the candles guttered or flared, so the shadows moved from side to side, or up and down the wall, and with those movements behind the bed there swayed the shadows of four birds. Between them vacillated an enormous head. This umbrage was cast by her ladyship, the seventy-sixth Countess. She was propped against several pillows and a black shawl was draped around her shoulders. Her hair, a very dark red colour of great lustre, appeared to have been left suddenly while being woven into a knotted structure on the top of her head. Thick coils still fell about her shoulders, or clustered upon the pillows like burning snakes.
Her eyes were of the pale green that is common among cats. They were large eyes, yet seemed, in proportion to the pale area of her face, to be small. The nose was big enough to appear so in spite of the expanse that surrounded it. The effect which she produced was one of bulk, although only her head, neck, shoulders and arms could be seen above the bedclothes."

Jag tycker det påminner om något jag har läst för länge sedan av Edgar Allan Poe.

Det är inte Poe. Vår författare är ett sekel yngre.

"Mrs Slagg hoisted her little claw of a hand very high in the air. The four who were lined in front of her had taken less formal stances, the children peering up at her with their slim, dusty arms around each others’ shoulders.
‘I have come’, she said in a voice which, thin as a curlew, carried along the tables, ‘I have come—although it is so late—to tell you a wonderful thing.’ She readjusted her hat and felt as she did so, with great pleasure, the shining volume of the glass grapes.
The old man turned to the tables and his voice rolled out along them. ‘She has come to tell us a wonderful thing’, and the old woman followed him up like a distorted echo and screamed, ‘A wonderful thing.’
‘Yes, yes, it is wonderful news for you,’ the old nurse continued. ‘You will all be very proud, I am quite sure.’
Mrs Slagg, now she had started was rather enjoying herself. She clasped her gloved hands together more tightly whenever she felt a qualm of nervousness.
‘We are all proud. All of us. The Castle’, (she said this in a rather vain way) ‘is very very satisfied and when I tell you what has happened, then, you’ll be happy as well; oh yes, I am sure you will. Because I know you are dependent on the castle.’
Mrs Slagg was never very tactful. ‘You have some food thrown down to you from the battlements every morning, don’t you?’ She had pursed her mouth and stopped a moment for breath.
A young man lifted his thick black eyebrows and spat.
‘So you are very much thought of by the Castle. Every day you are thought of, aren’t you? And that’s why you’ll be so happy when I tell you the wonderful thing that I’m going to tell you.’
Mrs Slagg smiled to herself for a moment, but suddenly felt a little nervous in spite of her superior knowledge and had glanced quickly, like a bird, from one face to another. She had bridled up her wispy head and had peered as sternly as she could at a small boy who answered her with a flashing smile. His hair was clustered over his shoulders. Between his teeth as he grinned glistened a white nugget of jarl root.
She shifted her gaze and clapped her hands together sharply two or three times as though for silence, although there was no noise at all. Then she suddenly felt she wanted to be back in the castle and in her own little room and she said before she knew it, ‘A new little XXX has been born, a little boy. A little boy of the Blood. I am in charge, of course, and I want a wet nurse for him at once. I must have one at once to come back with me. There now! I’ve told you everything.’"

"Vår eftersökta Författare is a finer poet than Edgar Allan Poe", förkortat och förvrängt citat av Robertson Davies, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robertson_Davies


Om protagonistens far:

"Every morning of the year, between the hours of nine and ten, he may be found, seated in the Stone Hall. It is there, at the long table that he takes his breakfast. The table is raised upon a daïs, and from where he sits he can gaze down the length of the grey refectory. On either side and running the entire length, great pillars prop the painted ceiling where cherubs pursue each other across a waste of flaking sky. There must be about a thousand of them all told, interweaving among the clouds, their fat limbs for ever on the move and yet never moving, for they are imperfectly articulated. The colours, once garish, have faded and peeled away and the ceiling is now a very subtle shade of grey and lichen green, old rose and silver."

"Arriving, as was his consistent habit, at exactly nine o’clock every morning, he would enter the long hall and move with a most melancholy air between rows of long tables, where servants of every grade would be awaiting him, standing at their places, their heads bowed.
Mounting the daïs he would move around to the far side of the table where hung a heavy brass bell. He would strike it. The servants sitting down at once, would begin their meal of bread, rice wine and cake.
Lord X’s menu was otherwise. As he sat, this morning, in his high- backed chair he saw before him—through a haze of melancholia that filmed his brain and sickened his heart, robbing it of power and his limbs of health —he saw before him a snow-white tablecloth. It was set for two. The silver shone and the napkins were folded into the shapes of peacocks and were perched decoratively on the two plates. There was a delicious scent of bread, sweet and wholesome. There were eggs painted in gay colours, toast piled up pagoda-wise, tier upon tier and each as frail as a dead leaf; and fish with their tails in their mouths lay coiled in sea-blue saucers. There was coffee in an urn shaped like a lion, the spout protruding from that animal’s silver jaws. There were all varieties of coloured fruits that looked strangely tropical in that dark hall. There were honeys and jams, jellies, nuts and spices and the ancestral breakfast plate was spread out to the greatest advantage amid the golden cutlery of the Xs. In the centre of the table was a small tin bowl of dandelions and nettles.

Lord Sepulchrave sat silently. He did not seem to notice the delicacies spread before him, nor when for a moment or two at a time his head was raised, did he appear to see the long cold dining-hall nor the servants at their tables. To his right, at the adjacent corner of the board, was arranged the cutlery and earthenware crockery that implied the imminent arrival of his lordship’s breakfast companion. Lord X, his eyes upon the jade knob of the rod which he was twisting slowly upon its ferrule, again rang the brass bell and a door opened in the wall behind him. Sourdust entered with great books under his arm. He was arrayed in crimson sacking. His beard was knotted and the hairs that composed it were black and white. His face was very lined, as though it had been made of brown paper that had been crunched by some savage hand before being hastily smoothed out and spread over the tissues. His eyes were deep-set and almost lost in the shadows cast by his fine brow, which for all its wrinkles, retained a sweeping breadth of bone.
The old man seated himself at the end of the table, and stacked the four volumes beside a porcelain decanter, and raising his sunken eyes to Lord X, murmured these words in a weak and shaking voice and yet with a certain dignity as though it were not simply a case of having to get through the ritual, but that it was now, as always, well worth getting through.
‘I, Sourdust, lord of the library, personal adviser to your lordship, nonagenarian, and student of the X lore, proffer to your lordship the salutations of a dark morning, robed as I am in rags, student as I am of the tomes, and nonagenarian as I happen to be in the matter of years.’
This was delivered in one breath and then he coughed unpleasantly several times, his hand at his chest."

Författaren beskrivs ibland som en av de tre stora fantasyförfattarna, tillsammans med JRR Tolkien och Robert E Howard.

Vår unge protagonists syster får kännedom om hans födelse.

"On the table lay a big coloured book of verses and pictures. It was always ready for her to open and devour. Fuchsia would turn over the pages and read the verses aloud in a deep dramatic voice. This morning she leaned forward and turned over the pages listlessly. As she came upon a great favourite she paused and read it through slowly, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

THE FRIVOLOUS CAKE
A freckled and frivolous cake there was
That sailed on a pointless sea,
Or any lugubrious lake there was
In a manner emphatic and free.
How jointlessly, and how jointlessly
The frivolous cake sailed by
On the waves of the ocean that pointlessly
Threw fish to the lilac sky.

Oh, plenty and plenty of hake there was
Of a glory beyond compare,
And every conceivable make there was
Was tossed through the lilac air.

Up the smooth billows and over the crests
Of the cumbersome combers flew
The frivolous cake with a knife in the wake
Of herself and her curranty crew.
Like a swordfish grim it would bounce and skim
(This dinner knife fierce and blue),
And the frivolous cake was filled to the brim
With the fun of her curranty crew.

Oh, plenty and plenty of hake there was
Of a glory beyond compare—
And every conceivable make there was
Was tossed through the lilac air.

Around the shores of the Elegant Isles
Where the cat-fish bask and purr
And lick their paws with adhesive smiles
And wriggle their fins of fur,
They fly and fly ’neath the lilac sky—
The frivolous cake, and the knife
Who winketh his glamorous indigo eye
In the wake of his future wife.

The crumbs blow free down the pointless sea
To the beat of a cakey heart
And the sensitive steel of the knife can feel
That love is a race apart.
In the speed of the lingering light are blown
The crumbs to the hake above,
And the tropical air vibrates to the drone
Of a cake in the throes of love.

She ended the final verse with a rush, taking in nothing at all of its meaning. As she ended the last line mechanically, she found herself getting to her feet and making for the door. Her bundle was left behind, open, but, save for the pear, untouched on the table. She found herself on the balcony and lowering herself down the ladder was in the empty attic and within a few moments had reached the head of the stairs in the lumber room. As she descended the spiral staircase her thoughts were turning over and over.
‘What have they done? What have they done?’ And it was in a precipitous mood that she entered her room and ran to the corner where, catching hold of the pigtail bell-rope she pulled it as though to wrench it from the ceiling.
Within a few moments Mrs Slagg came running up to the door, her slippered feet scraping along unevenly on the floorboards. Fuchsia opened the door to her and as soon as the poor old head appeared around the panels, she shouted at it, ‘What’s happening Nannie, what’s happening down there? Tell me at once, Nannie, or I won’t love you. Tell me, tell me.’
‘Quiet, my caution, quiet’, said Mrs Slagg. ‘What’s all the bother, my conscience! oh my poor heart. You’ll be the death of me.’
‘You must tell me, Nannie. Now! now! or I’ll hit you,’ said Fuchsia.
From so small a beginning of suspicion Fuchsia’s fears had grown until now, convinced by a mounting intuition, she was almost on the point of striking her old nurse, whom she loved so desperately. Nannie Slagg took hold of Fuchsia’s hand between eight old fingers and squeezed it.
‘A little brother for you, my pretty. Now there’s a surprise to quieten you; a little brother. Just like you, my ugly darling—born in the lapsury.’
‘No!’ shouted Fuchsia, the blood rushing to her cheek. ‘No! no! I won’t have it. Oh no, no, no! I won’t! I won’t! It mustn’t be, it mustn’t be!’ And Fuchsia flinging herself to the floor burst into a passion of tears."

Funderade utan resultat, tänkte på nånting annat ett tag, då dök namnet Mervyn Peake plötsligt upp i huvet på mig.

Snyggt!

Tänkte på dig innan när jag klistrade in citaten från, Titus Groan - första delen i Gormenghasttrilogin - och att du inte uppskattade Fantasy. Detta räknas, säkert till mångas förtret, till genren, även om det saknas såväl alver som trollkarlar som allt annat bråte som brukar dyka upp.

Över till dig, Att

Tackar! Ja någon bok av Peake har jag ju inte läst, vet inte riktigt i vilket sammanhang jag stött på namnet. Kollade nu i mitt exemplar av The Science Fiction Encyclopedia från 1979, där finns han med i alla fall.

Vem skrev detta?

Tionde dagen i fastan

Jag smörjer in min lekamen
Tanken helgas i ensamhetens
Tunna olja
Jag manar fram er alla
På ljusets terrasser. Låt det mörka
Dra sig undan

Jag smörjer in min röst
Och låter den hädanefter ljuda
Eller dö bort på sin ensamma färd
I din rymd. Röster nya
Skall väcka ekon när
Ondskan skall uppstå på nytt

Jag smörjer in mitt hjärta
Inne i dess lågande flamma låg jag
Kuvad aska av ditt hat -
Låt ondskan dö.

Ja, vem ska man gissa på, känns lite inspirerat av religiös terminologi i Eliots efterföljd. Det är starkt att författaren ligger inne i sitt eget hjärta. Tala om att vända ut och in på sig!

Smörja in lekamen, låter som något fin de siècle och symbolism … Stéphane Mallarmé?

Soyinka?