The Worm Ouroboros by E. R. Eddison (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📕
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The Worm Ouroboros is considered to be one of the foundational texts of the high fantasy genre, influencing later authors like J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Ursula K. Leguin, and James Branch Cabell. It is most frequently compared to The Lord of the Rings in its epic scope set against a medieval, magic-laced backdrop—a world called “Middle Earth” by Eddison, thirty-two years before Tolkien’s—and in its almost mythical portrayal of larger-than-life heroes and villains.
The plot begins simply enough: The Lords of Demonland, a group of heroic warriors enjoying a strained peace, are called upon by an emissary of the warlock king of Witchland, Gorice XI. The emissary demands that Demonland submit to the King of Witchland—but the proud Demons refuse, setting off an epic war that spans their entire world. The heroic struggles of the Demons and their allies against the Witches reflect the circular nature of human history: the snake eating its own tail of the title.
The novel is written in a purposefully archaic, almost Jacobean style. The rich, surprising vocabulary and unusual spelling are testaments to Eddison’s expertise at reading and translating medieval-era texts. To this day, it remains perhaps unique in fantasy literature in the accuracy and precision of its highly affected prose style, perhaps matched only by the out-of-time strangeness of the prose in Hodgson’s The Night Land. But where critics often find The Night Land’s prose obtuse and difficult, they have nothing but praise for Eddison’s beautiful, quotable style.
Eddison had already imagined the story and its heroes as a child, and drawings he made as a youth of events in the book are preserved in the Bodleian library. While the novel is without a doubt the work of a mature and skilled writer, and while some of the events and characters are portrayed differently in the novel than they were in his youthful sketches, the names of many of the characters and places remain unchanged. Some of his contemporaries, like Tolkien, wondered about the strange naming style; others criticized it as taking away from the more serious subject matter.
The Worm Ouroboros remains one of the most influential works in the high fantasy genre to this day, and traces of the foundation it laid can be still be found in genre books a century after its publication.
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- Author: E. R. Eddison
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“Feared!” cried she, swinging round for the nurse to put about her white shoulders her mantle of sendaline and cloth of silver, that shimmered at the collar with purple amethysts and was scented with cedar and galbanum and myrrh. She was forth in the dark corridor, down by the winding marble stair, through the mid-court, hasting to the banquet hall. The court was full of folk talking; but nought certain, nought save suspense and wonder; rumour of a great sea-fight in the south, a mighty victory won by Laxus upon the Demons: Juss and those lords of Demonland dead and gone, the captives following with the morning’s tide. And here and there like an undertone to these triumphant tidings, contrary rumours, whispered low, like the hissing of an adder from her shadowy lair: all not well, the lord Admiral wounded, half his ships lost, the battle doubtful, the Demons escaped. So came that lady into the great hall; and there were the lords and captains of the Witches all in a restless quiet of expectation. Duke Corsus lolled forward in his seat down by the cross-bench, his breath stertorous, his small eyes fixed in a drunken stare. On the other side Corund sate huge and motionless, his elbow propped on the table, his chin in his hand, sombre and silent, staring at the wall. Others gathered in knots, talking in low tones. The Lord Corinius walked up and down behind the cross-bench, his hands clasped behind him, his fingers snapping impatiently at whiles, his heavy jaw held high, his glance high and defiant. Prezmyra came to Heming where he stood among three or four and touched him on the arm. “We know nothing, madam,” he said. “He is with the King.”
She came to her lord. “Thou didst send for me.”
Corund looked up at her. “Why, so I did, madam. Tidings from the fleet. Maybe somewhat, maybe nought. But thou’dst best be here for’t.”
“Good tidings or ill: that shaketh not Carcë walls,” said she.
Suddenly the low buzz of talk was hushed. The King stood in the curtained doorway. They rose up all to meet him, all save Corsus that sat drunk in his chair. The crown of Witchland shed baleful sparkles above the darkness of the dark fortress-face of Gorice the King, the glitter of his dread eyeballs, the deadly line of his mouth, the square black beard jutting beneath. Like a tower he stood, and behind him in the shadow was the messenger from the fleet with countenance the colour of wet mortar.
The King spake and said, “My lords, here’s tidings touching the truth whereof I have well satisfied myself. And it importeth the mere perdition of my fleet. There hath been battle off Melikaphkhaz in the Impland seas. Juss hath sunken our ships, every ship save that which brought the tidings, sunk, with Laxus and all his men that were with him.” He paused: then, “These be heavy news,” he said, “and I’ll have you bear ’em in the old Witchland fashion: the heavier hit the heavier strike again.”
In the strange deformed silence came a little gasping cry, and the Lady Sriva fell a-swooning.
The King said, “Let the kings of Impland and of Demonland attend me. The rest, it is commanded that all do get them to bed o’ the instant.”
The Lord Corund said in his lady’s ear as he went by, taking her with his hand about the shoulder, “What, lass? if the broth’s spilt, the meat remaineth. To bed with thee, and never doubt we’ll pay them yet.”
And he with Corinius followed the King.
It was past middle night when the council brake up, and Corund sought his chamber in the eastern gallery above the inner court. He found his lady sitting yet at the window, watching the false dawn over Pixyland. Dismissing his lamp-bearers that lighted him to bed, he bolted and barred the great iron-studded door. The breadth of his shoulders when he turned filled the shadowy doorway; his head well nigh touched the lintel. It was hard to read his countenance in the uncertain gloom where he stood beyond the bright region made by the candlelight, but Prezmyra’s eyes could mark how care sat on his brow, and there was in the carriage of his ponderous frame kingliness and the strength of some strong determination.
She stood up, looking up at him as on a mate to whom she could be true and be true to her own self. “Well?” she said.
“The tables are set,” said he, without moving. “The King hath named me his captain general in Carcë.”
“Is it come to that?” said Prezmyra.
“They have hewn a limb from us,” answered he. “They have wit to know the next stroke should be at the heart.”
“Is it truly so?” said she. “Eight thousand men? twice thine army’s strength that won Impland for us? all drowned?”
“ ’Twas the devilish seamanship of these accursed Demons,” said Corund. “It appeareth Laxus held the Straits where they must go if ever they should win home again, meaning to fight ’em in the narrows and so crush ’em with the weight of’s ships as easy as kill flies, having by a great odds the bigger strength both in ships and men. They o’ their part kept the sea without, trying their best to ’tice him forth so they might do their sailor tricks i’ the open. A week or more he withstood it, till o’ the ninth day (the devil curse him for a fool, wherefore could a not have had patience?) o’ the ninth morning, weary of inaction and having wind and tide something in his favour”; the Lord Corund groaned and snapped his fingers contemptuously. “O I’ll tell thee the tale tomorrow, madam. I’m surfeited with it tonight. The sum is, Laxus drownded and all that were with him, and Juss with his whole great armament northward bound for Witchland.”
“And the wide seas his. And we expect him, any day?”
“The wind hangeth easterly. Any day,” said Corund.
Prezmyra said, “That
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