The temptation to prolixity is one many writers struggle with, myself being no exception. Some, however, take wordiness to a whole new level, elevating it almost to an art form. This was a far more common phenomenon in the 19th century, in the literature of which a sentence without several semicolons, a multitude of commas, and a dash or four would be considered rather anemic. In the latter part of the 20th century, though, the influence of Hemingway and others contributed to a paring down of prose, stripping sentences of all but their barest elements, and sometimes even excising one or two of those as well. While this worked well for the great writers of that period, the bastardization of that style has led to some extremely irritating habits in many popular authors. Dan Brown, whose current popularity has more to do with his capacity for penning exciting (though somewhat clichéd) stories than his skill as a writer, has an annoying habit of creating one-word sentences in an effort to create atmosphere. Similarly, many writers of fantasy seem to think that a one-sentence paragraph (often beginning with “and”) is an effective tension-builder. In this they are egregiously mistaken; structural tricks cannot rescue mediocre writing.

The fantasy genre is not entirely without literary merit, though—there are some authors whose prose is a delight to read. Tad Williams is just such an author. In terms of actual output, he is not, perhaps, the most prolific writer extant, having published a mere eight novels, but the sheer size and scope of his tales make up for any imagined dearth of storytelling. His Memory, Sorrow and Thorn trilogy, in its paperback format, is actually made up of four books, as the final book was entirely too long to publish in a single paperback copy, and was split into two books, 800 pages apiece. The story is a grand, sprawling affair, in which kingdoms rise and fall, and a centuries-old evil stretches forth cruel fingers from beyond the grave to shake the foundations of civilization. The journey begins in The Dragonbone Chair.

<=== Characters & Plot ===>

“John the Presbyter, Lord of Erkynland and High King of all Osten Ard; scourge of the Sithi and defender of the true faith, wielder of the sword Bright-Nail, bane of the dragon Shurakai… Prester John was sitting once more upon his chair made of dragon bones. He was very, very old, and had been crying.”

The tale begins in melancholy. The aged king, infirm and weak from years of illness, is coming to the end of his life, and has summoned his sons to attend him in his last days. Within the Hayholt’s age-blackened walls, an air of expectancy wafts through dim and drafty halls; the end of an era waits on the king’s final breath.

“‘We are both our father’s sons, O King-to-be…’ Josua’s smile was mocking. ‘The crown is yours by right. The griefs we bear against each other need not worry you. Your soon-to-be-royal self will be quite safe—my word on that. But,’ his voice gained force, ‘I will not, do you hear me, will not be ordered out of my sire’s house by anyone. Not even you, Elias.’”

All is not well in King John’s household, however. His sons, Josua (called Lackhand by some, for the stump of his right hand is a constant reminder of painful past loss) and Elias have little love for one another. Though Josua craves none of the trappings of power, the ghosts of the past stand between him and his elder brother. Worse, the insidious whisperings of the red priest Pryrates have further hardened Elias’ heart. It remains to be seen whether the heir will be able to fill the prodigious void left by the death of his mighty father.

“ ‘Come to think of it, boy,’ [Morgenes] finally said, ‘I will be having many chores coming up that you could help me with—and eventually I will need an apprentice. Com back tomorrow, as I said. I will talk with the Mistress of Chambermaids about the other.’ He smiled briefly, then turned back to his scroll… Simon turned and sprinted through the door. Exhilaration caught him up as he bounded down the blue-lit hallway and emerged under the dark, cloud-smeared skies. Apprentice! To the doctor!”

One of the Hayholt’s lowlier denizens, Simon is not quite satisfied with the life of a scullion. He does mean well, but his unfortunate predilection toward distraction continually lands him in trouble with Rachel the Dragon, Mistress of Chambermaids. Glorious freedom beckons, though, in the form of apprenticeship to Dr. Morgenes, the most learned and fascinating man in the entire castle. The doctor’s chambers are chock-full of wonderful and exotic things, a perfect place of employment for a perpetually-curious youth.

Upon the death of the old king, Elias assumes the throne, but it is immediately apparent that things will be much changed under the new ruler. The coronation celebration seems to have been prolonged indefinitely, with tourneys almost every week, and riotous (and expensive) merrymaking ringing in the Hayholt’s stone halls. There is also the matter of the unseasonably hot weather, the dry and grasping summer that will not relinquish its grip. The world appears to be spiraling out of balance, and soon young Simon finds himself embroiled in an insidious plot that will forever change the face of Osten Ard. Hunted and harried, he is driven far from his home, deep into the great forest Aldheorte and beyond. Now, against his will, he is caught up in events far beyond his control, events that will shape kingdoms. The Storm King is coming, and only the most fragile of hopes, and the frailest of alliances stand in the way of the brutal winter he promises.

<=== Analysis ===>

The old adage for would-be authors is “write what you know.” This does not bode well for the fantasist, since fantasy, almost by definition, bears little resemblance to the world we now inhabit. Some authors sidestep this by creating alternate histories, or by skewing our own history in an interesting way (a la Philip Pullman, in his His Dark Materials novels). Tad Williams mines a variety of historical traditions in his world-building, from the Roman Catholic church of the Middle Ages to the nomadic horsemen of the Asian steppes. In each case, there are touchstones that are immediately recognizable, and bring an immediacy and accessibility to the world Williams creates. Perhaps the most intriguing example of this is his depiction of the church in Osten Ard. The mythology he builds parallels to a great extent historical Christianity, replete with a Christ-figure, priests, iconography, and a well-established and powerful bureaucracy. Against this backdrop, the notion of pagan races and old gods has a far greater impact than it might otherwise, at least for readers in the western, Judeo-Christian tradition.

Williams’ prose is wonderful to experience. Eschewing the banal, cliché-ridden prose of many popular authors, he allows his writing to delve into marvelous detail, here illuminating with a cogent metaphor, there elucidating with a deftly-constructed description. He is a master of the hyphenated adjective and the evocative simile; open the novel to almost any page, and you will find gems like “the cold, lightning-scratched darkness,”, and “[the sword] seemed to sing in his hand like a wind-sawed rope.” Again and again he sprinkles his prose with gloriously expressive words, metaphors, and similes, until one marvels at his fecundity of mind, that he can craft such obscure yet suggestive descriptions.

In dialogue, also, Williams evinces a sure hand, and an ear for rhythm. Part of the challenge of creating a variety of different cultures is the differentiation of their respective voices. Tolkien’s long shadow falls across the fantasy landscape here, and it is doubtful that any has since matched his magnificent linguistic creativity. While Williams may not have created several fully-formed languages, as did Tolkien, he has certainly done a worthy job of weaving different languages and mannerisms into his tale. The most impressive example of this is the idiom he creates for Simon’s trollish companion on his journeys. Binabik of Yiquanuc speaks Simon’s native tongue of Erkynlandish (equivalent to English, not surprisingly), but in a distinctly foreign idiom, and one which Williams maintains with notable consistency throughout the novel. The Germanic Rimmerspakk, the Welsh-sounding Hernystiri, and the Elvish, apostrophe-ridden speech of the Sithi all add a flavor of believability, and serve to further immerse the reader in the story.

If there is one flaw in the novel (other than its length, which I certainly do not hold against it), it is in the apparent ubiquity of its young protagonist. At times, the believability of the tale suffers slightly due to the fact that Simon seems to stumble upon every major event in the early portions of the novel. He overhears conversations that provide important character notes, he wanders into hidden passages simply by accident, finding in the process the dark secrets that start him on his grueling journey, and bears witness to several horrific events that will deeply affect his future, and the future of the entire kingdom. The coincidences that seem to converge on his character do stretch the cynical reader’s credulity, but after the initial whirlwind of events, this aspect of the story diminishes somewhat. And if this is the only noticeable flaw in an 800-page novel, it can certainly be ignored without much difficulty.

<=== Finale ===>

Unlike many of the fantasy series I read in my youth, Memory, Sorrow and Thorn has stood the test of time rather well. Indeed, I have enjoyed it far more the second time through, as I am now better able to appreciate Williams’ wonderful way with words. The stark characterizations, the wildly ambitious plotline, the confident world-building, and above all the magnificent descriptions make The Dragonbone Chair a must-read for any fan of fantasy. Even those who normally avoid the genre may find themselves won over by the brilliance of Williams’ writing. The following passage can serve as a last illustration of the evocative prose, in a way that more of my own words cannot.

“The odor of water and stone was everywhere. His sense of smell, like his hearing, seemed to have grown more acute in the blind, black night, and as he fumbled his way ever downward the scents of this midnight world washed over him—damp, loamy earth, nearly as rich as bread dough, and the bland, but harsh fragrance of rocks. He was awash in the vibrant, breathing odors of moss and roots, the busy, sweet rottenness of tiny things living and dying. And floating through everything, permeating and complicating all, was the sour, mineral tang of seawater.”

Though he seems constitutionally incapable of writing a short story, I cannot find it within myself to care. Any writer who can do such things with words should be pardoned the sin of verbosity. Go forth, Mr. Williams, and sin some more. I shall read the product of your iniquity with pleasure.

© SL, 2004



Recommended: Yes