Where to begin? I chose to read this book because it had been suggested to me that Tolkien might have found some inspiration for his own novels within its pages. And I should say, that literary spark does lie within. That being said, this is the most difficult book I have and likely will ever read due to language barriers. Now, I am not without intelligence. Some people have even refrained from calling me a fool, although it has proven a rare compliment. Even so, I struggled, so much at times that I forgot the meaning of what I was attempting to read.

To clarify, I will break down this book’s language barrier into three levels of what I will refer to as “Ye olden-timie language, levels one through three.”

Level one of Ye olden-timie language is mostly presented by the narrator voice, and I should say, I greatly enjoyed it. There are some beautiful passages written in this voice, of which I have never experienced before. Here is an example:

“So, in the golden autumn afternoon, in the midst of that ⁠sad main of sedgelands where between slimy banks the weed-choked Druima deviously winds toward the sea, were those two men met together for whose ambition and their pride the world was too little a place to contain them both and peace lying between them. And like some drowsy dragon of the elder slime, squat, sinister, and monstrous, the citadel of Carcë slept over all.”

If that already confused you, you should probably stop reading there. I found it fascinating, but it already does require a bit more effort to follow.

Level two of Ye olden-timie language comes in the form of most of the characters, who have their own regional dialects, and may misspell some words, while choosing strange ways of speaking. It ranges from just a little more complex than ‘level one’ to bordering on ‘level three.’ Here is a good example somewhere in the upper-middle of its complexity:

“If mine enemy uproot a boulder above my dwelling, so I be mighty enow of mine hands I may, even in the nick of time that it tottereth to leap and crush mine house, o'erset it on him and pash him to a mummy."

Strange, in my opinion. There were plenty of times that characters would communicate with each other, and a phrase like that would set me off figuring out what it said, to the point that I genuinely forgot what was happening and couldn’t remember what led characters to choose the actions they did. That's where the book officially started to leave me behind.

Lastly, level three of Ye olden-timie language mainly comes in the form of anything written in letters or sung in verse. It has many intentional misspellings, and has the unfortunate side effect of forcing my eyeballs to repeatedly punch the page, leaving abrasions on my corneas:

“Soo schel your hous stonde and bee
Unto eternytee
Yet walke warilie
Wyttinge ful sarteynlee
That if impiouslie
The secounde tyme in the bodie
Practisinge grammarie
One of ye katched shulle be
By the feyndis subtiltee
And hys liffe lossit bee
Broke ys thenne this serye
Dampned are you thenne eternallie
Yerth shuldestow thenne never more se
Scarsly the Goddes mought reskue ye
Owt of the Helle where you woll lie
Unto eternytee
The sterres tealde hit mee.”

That is… a mess. With sections like that, I just had to hope I didn't miss something important.

Overall the book was interesting. There were a few parts (Gorice the 11th’s wrestling, Gorice the 12th's conjuring, and the demons scaling of mountain ranges) that I found really engaging. The ending did fall flat for me. Spoiler: Gorice the 12th (I’m guessing) blew himself up on purpose to be reborn as the 13th. But there was no final standoff showcasing his insane abilities, which was quite disappointing, and I’m still not entirely sure what happened. I do own Eddison’s other 3 books in the series, so I could likely find out, but I’m not entirely sure I want to risk further trauma to my gray matter at this time.

I will end with one of this books clever insults, which I found especially entertaining:

“But Brandoch Daha laughed, and answered him, "To nought else may I liken thee, O Juss, but to the sparrow-camel. To whom they said, 'Fly,' and it answered, 'I cannot, for I am a camel'; and when they said, 'Carry,' it answered, 'I cannot, for I am a bird.'"
"Wilt thou egg me on so much?" said Juss.
"Ay," said Brandoch Daha, "if thou wilt be assish."

4.5 stars. This book feels like a mix of Homer and Shakespeare--epic battles, triumphs, tragedies, drama (with some occasional and surprising humor!), and divine interventions. The characters have depth, and even (some of) the villains are honorable in some regards. Some takeaway thoughts I had:
1. King Gorice XII is an awesome villain.
2. Was there ever such a turncoat like Gro?
3. In spite of him being on the wrong team, I really like Corund.
4. Being a Demon who is not one of the Big Four is equivalent to being a Star Trek Redshirt.

Fantasy is not my genre. At all. In no way, shape, or form. At around p. 70 I was deeply regretting having cracked The Worm Ouroboros. But I pushed on, and oddly enough, I began to enjoy it, primarily because the language is quite exquisite, baroque, Shakespearean. I won't say the plot pulled me in completely, but I will admit to rooting for the heroes of Demonland in their quest to subdue the warriors of Carcë. And there are bits that are quite humorous:

Brandoch Jaha said in Juss's ear, "Our peacemaking taketh a pretty turn. Heels i' the air: monstrous unladylike!"

Eddison’s The Worm Ouroboros is one of those primal works of 20th-century fantasy that, though undeniably at the roots of modern fantasy (admired by Tolkien, for instance), influenced later writers more by way of inspiring them to follow their own imaginations than through any attempt at imitation. Read nowadays, in the context of the modern fantasy genre, aspects of The Worm can seem like flaws — such as the fact that the POV character from our world, Lessingham, is forgotten a few chapters in, or the fact that the main nations of Eddison’s world have slightly jarring names (Demons, Imps, Witches) — but these are, I think, evidence of its originality. The Worm Ouroboros emerged from Eddison as a peculiar, imaginative whole, and he wrote it as he found it, not because it fitted any precedent: anyway, there were no precedents for The Worm.

Which isn’t to say it doesn’t have its influences. The Worm is stuffed with every cultural influence that struck Eddison from his childhood daydreams (which is where his heroes Lord Juss & co. first appeared), to his later reading in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama & poetry, Homeric epics and Norse sagas. And this is where its main flaw, to my mind, lies. The Worm is essentially about a clash of two different types of fictional character: the all-out heroes (the Demons) created in Eddison’s childhood, and the dastardly villains (the Witches) who owe more to John Webster and the dramatis personae of Macbeth than straight-ahead adventure fiction. The Demons Lord Juss, Brandoch Daha, and Goldry Bluszco are entirely defined by action: they climb impossible mountains, they fight ferocious monsters, they lead the charge in heroic battles. The Witches are scheming, passionate, lusty, petty, selfish, spiteful and vengeful. You can admire Lord Juss & co., but can’t relate to them, and they can be slightly boring in their relentless heroism; you don’t admire King Gorice XII and his court, but they are, you have to admit, a lot more interesting. (Even the Demons admit this, at the end.) The two character-types don’t quite meet. It’s like a story of cartoons fighting fully-fleshed human beings. This is why there’s such poignance in the scene where Queen Prezmyra scorns the Demons’ assurances that, though her side lost in a recent battle, they won’t hurt her, but will treat her with honour; she points out that they’ve just killed everyone who ever mattered to her. The Demons express regret, but you can’t help feeling they don’t actually know what regret is. There’s a feeling of a boy’s game gone horribly wrong. (And while all this endless battle and honour is being touted, I keep thinking how close this book was written to the end of the first World War, which is perhaps why Tolkien, who lost all his closest friends in that war, though admiring the book, found its outlook not to his taste.)

But, in the end, it’s impossible to criticise The Worm Ouroboros — it is what it is, and is only made all the more what it is, and all the more a wonder, by its peculiarities: its Elizabethan prose, its oil-and-water mix of heroic fantasy and Jacobean tragedy, its violent, aristocratic philosophy (‘The harvest of the world is to the resolute’) and delicately bejewelled, infinitely detailed Pre-Raphaelite world. Above all, The Worm has power — power in its language, and power in its imaginative invention — which is what fantasy needs most of all.

I never knew what bloated meant until I read this book. At least 50% of this book described flowers and clothing. The other 50% was ridiculous. Since it was written following the First World War, I can imagine it being a commentary on the absurdity of the British cultural position toward warfare, but it would have been nice for at least ONE character to be sort of likable/reasonable/intelligent/NORMAL.

The story in a nutshell: one of three brothers is kidnapped, the remaining brothers and their friend must save him while protecting their kingdom from the evil bad guy trying to steal it from them. So two of the three set off to find where the brother is located, practically arriving at his doorstep, only to discover that they must go all the way home in order to retrieve the magic item that will allow them to cross the threshold.

The characters in a nutshell: two dimensional (probably more like one) war-mongers who are dearly beloved to their soldiers for their prowess, honesty and virtue. Nevermind that by the time the book ends, there can't possibly be a single able-bodied man alive in either kingdom, and NOBODY feels like it's a shame that this many people are dying, primarily for no real reason.

A high-epic-like fantasy written in the 1920's in fake Tudor English and which chronicles the story of a war between different peoples living on Mercury but it's not really Mercury but instead is Middle Earth and, oh, I give up. Honestly, it reads like a toddler telling a story a la Tolkien. Just...reread Tolkien and call it a day.
Seriously, though, if you like this kind of ye olde fantasy stuff, go for it - this very well may be your jam. It is not, however, mine.

This is a strange book. It has always been a strange book, even when first published in 1922. But it’s a very satisfying strange book, and it contains what may be the most fantastic sentence I’ve ever read in a work of fiction.

The author, Eric Rücker Eddison, was an English civil servant. He was also a translator of both Norse sagas and an expert in medieval and Renaissance poetry; therefore, he had a lot in common with C.S. Lewis. In fact, he knew both Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein, and interacted with their “Inklings” circle. But he was decidedly not Christian, being best described as “neo-pagan”—as is this book.

“The Worm Ouroboros” is one of the first high fantasy novels (preceded, perhaps, by William Morris’s “The Well at the End of the World”). An “ouroboros,” for those wondering, is the ancient symbol of a snake eating its own tail. It is a sign of eternity and recurrence, and it also represents Jormungand, the World Serpent of Norse mythology, arch-enemy of Thor, who lies coiled around the Earth, and whose uncoiling will precipitate the final battle, Ragnarok. You can tell from this that the book is closely tied to Norse sagas; it also echoes Arthurian legend. In both cases, it is not the content that is echoed, but the themes.

So while the themes are not wholly original, the content is. Eddison created an entire new world (as is the nature of high fantasy), populated by complex heroes with flaws and villains with virtues, striving for power, love, and, most of all, transcendence through personal glory in heroic accomplishments against insurmountable odds. As with any good high fantasy novel, the characters are not flat, but are still archetypes we recognize, and in some of whom we see things we are or want to be. Strange names and strange people, yet they are us withal.

Sorry about that “withal.” I just fell into it naturally after reading this book, because what makes it most challenging is that it is all written, very deliberately, in English of the 16th Century. But it’s not faux archaic; it never slips from its own created world, and the language is probably necessary to convey the mood. Nonetheless, it does make it a slow start and a slow read, because between sentence structure and obscure words (I do not own the OED, but I assume they are all real, but archaic, words), it takes time. It’s not tough going—but it does take time, though it’s worth the effort. Surrounding all this are detailed descriptions that seem overdone on first reading, but seem just right and limitlessly evocative on the second read.

In the early 21st Century, we are used to two basic kinds of high fantasy. One is exemplified by “The Lord of the Rings”—it has a distinctly Christian sensibility, where the correct, moral choice is clear, and heroes and villains are also clear, though the characters are not always purely good or bad (think Boromir). Heroes fight evil because that’s what is the right thing to do; they seek their own glory as well, sometimes, but as a side benefit. Heroes are aware of the costs of their action on the civilian and the common soldier; they take into account how what they do affects others. At the end, evil is defeated. Such fantasy is, like fairy tales, meant both to amuse and to morally instruct us.

The second type is more modern and is exemplified (right now) by “Game of Thrones” (or, technically, I suppose, “A Song of Ice and Fire”). It has an amoral, anarchistic sensibility. Bad things happen to both good and bad people equally. Good people are only good until their inevitable corruption. Moral choices are always unclear and nobody is really good or really bad. Blind fate crushes all. Glory is a myth; the grave awaits us all, and nothing more. In some ways this is more like real life, and certainly more like modern real life. However, it lacks the magic of the first type—it entertains us, though often with an unpleasant aftertaste, but it does not improve us, and is not meant to.

“The Worm Ouroboros” is a third type, which has few modern analogues, if any. It is not Christian at all, but it does have a very specific moral sensibility—that of the pagan Norse. The characters, of whom there are many, fight because fighting brings glory and it’s fun (or, in the case of the villains, because it brings power, and glory, and it’s fun). That’s all they do, in between falling in love with beautiful women (who themselves are all scheming either to bring their families glory or to be part of the aristocratic excellence), and eating big feasts in fancy halls. The elite, those who are most excellent, are all that matter. The role of the common people is to die to maintain the standard of aristocratic excellence (and, spoiler alert, in fact, when the heroes finally win the day after enormous slaughter of their own people, they are bored and at loose ends, so they pray to the gods, and their enemies are thereby restored to life and power, in order to begin the cycle of violence again). This makes it jarring to those who like the straightforward moral conception of Tolkein, and odd to those who like the calculatingly self-interested characters of “Game of Thrones”, since the heroes here constantly act on a purely heroic conception of self-interest, frequently to their immediate and permanent detriment. The heroes here are not amoral or anarchic in the least (although it is like “Game of Thrones” in that relatively significant characters die with regularity), though their morality and adherence to law is nonetheless alien to us. Yes, there is a fair bit of scheming and alliance-making, but the frame shows clearly that all that matters is the quest for glory. I am not an expert on this, but this seems very like Beowulf, and perhaps like other Norse sagas, like the Poetic Edda. What it is not is like any other fantasy with which I’m familiar.

In any case, totally aside from this are the endless riveting passages of the book, and the plot, which is strangely compelling, though wholly odd and frequently interrupted for what seem side happenings. For example, the principal heroes are the rulers of Demonland (though there are no demons in the sense of evil creatures in Demonland). The primary heroes are the King, Lord Juss, and his cousin, Brandoch Daha (yes, all the names are weird—apparently Eddison came up with them as a small child and kept them). They sail to Impland, a blasted land in the far South, searching for the brother of the king of Demonland, kidnapped and held in an inaccessible fortress by an evil spirit summoned by Gorice XII, ever-reincarnated king of Witchland, the main villain. Among other adventures in Impland (having lost thousands of their own men drowned or killed in battle, over which they agonize not at all), they encounter three bewitched generals from a war years past, each with his army. The first pursues the second, thinking he was betrayed by him, yet has no knowledge of the third. And second pursues the third, thinking likewise and knowing nothing of the first—while the third pursues the first, in an endless circle. Spoiler—all of these people die too.

Plus, there are very many compelling characters. The main heroes are medieval paladin archetypes. The villains, led by Gorice, are more complex. And then there are frankly unique characters like Lord Gro, a man of great talents (technically, he’s a Goblin, but all the “races” are interchangeable and clearly human, except for a single mention of horns on the Demons), both physically brave and an inveterate schemer. So far not too original—but he has the strange characteristic of habitually feeling compelled to betray whomever he serves—not at their lowest ebb, for personal advantage, but at their moment of greatest success, to his own disadvantage. He explains this by saying, “But because day at her dawning hours hath so bewitched me, must I yet love her when glutted with triumph she settles to garish noon? Rather turn as now I turn to Demonland [then on its last legs], in the sad sunset of her pride. And who dares to call me turncoat, who do but follow now as I have followed this rare wisdom all my days: to love the sunrise and the sundown and the morning and the evening star? Since there only abideth the soul of nobility, true love, and wonder, and the glory of hope and fear.” There’s a lot to unpack it that, and it’s far from the only such passage. Gro is also fond of such repeatable aphorisms as “He that imagineth after his labours to attain unto lasting joy, as well may he beat water in a mortar.”

Ah, but you’re wondering—what is the “most fantastic sentence I’ve ever read in a work of fiction”? It is this: when the main heroes are in Impland, they choose to take the way to the Moruna, where their local guide, Mivarsh Faz, tells them “None may go thither and not die.” “They laughed and answered him, ‘Do not too narrowly define our power, sweet Mivarsh, restraining it to thy capacities. Know that our journey is a matter determined of, and it is fixed with nails of diamond to the wall of inevitable necessity.’” That’s fantastic. I’m going to use it in daily life, no matter if people stare at me. When my Uber driver says he can’t take me somewhere, I’m going to tell him that “my purpose is fixed with nails of diamond to the wall of inevitable necessity,” even if he then tells me to get out. Meanwhile, you should read this book, if you have any interest in fantasy at all.

When I first found this book, I was intrigued by it. I was in a little book shop at Cape Town International. I read the back and saw that it predated both C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, and yet had a profound influence on their writings. However, I neglected to buy the book and simply left it at that.

Six months later, around July or August, I was walking through Barnes & Noble and I found the book again. Intrigued I bought it and when I read that the language was very floral and ornate (taking on an archaic style befit of a Greek Epic and a Shakespearian Drama) I was a little put off by it. Let's just say that reading it was not on the top of my priority list.

When Winter Break swung around, I found myself thirsting for some fresh reading material (of such subject matter as the intent wasn't to teach me how to program in some obscure language) and finally brought myself to pick up this book and read it. I will lie not when I say that this book has left a deep impression on me.

So here is my review. I will structure it thus: The first section shall deal with the overall style of the book and the "moral" I learned from it. The second section shall deal with the contend, and as such, will contain spoilers. I would highly recommend that the reader of this review stay clear of that section unless they have already read the book or have absolutely no intention of reading it.

First Section: Style and Overall Impression

I must say, that while there were times when I wished that Eddison would just write the bloody thing in plain English, the ornate and archaic language was actually surprisingly easy to read. For instance, in the beginning of the book, when Eddison describes the majesty of Lord Juss' Castle at Galing, the style in which it is written in just goes that extra mile to leave the reader going, "Wow..." Many of the scenes in the book would have lost much of their wonder and beauty had Eddison decided to stick to modern English.

Initially, the characters come across as a little flat, but as the story progresses, they grow in personality. By the time the reader is halfway through the book, the characters just pop out as being unique. The lords Juss, Goldry Bluszco, Spitfire, and Brandoch Daha are noble and good, but each one has their flaws and strengths. Even the main villain of the book, King Gorice XII, isn't the being of pure darkness and evil. Rather, he's just a power-hungry tyrant. He has his noble moments and sometimes even comes across as just.

Not only that, but Eddison was very creative with his naming conventions: Brandoch Daha and Goldry Bluszco sound appropriately heroic while Gorice sounds appropriate for a dark king. However, the once exception, and I'll agree with many of Amazon's reviews, is "Fax Fay Faz". It is indeed corny, but seeing as Eddison is well gone and dead, there is no way to know whether this was intended or not. The one other place that the naming convention failed quite poorly is the naming of the lands and people therein. "Demonland", "Pixyland", and "Impland" and the demons, pixies, and imps just don't quite fit too well, seeing as none of those people even resemble pixies, demons, or imps. I can't but think that the naming of these were but an afterthought when Eddison put this story together.

But, as I read this, I came to forgive this. The story is well written in such that, if you were to replace the names of the people and the lands they hail from, the quality would me entirely unaffected. The style of the writing just lent an authenticity to this book. The world is beautifully rendered in words and the battles are gloriously violent in their descriptive depiction, so the action does not get bogged down in any way. Many people complained that the ending was terrible, but I liked it quite a bit. If it had been to people's liking, then the entire theme of the book would have been ruined and it would have fallen to cliché.

The other aspect about this book that is quite refreshing is the lack of Christian Allegories. There isn't any obvious Christian themes here, but rather it sticks to what many would consider pagan themes. Rather than seeing a savior come forth and saving everyone, we see many figures that appear almost like Greek demi-gods. We see many themes from Greek, Norse, and other mythologies surface through the story, making it even more apparent that this book was written in the spirit of the old sagas and epics.

I would happily recommend this book to anyone with a soft spot for epic fantasy. Also, an add-on to that recommendation: Don't read this at night or under fatigue; you will hate yourself for doing such.

Second Section: Content Review

***Warning! Spoilers Ahead!***

The one section that I particularly liked was King Gorice XII's summoning of the sending with Lord Gro at his side. Through the descriptive language, the reader gets a very vivid image of this dark room in which King Gorice XII takes part in his studies of necromancy. As the he summons the fell creature from Hell, the way the false dawn spills through all the room's windows and depicts everything in a ghastly hue made me shiver. When ultimately the creature comes forth in his violent laughter then the King's struggling to finish the ritual lest he be rendered the same fate as his predecessor King Gorice VII and how Lord Gro saved them both from a most violent death. Never once was the fell creature ever revealed visually, his entire existence being hinted my his voice, the smell of burning brimstone, and the sound of flapping wings. The entire section just played like a movie in my imagination, something Peter Jackson and his team at WETA Digital would just love to get their hands on.

The part of the book where they focussed on the proceedings in Witchland whilst the lords Juss and Brandoch Daha were in Koshtra Belorn leading up to the invasion of Demonland was a little slow. The pace of the book kind of dribbled here and I started getting a little impatient. But it did paint the cast in Carcë as being human, with their noble qualities and their faults.

The sacking of Krothering made me very sad. The entire scene was foreshadowed by the curse placed on Brandoch Daha by that mystical lady in the castle they rested at one their first expedition into Impland. But during the siege on Krothering, I couldn't help but feel very sorry for the Lady Mevrian. The entire time I hoped she wouldn't be raped by Corinius (as his lust for women is most insatiable).

Now, the ending: many people whined and whined that the ending is terrible. It isn't. It just doesn't quite follow what we would see as an "ending". The entire theme of the book is Ouroboros, the serpent that represents the infinite cycle. Had Gorice XII been defeated into oblivion forever more and the lords of Demonland lived peacefully ever after, then it would have been like every other fantasy tale out there. But instead, Eddison renders that these noble Demons, constantly craving glory, continue to seek battle. And, with the prayer of fosterling of the Gods, King Gorice and Carcë is restored, and the lords of Demonland are granted eternal youth. And the book returns to beginning with an ambassador from Witchland arriving.

Ultimately, once Good triumphed over Evil, then there was nothing to define Good, so instead of wither away their days or sully their glory by casting war on everyone else, the Demons would rather bring back the Evil that they had vanquished. So the book ends with the polarizing effect of the Demons (representing Good) being in constant conflict with the Witches (representing Evil). It makes an interesting metaphor on human nature in that humans always seem to have this need for there to be forces representing good and evil. The ending for this book just further goes to make it unique. There is no happily ever after, but instead has the world returning to the balance that was there before.

The Worm Ouroboros is incredibly dense and it’s written in faux Jacobean English. It took me three tries to get through this book, so take that for what it’s worth.

The great thing about it is that it's written from a different perspective than Narnia or Lord of the Rings in that both of those stories are explicitly or implicitly Christian. E.R. Eddison took a very different approach, a pagan one—“pagan” in the sense of the old Vikings or similar–and it gives the story a very different flavor.

It has great battles, great descriptions, and the prose itself is just a challenge and a joy. The book is definitely one of my favorites and one of the novels that had a great deal to do with the author I became. I recommend The Worm Ouroboros if you’re looking for something out of the mainstream and beautiful.

La literatura épica y la fantástica, principalmente estos géneros, están representadas por la serpiente Uróboros que se come su propia cola, símbolo de la eternidad, "cuyo final siempre está en el principio, y cuyo principio siempre está en el final por siempre jamás".

Es raro encontrar que un autor contemporáneo de estos géneros nos presente una historia fresca, innovadora, que nos atrape desde un inicio y que, además, tenga un valor excepcional dentro del movimiento. Hemos visto incontables escritores que, portando la flama infundida por Tolkien, han fracasado rotundamente en esto. Autores como Martin, Paolini, Jordan, entre otros muchos, inclusive al mismo Tolkien falló de pleno. Todo es un vil refrito de historias previas. Pero cuando menos los autores más remotos a nuestra época tuvieron la suficiente decencia y buena mano de beber del manantial de las leyendas y mitologías. La mayoría de los mencionados arriba solo copian ideas y les cambian nombres para hacerlos pasar por suyas. Pero, acaso, ¿existirá algo verdaderamente original en este mundo?

Eddison fue el padre de todos, al menos de los contemporáneos del siglo XX y XXI. Antes de él hubo muchos, sí, como Lord Dunsany e incluso pondría en el mismo estante a Mary Shelley. Pero en lo que respecta al "rescate" de la literatura épica, Eddison fue el pionero y maestro.

Si bien, como otros, se basa en viejas leyendas (principalmente escandinavas), autores como Homero, Ovidio y Virgilio (podría incluir también a Plutarco, aunque sea más su función de historiador) y material de Shakespeare (siendo amante de la obra del Bardo), Eddison logra arremeter con fuerza el ámbito de la fantasía épica y nos describe un mundo ajeno tan similar al nuestro que dudamos si se referirá a otro o a nuestro propio planeta. Se vale de dioses, costumbres, criaturas e incluso atisbos de sucesos históricos bien conocidos; todo esto para formar un relato excelso, que remonta los deseos más recónditos de la niñez tanto del autor como del propio lector.

Los personajes, descritos con el mayor lujo de detalle, no pelean para liberar al mundo del malvado Rey Oscuro, ni para salvaguardar su hogar de las garras del Enemigo; pelean por el amor a la batalla, al honor, pelean por diversión inclusive, y si llegaran a prevalecer ante su más acérrimo enemigo le honrarán su muerte por el resto de sus días. Así mismo, no tienen un ideal ético que quieran imponer a los demás: no hay una inspiración divina que les obligue o marque el sendero que deban seguir, ni tampoco existe ley alguna que les haga flaquear al momento de enfrentarse a una decisión de vida o muerte, en la que el honor tome parte. Los personajes son, irónicamente, muy humanos, y sus pasos son lógicos.

Un error en los escritores de fantasía es imponer su propio ethos al universo que han "creado", pues generalmente escriben absolutos en cuanto al "bien" y al "mal" se refiere, siendo Tolkien el más representativo de esto. Nos encontramos a personajes que son extremo-buenos, y extremo-malos. Luz y oscuridad. Blanco y negro. Belleza y fealdad. De vez en cuando se atisba una dualidad en uno o dos personajes, que se justifica infructuosamente dicha dualidad al decir que "jamás fueron en realidad buenos/malos". Y el motivo por el cual se desencadenan la serie de eventos siempre es "obligado", en el sentido de que el personaje "no tenía otra opción más que hacer-tal-cosa".

Otros autores imponen sus ideales por medio de los personajes, quieren vendernos la "cajita feliz" de que el mundo en paz es lo mejor a lo que podemos aspirar, que vale la pena luchar por ciertas cosas para poder retirarse a la campiña y vivir y morir tranquilamente en la vejez como un merecido retiro. Otros nos imponen prejuicios tan arraigados, como lo son el racismo, el sexismo y el clasismo (y me refiero principalmente a Tolkien, donde su opus magnum es un verdadero caldo de prejuicios insufribles, vendido a la idea del Bien y el Mal y por lo tanto esos prejuicios son justificables), e incluso el especismo (todos, sin excepción). Eddison, por su parte, omite (la gran mayoría de) estos prejuicios, pues cada personaje es distinto. No hay un Sauron, ni tampoco un Aragorn, y mucho menos un Smeagol/Gollum. Los personajes actúan como quieren, desean y añoran, no porque se les dictó ser así. Y nos es difícil juzgar sus acciones, pues al ver el prisma general de las cosas es muy complejo crucificar a un personaje por X decisión y no sentir una remota pizca de empatía hacia él. Es como si quisiéramos juzgar a Odiseo en su travesía a casa, diciendo que era el malo maloso que asedió a Troya, pero ahora lo vemos sufrir en carne propia y no podemos evitar sentir empatía. Con los personajes contemporáneos es poca o casi nula la empatía que sentimos. Son menos creíbles.

Ahora bien, la idea de la serpiente uróboros es magistral, y refrita por otros autores (principalmente Robert Jordan y Stephen King [sí, para aquellos versados en el universo King recordarán La Torre Oscura y su "final", y La Danza de la Muerte], Michael Ende), los mismos personajes y sucesos parece que fueron copiados vilmente por Tolkien (la reina Sofonisba, el rey Gorice en su torre oscura, los capitanes de Juss, el paso a través del Koshtra Pivrarcha y el Koshtra Belorn, los jinetes en las batallas de Demonlandia, la batalla final a las puertas negras de Carcé, etc.), y después vueltos a copiar por otros autores. La serpiente, entonces, se come su cola una y otra y otra vez.

La única razón por la que no le doy 5 estrellas a esta magnífica obra es la traducción. Uno de los detalles más importantes que Eddison tuvo la gentileza de hacer fue escribirla en un inglés arcaico, antiguo, como los viejos poemas épicos que tanto amaba. Ese es un ejercicio igual o más grande que el inventar una lengua (caso de Tolkien) y a partir de ahí crear la historia. Ha de ser una maravilla leer La Serpiente Uróboros en ese inglés arcaico, como si nos remontáramos a autores de antaño. Y el trabajo de la traducción pudo haber sido magistral si se remontara también a un español arcaico, antiguo, que equiparara a su original inglés. Pero quedará en la imaginación...

Eddison logró lo que tantos otros autores no han logrado hasta la fecha. Es una verdadera lástima que no se le de el reconocimiento que merece, opacado por sosas e insufribles historias de múltiples tomos compuestos por miles de páginas cada uno, llenos de verborrea mierdosa y tramas que no llevan a ningún lado.

Si quieren un relato épico, en toda la extensión de la palabra, acudan a La Serpiente Uróboros, y se encontrarán ante el relato de fantasía épica por excelencia.

Tremenda novela de Fantasía. Ahora comprendo la razón por la cual es mencionada en muchos libros académicos sobre el género y porque la misma Ursula K. Le Guin en su ensayo De Elfland a Poughkeepsie la menciona como un claro ejemplo de lo que debe ser la escritura de la Fantasía: más apegada a la poesía o a lo místico.

E. R. Eddison con un lenguaje arcaico (al menos en inglés debe ser más evidente) subcrea un mundo donde la guerra por el honor y la gloria es lo común, donde los hombres luchan a espada o en lucha grecorromana - pugilato, donde hay dioses interviniendo (no de forma tan directa), hay expediciones a lejanos reinos, maldiciones y profecías; guiado por unas descripciones cargadas de mucha poesía.

Espero poder leerla con más calma en otra ocasión.

For the lover of language, of the beautiful for its own sake; for the lover of books and of old books: a meditation on the noble and its cost.

My original thoughts, written right after I closed the last page:

------------------------

I had to READ this book; it did not pull me along (at times; at others, I would go through 50-100 pages without realizing it; the last 200 pages went by much more quickly than those preceding). This is due in part to the book's high level of English, including the use of thees and thous as well as a profusion of archaic (and highly archaic) English words. Poetry and song in the book were at times in what appeared to be Middle English, and letters were written in an oddly-spelled version of English that, if standardized, I do not know how to identify, and which may not have been standardized at all (in imitation of the unstandardized style of early writing, perhaps).

Glory seemed to be one of Eddison's main concerns. The phrase with which the work is titled, "the worm Ouroboros," refers both to the witch-king Gorice (of perpetual generation) and to the eternity of the story itself. The Ouroboros or Uroborus is an ancient symbol of eternity. Eddison's story is eternal because of the heroes' inability to cope with the idea of a life without war and the great glory of its clash with their sworn enemy, Gorice. The story itself ends where it began, becoming an endless loop that begins and ends in the great presence chamber of the demon king Juss' palace.

The story treats almost exclusively of its nobles and heroes. Gods, half-gods and super-mortals are the main characters. Eddison's work thus departs notably from the dominant underdog theme of contemporary story. The one exception to the steady fare of high and heroic figures is the homecoming of one of Juss' generals to his aging father and young wife.

Juss' and his contemporaries' glorymongering, like that of true historical kings, causes bloodshed. Little men die for big men's egos. This make the recycling of the story; of the heroes' unwillingness to content themselves with one lifetime's surfeit of glory and war, even more distasteful. But this calls to mind a question of period values. Eddison, or Theodore Roosevelt, or the Romans, would say that war is a crucible in which manhood is refined, and that glory is to be valued more highly than a weak man's desire to hold on to life. Herbert Kinkaid [military officer and historian who wrote a poem called "To Clio, the Muse of History"], however, would see it differently.

My final analysis of the story: a feast of the English language, fantastic and rich in description, but ultimately disagreeable for its celebration of hubris and war.

------------------------

Indeed, Eddison seems to come down on the warmongerers' side, but his book is to be commended simply for raising the question, if not for the author's answer. In our modern world, where the "underdog" plays out a melodramatically democratic victory over and over at the cinemas, where true heroes cannot find place in our minds, because to call them heroes would be discriminatory, perhaps stories like The Worm Ouroboros are needed to help us wonder if there is something higher, and shake us from the complacency of "equality's" self-congratulating vulgarity.