The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy
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Enter the world of Gormenghast. The vast crumbling castle to which the seventy-seventh Earl, Titus Groan, is Lord and heir. Titus is expected to rule this Gothic labyrinth of turrets and dungeons, cloisters and corridors as well as his eccentric and wayward subjects. Over the course of these three novels-"Titus Groan," "Gormenghast," and" Titus Alone"--Titus must contend with a kingdom about to implode beneath the weight of centuries of intrigue, treachery, manipulation, and murder.
Peake has been compared to Dickens and Tolkien, but the Gormenghast trilogy is unique. This true classic is a feast of words unlike anything else in the world of fantasy, and those who explore Gormenghast castle will be richly rewarded.
Overlook is publishing this definitive volume to mark the centenary of the author's birth.
however, but with its grasper swivelled in the direction of the table, seemed about to descend. It did, and a thick dusty mist arose from the books on which it landed. A moth flapped through the dust. When it had settled, the youth, his head turned over his shoulder, his small dark-red eyes half closed, heard Barquentine say: ‘So you can call the dogs off! Body of me, if it isn’t time! Time and enough. Nine days wasted! Wasted! – by the stones wasted! Do you hear me, stoat’s lug? Do you hear
to contort itself without relation to what was happening to the rest of the body. It was a miracle that he remained balanced on the high chair. But these convulsions suddenly ended and Steerpike, standing back with his chin cupped in his hands, was chilled, in spite of the half-smile on his face, by the direst expression of mortal hatred that had ever turned an old man’s face into a nest of snakes. The eyes grew, of a sudden, congested, their vile waters taking on, it seemed, the flush of a
here and there to lean his head against the cold walls while his headache hammered behind his eyes and across his angular brow. Once he sat down for a hour upon the lowest step of a flight of age-hollowed stairs, his long beard falling upon his knee, and taking the sharp curve of them and falling again in a straggle of string-like hair to within a few inches of the floor. Fuchsia and Steerpike? What could it mean? The blasphemy of it! The horror of it! He ground his teeth in the darkness. The
struggle, the knife running between the ribs and through the man’s heart three times within as many seconds. As Steerpike delivered the third of the lightning stabs, the sweat pouring off his face like wet blood in the reflected torch light, he turned his small hot eyes to the ceiling and found that the saw was within an inch of completing the circle. In another moment he would be exposed to the view of the Countess and the searchers. The corpse was beside him in the boat, which at the impact
for her hand as she stood above him, pulled her down to the ground. ‘Careful,’ she said. Her eyebrows were raised as she lay beside him. A dragonfly cruised above them with a thin vibration of transparent wings, and then the silence settled again. ‘Take your hand away,’ said Cheeta. ‘I don’t like it. To be touched makes me sick. You understand, don’t you?’ ‘No, I bloody well don’t,’ said Titus, jumping to his feet. ‘You’re as cold as meat.’ ‘Do you mean that it has always been my body and