- Joined
- Jan 22, 2008
- Messages
- 8,095
Stephen Huxley returns from the wars to his family home. Here he meets his brother Christopher, who has become fascinated by the small wood on the family land, much as Stephen’s father did years ago. Christopher disappears into the wood, searching for a woman he claims to have loved: when a girl emerges from the woods, and become Stephen’s lover, it becomes clear that the wood contains a sort of parallel universe inhabited by mythagos; creatures created from human collective myth. Christopher returns, leading a violent band of warriors, and abducts Guinneth. Stephen resolves to enter the wood, find Christopher, and rescue her, leading to a confrontation not just with Christopher, but a transformed version of his father.
Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, first published in 1984, is a remarkable fantasy novel. Although it has recognisable features, it doesn't fit comfortably into in any particular sub-genre. Its earthy violence reminds me of some of the better Arthur books, and its references to history make me think of stories of cave-people and Celts, but the rural English setting is technically Anglo-Saxon, and there is none of the slightly drippy New Age quality that writing about shamans and ancient folk sometimes seems to have. In some ways the mythagos haunt the wood like ghosts, but this is no ghost story. Mythago Wood is one of those rare books – even rarer now – that suggest that the author wrote exactly what he wanted and did a good job of it.
Mythago Wood is far from perfect. Holdstock has a tin ear for dialogue, and the speech, even given that the most “modern” characters in the novel are WW2 veterans, is often stilted. Furthermore, characters seem very able to deal with events and experiences that in real life would probably blast them straight into psychiatric care. That said, there are many great visual moments, and in creating the wood, Holdstock has tapped into something powerful and frightening, as Clive Barker does much more crudely in "Rawhead Rex" – in particular, a photograph taken from a plane still strikes me as genuinely creepy.
Holdstock’s real strength if in his inventiveness, and many scenes are vividly weird: the girl soothsayer with the painted green face, the spotting of the “Twigling” by Steven and Christopher as boys, the huge bridge that Steven finds in the company of Keaton, his scarred friend. While Holdstock is excellent at creating images and places – this particularly suits the second half of Mythago Wood, which is almost a road movie to the dawn of human memory – he also has a strong eye for detail, both amusing and nasty. Guinneth is a figure of Steven’s affection, but is also well-described in the early scenes. For what she is, she feels three-dimensional. Holdstock seems to have a far stronger understanding of the English countryside than most fantasy writers, of the differences in landscape that tell different ages apart. His setting is very clearly English, without being either Tory or twee, in the same way as Steinbeck in his Mallory or in the better parts of T H White’s Once and Future King. This grasp of the landscape, which feels both loving and unsentimental, feels very rare to me in fantasy writing, and is long overdue.
Despite its comparatively short length and few characters, Mythago Wood appears epic, owing to the size of the discoveries that the characters make and the drastic effects that they have, and that, I think, brings me onto one of the most important things about this book: it is trying something genuinely new.
I think it is extremely sad that fantasy, which more than any other genre gives the writer permission to write whatever he likes, has for many years been able to appear, or to be, so derivative. Has any genre ever been so deeply sunk in the shadow of one writer as fantasy has been under Tolkien? I’m sure you can line up examples to disprove this by the dozen, but I stand by the point. You know the rules: no gunpowder unless as a secret weapon, pseudo-medieval, quest-based, sprawlingly paced and above all really long. No matter Tolkien’s merits as a writer, I am very glad that Mythago Wood neither imitates nor rails against The Lord of the Rings*.
Holdstock’s world is something else, and good thing too. Even if he’s getting things wrong, he’s at least getting them wrong in an interesting way. Holdstock understands that real worldbuilding isn’t about how the map in the front cover is drawn, and that epic scope means more than cramming as many characters in as possible. In that way Mythago Wood makes me think of the fantasy of the 60’s and 70’s, where really surreal things could and would happen, and each little book had its own logic (an example that springs to mind is John Brunner’s The Traveller in Black, which is the literary equivalent of a Hieronymous Bosch painting, but there are many others). That said, a lot of people won’t like this book. It’s got flaws, as I have said, and for some its inventiveness won’t be enough to overcome them. For what it's worth the sequel, Avalon, left me fairly cold.
But overall, if you asked me to name a piece of real fantasy literature in the last 30 years, I’d say this over any of the more lauded sequences selling by the million today. Mythago Wood hits hard and doesn’t outlive its entertainment value: like those older books it’s a single knockout blow. Whether it connects or not is for you to decide.
*I concede that I am not the first person to notice this.
Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, first published in 1984, is a remarkable fantasy novel. Although it has recognisable features, it doesn't fit comfortably into in any particular sub-genre. Its earthy violence reminds me of some of the better Arthur books, and its references to history make me think of stories of cave-people and Celts, but the rural English setting is technically Anglo-Saxon, and there is none of the slightly drippy New Age quality that writing about shamans and ancient folk sometimes seems to have. In some ways the mythagos haunt the wood like ghosts, but this is no ghost story. Mythago Wood is one of those rare books – even rarer now – that suggest that the author wrote exactly what he wanted and did a good job of it.
Mythago Wood is far from perfect. Holdstock has a tin ear for dialogue, and the speech, even given that the most “modern” characters in the novel are WW2 veterans, is often stilted. Furthermore, characters seem very able to deal with events and experiences that in real life would probably blast them straight into psychiatric care. That said, there are many great visual moments, and in creating the wood, Holdstock has tapped into something powerful and frightening, as Clive Barker does much more crudely in "Rawhead Rex" – in particular, a photograph taken from a plane still strikes me as genuinely creepy.
Holdstock’s real strength if in his inventiveness, and many scenes are vividly weird: the girl soothsayer with the painted green face, the spotting of the “Twigling” by Steven and Christopher as boys, the huge bridge that Steven finds in the company of Keaton, his scarred friend. While Holdstock is excellent at creating images and places – this particularly suits the second half of Mythago Wood, which is almost a road movie to the dawn of human memory – he also has a strong eye for detail, both amusing and nasty. Guinneth is a figure of Steven’s affection, but is also well-described in the early scenes. For what she is, she feels three-dimensional. Holdstock seems to have a far stronger understanding of the English countryside than most fantasy writers, of the differences in landscape that tell different ages apart. His setting is very clearly English, without being either Tory or twee, in the same way as Steinbeck in his Mallory or in the better parts of T H White’s Once and Future King. This grasp of the landscape, which feels both loving and unsentimental, feels very rare to me in fantasy writing, and is long overdue.
Despite its comparatively short length and few characters, Mythago Wood appears epic, owing to the size of the discoveries that the characters make and the drastic effects that they have, and that, I think, brings me onto one of the most important things about this book: it is trying something genuinely new.
I think it is extremely sad that fantasy, which more than any other genre gives the writer permission to write whatever he likes, has for many years been able to appear, or to be, so derivative. Has any genre ever been so deeply sunk in the shadow of one writer as fantasy has been under Tolkien? I’m sure you can line up examples to disprove this by the dozen, but I stand by the point. You know the rules: no gunpowder unless as a secret weapon, pseudo-medieval, quest-based, sprawlingly paced and above all really long. No matter Tolkien’s merits as a writer, I am very glad that Mythago Wood neither imitates nor rails against The Lord of the Rings*.
Holdstock’s world is something else, and good thing too. Even if he’s getting things wrong, he’s at least getting them wrong in an interesting way. Holdstock understands that real worldbuilding isn’t about how the map in the front cover is drawn, and that epic scope means more than cramming as many characters in as possible. In that way Mythago Wood makes me think of the fantasy of the 60’s and 70’s, where really surreal things could and would happen, and each little book had its own logic (an example that springs to mind is John Brunner’s The Traveller in Black, which is the literary equivalent of a Hieronymous Bosch painting, but there are many others). That said, a lot of people won’t like this book. It’s got flaws, as I have said, and for some its inventiveness won’t be enough to overcome them. For what it's worth the sequel, Avalon, left me fairly cold.
But overall, if you asked me to name a piece of real fantasy literature in the last 30 years, I’d say this over any of the more lauded sequences selling by the million today. Mythago Wood hits hard and doesn’t outlive its entertainment value: like those older books it’s a single knockout blow. Whether it connects or not is for you to decide.
*I concede that I am not the first person to notice this.
