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Once there was a mighty castle, built by the first of a great line of lords. It was a wonder of its world, a miracle of architecture, graceful and beautiful yet mighty and unvanquishable (with no irritating little sub-clauses relating to easily obtainable magic swords). It stood proud and bright at the centre of its lands, and all who saw it were inspired.
Then a descendant of the first lord decided to tack on an extension, and then another. His descendants continued the trend, and the soaring lines of the castle became obscured by extraneous walls and turrets, mottes, baileys, minarets, pagodas, outhouses, oasthouses, beasthouses and birdhouses, cloisters, catacombs, hecatombs, domes, cupolas, gables, gambrels, and more walls to keep all the rest of the rubbish in. And not only that, but the common people of the land came and built their dwellings in the shadow of the walls, and they too became obscured by shanties, shacks, lean-tos, hovels, middens and dumps.
Somewhere along the line the majesty and beauty of the castle faded from people's memories. It passed the point at which its size inspired awe and wonder, and reached the point at which its size could only be a joke. The difficulty of getting round it, through it, into it or out of it became a byword. The line of the lords itself had decayed by now, and they too became part of the joke, even the original builder, now long dead. His memory was sullied, and his fame besmirched, for the sake of the deeds of those who had come after. And in very little time the world outside no longer remembered him, his castle, or his mighty deeds.
The name of the castle, of course, is Gormenghast; but not many people know that this is a corruption of a word in the ancient high tongue of the land, now also fallen into disuse.
Translated, it used to mean "Lord of the Rings."
No, I won't be reading "The Children of Húrin." It might be good, I don't know, but it and its fellows are only getting in the way.
Then a descendant of the first lord decided to tack on an extension, and then another. His descendants continued the trend, and the soaring lines of the castle became obscured by extraneous walls and turrets, mottes, baileys, minarets, pagodas, outhouses, oasthouses, beasthouses and birdhouses, cloisters, catacombs, hecatombs, domes, cupolas, gables, gambrels, and more walls to keep all the rest of the rubbish in. And not only that, but the common people of the land came and built their dwellings in the shadow of the walls, and they too became obscured by shanties, shacks, lean-tos, hovels, middens and dumps.
Somewhere along the line the majesty and beauty of the castle faded from people's memories. It passed the point at which its size inspired awe and wonder, and reached the point at which its size could only be a joke. The difficulty of getting round it, through it, into it or out of it became a byword. The line of the lords itself had decayed by now, and they too became part of the joke, even the original builder, now long dead. His memory was sullied, and his fame besmirched, for the sake of the deeds of those who had come after. And in very little time the world outside no longer remembered him, his castle, or his mighty deeds.
The name of the castle, of course, is Gormenghast; but not many people know that this is a corruption of a word in the ancient high tongue of the land, now also fallen into disuse.
Translated, it used to mean "Lord of the Rings."
No, I won't be reading "The Children of Húrin." It might be good, I don't know, but it and its fellows are only getting in the way.