In the introductory notes to this novel the
    author is described as a poet, sculptor, painter, and performance artist. I gather from
    that description that The Vorrh is his first published novel. 
    The book commences with three quotes one of which is from Heart
    of Darkness by Joseph Conrad; regrettably there was not a companion quote
    from Titus Groan/Gormengast by Mervyn Peake as that would have
    properly set the tone for the ensuing opus. I hesitate to use the term novel as the
    separate story strands of the work did not entirely cohere: indeed one strand set totally
    apart from the rest of the work for the whole book  but I digress. 
    The titular vorrh is a primeval forest, possibly the primeval forest
    abutting the transplanted (brick by brick, beam by beam) European city of Essenwald. Those
    who enter the vorrh risk losing their memory, perhaps their soul and definitely run the
    risk of being eaten by one-eyed anthropophages: apelike creatures whose heads are within
    their chests. But former Sergeant Williams, a British colonial policeman, and now
    oneofthewilliams is making the crossing; an endlessly travelling French dissipate has been
    invited to sample a day in the heart of the vorrh by a citizen of Essenwald; and Ishmael,
    a putative Cyclops also resident in Essenwald, are travelling into the vorrh. 
    Somewhere this set of tales, and the rogue one I shant mention
    again, was meant to tell a story. I think the vorrh consumed that story and left this
    listless hulk in its place. 
    On the upside this was a very well written work, with wondrous imagery and
    a brilliant use of ideas. Unfortunately, the parts stayed parts and never came together as
    a functioning whole. A shame and great opportunity missed.  
     |