Now HERE's a glory of a poetic train-wreck: King Arthur, an epic by Edward Bulwer Lytton -- yes, that Bulwer Lytton. Rarely have I seen so much antiquarian erudition yoked to so much twaddle.

The sad thing is, BL -- if I may call him that -- knows how to turn a competent line of poetry: his meter is fluid, rhymes rarely jar, he rarely jumps metaphors mid-maneuver. His diction tends a little on the forsoothy side, but that's somewhat to be expected given the topic and time. You have to read a while to grasp how bad this stuff is. He seems to have particular difficulty with transitions. And antecedents. And antecedents around transitions. And pacing. And consistent characterization. And keeping his obsession with medieval Welsh history and culture from overloading his story. And with keeping his story within the bounds of plausibility. If BL was retelling a story from the Arthurian tradition, this last wouldn't matter as much -- but no, instead it's equal parts historical novel about the Saxon invasion of Britain and a high fantasy complete with prophecies and plot coupons, neither of which has more than the most tenuous relationship to existing Arthuriana.

In short, it makes no sense. At all.

Which means there's quite a bit of entertainment to be had if you give up all expectations of rational storytelling. I am especially amused by how slashy the narration gets any time Arthur is alone with another man. Not just Lancelot, either -- it's even more noticeable with old man Merlin, who has loved the King since he was a boy. (Er, deciding to use BL for short was ENTIRELY a coincidence here. But hilarious in hindsight.)

Fair warning: I haven't finished this, so it's entirely possible that coherence may show up before it's all over. But I'd bet against it.

(rushthatspeaks, was it you who mentioned this thing, a few years ago? Because I've lost track of where I found out about it.)

---L.