Jerusalem, by Alan Moore, 2016
1266 pages
I really didn't even know this was a book until I saw it on the shelf and was enticed by the ultra enchanting spine (author AND title), but really, it seemed cool, and I knew who Alan Moore was, and it was nice and wide so I thought it should occupy a lot of time which is what I need. I read what it was all about though and was way more into it, seemed like something I had to read.
It's objectively incredible, for sure. Since there's so much content, I could give it 10/10 even if I may not have loved every second of it. And I may not have
not loved every second, but it really wears on you. I had to take a break at the beginning of book three. But still, it's literature as **** and a masterful display of language and style and elegance and description and all in all just a prosal clinic. I made that word up, but the prose is indeed so nice it's almost offensive to my obviously inferior ability and intelligence. Like, every sentence is eloquently divine, and any given paragraph is crazy enough to put whole sagas to shame. The maximalism involved can sometimes work against it though, I'd say. Can something be too descriptive? If so,
Jerusalem is probably a good example. Pages upon pages of literary visual bombardment, sensory overload in written format. It's cool but like erodes your mind away trying to envision the infinitely magical and god like structures and other things depicted here, and erodes your eyes with the many many many words used to do so. I've seen the term "hallucinatory prose" thrown around a lot and never exactly knew what it meant, but this ought to qualify, if not only for endless descriptions of things maintaining an actual hallucinatory quality (ghosts walking around leaving after images through the air and fractal elves and whatnot).
So I may not be the best mind to tell you about the content but I already started this journal so I'm contractually bound to. On the whole it's all about a slum in Northampton called the Boroughs which, to cut a very long story short, is supposed to be the holy city in question (I think). At least a projection of it, but then pretty much everything in this book is a projection of everything. It spans all of history, and tells of a whole plethora of substantial figures and their connections with the place, and of the ever original and prevalent themes of madness and death and the meaning of everything ever, and mind melting multi dimensional mathematics, and
eternalism, and a family from the Boroughs with a history of madness that shaped all of existence, and corners which you'll probably never look at the same way again, and ghosts and everything including the kitchen sink. I'm pretty sure there are multiple literal kitchen sink parts.
It's divided into three books, with the second being significantly children's fairy tale-y and fantastical, sandwiched between experimental historical madness, with book three moving into more whack styles of writing, including a pseudo-Joyce chapter written about his daughter... So it's kinda comprehensible? At least in comparison to Finnegan's Wake. I'm not gonna lie, I skimmed an okay amount, but what I did I skimmed multiple times if that makes any difference. There's a lot in the whole thing that could be construed as unnecessary, bu for the most part remains entertaining.
There's so much to be said and I'm actually probably gonna attempt a better review that actually talks about the story, or at least what of it that I grasp, but also feel it may be futile, if you wanna experience it you gotta do just that and pick it up.
Important players include: William Blake, Oliver Cromwell, Samuel Beckett, Lucia Joyce
10/10