I'm near the end of the last book (4) of
The Book of the New Sun, by Gene Wolfe, and I'm at a loss for words at how to describe it. It's probably enough to say that I love it, and I'll probably be re-reading this series until I'm dead. But it's also not a series I can readily recommend to just anyone, because it is extremely, refreshingly, unconventional.
It's become an obscurity within the genre, because despite how beautifully it's written and crafted, the author is
utterly unconcerned with your expectations for what a fantasy story should be. That bold, authorial vision ends up being both its power and its weakness, at least insofar as its reach. It is like nothing I've ever read before, and yet I can easily see people dropping this thing after the first 50 pages.
What immediately grabbed my attention in the first book was how foreign-yet-familiar this dying, far-future Earth was. The setting for the series seems backwoods medieval, except for all the details that betray that presumption. This planet's history is so far removed from our own time that characters’ language, the architecture, and the descriptions of technologies provide hints that they are distant ancestors for things we'd probably recognize at a glance, layered on
top of wholly new human creations and histories from the years beyond our own. In hindsight, it's a bit like a whole series where the most interesting bits are conveyed through disparate Dark Souls item descriptions.
The best example I can give for these kinds of riddles is an early scene where Severian ends up in a gallery, surrounded by paintings from throughout time. Of course, the narrator doesn't understand what he's looking at (which is a Gene Wolfe fundamental). But one of them captures his attention:
The picture he was cleaning showed an armored figure standing in a desolate landscape. It had no weapon, but held a staff bearing a strange, stiff banner. The visor of this figure's helmet was entirely of gold, without eye slits or ventilation; in its polished surface the deathly desert could be seen in reflection, and nothing more. This warrior of a dead world affected me deeply, though I could not say why or even just what emotion it was I felt.
It's up to readers to deduce any meaning from this enigmatic description. Even the "deathly desert" only becomes clear through context clues. But this painting holds no special significance in the series, so I'll clue you in -- Spoiler:
He’s describing this.
I get quickly bored with conventional stories that take you linearly from place or time A to place or time B. Books that dare to do more, and require readers to invest more, often get their hooks into me deeper and longer. And this process of literature via archeology, where you have to sweep over the descriptions and puzzle out the meaning, feels like something that was made just for me.