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Wed. April 24

For a little bit of a break from my survey of ancient literature, I’m taking a look at a seminal work of heroic fantasy, The Well at the World’s End, by William Morris, the nineteeth century Renaissance man of many talents, probably most famous for his designs in fabric, glass, and furniture, but also a writer, musician, and sculptor.  

The story certainly has an enchanting quality, even in just the title, which evokes images of a well of souls, a fountain of youth, a conduit between life and the afterlife. The tale is divided into “The Road Unto Love,” and “The Road Unto Trouble,” and is set in a quasi-medieval landscape. An innocent and somewhat bumbling young man, Ralph, sets forth to make his mark in the world. He is the youngest son of a minor king, and feels he has much to do to prove himself. He must find a purpose in his life, and ultimately a love worthy of his devotion. 

On his journey, Ralph learns of the fabled Well which promises to answer his quest for meaning, but to find it he must survive many trials and overcome many obstacles. He eventually meets “the Lady of Abundance,” or “the Goddess of the World,” as Joseph Campbell names this archetypal figure, who has drunk from the Well of life and embodies human wisdom, experience, beauty, virtue, danger, and sexuality. Ralph (surprisingly, I think) wins her love, but loses her when she is killed in a tragic encounter with his enemies. He almost despairs in his grief, but carries on with his quest to reach the well, and even finds purpose in determining to free his new love interest, a maiden enslaved by the evil Lord of Utterbol, who guards the approach to the Well, and stands in Ralph’s path.

This is volume one of the story. C. S. Lewis asked, “can a man write a story to match that title? . . . . Morris came near enough to make the book worth many readings.” However, I will probably not be reading the second volume, which I think is entitled, The Wood Beyond the World. Although I can appreciate its place in fantasy literature, to me the book is reminiscent of The Morte de Arthur, with all its tedious narrative quirks but without much of its charm and mystery. The anachronistic use of thee, thou, etc. and the laborious exposition make the reading a hard slog, panning for traces of gold dust while fighting off a nap.