The Vorrh

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Welcome to the surreal world of The Vorrh.

Click here to read an exclusive sample.

Taking its name from the imaginary African forest in Raymond Roussel’s ‘Impressions of Africa’, The Vorrh is a magnificent, vibrant backdrop on which to stage a high octane narrative led by hunter, Tsungali, the Cyclops, Ishmael, and famous photographer Eadweard Muybridge.

In contrast with the tired clichés of the traditional fantasy tale, B. Catling‘s The Vorrh is invigorating, epic fantasy at its most original, ground-breaking and visionary.

– COMING 2012 –

“In the literature of the fantastic, almost lost beneath a formulaic lard of dwarves and dragons, it is only rarely that a unique voice emerges with a work of genuine vision to remind the genre of what it should be aspiring to and what it’s capable of doing: a Hope Hodgson, Mervyn Peake or David Lindsay; untamed talents who approach the field as if they’re the first sentient beings to discover it. In Brian Catling’s phosphorescent masterpiece The Vorrh we have one of the most original and stunning works of fantasy that it has ever been my privilege to read, a brilliant and sustained piece of invention which establishes a benchmark not just for imaginative writing but for the human imagination in itself. After investigating other worlds of fantasy, exquisite little rock-pools with their own miniature ecospheres, The Vorrh is like a first experience of the ocean. Read this book, and marvel.”

– Alan Moore

“There are not many books that rearrange the molecules of your being, turning your eyes inside out. The Vorrh, this saturnine post-traumatic testament, is one of them. Malign ethnology, angelic codices, sump poetry and clownish viral comedy seethe and argue and interact in ways that are not just unlikely, but definitively impossible. The heady, hallucinogenic prose comes at a rush. Pages turn themselves without pause: insomniac seizures, voices from deep anaesthesia, colonial scars and fossils returning to life. The book is a library of malpractice. Bakelite robots have souls. Trees talk. Ruined mansions ooze with the seepage of erotic dreams. Absurd humans, flinching and dumb, play out their preordained roles in a blasphemous collision between pre-literate grunts and a legendary narrative carved into brass. A work of idiocy and genius.”

– Iain Sinclair

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