For some time, I've pondered whether it is better to tell a bad story well, or a good story poorly. Usually I come down on the side of the former, and Heap House slightly reinforces this position by being the latter.
This book on display at the library caught my eye for one reason only: the author's name, from across the room, looked like 'Edward Gorey.' Upon closer inspection, I saw my error, but discovered it was a story clearly in the vein of Gorey's comics, blending his love of animated inanimate objects with his penchant for the bleak and macabre. So, I checked it out.
While Heap House is not truly a bad book (I was, after all, able to finish it), it is not something I could recommend to even the least selective of readers. It has a very novel concept that it expands on nicely, but Carey's technique is so sloppy it is not exactly an enjoyable read. Most often, it caused me to think of the play Bart Simpson wrote while laid up from a pool-related injury ('Is it Saint Swivvin's Day already?'). His grasp of not only the period (and why, with such a fantastical story, he needed to nail it down so specifically in time and geography to London of 1875 is beyond my understanding) but the writing style he seems to be struggling to achieve are, to put it charitably, tenuous. I've never read Carey before (and I won't be seeking more), but it seems he might have done better to just build his own world and damn the reality.
This is a brilliant concept, no mistake: there's a grand house called Heap House, and a wealthy family called Iremonger, and they live deep in trash heaps that have surrounded and supported their family for generations. Each member of the family is given a 'birth object,' which they keep near them their entire life and which stands as a memorial after they've died. One of the newest generation, Clod Iremonger, has a gift unheard of: he can hear the birth objects speaking. Usually, they speak only names he presumes to be their own, but as the story begins he begins hearing more...and from more objects than birth ones. At the same time, a new member of the staff (all distant relations, all referred to simply as 'Iremonger,' regardless of their actual names) arrives in the punctuated body of Lucy Pennant. Lucy is appalled by the situations at Heap House, and swears she'll never become part of it. Strangeness ensues and gets stranger with every chapter.
Carey also provides illustrations to the book, mostly in the form of family portraits and staff 'photos.' His people bear a more than passing similarity to those of Renee French, but that may just be coincidence. They do lend an air of familiarity to the characters, who are described in the text quite fully but are pinned to their likenesses by the illustrations. These illustrations, which occur at the start of every chapter, sometimes also provide clues to the coming action, which is a clever device. (This edition also includes maps of the family's 'Above House' and the servants' 'Below House' respectively on the front and back endsheets.)
If this book had been written by, say, Will Self or some other author who excels at portraying a slightly askew version of our own existence, it could have been the beginning of something exceptional. As it stands, unfortunately, the end of this volume is where I'll be getting off.