In Book Four - the uproarious final movement of the symphony - Lanark embarks on a quest for daylight and winds up back in Unthank. In stark contrast to his depiction of Lanark’s escapades, Gray’s language here is sparse and wistful as he shows us Thaw’s depth of emotional pain. This version of our protagonist is Duncan Thaw, who grows from a boy in Glasgow feeling everything too intensely to a struggling artist-madman grappling with the constraints of society. This is followed by Books One and Two, which describe Lanark’s past life. Lanark, for instance, has a skin condition called “dragonhide” that is a physical manifestation of his inability to love. Seeking escape from the (aptly named) city’s decay, Lanark finds himself ensnared in the bureaucratic hell of the Institute, a hospital that cures various allegorical afflictions. The novel begins with Book Three, in which Lanark navigates the dystopian urban landscape of Unthank, or Gray’s native Glasgow richly reimagined as a lightless purgatory. But little did I know that the 560-page whopper of a novel, elaborately illustrated by the author himself, would so transcend the boundaries of genre, fiction, typography - and my ability to describe it. Having encountered an excerpt from it in an English Literature practice exam during senior year of high school, I borrowed Alasdair Gray’s Lanark: A Life in Four Books from Sterling before summer break in the expectation of a meditative summer read on loss of love and the relationship between art and reality. I decided to review this book before I realized how unqualified I am to do so.
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