This was a desperately odd read. I say 'desperately' because it made me feel desperate at times and I was never quite sure what form such desperation took. Was I desperately in love with the ideas, the language, the atmosphere, the characters, the extended metaphors, the world building? Or was I desperately frustrated by a book that seemed to veer from utterly brilliant metaphysical adventure fiction to pretentious gibberish and back again? I almost abandoned the book several times before finishing it, yet I knew deep down I would persevere and that's what I did, but was it worth it? Yes, a big yes, with certain big reservations too.
The background landscapes of Blood and the societies which exist within them are radically unconventional. In some ways, all that Moorcock has done is reverse some conventions of our own world; but he has also done a lot more than that. He withholds explanations of things that perhaps can't be properly explained, populating his fictional world with all manner of personalities, beings and characters that are difficult for a reader to clearly focus on. But that is the point. This is not orthodox fantasy fiction. It is something more. The downside is that by striving to give us more, it sometimes happens that we get less. We are less satisfied by the denouements of scenes because they are often too cryptic, the progression of the 'plot' too unusual.
The quality of the writing, however, redeems a lot of what isn't edifying in terms of structure and story. This is a fantasy written with the prose that Moorcock tends to reserve for his 'serious' fiction (such as Mother London and the 'Pyat' series of four heavyweight literary satires). The prose flows, evoking lush images as it goes along, rhythmic and singsong and quite peculiar, with long lyrical digressions in parentheses. It works admirably. The subtropical ambience that results is as heady as the best of Mutis, Marquez and Couto. Whether this (excellent) style of writing is entirely suited to the subject matter is another question.
There were times while reading Blood that I told myself it was surely Moorcock's best fantasy. I no longer believe this. The City in the Autumn Stars (despite the rushed feeling of its second half) is still his best fantasy. But Blood is certainly one of his best, and perhaps the strangest. It is a novel saturated with a love of old pulp fiction, of Westerns, of the bayou and the mannerisms of the antebellum, constrained or possibly expanded by a need to fit in with the great cycle of Moorcock's writing life, the unfolding saga of Chaos and Law and the Balance, with characters who have to be individuals but also types, as well as avatars of the Eternal Champion and/or avatars of the companion of the Champion. It is a splurge of a book, a gumbo of a novel, part Mississippi showboat, part mitteleuropa, part reverse Pilgrim's Progress, part Golden Age adventure blast, part nonsense, part over-egged fable. Fascinating, at the very least.