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The Mists of Avalon Paperback – May 1, 1984
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“A monumental reimagining of the Arthurian legends . . . reading it is a deeply moving and at times uncanny experience. . . . An impressive achievement.”—The New York Times Book Review
In Marion Zimmer Bradley's masterpiece, we see the tumult and adventures of Camelot's court through the eyes of the women who bolstered the king's rise and schemed for his fall. From their childhoods through the ultimate fulfillment of their destinies, we follow these women and the diverse cast of characters that surrounds them as the great Arthurian epic unfolds stunningly before us. As Morgaine and Gwenhwyfar struggle for control over the fate of Arthur's kingdom, as the Knights of the Round Table take on their infamous quest, as Merlin and Viviane wield their magics for the future of Old Britain, the Isle of Avalon slips further into the impenetrable mists of memory, until the fissure between old and new worlds' and old and new religions' claims its most famous victim.
- Print length876 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherBallantine Books
- Publication dateMay 1, 1984
- Reading age14 - 18 years
- Dimensions6.1 x 2 x 9.1 inches
- ISBN-109780345350497
- ISBN-13978-0345350497
- Lexile measure1030L
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For this is the great secret, which was known to all educated men in our day: that by what men think, we create the world around us, daily new.Highlighted by 1,389 Kindle readers
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“Beware what you speak,” said the Merlin very softly, “for indeed the words we speak make shadows of what is to come, and by speaking them we bring them to pass, my king.”Highlighted by 542 Kindle readers
Editorial Reviews
Amazon.com Review
Young and old alike will enjoy this magical Arthurian reinvention by science fiction and fantasy veteran Marion Zimmer Bradley. --Bonnie Bouman
Review
--The New York Times Book Review
"Marion Zimmer Bradley has brilliantly and innovatively turned the myth inside out. . . . add[ing] a whole new dimension to our mythic history."
--San Francisco Chronicle
"Gripping . . . Superbly realized . . . A worthy addition to almost a thousand years of Arthurian tradition."
--The Cleveland Plain Dealer
From the Publisher
--Shelly Shapiro, Executive Editor
From the Inside Flap
Here is the magical legend of King Arthur, vividly retold through the eyes and lives of the women who wielded power from behind the throne. A spellbinding novel, an extraordinary literary achievement, THE MISTS OF AVALON will stay with you for a long time to come....
From the Back Cover
Here is the magical legend of King Arthur, vividly retold through the eyes and lives of the women who wielded power from behind the throne. A spellbinding novel, an extraordinary literary achievement, THE MISTS OF AVALON will stay with you for a long time to come....
About the Author
The Mists of Avalon was the single most successful novel of Bradley's career. It won the 1984 Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel and has been among the top five trade paperback books on Locus's bestseller list for years.
Ms. Bradley died in 1999.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
of Duke Gorlois, looked out over the sea from the headland. As
she stared into the fogs and mists, she wondered how she would
ever know when the night and day were of equal length, so that
she could keep the Feast of the New Year. This year the spring
storms had been unusually violent; night and day the crash of
the sea had resounded over the castle until no man or woman
within could sleep, and even the hounds whimpered mournfully.
Tintagel . . . there were still those who believed the castle had been
raised, on the crags at the far end of the long causeway into the sea,
by the magic of the ancient folk of Ys. Duke Gorlois laughed at this and
said that if he had any of their magic, he would have used it to keep
the sea from encroaching, year by year, upon the shoreline. In the four
years since she had come here as Gorlois's bride, Igraine had seen land,
good land, crumble into the Cornish sea. Long arms of black rock, sharp
and craggy, extended into the ocean from the coast. When the sun shone,
it could be fair and brilliant, the sky and water as brilliant as the
jewels Gorlois had heaped on her on the day when she told him she bore
his first child. But Igraine had never liked wearing them. The jewel
which hung now at her throat had been given her in Avalon: a moonstone
which sometimes reflected the blue brilliance of sky and sea; but in the
fog, today, even the jewel looked shadowed.
In the fog, sounds carried a long way. It seemed to Igraine, as she
stood looking from the causeway back toward the mainland, that she could
hear footfalls of horses and mules, and the sound of voices-human
voices, here in isolated Tintagel, where nothing lived but goats and
sheep, and the herdsmen and their dogs, and the ladies of the castle
with a few serving women and a few old men to guard them.
Slowly, Igraine turned and went back toward the castle. As always,
standing in its shadow, she felt dwarfed by the loom of these ancient
stones at the end of the long causeway which stretched into the sea. The
herdsmen believed that the castle had been built by the Ancient Ones
from the lost lands of Lyonnesse and Ys; on a clear day, so the
fishermen said, their old castles could be seen far out under the water.
But to Igraine they looked like towers of rock, ancient mountains and
hills drowned by the ever encroaching sea that nibbled away, even now,
at the very crags below the castle. Here at the end of the world, where
the sea ate endlessly at the land, it was easy to believe in drowned
lands to the west; there were tales of a great fire mountain which had
exploded, far to the south, and engulfed a great land there. Igraine
never knew whether she believed those tales or not.
Yes; surely she could hear voices in the fog. It could not be savage
raiders from over the sea, or from the wild shores of Erin. The time was
long past when she needed to startle at a strange sound or a shadow. It
was not her husband, the Duke; he was far away to the North, fighting
Saxons at the side of Ambrosius Aurelianus, High King of Britain; he
would have sent word if he intended to return.
And she need not fear. If the riders were hostile, the guards and
soldiers in the fort at the landward end of the causeway, stationed
there by Duke Gorlois to guard his wife and child, would have stopped
them. It would take an army to cut through them. And who would send an
army against Tintagel?
There was a time-Igraine remembered without bitterness, moving slowly
into the castle yard-when she would have known who rode toward her
castle. The thought held little sadness, now. Since Morgaine's birth she
no longer even wept for her home. And Gorlois was kind to her. He had
soothed her through her early fear and hatred, had given her jewels and
beautiful things, trophies of war, had surrounded her with ladies to
wait upon her, and treated her always as his equal, except in councils
of war. She could have asked no more, unless she had married a man of
the Tribes. And in this she had been given no choice. A daughter of the
Holy Isle must do as was best for her people, whether it meant going to
death in sacrifice, or laying down her maidenhood in the Sacred
Marriage, or marrying where it was thought meet to cement alliances;
this Igraine had done, marrying a Romanized Duke of Cornwall, a citizen
who lived, even though Rome was gone from all of Britain, in Roman
fashion.
She shrugged the cloak from her shoulders; inside the court it was
warmer, out of the biting wind. And there, as the fog swirled and
cleared, for a moment a figure stood before her, materialized out of the
fog and mist: her half-sister, Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, the Lady
of the Holy Isle.
"Sister!" The words wavered, and Igraine knew she had not cried them
aloud, but only whispered, her hands flying to her breast. "Do I truly
see you here?"
The face was reproachful, and the words seemed to blow away in the sound
of the wind beyond the walls.
Have you given up the Sight, Igraine? Of your free will?
Stung by the injustice of that, Igraine retorted, "It was you who
decreed that I must marry Gorlois . . ." but the form of her sister had
wavered into shadows, was not there, had never been there. Igraine
blinked; the brief apparition was gone. She pulled the cloak around her
body, for she was cold, ice cold; she knew the vision had drawn its
force from the warmth and life of her own body. She thought, I didn't
know I could still see in that way, I was sure I could not . . . and
then she shivered, knowing that Father Columba would consider this the
work of the Devil, and she should confess it to him. True, here at the
end of the world the priests were lax, but an unconfessed vision would
surely be treated as a thing unholy.
She frowned; why should she treat a visit from her own sister as the
work of the Devil? Father Columba could say what he wished; perhaps his
God was wiser than he was. Which, Igraine thought, suppressing a giggle,
would not be very difficult. Perhaps Father Columba had become a priest
of Christ because no college of Druids would have had a man so stupid
among their ranks. The Christ God seemed not to care whether a priest
was stupid or not, so long as he could mumble their mass, and read and
write a little. She, Igraine herself, had more clerkly skills than
Father Columba, and spoke better Latin when she wished. Igraine did not
think of herself as well educated; she had not had the hardihood to
study the deeper wisdom of the Old Religion, or to go into the Mysteries
any further than was absolutely necessary for a daughter of the Holy
Isle. Nevertheless, although she was ignorant in any Temple of the
Mysteries, she could pass among the Romanized barbarians as a
well-educated lady.
In the small room off the court where there was sun on fine days, her
younger sister, Morgause, thirteen years old and budding, wearing a
loose house robe of undyed wool and her old frowsy cloak about her
shoulders, was spinning listlessly with a drop spindle, taking up her
uneven yarn on a wobbly reel. On the floor by the fire, Morgaine was
rolling an old spindle around for a ball, watching the erratic patterns
the uneven cylinder made, knocking it this way and that with chubby
fingers.
"Haven't I done enough spinning?" Morgause complained. "My fingers ache!
Why must I spin, spin, spin all the time, as if I were a waiting-woman?"
"Every lady must learn to spin," rebuked Igraine as she knew she ought
to do, "and your thread is a disgrace, now thick, now thin. . . . Your
fingers will lose their weariness as you accustom them to the work.
Aching fingers are a sign that you have been lazy, since they are not
hardened to their task." She took the reel and spindle from Morgause and
twirled it with careless ease; the uneven yarn, under her experienced
fingers, smoothed out into a thread of perfectly even thickness. "Look,
one could weave this yarn without snagging the shuttle . . ." and
suddenly she tired of behaving as she ought. "But you may put the
spindle away now; guests will be here before midafternoon."
Morgause stared at her. "I heard nothing," she said, "nor any rider with
a message!"
"That does not surprise me," Igraine said, "for there was no rider. It
was a Sending. Viviane is upon her way here, and the Merlin is with
her." She had not known that last until she said it. "So you may take
Morgaine to her nurse, and go and put on your holiday robe, the one dyed
with saffron."
Morgause put away the spindle with alacrity, but paused to stare at
Igraine. "My saffron gown? For my sister?"
Igraine corrected her, sharply. "Not for our sister, Morgause, but for
the Lady of the Holy Isle, and for the Messenger of the Gods."
Morgause looked down at the patterned floor. She was a tall, sturdy
girl, just beginning to lengthen and ripen into womanhood; her thick
hair was reddish like Igraine's own, and there were splotches of
freckles on her skin, no matter how carefully she soaked it in
buttermilk and begged the herbwife for washes and simples for it.
Already at thirteen she was as tall as Igraine, and someday would be
taller. She picked up Morgaine with an ill grace and carried her away.
Igraine called after her, "Tell Nurse to put a holiday gown on the
child, and then you may bring her down; Viviane has not seen her."
Morgause said something ill-tempered to the effect that she didn't see
why a great priestess would want to see a brat, but she said it under
her breath so that Igraine had an excuse to ignore it.
Up the narrow stairs, her own chamber was cold; no fires were lighted
there except in the dead of winter. While Gorlois was away, she shared
the bed with her waiting-woman Gwennis, and his prolonged absence gave
her an excuse to have Morgaine in her bed at night. Sometimes Morgause
slept there too, sharing the fur coverlets against the bitter cold. The
big marriage bed, canopied, curtained against draughts, was more than
big enough for three women and a child.
Gwen, who was old, was drowsing in a corner, and Igraine forbore to wake
her, stripping off her workaday dress of undyed wool and hurrying on her
fine gown, laced at the neck with a silk ribbon Gorlois had brought her
as a fairing from Londinium. She put on her fingers some little silver
rings she had had since she was a little girl . . . they would go only
on her two smallest fingers, now . . . and hung a necklace of amber
which Gorlois had given her about her neck. The gown was dyed rust
color, and had an overtunic of green. She found her carven horn comb,
and began to pull it through her hair, sitting on a bench and working
her comb patiently through the tangles. From another room she heard a
loud yelling and decided that Morgaine was having her hair combed by her
nurse and didn't like it. The yelling stopped suddenly, and she supposed
that Morgaine had been slapped into silence; or perhaps, as sometimes
happened when Morgause was in a good temper, Morgause had taken over the
combing herself, with her clever, patient fingers. This was how Igraine
knew that her young sister could spin well enough when she chose, her
hands were so clever at everything else-at combing, at carding, at
making Yule pies.
Igraine braided her hair, clasped it on top of her head with a gold
clasp, and put her good gold brooch into the fold of her cloak. She
looked at herself in the old bronze mirror her sister Viviane had given
her at her wedding, brought, they said, all the way from Rome. She knew,
lacing her gown, that her breasts were once again as they had been
before: Morgaine had been weaned a year now, and they were only a little
softer and heavier. She knew she had her old slimness back, for she had
been married in this gown, and now the laces were not strained even a
little.
Gorlois, when he returned, would expect to take her to his bed again.
Last time he had seen her, Morgaine had still been at the breast, and he
had yielded to her plea that she might continue to suckle the child
through the summer season when so many little children died. She knew he
was discontented because the baby had not been the son he craved-these
Romans counted their lineage through the male line, rather than sensibly
through the mother; it was silly, for how could any man ever know
precisely who had fathered any woman's child? Of course, these Romans
made a great matter of worrying over who lay with their women, and
locked them up and spied on them. Not that Igraine needed watching; one
man was bad enough, who would want others who might be worse?
But even though he was eager for a son, Gorlois had been indulgent,
letting her have Morgaine in her bed and continue to suckle her, even
keeping away from her and lying nights with her dressing-woman Ettarr so
that she would not get with child again and lose her milk. He too knew
how many children died if they were weaned before they could chew meat
and hard bread. Children fed on gruel were sickly, and often there was
no goat's milk in the summer, even if they would drink it. Children fed
on cow's or mare's milk often got the vomit and died, or suffered with
the flux in their bowels and died. So he had left Morgaine at her
breast, thus postponing the son he wanted for at least another year and
a half. For that at least she would always be grateful to him, and not
murmur, however quickly he got her with child now.
Ettarr had gotten herself a belly from that visit, and gone about
preening herself; would she be the one to have a son by the Duke of
Cornwall? Igraine had ignored the girl; Gorlois had other bastard sons,
one of whom was with him now, in the camp of the war duke, Uther. But
Ettarr had fallen sick and miscarried, and Igraine had enough intuition
not to ask Gwen why she looked so pleased at the event. Old Gwen knew
too much of herbs for Igraine's perfect peace of mind. Some day, she
resolved, I will make her tell me exactly what she put into Ettarr's
beer.
She went down to the kitchen, her long skirts trailing on the stone
steps. Morgause was there, in her finest gown, and she had put Morgaine
into a holiday dress, dyed saffron, so that the child looked dark as a
Pict. Igraine picked her up, holding her with pleasure. Small, dark,
delicately made, so small-boned it was like handling a little soft bird.
How had that child come by her looks? She herself and Morgause were tall
and red-haired, earth-colored like all of the Tribeswomen, and Gorlois,
though dark, was Roman, tall and lean and aquiline; hardened from years
of battle against the Saxons, too filled with his Roman dignity to show
much tenderness to a young wife, and with nothing but indifference for
the daughter who came in the place of the son she should have borne him.
But, Igraine reminded herself, these Roman men considered it their
divine right to have power of life and death over their children. There
were many, Christians or no, who would have demanded that a daughter not
be reared, so that their wives might be free at once to give them a son.
Gorlois had been good to her, he had let her keep her daughter. Perhaps,
though she did not give him credit for much imagination, he knew how
she, a woman of the Tribes, felt about a daughter.
While she was giving orders for the entertainment of guests, for wine to
be brought up from the cellars and for the roasting of meat-not rabbit,
but good mutton from the last slaughtering-she heard the squawk and
flutter of frightened hens in the court and knew that the riders had
come across the causeway. The servants looked frightened, but most of
them had become resigned to the knowledge that the mistress had the
Sight. She had pretended it, using clever guesses and a few tricks; it
was just as well that they should remain in awe of her. Now she thought,
Maybe Viviane is right, maybe I still have it. Maybe I only believed it
was gone-because in those months before Morgaine was born, I felt so
weak and powerless. Now I have come back to myself. My mother was a
great priestess till the day of her death, though she bore sev- eral
children.
But, her mind answered her, her mother had borne those children in
freedom, as a Tribeswoman should, to such fathers as she chose, not as a
slave to some Roman whose customs gave him power over women and
children. Impatiently, she dismissed such thoughts; did it matter
whether she had the Sight or only seemed to have it, if it kept her
servants properly in order?
She went slowly out to the courtyard, which Gorlois still liked to call
the atrium, though it was nothing like the villa where he had lived
until Ambrosius made him Duke of Cornwall. She found the riders
dismounting, and her eyes went at once to the only woman among them, a
woman smaller than herself and no longer young, wearing a man's tunic
and woolen breeches, and muffled in cloaks and shawls. Across the
courtyard their eyes met in welcome, but Igraine went dutifully and bent
before the tall, slender old man who was dismounting from a raw-boned
mule. He wore the blue robes of a bard, and a harp was slung across his
shoulder.
Product details
- ASIN : 0345350499
- Publisher : Ballantine Books; 1st edition (May 1, 1984)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 876 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780345350497
- ISBN-13 : 978-0345350497
- Reading age : 14 - 18 years
- Lexile measure : 1030L
- Item Weight : 2.05 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.1 x 2 x 9.1 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #12,427 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #13 in Arthurian Fantasy (Books)
- #305 in Historical Fantasy (Books)
- #1,326 in Epic Fantasy (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Marion Zimmer was born in Albany, NY, on June 3, 1930, and married Robert Alden Bradley in 1949. Mrs. Bradley received her B.A. in 1964 from Hardin Simmons University in Abilene, Texas, then did graduate work at the University of California, Berkeley, from 1965-67.
She was a science fiction/fantasy fan from her middle teens, but wrote only for school magazines and fanzines until 1952, when she sold her first professional short story to VORTEX SCIENCE FICTION. She wrote everything from science fiction to Gothics, but is probably best known for her Darkover novels.
In addition to her novels, Mrs. Bradley edited many magazines, amateur and professional, including Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY Magazine, which she started in 1988. She also edited an annual anthology called SWORD AND SORCERESS for DAW Books.
Over the years she turned more to fantasy; THE HOUSE BETWEEN THE WORLDS was "fantasy undiluted." She wrote a best-selling novel of the women in the Arthurian legends--Morgan Le Fay, the Lady of the Lake, and others--entitled MISTS OF AVALON, and she also wrote THE FIREBRAND, a novel about the women of the Trojan War. Her historical fantasy novels, THE FOREST HOUSE and LADY OF AVALON are prequels to MISTS OF AVALON.
She died in Berkeley, California on September 25, 1999, four days after suffering a major heart attack. She was survived by her brother, Leslie Zimmer; her sons, David Bradley and Mark Greyland; her daughter, Moira Greyland; and her grandchildren.
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Like many children, I was raised on the tale of Merlin, Camelot, King Arthur, Excalibur, and the famed Knights of the Round Table. My first introduction to the post-Roman Empire era story was a cartoon in my early youth called The Sword in The Stone, which told the tale of how a teenaged King Arthur was able to pull the magically endowed sword Excalibur from the stone in which it was embedded, and thus win the throne of a newly liberated England.
In later years there would be many a movie made about the boy king and his mystical kingdom that in the end fell into ruin because of human weakness, but none has been as detailed as Marion Zimmer Bradley's, 1982 novel "The Mists of Avalon." Bradley's tome is an ambitious and sweeping interweaving of the oft-told legend of King Arthur and his celebrated Knights of the Round Table; of Merlin and Excalibur; of Camelot; of Gwenhwyfar and Sir Lancelot, all regaled through the eyes and experiences of a heretofore unknown character, Morgaine, priestess of Avalon and half-sister to the king. "The Mists of Avalon" is a masterful exemplar of accomplished historical novel writing. One might well finish this lengthy tome incensed at the oft-time unabashed anti-male, and anti-Christian passages, but one cannot honestly deny the addictive allure of grand tale.
The power of Bradley's prose is in its ability to draw the reader into the story with sharp, intelligent, and engaging narrative, such as this from the prologue:
"Morgaine Speaks...In my time I have been called many things: sister, lover, priestess, wise-woman, queen. Now in truth I have come to be wise-woman, and a time may come when these things may need to be known. But in sober truth, I think it is the Christians who will tell the last tale. For ever the world of Fairy drifts further from the world in which Christ holds sway. I have no quarrel with Christ, only with his priests, who call the Great Goddess a demon and deny that she ever held power in this world. At best, they say that her power was of Satan. Or else they clothe her in the blue robe of the Lady of Nazareth--who indeed had power in her own way, too--and say that she was ever virgin. But what can a virgin know of the sorrows and travail of mankind?"
From that opening paragraph to the closing, I was hooked, drawn in by the conflict between the old world and the new, between Pagan practice and the over-indulgent, self-righteousness binding of Christianity, and the lose of true personal freedoms it represented.
Written wholly from the perspective of the very strong female characters, throughout, within the pages--all 876 of them--of "The Mists of Avalon" we find a retelling of the epic Arthurian rein stripped of Christian moralizing, and replete with the heretofore untold mysteries of a Earth-bound goddess religion, a faith that is as ornate and beautiful--and indeed more fitting to the way in which the Britons lived their lives--as the Roman Catholic faith.
It primarily through the eyes of Morgaine, Arthur's half-sister, trained in the magical rites of the Goddess that this story unfolds like an awakening. Under the tutelage of her Aunt, and High Priestess of Avalon, Vivian, Morgaine is instructed in the arts of foretelling, herbalism self-discipline, and self-denial. Vivian seeing the disquieting influence of Christianity spread among her people uses Morgaine as the vessel to secure an heir inherently worthy of preserving the old religion by claiming birthright to the throne of England. This was the role Arthur, had been designated to fill but, by his conversion to Christianity, fails to adequately discharge. Vivian who at first one might anoint as a villain is instead a heroine; her actions are exonerated by the desire to serve the purposes of a Goddess, one who will not be denied, the mistress of Avalon, the font from which all magic and foretelling find their birthright.
Be forewarned, "The Mists of Avalon" is an adult tome, not meant to the eyes of pre-teens; there are frank sexual situations throughout the book, including rape, incest, as well as same-sex coupling. Violence too plays a vigorous part in the story-telling though we as a society seem to tolerate it much more than the frank discussion, or depictions of sex.
In setting down "The Mists of Avalon", Bradley used her extensive knowledge of history and legends to weave a most detailed and believable setting; at times it hard to separate fact from fiction. The characters she develops are at once likeable--or unlikable--and complex as any human relationship we might develop in their own lives. Morgaine is a heroin, but a deeply flawed one; Lancelot is not as chivalrous and honorable; Gwenhwyfar is not as pure and innocent; nor Arthur as noble of purpose. With the folds of "The Mists of Avalon" Arthur, though he is essential to the telling, is not the central focus of this body of work. It is the woman in his life that take center stage; Merlin and Excalibur are but minor actors in this world of Camelot.
Indeed the Avalon agenda is all-encompassing, with even the Druids of the Merlin's fraternity expected to acquiesce to the whims and wills of the priestesses of Avalon. In this story of Arthur and Camelot, men are a means to an end; women are supreme as dictated by the Goddess; women do not need men except in furtherance of Her will. In this telling of the Knights of the Round Table, men are insensitive and cruel; sex is wasted; men are basically animals to be controlled. And though men rule, they do so with the blessing and consent of the Goddess, and her maiden priestesses on earth cloistered at Avalon. As a man I see essential truths in the lesson, but I abhor the lesson none-the-less.
But more then a struggle for power between men and women, "The Mists of Avalon" is a struggle between the religion that was, and the religion that will be. Paganism (at least as I understand it) was widely practiced throughout Europe during the time when Rome held sway over all the lands bordering the Mediterranean Sea and beyond. But as Christianity swept out of the Middle East into Europe, Pagan practices were pushed aside, often times violently, replacing the freedom of Pagan worship with the restrictive laws of Christianity. Monotheism replaced polytheistic practices throughout the continent. Bradley captures that struggle brilliantly; some may say she is very uncharitable to Christianity throughout "The Mists of Avalon", but I believe she is being as true to actual history as any telling thus far. After all Christianity does enjoy a long history of self-righteous evangelism, a practice that often-times destroyed the society it missionaries claimed to want to save.
Conclusion
"The Mists of Avalon" is splendid reading and I highly recommend it. A more in-depth and authoritative recantation of the Arthurian legend is not available as far as I know (the movie version of this book was abysmal). Bradley's narrative descriptions are verdant without being overly tiresome, whether she is describing wardrobe, setting, battle scenes, religious services, sexual dalliances, or even mundane household items, her prose flows like water over a newly born leaf. The dialogue is imperative and the scenes fluid and not the least bit ill-conceived.
The ending left me chilled and disappointed, but I understood the necessity of the closing. One might walk away after reading "The Mists of Avalon" feeling as though Bradley despised Christianity, but I believe she was just being true to the history of the movement and its long lasting effect on human societies. And though men are oft-times depicted as weak throughout the book, truth be told guys, if we really love a woman to the depth of our souls, and with deepness of heart, we are but putty in their hands to be molded into that which she sees fit to accompany.
When Morgain finds out it was her brother Arthur who she slept with she turns on Vivianne, leaves Avalon, and goes to live with her scheming sister Morgause in the wilds of Lothian. There she gives birth to Mordred but then falls vicitim to her sister's scheme when Morgause finds out Mordred is King Arthur's son. Morgause takes Mordred from her an does not allow Morgaine to form a bond with her son in the hopes that by raising him it is she who will be the real influence behind the throne when he is High King.
Meanwhile, Arthur has married Gwenhwyfar, a devout Christian and a woman who seems to suffer from one phobia after another. She sees her inability to give birth to a child as punishment from God for Arthur's divided allegiance to both the followers of Avalon's Goddess and the Christian God. She uses Arthur's love for her to convince him to turn his back on Avalon and make Britian an entirely Christian nation. This, Mordred waiting in the wings, and the fallable nature of human being's sets the stage up for conflict and destruction that will destroy all of the orignal plans for peace and unity between Christian's and Avalon. And Morgaine, after years of living outside of Avalon yet longing to return, discovers that leaving Avalon was easy but finding her way back is anything but.
While all these factors seem to be the ingredients for an amazing read, this reader was dissapointd with several aspects of the novel. To start with, the author's pro-Pagan anti-Christian views come shining through each page of this novel. I think it's wonderful that a novel was published with such a different point of view. No matter what your religious orientation, it's always good to question and see things from another vantage point. The problem I had was that after several hundred pages of this it began to grate on my nerves. Eventually it was like, "OK, I get it already!!!" It was just too much and the entire novel would've benefitted from a much more subtle approach.
Then there was the extreme long-windedness of the author. Now, don't get me wrong, I love a good long novel but not when it seems to just go on and on and on and on about what, IMO, were not major plot points in the novel. Some serious editing needed to be done here. This novel could've shaved off a couple hundred pages and not suffered a thing.
I also thought the portrayal of Gwenhwyfar as a whiney, wimpy, 'fraidy cat was too over the top. I get that the author was trying to portray the difference and the conflict between her and Morgaine, which represented the heart of the conflict between Avalon and Christians, but she just has no reedeming qualities whatsoever. In what is supposed to be an novel told from the women's viewpoint, the author seemed to do the same thing she accuses Christians of doing, laying the blame for the sins and downfall of the world at the feet of a woman. It seemed that she Gwenhwyfar was the author's scape goat here. I wouldn't have minded the less than flattering portrayal of Gwenhwyfar if would've at least attempted to be somewhat fair and at least allowed the reader to discover some reedeming quality about her.
OK so I know I've waxed verbose about what I didn't like about the novel but there were some things that I thought were great. In fact, overall I didn't hate this novel it's just that the above gripes keep it from getting too great of a score. As a heroine, I absolutely loved Morgaine. She was flawed yet sincere, very human, and yet somehow very spiritual and divine. She was not the typical beauty but yet she radiated with an inner beauty. She made mistakes over and over again and suffered for those mistakes as did others.
I also enjoyed the humanity of so many of the characters. They were so recognizably human, flawed, caring, violent, and yet they yearned for peace. They made mistakes and suffered the consquences. That was painfully depicted here in a way I haven't seen in many other novels. It was very atmospheric and, when I wasn't pulled out of the story by the above irritants, I was swept away into ancient Britian and the world the author created.
I enjoyed reading about the conflict of cultures as Christianity began to spread across Britian. Just the fact that there is a novel with such a different point of view than we are used to, female and Pagan, is a very good thing. I would love to try and read more about the ancient religions. I just wish that, as a whole, this particular novel had been written better. But this is one I'm going to hang on to and reread in a few years and compare my reactions.
Overall I do recommend this novel because of it's very different premise, I love the heroine, and you may not have the same issues I did with the presentation of the story. 3 1/2 stars.
ETA: I don't get the complaint from so many reviewers that this is a "feminist" novel. It's told from the viewpoint of the women involved, does that make it feminist? Even if it was "feminist" what's so wrong with the idea that men and women should be equals? Since when is that a bad thing?
It's the "good Pagans, bad Christians" theme repeated ad nauseum that causes this novel to suffer, not the fact that it's told from a female perspective. And I'm agnostic so I don't claim one religion over another, I just don't like it when an author's personal POV overtakes what otherwise could be a good story.
Top reviews from other countries
Edit: finally finished this book again. I first read this in my teens (since I was young I’d loved the Arthurian legends started when my parents bought me 4 penguin books about King Arthur and his knights).
Now I’m 51 I found myself re-reading it and have to say it felt even more profound to me. A few times found myself tearing up and had to be careful while reading it at work (I’m a firefighter and not really prone to shows of raw emotion). The story is so beautiful and almost every character is imagined wonderfully. The story jumps about from each character but mainly Mograine and always the females (Guinevere, Elaine, Igrain, Vivian and Nimue to name a few)
It’s a must read and even better if you’ve already read it as a child and are now fully grown with children of your own now As I have just done.
The first installation in her Avalon series, The Mists of Avalon focuses on familiar characters from Arthurian legend, detailing their various rises and falls. Bradley models and refashions the legends in her retelling, making it distinctly her own in several ways:
• Narrative perspective: this is famously a feminist perspective on a story traditionally dominated by knights and quests. The narrative is framed by Morgaine’s first-person retrospective narration while the rest is told in first-person. The story begins with Igraine, Arthur’s mother, long before the Round Table was ever installed in the hall, even before Arthur’s conception.
• Character interpretation: Bradley also re-casts the two most notorious women of the story: Morgaine (more commonly known as Morgan le Fay), and Gwenhyfar (Guinevere). Morgaine is the story's heroine who drives the plot’s action as she moves through the major settings of the book from the magical, pagan isle of Avalon to Arthur's court at Camelot and even to fairyland. Gwenhyfar is less sympathetically portrayed as a close-minded, pious, devout Christian who struggles to reconcile her faith with her sinful passion for Lancelet.
This is an extremely long book, clocking in at over 1,000 pages, so it's quite a commitment to finish. Despite being a slow burner, much of this book doesn’t drag at all, as it offers the reader a fascinating insight into the characters' lives over the decades, propelled throughout by a melodic, haunting and mystical writing style.
The Mists of Avalon covers the personal, political and spiritual; characters’ passions and wants are inextricably entwined with religious upheaval and the machinations of the royal court. The decline of the pagan religion and rise of Christianity is a prevalent theme, one on which most of the characters’ relationships – whether those of passion, love or fuelled by animosity – hinge.
Unfortunately, I think the novel’s major weakness is the end. This lengthy tome puts up a good fight but loses momentum in the last few hundred pages as events become more and more ridiculous. I lost sympathy for the character who I loved and rooted for, Morgaine, which made me much more disengaged with the story itself.
The climactic ending which is foreshadowed from as early as the Prologue deserved more page time, and the main villain of the story should have received more development and insight into his/her motives (no spoilers). This lack of understanding made the final events less satisfying and rich.
Ultimately, the quality of the end made me relieved that I had finally finished this: especially as it took me over a month to read it. It's a shame as for much of this audiobook's 50 hours I was under its spell.
Note: Davina Porter narrates the audiobook and she is truly excellent – her voice is compelling, rich and sophisticated and she effectively gives the wide cast of characters their own 'voice'.
I thought it would be interesting to read this book on Avalon and the legend that is King Arthur, his wife Gwen, the round table, Camelot, his knights, Lancelet and Morganaine.
It is a very long book and took me days to read it. It was really intense and at times I had to re-read a few pages at a time so that I could understand it.
Overall, I enjoyed it but I think that I will have to read it again to understand it a bit more, which I will do.
I hope that if you download to read you will enjoy it too.
There are an abundance of disappointing errors in this kindle edition- missing speach marks, h's instead of b's and some irregularities in continuity- that need ironing out, so I'd recommend the real book until such a time as the ebook has been fully edited. My 4 ★'s is reflective of this.
It is the best retelling of the Arthur and Avalon legends that I've ever come across, rivalled only by the great Mary Stewart's stories which focus mostly on Merlin.
The historical research is detailed and superb. The spiritual world of the times really comes to life and the telling of how Christianity threatened to take over, yet the old ways weaved their own way into the teachings of the priests is fascinating. The characters are three dimensional and I found myself caring about all of them. Zimmer Bradley brings a real sense of the ancient history that was instrumental in shaping the beautiful green lands of Britain.
I'm now really looking forward to reading the rest of the series.















