I'm a fairly well-read chap. Why had I only vaguely heard of Joyce Cary and why had I never heard of this book until I stumbled across it in a charity shop? I think with the possible exception of Zola's 'L'Oeuvre' it's the best novel about the artistic life I've read, a stand-out work of English prose, undoubtedly a classic, and from my first glance inside I was unable to put it down until I'd finished it. It incidentally gave me more insight into painting than half a dozen textbooks.
We follow the ageing artist narrator, Gulley Jimson - impoverished, neglected, cynical about art and life but loving both, always ebullient, possibly a genius - as he plans a new masterpiece, tries to avoid jail or the doss-house, sees visions in the clouds over the Thames, spouts his beloved Blake, meets his old muse and re-lives old love affairs, tries to obtain patrons and disillusion wide-eyed admirers, schemes to get paint and canvas or a piece of wall he can call his own. His London is a pre-war proletarian one, but its inhabitants are smart, often self-educated, philosophical if not from inclination then from bitter necessity: a world of self-appointed preachers, street-corner prophets, parlour lecturers and barmaid stoics. Some of the tragedies that happen to them are almost unbearable, and the novel could be bleak as hell at times were it not for the protagonist's humour and urging of acceptance. Described thus baldly it doesn't sound as if it should be as gripping as a thriller, but it is; partly because tales of people hustling to get a shilling which could make all the difference between bounce-back and disaster always are, and partly because of the attraction of the central figure.
Gulley Jimson is a great and unique character, in some ways an archetype of the disreputable bohemian yet avoiding all the cliches. His narration has a dazzling energy, full of both poetry and momentum - there's more than a touch of Irish lyricism to the prose, or perhaps a sort of British-English version of the suppleness and invention someone like Chandler, say, or some of the Jewish writers invest American English with - it's relentlessly entertaining anyway and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny. His enjoyment of life is infectious; his determination to accept all the kicks as they come and not to let anger or self-pity poison him is inspiring. Most of the loveable and charming rogues of literature are fairly loathsome at bottom, but Jimson in his joy, acceptance and love of life and mankind is a self-redemptive figure. All he wants to do in life is paint, but while he will - almost unconsciously, reflexively, often outrageously, sometimes self-destructively - steal, wheedle and cheat the wherewithal to do so from anyone he finds at hand, he is also willing, he feels obliged, he is unable to stop himself making time to fulfill the demands of friendship or common humanity.
All in all The Horse's Mouth is a great read and a high achievement. Don't be put off that it's ostensibly the third book in a trilogy - it's so complete in itself that I was startled as well as delighted when I found this out afterwards.