WARNING: wall of text ahead; sorry for the essay, but I felt I needed to share my enthusiasm.

I read two kinds of books. In the first category, I'm looking for craftsmanship. I search
for nuggets of literary art, and it feels really good to discover hidden symmetries (Hundred Years
of Solitude), compelling, masterfully painted characters (Anna Karenina), original structural
elements (Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter), etc. Otherwise, it better be a damn good story - Mistborn
makes for super light reading but is one of the most epic stories I've ever read.

The Second Apocalypse series is one of the few works that I've come across to excel on both
counts. The magnitude of the narrative is impressive; and Scott Bakker is truly a wordsmith.

I'll try to break it down; this is not an exhaustive list, just the things I've found noteworthy;
both the good and the bad.

The craft

Philosophy
Elements of philosophy permeate the books: philosophy of religion, of war, of politics, etc.
This is what makes The Second Apocalypse dense. It probably scares some readers away, otherwise
used to a more traditional pacing of a fantasy narrative.

However, developing such elements is neither too abstract (too make it a standalone philosophy
treaty), nor out of place. Thoughts on religion and faith naturally progress both from the
point of view of many characters as they develop or indirectly by the envelopping picture.
Moreover, they integrate perfectly with the evolution of the impending doom and the main
characters' ruminations.

It is an artform in itself to not only make such reflections transcend the fantastic, but also
apply to current times. Exploring how every single belligerent faction rationalises killing in the
name of their faith, or how sorcerers are ostracised from society have plain echoes in real
societies.

You know a book is good when you have to close it and think for a few moments about what you just
read. I would have thought that the depth of these moments would necessarily come from years of
the author's reflections and resolutions. So when I was reading The Prince of Nothing, I was
expecting these elements to dilute in the later books - I was wrong. Five books later, I still
have to pause. I have no explanation on how a writer can achieve this.

Narrative style
Two aspects struck. First, even if the chapters adhere to a POV structure, they mainly compartmentalise
the story. In contrast, GRRM splits into different narrators per each POV - the worrying mother, the
rebellious child, etc. - even going as far as deceiving the reader with subjective recollections.
For Bakker, narration is much more neutral and uniform. This fits perfectly with the embedded
philosophical reflections mentioned above.

However, there is an exception. There are what I would call "chronicle" chapters, where the pacing
is dramatically more alert. Action transforms into a list of events, seen from a spatial and temporal
distance. And even more interesting, the narrative voice acquires a subtle tone of contempt - for
example when recollecting the bloody sackings of the Holy War.

The second thing to note is the literary style, which is also "dense". Words are carefully chosen,
and it is refreshing to see the trope of reusing the same words for commonly occurring items not
present. Action is described in vivid palettes; but sometimes, this works against the author. There
are certain inflection points which could lose this "richness" and benefit from clarity. It is
regrettable that key plot episodes have to be re-read due to being conveyed too poetically. On the
descriptive side the same effect is in play - while setting the scene usually benefits from rich
writing, simple context is sometimes needed and could use more plain sketching.

Violence
These books are visceral. Many other works depict violence (which is present in this series from
the get go), but this isn't about gore.

The savage elements come in many ways, but share the trait that they rely on the reader's investment
to shock. We finally learn the abomination that comes from distilling human intellect. We feel the
depravity ingrained in the Skin Spies. We are horrified by the more and more evident inhumanity of
Kelhus. We finally understand the obscenity of the Inchoroi. We consider, then reject, then are
disgusted by the thought of eating Sranc. And we shudder.

But by far the most vicious aspect is Kelmomas. The lovable little child killing his brother with
premeditated cold blod is only the beginning; manipulation, glee for slaughter, and the level of
egotistical scheming portray evil in its purest form.

Metaphors
Of all the craftsman's tools, Bakker makes use of metaphors exceptionally. "There was an oppressive
sense of finality in the air, like the smell of drying ink." - the evocative power of such constructs
is truly... Dûnyain. When Bakker uses words like "amniotic" in describing Kelmomas' cuddling against his
mother, the adjective transcends being a simple word and the reader can grasp its meaning. The reader
is familiarised with the philosophy of concepts (both from the magic system and the Dûnyain beliefs),
and the author achieves one of the most stunning effects that I've observed in a literary piece.

Characters
The main characters are complex, but well contoured. The image projected from them is somewhat
inflexible, but this has the counter effect of imprinting a definite portrait onto the reader - to the
point where Achamian's ache of being cheated on but worshiping Kelhus at the same time is felt firsthand.

Speaking of projecting characters' feelings onto readers, Kelhus deserves a special mention. The readers
share the obsessing, painfully simple question that everybody asks - "Who is Anasûrimbor Kellhus?".
It is indeed remarkable that we truly are kept guessing on who the main character of the series
actually is without the question becoming frustrating - on the contrary, answers in The Great Ordeal
become even more rewarding.

Special mention
There is one chapter in particular that impressed me: the sequence where Cnaiür and Kelhus meet (and
clash). The first knows about Dûnyain abilities, but still tries to stay in control of the conversation
and the events. The Scylvendi's anguish of not being able to trust his own thoughts is truly felt by
the reader - just as the chieftain, one tries to find ways around Kelhus' snares, and feels just as
trapped. This is art.

It reminded me of another chapter, the famous dialogue (pseudo-monologue?) between Ivan Karamazov and
the Devil. I don't say this lightly, but I dare say this achieves that level of writing.

A similar effect occurs when two Dûnyain clash - Inrilatas and his uncle Maithanet. It is also worth
noting that while many fantasy works deal with mind reading or similar abilities, such passages make
one realise that they all neglect the actual implications of even simple conversations.

The story

Overview
Although the works follow the over-used theme of the impending apocalypse, the scale of the story
is reason enough to overlook it.

The epicness of The Second Apocalypse comes from convergence. We become intimate with different
nations, cultures, and faiths, and only then we see them being brought together for a common goal.
Although perhaps an obstacle for many readers, it is precisely the investment we are required to
spend that gives satisfaction once the scale of the narrative is revealed.

Similar traditional elements are present, but don't feel overused. Prophecies and flashbacks are
ubiquitous in fantasy, but the recurring, horrifying dreams that the Mandate endures are made special
by growing to know Seswatha and appreciating the mundane dreams Achamians seeks. This familiarity is
also rewarding with the introduction of Serwa as a POV character.

All in all, The Second Apocalypse narrative feels like how Silmarillion should have looked like if
it benefited from stretching over seven books - immersive and epic.

Worldbuilding
Earwa is built a bit slowly, but Bakker compensates in complexity. Often fantasy works suffer
from just describing elements of strict necessity and feeling overall not well thought-through. The
author covers all aspects that allow us to fully engage in a fictional world - society, religion,
culture, etc. The best example of this is how the entirely made up concept of "jnan" becomes perfectly
familiar to the reader.

A weak point is the element of the supernatural (magic system, Sranc, etc. notwithstanding), which
doesn't need an explicit clarification, but will always be an axiom for the reader. If we grow to
become used to bickering religions in the first series, we discover that the world hosts actual Gods
in The Aspect Emperor. Similarly, Kelhus' powers come from an extreme deductive ability, while the
White Luck Warrior's arrival and involvement is supernatural.

Magic system
Although conceptualised effectively from a metaphysical point of view, the magic system is a soft
system. It is not clearly certain what can or can't be achieved with sorcery in Earwa. This creates
a deus-ex effect where the reader can't ever be sure what to expect.

One such issue is that, as far as I can tell, the first series hardly seems to mention that sorcery
allows flying. I resolved internally that Kelhus himself discovered teleportation, but the schools
in the Great Ordeal seem to step into thin air naturally - surely this would have changed some things
in the first series? I'm ready to be corrected on this one, but the point remains that the uncertainty
is inherent.

The already mentioned daunting richness of the narrative style sadly affects magic as well. It is hard
for the reader to picture most of the spells; tactical developments in battles are accessible to
imagine, but when sorcery was involved I always lost the grip on the scene.

My conclusion: The Second Apocalypse is a masterpiece, a unique confluence of writing craftsmanship
and epic story telling. I find it a shame that it's somewhat of a hidden nugget; it definitely deserves more
popularity.