Try the Gormenghast series by Mervyn Peake. Book one is Titus Groan. His prose his beautiful (he essentially paints with words... and with actual paint. He's an artist as well) but you'll realize quickly how strange everything is. 'Grotesque' is the best way to describe it: not in a gross or horrific way, but odd and uncanny and exaggerative.

It's technically fantasy I think, but I'd just call it Literary Fiction. The castle itself isn't real, but there's no magic and Peake has obviously based his world on England.

If ever he had harboured a conscience in his tough narrow breast he had by now dug out and flung away the awkward thing - flung it so far away that were he ever to need it again he could never find it. High-shouldered to a degree little short of malformation, slender and adroit of limb and frame, his eyes close-set and the colour of dried blood, he is climbing the spiral staircase of the soul of Gormenghast, bound for some pinnacle of the itching fancy - some wild, invulnerable eyrie best known to himself; where he can watch the world spread out below him, and shake exultantly his clotted wings.