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The Black Book
Durrell's third work, the original angry young novel, was first published by his good friend and long-time correspondent Henry Miller as the first title in the short-lived Villa Seurat imprint of the Paris-based Obelisk Press. Unpublishable by the more staid (and censored) presses across the Channel, no work better captures the anguish and death-consciousness of a Europe about to plunge, once again, into cataclysmic war and destruction. The Black Book first saw print in 1938.
212 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1937
About the author
Lawrence Durrell
211 books842 followersLawrence George Durrell was a critically hailed and beloved novelist, poet, humorist, and travel writer best known for The Alexandria Quartet novels, which were ranked by the Modern Library as among the greatest works of English literature in the twentieth century. A passionate and dedicated writer from an early age, Durrell’s prolific career also included the groundbreaking Avignon Quintet, whose first novel, Monsieur (1974), won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, and whose third novel, Constance (1982), was nominated for the Booker Prize. He also penned the celebrated travel memoir Bitter Lemons of Cyprus (1957), which won the Duff Cooper Prize. Durrell corresponded with author Henry Miller for forty-five years, and Miller influenced much of his early work, including a provocative and controversial novel, The Black Book (1938). Durrell died in France in 1990.
The time Lawrence spent with his family, mother Louisa, siblings Leslie, Margaret Durrell, and Gerald Durrell, on the island of Corfu were the subject of Gerald's memoirs and have been filmed numerous times for TV.
The time Lawrence spent with his family, mother Louisa, siblings Leslie, Margaret Durrell, and Gerald Durrell, on the island of Corfu were the subject of Gerald's memoirs and have been filmed numerous times for TV.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 98 reviews
August 30, 2014
A striking series of ornate sentences strung together by thematic tentacles of doom, death, and consumptive Cockney girlfriends. Written with the exuberant zeal of a 24-year-old Boy Genius taking perverse pleasure in satirising the “English death” (sexual repression and bourgeois stuffiness) from his residence in Corfu, Durrell’s allusive, nigh-on-apocalyptic rant-cum-ramble is a knotty (and naughty) string of surreal images, dark and erudite musings on death and decay, clotted at times with too many classical references, and long passages of meandering lyrical weirdness whose meaning is never (if ever) certain, rarely erotic and no longer shocking to the modern reader but redeemed by the astonishing calibre of the sentences for such a young writer. The title is apt for such a black tale of deadbeat intellectuals writhing in the squalor of the grim and pleasureless nightmare of 1930s England. Vaguely innovative also for its use of frame narrative (in diary form) and continual hoppings around with POV.
February 21, 2013
I read this book after I had read "The Alexandria Quartet" by Lawrence Durrell, about life in Alexandria and I just loved it. To this day it still remains one of my two favourite books. I've read all of his other books (well I thought I had until yesterday!) and "The Black Book" was the penultimate one that I read. Durrell was only twenty-four when he wrote this in 1936 and still feeling his way through his writing.
The book is somewhat "raw" in style and the story is relatively simple. I had always believed that this was his first book to be published, but he also had two others published: "Pied Piper of Lovers" and "Panic Spring". I haven't read either of these.
Knowing Lawrence Durrell's exquisite style of writing both in his novels and travel books, I could see why he had reservations about this book and even about throwing it away. However thanks to his friend Henry Miller (good or bad in this case for an author's reputation?) the book was published in Paris. I am pleased to see that it still sees the light of day in both the bookstores and online.
To quote the blurb it is " 'A kind of angry young man's attack on literature and 'the English death','a savage battle conducted in the interests of self-discovery, an ocean of sustained writing', it has always been regarded by him ... as the first of his major novels.' "
I'm not so sure that I agree with that. Durrell had just escaped from living in London and had gone to live with his family on Corfu. He was thus writing about London as an expatriate, as had been the case with James Joyce.
I believe the story is rather banal, It is about a small residential hotel in London; based around a diary written by Gregory which he had left behind in his room and which had subsequently been found by Lawrence Lucifer, who had taken up residence there. The other individuals who lived there included Tarquin, Clare, to name but a few.
It is worth mentioning that at the time this book would never have been published in England as it would have been considered obscene. Due to Miller, it was published in Paris in 1938 and at the time was considered to be on a par with D.H. Lawrence, James Joyce and Henry Miller. How times have changed. Nowadays these books would be considered as perfectly "normal".
I really would like to hear what other readers think of this book. I personally feel that his style at the time he wrote the "Black Book" was not on a par with "The Alexandria Quartet". The only two words I can add for that book are "sublime" and "exquisite".
I am, however, planning to reread "The Black Book" in depth. My hardback version is by Faber and Faber, London and I see that it was not published in the UK until 1973, even though it was published in Paris in 1938, followed by the U.S. in 1960.
The book is somewhat "raw" in style and the story is relatively simple. I had always believed that this was his first book to be published, but he also had two others published: "Pied Piper of Lovers" and "Panic Spring". I haven't read either of these.
Knowing Lawrence Durrell's exquisite style of writing both in his novels and travel books, I could see why he had reservations about this book and even about throwing it away. However thanks to his friend Henry Miller (good or bad in this case for an author's reputation?) the book was published in Paris. I am pleased to see that it still sees the light of day in both the bookstores and online.
To quote the blurb it is " 'A kind of angry young man's attack on literature and 'the English death','a savage battle conducted in the interests of self-discovery, an ocean of sustained writing', it has always been regarded by him ... as the first of his major novels.' "
I'm not so sure that I agree with that. Durrell had just escaped from living in London and had gone to live with his family on Corfu. He was thus writing about London as an expatriate, as had been the case with James Joyce.
I believe the story is rather banal, It is about a small residential hotel in London; based around a diary written by Gregory which he had left behind in his room and which had subsequently been found by Lawrence Lucifer, who had taken up residence there. The other individuals who lived there included Tarquin, Clare, to name but a few.
It is worth mentioning that at the time this book would never have been published in England as it would have been considered obscene. Due to Miller, it was published in Paris in 1938 and at the time was considered to be on a par with D.H. Lawrence, James Joyce and Henry Miller. How times have changed. Nowadays these books would be considered as perfectly "normal".
I really would like to hear what other readers think of this book. I personally feel that his style at the time he wrote the "Black Book" was not on a par with "The Alexandria Quartet". The only two words I can add for that book are "sublime" and "exquisite".
I am, however, planning to reread "The Black Book" in depth. My hardback version is by Faber and Faber, London and I see that it was not published in the UK until 1973, even though it was published in Paris in 1938, followed by the U.S. in 1960.
May 28, 2011
You're lucky Durrell, Chuck "the Iceman" Liddell saved you from getting two stars. The booknerd in me couldn't bare to give you two stars while I gave a fanboy MMA book four stars, so you got three. There is some nice poetic prose in this book but I just couldn't get into this at all. I'm not sure what the point of the book was. Yes, it is similar to his wonderful Alexandria Quartet but in those novels I found myself caring, here nothing ever got me to care. I have a feeling when this book came out it caused quite a titter among those who read smart books, there are lots of little dirrrrty words and I'm sure people found (find?) the amoral decadence delightful. I could never really figure out what the characters were 'rebelling' against, I got that they were angry (well I didn't really but I read the blurb) but mindless, lofty, hedonism doesn't mean much to me, but this just might be the stodgy old man in me coming out.
I don't have much to say about this one.
I don't have much to say about this one.
March 11, 2023
Crna knjiga po svim merilima nije sjajno delo ali je i pored toga, što se mene tiče, vredno čitanja. Posmatram je, pre svega, kao važan stupanj u Darelovom stvaralačkom razvoju i da nisam upoznat sa Aleksandrijskim kvartetom, da ne znam kuda vodi iskustvo pisanja ovog romana, pretpostavljam da bih bio kritičniji. Jasno mi je da je crna knjiga bila neophodna, da ima nedostatke, i da je bilo neophodno da ima nedostatke. Pripovedač kaže: “ja sam vlasnik milion reči, šifara, mrtvih rečnika”. To je dvadesetčetvorogodišnji Darel. Sirovo, živopisno, besno asocijativno, stvaranje s minimumom građe. Talenat bode oči koliko i nezrelost pisca. Prihvatam taj kompromis. Uglačanost kasnijih romana (kvarteta) drži čitaoca na izvesnoj distanci; umerava glas koji se tek ovde po prvi put jasno probija i urla. Ima tu nečega paradoksalnog: mladalački zanos, leksičke vratolomije, sve njegove šifre i mrtve, zaboravljene reči ne smanjuju transparentnost, već je naprotiv povećavaju. Odeljke koji su očigledno inspirisani Milerovim knjigama zanemarujem – tu je najslabiji.
July 21, 2015
The mumblings of a sex addict delirious madman. Didn't make any sense, I couldn't even find the will to bother with it anymore than simply reading the words.
Frankly, I enjoyed studying for my exams much more.
If you ever find yourself wanting to read this book, just turn around and do anything else. Your time would then be much more meaningfully spent.
Frankly, I enjoyed studying for my exams much more.
If you ever find yourself wanting to read this book, just turn around and do anything else. Your time would then be much more meaningfully spent.
February 17, 2013
I can understand the mixed reviews for this book. The narration is difficult. I turned to the site for some insight on it. I've been reading the marvelous letters between Durrell and Miller to increase my understanding and I come to this book after having read the Alexandria Quartet, a group of novels that I consider some of the best in literature. What keeps me pushing forward in this book, however, is the language, the truly unique descriptions and insights such as:
Knowing Clare, I can imagine pretty well the form that seduction took. Gin the foundation, romance the actual rubble, and a fine tight cement of flattery and tinsel. How often have I seen the same dreary hook baited for the sentimental miss. Poor fellow, he was unhappy. He was misunderstood. There had been a great tragedy in his life -- the expression of which was intensified by the gin and balloons. He would not openly talk about it, even when pressed; but as Gracie once said, "you could see it writ all over him!" Oil say! Under his carefree jazzing, his glittering facade of smile and insinuation, you could see vague hints of this secret misery: like patches of damp on an otherwise white ceiling.
To write like he does at 24 is astounding to me, 40, reading to understand how writing should be done.
Knowing Clare, I can imagine pretty well the form that seduction took. Gin the foundation, romance the actual rubble, and a fine tight cement of flattery and tinsel. How often have I seen the same dreary hook baited for the sentimental miss. Poor fellow, he was unhappy. He was misunderstood. There had been a great tragedy in his life -- the expression of which was intensified by the gin and balloons. He would not openly talk about it, even when pressed; but as Gracie once said, "you could see it writ all over him!" Oil say! Under his carefree jazzing, his glittering facade of smile and insinuation, you could see vague hints of this secret misery: like patches of damp on an otherwise white ceiling.
To write like he does at 24 is astounding to me, 40, reading to understand how writing should be done.
September 1, 2007
The Black Book has come back to me over and over in my life. I first read it in Amsterdam living in a squat in a drizzly november; it is angry and taut and magnificent—terribly flawed and scarred in a way that first novels rarely are these days. Durrell sent the only copy of his MS to Henry Miller, saying that he didn't know what to do with it, and asking Miller to throw it in the Siene when he was done with it; instead Miller took it to Jack Kahane, the founder of Oberlisk Press in Paris and demanded Kahane publish it, which he did promptly after reading it. It is a great first work, if only because it is so over the top, so solipcistic and miserable, so uncontained...
November 16, 2022
"Yazmak zorundaysan, unutkanlığa yer yoktur, belleğe de. Süreklilik yalnızca şiirdeki zamana özgüdür."
Çok sevdiğim Lawrence Durrell'in 24 yaşındayken yayınlatmayı hiç düşünmeden yazdığı, tek kopyasını Henry Miller'a "okuyup düşünceni belirttikten sonra Seine Nehri'ne at" yazan bir notla gönderdiği ve Miller'ın önayak olmasıyla yayınlanan tuhaf kitabı Kara Defter'e dair karmaşık hisler içerisindeyim. (Bu arada kitabın adı "Black Book", 1995'te dilimizde ilk kez yayınlanırken Orhan Pamuk'un "Kara Kitap"ı ile karışmasın diye mi acaba "Kara Defter" diye çevrilmiş? Bunu da merak ettim.)
Neyse, Henry Miller'ın bu kitabın yayınlanmasında ısrarcı olmasına şaşmamalı, tam onluk bir kitap zira: olağanüstü cüretkar. Cinsellik her tür mahrem detayıyla her sayfada boy gösteriyor. Ben seksi, sevişmeyi, birleşmeyi iyi anlatan açık saçık metinler okumaya bayılırım (tabii gerçekten iyi yazılmışlarsa - bu noktada Carlos Fuentes'e bir selam verelim), Durrell'in Kara Defter'inde de yine çok iyi yazılmış bölümler olmakla beraber genel olarak fazlaca dağınık bir kitap olduğunu belirtmem lazım.
Bu kadar yetenekli insanların ilk kitaplarında bu olabiliyor: kendilerinde keşfettikleri yeteneğin heyecanıyla ne yapacaklarını bilemeyip zihinlerindeki her şeyi akıtmak ve kelimelerle çılgınca oynamak ihtiyacı duyabiliyorlar, sonra da sanki bir tür sarhoşluğa kapılıp dağılıyorlar. Bu çok iyi başlayan kitabına başına da belirli bir yerden sonra bu gelmiş sanki. Durrell'in fantezisi öyle göz kamaştırıcı ki, gerçeklik yok olmuş, hikayeden, karakterlerden, anlattığı şeyden kopmuş yazar, haliyle okur da takip edemez hale geliyor. Nitekim Durrell de bu kitap için "ün peşinde değildim, kendi sesimi duymak bana yetmişti" demiş yıllar sonra. Tam da bu olmuş gerçekten.
Yazarın ileride ustası olacağı atmosferik mekan tasvirleri ve insanın en derinine inme becerisinin nüvelerini görmek güzeldi ama nasıl diyeyim, kötü değil de "ham" ve yer yer "banal" bir kitap bu bence. Durrell'in kendi sesini duymasını sağladığı ve bir anlamda bu büyük yazarı doğurduğu için ona şefkatle yaklaşalım. Ama sevmek zorunda da olmayalım.
Çok sevdiğim Lawrence Durrell'in 24 yaşındayken yayınlatmayı hiç düşünmeden yazdığı, tek kopyasını Henry Miller'a "okuyup düşünceni belirttikten sonra Seine Nehri'ne at" yazan bir notla gönderdiği ve Miller'ın önayak olmasıyla yayınlanan tuhaf kitabı Kara Defter'e dair karmaşık hisler içerisindeyim. (Bu arada kitabın adı "Black Book", 1995'te dilimizde ilk kez yayınlanırken Orhan Pamuk'un "Kara Kitap"ı ile karışmasın diye mi acaba "Kara Defter" diye çevrilmiş? Bunu da merak ettim.)
Neyse, Henry Miller'ın bu kitabın yayınlanmasında ısrarcı olmasına şaşmamalı, tam onluk bir kitap zira: olağanüstü cüretkar. Cinsellik her tür mahrem detayıyla her sayfada boy gösteriyor. Ben seksi, sevişmeyi, birleşmeyi iyi anlatan açık saçık metinler okumaya bayılırım (tabii gerçekten iyi yazılmışlarsa - bu noktada Carlos Fuentes'e bir selam verelim), Durrell'in Kara Defter'inde de yine çok iyi yazılmış bölümler olmakla beraber genel olarak fazlaca dağınık bir kitap olduğunu belirtmem lazım.
Bu kadar yetenekli insanların ilk kitaplarında bu olabiliyor: kendilerinde keşfettikleri yeteneğin heyecanıyla ne yapacaklarını bilemeyip zihinlerindeki her şeyi akıtmak ve kelimelerle çılgınca oynamak ihtiyacı duyabiliyorlar, sonra da sanki bir tür sarhoşluğa kapılıp dağılıyorlar. Bu çok iyi başlayan kitabına başına da belirli bir yerden sonra bu gelmiş sanki. Durrell'in fantezisi öyle göz kamaştırıcı ki, gerçeklik yok olmuş, hikayeden, karakterlerden, anlattığı şeyden kopmuş yazar, haliyle okur da takip edemez hale geliyor. Nitekim Durrell de bu kitap için "ün peşinde değildim, kendi sesimi duymak bana yetmişti" demiş yıllar sonra. Tam da bu olmuş gerçekten.
Yazarın ileride ustası olacağı atmosferik mekan tasvirleri ve insanın en derinine inme becerisinin nüvelerini görmek güzeldi ama nasıl diyeyim, kötü değil de "ham" ve yer yer "banal" bir kitap bu bence. Durrell'in kendi sesini duymasını sağladığı ve bir anlamda bu büyük yazarı doğurduğu için ona şefkatle yaklaşalım. Ama sevmek zorunda da olmayalım.
March 16, 2016
Do you remember the first time you opened a thesaurus and, suddenly, you were desperate to start using all the words? Even if you didn't know what they meant, they were replacements for words you thought you knew and it made you sound more intelligent, at least in your own head? Welcome to The Black Book.
This book is the straw that breaks me from having to read any more books that I don't understand and couldn't care less about. I assume that when this was written all the talk about vaginas and thrusting was somehow new and inventive, but even that is lost among the complete "word salad" that Durrell imposes on his readers. There are entire paragraphs that are like inside jokes laden with random letters as if he wrote this while playing Scrabble. They're big words and they're probably great to use in a novel, but if they don't make any sense, then it doesn't make much difference.
So, why did I keep reading? Well, there are occasional moments of clarity which lead one to believe that it's getting better. It was tantamount to standing in the rain without an umbrella and finding the random break in the clouds. Trust me on this one...it's going to keep raining. By the time I figured out that the rain would never stop, I was really too far gone to give up on it completely. So I just kept hoping for the sunshine moments to appear.
Rated 1 star because I have to rate it something, but at best it's 1/2 a star.
This book is the straw that breaks me from having to read any more books that I don't understand and couldn't care less about. I assume that when this was written all the talk about vaginas and thrusting was somehow new and inventive, but even that is lost among the complete "word salad" that Durrell imposes on his readers. There are entire paragraphs that are like inside jokes laden with random letters as if he wrote this while playing Scrabble. They're big words and they're probably great to use in a novel, but if they don't make any sense, then it doesn't make much difference.
So, why did I keep reading? Well, there are occasional moments of clarity which lead one to believe that it's getting better. It was tantamount to standing in the rain without an umbrella and finding the random break in the clouds. Trust me on this one...it's going to keep raining. By the time I figured out that the rain would never stop, I was really too far gone to give up on it completely. So I just kept hoping for the sunshine moments to appear.
Rated 1 star because I have to rate it something, but at best it's 1/2 a star.
March 2, 2011
The Black Book was for me, the most exciting book I had ever read at the time. I carried it in my schoolbag, and would secretly show it to school mates. My compositions on 'What I did during my summer holidays' were liberally sprinkled with Durrellesque styles, lines and, where I could get away with it, acts. Highly recommended to callow youth and nostalgic men.
September 23, 2016
Essentially a 200-page-long ramble with not much happening and more-than-a-bit-confusing surrealist overtones. But, my God, Durrell's writing. It swirls and twirls and flutters about, dirty, beautiful, splendid, indecent. If this book were a woman, you'd be drooling sleepless nights over her, regardless of your sexual preference.
August 8, 2022
Πρώτη επαφή με Durell, δεν έχω διαβάσει το Αλεξανδρινό ακόμα, με το πρώτο του συγγραφικό έργο. Θέλει επιμονή και προσήλωση, είναι καθαρά λογοτεχνικό δημιούργημα με σχεδόν μηδαμινή πλοκή και τη συνειδησιακή ροή να κυριαρχεί.
May 22, 2022
Had to get one star for the vocab & Tarquin. But no more haha.
April 14, 2013
From my short bio of Durrell in British Writers Retrospective: Supplement III:
The Black Book: An Agon ... is the first instance in which Durrell used many of the techniques that would later allow him to investigate issues arising from his vision of the discontinuous self, most notably the layering of multiple narrative voices, and proves a growing fascination with many of the themes that would occupy him for the rest of his life.
An impressionist rather than strictly plot-based novel, The Black Book presents the chaotic reminiscence of a former schoolteacher and fledgling writer who has escaped moribund England for a small Greek island. Calling himself “Lawrence Lucifer”, he describes his past residence at the Regina Hotel, a London lodging house, and the people he knew there, particularly the girl he loved and to whom the story is in some parts addressed. Lucifer also quotes at length from the diaries of a former Regina resident, Herbert “Death” Gregory, whose relationship with a prostitute suffering from tuberculosis becomes a terrible obsession. While Lucifer has escaped by retreating to the Mediterranean and a more primitive but honest life, Gregory appears to have lived up to his chosen name, Death, and succumbed.
First appearing in an Obelisk Press edition in Paris in 1938, The Black Book would only be published in the US in 1960 and the UK in 1977, and was long the missing link in the public record of Durrell’s growth as an artist. Durrell had already brought out two minor novels, Pied Piper of Lovers and Panic Spring, the second under a pseudonym. It was while writing The Black Book, however, that he “first heard [his] real voice” (The Black Book, p. 14). It is certainly his first major accomplishment as a novelist, and probably a masterpiece in the original sense of the word: a demonstration that his apprenticeship was complete. Although it contains some derivative passages – mostly showing the influence of Miller – it also serves as an important template for his later work. Added to the model of his first two novels – autobiographical stories strongly influenced by location – were the strong, highly poetic prose style that would afterward mark his fiction, the large multi-national cast of characters, a vein of dark humor, and an insistence on explicit sexuality.
Durrell famously sent Henry Miller his only copy of the manuscript, and asked that after reading it, Miller throw it into the Seine. Miller instead praised the pages and returned them. When Faber and Faber suspected The Black Book would break UK indecency laws, and were unwilling to publish without substantial cuts, Miller arranged for the novel to be released in France by the fearless Jewish publisher (and sometimes pornographer) Jack Kahane, whose Villa Seurat series included the “indecent” work of both Miller and Nin. TS Eliot would write for The Black Book’s jacket that it was “the first piece of work by a new English writer to give me any hope for the future of prose fiction.” It seemed that Durrell’s talent had at last emerged – but only partly so: since it could not legally be sold in Britain, The Black Book would go mostly unnoticed there.
The Black Book: An Agon ... is the first instance in which Durrell used many of the techniques that would later allow him to investigate issues arising from his vision of the discontinuous self, most notably the layering of multiple narrative voices, and proves a growing fascination with many of the themes that would occupy him for the rest of his life.
An impressionist rather than strictly plot-based novel, The Black Book presents the chaotic reminiscence of a former schoolteacher and fledgling writer who has escaped moribund England for a small Greek island. Calling himself “Lawrence Lucifer”, he describes his past residence at the Regina Hotel, a London lodging house, and the people he knew there, particularly the girl he loved and to whom the story is in some parts addressed. Lucifer also quotes at length from the diaries of a former Regina resident, Herbert “Death” Gregory, whose relationship with a prostitute suffering from tuberculosis becomes a terrible obsession. While Lucifer has escaped by retreating to the Mediterranean and a more primitive but honest life, Gregory appears to have lived up to his chosen name, Death, and succumbed.
First appearing in an Obelisk Press edition in Paris in 1938, The Black Book would only be published in the US in 1960 and the UK in 1977, and was long the missing link in the public record of Durrell’s growth as an artist. Durrell had already brought out two minor novels, Pied Piper of Lovers and Panic Spring, the second under a pseudonym. It was while writing The Black Book, however, that he “first heard [his] real voice” (The Black Book, p. 14). It is certainly his first major accomplishment as a novelist, and probably a masterpiece in the original sense of the word: a demonstration that his apprenticeship was complete. Although it contains some derivative passages – mostly showing the influence of Miller – it also serves as an important template for his later work. Added to the model of his first two novels – autobiographical stories strongly influenced by location – were the strong, highly poetic prose style that would afterward mark his fiction, the large multi-national cast of characters, a vein of dark humor, and an insistence on explicit sexuality.
Durrell famously sent Henry Miller his only copy of the manuscript, and asked that after reading it, Miller throw it into the Seine. Miller instead praised the pages and returned them. When Faber and Faber suspected The Black Book would break UK indecency laws, and were unwilling to publish without substantial cuts, Miller arranged for the novel to be released in France by the fearless Jewish publisher (and sometimes pornographer) Jack Kahane, whose Villa Seurat series included the “indecent” work of both Miller and Nin. TS Eliot would write for The Black Book’s jacket that it was “the first piece of work by a new English writer to give me any hope for the future of prose fiction.” It seemed that Durrell’s talent had at last emerged – but only partly so: since it could not legally be sold in Britain, The Black Book would go mostly unnoticed there.
June 4, 2019
Few things can top the beauty I recall experiencing through the pages of Lawrence Durrell's Reflections on a Marine Venus. All his post-war Greek islands books have a fond place in my memory.
It was all the more disappointing, then, to read this long-winded and misanthropic garbage dump of a book. Durrell seems to have set out to make people angry, quite possibly in an effort to attract the praises of Henry Miller and T S Eliot. He succeeded in his quest so well that I am pretty sure few people exist today who could read this book without at some point being appalled. If you are elderly and conservative, you may be disgusted by the obscenity. If you are young or progressive, the narrator's descriptions of Miss Smith, beginning on page 126 of this edition, will probably make your head explode. (Content warning: misogyny and racism.)
The book alternates Lawrence "Lucifer" Durrell's long, rambling, Joycean stream-of-consciousness emesis with extracts from the diary of a character a generation older than the narrator, Herbert "Death" Gregory, who also spouts long, rambling, Joycean stream-of-consciousness tedium. Perhaps we are meant to think they are two facets of the same individual's consciousness, but I don't care enough to try to find out. Women, and the protagonists' treatment of them, are so hideous that the book ends up basically as propaganda for celibacy: women are disgusting and men who have sex behave like monsters, so...good luck with that.
On a plus side I actually had to look up two or three words to confirm if they meant what I thought they meant, which I haven't had to do with the books I've been reading the last few years. Also brought my attention to an Elizabethan poet with whom I was unfamiliar. Still not worth it to read this.
It was all the more disappointing, then, to read this long-winded and misanthropic garbage dump of a book. Durrell seems to have set out to make people angry, quite possibly in an effort to attract the praises of Henry Miller and T S Eliot. He succeeded in his quest so well that I am pretty sure few people exist today who could read this book without at some point being appalled. If you are elderly and conservative, you may be disgusted by the obscenity. If you are young or progressive, the narrator's descriptions of Miss Smith, beginning on page 126 of this edition, will probably make your head explode. (Content warning: misogyny and racism.)
The book alternates Lawrence "Lucifer" Durrell's long, rambling, Joycean stream-of-consciousness emesis with extracts from the diary of a character a generation older than the narrator, Herbert "Death" Gregory, who also spouts long, rambling, Joycean stream-of-consciousness tedium. Perhaps we are meant to think they are two facets of the same individual's consciousness, but I don't care enough to try to find out. Women, and the protagonists' treatment of them, are so hideous that the book ends up basically as propaganda for celibacy: women are disgusting and men who have sex behave like monsters, so...good luck with that.
On a plus side I actually had to look up two or three words to confirm if they meant what I thought they meant, which I haven't had to do with the books I've been reading the last few years. Also brought my attention to an Elizabethan poet with whom I was unfamiliar. Still not worth it to read this.
November 5, 2011
Reading this book was not enjoyable. A bit of historical fluff associated with its publication neatly sums up my problem with it:
Durrell worked for a year on the manuscript, then sent it to Henry Miller proclaiming his dissatisfaction with the final result. He asked Miller to read it, then chuck it in the Seine. (Of course Miller didn't, instead getting it published privately.)
Whatever. If a published novelist (Durrell had two under his belt by the time The Black Book came along) sent me his or her work claiming it was worthless, exhorting me to chuck it, I would. I don't need the draaaaaama... I mean, come on.
So, my problem with the book: it felt like it was written by somebody who would send it to his idol and ask him to chuck it. It felt like it was written to his idol, like his idol might write it himself.
It was hard to control all the autonomic eye-rolling as I read this book. It just kept happening.
Durrell worked for a year on the manuscript, then sent it to Henry Miller proclaiming his dissatisfaction with the final result. He asked Miller to read it, then chuck it in the Seine. (Of course Miller didn't, instead getting it published privately.)
Whatever. If a published novelist (Durrell had two under his belt by the time The Black Book came along) sent me his or her work claiming it was worthless, exhorting me to chuck it, I would. I don't need the draaaaaama... I mean, come on.
So, my problem with the book: it felt like it was written by somebody who would send it to his idol and ask him to chuck it. It felt like it was written to his idol, like his idol might write it himself.
It was hard to control all the autonomic eye-rolling as I read this book. It just kept happening.
April 27, 2017
Většina knihy se čte jako za sebe poskládáný statusy takový tý pipinky, kterou má každej na Facebooku mezi přáteli a která si myslí, že je reinkarnace Baudelaira s kozičkama a člověk čte ty její statusy ze sebemrskačatví. Ale 250 stran těchle výtoků je moc.
Ale jak by řek mladej Durrell: "Její ústa jsou jako popelníky plný vajglů odtažitosti." Bohužel je ale většina knihy jeden velkej popelník, se kterým jsem měl co dělat, abych ho dočetl. To, že to napsal Durrell ve 24 letech a pochválil mu to Henry Miller je sice fajn, ale moje babička taky říká, že dobře vařím. Ale já vím, že vařit neumím. Krom ohřejvání, to mi jde dobře i na pánvi.
Příběh party divných lidí ze čtyřicátých let žijících v britským hotelu zdánlivě dává vzpomenout na Tři truchlivý tygry, který vloni vyšly u Fra - zdánlivě znamená, že jsem to sem napsal, aby ta recenze nebyla moc krátká. Todle je totiž 3/10 a víc ani vajgl. Apropo Fra a hotelový pokoje - odpočivej v pokoji Frajto!!
Ale jak by řek mladej Durrell: "Její ústa jsou jako popelníky plný vajglů odtažitosti." Bohužel je ale většina knihy jeden velkej popelník, se kterým jsem měl co dělat, abych ho dočetl. To, že to napsal Durrell ve 24 letech a pochválil mu to Henry Miller je sice fajn, ale moje babička taky říká, že dobře vařím. Ale já vím, že vařit neumím. Krom ohřejvání, to mi jde dobře i na pánvi.
Příběh party divných lidí ze čtyřicátých let žijících v britským hotelu zdánlivě dává vzpomenout na Tři truchlivý tygry, který vloni vyšly u Fra - zdánlivě znamená, že jsem to sem napsal, aby ta recenze nebyla moc krátká. Todle je totiž 3/10 a víc ani vajgl. Apropo Fra a hotelový pokoje - odpočivej v pokoji Frajto!!
August 30, 2014
Cut-rate Henry Miller, which I think even the author realized (he wanted Miller to burn the book after reading). I have to admit, Durrell is a very poetic writer (he used many words that couldn't be found in the dictionary with my Kindle), but stories of la vie boheme -- prostitutes included -- don't appeal to me at this point in my life. For the young.
July 30, 2022
Best described as the indulgent and mostly incoherent ramblings of a narcissistic pre-adolescent (even though Durrell was actually an adult when he wrote it!). To be fair, Durrell did tell Henry Miller to throw it in the Seine when he had read it, so really we should blame Miller rather than Durrell for this waste of good reading time.
June 17, 2017
Beautiful prose, if you like reading about someone's wetdreams.
Read
June 29, 2020Philip Toynbee called this novel “a wild, passionate, brilliantly gaudy and flamboyant extravaganza.” He described it as “richly obscene, energetically morbid . . . self-pitying.” He praised it as a young man’s book which, no matter its weaknesses, was “inventive as no other young man’s novel of the period [c.1937] was even attempting to be.” I agree with everything Toynbee said—except for calling these things strengths!
Anthony Powell’s novelist character, X. Trapnel, is holding forth (in Hearing Secret Harmonies (ch. 3) about distinguishing the novel from the novelist. His example is Joyce’s Ulysses. Trapnel says: “You mention Molly Bloom. She offers an example of what I am saying. Obviously, her sexual musings—and her husband’s—derive from the author, to the extent that he invented them. Such descriptions would have been a thousand times less convincing if attributed to Stephen Daedalus—let alone to Joyce himself. Their strength lies in existence within the imaginary personalities of the Blooms. That such traits are much diminished, when given to a hero, is even to some extent exemplified in Ulysses. It may be acceptable to read of Bloom tossing off. A blow by blow account of the author doing so is hardly conceivable as interesting.”
In The Black Book, I think we have a very thinly-disguised blow by blow account of the author engaged in mental masturbation.
It is a misogynist, racist, penis-proud novel, constantly self-pitying, and delivered in a swollen, glans-coloured purple prose. Just one or two specific complaints, because I could be at it forever:
“My penis swells, turns purple, and my brain drops out of it.” — Yes, it often seems so.
“I flatter myself I can play the social astrologer as well as anyone—shall I say Proust?” — I tend to find Proust annoying when he gets in this mode as well.
“(I am obsessed by the imaginary triviality of all this. Is this just another tic born of diffidence? Am I concerned, here, privately, standing on my own soul’s ground, with the creation of literature?)”. — This time, the implied comparison to the previous generation lies in Oscar Wilde, the memory of whose De Profundis is said to underpin the narrator’s sense of being “a little weary and disgusted with the way I prey upon myself.”
And, almost at the end: “ I thought I understood. But beginning this act with paper I can only say for certain that I am not responsible. It is transcription purely.” — Nice ‘out.’
I have read about 10 of Durrell’s books. I am thankful that this one wasn’t the first, otherwise there would never have been a second, let alone a tenth. I am aware that some of the greatest minds in 20th-century literary criticism have called this book a masterpiece. If it works for anyone else, great! It doesn’t work for me.
Anthony Powell’s novelist character, X. Trapnel, is holding forth (in Hearing Secret Harmonies (ch. 3) about distinguishing the novel from the novelist. His example is Joyce’s Ulysses. Trapnel says: “You mention Molly Bloom. She offers an example of what I am saying. Obviously, her sexual musings—and her husband’s—derive from the author, to the extent that he invented them. Such descriptions would have been a thousand times less convincing if attributed to Stephen Daedalus—let alone to Joyce himself. Their strength lies in existence within the imaginary personalities of the Blooms. That such traits are much diminished, when given to a hero, is even to some extent exemplified in Ulysses. It may be acceptable to read of Bloom tossing off. A blow by blow account of the author doing so is hardly conceivable as interesting.”
In The Black Book, I think we have a very thinly-disguised blow by blow account of the author engaged in mental masturbation.
It is a misogynist, racist, penis-proud novel, constantly self-pitying, and delivered in a swollen, glans-coloured purple prose. Just one or two specific complaints, because I could be at it forever:
“My penis swells, turns purple, and my brain drops out of it.” — Yes, it often seems so.
“I flatter myself I can play the social astrologer as well as anyone—shall I say Proust?” — I tend to find Proust annoying when he gets in this mode as well.
“(I am obsessed by the imaginary triviality of all this. Is this just another tic born of diffidence? Am I concerned, here, privately, standing on my own soul’s ground, with the creation of literature?)”. — This time, the implied comparison to the previous generation lies in Oscar Wilde, the memory of whose De Profundis is said to underpin the narrator’s sense of being “a little weary and disgusted with the way I prey upon myself.”
And, almost at the end: “ I thought I understood. But beginning this act with paper I can only say for certain that I am not responsible. It is transcription purely.” — Nice ‘out.’
I have read about 10 of Durrell’s books. I am thankful that this one wasn’t the first, otherwise there would never have been a second, let alone a tenth. I am aware that some of the greatest minds in 20th-century literary criticism have called this book a masterpiece. If it works for anyone else, great! It doesn’t work for me.
August 4, 2012
Ahh, The Black Book. "Shall we write of her in the gnomic aorist?" (p.23) Yes, let's—wait, what? This is a challenging novel, not least because of its casual wielding of an incredibly broad vocabulary. Fortunately, it's easy enough to look words up these days. I knew "gnomic" already—it means "enigmatic" or, in this case, "ambiguous"—but "aorist" totally threw me. Google says it's "(esp. in Greek) An unqualified past tense of a verb without reference to duration or completion of the action." Which makes sense, in context... our narrator is writing about Grace, his tubercular Cockney lover, who appears to have expired, although she is still very much alive in his memory.
It is not for its plot, though, that one should read this book. The skeleton of events which may or may not have occurred to its protagonist, who may be either Lawrence Lucifer or Herbert Gregory (who styles himself "Death Gregory," forsooth), or both, isn't the point.
Nor should the novel be read primarily for its transgressive sexuality (transgressive for the time, anyway—though written and originally printed in the 1930s, this novel did not see publication in its home country until 1973, decades after its original release in Paris and ten years after the U.S. paperback edition read and reviewed here). Even for an era when erotic fan fiction is a featured best-seller at Target, some of Durrell's talk is pretty raw, but it's explicit, not pornographic—or, at least, pity anyone man or woman who reads these loveless, conflicted, albeit mechanically- and metaphorically-inventive couplings for anything like simple erotic pleasure.
It is for the language that one should read this book. The text is not for skimming. Nearly every sentence is rich to the point of overripeness, crumbling apart like a moist cake of earth in which we are invited to bury our faces and snuffle, like hogs of literature sniffing out treasures. For example:
Or, from later on the same page: "The Gadarene descent is so violent that most of us are still unaware that we are moving, so rapt is the illusion of stillness." Durrell compares us—both himself and his readers—to the Legion of demons cast into swine by Jesus in the New Testament tale (Mark 5:1-20). Born at our expulsion from the (wo)man possessed and destined to die by drowning in the Sea of Galilee, our ignorant lives are but a snapshot taken in the midst of falling.
Or even just this short, sharp sentence: "The gas fire is playing its mute jazz." (p.5) I know exactly what that sounds like, having heard that particular music many times in a winter room myself—though I wonder what younger folks, victims of our more efficient civilization, are to make of such metaphors.
The Black Book is a fascinating and prescient novel. In its transgressive nature and, specifically, through its love of the automobile (and Durrell's repeated eroticised use of the car as metaphor), it reminds me of J.G. Ballard, though this book anticipates Ballard's Crash by more than thirty years. The language is unfailingly florid and evocative... each sentence to be savored and unpacked slowly, rather than driven by at high speed. Even if speed is what Death Gregory would prefer.
It is a difficult book to read, though, and not just for its vocabulary. I am aware that I was raised within a fishbowl of white male privilege, separated from most of the vast ocean of the varieties of human experience. Durrell, too, writes from such a confined perspective, but (in Book Two, especially) he does not seem able even to see the glass. His wide-eyed descriptions of "the Jew" and "the negress" sound colonial and condescending today, even where—perhaps especially where—they are admiring, and would be more of a barrier to publication now than the sexual elements that led to its original suppression for decades.
He may have seen more clearly later. Neither Gerald Sykes (who?) nor Lawrence Durrell himself seems especially proud of this first major novel, in retrospect. They both make excuses, in their respective Introduction and Prologue, for the age and enthusiasms of its then-young author.
And in truth The Black Book is callow, overblown, the back of the hand pressed to the forehead time and time again. The opening alone comes perilously close to succumbing to the pathetic fallacy—the bad weather in London makes young Lawrence feel bad—as does, to be fair, the good weather later: "I am entombed in the asphalt city, watching the summer as if from behind bars." (p.99) Its impassioned sweeps from ecstasy to gloom (or, rather, from gloom in ecstasy to deeper gloom without) often come across as mere melodrama, and dozens of pages, thousands of words, dwell on how words put on paper are hopelessly inadequate. It seems Durrell, or Gregory, or both, can never be satisfied. But...
It is not for its plot, though, that one should read this book. The skeleton of events which may or may not have occurred to its protagonist, who may be either Lawrence Lucifer or Herbert Gregory (who styles himself "Death Gregory," forsooth), or both, isn't the point.
Nor should the novel be read primarily for its transgressive sexuality (transgressive for the time, anyway—though written and originally printed in the 1930s, this novel did not see publication in its home country until 1973, decades after its original release in Paris and ten years after the U.S. paperback edition read and reviewed here). Even for an era when erotic fan fiction is a featured best-seller at Target, some of Durrell's talk is pretty raw, but it's explicit, not pornographic—or, at least, pity anyone man or woman who reads these loveless, conflicted, albeit mechanically- and metaphorically-inventive couplings for anything like simple erotic pleasure.
It is for the language that one should read this book. The text is not for skimming. Nearly every sentence is rich to the point of overripeness, crumbling apart like a moist cake of earth in which we are invited to bury our faces and snuffle, like hogs of literature sniffing out treasures. For example:
Across the fatal pantheon of the panic world, so irrationally mourned—not for its own sake, but because we have no pantheon of our own—slides the figure of Mickey Mouse, top-hatted maniac with the rubber pelvis, as blithe as the gonococcus in the veins of Dives."Mickey Mouse was less than a decade old when Durrell was writing The Black Book—but already he could envision Disney's popular character as a world-straddling demigod and a diseased commercial symbol. From the clever bringing-together of "pantheon" (all gods) with the etymologically-unrelated "panic" (from the god Pan) to the mourning at the advent of monotheism, to the final phrase (Dives was—and, yes, I had to look him up—a Roman underworld god [or ironic Ciceronian reference to a god] of wealth, also known as Dis), just this one sentence contains a wealth of images and allusions that would take almost any other writer whole paragraphs to evoke.
—p.140
Or, from later on the same page: "The Gadarene descent is so violent that most of us are still unaware that we are moving, so rapt is the illusion of stillness." Durrell compares us—both himself and his readers—to the Legion of demons cast into swine by Jesus in the New Testament tale (Mark 5:1-20). Born at our expulsion from the (wo)man possessed and destined to die by drowning in the Sea of Galilee, our ignorant lives are but a snapshot taken in the midst of falling.
Or even just this short, sharp sentence: "The gas fire is playing its mute jazz." (p.5) I know exactly what that sounds like, having heard that particular music many times in a winter room myself—though I wonder what younger folks, victims of our more efficient civilization, are to make of such metaphors.
At night I fuel the car and set off on immense journeys of discovery, plotting my path across the icefields, the land of polarized light where everything is lunacy and lanterns, and the Ganges of the spirit slows between the banks of black sand.
—p.208
The Black Book is a fascinating and prescient novel. In its transgressive nature and, specifically, through its love of the automobile (and Durrell's repeated eroticised use of the car as metaphor), it reminds me of J.G. Ballard, though this book anticipates Ballard's Crash by more than thirty years. The language is unfailingly florid and evocative... each sentence to be savored and unpacked slowly, rather than driven by at high speed. Even if speed is what Death Gregory would prefer.
It is a difficult book to read, though, and not just for its vocabulary. I am aware that I was raised within a fishbowl of white male privilege, separated from most of the vast ocean of the varieties of human experience. Durrell, too, writes from such a confined perspective, but (in Book Two, especially) he does not seem able even to see the glass. His wide-eyed descriptions of "the Jew" and "the negress" sound colonial and condescending today, even where—perhaps especially where—they are admiring, and would be more of a barrier to publication now than the sexual elements that led to its original suppression for decades.
He may have seen more clearly later. Neither Gerald Sykes (who?) nor Lawrence Durrell himself seems especially proud of this first major novel, in retrospect. They both make excuses, in their respective Introduction and Prologue, for the age and enthusiasms of its then-young author.
And in truth The Black Book is callow, overblown, the back of the hand pressed to the forehead time and time again. The opening alone comes perilously close to succumbing to the pathetic fallacy—the bad weather in London makes young Lawrence feel bad—as does, to be fair, the good weather later: "I am entombed in the asphalt city, watching the summer as if from behind bars." (p.99) Its impassioned sweeps from ecstasy to gloom (or, rather, from gloom in ecstasy to deeper gloom without) often come across as mere melodrama, and dozens of pages, thousands of words, dwell on how words put on paper are hopelessly inadequate. It seems Durrell, or Gregory, or both, can never be satisfied. But...
[...]in order to write one must first be convinced that every book ever written was made for one to borrow from. The art is in paying back these loans with interest. And this is harder than it sounds.To a great extent, and despite its flaws, The Black Book succeeds at this difficult act of restitution.
—p.101
September 11, 2023
Initially published in Paris in 1938, when Lawrence Durrell was only twenty six, “The Black Book” was banned in Great Britain for nearly four decades until 1973 due to its ‘obscenity’. Understandably, this immediately piqued my interest, but I was left a little disappointed on this front as its debauchery doesn’t really go beyond explicit references to sex, homosexuality and swearing - all pretty tame by todays standards.
It follows Gregory, who upon disappearing, leaves behind his diaries in a seedy London hotel. Discovered and read by Lawrence Lucifer, they describe the exploits of a clique of intellectuals living a life of squalid debauchery: struggling writers and artists consumed by loves, lusts, and a quest for innovation. But as they satisfy violent appetites of the flesh - and mind - their descent into darkness accelerates.
I found this book hard to get through at parts. Written in a dreamlike, almost nonsensical, stream of consciousness, it reflects the narrator’s state of mind, but made it hard for me to follow. Though this dense text has the occasional description that I liked and I can understand it’s historical significance, it was not a book I can honestly say I enjoyed reading.
It follows Gregory, who upon disappearing, leaves behind his diaries in a seedy London hotel. Discovered and read by Lawrence Lucifer, they describe the exploits of a clique of intellectuals living a life of squalid debauchery: struggling writers and artists consumed by loves, lusts, and a quest for innovation. But as they satisfy violent appetites of the flesh - and mind - their descent into darkness accelerates.
I found this book hard to get through at parts. Written in a dreamlike, almost nonsensical, stream of consciousness, it reflects the narrator’s state of mind, but made it hard for me to follow. Though this dense text has the occasional description that I liked and I can understand it’s historical significance, it was not a book I can honestly say I enjoyed reading.
January 14, 2024
An original early work by Lawrence Durrell. There are many beautifully written, thought provoking sentences. We are introduced to a number of characters living in a London hotel in the 1930s. A homosexual, a Peruvian lecher, a D. H Lawrencian, a gigolo, prostitutes, the narrator and the writer of a diary left behind in the narrator’s room. The issues of this book include sex, love, hate, death, solitariness, and the decay of English culture.
There is little plot. A book mainly for Lawrence Durrell completists.
This book was first published in 1938.
There is little plot. A book mainly for Lawrence Durrell completists.
This book was first published in 1938.
July 30, 2023
3.5 ⭐️ raw and beautiful and sick and pretty and disgusting, but loses its way towards the end
July 18, 2021
I was truly looking forward in delighting in Durrell's early wordy writing... Alas, how that delight turned halfway through into "kid in a candy shop" nausea! The impressively sustained surrealism of the prose, though extravagantly exceptional, became excessive and overwhelming. It soon felt like I was reading a Durrell-esque FINNIGAN'S WAKE! I found myself most of the time simply reading on zombiefied auto-pilot or cluelessly immersed in the bewitchment of the text and imagery. There were, of course, snatches of passages which rewarded my endurance and were reread with admiration and pleasure. But the overall reading experience didn't hold up to my expectations, and I ended up merely finishing it to finish it (with relieved faint-headedness). I hope JUSTINE will redeem Durrell for me.
September 21, 2024
I agree with others that this book was rambling. I checked it out of the library and actually it was an interesting- library loan because it was on the list of banded books. Well, I’m not for banning books but really this book is not very good to read so I would put it in the trash.
January 23, 2015
Let me begin by saying that this is an important book for those interested in understanding the mind of Lawrence Durrell. The first novel published under his own name, The Black Book (published in France in 1938) is the work wherein Durrell found his voice as a writer. He wrote it over a period of about sixteen months when he was twenty-four and living on the island of Corfu. In some ways a love letter to his friend and mentor, Henry Miller, it is also a hate letter to England and a general rant of an angry young man. Durrell was first a poet and had published his first volume of poetry in 1931, five years before writing The Black Book. It is, therefore no surprise to find many passages in the book of great poetic beauty. His vocabulary is rich, and his command of the language extraordinary for such a young writer. He creates unique characters, plays with point of view, and experiments with surrealism. The narrative voice(s) are complex, ambiguous, and intriguing. At times funny, the work's main mood varies between suicidally depressing and embarrassingly pathetic. Sexual references (no doubt shocking for the time) are neither erotic nor pornographic but rather sophomoric and ridiculous. Those "shocking" elements that delayed its publication in the United States until 1960 and in Britain until 1973 would hardly raise an eyebrow in either country today. What would raise eyebrows and perhaps even drop jaws today is the non-PC language that stereotypes Jews, Africans, and Latin Americans, not to mention the misogynistic comments throughout. Durrell sent the only copy of the manuscript to Henry Miller in Paris with the instruction to read the book and then throw it in the Seine. Miller had it published instead. The mature Durrell recognized the book's flaws but valued it as his first work as a serious writer of fiction. I suspect that the younger Durrell also questioned its quality and that his instruction to Miller wasn't entirely hyperbole. While The Black Book provides important and interesting insights into the developing style and talent that would result in one of the most important works of the twentieth century (The Alexandria Quartet), it is not a good choice for anyone not already interested in Lawrence Durrell. Best read on a beach in Corfu in high summer, it should be avoided in English winters and by those who struggle with depression.
May 13, 2008
I found Lawrence's prose to be utterly immersing, initially I only got so far into it and then had to start again as so dense is the painted word used by Lawrence that I found myself losing track, or smudged in. However the second attempt from scratch was continuous and I gave up noting words down to look up in the dictionary as Lawrence tends to fill entire sentences with wonderful words for the job that although not knowing half the meanings, I got the picture.
The story is wonderfully crass, filled with anti-erotica, kind of like if Tom Sharpe was to have written À rebours. The characters, especially Tarquin are sublime, although Gregory Death came and went losing me a bit, I never quite knew where Gregory Death stood in relation to Lawrence Lucifer - the rest were fine such as Lobo, Gracie, Clare, and Perez, but because Gregory and Lawrence were the only characters to speak in the first person I stumbled along their relationship to each other.
It is said that Lawrence felt this book to be the first time he "found his voice" and at 24 you can only imagine what that must have felt like, but Lawrence himself felt the book to be somewhat "green", I can understand that, some of the symbolic metaphors and references to obvious external influences in literature and culture were clearly the same as any artist has when cutting his teeth in the world of expression and self.
All in all, I will read this book again, no doubts about it. I have Lawrence's novel "Bitter Lemons" to look forward to but I don't think I'll read "The Alexandria Quartet", I certainly have an interest in reading Lawrence's brother's book "My family and other animals" which is the same account of one of Lawrence's novels, I forget the name of right now.
The story is wonderfully crass, filled with anti-erotica, kind of like if Tom Sharpe was to have written À rebours. The characters, especially Tarquin are sublime, although Gregory Death came and went losing me a bit, I never quite knew where Gregory Death stood in relation to Lawrence Lucifer - the rest were fine such as Lobo, Gracie, Clare, and Perez, but because Gregory and Lawrence were the only characters to speak in the first person I stumbled along their relationship to each other.
It is said that Lawrence felt this book to be the first time he "found his voice" and at 24 you can only imagine what that must have felt like, but Lawrence himself felt the book to be somewhat "green", I can understand that, some of the symbolic metaphors and references to obvious external influences in literature and culture were clearly the same as any artist has when cutting his teeth in the world of expression and self.
All in all, I will read this book again, no doubts about it. I have Lawrence's novel "Bitter Lemons" to look forward to but I don't think I'll read "The Alexandria Quartet", I certainly have an interest in reading Lawrence's brother's book "My family and other animals" which is the same account of one of Lawrence's novels, I forget the name of right now.
April 11, 2013
3.5~4 stars.
Something of what you would expect from a young tormented Durrell. The prose is almost embarrassingly purple. Sometimes a violent violet, other times a subdued mauve. It is existential Freudian coming of age prose. It is brooding, angst-ridden prose. Prose that comes from loving Lawrence and Miller. And Baudelaire.
"These abstractions crossing and recrossing the drunken mind; and we on a planet, buzzing in space across the alphabetical stars: the creak of the earth curling away into the night like a quoit, like the creak of cable and spar on a ship; and only this mushy carpet on which to dread out our footsteps towards the final wedding with loneliness.
Does the endless iteration of loneliness tire you? It is the one constant in our lives. Even when the night now is spotted with shadows whose dapple seems to present a graph of this emotion. Oh, behind it, I know--somehow behind it in a dimension which I cannot fathom, life still tumbles across the scenes smelling of pageantry, heroic, wet white, blue goitres, clowns, sopranos, fire-eaters. . .But we shall never reach it."
Ho hum.
Something of what you would expect from a young tormented Durrell. The prose is almost embarrassingly purple. Sometimes a violent violet, other times a subdued mauve. It is existential Freudian coming of age prose. It is brooding, angst-ridden prose. Prose that comes from loving Lawrence and Miller. And Baudelaire.
"These abstractions crossing and recrossing the drunken mind; and we on a planet, buzzing in space across the alphabetical stars: the creak of the earth curling away into the night like a quoit, like the creak of cable and spar on a ship; and only this mushy carpet on which to dread out our footsteps towards the final wedding with loneliness.
Does the endless iteration of loneliness tire you? It is the one constant in our lives. Even when the night now is spotted with shadows whose dapple seems to present a graph of this emotion. Oh, behind it, I know--somehow behind it in a dimension which I cannot fathom, life still tumbles across the scenes smelling of pageantry, heroic, wet white, blue goitres, clowns, sopranos, fire-eaters. . .But we shall never reach it."
Ho hum.
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