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3.54 AVERAGE
3.54 AVERAGE
Fuck you to this book. I had to read it for a university course and I hate it. SO MUCH.
What a crazy book. So weird. And I loved the bejewelled, dead tortoise.
This is one of the most interesting a breathtakingly beautiful books ever scribed with a pen. To be honest, it’s not a novel, it’s a series of reflections by a character that exists within its own universe entirely; with his own thoughts that only exist within his world, and a taste in the arts that can only exist within this novel. What excites me most about this book is the lucid and magnificent imagery he sets forth when ascribing his own literary criticism to the likes of Balzac, Flaubert, Baudelaire, etc... Des Esseintes has no time for the contents of a book anymore, only the psychology; the mind of the poet or scholar he reads. What he wants is to reach into the depths of the writers thoughts and extract the essence of the character that wrote the work that lay before him. And that is what makes this book so difficult to uncover, so indescribably intelligent and full of life, and yet so effortlessly able to evoke lifelessness. We are not reading a book about the story of a character, but a book about the musings of a character; only then is there a story or a semblance of forward. This book is a labyrinth where the exit leads to the entrance, there is no budge, no pull or conflict; only art and conscience.
This book does not make you love reading; it makes you resent it, but that is all the more better for the spiteful reader.
This book does not make you love reading; it makes you resent it, but that is all the more better for the spiteful reader.
"Yet in literature and art, his opinions had started in the first instance from a simple enough point of view. For him, there were no such things as schools; only the writer's individual temperament mattered, only the working of the creator's brain interested him, whatever the subject treated of. Unfortunately, this true criterion of appreciation, worthy of La Palisse, was as good as useless. For the simple reason that while desiring to be rid of prejudice, to refrain from all passion, every man goes for choice to those works which correspond most intimately with his own temperament, and he ends by relegating all the rest to the background."
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Jean Des Esseintes is neither an aesthete nor a degenerate. He cares not for all the flowers and perfumes. He cares not for all the brothels and drugs. What Des Esseintes fundamentally yearns for is experience. Not some abstract idea of it, the highest peak, an orgasm. Not some mediocre or ordinary experience that every person could occasionally undergo. No, no! It is significantly more agonizing. Des Esseintes is in search of the ultimate cure for ennui. I know, I know, because I am in search of the same. I have found books and writing, but I have also found perversion of the pure and innocent to be just as fun. I am secure, that is, for now. Maybe one day, I will be so thoroughly possessed by Des Esseintes' spirit that this work will read as nothing short of my own autobiography. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I have found that ultimate cure for my ennui, whereas Des Esseintes was unsuccessful in finding one for his own. Yes, indeed, whichever it may be, the single thing persists. This work embraced my vanity with the same vigor I embraced Des Esseintes' alienation.
And to honor the boastfulness of my own depravity, I will leave you with this:
‘The truth is that I’m simply trying to make a murderer of the boy. See if you can follow my line of argument. The lad’s a virgin and he’s reached the age where the blood starts coming to the boil. He could, of course, just run after the little girls of his neighbourhood, stay decent and still have his bit of fun, enjoy his little share of the tedious happiness open to the poor. But by bringing him here, by plunging him into luxury such as he’s never known and will never forget, and by giving him the same treat every fortnight, I hope to get him into the habit of these pleasures which he can’t afford. Assuming that it will take three months for them to become absolutely indispensable to him – and by spacing them out as I do, I avoid the risk of jading his appetite – well, at the end of those three months, I stop the little allowance I’m going to pay you in advance for being nice to the boy. And to get the money to pay for his visits here, he’ll turn burglar, he’ll do anything if it helps him on to one of your divans in one of your gaslit rooms.
Looking on the bright side of things, I hope that, one fine day, he’ll kill the gentleman who turns up unexpectedly just as he’s breaking open his desk. On that day my object will be achieved: I shall have contributed, to the best of my ability, to the making of a scoundrel, one enemy the more for the hideous society which is bleeding us white.’
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Jean Des Esseintes is neither an aesthete nor a degenerate. He cares not for all the flowers and perfumes. He cares not for all the brothels and drugs. What Des Esseintes fundamentally yearns for is experience. Not some abstract idea of it, the highest peak, an orgasm. Not some mediocre or ordinary experience that every person could occasionally undergo. No, no! It is significantly more agonizing. Des Esseintes is in search of the ultimate cure for ennui. I know, I know, because I am in search of the same. I have found books and writing, but I have also found perversion of the pure and innocent to be just as fun. I am secure, that is, for now. Maybe one day, I will be so thoroughly possessed by Des Esseintes' spirit that this work will read as nothing short of my own autobiography. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I have found that ultimate cure for my ennui, whereas Des Esseintes was unsuccessful in finding one for his own. Yes, indeed, whichever it may be, the single thing persists. This work embraced my vanity with the same vigor I embraced Des Esseintes' alienation.
And to honor the boastfulness of my own depravity, I will leave you with this:
‘The truth is that I’m simply trying to make a murderer of the boy. See if you can follow my line of argument. The lad’s a virgin and he’s reached the age where the blood starts coming to the boil. He could, of course, just run after the little girls of his neighbourhood, stay decent and still have his bit of fun, enjoy his little share of the tedious happiness open to the poor. But by bringing him here, by plunging him into luxury such as he’s never known and will never forget, and by giving him the same treat every fortnight, I hope to get him into the habit of these pleasures which he can’t afford. Assuming that it will take three months for them to become absolutely indispensable to him – and by spacing them out as I do, I avoid the risk of jading his appetite – well, at the end of those three months, I stop the little allowance I’m going to pay you in advance for being nice to the boy. And to get the money to pay for his visits here, he’ll turn burglar, he’ll do anything if it helps him on to one of your divans in one of your gaslit rooms.
Looking on the bright side of things, I hope that, one fine day, he’ll kill the gentleman who turns up unexpectedly just as he’s breaking open his desk. On that day my object will be achieved: I shall have contributed, to the best of my ability, to the making of a scoundrel, one enemy the more for the hideous society which is bleeding us white.’
I was introduced to Husymans through Houellebecq's Submission whose principal character had written a book on Huysmans. Despite being a nonbeliever, I find myself still irresistibly drawn to the words of those whose lives were characterized by religious austerity, additionally finding myself perhaps more sympathetic to the scriptures and those whose faith remains firm in them over those who reject religion, those so prideful of their so-called reason that they reject centuries of rich mythology out of hand. -
But I digress. Huysman's Against Nature (or Against the Grain as its commonly known) is less about religious austerity (unfortunately, for my peculiar taste) and much more about a wealthy bourgeois man who turns his back on society and retreats into his own private aesthetic world after taking refuge from the world in the countryside. -
Much of the book are Huysman's own views on ancient Greek and Roman writers, as well as certain then-contemporary writers (Zola, depsite Huysmans' disinterest in naturalism owing to his own place within so-called decadent literature, gets an honorable mention). -
The setting of the novel might seem idyllic to those such as myself who are highly avoidant and find far greater pleasure in their solitary pursuits than what is offered by social pleasantry, yet the main characters' decadent habits and lack of regard for his health leads to the development of an illness whose possible cure might seem on one hand a fate worse than death; a return to the society he despises.
But I digress. Huysman's Against Nature (or Against the Grain as its commonly known) is less about religious austerity (unfortunately, for my peculiar taste) and much more about a wealthy bourgeois man who turns his back on society and retreats into his own private aesthetic world after taking refuge from the world in the countryside. -
Much of the book are Huysman's own views on ancient Greek and Roman writers, as well as certain then-contemporary writers (Zola, depsite Huysmans' disinterest in naturalism owing to his own place within so-called decadent literature, gets an honorable mention). -
The setting of the novel might seem idyllic to those such as myself who are highly avoidant and find far greater pleasure in their solitary pursuits than what is offered by social pleasantry, yet the main characters' decadent habits and lack of regard for his health leads to the development of an illness whose possible cure might seem on one hand a fate worse than death; a return to the society he despises.
challenging
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I'm pretty sure that if Huysmans grocery list was published I would not only read it but love it.
In this book, the main character who is also the narrator is despisable and still I adored this read. The writer's writing enthralls me as well as his knowledge and brilliant references.
This is my second Huysmans book and on both occasion I learned so much about art, history and even gained some vocabulary along the way.
His writing is so thorough and profound, I think there must be many levels on which to understand this story and I don't think I grasped them all, but this is one more reason to return to it eventually.
Fantastic !
In this book, the main character who is also the narrator is despisable and still I adored this read. The writer's writing enthralls me as well as his knowledge and brilliant references.
This is my second Huysmans book and on both occasion I learned so much about art, history and even gained some vocabulary along the way.
His writing is so thorough and profound, I think there must be many levels on which to understand this story and I don't think I grasped them all, but this is one more reason to return to it eventually.
Fantastic !
challenging
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
ok, so i thought this book was crap when i read it. it isn't an enjoyable read. but, in the ensuing years i've found it useful for understanding certain people more (frighteningly: myself). i think of it fondly now and don't regret having read it a bit. plus, some of the imagery is indelible.
This book reads like a series of lengthy Yelp reviews written by a neurotic and eccentric dandy. Discontent with the modern world, des Esseintes chooses to isolate himself in a chateau were he indulges in all his odd predilections. Listen, I get it, people are the worst. But just because you read Edgar Allen Poe “before he was cool” doesn’t make you unique or interesting. A torture to read and truly a struggle to finish. Sorry, this ones beyond me.