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3.54 AVERAGE
3.54 AVERAGE
“solitude had affected his brain like an opiate, it had brought on a lethargy haunted by vague reveries; it annihilated his plans and nullified his desires, marshalling a parade of dreams to which he submitted passively, not even attempting to escape from them.”
One of those books I reread at least once a year.
Warning: it's odd. But it's a charming and very usefully odd.
Damn, I thought with a character this iconic it would be fine this book didn’t have a plot. But then I was 30 pages deep into the third rant about French literature and I was struggling. Bro you can’t make a book only of tangents!
Turning naturalism on its head, Huysmans used some of its techniques to depict dandy, misanthrope, and anti-hero Des Esseintes.
There isn't so much a plot as simply the progression of Des Esseintes's neurosis: tired of people and materialism and aspiring to higher ideals, he takes refuge in artifice and shuts himself up in his mansion in the suburbs of Paris. As his illness progresses, we find out about his tastes in decoration, colours, gems, in contemporary and Latin literature, in paintings etc.
Huysmans's style is rich, potentially bordering on precious with many rare words, but actually quite beautiful. I cannot vouch for any translation as I've read the book in French.
While Huysmans can put Des Esseintes's apirations in a sympathetic light, he clearly does not place him as a role model either, and some parts are actually very funny: the tortoise, the "orgue-a-bouche", and the "trip" to London in particular.
On the other hand, Huysmans highlighted a lot of artists he himself liked - as evidenced by the preface he wrote 20 years later. A Rebours made me discover a number of painters and authors - especially as I first read it when I was 18 or so. Some of these descriptive parts can be a little difficult to read when you don't have an interest in the particular topic at hand, let's say French Catholic literature, but I wouldn't even recommend skipping that chapter as it concludes with Barbey D'Aurevilly.
The descriptions of Moreau's Salome and L'Apparition are a thing of beauty - they even transcend the paintings in my opinion (but then, I think I'm more receptive to language than to visuals).
This is really a must-read classic - it's unlike any other novel, and it had a huge influence on many other artists.
There isn't so much a plot as simply the progression of Des Esseintes's neurosis: tired of people and materialism and aspiring to higher ideals, he takes refuge in artifice and shuts himself up in his mansion in the suburbs of Paris. As his illness progresses, we find out about his tastes in decoration, colours, gems, in contemporary and Latin literature, in paintings etc.
Huysmans's style is rich, potentially bordering on precious with many rare words, but actually quite beautiful. I cannot vouch for any translation as I've read the book in French.
While Huysmans can put Des Esseintes's apirations in a sympathetic light, he clearly does not place him as a role model either, and some parts are actually very funny: the tortoise, the "orgue-a-bouche", and the "trip" to London in particular.
On the other hand, Huysmans highlighted a lot of artists he himself liked - as evidenced by the preface he wrote 20 years later. A Rebours made me discover a number of painters and authors - especially as I first read it when I was 18 or so. Some of these descriptive parts can be a little difficult to read when you don't have an interest in the particular topic at hand, let's say French Catholic literature, but I wouldn't even recommend skipping that chapter as it concludes with Barbey D'Aurevilly.
The descriptions of Moreau's Salome and L'Apparition are a thing of beauty - they even transcend the paintings in my opinion (but then, I think I'm more receptive to language than to visuals).
This is really a must-read classic - it's unlike any other novel, and it had a huge influence on many other artists.
this was just an extremely boring room tour. i had to listen to pop music while i was reading to remind myself i was still alive
Bello, molto bello, e pensare che credevo ci fosse un solo Andrea Sperelli e nel frattempo mi ero persa Des Esseintes... Lo spleen, la noia, o citando un famoso libro: "l'insostenibile leggerezza dell'essere" il tutto emerge in questo piccolo capolavoro con una forza straordinaria. Esempio ne é la storia della tartaruga, che arricchita e modificata fino al punto di diventare un gioiello vivente, muore, come se la ricerca del bello non potesse che avere una fine prestabilita. Mi chiedo davvero perché nessuno mi abbia mai detto di leggere questo libro.
Against the Grain, Alone, Against Nature, À Rebours, whatever you would like to call this book, I'm advising you flat-out before you move forward. Do not read this book.
The imagery, diction, and prose are the reason why I believe this book deserves two stars as compared to only one. I will also say the amount of allusions is quite an impressive feat. However, despite those accomplishments, this book is unremarkable and not worth the time. There were several moments where I was tempted to stop reading this book. I think I continued reading this book simply because I feel like I would have regretted my decision if I simply let the end of the book remain a mystery to me. However, I would not have lost anything if I did not complete this book.
The aesthete and antihero components seemed more compelling than they actually were. On a surface level, this story seems really enchanting, with the richness of the art, literature, music, et cetera, engulfing an otherwise banal character. The book primarily focused on one character and one setting, so there was little to no dialogue and made the plot to appear stale. I think Huysmans attempted to make a statement to counteract the movement of Naturalism and possibly even critique seclusion and highlight the Decadent movement, but did so in a way that felt off-putting and vacant. This book is rather short, containing a short sixteen chapters, less than two-hundred pages, but thanks to the pacing, the book feels much longer than that. I am presuming that the "but I'm not like the others, I'm different, I'm a weirdo" trope was new at the time of this book's publication. By now, in today's context, that theme is overdone in popular films, music, and literature that this book is very repelling.
Let me put it this way-- the scenes, the imagery, the works of art that are alluded to throughout, in of themselves, are beautiful. There is something that is almost welcoming in the way Huysmans blankets the reader in vivid sights of various colors and richness. However, the story itself holes up the reader, takes the reader nowhere, and leaves the reader feeling nothing.
The imagery, diction, and prose are the reason why I believe this book deserves two stars as compared to only one. I will also say the amount of allusions is quite an impressive feat. However, despite those accomplishments, this book is unremarkable and not worth the time. There were several moments where I was tempted to stop reading this book. I think I continued reading this book simply because I feel like I would have regretted my decision if I simply let the end of the book remain a mystery to me. However, I would not have lost anything if I did not complete this book.
The aesthete and antihero components seemed more compelling than they actually were. On a surface level, this story seems really enchanting, with the richness of the art, literature, music, et cetera, engulfing an otherwise banal character. The book primarily focused on one character and one setting, so there was little to no dialogue and made the plot to appear stale. I think Huysmans attempted to make a statement to counteract the movement of Naturalism and possibly even critique seclusion and highlight the Decadent movement, but did so in a way that felt off-putting and vacant. This book is rather short, containing a short sixteen chapters, less than two-hundred pages, but thanks to the pacing, the book feels much longer than that. I am presuming that the "but I'm not like the others, I'm different, I'm a weirdo" trope was new at the time of this book's publication. By now, in today's context, that theme is overdone in popular films, music, and literature that this book is very repelling.
Let me put it this way-- the scenes, the imagery, the works of art that are alluded to throughout, in of themselves, are beautiful. There is something that is almost welcoming in the way Huysmans blankets the reader in vivid sights of various colors and richness. However, the story itself holes up the reader, takes the reader nowhere, and leaves the reader feeling nothing.
Despite the specific literary allusions and references, this is a timeless novel. The minutiae of art, history, poetry et cetera always feels lyrical—never frustrating or confused. The main character, Des Esseintes, is a decadent French aesthete. He lives for beauty and pleasure. What is entertaining about this story is how he goes about it and where it leads him.
I have a theory that layered into the plot is a secret diagnosis of syphilis. The clues are there throughout the book and it would be in line with the tragic disorders of the day, including TB. It would explain a lot. The fact that the author so smoothly weaves in tantalizing hints that may or may not support this idea is just one of the many reasons I love this book.
At its length (174 pages) it is a perfect little novella. Wonderfully translated and digestible. Huysmans builds a world in a remote bizarre, if not grotesque, home. Des Esseintes has a marvelous sense of humor and his isolated, self-reflection is endlessly absorbing. I've never read a book quite like this and will be thinking about it for years to come.
I have a theory that layered into the plot is a secret diagnosis of syphilis. The clues are there throughout the book and it would be in line with the tragic disorders of the day, including TB. It would explain a lot. The fact that the author so smoothly weaves in tantalizing hints that may or may not support this idea is just one of the many reasons I love this book.
At its length (174 pages) it is a perfect little novella. Wonderfully translated and digestible. Huysmans builds a world in a remote bizarre, if not grotesque, home. Des Esseintes has a marvelous sense of humor and his isolated, self-reflection is endlessly absorbing. I've never read a book quite like this and will be thinking about it for years to come.
3.5. What a strange book. Below are some selected quotes.
“Already he was dreaming of some kind of refine solitude, a comfortable wilderness, a snug and immovable ark in which to seek refuge from the incessant deluge of human folly.”
“Lastly, he hated, with all the energy of which he was capable, the rising generation, this new class of abominable louts who find it impossible not to talk and laugh at the top of their voices in restaurants and cafés, who jostle you without apology on the pavements, who, without a word of excuse, or even the slightest bow, ram the wheels of their perambulators against your legs.”
“‘Go and throw the sandwich’ he told the servant, ‘to those children who are murdering each other oh the road; let’s hope the weaker ones are crushed in the scramble and that they don’t get so much as a crumb; and that they are then soundly thrashed when they return home with torn trousers and black eyes; it will give them a taste of what life hold in store for them!’ Then he went back into the house , where he sank, almost fainting, into an armchair.”
“Already he was dreaming of some kind of refine solitude, a comfortable wilderness, a snug and immovable ark in which to seek refuge from the incessant deluge of human folly.”
“Lastly, he hated, with all the energy of which he was capable, the rising generation, this new class of abominable louts who find it impossible not to talk and laugh at the top of their voices in restaurants and cafés, who jostle you without apology on the pavements, who, without a word of excuse, or even the slightest bow, ram the wheels of their perambulators against your legs.”
“‘Go and throw the sandwich’ he told the servant, ‘to those children who are murdering each other oh the road; let’s hope the weaker ones are crushed in the scramble and that they don’t get so much as a crumb; and that they are then soundly thrashed when they return home with torn trousers and black eyes; it will give them a taste of what life hold in store for them!’ Then he went back into the house , where he sank, almost fainting, into an armchair.”