Scan barcode
oblomov's review against another edition
4.0
A collection of poems, one play and several prose pieces by a Decadent I'd never heard of until recently, although when I had finally dragged my unwilling carcass through all the poetry, I was no longer suprised of my ignorance for the author.
The poems are at best ok. Aside from all the pining, there's not a lot here that strikes me as particularly decadent, save a rather macabre line in which he compares writing a Villanelle about woman to dismembering her. Mostly they're sonnets on love lost, with far too much Latin, and some very dodgy rhyming. I cannot forgive a poet who rhymes 'dream' with 'dream', never mind having the gall to do it twice in two different poems (what, pray, the fuck, my dear Dowson?).
My favourites, such as they are, are: Yvonne of Brittany, Spleen, Soli Cantare Periti Arcades, Epigram and A Last Word, but nothing felt endlessly quotable or achingly moving, sadly.
Apart from this, anyway, which I found rather pleasant:
The prose pieces are where Dowson shines. Everyone of them is a tragedy and here's where the Decadence I wanted lies. Religion as a darkened, masochistic cage, tortured consciences, suicide, there is no such thing as a content marriage apparently, divine music, and yet none of it overtly fantastical. All of it is oddly simple and familiar, offering the sensation that Dowson is peeling back the flimsy skin of the ordinary to reveal the malignant anxiety and decay festering beneath. Great stuff.
So, naff poet, moderate dramatist, beautiful prose writer.
The poems are at best ok. Aside from all the pining, there's not a lot here that strikes me as particularly decadent, save a rather macabre line in which he compares writing a Villanelle about woman to dismembering her. Mostly they're sonnets on love lost, with far too much Latin, and some very dodgy rhyming. I cannot forgive a poet who rhymes 'dream' with 'dream', never mind having the gall to do it twice in two different poems (what, pray, the fuck, my dear Dowson?).
My favourites, such as they are, are: Yvonne of Brittany, Spleen, Soli Cantare Periti Arcades, Epigram and A Last Word, but nothing felt endlessly quotable or achingly moving, sadly.
Apart from this, anyway, which I found rather pleasant:
Short summer-time and then, my heart’s desire,His play The Pierrot Of The Minute was a little more interesting, where Pierrot (a French clown character that has little meaning to me as English man, but apparently he's known for having his heart broken) seeks romance and so calls the Moon Maiden to soothe his cerulean testes, not caring for her warning of tragic consequences. It's a delightfully silly little play in rhyme, and I can easily imagine thespians performing it with exaggerated prancing as a relaxing break from more taxing dramas.
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
The prose pieces are where Dowson shines. Everyone of them is a tragedy and here's where the Decadence I wanted lies. Religion as a darkened, masochistic cage, tortured consciences, suicide, there is no such thing as a content marriage apparently, divine music, and yet none of it overtly fantastical. All of it is oddly simple and familiar, offering the sensation that Dowson is peeling back the flimsy skin of the ordinary to reveal the malignant anxiety and decay festering beneath. Great stuff.
So, naff poet, moderate dramatist, beautiful prose writer.
More...