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2.0
Fifteen years after his obscene, pre-Tolkien, fantasy masterpiece, “Jurgen,” James Branch Cabell decided to write an “adult” version of “Alice in Wonderland,” as no one—according to him—had written a mature novel using the logic of dreams. Cabell believed he was preeminently the writer who could do so.
He was not.
“Smirt” is, at best, a satirical (and misogynistic) allegory about an author’s increasingly megalomaniacal ego. It is filled with lengthy dialogues in which Cabell’s thinly-veiled alter-ego, Smirt, diatribes about being so urbane and intellectually-profound that he is more creative than God.
Halfway through the novel when actual imagery approximating dreams begins to appear, is is merely hackneyed tropes drawn from mythology and nothing approaching the sublime weirdness of the human unconscious (and certainly nothing close to “Alice in Wonderland”).
On top of which, one of the chief psychological functions of dreams—to disrobe and disintegrate the rigidity of daytime consciousness—is entirely missing from Cabell’s imitation of the oneiric condition. While reading I was increasingly ready for Smirt’s smugness to be entirely upended by one of minor deities or fetishized fantasy women he lords his ego over. Sadly nothing of the sort happened, at least in the first book of the trilogy, and I was left wondering when Cabell’s dream would begin.
He was not.
“Smirt” is, at best, a satirical (and misogynistic) allegory about an author’s increasingly megalomaniacal ego. It is filled with lengthy dialogues in which Cabell’s thinly-veiled alter-ego, Smirt, diatribes about being so urbane and intellectually-profound that he is more creative than God.
Halfway through the novel when actual imagery approximating dreams begins to appear, is is merely hackneyed tropes drawn from mythology and nothing approaching the sublime weirdness of the human unconscious (and certainly nothing close to “Alice in Wonderland”).
On top of which, one of the chief psychological functions of dreams—to disrobe and disintegrate the rigidity of daytime consciousness—is entirely missing from Cabell’s imitation of the oneiric condition. While reading I was increasingly ready for Smirt’s smugness to be entirely upended by one of minor deities or fetishized fantasy women he lords his ego over. Sadly nothing of the sort happened, at least in the first book of the trilogy, and I was left wondering when Cabell’s dream would begin.
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