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batbones's review against another edition
2.0
"For when it is in the hope of making a priceless discovery that we desire to receive certain impressions from nature or from works of art, we have qualms lest our soul imbibe inferior impressions which might lead us to form a false estimate of the value of Beauty." - Marcel Proust, Within A Budding Grove
This was one of those 'qualms'. The strength of one's disappointment is proportioned to the beauties and delights this reader has dreamed of by reading one of Peter Ackroyd's biographies, as this reader has found in others of his such as Eliot and Turner. Because this was Ackroyd, it at least deserved that dignified turning over of the last page, but this biography of Blake does not live up to what one can conceive of as his standard quality of work. After the earlier biographies of Eliot and Pound, one has come to expect a quietly shining, erudite literary criticism, sprinkled throughout an uninterrupted but deeply thoughtful (though not always deeply researched, given the limits of his access to material at some points in time) retelling and unravelling of a poet's life. Blake's chapters follow a chronological order but feel patched together by scraps and scribbles. Certain chapters compose only of 1-2 pages that break with the preceding sections, united only by a thread of a thought, not standalone enough to warrant the interruption, in their insubstantial form these chapters makes one think 'is that it?' and 'where do we go from here?' It is somehow a less concerted, polished effort, a biographical rendering where one only sees a sketch of a thing, a skeleton, a creature partially formed whose partialness does not give us enough to glean what might have emerged from this stack of papers sewn together. It does not feel like a book that was started, shaped and finished by a single hand. Rather it feels like a book that someone had written but could not finish prior to his death. A book that was the result of scraps of notes, half-written sections, sketches of the intended design left for another to sieve through and put together in a more or less publishable state. Its rough, choppy quality isn't the work of a historian this reader recognises and has always loved.
One is better off just looking at Blake's paintings. There is more there for the eyes to see and the heart to feel. Nevermind biographical detail, Blake can convince you he is a visionary by his work alone, and that is a far more proximal, superior and accurate entry point into his beautiful drawings.
This was one of those 'qualms'. The strength of one's disappointment is proportioned to the beauties and delights this reader has dreamed of by reading one of Peter Ackroyd's biographies, as this reader has found in others of his such as Eliot and Turner. Because this was Ackroyd, it at least deserved that dignified turning over of the last page, but this biography of Blake does not live up to what one can conceive of as his standard quality of work. After the earlier biographies of Eliot and Pound, one has come to expect a quietly shining, erudite literary criticism, sprinkled throughout an uninterrupted but deeply thoughtful (though not always deeply researched, given the limits of his access to material at some points in time) retelling and unravelling of a poet's life. Blake's chapters follow a chronological order but feel patched together by scraps and scribbles. Certain chapters compose only of 1-2 pages that break with the preceding sections, united only by a thread of a thought, not standalone enough to warrant the interruption, in their insubstantial form these chapters makes one think 'is that it?' and 'where do we go from here?' It is somehow a less concerted, polished effort, a biographical rendering where one only sees a sketch of a thing, a skeleton, a creature partially formed whose partialness does not give us enough to glean what might have emerged from this stack of papers sewn together. It does not feel like a book that was started, shaped and finished by a single hand. Rather it feels like a book that someone had written but could not finish prior to his death. A book that was the result of scraps of notes, half-written sections, sketches of the intended design left for another to sieve through and put together in a more or less publishable state. Its rough, choppy quality isn't the work of a historian this reader recognises and has always loved.
One is better off just looking at Blake's paintings. There is more there for the eyes to see and the heart to feel. Nevermind biographical detail, Blake can convince you he is a visionary by his work alone, and that is a far more proximal, superior and accurate entry point into his beautiful drawings.
cmcrockford's review against another edition
4.0
Super biography even if its almost too quick at 369 pages to capture the fullness of the Man. I can see myself in Blake - his changeability, pride, permanent place in another world - though I don't have a 100th of his extraordinary perception. Would that I could. Ackroyd captures with some real depth a person who can't possibly be understood his lifetime and has been embraced in ours to some extent, even as his prophecies of mechanized life have gone ignored (then come horribly true).
jeregenest's review against another edition
4.0
I like Ackroyd a lot because he has one foot in the slipstream/high weird camp that I so love. Okay probably more than one foot as novels like English Music and Hawksmoor attest.
Ackroyd’s biography of Blake is a detailed look at Blake's life, linking his work, his art, his philosophy and his poetry together. Something I enjoy even more the second time through is the way this biography oftentimes seems like a tourist's guide to Blake's London. No surprise after his biography of London, but still appreciated.
I am surprised that Ackroyd’s Blake is sometimes not the crazy mystic others portray, but Blake does pack enough craziness in this book to satisfy.
Ackroyd’s biography of Blake is a detailed look at Blake's life, linking his work, his art, his philosophy and his poetry together. Something I enjoy even more the second time through is the way this biography oftentimes seems like a tourist's guide to Blake's London. No surprise after his biography of London, but still appreciated.
I am surprised that Ackroyd’s Blake is sometimes not the crazy mystic others portray, but Blake does pack enough craziness in this book to satisfy.
mike_no1's review against another edition
3.0
Timeless art but the writing not so. Did Tibet just start world war 3? No matter nukes solve everything!
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