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A review by screamdogreads
The Songs of Maldoror by Comte de Lautréamont
5.0
O heaven! How can one live after experiencing so many sensual delights! I have just witnessed the death agonies of several of my fellows.
This review is, by far, one of the most difficult things I have ever had to write. A book like this one simply eludes all efforts of description, and perhaps it shall always remain that way. Perhaps I will never quite by able to convey the magnificence of this novel. For a while now, forming a coherent sentence about this beast of a book has been next to impossible. The closest I've got, is to say that this is the single greatest book in the universe. And that reading it made me want to scream, cry, and peel the skin from my face.
A very surface level way of seeing this book (because in truth, I still don't know what the fuck this even is.) is to say that it's about a man, Maldoror, who exists to destroy humanity and to kill God. He's also a reflection of everything evil in the world. This is something that he greatly revels in. He seeks out revenge simply for his existence, and spreads misery and evil wherever he goes.
The Songs of Maldoror is pure perfection. It's a work of art. It may even be the single greatest achievement in the world of literature. Certainly, this unique little book has usurped the top spot as my favorite written work of all time. The thing with this novel is, as beautifully as it is written, it's an extremely cynical and cruel read. The majority of this book is so far beyond disgusting and horrifying to experience that it feels like it genuinely stains the soul, as if a part of you will never be the same once you put this book down.
One should let one's nails grow for a fortnight. Oh! How sweet it is to brutally tear a child from its bed; a child with a bare upper lip and with wide open eyes, pretend to gently touch his forehead and push back his beautiful hair! Then, suddenly, when he least expects it, you force your long nails into his soft breast, but not so that he does, for if he died, you would miss the sight of his agonies. Then you drink his blood by licking the wounds; and during this time, which should last as long as eternity, the child cries.
Despite... All of that. This is not a Godless novel. In fact, ironically, this is actually a deeply religious piece of literature. Maldoror acknowledges heavily the existence of God, he just does so with a spiteful and venomous hatred. This novel is an assault on the senses, it's overwhelming, at times overflowing with beautifully poetic imagery. In its epicness it's dazzling. In its perversion, it's nightmarish. Yet it also becomes one of the most hauntingly tender and compassionate tales, too.
Upon closing the final page of this behemoth, one question still stands. Is this the work of a mad man, an isolated, depressed loner who sat up late into the night, slamming piano keys in the darkness as he penned perhaps the most sickening masterpiece in history. Or is this the work is a misunderstood genius, someone who far ahead of his time that his writing left the world stunned. Whatever your opinion on the novel, and the talented young man who authored it, one thing will always ring true. That this kaleidoscopic, stomach churning book tells the story of the most evil character in the history of literature.
O you whose name I do not wish to write upon this page consecrated to the holiness of crime: I know that your forgiveness is immense like the universe. But I still exist!
This review is, by far, one of the most difficult things I have ever had to write. A book like this one simply eludes all efforts of description, and perhaps it shall always remain that way. Perhaps I will never quite by able to convey the magnificence of this novel. For a while now, forming a coherent sentence about this beast of a book has been next to impossible. The closest I've got, is to say that this is the single greatest book in the universe. And that reading it made me want to scream, cry, and peel the skin from my face.
A very surface level way of seeing this book (because in truth, I still don't know what the fuck this even is.) is to say that it's about a man, Maldoror, who exists to destroy humanity and to kill God. He's also a reflection of everything evil in the world. This is something that he greatly revels in. He seeks out revenge simply for his existence, and spreads misery and evil wherever he goes.
The Songs of Maldoror is pure perfection. It's a work of art. It may even be the single greatest achievement in the world of literature. Certainly, this unique little book has usurped the top spot as my favorite written work of all time. The thing with this novel is, as beautifully as it is written, it's an extremely cynical and cruel read. The majority of this book is so far beyond disgusting and horrifying to experience that it feels like it genuinely stains the soul, as if a part of you will never be the same once you put this book down.
One should let one's nails grow for a fortnight. Oh! How sweet it is to brutally tear a child from its bed; a child with a bare upper lip and with wide open eyes, pretend to gently touch his forehead and push back his beautiful hair! Then, suddenly, when he least expects it, you force your long nails into his soft breast, but not so that he does, for if he died, you would miss the sight of his agonies. Then you drink his blood by licking the wounds; and during this time, which should last as long as eternity, the child cries.
Despite... All of that. This is not a Godless novel. In fact, ironically, this is actually a deeply religious piece of literature. Maldoror acknowledges heavily the existence of God, he just does so with a spiteful and venomous hatred. This novel is an assault on the senses, it's overwhelming, at times overflowing with beautifully poetic imagery. In its epicness it's dazzling. In its perversion, it's nightmarish. Yet it also becomes one of the most hauntingly tender and compassionate tales, too.
Upon closing the final page of this behemoth, one question still stands. Is this the work of a mad man, an isolated, depressed loner who sat up late into the night, slamming piano keys in the darkness as he penned perhaps the most sickening masterpiece in history. Or is this the work is a misunderstood genius, someone who far ahead of his time that his writing left the world stunned. Whatever your opinion on the novel, and the talented young man who authored it, one thing will always ring true. That this kaleidoscopic, stomach churning book tells the story of the most evil character in the history of literature.
O you whose name I do not wish to write upon this page consecrated to the holiness of crime: I know that your forgiveness is immense like the universe. But I still exist!