I do not like to read books online but I have to say that the Project Gutenberg is an incredible resource, giving free access to most of the classics to the entire world. With some of the feelings Alice must have had when she fell down the rabbit hole, I began to read a book that obviously had shaped my father's character tremendously. What transpired was almost eerie. I soon began to realise that this unread writer had shaped my own character as well. Unfortunately, it is a bit of a tragegy, but there it is.
Fed on 19th century concepts of the role and privileges divinely accorded to the aristocracy, and with the sensibility of a gentleman from the days of duels and artistic excess, as a child I wished I had been born in the age of the Cavaliers. A voracious reader, I soaked up all the classics from the Roman Empire onward. The 19th Century was an age when romantic novels abounded. I read them all. It was not only the English novelists that fell into my psyche but the French as well. Stendhal and Alexandre Dumas (another favourite of my own father) were two of my own favourite authors. At an age when I had not been blooded in any sense of the term, my personality was influenced profoundly by 19th century concepts of Romance.
Romance was a life and death matter in that culture, rather than a natural instinct that would lead ultimately, one hoped, to marriage and the creation of a family. It was a dangerous game of conquest. It could be a matter that led to violent death by suicide or in a duel with a rival. It had very little to do with reality, sad to say, in terms of real knowledge of the object of desire.
The coup de foudre or lightning bolt is very much a part of this concept of Romance. One could catch a quick glimpse of some one from the other side of the room and fall in love passionately. Having fallen into love in this fashion, one would suffer incredible pains and distress if the loved one failed to appear anywhere within one's sphere of influence. Passionate declarations of undying love, whether in the form of letters, spoken conversation or even as an endless outpouring in a journal, occupied a great deal of one's energies. It was akin to a religious fervour, albeit one that often carried with it no true positive inspiration, apart from that of appreciation of beauty, grace, intelligence, wit or any other characteristic applied to the beloved (whether true or not!) where appropriate.
I was poised to cast myself into the abyss of this sort of passion from the age of 8 or so, but it was only when I went to Nepal and fixed my glance upon an 18 year old boy that my literary fancies achieved realisation. Bear in mind the fact that this sort of Romance is mainly fantasy. I never lost my virginity nor even experienced any profound or meaningful dialogues with my 'Beloved' but all the dizzy ecstacy, misary and torture depicted in 19th century Romantic literature was mine.
Now, decades later, I read 'Child of Pleasure' and D'Annunzio's beautiful but absurd descriptions of love are a blueprint for my own adolescence. It is not only Romance, but his addiction to Beauty and Art and the Unique that are fixed irrecovably in my psyche. My own mania to collect or at least fully immerse myself in a subject or passion for a particular culture or even language are to be found in D'Annunzio's life and even his home.
The 150th Anniversary of his birth was celebrated in Italia a couple of years ago and I read an article, accompanied by photographs written by a woman who visited his palace. Although the photographs were interesting to some extent, the woman missed the entire point of D'Annunzio and her words were a collection of ignorant criticisms of a life she failed to comprehend. What a great pity that she was given the task of introducing an English audience from a new generation to this Colossus.
Yes, he was flawed, but genius often is greatly flawed and the entire Symbolist movement, based as it was upon moral ambiguity for its own sake, does not read like Butler's Lives of the Saints. With her holier-than-thou repugnance towards a great man and poet who dabbled in all the vices, her article was an outpouring of arrant nonsense and nothing more.
Rather than exploring the curious juxtaposition of the cluttered objects in his rooms to find a path to the soul of the man, she dismissed it all as a collection in poor taste, writing of the experiences of caretakers and guards who found these rooms appaaring in their 'nightmares' when sleeping.
To me, this is incontrovertible evidence of the POWER of the man and his visions. Like him or not, he was a man who could not be ignored. Indeed, his friend, Il Duce, feared him and his possible displeasure and disapproval to the point where he was willing to bribe him to stay out of the Capital at a certain point in history.
I would like to write a proper review of 'Chlld of Pleasure' when I have finished it, but at the moment will simply allow the author to speak for himself, dropping petals from his decadent roses as it were into this post.
It is a fascinating book. One has to suspend the taste of the 21st century and become willing to bask in the archaic susceptibilities of the 19th century in order to appreciate this extraordinary author. Above all, he impresses with the vastness and detail of his knowledge of the arts. More erudite than any contemporary art historian, he is able to describe and compare the works of all the Masters of painting, architecture, engraving and matalwork, embracing every age.
It is a story of passion but it is a story about Roma as well and the ways of the nobility at the fin de siecle.
Wonderful turns of phrase abound:
'His will, as useless to him now as a sword of indifferently tempered steel, hung as if at the side of an inebriated or paralysed man.'
The night before a duel, his friend advises him as follows:
'My dear boy,' he said reproachfully as they walked along, 'you are really foolhardy. In a case like this, the smallest imprudence might lead to fatal results. To preserve his full strength and activity, a good swordsman should have as much care for his person as a tenor has for his voice. The wrist is as delicate an organ as the throat—the articulations of the legs as sensitive as the vocal chords. The mechanism suffers from the smallest disturbance; the instrument gets out of gear and will not answer to the player. After a night of play or drink, Camillo Agrippa himself could not thrust straight, and his parries were neither sure nor rapid. An error of a hair's breadth will suffice to let three inches of steel into one's body.'
Breathtaking descriptions of the beauty of Nature, of Roma, of the countryside... and of the fabulous architecture that was intrinsic to his life:
'They were at the top of the Via Condotti, and in the distance they could see the Piazza di Spagna, lighted up by the full moon, the stairway bathed in silver, and the Trinità de' Monti rising into the soft blue.
Oh, that limpid September sea! Calm and guileless as a sleeping child, it lay outstretched beneath the pearly sky—now green, the delicate and precious green of malachite, the little red sails upon it like flickering tongues of fire, now intensely—almost one might call it heraldically—blue, and veined with gold like lapis-lazuli, with pictured sails upon it as in a church procession. At other times, it took on a dull metallic lustre as polished silver mingled with the greenish-yellow tint of ripe lemons, indefinable, strange and delicate, and the sails would come crowding like the wings of the cherubim in the background of a Giotto picture.
With the new day, he awoke to new life, one of those awakenings, so fresh and limpid, that are only vouchsafed to adolescence in its triumphant springtide. It was a marvellous morning—only to breathe the air was pure delight. The whole earth rejoiced in the living light; the hills were wrapped about with a diaphanous silvery veil and seemed to[100] quiver with life, the sea appeared to be traversed by rivulets of milk, by rivers of crystal and of emerald, by a thousand currents forming the rippling intricacies of a watery labyrinth. A sense of nuptial joy and religious grace emanated from the concord between earth and sky.
He gazed and listened mutely, fondly, letting the flood of immortal life penetrate to his heart's core. Never had the sacred music of a great master—an Offertory of Haydn, a Te Deum of Mozart—produced in him the emotion caused now by the simple chimes of the distant village churches, as they greeted the rising of the sun into the heavens. His soul swelled and overflowed with unspeakable emotion. Some vision, vague but sublime, hovered over him like a rippling veil through which gleamed the splendour of the mysterious treasure of ultimate felicity. Up till now, he had always known exactly what he wished for, and had never found any pleasure in desiring vainly. Now, he could not have named his desire, but he had no doubts that the thing wished for was infinitely sweet, since the very act of wishing was bliss. The words of the Chimera in 'The King of Cyprus'—old world, half-forgotten verses, recurred to him with all the force of a caressing appeal—
Art!
Art! She was the only faithful mistress—forever young—immortal; there
was the Fountain of all pure joys, closed to the multitude but freely
open to the elect; that was the precious Food which makes a man like
unto a god! How could he have quaffed from other cups after having
pressed his lips to that one?—how have followed after other joys when he
had tasted that supreme one?
'But what if my intellect has become decadent?—if my[102] hand has lost its cunning? What if I am no longer worthy?'
He was seized with such panic at the thought, that he set himself
wildly to find some immediate means of proving to himself the irrational
nature of his fears. He would instantly compose some difficult verses,
draw a figure, engrave a plate, solve some problem of form. Well—and
what then? Might not the result be entirely fallacious? The slow decay
of power may be imperceptible to the possessor—that is the terrible
thing about it. The artist who loses his genius little by little is
unaware of his progressive feebleness, for as he loses his power of
production he also loses his critical faculty, his judgment. He no
longer perceives the defects of his work—does not know that it is
mediocre or bad. That is the horror of it! The artist who has fallen
from his original high estate is no more conscious of his failings than
the lunatic is aware of his mental aberration.
Other
lines came back to him, and yet others—a riot of verse. His soul was
filled with the music of rhymes and rhythmic measures. He was overjoyed;
coming to him thus spontaneously and unexpectedly, this poetic
agitation caused him inexpressible happiness. And he gave ear to the
music, delighting himself in rich imagery, in rare epithets, in the
luminous metaphors, the exquisite harmonies, the subtle refinements
which distinguished his metrical style and the mysterious artifices of
the endecasyllabic verse learned from the admirable poets of the
fourteenth century, and more especially from Petrarch. Once more the
magic spell of versification subjugated his soul, and he felt the full
force of the sentiment of a contemporary poet—Verse is everything!
A
perfect line of verse is absolute, immutable, deathless. It encloses a
thought as within a clearly marked circle which no force can break; it
belongs no more to the poet, it belongs to all and yet to none, as do
space, light, all things intransitory and perpetual. When the poet is
about to bring forth one of these deathless lines he is warned by a
divine torrent of joy which sweeps over his soul.
Andrea
half closed his eyes to prolong this delicious tremor which with him
was ever the forerunner of inspiration, and more especially of poetic
inspiration, and he determined in a moment upon the metrical form into
which he would pour his thoughts, like wine into a cup—the sonnet.
While composing Andrea studied himself curiously. It was long since he had made verses. Had this interval of idleness[104] been
harmful to his technical capacities? It seemed to him that the lines,
rising one by one out of the depths of his brain, had a new grace. The
consonance came of itself, and ideas were born of the rhymes. Then
suddenly some obstacle would intercept the flow, a line would rebel and
the whole verse would be displaced like a shaken puzzle; the syllables
would struggle against the constraint of the measure; a musical and
luminous word which had taken his fancy had to be excluded by the
severity of the rhythm, do what he would to retain it, and the verse was
like a medal which has turned out imperfect through the inexperience of
the caster, who has not calculated the proper quantity of metal
necessary for filling the mould. With ingenious patience he poured the
metal back into the crucible and began all over again. Finally the verse
came out full and clear, and the whole sonnet lived and breathed like a
free and perfect creature.
Why allow a woman who obviously has no interest or feeling for this extraordinary man to write an article on the occasion of his 150th Anniversary?
Description of an English beauty who had experienced liaisons with artists and poets:
Art therefore had conferred upon her the stamp of nobility. But, at bottom, she possessed no spiritual qualities whatsoever; she even became tiresome in the long-run by reason of that sentimental romanticism so often affected by English demi-mondaines which contrasts so strangely with the depravity of their licentiousness.
How I regret the loss of my intelligence and learning! There was a time when I could read 19th century literature and comprehend all the bits that were written in other languages. But now... I think I know it but cannot be certain of the following:
Giulia,'
said Andrea with his eyes on her mouth, 'Saint Bernard uses, in one of
his sermons, an epithet which would suit you marvellously. And I'll be
bound you don't know this either.'
Giulia
laughed her sonorous rather vacant laugh, exhaling, in the excitement
of her hilarity, a more poignant perfume, like a scented shrub when it
is shaken.
'What will you give me,' continued Andrea, 'if I extract from the holy sermon a voluptuous motto to fit you?'
'I don't know,' she replied laughing, holding a glass of Chablis in her long slender fingers. 'Anything you like.'
'The substantive of the adjective.'
'What?'
'We will come back to that presently. The word is: linguatica—Messer Ludovico, you can add this clause to your litanies—'Rosa linguatica, glube nos.'
Is
'linguatica' even a word? Glube means 'to rob'. He spoke earlier of
her tongue, like a rose that she frequently ran over her teeth. Would
it be 'Tongue of a rose, rob us!' ?
]The
chief reason of his unfailing success lay in the fact that, in the game
of love, he shrank from no artifice, no duplicity, no falsehood that
might further his cause. A great portion of his strength lay in his
capacity for deception.'
'Minds
that have the habit of imaginative contemplation and poetic dreaming
attribute to inanimate objects a soul, sensitive and variable as their
own, and recognise in all things—be it form or colour, sound or
perfume—a transparent symbol, an emblem of some emotion or thought; in
every phenomenon and every group of phenomena they claim to discover a
psychical condition, a moral significance. At times the vision is so
lucid as to produce actual pain in such minds, they feel themselves
overwhelmed by the plenitude of life revealed to them and are terrified
by the phantom of their own creation.'
From
that point of view his stage was certainly quite perfect, and he
himself a most adroit actor-manager; for he almost always entered heart
and soul into his own artifice, he forgot himself so completely that he
was deceived by his own deception, fell into the trap of his own laying,
and wounded himself with his own weapons—a magician enclosed in the
spells of his own weaving.
It
was one of those wonderful January nights, cold and serene, which turn
Rome into a city of silver set in a ring of diamonds. The full moon,
hanging in mid-sky, shed a triple purity of light, of frost, and of
silence.
His
thoughts turned to the dead father with boundless yearning and regret.
And he had not the shadow of a suspicion that in the very teachings of
that father lay the primary cause of his wretchedness.
Then
with cold lucidity, he mapped out his plan of campaign. He reviewed
every detail of the interview that had taken place on New Year's
Eve—more than a week ago—and it pleased him to re-construct the scene,
but without the slightest indignation or excitement, only smiling
cynically both at Elena and himself. Why had she come?—Simply because
this impromptu tête-à-tête with a former lover, in the well-known
place, after a lapse of two years, had tempted a spirit always on the
look-out for fresh emotions, had inflamed her imagination and her
curiosity. She thirsted to see into what new situations, new intrigues
the dangerous game would lead her. She was perhaps attracted by the
novelty of a[216] platonic
affection with a person who had already been the object of her sensual
passion. As ever, she had thrown herself into the new part with a
certain imaginative fervour. Also it was quite possible that, for the
moment, she believed what she said, and that this illusory sincerity had
furnished her with that deep tenderness of accent, those despairing
attitudes, those tears. How well he knew it all! She had a sentimental
hallucination as other people have a physical one. She forgot that she
was acting a lie, was no longer conscious whether she were living in a
world of truth or falsehood, of fiction or reality.
Now
this was precisely the moral phenomenon which so constantly took place
in himself. Therefore he could not reproach her without injustice. But
the discovery very naturally deprived him of the hope of deriving any
pleasure from her other than sensual ones. In any case, mistrust would
poison all the sweetness of abandon, all soulful rapture. To deceive a
confiding and faithful heart, dominate a soul by artifice, possess it
wholly and make it vibrate like an instrument—habere non haberi—all
this, doubtless, gives intense pleasure; but to deceive, and know that
one is being deceived in return, is a stupid and fruitless labour, a
tiresome and aimless pursuit.
Here is a link to the truly stupid article about D'Annunzio and his home written by an apparent half-wit:
http://www.italymagazine.com/featured-story/dannunzio-and-il-vittoriale-degli-italiani-poets-fantasy
The World of D'Annunzio
There has been a ridiculous tendency that has only increased during the past couple of decades, to obliterate the art of any one associated with certain political movements or epochs, namely that of the Third Reich or the Fascist government of Italia. This is patently absurd. I have argued again and again about the fact that the genius of an artist must not be forgotten or dismissed simply because he or she may have become associated with a political movement with which one may disagree or even find repugnant.
Artists are only human. Their livestyles may be filled with errors of one sort or another. They may commit acts of stupidty, cruelty or even crimes against humanity and yet their art can remain sublime, untouched by the sooty wings of their demons.
Many great artists either flirted with or genuinely supported the politics of the Third Reich, at least in its infant stages. The greatness of their art is in no way diminished by this and yet various influential elements in the media particularly seek to obliterate all that is associated with that movement. Fascism was another movement that appealed to many artists and indeed, was eloquent in its embrace of all that was Good and Beautiful in Italia's past... whatever occurred later is a different matter. The instinct of a broken and beaten Nation to attempt to recover its lost glory, pride and honour actually is a very natural one. I have spoken to many Germans who lived through the humiliating defeat at the end of the First World War, who lived through terrible famine and privation while the victors demanded endless reparations. Was this right??? Yet, no one speaks of this now. No one who is a citizen of one of those arrogant victors is willing to accept partial responsibility for the rise of the Third Reich. Ironically, these often are the same peoole who believe in 'reparations' for the descendants of slaves in the U.S. Talk about hypocrisy and double standards...
Any one who has studied the history of Italia cannot be blind to the fact that she was raped again and again by foreign powers, from the time of the fall of Rome onwards. It was only in the 19th century that she finally became a Nation once more. The seeds of Fascism lay in the desire to regain some of the pride that belonged to Rome.
It is interesting how Americans boast of their national pride, of the great projects of the Roosevelt Era and yet avert their glances from the great architecture of the Third Reich and Fascist Italia. Arno Breker was an amazing sculptor and the beauty of his figures is absolutely heart-stopping, breathtaking... a timeless salute to all that is ideal and beautiful in the human form. How many students now are familiar with his work?
I do not subscribe by any means to the political philosophy of Nazism or Fascism but I most definitely refuse to toss out the baby with the bathwater. Beauty is eternal and untouchable. Any webs of political thought that cling to it must be brushed off in the same way that one would remove any dust or spiderwebs that clung to a great painting or tapestry.
Furthermore, a great deal of history is lost if one does not explore all aspects of a period, including the art that inspired its people. D'Annunzio actually lived through two Wars and fought in the First World War, along with my own father. That was the last war of the Gentleman, where a warrior rode a horse and carried a sword only to be mowed down by a mechanised enemy. Both my father and D'Annunzio survied that hellish war but at what price to their psyches?
They both continued to believe in the principles of archaic Nobility, a sort of idealised warrior's code that bore little resemblance to the Wars that followed. Theirs was the code of the duel, where a slight to personal honour or even an opportunity to prove that one had courage and skill when confronted by naked steel was an essential element in a Gentleman's life. Unfortunately, real wars bear little resemblance to the art of the duel but much of D'Annunzio's art refereneces this code.
I know the code of the Gentleman all too well. One can amass a multitude of Romantic Conquests without dishonour for Romance is a Game and to the victor are accorded the spoils. A Gentleman always honours a gambling debt or 'debt of honour' because, in those days, those wagers usually were made between members of the same class but one need not feel obliged to pay one's creditors. There is a sort of divine right to Beauty and Art that allowed members of the Aristocracy to ravish markets and auction houses as well as foreign lands. Many of the treasures in museums throughout Europe are the result of this 19th century attitude. The Elgin Marbles really should not have been named after the noble thief who stole them from their native land and that is only the very tip of the iceburg of the rape of the poorer, less powerful nations by the rich. It happens still, albeit in a more furtive fashion. The Yuppies have taken the place of the aristocracy, foraging throughout the globe, pillaging the ruins of temples and taking advantage of true aristocrats from other lands who have fallen upon hard times but now it is in pursuit of wealth rather than collecting for the sake of Beauty and Art. Most of the fruits of their rapacious explorations are sold to private collectors rather than being donated to public museums.
And yet, the glory that was Greece and the greatness of the Roman Empire was built upon similar rapacity. Every war that was fought, every foreign adventure, had its parades and processions wherein carts laden with 'spoils', often in the form of priceless artifacts, were displayed to the people as proof of the divine right of the Conqueror not only to rule but to HAVE.
Here is a link to the truly stupid article about D'Annunzio and his home written by an apparent half-wit:
http://www.italymagazine.com/featured-story/dannunzio-and-il-vittoriale-degli-italiani-poets-fantasy
The World of D'Annunzio
There has been a ridiculous tendency that has only increased during the past couple of decades, to obliterate the art of any one associated with certain political movements or epochs, namely that of the Third Reich or the Fascist government of Italia. This is patently absurd. I have argued again and again about the fact that the genius of an artist must not be forgotten or dismissed simply because he or she may have become associated with a political movement with which one may disagree or even find repugnant.
Artists are only human. Their livestyles may be filled with errors of one sort or another. They may commit acts of stupidty, cruelty or even crimes against humanity and yet their art can remain sublime, untouched by the sooty wings of their demons.
Many great artists either flirted with or genuinely supported the politics of the Third Reich, at least in its infant stages. The greatness of their art is in no way diminished by this and yet various influential elements in the media particularly seek to obliterate all that is associated with that movement. Fascism was another movement that appealed to many artists and indeed, was eloquent in its embrace of all that was Good and Beautiful in Italia's past... whatever occurred later is a different matter. The instinct of a broken and beaten Nation to attempt to recover its lost glory, pride and honour actually is a very natural one. I have spoken to many Germans who lived through the humiliating defeat at the end of the First World War, who lived through terrible famine and privation while the victors demanded endless reparations. Was this right??? Yet, no one speaks of this now. No one who is a citizen of one of those arrogant victors is willing to accept partial responsibility for the rise of the Third Reich. Ironically, these often are the same peoole who believe in 'reparations' for the descendants of slaves in the U.S. Talk about hypocrisy and double standards...
Any one who has studied the history of Italia cannot be blind to the fact that she was raped again and again by foreign powers, from the time of the fall of Rome onwards. It was only in the 19th century that she finally became a Nation once more. The seeds of Fascism lay in the desire to regain some of the pride that belonged to Rome.
It is interesting how Americans boast of their national pride, of the great projects of the Roosevelt Era and yet avert their glances from the great architecture of the Third Reich and Fascist Italia. Arno Breker was an amazing sculptor and the beauty of his figures is absolutely heart-stopping, breathtaking... a timeless salute to all that is ideal and beautiful in the human form. How many students now are familiar with his work?
I do not subscribe by any means to the political philosophy of Nazism or Fascism but I most definitely refuse to toss out the baby with the bathwater. Beauty is eternal and untouchable. Any webs of political thought that cling to it must be brushed off in the same way that one would remove any dust or spiderwebs that clung to a great painting or tapestry.
Furthermore, a great deal of history is lost if one does not explore all aspects of a period, including the art that inspired its people. D'Annunzio actually lived through two Wars and fought in the First World War, along with my own father. That was the last war of the Gentleman, where a warrior rode a horse and carried a sword only to be mowed down by a mechanised enemy. Both my father and D'Annunzio survied that hellish war but at what price to their psyches?
They both continued to believe in the principles of archaic Nobility, a sort of idealised warrior's code that bore little resemblance to the Wars that followed. Theirs was the code of the duel, where a slight to personal honour or even an opportunity to prove that one had courage and skill when confronted by naked steel was an essential element in a Gentleman's life. Unfortunately, real wars bear little resemblance to the art of the duel but much of D'Annunzio's art refereneces this code.
I know the code of the Gentleman all too well. One can amass a multitude of Romantic Conquests without dishonour for Romance is a Game and to the victor are accorded the spoils. A Gentleman always honours a gambling debt or 'debt of honour' because, in those days, those wagers usually were made between members of the same class but one need not feel obliged to pay one's creditors. There is a sort of divine right to Beauty and Art that allowed members of the Aristocracy to ravish markets and auction houses as well as foreign lands. Many of the treasures in museums throughout Europe are the result of this 19th century attitude. The Elgin Marbles really should not have been named after the noble thief who stole them from their native land and that is only the very tip of the iceburg of the rape of the poorer, less powerful nations by the rich. It happens still, albeit in a more furtive fashion. The Yuppies have taken the place of the aristocracy, foraging throughout the globe, pillaging the ruins of temples and taking advantage of true aristocrats from other lands who have fallen upon hard times but now it is in pursuit of wealth rather than collecting for the sake of Beauty and Art. Most of the fruits of their rapacious explorations are sold to private collectors rather than being donated to public museums.
And yet, the glory that was Greece and the greatness of the Roman Empire was built upon similar rapacity. Every war that was fought, every foreign adventure, had its parades and processions wherein carts laden with 'spoils', often in the form of priceless artifacts, were displayed to the people as proof of the divine right of the Conqueror not only to rule but to HAVE.
