“(He)
was an utterly generic man – the next best, in a host of
insignificant and vacant individuals, to happen by; he seemed one of
those people who exist in the plural, so fully do they express
atmosphere, collectivity, and sameness... His face seemed to be cast
by a spade; it belonged to the innumerable number of fake he-men from
the South no interbreeding can refine – but in whom everything,
even the uncouthness, is just for show...”
From 'A
Dentist's Terrible Punishment,' featured here with twenty-nine other
raucous faux anecdotes, this passage reminded me of one of
British Prime Minister David Cameron's recent rhythmically
alliterative, but ultimately empty, speeches. I had to smile, in a
way that the tale's author Leon Bloy (1846-1917) would surely have
approved.
This is
a theatre of blood from the perspective of a catholic outsider. A
born contrarian, who seemed to lose as many friends as he gained,
Bloy swung from a youthful hatred of the Catholic Church to
converting to it in adult life under the pervasive influence of local
novelist and short tale author, Barbey d'Aurevilly; a dandyish figure
of the previous generation whose open literary non-conformity would
soon inspire Bloy's own. Proudly unclubbable as Bloy became - being
also unemployable - left the permanently destitute writer with little
choice but to plead for financial aid from friends and found
acquaintances. This left him with the unenviable moniker, 'the
ungrateful beggar,' yet one, if connected to his output, that might
also be deemed a selling-point. Among what he produced (three
autobiographical novels and eight volumes of journals) nevertheless
stand as a barefaced antidote to stuffier English cousins.
Oddly,
what all my biographical sources leave unwritten is Bloy's
disparaging, satirical humour; at least highlighted in this
collection. Here, he punctures the sinecures of self-serving
middle-class complacency with as much black vehemence as any
contemporary anarchist. Translator Erik Butler, in his Introduction,
at least acknowledges this:
“A
few years after Bloy's birth, in 1851, Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte
staged the coup apropos of which Karl Marx, glossing Hegel, made the
famous observation that historical events occur twice: 'the first
time as tragedy, the second as farce.' The less-than-great man's
reign, which began with harshly repressive measures and, ten years
later, introduced the so-called Liberal Empire, was imposing but
hollow. The 'real' Napolean had been a revolutionary general who
succeeded in conquering half of Europe. Napolean III, as his nephew
called himself, measured up only in appearance.”
Understanding this
context helps understand the trigger for Bloy's ripe, lampooning
venom. I'd argue he did too well, if not protesteth too much. The
paradoxical effect – far from accusing the guilty back into the
fold – surely only highlighted to his readership the hypocrisies in
organised religion all the more.
While
the tone – at least in this collection – is openly misanthropic,
by the standards of the day it is surprisingly un-misogynist; the
women characters of their class as well delineated – and taken down
– as his men, with the latter on the receiving end of marginally
greater contempt.
Yet,
again, how can even today's politically-correct critics not find
irresistible wit in, “Her face resembled a fried potato rolled in
scraped cheese...her whole person exuded the odour of a landing in a
furnished hotel of the twentieth order --- on the seventh floor.” ('Two Ghosts').
As with
most of Wakefield Press's reissued translations, (and Butler has done
a deliciously sinuous job), I can give near fulsome recommendation;
as long as you are prepared to keep a wryly jaundiced tongue in a
capacious, accepting cheek.
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