I first read "Seven Men" a few years back when Harold Bloom listed it as essential reading in his book on the Western canon.

The book consists of short fictional portraits of various characters in the world of Edwardian arts and letters. Beerbohm was a satirist with a nimble touch -- he had the ability to poke fun at the pretensions of the art world while maintaining a gentle, bemused humanism.

Sir Max seemed to view the vanity and foibles of human nature not so much with scorn as with an endless amusement, and reading any of his essays or parodies or satires is like spending the evening chatting with a wise and witty friend.

Beerbohm once wrote, "How many charming talents have been spoiled by the instilled desire to do 'important' work! Some people are born to lift heavy weights. Some are born to juggle with golden balls." Beerbohm was an admitted juggler, and yet his seemingly "light" work is ultimately more insightful than most so-called serious projects. And often much funnier.

Beerbohm was also quite a caricaturist, and his theater reviews (many out of print) are still great to read all these decades later.

Get hold of this book and start off with the classics "Enoch Soames," the story of a third-rate poet who, convinced of his own greatness, makes a deal with the Devil in order to travel to the future to enjoy his posthumous success (with comic results), and "Savonarola Brown," a hilarious sketch of a frustrated playwright and his great "unfinished" opus.

Beerbohm's contemporaries referred to him as "the incomparable Max," and it's a title that fits. I wish I could've met him.

The essay/sketches which are presented in Seven Men And Two Others begin as the author's memories of London literary life at the turn of the century and move into satire and parody as Beerbohm comments on authors, critics and literary circles alike. Seven Men And Two Others is a revealing achievement and a fun survey of literary circle evolution.

In addition to being a wonderful work of literature, Seven Men has the advantage of being not totally fictional. One of the seven actually existed. For those interested, I would refer you to the Nov 1997 issue of Atlantic Monthly.

I rejoice to see this definitive work celebrating the small, choice output of the Catholic diabolist and neglected genius, Enoch Soames. I was among the nervous crowd who met Soames at the British Museum (now British Library) on June 3, 1997, a memorable day in my life and his. The authors of the present bibliography have scrupled to identify and describe the many works devoted to Soames' life, thought, and creative spirit. They have achieved their goal triumphantly. Even from the vantage of his present niche, Soames, I fancy, will know he does not suffer the neglect in public esteem that he had feared. As Soames' so cannily had prophesied in FUNGOID's Nocturne, he now at last might truly drink of "black wine" and move "Round and round the shutter'd Square" to no sound but hoof scrape and the "ring of laughter."

It was a pleasant surprise to find a modern (1993) release of this book. Fans of Max's other works will enjoy this book because of the thorough introduction by N. John Hall. Many of the writers parodied by Max were familiar to me in name only. By including samples of each writers work and style, Mr. Hall helps us to appreciate the brilliance of" A Christmas Garland."

An exploration of Beerbohm, that puzzling writer, and the Dante he has become.
An interesting exploration of the dandy concept as personified by Beerbohm. Read this to understand how Beerbohm "concealed in his works of prose fantasy, elaborate and profound allegories of the state of man's soul during the palmy days of the bristish empire"

An interesting peek into Beerbohm, "the dandy, talker, caricaturist parodist, esayist and dramatic critic". Read to find more!

There are two stories in this collection that are incomparable: "Enoch Soames" and "Savaranola Brown". For the story of Enoch Soames alone, this collection is perhaps worth the price. Enoch Soames is a disheartened poet who is unappreciated. One day he becomes fed up with his inability to court fame (his second book sells 3 copies) and so makes an agreement with the devil to travel to the future to learn what's been written about him in return for an eternal trip to the Devil's home. I can't reveal what happens next, but suffice it to say that the story revels in metaphysical twists and fascinating character sketches.

Most of the other stories were disappointing (John Updike admits as much in the introduction). But if you've never read Beerbohm, this is a good place to start.

I first read "Seven Men" a few years back when Harold Bloom listed it as essential reading in his book on the Western canon.

The book consists of short fictional portraits of various characters in the world of Edwardian arts and letters. Beerbohm was a satirist with a nimble touch -- he had the ability to poke fun at the pretensions of the art world while maintaining a gentle, bemused humanism.

Sir Max seemed to view the vanity and foibles of human nature not so much with scorn as with an endless amusement, and reading any of his essays or parodies or satires is like spending the evening chatting with a wise and witty friend.

Beerbohm once wrote, "How many charming talents have been spoiled by the instilled desire to do 'important' work! Some people are born to lift heavy weights. Some are born to juggle with golden balls." Beerbohm was an admitted juggler, and yet his seemingly "light" work is ultimately more insightful than most so-called serious projects. And often much funnier.

Beerbohm was also quite a caricaturist, and his theater reviews (many out of print) are still great to read all these decades later.

Get hold of this book and start off with the classics "Enoch Soames," the story of a third-rate poet who, convinced of his own greatness, makes a deal with the Devil in order to travel to the future to enjoy his posthumous success (with comic results), and "Savonarola Brown," a hilarious sketch of a frustrated playwright and his great "unfinished" opus.

Beerbohm's contemporaries referred to him as "the incomparable Max," and it's a title that fits. I wish I could've met him.

Bernard Shaw called Beerbohm "the divine Max," and this collection of short pieces will tell you why. The book consists of short character sketches of six men (Beerbohm is the ever present seventh), and each one is a small masterpiece of Edwardian parody and humour. Beerbohm's line sketches of each one of his (imaginary?!) characters are included at the end of the book. Some of the tales have an unexpectedly supernatural twist (the neo-Faustian bargain struck by Enoch Soames being the best of the lot). Three cheers for the NYRB Press for bringing these forgotten gems back into print.

Frank J. Finamore has pieced together a rather enjoyable read. His selection of authors could only be outdone with the inclusion of a few others(such as Robert Louis Stevenson("Markeim" would have worked well here)and Lovecraft), but what might have worked even better for this collection would be a progression of stories through the ages. Most of these tales are from authors who lived in the 1800's, which in itself is a pleasure to read tales written in a time less centered on foul language and gory depictions. However, Mr. Finamore, in his introduction, advises that as we near(ed) the millenium, society's fascination with the devil may have an impact on us individually. To back this up, he provides us with tales of devilish deals sealed within the jaws of rats, the devil in the guise of a minstrel and a gambler, and bargains gone awry. Some of the stories I had never read before(such as the re-telling of the legend of Kathleen O'Shea), but most were old favorites, such as the infamous "The Devil and Daniel Webster", in which a patriot abuses old Scratch so badly you almost feel sorry for him. The best thing about this collection is that it brings together some old favorites, and adds a few to the list. Most compilations, however, progress(see any of the Greenberg/Weinberg collections), while this one starts classicly great and stays that way. The only disapointment is in the introduction, where you think that maybe Mr. Finamore was trying to assemble a classroom ready tome and not a study on the literary fascination with the devil. Then again, any collection that includes Caballero's "The Devil's Mother-In-Law", in which we see a demon fearing something more than every married man on earth has feared for centuries, has to be good.

Zuleika!!! The crys of Oxford's entire undergraduate body before hurtling into the Isis towards death echoed in my memory as I closed Beerbohm's little book. The book was excellent, but in parts I found myself asking- WHY?- so they die for love of Zuleika-then what? But the thinly stretched plot contains gems of scenes, of lines. (The Emperors on the Sheldonian sweating with premonition.) For someone who knows Oxford, the book is intensely funny- however it is not entirely dependent on locus- it is witty-poking fun at Greek drama, at the sense of Duty, sticking to ones word, at love even-though it, in itself bears similarity to Sophoclian play. In its absurdity the tragedy of death bears no real meaning-The race must continue! Definately A READ!

I have to admit that when the Top 100 list came out, I had never heard of this book or it's author. And yet, by itself, the revelation of this satirical baroque masterpiece justifies all the wretched dreck I've waded through on the List.

Zuleika Dobson is the beautiful young granddaughter of the Warden of Judas College at Oxford. She's been earning a living as a conjurer and is the toast of France and America. But Zuleika has never loved a man. She has determined that a woman of her superior beauty can only love a man who is so superior as to be oblivious to her charms. Thus far, there has been no such man.

Immediately on her arrival on campus, the entire student body falls madly in love with her. However, at dinner her first night the young Duke of Dorset seems indifferent. Could he be the man? Alas, it turns out that he too is smitten and when she discovers this she spurns him. Unused to such a dismissal, the Duke decides that he must kill himself & soon the whole College is ready to follow his example.

The book is a shrieking hoot from start to finish & the whole thing is rendered in an ornate prose that is wholly unique. Take this description of the Duke & his troll like flat mate Noaks:

Sensitive reader, start not at the apparition! Oxford is a plexus of anomalies.
These two youths were (odd as it may seem to you) subject to the same Statutes,
affiliated to the same College, reading for the same School; aye! and though the
one had inherited half a score of noble and castellated roofs, whose mere
repairs cost him annually thousands and thousands of pounds, and the other's
people had but one mean little square of lead, from which the fireworks of the
Crystal Palace were clearly visible every Thursday evening, in Oxford one roof
sheltered both of them. Furthermore, there was even some measure of intimacy
between them It was the Duke's whim to condescend further in the direction of
Noaks than in any other. He saw in Noaks his own foil and antithesis, and made
a point of walking up the High with him at least once in every term. Noaks, for
his part, regarded the Duke with feelings mingled of idolatry and disapproval.
The Duke's First in Mods oppressed him (who, by dint of dogged industry, had
scraped a Second) more than all the other differences between them. But the
dullard's envy of brilliant men is always assuaged by the suspicion that they
will come to a bad end. Noaks may have regarded the Duke as a rather pathetic
figure, on the whole.

Or this passage describing the suicidal yearnings of the student body:

You cannot make a man by standing a sheep on its hindlegs. But by standing a
flock of sheep in that position you can make a crowd of men. If man were not a
gregarious animal, the world might have achieved, by this time, some real
progress towards civilization. Segregate him, and he is no fool. But let him
loose among his fellows, and he is lost--he becomes just a unit in unreason. If
any one of the undergraduates had met Miss Dobson in the desert of Sahara, he
would have fallen in love with her; but not one in a thousand of them would have
wished to die because she did not love him. The Duke's was a peculiar case.
For him to fall in love was itself a violent peripety, bound to produce a
violent upheaval; and such was his pride that for his love to be unrequited
would naturally enamour him of death. these other, these quite ordinary, young
men were the victims less of Zuleika than of the Duke's example, and of one
another. A crowd, proportionately to its size, magnifies all that in its units
pertains to the emotions, and diminishes all that in them pertains to thought.
It was because these undergraduates were a crowd that their passion for Zuleika
was so intense; and it was because they were a crowd that they followed so
blindly the lead given to them. To die for Miss Dobson was 'the thing to do'.
The Duke was going to do it. The Junta was going to do it. It is a hateful
fact, but we must face the fact, that snobbishness was one of the springs to the
tragedy here chronicled.

I can't recommend this one highly enough.

Beerbohm was a great caricaturist, both in words and illustration, but Zuleika was, sadly, his only novel.

The first time you read it you will weep with laughter at the farcical hilarity of the situations that Beerbohm conjures up and the way that he describes them.

The second time you read it, you will weep be entranced by the beauty of the prose.

The third time you read it, you will realise that you have acquired a true friend in the book, which will live with you forever.

I have purchased countless copies of the book because I keep giving or lending copies to people ... and this is a book that once lent, never returns.

ALTHOUGH BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN, ZULIEKA DOBSON IS ESSENTIALLY THE WHOLE PLOT CENTERS ARROUND ONE JOKE.

IT SEEMS THAT ALL THE UNDERGRADUATES OF OXFORD HAVE FALLEN MADLY IN LOVE WITH THE WARDEN'S (DEAN'S)GRANDDAUGHTER. SINCE ZULIEKA REBUFFS THEIR LOVE THEY DECIDE TO COMMITTT MASS SUICIDE; WHICH THEY DO.

THE WHOLE PREMISE IS ZULIEKA AND THE DUKE ONE UPPING EACH OTHER ON TRYING TO PRETEND THAT THEY ARE NOT IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER.

Denmark's the spot, the exact spot, where, having been spotted eloping from Paris, thus spotting my reputation for spotlesness, I threw myself, over-bored, into swift-flowing prose exquisitely rendered unsound for lovers who--plash, splash, or should I say "splash, plash"? [I don't know. You're the author]--glimpsing themselves unglimpsed (and deservedly so, for "a glimpse is neither a perception nor an observation," she over-heard herself saying to no one in particular ear-shot--Shot? Who's been shot?--Not shot, drowned, drowned in the depths of my bed, mattress-side in the third degree of questioning why a single hotel room should exert such a singular fascination on so many under-graduated though possibly (whether permitting) over-educated young men, myself among them because somebody's got to hold the book while they read abed to sleep. Hans Christian Andersen--come out, come out, wherever you are, wherever you've been. Here I am, and I've been to Paris. Didn't you spot me there? No? Well, I spotted you. Ah, love! C'est la no more. That's enough. I've lost count, and I'll bet my boater you have, too, worn your boater out to see who's accruing who's crewing who. (Never mind the whys and wherefores. Just dip your oar, deep as it'll go, but not a wit deeper.)