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When the book first came out (1822), some reviewers thought it was Coleridge's work - Mr De Quincey had to prove he indeed wrote it. Despite the use of the word "Confessions" in th etitle, Mr De Quincey does not seem repentant or remorseful regarding his use of opium. In fact, Mr De Quincey believed that the use of opium released the "majestic intellect" of a person's mind, similiar to Dr Timothy Leary's view on LSD.
Those of you who are interested in pharmacology or drug addiction would be well served by reading this book. Mr De Quincey felt that his opium eating was actually beneficial to him and judging by his articulate arguments, one wonders is he could have been right.
Read it for yourself and see how this type of thing was handled in the nineteeth century.
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Klosterheim demonstrates the fascination with German themes that one sees in other Romantics and Victorians (Carlyle and Coleridge, for example). De Quincey was a loyal reader of German metaphysics, and perhaps one can see their influence here. One also wonders (and I am no expert, so take this with skepticism) how much Poe read of De Quincey.
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Unfortunately, that, and a few paragraphs depicting some truly macabre nightmares are the only noteworthy incidents in this book. Too often, De Quicey's labarynthine riffs doen't really lead anywhere. His writing style in some ways can be compared to another of his more illustrious contemporaries, Thomas Carlyle's. Both go in for elongated Latinate constructions, with modifier upon modifier and dependent and independent clauses ad infinitum. Carlyle, however, can pull it off. His great wit and energy of mind holds the center of the thought together, even as the rest of his sentence veers off into Baroque space. De Quincey is not an adept enough magician to perform this trick.
De Quincey's subject is himself. His mode of writing in this instance is primarily that of a diarist. This leads to comparisons with some other English diarists of note. Two that come immediately to mind are Defoe (A Journal of the Plague Year) and Pepys (the most famous of all). De Quincey doesn't hold up well in comparision. Defoe's journal is interesting because his subject matter is compelling, he's a great journalist (conveying to our mind's eye the events he depicts), and he gets to the point. Pepys is wonderful because he provides us a full panorama of life in London in the latter half of the 17th century. De Quincey is so absorbed in his solipsistic self-examination, that we as readers aren't even allowed to come up for air, much less see anything around us. That would even be permissable if the narrator were like Proust's Swann, who is at least likeable and self-effacing. Not so De Quincey. He interupts his own narrative on countless occasions to tell us what a splendid scholar he is and (to borrow a phrase from Ophelia) "what a great mind is here o'erthrown." He peppers the text with words like "heautontimoroumenos" to indicate that he is learned in Greek. Throughout the narrative, he is in way to big a hurry to impress these points upon the reader, instead of allowing the reader to judge for him/herself.
If you want to know what it's like to be a junkie, read Burroughs. If you want to read some painfully constructed English prose, give this one a go.
BK
The Confessions, in a nutshell, begin by recounting De Quincey's early life and the events that led him to begin taking opium. The rest of the tale deals with his problems with opium and his dreams that came from taking the drug. The original version isn't that long of a read, but his revision notes add considerable length, and for the most part weren't as interesting as the 1821 original.
De Quincey's prose is absolutely amazing. He is one of the most gifted writers I've had the pleasure to read (up to this date). Many times I felt as though I was lifted up by his words and carried directly into his world. I've yet to have as profound an experience with any other author. De Quincey can also be difficult. His grasp of the English language will leave many modern readers scratching their heads. Footnotes and notes by the editor help, but a dictionary will find heavy use during the reading of this book. So those with short attention spans, be forewarned. You won't survive this book. Also, De Quincey received a classical education. He makes heavy use of Greek names, places and other classical references. He even uses Greek words in the text (although notes provide translations). I can read Greek and have studied classical history, so I got most of his references and in jokes. This is one of the things that impressed me about De Quincey. He mentioned early on that he could speak classical Greek fluently. Anyone who has studied Greek realizes how difficult this is to do. Even Romans had trouble speaking Greek fluently, so much so that it is mentioned in various historical works when an emperor could do so. The fact that De Quincey can do this is a sign of his deep intellectual abilities. I can only imagine how prolific he might have been if he had not been saddled with an opiate addiction.
An amazing book and one I highly recommend to those who are prepared to read and understand it. For those looking for a justification for drug use, look elsewhere!
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On the other hand, though, there is always the problem of trying to reduce the way a writer writes to environment, and alas, this book is guilty of that flaw much too often. It tries, above all, to read De Quincey by focusing on British imperialism, which seems to me to be fundamentally silly. Here is the rub: if one wants to prove that writer X writes in manner Y, then one has to build a gigantic theoretical treehouse when there is usually a much simpler explanation--and much more convincing one--to be found IN THE TEXT ITSELF. Surely context is important. But text is more important than context, and this is what this book, however intelligent, refuses to acknowledge.
However, when the book focuses on De Quincey's individual psychology--and it does often--it is very good.
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True, it does not have Alethea Hayter's introduction, like the Penguin edition has; that being a point in that one's favour. But here you -also- get the entire -Suspiria de Profundis-, which is in many ways more beautiful and interesting than the Opium Eater itself. -Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow- must surely be the single greatest prose poem ever written in English.
The -Suspiria- was intended as a sequel to the -Opium Eater-, and those who enjoy the one will want them both.