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Hemlock and After
Published in 1952 in England, Hemlock and After, Angus Wilson's first novel, was considered so shocking that his American publisher refused to accept it. Bernard Sands--novelist, liberal, humanist--sets out to establish a writers' colony which is to be the climax of his career. But Sands has powerful enemies, and his own life is also complicated by his wife's illness and his own homosexual affairs.
245 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1952
11 people are currently reading
395 people want to read
About the author
Angus Wilson
89 books42 followersSir Angus Frank Johnstone Wilson, KBE (11 August 1913 – 31 May 1991) was an English novelist and short story writer. He was awarded the 1958 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for The Middle Age of Mrs Eliot and later received a knighthood for his services to literature.
Wilson was born in Bexhill, Sussex, England, to an English father and South African mother. He was educated at Westminster School and Merton College, Oxford, and in 1937 became a librarian in the British Museum's Department of Printed Books, working on the new General Catalogue. During World War II, he worked in the Naval section Hut 8 at the code-breaking establishment, Bletchley Park, translating Italian Naval codes.
The work situation was stressful and led to a nervous breakdown, for which he was treated by Rolf-Werner Kosterlitz. He returned to the Museum after the end of the War, and it was there that he met Tony Garrett (born 1929), who was to be his companion for the rest of his life.
Wilson's first publication was a collection of short stories, The Wrong Set (1949), followed quickly by the daring novel Hemlock and After, which was a great success, prompting invitations to lecture in Europe.
He worked as a reviewer, and in 1955 he resigned from the British Museum to write full-time (although his financial situation did not justify doing so) and moved to Suffolk.
From 1957 he gave lectures further afield, in Japan, Switzerland, Australia, and the USA. He was appointed a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in 1968, and received many literary honours in succeeding years. He was knighted in 1980, and was President of the Royal Society of Literature from 1983 to 1988. His remaining years were affected by ill health, and he died of a stroke at a nursing home in Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, on 31 May 1991, aged 77.
His writing, which has a strongly satirical vein, expresses his concern with preserving a liberal humanistic outlook in the face of fashionable doctrinaire temptations. Several of his works were adapted for television. He was Professor of English Literature at the University of East Anglia from 1966 to 1978, and jointly helped to establish their creative writing course at masters level in 1970, which was then a groundbreaking initiative in the United Kingdom.
Wilson was born in Bexhill, Sussex, England, to an English father and South African mother. He was educated at Westminster School and Merton College, Oxford, and in 1937 became a librarian in the British Museum's Department of Printed Books, working on the new General Catalogue. During World War II, he worked in the Naval section Hut 8 at the code-breaking establishment, Bletchley Park, translating Italian Naval codes.
The work situation was stressful and led to a nervous breakdown, for which he was treated by Rolf-Werner Kosterlitz. He returned to the Museum after the end of the War, and it was there that he met Tony Garrett (born 1929), who was to be his companion for the rest of his life.
Wilson's first publication was a collection of short stories, The Wrong Set (1949), followed quickly by the daring novel Hemlock and After, which was a great success, prompting invitations to lecture in Europe.
He worked as a reviewer, and in 1955 he resigned from the British Museum to write full-time (although his financial situation did not justify doing so) and moved to Suffolk.
From 1957 he gave lectures further afield, in Japan, Switzerland, Australia, and the USA. He was appointed a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in 1968, and received many literary honours in succeeding years. He was knighted in 1980, and was President of the Royal Society of Literature from 1983 to 1988. His remaining years were affected by ill health, and he died of a stroke at a nursing home in Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, on 31 May 1991, aged 77.
His writing, which has a strongly satirical vein, expresses his concern with preserving a liberal humanistic outlook in the face of fashionable doctrinaire temptations. Several of his works were adapted for television. He was Professor of English Literature at the University of East Anglia from 1966 to 1978, and jointly helped to establish their creative writing course at masters level in 1970, which was then a groundbreaking initiative in the United Kingdom.
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Displaying 1 - 23 of 23 reviews
February 15, 2012
You're a successful writer and you've just secured funding to open Vardon Hall, a writers' collective and, hopefully, the next big thing in English letters. Your wife is deeply unhappy. Your son is a barrister and a snob. Your daughter is an unhappy fashion journalist. Your brother-in-law is an alcoholic mess. You're gay. Terence is younger than your son, and you're sort of going off him anyway. He's drifting towards the awful Sherman. The awful Sherman met your daughter at a party and let slip your secret. The new teenager in your life is Eric. He's come to you for an education. Eric's awful mother thinks you're great so long as she can pretend she doesn't know the truth. In other news, your sister and her friend want you to lead their "communist / socialist / whatever" group thingie.
The real problem is that you've been in conflict with the truly awful Mrs Curry. She had her own plans for buying Vardon Hall and has campaigned against you. Her life, it turns out, is as complicated as yours and much, much seedier....
I loved this! In real life Angus Wilson invented the UEA Creative Writing MA, you know. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UEA_Crea...
I had the Faber Finds edition. It's really bad for typos.
"'Terence,' [Sherman] said, 'is battling at the bar. It suits him to the ground. Pure Barkers' sales. Bless his little Kensington heart. Bernard, my dear, you look tired ... oh I know, bitching me! Tired equals old. You must make him rest dear,' he said to Eric; 'you know, feet up and forty winks. Not that I should think you’d be much good at making people rest,' he stared Eric up and down; 'you look like a proper little fidget to me.'"
"Mrs Curry took refuge for a moment in licking her little lips, then she said, '... I like life to be happy and cosy, you know.'
'Do you?' said Ella. 'Well. I'm afraid it isn't.'
'It can be if we make it. It's just a question of live and let live, really, isn’t it?' Mrs Curry reproved.
'I've rather been out of the world for some time,' Ella replied, 'but I'm afraid I've found it more a case of die and let die.'"
The real problem is that you've been in conflict with the truly awful Mrs Curry. She had her own plans for buying Vardon Hall and has campaigned against you. Her life, it turns out, is as complicated as yours and much, much seedier....
I loved this! In real life Angus Wilson invented the UEA Creative Writing MA, you know. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UEA_Crea...
I had the Faber Finds edition. It's really bad for typos.
"'Terence,' [Sherman] said, 'is battling at the bar. It suits him to the ground. Pure Barkers' sales. Bless his little Kensington heart. Bernard, my dear, you look tired ... oh I know, bitching me! Tired equals old. You must make him rest dear,' he said to Eric; 'you know, feet up and forty winks. Not that I should think you’d be much good at making people rest,' he stared Eric up and down; 'you look like a proper little fidget to me.'"
"Mrs Curry took refuge for a moment in licking her little lips, then she said, '... I like life to be happy and cosy, you know.'
'Do you?' said Ella. 'Well. I'm afraid it isn't.'
'It can be if we make it. It's just a question of live and let live, really, isn’t it?' Mrs Curry reproved.
'I've rather been out of the world for some time,' Ella replied, 'but I'm afraid I've found it more a case of die and let die.'"
July 24, 2024
As Angus Wilson’s preliminary novel, ‘Hemlock and After’, is conceivably the least agreeable by any standard. Though the premise of homosexuality is treated diagonally and in a delicately roundabout manner in order to salt away our feelings, it proves derisory even for a short novel of about 250 pages.
The pseudo-murky homosexual underworld - inhabited by 'queers", "queens", "pansies" and "proteges"- is cloaked in a miasma of murky indications, insinuations, innuendoes and restrained psychology. This is perplexing to the amateur and the dilettante.
Bernard Sands, an ageing novelist, pampers his protracted and hitherto introverted homosexual inclinations with heartrending consequences. His wife suffers a grim nervous breakdown and his children are estranged. He himself suffers deeply from the variance of his dual life and loses reliance in his darling project of Vardon Hall, a cultural centre for young writers, which he has built up by laudable endeavor. He dies unexpectedly from a stroke before resolving the conflict.
Of the slight characters the most imperative is the malevolent but honey-tongued Mrs. Curity. Curity runs a brothel under the guise of propriety. She and her associates are brought to book through the vigorous action of Mrs. Sand who makes an incredible recovery.
Kerry McSweeney writes: 'One of the shortcomings of Hemlock and After is that the Leicester Square scene is rather too stagy and insufficiently prepared for. Sands is moved too quickly from a time of almost "complete bliss" to the incapacitating shock of recognition that begins his slide towards death. As a result the reader never really becomes convinced of his internal evil or considers it as serious a matter as Sands himself does. Another reason for this failure to convince fully has to do with the conventional limitations of 1952 concerning the degree of sexual explicitness allowable in a novel. One does understand that Sands's interests in comely homosexuals are not simply benevolent and preceptorial; but no attempt is made to depict the physical side of his taste for young male flesh...'
Too many miracles in a span of 250 odd pages if truth be told.
The pseudo-murky homosexual underworld - inhabited by 'queers", "queens", "pansies" and "proteges"- is cloaked in a miasma of murky indications, insinuations, innuendoes and restrained psychology. This is perplexing to the amateur and the dilettante.
Bernard Sands, an ageing novelist, pampers his protracted and hitherto introverted homosexual inclinations with heartrending consequences. His wife suffers a grim nervous breakdown and his children are estranged. He himself suffers deeply from the variance of his dual life and loses reliance in his darling project of Vardon Hall, a cultural centre for young writers, which he has built up by laudable endeavor. He dies unexpectedly from a stroke before resolving the conflict.
Of the slight characters the most imperative is the malevolent but honey-tongued Mrs. Curity. Curity runs a brothel under the guise of propriety. She and her associates are brought to book through the vigorous action of Mrs. Sand who makes an incredible recovery.
Kerry McSweeney writes: 'One of the shortcomings of Hemlock and After is that the Leicester Square scene is rather too stagy and insufficiently prepared for. Sands is moved too quickly from a time of almost "complete bliss" to the incapacitating shock of recognition that begins his slide towards death. As a result the reader never really becomes convinced of his internal evil or considers it as serious a matter as Sands himself does. Another reason for this failure to convince fully has to do with the conventional limitations of 1952 concerning the degree of sexual explicitness allowable in a novel. One does understand that Sands's interests in comely homosexuals are not simply benevolent and preceptorial; but no attempt is made to depict the physical side of his taste for young male flesh...'
Too many miracles in a span of 250 odd pages if truth be told.
June 20, 2020
Virtually unreadable for me, in the way that Ivy Compton-Burnett is virtually unreadable. Right out of the gate it was so stagy and twee I immediately lost focus and never regained it. There was however one passage I enjoyed:
The poet, whose blue serge suit and row of fountain-pen heads in his breast pocket were all too reminiscent of the bank clerk of Hubert's earlier warning, had not been mellowed by drink like the other speakers. He was less accustomed to it. He spoke very fast, with a stutter and a tendency to sudden falsetto. Few of those inside the house, and none of those in the garden, ever fully grasped that he was reciting from his own works. The words that came to them were therefore peculiarly incomprehensible. At intervals the amplifiers carried strange phrases to the tired crowd, adding to their sense of isolation or provoking hysterical giggles as a defence against their embarrassment. 'Hyaena false or more', 'and artery for rice exchange', or 'Unloved, unsired, Nestorian stripped' were teasers that even the most competition-minded preferred to greet with philistine laughter under such blazing sun. If it was for this that their largesse of spirit and pocket had been asked, there were few that did not feel the great cause to be undeserving. (p. 155)
The poet, whose blue serge suit and row of fountain-pen heads in his breast pocket were all too reminiscent of the bank clerk of Hubert's earlier warning, had not been mellowed by drink like the other speakers. He was less accustomed to it. He spoke very fast, with a stutter and a tendency to sudden falsetto. Few of those inside the house, and none of those in the garden, ever fully grasped that he was reciting from his own works. The words that came to them were therefore peculiarly incomprehensible. At intervals the amplifiers carried strange phrases to the tired crowd, adding to their sense of isolation or provoking hysterical giggles as a defence against their embarrassment. 'Hyaena false or more', 'and artery for rice exchange', or 'Unloved, unsired, Nestorian stripped' were teasers that even the most competition-minded preferred to greet with philistine laughter under such blazing sun. If it was for this that their largesse of spirit and pocket had been asked, there were few that did not feel the great cause to be undeserving. (p. 155)
January 23, 2019
Angus Wilson's (Sir Angus Frank Johnstone Wilson) first novel is at first a social novel - a novel about social mores and prejudices - that works its way through a sizable cast of characters through all their ideals and beliefs, ideas and mannerisms. It is more so a 'society' novel in the way an ageing novelist, who wants to set up a sort of residence school for young and aspiring authors, finds his ideals shaken and challenged by the very people that surround him - be it his ailing wife, his snobbish son and daughter-in-law, his dysphoric daughter, a young and eager lover (he is gay, by the way!), his ranting former lover, and other people of influence and literary stalwarts from his era. The culmination of the novel is in the inauguration of Vardon Hall - the establishment for young and aspiring writers - where the author's inaugural speech ends in farce and moral and personal disaster. It was soon after this event that we see the author, Bernard Sands, dead from angina (he was on digitalis) and his wife taking the charge of the proceedings for the establishments. In this midst we see a scandal erupting between the family and some of their acquaintances, most notably Hubert Rose, a friend, and the scheming and insufferable Mrs Curry, who had her own designs for Vardon Hall. The novel ends with Mrs Curry and her son going to jail and Hubert Rose committing suicide.
The only drawback that I see from this brilliant first work by Wilson are the innumerable side plots and characters that fill most of the work, and especially the dialogues that become too long and overworked most of the times. Mostly I felt confused and all at sea when it came to a certain passage because of the innumerable cast of characters and plot line.
Angus Wilson, after working at numerous jobs both before and during the WWII, published a short story collection The Wrong Set in 1949 to wide acclaim. This was followed by this daring work - daring in the sense that this was one of the first works of literature that cast into light gay relationships - that was quite bold in the 1950s. Wilson ruled the literary scene in the 1950s and 60s, and he has similarities with another author from the same period, Iris Murdoch. Indeed he made great claims as a serious novelist of superior calibre with this work published in 1952.
The only drawback that I see from this brilliant first work by Wilson are the innumerable side plots and characters that fill most of the work, and especially the dialogues that become too long and overworked most of the times. Mostly I felt confused and all at sea when it came to a certain passage because of the innumerable cast of characters and plot line.
Angus Wilson, after working at numerous jobs both before and during the WWII, published a short story collection The Wrong Set in 1949 to wide acclaim. This was followed by this daring work - daring in the sense that this was one of the first works of literature that cast into light gay relationships - that was quite bold in the 1950s. Wilson ruled the literary scene in the 1950s and 60s, and he has similarities with another author from the same period, Iris Murdoch. Indeed he made great claims as a serious novelist of superior calibre with this work published in 1952.
September 22, 2019
I don’t see myself as a quitter but - here I go again – I can’t take any more of this, after reading a third or so.
Perhaps it has not aged well. Written in 1951, its middle class characters prissily play with life rather than live it. They have their bits of rough on the side. Bernard, the central character, is a pretentious louse of a man, married to Ella who escapes his world by going mad. Understandable. But I keep reaching for my imaginary baseball bat … This is endangering my well-being, it’s time to bale out.. I will aim for something a bit more earthy next time.
2* based on what I’ve read.
Perhaps it has not aged well. Written in 1951, its middle class characters prissily play with life rather than live it. They have their bits of rough on the side. Bernard, the central character, is a pretentious louse of a man, married to Ella who escapes his world by going mad. Understandable. But I keep reaching for my imaginary baseball bat … This is endangering my well-being, it’s time to bale out.. I will aim for something a bit more earthy next time.
2* based on what I’ve read.
March 4, 2019
I love the Backlisted podcast. Hosted by Andy Miller and John Mitchinson, Backlisted shines a light on out of print novels written by authors who were well known, even famous when they were publishing, but now have faded into the mists of obscurity. Or as Andy and John put it: They Give New Life To Old Books.
What’s wonderful about the podcast is that you don’t have to have read the novel they’re talking about. They speak with such passion, and such authority, helped by a bevy of erudite guests who truly know their shit, that you always feel part of the discussion. I’ve been listening to the podcast for two years and it’s only this year that I’ve decided to read along. (Last year the episode about Berg by Ann Quin was so damn good I ended up reading the novel. Glad I did. It turned out to be one of my favourite works of 2018). If I had more spare time (I don’t) I’d consider copying the Backlisted concept and producing a genre version.*
The reason I’ve decided to follow along is that I’m trying to fill the massive gaps in my reading library. For years, all I read was Doctor Who novelisations, which is fine enough, but it means while I can speak a great deal about Terrance Dicks I know fuck all about Jean Rhys, Anita Brookner and Patrick Hamilton (just to name a random few). Because I’m a middle-aged man set in my ways I skipped Backlisted’s first two books for 2019 - D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow and Jilly Cooper’s Imogen. (I’m having regrets not reading the Cooper, so I may go back it).
Anyway, that’s a very long introduction - which I have no intention of cutting back - to say that I read Hemlock and After by Angus Wilson (the topic of episode 85 of Backlisted). I have never heard of Angus Wilson, and so it was sobering to discover that he was an outwardly gay man at a time when it was a crime; that he cracked codes with Alan Turing at Bletchley; and, as the podcast points out, he worked hard to decriminalize homosexuality. Unfortunately, for reason that are too complicated to go into now (seriously listen to the podcast) he fell out of favour and as a consequence, it would appear that today very few people read his work. This is a shame because Hemlock and After, his debut novel, while overstuffed with characters and ideas (much like many first novels) is a cracking read, funny and melodramatic and undercut with darkness and tragedy.
The novel was published in 1952 and describes the events of very hot summer in the UK during 1951. Famous author Bernard Sands (who presciently has started falling out of favour with the literary establishment) has used whatever influence he has to have Vardon Hall turned into a residency for young writers. It’s a move that gets lukewarm support from the townspeople of Vardon and pisses off Mrs Vera Curry, described as “an elephant figure of Mabel Lucie Attwell chubbiness,” who, as a woman of many interests, intended to turn the Hall into a hotel (and probably brothel). Mrs Curry is one of the great villains of English literature (I say this with zero authority) and if I didn’t know any better (I don’t) she reads like a template for Frank Herbert’s Baron Harkonnen.
What’s striking about this novel is that it deals, unambiguously, with homosexuality, infidelity and paedophilia. It’s bold, not just because Wilson writes about queer life when it was a crime but because he provides an insight into the scene in the 50s, illustrating the divide between the older homosexuals and the contemporary queer man or “butterfly spiv.” We discover that Bernard, married with two children, has had a sexual reawakening and now courts young men (I should point out that they are over-age, Bernard is not the novel’s paedophile). His struggle to come to terms with his sexual identity, an identity that he (obviously) keeps secret from his family, is the driving force of the novel.
Hemlock and After also deals with mental health issues. Wilson, who suffered from depression, portrays Ella Sands - who has had a mental breakdown, unrelated to her husband’s proclivities - with a great deal of compassion and an appreciation of the confusion, the sense of dislocation and fear. Ella Sands is a tragic figure and yet she has agency. Not to spoil the ending but she becomes the hero of the piece.
The novel also has this wicked sense of humour, sometimes spiteful, but often just plain cynical and satirical. The centrepiece for this, where Willson shows off his chops, is the opening of Vardon Hall. The way Wilson walks us through the impending disaster is a terrific example of black comedy at its most laugh out loud funny but also cringe-worthy and vicious.
Hemlock and After isn’t a perfect novel by any stretch. There are too many characters, not all of them adequately fleshed out. For example, the affair between Bernard’s daughter and one of Bernard’s lovers feels like an afterthought, clunky and compressed even if it does that rare thing of depicting a bi-sexual relationship. Bernard’s son and daughter-in-law are treated poorly, caricatures with no redeemable features. But their nastiness is linked back to another theme of the novel, Bernard and Ella’s poor effort as parents.
There’s a great deal going on in Hemlock and After that I haven’t touched upon. The novel deals with class, it deals with the communist movement, a member of which is Bernards older sister, and it deals with the changing face of village life. All of this packed into 90,000 delightful, florid, often funny words.
Will I read more Wilson? I’d like to think so. But even if I don’t I’m glad Backlisted introduced me to Hemlock and After.
*Starting with an episode about Thomas Disch.
What’s wonderful about the podcast is that you don’t have to have read the novel they’re talking about. They speak with such passion, and such authority, helped by a bevy of erudite guests who truly know their shit, that you always feel part of the discussion. I’ve been listening to the podcast for two years and it’s only this year that I’ve decided to read along. (Last year the episode about Berg by Ann Quin was so damn good I ended up reading the novel. Glad I did. It turned out to be one of my favourite works of 2018). If I had more spare time (I don’t) I’d consider copying the Backlisted concept and producing a genre version.*
The reason I’ve decided to follow along is that I’m trying to fill the massive gaps in my reading library. For years, all I read was Doctor Who novelisations, which is fine enough, but it means while I can speak a great deal about Terrance Dicks I know fuck all about Jean Rhys, Anita Brookner and Patrick Hamilton (just to name a random few). Because I’m a middle-aged man set in my ways I skipped Backlisted’s first two books for 2019 - D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow and Jilly Cooper’s Imogen. (I’m having regrets not reading the Cooper, so I may go back it).
Anyway, that’s a very long introduction - which I have no intention of cutting back - to say that I read Hemlock and After by Angus Wilson (the topic of episode 85 of Backlisted). I have never heard of Angus Wilson, and so it was sobering to discover that he was an outwardly gay man at a time when it was a crime; that he cracked codes with Alan Turing at Bletchley; and, as the podcast points out, he worked hard to decriminalize homosexuality. Unfortunately, for reason that are too complicated to go into now (seriously listen to the podcast) he fell out of favour and as a consequence, it would appear that today very few people read his work. This is a shame because Hemlock and After, his debut novel, while overstuffed with characters and ideas (much like many first novels) is a cracking read, funny and melodramatic and undercut with darkness and tragedy.
The novel was published in 1952 and describes the events of very hot summer in the UK during 1951. Famous author Bernard Sands (who presciently has started falling out of favour with the literary establishment) has used whatever influence he has to have Vardon Hall turned into a residency for young writers. It’s a move that gets lukewarm support from the townspeople of Vardon and pisses off Mrs Vera Curry, described as “an elephant figure of Mabel Lucie Attwell chubbiness,” who, as a woman of many interests, intended to turn the Hall into a hotel (and probably brothel). Mrs Curry is one of the great villains of English literature (I say this with zero authority) and if I didn’t know any better (I don’t) she reads like a template for Frank Herbert’s Baron Harkonnen.
What’s striking about this novel is that it deals, unambiguously, with homosexuality, infidelity and paedophilia. It’s bold, not just because Wilson writes about queer life when it was a crime but because he provides an insight into the scene in the 50s, illustrating the divide between the older homosexuals and the contemporary queer man or “butterfly spiv.” We discover that Bernard, married with two children, has had a sexual reawakening and now courts young men (I should point out that they are over-age, Bernard is not the novel’s paedophile). His struggle to come to terms with his sexual identity, an identity that he (obviously) keeps secret from his family, is the driving force of the novel.
Hemlock and After also deals with mental health issues. Wilson, who suffered from depression, portrays Ella Sands - who has had a mental breakdown, unrelated to her husband’s proclivities - with a great deal of compassion and an appreciation of the confusion, the sense of dislocation and fear. Ella Sands is a tragic figure and yet she has agency. Not to spoil the ending but she becomes the hero of the piece.
The novel also has this wicked sense of humour, sometimes spiteful, but often just plain cynical and satirical. The centrepiece for this, where Willson shows off his chops, is the opening of Vardon Hall. The way Wilson walks us through the impending disaster is a terrific example of black comedy at its most laugh out loud funny but also cringe-worthy and vicious.
Hemlock and After isn’t a perfect novel by any stretch. There are too many characters, not all of them adequately fleshed out. For example, the affair between Bernard’s daughter and one of Bernard’s lovers feels like an afterthought, clunky and compressed even if it does that rare thing of depicting a bi-sexual relationship. Bernard’s son and daughter-in-law are treated poorly, caricatures with no redeemable features. But their nastiness is linked back to another theme of the novel, Bernard and Ella’s poor effort as parents.
There’s a great deal going on in Hemlock and After that I haven’t touched upon. The novel deals with class, it deals with the communist movement, a member of which is Bernards older sister, and it deals with the changing face of village life. All of this packed into 90,000 delightful, florid, often funny words.
Will I read more Wilson? I’d like to think so. But even if I don’t I’m glad Backlisted introduced me to Hemlock and After.
*Starting with an episode about Thomas Disch.
April 18, 2020
“La cicuta e dopo” è il primo romanzo di Angus Wilson, scritto febbrilmente nel 1951, in un mese, durante una vacanza estiva.
Siamo negli anni ’50 in Inghilterra, in piena “Guerra Fredda”. Il libro si apre con una notizia trionfante per Bernard Sands, sessantenne, considerato come «gran padre delle lettere» e «enfant terrible» del suo paese e protagonista dell’opera: il Ministero delle Finanze gli ha annunciato, attraverso una rispettosa lettera, il consenso ufficiale per la concessione di Vardon Hall, uno storico edificio che, nelle mani di Bernard Sands, si presta a diventare un rifugio sicuro per poeti, letterati e artisti, più in generale, da quelle «varie mascherature che assume nel mondo letterario il principio di potere – editori, direttori, critici, comitati culturali, pubblico –», oltre che l’appoggio finanziario per realizzare questo progetto. Progetto che ha dovuto concorrere con quello di Mrs Curry, donna subdola, sin troppo melliflua, votata all’egoismo e al tornaconto personale, che di Vardon Hall aveva intenzione di fare un albergo. Sin dal primo capitolo si respira così aria di burrasca: quella vittoria ottenuta da Sands si subodora sin dall’inizio porterà a uno scontro tra lui e chi lo appoggia e Mrs Curry e i suoi seguaci.
Nella vita di Bernard Sands, tuttavia, c’è altro: Ella, sua moglie, tanto per incominciare, coi suoi problemi depressivi; James, suo figlio, sposato con Sofia, padre di due figli – Nicola e Jennifer –, conservatore, privo di dignità, di spina dorsale, incline a far di tutto perché la sua reputazione non venga compromessa e antitetico a Bernard; Elizabeth, sua figlia, dedita al lavoro e solo a quello. Ma Sands ha anche una relazione amorosa con Eric, giovane bellezza inglese, così immaturo, spaesato, sulle nuvole da ispirare pietà, e figlio di Celia Craddock, ricca vedova, così fastidiosamente invadente la vita dei suoi figli – vi è anche Alan, infatti, fratello maggiore di Eric – da provocare un moto di insopprimibile disappunto.
Nelle diverse personalità che Angus Wilson presenta in questo romanzo sottile, arguto, complesso, profondo e turbante, vengono riflessi gli atteggiamenti e le disposizioni di tutti gli uomini e le donne inglesi (e non solo): ciascuno di essi, infatti, sembra dirci Wilson, presenta due facce: quella apparente ammantata di buone maniere, linguaggi forbiti, ideali altissimi e valori profondi e quella che non si svela, ma che agisce nell’ombra, un’ombra che è spesso tale anche per noi, giacché «[è] pur vero che nessuno di noi esamina i propri moventi troppo da vicino.»
Allora, sulla base di questa palese incongruenza, ecco ergersi l’ipocrisia della società, non solo quella inglese degli anni ’50, ovviamente, ma di tutte le società, di tutte le epoche, e non solo nel pubblico, ma anche nel privato: Angus Wilson con questo romanzo sembra gridare a squarciagola, parafrasando la famosa frase della favola anderseniana, “La società è nuda! La società è nuda!”.
Già, l’ipocrisia e l’egoismo regolano il comportamento di tutti i personaggi de “La cicuta e dopo”, compreso quello del protagonista che, spaventato ed eccitato allo stesso tempo nell’assistere all’arresto di un uomo per tentato adescamento nei suoi confronti, ad esempio, non suffraga la tesi del poliziotto che sostiene l’abbia tentato davvero di adescare, ma nemmeno fa alcunché per impedire che tale arresto avvenga. Fondamentalmente, le reazioni di Bernard sono quelle del “sadico invischiato” – che è passibile di subire il medesimo torto della vittima –, ossia di chi non è interessato davvero alle condizioni, al destino dell’altro, ma solo del suo, solo a sé stesso, anche se apparentemente ciò non sembra: in questo consta la sua ipocrisia, la sua falsa facciata di uomo interessato prodigalmente agli altri.
Che cos’è allora che rende turbanti questi personaggi? Ciò che spesso non abbiamo noi: la consapevolezza di sé stessi, quel coraggio di scendere fino in fondo, di gettare uno sguardo, ma che dico?!, di entrare proprio completamente in quell’ombra di cui sopra ed esplorarla, osservando il vuoto che vi si prospetta. Sì, Wilson denuncia così una intollerabile lacuna nell’umanità, una ingiustificabile mancanza: la consapevolezza di sé. Dalla sua assenza discendono sciagure. Il giorno dell’inaugurazione di Vardon Hall, attesissimo evento, da questo punto di vista, sarà in realtà il momento in cui troveranno sfogo tutte le ipocrisie che hanno avuto l’opportunità di crescere e sedimentarsi; in cui i rancori, gli screzi velati, le false amicizie, i falsi apprezzamenti si sveleranno; in cui i diversi personaggi acquisiranno un principio di consapevolezza di loro. Il discorso di Bernard Sands è il momento topico del libro; un discorso che in molti non capiscono, e come potrebbero se esso è ispirato da quel processo di consapevolezza di sé che in molti manca?
Qual è dunque lo spettro delle possibilità che ci viene offerto, rebus sic stantibus? Forse quello, unico, richiamato dal titolo? Sì, ok, la cicuta. Ma dopo? Angus Wilson lamentava in una intervista del 1963 a Frank Kermode – critico letterario e accademico britannico – di non aver avuto abbastanza tempo per sviluppare gli aspetti «mitologici» del romanzo, pure presenti. Dal titolo, tuttavia, capiamo subito l’evidente riferimento a Socrate e il ruolo al quale ambisce il duo Bernard-Angus, ossia di «corruttore della peraltro fin troppo disposta gioventù londinese con il pericoloso vangelo dell’Arte», proprio come lo era stato Socrate – corruttore – con la gioventù del suo tempo per i capziosi sofisti… Il “Socrate”, però, che ci presenta Wilson, come ci fa notare Guido Fink, che ci fa dono di una stupenda e interessantissima prefazione all’opera, è «il Socrate rovesciato di Nietzsche, emblema di una cultura sbriciolata in sterili frammenti, di un mondo alessandrino ridotto a cimitero dell’arte.» Il “dopo”, così, discende da quell’amara presa di consapevolezza di sé – la “cicuta” – che Wilson, per la verità senza crederci troppo, ritiene debba avvenire.
Questo, bisogna essere onesti, è un romanzo complessissimo e avvincente al contempo, con molteplici piani di lettura. Il linguaggio è colto e ricco di citazioni di autori del passato: ciò, come tutto nel romanzo, non è casuale – persino il titolo dell’ultimo romanzo fortunato di Bernard Sands, “The Player Queen” (“La regina primadonna”), non è casuale: esso fa esplicito riferimento a una famosa scena dell’”Amleto” che «nasconde in cifra le tendenze alla dissimulazione, alla «recita» e alle pratiche gay», come ci ricorda ancora Fink. Attraverso il suo linguaggio, Wilson vuole forse mostrarci i fasti della “grande letteratura” rispetto alle avanguardie stilistiche del Modernismo che si affacciavano in quel periodo e verso le quali egli era dubbioso. Non vi è invece dubbio alcuno sul fatto che Angus Wilson getti uno sguardo a Charles Dickens, a Jane Austen, a William M. Thackeray, a George Eliot per ricavare la lezione “terapeutica” «contro il disordine, le contraddizioni, l’ipocrisia di troppi «atteggiamenti anglosassoni».» Lezione che si può facilmente estendere…
Se Charles Dickens e Jane Austen sono stati i degni “cronisti” del loro tempo e della loro società, allora non ho tema di dire che ritengo Angus Wilson l’ingiustamente dimenticato cronista del suo tempo e della sua società e come loro esprimente un messaggio che ha valore imperituro.
Se anche solo uno tra coloro che leggeranno queste mie righe sarà spinto a leggere questo libro, a conoscere questo autore scorrettamente dimenticato, allora sarà davvero valso a qualcosa scriverle…
Siamo negli anni ’50 in Inghilterra, in piena “Guerra Fredda”. Il libro si apre con una notizia trionfante per Bernard Sands, sessantenne, considerato come «gran padre delle lettere» e «enfant terrible» del suo paese e protagonista dell’opera: il Ministero delle Finanze gli ha annunciato, attraverso una rispettosa lettera, il consenso ufficiale per la concessione di Vardon Hall, uno storico edificio che, nelle mani di Bernard Sands, si presta a diventare un rifugio sicuro per poeti, letterati e artisti, più in generale, da quelle «varie mascherature che assume nel mondo letterario il principio di potere – editori, direttori, critici, comitati culturali, pubblico –», oltre che l’appoggio finanziario per realizzare questo progetto. Progetto che ha dovuto concorrere con quello di Mrs Curry, donna subdola, sin troppo melliflua, votata all’egoismo e al tornaconto personale, che di Vardon Hall aveva intenzione di fare un albergo. Sin dal primo capitolo si respira così aria di burrasca: quella vittoria ottenuta da Sands si subodora sin dall’inizio porterà a uno scontro tra lui e chi lo appoggia e Mrs Curry e i suoi seguaci.
Nella vita di Bernard Sands, tuttavia, c’è altro: Ella, sua moglie, tanto per incominciare, coi suoi problemi depressivi; James, suo figlio, sposato con Sofia, padre di due figli – Nicola e Jennifer –, conservatore, privo di dignità, di spina dorsale, incline a far di tutto perché la sua reputazione non venga compromessa e antitetico a Bernard; Elizabeth, sua figlia, dedita al lavoro e solo a quello. Ma Sands ha anche una relazione amorosa con Eric, giovane bellezza inglese, così immaturo, spaesato, sulle nuvole da ispirare pietà, e figlio di Celia Craddock, ricca vedova, così fastidiosamente invadente la vita dei suoi figli – vi è anche Alan, infatti, fratello maggiore di Eric – da provocare un moto di insopprimibile disappunto.
Nelle diverse personalità che Angus Wilson presenta in questo romanzo sottile, arguto, complesso, profondo e turbante, vengono riflessi gli atteggiamenti e le disposizioni di tutti gli uomini e le donne inglesi (e non solo): ciascuno di essi, infatti, sembra dirci Wilson, presenta due facce: quella apparente ammantata di buone maniere, linguaggi forbiti, ideali altissimi e valori profondi e quella che non si svela, ma che agisce nell’ombra, un’ombra che è spesso tale anche per noi, giacché «[è] pur vero che nessuno di noi esamina i propri moventi troppo da vicino.»
Allora, sulla base di questa palese incongruenza, ecco ergersi l’ipocrisia della società, non solo quella inglese degli anni ’50, ovviamente, ma di tutte le società, di tutte le epoche, e non solo nel pubblico, ma anche nel privato: Angus Wilson con questo romanzo sembra gridare a squarciagola, parafrasando la famosa frase della favola anderseniana, “La società è nuda! La società è nuda!”.
Già, l’ipocrisia e l’egoismo regolano il comportamento di tutti i personaggi de “La cicuta e dopo”, compreso quello del protagonista che, spaventato ed eccitato allo stesso tempo nell’assistere all’arresto di un uomo per tentato adescamento nei suoi confronti, ad esempio, non suffraga la tesi del poliziotto che sostiene l’abbia tentato davvero di adescare, ma nemmeno fa alcunché per impedire che tale arresto avvenga. Fondamentalmente, le reazioni di Bernard sono quelle del “sadico invischiato” – che è passibile di subire il medesimo torto della vittima –, ossia di chi non è interessato davvero alle condizioni, al destino dell’altro, ma solo del suo, solo a sé stesso, anche se apparentemente ciò non sembra: in questo consta la sua ipocrisia, la sua falsa facciata di uomo interessato prodigalmente agli altri.
Che cos’è allora che rende turbanti questi personaggi? Ciò che spesso non abbiamo noi: la consapevolezza di sé stessi, quel coraggio di scendere fino in fondo, di gettare uno sguardo, ma che dico?!, di entrare proprio completamente in quell’ombra di cui sopra ed esplorarla, osservando il vuoto che vi si prospetta. Sì, Wilson denuncia così una intollerabile lacuna nell’umanità, una ingiustificabile mancanza: la consapevolezza di sé. Dalla sua assenza discendono sciagure. Il giorno dell’inaugurazione di Vardon Hall, attesissimo evento, da questo punto di vista, sarà in realtà il momento in cui troveranno sfogo tutte le ipocrisie che hanno avuto l’opportunità di crescere e sedimentarsi; in cui i rancori, gli screzi velati, le false amicizie, i falsi apprezzamenti si sveleranno; in cui i diversi personaggi acquisiranno un principio di consapevolezza di loro. Il discorso di Bernard Sands è il momento topico del libro; un discorso che in molti non capiscono, e come potrebbero se esso è ispirato da quel processo di consapevolezza di sé che in molti manca?
Qual è dunque lo spettro delle possibilità che ci viene offerto, rebus sic stantibus? Forse quello, unico, richiamato dal titolo? Sì, ok, la cicuta. Ma dopo? Angus Wilson lamentava in una intervista del 1963 a Frank Kermode – critico letterario e accademico britannico – di non aver avuto abbastanza tempo per sviluppare gli aspetti «mitologici» del romanzo, pure presenti. Dal titolo, tuttavia, capiamo subito l’evidente riferimento a Socrate e il ruolo al quale ambisce il duo Bernard-Angus, ossia di «corruttore della peraltro fin troppo disposta gioventù londinese con il pericoloso vangelo dell’Arte», proprio come lo era stato Socrate – corruttore – con la gioventù del suo tempo per i capziosi sofisti… Il “Socrate”, però, che ci presenta Wilson, come ci fa notare Guido Fink, che ci fa dono di una stupenda e interessantissima prefazione all’opera, è «il Socrate rovesciato di Nietzsche, emblema di una cultura sbriciolata in sterili frammenti, di un mondo alessandrino ridotto a cimitero dell’arte.» Il “dopo”, così, discende da quell’amara presa di consapevolezza di sé – la “cicuta” – che Wilson, per la verità senza crederci troppo, ritiene debba avvenire.
Questo, bisogna essere onesti, è un romanzo complessissimo e avvincente al contempo, con molteplici piani di lettura. Il linguaggio è colto e ricco di citazioni di autori del passato: ciò, come tutto nel romanzo, non è casuale – persino il titolo dell’ultimo romanzo fortunato di Bernard Sands, “The Player Queen” (“La regina primadonna”), non è casuale: esso fa esplicito riferimento a una famosa scena dell’”Amleto” che «nasconde in cifra le tendenze alla dissimulazione, alla «recita» e alle pratiche gay», come ci ricorda ancora Fink. Attraverso il suo linguaggio, Wilson vuole forse mostrarci i fasti della “grande letteratura” rispetto alle avanguardie stilistiche del Modernismo che si affacciavano in quel periodo e verso le quali egli era dubbioso. Non vi è invece dubbio alcuno sul fatto che Angus Wilson getti uno sguardo a Charles Dickens, a Jane Austen, a William M. Thackeray, a George Eliot per ricavare la lezione “terapeutica” «contro il disordine, le contraddizioni, l’ipocrisia di troppi «atteggiamenti anglosassoni».» Lezione che si può facilmente estendere…
Se Charles Dickens e Jane Austen sono stati i degni “cronisti” del loro tempo e della loro società, allora non ho tema di dire che ritengo Angus Wilson l’ingiustamente dimenticato cronista del suo tempo e della sua società e come loro esprimente un messaggio che ha valore imperituro.
Se anche solo uno tra coloro che leggeranno queste mie righe sarà spinto a leggere questo libro, a conoscere questo autore scorrettamente dimenticato, allora sarà davvero valso a qualcosa scriverle…
February 6, 2021
Young fiction writers are often told that the secret of success is conflict. If this advice is correct then Hemlock and After, a novel that is about nothing less than the conflict between good and evil, ought to have been a terrific hit. Unfortunately for me though plot is less important than style, and I find Wilson's writing, like that of Iris Murdoch and, to a lesser extent, CP Snow, not entirely appealing. Despite the range and liveliness of Wilson's characterisation in this book, and the detail and accuracy of his descriptions, for me the novel lacks warmth. This is also an aspect of Murdoch's writing that strikes me each time I try her. It may be a quirk of mine, or, since they were contemporaries, there may have been something peculiar in the water when they were both alive.
The novel opens on the day that Bernard Sands, the book's central character, receives, 'Treasury's final confirmation of official financial backing' for 'the purchase and maintenance of Vardon Hall as a centre to provide leisure and support for' younger writers. For Bernard, a 'Grand Old Man of Letters' who has recently acknowledged his own homosexuality, this is the latest in a long line of successes. He is delighted, but as time passes his delight is diminished by a 'growing apprehension of evil that had begun this summer to disrupt his comprehension of the world.'
Bernard's apprehension of evil is hardly surprising given the monsters who surround him. There is horrible Mrs Wrigley, whose portrayal is so vivid I found it hard to convince myself, when I'd finished reading, that the lingering odour I thought I could detect existed only in my imagination :
"Despite the hot June evening, Mrs Wrigley's first action on getting back to the cottage was to light the paraffin stove. The smoke filled the stuffy airless little room. Mrs Wrigley's protuberant frog's eyes smarted and watered behind her thick steel-rimmed glasses. The smell of the paraffin spread to blend with the rank odour of stale sweat, the clinging scent from the half-empty tin of sardines on the table and the sickening, periodic whiffs mingled from bad meat and dog mess somewhere near the sink. These Mrs Wrigley did not notice. She took off her worn old red leather hat - disintegrating relic of the craftwork of some proud gentlewoman - revealing a close cropped mannish head of grey hair. She did not remove the old mackintosh which she wore over her bulky, shapeless form, although she was sweating with the long climb up the hill from the village. She put the kettle on the rusty gas stove which had been bought from some of Ron's winnings at the dogs only a year ago. While she waited for the kettle to boil she prodded with her boot at an old collie dog with sores that lay in a basket under the table. Then pouring the boiling water into a teapot full of dead tea leaves, she drew the sardine tin towards her and liberally sprinkled the contents with vinegar.'
There is Hubert Rose who is engaged in a 'frenzied search to regain those wondrous secret childhood games beside which all the pleasures of the adult world were dust and ashes in his mouth', and who tries to justify his attempt to procure a small girl for himself with the argument that she 'was born into a world with nothing to offer her [and] is going to part with something she'll be giving away to Tom, Dick, and Harry in a couple of years, at an age when an ignorant society prefers to think she's bathed in childhood innocence instead of slum smut.'
Worst of all, there is dreadful Mrs Curry, 'an elephant figure of Mabel Lucie Attwell chubbiness', who resembles a 'huge, obscene parrot' and has a fondness for 'comfiness' and 'pretty little tiny things', furnishing her cottage with pictures of 'a bluebell wood, misty and shimmering, in which two tiny naked children sported' and 'a field of dancing daffodills into which a little girl had strayed without her clothes', about which she would observe, 'quite suddenly, "Poor little thing, she's lost her frillies"' or '"Naughty little things, they want a smack a bot, don't they?"' Her utterances, we are told, are always open to two interpretations, either pleasant or 'of such extreme obscenity that the mind reeled before it.' It is she who recognises Hubert Rose for what he is and sets about procuring what he desires.
In Mrs Curry's activities, Andrew O'Hagan pointed out recently in the London Review of Books, there are echoes of the Jimmy Savile affair. Strangely, there is an even closer parallel in the description of one character's fetishisation of her clothing, which mirrors the odd way in which Savile himself treated his dead mother's dresses:
"Celia Craddock preserved most of her old evening dresses ... going to her bedroom ... she would look at them, touch, stroke them and eventually would find herself seated on the floor, surrounded by the billowing pools of rich material."
Fortunately, in the midst of the ghastliness that takes up so much of the novel, there are moments of humour, some surprisingly Barbara Pym-like:
'"I can always get you turkey eggs when you want 'em," she heard Bill say. It was difficult to imagine when she would want them ...'
some more grim than Pym:
'She had been reminded ... of a long session with an analyst - that Bavarian, Dr Wengl, who had made you draw pictures - in which they had got stuck at her father's deathbed. Dr Wengl had insisted on her visualising the scene ... but they had got nowhere; all she could recall vividly was the intricate square of iron work at the bedhead.'
others possibly appealing only to an Antipodean English person, who recognises a peculiarly English kind of pleasure:
'It was more than comforting to find the famous vine so small and fruitless, the delphiniums so inferior and the shrubbery no more than a tangled mass of dusty St John's Wort. There was general conviction among the visitors that they could have done better at home. They settled down to an afternoon of satisfied disappointment'
or to those who have been to Leicester Square:
'The evening seemed cooler. Almost anywhere but Leicester Square would have reflected its summer beauty.'
Even more fortunately, amid the seemingly unrelenting corruption of the novel's characters, one figure of integrity emerges - Ella, the apparently insane wife of Bernard Sands, whose 'foggy picture of life' is pierced by 'letters and words [which] began to weave themselves - Minors, Lincoln, loins and then again minors, minors'. Once her 'armour of neurosis' is penetrated in this way, Ella rises to the challenge and sets out to frustrate Mrs Curry in her endeavours.
In case we have not picked up the message that in this mad world only the mad can be sane, Wilson underlines it by ensuring that, of all the characters, only Ella can see Mrs Curry as she actually is. Elsewhere the woman is described as 'a gigantic moored airship' of 'soft cushiony flesh'. She is given an almost supernatural, eternal quality when she is portrayed pondering her prey and asking herself, 'What, will the line stretch on to crack o'doom? All the love-starved and the needy, and all on bended knee'.
Through Ella's eyes, however, she shrinks back to normal size and becomes unthreatening, impotent and ordinary:
'She blinked at the huge figure before her in undisguised interest, taking in every detail of the broken veins around the nose and on the cheeks beneath the layer of powder, the old-fashioned shoes with pointed toes, the flesh forced into bulges around the corsets, 'Evil power' indeed, she thought with scorn ... Why! she was just someone's cook dressed up, certainly dishonest and probably a secret drinker.'
Ella is unafraid of Mrs Curry and is able to halt her progress temporarily. However, as Bernard recognises, Mrs Curry has 'a fertile imagination for evil'. She has not been defeated forever but only for the moment. The struggle against what she represents is neverending.
Despite this, Wilson permits a touch of optimism - or at least a reminder of a grandeur in existence beyond 'the rack of self-advancement and self-pity' on which people spend their lives in Bernard's social world - to creep into his book at its close. On the final page, he shows us Ella turning from the room she is in to look at the view beyond the window:
'It was really easier to concentrate on the clouds moving above and below like great golden snowdrifts'
she decides, and with that enigmatic sentence, hinting at distant splendour, the novel ends.
The novel opens on the day that Bernard Sands, the book's central character, receives, 'Treasury's final confirmation of official financial backing' for 'the purchase and maintenance of Vardon Hall as a centre to provide leisure and support for' younger writers. For Bernard, a 'Grand Old Man of Letters' who has recently acknowledged his own homosexuality, this is the latest in a long line of successes. He is delighted, but as time passes his delight is diminished by a 'growing apprehension of evil that had begun this summer to disrupt his comprehension of the world.'
Bernard's apprehension of evil is hardly surprising given the monsters who surround him. There is horrible Mrs Wrigley, whose portrayal is so vivid I found it hard to convince myself, when I'd finished reading, that the lingering odour I thought I could detect existed only in my imagination :
"Despite the hot June evening, Mrs Wrigley's first action on getting back to the cottage was to light the paraffin stove. The smoke filled the stuffy airless little room. Mrs Wrigley's protuberant frog's eyes smarted and watered behind her thick steel-rimmed glasses. The smell of the paraffin spread to blend with the rank odour of stale sweat, the clinging scent from the half-empty tin of sardines on the table and the sickening, periodic whiffs mingled from bad meat and dog mess somewhere near the sink. These Mrs Wrigley did not notice. She took off her worn old red leather hat - disintegrating relic of the craftwork of some proud gentlewoman - revealing a close cropped mannish head of grey hair. She did not remove the old mackintosh which she wore over her bulky, shapeless form, although she was sweating with the long climb up the hill from the village. She put the kettle on the rusty gas stove which had been bought from some of Ron's winnings at the dogs only a year ago. While she waited for the kettle to boil she prodded with her boot at an old collie dog with sores that lay in a basket under the table. Then pouring the boiling water into a teapot full of dead tea leaves, she drew the sardine tin towards her and liberally sprinkled the contents with vinegar.'
There is Hubert Rose who is engaged in a 'frenzied search to regain those wondrous secret childhood games beside which all the pleasures of the adult world were dust and ashes in his mouth', and who tries to justify his attempt to procure a small girl for himself with the argument that she 'was born into a world with nothing to offer her [and] is going to part with something she'll be giving away to Tom, Dick, and Harry in a couple of years, at an age when an ignorant society prefers to think she's bathed in childhood innocence instead of slum smut.'
Worst of all, there is dreadful Mrs Curry, 'an elephant figure of Mabel Lucie Attwell chubbiness', who resembles a 'huge, obscene parrot' and has a fondness for 'comfiness' and 'pretty little tiny things', furnishing her cottage with pictures of 'a bluebell wood, misty and shimmering, in which two tiny naked children sported' and 'a field of dancing daffodills into which a little girl had strayed without her clothes', about which she would observe, 'quite suddenly, "Poor little thing, she's lost her frillies"' or '"Naughty little things, they want a smack a bot, don't they?"' Her utterances, we are told, are always open to two interpretations, either pleasant or 'of such extreme obscenity that the mind reeled before it.' It is she who recognises Hubert Rose for what he is and sets about procuring what he desires.
In Mrs Curry's activities, Andrew O'Hagan pointed out recently in the London Review of Books, there are echoes of the Jimmy Savile affair. Strangely, there is an even closer parallel in the description of one character's fetishisation of her clothing, which mirrors the odd way in which Savile himself treated his dead mother's dresses:
"Celia Craddock preserved most of her old evening dresses ... going to her bedroom ... she would look at them, touch, stroke them and eventually would find herself seated on the floor, surrounded by the billowing pools of rich material."
Fortunately, in the midst of the ghastliness that takes up so much of the novel, there are moments of humour, some surprisingly Barbara Pym-like:
'"I can always get you turkey eggs when you want 'em," she heard Bill say. It was difficult to imagine when she would want them ...'
some more grim than Pym:
'She had been reminded ... of a long session with an analyst - that Bavarian, Dr Wengl, who had made you draw pictures - in which they had got stuck at her father's deathbed. Dr Wengl had insisted on her visualising the scene ... but they had got nowhere; all she could recall vividly was the intricate square of iron work at the bedhead.'
others possibly appealing only to an Antipodean English person, who recognises a peculiarly English kind of pleasure:
'It was more than comforting to find the famous vine so small and fruitless, the delphiniums so inferior and the shrubbery no more than a tangled mass of dusty St John's Wort. There was general conviction among the visitors that they could have done better at home. They settled down to an afternoon of satisfied disappointment'
or to those who have been to Leicester Square:
'The evening seemed cooler. Almost anywhere but Leicester Square would have reflected its summer beauty.'
Even more fortunately, amid the seemingly unrelenting corruption of the novel's characters, one figure of integrity emerges - Ella, the apparently insane wife of Bernard Sands, whose 'foggy picture of life' is pierced by 'letters and words [which] began to weave themselves - Minors, Lincoln, loins and then again minors, minors'. Once her 'armour of neurosis' is penetrated in this way, Ella rises to the challenge and sets out to frustrate Mrs Curry in her endeavours.
In case we have not picked up the message that in this mad world only the mad can be sane, Wilson underlines it by ensuring that, of all the characters, only Ella can see Mrs Curry as she actually is. Elsewhere the woman is described as 'a gigantic moored airship' of 'soft cushiony flesh'. She is given an almost supernatural, eternal quality when she is portrayed pondering her prey and asking herself, 'What, will the line stretch on to crack o'doom? All the love-starved and the needy, and all on bended knee'.
Through Ella's eyes, however, she shrinks back to normal size and becomes unthreatening, impotent and ordinary:
'She blinked at the huge figure before her in undisguised interest, taking in every detail of the broken veins around the nose and on the cheeks beneath the layer of powder, the old-fashioned shoes with pointed toes, the flesh forced into bulges around the corsets, 'Evil power' indeed, she thought with scorn ... Why! she was just someone's cook dressed up, certainly dishonest and probably a secret drinker.'
Ella is unafraid of Mrs Curry and is able to halt her progress temporarily. However, as Bernard recognises, Mrs Curry has 'a fertile imagination for evil'. She has not been defeated forever but only for the moment. The struggle against what she represents is neverending.
Despite this, Wilson permits a touch of optimism - or at least a reminder of a grandeur in existence beyond 'the rack of self-advancement and self-pity' on which people spend their lives in Bernard's social world - to creep into his book at its close. On the final page, he shows us Ella turning from the room she is in to look at the view beyond the window:
'It was really easier to concentrate on the clouds moving above and below like great golden snowdrifts'
she decides, and with that enigmatic sentence, hinting at distant splendour, the novel ends.
November 27, 2012
Hemlock is famous for being the poison that Socrates drank after being accused of influencing the young in Athens. And "influence" is the core of what "Hemlock and After" is about. There are mentors influencing mentees (sp?), blackmailers influencing blackmailees, fathers and mothers influencing sons and daughters in either bad or good ways, institutions influencing their charges and lastly the state influencing the conduct of its citizens, particularly in their sexual conduct.
"Hemlock and After" is very much a period novel in that in depicts a society where one could go to prison for homosexuality. This fact influences almost everything that happens in this book. The protagonist, Bernard Sands, is a bisexual who comes late to the party in his life and takes up a couple of male lovers while his wife is basically going insane. He proposes and creates a young writer's community out of the village's manor that has been taken over by the state - and creates an enemy out of the village harridan who wanted to expand her criminal activities to the place, probably as a brothel or blackmailing place.
Bernard makes a fiasco of the opening, and with the criminal element making things tough, everything is about to blow up until somebody steps up and saves everything.
As I'm sure was the case in '50's, the obliquity of what was really being said behind the words made understanding many parts of this book really difficult. I lived in England for two years and I swear a light bulb would go in my head two weeks after a conversation with "Hey, I think I was insulted back then!" I got that feeling a lot in the reading - something was there that I wasn't quite getting because of how separated I am by being American in the 21st century and not English in 1950.
"Hemlock and After" is very much a period novel in that in depicts a society where one could go to prison for homosexuality. This fact influences almost everything that happens in this book. The protagonist, Bernard Sands, is a bisexual who comes late to the party in his life and takes up a couple of male lovers while his wife is basically going insane. He proposes and creates a young writer's community out of the village's manor that has been taken over by the state - and creates an enemy out of the village harridan who wanted to expand her criminal activities to the place, probably as a brothel or blackmailing place.
Bernard makes a fiasco of the opening, and with the criminal element making things tough, everything is about to blow up until somebody steps up and saves everything.
As I'm sure was the case in '50's, the obliquity of what was really being said behind the words made understanding many parts of this book really difficult. I lived in England for two years and I swear a light bulb would go in my head two weeks after a conversation with "Hey, I think I was insulted back then!" I got that feeling a lot in the reading - something was there that I wasn't quite getting because of how separated I am by being American in the 21st century and not English in 1950.
April 27, 2022
So glad to have been clued into this terrific novel(ist) thanks to the indispensable Backlisted podcast. Hemlock and After is Angus Wilson’s debut (1952) and for my money represents a bridge from E.M. Forster to Edward St. Aubyn. It’s that good.
December 23, 2024
Anfang der 1950-er Jahre, eine Kleinstadt, nicht weit von London entfernt; Genre: Akademikerroman, ironische Gesellschaftsaufnahme mit wenig Handlung.
Angus Wilson, der in seinen späteren Jahren tatsächlich wie ein Cambridge-Professor oder Nobelpreisträger aus einer Verfilmung mit Richard Burton oder Alec Guinness aussah, mit großen Tränensäcken und einer ungebändigten Fülle weißgelockten Haars, war bis in den Krieg hinein Historiker in Oxford gewesen, hatte dann zu jener legendären Geheimgruppe von Wissenschaftlern gezählt, die in Bletchley Park den Enigma-Code des deutschen Militärs mitlas. Als Schriftsteller stieg Angus Wilson in den Fünfzigern rasch zu nationalem Ruhm auf, galt dann noch für viele Jahre als einer der wichtigsten Autoren Englands, vergleichbar für den deutschen Sprachraum wohl mit Max Frisch oder Martin Walser, bevor er, noch zu Lebzeiten, ziemlich aus der Mode kam, schließlich sogar keinen Verleger mehr fand - und schlicht vergessen wurde. In Deutschland hat man diesen Schriftsteller noch nie durchsetzen können, obwohl sich der Suhrkamp Verlag etliche Jahre redlich darum mühte. Dieser, Wilsons erster Roman, der Titel spielt auf den alten Sokrates an, dem seine Stadt Athen, wegen Verführung der Jugend, den Schierlingsbecher aufdrängte, wäre auf Deutsch wohl in etwa „Der Schierlingsbecher und was danach kam“ zu benennen – ist aber bis zum heutigen Tag nie ins Deutsche übersetzt worden. Viel bekannter wurde dann erst Wilsons nächstes Buch, „Anglo-Saxon Attitudes“, was bei Suhrkamp „Späte Entdeckungen“ hieß. (Warum auch immer, ich habe es nicht gelesen.)
Ich ließ mir dieses Buch, im Original, als uraltes und sehr billig gemachtes Taschenbuch, spürbar schon einmal gelesen, kommen, weil ich gelesen hatte, das wäre der erste englische Roman gewesen, in dem ganz offen über schwule Amouren geredet worden sei. (Man staunt erst mal: Was, so spät erst, muss dann aber zugeben, dass es in Deutschland vor dieser Zeit auch nicht gar so viel gegeben hatte.) Also, genau gesagt, dass erste Mal, dass die damit Befassten nicht im Verlauf der Handlung zu Tode gekommen wären. Es kämen hier sogar fast unfassliche Dinge vor, die Kühnheit dieses Autors sei enorm. Namentlich war von Pädophilie die Rede, über die der Erzähler nur kurz unwillig seine Brauen verziehe.
Hat man solche „lange verschwiegenen Geheimtipps“ dann erst selbst gelesen, merkt man schnell, dass die Angelegenheit lange nicht so wild ist, wie es sich angehört hatte. Vielmehr ging es mir ähnlich wie anderen, englischen Leser*innen vor mir (in Goodreads): Wenn es noch eine Weile so weitergegangen und das Ende des mittellangen Romans nicht allmählich in die Nähe gekommen wäre, hätte ich dieses Buch sein lassen. Es war zugleich schwer verständlich, sehr arm an Handlung und großenteils auch: langweilig. Wenngleich edel und geistreich, stilistisch brillant, aber das macht den Kohl nicht fett.
Wir befinden uns in einer sarkastischen Komödie gesellschaftlicher Usancen. Einem kleinen Zoo zwielichtiger Typen, die alle nicht Taschendiebe oder Finanzmakler sind, sondern die geistige Crème ihrer südenglischen Provinz bilden. Das Buch ist so britisch wie nur irgendwas und es wundert nicht, dass es von Lesern oft mit Charles Dickens und seinen skurrilen Typenkomödien verglichen worden ist. Das Wort „Gesellschaftsroman“ trifft schon zu, weil es letztlich nicht um den einen Protagonisten, sondern um die gesamte um ihn herum verbliebene Rest-Gentry geht. Deutsche Leser dürfen beim Wort „Gesellschaftsroman“ getrost an den Berliner Theodor Fontane denken, wo es vor allem die Gesellschaften sind, bei denen sich das Personal des Buchs in immer neuen Umgruppierungen trifft, um hauptsächlich endlos zu reden – und zwar einerseits über die gerade Abwesenden, andererseits über die Vergangenheit. Zwischendurch schickt man sich auch ganz gerne noch Briefe zu.
Wo es sich um tadellos erzogene englische Kleinstadt-Hausbesitzer handelt, versteht sich fast von selbst, dass die Bosheiten nie klar ausgesprochen und die Konflikte nicht ausgetragen werden, sondern alles in der Verkleidung von zutraulichem Geschwätz und freundlichem Getue daherkommt. Man klopft einander auf die Schultern und hackt sich verstohlen in die Kniekehlen. Dazu gehört auch, dass auf der offensichtlichen Ebene so gut wie nie was passiert. Was passiert ist, ist neulich in London passiert und wird jetzt dem allgemeinen Klatsch zugeführt. Als Maestro der Sprachkunst liebt es Wilson, die eigentlichen Geschichten des Buchs nur anzudeuten und durchschimmern zu lassen. Ich gebe gerne zu: Erstens scheinen das Buch und der Autor klüger zu sein als ich. Zweitens liegt sein Wortschatz oft über meinem Schul- und Popmusik-Englisch. Ich habe etliches gar nicht mitbekommen.
Übrigens habe ich den Eindruck, dass sich Angus Wilson mehr gefreut hätte, wenn man ihn mit Marcel Proust statt mit Dickens verglichen hätte. Es kommen auch ein, zwei Stellen im Buch, wo er direkt auf die „Recherche“ anspielt. Hier wie dort viele Zusammenkünfte mit vielen Unterhaltungen ziemlich feiner Leute, die dabei einen etwas lächerlichen Eindruck machen. Hier in Goodreads klagte jemand, dass niemand im Buch ein sympathischer Mensch ist. Tja, wenn das ein Kriterium für gute Literatur ist, sollte man von Proust und Faulkner vielleicht die Finger lassen.
Unser Protagonist heißt Bernard Sands („Bernie“) und ist ein nach langen Mühen endlich ziemlich erfolgreicher Schriftsteller von etwa sechzig. (Man erinnere sich: Dieses war der erste Roman von Wilson.) Scheinbar am Ziel seiner Lebensbahn, gelingt es Bernie, von der Regierung beauftragt zu werden, einen verwaisten Herrensitz als Literaturhaus für junge Schriftsteller auszubauen und zu leiten. Es soll dort festliche Lesungen geben und Empfänge, aber die jungen Autoren sollen auch wohnen und schreiben können. Angesichts der Tatsache, dass Bernie, der verheiratet, Vater wie Großvater ist, in letzter Zeit offen als Klatschfigur wegen seiner Liaison mit einem jungen bildenden Künstler in London durgehechelt worden ist, wird ihm dieses Haus, die Krone seines Lebens, selbstverständlich als Fliegenfalle für männliches Frischfleisch ausgelegt. Dies aber immer nur durch die Blume, allerdings bei Anlässen, bei denen auch die Gattin anwesend ist.
Bernards Ehefrau, die er sehr zu lieben scheint, ist gerade dabei, dem Altersschwachsinn zu verfallen; er selbst hat ein angegriffenes Herz. Der Sohn von Bernard und Ella ist missraten, ein blutleerer, langweiliger Typ. Seine Schwester ist eine unglückliche Lehrerin. Seine Tochter wird von einer abenteuerlichen Truppe Londoner Linksradikaler manipuliert und zu peinlichen Medienauftritten verleitet. Bernies Schwager, der Bruder von Ella, ist bisexuell. Vor allem aber ist er in den Handel eines gemischtgeschlechtlichen Pädophilenpaars aus der Nachbarschaft verwickelt, das sowohl mit Nacktfotos wie letztlich auch mit den Leibern einiger junger Mädchen Geschäfte treibt. Bernards junger Freund, der Bühnendesigner, verlässt ihn und wendet sich einem Bernard nur zu gut bekannten Schuft zu. Derweil versucht der alte Bernard zögernd ein neues Glück mit einem jungen Buchhändler, Eric, dem er eine eigene Wohnung in London mieten möchte. Eric ist leider der Sohn der pädophilen Hexe, die schließlich auch ihre Krallen gegen den Alten ausfährt.
Das Buch dürstet geradezu nach der Eröffnung des Kulturhauses als Höhepunkt. Prompt wird eine Katastrophe daraus. Die Hälfte des Palasts befindet sich noch im Bau. Die aus der Stadt angereisten Schwulen fühlen sich gelangweilt und fangen an, die Baustelle als Spielplatz zu missbrauchen. Die Redner finden kein Ende und erreichen die Zuhörer nicht, die schließlich im Alltag keine Bücher lesen. Zu lange muss man aufs Essen warten und dann ist es zu wenig. Der Kampf um den Nachschlag geht los. Neu geschaffene Blumenbeete werden verwüstet und die Arbeiter vom Bau werden handgreiflich gegen die Ortsbewohner. Vor allem gegen Bernard kehrt sich der Zorn, dessen Rede zwar keiner verstanden hat, die allgemein aber als ausgesprochene Unverschämtheit aufgefasst wurde.
So komprimiert klingt dieses Buch leider amüsanter, als es ist. Es ist wahrlich kein humoristischer Roman, allenfalls ein satirischer. Wilson steht auf keinen Fall auf der Seite des Volks. Auch nicht etwa auf der der Schwulen oder der von Frauen oder jungen Liebenden. Sondern auf der der verschrobenen Einzelgänger, der elitären Unzeitgemäßen. Wo ich geködert worden war, ich könne ein für die Zeit unerschrockenes Buch über Schwules im England der fünfziger Jahre lesen, musste ich erkennen, dass diese Art Buch das, was es eigentlich sagen will, niemals direkt sagt, einen allerdings mit den kleinen Intrigen und dem Gerede von allerlei vernagelten Kleingeistern ziemlich lange hinhalten kann.
Angus Wilson, der in seinen späteren Jahren tatsächlich wie ein Cambridge-Professor oder Nobelpreisträger aus einer Verfilmung mit Richard Burton oder Alec Guinness aussah, mit großen Tränensäcken und einer ungebändigten Fülle weißgelockten Haars, war bis in den Krieg hinein Historiker in Oxford gewesen, hatte dann zu jener legendären Geheimgruppe von Wissenschaftlern gezählt, die in Bletchley Park den Enigma-Code des deutschen Militärs mitlas. Als Schriftsteller stieg Angus Wilson in den Fünfzigern rasch zu nationalem Ruhm auf, galt dann noch für viele Jahre als einer der wichtigsten Autoren Englands, vergleichbar für den deutschen Sprachraum wohl mit Max Frisch oder Martin Walser, bevor er, noch zu Lebzeiten, ziemlich aus der Mode kam, schließlich sogar keinen Verleger mehr fand - und schlicht vergessen wurde. In Deutschland hat man diesen Schriftsteller noch nie durchsetzen können, obwohl sich der Suhrkamp Verlag etliche Jahre redlich darum mühte. Dieser, Wilsons erster Roman, der Titel spielt auf den alten Sokrates an, dem seine Stadt Athen, wegen Verführung der Jugend, den Schierlingsbecher aufdrängte, wäre auf Deutsch wohl in etwa „Der Schierlingsbecher und was danach kam“ zu benennen – ist aber bis zum heutigen Tag nie ins Deutsche übersetzt worden. Viel bekannter wurde dann erst Wilsons nächstes Buch, „Anglo-Saxon Attitudes“, was bei Suhrkamp „Späte Entdeckungen“ hieß. (Warum auch immer, ich habe es nicht gelesen.)
Ich ließ mir dieses Buch, im Original, als uraltes und sehr billig gemachtes Taschenbuch, spürbar schon einmal gelesen, kommen, weil ich gelesen hatte, das wäre der erste englische Roman gewesen, in dem ganz offen über schwule Amouren geredet worden sei. (Man staunt erst mal: Was, so spät erst, muss dann aber zugeben, dass es in Deutschland vor dieser Zeit auch nicht gar so viel gegeben hatte.) Also, genau gesagt, dass erste Mal, dass die damit Befassten nicht im Verlauf der Handlung zu Tode gekommen wären. Es kämen hier sogar fast unfassliche Dinge vor, die Kühnheit dieses Autors sei enorm. Namentlich war von Pädophilie die Rede, über die der Erzähler nur kurz unwillig seine Brauen verziehe.
Hat man solche „lange verschwiegenen Geheimtipps“ dann erst selbst gelesen, merkt man schnell, dass die Angelegenheit lange nicht so wild ist, wie es sich angehört hatte. Vielmehr ging es mir ähnlich wie anderen, englischen Leser*innen vor mir (in Goodreads): Wenn es noch eine Weile so weitergegangen und das Ende des mittellangen Romans nicht allmählich in die Nähe gekommen wäre, hätte ich dieses Buch sein lassen. Es war zugleich schwer verständlich, sehr arm an Handlung und großenteils auch: langweilig. Wenngleich edel und geistreich, stilistisch brillant, aber das macht den Kohl nicht fett.
Wir befinden uns in einer sarkastischen Komödie gesellschaftlicher Usancen. Einem kleinen Zoo zwielichtiger Typen, die alle nicht Taschendiebe oder Finanzmakler sind, sondern die geistige Crème ihrer südenglischen Provinz bilden. Das Buch ist so britisch wie nur irgendwas und es wundert nicht, dass es von Lesern oft mit Charles Dickens und seinen skurrilen Typenkomödien verglichen worden ist. Das Wort „Gesellschaftsroman“ trifft schon zu, weil es letztlich nicht um den einen Protagonisten, sondern um die gesamte um ihn herum verbliebene Rest-Gentry geht. Deutsche Leser dürfen beim Wort „Gesellschaftsroman“ getrost an den Berliner Theodor Fontane denken, wo es vor allem die Gesellschaften sind, bei denen sich das Personal des Buchs in immer neuen Umgruppierungen trifft, um hauptsächlich endlos zu reden – und zwar einerseits über die gerade Abwesenden, andererseits über die Vergangenheit. Zwischendurch schickt man sich auch ganz gerne noch Briefe zu.
Wo es sich um tadellos erzogene englische Kleinstadt-Hausbesitzer handelt, versteht sich fast von selbst, dass die Bosheiten nie klar ausgesprochen und die Konflikte nicht ausgetragen werden, sondern alles in der Verkleidung von zutraulichem Geschwätz und freundlichem Getue daherkommt. Man klopft einander auf die Schultern und hackt sich verstohlen in die Kniekehlen. Dazu gehört auch, dass auf der offensichtlichen Ebene so gut wie nie was passiert. Was passiert ist, ist neulich in London passiert und wird jetzt dem allgemeinen Klatsch zugeführt. Als Maestro der Sprachkunst liebt es Wilson, die eigentlichen Geschichten des Buchs nur anzudeuten und durchschimmern zu lassen. Ich gebe gerne zu: Erstens scheinen das Buch und der Autor klüger zu sein als ich. Zweitens liegt sein Wortschatz oft über meinem Schul- und Popmusik-Englisch. Ich habe etliches gar nicht mitbekommen.
Übrigens habe ich den Eindruck, dass sich Angus Wilson mehr gefreut hätte, wenn man ihn mit Marcel Proust statt mit Dickens verglichen hätte. Es kommen auch ein, zwei Stellen im Buch, wo er direkt auf die „Recherche“ anspielt. Hier wie dort viele Zusammenkünfte mit vielen Unterhaltungen ziemlich feiner Leute, die dabei einen etwas lächerlichen Eindruck machen. Hier in Goodreads klagte jemand, dass niemand im Buch ein sympathischer Mensch ist. Tja, wenn das ein Kriterium für gute Literatur ist, sollte man von Proust und Faulkner vielleicht die Finger lassen.
Unser Protagonist heißt Bernard Sands („Bernie“) und ist ein nach langen Mühen endlich ziemlich erfolgreicher Schriftsteller von etwa sechzig. (Man erinnere sich: Dieses war der erste Roman von Wilson.) Scheinbar am Ziel seiner Lebensbahn, gelingt es Bernie, von der Regierung beauftragt zu werden, einen verwaisten Herrensitz als Literaturhaus für junge Schriftsteller auszubauen und zu leiten. Es soll dort festliche Lesungen geben und Empfänge, aber die jungen Autoren sollen auch wohnen und schreiben können. Angesichts der Tatsache, dass Bernie, der verheiratet, Vater wie Großvater ist, in letzter Zeit offen als Klatschfigur wegen seiner Liaison mit einem jungen bildenden Künstler in London durgehechelt worden ist, wird ihm dieses Haus, die Krone seines Lebens, selbstverständlich als Fliegenfalle für männliches Frischfleisch ausgelegt. Dies aber immer nur durch die Blume, allerdings bei Anlässen, bei denen auch die Gattin anwesend ist.
Bernards Ehefrau, die er sehr zu lieben scheint, ist gerade dabei, dem Altersschwachsinn zu verfallen; er selbst hat ein angegriffenes Herz. Der Sohn von Bernard und Ella ist missraten, ein blutleerer, langweiliger Typ. Seine Schwester ist eine unglückliche Lehrerin. Seine Tochter wird von einer abenteuerlichen Truppe Londoner Linksradikaler manipuliert und zu peinlichen Medienauftritten verleitet. Bernies Schwager, der Bruder von Ella, ist bisexuell. Vor allem aber ist er in den Handel eines gemischtgeschlechtlichen Pädophilenpaars aus der Nachbarschaft verwickelt, das sowohl mit Nacktfotos wie letztlich auch mit den Leibern einiger junger Mädchen Geschäfte treibt. Bernards junger Freund, der Bühnendesigner, verlässt ihn und wendet sich einem Bernard nur zu gut bekannten Schuft zu. Derweil versucht der alte Bernard zögernd ein neues Glück mit einem jungen Buchhändler, Eric, dem er eine eigene Wohnung in London mieten möchte. Eric ist leider der Sohn der pädophilen Hexe, die schließlich auch ihre Krallen gegen den Alten ausfährt.
Das Buch dürstet geradezu nach der Eröffnung des Kulturhauses als Höhepunkt. Prompt wird eine Katastrophe daraus. Die Hälfte des Palasts befindet sich noch im Bau. Die aus der Stadt angereisten Schwulen fühlen sich gelangweilt und fangen an, die Baustelle als Spielplatz zu missbrauchen. Die Redner finden kein Ende und erreichen die Zuhörer nicht, die schließlich im Alltag keine Bücher lesen. Zu lange muss man aufs Essen warten und dann ist es zu wenig. Der Kampf um den Nachschlag geht los. Neu geschaffene Blumenbeete werden verwüstet und die Arbeiter vom Bau werden handgreiflich gegen die Ortsbewohner. Vor allem gegen Bernard kehrt sich der Zorn, dessen Rede zwar keiner verstanden hat, die allgemein aber als ausgesprochene Unverschämtheit aufgefasst wurde.
So komprimiert klingt dieses Buch leider amüsanter, als es ist. Es ist wahrlich kein humoristischer Roman, allenfalls ein satirischer. Wilson steht auf keinen Fall auf der Seite des Volks. Auch nicht etwa auf der der Schwulen oder der von Frauen oder jungen Liebenden. Sondern auf der der verschrobenen Einzelgänger, der elitären Unzeitgemäßen. Wo ich geködert worden war, ich könne ein für die Zeit unerschrockenes Buch über Schwules im England der fünfziger Jahre lesen, musste ich erkennen, dass diese Art Buch das, was es eigentlich sagen will, niemals direkt sagt, einen allerdings mit den kleinen Intrigen und dem Gerede von allerlei vernagelten Kleingeistern ziemlich lange hinhalten kann.
April 5, 2024
I can see Hollinghurst's predecessor in Wilson, but I don't like it: every remark is analyzed twelve ways from Sunday, every interaction wrenched apart for insincerity and selfishness until the natural flow of each scene is twisted into knots, obstructed, if not arrested entirely. no one point-of-view takes center stage, so everyone's is equally vulgar and fickle, and I am bewildered trying to figure out what motivates these awful drips. Wilson's repeated mistake is to abandon the perspective of one character for another just as soon as he has started to interest me, shy, almost, of going deeper, which is exactly the sort of cowardice he is constantly accusing his characters of. I could have used a lot more Terence. I like Terence.
the muddle of the first two acts is lifted in the third, a funny and touching and wonderfully clear-minded denouement. still, the greatest failure of the novel is far and away that it is a drag. why must Bernard's formless, soulless worldview, exposed constantly for its vacuity, get so much air-time nonetheless? God, so serious. if you are going to write a novel about the meanness of mean people it should be a lot more fun than this
the muddle of the first two acts is lifted in the third, a funny and touching and wonderfully clear-minded denouement. still, the greatest failure of the novel is far and away that it is a drag. why must Bernard's formless, soulless worldview, exposed constantly for its vacuity, get so much air-time nonetheless? God, so serious. if you are going to write a novel about the meanness of mean people it should be a lot more fun than this
March 4, 2023
This is an extremely well written and plotted book. It is astonishing to think that this was written not long after the Second World War. Many will find the comedy of literary and upper class manners mixed with amore rackety marginal queer world hopelessly dated. And it is hard not to conclude that there is some self-hatred in his description of 'pansy culture'. But that this was written at all by someone who came to be the very embodiment of the literary establishment is of extreme interest. And the portrait of Bernard's wife Ella, living with depression and an impossible marriage, is very strong.
July 22, 2025
A fine novel with interesting characters and a timely reminder of how difficult life was for gay men in the UK before the 1967 act.
Early on the word 'gay' appears in a homosexual sense which was rare, I think , for 1952.
I thought the reader might have been told more about Bernard's literary output, also I found the brief relationship between Elizabeth and Terence unconvincing. But these are minor quibbles.
Early on the word 'gay' appears in a homosexual sense which was rare, I think , for 1952.
I thought the reader might have been told more about Bernard's literary output, also I found the brief relationship between Elizabeth and Terence unconvincing. But these are minor quibbles.
May 5, 2023
Another mostly forgotten, amazing writer. Wilson’s acidic satire of British country/London suburban life is compelling. Delicious classically wry British style, complex but accessible. And daringly campy (and hilarious) for the early 1950s, especially given that homosexuality was still criminalized at the time in the UK.
February 15, 2024
The early part of this novel seemed to be the brilliant love child of a combination of Iris Murdoch and Nancy Mitford. A wonderfully 'gay' social comedy. However I struggled with the second half of the book, it started to feel of its time. I will seek out more Angus Wilson as this was his first published novel and there is definitely a great literary talent trying to show through.
November 27, 2020
3.5 stars. A clever psychological novel a la Henry James. A rewarding, rather than a pleasurable, read. The characters are all flawed in one way or another, and Wilson’s honesty in laying bare their flaws is so brutal that, at times, I wondered if I really cathected with any of them (with the possible exception of Eric Craddock). The learned references can get a bit annoying at times - though I suppose they would have made more sense to an educated mid-century reader. The novel differs from other gay-themed novels from the same period in its treatment of homosexuality. Same-sex desire does not appear to be considered problematic (or, rather, no more so than any human desire, and, indeed, less so than some). There are many gay characters, and yet none of them seems to apologise for their same-sex desire, or to be struggling for self-acceptance, particularly. Gay relationships appear in different forms - good and bad - like heterosexual relationships (and the point of the book is that human good is never unalloyed good, anyway). I think the book was written so as to appease a potentially homophobic 1950s readership by making them believe that Bernard’s inner crisis was partly due to some belated rejection of his homosexuality; but a careful reading suggests that he simply comes to have misgivings about the potential bankruptcy of all human motives, including his desire for his same-sex lovers.
November 26, 2014
Grande scrittore inglese Angus Wilson, per anni direttore della "Panizzi Room", ovvero la sala di lettura sotto la cupola del British Museum di Londra. Questa è la sua opera prima, tradotta da Eugenio Montale. Poca trama ma un unico evento centrale da cui si scatena un prima e un dopo. Da cui partono descrizioni, situazioni, ossessioni e personaggi psicologicamente ben tratteggiati. Una commedia amara, cinica, con un senso dell'ironia tipicamente inglese. Un linguaggio raffinato che rivela comunque tutta la cattiveria della società. E del mondo. Sarà stato tradotto in italiano? Ora vado a controllare. Un autore da leggere ancora.
December 17, 2021
Not sure quite what to make of this one. Populated almost exclusively by horrible people, there's a lot of deep musing about motivations vs actions, and other philosophical tropes that never really went anywhere. One of those books that I think I'm not clever enough to fully appreciate...if it wasn't so short I don't think I would have been able to stand the company of such a horrible mob. Still, the epilogue had a good deal of putting things to rights about it, without a saccharin happy ending, which was cool.
November 22, 2015
This reminds me in some ways of Iris Murdoch, though I think Wilson is a lot sharper with his characters than she is, and also funnier, probably as a consequence. Murdoch often seems simply interested: she winds her characters up and lets them run. She cares about their morals, but the way a scientist cares about an experiment. Wilson, I think, judges them. With a certain kind of love and humanity, but harshly nonetheless.
Of the three of his I've read, this one is perhaps the best.
Of the three of his I've read, this one is perhaps the best.
March 5, 2016
Could not get into this book at all--could not connect with (or care about) any of these characters. There are a few moments where you feel sympathy for characters for reacting to a gay person being arrested for cruising, but the smug tone throughout the book and the constant jumping between characters left me very cold.
May 15, 2010
Interesting and well-written. I was glad when I was done though. Of historical interest-written in 1951 in England and was first to discuss homosexuality openly in literary world . . . or something like that.
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July 29, 2016Fiction W7468h 2001
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