Confesiones de un inglés comedor de opio

by Thomas de Quincey

A lo largo del siglo XIX, cuando el uso del opio en Occidente comenzó a difundirse por entre los varios estratos sociales y su circulación comercial provocaba conflictos bélicos como la Guerra del Opio entre China y Gran Bretaña de 1839 a 1842, las Confesiones de un inglés comedor de opio se constituyen en un documento excepcional de los hábitos y reflexiones de un adicto literato de la época.

Thomas de Quincey hizo en esta novela un estudio de su propia experiencia como adicto al opio, contando como los efectos psicológicos producidos por este consumo hacen que las experiencias de la infancia y la juventud se transformen en simbólicos y reveladores sueños. La influencia de este libro fue enorme en Baudelaire, hasta el punto de incluirlo, traducido y recreado, como parte de sus Paraísos artificiales y, a nivel general, se ha convertido en un punto de referencia retórica para textos posteriores que han pretendido describir experiencias similares.

Genres: Classics, Nonfiction, Biography, Memoir, 19th Century, Drugs, Literature

280 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1821

About the author

Thomas de Quincey was an English author and intellectual, best known for his Confessions of an English Opium-Eater (1821).
See also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_d...

Reviews

[Fionnuala]

The Opium Eaters, a comedy, based on the sleeping habits of Thomas de Quincey and Marcel Proust.

Characters:
Marcel Proust
Thomas de Quincey

The curtain goes up on a bedroom scene. Two of the walls are cork-lined, the third is a bare stone wall roughly coated with Roman cement. In the angle of the two cork-lined walls is a narrow wrought-iron bedstead covered with an eiderdown quilt and beside it, a night-table on which lie books, papers, and a little brass bell.
Against the stone wall there is a brass bedstead piled high with blankets, and beside it a night-table on which lie books, papers, and a little gold bottle.
There is someone lying on each of the beds.

Marcel Proust:
Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure...
(Propping himself on his elbow, he becomes aware of the audience and immediately reaches for the bell which he rings impatiently while calling out for his servant to come and close the curtains):
Françoise, Françoise, il faut fermer les rideaux - il y a une foule immense devant la fenêtre!

Thomas de Quincey, (sitting up in his bed angrily):
My dear sir, desist immediately from your tintinnabulous propensities. These velvet drapes will be closed at the end of the scene and not before, so you are wasting your breath, which I see you have little enough of, in calling for it to be done ahead of time. And indeed your feeble efforts are doubly futile since the character you call for is not even in the play, and the people you speak of are only the audience, such a harmless group that is in no way to be feared, unlike the horrible hoards who people my own dreams; and can I caution you, dear sir, for I perceive you to be something of a valetudinarian, against becoming a confirmed heautontimourousmenos...

Marcel Proust, (rubbing his eyes):
Bougre! Qui est-ce qui me lance des propos incompréhensibles plein de mots intérminables et de phrases impénétrables?

T de Q, (swinging his legs over the side of the bed):
Ah, you wonder who addresses you in such elaborately constructed language? Allow me to introduce myself.
(He walks to the centre of the stage)
I am Thomas de Quincey and you and I are characters in a play, and please note, my dear sir, that this play is in English, and therefore oblige us by refraining from any outbursts à la française henceforth. I might remind you also that this play is being staged in the year of our Lord, 2013 to mark the bicentenary of the events contained in one of the chapters of the most famous of my works, the essay with the much disputed title among my peers of 'Confessions', yes, my dear sir, not a sensational 'Diary of an Addict', but the humble Confessions of an English Opium Eater, and a work furthermore in which my contemporaries believed I was being too confidential and too communicative..

MP, (rising from his bed to look at a calendar hanging on the wall):
But if this is indeed the year 2013, then this play is surely meant to mark the centenary of the publication of my most famous work, my 'Recherche', that single work on which I devoted the labour of my whole life, and had dedicated my intellect, blossoms and fruits, to the slow and elaborate toil of constructing it...

T de Q, (holding up a document):
I think that you are on the wrong page of the script, my dear sir, those are in fact my lines, taken directly from page 175 of the 'Confessions', referring to my own life’s work, begun upon too great a scale for the resources of the architect alas, and which because of the very subject of this play, was likely to stand as a memorial of hopes defeated, of baffled efforts, of materials uselessly accumulated; of foundations laid that were never to support a super-structure, of the grief and the ruin of the architect.

MP, (moving towards the front of the stage and speaking directly to the audience):
Strange how these words of his recall my own fears and doubts concerning the completion and future acclaim of the 'Recherche', although I always subscribed to the belief that true works of art are slow to receive their full recognition, and must wait for a period when the author himself will have crumpled to dust. This centenary celebration, and your devoted presence proves me right.
(He nibbles on the corner of his moustache and mumbles to himself): Where are the Bergottes and the Blochs? All gone and forgotten while I alone have survived to become the keystone of modern literature...

T de Q, (lying down again upon his bed):
But alas, opium had a palsying effect on my intellectual faculties...

MP, (walking across to T’s bedside table, picking up the gold bottle and sniffing its contents):
I too have often reflected on the kinds of sleep induced by the multiple extracts of ether, of valerian, of opium...

T de Q, (closing his eyes):
I must now pass to what is the main subject of these confessions, to the history of what took place in my dreams. At night, when I lay in my bed, vast processions passed along in mournful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and as solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before Oedipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis.

MP, (massaging his temples):
I feel something quiver in me, shift, try to rise, the glimmer of a visual memory, the elusive eddying of stirred-up colours...a magic lantern full of impalpable iridescences, multicoloured apparitions where legends are depicted as in a wavering, momentary stained-glass window...

T de Q, (in a dreamy voice):
A theatre seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour. As the creative state of the eye increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between the waking and the dreaming states of the brain in one point, that whatsoever I happened to call up and to trace by a voluntary act upon the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to my dreams...


MP, (going back to sit on the side of his bed):
Yes, what one has meant to do during the day, one accomplishes only in one’s dreams, that is to say after it has been distorted by sleep into following another line than one would have chosen when awake. The same story branches off and has a different ending.

T de Q:
All this and other changes in my dreams were accompanied by deep-seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as wholly incommunicable by words...

MP, (lying down):
But my sadness was only increased by those multi-coloured apparitions of the lantern..

T de Q:
The sense of space, and in the end the sense of time, were both powerfully affected. Buildings, landscapes, &c., were exhibited in proportions so vastly as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive....

MP, (closing his eyes):
In Combray, I moved through the church...a space with, so to speak, four dimensions - the fourth being Time - extending over the centuries...

T de Q:
The minutist incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years, were often revived...

MP:
I have many pictures preserved by my memory of what Combray was during my childhood..

T de Q:
The following dream...a Sunday morning in May...Easter Sunday..right before me lay the scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams...the hedges were rich with white roses...

MP:
It was at Easter...in the month of May that I remember...in the church..little branches of buds of a dazzling whiteness...

T de Q:
I find it impossible to banish the thought of death when I am walking alone in the endless days of summer...


MP:
That summer day seemed as dead, as immemorially ancient as...a mummy


T de Q:
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........

MP:
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..................

Audience:
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..................

Readers:
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz........................

[Paul Bryant · Rating 3 out of 5]

If there is reincarnation I want them to put a hold on mine until humanity has invented drugs that don't have a down-side to them. No tiresome side effects, like early death. And they'll be cheap. And you'll still be able to fire up your jet pack and get to the office and do your job and impress your team leader. And no skin blemishes. O drugs of the future, I salute you and your friendliness and complete lack of ill effects!

Because you see opium, for one, as Thomas de Quincey demonstrates in this famous but I think not much read book, has seriously deleterious effects upon the user's syntax. It goes all to hell. Thomas can start sentences but finds it really..like...hard... to finish them, so he adds in piles of clausy digressiony blah-blah-blah uninteresting detail in exactly the same way that drugged up people think that talking about their tattoos or their dealer for hours could possibly be interesting even for a halfnanosecond to their undrugged locutors..

When people in the future take their drugs of no down-side, they will converse graciously about matters of interest to all. And plus, they will never sit down heavily on their girlfriend's little cute dog and squash it flat, like Christopher Moltisanti did in The Sopranos. He didn't even realise he'd done it until she came in and asked him where her little darling was. In the future, that will never happen.

O Cosette!

[William2 · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars. One can see why Confessions was such a favorite among the drug-addled youngsters of the 60s and 70s. The title is catchy but--surprise!--its not primarily a book about drug experiences. Only the last 20 or so pages plumb that. It's about suffering, homelessness, and penury. There were passages that reminded me of 1993's Travels with Lizbeth: Three Years on the Road and on the Streets by Lars Eighner, a wonderfully written book about homelessness.

The class system of Britain, thank God it's dying, systemically prevented true eleemosynary activity. Anyone deemed to be a victim of their own excess was not considered worthy of care. As de Quincey states:

The stream of London charity flows in a channel which, though deep and mighty, is yet noiseless and underground; not obvious or readily accessible to poor houseless wanderers; and it cannot be denied that the outside air and framework of London society is harsh, cruel, and repulsive.

It took me ten pages to acclimate to the slightly archaic diction, but once I did the reading was enjoyable. There's a guardedness about certain episodes in the author's life which evoked wonder and curiosity in this reader. He focuses on opium addiction almost to the utter exclusion of everything else. The focus is laser-like. Who the man himself might actually be, remains a mystery. Recommended.

[Olga · Rating 4 out of 5]

De Quincey makes his addiction to laudanum the main subject of his memoir as it was, in fact, the factor that had had the biggest impact on his well-being, thoughts, dreams, work, his both physical and menrtal health, his whole life for many years. So, he has his reasons to both be grateful to it and curse it. Or write about it being inspired even by the suffering the addiction ultimately brings.
As a result, 'Confessions...' is much more than an account of drug use. It is a pioneering exploration of addiction, consciousness, memory, suffering and the fragile boundary between imagination and reality. It's also about human mind's capacity to create its own forms of paradise and hell.
Published initially in 1821, it occupies an intriguing position between autobiography, psychological investigation, literary experiment and Romantic prose.
Its enduring appeal lies in a fundamental contradiction: the author describes a substance that promises escape from suffering and an expansion of consciousness, yet gradually and inevitably turns that apparent liberation into a form of imprisonment.

'Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for 'the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,' bringest an assuaging balm; eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath; and to the guilty man, for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure of blood ...'
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'For it happens that books are the only article of property in which I am richer than my neighbors.'
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'But my way of writing is rather to think aloud, and follow my own humours, than much to consider who is listening to me; and, if I stop to consider what is proper to be said to this or that person, I shall soon come to doubt whether any part at all is proper.'
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'For it seemed to me as if then first I stood at a distance and aloof from the uproar of life; as if the tumult, the fever, and the strife were suspended; a respite granted from the secret burthens of the heart; a sabbath of repose; a resting from human labours. Here were the hopes which blossom in the paths of life reconciled with the peace which is in the grave; motions of the intellect as unwearied as the heavens, yet for all anxieties a halcyon calm; a tranquillity that seemed no product of inertia, but as if resulting from mighty and equal antagonisms; infinite activities, infinite repose.'
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'I ran into pagodas, and was fixed for centuries at the summit or in secret rooms: I was the idol; I was the priest; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried for a thousand years in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.'

[J.L. Sutton · Rating 3 out of 5]

“Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for 'the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,' bringest an assuaging balm; eloquent opium!”



While it is somewhat interesting to learn the path Thomas De Quincey took before his addiction to opium, I felt it could easily have been condensed. Until I got to De Quincey's actual opium use, his strange dreams and addiction, I wondered why I had found Confessions of an English Opium Eater so compelling when I first read it as an undergrad. I became intrigued again as I read further into De Quincey's account-it sometimes reminded me of Arthur Rimbaud's A Season in Hell, but I am not sure I was ever really engaged. 3.25 stars

“I ran into pagodas, and was fixed for centuries at the summit or in secret rooms: I was the idol; I was the priest; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of Brama through all the forests of Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was buried for a thousand years in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic mud.”

[Justin Tate · Rating 4 out of 5]

This 1821 memoir regularly receives citation as a contributor to the allure of Gothic literature. If Walpole, Radcliffe and Matthew Lewis had lit a fire of desire for adventure through spooky places and distant times, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater fanned the flames.

Though written supposedly to warn readers of the dangerous effects of opium, De Quincey instead becomes a tour guide through his fantastical drug-induced dreams. Incidentally, the dreams are described more as exciting wonders of the imagination than any “Just Say No” ad campaign.

“I seemed every night to descend…into vast Gothic halls, peopled with terrible beings,” he writes. There’s a terrifying/tantalizing sense of infinity and entrapment among these antique hallways and otherworldly monsters. At one point he travels back to ancient Egyptian times and experiences life as a mummy:

“I was buried, for a thousand years, in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids.”

Such depictions of isolation and alive burial will recall another great author, and De Quincey’s contemporary, Edgar Allan Poe. Though known for his brutal and unforgiving literary critiques, Poe found kinship in De Quincey’s “style” and praised his “genius” ability to write in a way “not to be analysed, but felt.”

Certainly we can imagine how De Quincey’s dreams might have sparked imagination in Poe’s mind, and helped him discover themes of suffocation and claustrophobia so common in his greatest stories. If nothing else, the memoir probably encouraged all kinds of writers to start taking opium. Lewis Carroll, perhaps?

In another hazy fantasy, De Quincey passes by exotic creatures like monkeys, parrots and cockatoos before being transported into “secret rooms.” Here he is both “worshipped” and “sacrificed” during an hallucination of polar opposites, that of a god and sacrificial calf.

Past acquaintances also haunt his dreams. This includes Ann, the young prostitute who had bought him a bite to eat many years ago. Despite her own extreme poverty, she was generous during his time of great need. In his opium high, De Quincey becomes tormented by his inability to return the favor: “She fled away from me — and I followed her in vain.”

In the introduction, the book assures us the content will terrify readers away from opium. For the sake of research, however, it includes sections both on the drug’s “pleasures” and “pains.” Even more ironically, it is the “pains” section which include the most thrilling descriptions. While certainly some dream-adventures can be interpreted as scary, there’s no argument to suggest lasting mental damage or actual downfall to experiencing these wonders of the imagination. If anything, De Quincey makes opium sound like an affordable way to achieve ultimate escapism from dirty, disease-ridden London.

It’s all too obvious how the book’s anti-drug stance is designed merely to appease the “delicate and honourable reserve” of polite society. The 1820s weren’t edgy enough to welcome a new memoir about the awesomeness of opium. So instead we get this book, which basically says “Don’t do drugs because you’ll have too much fun!”

Contemporaries largely saw through the marketing ploy. Nevertheless, it gave critics—who were probably doing opium themselves—a chance to also have it both ways. “The danger of such a book lies in its enchantment. It may teach the young to dream, but not to dread,” wrote one critic in The Examiner.

The Edinburgh Review, mixed with vague concern over the subject matter, offered this bit of praise: “It is impossible to read these pages without being fascinated by the rich, grave music of the prose.”

William Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine—an all-important periodical in the space of Gothic literature—offered the most unapologetic rave with this blurb-worthy quote: “Mr. De Quincey’s pen is dipped in the most vivid colors of the imagination.”

It’s easy to imagine how an 1821 audience would feel enraptured by the sublime images and titillating anxiety captured in this book. But how well does it hold up now?

For me, the prose is of the best variety of 19th century pomp. Sentences are hyperbolically excessive in that high society tone we think of when we envision this era of British literature. This means the prose can get complicated, but it doesn’t take long to settle into the rhythm. Reading it now only adds to the experience of ethereal ambiguity because the language itself is an instant transportation back in time.

The dream sequences are described with unfortunate brevity. Unlike other sections, where it takes multiple paragraphs to say hardly anything, the dreams are whole universes encapsulated in the slimmest of sentences. Best to read them slowly, to allow the weight of each experience to take hold before going on to the next.

There’s still the risk of making opium sound too attractive. De Quincey offers some awareness of the addictive nature of the drug, but pushes the dream adventure too far. There’s a very real possibility De Quincey simply had an active imagination and found a way to repackage his ordinary dreams—or scraps of incomplete fiction—as something provocative. Maybe this is another case of fiction masquerading as memoir, à la A Million Little Pieces? Either way, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater deserves to be studied as much for its clever marketing as for its influence on Gothic aesthetics.

One of the wildest “modern” interactions with this book is in the form of a film adaptation. In 1962, Vincent Price stars as Gilbert De Quincey, a descendant of Thomas. Gilbert becomes embroiled in the opium-fueled underbelly of Chinatown, where he uncovers a diabolical human trafficking ring smuggling Asian women.

While the film has no real plot connection to its source material, it does find inspiration in the book’s hazy, macabre vibe. Dialogue is sparse, opting more for nightmarish imagery, unnerving sound—or lack thereof—and freakshow horror. It goes more for art than entertainment, which was the right call. Certainly a must-watch film for Vincent Price fans due to its unusuality if nothing else. Less critical for Thomas De Quincey purists, but still an excellent example of how a slim memoir has captured our imagination over the last two hundred years.

[Tyler · Rating 1 out of 5]

If I published under my own name a book that was this bad, I’d fall through the floor for shame. With fewer than 20 pages drearily sketching the use of opium, what’s left is a mind-numbing autobiography of atrocious prose in service to pathological vanity. How does this writer get away with it?

The structure is a disaster. A footnote on one page tells about the family name Quincey; that footnote refers readers to an appendix; that appendix has yet more footnotes, all devoted to the name. Other footnotes take up over a page, and I couldn’t turn even three pages without running into a footnote of some length.

Similar discontinuity sends readers down many blind alleys. The chapter titles have nothing to do with the content, and the text in places is indexed with numbers which even break down into Roman numerals – all to make inconsequential points.

De Quincey mounts a defense in the first pages against the poet Coleridge. A fellow opium addict, Coleridge had apparently attacked De Quincey’s use of opium as being improper. This lively dustup gives the book some historical cachet, but it also reminds me of two alcoholics arguing over who’s drunk. After that, the opaque perspective yields no clue what the author was actually like.

Thickly overwritten prose flummoxes readers. The author brandishes verbose, circuitous sentences studded with Latin and Greek, the latter in its own alphabet. So esoteric is his writing that at times I simply had no idea what the author was getting at; at other times I had no idea what he just said.

More grating still is the silly affectation. The author in places addresses people and things in the second person using thee and thou, as if his puerile personal cares call for poetic license. In other places, his prodigious recollections pass off ersatz sentiment as something authentic. The tedious, self-absorbed content ultimately goes on to chronicle every aching hangnail this crazy fool ever had.

De Quincey’s main goal seems to be to twist language into a pretzel. It’s a matter of indifference to him whether he actually communicates anything to his readers. I consider as a result that readers should treat this book with a similar indifference.

[Julian Worker · Rating 4 out of 5]

A fascinating insight into a different life from the one I've led, so far at least.

It only seems right to read The Doors of Perception next!

Thomas de Quincey really landed on his feet when the Wordsworths moved out of, what was to become later, Dove Cottage in Grasmere and he moved in.

The book not only chronicles the opium eating, but also the social history of the times in England, before the Victorian era started, and as such is fascinating on two levels.

Recommended.

[°°°·.°·..·°¯°·._.· ʜᴇʟᴇɴ Ροζουλί Εωσφόρος ·._.·°¯°·.·° .·°°° ★·.·´¯`· · Rating 5 out of 5]

•Το φαινόμενο αποκαλύφθηκε στη στιγμή, ήταν μια μεγάλη πόλη - και άφοβα θα ‘λεγα - μια ερημιά κτιρίων, που βούλιαζε μακριά
Και απομακρυνόταν σε ένα θαυμάσιο βάθος, βούλιαζε μακριά στο μεγαλείο, χωρίς τέλος!
Φαινόταν φτιαγμένη απο διαμάντια και χρυσό.
Με αλαβάστρινους θόλους και ασημένιες στέγες.
Και λαμποκοπούσε απο πεζούλι σε πεζούλι, ψηλά.
Ανυψωμένη εδώ, έλαμπαν γαλήνια περίπτερα σε φροντισμένους δρόμους εκεί περιστοιχίζονταν πύργοι.
Με επάλξεις που στις αεικίνητες προσόψεις τους ακουμπούσαν άστρα - Κάθε είδους πετράδια!
Με γήινη φυσικότητα ήταν φτιαγμένο το αποτέλεσμα.
Πάνω στη σκοτεινή μάζα της θύελλας.
Που τώρα έχει γαληνέψει πάνω τους και πάνω στους θόλους.
Και στα φαράγγια και στις βουνοκορφές.
Οι ατμοί είχαν αποσυρθεί- σταματώντας εκεί.
Κάτω απο το βαθυγάλανο ουρανό.•


Οι εξομολογήσεις του Άγγλου οπιομανούς προφανώς
και μπορούν να μοιραστούν με άλλους ναρκομανείς του καιρού του ή της δικής μας εποχής την ιδιοσυγκρασία του περιθωριακού, του εθισμένου, και εξαθλιωμένου χρήστη που αναζητά άπληστα και παρανοϊκά το αγγελικό δηλητήριο της νιρβάνας του.

Πριν απο ενάμιση αιώνα έγραψε ο Ντε Κουίνσι τις εξομολογήσεις και παρ’ολο που οι συνθήκες ήταν
γενικά και ειδικά διαφορετικές απο τις τωρινές
δεν έπαψε να ζωγραφίζει με την κατανόηση της συμπόνοιας και την ματαιοδοξία των
πυρετικών ονείρων, σκηνές αέναης κίνησης
και βρόμας, καταθλιπτικές ανθρώπινες φιγούρες, εξαθλιωμένες και ξεπεσμένες σε μια κόλαση που παρουσίαζε τον χαμένο παράδεισο αληθινό και ανεντόπιστο παράλληλα, ακατάσχετες σκηνές υποανάπτυκτης μολυσμένης και αποκαμωμένης επιβίωσης.
Σωρεία με συμπτώματα απομόνωσης και βασανιστηρίων, χρήστες εθισμένοι σε μακάρια απάθεια και αυτοκαταστροφική βιαιότητα.
Στοές με φαντασιακή φρίκη ή πραγματικές αγορές νωθρότητας και απελπισίας.
Έμποροι της μομφής κάθε ανθρώπινης ζωτικής ενέργειας, αηδία, αναξιοπρέπεια, πόνος, απομόνωση, πείνα, κρύο, έλλειψη στέγης και πληθώρα κινδύνων παντός είδους.

Όποιος περιμένει να βρει παραλληλισμούς στην αφήγηση του Ντε Κουίνσι με τη φύση των ναρκομανών και των εμπειριών τους πλαισιωμένων απο στοιχεία ιατρικού και αστυνομικού δελτίου ενημέρωσης, θα εκπλαγεί, διότι θα έχει χάσει το νόημα του βιβλίου.

Ο Ντε Κουίνσι δεν έχει ως συγγραφική προτεραιότητα του να καταλογίσει ηθικές θάλασσες απαξίωσης και αρνήσεις μετά βδελυγμίας σε κάθε μορφή ψυχικής και εγκεφαλικής παραίσθησης.
Ο Άγγλος οπιομανής εμβαθύνει με την γραφή του στους μηχανισμούς της φαντασίας και της τρομοκρατίας των αισθήσεων και των απολαύσεων.
Σε ένα καφκικό περιβάλλον ατμοσφαιρικού ψυχαναγκασμού εντείνει τις σκέψεις του
στην αισθητική παραμόρφωση και την ονειρική αποσαφήνιση του ψυχολογικού παρελθόντος.

Ίσως η ψυχολογική καταπίεση που βίωσε απο παιδάκι
να του επέφερε ένα χρόνιο πάθος αγωνίας,
μια μανία περιφρόνησης του εαυτού του,
έναν φόβο αποτυχίας, λανθασμένες επιλογές, χωρισμούς, αποκλεισμούς, και ατελείωτη πικρία σε συνδυασμό με τις στερήσεις και το άγχος απέβησαν μοιραία οι αιτίες για την οδυνηρή γαστρική αρρώστεια του.
Αυτή η αρρώστεια του σώματος τον ανάγκασε επι μια δεκαετία να πίνει το όπιο ως παυσίπονο και να γεμίσει το μυαλό του και την ψυχική του άβυσσο με ψυχεδελικές ενοράσεις, και επιβλητικές, σπηλαιώδεις κυριαρχίες ονείρων μέσα στον χαμένο εαυτό του.

Η ομίχλη της ανομολόγητης ενοχής υπερέχει της εθιστικής μανίας για απολαυστικές παραισθήσεις.

Μέσα στις εξομολογήσεις του ο Ντε Κουίνσι αναφέρει την αποχώρηση του απο το σχολείο, τις περιπλανήσεις του στην Ουαλία ως βασανισμένος περιπατητής.
Το απελπισμένο ταξίδι του στο Λονδίνο με σκοπό να εξοικονομήσει χρήματα, η ατελείωτη πείνα που κράτησε μήνες τον χειμώνα του 1802-3, ενώ περίμενε κάποιες προκαταβολές δανειστών και η φιλία του με την δεκαπεντάχρονη πόρνη Άννα που καταπόνησε την καρδιά του και στιγμάτισε παντοτινά το πεπρωμένο του.

Ολα αυτά και άπειρα άλλα περιγράφονται και υπονοούνται με μεταξένιες χειρονομίες αφήγησης
και βαθύ μαύρο βελούδινο σκοτάδι αδιακρισίας και θαυμασμού.
Μια στοιχειωμένη φαντασία που περιπλανιέται
την αυγή σε κοιλάδες παιδικών μνημάτων
με ελπίδες λησμονιάς για όλες τις παλιές θλίψεις του κόσμου.
Πολύτιμη μνήμη που προσπαθεί να ξεπλύνει την μνησικακία, ένας τρόπος γραφής σαν να σκεφτόταν δυνατά ακολουθούσε το μυαλό του.
Τα πορίσματα και οι θεωρίες του προκαλούν τέτοιον ίλιγγο στον αναγνώστη που βιώνει μια συγκλονιστική διήγηση με ακατάπαυστο ενδιαφέρον, ώστε μόνο στο τέλος, όταν θελήσεις να συνοψίσεις ή να σχολιάσεις αυτά που διάβασες και σε συνεπήραν ορμητικά, αντιλαμβάνεσαι πως είχαν εμφανή έλλειψη συνοχής
ή λογικής.

Μια δικαιολογημένη χολωμένη εμπάθεια λόγω κακομεταχείρισης ή αδικίας του ίδιου και των αγαπημένων του προσώπων φανερώνει την θελκτική πλευρά του συγγραφέα ( προσωπική αποψη).

« Η μοχθηρία δεν προέρχεται πάντοτε απο την καρδιά. Υπάρχει και μια μοχθηρία που προέρχεται απο τη διάνοια και τη φαντασία».

Η μοχθηρία του δημιουργού εδώ είναι αμιγώς απόρροια φαντασίωσης παρά ανόθευτη ουσία ναρκωτικών χτύπων της μαγεμένης καρδιάς του.
💜💟🦋

Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.

[Daisy · Rating 4 out of 5]

The sad truth about life is that we can invent endlessly, create technology to do the things we used to do, live in a world so alien to the one a hundred years prior and yet human nature, human frailty remains constant. Its why the classics remain classics, its why we still love Jane Austen or Dickens or the Brontes, they deal with the common themes of self-doubt, unrequited love, misplaced passion among other common experiences.

So it is with Opium Eater. Anyone who has seen images of Americans nodding out on the street, heard stories of previously healthy, well-adjusted, happy kids dying of overdoses will recognise the world of addiction remains a constant strangle-holding, destructive force.

It wasn’t the book I was expecting imagining a 19th century Trainspotting with graphic depictions of using in illegal dens. In fact there was little of the pain of addiction. It was a tale more familiar of today than the 90’s Irvine Welch. Unlike Renton and the gang who turn to drugs as a recreational distraction from small town lives and mundane jobs, Quincy’s tale has more in common with books like Dopesick.

As with the Fentanyl and Oxycoton crises, this is the sad tale of prescription drugs taking hold. Quincy fell ill and a friend suggested opium as a remedy. The helpful sachet he was given by a pharmacist turned into a twelve year enslavement to it. When he describes it thus it is hard to conceive how every individual is not an addict,
”But I took it- and in an hour- oh, heavens! What a revulsion! What an upheaving, from its lowest depths, of inner spirit! What an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had vanished was now a trifle in my eyes: this negative effect wss swallowed up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened before me- in the abyss of divine enjoyment thus suddenly revealed. Here was a panacea …for all human woes; here was the secret of happiness, about which philosophers had disputed for so many ages.

The well worn path from pleasure to destitution and powerlessness over the drug is mapped out. From an educated, middle class family his opportunities fade and he finds himself penniless, sleeping on the floor in a squat that he must vacate during the day to roam the streets in the company of prostitutes and criminals. The constant searching for his next fix down dodgy backstreets,
…such knotty problems as alleys, such enigmatical entries, and such sphynx’s riddles of streets without thoroughfares…”

He is too ashamed by his addiction to contact his family and the opium becomes the only constant in a chaotic life. In fact it becomes the only thing in his life,
”…the reader is to consider me as a regular and confirmed opium-eater, of whom to ask whether on any particular day he had or had not taken opium, would be to ask whether his lungs had performed respiration, or the heart fulfilled its functions.”

He wants to be clean and free of the drug but if it was a simple as wanting there would be no addicts. He contemplates tapering off – one can question how serious his desire to stop using is when his tapering off is by such tiny increments that he calculates it will take him six years to be free. Like Renton at Quincy decides to go cold turkey which ends up being so severe his friends beg him to take the opium again.

For all the devastation drugs do it is churlish to ignore that devoid from addiction and the depths of humanity you might plumb, drugs make you feel good and Quincy acknowledges this by splitting his book into two parts titled Opium the Joy and Opium the Pain. Just as Welch shows the pleasure of heroin coursing through Renton’s veins as a complete relaxation, the sinking through the carpet into a womb like watery safe-haven, Quincy describes his winter evenings spent in a rural cottage as perfect as long as he had his vial of golden liquid beside him.

One of the stranger incidents is when he muses over whether he has killed a visitor to his cottage. The man knocking at his door in frozen winter weather is a foreigner who Quincy speaks in a faux language to. The man cannot convey how he has found himself in so remote a place, alone in the worst of English weather. He allows the man to stay the night and next morning sends him on his way with a dose of opium which the visitor then downs in one and leaves Quincy wondering whether he’s killed him. His lack of concern is comical as his conclusion that as he hasn’t heard of any bodies being found the traveller must have had a strong constitution and survived.

The book is not moralising. It does not set out to horrify the reader into swearing abstinence – in fact he extols the good health he is in after years of opium abuse. It is more the familiar story of the mundanity of most addictions, the purposeful painkiller that became a compulsion the dual desire to give up and yet to keep enjoying the feeling it bestows. Instead it is an honest account of human frailty by a man who has unflinchingly held a mirror to himself and the proof that drug addiction is not a modern scourge but an evil that has always been present and ruining lives.

[Jon Nakapalau · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thomas de Quincey writes his confessions and takes us into his confidence as he struggles to overcome his addiction. What impressed me the most was his honesty; he seems to see the addicted Thomas from a detached perspective that is insightful yet never 'preachy'. I still think this book could help addicted individuals today.

[Beverly · Rating 1 out of 5]

Tedious, he uses a word "viz." about 10,000 times. Obscure and rambling, but it was written a long, long time ago.

[Ulysse · Rating 4 out of 5]

Centoundici

There was a young man who feared odium
So he spent fifty years eating opium
His excuse was his stomach
But that was just bollocks
There was always le bicarbonate de sodium

A sinistra... / A destra...


.

[Meike · Rating 3 out of 5]

This classic of drug literature has supposedly influenced people from Baudelaire to Burroughs, so I was surprised that the autobiographical text is pretty...well: boring. The narrator tells us about his time as a teenage runaway in London, his opium habit that started with laudanum as pain medication, the pros and cons of addiction, the end. It's all renderd in slightly pompous language, which...meeh.

Still, the benefits have to be regarded in its historical context: There was a (Western) guy who portrayed and discussed drugs and addiction while walking the line between medication and hedonism, playing into ideas of heightened creativity and changed awareness, which - while now a cliché - back then was rather spectacular. So as a historical piece of writing, it's certainly a key text, but enjoyable it is not - at least not for this reader.

[Sasha · Rating 5 out of 5]

"First published in 1821, it paved the way for later generations of literary drug users, from Baudelaire to Burroughs." Whee!

While this is maybe not indispensable, it's also not more than 100 pages, so it gets five stars based on its ratio of awesomeness vs. time commitment. And it is pretty awesome. De Quincey is funny and weird and literate, and the roots of all kinds of drug stories - from those quoted above to Trainspotting and, oh, A Million Little Pieces - are clearly visible.

In one of those proud yet crushing moments where you realize that thought you were so psyched about of has, as Public Enemy said, been thought before: I've always thought that people get more honest when they drink, so if that nice new friend of yours gets weirdly mean and creepy when he's drunk, you might want to think twice about inviting him to your wedding. And here's de Quincey: "Most men are disguised by sobriety; and it is when they are drinking that men display themselves in their true complexion of character."

That's from page 46, in the middle of an absolutely glorious comparison of the effects of wine and opium. One of my favorite passages because, unlike opium, I'm quite familiar with the effects of wine. "The pleasure of wine is always mounting, and tending to a crisis, after which it declines." Really, there's no sense quoting more of it; the whole two pages is great.

If you're interested in drugs, or wine, or the idea of a counter culture, or pretty writing, or the history of opium and its significant effect on the world, this is worth an afternoon.

[Leonard Gaya · Rating 3 out of 5]

De Quincey’s account on opium consumption is perhaps one of the earliest books on drugs addiction, before Charles Baudelaire’s Paradis artificiels. It seems that De Quincey started taking laudanum to relieve a stomach condition. The drug did not affect him negatively at first; on the contrary, it improved the acuteness of his senses and uplifted his spirits. “Oh!, says he, subtle and mighty opium! that bringest an assuaging balm!” And that's how he got involved in an opium-eating habit for more than seventeen years. In the end, De Quincey was haunted by horrible nightmares.

The book, written in the first person singular, doesn’t delve immediately into the description of De Quincey’s experience with opium. He beats about the bush for quite some time, telling us about his life as a student and a love story with a young prostitute, probably “considering what is proper to be said” and trying to gain the benevolence of his readers, before he tackles the main subject. The ending, with the account of what took place in his hallucinations and dreams, under the influence of the drug, is perhaps the most exciting part.

Here is one example of his visions: “Be it as it may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to appear: the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces, upturned to the heavens: faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries...” All this, to be sure, would give much to think to the soon to come psychoanalysts and surrealists…

The Confessions in this short volume, is followed by Suspira De Profundis (a sequel to the former) and The English Mail-Coach, which, for now, I do not care to read or to review.

[Ajeje Brazov · Rating 4 out of 5]

Uno dei miei film, horror e non, preferiti, è Suspiria di Dario Argento. Un film con un'atmosfera così sublimemente terrifica, non ho mai veduto in vita mia. Un film che ha un che di angosciante seppur intrigante e dove la scenografia è il punto di forza. Appena venni a conoscenza che tale film ed anche gli altri due della trilogia della Madri, erano stati tratti da un libro, mi fiondai subito in biblioteca per recuperare il libro in questione: Suspiria de profundis di Thomas de Quincey. Non avevo mai sentito nemmeno lo scrittore. Trovai però questo libro, dove oltre a Suspiria, vi erano due avvenimenti autobiografici. Parto con Suspiria, ma arrivato a poco più della metà, mi fermo talmente disorientato, sia dalla scrittura, molto criptica e ricca di orpelli, non che questo non mi piaccia, ma c'era qualcosa che non quadrava, anzi non riuscivo proprio a stargli dietro. Così decido di bloccare la lettura e di leggere tutti e tre i testi.
Il primo: Confessioni di un oppiomane, è un testo autobiografico sull'incontro dell'autore con l'oppio, preso per caso per calmare dei dolori, per poi diventarne, quasi, dipendente. Un testo molto coinvolgente ed a tratti commovente, non per le sfumacchiate eh! XP
Il secondo: Suspiria de profundis. Ecco, lo rileggo ed ancora m'impantano. La colpa è sicuramente mia che fatico a seguirlo, ma è talmente affascinante e scritto talmente bene, che pare di ascoltare una musica soave ed agghiacciante allo stesso tempo. Ma quello che mi chiedevo era: ma cosa avrebbe, questo libro, da accumunarsi con i film di Dario Argento? La risposta l'ho avuta con l'ultima parte e mi si è aperto un mondo di terrificanti rivelazioni.
Il terzo ed ultimo testo: La diligenza inglese, dove l'autore continua con le sue esplorazioni nei fumi dell'oppio, con protagonista, appunto, una diligenza.

Ostico quanto affascinante, prolisso quanto inebriante, altero quanto sublime, questo libro mi ha fatto penare e non poco, forse per la mia poca conoscenza pregressa sul periodo e sull'argomento, forse per la spessa aura di deliri dati dall'oppio all'autore, forse semplicemente perchè questo libro andrebbe letto in una serata di fine Ottobre in una dimora abbandonata, magari un castello sperduto, dove l'unica luce è quella tenue della Luna e dove l'unico rumore, l'unica distrazione, è la natura più ancestrale e sinistra e dove i sogni, i deliri e le rappresentazioni di de Quincey prenderebbero ancora più forma, magari facendomi saltare dalla poltrona?
Da rileggere per carpirne meglio i messaggi più reconditi.

[Jan-Maat]

Thomas de Quincey started taking opium in the form of laudanum - conveniently available over the counter from all good chemists in early 19th century Britain - as pain relief. At no time was he taking his opium directly either by smoking or even eating, the title is indicative of his interest in finding the right phrase or most striking turn of words rather than the most accurate description. The downside of this search of his for the best turn of phrase is that in the second edition of his book he freely expanded sections and in doing so crossed the line from the florid to the overwritten.

He attempts to set out the positives and the negatives of his experiences with laudanum. My lasting impression was that it was overall horrific, the positive side didn't really come over terribly well. The fact of his addiction has to speak for itself. De Quincey wrote that his opium dreams where full of vivid memories of what he had read, his classical education meant that gigantic and threatening Roman armies loomed up and marched unrelentingly through his imagination. He imagines the agricultural labourer, laudanum was not just widely available at the time but also cheap, being overwhelmed by dreams of cows. Worse to imagine the dreams of the industrial labourer with their daily grind magnified in their imaginations.

The oddity of the book for me is that the drug visions sit alongside the ideal of Victorian domesticity. As expressed by de Quincey as the wife serving tea to the gathered family from a silver teapot. This is a comfortable, manageable, middle class addiction. It's a long way from the world of The Corner.

[Diane in Australia · Rating 1 out of 5]

I finally finished this! I have started reading it several times, and just couldn't get into it. But today I finished it! Hooray! As you can tell, I did not like it.

One example of a very long rambling sentence: "I do not often weep: for not only do my thoughts on subjects connected with the chief interests of man daily, nay hourly, descend a thousand fathoms “too deep for tears;” not only does the sternness of my habits of thought present an antagonism to the feelings which prompt tears—wanting of necessity to those who, being protected usually by their levity from any tendency to meditative sorrow, would by that same levity be made incapable of resisting it on any casual access of such feelings; but also, I believe that all minds which have contemplated such objects as deeply as I have done, must, for their own protection from utter despondency, have early encouraged and cherished some tranquillising belief as to the future balances and the hieroglyphic meanings of human sufferings."

I do realise it was published in 1821, and written in that period's style. No excuse! Mary Shelley published Frankenstein in 1823, and it is very readable.

I also realise that the author wrote while using opium. No excuse! Charles Dickens used opium, and he was still able to write things that made sense.

The only 'entertaining' bit was where he tells about the dreams/nightmares he had as a result of opium, and you have to get to the end of the book to read those.

If you're a fan of Thomas de Quincey, I suppose you'd enjoy this book.

If you love reading run-on sentences, you'd probably like this book.

If you're looking for a first-hand report of the pain/pleasure of opium addiction written in a readable style, this is probably not the book you're looking for.

1 Star = Yuck. I wish I hadn't wasted my time reading it.

[Fiza Pathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

‘Confessions Of an Opium-Eater’ by Thomas De Quincey has won me. It has been a very long time since I’ve read a book which speaks to my very soul & being. In spite of reading so many theosophical & theological books over the years, no book has really invigorated me so clearly & perfectly as this infamous masterpiece of classic literature.

And no, this book really has nothing to do with promoting drug addiction, quite the opposite rather!

In this book, a juvenile prodigy in Greek scholarship attempts to break free from the stranglehold of his guardians & grammar school. He does so under very unfortunate circumstances which leads him to a life of pain incurred because of the culminating effects of ego hassles, poverty & of course a chronic addiction to opium. What becomes of this scholar later in life making him realize the severity of his drug addiction is what this book is all about.

It is not a fast read at all, but it is highly erudite & full of philosophical depth which brings out the fact that De Quincey was a most remarkable man as well as a very well-read individual of Western Philosophical thought. The latter does not come as a surprise since the individual was studying the same at his grammar school & then at his Latin college. However, it is his perfect insight into the very essence of Latin philosophy which shows signs that he was well schooled in the theories of Plato as well as Aristotle’s hylomorphism that is brought out simply & beautifully in this tiny but heavy book. Through his experience as a depressed drug addict, De Quincey simplifies what his logical hylomorphic theory of existence is & what it means for others like him who have fallen into the trap of opium addiction. The simplistic language which he uses to explain his line of thought is similar to the writings of theologians like St. Thomas Aquinas & contemporary popular philosophers of the 18th & 19th century like Immanuel Kant. I enjoyed the brief mention of Spinoza in the book as well & I’m sure the well-read sombre reader will enjoy the same too!

The terms Substantial Form & Prime Matter abound directly & indirectly in this text. This shows that the theories of Aristotle were what induced De Quincey into a more detailed study of German western thought later in life, making this book a highly pleasurable read but yet, a very frank & truthful one with regards to people’s addictions & obsessions in life. I especially felt edified by De Quincey’s views about music which to him was more meaningful in tone & subjective comprehension rather than in actual objective content. This is a good example to the working of substantial form & prime matter in the mind of a human being made of up of soul & body. I also appreciated his view that to a real intellectual, even romantic love holds no water as a panacea of life. Instead, to observe with quiet reflection the leisure or rest of the poor & downtrodden is something that truly gives relief to a restless soul. It is indeed such observations or actual service to the needy, even if it is merely in the form of a listening ear that can truly give an anxious individual rest & true refreshment; there De Quincey trumps pompousness, pride, thoughts, feelings, emotions et al., as the real philosopher knows, we are more than our thoughts, intelligence, emotions, desires, passions, obsessions & feelings!

We are more than our addictions, even if it is opium addiction!

However, De Quincey tends to be too obsessed with his racist ideas towards Asians which may not go down well with some readers. Yet, it is not something disturbing knowing that the man was a bookworm all his life & never travelled at all due to his addiction to actually learn about different cultures & sensibilities other than his own. Plus, he was so engrained in Western philosophy that probably he could not digest the more broad minded, inclusive & adaptable Eastern Philosophy which is not very unusual to observe among most Europeans of that time. Orientalism was still only developing as a science when this book was being penned. It should not be an issue which should stop the reader from appreciating the excellence of the book.

The ending of the book is painful to read but is a perfect analysis in the line of Kant on the meaning of suffering. At the end of the day, drugs do not take away suffering from life, suffering is more a part of being alive than even love & lust. Thinking that drugs can cure a person of physical & psychological suffering is foolhardiness at its best. Whether De Quincey goes on with his life, gives up his addiction to opium, dies in his guilt or progresses in his vocation as a writer of letters is what one can find out by reading this book SLOWLY & with a calm mind. If one as a reader is in a mood of speed reading then this classic is not meant for you. The title & theme may seem enticing but gory details of a drug addict are not the details of this otherwise excellent & unputdownable classic. Those who take their reading slow & seriously can pick up this book. Those adept readers of philosophy, theology, logic, ethics et al., will find this title a light read & enjoy every moment of it.
I especially loved the episode with the Malay individual who the author happened upon at his cottage. I’ve never read of something that astounding in all my life & I’m sure every reader will be surprised by what effect the visit of that South-East Asian individual had on De Quincey when they indulge themselves in the reading of ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’. This book is not at all to encourage a vulnerable reader into taking drugs, instead, quite the opposite as I have mentioned before!

I have never indulged in drugs, alcohol, tobacco or any kind of stimulant other than South-Indian coffee & cutting chai or tea. Therefore, I vouch for the inquisitive reader that my review & five stars for this book is not because I applaud drug addiction but because I find a lot of truth, relevance, theological depth & intellectual matter in the tongue in cheek reasoning of De Quincey towards the power that a person’s sense of guilt & ego has over his life which leads to the taking of such toxic substances. Do yourself a favour & read this book & then know that obviously, the author is indicating that you should say NO TO DRUGS!

I really enjoyed this book & more so because I read the original first edition of the title as published by Dover Thrift Edition Classics (Year 1995). Make sure you too read the first edition or reprint of the first edition rather because reprints of later editions can be found in plenty & they are not so well written as the first. It leads many readers to think that the book is unworthy of its fame, which is unfortunate, because it is the best thing one could read from a very unusual man of letters. ‘Confessions of an English Opium Eater’ gets 5 stars from me!

["Ben" Yair · Rating 5 out of 5]

Intolerably tough to read but a force worth going through. De Quincy was a xenophobe, drug addict, racist, imperialist, etc etc. But his writing is, hyperbole aside, incredible. He digresses, stops and starts tangents, and sometimes (actually often) ends stories with absolutely no resolution. Like post-modern even before modernism. Not easy but definitely great reading.

[Darya Silman · Rating 3 out of 5]

It's culturally wrong to judge a book, written 200 years ago, by modern standards. However, as a product of our social origins, upbringing, and education, we are slaves to the dictatorship of time. We possess no other standard than that dictated by our own time, unless, of course, we are willing to delve into history and read how contemporaries reacted to a work. But that, still, will be their judgment, not ours.

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER by Thomas De Quincey intrigued me with its title. However, the title doesn't fully capture the essence of the work. It's not so much the confession of an opium-eater as the author's attempt to whitewash his habit. For comparison, de Quincey uses his friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Daily opium use made Coleridge unable to write, communicate, or live a full life, while De Quincey's vital energy surges and his mind works to the fullest. Be patient, reader! Reach the final third of the book, and you'll see a change in tone. De Quincey still tries to present himself as a rational person who was even able to abstain from opium for short periods. This fact, according to the author, proves that opium doesn't have the destructive qualities it's prescribed, meaning that an addict needs to increase their dosage over time, since small doses don't produce mental clarity. However, dreams, or hallucinations, or nightmares are precisely the reason he sporadically quits opium. They are terrifying in content and sensation. They evoke the feeling of falling into an abyss. Any more or less conscious thought during the day becomes a hallucination at night. He cannot write or create, and the only intellectual activity available to him is reading aloud to others. Again, to justify this, he attaches great importance to reading to friends. From the very beginning of the book, again and again, the author tries to instill in the readers the idea that his use of opium is the result of a mistake in his youth, when he almost died of hunger in London. It was then that he allegedly received nervous irritation and stomach irritation, coupled with a rheumatic toothache - a combination of illnesses being the reason for his addiction. The contradictions in the story pile up until the reader stops believing the narrator altogether.

Reading CONFESSIONS with its floral language, untranslated Greek/Latin phrases, quotes from poems, and lengthy footnotes was tiresome yet rewarding: it was a true immersion into the atmosphere of the 19th century. There are two author's versions: a more concise 1821 original and a 1856 revision. In my 1856 version, the description of De Quincey's teen years takes up about two-thirds of the book, and the opium use justification is more clearly defined.

I enjoyed CONFESSIONS as a monument to how cunning a person can be in downplaying their drug addiction. And, of course, the language! Veni, vidi, vici.

[J.G. Keely · Rating 3 out of 5]

While researching the use of opium for my own (fictional) writings into the subject, I came across this fascinating article about a fellow whose habit of collecting paraphernalia led him to become both the leading expert on them and an addict. The interview led me to the work of Dr. H.H. Kane, and Kane's analysis led me back to de Quincey, with whom I had some prior familiarity due to my literary studies.

De Quincey's writing style is precise and exacting, but he does not have that flair for storytelling which marks a fascinating diarist. Indeed, many of the most intriguing parts of his tale are those he declined to go into in great detail, and throughout one can see his struggles not so much in what he has written on the page, but in what he cannot bring himself to say. He comes to the cusp of his own suffering again and again, but to cross that threshold is to relive his greatest shame and disappointment, so he often skirts it.

No doubt this is why Dr. Kane accuses de Quincey of presenting all the beneficial sides of the drug's use, and ignoring the dangers. Yet I found myself constantly thankful that I was not in de Quincey's position, for his constant and unabated suffering seemed clear enough to me.

Indeed, when he spoke of being unable to complete his work (the promised third part of his Confessions never arrived), of the weeks or months passing by without his being perceptibly closer to completing all of the great tasks and projects he had set before himself--one does not have to be a taker of laudanum to sympathize, as being an artist of any stripe is quite enough to understand that eternal struggle.

But though some of his narrative is less than vivid, most interesting are his descriptions of opioid dreams, which visions were so influential to fantastical authors like Gogol and Lovecraft. Indeed, his vision of the 'impossible castles of the clouds' are recognizable in the writings of numerous mythos authors, who were so obsessed with the realm of dreams, especially when it bled into quotidian life.

[Jacob S · Rating 3 out of 5]

The boy speaks Greek …

I am not overly impressed – underwhelmed may indeed be the word – by this romantic tale of the orphaned but highly intelligent boy who fell on hard times.

It is a typical piece of Confessional Writing – though it also bares a certain lack of self-awareness paired with some megalomania.
And yes, opium-eating is a nasty habit and you can invent all kind of excuses for it if you like but still it is an addiction.

TdQ is often mentioned as a forefather and source of inspiration for William S. Burroughs – Burroughs, drugged out of this world - did however manage to write quite a few memorable novels.

Once again, literary duty done.

[Radioread · Rating 3 out of 5]

Konuya bir türlü gelemeyişi ile hipergerçekçi bir itirafname olarak takdirimi kazandı skfjd

[cypt · Rating 3 out of 5]

Esė before it was cool!!!!
Juokauju, jau buvo cool, parašyta jau po Montaigne'io ir Bacono ir dar turbūt krūvos jų pasekėjų. Bet still!

Pasiėmiau iš biblės visai nieko nesitikėdama - tik norėjau paskaityti Repečkos vertimą (vis dar neskaičiau jo Shakespeare'o, pazzzzorrrr), norėjau dozės kažko ankstyvesnio nei 21 a reikalai. Dozę gavau.

Tekstas trumpas, skaitosi labai greitai. Parašytas gražiai ir vietomis taip užneša tuo iškilmingu patosu, kreipiniais: Skaitytojau! Labai intertekstualus, pilnas poezijos - Miltono, Wordswortho; labai gerai išlįsti iš savo skaitymo burbulo ir pagalvoti, kad ne viskas, ką verta skaityti, buvo parašyta 20 a. Čia juokais, bet kartais gerokai užsisuki tarp "naujovių" ir išeina maždaug: nemėgstu aš tų senų filmų (apie 1973 m. filmą).
Gražu:

Tačiau Londono labdarybės srautas, nors ir kokia gilia, plačia vaga teka, yra begarsis ir požeminis - todėl nei regimas, nei prieinamas vargšams benamiams klajokliams. (p. 47)

Kartą viena artima giminaitė man papasakojo, kaip vaikystėje įkrito į upę ir atsidūrusi ties pačia pražūties riba - laimė, pagalbos ji sulaukė pačiu laiku - akimirksniu išvydo visą savo gyvenimą: smulkiausios detalės išsirikiavo viena greta kitos lyg atspindėtos veidrody. Ir staiga ji įgijo gebėjimą tuo pat metu suvokti tiek visumą, tiek kiekvieną jos dalelę. Tuo, remdamasis savo, kaip opijaus vartotojo, patirtimi tikrai tikiu. Esu dukart aptikęs panašių tvirtinimų šiuolaikinėse knygose ir jų teisingumu neabejoju: juos aiškinančiose pastabose teigiama, jog šiurpusis paskutiniojo teismo aprašymas Šventajame Rašte - ne kas kita, kaip kiekvieno iš mūsų sąmonės atspindys. Esu tikras bent tuo, kad iš proto visiškai atimta galimybė pamiršti: tūkstančiai įvykių gali sudaryti ir sudaro šūdą, skiriantį mūsų dabartinę sąmonę nuo slaptų įrašų prote, bet lygiai tokie patys įvykiai tą šydą ir suplėšo, tačiau nesvarbu ar dengiami, ar nedengiami šydo, šie įrašai išlieka amžinai, jie tarytum žvaigždės, kurios, atrodo, pranyksta nušvitus dienos šviesai, nors iš tiesų mes žinome, kad šviesa - tik jas uždengęs šydas, ir žvaigždės telaukia, kol, jas paslėpusiai dienos šviesai pasitraukus, vėl galės pasirodyti. (p. 144-145)

See! Ne Laurence'as Sterne'as, nu bet gražu, darrrrk, romantika, griuvėsiai.
Repečkos vertimas, spėju, labai pagerina tekstą, jau vien jo išverstos poezijos eilutės - geruma (Wordsworthas):

Akimirksniu iškilo reginys -
Didingas miestas, pastatų gausybė,
Paskendus toliuos, galo nėr,
Šio nuostabiausio grožio tolių toliai!
Jie sukurti iš deimantų, iš aukso,
Jų alebastro kupolai, sidabro smailės,
Ir žėrinčios terasos virš terasų,
Ore pakibusios, ir tykūs paviljonai,
Alėjose suspindę, ant viršūnių bokštų,
Dantytom sienom apjuostų, plevena
Skaisčiausios puošmenos - iškilę žvaigždės!
Gamta mūs žemės visa tai sukūrė
Iš audinio tamsios audros, kurią ramybė
Štai ką tik įveikė, tad slėniai,
Viršukalnės ir įlankos, rūkams ištirpus,
Po žydryne dangaus lai ilsis... (p. 149)

Traktatėlyje De Quincey'is papasakoja, kaip vartojo opijų paauglystėj, ankstyvoj jaunystėj, kaip vėl persimetė ant vartojimo dar po belekiek metų. Pasakoja apie sapnus, apie skausmus, apie nemalonų jausmą skrandyje, kai bandai mesti. Po skaitymo man net pradėjo durti skrandį!!! Nors opijaus bandžius nesu ir tų reklamuojamų privalumų nepatyriau. O šiaip tekstas keistokas, pilnas skylių. Apie tą jis nepasakos, nes mums būtų nuobodu, apie ligą kalbėt užknisa, apie susipykimą su draugais nepasakos - šiaip, kažkodėl. Kartais kreipiasi į žmoną, bet daugiau jokių istorijų apie ją nėra. Tik pamąstymas šen, pamąstymas ten. Gale pasiūlo savo kūną - po mirties - mokslui. Nu ačiū!

Apskritai - neradau vientisumo (arba išradingai nesančio vientisumo), neradau kažkokio proto aštrumo, kurio neva turėtų suteikti opijus, pėdsakų. Klasika, faina paskaityti, bet antrą kartą negrįšiu. Būtų 2*, bet.. gražusis vertimas!

[Quirkyreader · Rating 3 out of 5]

I was hoping to give this book a higher rating, but it is hard to review a book where most of it came from a haze of drugs taking memories.

The opioid epidemic has been with us for centuries and De Quincey was one of the first people to write about his struggles with the drug.

[Kuszma · Rating 3 out of 5]

Mindenképpen leszögezném, hogy ez igenis egy marha fontos könyv, ami a pre-viktorianus kor képmutatását levetkőzve nyíltan megemlít olyan tabukat, mint a nyomor, a prostitúció, valamit (és elsősorban) az ópiumfüggőség. Csak hát (és itt sokatmondóan sóhajtok egyet) a nyelvezete. Természetes, hogy a korszak irodalmában (beszéljünk akár regényekről, akár esszékről) értelmetlen lett volna vitát kezdeményezni arról, hogy a nyelv csak eszköz, aminek feladata a történet és gondolat minél tisztább továbbítása az olvasóhoz, vagy az író személyiségének kiterjesztése. A priori vették, hogy utóbbi - ilyen értelemben ez a kötet is csak másodsorban szól az ópiumról, elsősorban pedig magáról de Quincey-ről: egy műgonddal előállított faliszőnyeghez hasonlatos, amibe az író beleszőtte önmagát is, azt, hogy milyen gazdagon érző és mélyen gondolkodó ember ő, ámuljunk el rajta. Mindez persze oda vezetett, hogy a szöveg néha giccsbe, sőt! komikumba hajlóan túlcizellált és körülményes: hajlamos négy oldalnyi szóvirágos indamondatban ecsetelni azt, hogy szereti a telet, ám maga az ópiummámor leírása az egész kötetből ha 10%-ot kitölt, sokat mondok. Ilyen körülmények között ez a bájos, nagyon bájos nyelv nem segít a téma átadásában, inkább falat emel elé, amin át kell mászni. Mintha egy szakszerűtlenül elkészített rántott hús lenne - én elhiszem, hogy a lehető legmagasabb minőségű húsból készült, de akkor mi a tökömért kellett ilyen vastag panírt rakni rá?

[Unknown · Rating 4 out of 5]

I sometimes seem to have lived for 70 or 100 years in one night; nay, sometimes had feelings representative of a millennium passed in that time, or, however, of a duration far beyond the limits of any human experience. —Confessions

. . . I do not believe that any man, having once tasted the divine luxuries of opium, will afterwards descend to the gross and mortal enjoyments of alcohol. —Confessions
__________
Rarely do things perish from my memory that are worth remembering. Rubbish dies instantly. Hence it happens that passages in Latin or English poets, which I never could have read but once (and that thirty years ago), often begin to blossom anew when I am lying awake, unable to sleep. I become a distinguished compositor in the darkness: and, with my aerial composing-stick, sometimes I “set up” half a page of verses, that would be found tolerably correct if collated with the volume that I never had in my hand but once. I mention this in no spirit of boasting. Far from it. —Suspiria De Profundis

__________
This edition includes De Quincey's Confessions of an English Opium Eater, his sequel, Suspiria De Profundis or Sighs from the Depths, and a somewhat related essay, The English Mail-Coach, which was originally intended to form part of Suspiria. It also contains manuscript material relating to all three works, and a large quantity of excellent notes.

In the Confessions, De Quincey recounts his experiences with Opium, and in Suspiria he explores his childhood.

He has a large fascination with dreams and dreaming, and this interest is well woven through both of these works.

De Quincey's style is rich and powerful, and the works are well peppered with amusing anecdotes and spurts of humour.

The Confessions is very entertaining, I enjoyed Suspiria arguably more, and I would recommend both purely on the quality of De Quincey's writing. But unfortunately, even this could not not get me through the entirety of The English Mail-Coach.
_____
If after reading the Confessions, De Quincey has piqued your interest in Opium, you can safely sate this curiosity by inhaling the redolence of the rich, heady exilir that is Vi Et Armis by Beaufort London; from the heart of which flows a beautifully intoxicating Opium note.

I say by inhaling this potent tincture, you will be safely sated; but do take care the olfactive seduction does not entice you to seek out the pleasures of the illicit flower . . .


__________
From Confessions of an English Opium Eater:

. . . whereas wine disorders the mental faculties, opium, on the contrary (if taken in a proper manner), introduces amongst them the most exquisite order, legislation, and harmony. Wine robs a man of his self-possession; opium greatly invigorates it. Wine unsettles and clouds the judgement, and gives a preternatural brightness and a vivid exaltation to the contempts and the admirations, the loves and the hatreds of the drinker; opium, on the contrary, communicates serenity and equipoise to all the faculties, active or passive, and with respect to the temper and moral feelings in general it gives simply that sort of vital warmth which is approved by the judgment, and which would probably always accompany a bodily constitution of primeval or antediluvian health.

For music is an intellectual or a sensual pleasure, according to the temperament of him who hears it.

For tea, though ridiculed by those who are naturally of coarse nerves, or are become so from wine-drinking, and are not susceptible of influence from so refined a stimulant, will always be the favourite beverage of the intellectual.

People in general either read poetry without any passion at all, or else overstep the modesty of nature, and read not like scholars.

The sublimer and more passionate poets I still read, as I have said, by snatches, and occasionally. But my proper vocation, as I well know, was the exercise of the analytic understanding. Now, for the most part, analytic studies are continuous, and not to be pursued by fits and starts, or fragmentary efforts. 

I had been in youth, and even since, for occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy, whom I confess that I prefer, both for style and matter, to any other of the Roman historians.

I set off on foot, carrying a small parcel with some articles of dress under my arm; a favourite English poet in one pocket, and a small 12mo volume, containing about nine plays of Euripides, in the other.

. . . for it happens that books are the only article of property in which I am richer than my neighbours. Of these I have about five thousand, collected gradually since my eighteenth year.
__________
From Suspiria De Profundis :

Well it was for me that, at this crisis, I was summoned to put on the harness of life by commencing my classical studies.

The case was this:—It happened that I had now, and commencing with my first introduction to Latin studies, a large weekly allowance of pocket-money, too large for my age, but safely intrusted to myself, who never spent or desired to spend one fraction of it upon anything but books. But all proved too little for my colossal schemes. Had the Vatican, the Bodleian, and the Bibliothèque du Roi, been all emptied into one collection for my private gratification, little progress would have been made towards content in this particular craving. Very soon I had run ahead of my allowance, and was about three guineas deep in debt.

No man ever will unfold the capacities of his own intellect who does not at least checker his life with solitude. How much solitude, so much power.

Whatsoever in a man's mind blossoms as expands to his own consciousness in mature life, must have pre-existed in germ during his infancy. (Note)

That a girl it was who had crowned the earth with beauty, and had opened to my thirst fountains of pure celestial love, from which, in this world, I was to drink no more.

[Andrea · Rating 3 out of 5]

I was disappointed I confess, though I don't know why I had high expectations given I have always found people on drugs profoundly boring—though I note that usually they find themselves extremely interesting. De Quincy writes 'I have, for the general benefit of the world, innoculated myself as it were, with the poinson of 8000 drops of laudanum per day (just for the same reason as a French surgeon inoculated himself lately with cancer...)'

What struck me most was privilege, even in his poverty after running away as a teenager. After all, he heads to Eton, where he will always be at home, to get Lord so-and-so to co-sign a loan against his expected fortune from the Jews. I was sad but not surprised to find such a stereotypical view of jews as existing simply to lend money to wealthy but under-age men. A window of empathy into the lives of the poor and oppressed emerged, but he only opened the curtain a little, hardly even looked properly through it. There is disappointingly little here about London and walking its streets, which is what I expected to find given all I had read.

What I hadn't expected to find was a crazy reflection of imperial angst and racism. He's in the remote mountains in a cottage when a 'Malay' comes to the door and doesn't speak English. He contrasts 'the beautiful English face of the girl and its exquisite fairness, together with her erect and independant attitude ... with the sallow and bilious skin of the Malay...his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, slavish gestures and adorations'. They can't communicate, but apparently all the man wants is somewhere to rest before he goes on his way. As a parting gift, de Quincey offers him a chunk of opium, which the man proceeds to eat entire--'the quantity was enough to kill three dragoons and their horses, and I felt some alarm for the poor creature; but what could be done?' Nothing apparently, he sends him out in the night, and is anxious for his life the next few nights but upon hearing no reports of the dead body turning up, his mind is relieved.

Except it's not. After the years of happily enjoying his regular opium habit, it eventually spirals down into pain and terrible dreams/hallucinations. These are regularly frequented by what he calls 'Oriental' dreams. He writes 'The Malay has been a fearful enemy for months. I have been every night, through his means, transported into Asiatic scenes...The causes of my horror lie deep, and some of them must be common to others. Southern Asia in general is the seat of awful images and associations.' Holy crap I thought, the inscrutable asian 'other' that he might well have murdered comes back to his dreams, takes him to the very places his opium comes from -- though that isn't thought through or even mentioned. I suppose this is before the Opium wars and Britain's great Opium-dealing adventure overseas, it prefigures it in a way. And unlike the Heart of Darkness fear of 'primitive' man (though he brings up that up as well in relation to 'barbarous' Africa), it is instead fear and trembling before an older greater culture--'the ancient, monumental, cruel and elaborate religions...The mere antiquity of Asiatic things, of their institutions, histories, modes of faith, &c., is so impressive, that to me teh vast age of the race and name overpowers the sense of youth in the individual'.

There is so much to think about there, I hope to come back to it at some time, though surely this must have been written about. The only other interesting thing, funny really, was the statement on political economists of the day: 'I saw that these were generally the very dregs and rinsings of the human intellect; and that any man of sound head...might take up the whole academy of modern economists, and throttle them between heaven and earth with his finger and thumb, or bray their fungus-headss to powder with a lady's fan'. Which I love, though I am not sure exactly how that insult works...