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410 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1967
"I don't care a button about being prosecuted," [Burton] wrote, "and if the matter comes to a fight I will walk into court with my Bible and my Shakespeare and my Rabelais under my arm, and prove to them that, before they condemn me, they must cut half of them out."Out of all the books that have spent a long time on my TBR and that I have made an effort to finally get to this year, this one likely has the most inscrutable origins as to my committing to it eleven years ago. My best guess is that, while I was intrigued by Burton through various tangential references circling around his translation of The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night; Complete (back when I lacked the skills to expand my access to classics beyond the white straight and narrow), I wanted to first scope him out through a less stodgy medium, and a biography penned by a woman during the medievally misogynistic era of the 1960s USA seemed like a good deal. However, by the time I finally got to this work, I was a great deal more informed about what it meant for a read to be a "psychobiography" (hint: heavy amounts of Freudianism involved) and a lot less willing to excuse excessive levels of subjectivity for the sake of a more dramatic nonfictional rendering. As such, while the record of Burton's life is the exact sort of material I would and did thoroughly enjoy learning about, I did have to spend some time fending off the author's more egregious pronouncements: my delight at various non-status quo subjects, esp queerhood, being touched upon in a direct (if obnoxiously cishet) fashion tempered by the obtuse efforts of the author to entice based on pure hypothesis. In the end, I'll probably have to read at least one, or more, further biographies on Burton to get a far less sensational viewpoint on things. I have to admit, though: this was a hell of a way to start.
Burton described [infibulation] in explicit detail...writing in Latin, as Gibbon did with his racier footnotes, taking advantage of the British notion that anything written in Latin thereby escaped being pornographic.Like many of his fellow "sun never sets" citizens, Burton could neither live with nor live without the crimes against humanity committed en masse by his nation of birth. Similarly, what would his reputation be had he not the evils of his collective culture to rail at and the presumptuous exigencies wrought by empire to live off the spoils of? So he picked up languages by the dozen, refused to indulge in some measure of the police state puritanism of his time, and humanized the Other a tad more often than was considered respectable for a man in his position. Considering with what ease he could not only sojourn to the farthest reaches but be rewarded for it, whether in terms of military title, academic prestige, or sheer celebrity of the hour, how could he have done anything but? The trick to it is how, despite my knowing this, how seduced I ultimately was by it all. The anthropological treatises before anthropology was established, the gaze both clinical and persistent trained towards the "degeneracy" that continually births myself and my community anew, the life lived in the raw where enough was familiar for me to rest on my laurels but novel enough for me to not only learn, but deliciously so: it's the perfect blend of the standards I was raised to praise and the values I've wrested from sources both unforgivingly sterile and erotically charged, and even Brodie's more clownish writing couldn't fuck up the experience to any significant degree. Indeed, the author did a good enough job that, by time the text finally got to the translation project that I had gone in for in the first place, I appreciated both why it didn't occupy so much of the text as well as the richness without price of Burton's choices and experiences that led to the germination, execution, and completion of the work. So, flawed this work may be, I can't say it wasn't more often than not an absolute pleasure to read.
Of Pilate's condemnation of Jesus he wrote irreverently: "I cannot but think that the poor "Pagan" did exactly what would have been done by an Anglo-Indian officer of the last generation in a violent religious quarrel amongst the mild Hindus, with their atrocious accusations against one another. Utterly unable to appreciate the merits and demerits of the case, he would have said, "There'll be an awful row if I don't interfere. Old Charley (the commander-in-chief) doesn't like me, and I don't want to lose my appointment. After all, what matter? Let the n[*]gs do as they please!"The reason why I added this work may be lost to the sands of times, but I'm sure glad long ago me thought whatever they ended up thinking when they committed to it in the first place. I'm not about to go seek out whatever other writings, "psychobiographical" or otherwise, Brodie's investment in Mormonism led to her to compose (I've read too many poorly argued thesis papers that confuse author words with author intent to seek them out on purpose), but I do have to credit her for drawing me back to the beleaguered Victorian period without making me regret my investment. In terms of Burton, it's not that they don't make 'em like they used to, but simply that the world is no longer the theoretical modern day reincarnation's oyster, and all that knowledge, opportunity, uproarious triumph and soul-crushing disaster must now either be bought and paid for or hidden away on classified military installations. Of course it's far less sexy that way, but it makes for a better humanity, and as Burton more than demonstrated, the freedom in the flight of writing and reading far beyond the bounds of a common humanity does a great deal to keep that humanity in common. The man wasn't perfect, but he existed in too close an alignment with own facets and flaws for me to do anything than truly wish that he found some breed of peace in his rest. For the world is far more interesting for him having once lived in it, and all we poor contemporary souls can do is brush up a bit on the facts and hope that they will grow us some futures.
"I am in a very bad way," [Burton] once said to [his wife]. "I have got to hate everybody except you and myself, and it frightens me, because I know perfectly well that next year I shall get to hate you, and the year after that I shall get to hate myself, and then I don't know what will become of me.["]The feeling of seeing oneself vivisected with the combination of piece of paper and a bit of ink. One never gets used to it.