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His Devilish Art
A painter on the margins of society.
A woman determined to change the world.
A country on the brink of revolution.
London, 1789. The Swiss-born painter Henry Fuseli is at the height of his fame, newly married, and on the verge of being elected to the Royal Academy. But as the ‘Wild Swiss’ works on his pictures of dark, dreamlike eroticism, he is drawn into a network of radical thinkers who are eagerly following the revolutions in America and France – among them the pioneering feminist Mary Wollstonecraft.
As Fuseli struggles to find his way in a London seething with fog, streetwalkers, dismal poverty and staggering displays of wealth, the stage is set for a showdown between Enlightenment reason and the relentless pull of human desire.
A woman determined to change the world.
A country on the brink of revolution.
London, 1789. The Swiss-born painter Henry Fuseli is at the height of his fame, newly married, and on the verge of being elected to the Royal Academy. But as the ‘Wild Swiss’ works on his pictures of dark, dreamlike eroticism, he is drawn into a network of radical thinkers who are eagerly following the revolutions in America and France – among them the pioneering feminist Mary Wollstonecraft.
As Fuseli struggles to find his way in a London seething with fog, streetwalkers, dismal poverty and staggering displays of wealth, the stage is set for a showdown between Enlightenment reason and the relentless pull of human desire.
308 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2025
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
June 24, 2025
My knowledge of the classics is abysmal, a result of growing up in an educational backwater coupled with my disinclination to read anything by force. My friends on this site can speak knowledgeably of Jane Austin and Henry James and Dickens, or in some cases of Turgenev and Bugakov, none of whom I’ve read. So what magic compelled me to read a 300+-page novel of eighteenth-century London written in period language?
Archaic language is not, in and of itself, a liability, as I discovered to my great surprise while reading For My Lady's Heart, a full-on bodice-ripper full of forsooths and gainsays and vouchsafes. A master of language can make the sort of semi-translative reading necessary in a book like this fun, and Mr. Wise is nothing if not a master of language. Characters on their way to a riot can still find time to stop in and have their surroundings described thus:
Oh! I forgot to mention the most interesting part. During my many years of working as a technical person, I have deprived myself of art, not due to disinterest but simply because there were always too many demands on my time. The primary character of this book, dictating to his amanuensis, was a painter; the other main character was an author, and in fact most of the people we meet are painters, sculptors, engravers, writers, actors and the like. But here’s the kicker: Wise has based this on real people, and the paintings mentioned in the book can actually be looked up, and the writings by the authors can still be found today.
I’ll leave these people’s identities undisclosed, though I can’t resist supplying at least one painting that showed up frequently in the book and tells you a bit about its creator:
While the historical feel of London and Rome and the art talk were entirely satisfactory, this was really a very slow-burn romance novel of sorts. The French Revolution is winding down, royalty in England are deeply concerned and scientists are staging an intellectual assault on the clergy. Interesting times, and our bookmates are the sort of intelligentsia that I’ve always wished I could spend my evenings with. Amid this tumble of ideas we see two people falling slowly, deeply in love, something I’ve rarely seen done well in fiction. Alas, intelligence, ambition and love make uneasy bedmates, and near the end was a scene of such humiliation and heartbreak I could barely stand to read it.
I’ll leave you with this:
“Where is he now, pray?”
“In America,” he replied, “and dead, which is much the same thing.”
Archaic language is not, in and of itself, a liability, as I discovered to my great surprise while reading For My Lady's Heart, a full-on bodice-ripper full of forsooths and gainsays and vouchsafes. A master of language can make the sort of semi-translative reading necessary in a book like this fun, and Mr. Wise is nothing if not a master of language. Characters on their way to a riot can still find time to stop in and have their surroundings described thus:
He quickly found a low alehouse around the corner called, according to a worm-eaten sign at the door, Derrick’s. It would do to get out of the sun. The room was pleasingly lightless, though not a lot cooler; through the gloom he could see two old men playing loo at a table, and a group of noisy youths in an alcove against the back wall. A well-fed wolfhound was hacking up something unspeakable under a stool.There are so many amusing lines in this book that I tired of marking them all. All the fun lines, however, cannot disguise the fact that this is a deeply serious book.
He called for a pot of ale and sat at a small round table, looking glumly at a copy of Gentleman’s Magazine incongruously, or aspirationally, left there.
Oh! I forgot to mention the most interesting part. During my many years of working as a technical person, I have deprived myself of art, not due to disinterest but simply because there were always too many demands on my time. The primary character of this book, dictating to his amanuensis, was a painter; the other main character was an author, and in fact most of the people we meet are painters, sculptors, engravers, writers, actors and the like. But here’s the kicker: Wise has based this on real people, and the paintings mentioned in the book can actually be looked up, and the writings by the authors can still be found today.
I’ll leave these people’s identities undisclosed, though I can’t resist supplying at least one painting that showed up frequently in the book and tells you a bit about its creator:
While the historical feel of London and Rome and the art talk were entirely satisfactory, this was really a very slow-burn romance novel of sorts. The French Revolution is winding down, royalty in England are deeply concerned and scientists are staging an intellectual assault on the clergy. Interesting times, and our bookmates are the sort of intelligentsia that I’ve always wished I could spend my evenings with. Amid this tumble of ideas we see two people falling slowly, deeply in love, something I’ve rarely seen done well in fiction. Alas, intelligence, ambition and love make uneasy bedmates, and near the end was a scene of such humiliation and heartbreak I could barely stand to read it.
I’ll leave you with this:
“Where is he now, pray?”
“In America,” he replied, “and dead, which is much the same thing.”
March 1, 2026
I used to spend a lot of time imagining how I would review a book of mine on here, if I ever wrote one.
Perhaps, I thought, I would create a sockpuppet account, and write paragraphs of rapturous acclamation, involving such unlikely phrases as ‘this latter-day Joyce’, or ‘the nuances that emerged on my ninth reading’, or ‘as I recovered from my third spontaneous orgasm’, and ending with a suitably pretentious encomium on the writer:
Then again, I thought, perhaps better to try and generate some controversy with an anonymous hit-piece:
It seems like a long time ago now that I stood in the Kunsthaus in Zurich, staring at the pictures by Henry Fuseli and wondering who this painter was that accidentally invented expressionism a hundred years early. I hovered at the edge of the gallery, dodging tour groups and reading his Wikipedia entry on my phone; and when I got to the bit about the strange, uncertain ménage à trois he and his wife had with the early feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft, I knew I wanted to read a book about them.
Amazingly, there wasn't one. In fact Fuseli had become one of those people that no one really knew anymore. There were no modern biographies, and the story of his circle in the late eighteenth century was one that emerged in the margins of other people's lives – in footnotes to books about Wollstonecraft, references in artists' monographs, mentions in contemporary correspondence.
Who else was going to tell this story? Fuseli's a challenge for any writer. Irascible, oversexed, sesquipedalian, fluent in multiple languages, with ties to London and Zurich, and all of Shakespeare, Dante and the Classical poets at his fingertips, he is not a character you can just inhabit after bingeing a few episodes of Bridgerton. And I really wanted the job: I had that constant prickle of excitement that any vaguely ‘creative’ person will recognise as a sign to keep going.
Since this is Goodreads, I feel comfortable saying that this novel is, in a way, just a big footnote to all the reading I consequently did, which sometimes seemed like a full-time job. ‘The greater part of a writer's time is spent in reading,’ according to Samuel Johnson (who makes an appearance in His Devilish Art): ‘a man will turn over half a library to make one book.’ It felt like it – I think I got through nearly 200 titles while researching this. Georgian occultism, Papal statuary, eighteenth-century lesbianism – you name it, I investigated it.
‘I see the vision of all I paint,’ Fuseli said once, in a rare moment of humility – ‘and I wish to Heaven I could paint up to what I see.’ Yes, well, one sympathises. I had an image of this book in my mind, and I can only be grateful that the final result is at least (to use a Georgian expression) very like. It certainly changed my life as a writer. How it affects readers is, happily, now out of my hands.
Perhaps, I thought, I would create a sockpuppet account, and write paragraphs of rapturous acclamation, involving such unlikely phrases as ‘this latter-day Joyce’, or ‘the nuances that emerged on my ninth reading’, or ‘as I recovered from my third spontaneous orgasm’, and ending with a suitably pretentious encomium on the writer:
Perhaps every hundred years or so, a figure emerges who is not just the voice of his own generation, but who seems to cast a scintillating glance across the centuries. Warwick Wise: traveller, raconteur, wit. To this list we must now add – author.
Then again, I thought, perhaps better to try and generate some controversy with an anonymous hit-piece:
Um, really? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the modern industrial publishing complex is still content to put out such appalling representation of women/artists/revolutionaries/the Swiss [delete as appropriate]. Has the laughably-named ‘Wise’ ever met an actual pamphleteer/serial killer/antique dealer/French pervert/woman? It seems not! I urge everyone to burn their copy, and then I urge them to buy a second copy and burn that too, just to drive the point home.
It seems like a long time ago now that I stood in the Kunsthaus in Zurich, staring at the pictures by Henry Fuseli and wondering who this painter was that accidentally invented expressionism a hundred years early. I hovered at the edge of the gallery, dodging tour groups and reading his Wikipedia entry on my phone; and when I got to the bit about the strange, uncertain ménage à trois he and his wife had with the early feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft, I knew I wanted to read a book about them.
Amazingly, there wasn't one. In fact Fuseli had become one of those people that no one really knew anymore. There were no modern biographies, and the story of his circle in the late eighteenth century was one that emerged in the margins of other people's lives – in footnotes to books about Wollstonecraft, references in artists' monographs, mentions in contemporary correspondence.
Who else was going to tell this story? Fuseli's a challenge for any writer. Irascible, oversexed, sesquipedalian, fluent in multiple languages, with ties to London and Zurich, and all of Shakespeare, Dante and the Classical poets at his fingertips, he is not a character you can just inhabit after bingeing a few episodes of Bridgerton. And I really wanted the job: I had that constant prickle of excitement that any vaguely ‘creative’ person will recognise as a sign to keep going.
Since this is Goodreads, I feel comfortable saying that this novel is, in a way, just a big footnote to all the reading I consequently did, which sometimes seemed like a full-time job. ‘The greater part of a writer's time is spent in reading,’ according to Samuel Johnson (who makes an appearance in His Devilish Art): ‘a man will turn over half a library to make one book.’ It felt like it – I think I got through nearly 200 titles while researching this. Georgian occultism, Papal statuary, eighteenth-century lesbianism – you name it, I investigated it.
‘I see the vision of all I paint,’ Fuseli said once, in a rare moment of humility – ‘and I wish to Heaven I could paint up to what I see.’ Yes, well, one sympathises. I had an image of this book in my mind, and I can only be grateful that the final result is at least (to use a Georgian expression) very like. It certainly changed my life as a writer. How it affects readers is, happily, now out of my hands.
February 17, 2026
A clear example of a passion project.
Warwick Wise demonstrates a deep respect for his main subject, the Swiss-born artist Henry Fuseli, not just through research and his passion, but also through intelligent writing.
Believing I knew nothing of Fuseli, I did google him and surprised that I did, in fact, recognise some of his artwork.
It is the sum of detail, references to other known artists and bigwigs, the author’s grasp of the social and political landscapes of the time and his deliberate use of language that corresponds to that era that makes this novel a convincing and enjoyable read.
It opens with the official biographer, John Knowles, interviewing Fuseli and subsequent retelling (not linear, which I like), of key times in Fuseli’s life and career. I’m guessing Warwick Wise didn’t rely solely on this resource because there is a depth to his reimagining of this life and story that appears to transcend an instructional text.
I allowed myself to imagine the author ‘imagining’ himself seated beside Fuseli at some gathering, listening closely to the exchanges, often esoteric, between Fuseli and his circle of acquaintances, gathering what he needs to present us with a novel based on real people and events – yes, I googled them all.
Warwick Wise demonstrates a deep respect for his main subject, the Swiss-born artist Henry Fuseli, not just through research and his passion, but also through intelligent writing.
Believing I knew nothing of Fuseli, I did google him and surprised that I did, in fact, recognise some of his artwork.
It is the sum of detail, references to other known artists and bigwigs, the author’s grasp of the social and political landscapes of the time and his deliberate use of language that corresponds to that era that makes this novel a convincing and enjoyable read.
It opens with the official biographer, John Knowles, interviewing Fuseli and subsequent retelling (not linear, which I like), of key times in Fuseli’s life and career. I’m guessing Warwick Wise didn’t rely solely on this resource because there is a depth to his reimagining of this life and story that appears to transcend an instructional text.
I allowed myself to imagine the author ‘imagining’ himself seated beside Fuseli at some gathering, listening closely to the exchanges, often esoteric, between Fuseli and his circle of acquaintances, gathering what he needs to present us with a novel based on real people and events – yes, I googled them all.
April 25, 2025
I have admired Warwick’s reviews on this site for years now. They are consistently intelligent, insightful, and exceedingly well-written. He has a critical mind and a fine sensitivity to language. His comments on prose style are inevitably as enjoyable as his own lucid and stylish prose. Thus, when he asked me to read an earlier version of this book, I agreed immediately.
His book exceeded my expectations. It concerns a painter, Henry Fuseli, who is not very well-known nowadays, despite being a celebrity in his own age. Exceedingly well-read and fluent in several languages, Fuseli was an intellectual as well as an artist. And though Swiss by birth, he spent most of his professional life in London, where he crossed paths with such figures as James Bosewell, Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke and—most notably for this book—Mary Wollstonecraft. The strange and intimate friendship that developed between the artist and the early feminist is the central focus of this story.
The pleasure of reading His Devilish Art is, however, somewhat unlike that of reading an ordinary novel. By that, I mean that it is not a book propelled forward by its story. It is, rather, a study of a character and, through him, of a place and time. Warwick clearly did a great deal of research, and he manages to give his book the whiff of an authentic document. He uses his fine sensitivity to language to craft a prose that is both eminently readable and curiously antique—all of the savor of a bygone era without the indigestion of its more obscure elements. In the spirit of Warwick’s own reviews, which are rich with examples of all sorts of prose, I will offer one of his:
Reading this, I hope you can see what I mean. Its modern sensibilities are manifest; no one from the 18th century would actually write in this way. Nevertheless, the judicious use of words, structures, and expressions from the era effectively pulls the reader into the historical moment.
And yet I should not reduce the book’s appeal to its language. This was a heady time in London’s history, as thinkers grappled with what came to be known as the Enlightenment. The book is saturated with ideas, from the nature of art, to political freedom, to (of course) the rights of women. Put another way, this is a book permeated with the love of books—of their ideas, their language, and the people who write them. It is the sort of book that nerds like me feel is written especially for them. I hope it receives at least half the readerly love that was put into it.
His book exceeded my expectations. It concerns a painter, Henry Fuseli, who is not very well-known nowadays, despite being a celebrity in his own age. Exceedingly well-read and fluent in several languages, Fuseli was an intellectual as well as an artist. And though Swiss by birth, he spent most of his professional life in London, where he crossed paths with such figures as James Bosewell, Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke and—most notably for this book—Mary Wollstonecraft. The strange and intimate friendship that developed between the artist and the early feminist is the central focus of this story.
The pleasure of reading His Devilish Art is, however, somewhat unlike that of reading an ordinary novel. By that, I mean that it is not a book propelled forward by its story. It is, rather, a study of a character and, through him, of a place and time. Warwick clearly did a great deal of research, and he manages to give his book the whiff of an authentic document. He uses his fine sensitivity to language to craft a prose that is both eminently readable and curiously antique—all of the savor of a bygone era without the indigestion of its more obscure elements. In the spirit of Warwick’s own reviews, which are rich with examples of all sorts of prose, I will offer one of his:
Finding any individual was a challenge in this promiscuous jumble of birds and beasts and gods of all nations, Mrs Fuseli’s conspicuous dress notwithstanding. While Johnson set out on a circuit of the basilica, Fuseli stumped across the room to explore one of the other galleries, eerily lit with coloured lamps. He glared at the novelty of two men who passed him dressed as French revolutionists, complete with red caps and long trousers: they were approaching every prince and duke in sight and calling, in burlesque French accents, for them to be ‘anged from ze nearest lanterne. It provoked some laughter, but a laughter not unmixed with disquiet (presumably from those, dressed as footmen and crossing-sweepers, who really were princes and dukes).
Reading this, I hope you can see what I mean. Its modern sensibilities are manifest; no one from the 18th century would actually write in this way. Nevertheless, the judicious use of words, structures, and expressions from the era effectively pulls the reader into the historical moment.
And yet I should not reduce the book’s appeal to its language. This was a heady time in London’s history, as thinkers grappled with what came to be known as the Enlightenment. The book is saturated with ideas, from the nature of art, to political freedom, to (of course) the rights of women. Put another way, this is a book permeated with the love of books—of their ideas, their language, and the people who write them. It is the sort of book that nerds like me feel is written especially for them. I hope it receives at least half the readerly love that was put into it.
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