Memoirs of an Aesthete

by Harold Acton

In this remarkable book, Harold Acton writes a witty and vivid account of his first thirty-five years of his life from his boyhood among the international colony of dilettanti in Florence before the First World War, to his maturity when he discovered his spiritual home in Peking before the old Chinese culture was destroyed. Between the two, he was one of the brilliant generation up at Oxford just after the war and afterwards moved to Paris where he knew many of the literary and artistic figures of the time. It is an outstanding memoir, rightly regarded as a classic.

Genres: Nonfiction, Biography, Memoir, Italy, Autobiography

434 pages, Paperback

First published December 11, 1948

About the author

Sir Harold Mario Mitchell Acton was a British writer, scholar and dilettante who is probably most famous for being believed, incorrectly, to have inspired the character of "Anthony Blanche" in Evelyn Waugh's novel Brideshead Revisited (1945).

Reviews

[Elena · Rating 3 out of 5]

El periodo de entreguerras. Una época tan fecunda que no te acabas. Acton nació en 1904 en Florencia y en estas memorias estéticas que nadie espere grandes análisis históricos pero estaba ahí donde había que estar. Aunque no deja de sorprender que gente rica, mientras en Europa tienen lugar dos guerras mundiales, ellos se dedicasen a hacer el diletante. Y Acton era rico, muy rico, tanto que un editor rechazó darle trabajo, no necesitaba el dinero. Acton también era un tipo cultísimo. Tanto que, a veces, o muchas veces, he ido perdidísima en un mar de referencias artísticas. O Google o la fluidez de la lectura. Las notas al pie son esclarecedoras pero es que se podría haber escrito otro libro igual a éste (670 pág.) con aclaraciones. Pero cuando das con fragmentos en los que más o menos conoces, aunque sea de oídas, de quién habla, las anécdotas vuelan y la ironía y mala leche con ellas. Y es que este señor, desde bien perqueño, se relacionó con una lista interminable de artistas e intelectuales. Aldous Huxley, Jean Cocteau, Gertrude Stein, Robert Byron, Cyril Connolly ... por mencionar los que me suenan. Una prosa autobiográfica teñida de gusto dandi, elegancia y cosmopolitismo. De Florencia a Pekín, pasando por Londres y París.

[Gem K · Rating 2 out of 5]

If you like being bored to death by endless descriptions of Italian gardens and obscure portraiture then boy oh boy is this the book for you

[Owen · Rating 3 out of 5]

These memoirs given an account of the author’s early life and they end just before the outbreak of World War II. So they cover a period I find fascinating: the end of the old order in Europe, signalled by the catastrophic First World War; the advent of rapid technological and social change; and the strange, almost eerie period of exaggerated consciousness that was the 1920s and early 1930s.

The author was, well, as it says on the cover of the book, an aesthete, and proud to be so. He deals extensively with his appreciations of art, poetry and literature and it is striking to see how many of the names he mentions as creators of masterpieces are, today, relatively unknown. Norman Douglas, for example.

Quite a lot of his commentary on society figures of the day, in Florence, Oxford and London is waspish but in a very restrained way. He is a discreet observer of the scene, hinting at the poor judgements and qualities of others rather than ranting about them. Which is quite powerful, in context.

He moves to China during the 1930s and becomes a rather idealistic and faintly patronising Sinophile. He buys a huge house in Peking (as it was then called) and devotes himself to the study and acqusition of Chinese art. I don’t agree with him about how wonderful it all is, I am afraid. To my untutored eye, Chinese art of the classical kind is derivative and hard to enjoy, not least because it deals with only a limited and prescribed set of subjects. Usually, conformity to ancient principles one of the chief critieria against which quality is judged so, by definition, there is not that much room for imagination and innovation. Acton would disagree, I think, and say that this disciplined control of form and content has the same effect as the sonnet form in English poetry - it forces the painter or writer to ever greater heights of artistic success. But that is the beauty of art - it is in the eye of the beholder.

This is quite a long book and, at times, it drags a little. But I am glad to have read it. It has the feel of reportage - the writer was actually part of the social scene he describes and that carries you through the duller bits.

Not everyone’s cup of tea but if you are interested in the Belle Epoque and the years that followed, it is an excellent journey with an entertaining guide.

[Karen-Leigh · Rating 3 out of 5]

Skimmed a lot. Interest uneven. Slow start and I lost momentum, probably because I was out of my depth. A clash of sensibilities and no common ground. It was work with not a lot of pleasure. His use of language was the only pleasure but I find I have nothing in common with poets.

[Meredith · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a deeply cultural and satisfying memoir, reminiscent of a time of scholars and cultivated Laymen. Born in Italy to English parents, Acton grows up in the rich culture of Florence. He is surrounded by art and literature and becomes a successful poet. Coming-of-age he heads for Asia, where he travels widely ending up in China where he learns not only to speak the language, but to appreciate the dramatic arts and the painting of the country. His descriptions of China, and of his life in Peking are mesmerizing. He revels in every beauty of the city, of his garden, of the cultural entertainments available. Such curiosity, and enthusiasm, coupled with knowledge and education makes for very compelling reading.

[Robt · Rating 3 out of 5]

Acton had been in my sights for years, seeing his name in works by Waugh and others. Finally reading this book, I can see why he inspired such awe. Florid, occasionally witty, and remarkably detailed as Acton wafts year through his fantastical life, it was a lot to take in, heightened by his incessant name dropping and references to art and music of all periods. Reading a vintage edition printed under wartime restrictions made it even denser, with small type and the narrowest of margins.

[Alex · Rating 2 out of 5]

Assigned for class, I didn’t finish it but it was such an endeavor to get through 100 pages that I’m logging it anyway. Unfathomably pretentious and so so boring

[Hannah Brindle · Rating 3 out of 5]

RIP Harold Acton you would have loved a gap year in Thailand

[VeganMilf · Rating 3 out of 5]

Acton is one of those unhealthy friends you keep around precisely for their poor personality traits. You see, Harold is a certified bitch and his pompous sniping and gossiping is a delight to read. His pompous meanderings about Europe in the 20's are a great counterweight to anyone who has been sauced by the whole moveable feast bullshit. Like all the best writers about poets, Acton is completely dogshit in his own practice of the shepherd's art but his uniquely, annoyingly snobby upbringing give him a level eye to his surroundings. This all changes when he randomly fucks off to china for the entirety of the 30's. Does his perspective lend itself to this other globally transformative period? No but I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss him a little bit after I put this book down.

[R.J. Gilmour · Rating 5 out of 5]

The book is written with a florid style and recounts Acton's memories of his youth growing up at his parent's villa La Pietra in Florence, Italy. Needless to say it is exciting to travel with him on his journeys between Florence and London and all points in-between. I enjoy his style of writing and find myself frequently being carried away by his poetic and romantic prose. There has always been something magical about the world of the aesthetes. Their dedication to Ruskin's belief that beauty is the only truth. A maxim that has stayed with me all my life.