Alone

by Norman Douglas

George Norman Douglas (1868-1952) was a British writer, now best known for his 1917 novel South Wind. His first book publication, Unprofessional Tales (1901) was written under the pseudonym Normyx. He moved to Capri, spending time there and in London, and became a more committed writer. South Wind (1917) remains Douglas's most famous work; however it has been argued that his best work was in his travel books which combine erudition, insight, whimsicality and some fine prose. These works include Siren Land (1911), Fountains in the Sand, described as 'rambles amongst the oases of Tunisia' (1912), Old Calabria (1915), Together (Austria) (1923) and Alone (Italy) (1921). In the 1920s, perhaps piqued by D. H. Lawrence's success with Lady Chatterley, Douglas published Some Limericks, an anthology of more-or-less obscene limericks with a mock-scholarly critical apparatus. This classic (of its kind) has been frequently republished, often without acknowledgement in pirate editions. His other works include London Street Games (1916), They Went (1920), Nerinda (1929), One Day (1929), and Birds and Beasts of the Greek Anthology (1927).

228 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1921

About the author

George Norman Douglas was a British writer, now best known for his 1917 novel South Wind. His travel books, such as Old Calabria (1915), were also appreciated for the quality of their writing.

Reviews

[Bruce Edelstein · Rating 1 out of 5]

Harold Acton, in his introduction to Edith Clay’s edition of Ramage’s “The Nooks and By-Ways to Italy,” laments, “One hears that Norman Douglas has but few readers among the younger generation: more’s the pity. ‘Alone’ is one of his perennially refreshing and most characteristic memorials, and among the vivid characters he evokes in its sparkling pages is that enterprising Scotsman, Craufurd Tait Ramage...” Loving Ramage’s text, I finally ordered a copy of “Alone,” a dismal book, written by a supercilious egotist, who at his best offers slightly amusing bitchy banter and at his worst reveals himself to be an antisemite, misogynist, racist, and pretty much everything one hopes not to find in representatives of his class and privilege in the Britain of his day but unfortunately so often does. I can only hope that Norman Douglas has even fewer readers now than he did when Acton penned his wistful homage in 1964.