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343 pages, Hardcover
Published September 26, 2017
Despite these triumphs, Casanova’s public literary efforts did not bring him the fame and livelihood he hoped for. When he settled into the remote Waldenstein summer estate at Duchov in 1785, after the financial failure of Iscosameron, the novel on which he had pinned his last literary hopes, he knew that renown as a man of letters during his lifetime was out of reach. Now the aging adventurer’s passion for storytelling gained a new dimension. From a worldly pastime meant to charm an audience, it became a last defense against despair, a performance only virtually addressed to the good company he missed so keenly: “The reader will forgive me when he learns that…writing my memoirs was the only remedy I found to avoid going mad or dying of grief,” he wrote in a grim aside to his usually sunny narrative. “Keeping myself busy writing for ten or twelve hours a day, I prevented dark sorrow from killing me, or making me lose my mind.”
By this rare admission, Casanova was nimbly crossing over from an amiable Enlightenment man of letters to a figure in a category yet in the making, one to be extolled by the coming Romantic generation: the solitary writer, exiled from life, rotating the shimmering kaleidoscope of his past, rife with adventures, seductions, plots, escapes, travels, women, gambling, magic, and sex, all set against a background of despair.
He may have been old and lonely, but he could still wield a sharp, prompt, and youthful pen.
