"Inferno" and "From an Occult Diary" are for the most part based on a diary that Strindberg kept between 1896 and 1908 - undoubtedly the most troubled period of his life.
Johan August Strindberg, a Swede, wrote psychological realism of noted novels and plays, including Miss Julie (1888) and The Dance of Death (1901).
Johan August Strindberg painted. He alongside Henrik Ibsen, Søren Kierkegaard, Selma Lagerlöf, Hans Christian Andersen, and Snorri Sturluson arguably most influenced of all famous Scandinavian authors. People know this father of modern theatre. His work falls into major literary movements of naturalism and expressionism. People widely read him internationally to this day.
Strindberg is one of the writers I'm most interested in, though I do not know if he deserves a spot as one of my favorite authors. He attained a legendary status in some parts, but his reputation also suffers a lot now from his obvious misogyny, his partial belief in alchemy, and general wacko-ness.
This "novel," Inferno, and the accompanying "diary" in this volume are a good sample of his vast body of work. If you do not enjoy this book, you will likely enjoy his other so-called masterpieces even less.
For myself, I was profoundly moved by his account, supposedly true, of one of the rockiest times of his tumultuous life. It became clear to me how important a figure Strindberg is in literature when I realized how closely Akutagawa followed his ideas and format in such works as "Spinning Gears." Love him or hate him, Strindberg had a lot to say.
As you will come to find if you wade into the depths of this account, the author was not taken seriously in his own time, but no one took Strindberg more seriously than Strindberg. If you choose to believe his daydreams about lightning, mysterious occult figurines, messages transmogrified from higher powers, and the secret experiments of contemporaneous alchemists is up to you. But even if you don't, his perspective is highly intelligent and very entertaining.
There are humorous moments, but it is a sad humor. You see Strindberg struggle with his relationships, personal and professional. He feels like a fool, but realizes at the same time that he is, and must be, a sort of genius. He was convinced he was on his way to winning the Nobel Prize for Chemistry. Not Literature, but Chemistry. As a reader, this sounds silly. The man was hailed as one of the greatest playwrights of all time by his European counterparts after the fact, and he's worried about his minor chemical experiments winning fame.
It is only through perusing some of Strindberg's other novels, like By the Open Sea and the 80 volumes he wrote, that the immensity of his accomplishment becomes clear. The man was a great thinker, but many of his thoughts were absurd. What is most enjoyable about this book is getting to know the author from his interior and exterior destructive descent, much like Dante's allegorical one. Akutagawa is a similar figure in my mind, a less productive, but more chiseled writer, who confronted the demons lurking within his own mind, only to lose the battle in the end.
It does not take skill to be tormented, but to craft a moral existence, amid the chaos and ruins of his creative endeavors, to tower above other writers with his ambition and the sheer breadth of his learning. That is what makes this representative "novel" a unique masterpiece in its own way.
Am I veer glad I read the introduction to this book before I got into the text. Otherwise I would have declared Strindberg an absolute nut case! But, as the intro mentioned, he was depressed, with with chemicals (trying to create gold - the old alchemist's goal), drinking heavily and mostly absinth (which at that time contained chemicals that have been taken out for today's product), deep in debt, had two failed marriages, AND was a fiction writer. The last makes a lot of difference in the reading.
The translator shows several extracts from the diary that Strindberg used to create Inferno and it's extremely obvious that the writer in him took precedence over the realist. Most of the original entries have been emotionally inflated or even rewritten to sound more serious than they really were. So things weren't nearly as bad as Strindberg makes them in Inferno.
Nevertheless, the guy sounds crazy. Even more so in From an Occult Diary in which he obsesses over his last wife and their breakup. He thinks that he connects with her through thoughts and that she visits him every night in that form (after, of course, she was living elsewhere). When she marries again, he "refuses" to allow her to come to him for "eros" because that would be adultry. You really have to read this to believe it.
So unless you are a Strindberg fan, don't bother. I liked it for the insight it gave me into his work.
When artists love someone, they do so with a passion unknown to us, ordinary people. The reverse is alas, true- when they hate or are jealous; their negative emotion is also much more terrible than the usual adversities.
This does not make for a sunny, easy or pleasant reading.
The diary is full of resentment, hatred, jealousy and dark moods.
Of course:
- “there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so”- Shakespeare
Strindberg had a predisposition for negativity, but on the other hand the reader is free to take everything using a positive filter.
There are some recollections from boyhood, when his mother gave him some advice:
- Do not let yourself be cheated by them. I want you to become a priest
- I am not good enough to be buried with the Strindbergs. They have never thought I am good enough
Later on, Strindberg has conversations with people in the theater, who consider his plays difficult and he mentions that they are inspired from his life.
The author holds many grudges, extreme and misogynistic views- or at least that is how I saw it, but I may be wrong and then the opinions seem to change from one chapter to another, depending on the mood, the frequent fights that he had with his wives
- The woman does not love, the man loves and the woman is loved
This is a quote from Balzac that Strindberg agrees with.
At the age of 52, the playwright meets a much younger woman, who is an actress. There is desperation in his words, and he says that he feels as old as Faust and from further lamentations we can deduce that he thinks himself too old.
All married couples fight, but Strindberg has arguments that are particularly fierce. One explanation may be that the dramatist, and artists, creators in general probably feel acutely, much more intensely both types of feelings and emotions.
When they love someone, they do so with a passion unknown to us, ordinary people. But when they hate or are jealous, their negative emotion is also much more terrible than the usual adversities.
- Do you want to have a child with me?
- Yes, thank you
Sounds like a joke, but the young actress became Strindberg’s wife and a happy period followed. The playwright does not like to go out and he takes his carriage back on the way to a social event, or refuses to travel
Soon, the dramatist enters bleak words in his diary:
- Sad. Alone.
The couple negotiates a return, but his young wife- Frieda is not willing to return and be humiliated further.
Strindberg writes about his early thoughts on suicide. He was very young when he first contemplated the idea of ending his own life.
Since I do not get along with my wife, I have enough adversity and feel no further desire to read about other couples’quarels. Especially when they are as bitter as in the case of the Occult Diary.
After reading The Intellectuals by Paul Johnson I understood that many geniuses have been less than perfect in their private lives, to use a very mild epithet. Tolstoy, Hemingway, Rousseau, Ibsen and many other have done repulsive, despicable things in their lives.
The personality of Strindberg is not likeable and I did not particularly like the work that has been adapted from his diary and turned into a play for our National Radio.
good for: drug addicts and mentally ill just emerging from the primordial swamp, white francophiles, those considering initiation into the doctrines of Swedenborg (though tbh I would just read Balzac’s Seraphita and/or Louis Lambert), alchemical metalheads. psychologists, acolytes of scientism
bad for: people who hate narcissistic misogynists or run the risk of thinking that everyone who writes esoterically is the same way (only half-true and typically not obtrusive), most people who (probably with good reason) won’t be able to get past Strindberg’s views or patterns of thought without having experienced something similar themselves.
another reviewer said that Strindberg was for better or worse “a kind of genius.” I wouldn’t dispute it, and in fact I think Strindberg is a particularly mortal genius. A good book to have on hand if one wants to be reminded that even the paranoiac is worthy of miracles - otherwise I would say (and I don’t usually say this) that this book is hard to find or otherwise out of print for not nefarious reasons
A semi-autobiographical diary of one of modernisms premiere playwright tracing the inner analysis during one of Strindberg's most tormented years. Written after Strindberg's estrangement from his second wife, he goes on a quest to redeem his psychological state by investigating chemistry while living in Paris. His approach is unorthodox and more arcane than scientific (alchemy). Strindberg also looks at events as synchronicity. Inferno is most interesting because of the glimpse you may get into Strindberg's religious mindset and into his emotional states. You also get the smallest sliver into some of the other denizens of Paris' artistic community.
From an Occult Diary is a document of a love-obsessed mind. Mostly a relationship between two very strong personalities, taking place over a distance.
I tend to find Strindberg more interesting as a personality rather than a playwright although books like ‘Diary of a Fool’ are so thinly veiled you might almost be reading autobiography anyway.
I am reviewing a standalone volume of ‘From an Occult Diary’ which consists of diary entries and copies of letters to his (soon to be ex) third Wife Harriet Bosse as their marriage fell apart.
Strindberg becomes more obsessed (or obsessed by) Harriet, believing at varying times that he visits her in his sleep because they are meant to be together and/or that she is some sort of succubus seducing him in his sleep to keep him with her ‘out of hatred’ for him. This while in his waking life he is attempting various occult practices such as alchemy.
It is hard to fathom whether Strindberg's occult pursuits and reading (primarily Swedenborg- a lifetimes work in itself)) precipitated his breakup/breakdown or is the result of them. I believe one fed the other leading to his slow spiral into madness. Strindberg might say otherwise. He seems a black/white sort of chap.
The book is interesting from a psychological point of view in that all three subjects (Harriet, alchemy, Swedenborg) have serious ‘control issues’ associated with them ie mastery of the physical/mental/relationships. Attempting such a degree of dominance or, if you wish, gnosis seems fraught with danger.
Thus the book is really a trip into a mental breakdown/psychical disorder and if this is your thing, its one of the best. On first reading this volume (25+?) years ago I thought it was a work/diary of genius gone wrong, the sensitive artiste suffering etc etc- perhaps it still is. Reading it again, he comes over as a bit of a self-obsessed whiner. I’m not sure if I have greater insight as I have aged or lost my artistic empathy with Swedenborg. This assumes I may have/ had any of either at any time…
Genius writer goes crazy in fascinating, 1890s fin-de-siecle way. Drinks absinthe, studies Swedenborg, suffers attacks by bewitchments and electric rays, practices alchemy and succeeds in manufacturing gold (an achievement chemists fail to recognize, but that greatly impressed French occultists such as Papus), has astral sex, etc.
*****
Druggist! Was I being slowly poisoned by alkaloids that produce delirium, like hyoscamin, hashish, digitalis, or atropine?
*****
Having a naturally resilent mind and being armed with a deep-rooted scepticism, I managed to shake my spirit free of these dark imaginings and, after reading certain occult works, I persuaded myself that I was being persecuted by elemental and elementary spirits, incubi, lamias, who were trying with all their might to prevent me from finishing my great work on alchemy. In accordance with the instructions of the initiated, I obtained a Dalmatian dagger and felt myself well armed against evil spirits.
*****
The Secret Doctrine, that hotchpotch of all the so-called occult theories, that rehash of every scientific heresy, ancient and modern, utterly worthless when the lady is expressing her own foolish and conceited ideas, and only interesting for the quotations it contains from little-known authors, helpful because of the conscious or unconscious deceptions it perpetrates, and because of the stories it tells about the existence of Mahatmas. The work of a virago, who wants to beat men at their own game and who plumes herself that she has dethroned natural science, religion, and philosophy, and set up a priestess of Isis on the altar of the Crucified.
August Strindberg's decision to abandon his marriage and leave the world of theatre to do alchemy is funny to me, but I can't laugh too hard because he's clearly not well. He repeatedly tries to make gold from lead or something, burning his skin off, bear in mind he's not even trying to get rich. He just wants to be respected in alchemy circles. Again, funny. But he treats everyone around him terribly.
I haven't read any of his plays because I don't know if I'll ever care about plays, and I don't know how much of a glimpse of Strindberg's alleged brilliant mind this book gives. But the way he charts his mood swings is kinda poetic:
October 6th, 1901: "....Peace reigns! Went to the Opera! Heard Aida!"
October 10th, 1901 "Peace and light; but mixed with some fears that it may not last."
October 11th, 1901: "Darkness!"
May 10th, 1908: "Ate scarcely anything at dinner. Wept and prayed to be allowed to die! Then came a shower of rain. Great white clouds appeared in the N.E., followed by a splendid rainbow. I slept tranquilly!"
In a way it's fascinating to read the ramblings of a mad man. It's also sad, and rather boring too. He's an alchemist, moocher, playwright, eccentric fella, he goes from one interest to another, sees signs in random occurrences, believes himself to be brilliant, misunderstood, wrongly dismissed...
I got sucked into this book for a while, but madness in itself is exhausting and chaotic - and reading about is at least half that. DNF.
In which Strindberg abandons playwrighting and takes up alchemy in Paris while suffering from hallucinations and delusions of persecution. Strindberg seems to have completely lost his mind in this, but he did subsequently get it back, and Mary Sandbach explains in her introduction how the author exaggerated some of the details for dramatic effect. It reminded me at various times of Dostoevsky, Hamsun and Poe, but after a while I found it too wearing and didn't finish it.
Two stars, entirely down to Mary Sandbach's erudite, informative and intelligent introduction. As for Strindberg's contribution: three-quarters drivel, the embarrassing masturbatory delusions of somebody who needed to be given a good slap and told to get a proper job.
Strindberg, if Inferno is as psychically real to him as he later claimed (it’s debatable), is truly mad. A genius, as well. But mad. Hard to relate to his state of mind – the fever I understand, his particular obsessions, not so much. Of the limited Strindberg I have read, this resisted me more than the rest – which may be a sign of its genius. This is an interesting passage he had on the nature of Hell:
"Hell? But I had been brought up to regard Hell with the deepest contempt as an imaginary conception, thrown on the scrap-heap along with other out-of-date prejudices. All the same, I could not deny a matter of fact, the only thing I could do was to explain eternal damnation in this new way: we are already in Hell. It is the earth itself that is Hell, the prison constructed for us by an intelligence superior to our own, in which I could not take a step without injuring the happiness of others, and in which my fellow creatures could not enjoy their own happiness without causing me pain. "It is thus that Swedenborg, perhaps without knowing it, depicts our earthly life when meaning to describe Hell. "Hell-fire is our desire to make a name for ourselves in the world. The Powers awaken this desire in us and permit the damned to achieve their objectives. But when the goal is reached and our wish fulfilled, everything is found to be worthless and our victory meaningless. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Then, after our first disillusionment, the Powers fan the flame of desire and ambition. Yet it is not unappeased hunger that plagues us most but gratified greed, which leaves us with a loathing for everything. Thus the Devil is made to suffer endless punishment by having every wish granted, and granted instantly, so that he is no longer able to take pleasure in anything."
Nothing particularly stunning, but in toto, a nice turn of thought – not quite Schadenfreude, but the sibling of – because it’s not simply the suffering of others that gives one joy (Schadenfreude), but your own joy that causes the suffering of others (Strindberg). Strindberg’s From An Occult Diary is a different book. Inferno is superior, but the Occult Diary is only just that, a diary – in its favor, it confirms Strindberg was a mad man. The diary of a mad man naturally grows tiresome. That noted, his genius burns from the page – he writes with admirable intensity. This is a man, after all, who also wrote: "I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven't got the guts to bite people themselves."
Fluidi naših ludila se izgleda nisu proželi.... U Strindbergovoj bašti uma buja iskuljučivo ono demonsko; malefični elektriciteti koji nagone čoveka u paranoju, u uvek prisutnu smrt. Bašta ogrezla u fatalnost i mrak. Čovek je samo list na vetru sudbine, podređen i upravljan Silama. Kažnjavan. Njegovu maštu čuva mračni , za neke od nas teško svarljivi Pluton – ja sam se nadala lucidnom , hirovitom Uranu.
Poznato je da je Strindberg eksperimentisao sa okultnim. Priča o njegovom padu u ponore ludila nije u potpunosti potvrđena ali da li je dočarao, na neobično zagušljiv i metodičan način, prikaz jednog uma izgubljenog u sopstvenom svetu – jeste. Dala bih ipak procenu da je prosto solidnu osnovu dramatizovao, pojačao.
Sve u svemu, dobra , za moj senzibilitet pomalo prespora i dosadna knjiga sa par izuzetnih delova vrednih da se čitaju i seciraju iznova i iznova!
Absolutely one of my favourite books about writers going penniless and begging money off of acquaintances. You have to give Strindberg credit, if only because he'd practically burned his hands to charcoal while doing alchemy experiments in his boarding room and still managed to write this.
He gets angry with his ex-wife when he claims she telepathically visits him after she gets remarried. He recognizes the 196 crown bill for his divorce corresponds to the atomic weight of gold and so he gets back into alchemy. At one point he sees sticks in the shape of Greek letters, at first he mistakes them for his ex-wife's initials, but then he realizes it's a clue to making gold from Iron and Sulphur.
I am yet to decide if I believe this novel to be a true account of Strindberg's experience (deliberately conditioning himself to experience what he did) or whether he was genuinely insane (perhaps again due to the conditioning of himself). Either way I found this naturalist novel very interesting and enjoyed every page. Shame I had to read it so fast as I would have enjoyed it more if I could have taken more time.
Strindberg was a giant asshole possessed of a metaphysical misogyny and persecution complex. During the period outlined in Inferno he stopped writing to devote himself to alchemy. His reading of Swedenborg seems to have completely driven him over the edge, reinforcing as it did Strindberg's belief in heavenly correspondences.
3,5 stars An account on sheer madness, oppressive and ludicrous, with some beautiful observations on this thing called life. I can't stand stories about people who find their salvation in religion though, they are all blatent and kitschy in the same way.
Three stars with an asterisk. Mildly redeemed by its weirdness and my own inability to place it within the context of nearly everything else I've read.