Seven Men

by Max Beerbohm, John Updike (Introduction)

In Seven Men the brilliant English caricaturist and critic Max Beerbohm turns his comic searchlight upon the fantastic fin-de-siècle world of the 1890s—the age of Oscar Wilde, Aubrey Beardsley, and the young Yeats, as well of Beerbohm's own first success. In a series of luminous sketches, Beerbohm captures the likes of Enoch Soames, only begetter of the neglected poetic masterwork Fungoids; Maltby and Braxton, two fashionable novelists caught in a bitter rivalry; and "Savonarola" Brown, author of a truly incredible tragedy encompassing the entire Italian Renaissance. One of the masterpieces of modern humorous writing, Seven Men is also a shrewdly perceptive, heartfelt homage to the wonderfully eccentric character of a bygone age.

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction, Humor, Classics, British Literature, Literature, Novels

232 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1919

About the author

Sir Henry Maximilian Beerbohm, as "Max," known British writ, apparently wrote Caricatures of Twenty-five Gentlemen in 1896.

Henry Maximilian Beerbohm served as an English essayist, parodist.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Max_Bee...

Reviews

[Manny · Rating 4 out of 5]

[Original review]

A couple of days ago, I reviewed Arthur M. Steven's The Blue Book of Charts to Winning Chess , one of the most dismally misguided chess books ever written. Unfortunately, the author had spent most of his life writing it. I'd only borrowed him as a hook on which to hang a Twilight-related parody (I really must stop doing this), and, overcome by rather tardy remorse, I thought I'd go to Google and find out what people had to say about his masterpiece. After a few minutes, I gave up. There was almost nothing in the way of comments, and what little I did find was negative. Worst of all, the top hit was my parody. I felt quite bad for poor Stevens.

This evening, while making a cup of tea, I suddenly identified the thought that had been trying to get my attention during the intervening forty-eight hours. The situation was familiar, and was in fact remarkably close to the premise of "Enoch Soames", the lead story in Seven Men. Soames is an unknown author, toiling away in 1890s Paris and dreaming of the fame that's surely going to be his one day. But it's dreadfully slow in arriving, and he's starting to feel that he'll turn out to be one of those people who are only appreciated after they're dead. It would be so nice to be able to know now what future generations will say about him!

Enter the Devil, who's good at spotting these moments of weakness. He offers the hapless Soames a deal he can't resist: his immortal soul for five hours in the future, where he'll be able to experience his coming fame directly. Soames asks to be transported to the Reading Room of the British Museum. On his return, he describes the late 20th century in the following wonderful passage. Beerbohm, full of curiosity, is pressing him for details:

'That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What did the reading-room look like?'

'Much as usual,' he at length muttered.

'Many people there?'

'Usual sort of number.'

'What did they look like?'

Soames tried to visualise them. 'They all,' he presently remembered, 'looked very like one another.'

My mind took a fearsome leap. 'All dressed in Jaeger?'

'Yes. I think so. Greyish-yellowish stuff.'

'A sort of uniform?' He nodded. 'With a number on it, perhaps?--a number on a large disc of metal sewn on to the left sleeve? DKF 78,910--that sort of thing?' It was even so. 'And all of them--men and women alike--looking very well-cared-for? very Utopian? and smelling rather strongly of carbolic? and all of them quite hairless?' I was right every time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. 'I hadn't time to look at them very closely,' he explained.

Alas, it transpires that Soames's listless, dejected air is due to the terrible disappointment he has suffered. Try as he would, he could only find a single reference to himself in all the library's countless books; it was in this very story, where he is depicted as a ludicrous fictional character.

Stevens seems to have done slightly better than Soames. There is no doubt that he existed, and a few other people have glanced through Blue Book. Some copies of it are even available for sale on eBay. None the less, I sincerely hope that he didn't enter into any Faustian bargains.
_______________________________________

[Postscript, June 2011]

I can't believe it, but The Blue Book of Charts to Winning Chess has just been reissued in a new edition. God knows what the Ishi Press thought they were doing; they publish very fine books on Go, and I've never seen them print a chess book before.

Well, if my reviews had anything to do with this, I'm not sure whether to be ashamed or honored. Luckily, it's almost certainly a coincidence.

[Aravindakshan Narasimhan · Rating 3 out of 5]

A mixed baggage. I would have given 3 and a half if I had the option. The best of all was the first story "Enoch Soames". We have our narrator(Beerbohm himself) being a friend to a writer called Enoch Soames, who for all reasons unknown and best, neglected by all. He is introduced as a measured, reserved, a man of some social outlook, yet despised and belittled by all. We get a glimpse of his work through the narrator's judgement on the only book he has published. One day, when Enoch Soames discloses his eagerness for fame to the narrator and by "chance" the devil had happened to eavesdrop the conversation, it wishes to offer a hand for remedy. A Faustian play ensues, except that instead of fame, our author is given a chance to fly past to the future - by 100 years to check whether he has been posthumously acknowledged of his literary talent.

The surprising thing about Beerbohm writing was his underplayed description or treatment of supernatural or otherworldly bent.
Even when we are introduced to the devil, he is a pretty man-like figure.

Devil, in the words of Beerbohm:

On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man. His nose was predatory, and the points of his moustache, waxed up beyond his nostrils, gave a fixity to his
smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort
in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which
tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest.
This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either.
It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on
Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the
first night of `Hernani.

I was sure he was not an Englishman, but
what was his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en
brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited
on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom
and accent.

The unknown, other-worldliness comes only from his un-British qualities or social status at best, not out of his devilish quality.

There are five stories along with this, except one story almost all had in variant degrees a touch of the supernatural or fantastic element to it.

I was wondering as to how the same stories might have been treated by a writer like E.T.A Hoffman - it would have been filled with strange, terrifying and frightful characters. One just needs to read one short story of Hoffman and read Beerbohm to see the contrast of styles.
Even the humor, except for few places, are very much toned down.

The second story "Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton" was a very good one too. It was about jealousy and envy between two writers with a touch of supernatural element again. Even though the element of supernatural is explicit here, like the first story, the writer still treats it with more of a psychological angle rather than created by an extraneous element. There is a middle ground that is striked between psychological crisis and supernatural occurrence. In this story we also get a good glimpse of the aristocratic haughtiness and snobbery of the late 19th century England.

James Pethel is the third story. Reading it, I was reminded of the main character from the French film Bob Le Flameur, directed by Melville. Both of them valued passion over prudence. The character tends, frequently towards his capriciousness. Anyway, It was the most underwhelming story of the book.

The fourth story is " A.V Laider". This story had the same theme which piqued my interest in the third story, yet this was handled very beautifully by the writer. What starts out as a normal discussion between the narrator and the main character on the subject of metaphysics, drifts to palmistry, and then propels completely off the chart towards a murderous story, and finishes with a touch of ambiguity. I am pleased! I still haven't disclosed anything substantial in the story.

The fifth story is " 'Savonarola' Brown". Another story which didn't interest apart from few eccentricity and indulgence of my own. It has a play attached to it as the part of the story, which has a language of middle English and I was enjoying myself with its flowing verses.

His writing is as if it kisses the surface, even when keeping an eye on details it wasn't directionless except for two stories. His language was as if he was caressing over our body with a feather than a regular thump and since almost all the stories were tending towards something suspenseful it was a reaping read. His language and narration flows so smoothly that one forgives for a lack of vitality here and there.

I yet to read his most famous Zuleika Dobson, considered one of the bests of British humor stories. I also haven't read any of his essays(he is considered foremost as an essayist than a novelist). I hope I can enjoy his brilliance in one whole work as a novel than sparks of magic spattered in bits and pieces, like here.

Before I leave you, I will share a few good quotes from the book:

I was glad when, on my second evening, I found seated at the table opposite to mine another guest. I was the gladder because he was just the right kind of guest. He was enigmatic. By this I mean that he did not look soldierly or financial or artistic or anything definite at all. He offered a clean slate for speculation. And, thank heaven! he evidently wasn't going to spoil the fun by engaging me in conversation later on. A decently unsociable man, anxious to be left alone.


I was glad to do so. It flashed across my mind that yonder on the terrace he might suddenly blurt out: "I say, look here, don't think me awfully impertinent, but this money's no earthly use to me. I do wish you'd accept it as a very small return for all the pleasure your work has given me, and-- There, please! Not another word!"--all with such candor, delicacy, and genuine zeal that I should be unable to refuse. But I must not raise false hopes in my reader. Nothing of the sort happened. Nothing of that sort ever does happen.


Then are parrots rational
When they regurgitate the thing they hear!
This fool is but an unit of the crowd,
And crowds are senseless as the vasty deep
That sinks or surges as the moon dictates.
I know these crowds, and know that any man
That hath a glib tongue and a rolling eye
Can as he willeth with them.

I rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by
the husband with two steaming plates. She asked me if it wasn't a
heavenly morning, and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was.
She then ate kedgeree in silence. "You just finishing, what?" the
husband asked, looking at my plate. "Oh, no--no--only just
beginning," I assured him, and helped myself to butter. He then ate
kedgeree in silence. He looked like some splendid bull, and she like
some splendid cow, grazing. I envied them their eupeptic calm. I
surmised that ten thousand Braxtons would not have prevented THEM from
sleeping soundly by night and grazing steadily by day. Perhaps their
stolidity infected me a little. Or perhaps what braced me was the
great quantity of strong tea that I consumed. Anyhow I had begun to
feel that if Braxton came in now I shouldn't blench nor falter.


I did not think that in this cloister'd spot
There would be so much doing. I had look'd
To find Savonarola all alone
And tempt him in his uneventful cell.
Instead o' which--Spurn'd am I? I am I.
There was a time, Sir, look to 't! O damnation!
What is 't? Anon then! These my toys, my gauds,
That in the cradle--aye, 't my mother's breast--
I puled and lisped at,--'Tis impossible,
Tho', faith, 'tis not so, forasmuch as 'tis.
And I a daughter of the Borgias!--
Or so they told me. Liars! Flatterers!
Currying lick-spoons! Where's the Hell of 't then?
'Tis time that I were going. Farewell, Monk,
But I'll avenge me ere the sun has sunk.


From p. 234 of `Inglish Littracher 1890-1900' bi T. K. Nupton,
publishd bi th Stait, 1992:

`Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz
stil alive in th twentieth senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid
an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit
hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th
Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot
labud sattire but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the
yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that the
littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik
servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their
duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz
hire," an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses
amung us to-dai!'


And the last quote is one of my favorites for reasons beyond the book. Lately, there are many simpletons posing themselves as an authority in politics, films, medicine, and what not. My country or the state may be a singular case of this, but nevertheless, it is there and that is a cause for worry. I don't understand when did this ultracrepidarianism became a vogue. So to quote from the book:

He said he had looked into it, `but,' he added
crisply, `I don't profess to know anything about writing.' A
reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not
then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to
any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets
brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fujiyama)
imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not
utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practised them, the
law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold
good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book
without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless.
No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it
wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days; and I knew that
I must form an unaided judgment on `Negations.'


Can't say better than the writer. I rest my case.

[Lisa of Troy]

This is a book that F. Scott Fitzgerald recommended in his College of One, a set of 40 books he considered necessary for an education: https://www.listchallenges.com/f-scot...

[Carlos · Rating 4 out of 5]

Seven Men es el título de una colección de cinco historias cortas, protagonizadas por seis personajes masculinos, que fue publicada en 1919 por el crítico, caricaturista y escritor londinense Max Beerbohm (1872-1956). El séptimo hombre al que alude el título de la colección sería el propio Beerbohm, quien interviene en las historias, incluso como narrador, e interactua con sus héroes.

De esta colección, acabo de releer la primera y más antigua de ellas, titulada “Enoch Soames”, que encabezó en 2021 mi selección personal de las nueve mejores historias de entre las setenta y cinco que forman la famosa Antología de la Literatura Fantástica de Jorge Luis Borges y Adolfo Bioy Casares en su edición de 1965.

El relato está narrado en primera persona por el propio Max Beerbohm. Describe un encuentro ficcional -pero que se presenta como real- de Beerbohm en 1897, cuando era aún un joven ensayista, con un anodino escritor “decadente” llamado Enoch Soames. Éste, un hombre alto, desgarbado, de aspecto pretendidamente bohemio, pagado de su obra y displicente con la de los demás, era, no obstante, percibido por todos como una figura “borrosa” ("dim was the mote juste for him") y los dos libros que había logrado publicar, uno de ellos de poesía, fueron completamente ignorados por la crítica de su época.

Convencido de que el suyo era el caso de un genio no apreciado en su época, pero destinado a la fama, Enoch Soames hace un pacto con el diablo: este le transportaría, durante casi cinco horas, cien años hacia el futuro, concretamente a la sala de lectura de la biblioteca del Museo Británico –lugar de lectura habitual de Soames- en el año 1997. Con ello Soames podría comprobar si la posteridad había materializado su sueño al ver su nombre en el catálogo de la biblioteca asociado con toda clase de libros y comentarios sobre su obra.

La escena del pacto tiene lugar en un restaurante londinense (le Vingtième), y por su caracter tragicómico no me sorprendería que pudiese haber inspirado a Bulgákov la escena análoga del primer encuentro con el diablo en su novela El maestro y Margarita. Doce horas después de sellado el pacto, Soames retornaría al punto de partida, es decir, al restaurante, donde el diablo lo recogería para que le acompañase a su “humilde morada” por toda la eternidad.

En toda esta escena está presente Beerbohm, y no solo como testigo, pues lo que comprueba Soames al viajar al futuro -y aquí el relato hace una referencia transtextual a la obra de Wells-, es que el único registro bibliográfico que se conserva de Soames en 1997 es una memoria firmada en 1992 por un crítico llamado T.K.Nupton, quien afirmaba que un tal Max Beerbohm escribió una historia de ficción sobre un esperpéntico escritor de tercera, de nombre Enoch Soames, que hizo un pacto con el diablo para saber lo que la posteridad diría de él.

Esto es lo que le cuenta Soames a Beerbohm -el personaje- al volver del futuro a la espera de que el diablo, en cumplimiento del pacto, se lo lleve con él al infierno. Beerbohm trata entonces de convencer a Soames de que huya a Calais, donde al diablo “no se le ocurrirá buscarle” y de este modo darle un final feliz a la historia que el cronista Nupton supuestamente encontraría en 1992. A lo que Soames responde del modo siguiente en una de mis citas favoritas de esta historia:

“Tú no eres un artista", espetó con aspereza. "Eres tan poco artista que, lejos de ser capaz de imaginar algo y hacerlo parecer real, pretendes hacer que incluso algo real parezca inventado. Eres un miserable chapucero".

Se produce entonces un interesante juego narrativo en el que Beerbohm -el personaje- trata de explicar -y explicarse a sí mismo- que es imposible que las cosas hubiesen ocurrido de la manera contada por Nupton en 1992. El resultado es un subrelato que contiene -brevemente desarrollada- una conjetura distópica del tipo que sólo se vería mucho después en 1984 de Orwell o en películas y series de ciencia ficción como Terminator.

Lo interesante de este subrelato es que si bien en el 1997 de Beerbohm la gente es vagamente descrita como uniformada e identificada mediante números, su distopía no es política, sino literaria: hay una neolengua de motivación filológica en la que el inglés se escribe fonéticamente conforme al acento londinense, la profesión literaria se ha organizado como un "departamento de servicio público" y a los escritores "se les ha puesto en su debido lugar" y por tanto, un elemento como Soames, egocéntrico, vanidoso y preocupado por su proyección futura, sería impensable en esa sociedad distópica.

Beerbohm -el personaje- plantea entonces la hipótesis de que quizás entre 1992 y 1997 alguien en el futuro habría descubierto que el supuesto relato que él mismo escribiera no era una ficción sino un testimonio real y pusiera al descubierto la chapuza del tal Nupton, quien no se habría leído completo y bien el texto que debía comentar. Quizás entonces, cuando llegara el año 1997, los usuarios "reales" de la biblioteca (en contraposición a sus "imágenes", que fue lo que el diablo de 1897 le dejó ver a Soames) estarían prevenidos de que un visitante del pasado, Enoch Soames, aparecería de pronto entre ellos y, por tanto, el nombre del escritor, por fin, sería conocido en el futuro.

El relato termina, sin embargo, con una breve y frívola escena, muy del estilo "dandy" de Beerbohm, que sorprenderá a un lector que, como yo, estuviese a esas alturas metido en sesudas reflexiones filosóficas sobre lo faústico o sobre los viajes al futuro y sus hipotéticas consecuencias en el presente.

En mi opinión, más allá de los méritos literarios que puede tener una historia tan audaz para su época -y tan bien construída desde el punto de vista narrativo-, es que plantea cuestiones interesantes para el debate: ¿es realmente criticable el ego, la vanidad casi histriónica y el deseo de inmortalidad de nuestros escritores o éstos deberían ser humildes servidores de un oficio al servicio del bien público? ¿hay responsabilidad de una crítica literaria que ni siquiera se toma la molestia de leer completas las obras que comenta en el "borrado" de un escritor?

Aparte de lo anterior, hay una cierta sátira "beerbohmniana" hacia la literatura "modernista" cuando se citan dentro del relato un par de poemas del ignorado Soames. Unos poemas que a mi, que quizás sea una víctima del snobismo, la verdad es que me han gustado :-)

El estilo de Beerbohm en inglés no me ha parecido particularmente notable ni inspirado, por lo que creo que a diferencia de un Conrad, un Kipling o un Joyce, por citar algunos contemporáneos, sus obras aguantan bien la traducción.

La traducción al español que Alfaguara sacó en 2007 en colaboración con New York Review Book, cuya portada copia, se debe a Miguel Martínez-Lage. Por comparación con el original (que he releído en la edición en inglés de la misma New York Review Book), me ha parecido una buena traducción, con vocación de absoluta fidelidad, si bien con algunos lapsos de infidelidad. Hay también una edición de Acantilado, aunque la traducción es bastante peor: simplemente omite palabras y frases que por lo visto el traductor no supo cómo volcar al español o no le parecieron relevantes. Refrasea además constantemente el original.

Notable también es la traducción contenida en la antología de Borges-Bioy Casares, quizás realizada por uno o el otro, especialmente su versión del escrito "traído del futuro" en neolengua fonética.

[Daniel Polansky]

Five character studies/short stories, mostly of writers/artists/creative types, often with a supernatural bent. They're...OK. Beerbohm had a light comic touch (and a lovely name) but some of these don't land that well and the one's that do land don't land all that hard. I did quite enjoy the first short story, in which a hack writer with pretensions of genius visits the future only to discover his descendants have no more appreciation for his talent than did his contemporaries. Keep, for the moment, but it's just because it's an NYRB book and my shelves are bareish.

[RJ - Slayer of Trolls]

Contains the stories:

Enoch Soames
Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton
James Penthel
A.V. Laider
"Savonarola" Brown

[Edward Champion · Rating 5 out of 5]

Well, this was a wonderful start to 2024! I'm reading a good deal of Beerbohm as part of my Modern Library project. What's impressive about Beerbohm is the sheer amount of range, impressionistic speculation, and style he was able to squeeze out of a very rigid and limited form: namely, the parody of literary culture. Beerbohm has a vulpine wit: it SEEMS as if he's being kindly towards his subjects, but of course he is being savage as hell beneath the civilized patina. The standout in this book is clearly "Enoch Soames," which is as universal and devastating as any other portrait of a talentless wayward literary loser. Although "Savonarola" is a virtuosic display of Beerbohm's style -- complete with a play devoted to the subject in question.

[Graychin · Rating 4 out of 5]

More fun with Uncle Max, this time in the form of brief fictional biographies. The best piece is the first one, on Enoch Soames who had everything necessary to be a big literary hit in the 1890s, except talent. He makes an ill-considered bargain with the devil and pays the price.

[Kate · Rating 5 out of 5]

He had me at "Fungoids."

[H. Givens · Rating 4 out of 5]

Seven Men holds five stories, each about a different character and one story about two. That makes six; the seventh man is Max himself, writing each story as if it’s an essay on someone he knows. In some cases he’s an active part of the story, in others he’s more of an observer, but this gives us our first sense of the book. It’s about writers, aspirations, fictions and metafictions, with a sense of humor.

“Enoch Soames,” the first story, is my favorite short story. It’s about a poet and philosopher who is desperate to be remembered as a great writer and makes a deal with the devil to travel to the future and see how he is remembered. It’s the best story in the volume, has Max’s character at his most active, and delivers not only themes worth reading but a killer twist.

All five are worth reading and especially great in combination with each other. They all explore what stories are, ourselves as stories, and our acquaintances as stories that glancingly interact with ours, the feeling we get when we see glimpses of another person’s whole life and know it’s different from our own. Some of them weren't as strong, but a few of them are great on their own, and all together it's a really interesting collection.

Full review: https://hannahgivens.wordpress.com/20...

[Daniel D. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fantastic short story writing! Max Beerbohm brings characters, settings, and events to life with masterful language. Each story really captures the essence of the six different men directly portrayed; the seventh man is Beerbohm himself, the narrator and participant in each of the stories, who is superficially fun and witty, while also engaging with each story on a deeper level, albeit indirectly. The result is a series of fun stories that leave an air of profound mystery after one has read them, inviting further reflection. A joy to read!

[Mac · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read an interview with Stephen Fry where he named this book as a lesser-known classic. It was definitely interesting and offbeat. The concept is that Max Beerbohm (the character) writes about his interactions with six other (fictional) English authors of the turn of the twentieth century. Each chapter is essentially an independent short story dealing with one or two "author(s)." Beerbohm does a great job of varying the style and format of each chapter. Some have elements of Gothic horror, most have at least a dollop of humor, and all were worth reading. Even though the characters are fictional, the reader does get a good sense of the atmosphere of the British literary community in the 1890s.

[SheMac · Rating 3 out of 5]

Five humorous stories that poke fun at the late-19th century literary scene. "Enoch Soames" is perhaps best known and I assume is regarded as the granddaddy of "meta" storytelling. I thought Braxton and Maltby the funniest of the bunch although honorable mention has to go to Savonarola Brown's Shakespearean epic.

[Wayne · Rating 3 out of 5]

enjoyable read--excellent

[Adrian Hunley · Rating 4 out of 5]

An interesting twist.

[Donald Hardy · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Enoch Soames" makes the book worth owning. Beerbohm is a careful stylist and wickedly funny.

[Fran · Rating 5 out of 5]

Love these stories! I first read them long ago in my early 20s, on the advice of my then-advisor Dorothy Parker, via her Constant Reader columns.

[Francesca Penchant]

“All art is a mode of escape.”
—Max Beerbohm

[Sam · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book had a surprising amount of fantastical elements. I found the narrator quirky and charming, which helped carry the book through some of the slower moments. A nice, quick read.

[David · Rating 3 out of 5]

6/10

[Imlac]

Collection of charming and elegant sketches of fictional characters. I've read some of the repeatedly, especially the wonderful "Enoch Soames".

[Spencer · Rating 3 out of 5]

There are short stories about 6 men, the 7th being the author, who figures prominently in all of them. I had just finished "Zuleika Dobson" and wanted to read more by Max Beerbohm, and this was all I could find. We find the Devil, a ghost, a "lucky" man with an obsession with risk- taking, a man with an obsession about lying, and a man unfortunate enough to be named after the street on which his parents lived. Each one has an unexpected twist at the end, much like O. Henry. Bizarre is another word that comes to mind when trying to describe the writing of Beerbohm.

[Jonathan Rimorin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Entertaining piffle. In these six faux-biographies (the "seventh man" of the title being Beerbohm himself, or a Modernist version of him, identity as always being in flux), Beerbohm affectionately tweaks the literary and artistic circle of his day (that day being the 1890s-1910s). Some of them run the gamut from ghost story to time travel; others prefigure Barthelme or Pynchon in their deadpan offhandedness ("What if I get run over by an omnibus and killed?" asks one character before getting run over by an omnibus and killed in the next sentence.)

[Joe Miguez · Rating 5 out of 5]

Beerbohm is the most inexplicably neglected of all 20th century writers. Seven Men is brilliant, as is Zuleika Dobson, Beerbohm's only novel-length fiction. Yet I may be the only person I know who's heard of him. I just bought NYRB Classics' collection of his essays (the form for which Beerbohm is best known, to the extent he can be called "known" these days), and look forward to digging into it. A contemporary and equal of Wilde, Beerbohm long outlived Oscar, and arguably outwrote him. Seven Men is Exhibit A to that latter assertion.

[Karen · Rating 3 out of 5]

3 1/2 stars

Interesting short stories, very well written. I often find short stories to be a little odd and unsatisfying. I read this because of a reference to Oscar Wilde and others in that era. I really enjoyed "The Importance of Being Earnest" (the play and the movie were both good). So I thought I would give this a chance. I'm glad I did. These stories were a bit odd, but they were also satisfying, some more than others.

[Sheela Word · Rating 5 out of 5]

Read this in one day. So imaginative, unpredictable, and fun. The story that sticks with me most, though, is the unfunny (in fact rather chilling) tale of the perpetually lucky gambler who is constantly compelled to stake what he values most.

[Rufussenex · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Enoch Soames" is such a 5, as is "A.V. Laider". "'Savonarola' Brown" is uneven but great at its best times. The remaining portraits, though good, left me more satisfied than floored.

[David · Rating 2 out of 5]

So-so. I enjoyed the conceit of each of the three stories in it, but man can I not stand early 1900s english writing.

[Kobe Bryant · Rating 3 out of 5]

Just some good stories

[Jeff Hobbs · Rating 2 out of 5]

Enoch Soames--2
Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton--3
James Pethel--3
A.V. Laider--2
'Savonarola' Brown--2