Perfectamente Borracho!
Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry
First published in 1947
The Day of the Dead 1938. Geoffrey Firmin’s ex-wife Yvonne Constable has made the trip down the Calle Nicaragua to Quauhanahuac (Cuernavaca), the end of the line; the American Highway runs into the town and a goat track meanders out, to try to pull the dipsomaniacal Geoffrey away from the barranca, the abyss, the deep ravine that cuts through the land and is threatening to engulf him both body and soul.
Malcolm Lowry drank hard.
The novel reeks of alcohol. If one were to wring its pages, 100% proof would ooze out from every pore.
A quick perusal of the text orders up a pouring forth of adult beverages: tequila del olla, mescal, Burke's Irish Whiskey, Carta Blanca Beer, Tenampa, Berreteaga, Tequila Anejo, Anis doble de Mallorca, Anis del Mono, Henry Mallet's delicioso licor, port, cerveza. Absolutamente borracho!
Geoffrey Firmin (the Consul) makes Lord Sebastian Flyte, The Whiskey Priest, Jake Barnes with Lady Brett Ashley and their retinue seem like teetotalers, or at best Babycham drinkers.
Geoffrey Firmin drinks hard.
Geoffrey’s half brother, Hugh, and Jacques Laruelle, Geoff’s childhood friend make up the other main characters.
The unfolding of events, past and present swirl in an alcoholic haze that reveals more upon second reading, so make it a double if you can, or let it breathe for a while.
Upon second reading the realization (Although I may well be wrong with this supposition) that the experiences of Geoffrey, Hugh and Jacques can be attributed to a just one person helps restore some equilibrium.
Lowry’s descriptive writing of position / location is first rate. One feels so planted in the geographic sense compared with the inner confusion and turmoil of The Consul.
The two volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl (Pronunciation ticklers akin to the Gewürztraminer produce) providing the backdrop to the Mexican action.
The novel is sweeping in its global scope, there are numerous references to countries and cities.
The Liverpool docks deftly in one sentence:
How strange the landing at Liverpool, the Liver Building seen once more through the misty rain, that murk smelling already of nosebags and Caegwyrle Ale – the familiar deep-draughted cargo steamers, harmoniously masted, still sternly sailing outward bound with the tide, worlds of iron hiding their crews from the weeping black-shawled women on the piers.
It is not all pickled livers and Dante’s Inferno, there is humour in the novel albeit of a blackish kind. A scene in Geoffrey’s garden where he is desperately trying to find a hidden bottle of tequila is as comic as it is wretched, with Eden references, a mad dialogue with his neighbor, and the sudden appearance of Dr. Arturo Diaz Vigil, a Satan like figure with amusing English:
“Oh, I know, but we got so horrible drunkness that night before, so perfectamente borracho, that it seems to me, the Consul is a sick as I am,”
“Sickness is not only in body, but in that part used to be call: soul. Poor your friend, he spend his money on earth in such continuous tragedies.”
“Come amigo, throw away your mind.”
It’s a challenging read, but rewards one with an unforgettable portrayal of the human condition, a powerful book that rightly takes its place firmly in the top ten novels of the 20th Century. If you like your reading filled to the brim with literary references and symbolism ala Ulysses, then uncork this full-bodied, austere, racy, punchy little number.
Malcolm Lowry (1909-1957), cheers, bottoms up, Skål, prosit, kampai, a vortre sante, salud, kia ora, vivat, noroc, cin cin, down the hatch!
Under the Volcano, a masterpiece of English literature.
On your knees.
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