In October we will be reading Confessions of an Opium Eater by Thomas De Quincey.
Please post your comments and questions in this thread.
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In October we will be reading Confessions of an Opium Eater by Thomas De Quincey.
Please post your comments and questions in this thread.
Thankfully it is not very long as I have been interested in wanting to read this for a while, but did not know if I would be able to fit it in.
I got a free copy of this book on my e-reader.
I bought a copy cheap in a bargain bookstore in the summer.
Honestly I’d rather read a real book than an e-book, even a used book, with somebody else’s finger prints all over it, and their notes in the margins. I donno, there’s just something about holding a real book - and the flight attendants can’t me turn it off on final approach. Maybe I’ll get used to it, but reading an e-book still feels to me like I’m reading something through a soda straw.
Just got my copy today!
Also, nobody ever got mugged for a paperback on the subway.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
Good point. Additionally, at least with the spine end of a hefty paperback, you can use it as a bludgeon:Quote:
Originally Posted by Calidore
“Fly, scoundrel! Begone, thief! Give back what is none of thine!”
--or something like that; Sancho to the thief who stole his beloved donkey, Dapple.
Me too. You don't have to remember how to operate a real book, (which is important for me because I'm more inept with technology than a grandma.) You don't have to worry about dropping it, or scratching it, or if it gets a few sprinkles of rain on it. It's not such a loss if you lose it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
I am really enjoying reading this so far. One of the first things which caught my attention, and most particularly in reading the letter at the beginning is the way in which the author seems to be trying to absolve himself from taking responsibility for his own actions, and refusing to accept blame, but rather seems to see himself as a sort of victim. I thought it was particularly amusing towards the end of the letter when he was trying to make the "well everyone else was doing it" argument.
Also while this is autobiographical, and meant to be a true story, considering it is an account of his experiences as opium addict it does make one wonder just how reliable his account of events can truly be. How much can we really trust what he relates to us and how affected his memory and perceptions of events may be from his usage of opium.
It is one of the best books I've ever read in my life. I requested the clerk of one of the bookstores in Taiwan that sell works of literature, to search for and buy this book for me, several years ago, after I read a passage from Anthology of British Literature. It is beautiful. It took my breath everytime I read it.
I trust the writer of this book. He was the best writer of British Romanticism.
My translation professor recommended the name of this writer to the whole class, many years ago.
Just becasue he is a good writer does not be default make him a reliable narrator. Even when ones mind is not affected by drug use, I do not know how much any autobiography can be completely trusted, even if the writer has the best and most honest intentions.Quote:
Originally Posted by virginiawang
For one thing is the fact any time one is writing of something after the fact, our memoeries does play tricks upon us, and we rarely remember things as they have acutally happened but our mind fills in gaps in our memoeries, and our perceptions on past events may be skewed even if there is no wish to intentionally deceive.
And I would imagine one dealing with years of opium use the memory must be even further affected.
In addition there is the fact that it is basic human instinct when one is writing about themselves to want to give the most flattering picture possible, so even if they do not set up to out right lie or deceive thier perceptions of events certainly would not be without bias, it would be difficult for a person to be completely objectively honest about themselves.
And it seems to me that Quincey does want the reader to have a more positive outlook upon him and his experiences, the fact that he does seem to renounce taking any personal blame or responsibility, but seems to view himself as being but a victim may affect the way in which he portrays the events because even if he has every intent of being honest, he will still be relating his perception of the truth and reality which may differ from the actual reality.
I’ve gotta agree with that, Muse. I think his accuracy may be on par with Hunter Thompson’s in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and, as you mentioned, for similar reasons.
I’ve just finished the first chapter and so far I’ve been enjoying the language immensely. In fact I’ve had to read slowly to tune in to it.
I think chapter one could’ve been titled: Down and Out in London in the 19th Century. And yet I kept getting this picture in my head of Dan Akroyd, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Eddie Murphy in Trading Places – which goes along with your it’s-not-my-fault theory.
He drank wine on a regular basis, in addition to the fact that he ate opium for several years, or for a much longer stretch of time.
I do not think a good writer is required to write objectively, and it is simply because he/ she is a writer rather than a scientist doing some insipid observation. As he already asserted by the title of the book on its cover, the fact that he ate opium, and wrote a book about this experience, he didn’t deceive as a writer. For those of you who do not wish to feel the way he did, it is fairly easy to dump the book into the trashcan, when you find it undesirable. Perhaps one seldom buys a book he/she does not like at the first sight, by glancing through the cover and the back.
To be honest, I can hardly understand why some of you repeated the word “fault” again and again, for times without number.
I trust the writer of this book. It is because I feel it when I read through the book. I do not think it is necassary to investigate into the details of his life to reach a more accurate reality, with a view of proving that he had not been misled by a bad memory. By the way, I do not think I can find the word, autobiography, since the cover to the back. He was not required to report everything of his experience, of wine, opium or love, the way a reporter speaks before the media. When I reached this point along the train of thoughts that came to me one after another, I felt a desire to smile, because even a reporter cannot report in a way that makes him sound like a robot, which again will be encountering problems to prevent its listeners from thinking it is not a satellite or a ghost. Nothing is objective, I think.
I started from the beginning of the book this afternoon and reached around the middle of it, in the space of a few hours. It is really difficult to stop reading it, before I grew tired toward the night. I do agree to a certain degree with my last poster that he didn’t write anything to embellish his work, neither a joke nor an anecdote. His writing is quite plain. However it is the honest voice that attracted me so much. He described the events that took place one after another since his adolescence, how he studied under the guidance of teachers, where he lived, in an ordinary voice, somewhat randomly, and I really enjoyed reading it. The writing gave me a feeling that he had been talking to himself rather than a group of people, and perhaps that explained the reason why I love the book so much?
I think you have rather missed my point. The question of the reliable narrator is something that is often discussed whenever one is discussing a work that is written in first person narration, though generally it is something applied to fictional works but I think in this case that question of narrator reliability is valid, as I well I think it is a question that can be brought up any time an individual is speaking of themselves.Quote:
Originally Posted by virginiawang
The work is of autobiographical nature because the author is writing about his own experiences and life, that does not mean he has to tell every single detail, that is not at all what I was saying.
The point I was making is the fact that the things he does relate to us may not have in fact happened exactly the way he accounts for them, again I thought I made it quite clear that there was not attempt to deceive the reader, but that but if any of us were to sit down and right of an experience we had based upon memory no doubt the way we write it will not reflect exactly the way it actually happened.
I was simply suggesting that while the experiences he relates are based upon his life and are in essence true at the same time we should not necessarily view it all as absolute fact.
I remember reading "Confessions..." about fifty years ago, and what struck me about it then is the same thing I think now: It is an unusual work of literature--and nothing more. It is most assuredly not a great work of literature. And I think De Quincey would agree with that assessment.
I do believe you’re correct about De Quincey's self assessment, Jassy. Here’s the introductory sentence to his chapter, Introduction to the Pains of Opium.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jassy Melson
I like the way he addresses his readers directly, gives it a great 19th Century feel.Quote:
Courteous, and I hope indulgent, reader (for all my readers must be indulgent ones, or else I fear I shall shock them too much to count on their courtesy), having accompanied me thus far, now let me request you to move onwards for about eight years; that is to say, from 1804 (when I have said that my acquaintance with opium first began) to 1812.
<Makes the Scooby Doo quizzical interjection> Huh?Quote:
Originally Posted by virginiawang
VW, I don’t think anybody is commenting on the quality of the writing. We were just speculating that De Quincy may have played fast and loose with the facts – like Bill Shakespeare did in his histories. Besides I can't dump the book in the trashcan (Mine's an e-book); I'd have to hit 'delete.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. De quincey never heard what you said about his book, so he never agreed. Nobody can give a work of literature an assesment and say it is absolute. That is quite funny.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jassy Melson
If he had been misled by opium or a bad memory, into speaking randomly, that presents a fact which is truer than any, any fact you may have digged out if any of you are so much interested.It is a fact truer than the real facts, because it has more to do with Thomas Dequincey.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
The narrator is a technique of fiction in a book. They are a construct through which the writer can craft a story, change the details, give conflicting opinions, tell truths and lies. It's a technique. It's not about the veracity of the writer but about their way of telling the story.
But when dealing with a work that is non-fiction does not the veracity come a bit more into play?Quote:
Originally Posted by Paulclem
Yes it may do. I've only just started the book, and so I'll need to read more. It's good to foster the awareness that a writer of non-fiction may also have an agenda. I'm not saying De Quincey does, but he may have.Quote:
Originally Posted by Dark Muse
It is really awkward to give the word, " technique" to a writer like De Quincey, when he wrote under the influence of opium, and wine. I do not think it is the right word for such a writer, though I cannot explain the reasons why. I once read another author as a course requirement, but no sooner had I reached the second page than I dumped the book. That writer did his best to lie pompously, in ways that made me angry. whichever book of Camus? Even the title of the book escaped me now. I think the word technique is more suitable for Camus, though I do not know anything more about Camus, except the one page I read several years ago.
Often times, you know by heart that a writer was speaking the truth when he wrote, and you do not need any evidence, to back up what you think, because you are right. I do not know how I should convince any of you here that he was not led by a bad memory or the influence of opium and wine, into deceiving; however I think it is not needed to go into such a topic. At least I am almost sure that he was doing his best to express what came to him the moment he wrote honestly. That is quite enough for a writer, too beautiful indeed. I can imagine some of those writers who wrote down what they planned an hour ago, through some step by step process, which included the making of an outline, a draft before the real work, and perhaps some revisions after the writing. In my opinion, to do this sort of work kills the writing itself, and me, if I am required to write this way.
I do not think any of you can deny the fact that De Quincey wrote somewhat randomly, without too much reasoning or a good organization. How could he plan with some technique, if he had not even an idea of what he would write for the next sentence that came to him?
But when dealing with a work that is non-fiction does not the veracity come a bit more into play?
Are you naive enough to believe that any literary "non-fiction" involves any less invention/fiction than admittedly fictional works?
I do not think it is a point worthy of a thought, for a work of literature. If I want to believe the writer, I do. If I do not, I do not. If I feel glad to believe in a lie, it is equally good.Quote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
If you had read my prior comments and thus taken that remark into proper context than you would realize I do not.Quote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
I am not suggesting that works of non-fiction do not contain a bit invention and fiction of their own, but I was simply implying that when dealing with a work of non-fiction the question of veracity is a bit more relevant than in a work of fiction.
Because when we are presented with a work of non-fiction than at least to some extent the author is asking us to believe what we are being told. Thus how much of what they say can in fact be taken as truth, and how much is deception, either intentionally done, or even how much the author themselves is deceived by their own memories, perceptions, bias etc...
My translation professor was always right. He once told us the best way to choose a good dictionary is to pick up the biggest one you see on the shelf of a bookstore. The bigger a dictionary is, the better it is.
As far as I know, a confession does not always have things to do with a fault or a misdeed, committed. I read some entries in a few dictionaries online yesterday, but they dissapointed me, as with one accord, when all of them explained the word confession the same way. I was not easily failed, because I trust my feelings more than a dictionary. I looked up the word in a very big dictionary at home, and learned the fact that a confession is also a piece of writing in which the writer writes honestly and passionately.
That does not preclude the possibility that a crafted work may well be fictional account that is written with the purpose of entertainment.Quote:
Originally Posted by virginiawang
Fictionally, the confessional story is a story written, in the first person, about emotionally fraught and morally charged situations in which a fictional character is caught. These stories may be anything from thinly veiled recountings of the writer's life, to completely fictional works.
From:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confessional_writing
I can imagine some of those writers who wrote down what they planned an hour ago, through some step by step process, which included the making of an outline, a draft before the real work, and perhaps some revisions after the writing. In my opinion, to do this sort of work kills the writing itself
How do you think many writers work? They don't all begin at the beginning and end at the end, (if in fact any of them do). And there is always an element of craft involved in the revisions.
To revise with craft breaks the work.
"To admit or grant to be true; concede" is one of the definitions given to the verb form of confession, to confess, from Collins English Dictionary. (Complete and Unabridged)
This dictionary happened to be the biggest one I saw on the shelf that day, in a bookstore that sell English books for the most part.
I didn't try to gainsay what my last poster wrote. Anyone can choose either to believe a confession or not. It is up to the reader himself/herself. A writer can always stay in a mysterious and aloof corner, in which she writes her mind, perhaps honestly.
I don't think it's a question of honesty. It's about the skill of a writer who can entertain and inform through their writing. All I'm saying is that the writer has these tools at their disposal, and the narrator is another tool that can be used to present a point of view, information - whatever. In this way, we can't just assume - though it may be found in the body of the text to be o upon reading- that the narrator actually represents the writer or the "truth"/ actual autobiography.Quote:
Originally Posted by virginiawang
Truth may be the wrong term given that in the production of a piece of writing - everything is changed by the perspective of the writer.
I've got into the book a bit now, and he does seem to protest too much about Coleridge's claim that he became addicyted through pleasure. I felt he went on and on about it. Was it this that set you thinking?Quote:
Originally Posted by Dark Muse
His descriptions so far are oddly removed from his family. He is very funny when describing the torpid Rev - his tutor, but he hardly mentions his older brother.
Do you think, considering that we are responding to the written musings of a contemporary of the Romantics, who were themselves not shy in populating their sentences with asides, we should respond in a like idiom to our venerable fellow posters? :biggrin5:
In his letter there is a point in which he flat out states that he takes no blame for his addiction and does suggest that one you fully understand the circumstances of how he came to use it, you cannot really find fault with him.Quote:
Originally Posted by Paulclem
Than towards the end of the letter he gives off the list of all these other people whom have also succumbed to the use of opium, in way that seemed to be indicated that it was just the in thing to do.
And I think he does make some remark about how while he himself first started taking it to relieve himself of his pain, while there have been others whom had sought it for its pleasures.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Paulclem
:lol:
What does that mean?Quote:
Originally Posted by Paulclem
Should we post our discussion in the style of De Quincey. :biggrin5:Quote:
Originally Posted by virginiawang
After a few side trips to other texts I’ve finally finished this book, and although I thought it written in an engaging style that warmly brought the reader into the narrative, and which followed the well-known curve of so many present-day addiction-and-recovery biographies – that is to say: after some sort of initial catalyst, the protagonist is enticed towards a drug of choice and then has a period of pleasant euphoria but which is marked by a steady escalation of use and amount of the habit-forming substance, followed by the desperation of addiction that inevitably involves several unsuccessful attempts to shed the monkey from his back, and after suffering through the agony of withdrawal, he finally manages to move beyond the offending narcotic and into his scarred yet clean life – I nevertheless enjoyed the book and believe it to be, if not a great work of literature, at least a fine work of literature, and a pure example of writing from the British Empire during the Victorian age, an age in which I was surprised to find was much less judgmental than our own towards opium eaters, possibly a direct result of the unfamiliarity of opium by the majority of the population at that time and its effects even though they were quite aware of the ravages of alcohol within their communities, as evidenced by a parliamentary program in Victorian England to promote ale as healthful alternative to gin, and, at any rate, as I think I’ve already mentioned in this incredibly convoluted run-on sentence, I enjoyed the book and feel somewhat enlightened about the physiological strains as well as the more complicated sociological ramifications of not only the availability of Occidental opiates, but also the governmental trade policy concerning opium in the Orient, and despite the rather spirited defense and promotion of the book by a certain forum member, I do not necessarily consider it the greatest work of the western literary canon to be ensconced between two book covers, but a fine book none the less,and I will recommend it as a text for anyone who enjoys reading good books.
That was exhausting.
I fear you are mistaken my good fellow, notwithstanding your good intentions in posting within the spirit of the thread. It was surely written after 1800 was it not, being that he was a contemporary of the Romantic poets and all.
It was written in 1821 so it is acutally pre-Victorian, which spans the time of 1837-1901Quote:
Originally Posted by Paulclem
Thank you Dark Muse. trust you to come and save me from my laziness. Had I your undoubted energy, i would have heaved myself from this surfing stool and gone to the aforesaid book, and looked up the very precise date you supplied, and enriched my respose with facts rather than my own brand of poor speculation.Quote:
Originally Posted by Dark Muse
(I bet the conversations with the academics were a bit tedious then).
Haha yes one can tell I am someone with too much time on my handsQuote:
Originally Posted by Paulclem
Correct-a-mundo mis amigos.
Right you are, my friends. After an exhaustive search and much primary-source research into the history of England and the categorization norms for historical eras as defined by the Modern History Department and the Interpretive Literature Department at Cambridge University, (really I only checked Wikipedia) I have determined that Muse is indeed correct – The Victorian era in England squares almost exactly with the dates of Queen Victoria’s reign: 1837 – 1901.
Please forgive me my sketchy knowledge of English Monarchs. You see, I am an American and the victim of a public school education. Therefore, my understanding of the British system of government comes to me through a very tattered textbook with a decidedly American viewpoint. So, although my understanding of Queen Vic’s dates may have been a bit off, I am quite certain that King George III was the sovereign in 1773 when Sam Adams and a bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the small town of Boston and wound up tossing about 45 tons of high-grade East India tea into the harbor. We’re still pretty much a coffee-drinking nation to this day.
So, what in the world does that have to do with the book-club discussion you may ask? Well, I’m getting to that – and I better get there quickly or Scher’s going to come in here in one of her stay-on-topic moods, with a crazy look in her eyes and her finger on the delete button, looking for some satisfaction.
The book was written towards the end of the Georgian era in England, which was named for the four King Georges (and oddly enough one William), and which immediately preceded the Victorian era, which, I think we’ve already established, was named for Queen Victoria. They were all Hanoverians. Queen Vic was not only the Queen of England from 1837 -1901, but she was also the Empress of India from 1876 – 1901. And it was East Indian tea that hot-headed Sam Adams and the boys deemed intolerably taxed and hence pitched overboard into Boston Harbor – strangely enough some of the boys were thinly disguised as North American Mohawk Indians. At that time over on the other side of the Atlantic in parliament and among the general population of England there was a good deal of sympathy towards the American colonists, but Dr. Samuel Johnson was not one of them.
And, De Quincey mentions Dr. Johnson several times early on in his book.
Ta Da!
Like Churchill, the always quotable Dr. Johnson had a quick wit and an uncanny ability to get to the heart of the matter succinctly. He had this to say about American Independence: "How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of negroes?"
We got our independence anyway, and I don’t remember reading anything about Dr. Johnson in my South Carolina Department of Education approved textbook on U.S. History.
I can see that it is an early type of confessional, given that his paragraphs wind from one character to another situation seemingly randomly. Nowadays, the books we get are tightly structured, but De Quincey meanders, as does his sentences, to which we are grateful in order that we can mimic his style and bask in our own verbosity.
I think that’s what I liked about his book: it was not tightly structured and it didn’t have writer’s workshop stink all over it.
Last weekend I was browsing the fiction section at the local bookstore and came across a promising looking novel, but then I read the author’s bio on the flap. It said he had an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, a PhD from some danged place, and he now teaches writing at Harvard University. So, I put the book back on the self and moved on down the line.