Against Nature (A Rebours) [Paperback]

 

 

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This classic of 1884 is an amazing catalogue of aesthetic sensibilities. Duc Jean des Esseintes had spent his early manhood in Paris, dredging the high and low pleasures of a man-about-town until he was jaded and disgusted by them. He had become so offended by the vulgarity of the majority of humankind that he shut himself away in a remote custom-built house above Fontenay, whose architecture and contents are minutely described. He is extremely sensitive about the colours in the house, and there is a discussion of the qualities of a range of colours (some of which most people have never heard of) in isolation, in natural and in artificial light, and in juxtaposition with each other. The same is true of materials - glass, wood, textiles. We have a description of his library, full of Latin works, about each of which he has an opinion which has little use for the classics that are commonly esteemed in that language, and judgments are pronounced on a host of totally obscure authors. Among the moderns, of course, he treasures Baudelaire. Many of the volumes he had had specially printed for him on hand-made paper, with antique fonts, and bound in precious bindings.

He has the same sensitivity for alcoholic drinks (again carefully listed), and as he has synaesthesia, he associates each drink with a particular musical instrument; in sipping them, he recreates musical compositions upon his tongue. He was also an expert on perfumes and their history, skilled at evoking the associations of each.

His favourite pictures are by the Symbolist artists Gustave Moreau (depicting the sensuous and horrific story of Salomé) and Odilon Redon (with his haunting proto-surrealist works); and he also dwells lovingly on a whole set of engravings of Goya's nightmarish scenes, and on one by Jan Luykens, a little known 17th century Dutch artist who specialized on depicting gruesomely detailed scenes of every kind of torture inflicted on martyrs in the name of religion; for Des Esseintes's taste runs not only to the sensuous, but also to the macabre and perverse.

He had himself been educated by the Jesuits, and although he had no religious belief, he was still fascinated by theological books - the 15 page long discussion of French Catholic literature will mean little to almost all English readers - and he still responded strongly to the aesthetic side of stained glass windows, vestments and the church furniture which also figured in his house: he had fitted out his bedroom austerely like a more comfortable monk's cell.

His taste in flowers is of course exotic; but whilst we might imagine that it would run to the precious and delicate, in fact, contrariwise, he collects grotesque, sinister and diseased-looking plants from all over the world (all named), which then haunt his dreams with surrealistic horrors.

But even his waking hours are now haunted. He has become used to the surroundings he had created; they no longer stimulate him; his solitude ceased to be a balm and became a boredom; and he now recalled the more unsavoury sides of his former life in Paris. He had never been in robust health; now he was more subject than ever to sickly episodes which even laudanum did not assuage, and these lead him to reflect on the pointlessness of the struggle for life.

The book also loses its initial character some time before the end. Having given such remarkable descriptions of the way in which Des Esseintes had organized his life, it becomes more and more a work of literary criticism as it discusses at great length his opinions of 19th century French literature. That may be interesting to those who are familiar with it, but it has become dry and academic. There follows a shorter treatment of the kind of music he likes and (for the most part) dislikes.

In the end, he becomes so ill that he has to consult a doctor, who tells him that the only cure for him would be to give up his solitary existence and return to normal life in Paris. With despair in his heart, Des Esseintes prepares to obey (contrary to what one might expect). He knows that there will be no place for him there. There follow a powerful last few pages in which he visualizes the decadent modern society - all former virtues of which have been replaced by commercialism, vulgarity and philistinism - into which he is about to return. It is an irony that this view of the world should be taken by the literary character who has himself been seen as the archpriest of fin de siècle decadence.

This is quite a short book; but if it is read, as it could be, in a day or two, the unrelenting sensory richness of the detail becomes almost indigestible, and its neurotic nature could wear one down.

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