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A review by glenncolerussell
Vidas imaginárias by Marcel Schwob
5.0
Always fascinating and frequently macabre and chilling - we pull back the curtain and enter the world of French symbolist and decadent author Marcel Schwob (1867-1905).
In his Imaginary Lives we encounter twenty-two portraits that are part fact, part myth, part author’s poetic fancy, where the individuals portrayed are taken from such fields as ancient history, philosophy, art, literature and even the worlds of crime and geomancy, such personages as Septima the enchantress, Petronius the romancer, Fra Dolcino the heretic, Pocahontas the princess, William Phips the treasure hunter and Captain Kidd the pirate. Here are some quotes and my comments on three lives from the collection:
Cyril Tourneur the tragic poet: “Cyril Tourneur was born out of the union of an unknown god with a prostitute. Proof enough of his divine origin has been found in the heroic atheism to which he succumbed. From his mother he inherited the instinct for revolt and luxury, the fear of death, the thrill of passion and the hate of kings. His father bequeathed him his desire for a crown, his pride of power and his joy of creating. To him both parents handed down their taste for nocturnal things, for a red glare in the night, and for blood.” So we read in Marcel Schwob’s first lines supercharged with mythos.
On a slightly more mundane level, Cyril Tourneur was an English dramatist born in 1575, author most notably of The Atheist’s Tragedy, a play of revenge employing rich macabre imagery. But who wants to be constricted within the confines of so called historical facts? Certainly not a fin de siècle symbolist and decadent like Marcel Schwob.
Each of the imagined lives is no more than several pages, but such lush, vivid language. Here is another excerpt from Cyril Tourneur: “For mistress he took a prostitute from Bankside, a girl who had haunted the waterfront streets. He called her Rosamonde. His love for her was unique. On her blonde, innocent face the rouge spots burned like flickering flames, and she was very young. Rosamonde bore Cyril Tourneur a daughter whom he loved. Having been looked at by a prince, Rosamonde died tragically, drinking emerald-colored poison from a transparent cup. Vengeance merged with pride in Cyril’s soul. Night came."
One last quote in hopes of further whetting a potential reader's appetite to feast on this finely crafted prose collection: “When Cyril Tourneur had thus satisfied his hatred for kings he was assailed by his hatred of the gods. The divine spark within him urged him on to original creation. He dreamed of founding an entire generation out of his own blood – a race of gods on earth.”
In Lucretius the poet we encounter the great Roman Epicurean who mixes reason and passion, particularly flames of love for a tall, languid African beauty. Lucretius reads his papyrus scrolls and contemplates the movements of the atoms throughout the universe. He also drinks deeply of a potion prepared by his African and because he is driven mad by the potion, he knows love in ways he never contemplated previously. And with such mad, intoxicating love comes, of course, a knowledge of another key facet of the universe - death.
Paolo Uccello the painter - Schwob’s tale of an artist who paints birds and beasts and who firmly believes through his powers of observation and an unflinching obsession with transforming all lines into a single ideal perspective, he will strike alchemical gold on canvas.
Indeed, Schwob’s Uccello hopes to discover the secret heart of creating, creating, that is, as if through the eye of God. For many laborious years Uccello the painter toiled over his supreme painting, showing it to not a single soul until one day when he was an old man of eighty, he uncovered his masterpiece for Donatello. The miracle was accomplished! But who had eyes to see?
(This is a review, including the above quotes, of the 1924 translation by Lorimer Hammond.)
“There is no science for the teguments of a leaf, for the filaments of a cell structure, the winding of a vein, the passion of a habit, or for the twists and quirks of character.”
― Marcel Schwob, Imaginary Lives