Trane's review

Under the Volcano: A Novel (Perennial Classics)
by Malcolm Lowry

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<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31072.Under_the_Volcano_A_Novel?utm_medium=api&amp;utm_source=blog_review" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="Under the Volcano: A Novel (Perennial Classics)" border="0" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1168197907m/31072.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31072.Under_the_Volcano_A_Novel?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_review">Under the Volcano: A Novel</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17439.Malcolm_Lowry">Malcolm Lowry</a> 
 <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/8119710?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_review"><h3>My review</h3></a>
 rating: 3 of 5 stars Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano is a cult piece of literature (if there can be such a thing) that I've been meaning to read for a long time. A friend's effusive praise convinced me to take the plunge, and after finishing the book I can say that the experience was one of long-drawn-out bouts of disappointment interspersed with brief, exciting, and instructive encounters with brilliance.
 
 Part of the problem for me is that Lowry relies for a large portion of this book on the free indirect discourse of an alcoholic visionary — in other words, the reader is forced into the point of view of a delusional and confused main character who is constantly referencing Hindu mythology, Dante, the Bible, the Aztec deities, and etc., but never really makes any sense at all. It's a bit like being stuck at a bar next to a really smart guy who's been reading Carlos Castaneda and Hero of a Thousand Faces and insists on putting the two of them together as the central core of a theory of life, the universe, and everything that's centered smack in the middle of his 18th martini. I think we've all been there before, and had cause for regret.
 
 The novel is primarily the story of Geoffrey Firmin, a former English Consul who is busy dying of alcoholism in Mexico. The central struggle of the novel is that between a transcendental idealism, on the part of Firmin (a sort of quest for Truth, with a capital T), and the deadening realities of life — including his inability to have a decent relationship with his ex-wife, his inability to write the book that will Explain It All, his own alcoholic debilitation, and the interwar rise of fascist sympathies in Mexico. Firmin's ex-wife Yvonne arrives to give him a second chance, and his half-brother Hugh, who is planning on sailing for Spain to help the Republicans fight Franco, also drops in. As you pretty much can guess from the beginning of the novel, tragedy ensues. Popular tropes include the Garden of Eden, the idea of a descent into the inferno, moments of absurdist madness, visions, and, of course, a bar that is named El Faralito (The Lighthouse).
 
 Lowry can be a fantastic stylist when his prose doesn't get too far gone into the sodden consciousness of Firmin and there are superb jolts of perceptual clarity: "He [Firmin:] was reaching the edge of the fair. Mysterious tents were shut up here, or lying collapsed, enfolded on themselves. They appeared almost human, the former kind awake, expectant; the latter with the wrinkled crumpled aspect of men asleep, but longing even in unconsciousness to stretch their limbs." That's nice, indeed. Several passages like this, where you can be given a nice perceptual jolt that really brings you inside the moment, are to be found in the sections that focus on the consciousness of Yvonne or the consciousness of Hugh. With Firmin, however, all too often we're lost in a confusion where myth, philosophy, whether it's 1924 or 1934, and whether or not he should have another drink all blend together. In fact, there are pages and pages where he agonizes over/justifies/rationalizes about the next drink. Maybe interesting if you've never known a true alcoholic, but really dreary if you have.
 
 Okay — there are a few great sections in this book. The bull riding/fighting sequence rivals anything in Hemingway and the sequence where the bus stops and they try to help a dying peasant is unforgettable. These sections are as good as anything I've seen. But there is a lot of wading to be done to get to them. If you're a scholar of modernism, or just really like this sort of thing, then this book is definitely for you. It's an interesting book, just not for everyone. I definitely don't regret having read it, but I probably won't pick it up again.
 
 Finally, this book has one of the most incredible final sentences of any novel I've read. It's shocking in its finitude. BUT YOU'VE GOT TO READ THE WHOLE THING TO GET THE EFFECT OF IT.
 
 
 <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/553055?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_review">View all my reviews.</a>

Trane's review
rating:

recommended for: drunks, fantasists, modernists, beatniks, ex-pats, visionaries, wannabees
status: Read in November, 2007

Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano is a cult piece of literature (if there can be such a thing) that I've been meaning to read for a long time. A friend's effusive praise convinced me to take the plunge, and after finishing the book I can say that the experience was one of long-drawn-out bouts of disappointment interspersed with brief, exciting, and instructive encounters with brilliance.

Part of the problem for me is that Lowry relies for a large portion of this book on the free indirect discourse of an alcoholic visionary — in other words, the reader is forced into the point of view of a delusional and confused main character who is constantly referencing Hindu mythology, Dante, the Bible, the Aztec deities, and etc., but never really makes any sense at all. It's a bit like being stuck at a bar next to a really smart guy who's been reading Carlos Castaneda and Hero of a Thousand Faces and insists on putting the two of them together as the central core of a theory of life, the u...more Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano is a cult piece of literature (if there can be such a thing) that I've been meaning to read for a long time. A friend's effusive praise convinced me to take the plunge, and after finishing the book I can say that the experience was one of long-drawn-out bouts of disappointment interspersed with brief, exciting, and instructive encounters with brilliance.

Part of the problem for me is that Lowry relies for a large portion of this book on the free indirect discourse of an alcoholic visionary — in other words, the reader is forced into the point of view of a delusional and confused main character who is constantly referencing Hindu mythology, Dante, the Bible, the Aztec deities, and etc., but never really makes any sense at all. It's a bit like being stuck at a bar next to a really smart guy who's been reading Carlos Castaneda and Hero of a Thousand Faces and insists on putting the two of them together as the central core of a theory of life, the universe, and everything that's centered smack in the middle of his 18th martini. I think we've all been there before, and had cause for regret.

The novel is primarily the story of Geoffrey Firmin, a former English Consul who is busy dying of alcoholism in Mexico. The central struggle of the novel is that between a transcendental idealism, on the part of Firmin (a sort of quest for Truth, with a capital T), and the deadening realities of life — including his inability to have a decent relationship with his ex-wife, his inability to write the book that will Explain It All, his own alcoholic debilitation, and the interwar rise of fascist sympathies in Mexico. Firmin's ex-wife Yvonne arrives to give him a second chance, and his half-brother Hugh, who is planning on sailing for Spain to help the Republicans fight Franco, also drops in. As you pretty much can guess from the beginning of the novel, tragedy ensues. Popular tropes include the Garden of Eden, the idea of a descent into the inferno, moments of absurdist madness, visions, and, of course, a bar that is named El Faralito (The Lighthouse).

Lowry can be a fantastic stylist when his prose doesn't get too far gone into the sodden consciousness of Firmin and there are superb jolts of perceptual clarity: "He [Firmin:] was reaching the edge of the fair. Mysterious tents were shut up here, or lying collapsed, enfolded on themselves. They appeared almost human, the former kind awake, expectant; the latter with the wrinkled crumpled aspect of men asleep, but longing even in unconsciousness to stretch their limbs." That's nice, indeed. Several passages like this, where you can be given a nice perceptual jolt that really brings you inside the moment, are to be found in the sections that focus on the consciousness of Yvonne or the consciousness of Hugh. With Firmin, however, all too often we're lost in a confusion where myth, philosophy, whether it's 1924 or 1934, and whether or not he should have another drink all blend together. In fact, there are pages and pages where he agonizes over/justifies/rationalizes about the next drink. Maybe interesting if you've never known a true alcoholic, but really dreary if you have.

Okay — there are a few great sections in this book. The bull riding/fighting sequence rivals anything in Hemingway and the sequence where the bus stops and they try to help a dying peasant is unforgettable. These sections are as good as anything I've seen. But there is a lot of wading to be done to get to them. If you're a scholar of modernism, or just really like this sort of thing, then this book is definitely for you. It's an interesting book, just not for everyone. I definitely don't regret having read it, but I probably won't pick it up again.

Finally, this book has one of the most incredible final sentences of any novel I've read. It's shocking in its finitude. BUT YOU'VE GOT TO READ THE WHOLE THING TO GET THE EFFECT OF IT.

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message 1: by Joe

11/28/2007 04:50AM

Excellent review.