The Eighteen Nineties have become the period of Wilde, Beardsley and the Yellow Book; a decadent twilight at the close of the Victorian century, when young poets weary of life sat about drinking absinthe and talking of strange sins. The provenance of this beguiling picture is peculiar, for the myth of the Decadent Nineties was created during the period itself. It was an age of artistic self-consciousness, during which writers and painters believed that they had to create not only their works but also their personalities. In Passionate Attitudes, Matthew Sturgis examines the varying extents to which ambitious poets, penurious painters, canny publishers and a controversialist press all conspired to promote the notion of decadence. He explores in detail the cataclysmic effect upon English decadence of the spectacular trial and subsequent conviction of Wilde in 1895, a fall which was to cast a blight over the whole generation. As well as the luminaries Wilde, Beardsley and Beerbohm, Sturgis portrays Arthur Symons, the poet of the music halls, who divided his energies between promoting Verlaine and chasing after chorus girls; Ernest Dowson, the demoralized romantic of the Rhymers Club; Count Erik Stenbock, who kept a snake up his sleeve and went mad; and John Gray, who may have been the model for Wilde's Dorian. John Lane published most of their books; Owen Seaman and Ada Leverson parodied their manners. Elegantly written, Passionate Attitudes provides a hugely informative and richly entertaining account of the zeitgeist behind the glorious decade of excess.
An interesting narrative looking at many of the huge figures of the era like Wilde, Beerbohm, and Beardsley, as well as lesser-known ones, such as Ernest Dowson, Lionel Johnson, and Richard Le Gallienne. I suppose it was for these latter figures that the book most intrigued me, by virtue of their obscurity. I was also previously unaware of the significance of the publisher John Lane.
Sturgis does well at creating something readable and coherent, although the book is, in the end, slightly disappointing somehow; it feels almost half-hearted — too short. Maybe this comes from my general exaltation of analysis over narrative (not that the book is entirely lacking it). In any case, this has given me a good framework for future reading.
Got what I wanted: putting Oscar aside to look at the long parade of minor, ridiculous, vain and financially chaotic people who in their own leeching and grasping ways tried to live with conviction. Buy the ticket, take the ride.