I have a rather strict personal policy of finishing books I've started, but less than a week after starting, this one was seriously testing my resolve. Ultimately, I persevered largely due to mention in other reviews of the Golden Twigs portion of the book as somewhat worthwhile.* About 3 weeks later, with several breaks and a slew of palate cleansing YA fluff tomes, I'm finally able to get this out of my life.
I noticed a remark by another reviewer that this book was not quite so racist as feared. I would say quite the opposite. Barely through the first fifth of it, I had already slammed the book shut in disgust several times. Obviously, these stories being written nigh on a good hundred years ago, you can't expect them to reflect contemporary moral sensibilities. But things like 'I should like here to make the point that she was a sex-degenerate, like his mother; for all white women who marry coloured men must be classed as such.' (p.106)? Or '"Scratch the Russian and you find the Tatar?" Well, scratch the Scotchman and you have a being who can give points and a beating to the Chinese or the Red Indian.' (p.124)?
I might have been able to wince my way through the rank racial generalisations and overt misogyny with a bit less grumbling if the mysteries had indeed been '...the greatest sensation since Sherlock Holmes.' (p. 12, quoted from September 1917 issue of the Crowley edited literary monthly 'The International'). Some of the stories had well written, captivating openings. However, none of the deductions or "psychological" analyses have impressed me. There has never been a "Wow!" moment like the ones Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie have been able to elicit from me, just contrived explanations. Simon Iff just brings to mind a description of annoying adolescent hipsters I think I picked up from the NME: some dude who wears a trilby and tape measure tie and walks around with a biscuit tin JUST BECAUSE. The rendering of Simon Iff's "offbeat" intelligence and brilliance is neither intelligent nor brilliant. The character is nothing more than someone utterly pleased with himself despite essentially being an utter moron, smugly tottering around with a biscuit tin waiting for an opportunity to be wacky and offer a stranger an unsolicited biscuit out of the blue. In his mind, the biscuit tin is delightfully inspired BECAUSE HE'S SO KOOKY AND UNIQUE, but really it's just a sad device used in a desperate attempt to draw attention to his self perceived genius and garner some praise from others. Considering how Simon Iff is supposed to be some kind of flattering reflection of the author, the Crowley quote mentioned in the editor's notes (re. his birthplace, Warwickshire: 'strange coincidence that one small county should have given England her two greatest poets - for one must not forget Shakespeare.' from his "Confessions") seems to capture how grossly and falsely self-agrandising this whole exercise really is.
I held off on the star rating until I'd made my way through the Golden Twigs portion. These were marginally better. Most read like parables without any clear governing principles. I can however recall just the one story as being possibly likable on its own - rather sweet even - and with an ending that was mildly amusing rather than pointless. I will admit to not being familiar with The Golden Bough at all. Some light research after the fact makes me think I may have been even more warmly inclined if I'd been better versed with this inspirational material, especially considering how 95% of the minimal joy I was able to derive from this book came from the historical/character backgrounds provided in the 'Notes and Sources' at the end.
In sum: the appendix was rather interesting; some of Golden Twigs was ok; Simon Iff = UUGGGGGH.
* The ONLY other reason I kept reading: the drink recipe, Crowley Cup No. 3 - 'Take a large jug, the larger the better; half fill with selected strawberries; cover the fruit with Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge; ice carefully; fill up with iced champagne, the best obtainable. Stir the mixture; drink it; order more, and repeat.' (p.101) - had me holding out for more in-story foodie moments. According to the final notes, 'Crowley was an innovative chef who gained a reputation for dinner-parties featuring his unusually hot curries; he left dozens of recipes that are being collected for publication.' (p.539) Examples of other offerings from these miserable tales:
-... a savoury invented by himself consisting of Toast Melba spread with mushrooms, anchovies, olives and pimento made into a paste. This was covered with bay-leaves, on which was spread a mixture of caviar, raw onions, ginseng and Bombay Duck, sprinkled lightly with powdered hashish. ... Cocktails consisting of two teaspoonfuls of liqueur brandy, one of Curacao and one of laudanum, preceded the repast. (p.268)
-For drink, he concluded, let there be a great stein of the old musty ale laced with a wine-glassful of gin and another of rum; flavour the mixture with a tablespoonful of crème de noyaux. (p.282)