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THE QUEST FOR CORVO. With Introductions by Sir Norman Birkett and Sir Shane Leslie.
First published in the United States in 1934, this extraordinary tale follows A.J.A. Symons's eight-year quest to uncover the life story of Frederick Rolfe - a.k.a. the Baron Corvo, a lonely, arrogant genius - and construct something remarkable of it. The author of the brilliant novel Hadrian the Seventh, Corvo was by turns a gifted painter, teacher, student of the priesthood, historian, and inventor of a process of "deep sea photography." He also had a veritable genius for making enemies and lived out his last years as a penniless exile. With letters (many of them masterpieces of invective), excerpts from his novels, and accounts of unusual interviews with Corvo's friends, fans, and enemies, Symons chronicles a passionate investigation into Corvo's secret life - and produces an uproariously comic, ultimately tragic, and stunningly rendered work of art.
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First published January 1, 1934
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May 12, 2016
It’s astounding this masterpiece of a book was written in 1934 because even now I can think of only one other book of biographical literature that is so strikingly ground-breaking, so thrillingly compelling in its method of composition – Laurent Binet’s investigation of the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich HHhH. There are similarities between the two books – most obviously how both authors forge an intimacy with their reader by narrating not only personal feelings about their subject but also making a kind of detective story of how they sought and found the necessary source material. It’s like we’re taken inside the process of writing biography.
There’s no question Symons lucked out with his subject. Frederick Rolfe, also calling himself Baron Corvo, is like a fantastic character from Nabokov. His comic possibilities almost infinite. Rolfe was a failed painter, photographer, musician and priest before becoming a writer. He experienced his troubles and injustices, actual, threatened or imagined, as more relentless, taxing and dramatic than those of other people. Symons’ interest in him begins when a friend lends him one of Rolfe’s novels, Hadrian the Seventh. Symons is so bewitched by the novel that he wants to find out more about its author.
Rolfe’s most passionate ambition was to become a Catholic priest. When he was thrown out of the Scots College in Rome due to “erratic behaviour” he never really recovered from his sense of injustice (toward the end of his life, he signed himself Fr. Rolfe, hoping to be mistaken for a priest) and the persecution complex that follows is without question his most compelling and defining trait. He has the persecution complex to end all persecution complexes. In his novel Hadrian the Seventh he exacts his revenge by appointing himself as Pope and slandering all his enemies, a method of revenge he will employ in all his future fiction. Basically if you get on the wrong side of Rolfe you’re going to be lampooned with brilliant flourishes of venomous wit in his next novel! Symons has an early stroke of luck when he procures a series of magazine articles in which a writer vents an incredibly detailed account of Rolfe’s misdemeanours while living in Aberdeen.
Rolfe never has any money and is therefore dependent on patrons. But he is also convinced of his genius and so resentful that the world doesn’t provide him with a living. This grievance he will always take out on his benefactors. No matter how promisingly every new relationship begins you just know it’s only a matter of time before his paranoia kicks in and his vituperative tongue will begin lashing out. Of his many eccentricities one that always brings him into conflict with publishers is his refusal to use conventional spelling. There are many examples of this stubbornness in him, a couple that spring to mind being an insistence on spelling public publick and Cyprus Zyprus. No way will he stand down, even if it means scuppering the deal and returning to extreme poverty.
Not that Rolfe consists only of comic flaws. He clearly has a rare insight into the medieval mind and a deep insightful feeling for Italian history – one of his books is a biography of the Borgias. He is also clearly charming when he wants to be. He ends his life in Venice, often reduced to sleeping on a boat and going without food for days on end.
Symons’ final quest is to find Rolfe’s missing manuscripts, always ornately handwritten on expensive paper and in various coloured inks, as few of his books were published in his lifetime. Symons’ genuine love for Rolfe’s writing means there’s always a tender, sympathetic side to his portrait of Rolfe. Symons sees the comic charlatan in Rolfe but, thanks to his generosity of imagination he also sees genius and it’s this delicately balanced perspective that makes this such a riveting, hysterically funny and moving book. It’s also an awesome achievement how much material Symons managed to gather given that Rolfe was no more of a public figure than you or I at the time he set out on his quest. Rolfe works his consuming charm on Symons just as he bewitched all his patrons. But Symons was the only one he is unable to turn on and slander. And as a result finally a patron is free to help Rolfe get the recognition he deserves.
The life of Baron Corvo would make an absolutely fabulous film.
The ebook is only £2.20 on Amazon.
Some of Rolfe’s books for anyone interested
Hadrian the Seventh
The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole: A Romance of Modern Venice
A History of the Borgias
Stories Toto Told Me
The Venice Letters
There’s no question Symons lucked out with his subject. Frederick Rolfe, also calling himself Baron Corvo, is like a fantastic character from Nabokov. His comic possibilities almost infinite. Rolfe was a failed painter, photographer, musician and priest before becoming a writer. He experienced his troubles and injustices, actual, threatened or imagined, as more relentless, taxing and dramatic than those of other people. Symons’ interest in him begins when a friend lends him one of Rolfe’s novels, Hadrian the Seventh. Symons is so bewitched by the novel that he wants to find out more about its author.
Rolfe’s most passionate ambition was to become a Catholic priest. When he was thrown out of the Scots College in Rome due to “erratic behaviour” he never really recovered from his sense of injustice (toward the end of his life, he signed himself Fr. Rolfe, hoping to be mistaken for a priest) and the persecution complex that follows is without question his most compelling and defining trait. He has the persecution complex to end all persecution complexes. In his novel Hadrian the Seventh he exacts his revenge by appointing himself as Pope and slandering all his enemies, a method of revenge he will employ in all his future fiction. Basically if you get on the wrong side of Rolfe you’re going to be lampooned with brilliant flourishes of venomous wit in his next novel! Symons has an early stroke of luck when he procures a series of magazine articles in which a writer vents an incredibly detailed account of Rolfe’s misdemeanours while living in Aberdeen.
Rolfe never has any money and is therefore dependent on patrons. But he is also convinced of his genius and so resentful that the world doesn’t provide him with a living. This grievance he will always take out on his benefactors. No matter how promisingly every new relationship begins you just know it’s only a matter of time before his paranoia kicks in and his vituperative tongue will begin lashing out. Of his many eccentricities one that always brings him into conflict with publishers is his refusal to use conventional spelling. There are many examples of this stubbornness in him, a couple that spring to mind being an insistence on spelling public publick and Cyprus Zyprus. No way will he stand down, even if it means scuppering the deal and returning to extreme poverty.
Not that Rolfe consists only of comic flaws. He clearly has a rare insight into the medieval mind and a deep insightful feeling for Italian history – one of his books is a biography of the Borgias. He is also clearly charming when he wants to be. He ends his life in Venice, often reduced to sleeping on a boat and going without food for days on end.
Symons’ final quest is to find Rolfe’s missing manuscripts, always ornately handwritten on expensive paper and in various coloured inks, as few of his books were published in his lifetime. Symons’ genuine love for Rolfe’s writing means there’s always a tender, sympathetic side to his portrait of Rolfe. Symons sees the comic charlatan in Rolfe but, thanks to his generosity of imagination he also sees genius and it’s this delicately balanced perspective that makes this such a riveting, hysterically funny and moving book. It’s also an awesome achievement how much material Symons managed to gather given that Rolfe was no more of a public figure than you or I at the time he set out on his quest. Rolfe works his consuming charm on Symons just as he bewitched all his patrons. But Symons was the only one he is unable to turn on and slander. And as a result finally a patron is free to help Rolfe get the recognition he deserves.
The life of Baron Corvo would make an absolutely fabulous film.
The ebook is only £2.20 on Amazon.
Some of Rolfe’s books for anyone interested
Hadrian the Seventh
The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole: A Romance of Modern Venice
A History of the Borgias
Stories Toto Told Me
The Venice Letters
January 31, 2021
So I recently read - and loved - Hermit of Peking by Hugh R. Trevor-Roper, a story of the hidden life of the wonderful rascal Edmund Backhouse. On the very first pages and the very last page of that book, the author praises this book by name as his inspiration, his template. And, so, once again, one book leads to another.
Yes, the styles are the same: the author of each is presented with some writing by an obscure character, becomes obsessed, and begins a scholarly unraveling of the subject's life. But Edmund Backhouse was the more spectacular rascal. Backhouse was a wonderful liar, a forger, a defrauder; and he was able to dupe some very serious people in the process. Corvo - actually Fr. Rolfe - was a scholar and author, and pathologically paranoid. Backhouse charmed almost everyone; Rolfe garnered pity.
Too, Trevor-Roper writes with more wit. But maybe it was the subject.
Anyhow, the skinny here is that Fr. Wolfe (the Fr. is for Frederick) was an Englishman talented in painting, music and especially literature. He converted to Catholicism and angled for the priesthood. Things didn't work out. He wrote, a lot, about historical figures or veiled autobiography, often using a slew of invented words and old-fashioned spellings. He wrote letters, a lot, sarcastic, threatening letters to collaborators and sponsors. He led a life of poverty* and self-injury. He made friends easily, yet each friendship had a shelf-life, expiring always from Rolfe's sense of betrayal and injustice. He died penniless in Venice.
Yes, Death in Venice. He talked . . . though perhaps most of all to the fisher boys. And he gratified the lust of the eye, writes our author. Writing himself, Rolfe offers that there is nothing known to physiculturalists (for giving you "poise" and the organs and figure of a slim young Diadymenos) like rowing standing in the Mode Venetian.** He went rowing a lot. And much of Rolfe's writing, like Melville's, offers plenty of clues as to his sexuality.
This might be an appropriate time to note that Quest for Corvo was first published in 1934 and Hermit of Peking forty years later. Both describe their subjects as "sexually abnormal" but both authors kind of dance around the subject, almost as if they are afraid to say it out loud. So, it's hard to say whether the authors are frightened of homosexuality in general or the niche varieties that the subjects favored. We don't know if Rolfe would be classified as a pedophile. Nor do we know if Trevor-Roper was only shocked when he heard about Backhouse's claims of sex with a thousand eunuchs. Symons, here, only says cryptically that there were found with Rolfe's effects letters, drawings and notebooks sufficient to cause a hundred scandals. Trevor-Roper gasped similarly. I bring this up only to note that I imagine if published today these books would have been quite different.
One book leads to another, indeed. So I might be tempted to read Hadrian the Seventh by Rolfe which inspired Symons's Quest. But not right away. I was more intrigued by the title of two stories Rolfe wrote: Why Dogs and Cats Always Litigate and About Doing Little, Lavishly. Who knows where they might lead.
______________
*He lived on oranges and oatmeal the author writes. I wanted to include that line, which I found absolutely musical.
**I'll save you the Google. Here's Diadymenos:
Yes, the styles are the same: the author of each is presented with some writing by an obscure character, becomes obsessed, and begins a scholarly unraveling of the subject's life. But Edmund Backhouse was the more spectacular rascal. Backhouse was a wonderful liar, a forger, a defrauder; and he was able to dupe some very serious people in the process. Corvo - actually Fr. Rolfe - was a scholar and author, and pathologically paranoid. Backhouse charmed almost everyone; Rolfe garnered pity.
Too, Trevor-Roper writes with more wit. But maybe it was the subject.
Anyhow, the skinny here is that Fr. Wolfe (the Fr. is for Frederick) was an Englishman talented in painting, music and especially literature. He converted to Catholicism and angled for the priesthood. Things didn't work out. He wrote, a lot, about historical figures or veiled autobiography, often using a slew of invented words and old-fashioned spellings. He wrote letters, a lot, sarcastic, threatening letters to collaborators and sponsors. He led a life of poverty* and self-injury. He made friends easily, yet each friendship had a shelf-life, expiring always from Rolfe's sense of betrayal and injustice. He died penniless in Venice.
Yes, Death in Venice. He talked . . . though perhaps most of all to the fisher boys. And he gratified the lust of the eye, writes our author. Writing himself, Rolfe offers that there is nothing known to physiculturalists (for giving you "poise" and the organs and figure of a slim young Diadymenos) like rowing standing in the Mode Venetian.** He went rowing a lot. And much of Rolfe's writing, like Melville's, offers plenty of clues as to his sexuality.
This might be an appropriate time to note that Quest for Corvo was first published in 1934 and Hermit of Peking forty years later. Both describe their subjects as "sexually abnormal" but both authors kind of dance around the subject, almost as if they are afraid to say it out loud. So, it's hard to say whether the authors are frightened of homosexuality in general or the niche varieties that the subjects favored. We don't know if Rolfe would be classified as a pedophile. Nor do we know if Trevor-Roper was only shocked when he heard about Backhouse's claims of sex with a thousand eunuchs. Symons, here, only says cryptically that there were found with Rolfe's effects letters, drawings and notebooks sufficient to cause a hundred scandals. Trevor-Roper gasped similarly. I bring this up only to note that I imagine if published today these books would have been quite different.
One book leads to another, indeed. So I might be tempted to read Hadrian the Seventh by Rolfe which inspired Symons's Quest. But not right away. I was more intrigued by the title of two stories Rolfe wrote: Why Dogs and Cats Always Litigate and About Doing Little, Lavishly. Who knows where they might lead.
______________
*He lived on oranges and oatmeal the author writes. I wanted to include that line, which I found absolutely musical.
**I'll save you the Google. Here's Diadymenos:
May 7, 2020
My quest for Corvo was started by accident one summer afternoon in 1925, in the company of Christopher Millard. We were sitting lazily in his little garden, talking of books that miss their just reward of praise and influence...Millard asked: “Have you read Hadrian the Seventh?” I confessed that I never had...and by doing so took the first step on a trail that led into very strange places.
By thus serendipitously discovering the Baron Corvo's little known Hadrian the Seventh – a lightly veiled, and apparently brilliantly original, autobiography-as-revenge-novel – author A. J. A. Symons found himself obsessed with the idea of tracking down the rest of Corvo's literary works. In a way that seems only possible in 1925 Britain, Symons wrote letters to everyone he thought might have information on, or might be in possession of the works of, this Baron Corvo, and in return, he received countless detailed replies, invitations for tea, and the provision of further names for correspondence. The more that Symons learned about Corvo, the more he realised that he was on the trail of a truly original character; and while at first Symons' interest was solely in tracking down the rest of Corvo's missing novels, he eventually realised that he had assembled the details of a life thoroughly worthy of a popular biography. The subtitle of The Quest for Corvo is “An Experiment in Biography”, and that's the piece that makes this an enduringly fascinating read: in what was apparently a ground-breaking move for the time, Symons relates the details of his “quest”, and by placing himself firmly at the center this biography of another man, and by quoting at length from the letters he received and the interviews he conducted, the whole reads like a fascinating detective story. In this case, truth certainly is stranger than fiction and Symons invented the ideal method to explore a strange and tortured life. Thoroughly enjoyable read.
My interest in the early years of the eminent is far less than that which the tradition of biographical writing painfully imposes on its devotees. The facts of infancy may be vital when they refer to a prodigy such as Mozart, interesting when relevant to a rebel such as Shelley, valuable when they show the growth of a man out of his place, as Poe; but in Rolphe's case, I felt like his childhood was by much the least interesting part of his life.
“Baron Corvo” was but one of the pen names used by British artist/writer Frederick Rolfe (he did spend time with an Italian countess in his youth, and she may or may not have conferred this lesser baronic title upon him), and at some point after being expelled from the second Catholic seminary he attended, he began signing his letters as “Fr Rolfe” (“Fr” is apparently an accepted shortform for “Frederick”, but he was likely trying to give the impression of having been ordained). Although acknowledged as a talented painter and photographer – for which he was never commercially successful – Rolfe eventually took to writing. And although his literary works were highly praised by those who understood their unique genius, Rolfe was such a prickly, disputant, self-defeating paranoiac that he pretty much scuttled every business deal he managed to make. Throughout his adult life, Rolfe lived barely above subsistence, working in great bursts of energy when he could find a sponsor, but as he would always eventually insult his benefactors or borrow more than he could ever hope to repay, he seemed to spend more of his time writing appeals for money than writing anything publishable. He died – penniless and friendless – at fifty-one in Venice, after having lived his last few months in a borrowed gondola. Much much more happened in Rolfe's life than this bare biography implies.
But The Quest for Corvo is equally about Symons' experience, and the twists and turns his investigation took merit their place in the narrative. Again, I was so impressed by how helpful his correspondents were – what lovely manners to sit down and write out everything you remember about someone at a stranger's request – and I was pleased that Symons quoted these letters at length. Here are some impressions of Rolfe, as remembered by his former acquaintances, and I delighted in their turns of phrase. Canon Carmont, who knew Rolfe at Scots College (seminary) in Rome, wrote:
There was a sort of ruthless selfishness in him which led him to exploit others, quite regardless of their interest or feelings or advantage. This trait, in small matters, I saw many instances of. He was dressy and particular about his appearance. Church matters were mostly a matter of millinery to him.
Temple Scott, who attempted to get Rolfe's translation of Omar Khayyam published, wrote:
I found that it was irritating to help him. He curdled the milk of human feeling by an acidity of nature he was unable to sweeten, however he might desire to sweeten it. And I am sure he did so desire.
Harry Pirie-Gordon, erstwhile collaborator with and longtime sponsor of Rolfe, wrote:
He asserted that he understood in part the language of cats; and events so far bore out his claim, that when, in the moonlight, he muttered his incantations on the lawn, strange cats as well of those of the household abandoned their prowls to rub purringly against his legs.
Symons' quest led him to discover a great deal about Corvo/Rolfe – he even attempts a formal psychoanalysis of his subject, which must have been even more intriguing in its day (and especially with Symons' nonjudgmental acceptance of his subject's mostly-repressed homosexuality) – and near the very end of this narrative, Symons has a chance meeting with an extremely wealthy man (Maundy Gregory, who purported to be a member of the Secret Service) and this late-in-the-game benefactor unearthed Rolfe's last two missing novels for him:
It was a deep satisfaction to discover (The One and the Many) in the depths of a literary agent's cupboard of unretrieved MSS. It was a deeper satisfaction still to know that every one of the works that had been left and lost in obscurity when Frederick William Serafino Austin Lewis Mary Rolfe died suddenly and alone at Venice had been collected together by sympathetic hands, and that, alone of living men, I had read every line of every one. Nothing was left to be discovered; the Quest was ended. Hail, strange tormented spirit, in whatever hell or heaven has been allotted for your everlasting rest!
The Quest for Corvo is a fitting biography of a deserving subject, a genre-busting (in its day) experiment in telling a life story, and an intriguing detective story that reveals quite a bit about Symons (and according to the introduction to my edition, this Symons was a bit of a character himself). Totally satisfying.
March 4, 2022
For me, the saddest passage of the book:
There ensued for Rolfe a St. Martin's Summer of prosperity. His bond to Mr. Taylor was discharged...the way was clear at last for the man who had so long cried out that, given time and money, he would write and write and write. Both were given him, and he did nothing: it was too late. He made a few beginnings, he recopied his Venetian satire more beautifully than ever, and, since there was no longer an impediment, he accepted the offer for The Weird of the Wanderer. All through 1912 he received cheque after cheque from his partner (or victim) in England; and spent the money without thought of the morrow, wildly and without restraint. He, who had starved on three-centesimi rolls, who had implored to be employed as second gondolier, now flaunted himself on the canals with a new boat and (a privilege usually reserved for royalty) four gondoliers. The sails of his gondola were painted by his own hand; and he dyed his hair (what remained) red. The long days of destitution and unchanged clothes were liberally compensated now, when he became the talk of Venice by his extravagance: it was rumoured that his bedroom was hung with the material of cardinals' robes. His old debts were paid and he moved freely; but his exactions and excuses were continuous. He wrote for fifty pounds, fifty pounds again, then again for more still; he became an open drain upon his patron's purse. Perhaps he knew instinctively that his time was short. Even so, he lived too long.
April 18, 2021
(Desde que me he vuelto tacaña con las estrellas, podría comenzar aquí una estantería llamada «libros a los que CASI doy cinco estrellas». Pero conforme pasan los días desde que he acabado este, menos ganas tengo de racanearle esa quinta estrellita.)
Pedazo de biografía. Por dos motivos:
1) Cómo está planteada: Soy fan a rabiar de esta manera de contar las cosas. No meramente aportando los hechos, las fechas y demás, sino metiéndose el autor en primer plano para explicar cómo ha llegado a todo ello, las dificultades que ha encontrado e incluso sus sentimientos al respecto. En busca del barón Corvo: Un experimento biográfico es un título muy justo, pues la obra no es solo un intento de documentar la elusiva figura de Frederick Rolfe, sino también, en cierto modo, un retrato de A. J. A. Symons y la pasión que lo alimentó durante años para recomponer un puzle con luces y muchas sombras. Lo que me lleva a:
2) Quién es el autobiografiado: Pero, ¿este señor quién era, existía de veras? Ya desde el primer capítulo no pude evitar la sospecha de si este tal Frederick Rolfe aka barón Corvo no sería una invención de A. J. A. Symons (hasta acabar el libro no quise enterarme de sí así era o no, quien quiera saberlo que haga lo propio cuando quiera, ¡ja!). Un personaje tan excesivo parece sacado de una novela, un ancestro lejano y escuchimizado de Ignatius Reilly, incluidas las cartas injuriosas (allá donde Ignatius pone «caballero mongoloide», Rolfe escribe «criatura cretinácea»). Caradura, intensito, verboso, paranoico, excéntrico por dentro y por fuera, un hombre con una personalidad magnética pero que acababa repeliendo al más paciente de los amigos. Un escritor que, no es que se haya adelantado a su época, es que no se sabe si hay época alguna en la que encaje, para quien la ortografía era una cuestión de estilo y las sugerencias de un editor la prueba de un amplio complot contra él. Un tipo que para más inri se saca de la manga el título nobiliario más cool que pueda imaginar uno: Baron Corvo, el baron Cuervo. A veces el propio lector se siente tentado de mandar al personaje a paseo (y por ende al libro), como en solidaridad con quienes tuvieron que aguantarlo en vida, pero no hay manera, quiere uno saber cuál será la próxima demostración de ese carácter inaguantable o cuánto le es posible sabotearse a sí mismo. Ahí es donde A. J. A. Symons resplandece con el don de todo buen biógrafo y nos convence con su propio entusiasmo de que este «mindundi» merece pasar a la posteridad. Francamente, yo me alegro mucho de que lo haya hecho.
Pedazo de biografía. Por dos motivos:
1) Cómo está planteada: Soy fan a rabiar de esta manera de contar las cosas. No meramente aportando los hechos, las fechas y demás, sino metiéndose el autor en primer plano para explicar cómo ha llegado a todo ello, las dificultades que ha encontrado e incluso sus sentimientos al respecto. En busca del barón Corvo: Un experimento biográfico es un título muy justo, pues la obra no es solo un intento de documentar la elusiva figura de Frederick Rolfe, sino también, en cierto modo, un retrato de A. J. A. Symons y la pasión que lo alimentó durante años para recomponer un puzle con luces y muchas sombras. Lo que me lleva a:
2) Quién es el autobiografiado: Pero, ¿este señor quién era, existía de veras? Ya desde el primer capítulo no pude evitar la sospecha de si este tal Frederick Rolfe aka barón Corvo no sería una invención de A. J. A. Symons (hasta acabar el libro no quise enterarme de sí así era o no, quien quiera saberlo que haga lo propio cuando quiera, ¡ja!). Un personaje tan excesivo parece sacado de una novela, un ancestro lejano y escuchimizado de Ignatius Reilly, incluidas las cartas injuriosas (allá donde Ignatius pone «caballero mongoloide», Rolfe escribe «criatura cretinácea»). Caradura, intensito, verboso, paranoico, excéntrico por dentro y por fuera, un hombre con una personalidad magnética pero que acababa repeliendo al más paciente de los amigos. Un escritor que, no es que se haya adelantado a su época, es que no se sabe si hay época alguna en la que encaje, para quien la ortografía era una cuestión de estilo y las sugerencias de un editor la prueba de un amplio complot contra él. Un tipo que para más inri se saca de la manga el título nobiliario más cool que pueda imaginar uno: Baron Corvo, el baron Cuervo. A veces el propio lector se siente tentado de mandar al personaje a paseo (y por ende al libro), como en solidaridad con quienes tuvieron que aguantarlo en vida, pero no hay manera, quiere uno saber cuál será la próxima demostración de ese carácter inaguantable o cuánto le es posible sabotearse a sí mismo. Ahí es donde A. J. A. Symons resplandece con el don de todo buen biógrafo y nos convence con su propio entusiasmo de que este «mindundi» merece pasar a la posteridad. Francamente, yo me alegro mucho de que lo haya hecho.
September 12, 2022
This must have been quite a groundbreaking biography when it was published in the 1930s. Symons includes the work he had to do to unearth the details of Corvo's most unusual life.
March 28, 2019
Una joyita que eligió libros del asteroide para abrir su catalogo de publicaciones. Nos encontramos con una biografía con aires de novela detectivesca en la búsqueda que el autor hizo de Frederick Rolfe (el barón Corvo) tras la lectura de una de sus obras. Symons se encuentra de forma fortuita con Alejandro VII y se sorprende por la calidad del libro y no entiende como un libro como ese y su autor pueden ser unos desconocidos para el gran público y decide investigar la vida del escritor. Y la verdad es que la vida del excentrico Rolfe es digna de una novela y de una película. A mi desde luego me han quedado ganas de leer los libros de Rolfe aunque sea complicado encontrarlos y mas en castellano. No soy un experto lector en biografías porque tampoco es mi género preferido pero de las que he leído es una de las que mas me han gustado por la forma en que esta escrita. A los que tengáis la oportunidad de encontrar un ejemplar de este libro os lo recomiendo.
January 20, 2021
Stranger, and better, than fiction: The Quest... might appear to be casually conceived (man reads book, man falls in love; man reads book's author's letters, man gets both fascinated and appalled; man decides to write author's biography) and casually written, but at least the latter is not true. Symons, who only takes shape as a character-writer at the very beginning and end of his book, ensures the pacing, timing, findings, sources, and even a mysterious benefactor appear at just the right moments in this seemingly nonchalantly crafted story to keep us interested. He also makes discreet, but masterly use of the fashionable modernist techniques; the amateur-detective fiction frame known from The Great Gatsby, for instance; fragmented and conflicting points of view; variety of voices.
The books works so fantastically well, in spite of its rather simple premise (find out as much as possible about author; write letters letters letters; reprint received letters letters letters), because of its peculiar subject. The tormented, multitalented, paranoid Frederick Rolfe, a man with an infallible and elaborate self-sabotage mechanism, makes my pet miserable author - Jean Rhys - look like a fully functional, successful person. Highly recommended.
The books works so fantastically well, in spite of its rather simple premise (find out as much as possible about author; write letters letters letters; reprint received letters letters letters), because of its peculiar subject. The tormented, multitalented, paranoid Frederick Rolfe, a man with an infallible and elaborate self-sabotage mechanism, makes my pet miserable author - Jean Rhys - look like a fully functional, successful person. Highly recommended.
November 29, 2014
This is one of the most interesting books I've ever read. It's about Frederick Rolfe, a truly odd duck- prickly, brilliant, an Englishman obsessed with becoming a Catholic priest. I was enthralled. The way he lived his life seems almost fictional.
Rolfe upset nearly everyone he met. He's just the sort of character who should have a book written about him. This is one of the books you read that sticks to your ribs. It was in parts hysterical and tragic. People like Frederick Rolfe are fascinating, and the author, A.J.A. Symons, writes this book almost like a novel, exactly the way it should've been written.
Rolfe upset nearly everyone he met. He's just the sort of character who should have a book written about him. This is one of the books you read that sticks to your ribs. It was in parts hysterical and tragic. People like Frederick Rolfe are fascinating, and the author, A.J.A. Symons, writes this book almost like a novel, exactly the way it should've been written.
October 31, 2019
‘I discovered in one month flat that I could live and drink as much as I liked without working at anything, provided I remained what the locals term a “character”.’
Grant said ‘Hmm,’ and hoped the monologue had come to an end. It hadn’t.
‘I remained a character. I live in this hut. I obtain all my meals free from my many friends who also provide me with my requirements in beer, which, with some self-control, is the only alcohol I allow myself.’
That was probably all a lie, including the part about being a doctor, thought Grant, but what the hell? Who was he to worry about people lying, anyway? Just the same, he did not like Tydon.
From Wake In Fright, Kenneth Cook, 1961.
Symon's The Quest for Corvo is a biography of a character.
Baron Corvo aka Frederick Rolfe aka Frederick William Serafino Austin Lewis Mary Rolfe was a British writer around the turn of the last century, who died young after a relatively colourful life - he was a staunch catholic who got kicked out of the seminary, he tried to be a painter, he tried to be a writer, he never held a steady job, instead he kept on borrowing money from everyone around him, continuously losing and making friends.
Back in the 30s, Symons stumbled over Corvo's most famous novel: Hadrian the Seventh, a novel about a Catholic, disillusioned with Catholics, who surprisingly becomes the pope (it's more of a revenge fantasy than a proper novel, still, I guess Symons loved it?). Symons became enthralled with Corvo, and back then Wikipedia wasn't around, so he started to research, as most of Corvo's friends and contemporaries were still alive.
What makes this an experiment in biography is that the reader isn't present with a cut-and-dry linear story of Corvo's life. Instead, you get to read about Symons' pains in research - who he tried to contact, who he talked to, whose letters he received, what these letters contained, and so on. It makes for a surprising detective story, I wonder whether this would have been more fun if I wouldn't have known that these were real people, and real authors - it could have been a Calvino or a Borges experiment.
Symons often quotes from Corvo's letters at length, and since Corvo's self-love made him his own worst enemy, we get things that are so fun, you want them tattooed onto someone:
I am now simply engaged in dying as slowly and as publicly and as annoyingly to all of you [...]
Understandable!
What suprised me the most was how Symons' love for Corvo's writing is infectious. You'd think that someone like Symons would get disillusioned after learning that Corvo ripped off friend after friend after friend, always borrowing dozens or hundreds of Pounds, never paying back anything, instead sending insulting letters, then disappearing into hissy fits. But yet, this is Symons on Corvo (aka Rolfe):
Some measure of artistic power or sensibility is inherent in all humanity; 'genius' is as good a word as any other to denote those exceptional beings in whom, unaccountably, it rises to full force. And Rolfe was a defeated man of genius.
That's what makes this book so interesting; it isn't particularly fun to read (Corvo's style really hasn't survived the test of time), but while you read about Rolfe/Corvo, you end up learning about Symons.
February 13, 2025
Symons’ biography of Frederick Rolfe / Baron Corvo, the enigmatic, erratic, eccentric, catty, peripatetic, self-sabotaging, writer and artist, reimagines what biography can do, bringing the reader along on the biographer’s quest to discover his subject. It’s a lot of fun, I really enjoyed it and would recommend!
March 9, 2020
A strange little book -- basically the biography of a little-known English writer and eccentric from the turn of the 20th century, as the biographer does his best to track down letters, anecdotes, and any scrap of information he can find about the mysterious and volatile subject.
Baron Corvo (or Frederick Rolfe) is not a pleasant man. We get the impression that everyone who meets him is instantly intrigued by his talents and apparent genius. Corvo is skilled in many arts, and there are no shortage of people who are initially willing to partner with him on some kind of project. However, it becomes quickly clear that Corvo suffers from an extreme persecution complex, is inflexible on just about every detail, and will end up trying to manipulate you to give him money (which he never is able to make or keep).
The biggest problem to the casual reader (such as myself) is that you have no real evidence of Corvo's genius, other than to take the word of the people interviewed. I haven't read any of Corvo's books (very few people have), and the random snippets here and there aren't really enough to convey much out of context. So you end up wondering why there's such a fuss about this guy in the first place. He just seems like kind of an asshole. It is easy to feel some pity for him (and the author goes through great pains to do so), but I often wondered why I was reading about him in the first place.
That being said, the biographer's obsessive interest in tracking down anyone who might have known Corvo is infectious, and even a rude asshole can be fun to read about, so it's still pretty interesting. I think the "experimental" elements of the biography are overblown - it's set up like a fairly typical biography or documentary. Really the only thing out of the ordinary is the biographer's obsession. There's a point at the end where he notes that he may be the only person in the world who has read or knows certain information about Corvo, which is kind of cool, for whatever that ended up being worth to him.
It's also interesting to watch him track down lost or rare manuscripts. In a digital age, you don't often think about published works going missing anymore, but this was in a time where entire books were lost because the author was traveling with it on a boat and the pages got too wet. What a time to be alive.
This isn't something I'd easily recommend to anyone, but I mostly enjoyed it, so there you go. I'm happy it exists because it keeps alive the name and works of an author that could have easily been lost to history (which is very romantic), but it's also not anything that's setting the world on fire.
Baron Corvo (or Frederick Rolfe) is not a pleasant man. We get the impression that everyone who meets him is instantly intrigued by his talents and apparent genius. Corvo is skilled in many arts, and there are no shortage of people who are initially willing to partner with him on some kind of project. However, it becomes quickly clear that Corvo suffers from an extreme persecution complex, is inflexible on just about every detail, and will end up trying to manipulate you to give him money (which he never is able to make or keep).
The biggest problem to the casual reader (such as myself) is that you have no real evidence of Corvo's genius, other than to take the word of the people interviewed. I haven't read any of Corvo's books (very few people have), and the random snippets here and there aren't really enough to convey much out of context. So you end up wondering why there's such a fuss about this guy in the first place. He just seems like kind of an asshole. It is easy to feel some pity for him (and the author goes through great pains to do so), but I often wondered why I was reading about him in the first place.
That being said, the biographer's obsessive interest in tracking down anyone who might have known Corvo is infectious, and even a rude asshole can be fun to read about, so it's still pretty interesting. I think the "experimental" elements of the biography are overblown - it's set up like a fairly typical biography or documentary. Really the only thing out of the ordinary is the biographer's obsession. There's a point at the end where he notes that he may be the only person in the world who has read or knows certain information about Corvo, which is kind of cool, for whatever that ended up being worth to him.
It's also interesting to watch him track down lost or rare manuscripts. In a digital age, you don't often think about published works going missing anymore, but this was in a time where entire books were lost because the author was traveling with it on a boat and the pages got too wet. What a time to be alive.
This isn't something I'd easily recommend to anyone, but I mostly enjoyed it, so there you go. I'm happy it exists because it keeps alive the name and works of an author that could have easily been lost to history (which is very romantic), but it's also not anything that's setting the world on fire.
August 1, 2007
This groundbreaking 'experimental biography' is a comical but curiously sad portrait of Frederick Rolfe, self-styled Baron Corvo. Rolfe was a consummate eccentric who also happened to be a talented writer. A.J.A. Symon's disappointment at not being able to find out anything to speak of about Corvo after reading one of his obscure books led to the 'quest' of the title. Symons was fascinated by Corvo, and we in turn become fascinated as well.
Corvo was a tortured soul, given to quarrels and paranoid delusions. He seemed to have been besieged by the sort of extravagant bad luck that always follows those who feel the world doesn't fully appreciate them. But he was also an charismatic charmer, leading at times a high-rolling life that contrasted sharply with periods of abject poverty. His writing was likewise distinct -- erudite and lavishly ornamental. A noted homosexual, Corvo converted to Catholicism and even aspired to the priesthood, but he was so distracted by other "callings," including an obsession with the Italian Renaissance, that he never manged to become a priest. He was, in short, a fantasist - a man who lived more in a world he created himself than the real world.
Corvo was a tortured soul, given to quarrels and paranoid delusions. He seemed to have been besieged by the sort of extravagant bad luck that always follows those who feel the world doesn't fully appreciate them. But he was also an charismatic charmer, leading at times a high-rolling life that contrasted sharply with periods of abject poverty. His writing was likewise distinct -- erudite and lavishly ornamental. A noted homosexual, Corvo converted to Catholicism and even aspired to the priesthood, but he was so distracted by other "callings," including an obsession with the Italian Renaissance, that he never manged to become a priest. He was, in short, a fantasist - a man who lived more in a world he created himself than the real world.
December 2, 2020
highly recommended if you are a fr. rolfe fan and want to learn all about the depths of his failsonry, and hell who hasn't obsessed over a unjustly neglected author to the extent that they want to find out everything about him and read all his letters and write his biography.
January 12, 2025
The "Corvo" of the title is one Frederick Rolfe (1860-1913), a painter, photographer, and writer. What limited success he had in the arts was as a writer, though those of his books that were published in his lifetime sold poorly and most soon went out of print. His most well-known work is the novel Hadrian the Seventh.
Rolfe is known as a classic English eccentric, although there isn't much amusing about his eccentricity. He converted to Roman Catholicism at the age of 26 and tried to be ordained as a priest. He was, however, expelled from 2 seminaries because he was judged not to have a genuine vocation. He remained a Catholic, or claimed to, but he insisted the Church and its members were failing miserably in their roles.
Symons notes that Rolfe had the mistaken belief that a person of his talents was owed a living. He borrowed money from friends and rarely paid it back; he rented hotel rooms and apartments many times only to be evicted for not paying rent. Rolfe became close friends with many men during his life, but regularly looked at them as saviors of sort who would support him. This habit included being long-term guests in their homes, and many of these friends and their families found him to be an entertaining and fascinating raconteur. However, he fell out with almost all of the friends he made as soon as they offended him in the smallest (or imagined) way; he would then write them extremely creative but angry and insulting letters over and over again to ask for satisfaction from them.
Rolfe spent his last few years in Venice, where he sometimes managed to keep himself fed and under a roof, because of new patrons, but he also spent a lot of those years eating only rarely and sleeping in a gondola.
Rolfe certainly felt that he was different from other people because of his talents, but also because he was gay. Other sources might discuss his association with other gay writers of his time, but Symons only discusses Rolfe's homosexuality as something that marked him as different.
Some of his books listed his name as author as "Fr. Rolfe," which could mean Frederick Rolfe but suggested that he was the priest "Father Rolfe." After being expelled from a seminary in Rome, he lived with a noble Italian family for a time, and began to call himself Frederick Baron Corvo, claiming that the family had given him an estate that came with the title "baron."
Many of his works have characters based on his perceived persecutors and on himself. Among these works is his most famous novel, Hadrian the Seventh, in which the main character is based on himself. It concerns an English "spoiled priest" (a term used in Ireland and apparently in Britain for an aspiring priest who leaves the seminary or is denied ordination) during a time when a Vatican conclave can not succeed in agreeing on a new pope. Some English prelates suggest that this unhappy Englishman who wanted nothing more than to become a priest be nominated for pope. He wins the balloting and proceeds to turn the Church upside down --for a time. I have never read all of the novel -- the sarcasm and decadence exhaust me -- but the following lines are truly wonderful:
They brought Him [our English pope] before the altar and set Him in a crimson-velvet chair, asking Him what pontifical name he would choose.
"Hadrian the Seventh," the response came unhesitatingly, undemonstratively.
"Your Holiness would perhaps prefer to be called Leo, or Pius, or Gregory, as is the modern manner," the Cardinal-Dean inquired with imperious suavity.
"The previous English pontiff was Hadrian the Fourth; the present English pontiff is Hadrian the Seventh. It pleases Us, and so, by Our Own impulse, We command."
Perhaps it was that passage, or the image of Hadrian standing on the roof of St. Peter's, smoking cigarettes and flicking the butts at the lizards basking in the sun up there, that moved Symons to consider the novel a great one. But probably not.
In any case, the biography is called "an experiment in biography.:
The author of this "experiment in biography," published in 1934, was A.J.A. Symons, who was very impressed with Hadrian when he came across it in 1925, and proceeded to investigate the life of Rolfe, who by then was largely forgotten. The book describes Symons' quest to learn about Rolfe by contacting people who knew him when he was alive and reading any notes they'd written or letters they'd exchanged with Rolfe. It is thus not a chronological record of Rolfe's life, but the story of Symon's quest to learn about him. The quest ends in the last chapter, when a rather dodgy English businessman (who claims to be a spy), Arthur Maundy George, gives Symons copies of 2 of Rolfe's books that had not been distributed to the public.
I found the book to be compulsively readable, though I am not sure that everyone would enjoy it. Rolfe was a frustrating person, and the description of his outrageous behavior sometimes is less amusing than troubling. Symons uses some basic psychoanalytic principles to describe Rolfe's personality. That may not be entirely necessary, for Symons provides us with a vivid portrait of an extremely original, but in the end very sad, life.
Rolfe is known as a classic English eccentric, although there isn't much amusing about his eccentricity. He converted to Roman Catholicism at the age of 26 and tried to be ordained as a priest. He was, however, expelled from 2 seminaries because he was judged not to have a genuine vocation. He remained a Catholic, or claimed to, but he insisted the Church and its members were failing miserably in their roles.
Symons notes that Rolfe had the mistaken belief that a person of his talents was owed a living. He borrowed money from friends and rarely paid it back; he rented hotel rooms and apartments many times only to be evicted for not paying rent. Rolfe became close friends with many men during his life, but regularly looked at them as saviors of sort who would support him. This habit included being long-term guests in their homes, and many of these friends and their families found him to be an entertaining and fascinating raconteur. However, he fell out with almost all of the friends he made as soon as they offended him in the smallest (or imagined) way; he would then write them extremely creative but angry and insulting letters over and over again to ask for satisfaction from them.
Rolfe spent his last few years in Venice, where he sometimes managed to keep himself fed and under a roof, because of new patrons, but he also spent a lot of those years eating only rarely and sleeping in a gondola.
Rolfe certainly felt that he was different from other people because of his talents, but also because he was gay. Other sources might discuss his association with other gay writers of his time, but Symons only discusses Rolfe's homosexuality as something that marked him as different.
Some of his books listed his name as author as "Fr. Rolfe," which could mean Frederick Rolfe but suggested that he was the priest "Father Rolfe." After being expelled from a seminary in Rome, he lived with a noble Italian family for a time, and began to call himself Frederick Baron Corvo, claiming that the family had given him an estate that came with the title "baron."
Many of his works have characters based on his perceived persecutors and on himself. Among these works is his most famous novel, Hadrian the Seventh, in which the main character is based on himself. It concerns an English "spoiled priest" (a term used in Ireland and apparently in Britain for an aspiring priest who leaves the seminary or is denied ordination) during a time when a Vatican conclave can not succeed in agreeing on a new pope. Some English prelates suggest that this unhappy Englishman who wanted nothing more than to become a priest be nominated for pope. He wins the balloting and proceeds to turn the Church upside down --for a time. I have never read all of the novel -- the sarcasm and decadence exhaust me -- but the following lines are truly wonderful:
They brought Him [our English pope] before the altar and set Him in a crimson-velvet chair, asking Him what pontifical name he would choose.
"Hadrian the Seventh," the response came unhesitatingly, undemonstratively.
"Your Holiness would perhaps prefer to be called Leo, or Pius, or Gregory, as is the modern manner," the Cardinal-Dean inquired with imperious suavity.
"The previous English pontiff was Hadrian the Fourth; the present English pontiff is Hadrian the Seventh. It pleases Us, and so, by Our Own impulse, We command."
Perhaps it was that passage, or the image of Hadrian standing on the roof of St. Peter's, smoking cigarettes and flicking the butts at the lizards basking in the sun up there, that moved Symons to consider the novel a great one. But probably not.
In any case, the biography is called "an experiment in biography.:
The author of this "experiment in biography," published in 1934, was A.J.A. Symons, who was very impressed with Hadrian when he came across it in 1925, and proceeded to investigate the life of Rolfe, who by then was largely forgotten. The book describes Symons' quest to learn about Rolfe by contacting people who knew him when he was alive and reading any notes they'd written or letters they'd exchanged with Rolfe. It is thus not a chronological record of Rolfe's life, but the story of Symon's quest to learn about him. The quest ends in the last chapter, when a rather dodgy English businessman (who claims to be a spy), Arthur Maundy George, gives Symons copies of 2 of Rolfe's books that had not been distributed to the public.
I found the book to be compulsively readable, though I am not sure that everyone would enjoy it. Rolfe was a frustrating person, and the description of his outrageous behavior sometimes is less amusing than troubling. Symons uses some basic psychoanalytic principles to describe Rolfe's personality. That may not be entirely necessary, for Symons provides us with a vivid portrait of an extremely original, but in the end very sad, life.
October 27, 2007
A great weird biography on an even weirder subject matter for a biographer. Probably THE example for anyone who is interested in writing biographies.
December 14, 2014
This was interesting and all but you have to wonder about a guy who reads a book he likes and decides to spend a decade obsessing over the author
Read
September 25, 2021Did not finish. Left it at page 128. What to do when the writing is good, but lose interest in the main character. I might return to it later.
December 17, 2008
an experiment in biography...you can say that again...very strange book
September 5, 2018
Did it hurt or help that I’d never read any of Fr Rolfe’s (that is, Baron Corvo’s) books before I read his peculiar biography? I’d been tempted in the past by a dog-eared copy of Hadrian VII at a local bookshop; I may have to pick it up now. But Symons' semi-famous biography was certainly fascinating. Corvo may have been a freak, but he had his gifts. There was something vaguely Wildean or Beerbohmesque about him. He was particularly good at lampooning and insulting others. Someone ought to comb through his various letters and published works and prepare a nice, tidy volume of Baron Corvo’s Selected Invective. I’d sign up for a copy right now.
July 20, 2019
A most extraordinary read.
August 3, 2024
Such an odd idiosyncratic portrait of an odd idiosyncratic man. I feel like more is revealed here of the Symons himself than he might have initially realized.
April 9, 2013
There’s a great man. Someone decides to write his life story. The profile is set against the times and the achievement is assessed.
That at least is the way most biographies work. AJA Symons’ The Quest for Corvo is a different beast.
It is partly a detective story, in which the author at the outset hardly knows what might happen. It is partly too, a revelation about the author himself. (Throughout, he readily confesses his likes and dislikes, his prejudices and enthusiasms. He is suspicious about someone who refuses some ‘very good hock’.)
What’s more, the whole book comes about – not through the enthusiasm of one individual for another - but through an accident. A friend mentions a long-ignored novel that he likes. Symons reads it, determines to find out more about its author, and the biography – and the detective story - begins.
His subject is the enigmatic, difficult, vitriolic – but sometimes charming and disarmingly talented – Frederick Rolfe, a man who had been disappointed in his hopes of becoming a Catholic priest. The long-ignored novel is his ‘Hadrian the Seventh’ which is about a man who, disappointed in his hopes of becoming a Catholic priest, is given a second chance, and, with amazing rapidity, becomes Pope.
The combination of wish-fulfilment and revenge is alarming, but readers of course, would have been ignorant of the author’s history, and DH Lawrence was apparently among the book’s admirers. However the first edition failed to sell even the 600 copies at which point Fr. Rolfe (Fr. for Frederick, of course) would have benefited from royalties.
The reality of the existence of Fr. Rolfe (he sometimes called himself Baron Corvo, claiming to have been awarded the title by an Italian benefactor) was in distinct contrast to his alter ego’s fictional history from his novel.
He painted, but somehow contrived never to be paid for his work. He wrote, but without receiving any financial reward, usually destroying his own hopes and aspirations on the basis of imagined insults or other crimes against him.
He had many friends and benefactors, almost all of whom he alienated through a mixture of personal derision and petty revenge, for calumnies and slights which had never existed, except in his own mind.
He had money at times, but the moment it was in his hand, it was spent on luxuries. In his final collapse from grace and polite society, with another gift from a benefactor, he cut a swathe through the homosexuals of Venice’s gondolier community, before dying in that remarkable city in a cold garret from which he issued his last pathetic letters (“Just five pounds!”) to those he had insulted and spurned.
Rolfe died, in the act of removing his boots, in Venice in 1913, aged 53.
The Quest for Corvo is a remarkable story of paranoia and waste, told in the most lively style by an admiring dilettante who cannot love the individual, even though he can find much to admire amongst the books which Rolfe left behind, and which, sadly and ironically, became a cult success only after this biographer’s appreciation appeared in print.
That at least is the way most biographies work. AJA Symons’ The Quest for Corvo is a different beast.
It is partly a detective story, in which the author at the outset hardly knows what might happen. It is partly too, a revelation about the author himself. (Throughout, he readily confesses his likes and dislikes, his prejudices and enthusiasms. He is suspicious about someone who refuses some ‘very good hock’.)
What’s more, the whole book comes about – not through the enthusiasm of one individual for another - but through an accident. A friend mentions a long-ignored novel that he likes. Symons reads it, determines to find out more about its author, and the biography – and the detective story - begins.
His subject is the enigmatic, difficult, vitriolic – but sometimes charming and disarmingly talented – Frederick Rolfe, a man who had been disappointed in his hopes of becoming a Catholic priest. The long-ignored novel is his ‘Hadrian the Seventh’ which is about a man who, disappointed in his hopes of becoming a Catholic priest, is given a second chance, and, with amazing rapidity, becomes Pope.
The combination of wish-fulfilment and revenge is alarming, but readers of course, would have been ignorant of the author’s history, and DH Lawrence was apparently among the book’s admirers. However the first edition failed to sell even the 600 copies at which point Fr. Rolfe (Fr. for Frederick, of course) would have benefited from royalties.
The reality of the existence of Fr. Rolfe (he sometimes called himself Baron Corvo, claiming to have been awarded the title by an Italian benefactor) was in distinct contrast to his alter ego’s fictional history from his novel.
He painted, but somehow contrived never to be paid for his work. He wrote, but without receiving any financial reward, usually destroying his own hopes and aspirations on the basis of imagined insults or other crimes against him.
He had many friends and benefactors, almost all of whom he alienated through a mixture of personal derision and petty revenge, for calumnies and slights which had never existed, except in his own mind.
He had money at times, but the moment it was in his hand, it was spent on luxuries. In his final collapse from grace and polite society, with another gift from a benefactor, he cut a swathe through the homosexuals of Venice’s gondolier community, before dying in that remarkable city in a cold garret from which he issued his last pathetic letters (“Just five pounds!”) to those he had insulted and spurned.
Rolfe died, in the act of removing his boots, in Venice in 1913, aged 53.
The Quest for Corvo is a remarkable story of paranoia and waste, told in the most lively style by an admiring dilettante who cannot love the individual, even though he can find much to admire amongst the books which Rolfe left behind, and which, sadly and ironically, became a cult success only after this biographer’s appreciation appeared in print.
February 28, 2022
There are some authors who I like the ‘idea’ of rather than the reality. What shouldn't be to like about the waspish Ronald Firbank, except that, to me, his 'Concerning the Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli' (his most decadent book) just seems somewhat silly. Or perhaps Denton Welch who seems to be a bit of a Walter Softy who would be a lot better if he just toughened up a little.* I include Frederick Rolfe (Baron Corvo) in this group as although I must admit it is partially amusing to read him sticking the knife into, well, everybody he ever seems to have any dealings with, eventually one has to ask oneself why Rolfe became a Catholic in the first place if he seemed to continually approach, distrust and fall out with them. It seems a tragedy born from his own stupidity and lack of self-awareness. A fool!
And yet this is a great read. Why? Because it is the quest in itself that fascinates, and it is Symon’s autobiography. as much as Rolfes biography, as we follow his (Symonds) path to various people and then see how he negotiates them to achieve his biographical ends. We share his pleasure as he pieces together seemingly disparate accounts to form a cohesive whole, the joy of discovering a new lead or cache of letters or, joy of joys, holding an unreleased manuscript by his subject. I have a lot of time for ‘this type of thing’ and admire Symons perspicacity in doing what he did.
It is also beautifully written.
This edition is enhanced by an introduction by Mark Valentine, an extra piece by Symons (his essay ‘Tradition in Biography’), and illustrated with various photos from the Symons archive held at Leeds University. The first two are interesting (Valentine writes good intros) but the images are less so, being largely photos of documents used by Symons regarding ‘The Quest’ overlaid with images of the writers of them.
Corvo-ites are something of a cult unto themselves so they will want it for these extras, but if you are not, then a cheap paperback of this most entertaining book will probably suffice.
* In the comments below someone took issue with my comments regarding Denton Welch. I was not intending to cast aspersions upon Denton Welch the individual (though I admit that in retrospect it might read that way) but rather how his personality manifested itself in his literary works and am happy to unreservedly apologise for any offence or misunderstanding caused by my poor choice of words. I have let the original stand because if I amended it the comment and my reply would then make no sense.
And yet this is a great read. Why? Because it is the quest in itself that fascinates, and it is Symon’s autobiography. as much as Rolfes biography, as we follow his (Symonds) path to various people and then see how he negotiates them to achieve his biographical ends. We share his pleasure as he pieces together seemingly disparate accounts to form a cohesive whole, the joy of discovering a new lead or cache of letters or, joy of joys, holding an unreleased manuscript by his subject. I have a lot of time for ‘this type of thing’ and admire Symons perspicacity in doing what he did.
It is also beautifully written.
This edition is enhanced by an introduction by Mark Valentine, an extra piece by Symons (his essay ‘Tradition in Biography’), and illustrated with various photos from the Symons archive held at Leeds University. The first two are interesting (Valentine writes good intros) but the images are less so, being largely photos of documents used by Symons regarding ‘The Quest’ overlaid with images of the writers of them.
Corvo-ites are something of a cult unto themselves so they will want it for these extras, but if you are not, then a cheap paperback of this most entertaining book will probably suffice.
* In the comments below someone took issue with my comments regarding Denton Welch. I was not intending to cast aspersions upon Denton Welch the individual (though I admit that in retrospect it might read that way) but rather how his personality manifested itself in his literary works and am happy to unreservedly apologise for any offence or misunderstanding caused by my poor choice of words. I have let the original stand because if I amended it the comment and my reply would then make no sense.
September 25, 2010
This book is mostly famous as an example of how to write a proper biography . Rather than chronologically narrating the life of Frederic Rolfe a.k.a "Baron Corvo", the author follows his own progress and correspondence in search of the Baron's life details. The subject of the book itself is one of those late victorian characters that simply had to confront a new reality driven by capitalism and not just church or aristocratic patronage.
Frederic Rolfe was a delusional, tragic man with a talent for writing and a deep seated paranoia. He attempted to become a priest for all the wrong reasons and was quickly expelled and dismissed as a superficial spendthrift . He cursed at all those who tried to help him, begged and buggered around in Venice till funds ran out. Then he died alone and poor as a rat. He refused moral judgment while dispensing it in abundance. But his writings, mostly "Hadrian the VII" and "Tales that Toto told me" caused enough impression on enough people to merit Mr. Simmons "quest" for Corvo. It is interesting to see how the author seems to need to justify the life of this hard working parasite again and again based on his literary merits. The author cannot conceal his passion for the subject and it becomes contagious. May be he saw in Fr. Rolfe a twin soul. I haven't read the books Rolfe wrote but I am afraid that they might have lost whatever glow they had in their time. Some of the neologisms he created and the language he used might have been dazzling a century ago. Today, I am afraid it might be almost incomprehensible in its rancid archaism. I admit I am judging it a priori but somehow I have no interest in finding out if I am right or wrong.
Frederic Rolfe was a delusional, tragic man with a talent for writing and a deep seated paranoia. He attempted to become a priest for all the wrong reasons and was quickly expelled and dismissed as a superficial spendthrift . He cursed at all those who tried to help him, begged and buggered around in Venice till funds ran out. Then he died alone and poor as a rat. He refused moral judgment while dispensing it in abundance. But his writings, mostly "Hadrian the VII" and "Tales that Toto told me" caused enough impression on enough people to merit Mr. Simmons "quest" for Corvo. It is interesting to see how the author seems to need to justify the life of this hard working parasite again and again based on his literary merits. The author cannot conceal his passion for the subject and it becomes contagious. May be he saw in Fr. Rolfe a twin soul. I haven't read the books Rolfe wrote but I am afraid that they might have lost whatever glow they had in their time. Some of the neologisms he created and the language he used might have been dazzling a century ago. Today, I am afraid it might be almost incomprehensible in its rancid archaism. I admit I am judging it a priori but somehow I have no interest in finding out if I am right or wrong.
January 5, 2011
A wonderfully-done biography of Fr. Rolfe, the author of the classic "Hadrian VII"--- as fine a bit of Edwardian eccentricity and ecclesiastical fantasy as you'll ever find. Rolfe was a failed seminarian and mythomaniac who wrote a book about how a snobbish, conflicted, brilliant Englishman (oddly, a failed seminarian who looks just like Rolfe himself) is suddenly, inexplicably made Pope...and saves Europe for Catholicism before being martyred. Rolfe spent his life playing roles--- the Italian nobleman ("Baron Corvo"), the Decadent author, the Catholic obsessive, the Englishman-in-Venice, the lover of antique literature and handsome boys. Symons catches him in all his hothouse glory as a wonderfully arcane, sorely underappreciated minor gem. Very much a lovely read.
September 14, 2009
I started this book two nights ago and didn't go to sleep until I finished it! I don't want to ruin it for anyone so won't explain except to say that it's truly astonishing and -- quite literally -- impossible to put down.
October 26, 2009
Beautiful writing and magically oddball subject. Corvo would have fit in very well in modern day Baltimore.
August 9, 2011
This is a gem of a book, a fascinating quest for the truth about a most unusual man.
Read
June 20, 2021A curious and thought-provoking read. I appreciated the innovative approach to biography - uncovering a life like a detective story. I was less keen on the central character Corvo, but much more interested in what his life, and Symons’ telling of it, can tell us about living as a gay man in Victorian Britain.
Corvo is colourful, often entertaining, but mostly infuriating - a hard guy to like, as all his friends eventually discover. Corvo’s writing, which Symons clearly loves, is of the Victorian OTT variety (Corvo would say arch) - stuffed with pedantic neologisms, overwritten description and fussy subject matter that is close to unreadable these days. Symons asks us to forgive a lot for Corvo’s “genius” but all too often the genius comes across as little more than bad behaviour by an eccentric nutter - strong on self-pity and destroying relationships.
The best of it is when Corvo lets loose with his invective, which is violent, imaginative and hilarious, or his occasional epigrams, which are arresting and pointed (his shortest sentences are the best). Happily the invective is frequent, at least in the many letters to his ever-suffering friends. A compilation of Corvo’s nastiest jibes would be enormous fun.
But the fascination of all this for me is in the window (a highly opaque one) that both Corvo and Symons open into living as a gay man in Victorian UK - and what it did to people. Symons only gradually reveals through the book details of Corvo’s sexuality - and implies that Corvo himself only became aware of and acted on this himself later in life. When Corvo’s gay activity becomes undeniable during Corvo’s last years in Venice, Symons treats it clinically, nods to Freud, but exhibits the required disgust expected of his generation (at least in public) at the time.
To modern readers that now looks like a missed opportunity. Symons is unable to share with us any of the evidently graphic descriptions of Corvo’s Venetian sex life that the Baron was all too happy to share in his letters to his ‘friends’. Too bad for us.
Symons professes to being shocked, but one suspects he was more interested than he shows. It is striking how many of the men in the book (there are hardly any woman and Corvo is characteristically frank about his misogyny) either were gay (Mundy Gregory) or sound awfully like they were (Benson, Pirie-Gordon etc). The whole book portrays a suffocating late-Victorian gay subculture where gay men, barred from any open expression of themselves, found each other and created their own society through a coded interest in things like Roman Catholicism, medieval history, Italian art and foreign languages (not just a source of social standing but of functionality - at the time academic access to writing on homosexuality was almost entirely through Greek or Latin).
A modern read of Corvo would tell us much more of his censored writings (and drawings), and pay more attention to those comments he did make publicly on sex, which carry more impact than Symons seemed to appreciate. Corvo compared blowing one’s nose to ‘coition’, noted both are natural acts and wondered reasonably enough why the former was regarded as polite but the latter ‘sacred’ and not to be spoken of. While scorning the idea of love, he wrote clinically about the need to satisfy bodily needs in sex. Comments like this suggest it unlikely he waited until his late forties before hooking up with boys, and that some at least of the relationships with his ‘friends’ may have had a physical element.
While Symons (eventually) highlights Corvo’s frustrated sexuality as a likely key influence in his messy and tragic life, all of the many friends he interviews and writes to shy away from engaging on this front. Corvo’s brother even threatens Symons, apparently for fear of reference to Corvo’s sexuality and dishonesty.
All this leaves me wishing to know more about how this sort of punishing homophobia affected a sensitive and complex character like Corvo. Perhaps understandably he appears full of contradictions - like Whitman (whom Corvo refers to - “I am multitudes”). He repeatedly rebuffed friends’ well-intentioned attempts to define or help him, snd found perverse delight in being insulted. His attempts to seek refuge in the church, in schools, in art and then in writing all speak of searching for a world where he might be able to live his own life and allow his rather extraordinary personality to flower. He never found it. Neither, I suspect, did Symons.
Corvo is colourful, often entertaining, but mostly infuriating - a hard guy to like, as all his friends eventually discover. Corvo’s writing, which Symons clearly loves, is of the Victorian OTT variety (Corvo would say arch) - stuffed with pedantic neologisms, overwritten description and fussy subject matter that is close to unreadable these days. Symons asks us to forgive a lot for Corvo’s “genius” but all too often the genius comes across as little more than bad behaviour by an eccentric nutter - strong on self-pity and destroying relationships.
The best of it is when Corvo lets loose with his invective, which is violent, imaginative and hilarious, or his occasional epigrams, which are arresting and pointed (his shortest sentences are the best). Happily the invective is frequent, at least in the many letters to his ever-suffering friends. A compilation of Corvo’s nastiest jibes would be enormous fun.
But the fascination of all this for me is in the window (a highly opaque one) that both Corvo and Symons open into living as a gay man in Victorian UK - and what it did to people. Symons only gradually reveals through the book details of Corvo’s sexuality - and implies that Corvo himself only became aware of and acted on this himself later in life. When Corvo’s gay activity becomes undeniable during Corvo’s last years in Venice, Symons treats it clinically, nods to Freud, but exhibits the required disgust expected of his generation (at least in public) at the time.
To modern readers that now looks like a missed opportunity. Symons is unable to share with us any of the evidently graphic descriptions of Corvo’s Venetian sex life that the Baron was all too happy to share in his letters to his ‘friends’. Too bad for us.
Symons professes to being shocked, but one suspects he was more interested than he shows. It is striking how many of the men in the book (there are hardly any woman and Corvo is characteristically frank about his misogyny) either were gay (Mundy Gregory) or sound awfully like they were (Benson, Pirie-Gordon etc). The whole book portrays a suffocating late-Victorian gay subculture where gay men, barred from any open expression of themselves, found each other and created their own society through a coded interest in things like Roman Catholicism, medieval history, Italian art and foreign languages (not just a source of social standing but of functionality - at the time academic access to writing on homosexuality was almost entirely through Greek or Latin).
A modern read of Corvo would tell us much more of his censored writings (and drawings), and pay more attention to those comments he did make publicly on sex, which carry more impact than Symons seemed to appreciate. Corvo compared blowing one’s nose to ‘coition’, noted both are natural acts and wondered reasonably enough why the former was regarded as polite but the latter ‘sacred’ and not to be spoken of. While scorning the idea of love, he wrote clinically about the need to satisfy bodily needs in sex. Comments like this suggest it unlikely he waited until his late forties before hooking up with boys, and that some at least of the relationships with his ‘friends’ may have had a physical element.
While Symons (eventually) highlights Corvo’s frustrated sexuality as a likely key influence in his messy and tragic life, all of the many friends he interviews and writes to shy away from engaging on this front. Corvo’s brother even threatens Symons, apparently for fear of reference to Corvo’s sexuality and dishonesty.
All this leaves me wishing to know more about how this sort of punishing homophobia affected a sensitive and complex character like Corvo. Perhaps understandably he appears full of contradictions - like Whitman (whom Corvo refers to - “I am multitudes”). He repeatedly rebuffed friends’ well-intentioned attempts to define or help him, snd found perverse delight in being insulted. His attempts to seek refuge in the church, in schools, in art and then in writing all speak of searching for a world where he might be able to live his own life and allow his rather extraordinary personality to flower. He never found it. Neither, I suspect, did Symons.
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