The Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron

by Edward John Trelawny

Vividly recalled and brilliantly recorded, Edward Trelawney's intimate, affecting account of Shelley and Byron at the peak of their poetic powers takes these two magnetic personalities out of the shadows of their exile and into the light of his acute memory. From 1821, at Pisa, when Trelawney fell into the literary circle of the impulsive Shelley and charismatic Byron, this three-year tale follows both poets to their early, untimely ends.

Genres: Biography, Nonfiction, 19th Century, Romanticism, Poetry, History, Memoir

224 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1858

Reviews

[Ulysse · Rating 3 out of 5]

When Shelley's body was found
After he’d drowned
In the Gulf of Spezia
Summer of 1822
There weren't many
Distinguishing features left
To identify him by--
It had been rolling around
In the sea for ten days
The one thing that proved it belonged
To the poet however
Was that when it was being
Cremated on the beach
In the warm July night
All of it
Went up in smoke
All of it
Except for the heart
The heart remained intact--
You cannot burn a poet's heart
Fire will not burn fire

[E. G. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Introduction
Further Reading
Note on the Text

--Records of Shelley, Byron and the Author

Appendix
Notes

[Allegra Byron · Rating 5 out of 5]

Relectura de un libro que aunque no tenga mucho valor la prosa con la que nos deleita Trelawny, tiene un valor incalculable por la información de primera mano que nos ofrece sobre Byron y los Shelley, y cómo vivió con ellos esos últimos días junto a los dos poetas más grandes que dio Inglaterra.

[Lorena · Rating 5 out of 5]

The writings of Edward John Trelawny were formative to my blossoming life as a reader. I read about him first, the 1940 biography by Margaret Armstrong, "Trelawny: A Man's Life." Over the course of my life I've bought at least 10 copies of that book so I could lend them out. I named my daughter Trelawny when she was in the womb. If she had come out a boy, I would have named him Trelawny. The book I just authored and am in the process of publishing is heavily influenced by Trelawny's life, and has a chapter in his name. So if you are looking for a distanced analysis, you've come to the wrong reviewer.

I was swept away by Trelawny's adventures long before I understood his importance as a friend to Shelley and Byron. He was the Neal Cassady of his time, the real deal. Shelley and Byron, Jack Kerouack and Ginsberg -- they were the hangers-on, writing about their respective muses who were actually living the life.

Trelawny's accounts have been questioned, but never contradicted or disproven. He describes reaching into Shelley's chest cavity as his body was burning on pyre on the beach near Viareggio, and exclaiming that his heart would not burn. He put it into a clay vessel which he delivered to Mary Shelley, who took it with her back to London. I always believed that this experience may have inspired her to write Frankenstein, but I'm not sure of the sequence of events.

This is a burning, passionate book about a triangle of passionate, flawed men.

[Justin Evans · Rating 4 out of 5]

Mostly enjoyable, and hilarious, since Trelawny takes himself about as seriously as any human being who has ever lived, and yet he isn't worth taking seriously. This leads to great unintentional comedy, as does Trelawny's general failure to do what he wants to do. Byron, who is the villain of this piece, comes off very well--despite his reputation, Trelawny (accidentally?) paints him as the decadent but reasonable member of the gang. Had Shelley lived, and Trelawny been cremated in his place, would the world have been a better place? Perhaps not. Shelley, after all, took himself quite seriously as well, and he might have ended up as an even-more-ridiculous version of Wordsworth. Or maybe he would have ended up as the greatest English poet since Milton, who knows.

[Cristina Béva · Rating 4 out of 5]

3'5 El trabajo de Alba es excepcional, pero el rigor de lo que narra Trelawny es muy sesgado y totalmente arbitrario, todo desde un punto de vista muy personal, sobretodo la última parte cuando narra todo lo referente a Grecia.

[Shelly · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm skeptical of the truthfulness of this memoir, but I loved it anyway.

[Drew · Rating 4 out of 5]

A very enjoyable & quick read. Interesting tidbits on Byron and Shelley, especially after having just finished reading a collection of Byron’s letters. However, this volume should have ended after the settling of Byron’s affairs after he died. The remaining chapters felt like simply self-promotion by Trelawny.

[JuRo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hilarious account.
Best bits:

"Men of books, particularly poets, are rarely men of action, their mental energy exhausts their bodily powers. Byron has been generally considered an exception to this rule"

Wordsworth about Shelley: "A poet who has not produced a good poem before he is twenty-five, we may conclude cannot, and never will do so"

[Madly Jane · Rating 4 out of 5]

We all have to ask ourselves what would have heppened if Shelley and Byron had not met Edward John Trelawny or if EJT had not met Shelley and Byron. Would history have changed?

I like Trelawny more than others. He's extremely interesting as a person and as a person who knew he had met genius.

Trelawny's work is always uneven, but as a glimpse into the lives of Shelley and Byron in those last days, it is essential reading.

[Eric · Rating 3 out of 5]

I realize the world was smaller then, and circles were narrower, but there's something wonderful about how people crossed paths even in foreign parts, in cafés in Geneva, in piazzas in Italy. It wasn't unlikely to find a dozen famous writers in one room by accident. Trelawney evokes this with brio and sharp opinion, and makes it convincing even though I know he is an unreliable narrator.

[Brian Willis · Rating 3 out of 5]

An important historical record, although Trelawny is the type of eyewitness who would be disqualified in a court of law for bias and exaggeration. Nonetheless, several important anecdotes about Byron and Shelley, particularly the burning of Shelley's body, are related here. The autobiographical portions post Byron and Shelley are mildly entertaining but not as important as the first third.

[chloe · Rating 4 out of 5]

as an accurate biography: awful
as a hilarious and charming work of romanticism: a masterpiece

wouldn’t recommend reading until u already have a fairly good understanding of the events described (1821-24)

[Heronimo Gieronymus · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Anne Barton Introduction included with the New York Review Books edition of Edward John Trelawny’s RECORDS OF SHELLEY, BYRON, AND THE AUTHOR is one we the uninitiated could hardly be expected to make the proper sort of headway without. Had it not been Anne Barton, somebody else would have been needed to take up the basic task. Whatever else it is, this is a book that requires preamble, lest we were to go along with it in ill-judged credulity. Edward John Trelawny, the book’s not wholly reputable author, was in large part both a practiced self-mythologizer and a peddler of what we might generously call tall tales. Reading him is pleasurable, but any reader susceptible to the suspension of suspicion is liable to become the author’s mark. A brawny narcissist and near-parody of the Romantic stud, Trelawny cut a particular figure, almost as though trying out for the role of Byronic hero, Barton noting that his portraits tend to appear like efforts toward just this end (feel free to avail yourself of the requisite Google Image search and draw your own conclusions). It is hardly unknown for big masculinist personalities to present themselves as garrulous fronts for sublated weaknesses—perhaps especially for fragilities of ego—and we probably have ample cause to attribute such tendencies to our author. Anne Barton would appear to make the case that if Trelawny doesn’t treat Byron all that fairly this is quite likely because the author of DON JUAN had once been widely quoted (by numerous individuals with credible claims to having been present for the auspicious occasion) to the effect that the slightly younger man couldn’t tell the truth any more than he could spell or wash his hands. Readers of RECORDS OF SHELLEY, BYRON, AND THE AUTHOR may even be inclined to suspect that the many defects of character the author goes to considerable lengths to assign to Byron are debilitating liabilities of his own. Note the following passage, from the book’s second volume: “The appetites of actors, authors, and artists for popularity, are insatiable. The craving to be noticed is general; it begins at birth and ends in death. It grows by what it feeds on. This morbid yearning in some minds for notoriety, or to make a sensation, is such, that, rather than be unnoticed, they invent crimes, and lay claim to the good or evil deeds of others.” More than implicitly a dig at Byron, it is difficult here not to imagine the author with the proverbial three fingers pointing back at himself. Of one thing there can be no doubt: Trelawny’s book to one extent or another is engaged in self-aggrandizement, manipulation and what is at times doubtlessly wholesale invention, as well as various measures that very much resemble efforts toward character assassination. Trelawny is himself a celebrity in 1878 and also a man not far short of ninety years. This is the year the second addition of the book appears, said addition serving as the source for the edition New York Review Books first published in the year 2000. Trelawny is tying up loose ends, securing his legacy. The 1858 first edition had been called RECOLLECTIONS OF SHELLEY AND BYRON, this 1878 rehash reimagined as RECORDS OF SHELLEY, BYRON, AND THE AUTHOR, the addition of “and the author” one thing, the transmutation of “recollections” into “records” a whole other deal entirely (and extremely telling, at that). Neophytes such as myself cannot hope to negotiate the veracity of truth claims contained within the book, and surely exhaustive research would take us only so far. To enjoy the book, which I certainly did, one must be at least moderately open to the company of wily confabulators. Anne Barton surmises that deviation from the factual occurs almost immediately. The RECORDS begin with Trelawny detailing how, residing in Switzerland and made aware of the revolutionary poetry of Percy Shelley by an enterprising Lausanne bookseller, he became enthralled with the genius of this rejected and reviled young master versifier, shortly thereafter meeting Edward Williams and Thomas Medwin, friend to Shelley and cousin respectively, and thereby capitalizing on the opportunity to pay a visit to the exiled poet in Tuscany. Barton is not having it. She believes Trelawny, an ex naval volunteer with a poor reputation and a father who wanted nothing to do with him, went to Italy to meet Byron, the man who was in 1821 the celebrity Shelley very much was not. Trelawny’s reframing of matters—if that is indeed what is going on here—might well have to do with more than personal grievances maintained with respect to Lord Byron. By the time of the publication of both the first and second editions of Trelawny’s account, all the other principles long dead, Shelley's star is ascendant and it is he who enjoys the comparable literary renown. If there are discrepancies and inconsistencies in terms of the way Trelawny characterizes the great poet, there can be no denying that it is all generally a matter of the most ardent hagiography. Shelley is represented as both childlike and feminine, but at the same time of the utmost physical strength and manly resolve, in possession of a keen intelligence, clearly both congenital and a product of endless study, surpassing that of all his contemporaries. Trelawny effectively purports to discover in Shelley the Byronic hero Byron himself could never be. “Beginning at Oxford to question all things that were established in State and Church from time immemorial was considered by the orthodox as unprecedented audacity, and his being expelled from College and cast off from all his family, a just punishment. But the young reformer, with untamed energy of mind and body, fearlessly pursued his erratic course. As the pillory and imprisonment had been foolishly laid aside, there was no ready remedy to check the blasphemy spreading like a pestilence throughout the land.” The imputation of a satanic dimension in Shelley’s poetry (his being widely held to be literally “founder of a Satanic school”) is originally what attracts Trelawny to it, the aforementioned bookseller in Lausanne having recounted the story of a priest, cursing Shelley and the bookseller himself upon discovering QUEEN MAB among the latter’s stock: “the world is retrograding into accursed heathenism and universal anarchy!” As far as Trelawny is concerned, you could hardly be expected to provide a more effective sales pitch. Shelley is to die in 1822, so he and Trelawny are close for less than a year. Shelley is reported to have asserted to his interlocutor that “All our knowledge is derived from infidels,” and this is surely a forceful articulation of the Romantic ideal, the core of an ethos. There would seem to be more than a little lowercase-r romance as well, and we may begin to imagine that there is a near-amorous dimension to Trelawny’s idolatry; he makes mention of the regularity with which he was able to observe Shelley in the nude, and one of the book’s most memorable and remarked-upon passages involves the poet appearing before mixed company (an actual dinner party, hosted by an embarrassed Mary Shelley) completely exposed after having bathed in the ocean. Trelawny is inclined to look for wrongdoing as pertains to his friend. “Leigh Hunt often said that he was the dearest friend Shelley had; I believe he was the most costly.” Or: “It was fortunate Shelley had so few friends, for with the exception of Jefferson Hogg and Horace Smith they all used him as their purse.” Generous to a fault, abstemious only when it came to himself, Shelley was used and abused, we are led to believe, all too habitually, though surely not by our noble author. Anybody possessing a cursory familiarity with Shelley’s life will doubtlessly have come to apprehend that the young man would appear to have been practically hellbent on getting himself drowned, his ultimate death as such having been preceded by a number of near misses. It is a subject—the noble poet and the pull of death and sea—upon which Trelawny has occasion to rhapsodize. “The Poet was delighted with this fragile toy, and toying with it on the water, it often capsized, and gave him many a header: standing up, or an incautious movement, upset it.” This is followed in short order by a key bit of verse:

The sea, the sea, the dark blue sea,
The bright, the pure, the ever free.

All this taken into account, Trelawny goes to great measures to attribute Shelley’s death to the malice of marauding fishermen rather than recklessness on the water (and in a storm!). We are in fact treated to a fairly exhaustive quasi-forensic investigation/inquest, complete with excerpted letters written by other parties appearing to confirm Trelawny’s version of events (though as to the legitimacy of attributed authorship in these cases I am not in a position to say anything). It is certainly difficult to forget that Trelawny has already told us that Shelley had, about a month before his death, expressed interest in procuring “Prussic Acid, or essential oil of bitter almonds,” his believing said potion to be a potential agent of suicide. Though not a drinker of alcohol, Shelley was a regular and sometimes heavy user of laudanum. Though Trelawny believes Shelley and Williams’ vessel to have been maliciously rammed, its occupants casualties of the subsequent sinking, near the beginning of the book the author has made a claim that we may decide none of his later efforts satisfactorily dispel: “barring drugs and accidents, he might have lived as long as his father—to ninety.” Another of the most memorable passages in the book is that which details the burning of Shelley’s remains on a pyre near Viareggio, complete with the poet’s roiling-boiling brainstuffs, drowned man’s blood-thick unincineratable heart, and the attendant Lord Byron’s feigned blasé dispassion. Shelley dies in July of 1822 and Byron will live until April of 1824, much of that time spent in Greece both with and independent of Trelawny, a tale of heedless adventurism involving the Greek War of Independence and ultimately Byron’s death, which in this case Trelawny blames more or less on medical malpractice. Byron had first left England in 1809, and is purported here to have more or less blamed his poetry on an earlier trip to Greece. “I climbed to the haunts of Minerva and the Muses.” Byron prefers to read autobiographies when he reads at all. When sent a book he will read the last chapter and then the first, at that point deciding if he will investigate further (the suggestion being that he seldom does). He denigrates “bibliopolists,” but is extremely sensitive concerning his status and reputation (largely among bibliopolists). In perhaps his weirdest gambit, Trelawny consistently attributes the basic underlying set of insecurities that delimit Byron’s character to lameness and deformity. If Byron hardly eats, we are told this is because the man has a metabolism inclined toward girth which his hobbled legs could never possibly support. When we are not being told that Byron is a kind of Iago, it is averred that his is the wrath of a “scarce half made up” Richard III. Anne Barton actually informs us that the second edition is less malicious than had been the first, Byron treated to a slightly lass savage assessment here when it comes to the inspection of his corpse. The basic gist: “he was raised in poverty and obscurity and unexpectedly became a Lord, with a good estate; this was enough to unsettle the equanimity of such a temperament as his. But fortune as well as misfortune comes with both hands full, and when, as he himself said, he awoke one morning and found himself famous, his brain grew dizzy, and he foolishly entered the great donkey sweepstakes, and ran in the ruck: galled in the race, he bolted off the course, and rushed into the ranks of that great sect that worships golden images.” Again, this would have to in all likelihood strike us as one donkey impugned by another. After Byron’s death, there is still a sizeable portion of the second volume of RECORDS OF SHELLEY, BYRON, AND THE AUTHOR left, most of this relating to Trelawny’s ongoing adventures in Greece, wherein he resides in a cavern with various mercenaries and gets himself shot by a Scotsman named Fenton who he had had the poor judgement to trust as a friend and ally. “Byron thought all men rogues, and put no trust in any. As applied to the Greeks, his skepticism was perfect wisdom.” The Turks, it would seem, are even worse. The final chapter of the book trails off in a fashion most unusual, pursing to dizzy extremities the desire to clarify parenthetical minutiae. This is followed by five Appendices, the most cringeworthy of which involves what would seem to be unwarranted disparagement of Mary Shelley, a woman Anne Barton tells us had been both kind and generous to Trelawny (and who was safely dead but a few years before the appearance of the 1858 first edition of his book). Percy Shelley is, in fact, the only person with feminine characteristics in the RECORDS who receives much in the way of praise. An early assertion in the book is quite interesting: “Beauty is said to be a fatal gift to women, and it may be added that genius is a fatal gift to men; they are born before their time and out of harmony with the things about them.” Trelawny was neither a beautiful nor a brilliant person, but he is a man who will go considerable distances out of his way to put himself in a good light and heap scorn on others. To what extent is this just a metastasis of resentment, jealousy, and wounded pride? Though he may quote Shelley on the subject of love with all the requisite wonderment, Trelawny does not himself look especially good assessed in Shelley’s terms. “Love is not akin to jealousy; love does not seek its own pleasure, but the happiness of another. Jealousy is gross selfishness; it looks upon everyone who approaches as an enemy: it’s the idolatry of self, and, like canine madness, incurable.” We can only assume that Trelawny has recorded this axiom without adequately assimilating it. Still, he is a lively writer and a man who very much was in the right place at the right time. Reading his KAPUTT last month, I had mused on how there did not seem much in the way of precedent for how Curzio Malaprte incorporates himself (or his persona) into his work; I am happy to discover in Trelawny a curious example of just such a precedent. Imagine what this man might have been if the myth of himself were to have availed itself of even a marginal demystification of self. How much more flexible he might have been, how much more agile. Flexibility and agility are manly characteristics our author would tend to lionize. He could well have stood to have had his frame rattled. Even if only just a little. As it stands, his lack of critical self-knowledge undergirds a fascinating text best read with attention to those things which cannot help but go unsaid.

[Nic · Rating 5 out of 5]

¡E. J. Trelawny, viejo pirata, hombre de acción en una época quizá demasiado llena de ideas! ¿Qué hado del destino permitió que la luz de Byron, ¡ay, del mismo Shelley!, incidiera sobre tu mirada inquieta, que el canto de sus labios y los acentos de sus versos alcanzaran tus oídos y tu pluma?

Por supuesto que tenía inmensas ganas de leer este libro. Y por supuesto que el mismo título en ese tono melancólico ya inspiraba en mí las más delicadas ensoñaciones y un recuento de la época más romántica en los más románticos parajes. Una sola cosa me asustaba: que fueran memorias contadas por E. J. Trelawny.
Mi problema personal con las biografías —si es que esta siquiera alcanza a serlo— escritas por amigos, es que no dejan de ser impresiones absolutamente subjetivas, marcadas por las simpatías o antipatías inevitables, para bien o para mal. Y en los primeros capítulos ya me temía una tragedia: Trelawny verdaderamente sentía disgusto por Lord Byron.

Para mi gran sorpresa, Trelawny logró amortiguarlo y, de alguna manera, compensarlo a partir de la segunda mitad del libro. He aquí la razón de esta buena puntuación. Si bien no tengo reparos en aceptar que alguien pueda disgustar de otra persona —sobre todo de una tan polémica y desafiante como mi querido Byron—, me parece que en un principio esas consideraciones negativas estaban infundadas o exageradas. Un cierto desprecio que no pasa desapercibido y que solo podemos atribuir a la diferencia de carácter entre ambos. Para con Shelley, en cambio, todos son elogios; a fin de cuentas, Shelley era “el más magnánimo entre los hombres”, mientras que Byron quedaba reducido a “un engreído aristócrata, el vampiro de Polidori”. Y esta natural afinidad por Shelley y tensión con Byron se entiende: Trelawny encarnaba la acción y la aventura, el hombre que Byron no era, pero que sí describía en sus poemas.

A medida que avanza el libro, la relación del autor con Byron “mejora”. Yo creo que simplemente aprendió a conocerlo mejor, a entender de dónde provenía su autoprotección y su ocasional malhumor. Hay algo excesivamente bello en la amistad: poder comprender las circunstancias de la vida del amigo, simpatizar, reconocer que tristemente este mundo nos forja a punta de hachazos, y amarlos por lo que hay debajo de esa máscara.
Entonces sí: a pesar de mi primera impresión y mis constantes dudas, Trelawny fue un verdadero amigo, tanto para Shelley como para Byron. Lo que hizo por ellos tras su fallecimiento fue conmovedor y realmente respetuoso, como un auténtico admirador del genio de ambos. Quizás su papel en la vida de estos poetas fue encarnar al héroe romántico, tarea nada pequeña. Amamos todo aquello que trae luz al mundo, que nos da esperanza. Si las vidas de Shelley y Byron fueron breves fue porque, ¡ay!, el destino quiso que se convirtiesen —eternamente se entiende— en sus propios elementos poéticos, cuando el ideal nubla todo lo terrenal. Y Trelawny, estoy seguro, les aportó alegrías y compañía en esas etapas finales. Y eso no es poca cosa.

Para colmo, Trelawny se gana aun más mi respeto en los últimos capítulos, al relatar su continuación en la guerra de independencia griega, su compromiso de seguir con el legado de Byron y su fidelidad a su líder local. Un verdadero hombre de acción, rápido in his feet, que sobrevivió lo que sobrevivió para escribir estas memorias un par de décadas después.

Excelente relato, y esta edición es magnífica: con anotaciones en cada capítulo que aportan datos y fechas, llenando vacíos en la historia. 5/5.

[James · Rating 3 out of 5]

“In composing one's faculties must not be divided; in a house there is no solitude: a door shutting, a footstep heard, a bell ringing, a voice, causes in echo in your brain and dissolves your visions" pg. 113

The introduction to Trelawny’s memoir opens with an acknowledgment of the controversial nature of his accounts—questioning the validity of some of his claims, but asserting that the book remains compelling nonetheless. This sets the tone for a work that mixes personal reflection with historical anecdote, weaving the stories of two literary giants: Lord Byron and Percy Shelley.

Trelawny’s narrative takes us on a journey from his arrival in Italy to the deaths of both poets—Shelley first, and then Byron in Greece. His initial purpose in Italy was to meet Lord Byron, but upon encountering him, Trelawny is disillusioned. He describes Byron as brooding, unpredictable, and pompous, a man of deeply conflicting opinions. Despite his disappointments with Byron’s character, Trelawny remains entranced by the intellectual magnetism of Percy Shelley. He immediately forms a strong bond with Shelley, whom he admires for his wisdom, even as he sees Shelley’s actions as those of a child in the social world. Trelawny paints a human portrait of both men, giving us anecdotes, snippets of conversations, and letters that show them not just as poets but as flawed, multifaceted individuals.

However, after the exploration of Shelley and Byron, Trelawny transitions into what feels like a separate narrative—his war diaries. While these are certainly intriguing, they don’t quite match the emotional or intellectual appeal of the earlier sections, and they may feel out of place in a book that seems primarily concerned with the lives of the poets. The transition from the vivid, detailed recollections of Byron and Shelley to the more factual, record-like war diaries is jarring, and it leaves the book feeling somewhat fragmented, especially towards the end.

In terms of structure, the book’s ending lacks the resolution or cohesive flow that might make it more satisfying as a memoir. While the anecdotes and portraits of Byron and Shelley are invaluable, the final chapters feel like an afterthought, diminishing the impact of Trelawny’s narrative. All things considered, its worth reading if you have a genuine interest in the lives of these poets or in Trelawny’s perspective on their personalities. It’s an intimate, sometimes disjointed account that will intrigue those with curiosity about the Romantic era.

"The wounds that bleed inwards are the most fatal" pg. 143

[books-on-a-wire · Rating 4 out of 5]

I've always been a little fascinated by Trelawny, who Byron called the living embodiment of his Corsair. Trelawny was a man of action while Byron and Shelley were obviously men of words and as such quite different beasts. He was discouraged by Byron's planning, strategizing and studying for Greece, but that was what he did, what he understood - his books, the stories he had read, the battles throughout history that he studied. Byron was not a military man, never served in the Navy like Trelawny so I'm a bit sympathetic to his plight when he took on so much responsibility in Greece.

At the same time, Trelawny had more in common with Byron than he did with Shelley. Trelawny's dyslexia, being the victim of bullying, chronic fighting in school, relationship with his father, even a disastrous first marriage mirror Byron's life in England. They also had similar dispositions - charming, romantic, enigmatic, and what Mary Shelley called a dark glamour. I found it amusing that Trelawny said Byron made his impairment more than what it was when Trelawny himself has been called unreliable and prone to embellishment and self-aggrandizement. Trelawny seemed to be saved from Byron's mood swings but they were much more similar than Shelley, who Trelawny seemed to put on a pedestal. If you've read anything on Mrs. Shelley you'll know that her own feelings regarding her husband were very complicated - he did not treat her well, cheated on her with multiple women, and couldn't quite grasp her deep mourning for the three children she lost and her constant fear of losing Percy Florence. She is often depicted as cold and unfeeling by Shelley's friends. So Shelley was not quite the angel Trelawny made him out to be. He touched briefly on Mary, barely mentioned Contessa Guiccioli (Byron's lover), or the other major tragedy of 1822 when Byron's young daughter Allegra died. Both the poets grieved over the child with Shelley seeing hallucinations of her. I did find it compelling that so much of Shelley's suicidal tendencies were documented particularly about drowning - for someone who loved the water so much he never learned to swim. The main theme about Byron was his desire to escape - to the US, South America, a Greek island, a hidden oasis.

It's a shame that the version I read has such formatting issues, it could have also used an editor for Trelawny's writing issues (words sounded out, misspellings, etc.) But It is a valuable collection of the letters exchanged, more insight into the poets, details of Shelley's drowning and findings about the boat (I always read they never found it), and life after the poets). It makes me intrigued enough to read his autobiography. It may be full of exaggerations and embellishment but I imagine there are kernels of truth underneath his tall tales.

[Alba GtB · Rating 5 out of 5]

Alba Editorial no defrauda: Un libro realmente bueno. Tanto la edición (el cuadro de la portada se llamada 'El funeral de Shelley') como el contenido, una descripción de cómo fueron los últimos días de Percy Shelley y Lord Byron contados de primera mano por el autor (amigo de ambos). Una lectura realmente interesante si te atrae la vida y el entorno de estos poetas románticos.

[Marutsz · Rating 2 out of 5]

La historia es súper interesante y poco conocida para quien aprecia a los autores ingleses de la época. La expresión y vocabularios son antiguos y me costó muchísimo acabarlo. Me fastidia que el autor tuviera fama de "inventar" porque no sabes cuánto hay de verdad...

[Frank Schapitl · Rating 5 out of 5]

There are some questions about the validity of everything Trelawny wrote nevertheless the book is riveting and can be enjoyed in only one or two readings
It’s actually surprisingly good

[Nuria · Rating 3 out of 5]

Como decía Barthes (y transcribió Rosa Montero en 'La loca de la casa'): "toda autobiografía es ficcional y toda ficción autobiográfica"

Es imposible conocer la veracidad de lo que nos cuenta Trelawny y esto queda patente gracias a todas las aclaraciones/notas que hay en la edición de Pengüin. Aun así, me ha servido para descubrir más sobre la vida de los poetas Shelley y Byron y, desafortunadamente, también de la de Trelawny.

Una tiene que cuestionar la prepotencia del autor en su afán de describir a los dos amigos partiendo de que solo los conoce apenas unos meses antes de sus respectivas muertes (en el caso de B., un par de años). Aun así, es obvio que T. idolatra y adoraba a Shelley, por lo que cualquier lector encariñado con S. va a creerse lo que nos cuentan aquí y no lo va a cuestionar. Si Percy Shelley es un ser de luz, se acepta y punto.

Byron, no obstante, es retratado desde una perspectiva más alejada. Es fácil percibir que para T. Shelley era un amigo, pero en el caso de B parecen más allegados que compartieron experiencias y nada más. De hecho, después de la maravillosa y emotiva descripción post mortem de S. que hizo T., la muerte de Byron me resultó fría y sin tacto, enfocándose injustificadamente en la deformidad que tenía (y que definió su vida, ergo se ha de nombrar, sí, pero se echan en falta palabras de admiración o amistad sobre la personalidad y su talento más allá de su aspecto físico).

A partir de la muerte de B., T. decide contarnos sus días luchando en Grecia y, he de decir, que con menos de 60 páginas que me quedaban por leer estuve tentada de abandonar. La peor narración que he leído en mucho tiempo. ¡Qué soporífero! Ni siquiera cuando le disparan es capaz de crear cierta tensión o preocupar al lector. Esto, junto con el anexo primero donde critica cual despachado a Mary Shelley hizo que estuviera tentada de dar a esta obra 2 estrellas. Si no lo hice es por Percy y porque en ocasiones el libro guarda verdaderos tesoros.

[ManMothz · Rating 4 out of 5]

The title of the memoir mirrors the contents, although until Shelley's death and the beginning of Byron's journey to Greece, Byron is mixed into the recollections of Shelley.

Shelley, if alive today, would probably be considered autistic, but with a deep moral sense. Trelawny consistently describes him as wise beyond his years, and that is true, but in his actions and social considerations if like a child. Trelawny does a good job of portraying a man who decided on his convictions early and never gave them up; Trelawny sees the boy in Shelley sheltered by fierce intelligence.

You get the sense that both Shelley and Byron would be extremely annoying to actually know. Early on Trelawny meets William Wordsworth in Switzerland, and Wordsworth says that Shelley will never be a great poet, because great poets have all written one great poem at least by the age of twenty-five. A strong opinion, later revealed to be based on absolutely nothing (At least according to Trelawny) as Wordsworth had never read Shelley. Byron, and maybe most poets (And maybe most writers) are like this, annoying because of the strength of their intuitive opinions. Trelawny's Byron is brooding, mercurial and pretentious, full of conflicting and strong opinions.

After learning about the two poets you get some war diaries from Trelawny, which are interesting, but not really what I think most people read this volume for. Because these are "records", and not a cohesive narrativized memoir, the structure, especially the ending, feels vacant. Of course I understand the reality of this, but also wish that Trelawny, who rendered the poets beautifully, could have added a coda.

[Sara · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Man Behind the Poet
I found very interesting this book in which Edward John Trelawny tells us about the time he spent with Lord Byron and Percy Bhysse Shelley since his arrival in Italy until the death of Shelley first and then the death of Byron later in Greece.
Went to Italy to know Byron, Trelawny finds himself disappointed by the conduct and the character of the poet, he himself says, "To know an author, personally, is too often but to destroy the illusion created by his works ", but remains fascinated by the character and intellect of Shelley with which he will immediately tighten a strong bond, "Shelley was a grand exception to this rule. To form a just idea of his poetry, you should have witnessed his daily life; his words and actions best illustrated his writings.. " After the death of Shelley, Trelawny will follow Byron in Greece where he stayed to fight after the death of the poet and will meet his wife.
The book contains anecdotes, snippets of conversations and letters of the two poets and we are shown their human side more that their being poets. To read if you, like me, love Byron and Shelley, or are just a little curious about their lives.

[Mark · Rating 3 out of 5]

Even though Trelawney is relating the final days of each of these poets, they come off as pleasantly idyllic though the events described certainly are not. The author paints an affectionate portrait of his freinds largely free of sentiment. It's the only account I've read of the Poets where they come off like more human beings and less like rock stars. Admittedly, I found his accounts of his travels with the Poets more interesting than his own adventures. The book has a pleasant insider appeal and provided me some educational escapism.

[Van · Rating 3 out of 5]

Very interesting book if you care about Byron and Shelley, and also just interesting in general for stories about lives of poets and exiles who die young. Trelawney is not a completely reputable source, but it is what one might expect if a friend, with all their biases, loves, and hurts, write a book about people. Therefore, it is different than a normal biography, but it is also a better read and paints a more human portrait that I personally prefer.

[Jonnade · Rating 3 out of 5]

I enjoyed this way more than I expected, not having read the works of Shelley or Byron before (but I will!) The insights to their lives were really interesting and I had a lot of fun with some bits of the book. Byron grumpy because he didn't take his usual nap I also liked the small apparitions of Mary.

I wouldn't recommend it unless you are interested in reading about the lives of these two poets from a historical perspective. I don't know how accurate it really is.

[Al Maki · Rating 4 out of 5]

I've heard that there is some disagreement about the truthfulness of this book. Personally, I hope it is true. It certainly reads like an honest man or at least one who believes himself. His descriptions are vivid. You can feel the wind on your face coming off the sea at Shelley's funeral. I was an admirer of Shelley before reading this and admired him all the more after finishing it.

[Catherine Corman · Rating 3 out of 5]

Byron formed his opinion of the inhabitants of this planet from books; personally he knew as little about them as if he belonged to some other.

-Edward Trelawny, Records of Shelley, Byron and the Author

[Steve Wiggins · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dated? Of course. Hagiographic? Naturally. Fascinating? Absolutely. Read more at: .Sects and Violence in the Ancient World

[Laurie · Rating 3 out of 5]

Quite interesting - up to the point where both Shelley and Byron were both dead. Trelawney's accounts of his own life not as interesting.