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Paul Clifford
Paul Clifford tells the life of Paul Clifford, a man who leads a dual life as both a criminal and an upscale gentleman.
Paul Clifford was written by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873), an English politician, poet, playwright, and successful novelist. In a career spanning more than forty years he wrote a stream of novels which were read widely in the English-speaking world. He coined the phrases, "the great unwashed", "pursuit of the almighty dollar", "the pen is mightier than the sword", and the famous opening line from Paul Clifford, "It was a dark and stormy night."
Paul Clifford was written by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873), an English politician, poet, playwright, and successful novelist. In a career spanning more than forty years he wrote a stream of novels which were read widely in the English-speaking world. He coined the phrases, "the great unwashed", "pursuit of the almighty dollar", "the pen is mightier than the sword", and the famous opening line from Paul Clifford, "It was a dark and stormy night."
436 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1830
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904 people want to read
About the author
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
4,487 books224 followersEdward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton PC, was an English novelist, poet, playwright, and politician. Lord Lytton was a florid, popular writer of his day, who coined such phrases as "the great unwashed", "pursuit of the almighty dollar", "the pen is mightier than the sword", and the infamous incipit "It was a dark and stormy night."
He was the youngest son of General William Earle Bulwer of Heydon Hall and Wood Dalling, Norfolk and Elizabeth Barbara Lytton, daughter of Richard Warburton Lytton of Knebworth, Hertfordshire. He had two brothers, William Earle Lytton Bulwer (1799–1877) and Henry Bulwer, 1st Baron Dalling and Bulwer.
Lord Lytton's original surname was Bulwer, the names 'Earle' and 'Lytton' were middle names. On 20 February 1844 he assumed the name and arms of Lytton by royal licence and his surname then became 'Bulwer-Lytton'. His widowed mother had done the same in 1811. His brothers were always simply surnamed 'Bulwer'.
He was the youngest son of General William Earle Bulwer of Heydon Hall and Wood Dalling, Norfolk and Elizabeth Barbara Lytton, daughter of Richard Warburton Lytton of Knebworth, Hertfordshire. He had two brothers, William Earle Lytton Bulwer (1799–1877) and Henry Bulwer, 1st Baron Dalling and Bulwer.
Lord Lytton's original surname was Bulwer, the names 'Earle' and 'Lytton' were middle names. On 20 February 1844 he assumed the name and arms of Lytton by royal licence and his surname then became 'Bulwer-Lytton'. His widowed mother had done the same in 1811. His brothers were always simply surnamed 'Bulwer'.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 32 reviews
October 12, 2011
Seriously--who wrote the summary up there, and when was it written? It makes this book sound like some deep, profound, existential, bore-the-pants-off-all-and-sundry analysis of Victorian society and crime. Um, no. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Or at the top of your web browser.
Paul Clifford is a melodramatic and fast-moving romp about a young fellow (named, ahem, Paul Clifford) who leads a double life: man-about-town by day, masked highwayman called Captain Lovett by night. He and his colourful gang of miscreants ride about the country, holding up carriages and having a grand old time, until one day he falls madly in love with a typical gothic heroine--beautiful, virtuous, etc--and begins to question his life as an outlaw.
This was by no means a GOOD book. I mean--cheesy--poorly written--one-dimensional characters--you know. The works. But it was an awful lot of fun. Kind of a guilty pleasure book, only you can use it to pass yourself off as an intellectual because it was written almost two hundred years ago. And it's by no means a difficult read. Dickens is technically the better writer, but reading this is one heck of a lot easier than trawling through most of his works. And it's unintentionally hilarious in many places--one line that killed me was, if I recall correctly, "In his hand he grasped the mock trident known to many gastronomers by the monosyllable 'fork' ". And no, I don't think he was trying to be ironic.
Paul Clifford was hugely popular in it's heyday. It's author, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, was just as popular with Victorians as Dickens was. So why hasn't he survived the years? Well, partially because, as I've said, he isn't quite as good. (But more enjoyable.) The other reason is that there is, I will admit, a fair amount of political chitchat which makes no sense to us today. One character's always going on about how he's a confirmed Whig, and yay for whigs, and boo on tories, blah blah blah. But, even if you have no idea of nineteenth-century politics--which most people don't--it by no means gets in the way of plot.
This book is funny. It's romantic. It's filled with drama. It contains the original line, "It was a dark and stormy night."
And it needs to be made into a movie starring Johnny Depp as soon as possible.
*UPDATE: Ok, They changed the summary up at the top. Now it kind of makes sense. But I'm too lazy to alter the first paragraph of my review.*
Paul Clifford is a melodramatic and fast-moving romp about a young fellow (named, ahem, Paul Clifford) who leads a double life: man-about-town by day, masked highwayman called Captain Lovett by night. He and his colourful gang of miscreants ride about the country, holding up carriages and having a grand old time, until one day he falls madly in love with a typical gothic heroine--beautiful, virtuous, etc--and begins to question his life as an outlaw.
This was by no means a GOOD book. I mean--cheesy--poorly written--one-dimensional characters--you know. The works. But it was an awful lot of fun. Kind of a guilty pleasure book, only you can use it to pass yourself off as an intellectual because it was written almost two hundred years ago. And it's by no means a difficult read. Dickens is technically the better writer, but reading this is one heck of a lot easier than trawling through most of his works. And it's unintentionally hilarious in many places--one line that killed me was, if I recall correctly, "In his hand he grasped the mock trident known to many gastronomers by the monosyllable 'fork' ". And no, I don't think he was trying to be ironic.
Paul Clifford was hugely popular in it's heyday. It's author, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, was just as popular with Victorians as Dickens was. So why hasn't he survived the years? Well, partially because, as I've said, he isn't quite as good. (But more enjoyable.) The other reason is that there is, I will admit, a fair amount of political chitchat which makes no sense to us today. One character's always going on about how he's a confirmed Whig, and yay for whigs, and boo on tories, blah blah blah. But, even if you have no idea of nineteenth-century politics--which most people don't--it by no means gets in the way of plot.
This book is funny. It's romantic. It's filled with drama. It contains the original line, "It was a dark and stormy night."
And it needs to be made into a movie starring Johnny Depp as soon as possible.
*UPDATE: Ok, They changed the summary up at the top. Now it kind of makes sense. But I'm too lazy to alter the first paragraph of my review.*
October 6, 2016
That First Sentence
Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a novelist from the 1800s, sortof Dickensish. His best-known novel, 1840's Paul Clifford, is about a heroic highwayman. Its fame comes from its opening: "It was a dark and stormy night," immortalized by Snoopy, who began all his books the same way.
The actual first sentence goes on for quite some time, so floridly that it's inspired a modern-day contest - the Edward Bulwer-Lytton contest - in which thousands of nerds compete annually to write the first sentence to "the worst of all possible novels."
Have you ever mentioned to a friend that you're reading a Victorian novel and he's all ugh, I hate those, they're all some dude on bended knee declaiming his love for like ten pages, and then it turns out he's not of noble enough birth and he has to fight a duel and then the lady dies in childbirth anyway, so boring! He's describing a Frankenstein of the worst habits of all Victorian novelists put together. In fact, he's describing Edward Bulwer-Lytton.
And if that sounds like it actually might be kinda fun to you, it did to me too; I was prepared to like Paul Clifford, in a smirking way. But it turns out that talking about it is fun; reading it is brutal.
Bulwer-Lytton is so pleased with himself, so fond of his own voice, that he's totally incapable of shutting up. He seems certain that he's writing a book for the ages. And I guess it turns out that he was; he survives as a literary in-joke. Now I'm in on it, I guess. It wasn't worth it.
But if I get nothing else from this book - misogyny? - I can at least now enter the Bulwer-Lytton contest myself, which I've done. Here's my entry:
ps: "Blue ruin" is an old nickname for gin, from back when it was a cheap and dangerous way for poor people to get shitfaced. It's also a cocktail made with gin and creme de violette, but that's not what Clifford's talking about.
pps update: I did not win the contest.
Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a novelist from the 1800s, sortof Dickensish. His best-known novel, 1840's Paul Clifford, is about a heroic highwayman. Its fame comes from its opening: "It was a dark and stormy night," immortalized by Snoopy, who began all his books the same way.
The actual first sentence goes on for quite some time, so floridly that it's inspired a modern-day contest - the Edward Bulwer-Lytton contest - in which thousands of nerds compete annually to write the first sentence to "the worst of all possible novels."
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.Here's 2014's winner:
When the dead moose floated into view the famished crew cheered – this had to mean land! – but Captain Walgrove, flinty-eyed and clear headed thanks to the starvation cleanse in progress, gave fateful orders to remain on the original course and await the appearance of a second and confirming moose.The Rest Of It
Have you ever mentioned to a friend that you're reading a Victorian novel and he's all ugh, I hate those, they're all some dude on bended knee declaiming his love for like ten pages, and then it turns out he's not of noble enough birth and he has to fight a duel and then the lady dies in childbirth anyway, so boring! He's describing a Frankenstein of the worst habits of all Victorian novelists put together. In fact, he's describing Edward Bulwer-Lytton.
And if that sounds like it actually might be kinda fun to you, it did to me too; I was prepared to like Paul Clifford, in a smirking way. But it turns out that talking about it is fun; reading it is brutal.
Clifford drew his chair nearer, and gazed on her, as she sat; the long dark eyelashes drooping over her eyes, and contrasting the ivory lids; her delicate profile half turned from him, and borrowing a more touching beauty from the soft light that dwelt upon it; and her full yet still scarcely developed bosom heaving at thoughts which she did not analyze, but was content to feel at once vague and delicious. He gazed, and his lips trembled; he longed to speak; he longed to say but those words which convey what volumes have endeavored to express and have only weakened by detail: "I love."That was just two sentences. Imagine, if you can, 500 pages of them! So many sentences! And so bad!
Bulwer-Lytton is so pleased with himself, so fond of his own voice, that he's totally incapable of shutting up. He seems certain that he's writing a book for the ages. And I guess it turns out that he was; he survives as a literary in-joke. Now I'm in on it, I guess. It wasn't worth it.
But if I get nothing else from this book - misogyny? - I can at least now enter the Bulwer-Lytton contest myself, which I've done. Here's my entry:
Had the fickle fist of fortune finagled a more forthright fate for that sun-born scion of sativus, who can guess what heights he may have grown to; but it was his destiny to be drowned in the vile vinegar of vicissitude, doomed to pickling in the misfortunate brine; and a fine pickle he was.Wish me luck - both to win, and to never again encounter a book by this jackass.
ps: "Blue ruin" is an old nickname for gin, from back when it was a cheap and dangerous way for poor people to get shitfaced. It's also a cocktail made with gin and creme de violette, but that's not what Clifford's talking about.
pps update: I did not win the contest.
March 8, 2013
Never Judge a Book by Its First Sentence
Although I thoroughly enjoy reading English literature of the 18th and 19th centuries – I am afraid I may even go so far as to say that one condition an author must fulfil in order to find real favour with me is simply … being dead –, I have never had a look at the works of Edward Bulwer-Lytton. This is hardly surprising because I have always considered him to be a paragon of purple prose – and why? Simply because of the infamous sentence – “It was a dark and stormy night” – with which he started his novel “Paul Clifford”.
For some reason or other, however, I recently started having a go at this very book, and I was quite amazed at how much I enjoyed it. “Paul Clifford” tells the story of a young man, the eponymous hero, born in obscure circumstances and brought up by the landlady of an equally obscure alehouse. After being punished for a crime that he did not commit, he is finally lured into the company of highwaymen and confidence tricksters and decides to take up life as an outlaw. One day, however, he makes the acquaintance of a charming young girl, Lucy Brandon, the niece of a very ambitious and embittered lawyer, and Cupid takes over, throwing him into an ill-fated passion for the girl. How can he possibly hope to be united in marriage to a maiden that is apparently socially unattainable to him, a reckless young man, whose neck is constantly threatened by Jack Ketch? Apart from that, Lucy’s scheming uncle is determined to marry her off to Lord Mauleverer, a jaded aristocrat, whose friendship is useful to Brandon in the pursuit of his social ambitions.
What seems to be a wild and romantic penny-dreadful really is one, but there is quite more to it. I was quite surprised at Bulwer-Lytton’s witty and elegant style, his capacity for exuberant wordplay and his brilliant humour. When, for instance, one of the characters complains of having been robbed of his watch, he receives the witty answer: Your watch has gone? Well, watches are made to go.
Whereas a lot of the characters in Bulwer-Lytton are either caricatures or bloodless types, the author actually creates an interesting hero, because for all his noble qualities, there is a tinge of contempt for mankind in Paul that makes his descent into crime credible. On the other hand, even Bulwer-Lytton’s crooks have their redeeming qualities, as in the case of Lord Mauleverer, who is much more lifelike than any sinister suitor you may find in Dickens. Lytton’s master-piece, however, is the disillusioned lawyer Brandon, whose motives become more and more understandable, though not excusable, in the course of the novel. His view on life is quite depressing, and he expresses it to his niece, whom he really loves, in a very frank way, as for example here: “Posterity! Can you believe that a man who knows what life is, cares for the penny whistles of grown children after his death? […] Posterity is but the same perpetuity of fools and rascals; and even were justice desirable at their hands, they could n o t deal it. [...] The word has gulled men enough without m y adding to the number. I, who loathe the living, can scarcely venerate the unborn. Lucy, believe me, that no man can mix largely with men in political life, and not despise everything that in youth he adored! Age leaves us only one feeling – contempt!” For all the staginess of monologues like these, they fulfill their purpose, adding another dimension to what would usually be another melodramatic scoundrel.
Quite like the inimitable Dickens, Lytton also seems to pursue social aims, indicting the inhumane criminal law of his time, as in Paul’s furious final speech in court: “The laws themselves caused me to break the laws: first, by implanting within me the goading sense of injustice; secondly by submitting me to the corruption of example. […] And it now destroys me, as it has destroyed thousands, for being what it made me!”
If you are not too averse to a certain pathos in tone and to melodrama, you might actually enjoy “Paul Clifford” a lot. After the amusing time I had with this novel, I will certainly give some other of Lytton’s works a try. The only thing I heartily disliked was the author’s apparent prejudice against the Scottish, which is not only mirrored in the caricature one of the characters supplies but also in various scathing remarks about the nation that has come up with some of the finest whiskies and poets in the world.
Although I thoroughly enjoy reading English literature of the 18th and 19th centuries – I am afraid I may even go so far as to say that one condition an author must fulfil in order to find real favour with me is simply … being dead –, I have never had a look at the works of Edward Bulwer-Lytton. This is hardly surprising because I have always considered him to be a paragon of purple prose – and why? Simply because of the infamous sentence – “It was a dark and stormy night” – with which he started his novel “Paul Clifford”.
For some reason or other, however, I recently started having a go at this very book, and I was quite amazed at how much I enjoyed it. “Paul Clifford” tells the story of a young man, the eponymous hero, born in obscure circumstances and brought up by the landlady of an equally obscure alehouse. After being punished for a crime that he did not commit, he is finally lured into the company of highwaymen and confidence tricksters and decides to take up life as an outlaw. One day, however, he makes the acquaintance of a charming young girl, Lucy Brandon, the niece of a very ambitious and embittered lawyer, and Cupid takes over, throwing him into an ill-fated passion for the girl. How can he possibly hope to be united in marriage to a maiden that is apparently socially unattainable to him, a reckless young man, whose neck is constantly threatened by Jack Ketch? Apart from that, Lucy’s scheming uncle is determined to marry her off to Lord Mauleverer, a jaded aristocrat, whose friendship is useful to Brandon in the pursuit of his social ambitions.
What seems to be a wild and romantic penny-dreadful really is one, but there is quite more to it. I was quite surprised at Bulwer-Lytton’s witty and elegant style, his capacity for exuberant wordplay and his brilliant humour. When, for instance, one of the characters complains of having been robbed of his watch, he receives the witty answer: Your watch has gone? Well, watches are made to go.
Whereas a lot of the characters in Bulwer-Lytton are either caricatures or bloodless types, the author actually creates an interesting hero, because for all his noble qualities, there is a tinge of contempt for mankind in Paul that makes his descent into crime credible. On the other hand, even Bulwer-Lytton’s crooks have their redeeming qualities, as in the case of Lord Mauleverer, who is much more lifelike than any sinister suitor you may find in Dickens. Lytton’s master-piece, however, is the disillusioned lawyer Brandon, whose motives become more and more understandable, though not excusable, in the course of the novel. His view on life is quite depressing, and he expresses it to his niece, whom he really loves, in a very frank way, as for example here: “Posterity! Can you believe that a man who knows what life is, cares for the penny whistles of grown children after his death? […] Posterity is but the same perpetuity of fools and rascals; and even were justice desirable at their hands, they could n o t deal it. [...] The word has gulled men enough without m y adding to the number. I, who loathe the living, can scarcely venerate the unborn. Lucy, believe me, that no man can mix largely with men in political life, and not despise everything that in youth he adored! Age leaves us only one feeling – contempt!” For all the staginess of monologues like these, they fulfill their purpose, adding another dimension to what would usually be another melodramatic scoundrel.
Quite like the inimitable Dickens, Lytton also seems to pursue social aims, indicting the inhumane criminal law of his time, as in Paul’s furious final speech in court: “The laws themselves caused me to break the laws: first, by implanting within me the goading sense of injustice; secondly by submitting me to the corruption of example. […] And it now destroys me, as it has destroyed thousands, for being what it made me!”
If you are not too averse to a certain pathos in tone and to melodrama, you might actually enjoy “Paul Clifford” a lot. After the amusing time I had with this novel, I will certainly give some other of Lytton’s works a try. The only thing I heartily disliked was the author’s apparent prejudice against the Scottish, which is not only mirrored in the caricature one of the characters supplies but also in various scathing remarks about the nation that has come up with some of the finest whiskies and poets in the world.
January 17, 2014
This was a bit of a find in a charity shop - I'm a huge fan of Victorian sensationalist novels (the so-called "Penny Dreadfuls" of the time) and I LOVED this. From the opening cliched line "It was a dark and stormy night...", I was utterly absorbed in the fate of Paul Lobkins/Clifford alias Captain Lovett, the dashing highwayman that all women want to be stopped by ("...it was especially observable that not one of the ladies who had been despoiled by the robber could be prevailed on to prosecute: on the contrary, they always talked of the event as one of the most agreeable remembrances in their lives, and seemed to bear a provoking gratitude to the comely offender, rather than resentment." pp 429-30) And who could blame them? From the descriptions, I'm picturing Orlando Bloom in highwayman get-up with a noble steed and a couple of debonnaire companions. I wouldn't mind my stage coach being stopped by them either. This prompted me to think why has a film of this not been made? It is impossibly romantic, has a great action-filled adventure story AND an imporant social message at the end. But no, film-makers would rather re-make Jane Eyre AGAIN than take a chance on something different. (Not that I don't love Jane Eyre - I do...)
I can't agree that it is badly written - it's written with humour and wit - the characters are beautifully sketched. There's just the right amount of ambiguity surrounding William Brandon - is he all bad? It's so hard to tell. Lucy redeems herself beautifully, stylishly side-stepping the ambitions and machinations of the men who would dispose of her to their own advantage. Lucy's father, with his manner of speaking in parenthesis is utterly brilliant and had me in stitches. He is a pertinent character too, because one of the big themes of this book, I felt, was language and how a criminal can be a "gentleman" if you just choose the right terminology to describe his activities; and a Judge can be the basest criminal by the same token.
As another reviewer has pointed out already, there is an important question raised by this novel about the nature of society and how effective the law was in dealing with its criminals (ones it had, in large measure, helped to create) during the nineteenth-century. "Mark!", Paul will proclaim, "'A man hungers - do you feed him? He is naked - do you clothe him? If not, you break your covenant, you drive him back to the first law of nature, and you hang him, not because he is guilty, but because you have left him naked and starving!'" (p. 508).
I so enjoyed reading this story and have now downloaded lots more Bulwer-Lytton to my kindle for future reading (most of it free). Can't recommend it enough for a bit of escapism and daydream material about dashing highwaymen.
I can't agree that it is badly written - it's written with humour and wit - the characters are beautifully sketched. There's just the right amount of ambiguity surrounding William Brandon - is he all bad? It's so hard to tell. Lucy redeems herself beautifully, stylishly side-stepping the ambitions and machinations of the men who would dispose of her to their own advantage. Lucy's father, with his manner of speaking in parenthesis is utterly brilliant and had me in stitches. He is a pertinent character too, because one of the big themes of this book, I felt, was language and how a criminal can be a "gentleman" if you just choose the right terminology to describe his activities; and a Judge can be the basest criminal by the same token.
As another reviewer has pointed out already, there is an important question raised by this novel about the nature of society and how effective the law was in dealing with its criminals (ones it had, in large measure, helped to create) during the nineteenth-century. "Mark!", Paul will proclaim, "'A man hungers - do you feed him? He is naked - do you clothe him? If not, you break your covenant, you drive him back to the first law of nature, and you hang him, not because he is guilty, but because you have left him naked and starving!'" (p. 508).
I so enjoyed reading this story and have now downloaded lots more Bulwer-Lytton to my kindle for future reading (most of it free). Can't recommend it enough for a bit of escapism and daydream material about dashing highwaymen.
February 17, 2022
Surprisingly , I found this mostly a rollickingly enjoyable read, and powerfully thought-provoking in the way deeply flawed, misfired novels sometimes are.
Bulwer-Lytton was the leading novelist of the 1820s, massively successful then but largely unread today. Charles Schulz’s Snoopy famously writes a novel with the same opening line as Paul Clifford’s - “It was a dark and stormy night … “ - and the line has inspired an annual literary competition, the Bulwer-Lytton prize, where people are encouraged to write the worst possible first sentence for a novel.
All this hilarity (and current neglect) is I feel slightly unfair to Lytton - he is a fluent, energetic, witty writer quite similar in some respects to the younger Dickens. In fact I would suggest Dickens used Lytton as one of his models. Both writers are energetically verbose and delight in lavishly complex and extended sentences and paragraphs. The chief difference is, Dickens is more imaginative and richly poetic, and his language whilst prolix always focuses on plot and theme quite tightly. Lytton doesn’t care as much - his cleverness just runs away with him and his text just shoots off at tangents at all points. He is a writer in dire need of an editor. He shatters the 4th wall to the extent of at one point actually comparing his characters to those in another novel (Fanny Burney’s Evelina).
Like Dickens, Lytton on the evidence of this novel is interested in social questions (Lytton ran for office and became a politician, rising to cabinet level in the 1850s). But here the differences between them are really interesting. Dickens is thought of as a radical, always highlighting social injustice. However, in comparison to Paul Clifford, Dickens’s approach tends to a reformist agenda - he implicitly accepts the fundamental premises of his society. Oliver Twist came out in the late 1830s - Paul Clifford in 1830. Paul Clifford’s wild success inspired the controversial ‘Newgate’ genre of novel where the hero is a criminal - Oliver was regarded at the time as falling into this genre (whereas in fact Oliver is a good little (displaced) middle-class boy who ultimately reaches his destined status at the end of the novel). By contrast, Paul Clifford is an actual highwayman who really steals goods at gunpoint from travellers, including the other main characters of his novel.
The Victorians thrilled to this amoral approach, but also decried the dubious morality. But I don’t think this is what Lytton intended - he was writing a radical social satire. But his satire is so radical it totally explodes the whole basis of Victorian capitalism and society. The social elite - aristocrats, politicians, judges, police and administrators - are seen as irredeemably corrupt, worse than the criminals they prosecute. And Lytton’s heroic criminals are criminal, they break the law - but this is partly excused by being a necessary rebellion against exploitation. The result is to undermine any sense of a settled moral order in society of a kind which can be ‘reformed’. An Anarchist vision, in fact. At any rate, Lytton comes out very strongly against hanging and capital punishment at the end of the novel, something I suppose is quite refreshing for 1830.
The major structural problems of the book result from the author’s fundamental indiscipline. The plot is as intricate as that of ‘Bleak House’, but Lytton spends too much time setting it up - the first third really drags and he rushes through the climax. His pacing is poor, as is his characterisation. Like Dickens, he cannot write female characters - in fact his treatment of the women characters is basically misogynistic. This is a pity, as his creaky plot calls for the heroine to act in the most unladylike and un-Victorian manner possible at the conclusion, which would make a terrific character arc for her if her author had regarded her as anything more than a necessarily gendered plot device.
His treatment of the hero’s mother’s backstory descends into cruel misogyny and is actually disturbing (Lytton had his ex-wife sectioned in a lunatic asylum, and was forced to release her by the public scandal the case aroused).
Apart from the hero highwayman (actually a displaced aristocrat), the many members of his gang are woefully underwritten. Lytton makes a few desultory stabs at a Dickens-like expressive cartoonish characterisation of the minor parts, but nowhere as masterfully or as memorably as Dickens. His best mode is in the action sequences, but he takes too long setting them up.
Bulwer-Lytton was the leading novelist of the 1820s, massively successful then but largely unread today. Charles Schulz’s Snoopy famously writes a novel with the same opening line as Paul Clifford’s - “It was a dark and stormy night … “ - and the line has inspired an annual literary competition, the Bulwer-Lytton prize, where people are encouraged to write the worst possible first sentence for a novel.
All this hilarity (and current neglect) is I feel slightly unfair to Lytton - he is a fluent, energetic, witty writer quite similar in some respects to the younger Dickens. In fact I would suggest Dickens used Lytton as one of his models. Both writers are energetically verbose and delight in lavishly complex and extended sentences and paragraphs. The chief difference is, Dickens is more imaginative and richly poetic, and his language whilst prolix always focuses on plot and theme quite tightly. Lytton doesn’t care as much - his cleverness just runs away with him and his text just shoots off at tangents at all points. He is a writer in dire need of an editor. He shatters the 4th wall to the extent of at one point actually comparing his characters to those in another novel (Fanny Burney’s Evelina).
Like Dickens, Lytton on the evidence of this novel is interested in social questions (Lytton ran for office and became a politician, rising to cabinet level in the 1850s). But here the differences between them are really interesting. Dickens is thought of as a radical, always highlighting social injustice. However, in comparison to Paul Clifford, Dickens’s approach tends to a reformist agenda - he implicitly accepts the fundamental premises of his society. Oliver Twist came out in the late 1830s - Paul Clifford in 1830. Paul Clifford’s wild success inspired the controversial ‘Newgate’ genre of novel where the hero is a criminal - Oliver was regarded at the time as falling into this genre (whereas in fact Oliver is a good little (displaced) middle-class boy who ultimately reaches his destined status at the end of the novel). By contrast, Paul Clifford is an actual highwayman who really steals goods at gunpoint from travellers, including the other main characters of his novel.
The Victorians thrilled to this amoral approach, but also decried the dubious morality. But I don’t think this is what Lytton intended - he was writing a radical social satire. But his satire is so radical it totally explodes the whole basis of Victorian capitalism and society. The social elite - aristocrats, politicians, judges, police and administrators - are seen as irredeemably corrupt, worse than the criminals they prosecute. And Lytton’s heroic criminals are criminal, they break the law - but this is partly excused by being a necessary rebellion against exploitation. The result is to undermine any sense of a settled moral order in society of a kind which can be ‘reformed’. An Anarchist vision, in fact. At any rate, Lytton comes out very strongly against hanging and capital punishment at the end of the novel, something I suppose is quite refreshing for 1830.
The major structural problems of the book result from the author’s fundamental indiscipline. The plot is as intricate as that of ‘Bleak House’, but Lytton spends too much time setting it up - the first third really drags and he rushes through the climax. His pacing is poor, as is his characterisation. Like Dickens, he cannot write female characters - in fact his treatment of the women characters is basically misogynistic. This is a pity, as his creaky plot calls for the heroine to act in the most unladylike and un-Victorian manner possible at the conclusion, which would make a terrific character arc for her if her author had regarded her as anything more than a necessarily gendered plot device.
His treatment of the hero’s mother’s backstory descends into cruel misogyny and is actually disturbing (Lytton had his ex-wife sectioned in a lunatic asylum, and was forced to release her by the public scandal the case aroused).
Apart from the hero highwayman (actually a displaced aristocrat), the many members of his gang are woefully underwritten. Lytton makes a few desultory stabs at a Dickens-like expressive cartoonish characterisation of the minor parts, but nowhere as masterfully or as memorably as Dickens. His best mode is in the action sequences, but he takes too long setting them up.
June 28, 2022
2022 Reading Challenge #15: A book with less than 5,000 ratings on Goodreads ☑
Although it is apparently virtually unread nowadays (It barely has over 100 ratings on Goodreads), Paul Clifford is the origin of the infamous opening line, "It was a dark and stormy night" (Which, in some circles, is considered the worst incipit ever. I don't think it deserves the title, especially if you see the one Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote for his other novel, The Last Days of Pompeii, but I digress...). In fact, that's just the truncated version. In its entirety, the book's beginning actually reads:
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Now that is a closer contender (I'd still vote The Last Days of Pompeii though). Ｗritten in 1830, I expected purple prose, but this book is verbose even by Victorian literature standards. Don't believe me?:
"He stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated."
"But that roundabout sort of blow with the left fist is very unfavourable towards the preservation of a firm balance; and before Paul had recovered sufficiently to make an effectual bolt, he was prostrated to the earth..."
"On the opposite side of the stream, there is a range of steep hills, celebrated for nothing more romantic than their property of imparting to the flocks that browse upon their short and seemingly stinted herbage, a flavour peculiarly grateful to the lovers of that pastoral animal which changes its name into mutton after its decease."
"...at no time of my life have I been less unable to discharge..."
"MacGrawler opened his eyes larger and larger, even as you may see a small circle in the water widen into enormity, if you disturb the equanimity of the surface by the obtrusion of a foreign substance."
And my personal "favorite:"
"...the individual stood, with his right arm bared above the elbow, and his right hand grasping that mimic trident known unto gastronomers by the monosyllable 'fork.'"
The dialogue is also awful.
"'Oh, a very fine subject; what you call a (it is astonishing that in this country there should be such a wish for taking away people's characters, which, for my part, I don't see is a bit more entertaining than what you are always doing, —playing with those stupid birds) libel!'"
Who talks with parentheticals?!
I'm not a fan of 19th century authors' tendency to address the reader, but again, Bulwer-Lytton proves himself to be the worst offender. Not only does he do it more than any author I've ever read, but he doesn't just say typical things like, "It was at this point, reader," or "If you remember, dear reader;" (although he does that gratuitously): he breaks the fourth wall to overtly explain things and spell out conclusions, and also to conveniently skip over parts.
Even if these stylistic choices don't bother you, there's also the blatant condescension and condemnation of women with which he writes, and the praise of "the energy and passion of [the] powerful and masculine nature."
The story itself actually isn't that bad (a robber leads a dual life of crime and luxury, but then wants to reform upon falling in love), but Bulwer-Lytton's pacing is off and anticlimactic (The twist should have been a surprise, but what he thought was the clever introduction of pivotal backstory towards the end actually just made the outcome really predictable). The courtroom scene was another part that could have been really gripping, but got weighed down in drawn-out dialogue (Clifford's monologue was genuinely powerful, but still wearisome for its length).
I'll also admit that there is some very good and still-relevant criticism of the penal system, the superficiality and disingenuity of the upper class, and the hypocrisy of the law and those who are meant to uphold it. He makes some good points about the grayness of ethics, and "crimes" that are sanctioned, "legal." I could see myself giving the book 3 or 4 stars for the plot and social commentary, but the writing was so frustrating to get through. As much of a chore as it was to get through though, I don't think I'd condemn it to a 1-star rating. That probably averages out to a 2 or 2.5 (rounded down).
Although it is apparently virtually unread nowadays (It barely has over 100 ratings on Goodreads), Paul Clifford is the origin of the infamous opening line, "It was a dark and stormy night" (Which, in some circles, is considered the worst incipit ever. I don't think it deserves the title, especially if you see the one Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote for his other novel, The Last Days of Pompeii, but I digress...). In fact, that's just the truncated version. In its entirety, the book's beginning actually reads:
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Now that is a closer contender (I'd still vote The Last Days of Pompeii though). Ｗritten in 1830, I expected purple prose, but this book is verbose even by Victorian literature standards. Don't believe me?:
"He stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated."
"But that roundabout sort of blow with the left fist is very unfavourable towards the preservation of a firm balance; and before Paul had recovered sufficiently to make an effectual bolt, he was prostrated to the earth..."
"On the opposite side of the stream, there is a range of steep hills, celebrated for nothing more romantic than their property of imparting to the flocks that browse upon their short and seemingly stinted herbage, a flavour peculiarly grateful to the lovers of that pastoral animal which changes its name into mutton after its decease."
"...at no time of my life have I been less unable to discharge..."
"MacGrawler opened his eyes larger and larger, even as you may see a small circle in the water widen into enormity, if you disturb the equanimity of the surface by the obtrusion of a foreign substance."
And my personal "favorite:"
"...the individual stood, with his right arm bared above the elbow, and his right hand grasping that mimic trident known unto gastronomers by the monosyllable 'fork.'"
The dialogue is also awful.
"'Oh, a very fine subject; what you call a (it is astonishing that in this country there should be such a wish for taking away people's characters, which, for my part, I don't see is a bit more entertaining than what you are always doing, —playing with those stupid birds) libel!'"
Who talks with parentheticals?!
I'm not a fan of 19th century authors' tendency to address the reader, but again, Bulwer-Lytton proves himself to be the worst offender. Not only does he do it more than any author I've ever read, but he doesn't just say typical things like, "It was at this point, reader," or "If you remember, dear reader;" (although he does that gratuitously): he breaks the fourth wall to overtly explain things and spell out conclusions, and also to conveniently skip over parts.
Even if these stylistic choices don't bother you, there's also the blatant condescension and condemnation of women with which he writes, and the praise of "the energy and passion of [the] powerful and masculine nature."
The story itself actually isn't that bad (a robber leads a dual life of crime and luxury, but then wants to reform upon falling in love), but Bulwer-Lytton's pacing is off and anticlimactic (The twist should have been a surprise, but what he thought was the clever introduction of pivotal backstory towards the end actually just made the outcome really predictable). The courtroom scene was another part that could have been really gripping, but got weighed down in drawn-out dialogue (Clifford's monologue was genuinely powerful, but still wearisome for its length).
I'll also admit that there is some very good and still-relevant criticism of the penal system, the superficiality and disingenuity of the upper class, and the hypocrisy of the law and those who are meant to uphold it. He makes some good points about the grayness of ethics, and "crimes" that are sanctioned, "legal." I could see myself giving the book 3 or 4 stars for the plot and social commentary, but the writing was so frustrating to get through. As much of a chore as it was to get through though, I don't think I'd condemn it to a 1-star rating. That probably averages out to a 2 or 2.5 (rounded down).
November 4, 2013
Paul Clifford has been the butt of criticism, and unfairly so. My own mother would mockingly quote the first phrase of this novel, though I am fairly certain she never read it. What I have gleaned from reading it is an admiration for a prose that begs to be read aloud, for the phrases flow with such amazing smoothness, they may have been polished by the Book of Common Prayer. Here we find the highwayman, Ned Pepper (a character whose name would not appear for 138 years until Charles Portis resurrected it in True Grit, and the protagonist of Paul, whose true parentage is unknown when his mother dies and is left in the care of the tippling proprietress of The Mug, Piggy Lobkins. The characters are sometimes given names that would have done Voltaire service--a watchman who chases criminals is named Nabbem, which he seems to do well if his palm has not been adequately greased.
I shall not partake (after the fashion of Peter MacGrawler, the critic) to tickle, slash or plaster this novel. Though there will be no pencil marks in my edition to fairly suggest an actual reading, my nook, so long as the battery does not expire, shall show those notes and bookmarks of my passing through the virtual pages (and I shall leave it to the reader to ascertain what character brought surprise at the perusal of his library upon his death).
As Clifford so wisely indulges the faults of others, "Circumstances make guilt," he was wont to say: "let us endeavour to correct the circumstances, before we rail against the guilt!" (p422). If such sentiment sounds like it could be from Hugo's classic, Les Misérables it is because Bulwer-Lytton was the one who penned it 32 years earlier in Paul Clifford. Should the reader be as eager to learn the last line of this novel as the first phrase is so well known, the author attributes it to John Wilkes, Alderman of London, and has it printed in capitals as the last phrase of the novel: "THE VERY WORST USE TO WHICH YOU CAN PUT A MAN IS TO HANG HIM!"
In the appendix to the novel, bearing the title of "Tomlinsoniana", the author notes that the novel may be justly termed "A Treatise on Social Frauds".
I thoroughly enjoyed my past few days with this novel, and I commend it to any so bold as to risk the time in reading what the critics have castigated for so many years. Perhaps the reader will attain to make bold when next somebody "slashes" this work without having read it.
I shall not partake (after the fashion of Peter MacGrawler, the critic) to tickle, slash or plaster this novel. Though there will be no pencil marks in my edition to fairly suggest an actual reading, my nook, so long as the battery does not expire, shall show those notes and bookmarks of my passing through the virtual pages (and I shall leave it to the reader to ascertain what character brought surprise at the perusal of his library upon his death).
As Clifford so wisely indulges the faults of others, "Circumstances make guilt," he was wont to say: "let us endeavour to correct the circumstances, before we rail against the guilt!" (p422). If such sentiment sounds like it could be from Hugo's classic, Les Misérables it is because Bulwer-Lytton was the one who penned it 32 years earlier in Paul Clifford. Should the reader be as eager to learn the last line of this novel as the first phrase is so well known, the author attributes it to John Wilkes, Alderman of London, and has it printed in capitals as the last phrase of the novel: "THE VERY WORST USE TO WHICH YOU CAN PUT A MAN IS TO HANG HIM!"
In the appendix to the novel, bearing the title of "Tomlinsoniana", the author notes that the novel may be justly termed "A Treatise on Social Frauds".
I thoroughly enjoyed my past few days with this novel, and I commend it to any so bold as to risk the time in reading what the critics have castigated for so many years. Perhaps the reader will attain to make bold when next somebody "slashes" this work without having read it.
September 7, 2014
"It was a dark and stormy night..." may be the best line in the book. Paul Clifford, our hero is honestly not that likeable, the plot weak, and I often felt like I was reading a thesaurus...cover to cover.
"...She stood with a bottle of medicine in her hand, shaking its contents up and down, and with a kindly yet timid compassion spread over a countenance crimsoned with habitual libations. This made the scene; (I guess not, because this is followed by a bit more scene setting, haha ) save that on a chair by the bedside lay a profusion of long, glossy, golden ringlets, which had been cut from the head of the sufferer when the fever had begun to mount upwards; but which, with a jealousy that portrayed the darling littleness of a vain heart, she had seized, and insisted on retaining near her; and save that, by the fire, perfectly inattentive to the event about to take place within the chamber, and to which we of the biped race attach so awful and importance, lay a large, gray cat, curled in a ball, and dozing with half-shut eyes, and ears that now and then denoted, by a gentle inflection, the jar of a louder or nearer sound than usual upon her lethargic senses."
Wow. I normally love 19th century writing. This book? Not so much.
"...She stood with a bottle of medicine in her hand, shaking its contents up and down, and with a kindly yet timid compassion spread over a countenance crimsoned with habitual libations. This made the scene; (I guess not, because this is followed by a bit more scene setting, haha ) save that on a chair by the bedside lay a profusion of long, glossy, golden ringlets, which had been cut from the head of the sufferer when the fever had begun to mount upwards; but which, with a jealousy that portrayed the darling littleness of a vain heart, she had seized, and insisted on retaining near her; and save that, by the fire, perfectly inattentive to the event about to take place within the chamber, and to which we of the biped race attach so awful and importance, lay a large, gray cat, curled in a ball, and dozing with half-shut eyes, and ears that now and then denoted, by a gentle inflection, the jar of a louder or nearer sound than usual upon her lethargic senses."
Wow. I normally love 19th century writing. This book? Not so much.
Want to read
May 25, 2016The original: "It was a dark and stormy night" :-)
July 2, 2023
If I read a plot summary of this, it would sound pretty good. While you'd expect a book about a highwayman to prominently feature narrow escapes, daring moonlight rides, and secret hideouts, this book consists primarily of long, tedious conversations. Bulwer-Lytton is not much of a stylist, nor is he all that clear. As I read, it felt like I was observing the events of the book through frosted glass. This could have been good, but it just wasn't, owing to Bulwer-Lytton's failure to present the events in an appropriate style and format.
August 31, 2025
2023 52 Book Challenge - October Mini Challenge - 2) “It Was A Dark And Stormy Night”
This was an interesting book, and I have wanted to read the book where the "it was a dark and stormy night" quote originated, so I am glad to have read this.
However, it is a really difficult read. There is a lot of extraneous stuff that really bogs down the plot and the pacing, which really makes the book suffer for being so slow. If this stuff was removed, or even rewritten to make it a bit more relevant, I think this would have been a much higher rating.
This was an interesting book, and I have wanted to read the book where the "it was a dark and stormy night" quote originated, so I am glad to have read this.
However, it is a really difficult read. There is a lot of extraneous stuff that really bogs down the plot and the pacing, which really makes the book suffer for being so slow. If this stuff was removed, or even rewritten to make it a bit more relevant, I think this would have been a much higher rating.
February 10, 2021
This book sounds really awesome, as well as very well-written, too. I especially love the phrase “It was a dark and stormy night” the best. After all, that line has become so well-known over time that it has found its place in culture.
Of course, the line is also well-known from the point of view of Snoopy, the dog from the Peanuts comic strip (by Charles M. Schultz). Basically, Snoopy becomes so besotted with the line that he starts his career of wanting to become a great novelist by beginning what he calls his Great Novel with that phrase.
Personally, from my perspective, the line about a night being described as all dark and stormy is a good one for beginning a story, whether told verbally, or through being typed up on the computer.
Of course, the line is also well-known from the point of view of Snoopy, the dog from the Peanuts comic strip (by Charles M. Schultz). Basically, Snoopy becomes so besotted with the line that he starts his career of wanting to become a great novelist by beginning what he calls his Great Novel with that phrase.
Personally, from my perspective, the line about a night being described as all dark and stormy is a good one for beginning a story, whether told verbally, or through being typed up on the computer.
Want to read
December 2, 2023Violet prose, not purple.
May 16, 2019
Paul Clifford by Baron Edward Bulwer-Lytton
This is a marvelous and greatly maligned piece of fiction that begins with this ever over-popularized piece of purple prose.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 9). . Kindle Edition.
One must wonder when looking at the Point of View of this novel which seems to be some omniscient narrator who in a rather tongue and cheeky fashion keeps addressing the reader directly through the holes he creates in the forth wall. By the end of the story there are more holes in that wall than there might be in a block of Swiss cheese. This and the florid manor of writing alone cause one to suspect the author has deliberately waxed purple all the way through this seemingly florid bit of prose.
Add to this a later instance of similar quality:
It was a frosty and tolerably clear night. The dusk of the twilight had melted away beneath the moon which had just risen, and the hoary rime glittered from the bushes and the sward, breaking into a thousand diamonds as it caught the rays of the stars.
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 246). . Kindle Edition.
Granted there is a period here after night, but then how much different is that really than the semicolon of the former. I think that the author is having the last laugh, if he could only see how well quoted he has become.
Beyond such valuable prose this novel holds many things. I've read the analysis that it portrays the injustice of the justice system of the time holding that our hero who ends up being a rogue and highwayman is unjustly convicted and housed among other thieves where he may learn more of the craft of thievery from the real pros. And this does seem to be a major thread that runs through the novel with multitudes of soliloquies about such injustice and the justification for all men to become Robin Hoods. But there is so much more here. What I've mentioned is just the tip of the iceberg.
Another rather important thread that touches early in the story seems almost to address the issue of florid prose or at least perhaps the criticism of such.
For background; in the story, Paul has been orphaned and left to the care of Mrs. Margery Lobkins who is owner of an inn and alehouse and is rough around the edges but seems to have a heart of gold. Mrs.Lobkins who would likely never attempt to have children of her own vows to do her best to educate Paul to the fullest of her ability. To this end she enlists the help of many of her clientele who often do display higher levels of learning in some areas. The trouble is that many of these men are of ill repute and such relationships created with Paul make this reader wonder about the previous assessment that this is primarily a novel about how the system makes the young man go wrong. Enter into this group Mr. Peter MacGrawler; whose station in life seems often to be in question. He is a frequenter of the Lobkins alehouse and an editor of a magazine that promotes prints and critiques literary works. He becomes Paul's tutor and eventually his employer for a brief time after he teaches Paul the art of the critique.
This brings us to what seems to be a most scathing view of what a critique is. Paul is taught in a nutshell how to critique works of which MacGrawler seems to predestine rather arbitrarily to specific fates.
"Listen, then," rejoined MacGrawler; and as he spoke, the candle cast an awful glimmering on his countenance. "To slash is, speaking grammatically, to employ the accusative, or accusing case; you must cut up your book right and left, top and bottom, root and branch. To plaster a book is to employ the dative, or giving case; and you must bestow on the work all the superlatives in the language,—you must lay on your praise thick and thin, and not leave a crevice untrowelled. But to tickle, sir, is a comprehensive word, and it comprises all the infinite varieties that fill the interval between slashing and plastering. This is the nicety of the art, and you can only acquire it by practice; a few examples will suffice to give you an idea of its delicacy.
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 42). . Kindle Edition.
And as if that isn't enough MacGrawler explains it is not always necessary to read the entire piece; though they may be required to read some of a piece they tickle he offers this further explanation.
MacGrawler continued:— "There is another grand difficulty attendant on this class of criticism.—it is generally requisite to read a few pages of the work; because we seldom tickle without extracting, and it requires some judgment to make the context agree with the extract. But it is not often necessary to extract when you slash or when you plaster; when you slash, it is better in general to conclude with: 'After what we have said, it is unnecessary to add that we cannot offend the taste of our readers by any quotation from this execrable trash.' And when you plaster, you may wind up with: 'We regret that our limits will not allow us to give any extracts from this wonderful and unrivalled work. We must refer our readers to the book itself.'
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 43). . Kindle Edition.
Paul does well as a critique, but finds it does not pay well and when he finds that MacGrawler has been pocketing money that belongs to him he quits and this is how he moves into the world of Highwaymen.
It is through the acquaintance of his past that he's caught for someone else crime and sentenced to prison. And somewhere from prison; to escape; to joining the gang, he's introduced to the moral conundrum that allows the thieves to lie, cheat, and steal with a sense of impunity. And Paul becomes a leader among the highwaymen.
This novel is far from over because there is a romance between a roguish rake and gentle lady. There's a mystery about Paul's origins. And there is the moral comparison of those in charge of the governing of men to those who would rob them on the road.
This novel should be a must read, especially by those whose only introduction is through the first line in the novel. Sure it might act as an example of what not to do, but it contains elements that show up even in today's fiction; both romance and fantasy. Along with all the florid passages are a number of threads that feed an interesting plot. Lovers of romance should find this interesting and lovers of such fiction as The Three Musketeers and Count of Monte Cristo will certainly be entertained.
Lastly lovers of the classics in all their purple nature will enjoy this novel and perhaps revel in the humor of the delivery. (I may be seeing some humor that wasn't intended.)
Novels like this make me wonder if today we haven't taken the bite out of good fiction. We've weakened and decayed the author's teeth through a lack of Florid-ation.
J.L. Dobias
This is a marvelous and greatly maligned piece of fiction that begins with this ever over-popularized piece of purple prose.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 9). . Kindle Edition.
One must wonder when looking at the Point of View of this novel which seems to be some omniscient narrator who in a rather tongue and cheeky fashion keeps addressing the reader directly through the holes he creates in the forth wall. By the end of the story there are more holes in that wall than there might be in a block of Swiss cheese. This and the florid manor of writing alone cause one to suspect the author has deliberately waxed purple all the way through this seemingly florid bit of prose.
Add to this a later instance of similar quality:
It was a frosty and tolerably clear night. The dusk of the twilight had melted away beneath the moon which had just risen, and the hoary rime glittered from the bushes and the sward, breaking into a thousand diamonds as it caught the rays of the stars.
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 246). . Kindle Edition.
Granted there is a period here after night, but then how much different is that really than the semicolon of the former. I think that the author is having the last laugh, if he could only see how well quoted he has become.
Beyond such valuable prose this novel holds many things. I've read the analysis that it portrays the injustice of the justice system of the time holding that our hero who ends up being a rogue and highwayman is unjustly convicted and housed among other thieves where he may learn more of the craft of thievery from the real pros. And this does seem to be a major thread that runs through the novel with multitudes of soliloquies about such injustice and the justification for all men to become Robin Hoods. But there is so much more here. What I've mentioned is just the tip of the iceberg.
Another rather important thread that touches early in the story seems almost to address the issue of florid prose or at least perhaps the criticism of such.
For background; in the story, Paul has been orphaned and left to the care of Mrs. Margery Lobkins who is owner of an inn and alehouse and is rough around the edges but seems to have a heart of gold. Mrs.Lobkins who would likely never attempt to have children of her own vows to do her best to educate Paul to the fullest of her ability. To this end she enlists the help of many of her clientele who often do display higher levels of learning in some areas. The trouble is that many of these men are of ill repute and such relationships created with Paul make this reader wonder about the previous assessment that this is primarily a novel about how the system makes the young man go wrong. Enter into this group Mr. Peter MacGrawler; whose station in life seems often to be in question. He is a frequenter of the Lobkins alehouse and an editor of a magazine that promotes prints and critiques literary works. He becomes Paul's tutor and eventually his employer for a brief time after he teaches Paul the art of the critique.
This brings us to what seems to be a most scathing view of what a critique is. Paul is taught in a nutshell how to critique works of which MacGrawler seems to predestine rather arbitrarily to specific fates.
"Listen, then," rejoined MacGrawler; and as he spoke, the candle cast an awful glimmering on his countenance. "To slash is, speaking grammatically, to employ the accusative, or accusing case; you must cut up your book right and left, top and bottom, root and branch. To plaster a book is to employ the dative, or giving case; and you must bestow on the work all the superlatives in the language,—you must lay on your praise thick and thin, and not leave a crevice untrowelled. But to tickle, sir, is a comprehensive word, and it comprises all the infinite varieties that fill the interval between slashing and plastering. This is the nicety of the art, and you can only acquire it by practice; a few examples will suffice to give you an idea of its delicacy.
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 42). . Kindle Edition.
And as if that isn't enough MacGrawler explains it is not always necessary to read the entire piece; though they may be required to read some of a piece they tickle he offers this further explanation.
MacGrawler continued:— "There is another grand difficulty attendant on this class of criticism.—it is generally requisite to read a few pages of the work; because we seldom tickle without extracting, and it requires some judgment to make the context agree with the extract. But it is not often necessary to extract when you slash or when you plaster; when you slash, it is better in general to conclude with: 'After what we have said, it is unnecessary to add that we cannot offend the taste of our readers by any quotation from this execrable trash.' And when you plaster, you may wind up with: 'We regret that our limits will not allow us to give any extracts from this wonderful and unrivalled work. We must refer our readers to the book itself.'
Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward (2012-05-16). Paul Clifford - Complete (p. 43). . Kindle Edition.
Paul does well as a critique, but finds it does not pay well and when he finds that MacGrawler has been pocketing money that belongs to him he quits and this is how he moves into the world of Highwaymen.
It is through the acquaintance of his past that he's caught for someone else crime and sentenced to prison. And somewhere from prison; to escape; to joining the gang, he's introduced to the moral conundrum that allows the thieves to lie, cheat, and steal with a sense of impunity. And Paul becomes a leader among the highwaymen.
This novel is far from over because there is a romance between a roguish rake and gentle lady. There's a mystery about Paul's origins. And there is the moral comparison of those in charge of the governing of men to those who would rob them on the road.
This novel should be a must read, especially by those whose only introduction is through the first line in the novel. Sure it might act as an example of what not to do, but it contains elements that show up even in today's fiction; both romance and fantasy. Along with all the florid passages are a number of threads that feed an interesting plot. Lovers of romance should find this interesting and lovers of such fiction as The Three Musketeers and Count of Monte Cristo will certainly be entertained.
Lastly lovers of the classics in all their purple nature will enjoy this novel and perhaps revel in the humor of the delivery. (I may be seeing some humor that wasn't intended.)
Novels like this make me wonder if today we haven't taken the bite out of good fiction. We've weakened and decayed the author's teeth through a lack of Florid-ation.
J.L. Dobias
June 22, 2019
Five stars for the story. Two stars for the way it is written. Hence the three star rating. As a kid I was first familiarized with the line "It was a dark and stormy night" in Charles Schultz Peanuts cartoon in the Sunday funnies. Snoopy would type it while sitting on the roof of his dog house. Google was able to help me locate the book the line came from. First published in 1830 in Britain, this book reads like it. There's lots of slang from the time period which even Merriam-Webster's Dictionary could not help me decipher. And lots of unnecessary babbling not necessary to move the story along, which made the read a bit of a slog. The story however, which weaves the storylines of characters in and out of each other's lives, is a great! In fact, I kept thinking the story, in a tightened up screenplay version, would make a great mini-series or movie! Come on, get on that someone, would you? Netflix? HBO? AmazonPrime? This book was worth the time it took to read it.
May 5, 2020
1830s bestseller Paul Clifford takes 600 pages to tell a pretty straightforward story of a young boy who grows up to be a highwayman, his life of crime, the woman he falls for, and their eventual happy ending. It’s not terrible, and there’s value in being able to see that Bulwer-Lytton is aiming for effects that Dickens manages not long after with infinitely more panache and individuality (poor and elderly grotesques with funny accents! Parentage shrouded in mystery!) But the fact that it’s now out of print (after a brief stint as one of a short-lived Penguin series of Victorian Bestsellers) is really a mercy.
November 29, 2008
This book begins with the immortal words 'It was a dark and stormy night'
The story is a fascinating portrait of redemption, with many quaint and amusing asides.
The story is a fascinating portrait of redemption, with many quaint and amusing asides.
December 17, 2024
It was neither dark nor stormy when I finally decided to read this book. Rather, the choice was borne from reflection: this was one of the three remaining unread books shipped from Australia in 2018. There was good reason for these books being unread: two of them were authored by Bulwer-Lytton. While Bulwer-Lytton was recognized as a popular serial novelist during the early 1800s, later criticism identified his glaring weaknesses as a writer: Lytton was rarely concise and often circumlocutory. His novels would often average 500 pages, but their stories could have been easily told in 200. Paul Clifford was no exception.
The gist of the story is simple: Paul Clifford was born out of wedlock, adopted by an older lady, Mrs. Margery, and befriended by a conman known as Dummie. Eventually, he would come to work for a Peter MacGrawler, steal from him because he was being taken advantage of. He would later on live a double life as highwayman and gentleman, acting like a faux-Robin Hood of sorts. He falls in love with Lucy Brandon, who grows to later be fond of him. Her uncle, William, however, disapproves of his suspected low birth, and tries to pair her with Lord Mauleverer. Later on, Paul's past exploits as Lovett caught up to him. William Brandon ascends society and becomes Paul's judge in his trial, and later realizes Paul to be his son out of wedlock. He nevertheless sentences him to death, but later on commutes this to transportation (or banishment), and then dies afterward. Lord Maulverer understood his role in Paul's capture and so wrote to commute his sentence. Lucy goes with Brandon, and they lived an honorable life in a place where no one knew them.
I would have rated this novel just as poorly as I did Last Days of Pompeii, but I was amused with the Tomlinsoniana at the end of the novel. Augustus Tomlinson was Paul's accomplice as a highwayman, and his rather stoic and practical approach to live was droll: "The heart of an inferior is always fascinated by a jest. Men know this in the knavery of elections." (p. 530) These words still resonate nowadays.
Paul Clifford, though largely popular at the time, suffers from the same diseases that Lytton's works possess: the prose is florid, ornate, and the abstruse allusions are even more difficult to decipher. While Lytton does seek to redress the poor justice system of England at the time, hallowing William Brandon while punishing the conflicted Paul, there are shorter and better works that address the same themes. Further, the courageous antihero has been tackled better in earlier and later works, although if one does read this novel, at least one's vocabulary will be expanded.
The gist of the story is simple: Paul Clifford was born out of wedlock, adopted by an older lady, Mrs. Margery, and befriended by a conman known as Dummie. Eventually, he would come to work for a Peter MacGrawler, steal from him because he was being taken advantage of. He would later on live a double life as highwayman and gentleman, acting like a faux-Robin Hood of sorts. He falls in love with Lucy Brandon, who grows to later be fond of him. Her uncle, William, however, disapproves of his suspected low birth, and tries to pair her with Lord Mauleverer. Later on, Paul's past exploits as Lovett caught up to him. William Brandon ascends society and becomes Paul's judge in his trial, and later realizes Paul to be his son out of wedlock. He nevertheless sentences him to death, but later on commutes this to transportation (or banishment), and then dies afterward. Lord Maulverer understood his role in Paul's capture and so wrote to commute his sentence. Lucy goes with Brandon, and they lived an honorable life in a place where no one knew them.
I would have rated this novel just as poorly as I did Last Days of Pompeii, but I was amused with the Tomlinsoniana at the end of the novel. Augustus Tomlinson was Paul's accomplice as a highwayman, and his rather stoic and practical approach to live was droll: "The heart of an inferior is always fascinated by a jest. Men know this in the knavery of elections." (p. 530) These words still resonate nowadays.
Paul Clifford, though largely popular at the time, suffers from the same diseases that Lytton's works possess: the prose is florid, ornate, and the abstruse allusions are even more difficult to decipher. While Lytton does seek to redress the poor justice system of England at the time, hallowing William Brandon while punishing the conflicted Paul, there are shorter and better works that address the same themes. Further, the courageous antihero has been tackled better in earlier and later works, although if one does read this novel, at least one's vocabulary will be expanded.
August 14, 2025
‘Paul Clifford,’ (1830) is a quasi-picaresque novel about a noble highwayman. Noble, that is, in his romantic character, for of his birth nothing is known except that his mother was a woman of the streets, and that he was born in the lowest kind of alehouse under the auspices of a kind-hearted, generous but drunken landlady, the owner of the establishment.
It then becomes initially a coming-of-age novel, followed by a term of imprisonment for an act of pickpocketing of which he was innocent. At a tender age, in the company of hardened felons, Paul Clifford might have ended his career on the gallows, had it not been for the protection of a powerful and educated prisoner, who saw in the youth a vulnerability as well as an intelligence that could be shaped and nurtured to any trade.
After a daring escape from the prison house, both protector and protégé find the easiest and safest method of enriching themselves is as highwaymen. Paul eventually becomes the successful leader of a small band of pickpockets, robbers, housebreakers and such riffraff, reserving the more dangerous profession as highwaymen for himself and his mentor, the genial and polished ex-nobleman, Augustine Tomlinson.
This happy phase ends when Paul falls in love with a simple country girl, a girl who would be an heiress one day.
The rest of the novel is predictable. It is devious and prolix, a tear-jerker for those susceptible Victorians, but which, after nearly a hundred years, seems to the twentyfirst century reader contrived and forced.
The real strength of this book is the vivid knowledge B-L seems to have of the brotherhood of thieves and knaves in the underworld of Victorian England, which has its parallel in the upper-class and aristocratic society of peers, judges and country squires and the landed gentry who bribe and flatter their superiors in rank in order to cheat and defy the laws they themselves have established.
‘Paul Clifford’ is also remarkable for B-L’s understanding of the psychology of crime and the criminal at a time when society regarded misfortune, including poverty, insanity and disability, mental or physical, as criminal. A child was as criminal as an adult. Its sentence might be transportation instead of hanging, but it was not for nothing that the expression “as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb” crept into the language. Paul’s closing speech at his trial is the basis of the system of justice we understand today. The realism, without cynicism, of the characters is striking, even though they are, on the whole, two-dimensional cardboard figures. At one point, we are forced to confront the question, Yes, but who is the villain here? And there is no answer, except everyone.
It then becomes initially a coming-of-age novel, followed by a term of imprisonment for an act of pickpocketing of which he was innocent. At a tender age, in the company of hardened felons, Paul Clifford might have ended his career on the gallows, had it not been for the protection of a powerful and educated prisoner, who saw in the youth a vulnerability as well as an intelligence that could be shaped and nurtured to any trade.
After a daring escape from the prison house, both protector and protégé find the easiest and safest method of enriching themselves is as highwaymen. Paul eventually becomes the successful leader of a small band of pickpockets, robbers, housebreakers and such riffraff, reserving the more dangerous profession as highwaymen for himself and his mentor, the genial and polished ex-nobleman, Augustine Tomlinson.
This happy phase ends when Paul falls in love with a simple country girl, a girl who would be an heiress one day.
The rest of the novel is predictable. It is devious and prolix, a tear-jerker for those susceptible Victorians, but which, after nearly a hundred years, seems to the twentyfirst century reader contrived and forced.
The real strength of this book is the vivid knowledge B-L seems to have of the brotherhood of thieves and knaves in the underworld of Victorian England, which has its parallel in the upper-class and aristocratic society of peers, judges and country squires and the landed gentry who bribe and flatter their superiors in rank in order to cheat and defy the laws they themselves have established.
‘Paul Clifford’ is also remarkable for B-L’s understanding of the psychology of crime and the criminal at a time when society regarded misfortune, including poverty, insanity and disability, mental or physical, as criminal. A child was as criminal as an adult. Its sentence might be transportation instead of hanging, but it was not for nothing that the expression “as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb” crept into the language. Paul’s closing speech at his trial is the basis of the system of justice we understand today. The realism, without cynicism, of the characters is striking, even though they are, on the whole, two-dimensional cardboard figures. At one point, we are forced to confront the question, Yes, but who is the villain here? And there is no answer, except everyone.
June 9, 2018
It was a dark and stormy night. Yes, this is the book whose first sentence starts with those words. I had always wanted to find out what this tale was all about, so I borrowed it from the library. It is quite a good novel of how circumstances and environment can make or break a man and how the British caste system of the time period played a part in the execution of justice.
Paul Clifford's life did not start out well. His mother passed away soon after his birth and he was left to the care of a woman who owned a tavern in one of the poorest sections of town. Despite her best efforts in trying to give Paul a rudimentary education, he inadvertently makes friends with a ne'er-do-well. This association leads to his unjust imprisonment and he eventually falls prey to the allure of the criminal element and makes quite a name (albeit an alias) for himself among his fellow lawbreakers.
He falls in love with a young lady who belongs to a higher station in life and his attempts to gain the favor of her father seem to be going well as he takes on yet another persona to keep his criminal activities hidden. The young lady has reciprocated his feelings but her uncle has doubts about Paul's character.
Of course, I would never give away all that ensues so I will leave my description as is.
I must mention, however, that Edward Bulwer-Lytton has never met a word he didn't like as witnessed in this sentence from the book:
"But to Paul, who was predestined to enjoy a certain quantum of knowledge, circumstances happened, in the commencement of the second year of his pupilage, which prodigiously accelerated the progress of his scholastic career."
I found myself at the dictionary quite often to find the meanings of words I had never come across before such as contumely (insolent contempt), rugosity (wrinkled condition) and megrims (morbid low spirits). Granted, some of these might have been in more common usage during the 1800s.
Also, brevity is not the author's strong suit. I found it amusing at one point in the story where he spends a whole paragraph, which took up an entire page, to say he would be brief in summing up the tale. He often took 50 words to say what might have been said in 10.
Nevertheless, the book is quite riveting and we find ourselves rooting for the protagonist, for even though he travels on the wrong side of the law, he tries to be gentlemanly while pursuing his criminal activities and wants desperately to improve himself and his life.
Paul Clifford's life did not start out well. His mother passed away soon after his birth and he was left to the care of a woman who owned a tavern in one of the poorest sections of town. Despite her best efforts in trying to give Paul a rudimentary education, he inadvertently makes friends with a ne'er-do-well. This association leads to his unjust imprisonment and he eventually falls prey to the allure of the criminal element and makes quite a name (albeit an alias) for himself among his fellow lawbreakers.
He falls in love with a young lady who belongs to a higher station in life and his attempts to gain the favor of her father seem to be going well as he takes on yet another persona to keep his criminal activities hidden. The young lady has reciprocated his feelings but her uncle has doubts about Paul's character.
Of course, I would never give away all that ensues so I will leave my description as is.
I must mention, however, that Edward Bulwer-Lytton has never met a word he didn't like as witnessed in this sentence from the book:
"But to Paul, who was predestined to enjoy a certain quantum of knowledge, circumstances happened, in the commencement of the second year of his pupilage, which prodigiously accelerated the progress of his scholastic career."
I found myself at the dictionary quite often to find the meanings of words I had never come across before such as contumely (insolent contempt), rugosity (wrinkled condition) and megrims (morbid low spirits). Granted, some of these might have been in more common usage during the 1800s.
Also, brevity is not the author's strong suit. I found it amusing at one point in the story where he spends a whole paragraph, which took up an entire page, to say he would be brief in summing up the tale. He often took 50 words to say what might have been said in 10.
Nevertheless, the book is quite riveting and we find ourselves rooting for the protagonist, for even though he travels on the wrong side of the law, he tries to be gentlemanly while pursuing his criminal activities and wants desperately to improve himself and his life.
February 15, 2019
Paul Clifford tells the story of the eponymous hero, a highwayman of renown, his youth, what led him to become an outlaw and the woman he fell in love with.
Edward Bulwer-Lytton, the author of this novel, was a very prolific writer during the 19th century, and managed to make a fortune from his best-selling books, most of which have been forgotten. And it's easy to see why. The style is unbearable. The sentences are long, almost endless sometimes, and written with such a flourish that, even during serious or sad scenes, it is unintentionnaly funny. The sentences are so long, in fact, that by the time you reach the end of one, you've forgotten what the beginning of what you were reading was about (not that it matters, as nothing is ever very serious or truly philosophical, but still…) The paragraphs themselves are long, sometimes several pages long. The characters barely have any development at all and are at best two-dimensional, Clifford and Lucy being the exceptions since they are the protagonists of this story. But overall, the characters feel more like archetypes than actual people you can believe in. And while the story makes sense, and is not made uselessly complicated with subplots, the style is such that you never really connect with it. It is written as if the author were chronicling the lives of these people from accounts he'd managed to find (and adding bits of dialogue he imagined happened), which is fine but unfortunately keeps us at a distance.
So, I do not recommend it, unless like me you are interested in 19th century popular and sensationalist literature, the best-sellers of the day that have all been forgotten since.
Edward Bulwer-Lytton, the author of this novel, was a very prolific writer during the 19th century, and managed to make a fortune from his best-selling books, most of which have been forgotten. And it's easy to see why. The style is unbearable. The sentences are long, almost endless sometimes, and written with such a flourish that, even during serious or sad scenes, it is unintentionnaly funny. The sentences are so long, in fact, that by the time you reach the end of one, you've forgotten what the beginning of what you were reading was about (not that it matters, as nothing is ever very serious or truly philosophical, but still…) The paragraphs themselves are long, sometimes several pages long. The characters barely have any development at all and are at best two-dimensional, Clifford and Lucy being the exceptions since they are the protagonists of this story. But overall, the characters feel more like archetypes than actual people you can believe in. And while the story makes sense, and is not made uselessly complicated with subplots, the style is such that you never really connect with it. It is written as if the author were chronicling the lives of these people from accounts he'd managed to find (and adding bits of dialogue he imagined happened), which is fine but unfortunately keeps us at a distance.
So, I do not recommend it, unless like me you are interested in 19th century popular and sensationalist literature, the best-sellers of the day that have all been forgotten since.
June 29, 2020
First published in 1830, 'Paul Clifford' is an adventure/romance about the life of Paul Clifford, a dandy, and his alter-ego Captain Lovett, a notorious highwayman. Paul spends way too much of the novel pursuing Lucy, and far too little time being a highwayman, so that the emphasis on the plot is over-sentimental melodrama. Many characters even take up a lot of text singing, or telling their life story. Yet in spite of the interruptions that this causes to the flow it still carries on at a great pace. I did enjoy this, even if the quality of writing is at times questionable. It does, compared to Dickens for example, have slightly more edginess to the storyline as well as fewer people with silly names. I am irritated by the fact that many reviewers call it a Victorian novel - it even says so on the cover of my edition - yet is was published seven years before Victoria's coronation. Read and enjoy, the apparent notoriety enjoyed by this novel due to its terrible opening line has no relevance to the pages that follow.
March 31, 2019
The characters are rather shallow and the story simple but the book makes up for it all through the witty writing and the sarcastic style. The effect is enjoyable as is the reading, especially for those who like early 19th century stuff (your truly included). And, of course, there is the famous opening sentence of the novel: "It was a dark and stormy night"
On another level the book gives us an interesting glimpse in to the politics, history and life of the period and a vivid image of English country and city about 1830.
Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a poet, writer, translator and a politician. Among other government positions he was the Secretary of State for the Colonies in the conservative government.
On another level the book gives us an interesting glimpse in to the politics, history and life of the period and a vivid image of English country and city about 1830.
Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a poet, writer, translator and a politician. Among other government positions he was the Secretary of State for the Colonies in the conservative government.
December 30, 2022
A spectre is haunting litcrit -- the spectre of purple prose. Of all examples of this cardinal sin of writing, the most famous is certainly the opening lines to Paul Clifford. And given what we know of litcrit, it should surprise no one that both the novel and the opening lines in particular are very good. Yes the prose is saturated, but all that means is you have to drink it a bit slower. And if you do, you will find it playful, evocative, and humorous. If the book were written plainer, it would be dull and unreadable, since the plot has nothing much to offer. But as is, it is a damn good time.
December 9, 2023
The story of Robin Hood's lesser known champion, Paul Clifford, who robs for the rich, and keeps it for himself. Bulwer-Lytton wanted to talk about criminality being the product of a society that engineers it, but can't bring himself to deny his main character a first-class education and a brilliant mind. So we don't learn about what makes most people criminal, instead we get a melodramatic fairytale about how one man meets his son.
December 15, 2017
This book started off pretty slow and to be honest I did not have high hopes for it -- BUT in the last half it really picked up the pace, and the characters were much more fleshed out/likable! I can see why this novel was so popular in its time. The characters did not conform to the stereotypes of the time, and the ending was poignant and thought-provoking instead of just being a cliche.
August 15, 2019
To be honest, I skimmed and skipped a bit, but it was great to finally read that opening line (“It was a dark and stormy night...”) and there were plenty of the great plot twists I expect from a good nineteenth century novel.
June 29, 2012
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness
*sighs* <3 That has to be one of the best lines I have ever read. So beautiful, so poetic, holding passion and mystery and darkness. I LOVE that line.
Unfortunately, this isn't a review for that one line, now is it? And after that first period the book takes a dive down into the depths of dry, boring, wordy to the point of insaneness, I won't be reading this again land. Not to say it didn't have it's good parts. The characters I found very flat but interesting (I really liked the idea behind Tomlinson{sp?}) the twist at the end I didn't see coming, the end itself a bit flat and very very drawn out. Like, it said, "The End" and then it went all, "But oh, you probably want to hear about these two characters and where they ended up. And that philosophizing thief, he wrote these papers for his students, why don't you ready about 15 pages of them...
Oh, and chapter 27 or some such number, which made me no longer respect the author as an author. It was literally this:
....Chapter XXVII
[Some quote or other]
Peter MacGrawler!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Chapter XXVIII...
And I'm not exaggerating the exclamation points. Lytton was a bit out of his time, apparently, because that looks like a 21st century teenagers text more than a classic novel.
Anyway, I have read the "It was a dark and stormy night" book, and yet another classic, and that makes it enough for me to be glad I read it. If interesting was the only thing I was reading for… well, I'd be searching for something else.
*sighs* <3 That has to be one of the best lines I have ever read. So beautiful, so poetic, holding passion and mystery and darkness. I LOVE that line.
Unfortunately, this isn't a review for that one line, now is it? And after that first period the book takes a dive down into the depths of dry, boring, wordy to the point of insaneness, I won't be reading this again land. Not to say it didn't have it's good parts. The characters I found very flat but interesting (I really liked the idea behind Tomlinson{sp?}) the twist at the end I didn't see coming, the end itself a bit flat and very very drawn out. Like, it said, "The End" and then it went all, "But oh, you probably want to hear about these two characters and where they ended up. And that philosophizing thief, he wrote these papers for his students, why don't you ready about 15 pages of them...
Oh, and chapter 27 or some such number, which made me no longer respect the author as an author. It was literally this:
....Chapter XXVII
[Some quote or other]
Peter MacGrawler!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Chapter XXVIII...
And I'm not exaggerating the exclamation points. Lytton was a bit out of his time, apparently, because that looks like a 21st century teenagers text more than a classic novel.
Anyway, I have read the "It was a dark and stormy night" book, and yet another classic, and that makes it enough for me to be glad I read it. If interesting was the only thing I was reading for… well, I'd be searching for something else.
August 27, 2022
I know that the writing in this novel reflects its time period and is textbook purple prose, etc., but I could not stand the poetical waxing interruptions of the author. Was it written as a serial? I ask because it could have been half the length and would have been a better book. The characters needed more development. The plot was ambling. It was clear that the author had never come into contact with a highwayman or taking care of horses or...maybe people? I disliked every character intensely. I hated the way he needed to get poetical when discussing women and philosophical when discussing men. And, why for the love of ___ did he need to show that Paul at the end lost all of Lucy's money and then showed great work ethic to regain money....was there some problem with the idea of living well off of Lucy's inherited money? Are we supposed to admire Paul for losing all of the money? I almost tossed this book at the wall upon finishing the last few pages.
The actual plot, in my opinion, could have been told in 50 pages and would have been a far better story. Read because it's a classic but not sure if it will be worth your time.
The actual plot, in my opinion, could have been told in 50 pages and would have been a far better story. Read because it's a classic but not sure if it will be worth your time.
February 5, 2017
Ever wonder who wrote the line, "it was a dark and stormy night?" No, it wasn't Snoopy, it was Bulwer-Lytton in 1830. Nice adventure novel with a love story twist, however it gets bogged down at times. Once you tune into the language of pre-Dickens time, it holds your interest.
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