Shifting gears/ Visions and passions: A review of A Dead Man in Deptford
I really don't know why I'm bothering to write here, it's been, like, two years since I set this up, a little less than two years since I left it and there was never really a sense of purpose about it--even now. I'm not egocentric enough to actually believe anyone's reading this and not enough of an exhibitionist to write anything really personal, but I suppose my brain just went: Oh well, it's there, so why not use it?--Anyway, I'm not one to forget these things quickly, so I'm guessing I'll be writing here whenever I feel like it.
Alright, first things first--I've always wanted to recommend books, really good books, great books. And even if no one cares, at least I'll have done it. The first one to be up this time is Anthony Burgess's A Dead Man in Deptford. I read it last year when I was fifteen (I'm still fifteen, I have a late birthday) and I've been itching to share it with someone ever since.
It shames me to admit I'm not quite clear about the book anymore, it's been months and I'm re-reading it for just the second time round now, I'm barely done with it but it'll have to go back to the library (the National Library of Singapore--now you know where I'm from) in less than a week's time. That's the problem of borrowing more than four books each time. So I suppose I'll start with the preliminaries (the rest you can get off Amazon.com, including a short excerpt).
A Dead Man is a historical novel set in sixteenth century London, it centres on the life of Christopher Marlowe, a Renaissance playwright who pioneered the use of blank verse (it's not really that he invented it but he defined and revolutionized the use of it) and who wrote the plays Doctor Faustus, Tamburlaine, The Tragedy of the Rich Jew of Malta among others (because that's really all I can recall at the moment). --Still mystified? Fine, he's the guy who got killed in a tavern brawl (circa 1593), officially over whom would foot the bill, but rumour says he was assassinated as the state considered him, once a spy for Elizabeth I's secret service (headed by her "Eyes", Sir Francis Walsingham), too much a threat to their interests to be allowed to live.--Personally, I feel his life was one big tragedy in itself and, after reading the book, I felt the loss not only as a reader, but also as a person.
Marlowe begins as a scholar of Divinity at Corpus Christi, and we watch as he plunges into the dark world of the Elizabethan secret service, reaches thrilling heights as a poet and playwright and struggles through his life as a constant questioner of the God he was supposedly created by. There is a profound sense of anger, existential angst and doubt that runs through the whole book. Marlowe is passionate man alienated from the rest of society by his genius, and yet, we see that he is really the best man of them all--with the highest morals (perhaps not morals as that is something defined by society itself, perhaps right- and free-thinking), the only truly honest, loving, kind, courageous (in a way) and sincere individual in this dark, lonely, godless universe. But don't get me wrong, his fighting spirit is palpable even in his despairing atheist's view of the world--he does want to live. Besides issues of faith, he questions the nature of lust and love and that of...Nature itself.
A panoramic view of Reformation Europe is unveiled before us; the spiritual confusion and darkness of the Europe of the Reformation is stunningly captured, the tumult that rushed out of the book very nearly knocked me dead the first time round. There is no one to trust, nothing to trust in, only the cold elements into which one is dissolved--back--into after death, man's fate, man's life, was in his own hands. This was Marlowe's despair, this was his anger, this was his vision. He walks the pages of this book as his own man (or at least he tries), and no one is his master. His personal ambition, his internal fires drive him...and they are the end of him too. As Marlowe moves, closing in on his death, there is a profound horror as the pages fly out of our hands. And the ending...no one will forget that, it is as sharp as the plunging of a dagger and as dazzling as the light reflected off it and the soft flesh never quite recovers from it. Part of us is as dead as Marlowe is. Hope is killed.
Read the book. Reread the book. Let Marlowe tread through his paces again and again and wonder where he went. This was all I felt during the reading of the book and the writing of the review. There is so much more to write on but I just cannot catch it at this moment so I will leave it off until the thoughts come upon myself again.
And oh, I didn't want to add this into the review because I thought that anyone reading it would blow up the point (especially since it's still Brokeback season) and forget the rest of whatever I have written, but I'll say it (hold onto your seats): Marlowe here is portrayed here as in most books, he is a homosexual and in the book he has one relationship--one relationship!--with a certain someone. So, if you're a strict Christian or are perhaps not too ready for anything icky (don't worry, I've got nothing against people who can't stomach smut--I can't either), you should think twice before you read the book as there are a couple of depictions of sex--but all written in Latin and they are more comedic than anything. But I will tell you--I can't stress this enough--the book is Literature, not some crappy exploitative squicky Gay Fiction (authors and publishers of such abominable books are, I believe, just out to make money out of bored old women, office ladies and lonely, repressed closet homosexuals).
Now, I shan't reveal more 'cos it'd be a crime to do so. So read the book, find out yourself, come back here and leave comments.
Besides the book review, I have to say that over these months (years?), I find that I have really changed. Writing style's changed, mood's changed. Not quite so self-assured and whiny anymore. I hope that I will never use this place as a podium for petty criticism because it's just not worth it. Leave comments if you like or don't like anything, that is, if anyone is reading at all. The little button at the bottom of each post is there to do it's job--come on now people, you can do it!
Alright, first things first--I've always wanted to recommend books, really good books, great books. And even if no one cares, at least I'll have done it. The first one to be up this time is Anthony Burgess's A Dead Man in Deptford. I read it last year when I was fifteen (I'm still fifteen, I have a late birthday) and I've been itching to share it with someone ever since.
It shames me to admit I'm not quite clear about the book anymore, it's been months and I'm re-reading it for just the second time round now, I'm barely done with it but it'll have to go back to the library (the National Library of Singapore--now you know where I'm from) in less than a week's time. That's the problem of borrowing more than four books each time. So I suppose I'll start with the preliminaries (the rest you can get off Amazon.com, including a short excerpt).
A Dead Man is a historical novel set in sixteenth century London, it centres on the life of Christopher Marlowe, a Renaissance playwright who pioneered the use of blank verse (it's not really that he invented it but he defined and revolutionized the use of it) and who wrote the plays Doctor Faustus, Tamburlaine, The Tragedy of the Rich Jew of Malta among others (because that's really all I can recall at the moment). --Still mystified? Fine, he's the guy who got killed in a tavern brawl (circa 1593), officially over whom would foot the bill, but rumour says he was assassinated as the state considered him, once a spy for Elizabeth I's secret service (headed by her "Eyes", Sir Francis Walsingham), too much a threat to their interests to be allowed to live.--Personally, I feel his life was one big tragedy in itself and, after reading the book, I felt the loss not only as a reader, but also as a person.
Marlowe begins as a scholar of Divinity at Corpus Christi, and we watch as he plunges into the dark world of the Elizabethan secret service, reaches thrilling heights as a poet and playwright and struggles through his life as a constant questioner of the God he was supposedly created by. There is a profound sense of anger, existential angst and doubt that runs through the whole book. Marlowe is passionate man alienated from the rest of society by his genius, and yet, we see that he is really the best man of them all--with the highest morals (perhaps not morals as that is something defined by society itself, perhaps right- and free-thinking), the only truly honest, loving, kind, courageous (in a way) and sincere individual in this dark, lonely, godless universe. But don't get me wrong, his fighting spirit is palpable even in his despairing atheist's view of the world--he does want to live. Besides issues of faith, he questions the nature of lust and love and that of...Nature itself.
A panoramic view of Reformation Europe is unveiled before us; the spiritual confusion and darkness of the Europe of the Reformation is stunningly captured, the tumult that rushed out of the book very nearly knocked me dead the first time round. There is no one to trust, nothing to trust in, only the cold elements into which one is dissolved--back--into after death, man's fate, man's life, was in his own hands. This was Marlowe's despair, this was his anger, this was his vision. He walks the pages of this book as his own man (or at least he tries), and no one is his master. His personal ambition, his internal fires drive him...and they are the end of him too. As Marlowe moves, closing in on his death, there is a profound horror as the pages fly out of our hands. And the ending...no one will forget that, it is as sharp as the plunging of a dagger and as dazzling as the light reflected off it and the soft flesh never quite recovers from it. Part of us is as dead as Marlowe is. Hope is killed.
Read the book. Reread the book. Let Marlowe tread through his paces again and again and wonder where he went. This was all I felt during the reading of the book and the writing of the review. There is so much more to write on but I just cannot catch it at this moment so I will leave it off until the thoughts come upon myself again.
And oh, I didn't want to add this into the review because I thought that anyone reading it would blow up the point (especially since it's still Brokeback season) and forget the rest of whatever I have written, but I'll say it (hold onto your seats): Marlowe here is portrayed here as in most books, he is a homosexual and in the book he has one relationship--one relationship!--with a certain someone. So, if you're a strict Christian or are perhaps not too ready for anything icky (don't worry, I've got nothing against people who can't stomach smut--I can't either), you should think twice before you read the book as there are a couple of depictions of sex--but all written in Latin and they are more comedic than anything. But I will tell you--I can't stress this enough--the book is Literature, not some crappy exploitative squicky Gay Fiction (authors and publishers of such abominable books are, I believe, just out to make money out of bored old women, office ladies and lonely, repressed closet homosexuals).
Now, I shan't reveal more 'cos it'd be a crime to do so. So read the book, find out yourself, come back here and leave comments.
Besides the book review, I have to say that over these months (years?), I find that I have really changed. Writing style's changed, mood's changed. Not quite so self-assured and whiny anymore. I hope that I will never use this place as a podium for petty criticism because it's just not worth it. Leave comments if you like or don't like anything, that is, if anyone is reading at all. The little button at the bottom of each post is there to do it's job--come on now people, you can do it!
posted by fairypenguin at 2:17 AM
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