Gabriele D'Annunzio (1863–1938)

Along with A Rebours and The Picture of Dorian Gray, Gabriele D'Annunzio's The Triumph of Death (1894) is one of the foundational texts of the decadence. The hero, Giorgio Aurispa, is the enervated scion of a faded aristocratic family, run to ruin (debauchery, suicide) in the provinces. He is morbidly self-reflexive and forever swooning for new, singular sensations. This hyper-developed sensuality is, of course, marbled with neuroses, and every pleasure bears in train a taint of show more corruption.

For the highly unlikable Aurispa, as Barbey said of Huysmans, “it only remains for [him] to choose between the muzzle of a pistol and the foot of the cross.” Indeed, the novel opens with, and is punctuated by, instances and fantasies of suicide (conflated and adorned with Roman Catholic imagery). After escaping from the cares of the world (which he is constitutionally unfit to confront) to a rural hermitage, Giorgio arranges a season of total immersion in carnal pleasures with his mistress, Ippolita. For a space, the lovers share a garden of timeless delights, till the fatally perspicacious Giorgio discovers he is naked. He has reached satiety and begins to fear for his immortal soul. He sees in his manner of life only a refined variant of his father’s brutish ruttings. His uncle, his “true father”, a mystic without god (and a suicide) returns to mind as devotional icon. Giorgio swoons to repent, to be cleansed of his vapid indulgences. And of feminine foulness.

In the Triumph of Death, piety has a viper’s sting, leaving the soul rotten and the light of day solemn and funereal. Giorgio Aurispa is one of Nietzsche’s “last men”: larval and ineffectual. Oppressed by the the brute vigor of the commonplace, and with no faith in himself or in the love of another, he despairs for the comforts of Grand Narrative, without which it is impossible to live. He obsesses on the most fanatical aspects of mysticism, on a purely aesthetic Roman Catholicism (dark cathedrals, candles, incense, tortured statuary). Meanwhile, Ippolita, his devoted paramour, follows her lover in everything as loyally as the campagne mudlarks and pot-whallopers do the local mystagogue, who claims to be the new Messiah. She surrenders herself body and soul to his romance of perpetual sensual bliss. She has no suspicion at all that surfeit generates disgust, particularly in those of feeble constitution. As for the rest, I'll say no more, save that Death's triumph was in making its lover pursue it, as though it were hard to get, while all along they were abed and embraced.

Unfortunately, there are only two translations of this novel, both from the 19th century. As I had read complaints of Georgina Harding's (Boni & Liveright), I went with Arthur Hornblow's. In Hornblow's (G. H. Richmond & co.), no one and nothing breathes or inhales, but respires - and the names of the two principal characters are oddly and annoyingly anglicized: George and Hippolite (is Hippolite really less exotic to English readers than Ippolita?). Hornblow's translation is available for free download on the internet. show less

This title is another example of a work by D'Annunzio to feature a Nietzschean 'higher type, but he doesn't harp on about this dubious type, its more apparent in the character's actions than any overt philosophical stance. Its clear D'Annunzio identified with this figure from the biographical details of his life, but if we can separate the sometimes repellant author from the work we're left with a thrilling psychological study, like a decadent Dostoyevsky, with a penetrative insight into show more human affairs, so acute it must have come from personal introspection. The anti-hero Tullio knows his actions are reprehensible by any decent moral standard but he is compelled to act according to his own dictates precisely because he is a Nietzschean. To give D'Annunzio some credit I don't think he holds Tullio in a necessarily favourable light and it gives thought to the consideration that in the author's lucid moments he had some misgivings about his own philosophy even though the trajectory of his life seems to belie this. Anyway, as a reading experience, this could hardly be bettered, its both entertaing and disturbing. Much of the narrative is focused on the internal monologue of Tullio as he faces moral decisions and a life in turmoil as he faces the fact that much of the tragic events described are self-created as the plot builds and builds into a shocking finale with an exquisite style in the decadent mould. I preferred this to The Triumph of Death, it seemed paradoxically a more human story despite the horrible actions described. show less

It seems impossible not to preface a review of D'Annunzio without remarking that he wasn't the most admirable of men, not least for his association with Mussolini. Generally I judge a work on it's merits though and there's much to admire in this novel with beautiful writing and just the right amount of scene setting. The descriptions of romantic ardour may seem excessive but this is decadence afterall. There's some really exquisite imagery throughout and he could tell a story with acute show more psychological insight. The narrator, George, seems to live only for his love interest, swinging between exalted love and outright despair but also afflicted with a lassitude which makes him question life's worth. He is a 'higher type' in the Nietzschean sense and you have to question the character's contempt for the 'lower classes' and his 'disdain for commonplace existence'. An exception is his emotional bond with his sister which seems the most 'real' relationship here, so exalted and unreal seems his possessive and destructive love of his love, Hippolyte. A startling part of the book is a description of a pilgrimage which is replete with grotesque detail of the infirm and George's contempt is evident here, though later he shows tenderness in observing the scene of a drowned boy's death. His obsession with death makes this quite an un-life-affirming read and its philosophy is contentious, but the writing is superb. show less

Published in 1889, The Child of Pleasure is the first novel of Gabriele D'Annunzio, who gained fame in Italy and throughout Europe and the U.S. as a novelist, and went on to political fame (or infamy, perhaps) in post-WW I Europe as the founder of a nationalistic movement that inspired Mussolini. At any rate, in the late 19th century, D'Annunzio's topic was the power of beauty and sensuality. His protagonist here, Count Andrea Sperelli, is a young Roman nobleman who lives in and for luxury show more and for the seduction of beautiful women. The Child of Pleasure is the narrative of Sperelli's adventures in this arena, particularly as it pertains to two extremely beautiful and cultured women. Throughout the tale, D'Annunzio's eye lingers lovingly on the beauties of the natural countryside, Roman architecture, and the items of antiquity that Sperelli and his friends dote upon. Tellingly, these items are all at least 100 years old. There's little of contemporary (to the characters) vintage held up for admiration.

These descriptions of nature and art were interesting to read, but there was little of Count Sperelli's projects or problems that held any fascination for me. This is one of those books I read more out of an intellectual curiosity about the book's place in the history of literature than from a desire to know, or expectation to enjoy, the story. D'Annunzio himself throughout the tale speaks of Sperelli's gradual and eventually complete abdication of moral purpose or conscience, so at least we're not meant to admire the character, even if we are somehow to empathize with his delight in the purely physical/sensual world. Few modern readers will do so, I think.

One factor that gave me the energy to push through with this novel was the fact that I bought the book four years ago while on vacation in Turin on a glorious avenue of bookstalls and other shops called the Via Po. show less