Charles Robert Maturin (1782–1824)

“Miserable wretch that I am! At this moment, a voice from the bottom of my heart asks me ‘Whom hast thou loved so much? Was it man or God, that thou darest to compare thyself with her who knelt, and wept—not before a mortal idol, but at the feet of an incarnate divinity?’”

—Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin

What a great beginning, dripping in all the best gothic goo and sticking to the back of the brain. Hidden portraits with hidden histories in houses of decrepitude and show more ancient sins. Torture, bloody death under trampling hooves, breaking spirits on wheels and in dungeons and looming over cliffs toward hell-tossed oceans. I wanted to love this book. And the neck had been so damn snug in that lunette. What happened? Well, while the blade went singing to that doomed soul kneeling in puddles of blood, the narrative had been hijacked and hijacked again and hijacked once more. Hi-hi-high treasonous prose! Not remaining faithful to the set-up, playing Russian nesting dolls with the plot, whisking away the cobwebs only to find that behind that rusting and molding door is another goddamn door. Goddamn! That’s right, Melmoth sold his soul to the Devil and searched the world for a sucker to take his dark mantle from off his shoulders—kind of a reverse of Diogenes with demon’s blood in the lamp instead of light. So, like many other Gothic tales of its time, I was disappointed. Yet, in awe when some powerful passage would clout me at the base of the nose when nearly nodding off. Did he just . . . ?

It would take the likes of Poe to distill this kind of story into a truly affecting work. And since I’m a condenser by nature, a writer who cuts and squeezes until all the infection is out, to the detriment of the body, maybe, I couldn’t help but wish this thing move along a bit more briskly. Let the bloodletting commence! But without this kind of work, with its kind of unique power and sutured narrative to one hundred and fifty-year-old flesh, there would never have been a tradition of dark yet metaphysical literature to challenge readers and lovers of the macabre. Not all vampires are sparkly. Not all depictions of the Devil are devilish. (“The Brothers Karamazov” attests to the truth of that.) Not all narratives need be straight-forward—bent by scabrous fingers on dark designs. I just wish “Melmoth the Wanderer” hadn’t wandered so much. show less

There are Faustian stories about the Devil and Faustian stories about Faust, but Melmoth the Wanderer transcends the conventions (and the trappings) of both.

Nested narratives that nearly defy our ability to maintain just who is speaking and who is listening spiral out of each other like smoke rising from a censer and coalescing with dreamy fog. This is the story of a man who sells his soul for a little extra time—of a man who currently has one-hundred-and-fifty years to prey on the show more helpless, the innocent, the guilty, the tortured, the desperate, the insane; to win them by hook or by crook into trading places with him and taking over his ultimate damnation. In Melmoth the Wanderer we are presented at times with stories within stories within stories within stories within stories: each detailing the sufferings of a mankind determined, apparently, to keep on suffering. And through it all—glimmering like a jewel in a pile of spent ashes, brooding in feverish gloom against the epic tempest of his agonies, tying together the helpless and essentially unrelated skeins of a persecuted humanity throughout the centuries of his eerie, tormented existence—is Melmoth the Wanderer.

Drawing heavily on the dizzy bombast of the Gothic tomes that came before him, Charles Maturin took the languid, peregrine prose of Mrs. Radcliffe and tempered it with the vicious cruelties of the Lewis set, the political musings of Godwin, and the pathos of Godwin’s daughter, Mary Shelley. It is both indebted to the whole of the Gothic tradition, and hence considered the last of the great Gothic novels, and yet also an incredibly inventive and original piece of writing that is less the ‘last great Gothic novel’ and more the first in a new school that would eventually include such luminaries as Poe, Stoker, and even H. P. Lovecraft. It is also very much concerned with itself as a text, and its embedded narratives have impacted the whole of literature, whether through Maturin’s imitators or those who imitated his imitators. In fact, his format has to be read to be believed—it is a brave and eccentric way to tell a brave and eccentric story.

Maturin’s Gothicism is high on theatrics and delirium, but also on subtle and often overwhelmingly personal philosophy. A Protestant clergyman who moonlit as a writer of sensationalistic and sometimes overtly anti-religious fiction and drama, Maturin lived a life of contradictions. And above all, Melmoth the Wanderer explores the nature of religion in its rawest and ugliest of dimensions: seemingly a strictly anti-Catholic text, Melmoth reveals itself to have a beef with nearly every major religion, including Protestantism. And though, in his dubious and distracting ‘footnotes,’ Maturin insinuates that the things coming out of his characters’ mouths (particularly the Wanderer’s) should not be taken for his own opinions, he has loaded his text with so many of these caustic observations that one cannot help but conclude that, even if he doesn’t agree with what he’s saying, it can hardly matter: his words stand alone. Whether Maturin intended his text to work on the levels that it does or not, Melmoth the Wanderer is a deeply antagonistic, even cynical, novel: and not just in regard to religion, but in regard to nearly the entire range of human history, development, and thought. And—the contradiction to crown them all—it is also a book that revels in the beauty of religion and humanity at their purest: a kind of poisoned love-letter to the possibilities of justice in a world gone mad.

Writers as diverse as Balzac, Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde, and Vladimir Nabokov have referenced and admired Melmoth the Wanderer for its troubling, deeply romantic themes and its central character, who embodies them in the most hallucinatory and disturbing of ways. Melmoth, then, and Melmoth the Wanderer as a whole, serve as a mouthpiece for the rationalizations and, occasionally, the ravings of a man of uncommon considerations. It is a novel that out-Herods Herod at every available opportunity and also a novel of rare and almost incapacitating power. If a modern reader can manage to get along with its bizarre and maddening format of stories within stories, he will be rewarded with an experience that simply cannot be put out of mind: Melmoth is the stuff of nightmares, sure, but also of dreams—and visions. show less

I shouldn't put down a review -- I'm only 50 pages in -- but I'm compelled to initiate this for two reasons: 1) this novel is already such delirious fun, and 2) I want to warn readers off Chris Baldick's Introduction -- it's of the "here are some facts about the novel you're about to read, which after all isn't very good" variety. Lordy. Why write an intro at all, dear Chris, if you don't like the goddamned book? Even from my meager accomplishment of 50 pages I feel like Baldick must have show more missed the point badly: his intro would have been less boring if he'd HATED Melmoth. Read it after the novel if you must.

You will want the notes in the Oxford edition, and you should repair to them when lost because they enrich the experience.

Good lord, the storminess of this! And it's FUNNY (and on purpose, I think).

UPDATE: I need to temper my initial take somewhat. I still think Baldick makes a bad case for bothering to read the book at all ... but maybe he's not that far off!

I'm having less fun with the novel, now. Uncharacteristically for me, I suppose, the main beef I'm having with the novel is that it DOES go on, and WILL go on -- at great length. I typically appreciate ... length, being a fan of Victorian fiction from way back. I think the real problem is that Maturin goes on at great length at a high pitch of intensity ... which teaches you that unrelieved intensity winds up being not really intense at all, but kind of boring. I am reminded of the old review of the acting of Edmund Kean that said it was "like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning." The issue is that if there's nothing but lightning for a while, you won't be able to see very well. Yes ... I'm stretching my metaphor(s).

This is especially a problem when the Wanderer himself is on stage. He is a melodramatic figure if anything, and a lot of him standing there melodrama-ing is ... really. A. Lot. Mwah-hah-hah, I say with sulphurously burning eyes! (lightning flash)

"Less is more" is both typically true and a cliche, and the same is true, I guess, for "more is less." show less

"..starting from the doze in which he had frequently indulged during this long narrative.
'But hear the result' said the pertinacious narrator."

Well i can certainly see why people might have issues with this book but there's lot of good with the bad. The main plot actually takes up about the first 10%, the 45-60% area and the last 10%. The rest are various other tales which are very tenuously connected.

It opens in ireland and is both very Gothic and very funny, in fact Maturin's sense of show more humour makes sporadic and odd appearances throughout the book.

After the opening and a short tale to add some more atmosphere we jump into 'The Spaniards' story and this is the low point and longest point of the whole thing. Those two appellations are probably not coincidental ;) .
Its a man-vs-institution story and whether its a monastery/convent, mad house, prison, boarding school, police state etc these tales don't have lot of variety to them at least in the broad strokes.
However Maturin is very good at psychology and emotional reactions. Unfortunately this tale is severely undermined by 2 factors. One is that its told by the Spaniard himself, rather eliminating the sense of danger since we know he at least survived, and two its placement.
We know its part of a larger whole and so it takes great focus to stop the 'are we there yet' voice in your head which is waiting for this to intersect the overarching storyline.

The middle section of the book is part of the main plot as i mentioned earlier and this is also one of the most floridly written segments its really good. Then we have two more tales almost back to back.
The 'Gusmans' is a social collapse tale somewhat like Zola's the 'Dram Shop' and 'Elinors' tale or whatever that one was called, is a Gothic romance.
Both of these latter stories are at least a lot shorter than the 'Spaniards' but you might still need to be able to stay in the moment to enjoy them.
Before we finally get back to the main plot for the finish.

Maturins best elements as a writer are his realistic psychology as mentioned before and also his speeches, there are some great speeches by various characters in this. So powerful in fact that Maturin felt the need to add a special disclaimer to say that the opinions expressed by his evil characters where not those of the author :) .

As you can tell it can get very nested, in fact it goes total 'Inception' at times, at one point we have the irish guy listening to the spaniard tell of a story, in which a man is listening to a story about a woman listening to story... how many levels is that :lol . Just hold tight to your totem and lets hope you don't end up in Limbo :) .

I heard once that this was virtually unreadable, glad to say i can disagree. A lot of good parts if not perhaps a great whole. show less