Blaugast: A Novel of Decline

I like a little debauchery and degradation as much as the next, but I almost wearied of the self-loathing pathos of the title character before Leppin let the narrative escape outside Blaugast’s head. I understand that self-obsession is a defining feature of Decadent literature, but I prefer characters that embrace revelry, intoxication, and debauchery as a choice against the misfortunes of history and the tragedy of the human condition rather than as a mark of their own self-disgust. (Blaugast became a different book when Leppin told the story of the noble whore Johanna.)

The depravity is laid on thick (for to repulse the church ladies of early 20th c. Prague?), and some of the prose is more purple than poetic. The cesspools of show more destiny! Everything seethes and festers and reeks. About a third of the way in I realized I was not so much reading as observing Blaugast as an artifact, with Leppin presenting a kind of performance piece: Frank Moore without the mad, spastic cackle, or Saló without the fascism. But, yes, it was entertaining. show less