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A review by tom_f
Pierre or the Ambiguities by Herman Melville
4.0
Got a lot of time for this because it’s basically, from what I can gather, Melville reacting to the lukewarm reception of Moby Dick by clowning on American establishment morals and indulging even more heartily in a penchant for long, rambling passages of almost purely lyrical bullshit. It’s the sort of book I’d like to write.
But, as to the resolute traveller in Switzerland, the Alps do never in one wide and comprehensive sweep, instantaneously reveal their full awfulness of amplitude – their overawing extent of peak crowded on peak, and spur sloping on spur, and chain jammed behind chain, and all their wonderful battalionings of might; so that heaven wisely ordained, that on first entering into the Switzerland of his soul, man shall not at once perceive its tremendous immensity; lest illy prepared for such an encounter, his spirit should sink and perish in the lowermost snows. Only by judicious degrees, appointed of God, does man come at last to gain his Mont Blanc and take an overtopping view of these Alps; and even then, the tithe is not shown; and far over the invisible Atlantic, the Rocky Mountains and the Andes are as yet unbeheld. Appalling is the soul of a man! Better might one be pushed off into the material spaces beyond the uttermost orbit of our sun, than once feel himself fairly afloat in himself!
People cite this one as a pioneer of various proto-modernist literary strategies, and the project of going on for too long in the noble cause of taking the piss certainly puts Melville in the lineage of people like Flann O’Brien. The threateningly sepulchral entry into the town at night reminded me of the oneiric climax of The Third Policeman, but once Pierre’s downturn in fortunes picks up pace the novel turns into more of a Swim-Two-Birds chronicle of the struggling and impecunious young author. While it’s not actually as fun to read as O’Brien, it is certainly much more rewarding and much better company than the likes of tawdry Arthur Machen and his petty The Hill Of Dreams, though equally gleeful in its gothic theatrics.
For the more and the more that he wrote, and the deeper and the deeper that he dived, Pierre saw the everlasting elusiveness of Truth; the universal lurking insincerity of even the greatest and purest written thoughts. [...] The brightest success, now seemed intolerable to him, since he so plainly saw, that the brightest success could not be the sole offering of Merit; but of Merit for the one thousandth part, and nine hundred and ninety-nine combining and dovetailing accidents for the rest.
A great moral for a text that’s making such a sincere and enjoyably misguided attempt at winning public favour.
But, as to the resolute traveller in Switzerland, the Alps do never in one wide and comprehensive sweep, instantaneously reveal their full awfulness of amplitude – their overawing extent of peak crowded on peak, and spur sloping on spur, and chain jammed behind chain, and all their wonderful battalionings of might; so that heaven wisely ordained, that on first entering into the Switzerland of his soul, man shall not at once perceive its tremendous immensity; lest illy prepared for such an encounter, his spirit should sink and perish in the lowermost snows. Only by judicious degrees, appointed of God, does man come at last to gain his Mont Blanc and take an overtopping view of these Alps; and even then, the tithe is not shown; and far over the invisible Atlantic, the Rocky Mountains and the Andes are as yet unbeheld. Appalling is the soul of a man! Better might one be pushed off into the material spaces beyond the uttermost orbit of our sun, than once feel himself fairly afloat in himself!
People cite this one as a pioneer of various proto-modernist literary strategies, and the project of going on for too long in the noble cause of taking the piss certainly puts Melville in the lineage of people like Flann O’Brien. The threateningly sepulchral entry into the town at night reminded me of the oneiric climax of The Third Policeman, but once Pierre’s downturn in fortunes picks up pace the novel turns into more of a Swim-Two-Birds chronicle of the struggling and impecunious young author. While it’s not actually as fun to read as O’Brien, it is certainly much more rewarding and much better company than the likes of tawdry Arthur Machen and his petty The Hill Of Dreams, though equally gleeful in its gothic theatrics.
For the more and the more that he wrote, and the deeper and the deeper that he dived, Pierre saw the everlasting elusiveness of Truth; the universal lurking insincerity of even the greatest and purest written thoughts. [...] The brightest success, now seemed intolerable to him, since he so plainly saw, that the brightest success could not be the sole offering of Merit; but of Merit for the one thousandth part, and nine hundred and ninety-nine combining and dovetailing accidents for the rest.
A great moral for a text that’s making such a sincere and enjoyably misguided attempt at winning public favour.