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A review by tomleetang
Pleasure by Gabriele D'Annunzio
2.0
An almost suffocating sensuousness, much like the scent of the flowers that fills the room in the first chapter.
It prefigures Proust, but D'Annunzio is more indulgent with himself and less scrupulous in his editing. If, occasionally, he lands upon a pretty phrase or a poignant observation, it is through the sheer amount of language he spews onto the page.
Pleasure functions less as a novel and more as a dictionary or encyclopaedia of various art forms, which d'Annunzio tirelessly (and tiresomely) references. Everything in this world has already been prefigured by a painting or a composition or a poem, and thus everything is utterly unoriginal.
It is not entirely without amusement. The scene with the courtesans is wickedly irreverent. And it is not entirely without pathos. The diary entries of Donna Maria are touchingly desperate. Elements remind me, positively, of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
And yet, how glad I was to realise that the last few pages of the book were actually translator's notes and not more excess.
It prefigures Proust, but D'Annunzio is more indulgent with himself and less scrupulous in his editing. If, occasionally, he lands upon a pretty phrase or a poignant observation, it is through the sheer amount of language he spews onto the page.
Pleasure functions less as a novel and more as a dictionary or encyclopaedia of various art forms, which d'Annunzio tirelessly (and tiresomely) references. Everything in this world has already been prefigured by a painting or a composition or a poem, and thus everything is utterly unoriginal.
It is not entirely without amusement. The scene with the courtesans is wickedly irreverent. And it is not entirely without pathos. The diary entries of Donna Maria are touchingly desperate. Elements remind me, positively, of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
And yet, how glad I was to realise that the last few pages of the book were actually translator's notes and not more excess.