In the literary twitter feeds I follow, the name of Huysmans pops up with a frequency which would have surprised and perhaps alarmed him. If anyone set out their stall to occupy a marginal seat, distanced from the mass of society, it was he. I read Á Rebours twenty years ago and remembered approximately nothing from that first reading. Which I take to be commendable. The book flourishes in spite of the fact it foregoes all those elements of the craft they insist a novel requires. Character, plot, action, movement. One of the finest chapters is when the book’s vapid protagonist, des Esseintes, deciding to escape his torpor with a visit to London, heads to the environs of the station in Paris. In the restaurant whilst waiting to catch his train, he observes a host of travellers, many of them English, and feels as though he has effectively visited London, without the need to actually go there. There can be few finer metaphors for the wonder of literature than this London-which-is-not-London chapter. We can scale mountains and reside in palaces using that device known as literature without ever having to leave our beds. Other chapters ramble through the margins of ecclesiastical literature, horticulture, French literature, perfume, and so on. The chapter on obscure ecclesiastical texts is essentially the author showing off his knowledge, and is utterly wonderful. Huysmans reminds us that self-indulgence has the capacity to be a grand thing in the sphere of artistic endeavour. Of course, the world of des Esseintes, the author’s protege, is astonishing in its imaginative range. And we, the readers, bask in wonder at this range, even when we query the need for its peacock display. The book is a celebration of the marginal, the forgotten, the undervalued and overlooked, reminding us with its convoluted genius that the margin may well be far closer to the centre of human endeavour and excellence than it is ever given credit for.
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