Post by Sediba on Jun 11, 2016 15:03:21 GMT 10
My Terrible Book Review: Norman Douglas
Almost nothing, nothing at all, can be said in defence of this despicable man. Well, one thing maybe, and that was his last sentence on his deathbed. 'Get those phuckin nuns away from me'.
Here, in that last statement we may, just may, find some small room for some redemption. Here in these words he at least spoke a truth that we can associate with. This man was an evil perverted monster, known as the 'Pedophile who got away with it'. Someone once said, in relation to Douglas, 'England has a tradition of producing degenerate aristocrats. There must be something in the combination of wealth and a public school education that propels this country’s elite to buggery and an obsession with smut. One of the filthiest rogues to disgrace their rich heritage is the novelist and Uppingham alumni Norman Douglas'
Norman Douglas, a notorious pedophile without shame, without contrition, and who fled every attempt to arrest, but never for a moment desisted in molesting and buggering children. Just how much misery did he bring to the population of this world, and how much of that is still ongoing through the descendants of the people he damaged and wounded.
He was an outcast. How did he get away with it? Because many novelists of the day, famous novelists, male and female, artists both male and female, and people of that bohemian culture of the twenties gathered around and protected him, gave him warning of pursuit, leant him money to flee each country, each continent, to escape arrest and retribution. He was never caught. He had a charming personality.
This is going to be a very difficult author to defend. And how am I to add one of his books to my top ten deserted island list? Is there anything at all that redeems this cold callous excuse for a human being?
Well, his last words were funny and insightful. That much we must grant. Also, he did have a charming personality. It was one that in some strange way we can associate with.
An example: Angus Wilson, whom I mentioned in my first book review as the author of Late Call, was a young homosexual. He had just left a party at Viva and Willie King's place. He found himself standing at the bus stop beside a weeping Norman Douglas. This was outside South Kensington Railway Station. Douglas, drunk, was sobbing at the constant persecution of his person, the unfairness of the world, how he was misunderstood, etc.
So heart rending were his sobs that he had attracted the sympathy of a number of motherly old ladies, their maternal instincts were aroused. They were offering sympathy and white cotton handkerchiefs, and generally clustering around Douglas and Wilson doing their best to help the bitterly weeping Douglas. Suddenly Douglas brightened up, looked around him and said, 'I think this is where I had my first suck-off'
And there you have an unrepentant sinner, one who does not even admit that he has sinned.
But this man could write. This man could really write. If my top ten book list had to suddenly be cut in two, to five, then his book would still be there. Even if the list was cut into a quarter, then still it would be there. However, it is not the top book, that is a place is reserved for another.
When I first read the book, more a short story, I knew nothing about the author. The book almost instantly became one of my favourites. Years and years later I found out about the author of whom I knew nothing. You see, what had happened was this, I had been prevented, through lack of knowledge, from sinning. I was unable to judge the book by it's cover. Free of that prejudice I was able to read and enjoy the book for it's story alone. There is nothing in the book that hints at pedophilia or any other sexual activity, deviant or not. It is not kind of book. it is a travelogue.
The book is called 'Fountains in the Sand'.
It is by no means considered his best book. 'South Wind' which takes place mostly on the Isle of Capri, is his most famous work. I however disagree, and so do some other discerning readers. Fountains in the Sand is a beautiful, well written, sensitive, insightful novel. Written in a style that almost no other author seems capable of imitating. Perhaps only Wilfred Thesiger could emulate this style. It's like reading a poem.
It is an especially evocative novel for me. I had travelled in the same regions, experienced many similar events, saw many similar internal and external outlooks. I had reflected on life as Douglas had reflected on life. we were twin souls. I admired him enormously. This was before I Knew anything of the author. When the truth of his persona became clear to me I was dismayed, upset. But then, had anything about the novel changed? No. The author had released his story, it was no longer his, so why should I let his flawed persona affect my enjoyment of the novel.
I made a decision that it would not affect me. I would never let it affect me. I didn't know it then but that decision has carried me through to the present day, and solved many difficulties in my life that would have remained unsolvable if it hadn't been for that sorry excuse for a human being, Norman Douglas.
'Look not at my outward form or shape, but take what is in my hand' Rumi.
I took, and I learn't to care not who the donor was. So should you.
Fountains in the Sand: Opening paragraphs
There is not much more I can tell you about this book. It is a poem from start to finish. We learn of the French engineering, mining and acquisitiveness in Tunisia. We learn about life among the Indigenous natives of Tunisa. At no point is the novel boring. But it has no plot, no story, it is just a travel dairy.
But it is written by a master. He picks you up from your comfortable chair in front of the fire. He deposits you in Tunisa. Not only can you see what is happening but the whole past of the country, from the stone age forward is placed in front of you as a giant panorama.
You will either like this book immensely or you won't like it at all. But do not make the mistake of judging this book by it's author-cover. It's a true treasure, but the author was not.
Fountains in the Sand is available free from Project Gutenberg
Almost nothing, nothing at all, can be said in defence of this despicable man. Well, one thing maybe, and that was his last sentence on his deathbed. 'Get those phuckin nuns away from me'.
Here, in that last statement we may, just may, find some small room for some redemption. Here in these words he at least spoke a truth that we can associate with. This man was an evil perverted monster, known as the 'Pedophile who got away with it'. Someone once said, in relation to Douglas, 'England has a tradition of producing degenerate aristocrats. There must be something in the combination of wealth and a public school education that propels this country’s elite to buggery and an obsession with smut. One of the filthiest rogues to disgrace their rich heritage is the novelist and Uppingham alumni Norman Douglas'
Norman Douglas, a notorious pedophile without shame, without contrition, and who fled every attempt to arrest, but never for a moment desisted in molesting and buggering children. Just how much misery did he bring to the population of this world, and how much of that is still ongoing through the descendants of the people he damaged and wounded.
He was an outcast. How did he get away with it? Because many novelists of the day, famous novelists, male and female, artists both male and female, and people of that bohemian culture of the twenties gathered around and protected him, gave him warning of pursuit, leant him money to flee each country, each continent, to escape arrest and retribution. He was never caught. He had a charming personality.
This is going to be a very difficult author to defend. And how am I to add one of his books to my top ten deserted island list? Is there anything at all that redeems this cold callous excuse for a human being?
Well, his last words were funny and insightful. That much we must grant. Also, he did have a charming personality. It was one that in some strange way we can associate with.
An example: Angus Wilson, whom I mentioned in my first book review as the author of Late Call, was a young homosexual. He had just left a party at Viva and Willie King's place. He found himself standing at the bus stop beside a weeping Norman Douglas. This was outside South Kensington Railway Station. Douglas, drunk, was sobbing at the constant persecution of his person, the unfairness of the world, how he was misunderstood, etc.
So heart rending were his sobs that he had attracted the sympathy of a number of motherly old ladies, their maternal instincts were aroused. They were offering sympathy and white cotton handkerchiefs, and generally clustering around Douglas and Wilson doing their best to help the bitterly weeping Douglas. Suddenly Douglas brightened up, looked around him and said, 'I think this is where I had my first suck-off'
And there you have an unrepentant sinner, one who does not even admit that he has sinned.
But this man could write. This man could really write. If my top ten book list had to suddenly be cut in two, to five, then his book would still be there. Even if the list was cut into a quarter, then still it would be there. However, it is not the top book, that is a place is reserved for another.
When I first read the book, more a short story, I knew nothing about the author. The book almost instantly became one of my favourites. Years and years later I found out about the author of whom I knew nothing. You see, what had happened was this, I had been prevented, through lack of knowledge, from sinning. I was unable to judge the book by it's cover. Free of that prejudice I was able to read and enjoy the book for it's story alone. There is nothing in the book that hints at pedophilia or any other sexual activity, deviant or not. It is not kind of book. it is a travelogue.
The book is called 'Fountains in the Sand'.
It is by no means considered his best book. 'South Wind' which takes place mostly on the Isle of Capri, is his most famous work. I however disagree, and so do some other discerning readers. Fountains in the Sand is a beautiful, well written, sensitive, insightful novel. Written in a style that almost no other author seems capable of imitating. Perhaps only Wilfred Thesiger could emulate this style. It's like reading a poem.
It is an especially evocative novel for me. I had travelled in the same regions, experienced many similar events, saw many similar internal and external outlooks. I had reflected on life as Douglas had reflected on life. we were twin souls. I admired him enormously. This was before I Knew anything of the author. When the truth of his persona became clear to me I was dismayed, upset. But then, had anything about the novel changed? No. The author had released his story, it was no longer his, so why should I let his flawed persona affect my enjoyment of the novel.
I made a decision that it would not affect me. I would never let it affect me. I didn't know it then but that decision has carried me through to the present day, and solved many difficulties in my life that would have remained unsolvable if it hadn't been for that sorry excuse for a human being, Norman Douglas.
'Look not at my outward form or shape, but take what is in my hand' Rumi.
I took, and I learn't to care not who the donor was. So should you.
Fountains in the Sand: Opening paragraphs
Fountains in the Sand:
Likely enough, I would not have remained in Gafsa more than a couple of days. For it was my intention to go from England straight down to the oases of the Djerid, Tozeur and Nefta, a corner of Tunisia left unexplored during my last visit to that country -- there, where the inland regions shelve down towards those mysterious depressions, the Chotts, dried-up oceans, they say, where in olden days the fleets of Atlantis rode at anchor....
But there fell into my hands, by the way, a volume that deals exclusively with Gafsa--Pierre Bordereau's "La Capsa ancienne: La Gafsa moderne"--and, glancing over its pages as the train wound southwards along sterile river-beds and across dusty highlands, I became interested in this place of Gafsa, which seems to have had such a long and eventful history. Even before arriving at the spot, I had come to the correct conclusion that it must be worth more than a two days' visit.
The book opens thus: _One must reach Gafsa by way of Sfax._ Undoubtedly, this was the right thing to do; all my fellow-travellers were agreed upon that point; leaving Sfax by a night train, you arrive at Gafsa in the early hours of the following morning.
One must reach Gafsa by way of Sfax....
But a fine spirit of northern independence prompted me to try an alternative route. The time-table marked a newly opened line of railway which runs directly inland from the port of Sousse; the distance to Gafsa seemed shorter; the country was no doubt new and interesting. There was the station of Feriana, for instance, celebrated for its Roman antiquities and well worth a visit; I looked at the map and saw a broad road connecting this place with Gafsa; visions of an evening ride across the desert arose before my delighted imagination; instead of passing the night in an uncomfortable train, I should be already ensconced at a luxurious table d'hÙte, and so to bed.
The gods willed otherwise.
In pitch darkness, at the inhuman hour of 5.55 a.m., the train crept out of Sousse: sixteen miles an hour is its prescribed pace. The weather grew sensibly colder as we rose into the uplands, a stricken region, tree-less and water-less, with gaunt brown hills receding into the background; by midday, when Sbeitla was reached, it was blowing a hurricane. I had hoped to wander, for half an hour or so, among the ruins of this old city of Suffetula, but the cold, apart from their distance from the station, rendered this impossible; in order to reach the shed where luncheon was served, we were obliged to crawl backwards, crab-wise, to protect our faces from a storm which raised pebbles, the size of respectable peas, from the ground, and scattered them in a hail about us. I despair of giving any idea of that glacial blast: it was as if one stood, deprived of clothing, of skin and flesh--a jabbering anatomy--upon some drear Caucasian pinnacle. And I thought upon the gentle rains of London, from which I had fled to these sunny regions, I remembered the fogs, moist and warm and caressing: greatly is the English winter maligned! Seeing that this part of Tunisia is covered with the forsaken cities of the Romans who were absurdly sensitive in the matter of heat and cold, one is driven to the conclusion that the climate must indeed have changed since their day.
Likely enough, I would not have remained in Gafsa more than a couple of days. For it was my intention to go from England straight down to the oases of the Djerid, Tozeur and Nefta, a corner of Tunisia left unexplored during my last visit to that country -- there, where the inland regions shelve down towards those mysterious depressions, the Chotts, dried-up oceans, they say, where in olden days the fleets of Atlantis rode at anchor....
But there fell into my hands, by the way, a volume that deals exclusively with Gafsa--Pierre Bordereau's "La Capsa ancienne: La Gafsa moderne"--and, glancing over its pages as the train wound southwards along sterile river-beds and across dusty highlands, I became interested in this place of Gafsa, which seems to have had such a long and eventful history. Even before arriving at the spot, I had come to the correct conclusion that it must be worth more than a two days' visit.
The book opens thus: _One must reach Gafsa by way of Sfax._ Undoubtedly, this was the right thing to do; all my fellow-travellers were agreed upon that point; leaving Sfax by a night train, you arrive at Gafsa in the early hours of the following morning.
One must reach Gafsa by way of Sfax....
But a fine spirit of northern independence prompted me to try an alternative route. The time-table marked a newly opened line of railway which runs directly inland from the port of Sousse; the distance to Gafsa seemed shorter; the country was no doubt new and interesting. There was the station of Feriana, for instance, celebrated for its Roman antiquities and well worth a visit; I looked at the map and saw a broad road connecting this place with Gafsa; visions of an evening ride across the desert arose before my delighted imagination; instead of passing the night in an uncomfortable train, I should be already ensconced at a luxurious table d'hÙte, and so to bed.
The gods willed otherwise.
In pitch darkness, at the inhuman hour of 5.55 a.m., the train crept out of Sousse: sixteen miles an hour is its prescribed pace. The weather grew sensibly colder as we rose into the uplands, a stricken region, tree-less and water-less, with gaunt brown hills receding into the background; by midday, when Sbeitla was reached, it was blowing a hurricane. I had hoped to wander, for half an hour or so, among the ruins of this old city of Suffetula, but the cold, apart from their distance from the station, rendered this impossible; in order to reach the shed where luncheon was served, we were obliged to crawl backwards, crab-wise, to protect our faces from a storm which raised pebbles, the size of respectable peas, from the ground, and scattered them in a hail about us. I despair of giving any idea of that glacial blast: it was as if one stood, deprived of clothing, of skin and flesh--a jabbering anatomy--upon some drear Caucasian pinnacle. And I thought upon the gentle rains of London, from which I had fled to these sunny regions, I remembered the fogs, moist and warm and caressing: greatly is the English winter maligned! Seeing that this part of Tunisia is covered with the forsaken cities of the Romans who were absurdly sensitive in the matter of heat and cold, one is driven to the conclusion that the climate must indeed have changed since their day.
There is not much more I can tell you about this book. It is a poem from start to finish. We learn of the French engineering, mining and acquisitiveness in Tunisia. We learn about life among the Indigenous natives of Tunisa. At no point is the novel boring. But it has no plot, no story, it is just a travel dairy.
But it is written by a master. He picks you up from your comfortable chair in front of the fire. He deposits you in Tunisa. Not only can you see what is happening but the whole past of the country, from the stone age forward is placed in front of you as a giant panorama.
You will either like this book immensely or you won't like it at all. But do not make the mistake of judging this book by it's author-cover. It's a true treasure, but the author was not.
Fountains in the Sand:
"That's good medicine," I heard Achmet telling him, reassuringly; "that's strong. See how it hurts!"
For a while he bore up bravely, but the pain growing worse instead of better, the doctor was at last persuaded, out of compassion and in return for a second fee, to give him something with a more soothing effect.
But eye diseases are his speciality. His _piËce de rÈsistance_ is a Jewish tradesman whom he has lately supplied with an admirable glass eye--a thing almost unheard-of in these parts. This man and myself were sitting in the shop not long ago when a Moroccan happened to be passing who had known him in his one-eyed days; the stranger gave him a sharp look and then walked swiftly away, apparently suspecting himself to be the victim of some absurd hallucination as regards the new eye. But he returned anon, to make sure of his mistake, I suppose; while the Jew confronted him with a defiant glance of his two eyes. They stared at each other for some time in silence. At last the Moroccan enquired:
"Are you the man who sold me that piece of cloth three weeks ago?"
"I am he."
There was another long pause. Then:
"That new eye: how came you by it?"
The Jew, a dreadful scoffer, pointed heavenwards with one finger.
"A thing of God!" he said. "A miracle has been vouchsafed me."
But the man of Mequinez answered nothing. He gazed at him once more, and then, slowly bending down his head, folded his hands across his breast in prayer, and walked away....
"That's good medicine," I heard Achmet telling him, reassuringly; "that's strong. See how it hurts!"
For a while he bore up bravely, but the pain growing worse instead of better, the doctor was at last persuaded, out of compassion and in return for a second fee, to give him something with a more soothing effect.
But eye diseases are his speciality. His _piËce de rÈsistance_ is a Jewish tradesman whom he has lately supplied with an admirable glass eye--a thing almost unheard-of in these parts. This man and myself were sitting in the shop not long ago when a Moroccan happened to be passing who had known him in his one-eyed days; the stranger gave him a sharp look and then walked swiftly away, apparently suspecting himself to be the victim of some absurd hallucination as regards the new eye. But he returned anon, to make sure of his mistake, I suppose; while the Jew confronted him with a defiant glance of his two eyes. They stared at each other for some time in silence. At last the Moroccan enquired:
"Are you the man who sold me that piece of cloth three weeks ago?"
"I am he."
There was another long pause. Then:
"That new eye: how came you by it?"
The Jew, a dreadful scoffer, pointed heavenwards with one finger.
"A thing of God!" he said. "A miracle has been vouchsafed me."
But the man of Mequinez answered nothing. He gazed at him once more, and then, slowly bending down his head, folded his hands across his breast in prayer, and walked away....
Fountains in the Sand is available free from Project Gutenberg
