Lit. Nonfiction
Book Report
De Quincey, Thomas. Confessions of an English Opium Eater. 1821. Rpt. New York: The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd, 1886. 104 pages.
Biographical sketch
Thomas De Quincey was an English man of letters most closely associated with the Romantic poets Coleridge and Wordsworth. He was born in 1785 and used opium regularly from 1804 until his death in 1859 (despite what his "Confessions" would have you believe.) Although he had already published stories, articles, and reviews in newspapers, Confessions of an English Opium Eater was his first book, and, despite the breadth and quality of his later writings, his most successful, probably due to its lurid subject matter. He made a "living" (like many writers then and now, he was constantly trying to evade creditors) writing articles and essays for magazines. De Quincey eventually married and had eight children. Despite his drug addiction, he outlived his wife by several years. Shortly before his death, he compiled his Collected Works, a massive, multiple-volume set.
Genre, summary, and structure
Confessions of an English Opium Eater was probably the first "Drug Confessional," a genre which has exploded, particularly in recent years due to the brief resurgence in popularity of heroin following Kurt Cobain’s death. "High" points of the genre (besides Confessions) are William Burroughs’ Junky and Jerry Stahl’s Permanent Midnight. Low points would have to be Drew Barrymore’s Little Girl Lost and David Crosby’s Long Time Gone. Popular fictional works which could justifiably be included in the genre are The Man With the Golden Arm, Jesus’ Son, and Trainspotting. The standard "Drug Confessional" formula has not deviated significantly since its inception, and consists of the following simple but crucial plot points: a man (or woman) sinks to the depths of hell (drug abuse) only to claw his way back out to tell the tale. In fact, the preceding statement could easily be a blurb on the jacket of any of the books already mentioned.
De Quincey’s book attempts to recount the author’s personal struggles with opium and his eventual recovery. However, the few passages that actually describe his opium addiction directly are sandwiched between long descriptions of his life of semi-voluntary poverty and detailed dream analyses which, while extremely well written, are only partially relevant at best.
What is most maddening is that there are large, unexplained gaps in the story that leave the reader confused. How exactly did De Quincey get out of poverty? When did he marry? What was the trauma that caused him to move from recreational opium use to addiction? Did he ever actually quit?
These questions can only be answered by reading additional biographical sources.
The De Quincey Persona and Style
De Quincey’s style carries the book. Sure, he’s not actually talking about opium much of the time, but it doesn’t really matter because his writing is so exquisite. The first section of the book, which deals with part of his youth and barely mentions opium, is quite poignant and very funny in places. He is very adept at moving from sparse, arresting sentences to long, evocative, almost metaphysical passages. Then, just as the reader is becoming overloaded with philosophy, De Quincey inserts a funny anecdote, or a chummy aside to the reader.
His mastery of English shines throughout; indeed, he plays the language as if it were a finely tuned instrument and he the virtuoso musician. The book is, quite simply, "gourmet" writing, a pleasure to read.
As far as persona goes, De Quincey goes to great lengths to describe himself as a philosopher. He also gives the impression of being an aged man of letters looking back on his life, which is interesting because in reality he had nearly 40 years of writing ahead of him, including most of his major works.
Also, seemingly contradictory personas are presented: the aristocratic literary man who drops Latin and contemplates the deeper meanings, and the regular guy who hangs out with peasants and prostitutes, and lives it up on Saturday nights. The end result, whether intentional or not, is a very complex, unpredictable, and therefore immensely interesting narrator
De Quincey’s readers
The book was supposedly written to clear up the public’s misconceptions about opium, and also as a sort of self-help book for other opium eaters who wished to kick the habit. "The moral of the narrative is addressed to the opium-eater; and therefore, of necessity, limited in its application." (103-104)
At any rate, De Quincey often addresses us directly, creating an intimate relationship between reader and author that transcends distance and time.
Overall evaluation and recommendation
Confessions of an English Opium Eater is an excellent book, surprisingly readable considering the era that spawned it.
Despite some technical problems (the aforementioned unexplained gaps in narrative and the shortage of actual opium-specific details) the book serves as a remarkable document of a person and time long gone. The rich, stimulating prose brings that period alive for us, so much so that it is difficult to close the book and return to our modern world of fax machines, cell phones, and Pokemon. As a chronicle of drug abuse, Confessions is somewhat lacking by modern standards, but taken in the context of its time, it was probably a very groundbreaking book, admired for its frankness in dealing with a subject that had not yet been adequately documented.
Robert Lurie
Lit. Nonfiction
Book Report
De Quincey, Thomas. Confessions of an English Opium Eater. 1821. Rpt. New York: The Walter Scott Publishing Co., Ltd, 1886. 104 pages.
Selected Passages
Here is the classic "disclaimer" which seems, in some form or another, to have graced the beginning of every literary work dealing with sin up to the 1970s. From Moll Flanders to Naked Lunch, there was always, in the foreword or first chapter, some kind of apology, rationalization, explanation, or, in De Quincey’s case, an attempt to distance himself from the other confessions and then divert the reader’s attention entirely by slamming the French!
"Nothing, indeed, is more revolting to English feelings, than
the spectacle of a human being obtruding on our notice his moral
ulcers or scars, and tearing away that ‘decent drapery,’ which
time, or indulgence to human frailty, may have drawn over them:
accordingly, the greater part of our confessions (that is,
spontaneous and extra-judicial confessions) proceed from
demireps, adventurers, or swindlers: and for any such acts of
gratuitous self-humiliation from those who can be supposed in
sympathy with the decent and self-respecting part of society,
we must look to French literature, or to that part of the German
which is tainted with the spurious and defective sensibility
of the French." ("To the Reader," p.xxii-xxiv)
De Quincey brings up a very good point here that most people still don’t quite understand: drugs have different effects on different types of people. The literary folks can’t help but read deeper meanings into the whole experience, whereas ‘regular folks" just like the way the drugs make them feel
"If a man ‘whose talk is of oxen,’ should become an Opium-eater,
the probability is, that (if he is not too dull to dream at
all) - he will dream about oxen : whereas, in the case before
him, the reader will find that the Opium-eater boasteth himself
to be a philosopher; and accordingly, that the phantasmagoria
of his dreams (waking or sleeping, day-dreams or night dreams)
is suitable to one who is in that character." ("Preliminary
Confessions," p.2)
Like Charles Lamb, De Quincey varies his style by occasionally slipping into anachronistic language (or dropping Latin and Greek) when he feels the urge to wax poetic. Here he bids farewell to his life of poverty.
"So then, Oxford Street, stony-hearted step-mother! thou that
listenest to the sighs of orphans, and drinkest the tears of
children, at length I was dismissed from thee: the time was
come at last that I no more should pace in anguish thy never-
ending terraces; no more should dream, and wake in captivity
to the pangs of hunger. Successors, too many, to myself and
Ann, have, doubtless, since then trodden in our footsteps -
inheritors of our calamities : other orphans than Ann have sighed
: tears have been shed by other children : and thou, Oxford
Street, hast since, doubtless, echoed to the groans of
innumerable hearts." ("Preliminary Confessions," p.42)
By the time he finally gets around to really talking about opium, De Quincey delivers the most passionate writing of the entire book. Almost all of that writing is in praise of the drug.
"Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor
and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for
‘the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,’ bringest an assuaging
balm; eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest
away the purposes of wrath; to the guilty man, for one night
gives back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure from
blood; and to the proud man, a brief oblivion for ‘wrongs
undressed and insults unaveng'd;’ that summonest to the chancery
of dreams, for the triumphs of suffering innocence, false
witnesses; and confoundest perjury; and dost reverse the
sentences of unrighteous judges; - thou buildest upon the bosom
of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities
and temples, beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles - beyond
the splendour of Babylon and Hekatompylos; and ‘from the anarchy
of dreaming sleep,’ callest into sunny light the faces of long-
buried beauties, and the blessed household countenances, cleansed
from the ‘dishonours of the grave.’ Thou only givest these gifts
to man; and thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh, just, subtle,
and mighty opium!" ("The Pleasures of Opium," p.62-63)
A chilling portrait of how opium had insinuated itself into his daily routine.
"Whether desperate of not, however, the issue of the struggle
in 1813 was what I have mentioned; and from this date, the reader
is to consider me as a regular and confirmed opium-eater, of
whom to ask whether on any particular day he had or had not
taken opium, would be to ask whether his lungs had performed
respiration, or the heart fulfilled its functions." ("Introduction to the Pains of Opium," p. 70)
De Quincey delivers some more inspired writing in his description of the happiest days of his life, which consisted of many winter hours spent sitting by the fire, reading, blissed-out on opium.
"Surely everybody is aware of the divine pleasures which attend
a winter fireside; candles at four o'clock, warm hearth-rugs,
tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in
ample draperies on the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging
audibly without," ("Introduction to the Pains of Opium," p 76)
De Quincey defends his "frankness."
"You will think, perhaps, that I am too confidential and
communicative of my own private history. It may be so. But my
way of writing is rather to think aloud, and follow my own
humours, than much to consider who is listening to me; and,
if I stop to consider what is proper to be said to this or that
person, I shall soon come to doubt whether any part at all is
proper." ("The Pains of Opium," p. 81)
Inexplicably, De Quincey is roused from his extended opium torpor by…a book about political economics?
"At length, in 1819, a friend in Edinburgh sent me down Mr.
Ricardo's book : and recurring to my own prophetic anticipation
of the advent of some legislator for this science, I said, before
I had finished the first chapter, ‘Thou art the man!’ ("The
Pains of Opium," p. 85)
When it comes time for De Quincey to detail "The Pains of Opium," he side-steps the issue for the most part, and instead goes into long, detailed descriptions of his dreams and how extended opium use altered their character. Here is one of the insights he gained from these dreams:
"Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is no such thing
as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may
and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness
and the secret inscriptions of the mind; accidents of the same
sort will also rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled
or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever; just as the stars
seem to withdraw before the common light of day, whereas, in
fact, we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them
as a veil, and that they are waiting to be revealed when the
obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn." ("The Pains of
Opium," p. 90)
De Quincey describes what it was like to give up drugs in the days before Betty Ford.
"I triumphed : but think not, reader, that therefore my sufferings were ended; nor think of me as one sitting in a dejected state. Think of me as of one, even when four months had passed, still agitated, writhing, throbbing, palpitating, shattered; and much, perhaps, in the situation of him who has been racked, as I collect the torments of that state from the affecting account of them left by a most innocent sufferer." ("The Pains of Opium," p. 103)
In the Book’s final passage, De Quincey discusses some lingering effects of his long period of drug use. (Funny, maybe he was still experiencing these symptoms because he didn’t actually quit. Hmmm.)
"One memorial of my former condition still remains: my dreams are not yet perfectly calm : the dread swell and agitation of the storm have not wholly subsided : the legions that encamped in them are drawing off, but not all departed : my sleep is still tumultuous, and, like the gates of Paradise to our first parents when looking back from afar, it is still (in the tremendous line of Milton)- ‘with dreadful faces throng’d and fiery arms.’" ("The Pains of Opium," p. 104)