The Werewolf of Paris - Guy Endore

I am delighted to have discovered Endore's 1933 The Werewolf of Paris via Mark, who found an old copy in a thrift store and thought it sounded like something I would enjoy. Did I ever! It is written in an extremely charming and engaging style. and vividly describes life in Paris in the 1870s.

The novel begins with a frame story in which a young, penniless scholar discovers a manuscript documenting the trial of the young army officer, Bertrand Caillet, who has been charged with violently attacking a fellow officer. The manuscript is the work of Bertrand's uncle, Aymar, who tries desperately to convince the Court that Bertrand, a werewolf, ought to be burned at the stake for the greater good. This assertion, of course, is anathema in the age of reason.

Aymar is a compelling character: a former revolutionary skeptic whose experiences with the boy have convinced him that there is more to the world than modern science would lead us to believe. In making his case for the existence of the supernatural, Aymar argues: "Let us beware of judging hastily. The Catholic Church is said to have burned 300,000 witches, until the world exclaimed in horror: 'What gross superstition! There are no witches.' And truly there were none. At any rate there were no more."

I am amazed that this work has never been made into a movie, it would be a wonderful one.

Of Human Bondage - Maugham

After reading Dad's review, I decided to check out Maugham's Of Human Bondage. It was a very interesting tale of a neurotic young man afflicted with a clubfoot, and his coming of age in England and France during the late 18 and early 1900s. Although it starts off fairly slowly (the tale begins in Philip's youth), it builds powerfully and is a very captivating read.

I don't have much to add to Dad's review, except to say that it is filled with interesting bits of Philip's evolving philosophy, such as when he thinks:

Society had three arms in its contest with the individual: laws, public opinion, and conscience; the first two could be met by guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the strong... but conscience was the traitor within the gates; it fought in each heart the battle of society, and caused the individual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice, to the prosperity of his enemy.

Of Human Bondage

I quite enjoyed Cakes and Ale by Somerset Maugham, a short, breezy story of a young man entranced by an unusual couple.  So I was very interested in reading Of Human Bondage, generally regarded as Maugham's masterpiece.  The book deals with limitations, or bonds, imposed by accidents of class or wealth, but the main bondage experienced by the protagonist, Philip Carey, is his obsession with a low-class, self-absorbed and cruel waitress.  Obsessions are often treated in contemporary culture as highly-charged fixations that are potentially good things, unfortunately "carried to an extreme" - but Philip Carey's obsession is incomprehensible, degrading, and pathetic.  Contrasted with this main story line, Maugham very effectively captures moments of joy or beauty, although such moments are rare in this book. Also, Maugham is especially gifted at depicting ordinary events that suddenly turn deeply sad or hopeless - some of these scenes are heartrending.  While living in Paris with the aspiration of becoming a painter, Philip becomes acquainted with Cronshaw, an older, successful poet and, when he had been drinking, a fascinating conversationalist:

    But this evening, Philip wanted to talk about himself.  Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw's pile of saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an independent view of things in general. "I wonder if you'd give me some advice," said Philip suddenly.
    "You won't take it, will you?"
    Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
    "I don't believe I shall ever do much good as a painter.  I don't see any use in being second-rate.  I'm thinking of chucking it."
    "Why shouldn't you?"
    Philip hesitated for an instant.
    "I suppose I like the life."
    A change came over Cronshaw's placid, round face.  The corners of the mouth were suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to become strangely bowed and old.
    "This? he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat.  His voice really trembled a little.  "If you can get out of it, do while there's time."
    Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion always made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes.  He knew that he was looking upon the tragedy of failure.  There was silence.  Philip thought that Cronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered his youth with its bright hopes and the disappointments that wore out the the radiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future.  Philip's eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that Cronshaw's were on them too.

It may not exactly sound like it from this review, but I really liked this book.