Thomas De Quincey: Confessions of a Romantic Gutter Punk

I spend a lot of time walking through my neighborhood. It is quiet and contemplative, gives me a chance to let my mind wander. The marigny is my own little haven; I know the sounds, the scarred streets, my eccentric neighbor who never wears pants, the feeling of being outside the chaos of Uptown New Orleans but with debauchery just around the corner if I am so inclined to partake. There is, however, a new installation to my habitat that can not go unnoticed: several times a day I trip over young kids passed out in the gutters, clad in denim that was possibly washed in 1981, mangy, malnourished dogs with nope around their necks attached in some way to the owner that attempts to relieve me of my box of left overs, some form of payment that could be exchanged for a tall boy tucked into a brown paper bag, or simply howls into the sky about how difficult it is to live on the streets, strumming a Martin guitar that I know costs at least $500. It is the newly fashioned New Orleans transient gutter punk that so often interrupts my reverie. The young kids that leave their suburban homes in Kentucky, hop on a freight train and end up sucking down whiskey on my front lawn (or stoop rather--alas! I have no yard or grass). It is the exploitation of those that are actually homeless or in need of monetary aid that really pisses me off. These kids ran away from mothers that would love to welcome them back into their brick homes, wash their denims, give them lunch money and tuck them into bed. But this population lives a life of choice poverty, toting expensive musical instruments and bragging about drug and alcohol addiction. It is here that I bring in the charismatic opiate lover himself, Thomas De Quincey.
As stated in biographical information, De Quincey dropped out of school, ran away from an affluent family, renounced his money and took up a life of chosen poverty where he developed a drug habit and enjoyed pretending to be poor so that he could participate in some self indulgent form of what he calls "the pleasures of the poor." The first thirty pages of his confessions talk about squatting in a mansion on Oxford street, struggling to survive from want of food. I understand the fascination with opium that has propelled him to think that this was a sort of romantic idea (not of course in the literary sense), but he simultaneously attempts to convince the reader that his scholarship is his most cherished past time. I would think that it is hard to critically review literature when you are bent over in a gutter begging for your life, or you only feel alive on Tuesday and Saturday nights pumped full of laudanum drifting through an Italian opera. This is not an expansion of mind, it is a rejection of reality for a fantasy life in which nothing becomes of value except desire to continue this fantastic vision of the world.
Not to mention De Quincey's inconsistencies throughout the text in his descriptions of the experience of the drug itself. At one point he claims that opium in no way isolates the user, that it enables the user to more enjoy social settings, yet describes the happiest year of his life as alone in a cottage behind Worsworth during winter with opium and books as his only companions. I do not want to suggest that De Quincey is a complete discredit to the Romantic movement, I just want to claim that he is unlike the others that we have studied in that his habitual reliance upon opium, and the means to which he started this lifestyle, perpetuates a sort of illusion--a role that he condemned himself to that is not transcendence, as Blake or Wordsworth is aching for, but a veil that keeps him from truly experiencing sublime vision. It is an imitation of sublime vision that leaves De Quincey with little more than nightmares, terrible health, and a chronic opium dependency.
So I warn you gutter punks out there, it may be fun to play the starving artist/ musician role for a while, but eventually you are going to wake up one morning pining for breakfast, a bar of soap, and a conversation with someone other than your dog.

O, Confessions of an Opium Eater

De Quincey begins his "Confesssions of an Opium Eater" with lines like grappling hooks, which forced me to read on. I quickly ran my eyes from left to right, left to right, like a typewriter resetting its ribbon repeatedly, and I remember the moment at which they stopped. De Quincey writes, "But I took it: -- and in an hour, oh! Heavens! what a revulsion! what an upheaving, from its lowest depths, of the inner spirit! what an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had vanished, was now a trifle in my eyes: -- this negative effect was swallowed up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened before me -- in the abyss of divine enjoyment thus suddenly revealed. Here was a panacea - a [pharmakon nepenthez] for all human woes..." I pictured him on his knees, the opium allowing his eyes to feel open for the first time with its painful bliss. His words allowed me to see him; the feelings inside him swelling from their deepest point and shooting forward in lines throughout his body. Previous to this description, he goes into great depth about the druggist. In his mind an ephemeral being, sent to Earth solely for the purpose of serving him. When De Quincey wrote, "...returned me what seemed to be real copper halfpence, taken out of a real wooden drawer," it brought about such beautiful imagery. This prose reads like poetry throughout. His writing style and words seem to be, themselves, eternally drugged. The "cloudless serenity" of which he speaks, battled with the men "disguised by sobriety," and the brutish drunks all give way into his clear window of logic in recounting his prior actions, feelings, and descriptions of this drug. There is, however, the ever-present and lurking reminder that if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. This realization comes later in the piece. It was interesting to find that opium led him to be intellectually stimulated, to be seen as a "visionary" and to go about the streets of London at night, inspired. His opium-induced self seems to be the true definition of a Romantic. Opium itself is derived from nature - poppies - and that is where Romantic poets and writers claim to always find true happiness and inspiration. His outings to the Opera-house sent music of all sorts (the singer's soul, tyrannic violins, crowds of people) swirling around him blissfully, and all the more enjoyed by his 'debauch of opium.' He seemed sort of like Hunter S. Thompson, taking drugs and going out into the sufferings of the sober or the drunk; but rarely is anyone else in public on hard drugs, and if they are, they are all too out of sorts to recognize their bretheren. His later realizations fall on solitude and reflection; another definition akin to the true Romantic. De Quincey proves full circle to have experienced the tragically beautiful life of a romantic writer.

general reflection on how "Romanticism" influences me

I have to pick up a thought which I wrote in my last Blog entry because I still have to think about it – or maybe even more. It is the thought how the Romantics influence my way of thinking and how I see the world.
In Germany I study ‘Applied Literary and Cultural Studies’ as a major and ‘Music’ and Journalism/mass communication’ as minors. I chose this because I was looking for something that deals with Literature and Music. So this seemed to be a good solution. In this field of study there are a lot of practical classes where we learn how to organize a lecture etc. However, I more and more get the feeling that I lack in some basics. Maybe it is because we are very free to choose the classes we want to. But after a while I realized that I need the basics, that I want to know the important literary epochs. I do not need them for my study but for myself. (Eventually I should have chosen Literary Studies instead of “Applied….” ?). And so I decided to take the Romanticsm class. My expectations were very …how to say…fact-orientated? You know, at school you learn to identify a literary work and its epoche by several characteristics etc. And now? Now I am caught by the Romantic poets and their thoughts, I really try to understand what they were writing about (and it feels so much better than only learning characteristics and attributes although it is much more difficult). Some lyrics are just beautiful, some complicated (cf. Beachy Head, Marriage of Heaven and Hell), some timeless – and some thoughts are also questionable but it is worth to think about them. Somehow the Romantic thoughts touch, affect, influence me. I still have to figure this out. I even started to redefine my intellectual concept. I really adore that and how certain people reflect(ed) on their world ort he world at all. And I questioned myself if I should not start to think about it as well instead of ‘drifting along’. I begun to reread Kant and went to the library to borrow Goethe’s “Faust” – which I enjoyed when I read it at school. This is a starting point. By reading, reflecting on and hopefully understanding these and other works I try to…honestly, I still do not really know but I try to get a better understanding of the world…
There is one more thing I had to think about: I went to a Waldorf School. Every morning we had to speak the following morning verse:
I gaze into the world
in which the sun is shining
in which the stars are sparkling
in which the stones repose
where living plants are growing
where sentient beasts are living
where man soul gifted gives
the spirit a dwelling place

I gaze into my soul
that lives within my being
the world creator weaves
in sunlight and in soul light
in world space therewithout
in soul depths herewithin
to thee creator spirit
i will now turn my heart
to ask that the strength and the blessing
to learn and to work
may grow within my innermost being.
By Rudolf Steiner

I did not really think about the meaning when I was a teenager. But now, almost 3 years after I finished school I remember this verse and start to think about it. And I believe it was/is a try to make us aware of the world in its whole creation… it is another way to describe the way, different from Wordsworth’s or any other Romantic poet but still a way.
I have a huge amount of work and reading to do, I know, but it feels good, I feel good when I think about it; it feels right at the very moment.

Transcending the Senses

Where silent zephyrs sported with the dust

Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun,

And from the rubbish gathered up a stone

And pocketed the Relic in the guise

Of an Enthusiast; yet, in honest truth,

I looked for Something that I could not find,

Affecting more emotion than I felt…

-William Wordsworth

The Prelude, Book Ninth

Reading these lines, I thought back to my recent summer experience throughout Belgium and the surrounding major cities, namely Paris and Amsterdam. Traveling to Europe, I enthusiastically awaited my encounter with the places that promised an awakening experience. I would finally see, smell, feel—ultimately experience—the places where many of history’s greatest events unfolded; as if these experiences would somehow reaffirm all the things that I had learned, to finally make complete sense of things, to reach a true understanding. However, this understanding cemented within the senses did not come.

As Wordsworth describes in these particular lines, he believes that by collecting a piece of the Bastille he would somehow become connected to the French Revolution; he would become a part of this cultural icon. Yet, upon Wordsworth’s possession of the stone, the reader is suddenly presented with a shift in the author’s psyche. This stone cannot provide that experience; the stone proves void of meaning. Wordsworth knows there has to be something else out there, something beyond empiricism.

Now presented with the realization of his limitations, Wordsworth suddenly becomes discouraged by the fact that his humanity bounds him; only so much can be fully grasped in the everyday. This particular episode marks a profound moment in Wordsworth’s road to disillusionment, for the senses provide only momentary feelings of meaning, feelings that instantly begin receding to an increasingly distant coast. Realizing that these feelings can only be renewed, Wordsworth becomes disenchanted as he ventures to discover a constant, something that cannot be taken away.

BH & what I've gathered.

Sure, this is a little late, but aren't the blogs for contemplated reactions? After discussing Beachy Head for the second day in a row, I can honestly say that I gathered little more than nothing from the discussion. Towards the end of our near 70 minute run though of the over 600 line blank verse poem, my main grasp it was that in order to understand where I am in the present, I must completely understand my history and that the minor details are what create the beautiful major picture. My first reading of the poem left me overwhelmed; there was so much detail and time-travel between lines that I was often left wondering where I was and how I got there. Prior to reading Beachy Head, I thought my history only included as far back as I could remember and perhaps the months before my birth. I thought more about this and considered adding how my parents got to together, some mention of my siblings and a few references to my extended family. If I leave out my Beau, he wouldn't be happy and of course, my grandparents and their story is important. My personal story now has some extra padding. I can't, however, leave out the recent events, such as the death of my mother and my dad's remarriage to my step mother, that have shaped the way I think about relationships and love. With the mention of my step mother, I find that I cannot leave her out and must add her to my story. The fact that some details from our (my stepmother's and my own) backgrounds are similar is something that cannot be ignored and I add them. My story has become a kind of gumbo and like gumbo, leaving out seemingly minor things can change the entire pot. Once, my grandma left the okra out of her famous gumbo and it looked like a thin soup. It tasted good, but something was missing. We can all share the basic parts of our history, from birth to present, and the story will make some sense. To achieve the effect BH has, however, there are certain things to keep in mind. Using Smith's Beachy Head as the example, I've found that details, no matter how minor or major, should not be left out. These pieces are what make the story, well, taste good.

Home in Blanc: A Personal Note

The piece, “Monte Blanc” really connected with me. I’ve loved all the works that we have read, but the imagery reminded me so much of my hometown. I’m originally from Hawaii and although its very different from France, the mountainous scenery means so much to me.
As the “…lending splendour, where from the secret springs/ The source of human thought its tribute brings/ of waters, - with a sound but half its own” (line 4-6). Just as the secret springs of Mount Blanc speak eternally the Pauoa Valley and Nu’uanu are deep with cervices and pockets of jungle. It is within the beaming light of the sun that shows the green depth of each drape in the landscape. Even more powerful is the eternal darkness of each night that shadows engulf the mountain and the only way to see it are the small lights from the houses covering the mountain side.
The biggest connection between “Monte Blanc” and my hometown is how I understand Shelley’s acknowledgement of the eternal existence of the landmass. This too I draw great comfort in. Even though I can only go back to Hawaii during the summer because of how far and expensive it is, like “the still and solemn power of many sights” this sight is never changing for my home.

Thinking, feeling...emotion vs. reason

“I think, therefore I am” says Descartes. The human being is a thinking being, it is characterized by thinking, differs from other beings in being able to think, rethink and memorize. I have often asked myself: do I think too much about things, do I reflect too much? Although there is nothing wrong with thinking and reflecting I again asked myself if it doesn’t make my life more complicated than it has to be. Should not I just act, doing, follow my feelings? Just live? However, is this possible, a life without reflection? To think about, to meditate on my own acting and non-acting, does not this belong to life?
And the Romantics have born me out in this and made me insecure at the same time. Wordsworth speaks about “pleasant thoughts/ [that ]Bring sad thoughts to the mind”(Lines Written in Early Spring, ll.3-4). So, too much thinking destroys our feel for nature and our surrounding. We always call something into question instead of enjoying it. We do not see the beautiful things around us because we are lost in thoughts. And is not this the case: you sit somewhere, let your mind wander; and suddenly you think about something you have not thought before and do not want to think about it because these thoughts are unpleasant, painful, too complicated? Wordsworth and Smith both write about that live in harmony with nature is more valuable than studying, reading, writing: “ Books! ‘tis is a dull and endlesse strife:/ […]Let Nature be your teacher”(The Tables Turned, ll. 9+16).
But there is the conflict. The adult cannot enjoy nature; he has to think about it. He lost his innocence, his childish innocence to just experience life and the world. He lost his innocence at the very moment he starts thinking about it. The moment of realizing ends the innocence. So one excludes the other. However, „A timely utterance gave that thought [realizing the loss of innocence] relief“ and makes strong again, writes Wordsworth (Ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, ll. 23-24) .Recollection, reflection destroys and cures at the same time. This remembers me of Blake: you have to destroy in order to create.
In the Romantic Period emotion is often preferred to reason. At least this is what I took from the poems. And this confuses me. Is there a line between mind and reason? Is it possible to separate these two things at all? In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell Blake clearly prefers imagination to reason. And this leads me to Kant who is of the opinion that reason must not be influenced by emotion and imaginations in order to make the right decisions.
Thinking or feeling? Thinking and feeling? Feeling, then thinking? These are questions I still cannot answer. Maybe, I will never find the answer. Probably, there is not an answer at all.
A few days ago I had a very intensive conversation with a good friend from Germany. Here, it was late in the evening, there, it was early in the morning, so Barbauld is right when she says “This dead of midnight is the noon of thoughts” (A Summer Evening’s Meditation, l. 51). We exactly talked about the question of thinking/feeling/acting. And we could not find an answer, too. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed the discussion; I like conversations like this one.
Honestly spoken: I would never have expected that the Romantic thoughts concerns me so much and even influences me. I would never have thought that the Romantic is so up to date – or timeless. Not only clouds and daffodils but deep thoughts and opinions that questions everything. Unbelievable mental and conceptual depth. Hard to understand – but it is worthwhile thinking about it. And again: thinking. The circle closes…