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The City of Dreadful Night
by
Large format paper back for easy reading. A gothic epic. Decadence and horror in late 19th Century urban life from the 'poet of doom'.
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Paperback, 48 pages
Published
June 30th 2005
by Dodo Press
(first published 1874)
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I'm browsing Thomson's work on internet sites, not this edition. He was a nineteenth century Scottish writer, a depressive alcoholic who has been compared with Poe. I read 'The City of Dreadful Night' from a Project Gutenberg portal. It's an account of a Wasteland and a City (based, apparently, upon his time in London) imaged in a spectrum of darkness where shadows are forms in what may be termed 'darkness visible'. Direct references to Dante and Durer's Melancholia (which is the huge statue
...more
Heres the starting quotes in english i hate when books leave things in latin etc. :
Through me is the way into the city of pain. —Dante's Inferno
Then out of such endless working,
so many movements of everything in heaven and earth,
revolving incessantly,
only to return to the point from which they were moved:
from all this I can imagine neither purpose nor gain. —Leopardi’s Canti XXIII: Canto notturno di un pastore errante dell'Asia
Eternal alone in the world,
receiver of all created things,
in ...more
Through me is the way into the city of pain. —Dante's Inferno
Then out of such endless working,
so many movements of everything in heaven and earth,
revolving incessantly,
only to return to the point from which they were moved:
from all this I can imagine neither purpose nor gain. —Leopardi’s Canti XXIII: Canto notturno di un pastore errante dell'Asia
Eternal alone in the world,
receiver of all created things,
in ...more
Like another reviewer, I read this through an internet portal, not this edition. An amazing epic in which the narrator wanders through a landscape (it isn't always a city, as desert is sometimes mentioned. Or maybe it's Phoenix, which would be beyond appropriate, LOL) which seems to be a metaphor for depression, madness, death, or maybe just a futile existence itself, which would encompass the former three. The Narrator occasionally encounters another soul as despairing as himself, but greets
...more
As I came through this poem thus it was,
As I came through this poem: All was black,
The lines did burn like lamps yet light did lack,
A brooding tone, without a stirring note,
To read aloud, to stifle soul at throat.
The song does throb like enormous thing
That swoops with sullen moan and clanking wing:
      But we read on austere;
      Once done, we'll have a beer!
This poem will help us bring back goth in 2018, rife ...more
This isn't long, but I have been convinced for some time that this text is the basis for much decadent and pre-modern work that quickly followed. This is probably obvious to scholars, but the rest of us might be slower on the uptake.
It's immediate. It speaks in scenes and symbols. It's VERY available and not long.
A modern version of Satanic Mills, but in-your-face and intent on doing direct damage: not only a disturbed chain of being, but, taken as a whole, utterly corrupt and irredeemable. We ...more
It's immediate. It speaks in scenes and symbols. It's VERY available and not long.
A modern version of Satanic Mills, but in-your-face and intent on doing direct damage: not only a disturbed chain of being, but, taken as a whole, utterly corrupt and irredeemable. We ...more
Fans of the uncanny and macabre in poetry would do well to check out this near-forgotten classic. Like L'Autreamont or Nerval, Thomson is for real. His style may seem somewhat dated, but its aura remains vital. One can find the complete text online also; I've never seen this particular edition, but I'm sure the images are most likely engaging.
This was absolutely amazing. I loved the atheistic 'sermon' - such a profound sense of relief, like an audible sigh, as the congregation are released from dogma and the torment of eternal life. Although it is melancholy, there is comfort in truth.
read this in Caffe Nero & low-key wanted to writhe around on the floor and give up on existence
The city of Thomson’s dreadful night is a dark, bleak place defined by its total lack of faith, love, and hope. It is human alienation at its most extreme. It’s a place full of masses of disconnected bodies merely surviving the unrelenting agony of existence.
The city, in this case London, is Dante’s Inferno, Victorian style. As Bobby Seal put it in Psychogeographic Review, it is “a city of life in death.” “There is no God; no Fiend with names divine/Made us and tortures us; if we must pine…”
...more
The city, in this case London, is Dante’s Inferno, Victorian style. As Bobby Seal put it in Psychogeographic Review, it is “a city of life in death.” “There is no God; no Fiend with names divine/Made us and tortures us; if we must pine…”
...more
Damned if I know what to say about this poem. On the one hand, it's augural of the city as we would come to know it in Dickensian terms and, later (and more regrettable) Manhattan-esque terms. And yet, the poem isn't prophetic in the slightest. It is, in every way, archaic. Its metre is trite. It's rhyme scheme is tiresome. Its language is superannuated, even for its time. At its most exciting, it implores Scots. Syntactically, it manoeuvres around English sentence structure in a way that
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Never usually comment on formatting, but my god, whoever decided on the ebook layout needs a slap upside the head. Having the footnote numbering as large as, and within the text itself, really disrupted the flow of the poem. Granted, it was less than the price of a coffee but I do kind of expect a bit more from Canongate publishing.
That aside, this is a very powerful, epic piece of poetry that still remains relevant with universal themes. While parts of the language may seem slightly dated at ...more
That aside, this is a very powerful, epic piece of poetry that still remains relevant with universal themes. While parts of the language may seem slightly dated at ...more
Like Patmore's "The Angel in the House," good to know but dreadful to read (at least if you are a Victorian scholar and enjoy self-immolation). You might say it's so dreadful that it's deliciously dreadful. The plodding rhyme scheme and endless, dull refrains lull you into the very depression afflicting its night-wandering characters. Apparently, though perhaps not surprisingly, a great hit with its contemporary audience . . . just like Patmore.
I read this in a kindle edition, which took away some of the enjoyment because it was awfully formatted and either the page numbers from the original print version, or the stanza numbers were all mixed in with the text.
That being said, the power of this lengthy (epic) poem still came through and I was totally immersed. A wonderful piece that I recommend highly. I'd suggest getting it in print, though.
That being said, the power of this lengthy (epic) poem still came through and I was totally immersed. A wonderful piece that I recommend highly. I'd suggest getting it in print, though.
Although this was written over a hundred years ago, it still resonants with today's cities, probably more so now than it did when it was first written. Thomson captures the darker side to city life in beautifully haunting prose and shows the city for what it really is...dark, dangerous, lonely and isolated...not the mecca of human society, warmth and opportunity that many believe it to be.
Amazing and thought provoking
I've wanted to read this for a long time and I'm not disappointed, in fact, I'm gobsmacked at the amount of detail that James has put in, this has a sombre rhythm and you watch it unfold in front of you as you read, a magnificent if not terryfing window on London.
I've wanted to read this for a long time and I'm not disappointed, in fact, I'm gobsmacked at the amount of detail that James has put in, this has a sombre rhythm and you watch it unfold in front of you as you read, a magnificent if not terryfing window on London.
"no secret can be told
To any who divined it not before"
The poem I've wanted to read/write my entire life. It's what Hardy should have been like, and might have been if he hadn't been waylaid by anapests.
To any who divined it not before"
The poem I've wanted to read/write my entire life. It's what Hardy should have been like, and might have been if he hadn't been waylaid by anapests.
tragic and beautiful. the loss of hope for redemption but joy of life.
a hard read at times but worth while once your eyes adjust to the darkness the shadows are truly stunning.
readers beware reading this may lead to deep melancholy.
a hard read at times but worth while once your eyes adjust to the darkness the shadows are truly stunning.
readers beware reading this may lead to deep melancholy.
HOLY COW. DO NOT READ WHILE DEPRESSED.
Dark--very dark. But it will chill you to the bones and make you think.
"Who is most wretched in this dolorous place?
I think myself; yet I would rather be
My miserable self than He, than He
Who formed such creatures to His own disgrace."
I think myself; yet I would rather be
My miserable self than He, than He
Who formed such creatures to His own disgrace."
Some startling imagery that resonated with my depression, but I really don’t get poetry at all. I was left more confused than moved. Not something I will return to.
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James Thomson, who wrote under the pseudonym Bysshe Vanolis, was a Victorian-era poet famous primarily for the long poem The City of Dreadful Night (1874), an expression of bleak pessimism in a dehumanized, uncaring urban environment. He is often distinguished from the earlier Scottish poet James Thomson by the letters B.V. after his name.
Thomson was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland, and, after his ...more
Thomson was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland, and, after his ...more
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“Your woe hath been my anguish; yea, I quail
And perish in your perishing unblest.
And I have searched the highths and depths, the scope
Of all our universe, with desperate hope
To find some solace for your wild unrest.”
—
16 likes
And perish in your perishing unblest.
And I have searched the highths and depths, the scope
Of all our universe, with desperate hope
To find some solace for your wild unrest.”
“Who is most wretched in this dolorous place?
I think myself; yet I would rather be
My miserable self than He, than He
Who formed such creatures to His own disgrace.
The vilest thing must be less vile than Thou
From whom it had its being, God and Lord!
Creator of all woe and sin! abhorred
Malignant and implacable! I vow
That not for all Thy power furled and unfurled,
For all the temples to Thy glory built,
Would I assume the ignominious guilt
Of having made such men in such a world.
As if a Being, God or Fiend, could reign,
At once so wicked, foolish and insane,
As to produce men when He might refrain!
The world rolls round for ever like a mill;
It grinds out death and life and good and ill;
It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
While air of Space and Time's full river flow
The mill must blindly whirl unresting so:
It may be wearing out, but who can know?
Man might know one thing were his sight less dim;
That it whirls not to suit his petty whim,
That it is quite indifferent to him.
Nay, does it treat him harshly as he saith?
It grinds him some slow years of bitter breath,
Then grinds him back into eternal death.”
—
11 likes
More quotes…
I think myself; yet I would rather be
My miserable self than He, than He
Who formed such creatures to His own disgrace.
The vilest thing must be less vile than Thou
From whom it had its being, God and Lord!
Creator of all woe and sin! abhorred
Malignant and implacable! I vow
That not for all Thy power furled and unfurled,
For all the temples to Thy glory built,
Would I assume the ignominious guilt
Of having made such men in such a world.
As if a Being, God or Fiend, could reign,
At once so wicked, foolish and insane,
As to produce men when He might refrain!
The world rolls round for ever like a mill;
It grinds out death and life and good and ill;
It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
While air of Space and Time's full river flow
The mill must blindly whirl unresting so:
It may be wearing out, but who can know?
Man might know one thing were his sight less dim;
That it whirls not to suit his petty whim,
That it is quite indifferent to him.
Nay, does it treat him harshly as he saith?
It grinds him some slow years of bitter breath,
Then grinds him back into eternal death.”
