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The City of Dreadful Night
Large format paper back for easy reading. A gothic epic. Decadence and horror in late 19th Century urban life from the 'poet of doom'.
43 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1874
About the author
James Thomson
47 books17 followersJames 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 father suffered a stroke, raised in an orphanage. He received his education at the Caledonian Asylum and the Royal Military Academy and served in Ireland, where in 1851, at the age of 17, he made the acquaintance of the 18-year-old Charles Bradlaugh who was already notorious as a freethinker, having published his first atheist pamphlet a year earlier.
More than a decade later, Thomson left the military and moved to London, where he worked as a clerk. He remained in contact with Bradlaugh, who was by now issuing his own weekly National Reformer, a "publication for the working man". For the remaining 19 years of his life, starting in 1863, Thomson submitted stories, essays and poems to various publications, including the National Reformer, which published the sombre poem which remains his most famous work.
The City of Dreadful Night came about from the struggle with insomnia, alcoholism and chronic depression which plagued Thomson's final decade. Increasingly isolated from friends and society in general, he even became hostile towards Bradlaugh. In 1880, nineteen months before his death, the publication of his volume of poetry, The City of Dreadful Night and Other Poems elicited encouraging and complimentary reviews from a number of critics, but came too late to prevent Thomson's downward slide.
Thomson's remaining poems rarely appear in modern anthologies, although the autobiographical Insomnia and Mater Tenebrarum are well-regarded and contain some striking passages. He admired and translated the works of the pessimistic Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi (1798 - 1837), but his own lack of hope was darker than that of Leopardi. He is considered by some students of the Victorian age as the bleakest of that era's poets. He died in London at the age of 47.
Thomson was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland, and, after his father suffered a stroke, raised in an orphanage. He received his education at the Caledonian Asylum and the Royal Military Academy and served in Ireland, where in 1851, at the age of 17, he made the acquaintance of the 18-year-old Charles Bradlaugh who was already notorious as a freethinker, having published his first atheist pamphlet a year earlier.
More than a decade later, Thomson left the military and moved to London, where he worked as a clerk. He remained in contact with Bradlaugh, who was by now issuing his own weekly National Reformer, a "publication for the working man". For the remaining 19 years of his life, starting in 1863, Thomson submitted stories, essays and poems to various publications, including the National Reformer, which published the sombre poem which remains his most famous work.
The City of Dreadful Night came about from the struggle with insomnia, alcoholism and chronic depression which plagued Thomson's final decade. Increasingly isolated from friends and society in general, he even became hostile towards Bradlaugh. In 1880, nineteen months before his death, the publication of his volume of poetry, The City of Dreadful Night and Other Poems elicited encouraging and complimentary reviews from a number of critics, but came too late to prevent Thomson's downward slide.
Thomson's remaining poems rarely appear in modern anthologies, although the autobiographical Insomnia and Mater Tenebrarum are well-regarded and contain some striking passages. He admired and translated the works of the pessimistic Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi (1798 - 1837), but his own lack of hope was darker than that of Leopardi. He is considered by some students of the Victorian age as the bleakest of that era's poets. He died in London at the age of 47.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 32 reviews
April 5, 2011
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 that broods over the City), redolent of other tales of self-absorbed depression and aloneness, this is an interesting poem within a 'tradition'. I also think that there is a neat bit of logic going on regarding the hope/hopelessness dialectic he sets up. See for yourself, but here's a little taster from the poem. Don't let it keep you awake!
The hours are heavy on him and the days;
The burden of the months he scarce can bear;
And often in his secret soul he prays 10
To sleep through barren periods unaware,
Arousing at some longed-for date of pleasure;
Which having passed and yielded him small treasure,
He would outsleep another term of care.
Yet in his marvellous fancy he must make 15
Quick wings for Time, and see it fly from us;
This Time which crawleth like a monstrous snake,
Wounded and slow and very venomous;
Which creeps blindwormlike round the earth and ocean,
Distilling poison at each painful motion, 20
And seems condemned to circle ever thus.
It's my intention to buy the edition indicated here.
A year on, I bought a copy, and have read the poem several times. One thing I can say for certain is that it's not forgettable. I have looked at a few reviews from over the years, and it seems to be generally regarded as just about making it into the ranks of minor poetry proper. Yes! There are judges out there who know what proper poetry is.
I have recently read Tom Leonard's biography of Thomson, Places of the Mind which I am about to review. For better or for worse, I have now developed a keen interest in Thomson and the context of his own life's journey through particular cultural histories, particularly relating to the rise of secularism, and changes in poetry and artistic visions.
The hours are heavy on him and the days;
The burden of the months he scarce can bear;
And often in his secret soul he prays 10
To sleep through barren periods unaware,
Arousing at some longed-for date of pleasure;
Which having passed and yielded him small treasure,
He would outsleep another term of care.
Yet in his marvellous fancy he must make 15
Quick wings for Time, and see it fly from us;
This Time which crawleth like a monstrous snake,
Wounded and slow and very venomous;
Which creeps blindwormlike round the earth and ocean,
Distilling poison at each painful motion, 20
And seems condemned to circle ever thus.
It's my intention to buy the edition indicated here.
A year on, I bought a copy, and have read the poem several times. One thing I can say for certain is that it's not forgettable. I have looked at a few reviews from over the years, and it seems to be generally regarded as just about making it into the ranks of minor poetry proper. Yes! There are judges out there who know what proper poetry is.
I have recently read Tom Leonard's biography of Thomson, Places of the Mind which I am about to review. For better or for worse, I have now developed a keen interest in Thomson and the context of his own life's journey through particular cultural histories, particularly relating to the rise of secularism, and changes in poetry and artistic visions.
December 3, 2021
A sequence of poems symbolizing depression. Its surprisingly awesome . Each poem is a little tableau set in this city where it's always night. There are various locations like the 'Bridge of Suicides' or the statue of 'Melancholia'.
This has such a great dark atmosphere to it. If your a fan of Lovecraft, Poe or Irving etc. then i can't imagine you not enjoying this.
My personally formatted version, designed to be booklet printed, can be downloaded here .
Sample:
Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears."
Yet why evoke the spectres of black night
To blot the sunshine of exultant years?
Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?
Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,
And wail life's discords into careless ears?
Second read: Yep still awesome. Not as many descriptions of the city as i remember, i guess it grew a bit in my imagination inbetween reads :) .
This has such a great dark atmosphere to it. If your a fan of Lovecraft, Poe or Irving etc. then i can't imagine you not enjoying this.
My personally formatted version, designed to be booklet printed, can be downloaded here .
Sample:
Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears."
Yet why evoke the spectres of black night
To blot the sunshine of exultant years?
Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?
Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,
And wail life's discords into careless ears?
Second read: Yep still awesome. Not as many descriptions of the city as i remember, i guess it grew a bit in my imagination inbetween reads :) .
January 2, 2023
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 best, and archaic at worst, I found it didn't really have much of an impact on the mood and imagery of the poem itself.
Will definitely be looking out for more of Thomson's work on the back of this, as well as Morgan's excellent introduction.
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 best, and archaic at worst, I found it didn't really have much of an impact on the mood and imagery of the poem itself.
Will definitely be looking out for more of Thomson's work on the back of this, as well as Morgan's excellent introduction.
November 28, 2023
good (slightly traumatising) soop
September 23, 2012
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 them with fear (the woman with the red lamp) or revulsion (the grey haired man). This is a hopeless, loveless realm in a cold, indifferent Universe, where all pleasures and achivements are illusory. The sole exception being suicide - after all, in this the Universe doesn't care, there is no God and therefore no punishing Hell, so why not speed along the inevitable?
I had to chuckle though at his description of this horrific psychic landscape being populated nearly all by men, rarely women or children (though, as mentioned, he does encounter a woman in his wandering). To think these don't often enter into this sort of hopelessness and despair suggests a lack of insight into their circumstances of existence, internal or external. Privilege in misery, ha ha ha. What do you want, it was the 1870's.
I had to chuckle though at his description of this horrific psychic landscape being populated nearly all by men, rarely women or children (though, as mentioned, he does encounter a woman in his wandering). To think these don't often enter into this sort of hopelessness and despair suggests a lack of insight into their circumstances of existence, internal or external. Privilege in misery, ha ha ha. What do you want, it was the 1870's.
January 24, 2018
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 as it is with sighs for senseless death, mockery, moons of triump, rivers of suicides and a "There is no God" sermon to make Marylin Manson proud. I came across the poem in Raymond Williams' The Country and the City, with its catalog of pessimisms regarding the image of the city. (In theory, the image of the city could and should inspire dreams of dread in Chinese literature, as well.)
March 29, 2019
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 might say it is apocalyptic, or, for some, steam-punk in parts, if you define by contemporary styles.
It is mentioned often in discussions of TS Eliot, along with some French models.
It may be an acquired taste, ultimately a crowd-pleaser.
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 might say it is apocalyptic, or, for some, steam-punk in parts, if you define by contemporary styles.
It is mentioned often in discussions of TS Eliot, along with some French models.
It may be an acquired taste, ultimately a crowd-pleaser.
August 9, 2008
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.
April 24, 2010
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.
May 8, 2018
read this in Caffe Nero & low-key wanted to writhe around on the floor and give up on existence
July 14, 2022
The City of the Dreadful Night is a long poem that describes melancholy souls full of despair at the meaningless of life wandering a bleak city where it is always night. Along the way, the speaker meets a street preacher describing his journey through the desert, lost souls entering the gates of Dante’s hell, a church for the hopeless and forlorn that blasphemes God, and where the preacher sermonizes on the hopelessness and purposeless of life, encouraging his congregants to commit suicide, an image of an immovable Sphinx symbolizing the immutable and uncaring laws of the universe and life.
Safe to say that this was not a happy poem and had a downright depressing quality, yet at the same time I thoroughly enjoyed the imagery and vision of the poem despite its intense bleakness. This provides an artistic voice that reflects how a severely depressed person views the world or it’s Ecclesiastes “Vanity of Vanity, all is vanity” on steroids.
One interesting scene of the poem alludes to Dante’s Inferno, quoting the sign at entrence to hell where all must abandon hope.
“I reached the portal common spirits fear,
And read the words above it, dark yet clear,
‘Leave hope behind, all ye who enter here:’
And would have passed in, gratified to gain
That positive eternity of pain
Instead of this insufferable inane.”
However, unlike Dante, the speaker of the poem views entering the gates of hell as preferable than his current existence in this bleak city. The choice of the word “inane” here suggests the pointless silliness of his current existence that he finds “insufferable.” He can’t take it anymore!
At least suffering in hell has meaning; people are getting the just recompense of their actions in life. In Dante’s hell you literally suffer an eternal punishment based on the sin you committed in life; the punishment matches the crime. As the scene further shows the speaker stands on a corner begging for a little hope; after all, you have to had some hope in the first place in order to abandon it. In this poem, suffering still exists as part of the world, but our suffering has no meaning. It doesn’t depend on our virtue or wickedness. Good and bad people suffer just because that is just how the universe is. Our actions don’t matter in determining our fates. Likewise, as the poem suggests in a later verse, there is no heaven or hell or devil or God out to reward or punish us. Any hope we might have for a better future is meaningless. This state of hopelessness inspired by the understanding that the world is meaningless and that we still will suffer anyway is far worse than if a hell really did exist for the speaker.
“For in this Limbo we must ever dwell,
Shut out alike from heaven and Earth and Hell.”
For those of a religious bent, there are other things they will probably find distasteful about the poem. At one point, the speaker encounters a sacrilegious description of God who is described as being “the most wretched” Being for having created vile creatures like humanity. However, these snide remarks about the divine are not fueled by humanism, but rather pessimism and nihilism. The poem argues that since humans are such failures and miserable, if there was a Being who created them, It should be ashamed for doing so or wanting to take credit. If a God existed and had actually created humanity It would be the most vile thing for creating something so vile. This is a profane inversion of a common philosophical argument that tries to defend the existence of God by arguing that logically all things and beings must stem from a greater Being and thus the greatest Being, God, is the source of all being. This should be seen as a kind of hypothetical thought experiment—a what if—since the poem continually suggests divine beings don’t exist.
After this description follows a powerful metaphor of the uncaring universe as an endless mill, which keeps grinding “out death and life and good and ill.” This mechanical action has no purpose or meaning. It is mindless like a machine and just is the way the world is.
“And now at last authentic word I bring,
Witnessed by every dead and living thing;
Good tidings of great joy for you, for all:
There is no God; no Fiend with names divine
Made us and tortured us; if we must pine,
It is to satiate no Being’s gall.
It was the dark delusion of a dream,
That living Person conscious and supreme,
Whom we must curse because the life he gave
Could not be buried in the quiet grave,
Could not be killed by poison or the knife.
This little life is all we must endure,
The grave’s most holy peace is ever sure,
We fall asleep and never wake again;
Nothing is of us but the mouldering flesh,
Whose elements dissolve and merge afresh”
This passage comes from the sermon in the church. The middle stanza hints at Jesus’s sacrifice being a “dark delusion of a dream.” It also suggests his inability to die would be a curse rather than a blessing. This passage is a strange twist of a traditional sermon, which normally promises its listeners eternal life and happiness thanks to Jesus’s sacrifice. In this twisted sermon, we are instead told thankfully Jesus (who is the “Person”) that cannot die ñ is a delusional dream and death is a salvation from the pains of life. This freedom in death isn’t an appeal to an afterlife however. Death is just a means of escape from the meaningless and inevitable suffering of life.
The work ultimately is an atheistic and nihilistic poem that suggests life is pointless and full of suffering, there is no afterlife, all we have is this short brief life mostly full of misery and despair, and even when we might find some small moments of happiness these are fleeting and often themselves lead to further despair when we lose them.
Safe to say that this was not a happy poem and had a downright depressing quality, yet at the same time I thoroughly enjoyed the imagery and vision of the poem despite its intense bleakness. This provides an artistic voice that reflects how a severely depressed person views the world or it’s Ecclesiastes “Vanity of Vanity, all is vanity” on steroids.
One interesting scene of the poem alludes to Dante’s Inferno, quoting the sign at entrence to hell where all must abandon hope.
“I reached the portal common spirits fear,
And read the words above it, dark yet clear,
‘Leave hope behind, all ye who enter here:’
And would have passed in, gratified to gain
That positive eternity of pain
Instead of this insufferable inane.”
However, unlike Dante, the speaker of the poem views entering the gates of hell as preferable than his current existence in this bleak city. The choice of the word “inane” here suggests the pointless silliness of his current existence that he finds “insufferable.” He can’t take it anymore!
At least suffering in hell has meaning; people are getting the just recompense of their actions in life. In Dante’s hell you literally suffer an eternal punishment based on the sin you committed in life; the punishment matches the crime. As the scene further shows the speaker stands on a corner begging for a little hope; after all, you have to had some hope in the first place in order to abandon it. In this poem, suffering still exists as part of the world, but our suffering has no meaning. It doesn’t depend on our virtue or wickedness. Good and bad people suffer just because that is just how the universe is. Our actions don’t matter in determining our fates. Likewise, as the poem suggests in a later verse, there is no heaven or hell or devil or God out to reward or punish us. Any hope we might have for a better future is meaningless. This state of hopelessness inspired by the understanding that the world is meaningless and that we still will suffer anyway is far worse than if a hell really did exist for the speaker.
“For in this Limbo we must ever dwell,
Shut out alike from heaven and Earth and Hell.”
For those of a religious bent, there are other things they will probably find distasteful about the poem. At one point, the speaker encounters a sacrilegious description of God who is described as being “the most wretched” Being for having created vile creatures like humanity. However, these snide remarks about the divine are not fueled by humanism, but rather pessimism and nihilism. The poem argues that since humans are such failures and miserable, if there was a Being who created them, It should be ashamed for doing so or wanting to take credit. If a God existed and had actually created humanity It would be the most vile thing for creating something so vile. This is a profane inversion of a common philosophical argument that tries to defend the existence of God by arguing that logically all things and beings must stem from a greater Being and thus the greatest Being, God, is the source of all being. This should be seen as a kind of hypothetical thought experiment—a what if—since the poem continually suggests divine beings don’t exist.
After this description follows a powerful metaphor of the uncaring universe as an endless mill, which keeps grinding “out death and life and good and ill.” This mechanical action has no purpose or meaning. It is mindless like a machine and just is the way the world is.
“And now at last authentic word I bring,
Witnessed by every dead and living thing;
Good tidings of great joy for you, for all:
There is no God; no Fiend with names divine
Made us and tortured us; if we must pine,
It is to satiate no Being’s gall.
It was the dark delusion of a dream,
That living Person conscious and supreme,
Whom we must curse because the life he gave
Could not be buried in the quiet grave,
Could not be killed by poison or the knife.
This little life is all we must endure,
The grave’s most holy peace is ever sure,
We fall asleep and never wake again;
Nothing is of us but the mouldering flesh,
Whose elements dissolve and merge afresh”
This passage comes from the sermon in the church. The middle stanza hints at Jesus’s sacrifice being a “dark delusion of a dream.” It also suggests his inability to die would be a curse rather than a blessing. This passage is a strange twist of a traditional sermon, which normally promises its listeners eternal life and happiness thanks to Jesus’s sacrifice. In this twisted sermon, we are instead told thankfully Jesus (who is the “Person”) that cannot die ñ is a delusional dream and death is a salvation from the pains of life. This freedom in death isn’t an appeal to an afterlife however. Death is just a means of escape from the meaningless and inevitable suffering of life.
The work ultimately is an atheistic and nihilistic poem that suggests life is pointless and full of suffering, there is no afterlife, all we have is this short brief life mostly full of misery and despair, and even when we might find some small moments of happiness these are fleeting and often themselves lead to further despair when we lose them.
December 5, 2017
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…”
While according to all historical accounts this was the genuine outlook of the man, an atheist alcoholic who suffered depression and insomnia, I wonder if the message here isn’t something else entirely.
After all, he talks about “the splendors of the intellect’s advance, the sweetness of the home with babes and wife…social pleasures with their genial wit…the fascination of the worlds of art…the glories of the worlds of nature…the rapture of mere being…the careless childhood and the ardent youth…the strenuous manhood winning various wealth…age serene with life’s long truth…sublime prerogatives…storied memories.” He admits, in other words, that these things – the wonders of life - are real; they exist.
But then, of course, he/life takes them all away. I wonder, however, if this isn’t merely an affirmation of the duality of life and the world in which we live. For every pro there is a con, for light there is shadow, for hot there is cold, for fire there is water. This is life. A poet can no more change that reality than any of us can.
But is the result only despair? Or is hopelessness and despair one part of the duality and can we not find, if not happiness, at least a kind of satisfying accommodation in acceptance of that reality.
One of the most often quoted parts of the poem is, “But if you would not this poor life fulfill/Lo, you are free to end it when you will/Without the fear of waking after death.” It’s a testament to his atheism, for sure, but is it meant to be tragic or comforting?
Albert Camus (1913-1960) helped to develop the philosophical school of absurdism, which essentially holds that humanity is destined to search for meaning in a life without any. But, as bleak as that sounds, he wrote an essay entitled, The Myth of Sisyphus, in 1942. And in it Camus concludes, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy”- once, that is, he learned to accept the futility of his task. Because in that acceptance he has gained the freedom of choice. He can continue to roll the boulder up the hill only to have it roll back down again, or he can stop. And, according to Thomson, it’s six of one; half dozen of the other.
Said differently, can there not be comfort without hope? Can there be no dignity in despair? What about the prisoner who cannot fathom a life beyond incarceration? The warrior who can never go home or lay down his arms? Do we really want to deny anyone without hope the simple comfort of the continuity and potential dignity of their despair?
Or maybe I’m all wrong. It won’t be the first time. But isn’t that the power of poetry? Thomson is a master of imagery. And should we not be thankful for imagery that is so powerful that it can move us to think, even if our thoughts miss the mark?
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…”
While according to all historical accounts this was the genuine outlook of the man, an atheist alcoholic who suffered depression and insomnia, I wonder if the message here isn’t something else entirely.
After all, he talks about “the splendors of the intellect’s advance, the sweetness of the home with babes and wife…social pleasures with their genial wit…the fascination of the worlds of art…the glories of the worlds of nature…the rapture of mere being…the careless childhood and the ardent youth…the strenuous manhood winning various wealth…age serene with life’s long truth…sublime prerogatives…storied memories.” He admits, in other words, that these things – the wonders of life - are real; they exist.
But then, of course, he/life takes them all away. I wonder, however, if this isn’t merely an affirmation of the duality of life and the world in which we live. For every pro there is a con, for light there is shadow, for hot there is cold, for fire there is water. This is life. A poet can no more change that reality than any of us can.
But is the result only despair? Or is hopelessness and despair one part of the duality and can we not find, if not happiness, at least a kind of satisfying accommodation in acceptance of that reality.
One of the most often quoted parts of the poem is, “But if you would not this poor life fulfill/Lo, you are free to end it when you will/Without the fear of waking after death.” It’s a testament to his atheism, for sure, but is it meant to be tragic or comforting?
Albert Camus (1913-1960) helped to develop the philosophical school of absurdism, which essentially holds that humanity is destined to search for meaning in a life without any. But, as bleak as that sounds, he wrote an essay entitled, The Myth of Sisyphus, in 1942. And in it Camus concludes, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy”- once, that is, he learned to accept the futility of his task. Because in that acceptance he has gained the freedom of choice. He can continue to roll the boulder up the hill only to have it roll back down again, or he can stop. And, according to Thomson, it’s six of one; half dozen of the other.
Said differently, can there not be comfort without hope? Can there be no dignity in despair? What about the prisoner who cannot fathom a life beyond incarceration? The warrior who can never go home or lay down his arms? Do we really want to deny anyone without hope the simple comfort of the continuity and potential dignity of their despair?
Or maybe I’m all wrong. It won’t be the first time. But isn’t that the power of poetry? Thomson is a master of imagery. And should we not be thankful for imagery that is so powerful that it can move us to think, even if our thoughts miss the mark?
September 20, 2017
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 reminds me of the Astrophil and Stella sonnets by Philip Sidney—but even this is a comparison hardly appropriate, since Sidney's sonnets are masterpieces of poetry and this is...well, dashed if I know. Is it worth reading? By Jove, yes. Is it prophetic? Not particularly, in a Marxist sense. The poem comes well after the theory the Industrial Revolution and the political theory that came with such advances. As a poem of industrialisation, it is perhaps most interesting if one considers its author's Scottish origins.
But to act as though Thomson serves as an unprecedented preamble to Eliot—or any other Modernist sense of urban isolation—is to inflate the poem's importance. For the moment, I posit, the poem is best read as a curiosity: one foot is in the past, one foot is in the present. Let me explain, lest that seem pedestrian. Linguistically, the poem is in the past; yet the theme looks forward to a time of urban oblivion (cf. xx l. 43ff). And, to push the idea further, the poem owes an immense debt to the Aesthetes of the late-19th century—the old school—even as the poet sets his sights on industrialisation—a far-cry from the cushiony fallen Arcadias of Dowson et al. Does the experiment work? Not really. The poem succeeds on its charm: forgotten relic, part-decadent-and-proto-Modernist, archaic in syntax and language but modern in theme. The author's biography certainly helps colour the poem with excitement. (A drunken Scot? Atheist and upended depressive?)
The poem ticks the boxes of things I enjoy, but it falls short of being a good or important poem. Perhaps a subsequent reading will cast light upon previously unforeseen pockets of ignorance. Till then, this poem is exciting as an idea (5/5), but hardly original in every other regard (3/5). Good for a night in alone with several bottles of vino, but that's about it. And that's fine.
But to act as though Thomson serves as an unprecedented preamble to Eliot—or any other Modernist sense of urban isolation—is to inflate the poem's importance. For the moment, I posit, the poem is best read as a curiosity: one foot is in the past, one foot is in the present. Let me explain, lest that seem pedestrian. Linguistically, the poem is in the past; yet the theme looks forward to a time of urban oblivion (cf. xx l. 43ff). And, to push the idea further, the poem owes an immense debt to the Aesthetes of the late-19th century—the old school—even as the poet sets his sights on industrialisation—a far-cry from the cushiony fallen Arcadias of Dowson et al. Does the experiment work? Not really. The poem succeeds on its charm: forgotten relic, part-decadent-and-proto-Modernist, archaic in syntax and language but modern in theme. The author's biography certainly helps colour the poem with excitement. (A drunken Scot? Atheist and upended depressive?)
The poem ticks the boxes of things I enjoy, but it falls short of being a good or important poem. Perhaps a subsequent reading will cast light upon previously unforeseen pockets of ignorance. Till then, this poem is exciting as an idea (5/5), but hardly original in every other regard (3/5). Good for a night in alone with several bottles of vino, but that's about it. And that's fine.
June 20, 2013
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.
January 12, 2024
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.
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January 13, 2019Amazing 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.
February 15, 2012
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.
September 2, 2021
"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.
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May 21, 2011Dark--very dark. But it will chill you to the bones and make you think.
August 1, 2018
HOLY COW. DO NOT READ WHILE DEPRESSED.
May 6, 2022
Man there's gloomy...and then there's gloomy...
September 13, 2023
anti-mass here is way less depressing than actual catholic mass
June 29, 2020
A masterpiece. I don't know how many times I've read it, and I've given it as a gift several times.
November 21, 2018
"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."
September 2, 2021
Incessantly pessimistic piece of phantasmagoric poetry. Delightfully bleak.
June 8, 2021
An underrated dark decadent gem, equally gothic and modern. In this poem James Thomas turns the modern city into a place of alienation and despair. A must read for fans of Edgar Allan Poe, Franz Kafka, T.S Eliot and "The City" by Frans Masereel
December 18, 2020
Who boy this was a trip.
May 26, 2021
When Thomson meant London was hell, he meant it literally. There seems to be more philosophical depths that I can plumb with the help of some secondary scholarship, and I suspect that Thomson is not just drawing on the sense of night as darkness, despair etc. but also a time of sleep: so I'm looking forward to exploring this a bit more, but it wasn't a breathtaking piece. I'd trade Thomson's doom and gloom for Levy's plain but energised and assertive verses any day.
July 7, 2019
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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August 2, 2021poema complejo pero muy intenso jaja
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