Seven men Max Beerbohm Books
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This book was originally published prior to 1923, and represents a reproduction of an important historical work, maintaining the same format as the original work. While some publishers have opted to apply OCR (optical character recognition) technology to the process, we believe this leads to sub-optimal results (frequent typographical errors, strange characters and confusing formatting) and does not adequately preserve the historical character of the original artifact. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as blurred or missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work or the scanning process itself. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy seeing the book in a format as close as possible to that intended by the original publisher.
Seven men Max Beerbohm Books
There was an 2nd edition of this book in the 1950s, Seven Men and Two Others (Prion Humour Classics) which has a few more stories. This e-book, however, has three stories complete in themselves, which are the heart of the book. The funniest story, Enoch Soames: a memory of the eighteen-nineties is available separately. Enoch Soames is a 'decadent' poet, looked up to by the young Max, who defers to him more than he should:'It was Milton,' he certificatively added, 'who converted me to Diabolism.'
'Diabolism? Oh yes? Really?' said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. 'You--worship the Devil?'
Soames shook his head. 'It's not exactly worship,' he qualified, sipping his absinthe. 'It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging.'
'Ah, yes.... But I had rather gathered from the preface to "Negations" that you were a--a Catholic.'
'Je l'etais a cette epoque. Perhaps I still am. Yes, I'm a Catholic Diabolist.'
Two other men, rival authors, are in a sort-of ghost story, "Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton"
"Savanarola" Brown, and his unfinished blank-verse play, is almost as good as Enoch Soames, and the story and play are not mangled in this e-edition. Here is my favorite excerpt from the play (bear in mind, its goodness is in its badness):
"__ __ __ Would you but con
With me the old philosophers of Hellas,
Her fervent bards and calm historians,
You would arise and say 'We will not hear
Another word against them!'
[The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.]
__ __ __ Take the Dialogues
Of Plato, for example. You will find
A spirit far more truly Christian
In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul'd
Savonarola.
[Prolonged cries of 'Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!' Several cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the Platonic Dialogues]
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Seven men Max Beerbohm Books Reviews
Couldn't be better, and couldn't be funnier. But these are horror stories. Or maybe the stories are comedy horrors or horrific comedies. Enoch Soames (futiley?) sells his soul to the devil; Maltby is destroyed by supernatural appearance of a literary rival he has wronged; James Pethel is a man so addicted to risk that he thoughtlessly drags others into peril....
And how do we find out about Max Beerbohm these days? YouTube, of course. I found an episode of an old BBC show called "Take it or Leave it" in which a passage is read without attribution and the panel has to guess it. The first one read was this from "Enoch Soames"
"I am a Catholic diabolist."
But this profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see
that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read
"Negations." His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one
who is about to be examined viva voce on the very subject in
which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be
published.
"Next week," he told me.
"And are they to be published without a title?"
"No. I found a title at last. But I sha'n't tell you what it is," as
though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. "I am not sure that it
wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something
of the quality of the poems--strange growths, natural and wild, yet
exquisite," he added, "and many-hued, and full of poisons."
And yes, they all got it except for Anthony Blond.
The humor is rather strained and dated
the best collection of short fiction written in English
During the years it was out of print, I kept it regularly renewed from the library until a kind friend in London found me a copy.
A completely funny book, well worth reading.
A delightful read; my forst experience with Beerbohm (although I've been meaning to read him for years). Each piece begins as an authentic biography of what could be a real person, then veers slightly into hilarious comedy.
This free edition appears to be based on the Project Gutenburg "7 Men [excerps]." It is abridged and missing two stories, which the description fails to disclose. One reviewer erroneously states that the missing stories are from the later "7 Men and Two More." That book has two more stories beyond the two missing from this version.
This satire contains send-ups of intellectual pretensions and self-centered and oblivious thinkers, artists, writers, and obscurantists. It is postmodern in a very particular way, in that once you realize the author is taking you into his confidence, then many of the comical and insightful lines (there are a great many of them) have a hall-of-mirrors effect. The characters are fictional but they are based on friends of Beerbohm, friends of yours, friends of mine, and then all our enemies, until the whole table full of stemware is ringing with dangerous resonance. Also, the style sometimes strikes me as a vicious parody of 1880's and 1890's writers who have to send every sentence on the scenic route. The "sometimes" means that we get relief often enough, which re-establishes perspective and reminds us that blunt, clear, insightful, and artful prose is neither modern nor postmodern. If you collect sentences, keep your notebook handy.
There was an 2nd edition of this book in the 1950s, Seven Men and Two Others (Prion Humour Classics) which has a few more stories. This e-book, however, has three stories complete in themselves, which are the heart of the book. The funniest story, Enoch Soames a memory of the eighteen-nineties is available separately. Enoch Soames is a 'decadent' poet, looked up to by the young Max, who defers to him more than he should
'It was Milton,' he certificatively added, 'who converted me to Diabolism.'
'Diabolism? Oh yes? Really?' said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. 'You--worship the Devil?'
Soames shook his head. 'It's not exactly worship,' he qualified, sipping his absinthe. 'It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging.'
'Ah, yes.... But I had rather gathered from the preface to "Negations" that you were a--a Catholic.'
'Je l'etais a cette epoque. Perhaps I still am. Yes, I'm a Catholic Diabolist.'
Two other men, rival authors, are in a sort-of ghost story, "Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton"
"Savanarola" Brown, and his unfinished blank-verse play, is almost as good as Enoch Soames, and the story and play are not mangled in this e-edition. Here is my favorite excerpt from the play (bear in mind, its goodness is in its badness)
"__ __ __ Would you but con
With me the old philosophers of Hellas,
Her fervent bards and calm historians,
You would arise and say 'We will not hear
Another word against them!'
[The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.]
__ __ __ Take the Dialogues
Of Plato, for example. You will find
A spirit far more truly Christian
In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul'd
Savonarola.
[Prolonged cries of 'Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!' Several cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the Platonic Dialogues]
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