Liberation from Self-Imposed Literary Bondage

No, this is not about the Marquis De Sade. Although I did once glance into one of his more famous works, which, intriguingly, was sitting on the “psychology” shelf in my grandmother’s house (she’s a bit of a radical, that particular grandma), only to be treated to a lurid scene involving becowled monks standing in a circle, leering at a nude, kidnapped young woman. I also saw that Geoffrey Rush film about the good Marquis, “Quills,” which was exaggerated and stupid (you can quote me on that).

This post is about a different kind of bondage: the kind where I suddenly decide things like “I will read the entire 1001 Arabian Nights, and I may not read anything else until I have finished” and in the instant of thinking it, silently but fully commit myself to the project. The original of the 1001 Arabian nights, as translated (floridly, with occasional spasms of horrifying verse) by E. Powys Mathers into English from a French edition by Dr. J.C Mardrus, runs to approximately 2400 pages, in four editions that I purchased impulsively (though I do not entirely regret it) last Summer from Amazon.

In August or September, after reading a bunch of Borges’ essays (Borges is a big fan of the 1001 Nights—the essays speak of them often and fondly), I shackled myself semi-consciously to the project of reading EVERY LAST ONE. It is November now. I made it through around 900 pages (372 Nights). I read about Djinns (genies) and Ifrits (like a genie) and princes and princesses and lamb shanks stuffed with dates and pistachios. I read about old men bewitched by young men as “beautiful as a new moon,” and about mysterious cities in the desert, made out of various metals. Underground passageways, a snake queen, lovers separated, disguised and reunited. Wondrous islands in the middle of the ocean, veritable Paradises with fruits and animals unknown to man.

Some of the stories are great, some are awful—most of them are interesting in one way or another. The sheer number of them is staggering: it’s all plot and scenery (not much in the way of character development, but like Lou Reed says, ‘those was different times.’). A lot of it is frankly pornographic. A penis is called a ‘Zabb.’ Women’s breasts are always like pomegranates or moons. Desirable women have difficulty standing up, due to the weight of their buttocks, which leave deep and lasting impressions in the cushions they have been sitting on. There’s a surprisingly (to me, at least) casual attitude towards homosexuality. The Nights seems to consider homosexual sex (male and female) as a kind of rare delicacy—like monkey brains—slightly distasteful but strangely compelling.

The Tales are full of crazy and memorable images, such as a spider on a mountaintop conversing with the Wind, and the culinarily-inclined will find themselves haunted (maybe forever) by delicately perfumed rice-creams and succulent fowl.

But I think it is not a good idea to commit to reading them ALL in a row. By doing so, one turns what could and should be a rare pleasure into a source of all-pervasive dread.
Oh God, one sighs. Not Another F#&*in’ Ifrit. If This Trapdoor Leads to an Underground Chamber Filled With Jewels I Am Totally Going to Throw Up.

After much psychic torment and moral wrangling, I decided: “fuck it!” I’ve moved on, and I’m pleased as punch about it. I’m reading “Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell”—a sort of Dickensian Harry Potter for grownups. I LOVE IT! At this point, honestly, I think I would happily devour the instruction manual for my Toyota, is how starved I have been for something, anything, other than the 1001 Arabian Nights.