Withdrawal from the World

From 1793 to 1797, I remained closely at home, saw none but those who came there, and at length became very sensible of the ill effect it had upon my own mind, and of it’s direct and irresistible tendency to render me unfit for society, and uneasy when necessarily engaged in it. I felt enough of the effect of withdrawing from the world then, to see that it led to an antisocial and misanthropic state of mind, which severely punishes him who gives in to it: and it will be a lesson I never shall forget as to myself. - Thomas Jefferson to Mary Jefferson Eppes, 1802

Lost and Found

Morning Star

Nor man nor fiend hath fall'n so far.
    - Lord Byron, from Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte

Reading "JM Barrie and the Lost Boys," Andrew Birkin's hauntingly depressing account of the origins of Peter Pan, I became aware of a very small and shallow vein of Napoleonic imagery.

 

In early theatrical productions of the play, after Peter vanquishes Captain Hook, the boys form a tableaux in imitation of Napoleon on Board the Bellerophon, a painting by Sir William Orchardson.

Oddly, my book, purchased off Amazon, is a used library copy, and has a sticker on the cover: it's from Waterloo Public Library.

An Immersion into the Depths of the Subconscious

A Visit to the Dali Theatre-Museum in Figueres

"Once again we come across figures with loaves of bread on their heads . . . All of them are holding the Dalinian crutch, so meaningful in Dali's imagery. These elements must surely have the meaning here that the painter himself explains in his autobiography, The Secret Life of Salvador Dali: 'It would take quantities and quantities of crutches to give a semblance of solidity . . . crutches immobilise the ecstasy of certain attitudes of rare elegance, crutches to make architectural and durable the fugitive pose of a choreographic leap.' These figures of women also have hollows in the solar plexus, since according to Dali information is contained in empty spaces. Between them is a diver in a diving suit . . . a symbol of the immersion into the depths of the subconscious that awaits the visitor to the Theatre-Museum." (from the guidebook)

Ten Recipes for Immortality, 1973
"An installation with two cases of the luxury edition of the book in which Dali wrote Immortality of genetic imperialism, where he speaks at length on matters that interested him most at that time: 'Today the latest scientific discoveries show that the laws of God are those of inheritance contained in deoxyribonucleic acid, DNA, and which the ribonucleic acid, RNA, is no more than the messenger responsible for transmitting the genetic code, which is the legi intimus of two acids in question . . . This said, I can only hand over to the famous Salvador Dali, who has explained once and for all how the emperor Trajan of Seville sowed the seeds of Europe on conquering Dacia, thus making it possible so that generations, imperially, in aeternum, would be able to differentiate themselves from kangaroos." (from the guidebook)



"From here we go to the bedroom area, which features the bed in the form of a shell . . . and beside the bed, a sculpture made up of a gilded skeleton of a gorilla . . . To help understand this creation we can read some fragments from the Mystical Manifesto, which Dali wrote in 1951: "Aesthetically, through the fierce self-inquisition of the strictest, most architectural, most pythagorical and most extenuating of all 'mystical fantasy', the mystical artist must form himself, through the daily inquisition of these mystical fantasies, in a dermal-skeletal soul (the bones outside, the extremely fine flesh inside) . . . where the flesh of the soul can only grow towards the sky; mystical ecstasy is 'super-happy', explosive, disintegrating, supersonic, undulating and corpuscular, ultra-gelatinous, because it is the aesthetic blooming of the maximum in paradisiacal happiness that the human being can ever experience on earth." (from the guidebook)

Here, in the Fishmongers' Crpyt, deep within his own museum, Dali is buried.



And around a corner (and not in the guidebook), a painting by Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier:

What was he reading?

A glimpse of Napoleon as a young man, in the memoirs of Adèle d'Osmond, Comtesse de Boigne.

She writes:
In the month of January 1790, my father returned to France, and three months later we joined him there. I have forgotten to say that he had left the army in 1788 to take up a diplomatic career. Formerly he had been colonel of the infantry regiment of Barrois, in a garrison in Corscia. He went there every year.

One of these journeys gave rise to an episode which was of little importance at the time, but afterwards acquired interest.

He was at Toulon, staying with M. Malouet, the naval commissary and a friend of his, waiting for a change of wind to permit his embarcation, when he was informed that a Corsican gentleman desired to see him.

The gentleman was shown in, and after the preliminary courtesies, explained that he wished to return as quickly as possible to Ajaccio, and, the only felucca in the harbour being chartered by my father, he begged him to allow the captain to accept him as a passenger.

"That is impossible. Sir, as I have chartered the felucca, but I shall be very happy to take you on board as my guest."

"But, Marquis, I am not alone; I have my son with me and my cook, whom I am taking home."

"Well, Sir, there will be room enough for all of you."

The Corsican thanked my father profusely, and came to see him frequently for several days, at the end of which the wind changed and they embarked.

At dinner, to which my father invited the passengers, he requested an officer, M. de Belloc, to call the Corsican's son, who was wearing the uniform of the military school and reading at the end of the boat.

The young man refused.

M. de Belloc came back irritated, and said to my father, "I should like to throw the unsociable little fellow into the sea. He has an unpleasant face. Will you grant me permission, Colonel?"

"No," said my father, laughing; "and I am not of your opinion. His face shows character, and I am sure that he will be heard of some day."

"The unsociable fellow was the future Emperor Napoleon." Belloc has related this scene to me at least ten times, adding with a sigh, "Ah, if the Colonel had only allowed me to throw him into the sea, he would not be turning the world upside down today."

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An episode "which was of little importance at the time, but afterwards acquired interest." Familiar, yet unbelievable. Too trivial to be made up, which means it must be true.

It's familiar - of course one doesn't like to be interrupted when reading.  Those of us who read constantly, obsessively, as a child - surely we would rather read than go to dinner - we carry our books with us everywhere - yes would read, even in a boat.

It's unbelievable - "I should like to throw the unsociable little fellow into the sea." Perhaps declaring, "This is the future Emperor of France!"  How could this transformation be imagined? It's as unlikely as that of any of today's cinematic superheroes.

Must say, I'm curious - what book was Napoleon reading? Others have written at length about that: Napoleon the Reader: the Early Years. It's what you'd expect - Plutarch's Lives, Rousseau, Voltaire.

But here Napoleon is reading something really interesting! It's an example of what is called mise en abyme, or the Droste Effect - a picture of the cover of a book - upon which is an image of Napoleon reading a book - which has a picture on the cover - of Napoleon reading a book . . .

Stamp Collection