The Dedalus Book of Literary Suicides E-Book

Gary Lachman

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Gary Lachman investigates the many links between self-death and the written word

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

To remain cheerful when involved in a gloomy and exceedingly responsible business is no inconsiderable art…

Friedrich Nietzsche

Is life worth living? This a question for an embryo, not for a man.

Samuel Butler

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many people have helped in the making of this book. I would like to thank Phil Baker for suggesting I take up my publisher’s offer to do it, and for his insights into the curse of literature; Mike Jay and the inestimable Louise for a welcome break from its labours in the restorative quiet of Cornwall; Nicholas Christian of the Institut Français for information on the suicide of Henry de Montherlant; James Hamilton for needed material on Sylvia Plath and Albert Camus; Eric Lane, for his appreciation of the writer’s life; and other friends, too numerous to mention, for allowing me to ramble on about the dark thoughts and sad lives that occupied me while writing it. I would also like to thank Colin Wilson for allowing me to quote from his book Religion and the Rebel, sadly out of print; Penguin Books for allowing me to quote from R.J. Hollingdale’s brilliant translation of Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols; and John Calder, for allowing me to quote from Tom Osborn’s superb rendition of Frank Wedekind’s Spring Awakening. I have endeavoured to locate the copyright source of quotations used in the book; if any have been overlooked, I offer my apologies and will happily redress any infringements. As always, my sons, Joshua and Maximilian, have been an inexhaustible well of inspiration; yet I would like to thank them specifically in this context, for providing two very good reasons for not following in the footsteps of the many tragic characters who fill these pages.

Table of Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

The Author

Disclaimer

1.A Taxonomy of Suicide: “I had not thought death had undone so many.” A sadly not exhaustive list. Criteria for inclusion. The inevitability of suicide. Peregrinus and Harry Crosby. Suicide and Depression. Kay Redfield Jamison. Writers and manic-depression. The Outsider. Suicide not necessarily pathological. A. Alvarez. A Taxonomy of Suicide. Rousseau’s disciple. Methods of Suicide. Jan Potocki. Reasons for Suicide. John Kennedy Toole and Ross Lockridge. The Unsuccessful Suicide. Gustav Meyrink, Guy de Maupassant, O.V. de Lubicz Milosz. Suicide, or Not? Graham Greene. Ambiguous Suicides. Arthur Cravan. Guy Debord. Malcolm Lowry. Jack London. The Slow Suicide. Kerouac. Fake Suicides. Fernando Pessosa. Aleister Crowley. Paris “a city to die in.” Agents of Suicide. Freud. Valery Briusov. Carlos Castaneda. Against Suicide? G.K. Chesterton. Too fastidious to kill myself. Little things and the mystical value of life.

2.The Existential Suicide: Empedocles and Mt. Etna. Zeno. Lucretius. Socrates. Christ. Petronius. Seneca. Cato. Alan Turing. Ludwig Boltzmann. Philipp Mainländer and the suicide of God. Schopenhauer. The Nihilists. Nietzsche. Kierkegaard. Camus and Sisyphus. Dostoyevsky and The Devils. Suicide and freedom. Hermann Hesse and Steppenwolf. The metaphysics of suicide. Not all suicides kill themselves.

3.The Romantic Suicide: “This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.” Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Tristan and Isolde. Romeo and Juliet. La petite mort. Axel. “As for living, our servants will do that for us.” The Sorrows of Young Werther. Goethe. “I was never such a fool as Werther.” Charlotte Buff. The problem with ecstasy. Karl Wilhelm Jerusalem. Werthermania. The myth of copy-cat suicides. Finding a place in the world. Romantic death worship. The “dim vast vale of tears.” Das Lied von der Erde.

4.The Surreal Suicide: Robert E. Howard. The birth of Surrealism. Parade. Apollinaire. André Breton and guns. Les Mamelles de Tirésias. Jacques Vaché. Total indifference to practically everything. Alfred Jarry. Vaché’s eccentricities. Homosexuality. Umour. Vaché’s death: suicide or accident? Breton’s homophobia. Is Suicide a Solution? René Crevel says “Yes.” Crevel, Robert Desnos and automatic writing. The Communists. Dali and Hitler’s “curvaceous fanny.” Ilya Ehrenburg and the Congress in Defence of Culture. “Please cremate me.” Jacques Rigaut. The revolver under the pillow. Theoretic suicide. “The General Suicide Agency.” The polite suicide.

5.The Political Suicide: Walter Benjamin and Port Bou. The Last European. Apocalypse and narcissism. Under the sign of Saturn. Benjaminmania. Benjamin’s last days. The ambiguity around his death. “Passages.” Benjamin’s bad luck. Benjamin and Arthur Koestler. Gershom Scholem and Benjamin’s suicidal tendencies. Witkacy and the end of civilization. Insatiability. Drugs and existentialism. Witkacy’s acting. The emptiness of the self-dramatiser. Witkacy and Gurdjieff. Self-obsession and the need for other people. “I cannot do it myself.” The “collectivised, technologized, asexual beehive.” The Nazis and the Soviets. Mayakovsky, the attenuated revolutionary. “I immediately detested everything ancient.” Mayakovsky’s vanity. Poster boy for the Revolution. The Russian Futurists. Lili and Osip Brik. Mayakovsky’s masochism. Mayakovsky and Jack London. Fall from grace. “Life and I are quits.”

6.The Manic-Depressive Suicide:Let Me Finish. The pursuit of oblivion. Alvarez again. William Styron and “the grey drizzle of horror.” William James. “A disorder of mood, characterized by sadness.” The Anatomy of Melancholy. Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. Manic-depression and women. Anthony Storr and TheDynamics of Creation. External approval insufficient. The insatiability of the depressive temperament. Virginia Woolf and sexual abuse. Writing and self-esteem. Wyndham Lewis. “The calm that always comes to me with abuse.” Writers’ insecurity. Compulsive journal writing. “I begin to loathe my kind.” The last days of Sylvia Plath. The coldest winter in 150 years. “I’m just having a marvellous dream.” The perils of biography. The girl most likely to succeed. Otto Plath sets an example. “How could such a brilliant man be so stupid.” Sylvia’s suicidal tendencies. Beautiful Smith girl missing at Wellesley. Spoiled, babyish, frightened. Escape from personality. “Oh, mother, the world is so rotten.” Ted Hughes. Christmas Eve 1962. Trevor Thomas. The Scarlet Woman. Anne Sexton meets Sylvia. “I might be good at being a prostitute.” Unable to function as wife or mother. Nana and sexual abuse. “A mental disorder that eluded diagnosis or cure.” A patient for life. Anne Sexton’s inadequacy. Fear of killing the children. Desperate housewives. Poetry as therapy. Death and other obsessions. A world without numbness.

7.Ten Suicides: Yukio Mishima. Harry Crosby. Georg Trakl. Heinrich Von Kleist. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Otto Weininger. Arthur Koestler. Thomas Chatterton. Cesare Pavese. Mary Wollstonecraft.

8.A Suicidal Miscellany: G.K. Chesterton. Samuel Butler. Robert Louis Stevenson. Robert E. Howard. Klaus Mann. Colin Wilson. David Hume. Matthew Arnold. Ludwig Wittgenstein. Sadegh Hedayat. Friedrich Nietzsche. Frank Wedekind. Charles Baudelaire. Epictetus. Michael Artzibashev. George Sterling. Leo Tolstoy. Lafcadio Hearn. William Makepeace Thackeray. Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Arthur Schopenhauer. L.H. Myers. Gustave Flaubert. E. M. Cioran. William James. William Cowper. Immanuel Kant. Plato. John Keats. Dorothy Parker. Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Index

Copyright

THE AUTHOR

Gary Lachman was a founding member of the rock group Blondie and wrote some of the band’s early hits. Before moving to London in 1996 and becoming a full time writer, Gary studied philosophy, taught English literature, was a science writer for a major American university, and managed a meta-physical bookstore.

His books include The Dedalus Book of the Occult: A Dark Muse and The Dedalus Book of the 1960s: Turn Off Your Mind. He is also the editor of The Dedalus Occult Reader: The Garden of Hermetic Dreams.

DISCLAIMER

Despite the best endeavours of the editors, it has not been possible to contact the rights holder of the front cover picture of Yukio Mishima. The editors would be grateful, therefore, if the rights holder could contact Dedalus.

Part 1

A Taxonomy of Suicide

A Taxonomy of Suicide

If there is a problem in writing a book about literary suicides, it certainly isn’t dearth of material. There, are course, the familiar names: Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Hemingway, Chatterton. These, I found, readily came to mind when I mentioned to friends that I was planning a book on writers who had killed themselves, or had tried to, or had written about suicide at some length and depth. But once I began to research in earnest and had moved past these well known figures, the field opened up considerably, and I found myself echoing that line from Eliot’s The Waste Land: “So many, I had not thought death had undone so many” – so many, that is, killed by their own hand.

At the risk of bludgeoning the reader into a stupor at the outset, let me support this remark with a list, not exhaustive, sadly, but certainly representative. So, in no particular order, and in addition to those mentioned above – who died by gas, drowning, gun shot and arsenic respectively – we have Gérard de Nerval (hanging), Cesare Pavese (barbiturates), Yukio Mishima (hari kari), Heinrich von Kleist (gun shot), Georg Trakl (cocaine overdose), L. H. Myers (barbiturates), Robert E. Howard (gun shot), Jan Potocki (gun shot), Paul Celan (drowning), Walter Benjamin (morphine overdose), Guy Debord (gun shot), Gilles Deleuze (fall), Otto Weininger (gun shot), Anne Sexton (carbon monoxide), Empedocles (volcano), James Webb (gun shot)1, Romain Gary (gun shot), Jack London (morphine overdose), Arthur Koestler (barbiturates), Ross Lockridge, Jr. (carbon monoxide), John Kennedy Toole (carbon monoxide), Geza Csath (poison), Stefan Zweig (barbiturates), Klaus Mann (sleeping pills), Thomas Lovell Beddoes (poison), Hart Crane (drowning), Primo Levi (fall), Harry Crosby (gun shot), Richard Brautigan (gun shot), Sadegh Hedayat (gas), Vachel Lindsay (poison), Hunter S. Thompson (gun shot), B.S. Johnson (slit wrists), Sarah Kane (hanging), Malcolm Lowry (sleeping pills), Eugene Marais (gun shot), Jerzy Kozinski (barbiturates and asphyxiation), Philipp Mainländer (hanging), Mário de Sá-Carneiro (strychnine), Egon Friedell (fall), Marina Tsvetaeva (hanging), Charlotte Perkins Gilman (chloroform), Eleanor Marx (prussic acid), Henry de Montherlant (cyanide and gun shot), Sara Teasdale (sleeping pills), Adalbert Stifter (slit throat), René Crevel (gas), William Seabrook (sleeping pills) – and I think with any luck you get the idea.

If we add to these the names of writers and thinkers who have either written extensively about suicide or in whose work or life suicide played a important role, the list swells to unwieldy proportions. Shakespeare, Goethe, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Camus, Hesse, Wittgenstein, Kafka, Montaigne, Flaubert, Villiers de I’Isle Adam, Mary Wollstonecraft, Jorge Luis Borges are only some of the names. Others come to mind too, and to be perfectly honest it’s difficult to decide who to include and who to leave out. So, for instance, at the end of his novel Auto-da-Fé, Elias Canetti’s protagonist, Peter Kien, sets his library aflame and burns himself to death. Clearly this is a literary suicide (a very literal literary one) and also a symbol of the western intellectual’s self-destruction. And the eccentric hero of Knut Hamsun’s novel Mysteries. He kills himself, this time by drowning. Include these or not?

Faced with this wealth of dark thoughts and saddening lives, I at first thought to compile an encyclopaedia, but I rejected this idea for two reasons. Encyclopaedia entries on most of these individuals exist already, and not only would I be repeating work already done, the structure of the book would require me to either standardize the space devoted to each case, and so lose a great deal of important material, or to have some very long entries and some very short ones. And this consideration led to my second reason. Some of the cases simply seemed more interesting than others. In some, as in the case of the Japanese novelist Yukio Mishima and the American poet manqué Harry Crosby, suicide, their self-destruction, seemed an inevitability, and not because of manic-depression or some other mental instability, but because of who they were, their self-image and their self-obsession. Death, for both Mishima and Crosby, was an idea not far from their minds, and it was something they looked forward to, but neither were particularly depressive characters, unlike, say, the poet Paul Celan or the novelist Richard Brautigan.

In other cases, more understandable and external reasons led to the individual taking his or her own life. Illness was the motive for the philosopher Gilles Deleuze and the short story writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman, incipient blindness for the novelist and dramatist Henry de Montherlant (who, incidentally, once considered writing a handbook on suicide), and escaping old age for the gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson. All of these people are interesting because of their life and work, and that they committed suicide sets them apart from most other people. But their suicide itself isn’t a focal point of their lives as it is, say, with the tragic French Romantic poet and writer Gérard de Nerval, who hung himself in a decrepit alley in Paris after battling years of madness and poverty, or the Austrian philosopher Otto Weininger, whose brilliant and extreme ideas about sex, race and genius led him to take his own life. In these and other cases, the suicide doesn’t seem something ‘tacked on’ to their lives, something that, given other circumstances, may not have happened. With de Nerval, Weininger, Mishima, Crosby and others, their self-inflicted deaths have, as I’ve said, an aura of inevitability. And while I am aware how romantic such considerations seem, I nevertheless find them difficult to ignore.

If he hadn’t shot himself, it’s doubtful that Harry Crosby would be remembered today solely on the strength of his poetry, or as something more than a rich literati groupie, hovering in the vicinity of Hemingway and others in Paris in the 1920s. Perhaps more than anything else, this says something about the power of suicide as a publicity stunt, an idea not limited to moderns, as is evidenced by the case of the Greek Cynic philosopher Proteus Peregrinus, who capped off a turbulent career by publicly cremating himself in the Olympic flame in AD 165. Lucian’s account of Peregrinus’ self-immolation, “On the Death of Peregrinus,” pictures him as an exhibitionist, eager for fame, and given that I am talking about him here, nearly two millennia later, he seems to have achieved some of it. But Crosby’s death, narcissistic, juvenile and murderous as it was (he took a lover with him, unwillingly by some accounts), it nevertheless remains, for all its stupidity, something more than a headline grabber. Ironically, it was the meaning of his life.

So, for some, we can say suicide presented itself as a practical solution to a pressing problem. For others, however, it had a deeper, more vital meaning.

Suicide and Depression

That writers and poets seem to be prone to suicide has not gone unnoticed. More times than not, the connecting link most often suggested is some form of manic-depression – or, put less medically, melancholy. “Why is it,” Aristotle asked, “that all men who are outstanding in philosophy, poetry or the arts are melancholic?” One answer to this question is “Are they?” One could, I think, produce a list of men (and women) outstanding in philosophy, poetry or the arts that are not melancholic, or at least no more melancholic than individuals less outstanding in these fields. One can be moved by Weltschmerz without being overwhelmed by it, and the list of writers and poets (and artists and composers) who didn’t kill themselves is longer than the one above. Yet, it is clear that in some way Aristotle is right. Painters and composers are also melancholic, and they kill themselves too, but the numbers of suicides in their group seem smaller than those among writers.

“That such a final, tragic, and awful thing as suicide,” writes Kay Redfield Jamison in Touched by Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament, “can exist in the midst of remarkable beauty is one of the vastly contradictory and paradoxical aspects of life and art.”2 Yet although, as she states, “recent research strongly suggests that, compared with the general population, writers and artists show a vastly disproportionate rate of manic-depressive illness,”3 one of the arguments of this book is that, as in the case of Mishima, Crosby and others, not all literary suicides are the product of depression. Or, to put it another way, to equate all thoughts of suicide (and the act itself) with symptoms of manic-depression (or some other pathological condition) strikes me as overly reductive.

It may be unfashionable to think so, but angst, it seems to me, is something more than a chemical imbalance. The poet Robert Lowell once remarked about his own recurring manic attacks, “It’s terrible […] to think that all I’ve suffered, and all the suffering I’ve caused, might have arisen from the lack of a little salt in my brain.”4 Lowell’s suffering was real, and I would not deny him his salt, but I want to argue that existential concerns about the value of life, and what we might call ‘aesthetic’ concerns about the freedom to leave it under one’s own steam, are not necessarily manifestations of a pathology. Indeed, the whole shift in thinking about our inner states from a philosophical or metaphysical point of view to a medical one (melancholy as a state of mind, as opposed to manic-depression as a pathological condition) is something I find troubling. Clearly, I’m not suggesting that people who benefit from anti-depressant drugs should cancel their prescriptions. Nor that in many, probably most cases of suicide, depression is the root cause. I am saying that the reflections on suicide of writers and thinkers like Camus, Hermann Hesse, Dostoyevsky and others, which we will discuss further on, are something more than the morbid thoughts produced by a pathological condition. When breaking off a course in psychotherapy, the poet Rilke, no stranger to thoughts about death, famously remarked that “if my devils leave me, my angels will too.” Rilke continued to be troubled by his devils, and he continued to write some of the most powerful poetry of the twentieth century. If I am here subscribing to the ‘tortured genius’ school of romanticism, I make no excuse for it.

As some have suggested, it may be irresponsible to think that the confusion, loneliness, despair and isolation experienced by many individuals of the ‘artistic temperament’ should not be lessened by the insights of psychopharmacology. The general feeling seems to be that if these can be eased, they should be. But consider this passage from Shaw’s John Bull’s Other Island, when the ‘melancholic’ priest Keegan, who sees the world as a “place of torment and penance” where we are sent to “expiate crimes committed in a former existence,” confronts the businessman Broadbent, who finds the world “rather a jolly place.”

KEEGAN. “You are satisfied?”

BROADBENT. As a reasonable man, yes. I see no evils in the world – except, of course natural ones – that cannot be remedied by freedom, self-government, and English institutions. I think so, not because I am an Englishman, but as a matter of common sense.

KEEGAN. You feel at home in the world, then?

BROADBENT. Of course. Don’t you?

KEEGAN. [from the very depth of his nature] No.

BROADBENT. [breezily] Try phosphorous pills. I always take them when my brain is overworked.5

It’s no coincidence that Colin Wilson, who himself came close to suicide in his teens, used this passage as the frontis-piece to The Outsider, his study of alienation, extreme mental states and the crisis of meaning in modern man. The Outsider, Wilson tells us, sees “too deep” and “too much” to feel “at home in the world,” and many of the writers and artists he discusses considered suicide as a real response to their alienation. The idea that their troubling reflections on life’s meaning could be excised through a pill seems a clear negation of those reflections’ value. Although it may be the case that his relations with people might have improved if he had, I somehow can’t regret that Kafka, who often thought about suicide, didn’t have the advantage of taking Prozac.

Yet, understandably, most attempts to grasp this link between writers and, as the philosopher William James, who entertained suicidal thoughts, phrased it, “the pistol, the dagger, and the bowl,”6 have centred on depression. A. Alvarez titled his study of suicide – to which this book is indebted – The Savage God, and speaks of the urge as manifested in Sylvia Plath as “not a swoon into death, an attempt to ‘cease upon the midnight with no pain’ ” but “something to be felt in the nerve-ends and fought against.”7 Alvarez writes of the “shabby, confused, agonized crisis which is the common reality of suicide,”8 and of course he is right. In the majority of cases, which are not literary, suicide is a dark cul-de-sac in a trapped, despairing life. But when considering literary suicides, depression, as common and as devastating as it is, does not, it seems to me, cover all the bases.

A Taxonomy of Suicide

With this in mind, and thinking of how to structure this book, it struck me that I would have to do a ‘taxonomy’ or ‘phenomenology’ of suicide. Rather than look for some root cause, linking the different cases I had collected, I thought it better to simply describe and categorize them. There may not be an ‘essence’ shared by all the suicides in this book. There may not even be something like the notion of a ‘family resemblance’ a la Wittgenstein – who, incidentally, endured many a suicidal thought. But they do seem to fall into certain ‘types’. There is the Existential Suicide. There is also the Romantic Suicide. There is the Aesthetic Suicide, and, as I’ve been discussing, the Manic-Depressive or Melancholy Suicide. There is also the Political Suicide and the Surreal Suicide. Each of these will be looked at in some detail as we go on. There are also some sub-categories, like the Fame Suicide, mentioned above, and the strange category of Imitative Suicides. One striking example of this type is the case of Eleanor Marx, youngest daughter of Karl Marx, and translator of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, which famously ends with the suicide of its heroine. Jilted by her socialist lover Edward Aveling, Eleanor was so impressed by Emma Bovary’s death that she ended her own life in the same way, by taking poison. The imitation was not exact, however. Emma ate arsenic, but in Eleanor’s case it was prussic acid.

Some cases are perhaps unique, and it might be a good idea to begin our survey by touching briefly on some of the different types of literary suicide that fall outside of the main categories mentioned above.

One such I might call the Fan Suicide. One disciple of Rousseau was so enamoured of his master that he blew his brains out at his grave; he is honoured with a tomb at Ermenonville, near Rousseau’s own.9 There is the philosophical suicide. The German Romantic playwright and short-story writer Heinrich von Kleist, who we will discuss in detail further on, may be the one case of a suicide over epistemological reasons; reading the philosopher Kant – not an enticing prospect for most of us – Kleist was led to blow his brains out. There is even a case of a suicide in the cause of literature. In Berlin in 1834, Charlotte Stieglitz stabbed herself to death, trusting her death would inspire her husband, the poet Heinrich Stieglitz, to greatness. Sadly, Heinrich remained a mediocre poet, and her sacrifice was in vain. Another example of the imitative type involves the Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes scholar Richard Lanceyln Green. There is the suspicion that he arranged his suicide to appear as a murder, in effect mimicking the plot of one of Doyle’s last Holmes stories, “The Problem of Thor Bridge.”

Methods of Suicide

Writers’ methods of ending their life can also be unique and deserve some classification. The eighteenth century Polish traveller, ethnologist and fabulist Jan Potocki, author of the strange work The Manuscript Found at Saragossa, was a student of the occult, a Freemason and a possible member of the secret society the Illuminati. In his last days, suffering from ill-health, family troubles and disillusionment with the outcome of the French Revolution, Potocki had come under the belief that he had become a werewolf, and he took steps to remedy this. Taking the silver knob of a sugar bowl, he filed this into a silver bullet, had this blessed by a priest, and then blew his brains out with it by shooting himself in the mouth. The French romantic poet Gérard de Nerval, mentioned earlier, was, like Potocki, a student of the occult; he is also famous for walking a lobster on a leash through the Palais-Royal in Paris. After two stays in an insane asylum and several bouts of madness, he finally hung himself with a filthy apron string he had carried for years and which he assured friends was really the Queen of Sheba’s garter.10

Other methods seem exceptional in their severity. The poet Vachel Lindsay killed himself by drinking Lysol, a powerful cleaning fluid. The playwright Sarah Kane, at twenty-eight enjoying success and a promising career, was found hanging in a bathroom in London’s King’s College Hospital. And after two unsuccessful attempts at taking his life, as well as enduring harrowing multiple courses of electro-convulsive therapy, which many believe only worsened his condition, Ernest Hemingway blew his brains out with a shotgun on the landing outside his wife’s bedroom door; she had to step over his remains in order to get down the stairs.

Reasons for Suicide: Failure and Success

Of the many reasons for suicide, it seems obvious that failure would be a common cause among writers. In the case of John Kennedy Toole this is true. Toole’s novel, A Confederacy of Dunces, was rejected by several publishers in the 1960s and this, combined with depression and possible confusion over his sexuality, led Toole to heavy drinking and eventually to gassing himself in his car. Toole’s mother, a domineering woman, had absolute faith in her son’s genius and after his death, she continued to hunt for a publisher for the book. Eventually, through the help of the novelist Walker Percy, Toole’s novel was finally published, to great success. In 1981 he was posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and A Confederacy of Dunces has since achieved ‘modern classic’ status.

Yet, success, too, is no defence against the literary suicide. In 1948, Raintree County by Ross Lockridge, Jr., an epic of the US Civil War, was published to wide acclaim and massive sales, the sort of response every writer secretly (and not so secretly) desires. The manuscript, which Lockridge had been working on while ostensibly doing a dissertation on Walt Whitman at Harvard University, weighed nearly twenty pounds, and was accepted by Houghton Mifflin almost on sight; he arrived at their offices carrying it in a battered suitcase. Prior to publication Life magazine ran an excerpt from it for a hefty sum. Lockridge also won an enormous prize offered by MGM Studios, as well as a movie contract (the film was eventually released in 1957 starring Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift, and seen as another Gone With the Wind) and it was the main selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club. Yet, two months after publication, and a day before Raintree County was announced as No.1 on the national best-seller list, Lockridge killed himself in the same way as John Kennedy Toole would twenty years later, by carbon monoxide poisoning. Lockridge too was suffering from severe depression, some of which was rooted in the anxiety such massive success often brings: the pressure of living up to the acclaim, the challenge, basically, of the second book.

The Unsuccessful Suicide

There are still other categories of literary suicide. One is the Ambiguous Suicide; another is the case of writers who attempted suicide, or were about to and, for one reason or another, were stopped, which I might call the Aborted Suicide. One of these, Mary Wollstonecraft, we will look at in some detail further on. Goethe, who is held responsible for a spate of copy-cat romantic suicides, and who will also be explored in detail further on, has the eponymous hero of his drama Faust stopped from killing himself by hearing the church bells on Easter Sunday.

One case in which a book, or at least a pamphlet, prevented a writer from killing himself is that of the Prague occultist and novelist Gustav Meyrink. Torn between the demands of his life as a sober financier, and the pleasures of being Prague’s most extravagant dandy, Meyrink was at the brink of suicide when a pamphlet was pushed under his door. It was an advertisement for a book on occultism. Meyrink read the signs and decided not to end his life; when his Expressionist novel The Golem appeared some years later, it was a bestseller. The French short story writer and novelist Guy de Maupassant seemed to presage his own suicide attempt in his story “The Horla,” in which the hero’s mind is increasingly dominated by a strange extra-dimensional creature, and he is eventually led to kill himself. Many see this eerie tale as a vision of Maupassant’s own incipient madness, brought on by syphilis. His hero’s suicide, however, was wish-fulfilment. Maupassant attempted to avoid the fate of his brother, who also went mad, by committing suicide, but was prevented by his servant.11

Another unsuccessful suicide was the Lithuanian poet, novelist, esoteric philosopher and diplomat O.V. de Lubicz Milosz, a writer little known in the English speaking world, although his reputation in his adopted country of France is secure. Milosz began his writing career as a symbolist and decadent, and at eighteen, was one of the habitués at the Kalissaya, the first American bar in Paris, where he was often in the group of would-be geniuses surrounding Oscar Wilde. Sitting at a table with George Moore, Ernest Lajeunesse and the poet Moréas, Wilde once remarked to a friend “This is Moréas, the poet.” Seeing Milosz come in he continued “and that is Milosz – poetry itself.” Milosz (who was the uncle of the Nobel Prize winner Czeslaw Milosz) was a devotee of Poe, Lamartine, Baudelaire, Novalis, Byron and Hölderlin, and he took part in café discussions at the Kalissaya and at another poetic watering hole, the Napolitaine. Yet, in spite of his decadent pose, Milosz was unhappy with notions of ‘art for art’s sake’, and in a letter to his friend Christian Gauss, admitted to being “horribly sad … with a sadness that nothing can vanquish.” “This life,” he told Gauss, “is horribly empty with its anxious loneliness surrounded by the idiots of the Napolitaine and the Kalissaya …”12 This loneliness increased and eventually led Milosz to a suicide attempt. As he told Gauss in another letter, on 1 January 1901, “towards eleven o’clock in the evening – with perfect calm, a cigarette at my lips – the human soul is, after all, a strange thing – I shot myself in the region of the heart with a revolver.”13 He botched the job, but his doctors didn’t think he’d survive. Unexpectedly he did, and Milosz was sufficiently moved by the experience to cast off his aesthetic garb and turn himself into a philosophical poet of a highly metaphysical and spiritual character.

Another suicidal failure was the poet Charles Baudelaire, one of Milosz’s heroes. In 1845, Baudelaire’s extravagantly decadent tastes had depleted the inheritance he received from his father, who died when Baudelaire was six. His domineering mother and strict step-father took steps to curb the young aesthete’s expenditure, effectively impounding the funds, and doling out to him a small allowance. This humiliation, combined with his masochistic dependency on the illiterate, coarse and frequently drunk mulatto woman Jeanne Duvall, led Baudelaire to despair, and he tried to escape his fate by stabbing himself. Like O.V. de Lubicz Milosz, he bungled the job, which we can assume only added to his humiliation. The crisis however had a beneficial result; out of it Baudelaire’s first published writing, the Salon of 1845, was met with approval, and established him as a respected, if not well-paid, critic.14

Another failed suicide, a somewhat tragic-comic and colossal one, was William Cowper, whose account of his fruitless attempts to end his life are too long to quote here but can be found in the Suicidal Miscellany at the end of the book.

Suicide, or Not?

The writer Graham Greene presents us with a case that could be considered either a failed attempt or an ambiguous one, but in my opinion, and Greene’s, doesn’t qualify as a suicide attempt at all. In “The Revolver in the Corner Cupboard,” Greene relates how he relieved his teenage boredom by playing Russian Roulette on Berkenstead Common. In his late teens Greene suffered from an acute case of ennui. He writes that “For years it seemed to me I could take no aesthetic interest in any visual thing at all: staring at a sight that others assured me was beautiful, I would feel nothing.”15 Here Greene echoes the ahedonia of an earlier, sometimes suicidal poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In “Dejection: An Ode,” Coleridge writes:

Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

Coleridge himself considered suicide in his early years, when, as his biographer Richard Holmes relates, he lived a kind of double-life at Cambridge, alternating “wild expenditure on books, drinking, violin lessons, theatre and whoring” with “fits of suicidal gloom and remorse.” “He abandoned himself to a whirl of drunken socializing, alternating with grim solitary resolutions to shoot himself as the final solution to bad debts, unrequited love and academic disgrace.”16 Coleridge’s older brother Francis had in fact committed suicide and the influence of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, which we will discuss further on, probably had something to do with these thoughts of self-annihilation.

Graham Greene, however, hit upon an effective means of dissipating his boredom. Discovering a revolver among his brother’s things, Greene decided to try his hand at Russian Roulette, having read of Russian soldiers entertaining themselves in this way during long and dreary campaigns. Greene found some bullets and, loading one into a chamber, spun the revolver behind his back. Taking the pistol to the Common, he put the barrel to his temple and slowly pulled the trigger. He writes: “There was a minute click, and looking down at the chamber I could see that the charge had moved into place. I was out by one. I remember an extraordinary sense of jubilation. It was as if a light had been turned on … and I felt that life contained an infinite number of possibilities.”17 Greene continued the practice, finding a “craving” for its effects. Eventually, however, the kick of not blowing his brains out wore off, and he stopped.

Greene makes clear that his dangerous game, however, had nothing to do with suicide, although Kay Redfield Jamison counts him among her manic-depressives.18 Greene writes, “… this was not suicide, whatever a coroner’s jury might have said of it: it was a gamble with six chances to one against an inquest … The discovery that it was possible to enjoy again the visible world by risking its total loss (my italics) was one I was bound to make sooner or later.” And to insure that his possible death would not be taken as intentional, Greene wrote a verse and left it on his desk, which included the line “I press the trigger of a revolver I already know to be empty.”19

Ambiguous Suicides

Of other ambiguous or border-line suicides, the proto-surrealist Arthur Cravan is a good candidate. Cravan was a contemporary of Alfred Jarry, creator of the Ubu plays, and rivalled him in his eccentricities, combining a career in boxing – he once went six rounds with Jack Johnson – with aggressive, Dadaesque poetry. It is generally believed that Cravan committed suicide, throwing himself into the sea during a voyage from Mexico to Valparaiso to meet his wife, the poet Mina Loy; but an article by Charles Nicholl in the London Review of Books undermines this account, and suggests that he simply lost control of his less than seaworthy craft and sank; the voyage would in any case be demanding for even a highly competent sailor.20 Like many surrealists, Cravan however had a predilection for suicide, and once filled a Parisian hall with his announcement that he would kill himself in public. But when the hall was full, he promptly accused his audience of crass voyeurism and treated them to a lecture on entropy instead. (One suspects many wished he would have stuck with the advertised entertainment.) Cravan’s aesthetic ‘terrorist’ tactics would later be a major influence on the Situationist Guy Debord, who would commit suicide in 1994, shooting himself through the heart at his farm house in the Auvergne. Debord claimed that he wanted to see “whether one could live with the responsibility of committing an act of supreme transgression,” and his biographer Andrew Hussey spoke of his “supreme and sovereign act of self-destruction.”21 This is a refrain that will accompany many who choose what we can call the Aesthetic suicide. The problem with this and with all notions of ‘transgression’, is that there are no acts of “supreme transgression.” The other usual candidate for an act of “supreme transgression,” murder, has its own drawbacks, but, as we shall see, in the case of some aesthetic suicides, like that of Jacques Vaché, these were apparently negligible.

Another ambiguous case is that of the novelist Malcolm Lowry, best known for his masterpiece Under The Volcano, an hallucinatory account of the last twelve hours in the life of Geoffrey Firmin, an alcoholic ex-British Consul, drinking himself to death in Mexico. The action of the novel takes place on the Day of the Dead, and the book is saturated in occult and mystical symbolism, much of it taken from the Tarot; one card with great meaning for Lowry was the Hanged Man. Firmin tempts certain death by frequenting a low tavern, the Farolito, and at the end of the novel is killed there by local fascists and Nazi supporters. Lowry’s own life, filled with alcoholism, broken marriages, poverty and failure, seems a long, drawn out descent into a personal hell, and at the end of it, the official assessment was ‘death by misadventure.’ Yet there is some suspicion of suicide. The cause of death was asphyxiation – Lowry choked on his own vomit after a terrific binge. Yet a bottle that had contained twenty sodium amytal sleeping pills was found empty nearby. Lowry had been battling his addiction for years with little success and may have simply given up. But as his biographer Gordon Bowker suggests in Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry, there is the possibility of foul play; it is possible that Lowry’s second wife, Majorie Bonner, with whom he had quarrelled ferociously on the night of his death, had given Lowry the sleeping pills while he was in a drunken stupor.22

Another borderline case is the novelist Jack London. Associated with clean cut rugged boys’ adventure tales like The Call of the Wild and White Fang, London had a dark side, an obsession with pushing himself to the limits, a kind of ‘supersize’ philosophy of life. His capacity for food and drink was enormous and would in the end kill him, although it is possible that the overdose of morphine which capped off his hedonistic career was intentional. Although London could say that, “After having come through all of the game of life, and of youth, at my present mature age of thirty-nine years I am firmly and solemnly convinced that the game is worth the candle …”23 he would also keep a loaded revolver in his desk, ready to use against himself at any time.24

Addicted to morphine and opium, London was a phenomenal drinker and was one of the first major writers to publicly confess to his alcoholism; his “alcoholic memoir” John Barleycorn shocked the readers of his adventure tales and in puritanical America, turned many against him. In his passion for excess, it is easy to see a subliminal death-wish, a desire to pass beyond the limits of the self. London admitted to once almost drinking himself to death in a binge, and on another occasion, as he relates in John Barleycorn, he drunkenly stumbled into San Francisco Bay and “some maundering fancy of going out with the tide suddenly obsessed me.” London drifted for hours with the intention of letting himself drown, but sobered up in the end and was saved by fishermen. The hero of his semi-autobiographical novel Martin Eden kills himself, and in The Little Lady of the Big House the heroine, suffering from a mortal and inoperable gunshot wound, is helped by her doctor to end the pain by taking her own life.

London may have killed himself or he may have died from the uremia that was killing him anyway (his kidneys were failing and filling his system with the waste product urea). Other suggested causes are a heart attack, a stroke, or an accidental overdose of morphine. Whatever may have killed him, like Ross Lockridge Jr. (and a cadre of rock stars), success, which he had a great deal of, was no fun for London. “Success – I despised it,” he wrote, and one wonders if the collapse of ventures like the palatial Wolf House, his schooner the Snark, and his huge Beauty Ranch – all expensive enterprises that proved dismal failures – were brought about by an unconscious wish for annihilation. London’s childhood with a depressive, unhinged mother – who lived with an astrologer and spiritualist after London’s father deserted her – his early years working at a canning factory, and his frequent need to adapt to difficult environments made him in many ways a survivor. His own social views were very much in line with Social Darwinism. Yet, as one of his biographers suggests, they also came at a cost. “Jack never developed a robust sense of self, and he would enter adulthood with little self-esteem.”25 Although driven by an urge to better himself (he was a determined autodidact) and in every way a self-made man, London was plagued by what he called White Logic: “the messenger of truth beyond truth, the antithesis of life, cruel and bleak as interstellar space, pulseless and frozen as absolute zero, dazzling with the frost of irrefragable logic and unforgettable fact.” For all his worldly success – he was, at one point, the highest paid writer in America – London never really felt good about himself. Possessed of a Nietzschean belief in the superman, he was also prone to a cosmic pessimism, a fatalism that prevented him from adjusting his behaviour when faced with the results of his superhuman excess. When the tide of drugs, alcohol, and a failing body started carrying him out to the cosmic sea, he may in the end have just let himself go.

The Slow Suicide

London’s case raises the question of writers who may be seen as indulging in a slow drink or drug-filled suicide. That writers often have an unhealthy fondness for the bottle or drugs is well known. The Beat novelist Jack Kerouac is a case in point. After the initial success of books like On The Road and The Dharma Bums, Kerouac retreated into an increasingly esoteric prose style and an alcoholic solitude, effectively drinking himself to death while living with his mother; he died at forty-seven in 1969. Another is the decadent poet Ernst Dowson, a devotee of absinthe, opium, hashish, alcohol and other inebriants. Dowson, a friend of Arthur Symons, Yeats and others of the ‘Tragic Generation’, is described by one writer as “living almost hermit-like in a ramshackle house where he drank absinthe and took opiates in abundance.”26 He died at thirty-two of consumption, drink and overall self-abuse. Dowson’s poetry is filled with images and metaphors of ennui, world-weariness, decline and early death; perhaps his best known poem is “They Are Not Long,” with its cheery admonition that “They are not long/The days of wine and roses/ Out of a misty dream/Our path emerges for a while then closes/” In another poem, “A Last Word,” he wishes to go to “the Hollow Lands” where there is, “Freedom to all from love and fear and lust/Twine our torn hands/O pray the earth enfold/Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.” Dowson may not have had the strength to commit suicide, and his world-weariness may have been something of a pose, one adopted by many of his peers, but he did nothing to halt his sure drift into non-existence. Yet if we allowed his case and that of Kerouac’s (and sadly many others) to count as suicides, this book would grow unmanageable, and so I think we must leave them out.27

Fake Suicides

Some writers have a kind of ‘double’ relationship to suicide. The Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa didn’t commit suicide, but one of his ‘heteronyms’ did. Heteronym was the title Pessoa gave to the various literary alter-egos he created throughout his career; more than a pseudonym, Pessoa’s heteronyms – he had dozens – were actual complete other identities, with histories, psychologies, and literary styles all their own. One of these, the Baron of Teive, author of a work entitled The Education of A Stoic, is led to suicide through strictly logical reasoning. Believing in the “impossibility of producing superior art,” and deciding to kill himself after burning all of his works, the Baron works on one final piece of writing, a manuscript which will explain why it is impossible to capture in writing the literary works he imagines in his brain. As so often happens with Pessoa, this work, too, is only fragmentary, a literal testament to the impossibility of literature. The Baron has “reached the height of emptiness, the plenitude of nothing at all.” What leads him to suicide is “the same kind of urge that makes one go to bed early.”28 As Heinrich von Kleist had discovered (as we shall see), Teive sees that “the rational conduct of life is impossible. Intelligence provides no guiding rule,”29 and like Kleist, he concludes that there is only one option, suicide. “I feel I have attained the full use of my reason,” Teive writes, and so “that’s why I’m going to kill myself.”30 And after burning all of his previous fragments, he does.

Another of Pessoa’s heteronyms, Bernardo Soares, the author of the best known (in the English speaking world) of Pessoa’s works, The Book of Disquietude – although to call this enormous collection of fragments a ‘work’ is misleading – considers suicide as well. But, as is usual with Pessoa, his take on it is paradoxical. Pessoa/Soares writes: “The active life has always struck me as the least comfortable of suicides.”31 If that is the case, then Pessoa’s own life, which, aside from his considerable literary activity was far from active, may be seen as a long avoidance of this particular method of doing yourself in: he spent nearly all of his life in Lisbon, practically in the same neighbourhood, had few friends and probably died a virgin. Yet anyone who reads The Book of Disquietude can’t help but recognize its deep world rejection and unrelenting ennui, and, like myself, may feel that suicide was never far from Pessoa’s mind. It’s understandable then that he would find the idea of helping another poet fake his own suicide attractive. The poet in question, however, is more well known in his other guise as a magician, occultist and drug addict.

Pessoa came into contact with the notorious Aleister Crowley through their mutual interest in astrology, and on a visit to Lisbon, during which the Great Beast quarrelled with his current Scarlet Woman – his magical concubine – Crowley coaxed Pessoa into helping him with his prank.32 Leaving a forlorn lover’s note at a treacherous rock formation on the coast west of Lisbon, known as the Boca do Inferno – the Mouth of Hell – Crowley created the impression that he had ended it all by leaping into the sea. Pessoa explained to the Lisbon press the various occult symbols that accompanied the note and even offered the fact that he had seen Crowley’s ghost the day after his disappearance. In reality, Crowley had left Portugal via Spain, and he enjoyed reading the reports of his death in the newspapers; among his other addictions, getting his name in the press was high on the list. Eventually, though, he tired of the ruse and ‘miraculously’ appeared at an exhibition of his paintings in Berlin, once again getting his name in print.33 Pessoa, however, had a still more significant link to suicide. In 1916, his great friend and collaborator in Lisbon on the avant-garde magazine Orpheu, the writer Mário de Sá Carneiro, author of the novel Lucio’s Confession, committed suicide in Paris by swallowing five bottles of strychnine. He was only twenty-five, but like Dowson and others, was addicted to alcohol and opium.

Sá Carneiro’s case suggests another category, which unfortunately I do not have the space to explore here: cities of suicide. Although all big cities have their share of suicides, there is something about Paris that gives the idea a romantic, poetic attraction. Along with Paul Celan, de Nerval, Gilles Deleuze, Sadegh Hedayat and others, Sá Carneiro seems to have taken seriously Rilke’s remark about Paris, in The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge: “So this is where people come to live; I would have thought it is a city to die in.”

Agents of Suicide

Another category of suicides are writers who, while not committing suicide themselves, led others to it. The case of Goethe and The Sorrows of Young Werther will be considered at length further on, and in any case, in that instance, it was Goethe’s work, not the man himself, who was responsible. Here I am talking about the writer himself. It may be stretching it to include Freud in this category, but it’s not unusual today for Freud to be seen as more of a literary than a scientific or even a medical figure; and the fact that he was, say, compared to Jung, an exceptionally eloquent writer, helps.

As books like Paul Roazen’s Freud and his Followers makes clear, the circle of Freud’s disciples was like a secret society; Freud even handed out rings to his elect, a sign of the follower’s acceptance into the esoteric clique. The flip side of this honour was Freud’s wrath toward apostates. At the start of the courtship, the dogmatic and dictatorial Freud would allow new members a certain freedom of thought; but this was only, as one writer put it, “so that the ultimate triumph of the psychoanalytic doctrine would be the more complete.” If it became clear to Freud that the newcomer had reservations, however slight and reasonable, about his theories – specifically the sexual basis of neuroses – then “there was a ritual of excommunication,” and the unbeliever was “solemnly anathematised and placed on a list of ‘prohibited persons’.”34 Jung himself, who Freud considered the heir to his doctrine, eventually broke with the master, and the experience was so devastating for Jung that it led to something like a psychotic episode. Jung survived and went on to start his own school of analysis; others were not so strong. One of these was Victor Tausk.

Tausk was a brilliant individual who basically accepted Freud’s vision; his problem was that he was too brilliant, and his independence of mind, even when still working within the Freudian framework, troubled Freud. Freud wanted followers, but he didn’t want ones capable of thinking for themselves. Freud’s ire turned toward Tausk when Tausk came to the defence of the Viennese satirist Karl Kraus, who, wary of Freud’s ideas, made the perceptive remark that, “Psychoanalysis is the disease for which it claims to be the cure.” Kraus also criticized Freud’s attempt to reduce the genius of men like Dostoyevsky and Leonardo to manifestations of penis envy. Eventually the true believers fought back, claiming that Kraus’ own attacks on the tabloid press of the time were an expression of his penis envy. Tausk would have none of it and simply remarked that the shallow Viennese press was worthy of Kraus’ attack. This was enough for Freud, and when Tausk, who was going through some difficult times, asked Freud for help – specifically to psychoanalyse him – he refused. Freud subjected Tausk to petty humiliations, suggesting that he submit to analysis with one of Freud’s students instead, and rebuffed any attempts to regain their former intimacy. Tausk plummeted. Soon after the rejection, he wrote a letter to Freud and one to his mistress, tied a curtain cord around his neck, and shot himself in the head, strangling himself as he fell back from the blast.

Another disciple to receive the Freud treatment was Herbert Silberer “the most potentially brilliant and original of Freud’s followers.”35 Silberer made important observations about the strange half-dream state called hypnagogia, and in his book Problems of Mysticism and Its Symbols (1917), he explored the relation between unconscious imagery and alchemy years before Jung did.36 Although Silberer held Freud in high esteem, he also found much of value in Jung’s work. Silberer politely questioned Freud’s belief that the sexual theory offered a complete interpretation of alchemical symbolism, and suggested that this could also be seen ‘anagogically’, as an expression of a religious or mystical impulse, as ‘instinctive’ as the sexual one. He believed that his basic admiration for Freud would compensate for any differences of opinion. Freud disagreed, and cast the heretic into the outer darkness. When Silberer, increasingly puzzled by Freud’s rejection, offered to call on him, Freud wrote back: “As the result of the observations and impressions of recent years I no longer desire personal contact with you.” Silberer was shattered. A few years later, unable to throw off a sense of worthlessness, he hung himself from the window bars in his home. There must have been a touch of the morbid in Silberer. When he hung himself, he arranged a light so that when his wife came home the first thing she saw would be him.