Customer Reviews

Under the Volcano (Penguin Modern Classics)

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Geoffrey Firmin, the former British consul to Mexico, is a prisoner of alcoholism. A victim of the shakes, he hears voices, talks to people who are not there, and hallucinates, though he is often able to hide the extent of his drinking. "True, he might lie down in the street, but he would never reel." On The Day of the Dead in 1938, his recently divorced wife Yvonne returns to Quauhnahuac, over which two smoking volcanoes loom, to try to persuade him to reconcile.

Coincidentally, Geoffrey's half-brother Hugh, with whom Yvonne apparently had a brief affair, also arrives that day, and the three share quarters, each hoping to recapture the past. When they take the bus to Tomalin to a bull-riding event, they see a wounded peasant dying beside the road, the peasant's horse with the number 7 branded on its rump, a tricky pesado, and a group of vigilantes, all of whom play a role in the climax which follows.

Rich with details, both of the external world of Quauhnahuac and the internal world of Geoffrey, the novel, first published in 1947, reflects Lowry's own experiences as an alcoholic. Geoffrey, a fully-rounded character, knows that he must stop drinking in order to function effectively, but he is unable to function at all without drinking. He both loves and despises Yvonne, wants to leave Mexico but wants to stay, and wants to find peace but creates chaos.

As Lowry reconstructs this one day in Geoffrey's life, the Day of the Dead, the pervasive symbolism adds to the feeling of overpowering doom--the smoking volcanoes ready to erupt, the "hideous pariah dog" that follows Geoffrey and Yvonne to the house, a barranca (chasm) which exists beside the house and which contains a dead dog, an Indian carrying "the weight of the past," vultures in the forest, Yvonne's release of an eagle in a cage, and sudden storms. All add weight and intensity to this powerful story of dissolution.

Despite the depressing subject matter and a frustrating main character who cannot or will not help himself during the novel's four hundred pages, the novel is breath-taking--elegant both in language and construction. Carefully plotted, filled with unique imagery, and enhanced by symbolism which brings it alive on new levels, it overwhelms the reader with its impact and approaches classical tragedy as the inevitable, doom-filled events play out. Though the novel includes peripheral political issues of the day--Mexico's instability and the philosophical conflicts between fascism and socialism--it is primarily a variation on the story of the Garden of Eden and the fall of man--full, rich, dense, and rewarding, despite its pervasive sadness. n Mary Whipple

It seemed clear to the `best minds of my generation' in the 1950s and 60s that the only philosophically respectable goal in life was to drink yourself to death as resolutely as possible. That the closest we could approach satori, after the Holocaust and Hiroshima, was delirium tremens. Most of our heroes, after all, were holy drunkards: Dylan Thomas, Brendan Behan, Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Hart Crane, Mickey Mantle, Dexter Gordon, Frank Sinatra, John Steinbeck, Jack Kerouac, inter alia. But the holiest drinker of all, the most lucid expounder of the hallicinatory wisdom known only to the falling-down drunk, was a fictional character, the defunct British Consul Geoffrey Firmin in the novel "Under the Vocano" by Malcolm Lowry, a legendary drunkard in his own right. How I survived my youthful idealism is a mystery to me now, in the temperance of my later years; I must have lacked the patience to get righteously blotto day after day.

"Under the Volcano" transpires in a single day, November 2nd 1939, el día de los muertos In Mexico. Roughly twelve hours of that day ... less time than most people will require to read the book. The former British Consul wakes up, as almost always, with a hangover as towering at the nearby Popcatepetl volcano; his entire day will be spent drinking, deciding never to drink again, craving a drink, strategizing how to get just enough of a drink so that he can maintain an illsuion of sobriety. His futile balancing act of lucidity/incoherence will be severely tested, as his divorced wife unexpectedly arrives to rescue/redeem/reclaim him, a quixotic task made more hopeless by the presence of the Consul's younger brother, a leftist journalist supposedly en route to deliver explosves to the desperate Republican armies of Spain, already effectively crushed by Franco in the battle of the Ebro. The brother and the wife have been lovers, though both of them love the Consul with a devotion that survives his most brutal behavior and his hopeless descent into alcoholic dementia.

More than hafl of the novel is `narrated' from within the mind of Geoffry Firmin; the other chapters detour through the minds of the wife and the brother. Geoffry's mind is a realm of wonder, the mind of a genius polymath gone into free-fall. The range of allusions rivals that of "Ulysses" or "Finnegan's Wake", but Malcolm Lowry's great strength is to keep his character's `stream of consciousness' flowing powerfully, emotively, enticingly even if the allusions escape the reader's scope. It doesn't matter when a drunkard's thoughts become unintelligible or inchoate, as long as they remain `human' enough to elicit the reader's empathy. This is, without a doubt, the most convincing portrayal of the state of drunkenness in all literature, a seething tangle of rage, guilt, shame, defiance, free association, abject dissociation, hallucination, ultra-perception, nausea, delirium, and the sudden mirage of sobriety.

But "Under the Volcano" isn't only about drunkenness. It's also about the entwined failure of the relationships of three deeply loving people, whose very effort to love each other crushes each of them in turn. And it's a novel about time and place, on several levels of scale. It's about Mexico at a time of social dissolution and violence not unlike the Mexico of today; then it's about Spain in particular and Europe in general at the time of the rise of fascism and anti-semitism; then it's about the `long duration' of European conquest of the `Indian' cultures of the Americas. These dimensions of time and space expand and contract rhythmically in the narrative, much as Geoffry Firmin's state of intoxication expands and contracts from cogency to comedy.

No, this is NOT a cheerful tale. It's utterly dire, tragic, horrific, excruciating, one of the darkest novels ever composed. Fair enough?

But it is an incredible feat of writing, a novel of the utmost coherence and clarity dredged out of the experiences of drunken irrationality, both personal and societal. The depiction of the horrifying depravity of fascism is as potent and convincing as the depiction of the Consul's self-destruction through alcohol.

There are two levels ... structures? ... of symbolism in the novel that I wasn't a good enough reader to recognize explicitly, decades ago when I first read the book. Insistently, in march step with Geoffry's phases of delirium and coherence, two sorts of images appear, either in the external descriptions of his situation or in his thoughts. The two sorts of images are basically circles and cracks. The circles range in scale from the ring left by a glass on a bar, to circles of dancers in a plaza, to the circle of mountains around Cuernavaca (the real setting of the novel), to the circling planets of teh solar system and the infinite circles of galactic space. Of course! Geoffry's head is spinning, his mind is whirling! The standard image of a drunk "seeing stars" is exploded to cosmic queasy ecstasy. Then the `cracks' appear: in the sidewalk, a fence between neighbors, the borders between states of Mexico, the borders that have to be crossed between countries and warring camps, the hard line of hatred between ideologies, the impassible barriers between individuals even as they seek to `touch' each other, and most visibly, ominously, physically present: the ravine that cuts through the heart of Cuernavaca. Beware of that ravine as you read! Don't mock it recklessly by tottering at its edge, as the Consuls' brother does! Don't think for a moment that you'll somehow cross it with impunity!

So .... "The greatest of all Latin American novels, the archetype of all of them, wasn't written in Spanish but In English, in 1949, by an alcoholic hermit from England who never managed to finish another book." Hey, what credentials do I have for making such an assertion? None. It's pure hyperbole. But I'm sincere in saying that "Under the Volcano" is one of the greatest novels of the 20th Century, an unforgettable reading experience.

This is the kind of book that you either love or hate. There are already tons of reviews on this site about the book itself from both camps, but if you want to learn more about the author, Malcolm Lowry, the National Film Board of Canada has a fascinating documentary about him called Volcano: An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Malcolm Lowry. It's available for (free and legal) viewing online at NFB.ca [..]

While I read this book I was constantly reminded of Joyce's Ulysses. I have never heard of this author before, but I really enjoyed this book and can highly recommend it. In fact, I think this book would be a nice starting point if you want to read Ulysses but think you might not like the structure of it. Both books use "stream of consciousness," both take place during one day, both have two men and a woman as the main focus, both women are "entertainers," and there is a good deal of drinking in both books. If you've already read Ulysses and like the idea of a "Ulysses in Mexico," by all means pick this up. All in all, a much better book than I expected.

I would like to provide my impressions on "Under the Volcano" as they relate to some of the criticisms I have read in other reviews. I found "Under the Volcano" to be an easier read than either "Moby Dick" or "Ulysses", with less lengthy digressions into the hardcore, cosmic philosophy of the former and less of the jarring transitions and (admirable) nonsense of the latter ( I admit I have yet to finish "Ulysses" despite repeated attempts). The characters in "UtV" were very well rounded and the extensive inner monologues of each made them live and breathe for me. I am not usually enamored of lots and lots of descriptions of settings, architecture, and geography, and "UtV" is literally full of it, but if you can get through it, the landscape that Lowry paints for the reader stays in the one's mind as the novel progresses and creates an immersive experience where one can "see" the action unfolding in this dense and beautiful setting. I have read some reviews that criticized the bleak subject matter, but the story of an addict killing himself with all manner of alcohol is not going to uplifting, is it? Nevertheless, the book had some darkly humorous passages that I really enjoyed;" It was already the longest day in his entire experience; a lifetime; he had already missed the bus, he would have plenty of time for more drinks. If only he were not drunk! The Consul strongly disapproved of this drunkenness." Throughout the novel, the Consul explains very convincingly to both himself and the reader his reasons and excuses for almost every drink; such a searing depiction of a true addict could only have been created by one who was very familiar with the experience of being one. The Consul is as advertised; an extremely well wrought character, both admirable and contemptible. He is the main reason to read and enjoy "UtV" and the main reason I won't forget this novel anytime soon. Recommended reading for those desiring an authentic experience that demands sustained attention from the reader.

Miserable lives. Miserable lives lived in a miserable place. Miserable lives lived miserably in a miserable place.

If you are not depressed before you start this book, rest assured that you will be if you see this book to its end.

Not my cuppa tea.

Here is the story of the last day in the life of Geoff, a British consul stationed in Mexico. This day happens to fall on the holiday, the Day of the Dead. Geoff is a raging alcoholic whose estranged wife has decided to come back to give their marriage one last try by inviting him to leave Mexico and start again somewhere else. Against the detailed backdrop of Mexican town, landscape and culture, Geoff, his wife and Geoff's half-brother play out the final hours of this man's tragic life.

Malcolm Lowry's language is remarkably beautiful, despite the subject of extreme dissolution. I found that to be reason enough to read this novel. One can look for Christian parallels in the book, and especially to his final hours on a kind of Calvary at the end. Hell is alluded to quite openly, as well. Some have called this the best depiction of alcoholism ever written. Others have said that this is a thinly-veiled autobiography of Lowry himself, adding to the sense of tragedy.

There can be no question that this book is a masterpiece. Most people don't like Wagner or his music, but regardless, The Ring Cycle is a masterpiece. "Not getting it" does not change the fact. The journey is the message; in art as in life. When you "see" - this book is an amazing journey. The writing is thrilling. It's the story of a complete life in the richest and most intricate sense. It's sad and telling that there only two reviews and one missed it.

Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano (1947) is, like Herman Melville's Moby Dick (1851) and James Joyce's Ulysses (1922), a generally difficult-to-read 'classic' written around an archetypal theme. Here, alcoholic Geoffrey Firmin lives out the last hours of his life in a small Mexican town as the local people celebrate the Day of the Dead festival.

The problem with Under the Volcano is not that it is conceptually or thematically difficult to understand, but simply that it is boring and endlessly rambling, and thus reads as almost wholly inconsequential. Lowry makes little if any noticeable attempt to clearly communicate what he has to convey to his audience; most potential readers are likely to assume that Lowry basked comfortably in the masturbatory excess and obscurity of his style, and therefore have little sympathy with completing what has already proven to be an arduous, uninteresting novel.

Nor are readers who make this assumption incorrect, as Michael Schmidt makes clear in his thoughtful, earnest introduction.

Schmidt acknowledges immediately that "many readers find it hard to break into Under the Volcano. Their difficulty is a shadow of the trouble Lowry had in writing it," and that "the problem (and pleasure) is the style itself." Lowry himself admitted that the book, which he referred to as "a symphony, an opera, a horse-opera...hot music, a poem, a song, a tragedy, a comedy, a farce," "gets off to a slow start," which is certainly an understatement.

Schmidt also briefly outlines the history of the book's composition, which involved over nine years of rewrites, revisions, and, in the case of some chapters or sections, starting over from the beginning completely. Not surprisingly, Under the Volcano reads like a troubled, overwritten, and over-conceptualized text in the same way that F. Scott Fitzgerald's excruciating Tender Is the Night (1934) does.

Many readers may not agree with Schmidt when he calls the book a "masterpiece." Other writers as diverse as Isak Dinesen, Louis-Ferdinand Celine, Jean Genet, and Gabriel Gabriel Marquez have written lengthy and frequently dense philosophical works that nonetheless communicated effectively with their audiences.

Some critics and scholars have taken the position that since Lowry was troubled by severe alcoholism, incarcerated in mental institutions several times over the course of his life, and died relatively young in mysterious and possibly suicidal circumstances, Under the Volcano, his one "success," as Schmidt refers to it, however obscure, must be tremendously worthwhile on at least some level; which, of course, is not necessarily the case by any means.