The Mighty Waugh (And The Story Of The Booze."(Thats agreat eighties song play on words,by the way.)
Had not read any Evelyn Waugh up until now. Perhaps I have reached the right stage in my life that will allow me to appreciate the more subtle qualities of Brideshead. The prose is desperately beautiful, theres a magical sadness to what he desribes at times. Whether that be his descriptions of locations upon which his players strut, or the percieved inner workings of those characters. It is painfully simple at times but mostly acts like one of those thick brushes used by Chinese caligraphers. Watery washes that swing between oblique black and serated edging. I was drawn to the book by a memory of the early eighties television adaption, which I remember watching at the time, mostly entranced by the slow disintegration of poor Sabastianne. It is a rightly treasured piece of television and has acted as a template for so many attempts to adapt tiger tank novels. It was infinetly more successful than others, I now realise, to hold true to the source material.
I know that Evelyn Waugh converted to Catholocism and that this act sent shock waves through the zeitgeist of his times. As one raised in that faith I feel the presence of a very Catholic iteration of the Christian Deity lurking round every decision in the book. Each of the characters, in their own way, live with their own very personal sins. Gods presence is felt throughout the book, unseen, a witness to all if not a participant. I am not sure when in Evelyn Waugh's personal timeline his writing of the book took place. Yet his understanding of many Catholics inner turmoil, our contradictory views on forgiveness and even its possibility, is all there. To begin with I saw Sabastianne's conflict with who he was born to be and who he actually was , was the most easily identifiable of all the characters but by far, for me, was Julia's and her story, the may twists and turns, the ups and downs and her beautiafic understanding of self imposed suffering. Its complex and easy to miss. She rambles so at times, but the truth is a painful journey into the lesser travelled roads of the human heart. As though her idea of a Christmas card would be an Hieronymous Bosch triptych, not sent ironically. For The Devil was at God's elbow when he made man.
I have known a few Sabastiennes in my time. People write them off as dipsoes, but they are so much more than that and deserve more. People might look at a fig like Sabastianne and diagnose a weakness of character but thats too simple. He was far kinder, in his own ways, than others were to him. His was a heavy cross to bear, a great big piece of Catholic wood. I think, in the end, Cordelia understood her brother best. Her love for him made her description of the state she found him in truly awe inspiring. That she could look at this wreck of a fallen aristocrat and see an angel, albeit a very human one.
They are every where if you could only see.
