Today’s post is written by writer Gustavo Bondoni, who also happens to be our Editor-in-Chief. He speaks a little to that age-old question about where writers get their ideas.
To be brutally honest, I thought that my reading of Thomas De Quincey’s best known work, Confessions of an English Opium Eater, was going to be another of those things that I would simply have to file away under “I read it because it was supposed to be a classic, but it’s not really all that enthralling.”
This isn’t to say that the book wasn’t memorable. The subject matter, and the first person perspective combined to ensure that it is a deeply visceral work. The main problem with it is that it manages, somehow, to be dry and overwritten at the same time. The fact that it became a best seller was due more to the controversial nature of the work than the writing. Both the subject matter itself and the fact that De Quincey seemed to harp upon the pleasures of laudanum and downplay the pains both contributed to a good number of books sold.
When I finished it, I was happy to have read it and thought about it for a bit, but did not feel that it would be among those books that would influence me when writing my own work.
The above just proves how much I know.
A year after finishing Opium Eater, I found myself writing a noir novel set in Buenos Aires during WWII. Argentina was neutral in the conflict, and the cabarets of the city were likewise unaffiliated, catering to Axis, Allies, rich and poor alike. And I found that laudanum and the opium it was made from played a key role not just in the recreational activities of the characters, but also in the political background.
Now, I don’t know if the drug would have been there or not if I hadn’t read De Quincey’s book. After all, there were fewer recreational drugs available back then, and there was a war on, which meant that some products–especially those from Asia–presented more interesting logistical and political ramifications than, say, cocaine, which is from the Americas. So it’s possible that opium would have been present anyway. But one thing that I’m certain of is that the image of how addicts behaved, the shape of that particular situation in my mind, certainly wouldn’t have been the same.
So, of the dozens of books I read in a year, one that I expected to pass unnoticed had contributed significantly to one of my novels. I certainly didn’t see that coming, but those things happen. I had Incursion under contract by that time, so I wrote that book, which has no sign of opium in it at all. Normality, it seemed, had been reestablished.
After incursion, I decided to writer a sort of elegy for the life of pre WWI Italy. My next novel took place in the late spring and early summer of 1914. It was a book that I initially intended to be a tale in the vein of Brideshead Revisited, with a sort of misty, soft-focus nostalgia made infinitely more poignant by the fact that we all know what happened after that summer, and we know all about the waste and suffering of the Great War.
But as I began to write, the characters decided that they had their own ideas about how they should act and what the book would be about (other writers will know what I mean), and the edge that was supposed to be delivered by the reader’s own knowledge of events began to make its way onto the pages. Suddenly this wasn’t a comment on that last glorious summer of the traditional European aristocracies, but became a comment on both the good and the bad of their way of life. Sex crept in (much more copiously than I’d planned–this one is by far the raunchiest of my books), as did the abuse of power relationships. And drugs. You can’t have a good post-fin-de-siécle blowout without a drug or two.
And which drug played the most prominent role? Why, laudanum, of course. And De Quincey is back once again.
I’d never list the man as one of my major influences. I still feel he hasn’t contributed much to my style or my subjects. But he seems to have delivered my particular drug of choice–at least for my mainstream novels set in the past century…
It just goes to show that you never can tell.