The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry: Souls and Shamans 1498516572, 9781498516570

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The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry

The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry Souls and Shamans

Nigel H. Foxcroft

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2019 The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available ISBN: 978-1-4985-1657-0 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN: 978-1-4985-1658-7 (electronic) ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

To my wife, Györgyi and our sons, Robert and Roland

Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgmentsxi Forewordxiii Chronologyxvii Introduction: The Writer as Shaman—the Interconnectedness of East-West Cultures and Civilizations 1 Malcolm Lowry’s Modernism: Surrealist, Literary, and Political Influences

1 17

2 The Evolution of Lowry’s Intuitive Consciousness: Bridging the Shamanic Divide in Ultramarine, In Ballast to the White Sea, Swinging the Maelstrom, and The 1940 Under the Volcano47 3 In Search of the Souls of Civilization: The Russian Connection in In Ballast to the White Sea and Under the Volcano 

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4 The Mexican Day of the Dead: Under the Volcano’s Zapotec, Aztec, and Spanish Roots

129

5 Exorcising the Specters of the Past: From the Maelstrom of Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid to the Atonement of La Mordida and “Through the Panama”

171

6 In Pursuit of Celestial Harmony: The Psychogeographic Ecosphere of Eridanus in “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola193 vii

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Contents

Conclusion: The Quest for the Regeneration of Civilization— a Taoist Climax

217

Epilogue227 Appendix241 Bibliography245 Index263 About the Author

275

List of Illustrations

Cover image Under the Volcano 2, 1990, 100 x 120cm oil on canvas © Ton Leenarts Figure 0.1 Malcolm Lowry Holding a Bottle of Bols Gin and a Paperback 5 Figure 1.1 Landscape with Comestibles Seen en route to Mexico City 33 Figure 2.1 In Ballast to the White Sea 68 Figure 3.1 Trotsky’s compound in Coyoacán, Mexico City 112 Figure 4.1 Hotel Bajo El Volcan, Cuernavaca 137 Figure 4.2 Under the Volcano, 1988 146 Figure 4.3 Panteón Municipal La Leona Cemetery, Cuernavaca 150 Figure 4.4 Mexican Day of the Dead Ofrenda 151 Figure 4.5 Virgin of Guadalupe in the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, Oaxaca 153 Figure 4.6 Former Convent of Santo Domingo, Oaxaca 154 Figure 5.1 Crypt of Mirrors, Panteón Municipal La Leona Cemetery, Cuernavaca 175 Figure 5.2 Pyramid of the Sun, Teotihuacan 177 Figure 5.3 Pyramid of the Moon, Teotihuacan 177 Figure 5.4 Astronomical Building J, Monte Albán178 Figure 5.5 Quetzalcoatl, the Temple of the Feathered Serpent, Teotihuacan179 Figure 6.1 View over the Burrard Inlet 194 Figure 6.2 Eridanus and the Tao flagstone, Dollarton 197 Figure 6.3 Malcolm Lowry on board the ferry to Gabriola, the Atrevida199 Figure 6.4 Victoria, Nanaimo, and Eridanus Gabriola Triad 205 Figure E.1 Malcolm Lowry at Easedale Tarn, Lake District228 ix

Acknowledgments

I should like to express my sincere gratitude to colleagues throughout the world who have shared their expertise on Malcolm Lowry. I am indebted to Dr. Alistair Davies (who was my tutor at the University of Sussex and introduced me to Under the Volcano) for his invaluable and inspiring advice over many years. My heartfelt appreciation goes to specialists in Belgium, Canada, France, Mexico, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Portugal, United Kingdom, and the United States. I am immensely grateful to Patrick A. McCarthy, professor of English at the University of Miami for scrutinizing my manuscript and for writing the foreword. I am obliged to the late Dr. Vik Doyen, professor emeritus at the Catholic University of Leuven and to Sherrill Grace, OC, FRSC, PhD, University Killam professor emerita at the University of British Columbia for reading and commenting on the draft chapters. I am highly appreciative of professor emeritus Jonathan M. Woodham, former director of the then Centre for Research and Development (CRD) at the University of Brighton, for his longstanding encouragement. I am thankful for the generous advice of Dr. Glenn Woodsworth, an independent scholar for alerting me to the existence of an array of Malcolm Lowry-inspired works in the performing and visual arts; Sheryl Salloum (also an independent scholar) for identifying Canadian offshoots and suggesting links for image permissions; and Robert Woodsworth, MA, for recommending conduits of Gurdjieff’s influence on Lowry. I am obliged to Nicolette Amstutz, senior acquisitions editor and her assistant, Jessica Tepper at Lexington Books in Lanham, MD, the United States, and to my project manager, Hariharan at Deanta Global, for their editorial guidance. An initial sketch of my monograph benefitted from sabbatical leave from my institution during the first semester of 2010. A two-week Santander University of Brighton staff travel grant enabled me to conduct fieldwork in xi

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Mexico in 2014. A small grant from the Centre for Memory, Narratives and Histories (CMNH) research fund in 2018 made possible the inclusion of four images. My immense gratitude goes to my family and friends who have stimulated and supported me throughout my Malcolm Lowry-related research. I dedicate: The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry to my wife, Györgyi, and to my sons, Robert and Roland (who, last but not least, perused and advised on various drafts), for their steadfast encouragement and forbearance. Credits are due to various editors and publishers in whose publications my earlier research papers have appeared. Some sections of the current monograph are rooted in the following blueprints: “From Russia to Eridanus: The Taoist Psychogeographic Ecosphere of Malcolm Lowry.” IAFOR Journal of Literature & Librarianship 2, no. 2 (Autumn 2013): 69–87 (© IAFOR Publications); “From the Zapotecs to the Aztecs: The Day of the Dead and the Cosmic and Shamanic Phantoms of Malcolm Lowry,” in La Fureur et la grâce: lectures de Malcolm Lowry, edited by Josiane Paccaud-Huguet. Paris: © Classiques Garnier, Paris, 2017: 73–83; “In the Maelstrom of Malcolm Lowry’s Romantic Imagination: The Atonement of La Mordida” /“En la vorágine de la imaginación romántica de Malcolm Lowry: La expiación de La Mordida,” in various editions of Sobre Lowry, translated by Alberto Rebollo and edited by Dany Hurpin, Nayeli Sánchez, et al, 1st ed. (2012), 165–82 and 2nd ed. (2014), 165–83 (Spanish) and 195–206 (English). Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico (© La Cartonera); “Malcolm Lowry: The Russian Connection.” IAFOR NACAH2014: Official Conference Proceedings (November 2014): 29–42 (© IAFOR Publications); and “Souls and Shamans in Space: The Cosmopolitan, Prismatic Psychology of Malcolm Lowry,” © Planeta Literatur: Journal of Global Literary Studies 3 (2014): Global Modernism(s): 1–26. I am grateful to the following persons and institutions for rights to include the images indicated to illustrate my text: © Bridgeman Images for permission and © Lefevre Fine Art Ltd for copyright clearance for Ed Burra’s Landscape with Comestibles Seen en route to Mexico City (1937); Rare Books and Special Collections, UBC, Vancouver for Malcolm Lowry, Dollarton, 1953; Malcolm Lowry on board the ferry to Gabriola, the “Atrevida,” October 1946; and Malcolm Lowry at Easedale Tarn, the Lake District, England, June 1957; © Ton Leenarts in Amsterdam for his Mexican artworks, Under the Volcano 2, 1990 (on the front cover) and Under the Volcano, 1988. I am appreciative of the efforts of Dr. Sam Carroll in CMNH for facilitating the acquisition of certain images and permits. Every reasonable effort has been made by my publisher and myself to trace copyright holders, but if there are any errors or omissions, Lexington Books will be pleased to insert the appropriate acknowledgements in any subsequent printings or editions.

Foreword Patrick A. McCarthy

In June 1957, when (Clarence) Malcolm Lowry was buried in Ripe, a town in East Sussex, there were few mourners at his funeral apart from his widow, Margerie, his brother, Stuart, and a handful of friends that included Harvey and Dorothy Burt. Over three decades later, courtesy of Anne Yandle, the head of special collections at the University of British Columbia Library, I met the Burts at their home in Dollarton. When we talked about the funeral, Harvey said Margerie had pleaded with him: “You have to protect me from all the reporters.” “She actually thought there would be a crowd of reporters,” he said; but only one reporter, a representative of the Brighton Argus, was there to record the funeral of the man he called Clarence Lowry. In fact, as Douglas Day puts it, Lowry’s “funeral must have been one of England’s smallest literary burials.”1 For the time being, Malcolm Lowry had been forgotten. In retrospect, we can understand why no other newspapers thought the funeral was worth covering. For one thing, Lowry had been better known as an author in the United States than in the United Kingdom; for another, he had published almost nothing since 1947, when Under the Volcano had briefly put him in the spotlight. Even after Margerie managed to publish some of his previously unavailable (and usually unfinished) works in the 1960s and early 1970s, he was still known mainly for Under the Volcano. Yet, even if Lowry is what Day calls him—“a great author who happens to have written only one great book”2—our readings of that one great book have been enriched considerably by its connections with Lowry’s many other writings that are now available. Besides his earlier novel, Ultramarine, they include his poems, the novella Swinging the Maelstrom, the story collection Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place, and several other novels (or novels-in-progress): Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, October Ferry to Gabriola, xiii

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La Mordida, and In Ballast to the White Sea, not to mention the 1940 version of Under the Volcano that was rejected by every publisher to which Harold Matson, Lowry’s American agent, submitted it. Another important role has been played by Chris Ackerley’s book-length set of annotations for Under the Volcano (1984) and, now, its online successor,3 and by the extensive annotations, usually by Ackerley, for several of Lowry’s other works. Those annotations have demonstrated in detail the range of Lowry’s reading, the breadth of his interests, and the crucial role of allusions in his works. Although these published annotations of individual passages in Lowry works are widely consulted and quoted by Lowry scholars, there is still a need for broad studies of major influences on Lowry’s art. Nigel Foxcroft’s The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry: Souls and Shamans is an important contribution in that area. With chapters on Lowry’s engagement with modern literature and art, with Norwegian, Russian, and American authors, and with Mexican culture and Eastern religions (just to name a few of his subjects), Foxcroft demonstrates ways in which Lowry’s fiction grew out of his experiences, including his reading. Of special importance are the esoteric, spiritual, and cultural works that many of Lowry’s readers will not have encountered, including Ignatius Donnelly’s Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882), Madame Blavatsky’s The Secret Doctrine: The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy (1888), P. D. Ouspensky’s Tertium Organum: The Third Canon of Thought, a Key to the Enigmas of the World (1920) and A New Model of the Universe (1931), J. W. Dunne’s An Experiment with Time (1927), and Charles Fort’s books (starting with The Book of the Damned, 1919) that purport to explain strange events, or at least to show that they defy scientific or other attempts to explain them. To take a single instance of the relevance of these sources, there is evidence in his notes and texts that both early and late in his career Lowry was fascinated by Ouspensky’s works, and that Tertium Organum was one of his major sources for information about the Tao. Three passages from Tertium Organum serve as epigraphs to chapters of In Ballast to the White Sea (XII, XIII, and XVIII), and passages in later works—La Mordida,4 October Ferry to Gabriola,5 and “The Forest Path to the Spring” (in Hear Us O Lord)6—echo the first two. In the conclusion to this volume, Nigel Foxcroft perceptively discusses the passages from “The Forest Path” that present the restoration of harmony in terms derived from Tertium Organum,7 with phrasing that Lowry also quoted as the epigraph to Chapter XIII of In Ballast.8 The relationship between the Chapter XII epigraph, “The tragedy of our spiritual quest: we don’t know what we are searching for…”,9 and the phrase “the world of causes” that occurs in Ethan Llewelyn’s thoughts in October Ferry,10 would not be easy to spot if it were not that both passages derive from a discussion in Tertium Organum11 that Lowry quotes at length in La Mordida.12 But these

Foreword

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individual connections are not the main point, which is that, as Foxcroft demonstrates, Ouspensky was a crucial influence on Lowry’s imagination—one that is easily demonstrated by the number of times Lowry refers to him in works both at the beginning and near the end of his career. Lowry’s characters often show signs of familiarity with these sources, and on occasion, imagine contributing to their subjects. In a letter to Yvonne in the first chapter of Under the Volcano, the Consul asks if she imagines him “still working on the book, still trying to answer such questions as: Is there any ultimate reality, external, conscious and ever-present etc. etc. that can be realised by any such means that may be acceptable to all creeds and religions and suitable in all climes and countries.”13 Later, he conjures up reviews his book might get, reviews that compare his book with Ignatius Donnelly’s Atlantis: “Yes: I can see the reviews now. Mr. Firmin’s sensational new data on Atlantis! The most extraordinary thing of its kind since Donnelly! Interrupted by his untimely death . . . Marvellous. And the chapters on the alchemists! Which beat the Bishop of Tasmania to a frazzle.”14 Unfortunately, the only part of this vision that will come to pass is the Consul’s “untimely death,” which is roughly ten hours away in fictional time. But that does not diminish the seriousness of Lowry’s quest for connection, wholeness, and harmony. In his long letter to Jonathan Cape, in which he defended Under the Volcano against the objections of Cape’s unsympathetic reader, Lowry makes several grand claims: that his novel has universal significance; that its insights into the human condition are profound; and that everything fits together.15 Nigel Foxcroft demonstrates, throughout his study, that Lowry always aimed high, even (or perhaps especially) when, as Lowry told Cape, he was telling his readers “something new about hell fire.”16 NOTES 1. Douglas Day, Malcolm Lowry: A Biography (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973), 54. 2. Ibid., 471. 3. Chris Ackerley and Lawrence J. Clipper, A Companion to “Under the Volcano” (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1984). Now augmented and corrected by Ackerley and David Large: Under the Volcano: A Hypertextual Companion (University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand). Online: http:​//www​.otag​ o.ac.​nz/en​glish​-ling​uisti​cs/en​glish​/lowr​y/ind​ex.ht​ml (accessed May, 31, 2019). 4. Malcolm Lowry, Malcolm Lowry’s “La Mordida”: A Scholarly Edition, ed. with introduction and notes Patrick A. McCarthy (Athens, GA, and London: University of Georgia Press, 1996), 218. 5. Malcolm Lowry, October Ferry to Gabriola, ed. Margerie Lowry (New York and Cleveland: World, 1970), 121.

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6. Malcolm Lowry, Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place (Philadelphia: J. P. Lippincott, 1961), 234–35 and 282. 7. P. D. Ouspensky, Tertium Organum: The Third Canon of Thought. A Key to the Enigmas of the World, trans. Nicholas Bessaraboff and Claude Bragdon (New York: Knopf, 1923), 290. 8. Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea, ed. with introduction and textual notes Patrick A. McCarthy; annotations Chris Ackerley; foreword Vik Doyen, Miguel Mota, and Paul Tiessen (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014), 181. 9. Ibid., 170. 10. Lowry, October Ferry to Gabriola, 121. 11. Ouspensky, Tertium Organum, 196–97. 12. Lowry, Malcolm Lowry’s “La Mordida,” 218. 13. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (New York and London: HarperCollins, 2007), 41. 14. Ibid., 90. The ellipsis is Lowry’s. 15. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, 2 vols, ed. Sherrill E. Grace (Toronto and Buffalo: University of Toronto Press, 1995–1996), 498–528. 16. Ibid., 520.

Chronology

1909, July 28: Born Clarence Malcolm Lowry at “Warren Crest,” 13 North Drive, New Brighton, Cheshire, England.1 Fourth son of Arthur and Evelyn Lowry. 1911, September 11: The Lowrys move into “Inglewood” in Caldy, Wirral, Cheshire.2 1915–1919: Malcolm attends Braeside Preparatory School, Kirby Park (now 17–23 Devonshire Road), West Kirby.3 1919–1923: Goes to Caldicott School in Hitchin, Hertfordshire. 1923–1927: At the Leys School, Cambridge, Malcolm contributes to The Leys Fortnightly in 1925–1926. 1926: Falls in love with Carol Brown and then with Tessa Evans (a stimulus for Janet in Ultramarine). 1927 May–October: Travels to the Far East—to Japan and China—from Birkenhead on the S. S. Pyrrhus. 1928 September–October: Studies at Weber’s School of Modern German in Bonn, where he becomes acquainted with Paul Fitte and fascinated by German Expressionist cinema. 1929 July–September: Visits his tutor Conrad Aiken in Cambridge, Massachusetts; October: matriculates at St Catharine’s College, Cambridge, to read English; November 15: now a college friend, Paul Fitte commits suicide.4 1930 February: Contributes to the Experiment periodical in Cambridge; August–September: stays with Conrad Aiken at Jeake’s House in Mermaid Street, Rye, Sussex. 1931 March–April: Lodges with him in Rye; August–September: travels to Norway from Preston on the S. S. Fagervik (originally bound for xvii

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Leningrad, but redirected to Aalesund); meets Nordahl Grieg in Oslo; and commences work on In Ballast to the White Sea. 1932 May: Graduates from the University of Cambridge; May–June: revisits Conrad in Rye; becomes acquainted with Ed Burra; summer: befriends John Sommerfield in London. 1933 January–March: Boards with Julian Trevelyan in Paris; April: travels with the Aikens to Granada in Spain, meeting Ed and making the acquaintance of an American actress and authoress, Janine Vanderheim (whose stage name is Jan Gabrial); June 12: Ultramarine is published by Jonathan Cape. 1934 January 6: Marries Janine in the town hall in the fourteenth district of Paris.5 1935–1936: Resides with her in the United States; accused by Burton Rascoe of plagiarism and makes the acquaintance of Waldo Frank in 1935. 1936 May–June: Spends ten days in the psychiatric wing of Bellevue Hospital in New York as a voluntary patient; October 30: arrives with Janine in Acapulco (from San Diego) two days before the Day of the Dead; they settle in Cuernavaca, renting a bungalow at Calle Humboldt 62,6 but spend one week per month at Hotel Canada in Calle 5 de Mayo 47, Mexico City;7 Malcolm starts writing “The Last Address” (an early version of Lunar Caustic/Swinging the Maelstrom) and goes on an excursion to Xochimilco, Oaxaca, Teotihuacán, Mitla, and Tlaxcala. 1937: Work commences on “Under the Volcano” (originally a short story); June–July: the Aikens and Ed Burra stay with him; December: intolerant of his drinking, Janine returns to Los Angeles to seek employment and he travels to Oaxaca, residing at Hotel Francia; befriends Juan Fernando Márquez, but spends Christmas in prison; and is released with the help of Juan, who takes him to Monte Albán and Etla. 1938 February: Bids farewell to him at Parián Station; March 18: Lázaro Cárdenas’s nationalization of foreign oil companies; July 23: Malcolm leaves Mexico for Los Angeles; his financial affairs are dealt with by Benjamin Parks, commissioned by his father. 1939 June 7: Meets Margerie Bonner, an American writer and actress; July: Janine files for divorce; July 30: Malcolm arrives in Vancouver, British Columbia, staying at Hotel Georgia, 801 West Georgia Street; September 31: he is joined by Margerie in a rented accommodation and then works on the third draft of Under the Volcano. 1940 August 15: Moves with Margerie into a rented shack in Dollarton on Burrard Inlet in North Vancouver; November 1: his divorce from Janine is finalized; December 2: he marries Margerie at 1009 West 10th Avenue in Vancouver.8

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1941 May 1: They purchase their own shack and then make the acquaintance of Charles Stansfeld-Jones (alias Frater Achad). 1944 June 7: Their shack and most manuscripts (except Under the Volcano) are destroyed by fire; late June: they depart for Oakville, Ontario, to lodge with Gerald and Betty Noxon; October 1: they move to Niagara-on-the-Lake. 1945 February 1: They return to Vancouver by train and rebuild their shack in Dollarton; December 11: they arrive in Mexico City (via Los Angeles); board at the Casa María, Calle Humboldt 24 in Cuernavaca (the location of Jacques Laruelle’s zacuali or tower in Under the Volcano,9 which was preserved by the actions of John Spencer and his friends on July 9, 198610 and is now Hotel Bajo El Volcán at Calle Humboldt 19); they spend Christmas and New Year and receive a letter from Jonathan Cape with a reader’s report on Under the Volcano. 1946 January 2: Malcolm commences writing his famous response to that publisher; April: Under the Volcano is accepted by Cape and Reynal & Hitchcock; he travels to Oaxaca in a vain search for Juan Fernando Márquez, staying at Hotel Francia and visiting Monte Albán, Mitla, the Valley of Etla, and Tlaxcala; May 4: he is deported to the United States from Mexico to Los Angeles and Vancouver for non-payment of a fine for an earlier, alleged over-stay; December c. 6: arrives with Margerie in New Orleans; December 26: they set sail for Haiti. 1947 February 19: They arrive in New York on the day when Under the Volcano is published by Reynal and Hitchcock in the United States and by Jonathan Cape in London; March 17: they return to Dollarton; November 7: set sail for France via the Panama Canal on the SS Brest. 1948 May 15–July 8: They tour Italy (including Rome, Naples, and Capri), and then France (Brittany and Paris). 1949 January: They return to Dollarton. Malcolm resumes work on Dark as the Grave Wherein my Friend is Laid, La Mordida, Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place, and his filmscript of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night; July 14: injures his back in a fall from his pier. 1950 summer: He drafts various stories for Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place, including “Strange Comfort Afforded by the Profession,” “Through the Panama,” “The Forest Path to the Spring,” and also “October Ferry to Gabriola;” the Lowrys receive threats of eviction from Dollarton as “squatters;” Margerie falls ill, and the winter turns severe. 1951: Work on the above stories continues, marred by financial, health, and personal issues; December c. 30: the Lowrys move into Vancouver owing to harsh winter weather. 1952 January–April: They reside at 1075 Gilford St, Apartment #33;11 April 1: they return to Dollarton; Malcolm works on drafts of Hear us O Lord and

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“October Ferry to Gabriola” (which is becoming a novel); mid-November: they move to Bayview Apartment Hotel, 1359 Davie St until March.12 1953: Malcolm resumes work on October Ferry to Gabriola; June 29: he and his wife are hospitalized for a week; c. November 11–15: they move to Caroline Court Aparts, Suite no. 73, 1058 Nelson St, but spend Christmas on Bowen Island.13 1954 May: They commence planning a trip to Europe; August 24–26: spend their last days in Dollarton; August 30 fly from Vancouver to Los Angeles; September 2: Malcolm sees Conrad Aiken for the final time; September 12: the Lowrys sail to Italy on the SS Giacomo.14 1955 c. June 30: News reaches them in the Aeolian Islands (near Sicily) that their pier in Dollarton was destroyed by a storm on June 22;15 July 9: they fly to London; September 12: Malcolm is admitted to Ward H (Neurosurgical)16 and Margerie to a medical ward17 at Brook General Hospital, Shooters Hill Road, Woolwich; November 25, he is accepted at Atkinson Morley’s Hospital, 31 Copse Hill, Wimbledon for psychiatric treatment and ECT.18 1956 February 7: They move into The White Cottage in Ripe, near Lewes, Sussex (now East Sussex);19 July 1: Malcolm is readmitted to Atkinson Morley’s till August; October 18: Margerie to St Luke’s Woodside Hospital in Muswell Hill till November 16 for psychiatric treatment.20 1957 May 27–June 22: Tour of the Lake District; June 27: Malcolm dies by “misadventure” at the White Cottage; July 3: after his funeral, he is buried in the cemetery of the Parish Church of St John the Baptist in Ripe.21 1961–1975: Posthumous editions of his works are published: “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1961); Selected Poems, ed. Earle Birney (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1962); Lunar Caustic, eds Earle Birney and Margerie Bonner Lowry, The Paris Review (1963); Bajo el volcán, tr. Raúl Ortiz y Ortiz (Ciudad de México: Ediciones Era, 1964); Selected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, eds Harvey Breit and Margerie Bonner Lowry (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott and London: Jonathan Cape, 1965); Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, eds Douglas Day and Margerie Bonner Lowry (New York: New American Library, 1968); October Ferry to Gabriola, ed. Margerie Lowry (New York: World Publishing and Plume, 1970); and Malcolm Lowry: Psalms and Songs, ed. Margerie Lowry (New York: New American Library, 1975). 1988 September 28: Margerie passes away and is buried in the same churchyard as Malcolm. 1990–1996: Further works appear: The Cinema of Malcolm Lowry: A Scholarly Edition of Lowry’s “Tender Is the Night,” eds Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1990); The Collected Poetry of Malcolm

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Lowry, ed. Kathleen Scherf (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1992); The 1940 Under the Volcano, eds Paul Tiessen and Miguel Mota (Waterloo, Ontario: MLR Editions, 1994); Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, 1995–96); and Malcolm Lowry’s “La Mordida”: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1996). 2000: Jan Gabrial admits, “Some 265 pages of In Ballast still survive in carbon,” from the version which Malcolm wanted her mother to have.22 2003: Two years after her death in 2001, and in keeping with her wishes, a clean copy of the 1936 manuscript of In Ballast to the White Sea is deposited by the overseer of her estate in the Manuscripts and Archives Division of the Humanities and Social Sciences Library of New York Public Library.23 2007–2015: Further posthumous works are published: The Voyage That Never Ends: Fictions, Poems, Fragments, Letters, ed. Michael Hofmann (New York: New York Review of Books, 2007) and three University of Ottawa Press publications: Swinging the Maelstrom: A Critical Edition (2013), ed. Vik Doyen; In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition (2014), ed. Patrick A. McCarthy; and The 1940 Under the Volcano (2015), eds Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen. NOTES 1. Colin Dilnot, “Lowry’s Wirral,” in Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, ed. Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009), 27. 2. Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 8. 3. Dilnot, “Lowry’s Wirral,” 29–31. 4. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), I, xlii. 5. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 172–3. 6. Ibid., 207. 7. Ibid., 209. 8. Ibid., 305. 9. Ibid., 347. 10. John Spencer, Saving Lowry’s Eden: Salvando el Edén de Lowry, 2nd ed. (Cuernavaca: Museo La Casona, 2009), 24–5. 11. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 497. 12. Ibid., 617. 13. Ibid., xix and 692. 14. Ibid., xix.

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15. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 559. 16. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 767. 17. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 562. 18. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, xix and 770 and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 571. 19. Ibid., 575. 20. Ibid., 586. 21. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 603. 22. Jan Gabrial, Inside the Volcano: My Life with Malcolm Lowry (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000), 80. See also 96. 23. Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy, annotator Chris Ackerley (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014), xii–xiii.

Introduction The Writer as Shaman—the Interconnectedness of East-West Cultures and Civilizations

The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry explores the role played by literature in heightening awareness of the interconnectedness of our environment. It takes us on a journey through the life and works of the late-modernist writer (Clarence) Malcolm Lowry (1909–1957), who is renowned for his masterpiece, Under the Volcano (1947). The scale of his kaleidoscopic perceptions and reflective consciousness—which are brilliantly showcased through his account of the Día de (los) Muertos, or the Mexican Day of the Dead festival—necessitates an interdisciplinary voyage of discovery. This current study seeks to contribute to the development of a psychogeographic and historical framework for the investigation and evaluation of modernism’s international dimensions and multicultural interconnectedness. It provides a foundation for the consideration of the influence of various cultures and civilizations—east and west, ancient and modern—on modernist authors and on avant-garde artists, be they, for example, American, British, or, else, Continental. Turning to Lowry’s highly creative imagination, this process of habilitation involves recognition of the key role played by the writer as a panoptic or all-seeing shaman in pioneering the reintegration of modernism with primitivism.1 For example, in Under the Volcano, a range of modernist techniques are employed: a fragmented structure; a non-chronological narrative with flashbacks (and flash-forwards); a single-day (or rather, a twelve-hour) time span for the course of the main actions and events; multiple perspectives; psychological introspection; epiphanies; vivid images; and the superimposition of a collage of signs, notices, warnings, and menus. However, in Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid (1968), and La Mordida (1996), Lowry also incorporates aspects of primitivism.2 This involves the depiction of visual art forms borrowed from the traditions of non-Western ethnic groups and civilizations, including prehistoric ones. Of considerable 1

2

Introduction

importance is his portrayal of the interface of Aztec and Zapotec cosmological traditions with Hispanic ones. In Under the Volcano, the Day of the Dead is presented as having cross-cultural origins, with contemporary implications. A prime feature of Lowry’s artistry is to guard against old knowledge or wisdom being lost to modern civilization. His recognition of romanticism’s penchant for intuition and emotion acts as a bulwark against the pure rationalism of the eighteenth-century Age of Reason. This approach necessitates Lowry to embark on a long-term mission in pursuit of the true meaning of life, which is understood in terms of value systems and national identities. His intercontinental, East-West quest for spiritual regeneration warrants a deliberation of the impact of pre-modern, Latin American cultures, on the one hand, and of Russian literary, cinematic, and intellectual influences, on the other. He ventures into a psychic odyssey— firstly to the Far East, then to Norway, Russia (in his literary imagination, if not physically), Mexico, and Canada to build bridges between material and metaphysical terrains. He exorcizes the animist phantoms of the Aztecs and Zapotecs as a means of revitalizing cosmic interpretations of Eridanus in his search for inner, Taoist harmony in the universe, with the aim of bringing much needed stability to our unsettled globe. With his discernible photographic memory and sharp attention to detail, Lowry possessed a heterogeneous erudition rooted in a profound interest in Anglo-American and European literature and film. His esoteric works—replete with cultural magic—were born of a highly inquisitive mind. It spanned the continents in astutely assimilating world literature from the eighteenth up to the twentieth century—emanating from Europe and from the Americas. Engrossed in the achievements of the so-called “Golden Age” of nineteenth-century Russian literature, it extended to an enormous, cosmopolitan, staple diet which assimilated oeuvres by Czech, German, and Scandinavian authors, as corroborated by his correspondence.3 It avidly digested translations of novels by German-language, modernist writers, such as Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann, together with the romantic poetry of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Lowry acquired a special interest in Scandinavia from one of his supervisors who also lived on Bateman Street: Leonard James Potts, lecturer in English and fellow of Queens’ College, Cambridge.4 He was enriched by Norwegian culture, especially by the writings of Nordahl Grieg and Henrik Ibsen, as well as by the paintings of the artist and printmaker, Edvard Munch, whose lithograph, Geschrei (1895), he reproduced in his drawing of The Shriek.5 He was proficient in his study of the historical plays of the prominent naturalist, dramatist, and theosophist, August Strindberg.6 Alluding to the “Methodist-cum-Swedenborgian Bildungsroman,”7 he mentions in his correspondence another Swedish thinker by the name of Emanuel Swedenborg. Referring to “the tragedy that man is not an angel,”

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he conjectures, “For were we angels—some of Swedenborgs at least—we would simply carry the place with us, wherever we went, which was perhaps partly what Blake meant by embracing the joy as it flies.”8 As a scientist, philosopher, theologian, and transcendentalist, Swedenborg was captivated by metaphysical matters and mystical visions which made him intent on discovering a theory which would explain the presumed relationship between matter and spirit. However, the narrator of Dark as the Grave refers to “those in the Swedenborgian spiritual world, who had acquired a rooted belief in nature alone, looked down from ‘heaven’—their understanding being closed above to spiritual light—to the earth (though it was dark nonetheless and infernal).”9 Other important literary influences were exerted by romantic authors, such as Nikolai Gogol, the Russian playwright and short-story writer who is famed for his novel, Dead Souls (1842). Lowry was familiar with English translations of his works and indulged in a diverse reading of romantic oeuvres of the English canon too. In his letters, he expresses a predilection for the poetry of William Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and John Keats. Modernist literature also enthralled him, for he was versed in the publications of W. B. Yeats, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound,10 Eugene O’Neill, and T. S. Eliot.11 Ever fascinated by the North American literary scene, he frequently gives credit in his correspondence to Herman Melville, Henry James, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, and Edgar Allan Poe. By far the most profound literary influence exerted on him throughout most of his life was that of the post-romantic poet and man of letters, Conrad Aiken (1889–1973), with whom he engaged in a prolific correspondence, as indicated by the sheer quantity of their communications. Under his guidance, Lowry developed his own mode of psychotherapeutic writing in Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave, and La Mordida. Although he had an introspective approach to his environs, his crises became typical of those endured by Western civilization, whose daemons necessitated reconciliation with painful memories of the past. For him, atonement was a means of cultural and spiritual renaissance. Mentored by Aiken, Lowry was motivated by the advent of an era of psychoanalysis, pioneered by the eminent Austrian psychologist and neurologist, Sigmund Freud (1856–1939). New theories in the fields of dream analysis, free association, and the unconscious contributed to an inspirational milieu which shaped his application of psychoanalytical and surrealist techniques in Under the Volcano. They provided a means of liberating his imagination and stimulated him to grasp the frame of mind at the core of society’s perplexing inner conflicts—clashes which markedly laid bare the world’s inextricable march toward ostensibly irrational warfare. In his scrutiny of philosophical ideas arising from Germany and Russia, Lowry familiarized himself with a multitude of omens foretelling the

4

Introduction

impending fall of modern, Western Man. This predicament was suggested in The Decline of the West (1918) by the German philosopher, Oswald Spengler (1880–1936) and, much later, by various postmodernist philosophers, such as Michel Foucault. In Under the Volcano, Hugh is “in complete agreement” with the former,12 informing Yvonne of the Consul’s predictions: “When the Fascists win there’ll only be a sort of ‘freezing’ of culture in Spain.”13 Yet, it would be a watershed, for, in his rebuffal of its Eurocentricity, Spengler viewed history in terms of life cycles through which cultural organisms or spiritual communities passed.14 He pledged his allegiance to the Cabbala (or Kabbalah), the ancient Jewish tradition of pursuing mystical interpretations of the Old Testament. He claimed that it had arisen “out of numbers, letter-forms, points and strokes” and “unfolds secret significances.”15 His interest in and critique of the Enlightenment were shared by Lowry, who sought an antidote to avert the forewarnings expressed by Russian writers and thinkers, such as Nikolai Gogol and Fyodor Dostoyevsky.16 The latter stipulated that many calamities in what, he predicted, would become an apocalyptic epoch of war and revolution were embedded in the highly rationalistic values of modern civilization. It tended to overlook the importance of an aesthetic appreciation of beauty, turning to the capricious elements of human nature, with disastrous consequences for future generations.17 Influenced by such concerns, Lowry underwent a rebirth of spirit, as is evident from a reading of his paradisiacal prose poem, “The Forest Path to the Spring” in the collection, Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place (1961). Set on the shores of Burrard Inlet in Dollarton, North Vancouver, Canada, it represented for him the attainability of true freedom—not via the rationalism of the Enlightenment, but through an intuitive romantic imagination, the fruits of which were bequeathed to future generations through the works of, for example, Coleridge, Gogol, and Dostoyevsky. As we shall see in Figure 0.1, he was at ease in Dollarton where he would envisage the beauty and harmony of his Edenic Eridanus from his shack. He aims to provide civilization with a psychological release from the pentup frustrations in its Gogolian soul. For Lowry, it is essential to keep in cosmic balance the rational and irrational forces which have been unleashed.18 His romantic imagination serves as a powerful, perceptual bridge which spans the realms of logical understanding and of the senses. It offers a means of mediation and reconciliation—a relief in which instinct bestows a tool for facilitating survival and change. It has the capacity to enable humanity to stride beyond the frontiers of the familiar into the uncanny realm of the unknown—terrains in which transcendental, visionary insight is deemed essential.19 Invigorated by surrealist genealogy debated in the Cambridge “little magazines,” Lowry accorded his stance with the view held by the art

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Figure 0.1  Malcolm Lowry Holding a Bottle of Bols Gin and a Paperback. Source: (Unknown photographer), Dollarton, 1953, Rare Books and Special Collections, UBC, BC 1614/107.

historian, poet, and philosopher, Sir Herbert Read (who was to co-found the Institute of Contemporary Arts in 1947): English surrealism (and modernism, in general) is indeed derived from romanticism.20 THE INFLUENCE OF WALTER BENJAMIN AND THE FRANKFURT SCHOOL Malcolm Lowry was traumatized by an acute awareness of the colossal loss of life caused by military hostilities and other self-inflicted catastrophes, as

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exemplified by the consequences of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) and of the Second World War (1939–1945). He intensely perceived the impact of the resultant, senseless devastation on the trajectory of events portrayed in Under the Volcano. Some of the causes of these cataclysms have been associated with a collapse of moral values in a vortex of capitalism in crisis in a scenario which “may appear to the individual consciousness as fragmentary and incoherent.”21 The American author Walker Percy warned against the precariousness of civilizations relying purely on explicable knowledge, that is, on the analytical and supposedly predictable functioning of the intellect.22 The purported large-scale disintegration of our cultural and moral heritage has been blamed on a dearth of confidence in the capacity of the creative and imaginative potential of the mind to provide an ethical counterbalance to humanity’s belligerence. In this context, it is revealing to match Lowry’s shamanic worldview with refutations made by Walter Benjamin (1892–1940). This philosopher challenged the largely accepted notion that the Enlightenment provided an all-encompassing, rational blueprint for a fully ordered universe, on the one hand, and for Hegelian and Marxist progress, on the other. Profoundly interested in German culture (in its cinema and literature), Lowry shared with Spengler and Benjamin (a prominent member of the Frankfurt School of Critical Theory) a belief in the descent of Western civilization. Fascinated by esoteric knowledge exuding from the Cabbala, Lowry and Benjamin fortuitously discerned random elements in the trail of historical events. The latter asserted that each incident has a discrete, disjointed trait, with “no necessary connection to the temporal situation in which it occurs.”23 In his quest for authenticity, Benjamin contemplated that society had abandoned nature. It had forsaken instantaneity of language and image (a romantic concept), with implications for the development of cultural consciousness.24 According to him, iconic reproduction had engulfed the process of creation, modifying its aims. It had transformed the status of the product and the producer, for “the presence of the original is the prerequisite to the concept of authenticity.”25 The dominance of human reason and technological progress had turned life gradually into knowledge—information to be manipulated to one’s advantage. Benjamin’s train of thought implies that this relentless process is impairing humanity’s contact with the natural environment—a consequence anticipated by William Wordsworth who wrote: The world is too much with us: late and soon, [. . .] Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!26

Benjamin observed that humanity had striven to control its milieu so as not to be subject to it. He contended that—by exercising its freedom and asserting

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its authority—it had attempted to harness the forces of the natural world for its own ends. Paradoxically, in its quest to master the universe, it had been enslaved by technology, as identified by the narrator of “The Forest Path to the Spring” who refers to the presence of a “Hell” oil refinery menacing Eridanus.27 In accord with this interpretation, science has provided humanity with an inadequate understanding of itself and of its habitat. By acting recklessly, it has stimulated a so-called “process of domination” which extends through society and is inherent in an individual’s life—whether it be inner, collective, or interpersonal.28 The Frankfurt School philosophers, Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno, claimed that the so-called advance of modernity in the post-Ageof-Reason had led to social fragmentation. In his Dialectic of Enlightenment (1944), the former links the Enlightenment to the misuse of technological advantage, contending: In the most general sense of progressive thought, the Enlightenment has always aimed at liberating men from fear and establishing their sovereignty. Yet the fully enlightened earth radiates disaster triumphant. The program of the Enlightenment was the disenchantment of the world: the dissolution of myths and the substitution of knowledge for fancy. [. . .] Knowledge, which is power, knows no obstacles: neither in the enslavement of men nor in compliance with the world’s rulers. [. . .] Technology is the essence of this knowledge. It does not work by concepts and images, by the fortunate insight, but refers to method, the exploitation of others’ work, and capital. [. . .] What men want to learn from nature is how to use it in order wholly to dominate it and other men.29

Patricia Waugh refers to “the dark side of Enlightenment reason.”30 According to Adorno, the Enlightenment has militated against personal freedom by suspending the dialectic of the general and the particular: “Rather than the individual finding a freedom within the totality of society, the society of the Enlightenment has arrived at a totalizing unity on which the individual cannot act: now, the individual must merely submit to the society which is too massive and well organized to be challenged, and must learn to take masochistic pleasure in his own submission.”31 In this philosophical context, Lowry—who was incessantly superstitious and prone to believe in manifestly malevolent accidents—bore witness to the hopelessness of humanity’s predicament in that “the nature of history inscribes itself randomly but intensively upon certain events, persons, and creations.”32 Fortuitously, he experienced an intensity of human tragedy reflected in personal calamity. He endured a catastrophic conflagration which destroyed his Dollarton shack on June 7, 1944, causing the loss of his updated 1936 manuscript, In Ballast to the White Sea (which was intended to form the final part of his trilogy, The Voyage That Never Ends). Although he

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Introduction

would become recognized by the eventual publication of Under the Volcano in 1947, his increasing reputation was not without its paradox: it led to the constant threat of eviction from his hut on the Eridanus waterside.33 Hence, calamities feature prominently in Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave, and La Mordida, which allude to manifestations of the Devil at loose in a universe in which modern civilization has transformed its relationship with the natural environment to one of would-be conqueror.34 IN PURSUIT OF THE SOULS OF CIVILIZATION: BRIDGING THE HUMANITIES AND THE SCIENCES The role of the writer is not necessarily confined to one of visionary and spiritual prophet, but may extend to that of anthropologist and psychotherapist. Men of letters, such as Edgar Allan Poe and Ted R. Spivey, and scientists, including the distinguished Cambridge mathematical physicist and theologian, Sir John Polkinghorne, have called for innovative ways of reconciling the crevasse which has arisen between the humanities and the sciences.35 Although these disciplines have their own distinct techniques, the importance of intuition and creative inventiveness for the stimulation of technological innovation should not be underestimated. In an analogy made between the roles of a writer and of a shaman—both of whom have visionary and vocational attributes—Spivey emphasizes the need “for modern man to experience cultural renewal.”36 Contending that “ethics and aesthetics must be integrated with science and technology in new social patterns,” he appeals for a “new synthesis of knowledge, reason, and the powers of heart and soul.”37 Rod Mengham emphasizes the unifying traits of English surrealism which, arguably, is unintelligible “without a recognition of the conceptual centrality of technologies used to represent [. . .] objects filled with and surrounded by fantasies and memories, desires and inhibitions, whose source is in the cultural unconscious.”38 Yet, ever since the era of René Descartes and Sir Isaac Newton, divisions between the sciences and the humanities have prevailed. In his Sonnet: To Science (1829), Edgar Allan Poe identified their bizarre mismatch in the following manner: Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! [. . .] Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, [. . .] Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? [. . .] To seek a shelter in some happier star?

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Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?39

There has been a tendency for Western philosophy to fragment into two divergent movements. The first has involved the systematic, scientific study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural worlds, whereas the second has embarked on an instinctive investigation of human, social, and cultural domains. An irreconcilable rift has emerged between the analytical, empirical, and rational characteristics of the natural sciences, on the one hand, and the imaginative, intuitive, visionary aspects of the arts, on the other. This fissure in modern consciousness potentially endangers the very survival of the human race. The unquestioning acceptance of the perpetuation of philosophical bias is not without risk. Walker Percy warned against the “monstrous bifurcation of man into angelic bestial components”—a peril which may dissolve the bases of humanity.40 Yet, this chasm in human thought is relatable to underlying cognitive processes. The 2011 Nobel prize winner Daniel Kahneman describes an emotional, subconscious, fast, and intuitive way in which the brain forms thoughts (his so-called “System 1”), on the one hand, and a logical, calculating, and conscious approach which implies a slower, more effortful method of reasoning (“System 2”), on the other.41 In this context, it is not without reason that Conrad Aiken highlights the inexhaustible efforts of Geoffrey Firmin—the Consul who aspires to uncover the truth of existence in Under the Volcano. He describes him as the “Poppergetsthebotl of alcoholics! He will become famous.”42 His pun on Sir Karl Popper and Popocatepetl, the Mexican volcano, reveals his interest in the former who had completed an array of remarkable works, including one on the nature of scientific discovery, by the time of the above excerpt from Aiken’s 1947 letter to Lowry.43 In his 1958 address to the Aristotelian Society, Popper would muse on the relationship between intuition and science. He would reach the conclusion that theories born of intuition are scientifically valid as long as they provide explanatory power and stand up to both criticism and testing.44 Another aspect of intuitive knowledge is its legacy of dissimilar philosophical interpretations—divergences which have triggered the crevasse which Lowry attempts to straddle. The Western stance depends on the notion of having a consciousness of preexisting knowledge. Initially defined by the Greek philosopher Plato in his Socratic dialogue, The Republic (c. 380 BC), this theory evolved into an understanding of rational intuition as a means of discovering truth via contemplation. It was promulgated by the French philosopher, mathematician, and scientist, Descartes in his Meditationes de

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Introduction

prima philosophia (1641) (Meditations on First Philosophy).45 By taking into account the sensory information provided by the cognitive faculty of sensibility, it was developed into the idea of perception by the German philosopher, Immanuel Kant, whose Critique of Pure Reason (1781) is cited in Lowry’s correspondence.46 Arising from a sense of “perception via the unconscious,” a theory of the ego was elaborated by the Swiss psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, Carl Gustav Jung, in Psychological Types (1921). In his discourse with Aiken, Lowry demonstrates his awareness of Jung’s analytical psychology by referring to his chapter on “Dream Analysis” in Modern Man in Search of a Soul (1933).47 An intriguing angle on perceptions of historical links between civilizations arises through due consideration of the genesis of the myth of Atlantis. This lost world appears in Plato’s dialogues which claim that its roots lay in records which were translated into ancient Greek by the Athenian statesman, Solon who visited Egypt between 590 and 580 BC. This legend is relayed in Timaeus and Critias (c. 360 BC) which refers to a powerful island in the Atlantic Ocean called Atlantis. It was governed by a confederation of kings who held sway over parts of the continent too. Plato’s declaration gave rise to a range of visionary allusions in the works of various Renaissance writers. One example is the frame narrative, Utopia (1516) by the humanist Sir Thomas More. The second volume of his sociopolitical satire is set on a fictional island in the New World. Another example is the novel, The New Atlantis (1627) by Francis Bacon—the father of empiricism and inductive reasoning—which depicts a vision of the future emanating from a mythical, utopian island called Bensalem. Subsequently, the Atlantis myth was retold and reconfigured by the notable US Congressman and writer Ignatius L. Donnelly (1831–1901) in his work, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882). In it, he claims that Atlantis— which is dated as having existed since creation in c. 4004 BC—was the place of common origin of all known ancient civilizations.48 According to him, its legitimacy provides explanations for many of the similarities which he discerns between the cultures of the Old and the New Worlds. He details and categorizes their characteristics, referring to similar mythologies, traditions, kings, gods, pyramids, crosses, and sacred metals. Even their flora and fauna, he believes, have a mutual source. Explaining the purpose of his hypothesis, he devises a history of Atlantis by contending: 1. That there once existed in the Atlantic Ocean, opposite the mouth of the Mediterranean Sea, a large island, which was the remnant of an Atlantic continent, and known to the ancient world as Atlantis. 2. That the description of this island given by Plato is not, as has been long supposed, fable, but veritable history.

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3. That Atlantis was the region where man first rose from a state of barbarism to civilization. 4. That it became, in the course of ages, a populous and mighty nation, from whose overflowings the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, the Mississippi River, the Amazon River, the Pacific coast of South America, the Mediterranean, the west coast of Europe and Africa, the Baltic, the Black Sea, and the Caspian were populated by civilized nations. 5. That it was the true Antediluvian world; the Garden of Eden [. . .]; the Elysian Fields; [. . .] representing a universal memory of a great land, where early mankind dwelt for ages in peace and happiness.49 Other dubious assertions rely on his assumption that Central America, Mexico, Egypt, the Mississippi Valley, Iberia, Peru, Africa, Ireland, and the Aryan countries had been colonies of Atlantis, which had “furnished them with the essentials of civilization.”50 He postulates that, in all likelihood, Egypt is the oldest Atlantean outpost, its civilization being a duplicate of that Atlantic isle.51 In this scenario, a mythological representation of spiritual connections between Egypt and Peru is elaborated in terms of the original religion of Atlantis which, it is claimed, was sun-worship.52 It is suggested that similarities between the ancient Egyptian and Mexican calendars—for example, the presence of five intercalary days and the joint beginning of the year on February 26—are sufficient proof of a direct link between these civilizations.53 Attempting to demonstrate that Mexico had its birthplace in this Atlantic island, Donnelly claims that “Aztlan” (or “Atlan”)—to which the Toltecs and Aztecs (whose very name was derived from it) had traced the starting point of their migrations—was none other than “Atlantis.”54 Referring to the inhabitants of Aztlan as boatmen, he describes the place of origin of the Aztecs as that “designated by the sign of water, Atl standing for Atzlan, a pyramidal temple with grades, and near these a palm tree.”55 His contentions are extended through his reference to the myth that the civilized races of Central America derive their mutual heritage from an Eastern source. He deems the legend of Quetzalcoatl—the leader of the Nahua clan—of particular significance in establishing the roots of the Toltecs, who flourished in Mexico before the Aztecs. He states: “From the distant East [. . .] this mysterious person came to Tula, and became the patron god and high-priest of the ancestors of the Toltecs. He is portrayed as having been a white man, with strong formation of body, broad forehead, large eyes, and flowing beard. He wore a mitre on his head, and was dressed in a long white robe reaching to his feet, and covered with red crosses.”56 Unfortunately, in Donnelly’s perceptions, this conceived, Atlantean lost world was destroyed in the Great Flood, which he dates to c. 2348 BC, as

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Introduction

narrated in the Bible.57 He reports that this very catastrophe was experienced by Aztecs, Miztecs, and Zapotecs alike.58 It is traceable both through their paintings and through the chapter in their cosmogony relating to Tlaloc, the god of rain.59 Donnelly highlights ostensible similarities between the pronunciation of the name, “Nata” (the hero of the story relating to the origins of the Aztecs) and that of “Noe” (or “Noah”) in Genesis.60 The calamitous inundation is explained to have been experienced by different realms, each of which has its own account, as elucidated by Donnelly who contends: • That Atlantis perished in a terrible convulsion of nature, in which the whole island sunk into the ocean, with nearly all its inhabitants. • That a few persons escaped in ships and on rafts, and carried to the nations east and west the tidings of the appalling catastrophe, which has survived to our own time in the Flood and Deluge legends of the different nations of the old and new worlds.61 Although this discourse has been disputed by many scholars and scientists on the basis of insufficient proof, its message had a significant impact on Lowry’s thinking, for he refers directly to it in his correspondence.62 As a font for his conjectures on the interdependence of life forces, it is important, in that it provides him with the notion of a missing connection between the civilizations of the East and the West, of the Old World and the New, cradled by opposite shores of the Atlantic Ocean. For the Consul of Under the Volcano, this apparent bond represents a lost harmony in the life of an individual, symbolized by his perception of a Mexican Garden of Eden. In Eastern philosophy, intuition is interwoven with concepts relating to spirituality and religion. These ideas are expressed in the esoteric texts of Hinduism (which refer to Vedic, psychological, sensory experiences), Buddhism (which perceives instinct as immediate knowledge beyond the mental processes of conscious thinking), and Islam (which has a mystical, illuminative insight). As we shall see in subsequent chapters, Lowry makes use of the tenets of Buddhism and Hinduism in Under the Volcano and “The Forest Path to the Spring.” In his correspondence, he refers to the German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, who was one of the first Western thinkers to divulge Eastern philosophical principles, such as those of asceticism. He believed that human beings are motivated primarily by their basic desires and willpower— attributes which become a major cause of suffering.63 In evaluating Lowry’s views on the afflictions of modern civilization expressed in his literary and epistolary works, The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry examines the perspective of the role of the artist as an intuitive visionary. Assessing his bold attempts to reconcile an alienated and divided self, it reflects on his exceptional ability to attain a state of exquisite

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sensibility through a heightened state of consciousness. It portrays him delving into the Cabbala in the belief that he will be able to apply its arcane knowledge for the benefit of humanity. His shamanistic vision launches him and his literary protagonists on a psychogeographic pilgrimage to exorcize the ghosts of the past which, he perceives, loom perpetually in contemporary global affairs. Through his application of psychotherapeutic writing as a cathartic healing process, he strives to achieve psychoanalytical atonement with himself and with his surroundings. Swinging the Maelstrom (2013), Under the Volcano, and Dark as the Grave all bear witness to his unique mode of expression developed under Aiken’s supervision. For Lowry, the binary divide which had arisen between the rational thinking of the Enlightenment, on the one hand, and the imaginative, intuitive, and visionary facets of the arts and humanities, on the other, must be reconciled for the cultural, moral, and spiritual renewal of humanity. Motivated by a profound interest in the German and Austrian expressionist cinema of The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920) and Las Manos de Orlac (1924 and 1935), and in the Russian montage filmography of Sergei Eisenstein, he resorts to literary and visual arts to liberate the imagination. In so doing, he is influenced by the rise of the European avant-garde movement and by surrealism in particular—pursuits stimulated by his encounters with the esteemed artist Edward John Burra (1905–1976).64 NOTES 1. The concept of the writer as a shaman draws on Ted R. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman: The Pilgrimages of Conrad Aiken and Walker Percy (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986). 2. Malcolm Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, ed. Douglas Day and Margerie Lowry (London: Penguin, 1972) is subsequently cited simply as Dark as the Grave. 3. Lowry refers to Schweik, the eponymous hero of Jaroslav Hašek’s humorous, satirical novel, The Good Soldier Švejk (1930): Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), II, 154. 4. See Douglas Day, Malcolm Lowry: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 112; M. C. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry—His Art & Early Life: A Study in Transformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 124 and “Lowry’s Cambridge,” in Malcolm Lowry: Eighty Years On, ed. Sue Vice (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989), 131; and Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 131–32. 5. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 111–12. 6. Ibid., I, 104, 108, 408, and 603, and II, 254, 402, 405, 407, 424, 428, 430, and 597.

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7. Ibid., II, 896. 8. Ibid., II, 642. 9. Lowry, Dark as the Grave, 146. 10. In a poem fragment extending his long mid-October to November 1939 letter to Conrad Aiken, Lowry relates to Eliot and Pound “prosing all the time” (Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 253). In a missive to Harold Matson dated June 14, 1952, he alludes to “Ezra Pound enthroned in the White House at Victoria” (ibid., II, 588). According to Sherrill Grace, this is an indication of Pound’s advocacy of the Social Credit Party policies devised by C. H. Douglas (a British engineer who pioneered its economic reform movement). In an epistle to Albert Erskine dated early June 1953, Lowry deems its ideas utopian, declaring “whatever may be said for that economic experiment in its ideal state” (ibid., II, 662). In his letter of February 5, 1954 to David Markson, he identifies these concepts with US strategy, claiming that “we have a fascist government: [. . .] McCarthy is their hero (ibid., II, 715). 11. In a letter to Charles Stansfeld Jones dated May–June 1944, Lowry “claimed that he had learned nothing at Cambridge except for a great deal of Eliot” (Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 96). 12. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 2000), 104. 13. Ibid., 105. 14. Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West: An Abridged Edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 71–72 and 88. 15. Ibid., 307. 16. See Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol, Dead Souls: A Poem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). 17. See Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground. The Double (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1977). 18. Patricia Waugh, Practising Postmodernism/Reading Modernism (London: Edward Arnold, 1992), 18 and 67. 19. Albert Einstein discerned that “knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world” (quoted in Kathleen Taylor, “When Fact and Fantasy Collide,” The THES, December 20/27, 2002, viii). 20. Cited in “Introduction,” in The Oxford Critical and Cultural History of Modernist Magazines, 2 vols Oxford: Oxford University Press, vol. I: Britain and Ireland, 1880–1955, ed. Peter Brooker and Andrew Thatcher, 2013, 598. Read’s perspective is contrary to that of Humphrey Jennings who argues that surrealism is derived “from a now degraded classicism” (see ibid). 21. David Ayers, “The Modernity of Adorno and Benjamin,” in Modernism: A Short Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 114. See also Michael M. Jennings, Dialectical Images: Walter Benjamin’s Theory of Literary Criticism (London: Cornell University Press, 1987), 43 and 57. 22. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, 173. 23. Quoted in Jennings, Dialectical Images, 46. 24. See Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” in Literary Theory: an Anthology, ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 1235–41.

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25. Ibid., 1235. See also Jean Baudrillard, “From Symbolic Exchange and Death,” in From Modernism to Postmodernism: An Anthology, ed. Lawrence Cahoone, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 426. 26. Stephen Gill, ed., William Wordsworth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 270, cited in Ayers, “The Modernity of Adorno and Benjamin,” in Modernism, 120. 27. Malcolm Lowry, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” in “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic” (London: Picador, Pan Books Ltd, 1991), 258. The letter “S” is not illuminated in the electric sign which reads “Hell” instead of “Shell.” 28. See Ayers, “The Modernity of Adorno and Benjamin,” in Modernism, 121. 29. Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming (London: Verso, 1979), 3–4, quoted in Ayers, “The Modernity of Adorno and Benjamin,” in Modernism, 121. 30. Waugh, Practising Postmodernism/Reading Modernism, 75. 31. See Ayers, “The Modernity of Adorno and Benjamin,” in Modernism, 123. 32. Jennings, Dialectical Images, 52. 33. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 503–04. However, an early draft of In Ballast to the White Sea was discovered in the papers of Jan Gabrial and published as Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014). 34. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 500. 35. See John Polkinghorne, The Way the World Is (Grand Rapids MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1983), 109, cited in Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, xiii. 36. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, 186. 37. Ibid., 186 and 47. 38. Rod Mengham, “Introduction,” in The Oxford Critical and Cultural History of Modernist Magazines, I, 598. 39. See Edgar Allan Poe, “Sonnet: To Science” (1929), http:​//www​.onli​ne-li​terat​ ure.c​om/po​e/580​/ (accessed September 26, 2016). The author is indebted to the late Dr. Vik Doyen, professor emeritus of the K.U. Leuven University in Belgium for pointing out this analogy. 40. Walker Percy, The Message in the Bottle: How Queer Man Is, How Queer Language Is, and What One Has to Do with the Other (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979), 113, quoted in Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, viii. 41. Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow (London: Penguin, 2012). 42. Aiken’s communication is dated February 23, 1947: Malcolm Lowry, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, ed. Cynthia C. Sugars (Toronto: ECW Press, 1992), 201. 43. Karl R. Popper, Logik der Forschung (Vienna: Verlag von Julius Springer, 1935), translated into English as The Logic of Scientific Discovery (London: Hutchinson & Co., 1959). 44. Karl R. Popper, “Back to the Pre-Socratics: The Presidential Address,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, New Series, 59 (1958–59), 7.

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45. Descartes’s Meditations on First Philosophy is also known as Metaphysical Meditations. 46. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 485 and 641. 47. Ibid., II, 406 and 413. See also Ibid., I, 252. 48. Dates given are those found in the chronology of the Church of Ireland’s Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland: James Ussher, The Annals of the World (London: F. Crook and G. Bedell, 1658), 12, https​://ar​chive​.org/​detai​ls/An​ nalsO​fTheW​orld (accessed January 18, 2018). 49. Ignatius Donnelly, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World: Fully Illustrated (Seattle, WA: CreateSpace, 2008), 5. 50. Ibid., 62. 51. Ibid., 5. 52. Ibid. 53. Ibid., 86–87. 54. Ibid., 61. 55. Ibid., 188. See also 190. 56. Ibid., 94. 57. The dates indicated are derived from Ussher, 17. For the story of the Deluge, see the Old Testament’s Book of Genesis, 6:17. 58. Donnelly, Atlantis, 57. 59. Ibid., 58. 60. Ibid., 59. 61. Ibid., 6. 62. In Sursum Corda!, I, 315, Lowry refers to an earlier version of Donnelly’s Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (New York: Harper Bros, 1882). 63. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 54, 952, and 953–54. 64. Las Manos de Orlac (mentioned in Lowry, Under the Volcano, 30–31 and in Sursum Corda!, I, 510, 530, and 579) is based on the Hollywood version starring Peter Lorre, a remake of the 1924 Austrian horror film, Orlacs Hände.

Chapter 1

Malcolm Lowry’s Modernism Surrealist, Literary, and Political Influences

Despite his later denials, as an undergraduate reading English at St. Catharine’s College, Cambridge, from 1929 until 1932, Malcolm Lowry benefited from a stimulating environment in which Sir James George Frazer’s The Golden Bough (1890) and T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922) reigned supreme in their dissociation and reintegration of sensibility.1 He fully utilized opportunities to participate in extracurricular activities. Although his voluminous reading tended to divert his studies, his fascination with the humanities was stimulated by his frequent attendance at the Cambridge Film Guild. Founded in 1929, it provided a focal point for viewing many foreign movies including the films of Eisenstein and Pudovkin, which he greatly admired.2 It was organized by its Canadian president, Gerald Forbes Noxon, who was reading modern languages at Trinity College. Lowry was introduced to him by a lifelong friend, John Davenport, who was studying history at Corpus Christi and was an editor of Cambridge Poetry and, subsequently, lead fiction critic for The Observer.3 Equipped with an astute inquisitiveness about connections between literature, film, art, and anthropology, Lowry—like Davenport—actively contributed to The Venture (1928–1930) and to Experiment (1928–1931), that is, to two of three Cambridge “little magazines,” Cambridge Left (1933–1934) appearing later.4 Their adherents shared the foreboding of the 1930s generation which lived in the shadow of the past and were fully aware of how the atrocities of the First World War had fractured the next generation. With their typical, left-leaning social conscience, they voiced the injustices of capitalism in crisis in the interwar period. They were sensitive to the calamities resulting from the Wall Street Crash (1929) and to the ensuing economic failures— catastrophes which led to the rise of Adolf Hitler in Germany in 1933 and to 17

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the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936. However, despite substantial socioeconomic and political uncertainty, these magazines provided a focus on “making it new.” They recognized the power of modernity to grasp the current moment in literature and art by striving for aesthetic and political ideals which resisted traditional constraints and encouraged forms of writing which were thoroughly modern.”5 Experiment was a forward-looking, cosmopolitan, interdisciplinary periodical, launched by a group of Cambridge scholars with diverse interests in science, surrealism, European avant-gardism, and innovative cinema—disciplines which presented opportunities to investigate innovative approaches to the contemporary world. It was a leading modernist journal, as indicated by a 1933 review by Morton Dauwen Zabel, which maintained that it had “fulfilled the promise of its title by printing prose and poetic work of severe novelty and independence.”6 Influenced by the canon of T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, and Gerard Manley Hopkins, its manifesto was: “Nor are we at pains to be littered with the illustrious Dead and Dying.”7 By extending the avant-garde of the 1920s, it aspired to “cut away from the immediate past, overcome history, and yet reconnect to it.”8 With its prolific green and black cover, the format of Experiment was devised by the British architect and designer, Sir Misha Black, who was born of Russian émigré parents in Baku (which, though now in Azerbaijan, was still located in the Russian Empire).9 Under the influence of Russian Futurism, it called for its contributors to experiment in revolutionary literary forms and ideas.10 It contained translations of Russian literature by the Vitebskborn, Irish surrealist poet, George Reavey, who read history and literature at Gonville and Caius from 1926 until 1929. They comprised renditions of selected verses by the Russian novelist and poet, Boris Pasternak, together with the “First Essay Towards Pasternak” and “Four Poems.”11 This journal also contained essays on the cinema and poetry inspired by the modern city.12 It engaged with the West and with the East—with Paris and Moscow alike. When Noxon became publishing editor, its distribution was extended to London, Paris, and Toronto.13 His contributions amounted to a poem, several short stories, and two experimental essays, “Cinematic Idiom” and “Conflict in the Russian Cinema.”14 Lowry had two short stories published in Experiment: “Port Swettenham” (1930) and “Punctum Indifferens Skibet Gaar Videre” (1931).15 The former recounts his 1927 visit aboard the freighter, S. S. Pyrrhus (which is bound for the Far East) to what is now Port Klang in Malaysia. The latter is modelled on Skibet gaar videre (1924) by the Norwegian writer, Nordahl Grieg. This novel was introduced to Lowry by a certain Arthur G. Chater, Fellow of St. Catharine’s, who had translated it into English as The Ship Sails On (1927).16 It implies a never-ending voyage which links the present to the past and to the

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future—a concept which Lowry was to develop in Ultramarine (1933) and in Under the Volcano (1947). Founded in 1928, Experiment was edited until 1929 by a team of five: Jacob Bronowski and William Empson (who were reading mathematics at Jesus and Magdalene Colleges, respectively), together with William Francis Hare (who initially funded it), Humphrey Jennings,17 and Hugh Sykes Davies, who were studying English at Magdalene, Pembroke, and St. John’s, respectively. From 1929 until 1931, it operated with a reduced editorial team of just two: Bronowski and Sykes Davies (whose 1928 poem, “Music in an Empty House” had infused it with jazz rhythms).18 Both exerted a significant influence on Lowry, as is discernible from his correspondence. Bronowski was to become an eminent mathematician, biologist, science historian, and presenter of the highly acclaimed, thirteen-part, BBC television documentary series, The Ascent of Man (1973).19 Sykes Davies was born into a Methodist family (as was Lowry). He was elected to the Cambridge Apostles—a clandestine, intellectual society, whose membership included Anthony Blunt (who became Fellow in French Art History at Trinity in 1932), Guy Burgess, and John Cairncross. All three were to become infamous for emerging from the so-called “Cambridge Five” spy ring which included Kim Philby and Donald Maclean) and was to pass information to the USSR during the Second World War. Lowry’s known association with these future intelligence agents amounted to contributing a short story entitled “Goya the Obscure” to The Venture, which was founded and edited by Blunt.20 It covered art, music, contemporary theatre, and literature, though it focused on high culture and on the Georgians. Lowry played tennis with Maclean in 1931, though he claimed subsequently, in October 1956, that he was an evil and mischievous spirit.21 He declared, “It seems to me possible that Mclean is a genuine boggert, however, whereas Burgess was simply fulfilling his higher serpent; quien sabe?”22 Guy certainly made a deep impression on Lowry who gave his surname to a character in In Ballast to the White Sea (2014), which is set in the early 1930s. A Lancashire taxi driver by the name of Christopher Burgess appears in chapter XIV. Wearing several waistcoats, a watch chain, and a brown muffler, he gives the impression that he is wealthy and university educated.23 We learn that he had been a soldier, sailor, riveter, mechanic, and a “hawker” of poetry.24 His wife alerts him of the danger of being found out by the authorities, warning him that Mr. Jump will have him imprisoned.25 Coincidentally, the very same police constable approaches him on the Preston wharves. PC Jump’s actual status is shrouded in mystery: he may be a demoted superintendent from the Cambridge Police Department, or, more likely, an incognito detective operating with the dockside police’s north-west equivalent to Scotland Yard.26 What is certain is that his duties involve the monitoring of

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suspicious activities, as he observes to Burgess that they are being monitored: “In England you can’t get mixed up in anything shady without being watched forever afterwards. That’s why some of them go and live in America.”27 The real-life Burgess, Maclean, and Philby were all employed at the British Embassy in Washington, DC. The latter two were, in turn, First Secretary in 1944–1948 and 1949–1951, respectively. Burgess was Second Secretary from 1950 until 1951. In In Ballast to the White Sea, PC Jump reminds Christopher Burgess of a Cambridge case reported in the newspapers. He divulges his suspicion that a college student by the name of Sigbjørn Tarnmoor is planning to run away to sea to start a new life. He explains: “We really haven’t got anything on him though he was mixed up with a very peculiar business at Cambridge. [. . .] It’s not so much what he may have done already as what he may be going to do next. [. . .] We’ve expected at any time to be able to make a case against him [. . .] but we’ve never caught him on the mat.”28 In reality, Burgess and Maclean were to defect to Russia by embarking on the steamship, Falaise at Southampton at midnight on Friday, May 25, 1951. Lowry acknowledged the part played by the former in a letter—dated October 24, 1956—to his second wife, Margerie Bonner (1905–1988)—an American actress and writer—in the following manner: “I don’t think the Burgess business is any more cooked than anything else, or Driberg would have spotted it, but the whole thing seems distinctly non U” (that is, non-upper class).29 According to Gordon Bowker, who commented on British surveillance activities in the 1930s, “University contemporaries of Lowry’s, Maclean, Burgess, Blunt, Philby and Sykes Davies, not to mention the Haldanes, were to work more or less clandestinely for the communists as the struggle against Hitler accelerated.”30 Sykes Davies—who had been elected Fellow in English at St. John’s and had married the poet, Kathleen Raine (who regarded the prepublication version of Ultramarine “a romantic poem”)—tutored and adopted Lowry as his ward for a limited period of time to protect him from alcohol.31 He also nurtured in him an interest in modern art. It was as an undergraduate that Lowry became directly involved in the activities of what has been described as “the most advanced political household in the Cambridge of his day.”32 It was hosted by J. B. S. Haldane (Reader in Biochemistry and, subsequently, on the editorial board of the Daily Worker) and by his wife, Charlotte Haldane (a feminist authoress who was well-versed in European literature).33 At Roebuck House Lowry also met Martin Case (who was to become a lifelong friend), Empson, and Michael Redgrave (who co-edited Cambridge Poetry 1930 and The Venture and was to become a famous actor and film director).34 In 1933, the poet, sociologist, and co-founder of the Mass Observation project, Charles Madge, published an essay entitled “Surrealism for the English.” In it, he asserts that English surrealist poets need an awareness of

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“of their own language and literature” and of “the philosophical position of the French surrealists.”35 Sykes Davies—a distinguished poet, novelist, and surrealist—went one step further. He expressed his concept of surrealism in a significant 1936 essay, “Sympathies with Surrealism.” In it, he maintains that “surrealism is nothing new, and may be regarded as a development of late Romanticism.”36 He advocates that a theoretical basis is provided by the theory of art, contending that surrealism’s starting point is psychoanalysis, though it is foreseeable that it “can develop into, and derive great assistance from Dialectical Materialism.”37 He attaches great significance to the valuable contribution made by art (and by magic, though in primitive societies). He emphasizes that its concepts are derived from psychoanalysis: Instincts find fulfilment in phantasy-situations. In the waking life of primitive peoples, magic of all kinds does the same thing. And in the waking life of more civilised peoples, art, the lineal descendant of magic and religion, takes over the same function. Psychoanalysis has described a large number of parallels between dreams, primitive myths and rituals, and civilised art; it is unnecessary to repeat these in detail, but it must be understood that they form the basis of the theory of art based on psychoanalysis.38

Sykes Davies consolidated his reputation by co-organizing—with Humphrey Jennings, Henry Moore, Paul Nash, Roland Penrose, and others—the London International Surrealist Exhibition of 1936.39 One of its exhibitors was Julian Trevelyan, who had matriculated at Trinity College, Cambridge in 1928 to read English. An associate of Lowry, he penned two articles for the magazine, Experiment. They were entitled, “Squarcione Today” (on excessive localization in Francesco Squarcione’s studios at Padua)40 and “Statement in Painting” (on surrealism’s renewed interest in psychological and emotional associations attached to objects).41 A founder member of the British Surrealist Group, he became the most important British surrealist painter in the 1930s.42 In his article, “Dreams” he made what has been described as the first surrealist statement published in England:43 “Let us gladly shout: to dream is to CREATE.”44 It appeared in the international avant-garde magazine, Transition which sought to combine instinctive, primitive mythology with modern consciousness. He contends “In the state of dreaming or of hallucination, the mind loses that self-consciousness which in its waking hours it can never quite banish, and begins to move silently through a timeless, spaceless world, where neither Destiny nor Chance have stepped.”45 Trevelyan’s depiction of Malcolm Lowry as “a tough, shy, Hemingwaytype keen on Chagall” is indicative of the extent to which Lowry had become enthralled by the latter’s art,46 which he discussed with Trevelyan in a Cambridge pub called the Maypole which they frequented.47 Photographs of pictures

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by this Russo-French, Jewish, neo-primitivist artist who painted in a European modernist style hung on his wall in his digs in Bateman Street, Cambridge.48 He owned prints of his oil paintings on canvas, Naked on a White Cock (1925), to which he eludes in Under the Volcano49 and Lovers among Lilacs (1930), to which he referrs in The 1940 Under the Volcano.50 He shared an enthusiasm for Chagall’s surrealist style with Charlotte Haldane, with whom he had become acquainted during visits to her salons at Roebuck House.51 Another neo-primitivist who attracted Lowry’s respect was the Russian composer, Igor Stravinsky. He admired him “for his children’s pieces,” inspired by an interest in Russian folklore.52 Under the influence of primitivist and avant-gardist strains of the visual arts, he immersed himself in “a kind of surrealism”—a term coined by the French author, Guillaume Apollinaire, in his 1917 program note to Parade.53 It is fascinating to observe that its scenario was composed for Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes by the French avant-garde artist, filmmaker, and writer, Jean Cocteau. He was to have a lasting impact on Lowry who mentions him in Under the Volcano.54 In one letter he adds, “I have never forgotten his kindness in giving me a seat for La Machine Infernale at the Champs Elysee in May 1934.”55 In another, he contends that Cocteau was right in calling attention to theatre’s “special reality.”56 An important surrealist influence was that of the Spanish film director, Luis Buñuel Portolés (1900–1983), who had an affinity for the avant-garde. He was the first to suggest making a film of Under the Volcano (which was accomplished by John Huston in 1984), though he deemed it a very difficult task. He used Mexico as a setting for several movies produced during the “Golden Age” of Mexican cinema (1930–1960). These include his dark comedy, El Gran Calavera (The Great Madcap) (1949) and Los Olvidados (The Forgotten Ones) (1950), which has surrealist shots and a dream sequence.57 In his correspondence, Lowry alludes to a coproduction by Buñuel and the French impressionist filmmaker Jean Epstein, who directed the 1928 movie, La Chute de la maison Usher (which is based on Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher”).58 In the early 1930s, Lowry underwent a consolidation in his political thinking. While he was in London in 1932, he befriended John Sommerfield (1908– 1991), who was to pen influential novels, such as May Day (1936), Volunteer in Spain (1937), and the unpublished, The ‘Last’ Week End.59 Although he proclaimed to him the worth of socialist realist, proletarian literature, he did not adopt its aesthetics in his own publications.60 An active member of the Communist Party and its Party Writers’ Group, Sommerfield would volunteer for the International Brigades. He fought in the extremely violent Spanish Civil War, on the Loyalist, or Republican side which was pitted against General Franco’s fascistic nationalist forces. His influence on Lowry is evident in the following passage in Under the Volcano in which, conversing with Yvonne,

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Hugh comments on “an English friend fighting in Spain. [. . .] He was there in thirty-six. [. . .] He was a Communist and approximately the best man I’ve ever met.”61 In his correspondence, Lowry mentions “the Last Week End by my old pal John (Volunteer in Spain) Summerfield, a very strange book in which figured in some decline no less a person than myself, and I am still wondering what John thinks about this: but doubtless the old boy ascribes it to the capitalist system.”62 He dedicated his poem, “Song About Madrid, Useful Any Time” (1938) jointly to Sommerfield and to the poet, Julian Heward Bell, a nephew of Virginia Woolf.63 Supportive of socialist and antifascist movements and a friend of the so-called “Cambridge Five,” Bell was to follow Sommerfield’s example by enlisting in the Spanish Civil War in 1937.64 LOWRY’S SUSSEX CONNECTIONS: CONRAD AIKEN AND EDWARD BURRA In the early 1930s, Malcolm Lowry established links with East Sussex in England through his acquaintance with the symbolist poet and novelist, Conrad Aiken (1889–1973), who had established a base there in 1924 and continually provided guidance. Their deep-rooted, complex relationship turned out to be a long-lasting one, as it involved sharing a lifetime love of literature and alcohol.65 Immediately after returning from the Far East in 1927, Lowry discovered Aiken by reading his debut novel of pilgrimage, Blue Voyage which had just been published. He was impressed by the way in which this experimental and autobiographical study related to conscience and consciousness. Its cinematic “collage of images” unraveled as it passed through the narrator’s mind, creating impressions which determined a path to self-analysis.66 Blue Voyage focuses on an unsuccessful, thirty-five-year-old author by the name of William Demarest. It charts the passage of his “soul, or of his consciousness, into the indefinite, and therefore into itself.”67 As he climbs aboard his ship bound for England, he is “already fairly launched into the infinite, the immense solitude.”68 In this tumultuous void, he is “alone with the sea for eight days: alone in a world of tigers roaring outside.”69 He undergoes a catharsis of rediscovery of and resistance to memories of a lost childhood. Gradually, he is presented with a series of choices. As his self-knowledge increases, he realizes that the “first-class” love of his life, Cynthia—who happens to be on board—is “The Great Chimera.”70 She is a mother-substitute, but engaged to be married to someone else. However, on his crusade for truth and for an insight into the sexual and spiritual conflicts in his subconscious mind and into the functioning of the world around him, a therapeutic, psychic change is triggered in Demarest’s

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consciousness. It responds to the sound of the vessel’s engine which is audible in the refrain, “Te-thrum te-thrum: te-thrum te-thrum.”71 Mentioned in Lowry’s fan letter to Aiken,72 this leitmotif recurs as the theme of Frère Jacques, the significance of which is explained in an intermediate draft of “Through the Panama.”73 It comes to represent what Lowry calls the “oneness of the universe itself” and “the Music of the Spheres” in his novellas, “Through the Panama” and “The Forest Path to the Spring” in the collection, Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place (1961).74 Described as a person of inner anguish who inspired suffering, Aiken was a devotee of depth psychologists, such as Sigmund Freud, whose findings were to become vital to surrealism’s exploration of ways in which the imagination might be set free.75 Inspired by Aiken’s thinking, Lowry paid him a visit on his transatlantic trip to Cambridge, Massachusetts, in summer 1929. It was mirrored in Aiken’s Ushant (1952) by the fictional Hambo.76 Portrayed as “slightly absurd, but always delightful” and as “a carelessly powerful and ingratiating figure,”77 the latter arrived “with broken suitcase and dirty socks and taropatch, and the much-thumbed blue-covered exercise book in which were the neatly pencilled first fragments of Aquamarine.”78 Aiken refers to “the all-but fatal wrestling match [. . .] between Hambo and D.; from which D., although triumphant, had emerged with a concussion, and a permanent scar—in the shape of a cross—on his brow.”79 In the real-life scenario, Lowry’s reasons for seeking Aiken’s patronage were twofold. First, he envisaged him as a would-be tutor (which he was soon to become) to prepare him for entry to the English tripos at the University of Cambridge. Second, he perceived him not only as his mentor but also as his surrogate father. He was to eulogize him in his letter of late February 1940 in which he asks, “What truer father have I than you.”80 It was convenient that Aiken had taken out a lease on Jeake’s Storehouse on Mermaid Street in the ancient, maritime town of Rye in January 1924.81 He praised his new abode in East Sussex, exclaiming: “By how many noble or beautiful or delightful spirits had it been lighted and blessed! Lighted by love, lighted by laughter, the kind of light that never goes out.”82 Drawn to his protégé, Lowry wrote to him in March 1929: “And I want to be in Rye at twilight and lean myself by the wall of the ancient town.”83 He was enticed to Sussex in August 1930 to assist his mentor relocate to Jeake’s House on his return from Cambridge, Massachusetts. He proclaimed in March 1931: “How pleasant it will be to get down to Rye again and see you.”84 At one point, Sykes Davies too moved in - albeit temporarily - out of admiration for Henry James who had settled there in 1897–1898.85 It was also in the civil parish of Rye that, in the summer of 1932, Aiken introduced Lowry to the surrealist artist, Edward Burra (1905–1976), with whom he had become acquainted the previous year and was to have an

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“enduring friendship.”86 Aiken’s poems inspired two of Burra’s paintings, Blues for Ruby Matrix (1934) and John Deth: Hommage à Conrad Aiken (c. 1931)—the latter appearing in his own art collection.87 As for Burra, he was to live most of his life in Rye and become a long-term resident of Springfield Lodge in Broad Oak on its outskirts.88 Unfairly, it has been called a “ducky little Tinkerbell towne like an itsy bitsy morgue quayte DEAD.”89 Yet, soon its interwar milieu would be transformed: “Rye was changing; the fussy, introverted little world of Tinkerbell Towne had been invaded by realities that could not be ignored.”90 Burra’s endurance—as well as that of Jeake’s House—during the Second World War is chronicled in Aiken’s correspondence in the following manner: Ed is still in Rye, and wisecracking bitterly through the bombfalls (1940);91 Ed reports Rye full of troops, and “strange noises, off”—also the weather very thundery (1940);92 Rye, they do say, is spoiled. Gone tough, full of rape and violence, even murder; Canadian soldiers kicked to death by midlanders; chiefly because they get all the girls (1942);93 Jeake’s House still stands, somewhat battered, and the furniture partly sold to pay the rent and partly stored [. . .]—but what will Rye be post war?? (1943);94 Jeake’s House still stands, somewhat battered, and serving now as a rest home for weary firemen (1944);95 Far away we go to Rye, Nov 1st or so, to spend a dark, cold, hungry winter in Jeake’s House (1945).96

Aiken returned to the United States after the Second World War, as presumed by Lowry in his June 1947 letter in which he conjectures: “I fear that you may have left Jeakes by now.”97 Renowned for his watercolor of Mexican nightlife, El Paseo (c. 1938), Burra bore a deep attraction to Mexico. He etched hallucinatory details of this psychogeographic terrain in his works, many of which—in their vibrant “layering of past and present”—depict a “terrible sense of man’s inhumanity to man.”98 His landscapes suggest transience by imparting an artist’s vision of the natural world as a “metamorphic, shape-shifting place.”99 It was one with which Burra aspired to connect, as did Lowry in “The Forest Path to The Spring.” During his three-month stay in Paris in January–March 1933, the latter met various surrealists, including Julian Trevelyan—his friend from Cambridge. Having abandoned his alma mater for Montparnasse, Trevelyan even became his guardian for the above period of time.100 It was he who found him a nearby flat and reacquainted him with George Reavey.101 Having come “to accept a language of painting that was somewhere between Cubism and Surrealism,”102 he introduced him to the surrealist painter, printmaker, and engraver, Stanley William Hayter, whose acquaintances included the artists, Pablo Picasso, Marc Chagall, Jackson Pollock, and Mark Rothko.103

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In May that year, motivated by an urge to travel abroad, Lowry and the Aikens went on holiday to Spain. There they met Burra, as narrated in Ushant, its fictional characters—Hambo, Nicholas, D., and Lorelei Two—being modelled on Malcolm Lowry; Ed Burra; Conrad Aiken; and the latter’s second wife, Clarissa Aiken (née Lorenz), respectively. We discover that “Hambo and Nicholas and D. and Lorelei Two had all had balcony rooms round the blossoming patio, and its sprawling pomegranate, at Granada.”104 Malcolm became acquainted with Janine Vanderheim (1911–2001), an aspiring authoress and actress, whose stage name was Jan Gabrial and who is depicted in Ushant as Nita, “the beautiful and swift little creature.”105 She was soon to be his first wife, for they got married in January 1934, in Paris.106 His best man was Trevelyan,107 to whom he presented a copy of Ultramarine after his wedding, having inscribed in it the words: “To my guardian and witness angel and Louise from Malcolm.”108 Later in 1934, he praised him—in a letter to his new wife—in the following way: “His own exhibition was a great success {although one critic said: We do not think Mr Trevelyan will float very far on his cork pictures!}, which is good, & he looked well & happy.”109 Yet, Burra did not always agree with Lowry and even mocked him in public.110 Despite their mutual interest in the cultures of France, Spain, and the United States (which both of them had visited), Burra’s political stance demonstrated support for General Franco’s nationalism in the Spanish Civil War, whereas Lowry’s did not. Nevertheless, they were drawn together again by the charm of Mexico and its culture. THE ALLURE OF MEXICO Although he viewed it as a “dark, corrupting, surrealistic shadowland of the infernal south,” Lowry had a predilection for Mexico.111 He shared it with various English writers, many of whom provided inspiration through their discovery of its spiritual allure in its exotic “otherness.” One of them was Aldous Huxley who had published a short story, Little Mexican (better known as Young Archimedes in the United States) in 1924. He also authored a collection of essays on the ethics of nationalism, religion, and war, entitled Ends and Means (1937) during his stay in Taos in New Mexico. Renowned for his dystopian Brave New World (1931), he shared with Lowry a belief in the supernatural dating back to the 1930s. His subsequent article on extrasensory perception (1954) drew the attention of Lowry who wrote in his letter to Albert Erskine: “Perhaps you would do me a favour and look at the copy of Life for Jan. 11. The Case for E.S.P. by Aldous Huxley pp. 96–108.” 112 Other luminaries who visited Mexico and with whose outputs Lowry was familiar include D. H. Lawrence, Graham Greene113 (whose supervisor at

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work was Kim Philby, his friend in MI6),114 and Evelyn Waugh.115 As did the avant-garde director, Sergei Eisenstein—whose films were highly esteemed by Lowry—they all incorporated that country’s cultural heritage into their various projects. Lawrence travelled to Mexico on three occasions between 1923 and 1925. Venturing south-westwards in November 1924, he stayed in Oaxaca (de Juárez) for almost six months. He resided at the Hotel Francia, as Lowry was to do when he followed in his footsteps in 1937. Captivated by Mexican culture, Lawrence integrated its portrayal in The Plumed Serpent (1926) and in his collection of travel essays, Mornings in Mexico (1927). Replete with an occult symbolism, the former imaginatively rehabilitates Aztec ritual in its depiction of the era of the Mexican Revolution (1910–1920). Lawrence accompanied Huxley on a journey to Taos, New Mexico, in 1929. Subsequently, in March– April 1938, Graham Greene explored Mexico. His visit inspired him to set The Power and the Glory (1940) (which appeared in the United States as The Labyrinthine Ways) in the state of Tabasco during the suppression of the Catholic Church in the 1930s. During a three-month trip commencing in August 1938, Waugh was induced to pen Robbery Under Law (1939). It depicts the socialist nationalization of the petroleum industry and the persecution of Catholics under the regime of Lázaro Cárdenas (1895–1970). However, it was not there, but in New York that Malcolm Lowry and Jan Gabrial made the crucial acquaintance of Waldo Frank (1889–1967), chairman of the League of American Writers in late 1935. It was he who encouraged them to visit Mexico a country with which he was closely familiar. He shared his enthusiasm for the murals of Diego Rivera (1886–1957) which epitomized an exciting new movement in Mexican art.116 On a later occasion, Frank—a left-wing intellectual—spoke at length of President Cárdenas’s 1937 land reforms which redistributed large haciendas to peasant ownership.117 His subsequent nationalization of US and Anglo-Dutch oil companies in March 1938 and his creation of a Pemex monopoly sparked the diplomatic crisis resulting in the British Consul of Under the Volcano losing his post. In his address to the International Congress of Writers for the Defence of Culture which he made in Paris on June 21–25, 1935, Frank argued that political transformation must involve “the whole of man, heart and mind.”118 According to Chris Ackerley, he “treated American history as a visionary process of spiritual renewal impossible in the Old World”119—a continent which lacked sufficient “knowing” to complete its rebirth.120 His deliberations on lack of inclusivity appear in In Ballast to the White Sea: in his conversation with his son about how to define a soul, Captain Tarnmoor cites the phrase, “the technic of the transition” which he borrows from Frank’s published speech which emphasizes that political transformation must be organic in its embrace of humanity.121 The following epigraph at the beginning of chapter XIV of In Ballast to the White Sea reveals Lowry’s own political empathies:

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The revolutionary hour at which we live is but the present phase of the process, centuries old and destined to outlive almost the memory of economic conflict, whereby man (not a privileged, exploiting class, but man as a whole) will merge into a conscious culture: even as a child at a certain physiologic stage must become adult or go down into degeneracy, so man stands at this hour. The key of the long phase is economic, therefore the importance of the class struggle and the imperative of entering it on the side of the workers. WALDO FRANK (IB, 190)122

As editor of The Collected Poems of Hart Crane (1933), Frank highly recommended the writings of this American modernist. His poetry was admired by Lowry who quoted to Jan Gabrial certain lines from “The Bridge: The Tunnel” (1930). Calling attention to the underworld not of Ezra Pound’s Parisian poem, “In a Station of the Metro” (1913), but of the New York subway system, they read as follows: And why do I often meet your visage here, Your eyes like agate lanterns—on and on. . . .123

Hart Crane (1899–1932) became fascinated with Mexico on his 1931–1932 Guggenheim Fellowship trip. He visited Popocatepetl in the “death country, a murder country” depicted in A Heart for the Gods of Mexico (1939).124 In Aiken’s oeuvre, it is portrayed as “an unconquered and savage land, a bloodsucking land, which had slowly but surely taken the souls from the people who lived in it.”125 Tragically, Crane committed suicide on his return journey to the United States, drowning in the Caribbean.126 His legacy beguiled Lowry who was to cite him in the acclaimed “January 1946 Letter to Jonathan Cape” which he wrote to justify Under the Volcano. He gave him an accolade by commenting on the Mexican nation as “the meeting place [. . .] of mankind itself, pyre of Bierce and springboard of Hart Crane, the age-old arena of racial and political conflicts of every nature [. . .] where a colorful native people of genius have a religion that we can roughly describe as one of death, so that it is a good place [. . .] to set our drama of a man’s struggle between the powers of darkness and light.”127 It was on his first expedition to Mexico that Lowry was stunned by the Day of the Dead, which he experienced on his arrival in Cuernavaca on November 2, 1936. He and his wife rented Calle Humboldt 62, initially with Alan Mondragon, who was portrayed by Jan Gabrial as “tall, witty, and a fellow wanderer.”128 Reminded of Diego Rivera’s renowned frescoes (which he had seen in the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City), he admired his History of Cuernavaca and Morelos: Conquest and Revolution (1929–1930).129 It is a series of eight murals overlooking the former Palace of Cortés (now the

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Cuauhnáhuac Regional Museum) in Cuernavaca. In Under the Volcano, he initially alludes to it as “a solid frieze carved into the wall.”130 Later on, he refers to “two ruddy Riveras” and then simply to “the Rivera frescoes.”131 Inevitably, their theme gelled well with his novel, for they depict the conquest of the Aztec Empire in 1521 by Spanish conquistadores, who were under the overall leadership of Hernán Cortés (1485–1547), but aided and abetted by native collaborators, such as the Tlaxcalans. Cuernavaca’s locale offered a perfect setting for the exchange of impressions of Mexican culture between Lowry and his acquaintances. Accompanied by his third wife-to-be (that is, by the painter, Mary Hoover Augusta Aiken) and by Ed Burra, Aiken managed to lodge with Lowry there in May 1937,132 as suggested in Ushant: “Of course, they had all been to Mexico together, hadn’t they; Nicholas and D. and Lorelei Three.”133 It refers to a “fantastic visit to Hambo, beside his cloacal barranca”134 and explains that “they would stay with Hambo on his barranca, until the divorce could be obtained, and the marriage performed under the same jurisdiction.”135 In Lowry’s abode, Aiken was shown the complete first draft of Under the Volcano by his surrogate son. Beleaguered by “marital and alcoholic misery” (and encouraged to drink heavily), the latter had the ability to externalize his interior life in this and other compositions in a self-reflexive way.136 He later cited the influence of Émile Zola (whose L’Assommoir (1877) depicts sketches of life in French bars and taverns in a naturalist manner) and Charles Baudelaire, whose Les Fleurs du mal (1857) incorporate a sequence of five poems on wine.137 Yet, memories of Cuernavaca remained strong for Aiken too. He later claimed: “Both Mary and myself have so often pined to see it all again, but without the physiological and psychological miseries that beset us so persistently. Ed too.”138 During an exchange of thoughts, Lowry succeeded in appropriating from Aiken, his spiritual father, the story of Reverend William Blackstone (c. 1595–1675) (whose surname is sometimes spelled “Blaxton”). A Cambridge graduate, this independent, English Puritan clergyman had travelled across the Atlantic to New England in the early seventeenth-century. Resident in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1625, he moved away from the Puritan Colony to the more congenial Rhode Island in 1635. As a result, he held the record of being the first European settler in both places.139 A true pioneer and a witchcraft-adherent, he was known for preaching to the aborigines. Intrigued by his adventures, Lowry ensured that, in his study of self-consciousness, the person who chose to reside among the Indians (as he himself had done) featured in Under the Volcano.140 He is also a hero of Aiken’s literary canon. He appears in his poem, “The Kid” (1947) (which is dedicated to Lowry) and in his novels. A Heart for the Gods of Mexico focuses on the progress represented by Blackstone rather than on the figure himself—a

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hallmark of Under the Volcano. Referring to its prequel as A Heart for the Barranca,141 Ushant indicates Lowry’s sway over Aiken (the fictional D.) by contending that “Hambo [. . .] avowed his intention of absorbing all he jolly well could of D., in that curious and ambivalent relationship of theirs, as of father and son, on the one hand, and teacher and disciple on the other, absorbing him even to the point of annihilation? [. . .] Hambo had at once, and without so much as a by-your-leave, taken over the Blackstone idea as his own.”142 Aiken recognizes Hambo’s fascination with this theme by calling him “a haunted Englishman.”143 He makes allusions to Lowry’s esoteric ventures by stating that his character “had so early begun to build for himself a mystic identification—for wasn’t he destined himself to be another rolling Blackstone, and from Cambridge, Eng., too?—moving to his own southwest and northwest mystical frontiers, his own barrancas and estuaries of good and evil?”144 Indeed, the latter is referred to as “the prototypical Hambo.”145 In the “The Kid” Blackstone’s “pilgrim innocence”146 and “his dream” to abate his descent “to the soul’s underworld”147 are said to have “symbolized [. . .] the individualistic demand for freedom of self and conscience which came to characterize American literature” and which Lowry wished to universalize.148 In his correspondence, the latter expresses a familiarity with Joseph Conrad’s Youth, a Narrative and Two Other Stories (1902), Typhoon (1902), and Heart of Darkness (1899), which questions distinctions between so-called “savages” and “civilized people.”149 By incorporating into Under the Volcano the Day of the Dead, the psychological impact of death and destruction on the Consul’s mind, and the supernatural, Lowry is able to diversify into the realms of ethnology, psychology, and spirituality. In such a scenario, “in his outward search for seclusion,” Blackstone “represents man’s inner search for awareness.”150 Nevertheless, Aiken’s influence on Lowry proved to mixed: their friendship was to suffer a turn for the worse, as evidenced by the latter’s letters of June–July 1937 to Jan Gabrial in which he declares: “Conrad [Aiken] is really not a friend at all though he pretends hard he is. He is, in fact, a born chiseller—of everything, of his friends & wives, & of verses.”151 These indictments of Aiken’s ostensibly manipulative intentions are escalated by the following allegations which purport to malevolent calculations on his part: I think he’s an extraordinarily evil person, capable of the profoundest harm to everything [. . .] He pretends to the deepest friendship for me, to admiration for my work, but secretly he is jealous, unreasoning, bitter, while the only real depth in our relationship is the extraordinary malicious extent of his hatred; but this is hatred for life too. It is wretchedness become evil—[. . .] It is only our admiration for genius even in its darkest flights that keeps us harbouring such a person as Conrad under our roof.152

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In parallel, there are indications that Lowry’s relationship with Burra had become strained as early as April 1931 when he wrote to Aiken: “Burra must have been a trial for that long.”153 It disintegrated even further—as did his marriage to Gabrial—during their stay in Cuernavaca in the summer of 1937. He refers to his surrealist companion as “a complicated mixture of the Bohemian and the conservative” who was replete “with occasional emasculated ejaculations.”154 Although he goes as far as accusing him of being “at heart an arid & contemptible fellow” with an “arrogant façade,”155 he increasingly shows concern for his welfare on the outbreak of the Second World War. This is inherent in his letter to Aiken of November 1940, in which he declares: “Down the abyss crasheth the tabid world . . . . Have you news—my God!— of John? Ed? May they be safe.”156 Enthralled by Burra’s surrealism, Aiken pleads Lowry to view his paintings in the Contemporary British Art exhibition at the 1939 World’s Fair in New York. He provides the following advice: “Ed’s pictures are in the British pavilion at the Fair—he may come over in January—why not keep your eye on Boston? A good place. Avoid the army my dear fellow—nothing in it.”157 In his response, Lowry demonstrates a close familiarity with Burra’s early outputs as well as a continued attentiveness toward his more recent ones. In his letter of December 1939 to Aiken, he asserts: “And as for Ed, I don’t remember much moonlight and roses about his work a few years ago, which is the period you are really dealing with in my case. I would be interested to see his later pictures. Like yourself, though, I feel that he has always gone his own way, uncursed by trends.”158 After Lowry’s failed attempt to enter the United States via Blaine in September 1939, Aiken was relentless in his endeavors to bring him and Burra together in New York in early 1940.159 Already in December 1939, he insists: “Ed writes that he may be coming over to Boston next month—if he can get here—so maybe we’ll all be having a reunion.”160 Unfortunately, Lowry was again refused re-entry to the United States in February 1940.161 Burra was enchanted with Mexico City in all its bizarreness, as is apparent from his reflections in a letter to his sister, Anne: “However I got here I cannot imagine I never expected to reach such a queer place. 7,000 ft. high so soon as you do anything you feel like a dead dog.”162 (Incidentally, this observation brings to mind the appearance of a canine at the downfall of the Consul at the end of Under the Volcano).163 Burra was dazzled by the volcanic vista which he glimpsed from Lowry’s bungalow during his 1937 stay in Cuernavaca, as is discernible in the words which he used to his mother: “There is an extraordinary view when not wreathed in rainy season from the veranda of Popacatepetle looking exactly like Fujiama capped with eternal snows realy fantastic at times.”164 His sensibilities toward Mexican life and culture were recaptured on his return to Rye (via the United States) in 1937.

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After recovering from a bout of ill health in Mexico, he completed—from memory—three artworks with Mexican subjects, Landscape with Comestibles Seen en route to Mexico City (1937), Mexican Church (1938), and El Paseo (c. 1938).165 The first oeuvre exerted a profound impression on Aiken, who, on acquiring it—presumably as a gift from Burra—conveys his enthusiasm to Lowry. As illustrated by figure 1.1, he describes his rapture in his letter of September 4, 1946, in the following manner: Ed too: I wish you could see what he has kept of it: on our diningroom wall, over the refractory table [. . .] hangs the world’s largest pen-and-ink drawing: eight feet by five of purest beautifullest dreadfullest Mexico: a hooded leering figure in the desert foreground, seated by a fire of sticks, on which is a cauldron of dry bones, is about to throw a stick for an emaciated cadaverous bitch, with enormous swollen dugs; the bitch regards the stick-thrower sidelong with an ironic nerts-to-you expression which is quite appalling: at their feet lie other fragments and shards of bones, and a few (they look, like the crumbled skeleton of an infant) have been gathered into a wooden bowl. But, back turned to this sinister pair, who are about to perform their sceptical and evil communication, a classically serene figure, hooded too, glides away towards the eternal magical hill-town that rises from the eternal barranca and jungle, and the twin-towered cathedral, and the bitter black mountains above it, and the afrit-black bitter clouds that brew above them. The whole landscape is magically sinister and beautiful, and altogether it’s probably the finest thing Ed has done—we’re buying it on the nickel-a-year-for-life principle, as you might imagine.166

The surrealism of this drawing is mirrored in A Heart for the Gods of Mexico which provides a narrative on the ghostly sight perceived when leaving Saltillo for the Mexico City trip. It includes the following description: “A solitary shrouded figure came into view, an Indian, wrapped closely in his sarape, standing immovable and secret as a rock to watch the passage of the train. It was incredible; it was a dream.”167 A Heart for the Gods of Mexico portrays an archetypal train ride in a southwestwards direction, from Boston in Massachusetts across the United States to Mexico, the so-called “underworld sea.”168 It is a venture with “an esoteric meaning.”169 It recreates the various stages of the pioneering American conquest of the West: “The former geographical becomes their present spiritual movement [. . .] from innocence to experience or consciousness.”170 The characters, Noni, Hambo, and Blomberg emerge, as Aiken progresses “from the divine to the human pilgrimage” in his depiction of the power of love.171 In an episode reminiscent of Aztec sacrifices, the heroine, Noni “moves both outward and inward,”172 as she traverses “the great circle” to Mexico.173 She takes her

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Figure 1.1  Landscape with Comestibles Seen en route to Mexico City. Source: c. 1937 (Ed Burra), Private Collection / Copyright Estate of Artist, c/o Lefevre Fine Art Ltd, London / Bridgeman Images LEF152910.

heart as an offering “to the bloodstained altar of the plumed serpent.”174 On a life-death journey to a “whole land bathed in blood,”175 her existence “should have been so beautiful, and so devoted to good and beautiful things, in the face of the uncompromising principles of impermanence and violence.”176

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In some respects, Hambo is identifiable as the Consul in Under the Volcano and, indeed, as Lowry himself. Glimpsed during a fiesta in A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, he is confused for being a Bohemian, with a “tall forked stick, for all the world like St. Christopher.”177 We are informed that he has been to sea and resides in Cuernavaca178—a city which has a barranca, a Palace of Cortez, and a badminton court for its English Consul.179 In Ushant, he is described as “that most engaging and volatile and unpredictable of geniuses.”180 He has studied at the very same college as Lowry, as clarified by the following excerpt: “And powerful young Hambo, down from St. Cath’s at Cambridge, after their bizarre meeting in the ‘other’ Cambridge.”181 He has been to sea and bears “his own prismatic lights and mysteries, his long spirals of sea-flight.”182 His interests include esotericism and, in particular, the Kabbalah. He is renowned for “that sixth-sense mysticism of his, and his eternal, and so often verifiable, adduction of cabalistic correspondences—the evidences, to him, of a mystic pattern.”183 The title, Ushant is derived from that of a French island which lies off the coast of Brittany, at the south-western end of the English Channel. Both the fictional D. and Hambro pass this location on their way to Cape St. Vincent.184 It is visible from the perspective of Aiken’s “magic window.”185 It unites Europe with Blackstone’s America, for it is described as the point from where “one could gaze straight across the Channel to Ushant, one’s spiritual balcony, and from there, by a secondary plunge of vision, look into the opalescent heart of the west—where at this very instant, William Blackstone, the prototypical “kid” of American slang, is still in the act of disembarking from the little schooner on the marshy Banks of the Wessagussett River.” Although it commands a view both of the East (towards Sussex) and of the West (towards the United States), to mariners of Ancient Greece, Ushant was “the limit of the known and inhabitable world,” for it signified “the farthest reaches of consciousness.”186 Famed for its maritime past, the Île d’Ouessant is the spot where various historical battles were fought between the navies of Britain and France. Referred to as “Ushant. You shan’t!,”187 it is a perilous “symbol of both the forces that impede and threaten the pilgrim,”188 who “must continually face death and accept renewal to know this growth toward the full realization of the riches of self.”189 Written from the perspective of a survivor of the Great Depression and of the Second World War which ensued, Aiken’s novel is akin to Under the Volcano in the way in which it intermingles levels of awareness as it depicts a quest for self-knowledge by navigating the inner reaches of the soul. As a psychoanalytic study, it focuses on the deeper consciousness sought by a human being who has endured—and, indeed, overcome—tremendous suffering. It brings to mind Aiken’s own childhood tragedy: On February 27,

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1901, he heard his father shoot his mother and then commit suicide.190 Subsequently, he relentlessly endeavored to reconcile the void left in his life.191 Ushant also depicts the growing rift between the lands of the narrator’s dad (from the United States) and mum (from England). It is reflected in the Imagist movement’s “profound and permanent alteration in the cultural balance between the Old Country and the new” which led to “the wholesale migration of American writers and painters to Europe, and mainly to Paris.”192 Another important aspect of Ushant is the manner in which it chronicles the career development of the artistic persona of “D.” (the acronym of Demarest). Already introduced in Blue Voyage (1927), this would-be novelist fantasizes about co-translating a German novella in a reverie spawned from Aiken’s guardianship of Lowry.193 The reference to D.’s “pseudo guardianship” indicates that, in his despair, Hambo’s father had in effect placed his son in loco parentis.194 They both pursue truth by applying a “co-operative, and hallucinatory, alcoholic brilliance.”195 Their two minds are described as “complementing—and complimenting!—each other in a moving braid of analysis as closely woven as the serpents in the uraeus of an Egyptian king.”196 Hallucinations are fundamental to D. who experiences random recollections of England by “dreaming his own life in order to understand it.”197 He is ordained to mold his own fate by following the path of self-knowledge and love. He possesses a “poetic comprehension of man’s position in the universe, and of his potentialities as a poetic shaper of his own destiny.”198 In attributing to Ushant the subtitle, “an essay,” Aiken suggests that it is not only a record of his life but also a poetic declaration about the experiences of himself, his companions, and his era.”199 He is subject to a multitude of influences from “the incredibly rich pour of new discoveries, new ideas, the miraculously rapid expansion of man’s knowledge, inward and outward, whether into the ever farther-reaching astrophysics of the heavens, or of man’s mind.”200 However, in its destructiveness, society is isolated from harmony and from the divine “Teacher of the West.” It is cut off from its would-be, Christ-like savior who “emerges fitfully within the soul”201 in order to facilitate “full self-realization.”202 Thus, Aiken emphasizes the necessity for humanity to undergo a visionary experience to penetrate the incomprehensible forces of darkness which shroud its soul. He prescribes that the true meaning of existence can be found in “inner and outer harmony,”203 advocating that “the key was charity: caritas, the love of loves!”204 A new age of enlightenment would be heralded if “all mankind were soldiers; all of them engaged in the endless and desperate war on the unconscious.”205 Ushant concludes with the horror of a terrifying hallucination which portends that there is some prospect for humanity’s survival. It might be accomplished by being uplifted, if not quite toward the stars (as happens to Yvonne at the end of chapter 11 of Under the Volcano), but in an eternal consonance with divinity:

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All of us are drowning, but as we drown, we seem somehow to be floating upward, we are all floating upward and singing. Floating upward towards that vast, that outspread, sheet of illuminated music, which is the world and above which [. . .] is [. . .] the face of the Teacher from the West? [. . .] We rise, ourselves now like notes of music arranging themselves in a divine harmony, a divine unison, which, as it had no beginning, can have no end.206

If we bear in mind the aforementioned artworks by Edward Burra, Mexican Church is a composite image of the baroque interior of a Catholic place of worship. It is based on postcards of two churches which he had visited during his sojourn at the Lowrys: the Parroquia de Santa Prisca y San Sebastían (better known as Santa Prisca de Taxco, that is, the Church of Santa Prisca at Taxco) and the Iglesia de Santa Catarina in Mexico City.207 His work is described by Mary Augusta Aiken as “a large painting of one of the chapels done from an amazing perspective view [. . .] so extraordinary, that it was as if one could see and be the whole interior of the Cathedral at the same time. What a genius! To do it all from memory.”208 Last but not least, the evening setting of El Paseo provides an intriguing perspective of the Jardín Juárez Square (also known as the Zócalo) in the centre of Cuernavaca. It captures a procession of skeletal, courting couples proceeding past the bandstand on a Day-of-the-Dead-like occasion. Another surrealist painter, with whom Lowry was familiar through Aiken, was the renowned landscapist and war artist, Paul Nash (1889–1946). Resident in Kent (in Dymchurch on the Romney Marsh) between 1921 and 1925, he moved to East Sussex, firstly to the village of Iden where he lived until 1929 and then to Rye until 1933. In Ushant, the fictional town of Saltinge is where D. settles and meets Hambo who is “down for the Christmas holidays, or the ‘long vac.,’ bringing the lyric ukulele, or bringing Hugh and his concertina.”209 Aiken’s novel is replete with the names of artists, such as Nicholas and Paul (who “was very fine”).210 As explained in the key given at the beginning of Ushant, they are fictional portrayals of Ed Burra and Paul Nash, respectively. Aiken became acquainted with Nash (who called on him in Winchelsea in 1922) and with his wife, Margaret (née Odeh). They remained friends, visiting each other whenever he was in Rye.211 He was invited to “occasional dinners and parties at the Nashes”212 and kept Lowry informed of their movements by explaining, for example, that Paul was “at Oxford, doing war drawings” in 1941.213 A whole range of Sussex landmarks and luminaries appear in Ushant, such as the autobiographical, galloping poet of White Horse Vale, the animated Long Man of Wilmington, the chalk hillside, “the pale sunshot headlands of Eastbourne,” and Nash himself.214 He is referred to as “Paul” in “Inglesee” (i.e. Winchelsea) by the narrator who asks: “Hadn’t Paul similarly swum up out of nowhere to knock on the door of the cottage at Inglesee, through the merest of accidents?”215 It has been claimed that Aiken and Nash shared certain

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biographical and psychological parallels which led Nash to blend surrealism with primitivism in his “unique surrealist technique that permitted him to inject disturbing dream motifs into his almost primitive landscapes.”216 It was Aiken who introduced the Nashes to Lowry, as is apparent in Malcolm’s letters in which he often requests that his regards be conveyed to them: “Remember me to the Burra and the Nashes and all.”217 Years later, in 1948, he confirmed his enduring interest in Nash’s artwork by observing in the New Statesman and Nation (for which the latter was an art critic)218 that “in the paintings section there is a sympathetic article on the Memorial Exhibition at the Tate for Paul Nash.”219 It was through his interactions with Aiken, Burra, Nash—and possibly even with Tristan Tzara—that Lowry became familiar with the tenets of surrealism expressed by its founder, the French artist, André Breton (1896–1966).220 Distinguished for compiling the Manifeste du surréalisme (1924)—in which he defined this art form as “pure psychic automatism” through its expression of “the true functioning of thought”—Bretton too was inspired by Mexico’s dynamic blend of pre-Columbian traditions and Hispanic culture.221 He was also an ardent devotee of the Soviet revolutionary, Leon Trotsky (1879–1940) who—exiled to Mexico—firmly believed that it was ripe for a proletariat-led, Marxist revolution. An important outcome of Breton’s meeting in Mexico City in the spring of 1938 with a gathering of artists and intellectuals—which included Frida Kahlo de Rivera (1907–1954), Diego Rivera, and Trotsky—was the production of the Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art which advocated “complete freedom for art.”222 Trained in psychology and medicine, Breton reached the conclusion that, although Mexico was widely held to be a non-European “other,” its country and culture were naturally surreal.223 Burra’s contribution to the dissemination of Mexican culture was considerable, for he championed the projects of Leonora Carrington (1917–2011) and Edward James (1907–1984). Like Lowry, they were enchanted by Mexican aesthetics. Carrington was a British-born, Mexican surrealist painter and novelist. James (who owned West Dean House in West Sussex) was a poet and a patron of the surrealist movement. In Cuernavaca, he hired Plutarco Gastélum as his guide to accompany him to Xilitla in Mexico’s subtropical, mountainous rainforest. It was near there that he established the impressive surrealist complex of Las Pozas (The Pools) in 1945.224 NOTES 1. For a detailed study of Lowry’s Cambridge, see M. C. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry—His Art & Early Life: A Study in Transformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 123–32.

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2. Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 108. 3. Ibid. 4. Davenport had two poems published in Experiment: “Laughter,” 5 (February 1930), 36–7 and “Ballad for a Week-end,” 6 (October 1930), 24–6: see the Modernist Magazines Project, http://modmags.dmu.ac.uk/home.html (accessed January 13, 2018). 5. Scott McCracken, “Cambridge Magazines and Unfinished Business: Experiment (1928–30), The Venture (1928–30), and Cambridge Left (1933–34),” in The Oxford Critical and Cultural History of Modernist Magazines, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press), vol. I: Britain and Ireland, 1880–1955, ed. Peter Brooker and Andrew Thatcher, 2013, 600. 6. Morton Dauwen Zabel, “Recent Magazines,” Poetry 42, no. 6 (September 1933), 348–9, cited in ibid., 600. 7. See McCracken, “Cambridge Magazines and Unfinished Business,” 599–600. 8. Ibid., 611. 9. Ibid., 604. 10. Ibid. 11. Experiment 6 (October 1930), 14–17 and 18–20, respectively. For a select list of Reavey’s early works, see the Modernist Magazines Project and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 153–4. 12. McCracken, “Cambridge Magazines and Unfinished Business,” 614. 13. Ibid., 605. 14. Experiment 3 (May 1929), 35–9 and Experiment 6 (October 1930), 43–7, respectively. See also the Modernist Magazines Project; Malcolm Lowry, The Letters of Malcolm Lowry and Gerald Noxon, 1940–1952, ed. Paul Tiessen (Vancouver: The University of British Columbia Press, 1988), 12; and John Haffenden, “‘His presence spellbound us all’: The Experiment Group,” in William Empson, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press), vol 1: Among the Mandarins, 2009, 166–7. 15. Experiment 5 (February 1930), 22–6 and Experiment 7 (Spring 1931), 62–75. 16. See Douglas Day, Malcolm Lowry: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 110 and 117. Contrary to Day’s suggestions, Chater was not Master of this college. For reference to his translation—Nordahl Grieg, The Ship Sails On, trans. A. G. Chater (New York: Knopf, 1927), see Hallvard Dahlie, “On Nordahl Grieg’s The Ship Sails On,” International Fiction Review, 2, no. 1 (1975), 49, http:​//jou​rnals​ .hil.​unb.c​a/ind​ex.ph​p/IFR​/arti​cle/v​iew/1​3099/​14182​ (accessed January 13, 2018). In Malcolm Lowry, 124 Bradbrook confuses A. G. Chater with the Hispanist scholar, Henry John Chaytor (1871–1954), who was a Fellow (and Master from 1933) of Lowry’s college. See “Masters of St Catharine’s College,” https​://ww​w.cat​hs.ca​m.ac.​ uk/ab​out-u​s/his​tory/​maste​rs-st​-cath​arine​s-col​lege (accessed January, 13, 2018). 17. Jennings became a documentary filmmaker and co-founder of the Mass Observation Experiment in 1937. 18. Hugh Sykes, “Music in an Empty House,” Experiment 1 (November 1928), 31–2. 19. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), I, 75. See also ibid., I, 77.

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20. The Venture 6 (June 1930), 270–8. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 109, and George Watson and Ian R. Willison, eds., The New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature, 5 vols (London: Cambridge University Press, vol. 4: 1900–1950, 1972), 1394. 21. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 135. 22. Lowry, Sursum Corda, II, 823. 23. Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy, annotator Chris Ackerley (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014), 191. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid. 26. Ibid., 193. 27. Ibid., 196. 28. Ibid., 197. 29. Lowry, Sursum Corda, II, 822–3. Tom Driberg (a journalist, a member of Parliament and of the British Communist Party, and a High Anglican churchman) authored Guy Burgess: A Portrait with Background (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1956). 30. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 152–3. 31. Ibid., 133. 32. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry, 127. 33. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 101–2 and Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry, 127 and 129. 34. See Day, Malcolm Lowry, 113–14; Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 103, 104, and 107; and Lowry, Sursum Corda, I, 79, 81, and 346. Redgrave is referred to in Lowry’s 1946 letter to Albert Erskine: “But there’s one name I missed & should put in; that is Michael Redgrave, the actor, an old & good college friend of mine who is at present in America making a movie, I believe, for Fritz Lang” (the Austrian-German, Expressionist film maker) (Ibid., I, 665). At Cambridge, Lowry also became acquainted with Alistair Cooke, who was studying English at Jesus College and was to become an eminent foreign correspondent and broadcaster. He describes him as “a very old college friend” and as “a writer, and a good one” (Ibid., II, 224). 35. Charles Madge, “Surrealism for the English,” New Verse 6 (December 1933), 14–18. 36. Hugh Sykes Davies, “Sympathies with Surrealism,” New Verse 20 (April– May 1936), 15–21, http:​//jac​ketma​gazin​e.com​/20/h​sd-sy​mp.ht​ml (accessed October 19, 2017). 37. Ibid. 38. Ibid. 39. Sursum Corda, I, 70, 72, and 120. See also Kate Price, “Finite But Unbounded: Experiment Magazine, Cambridge, England, 1928–31,” Jacket 20 (December 2002), http:​//jac​ketma​gazin​e.com​/20/p​rice-​expe.​html (accessed January 13, 2018). In 1949, Penrose and his second wife, the American photographer Elizabeth “Lee” Miller, purchased Farley Farm House in East Sussex where his surrealist art collection—featuring Pablo Picasso’s paintings—is displayed. 40. Experiment 5 (February 1930), 38. 41. Experiment 6 (October 1930), 38.

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42. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 96. 43. Ariane Bankes, “Julian Trevelyan: Ambivalent Surrealist,” in Ariane Bankes and James Scott, Julian Trevelyan: The Artist and his World (Chichester: Pallant House Gallery, 2018), 39. 44. Julian Trevelyan, “Dreams,” Transition 19–20 (Spring/Summer, June 1930), 122 45. Ibid., 121. 46. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 103. 47. See Day, Malcolm Lowry, 17–19, and 114. 48. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 100. 49. See Chris Ackerley and David Large, “Under the Volcano”: A Hypertextual Companion (Dunedin, New Zealand: University of Otago), updated June 2012, http:​// www​.otag​o.ac.​nz/en​glish​lingu​istic​s/eng​lish/​lowry​/ (accessed January 8, 2016), 371.3 (c). 50. Malcolm Lowry, The 1940 Under the Volcano, ed. Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen, annotators Chris Ackerley and David Large (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2015), 140. 51. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 100–3. 52. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 462. 53. For “‘Parade,’ une sorte de surréalisme,” see Online Etymology Dictionary, 2001–16, comp. Douglas Harper, s.v. “Surréalisme,” http://www.etymonline. com (accessed October 7, 2016); and Nancy Hargrove, “The Great Parade: Cocteau, Picasso, Satie, Massine, Diaghilev—and T. S. Eliot,” Mosaic: Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature 31, no. 1 (March 1998): 83–106. 54. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 2000), 212. 55. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 201. See I, 600. 56. Ibid., II, 153. 57. Los Olvidados is known as The Young and the Damned in the United States. 58. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 320. 59. Ibid., I, 477–8, 487, and 491. 60. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 194 for Lowry’s allusion to socialist realism. 61. Lowry, Under the Volcano, 105. 62. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 504. 63. Malcolm Lowry, The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Kathleen Scherf (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1992), 94. 64. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 152–3. 65. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 293. 66. See Catharine F. Seigel, “Conrad Aiken: His Hour Come Round At Last?” in Conrad Aiken: A Priest of Consciousnes, ed. Ted R. Spivey, and Arthur Waterman (New York: AMS Press, 1990), 279. 67. Jay Martin, Conrad Aiken: A Life of His Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1962), 98. 68. Conrad Aiken, Blue Voyage, in Three Novels: Blue Voyage, Great Circle, King Coffin, 1–152 (London: W. H. Allen, 1965), 4. 69. Ibid.

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70. Ibid., 15. 71. Ibid., 152. 72. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 60. 73. Sherrill E. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1982), 104. 74. Ibid. 75. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 75. 76. Ibid., 83–4. 77. Conrad Aiken, Ushant: An Essay (London: W. H. Allen, 1963), 348. 78. Aiken, Ushant: An Essay, 294. 79. Ibid., 294–5. 80. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 293. 81. Edward Butscher, Conrad Aiken: Poet of White Horse Vale (Athens & London: University of Georgia Press, 1988), 406. 82. “History,” http://www.jeakeshouse.com/history (accessed February 15, 2016). 83. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 63 84. Ibid., I, 82. 85. See George Watson, “Remembering Prufrock: Hugh Sykes Davies 1909– 1984,” The Sewanee Review 109, no. 4 (Fall 2001), 575. 86. Butscher, Conrad Aiken, 390. 87. However, Sugars, 28 dates them as 1933 and 1952, respectively. Aiken’s poems appeared in Poetry: A Magazine of Verse XLV, no. IV (January 1935): 179 and in John Deth: A Metaphysical Legend and Other Poems (New York: Scribner, 1930), respectively. For an acknowledgement of his possession of Burra’s painting, see “Twentieth-Century British Paintings Acquired by The Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester,” supplement to The Burlington Magazine 125, no. 958 (January 1983), http://www.jstor.org/stable/880899 (accessed November 11, 2016). 88. Jane Stevenson, Edward Burra: Twentieth-Century Eye (London: Pimlico, 2008), ix. 89. Adrian Tahourdin, “Edward Burra in Hastings,” The TLS Blog, May 30, 2015, https​://ww​w.the​-tls.​co.uk​/edwa​rd-bu​rra-i​n-has​tings​/ (accessed June 20, 2018). 90. Stevenson, Edward Burra, 279. 91. Cynthia C. Sugars, ed., The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954 (Toronto: ECW Press, 1992), 137. 92. Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 141. 93. Ibid., 170. 94. Ibid., 174. 95. Ibid., 180. 96. Ibid., 183. 97. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 76. 98. Andrew Graham-Dixon, “I Never Tell Anybody Anything: The Life and Art of Edward Burra,” dir. Phil Cairney, BBC4 documentary, 2014. 99. Graham-Dixon, “I Never Tell Anybody Anything.” 100. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 173.

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101. Ibid. 102. Julian Trevelyan, Indigo Days (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1996), 26. 103. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 173. 104. Aiken, Ushant, 296. 105. Ibid., 297. 106. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 153–5. 107. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 173. 108. Ibid., 183. 109. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 143. 110. See Day, Malcolm Lowry, 176 and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 152. 111. Ibid., 209. 112. Sursum Corda!, II, 712. Huxley’s article was published as “A Case for ESP, PK and Psi” in Life 36 (January 11, 1954), 96–100 and, in abridged format, in Readers Digest 64 (April 1954), 75–8. It mentions various pseudoscientific ideas regarding extrasensory perception (ESP), psychokinesis (PK), and telepathy (Psi). Although many concepts were discredited already, in their defence Huxley cites work undertaken by the Society for Psychical Research (SPR), founded in 1882 to comprehend psychic, or paranormal abilities and happenings. 113. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 593 and II, 173 and 259. 114. See Robert Royal, “The (Mis)Guided Dream of Graham Greene” (November 1999), in First Things, http:​//www​.firs​tthin​gs.co​m/art​icle/​1999/​11/th​e-mis​guide​d-dre​ am-of​-grah​am-gr​eene (accessed June 8, 2016); and “Arena: The Graham Greene Trilogy” and “Arena: The Other Graham Greene,” BBC Four documentaries, October 11, 2013 and October 2, 2014. 115. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 89. 116. Ibid., 194. 117. Ibid. 118. Waldo David Frank, “The Writer’s Part in Communism,” Adelphi 9–10 (1935), 260. See Ackerley, X.35 in Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea, 356. 119. Ibid., XIV.2 in 386. 120. Frank, “The Writer’s Part,” 264. 121. Lowry, In Ballast, 147. See Ackerley, X.35 in ibid., 356. 122. Ibid., 190. See Frank, “The Writer’s Part,” 259. 123. Hart Crane, Complete Poems (Newcastle: Bloodaxe, 1984), 101, cited in Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 195. 124. Conrad Aiken, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico: A Novel (New York: Open Road Media, 2015), chapter II, location 489 (on Kindle). 125. Ibid., loc. 543. 126. Ibid., loc. 489. 127. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 508. 128. Jan Gabrial, Inside the Volcano: My Life with Malcolm Lowry (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000), 102. 129. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 194. 130. Lowry, Under the Volcano, 34, 131. Ibid., 202, and 215. 132. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 213–14.

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133. Aiken, Ushant, 255. 134. Ibid., 331. 135. Ibid., 340. 136. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 220. 137. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 537. He also refers to Timothy Shay Arthur’s temperance novel, Ten Nights in a Bar-Room and What I Saw There (1854), which was transformed into William W. Pratt’s play in 1858 and into American films in 1901–31. 138. Letter to Malcolm Lowry dated September 4, 1946 (Jeakes House, Rye) in Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 196. 139. See Day, Malcolm Lowry, 223; Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 120; and Aiken, Ushant, 290. 140. Lowry, Under the Volcano, 56. 141. Aiken, Ushant, 85 and 342. 142. Ibid., 294. D. reveals that—on a P. & O. voyage—he “discussed and elaborated with Hambo [. . .] the dream of the book which was to be called Ushant, even as the ship itself turned the blue corner of Cape St. Vincent, and headed north to the Bay of Biscay and the Raz de Sein and Ushant” (Ibid., 322–3). 143. Ibid., 295. 144. Ibid., 291. 145. Ibid., 337. 146. Conrad Aiken, “The Kid,” in Selected Poems (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 219. 147. Ibid., 227. 148. Martin, Conrad Aiken, 191. 149. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 207. 150. Martin, Conrad Aiken, 195. See Perle S. Epstein, The Private Labyrinth of Malcolm Lowry: “Under the Volcano” and the Cabbala (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969), 51. 151. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 160. 152. Ibid., I, 166. 153. Ibid., I, 88. 154. Graham-Dixon, “I Never Tell Anybody Anything”; and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 160. 155. Ibid., I, 166 and 257. See Gabrial, Inside the Volcano, 140. 156. Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 149. “John” refers to Davenport (one of Lowry’s closest university friends) and “Ed” to Burra. 157. Ibid., 55–6. 158. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 257. 159. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 274. 160. Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 72. 161. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 286 162. Correspondence to Anne Burra, c/o Wells Fargo Express, Av. Madero, Mexico DF. No date. Tate Archive, TGA 939/2/1 (cited in Adrian Locke, Mexico: A Revolution in Art, 1910–1940 (London: British Academy of Arts, 2013), 169).

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163. See Lowry, Under the Volcano, 376. 164. Letter to Ermentrude Anne Robertson-Luxford, c/o Lowry, Calle Humboldt 62, Cuernavaca, Morelos. No date. Tate Archive, TGA 939/2/1 (cited in Locke, Mexico). 165. Locke, Mexico, 171. 166. Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 196–7. 167. Conrad Aiken, The Collected Novels (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1964), 460–1. 168. Aiken, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, ch. II, loc. 564. 169. Ibid., ch. IV, loc. 1356. 170. Martin, Conrad Aiken, 194. 171. Ibid., 160. 172. Ibid., 160. 173. Aiken, The Collected Novels, 435. 174. Ibid. 175. Aiken, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, ch. III, loc. 1041. 176. Aiken, The Collected Novels, 470. 177. Aiken, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, ch. IV, loc. 1302. 178. Ibid., ch. III, loc. 1259. 179. Ibid., ch. IV, locs 1259, 1302, and 1411. 180. Aiken, Ushant, 292. 181. Ibid., 225–6. 182. Ibid., 226. 183. Ibid., 229. 184. Ibid., 226. 185. Ibid., 291. 186. Martin, Conrad Aiken, 235. 187. Aiken, Ushant, 22. 188. Ted R. Spivey, Time’s Stop in Savannah: Conrad Aiken’s Inner Journey (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997), 116. 189. Ted R. Spivey, “Ushant: Record of a Contemporary Poet’s Quest for SelfKnowledge.” South Atlantic Bulletin 36, no. 4 (November 1971), 26. 190. Butscher, Conrad Aiken, 44–6. 191. Ibid. 192. Aiken, Ushant, 216–17. 193. Mary Martin Rountree, “Conrad Aiken’s Heroes: Portraits of the Artist as a Middle-Aged Failure,” in Spivey and Waterman, eds., Conrad Aiken, 127. 194. Aiken, Ushant, 239. 195. Ibid. 196. Ibid. 197. Martin, Conrad Aiken, 231. 198. Aiken, Ushant, 220. 199. See Spivey, Time’s Stop in Savannah, 113. 200. Aiken, Ushant, 219.

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201. Spivey, Time’s Stop in Savannah, 114. 202. Spivey, “Ushant,” 26. 203. Ted R. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman: The Pilgrimages of Conrad Aiken and Walker Percy (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), 163. 204. Aiken, Ushant, 211. 205. Ibid., 362. 206. Ibid., 365. 207. Bryan Biggs, “Drawn Out: The Appearance of Malcolm Lowry in Contemporary Art,” in Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, ed. Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey. (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009), 17. 208. Mary Augusta Aiken, “The Best Painter of the American Scene,” in Edward Burra: A Painter Remembered by His Friends, ed. William Chappell (London: Andre Deutsch/Lefevre Gallery, 1982), 92, cited in Locke, Mexico, 175. 209. Aiken, Ushant, 226. See also Anthony Powell, Some Poets, Artists & ‘A Reference for Mellors’ (London: Timewell Press, 2005), 151. 210. Aiken, Ushant, 255. 211. See Butscher, Conrad Aiken, 359–60. 212. Ibid., 447. 213. Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 163. 214. Aiken, Ushant, 60. 215. Ibid., 278. 216. Butscher, Conrad Aiken, 360. 217. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 623. 218. Sugars, The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954, 136. 219. Patrick Heron, “Paul Nash—A Memorial Exhibition at the Tate,” New Statesman and Nation, March, 27, 1948: 252. 220. Lowry may have become acquainted with Tzara (the pen-name of Samuel Rosenfield who founded the Dada movement in 1916) in Italy: see Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 130–1, and 185. 221. Breton André, First Surrealist Manifesto (1924), http:​//www​.tcf.​ua.ed​u/Cla​ sses/​Jbutl​er/T3​40/F9​8/Sur​reali​stMan​ifest​o.htm​ (accessed February 12, 2016). 222. See Locke, Mexico, 185. 223. Stevenson, Edward Burra, 236. 224. Irene Herner, “Edward James and Plutarco Gastélum in Xilitla: Critical Paranoia in the Mexican Jungle.” Journal of Surrealism and the Americas 8, no. 1 (2014): 105–23.

Chapter 2

The Evolution of Lowry’s Intuitive Consciousness Bridging the Shamanic Divide in Ultramarine, In Ballast to the White Sea, Swinging the Maelstrom, and The 1940 Under the Volcano

The journeys undertaken by Malcolm Lowry on his “metaphysical and experiential quest” for knowledge from the late 1920s until the mid-1930s had a profound impact on his creative intelligence.1 His visits to the Far East (1927), Germany (1928),2 Norway (1931), France (1932), Spain (1933–1934), and the United States (1934–1936) all exerted a long-lasting impression on his formative mind—one which was nurtured by watching silent expressionist films in his spare time.3 The result was his experimental novels of fictional autobiography entitled Ultramarine, In Ballast to the White Sea, and Swinging the Maelstrom. As in Under the Volcano, intricate, multifaceted webs of psychogeographic associations interface with the visible and the invisible worlds of his characters, charting their outer and inner experiences in material and spiritual domains. His pilgrimage as a writer is launched through courageous expeditions on which he incessantly remakes himself and reality. They progress his lifelong quest to purge and reinvigorate his imagination by entering a shamanically altered, higher state of intuitive consciousness, and spiritual awareness. ULTRAMARINE (1933) Lowry’s earlier, adolescent reading fostered his urge to travel, as illustrated by his selection of monographs for his 1925 book prize which he received 47

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from the Leys Fortnightly periodical while he was a pupil at the Leys School in Cambridge.4 He chose Robert Louis Stevenson’s maritime detective mystery, The Wrecker (1892); Eugene O’Neill’s sea play, Anna Christie (1920); and Michael Arlen’s short story, Mayfair (1925).5 He was inspired too by O’Neill’s existential and expressionist drama, The Hairy Ape (1922)—whose protagonist, Yank seeks a sense of belonging in a world governed by the rich6—and by John Griffith “Jack” London’s psychological adventure novel, The Sea Wolf (1904).7 An important influence on the eventual format of Ultramarine was exerted on him through studying the works of Conrad Aiken and developing a process of surrealist experimentation by identifying profoundly symbolic levels of meaning.8 He perused his nautical novel of the Atlantic, Blue Voyage (1927), in December—that is, just after its publication (when he had returned home to England from the Far East), but well before the release of his own novella.9 In a 1933 letter to Aiken, he admits: “Blue Voyage, apart from its being the best nonsecular statement of the plight of the creative artist with the courage to live in a modern world, has become part of my consciousness, & I cannot conceive of any other way in which Ultramarine might be written.”10 He titled the latter after Aiken’s reference to the ocean as an “ultramarine abyss.”11 Inspired by its supreme force which possessed the power to determine the fate of the vulnerable seafarer, he developed the notion of a chasm between material and spiritual worlds. It was one which he pursued by inserting the psychogeographic image of the barranca, or ravine in Under the Volcano. In his correspondence, he acknowledged the deep impression made by O’Neill and Aiken in molding his outlook on the world in the following way: It remained to be explained how a boy of 18, more or less inexperienced save in one tough aspect of life, namely the sea, (a fragmentary thing, but still I’d been a seaman—O’Neill sent me to sea, I guess—[. . .]), could be drawn as by some irresistible teleological force toward an aspect of the mind or psyche of another much older, totally different in experience & nationality & outlook, and moreover, in Blue Voyage at least, with a philosophy & psychological drang [. . .] that he the boy, did not understand.12

Paying tribute to Conrad Aiken’s powerful stimulus which served as an energizing enlightenment which nurtured his creative skills and guided his literary and spiritual development, he observed: Speaking of Aiken as a writer [. . .] his work first slammed down on my raw psyche like the lightning slamming down on the slew outside at this moment, I have always thought that he was the truest and most direct descendant of our own great Elizabethans, having a supreme gift of dramatic and poetic language, a genius of the highest and most original order.13

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Blue Voyage provided the springboard for his ongoing investigation of the relationship between hallucinations and reality—a feature which would become central to his later works. In Under the Volcano, the Consul becomes deluded by his envisaged supernatural powers, and in “The Forest Path to the Spring,” the narrator is threatened by apparitions of a cougar. The “fragmented consciousness” of Aiken’s pivotal novel stimulated Lowry’s attempts to juxtapose the internal and external domains of Eugene Dana Hilliot’s consciousness in Ultramarine.14 The influence of Blue Voyage is evident in the following revelations by Gordon Bowker which highlight the impact of a fissure caused by perceptions emanating from different cognitive realms: Here was an author who seemed able to articulate the inner anguish and inspired suffering which he felt gave his Pyrrhus experience its unique significance. [. . .] What he saw in Blue Voyage was beyond his rational power to grasp. [. . .] The action [. . .] switches from the flow of unremarkable external events on the ship to the anguished stream of consciousness of Demerest, between reality and the illusion of reality, the voyage slowly becoming a symbolic voyage of selfdiscovery. [. . .] Beyond that is the self-sacrificial poet who sees himself as the lightning-rod, the man of suffering whose suffering is the world’s suffering.15

Another important influence on his outlook was Nordahl Grieg’s The Ship Sails On, which has been described as “one of the more powerful naturalistic novels of its time.”16 It resulted in his becoming an ardent admirer of the work of this “man obsessed with gaining a totality of experiences” (as he himself was).17 Intent on making Grieg’s acquaintance, he managed to meet him in Oslo, during his August–September 1931 visit to Norway.18 He encountered him again in December at the Bodleian Library in Oxford.19 Lowry and Grieg shared much in common: a romantic vision of the world and a determination to become well-acknowledged writers through experience gained from sea-travel: “Both were restless men engaged on their respective endless voyages.”20 Their flourishing psychological rapport is a crucial factor in the evolution of Lowry’s self-awareness and in his growing fascination with Nordic countries. He often deploys the Grieg connection to enhance his sense of Norwegianness and to mold his own fiction.21 Attesting to a Norwegian ancestry, he transforms his maternal grandfather, Malcolm Boden Lowry into a sea captain who loses his life with his crew in Ultramarine.22 Yet, despite the appearance of Norwegian terminology, it is not necessarily borrowed from Grieg.23 The vernacular in Ultramarine—“the most ‘Norwegian’ of his novels”24—may have sprung from Lowry’s acquaintance with sailors in Liverpool and from his cruises abroad. His characters retain a sense of Englishness: when Nikolai—a Norwegian fireman—hears Hilliot contending that he was born in Norway, he ironically responds, “‘I tink you are very much English all the same.’”25

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However, in his Spring 1939 letter to Grieg, Lowry demonstrates a familiarity with The Ship Sails On, which was out of print in England but accessible to him. Claiming to have finished reading it, he expresses a desire to adapt it for the stage in the United States.26 He refers to it as “a great book”—one to which he has remained faithful in drafting Ultramarine.27 His craftsmanship in skilfully and periodically utilizing pastiche is in evidence, as is his use of Grieg’s material to revamp his own experiences and perceptions into what has been called “a powerful private aesthetic.”28 At sea for the first time, the characters of Benjamin Hall in The Ship Sails On and Hilliot in Ultramarine have much in common: a state of fledgling innocence, a need to avoid being alienated by their fellow crew members, a predisposition to reflect on the virtues of a girl back home, and a propensity toward the lure of temptations of the flesh (though with different outcomes). Lowry did recognize such similarities, for he conceded to Grieg: “My identity with Benjamin eventually led me into mental trouble. Much of U. [Ultramarine] is paraphrase, plagiarism, or pastiche, from you.”29 Certain phrases are analogous, for example, in implying that Bergeners are boastful and vociferous.30 In Ultramarine, Andy is reported to have defended his honor by striking his new captain, a Stavangerian, for calling him a Bergenerian (UM, 17). In In Ballast to the White Sea, the fictional Norwegian novelist, William Erikson—whose name is identical to that of an American who is robbed, shot, and then hurled into a barranca in Taxco in Mexico31—is referred to as a Bergener.32 In Ultramarine, there is the occasional borrowing of geographical places from The Ship Sails On. The port of Tvedestrand (where both Andy and Norman were born) and the given name, “Leif” are akin to those found in Grieg’s cyclic novel.33 Norwegian genealogy is also a prominent theme in Ultramarine. In chapter 2, Hilliot behaves like a Dostoyevskian “Underground Man” by burrowing into memories of his past.34 He uses “subterranean time” to confess not only to having been sent down from Cambridge for failing his first-year examinations but also to establish his Norwegian ancestry, of which he is proud.35 His claim assumes a spiritual significance owing to religious connotations associated with Christiania, his actual birthplace.36 He maintains that he is a “Christiana boy,” as he was born there before it was renamed Oslo and that he is Norwegian, as are the cook and galley boy (UM, 84). On an earlier occasion, strolling with his father (who emulates Grieg), he transports the reader to Norway’s capital by asserting that they glimpsed the Viking ship after dining at Jacques’s Bagatelle on Bydgö Allé (Ibid., 52).37 He returns to his “blast from the past” image by transforming this vessel into Oxenstjerna, a fictional Norwegian liner which, he contends, has gone aground in the River Mersey which separates Lowry’s Liverpool from the Wirral (UM, 70 and 187).

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Another reference to Norway appears in the revelation that the experienced second cook and mariner, Anderson (who is nicknamed the “chinless wonder” for his war-time injuries) is partly Norwegian, as is evident from his tattoos (Ibid., 22). He is representative of the age, class, and pedagogic barriers which exist between himself and the nineteen-year-old Hilliot (Lowry’s alter ego), whom he instantly dislikes for his “eddication” and for representating “toffs who come to sea for experience” (Ibid., 59 and 21). Hilliot explains that he himself is viewed by the other sailors (who would have had difficulty in securing employment in a merchant navy which was still recovering from tremendous losses in the First World War) as a privileged outsider from a completely different social class.38 As had happened to Lowry, he contends that his guardian drove him up the wharf where his ship, the Oedipus Tyrannus was berthed (UM, 21).39 In Under the Volcano, this very same freighter awaits Hugh in Vera Cruz to take him on a mission to supply the Spanish Loyalists with armaments.40 Ultramarine conjures up the excitement of Lowry’s four-month voyage to Japan via China in 1927, as a deckhand on the Blue Funnel cargo vessel, SS Pyrrhus. Having “stage-managed” the appearance of the press so that he would be interviewed by them,41 he announced his impending departure in the Liverpool Echo by declaring: “I hope to get fresh atmosphere and inspiration.”42 Two days later, his contentions were bolstered by a further article entitled, “Rich Boy as Deck hand.”43 It was reprinted in several daily newspapers and reported that he was “forsaking the comforts of home at Inglewood, Caldy [. . .] for a rigorous life at sea.”44 He elucidated: “No silk-cushion youth for me. I want to see the world, and rub shoulders with oddities, and get some experience of life before I go back to Cambridge University.”45 After his ship had left port, his mother added, “he is bent on a literary career, and his shortstory writing is all to him.”46 The SS Pyrrhus cruised to Japan via Port Said in Egypt, the volcanic island of Perim in Yemen, Penang and Port Swettenham (now known as Port Klang) in Malaysia, Singapore, Kowloon in Hong Kong, and Shanghai in China. It then docked at the ports of Kobe, Yokohama, and eventually Dairen (which had become Japanese by the time of Lowry’s stopover, but is now Dalian in China). It returned to the United Kingdom via Tsingtao (or Qingdao) and Foo Chow (or Fuzhou) in China, Manila in the Philippines, and Singapore.47 This journey provided Lowry with plenty of experiences and crises of identity which were to shape the emotional and intellectual development of his fictional heroes in his psychogeographical novella, Ultramarine. Hilliot’s innate yearning for the tumult of the ocean leads him to seek independence and self-discovery on his ten-month voyage on the fictitious Oedipus Tyrannus (which was originally meant to be Norwegian) (UM, 96).48 This maritime expanse acts as a supernatural means of conveying him from Liverpool to

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what he considers to be the “marvels of an unknown land” in the Far East and back (UM, 30). It spans vibrant images in his creative mind which visualizes the sea as being a route to a peculiar, magic, fairy-tale land (Ibid., 30 and 47). A mental impression of the River Mersey engages the spinning of the cinematic reels of his imagination as it traverses internalized time and space, for he envisages the River Mersey to be an enormous camera film winding slowly but inexorably as it entangles him in its meshes of celluloid (Ibid., 132). During a visit to a cinema in the red-light district of Dairen with Hans Popplereuter, this “tinkling sciolist” transposes the advertisements of this port city—as they flash across the screen—into shots of approaching landmarks of Tsjang-Tsjang.49 Influenced by Karl Grune’s expressionist film, Die Strasse (1923), as Kazuo Yokouchi has contended, the nightmarish depiction of this fictional port appears to be a blend of several Chinese and Japanese towns which Lowry visited.50 According to his correspondence, his ship takes him “smack through the first bloody Chinese revolution of 1927 etc., though he has only seen glimpses of the real thing.”51 Although it has been claimed that his description of Tsjang-Tsjang suggests that he might have witnessed the Chinese Civil War (1927–1949) and “even perceived the first signs of Japan’s invasion into China that was taking place just in the months Lowry visited the area” (owing perhaps to the existence of Japanese-leased territory in the southern part of the Liaodong Peninsula), the Kwantung Army’s incursion into Manchuria was to commence much later, on September, 19, 1931.52 Nevertheless, in Lowry’s portrayal, Tsjang-Tsjang does bear a resemblance to Kobe in Japan, for the American Hatoba (or pier), the Oriental Hotel, and the Kyo-Bashi bridge all come into view in Ultramarine (UM, 110 and 98). An advertisement relating to an export manufacturer in the port of Nagoya comes into view (Ibid., 99). Applying the same technique which he uses in Under the Volcano to transpose Oaxacan sights to Cuernavaca, Lowry focuses on the small anatomical museum to spark haunting Liverpudlian memories of a similar one back home via recollections of grotesque exhibits, of patients who had been afflicted by syphilis and other forms of venereal disease while they were still alive (Ibid., 103). Such an attraction he had glimpsed on Paradise Street before his departure for the Far East (Ibid., 113).53 As a novella about growing up, Ultramarine is rooted in Lowry’s reminiscences of his own childhood in Liscard (where he was born in 1909) and in the seaside resort of New Brighton—both located in Wallasey in the Wirral (which has since become the metropolitan borough of Merseyside). Such flashbacks solipsistically enable the fictional Hilliot—in his pursuit of harmony—to overcome his introspective deliberations on the trials and tribulations of the aggressive environment which he experiences at sea. They lead him to contemplate that, if he had known that he was happy then, there

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would have been no necessity, as if against his will, to have taken the opportunity of immortalizing the past in the present (UM, 51). He is also adept at transposing images of being persecuted by other members of the Oedipus Tyrannus’s crew (some of whom, in their jealousy, hold him in contempt for his nonworking-class background) with those of his “dreamed other life” (Ibid., 18). Triggered by the noise of the ship’s engine, he is beleaguered by a nightmare which takes him back to his childhood: He sees himself with ink-stains on his fingers, sitting on the steps of his school’s swimming baths, having been left out of the team (Ibid., 25). Yet, he succeeds in transcending this recollection through the self-assurance that he is the swiftest and most adept swimmer on board the Oedipus Tyrannus (Ibid.). Other perceptions of the past associated with Liverpool consolidate his growing confidence in the present. He vividly remembers enlisting at the Board of Trade office, glimpsing the time on the Liver Building clock, and accompanying seafarers from the Oedipus Tyrannus to a Mutual Aid Society Booth situated in Cathcart Street, close to the ship’s berth (Ibid., 19, 20, and 131). His kaleidoscope of icons also encompasses Birkenhead, Leasowe, Port Sunlight, and Upton across the River Mersey in the Wirral.54 It is through such yearnings that, overseas, he intuitively reaches a higher state of awareness which determines the significance of Liverpool as the city in which “all hearts spin towards the light and burn themselves in its fire, whose nerves are played to death and sing like violins in defiance and painful exultation, because we still exist.” (UM, 80–81) He is faced with the plight of attempting to recall and, where necessary, expunge the vivid memories of his past. In venturing to gain sympathy, he confesses his distressing reservations to Hans Popplereuter, admitting that he had wept for a forsaken childhood, lost opportunities and an “extra-mundane intelligence” (Ibid., 94). However, Ultramarine not only provides a documentary audiovisual account of its hero’s escapades aboard the Oedipus Tyrannus and in the ports where it docks, concentrated into just four days, but it is also an epistolary novel.55 It focuses on Hilliot’s evolving, dream-like letter to Janet Rohtraut Travena in New Brighton. In his ongoing telepathic communications, he expresses his nostalgia and (as does Lowry) manages simultaneously to transport himself back to England and convey his girlfriend to the Far East (if only in his mind) (UM, 187 and 130).56 In so doing, he facilitates elements of caution and sobriety necessary to counterbalance the trajectory of the rapidly unfolding events at sea. In view of Janet Travena’s ontogenesis, the importance of Lowry’s “smitten letters” to Carol Brown—written between April and July 1926—has been emphasized.57 Although his feelings are unrequited,58 they “alternate between proclamations of his adolescent love” and “descriptions of his attempts to prove devotion for her.”59 However, a major stimulus for the creation of the

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fictional persona of Janet is provided by his subsequent relationship with Tessa Evans, whose name is partly an anagram of Travena’s.60 Resident in Wallasey, Tessa is a shorthand typist with whom he has become acquainted at a New Brighton dance hall in 1926.61 Also significant in the unfolding sequence of affairs of the heart and their impact on his creative mind is his subsequent liaison with Doris Lewis. A Boston arts student and stepdaughter of Charles D. Voorhis, “Dolly” is also Aiken’s friend.62 Falling in love with her in 1929, Lowry declares his affection with the words: “There is only you, forever and forever you: in bars and out of bars, in fields and out of fields, in boats and out of boats [. . .] there is only love and tenderness of everything about you, our comings in and our goings forth [. . .] I would love you the same if you had one ear, or one eye.”63 Consequently, his early flirtations relate to “the story of a spirit trying to break loose.”64 In Ultramarine, such memories penetrate Hilliot’s consciousness and counterpoise the traumatic temptations which he experiences on the path of initiation into adulthood. Yet, he has second thoughts; he proves himself by imagining he and his shipmates singing rowdy songs and setting foot ashore for “a deaf, blind debauch” (UM, 21). On his voyage across the globe, Hilliot encounters urges of beckoning temptations— especially sexual overtures—exuding from the gay Quartermaster and from other members of the ship’s crew, including Andy. One way in which they attempt to initiate him into manhood is by enticing him to seek pleasures ashore and form liaisons with “Janes” (i.e., with prostitutes) whenever the Oedipus Tyrannus—his “manifold security” and “his harbor”—reaches terra firma (Ibid., 43). A Westernized port, Tsjang-Tsjang “symbolizes the abyss of his present self-indulgence.”65 While “adrift” there, he makes the acquaintance of a Russian refugee called Olga Sologub. Her given name is akin to that of the Russian-German actress, Olga Tschechowa (Olga Chekhova)66 and her surname evokes that of the Russian Symbolist poet and novelist, Fyodor Sologub.67 Yet, she is described as a harlot and a “queen of love” (UM, 106). Hilliot’s association with her leads to his spiritual enlightenment as he perceives “something mysterious about her, like stars” (Ibid.). As is the case with the Consul in Under the Volcano, his search for a mature, integrated identity results in his compulsive plea for divine intervention to reveal the right path to take. It assumes spiritual dimensions, for having admitted earlier that he was fearful of life and manhood, he utters a prayer: “Please God, I love Janet so. O Lord, show me the way” (Ibid., 32). It is his subconscious thoughts of an angelic Janet which continually remind him of his duty to remain faithful to her and enable him to withstand temptations of the flesh (Ibid., 34). Turning his focus to Olga, he is prompted to observe that her appearance strangely resembles Janet’s: “I shut my eyes and imagined that this was

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indeed Janet and I dancing at the New Brighton Palais de Danse” (Ibid., 106). In his subsequent dream, he becomes jealous of Olga gyrating “lumberingly and possessively” with his abuser, Andy (Ibid., 133). Yet, his profound and enduring love for Janet reinforces his glimpse of the danger of consolidating his relationship with Olga: he remains fearful of contracting syphilis (as was Lowry himself).68 Having embarked on a pilgrimage to the Great Circle (the title of Conrad Aiken’s 1933 autobiographical novel, the interior and exterior monologues of which focus on the theme of consciousness achieved through the confessions of youth)69 and demonstrated that he is able to connect his reflections at sea with living memories of his girlfriend back home, Hilliot assimilates a “world within world, sea within sea, void within void, the ultimate, the unescapable, the ninth circle” (UM, 23). The telepathic timing of the delivery of the communication from Janet signifies that his fate is unlike that of Benjamin Hall in the bleakly deterministic The Ship Sails On, who too receives a letter from his idealized love, Eva. In contrast to the succession of events in Ultramarine, this occurrence happens only after Benjamin has surrendered his manhood by joining his fellow crew members in their sexual orgies. At least, in Lowry’s version, Hilliot proves that he is capable of resisting the coercive solicitations which threaten to immerse him into a hell akin to that of Inferno, the first section of Dante Alighieri’s fourteenth-century epic poem, Divine Comedy (Ibid.). In striving to abide by his conscience, his reaction to circumstances turns out to be quite different from that of the Consul in Under the Volcano who—at the point of his Fall from the Mexican Garden of Eden—deems that he has no alternative, but to submit to the prostitute, María “whose body was Yvonne’s too.”70 In Ultramarine, Hilliot is compelled to identify and to come to terms with his own weaknesses, including his distress at being insufficiently brave to climb the ship’s mast to rescue Norman’s pet “mickey” (the stranded, grey carrier-pigeon) (UM, 26–27). This incident is derived from dreams of heroically rescuing the captive bird and of murdering Andy in Lowry’s stories, “Port Swettenham” and “Punctum Indifferens Skibet Gaar Videre.”71 Tragically, in Ultramarine, when the pigeon manages to escape from its cage, Hilliot is unable to save it from being drowned in the shark- and crocodileinfested sea (UM, 148–51). His diverse life experiences stimulate in him a higher awareness of his environment. Mentally processing the paradox of his existence, he constantly gropes for veracity. With the expectation of a wisdom-bestowing epiphany, he reaches the conviction that “out of the nothing of nescience” would emerge a “conscious knowledge” of truth as “absolute power, absolute happiness” (Ibid., 111). His recognition of the importance of compassion induces him to change for the better by adopting a spiritually inspired, moral attitude

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to life in order to overcome the predicaments posed by his current situation. This revelation sows in his mind a determination to address ethical dilemmas by learning to empathize with others without pitying himself: “Where are the slaves that must be freed, the children who must have milk? I shall find them. I must find them” (Ibid., 171). The harmony of companionship provides him with a solution to the quandaries which have been plaguing him on his sea voyage. Having divulged the content of Janet’s letter wherein she declares her cravings (ibid., 168–69), he discloses the substance of his unsent response which reveals his growing affinity for his shipmates. Having overcome his earlier traumas, he has become transformed into an enlightened soul who has discovered an innate ability to discern the meaning of his individual existence in its relationship to humanity’s and to recognize, as Kazuo Yokouchi has contended, the battlefield experience of the war generation exemplified by Andy.72 As a consequence, he undergoes an increasingly magnanimous urge to apologize to him for the various affronts which, he now admits to himself, he has committed against him (UM, 145 and 157).73 His metamorphosis is complete when he declares to Janet that his love for her has transformed him. Considering himself “a creature of luck,” he confesses, “I have identification with Andy: I am Andy. [. . .] But I have outgrown Andy” (Ibid., 170). He proclaims that, being in love with her, he has acquired a “sublimating all-embracing love for mankind” (Ibid.). His increasingly spiritual approach to life is enhanced by his aspirations to free himself from the “dynamic circle” of his internalized landscape (or dreamworld) and to achieve harmony with his incongruous surroundings.74 By transcending the multitude of experiences which he encounters in his everyday existence away from home, he is able to become spiritually enlightened through a deeper understanding of the interdependence of the universe. It is by questioning his received beliefs that he deduces the necessity for an equilibrium in life processes, pondering: “Why was it his brain could not accept the dissonance as simply as a harmony, could not make order emerge from this chaos? Surely God had made man free from the first” (UM, 157). He believes that chaos and disunity, rather than law and order, are the principles of life—the sustainer of everything. In “the maelstrom of noise, of tangled motion, of shining steel,” he perceives the significance of the regularity of the moving bars (Ibid., 158). He glimpses “the interdependence of rod grasping rod, of shooting straight line seizing curved arms,” relating his sensations to the meaning of his own existence and his own struggles (Ibid.). Recognizing his love for the ship and for life, he acknowledges that the former has facilitated the transformation of his awareness of himself and his surroundings. He reflects: the “enormous cones of light” which flood some areas, but leave

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others in shadow are the “lanterns of his mind swinging in a house of darkness” which occasionally “blossomed into a tree of light!” (Ibid.). In view of Nikolai’s laborious shoveling of coal into the fiery inferno of the ship’s furnace, he assumes that, in spite of their efforts, the firemen appear to derive more fun from life than the sailors and are closer to God (Ibid., 25). Eluding to Exodus 6: 6, Matthew 4: 16, and Ephesians 5: 8, he exhorts that Nikolai should be delivered from bondage and conveyed from the pain and grief of darkness into sunlight (Ibid., 73). He refers to the Sermon on the Mount narrated in Matthew, 5: 3: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven” (Ibid., 186). By recognizing his inner need to seek reconciliation with the turmoil of his environment and with his recollections of the past, Hilliot has undergone considerable psychic development. Having overcome challenging experiences, he has become accepted gradually as a bona fide member of the ship’s crew. He is now fully aware of the impact of the boundless firmament on his consciousness of his fellow seafarers and of the spiritual response elicited in relating celestial observations at sea to an acute realization of the unlimited expanse of the universe. He has transgressed his earlier musing of “his whole being [. . .] drowning in memories” and the odors of Birkenhead and Liverpool (Ibid., 27). He anticipates Janet waiting for him: his eternal love for her is “the star to the wandering ship” (Ibid.). It is to the timeless heavens that he progressively turns for spiritual enlightenment: to the distant planet of Saturn, to the star constellations of Cassiopeia and Orion, and beyond, to the Milky Way itself (Ibid., 84–85). Reflecting on the shower of incandescent sparks emitting from the blazing furnace on board ship, he observes the sparkling sky roaring with heat just like a cauldron: “The whole vast blue seemed to be a Catherine wheel, gigantic and invisible, whirling and blinking and spinning over the Oedipus Tyrannus” (Ibid., 144). His intuitive, dream-like consciousness enables him to connect his immediate marine environment with the celestial realm of the universe in his odyssey to attain an integrated perspective. He philosophizes on his growing enlightenment: “It is better to go always towards the summer, towards those burning seas of light; to sit at night in the forecastle lost in an unfamiliar dream, when the spirit becomes filled with stars (Ibid., 185). He aspires to be outward bound: “Always outward, always onward, to be fighting always for the dreamt-ofharbour” (Ibid.). It is from Dairen back to England—to complete his divine circle by attempting to glimpse the future via the past—that he now reverts to reconcile himself with his genesis. Having experienced the Far East, his impulse is to rediscover the cradle of Western civilization by escaping from the seaport—the name of which had beguiled him—to return to his starting point. He declares, “So this was the East, the East which he had longed for. And

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now that he had had his fill of it, and longed to breathe normal air again” (Ibid., 145). IN BALLAST TO THE WHITE SEA (2014) A sequel to Ultramarine, the annotated, scholarly edition of In Ballast to the White Sea is based on the 1936 version of Lowry’s ambitious, 1,000page manuscript (a later one being incinerated in the 1944 fire which burned down his shack overlooking Burrard Inlet).75 As a fictional autobiography, it spans his psychogeographic recollections of his childhood and youth spent in the Wirral and in Liverpool, as well as of his studies at the University of Cambridge (where he matriculated in October 1929 and graduated in May 1932). It also represents his use of “the philosopher’s stone” to pursue the inner truths of civilization, if not to apply alchemy to turn base metals into gold (IB, 8). In In Ballast to the White Sea Sigbjørn Hansen-Tarnmoor (who is known by his family simply as “Barney”) and his suicidal, “Dostoievskian” brother, Tor are siblings.76 Born in Norway, they have been brought up in the United Kingdom and are both undergraduates at Trinity College, Cambridge. In his correspondence, Lowry expresses his empathy with Sigbjørn, elucidating that the hero of his novel is “a young student at Cambridge, of Scandinavian origin & with a sea-faring experience such as my own.”77 He confesses that he bears autobiographical similarities to himself in terms of education and maritime skills, stating: “I [. . .] am by & large, more or less (with reservations of course) A.”78 From the outset of In Ballast to the White Sea, the relationship between Sigbjørn and Tor is presented as being unstable. They are described as two people battling to death for holding antithetical opinions (IB, 33). A schism has formed owing to their mutual spiritual hostilities: a dual magnetism is envisaged as pulling these brothers toward the “separate poles of their oceanic destiny” (Ibid., 4). A prime weakness is an overwhelming inability to connect to real life. However, they do ask themselves and each other poignant questions about the nature of existence. For example, as they go past the window of Moore’s Music Shop (the Pianoforte and Music Warehouse of Wm James Moore) at 22 Magdalene Street in Cambridge,79 they glimpse a manuscript exhibition which creates a mental analogy between combinations of sounds and the fundamental nature of knowledge and reality. It provokes the deduction that the universe is a scroll of music (IB, 14). Tor censures Sigbjørn for claiming that his soul turned outward to the pole of matter when it was actually rotating inwards—not toward the spirit but upon itself (Ibid., 15).80

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In alluding to “the unknown human being” as embarking on “quite a different pilgrimage” owing to its indeterminate characteristic, Tor denigrates his brother’s odyssey (IB, 19). Acknowledging what he calls the shipwreck of his life, he recognizes his own fallibilities by admitting that he has failed to evoke the inner truths of existence and of his actions (Ibid., 23). Described as “a man who sees into hell and doesn’t know it” (ibid., 14), he raises the dilemma why innocent people must perish (Ibid., 29). He is reminded of the way in which global catastrophes can have a long-term impact by Sigbjørn, who envisages that the Titanic and pre–First World War disasters emitted supernatural signals, indicating the need for revolutionary change (Ibid.). He is conscious of the political and military uncertainties besetting the United Kingdom in the interwar period, for he declares that he is ashamed to reside not only in that country, but in the world as it is (Ibid.). Nevertheless, he is a person of contradictions, as is evident in the juxtaposition of his proclaimed religious affiliation with his condemnation of Sigbjørn’s “vague mysticism” (Ibid., 25). He declares, “I love God but loathe superstition, but unlike him I am superstitious” (Ibid.). His sibling too is inconsistent. On the one hand, Sigbjørn is viewed as having “a faith, of a kind, in God.”81 Alluding to The Secret Doctrine: The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy (1888) by Helena Petrovna Blavatsky (1831–1891), he acknowledges the existence of secret knowledge (IB, 12). He believes that a power for good is watching over everything (Ibid.). Yet, his musings are derided by Tor who highlights a conflict between pretensions to spiritual esotericism and to physical emancipation (Ibid., 34). Such references to arcane knowledge are remarkably similar to the reflections of Madame Blavatsky who makes the following observations in volume III of The Secret Doctrine: “Throughout the whole mystic literature of the ancient world we detect the same idea of spiritual Esotericism, that the personal God exists within, nowhere outside, the worshipper.”82 On the other hand, Sigbjørn is a self-confessed, haunted individual (IB, 34). He is presented as being “an almost pathological liar” who “invents the most fantastic tales about himself at every point that are so vivid they have a kind of life of their own.”83 His character is in a constant state of flux, for his “needle respects all points of the compass alike” (IB, 34). His “whole conception of life & human destiny”84 is altered by the combination of events and by his constant endeavors “to break the circle of self, even in the shadow of disaster” (IB, 6). Hence, his path to salvation is an arduous one. As Lowry illuminates in his correspondence, he “meets a girl with whom he falls violently in love [. . .] on the day of his pilgrimage to his mother’s grave.85 This is described as “his first real experience of mature love.”86 Lowry’s account is given a Dostoyevskian twist by his divulgence that, in a scene which indicates “the

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existence of the transcendental,” the action of the earlier-mentioned character, A (that is, Sigbjørn) has “resulted in his salvation by his girl.”87 Thus, he has “listened finally to the promptings of his own spirit, and acted upon those promptings, rather than the analytical reductions of reason, though it is reason too,—by virtue of harmony with the great forces within the Soul—that has been saved.”88 In narrating this love affair, Lowry skilfully transposes time and place. Although the depicted liaison actually happens in Norway (where Sigbjørn’s mother is buried),89 it bears a stark resemblance to his so-called pilgrimage” in Cambridge with Nina (IB, 15), who is an image of the earliermentioned Janet in New Brighton.90 In an analogy to a fundamental hypothesis made by the philosopher, soldier, and aeronautical engineer, J. W. Dunne, FRAeS (1875–1949) (who conjectures the existence of hierarchies of dimensions of time and consciousness), Sigbjørn is portrayed as encountering “coincidence after coincidence, obeying a kind of Law of Series of their own.”91 His sense of fortuity results in his eventual spiritual rebirth, as he surmises that there must be some order in chance and coincidence: he cannot conceive that they are purely a “blind malicious force” (IB, 29). His contention is reinforced by Nina who acts as a conduit between the siblings. Yet, Sigbjørn attempts to avoid his brother’s intrusion by interjecting that, although he was trying to make amends with Nina, Tor was interfering (Ibid., 15). However, it is Nina who highlights their differing approaches to life. She indicates Tor’s political inclinations whereby social differences would be resolved by means of revolution. She identifies that the brothers are different, in that Tor does not seek external assistance, for he views the world as a game of chance without pretending to see any order in it (Ibid., 94). She claims that he perceives only one way out to evade natural malevolence and “canalize” its force for his own benefit by suffering not as an animal but as a human being: the key is through revolution, its goal being a classless society (Ibid., 94). In the conversation which transpires, the role of the working classes and Sigbjørn’s commitment to their plight is broached. He contends that he empathizes with the proletariat by asserting his allegiance to it. He claims that he had led the life of a worker before Cambridge and soon will be one anew (Ibid., 95). Nevertheless, Nina views social revolution—with all its obstacles—as a prerequisite for the transformation of society and for the resolution of the poignant problems which afflict it. She elucidates that only after the workers had become triumphant that social issues could come to the fore in a nonstatic new world order which, however, would have its own contradictions (Ibid., 96). The type of revolution needed is a significant factor in the considerations of Sigbjørn and Nina. The former pledges faith in a guardian angel whose function is to endow life with meaning by contemplating that his guardian angel

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does exist (Ibid., 98). Yet, his plea for a cognitive, spiritual metamorphosis to precede a social one is derided by Nina who asserts that, if he were anticipating or advocating a psychical revolution before a social one, he “might as well expect to revive a corpse” (Ibid., 102). She claims that if there would be a revolution of the soul—or of the word—it would not be organized in a capitalistic way (Ibid.). In response, Sigbjørn evokes Matthew 22:14 which states: “For many are called, but few are chosen.”92 He mirrors the stance taken by the Bolsheviks who advocated that a people’s revolution should be organized in Russia by a core of committed, professional insurgents. He explores his conceptions of how a transformation of the soul should be managed and predicts its outcome, declaring that only a few would be selected (IB, 102). Yet, the identified necessity to establish truth and to rejuvenate civilization through spiritual renaissance is a principle which even Tor finds appealing. He expresses his agreement with his brother by contending that, once their old selves were reborn, truth would strike everywhere and in everything (Ibid., 30). Nevertheless, he pleas for caution to be exercised in case of treachery, maintaining that each soul should know its Gethsemane (Ibid., 32). As does the Consul in Under the Volcano, he associates the necessity to transform humanity by nurturing an Edenic paradise. He suggests that they cultivate their garden in the form of a new society and, indeed, world (Ibid., 29). However, their point of difference lies in the very process through which this metamorphosis—the “vast mountain change of humanity itself”—is achievable (Ibid., 35). Sigbjørn disparages an overdependence on singlemindedness to the detriment of intuitive perception, asserting to Tor that it is his dependence on will-power which will prove fatal (Ibid., 29). In the honing of their psychogeographic awareness, Cambridge is given a prominent setting for the images and sounds which it evokes. Through Sigbjørn’s strolls around his university town (a city since 1951), he has become well acquainted with certain landmarks. They may be divided into the following categories: streets, colleges, and other spectacles. The first one encompasses the area demarcated by the following thoroughfares (listed in order of appearance): Chesterton Lane, Sidney Street, a bridge across the “backs” (i.e. college grounds), Bridge Street, Newmarket Road, Bene’t Street, Mill Road, Bateman Street, Leadenhall Street, Trumpington Street, King’s Parade, Silver Street, and St Eligius Street. The colleges with which Sigbjørn is most familiar are Magdalene, King’s, St Catharine’s, Queens’, Corpus Christi, Pembroke, and Peterhouse, as well as Freshman’s Hall. Other sights referred to in In Ballast to the White Sea comprise walls, towers, terraces, the railway station, the beautiful setting of rowers and punts on the River Cam, Midsummer Common, Huntingdon, the clock in the Round Church, Market Hill, Peti-Curi, the Market Square, Bath Hotel, the Friar House, the Art School, “Family and Commercial,” Lloyds, and

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Addenbrooke’s Hospital. Also identified is The Eagle, a historic tavern on Bene’t Street (where Francis Crick and James Watson were to announce—on February 28, 1953—that they had “discovered the secret of life” in DNA).93 Castle Hill is mentioned by Tor in the context of it being the location of the “last hanging on the mound” (IB, 3). In deference to the Russian mathematician and esotericist, Peter D. Ouspensky (1878–1947), whose Voice proclaims, “Behold, this is the man who has seen the Truth”94—he explains that it is where the last hanged man was hanged upside down like the man in the pack of Tarot cards for seeing truth (IB, 9). It is also portrayed as the site of the old gallows (Ibid., 5).95 Tor’s private joke transports the reader to eastern Turkey—to the volcanic Mount Ararat, on which Noah’s Ark is said to have been grounded after the Flood (IB, 5).96 According to legend, it was that vessel which provided the human race with a means of survival against the cataclysm caused by the Deluge. In In Ballast to the White Sea, the theme of water is closely linked to destiny. Its fluvial characteristics have psychogeographic implications which ripple across three main categories: the river, the sea, and the ocean. The first is associated initially with the sounds of Cambridge. Although the Cam is described as winding through the willows and poplars which are growing in the marshland (IB, 8), this meandering river is not devoid of the cacophony of the worldly turbulence resulting from rowers’ cries or the “gunshot of traffic” (Ibid., 3). However, in its natural habitat (which withstands such distractions), it is described as having spiritual and cosmic dimensions, as experienced by Sigbjørn. His thoughts turn to the meaning of his existence. As the rowers return from Chesterton and the River Cam meanders through Cambridge, his gaze focuses on a lone gull flying out over the fens. He senses the power of water flowing through “the spirit of all these things” in search of the ocean, as the soul seeks Brahma (Ibid., 8). His deliberations on the spiritual aspects of the Cam result in the molding of synergies between “the incommunicability of knowledge arrived at by intuition” and the subtle indiscernibility of the Tao (Ibid., 13). Citing from The Meaning of Culture (1929) by the charismatic lecturer, writer, and philosopher, John Cowper Powys, the narrator of In Ballast to the White Sea contemplates the riverine aspects of human destiny. As the brothers reach a bridge across the “backs,” they psychogeographically connect the present with Sigbjørn’s previous maritime experiences. Although silent, the shimmering depths of water below them reflect the terrors within themselves. Sigbjørn recalls harsh nights at sea. He foresees being separated “like two whirling atoms” (Ibid.) Yet, the “sum of things” flowed like a stream (Ibid). Water wandering to the sea through the wide fens is compared to a tendril parting from a vine. This life force precipitates in Sigbjørn the perception of the soul as something flowing through the air, swimming in the water, and

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moving imperceptibly from mind to mind. He sees himself and his brother as part of the stream which carries them out to sea (Ibid.).97 It is through the image of the Tao that Cambridge (which lies in the East of England) is linked to industrial Lancashire in the north-west in the mind’s eye, as indicated by the epigraph to chapter XIII which reads: “Being great it, the Tao, passes on; passing on, it becomes remote; having become remote, it returns . . .” (IB, 181). An aerial vantage-point is gained by the vision of the pilot of an aeroplane flying over the Dee Estuary. It then soars over the Wirral, the Mersey, and Liverpool—aiming for the town of Preston in Lancashire. This perspective identifies another prominent watercourse—and Preston itself—as the gateway to Lancashire’s commercial hub. Dividing the terrain into two, the River Ribble is portrayed as running southwest from the Pennines to Preston. Apparently, the Norwegians used to call this city Prester. Its southern half is described as being cut in two—along a north-south divide—by a road connecting Preston with Warrington. East of it lies a panorama of industrial Lancashire (Ibid., 186). The aviator’s airborne perceptions are juxtaposed with those of Sigbjørn who is being conveyed to Preston simultaneously in a third-class railway carriage to join the Unsgaard “as a coal passer” (Ibid.). Empathizing with this part of the country, though alienated from it, the latter subconsciously links the present to the past, believing that, although he does not feel a sense of belonging, he is “mysteriously interwoven with capitalist Lancashire” just as the past is strangely, yet miraculously intertwined with contemporary lives (Ibid.) Meanwhile, from his aeronautical viewpoint, the pilot appreciates the significance of the River Ribble in fostering Lancashire’s powerful heritage. Nevertheless, ominous signs of Europe’s strained, political climate are discernible in his airborne image of armies of “marching pylons carrying high-tension wires” over the countryside (Ibid., 187). A fascinating historical parallel between Lancashire’s industrial revolution and Cambridge’s intellectual one—with implications for the creation of a more inclusive society—arises from Sigbjørn’s hopeful outlook on the ascent of man. In his train, impressions of Cambridge and of his university come to Sigbjørn’s mind. He asks himself whether men of mechanical genius had flocked to Lancashire as had scholars to universities in the Middle Ages. He conjectures that their descendants have different ambitions for their offspring in desiring that they attend university and, hence, complete the circle by “eternally passing from one class to another” (Ibid.). His terrestrial perspective merges with the pilot’s ethereal one: Lancashire’s future is perceived, in his kaleidoscopic vision of its role, as the manufacturing “mother of the soul,” blended with Cambridge’s scholarly one. In this scenario, Preston docks are seen as Lancashire’s focal point, “within the womb [. . .] of this Alma Mater of industrial civilisation” (Ibid., 188).

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On the one hand, as loci for the transmission of technological and intellectual energy for the benefit of civilization, the estuaries of the Dee and the Mersey are detected by Sigbjørn as geographical portals to divine destiny (Ibid., 100). He contemplates their perpetual motion. His multicolored perceptions have a rippling effect, paralleling his intended pilgrimage to Russia with that of his beloved to America. He ponders on the reasons for his voyage to the Russian White Sea on a vessel—which like Nina’s and many others’—would steam on, extending wakes like the “broad hand of a god across the sea, within whose fingers the special destiny of each ship was traced, to China, to America, to Costa Rica” (Ibid., 85). On the other hand, the Mersey is a harbinger of life and death, as it is a turbulent estuary of the Irish Sea, as Sigbjørn realizes in assessing its perils. He reflects on its precariousness, comparing it to a glacier which proceeds “stealthily on its fatal way” (Ibid., 96). His vision merges the sea with the sky in a way which is as confusing as life itself: it is mighty and “all-corroding,” as is “absolute death” which “life gave lavishly to many lovers, as did the sea who imaged them both” (Ibid.). It too can control the flow of human relationships. Like rosemarine (also known as rosemary or sea-dew)—a traditional aromatic emblem of remembrance in Melville’s poem, “Healed of my Hurt”—it veils its therapeutic secrets. Despite its intermittent spells of cruelty, the sea can restore physical and spiritual health, as Sigbjørn realizes when he turns around to face the ocean: Healed of my hurt I bless the inhuman sea, Yes bless the angels four that there convene. For healed am I ever by their pitiless breath Distilled in wholesome dew named rosemarine. (Ibid., 84)98

However, it can have diverse consequences for humanity’s future, as emphasized in a vivid metaphor which draws analogies to the impact caused by the collision of worlds resulting from a discord in affairs of the heart in the “consummation of the love of two ships” (IB, 160). As they gently collide in the fog, they interpenetrate, the sea becoming not only a “soft marriage bed” but also “their deathbed” in the “collision of old and new” (Ibid.). There is a certain inevitability in the way in which mechanistic forces are perceived as determining the trajectory of Sigbjørn’s destiny and of his relationship with Nina. It is the “terrible ocean” which is to part them forever, as the clock on Liverpool’s Liver Building strikes twelve and the wailing wind mingles with the “turmoil of the snowflakes,” providing an apt setting for a love-hate relationship for the ocean as an intermediary of life and death (Ibid., 122). A natural phenomenon, the sea bestows Sigbjørn—if only fleetingly—with

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mixed feelings: he is perplexed by thoughts of Nina as he contemplates the ocean between them flowing into his heart and engulfing the “fires of his pain” (Ibid., 211). Its movements are presented as being intertwined with the spiritual karma of Sigbjørn and Tor’s divergent relationship: the sea tugs at the souls of sister ships in the harbor and the moon draws the day’s “twin tides” in a “dual magnetism” which pulls these siblings toward the “poles of their oceanic destiny” (Ibid., 4). It exerts a strong influence on their convictions. Its depths are portrayed as the “bottomless abyss of metaphysics, dark ocean without shores or lighthouse and strewn with many a philosophic wreck!”—a Kantian inference which impedes Sigbjørn’s attempts to access sensory perception in his phenomenal world (Ibid., 138).99 Endowed with unfathomable qualities, the ocean too instils in Sigbjørn a sense of yearning for England. Recalling his school days as a “sudden stab, like a stab of love,” he connects his recollections of childhood with his current sickness for the sea and his perverse yearning for the ocean extending from his “shrouded country” (Ibid., 170). Later he senses that he has been stricken by a divine agency, as if by Poseidon (Ibid., 186). Its multidimensional characteristics encompass a fourth dimension of time, a fifth one of memory, a sixth one relating to hope, and even a seventh one which facilitates time-travel. As “futurity broods on the ocean,” there is no time to waste (Ibid., 81). It is advocated that the voice of memory sobs for relief, yet the future can change the past (Ibid.). According to Captain Tarnmoor, the pursuit of truth is attainable only through broadminded insight. He conjures up a vision of Sir Isaac Newton playing on the seashore. Not only treasure, but the “ocean of truth” lay out before him to be uncovered (Ibid., 138). Tarnmoor exclaims, “May God keep us from single vision and Newton’s sleep!” (Ibid.). Yet, for Sigbjørn, the ocean’s dark face is a source of restless anxiety about the meaning of his existence, for “life was as deep and as infinitely terrible and mysterious as the ocean” (Ibid., 7). The maritime port of Liverpool is associated with the decay of the old world in the decline of the manufacturing industry. Sigbjørn’s intuitive vision focuses on the plight of the unemployed as they meander down toward the Pier Head. Comparing their perpetual motion with that of driftwood floating along the River Mersey, he claims that they have been deceived and anticipates the destruction of old world “miracles and all” (Ibid., 69). The fragility of European civilization in the mid-1930s is evident in the dual image of the “Nordic” League of Nations (an intergovernmental organization founded in 1920 to avert warfare by disarmament and collective security) and the large German freighter that anchored in the midst of the River. Even the sea birds “screamed out to her” (Ibid., 114).100 Nina immediately recognizes its “soulless swastika” as an insignia of their common enemy (Ibid.). Subsequently,

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the inevitability of military conflict is intensified as “the gunshot of the sea boomed and spattered against [. . .] the cliff-wall” (Ibid., 139). These feelings of foreboding for the future are accompanied by the ongoing narrative of Sigbjørn’s attempts to come to terms with recent casualties which occurred in peace time. On a hoarding for the Liverpool Echo, he reads of the loss of the SS Thorstein, the first of a series of ships—including the Brynjaar and the Arcturion—which were owned by his father’s Tarnmoor Line and reported sunk in the 1930s (Ibid., 82–83). The Thorstein was shipwrecked on the Antigua Bell Rock (situated off the coast of Angus in Scotland), with an enormous loss of life (Ibid., 77). Her master, Captain Nils Bruus—one of just fifty survivors—committed suicide (Ibid. and 83). Yet, Sigbjørn links this deed with that of his brother, Tor, by referring to “Bruus’ suicide. Tor’s suicide [. . .] of shame” (Ibid.). He views these tragedies in the context of global catastrophes, highlighting the mention in a newspaper article of well-known suicide spots in Japan—Kegon Cataract and the volcanic island of Oshima (which is overlooked by Mount Mihara) (Ibid., 77).101 He claims that he would not have been surprised if he had read that the world had committed suicide as it was disintegrating around him (IB, 83). He is crushed by “the guilt and ghastliness of those days”—memories which have triggered “a weight of conscience even more terrible than any thought of death itself” (Ibid.). With regard to the sinking of the two other ships, Tor identifies that the Brynjaar submerged so quickly after the collision owing to its faulty design. The telemeter (which records and transmits readings by radio) had become frozen, and the engineer had been left alone at the trick-wheel while the vessel was travelling at full speed. Tor aspires to prevent such catastrophes by proposing the formulation and promulgation on a global scale of construction rules for the world (Ibid., 25). As in Swinging the Maelstrom, he recalls the earlier capsizing of the RMS Titanic on her maiden voyage to New York.102 That Olympic-Class, White Star Liner—which was considered to be unsinkable—hit an iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland at 23.40 on April 14, 1912, resulting in a considerable loss of life.103 He imagines that the Titanic and the disasters preceding the Great War are emitting “supernatural manifestations [. . .] of change, of revolution . . .” in the future (IB, 29). Although he dispels the remaining technological issues to the theoretical realm, he is unable to resolve an apparently irreconcilable predicament—that of how someone in one dimension can direct his life in accordance with laws belonging to a different one (Ibid., 25). Akin to the doomed, eponymous whaleboat in Hermann Melville’s Mardi (1848), the SS Arcturion was named after Arcturus—the “guardian of the Bear” and the brightest star in the Boötes constellation.104 She is perceived as “a kind of phantom” of a “composite world” and as a supernatural

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phenomenon like “the Tao, a square with no angles, a great sound which cannot be heard, a great image with no form” (Ibid., 111). Constructed under government contract and queen of the Tarnmoor fleet, she almost collided with the Direction in the port of Liverpool (Ibid., 102). She eventually met with “disastar” off the Kamchatka Peninsula in the Russian Far East.105 In spite of her burning down and capsizing in a relatively short time period, an attempted rescue was made by the Unsgaard in a venture which consisted of transferring a cargo of death (Ibid., 229). Although many lives were lost, there were some survivors (including Nina), as indicated by Barney’s comment to his brother on this “burnt out wreckage of memory” (ibid.) in which “the dead are frozen in the postures of the living” (Ibid., 24). The turn of unfolding events regarding Tor’s fate—which conjured up the earlier, real-life suicide of Paul Fitte (a fellow student at St Catharine’s College and a close friend of Lowry) in November 1929—is ironic. Sigbjørn deems himself responsible for causing his sibling to “turn all his venom on himself in a Dostoievskian scene that leads to the brother’s death.”106 He is intent on returning to the past in order to change the sequence of occurrences to deter Tor from committing suicide. As if it extraterrestrially empathizes with his endeavors, the clock does not strike. It is portrayed as hesitating before it utters something, such as “Womb-[. . .] tomb- [. . .] doom” (Ibid., 40). Sigbjørn is implored to “go back, go back, go, back” (Ibid.). Yet, the facts of life are not quite what they seem, for the dead can continue to go on living, at least in the dimension of his imaginative memory. The narrator of In Ballast to the White Sea ponders on whether Tor’s death was actually a fact as his influence is omnipresent like the sea rolling through his mind. He longs for sunlight to pour over the “wintry darkness of his memory,” reasoning, “Did not something of him live on afterwards, unseen? look on and help?” (Ibid., 94). Lowry’s reflections on the Wirral, Liverpool, and Cambridge integrate multiple time dimensions in his consciousness. It entwines his thoughts with his forthcoming trip to Oslo in August–September 1931, during which he intends to make the acquaintance of Nordahl Grieg.107 As illustrated by figure 2.1, he enrols as a fireman on the SS Fagervik. He embarks on a voyage from the then Preston Port (which is described as being near Liverpool, though it is some thirty-seven miles away) to Aalesund (now written as Ålesund) in the summer of 1931.108 As explained in his correspondence, this Norwegian freighter was actually a timber ship which was bound originally for the major White Sea port of Archangel (modern-day Arkhangelsk) in northern Russia “in ballast.”109 In In Ballast to the White Sea’s literary adaptation of this expedition, the SS Fagervik is transformed into the Unsgaard, which is diverted similarly from its original destination, as revealed by Captain Tarnmoor. Reading from the green Norwegian discharge book which Sigbjørn has received from the

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Figure 2.1  In Ballast to the White Sea, August 1931. Lowry standing under a Norwegian flag on the stern of the timber ship, SS Fagervik (Unknown photographer).

Norsk Konsulat in Liverpool, he affirms, “D/S Unsgaard, Sigbjørn Tarnmoor, limper, he read. Skibets reise fra Prester til Archangel/Leningrad” (IB, 61). The Unsgaard’s departure from Preston is compared to that of Charon’s boat which, in Greek mythology, ferries dead souls across the River Styx to Hades as the sea flows silently as “the soul glides through existence, bearing with her an entire world of shadows” (Ibid., 218). She drifts through the swamps bordering the River Ribble and described as being just as mysterious as the deserts of Egypt and Arabia which lie to the north and south of the Suez Canal (a point of entry to the Red Sea) (Ibid.). In drafting In Ballast to the White Sea, Lowry was motivated by Blue Voyage and by The Ship Sails On.110 Inspired by Grieg’s success as an

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increasingly influential author, he borrowed a phrase in the first part of the title of his own novel from The Ship Sails On, which refers to the Mignon being “in ballast” from Norway to South Shields and then loaded with coal for the subsequent leg of her cruise to the Cape.111 In accordance with its author’s deterministic vision of the human condition, Grieg’s work “offers, like life itself, either salvation or destruction,” depending on whether its crew remain on board (and become depraved by sleeping with prostitutes) or else go ashore (and become unable to make an immediate escape to the world beyond the seaport).112 Lowry revered Grieg’s ambitions as a political activist from 1935 until 1940. The latter served as chairman of the Friends of the Soviet Union (which had been founded in 1928) and became closely affiliated with the Communist Party of Norway. Yet, Lowry’s stance remained ambiguous, for he lambastes his Norwegian hero and “kindred spirit” for the pro-Soviet perspectives articulated in an Oslo daily newspaper affiliated to the Norwegian Labour party. He asserts, “Talking about Lapland: Nordahl Grieg is there on military service, sent there as a punishment for defending Russia in the Arbeiderbladet: serve him right, perhaps; but what an ending to In Ballast to the White Sea!”113 Hence, Lowry’s novel interfaces not only with human nature but with European politics in the mid-1930s, as is apparent in Gordon Bowker’s claim that “the Lowry of Ultramarine under the influence of his Dark American Angel, Aiken, was being replaced by a more extroversive, stylistically economical and politically engaged writer, like his now overtly communist Bright Norwegian Angel. The dialogue in In Ballast turned ever more political.”114 Lowry’s own maritime experiences are projected onto those of his “extroverted” hero in In Ballast to the White Sea.115 As revealed in a substantial letter dated August 27, 1951 to David Markson, Sigbjørn hopes to reach Oslo to become acquainted with William Erikson and to experience being transformed from a sailor into a writer.116 In his “race with a shadow,” he intends to gain permission to turn the latter’s Skibets reise fra Kristiania (The Ship’s Voyage from Kristiania) into a play, akin to Der Wettlauf mit dem Schatten (1920) by the German playwright, Wilhelm von Scholz (IB, 17).117 He drafts a letter in which he compares his own novel with his Norwegian compatriot’s. He claims that his book is preoccupied with X’s destiny, whereas Erikson merges his characters in the future, though, if they should perish, it is for something in which they believe. He advocates that the pilgrimage of Erikson’s characters is a process by which they adjust toward the proletariat, whereas that of his own character is an introspective one into the “region of the soul where man also ceases to be his own factor” (IB, 50).118 As it does to Lowry, Norway beguiles Sigbjørn: his odyssey stimulates his comparison of the Skjaeggedalsfoss (located near Tyssedal in Hardangerfjord, some eighty kilometres south-east of Bergen in Western Norway) with

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the Niagara Falls in North America. Whereas water plunges some 180 metres from the former, the vertical drop from the latter is a “mere” fifty metres. He witnesses “a Niagara of sound, reverberated in the night with what to him might have been the cry of the sea, of the torrents falling forever from cliff shoulder to creek down Skjaeggedalsfoss” (IB, 140). Although he claims—as does Lowry—to have no childhood memories except unpleasant ones, he cherishes a deep love of Norway, which he regards as his true home (Ibid., 155). Despite his intrepid anguish of the sea (ibid., 3), it is Erikson who, he contends, “took the sea away from me” by bestowing on him reassurance (Ibid., 7). Learning of his residence on Bygdø Allé when he is in Oslo, he travels to the Norwegian capital by train (Ibid., 234). His journey is one which integrates temporal dimensions, linking the past, present, and future with geographical locations, be they physical or psychological. The ensuing citation from The Long Journey by the Danish author, Johannes V. Jensen transports memories into future consciousness, for “‘only he in whom the past is stored is freighted for the future’” (Ibid., 236).119 Sigbjørn realizes his dream, for, on arriving in Oslo, he narrates that, hesitatingly, he knocked on Erikson’s door in trepidation until it opened and his hero stood before him (IB, 237). However, despite their similar tastes in room décor and in reading preferences, his expectations are inverted, for Erikson turns out to be not his intended double, but its exact opposite. Whereas Sigbjørn is fair-haired, broad-shouldered, strong, and of medium stature, Erikson is projected as being tall and slender, fragile, and “tragic looking” (Ibid., 239). Objectives envisaged in the past are willed into life: Sigbjørn’s literary ambitions bear fruit in the offer which he receives from his Norwegian hero who agrees to facilitate the production of “a workable play of Skibets reise” at the National (Henrik Ibsen) Theatre (Ibid., 240). He is presented with a copy of Erikson’s latest play in an act which connects his present consciousness with that of his past. It also predicts his destiny, for he senses that his future is written there and, as in Skibets reise, he discovers his past too (Ibid.). Erikson’s influence brings out his disciple’s political inclinations, the seeds of which were sown in the latter’s disputes with Nina, Tor, and Captain Tarnmoor. Sigbjørn’s convictions contrast with the nihilist ones of his Norwegian protégé, for the former—who believes in communism—is convinced that the soul proceeds on a journey through life in search of God, whereas Erikson gives credence to nothing except that humanity is utterly base, for he has considered every belief, but rejected all of them (Ibid., 239). It is ironic that Sigbjørn cherishes communist principles, even though that ideology is atheistic and, hence, conflicts with his confessed belief in God. Yet, it is his faith which alleviates his painful memories of Tor’s suicide—a deed which is transformed into fratricide in his nightmare. In prison, he dreams that he

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is condemned to death for his brother’s murder (Ibid., 94). His suffering resonates in his recollection of Erikson’s words: “‘Cain shall not slay Abel today’” (Ibid., 240). This slogan is a reminder of an accompanying one: “If there is no God then we may commit murder . . . ” (Ibid., 26).120 This maxim is an indirect reference to Ivan’s repudiation of the realm of God in Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (1879–1880). In it, Dmitry retells a conversation with Rakitin, uttering, “Without God [. . .] all things are lawful.”121 Nevertheless, in In Ballast to the White Sea, Sigbjørn heeds the following deliberations whereby Erikson emphasizes the necessity to end military conflict in order to purge the world from its transgressions: “Now it is up to us to stop it, and we’ll have to stop bothering about ourselves until we have done our best to put the world right . . . Yet wars again will start, and all from the same cause, religion” (Ibid., 240). A significant factor in Sigbjørn’s international outlook is his recognition that the old world is in a state of collapse, as suggested by Tor’s plea for him to take a look at the sky, at how the star Wormwood burns vehemently for both of them (Ibid., 30). His warnings correlate with those predicted in chapter 8, verses 10–11 of the Book of Revelation. It prophesizes that a celestial being would fall from the sky onto rivers and springs. Making its waters bitter, it would poison innumerable inhabitants of the earth and so bring about the end of the world. Tor relates this phenomenon to other signs—such as an increasing number of shipwrecks—and deduces that “the ship is going down, the world is going down?” (Ibid.). Captain Tarnmoor has a deep influence on the evolution of Sigbjørn’s philosophy by expressing distaste at the disarray caused by “battling crushing organizations” (Ibid., 71). In response, the phantom of Herman Bang—the Danish author in the naturalist movement known as “The Modern Breakthrough” (1870–1890)—is transposed from his Salt Lake City railway carriage to enunciate that the only solution is in the “inexorable conclusion of capitalist decay and the victory of the working class . . .” (Ibid.). This image is repeated during the subsequent railway journey from Birkenhead Park Station in the Wirral during which the train sways and shakes, giving the impression that the entire world is teetering to its disaster (Ibid., 167). Attempts to redress social discontent are deemed inadequate by Captain Tarnmoor. He claims that philosophies and religious forms of art, and of thought, violently explode within human beings, causing them to hurry on intellectual adventures with the same enthusiasm with which explorers embark for the Pole. However, the extremes are never reached (Ibid., 148). He views his son’s plight, on the one hand, and contemporary global calamities, on the other, as indicative of the social iniquities caused by inadequate attempts to chart the indecipherable. He asserts to Sigbjørn that these “debauches” are pathways to the unknown: the “purposelessness of

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[. . .] vile society” engenders unhappiness, identity loss, guilt, and disasters caused by, for example, hidden mines exploding (Ibid., 149). Further indicators of the fragmentation of the old world are provided by the narrator, who cites the earlier-mentioned marine conflagration. However, it is not only the Arcturion, but apparently the old world, whose skeleton—“like the ribs of a wicker basket”—is burning as far as the water edge (Ibid., 227). This tragedy is matched with another horror: the envisioned “machine-gun fire of rivets snapping off” which results in the daunting atmosphere of people screaming, as “a woman’s bones crumbled” and “the trees’ limbs were breaking” (Ibid., 35). The interpretation of a disintegrating world is a stark warning of the chain of events which would lead to the outbreak of the Second World War. The dilemma afflicting European civilization in the 1930s is presented by Captain Tarnmoor as a distinction between the re-examination of principles and the exigency for action to instigate a resolution of impending discord. He advises Sigbjørn of two scenarios: an acclimatization (which may be interpreted politically as appeasement) and a struggle (which may lead to military combat). He advocates that Sigbjørn should go back to the instant of his birth when he was of two minds: one was desirous of the womb where he had adjusted to his environment and the other wished for action in a dichotomy which remains unresolved (Ibid., 155). He blames the current trend of adapting to current-day bourgeois society as akin to acclimatizing himself to the padded cell—the lunatic asylum of a society on the brink of war (Ibid., 155–56). Describing the situation as a “great castration when [. . .] suicides practically cease,” he argues for the need to take a stand to defend one’s beliefs (Ibid., 156). He assumes that if war had broken out already, Tor might be still alive. According to him, a crusade for a classless society must not be purely selfish, but accompanied by fraternal love as a step toward spiritual fulfilment. He contends that, whereas in England there is loyalty to many groups, in a classless society, there is fidelity only to oneself: “You don’t have to go further than the seventh century for Dorotheus’ statement that if we love God [. . .] we unite in love with our neighbours; and the closer our union with them, the closer our union with God also” (Ibid., 149).122 Despite his earlier warning that esotericism signifies an escape from reality rather than toward it (ibid., 72), Sigbjørn places his faith in intuitive, extrasensory perception as a touchstone to the path of redemption. He derides the stance taken by the “serene brotherhood of philosophs,” which maintains “the incommunicability of knowledge arrived at by intuition” (Ibid., 13). Instead, the testimony—by the conveyor of travellers, Christopher Burgess, a Lancashire taxi driver who perceives that he has a spiritual inner eye—seems more convincing in revealing innate abilities. It focuses on an electric eye above a chemist’s shop. It has not been turned off, but winks at him. As a result, he recalls a persistent dream which he had many years previously and

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which related to the time when he had failed an eye test. In it, an eye appears, followed by an eyeglass. Yet, a young doctor once advised him that dreams are unrelated to eyes: the latter is something which is sensed deep inside oneself. It is corrected by the glass of what one knows: a human being should study his nature and possibilities, as well as heed the guidance provided by his intuition, for, in the scenario of a sailor in tides and winds, the eye can see through fog by scanning the invisible: like an “unmanned machine-gun,” it is primed to topple everything lying within its range (Ibid., 206). Although Sigbjørn’s mental dexterity is of supernatural proportions, it has its limitations, as acknowledged by the narrator who confirms that he foresees premonition in the act of creation—that is, in the unconscious. In this process, he admits that he has been blinded by its rays: “like a revolving drummond light that vortex discharges at the approach of all but the boldest spies, and in which both intuition and reason are in danger” (Ibid., 97).123 The overriding factor is the necessity for humanity’s rebirth, as proposed by Captain Tarnmoor, who identifies a process whereby nature has a “secret plastic vision”: underground forces determine “the travail of rebirth in man’s consciousness” (Ibid., 147).124 It is up to humanity to implement it, as, according to Tarnmoor, it depends on will and usage—that is, and not entirely on the “mechanical march of events” (Ibid.). This procedure has already commenced, for Sigbjørn is being reborn “in some mysterious way” (Ibid., 212). It is a complex, transitional technique comparable to his struggles in the womb. It comes not without suffering, for “the uterus of consciousness [. . .] held him dilated in slow pain” (Ibid.). His rebirth is accompanied by shamanic signals: “something around him [. . .] was trying to communicate with him” (Ibid., 213) As discussed with his father, one of the prerequisites for Sigbjørn’s spiritual renaissance is an “imaginative flight into the past,” which acts as a means of controlling reality (Ibid., 150). It is presented as necessitating an escape not from present-day wickedness, but to a frame of mind in which existence may be surveyed and possibilities for solutions identified. Sigbjørn refers to recent extensions of the frontiers of natural sciences which strive to achieve a breakthrough whereby death can be postponed indefinitely. He conjectures a state of existence in which the frontiers of the real and the unreal disappear. He wields shamanic powers, alluding to a prelogical means of perception as a way of tackling many irrational issues besetting humanity. Expressing a predilection for supernatural solutions, he poses the following questions to his father: “What of the magical powers of man? The magic of the prelogical?” (Ibid.). In endeavoring to resolve global dilemmas, he has led by example. In order to confront his daemons—be they of the past, present, or future—he has embarked on a spiritual voyage which is the “antithesis of the actual, of the material, but which at the same time is [. . .] of primitive return, caught

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up by a recurrence of a pre-logical condition where miracles are as common as daisies?” (Ibid.) From the vibrant discussions between Captain Tarnmoor and Sigbjørn, two particular viewpoints emerge regarding the concept of a revolutionary transformation of society. On the one hand, the former expresses the need to advance by maximizing the faculties of awareness and intellect. He asserts that there must be no going back for its own sake and no fervor either for the unconscious at the expense of the conscious or for “the affective at the expense of the intellectual” (Ibid., 156). On the other, the latter challenges his father, reminding him of his earlier approval of a distinct approach which embraced the prelogical. His technique will bridge demarcation lines by transforming “the power which co-exists [. . .] on the frontier where the real and unreal meet” (Ibid.). It is designed to bring profound changes by activating “the miraculous potentialities of man [. . .] which must enter the revolutionary movement if the whole of man is to be reborn and not just to become an abortion” (Ibid.). Overwhelmed by the past in his mediatations in a restaurant at Preston Station, Sigbjørn chooses the future, for he perceives that it will enable him to contribute to the transformation of humanity’s approach to existence. It will facilitate the rediscovery of the very essence of its being, its soul via life-giving forces. In his justification, he explains that he wanted to return to the past and be reborn, but that he had not envisaged the future being so close. Hence, he suddenly realizes that he has decided to choose life as a force for change (Ibid., 200). Aware of the trepidation, which it will bring, he prescribes revolutionary transformation. He has the gift of foresight, though already he is experiencing the horror of someone who can see into a new world with the knowledge that the old one will never be the same (Ibid., 166). However, despite his sudden urge to escape while there is still time, or else to burrow underground out of dread of the future, he does not deviate from his intended course of action (Ibid., 204). It is also in Preston that he comes to terms with the paradox of his existence. He senses how it may be reconciled spiritually through a reconsideration of the importance of an omnipresent and timeless soul which he perceives as “thrusting downwards and upwards, in-dwelling, selfextending, ubiquitous. The marriage of heaven and hell” (Ibid., 214) He surmises the existence of paradise, though deduces that it is perceivable only by the initiated. He contemplates that the Kingdom of Heaven might exist but queries whether humanity can recognize it (Ibid., 225). His major cause for concern is a dearth of virtue. He asks whether benevolent people still exist or whether they have perished. Fortunately, “the lighthouse that lighted the storm invited it once more” (Ibid., 161). The influence of Waldo Frank’s “The Writer’s Part in Communism” makes him determined to instigate global, spiritual

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metamorphosis (Ibid., 162). An important consideration is that “the wisdom of religious thought and the miraculous powers of man, now slighted by the technic of transition, must also enter the revolutionary movement. For no facts can hurt it!” (Ibid.). Inspired by the lucid perspective which he gleams from his father’s books, he forms an uninterrupted, organic view of history. Through its kaleidoscope, he experiences a shamanic vision of “the idea of revolution running like water, like a widening river to the sea” (Ibid.).125 SWINGING THE MAELSTROM (2013) Conceived in the “observation ward”126 of a clinic in a country to which Lowry claims that he has been affiliated ever since childhood, Swinging the Maelstrom is the result of a “long and incessant brooding upon and admiration for American forms of expression.”127 It is the product of his “ambition to write an indigenously American book” (Ibid.). In his correspondence, he continues to assert his allegiances, claiming that since boyhood he has been devoted to America and is married now to an American. He thinks of himself as “a kind of American, even though Canadian, English and what-not.”128 In this context, Swinging the Maelstrom is an autobiographical reflection of a brief, ten-to-fourteen-day stay as “a voluntary patient”129 in the psychiatric ward of Bellevue Hospital in New York in May 1936, where he is being treated for alcoholism while on a US visitor’s visa (SM, ix).130 The hero, or, rather, antihero of his novel—a character by the name of Bill Plantagenet follows his lead by declaring his love for America (SM, 7). Nevertheless, upon his incarceration, the latter becomes distraught at the “curious mass movement toward the barred windows, a surging whose source was in the breasts of the disposed mariners [. . .] whenever a ship passed [. . .] their bodies shaking as though roused suddenly from nightmare, or from the dead” (Ibid., 13–14). He experiences a foreboding of “that marathon of the dead” which appears in the later Punch and Judy puppet show (Ibid., 21). In it, a child with learning difficulties is perceived as the victim of a cannibal, as witnessed by the chief who declares, “I wish I was in New York now for a giant is eating all our tribe up” (Ibid., 19).131 Yet, the sound—“partly a cheer, partly a wailing shriek”—emitting from the lips of Bill’s fellow patients indicates a cry representative of “the ranging spirit of New York itself, that spirit which haunts the abyss between Europe and America, brooding like futurity over the Western Ocean” (Ibid., 14). This statement is an analogy to a section in Atlantis: The Antediluvian World in which Ignatius Donnelly maintains that “this word hurakan—the spirit of the abyss, the god of storm, the hurricane [. . .] testifies to an early intercourse between the opposite shores of the Atlantic.”132 According to Mayan legends, Huracán—the Mexican god of

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storm, wind, and fire—is a creator deity. It caused the Great Flood after the gods were enraged by a second generation of human beings. Interwoven with memories arising from seafaring experiences which are triggered by “the steady Frère Jacques: Frère Jacques of the engines” (SM, 5), Lowry’s novella is comprehensible as “the music of a work of art”133 and as “a sort of jazz record.”134 It depicts Bill as an extroverted pianist. Despite his dexterity in playing “Singing the Blues,” he realizes that he is “a failed artist, a failed husband, and a failed human being” (SM, xxvi). As the boundaries between the real and the surreal gradually vanish, he is increasingly predisposed to become a “healer of spiritual (i.e. psychological) and psychosomatic disorders.”135 He is a nonconformist, but has spiritual inclinations, as is evident from his declaration that, although he is not religious, he cannot resist churches (SM, 31). He envisages that it is his duty to send his friends “up the sky” on the day of their discharge from the hospital, as it is to him that they approached, seeking deliverance (Ibid., 13). Referring to his relationship with the psychiatrist who peers down miraculously from Dunne’s “serial universe” in the Observation Ward, he conjectures whether it was not he who—“by some inexplicable thaumaturgy”—was “the favored friend, the ambassador, of the man who held the master key to all their escapes, the man in the glass tower?” (Ibid.)136 Although initially conceived as a purgatorio, Swinging the Maelstrom was developed between 1935 and 1944. It was influenced by “the healing experience of Lowry’s Canadian retreat” (Ibid., xvii). A radically reworked compendium, it comprises “the final, completed version” of various earlier renderings (Ibid., xv). These consist of The Last Address (1936–1939)—which focuses on a “cynical and self-centered writer” (Ibid., xvii)—and of Lunar Caustic (1968), which has been described as “an arresting study in comparative nightmares.”137 Swinging the Maelstrom portrays an “erratic pilgrimage around a magnetic center”—the hospital, which is “a symbol of physical imprisonment and emotional constraint.”138 As in In Ballast to the White Sea, surveillance is a key theme, as illustrated by the “cinematic eye” which follows the drunken sailor as he strolls around Lower East Side in New York.139 Assuming a vantage point inside the clinic, he then peers out onto the city. Yet, it is an environment from which Bill Plantagenet—an English sailor on the S.S. Lawhill and “a man at war with himself”—has escaped.140 Although both Lunar Caustic and Swinging the Maelstrom end “darkly with the protagonist withdrawn from life,”141 Lowry’s intention was that in the former novella, “the protagonist and the protagonist’s perception” would become “clearer” in “the sense [. . .] of a spiral winding its way upward.”142 However, his objectives were achieved only in the latter which “closes with a hope as the protagonist breaks through the isolating circle of self to accept a gesture of compassion.”143

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Inspired by the jazz arrangements of the hero of “The Forest Path to the Spring,” the original title of Swinging the Maelstrom was Delirium on the East River (SM, xxxv–xxxvi). In it, an intoxicated journalist by the name of Sigbjørn Lawhill is interned in a mental asylum with three other named characters and a psychiatrist. It has been described as “an apocalyptic vision of an urban wasteland, the lunatic city, reflecting the disintegration of modern consciousness.”144 Although it should represent movement and liberty, the river remains an inaccessible domain in the revised version, Swinging the Maelstrom. It is the product of a surrealist vision, as explained by Bill, who contemplates that the world of the river is where everything is uncomplete, though it functions as a degeneration, from which an image of their “shattered or unformed souls” is cast back at them (Ibid., 33). It is as if complementary factors have been withdrawn from the world. Its half-darkness quivers “with the anguish of separation from the real light”; it is “a world that had often been projected into his dreams” (Ibid.). In penetrating the depths through the “bars” of the subconscious mind (Ibid., 33), Swinging the Maelstrom ventures to resolve Sigbjørn’s earlier quandaries in In Ballast to the White Sea. It probes the central protagonist’s agonizing, mental struggle which focuses on determining whether his phantoms “in the underworld” of the hospital are illusions or delusions (Ibid., 13). As Lowry elucidates, his solipsistic novella marks a painful “attempt [. . .] to find some image of the eternal underworld, of hell on earth, where the point is not so much the conditions as the condition [. . .] of permanent human suffering and tragedy unredeemable finally by any merely social or humane or material enlightenment.”145 Spiritual dimensions are brought into consideration by extending the patients’ ills to those of humanity as a whole. The hospital replaces “a particular tavern” as “the centre of his circle” and is transformed into a Cistercian monastery (SM, 3). Connecting terrestrial with subterranean worlds, Lowry surmises: “Perhaps these people are being punished for the evil in our own hearts and they are in truth the caryatids that hold up the world from below, and their infernal habitation has its divine complement in a Trappist monastery.”146 Although they appear in what has been depicted as a “sort of expressionist play” of “multiple schizophrenia,”147 Lawhill and his fellow inmates are perceived in a spiritual way, for they are portrayed “as souls with heightened consciences in The Last Address and Lunar Caustic.”148 In Swinging the Maelstrom, Bill Plantagenet and the other in-patients with whom he is associated—that is, Garry, Mr. Quattras, and Mr. Kalowsky—have multiple personalities. They have common ties: “Like new boys in a hostile school, like sailors on their first long voyage on a miserable ship, like soldiers in a prison camp, they were drawn together in a doleful world where their daydreams mingled” (SM, 12). Yet, Lawhill—an American—and Bill—an

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Englishman—are presented as “neurotics.”149 Whereas the former “seems merely to return to the womb,” the latter resolves to fight for the Spanish Loyalists.150 Their vessel, the Mar Cantábrico—named after “the Cantab part of” Bill’s alma mater—is “his ship, which would take him on his night journey across the sea” (SM, 42). Although it would be captured by Fascists and its volunteers executed (ibid., xxxi), the flames of its stokehold were “blazed on his soul” (Ibid., 42). However, Mr. Kalowsky appears to come from a different generation. By mentioning that “the Germans went to war,” he alludes to the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871,) which resulted in Otto von Bismarck’s unification of Germany as a nation-state (Ibid., 14). However, his peregrinations “perhaps beyond the bourn of death itself” have significant implications, for “the confused story of his wandering [. . .] sometimes queerly resembled the story of mankind” (Ibid., 15). Claiming that he is “the Wandering Jew”—that is, “just one little Jew” from Lithuania, he recalls its former status in the Russian Empire: in the late nineteenth century, tens of thousands of Lithuanian Jews emigrated to the United States to escape pogroms and anti-Semitism (Ibid.). However, his last comments have even more ominous connotations, in that they connect with Lithuania’s tragedies in the twentieth century. Despite being independent since 1918, under the auspices of the 1939 Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact the Lithuanian Republic was occupied by the USSR in June 1940 and then by the Germans between June 1941 and 1944. During Nazi occupation, 91 to 95 percent of those Jews who remained in Lithuania—that is, 190,000–200,000 citizens—were exterminated in the Holocaust in the months between June and December 1941.151 Yet, Mr. Kalowsky’s confirms his allegiance by declaring that he would like to die in Russia. He would like to go to a sanitarium or else have the freedom of travelling to Russia (SM, 15). Yet, he is not devoid of foresight: he “once had a kind of idea [. . .] a sort of [. . .] vision of rebirth” (Ibid., 28) He seems to have communist principles and empathizes with the need for human values in his current environment. He appeals for a global intellectual revolution, imploring, “Wake up, you brains! Brains of the world unite! My experience in the hospital is that the workers are against us more than the capitalists. I don’t believe in God. [. . .] If the workers will wake up and buy brains I won’t need to go to the hospital!” (Ibid., 35) Many of his concerns are shared by Bill who considers him “a part of the shadowy meaning of his destiny” (Ibid., 33). However, his frustrated dreams are also the cause of the insanity afflicting himself and his fellow inmates: “It is [. . . ] not just a momentary thing, they had it in mind for a pretty long time, until they couldn’t stick it any longer. That’s when they went mad, as you call them mad” (Ibid., 28).

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Although Lawhill blames his problems on the outer world in “The Last Address” and Lunar Caustic, Bill remains afraid of confronting his trepidations in Swinging the Maelstrom. He views their reflections in the “the ghosts on the window blind” (Ibid., 30). Meandering between hope and despondency, he focuses on an inner domain. He ponders, “My God [. . .] why am I here, in this doleful place? Yet—perhaps it wasn’t a maelstrom but the foul core of his world to which he had descended [. . .] By what miracle did it come about that compassion and love were here too?” (Ibid., 20). As he succumbs to alcohol addiction, in his delirium, he turns to his psychiatrist—a cousin by the name of Philip, in a white robe for “healing wisdom and vision” (Ibid.). In this “room with phantoms” (ibid., 26), he attempts to penetrate “the shadow of the city” and “the chaos of his own soul” for a coping mechanism (Ibid., 13 and xxvi). In this setting, Philip is deemed to have the insightful spiritual characteristics “of a god” who realizes that humanity should not be entrusted with the “strings of his destiny” (Ibid., 20). Following in the footsteps of his Sigbjørn prototypes and deriving inspiration from his inner resources, Bill recognizes the need for the spiritual rebirth of civilization. He is a would-be shaman (who “tends to be a member of the community who, having survived his own physical and/or mental illness, seeks to cure the ills of others”).152 In his strife against the indecency, cruelty, hideousness, filth, and injustice in the world, he “even imagined himself expunging” his errors “by some heroic sacrifice” in order to free everyone— “all the patients, all the parents, all the Ruths, it would free mankind” (SM, 41). Unfortunately, such aspirations elude him in Swinging the Maelstrom. His “nightmare of self” must be tested in The 1940 Under the Volcano and its sequel if Lowry’s antiheroes are to be rejuvenated in the stars of “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola.153 THE 1940 UNDER THE VOLCANO (2015) A prequel to its revised and more renowned 1947 edition, The 1940 Under the Volcano illuminates the workings of Lowry’s astute intellect by focusing on the contemporary international and politico-economic arena in the years, 1936–1940. By making intertextual connections, it explores—in a tragicomic manner—the moral impact on everyday Mexican life of a world in crisis, at war with itself. The heroes and antiheroes of 1930s Mexico possess multiple identities, but that does not give them immunity from the claws of Europe, which has reached a critical watershed in its history. Beset by the dual forces of communism and fascism—and engulfed by the impact of the Spanish Civil War—it is portrayed as teetering on the brink of the Second World War. It is this specter—both internal and external—of the theatres of

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conflict which preoccupies the wits of the characters of this novel of ideas. Dramatizing the external landscape perceived by its protagonists, it discerns the divided loyalties beleaguering humanity. NOTES 1. Sherrill E. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1982), 20. 2. Although Lowry was sent to Weber’s School of Modern German in Bonn on an eight-week course to prepare him for a diplomatic career, he had a limited knowledge of languages—including French—and did not become a linguist or work at the Foreign Office. 3. Douglas Day, Malcolm Lowry: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 98–101 and Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 79. 4. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 38. 5. Ibid. See also Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), I, 25 and 26. 6. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 419 and II, 253. Although initially confident in his ability to stoke the furnaces of an ocean-going liner and in his relationship with his fellow seamen, Yank undergoes an identity crisis when the daughter of a wealthy steel-industrialist calls him a “filthy beast.” Despite his attempts to gain social acceptance, his physical prowess and mental state deteriorate, leading to him being defeated by an ape. O’Neill developed a deep interest in German expressionism in 1920 to 1934: Sherrill E. Grace, “Eugene O’Neill: The American Georg Kaiser,” in Regression and Apocalypse: Studies in North American Literary Expressionism (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 83. His other plays were also known to Lowry: Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 87 and 743. He used expressionist methods to depict the human soul in The Emperor Jones (1920) and adapted components of Greek tragedy to the rural environment of New England in Desire Under the Elms (1924). 7. See Day, Malcolm Lowry, 90. 8. Dahlie contends that Lowry “points unmistakably towards the surrealism of Conrad Aiken or James Joyce”: Hallvard Dahlie, “Lowry’s Debt to Nordahl Grieg,” Canadian Literature 64 (Spring 1975), 42. 9. For further information on the changing relationship between Lowry and Aiken, see Patrick A. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols: World, Text and Self in Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1994), 20–4. 10. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 117. 11. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 77. 12. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 415. 13. Ibid., II, 468. 14. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 18. By referring to Dana Hilliot as “Eugene” (O’Neill), Ultramarine’s narrator evokes Yank’s quest for belonging in The Hairy Ape.

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15. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 75–6. Allegations made by the American editor and writer, Burton Rascoe that there were some similarities between the texts of Ultramarine and his own story, “What is Love?” [published in The Second American Caravan: A Yearbook of American Literature, ed. Alfred Kreymborg et al. (New York: Macaulay, 1928), 716–25] and that there had been a “deliberate and conscious plagiarism” appear to have been unfounded: see ibid., I, 330. See also McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 28–9. 16. Hallvard Dahlie, “On Nordahl Grieg’s The Ship Sails On,” International Fiction Review, 2, no. 1 (1975), 53, http:​//jou​rnals​.hil.​unb.c​a/ind​ex.ph​p/IFR​/arti​cle/v​ iew/1​3099/​14182​(accessed December 10, 2017). 17. Hallvard Dahlie, “‘A Norwegian at Heart’: Lowry and the Grieg Connection,” in Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill Grace (London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992), 37. 18. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 102–6 and Dahlie, “‘A Norwegian at Heart,’” 32 and 38–9. From a letter held in the Nordahl Grieg Collection in the University of Oslo Library, Dahlie confirms that Lowry wrote from the Hotell Parkheimen, Drammensveien 2, Oslo on September, 8, 1931 (ibid). 19. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 132. 20. Dahlie, “‘A Norwegian at Heart,’” 37. Lowry compares his love of the sea to that of his elder brother, Stuart, who served in the First World War: “He is not without a nostalgia for fighting any more than we can hope to be entirely without a nostalgia for the sea, however fiercely we hate it! To dream of both is to dream of comradeship, of danger” (Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 105). 21. Dahlie, “‘A Norwegian at Heart,’” 38. 22. Dahlie, “Lowry’s Debt to Nordahl Grieg,” 42. 23. Dahlie, “‘A Norwegian at Heart,’” 31. 24. Ibid., 38. 25. Malcolm Lowry, Ultramarine (London: Penguin, 2000), 19. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “UM”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 26. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 192. 27. Ibid. 28. Dahlie, “Lowry’s Debt to Nordahl Grieg,” 41. For a detailed chart which places Lowry’s borrowings alongside Grieg’s, see 43–4. 29. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 192. He unreasonably and unjustifiably reiterates that “everything is derived, pastiche, hash”: II, 495. See also M. C. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry—His Art & Early Life: A Study in Transformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 45–9. 30. See Dahlie, “Lowry’s Debt to Nordahl Grieg,” 44. 31. Lowry read about this incident in a Mexican newspaper: see Jan Gabrial, Inside the Volcano: My Life with Malcolm Lowry (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000), 122. 32. Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy, annotator Chris Ackerley (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014), 223. Further references to this novel (abbreviated to “IB”) are given—wherever possible—after citations in the text.

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33. Dahlie, “Lowry’s Debt to Nordahl Grieg,” 44–5. 34. As is evident from Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 424 and 538, Lowry was familiar with Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s novella, Notes from Underground (1864), whose antihero is tempted to become acquainted with the prostitute, Liza, but grossly mistreats her, resulting in her assuming moral superiority. 35. Tony Bareham, Malcolm Lowry (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), 29. See also UM, 88. 36. The capital of Norway was known as “Christiania” between 1814 and 1877, and then as “Kristiania” until 1924, when its original Norwegian name, Oslo (which had been the capital from 1314 until 1537) was restored. 37. According to Dahlie, Grieg lived in a third-floor apartment at 68 Bygdø Allé: see “‘A Norwegian at Heart,’” 32, 35 and 42. The Red Mill in Oslo’s theatre district may have been a rendezvous place too: ibid., 39–40. In his letter of September 8, 1931, Lowry confirms meeting Grieg near the Viking Ship: “But most of all I shall never forget looking at the Viking Ship and then suddenly we were speaking in whispers—” (Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 106). 38. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 16. 39. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 66–7. 40. Richard K. Cross, Malcolm Lowry: A Preface to His Fiction (London: Athlone, 1980), 12. 41. Bareham, Malcolm Lowry, 23. 42. “Deckhand with a Ukulele,” Liverpool Echo, May 12, 1927, reprinted in Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, ed. Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009), 9. 43. “Rich Boy as Deck Hand,” Daily Mail, Liverpool Echo, and The Evening News, London, May 14, 1927, cited in Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 66–7. 44. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 67. 45. Ibid. 46. Ibid. 47. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 90–5, and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 66–72. 48. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry, 45. 49. According to Hilliot, his Cambridge tutor accused him of pretending to be knowledgeable and well-informed: “What was it my supervisor said? ‘Dana Hilliot is a tinkling sciolist’” (UM, 110). 50. Kazuo Yokouchi, “Kowaku no Kyokuto-toshi—Ultramarine niokeru Hyogenshugi” [“The Strasse in the Far East: Expressionism in Ultramarine”], Jimbun Ronkyu: Humanities Review 63, no. 2 (2013), 23–42. 51. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 419. 52. Kazuo Yokouchi, “‘I Am Going to Japan—or Aren’t I?’—Ultramarine niokeru Kyokuto” [“’I Am Going to Japan—or Aren’t I?’: The Far East in Ultramarine”], Albion New Series 58 (2012), 19–33. 53. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 47. 54. UM, 19, 42–3, 62–3, 69, 84, 97, 98, 101, 106, 131–3, 145, 168–9, and 182–3. 55. Mark Rudman in ibid., vii. 56. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 60–1.

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57. David Large, “Textual Ontogenesis: Rethinking Paraphrase, Plagiarism and Pastiche,” in La Fureur et la Grâce: Lectures de Malcolm Lowry, ed. Josiane Paccaud-Huguet. Series: Carrefour des lettres modernes (Paris: Lettres modernes Minard, Classiques Garnier, 2017), 232. 58. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 60. 59. Large, “Textual Ontogenesis,” 232. 60. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 60. 61. Ibid. 62. See Day, Malcolm Lowry, 107 and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 89–90. 63. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 68–9. 64. Rudman in UM, vii. 65. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 25. 66. Olga Konstantinovna Chekhova (née Knipper)—the namesake and niece of Anton Chekhov’s wife - starred in the 1928 German silent film, Liebeshölle (released as Love’s Crucifixion (1929) in the United Kingdom and as Pawns of Passion (1929) in the United States). 67. Hilliot later refers to another Silver Age versifier, the musician Mikhail Kuzmin, describing his flute as “playing softly” (UM, 112). 68. See Bareham, Malcolm Lowry, 25 and 30. 69. A term used in Euclidean geometry, the Great Circle was a pilgrimage from Egypt (via Jerusalem) to Rome. 70. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 1962), 349–50. 71. See Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry, 42, 44–5, and 164–5. 72. Kazuo Yokouchi, “Oedipus Monogatari no Henyo—Sengo-shosetsu tositeno Ultramarine” [“The Transformation of the Oedipus myth: Ultramarine as Post-war Fiction”], Journal of the Society of English and American Literature Kwansei Gakuin University 57 (2013), 223–38. 73. See McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 18. 74. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 22. For details of the focus on images of circles and encircling, and allusions to eyes, engines, circumferences, and compasses: see Sherrill Grace, “Outward Bound,” in Strange Comfort: Essays on the Work of Malcolm Lowry (Vancouver, BC: Talonbooks, 2009), 39 and 41. 75. Lowry claims that “at the end of 1941” when he “laid aside In Ballast [. . .] there were 1,000 pages of eccentric word-spinning by this time”: see Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 504. 76. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 418. 77. Ibid., II, 417 78. Ibid., II, 419. 79. See Ackerley, II.42 in IB, 258. 80. See ibid., II.45. 81. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 419. 82. Helena Blavatsky, The Secret Doctrine: The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy, vol. III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), reprint of London: The Theosophical Publishing Company, 1897 ed., 62. 83. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 419.

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84. Ibid., II, 427. 85. Ibid. 86. Ibid. 87. Ibid., 428. 88. Ibid. 89. Ibid., 427. 90. Ibid., 427–8. 91. Ibid., 427. 92. See Ackerley, VII.104 in IB, 330. 93. Ed Regis, What Is Life?: Investigating the Nature of Life in the Age of Synthetic Biology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 52. 94. For “The Hanged Man, Card 12,” see P. D. Ouspensky, A New Model of the Universe: Principles of the Psychological Method in Its Application to Problems of Science, Religion, and Art (Eastford, CT: Martino Publishing, 2013) - reprint of New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1931 version, 241. 95. For public hangings, see Ackerley, I.32 in IB, 248. 96. Ibid., I.29. 97. See ibid., II.39, 257. 98. See Herman Melville, Collected Poems, ed. Howard Vincent (Chicago: Packard, 1947), 205–6 and Ackerley, VI.75–6 in IB, 320. 99. See ibid., IX.15, 349. 100. The League of Nations is termed “Nordic” because of the Norwegian committee which established and promoted the Nobel Peace Prize, which was awarded to President Woodrow Wilson in 1919. However, the United States never joined the League. 101. Ackerley, VI.18 and VI.19 in IB, 313 and Kazuo Yokouchi, “Lowry, Kegonno-taki, Mihara-yama—In Ballast to the White Sea kara Under the Volcano he” [“Lowry, Kegon Cataract, Mount Mihara: From In Ballast to the White Sea to Under the Volcano]. Jimbun Ronkyu: Humanities Review 65, no. 4 (2016), 111–30. 102. Malcolm Lowry, Swinging the Maelstrom: A Critical Edition, ed. Vik Doyen, intro. Vik Doyen and Miguel Mota and explanatory notes Chris Ackerley (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2013), 23. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “SM”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 103. “White Star” was the name adopted by the Oceanic Steam Navigation Company—a Liverpool transatlantic line—when it joined the US-based, International Mercantile Marine in 1902: see Ackerley, XI.44, 368. 104. See ibid., XIII.25, 383. 105. Ibid. 106. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 426. For details of Paul Fitte’s suicide, see Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 97–100 and McCarthy, “Introduction” in IB, xxxiv. 107. See Vik Doyen, Miguel Mota, and Paul Tiessen, “Foreword” and McCarthy, “Introduction” in IB, xi–xiii and xix–xxi. 108. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 426. See also 427, Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 124–5, and Dahlie, “A Norwegian at Heart,” 34. 109. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 426.

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110. See ibid., II, 426 and 430; and Patrick A. McCarthy, “Introduction,” in IB, xxiii–xxiv. 111. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 124–5 and 133–4; and Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry, 45. 112. Dahlie, “On Nordahl Grieg’s The Ship Sails On,” 49. 113. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 295. Founded in 1884 as Vort Arbeide, this newspaper bore the title, Arbeiderbladet from 1923 until 1997 (except during the German occupation of Norway in 1940–45, when it was banned). It has been transformed into the much more independent Dagsavisen. 114. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 194. See also Day, Malcolm Lowry, 152–6 and 182. 115. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 419. 116. Ibid., I, 309. 117. In his letter of August 25, 1951 to David Markson, Lowry refers to “a sinister German play running in London [. . .] based on an idea by Goethe” (Ibid., II, 418). He names both the drama (in which rivalry between a writer and a protagonist is depicted) and its German author, who shares an interest in fate and mysticism (II, 422). Sigbjørn viewed “The Race With A Shadow. By Wilhelm von Scholz” at the “Festival Theatre” (1926–39) on Newmarket Road in Cambridge: IB, 39 (annotated by Ackerley, III.146 on 282). It is later mentioned in connection with Goethe’s allusion to “the relation of an author with his principal character” (46). It is highly likely that Lowry saw this play at the Royal Court in London in 1921: Ackerley, III.147 and McCarthy, xlvi, n. 9. For further commentary on the von Scholz link, see the introduction, xxv–xxvi. 118. X is revealed as “a Scandinavian novelist”—i.e. Nordahl Grieg: Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 417. 119. Johannes V. Jensen, The Long Journey, 3 vols, trans. A. G. Chater (New York: Knopf, 1923–24), vol. III: The Cimbrians (1923), xii: see Ackerley, XVIII.25 in IB, 409 and X.73, 360. 120. Lewis Mumford, Herman Melville: A Study of His Life and Vision (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1929), 185: see Ackerley, III.46 in IB, 270. 121. It is uttered by Dmitry Karamazov who retells a conversation which he has had with Rakitin: see Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. Project Gutenberg EBook, 2009, https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28054 (accessed August 1, 2018), book 11, chapter 4: Ivan, “A Hymn and a Secret,” 762. 122. For reference to Ouspensky’s citation of the reported belief held by the Greek Orthodox Church theologian, Abba Dorotheus of Gaza on the mystical image of God as a circle, see Ackerley, X.53 in IB, 358. 123. Drummond, or lime-light, refers to the intense illumination used by Captain Thomas Drummond—a Scottish civil engineer, army officer, and public official—for the trigonometrical survey of Great Britain and Ireland. It is created by directing an oxyhydrogen flame at a cylinder of quicklime (calcium oxide) to produce incandescence and candoluminescence. 124. See also IB, 212–13. “The travail of rebirth” alludes to “The Writer’s Part in Communism,” Adelphi 9–10 (1935): 258–64 (264). In it, Waldo Frank views the old world as an embryo “in travail,” lacking the knowledge to complete its rebirth: see Ackerley, X.4, in IB, 356–57.

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125. In “The Writer’s Part in Communism,” 261, Frank asserts that the “organic view” of revolutionary consciousness dates back to Egyptian scholars and Hebrew prophets and is advanced by Spinoza, Hegel, and Marx, despite resistance from the Enlightenment’s “shallow empiricists”: see Ackerley, XI.19, 366. 126. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 501. 127. Ibid., II, 504. 128. Ibid., II, 501. 129. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 198. 130. Jan Gabrial states that it was “through the intervention of Erik Estorick” (a writer who was introduced by Frank and who reached the “conclusion that Malc required therapy”) that her husband entered this hospital: see Inside the Volcano, 87–8. 131. See 14:12 in SM, 74–5 and 21:6, 78. 132. Ignatius Donnelly, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World: Fully Illustrated (Seattle, WA: CreateSpace, 2008), 59. Ackerley attributes Ouspensky as a likely source, contending that Lowry “had probably not yet read Donnelly”: see 14.5a-b in SM, 74. However, Lowry’s letter to Mrs. Anna Mabelle [John Stuart] Bonner dated April 16, 1940 refers to “Donnely’s book on Atlantis”; it indicates his familiarity with this work: see Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 315. 133. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 499. 134. Ibid., II, 505. 135. Anthony Mellors, Late Modernist Poetics: from Pound to Prynne (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005), 131. 136. See Ackerley, 13:6 in SM, 73. 137. Daniel B. Dodson, Malcolm Lowry (London: Columbia University Press, 1970), 9. 138. Sherrill E. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1982), 30. 139. Dodson, Malcolm Lowry, 9. 140. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 30. 141. Ibid., 29. 142. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 499. According to Grace, “a new spiral had wound its way upward” in Grieg, The Ship Sails On: see ibid, 506. 143. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 29. 144. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 199. 145. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 501. 146. Ibid., II, 501–2. The term “caryatids” denotes pillars of draped female figures supporting entablatures. These “maidens of Karyai” were priestesses of the goddess Artemis at the temple of Caryae in Laconia in the Peloponnese region of southern Greece. The Trappists are a Catholic religious order of Cistercian monks and nuns who adhere to the Rule of St Benedict. 147. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 502. 148. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 199. 149. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 504. 150. Ibid., II, 503.

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151. Daniel Brook, “Double Genocide,” July 26, 2015, http:​//www​.slat​e.com​/arti​ cles/​news_​and_p​oliti​cs/hi​story​/2015​/07/l​ithua​nia_a​nd_na​zis_t​he_co​untry​_want​s_to_​ forge​t_its​_coll​abora​tioni​st_pa​st.ht​ml?vi​a=gdp​r-con​sent (accessed August 9, 2018). 152. Mellors, Late Modernist Poetics, 133. 153. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 33.

Chapter 3

In Search of the Souls of Civilization The Russian Connection in In Ballast to the White Sea and Under the Volcano

Apart from various mentions in the hypertextual companion to Under the Volcano and a few articles on Nikolai Gogol in The Malcolm Lowry Review, surprisingly little has been published on the impact of Russian writers, film directors, and thinkers on Lowry, despite the fact that they are often alluded to in his literary works and correspondence.1 From the vantage point of his shamanic imagination, he frequently acknowledges the influence of the so-called “Golden Age” of Russian literature, hurling readers of Ultramarine, In Ballast to the White Sea, Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, and his letters into an era of rapid and traumatic transformation, with far-reaching consequences. Ideas sown in the seeds of Russian intellectual thought—by anarchists, nihilists, socialists, and Marxists—have contributed to revolutions and resultant civil wars impacting on Russia, Spain, and Mexico. In Under the Volcano, we are launched into the Russian Revolutions and their repercussions by reference to the iconic film director, Sergei Eisenstein, who pioneered the innovatory cinematic technique of montage. Then we are thrust into the arena of revolutions and military conflict via allusions to Karl Marx, Leon Trotsky, Vladimir Lenin, Joseph Stalin, and Adolf Hitler.2 In Ballast to the White Sea corroborates the appeal of Soviet Russia to many UK intellectuals in the 1930s. Lowry’s visionary intellect provides a cogent insight into the fragility of a world poised between the forces of capitalism, communism, and fascism, as it teeters on the brink of war and destruction. The 1940 Under the Volcano (2015) and its sequel, Under the Volcano (1947), present a Faustian representation of a British ex-consul to Mexico. Tormented by the inner turmoil of his divided self and by the alienation caused by his belligerent environment, Geoffrey Firmin—a 89

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romantic visionary with shamanic insight—undergoes a traumatic journey to exorcise the phantoms of his past. Vivid surrealist images of his sociopolitical milieu alienate him from a world at war with itself. Delving into the wisdoms of old knowledge, he embarks on an odyssey into his psychogeographic, cinematic imagination with the objective of attaining a higher state of intuitive consciousness. International events afflicting humanity are juxtaposed with the spiritual rigors of his subconscious mind. A SILHOUETTE OF CIVILIZATION: THE TRAIL OF RUSSIAN LITERARY INFLUENCES The Nineteenth-Century Golden Age In the early twentieth century, Constance Garnett (1861–1946) and Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) were instrumental in bringing Russian literature—albeit in translation—to a UK audience.3 The former translated some seventy-one volumes of Russian literary works into English between 1894 and 1920. Continuing her legacy, Virginia collaborated with her husband (the author and publisher, Leonard Sidney Woolf), and with her translator, Samuel Koteliansky (1880–1955), to have a broad range of Russian literary works rendered into English and published by the Hogarth Press in 1920–1923. She refers directly to Anton Chekhov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Lev Tolstoy in her essay “The Russian Point of View” in The Common Reader (1925), in which she declares her admiration for their honesty and sincerity in portraying “the human soul.”4 Hence, Malcolm Lowry had a vast supply of English translations of the oeuvres of Russian authors at his disposal and was an avid reader of them. Pondering on the philosophies of Russian thinkers for inspiration, he attempts reconciliation with his real-life daemons in his own works. Under the Volcano and Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid (1968) spotlight the writings of eminent Russian authors, film directors, politicians, and scholars. Intertwining references to them plunge his readers into the depths of the spiritual worlds of their characters. In his letters, he constantly refers to Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, his favorite novels being the latter’s Notes from Underground (1864) and Crime and Punishment (1866).5 Paying tribute to Alexander Pushkin, Ivan Goncharov6, and Nikolai Gogol,7 he also refers to the phenomenon of the “Superfluous Man.”8 First identified as such in Ivan Turgenev’s novella, The Diary of a Superfluous Man (1850), this term pertains to a highly educated intellectual who—in the reactionary regime of Tsar Nicholas I of Russia (1796–1855)—did not fit into the social norms of nineteenth-century Russia. Unable to find an outlet

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for his talents, he has become cynical, devoid of empathy, and a victim of existential boredom. Resistance to Oppression: Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837) Commending the romantic poet, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Lowry considers himself a modern-day Pushkin in his correspondence.9 Identifying with the surrealist novelist and short story writer, Franz Kafka, he sees himself as a “second order Gogol.”10 He claims, “Nevertheless what work we are accomplishing [. . .] does have just that very quality of intensity which work in the dark against time etc has given the Gogols and the Kafkas. [. . .] I feel parts of Under the Volcano bear this sort of comparison.”11 He empathizes with the plight of the persecuted—be they the Consul in Under the Volcano or the Jews in Nazi Germany. In a 1940 letter to Gerald Noxon, he cites the case of “the Donkhobors.”12 He actually means the Doukhobours (or Doukhobors) who originated in preeighteenth-century Russia and rejected all forms of tyranny and oppression. This 7,000-strong, spiritual Christian, pacifist group of Russian Orthodox dissenters had refused to do military service and emigrated to Canada in 1899. Many of them settled in Manitoba and Saskatchewan, and then in southeastern British Columbia in 1908. A long period of strife and disputes with the provincial government (arising from protests against materialism, land seizure, and compulsory education in state schools) ensued until the 1960s.13 Lowry’s concerns recall those of Alexander Pushkin, who tacitly supported the free-thinking Decembrists in their 1825 uprising in St Petersburg. Lowry was familiar with this renowned Russian poet through renditions by the Modern Library and by Dr. Alexander F. B. Clark, FRCS (1884–1975)—a professor at the University of British Columbia’s Department of Modern Languages—with whom he corresponded.14 Reflecting on his 1938 translation of Pushkin’s narrative poem, he perceived that “Edmund Wilson did one good one of the Bronze Horseman.”15 He acknowledged that he himself aimed for a “serious spirit of Pushkinship” rather than “creative Gogolotry.”16 He also refers to Pushkin’s drama, Mozart and Salieri (1830), published in the series Little Tragedies. It depicts the Italian composer, Antonio Salieri, as being envious of the talent of his rival, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Commenting on the former’s intrigues to poison the latter—as reported in contemporary rumors—he declares: “It was a dirty trick of Salieri to bump off Mozart, if indeed he did: but the business of identification between artist and artist seems to have been overlooked by dramatists.”17 His observations on Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman (1833) bring to mind another atrocity to which he bears witness—humanity’s clash with the environment. In “The Forest Path to the Spring” he implies that there is a lack

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of a yin-yang balance between humankind and nature which is expressed in the threatening, sinister sign depicting the ’hell oil refinery on the horizon. It is akin to the disparity portrayed in The Bronze Horseman, in which Peter the Great (1672–1725) is blamed for failing to protect his subjects from the River Neva’s vengeance in the Great Flood which inundated St Petersburg, the then capital of Russia.18 In response to the Tsar’s attempts to defy the laws of nature, the “soft,” aqueous elements of the November 1824 deluge seek retribution. Consequently, Evgeny feels compelled to defy the authority of the enlivened, equestrian statue of Peter the Great, whose actions have led indirectly to the destruction of his livelihood and that of his beloved, Parasha. In Lowry’s lyrical novella, it is to “the very elements, harnessed only for the earth’s ruination and man’s greed” that the narrator of “The Forest Path to the Spring” appeals.19 In “the shadow of the war”—that is, the Second World War rather than the Great Northern War (1700–1721) in Pushkin’s poem— they “turn against man himself.”20 They take their revenge in the forest fire, whose relentless advance “is almost like a perversion of the movement of the inlet.”21 However, with its seasonal cycles, nature is capable of decontaminating itself, regeneratively, from the heinous oil slicks which violate the purity of Vancouver’s Burrard Inlet: “If oil sometimes appeared on the waters it was soon gone, and the oil itself was oddly pretty. [. . .] When the law was broken and the oil slicks appeared it was miraculous with what swiftness the flowing inlet cleansed itself.”22 Nikolai Gogol (1809–1852) In Under the Volcano and Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, Lowry pursues analogies with Gogol’s works. In the former, he highlights his spiritual perceptions, referring to him alongside the Mahabharata, Blake, Tolstoy, Pontoppidan, and the Upanishads in connection with the Consul’s esoteric library of “numerous cabbalistic and alchemical books.”23 This collection includes works by Éliphas Lévi (a French occultist who first published a treatise on ritual magic), Hyde Clarke (an engineer and philologist), and Aleister Crowley (a ceremonial magician and occultist).24 Pursuing the fallen souls of civilization, Lowry evokes the odysseys depicted in Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus (1604) and in Gogol’s Dead Souls (1842) and The Government Inspector (1836). Referring to the latter, he comments: “Probably they would be calling the Inspector-General” (UV, 362). In Under the Volcano, it is the Consul who bears mental anguish for civilization on the brink of the Second World War, for “the world itself was bursting, bursting into black spouts of villages catapulted into space, with himself falling through it all, through the inconceivable pandemonium of a million tanks, through the blazing of ten million burning bodies, falling, into a forest,

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falling” (ibid., 375–76). As Lowry indicates, he must wrestle with “the forces in man which cause him to be terrified of himself.”25 He must confront “the guilt of man, with his remorse, with his ceaseless struggling toward the light under the weight of the past, and with his doom.”26 Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid is written in a Gogolian vein, in that it is humorous at times. Deeming his life to have been composed by someone else, Sigbjørn Wilderness transforms into a character in a press report. In so doing, he is a reminder of Major Kovalyov’s actions in Gogol’s humorous fantasy, “The Nose” (1835–1836), which Lowry considered “a superlative story.”27 He was also familiar with “Nabokov’s authoritative and wonderful book” on that author.28 Describing Gogol’s Dead Souls as an “epic poem in prose,”29 he praised it as “extraordinarily funny” and “one of the most lyrical and nostalgic novels ever written.”30 It possesses an “almost Moussorgsky like sadness and longing”—an apparent reference to his opera, Boris Godunov (1869), which is based on Pushkin’s eponymous 1825 drama.31 Although Dead Souls is a novel which satirizes greed, bureaucracy, and corruption in tsarist Russia, its unique blend of hilariously fantastic and darkly satiric components correlates to the Consul’s attempts in Under the Volcano to forge a new world. As with Lowry’s The Voyage That Never Ends, it was intended to be a saga in three volumes which would chronicle the passage of Chichikov from a Dantean inferno, through the purgatory of divine retribution, to the final stage of paradise. It is also a precursor of Lowry’s recognition of the importance of an aesthetic appreciation of beauty in his depiction of the celestial spirit of ­Eridanus as a force for environmental peace and harmony in “The Forest Path to the Spring.” Another analogy between Lowry and Gogol is the burning of the second and final parts of Dead Souls which, although self-inflicted, is reminiscent of the catastrophic loss of In Ballast to the White Sea in the tragic conflagration which happened in Dollarton. That manuscript was intended to conclude Lowry’s planned trilogy, linking Under the Volcano to Swinging the Maelstrom.32 It would have provided the culmination of a “voyage that can have no ending, precisely because every now is a new beginning.”33 In this sequence of events, Lowry’s constant afflictions by the agencies of fire—which represents yang in his Taoist outlook—can be “seen not merely as a hazard, but a force that exerts its will any time when the elements are out of balance.”34 Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821–1881) Yearning to be recognized as “a Canadian Ibsen or Dostoievsky,” Lowry continually cites the latter in his letters.35 Comparing himself to this Russian novelist, he confesses that he has “practically a pathological sympathy for

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those who do (what others think is) wrong” and “absolutely no sympathy with [. . .] the legislator; the man who seeks, for his own profit, to exploit the weaknesses of those who are unable to help themselves.”36 In his correspondence with Gerald Noxon, he refers to Crime and Punishment, highlighting the fact that—before proceeding to murder the old lady—Raskolnikov has a vivid dream. In it, he recalls memories of his childhood and empathizes with what he considers to be the undeserved punishment and suffering of a horse which is beaten to near death and then murdered with a crowbar.37 In her “burning dream” in Under the Volcano, Yvonne is trampled by a white, riderless horse with the number seven branded on its mane and then resurrected to the stars (UV, 337).38 In Ballast to the White Sea alludes to a Dostoyevskian sense of culpability. Before committing suicide, Tor implies the irreconcilability of guilt in Crime and Punishment, for Rodion Raskolnikov seeks justification for committing murder by claiming to be a superhuman individual. He admits that he is still frightened of something: “You know what Dostoievsky said—something I can’t conceive, which doesn’t exist, but which rises up before me as a horrible, distorted, irrefutable, fact.”39 In this “pseudo-Dostoievskian!” novel, Sigbjørn is lured to the appeal of traditional Russian spiritual values as a basis for reversing the collapse of civilization heralded in Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the West (1918) (IB, 51). He asks, “To Dostoievsky’s Christianity belongs the next thousand years?” (Ibid., 8).40 He also recognizes the threat posed by the Third Reich in Nazi Germany in the emergence of Hitler as Führer in August 1934. Tor too places his faith in the USSR, though, apparently, he is unaware of the extent of Stalin’s atrocities which were to culminate in the repression of the Great Purge, or Great Terror (1936–38). He declares to Sigbjørn, “That’s the worst kind of Spenglerian nonsense. To Russia, perhaps. But to Dostoievsky’s” (Ibid.). Reflecting on Under the Volcano, Lowry explains that he has depicted the Consul as an entity who grapples with “the forces in man which cause him to be terrified of himself.”41 He bears “the guilt of man, with his remorse, with his ceaseless struggling toward the light under the weight of the past, and with his doom.”42 His feelings of eternity in his inability to mend his relationship with Yvonne are akin to those experienced by Svidrigailov, who is portrayed in Crime and Punishment as an obnoxious, remorseless character intent on winning back Raskolnikov’s sister, Dunya, at all costs. Dostoyevsky’s novel of mental anguish and moral dilemmas is broached through the emphasis placed on Firmin’s perpetual isolation in the following passage in Under the Volcano: “Perhaps this was the eternity that he’d been making so much fuss about, eternity [. . .] of the Svidrigailov variety, only instead of a bath-house in the country full of spiders, here it turned out to be a stone monastic cell wherein sat—strange!—who but himself?” (UV, 296)43

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Lev Tolstoy (1828–1910) Although he remarked, with regard to some of his later works, “Tolstoy? [. . .] what a [n] [. . .] awful old writer he was,” Lowry praised this Russian novelist—who associated Napoleon with the Beast in Revelation through the numerical significance he attached to three sixes in succession44—as “what a breeze!”45 In Under the Volcano, the superstitious Consul turns our attention to War and Peace (1869) by considering the pros and cons of individual freedom versus the forces of historical destiny and by attesting to the power of the Cabbala versus the legacy of Napoleon.46 Tolstoy’s epic novel provides graphic detail of the impact on Russia of the Napoleonic Wars (especially the French invasion of Moscow in 1812) and traces the fortunes of members of five aristocratic families through the whirlwind of providence. In this context, in Under the Volcano the Consul confides in Yvonne, revealing that one of the first penances which he had imposed on himself was to memorize the philosophical section of War and Peace. He contends that that was before he could jump around “in the rigging of the Cabbala like a St Jago’s monkey” (UV, 87). He confesses that he has just realized that the only thing which he remembers about the whole novel is the twitching of Napoleon’s leg (Ibid.).47 He makes further allusions to Tolstoy’s odyssey by commenting on the murals of the Terminal Cantina El Bosque. He observes to Señora Gregorio how “the mad pictures of the wolves!” hunt those at the bar (UV, 232). This scene contrasts with the pursuit of wolves by hounds in Tolstoy’s work when the Consul is reminded of Rostov’s wolf-hunt in War and Peace, with its sense of youth, gaiety, and love (Ibid.).48 Later on in Under the Volcano, Geoffrey Firmin discredits the noncommitted sympathizers of the Spanish Civil War, maintaining to Hugh that such “misfits” who speak of going to Spain to fight for freedom are “‘all good for nothing, cowards, baboons, meek wolves, parasites, every man jack of them, people afraid to face their own responsibilities, fight their own fight, ready to go anywhere, as Tolstoy well perceived’” (UV, 313).49 This assertion is paradoxical, given Firmin’s own failure to defend himself against the Chief of Rostrums in the final pages of Lowry’s novel. It is also ironic that, although he acknowledges Russian spirituality, Hugh confuses the surname, Katamasov with that of Katavasov, a professor of philosophy in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina (1873–1877), querying: “‘Didn’t Katamasov [. . .] believe that the action of those volunteers was [. . .] an expression of the whole soul of the Russian people?’” (UV, 313). In Under the Volcano, the Consul is convinced that, according to Tolstoy, when we have no grasp of the causes of an action, we ascribe a higher element of free will to it (Ibid., 310). His contention suggests that an awareness of what instigates and necessitates one’s deeds may reduce one’s notions of freedom.50 The concept of predestination is also raised by Geoffrey in the context of national destiny when he quizzes Hugh whether he can see “a sort

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of determinism about the fate of nations” (UV, 311). Despite allusions to Spengler’s theories, the latter’s communist philosophy of dialectic evolution is contrary to the German philosopher’s approach to history (Ibid., 104).51 In The Decline of the West, a cyclic view of history is presented: it is contended that civilizations go through phases of youth and maturity before reaching old age and death. In this scenario, Western Europe has entered its final stage of existence—a predicament of which the Consul is well aware, as is Lowry himself. As in Anna Karenina—a precursor of the modernist novel—real events are portrayed in a stream-of-consciousness style in Under the Volcano. It alludes to the impact—on a personal level—of various socioeconomic and political issues, such as marriage, family, and education. In hurrying to emphasize the existence of historical determinism, the Consul is corrected by Hugh for confusing War and Peace with Anna Karenina in their conversation about volunteers on the train (UV, 313). However, in his letters, Lowry declares that “Under the Volcano is no Anna Karenina, and was not meant to be.”52 He expresses no empathy with the heroine of Tolstoy’s novel, who is ostracized by society for her adulterous love affair with Vronsky (for whom she leaves her husband and her daughter). He contrasts the plight of the cat in Conrad Aiken’s short story, “Hello, Tib” (1960) with Anna’s tragic suicide by throwing herself under a train: “Morally her fate has considerably more meaning than that of Anna Karenina under similar circumstances, and her continuance in heaven seems to me far more assured than that of that dame. May endless dances with moths undying in the Elysian Fields be her lot!”53 Anton Chekhov (1860–1904) In his correspondence, Lowry recognizes Chekhov’s skills: “There is no [. . .] satisfactory design-governing posture for a true short story writer” who “(like Tchechov) wanders around graveyards thinking it is no go.”54 He admires his play, The Seagull (1896), in which the shooting down of this symbolic bird by the fictional playwright, Konstantin Treplyov, is emblematic of the destruction of the natural environment and precipitates the protagonist’s suicide.55 In his poem, “Thunder Beyond Popocatepetl” (1938–1939), he evokes the Nazi paramilitary assault division, the Sturmabteilung, or SA (also known as the Brownshirts or Storm Troopers). Its frenzied mobilization is reflected in nature’s ominous signs in the “black thunderclouds” beyond Popocatepetl and the “swollen metal” which is causing “madness, splitting mind. . .”56 Yet, humanity is potentially resilient, as is the seagull, which soars above the woes of the world, for “reason remains,” despite the mind forsaking it and white birds flying “against the thunder.”57 It is a domain “where Tchechov said was peace,” but ominously “the heart changes and the thunder breaks” (Ibid.). This

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Chekhovian image of the resistance of these white birds resonates in the Consul’s contemplations in Under the Volcano, wherein they become idealized. Whispering to his pet dog, he adds a phrase which he has either read or heard in his youth or childhood: “For God sees how timid and beautiful you really are, and the thoughts of hope that go with you like little white birds” (UV, 232).58 Aspirations of childhood innocence are reflected in allusions to W. B. Yeats’s poem, “The White Birds” (1892)—which captures a desire to be immortally free from worldly woes59—and to J. M. Barrie’s novel, The Little White Bird (1902), in which children’s souls are compared to avian and canine ones. Lowry’s symbolism is politicized in In Ballast to the White Sea. In his conversation with Nina, Sigbjørn pays tribute to Chekhov’s humanitarian values, but advocates socialist principles by empathizing with the plight of the workers and by foregrounding their impoverishment and exploitation. He contends that it is the British class system which has led to their suffering: “La bêtise est mon fort. [. . .] Take that away and there’s nothing left, just as there was nothing left for Tchekov’s old lady when they took away her religion” (IB, 97).60 The Twentieth Century References to twentieth-century Russian authors abound in Lowry’s works. His correspondence mentions Maxim Gorky (a political activist and the founder of socialist realism)61 and Isaak Babel (a Jewish short story writer).62 It also refers to Leonid Andreyev (a Silver-Age novelist and dramatist who pioneered expressionism in Russia), with whose short story, “The Seven That Were Hanged” (1909) he was familiar for its portrayal of the thoughts of condemned revolutionaries and peasants who, having received death sentences, await execution (as does Dostoyevsky in 1849).63 In In Ballast to the White Sea, the novelist and playwright, Valentin Kataev (1897–1986) appears. In his outline notes, Lowry comments on Sigbjørn’s jaunt in the direction of Bygdø Allé in Oslo, during which he observes: “They are giving Kataev’s play at Nationaltheatre” (IB, 237). It is highly likely that he is referring to the 1931 film of the 1928 Moscow Arts Theatre performance of his first novel, Rastratchiki (The Embezzlers) (1926) (which had been adapted for the stage by the influential Russian actor-director and theorist, Konstantin Stanislavsky).64 Inspired by real-life accounts which Kataev had read in journals and by an adherence to the guidance provided by the Communist Party’s national campaign against corruption and economic crimes, these productions are reminiscent of Gogol’s parodies of pre-revolutionary Russian society. Similarly, their target is contemporary bureaucracy, which is satirized by the depiction of two officials conspiring to defraud the State.

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RUSSIAN CINEMATIC LINKS Vsevolod Pudovkin (1893–1953) and Alexander Dovzhenko (1894–1956) As already discussed, a keen cinema-goer since childhood, Lowry developed an interest in European cinematography dating back at least to his undergraduate days at Cambridge. Before matriculation, he was allured by a range of silent films shown at Avenue Pavilion at 101 Shaftesbury Avenue (now Curzon Soho) in 1928–1930.65 Built in 1912 by Israel Davis (who founded a chain of electric pavilions in the capital),66 this venue was known previously as Shaftesbury Pavilion67 Absorbed—with its trio of “sister pavilions”—into the Gaumont-British Picture Corporation in early 1927,68 it had become one of the first and foremost of the so-called “art” cinemas in London.69 The Film Society organized monthly programs of continental films—especially by Austro- and German-American expressionist directors—for its “bourgeoisbohemian” membership from 1925 onwards.70 Many of them were seen by Lowry there and then and/or subsequently are mentioned in his correspondence. They include F. W. Murnau’s The Last Laugh (1924)71 and Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927) (watched in Bonn as Sonnenaufgang),72 Ernst Lubitsch’s Forbidden Paradise (1924),73 Josef von Sternberg’s Underworld (1927), and Walter Ruttmann’s Berlin: Symphony of a Metropolis (1927).74 At Cambridge Film Guild in 1929–1930, Lowry viewed Soviet films, comprising The End of St Petersburg (1927) (the second of a trilogy produced for the tenth anniversary of the 1917 October Revolution) and Storm over Asia (1928) (a propaganda movie against oppression), both directed by Vsevolod Pudovkin.75 Demonstrating an appreciation of the technique of montage, he includes the following among his favorite films in his letters: Pudovkin’s The Deserter (1933)76 and Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin, The General Line, Thunder over Mexico (1933), and Alexander Nevsky.77 He also refers to Abram Room’s The Ghost That Never Returns (1929)78 and to Dovzhenko’s Aerograd (also known as Air City, or Frontier [1935]).79 It is Pudovkin who features prominently in his literary works. In Ultramarine, Dana Hilliot fantasizes about being conveyed to Russia’s capital to work for him: “In Moscow I was a camera man under Pudovkin.”80 In In Ballast to the White Sea, a cinema sign advertising The End of St Petersburg attracts the attention of Captain Hansen-Tarnmoor and his son, Sigbjørn (IB, 66). It lures them into a Liverpool cinema for the showing of this film, enabling them to become familiarized with the rapid development of events and to reflect on the spiritual implications of regime change. Sigbjørn is reminded of a slogan highlighting the refusal by the Bolsheviks to make concessions to the shortlived Provisional Government which lasted from March until November

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1917. He contemplates that, as the main film was being shown, somewhere there were people marching: “A few, weary, crawl to the wayside. God help me . . . The Kerensky Government is only the same thing in a different coat. No compromise!” (Ibid., 67).81 Eager for a resolution of this impasse, father and son seem “willed to be transported” into this world which is just as tragic as their own, but it is one “where hope displaced sterility, and courage, despair” (Ibid.). Although optimistic of the success of a workers’ republic, Sigbjørn is concerned by the fact that—in capturing the Winter Palace in 1917 and transforming St Petersburg into Leningrad in 1924—“they have destroyed God. There is no soul any longer there” (Ibid.). Sergei Eisenstein (1898–1948) Lowry’s favorite Russian film director is Eisenstein. An avant-garde theorist, he is famous for his pioneering use of montage in productions stretching from Battleship Potemkin (1925) to Alexander Nevsky (1938), to which Lowry refers in his Dollarton letter of July 28, 1942, to Gerald Noxon. He observes that this film’s thirteenth-century hero has lent his name to the main thoroughfare in Leningrad, and its musical score has been created by a famous Russian composer, declaring, “We have made one of our rare trips to town, this time to see Eisenstein’s Alexander (Prospect) Nevsky. [. . .] Prokofieff made a very fine din and bell noises and there was twenty-five minutes of the most thrilling movie we ever saw.”82 It is very likely that Lowry was aware of Eisenstein’s six-week trip to England in November–December 1929, which involved visits to various places in and around Cambridge (where he dined at high table in Trinity College) and London (where he explored Eton College, Hampton Court, and Windsor Castle). In Central London, he visited Bloomsbury, the East End, the National Gallery, and the Tower. At Foyles’ bookshop, he delivered lectures to an audience which included future documentary filmmakers.83 Setting off for Mexico on December 4, 1930, to direct a “non-political” film, he insisted on “his desire to be free to direct the making of a picture according to his own ideas of what a Mexican picture should be, and in full faith in Eisenstein’s artistic integrity.”84 His admiration for Mexican culture inspired him to call his films “moving frescoes”—a suitable term for Lowry’s literary works too, owing to their cinematic qualities, flashbacks, and flashforwards.85 Intermingling with the artists, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, Eisenstein commenced shooting ¡Que viva México! (of which the initial sequence’s intended title was “Fiesta”) in 1930.86 Its footage was incorporated into Thunder over Mexico, Eisenstein in Mexico, Time in the Sun, and Death Day (which were released in the United States in 1933–1934). If completed, it would have spanned Mexican history, civilization, culture, and politics from

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Hernán Cortés’s conquest of the Aztec Empire in 1521 right up to the 1910 Mexican Revolution, with an epilogue set on the Día de Muertos.87 In Ballast to the White Sea and Under the Volcano use cinematic devices to link events in the past, present, and future. In the former, Sigbjørn’s image of Russia traverses temporal and spatial zones. He stops outside a cinema poster depicting not a Russian peasant, but a ship of the dead embarking “into the imponderable, to navigate the nexus between this world and the next, crowded for the grave; outward bound” (IB, 77).88 Under the Volcano also bears such hallmarks in its immersion of its characters into the events of the Día de Muertos (i.e., the Day of the Dead). It blends audio perceptions of “the bangs and cries of the fiesta” with visual images of its bright banners, paper streamers, and great wheel” (UV, 10). Its Eisensteinian montage juxtaposes shots of its Mexican setting with portraits of the Consul and Yvonne in the limelight.89 In referring to “those wistful beautiful Oaxaqueñan children one saw in Tehuantepec (that ideal spot where the women did the work while the men bathed in the river all day)” (UV, 12), it reverses Eisenstein’s concept in The Film Sense (1942) of a matriarchal, Mexican society in which these ladies are “the most beautiful in Mexico and the men the most hen-pecked.”90 Just as ¡Que Viva Mexico! is “held together by the unity of the weave—a rhythmic and musical construction and an unrolling of the Mexican spirit and character,”91 Lowry’s novel focuses on “the brilliantly coloured serape of existence, part of the sun, the smells, the laughter!” (UV, 256) It brings to mind Eisenstein’s remarks in The Film Sense about “the striped blanket that [. . .] every Mexican wears. And the Serape could be the symbol of Mexico. So striped and violently contrasting are the cultures in Mexico running next to each other and at the same time being centuries away.”92 Yet, Under the Volcano refers to “a country of slavery,” in which human beings are bartered like cattle and its indigenous people—the Papagos, the Tomasachics, and the Yaquis—are “exterminated through deportation,” or reduced to a situation which is “worse than peonage,” their lands “in thrall,” or else in the foreigners’ hands (UV, 112).93 In the cinematic setting of chapter one—when the luminous wheel has revolved backward in time—there are glimpses of a poster referring to The Hands of Orlac, one of Lowry’s favorite movies (UV, 30). In this film Peter Lorre—a well-known American actor of Austro-Hungarian Jewish descent— stars as a Dr. Gogol, the namesake of the distinguished Russian writer.94 In his famous January 2, 1946 letter to Jonathan Cape, Lowry explains that “the man with the bloody hands in the poster, via the German origin on the picture, symbolizes the guilt of mankind, which relates him also to M. Laruelle and the Consul again.”95 Yvonne too is culpable, for she has affairs with the film director, Laruelle and with the Consul’s half brother, Hugh, who share similarities with Geoffrey Firmin. At the age of twenty-nine Hugh dreamed

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of transforming the world, as did Laruelle—at forty-two—through the great films which he intended to make, though his plans now appear absurd and presumptuous. Although his films do not seem to have changed the world whatsoever, he has “acquired a certain identity with Hugh” (UV, 15). Under the Volcano reveals Lowry’s own experience of the US film industry and his warning of the danger of having an elevated view of one’s fame. A would-be Hollywood star, Yvonne is described as having acted in the Western pictures which Laruelle had not seen, but which—according to him—had influenced Eisenstein (Ibid., 77). She has acquired a nickname relating to a notoriously formidable and autocratic Russian tsar, Ivan IV (1530–1584) (better known by the name of Ivan the Terrible). She has shown to Laruelle— but not to the Consul—“old photographs of Yvonne the Terrible” (Ibid., 266). The hero of Eisenstein’s epic movie, Ivan the Terrible, parts 1 & 2 (1944–45) is infamous for fatally wounding his second son (also called Ivan) in a fit of rage, as depicted in Ilya Repin’s famous painting, Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on November 16th, 1581 (1885). Such an appellation has incriminating undertones in view of the death from meningitis of Yvonne’s six-month child from her previous husband, “the adulterous ghost named Cliff” in 1932 (UV, 76). This infant had the same name as the Consul, for he is referred to as being “a little child, innocent as that other Geoffrey had been” (Ibid., 150). LOWRY AND MARXISM In his letter to Harold Matson dated June 14, 1952, Lowry expresses glee at the result of a recent general election in British Columbia to choose members of the Legislative Assembly. Upon the formation of a new administration to implement policies of Social Credit, he declares, “We have a Marxist, though fortunately not communist, government now in B.C. Fantastic.”96 Despite his socialist leaning, he was a person of contradiction, gaining from—though abhorring his dependence on—the receipt of funds from his doting, yet wealthy father in the United Kingdom. He is not unlike Sigbjørn Tarnmoor in In Ballast to the White Sea who, according to his father, had been aided by the existence of a free market. Acknowledging that the capitalist system has its weaknesses, the Captain reminds his son that he has benefited from it (IB, 129). Although his political sympathies suggest the contrary, Lowry comes across in his literary works as being in direct opposition to Marxist thought. First, unlike Karl Marx, who shifted toward “scientific socialism,” he retained a more balanced view of the influence of science, on the one hand, and of the humanities and the arts, on the other. Second, despite historical materialism’s Marxist principles, he maintains a more organic view of culture. Third, in

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contrast to the historicism advocated by Hegel and Marx, he emphasizes the role of accidents and chance events in history and current affairs. His literary works uncover his endeavors to display an objective, aesthetic response to the impact of ideological influences on contemporary affairs. They reveal an astute awareness of the complexity of international politics in the interaction of the forces of communism and fascism in the interwar period. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL CONNECTIONS IN THE 1930S The Paradox of In Ballast to the White Sea (2014) With his visionary intellect, Lowry provides a cogent insight into a 1930s world teetering increasingly on the brink of war and destruction. In his psychic pursuit of the truth of existence, he assesses a range of factors which, he perceives, have contributed to the current deadlock. A fan of Melville, he draws on his familiarity with Moby Dick (1851), published during the American Renaissance—and on his own experiences at sea—to warn against impending calamities and to identify solutions to the escalating crisis in Europe. He empowers Sigbjørn Tarnmoor in In Ballast to the White Sea to present a conscientious view of civilization’s pitfalls in the hope—however vain—that the future can change the past to avoid tragedy. He makes analogies between the mystical dimensions of the white whale in Melville’s novel and the uncharted “phosphorous White Sea” of Soviet Russia (Ibid., 121). Burying his face in his hands, Sigbjørn fathoms that, despite Moby Dick’s “supernatural ambiguities,” the white whale does exist: “White whale! White Sea!” (Ibid., 82) On realizing the truth, he shudders from its pain and asserts that not only could tragedies have been avoided in the past, they could in the future too (Ibid., 82). The visual depiction of the suffering of the harpooned whale is used to politicize In Ballast to the White Sea by identifying another symbol—that of capitalism in crisis. Sigbjørn reflects on the existence of evil and greed in the current state of affairs as they play into the hands of a “blind, malicious force in the world” (Ibid.). In lambasting what he discerns as the evils of capitalism, his thoughts merge with those of Lowry’s narrator who empathizes with Marxist thinking by stressing the inevitability of the collapse of private enterprise. He conjectures that capitalist society “carried her own rusted presages of disaster within her as the whale did the lances whose wounds weakened it at the final attack” (Ibid.). In a subsequent conversation with his father, he pursues this train of thought by determining that conflict and warfare are endemic in a capitalist political system.

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Originally designated as “Metal,” the title of Lowry’s “June the 30th, 1934” (1939)97 is derived from Ernst Henri’s foreword to Hitler Over Europe (1934), which predicts either a socialist revolution arising out of the Führer’s death or a European conflagration.98 Lowry’s short story alludes to the Night of the Long Knives (also known as Operation Hummingbird) when, as its title indicates, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, or Nazis, undertook a series of politically motivated executions intended to consolidate Hitler’s grasp of power. Sigbjørn’s vision of a spiraling, true-to-life “psychotic nightmare” predicts that more hostilities are highly likely owing to political deficiencies and the drive to another war (IB, 130). He questions whether “the system is rotten right through?” (Ibid.) The theme of “metallurgies” is a prominent one in In Ballast to the White Sea (Ibid., 155). It is linked to its forerunner, alchemy, which stimulated a futile desire to turn base metals into gold via a process of transmutation. Sigbjørn is warned against such an unrealizable dream by his father who underlines the impossibility of “the philosophical stone,” citing Isaac D’Israeli—a scholar who considered alchemy to be one of The Six Follies of Science (the others being the quadrature of the circle, the multiplication of the cube, perpetual motion, magic, and judicial astrology) (Ibid., 144).99 In Sigbjørn’s vivid imagination, although his ship, The Unsgaard is endowed with a spiritual dimension as it sails into the Arctic Circle, “the elixir of life” is transformed into “some further metallurgy of death” (IB, 218). In this “chthonic vision of a metallic world,”100 only “a metallurgy of the mind”—a phrase which appears in the first line of Lowry’s poem, “There is a Metallurgy” (19381939)—can save humanity from Armageddon.101 In the “darkening world” of In Ballast to the White Sea, the time has come for preventative international action to avoid disaster. Sigbjørn discerns that they are on the brink of the “midnight of the world”—a world which would never leave another message under a stone for the pilgrim (IB, 134). He makes a comparison between the chaos wrought by deceit, greed, and the betrayal of humanity’s birthright and the “swiftly drifting, tattered wreckage above them” (Ibid.). An intense need for the creation of a new society—which, unlike fascism, would not endanger the livelihood of its inhabitants—is identified by Sigbjørn. Stimulated by viewing The End of St Petersburg, he craves for nothing less than the rebirth of civilization. It would have universal, moral, and spiritual reverberations, as he realizes by glimpsing his visage reflected in another soul who sought rebirth, who “perhaps sought God in the very regions where he had been destroyed” (Ibid., 68). Marking the memorable words of his deceased brother, Tor, he pledges to embark on “quite a different pilgrimage” from that undertaken so far (Ibid., 68–69). The pros of communism as a potential solution to the pitfalls of capitalism are debated at length in conversations conducted between Sigbjørn and his

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girlfriend, Nina, in which she reveals her political empathies. Although she is a member of the Communist Party, he is not always in full agreement with her views, particularly when they are devoid of spiritual values. He explains that they always quarrel, for she is a communist who belongs to the party, whereas he has the audacity to claim that he has a soul (Ibid., 146). Although apparently aware of the risks run in the USSR of not conforming, he declares to Captain Tarnmoor that he is not a member of any political party: “I am not in Russia. I may never go to Russia and even if I did I should probably be thrown out on my ear. And besides, I don’t belong to a party” (Ibid., 149). Both the Captain and his son are of the opinion that, for consciousness to be reborn, belief systems should undergo radical change. The former proclaims that, if the whole person were to be involved, “the wisdom of religious thought and the miraculous powers of men must also enter the revolutionary movement” (Ibid., 147). A major topic of the debate which transpires is the shape and trajectory of communism in the 1930s. Although the convictions voiced about the USSR are limited to contemporary information available outside that country, a degree of doubt does emerge, albeit gradually. The Captain seems to be aware of the secrecy shrouding the state-security activities of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs—better known by its acronym, the NKVD—which operated in the Soviet Union throughout the Stalinist period. He utters to Sigbjørn: “I’ll be surprised—even if you do get there—if they’ll let you go beyond the wharf” (Ibid., 72). There is a certain naivety in Sigbjørn’s allegiance to socialism. Accusing him of sentimentality, Nina detects that, however courageous, his intended circumvention of political issues through spiritual means is hindered by an overreliance on a maternal safety net. She claims that the old ideology has become useless pretence and that, although Sigbjørn’s appears to identify with the proletariat, it is actually an escape from himself (Ibid., 112). She asserts: “It’s more of a tense, personal, religious matter with you than anything else. [. . .] Can’t you see that all this business about going home, to Russia, or Norway, or Spitzbergen [. . .] is just one more attempt on your part to crawl back into Grandma’s beaded bag?” (Ibid.). Recognizing the need for security in an increasingly unstable world, she associates his recourse to “the dark forces of the unconscious” with “an act of primitive revolt” (Ibid.). She links his intuitive primitivism with D. H. Lawrence’s advocation of the need for profound mystical communication with the inhabitants of pre-industrialized civilizations in order to attain sexual freedom.102 Given the precariousness of international affairs, there was increasing support for communism in many quarters of 1930s Britain as a means of challenging the influence of German Nazism and Italian fascism. In In Ballast to the White Sea, Sigbjørn contends that even D. H. Lawrence—who

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died in 1930—would “have gone ‘red’” (IB, 112). A politicization of the intelligentsia in the United Kingdom is detected by Captain Tarnmoor, who connects his son’s way of thinking with this trend by alleging that a few years previously men like Sigbjørn would have been aesthetes, but now they are communists (Ibid., 73). Sigbjørn confirms his political allegiances by declaring that he would die for communism but did not have the impudence to call himself a communist. Also, they may not have him (Ibid., 129). Co-operation between the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany—resulting in the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact which lasted from August 23, 1939 until June 22, 1941—is predicted by Nina. She reasons with Sigbjørn hat, as in military action, it is just a blind step in the dark not to communism, but to fascism and that it is compensation for what brothers and fathers endured during the war (Ibid., 112). They are in agreement in identifying Nazism as a common foe, their eyes focusing on the “soulless swastika” (Ibid., 114.) In an envisioned conversation between the novelist and short story writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne (who was US Consul in Rock Park, Liverpool in 1853–1857)103 and Herman Melville, reference is made to the latter’s pilgrimage to the Holy Land in November 1856 in search of spiritual inspiration to mitigate against his fear of annihilation (IB, 114).104 It predicts the Holocaust, as does the mention in the subsequent section of Hermann Göring (1893–1946), whose name reappears in La Mordida “combined into one chill revolver-bound menace.”105 A prominent figure in the Nazi Party (NSDAP), this political and military leader oversaw the creation of the Gestapo (the secret police in Nazi Germany and German-occupied Europe) in 1933. He was complicit in the implementation of the anti-Semitic, Nuremberg Laws which were enacted by the Reichstag on September 15, 1935.106 The narrator of In Ballast to the White Sea imagines that, having entered the Mersey, a German battleship has opened fire. Sigbjørn hears the sound of winches above them and of clattering machine guns. Casualty reports provoke him to react imaginatively in the following way: “The snow-mists, the terrible vaporous metallurgies of aerochemistry, the sea that raced past a thick river of blood. Goering’s bloated face rose up before him and he smashed it to jelly” (IB, 114).107 In his vision of the future, Sigbjørn faces an acute dilemma: he is torn between the joint appeal of Norway and Russia. He quizzes Tor why Russia always comes to mind when he thinks of Norway (Ibid., 8). He explains that, being born in Norway, he has chosen a Norwegian ship to travel back to his native country in search of his ancestry (Ibid., 64). He confirms his interest in William Erikson (Ibid., 223). At one point in their conversation, his father recognizes that, once aboard the Unsgaard and among fellow Norwegians, his son may be rejuvenated and meet him once more without knowing it, in the form of a new self (Ibid., 65). He infers that Sigbjørn is tracing his

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ancestry to his own mother, Norway (Ibid., 64). Although his son’s ship is likely to dock at a Norwegian port in transit, Captain Tarnmoor detects his difficulty in fulfilling dual, psychogeographical intentions. He conjectures that his son cannot wish to travel to Russia if his motive is to see Erikson, who may be in Norway. If he desired to go to Norway—the source of his ancestry—he would scarcely choose to sign up for a ship to Russia (Ibid., 72–73). Even Sigbjørn recognizes this quandary, admitting that, although the vessel is Norwegian, it is bound for Archangel to acquire timber, and that he is unsure whether or not it will touch Norway (Ibid., 64). The juxtaposition of these two civilizations is illustrated by the symbol of the Viking ship. Visible in Ultramarine as a representation of Norway’s heritage, it reappears in In Ballast to the White Sea as an emblem of destruction. There it is displayed as part of a fleet which remained “unconquerable” during the bicentennial Viking Age which lasted from 800 until c. AD 1050 (Ibid., 239).108 As the narrator contends, its navy devastated Europe, stormed east into Russia and then south to the Black Sea before trading across Central Asia with the Far East. Hence, the Vikings represent a fundamental link between Scandinavia and Rus’ (as Russia was called originally). Tor earlier philosophizes: “—Isn’t it possible that for us, Russia is the future, and Norway the past?” (Ibid., 8). Sigbjørn is prepared to make sacrifices to shape Europe’s destiny. He expounds to the Captain a compromise, should he be unable to see Erikson: if he does not reach Norway, he will not meet him, but will be able to dramatize his work and see Russia, where the future is being forged (Ibid., 64) He realizes that—without esoteric intervention—there is no escape from one’s destiny, for even the Russians—“at the very headquarters of the future”—are unable to elude it (Ibid., 29). In the mid-1930s, when In Ballast to the White Sea was written and set (that is long before the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact), Germany’s increasing economic leverage was already a threat to European stability. Raw materials—especially Norwegian timber and Swedish iron ore (which was imported into Narvik)—were highly lucrative to the Nazis. In her debate with Sigbjørn in In Ballast to the White Sea, Nina is far-sighted in her prescience of the end of Norway’s neutrality and of the extension of German National Socialism to the Baltic, placing a strangle-hold on its economies and industries. She suggests that Norway has the raw materials—ores and wood—for the construction of Nazi ships and that Sigbjørn is too occupied with his program of salvation and Nordic League of Nations to notice (Ibid., 114). Subsequently, her vision would be realized by the German invasion of Norway on April 9, 1940, in search of ice-free harbors for its naval control of the North Atlantic.109 Hence, Norway is represented in In Ballast to the White Sea as a complex symbol of death and Russia—of life. The Captain explains that Norway represents the passing of his son and the latter’s mother, as well as Tor’s

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birth. He maintains that it personifies demise. He professes that the impulses which lure Sigbjørn to Russia and Communism are life- and sexual-instincts, implying his attraction to Erikson (Ibid., 153–54). Russia is introduced into In Ballast to the White Sea via flashbacks to Ultramarine. As his train passes Croston near Preston in north-west England, Sigbjørn recalls his last voyage: the surrounding landscape beyond the trees reminds him of the Kwantung Peninsula which came under the Russian control between 1898 and 1905 (Ibid., 176). Although it had been occupied by Japan in the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895),110 it was ceded back to China under European pressure and then leased to Russia, which redesignated its harbor as the naval base of Port Arthur. After the Treaty of Portsmouth (1905) had ended the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905),111 it was leased by Japan (which renamed it Ryojun). It became Lüshun City (now Lüshunkou District) in China in 1945. In this context, in In Ballast to the White Sea Sigbjørn charts his earlier voyage as passing Cape Esan (now part of Hakodate), the Tsugaru Strait (which lies between the northern islands of Honshu and Hokkaido), Hakodate itself, the Sea of Japan, Korea, and, eventually, Dairen. By referring to Hilliot’s ship, he empathizes with the hero of Ultramarine by seeking refuge in nostalgic memories of the Oedipus Tyrannus reaching Dairen at the height of summer (IB, 176). As in Ultramarine, the port of Dairen (as it was known in 1905–1945, but is now Dalian in China) is significant in In Ballast to the White Sea for its Russian connections. Sigbjørn observes this influence when he refers to Manchukuo which absorbed it (Ibid.). Located in Northeast China and Inner Mongolia, the latter was a puppet state governed by the Empire of Japan in 1932–1945, but with a large White Russian population. Sigbjørn uses the contemporary Japanese name, “Dairen” rather than the Russian, “Dalny” (meaning “Distant” or “Remote”), which is preferred by his travelling companion, Daland Haarfragre (Ibid.). The Dalny variant had been its official name from 1898 (when it fell under Russian territorial control and, with considerable investment, expanded into a vibrant city-port and a terminus of the Chinese Eastern Railway) until Russia’s 1905 defeat in the Russo-Japanese War.112 In In Ballast to the White Sea, it is intended that Sigbjørn’s vessel should voyage from the then port of Preston to Archangel (also known as Archangelsk) on the White Sea, or else to Leningrad (now called St Petersburg) in northern Russia.113 Its captain confirms its route, but its destination remains under constant review (IB, 61). Although he issues orders to proceed there after all, the charter for Archangel is suddenly revoked once more as many of its crew have been paid off in the uncertainty (Ibid., 234). This news is disappointing to Sigbjørn who has been harboring the original suggestion that the Unsgaard may dock in Leningrad and, indeed, earlier

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transports himself there psychogeographically: as he walks from Lime Street past the Washington Hotel to the “isthmus of Manchester Street,” his mind’s eye superimposes a vision of Leningrad on Liverpool (Ibid., 69). Haarfragre too emphasizes its charm, predicting that Sigbjørn would have a fine voyage and, in Leningrad, would see the beautiful, blue waters of the River Neva and its delightful islands extending toward the Gulf of Finland. In response to Sigbjørn’s query about whether there are White Nights there as in Norway, he elucidates that, although constructed on marshland (as signified by the term “Neva” in Finnish), it too benefits from periods of nocturnal twilight during the summer (Ibid., 176). Built between 1703 and 1721 on the decree of Tsar Peter the Great, this city is praised for its white nights (which last from midMay until mid-July) in Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman. For Malcolm Lowry, revolutionary Russia was polarized between the Whites and the Reds, whose military forces combatted for control of its trajectory in the Civil Wars, 1917–1922. Whereas the color white evokes the White Sea, white whales, and white nights, red—derived from the Russian word for beauty (krasivyi)—elicits the star of revolution twinkling above the Kremlin and the toll incurred in blood. In his attempts to overcome painful memories—such as Tor’s suicide—Sigbjørn is faced with decoding the spiritual “message from an astral world” (Ibid., 116). He is torn between nightmares of the past and dreams of the future in his kaleidoscopic vision of the world which remains in a constant state of flux. He imagines that, weighed down by the ballast of the past, he is a prisoner condemned to death, but in pursuit of the White Sea! Its whiteness is trepidation to the soul and is a contrast to redness, which signifies blood. Connecting the latter color with the star of revolution shining beautifully over the White Sea, he ponders where he is going and whose star he is following (Ibid.). Despite the constant uncertainty as to whether (or not) the Unsgaard will reach Russia eventually, he expresses his commitments to Nina. He explains that he is under sealed orders, but will soon know what he should do and where he should go. He proclaims that when he glimpses his star, he will follow it until he dies (Ibid., 91). A lucid evaluation of the perils of impending global catastrophe appears in an early dialogue between Tor and Sigbjørn focusing on the exigency of immediate action. The former emphasizes that the configuration of international affairs is ripe for profound transformation: “The world runs away to her own destruction like an idiot child in the dark. Our world is waiting for revolution and that’s all there is to it” (Ibid., 31). However, the type of rapid change needed is hotly disputed. Lowry lends weight to socialist ideas and to cinematic expositions of them by positioning Sigbjørn opposite Karl Marx’s Das Kapital (1867) and works on Soviet film by Pudovkin, Eisenstein, and Paul Fejos, né Fejős Pál on Tor’s bookcase (Ibid., 31).114 Sigbjørn advocates the need for “a revolution of the word” (IB, 31)—an oblique reference to a

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1929 proclamation with sixteen signatories (including Hart Crane) which appeared in the modernist magazine, Transition: An International Quarterly for Creative Experiment.115 It promulgated a linguistic revolution which would “breach and transcend the growing political divides created by the rise of communism and fascism.”116 Holding up a copy of D. H. Lawrence’s study of Freudian psychoanalysis, Fantasia of the Unconscious (1921), he proposes a “revolution of the soul” and even one of sex (IB, 31). In his response, Tor identifies him as a sort of mystic owing to his faith in esotericism as a means of breaking down the barriers hindering rebirth (Ibid., 32). Subsequently, this thread is picked up by Captain Tarnmoor who suggests that Russia would provide Sigbjørn with an appropriate spiritual environment. He claims that one can love one’s neighbor as oneself there, because there is no reason to do otherwise. He recognizes that, in spite of infuriating incidents, Russians do have a religion (Ibid., 149). However, in his faith in spirituality, Sigbjørn combines alternative solutions to humanity’s dilemmas. He connects mysticism with communism—ideological beliefs which, conventionally, are considered to be in direct opposition, given the supernatural tenets of the former and the rational principles of the latter. Even the Captain is susceptible to his ideology, for he acknowledges the appeal of communism, or else a refuge in esotericism, in which his son has rightly suspected him to be involved (Ibid., 151). THE TRANSFORMATION OF MARXISM INTO COMMUNISM IN UNDER THE VOLCANO The Entangling Web of the Spanish Civil War Under the Volcano is not only a political warning embedded in a collage of images relating to Dead Souls but also a running commentary on contemporary intercontinental events including the Spanish Civil War (and its connections with Soviet and, indeed, Mexican history and politics). Lowry’s novel is a reminder that it was fought between democratically elected Republicans (supported by Marxists in the Soviet Union and in Mexico), on the one hand, and fascist-backed Nationalists (led by General Franco in Spain), on the other. Although Stalin (as General Secretary of the CPSU’s Central Committee) signed a Non-Intervention Agreement in August 1936, the Soviet Union contravened the League of Nations’ embargo by providing covert military assistance to Republican forces. It included aeroplanes, tanks, armaments, and military advisers, paid for by gold reserves from the Bank of Spain. Inevitably, the Spanish Civil War was to have significant repercussions on Mexican politics. Unlike the United States and major Latin-American

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governments (such as the ABC powers of Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, as well as Peru), Mexico pledged support for the Republicans through diplomatic assistance and political asylum for thousands of refugees—especially intellectuals and other professionals—from Spain.117 In the revitalization of the Mexican Revolution (1910–1920), by the Lázaro Cárdenas administration (1934–1940), the petroleum industry was nationalized in 1938 and the pace of land reform was accelerated, following on from the 1934 Agrarian Code. This legislation resulted in the redistribution of more than forty-nine million acres of land—that is, over twice as much as that reallotted by all the revolutionary predecessors of the aforementioned Mexican president.118 However, the expropriation of 10 percent of US-owned agricultural property led to conflict between the United States and Mexico. International tension escalated when Cárdenas requisitioned Standard Oil, Royal Dutch Shell, and fourteen other petroleum companies in foreign ownership on March 18, 1938, in order to create a state oil company, Petróleos Mexicanos, or Pemex.119 The trail of Mexican politics is significant for the unraveling events in Under the Volcano. Both the Consul and Hugh are embroiled in a sequence of developments precipitated by the infiltration of the Spanish Civil War. Mexico’s revolutionary culture was stimulated by the efforts of Republican emigres, but threatened by authoritarianism. In Lowry’s novel, Geoffrey Firmin is confused for being a communist spy by the Unión Militar, a violently fascist military organization (with links to Spain) on duty on that fateful day of the Consul’s demise. The Chief of Rostrums repeats, “‘You say you are a wrider’” (UV, 371). Pushing him violently, he insists, “‘You are no a de wrider, you are de espider, and we shoota de espiders in Mejico. [. . .] You no wrider. [. . .] ‘You Al Capón. You a Jew chingao. [. . .] You are a spider.’” (Ibid.) Considerable suspicion arises from the reality of Geoffrey’s shady position. A British consul without a working consulate, he is accused of being a spy, as happened to Leon Trotsky. The significance of the acute accusation made by the Chief of Rostrums is evident in Geoffrey’s paradox: he is portrayed as an English Consul who hardly can claim to have British trade at heart in a region lacking British interests and, indeed, Englishman, especially since diplomatic relations had been severed with Mexico (Ibid., 35–36). From the outset, Hugh is associated with Karl Marx who authored The Communist Manifesto (1848). However, Dr. Vigil deems him to have a naïve political stance. He quickly considers him an “irresponsible bore, a professional indoor Marxman, vain and self-conscious really, but affecting a romantic extroverted air” (Ibid., 14). However, his convictions are not without a spiritual basis, for he contends to the Consul that, whatever its current phase, communism is not a system at all, but a “new spirit, something which one day may or may not seem as natural as the air we breathe” (Ibid., 306). It

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is linked to the turmoil of the Russian Civil Wars. Confusing the White Russian Consulate for a whole embassy, the Consul articulates to Yvonne that he thinks that she would have done well as an attaché to the White Russian Embassy in Zagreb in 1922 (Ibid., 64). Subsequently, through flash-forwards, he conjures up visions of White army defeats in a Siberian environment to enhance his heavenly perception of Canada: “British Columbia, the genteel Siberia, that was neither genteel nor a Siberia, but an undiscovered, perhaps an undiscoverable paradise” (Ibid., 354).120 As in In Ballast to the White Sea, the theme of communism is a constant one in Under the Volcano, which is saturated with recurring images of key Bolshevik figures: Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin. The Consul is accused by the Chiefs of Gardens and Rostrums for being “Bolshevisten” (UV, 369). He is confused with his half brother as soon as the incriminating business card is discovered in his pocket. It reads: “Federación Anarquista Ibérica [. . .] Sr Hugo Firmin” (Ibid., 370). He elsewhere contends that it is the appeal of communism which enticed Hugh into higher education: owing to “a kindly quasi-Communist,” he abandoned the notion of dodging Cambridge (Ibid., 167). Given the activities of the members of the ‘Cambridge Five’ spy-ring— some of whom Lowry encounters in the early 1930s, as previously highlighted—reconnaissance has had a long-standing appeal to him. His political sympathies are discernible in the narrator’s accusations: “Once a scout you were always a Communist” (Ibid., 175).121 Stalin too is named in connection with Hugh, who contemplates: “No, I respect Stalin too, Cárdenas, and Jawaharlal Nehru” (UV, 157).122 The Consul even imagines, in an outburst of delirious blasphemy, that his half brother has met Jesus Christ and Stalin, who awarded him a star of Lenin medal and a Hero of the Soviet Republic certificate for his heroism. He had the “True Church, pride and love in his heart” (UV, 242). Recurrent mention of him as the recipient of such prizes provides an ironic reminder of Hugh’s mock status, for he could not have received the honor of the Star of Lenin, as that particular award never existed. The highest Soviet decoration for exemplary state service was the Order of Lenin, as bestowed on Sergei Eisenstein.123 Leon Trotsky (1879–1940) In exile in Mexico since 1936, Trotsky too creeps into the pages of Under the Volcano via the Consul’s analogy to a volume of Elizabethan plays—including Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus (1589–1592) (UV, 40). He has lent it to M. Laruelle who “wanted it because for some time he had been carrying at the back of his mind the notion of making in France a modern film version of the Faustus story with some such character as Trotsky for its protagonist” (Ibid., 33).124 In response to the Chief of Municipality’s request

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Figure 3.1  Trotsky’s Compound in Coyoacán, Mexico City. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

for his name, Geoffrey Firmin is mistaken for Trotsky (UV, 358). His assassination is a precursor to that of the latter, who was slain by the hand of Ramón Mercader, an undercover NKVD agent in August 1940 at his residence in Coyoacán, Mexico City. Subsequently, it was converted into the museum discernible in figure 3.1. A leading Marxist revolutionary and political theorist of Jewish origin, Trotsky is reputed for his activities in the October Revolution of November 1917. He became the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs (1917–1918) and for Army and Naval Affairs (1918–1919) (i.e. the head of the Red Army) during the Civil Wars.125 He was influential in propagating Russian revolutionary art and collaborated with the founder of surrealism, André Breton. They co-authored the Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art (1938) which contains an exposition of capitalist decadence. Expressed in this mission statement is a desire for the liberation of art from Stalinist social repression, on the one hand, and from Hitlerite anti-Semitism, on the other—a reminder of the firm stance taken by Walter Benjamin who opposed the misuse of the movies as an instrument of fascism.126 Under the Volcano alludes to Trotsky’s significant role in the activities of the Communist International (1919–1943) (also known as Comintern and the Third International), especially during its Fourth Congress in November

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1922. Referring to the Popular Front and to the International Brigades, it polarizes world politics into two main camps: communist and fascist. Endorsed by Comintern’s Seventh World Congress (1935), the Front united left-wing political associations—including communist parties—in a battle against fascism. In Lowry’s novel, the Consul refers to “a very popular front,” which suggests empathy with the Brigades which travelled to Spain to fight for the Second Spanish Republic (1931–1939) (UV, 66). Hugh laments their withdrawal, uttering, “‘They got the Internationals out [. . .] two days before Chamberlain went to Godesberg’” (Ibid., 106).127 He has in mind the British prime minister’s failure to secure peace, for Hitler’s Memorandum (1938) proposed a plebiscite, though with the stipulation that it should take place only after his occupation of the Sudetanland. Yvonne too harbors romantic notions about the Brigades and their anthem (UV, 107). Ironically, she asks Hugh why he wants a guitar: “‘Are you going to play the Internationale or something on it, on board your ship?’” (Ibid., 328) INTO THE ABYSS: FROM TROTSKYISM TO NAZISM AND ANTI-SEMITISM Under the Volcano plays a pivotal role in contrasting Hugh’s Trotskyist convictions—borne out of the Spanish Civil War—with Stalin’s pragmatism which resulted in the bizarre Nazi-Soviet Pact. Hugh is presented as a visionary in foreseeing this deal by assuming, “‘And if Russia should prove.’” (Ibid., 329)128 He feels betrayed by Neville Chamberlain’s blighted attempt to appease Hitler by signing the Munich Agreement (1938) (Ibid., 103 and 240). He deems this accord a sell-out, not only of Sudetenland and Czechoslovakia but also of Republican aspirations in Spain.129 He is a person of contradiction influenced by the surge of Nazi anti-Semitism which associated communism and capitalism with Jewish materialism. His early aspirations—which “vaguely recalled [. . .] another frustrated artist” (UV, 160)—have shaped his existence which “once more began to bear a certain resemblance to Adolf Hitler’s” (Ibid., 174). However, his ambivalent attitude to Nazism is unveiled by his occasional criticism. He refers to a Russian film which he has seen. It is about the fishermen’s revolt in which a shark—and a shoal of other fish—is netted and killed. It strikes him as a symbol of the Nazi system which, even though defunct, continues “swallowing live struggling men and women!’” (Ibid., 305) The Consul’s response is ironic in its condemnation of “any other system . . . Including the Communist system” (Ibid.). Paradoxically, Hugh’s visions foresee massacres of ethnic groups throughout Europe. He is not without guilt, for “in his day dreams he became the

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instigator of enormous pogroms—all-inclusive, and, hence, bloodless” (Ibid., 175).130 His nightmares relate to those of the Consul, who claims that he was court-martialled (and then acquitted) for ordering the Samaritan’s stokers to thrust Germans into furnaces—an allusion to the forthcoming Holocaust (Ibid., 39). Delving into the “Jewish knowledge!” of the Cabbala, he flippantly asserts that “Hitler . . . merely wished to annihilate the Jews in order to obtain just such arcana as could be found behind them in his bookshelves” (Ibid., 189–90). This contention is upheld by Lowry who, in his 1946 Letter to Jonathan Cape, maintains that “Hitler was another pseudo black magician [. . .] The real reason why Hitler destroyed the Polish Jews was to prevent their cabbalistic knowledge being used against him.”131 FROM IGNATIUS DONNELLY TO MADAME BLAVATSKY AND THE THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY Insightful of the interdependence of cultures and civilizations, Lowry was stimulated by ideas emanating from Russian esotericists, such as Helena Blavatsky (1831–1891). He became aware of her spiritual heritage as a Cambridge undergraduate, especially through his reading of the works of the Irish modernist poet, W. B. Yeats, and through his conversations with T. R. Henn, Director of Studies in English for St Catharine’s and Trinity Colleges.132 In his correspondence, he refers to the former, whose mystical inclinations were informed by Hindu Theosophical beliefs and the occult.133 In a poem entitled, “Byzantium or Where the Great Life Begins” (1939– 1940) he alludes to Yeats’s verses, “Sailing to Byzantium” (1928). However, he mocks his idealized, spiritual vision of Byzantium (modern-day Istanbul) as a holy city of the imagination. In Under the Volcano, he refers to the Swedish scientist, philosopher, and mystic, Emanuel Swedenborg (1688–1772), who devised a theosophical system in which, he maintained, the natural and spiritual worlds were given credence by divine authority exuding from the Orient. He declares, “We face East, like Swedenborg’s angels” (UV, 42).134 His mention of “a publisher interested too; in Chicago” brings to mind a theosophist group called the Collegium ad Spiritum Sanctum (UV, 91). It was led in the 1920s by his subsequent neighbor and friend, Charles Stansfeld Jones (1886–1950) (also known as Frater Achad), who promoted the publication of several cabbalistic works under the auspices of the New Aeon Publishing Company.135 An occultist and spirit medium, Madame Blavatsky, viewed herself as a missionary of ancient knowledge who—together with her partner, Colonel Henry Steel Olcott (1832–1907)—developed a philosophy which combined

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Western romanticism with Eastern religious concepts. Previously a US military officer, he converted to Buddhism which gave rise to him being considered a Buddhist modernist for his efforts to interpret this philosophical religion through a Westernized lens. With others, they cofounded the Theosophical Society in New York in 1875. Describing itself as “an unsectarian body of seekers after Truth, who endeavour to promote Brotherhood and strive to serve humanity,” this circle provided a conduit for Hindu beliefs, on the one hand, and for the Western transmission and revival of Theravada Buddhism, with its hermetic knowledge and images of the dead, on the other.136 Its theories were derived partly from Ignatius L. Donnelly’s advocation of the advent of civilization in his aforementioned Atlantis: The Antediluvian World and promulgated in Blavatsky’s The Secret Doctrine.137 One of its central philosophical tenets is The Intelligent Evolution of All Existence which refers to the cosmic scale of physical and nonphysical aspects of known and unknown, cyclic universes of purpose. In this context, in Under the Volcano, Lowry appears to be competing with Blavatsky’s Theosophical Society by endeavoring to advance Donnelly’s theories by making numerous references to his reasoning. His narrator’s nostalgia for “the beauty of the Earthly Paradise itself” (UV, 16) in pre-Edenic Mexico recalls Donnelly’s reference to “a universal memory of a great land, where early mankind dwelt for ages in peace and happiness.”138 It is revealed that the Consul once suggested that M. Laruelle make a film about Atlantis (UV, 21).139 He is reported to have spoken to him about “the spirit of the abyss, the god of storm, ‘huracán’ that ‘testified so suggestively to intercourse between opposite sides of the Atlantic’” (UV, 22). Such a proposition moots a comparison between the American versions of the Flood and the Hebrew and Chaldean ones.140 Elucidating his research into the missing link between Atlantis, on the one hand, and ancient Indian and Aryan races, on the other, he thinks of Donnelly: “I can see the reviews now. Mr Firmin’s sensational new data on Atlantis! The most extraordinary thing of its kind since Donnelly! Interrupted by his untimely death . . . Marvellous. And the chapters on the alchemists!” (UV, 91)141 His contention that he “might even work in something about Coxcox and Noah” (UV, 91) is an acknowledgement of Donnelly’s recognition of similarities between the Deluge myths of Central America and the Biblical accounts of Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood.142 His identification of “Vindra” (i.e., Indra)—a Buddhist guardian deity and a Hinduist Vedic one—with Huracán (a powerful Mayan god of whirlwinds and thunderstorms) illustrates Donnelly’s hypotheses: “‘The bull, I christen him Nandi, vehicle of Síva, from whose hair the River Ganges flows, and who has also been identified with the Vedic storm-god Vindra—known to the ancient Mexicans as Huracán’” (UV, 259).143

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PETER D. OUSPENSKY (1878–1947) Lowry’s mastery of the writings of Ouspensky—whom he discovered, according to Sherrill Grace, in the late 1920s or early 1930s—gave rise to his increasing interest in this acclaimed practitioner of arcane knowledge.144 Reputed for such intriguing publications as The Fourth Dimension (1909), Tertium Organum: A Key to the Enigmas of the World (1920), and A New Model of the Universe (1931), this philosopher and theosophist exerted a “key influence on Lowry’s thinking.”145 He frequently refers to his works in his correspondence,146 culminating in his letter to Mrs. Anna Mabelle Bonner dated April 16, 1940, in which he declares that the latter work is “a terifically exciting book” which “aims [. . .] to base eternal recurrence upon scientific fact.”147 In In Ballast to the White Sea, numerous references are made to the search for knowledge in Ouspensky’s writings. For example, there is an allusion to “the secret built into the Sphinx” (IB, 45). The icy gaze of this mythical creature (which guards the entrance to the Ancient Greek city of Thebes by demanding that all travelers resolve a riddle, or else be devoured) appears in A New Model of the Universe.148 Ouspensky’s definition of the Tao in Tertium Organum is cited in In Ballast to the White Sea as “a square with no angles, a great sound which cannot be heard, a great image with no form” (IB, 111).149 It evokes a representation of the soul of the overloaded ship, the Vestris, which left the New Jersey port of Hoboken on the River Hudson on November 10, 1928, on her final voyage, with a heavy list.150 This depiction is a symbol of “the overburdened world that carried within her the seeds of her own destruction” (IB, 111). It is also Adam Cadmon, the appellation given in Tertium Organum to humanity by Ouspensky (who cites from Blavatsky’s The Secret Doctrine) (Ibid., 122).151 As a result, “the ancient name for man” momentarily distorts Sigbjørn’s vision as he recalls his school days (IB, 123). In his conversation with his son, Captain Tarnmoor advocates the importance of neighborly love, citing the example of communist Russia which, he contends, provides a spiritual solution to global problems. He explains that his perspective is derived from that expressed in a seventh-century statement by the Christian monk and abbot, Saint Avva (or Abba) Dorotheus of Gaza (Ibid., 149). It is recorded in Superconscious and the Ways to Achieve It (1906) by the religious philosopher and Secretary of the Russian Theosophical Society, Mitrofan Lodyzhensky and cited in Ouspensky’s Tertium Organum.152 The mystical image of the divine is unveiled in the following way: “Now suppose that this circle is the world: the very middle of it, God.”153 Its radii are life-paths of human beings: the closer they are to the centre, the greater their love for one another. Consequently, the Captain proclaims that,

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if one loves God, one approaches him through love for one’s neighbors and the closer one’s union is with them, the closer it is with God (IB, 149). Many of In Ballast to the White Sea’s chapters commence with epigraphs citing Ouspensky’s Tertium Organum. Chapter XII establishes the need to identify the trajectory of a psychic pilgrimage—be it to the seaports of Archangel or Leningrad in Russia, or else to Aalesund in Norway. Yet, its epigraph—“the tragedy of our spiritual quest: we don’t know what we are searching for . . . ”—implies that it is something which must be discovered (Ibid., 170).154 Chapter XIII draws on the idea of planes of existence expressed in The Ancient Wisdom (1897) by the socialist, political activist, and cofreemason, Annie Besant, who was president of the Theosophical Society from 1907 until 1933.155 From the viewpoint of an aeroplane flying over the Wirral, it refers to Chinese mysticism: “Being great it, the Tao, passes on; passing on, it becomes remote; having become remote, it returns . . . ” (IB, 181) It also brings to mind Ouspensky’s citation—in Tertium Organum—of sayings which convey the transcendental, all-pervasive, and eternal attributes of Taoism as a “form of formlessness, the image of the imageless, the fleeting and the indeterminable.”156 Chapter XVIII unveils a representation of the soul of a human being, comparing it to that of an ocean-going liner. In this respect, the Unsgaard seems destined to travel to its port of registry, that is, to the “romantic paradise” of Aalesund instead of Archangel. Humanity is compared to an ocean liner on which transient passengers—each embodying diverse elements—are voyaging for their own reasons to their own destinations. Everyone unconsciously orientates oneself, involuntarily considering that one is the steamer’s centre (IB, 233).157 According to Gordon Bowker, Lowry identifies with Tarot card 12 of the Hanged Man, who is depicted by Ouspensky as someone “with his hands tied behind his back, hanging by one leg from a high gallows with his head downwards, and in fearful torments.”158 In Ballast to the White Sea Sigbjørn faces the reality of his truth. He believes in communism and envisages the soul proceeding on a life journey in search of God. He emphasizes the importance of seeing the truth and the permanent categories of every religion, contending, “War used to be truth for some. Now it is up to us to stop it” (IB, 240). In response to Birgit’s querying of his motives, he contends that he came to seek his truth. Although it eluded him, he was hanged upside down like the hanged man in Tarot cards (Ibid.).159 As with the Consul in Under the Volcano, the Hanged Man’s surrender can stimulate moral and spiritual fortitude, as suggested by A New Model of the Universe: “The greater a man’s sacrifice, the greater his strength will be. Strength is proportionate to sacrifice. He who can sacrifice all, can do all.”160 Ouspensky observes: “Round his head was a golden halo. And I heard a Voice which spoke to me: ‘Behold, this is the man who has seen the

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Truth.’”161 In this respect, it is not surprising to learn that, in his search for supernatural veracity, Lowry wore around his neck an Italian coin which he had received as a talisman from his sister-in-law, Margot.162 His contemplations of mysterious puzzles and their contribution to the development of the concept of a fourth dimension provided an important source of information for his design of In Ballast to the White Sea and Under the Volcano. In the former, covered in a “web of snow,” the “white city” of Liverpool is associated—in Sigbjørn’s psychogeographic mind—with the seaport of Archangel which is blanketed in snow and ice for up to five months of the year. The image of “the white Mersey, the real white sea” (IB, 100) flowing unceasingly conjures up “the ghost of the White Sea” (Ibid., 85). An intricate “pattern [. . .] of the fourth dimension” is formed as it meanders into Ouspensky’s realm—a domain in which “elementary spirits” are perceivable as they exude from the mists of Lake Okeechobee in Florida (Ibid.). In Under the Volcano, the Consul discerns that the flow of time is circular. His heightened awareness focuses on images of the past in his observations that “time was circumfluent again too, mescal-drugged” (UV, 364). His assumption of temporal circularity is based on notions expressed in A New Model of the Universe, in which Ouspensky claims that “‘men think that everything is incessantly flowing in one direction. They do not see that everything eternally meets, that one thing comes from the past and another from the future, and that time is a multitude of circles turning in different directions.’ ‘Understand this mystery and learn to distinguish the opposite currents in the rainbow stream of the present.’”163 Whereas In Ballast to the White Sea refers to “the mysteries” (IB, 60), Under the Volcano reveals a grasp of secret rites and rituals which the Consul admits to having betrayed and lost (UV, 291). According to Ouspensky, these riddles “represented the journey of the worlds or the journey of the soul, the birth of the soul in matter, its death and resurrection, that is, its return into the former life.”164 Yet, his “Fourth Dimension” did not require its adherents to forsake the world entirely as a prerequisite for harmony with their physical bodies, emotions, and minds—a process which Geoffrey Firmin attempts but fails to master. GEORGE GURDJIEFF (1866–1949) Ouspensky’s philosophy “Fourth Way”—often known as “The Work” or “The System”—was rooted in the philosophy of his influential, spiritual teacher, George Gurdjieff. Having cultivated an innovative approach to self-development by reflecting on his travels to the East, the latter opened a second Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man at the Prieuré des Basses Loges in Avon (near Fontainebleau) in France in 1922. His technique

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combined and harmonized what he conceived as the three established “ways,” or “schools.” Related to the mind, the emotions, and the body, they are envisaged as emanating from yogis, monks, and fakirs, respectively.165 He devised a “Law of Three” which stipulated that every phenomenon exhibited a trio of forces: “active, passive, and neutralizing” which may be seen as affirming, denying, and reconciling.166 It is referred to in In Ballast to the White Sea when Sigbjørn contemplates “the eternal pattern of three” as “one of the secrets of existence which no one bothered to investigate” (IB, 216).167 Gurdjieff firmly believed that, although a unified mind-emotion-body consciousness lay dormant for most human beings, a “Fourth Way” would arouse and transcend it, enabling the individual to reach a higher state and so achieve full potential.168 Aspiring to inner development and supreme consciousness, as conveyed in his literary works, Lowry almost certainly could not have procured Gurdjieff’s hypotheses directly from his early publications, of which there are very few. Similarly, Ouspensky’s writings were an unlikely source, as there would appear to be little which was overtly Gurdjieffian in his pre-1947 treatises. Yet, it seems that there was indeed a conduit: Alfred Richard Orage (1873–1934).169 It is highly likely that this socialist, theosophist, and literary critic—who edited the magazine, The New Age—was known to Lowry, as suggested by the following passage from Paul Beekman Taylor’s Gurdjieff and Orage, Brothers in Elysium: Through the advice of Orage and Mairet in the early days of The New Age, the young Malcolm Lowry was sent to listen to Ouspensky lecture on Gurdjieffian ideas. In a June 1953 letter to Albert Erskine, his editor at Random House, Lowry grieved over his difficulty getting his contracted writings completed and admitted that he might “abandon writing altogether & in order to save my by and then unsalvageable soul enter Gurdjieff’s nursing home in company with the beneficent ghost (perhaps) of Katherine Mansfield.”170

Orage was long acquainted with Ouspensky, whom he first met in 1914 and whose lectures on “Fragments of an Unknown Teaching” he attended in 1921. It was Ouspensky who introduced him to Gurdjieff in February 1922. As a result, Orage went to study at the Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man and became a strong proponent of his ideas.171 So, it seems quite certain that Lowry heard Ouspensky speaking of Gurdjieff—a plausible source of influence on the evolution of Under the Volcano.172 Although the latter did not lecture in Vancouver, another possible origin of Lowry’s knowledge of his teachings was through Canadian intellectuals on the west coast of North America in the period stretching from the 1930s until the 1950s. They include the academic, broadcaster, and violinist, Harry

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Adaskin and the artist and theosophist, Lawren Harris.173 Given the relatively miniscule size of Vancouver’s artistic and literary community at that time, it is most probable that it would have been acquainted with the distinguished Canadian poet and novelist, Earle Birney, who became the leader of the Socialist Workers League and was a friend of Lowry. After the publication of Under the Volcano in 1947, the latter would have had easy access to Gurdjieffian philosophy through Ouspensky’s In Search of the Miraculous: Fragments of an Unknown Teaching (1949) (which was the most accessible account of his concepts) and through Gurdjieff‘s Beelzebub’s Tales to his Grandson: All and Everything (which was published in English in 1950). INFERENCE Inspired by ideas expressed in the works of nineteenth-century Russian writers—by Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman, Gogol’s Dead Souls, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and Tolstoy’s major novels—Malcolm Lowry affirms humanity’s responsibility for its moral and spiritual demise, as indicated in the Consul’s profound deliberations in Under the Volcano. Ideas radiating from Russian thinkers—such as Gurdjieff and Ouspensky— stimulate a recognition of the exigency for a new outlook on the function of modern civilization. The “Fourth Way” determined a human need for inner development and for aspirations to a higher awareness. It called for the investigation of other realms, such as time. Connecting the past with the present, it was intended as a portal to an intuitive consciousness and achievable through esoteric techniques. The visual impact of the cinematic productions of Russian film directors—namely, Eisenstein and Pudovkin—provide Lowry, an international modernist visionary, with the vantage point for a kaleidoscopic, montage-like juxtaposition of “memory shots” of past, present, and even future events. Weighed down by the ballast of times gone by and tormented by a “debacle of self,” his protagonists avail themselves of their shamanistic imaginations on their spiritual pilgrimages in In Ballast to the White Sea and Under the Volcano (IB, 85 and 147).174 Wedged in the jaws of communism and fascism, the belligerent world requires new ideologies to forge global, sociopolitical transformation via a revolution of the soul. NOTES 1. See Chris Ackerley and David Large, “Under the Volcano”: A Hypertextual Companion (Dunedin, New Zealand: University of Otago), updated June 2012, http:​//

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www​.otag​o.ac.​nz/en​glish​lingu​istic​s/eng​lish/​lowry​/ (accessed January 8, 2016); Duncan Hadfield. “Under the Volcano and Gogol’s Diary of a Madman,” The Malcolm Lowry Review 16 (Spring 1985): 78–83; Laura Konigsberg, “Orlac and the Bloody Handle of the Infernal Machine: The Aesthetics of Film and Fascism in Under the Volcano,” The Malcolm Lowry Review 45–46 (1999): 154–67; and Steve Mann, “Lowry and Gogol,” The Malcolm Lowry Review 21–22 (Fall-Spring 1987): 154. 2. Trotsky was born as Lev Bronstein, and Lenin and Stalin changed their surnames from Ulyanov and Jughashvili, respectively. Lowry was familiar with Ten Days That Shook the World (1919), a first-hand account of the 1917 October Revolution by the American journalist and socialist activist, John Reed: see Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), II, 834. 3. See Huda Albert Jabboury, “Constance Garnett, Alymer Maude, S. S. Koteliansky: Russian Literature in England, 1900–1930” (PhD thesis, University of Sheffield, 1992), etheses.whiterose.ac.uk/6015/ (accessed February 13, 2019); Rebecca R. Beasley and Philip Ross Bullock, eds, Translating Russia, 1890–1935, special ed. of Translation and Literature 20, no. 3 (2011); and Rebecca R. Beasley, Russomania: Russian Culture and the Creation of British Modernism, 1881–1922 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). 4. Virginia Woolf, “The Common Reader,” http:​//ebo​oks.a​delai​de.ed​u.au/​w/ woo​lf/vi​rgini​a/w91​c/cha​pter1​6.htm​l. See also Roberta Rubinstein, “Virginia Woolf and the Russian Point of View,” Comparative Literature Studies 9, no. 2 (June 1972): 196–206, http:​//www​.jsto​r.org​/stab​le/40​24599​410.2​307/4​02459​94; Darya Protopopova, “Virginia Woolf’s Versions of Russia,” Postgraduate English 13 (March 2006), http:​//www​.dur.​ac.uk​/post​gradu​ate.e​nglis​h/Dar​yaPro​topop​ovaAr​ticle​.pdf;​ and Anthony Domestico, “The Russian Point of View,” http:​//mod​ernis​m.res​earch​.yale​ .edu/​wiki/​index​.php/​%22Th​e_Rus​sian_​Point​_of_V​iew%2​2 (all accessed October 29, 2012). 5. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 183, 322, 325–6, 396, 433, 444, 500, 543, 636, and 642; and II, 53, 104, 131, 424, 426, 430, 518, 538, 820, 842, 849, and 932. 6. Ibid., II, 518. 7. See ibid.: I, 292–3 and 506–7; and II, 274, 625, 656, 779, 885, and 889. 8. Ibid., 539. 9. Ibid., 885. 10. Ibid., I, 292. 11. Ibid., 292–3. See also ibid., II, 885. Lowry’s immense interest in Gogol is revealed in ibid., 274, 625, and 656. 12. Ibid., I, 346. 13. See ibid., 348. 14. Ibid., II, 105–6. 15. Ibid., 105. 16. Ibid., 889. 17. Ibid., 105. See also 885. 18. Malcolm Lowry, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” in “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic” (London: Pan, 1991), 258.

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19. Lowry, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” 241. 20. Ibid., 231 and 245. 21. Ibid., 260. 22. Ibid., 236. See also 281. 23. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 2000), 178. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “UV”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 24. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 175.1, 175.2, and 175.3. 25. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 506–7. 26. Ibid., 507. 27. Ibid., II, 779. See Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol, “The Nose,” in Diary of a Madman and Other Stories (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975), 55. 28. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 625. 29. Ibid., 154. 30. Ibid. See also ibid., 779 and Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol, Dead Souls: A Poem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). 31. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 155. 32. Ibid., I, 503–4. 33. Barry Wood, “The Edge of Eternity,” Canadian Literature 70 (Autumn 1976): 58, http:​//cin​ema2.​arts.​ubc.c​a/uni​ts/ca​nlit/​pdfs/​artic​les/c​anlit​70-Ed​ge(Wo​od). p​df (accessed June 5, 2015). 34. John (Zhong) Ming Chen and Shaobe Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature 20, nos 3–4 (September–December 1993): 364, http:​//ejo​urnal​s.lib​rary.​ualbe​rta.c​a/ind​ex.ph​p/crc​l/art​icle/​view/​3203/​2560 (accessed June 5, 2015). 35. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 396. See also 96, 322, 325–6, 433, 444, 500, 543, 636, and 642; and II, 53, 104, 131, 424, 426, 518, 820, 822, 842, 849, and 932. 36. Ibid., I, 183–4. 37. Ibid., 433 and 435. 38. See UV, 335 and 337. 39. Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy, annotator Chris Ackerley (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014), 5. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “IB”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. See also Ackerley, I.27 in IB, 247. 40. See ibid., I.52 and I.53 in IB, 250–1. 41. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 506. 42. Ibid., 507. 43. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 294.7. 44. Ibid., 13.8. 45. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 96 and II, 932. See also ibid., I, 189 and 352. 46. Like the real-life Aleister Crowley (who adopted these digits as his own occult signature), Geofrey Firmin is superstitious: see UV, 192 and Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 82.5, 82.6, and 188.2. 47. See also Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 450. He means the second epilogue, “The Forces That Move Nations”: see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 82.4, 175.7, and 308.5.

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48. See also ibid., 229.3. Lowry refers to Mikhail Nikanorovich in War and Peace as the “old Uncle” (Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 817). 49. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 311.2. 50. Ibid., 308.3, 308.5, and 309.1. 51. Ibid., 100.6 and 309.5. 52. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 293. 53. Ibid., II, 286. In Greek mythology the Elysian Fields, or Elysium (ruled by Hades) is the final, after-life resting place of heroic and virtuous souls. 54. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 321. Elsewhere he refers to a faithful servant who expresses nostalgia for the old customs in Russia before the serfs were emancipated in 1861. Citing Chekhov’s 1904 play, he claims, “I begin to feel like Firs in the Cherry-orchard for some reason”: II, 838–9. 55. Ibid., II, 537–8. 56. Malcolm Lowry, The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Kathleen Scherf (Vancouver, UBC Press, 1992), 89. 57. Ibid., 90. 58. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 228.4. 59. Ibid. 60. The French phrase is translatable as “Stupidity is my strength”: see Ackerley, VII.73 in IB, 327. Although its origin is uncertain, the allusion to Chekhov is repeated: “Or You Leave Like Tchekov’s Old Lady, Without Anything,” IB, 241. Though Ackerley (VII.74 in IB, 327) contends that Lowry is referring to Chekhov’s “The Graveyard”/“Na kladbishche” (1884), no old lady could be traced in that particular short story. 61. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 242. 62. Ibid., II, 906. 63. See ibid., I, 321 and II, 71 and 838–9. 64. See Ackerley, XVIII.40 in IB, 411. 65. Malcolm Lowry, The Letters of Malcolm Lowry and Gerald Noxon, 1940–1952, ed. Paul Tiessen (Vancouver: The University of British Columbia Press, 1988), 12. 66. Henry K. Miller, “Primal Screen: The World of Silent Cinema,” Sight & Sound 22, no. 10 (October, 2012), 61. 67. London’s Silent Cinemas, http:​//www​.lond​onssi​lentc​inema​s.com​/west​endex​ hibts​/aven​ue-pa​vilio​n/ (accessed May 10, 1919). 68. Miller, “Primal Screen,” 61. 69. London’s Silent Cinemas. 70. Miller, “Primal Screen,” 61. 71. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 641 and II, 205 and 445. 72. Ibid., 375 and 445. 73. Ibid., I, 477. 74. Miller, “Primal Screen,” 61. 75. Others were Grigori Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg’s CVD (The Club of the Big Deed) (1927) (on the 1825 Decembrist Revolt), Victor Turin’s Turk-Sib (1928), and Eisenstein’s The General Line (1929)—see Patrick McCarthy, and Paul Tiessen, eds., Joyce/Lowry: Critical Perspectives (Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, 1997), 165.

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76. See Jan Gabrial, Inside the Volcano: My Life with Malcolm Lowry (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000), 34. 77. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 355, 405, 432, and 435; and II, 322–3 and 515–6. 78. Ibid., I, 354–6 and 445; and II, 185–6. 79. See ibid., I, 354; and II, 185–6. 80. Malcolm Lowry, Ultramarine (London: Penguin, 2000), 93. 81. In his annotation Ackerley states that Alexander Kerensky—who became Minister of Justice, Minister of War, and then Prime Minister of the Provisional Government—led the 1917 February Revolution (V.109 in IB, 306). However, it actually broke out as a result of mass protests against food rationing, workers’ strikes, and demonstrations against Russia’s participation in the First World War—that is, without any formal planning or real leadership. 82. Lowry, The Letters of Malcolm Lowry and Gerald Noxon, 1940–1952, 42 and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 404–5. 83. See Ian Christie, “From Battleship Potemkin to Baker Street: sightseeing with Sergei Eisenstein,” The Guardian, Saturday, February 13, 2016, https​://ww​w.the​ guard​ian.c​om/fi​lm/20​16/fe​b/13/​from-​battl​eship​-pote​mkin-​to-ba​ker-s​treet​-sigh​tseei​ ng-wi​th-se​rgei-​eisen​stein​; Rob Sharp, “Unexpected Eisenstein,” The Paris Review, February 17, 2016, https​://ww​w.the​paris​revie​w.org​/blog​/2016​/02/1​7/une​xpect​ed-ei​ senst​ein/;​and Ian Christie, “Bringing Sergei (Back) to London,” February 24, 2016. http:​//blo​gs.bb​k.ac.​uk/ev​ents/​2016/​02/24​/brin​ging-​serge​i-bac​k-to-​londo​n/. 84. Harry M. Geduld and Ronald Gottesman, eds. Sergei Eisenstein and Upton Sinclair: The Making & Unmaking of Que Viva Mexico! (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1970), 22; and Marie Seton, Sergei M. Eisenstein: A Biography (New York: A. A. Wyn, 1952), 189. 85. David Bordwell, The Cinema of Eisenstein (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 19. 86. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 4.2. 87. Ibid., 72.2 and Bordwell, The Cinema of Eisenstein, 21. 88. The peasant appears to be the politically awakened hero of Pudovkin’s End of St Petersburg: see Ackerley in V.108 in IB, 305. Outward Bound is a 1930 film portraying lovers who gas themselves to death: see VI.27 in IB, 315. Paul Fitte’s reallife suicide in 1929 and Tor’s in In Ballast to the White Sea are also brought to mind. 89. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 52.3. 90. Ibid., 6.6. 91. Sergei M. Eisenstein et al., The Film Sense, trans. and ed. Jay Leyda (London: Faber & Faber, 1948), 197. 92. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 254.4. 93. Ibid., 108.3. 94. Lorre fell in love with Orlac’s wife, Yvonne. She was an actress in the 1935 Hollywood remake of the 1925 German expressionist film and the namesake of Lowry’s heroine in Under the Volcano: see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 24.4, and Konigsberg, “Orlac and the Bloody Handle of the Infernal Machine,” 160. 95. Lowry, Sursum Corda, I, 510.

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96. Ibid., II, 588. 97. Malcolm Lowry, “June 30th, 1934,” in The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry In His Own Words: Fictions, Poems, Fragments, Letters, ed. Michael Hofmann (New York: NYRB, 2007), 3–20. 98. Ackerley, VII.155 in IB, 334–5. 99. The Six Follies of Science is the title of the first of his five-volume Curiosities of Literature (1791–1823): see Ackerley, I.55 in IB, 251 and X.27 in IB, 344–5. 100. Ibid., XV.41 in IB, 399. 101. Lowry, The Collected Poetry, 89. 102. See Ackerley, VII.141 in IB, 333. 103. Ibid., IV.7 in IB, 284. 104. See ibid., V.54 in IB, 299. 105. Malcolm Lowry, Malcolm Lowry’s ‘La Mordida’: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy (London: University of Georgia Press, 1996), 311. 106. Also in 1935 he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe. 107. Ackerley, VII.151 in IB, 334. 108. The narrator’s contention is historically inaccurate, as the Vikings did endure defeat at the Battles of Edington in 878, Norditi (Hilgenried Bay) in 884, Buttington in 893, and Stamford Bridge on September 25, 1066. 109. Ackerley erroneously dates the German invasion of Norway as taking place later, in 1941: see VII.156 in IB, 335. 110. Ackerley also incorrectly dates the First Sino-Japanese War as commencing earlier, in 1884: see XII.39 in IB, 376. 111. Although Japan declared war on Russia on February 8, 1904, Ackerley inaccurately limits the Russo-Japanese War to 1905: see ibid. 112. For further details, see ibid., XII.40 in IB, 376. 113. Founded by Tsar Peter the Great as St Petersburg in 1703, it became Petrograd in 1914 and then Leningrad in 1924. It reverted to its original name, St Petersburg in 1991. It was the capital of Russia in 1713–28 and 1732–1918, after which Moscow re-established its authority. 114. Paul Fejos—to whom Lowry refers in his correspondence—was a Hungarian-born, Hollywood and European director of numerous narrative and ethnographic films and documentaries: see Sursum Corda!, II, 475. 115. Transition, ed. Eugene Jolas 16–17 (Spring–Summer, June 1929): 13. 116. Modernism: An Anthology, ed. Lawrence Rainey (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 1007. 117. Jürgen Buchenau, Mexican Mosaic: A Brief History of Mexico (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2012), 101. 118. Buchenau, Mexican Mosaic, 100. 119. Ibid., 100–1. 120. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 59.1. 121. Lowry monitored what he described as Russian “humourless actions [. . .] dictated & timed by a sinister sense of humour” during the “‘spontaneous’” 1956 Hungarian Revolution: Sursum Corda, II, 849. See also ibid., 836, 847, and 848–9. 122. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 153.8.

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123. A Gold Star medal was introduced in 1939 to distinguish a Hero of the Soviet Republic from Order of Lenin holders (ibid., 239.5). 124. See ibid., 27.5. 125. For a summary of Trotsky’s rise to power, defeat by Stalin, exile, and assassination in Mexico City, see ibid., 28.2. 126. For reflection on Under the Volcano, see Konigsberg, “Orlac and the Bloody Handle of the Infernal Machine,” 154–5. 127. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 102.6 and 328.7 for a further explanation of the evacuation of the Brigades. 128. See also ibid., 328.7. 129. Ibid., 99.2. 130. Pogroms originally took the form of anti-Jewish riots in medieval Europe and, later, in the Russian Empire. 131. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 516. 132. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 112 and 294. 133. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 322. 134. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 37.3. 135. Ibid., 86.5. 136. David Harrison, “L. Frank Baum and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” December 22, 2015, https​://dr​-davi​d-har​rison​.com/​paper​s-art​icles​-and-​essay​s/l-f​rank-​baum-​ and-t​he-wo​nderf​ul-wi​zard-​of-oz​/ (accessed February 6, 2018). 137. Garry W. Trompf, “Imagining Macrohistory? Madame Blavatsky from Isis Unveiled (1877) to The Secret Doctrine (1888),” Literature & Aesthetics 21, no. 1 (June 2011): 43–71, 59–60. 138. Ignatius Donnelly, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World: Fully Illustrated (Seattle, WA: CreateSpace, 2008), 5. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 10.5. 139. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 16.1. 140. Lowry cites Donnelly, Atlantis, 59–60: see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 16.2. 141. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 86.1. 142. Ibid., 86.4. 143. Ibid., 257.3. 144. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 173. 145. Ibid., 293. See also ibid., I, 357 and 358, and II, 173–4, 289, and 304. 146. Ibid., II, 173 and 293. 147. Ibid., I, 314. 148. See P. D. Ouspensky, A New Model of the Universe: Principles of the Psychological Method in Its Application to Problems of Science, Religion, and Art (Eastford, CT: Martino Publishing, 2013)—reprint of (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1931) version, 362–5. 149. P. D. Ouspensky, Tertium Organum: The Third Canon of Thought: A Key to the Enigmas of the World (Eastford, CT: Martino Fine Books, 2013), 290. 150. See Ackerley, VII.19 in IB, 322 and VII.136 in IB, 333. 151. Ouspensky, Tertium Organum, 202.

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152. Ibid., 286. It quotes a section from page 266 of M. V. Lodizhensky, Superconsciousness and the Paths to its Attainment—not from page 296 (stated in Ackerley, X.53 in IB, 358). Ouspensky relates that Lodizhensky conveyed that he had read Avva Dorotheus’s idea of the circle to Lev Tolstoy when he met him in Yasnaya Polyana in the summer of 1910. Becoming very enthusiastic, Tolstoy showed him a letter in which, independently, he had reached a similar conclusion, whereby God was the apex of a triangle: Ouspensky, Tertium Organum, 286. 153. Ouspensky cites Lodizhensky in ibid. Ackerley misinterprets his perception, referring to the circle itself as God: see X.53 in IB, 358. 154. Ackerley, XII.1 in IB, 371. 155. See ibid., XIII.1 in IB, 379. 156. Ouspensky, Tertium Organum, 289. 157. See Ackerley, XVIII.1 in IB, 406 for further images. 158. Ouspensky, A New Model of the Universe, 241. See Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 174. 159. See also IB, 9. 160. Ouspensky, A New Model of the Universe, 221. 161. Ibid., 241. 162. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 174. 163. Ouspensky, A New Model of the Universe, 238. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 364.1. 164. Ouspensky, A New Model of the Universe, 26. 165. P. D. Ouspensky, The Fourth Way (New York: Vintage, 1971), 99. 166. Ibid., 189. See also Glenn Alexander Magee, “G. I. Gurdjieff and the Fourth Way,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Western Mysticism and Esotericism, ed. G. A. Magee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 167. Ackerley, XV.30 in IB, 399 attributes the “Law of Three” to Ouspensky. However, the latter actually derived it from Gurdjieff: see Magee. 168. See Ouspensky, The Fourth Way, 4–5 and 105. 169. For lists of Gurdjieff’s adherents including Orage, see “Gurdjieff’s Teaching: For Scholars and Practitioners: 101 Men and Women of Influence,” https​://gu​rdjie​ ffboo​ks.wo​rdpre​ss.co​m/200​8/08/​18/10​1-men​-and-​women​-of-i​nflue​nce/,​ “Gurdjieff’s Followers,” http:​//gur​djief​fclub​.com/​en/p-​d-ous​pensk​y, and “Alfred Richard Orage,” http://gurdjieffclub.com/en/a-r-orage (all accessed October 12, 2017). The author is indebted to Dr. Glenn and Robert Woodsworth, M.A. for their advice on Gurdjieff’s influence. 170. Paul Beekman Taylor, Gurdjieff and Orage, Brothers in Elysium (York Beach, ME: Weiser, 2001), 209 cites Lowry, Sursum Corda, II, 665. 171. See “Alfred Richard Orage.” 172. Another indirect influence on Lowry may have been that of the intelligence officer, mathematician, and philosopher, John G. Bennett, who combined scientific research with a study of Asian languages and religions. He was deeply influenced by Ouspensky and Gurdjieff whom he met in 1921. He spent three months at the Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man (see “John G. Bennett,” http:​//gur​djief​fclub​ .com/​en/dz​hon-g​odolf​i n-be​nnet (accessed October 13, 2017).

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173. See “Gurdjieff’s Teaching.” 174. As well as to Lowry’s “private grief,” the term “debacle” refers to the Communards in 1870s Paris (whose failures paved the way for the 1917 Russian Revolution) and to Emile Zola’s military novel, La Débâcle (1892): see Ackerley, IV, 27 in IB, 286. For further consideration of the context of Lowry’s mental struggle during the 1930s, see Kazuo Yokouchi, “’Jiko no Hokai’ Saiko—Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea, Seidoku,” [“‘Debacle of Self’ Reconsidered: A Close Reading of Lowry’s In Ballast to the White Sea”] Jimbun Ronkyu: Humanities Review 66, no. 4 (2017), 23–41.

Chapter 4

The Mexican Day of the Dead Under the Volcano’s Zapotec, Aztec, and Spanish Roots

A key aspect of the intersection of East-West cultures and civilizations is the Mexican Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead festival, which is widely commemorated in Mexico and other Hispanic countries. Its origins and evolution were determined by a range of anthropological, cultural, and ethnographic factors. Derived from primordial instincts and from animist and shamanic rituals, this fete is rooted in pre-Columbian, Mesoamerican practices which connected the living with the fallen and determined its initial configuration. Its subconscious dimensions involve an interchange between the material, spiritual, and cosmic realms recognized by the Zapotecs of Oaxaca and the Aztecs of Central Mexico. They are interpreted in the 1940 and 1947 editions of Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, La Mordida, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” and in Malcolm Lowry’s memoirs. His cosmic mind-set associates the traditions of the Día de los Muertos with the zenith of the Pleiades (known as the Seven Sisters in Greek mythology and as “Tianquiztli” in Nahuatl).1 This constellation was closely observed by the Mayas and the Aztecs. The former were able to predict the risings and settings of morning and evening stars, eclipses, and the revolutions of heavenly bodies.2 The latter measured time by the movements of the sun and stars. They viewed the Pleiades as an augury, or omen of the dawn of each 52-year calendar cycle. According to the tenets of the New Fire Ceremony, if this cluster crossed the zenith of the midnight sky above Citlaltepec (now called “Cerro de la Estrella,” or “Star Mountain”) near Tenochtitlán, the sun would rise again for a further fifty-two years, but only if a fire could be kindled on the chest of a sacrificial victim who lay on the mountain top.3 Held in honor of the dead, this rite was dedicated to the goddess Mictecacihuatl—the “Lady of the Dead” and Queen of Mictlan (or the 129

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Underworld)—who jointly presided over the afterlife. According to Aztec legends, she ruled over life after death with her husband, Mictlantecuhtli. However, owing to the subjugation of the Aztec Empire by the Spanish conquistador, Hernán Cortés in 1519–1521, this festival increasingly fell under Hispanic influence. It was moved from the beginning of summer to late October—and then to early November—so that it would coincide with the Western Christian triduum (or three-day religious observance) of Allhallowtide (Hallowtide, Allsaintstide, or Hallowmas). It lasts from October 31 to November 2 and comprises All Saints’ Eve (Halloween), All Saints’ Day (All Hallows’), and All Souls’ Day. Engrossed in the intricacies of Mexico’s Zapotec, Aztec, and Hispanic heritage, Lowry adopts the cycle of life, death, and rebirth in his perceptions of souls and shamans interacting on the Day of the Dead. His insight links subterranean, terrestrial, and cosmic domains through journeys—both physical and psychological—undertaken by him and by his literary protagonists. The objective of these odysseys is to facilitate cognitive, cultural, and spiritual connections with the environment. By making contact with the spirits of the dead—envisaged as reincarnated phantoms—he recognizes the need to atone for the debts of the past and to repent for sins committed in an uncertain, belligerent world. THE PSYCHOGEOGRAPHIC QUEST FOR INTERACTION WITH THE SPIRITS OF MEXICAN CIVILIZATION Inspired by a plethora of international, multicultural influences, Lowry was endowed with an effervescent, encyclopedic, and eclectic intellect stimulated by a prismatic approach to his writing. His complex grasp of his environment stimulated him to investigate—in his literary works and personal correspondence—an intriguing combination of psychogeographic, terrestrial images, on the one hand, and spiritual, celestial ones, on the other. An interpretation of his kaleidoscopic vision of the world reveals a spectrum of anthropological factors interpreted through the refraction of his complex, psychoanalytical insight into the mechanisms of civilization. A significant influence on him was the Scottish anthropologist, folklorist, and classicist, Sir James George Frazer (1854–1941), who had traced “an evolutionary sequence in human thinking from the magical to the religious to the scientific.”4 Lowry was mesmerized by his attempts to fathom the workings of the Aztec mind. He frequently cited him in his correspondence5 and owned a copy of the abridged edition of The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (1890–1815).6

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This colossal, spellbinding work has been described as “a voyage of discovery” into ethnography, folklore, and sorcery.7 It investigates correlations between anthropology, shamanism, and religion and bears witness to the commemoration of the souls of the dead. For example, Frazer writes about “the Miztecs of Mexico” holding an annual feast in their memory in the twelfth month of the year (which corresponds to our modern-day November).8 He means the pre-Columbian, indigenous Mixtecs (or Mixtecos) of Oaxaca and Puebla, who are described in Under the Volcano as one of “three civilizations,” the others being the Aztecs and the Zapotecs.9 Having seized Monte Albán from the latter, they resisted incursions by the Spanish invaders. Particularly compelling is the way in which Frazer empathizes with efforts to exorcize evil spirits in order to trigger a process of rebirth. He explains that “in the primitive mind [. . .] it was thought that by transferring the evils of a whole people to an individual and sacrificing that individual, it might be possible to get rid of the accumulated sorrows of the entire community”—a feat attempted by the Consul in Under the Volcano.10 Lowry’s novel alludes to The Golden Bough when, for example, Hugh mentions the practice of Thalavettiparothiam in connection with the Consul’s use of strychnine, a highly poisonous substance obtained from the seeds of an Asian tree. He queries, “‘Thalavethiparothiam, is it?’ [. . .] ‘Or strength obtained by decapitation.’” (UV, 182) In his correspondence, Lowry explains that—in the third part of the section, “The Killing of the Divine King” in The Golden Bough—the procedure of legal regicide is practised in Calicut on the Malabar Coast of the Indian subcontinent.11 It involves a five-year term of office secured through “authority obtained by decapitation.”12 During this period of time, its bearer is invested with various despotic powers until he is beheaded on its expiry. This tradition is elucidated in The Golden Bough as follows: “When kings were bound to suffer death, whether at their own hands or at the hands of others, on the expiration of a fixed term of years, it was natural that they should seek to delegate the painful duty, along with some of the privileges of sovereignty, to a substitute who should suffer vicariously in their stead.”13 Hugh’s allusion to Frazer’s work is comprehended by the Consul who, foreseeing a Canadian paradise, mutters in The 1940 Under the Volcano, “‘The Golden Bough, eh,’ [. . .] ‘Do you see that maple tree outside there, propped up with those crutches of cedar?’”14 He conjures up the opening chapter of Frazer’s publication which describes “the sacred grove of [. . .] Diana of the Woodland Glade” (situated near the volcanic crater of Lake Nemi in Rome) and delineates this priesthood’s murderous succession rule.15 In his pursuit of the roots of Mexican culture and civilization, Lowry carefully considered the origins of its festivals and their significance as a monument to the past. He was guided by his copy of a reprint of the 1843 edition of the History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest

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of Peru by William H. Prescott (1796–1859). This eminent American historian and Hispanist had read extensively works on Mesoamerica by the Prussian scientist and explorer, Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859), who had made a prolonged visit to Mexico in 1803–1804 to gain insight into its civilizations. Hence, Lowry’s understanding of the Aztecs is largely derived from Prescott’s research. Although the latter had not visited Mesoamerican archaeological sites and his grasp of Aztec culture was limited, he established that “they should be capable of accurately adjusting their festivals by the movements of the heavenly bodies, and should fix the true length of the tropical year with a precision unknown to the great philosophers of antiquity.”16 Their persevering observations evinced “no slight progress in civilisation.”17 Numerous allusions are made to Prescott’s historical and ethnographic studies of Mexico in Under the Volcano. In the opening sequence of chapter 1, Lowry portrays the two snow-capped volcanoes, Popocatepetl (meaning “smoking mountain”) and Ixtaccihuatl (“white woman”) which “rose clear and magnificent into the sunset” (UV, 11). This description is reminiscent of Prescott’s depiction of these volcanoes standing “like two colossal sentinels to guard the entrance to the enchanted region.”18 The Consul calls attention to Moctezuma II (1466–1520), the ninth ruler of Tenochtitlán. Declaring that zoos always existed in Mexico, he refers to him in chapter 6 as a “courteous fellow,” for showing “stout Cortés” around one (UV, 191). He continues, “the poor chap thought he was in the infernal regions” (Ibid). The ending of his proclamation indicates the following account by Prescott as a source: “The rude followers of Cortés did not trouble themselves with such refined speculations. They gazed on the spectacle with a vague curiosity not unmixed with awe; and, as they listened to the wild cries of the ferocious animals and the hissings of the serpents, they almost fancied themselves in the infernal regions.”19 As discussed in Prescott’s record, both variants of the Aztec emperor’s name materialize in chapter 10 of Under the Volcano: Montezuma and Moctezuma (UV, 302).20 He is portrayed as being “pale” (UV, 289)—a portrait which matches Prescott’s description of his complexion as “somewhat paler than is often found in his dusky, or rather copper-colored race.”21 Prescott is named directly in chapter 4 of Under the Volcano when the Consul asks Yvonne whether she came across Prescott at the University of Hawaii (UV, 104). His ex-wife’s response is to be found in The 1940 Under the Volcano, in which she affirms, “‘First of all I know my Prescott well enough to have learned that the conquest took place in an organized community, in which naturally there was exploitation already, but’” (1940 UV, 200). He is mentioned too in chapter 8 of Under the Volcano: “Everywhere, quite as Prescott informed one, were attestations to Popocatepetl’s presence and antiquity” (UV, 241).22

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Another important influence exerted on Lowry was that of Barbarous Mexico (1910) by John Kenneth Turner (1879–1948). The security policies of Porfirio Díaz (1830–1915)—the Mexican general and politician who served seven terms of office as President of Mexico—are mooted in chapter 1 of Under the Volcano. Sr. Bustamente remembers his era when every small US town along the Mexican frontier harbored a “consul.” He clarifies that they were actually spies (UV, 35). This allusion to the intelligence-gathering responsibilities of these consuls is indicated in Turner’s record which reads: Nearly every small town along the Mexican border harbors a personage who enjoys the title of Mexican consul. Consuls are found in villages hundreds of miles from the Mexican border. Consuls are supposed to be for the purpose of looking after the interests of trade between countries, but towns in California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas which do not do a hundred dollars worth of trade a year with Mexico have consuls who are maintained by Díaz at the expense of tens of thousands of dollars a year.23

Yet, Sr. Bustamente’s contention in Under the Volcano that Geoffrey Firmin is being pursued by “other spiders”—including “a man in dark glasses he took to be a loafer” and one “lounging on the other side of the road he thought was a peon” (an unskilled farmworker)—moots surreptitious espionage activities (UV, 36). This extract corresponds with Turner’s observations: “But leaning against the wall of that alley entrance is a man whom you take to be a loafer; over on the other side lounges a man whom you think is a peon.”24 The brutality of Díaz’s regime resulted in an abundance of mountain police (who, according to Turner, are “usually selected from the criminal classes”)25 and a plenitude of repressive forces: “Rurales everywhere, jefes políticos, and murder, the extirpation of liberal political institutions, the army an engine of massacre” (UV, 112).26 Captivated by the allure of adventure and in search of cultural paradise, Lowry was enticed to Mexico twice—in 1936 and 1945–1946—and stayed in Cuernavaca and Oaxaca. Following in the footsteps of D. H. Lawrence, who had visited the latter in circa 1924, he was accommodated in the very same Hotel Francia in 1938 (and again in 1946). Entranced by the commemoration of the Día de los Muertos, which he had witnessed in Cuernavaca in November 1936, he ensures that Under the Volcano is launched with a vivid depiction of Quauhnahuac on the very same day and transposes images—such as the Virgin of Guadalupe—there from Oaxaca. The Nahuatl, or Tlahuican (i.e., the Aztec) name for Hispanicized, modern-day Cuernavaca, Quauhnahuac literally means “surrounded by or in the vicinity of trees”27 and is located “near the wood” in Under the Volcano (UV, 49). This multilayered novel propels its readers to explore the depths of civilization in the psychologically complex vision of the world discerned by the

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enigmatic and esoteric Consul in his Cabbala-inspired state of consciousness. The historical and cultural origins of modern Mexico are traced back to the Aztecs in his supernatural, transcendental pursuit of knowledge. Mesmerized by the cosmological legacy which this race shared with the Zapotecs, he signifies Lowry’s long-term interest in ethnography in his quest to comprehend the impact of the Spanish conquest of the Aztecs. In parity with Prescott’s contention of Tlaxcalan infidelity, he realizes that it was owing to the aid of this indigenous “savage and traitorous” ethnic group—with which they allied—that the Spanish were able to subdue the Aztecs so rapidly (UV, 289).28 Both the Consul and Lowry are enthralled by the dilemma facing Mexico: how to adjust to a Hispanic, politico-cultural environment, but at the same time preserve Zapotec and Aztec heritage—a quandary which led to the fusion of the various traditions of the Day of the Dead festival. SHAMANIC AND COSMIC PHANTOMS Renowned for their interface with the forces of the cosmos and of the supernatural, the Aztecs and the Zapotecs possessed rituals rooted in their worship of deities. Some of these rites related to the movements of the sun and the moon, as is evident from excavations in the vicinity of the pyramids at Monte Albán and Teotihuacan. In Aztec culture, death was deemed “a mirror of life.”29 It was marked by a symbolic celebration which took place on the first day of the fifth Aztec month.30 As Lowry was fully aware, the Aztecs believed that, on this date, the spirits of the dead would travel back from the Underworld—as emblems of rebirth—to the land of the mortals. The accompanying ceremony necessitated an offering. The ritual slaughter of a young human god who has enjoyed “the fatal honour of divinity for a year” was meant to satisfy the gods and to nourish the souls of the deceased.31 It was regarded as a great honor to be a sacrifice, for it was “believed that each human being was, by predestination, inserted into a divine order, ‘the grasp of the omnipotent machine.’”32 Ironically, the Aztecs are said to have cherished life so much that they practised the fatal extraction of the pulsating heart of a “volunteer” to placate their gods.33 This organ would be thrown into the New Fire, which was carried to the temple at Tenochtitlán to light torches, the flames of which would provide spiritual and material sustenance for the universe. The Consul’s fairground ride on the trochoidal, Great Ferris Wheel in Under the Volcano is reminiscent of these barbaric Aztec customs. He experiences the mammoth, yet empty looping-the-loop machine in the fair’s “dead section” (UV, 224). He invokes a gigantic evil spirit, screaming in a lonely hell: its limbs writhed as it smote the air like “flails of paddlewheels” (Ibid.). This scene’s wider spiritual impact is sensed in its disorientating capacity, for

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it “symbolizes not only a madly revolving world perceived by the protagonist, but the helplessness of the individual soul caught up in superior whirling forces.”34 Its global reverberations denote “the insignificance of human lives and values in comparison to the gods’ designs.”35 Referring to Laruelle’s copy of the play, La Machine infernale (1934) by the French avant-garde writer and filmmaker, Jean Cocteau, the Consul surmises that “the universe is explicitly described as an infernal cosmic mechanism.”36 Many Day of the Dead traditions are derived from shamanic and cosmic perspectives akin to those inherited by modern-day, animist tribes in northern Mexico. The Yaquis (or Yoeme) and the Huichols (or Wixárika, as they call themselves) have similar thought patterns and worldviews which they have shared with other Uto-Aztecans—including the Aztecs and the Papagos (now known as the Tohono O’odham) of the Sonoran Desert (who use crystals to generate shamanic power).37 They too worship and communicate with numerous gods and spirits.38 In recent time, their traditions have become supplemented by Hispanic ones which, for example, involve giving thanks to Christian images, such as to the Virgin of Guadalupe. In Under the Volcano, Lowry cites the Yaquis, the Papagos, and the Tomasachics (or Temósachics, who occupy the northern Mexican state of Chihuahua). He refers to them as “native peoples [. . .] exterminated through deportation, or reduced to worse than peonage, their lands in thrall or the hands of foreigners” (UV, 112).39 The Yaquis conceive the world as composed of five different realms—the wilderness, the speleological, the nocturnal, the surreal, and the floral. They used to inhabit an indigenous “spiritual Flower World” of forests and mountains which provided an abundance of flowers for offerings and as sacrificial symbols.40 The attachment of a Mexican marigold to a drumhead during harvest ceremonies is a reminder of the Aztec term, “flowery wars” which signifies combats fought in order to take captives to be sacrificed.41 It was said that in the domain inhabited by the Yaquis dwelled animals, snakes with rainbows (i.e., multicolored lights) on their foreheads, and spirits.42 They are akin to the puma encountered in “The Forest Path to the Spring” and to the ophidians found in Under the Volcano. The Yaquis were feared by the Aztecs for being vicious fighters. According to J. K. Turner, although they had managed to withstand Spanish incursions (unlike the Aztecs), in the late nineteenth-century many of them were sent as slaves to the Yucatán to quell their uprisings and expropriate their rich lands in Southern Sonora.43 Resident in the Sierra Madre in north-west Mexico, the Huichol Indians are—like the Yaquis—a Uto-Aztecan ethnic group which has succeeded in retaining its culture and language through skillful diplomacy, warfare, and mountain retreats, despite incursions by Spanish conquistadores and missionaries. They practise a pre-Columbian form of shamanism. It is consolidated in pilgrimages to sacred sites—for example, Wirikuta—to leave offerings to

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perpetuate life and to “recreate the world.”44 They bear responsibility for communicating with deities represented by the spirits of plants, animals, and natural phenomena. These include the earth, the sun, mountains, lakes, springs, and the rain.45 They lead community ceremonies in which a fire is kindled to transform the venue into a temple to facilitate the healing of diseases, which are perceived chromatically.46 They enter a shamanic state of altered consciousness (SSC) in order to utilize the human body’s biophysical capacity.47 Psychedelic drugs— such as mescaline—are ingested through the consumption of hallucinogenic plants. In particular, the peyote cactus provides chemical stimulation in the brain, producing an experience which “seems to resemble the shifting shapes and colors seen through a kaleidoscope.” 48 The extraordinary combination of sacred colors and lights discerned in the shamanic vision of the Huichols, and expressed in their yarn paintings, is associated with spiritual experience.49 They are quite different from the primary ones used by Western artists and comprise bluish pink, greenish or orangish yellow, and several shades of blue and brown.50 Envisaged during a trance-like state, they represent an intrinsic aspect of a process of synesthetic communication which the Huichol shamans undergo. It is intelligible to them as a multimodal sensation. It is said to emanate from their gods, who are deemed to speak to them in colors.51 Hence, through auditory and visual input, the visionary and dream-like awareness attained by the Huichols reportedly enables the perception of entering another world to “communicate with power animals or other spirit beings,” as do the Consul in Under the Volcano and the narrator in “The Forest Path to the Spring.”52 A belief which figures prominently in animist communities is a recognition of the significance of the movements of the Pleiades. Lowry acknowledged that rebirth was closely connected to the interaction of this open star cluster with the Day of the Dead and with the 260-day ritual of the Venus cycle in the Mesoamaerican calendar year.53 It is these stars—and due attention to the date of their first visibility in the sky—which link the beliefs of the Zapotecs and Aztecs.54 Lowry informed the editor of the Vancouver Sun of his findings, declaring that “the Egyptians, the Aztecs, the Japanese all worshipped them. And the Festival of All Hallows, All Saints Day, the Mexican Day of the Dead etc. are all associated with the culmination of the Pleiades. It is thought [. . .] that these universal memorial services commemorate a great cataclysm that occurred in ancient times.”55 Another link to the Pleaides is Laruelle’s chevroned, modernist zacuali, or tower depicted in Under the Volcano, though it is now called the Hotel Bajo El Volcan (see figure 4.1). Its prototype is described by the Toltecs—the predecessors of the Aztecs—in their narrative on the legend of the Great Flood. In Ignatius Donnelly’s Atlantis: The Antediluvian World, it is related by a native Mexican historian, Ixtilxochitl.56 He refers to the erection of “a very

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Figure 4.1  Hotel Bajo El Volcan, Cuernavaca. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

high ‘zacuali,’ which is to-day a tower of great height, in order to take refuge in it should the second world (age) be destroyed.”57 In Under the Volcano, this astronomical observatory is deemed useless in protecting against the coming of a second flood during a nocturnal culmination of the Pleiades (UV, 35).58 A further vision of the importance of this cluster arises at the end of chapter 11, in Yvonne’s nightmare. Everything is ablaze like the stars themselves which expand and ripple outward in the eternity of the solar system. Exiting her “burning dream,” Yvonne follows Elisabeth—the dying heroine of Julien Green’s Midnight (1936)/Minuit (1936)—by being thrust upward to the stars, through eddies “scattered aloft with ever wider circlings like rings on water” (UV, 337).59 Among them appear the Pleiades, like a “flock of diamond birds flying softly and steadily towards Orion” (UV, 337). In his correspondence, Lowry describes Yvonne as imagining “herself voyaging straight up through the stars to the Pleiades”—a route taken in Greek mythology by Merope, the faintest star in the constellation.60 On the one hand, in Under the Volcano, we are reminded of the trajectory predicted for the sober who shoot “up, up, flying palely, selflessly into the light towards heaven” (UV, 203). In his letters, Lowry refers to “the seven sisters & the myth of the Lost Pleiad,” evoking a liaison with a mere mortal as “the one cedar in the seven firs.”61

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On the other hand, in Under the Volcano, a distinction is made between the inebriated and the teetotallers, the former being destined to fall into Hell, for “down, headlong into hades [. . .] plunged the drunkards” (UV, 202–03). Yet, according to Mayan beliefs, the revered gods of drunkenness assumed the form of O’ much’ k’ajolab’ (Four Hundred Boys) who soared upward to become the Pleiades constellation.62 The Aztecs substituted Centzon Totochtin (Four Hundred Rabbits) for them. According to their myths, the chief divulged how to make pulque by biting the agave cactus (a genus of the aloe, or maguey). Thereafter, the god of this alcoholic beverage was known by its calendrical name, Ome Tochtli (Two Rabbit).63 One of the inebriated rabbit deities was hurled at Tecuciztécatl (also known as Tecciztecatl). Leaving an imprint of its shape, it diminished the luminosity of this would-be solar divinity, who—unlike Nanahuatzin—had refused to sacrifice itself by entering a fire and instead became a lunar god, visible only at night.64 In Under the Volcano, the Consul is shocked by a sudden sound coming from the corner (UV, 371). He catches a Yeatsian glimpse of his own reflection as a wild face on the floor of the bar room. It is transformed into a rabbit suffering a nervous convulsion. Trembling all over, it wrinkles its nose and scours its disapproval (Ibid.). THE PARANORMAL Charles Fort (1874–1932) Lowry’s imaginative thinking—which focused on strange images, coincidences, and numbers—was stimulated by the impact of the works of Charles Fort on his creative mind. He had familiarized himself with The Book of the Damned (1919), Lo! (1932), and Wild Talents (1932) by April 1940.65 Considered by some to be the father of modern paranormalism, this American author and science critic marveled at links between seemingly unrelated pieces of information. In his correspondence, Lowry attests to his adeptness at transforming serendipity into metaphysical depth.66 He justifies his intuitive, though superstitious belief in the predictability of number sequences and coincidences by declaring that he knew “of no writer who has made the inexplicable seem more dramatic than Charles Fort [. . .] whose specialty is the analysis of peculiar coincidences for which there exists no scientific explanation.”67 He alludes to the field of astronomy as posing many inexplicable riddles and connects mathematical patterns with the cosmos.68 In In Ballast to the White Sea, various references are made to Fortean concepts. For example, Sigbjørn’s double, Tor is depicted as a person of extremes. He is prepared to come to the rescue, but only if the potential

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recipient of his assistance happens to be in urgent need. He elucidates his motivations in chapter II by paraphrasing from Lo! He states that he would assist a starving person, but only if the latter were “on the point of dying.”69 Motivated by the “godlike” in himself, he would “cram bread down his mouth and stuff his eyes and his ears with potatoes” (IB, 12). His philosophy of life is based on his belief that creation is a result of pure accident (Ibid.). It follows the assumption of the poet and Church of England clergyman, John Donne (1572–1631), who preached on the conversion of St Paul. He claimed in his Sermon XLVII (1629) that “all is nature, or all is accident, and would have been so, though there had been no God.”70 Citing from Lo!, Tor asserts, “We’re in the helpless state of a standardless existence” (Ibid.).71 He emphasizes the role played by serendipity in a chain of events. One example is Fort’s documentation of the continuous precipitation of rainfall on “one small area” in the town of Noirfontaine in France over a two-day period in April 1842. He describes this phenomenon “as mysteriously as if a ghost aloft were holding the nozzle of an invisible hose.”72 In such a scenario, Fort maintains that “the appeal to authority is as much of a wobble as any other institutions.”73 In chapter III of In Ballast to the White Sea, Tor refers to Fort’s “bogus” story of an occurrence involving a Mad Fishmonger of Worcester (IB, 28). Citing from Lo!, he hints at the conventional explanation whereby an unknown, deranged purveyor and his unspecified assistants were accused of secretly slinging sacks of periwinkles mixed with crabs into fields “at a time when nobody on a busy road was looking” and at a cost of hundreds of dollars.74 However, the bizarre appearance of crabs and periwinkles in Worcester (a city fifty miles away from the sea), when a live one was unprocurable the previous day led Fort to assume synchronicity by concluding erroneously that the Mad Fishmonger was omnipresent (IB, 28). As disclosed in Lo!, this “mysterious circumstance” was reported in the magazine, Land and Water and in local newspapers as having happened during “a violent thunderstorm” on May 28, 1881.75 On that day, “tons of periwinkles had come down from the sky, covering fields and a road, for about a mile.”76 This occurrence had resulted in “an enormous fall of sea creatures, unaccompanied by sand, pebbles, other shells, and seaweed.”77 Another chance event in In Ballast to the White Sea relates to the contemporary Cambridge setting of the proletariat’s fashion for literature (IB, 31). It is compared by Tor with a scene witnessed in Norway, in Helgefjoss (derived from “Hellig Foss” or “Sacred Waterfall”—a remarkable similarity to the name of his birthplace, Helgafjord) (Ibid., 235). He evokes the image of a boy jumping on a dead horse and enjoying the feel of its ribs (Ibid., 31). It replicates a bizarre incident which occurs at the beginning of chapter I of Fort’s novel, The Outcast Manufacturers (1909). In it, there is a portrait of

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“a dead horse lying in the southside gutter; boys jumping on it, enjoying the elasticity of its ribs; a greasy old man prying off the horseshoes.”78 Eluding to Fort’s The Book of The Damned, Chapter VI of In Ballast to the White Sea commences with an epigraph suggesting that accepting intermediateness is like welcoming a blend of positivity and the corresponding and equal negativity generated by it. It is a state of “quasi-existence, premonitory, or prenatal, or preawakening consciousness of a real existence” (IB, 75). In chapter 12 of his treatise, Fort censures “the prim and the precise, or the exact, the homogenous, the single, the puritanic, the mathematic, the pure, the perfect.”79 Dissatisfied with what he discerns to be science’s uncompromising stance, he conjectures that “we can have illusion of this state—but only by disregarding its infinite denials. [. . .] Our antagonism is not to Science, but to the attitude of the sciences [. . .] a resistance to the progress of others.”80 Also in Chapter VI of Lowry’s novel, Sigbjørn refers to the mystery of a highly intelligent youth sighted on the streets of Nuremburg on May, 26, 1828.81 He became known as Kaspar Hauser and later claimed that “until the age of sixteen or seventeen, he had lived upon bread and water, in a small, dark cell.”82 This analogy is conveyed through an image of alienation in which Sigbjørn mingles with the “rough current” of working life eddying down to Liverpool’s Pier Head (IB, 76). He is borne along and then neglected like a log which is being conveyed by a stream. He surmises whether he is a creature from another planet which—like Casper Hauser—has strayed to this earth. This comparison relates to claims made by the German legal scholar, Paul Johann Anselm Ritter von Feuerbach, and cited in Lo! in the following context: Kaspar Hauser showed such an utter deficiency of words and ideas, such perfect ignorance of the commonest things and appearances of Nature, and such horror of all customs, conveniences, and necessities of civilized life, and, withal, such extraordinary peculiarities in his social, mental, and physical disposition, that one might feel oneself driven to the alternative of believing him to be a citizen of another planet, transferred by some miracle to our own.83

In Ballast to the White Sea contains a passage in Chapter X which focuses on a statement corresponding to one found in Lo!. Sigbjørn—that is “Barney”—recalls a claim made by his brother, contending that the “vacancy of the imbecile is the ideal of the scholar” (IB, 145). Fort’s work criticizes a lack of consideration given to meteoric or celestial phenomena in the thirty-sixpage account of seismic phenomena in Charleston authored by the mathematician and seismologist, Charles Davison in A Study of Recent Earthquakes (1905). Fort advocates, “Refine such a study to a finality of omissions, and the vacancy of the imbecile is the ideal of the scholar. I approve this, as

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harmless.”84 Reports of strange phenomena also abound in chapter XI of Lowry’s novel. The superstitious Sigbjørn acknowledges that he has had numerous warnings, but does not comprehend them” (IB, 160). He paraphrases an alert given in Lo! that “often before disasters upon this earth there have been appearances that were interpretable as warnings.”85 Under the Volcano refers to Fortean phenomena regarding familiar spirits and bulls. Geoffrey Firmin curses the pariah dog which appears “familiarly” at his heel (UV, 70).86 Bulls are given political connotations. In The Book of the Damned, it is claimed that “sometimes it may seem as if all science were to us very much like what a red flag is to bulls and anti-socialists.”87 In Lowry’s novel, this symbolism is turned into Firmin’s disclosure to Yvonne of Hugh’s discovery of a campaign launched by the German Legation to expel Jewish manufacturers from Mexico. Having “decapacitated” (a malapropism for “decapitated”) another poppy, the Consul raises an issue—which he has overheard on vacation at a ranch—like a “red rag after a bull” (UV, 66).88 Real bulls do materialize in the Arena Tomalín setting of chapter 9 of Under the Volcano. Depicted as indistinguishable from a Mexican, Hugh makes a brave attempt to avoid becoming unseated and to catch one as it paws the earth, energizes itself “like a frog,” and crawls on its stomach (UV, 277).89 This comparison between a bull and a frog relates to “the twitch of the legs of a frog” described in Fort’s Wild Talents.90 It mentions “the mysterious twitchings of electrified legs” performed in experiments on the nerve tissues and muscles of frogs by the Italian scientist and philosopher, Luigi Galvani (1737–1798).91 The Book of the Damned combines numerous references to paranormal phenomena with descriptions of peculiar individuals. In his portrait of “a procession of the damned,” Fort mentions “a procession of data that Science has excluded.”92 It comprises a parade of “corpses, skeletons, mummies, twitching, tottering, animated by companions that have been damned alive.”93 It also lists sleeping giants, theorems, rags, harlots, clowns, and assassins. They are portrayed as being accompanied by “gaunt superstitions,” shadows, the bizarre, and the grotesque.94 In Lowry’s poem, “Xochitepec” (1940) these haunting, surrealist shapes are transmuted into “those animals that follow us in dream.”95 Some of them “are swallowed by the dawn,” whereas others “hunt us, snuff, stalk us out in life.”96 Another example of Lowry’s interpretation of Fortean monstrosities arises in chapter 12 of Under the Volcano. It contains a scene in which Firmin peers out of the Farolito bar and discerns two beggars—one is legless and the other has just a single one (UV, 342). He witnesses an act of kindness when the latter—as if anticipating being shot—drops a coin into the outstretched hand of the former—an acknowledgement that they are both human beings after all. A variety of Fortean creatures then becomes visible in this rapidly unraveling

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nightmare. On the Consul’s right are weird animals which look like geese, but are as large as camels. From the forest path which he has just taken emerge headless, skinless men on stilts, their entrails jolting across the earth. An indirect reference in the description of Laruelle’s living accommodation in Under the Volcano hints at his relationship with Yvonne and pertains to Fort’s Wild Talents. In Jacques’s room, cuneiform stone idols are depicted as squatting like bulbous infants in chains. It is given as evidence of “lost wild talents” as the Consul relishes the thought of Yvonne—in the “aftermath of her passion”—confronted by a row of “fettered babies” (Ibid., 203). This passage alludes to Aztec mythology by depicting the series of stone idols which used to stand before the Rivera murals on the balcony of Cortés Palace in Cuernavaca—effigies which Lowry is likely to have spotted.97 They represent the Cihuateteo, or Women Gods, who died in childbirth. These female warriors, or night demons, were deemed to have the ability to seduce males and tempt them to commit adultery, as is significant with regard to Yvonne’s extramarital activities.98 J. W. Dunne (1875–1949) Lowry had a long-standing interest in the discoveries of J. W. Dunne, whose time puzzles and law of series fascinated him. This philosopher, aeronautical engineer, and soldier developed a hypothesis which inferred that random events happen in clusters. He enhanced the theories of the Austrian biologist, Paul Kammerer (1880–1926), who was the first scientist to study “the law of seriality” and famous for Das Gesetz der Serie (1919). Lowry first discovered Dunne’s work on precognitive dreams, temporal dimensions, and their connections with higher levels of consciousness in his late 1920s, or early 1930s. He highly valued An Experiment with Time (1927), describing it as “a rewarding book.”99 He found particularly engrossing “the notion that time exists in a series of dimensions, each one contained within a wider one” and endeavored to apply Dunne’s law of series to his worldview.100 In Under the Volcano, time goes backward and forward. It is projected as merging and overlapping cinematically, as in a Möbius strip. It is surrealistically perceived as being unreal and dislodging. It exists in a serial universe which contains fragmented memories of the past and anticipations of the future. The mental images formed are elucidated by the cinema manager, Sr. Bustamente, who in chapter 1 observes the infiltration of the Spanish Civil War into cinema newsreels (UV, 32).101 Chapter 5 contains a scene which discloses that, although his watch indicates 12.15, Geoffrey Firmin is puzzled by the relationship between the passage of time and his consciousness. He self-reflectively queries why he is sitting in the bathroom and whether he is asleep, deceased, or has fainted. He queries whether he is there now or thirty

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minutes ago (UV, 145).102 His utter confusion is explained by Lowry as follows: “It should be clear that the Consul has a blackout and that the second part in the bathroom is concerned with what he remembers half deliriously of the missing hour.”103 From that point onward, the penetration into the present of flashbacks—instants from the past hour, triggered by bougainvillea and the incursion of a scorpion and murdered mosquitoes—signifies partial recovery rather than a total recall of events. This “lovely world” is “actually sinking, like Atlantis,” under the Consul’s feet (UV, 151). These “explosions in the brain” relate to Dunne’s understanding of concussion (Ibid., 145).104 Although they do not “destroy all memory of the events which immediately preceded the accident,”105 they represent an intermittent perception of “large blocks of otherwise perfectly normal personal experience displaced from their proper positions in Time.”106 With regard to Dunne’s notions of higher temporal dimensions and levels of consciousness, not only flashbacks but also flash-forwards arise in Under the Volcano: Precognitive dreams foresee future experiences and events. The Consul and Yvonne long to rediscover primal innocence by anticipating a rejuvenated existence in Dollarton akin to that experienced by Malcolm Lowry and Margerie Bonner during the completion of his novel. Vivid descriptions of a paradisal British Columbia of the future impregnate Under the Volcano’s fabric. Even the Shellburn oil refinery has an illusory appeal in the Consul’s shamanically foreseen vision of his trajectory into the future.107 He predicts the existence of a Blakean path through hell, as he has observed in his dreams. Beyond it, he envisages bizarre visions of a new life in a northern country where there are hills, mountains, and blue water. He imagines that his house is on an inlet and one evening he and his companion are standing on the balcony and peering over the water. They glimpse sawmills which are half-concealed by hillside trees on the other side of the inlet where an oil refinery shimmers in the distance (UV, 42).108 As a time-lord, Firmin has a vantage point which enables him to be transported psychogeographically to another continent at any point in the past, present, or future. Identifying the year in which the tiny boats which conveyed tourists to the foot of the Niagara Falls were replaced by new ones,109 he demonstrates to Hugh that he is able to manipulate time and place by inviting him for a trip on the Maid of the Mist on Niagara circa 1900 (UV, 287). Existing in serial time and, thus, theoretically at liberty to influence the course of unfolding events, he is presented with a daunting challenge: whether to choose Tomalín or Guanajuato.110 The selection of the former destination near Popocatepetl may precipitate a visit to Parián (a symbol of death), whereas Guanajuato represents life.111 His dilemma invokes Dunne’s so-called “pre-presentation” of a prescient nightmare of his fate.112 This phenomenon was encountered by the Consul in his earlier inability to resist

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confrontation with “a ghost of a tragic prerecognition.”113 It is illustrated by a psychic experience in which Geoffrey experiences an hallucination in which he glimpses an object which has assumed the form of a dead man wearing a sombrero and lying prone beside his swimming pool. Anticipating it going away, he discerns the words, “So the ‘other’ had come again” (UV, 96). He recognizes its faint tone as one of his “familiars” as he smashes through metamorphoses of dying and reborn apparitions akin to someone who is unaware that he has been shot from behind, as is his fate (Ibid., 130). This image may have been derived from An Experiment with Time where—given that a soldier in combat is unable to realize that he has been wounded—it is argued that “intensity of bodily feeling depends very largely upon degree of concentration of attention.”114 The beginning of chapter 10 in Under the Volcano exemplifies what Dunne denotes as a train of ideas in which a “curious succession of images” relates to real locomotives.115 The Consul falsely anticipates a spiritual awakening: he recalls that, after a night’s drinking, he goes to meet a woman called Lee Maitland arriving on the 07.40 train from Virginia. Cheerful and nimble, his state is compared to that of Baudelaire’s angel as it awakes, desirous of meeting trains, but not ones which stop, so not even the blonde Maitland— presumably a mysterious angel of death116—can descend (UV, 283). Certainly trains give Geoffrey a fear of dying, as explained by Lowry who elucidates the connection with Freudian death-dreams and with the phrase “a corpse will be transported by express” in the opening of chapter 2 (Ibid., 48).117 This prediction may have been inspired by Dunne who—in the section “MemoryTrain” in An Experiment with Time—infers that, in the case of a wandering mind, “the set of images which is then observed appears to be arranged in a sequence which has little correspondence with any previously observed succession of events.”118 The intertwining synapses in Firmin’s brain are symbolized by the labyrinthine Farolito in Parián which is described in chapter 7 of Under the Volcano as comprising innumerable tiny rooms—each smaller and darker than the previous one into which it opens—the last being the darkest and no larger than a cell (UV, 204). In chapter 12, this cantina takes the form of a series of enigmatic Chinese boxes which—like Yvonne’s letters—typify his universe (Ibid., 344). This image is derived from Dunne’s theory of the ubiquity of time: “The nature of the series is [. . .] akin to the ‘Chinese boxes’ type.”119 Yet, the Consul senses the presence of a kindred spirit, for there is someone sitting beside him who seems familiar (UV, 360). This figure assumes the shape of a young, fair-haired man—a poet friend from his college days. It is a reflection of his earlier self and a figment of what Dunne describes as “dreams [. . .] merely displaced in Time.”120

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The Significance of Numbers In Under the Volcano, Firmin identifies what he considers to be bizarre coincidences of events linked to the strange, yet repeated occurrence of particular numbers—such as 7, 9, and 666—in various combinations of digits.121 By far the most frequent one is seven which pertains to the time of dawn and dusk in Under the Volcano. As discussed in chapter 7 of Éliphas Lévi’s Transcendental Magic: Its Doctrine and Ritual (1854–1856), it has various mythological meanings. These include seven deadly sins, seven days of Creation in Genesis 1 (and, hence, seven days of the week), and seven pillars of the House of Wisdom in Proverbs 9.1.122 In Greek mythology, the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione were transformed firstly into doves and then into stars. Subsequently, they were placed by Zeus into the constellation of Taurus to comfort their father. In Under the Volcano, the integer 7 refers to the old number seven train (UV, 293), though Lowry admits that it should really be a tram to the Alhambra in Granada, Spain.123 The unmounted, white steed which kills Yvonne—and is earlier seen at box seven (UV, 185)—has that number stamped on its rump (Ibid., 113). It is a reminder of the pale animal portrayed in the Book of Revelation 6:8 and of the white horse in Hindu sacrifices.124 Tragically, the magic number seven is the time of the Consul’s revival and of his death, as Lowry’s novel commences and terminates at this fateful hour (UV, 32 and 372). According to Frazer, the human being representing the Mexican god and patron of Tenochtitlán, Vitzilopochtli (also known as Huitzilopochtli and the Deity of war, the sun, and human sacrifice) has the privilege to choose the hour when he will be put to death.125 Hence, the time of the Consul’s demise in Under the Volcano may be interpreted as self-determined. In this novel, time-warps are linked to numerals—such as seven being the sum of five and two—which denote beliefs held by the Mayas, Zapotecs, and Aztecs. The latter were known for their annual endeavors to predict a sequence of five unlucky days—during which Cihuateteo demons descended to earth—in their Mesoamerican, 365-day lunar calendar.126 According to the myth of the five suns, if this period fell during the completion of a 52-year calendar cycle, its occurrence would be accompanied by the destruction of the world by earthquakes.127 A shelter against the mysterious phenomenon which is wreaking global disaster is alluded to in chapter 12 of Under the Volcano in the form of a secret passage as a sanctuary for the dying (UV, 35). In figure 4.2, the Consul is glimpsed on one of his daily strolls. His address is 52 Nicaragua Street (ibid., 52),128 as explained by Lowry in his typescript: “In my book, 52 adds up to 7.”129 He is referring to the night of the culmination of the Pleiades—the Seven Sisters—which follow the Aztec fifty-two-yearold cycle.

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Figure 4.2  Under the Volcano, 1988. Source: © Ton Leenarts.

Seven is also the sum of three and four, or vice-versa, which has been deemed by Frater Achad as “the mystical union of the triad with the tetrad” and “a perfectly proportioned Figure of the Tree of Life.”130 In Transcendental Magic, Lévi contends: “The septenary is the sacred number in all theogonies and in all symbols, because it is composed of the triad and the tetrad. The number seven represents magical power in all its fullness; it is the mind reinforced by all elementary potencies; it is the soul served by Nature.”131 This combination occurs in the description of Dr. Arturo Díaz Vigil’s and M. Laruelle’s sports rackets in their presses, the doctor’s being triangular and Jacques’ being quadrangular (UV, 10). In his early-morning call, the Consul’s telephone number is disclosed in reverse format as Erikson 43 (Ibid., 81). A number on the Ericsson exchange, it is the namesake of a character in In Ballast to the White Sea and Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid.132 In the latter, Erikson resembles the real-life Nordahl Grieg, who died when his aeroplane was gunned down in an Allied bomber raid over Berlin in 1943.133

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A further clue to its disorientating significance is divulged by the fact that Geoffrey hangs up the receiver the wrong way round (UV, 81)—a suggestion that the legitimate sequence is 3–4.134 It materializes later as “Erikson 34,” which also happens to be Dr. Guzmán’s number (UV, 212). Often arising in Under the Volcano are the digits 9 and 666 which have cabbalistic connotations. The former is the quantity of the Sephiroth, that is, the number of spheres emanating from God on the Tree of Life. In Lowry’s novel, the Consul’s life depends on it, for in his imaginary conversation, he refers to Hugh’s passport number as having digits adding up to nine: 21312 (UV, 82). The quantity of churches in Quauhnahuac is stated as being eighteen—the sum of the digits 1 and 8 being 9 (Ibid., 9). In a variation of the same theme, the number nine may be produced by adding the integers three and six—discounting the intermediate zeros—in the 306 churches in Cholula (Ibid., 17). Mentioned by the Consul (who follows Prescott’s lead), this Mesoamerican archaeological site and modern-day city to the west of Puebla is a marker of the confluence of Hebrew and Indian legends in the erection of its highly reputed Great Pyramid, referred to as the original Tower of Babel (Ibid.).135 Constructed as early as the third century BC onward, it became an important religious centre of the Toltecs (c. AD 900–1168) and of the Aztecs (AD fourteenth—sixteenth century). The digits 666 occur many times in Under the Volcano. They appear on an insecticide advertisement and on the leaves of a telephone book (Ibid., 192 and 212). The Consul imagines that the address of Laruelle’s house is 666 Street of the Land of Fire (Ibid., 213). Its haunting sign, “No se puede vivir sin amar” (One cannot live without loving) reminds him of its owner’s adultery with Yvonne and of the Day of the Dead (Ibid.). He recognizes that “666” is a bestial number in Revelation 13:18: “Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.”136 Yet, in Lowry’s novel, the combination, 666 can be overturned to give “999.” That is the format in which the Consul decodes the insecticide sign. He does so because he is inverted like the “poor fool” who enlightens the world (UV, 225). DECIPHERING THE MATERIAL AND SPIRITUAL WORLDS: MORTALS, SOULS, AND SHAMANS In his lifelong search for harmony to reconcile divisions between humanity’s natural, supernatural, and celestial worlds, Lowry’s mystic mission is an earnest attempt to discover the meaning of existence. Agonizing over fundamental questions about the essence of humanity, he engages in a continuous struggle to attain a state of supreme awareness in order to determine ways

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in which it can realize its full potential and achieve salvation. As well as by Frazer, he is stimulated by the First World War poet, Robert Graves, who admired the psychoanalytic method practised by the eminent anthropologist, neurologist, and psychiatrist, Dr. W. H. R. Rivers at Craiglockhart Hospital near Edinburgh (which housed officers suffering from shell-shock, or PTSD). He was inspired too by the polymath and anthropologist, Major Tom Harrisson, whom, he claimed, had been his best friend at Cambridge.137 Together with the poet and sociologist, Charles Madge (who married Kathleen Raine in 1938) and the documentary filmmaker, Humphrey Jennings, Harrisson founded the Mass-Observation Experiment in 1937 to record everyday life in Britain. It is these ethnological interests which stimulate Lowry to launch a pursuit of souls and shamans.138 On his spiritual odyssey to discover paradise on earth, he skillfully attempts to synthesize the diverse domains of anthropology, psychoanalysis, the Cabbala, and even voodoo in Under the Volcano. In this ethnopoetic novel, the Consul—a shamanic magician—seeks the existence of a divine order in his endeavors to attain an ecstatic state of consciousness. He follows astrological signs and cabbalistic wisdoms in his eternal quest for the Holy Grail of ultimate truth. Blending international modernism with shamanism and the Cabbala, he cultivates moral and spiritual regeneration by devising a worldview which generates reflections on the ethnographic implications of psychotherapeutic and shamanic healing.139 Following in Frazer’s footsteps, he ventures on a transcendental journey to identify the origins of his Mexican Garden of Eden. In Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, and La Mordida, he traces that country’s cultural and historical roots back to the Zapotecs and the Aztecs. A precarious balance between material and spiritual worlds had to be maintained by their rulers and shamanic priests, if misfortune were to be averted. Defeated by the Spanish conquistadores—whose actions brought desecration and an alarmingly rapid decline—the Aztecs were threatened not only militarily but also pathologically: humanly transmitted, smallpox and typhus epidemics afflicted the indigenous population as early as 1520–1521. Traumatized by the devastation caused to Aztec civilization, Lowry is intent on overcoming his inner struggle and interpreting the workings of the universe. Such afflictions date back to his childhood when they became ingrained in the deep psychological scars which played an important factor in determining his perception of the world. Ted Spivey refers to: (1) [a] basic life crisis, which—though often but not always hidden in the unconscious—causes various small physical and mental instabilities; (2) a way of seeing one’s life as a pilgrimage to find a lost love and joy; and (3) the

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gradual overcoming of a deep death wish and the achieving of a psychic growth in which life and death, love and violence, are seen in a perspective that makes possible a full acceptance of life.140

In Under the Volcano, Lowry endeavors to expiate his internal suffering by championing the human spirit’s survival (UV, 312).141 Portrayed as a scholar who regularly consults Elizabethan plays (presumably tragedies), Geoffrey Firmin also consults innumerable alchemical and cabbalistic and books (UV, 33 and 178). His reclusiveness leads to him being described as a “dark magician in his visioned cave” (Ibid., 151 and 206). His half brother, Hugh, suggests to Yvonne that he may be a black magician (Ibid., 122). Such allusions bring to mind treatises on science and magic, for example, by the mathematician, astronomer, and astrologer, John Dee, who was a chief adviser to the Queen. Depicted as a “tragic protagonist . . . like Tchitchikov in Dead Souls,” the dipsomaniac and psychotic Firmin is afflicted by a Gogolian sickness, as observed by his attentive guardian, Dr. Vigil.142 This ailment links material and spiritual worlds “not only in body but in that part used to be call: soul” (UV, 148). It represents a malady, for which the Consul (and Lowry too) strives to atone through suffering and self-sacrifice. It is through the practice of psychoanalysis—the science of “nature inside” dealing with “the obstacles to reason within the psyche”—that a state of “intense self-revelation” is achieved.143 THE DAY OF THE DEAD The Día de los Muertos plays a fundamental role in integrating these two domains. This colorful Mexican festival is of pre-Hispanic, pagan-spiritual origin. Deeply rooted in the traditions of Zapotec and Aztec civilizations, it has been enriched by subsequent Spanish-Catholic influences. Falling after the commemoration of deceased children and infants on November 1 (the Day of the Innocents or Little Angels), it is celebrated on November 2 each year by the wearing of dazzling masks and exuberant costumes depicting skulls and skeletons. Singing and dancing accompany the lively sound of mariachi music to connect the living with the spirits of the dead. There are candle-lit processions and all-night vigils at cemeteries. Offerings of nourishment are laid out for the departed in graveside displays of the favorite foods and beverages of the deceased. As in figure 4.3, there is a tradition—dating back to the Aztecs—of offering flowers, especially orange marigolds, to the spirits of the deceased on the Day of the Dead. The perennial plant, Tagetes lucida (known as Mexican mint marigold, tarragon, and sweet-scented marigold) was used to make

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Figure 4.3  Panteón Municipal La Leona Cemetery, Cuernavaca. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

Yauhtli, a form of ritual incense. Associated with the rain god, Tlaloc, it possesses anxiolytic—that is, tranquilizing—properties. It was one of the ingredients of a medicinal powder used by the Aztecs and blown into the faces of those who were about to become victims of human sacrifice. By mixing it with a wild and highly potent tobacco called Nicotiana rustica, psychoactive, entheogenic, and psychotropic effects were exerted on the metabolism. For these reasons, it is still used by Huichol shamans to achieve an altered state of consciousness. The optically stunning effects of the Día de los Muertos can be perceived— through Ed Burra’s brand of surrealism—as a drawback to nature. In Under the Volcano, death is viewed as “a reversed birth,” glimpsed through the kaleidoscope of the Consul’s alcohol-fuelled phantasmagorical stupor.144 Evocative images of the Fiesta are unveiled in the vivid description given by Dr. Vigil and Laruelle, as they reminisce about the Consul and Yvonne in chapter 1. They provide a psychogeographic portrait of a city haunted by the “ghosts of ruined gamblers” (UV, 9.) The annual ritual of the Day of the Dead is taking place in Quauhnahuac in November 1939. As illustrated by figure 4.4, this custom provides an opportunity for the living to pray for the souls of the deceased, with whom, it is believed, they are enabled to communicate during this brief spell.

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Mexican Day of the Dead Ofrenda. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

As Laruelle and Vigil toast the health of their hero—who died that very same day in the previous year—the Consul and Yvonne become visitants. They are immortalized through a cinematic evocation of bygone events in which the light in Adam’s house is portrayed as burning on long after Adam has left the garden (Ibid., 28). A candle is kindled in memory of Geoffrey Firmin. In a supernatural reading, it has been argued that, by reincarnating the Consul specifically on the Day of the Dead, Laruelle unwittingly casts a “magic burning spell.”145 He incinerates Firmin’s love letter to Yvonne in Cervecería XX cantina (UV, 31). Although the 1940 version of Lowry’s novel implies that the future will change the past, the final 1947 edition demonstrates this to have been accomplished by the turning back of time.146 The double-crossed—literally and figuratively—ex-Consul’s ex-wife Yvonne has become spellbound and is induced to return to him, “if only for a day” (UV, 46). She is invigorated by the strength of their eternal, mutual love for one another. By seven o’clock, the scene has been set by the never-ending procession of torch-lit shadows which are projected “magically” upside down (Ibid, 32). They loom on the screen of the local cinema connected to the bar. This spell has been kindled by Sr. Bustamente’s return to Laruelle of the abovementioned tome of dramas which the Consul had lent to him some

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eighteen months previously (and which reveals Marlow’s Faustus) (Ibid., 33). In turn, the nine requirements of candlemagic—rather than Candlemas—have been met.147 It is now for the cinema manager to conjure up an image of the Consul’s “living soul” (bicho viviente) (UV, 34).148 He does so by referring to his “amigo, the bicho [. . .] Señor Firmin, El Cónsul. The Americano” in his conversation with Laruelle (UV, 34). In the “elusive flickering candlelight,” a correspondence is perceptible between the “subnormal world” and the “abnormally suspicious” (Ibid., 40). It contributes to an illusion leading up to the display of the Consul’s unsent letter to Yvonne, which flutters out of the book of plays (Ibid.). It is this epistle which disseminates the cryptic wisdom of the Consul who declares that his secrets are “of the grave” and must be kept (Ibid., 41). He believes that he is a great explorer who has discovered an extraordinary land—that is, hell—from which he is unable to return to bestow his knowledge on the world (Ibid., 42). Although his letter also predicts the future in Canada by emphasizing the importance—for the survival of humanity—of conflict resolution, the casting of the spell must be completed if he is to be reunited with Yvonne. His pain and grief are alleviated by their reinvigoration: it is indicated by the sound of “dolente . . . dolore!” in the tolling of the bell which frames the end of both chapters 1 and 12 (Ibid., 47 and 374).149 These words form part of the inscription above the entrance to Hell in Canto III.I-2 of Dante’s Inferno which consists of the lines: “Per me si va nella città dolente/ Per me si va nell’etterna dolore” (Through me you enter the woeful city/ Through me you enter eternal grief ).150 The die is cast as soon as Laruelle incinerates the letter in the candle flame and setting the “writhing mass” in an ashtray, in which “beautifully conforming it folded upon itself, a burning castle, collapsed, subsided to a ticking hive through which sparks like tiny red worms crawled” (UV, 47). Confirmation that this magic spell is working is provided by the concluding sentence of chapter 1 which states that in the “dark tempestuous night” above the city “backwards revolved the luminous wheel” (Ibid.). It is this cinematic image which enables Laruelle’s mind to whirl back through time. It represents the eternity of “Buddha’s wheel of the law” (dharmachakra), “the instrument of eternal recurrence” which is said to preserve order in the cosmos.151 THE VIRGIN OF GUADALUPE The commemorative customs of the Día de los Muertos have a multipurpose role: they provide an appropriate setting for the events of Under the Volcano to unravel and hint at deeper implications. Another factor is the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe which is located geographically in Lowry’s favorite

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church, the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, or the Basilica of Our Lady of Solitude in Oaxaca. Visible in figure 4.5 is its patron saint, the Virgen de la Soledad (who is also known as Our Lady of Solitude—the Roman Catholic designation for the Blessed Virgin Mary). Represented by the “Virgin for those that have nobody with,” her effigy is psychogeographically relocated from Oaxaca to Quauhnahuac in Under the Volcano (UV, 12). Depicted as the Consul’s yearning in a spiritual thirst which is so intense that his soul is fastened into the very essence of this city, it is an emblem of his faith in the

Figure 4.5  Virgin of Guadalupe in the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, Oaxaca. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

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divine (Ibid., 204). It is a symbol of his hope of finding peace and reconciliation with Yvonne, who has returned to him for just a single day. Yet, the description of the Consul as a “desperate neophyte, Yesod-bound” implies— in cabbalistic terms—that he is a novice at love-making, a constraint which impedes his spiritual progress (Ibid., 94). The Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad is also a prominent landmark in Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid. It is the place where Sigbjørn Wilderness eventually discovers the tranquillity and harmony which elude the Consul in Under the Volcano. In this sequel, the reappearance of the Virgin of Guadalupe leads to the revival of Sigbjørn’s faith, facilitated by the “mediating influence” of the deceased and by the statuette of the Holy Virgin.152 It attracts the joint attention of Primrose and Sigbjørn, for it is described “as a model . . . dressed in bright print and carrying in one hand a lamp.”153 It precipitates an acute “feeling of something Renaissance” by emphasizing the need for cultural and spiritual renewal.154 Another effigy which has a special importance for Lowry is the darkskinned figure of the Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe (Our Lady of Guadalupe). It is located in Oaxaca’s former Convent of Santo Domingo, which appears in figure 4.6. Lowry’s friend “pins a medal of the Virgin of Guadalupe” onto his coat there in 1938, as a way of offering him spiritual protection.155 This “tertiary” is the Zapotecan Indian, Juan Fernando Márquez.156 In Under the Volcano, he is transformed into the Dr. Vigil and Juan Cerillo of Oaxaca’s

Figure 4.6  Former Convent of Santo Domingo, Oaxaca. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

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“terrible” Valle Nacional (UV, 112)—a location described in Barbarous Mexico as “undoubtedly the worst slave hole in Mexico. Probably it is the worst in the world.”157 In Lowry’s novel, Márquez shape-shifts into a beggar overcome by war and covered in sores. Having accepted four drinks from the Consul, this vagrant assumes that he is Christ and, falling on his knees, pins under his lapel two medallions. Portraying the Virgin of Guadalupe, they are “joined to a tiny worked bleeding heart like a pin-cushion” (UV, 204). This depiction conjures up the venerated image in the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe (the Minor Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe) in Mexico City, which is the most visited Catholic pilgrimage site in the world. IN PURSUIT OF THE ELIXIR OF LIFE: FROM THE HINDU MAHABHARATA TO THE CABBALA An awareness of “simultaneity of experience” spurs the Consul in Under the Volcano to set out on a telepathic crusade to seek civilization’s elixir of life.158 He has a vision of being called to the Himalayas—accompanied by his loyal dog—to see the “mighty mountain Himavat . . . ” (UV, 129). Named after the ruler of the homonymous kingdom in Ancient India, it is mentioned in the Hindu Mahabharata, to which Firmin refers. Written in Sanskrit, this epic poem depicts an ascension to Heaven unblemished by sin or untruth and inspired by the search for the light of Yudhishthira, who, in the legendary narrative, is accompanied by his dog (his godfather, Dharma in disguise) (UV, 178). An alternative route to salvation is offered by the Cabbala’s Tree of Life. Intrigued by astronomy and mythology, Lowry was captivated by the Kabbala(h)—an interest which was derived from his early fascination with esoteric enigmas connected with states of consciousness, on the one hand, and with elevated levels of existence, on the other. His absorption into the concepts of this secret philosophical system—which claimed insight into divine nature—sprang partly from his reaction to his strict Methodist upbringing. It was kindled by the long-standing inquisitiveness which he showed toward esoteric knowledge, mysticism, and alternative spiritual ideas channeled to him through three main sources. The first came via Marguerite (Margot) (née Peirce)—the French Catholic wife of his elder brother, Stuart Osborne Lowry (1895–1969).159 Being a medium, she shared a curiosity for the occult.160 The second arose from Lowry’s reading of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land which may have stimulated his interest in, and reference to, the Upanishads, ancient Sanskrit texts containing many of the central philosophies of Hinduism.161 He was fascinated by Vedanta, or Uttarā Mīmāṃsā, which emphasizes selfrealization and is one of six orthodox schools of Hindu philosophy.162 The

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third reached him through his reading of W. B. Yeats, whom he often mentions in his letters.163 He was enthralled by the latter’s A Vision (1925) and The Tower (1928), which facilitate connections between the mind, cosmology, and the divine features of a so-called wheel of existence.164 He highly recommends these works in his June 1944 letter to Charles Stansfeld Jones.165 Referring to the “Ghost Star” and “The Milky Way,” he quotes from Gitanjali, a collection of poems by the Bengali polymath and Nobel prizewinner, Rabindranath Tagore which was published by the India Society.166 However, it is Yeats who leaves the deepest impression on him for his introduction to Gitanjali and for his connections with Madame Blavatsky’s Theosophical Society. In his pursuit of eternal life, Lowry frequently displays Yeats’s influence in his literary works. His poem, “Byzantium: Or Where the Great Life Begins” (1939–1940 and 1945–1946) is an ironic reference to the latter’s “Sailing to Byzantium” (1928) which was first published in The Tower. He follows a more realistic approach in his treatment of Yeats’s imaginative ideal, rejecting the ancient name of Constantinople—which was the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire and the hub of the Greek Orthodox Church—for “just plain Stamboul” (i.e., modern-day Istanbul).167 Elements of mystical and supernatural significance are woven into Under the Volcano in its allusions to Yeats’s “Rosa Alchemica” (1896). In seeking union with the universe, this treatise narrates the process of initiation into the Order of the Alchemical Rose, the secrets of which are revealed in “The Tables of the Law” (1897) as “not of this earth.”168 In Under the Volcano, Lowry uses alchemical terms which have Yeatsian significance. With a diabolical grimace, the Consul calls the plumbago, roses, and wax plants in his garden “dilapidated préservatifs,” invoking the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life (UV, 33).169 An evergreen shrub, plumbago has bluish flowers, the leaden color of which is that of the base metal used to attempt transmutations into higher forms, such as gold. The transient, ceraceous texture of wax plants suggests that it has alchemical properties. Another connection with Yeats is Lowry’s deliberate misquotation of a phrase from “The Magi” (1916)170—a modernist poem about a quest undertaken by those who have achieved considerable material success, but who turn to the heavens in their hope of finding everlasting peace, happiness, and spiritual fulfillment. In Under the Volcano, Lowry transforms Yeats’s expression, “the uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor” into one “on the bathroom floor” (UV, 150) Yet, he reflects on universal forces, to which the “hierophants of science” are oblivious in their unawareness of “the fearful potencies [. . . . ] of unvintageable evil” (Ibid., 149). As a result, entire continents burst into flame—a harbinger of the nuclear weapons dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945 (Ibid., 150).

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A further parallel to Yeats is the emblem of an eagle, albeit Mexican—in Under the Volcano. In his July 1946 letter to Albert Erskine, Lowry mentions that “the soulful eagle may seem to bear some bedraggled resemblance to Yeats.”171 Although originally his eagle was meant to be a hawk, he remained concerned, lest his reliance on the latter’s “The Second Coming” (1919) (which portrays a falcon at odds with the “mere anarchy [. . .] loosed upon the world”) and A Vision become apparent.172 In chapter 2 of Under the Volcano, Yvonne views Quauhnahuac as being “where the eagle stops!” (UV, 49). She erroneously confuses its origins with those of Tenochtitlán, which was founded on June 20, 1325, and constructed on an island on what was then Lake Texcoco in the Valley of Mexico. However, in the hands of the conquistadores, it fell into the ruins on which modern-day Mexico City lies. According to Prescott, the night of the Aztec capital’s destruction was marked by a titanic thunderstorm: “During the night, a tremendous tempest, such as the Spaniards had rarely witnessed, and such as is known only within the tropics, burst over the Mexican Valley.”173 In Lowry’s novel, dark horses gallop up into the sky like a thunderstorm breaking out of season (UV, 16). In chapter 11 of Under the Volcano, a tiny eagle inhabits a wooden cage positioned near the cantina, El Petate. Yvonne stumbles over its enclosure, startling it so that it slithers into its dark, humid prison (Ibid., 320) Yet, it transforms into a ferocious long-winged creature in a world of despairs, dreams, and the memories of gliding over Popocatepetl, descending through the wilderness, and observing the “timberline ghosts” of despoiled trees in the mountains (Ibid., 321). In setting it free, Yvonne anticipates the release of her soul to the heavens at the end of the chapter in an event akin to that of the transformation into Venus of the all-powerful god and plumed serpent, Quetzalcóatl.174 At this point, she recalls the previous dawn in Acapulco when she glimpsed the horn of Venus, the brightest object in the sky after the sun and moon. It burns so fervently that she imagines her faint shadow cast on the airfield from its blinding light (UV, 49). The link between the arrival of her tiny aeroplane of the Compañia Mexicana de Aviación and the bright, celestial body of a tiny red demon, the “winged emissary of Lucifer” indicates her betrayal of the Consul for Laruelle and Hugh (Ibid). Named after a semi-precious stone from a deep blue metamorphic rock, Yeats’s poem, “Lapis Lazuli” (1936) is the possible source of two excerpts from Under the Volcano. The first relates to Yeats’s multiple use of the adjective, “gay.” In the line from “Lapis Lazuli,” “poets that are always gay,” it means “tragic joy.”175 In chapter 9 of Lowry’s novel, this sense of “gay” is used in the scene portraying intoxicated matadors who catch the bull in their very special way. Then they are escorted from the ring, “tottering,

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weak-kneed, protesting, yet always gay. . .” (UV, 257) The second one relates to the endurance of the human spirit. “Lapis Lazuli” contains the lines: “Two Chinamen, behind them a third,/Are carved in Lapis Lazuli,/ [. . .]Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,/Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.”176 Chapter 10 of Under the Volcano imparts a Yeatsian vision of transcendental unity, whereby flamboyance is associated with the chimera of a rainbow’s spiritual dance sequences. Niagara Falls is depicted as possessing “magic” in its “phantom dance of souls,” seeking permanence amid the “perpetually evanescent, or eternally lost” (UV, 288). It is a dance of the “seeker and his goal, [. . .] pursuing the gay colours he did not know he had assumed” (Ibid.).177 Yet, Lowry warns of a doomsday scenario in which countries, empires, and civilizations—together with their soul—perish for no reason whatsoever (UV, 312). DIVINE CONSCIOUSNESS: FROM THE CABBALA TO THE PLEIADES It is the Cabbala which provides Lowry with hope for the survival of humanity. His reawakened fascination with the Judeo-Christian metaphysical system was triggered by his encounters with Stansfeld Jones,178 who called on him as a census-taker in Dollarton on June 2, 1941, to register him for voting.179 His alias was Frater Achad, the “magical child” of Aleister Crowley (1875–1947)180, an “infamous black magician” who founded the religion and philosophy of Thelema and adopted the number 666.181 Lowry fell under Stansfeld Jones’s sway, proclaiming in his letter of September 7, 1943, to Gerald Noxon, “We have made the acquaintance of a magician.”182 In that year, he visited Stansfeld Jones in Deep Cove (a hamlet near Dollarton), familiarizing himself with his library of publications on the supernatural and partaking in occult practices.183 Dazzled by his cabbalistic teachings in Q.B.L. or The Bride’s Reception (1922)184 and in The Anatomy of the Body of God (1925),185 he considered him to be a white magician.186 Their meeting triggered Lowry’s long-standing passion for esotericism “at a critical and coincidental moment” in the writing of Under the Volcano.187 In March 1950, he referred to Stansfeld Jones as a “very good fellow, a mystic [. . .] who gave me much of the esoteric inspiration and material for the book.”188 In it, the clairvoyant Consul is portrayed in a trance-like state of consciousness in his search for hermetic wisdom acquired through a shamanic ability to contact “the spirits of ancestors and the controlling forces of the natural world, or gods.”189 Although he endeavors to use his supernatural powers for good and selfless purposes, he has fallen into an abyss owing to the elements of the universe being against him.190 On his spiritual mission to

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discover death in life and life in death, he has attempted to use the Cabbala’s wisdom to aspire hallucinogenically (through a mescal-induced consciousness) to a higher dimension of supreme truth and salvation, with the intention of discovering sacred portals connecting natural and supernatural realms of existence.191 Like Lowry, Firmin has confused mescal—a spirit distilled from the agave plan—for mescaline. Following in the footsteps of the Zapotecs, he has observed the rites of their high priest by becoming intoxicated on certain days of the year which were celebrated with feasting and dancing.192 He has shadowed the Aztecs by meditating and imbibing the ancient and sacred drink, pulque which was used in religious rituals. As with Sigbjørn Wilderness in Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, he has ventured to transform himself into a shamanic priest (or witch-doctor) and then into a god, in accord with Aztec and Zapotec customs.193 He has striven to maintain a harmonious cosmic order in which there is a balance between material and spiritual worlds. As corroborated by Yvonne (whose letter to him includes the sentence, “You are one born to walk in the light”), he has the potential to achieve divine enlightenment (UV, 365). However, he has been unsuccessful in his attempts to perform the ecstatic “rituals of supernatural communication” with the gods—in the tradition of the Zapotecs and Aztecs—to avert misfortune.194 He has misread the Cabbala which indicates the existence of twenty-two paths, corresponding to the number of letters in the Hebrew alphabet and to the branches on the tree of life.195 He must retrace them in a precise sequence to reach the pinnacle, Kether. Despite having a choice of twenty-one other paths, he has deviated from the correct route by pursuing—out of turn—the one which bears left instead of right and which leads to the realm of demonic forces (UV, 239).196 Notwithstanding his exertions to retrace lightning’s path and ascend to spiritual enlightenment, he is trapped in a perilous situation, “cut off from God” (UV, 137). He is lodged in an abyss reminiscent of the barranca (the ravine or precipice surrounding Quauhnahuac and described by Prescott as “one of those frightful rents not unfrequent in the Mexican Andes, the result, no doubt, of some terrible convulsion in earlier ages”).197 He is suspended in the darkness between the divine emanations of the universe. He suddenly realizes his predicament by conveying his suspicion that he might be in the Qliphoth (the realm of impure, or evil spiritual forces). He queries whether he is between Chesed and Binah, that is, Mercy and Understanding. His equilibrium is precarious, for he is teetering over the terrible and unsurmountable chasm on the “all-but-untraceable path of God’s lightning back to God,” as if he were in Chesed, but, more likely, the Qliphoth—the abode of evil and impure spiritual forces (UV, 44). Subsequently, his plight is highlighted by

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a reference to the Cabbala suggesting sobriety in his objectives and, indeed, actions. He questions Yvonne’s right to assume either that he was not sober or that, in a couple of days, he “would be sober” (Ibid., 89). He ponders, even if he were not sober, the phenomenal stages—“comparable [. . .] to the paths and spheres of the Holy Cabbala itself”—needed for him to reach the current perilous point (Ibid.). Incredibly challenging to maintain, this level is one “of being drunk in which alone he was sober!” (Ibid.).198 A priest on a pilgrimage, he has dabbled with the mystical, supernatural forces of the occult and interfered with the laws of nature.199 An emblem of modern Faustian man, he has sold his transmigratory soul to Mephistopheles in his desire to achieve omnipotence. He has misused his powers: instead of wielding good, he has fallen prey to his own shamanic magic. Bearing witness to the predicament of modern civilization on the brink of Armageddon, he has revealed “his adversaries as figures of evil by offering himself up as a sacrificial victim.”200 Yet, he has been unable to overcome these afflictions which have assumed the form of “the universal ‘drunkenness’ of humanity during the war.”201 Set partly in 1938—after the Nazi regime had purged its political adversaries in Operation Hummingbird (1934)—Under the Volcano documents the Consul’s vain attempts to bear guilt for allegedly “putting Germans in furnaces,” as we have seen (UV, 39). A casualty of “self-induced murder,” he is fated to be shot dead, albeit by a fascist.202 He terminated his stance of noninterference by untethering the “riderless horse,” which, according to Lowry, represents the forces of evil (UV, 335).203 An unbridled steed of destiny, it assumes the gnostic role not of Yahweh or Jehovah (the Hebrew name for God), but of Chavajoth, who represents the Azerate, the eleven Deities of the Qliphoth (Hell).204 This distinction is elucidated in Transcendental Magic which states that “Jehovah is He Who dominates Nature like a magnificent horse and makes it go where He wills; but CHAVAJOH—otherwise, the demon—is an unbridled horse which overthrows its rider and precipitates him into the abyss.”205 By invoking the Cabbala, the Consul has released the destructive energy which kills his ex-wife and, in turn, him. In his dying agony, he ironically pleads for forgiveness to put the minds of Hugh and Yvonne at rest (UV, 375). At this point, he recognizes the true significance of the words “no se puede vivir sin amar” (Ibid.). His actions are followed by a purifying thunderstorm of divine intervention which resurrects Yvonne, his Aztecan ritual sacrifice. Although she is turned into a star, she is shamed for cosmic eternity for her extramarital affairs with Hugh and Jacques. Her predicament is highlighted by the following passage from Lowry’s 1949–1950 screen adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night (1934) which lodges the soul—however tormented—in an everlasting, celestial domain:

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The screen darkens, and we become conscious of the night again as the camera moves beyond the city and higher and upwards towards the Alps and the starry heavens, so that the sensation we have is of chiasmus, the reverse of the beginning, as if we were leaving the earth and returning to the sky, at the same time into the origin of that faint wordless yet deep bass rhythm still expressed by the throbbing of Frère Jacques. A bright, sailing moon now appears, is dominant an instant, disappears behind curdling clouds, is left behind and below as at this point we begin to be borne straight upwards into the night sky and the stars, that source bearing and direction of so much of human wisdom—but eternal reminder also that our being and will are elsewhere—where Perseus and Orion are ever fixed, but which too is continually evolving [. . .]. There is a half silence, through which this faint echo of Frère Jacques persists, but it is as if the ship’s engine had become now again the rhythm of the universe itself, even of love itself, half heard, but still pulsating, vibrant and rhythmic in the theatre, like “something that binds the dead to the living and the living to the unborn,” so that we feel that, should our world have ended, or end, it would still go on.206

NOTES 1. Spoken by the Aztecs and 1.5 million Nahuas in Central Mexico, Nahuatl belongs to the Uto-Aztecan language group. 2. See Chris Ackerley and David Large, “Under the Volcano: A Hypertextual Companion” (Dunedin, New Zealand: University of Otago, updated June 2012), http:​//www​ .otag​o.ac.​nz/en​glish​lingu​istic​s/eng​lish/​lowry​/ (accessed January 8, 2016), 81.6 and 82.1. 3. See Michael E. Smith, The Aztecs, 3rd ed. (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 236–7 and 258; William H. Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru (New York: The Modern Library, Random House, 1848 rpt., n.d.), chapter IV, 73, https​://ar​chive​.org/​detai​ls/hi​story​ofthe​conq0​27127​ mbp (accessed April 9, 2018); and Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 29.4. 4. Grace in Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), II, 365–6. 5. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 364 and 379. 6. James George Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). For information on Lowry’s copy of the 1942 single-volume edition, see Sursum Corda!, II, 366. 7. Jeremy MacClancy, “‘Anthropology’: ‘The latest form of evening entertainment,’” in A Concise Companion to Modernism, ed. David Bradshaw (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 79. 8. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 377. 9. Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 1962), 16. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “UV”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 10.4.

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10. R. Angus Downie, James George Frazer: The Portrait of a Scholar (London: Watts, 1940), 33–4. See also Downie, James George Frazer, 21, 23, and 37; Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 364; R. Angus Downie, Frazer and the Golden Bough (London: Victor Gollanz, 1970), 52; and John B. Vickery, The Literary Impact of “The Golden Bough’” (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1973), 36, 42–3, 110–11, and 139. 11. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 379. 12. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 249. 13. Ibid. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 178.5. 14. Malcolm Lowry, The 1940 Under the Volcano, ed. and intro. Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen, annotator Chris Ackerley and David Large and foreword Vik Doyen and Patrick A. McCarthy (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2015), 117. Further references to this edition (abbreviated to “1940 UV”) are given—wherever possible—after citations in the text. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 178.5 and 179.6. 15. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 9–12. 16. Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, Book I, Chapter IV, 72. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., III, VI, 264. 19. Ibid., IV, I, 320. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 187.5. 20. Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, II, V, 164. 21. Ibid., III, IX, 298 and Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 287.8 (d). 22. Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, III, I, 214 and VIII, 284, and Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 100.5, 100.6, and 238.6. 23. John Kenneth Turner, Barbarous Mexico, 3rd ed. (Chicago: Charles H. Kerr & Co, 1910), https​://ar​chive​.org/​detai​ls/ba​rbaro​usmex​ico00​turnu​oft (accessed April 10, 2018), 277–8. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 29.6. 24. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 30.4 and Turner, Barbarous Mexico, 149. 25. Turner, Barbarous Mexico, 148. 26. See ibid., 72–3, 108, and 143. 27. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 3.3. 28. See ibid., 298.1 (b) and Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, III, V, 256. 29. Mary Miller and Karl Taube, An Illustrated Dictionary of the Gods and Symbols of Ancient Mexico and the Maya (London, Thames and Hudson, 1997), 74. 30. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 608. 31. Ibid. See also 506 and 607–29. 32. Jacques Soustelle, The Daily Life of the Aztecs on the Eve of the Spanish Conquest, trans. Patrick O’Brian (London, Weidenfield and Nicolson), 1961, 112, quoted in Michael Wutz, “Archaic Mechanics, Anarchic Meaning: Malcolm Lowry and the Technology of Narrative,” in Reading Matters: Narrative in the New Media Ecology, ed. Joseph Tabbi and Michael Wutz (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1997), 66.

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33. See Frazer, The Golden Bough, 609. 34. Sherrill E. Grace, “Malcolm Lowry and the Expressionist Vision,” in The Art of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Anne Smith (London: Vision Press, 1978), 103. 35. Patrick A. McCarthy and Paul Tiessen, eds. Joyce/Lowry: Critical Perspectives (Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, 1997), 147. 36. McCarthy and Tiessen, Joyce/Lowry: Critical Perspectives . See also UV, 212 and 224. 37. Hope Maclean, The Shaman’s Mirror: Visionary Art of the Huichol (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2012), 15 and 186–7. 38. For the process of entering into communion with a god by eating its effigy, see Frazer, The Golden Bough, 509. 39. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 108.3 (a). 40. Maclean, The Shaman’s Mirror, 187. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid. 43. Chapter 2, “The Extermination of the Yaquis” in Turner. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 108.3. 44. Maclean, The Shaman’s Mirror, 29. See also 28. 45. Ibid., 27. 46. Hope Maclean, “Sacred Colors and Shamanic Vision among the Huichol Indians of Mexico,” Journal of Anthropological Research 57, no. 3 (Autumn 2001): 305 and 321–2. 47. See Maclean, The Shaman’s Mirror, 165. 48. Ibid., 147. 49. Ibid., 186. 50. Ibid., 173. 51. See ibid., 59 and 168–9. 52. Ibid., 165. 53. For details about Venus and the Mayan calendar’s lunar cycles, see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 82.1. 54. Advocated by Clemente Vicente M in an interview at Monte Albán on November 6, 2010. 55. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 367. See also I, 645 and II, 754. 56. Prescott gives detailed narration of the Deluge in Appendix, Part 1, 693. 57. Ignatius Donnelly, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World: Fully Illustrated (Seattle, WA: CreateSpace, 2008), 60. 58. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 29.4. 59. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 610. 60. Ibid., I, 523. See also Victor Doyen, “Elements Towards a Spatial Reading,” in Malcolm Lowry: Under the Volcano: A Casebook, ed. Gordon Bowker (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987), 112; and Sherrill E. Grace, “The Luminous Wheel,” in ibid., 162 and 165. 61. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 367. 62. Charles Phillips, The Complete Illustrated History of the Aztec & Maya (London: Hermes House, 2009), 154.

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63. Phillips, The Complete Illustrated History of the Aztec & Maya, 192 and 208–9. 64. Ibid., 192 and 208. 65. It was not until December 2, 1953 that Margerie Bonner Lowry presented him with a copy of The Books of Charles Fort, ed. Tiffany Thayer (New York: Henry Holt, 1941) on their wedding anniversary: see Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 316. 66. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 697, 700, 712, 713, and 714. 67. Ibid., I, 315. 68. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 315. 69. Malcolm Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy, annotator Chris Ackerley (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014), 12. Further references to this novel (abbreviated to “IB”) are given—wherever possible—after citations in the text. See also Charles Hoy Fort, The Complete Books: The Book of the Damned / New Lands / Lo! / Wild Talents (New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1974), 758. 70. John Donne, The Works: With a Memoir of His Life, 6 vols, vol. II (London: J. W. Parker, 1839), 370, https​://bo​oks.g​oogle​.co.u​k/boo​ks?id​=9woy​AQAAM​ AAJ&p​rints​ec=fr​ontco​ver&d​q=bib​liogr​oup:%​22The​+Work​s+of+​John+​Donne​:+Wit​ h+a+M ​ e moir ​ + of+H​ i s+Li​ f e%22​ & hl=e​ n &sa=​ X &ved ​ = 0ahU ​ K Ewis ​ h qq-v ​ K 3cAh​ VECuw​KHVwX​B0gQ6​AEIWT​AI#v=​onepa​ge&q&​f=fal​se (accessed July 10, 2018). 71. See also Fort, The Complete Books, 557. 72. Ibid., 556. 73. Ibid., 557. 74. Ibid., 548. 75. Ibid., 549. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid. 78. Charles Hoy Fort, The Outcast Manufacturers (Jersey City, NJ: Freeditorial, 2013), https​://fr​eedit​orial​.com/​en/bo​oks/t​he-ou​tcast​-manu​factu​rers (accessed July 10, 2018). 79. Fort, The Complete Books, 161. 80. Ibid. 81. Ibid., 701 and 709. 82. Ibid., 701. 83. Ibid., 709–10. 84. Ibid., 790. 85. Ibid., 787. 86. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano.” 66.2. 87. Fort, The Complete Books, 229. 88. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 61.7. 89. See also ibid., 275.3. 90. Fort, The Complete Books, 1028. 91. Ibid. 92. Ibid., 3. 93. Ibid.

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94. Ibid. 95. Malcolm Lowry, The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Kathleen Scherf (Vancouver, UBC Press, 1992), 125. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 341.2. For an exposition of Lowry’s “exquisite balance between careless appearances and deliberate effects, indulgence and discipline, and intoxication and poetry” in his cantinas poems on drinking, see Kazuo Yokouchi, “Shusei Zessho— Malcolm Lowry no Sakaba-shihen wo Yomu,” [“The Great Drinker Sings: Reading Malcolm Lowry’s “Cantinas” Poems], Journal of the Society of English and American Literature Kwansei Gakuin University 59, no. 1 (2015), 2305–18. 96. Lowry, The Collected Poetry, 125. 97. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 199.4 and 199.5. 98. Miller and Taube, An Illustrated Dictionary of the Gods and Symbols of Ancient Mexico and the Maya, 61. See also Caroline Dodds Pennock, Bonds of Blood: Gender, Lifestyle and Sacrifice in Aztec Culture (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 38–9. 99. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 314. See also I, 357, 358, 376, and 485, and II, 243, 247, 539, 833, and 926. 100. Ibid., II, 490 and 541. See also J. W. Dunne, An Experiment with Time (Charlottesville, VA: Hampton Roads Publishing Co., Inc, 2001), 132–96. Substantial discoveries have been made in more recent research. In his controversial The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962) Thomas Samuel Kuhn contends that scientific fields do not progress in a solely linear way, but undergo periodic “paradigm shifts” which are often incommensurable (in their competing, irreconcilable accounts of reality) and facilitate new approaches to understanding. Tomasz Downarowicz and Yves Lacroix have taken a mathematical stance in defining the law of series: their ergodic theory of stochastic processes is linked to a notion of attracting (or clustering) an event’s occurrences: see T. Downarowicz, Y. Lacroix, and D. Léandri, “Spontaneous Clustering in Theoretical and Some Empirical Stochastic Processes,” ESAIM: Probability and Statistics 14 (2010): 256–62, and T. Downarowicz and Y. Lacroix, “The Law of Series,” Ergodic Theory and Dynamical Systems 31, no. 2 (2011): 351–67. 101. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 26.3. 102. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 141.4. 103. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 514. 104. Dunne, An Experiment with Time, 10. 105. Ibid. 106. Ibid., 29. 107. Sheryl Salloum, Malcolm Lowry: Vancouver Days (Madeira Park, BC: Harbour, 1987), 14–15. 108. Chapter 8 mentions “Pearce oiltanks” (UV, 238). They would have belonged to the Pierce Oil Company, a subsidiary of Standard Oil (one of the US companies whose holdings were expropriated by the Cárdenas administration: see Turner, Barbarous Mexico, 241 and Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 235.2. 109. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 286.2. 110. Ibid., 91.5. 111. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 514.

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112. Dunne, An Experiment with Time, 62. 113. Malcolm Lowry, The Cinema of Malcolm Lowry: A Scholarly Edition of Lowry’s “Tender Is the Night,” ed. Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1990), 90. 114. Dunne, An Experiment with Time, 104. 115. Ibid., 14. 116. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 281.4. 117. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 521. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 281.6. 118. Dunne, An Experiment with Time, 14. 119. Ibid., 95. 120. Ibid., 26. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 360.1. 121. Ibid., 351.1. 122. In Transcendental Magic Lévi links the number seven with deadly sins, virtues, planets, seals of the Apocalypse, genii of ancient mythologies, the day of rest, sacraments, musical notes, magical animals, and great archangels: see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 194.1. He surmises that “the virtue of the septenary is absolute in Magic, for this number is decisive in all things” (Ibid). 123. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 292.1. 124. Ibid., 181.1. 125. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 630. 126. Miller and Taube, An Illustrated Dictionary of the Gods and Symbols of Ancient Mexico and the Maya, 62 and Pennock, Bonds of Blood: Gender, Lifestyle and Sacrifice in Aztec Culture, 38. 127. Smith, The Aztecs, 236. For further information on the Aztec fear of the end of the world happening every fifty-two years, see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 29.4. 128. Aiken’s correspondence clarifies that Lowry resided at “Calle Humboldt 62”: see The Selected Letters of Conrad Aiken, ed. Joseph Killorin (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978). 129. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 47.6. 130. Ibid., 4.4 and Frater Achad [Charles Stansfeld Jones], The Anatomy of the Body of God Being the Supreme Revelation of Cosmic Consciousness (Chicago: Collegium ad Spiritum Sanctum, 1925), 4 (a copy of which Lowry owned: see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 4.4). 131. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 194.1. 132. Ibid., 76.4. 133. Ibid. 134. Ibid. 135. See ibid., 11.4 and Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, Appendix, Part 1, 694. 136. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 188.2. 137. James Scott, “Julian Trevelyan and Mass Observation,” in Julian Trevelyan: The Artist and his World, ed. Ariane Bankes and James Scott (Chichester: Pallant House Gallery, 2018), 61.

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138. See MacClancy in Bradshaw, 87 and Judith M. Heimann, The Most Offending Soul Alive: Tom Harrisson and His Remarkable Life (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1999). 139. For an analysis of links between shamanism, transpersonal psychology, and the visual arts, see S. Michaelson, “Shamanism, the Visual Arts and the Healing Process,” Proceedings of the International Interdisciplinary Scientific Symposium, , Ethnological Studies of Shamanism and Other Indigenous Spiritual Beliefs and Practices 14, no. 1 (August 2010): 80–9. 140. Ted R. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman: The Pilgrimages of Conrad Aiken and Walker Percy (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), 151–2. 141. See also Chris Ackerley and Lawrence J. Clipper, A Companion to “Under the Volcano” (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1984), 32. 142. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 507. See also 581. 143. Stephen Frosh, “Psychoanalysis in Britain: ‘The rituals of destruction,’” in Bradshaw, 118; and Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London, Flamingo, 1994), 224. See also Jay Martin, Conrad Aiken: A Life of His Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1962), 92–3, 45, and 204. 144. Andrew Graham-Dixon, “I Never Tell Anybody Anything: The Life and Art of Edward Burra,” dir. Phil Cairney, BBC4 documentary, 2014. 145. Michael Romer, “Under the Volcano’s Spell: Secret Knowledge of Chapter 1,” University of Edinburgh Journal XLIV, no. 4 (December 2010), 247. 146. See Michael Romer, “Adding Magic to the 1940 Under the Volcano,” “Under the Volcano,” 70 Years On: An International Malcolm Lowry Conference, Liverpool John Moores University and Bluecoat, Liverpool, July 28–29, 2017; and Romer, “Under the Volcano’s Spell, 250–1. See also 1940 UV. 147. Romer, “Adding Magic.” Held on February 2, Candlemas is a Christian festival commemorating the purification of the Virgin Mary and the presentation of Jesus in the Temple. 148. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 28.5. 149. Romer, “Under the Volcano’s Spell,” 250. 150. See Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 42.2. 151. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 511. 152. Malcolm Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, ed. Douglas Day and Margerie Lowry (London, Jonathan Cape, 1969), 262. 153. Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, 115. 154. Ibid., 263. 155. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 187. See also Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 235. 156. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 187. 157. Turner, Barbarous Mexico, 67. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 108.4. 158. John Orr, “Lowry: The Day of the Dead,” in The Making of the TwentiethCentury Novel (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987), 166. 159. Suggested in an interview with Martin Williams. Bowker alternates “Peirce” with “Pearce”: see Pursued by Furies, 16 and 666.

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160. Ibid., 39. See also 174 and 437. 161. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 117 and II, 509–10. 162. Martin Williams has mooted that Lowry may have been influenced by Vedanta. 163. Ibid., I, 32, 322, and 503; and II, 879. 164. Re Yeats, “A Vision,” see ibid., II, 413, 443, and 865. 165. Ibid., I, 449. 166. Ibid., I, 401. 167. Lowry, The Collected Poetry, 161. See also Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 367–8. 168. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 27.6. 169. Ibid. 170. Ibid., 146.2. 171. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 609. 172. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 319.5. 173. Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, VI, VIII, 608–9. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 10.8. 174. For procedure regarding human sacrifices, see Frazer, The Golden Bough, 610–132. 175. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 255.2. 176. Ibid., 310.7. 177. Ibid., 286.5. 178. A disciple of Aleister Crowley, Stansfeld Jones may have been familiar with the teachings of George Gurdjieff. However, it is unclear whether he passed on any knowledge of them to Lowry, as Gurdjieff ostensibly detested Crowley. 179. See Douglas Day, Malcolm Lowry: A Biography (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1984), 294 and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 419. 180. Crowley was connected with Hastings in East Sussex in his early and later years. At the age of eight, he was sent to the strictly evangelical H. T. Habershon’s boarding school for boys. He resided at Netherwood guest house on The Ridge from 1944 until his death in 1947: see Rodney Davies, “The Last Days of Aleister Crowley, the Great Beast, at Hastings,” http:​//21s​tcent​uryra​dio.c​om/ar​ticle​s/03/​10012​31.ht​ml (accessed June 20, 2017). In the intermitting period he studied philosophy and then English at Trinity College, Cambridge in 1895–98 and then travelled widely—to St Petersburg (1897), Mexico (1900), and the Himalayas, China, Japan, and Canada (1905–06). 181. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 320 and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 419. 182. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 427. 183. See ibid., I, 529, and II, 201–3, 356, 360, 799, and 875; Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 321; and Day, Malcolm Lowry, 294–5. 184. Q.B.L. was reprinted by Samuel Weiser in 1972. Cabbalists contend that the term, “Cabbala” is derived from its Hebrew root, “QBL” (meaning ‘to receive’) and that its mysteries were imparted by God to a chosen choir of angels: see Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 39.3. 185. See Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 321, Day, Malcolm Lowry, 294, and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 506 and 529, and II, 798.

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186. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 202. 187. Ibid., II, 400 and 402. See also I, 447, 450, and 452, and II, 3, 213, 319, 321, and 524. 188. Ibid., II, 211. 189. F. Kent III Reilly, “Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World,” in The Ancient Civilizations of Mesoamerica: A Reader, ed. Michael E. Smith and Marilyn A. Mason (Oxford, Blackwell, 2000), 374. See also Anthony Mellors, Late Modernist Poetics: from Pound to Prynne (Manchester, Manchester University Press 2005), 131. 190. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 321. 191. See Reilly, “Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World,” 374. 192. Frazer, The Golden Bough, 138. 193. Aztec Gallery Guide (London: Royal Academy of Arts, 2002). See Phillips, 208–9 and Miller and Taube, An Illustrated Dictionary of the Gods and Symbols of Ancient Mexico and the Maya, 138. 194. Ibid. For information on “spiritual excursions,” see Mellors, 132 and Aztec Gallery Guide. 195. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 236.4. 196. Ibid. Elsewhere a false assumption states that there are “twenty-one paths that lead back to Eden”: Malcolm Lowry, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” in “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic” (London: Pan, 1991), 272. 197. Prescott, History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, VI, III, 533. See also Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 15.6. 198. Insight into his dilemma was given by the late Vik Doyen in a personal e-mail dated September, 7, 2009. See also Day, Malcolm Lowry, 344–5. 199. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, 15. See also xiv and 166. 200. Orr, “Lowry: The Day of the Dead,” 157. 201. See the 1946 “Letter to Jonathan Cape,” in Malcolm Lowry, Selected Letters, ed. Harvey Breit and Margerie Bonner Lowry (London: Jonathan Cape, 1965), 66. 202. George Woodcock, ed., Malcolm Lowry: The Man and His Work (London: Black Rose, 2007), 39. 203. See Lowry, Selected Letters, 84–5 204. V. K. Jehannum, “Chavajoth: The Lords of Hell,” https​://vk​jehan​num.w​ordpr​ ess.c​om/20​16/05​/21/c​havaj​oth-t​he-lo​rds-o​f-hel​l/ (accessed March 19, 2019). 205. Ackerley and Large, “Under the Volcano,” 22.2 and 335.1. 206. Lowry, The Cinema of Malcolm Lowry, 241–2.

Chapter 5

Exorcising the Specters of the Past From the Maelstrom of Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid to the Atonement of La Mordida and “Through the Panama”

LOWRY’S REASSESSMENT OF THE VOYAGE THAT NEVER ENDS The cataclysmic, Gogolian combustion of the 2,000-word script of his saga, In Ballast to the White Sea compelled Lowry to make radical revisions to his blueprint of The Voyage That Never Ends. It was an odyssey which was conceived as an “ordeal, a going through the hoop,” an “initiation,” and “a doing of God’s will.”1 Whereas In Ballast to the White Sea and “Through the Panama” were to provide “a link with everything, in the great chain of the infernal machine of [. . .] life,” Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid and its sequel, La Mordida were intended to revive phantoms of the past emanating from Under the Volcano.2 Devised and drafted in 1945–1949, they remained unfinished (partly in note format) for many years. The manuscript of Dark as the Grave was lodged by Lowry in a bank vault for “safe keeping” and then discovered by Douglas Day in 1965.3 It had lain among papers which had been deposited at the University of British Columbia Library. It was published three years later and posthumously, that is, long after Malcolm Lowry’s death in 1957. As happened to the lost manuscript of In Ballast to the White Sea, its sequel, La Mordida appeared even more recently. It was published in 1996, in a scholarly edition edited by Patrick A. McCarthy.4 Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid and La Mordida are based on a prolonged return visit to Mexico by Lowry and his second wife, Margerie Bonner, in the period, November 1945–May 1946. They provide interfaces between the ethnography of that country and their author’s shamanic attempts to unearth connections between the living and the deceased. In his 171

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search for enlightenment, veracity, and redemption, Lowry continues his endeavors to track down an elixir of life via voyeuristic, shamanic methods, with the hope that he will be able to cure humanity’s transgressions with his findings. Through his visits to Mexico, he becomes enchanted by Oaxaca. He refers to this city in his letters which describe it as “the most lovely town in the world & with some of the most lovely people in it.”5 Reflecting on his life experiences in his correspondence, he displays familiarity with the locations where his new Mexican novels—both sequels to Under the Volcano—are set. Immersing in Zapotec heritage, he alludes to two renowned archaeological sites in the Valley of Oaxaca. They comprise Mitla and Monte Albán. Dating from 900 BC and 500 BC, respectively, the former was famous for its erstwhile religious functions, whereas the latter was once a politico-cosmic hub. Considered together, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid and La Mordida give the impression that Lowry was obliged to traverse his maelstrom in his eternal quest for atonement with the spirits of the dead. In these literary works, he was intent on conjuring up memories and apparitions of the past based on his reading and, indeed, on his own experiences of Mexican life. In Dark as the Grave, Sigbjørn Wilderness begins to recognize the need to repent for the debts of his past. He synergizes the animist, shamanic, and cosmic energies of the universe which are manifested in the divine consciousness of Zapotec civilization. In La Mordida, he remains “in a kind of prison” (La Mordida, 120). It is one of emotions, fate, and conscience. DARK AS THE GRAVE WHEREIN MY FRIEND IS LAID (1968) Sigbjørn’s Quest for the Elixir of Life The title, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, is reminiscent of The Dark Journey (1929) by the aforementioned Julien Hartridge Green, a Paris-born American writer. He was deemed “a first rate author”6 by Lowry who, having met him at a photographic exhibition in Montparnasse in Paris in 1934,7 acknowledges him in Dark as the Grave. The original French version of The Dark Journey was Léviathan (1929)—the sea monster and “crocodile-whale-dragon” which “lies in wait” (Dark, 63). Lowry owned copies of various editions of this novel of ill-fated love, treachery, and homicide.8 He frequently refers to it in his correspondence and mentions it in early drafts of Under the Volcano and in Dark as the Grave.9 In the latter, he calls it “a gloomy anatomy of man’s misery” which has “become a symbol of thoughtfulness and love” (Dark, 62). Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid is connected to its prequel, Under the Volcano through the portrait of its hero, Sigbjørn, who follows in the footsteps of Geoffrey Firmin. Embarking on a return journey from British

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Columbia to Mexico, Sigbjørn is determined to exorcize the daemons which have been plaguing him since his last visit. Like Lowry, he is venturing on a quest in search of the Holy Grail of civilization. A prime objective is to bring to light the secrets of spiritual renewal and, hence, to transform what he considers to be an increasingly materialistic world. At that time, Lowry was still under the influence of Nordahl Grieg and, hence, bestows on Sigbjørn a Norwegian ancestry. Although the latter’s genealogy is linked to that of practising Manx sorceresses, the final syllable of his given name signifies “bear” (Dark, 117).10 He himself intends to write a novel entitled The Valley of the Shadow of Death (the original appellation given to Under the Volcano) and, hence, resumes the Consul’s odyssey (Dark, 30).11 He aims to hone notions of higher consciousness by discovering natural correlations between existence and creativity. His pursuit of the meaning of life is evident from his revelations in the following excerpt from Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid: “He had suddenly a glimpse of a flowing like an eternal river; he seemed to see how life flowed into art: how art gives life a form and meaning and flows on into life, yet life has not stood still; that was what was always forgotten: how life transformed by art sought further meaning through art transformed into life; and now it was as if this flowing, this river, changed, without appearing to change, becoming a flowing of consciousness, of mind” (Dark, 60). Having befriended Juan Fernando Martinez—a multilingual, indigenous Zapotec—on his first visit to Oaxaca in 1937, he retraces his steps in pursuit of this long lost “blood brother” (Ibid., 108). The son of a “man of intellectual persuasion” and of a mother who was a “pure-blooded Zapotecan,” Juan, he envisages, will provide the key to his own metamorphosis (Ibid., 76). His protective spirit, he concedes, “had helped to make this life fruitful” (Ibid., 238). He cherishes memories of him as a messenger for Oaxaca’s Ejidal Bank and as a dipsomaniac linguist with the expertise of a chemist, doctor, translator, and adventurer. These are skills which the Consul (who was “likewise a relative”) attempted to master in Under the Volcano by practising alchemy and shamanic healing (Ibid., 76).12 Unlike the drunkard and debauchee, John Stanford-Hugh who left the Tarleton Hotel in Mexico City without paying his bill, Martínez is presented as a “good [. . .] angel” in Dark as the Grave (Dark, 57). Depicted as a “man of wild courage, humility, and greatness of soul,” he is a composite hero who is molded on the real-life Juan Fernando Márquez and Fernando Atonalzin (Ibid., 233).13 He is praised by Lowry in his essay, “Garden of Etla” for representing “a people possessing a high degree of civilization and cultural genius” and an “old Zapotecan religion.”14 Sigbjørn’s American wife, Primrose, is “descended from a Catholic-burning bishop” (Dark, 117). Described as a phoenix, she spurs her husband’s spiritual transformation as “her guardian angel” (Ibid., 177). However, he

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is dependent on her and realizes that, without her, it would be impossible for him to improve his standard of living (Ibid, 202). She encourages him to attain a state of harmony with life, having “left her fright behind in Eridanus” (ibid., 26). We are informed that this appellation refers to a constellation south of Orion (ibid.) and the spot where they got married on December 7, 1940 (Ibid., 69). Eridanus is also the home which they had built from the “dismantled timbers” of the wrecked ship of the same name (Ibid., 55). On the other hand, Martínez enables Sigbjørn to be reconciled with death. He is unable to be reunited with his idol, who has become a phantom of the dead. Having visited a waterfall in Cuernavaca to contemplate the flow of existence, Sigbjørn yearns to locate his friend’s grave in the cemetery where he is buried. Primrose becomes “fascinated by a sort of shining crypt made of blue and white bathroom tiles,” but it is her husband who discovers “the prize” (Ibid., 255). Believed to be Martínez’s final resting place, this mausoleum is called the Crypt of Mirrors, which features in figure 5.1. It is located in Cuernavaca’s Panteón Municipal La Leona Cemetery. Although its green paint is already flaking, its dazzling mirrors have a captivating effect on Sigbjørn, as if it were a living shrine. Its allure is described as follows: The structure itself was made of millions of tiny mirrors cut in every geometrical shape and fitted together in intricate mosaic patterns, balustrade, pillars, down sides like a green temple, even a huge jardinière containing flowering plants, and in the centre of the building a crypt, also covered with mirrors. The whole great thing glittered and flashed in the sun and looked like some M.G.M. set for the Ziegfeld Follies. It was meticulously cared for. (Ibid.)15

In an attempt to atone for his past misdemeanors and for the sins of the fallen, Sigbjørn follows in Lowry’s footsteps by venturing on a metaphysical pilgrimage to Mictlan—the underworld of Aztec mythology—to unveil its gods and dead souls.16 He discovers that bones of a human being, or maybe of a dog, have been located in tombs in the Oaxaqueñan region. He relates these archaeological finds to a Mexican belief whereby a spirit undertakes a journey through time to the realm of the dead. On arriving at a wide river— which is difficult to cross—a dog is killed, as at the end of Under the Volcano. Its spirit is supposed to reach the far bank of the river before its master in order to assist him across the void on what is believed to be his final journey (Dark, 239). On his odyssey in Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid to unravel the genesis of the indigenous Zapotec civilization, Sigbjørn visits a high priest’s palace and then descends through Mitla’s prehistoric, cruciform tombs to the subterranean Column of Death (Ibid., 259). It is a subtle reminder of the Consul’s fall into the barranca in the last few pages of Under the Volcano. On this transcendental pilgrimage, Sigbjørn is transported to

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Figure 5.1  Crypt of Mirrors, Panteón Municipal La Leona Cemetery, Cuernavaca. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

the Zapotec underworld, for Mitla represents the land of the deceased.17 Constructed as a splendid dwelling for the Zapotec high priest, it has become an “inferno” and “a city [. . .] of mourning” (Dark, 257). Erected above the graves of Zapotec kings, it is depicted as “an elaborate burial ground for the rulers and great nobles” (Ibid.). Sigbjørn survives the perils of the lunar eclipse—which recurs as a total lunar eclipse in La Mordida—and of Maximilian’s Palace (La Mordida, 317). Transposed from Cuernavaca to Oaxaca in Dark as the Grave, it was the summer retreat of Maximilian I (Emperor of Mexico from 1864 until 1867) and of his wife, Princess Marie Charlotte of Belgium (also known as Carlota).18 As explained in La Mordida, Sigbjørn avoids the specter of Maximilian I, who was executed by firing squad on June 19, 1867, on the orders of President Benito Juárez (La Mordida, 108).

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In Dark as the Grave, Sigbjørn enjoys the respite of the temple at Mitla, which has been described as “the City of the Moon.”19 In the romantic setting of the Hotel La Luna on the Playa La Boquilla (situated near Puerto Ángel on Oaxaca’s Pacific Coast), he is reunited with Primrose, his lunar-goddess reborn (Dark, 101).20 They witness “an extraordinary sight,” for “over Ixtaccihuatl the moon was in eclipse, which [. . .] became total. They heard the pure voice of a Mexican singing somewhere on a balcony, as if rejoicing that the world had relinquished its shadow and the moon was with them again” (Dark, 127). They later share a view of the volcanoes from the pinnacle of the prison watchtower which they have reached. Akin to the zacuali—which forms part of M. Laruelle’s residence in Under the Volcano—and to the pyramid of Cholula in Ignatius Donnelly’s treatise, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World, this turret was “built against the coming of the second flood” (Dark, 197).21 It is described as “the tower of his own creation, surrounded by these ghosts of the past, of his life” (Dark, 201). It is the product of Sigbjørn’s sanguine dream, in which he imagines “an ascension of the soul” (Ibid., 197). Aspiring to harmony with lunar forces, Primrose has developed a notion of the interrelationship of universal phenomena. She is adept at deducing connections between the seasons and the movements of the stars and constellations as they pass across the night sky. These preoccupations are shared with Yvonne in Under the Volcano, with the narrator’s wife in “The Forest Path to the Spring,” and, indeed, with Margerie Bonner. Lowry too was well aware of the importance which Zapotecs and Aztecs placed on worshiping the deities of the sun and the moon. He was captivated by cosmic enigmas and ancient rituals arising from the excavations of the pyramids at Monte Albán and at the 200 BC site of Teotihuacan. Donnelly too was enthralled by such discoveries and refers in Atlantis to Teotihuacan as the “street of the dead.”22 He explains that this stupendous site contains Mexico’s most ancient pyramids, the largest two being dedicated to the sun and the moon, respectively, as illustrated by figures 5.2 and 5.3.23 Comparing their design with those of Cholula (also in Mexico) and of Cheops (i.e., Giza in Egypt), he contends that they were constructed for the veneration of the dead too.24 In his correspondence, Lowry acknowledges that he “did, however, live in Oaxaca for a time, among the ruins of Monte Albán and Mitla, which you find mentioned in Donnely’s book on Atlantis.”25 He means the latter’s description of “the great temple at Mitzla, ‘the city of the Moon,’ in Ojaaca, Central America” and his illustration of the mosaics which were found there.26 Monte Albán translates as “White Mountain.” It was named after a Mexican tree, the bark and blossoms of which gleam white like the moon at night. Referred to in Dark as the Grave as “the great seat of the Zapotecan kings” and “a kind of Lourdes,” it became a considerably powerful political, socio-economic, and spiritual centre for their rulers (Dark, 238 and 239). It is also significant for its

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Figure 5.2  Pyramid of the Sun, Teotihuacan. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

Figure 5.3  Pyramid of the Moon, Teotihuacan. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

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unusual, arrow-like, astronomical Building J, which was enlivened by Zapotec ceremonies which venerated their gods. Constructed with its steps aligned perpendicular to the rising of the star Capella, this edifice has a planetary connection with Building O which is located at Caballito Blanco. Similarly configured, Building O is located thirty-five kilometers to the east of Monte Albán. It has been discovered that a line drawn between these two elevations “coincides with the sunset position on the horizon on the day of solar zenith passage [. . .] when at local noon the sun is directly above the observer and casts no shadow of perfectly vertical structures.”27 Whereas Mesoamerican ball courts are thought to be closely linked to the almanac and the movement of its bouncing balls with the trajectories of the Sun or Venus, it is assumed that Building J served as a calendar temple. As a ceremonial construction, it “embodied and gave focus to the long tradition of combined numerology and astronomy that permitted Mesoamericans to create their intricate interlocking calendars, for which the earliest evidence is found in the Valley of Oaxaca.”28 Depicted in figure 5.4, it is considered to have been an observation post for the viewing of astronomical bodies and a venue where religious ceremonies were held to mark the completion of various time periods. Its iconography is commensurate with that of Quetzalcoatl—the Temple of the Feathered Serpent at Teotihuacan (north-east of

Figure 5.4  Astronomical Building J, Monte Albán. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

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Figure 5.5  Quetzalcoatl, the Temple of the Feathered Serpent, Teotihuacan. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

Mexico City)—which features in figure 5.5. Named after the Aztec god of the wind, of the ether, and of learning, it is associated with the planet Venus too.29 Voodoo and the Phantoms of the Dead Sigbjørn resorts to voodoo in Dark as the Grave so that he can attempt to communicate with the spirits of the deceased. This syncretic religion has been introduced to him by Dr. Hippolyte, a former Haitian chargé d’affaires in Mexico, who also saves his life. Its discipline provides a means to calm his anxieties and to tap the supernatural by displacing science, which “can only help the person whose experience is beyond it, by advising him to comfort himself with a [. . .] rationalization” (Dark, 167). It is presented as a way of enabling the living to communicate shamanically with the souls of the dead. It enables Sigbjørn to undergo transitional rebirth by finding “a way out of the infernal, closed circle into renewed voyaging.”30 Voodoo gives him—as it does Lowry—a method of overcoming his anxieties by using its cross in various rituals. Its dynamic vitality comes to grips with nature’s dark, Dantean forces. As with the Cabbala in Under the Volcano, it is said that it has the capacity to highlight the most appropriate path to rebirth through an awkward

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stage of transition. For that reason, the narrator of Dark as the Grave asks, “Was it not as if they were making a pilgrimage?” (Dark, 111). Lowry’s own orientation is elucidated in his letters, which refer to voodoo as: A religion, to be regarded with reverence, since unquestionably it is the matter—transcending religion based upon the actual existence of the supernatural as a fact that is fundamental to man himself [. . .] But that is not to say that one should not regard with awe the great dignity & discipline that is behind it at its highest, nor its conception of God, nor the meaning that it gives to life.31

The renewal of Sigbjørn’s faith in Dark as the Grave is facilitated by “the mediating influence of the dead” (on Under the Volcano’s Day of the Dead) and by “the mediating spirit of [. . .] the Holy Virgin, mother of us all” (Dark, 262). It precipitates an acute “feeling of something Renaissance,” which suggests the need for cultural and spiritual renewal (Ibid., 258). Such perceptions result in Sigbjørn deciding to pray to Fernando, to himself, and to Primrose. He worships “the man in supplication whose hands were still held high, the woman with the child and the bottle of habanero, and the drunk” (Ibid., 254). He also venerates “the manager of the bank and even the world,” as well as—in a bizarre change of attitude—the earlier detested John Stanford (Ibid., 254). However, the latter does meet his fate when he dies in “the beautiful city” of Villahermosa in the southern state of Tabasco (Ibid., 255). Sigbjørn’s deliberations have precipitated a radical realization of “the mystical experience that suffering had caused him to undergo” (Ibid., 263). He is reminded of the power of Eridanus in its key role as the gateway to Hades, which, it was believed, could be reached by crossing the Styx by ferry (Ibid., 26). In Greek mythology, this river marks the boundary between the Earth (the land of the living) and Hades (the underworld domain of the souls of the dead). In Dark as the Grave, it is depicted as the eternal “river of life: river of youth: river of death” (Ibid., 261).32 Consequently, Sigbjørn is able to attain a state of harmony with life through his wife and with death through Juan Fernando. He succeeds in wielding dominion over the Mitlan tombs and the Edenic garden endowed by the Banco Ejidal. The historical function of this financial institution was based on an old Aztec system: it was “a bank that differed from another bank in that instead of your going to it, it went to you” (Ibid., 220). LA MORDIDA (1996) The Dostoyevskian Connection It was his reading and interpretation of Crime and Punishment (1866) which inspired Lowry to devise La Mordida. Initially entitled The Tipplers,

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Dostoyevsky’s novel was intended initially to be a novel on drunkenness, as was Lowry’s original plan for Under the Volcano (Dark, 150). Another factor was an increasing need to establish a notion of culpability which was to become an intrinsic feature of La Mordida. In it, Sigbjørn Wilderness duly declares, “I am a murderer” and then proceeds to compare himself with his Russian literary compatriot, Rodion Raskolnikov (La Mordida, 254). He is motivated by his recollection of an assurance given to Dostoyevsky’s antihero, who confesses his crime “because Sonya had told him that if he did God would give him peace again” (Ibid.). Lowry’s lingering, subconscious feelings of guilt for allegedly aiding and abetting his earlier-mentioned undergraduate friend, Paul Fitte to commit suicide constrain him to confront his past misdemeanors and to seek atonement for them.33 Using Crime and Punishment as a point of reference for his work on La Mordida, he transposes Raskolnikov’s predicaments from St Petersburg to Cambridge. Combining them with his own psychogeographic memories of this university city on the River Cam, he considers Sigbjørn’s reflections as he passes St John’s College. He perceives the dramatic characteristics of Dostoyevsky’s works as “the apron” advances along Bridge Street in Cambridge (La Mordida, 254). It goes past Supply Searles and St John’s College before uttering to itself the following words: “the murderer: ‘Undergraduate Suicide of Shame’” (Ibid.). Ironically, this self-portrayal is considered by Sigbjørn to be the product of a possible “self-congratulation,” the reason being that this murder was indeed “perfect” (Ibid.). He deems himself “cleverer than Raskolnikov” for having evaded detection not by accident, but “by design” (Ibid). According to an “inspired reviewer of Dostoievsky,” he has made similar “half-confessions” to Raskolnikov’s, though either they had eluded suspicion, or else they had failed to relieve his own guilty conscience (Ibid). He abhors the fact that on this occasion, as he imagines the situation, he made not a single oversight. He firmly believes that he is beyond the law, unless, of course, nemesis should determine a just punishment for him. Weighing up the gravity of the situation, he suddenly dreads being in a position—by an unexpected twist of fate—in which he may be compelled to accept payment “from the bitch-goddess, success” (Ibid.). Another Dostoyevskian link is one whereby parallels are made with The Brothers Karamazov (1880). It arises from a citation in La Mordida which regenerates Lise (Liza) (the daughter of Madame Kokhlakov) and Alyosha, the youngest of the Karamazov brothers and the namesake of Dostoyevsky’s son (who, at the age of three, died of epilepsy in May 1878) (Ibid., 255). In response to Lise’s admission of her burning desire to be an arsonist and murderer, Alyosha emphasizes the need for humility.34 In La Mordida, Sigbjørn reflects on life as “a kind of trial” (La Mordida, 255). He challenges the view (expressed in an article on Dostoyevsky which Lowry happens to

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be reading) that it is unimportant to expel suffering from the globe (Ibid., 256). In his search for an iota of humanity in a belligerent world, he bears a resemblance to Alyosha, who is described as an amiable person of faith and transpires to be the true hero of Dostoyevsky’s novel. Instead of allowing himself to become corrupted by the populace, Sigbjørn follows the example set by the Consul in Under the Volcano by aspiring to spiritual regeneration in La Mordida, as he did in Dark as the Grave. His response is a stark reminder of the emotive, culminating scene of The Brothers Karamazov, in which Alyosha kisses the earth outside a monastery. At Ilyusha’s funeral, he delivers his “Speech by the Stone,” in which he promises to remember the deceased—and all the other boys—who will be reunited after the Resurrection in a reunion reminiscent of the Day of the Dead in Under the Volcano. In turn, the brethren vow to cherish each other in their memories forever, as does Lowry in real life with regard to his lost companions, Paul Fitte and Juan Fernando Márquez. In Pursuit of Atonement La Mordida has been heralded as a “companion piece” and “a continuation in time of Dark as the Grave and a resumption of that story.”35 Literally meaning The Bite, or The Bribe, it has a deep psychoanalytical importance for Lowry, who describes it as an “abomination of desolation” for exposing “the way some people are able to buy their way out of difficulties.”36 Beleaguered by memories of his initial visit to Mexico, he finds his second one in 1945– 1946 even more traumatic than the first. It is there that he encounters corrupt immigration officials seeking bribes—a distressing event which forces him to face up to his own apparitions. His inability to repay an earlier fine, or debt, and thus to atone for the legacies of the past invokes phantoms which haunt his recollections of the past. La Mordida is narrated through the adventures of its hero, Sigbjørn Wilderness, who has the ambition to appear in “something never dreamed of before, a work of art so beyond conception it could not be written” (La Mordida, 283). Yet, it is a daunting role, for he admitted earlier in Dark as the Grave that the “most potent ghost he had to encounter was himself” (Dark, 110). In its sequel, having just left Cuernavaca, he and his partner, Primrose are arrested in Acapulco for an unpaid fine of fifty pesos relating to their alleged overstay in Mexico in 1938 (La Mordida, 31). They are constrained to lodge a 1,000-peso bond for ostensibly working as writers while they were on tourist visas. Subsequently, in a “Kafkaesque encounter with bureaucracy,” they are threatened with deportation at gun point (Ibid., 239). Primrose claims that, as her father was an American consul, she would be deported to the United States and Sigbjørn to England. In response, the latter warns of a

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situation of impending danger for her in America and Canada (where there is a spy scare). He declares to her, “You’re a communist because of that other business” (Ibid., 240).37 Once aboard the train, he overhears a conversation which evokes the atmosphere of Under the Volcano. It warns them of the potential hazards of being incriminated for espionage activities. They catch the following intimidating accusation: “No, they are not writers, they are espiders and we shoota the espiders in Mexico” (Ibid., 297). Even Primrose’s fur coat—which is made of Arctic skunk—gives Sigbjørn the sensation that maybe they do resemble Russian spies (Ibid., 314) If they were expelled only for the lesser offence of having transgressed Mexican immigration laws, the resultant feeling of excommunication would be akin to “being deported from God, even if for God’s ends” (Ibid., 239).38 Reproaching himself for his hasty assumptions, Sigbjørn explains his remorse for genuinely believing that “what had been rendered [. . .] to a dishonest Caesar [. . .] had been equally rendered to God” (La Mordida, 32).39 Having bid time lurking behind the scenes of Under the Volcano (when the Consul had “so signally failed to withstand temptation”) and of Dark as the Grave, Sigbjørn’s daemons materialize in La Mordida as subconscious guilt for alleged earlier actions (La Mordida, 270). His adversaries are symbols of corruption. They repeatedly and rapidly reappear, demanding their revenge in what Lowry describes “as self extending as a plot by Ibsen.”40 Having lain dormant since his previous stay, these paralyzing specters are reanimated in Sigbjørn’s mind. They are rooted in an ostensibly maddening and selfdestructive society which perpetuates insanity and neurosis in its momentum to alter the world beyond recognition and leap out of the “rabbit warren of the past” (La Mordida, 84 and 244). They represent ordeals from which Sigbjørn can neither abscond nor transcend without returning to expiate or avenge his ghosts (Ibid., 67). He is coerced to come to terms with a host of phantoms of a past which is not dead (Ibid., 203). They take the form of, for example, an apparition of his divorcée, Ruth, who is portrayed as the murderess of his dead child in Dark as the Grave (105). Being American, she is reminiscent of Jan Gabrial and the fictional Peggy (whom Sigbjørn attempts to rape, at least in his imagination) (La Mordida, 71 and 59) Transforming his visual perceptions into art—which is depicted as being “less in the hand than in the head, less in execution than in intuition” (ibid., 214)—he perpetuates the excruciating pain of the hallucinations, visions, and voices emanating from his very own Battle of Britain (Ibid., 243 and 246). As Lowry puts it in his letters, “the voyage into the past is a necessary descent into the hell of self in which one risks all in the quest for regeneration.”41 By revisiting bygone events, Sigbjørn endeavors to atone for them in his mind, with the hope of achieving redemption through a “victory for God” (La

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Mordida, 246). His failure to pay his debt is exploited by his daemons which assume the form of ubiquitous and ominous omens in the wilderness in which he dwells (Ibid., 235). Caught in the net of someone else’s novel, he has become a victim of his own imagination and lives in fear of himself (Ibid., 38, 98, and 238). Although “like Dostoievsky, he was educated enough not to be superstitious,” that is not the case when a clairvoyant conveys to him that the new moon is lucky for him. As a result, on each occasion when a full moon does appear, he anticipates “disastar” (ibid., 39)—a deliberate substitute for the word “disaster.”42 He is described by Juan Fernando as the “maker of tragedies” (Ibid., 90). Trapped in a web, he is overwhelmed by the insanity of his “ridiculous obsession with coincidences” (Ibid.). He is duped by an alchemic “tyranny of numbers”—addictions which reportedly afflicted Sir Isaac Newton and Lowry himself (Ibid.).43 Haunted by nightmares of the tormented and damned, and of nature which lies “beyond reason and man,” he sees himself as being manipulated by the fortuities of history (La Mordida, 41). He has become a puppet of his own making. Although he was once a creator, in the larger “pattern” of his visit to Mexico—although he only just realizes it—it is as if he himself were one of the protagonists (Ibid., 49). He contemplates being moved around like a puppet at the whims of another author in an inconceivable novel which is not of this ether and, in fact, does not even exist. Pitying his daemons’ lack both of compassion and of philanthropy—qualities which he values above everything else—he imagines that he is not indeed human, but—like Raskolnikov—subject to other laws of the universe. His incessant conflict with reality impedes his worship of the virtues which he considers the world to have abandoned long ago (Ibid., 226–27). He experiences a sensation of Christ on the Cross, expecting thunder. Then he proceeds to pray to the Saint of Dangerous and Desperate Causes. He pleads to be empowered to make the path for others easier (Ibid., 258). Yet, he is bewildered by the haunting omnipresence of the barranca—the earlier-mentioned abyss which beleaguered the Consul in Under the Volcano. Assuming that he himself is master of his own perceptions rather than the slave of his existence, he becomes lost in the quagmire of the “deceits and illusions of the reflected phenomenal world” which, he believes, can easily be mistaken for the noumenal one (Ibid., 218). Although it is an integral component of what was intended to be The Voyage That Never Ends, La Mordida “throws the whole thing into reverse and issues in triumph.”44 It culminates in the somnambulistic salvation of Sigbjørn, who relishes a heroic “vision of absolute joy” (La Mordida, 318). He is reborn into a “spring sense of creation,” as a poet or artist (Ibid.). He is enveloped by the seemingly compassionate shroud of the celestial, Southern Cross, the sight of which Primrose had anticipated, but never saw (Ibid., 319).

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Known to the Ancient Greeks, this constellation (sometimes called “Crux”) is located in the Southern Celestial Hemisphere in a particularly bright section of the Milky Way. Having demonstrated a capability of achieving atonement, Sigbjørn’s faith in the redemptive rebirth of his dislocated spirit leads him to cite from The Book of Mark, 8:36: “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” (Ibid., 253) In order to be released from bondage, he must escape psychologically by reversing his journey across the “magic border to Magic Mexico,” accompanied by Primrose, to whom he pledges loyalty “beyond death” (Ibid., 306 and 227). Whereas Dark as the Grave revealed a heartening glimpse of paradise—of deer coming right down to the lighthouse and swimming right across the inlet (Dark, 126), in La Mordida Sigbjørn and Primrose have endeavored to face up to and make amends for their previous transgressions. Their ingenuous faith in Mexico has unveiled many snares of modern civilization, prompting them to seek reconciliation with the past to address the exigencies of their souls. Perceiving a ray of hope for the eventual salvation of humanity, they are intent on establishing a harmonious relationship with their environment—be it subterranean, terrestrial, cosmic, or spiritual. Considered to be children of Israel (La Mordida, 69), they reflect on the significance of their Mexican experiences before hastening to the future Eridanus anticipated in “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola.45 The closing section of La Mordida portrays Mexico as ancient and eternal. It is deemed by the narrator to be a great Catholic country, to which the Wildernesses may never be able to return. It is described as being a dark and mysterious land. Sigbjørn—who, we are told, is not an adherent of any religion in particular but calls himself a Protestant—ponders on the true significance of Mexico. The chronicler of La Mordida reminds its readers of a memorable phrase uttered by Dr. Vigil in Under the Volcano46 and repeated several times by his alias, Juan Fernando in Dark as the Grave (163, 262, and 265). He asserts that, in Mexico, it is not forbidden for Sigbjørn to pray for the Virgin of Guadalupe, that is, for “the Virgin for those who have nobody with, nor to thank her for his salvation” (La Mordida, 318). Similarly, it is not prohibited for him to pray for, or express gratitude to Fernando, or else to pray to become a wiser, braver, and, indeed, worthier human being through greater understanding and compassion. Anticipating a honeymoon, Primrose too has sought deeper faith in life’s meaning, but has realized that it involves running the risk of terror. The narrator explains further that Sigbjørn’s spirit may have died and the “confusions, [. . .] lies and disastars”47—which project the past onto the present and imagination onto reality—also “dislocate” time (Ibid.). As “configurations of unreality,” they cause the will to disintegrate from anguish and

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yearning, but give rise to the birth of a soul, however mysterious (Ibid.). As a consequence, the Wildernesses are depicted as being “locked in each other’s arms [. . .] as if their souls were being borne or lulled like children over this flood into an ocean peace” (Ibid., 319). The final setting of La Mordida portrays the moonlit swell of the sea—tranquil and boundless—extending as far as the horizon, beyond which rises the silver cross (an allusion to the earliermentioned Southern Cross), as if it were supported by “an invisible acolyte’s or priest’s arm, to ward off evil” (Ibid.). “THROUGH THE PANAMA” (1961) Described as “a story in the form of notes taken on going to Europe, partly on a ship in everything but final distress off the Azores,” Lowry’s novella, “Through the Panama” plays a significant role in his “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” cycle.48 Subtitled “From the Journal of Sigbjørn Wilderness,” it has been called “a complex metafictional work that plays with numerous levels of artifice and reality.”49 A highly original piece of travel writing, it illustrates that “art and reality are closely and complexly intertwined,”50 though “its real travel is inwards into the haunted consciousness of its protagonist.”51 Based on journal entries which record Lowry’s voyage—from Vancouver to Le Havre in November–December 1947—on a French ship called the S. S. Brest, it continues Sigbjørn Wilderness’s odyssey in search of inner atonement.52 The “sole passengers” of the Liberty vessel are he and his wife, Primrose, to whom he wishes “to be loyal [. . .] beyond life.”53 They journey aboard the S. S. Diderot. It is a French freighter which has been named after a prominent figure of the Enlightenment. It leaves British Columbia on November 7, 1947, for Rotterdam and takes a course via the Panama Canal (which connects the Atlantic with the Pacific Ocean). It is subsequently tossed about in a tempest in the Azores archipelago (TP, 26). Its departure date reveals the superstitions of Martin Trumbaugh (who is named after Frankie Trumbauer, a leading jazz saxophonist in the 1920s and 1930s) (Ibid., 31). He “dreaded starting a journey on the 7th of any month” (Ibid., 27). He becomes “enmeshed” in the plot of Sigbjørn’s novel—as the latter did in his own work in Mexico—and, hence, becomes almost indistinguishable from his double (Ibid.). On his tumultuous cruise, Sigbjørn feels that he is trapped in the realm of death. His traumatic experience is similar to traversing the Panama Canal, in which the lock is portrayed as having teeth (Ibid., 37). Resembling Dunne’s serial universe, it “parallels the containing layers of Sigbjørn’s consciousness,” which he must traverse to achieve spiritual rebirth.54 Transformed into a reflection of the “celestial meccano” of the

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heavens, it is regulated by a supreme being, who—“in his invisible control tower”—oversees a series of active observers (TP, 61). Sigbjørn suffers from physical and psychological disorientation which is expressed both in the text and in its marginal notes (in the left- and right-hand columns). This “interplay of voices” reflects his multiple personality.55 It reveals “a divided consciousness engaged in fashioning a version of itself in yet another text.”56 It ranges from citations and analyses of literary works— including Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (1797–1798)—to historical images which reference the making of the modern world and “the relentless march of time.”57 Snippets of fascinating information document the achievements of late seventeenth-century luminaries such as the following: William Paterson, a Scottish trader and a founder of the Bank of England, who “secured the keys of the universe” (TP, 52); Lionel Wafer, a ship’s surgeon and explorer; and William Dampier, who is described as “an author and freebooter” and was the first person to circumnavigate the world three times and the first Englishman to explore Australia (Ibid., 51). Intertextual, psychogeographical connections are made with Under the Volcano in the form of reminiscences about William Blackstone, who was “for some years living among the Indians” (Ibid., 52). Another theme is harmony with the environment, which is subject to Darwin’s theory of evolution, as elucidated in the marginal notes: “For nature does not celebrate her victories in noisy ways, she observes, but works silently, and when the task is done lets the consequences proclaim it” (Ibid., 63). Sigbjørn perceives “a world that almost invariably reflects his own experience and the inner world of his art.”58 He is “haunted by the insatiable albatross of self” (an image relating to the bad omen in Coleridge’s poem), which he must overcome. (TP, 28) He is traumatized by Paul Fitte’s suicide which took place in “the very room” of his Cambridge college (Ibid., 37). It is an ordeal which is illustrated by Lowry’s contention that “the influence that keeps me away from St Catharines really reveals to me how little to myself Death ever leaves me.”59 Intertextual connections are made also with Dark as the Grave, which happens to be the title of Martin’s own novel (TP, 28). The past is interlinked with present-time in the imagination of Sigbjørn, whose “ghost [. . .] revisits one place on earth to which it is irresistibly drawn” (Ibid., 39). Discerning the need for spiritual cleansing to repair his fragmented identity, he raises the dilemma, “How can the soul take this kind of battering and survive?” (Ibid., 37). Experiential, first-person intuition relates to the duration and flow of time in the sense attributed to it by the French-Jewish continental philosopher, Henri Bergson. He is cited in the context of “another ship from London, all going the other way steaming very swiftly as with the current” (Ibid., 57). On a subsequent occasion, as his vessel cruises past Acapulco, Sigbjørn relates

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his perceptions and memories of the Day of the Dead. Conjuring up its phantoms, he attributes it to November 2, 1936—the date when Martin set foot in Mexico (Ibid., 38). He then goes further back in time to recall the S. S. Pyrrhus’s outward voyage to China in 1927. As described in Ultramarine, he refers to it docking in Dairen—a port depicted as being “then Dalny and now part of Russia” (Ibid., 43). Alluding to images and themes in Lowry’s Mexican cycle of works, the following excerpt is quoted from D. H. Lawrence’s 1920s essay, “Why the Novel Matters”: “There is no absolute good, there is nothing absolutely right. All things flow and change, and even change is not absolute. The whole is a strange assembly of apparently incongruous parts, slipping past one another” (Ibid., 31 and 98).60 In a descent into a maelstrom of life and death—with “Mr Charon looking at Mexico”61—the agonizing ordeals experienced by the Consul in Under the Volcano and by Sigbjørn in Dark as the Grave and in La Mordida are revisited (TP, 33). They tackle the “malign forces” released from The Valley of the Shadow of Death (TP, 36). Images of “death in life” and “life in death” appear in the form of albatrosses and a burning ship, respectively, in “Through the Panama” (Ibid., 50). They recall the “STORM OVER ATLANTIS” which threatened the very survival of civilization, as chronicled by Donnelly (Ibid., 82).62 Having depicted “one of the worst storms in living history in the Atlantic” (TP, 94–95), the narrator of “Through the Panama” witnesses the recurrence of “appalling sights of despair and degradation to be met with daily in the streets of Vancouver” (Ibid., 95). The reason given is the rise of materialism at the expense of spiritual values: mankind is seen as having “turned his back on nature” (Ibid., 95). However, this stance has resulted in a situation of “no faith in a civilization where God has become an American washing machine” (Ibid.). This perceived dereliction of duty has expedited the urgency of “an important new birth of wisdom” (Ibid). It is one “for which America herself will be grateful” (Ibid.). Recalling the trepidation of the Mexican Garden of Eden in Under the Volcano, the narrator of “Through the Panama” proposes universal amnesty, imploring, “Let the world make a fresh start” (Ibid., 96). From his “abyss of self” (ibid., 66), Sigbjørn “draws [. . .] strength from the depths of the universe,” as well as “from the depths among the stars” in his quest for true salvation (Ibid., 35). In his vivid imagination he reencounters the Virgin of Guadalupe, “The Saint of Desperate and Dangerous Causes [. . .] for those who have nobody them with” (Ibid., 39 and 96). He envisages the “infinitely sad bell-chimes” which are coming from the Cathedral in Oaxaca (the “home of Fernando the Oaxaqueñian”) and even from the Zapotecan Sea (Ibid., 41). He prays for a miracle, having anticipated emerging from this cleansing process in Eridanus as the fireman of his soul. (Ibid., 38) He contemplates that he has shown “compassion for all God’s creatures,

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human and animal” and that he has discovered a solution to the ills of humanity which threaten civilization’s very survival (Ibid., 78). As the albatross—the “bird of heaven”—glides astern, Sigbjørn’s final words in “Through the Panama” link his memories of the past with the realities of the present (Ibid., 98). Having traversed the “Frère Jacques [. . .] Dormez-vous?” refrain (which recur as many as seven-times in Ultramarine), his recollections are encapsulated in the following message emanating from the lighthouse and expressed in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (1797–1798): “And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country. [. . .] And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth” (Ibid, 98). NOTES 1. Malcolm Lowry, “Work in Progress: A Statement,” 3, Malcolm Lowry Archive, University of British Columbia, 1951, cited in Sherrill E. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1982), 9. See also ibid., 8. 2. Malcolm Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, ed. Douglas Day and Margerie Lowry (London: Penguin, 1972), 62. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “Dark”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 3. Tony Bareham, Malcolm Lowry (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), 109. 4. Malcolm Lowry’s ‘La Mordida’: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy (London: University of Georgia Press, 1996). Further references to this work (abbreviated to “La Mordida”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 5. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), I, 183. 6. Ibid., I, 110. 7. Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 179. 8. Ibid., 126 and 346. 9. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 111–12, 534, and II, 943. 10. The ursine meaning in Sigbjørn’s Norwegian name was deduced by Hallvard Dahlie: see “A Norwegian at Heart: Lowry and the Grieg Connection,” in Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill Grace (London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992), 38. 11. Bareham, Malcolm Lowry, 109. 12. Douglas Day, Malcolm Lowry: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 242–3. See also Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 235. 13. Day, Malcolm Lowry, 240–4 and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 176 and 187. 14. Malcolm Lowry, “Garden of Etla,” in United Nations World (June 1950), 45 and 46.

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15. The Ziegfeld Follies were a series of ostentatious Broadway productions in 1907–31 and 1934–36. They inspired various Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer musical comedy films including The Great Ziegfeld (1936), Ziegfeld Girl (1941), and Ziegfeld Follies (1945). 16. Lewis Spence, Arcane Secrets and Occult Lore of Mexico and Mayan Central America (Detroit, Blaise Ethridge Books, 1973), 49 and 110, cited in Cynthia Sugars, “The Road to Renewal: Dark as the Grave and the Rite of Initiation,” in Swinging the Maelstrom, 155. 17. Spence, Arcane Secrets and Occult Lore of Mexico and Mayan Central America. 18. Maximilian I held other titles, including Archduke and Prince Ferdinand Maximilian of Austria, Prince of Hungary and Bohemia. During the Second French Intervention (1861–67) he accepted an offer from Napoleon III of France to rule Mexico. 19. Sugars, “The Road to Renewal,” 158. 20. Ibid. 21. Ignatius Donnelly, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World: Fully Illustrated (Seattle, WA: CreateSpace, 2008), 114. 22. Donnelly, Atlantis (2008), 193. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid., 193–4. 25. Lowry refers to Donnelly’s Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (New York: Harper Bros, 1882) in Sursum Corda!, I, 315. 26. Donnelly, Atlantis (2008), 183, 80, and 81. 27. Damon E. Peeler and Marcus Winter, “Building J at Monte Alban: A Correction and Reassessment of the Astronomical Hypothesis,” Latin American Antiquity 6, no. 4 (December 1995), 365. 28. Peeler and Winter, “Building J at Monte Alban,” 368. 29. Ibid. 30. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 73. 31. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 364. 32. This phrase is repeated in Dark, 26–7 and 60. 33. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 97–100 and 196. 34. It is from The Brothers Karamazov, Part IV, Book XI: Ivan, Chapter 3: “A Little Demon”: see La Mordida, 379. 35. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 47 and Lowry, “Work in Progress” 23, quoted in Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 15. 36. Cited in David Miller, Malcolm Lowry and the Voyage that Never Ends (London: Enitharmon Press, 1976), 39; and Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 238. See Lowry, “Work in Progress,” 87, cited in Patrick A. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols: World, Text and Self in Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1994), 149. 37. See also La Mordida, 293 and 309. 38. See McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 157. 39. Ibid., 161. See the Book of Matthew, 22. 21. 40. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 238.

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41. Grace, Voyage, 61. See Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 238. 42. The word “disaster” is derived from the sixteenth-century Italian noun, “disastro,” which means an “ill-starred event” and comes from “astrum,” the Latin term for “star.” See also La Mordida, 115. 43. See Betty Jo Teeter Dobbs, The Janus Faces of Genius: The Role of Alchemy in Newton’s Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 44. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 436. 45. Ibid. 46. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 2000), 12. 47. Lowry’s repeated use of the word “disastar” has celestial implications: here it prepares the reader for mention of the Southern Cross. 48. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 436. 49. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 182. 50. Ibid., 189. 51. Bareham, Malcolm Lowry, 95. 52. M. C. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry—His Art & Early Life: A Study in Transformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 76. 53. Malcolm Lowry, “Through the Panama,” in “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic” (London: Pan, 1991), 87. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “TP”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 54. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 107. 55. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 187. 56. Ibid., 186. 57. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends, 106. 58. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 188. 59. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, I, 83. See also ibid., I, 93 and II, 701, 856, and 858; and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 97–100. 60. D. H. Lawrence, “Why the Novel Matters,” http:​//ind​ividu​al.ut​oront​o.ca/​amlit​ /why_​the_n​ovel_​matte​rs.ht​m (accessed August 15, 2018). 61. According to Lowry, despite his surname bearing a resemblance to that of the ferryman of Hades, Pierre Charon was “the real name of a real man who was on the boat and really was the Norwegian Consul in Papeete” (the capital of French Polynesia): Sursum Corda!, II, 496. 62. Donnelly, Atlantis (2008), 24.

Chapter 6

In Pursuit of Celestial Harmony The Psychogeographic Ecosphere of Eridanus in “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola

Prominent themes running through Malcolm Lowry’s later works include the quest for atonement with phantoms of the past and for psychogeographic harmony with terrestrial and celestial realms of existence. “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola reflect his “most sustained vision of paradise.”1 They extend his creative, cinematographic imagination from a literary representation of the traumatic occurrences and confrontations which he himself had encountered in Mexico—reflected in Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, and La Mordida—to one which expresses his ecological and mystical experiences in Canada. THE APPEAL OF BRITISH COLUMBIA After their dynamic adventures in Cuernavaca and Oaxaca on their Mexican visit of 1945–1946 (which resulted in their deportation), the Lowrys returned to British Columbia. They rebuilt their shack on the shore of Burrard Inlet near Dollarton in North Vancouver (see figure 6.1).2 In this beautiful habitat, which they called Eridanus, they envisaged sharing moments of close-tonature bliss. Reflecting on this refuge from the woes of what he deemed to be a belligerent civilization, Malcolm commenced work on his luscious, ecocritical novella, “The Forest Path to the Spring.” He and Margerie prepared scripts for a series of productions by Andrew Allan, Head of Radio Drama at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) from 1943 until 1955. They included “Stage 45” which chronicled the story of “Grey Owl” (the pseudonym of Archibald Stansfeld Belaney), who is cited in Malcolm’s correspondence.3 Born near Hastings in West Sussex, this writer and conservationist 193

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Figure 6.1  View over the Burrard Inlet. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

resided in Canada for most of his life.4 He provided an intriguing parallel to William Blackstone’s legacy in New England, as documented in Under the Volcano. “THE FOREST PATH TO THE SPRING” (1961) Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place is an anthology of interrelated stories which are introduced by a remarkable Manx fisherman’s hymn. Although the names of the characters and their nationalities differ throughout the collection, the various protagonists undergo odysseys of self-discovery, as in Lowry’s Mexican cycle of works of fiction. They seek spiritual sanctuary from a potentially hostile civilization which threatens to estrange them from their natural environment. A focal point in the compendium is the exquisitely written novella, “The Forest Path to the Spring.” Set in British Columbia, it is a lyrical affirmation of life’s joys and facilitates human aspirations to attain an ecological balance with the recurrent rhythms of the universe. Together with October Ferry to Gabriola, this enchanting composition marks the summit of Lowry’s moral and spiritual trajectory on his psychogeographic trek along his Protean path

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of existence in search of inner harmony. With their unique blend of intuitive creativity, beautiful poetry in prose, and shamanic mysticism, these two ecstatic oeuvres provide a sensuous, metaphysical response to the array of hostilities embroiling humanity in calamities of cataclysmic proportions. The Protean Path and the Rhythms of Nature Despite considerable scientific and technological progress in an age of modernity, Lowry remained fully aware of civilization’s destructive by-products: throughout the late 1930s and the 1940s, the refinery of crude oil was geared increasingly to the exigencies of military conflict. He shared Walter Benjamin’s concern that the charm of individual contemplation was being turned into information which could be manipulated politically for a mass audience.5 This relentless, unscrupulous process had resulted in the propagandization and commodification of knowledge at the expense of humanity’s rapport with its natural environment. In order to counteract these powerful centrifugal forces, Lowry traverses his Protean path which, he believes, leads to paradise. Glimpses of a Canadian Eridanus in Under the Volcano and Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid are substantiated by the reality of the delightful surroundings of “The Forest Path to the Spring.” However, reflections on the impact of the Second World War militate against this tranquillity in the mind of the unnamed, firstperson narrator of “The Forest Path to the Spring.” The following reservations on the effects of military hostilities on human relationships are scrutinize: “The war? Had the war separated them? And would the war separate us? Guilt and fear came over me and anxiety for my wife, and I began to row back gloomily and in silence, the calm sunlit peace of the inlet turned for me into the banks of some river of the dead, for was not Eridanus also the Styx?”6 Yet, many lingering predicaments are reconciled by Lowry’s sense of anticipated harmony with nature and the cosmos which is stimulated by a fascination with the stars which he shares with his wife. He perceives aesthetic, transcendental attributes of the universe in a subsequent letter addressed to David Markson. In it, he draws attention to the “manna” of revelations by the sixth-century BC Chinese philosopher and mystic, Laozi (also known as Laotzu), who founded the amoral concept of the Tao, or Dao (i.e., “The Path,” or “The Way”) (Lowry, SC, II, 411).7 Lowry utilizes these Taoist influences in “The Forest Path to the Spring,” which reflects his ever-increasing attention to prophetic and shamanically regenerative intuitions. Its surrealist style is akin to that of the Russian avant-garde artist and anthropologist, Wassily Kandinsky (1866–1944). It is through imagery that Lowry recognizes the importance of beauty in communicating his soul’s inner feelings by ethnographic-artistic methods.8

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In “The Forest Path to the Spring,” his engaging vision of harmony in terrestrial and celestial realms is a utopian one. It has been described by Ted R. Spivey as an image of “a unified whole interpenetrated by the grace and love of God.”9 Yearned for in Under the Volcano, it aspires to interpersonal and environmental relationships which are based on “the encompassing power of love.”10 Its Chekhovian “note of harmony and rebirth”11—in its similarities with The Wood Demon (1889), a four-act comedy12—is “a testament to hope” and to a life of compassion.13 Lowry magically probes the spirit’s desire for liberation. He explains this imaginative composition as “a story of happiness, in fact, roughly of our life here in the forest [. . .]. So far as I know this is the only short novel of its type that brings the kind of majesty usually reserved for a tragedy.”14 “The Forest Path to the Spring” has been regarded as a “prose poem on man in nature, a Wordsworthian benediction on nature’s benevolent power to transform the heart capable of seeing and receiving.”15 It exalts a romanticism reminiscent of the sensuous, animist depiction of the souls of the forests in Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons (1862). It also advocates a pressing need for harmony with nature. Its rendering of the Shellburn oil refinery’s sinister sign as “HELL” instead of “SHELL”—in an illumination which has lost its initial letter—is a reminder of the earlier-mentioned eternal struggle between humanity and nature which is portrayed in Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman (“Forest Path,” 258). The Paradisiacal Solace of Eridanus Lowry’s “vision of paradise or moment of achieved balance” is glimpsed in his attempts at “renouncing the world altogether” to attain spiritual unity by harmonizing his outer and inner worlds (Ibid., 233).16 Since his honeymoon in 1940, he has lived happily (though intermittently) in Dollarton. He perceives it as Eridanus, as represented in figure 6.2. It is a salient symbol of Taoist equilibrium in which love for one another is supreme. In Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, Sigbjørn refers to his “wedding night in Eridanus on 7 December 1940” and to his attempt to protect Primrose “again against the awfulness of the world outside.”17 In his correspondence, Lowry details its location as “down an inlet of the same name fairly near Vancouver.”18 In “The Forest Path to The Spring,” it lies “at the edge of eternity (“Forest Path,” 279). It is the home of a mutually trusting and hard-working community and has the potential to trigger the rebirth of humanity’s relationship with its natural habitat. Indeed, it imparts a vision of stable harmony between the dominions of the natural environment and the cosmos Eridanus is also the synonym for the River Po, on the banks of which Dante is said to have commenced composing Paradiso—an allegory of his journey

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Figure 6.2  Eridanus and the Tao Flagstone, Dollarton. Source: © Nigel H. Foxcroft.

through Heaven—in the third and final part of his Divine Comedy (c. 1308– 1320).19 Located “beneath blazing Orion,” it is a fluvial emblem of Lowry’s Edenic paradise (“Forest Path,” 227). It is “known both as the River of Death and the River of Life” and offers a harmonious, utopian vista of the domains of the living and of the paranormal underworld of the decreased (Ibid.). As with the Mexican Day of the Dead, it is “imbued with a life-force or soul” and bridges the three levels of the shamanic cosmos.20 A mythological gateway to Hades, it represents a universal or cosmic axis (often conceived as a world pillar or tree) in the form of a celestial pole connecting heaven with the Earth. The underworld is conceived by many Mesoamericans as rotating on this axis mundi at sunset when it is elevated into the night sky. Aztecs and Zapotecs alike viewed stars and other celestial bodies as “inhabitants of the supernatural otherworld.”21 Envisaged as a geographical and mythical place, Eridanus is an area for performing the pan-Mesoamerican, shamanistic practice of nagual, whereby a human being is transformed magically into the shape of an animal. Simulated in Under the Volcano, this custom linked the Consul with his canine companion for the afterlife in the culminating scene in which “somebody threw a dead dog after him down the ravine.”22 Offering him protection against evil spirits, it leads him to the mystical underworld in accordance with Aztec shamanic customs. In “The Forest Path to the Spring,” the guardian angel reappears. It is transformed into “a person’s animal-spirit companion” to provide “a means of communicating with ancestors and deities.”23 It is present in “the cleansing sea” and in “the birds on the ninth wave out from the shore” which,

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according to Manx belief, are “the souls of the dead” (“Forest Path,” 236). It also endows the narrator with spiritual reflections. His daily strolls to and from the spring facilitate a psychogeographic entry into the soul of his past self and a transcendence of the terrifying anxieties which emanate from the trials and tribulations of his youth. His actions are in accord with customs practised by Maya kings who “validated their right to royal power by publicly proclaiming their ability to perform the shamanic trance journey and transform into power animals.”24 In “The Forest Path to the Spring,” this process enables its narrator to confront the wild forces which assume the animist form of the cougar or puma which is conjured up by his vivid imagination (“Forest Path,” 264).25 On his return journey from the spring he makes shamanic connections—through the portal of his memories—with the tyranny of childhood ordeals in “that terrible city whose main street is the ocean [. . .] Liverpool” (“Forest Path,” 226). Having been “baptised afresh” by the sight of a deer swimming across the inlet toward the lighthouse, he comes to terms with his subconscious anxieties by discovering his real self via the “continual awakening” of his “extraterritorial existence” (Ibid., 235 and 273). As well as being a bay in the maritime sense, Eridanus has extraterrestrial significance. As we have seen in Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, it is the name given to the southern celestial constellation. Arising from ancient myths and legends, it relates the earthly to the cosmic, the natural to the supernatural. In “The Forest Path to the Spring”—as in La Mordida— there is an expression of faith in the paradisiacal wisdom of an ubiquitous, Taoist, “timeless heaven,” which—in its stillness—spurs the narrator’s pursuit of metaphysical truths.26 He gains insight into the essence of civilization and the processes of a transcendental universe. Perching “on the very windrow of existence,” he observes it extending outward from the “eternal flux and flow” of his ever-changing opera of life (“Forest Path,” 244 and 227). OCTOBER FERRY TO GABRIOLA (1970) Psychic links between time dimensions are visualized in October Ferry to Gabriola too. Written in the period 1950–1956 and acclaimed as a “terrific story,” it focuses on an isle off the east coast of Vancouver Island (SC, II, 595). In its “multi-level quest” in search of life and identity, it is a cinematic, autobiographical retelling of a bus ride from Victoria to Nanaimo.27 It was taken by the Lowrys in October 1946 so that they could catch the ferry to Gabriola in pursuit of a new home (see figure 6.3). A parallel journey is undertaken by October Ferry to Gabriola’s fictional protagonists—the thirty-nine-year-old Ethan Llewelyn (whose name signifies

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Figure 6.3  Malcolm Lowry on Board the Ferry to Gabriola, the Atrevida. Source: Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo—an imprint of HarperCollins, 1994, 266).

“strength unknown”)28 and his school-teacher wife, Jacqueline, who is eight years younger and partly of Indian heritage. Whereas the former is a misoneist in his intolerance to innovation or change, the latter is a misologist in her distrust of the Socratic method of deductive reasoning.29 Ethan’s father spent the last year of peace before the outbreak of the First World War as a legal adviser on international cotton law in tsarist Russia (OFG, 8). Jacqueline’s dad was born in Bordeaux, but is described as a “Scot of Scots” (Ibid., 10). He is a cabbalist and “a good magician, a white one” (Ibid., 27) He has lectured at the Cosmological Society Temple in Toronto (ibid., 29) and has a “bee in

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the bonnet about Hitler” (Ibid., 30). He believes that he himself is needed to combat evil, for, he maintains, it is flourishing more than in the Middle Ages. He cites the alchemist’s quarter in Prague by way of example, for it has a street of “calculators of nativities and dreamers of dreams” (Ibid., 239). A semi-retired, public defender and a prosperous criminal lawyer, Ethan made a so-called “retreat” before it “might spell an irrevocable retirement” (Ibid., 7). He relinquished his legal practice after one of the most horrendous and complex cases which he had ever defended and, unfortunately, lost. Although he believed that his client was innocent, he discovered after he had saved him from the scaffold that he could not have been guiltier. Though he is half Welsh, he was educated in England (Ibid., 13). His accent “causes him to be taken for an Englishman in Canada, & increases his isolation” (SC, II, 953). Unlike his younger brother, Gwyn—who boarded a Norwegian timberfreighter which was bound for Archangel on the White Sea “in ballast,” but was subsequently lost at sea off the Norwegian island of Aalesund in 1931— he has not ventured “recklessly” to Russia (OFG, 236 and 9). An acquaintance of Sigbjørn Wilderness in Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid and La Mordida, like Lowry he “wears a scapular round his neck of the Virgin for those who have nobody with, given him by a Spanish Friend—or perhaps Wilderness himself” (SC, II, 953). He expects that he may be protected by this monastic relic and that he and Jacqueline will discover a paradisal refuge on the eco-friendly Gulf Island of a revived Atlantis. Hence, October Ferry to Gabriola marks an attempt to heal fleeting images of bygone times. It also provides a literary depiction of the British Columbian coastal environment, with which Lowry has a “profound, almost symbiotic relationship.”30 A messianic role for the future trajectory of civilization is attributed by Ethan to Canada. However, in acknowledging that Juan José Pérez Hernández—a Spanish explorer and a native of Mexico—was the first European to catch sight of Queen Charlotte and Vancouver Islands in 1774, he erroneously claims that Vancouver Island “and supposedly Gabriola” were part of Mexico at one point (OFG, 222). He alludes to Ignatius Donnelly’s assumption that vast quantities of gold and silver lay in the Atlantic. This treasure trove would supplement the enormous economic benefit derived by Europe from the Americas. According to Donnelly, if Plato’s tale were true, there lies beneath the Atlantic vast amounts of gold and silver which far surpass the quantity which has been conveyed to Europe from Central America, Mexico, and Peru since the era of Columbus. If this treasure trove were ever brought to light, it would revolutionize the world’s financial values.31 Ethan surmises that the industrialization of Europe—which commenced in the late eighteenth century—was a direct result of a severe depression, causing the flow of gold and silver from Mexico and Peru to cease (OFG,

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222). According to Brading and Cross, this occurred (regarding silver) in 1635–1689 in Mexico and, from 1680 onwards, in Peru.32 Yet, in October Ferry to Gabriola, a firm belief in divine salvation is expressed by Ethan. He contends that a final wisdom will arise from Canada to save not only that nation, but maybe even the world (OFG, 202). Having been evicted from paradise and exiled from the Garden of Eden, the Llewelyns play the roles of a modern-day Adam and Eve couple. Embarking on an odyssey back to God, they seek forgiveness and true wisdom to make amends for the so-called “Fall of Man.” They heed the words of the priest in chapter 35: “The Perilous Chapel,” who advocates that one should approach God in one’s own way. Ethan also refers to Buddhism as “a very beautiful religion” (Ibid., 304). In this respect, he subsequently claims that only true faith can secure proof of the existence of supernatural forces (Ibid., 306). Although chronologically the Llewelyns’ bus journey lasts only a few hours, psychogeographically it covers most of the twelve-hour narrative of October Ferry to Gabriola, connecting the present with memories of the past and anticipations of the future. This scenario enables Lowry to penetrate Ethan’s consciousness and to provide much needed information relating to the couple’s first meeting, courtship, and wedding. It facilitates exploration of the unhappy memories which Ethan is unable to dispel from his mind. These include childhood recollections of England and of the “holocaustic revenge” of the uncanny fire which beset his second house in Ontario’s Niagara-onthe Lake (ibid., 86) (and, indeed, that of the Lowrys’ neighbors during their stay in Oakville in October 1945) (SC, I, 484). It is that event which precipitated the Llewelyns’ departure for “the Promised Land” of British Columbia (OFG, 151). This tragic conflagration has had an enormous impact on Ethan’s approach to life. It has caused him “to see—or imagine—a certain hideous pattern in his life, a sort of curse” (SC, II, 958). Fascinated by what he deems to be supernatural phenomena, he is adept at seeking and interpreting hidden meanings in his surroundings. He is motivated by Charles Fort’s “collision of contingencies” in which entire universes are condensed and recondensed eternally from the immaterial into the material (OFG, 147). On the bus ride Ethan skips back and forth from book to book—from Fort’s The Book of the Damned (1919) to his New Worlds (which is actually entitled New Lands [1923]). Finding these works “extraordinary,” he claims that few authors were capable of “disaffecting a reader from the regular bounds of his cosmos” so rapidly and convincingly (Ibid., 139). However, with regard to parameters, he recognizes that “in one sense Fort didn’t widen them, he narrowed them” (Ibid). However, the implications were that “celestial visitors of all kinds were no uncommon occurrence” as a result of Fort’s convictions of the existence of extraterrestrial phenomena (Ibid.).

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Ethan’s vision is a surrealist one, as is apparent in the scene in the Ocean Spray Inn’s beer parlor in Nanaimo, the ambiance of which is like a work of art—indeed, a painting. It is a “perfect outward expression of its inner soul,” for “the creatures that inhabited it were alive” (Ibid., 258). Elsewhere he emphasizes the imagination’s paranormal capacities by claiming that the only haunted house is the human mind which—to The McCandless’s delight—could be classified as that of a magician who fails to recall how to use his secret powers (as happened to the Consul in Under the Volcano), but who cannot help applying them occasionally (Ibid., 140). Despite his belief that God has defeated the Devil at his own game (Ibid., 148), at times Ethan’s assumed abilities do not function in the expected way of “something like godlike,” but initiate a “creative process, an act of magic” (Ibid., 250). As explained by Lowry in his letters, one level, October Ferry to Gabriola is a record of human tragedy. He observes that Gabriola Island is “almost [. . .] a challenge to the author’s actual personal salvation. [. . .] I have willed one thing, & the daemon has decided another. [. . .] And in Gabriola he has turned out what set out to be an innocent & beautiful story of human longing into quite one of the most guilt-laden & in places quite Satanically horrendous documents it has ever been my unfortunate lot to read, let alone have to imagine I wrote” (SC, II, 663–64). A few pages later, he alludes to Captain Ahab’s brave attempt to withstand all odds in chapter 37 of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick (1851). There he is “damned, most subtly and malignantly! Damned in the midst of Paradise!” (Ibid., II, 667). Lowry relates Captain Ahab’s fate to his own dilemma in his Dollarton shack which is about to be requisitioned by the local authorities. He writes: “In these exact excruciating circumstances of being on the one hand damned Ahab-wise in the midst of paradise and on the other still mysteriously given the grace to live there even if it is only privilege of great guilt [. . .]—such grace has fallen on us now the Powers that Are [. . .] seem to have decided this part of the beach is under a special providence or haunted, probably by me, so we are the sole inhabitants, the bulldozers crash everywhere else” (Ibid., II, 665). Referring to The Letter of Lord Chandos (1902) by the Austrian writer and librettist, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Lowry advocates the use of humor as a means of reconciling some of the traumatic aspects of October Ferry to Gabriola, as is evident in the following passage: One key to one level of the book [. . .] is to be found in Herman Broch’s introduction to Jimmy and Tanya’s wonderful translation of Hoffmannsthal, page XVIII at the bottom relating to the Letter of Lord Chandos: [. . .] Humour is the only bridge one can use to get across that abyss too and since it’s a desperately serious book and becomes more so as it goes on you mayn’t find that humour always to your taste. There are keys no less pertinent to be found on pages

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XXVI of that same introduction and especially on XXVIII where Broch says: “Still trusting in beauty, he did not yet recognize that nature, having been rendered harmless by culture and elevated to beauty, had in turn bequeathed to culture, as a permanent Greek gift, the sinister, the menacing.” (Ibid., II, 681–82)33

In this context, there is a lightheartedness in the Llewelyns’ journey to Gabriola in search of temporary respite from the impending threat of eviction from their Eridanus cabin. Like St Petersburg which was constructed on land reclaimed from swamps (as earlier mentioned), it was “built on little piles in the ‘water’” (OFG, 8). Actually, it was located on the edge of Burrard Inlet near land converted into a public park (now Cates Park). Ironically, Jacqueline “perhaps refuses to realise the divine quality in the gift of Eridanus” (SC, II, 962). The eviction leitmotif is “related to man’s dispossession” and displays dual psychogeographic forces at work (Ibid., II, 436). On the one hand, it is anticipated that the narrative will propel its protagonists forth toward their future and on to Gabriola Island, a new space. Yet, an opposite and equal force—that of memories of the relived past—decelerates the “completion of the initial quest, both literally (for the characters) and syntagmatically (for the reader).”34 Consequently, the couple endeavor to flee not only from the present but also from their subconscious past. October Ferry to Gabriola is an exploration of the extent to which recollections of personal tragedies can ever be mitigated. In his correspondence, Lowry refers to the way in which its “psychological level” impacts on Ethan’s frame of mind, which is prone to concentrate his mental faculties to his detriment (SC, II, 700). He proceeds to allude to his fragile state of mind in terms of shell shock (now known as PTSD). He describes October Ferry to Gabriola as “a kind of abreaction of his past: I like the word cathexis, too. In some psycho-genetic sense also [. . .] the news of their own reprieve (on this plane) would seem to precipitate Ethan’s recovery, in the way that shell-shocked soldiers may recover at the news of the armistice” (SC, II, 700). Attempting to come to terms with his memories of the past, Ethan expresses remorse for the suicide of Peter Cordwainer, the Canadian patrol leader of the Tigers and “his chief persecutor” at school (Ibid., II, 959). As well as being “deprived of a childhood altogether” Ethan then experiences “calamitous trouble with his eyes” (Ibid.). Having to adjust to two levels of consciousness, he suffers an indelible nightmare relating to the deaths of Paul Fitte and Cordwainer. The latter’s suicide arises not from gas poisoning in Cambridge, but from hanging at the University of Ely, in his rooms at Ixion (OFG, 47).35 This tragic incident happens at the very beginning of term in his second year (SC, II, 960), the date having been changed from November 15 to October 7 to correspond with the day on which Edgar Allan Poe died (OFG, 215).36 He regrets having gone

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out that evening for a last bottle of gin (OFG, 47). However, he lamentingly admits that, turning wild, he attempted to sell him “‘real estate’ (à la Swedenborg) in the next world” (SC, II, 960).37 As a consequence, his subsequent existence is “an impassioned defense of what he secretly believed in his own heart to be a murder” (Ibid., II, 961). Lowry maintains his culpability, giving the following explanation: “If Ethan had not told all the truth at the inquest, it was only partly to defend himself, & his own parents, & even spare the feelings of Cordwainer’s own parents” (Ibid., II, 960). He declares that “he is in the devil’s clutches & doesn’t know if he wants to get out of them, though he tries” (Ibid., II, 963). Through his reading of reports and letters in Vancouver newspapers, he is also perturbed by a certain criminal case. It resulted in an adolescent being convicted on May 28, 1951, for the murder of seventeen-year-old Francis Stephen Sykes (whose surname reminds him of his Cambridge tutor and friend, Hugh Sykes Davies). However, the sentence was commuted on October 24, 1952, from death-by-hanging to life imprisonment (Ibid., II, 439–40). In October Ferry to Gabriola, this hearing is transformed into that of fifteenyear-old Richard Chapman. Ethan is haunted by his own professional inertia in failing to win his case as a defendant lawyer. Although he later acknowledges that, in all probability, it was accidental, at the trial in British Columbia a verdict was returned on December 13, 1949, that Chapman had caused the death of a fellow pupil of the same age after allegedly attempting to rape her (OFG, 267). Despite the fact that Ethan subsequently regrets his noninterventionist stance, the accusation, “Hang Ethan Llewelyn!” reverberates in his mind (Ibid., 271). Lowry elucidates that his “soul [. . .] had become sick almost to death” (SC, II, 957). Explaining the psychoanalytic influence which this tragedy has had on Ethan’s mentality, he assumes that his soul “perhaps had even been sold to the devil, a soul that [. . .] played back to him a new record of his first thinking, his exposition of himself, of themselves” (Ibid.). At this time, Lowry’s own spirituality is subject to various influences on his reasoning. Alluding to triads or secret societies, he lists the following factors at work: “I will expound thus far the magic of Dr. Lowrys diale​ctica​ l-Heg​elian​-spir​itual​ism-c​aball​istic​-Swed​enbor​giani​sm conservative-christian-anarchism for ailing paranoics: the first chapter (whether visibly such or not) is as the base to to a triangle or triad (and/or a radical having a valence of three)” (Ibid., II, 687).38 He then proceeds to draw the following diagram which illustrates the relationship between the three sections of his novel and their geographical equivalents: Victoria, Nanaimo, and Eridanus Gabriola. He explains the multidirectional leverages in chapter 3 as forces which have a backward and forward impetus. He states, “As you observe, in this configuration it is difficult for Chap III not to seem to be going back to its starting point,—or both ways at once—& in fact where does III start” (Ibid., II, 688).

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Figure 6.4  Victoria, Nanaimo, and Eridanus Gabriola Triad. Source: Created by author based on original diagram in Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. II, 1996), 687.

As in figure 6.4, arrows point to and from Victoria and Eridanus Gabriola, which are interactive departure-/destination-points, depending on whether the real or the psychological journey is scrutinized (Ibid., II, 687). Lowry’s concept of a triangle is fundamental for an appreciation of the cabbalistic ordeal which Ethan is undergoing in October Ferry to Gabriola. His hero discloses that he became familiar with the Cabbala by reading a book sent by Angus McCandless after visiting him. He admits that he found it “not only extraordinarily interesting but, as a method of thought, profoundly helpful” (OFG, 169). He realizes that life on Eridanus beach has become “his cabbala,” for “that system might be regarded on one plane as a means less of accumulating than of divesting oneself-by arrangement, balancing them against their opposites-of unbalanced ideas: the mind finally transcending both aspects, regains its lost equilibrium [. . .] not unlike the modern process of psychoanalysis” (Ibid.). This rejuvenating sensation has led to his feeling as if he has been reborn, both mentally and physically. The format of Lowry’s novels may be delineated diagrammatically, as Sherrill Grace has demonstrated. She indicates that “the triangle or triad represents the structure of October Ferry to the same extent that the circle denotes the Volcano.”39 In the former work, mathematical, geographical, and spiritual triangulation is visible. The number three appears, vanishes, and then reappears throughout the narrative. The Llewelyns comprise a family unit of three, including their son, Tommy. Having had three homes, they search for a fourth one on Gabriola Island to attain salvation.40 There are three bars, each of which is “a place of secular and divine law, a place of judgment and prosecution, a place where the soul sits in judgment upon the excesses of the flesh.”41 Three physical spaces are specified: the omnibus, the ferry, and the Ocean Spray Inn (which has been identified as the Hotel Plaza and, subsequently, as the Villa Hotel) on Front Street.42 The novel’s three sections correspond to three temporal dimensions: the past, present, and future.43 The first—the relived past—spans chapters 1 to

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27. The second is set in the present time and covers chapters 28 to 32. It stretches from the Llewelyns’ arrival in Nanaimo up to and including Ethan’s “symbolic death and descent into hell” when he recollects the Chapman Case in the Ocean Spray Inn. The final part bridges chapters 33 to 37. It commences with the boarding of the outward-bound ferry to Gabriola by Ethan and Jacqueline. Interspersed with the interlude in which they have to return to Nanaimo, it closes with a vision of them peering into their spiritual future on Gabriola Island. In part one of October Ferry to Gabriola, three distinctive “time-loops” have been identified, corresponding to chapters 1 to 10, 11 to 21, and 22 to 27, respectively.44 Each relates to a period in the Llewelyns’ past which Ethan brings to life through memories. The first covers their lives up to their wedding. The second spans the early years of their marriage, including the birth of their son and the burning of their second home. The third traces Ethan’s consciousness up to the recent past. It comprises their life in Eridanus and the threat of eviction. These “temporal involutions” signify “a sense of psychological time” and intensify the Llewelyns’ “struggle to break free from the tentacles of the past.”45 This back-and-forth flow between the past-and-present realities of Ethan’s awareness establishes a “tidal rhythm of the mind.”46 Each time-loop acts in unison with the “flux and reflux” characteristic of chapter 13, “The Tides of Eridanus.”47 It is present in Ethan’s “slow, stealthy, despairing deepening of the medium of his thoughts” which is compared to Eridanus’s the high tide (OFG, 76). As geometrical representations of spiritual concepts, the circle of consciousness in Under the Volcano and the triangle or triad in October Ferry to Gabriola are intrinsic features of the diagrammatic illustrations of the cabbalistic Tree of Life (known as the 10 Sephirot and the 22 Paths) in the eternal “flow of life” and time.48 In October Ferry to Gabriola, the balance of justice in “Libra’s year ahead” is achieved by triangularity (OFG, 284). According to Frater Achad, the fourth level of the Tree comprises a “TRINITY of TRINITIES or TRIADS [. . .] which being in itself a UNITY is Symbolized by the TENTH SEPHIRA called MALKUTH, THE KINGDOM, a SINGLE SPHERE.”49 In October Ferry to Gabriola, numerous Kabbalistic images materialize. The McCandless’s grand plan of the universe is molded on the blueprint of Stansfeld Jones, a Freemason (OFG, 31 and 9). He is also a ceremonial white magician “like Virgil” and a cabbalist “of high degree, even a sort of Parsifal” (Ibid.). This analogy brings to mind Richard Wagner’s opera and Wolfram von Eschenbach’s thirteenth-century epic poem, Parzifal, as well as the quest for the Holy Grail. The McCandless is a Catholic. He considers this religion “The Guardian of the Mysteries” (Ibid., 30). In comparison, Ethan is caught “pondering like a gnostic geometrician of the Middle Ages” (Ibid., 233). He

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is preoccupied with mathematical and spiritual processes, such as the duplication of the cube, the trisection of the right angle, and “the Symbol of the Divine Trinity in Unity” (Ibid.). The three parts of Lowry’s novel parallel the Tree of Life’s “Trinity of Triads,” whereas the fourth home sought by the Llewelyns on Gabriola Island corresponds to “MALKUTH, THE KINGDOM.”50 Each of the three stages of their geographical journey—that is, on foot, by bus, and then by ferry - corresponds to a particular phase of their spiritual ordeals. Their “magic ship” (OFG, 294)—to which Lowry refers in his correspondence as “the ferry passing silent”51—becomes “Charon’s boat” to Hades (OFG, 287). Their arrival on Gabriola has been described by Sherrill Grace as a symbol of Ethan’s “attainment of balance, his self-unification.”52 His perceptions of the universe match Frater Achad’s cabbalistic replication of the Tree of Life in the “indefinite progression towards the Infinitely Small of the Infinitely Great.”53 This symbol appears “in every direction of Space to Infinity.”54 Ethan encounters an intuitive primordial awareness in his sense of unreality which is instantly replaced by “an astonishing, almost preternatural sense of reality” (OFG, 224). Suddenly, “without knowing why,” he senses that he is at the center of his infinite self—a fulcrum which is ubiquitous, unlike the circumference which “must be nowhere” (Ibid). He beholds that everything is an integral constituent part of a “miraculous plan” (Ibid.) In it, nothing stands still and, whereas everything good has the capacity for infinite development, everything evil must degrade inevitably. Ethan’s psychological perceptions of the existence of supernatural forces in the uncanny and the Cabbala blur distinctions between the real and the illusory. On a visit to the cinema with his wife, he experiences inspirational, sublime sensations of celestial dimensions which have a paranormal impact on him. Contemplating that life has not treated him well, he observes a scene on the cinema screen in which “transfigured” faces of lovers gaze at moonlight as it descends through the treetops (Ibid., 15). This episode seems much more poignant than anything else he has ever encountered. Witnessing it with his wife affects him “with so much the more uninhibited wonder” that he believes that what is happening is truly extraordinary (Ibid., 16). It is akin to “deducing the real from the unreal”—a new hitherto undreamed-of reality (Ibid.). Influenced by the secret, religious initiation rites of the Eleusinian mysteries in ancient Greece and by Prospero’s sorcery in Shakespeare’s The Tempest (1610–1611), Ethan is prone to reading the unreal into the real in his aspirations to possess divine powers (Ibid., 157). Owing to his belief in psychic energy, it seems that his “magic mirror” is able to will the advertisement for Mother Gettle’s Soups into shamanic existence.55 Under the auspices of Cordwainer Products, even the advertisements assume a new significance as if they were

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on another plane and humanity’s “spiritual pilgrimage on earth [. . .] were eternally between these hoardings” (OFG, 224). In his search for the essence of existence, Ethan transcends the geographical boundaries of the broth’s origins in the United Kingdom which he links in his mind to the Peter Cordwainer of his childhood. He summons up its afterlife which extends from Canada right across the globe, pondering whether Mother Gettle was haunting him. He admits that he has almost forgotten Peter Cordwainer over a period of many months. However, he has “conjured” the family firm back to a life which it “had never possessed before, at least in Canada” (Ibid., 47). As a result, it has started to expand and move westwards to Toronto. Indeed, according to Ethan, it has proliferated across not only the whole country, but the entire world. He realizes that soon there will be no place on earth where he could hide without being reminded constantly—through the absurd medium of Mother Gettle’s Soups—of Cordwainer and what he himself had done. Confronted with a street-sign advertising Mother Gettle’s soup, he is shocked by the visual depiction of a life-size cartoon of Peter as a fifteenyear-old, though magnified to twenty times his size (Ibid., 209). He engages in boyhood memories, realizing that he has been deceiving himself consciously the entire morning by suppressing and misrepresenting events in his life in order to force them into a “bearable pattern” (Ibid., 210). Comparing his mind with the machinery of a phonograph with selfchanging records, he is forced to acknowledge that a “new drunkenness [. . .] a totally different consciousness had taken over” (Ibid., 209). He senses that the mind of someone else—which coexists with the first but is completely independent of it—has commenced meditating the same material, but from quite a different angle. He undergoes a revelation in which he realizes that the earlier-mentioned two levels of his back-and-forth awareness are now working against his favor. He reasons that if the first consciousness were the counsel for the defense, the second one must be the counsel for the persecution. Instantaneously, he experiences an epiphanic perception which reveals that he is suffering from “symptoms of mental sickness” (a reminder of the Consul’s afflictions in Under the Volcano) (Ibid., 210). He appears to be suffering from schizophrenia, for his spiritual well-being is affected in that “his soul [. . .] had become sick almost to death, that perhaps had been sold to the devil” (Ibid.) It is able to plot merciless revenge for his deeds. Sick as it is and speaking “though it did partly with the accents of insanity, it also spoke true” (Ibid., 211). Nevertheless, the Llewelyns derive life fulfillment “from something in themselves” (Ibid., 248). It is stimulated by the wild forests and the sea surrounding their blissful shack in Eridanus. Their cabin’s “magic” scent is compared to that of a beautiful toy model of Moscow which has “tiny magical gold domes” (Ibid., 8). It was a present from Ethan’s father on his return from

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the Russia of Gogolian and “Lilliputian Tchitchikovs” and Dostoyevskian, “snow-bound Raskolnikovs” (Ibid.)—a reference to the antiheroes of Dead Souls and Crime and Punishment.56 His action is interpreted by Ethan as the only kind one which he remembers on the part of either parent. It is akin to Eridanus which is “compounded of happy memories of love and summer and the laughter of children, or a child” and depends on these attributes for its life (Ibid., 73). This paradise is a testament to humanity’s power to work for good, for mankind has given it its beauty—not nature alone (Ibid., 198). It is perceived as a living creature, born by animist forces, for the Llewelyns’ cabin has a presence of its own and appears to possess a life of its own—one which cannot be invoked entirely either by its current owners or its past ones. Ethan has come to love his hospitable abode as something “sentient” (Ibid., 73). He claims that he has given it life, though his wife may also have “bewitched it with magic, in secret, by some spell of her father’s” (Ibid., 74). Even though he and Jaqueline have had to abandon it, he feels that it is still alive and declares, “Well this was animism certainly . . .” (Ibid.).57 Although he later considers it to be “a primitive method of thinking,” Ethan has a long-standing belief in primal power which, he believes, has been rejected by the “consciousness of civilized man” (Ibid., 319). He derives his ideas from supernatural, animist concepts which are based on the perception of nature having a role in organizing and enlivening the material universe and in bestowing on sea gulls “the wings of angels” (Ibid., 75). He imagines their feelings and relates them to his own, involving “animism in one of its most extreme and primitive forms,” contemplating, “Weren’t all men animists at heart?” (Ibid., 74). His claim that he and his wife did not reside in their Eridanus cabin, but “wore it like a shell” has a cabbalistic significance (Ibid., 80). In the Kabbalah, the realm of the Qliphoth is one of shells, husks, and peels, the qlippot being the metaphorical shells surrounding holiness. The inference is that Ethan’s desire to withdraw into the safety of this domain has turned his paradise into a trap—an illusion.58 Despite Jacqueline’s need for a sense of stability and permanence, it is something which—despite their love for it—they “all too prophetically never possessed” in their Eridanus shack (OFG, 227). The ongoing risk of being evicted from this Dollarton nirvana is an act of divine justice for the sins—actual or envisaged—committed by Ethan. He realizes that—at the point where his life has meaning, “ritual direction” and a “holy of holies”—it is the first time that he has experienced this “ecstatic joy” simply “in living” (Ibid., 170). He admits that he is on the route to achieving one of his ultimate goals—namely “the reality of heaven as physical pleasure” (Ibid.). However, he is thwarted by the terrible threat of eviction from his Eridanus dwelling which, he suspects, may result in his being ejected from Earth itself (Ibid., 302). In view of the transgressions which, he claims,

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have been committed by him and by humanity, he advocates that the only hope in fighting the spiritual battle required lies in a “search within oneself; in love . . .” (Ibid.). He contends that this pilgrimage should be rooted in the “terrors and comforts of the Spiritualists’ trumpet: in the Theosophical Society” (Ibid., 273). The notion of Eridanus as both a physical and a metaphysical location has an intense psychogeographical impact on Ethan’s mental state of mind. In terms of his relationship with his wife, it represents a further test of their love for one another—a task which The McCandless has “magically conjured up for them” (Ibid., 155). Yet, they are faced with the reality of the celestial freighter S. S. Eridanus “of the Constellation Line” having run aground (Ibid., 164). Eridanus is also a figment of the Llewelyns’ imagination, for its “relative geographical proximity is both real and delusional since the temporal separation from it is inexorably increasing” in the “Outward Bound” chapter.59 Jacqueline queries Ethan’s psychogeographic bond to it, observing, “It seems to me your attachment to the place is really insane!” (OFG, 199) Her husband confirms her concerns by conveying his sense of insecurity. He declares, “If there’s something pathological about [. . .] attachment, not to be attached [. . . ] would be more pathological still” (Ibid.). He must interpret and break free from the shackles of his memories of the past by a process of “hard-won exorcism,”60 and consolidate his earlier suspicion that “Eridanus was” (OFG, 80). A clear distinction can be made between the back-and-forth flow of the narrative, for, as Sherrill Grace maintains, “Eridanus represents the past and the necessity to move on, to begin again; Gabriola represents the future.”61 Yet, in his difficulties in adjusting to civilization’s atomic age, Ethan fears not only himself, but also the future (OFG, 300). The narrator’s correlation of the relative geographical proximities of Eridanus and Gabriola Island causes considerable conflict in his mind. The emotionally tinged juxtaposition of these locales—in the past and in an anticipated future—is apparent in the following ironic observation: “And still Gabriola drew nearer, though not much nearer. [. . .] And still Eridanus and the little cabin drew nearer, though even farther away” (Ibid., 302). Beleaguered by a longing for Eridanus, Ethan is disoriented further by two antithetical forces which preside over his “psychomachia”—namely, nostalgia and forbearance.62 His reference to the “dream of a lost paradise” in Demian (1919) (a Bildungsroman by the German-born artist and writer, Hermann Hesse) instigates a “sequence of death and rebirth” (OFG, 268). Bearing witness to the existence of a “divine supernatural order,” his guardian spirit—who converses in a “secret language”—provides a reminder that he is “not altogether unwatched” by a benign paranormal power which oversees the situation (Ibid., 320). It has ubiquitous, Cabbala-like properties, for Ethan detects that, “if it is not God, or of God,” this “spirit” is “like light,” though it is quicker

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than it (Ibid.). It “must be [. . .] able to be in a thousand places at once in a thousand disguises” (Ibid.). Simultaneously, Ethan is alerted to the fact that, as announced in The Vancouver Messenger, the edict evicting the so-called Eridanus squatters has been reprieved, the reason being that they are breaking no laws by residing there (Ibid., 324). Nevertheless, Ethan comprehends that this decision may only be a transitory reprieve and may be reversed the following year (Ibid., 325). Although he earlier perceived that Eridanus—and the “healing peace” which it had given him—was “almost like a gift from God,” he suddenly realizes that he and Jacqueline may need to relinquish it (Ibid., 295). For the meantime, however, the remitting good news is treated as a perpetuation of the beautiful sunrise which he has beheld and which is “in tune with his destiny and that of the universe” (Ibid., 307). There follows a cinematic sequence of rain falling on Eridanus and the uncanny sound of “muted ghostly sleigh bells” (Ibid., 329). Two rainbows form over Ethan’s paradise as the sea becomes covered with silver and diamond sequins. The prediction of an immense shower of meteors is interpreted by him as a good omen. It instills a feeling of being already at home, adding to the excitement generated by the appearance of a full moon (Ibid., 330). Through his shamanic faith in the future, Ethan is able to access his so-called “poles of human experience” by adhering to cabbalistic rites which indicate that “all change is of the nature of love.”63 He has transformed his concept of Eridanus into one of Gabriola.64 Although the alluring, yet “demonic” magenta lights of Shellco’s oil refinery in North Vancouver are still distant, he is aware of the “other lighthouse” (OFG, 158 and 332). In his imagination, it represents a dream of home. Gabriola is portrayed as emitting a peculiar, yet regular beam which mingles sensations of hope with invitations and warnings. The spiritually transformed Ethan is the beholder of its charm. Its delightful setting is rendered by Lowry in the following way: ”The ferry reaches Gabriola at dusk, where those meeting the boat are swinging lanterns along the wharf: [. . .] Ethan is now being received by mankind [. . .] Arms are stretched out to help him, help he now has to and is prepared to accept, as he is prepared to give help to man, whom he had formerly grown to hate so much: thus the characters journey toward their own recovery” (SC, II, 699). Although ominous at first, the illuminations transform into a welcoming beacon. It beckons its visitors to differentiate between elusive and genuine images and juxtapose their visions of terrestrial and celestial domains. A sensuous, lyrical scene of Gabriola Island unfolds as the Llewelyns gradually reach their sunset destination. They make out a dark image of pine trees emerging from a fading sky: its jet-black splendor is truly stupefying. The heavens beyond Nanaimo glow red as the mainland’s mountains melt into the twilight. Gabriola looks wild, isolated, primordial, and forbidding.

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In the sky twinkle various stars: Fomalhaut and Capella burn brightly and then Algol (the “Demon Star”) comes into sight, followed by the giant Mira (which borders the Eridanus constellation). Then the panorama descends from the heavens to the earth and the focus switches to a sheltered valley sloping down to the silent harbor. Beyond it, in the depths of the dark forest someone is glimpsed burning tree stumps to clear his land. The Llewelyns hear the sound of cattle lowing and spot a lantern swinging back and forth. A piercing but welcoming voice is carried across the still waters. As their ferry docks they discern a few figures silhouetted by lights gleaming in the dusk (OFG, 332–33). Despite the intolerable strain of recollections of the past which takes its toll on the psychological well-being of Lowry’s protagonists, these impediments are eventually overcome in “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola. Their central love stories, the survival instinct which resists the harsh environment threatening the very existence of Eridanus, and the tinge of anticipated spiritual renaissance stimulate “hope and regeneration.”65 The rejuvenating qualities of these twin, existentialist, eco-poetic works are acknowledged by Malcolm Lowry who contends, “If I have any knowledge of the human psyche at all it is [. . .] a psychological triumph of the first order. [. . .] Here the challenge seemed—& seems—ultimate, a matter of life and death,—& rebirth [. . .] My love for this place & my fear of losing it, nay actual terror, had begun to exceed all bounds. [. . .] And it does have some aesthetic virtues” (SC, II, 664–65). NOTES 1. Sherrill E. Grace, Strange Comfort: Essays on the Work of Malcolm Lowry (Vancouver, BC: Talonbooks, 2009), 45. 2. See Sheryl Salloum, Malcolm Lowry: Vancouver Days (Madeira Park, BC: Harbour, 1987), 18, 19, and 28. 3. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996), I, 473 and 475. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “SC”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 4. Belaney assumed the alias of Grey Owl by making a fraudulent claim of being partly of First Nations origin (of Jicarilla Apache stock), though actually he was born in Hermosillo, Mexico. He became acquainted with Captain Ralfe Allen Fuller Whistler, an ancestor of the ornithologist, Ralfe Whistler—better known as “Dodo Man”—who resides in Hastings in East Sussex. 5. For a discussion of the significance of Benjamin’s essay on the “Work of Art in the Age of Its Technical Reproducibility” (1935–39), see Richard J. Lane, Reading Walter Benjamin: Writing Through the Catastrophe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005), 125–30 and 160–61.

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6. Malcolm Lowry, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” in Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place and Lunar Caustic (London: Pan, 1991), 231. Further references to the latter work (abbreviated to “Forest Path”) are given after quotations in the text. 7. See also Barry Wood, “The Edge of Eternity,” Canadian Literature 70 (Autumn 1976), 51–58, http:​//cin​ema2.​arts.​ubc.c​a/uni​ts/ca​nlit/​pdfs/​artic​les/c​anlit​ 70-Ed​ge(Wo​od).p​df (accessed June 5, 2015), 55. 8. See Jeremy MacClancy, “Anthropology: ‘The latest form of evening entertainment,’” in A Concise Companion to Modernism, ed. David Bradshaw (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 90. 9. Ted R. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman: The Pilgrimages of Conrad Aiken and Walker Percy (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), xi. 10. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman. 11. Sherrill E. Grace, The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1982), 100. 12. Although Lowry claimed that he read The Wood Demon by this Russian Naturalist playwright only in 1952, “The Forest Path to the Spring” and Under the Volcano resemble it in various ways. Chekhov’s misanthropic tree conservationist alludes to Sakhalin Island as a dark wood (as in Dante’s Inferno). A parallel descent of the soul is inferred in Lowry’s choice of the name of the Hotel Casino de la Selva (the Spanish for “wood”) in chapter 1 and in his description of Hugh and Yvonne traversing a dark forest in a trance in chapter 11 of Under the Volcano: see Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 1962), 9 and 318–22. Lowry also refers to the cantina El Bosque (36) and to the Terminal Cantina El Bosque (228) (“bosque” meaning “forest” in Spanish): see Chris Ackerley and David Large, “Under the Volcano: A Hypertextual Companion” (Dunedin, New Zealand: University of Otago, updated June 2012), http:​//www​.otag​o.ac.​nz/en​glish​lingu​istic​s/eng​lish/​lowry​/ (accessed January 8, 2016), 3.7, 30.6, and 225.1. 13. Richard K. Cross, Malcolm Lowry: A Preface to His Fiction (London: Athlone, 1980), 105. See also SC, II, 518 and 524, as well as Grace, Voyage, 102. 14. Malcolm Lowry, Selected Letters, ed. Harvey Breit and Margerie Bonner Lowry (London: Jonathan Cape, 1965), 266. 15. Daniel B. Dodson, Malcolm Lowry (London: Columbia University Press, 1970), 41. 16. Grace, Voyage, 115. 17. Malcolm Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, ed. Douglas Day and Margerie Lowry (London: Penguin, 1972), 69. 18. Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, 26. See Lowry, Selected Letters, 245; and Chris Ackerley and Lawrence J. Clipper, A Companion to “Under the Volcano” (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1984), 414. 19. Lowry, Selected Letters, 245. See also Ackerley and Clipper, A Companion to “Under the Volcano,” 414. 20. F. Kent III Reilly, “Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World,” in The Ancient Civilizations of Mesoamerica: A Reader, ed. Michael E. Smith and Marilyn A. Mason (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), 374.

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21. Reilly, “Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World,” 375. 22. Lowry, Under the Volcano, 376. For further information on nagual and on shamanic human-animal transformation, see F. Kent III Reilly, “Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World,” 374–5. 23. Arthur A. Joyce, Mixtecs, Zapotecs, and Chatinos: Ancient Peoples of Southern Mexico (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 79 and 245. 24. F. Kent III Reilly, “Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World,” 374. 25. See Patrick A. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols: World, Text and Self in Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1994), 206. 26. Malcolm Lowry, Malcolm Lowry’s “La Mordida”: A Scholarly Edition, ed. Patrick A. McCarthy (London: University of Georgia Press, 1996), 216. 27. Grace, Strange Comfort, 63. 28. Ibid., 46. 29. Malcolm Lowry, October Ferry to Gabriola, ed. Margerie Lowry (New York: Plume, 1970), 199. Further references to this work (abbreviated to “OFG”) are given—wherever possible—after quotations in the text. 30. Grace, Voyage, 75. 31. Ignatius Donnelly, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World: Fully Illustrated (Seattle, WA: CreateSpace, 2008), 225. 32. D. A. Brading and Harry E. Cross, “Colonial Silver Mining: Mexico and Peru,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 52, no. 4, 574. 33. See also SC, II, 794. 34. Pierre Schaeffer, “Outgrowing the Alienating Inscape? The Voyage Out in October Ferry to Gabriola.” In Malcolm Lowry’s Poetics of Space, ed. Richard J. Lane and Miguel Mota (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2016), 176. 35. See SC, I, 93 and McCarthy, Forests of Symbols, 169. 36. Ibid. 37. See also SC, II, 951. 38. Ethan’s grandmother was a “fantastical Swedenborgian” (OFG, 29). 39. Grace, Strange Comfort, 48. 40. Ibid., 49. 41. Ibid., 55. 42. Salloum, Malcolm Lowry, 46. 43. Grace, Strange Comfort, 48 and 52. 44. Ibid., 50. 45. Ibid., 51. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid., 50. 49. Frater Achad, Q.B.L., or The Bride’s Reception, ch. 1. In The Qabalistic and Thelemic Works, https​://he​rmeti​c.com​/acha​d/qbl​/qbl-​chapt​er-1 (accessed August 13, 2018). See also Grace, Strange Comfort, 49. 50. Grace, Strange Comfort. 51. SC, II, 694. 52. Grace, Strange Comfort, 49.

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53. Frater Achad [Charles Stansfeld-Jones], The Anatomy of the Body of God Being the Supreme Revelation of Cosmic Consciousness (Chicago: Collegium ad Spiritum Sanctum, 1925), 12. See also Grace, Strange Comfort, 50. 54. Grace, Strange Comfort. 55. Ibid., 61. 56. See also OFG, 20, 123, 137, 159, and 166. 57. Ironically, despite Ethan’s confession that he “hated more than he loved to cut trees,” (Ibid., 279), he acts “with the steady ringing smack of the axe,” as happens at the end of Chekhov’s play, The Cherry Orchard (1904). As a consequence, “a tree shuddered”—a sign that it is an animist being (Ibid.). 58. Grace, Strange Comfort, 61. 59. Schaeffer, “Outgrowing the Alienating Inscape?” 186. 60. M. C. Bradbrook, Malcolm Lowry—His Art & Early Life: A Study in Transformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 101. 61. Grace, Strange Comfort, 46. 62. Schaeffer, “Outgrowing the Alienating Inscape?” 185. 63. Frater Achad, Q.B.L., https​://he​rmeti​c.com​/acha​d/qbl​/qbl-​chapt​er-9 (accessed August 13, 2018). See also Grace, Strange Comfort, 63. 64. Grace, Strange Comfort, 60. 65. Tony Bareham, Malcolm Lowry (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), 124.

Conclusion The Quest for the Regeneration of Civilization—a Taoist Climax

The Kaleidoscopic Vision of Malcolm Lowry strives to capture the essence of its target author's penetrating insight through its panoptic exploration of a substantial selection of his fiction and correspondence. It recognizes the breadth of his heterogenous pursuits, including his fascination for AngloAmerican and European texts and film; Russian literature, cinema, and politics; contemporary Mexico; and the Atlantis myth. It demonstrates his attempts to reconcile these diverse interests by identifying his perception of an interconnectedness between East-West cultures and civilizations—be they Russian, Mexican, Canadian, or Spanish—and their historical heritage. It corroborates his sustained aspirations to attain psychoanalytical atonement through his cathartic writing process. In its contribution to the analysis of international and cosmic modernism, this monograph unveils key themes in Lowry’s literary activities, such as his application of intuitive sensibility to the influence of Aztec and Zapotec cultures on the Mexican Day of the Dead tradition and his yearning for rejuvenation through a higher state of awareness. It explores his treatment of the fissures which have emerged in modern consciousness between the analytical approach of the natural sciences (triggered by the Renaissance and the Enlightenment), on the one hand, and by the perceptive and imaginative techniques of the arts (stimulated by romanticism), on the other. In its examination of Lowry’s outlook on the development of Western civilization, it identifies his cautious stance on relying fully on the rationalism of the scientific revolution at the expense of intuitive and ethical values intrinsic to his brand of modernism. It calls for a new renaissance in intellectual thought to balance these competing perspectives in a judicious manner,1 given Lowry’s focus on “the spiritual centre in man” as “the integrating perceiver of the world.”2 217

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This interdisciplinary investigation reveals the trajectory of his odyssey in search of esoteric ways of spurring renewal by dissociating and reintegrating sensibility to heal the breach which has arisen between reason and feelings. It identifies that the transient inner harmony, which he eventually discovers and depicts in his prose poem, “The Forest Path to the Spring” yields a perception of the wholeness of body and soul commensurate with a Taoist approach to existence. It extends Chen and Xie’s claim that he “subverts and at least partially replaces the dominant Western value-system with that of Taoism.”3 It shows how, having reached the pinnacle of his shamanic pilgrimage to exorcize the memories of his past, he comes to the assumption that the reconciliation of humanity’s dilemmas is attainable through the fusion of its dual minds—the rational and the irrational—to combat specters looming in contemporary world affairs. At the heart of his perspective lies the paradisiacal emblem of Eridanus Gabriola, the appearance of which is detectable in Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid as a harbinger of its manifestation in “The Forest Path to the Spring.” Yet, it is October Ferry to Gabriola which liberates the fetters of traumatic recollections of the past by depicting Ethan Llewelyn’s perceptions of fleeting moments of bliss and his anticipation of the discovery of the elixir of life on Gabriola Island. By psychogeographically juxtaposing East-West cultural value systems, Souls and Shamans discerns the various orientations of Lowry’s metaphysical quest for truth and redemption in his pursuit of a new Atlantis. It highlights his perception of the delusions of an increasingly capitalistic Western civilization expressed in his fiction and correspondence. It identifies his yearning for an alternative approach, as suggested by his portrayal of a Taoist Eridanus through his experiences on the shores of Dollarton’s Burrard Inlet and by his foresight of life on Gabriola Island. He dreams of a more balanced approach to existence than that to which modernity has become accustomed. A fundamental facet of his reasoning is his recognition of the interdependence of the natural sciences and the humanities. He deems a greater awareness of the environment—of its beauty and its symmetrical design—essential for the balanced frame of mind needed to resolve civilization’s predicaments. In his Edenic paradise, political unrest and social turmoil would be reduced by a more prudent attitude to the ecosphere and to human interaction with it. By bridging the “dichotomy between the spontaneous, the intuitive, the natural and the conscious, and the cultural and the unnatural—between ‘the mind of Tao and the human mind’”−he attempts to attain a higher level of consciousness and self-revelation.4 He aspires to determine ways in which mankind can be more in tune with the ecosphere and adapt to the cyclical processes which determine the perpetual symphony of life, death, and renewal portrayed in his literary oeuvres, especially in those set in Mexico.

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In consideration of the impact of Zapotec and Aztec cultures on Lowry’s portrait of the Mexican Day of the Dead festival, Souls and Shamans illuminates how he combines aspects of international modernism with cosmic shamanism in his fiction. It establishes that his progressively Taoist worldview provides a firm basis for psychotherapeutic healing through the application of methods of intuitive perception in his search for regeneration. It synergizes the transcendental animist and cosmological concepts of the universe innate in the celestial mind-sets of the Aztecs and Zapotecs, as perceived by Lowry and his literary protagonists. It traces his efforts to reintegrate modernism with a primitivism based on verisimilitude, rather than idealization, and communicated by ethnographic and artistic means. Underlying factors—for example, the Spanish impact on pre-Columbian, Mesoamerican customs— have −instigated his recognition of the need to atone for the souls of the fallen—be they Aztecs, Zapotecs, or his deceased fictional characters, including the Consul and Juan Fernando in Under the Volcano, Dark as the Grave, La Mordida, “Through the Panama,” and “The Forest Path to the Spring.” Lowry’s trek is an intensely personal one: in his strife for spiritual revival, he is forced to come to terms with the psychogeographically haunting specters of his past. In Under the Volcano and “Through the Panama,” he connects cultural and cosmic realms by incorporating the themes of William Blackstone, the Día de los Muertos, and the Pleiades star-cluster. In his “great battle [. . .] for the survival of the human consciousness,” the dipsomaniac and psychotic Consul tries to unravel mysteries shrouding the eternal wheel of his existence by reflecting on the conquistadores’ aggressive desecration of Mexico and on the consequences of the annihilation of the Aztec Garden of Eden.5 As a result, it is perceived that “modern society has corrupted humanity’s innate ‘goodness’ [. . .] and pristine innocence.”6 According to the Romanian philosopher, Mercia Eliade (1907–1986), “the primitive magician, the medicine man or shaman, is not only a sick man, he is, above all, a sick man who has been cured, who has succeeded in curing himself.”7 In Under the Volcano, the intoxicated Geoffrey Firmin is aware of the repercussions of the “Fall of Man,” banished from the Garden of Eden. He is terrified by a certain sign which reminds him of his responsibilities for the future of humanity: “Le gusta este jardín, que es suyo? ¡Evite que sus hijos lo destruyan!,”8 which is translated as: “Do you like this garden, [. . .] that is yours? See to it that your children do not destroy it!”9 He realizes the need for equilibrium with the environment and for spiritual cleansing to ensure humanity’s longevity. His recognition of its moral obligations has led him to pursue “a new blending of antinomies” in his vain efforts to reconfigure universal elements—the building blocks of life—in order to attain supreme awareness.10 Resorting to the Cabbala, he has pledged to impart joy and the

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“life-giving force of love.”11 Yet, he is incapable of finding the route to true compassion and the key to survival. This monograph sheds light on Lowry’s search for a deeper significance of existence. In Under the Volcano, he transforms the Consul into a shamanic priest who, in his exertions to aspire to spiritual salvation and heal the rifts of modern civilization, delves into the domains of magic and mysticism. However, his dabbling with the presumed, preternatural and supernatural forces of the Cabbala in a quest for ultimate truth peaks not in an attainment of the transcendental power of love and inner tranquillity, but in a loss of “the knowledge of the Mysteries.”12 Calamity is triumphant, as Lowry realizes, for “the garden can be seen not only as the world, or the Garden of Eden, but legitimately as the Cabbala itself, and the abuse of wine [. . .] is identified in the Cabbala with the abuse of magical powers [. . .] à la Childe Harolde.”13 The Consul becomes destined to bear the burden of guilt for transgressions committed by a bellicose world. Ultimately, he must sacrifice himself by dying for its sins: his life is rendered unbearable and his death has become inevitable. However, he is granted an afterlife, albeit in the underworld. In accord with Eliade’s philosophy, Lowry’s perceived demise of mankind gives some hope for a renaissance achievable at the endpoint of transit through the stages of “suffering, death, and resurrection (= rebirth).”14 As we have witnessed, Dark as the Grave reflects the deprivations and disasters experienced in Mexico and interpreted as signs of the Devil. Yet, its art impacts on life by establishing shamanic links with the souls of the dead. Influenced by the publications of Dostoyevsky and Gogol, it raises the concept of an artist as a prophet or visionary. As in the Gogolian demonic short story, “The Portrait” (1835) (which warns of the peril of placing trust in a magic painting as a guarantee of wealth and fame), Dark as the Grave exerts a “primordial natural force, possessing an infinite supply of power and creativity.”15 By focusing on the relationship between an artist and his creation, it exposes a Taoist “lost harmony between mind and world.”16 It reveals a confluence between existence and aesthetic awareness, for “life flowed into art: [. . .] art gives life a form and meaning and flows on into life, [. . .] and [. . .] this flowing, this river [. . .] became a flowing of consciousness, of mind.”17 This aquatic imagery serves as a precedent for the symbolism in the depiction of water as a life-giving force in “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola. Described by his creator as a Dostoyevskian “underground man,” Sigbjørn Wilderness is a doppelganger and a “modern anti-hero.”18 He dreams that he is an executioner of fate and a murderer destined to be deported from Mexico (as, we have seen, happened to Lowry in May 1946). Unable to distinguish between a novel authored by himself or by his daemon, he is shocked by an intuitive suspicion “that he is not a writer so much as being written”—a

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true identity crisis.19 His enigma is akin to that expressed later in The Letter of Lord Chandos (1902). Referring to an author writing about a writer who faces despair and breakdown in an existential crisis, Hugo von Hofmannsthal raises issues reminiscent of the Consul’s attempts to decipher his incoherent phantoms in Under the Volcano. In accord with the concept of cyclical movement—a principle illustrated in Taoist philosophy by the yin/yang circle—the shamanic pursuit of the elusive Juan Fernando Martinez in Dark as the Grave marks a circuitous motion intrinsic to Lowry’s narrative style and philosophy of life.20 Concerned that technological progress is extinguishing rapport with the natural environment, he advocates an approach which champions the “direct and unmediated observation of and contact with nature to gain new knowledge and insight and re-establish a different system of values.”21 His shamanic hero, Sigbjørn traverses his traumatic wilderness on an intended Protean path to paradise in In Ballast to the White Sea, Dark as the Grave, and “Through the Panama.” He foreseeingly peers into the soul of Eridanus, which is transformed into the temporal, spatial, and spiritual heart of the universe in “The Forest Path to the Spring.” Facilitating ecological co-existence with the environment through a harmonious and peaceful interaction with it, Lowry pinpoints the focal point where the all-pervasive, yin and yang elements of the Tao—the “mother of the universe”—are in a state of equilibrium.22 “The Forest Path to the Spring” is a culmination of his creative genius and his philosophy of life, in that it “constitutes an unabashed encomium on the yin [. . .] as a quintessentially vital balancing force.”23 In this aesthetic novella, the narrator’s wife is portrayed as “an integral part of nature,” for she “greatly facilitates her husband’s truly organic integration into it”—a key role played by the real-life Margerie Bonner.24 In the twentieth century, various efforts were made to indicate a way of securing ecospheric balance. Ted Spivey tried to “mold a philosophical view that makes man’s knowledge—his science, that is—a part of his human and natural environments.”25 A similar ideal was pursued by Kandinsky who embarked on a shamanic quest for cultural regeneration in many of his art works. Craving for paradise, the narrator of “The Forest Path to the Spring” possesses attributes which bear a close resemblance to those of a model shaman who, according to Eliade, “can be healer and guide as well as mystic and visionary.”26 He represents Lowry’s identification of the exigency of a neo-Romantic, Benjaminian approach to creating a congruous, Taoist relationship with the natural environment. In this scenario, in aspiring to achieve rapport with its habitat, humanity is viewed as part of nature and nature as part of humanity. Souls and Shamans demonstrates that Lowry’s cumulative perceptions of the universe are illustrated by the observations of the narrator of “The Forest

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Path to the Spring” who intuitively “realizes that humans and cosmos, however tiny or gigantic, are equally subject to the same Taoist laws of relative stillness and absolute movement, as well as to mutability, seasonal and/or cyclical.”27 His utopian vision is illustrated by his glimpse of a house on the beach as he rows toward the shore, observing: It was simple and primitive. But what complexity must there have been in the thing itself to withstand the elemental forces it had to withstand? And suddenly, as I helped my wife out and tied up the boat, I was overwhelmed with a kind of love. Standing there, in defiance of eternity, and yet as if in humble answer to it, with their weathered sidings as much part of the natural surroundings as a Shinto temple is of the Japanese landscape, why had these shacks come to represent something to me of an indefinable goodness, even a kind of greatness?28

Lowry’s lyrical novella makes a strong plea for an intuitive animist and shamanistic attunement with nature, as observed by the narrator: “Often all you could see in the whole world of the dawn was a huge sun with two pines silhouetted in it, like a great blaze behind a Gothic cathedral. And at night the same pines would write a Chinese poem on the moon.”29 Paradoxically, the sky’s nocturnal, lunar stillness (associated with yin in the Taoist system of values) is the time when “little shellfish called Chinese Hats [. . .] are on the move!”30 A backward reading of Lowry’s terminology (transforming “hats” into “stah,” or even into “star”) infers an equilibrium in the motion of nature’s vast universe. In his constant attempts to discern interconnections between East-West civilizations and cultures, Lowry eventually resorts to Taoist concepts derived from philosophy and cosmology. Applying them to his ecological exploration of the ebb and flow of nature, he reaches the peak of his longstanding pursuit of an esoteric clue to the mysteries of existence by attaining universal, yin-yang congruity. He deciphers the significance of the two ubiquitous, intergalactic symbols, which he has been shadowing: Eridanus and the Pleiades. Relating the terrestrial to the cosmic and the natural to the supernatural, he connects with “The Way” of the Tao—a path which eluded the Consul in Under the Volcano. Regenerated into the narrator of “The Forest Path to the Spring,” he paraphrases the intertext of Tao Te Ching, the principles of which are a feature of Confucianism, Chán, and Zen Buddhism.31 An “immanent, not transcendental” phenomenon, the Tao “designates the inherent laws governing the changes and movements of all cosmic substances and natural objects.”32 Commanding Lowry’s attention, it assumes a recurring theme in “The Forest Path to the Spring.” Therein, its wave-like, monistic omnipresence pre-dates the birth of heaven (yang) and of earth (yin). The narrator contemplates:

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At such a time of stillness, at the brief period of high tide before the ebb, it was like what I have learned the Chinese call the Tao, that, they say, came into existence before Heaven and Earth, something so still, so changeless, and yet reaching everywhere, and in no danger of being exhausted: like “that which is so still and yet passes on in constant flow, and in passing on, becomes remote, and having become remote, returns.”33

By applying nature’s “law of relative stillness and absolute movement” to the sphere of humanity, Lowry reshapes his vision of the worlds of humanity and nature.34 He does so in accordance with the principles of Taoism, stressing the importance of balance, harmony, and peace: “The Taoist or Edenic Eridanus thus epitomizes his ideal world of existence.”35 In emphasizing the need for a harmonious interaction with the natural environment, the Tao promotes the appreciation of a primal, intuitive, and integral innocence. “The Forest Path to the Spring” alludes to the “shadow of the truth” which enlightens the narrator and penetrates his soul.36 This sentiment is presented as a “feeling of something that man had lost, of which these shacks and cabins, brave against the elements, but at the mercy of the destroyer, were the helpless yet stalwart symbol, of man’s hunger and need for beauty, for the stars and the sunrise”—qualities which were sought in Under the Volcano.37 The resultant amicable interface with nature is achieved by life processes relating to the energy flow of Qi, or Chi. It is based on a perceived balance in the universe by means of which the Tao enables the transformation of yin (representing the moon and rain) into its opposite, yang (the sun and the earth), and vice-versa. The elliptical movement of the Pleiades constellation and its relationship to the centrifugal motion of the universe is expressed by Lowry’s juxtaposition of the scientific and meteorological with the experiential and philosophical. His astute vision zooms in on a rain droplet falling on an image of the Tao as it kisses the ocean: Each drop falling into the sea is like a life, [. . .] each producing a circle in the ocean, or the medium of life itself, and widening into infinity, though it seems to melt into the sea, and become invisible [. . .]. Each is interlocked with other circles falling about it, some are larger circles expanding widely and engulfing others, some are weaker, smaller circles that seem to last a short while. But last night I had seen something new [. . .] a school of little fishes breaking the still water just beneath [. . .]. Then we saw that the whole dark water was covered with bright expanding phosphorescent circles. [. . .] As the rain fell into the phosphorescent water each raindrop expanded into a ripple that was translated into light. And the rain itself was water from the sea, as my wife first taught me, raised to heaven by the sun, transformed into clouds, and falling again into the sea. While within the inlet itself the tides and currents in that sea returned, became remote, and becoming remote, like that which is called the Tao, returned again as we ourselves had done.38

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It is through his sensuously Romantic appreciation of raindrops, rainbows, and a “deer swimming towards the lighthouse”39—vivid beacons of survival—that Lowry overcomes the timidity of Hilliot depicted in Ultramarine. Optimizing physical and mental health and well-being in “The Forest Path to the Spring,” he displays an acute awareness of the illusion created by particles in a state of flux which appear to merge into a single, transcendental entity. He is conscious of their inherent cyclical movement, to which the anthroposophist Theodor Schwenk refers as “the cosmic qualities of water, where the superior powers of the harmonies of the spheres have transformed the inner quality of the moving water.”40 Having revealed his shamanic sorcery, he consolidates “the point where above meets below and so reconciles also the point where magician and mystic become one—the axis of love.”41 Incarnated in “seagulls with their angelic wings, coming home to rest,” the spirits of Eridanus and Gabriola Island represent a cryptic bond between the realms of the natural and the supernatural, the astronomical and the astrological.42 In recognizing the necessity to repent for—and prevail over—the debts of the past and the sins of an alienating humanity, Malcolm Lowry has achieved shamanically the revolution of the soul predicted in In Ballast to the White Sea. He acclaims the fact that—in accordance with the Copernican Revolution—the Earth is enveloped by an extensive, elliptical cosmos which does not orbit it. His wide-ranging perspectives are linked by his recognition of the importance of the Pleiades, the Eridanuses of Dollarton and Gabriola Island (a beckoning ecospheric emblem of rejuvenation) and, last but not least, the equilibrial concepts of Taoism. Inspired by the notion of universal harmony, he has redressed the “reigning imbalances, natural and social” via a psychogeographic, multicultural pilgrimage climaxing in October Ferry to Gabriola.43 He can now break free from the shackles of his past, having established the aesthetic and ethical principles which he deems vital for the survival and regeneration of civilization. NOTES 1. For Aiken’s observations, see Ted R. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman: The Pilgrimages of Conrad Aiken and Walker Percy (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), 158. 2. Barry Wood, “The Edge of Eternity,” Canadian Literature 70 (Autumn 1976), 51–8, http:​//cin​ema2.​arts.​ubc.c​a/uni​ts/ca​nlit/​pdfs/​artic​les/c​anlit​70-Ed​ge(Wo​od).p​df (accessed June 5, 2015), 55. 3. John (Zhong) Ming Chen and Shaobe Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature 20, nos 3–4 (September–December 1993): 370, http:​//ejo​urnal​s.lib​rary.​ualbe​rta.c​a/ind​ex.ph​p/crc​l/art​icle/​view/​3203/​2560 (accessed June 5, 2015).

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4. Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 373. 5. Perle S. Epstein, The Private Labyrinth of Malcolm Lowry: “Under the Volcano” and the Cabbala (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969), 50. 6. Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 374. 7. Mircea Eliade, Shamanism, Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Pantheon Books, 1964), 27, cited in Ted R. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman: The Pilgrimages of Conrad Aiken and Walker Percy (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), 8. 8. Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano (London: Penguin, 1962), 235. Earlier the Consul mistranslates it as: “You like this garden? Why is it yours? We evict those who destroy!” (Lowry, Under the Volcano, 132). 9. Lowry, Under the Volcano, 235. 10. Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 377. 11. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, 15. 12. Epstein, The Private Labyrinth of Malcolm Lowry, 27. 13. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996): I, 595. 14. Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane, trans. William R. Trask (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1959), 196, cited in Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, 183. 15. Ku-ying Ch’en, Lao Tzu: Text, Notes, and Comments, trans. Rhett Y. W. Young and Roger T. Ames (Taipei: Chinese Materials Center, 1981), quoted in Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 359. 16. Malcolm Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, ed. Douglas Day and Margerie Lowry (London: Penguin, 1972), 60. 17. Lowry, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid. 18. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 538 and Lowry, Dark as the Grave, 7 and 70–1. 19. Lowry, Selected Letters, 332. 20. See Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 362. 21. Ibid., 374. 22. Ibid., 358. 23. Ibid., 357. 24. Ibid., 377. 25. Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, 187. 26. Mircea Eliade, “The Yearning for Paradise in Primitive Tradition,” in The Making of Myth, ed. Richard M. Ohmann (New York: G. P. Putnam, 1962), cited in Spivey, The Writer as Shaman, xiii. 27. Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 376. 28. Malcolm Lowry, “The Forest Path to the Spring,” in “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic,” (London: Pan, 1991), 233–4. 29. Lowry, “The Forest Path,” 216. 30. Ibid., 237. 31. Wood, “The Edge of Eternity,” 55. 32. Ibid., 359. 33. Lowry, “Forest Path,” 236. 34. Wood, “The Edge of Eternity,” 371.

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35. Ibid., 357. 36. Lowry, “Forest Path,” 234 37. Ibid. 38. Ibid., 285–6. 39. Ibid., 287. 40. Theodor Schwenk, Sensitive Chaos: The Creation of Flowing Forms in Water and Air (New York: Schoken Books, 1978), 121. Founded by Rudolph Steiner, anthroposophy is regarded as an esoteric philosophy influenced by European transcendentalism and theosophy. 41. Epstein, The Private Labyrinth of Malcolm Lowry, 11. 42. Lowry, “Forest Path,” 287. 43. Chen and Xie, “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao,” 377.

Epilogue Malcolm Lowry’s Last Days

Malcolm was fated not to remain in Canada: under the threat of eviction and taxation in two countries, he was urged by his wife Margerie Bonner to travel to Europe to avert a deterioration of her health in Vancouver’s relatively cold, winter climate.1 The Lowrys departed from Dollarton at the end of August 1954 to embark upon their last expedition to his homeland. Travelling there via Los Angeles, New York (where they met Conrad Aiken), and Italy, they eventually arrived in the United Kingdom in early July 1955. Malcolm’s own “situation was perilous both psychologically and physically,” though at least he could benefit from free NHS (national health service) treatment.2 On the advice of a Dr. Michael Raymond at Atkinson Morley’s Hospital in London (where he received psychiatric treatment for alcoholism), they moved into The White Cottage in the hamlet of Ripe in Sussex in early February 1956.3 He optimistically maintained, “I have exultant hopes for the future & know I shall love the house in Ripe” as “it is really an 18th century poet’s paradise.”4 However, it was to be “the only haven Lowry would find in England.”5 Unlike Margerie, he initially abstained from liquor, but old habits soon returned, leading to a diagnosis that he was “a manic-depressive” and maybe “an alcoholic psychopath.”6 Banned from the Lamb Inn in Ripe on May 31, 1956, for disorderly behavior, he became unsettled further after a summer holiday in the Lake District (see figure E.1).7 Grasmere reminded him of the destruction of his pier in the storm which had raged across Dollarton on June 22, 1955.8 The seventeenth-century Yew Tree Inn in Chalvington gave him some relief, but an intense argument back at The White Cottage led to a complex chain of events, resulting in his death by “misadventure” at the age of forty-seven, as recorded by the coroner on June 27, 1957.9 He was buried in the grounds of the thirteenth-century Parish Church of St. John the Baptist in Ripe, as was his wife in 1988. A fitting epitaph to his complex modernist 227

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Figure E.1  Malcolm Lowry at Easedale Tarn, Lake District. Source: England, June 1957 (Priscilla Woolfan), Rare Books and Special Collections, UBC, BC 1614/123.

vision is provided by his biographer, Gordon Bowker (1934–2019), who asserts, “His sense of life’s mystery was satisfied by a strong and enduring belief in supernatural powers which determine our fates, and he saw coincidences and other strange events as manifestations of such powers.”10 AN ENDURING LEGACY Since his death, there has been increasing international interest in his life and works, many of which have been edited and published posthumously in critical and scholarly editions, as indicated in the chronology and bibliography in this current monograph. Various symposia, colloquia, conferences, lectures, seminars, and cultural events relating to him have been held in universities and other venues across the globe. His oeuvres have inspired numerous works of fiction and outputs in the visual and performing arts. Conferences, Cultural Events, and Reviews International Malcolm Lowry conferences and symposia have been held at the following and other universities: East Anglia at Norwich (1978); Goldsmiths’

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College in London (First International Lowry Conference) (1984); UBC in Vancouver (International Malcolm Lowry Symposium) (1987);11 Toronto (1997); and Antwerp (2005). Subsequent events include the “Malcolm Lowry: Fifty Years On International Symposium” at the University of Sussex (June 27, 2007); the “2009 Malcolm Lowry Centenary International Conference” at UBC in Vancouver (July 23–25); and “Under the Volcano: An Exhibition for Malcolm Lowry, 1909–1957” in Liverpool (September 25–November 22, 2009). Curated by Bryan Biggs, artistic director at the Bluecoat, its highlights comprised dance, music, and poetry performances, film screenings, and talks.12 The “Malcolm Lowry, Encore International Conference” was held at the Centre Cultural International de Cerisy-la-Salle in France (June 27– July 4, 2012); “The Mexican Day of the Dead: Interdisciplinary Perspectives Symposium” was organized by the University of Kent at Canterbury Cathedral Lodge (November 2, 2012); and “Under the Volcano: 70 Years On: An International Malcolm Lowry Conference” took place at Liverpool John Moores University and the Bluecoat, Liverpool (July 28–29, 2017). Many Lowry-related functions have been held in Mexico—particularly in Cuernavaca, Morelos—coordinated by the Malcolm Lowry Foundation, the Museo de la Casona Spencer, and the Cartonera publishing group, with the involvement of researchers from various universities and cultural institutions. International colloquia have taken place at the Centro Nacional de las Artes (1999) in Mexico City and in Cuernavaca, where the first was on November 2, 2002; the second and third at the University of Morelos on November 2, 2007 and July 28, 2009; respectively, and the first Lowryan Day on February 21, 2008.13 A key event which bore a specific accolade was the “4th International Malcolm Lowry Colloquium: A Tribute to Raúl Ortiz y Ortiz.” It was held under the auspices of the Malcolm Lowry Foundation/Museo de la Casona Spencer on November 2, 2010. It was followed by the “Under the Volcano Round Table at the International Malcolm Lowry Colloquium” (October 30–November 2, 2014). Edited by Dany Hurpin, Nayeli Sánchez, et al., illustrated, Lowry-related books arising from the proceedings of these events are released periodically by the Cuernavacan branch of the Cartonera publishing movement. Canada has been a nucleus of literary and cultural events and publications relating to Lowry. Generations of enthusiasts have been inspired by The Malcolm Lowry Newsletter (1977–1984) and The Malcolm Lowry Review (1984–2002), the founding editor being Professor Emeritus Paul Tiessen of Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario. Irwin Oostindie co-founded one of Canada’s major annual political arts events, the “Under the Volcano Festival of Art and Social Change,” which ran in Cates Park, North Vancouver, from 1990 until 2010. To mark the anniversary of Lowry’s trip, a

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weeklong series of events was held on Gabriola Island on October 1–6, 2016 under the auspices of the Friends of the Gabriola Library, the Gabriola Historical and Museum Society, the Ferry Advisory Committee, and the Gabriola Arts Council. The program, which was entitled “Malcolm Lowry: 70th Anniversary Visit to Gabriola,” included a scholarly presentation, performances of Charlotte Cameron’s “October Ferries to Gabriola: A Radio Play for Five Actors” (with Drew Staniland and the Twilight Radio Theatre), as well as film and documentary screenings. Liverpool too has been a vibrant cultural center for Malcolm Lowry-related functions. Seminars, workshops, and exhibitions in the literary, visual, and performing arts—such as the “Lowry Lounge”—continue at the Bluecoat on, or near, the Day of the Dead (November 2). The Firminist: A Malcolm Lowry Journal—edited by Mark Goodall and I. Q. Hunter—is published jointly by the University of Bradford and the Bluecoat. WORKS INFLUENCED OR INSPIRED BY MALCOLM LOWRY Fiction Selections from Lowry’s literary works have appeared in several Canadian poetry collections, for example, in The Penguin Book of Canadian Verse14 and in Vancouver Poetry, which was released during that city’s centennial celebrations in 1986.15 “In Memoriam: Ingvald Bjorndal and His Comrade [A Bottle from the Sea]”—a 1940 poem dedicated to Nordahl Grieg—was published in a British Columbian, elementary-school textbook used in the 1980s.16 As Kathleen Scherf reveals, Lowry’s verses—memorializing “the sea [. . .] the green meadows and the blue fjords”—comprise an English translation of a letter which was written originally in Norwegian somewhere in the North Atlantic.17 It was discovered by a fisherman, Hubert Duclos, in a bottle by the sea near L’Étang-du-Nord (a community in the municipality of Îles-de-la-Madeleine, Quebec) and dispatched to the Canadian Government.18 A broad range of fiction (including poems, short stories, novels, and radio/ filmscripts) has been inspired by Lowry’s works. The first edition of El Farolito was published by La Sociedad Internacional de Amigos de Malcolm Lowry (SIAML) in Valencia, Mexico, in 1967.19 It consists of four pages of newspaper-style content in Spanish. According to Katalin Cserjés, the Hungarian writer, Péter Hajnóczy (1942–1981) was influenced profoundly by the intertextual themes of Under the Volcano and other Lowryan writings.20 His novella, A halál kilovagolt Perzsiából (1979) served the basis for the film, Death Rode out of Persia, which was directed by Putyi Horváth and screened

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at the 2005 Turin Festival. It uses the cinematic technique of montage to reflect autobiographically on the suffering-striven life of a dipsomaniac and to focus on the phases of the hero’s inner story. In the 1980s and 1990s a stream of Lowry-inspired works of fiction appeared, commencing with Bill Greenwell’s poem, Malcolm Lowry at 70 which was released in 1980.21 Wolf Wondratschek’s cycle of verses, Die Einsamkeit der Männer: Mexikanische Sonette (Lowry-Lieder) was published in German in 1983.22 Intertidal Life—a 1984 novel by the Gulf Island writer, Audrey Thomas—contains references to “The Forest Path to the Spring” and October Ferry to Gabriola.23 Sharon Thesen’s Confabulations: Poems for Malcolm Lowry also came out that year.24 Vancouver Short Stories (1985) contains a tale by Frances Duncan entitled, “Was that Malcolm Lowry?”25 Fletcher Markle’s radio adaptation of Under the Volcano and Margerie Bonner Lowry’s proposal for a movie version—“Under the Volcano: A Film Proposal”—appeared in 1992.26 Other writers claiming to have been influenced by Lowry include J. G. Farrell in The Lung (1965); Allen Ginsberg; Graham Greene in The Honorary Consul (1973); Guillermo Cabrera Infante; B. S. Johnson in Travel, Gabriel García Márquez; Allan Massie; Robert Nye; and Salman Rushdie.27 Among twenty-first century representations are works by the Merseyside artist, Paul Rooney, who inserted an excerpt from Lunar Caustic in Wrongteous, a compendium of visual art and short fiction in 2008.28 Chris Ackerley composed a libretto for an operatic version of Under the Volcano in c. 2012. In American Smoke (2013), Iain Sinclair humorously portrays Lowry as a “lobster-complexioned, pipe-chewing Englishman, in [. . .] baggy flannels unsecured with golf-tie.”29 He claims that he is “misadept at a spread hand of magical systems”30 and a voyaging poet who has found solitary penance in “Bellevue towers.”31 He interprets Burra’s eerie painting, The Church Yard, Rye (1959–1961) as a commemoration of Lowry’s tragic death.32 The French writer, Patrick Deville, set his 2014 novel, Viva in 1930s Cuernavaca and Mexico City, with Leon Trotsky and Malcolm Lowry as protagonists.33 I, Bartleby—a 2015 collection of imaginative short stories on writing and writers by the Canadian author Meredith Quartermain—contains a piece on the Lowrys.34 In her various collections (many of which are set in Liverpool), Ailsa Cox, professor of Short Fiction at Edge Hill University has been inspired by Malcolm’s “orchestration of voices and images, the layering of time and the intensity of prose style.”35 Essays and Reflections There has been published a range of discourses on Lowry’s milieu, including the July–August 1960 issue of the periodical, Les Lettres Nouvelles.36 Justine

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Brown’s All Possible Worlds: Utopian Experiments in British Columbia (1995) explores that province’s attraction to utopian thinkers through stories of their idealistic communities.37 Hernán Lara Zavala—a distinguished novelist and professor of English Literature at the National Autonomous University of Mexico—reveals his fidelities in “Las poéticas de Bajo el volcán” (2002).38 In Malcolm Lowry’s “Under the Volcano”: Bookmarked (2017), David Ryan reflects on how that novel has affected his life and work.39 In Mudflat Dreaming (2018), Jean Walton refers to two marginalized British Columbia communities living in mudflats in the Vancouver area.40 Meditating on the theme of belonging, she makes constant references to Lowry. Media Broadcasts, Films, and Situationism The media has taken an interest in the life and works of Malcolm Lowry by commissioning a series of broadcasts commencing in the late 1960s. Directed by Gavin Millar and Tristram Powell, the television documentary, Rough Passage: A Life of Malcolm Lowry, was produced by Melvyn Bragg for BBC Two in 1967. A dramatization of Under the Volcano by Eric Ewans—starring Paul Scofield—was transmitted on BBC Radio 4 on May 1–15, 1971.41 BBC Radio produced a documentary, The Lighthouse Invites the Storm that same year and a three-hour dramatization of Under the Volcano in 1979.42 The latter was accompanied by a jazz piece performed by the bassist, bandleader, and composer, Graham Collier (1937–2011).43 There was a 2007 follow-up to the 1971 documentary. It was entitled Malcolm Lowry: The Lighthouse Invites the Storm and featured the science-fiction writer, Trevor Hoyle exploring Lowry’s life and work. More recently, the poet, Ian McMillan and Bryan Biggs have been interviewed in Great Lives, a BBC Radio 4 program on Malcolm Lowry broadcasted on April 23, 2019.44 Following on from Luis Buñuel’s film, Los Olvidados (The Forgotten aka The Young and the Damned) (1950) (whose hero meets the same fate as Under the Volcano’s Consul),45 a range of movies and documentaries on Lowry have been made in the 1970s onwards. These include the Oscar-nominated film, Volcano: An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Malcolm Lowry. Directed by Donald Brittain and John Kramer, it was released by the National Film Board of Canada in 1976. According to the German co-producer, Wieland SchulzKeil, as many as sixty-six screenplays were written for various directors before the Academy Award-nominated feature film, Under the Volcano was released in 1984.46 Directed by John Huston and starring Albert Finney, it was shown at the Cannes Film Festival and distributed by Universal Pictures and 20th Century Fox. The documentary, Malcolm Lowry en México (1987)— produced and directed by Maestro Óscar Menéndez—was premiered in Cuernavaca and Mexico City on July 28, 1989.47 A film installation by Ross

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Birrell and David Harding entitled Cuernavaca: A Journey in Search of Malcolm Lowry was commissioned by Kunsthalle Basel in Switzerland in 2006. After Lowry (2010)—directed by Miguel Mota—was filmed in Cates Park, Dollarton, and Malcolm Lowry at the River’s Mouth (c. 2012)—produced by Colin Dilnot—focuses mainly on the Wirral and Liverpool in its audiovisual display of postcards, film excerpts, and sound recordings from Lowry’s era. The style and themes of Under the Volcano had a profound impact on the filmmaker, writer, and Marxist philosopher, Guy Debord (1931–1994), who played a key role in the founding of two highly influential, post-war, avantgarde movements, Letterist International (LI) (1952–1957) and Situationist International (SI) (1957–1972). The former was a Paris-based collective of radical artists and theorists, whereas the latter was an international organization of avant-garde artists, intellectuals, and social revolutionaries. As Mark Goodall has demonstrated, Debord was influenced biographically—by Lowry’s escape from urbanity and his intense relationship with alcohol—and creatively, by his honing of “cinematic” prose.48 The situationist techniques—linking the dérive’s mode of experimental behavior with the conditions of urban society and adopting psychogeography and détournement’s integration of artistic productions—are reminiscent of Lowry’s stream-of-consciousness style. Parallels between the lives and works of him and Debord are particularly strong in the latter’s film about the joys and sorrows of existence, In Girum Imus Nocte et Consumimur Igni (1978). Applying the techniques of the dérive and detournement, Debord trails Lowry in his investigations of demonic fire, jazz music, and the circularity of time.49 His scrutiny of humanity’s impending destruction—of itself and of the natural environment—has been viewed as a “coruscating attack on advanced capitalism, on the spectacle” and a lament “for the lost youth of postwar rebellion” and “the crassness of the modern world.”50 The Letterist International and Situationist International movements were inspired by the “complex, Churrigueresque structure” of Formulary for a New Urbanism (1953) authored by the French activist, poet, and political theorist, Ivan Chtcheglov (1933–1998), who considered the dérive a form of psychoanalysis.51 In his article, “They Write to Us of Vancouver” (1954) the Quebec writer of French origin, Patrick Straram (1934–1988) paid tribute to Lowry, mimicking both his and the Consul’s alcohol consumption.52 The SI admired the Lowryan method of capturing the human spirit in crisis and modernity’s failure to come to terms with the dreadful reality of its existence. It followed Lowry by seeking salvation in alcohol, love, nature, and poetry.53 Musical and Dramatic Performances Numerous concerts have been held and albums released in honor of Malcolm Lowry. Graham Collier premiered a musical and prose tribute to him—entitled

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The Day of the Dead—in 1977. Commissioned by the Ilkley Literature Festival, it featured some of the United Kingdom’s leading jazz players. A second composition, October Ferry & Triptych was premiered in Budapest in the same year.54 Collier launched two albums inspired by Lowry, Symphony of Scorpions (1977) and The Day of the Dead (1978). The former includes the track, “The Forest Path to the Spring” and the latter “October Ferry.” The following plays were staged in the 1980s. Premiered in Nanaimo, British Columbia, on July 5, 1984, Michael Mercer’s Goodnight Disgrace dramatized the relationship between Malcolm Lowry and Conrad Aiken.55 Based on Under the Volcano, The Slow Darkening of Paintings was directed by Jerzy Grzegorzewski (1939–2005) from the Polish National Theatre and performed at the Studio Theatre, Warsaw, in 1985. The 1990s brought a succession of concerts and even a nightclub. Eridanus Op. 101: In Memory of Malcolm Lowry—composed by the Canadian classical music educator, Michael Conway Baker—was premiered in 1994. Performances were held in Berlin by the German band, Malcolm Lowry, which released various albums in the latter part of the decade. Established by Michael Turner in Vancouver, the Malcolm Lowry Room nightclub appeared in September 1993 and functioned at 4125 East Hastings until March 1996.56 The British cult band, Malcolm Lowry performed in the Berlin club scene between 1998 and 2001, producing its first full-length CD in autumn 1999. Setting a melancholic tone, its independent sound and unconventional instrumentation bridged musical styles. Instruments ranged from the cimbalom to guitars (1960s surf and bass), minimal drums, and even a vibraphone. The twenty-first century heralded the release of a series of albums and musical pieces inspired by Malcolm Lowry. They include James Tyson’s The Lights that Grow Brighter at Dusk! (2009)—a song cycle which captures and reflects on movement, rhythms, and sounds in Lowry’s poems about nature, the sea, and life in Mexico and Canada. Also set to such verses, the album, Sois Patient Car le Loup (2011)—by the French jazz clarinet-player and composer, Catherine Delaunay (with John Greaves, Isabelle Olivier, and Thierry Lhiver)—involves a range of instruments, including the clarinet, trombone, and ukulele. Working under the stage name “Loscil,” the Vancouver indie musician, Scott Morgan published two limited edition Lowry items on the Irish music label, Wist Rec in 2012–2013. The first, City Hospital/Lunar Caustic comprises a paperback of the novella, with a mini CD of electronic music attached in a translucent jacket printed in black. The following rubber stamp appears on the title page: “Book Report, 100 copies.” Also called City Hospital, the second one consists of nine pieces of ephemera and a 3” CD in a 350 copy edition. The Austrian writer, composer, guitarist, and lutenist, Alfred Polansky released a CD under the label, The Malcolm Lowry Project: Songs Between Heaven and Hell in 2017. In the same year, Charlotte

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Cameron’s October Ferries to Gabriola was published. Blending fact with fiction, this play journeys back and forth from 1946 to the present day as it juxtaposes the lives of Malcolm and Margerie Bonner Lowry with the plight of a twenty-first-century couple.57 Developed by Alan Dunn, Martin Heslop, and Jeff Young in collaboration with Mariners’ Park, The Lighthouse Invites the Storm: Malcolm Lowry’s Wirral was performed in Liverpool’s Bluecoat Gallery in July 2017, on the occasion of the “Under the Volcano”: 70 Years On international conference. Co-commissioned by Liverpool John Moores University to mark the seventieth anniversary of Under the Volcano; this series of events—which included an exhibition—reconnected Malcolm Lowry with his birthplace. Working with retired seafarers from the Wirral and sound artists from Mexico and Yorkshire, New Brighton’s nautical landmarks were re-imagined in the show through a series of lyrical poems and musical stormscapes driven by the tides of the River Mersey. The project resulted in a digital album by Phil Legard (with Balam Ronan) entitled “Dolente . . . Dolore: The Inferno of Malcolm Lowry” (2017). Artwork Exhibitions Displays by British, Canadian, Chilean, Chinese, Italian, Mexican, and Polish artists influenced or inspired by Malcolm Lowry have been held throughout the world. Exhibited in the Mexican Cultural Centre in Paris in May–June 1994, the vivid, collaged mural—El Via Crucis del Cónsul (The Consul’s Way of the Cross) by the Mexican Artist Alberto Gironella (1929–1999)—is a stunning reflection on the narrative relating to the Consul in Under the Volcano.58 A statement of caution toward frantic consumerism, it illustrates the 1992 deluxe, Spanish translation of that novel. The Piccola suite per Malcolm Lowry (1995) cycle of drawings by an Italian under the name of Giorgio Bertelli was exhibited in 1996. The Vancouver-based, Polish artist and printmaker, Andrzej Brakoniecki relates to Lowry in two series of paintings depicting the world in motion. Adopting the theme Eridanus, the first was exhibited at the BWA Gallery in Olsztyn, Poland, in 2002. Entitled Malcolm Lowry, the second one was displayed in Seymour Art Gallery, North Vancouver, in 2004. Curated by Adam Szymczyk, the exhibition, “Quauhnahuac: Die Gerade ist eine Utopie (The Straight Line is a Utopia)” was held at the Kunsthalle Basel between October 1 and November 12, 2006. It brought together contemporary artists to “investigate the idea of journey” linked to Lowry and Under the Volcano.59 Between 2007 and 2008, various Malcolm Lowry-inspired exhibitions were held in North America. Influenced by Under the Volcano, the internationally recognized, Cuernavaca-based artist, Cisco Jímenez—who contributed to

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Quauhnahuac at Kunsthalle Basel in 2006—displayed at the 22nd Annual Day of the Dead at Lawndale Art Center, Houston, in 2007. Prints by the Chilean artist, Jorge Martínez Garcia, professor of drawing and painting at the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Valparaíso were exhibited in “Under the Volcano” and Other Works: Interpreting the Writings of Malcolm Lowry in the Craig Scott Gallery, Toronto, in 2007. An exhibition relating to Lowry by the Mexican painter, sculptor, and graphic artist, “El Maestro Francisco Toledo: Art from Oaxaca, 1959–2006” was hosted by Princeton University Art Museum in 2007–2008. Subsequently, Liverpool, Vancouver, and Frankfurt have been foci for expositions of Lowry-related artworks. Entitled Under the Volcano and created by figurative methods, a series of seven abstract, narrative paintings was completed by Julian Cooper in the 1980s and later exhibited in a group collection in the Bluecoat Gallery, Liverpool in 2009.60 In his 1998 artworks, Calaveras for Catherine and The Day of the Dead, Hope Street, the Birkenhead painter, poet, and musician, Adrian Henri (1932–2000) set the Dia de los Muertos festival in contemporary Liverpool.61 At the “2009 Malcolm Lowry Centenary Exhibition” were displayed three spiritually inspired oils on canvas by Pete Flowers: “Skulls and Flowers—Las Calaveras y las Flores” (2008), “Skeleton Angels—Los Esqueletos Angelicos” (2008), and “Prayer for Consul” (2009).62 In “Bellevue,” Paul Rooney draws on Lowry’s experience in that New York hospital. Cuernavaca: A Journey in Search of Malcolm Lowry comprised an installation and documentary film influenced by the latter’s layering process and produced by the Glaswegian artists, Ross Birrell and David Harding.63 Cian Quayle—a practicing artist, curator, and Manx writer at the University of Chester—investigated Lowry’s fascination with the “mythological Eden” of the Isle of Man (which the latter visited on holiday as a child).64 There was an exhibition of Jímenez’s mixed media sculptures. They refer to aspects of Lowry’s life: “Two Atoms Connected”—to his drinking habits, “Necklace”—to his golfing abilities, “Peddler”—to Under the Volcano’s imagery and folklore, and “AK47 Barroca”—to violence in Mexico.65 Commissioned by the Vancouver Art Gallery, the installation, “From Shangri-La to Shangri-La” by the Chinese-Canadian artist and educator, Ken Lum, was exhibited outside the Shangri-La Hotel during the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics and remains on permanent display in the Maplewood Flats Conservation Area. It is based on Lum’s one-third-scale replicas of squatters’ shacks, including Lowry’s at Dollarton, which used to exist in North Vancouver. The exhibition, “You Like This Garden?” by Ross Birrell, David Harding, and Douglas Gordon was held at Portikus, Frankfurt, from November 18, 2011 until January 22, 2012. In 2017, an installation of Lowry-related photographs by Cian Quayle was shown at the Bluecoat Gallery in Liverpool. The collection, “Detours and

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Dislocations–Liverpool/Isle of Man/Vancouver: In the footsteps of Malcolm Lowry” was exhibited in the Williamson Art Gallery, Birkenhead, from July 7 until August 26, 2018. It traced the significance of journeys, exile cultures, and altered relationships with place, reconfiguring Lowryan destinations. A series of collages entitled “The Aztec Diary” by the Wirral-based artist and writer, Colin Dilnot, appeared in the Bluecoat. Other artworks motivated by a Lowry-related fascination include a colorfully expressive Under the Volcano series (2008) by Ray Lowry (1944– 2008)66 and “Malcolm Lowry he Lived Nightly: an Art on a Ukulele” project in oil by the British-born artist, Peter Layzell. The painting “Bajo el volcán: A Homage to Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano” by the Spanish artist, sculptor, architect, and activist, César Manrique (1919–1992) is on display at the International Museum of Contemporary Art, Lanzarote, in the Canary Islands. Inspired by David Nash’s sculpture, Julian Andrews has asserted that “one of the books he had been studying which still has continuing influence on him was the novel Under the Volcano.”67 Similarly motivated, the Dutch artist, Ton Leenarts, has produced a series of exhibited artworks relating to Malcolm Lowry and set in an imaginary Oaxaca. The Canadian artist, Ron Bolt, has designed images based on citations from the latter’s works. JeanPaul Chambas’s Lowry murals are visible in the Metro Bellas Artes station in Mexico City and a copy of “Abraza la vida Abraza la muerte” (“Embrace Life, Embrace Death”)—an engraving by Alejandro Aranda—in the Estrella, a small cantina in Cuernavaca. They express Mexican myths, legends, fantasies, customs, and sociopolitical reality. The professional photographer, Antonio Berlanga—also based in that city—captures the splendor of Mexico’s culture and its inexhaustible artistic heritage in his shots. Some seven kilometers northwest of the coastal Compton Mountain and Metslaka Keta in British Columbia, there exists a vast, icy region—with a 2,130 meter elevation—known as Eridanus Glacier.68 Another (and maybe an even longer) lasting testament which has inspired generations of enthusiasts is Lowry’s own epitaph: Malcolm Lowry Late of the Bowery [. . .] died, playing the ukulele . . . (1950–1954).69

NOTES 1. Dated November 24, 1954, Conrad Aiken’s letter to Ed Burra is cited in Gordon Bowker, Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry (London: Flamingo, 1994), 551. 2. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 556.

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3. Malcolm Lowry, Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols (London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996): II, 772 and 820; and Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 574. 4. Lowry, Sursum Corda!, II, 771 and 777. 5. Ibid., 775. 6. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 585. See also 578. 7. Ibid., 579 and 598. 8. Ibid., 599. 9. Ibid., 599 and 603, and Volcano: An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Malcolm Lowry, dir. Donald Brittain and John Kramer (National Film Board of Canada, 1976). Bowker contends that the date of Lowry’s death coincides with events in his life: it was on June 27 that he broke his leg in Dollarton (1953), Jimmy Craige informed Dorothy Kirk that his pier had been washed away (1955), Paul Fitte held his birthday, and Sigurd Storlesen set his model ship adrift in “The Bravest Boat” (Pursued by Furies, 607), though the timing of this launch may have been altered after Malcolm’s decease. Also, the latter was known to tinker with dates: see Patrick A. McCarthy, Forests of Symbols: World, Text and Self in Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction (Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1994), 220, note 9. 10. Bowker, Pursued by Furies, 610. 11. Sherrill Grace, “Putting Lowry in Perspective: An Introduction,” in Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry (London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992), 4–5. 12. Bryan Biggs, “Drawn Out: The Appearance of Malcolm Lowry in Contemporary Art,” The Firminist: A Malcolm Lowry Journal 1, no. 1 (October 2010): 13. 13. “Lowry Timeline,” in Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, ed. Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009), 154. 14. The Penguin Book of Canadian Verse, ed. Ralph Gustafson (London: Penguin, 1984). 15. Vancouver Poetry, ed. Allan Safarik (Vancouver: Polestar Books, 1986). 16. Sense and Feeling, ed. F. R. Scott, kindergarten to Grade 7 (Toronto: Copp Clark, 1968). The author would like to thank Sheryl Salloum for bringing this—and other—gems to his attention. 17. The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry, ed. Kathleen Scherf (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1992), 185. 18. The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry, 186. 19. El Farolito 1, no. 1 (1967). 20. Katalin Cserjés, “A ‘hypertextusok hypertextusa’: a Hajnóczy-korpusz Lowry felől láttatva,” Spanyolnátha VII, no. 3 (Autumn 2010), http:​//www​.span​yolna​tha.h​u/ arc​hivum​/2010​-osz/​33/a-​szege​di-ha​jnocz​y-muh​ely-b​emuta​tkoza​sa/cs​erjes​-kata​lin/2​ 618/ (accessed May 10, 2019). 21. It appeared in The Literary Review [Edinburgh] 21 (July 1980) and is reprinted on Greenwell’s website, http:​//www​.bill​green​well.​com/p​oems.​php?i​d=540​ (accessed April 30, 2019). 22. Wolf Wondratschek, Die Einsamkeit der Männer: Mexikanische Sonette (Lowry-Lieder) (Zurich: Diogenes/Verlag, 1983).

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23. Audrey Thomas, Intertidal Life (Toronto: Stoddart, 1984). 24. Sharon Thesen, Confabulations: Poems for Malcolm Lowry (Fernie, BC: Oolichan Books Inc, 1984). 25. Vancouver Short Stories, ed. Carole Gerson, 3rd ed. (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1985), 132–44. 26. Margerie Bonner Lowry, Fletcher Markle, and Gerald Noxon, Malcolm Lowry and Conrad Aiken Adapted: Three Radio Dramas and a Film Proposal, ed. Paul Tiessen (Waterloo, ON: Malcolm Lowry Review, 1992). 27. Gordon Bowker, “Malcolm Lowry: Neglected Genius,” in Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, 148–49. 28. Wrongteous, ed. Paul Rooney and Leo Fitzmaurice (Manchester: Art Editions North/ Cornerhouse, 2008). 29. Iain Sinclair, American Smoke: Journeys to the End of the Light (London: Penguin, 2013), 137. 30. Sinclair, American Smoke. 31. Ibid., 133. 32. Hope Wolf, “The Making of Sussex Modernism,” in Sussex Modernism: Retreat and Rebellion (London: Two Temple Place, 2017), 45. 33. Patrick Deville, Viva (Paris: Seuil, 2014). 34. Meredith Quartermain, I, Bartleby (Vancouver: Talon Books, 2015). 35. Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, 156. 36. Mark Goodall, “Under the Volcano . . . the Beach: Malcolm Lowry and the Situationists,” in Malcolm Lowry’s Poetics of Space, ed. Richard J. Lane and Miguel Mota (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2016), 14. 37. Justine Brown, All Possible Worlds: Utopian Experiments in British Columbia (Vancouver: New Star/Transmontanus, 1995). 38. Hernán Lara Zavala, “Las poéticas de Bajo el volcán,” Los Universitarios 22 (2002): 12–21. 39. David Ryan, Malcolm Lowry’s “Under the Volcano”: Bookmarked (New York: Ig Publishing, 2017). 40. Jean Walton, Mudflat Dreaming (Vancouver: New Star/Transmontanus, 2018). 41. Bowker, “Malcolm Lowry: Neglected Genius,” 153. 42. Ibid., 149. 43. Ibid. 44. Series 48, episode 4 of 5. 45. Bowker, “Malcolm Lowry: Neglected Genius,” 149. 46. Ibid. 47. For filmographies, see Raúl Ortiz y Ortiz, Archivo Lowry, ed. Ángel Cuevas (Cuernavaca: Instituto de Cultura de Morelos, 2011), 233 and Alberto Rebollo, Bajo el embrujo del volcán: Malcolm Lowry y su infierno de espejos (Mexico, DF: UACM, 2012), 124. 48. Goodall, Under the Volcano, 13. 49. Ibid., 22–5. 50. Ibid., 21. 51. Ibid., 17.

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52. Patrick Straram, “They Write to Us of Vancouver,” Potlach 2 (June 1954). See Goodall, “Under the Volcano,” 17 and 29. 53. Ibid., 19. 54. “Lowry Timeline,” 153. 55. Ibid., 154. 56. Michael Turner, “The Malcolm Lowry Room,” in Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, 125. 57. Charlotte Cameron, October Ferries to Gabriola: A Radio Play for Five Actors (Fictive Press, 2017). 58. Sherrill Grace, “Ut Pictura Poesis: From Alberto Gironella to Malcolm Lowry,” in Strange Comfort: Essays on the Work of Malcolm Lowry (Vancouver, BC: Talonbooks, 2009), 124, 128, and 133. 59. “Lowry Timeline,” 154. 60. Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, 65–7. 61. Ibid., 23–5. 62. Ibid., 99–101 63. Biggs, “Drawn Out,” 18. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid., 19. 66. Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, 130–1. 67. Julian Andrews, The Sculpture of David Nash (London: The Henry Moore Foundation, 1999), 16. 68. The author would like to express gratitude to Dr. Glenn Woodsworth (who proposed its current name) for enlightening him about Eridanus Glacier. 69. The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry, 174.

Appendix Online Resources

MALCOLM LOWRY WEBSITES 1. Ackerley, Chris, and David Large. “Under the Volcano: A Hypertextual Companion.” University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand, updated June 2012, http:​//www​.otag​o.ac.​nz/en​glish​lingu​istic​s/eng​lish/​lowry​/ 2. “Fundación Malcolm Lowry,” http://malcolmlowry.blogspot.com/ 3. “Gutted Arcades of the Past,” http://guttedarcades.blogspot.com/ 4. “Malcolm Lowry @ The 19th Hole,” http:​//mal​colml​owrya​tthe1​9thho​ le.bl​ogspo​t.com​/ 5. “Malcolm Lowry’s Library,” http:​//mal​colml​owrys​libra​ry.bl​ogspo​t.com​/ 6. “Malcolm Lowry’s Postcards: A random collection of imaginary postcards produced from the life and words of Malcolm Lowry,” https​://ww​ w.pin​teres​t.ca/​drbar​yton/​malco​lm-lo​wrys-​postc​ards/​ 7. “Postcards from Malc,” http://malcolmlowry.tumblr.com/ ARCHIVES AND ESSAYS 1. “Conrad Aiken Papers,” The Huntington Library, San Marino, CA, http:​ //www​.oac.​cdlib​.org/​finda​id/ar​k:/13​030/c​8rx9j​d2/ 2. “El Farolito,” Mar 23, 2010, https​://is​suu.c​om/sa​ntiag​omuno​z/doc​s/far​ olito​_book​ 3. “Jan Gabrial Papers, 1932–1940,” The New York Public Library, http:// archives.nypl.org/mss/6096 4. “Malcolm Lowry Collection, 1910–1962,” University of British Columbia (UBC) Library Rare Books and Special Collections, http:​//gui​des.l​ 241

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Appendix

ibrar​y.ubc​.ca/m​alcol​mlowr​y and http:​//rbs​carch​ives.​libra​ry.ub​c.ca/​index​ .php/​malco​lm-lo​wry-c​ollec​tion;​rad 5. París, Daniel Saldaña, “Malcolm Lowry in the Supermarket,” BOMB 136 (July 15, 2016), https​://bo​mbmag​azine​.org/​artic​les/m​alcol​m-low​ry-in​ -the-​super​marke​t/ LOWRY-INFLUENCED OR INSPIRED SITES Radio Broadcasts 1. “Malcolm Lowry, writer, nominated by Ian McMillan,” Great Lives series 48, episode 4 of 5, https​://ww​w.bbc​.co.u​k/pro​gramm​es/m0​004f2​8 2. “Rough Passage: A Life of Malcolm Lowry,” prod. Melvyn Bragg and dir. Gavin Millar and Tristram Powell (1967), BBC2 TV, clip, http:​// tri​stram​powel​l.com​/inde​x.php​/docu​menta​ry/99​-roug​h-pas​sage-​a-lif​e-of-​ malco​lm-lo​wery?​play2​=rugh​passa​ge-cl​ip Drama and Music Performances 1. Baker, Michael Conway, “Eridanus Op. 101: In Memory of Malcolm Lowry” (1994), score, http://www.musiccentre.ca/node/96602 2. Delaunay, Catherine, John Greaves, Isabelle Olivier, and Thierry Lhiver, “Sois patient car le loup,” spectacle, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​ v=Nyp​HJ3gd​rRs (2010) and excerpts, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​ v=1k2​RNkvN​dy4 (2018) 3. Dunn, Alan, Martin Heslop, and Jeff Young (in collaboration with the Mariners’ Park, Vidar Norheim, Jack Roberts, and Mersey Wylie), “The Lighthouse Invites the Storm: Malcolm Lowry’s Wirral” (2017), http:​// www​.thel​ighth​ousei​nvite​sthes​torm.​com/ and https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/ w​atch?​v=NDA​1_pmF​m70 4. Legard, Phil, with Balam Ronan, “Dolente . . . Dolore: The Inferno of Malcolm Lowry” (2017), digital album for “The Lighthouse Invites the Storm: Malcolm Lowry’s Wirral” project, https​://xe​tb.ba​ndcam​p.com​/ albu​m/dol​ente-​dolor​e-the​-infe​rno-o​f-mal​colm-​lowry​ 5. “MalcolmLowry” (German band), http://www.malcolmlowry.de/ framehi.htm 6. Polansky, Alfred, https://alfredpolansky.eu/en/ 7. ———, “The Malcolm Lowry Project: Songs Between Heaven and Hell” (2017), https://www.themalcolmlowryproject.eu/ and https​ ://ww​ w.fac​ ebook​.com/​pg/Th​eMalc​olmLo​wryPr​oject​/abou​t/?re​f=pag​e_int​ernal​ 8. “Wist Rec. Handy Music Handmade,” https​://wi​strec​.com/​city-​hospi​tal-j​ ackda​w-edi​tion/​

Appendix

243

The Visual Arts 1. Berlanga, Antonio, https://www.berlangafotografo.com/ 2. Bertelli, Giorgio, “Piccola suite per Malcolm Lowry” (1995), http:​//www​ .gior​giobe​rtell​i.alt​ervis​ta.or​g/Gio​rgioB​ertel​li/Pi​ccola​_suit​e_per​_Malc​ olm_L​owry.​html 3. Brakoniecki, Andrzej, “Eridanus, 1998–2004,” https​ ://ww​ w.and​ brako​ nieck​i.com​/-eri​danus​-coas​tal-p​ainti​ngs and “Malcolm Lowry,” https​ ://ww​w.and​brako​nieck​i.com​/-eri​danus​-coas​tal-p​ainti​ngs/3​31044​_malc​ olm-l​owry.​html 4. “La Estrella de Lowry brilla en Cuernavaca,” April 7, 2017, https​:// ww​w.lau​nion.​com.m​x/mor​elos/​socie​dad/n​otici​as/10​5089-​la-es​trell​a-de-​ lowry​-bril​la-en​-cuer​navac​a.htm​l 5. “IB18: Williamson Art Gallery: Detours and dislocations, Cian Quayle,” July 14, 2018, http:​//www​.arti​nlive​rpool​.com/​event​s/ib1​8-wil​liams​on-ar​ t-gal​lery-​detou​rs-an​d-dis​locat​ions-​cian-​quayl​e/ 6. Leenarts, Ton, http://www.tonleenarts.com/ 7. “Malcolm Lowry: An Exhibition,” November 19, 2009, https​://ge​rryco​ 23.wo​rdpre​ss.co​m/200​9/11/​19/ma​lcolm​-lowr​y-an-​exhib​ition​/ 8. St. Denis, Jen, “Squatters’ shacks now a work of art,” August 10, 2012, https​://ww​w.nsn​ews.c​om/ne​ws/sq​uatte​rs-sh​acks-​now-a​-work​-of-a​rt-1.​ 34728​5 9. Toledo, Francisco, “El Maestro Francisco Toledo: Art from Oaxaca, 1959–2006” (2007–08), http:​//www​.town​topic​s.com​/nov2​107/a​rt.ht​ml 10. Volcano: An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Malcolm Lowry. Documentary film, dir. Donald Brittain and John Kramer, National Film Board of Canada, 1976, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​v=wma​61_wf​Hqg Websites accessed on May 9, 2019.

Bibliography

MALCOLM LOWRY’S WORKS Lowry, Malcolm. “The Blue Bonnet.” The Leys Fortnightly L (October 9, 1925): 5–7. ———. The Cinema of Malcolm Lowry: A Scholarly Edition of Lowry’s “Tender Is the Night.” Edited by Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1990. ———. The Collected Poetry of Malcolm Lowry. Edited by Kathleen Scherf. Vancouver, UBC Press, 1992. ———. Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid. Edited by Douglas Day and Margerie Lowry. London: Penguin, 1972. ———. “For Nordahl Grieg Ship’s Fireman.” In Cambridge Poetry 1930, edited by John Davenport et al. London: The Hogarth Press, 1930. ———. “The Forest Path to the Spring.” In “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic,” 216–87. London: Pan, 1991, and in The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry In His Own Words: Fictions, Poems, Fragments, Letters, edited by Michael Hofmann, 158–241. New York: NYRB, 2007. ———. “Garden of Etla.” United Nations World (June 1950): 45–47. ———. “Goya the Obscure.” The Venture 6 (June 1930): 270–78. ———. “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic.” London: Pan, 1991. ———. In Ballast to the White Sea: A Scholarly Edition. Edited and with an introduction by Patrick A. McCarthy. Annotations by Chris Ackerley and foreword by Vik Doyen, Miguel Mota, and Paul Tiessen. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2014. ———. The Letters of Conrad Aiken and Malcolm Lowry, 1929–1954. Edited by Cynthia C. Sugars. Toronto: ECW Press, 1992. ———. The Letters of Malcolm Lowry and Gerald Noxon, 1940–1952. Edited by Paul Tiessen. Vancouver: The University of British Columbia Press, 1988. ———. “The Light that Failed Not.” The Leys Fortnightly XLIX (March 13, 1925): 165–67. 245

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———. Lunar Caustic. London: Penguin, 2011. ———. Malcolm Lowry: Psalms and Songs. Edited by Margerie Lowry. New York: New American Library, 1975. ———. Malcolm Lowry’s “La Mordida”: A Scholarly Edition. Edited by Patrick A. McCarthy. London: University of Georgia Press, 1996. ———. The 1940 Under the Volcano. Edited and with an introduction by Miguel Mota and Paul Tiessen. Annotations by Chris Ackerley and David Large and foreword by Vik Doyen and Patrick A. McCarthy. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2015. ———. October Ferry to Gabriola. Edited by Margerie Lowry. New York: Plume, 1970. ———. “Port Swettenham.” Experiment 5 (February 1930): 22–26. ———. “Punctum Indifferens Skibet Gaar Videre.” Experiment 7 (Spring 1931): 62–75. ———. “A Rainy Night.” The Leys Fortnightly L (October 23, 1925): 35–40. ———. “The Repulsive Tragedy of the Incredulous Englishman.” The Leys Fortnightly L (June 4, 1925): 255–59. ———. “Satan in a Barrel.” The Leys Fortnightly L (February 12, 1926): 134–38. ———. Selected Letters. Edited by Harvey Breit and Margerie Bonner Lowry. London: Jonathan Cape, 1965. ———. Selected Poems of Malcolm Lowry. Edited by Earle Birney. San Francisco: City Lights, 2017. ———. Sursum Corda!: The Collected Letters of Malcolm Lowry. Edited by Sherrill E. Grace, 2 vols. London: Jonathan Cape, vol. I: 1926–46, 1995 and vol. II: 1946–57, 1996. ———. Swinging the Maelstrom: A Critical Edition. Edited by Vik Doyen, with an introduction by Vik Doyen and Miguel Mota and explanatory notes by Chris Ackerley. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2013. ———. “Through the Panama.” In “Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place” and “Lunar Caustic,” 26–98. London: Pan, 1991, and in The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry In His Own Words: Fictions, Poems, Fragments, Letters. Edited by Michael Hofmann, 53–137. New York: NYRB, 2007. ———. “Travelling Light.” The Leys Fortnightly XLIX (June 8, 1925): 255–57. ———. Ultramarine. London: Penguin, 2000. ———. Under the Volcano. London: Penguin, 2000. ———. The Voyage That Never Ends: Fictions, Poems, Fragments, Letters. Edited by Michael Hofmann. New York: New York Review of Books, 2007. ———. “Work in Progress: A Statement.” Malcolm Lowry Archive. Vancouver: University of British Columbia, 1951.

BIOGRAPHIES ON LOWRY Bowker, Gordon. “Malcolm Lowry: Neglected Genius.” In Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, edited by Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey, 143–49. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009.

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———. Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry. London: Flamingo, 1994. Day, Douglas. Malcolm Lowry: A Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984. Gabrial, Jan. Inside the Volcano: My Life with Malcolm Lowry. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2000. Salloum, Sheryl. Malcolm Lowry: Vancouver Days. Madeira Park, BC: Harbour, 1987.

CRITICAL WORKS ON LOWRY Ackerley, Chris. “The Aryan Ambiguity of Malcolm Lowry’s In Ballast to the White Sea.” In La Fureur et la Grâce: Lectures de Malcolm Lowry, edited by Josiane Paccaud-Huguet, 39–49. Series: Carrefour des lettres modernes, Paris: Lettres modernes Minard, Classiques Garnier, 2017. ———, and Lawrence J. Clipper. A Companion to “Under the Volcano”. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1984. ———, and David Large. “Under the Volcano: A Hypertextual Companion”. University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand, updated June 2012, http:​//www​.otag​o.ac.​ nz/en​glish​lingu​istic​s/eng​lish/​lowry​/ (accessed January 8, 2016). After Lowry. Film, directed by Miguel Mota, Vancouver, 2010. Bareham, Tony. Malcolm Lowry. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989. Biggs, Bryan. “Drawn Out: The Appearance of Malcolm Lowry in Contemporary Art.” The Firminist: A Malcolm Lowry Journal 1, no. 1 (October 2010): 13–21. ———, and Helen Tookey, eds. Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009. Bone, Drummond. “Malcolm Lowry 100 Years On: A View with a Byronic Perspective”. Byron Foundation Lecture, December 7, 2009, The Byron Study Centre, University of Nottingham, 2010, https​://ww​w.not​tingh​am.ac​.uk/r​esear​ch/gr​oups/​crlc/​ resea​rch-g​roups​/byro​n/res​ource​s/fou​ndati​on-le​cture​s.asp​x (accessed April 23, 2019). Bowker, Gordon, ed. Malcolm Lowry: “Under the Volcano”: A Casebook. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987. Bradbrook, M. C. “Lowry’s Cambridge.” In Malcolm Lowry: Eighty Years On, edited by Sue Vice, 125–46. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989. ———. Malcolm Lowry – His Art & Early Life: A Study in Transformation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974. Brittain, Donald. Never the Ordinary Way. Montreal: National Film Board of Canada, 1991. Butler, Jonathan. “Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano and the Drunken Discourse of Literary Solipsism.” University of Toronto Quarterly 86, no. 1 (2017): 37–64. Carroy, Jean-Roger, Trans-Lowry. Photos by Gérard Badou. Paris, 1984. Chen, John (Zhong) Ming, and Shaobe Xie. “Malcolm Lowry and the Tao.” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature 20, nos. 3–4 (September-December 1993): 355–80, http:​//ejo​urnal​s.lib​rary.​ualbe​rta.c​a/ind​ex.ph​p/crc​l/art​icle/​view/​3203/​2560 (accessed June 5, 2015). Corrigan, Matthew. “The Writer as Consciousness: A View of October Ferry to Gabriola.” In Malcolm Lowry: The Man and His Work, edited by George Woodcock, 71–77. London: Black Rose, 2007.

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Cross, Richard K. Malcolm Lowry: A Preface to His Fiction. London: Athlone, 1980. Dahlie, Hallvard. “‘A Norwegian at Heart’: Lowry and the Grieg Connection.” In Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry, edited by Sherrill Grace, 31–42. London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992. ———. “Lowry’s Debt to Nordahl Grieg.” Canadian Literature 64 (Spring 1975): 41–51. ———. “On Nordahl Grieg’s The Ship Sails On.” International Fiction Review 2, no. 1 (1975): 49–53, http:​//jou​rnals​.hil.​unb.c​a/ind​ex.ph​p/IFR​/arti​cle/v​iew/1​3099/​ 14182​(accessed December 10, 2017). Dilnot, Colin. “Lowry’s Wirral.” In Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, edited by Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey, 27–40. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009. Dodson, Daniel B. Malcolm Lowry. London: Columbia University Press, 1970. Doyen, Victor. “Elements Towards a Spatial Reading.” In Malcolm Lowry: “Under the Volcano”: A Casebook, edited by Gordon Bowker, 101–13. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987. Epstein, Perle S. The Private Labyrinth of Malcolm Lowry: “Under the Volcano” and the Cabbala. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969. The Firminist: A Malcolm Lowry Journal. Edited by Mark Goodall and I. Q. Hunter. Bradford: University of Bradford. Foxcroft, Nigel H. “From Russia to Eridanus: The Taoist Psychogeographic Ecosphere of Malcolm Lowry.” IAFOR Journal of Literature & Librarianship 2, no. 2 (Autumn 2013): 69–87. ———. “From the Zapotecs to the Aztecs: The Day of the Dead and the Cosmic and Shamanic Phantoms of Malcolm Lowry.” In La Fureur et la Grâce: Lectures de Malcolm Lowry, edited by Josiane Paccaud-Huguet, 73–83. Series: Carrefour des lettres modernes, Paris: Lettres modernes Minard, Classiques Garnier, 2017. ———. “In Ballast to the White Sea: The Springboard for Russian Influences on Malcolm Lowry’s Visionary Intellect.” In Remaking the Voyage: New Essays on Malcolm Lowry and “In Ballast to the White Sea,” edited by Helen Tookey and Bryan Biggs. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2020. ———. “In the Maelstrom of Malcolm Lowry’s Romantic Imagination: The Atonement of La Mordida”/“En la vorágine de la imaginación romántica de Malcolm Lowry: La expiación de La Mordida.” In Sobre Lowry, translated by Alberto Rebollo and edited by Dany Hurpin et al. 2nd ed., 165–83 (Spanish) and 195–206 (English). Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico: La Cartonera, 2014. ———. “Malcolm Lowry: The Russian Connection.” IAFOR NACAH2014: Official Conference Proceedings (November 2014): 29–42. ———. “Psychogeographic Impact on Malcolm Lowry’s Consciousness: From the Zapotec and Aztec Civilizations to Taoism.” The IAFOR Academic Review 1, no. 6 (March 2015): 4–9. ———. “The Shamanic Psyche of Malcolm Lowry: An International Odyssey.” CRD Research News 26 (Summer 2010): 18. ———. “Souls and Shamans in Space: The Cosmopolitan, Prismatic Psychology of Malcolm Lowry.” Planeta Literatur: Journal of Global Literary Studies 3 (2014): Global Modernism(s): 1–26.

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———, Jorge Sifuentes Cañas, and Alberto Rebollo. “Foxcroft presenta ante público morelense sus investigaciones.” La Jornada Morelos, Friday, November 7, 2014: 14. Gass, William. “In Terms of the Toenail: Fiction and the Figures of Life.” In Fiction and the Figures of Life: Essays, 55–76. Boston: David R. Godine, 1970. Goodall, Mark. “Under the Volcano… the Beach: Malcolm Lowry and the Situationists.” In Malcolm Lowry’s Poetics of Space, edited by Richard J. Lane and Miguel Mota, 13–30. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2016. Grace, Sherrill E. “The Luminous Wheel.” In Malcolm Lowry: “Under the Volcano”: A Selection of Critical Essays (Casebook), edited by G. Bowker, 152–71. London: Macmillan, 1987. ———. “Malcolm Lowry and the Expressionist Vision.” In The Art of Malcolm Lowry, edited by Anne Smith, 93–111. London: Vision Press, 1978. ———. “Putting Lowry in Perspective: An Introduction.” In Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry, 3–18. London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992. ———. “The Soul in Writhing Anguish: Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano.” In Regression and Apocalypse: Studies in North American Literary Expressionism, 163–184. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989. ———. Strange Comfort: Essays on the Work of Malcolm Lowry. Vancouver, BC: Talonbooks, 2009. ———. Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry. London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992. ———. “Ut Pictura Poesis: From Alberto Gironella to Malcolm Lowry.” In Strange Comfort: Essays on the Work of Malcolm Lowry, 123–35. Vancouver, BC: Talonbooks, 2009. ———. The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1982. Hadfield Duncan. “Under the Volcano and Gogol’s Diary of a Madman.” The Malcolm Lowry Review 16 (Spring 1985): 78–83. Kilgallin, Anthony R. “The Long Voyage Home: October Ferry to Gabriola.” In Malcolm Lowry: The Man and His Work, edited by George Woodcock, 78–87. London: Black Rose, 2007. Konigsberg, Laura. “Orlac and the Bloody Handle of the Infernal Machine: The Aesthetics of Film and Fascism in Under the Volcano.” The Malcolm Lowry Review 45–46 (1999): 154–67. Lane, Richard J., and Miguel Mota, eds. Malcolm Lowry’s Poetics of Space. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2016. Lara Zavala, Hernán. “Las poéticas de Bajo el volcán.” Los Universitarios 22 (2002): 12–21. Large, David. “Textual Ontogenesis: Rethinking Paraphrase, Plagiarism and Pastiche.” In La Fureur et la Grâce: Lectures de Malcolm Lowry, edited by Josiane Paccaud-Huguet, 227–45. Series: Carrefour des lettres modernes, Paris: Lettres modernes Minard, Classiques Garnier, 2017. Malcolm Lowry en México. Documentary film, directed and produced by Óscar Menéndez, Ediciones Pentagrama, S.A. de C.V., Cuauhtémoc, México, D.F., 1987.

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Mann, Steve. “Lowry and Gogol.” The Malcolm Lowry Review 21–22 (Fall–Spring 1987): 154. Markson, David. Malcolm Lowry’s “Volcano”: Myth, Symbol, Meaning. New York: Times Books, 1978. McCarthy, Patrick A. “Before and After the Volcano: Malcolm Lowry’s In Ballast to the White Sea and its Afterlife.” In The Firminist: A Malcolm Lowry Journal 4 (October 2014): 7–11. ———. Forests of Symbols: World, Text and Self in Malcolm Lowry’s Fiction. Athens, GA: University of Georgia, 1994. ———, and Chris Ackerley. “Annotating Malcolm Lowry’s In Ballast to the White Sea.” In Making Canada New: Editing, Modernism, and Digital Media, 186–203. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017. ———, and Paul Tiessen, eds. Joyce/Lowry: Critical Perspectives. Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, 1997. McLeod, Andrew. “Beneath Lowry’s Carnival: The Abject in Under the Volcano.” Colloquy: Text Theory Critique 28 (December 2014): 59–80. Mellor, James. “Metafictional Space in Malcolm Lowry’s Hear us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place.” Master’s thesis, Freie Universität, Berlin, 2018. Miller, David. Malcolm Lowry and the Voyage that Never Ends. London: Enitharmon Press, 1976. Mota, Miguel, and Paul Tiessen. “Malcolm Lowry’s ‘Lost’ Novel: From Paris Stories to Canadian Ashes to Archival Return.” In Translocated Modernisms: Paris and Other Lost Generations, edited by Emily Ballantyne et al., 165–76. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2016. Orr, John. “Lowry: The Day of the Dead.” In The Making of the Twentieth-Century Novel, 148–68. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987. Ortiz y Ortiz, Raúl. Archivo Lowry. Edited by Ángel Cuevas. Cuernavaca: Instituto de Cultura de Morelos, 2011. Paccaud-Huguet, Josiane, ed. La Fureur et la Grâce: Lectures de Malcolm Lowry. Series: Carrefour des lettres modernes. Paris: Lettres modernes Minard, Classiques Garnier, 2017. Rebolledo, Francisco. Desde la barranca: Malcolm Lowry y México. Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica (FCE), 2004. ———. Quauhnáhuac, un bosque de símbolos. Cuernavaca: Instituto de Cultura de Morelos, 2009. Rebollo, Alberto. Bajo el embrujo del volcán: Malcolm Lowry y su infierno de espejos. Mexico, DF: UACM, 2012. ———. “In the Footsteps of Lowry in Oaxaca.” The Firminist: A Malcolm Lowry Journal 1, no. 1 (October 2010): 41–44. Romer, Michael. “Adding magic to the 1940 Under the Volcano.” Paper “Under the Volcano,” 70 Years On: An International Malcolm Lowry Conference, Liverpool John Moores University and Bluecoat, Liverpool, July 28–29, 2017. ———. “Under the Volcano’s Spell: Secret Knowledge of Chapter 1”. University of Edinburgh Journal XLIV, no. 4 (December 2010): 247–52.

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Schaeffer, Pierre. “Outgrowing the Alienating Inscape? The Voyage Out in October Ferry to Gabriola.” In Malcolm Lowry’s Poetics of Space, edited by Richard J. Lane and Miguel Mota, 175–90. Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2016. Sinclair, Iain. American Smoke: Journeys to the End of the Light. London: Penguin, 2013. Spencer, John. Saving Lowry’s Eden: Salvando el Edén de Lowry. 2nd ed. Cuernavaca: Museo La Casona, 2009. Sugars, Cynthia. “The Road to Renewal: Dark as the Grave and the Rite of Initiation.” In Swinging the Maelstrom: New Perspectives on Malcolm Lowry, edited by Sherrill Grace, 149–62. London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992. Turner, Michael. “The Malcolm Lowry Room.” In Malcolm Lowry: From the Mersey to the World, edited by Bryan Biggs and Helen Tookey, 125–29. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press and the Bluecoat, 2009. Vice, Sue, ed. Malcolm Lowry: Eighty Years On. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989. Volcano: An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Malcolm Lowry. Documentary film, directed by Donald Brittain and John Kramer, National Film Board of Canada, 1976. Williams, Mark. “Between Modernism and the Postcolonial: Reading Patrick White and Malcolm Lowry in the 1970s.” In New Directions in the History of the Novel, edited by Andrew Nash et al., 177–91. New York: Palgrave, 2014. Wood, Barry. “At the Edge of Eternity: ‘The Forest Path to the Spring’.” In Malcolm Lowry: The Writer and His Critics, edited by B. Wood, 185–93. Ottawa: Tecamseh, 1980. ———. “The Edge of Eternity.” Canadian Literature 70 (Autumn 1976): 51–58, http:​ //cin​ema2.​arts.​ubc.c​a/uni​ts/ca​nlit/​pdfs/​artic​les/c​anlit​70-Ed​ge(Wo​od).p​df (accessed June 5, 2015). Woodcock, George, ed. Malcolm Lowry: The Man and His Work. London: Black Rose, 2007. Wutz, Michael. “Archaic Mechanics, Anarchic Meaning: Malcolm Lowry and the Technology of Narrative.” In Reading Matters: Narrative in the New Media Ecology, edited by Joseph Tabbi and Michael Wutz, 53–75. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997. Yokouchi, Kazuo. “‘I Am Going to Japan—or Aren’t I?’—Ultramarine niokeru Kyokuto” [“’I Am Going to Japan—or Aren’t I?’: The Far East in Ultramarine”]. Albion New Series 58 (2012): 19–33 [Article in Japanese]. ———. “‘Jiko no Hokai’ Saiko—Lowry, In Ballast to the White Sea, Seidoku” [“‘Debacle of Self’ Reconsidered: A Close Reading of Lowry’s In Ballast to the White Sea”]. Jimbun Ronkyu: Humanities Review 66, no. 4 (2017): 23–41 [Article in Japanese]. ———. “Kowaku no Kyokuto-toshi—Ultramarine niokeru Hyogenshugi” [“The Strasse in the Far East: Expressionism in Ultramarine”]. Jimbun Ronkyu: Humanities Review 63, no. 2 (2013): 23–42 [Article in Japanese]. ———. “Lowry, Kegon-no-taki, Mihara-yama—In Ballast to the White Sea kara Under the Volcano he” [“Lowry, Kegon Cataract, Mount Mihara: From In Ballast

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Index

ABC powers, 110 Acapulco, xviii, 157, 182, 187 Adaskin, Harry, 119–20 Adorno, Theodor, 7 agave cactus (genus of the aloe, or maguey), 138, 159; mescal, 118, 159; pulque, 138, 159 Aiken, Conrad, xvii, xviii, xx, 3, 9, 10, 13, 14n10, 23–37, 41n87, 48–49, 54– 55, 80n8, 96, 227, 234; Blue Voyage, 23, 35, 48–49, 68; A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, 28, 29, 32–34; “Hello, Tib,” 96; “The Kid,” 29, 30; Ushant, 24, 26, 29, 30, 34–37 Aiken, Mary Hoover Augusta, 29, 36 Aiken (née Lorenz), Clarissa, 26 alchemy, xv, 58, 92, 103, 115, 149, 156, 173, 184 Allan, Andrew, 193 Allhallowtide (Hallowtide, Allsaintstide, or Hallowmas), 130 altered consciousness (SSC), 136 America. See United States Andreyev, Leonid, 97 animism, 2, 129, 135–36, 172, 196, 198, 209, 215n57, 219, 222 anti-Semitism, 78, 112, 113 arts, xi, 5, 9, 13, 22, 54, 97, 101, 217, 228–30, 243

asceticism, 12 Atlantis, xv, 10–12, 75, 86n132, 115, 136–37, 143, 176, 188, 200, 217–18 Atonalzin, Fernando, 173 avant-garde, 1, 13, 18, 21, 22, 27, 99, 135, 195, 233 Avenue Pavilion (formerly Shaftesbury Pavilion, now Curzon Soho), 98 Aztec(s), 2, 11–12, 27–29, 32, 100, 129–36, 138, 142, 145–50, 157–60, 161n1, 166n127, 174–76, 179–80, 197, 217–19, 237 Aztlan (Atlan), 11 Babel, Isaak, 97 Bacon, Sir Francis, 10 Bang, Herman, 71 Barrie, J. M., 97 Baudelaire, Charles, 29, 144 Belaney, Archibald Stansfeld (‘Grey Owl’), 193–94, 212n4 Bell, Julian Heward, 23 Bellas Artes. See Metro Bellas Artes Benjamin, Walter, 5–7, 112, 195, 212n5, 221 Bennett, John G., 127n172 Bergson, Henri, 187 Besant, Annie, 117 Birney, Earle, 120

263

264

Index

Black, Sir Misha, 18 Blackstone, Reverend William, 29–30, 34, 187, 194, 219 Blavatsky, Helena Petrovna, 59, 114– 15, 116, 156; The Secret Doctrine: The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy, xiv, 59, 115, 116 Bolsheviks, 61, 98, 111 Bonner, Margerie. See Lowry, Margerie Breton, André, 37, 112 British Columbia, xviii, 91, 101, 111, 143, 186, 193–94, 200–201, 204, 230–34, 237; Burrard Inlet, ix, xviii, 4, 58, 92, 193–94, 203, 218; Deep Cove (See Dollarton, Deep Cove); Shellburn oil refinery, 143, 196; Vancouver, xviii, xix, xx, 4, 92, 119–20, 136, 186–88, 193, 196–98, 200, 204, 211, 227, 229–37 British Surrealist Group, 21 Bronowski, Jacob, 19 Buddhism, 12, 115, 152, 201, 222; Indra, 115 Buñuel, Luis. See Portolés Burra, Ed(ward) John, xviii, 13, 24–26, 29, 31–33, 36–37, 41n87, 150, 231; Blues for Ruby Matrix, 25; El Paseo, 25, 32, 36; John Deth: Hommage à Conrad Aiken, 25, 41n87; Landscape with Comestibles Seen en route to Mexico City, 32, 33; Mexican Church, 32, 36; Springfield Lodge, 25 Byzantium (modern-day Istanbul), 114, 156 Cabbala, 4, 6, 13, 34, 95, 114, 134, 148, 155, 158–60, 168n184, 179–80, 205–11, 219–20 Cambridge, England, xvii, xviii, 2, 4, 8, 14n11, 17–25, 29–30, 34, 37n1, 39n34, 48–51, 58–63, 67, 82n49, 85n117, 98–99, 111, 114, 139, 148, 168n180, 181, 187, 203–4; Apostles, 19; Film Guild, 17, 98; The Maypole, 21; River Cam, 61,

62, 181; Roebuck House, 20, 22; St Catharine’s College, xvii, 17, 38n16, 67, 114, 187; St John’s College, 20, 181; Trinity College, 17, 19, 21, 58, 99, 114, 168n180 Cambridge, Massachusetts, 24 Cambridge Five, 19–20, 23, 26–27, 39n29, 111; Blunt, Anthony, 19, 20; Burgess, Guy, 19–20, 39n29; Cairncross, John, 19; Maclean, Donald, 19–20; Philby, Kim, 19–20, 26–27 Canada, 2, 4, 91, 111, 152, 168n180, 182–83, 193–94, 200–201, 208, 227–29, 232–34, 238n9 Candlemas, 152, 167n147 capitalism, 6–7, 17, 23, 61–63, 71, 78, 89, 101–3, 112–13, 218, 233 Cárdenas, Lázaro, xviii, 27, 110 Carrington, Leonora, 37 Cartonera, 229 Case, Martin, 20 Central America, 11, 115, 176, 200 Chagall, Marc, 21–22, 25 Chambas, Jean-Paul, and Malcolm Lowry murals, 237 Chamberlain, Neville, and Munich Agreement, 113 Chater, Arthur G., 18, 38n16 Chekhov, Anton, 97, 83n66, 90, 96–97, 123n54, 123n60, 196, 213n12, 215n57; The Cherry Orchard, 123n54, 215n57; The Seagull, 96–97; The Wood Demon, 196, 213n12 Cholula, 147, 176 Cihuateteo (Women Gods), 142, 145 Clark, Dr Alexander F. B., FRCS, 91 Cocteau, Jean, and La Machine infernale, 22, 135 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 3, 4, 187, 189 Comintern (Communist International or the Third International), 112–13 communism, 22–23, 39n29, 69, 70, 74, 78–79, 85n124, 86n125, 89, 96–97, 101–13, 116–17, 120, 183

Index

Communist Party of Norway, 69 Conquest of the Aztec Empire, 28–29, 99–100, 131–34; conquistadores, 29, 130, 135, 148, 157, 219 Conrad, Joseph, 30 Cooke, Alistair, 39n34 Cortés, Hernán, 28–29, 109–10, 130, 132, 142 cosmology, 1–4, 12, 62, 115, 129–30, 134–35, 138, 152, 156, 159–60, 172, 176, 185, 195–201, 217–19, 222–24 Coyoacán, 112 Crane, Hart, 28, 109 Crowley, Aleister, 92, 122n46, 158, 168n178, 168n180 Crux. See Southern Cross Cuernavaca (formerly Quauhnahuac), ix, xviii, xix, 28–31, 34–37, 44n164, 52, 133, 137, 142, 147, 150–53, 157– 59, 174–75, 182, 193, 229, 231–32, 235–37; barranca, 29–30, 32, 34, 48, 50, 159, 174, 184; Cuauhnáhuac Regional Museum (former Palace of Cortés), 28–29; Hotel Bajo El Volcan, ix, xix, 136–37; Humboldt, Calle, xviii, xix, 28, 166n128; Jardín Juárez Square (Zócalo), 36; Maximilian’s Palace, 175; Museo de la Casona Spencer, 229; Palace of Cortés (See Cuernavaca (formerly Quauhnahuac), Cuauhnáhuac Regional Museum); Panteón Municipal La Leona Cemetery, ix, 150, 174–75; Zócalo (See Cuernavaca (formerly Quauhnahuac), Jardín Juárez Square) Dairen (formerly and currently Dalian), 51, 52, 57, 107, 188 Dante (Alighieri), 55, 93, 152, 179, 196–97, 213n12 Davies, Hugh Sykes, 19, 20–21, 24, 204 Davison, Charles, 140 Day of the Dead, vii, ix, xviii, 1–2, 28–30, 36, 100, 129–30, 133–36,

265

147–52, 180–82, 187–88, 197, 217– 19, 229–30, 234–36 Decembrists, 91 Descartes, René, 8, 9–10, 16n45 Día de (los) Muertos. See Day of the Dead Díaz, Porfirio, 133 D’Israeli, Isaac, 103 Dollarton, ix, xiii, xviii, xix–xx, 4–7, 93, 99, 143, 158, 193, 196–97, 202, 209, 218, 224, 227, 233, 236, 238n9; Burrard Inlet (See British Columbia, Burrard Inlet); Cates Park, 203, 229, 233; conflagration, xix, 7, 58, 72, 93, 103, 201; Deep Cove, 158 Donne, John, 139 Donnelly, Ignatius L., xiv, xv, 10–12, 16n62, 75–76, 86n132, 115, 136–37, 176, 188, 190n25, 200; Atlantis: The Antediluvian World, xiv, 10–11, 75, 86n132, 115, 136, 176 Dorotheus of Gaza, 72, 85n122, 116, 127n152 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 4, 71, 82n34, 85n121, 90, 93–94, 97, 120, 180–82, 209, 220; The Brothers Karamazov, 71, 85n121, 181–82; Crime and Punishment, 90, 94, 120, 180–81, 209; Notes from Underground, 82n34, 90 Doukhobours (or Doukhobors), 91 Dovzhenko, Alexander, 98 Downarowicz, Tomasz, 165 Dunne, J. W., FRAeS, xiv, 60, 76, 142– 44, 165n100, 186; An Experiment with Time, xiv, 142, 144; law of series, 60, 142, 165n100 Eastern philosophy, 12, 114–15, 145, 155, 201, 222; Buddhism/Buddhist, 12, 115, 201, 222; Hindu(ism), 12, 114–15, 145, 155 East Sussex, xiii, xx, 23, 24, 36, 39n39, 168n180, 212 Eisenstein, Sergei, 13, 17, 27, 89, 98–101, 108, 111, 120; Alexander

266

Index

Nevsky, 98, 99; Battleship Potemkin, 98, 99; Death Day, 99; Eisenstein in Mexico, 99; The Film Sense, 100; Ivan the Terrible, 101; montage (See montage); ¡Que viva México!, 99–100; Thunder Over Mexico, 98, 99; Time in the Sun, 99 Eliade, Mercia, 219, 220, 221 Eliot, T. S., 3, 14n10–11, 17, 18, 155 Empson, William, 19, 20 Enlightenment, 4, 6–7, 13, 35, 86n125, 186, 217 Eridanus, vii, ix, 2, 4, 7–8, 93, 174, 180, 185, 188–89, 193–98, 203–12, 218, 221–24, 234–37 Eridanus Glacier, 237 esotericism, xiv, 2, 6, 12, 30, 32–34, 59, 62, 72, 92, 106, 109, 114, 120, 134, 155, 158, 218, 222, 226n40 ethnography, 1, 113, 125n114, 129–35, 148, 171, 195, 219 Falaise, S. S., 20 Farley Farm House, 39n39 fascism, 4, 14n10, 22, 78–79, 89, 102– 5, 109–13, 120, 160 Fejos, Paul (né Fejős Pál), 108, 125n114 Feuerbach, Paul Johann Anselm Ritter von, 140 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, xix, xx, 3, 160–61 Flood. See Great Flood Fort, Charles, xiv, 138–42, 201; The Book of the Damned, xiv, 138, 140, 141, 201; Lo!, 138–41; The Outcast Manufacturers, 139–40; Wild Talents, 138, 141, 142 France, xix, 26, 34, 47, 111, 118, 139, 190n18, 229 Frank, Waldo, xviii, 27–28, 74–75, 85n124, 86nn125, 130; The Writer’s Part in Communism, 74–75, 85n124, 86n125 Frankfurt School of Critical Theory, 5–8 Frazer, Sir James George, 17, 130–31, 145, 148; The Golden Bough: A

Study in Magic and Religion, 17, 130–31 Freud, Sigmund, 3, 24, 109, 144 Friends of the Soviet Union, 69 Futurism, 18 Gabrial, Jan. See Lowry, Janine Galvani, Luigi, 141 Garden of Eden, 4, 11, 12, 55, 61, 115, 169n196, 197, 148, 151, 180, 188, 201, 218–20, 223, 225n8, 236 Garnett, Constance, 90 Gastélum, Plutarco, 37 Germany, xvii, 2–6, 10–13, 17, 35, 39n34, 47, 54, 65, 69, 78, 80nn2, 6, 83n66, 85nn113, 117, 91, 94–100, 103–6, 114, 124n94, 125n109, 140– 41, 160, 210, 231–34 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 2, 85n117, 91 Gogol, Nikolai, 3, 4, 89, 90–93, 97, 100, 109, 120, 121n11, 149, 171, 208–9, 220; Dead Souls, 3, 92–93, 109, 120, 149, 209; The Government Inspector, 92; “The Portrait,” 220 Göring, Hermann, 105 Gorky, Maxim, 97 Graves, Robert, 148 Great Flood (Deluge), 11–12, 16n57, 62, 75–76, 92, 115, 136–37, 163n56, 176 Great Purge (Great Terror), 94 Greene, Graham, 26, 27, 231 Grieg, Nordahl, xvii–xviii, 2, 18–19, 38n16, 49–50, 55, 67–69, 81nn18, 28, 82n37, 85n118, 86n142, 146, 173, 189n10, 230; The Ship Sails On (Skibet Gaar Videre), 18–19, 38n16, 49–50, 55, 68–69, 86n142 Gurdjieff, George, xi, 118–20, 127n167, 127n169, 127n172, 168n178; Beelzebub's Tales to his Grandson: All and Everything, 120; Fourth Way, 118–19, 120; Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man,

Index

118–19, 127n172; Law of Three, 118–19, 127n167 Hades. See Mictlan Haldane, Charlotte, 20, 22 Haldane, J. B. S., 20 The Hands of Orlac, 13, 16n64, 100 Hare, William Francis, 19 Harris, Lawren, 120 Harrisson, Major Tom, 148 Hauser, Kaspar, 140 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 105 Hayter, Stanley William, 25 Henn, T. R., 114 Hernández, Juan José Pérez, 200 Hispanic, 1–2, 37, 129–30, 133–35, 149 Hitler, Adolf, 17, 20, 89, 94, 103, 112– 14, 200; Godesberg Memorandum, 113 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von, and The Letter of Lord Chandos, 202–3, 221 Hogarth Press, 90 Holocaust, 78, 105, 114, 201 Horkheimer, Max, and Dialectic of Enlightenment, 7 Huichol. See Wixárika humanities, xxi, 8, 13, 17, 101, 218 Humboldt, Alexander von, 132 Hungarian Revolution, 125n121 Huxley, Aldous, 26, 27, 42n112 Île d'Ouessant (Ushant), 34 International Brigades, 22, 113, 126n127 International Congress of Writers for the Defence of Culture, 27 intuition, 2, 4, 8–9, 12–13, 47, 53, 57, 61–62, 65, 72–73, 90, 104, 120, 138, 183, 187, 195, 207, 217–23 James, Edward, 37 Japan, xvii, 51, 52, 66, 107, 125nn110, 111, 136, 168n180, 222 Jennings, Humphrey, 14n20, 19, 21, 38n17, 148

267

Jews, 78, 91, 114 Jones, Charles Stansfeld (aka Frater Achad), xix, 14n11, 114, 146, 156, 158, 166n130, 168nn178, 184, 206–7; The Anatomy of the Body of God, 158, 166n130; Collegium ad Spiritum Sanctum, 114; New Aeon Publishing Company, 114; Q.B.L. or The Bride’s Reception, 158, 168n184 Jung, Carl Gustav, 10 Kabbala(h). See Cabbala Kafka, Franz, 2, 91, 182 Kahneman, Daniel, 9 Kammerer, Paul, 142 Kandinsky, Wassily, 195, 221 Kant, Immanuel, 10, 65 Kataev, Valentin, 97 Koteliansky, Samuel, 90 Kuhn, Thomas Samuel, and The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 165n100 Kwantung Peninsula (formerly Ryojun, then Lüshun City, and now Lüshunkou District), 52, 107 Lacroix, Yves, 165n100 Lancashire, 19, 63, 68, 72; River Ribble, 63, 68 Las Manos de Orlac. See The Hands of Orlac Las Pozas, Xilitla. See James, Edward Lawrence, D. H., 3, 18, 26–27, 33, 104– 5, 109, 133, 157, 188; Fantasia of the Unconscious, 109; Mornings in Mexico, 27; The Plumed Serpent, 27, 33, 157; “Why the Novel Matters,” 188 Lévi, Éliphas, 145–46 Lithuania, 78 ‘little magazines’, xvii, 4–5, 17–19, 20, 21, 38n4; Cambridge Left, 17; Cambridge Poetry, 17, 20; Experiment, xvii, 17–19, 21, 38nn4, 11; The Venture, 17, 19, 20

268

Index

Liverpool, 49–53, 57–58, 63–68, 84n103, 98, 105, 108, 118, 140, 198, 229–37; The Bluecoat, 229–30, 235– 37; The Liver Building, 53, 64 Lodyzhensky, Mitrofan, 116 London International Surrealist Exhibition, 21 Lorre, Peter, 16n64, 100, 124n94 Lowry, Janine (née Vanderheim) (Jan Gabrial), xviii, xxi, 15n33, 26, 27, 28, 30–31, 86n130, 183, 241 Lowry, (Clarence) Malcolm: Life: Aalesund (now Ålesund), xvii–xviii, 67, 117, 200; Bonn, xvii, 80n2, 98; Boston, Massachusetts, xvii, 24, 29, 31, 32, 54; Caldy, xvii, 51; Chalvington, 227; China, xvii, 51, 52, 64, 107, 158, 188; Christiania (See Oslo); Church of St John the Baptist, Ripe, xx, 227; Evans, Tessa, affair with, xvii, 53–54; Far East, xvii, 2, 18, 23, 47, 48, 51–53, 57, 67, 106; Fitte, Paul, friendship with, xvii, 67, 84n106, 124n88, 181, 182, 187, 203, 238n9; Gabriola Island, ix, 198–200, 202–7, 210–12, 218, 224, 229–30; Inglewood, xvii, 51; Jeake’s (store)house, Rye, xvii, 2425; Kobe, 51–52; Lake District, ix, xx, 227–28; Lamb Inn, Ripe, 227; Lewis, Doris “Dolly,” affair with, 54;Leys School, Cambridge and Leys Fortnightly, xvii, 47–48; Liscard, 52; Mermaid Street, Rye, xvii, 24; Mexico, visits to, xviii, xix, 2, 26–29, 79, 133–34, 171–72, 182–84, 193, 220; New Brighton, xvii, 52–55, 60, 235; New York, xviii, xix, 27, 31, 75–76, 227, 236; Oakville, xix, 201; Oslo, xviii, 49–50, 67, 69–70, 81n18, 82nn36, 37, 97; Ripe, xiii, xx, 227; S. S. Brest, xix, 186; S. S. Fagervik, xvii–xviii, 67; S. S. Pyrrhus, xvii, 18, 49, 51, 188; Wallasey, 52, 54; The White Cottage, Ripe, xx, 227;

Yew Tree Inn, Chalvington, 227; Works: “Byzantium: or Where the Great Life Begins,” 114, 156; Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid, xiii, xix, xx, 1, 3, 8, 13, 89–93, 129, 146, 148, 154, 159, 171–88, 193–200, 218–21; “The Forest Path to the Spring,” xiv, xix, 4, 7, 12, 24–25, 49, 77–79, 91–93, 129, 135–36, 142, 176, 185, 193–98, 212, 213n12, 218–24, 231, 234; “Garden of Etla,” 173; “Goya the Obscure,” 19; Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place, xiii, xiv, xix, xx, 4, 24, 186, 194; In Ballast to the White Sea, ix, xiv, xvii–xviii, xxi, 7, 15n33, 19–20, 27, 47, 50, 58–75, 76– 77, 83n75, 89–90, 94, 97–109, 111, 116–20, 124n88, 128n174, 138–40, 146, 171, 200, 221, 224; “January 1946 Letter to Jonathan Cape,” xv, 28, 100, 114; “June the 30th, 1934,” 103; “The Last Address,” xviii, 76, 77, 79; Lunar Caustic, xviii, xx, 15, 76, 77, 79, 231, 234; La Mordida, xiv, xix, xxi, 1, 3, 8, 105, 129, 148, 171–72, 175, 180–88, 193, 198, 200, 219; The 1940 Under the Volcano, xxi, 22, 79–80, 89, 131–32; October Ferry to Gabriola, xiii, xiv, xix–xx, 79, 185, 193–94, 198–212, 218–20, 224, 231; “Port Swettenham,” 18, 51, 55; “Punctum Indifferens Skibet Gaar Videre,” 18, 55; “Song About Madrid, Useful Any Time,” 23; Swinging the Maelstrom, xiii, xviii, xxi, 13, 47, 66, 75–79, 93; “There is a Metallurgy,” 103; “Through the Panama,” 171, 186–89, 219, 221; “Thunder Beyond Popocatepetl,” 96; Ultramarine, xiii, xvii, xviii, 19, 20, 26, 47–58, 69, 80n14, 81n15, 89, 98, 106–7, 188, 189, 224; Under the Volcano, ix, xi, xiii–xiv, xv, xviii–xix, xxi, 1–4, 6–9, 12–13,

Index

16n64, 18–19, 22, 27–31, 34–36, 47–49, 51–55, 61, 89–97, 100–101, 109–20, 120–21n1, 124n94, 129–38, 141–60, 168n184, 171–76, 179–88, 193–97, 202, 206–8, 213n12, 219– 23, 229–37, 241; The Voyage That Never Ends, xxi, 7, 93, 171, 184; “Xochitepec,” 141 Lowry, Margerie (née Bonner), xiii, xviii, xix, xx, 20, 143, 171, 176, 193, 221, 227, 231, 235 Lowry, Marguerite (Margot) (née Peirce), 118, 155, 167n155 Lowry, Stuart Osborne, xiii, 81n20, 155 Madge, Charles, 20–21, 148 magic, 2, 21, 32, 34, 52, 73, 92, 103, 114, 130, 145–52, 158, 260, 166n122, 167n147, 185, 196–99, 202, 204–10, 219–20, 224 Mahabharata, 92, 155 Malcolm Lowry Foundation, Mexico, 229 Manchukuo, 107 Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art, 37, 112 marigold, 135, 149–50 Marlowe, Christopher, and Doctor Faustus, 92, 111 Márquez, Juan Fernando, xviii, xix, 154–55, 173, 182 Marx, Karl, and Marxism, 6, 37, 86n125, 89, 101–2, 108–10, 112, 233; The Communist Manifesto, 110; Das Kapital, 108 Mass-Observation Experiment, 148 Maximilian I, Emperor of Mexico, 175, 190n18 Maya, 75–76, 115, 129, 138, 145, 163n53, 198; Huracán, 75–76, 115 Melville, Herman, 3, 64, 66, 102, 105, 202; “Healed of my Hurt,” 64; Mardi, 66; Moby Dick, 102, 202 Mercader, Ramón, 112 Merseyside, 52, 231; River Dee, 63, 64; River Mersey, 50, 52, 53, 63–65,

269

105, 118, 235; The Wirral, xvii, 50, 52–53, 58, 63, 67, 71, 117, 233, 235, 237, 242 mescaline, 136, 159 Mesoamerica, 129, 132, 145, 147, 178, 197, 219 metallurgy, 103, 105 Metro Bellas Artes, Mexico City, 237 Mexican Revolution, 27, 37, 100, 110 Mexico, xviii–xx, 2, 11, 22, 25–34, 37, 79, 89, 98–100, 109–12, 115, 129– 35, 141, 155, 157, 168n180, 171–76, 179, 182–88, 193, 200–201, 212n4, 217–20, 229–37; calendar, 11, 129, 136, 145, 163n53, 178 Mexico, Valley of, 157; Lake Texcoco, 157; Tenochtitlán, 129, 132, 134, 145, 157 Mexico City, ix, xviii, xix, 28, 31–33, 36–37, 112, 126n125, 155, 157, 173, 178–79, 229, 231–32; Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe (Minor Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe), 154–55 Mictecacihuatl, 129–30 Mictlan (Underworld), 68, 77, 123n53, 129–30, 134, 138, 174–75, 180, 191n61, 197, 207, 220 Miller, Elizabeth “Lee,” 39n39 Mixtecs (Mixtecos), 131 Moctezuma (Montezuma) II, 132 modernism, 1–3, 5–7, 18, 19, 22, 28, 96, 109, 114–15, 120, 136, 148, 156, 195, 217–19, 227 Molotov-Ribbentrop Nazi-Soviet Pact, 78, 105, 106, 113 montage, 13, 89, 98, 99, 100, 120, 231 More, Sir Thomas, and Utopia, 10 mysticism, 3, 4, 12, 30, 34, 59, 85nn117, 122, 102, 104, 109, 114– 17, 146–47, 155–60, 180, 193–97, 220–21, 224 nagual, 197, 214n22 Nahuatl, 129, 133, 161n1 Nash, Paul, 21, 36–37

270

Index

natural sciences. See science nature, 2–4, 6–9, 12, 25, 28–29, 58, 62, 64, 69, 71–73, 92, 96, 110, 114, 136, 139–40, 144–50, 155, 158–60, 179, 184, 187–88, 194–98, 203, 209–11, 213n12, 218, 220–24, 233 Nazi (National Socialist German Workers’) Party, 78, 91, 94, 96, 103– 6, 113, 160; Sturmabteilung, or SA (Brownshirts or Storm Troopers), 96 New Fire Ceremony, 129–30 New Mexico, 26, 27, 133; Taos, 26–27 Newton, Sir Isaac, FRS, PRS, 8, 65, 184 New York, xviii, xix, xxi, 27, 28, 31, 66, 75–76, 115, 227, 236, 241; Bellevue Hospital, xviii, 75, 231, 236 Niagara Falls, xix, 70, 143, 158, 201 Night of the Long Knives. See Operation Hummingbird NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs), 104, 112 Noah’s Ark, 62, 115 Non-Intervention Agreement, 109 Nordic League of Nations, 65, 106 Norway, xiv, xvii, 2, 18, 47, 49–51, 58, 60, 63, 67–70, 82n36–37, 84n100, 85n113, 104–8, 117, 125n109, 139, 173, 189n10, 191n61, 200, 230; Skjaeggedalsfoss, 69–70 Noxon, Gerald Forbes, xiv, 17, 18, 91, 94, 99, 158 Nuremberg Laws, 105 Oaxaca (de Juárez), ix, xviii, xix, 27, 52, 100, 129–33, 153–55, 172–78, 188, 193, 236–37, 243; Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad (Basilica of Our Lady of Solitude), ix, 152–54; Convent of Santo Domingo, 154; Hotel Francia, xviii, xix, 27, 133; Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe (Our Lady of Guadalupe, or the Virgin of Guadalupe), ix, 133, 135, 152–55, 185, 188; Virgen de la Soledad (Our Lady of Solitude), 153

Oaxaca, Valley of, 172, 178; Building J, ix, 177–79; Mitla, xviii, xix, 172, 174–76, 180; Monte Albán (‘White Mountain’), xviii, xix, 131, 134, 172, 176, 178; occult, 27, 92, 114, 122n46, 155, 158, 160 odyssey, 2, 57, 59, 69, 90–92, 95, 130, 148, 171–74, 186, 194, 201, 218 Olcott, Colonel Henry Steel, 114–15 Ome Tochtli (‘Two Rabbit’), 138 O' much' k'ajolab' (‘Four Hundred Boys’), 138 O’Neill, Eugene, 48, 80n6, 14 Operation Hummingbird, 103, 160 Orage, Alfred Richard, 119, 127n169 Orion, 57, 137, 161, 174, 197 Ouspensky, Peter D., xiv–xv, 62, 85n122, 86n132, 116–20, 127n152, 127n153, 127n172; The Fourth Dimension, 116, 118; Fourth Way (“The Work” or “The System”), 118–20; In Search of the Miraculous: Fragments of an Unknown Teaching, 119–20; A New Model of the Universe, xiv, 116, 117–18; Tertium Organum: A Key to the Enigmas of the World, xiv–xv, 116–17, 127n152 Palacio de Bellas Artes, Mexico City, 28 Panama Canal, xix, 186–87 paranormal, 42n112, 138–47, 197, 202, 207, 210 Paris, xviii, xix, 18, 25–27, 35, 172, 233, 235 Pasternak, Boris, 18 Peirce, Marguerite (Margot). See Lowry, Marguerite Pemex (Petróleos Mexicanos), 27, 110 Penrose, Roland, 21, 39n39 Percy, Walker, 6, 9 peyote, 136 phantom, 2, 66, 71, 77–79, 89–90, 130, 158, 171, 174, 182–83, 188, 193, 221

Index

Pierce oil company, 165n108 Plato, 9–10, 200 Pleiades (Seven Sisters), 129, 136–38, 145, 219, 222–24 plumbago, 156 Poe, Edgar Allan, 3, 8–9, 203 pogroms, 78, 113–14, 126n130 Polkinghorne, Sir John, 8 Popper, Sir Karl, 9 Popular Front, 113 Portolés, Luis Buñuel, 22, 40n57, 232; El Gran Calavera (The Great Madcap), 22; Los Olvidados (The Forgotten Ones and The Damned), 22, 40n57, 232 Potts, Leonard, James, 2 Pound, Ezra, 3, 14n10, 28 pre-Columbian, 37, 129, 131, 135–36, 219 prelogical, 73–74 Prescott, William H., 131–34, 147, 157, 159, 163n56; History of the Conquest of Mexico and History of the Conquest of Peru, 131–32 Preston, xvii, 19, 63, 67–68, 74, 107 preternatural, 207, 220 primitivism, 1, 21–22, 37, 73–74, 104, 131, 209, 219, 222 psychoanalysis, 3, 10, 13, 21, 34, 109, 130, 148–49, 182, 204–5, 217, 233 psychogeography, 1, 13, 25, 47–48, 51, 58, 61–62, 90, 106–8, 118, 130, 143, 150, 153, 181, 187, 193–95, 198, 201–3, 210, 218–19, 224, 233 Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 17, 98–99, 103, 108, 120, 124n88; The End of St Petersburg, 98–99, 103; Storm Over Asia, 98 Puebla, 131, 147; Ixtaccihuatl, 132, 176; Popocatepetl, 9, 28, 96, 132, 143, 157 Pushkin, Alexander, 90–92, 93, 108, 120, 196 Quauhnahuac. See Cuernavaca

271

Raine, Kathleen, 20, 148 Rascoe, Burton, xviii, 81n15 Reavey, George, 18, 25, 38n11 Red Army, 112 Redgrave, Michael, 20, 39n34 Reds, 104–5, 108 Repin, Ilya, and Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on November 16th, 1581, 101 Rivera, Diego, 27, 28–29, 37, 99, 142; History of Cuernavaca and Morelos: Conquest and Revolution, 28 Rivera, Frida Kahlo de, 37, 99 Romanticism, 2–6, 20, 21, 49, 90–91, 110, 113–17, 176, 196, 217, 221, 224 Room, Abram, and The Ghost That Never Returns, 98 rosemarine, 64 Rosenfield, Samuel. See Tzara, Tristan Russia, xiv, 2, 3–4, 13, 18–22, 54, 61–64, 67–69, 78, 89–117, 120, 123n54, 124n81, 125n111, 125n113, 125n121, 126n130, 128n174, 181–83, 188, 195, 199–200, 208–9, 213n12, 217; Archangel (now Archangelsk), 67–68, 106–7, 117, 118, 200; Leningrad (formerly and once again St Petersburg), xvii–xviii, 68, 91–92, 98–99, 103, 107–8, 117, 124n88, 125n113, 168n180, 181, 203; Neva, River, 92, 108; White Sea, 64, 67, 102, 108, 118, 200 Russian cinema, 2, 18, 89, 98–101, 120, 124n88, 217 Russian Civil Wars, 108, 110–12 Russian literature, 2, 18, 89, 90–97, 217; Golden Age, 2, 89, 90–97 Russian Orthodox Church, 91 Russian political leaders: Lenin (Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov), 89, 111, 121n2, 126n123; Stalin (Joseph Vissarionovich Jughashvili), 89, 94, 104, 109, 111–13, 121n2, 126n125; Trotsky, Leon (Lev Davidovich

272

Index

Bronstein), ix, 37, 89, 110, 111–13, 121n2, 126n125, 231 Russian Revolutions, 61, 89, 98, 108, 112, 121n2, 124n81, 128n174 Russian rulers: Ivan IV (the Terrible), Tsar, 101; Nicholas I, Tsar, 90–91; Peter the Great, Tsar, 92, 108, 125n113 Rye, xvii, xviii, 24–25, 31, 36, 43n138, 231 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 12 Schwenk, Theodor, 224, 226n40 science, xiv, xxi, 7, 8–9, 18–19, 59, 73, 101, 103, 125n99, 138–41, 149, 156, 179, 217–18, 221–32 Second Spanish Republic, 113 Second World War, 6, 19, 25, 31, 34, 72, 79–80, 92–93, 195 sensibility, 10, 12–13, 17, 31, 217–18 Seven Sisters. See Pleiades shaman, 1, 6–8, 13n1, 47, 73–75, 79, 89–90, 129–31, 135–36, 143, 148– 50, 158–60, 167n139, 171–73, 179, 195–98, 207, 211, 214n22, 218–21, 224 Situationist International (SI), 233 Social Credit, 14n10, 101 socialism, 22–23, 27, 40n60, 89, 97, 101–8, 117, 119–20, 121n2, 141 Society for Psychical Research (SPR), 42n112 Sommerfield, John, xviii, 22–23 soul, 3, 4, 8–10, 23, 27–28, 34–35, 56– 65, 68–70, 74, 77–79, 80n6, 90–99, 103–5, 108–9, 116–20, 123n53, 130–31, 134–35, 146–53, 157–60, 173–76, 179–80, 185–88, 195–98, 202–5, 208–9, 213n12, 218–24 South America, 11 Southern Cross (Crux), 184–85, 186, 191n47 Soviet Union (USSR), 19, 37, 69, 78, 89, 94, 98, 102–5, 108–9, 111–13, 126n123

Spain, xviii, 1–2, 4–6, 17–18, 22–23, 26, 29, 37, 38n16, 47, 51, 78–79, 89, 95, 109–10, 113, 129–35, 142, 145, 148–49, 200, 213n12, 217–19, 230, 235–37; Alhambra, 145; Granada, xviii, 26, 145 Spanish Civil War, 5–6, 17–18, 22–23, 26, 79–80, 89, 95, 109–11, 113, 142; Franco, General, 22, 26, 109; Nationalists, 109; Republicans, 109–10 Spengler, Oswald, and The Decline of the West, 4, 6, 94, 96 sphinx, 116 spiritual, xiv, 2–4, 8, 11–13, 19, 23–34, 47–50, 54–65, 69, 72–79, 90–95, 98–100, 103–5, 108–10, 114–20, 129–31, 134–36, 141, 144, 147–49, 153–59, 167n139, 169n194, 172–76, 179–82, 185–88, 194–98, 204–12, 217–21, 224, 233, 236 Spivey, Ted R., 8, 148–49, 196, 221 Stanislavsky, Konstantin, 97 Stravinsky, Igor, 22 Styx, 68, 180, 195 supernatural, 26, 30, 49–52, 59, 66–67, 73, 102, 109, 118, 134, 147, 151, 156–60, 179–80, 197–98, 201, 207– 10, 220–24, 228 surrealism, 3–5, 8, 13, 14n20, 18, 20–25, 31–32, 36–37, 39n39, 48, 76–77, 80n8, 90–91, 112, 135, 141, 150, 195, 202 Swedenborg, Emanuel, 2–3, 114, 204, 214n38 Tabasco, 27, 180 Tagore, Rabindranath, and Gitanjali, 156 Taoism, ix, xiv, 2, 62–63, 67, 93, 116–17, 195–98, 218–24; Laozi (Lao-tzu), 195; Tao Te Ching, 222 Tarot cards, 62, 117 Taxco, 36, 50

Index

Teotihuacan, ix, xviii, 134, 176–79; Temple of Quetzalcoatl (Feathered Serpent), ix, 11, 157, 178–79 Thalavettiparothiam, 131 Thelema, 158 theosophy, 2, 114–17, 119–20, 156, 210, 226n40; Theosophical Society, 115–17, 156, 210 Tlaloc, 12, 150 Tlaxcala, xviii, xix, 29, 134 Tohono O'odham (Papagos), 100, 135 Tolstoy, Lev, 90, 92, 95–96, 120, 123n48, 127n152; Anna Karenina, 95, 96; War and Peace, 95, 96, 123n48 Toltecs, 11, 136, 147 Tomasachics (Temósachics), 100, 135 Transition: An International Quarterly for Creative Experiment, 21, 109 Trevelyan, Julian, xviii, 21, 25–26 Trumbauer, Frankie, 186 Turgenev, Ivan, 90, 196 Turner, John Kenneth, and Barbarous Mexico, 133, 135, 165n108 Tzara, Tristan: pen-name of Samuel Rosenfield, 37, 45n220 Underworld. See Mictlan Unión Militar, 110 United States, xi, xiii, xviii, xix, 20, 25–28, 31–35, 39n34, 40n57, 47, 50, 64, 70, 75, 78, 83n66, 84n100, 99, 109–10, 182–83, 188, 235 Upanishads, 92, 155 USA. See United States

273

USSR. See Soviet Union Vedanta (Uttarā Mīmāṃsā), 155, 168n162 Venus, 136, 157, 163n53, 178–79 Vestris, 116 Vikings, 50, 82n37, 106, 125n108 Viking ship, 50, 82n37 Vitzilopochtli (Huitzilopochtli), 145 voodoo, 148, 179–80 Waugh, Evelyn, 26–27 West Dean House, West Sussex. See James, Edward Western philosophy, 9 White Nights, 108 White Russian, 107, 108, 111 Winchelsea, 36–37 Wirikuta, 135 Wixárika (Huichol), 135–36, 150 Woolf, Leonard Sidney, 90 Woolf, Virginia, 23, 90 Wordsworth, William, 3, 6, 196 World’s Fair in New York, 31 Yaqui. See Yoeme Yeats, W. B., 3, 97, 114, 138, 155–58 Yoeme (Yaqui), 100, 135–36 zacuali, xix, 136–37, 176 Zapotec, 2, 12, 129–31, 134, 136, 145, 148–49, 154, 159, 172–78, 188, 197, 217, 219 Zola, Émile, 29, 128n174

About the Author

Nigel H. Foxcroft is Senior Lecturer in English Literature, Russian and European Studies at the University of Brighton. He has had published journal articles and book chapters in English and Russian on modern Anglo-American literature (J. M. Coetzee, Malcolm Lowry, and Toni Morrison), Russian Literature (Alexander Pushkin, Mikhail Lermontov, and Anton Chekhov), and Russian historical linguistics in France, Hungary, Japan, Mexico, Poland, Taiwan, and the United Kingdom. He has delivered papers (including keynotes) at international and world conferences in Canada, France, Japan, Mexico, the United Kingdom, and the United States.

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