Prospero's Cell (Faber Library 4)

slow but interesting book about a place unlikely to every be visited by most readers

This is a wonderfully poetic, sophisticated, and learned story of the isle of Corfu as experienced by Lawrence Durrell during a two-year idyll there in 1937 and 1938. Durrell was young (mid-twenties), he was still married to the first of his four wives, Corfu was beautiful and unspoiled, life there had changed little for generations, and World War II was yet to come. (When it did erupt, Durrell remained on Corfu until the fall of Greece, but he does not date any of the entries in this book, save the last, later than 1938.) Durrell wrote the book in 1945. Thus, it is scarcely surprising that there is a distinct sense of nostalgia, that the book is almost elegaic for a Corfu that, in 1938, was still a place out of time -- but by 1945, who knew? And we, reading it 60 years later, know all to well that globalistic forces have overwhelmed the Corfus of the world. The book proceeds gracefully back and forth among anecdotes about Durrell's life on Corfu and his circle of friends there (all of whom are true characters and quite engaging); tales of history, mythology, and folklore; evocative descriptions of the land and sea; accounts of local practices and customs and livelihoods (principally fishing); snapshots of the Greeks as a people; philosophizing; and on and on. Throughout the writing is leisurely and superb. I compiled a lengthy list of striking quotes, but here I will limit myself to several examples. On the Greeks: "The loquacity, the shy cunning, the mendacity, the generosity, the cowardice and bravery, the almost comical inability of self-analysis." Or, "We Greeks are not religious, we are superstitious and anarchic. Even death is less important than politics." On land and sea: "The little bay lies in a trance, drugged with its own extraordinary perfection -- a conspiracy of light, air, blue sea, and cypresses. The rock faces splinter the light and reflect it both upward and downward; so that, staring through the broken dazzle of the Ionian sun, the quiet bather in his boat can at the same time look down into three fathoms of water with neither rock nor weed to interrupt the play of imagination . . .." On local customs (and on time): "Not that time itself is anything more than a word here. Peasant measurement of time and distance is done by cigarettes. Ask a peasant how far a village is and he will reply, nine times out of ten, that it is a matter of so many cigarettes." PROSPERO'S CELL (the title comes from speculation that Corfu was Prospero's island in Shakespeare's "The Tempest") is often classified as a travel book, but that doesn't really do it justice. It is virtually sui generis. If you are going to spend some time on Corfu, by all means read it (in addition to your Fodor's or other generic "travel guide"). But even if you are not fortunate enough to have been to or be going to Corfu, or even if you do not normally enjoy "travel books", you may very well luxuriate in this literate, sophisticated, and poetic b

The setting for Shakespeare's "Tempest" is the Greek island of Corfu, argues one of the characters in this book, expounding on a deeply held belief of its author. The 'presiding genius' of Corfu, or as it was once called, Corcyra, is none other than Zeus Pantocrator. For the readers of his island books, the genius of place is Lawrence Durrell. According to the introduction by Carol Peirce (University of Baltimore, 1996), "Durrell composed "Prospero's Cell" as if it were a journal or diary of a year and a half on [Corfu]..." from April 1937 to September 1938, with a somber postscript from 1941 where he writes of friends already dead in the war. The war is a flat gray shadow, throwing the brilliance of Durrell's landscapes and dazzling Greek villages into intense relief. Reflections of a lost time are collected and focused through the genius of place--Durrell, himself. Some of his most beautiful passages in "Prospero's Cell," indeed in all of his island books, take place under water. Here, the author goes carbide fishing one night: "Presently the carbide lamp is lit and the whole miraculous under-world of the lagoon bursts into a hollow bloom...Transformed, like figures in a miracle, we gaze down upon a sea-floor drifting with its canyons and forests and families in the faint undertow of the sea--like a just-breathing heart." Bright surfaces. Submerged longings. As Durrell floats in the blood-warm sea, he thinks, "One could die like this and wonder if it was death. The density, the weight and richness of a body without a mind or ghost to trouble it." This book is partly the landscape of Corcyra, and partly a landscape of dreams. There are stories of vampires, saints, and 'kallikanzaros,' which is a Greek term for little cloven-hooved satyrs, who cause mischief of every kind. "Prospero's Cell" is one of a series of 'landscape books' that Durrell wrote about his pre- and post-war experiences in and around the Mediterranean. The other books in this series are "Reflections on a Marine Venus," "Spirit of Place," "Bitter Lemons," and "Sicilian Carousel." Ultimately, these island books defy categorization. Durrell wrote about the peculiar genius of a place, not bound by any moment in time, but for all time.

The English writer Lawrence Durrell spent four years on the island of Corfu together with his first wife Nancy Myers in the years 1935-1939. He has collected his memoirs on this period during his staying in Alexandria during the WWII.Prospero's Cell evades genre classification. It is an autobiography, but not a particularly factual one - for instance, along with Lawrence and Nancy, the whole Durrell family - his mother, two brothers and sister - came to live on Corfu for the same period, a fact he only acknowledges in a passing remark or two. It is written in a form of a diary, but the story flows without paying any attention on the interpunctuating dates. It claims to be a guide to the landscape and manners of the island of Corfu, but is useless as such. It spends a considerable time discussing the history and myths concerning Corfu, but the material is not laid out in a systematic and scholarly manner, and is probably of low value as a historical text.Apart from ephemeral characters, the four personae make out the main cast: apart from Lawrence and his wife, there is also a doctor, biologist and polymath, Dr. Theodore Stephanides, and a bohemian Armenian journalist, Ivan Zarian. (Both are actual persons, of course; apart from here, Stephanides also appears on Gerald Durrell's My Family and Other Animals, and Henry Miller's The Colossus of Maroussi.) However, Durrell has taken the liberty to interrupt occasionally this chronicle of their living, their thoughts etc. with a treatise on the Saint Spiridon, the island patron; or Karaghiosis, the puppet theatre hero; or a long treatise on the island history and myths concerning it. Prospero's cell ends with "some peasant remedies in common use against disease", a "synoptic history of the island of Corfu", lists of places to see, things to visit etc., and finally concludes with an anthology of letters written by Edward Lear, an English painter who spent on Corfu several years in mid-19th century.Durrel's language is like brocade: rich, heavy and very sophisticated. He is too serene and spiritual to talk humour, even when the topic is indeed funny, e.g. the accident with the Corfu fire brigade, the Zarian's obsession with "Mantinea 1936" and the Stephanides' confusion with the brain cutlets, he merely cites the narrator. Still, it is a nice holiday reading, an intellectual supplement to any *real* guide to Corfu you happen to take with you. And, while you are there, don't forget to get yourself Hilary Whitton Paipeti's guide, In the Footsteps of Lawrence Durrell and Gerald Durrell in Corfu (1935-39), which will help you connect the world of Durrells with the contemporary Corfu.

This is a memoir about Durrell's stay of several years on the Island of Corfu and about the delightfully intelligent and profoundly cultured bevy of lunatics who make up his circle of friends. There is an Armenian jounalist, a studious doctor, a member of the nobility of dubious origins. There are marvelous land- and seascapes, peasants, servants, drivers and fishermen. While the author maintains the kind of distance from his material needed for writing, he also shows the love he feels for all these people and for this island. He makes us curse our fate for not being present at the conversations he has with his friends, which are full of historical and literary references and novel interpretations of texts and events, not in the form of rarefied abstractions but all connected quite concretely to the island and its fascinating people. There is also light banter and refined teasing. The doctor comes into possession of a brain from a cadaver that he intends to use for scientific purposes but by accident it gets served to his guests for lunch. The Armenian discovers a Greek wine he finds exquisite (he has heretofore hated Greek wines) and buys 85 bottles of it, only to find that 84 are actually quite inferior, more like high class vinegar. Durrell describes many of the customs and attitudes of the local people and makes them seem a lot more honest and human than one would suppose. He treats us to a performance of the well-known Karaghiosis puppet theatre and describes the (mostly crude) reactions of some of the town luminaries. The show is ostensibly for children but the adults enjoy it as well, perhaps even more since they can appreciate all the thinly veiled political and religious references. There is a detailed description of the grape harvest with a subtly drawn Christ-figure clad only in a white shirt who treads the grapes with his arms outstretched as the red liquid oozes out from the bottom of the vat. This probably symbolizes the bloody crucifixion Greece would undergo in a not so remote future. Durrell describes a paradise but war is coming and soon all these friends will be evacuated to Alexandria, where the book's final words are written. It was very beautiful while it lasted and reading about it still gives pleasure.