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The actual first sentence goes on for quite some time, so floridly that it's inspired a modern-day contest - the Edward Bulwer-Lytton contest - in which thousands of nerds compete annually to write the first sentence to "the worst of all possible novels. When the dead moose floated into view the famished crew cheered — this had to mean land! The Rest Of It Have you ever mentioned to a friend that you're reading a Victorian novel and he's all ugh, I hate those, they're all some dude on bended knee declaiming his love for like ten pages, and then it turns out he's not of noble enough birth and he has to fight a duel and then the lady dies in childbirth anyway, so boring!

He's describing a Frankenstein of the worst habits of all Victorian novelists put together. In fact, he's describing Edward Bulwer-Lytton. And if that sounds like it actually might be kinda fun to you, it did to me too; I was prepared to like Paul Clifford, in a smirking way. But it turns out that talking about it is fun; reading it is brutal. Clifford drew his chair nearer, and gazed on her, as she sat; the long dark eyelashes drooping over her eyes, and contrasting the ivory lids; her delicate profile half turned from him, and borrowing a more touching beauty from the soft light that dwelt upon it; and her full yet still scarcely developed bosom heaving at thoughts which she did not analyze, but was content to feel at once vague and delicious.

He gazed, and his lips trembled; he longed to speak; he longed to say but those words which convey what volumes have endeavored to express and have only weakened by detail: Imagine, if you can, pages of them! Bulwer-Lytton is so pleased with himself, so fond of his own voice, that he's totally incapable of shutting up. He seems certain that he's writing a book for the ages.

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And I guess it turns out that he was; he survives as a literary in-joke. Now I'm in on it, I guess. It wasn't worth it. But if I get nothing else from this book - misogyny? Had the fickle fist of fortune finagled a more forthright fate for that sun-born scion of sativus, who can guess what heights he may have grown to; but it was his destiny to be drowned in the vile vinegar of vicissitude, doomed to pickling in the misfortunate brine; and a fine pickle he was.

Wish me luck - both to win, and to never again encounter a book by this jackass. It's also a cocktail made with gin and creme de violette, but that's not what Clifford's talking about. I did not win the contest. Never Judge a Book by Its First Sentence Although I thoroughly enjoy reading English literature of the 18th and 19th centuries — I am afraid I may even go so far as to say that one condition an author must fulfil in order to find real favour with me is simply … being dead —, I have never had a look at the works of Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

This is hardly surprising because I have always considered him to be a paragon of purple prose — and why? For some reason or other, however, I recently started having a go at this very book, and I was quite amazed at how much I enjoyed it. After being punished for a crime that he did not commit, he is finally lured into the company of highwaymen and confidence tricksters and decides to take up life as an outlaw. One day, however, he makes the acquaintance of a charming young girl, Lucy Brandon, the niece of a very ambitious and embittered lawyer, and Cupid takes over, throwing him into an ill-fated passion for the girl.

How can he possibly hope to be united in marriage to a maiden that is apparently socially unattainable to him, a reckless young man, whose neck is constantly threatened by Jack Ketch? What seems to be a wild and romantic penny-dreadful really is one, but there is quite more to it. When, for instance, one of the characters complains of having been robbed of his watch, he receives the witty answer: Your watch has gone? Well, watches are made to go. Whereas a lot of the characters in Bulwer-Lytton are either caricatures or bloodless types, the author actually creates an interesting hero, because for all his noble qualities, there is a tinge of contempt for mankind in Paul that makes his descent into crime credible.

His view on life is quite depressing, and he expresses it to his niece, whom he really loves, in a very frank way, as for example here: Can you believe that a man who knows what life is, cares for the penny whistles of grown children after his death? I, who loathe the living, can scarcely venerate the unborn. Lucy, believe me, that no man can mix largely with men in political life, and not despise everything that in youth he adored!

Age leaves us only one feeling — contempt! Jan 17, Grace Harwood rated it really liked it. From the opening cliched line "It was a dark and stormy night From the descriptions, I'm picturing Orlando Bloom in highwayman get-up with a noble steed and a couple of debonnaire companions. I wouldn't mind my stage coach being stopped by them either. This prompted me to think why has a film of this not been made? It is impossibly romantic, has a great action-filled adventure story AND an imporant social message at the end.

Not that I don't love Jane Eyre - I do I can't agree that it is badly written - it's written with humour and wit - the characters are beautifully sketched. There's just the right amount of ambiguity surrounding William Brandon - is he all bad?


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It's so hard to tell. Lucy redeems herself beautifully, stylishly side-stepping the ambitions and machinations of the men who would dispose of her to their own advantage. Lucy's father, with his manner of speaking in parenthesis is utterly brilliant and had me in stitches. He is a pertinent character too, because one of the big themes of this book, I felt, was language and how a criminal can be a "gentleman" if you just choose the right terminology to describe his activities; and a Judge can be the basest criminal by the same token.

As another reviewer has pointed out already, there is an important question raised by this novel about the nature of society and how effective the law was in dealing with its criminals ones it had, in large measure, helped to create during the nineteenth-century. He is naked - do you clothe him? If not, you break your covenant, you drive him back to the first law of nature, and you hang him, not because he is guilty, but because you have left him naked and starving! I so enjoyed reading this story and have now downloaded lots more Bulwer-Lytton to my kindle for future reading most of it free.

Can't recommend it enough for a bit of escapism and daydream material about dashing highwaymen. View all 4 comments. May 25, Kathryn marked it as to-read. Jul 28, J. Everyone who writes and reads fiction. Paul Clifford by Baron Edward Bulwer-Lytton This is a marvelous and greatly maligned piece of fiction that begins with this ever over-popularized piece of purple prose. It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets for it is in London that our scene lies , rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

Bulwe Paul Clifford by Baron Edward Bulwer-Lytton This is a marvelous and greatly maligned piece of fiction that begins with this ever over-popularized piece of purple prose. Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Edward Paul Clifford - Complete p. One must wonder when looking at the Point of View of this novel which seems to be some omniscient narrator who in a rather tongue and cheeky fashion keeps addressing the reader directly through the holes he creates in the forth wall.

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By the end of the story there are more holes in that wall than there might be in a block of Swiss cheese. This and the florid manor of writing alone cause one to suspect the author has deliberately waxed purple all the way through this seemingly florid bit of prose. Add to this a later instance of similar quality: It was a frosty and tolerably clear night. The dusk of the twilight had melted away beneath the moon which had just risen, and the hoary rime glittered from the bushes and the sward, breaking into a thousand diamonds as it caught the rays of the stars.

Granted there is a period here after night, but then how much different is that really than the semicolon of the former. I think that the author is having the last laugh, if he could only see how well quoted he has become. Beyond such valuable prose this novel holds many things. I've read the analysis that it portrays the injustice of the justice system of the time holding that our hero who ends up being a rogue and highwayman is unjustly convicted and housed among other thieves where he may learn more of the craft of thievery from the real pros.

And this does seem to be a major thread that runs through the novel with multitudes of soliloquies about such injustice and the justification for all men to become Robin Hoods. But there is so much more here. What I've mentioned is just the tip of the iceberg. Another rather important thread that touches early in the story seems almost to address the issue of florid prose or at least perhaps the criticism of such.


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For background; in the story, Paul has been orphaned and left to the care of Mrs. Margery Lobkins who is owner of an inn and alehouse and is rough around the edges but seems to have a heart of gold. Lobkins who would likely never attempt to have children of her own vows to do her best to educate Paul to the fullest of her ability. To this end she enlists the help of many of her clientele who often do display higher levels of learning in some areas. The trouble is that many of these men are of ill repute and such relationships created with Paul make this reader wonder about the previous assessment that this is primarily a novel about how the system makes the young man go wrong.

Enter into this group Mr. Peter MacGrawler; whose station in life seems often to be in question. He is a frequenter of the Lobkins alehouse and an editor of a magazine that promotes prints and critiques literary works. He becomes Paul's tutor and eventually his employer for a brief time after he teaches Paul the art of the critique. Arthur Mervyn Or, Memoirs of the Year When a Duke Says I Do. The Divergent Series Complete Collection. The Works of William Hogarth. Memoirs of a Coxcomb.

The Fall Of Rome. Isaac Bickerstaff, physician and astrologer. The Mysteries of London Complete. George William MacArthur Reynolds. Overdue, The Story of a Missing Ship. Rienzi, Last of the Roman Tribunes. Edward Bulwer Lytton Baron Lytton. Works of Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

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Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton. The Caxtons, Part 1. The Lady of Lyons or, Love and Pride. Its Rise and Fall. The Caxtons, Part A Strange Story, all eight volumes in a single file. The Caxtons, Part 5. The Edward Bulwer-Lytton Collection. Paul Clifford, Volume 1. The Disowned — Volume My Novel, Volume 9. Ernest Maltravers, Book 7.

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A Tale — Volume Alice, or the Mysteries — Book My Novel, Volume 2. The Caxtons, Part 4.

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