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Here it is, explained like you are 10:
De Quincey was a clever young man who ran away from school, lived hungry and homeless in London, and later, at Oxford, tried opium for pain. At first it gave him wonderful dreams and music inside his head, and he took it only now and then, like a holiday. But slowly the holiday became a habit, the dreams turned dark, and he could not stop. He tells the whole story honestly, the pleasures and the pains.
De Quincey begins by apologising. English readers, he knows, dislike a man who strips off the decent drapery from his own errors, so he explains himself carefully: his self accusation, he says, is not a confession of guilt, and his record may help others. Then, shield lowered, he tells one of the strangest life stories of his century.
The life comes first: a clever boy runs away from Manchester grammar school, wanders in Wales, then starves politely in London, sleeping in an empty house and befriending a young street girl named Ann. At Oxford he tries laudanum for pain in 1804. The pleasures of opium fill the middle of the book: music swelling in the dark, time stretching, the East rising in dreams. The pains close it: addiction, horror, and nights of drowning and fire.
This is the original text of 1821, printed in the London Magazine, not the long expanded version De Quincey published in 1856. It is shorter, stranger and fiercer, and its prose, ornate, musical, half in love with its own visions, influenced everyone from Poe to Baudelaire. No earlier English writer had described the inside of addiction like this.
Thomas De Quincey published Confessions of an English Opium-Eater in the London Magazine in 1821, and it made him famous overnight. A runaway schoolboy turned starving London scholar takes opium first for pain, then for pleasure, and descends into years of gorgeous dreams and waking torment. This is the original 1821 text, shorter and fiercer than his later rewrite.
The Confessions announces itself plainly on its title page: being an extract from the life of a scholar, from the London Magazine for September 1821. De Quincey's address to the reader is half apology, half challenge. He knows the English hate public self exposure; he publishes anyway, trusting the record will prove useful and instructive, not merely interesting.
The narrative moves in three great waves. First the life: the runaway schoolboy, the Welsh roads, the empty London house, Ann of Oxford Street, lost to him forever in the crowds. Then the pleasures of opium, bought cheap on Sunday evenings, opening palaces in the mind. Then the pains: the Malay in his cottage, the dreams of water, crocodiles and burning centuries.
This edition prints the 1821 original, the text that startled its first readers, rather than the much longer rewrite of 1856. It is the fiercer and more concentrated book. Read it for the story, which is gripping, and for the sentences, which roll like organ music, and remember that its author was inventing a whole kind of confession as he went.
Edition: Edition of 1821. Text: Project Gutenberg ebook 2040.
The first chapter
I here present you, courteous reader, with the record of a remarkable period in my life: according to my application of it, I trust that it will prove not merely an interesting record, but in a considerable degree useful and instructive. In that hope it is that I have drawn it up; and that must be my apology for breaking through that delicate and honourable reserve which, for the most part, restrains us from the public exposure of our own errors and infirmities. Nothing, indeed, is more revolting to English feelings than the spectacle of a human being obtruding on our notice his moral ulcers or scars, and tearing away that “decent drapery” which time or indulgence to human frailty may have drawn over them; accordingly, the greater part of our confessions (that is, spontaneous and extra-judicial confessions) proceed from demireps, adventurers, or swindlers: and for any such acts of gratuitous self-humiliation from those who can be supposed in sympathy with the decent and self-respecting part of society, we must look to French literature, or to that part of the German which is tainted with the spurious and defective sensibility of the French. All this I feel so forcibly, and so nervously am I alive to reproach of this tendency, that I have for many months hesitated about the propriety of allowing this or any part of my narrative to come before the public eye until after my death (when, for many reasons, the whole will be published); and it is not without an anxious review of the reasons for and against this step that I have at last concluded on taking it.
Guilt and misery shrink, by a natural instinct, from public notice: they court privacy and solitude: and even in their choice of a grave will sometimes sequester themselves from the general population of the churchyard, as if declining to claim fellowship with the great family of man, and wishing (in the affecting language of Mr. Wordsworth)
“--Humbly to express A penitential loneliness.”
It is well, upon the whole, and for the interest of us all, that it should be so: nor would I willingly in my own person manifest a disregard of such salutary feelings, nor in act or word do anything to weaken them; but, on the one hand, as my self-accusation does not amount to a confession of guilt, so, on the other, it is possible that, if it did, the benefit resulting to others from the record of an experience purchased at so heavy a price might compensate, by a vast overbalance, for any violence done to the feelings I have noticed, and justify a breach of the general rule. Infirmity and misery do not of necessity imply guilt. They approach or recede from shades of that dark alliance, in proportion to the probable motives and prospects of the offender, and the palliations, known or secret, of the offence; in proportion as the temptations to it were potent from the first, and the resistance to it, in act or in effort, was earnest to the last. For my own part, without breach of truth or modesty, I may affirm that my life has been, on the whole, the life of a philosopher: from my birth I was made an intellectual creature, and intellectual in the highest sense my pursuits and pleasures have been, even from my schoolboy days. If opium-eating be a sensual pleasure, and if I am bound to confess that I have indulged in it to an excess not yet recorded of any other man, it is no less true that I have struggled against this fascinating enthralment with a religious zeal, and have at length accomplished what I never yet heard attributed to any other man--have untwisted, almost to its final links, the accursed chain which fettered me. Such a self-conquest may reasonably be set off in counterbalance to any kind or degree of self-indulgence. Not to insist that in my case the self-conquest was unquestionable, the self-indulgence open to doubts of casuistry, according as that name shall be extended to acts aiming at the bare relief of pain, or shall be restricted to such as aim at the excitement of positive pleasure.
Guilt, therefore, I do not acknowledge; and if I did, it is possible that I might still resolve on the present act of confession in consideration of the service which I may thereby render to the whole class of opium-eaters. But who are they? Reader, I am sorry to say a very numerous class indeed. Of this I became convinced some years ago by computing at that time the number of those in one small class of English society (the class of men distinguished for talents, or of eminent station) who were known to me, directly or indirectly, as opium-eaters; such, for instance, as the eloquent and benevolent ----, the late Dean of ----, Lord ----, Mr. ---- the philosopher, a late Under-Secretary of State (who described to me the sensation which first drove him to the use of opium in the very same words as the Dean of ----, viz., “that he felt as though rats were gnawing and abrading the coats of his stomach”), Mr. ----, and many others hardly less known, whom it would be tedious to mention. Now, if one class, comparatively so limited, could furnish so many scores of cases (and that within the knowledge of one single inquirer), it was a natural inference that the entire population of England would furnish a proportionable number. The soundness of this inference, however, I doubted, until some facts became known to me which satisfied me that it was not incorrect. I will mention two. (1) Three respectable London druggists, in widely remote quarters of London, from whom I happened lately to be purchasing small quantities of opium, assured me that the number of amateur opium-eaters (as I may term them) was at this time immense; and that the difficulty of distinguishing those persons to whom habit had rendered opium necessary from such as were purchasing it with a view to suicide, occasioned them daily trouble and disputes. This evidence respected London only. But (2)--which will possibly surprise the reader more--some years ago, on passing through Manchester, I was informed by several cotton manufacturers that their workpeople were rapidly getting into the practice of opium-eating; so much so, that on a Saturday afternoon the counters of the druggists were strewed with pills of one, two, or three grains, in preparation for the known demand of the evening. The immediate occasion of this practice was the lowness of wages, which at that time would not allow them to indulge in ale or spirits, and wages rising, it may be thought that this practice would cease; but as I do not readily believe that any man having once tasted the divine luxuries of opium will afterwards descend to the gross and mortal enjoyments of alcohol, I take it for granted
That those eat now who never ate before; And those who always ate, now eat the more.
Indeed, the fascinating powers of opium are admitted even by medical writers, who are its greatest enemies. Thus, for instance, Awsiter, apothecary to Greenwich Hospital, in his “Essay on the Effects of Opium” (published in the year 1763), when attempting to explain why Mead had not been sufficiently explicit on the properties, counteragents, &c., of this drug, expresses himself in the following mysterious terms (φωναντα συνετοισι): “Perhaps he thought the subject of too delicate a nature to be made common; and as many people might then indiscriminately use it, it would take from that necessary fear and caution which should prevent their experiencing the extensive power of this drug, for there are many properties in it, if universally known, that would habituate the use, and make it more in request with us than with Turks themselves; the result of which knowledge,” he adds, “must prove a general misfortune.” In the necessity of this conclusion I do not altogether concur; but upon that point I shall have occasion to speak at the close of my Confessions, where I shall present the reader with the moral of my narrative.
Source: Project Gutenberg. Published 1821. Author died 1859. Public domain worldwide. Share this book: WhatsApp
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