Prospero's Cell: Fake, Masterpiece, or Both?

Kudos to Ken Gammage for his comment of 26 December 2013.  He defines well the problem re Prospero's Cell:  A Guide to the Landscape and Manners of the Island of Corcyra (1945; 1962), which was Durrell's first and some consider his best work of travel literature.  But just what is it? — and who is the person or better, the persona, who creates this blend of non-fiction and fiction?  Of course, writers do something of this sort all the time — they invent and expand on reality to tell a good story.  Nothing wrong with a little bit of exaggeration, if done in moderation and for a good cause.  Patrick Leigh Fermor (a friend of LD's) writes his travel books in this vein.  So Durrell is certainly in this tradition.  He goes far beyond the usual limits, however, and I would argue that in so doing Durrell is fundamentally dishonest about his work and himself.  As David Green says in an earlier comment, Durrell's self is "edited" by his own hand — highly edited, I would add.  We'll have much to say about this topic.  For now, I'll limit myself to the contention that Durrell was a literary genius, but he was also a liar, a plagiarist, and a trickster.  He was essentially an illusionist, who deliberately deceived his readers and probably deluded himself in ways that are highly questionable.  Had these traits been known near the beginning of his career (he was 33 in 1945), he may well have been dropped by his prestigious publisher, Faber and Faber of London.  Feel free to disagree with any of my assertions.  —  BR

Islomania

Durrell's word is "Islomania" or "islomane," not "islomaniac," although the latter may be more relevant.  See Durrell's Reflections on a Marine Venus:  A Companion to the Landscape of Rhodes (1953; 1960), p. 15. — BR

Green on White's "flawed self" vis-à-vis Durrell's "edited" self

David says on 22 December 2013,

"The source of [Patrick] White's simplicity was his writing, which brought all his contradictions into a single focus.  He embraced whatever he needed for his work.  Nothing in himself or the world around him was off limits:  people, ideas, gossip, rows were all grist to his mill.  Behind many faces White lived one writer's life.  He spoke of living his real life inside his skull; he wrote that artists only experience pure being in their art. 'My flawed self has only ever felt intensely alive in the fictions I write.'

"This sounds like Larry [Durrell] except for the fact that the world saw an highly edited version of the author for whom many aspects of self were off limits."

Durrell, White, and Pasternak

David Green makes the following observation on Lawrence Durrell, Patrick White, and Boris Pasternak:

He dreamed of traveling again: to Sinai and Petra to Christian Jerusalem, Constantinople, through the Greek islands once more, to Spain and Russia. "Pasternak's landscapes are haunting me.' Dr Zhivago had him spellbound. "there was hardly a page which did not leave me wanting to shout and sing. I also finished the Durrell Quartet of which the brilliance has begun to appear slightly meretricious after Pasternak's more mature wisdom. Still, I am thankful for Durrell too.'

David

Beginnings

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