Andrew Stauffer

George, Lord Byron, is a classic example of the paradox in which a generally ghastly person can produce sublime art or literature – somewhat in the mode of Salvador Dali. This month marks the bicentenary of Lord Byron’s death, which was presumably behind the publication of this fascinating biography (which fortunately makes no attempt at hagiography, which would presumably be beyond even the literary skills of the subject himself).

I have to confess woeful ignorance of both the life and the works of Lord Byron, so I was rather surprised at just how outré his life was, encompassing rampant affairs with both sexes and a long-term incestuous relationship with his half-sister, with the constant accrual of staggering debts running on in the background. I had, of course, been aware of his Bohemian lifestyle, although not perhaps the extent of his licentiousness. Until reading this biography, I had not read much of his verse, although I have delighted in various cantos from Don Juan and Child Harold’s Pilgrimage by way of background reading while engaged with this book.

I was intrigued by Andrew Stauffer’s approach. Framing the biography through the device of ten letters works well, although it also flagged to me how poor a writer of prose Byron was. These letters do not speak in their style of a literary behemoth, but of a selfish, self-obsessed solipsist. Of course, the two things are not mutually exclusive, but no one would remember Byron for the scrawled offerings here, yet he seemed capable of dashing off a dazzling ode or a verse essay at the drop of a hat.

He was famously described by Lady Caroline Lamb, one of his more prominent long-term lovers, as ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’, and these letters suggest that he revelled in that reputation, and seemed eager always to push it even further.… (mere)