The Death of Francis Bacon

Tsja, een “bold and brilliant short work of experimental fiction”, aldus Goodreads. Zitten dubben of het een 2* of een 3* moest worden (het was een cadeau tenslotte! ;-), maar uiteindelijk toch mij iets teveel experimental, zeker (met name?) niet geholpen dat ik te weinig van Francis Bacon weet om vervolgens deze korte verhalen op hun waarde te kunnen schatten. Als het boek dan weer overeenkomsten heeft met zijn werk verklaart dat mogelijk een beetje: de schilderijen van Bacon ogen fascinerend maar roepen ook niet weer de behoefte op om er eens een paar “in het echt” te gaan bekijken...

Quite the departure for Max Porter, this tiny little tome is an unflinching look at the last days of the life of the artist Francis Bacon. It is raw and brave and bold, and difficult, as if the end of the life of such a man could be anything else.

This book feels exactly like Bacon's work. Confusion, filth and gutpunches.

The Death of Francis Bacon took me by surprise. Having read and enjoyed Porter's previous two novels, I expected more of the same. But this is another planet of writing.

My reading got off to a precarious start. After the first couple of pages, I thought, hang on a bloody minute, what's going on here? It makes no sense. So I put it down and read a bit about the book, researched a little into Bacon's last days, and then returned to it. I devoured it in a couple of hours. I loved it. It was more an atmosphere than a story. It glided over me like the first reading of a poem. It was like stepping into the dying painter's consciousness (and unconsciousness) and catching glimpses of a confused, lonely creative mind.

My next step is to take a closer look at Bacon's paintings, particularly the latter ones, and reread the book. Maybe it'll get five stars after that.

I clearly did not get this at all. I liked Grief is a Thing with Feathers, and I adored Lanny - but this just felt confusing and pretentious.