#enoch soames

[neil-gaiman]

A Web Treasure from the Wayback Machine:

Friend to Oscar Wilde and Max Beerbohm, the influence of Enoch Soames on English letters is as great today as it was in the 1890s. A new bio

The Enoch Soames Society's web pages. This will mean almost nothing to almost everyone. But I wish I'd found this site and linked to it when it was live, long long ago.

[academicelephant]

Teller has an unbelievable ability to leave me speechless and overwhelmed with emotions I can't even name. I'm reffering to an essay written by him titled A Memory of the Nineteen-Nineties which was published in November 1997 in The Atlantic (you can find it here). It was dreamlike yet so real, there was something... poetic in it. And it was very much like him. That's exactly the kind of person Teller is

Oh, and if you're interested, there's a bit more info about that afternoon in the British Museum reading room in this interview article thingy

[planetarygirl]

inspired by @beast-glatisant wonderful tale about being a carnival witch, I remembered the coolest magic trick i've ever read about. i don't think it's a very well known story, even though it includes Teller, from the Penn & Teller duo.

it's about a man called Enoch Soames and his infamous appearance on June 3, 1997, in the reading room of the British Museum.

ok.

so Enoch Soames is a short story written by Max Beerbohm in the late XIX century. the narrator is max himself, a friend of the main character, Enoch Soames, who struck a bargain with the devil. Being a mediocre writer in his own time but absolutely convinced of his own greatness, Soames feared his genius would only be recognized after his death.

the devil shows up before the two friends to offer a bargain: Enoch Soames would go a hundred years into the future and he would look up the reading room of the british museum for his own name. If he found himself listed there as an author, he would be spared but if not, his soul would belong to the devil.

having accepted the bargain, Soames is whisked away to 2:10 PM in the Round Reading Room of the British Museum on June 3, 1997. now, i'm gonna spoil the ending of the story, so I'd recommend reading it here before continuing.

Soames returns in the end of the afternoon to his own time. To his frustration, the only reference he found to his name was on a tale from his dear friend, Max Beerbohm, where (the nerve!) he is mistaken by a fictional character. He implores the narrator to convince us the readers that he is indeed real - and so the narrator tries, for the sake of his friend's soul. we can read the ending in a somewhat self-fulfiling prophecy way: we are reading the only story that survives Soames and where we know he is fictional.

or we can play in the game, just for a minute, and dive into the idea that we are, indeed, reading a desperate plea. and if we believe this, if we believe in the existance of Enoch Soames, could this act save his soul?

it's a fun little game that 13-year old Raíssa loved to play.

I was six years old in 1997, but if I were an adult then, I would have gone to the reading room on the british museum in june 3 to try and spot this cursed time traveler. of course i would go knowing it's silly, but still doing it because... what if it's not? what if something happened?

apparently, other people also thought like me and they were rewarded with the most delightful sight: in June 3, 1997, onlookers on the Reading Room of the British Museum witnessed a strange man in his late twenties, dressed in a wide-brimmed beaver hat and a mud-stained cape search through the reference system.

the account, as told by Teller, can be found right here: https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1997/11/a-memory-of-the-nineteen-nineties/376995/

the article is a great read - Teller heard of the story through an old teacher and wondered if any other people would show up to try and witness Soames too. the whole thing matches with what we knew from the story. the man was perfect for the part - he appeared and disappeared from the rooom without anyone knowing how he got in or out!

magical right?

our narrator from this strange incident definitely knows a thing or two about magic (if you are not familiar with him, there's a great article here connecting the dots - https://chicagoreader.com/arts-culture/houdinis-heirs/) .

there's something of tongue-in-cheek tone to his writing - he knows, you know and i know that it can't be real. but it did happen. how? who knows, Teller seems to be saying in his article, barely containing the smile. it was magic. perhaps there truly existed an Enoch Soames.

when i first read the article, i was overwhelmed by a profound sense of gratitude and companionship. the lenghts that man went just to play a very elaborate and loving magic trick for an audience who was very niche. the most receptive audience possible, the ones who were there truly, truly wanted to believe something magical was going to happen. it feels like a love letter.

keeping the magic alive in the most weird, beautiful way i've ever heard it.

a photo of the incident and the man himself. (credits to allhails, took from https://www.flickr.com/photos/allhails/8124880282)

[agallimaufryofoddments]

If anyone was wondering what on earth this whole post was about when I wrote it seven hours ago, it was a bit of a sentimental tribute to British writer Max Beerbohm’s short story “Enoch Soames,” (originally published 1916; later republished 1919). I definitely recommend you read it as well as others of Beerbohm’s works (particularly the short story A.V. Laider).

[agallimaufryofoddments]

On Enoch Soames, Esq.

I should like to say - no, I must say, I am impelled to say - that twelve days ago on June 03, 2017 came and went the twentieth anniversary of Enoch Soames’ fateful arrival into the future of June 03, 1997 as arranged by the Devil. Yes, the Devil, that Mephistophelian creature! The one hundred and twentieth anniversary of the Devil whisking Mr. Soames off one hundred years into the future on June 03, 1897 in plain sight of one Mr. Max Beerbohm at the Restaurant du Vingtième Siècle at precisely two in the afternoon, Mr. Soames’ Sauterne forgotten in his haste. 

Think of Soames - poor, wretched Soames, who traded his soul away for five desperate hours in the far off year of 1997, feverishly searching for any sign that his writing had been recognized, that he was remembered at all. If he could not have Fame in 1897, then surely he would have it in 1997 - a fate he had once snubbed and now clung to as a drowning man would a straw. 

No Soames to be found in SN-SOF, no dedicated encyclopedia entries, nothing but a mention in a text on English Literature, and what a mention! Imagine Soames’ desolation upon learning that Mr. Beerbohm had fashioned him into a “third rate poet” (a kindness; Soames was far worse than a third rate poet), that Beerbohm had molded his encounter with the Devil into a fiction - nay, a satire - that this was his mockery of a legacy. 

Soames’ end is entirely as as you imagine. Returned to his seat at the Vingtiéme at seven in the evening of June 03, 1897 across from the now ignoble Beerbohm, doomed with the knowledge that he has damned himself to Hell all for nothing - nothing - and that his last few hours on Earth were to be spent with the man whom he believed to have wronged him the most. Beerbohm, it may be said, made every effort possible to change Soames’ fate - but of course, he was only Man. 

Do you know what Soames’ final words on this old Earth were, as the Devil pushed him through Vingtième’s door? “Try,” he cried, “try to make them know that I did exist!” 

Of course, Soames was forgotten. The London of 1897 forgot him immediately - for all of Soames’ efforts to be Noticed, with his waterproof cape and his prose - he was forgotten like the Nothing society had deemed him. Forgotten, that is, by everyone except our conspicuous Mr. Max Beerbohm - who did write about him, as it were, with the noblest of intentions. 

And for all that Beerbohm did, look where it has gotten our unfortunate Enoch Soames. The one hundred and twentieth anniversary of his departure from 1897, and the twentieth anniversary of his arrival into 1997 - June 03, 2017, having come and went without a single misty-eyed soul raising a glass of absinthe in Soames’ honor - except, perhaps, the Beerbohm enthusiasts. 

A toast to your health, Enoch Soames, and a toast to your Fame. No, I am afraid there will be no toast for your writings; there are standards to be kept to, after all.

[blackout-of-the-lilin]

"Nocturne" from Enoch Soames (1916) by Max Beerbohm.

[bitter1stuff]

NOCTURNE

Round and round the shutter'd Square   I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine.   No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there   And the ring of his laughter and mine.     We had drunk black wine.

I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!"   "What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night   Which of us runs the faster?   There is nothing to fear to-night     In the foul moon's light!"

Then I look'd him in the eyes   And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told   And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise.   It was true, what I'd time and again been told:     He was old—old.

[abitoflit]

Enoch Soames

In “Enoch Soames,” Max Beerbohm recounts the tragic, fictional tale of his relationship with Enoch Soames. Beerbohm describes their encounters and how they became friends. While Beerbohm gained some notoriety as a writer, Soames wrote poetry, which didn’t sell. Soames, convinced that he was an undiscovered genius, is comforted by Beerbohm who claims that Soames’ genius would be realized after his death. Despite Beerbohm’s words, Soames slips into depression and in a fit of desperation, makes a deal with the devil—in exchange for a day spent 100 years in the future, he will give his soul. When Soames returns, Beerbohm discovers that Soames was mentioned in a single article. The article stated that Beerbohm had created him—Soames was a character he had fashioned who made a deal with the devil. When the devil comes for him, Soames insists that Beerbohm find a way to make people believe he was real. However, Beerbohm failed—Soames’ “forgettable” appearance foreshadowed society’s lack of interest in him. Furthermore, Soames’ eternity in hell highlights the story’s tragic nature—not only did Soames fail to achieve recognition, but he traded his soul in vain because he could never achieve his dream—Soames was the product of a confused mind.

Rating: 3.8/5 stars