This Saturday, I shall be performing at the Cambridge Wordfest, as part of an event devoted to the subject of decadence. When one thinks of this word, it usually conjures images of silks and opium, absinthe and flesh - what it actually means is falling away, a decline. It's nice that they thought of me as an example of this, especially after joining a gym.
My co-declinees for this event are Rowan Pelling - who has never declined anything - some other writers and n'er do wells, and a delightful Burlesque artiste who I will try to persuade to do interpretive dancing to one of my songs. Although my rare performances are filled with beauty, wit, pathos and eroticism, I imagine some pasties and swinging tassels might enliven things somewhat - and stop the audience, and myself, from falling asleep.
Of course, decadence has always provided rich pickings for artists and writers. Its greatest period came in late 19th and early 20th century France, and the early 30s in Germany. The Absinthe paintings of Manet, Lautrec and Van Gogh evoked an amoral, carnal world, far more shocking to genteel sensibilities than anything that came after. Otto Dix's paintings are still gloriously obscene, and Des Esseintes, the hero of J K Huysmans' À Rebours, remains the greatest decadent of them all. Well, until Withnail came along.
I must lie down and smoke now, and listen to birdsong, distant traffic, and the mechanical music of men fixing cars two storeys below. Good afternoon.
NB. Decadence almost always ends in a war and annihilation. So, hey, let's be careful out there.
