Reviews for The Confidence-Man

The average rating for The Confidence-Man based on 2 reviews is 4.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2019-01-07 00:00:00 Tom Bassow This is Herman Melville's last strange novel and it is obvious why, a very nebulous plot doesn't help. A Mississippi steamboat leisurely floating down the river, picking up and disembarking passengers along the way, from St. Louis to New Orleans in the antebellum south before the Civil War. Set on April Fool's Day ...a hint to the narrative, apparently on board is a confidence-man hence the title ( maybe more than one, possibly many) . A glimpse into the struggles of Americans on the edge of civilization the untamed West nearby, Manifest Destiny the 19th century doctrine of the nation, has come to fruition. However people on the Fidele the name of vessel are a gullible lot, believing nefarious characters with their sob stories and get -rich -quick schemes...as a person remarks "A Ship of Fools". A cripple begs for alms but some do not believe the infirmity others even doubt the color of his skin, especially a man with a wooden leg no sympathy from him, a poor Mexican War veteran 1846- 1848, he says but is it quite true with a hard heart, like his false appendage. An old miser gives money to a perfect stranger, a dubious conclusion follows in order to invest on the stock market and the slick speaking con man, a silver tongued devil absconds without leaving a receipt. Snake oil salesman promises cures for the hopelessly infirm, the overprice bottles are as effective as a fish on land. The Cosmopolitan man as he is known on board the grand Fedele , ( faithful in French) is very persuasive well dressed, a calm nature, a real gentleman in appearance somehow getting the boat's cynical barber to trust his customers, giving credit and taking down a sign which states the opposite view, the businessman will regret this error soon. The passengers begin to ask questions but the man or men are great speakers and ill people want miracles, it still is true today sense goes out the window, only recovery of their health matters. Melville in the novel, makes fun of Emerson and his disciple Thoreau in an around about way the former whaler knows about life, not impressed by a silly philosophy. The book will infuriate numerous readers because of its hidden meanings and the unclear intrigues. Secrets never revealed who is the villain, yet humans are basically unchanged from era to era the good, the bad and the victims.

Review # 2 was written on 2016-09-19 00:00:00 Jackson Strobel Short review: Complicated, dense, angry, and funny too (though in that depressing kind of way). Longer, more rambling comments and some quotes: If one is going to try and come up with some sort of definition of a "masterpiece" surely one of the criteria must be an almost permanent relevance - that something of what is said about our species remains as true now as it was when the author picked up his pen. This wonderful book, and a quick google shows me I am far from the first to think this, speaks directly and clearly of our current Trumpian, islamaphobic age, of our conned and conning selves. " Ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. Lies, lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!" Current U.S politics in a nutshell. "Oftener it falls, that this winged man, who will carry me into the heaven, whirls me into the clouds, then leaps and frisks about with me from cloud to cloud, still affirming that he is bound heavenward and I, being myself a novice, am slow in perceiving that he does not know the way into the heavens, and is merely bent that I should admire his skill to rise..." Is almost too perfect a description of Trump. And the extraordinary section on indian-hating (for which one can easily replace the word "indian" with "muslim") - (note that, in the following quote, these are not the words of our author, but those of a judge, as reported by another character - there are many layers here, in other words) "..are all Indians like Mocmohoc?--Not all have proved such; but in the least harmful may lie his germ. There is an Indian nature. "Indian blood is in me," is the half-breed's threat.--But are not some Indians kind?--Yes, but kind Indians are mostly lazy, and reputed simple--at all events, are seldom chiefs; chiefs among the red men being taken from the active, and those accounted wise. Hence, with small promotion, kind Indians have but proportionate influence. And kind Indians may be forced to do unkind biddings. So "beware the Indian, kind or unkind," said Daniel Boone, who lost his sons by them.--But, have all you backwoodsmen been some way victimized by Indians?--No.--Well, and in certain cases may not at least some few of you be favored by them?--Yes, but scarce one among us so self-important, or so selfish-minded, as to hold his personal exemption from Indian outrage such a set-off against the contrary experience of so many others, as that he must needs, in a general way, think well of Indians; or, if he do, an arrow in his flank might suggest a pertinent doubt. "'In short,' according to the judge, 'if we at all credit the backwoodsman, his feeling against Indians, to be taken aright, must be considered as being not so much on his own account as on others', or jointly on both accounts. True it is, scarce a family he knows but some member of it, or connection, has been by Indians maimed or scalped. What avails, then, that some one Indian, or some two or three, treat a backwoodsman friendly-like? He fears me, he thinks. Take my rifle from me, give him motive, and what will come? Or if not so, how know I what involuntary preparations may be going on in him for things as unbeknown in present time to him as me--a sort of chemical preparation in the soul for malice, as chemical preparation in the body for malady.' "Not that the backwoodsman ever used those words, you see, but the judge found him expression for his meaning. And this point he would conclude with saying, that, 'what is called a "friendly Indian" is a very rare sort of creature; and well it was so, for no ruthlessness exceeds that of a "friendly Indian" turned enemy. A coward friend, he makes a valiant foe." And then, for those of you who prefer their novels to come seasoned with a little meta: "If reason be judge, no writer has produced such inconsistent characters as nature herself has. It must call for no small sagacity in a reader unerringly to discriminate in a novel between the inconsistencies of conception and those of life as elsewhere. Experience is the only guide here; but as no one man can be coextensive with what is, it may be unwise in every case to rest upon it. When the duck-billed beaver of Australia was first brought stuffed to England, the naturalists, appealing to their classifications, maintained that there was, in reality, no such creature; the bill in the specimen must needs be, in some way, artificially stuck on. But let nature, to the perplexity of the naturalists, produce her duck-billed beavers as she may, lesser authors some may hold, have no business to be perplexing readers with duck-billed characters. Always, they should represent human nature not in obscurity, but transparency, which, indeed, is the practice with most novelists, and is, perhaps, in certain cases, someway felt to be a kind of honor rendered by them to their kind. But, whether it involve honor or otherwise might be mooted, considering that, if these waters of human nature can be so readily seen through, it may be either that they are very pure or very shallow. ....But as, in spite of seeming discouragement, some mathematicians are yet in hopes of hitting upon an exact method of determining the longitude, the more earnest psychologists may, in the face of previous failures, still cherish expectations with regard to some mode of infallibly discovering the heart of man. But enough has been said by way of apology for whatever may have seemed amiss or obscure in the character of the merchant; so nothing remains but to turn to our comedy, or, rather, to pass from the comedy of thought to that of action." This is a difficult book. The sentence structure is complex - Melville seems to be under the impression he will be paid by the comma - and the focus of the critique is much more complex and subtle than it may appear. One has to read very carefully and closely (particularly in the second half) in order not to be led astray (to be conned as it were - there is most definitely a sense in which the con man being laid bare here is the writer, and us his victims.). The section on indian-hating can be, and has been, completely misread. Any reader of Melville must recognise where he stands when it comes to pedlars of race-hatred and, accordingly, should not be misled by words coming from his character's mouths. I am far too lazy at present to bother to write more (and to whom would I possibly be rambling, when so much already exists on this book?). Suffice it to say that any of you curious about whether or not he has another masterpiece up his sleeve other than the Whale Book really should go give this a try...