A lyrical fever dream that’s labyrinthine in subject and form, Under the Volcano is a book about trying to escape–one’s self, one’s weaknesses, one’s failures, one’s environment. It’s an experience that’s at once colorful and dreary, vast and oppressive, hopeful and hopeless, though ultimately a journey redolent of doom, a portent which grows at a dizzying rate with each passing chapter. It’s an obscured book, enveloped, as the title suggests, by massive shadows–a darkness that the central character, Geoffrey Firmin, wishes desperately to emerge from.
But Under the Volcano is not merely a document of Geoffrey Firmin’s demise. Sure, that’s the “plot,” but, true to his modernist roots, Lowry cobbles together a manic collage composed of shifting narratives, varied languages, ornate symbols, memories, inner conflicts, global collisions, a love quadrangle, and events of sudden violence, all of which are situated amid the wreckage of the Mexican Revolution and imminent war in Europe. It’s these types of tensions that permeate the experiences of Geoffrey, his half-brother Hugh, and his estranged wife Yvonne, as each struggles with what should be done, what can be done–with their lives, with their relationships with one another, and with these larger, looming conflicts that are consuming the world. Taken together, this vibrant tapestry of a text is a powerful consideration of one’s place and role amid life’s perennial chaos.