Hero of his own drama

Sam Leith is enthralled by the larger-than-life genius, August Strindberg — playwright, horticulturalist, painter, alchemist and father of modern literature

When I’m reading a book for review, it’s my habit to jot an exclamation mark in the margin alongside anything that strikes me as particularly unexpected, funny or alarming. I embarked on Strindberg: A Life with — I’m ashamed to confess — the expectation of a weary plod through 400-odd pages of lowering Scandinavian neurosis, auguring a low exclamation-mark count and a high number of triple zeds. But by the end, there was an exclamation mark beside almost every paragraph. If it hadn’t been for the occasional ‘hahaha’ and ‘bonkers’, you’d look at my copy of Sue Prideaux’s biography and think I’d been signalling in Morse code.

What an absolutely extraordinary man  August Strindberg was, and what a tormented, demented life he led!I haven’t read such a fascinating biography for ages. The Strindberg we know — the author of Miss Julie, The Father and the phantasmagorical Dream Play — is just the tip of the Swede, so to speak.