Dead poets' society

It had the makings of a great story: in 1966, a mild-mannered, middle-aged scholar of French literature publishes an English translation of the complete poems of Rimbaud; during the next three years, he receives a handful of letters about the book, mostly concerning the translations; one letter, however, is from an up-and-coming pop star, full of gratitude to the scholar for making the poems more accessible; the scholar, suitably intrigued, finds out more about the pop star from his newly-impressed students, discovers many fascinating similarities between the poet and the pop star, and, in time, lectures on the subject to the next generation of modern language and literature students.

The scholar was Wallace Fowlie, now James B. Duke professor emeritus of French literature at Duke University. The pop star was Jim Morrison, lead singer of the Doors, now deceased. Fowlie's lectures sought to reconstruct the lives of the two "rebel poets", Arthur Rimbaud and Jim Morrison, and, from their twinned stories, reveal an "uncanny symmetry": Rimbaud rebelled against his family, his teachers, his priests, his society and, most significantly, against the way that French poetry was being written in the second half of the 19th century; Morrison also rebelled against various authority figures, and, again most notably, he rebelled against the way that American popular music was being composed and performed in the second half of the 20th century; both men died young - Rimbaud, after a painful illness, in November 1891 at the Hospital of the Immaculate Conception in Marseilles, at the age of 37, and Morrison, after a long period of drink and drug abuse, in the July of 1971, in the bath tub of his Paris apartment, at the age of .

To Fowlie, these two artists came to symbolise youthful self-expression and adventure, the callow rage of rebellion, Rimbaud achieving legendary status as "the poet of young people", Morrison as "the poet-singer of young people". His lectures, which attracted an odd mixture of French majors and devotees of the Doors, proved very popular: his colleagues were delighted to see their students so keen to attend an additional academic event. ("They would be excited to hear a lecture about Jim Morrison," Fowlie was often informed. "Please tell me who he is.") Fowlie admits that these occasions brought the proselytiser in him back to life, bringing Rimbaud to the student masses.

The book, which is the byproduct of these lectures, is something of an unhappy hybrid: part Pooterish academic memoir ("I had a light lunch alone, rested for an hour in my room, and then went to the hall"), part literary criticism ("By making of poetry a language capable of translating his visions, Rimbaud created his character of an angel, of a man renouncing his habits and native atmosphere for another atmosphere consecrated to a total kind of solitude").

Fowlie is clearly capable of writing accomplished prose, but too much of this text carries the repetitive, simplistic rhythms which are more effective in the lecture hall than on the printed page (for example, "In 1969, because of his heavy drinking, Jim was becoming hard to control. An early sign of Jim's drinking problem had occurred at the University of Michigan in 1967. There, Jim had been drunk"). There is a general sense of fatigue about the structure of this book, as though the author was, at heart, more eager to bring the project to a close than to pursue it any further.

In spite of Fowlie's sincere (and rather endearing) attempt at elevating Jim Morrison to a more distinguished critical position as a "rebel poet", he only really convinces when discussing the work of Rimbaud. He speaks of Morrison with warmth and admiration, but he does very little to show us why we should feel the same. There is too much indulgent hyperbole and not enough critical urgency. Morrison's most bombastic and silly remarks, often the result of the potent cocktails of drink and drugs with which he was increasingly obscuring his talent and ruining his body, are treated by Fowlie with inexplicable respect.

It seems unlikely that such genuflection will win Jim Morrison many new admirers. When Fowlie declares that "the visions we have of the juggler in the midst of the monks, of Villon among criminals, of Rimbaud among the Parnassian poets in Paris, are not unlike the vision of Jim, who with his voice and lyrics cast a spell over a huge crowd of listeners", he will probably only be heard by those who have long been listening out for such sentiments (indeed, it is no surprise to find words of support from the former manager of the Doors on the back cover). Fowlie's more assured and authoritative treatment of Rimbaud, on the other hand, deserves to find its way into many novel communities and contexts.

Graham McCann is a fellow of King's College, Cambridge.