[In the following excerpt, Edmonds recounts the details and blissful qualities of Geoffrey Firmin's drinking binge in Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano.]

My thoughts toward this paper began at the first MLA Malcolm Lowry Seminar in New York in 1974. In the discussion period following delivery of papers David Markson, Lowry's novelist friend and author of the first academic study of Under the Volcano, pointed an accusatory finger at me and said, "Obviously you're not a drinking man." After the hysterical outburst on the part of my friends in the audience had died down, Markson took me to task for something I once wrote about the novel. In tracing the mouthful-by-mouthful progress of Geoffrey Firmin, the Consul, through the Day of the Dead (November 2, 1938, the day of the novel's action) I wrote, "The Consul, Yvonne, and Hugh leave [the Consul's house], encounter Jacques, and go to the latter's house. At shortly after 1:30, the Consul downs the four cocktails (whiskey and soda?) Jacques has prepared for the party, then finishes the contents of the cocktail shaker." Now, any drinker worth his salt—and lemon and tequila—knows you do not mix whiskey with soda in a "cocktail shaker." Whiskey-and-soda is not properly a "cocktail" at all, but a "highball" (even if it is served at "cocktail" parties). So, Markson's challenge of my credentials as a drinking man was justified.

Back in New Orleans I imposed upon myself the penance of twenty-four hours of total abstinence, during which time I had ample opportunity for reflection. There was no excuse for my error; I simply blundered. But, I asked myself, why did Malcolm Lowry—and I defy anyone to challenge his credentials as a drinking man—use the term "cocktails" for the "despicable repast" Jacques prepares in Chapter VII? [All citations appear from the New American Library edition, 1971]. On virtually every other occasion in the novel when a drink comes up—or goes down—Lowry specifies what it is: Johnny Walker, Burke's Irish, Carta Blanca. Or he refers to the drink by a generic term: whiskey, beer, mescal. Only with the cocktails in Chapter VII does he fail to let us know what the Consul is drinking. So what is in that cocktail shaker? Whiskey sours? Jacques probably wouldn't have bourbon on hand, and I doubt if he would adulterate Scotch with citrus juice. Manhattans? As I said, probably no bourbon available. Margaritas? I don't think that tequila cocktails were in vogue in the late 1930s. I'll hazard the opinion that the cocktail shaker holds martinis. Purists may cavil that you don't shake martinis. True, but we don't see Jacques shaking them, and you can stir martinis in a shaker.

My pondering of the cocktail business led me to consider the subject of drinks and drinking in Under the Volcano in general. Critics have written eloquently and persuasively of the symbolic implications of the Consul's alcoholism, of the reasons buried in his past—or alive and kicking in his present—that drive him to drink, of the pathological nature of his addiction. All well and good. But a consideration of drinking in Under the Volcano might begin with some more fundamental matters: what the Consul drinks on the Day of the Dead, how it affects him, and what Lowry wants us to think about it. In an attempt to address myself to these questions, I have compiled … a "Record of Geoffrey Firmin's Intake of Alcoholic Beverages, Day of the Dead, 1938, Quauhnahuac, Mexico." I see no need to reiterate here what I cover in [that record], but I would like to make some observations arising from my counting of the Consul's drinks.

First, let me state what is obvious: Under the Volcano is a drinker's paradise. References to drinks, drinking, drinking places, and/or drunkenness occur on 252 of the 377 pages of the NAL Plume edition. The longest dry stretch in the novel, which occurs in the midst of Hugh's reverie in Chapter VI, is seven pages in length. To conclude [my record] I list the nine different potations the Consul ingests on the Day of the Dead. But in the course of the novel Lowry mentions virtually every other alcoholic beverage known to man (two notable exceptions: bourbon and vodka).

There is a curious fact about mescal, perhaps the most important drink on the list in terms of Under the Volcano. Malcolm Lowry, unquestionably one of the "major adepts in the Great Brotherhood of Alcohol," reveals a serious misconception about this drink (139). He—or the Consul—invests mescal with a potency in relation to tequila which it simply does not have. At the Café Paris in Chapter VII Jacques says of tequila, "… If I ever start to drink that stuff, Geoffrey, you'll know I'm done for." The Consul answers, "It's mescal with me.… Tequila, no, that is healthful … and delightful.… Good for you. But if I ever start to drink mescal again, I'm afraid, yes, that would be the end" (216). At the Terminal Cantina El Bosque Señora Gregorio offers to draw the Consul a mescal, but he insists on tequila. Finally, at the Salón Ofélia in Chapter X the consul orders mescal, for "Nothing less than mescal would do" (281). Critics usually see the Consul's decision to drink mescal as the beginning of his end. But, actually, there is no essential difference between mescal and tequila. The relationship of the two is like that of brandy and cognac: as "all cognac is brandy, but not all brandy is cognac," so "all tequila is mescal, but not all mescal is tequila." Mescal is the generic name for a distilled liquor made from a plant belonging to the genus Agave or maguey (of which there are reputedly four hundred species). Tequila is a mescal made from the Agave Tequilana which grows well only in the State of Jalisco, near the towns of Tapatitlán and Tequila. Mescal, other than the tequila variety, is produced in three wide areas in Mexico: north central (portions of San Luis Potosí, Durango, and Zacatecas), south Pacific Coast (portions of Michoacan, Guerrero, and Oaxaca), and adjacent to the Guatemalan border (primarily Chiapas). The process for making tequila is the same as that for making all other varieties of mescal (and this process has nothing to do with pulque). Tequila and other mescals have the same chemical properties and alcoholic content. The only difference is that the maguey from which tequila is made gives it a flavor different from that of other mescals.

Now, after saying this, let me hedge a bit. In Mexico in 1938 barmen, like Diosdado at the Farolito, may have dispensed 110-proof mescal (today this is almost invariably cut to 80-90 proof by addition of distilled water). But I think Malcolm Lowry simply got it in his head that other mescals were stronger, more dangerous, than tequila, and he passed this misconception along to the Consul. This is an understandable error. To anyone accustomed to the pleasant, cactusy tang of tequila, the virtually flavorless but unquestionably potent nature of other mescals does seem sinister. But if the drinking of Mexican distilled liquor is to be the "end" of the Consul, he begins this process about 10:30 a.m. when he has his first pull from the tequila bottle hidden in his garden. The psychological effect of the Consul's drinking of mescal is another matter. If, as seems the case, he is convinced that mescal is more potent than tequila, and that his first drink of mescal will signal the onslaught of his doom, then the intrinsic nature of mescal makes no difference—Orange Crush might have the same effect.

On the Day of the Dead the Consul puts away, by my count, some sixty-one ounces—almost two quarts—of 80-90 proof alcohol (this includes equivalent totals for beer and the like). This is a staggering amount, but is it, as some readers have complained, an incredible one? A man the Consul's size (about 5′;9″;, 170 pounds) metabolizes about an ounce of alcohol per hour through urine, breath, sweat, and action of the liver and other tissues. Thus the Consul in the twelve hours of the novel's action would metabolize about twelve of the sixty-one ounces, leaving forty-nine ounces saturating his bloodstream. For a man the Consul's size five ounces of whiskey will produce a 0.1 per cent blood alcohol level in two hours. The Consul takes in about ten times this amount in the course of the day (not counting the twelve ounces he might metabolize). A level of 0.15 per cent is legally intoxicating; this is achieved by one's drinking 6-8 ounces of whiskey (one ounce per hour will maintain this level). Blood alcohol levels of 0.35-0.4 produce coma and may be lethal. Let us say that the Consul could still function with a blood alcohol level of 0.4 per cent. This means about eighteen ounces of alcohol should make him severely intoxicated, perhaps comatose. Between 7:00 a.m. and noon the Consul drinks about eighteen ounces of alcohol (no telling what he has before 7:00 a.m.). But he does space this total over five hours. Between noon and 7:00 p.m. he has somewhat more than forty ounces. Even with metabolic elimination of some of this, I do not see how the Consul could have less than a 0.5 blood alcohol level which, according to the experts, would make him unconscious, if not dead.

In the Consul's—and Lowry's—defense, however, I might mention the following points. The Consul vomits after he drinks some bay rum scalp preparation. This would perhaps clear some of the alcohol from his body (although the greater portion would have been absorbed by his bloodstream long since). He eats half a canapé and perhaps a little of his dinner. Food slows the absorption of alcohol and hence retards the intoxication process. The Consul is extraordinarily active during the day. Hyper-ventilation and/or profuse sweating may intensify the excretion of alcohol. We may assume that both result from the prodigious exercise the Consul gets: he walks from the center of Quauhnahuac to his house; he strides up the Calle Nicaragua (until it rises up to meet him); he rambles about his garden; he plunges up and down the stairs of Jacques' tower; he ambles to the center of Quauhnahuac; he lurches about the square; he rides a carnival machine; he takes a long and arduous bus ride, during which he piles off and back onto the bus; he surges to the Arena Tomalín and climbs to a seat; he strolls to the Salón Ofélia; he runs part way through the forest, then walks the rest of the way to Parián; he copulates with a prostitute; he argues actively with, and finally fights, a number of Mexicans; and, at every stage of the game, he punctuates these activities with exclamation points of elbow-bending. Still, would even this activity ward off the severe intoxication the Consul should be experiencing as a result of what he has drunk?

In apparent contravention of the blood alcohol level figures I have given, Doctors Howard W. Haggard and E. M. Jellinek write: "We do not argue against the fact that occasionally, when on a spree, an abnormal drinker, especially one of large size, may drink a quart or, if spread judiciously over the period, even two quarts of whiskey in one day." The Consul is not "of large size," but he is "strong as a horse" (71), and he is certainly an "abnormal drinker." He spreads his drinks in a surprisingly judicious manner over the twelve-hour period … at least until the chaotic last hour at the Farolito. According to Doctors Haggard and Jellinek, then, the Consul could perhaps manage his sixty-one ounces.

But enough flogging of the dead horse (perhaps with "Seagram's 7" branded on its rump) of the Consul's alcoholic consumption on the Day of the Dead. David Markson should have the last word here:

Dear Dale:

Carole Slade [discussion leader of the 1975 Lowry seminar] just sent me the papers from the Lowry seminar at the MLA shindig, and I wanted to say I enjoyed yours muchly. But it's set me to brooding, and I may have a random thought or two of small value for you if you're pursuing the matter any further.

The problem with contemplating the capabilities of the boozer, it seems to me, is that you can't do it academically and/or get your data out of medical texts. Your doctors who acknowledge that an "abnormal" drinker could do a quart or even two a day sound skeptical or grudging about it ("occasionally," etc.). I suppose research here is hard to come by: rummies off skid row ain't reliable, all drinkers lie, etc. But, but, but—would you believe I know people who drink a quart a day, every day of their lives, and function? Fact, which throws all that medical speculation out the window. Doctors have to be sober; asking them to comment on drinking capacity is like asking a virgin about fornication.

I think Markson has the right idea. We have all been too sober about this business of drinking in Under the Volcano. There has been too much doomsaying about the Consul's "tragedy." Granted, he ends up at the bottom of a barranca, but he has a rollicking good time getting there. As Hugh says, "… if a man can hold his liquor as well as that why shouldn't he drink?" (117).

At numerous places in the novel Lowry clearly indicates that the Consul's drinking has a positive—even ecstatic—side. In his unposted letter to Yvonne the Consul writes, "… but this is how I drink too, as if I were taking an eternal sacrament" (40). He muses (or Yvonne imagines he does), "… what beauty can compare to that of a cantina in the early morning?" (50). The Consul feels "… an immense comfort … in the mere presence of the whiskey bottle" (69). One of the Consul's familiars tells him that mescal would be "the end though a damned good end" (69-70). The Consul thinks of sobriety as "complete cold ugly" (79); to him nothing in the world is "more terrible" than an empty bottle, unless it is an empty glass (86). At one point he grips a Johnny Walker bottle and murmurs "I love you" (91); shortly thereafter he imagines that clouds say to him, "Drink all morning … drink all day. This is life!" (93). As the Consul drinks deeply from a tequila bottle hidden in his garden he thinks, "Ah. Good. God. Christ"; then, "Bliss. Jesus. Sanctuary" (127). Dr. Vigil advises the Consul, "More alcohol is perhaps best" (139). In the picture "Los Borrachones," which the Consul sees in Jacques' room, some of the drunkards plunging downward to their doom reveal on their faces "the most unmistakable relief," and their wives seem to be casting "half-jealous glances" toward them (199). At the Café Paris, after the Consul has a much-needed drink, he feels "the fire of the tequila run down his spine like lightning striking a tree which there-upon, miraculously, blossoms" (215). In Chapter XII, shortly before he is shot, the Consul thinks of the drinks he has taken over the years and concludes, "… ah, those burning draughts in loneliness … they were perhaps the happiest things his life had known!" (360). Critics usually see the brilliant passage in Chapter X, in which the Consul imagines the "bottles, bottles, bottles" and "glasses, glasses, glasses" he has piled up over the years, as a litany of despair (292). But could not these bottles and glasses be considered the soaring accomplishments of the dedicated drinker?

The foregoing catalogue could be countered by one of negative references to alcohol. I do not deny this. I want to stress, however, that the Consul's plunge has its moments of bliss and glory and that drink is the Consul's mistress, his muse, his God, no matter what dark fate awaits him. Who is to say that on the Day of the Dead he does not realize his destiny through his long day's drinking? One might ask, what about Yvonne and Hugh, who "love" him? What about his aborted diplomatic career? What about his abandoned book on "Secret Knowledge"? I maintain that the motives of Yvonne and Hugh are basically selfish and that their actions do the Consul more harm than good—he is well rid of them both. As for the Consul's diplomatic job, that is a mere bagatelle; his true career is his drinking. In regard to his book, on the Day of the Dead the Consul conceives in his head several chapters—maybe volumes—of "Secret Knowledge." He may have "no capability for the further tactile effort" of writing this material down, but that is of little consequence, for, as the Consul affirms, "the final frontier of consciousness" lies within (35, 135).

Geoffrey Firmin dies an alcoholic, but he lives one too. Lowry spikes his magnum-size stirrup-cup with so much beauty, excitement, wit, and, yes, joy, that I, for one, wouldn't want it to be drained any differently.