Casanova, the great lover and adventurer, is nearing the end of his life. He vows to make one last grand seduction, and devises a typically devious plan to achieve it. Unsurprisingly, things do not turn out as imagined, and Hunt Emerson’s witty and intelligent graphic narrative entertains the reader throughout. Casanova’s Last Stand is both a fitting tribute to its subject and a tour de force of Emerson’s imagination, skill and creativity.

Here is Emerson’s introduction to the book, which explains the artist’s relationship with his muse:

Giacomo Casanova was born in Venice in 1725. He spent much of his life racing around Europe chasing the main chance – in luck, in love and in adventure. His name has become a byword for carnality and sexuality, but he was a great romantic who enjoyed the company of women, and being in love above all else. He was also, among other things, a gambler; confidence trickster; poet; sometime librettist to Mozart; occult scientist; sewing shop man­ ager; ambassador; intriguer; spy for the Inquisition; inventor and manager of a state lottery in Paris; prisoner and daring escaper; author of essays, novels and drama and, in his final years, librarian and secretary in the castle of Dux in Bavaria. He died in 1798. He had risen from nothing – the neglected son of an actress – to become a gentleman and man of letters – in his own eyes at least.
     For this book I have invented an account of the end of Casanova’s life, into which I have inserted episodes adapted from his twelve-volume memoirs, My Life, which I admit I have not read! My sources were The Life and Memoirs of Casanova edited by G.D. Gribble; Fellini's Casanova – both the brilliant film starring Donald Sutherland, and the novelisation by Bernardino Zapponi; and in particular, Casanova by John Masters. This last volume contains an extract from a letter written by a contemporary of Casanova's, the Prince de Ligne, a man described at the time as ‘the most civilised man in Europe’. I reproduce that extract here, as it describes Casanova in words more vivid than any I can hope to muster: ‘The only things about which he knows nothing are those on which he believes himself to be expert: the rules of the dance, the French language, good taste, the way of the world, savoir vivre. It is only his comedies which are not funny, only his philosophical works which lack philosophy – all the rest are filled with it; there is always something weighty, new, piquant, profound. He is a well of knowledge, but he quotes Homer and Horace ad nauseam.
     ‘His wit and his sallies are like Attic salt. He is sensitive and generous, but displease him in the slightest and he is unpleasant, vindictive and detestable. You couldn’t buy back a little joke against him for a million. He believes in nothing except what is most incredible, being superstitious about everything. Happily, he is honourable and sensitive, and always uses the phrase “I owe it to God”, or “God wills it”, but in fact there was nothing in the world he was not capable of doing. He loves and lusts after everything, and having had all he sees has lost all. Above everything, women and girls fill his head; but they can no longer arouse him elsewhere. That annoys him, that infuriates him – against the fair sex, against himself, against heaven, against nature, and above all against the year 1725. He revenges himself on whatever is eatable or drinkable; no longer capable of being a satyr in the garden, a Pan in the forest, he is a wolf at table beginning swiftly and ending sadly, miserable that he cannot begin again.
    ‘If he has sometimes used his superior intelligence to make money out of certain stupid men and women, it was for the benefit of his intimates. Throughout the disorders of a wild youth and a most adventurous and sometimes equivocal career, he has always shown tact, honour and courage. He is proud because he is nothing. As a rentier or financier or great lord he might perhaps have found it easy to live; for no one must contradict him, above all no one must laugh at him – the chip is always on his shoulder. Never tell him you have heard the story he is going to tell you; pretend that you are hearing it for the first time. Never omit to greet him in passing, for the merest trifle will make him your enemy. His prodigious imagination, his Venetian vivacity, his travels, all his skills and avocations, his fortitude now that he has lost all that he once gloried in, make him a rare human being, of value to know, and worthy of true respect and friendship on the part of that very small number of people who find favour in his eyes.'
     Whilst working on this book I have become very fond of old Casanova. His world was cruel and brutal to those without position or privilege. All his life he struggled to maintain standards of pride, cultural sophistication, and dignity that were higher than the society around him. And of course he frequently failed, as often as not betrayed by his own emotions and sensuality. He was a survivor, whose base humanity kept him from ever achieving greatness, but whose spirit links his time with ours more, perhaps, than many of his ‘greater’ contemporaries.
     Wherever you are now, Giacomo, I drink to you.

Casanova’s Last Stand was published by Knockabout Crack Editions.