Ubu, with his cupidity, stupidity, ferocity, and cowardice, symbolized Jarry’s revolt against the accepted values of the time. Jarry did not make Ubu the embodiment of “vice” in order to present a “vile” character but, on the contrary, in order to show up all the establishment figures around him – kings, nobles, generals, magistrates; Ubu’s very presence strips them of their false pretentions and sentiments. The only commoners in the Ubu plays are peasants, whom Ubu robs as everyone else has always robbed them, but he does it in a more open and dynamic way, and totally without hypocrisy. Jarry’s methods were mystification, surprising associations, gross exaggeration, and a wild humor which, as a method, remains humor even when it is no longer funny and has even perhaps become tragic; his is a sophisticated kind of satire which appears deceptively simple. The audience at the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre, who were representative of the literary and other élites, naturally had no wish to be confronted on the stage with what Jarry called their “ignoble other-self,” and they and most critics greeted the play with horror and uproar. Catulle Mendès was one of the few critics who was prepared to see clearly: “A new type has emerged,” he wrote. “Père Ubu exists. . . He will become a popular legend of base instincts, rapacious and violent; and Monsieur Jarry, who I hope is destined for a more worthy celebrity, will have created an infamous mask.”

Jarry now had only eleven more years to live. After the sensation of Ubu Roi his life style became more and more eccentric, and his “self-inflicted nightmare” began in earnest. He identified himself with Ubu to the extent of actually referring to himself as “le Père Ubu” and using the royal “we”; he amused himself by insulting and terrorizing the bourgeoisie he so despised (often with a loaded revolver; he was an excellent shot). And though he always retained the affection and esteem of such friends as the Vallettes, he was already on the downward path toward self-destruction. If there was no difference between life and literature, if nothing was sacred and everything was absurd and meaningless, the logical conclusion was self-annihilation.

He dissipated the small personal fortune that had come to him on the death of his parents, and lived for the last ten years of his life in a squalid room that was just high enough to allow him – he was only a little over five feet tall – to stand up. (A rapacious landlord had divided one small apartment into four, vertically and horizontally. History doesn’t seem to relate who lived in the other three midget dwellings.) He neglected himself, didn’t eat, drowned himself in absinthe, and later became addicted to ether (which was cheaper). He died at thirty-four, his last request being for a toothpick.