Saturday, 19 March 2016

For Whom the Bell Tolls




Last year I read and wrote a short reviews of A Moveable Feast, and The Snows of Kilimanjaro, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed. But this book is something else. I read it after reading Paul Preston’s The Spanish Civil War. Now being outside of living memory, the events of this terrible period in Spanish history (and European history) struck me afresh in terms of their terror. For readers at least, the suffering and bravery of Spanish people, and the witnesses to this suffering in terms of various writers, artists, journalists and international volunteers is so well documented that you might ask what a novel can bring, especially when read now. In my case, at least, reading Hemingway after gaining some understanding of the period through wider reading really helped me to imagine and to empathise, and it’s clear that Hemingway wanted this, as well as a broader, more objective view than some might credit. I’m reluctant to try to really review a book that is such a known classic, so I will limit myself here to a few observations.

In terms of the viewpoint adopted, Hemingway opts for a young American language teacher who has joined the International Brigades. He is behind enemy lines, in Fascist/Nationalist held territory, and has a dangerous mission to blow up a bridge at the start of a nearby offensive, and not before. Robert Jordan has experienced enough of the war to lose a good deal of his naivety and to have taken the shine of any simple ideological beliefs when it comes to the politics of the conflict. But his belief in the Spanish people is undiminished. Despite the horrible truths he hears about some of the Republican atrocities, Jordan’s hopes are refreshed by his contact and work with a guerrilla outfit who have raided trains in the area, and naturally fear that the bridge operation will either bring their ruin or force them to leave the territory where they are currently hidden. It isn’t a simple hope – the group leader’s distrust and initial betrayal illustrates to Robert that war can corrupt a person just as much as it might lead them to a higher purpose. Like one of Hemingway’s carefully constructed shorter narratives, the timeframe is limited to a few days; the characters are beautifully crafted – they both serve as illustrations of humanity and resonate with the particular conflict and time. There is also a love story which helps to give significance to Robert’s life and fate. His feelings are portrayed in a clever way – by incorporating a stream of consciousness technique, followed by narrative interventions. For example, in reflecting on his beliefs, Robert thinks – “It was a feeling of consecration to a duty towards all the oppressed of the world which would be difficult and embarrassing to speak about as religious experience …” (p.243). Also typical is the way that Hemingway follows such higher hopes with Robert’s doubts about them: “I suppose it is possible to live as full a life in seventy hours as in seventy years … What nonsense, he thought” (p.173).

So what do we learn along the way? Apart from the story of Jordan and his relationship with a group of Spanish guerrillas, we hear about both Nationalist and Republican atrocities and cruelty (this provides a balance which the narrative might otherwise lack). The sense of fate is also portrayed through the inevitable movement of an army when a battle plan is set in motion, and the demented nonsense of internal politicking within Communist, anarchist and more pragmatic participants in the Republic side. Marie’s hesitation but final confession to her own rape and her parents’ murders is all the more powerful by the restraint of its telling and the timing within the narrative, coming quite a way after Pilar has described in detail the murders of Nationalist-sympathisers in her home town. Hemingway also portrays the deaths of the nearby guerrilla group’s members from a number of viewpoints, before leaving us with an image so powerful that it stood out from all of the text for me, perhaps because it resonates today in the age of terror and beheadings:

“He could not see at that distance the load one saddle bore of a long rolled poncho tied at each end at intervals so that it bulged between lashings as a pod bulges with peas (p.377).

There is much more to say about For Whom the Bell Tolls; reading this novel is an enlightening and moving experience. Whether Hemingway is in or out of fashion, it is undoubtedly an important book that speaks about a particularly dreadful conflict but unfortunately resonates just as much today as it did then. By unfortunately, I mean that human cruelty continues; senseless wars continue; and yet giving into despair is no more the answer today than it was in 1940 when it was released. The original Time Magazine review ends this way – and I can’t think of a better way to end a review and bring together these thoughts.

“However he may fancy himself as a leftist sympathesier, as a great and sensitive artist Ernest Hemingway is well over the Red rash. The bell is this book tolls for all mankind” (October 21, 1940, no.17).

 

Tuesday, 8 March 2016

Flaws in the Glass


For one interested in exploring Australian expatriate experiences, the famous essay by Patrick White ‘A Prodigal Son’ (1958) provides a good “in” to this memoir. In the essay, White asks “was there anything to prevent me packing my bag and leaving like Alister Kershaw and so many other artists?” His answer is that as a writer, Australia helped the colours to come flooding back to his palette, and in a Romantic touch, writing became “a struggle to create fresh forms out of the rocks and stones of trees”. Flaws in the Glass could be said to extend these key themes, but in a more personal way. He writes, or publishes the memoir, in 1981, and by now he is a Nobel Prize winning author, aged nearly 70, open about his long-standing partnership with Manoly Lascaris in a manner which in the year of 2016 sounds very contemporary.

Like Tim Winton’s Island Home, White lets us know that it is the land that draws him back home and inspires him to write. Although Winton doesn’t say it in the same words, one imagines he might feel some sympathy to White’s sentiments: “The ideal Australia I visualised during any exile and which drew me back, was always … a landscape without figures” (p.49). As in the Prodigal Son essay, White seems to be showing us in his book that while ‘culture’ could be said to exist elsewhere (at least in the 1950s) – the very emptiness of the (Western) cultural landscape allows him to explore something in a way that is more direct, more natural than he had been able to find in his twenty years in Europe. Nor is he very sympathetic to the expatriate artists like Sidney Nolan who live in London and only visit occasionally; in an echo of 'The Prodigal Son'  phrase about the mother country, White complains that Nolan needs a “mother more than a wife” and that Australia is “the great maternal bub on which he sucks” (p.232).

There is much more to Flaws in the Glass for the reader than this, of course. There are pictures of his childhood memories of Sydney, and before that, the Upper Hunter. We see his boyhood extend to England and his treatment as a ‘colonial’ while in an establishment British boarding school. He writes about London in the 1930s and his war in Egypt. Religion plays a big part in the memoir, as does White’s sexuality (never explicit but certainly clear), loyalties and growing understanding of writing, art and culture. White tells us he isn’t an intellectual, but a sensualist and intuitionist – and this may all well be true. But apart from an overly-long Greek journeys digression, I felt I had learnt a lot by reading this book, like listening to the informed gossip and political and artistic views of my much-missed Australian grandmother, to whom this hardcopy edition was inscribed, by my now-dead aunt. Writing like this sounds just like an aged yet vital voice – and it haunts in the way a found-cassette recording of someone dear and departed might. It speaks of an era now quite behind us – particularly the 1930s to the 1950s – but still relevant, I think, for anyone with a wish to have a slightly longer cultural memory than the passionate musings of our current greats, like Winton, Carey and Flanagan. And there's modesty here, too - a memoir may be the greatest work of fiction of them all, but White isn't afraid of showing us his flaws in the glass, as well as hinting at his greatness too.