Oh this is a long novel, 860 pages long. After about six weeks of reading I’m only a
little more than half way. I am a slow
reader, and so I anticipate this will be a three month read. I don’t like to stretch books out that
long. For one, it takes me away from
other works, but, two, I just get tired of the same work lasting that
long. I wish I were a faster reader, but
I think I would lose my close attention to a work if I weren't. If a work were not worth the entire read, I
would quit a long read somewhere around a third of the way through. This book is worth the read.
Still at this point I cannot tell if this is a great work or
not, just that the characters, the situation, and the writing style hold my
attention. I will give some initial
thoughts, but do keep in mind I am doing this from not having finished the
novel.
If you have never heard of Mark Helprin as a novelist, you may have heard of him as a
Conservative commentator. He has churned
out essays, mostly regarding foreign policy, in The Wall Street Journal,
National Review, and The Claremount Institute.
He has been a soldier himself, serving in the British Navy, the Israeli
Army and Air Force.
A Soldier of the GreatWar
is a coming of age novel centered on the character Alessandro Giuliani, an
Italian, son of a wealthy Roman attorney, who as a young man serves as a
soldier in World War I. Alessandro’s
great love of life is the study of aesthetics, and before entering the war he
was a professor on the subject at a university.
The war—a war he did not support—creates great hardships for him and his
family. And so we have two parallel
motifs that seem to run through the entire novel, the analysis and
understanding of the beauty around him and the pain and misery that he is
subjected to during wartime. The novel’s
central theme seems to be the coming to knowledge of how beauty and misery
exist side by side.
Helprin starts the novel in a fashion I particularly don’t
care for. He starts the novel in 1964
when Alessandro is an old man. In a odd
set of circumstances he meets a young man, Nicolò—I think he’s under twenty
years of age, but I can’t quite remember exactly—and having been kicked off the
bus they are on they take a walking journey from Rome to two destinations that are on the
same road. They have an extended
conversation on life, love, aesthetics, politics, and then war. When I say “extended,” it’s really
extended. In an 860 page novel there are
only ten chapters, so the chapters average over eighty pages each. After the conversation turns to war,
Alessandro is pushed to tell the story of his war experience, the experience
that has shaped the man. And so the
novel's real story then starts, and I assume will end in a circular fashion returning to
Alessandro’s conversation with Nicolò. In
effect then Helprin is presenting his themes and his values up front. The story then is a fleshing out of those
themes, and the values are what the character learns as a result of his
experience. I’m not a huge fan of this structure. For me it subtracts from the reader’s
immersion into the story. I would have
preferred the novel start in medias res,
by thrusting the situation right before the
reader. Let the values and themes emerge
as the story develops. I’ve never seen
the real advantage of that looking back start.
Second thing that irks me about the novel (again it becomes
a delaying strategy from getting to the real story) is the frequent development
from one thread to another. Until the
novel really gets started with the war part of the story, it seems Helprin
suffers from ADHD. He develops an
incredible number of threads of story line.
Here are a few story threads that I remember. There’s a meeting of an Austrian princess when
Alessandro and the princess are children; there’s the taking care of the
Austrian musician on a ski gondola ride down when it’s thought the musician had
a heart attack; there’s the meeting of the beautiful young lady, Lia, who
happens to be his neighbor; there’s the horse ride through Rome being chased by
the Carabinieri, all to meet Lia by
the beach; there’s the meeting with Orfeo, the midget hunchback, who is the scribe
at his father’s office, along with the discussion on how typewriters will do
away with scribes; there’s the meeting with the man, Rafi, who will be his
friend and his sister’s betrothed (not sure yet if they ever get married), who
is attacked for being Jewish; there are the extended mountain climbing trips
with Rafi, where Rafi learns to be a world class climber; there is the meeting
with the Irish woman on the train and their trip to Munich to look at a painting in a
museum. And so on.
What do all these threads have to do with the story? Well, they serve two purposes. It shows the myriad of life’s activities
before the war. Once the war starts and
Alessandro is immersed in it, life essentially changes, and so does the
narration. The war is the life altering
event, and that is not just told but felt as the novelist generates thread
after thread which ultimately stops.
Second it creates a character in full, a man who has lived a complete
life. If the novel were only about a war
experience, then the character becomes limited to fighting and camaraderie. Helprin wants Alessandro to be more than
that. He wants to create a character
that has lived the life of the early 20th century and has something
to say about it. Alessandro does not
represent an idea or a concept. He is
flesh and blood, and so the novel’s assessment, I think, rests on how well
Alessandro, the values he espouses, the wisdom he has learned, engages the
reader as a likable and real character.
Let me add here that what has always impressed me about Helprin’s
writing is his wonderful prose style.
This is the second of Helprin’s works that I’ve read. A number of years ago I did read Memoir From Antproof Case, and while I
didn’t think it was a great work (I may not have understood it) I reveled in
Helprin’s delicious prose. Let’s give a
couple of examples from this novel. Let’s
start with the novel’s opening paragraphs.
On the ninth of August, 1964, Rome lay asleep in
afternoon light as the sun swirled in a blinding pinwheel above its roofs, its
low hills, and its gilded domes. The
city was quiet and all was still except the crowns of a few slightly swaying
pines, one lost and tentative cloud, and an old man who rushed through the
Villa Borghese, alone. Limping along
paths of crushed stone and tapping his cane as he took each step, he raced
across intricacies of sunlight and shadow spread before him on the dark garden
floor like golden lace.
Alessandro Giuliani was tall and unbent, and his
buoyant white hair fell and floated about his head like the white water in the
curl of a wave. Perhaps because he had
been without his family, solitary for so long, the deer in deer preserves and
even in the wild sometimes allowed him to stroke their cloud-spotted flanks and
touch their faces. And on the hot terra
cotta floors of roof gardens and in other, less likely places, though it may
have been accidental, doves had flown into his hands. Most of the time they held in place and
stared at him with their round gray eyes until they sailed away with a feminine
flutter of wings that he found beautiful and not only for its delicacy and grace,
but because the sound echoed through what then became an exquisite silence.
As he hurried along the Villa Borghese he felt
his blood rushing and his eyes sharpening with sweat. In advance of his approach through long
tunnels of dark greenery the birds caught fire in song but were perfectly quiet
as he passed directly underneath, so that he propelled through their hypnotic
chatter before and after him like an ocean wave pushing through an
estuary. With his white hair and his
thick white mustache, Alessandro Giuliani might have seemed English were It not
for his crème-colored suit of distinctly Roman cut and a thin bamboo cane
entirely inappropriate for an Englishman.
Still trotting, breathless, and tapping, he emerged from the Villa
Borghese onto a wide road that went up a hill was flanked on either side by a
row of tranquil buildings with tile roofs from which the light reflected as if
it were a waterfall cascading onto broken rock.
Had he looked up he might have seen angels of
light dancing above the throbbing bright squares—in whirlpools, will-o’-the-wisps,
and golden eddies—but he didn’t look up, for he was intent on getting to the
end of the long road, to a place where he had to catch a streetcar that, by
evening, would take him far into the countryside. He would have said, anyway, that it was
better to get to the end of the road than to see angels, for he had seen angels
many times before. Their faces shone
from paintings; their voices rode the long and lovely notes of arias; they descended
to capture the bodies and souls of young children; they sang and perched in the
trees; they were in the surfs and the streams; they inspired dancing; and they
were the right and holy combination of words in poetry. As he climbed the hill he thought not of
angels and their conveyances, but of a motorized trolley. It was the last to leave Rome on Sunday, and
he did not want to miss it. [p 1-2]
[Excerpts from A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin, Harcourt
Books, Inc. 1991.]
You can see in that passage the focus on beauty, on the flesh and blood
man, on the values he holds, and even subtly on the life lived in the 20th
century. The hardships that will test
and shape him are not there yet, but they will come.
Here’s a wonderful passage of Alessandro at University where
he attends operas, which shows the silly unruliness of students and the beauty
of music.
Young singers of little experience
and old ones of poor voice often found themselves in Bologna in a theater that
was supported by huge tresses and timbers arrayed against its bulging outer
walls. The architectural decorations on
the façade of this doomed opera house had been so worn down by wind and water
that the devils were toothless, the gargoyles faceless, and the cornices round,
but Italy had always been full of buildings that seemed just about to fall
down, and this one, in its timber girdle, waited until Alessandro had left the
city.
Everyone kept his eye on his own
craft or his favorite. As the planes
darted through the huge empty space, the singers looked out not only upon the
missiles themselves but upon a thousand boys whose heads, as if in a completely
anarchic tennis match, moved back and forth in may different directions—and not
only back and forth, but slowly and gradually down. Singing there was like performing in a
hospital for nervous diseases.
On occasion one or more students
who knew the lyrics and were gifted with powerful voices stood in their seats
and competed with whatever wretch was unlucky enough to be on stage. Whether it was done as a compliment or
derision was immaterial. The result was
the same. Worse, perhaps, was the
unfolding of several hundred newspapers, signaling an insulting
neutrality. Bombardment by eggs and
vegetables, shouted insults, and the occasional shoe that landed next to a
terrified soprano, were, of course, unambiguous.
But should a young singer with
heart and courage to face these things and keep on singing, sing well, a
thousand boys as unruly as animals and as jumpy as unbroken horses or
caffeinated bulls on a festival day, would suddenly become still. The house electrified, beyond the footlights
a thousand faces would show expressions of sadness, longing, and desire, and
some would sparkle back at the lights, in tracks that ran down the cheeks from
bright eyes that caught the light. Ands
when the aria ended, after a few seconds of silence the students would erupt
into a roar of appreciation that put the audiences of major opera houses to
shame.
After a lively overture with a
orchestral signature attributable mainly to the fact that theatrical impresarios
have known for ages that adolescents can be quieted by hunting horns, the
curtain rose, crushing several paper gliders in its fold. An extraordinary painted backdrop lowed in
the light. Giotto’s blues and Caravaggio’s
shadows had been united to portray a tranquil forest in neither night nor day
but, rather, in a condition of the spirit.
In combination with the overture, the weak and dream-like blue, the
clouds of dark green that marked the tops of the trees, and the motile and
confusing shadows, several forms of art kept the students as quiet as the
dead. [p. 156-7]
That is a funny scene, charming and beautiful and so realistic
I can swear I’ve been to something like that as a college student myself.
I am so glad you are hanging in there with the book.
ReplyDeleteI agree about the prose. It is delicious, and just connects you to the scene and the person on several levels.
One aspect I love about this story is the faith element, and the very real way it is brought to bear on Alessandro and his father's lives. They are in no way perfect, saintly characters, but live their lives with such a strong underpinning of faith and love. I think Helprin may be connecting the thread of beauty with the presence of God and his love in the world.
Yes, most definitely he connects faith and beauty. I just finished the execution scene at lunchtime today and it had me in tears. That was incredible.
DeleteYikes, on reading over what I wrote I had an exorbitant number of typos and grammatical errors in my write up. I did rush in getting it out late last night. I corrected them just now, but I'll take another look tomorrow night.
ReplyDelete