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Louis-Ferdinand Celine's revulsion and anger at what he considered the idiocy and hypocrisy of society explodes from nearly every page of this novel. Filled with slang and obscenities and written in raw, colloquial language, Journey to the End of the Night is a literary symphony of violence, cruelty and obscene nihilism. This book shocked most critics when it was first published in France in 1932, but quickly became a success with the reading public in Europe, and later in America, where it was first published by New Directions in 1952. The story of the improbable yet convincingly described travels of the petit-bourgeois (and largely autobiographical) antihero, Bardamu, from the trenches of World War I, to the African jungle, to New York and Detroit, and finally to life as a failed doctor in Paris, takes the readers by the scruff and hurtles them toward the novel's inevitable, sad conclusion.… (more)
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I'm not a nihilist, so the message of this book didn't resonate with me, and I didn't find any of it funny, though some lines were clearly supposed to be. Really, if you aren't a nihilist or huge pessimist who likes having your worldview reinforced, and you already realize that there's a dark, savage side to human nature, I don't see what there is to get out of this book. The characters are flat, the writing is solid, the settings are just sketches. I found this work uninteresting.
The author-surrogate travels from Paris to the hellscape of the first world war to the dank oppressive heat of a colonial jungle, and the gleaming lonely crowds of New York and Detroit. The
This is a fascinating book. Christ, what an asshole.
The overarching narrative drive is the bittterness and rage at senseless slaughter and the casual indifference to the destruction of mans environment. For a book first published in 1932 it's remarkably relevant!
The biggest defeat in every department of life is to forget, especially the things that have done you in, and to die without realizing how far people can go in the way of crumminess. When the grave lies open before us, let's not try to be witty, but on the other hand, let's not forget, but make it our business to record the worst of the human viciousness we've seen without changing one word. When that's done, we can curl up our toes and sink into the pit. That's work enough for a lifetime.
You'd think a passage like that would come at the end of the book. Nope - page 18. Maybe describing Bardamu as pessimistic is an understatement!
Now, I must admit two important points: first, nothing pisses me off quite as much as when an author ruins an incredible 300 page novel by writing an okay 450 page one; and the translation, from 1983, makes Celine sound like a slightly grumpier Salinger. I'm not sure that's really the effect he was going for. I assume he's meant to sound like a lower class, under-sexed Sade. So these two things probably ruined my appreciation of the novel. Manheim was (I've been told) a great translator of German literature, and an okay translator of German philosophy. Maybe because he'd translated Mein Kampf and the transcripts from the Eichman trials someone thought he was a good bet for Celine? Darkside and all that? But nope.
It's also possible that having grown up when I did, the 'shocking' literature of previous ages lacks the shock effect. If you've ever heard moderately sad black metal you'll know that there's nothing misanthropic about Celine. If you've ever heard moderately violent hip-hop, you'll know there's not much violent about him. If you've read McCarthy, you'll know Celine's not all that terrifying. And if you've read anything written in the last 40 years you'll know that he's a literary prude. So. Where does this leave Celine? Basically, as a moralist who loves children and adores people who sacrifice themselves for the good of others. Now *that,* I admit, is shocking.
Over and over again the words "night" and "darkness" come up. While sometimes they are literal, mainly they seem to describe the default feelings of many people. A sense of pointlessness or depression, emptiness or tedium, and ultimately death. It takes effort to escape the "night" and often there are only moments of "light" or "day" to break it up. As harsh as it may come across, it's difficult not to see some truth in this viewpoint of the human condition.
When I read about this book it sounded a bit reminiscent of Catch-22 and other such works, so I decided to try it.
In other words: Interesting, maybe, but not something I want to hand around with for this many pages. I probably would have enjoyed the book more if I hadn't had to finish the entire thing as fast as possible for school, though. Still, I wasn't exactly looking for an upbeat, thigh-slapping good time with this (I'm not an complete idiot ^^), I was prepared for the negativity. It's just not as amusing as I was hoping for, the resigned tone was just a bit much for me.
This book covers so many years and places, you feel like you've always lived alongside the author by the time it's finished. He allows you inside his head to such a degree, that there is definitely a sense of loss when all those pages are finally
Celine’s first novel written in 1932 and, this Ralph Manheim translation in 1983.. For many, this is considered a modern masterpiece. It is biographical in nature following Celine’s experiences as a soldier in WW I, as an adventurer in Africa,
A fast moving tale in 430 pages, we meet a cast of characters worthy of a Dicken’s novel: soldiers, nurses, bureaucrats, greedy capitalists, inhumane colonists, ambitious prostitutes, working stiffs, medical researchers, lunatics, dysfunctional families and Ferdinand’s heartbroken best friend, Robinson. Interacting with these is the novel’s protagonist, Ferdinand Bardamu – alter ego to Celine.
Celine’s writing style is punchy, gritty, funny, cynical, insightful, and non-stop. While reading, I was often reminded of a slew of novelists, many who were directly influenced by him: William Burroughs, Paul Bowles, Roberto Bolano, Jack Kerouac, Joseph Heller, Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, Ken Kesey, Roberto Arlt, Antonio Antunes, and the French novelist Michel Houellebecq. While not thinking of Philip Roth I later learned that he declared, “Celine is my Proust”.
The story unfolds as Bardamu, a young medical student sits in a café chatting with a friend. As they talk Ferdinand sees a platoon of recruits marching and, caught up in the patriotic gallant fervor, he impulsively follows them and is recruited into the army.
Celine captures the day-to-day life of the soldier at war: “in the four weeks the war had been going on, we’d grown tired, so miserable, that tiredness had taken away some of my fear…every yard of darkness ahead of us was a promise of death and destruction.”
He quickly though learns the ropes, regular recruits avoided all enemy contacts: “We seemed to be looking for them, but we beat it the moment we laid eyes on them”. As Celine describes these scenes one can envision Joseph Heller transcribing his Catch 22, or one sitting in front of the telly watching an episode of F Troop or MASH. On a nighttime mission, “I moved from tree to tree, accompanied by the clanking of my hardware. All by itself my pretty saber made as much noise as a piano. I don’t know if I was deserving of sympathy, but for sure I was certainly grotesque.”
Inevitably injured, shot, Ferdinand takes leave to Paris where he takes up with an “adorable” American nurse, Lola, yet he succumbs to a panic attack, while walking in a park, “behind every tree a dead man”. Later in a crowded restaurant, “they’re going to shoot…beat it all of you, unrestrained” the MPs come to get him, “delirious, driven mad by fear…to the hospital.”
As he struggles with his recovery he and his fellow veterans’ frequent whorehouses, (this passage captures both Celine’s humor and cynicism):
“We went there to grope for our happiness, which all the world was threatening with the utmost ferocity. We were ashamed of wanting what we wanted, but something had to be done about it all the same. Love is harder to give up than life. In this world we spend our time killing or adoring, or both together. ‘I hate you! I adore you!’ We keep going, we fuel and refuel, we pass on our life to a biped in the next century, with frenzy, at any cost, as if it were the greatest of pleasures to perpetuate ourselves, as if, when all’s said and done, it would make us immortal. One way or another, kissing is as indispensable as scratching.”
Found unfit for duty, Bardamu takes off for Africa, looking for escape and possibly a fresh start on life. After a horribly uncomfortable passage he arrives and finds employment in a colony governed by French bureaucrats. Everyone was miserable but “virulent anarchy was held in check, like crabs in a basket, by a hermetic police structure. The civil servants griped in vain, for the Governor, to keep his colony in subjection, was able to recruit all the moth-eaten mercenaries he needed, impoverished blacks driven to the coast by debts, defeated by the law of supply and demand, and needful of something to eat. These recruits were taught the law and how to admire the Governor. The Governor seemed to wear all the gold in the treasury on his uniform…in the blazing sunshine, it surpassed belief, even without the plumes.”
It does not take long for Bardamu to become disillusioned. He quickly sees the failure of colonialism and capitalism for what it is. In the blazing hot sun and rotting jungles of Africa no one survives. From the natives, to the clerks, the Director, each trying to make their way, but the tropics take its toll and the only winners are the stockholders “on Rue Money in Paris”.
He meets up with his old Army buddy Robinson who is already planning his escape to the coast and freedom. Bardamu takes to a canoe but ends up in the hands of a slave galley that takes him to New York. Adventures there and in Detroit are well described in gritty and humorous ways. Again, disillusioned Bardamu longs to return to Paris.
There he finished his medical training and becomes a doctor in the poor side of town, Rancy on the outskirts of Paris. A meager existence he finds, often stiffed by his working-class clients, he succumbs to begging for his fees as if he were a waiter in a sidewalk café. In a crazy kind of way this existence suited him, a man with no interest in making it, surviving from day to day, existing on his wits and dismal philosophies of life. Sadly, he observes, “old age means not having a passionate role to play anymore, seeing your theater fold up on you, so there’s nothing but death to look forward to.”
Life takes a turn when he is hired to doctor at an asylum for the mentally ill. Located in a more middle-class neighborhood Celine captures the essence of suburban culture: “the people are anxious, the children no longer have the same accent as their parents…the local cleaning women raised their prices…a bookmaker has been sighted…the priest says ‘shit’ at the drop of a hat and gives stock market tips to his parishioners…three developers have gone to jail. Progress sweeps on!"
The last section of the book takes place at the asylum as many characters return to play out the final act.
This is a book worth reading. A modern novel of the 1930s that is still current in its descriptions, analysis and insights. A masterpiece.