Journey to the End of the Night, although written before Death on the Installment Plan, takes place chronologically after that event because the book begins with Ferdinand Bardamu's participation in the war, the same person whose childhood story we read in Death on the Installment Plan. The book is strange and curious, and I just want to write two paragraphs from "Journey to the End of the Night" by Louis-Ferdinand Céline here.

From the preface of the book:

"Journey to the End of the Night is an autobiographical novel. Bardamu, the hero and narrator, travels to different places and participates in challenging experiences, places and experiences that the novelist visited or went through years before writing. However, the autobiographical novel is not an autobiography, and we should not read Journey to the End of the Night as if we were reading a kind of strange and unusual account, and as if the attractiveness of the narrative lies in its truthfulness. Bardamu tells his story in the first person, but he is a character within this narrative, and this is not an author who speaks plainly and simply from his own language. Bardamu is not Céline, and Journey to the End of the Night is not a part of Céline's life story. But both the hero and the old man in the book curiously relate to certain facts from the author's biography. This novel, with a deep understanding of the nature and character of the man who wrote it, becomes even more attractive."

From the first chapter of the book:

"Journey to the End of the Night is one of the outstanding works of modern literature, the work of a sensitive, passionate, and eloquent man, without equal in French literature or any other literature. This work, written sixty-odd years ago, was a memorable and pioneering foundation of the era, giving a new perspective on the current prevalence of bad faith regarding the capacity for evil in human nature and the future of mankind. The book, in an unparalleled way, expresses the position of a burned-out and godless man whose life has no trace of God's grace, nor does his stubbornness and any kind of belief make him hopeful for an improvement in the situation. The only hope for man is to gather his strength by distracting his attention. However, for millions of readers of this book, despite all its sometimes inhuman bad faith, it has been a pleasant and enjoyable book. Because in this work, Céline elevates his negative emotions to the level of art and makes it easy for us to appreciate his skill and mastery in describing these emotions. If Céline hoped that by sharing his hopeless philosophy of life with us, he would corrupt our spirit, it can be said that he has failed. This is the successful achievement and black humor of his novel, whose result is the opposite. Despite Céline's moral values, we know him as a writer for no reason."

Premier roman de Louis Destouches (aka Louis-Ferdinand Céline), Voyage au bout de la nuit marque une rupture dans la littérature française du XXe siècle. Published in 1932, it immediately establishes itself as a major work, hailed by critics (and awarded the Prix Renaudot) for its innovative style and disenchanted vision of the modern world. Céline takes us on the picaresque and hallucinatory journey of Ferdinand Bardamu, the literary double of the author, from the plains of the North during World War I to the seedy suburbs of Paris, via colonial Africa and capitalist America.

What strikes one first here is the power and singularity of Céline's writing. Far from the literary conventions and classicism of his time, Céline invents a new language, made up of slang, neologisms, and striking formulas: a chopped, syncopated style, between poetic prose and popular orality, which translates with rare intensity the rhythm and emotion of living speech. This inaugural sentence sets the tone: "It started like that. I had never said anything. Nothing. It was Arthur Ganate who made me talk. Arthur, a student, also a soldier, a comrade. So we meet in Place Clichy. It was after lunch. He wants to talk to me. I listen to him." And it ends like this:

From a distance, the tugboat whistled; its call passed over the bridge, yet another arch, another, the lock, another bridge, far away, further away... It called to it all the barges on the river, all of them, and the whole city, and the sky and the countryside, and us, everything it was taking away, the Seine too, everything, never to be spoken of again.

Beyond its formal audacities, Voyage au bout de la nuit also stands out for its darkness. Céline presents an uncompromising picture of the stupidity, cruelty, and cowardice of men, whether it is the horrors of war ("We are the offspring of Horror as we are of pleasure"), the barbarity of colonialism ("Everything trembled in the immense edifice and oneself from head to toe possessed by the tremor"), or the misery of the suburbs ("The great marmalade of men in the city"). No illusion remains in this universe where man is but a putrefying thing suspended, condemned to wander aimlessly.

Yet, despite this fundamental pessimism, Céline's novel is not without a certain form of humanity, even of frank laughter, almost Rabelaisian. Through the figures of Robinson, the grotesque and rascally double of Bardamu, and Molly, the big-hearted prostitute, Céline hints at the possibility of a brotherhood of the wretched, a solidarity of the outcasts. Even if these glimmers of hope are quickly swept away by the evil wind of events and history, they testify to a profound empathy for human suffering. As Bardamu says: "Only it's a pity that people remain so mean with so much love in reserve."

Voyage au bout de la nuit thus imposes itself as a major novel, which (alongside Proust's Recherche) has deeply renewed 20th-century literature: with its feverish style and its raw, almost obscene vision of the human condition, it paved the way for Sartre (whom Céline would later criticize as "agitated in a jar"), Genet, Camus, and the entire Beat Generation, up to the novels of Kurt Vonnegut, Joseph Heller, Annie Ernaux, and Michel Houellebecq (who has declared himself closer to Proust than to Céline, but I don't believe it for a second, so obvious is the literary filiation between Céline and Houellebecq).

But beyond its literary influence, this novel refers us to our own share of darkness and confronts us with the enigma of our presence in the world: "The truth of this world is death. One must choose, to die or to lie. I could never kill myself. The best thing was therefore to go out into the street, this little suicide."

Special dedication to my friend Michelle, who encouraged me to reread this formidable novel.

Celine is undoubtedly one of the most controversial writers who passed through this world. Being a Nazi is no small thing, and it doesn't wash away easily in an era when the wounds are tightly held closed with the bandages of bad times. Yet...

I started reading "Fernand Pantoum" by falling flat on my face. At first, Celine's writing pulled me in, and the somewhat surreal element hooked me so much that I didn't realize the doses were large. Somewhere in the middle, I began to read it more slowly, more loosely, and a little more carefully, taking it in small sips of literary talent. That way, I was able to enjoy it better (and it held my interest even more).

I don't judge those who are put off by the author's personality and don't start the book for that reason. But I also can't understand how someone can start it and think about anything else except how important a work it is and how many things one can take from it.

And one more thing to close:

"Studies change you, make you a proud person. You must go through studies to get to the depths of life. Before that, you just转悠 around it. You play at being a dilettante, but you stumble on small things. You dream exaggeratedly. You slide over all the words. That's not what you want. All these are just intentions, disguises. Something else is needed by the determined. Although without a particular inclination, I, thanks to medicine, had come close to people, animals, everything. Now there was nothing left but to rush straight into the unknown. Death is running behind you, you have to hurry, and you also have to speak while you're looking, and furthermore, you have to escape from war. So you have quite a few things to do. It's not play and laugh."

It took me months to read this book, but I really enjoyed it a great deal. All the adventures and misadventures that the anti-hero experiences are told in a wonderful way. This Celine is harsh on humanity, bitter, and with a bad vibe. There is a lot of poison in his pages. But that didn't make me enjoy it any less. Celine, I love you even though you are a bitter person.

The story unfolds with a unique charm that keeps the reader engaged from start to finish. The anti-hero's journey is filled with unexpected twists and turns, making it a thrilling read. Celine's writing style is distinct, with his use of vivid language and powerful descriptions. It creates a vivid picture in the reader's mind, allowing them to truly experience the story.

Despite the darkness and bitterness in the book, there is also a certain beauty to be found. It makes the reader reflect on the nature of humanity and the choices we make. Overall, this book is a must-read for anyone who enjoys a thought-provoking and engaging story.

Well, it's all done. The first time, from page 120 of 1993, I took a breath and moved forward, but for some reasons, I gave up on the book. However, this time, I went to the end.

Actually, this is not a story. It is a part of Selin's eventful memoir. In the words of my friend, it is a journey that starts from World War I and ends at night (if you read the book, you will understand).

If we call Dostoyevsky the master of psychological dialogue, Selin brings all of that to life in a bazaar style.

And I also send my regards to the soul of Farhad Ghabraei for translating this masterpiece.

Unfortunately, he is not among us.

One comment from an ordinary daily reader regarding the journey to the end of the night by Céline. It is the best book in terms of style and words that I have read. What amazes me is a bit about his extremely sharp mind and his incredible caustic language. It seems unbelievable to me that it was written in 1932 and especially as his first book. Many times my head was taken by the truths that I "heard", my agreement came out so naturally and I said to myself "what did he write ;;;", I sank well into the darkness, into the thunderous sentences of truth and yet I laughed so much, so badly with the accurate characterizations and the wit of the doctor. Devastating. A book that burns in the mind! All the books you carry. Some can appear from nowhere in your thoughts for a moment, others you have there continuously. This belongs to the second category. Céline's snubbing by me sweetens at the end for his Nazi beliefs, I think etc. and I almost whistle "indifferent" with a little bitterness and a much greater admiration for him. I would very much like to read also the untranslated Greek continuation of it.

I suspect with almost certainty (because I don't know French to compare) that the translation by Cecil J. Marguerite is amazing and it was a great achievement.

A book that should be read at least once every 4 - 5 years as a tool of introspection.

Onima koji ne žele da im se slome ružičaste naočari, koji čitaju da bi odmorili mozak ili se zabavili u najosnovnijem značenju te reči, savetujem da ovu knjigu zaobiđu u širokom luku.

On the other hand, for those who have at least once in their lives wondered, "Am I a masochist considering the books I read?" I suggest they include this one in their mandatory reading list.

This book is full of the worst and most senseless human desires. The style is overly pregnant (requiring full concentration all the time), with detailed and precise descriptions, as powerful when it comes to marginal episodes as the basic feelings of the main character on which the entire novel rests. Everything is full of filth, stench, perversion, but within the framework of human loss in life (and death). And a lot of bitterness, but of a professional, misanthropic kind. The focus is on details, shifted compared to the usual (much more attention is paid to the dripping of some blood over there than to the crossing of the ocean, for example).

The language is a special story.

From all corners, an atmosphere similar to Kafka's is breathing (but the influence is not explicitly visible, and I think it is more about similar views), with the difference that in Kafka there is no such angry sarcasm.

The main character, the narrator, Ferdinand (just like that) goes to war from which he very much wants to escape, and he flees - to Africa. And there he encounters horror, then seeks salvation in America, and later returns to France where he finishes his medical studies and becomes a doctor... The action before that is described in the novel "Death on Credit". So, he is always on the social and societal margins, but he doesn't belong there. He doesn't start any revolution - he observes and writes.

For me, it is impressive in every sense.

On one hand (and I am looking only at the work, not the writer's personal character), it is clear to me why Céline never experienced the glory that I think he deserves. It seems that one had to be (crazy) Beckett to be canonized as Céline. Those who liked this for reasonable reasons would not waste time on dethroning (some kind of) Dostoyevsky from the throne of "the best writer among psychologists" and similar nonsense. So we have popular and unpopular writers.

And yet... only two editions in Serbian in 30 years (according to my information)... it's not fair.

I would consider a comparison between Céline and Proust a very, very interesting topic, and if anyone knows that such an essay exists, I would be very grateful.

Here is a random sentence, for illustration purposes:

"Her amazed voice would repeat the words that she liked, if she would agree to speak normally, and the sentences and phrases would then jump, play, vividly bounce, interesting and funny, because, sometimes people knew how to bring the things around them to life with their voice, in that time when it was both funny and shameful for a person not to know how to tell something, and also to sing when necessary."

“Misery is like some horrible woman you’ve married. Maybe it’s better to end up loving her a little than to knock yourself out beating her all your life.”

The marketing approach of this book has likely led to it being one of the most misconstrued works of the past century. The blurb I read before commencing my reading promised “a literary symphony of violence, cruelty and obscene nihilism.” However, I encountered nothing of that nature. This is the account of a man's life, a man who, interestingly, immediately grasped the wretchedness of life and endeavors to assemble his own during his diverse travels, from the First World War, through colonial Africa, capitalist America, and then back to the outskirts of Paris.

Bardamu is a nihilist, a coward, a lecher, yet otherwise a generally decent individual. Perhaps his nihilism was inherent or maybe he contracted it during the war after making every conceivable attempt to survive and avoid being sent to the front lines. I don't fault him. He views the entire situation as madness, questioning the sanity of anyone who would willingly sacrifice their lives in the name of their country. At one point, he was admitted to a mental institution along with a group of deserters, and their entire charade was to erupt in immeasurable bouts of patriotism. Passionate shouts of “Vive la France!” filled their corridors daily. It became a game of one-upmanship. No one regarded them as sane. I found it absurdly humorous. The first hundred pages or so I would classify as a tragicomedy.

“There were so many people whose names, mannerisms, and addresses I had lost, whose friendliness and even their smiles, after so many years and years of trouble and worry about the next meal, must have turned into pathetic grimaces, like old cheeses… Even memories have their youth… When you let them grow old, they turn into revolting phantoms dripping with selfishness, vanity, and lies… They rot like apples…”

Post-war Bardamu is not as enjoyable. He traverses different places and meets various people, and each experience gradually wears him down. Amidst all the muck, Bardamu's wretchedness initially possessed a frivolous quality that could be attributed to the rebellion of youth. But as he aged, this quality was replaced by an unsettled kind, characteristic of mid-life, which caused him to squander any opportunity for stability, even when he found the person he would love most and who had an equal amount of love to return. Eventually, he resigns himself to his fate, simply seeking to preserve whatever ounce of comfort he has. Isn't this representative of human life? I suppose we all yearn for a way out of our miserable lives but merely manifest it in different ways throughout the different stages of our lives. We'll reach that point someday. But that's not the essence.

“Only too often the day’s lingering fears banish sleep, so when you’re lucky enough to build up a small stock of beatitude, you have to be a born fool to squander it in futile preliminary catnaps. Keep it for the night, that’s my motto! Always be thinking of the night.”

Life is miserable, just as the earth is an oblate spheroid. At times, you feel more miserable than others, and those times might occur more frequently than you desire. Life can be dreadful. However, sometimes the earth rotates on its axis, and a ray of sunlight pierces through, and you experience moments of amusement, fits of laughter, and if you're fortunate, even amorous flashes that leave you longing for more. It's not all that bad.

Δεν έχω να πω πολλά για το βιβλίο αυτό που δεν ειπώθηκαν εξαιρετικά από άλλους, μόνο ν’αραδιάσω τις αισθητικές μου μπαρούφες.
Ξεκινώντας το βιβλίο μες στο κατακαλόκαιρο, ήξερα πως πάω ανάποδα με τις ράγες του τρένου. Η νύχτα είναι μικρή το καλοκαίρι και τεράστια στο βιβλίο. Το καλοκαίρι με τόσο φως είναι ένα ωραιοποιητικό φίλτρο, ένα καμουφλάζ της ανθρώπινης ποταπής φύσης. Το ταξίδι μού υπενθύμιζε μ’έναν σταθερό ρυθμό τη νύχτα της ανθρώπινης χρεοκοπίας. Λεκτικά, ο Σελίν φρόντιζε γι’ αυτόν τον ρυθμό σε όλο το βιβλίο.

«Ήμουν προπαντός ένοχος επειδή κατά βάθος λαχταρούσα να συνεχιστεί όλο αυτό. Και μάλιστα επειδή δεν είχα πια αντίρρηση να πάμε όλοι μαζί τσάρκα, όλο και πιο μακριά μες στη νύχτα.»
«Να τι είναι η ζωή, ένα κομμάτι φως που καταλήγει στη νύχτα.»
«Αράδιαζε φράσεις. Αυτό που την έκανε λυρική τη σκρόφα, με τον δικό της σιχαμερό τρόπο, ήταν η νέα ελπίδα της να βγει απ’το βούρκο και τη νύχτα.»
«Δεν ανεβαίνεις στη ζωή, κατεβαίνεις. Εκείνη δεν μπορούσε πια. Δεν μπορούσε πια να κατέβει ίσαμε κει που ‘μουνα γω…Γι’ αυτή, ήταν πολλή η νύχτα ολόγυρά μου.»

Το ταξίδι είναι σαν κάποιος να σε τραβά απ’το πηγούνι για να σε βάλει να κοιτάξεις ευθεία μπροστά σου χωρίς περιστροφές τον άνθρωπο και τη χαμέρπειά του υπό όλες τις άθλιες συνθήκες: πόλεμος, φτώχεια, εκμετάλλευση, αποικιοκρατία, ρατσισμός. Φτωχομπινεδιάρικη φύση που στην εξαθλίωση γονατίζει, πάει όσο πιο άκρη γίνεται, κι άλλο χαμηλά, βαράει τιλτ. Μετά τον Α’ΠΠ η εικόνα είναι αυτή και μόνο αυτή. Και για πάντα, θα τολμήσω να γενικεύσω, υπό νέες συνθήκες σε κάθε εποχή. Ο Σελίν μέσα από τις αφηγήσεις του alter ego του, του γιατρού Μπαρνταμού, μας τρέχει στην Αμερική, την Αφρική και την Ευρώπη και μας δείχνει όλα τα σκατά με μικρές τρυφερές χαραμάδες. Η γλώσσα του είναι όμως τόσο αγκαλιαστερή, τόσο άμεση και κοφτερή, που αναδύεται πολλή ανθρωπινότητα κι αυτό βγάζει ένα είδος ζέστας διαβάζοντάς το. Και η ειρωνεία του πάντα παρούσα, ένα μεγαλείο.

Οι παραθέσεις ας είναι περισσότερες απ’ τα λόγια μου.
[…] δεν μπορώ παρά ν’ αμφιβάλλω για το κατά πόσον υπάρχει άλλη αληθινή πραγμάτωση της βαθύτερης ιδιοσυγκρασίας μας πέρα απ’ την αρρώστια και τον πόλεμο, τη διπλή αυτή απεραντοσύνη του εφιάλτη.
Κοντολογίς, η μεγάλη κούραση της ύπαρξης μπορεί να μην είναι τίποτε άλλο απ’ τον τεράστιο μόχθο μας να παραμείνουμε εχέφρονες επί είκοσι, σαράντα χρόνια και βάλε, να μην είμαστε απλά, βαθιά ο εαυτός μας, δηλαδή σιχαμεροί, φρικαλέοι, παράλογοι. Είναι εφιάλτης να πρέπει πάντα μα παρουσιάζουμε ως ένα μικρό παγκόσμιο ιδεώδες, ως έναν υπεράνθρωπο απ’ το πρωί ίσαμε το βράδυ, τον χωλό υπάνθρωπο που μας δόθηκε..[…]

[…] Δεν φυλαγόμαστε ποτέ αρκετά απ’ τις λέξεις, μοιάζουν ανώδυνες οι λέξεις, δεν μοιάζουν βεβαίως μ’ απειλές, μάλλον με μικρούς θορύβους του στόματος, με μικρές πορδές, ούτε κρύες ούτε ζεστές, που εύκολα τις ξαναπαίρνει μόλις φτάσουν στ’ αυτί η πελώρια γκρίζα πλαδαρή πλήξη του μυαλού. Δεν φυλαγόμαστε απ’ τις λέξεις, κι έτσι έρχεται η συμφορά.
Υπάρχουν κάποιες λέξεις κρυμμένες ανάμεσα στις άλλες, σαν χαλίκια. Δεν τις ξεχωρίζεις εύκολα, να όμως που σου κάνουν όση ζωή διαθέτεις να τρέμει σύγκορμη, στο κάθε δυνατό κι αδύνατο σημείο της… Τότε πλακώνει ο πανικός… Μια πλημμυρίδα… Μένεις εκεί δα σαν κρεμασμένος, πάνω απ’ τις συγκινήσεις… Είναι μια θύελλα που ήρθε, που πέρασε, μια θύελλα πάρα πολύ σφοδρή για σένα, τόσο άγρια που δε θα φανταζόσουν ποτέ ότι μπορεί να συμβεί κάτι τέτοιο μόνο με τα συναισθήματα… Άρα δε φυλαγόμαστε ποτέ αρκετά απ’ τις λέξεις, ιδού το συμπέρασμά μου.[…]

Κι ακόμα αυτό:
[…] Αν προσέξουμε, για παράδειγμα, τον τρόπο που σχηματίζονται κι εκφέρονται οι λέξεις, τότε οι φράσεις μας δεν αντιστέκονται διόλου στην κατάρρευση του σαλιάρικου σκηνικού τους. Είναι πιο περίπλοκη, πιο κοπιώδης κι απ’ την αφόδευση η μηχανική προσπάθειά μας για κουβέντα. Αυτός ο κάλυκας της πρησμένης σάρκας, το στόμα, που συσπάται για να σφυρίξει, που ρουφάει και μοχθεί, που βγάζει όλων των ειδών τους γλοιώδεις ήχους μέσα απ’ το βρομερό φράγμα της τερηδόνας, τι τιμωρία! Να όμως τι μας εξορκίζουν να μετουσιώνουμε σε ιδανικό. Είναι δύσκολο. Μιας και δεν είμαστε παρά δοχεία χλιαρών και σάπιων εντοσθίων, θα ΄χουμε πάντα πρόβλημα με το συναίσθημα. Δεν είναι τίποτα το να ερωτευθείς, το δύσκολο είναι να παραμείνεις με τον άλλον. Το σκουπίδι δεν γυρεύει μήτε να διαρκέσει μήτε να μεγαλώσει. Ως προς αυτό, είμαστε πολύ πιο άτυχοι απ’ το σκατό κι είναι απίστευτο μαρτύριο τούτη η λύσσα μας να εμμένουμε στην κατάστασή μας.
Δεν υπάρχει θεϊκότερο αντικείμενο λατρείας απ’ τη μυρωδιά μας, πάει τελείωσε. Όλη η δυστυχία μας οφείλεται στο ότι πρέπει μα παραμείνουμε πάση θυσία ο Ζαν, ο Πιερ ή ο Γκαστόν, για κάμποσα χρόνια. Το κορμί μας, αυτό το μασκάρεμα αεικίνητων και κοινότατων μορίων, επαναστατεί συνεχώς ενάντια σε τούτη τη φάρσα του διαρκείν. Τα μόριά μας θέλουν να πάνε το ταχύτερο να χαθούν στο σύμπαν, τα χρυσά μου! Τα βασανίζει το ότι δεν είναι παρά μόνο «εμείς», κορόιδα του απείρου. Θα διαλυόμασταν αν είχαμε τα κότσια, και λίγο λείπει να το καταφέρουμε, μέρα τη μέρα. Τ’ αγαπημένο μας μαρτύριο είναι εκεί κλεισμένο, ατομικό, μες στο πετσί μας, με την αλαζονεία μας μαζί. […]

Selin, the despicable traveler, seemed to encounter ruin wherever he went. He was a perceptive critic for all times. The turbulences of his journey are best depicted through the lives of the people he stayed with. Mostly, these people were drunks who were evicted just so he could present his evaluations. Through them, Selin shows all the shamelessness and disgust of the modern world. He also directly addresses events of social paroxysm, being harsh in doing so. The style of his writing stems from the echo of the humiliated and oppressed and serves as a haven of pure rationality. This is, above all, a kind of autobiographical, rebellious novel that strives for truth. And according to Selin, truth is nothing more until death. That is his final night, peaceful and calm. The incredible lightness and clarity of the manuscript adorn this work.

We promise to be the worst shit only when a catastrophe befalls us.

What is worse than all this is that you ask yourself how tomorrow you will find the strength to continue doing the same thing that you did yesterday and have not done anything else for a long time. Where do you find the strength to advance these empty works, these thousands and thousands of maps that lead nowhere, these attempts to get out of the tricky trap, the efforts that are always stillborn into the world? All this is because once again you want to prove to yourself that fate is incurable, that every night you must lean against the wall of your room and under the worry of tomorrow, which is always more disturbing and more difficult than the previous day, you must collapse.

"Journey to the End of the Night" was a charmed book for me. I finished reading it after two months! It took a lot of energy from me! I liked the subject and its pen, but overall I don't have a good feeling about it. I don't know if it was because of the book or because my taste in reading has changed! :)

Maybe this book made me think deeply about my life and future. It made me realize that sometimes we are trapped in a cycle of routine and emptiness, and it is difficult to break free. But we still have to try, because only by constantly challenging ourselves and seeking change can we find true meaning and value in life.

In conclusion, although "Journey to the End of the Night" is not a perfect book for me, it has still had a certain impact on me. It has made me look at myself and the world around me from a different perspective, and it has also inspired me to think about how to live a more fulfilling and meaningful life.

**Best book I read in May 2021**

This book, as its title suggests, is a complete journey: an external (geographical) and an internal (reflective and experiential) journey, whose path the reader can live, feel, enjoy, love, suffer, get angry at times, and end with a void that will be very difficult to fill. A complete **EXPERIENCE** of literature at its best.

The first time I got curious about reading **Journey to the End of the Night**, it was last year while chatting with a reading group and one of the members recommended this book, sharing their impressions and such. The second time, and the one that made me definitely advance my reading as soon as possible, was when in February of this year I read **It Was the Trench War** by Jacques Tardi and there the author mentions it along with another work (**Fear** by Gabriel Chevalier) as one of his best readings that dealt with the topic of World War I. So, here I am, having finished this book that, I say from the start, is a complete wonder.
The story, with autobiographical elements, has Ferdinand Bardamu as the protagonist, who in a moment of madness and without thinking twice, decides to enlist to fight in World War I. Thus begins this work, and through many experiences, travels, characters, places, and more, Ferdinand will discover how he will face a dark and unknown future; even when he finally decides to settle down, it will show what it was like to live in a time when war and its consequences were what was most in the air.
Our protagonist is a person who cannot stay still in one place, as it is said to him in one chapter: “Are you still crazy, then? Haven't you gotten tired of these stories yet? Do you still want to travel?” That particular way of being, of moving from one place to another, is what I most enjoyed about the novel, and for that reason, I don't want to reveal anything beyond the beginning of the book, because I think it's very much worth it for each person to discover for themselves all the travels and characters that Ferdinand makes and crosses paths with, respectively, on his way.
Regarding the translation, and I want to touch on this topic because I think it's important, I don't think it's entirely as good as it should be; it's not bad, but it could be better. Now, I imagine the enormous task that the translator Carlos Manzano faced with this work, and not because it was a complicated language, but precisely because the way the characters express themselves is very colloquial and at times vulgar or bombastic.
For example, something that made me laugh at first and by the middle was bothering me because of how repetitive it is, is the expression “de lo lindo” at the end of the sentences. I looked it up in the dictionary, and it said it was an adverbial phrase that means “a lot”, but where is this used? Evidently, I still have the doubt, but I insist, phrases or words of that style that are repeated many times put an obstacle when wanting to read more fluently. I imagine, if possible in the future, a Mexican translation where instead of “de lo lindo”, “un chingo” is used in its place.
I understand that there are two more translations into Spanish apart from this one; it would be worth investigating and seeing which one of all is the best.
The language of the work is simple and is also considered strong and scandalous (and it sure is), which was surprising in the time when it was published; on the other hand, the author's writing seems to invite us to read very quickly, even the story advances in giant steps, so much so that, for example, in one chapter Ferdinand is in place A, and in the next chapter he is already heading to place B and begins to describe how and why he moves to that point, in a matter of one or two paragraphs at most. In other words, the novel flows and accelerates chapter by chapter as we move forward.
Now, for me particularly, it wasn't an easy read, and this is due to the large number of reflections and monologues that our protagonist makes throughout the entire novel. However, this doesn't mean it's bad, but quite the opposite, because basically the book could end all underlined from beginning to end because each idea, phrase or dialogue —few dialogues to be honest, especially in the first half of the work— are written masterfully and at the same time fit perfectly with the feeling and thinking of the main character. We also find descriptions of which Bardamu himself is a witness, where the decadence, violence, and corruption of society are observed. This is something that impacts, and it is possible to get an idea of the situation in which people lived in those years, full of despair and misery.
As for the characters, each and every one of them seems well constructed to me and with one or more characteristics that make them unforgettable; I in particular have my favorites: in principle and it couldn't be otherwise, the protagonist Ferdinand, has been one of the characters that has had the most evolution of almost all the novels I have read to this day, and that's an understatement. On the other hand, we have Robinson and Molly, two of the characters that contribute the most to the development of Ferdinand, and Molly in particular because she appears in my favorite part of the novel. Finally, but no less important, Mrs. Henrouille, a woman over 70 years old who represents a burden for her family, because her story seemed to me to be the most emotional, and without more, it leaves you a lesson that will impact, perhaps, any reader.
In conclusion, the novel as a whole is a complete gem and a masterpiece that I'm glad to have read, and I say it from now, very probably it's already my best reading of this 2021 (without leaving aside Moby Dick, of course).
I want to end this series of comments with an extract that for me, tends to give a clear vision of what this novel represents:
“Cheer up, Ferdinand —I repeated to myself, to encourage myself—, by constantly being thrown out on the street everywhere, surely you will end up discovering what scares all those bastards so much, and that must be found at the end of the night. That's why they don't go to the end of the night!”