This work deals with the futility and stupidity of war. The setting is World War I. It seems to me that the ending of the story indicates that Dos Passos also was pointing out the futility of life in general.

In the end you are fundamentally alone and no matter how much you would like to imagine that others could complete you or even just understand you, the saddest truth is that even this is far too much to ask.

If this review is to have no spoilers, then this must be a kind of non-review. However, in some ways this review might tell you more about this novel than any other I could write.

This is a painfully sad story, a realist novel told about First World War – so pain is obligatory. The guiding metaphor is one in which humanity is turned into a kind of enormous steam-age machine; a huffing monster of hammer blows that's only function is to forge heartless men in clockwork precision matched to the regulations and synchronisations of army life. Man as machine is not pretty to watch, not in being made nor in operation nor in deployment. For the point is that all are to have their humanity stolen from them, whether they are seeking to ‘make it big’ or to just ‘blend in’ or, most pathetically of all, to somehow preserve their dignity; the crushing weight – or rather, the grinding regularity - of the rhythms of the machine reduces all before it to an orderly, mechanical sameness that derives its various meanings out of discipline and punishment. Meaning is not defined as you might expect, as steps along the path to victory, but rather in endless and nearly pointless defeats inflicted on you by those around you, those supposed to be on your own side. It is not too much to wonder if the enemy being fought is really the Germans but rather your own freedoms.

Even if you finally ‘revenge’ yourself – you will only do so through losing your humanity and it is clear this will haunt you throughout the rest of your life – like a character from a tragedy: a Banquo or Othello, where revenge is always punished.

Even if you achieve your dream – it will only be at the cost of first bowing and scraping and even then, even after this humiliation, your dream will only remain like a snowflake against skin, constantly reminding you of just how ephemeral your achievements will always remain. How, at a moment’s notice (no, in fact, even without notice), all you have, all you ever desired, can be stolen away – oh, no, it is even worse than this, they can be erased as if they never even existed, could never have existed, to become like something half-remembered, vaguely from a dream that has morphed itself into nightmare even in being remembered.

In a million ways every day you are reminded that whatever it is that constitutes your ‘individuality’ is that which is most in need of being eradicated for being inefficient or harmful to good order. What most makes you who you are is what is defined by those in power as being an aberrant deformity that needs to be standardising out of existence so as to ensure you meet the needs of the Age’s great task. For is there any hope of ever forgetting the life you now live, the person you have now become? Or of ever again becoming what you once were? Now that even your walk will forever be a constant reminder to you of now, because even the length of your stride has had to be adjusted so as to match the strides of all those you march beside – all those you will always march in stride with.

Keep step, drill, for preparedness is all.

Or rather, all is hierarchy and the duties and obligations of hierarchy. Humiliation and servitude – these are the lessons - only alleviated or punctuated with references to killing Negroes down South or raping German women in revenge for German atrocities in Belgium (and all this said without even a hint of irony by soldiers in their ‘manly conversations’). Such talk becomes one of those bizarre rituals of the dispossessed, a kind of repulsive pride, a variety of bullying self-assertion by men reduced to worthlessness except in the value they have in fulfilling the tasks they have been trained for, that they remain perpetually waiting for. For such talk is all that is left to these ‘men’, the only way for them to assert their position in the social order, to show their worthiness. Their value as human beings is asserted by reference and in counter-distinction to those even less powerful than themselves – and the sad fact is that all that this bravado shows is a series of grotesque highlights further etching out their impotence and powerlessness, a kind of sharpening around about the contours of their own slavery.

For how else can we make the world safe for democracy then by crushing the free will of a generation of young men? Than by stealing away from them their very lives so as to leave them in endless rows of graves where they will be forced to stand forever at attention and in formation?

And if not safe for democracy, then what of religion? Where churchmen say they will do everything within their ‘earthly power’ to help you – and they say this ‘earthly power’ in parenthesis, because they know you do not believe in their god – so, their stressing ‘earthly power’ lets you know they will do nothing, lets you know why they will do nothing – where words that sound positive and hopeful give subtle clues to explain the most callous punishments and pointless revenges.

Then there are the endless blows of authority repeatedly hitting you on the side of the face and leaving you dazed, humiliated, seasick, swimming, cowering and cold in your hiding - trapped where there is no where left to turn, no one left to turn to, nothing left to fight for or to believe in – only the blows, or the threat of more blows, until that is all that remains.

This is an aching and painful story, beautifully told, of the crushing of the human spirit when all point to that crushing has gone. A story of humanity’s near endless capacity for kindness and generosity but counterposed by our matching capacity for truly pointless cruelty – or rather various forms of cruelties: both careless and calculated. The crimes authority commits stretch the entire spectrum from considered to thoughtless, but perhaps they are all a consequence of the machine itself, much more than of the people who make up that machine.

This book is a call for some kind of revolution – an endlessly personal kind of revolution, so perhaps it is a call for no kind of revolution at all – but come the hour, let me be prepared to fight in that cause and not shirk or turn my back.

I tend to agree with the reviewer who compared this book to a Terence Malick film. I guess going in I was expecting something more like All Quiet on the Western Front. You go thru the 2nd half thinking "This can't end well" and sure enough ...

The difference between those who prefer the security of regimentation - what I sometimes think of as the military mentality - and those who chafe at the idea of anyone telling them what to do is presented starkly and effectively. Yes, it's an antiwar novel of sorts, but primarily it's a character study - not so much presenting the dehumanization of the military as presenting the characters' perceptions of it.

I think my favorite was Andrews' observation that life was to be used to some value, not like a box of bonbons stored on a shelf and never eaten.

So fresh, so vivid. A masterpiece.

A somewhat misleading title. Though Dos Passos does focus on the experiences of three American soldiers fighting in the Great War, one of them assumes importance and garners significantly more words over the other two. That this character, John Andrews, is really the only self-aware one of the three creates a slight imbalance on Dos Passos' canvas -- I found myself getting a little weary of Andrews' temporary freedom in Paris after Armistice. But Three Soldiers finds its footing again and reaches a tragic, not overdone climax, a testament to Dos Passos' talents as a storyteller.

Beautiful, brilliant, thought-provoking and inciting, this personal argument against society, civilization and war will never stop digging at cherished illusions and demanding answers.

It took me a while to realize this was purely a literary work. Once I stopped expecting action, I appreciated it a great deal. It surprised me how modern it was, given that it was published in 1921. I can't say I would recommend it to anyone who is not very interested in how war/anti-war literature developed. If you do have such an interest, you can't believe your WWI library is complete without this one, A Farewell to Arms, and All Quiet on the Western Front.

The title is misleading. We begin with three American soldiers meeting in training camp. The three soldiers are Dan Fuselli from San Francisco, Chris Chrisfield from Indiana, and Harvard-educated John Andrews from New York. The focus begins with the Italian-American Fuselli who is eager to rise the ranks and prove himself in the Great War.

After the three friends are split up after deployment, the action follows Andrews. The story is really his war experience. Unlike Fuselli who adapts to the strict and often senseless discipline of the army, Andrews chaffs against the rules. He suffers from bouts of nervous energy and anger. He finds help from many who recognize Andrews as a high-minded intellectual, yet that doesn't quell his frustration and angst. He wins over a few French women, but even that doesn't satisfy his gloom.

The war finally ends and Andrews looks to get out of his army duties as soon as possible. The question is will he be able to find his way out before his impulsiveness leads him astray.

Andrews is a hard man to hang with. He can't seem to find peace. He is constantly fighting against invisible demons. The unsettled pace of Andrews leads to jerky, confused motions going from lethargic moodiness to frenetic sprints to nowhere. The writing is good, but it is unclear why the book and title highlight the three soldiers. Did Dos Passos intend for the three to have a meaningful reunion, or was that a false start that he later choose to abandon. The story picks up pace and come to a dramatic conclusion, but the story ends up more startling and inexplicable than clever and well-crafted. It seems that Dos Passos allowed the characters, especially Andrews, to blaze their own path and deviate from his original plan. The characters and situations are interesting. The outcome is a mashup of oddly connected events with loose ends left unsettled along the way. Interesting and unique, though neither clear nor aesthetically pleasing.

Általában lusta vagyok ahhoz, hogy ennyire kibogarásszak, kivesézzek egy könyvet. Mindig úgy vagyok vele, hogy én jobban szeretek olvasni, mint írni. De most – még inkább, mint máskor – időm, mint a tenger. És fel is bosszantott kicsit ez a könyv, vagyis inkább a fordító.
Mert ezt a könyvet nem John Dos Passos írta ám, hanem Bartos Tibor. Ami nem lenne baj, ha saját neve alatt írna könyvet, de az nagyon nem tetszik, hogy átírja Dos Passos-t.* Miért nem elég jó neki?
Már a könyv elején felfigyeltem rá, hogy váratlanul fura szavak, szófordulatok bukkannak fel a szövegben, sokszor oda nem illően, kirívóan. Persze rögtön elindult bennem a kisördög, vajon hogy is lehetett ez eredetiben, angolul? Aztán legtöbbször győzött a lustaság. De egyszer aztán nem bírtam tovább, és megkerestem az eredetit.
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/6362/...
Nem volt könnyű kimazsolázni, mert a Gutenberg oldalon elég tagolatlan a szöveg, de akkor már felébredt bennem a kopó. :) És elkezdtem kigyűjteni a furaságokat magyarul, hozzánézve az eredetit. Hát, ég és föld. A fordító folyamatosan „szépített”, kevéssé vagy egyáltalán nem ismert régies és tájszavakkal fordított egyszerű angol szavakat, és helyenként egészen disszonáns volt az által keltett stílus az eredetihez képest.
A mondat, aminél átmentem nyomozó üzemmódban, ez volt:
„Végre látta, hogy Jeanne közeledik karcsún és feketén az ívfények alatt. Alig meglátta, rontott elébe.” (306. oldal) Mi az, hogy "alig meglátta, rontott elébe"?! Vajon angolul is döcögős nyelvtannal, fura szavakkal van? És itt az eredeti:
Then he saw Jeanne advancing across the ash-grey pavement of the square, slim and black under the arc lights. He ran to meet her.
Semmi "alig meglátta, semmi rontott elébe".
Visszanéztem a korábbi furcsaságokat is.
Miért "szentes" a forward house?
Vagy "rópatéglás meg vakolatdíszes kis házelők" a shabby little brick and plaster houses?
Hogy jön ide a "kapj már életmagra, pajtás!" meg az "elegem van a szájuk széléből"?!
Vagy "a nyelvem böstörő… Te nem vagy rottyul?"
Miért lesz a "stir"-ből kandargat?
A "sallow-faced clerks in uniform"-ból egyenruhába bújtatott tökmagszínű tintanyalók?
Az "In the neck"-ből A tökem (sic!) tele van vele.
Meg a "you could parley French real well"-ből jól parkírozol francul.
Vagy a "how long he had to wait"-ből mennyi időt kell még elvernie léccel.
Ja, és ha már kötekedek: szerintem van különbség az „Under the wheels” fejezetcím és a „Sínek között” -re fordítás között.
Sorolhatnám még tovább. De inkább beteszem majd a fordítás zónába, főként azért, mert nagyon bosszantottak, meg azért is, mert tanulságos. Számomra ezek a túlfordítás esetei, mikor a fordító az író elébe nyomakszik. Nem tetszik. Tudom, ha Dos Passos-t szeretném olvasni, olvassam angolul. De ha már le van fordítva, akkor én ragaszkodnék hozzá, hogy az eredetihez minél közelebbi művet olvashassak.
A könyv egyébként érdekes volt (bár örültem volna, ha nem kellett volna folyton nyelvészkedni benne, hanem kisiklások nélkül átadhattam volna magam a mondanivalónak). Tényleg egészen egyedi stílusú háborús regény. Katonából ugyan nem három volt benne, hanem sok, de még a főszereplők is többen voltak háromnál. Mire eldöntöttem volna magamban, ki is az a címszereplő három, már ejtette is egyiküket, és jött egy negyedik, ötödik, hatodik főbb szereplő. Aztán váratlanul megjelent valamelyik ejtett szereplő ismét.

*- Ehhez hasonló átiratot, igaz, még rosszabbat, olvastam már...

Disjointed and somewhat tedious. Not really a war novel.

Very depressing but wonderful view into World War I, what military service can do to people, and the changes engendered that can change the course of their lives.

Purchased the book because author was in the USAAS and trained at Allentown, PA when my dad did. They were not in the same section, but left for France same time. The introduction rates a 4, but the story, fiction, based on of being in France, waiting, at the front, and then waiting to return to what after the Armistice. A 1 star is a stretch Not a good choice.