En primer lugar, aclarar que este libro, escrito en 1913, no tiene nada que ver con la guerra. De hecho el título original era 'La historia más triste', pero en el momento de su publicación, ya en los años de la primera guerra mundial, el editor le cambió el nombre para hacerlo más atractivo para los lectores del momento.

La historia trata de dos matrimonios, uno americano y otro inglés, que se encuentran en el balneario alemán de Nauheim y desarrollan una amistad duradera, en un entorno de bienestar económico y ociosidad total, que sin embargo no los conduce a la felicidad, más bien a una tragedia con muchas víctimas colaterales. No hay un culpable claro, aunque el capitán inglés Edward Ashburham - el buen soldado del título - y su búsqueda incesante del amor pasional desencadenan muchos episodios que se acumulan y acaban perjudicando a todos los que le rodean.

El matrimonio entre Edward y Leonora es poco ejemplar; ella es consciente - y a menudo cómplice - de las continuas aventuras de su marido. También tiene que vigilar su hacienda ya que Edward se despreocupa de las cuestiones económicas y continuamente pone su patrimonio en peligro. Es una mujer fuerte, austera, católica por convicción, que considera que tiene que sobrellevar todos los infortunios que le depara su marido, pero que sigue enamorada de él y no pierde la esperanza de recuperarlo. Muy triste, tan triste que me pareció poco verosímil, hasta que recordé una lectura reciente, Un hombre con atributos, la estupenda biografía de H. G. Wells escrita por David Lodge, en la que se describe la relación que tenía con su esposa Jean, que era exactamente como la de estos personajes: ella se ocupaba de toda la organización de la casa, la economía, los hijos, e incluso transcribía sus obras. Él mientras tanto - aparte de escribir - viajaba continuamente y enlazaba un enamoramiento con otro, llegando a tener hijos y hogares paralelos. Todo - o casi - se lo contaba a su mujer y a menudo contaba con su aprobación y complicidad. Así eran las cosas.

El narrador es John Dowell, un rico americano, cuyo matrimonio con Florence no es tampoco ejemplar. Su voz va variando a medida que narra los hechos y pasa de hablar de su esposa al principio con devoción, a un tono cínico cuando más adelante relata el comienzo de su relación:

Florence deseaba casarse con un caballero desocupado; quería establecerse en Europa.Buscaba un marido con acento inglés y renta de cincuenta mil dólares al año generada por bienes inmuebles, pero sin ambiciones, no obstante, de aumentar su patrimonio.

Todos ellos tienen muy claro lo que quieren conseguir pero ninguno aprecia lo que tiene en realidad y eso los llevará a un fracaso trágico. Pendientes del relato de John Dowell, narrador poco fiable pero muy adictivo, vamos dando saltos en el tiempo, y aunque ya sepamos desde la primera línea que aquello no va a acabar bien, sentimos compasión por los protagonistas, cuyos actos y esfuerzos parece que sólo logran empeorar la situación.

En el fondo, esta triste - y complicada - historia es una reflexión sobre qué puede dar sentido a la existencia; al parecer el bienestar y la falta de preocupaciones materiales, lejos de satisfacernos, a veces puede desencadenar un vacío interior peligroso, una persecución de la felicidad que conduce a la tragedia:

Todos tenemos tanto miedo y estamos tan solos que necesitamos encontrar fuera de nosotros mismos la certeza de que nuestra existencia merece la pena. Así pues, durante un tiempo, si esa pasión llega a realizarse, el hombre habrá encontrado lo que busca.

Esta búsqueda está limitada por las convenciones sociales y religiosas de la época, que son el telón de fondo de toda la historia y que en gran parte condicionan el comportamiento de los personajes, que alcanza límites inaceptables pero siempre bajo una capa de hipocresía para salvar las apariencias.

Creo que es un clásico interesante y transgresor para su tiempo, con cierta experimentación formal y un buen retrato de costumbres de la época.

Στον καλό στρατιώτη βρήκα τη στόφα ενός καλού κλασικού μυθιστορήματος. Ύφος άψογο, λεπτομερές, βραδυφλεγές, οριακά ειρωνικό. Εγγλέζικο φλέγμα χωρίς φειδώ για τους λάτρεις. Μοιραιότητα, τραγικότητα, αφήγηση με το γάντι με ξεσπάσματα ωμής ειλικρίνειας που σε ευχαριστούν παρόλη την ωμότητά τους, γιατί σου δημιουργείται η επιθυμία να λεχθούν τα πράγματα ως έχουν, με τα σκληρά λόγια που πρέπει.

Το έργο γράφτηκε το 1915 και θα μιλήσω κυρίως για την αίσθηση που μου άφησε. Την αίσθηση ενός δράματος, μιας θλίψης, μιας συθέμελης καταστροφής που συντελείται κάτω από τα σάπια σανίδια του φαίνεσθαι. Εποχή αυστηρή, σφιχτή, οι τύποι έχουν την πρωτοκαθεδρία και η άρση τους εκπλήσσει, θαρρείς δε συγχωρείται. Άνθρωποι που δεν αφήνουν να φανεί ούτε ο πυρετός τους, άνθρωποι που κουβαλούν στα μύχια της ύπαρξής τους το προσωπικό ιστορικό και δράμα τους. Κι αν ξύσεις τον καθωσπρεπισμό, την επιβεβλημένη λεπτότητα, την ακαμψία των τρόπων, θα βρεις μια λίμνη από θλιβερά γεγονότα, που εκτυλίσσονται κάτω από το χαλί αλλά και στο φως της μέρας, που δεν είναι αυτά που φαίνονται - γιατί είναι ακόμα πιο θλιβερά- που ο αφηγητής έχοντας προσπαθήσει διακαώς να διατηρήσει τη διαύγεια και αντικειμενικότητά του για να κατανοήσει το προσωπικό του μερίδιο στην ιστορία, μας τα διηγείται άτακτα ώσπου να λάμψει η αλήθεια τους μέσα από τα σκοτάδια των γεγονότων. Τα δίπολα αναμετρώνται, πάθος και απιστία, καρτερικότητα και αδημονία, αμαρτία της σάρκας και του νου και μεταμέλεια, ρομαντισμός και σκληρότητα, τα ζάρια ρίχνονται με μαεστρία και η ζωή αποφασίζει γιατί όλα είναι συστατικά της, μερικές φορές στον υπέρτατο βαθμό, ώστε να γκρεμιστούν οι κόσμοι των πρωταγωνιστών εκ θεμελίων λόγω συγκαλυμμένης σαθρότητας.

«…μπορεί να υπάρξει άραγε ένας επίγειος παράδεισος όπου ανάμεσα στο θρόισμα, ανάμεσα στους ψιθύρους των φύλλων των ελιών, να μπορούν οι άνθρωποι να είναι αυτοί που θέλουν και να έχουν ό,τι θέλουν και να γαληνεύουν αμέριμνοι κάτω από τις σκιές και μες στη δροσιά; Ή είναι οι ζωές όλων των ανθρώπων, σαν τις ζωές των καλών ανθρώπων; Σαν τις ζωές των Άσμπερναμ και των Ντόουελ και των Ράφορντ – τσακισμένες, θυελλώδεις, αγωνιώδεις και αντιρομαντικές, περίοδοι με σημεία στίξεως κραυγές, ανημπόριες, θανάτους, αγωνίες; Ποιος διάβολο ξέρει;»

Μπορεί; Ποιος διάβολο ξέρει;

Ένα πεντάστερο κλασικό.

When I got to the ending, I realized that I had to read this book all over again. (Mild Spoiler Alert!) The unreliable narrator in this story sounds so convincing, so assured of all of his facts. It is only as the story begins to unravel towards the end that you ask yourself: what is the real truth here?
A set of wealthy friends meet annually at a German Spa. Unbeknownst to the narrator, John Dowell, his friend Edward Ashburnham was sleeping with Dowell's wife, Florence - and just about everyone else as well, it seemed.



Leonora, Edward's long-suffering wife, puts a halt to Edward's seduction of their ward, Nancy Rufford , and the body count starts piling up. Poor unsuspecting John is left to tend to poor mad Nancy when Edward seeks an end to his suffering at the end of a gun. Such sedate melodrama! What a bunch of well-dressed cads! Truly a pleasure to read.



There was an amazing 1981 film adaptation of this book starring Jeremy Brett which pretty much followed the majority of this twisted tale. I highly recommend both the book and the movie.

Today’s special from the bill of fare: Crow. Market Price. Served with a complimentary slice of stale pumpernickel and a glass of river water.

I really did not think I was going to enjoy this book one bit; I also erroneously believed it was included in the collection of crap known as Time’s ‘100 Best 20th Century Novels’, and the fact it isn’t is probably why it was actually enjoyable. This is, however, included on several other ‘hits lists’, such as the ridiculous 1001 Books to Read Before You Die (which is basically 901 lame entries longer than Time’s list) and Another Preposterous List of Over-Hyped Books by Some Barmy Old Codgers Adorned With Glowing Accolades For Their Thorough Understanding of Meritorious Literature. After reading “The Good Soldier”, I have no problem offering my own totally unfounded pronouncement that this book should be considered for inclusion on any such list.

tThis is the second story in a row for me (following Martin Amis’s “Success”) in which the central gimmick of the tale is unreliable narration and point of view; and while the p.o.v. and narration are always a key factor to a story, in both of these cases the importance and bearing is decidedly pronounced, every event must be considered and weighed in light of the narration before attempting to discern its ultimate reality. I tend to look at these stories in the light that the author knows that the fibers of the yarn they’re spinning aren’t unique nor profound, but the way in which it is spun is compelling; thus to me it’s more of an exercise in writing than captivating storytelling.

tNarrating “The Good Soldier” is Captain Oblivious, better known as John Dowell to his extremely small group of friends, who readily admits that he isn’t a very perceptive fellow, nor is he very good at getting across a story in a straightforward fashion, so he begs that the reader understand that his intention is to lay this saddest of stories out in a fashion as though he was sitting by the fire with a close and attentive confidant (and a bottle of brandy), simply discussing any pertinent events as they come to mind regardless of their rightful chronological juxtaposition. I actually found the technique effective at making John Dowell an extremely likeable character, but at the same time it does completely strip away much of the oomph which should be imparted by any event that might be seen as pivotal or climactic: by page ten you already know the unfortunate outcome of the story, all that is left is to get the details, a difficult feat when your narrator has powers of perception trumped by those of an aardvark in a sensory deprivation tank. There is no way you can really create a ‘spoiler’ for this work, at least not for anyone who has so much as begun reading it.

tCapt. Oblivious has to get this story off his chest, and so he’s telling it to you, dear reader. It concerns his deceitful trollop wife, Florence, and the couple which they are best friends with, the well-shod Edward and Leonora Ashburnham. The foursome meet for the first time in Nauheim, Germany, at a spa reputed for their effectiveness in combating cardiac problems, which is required for the well being of Florence Dowell and Edward Ashburnham, and proceed to accompany each other for the next decade to Nauheim, outwardly portraying the ideal friendship of two affluent, successful, and loving couples. Little does anyone know that beneath this veneer, things are worse than can even be imagined, and interestingly enough, Captain Oblivious seems to be on the outside looking in as well, clueless as to what transpires after his nightly blackout from overindulgence of gin. But, it’s been some time since the blinders were removed from our narrator, who has taken his time to collect his thoughts and connect the dots, and he can now make some sort of sense of the proceedings.

tBoth couples are of good social standing in polite society, or ‘Good People’, as John Dowell assures us often. Both men proudly hail from old, established wealth, and Edward ended up with Leonora due to an arranged marriage of sorts, and John pursued Florence for what seems like no better reason than to acquire a trophy wife while shirking anything resembling employment or social responsibility (had World of Warcraft existed at the time, he’d probably never have bothered, and would have set a Guiness World Record for most hours logged of online play). The couples share one very interesting aspect in their unions; it appears that neither has ever consummated their marriage. The reasons for this strange lack of passion are similar; Edward Ashburnham is an english Adonis whom women clamor for the attentions of, and he makes sure to perform the gentlemanly duty of never denying a lady, and Florence Dowell was (unbeknownst to Captain Oblivious) quite the tramp before John ever made her acquaintance. John, who has absolutely no clue as to what is going on, is under the belief that Flo has a heart condition, and that the act of lovemaking might potentially sound her death knell, thus the trips to Nauheim and other strange facets of her behavior, which all reek of subterfuge to the normal human. Leonora is completely aware of Edward’s infidelities, which have all taken the form of long-term ordeals with increasing passion for his partners, but in order to maintain the façade of Good People, she dutifully covers these transgressions up, while also taking over her husband’s business affairs to prevent them from financial ruin due to his nature as a wastrel.

tAs absurd as it may seem, the easiest time that Leonora has ever had keeping the rest of society’s upper crust from discovering her husband’s true nature is in suppressing the trysts which Edward and Florence have been continuing for years. Naturally, if this knowledge never saw the light of day, there wouldn’t be a story.

tThere isn’t a whole lot that keeps me from giving “The Good Soldier” a full five stars. I’ll say this is a four-and-a-half, but will round it down, for the following reasons:

First, the end of the novel seems to taper off. I understand that there is a lapse in the amount of time that has passed in the narration itself when John Dowell resumes to tell Part IV, and I interpreted this to be representative of his preoccupation with changes in his lifestyle (most notably Ms. Rufford’s presence), a marked descent into melancholia, and generally a lack of enthusiasm to find the right fit for the remaining puzzle pieces. This is all good and well, but the first three parts are so ecstatically told, that I couldn’t really enjoy his festering ennui.

Secondly, his continuous praise of Edward Ashburnham. The way Ford approaches the narration manages to make even despicable frauds like Edward and Florence likable, no easy feat, and Dowell’s conviction even made me like the guy. But his praise was incessant, and left me wondering which of the Dowells Edward was actually buggering.

Lastly, one thing which I still haven't quite wrapped my head around; so I don’t know whether to call this a positive or a negative. It is mentioned repeatedly that prior to his ugly demise, Edward went on a long-winded speech/apology/rant to John. As I was personally craving to hear it, it was a tremendous let down that it is completely left out of the story!! Or is it? (cue Twilight Zone music). Sure, Dowell admits to having skipped many significant details from lack of proper recollection, but he does make reference to Edward’s Grand Pronouncement about 30 times, and each reference connects it to some event or sentiment. Could this great confession be surreptitiously dispersed throughout the novel, and one could go back and reconstruct the gist of it themselves? If so, it’s possible that this might be the cleverest trick in storytelling I’ve personally been subjected to. Or I suppose I could just be really baked.

"In all matrimonial associations there is, I believe, one constant factor - a desire to deceive the person with whom one lives as to some weak spot in one's character." (page 86)

"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise"

Most of us aspire to knowledge and perhaps we hope it will lead to wisdom.
But we make exceptions. Sometimes major ones.
Wilful ignorance of some dark behaviour of another or even oneself: an affair, addiction, abuse, debt, or fraud, for example.

The layers of deception and self-deception build up.
The higher the walls, the more damage if they come tumbling down.
And acknowledging the possible wrongdoing of a friend, lover, or child raises doubts about our own judgement.

If we dare think of it at all, we defend denial as self-preservation.
But sometimes the outcome of inaction is the opposite - for others, if not ourselves.

That is what's at the weak heart of this novel.

Similar themes are explored in a more interesting way, in John Williams' early novel, Nothing But the Night, which I reviewed HERE.

“Presumed innocent until proved guilty”

It is the bedrock of our justice system, coded as article 11 of The Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
That’s fine in a court of law, but doesn’t always work so well in personal relationships.
Doubt gnaws away, from inside, to outside.

We believe or invent excuses:
•t“It was only once.”
•t“I didn’t realise what I was doing. I was a bit drunk.”
•t“Everyone else was doing it.”
•t“I can’t help it. Maybe it’s in my genes.”
•t“I was only looking. I didn’t actually do anything.”
“But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” Matthew 5:28 (KJV)

The saying doesn’t mean what I thought it did

I knew the phrase about ignorance being bliss, but didn’t know the source. It’s the closing stanza of Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College, written by Thomas Gray in 1742.

Rather than celebrating wilfully spurning knowledge and ignoring truth, it’s a nostalgic recollection of the innocence of childhood.

That doesn’t make it any less relevant to this book, just differently so: middle aged people, acting like children.


“Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance” - Confucius

Quotes

•t“An acquaintanceship as loose and easy and yet as close as a good glove’s with your hand.”

•t“Our intimacy was like a minuet, simply because on every possible occasion and in every possible circumstance we knew where to go, where to sit, which table we unanimously should choose.”

•t“His face hitherto had, in the wonderful English fashion, expressed nothing whatever. Nothing.”

•t“He wanted to preserve the virginity of his wife’s thoughts.”

•t“My recollection of that night is only the sort of pinkish effulgence from the electric lamps of the hotel lounge.”

•t“x was a personality of paper - that she represented a real human being with a heart, with feelings, with sympathies and with emotions only as a banknote represents a certain quantity of gold.”

•t“Fighting a long duel with unseen weapons against silent adversaries.”

•t“They had settled down into a model couple and they never spoke in private to each other.”

•t“Skilled servants whose mere laying out of my dress clothes was like a caress.”

For praise, look elsewhere

I started this with high hopes: a well-regarded classic, about a small group of people with somewhat dark and twisted lives. I often enjoy curmudgeonly old men narrating unreliably, even if there’s casual misogyny. I don’t like them as people, but I’m entranced. John Banville writes them well, for example (see my reviews of some of his novels HERE).

But I found John Dowell irritating, and utterly lacking in charm. He chats away about himself, his wife (Florence), the Ashburnhams (Edward and Leonora), and others more like a mildly inebriated old codger than the mid-forties man he says he is. There are diversions, curious euphemisms ("education", wink-wink), and hints of what’s to come (who will die). Worse, he didn’t make me care about any of the people in the story, not even those he repeatedly claims to admire.

For what the book is about, look elsewhere

If you want a plot summary or character descriptions, GR and Google are your friends. The gist is two thirty-something couples, shortly before WW1, and the consequences of their various affairs and cover-ups. One person quietly notes and knows almost everything; another, nothing. Catholicism features strongly, along with differences between Brits and Americans.

Rating

Enjoyment: 1*
Objective quality: 2*
Thought-provokingness: 3*
Favourite part: the illustration on the cover, which is uncredited, and seems unique to this book
Random fact: the original tile, mentioned several times in the text, “The Saddest Story”

“We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.”

This novel is so stunning. Oh my god. I did not expect it to be this good.

After reading this a second time for my term paper, I'm still in awe of this book. I've never read anything quite like it. First of all, I'm glad I picked this up. We were supposed to read this for a literature class and if it wasn't for this seminar, I would never have picked up this novel in the first place, because it's 1. old and 2. that title sound super boring. Well, the title is just as misleading as this books narrator.

In the end, I should have known. Should have known that repeating "I don't know" 500 times is a good sign for a narrator's unreliability. Should have noticed the obvious mix up of dates. Should have recognised a liar when he's right in front of me. But all in all my ignorance did result in a fantastic read. Cause I never saw the many turns of events coming. Classics can be surprisingly exciting.

This book - which has the subtitle A Tale of Passion - certainly is that. It has dark desires, hidden affairs, disturbing deaths and lots and lots of despair and madness. It's fantastic. I'd love to see it adapted as a modern film, preferably by Darren Aronofsky.

I already told you enough, now it's your turn to read this book. Have fun and don't let yourself be fooled.

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Storytelling is about as much an art as is writing. Any piece of paper can have beautifully constructed sentences, impeccable prose, dazzling verses, yet when there simply is nothing to tell all those words are moot. The alarming strength of the Good Soldier can be found in its maze-like narration that starts off with an innocent consciousness that through the pages, like a survivor seeing a massacre unfold as a blinding mist slowly recedes, realizes one by one the sins of the world he once thought blameless. Most novels take a linear approach to storytelling, which, if anything, makes it easier to follow. But Ford Madox Ford’s novel is unbridled both by the restraints of time, and the compunction to resist the temptation of misleading his audience. Certainly there have been a whole score of writers who have attempted to untangle the deathly winding strings of chaotic storytelling, but it is Madox Ford who truly succeeds in this aspect, if not the first to render it so masterfully. And so with this novel, it is no great wonder that he deeply influenced a bevy of wordsmiths who went on to become master storytellers themselves from Graham Greene to Julian Barnes.

On the surface, the Good Soldier is a tale about two couples, one American – the Dowells, one English – the Ashburnhams, whose interconnected lives head towards a collision that would leave each of them devastated and shatter the perfectly fragile image of marriage in their souls. However upon closer inspection one realizes that this novel is truly centered on just one of them. This person, I won’t mention which, is the driving force that changes the direction of the haunted lives of the two couples. Of course, the somewhat unreliable narrator in John Dowell whose shifting account is responsible for the novel’s mysterious atmosphere is the observer whose feelings one directly learns. But as soon as the journey starts and things go on their way, one learns that his truth has always been missing a significant piece of information enough to contaminate the assumptions one holds. And thus, even though a lone figure is moving the story, each character gradually adds a distinct element of their truth to the pot of truths that will eventually reach its desolate perfection.

“We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.”

This novel opens saying “this is the saddest story I have ever heard.” And, yes, there certainly is a sentimental sort of sadness that affects this work. However, frightening seems more apt to describe the sensation grasping my heart as this story progresses. It does not only depict the horrifying life of marriages tainted by infidelity but mulls over the different kinds of individuals that exist within its exclusive walls, painfully hidden from the world, all searching for redemption in a sacred union which yields only torture.

Through this novel, Ford Madox Ford shows us the terrifying reality of veiled innocence and the impending tragedy that awaits us as we learn of the horrible truths that are looming over us undetected, like a lost sheep unaware of a pack of wolves surrounding it waiting for the right moment in which lies certain death.

Never before have I read a novel in which each character was so detestable, despicable, and dishonest. Ford Madox Ford’s venture in literary impression is a fascinating exploration of the unreliable narrator’s influence, in which Dowell seems a passive voyeur, yet affects our perception of events so profoundly. I personally prefer the more cynical reading that his deliberately misleading account is all an illusion used to ameliorate the narrator of guilt, but the interpretations of this novel are endless. The reader is constantly reminded of the conscious construction of a story, and and so it reads as a desperate, vindictive attempt to manipulate. Safe to say I'm a big fan.

“Αυτή: η πιο θλιβερή ιστορία που έχω ποτέ μου ακούσει -η πιο θλιβερή.”

Έτσι ξεκινάει ο Καλός Στρατιώτης του Ford Madox Ford, και είναι κάτι που ο αφηγητής Τζον Ντάουελ επαναλαμβάνει συχνά μέσα στην ιστορία του.

Ο Τζον Ντάουελ λοιπόν, μας αφηγείται την ιστορία μιας σχέσης και πώς αυτή έφτασε στο τέλος της. Της φιλικής σχέσης του ίδιου και της συζύγου του με το ζεύγος Άσμπερναμ. Ο Τζόν και η Φλόρενς Ντάουελ, Αμερικανοί Προτεστάντες, συναντούσαν κάθε καλοκαίρι επί 9 χρόνια τους Άγγλους Έντουαρντ και Λεονόρα Άσμπεναμ, Προτεστάντης και Ρωμαιοκαθολοκή αντίστοιχα, στα λουτρά της πόλης Ναουχάιμ. Η Φλόρενς και ο Έντουαρντ έπασχαν από την καρδιά τους και τα λουτρά ήταν μέρος της θεραπείας τους.
Εκεί τα 2 ζευγάρια ανέπτυξαν μια φιλική σχέση, μοιράζονταν κοινά ενδιαφέροντα, πήγαιναν σε δείπνα και έκαναν εκδρομές στην εξοχή.
Εννιά χρόνια όμως μετά την πρώτη τους συνάντηση όλα διαλύθηκαν και η αλήθεια χτύπησε την πόρτα του αφηγητή μας.

Στον μονόλογο του, ο Τζον Ντάουελ, προσπαθεί να διαλευκάνει το πώς ξεκίνησαν όλα και γιατί έληξαν έτσι άδοξα.
Με μια αφήγηση κάπως συνειρμική, πηδώντας χρονικά από κει κι από δω, αναλύει τα γεγονότα προσπαθώντας να καταλάβει.
Βλέπει την υπόθεση από διαφορετικές σκοπιές προσπαθώντας να αναλύσει τον χαρακτήρα του καθενός και το ρόλο που είχε στην ιστορία. Ενώ πολλές φορές ένιωθα πώς προσπαθούσε να δικαιολογήσει τις πράξεις τους. Πράξεις που, κατ' εμέ τουλάχιστον, δεν χωρούν καμιά δικαιολογία και γι' αυτόν τον λόγο ο αφηγητής νομίζω πως μου φαίνονταν, ίσως λιγάκι, αφελής.
Ταυτόχρονα με την αφήγησή του προς εμάς, ο Τζον Ντάουελ συνειδητοποιεί το μέγεθος της άγνοιάς του. Το μέγεθος της απάτης μέσα στην οποία, εσκεμμένα η μη, ζούσε, όπως νόμιζε, ευτυχισμένος.
Και παρότι, μετά από όλο αυτό, όλα όσα έμαθε, θα περίμενε κανείς να υπήρχε μια πικρία ίσως στη “φωνή” του πρωταγωνιστή, εγώ τουλάχιστον δεν την βρήκα. Ίσως μόνο μια θλίψη γι' αυτά που χάθηκαν και μια άρνηση. Άρνηση να νιώσει, να καταδικάσει, να κρίνει. Και κυρίως μια προσπάθεια να σώσει την μνήμη του γάμου του και της φιλίας του με τους Άσμπερναμ.

“Μια ιστορία πάθους” είναι ο υπότιτλος του βιβλίου και αυτό ακριβώς είναι που έλειπε από τον πρωταγωνιστή, το πάθος. Άτολμος και μέσα στην άγνοια, έζησε όλη του τη ζωή, συμπεριλαμβανομένου και των 12 χρόνων που διήρκεσε ο γάμος του.
Σε όλο το βιβλίο θαυμάζει και επαινεί τον Έντουαρντ Άσμπερναμ, το πόσο καλός άνθρωπος και στρατιώτης είναι, και ίσως μάλιστα να τον ζήλευε και λίγο. Να ζήλευε την τόλμη και το πάθος του για τη ζωή και να ήθελε να ήταν αυτός στη θέση του. Γιατί, όπως αναφέρει και το επίμετρο, ο Τζον Ντάουελ δεν ήταν τίποτε άλλο παρά ένας θεατής της ζωής.

Και μέσα σε όλα αυτά βλέπουμε και λίγο την κοινωνία της εποχής και πώς αυτή και οι συμβάσεις της καθοδήγησαν τις πράξεις των ηρώων μας. Το γεγονός ότι η Λεονόρα ήταν Ρωμαιοκαθολική σε αντίθεση με τους άλλους τρεις που ήταν Προτεστάντες. Το γεγονός ότι οι Ντάουελ ήταν Αμερικανοί, ενώ οι Άσμπερναμ Άγγλοι, αλλά και οι μεν και οι δε εύποροι, καλοί και καθωσπρέπει άνθρωποι που είχαν να διατηρήσουν ένα όνομα στην κοινωνία.

Γιατί λοιπόν η πιο θλιβερή ιστορία; Ίσως γιατί όπως λέει και ο ίδιος προς το τέλος, κανείς δεν πήρε αυτό που ήθελε και γιατί οι περισσότεροι εκεί μέσα κατάληξαν είτε νεκροί, είτε τρελοί, είτε δυστυχισμένοι, εγκλωβισμένοι σε μια ζωή που δεν ζήτησαν.


n  n    B.R.A.CE. 2018: Ένα βιβλίο από τις Εκδόσεις Gutenbergn  n


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“I don't know what anyone has to be proud of.”
― Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier



What? You mean this novel isn't about war? Is it possible to hate a book and love it at the same time? This is one of those books where it immediately becomes obvious you aren't going to read this novel for the strict pleasure of it. This book ain't ice cream on the beach folks. I don't think I've run across a more amoral, unsympathetic cast of characters since I visited Kehlsteinhaus. But, Ford Madox Ford is absolutely brilliant at portraying the decay, the depravity and the hypocrisy that existed in early 20th century English and American aristocracy. What a bunch of absolute rat bastards they all were. Nobody is happy. Nobody is true. Everybody gets eventually exactly what they deserve.

This novel probably the most sexless novel containing the subtitle: A Tale of Passion. It is as sexy as a festering cavity and as passionate as an obsessive and unreliable group of narcissists can be. Two of my favorite writers were either heavily influenced by Ford (Graham Greene) or collaborated heavily with Ford (Joseph Conrad). This isn't a novel you can really ever love, but you will carry this novel with you and days and weeks later you still won't be able to escape its funky grasp. And THAT really is something.

The Good Soldier is so heartbreakingly beautiful. I wonder if I have ever felt so conflicted when a book came to an end, on the one hand I didn't want the experience to end - I unearthed gems on every page, gems of solemnity, disappointment, angst, and insight; on the other, each page filled me with renewed heartbreak. The "saddest story" is about two couples, the upright up-class English Ashburnhams (Edward (the eponymous, ironic "good soldier") and Leonora) and the American Dowells (John (our tragically naive or self-deceptive narrator), and Florence). Th Good Soldier is "about" two couple's disintegration, poisoned by infidelity and deception; but more deeply than that it is about the impotence of the human condition (represented in the specific and literal impotence of John Dowell). This book finishes where it begins, and the whole distillation of it can be summed up best as by John Dowell:

n  It is a queer and fantastic world. Why can't people have what they want? The things were all there to content everybody; yet everybody has got the wrong thing. Perhaps you can make head or tail of it; it is beyond me. Is there any terrestrial paradise where, amidst the whispering of the olive-leaves, people can be with whom they like and have what they like and take their ease in shadows and in coolness? n

Why can't people have what they want? That's really the pivotal question of all literature, of everything it means to be human. Everyone wants something, someone, but can't have everything they want - and if they get everything they want, it lacks novelty and then they want novelty above all else. Because we're human, we want what we don't have, and oftenest what we can't have. Dowell's allusion to the "terrestrial paradise" - to Adam and Eve's paradise - is perfect, poignant. We give up perfection for something that is flawed but forbidden. Since it is unknown to us we cannot know it's flaws, know it's true consequences, until we break with what we have and try it. But what if to try it is to lose everything? This struggle, this self-burning passion for "something other than what we have" is elucidated by Proust, who compares our longing to "an idle harp, [which] wants to resonate under some hand, even a rough one, and even if it might be broken by it." And this tactile desire, to be touched - even if it is by a rough hand, a worse hand - is central to the dilemma of infidelity. So many eternal novels revolve on the axis of infidelity, and we read them, and we love them, we feel that we relate to them even when we are models of fidelity.

As a society we relate to these marital transgressions because we know what it's like to feel both content and dissatisfied with what we have. We don't really want to be satisfied, we want to be surfeit, and we feel that we can never know if that over-fullness of joy is possible unless we take impossible chances, risk losing everything. But few of us are really willing to risk everything if we don't have to. We feel that by discretion or mock devotion we can keep what we have while we seek what we want - and this is the Janus-faced desire at the heart of The Good Soldier. The character of Edward Ashburnam is the complete essence of this desire (though it is apparent in the four main characters), his transgressions are not about sex, nor necessarily about "love" - but about a romantic vision of what love should be, which is often defined by what he doesn't have with Leonora. Whether it is with Nancy or Florence, or any of his other mistresses, he is endlessly looking for something, but never knows what it is. But despite his errant heart, it never is willing to stray completely from Leonora. Even though she is cold to him, and grows colder, some part of him loves her to the state of devotion, of, ultimately, sacrifice of that desire and of his life.

Leonora wants nothing more than her husband's love, but she will never let herself have it. As a result at first of stifling convention of her upbringing, and her own insecurities, she cannot bring herself to give herself up to Edward. As they grow older and he strays from her, her love for him become a love only of possession and control - she controls him by forgiving him, but by inwardly hating her own forgiveness. Edward knows that he has harmed his wife, that he has made her cold to him, and his own compunction keeps him from breaking with her completely. Leonora, who has almost perfect knowledge of the melodrama happenings in the novel, perhaps wishes most, unconsciously, to have the naivete of John Dowell. Her diligent, but mirthless, hunt for knowledge, is self-immolating. She convinces herself of Edwards guilt and persecutes him with her coldness, but in doing so makes attainment of his love impossible. Her problem parallel's John's, though her knowledge makes her marriage impossible to enjoy: "If for nine years I have possessed a goodly apple that is rotten at the core and discover its rottenness only in nine years and six months less four days, isn't it true to say that for nine years I possessed a goodly apple?" Unlike Dowell, Leonora assumes from the start that Edward is rotten at the core, and so she forgoes even a honeymoon happiness.

Florence is, perhaps, the most difficult character to understand. At turns she is portrayed by her husband-cuckold-narrator in terms of pre-disillusionment idealism, and post-disillusionment vitriol; paragon of demur innocence, and reviled harlot. In some ways I think she risks everything when she marries Dowell, and then regrets it, and her's is the story of trying to escape her own choices. On the surface, she may be literally seeking sexual satisfaction, which her impotent husband cannot offer her, but I suspect her problem is not so simple. I don't think I believe that she ever really loved Dowell, but I also don't believe that she ever loved Edward either - I think that she doesn't know what love is, and perhaps equates it with some amalgam of sex and romance - two things which the painter and Edward both fulfill her with. But love has to have some element of spiritual, passionate devotion, something that is adds value to the Self and adds value to the Other - something like looking though a window at the one you love, but seeing also your reflection in the glass. Florence can only see through the medium, she can only picture the value of the other, as something which has a set price, and which she can shop for, she never receives anything in her extra-marital exchanges, at least nothing like what Dowell is willing to offer her - everything he has, everything he can be. And she throws it away, and sometimes we all do that. We throw away something either because we see something better, or maybe we throw it away by accident, by forgetfulness.

Despite the difficulties, the heartbreak, despite the cruel ironies and bitter inconsistencies of the Ashburnams (primarily) and the Dowells (secondarily), this is a truly beautiful novel - a testament that all human emotion, even pain, has beauty. What struck me most was John Dowell as the narrator, his constant back-and-forth dance in time, the strange significance on coincidence and the date of August 2, when many of the novel's events take place, though years apart, made me question his mental faculties. Health is so recurring a motif in the novel, the weak "hearts" of Florence and Edward, the sanatorium in Nauheim where they meet, the confused illness of Florence's family, etc. and the claim that Nancy has become an invalid at the end. But we never hear about how the psyche of Dowell survived the self-styled saddest story, at least not directly. This novel, which I love, which is perhaps one of my favorites for ever, owes its complete brilliance of emotion, splendor of style, and so forth, to it's narrator - the wonderfully crafted and contradicted and confused John Dowell. I was lulled and enchanted by his solemn insightfulness, his somber story-telling, his impotent view of the human condition. I love Dowell. He is naive, he is imperfect and flawed, he self-deceives and is too-quick to trust those who deceive him - but that's so human, and I sympathize with him at the same time as I criticize his human foolishness.

“This is the saddest story I have ever heard”, indeed, the opening lines of this book perfectly summarize the tenor of this novel. The American narrator, John Dowell, takes us into the story of the friendship he and his wife Florence had with an English couple, Edward and Leonora Ashburnham, a friendship that starts very innocently but whose dramatic ending (a suicide on each side) is immediately made clear. So there isn't much suspense there, except perhaps for the way the two victims meet their end. It soon becomes clear that infidelity and deceit dominate the intrigue, so no surprises there either.

Then what is the strength of this novel? I don't have to think about that: it's the seemingly spontaneous, engaging narrative voice. John Dowell is a tattler who takes us into a whirlwind of unlikely amorous developments, of which he - unwillingly - was the participating observer, and of which he still understands barely anything himself (or that's the impression he gives). It soon becomes clear that John is a very naive man who was misled by his wife from the start of their marriage, and who also has to admit how much he had a misguided view of the Ashburnhams. You can hardly help but feel pity and sympathy for him. But at the same time you also regularly get the feeling that he may not be completely straightforward, that his story is particularly colored, and that no matter how much he pretends to be the biggest victim, he may not be one.

Madox Ford gives the impression that this is a form of confession literature and therapeutic writing (“Forgive my writing of these monstruous things in this frivolous manner. If I didn't I should break down and cry”), in which the narrator, in an apparently impartial way, tries to discover what exactly was going on. Through Dowell Madox Ford plays a perverse game with the reader, pulling him into a whirlwind of constantly changing observations and emotions, continuously misleading him with semantic shifts in meaning in Dowell's argument (the title 'the good soldier' is one of them), and contradictory statements and emotions (the extremely warm feelings that Dowell continues to have for the Ashburnhams, for example). It is that endless accumulation of ambiguities that makes this an extremely fascinating piece of literature, very similar to the 100 year older novel Dangerous Liaisons by Choderlos De Laclos, and - why not - a predecessor of Lolita by Nabokov.

But the greatest strength of this book is also its greatest weakness: the author keeps the carousel spinning for just a little too long, in a (consciously) faltering associative narrative style, with new turns and twists every 30 pages, in a complex network of flashbacks and previews, shifts in perspective and chronology, bouts of analysis and self-reflection, and harsh dialogues, until it becomes a bit too much. Even three quarters into the book, Dowell begins a new series of developments, as if he cannot control his inner urge: “Perhaps all these reflections are a nuisance; but they crowd on me. I will try to tell the story.” At that moment you sigh, wondering what twist the story will take next. But don't worry, this remains an impressive novel, one of the really greats of interwar literature. (Rating 3.5 stars).