Two couples—John and Florence Dowell, and Edward and Leonora Ashburnham—form the crumbling edifice of this exceptional modernist tale. Their lives, which appear as polished as a silver tea set, are anything but. Beneath the veneer of respectability lie deceit, infidelity, and tragedy. Told by the hapless John Dowell, who begins with the haunting line, "This is the saddest story I have ever heard," the novel is a sardonic commentary on love, fidelity, and the elaborate charades people play to conceal their true selves. Ford's intricate structure and Dowell's unreliable account create a reading experience where discerning the truth is as tricky as navigating a hall of mirrors.

John Dowell is a virtuoso of contradiction and revision. His confusion and denial about the true nature of his marriage and friendships are palpable, making him both a tragic and comic figure. He laments, "Why can't people have what they want? The things were all there to content everybody; yet everybody has the wrong thing." This sleight of hand allows Ford to explore the themes of perception and reality, as Dowell's version of events is as stable as a house of cards. The reader is left to sift the truth through Dowell's fragmented and often self-serving account.

The novel's setting, primarily in the genteel society of pre-World War I Europe, provides a stark contrast to the dark undercurrents of infidelity, mental illness, and despair that drive the plot. Despite its somber themes, The Good Soldier also contains moments of dark humor and irony, particularly in Dowell's often naive and bewildered observations. As Dowell himself admits, "I know nothing—nothing in the world—of the hearts of men. I only know that I am alone—horribly alone."

Está novela tiene uno de esos inicios que quedan en la memoria y se paladea suavemente disfrutando las notas que va desprendiendo.

“ESTA es la historia más triste que jamás he oído. ”

Cuando uno termina el libro y rememora la frase es todavía más asombrosa porque entiende el significado, el narrador es uno de los protagonistas pero ni siquiera se enteró, fue el sujeto pasivo que no participó en la obra ni como actor ni como público aun así está en el escenario y las luces lo tomaban, no creo que haya cosa más triste que esa.

John es un buen norteamericano que vive plácidamente hasta que conoce a Florence una joven que tiene el anhelo de regresar a Inglaterra y comprar una propiedad que habría sido en algún momento de su familia, a partir de esta peculiar petición se concreta un matrimonio.

Edward es un inglés que ha servido al ejército, poseedor de tierras con un talante noble que busca siempre ayudar a su prójimo aún a costa de su patrimonio, es forzado a casarse con Leonora una irlandesa católica que ha aprendido que el matrimonio es para siempre, que lo más importante es la estabilidad financiera y busca proteger a su marido aún a costa de sí mismo.

A partir de estas dos parejas vamos descubriendo los secretos de una amistad que parecía correcta, sincera, y que duró casi 10 años.

A través de un salvaje vaivén que va transformando la historia de un apacible y perfecto enfoque, hacia una cascada de revelaciones que van alterando y demudando las finas maneras y cordiales relaciones a espejismos de mentiras, pasiones desenfrenadas, apetitos egoístas, bondad malvada, pero sobre todo el aniquilamiento de un hombre a manos de la persona más amada, a través de una sutil pero implacable campaña para eliminar defectos y pasiones hasta dejar solo un cascarón varonil.

Todo esto funciona debido a saltos magistrales en la historia que nos van envolviendo y colocando en determinadas partes de la narración, así como si fuéramos un espectador al cual elevan con todo y silla, cambiándonos de escenarios una y otra vez, todo con un desorden tan minucioso que es perfecto para ir armando el rompecabezas de este escrutinio feroz de las relaciones matrimoniales.

El personaje de John, que es uno de los protagonistas y narrador es uno de los más sombríos y trágicos que he leído, ha construido su vida y la ha vivido por casi 10 años sin enterarse de nada, envuelto en una mentira que se vivía día tras día, a partir de que su mundo implosiona y la verdad revienta en su cara, empieza a reconstruir todo para poder ser capaz en retrospectiva de volver a vivir esos años pero ahora si en una realidad que destruye y que lo expone con un patetismo casi cómico. Eso le hace decir:

“No sé nada —absolutamente nada— del corazón de los seres humanos. Sé únicamente que estoy solo…, horriblemente solo.”

Hay personajes adicionales a estos dos matrimonios, en su mayoría mujeres que son las piezas que van embrollando y conduciendo a la tragedia, culminando en Nancy una joven que vive con el matrimonio inglés debido a una desafortunada historia de vida, ella queda en medio de una situación atroz como lo es la debacle final de un matrimonio, ahí donde se caen las caretas y se dicen cosas que fueron cocinadas a fuego lento y que generalmente constituyen golpes bajos que pueden minar cualquier personalidad.

Hay muchas frases potentes en el libro que descubren que las pasiones escondidas nos lleva a situaciones límite que son incomprensibles para quienes no las viven, hay un juego malsano entre la amante y la esposa, la primera trata de ocultar su condición y al mismo tiempo aconseja a la esposa para mejorar su matrimonio, de este tipo de situaciones se desprende la siguiente frase:

“Nada más salir de la cama de mi marido, viene usted a decirme que mi sitio debería ser ése. Lo sé, muchas gracias.”

Pero ni esto cambia el hecho que los buenos modales prevalecen y que nunca se hacen escenas más allá que puedan trasgredir las buenas costumbres.

Una novela brutal donde no hay ninguna sola batalla o escena de guerra militar, pero que sí parece un campo de batalla donde personas con buenos modales y de espíritus elevados, luchan con uñas y dientes para prevalecer, otros se dejan matar sin luchar, al final hay muertos, heridos, locos y triunfantes, es una tragedia casi cómica que se parece mucho a la vida misma.

“La sociedad debe seguir adelante, supongo, y la sociedad sólo existe si florecen las personas normales, virtuosas y un poquito falsas, mientras que los apasionados, los testarudos y los demasiado sinceros son condenados al suicidio y a la locura.”

What a frustrating story! It took me a few chapters to get into the rhythm of Dowell's petty first-person narration, especially since he bounces around so much early on in his accounting of events. From what the reader is given by Dowell's exposition, all of the primary characters in this novel are possessed by a complete lack of honesty and a penchant for self-destruction. Reading it, I was hungry for the relief they all would have felt if they had embraced some kind of openness. Instead, they incapacitated themselves with their absurd Victorian ethics in which hypocrisy is unavoidable.

Ford's literary impressionism is extremely well executed. Dowell's self-deluded, spiteful, and ineffectual personality colors everything, making the reader reach to read between the lines. I thought it was particularly interesting that Ford chose to use an American first-person narrator in order to effect a more informal, conversational style. Throughout the book I thought often of Eliot's Wasteland and Prufrock and of E.E. Cumming's "the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls"....

I imagine this book would have been very scandalous for its time. Our narrator, John Dowell, tells the tale of his and his wife’s friendship with the Ashburnhams and the subsequent affair between his wife and Edward A. He goes on to talk about many of Edward’s dalliances and you get the feeling John at times envies Edward. While there is some tragedy, on a whole this book reads with lots of dry humor and naïveté.

La storia più triste

John Dowell ci invita in un cottage di campagna ad ascoltare una storia. Il mare fuori romba, il vento lucida le stelle, il fuoco arde nel caminetto.

Una storia che si srotola in maniera confusa, come lo sono a volte i ricordi, come capita nelle narrazioni orali, procedendo per episodi e impressioni senza troppo pensare alla coerenza dei dettagli e delle date.

Una storia che ha il fascino vintage dell’Inghilterra, della Francia e della Provenza, delle stazioni termali tedesche di inizio ‘900, quello ancora esotico dell’India coloniale, quello del mondo nuovissimo e ribollente dell’America.

Una storia triste perché mai nessuno nella vita può avere quello che vuole. “Le vite di tutti gli uomini sono come quelle di noi gente perbene, come le vite degli Ashburnham, dei Dowell, dei Rufford: vite spezzate, tumultuose, angosciose, prive di romanticismo, con periodi scanditi da urla, idiozie, morti, tormenti? E chi diavolo può mai saperlo?”

Gli Ashburnham: Edward, il buon soldato, grande libertino epperò legato ai vecchi valori della nobiltà inglese, un conflitto che lo porterà al cortocircuito; Leonora, sua moglie di origini irlandesi, suora mancata, imprigionata nei precetti cattolici, pare votata al martirio ma ne uscirà con cattiveria e cinismo. I Dowell: il narratore John, attraversa ingenuamente tempeste per aprire gli occhi solo alla fine; la moglie Florence, l’ingannatrice ed arrivista che non ha saputo reggere il gioco. I Rufford: Nancy, figlia di genitori degeneri, la lolita che farà innamorare perdutamente Edward e John, e poi si perderà lei.

A psychologist’s challenge: delving into the minds of complicated marital attitudes.

You make your vows, and they should stick right? But people change and soon enough, monogamy reshapes itself into something that barely resembles it. Or at least in this book it does.

Two couples hit it off and spend lots of time hanging out. One of the gang has stories of bedtime indiscretions, but surely only with people who are not the wives of friends? The song, “You’re so Vain” comes to mind. But naive as he may be, the protagonist is a good listener and occasional observer. After all, his wife is behaving a little strange lately. However, it is his duty to look after his wife who has a heart condition, and whose doctor has insisted that her privacy be respected. So separate rooms it is…

Can men and women be friends or is it always complicated by one liking the other? I wouldn’t know. But the protagonist seems to become quite close with his promiscuous friend’s wife. And she is not naive. She takes measures into her own hands. Her husband gets himself into all sorts of pickles and has to pay hush money. But that will not do. She knows what he’s like, so she facilitates the deals herself so as to maintain financial and reputational control. My favourite quote is:

“It struck him that Leonora must be intending to manage his loves as she managed his money affairs and it made her more hateful to him - and more worthy of respect.”

As a rather judgemental guy, I found it hard to take, at first I thought that some of the actions were unrealistic, but upon reflection, they were probably fine, especially pre-WW1 where religion and keeping up appearances were more important than fulfilling happiness.

The characters weren’t riveting but the scenarios were, and the plot was fast-paced, so I enjoyed reading this. At times I was hoping for some nasty things to happen…and they were granted! The main protagonist was a bit of a dope. He seemed to explain away one too many indiscretions of the male philanderer, and fixate one too many times on the vindictive female. Is it really vindictive if it’s righteous though? I would have been far worse. But then in the wrap up, the protagonist refers to the male as the villain and the female as the heroine so perhaps it came loose in his explanations rather than his opinions.

Whilst the book was fairly original, especially for its time, I don’t think I’d recommend it. However, for people interested in unconventional relationships, this may be a good selection. It’s definitely not vanilla.

Reading Hemingway's A Moveable Feast brought me back to Ford, an author whose most well known piece of fiction has been on my perpetual "to read" list. Hemingway's less than flattering portrayal of Ford was the tipping point, and I finally decided to read this novel while Papa's well depicted portrait of Ford was fresh in my head.

After the first 50 pages I was convinced that I had read this story. Tropes tried-and-true seemed to drip from the pages; I found myself sighing and noting frequently how much of the book I had left. But then things changed. And the narrative took a completely different course; characters that were paint-by-number a chapter ago suddenly bloomed in unexpected ways. Ford had me on the rod for the sucker I was, and when he pulled the line, the hook set and the next 150 pages were amazing.

But there came a point in the story, and I don't want to even talk about the action of the book for fear of giving away ANYTHING - there came a point where I just wished that the book had ended. Like The Sheltering Sky, I felt that I had experienced the penultimate part of the narrative somewhere way before the ending, and was shocked that there was more to read. The last 1/2 (or so) of the book isn't bad, it's just ... unfortunate additional parts of the character's stories that, while completing their lives, detracted from what I loved about the first half of the book. Had the novel ended at that "Part", and if you read - or have read - this book, you'll know of what I speak, this book would have been 5-stars without a doubt. In any event, I can still recommend it without hesitation and understand more fully why it is considered a literary classic. Despite Hemingway's comments about Ford's halitosis and annoying habits...

•سرباز خوب•
بازهم یک کتاب کمتر دیده شده که من از خوندنش به شدت لذت بردم و بازهم غافلگیر شدم که چرا شناخته شده نیست!
البته باید یه گله کوچیک‌ بکنیم از نشر نون که کتاب به این خوبی رو بیشتر تبلیغ کنن

The evidence that I am a complete Philistine continues to accumulate, as yet another acknowledged classic sails right over my head. I did not like "The Good Soldier", for various reasons. Here are a few:

# The plot was an awkward mixture of implausible contrivance and overwrought melodrama, and seemed fundamentally not credible, from start to finish. The basic setup (Serial philanderer Edward cheats on controlling Leonora and cavorts with Florence, the slutty wife of the book's narrator John) was OK - this kind of love quadrangle is hardly unusual. But the way the plot unfolds from the basic premise seemed ludicrous, even allowing for the fact that the account of events is being delivered as the recollections of possibly one of the most unreliable narrators in all of 20th century fiction. The plot was little more than a series of random, largely implausible events, lurching from one improbable crisis to the next. Prussic acid capsules in the vanity case? Suicide by penknife? Telegram-induced catatonia? Give me a break.

# The silliness of the plot had a lot to do with the complete lack of depth of the protagonists. You never get the feeling that any of these characters are real people, so their weird antics never seem like anything other than the jerky behavior of cartoonish puppets. Though most puppets have more character than these annoying stick figures. The most annoying of the stick figures being, hands down, the idiot narrator, John Dowell. A man allegedly so stupid that he doesn't notice his wife is cuckolding him with his best friend and hero for 8 years . Or that her "heart condition" is pure invention and that she's healthy as a horse. Who is apparently the only person on the planet unaware that she committed suicide by ingesting prussic acid. There was an enormous sense of relief upon finishing the book, because at least one didn't have to suffer the idiocies of the obtuse narrator any longer. (Dowell wasn't just idiotic; he was also completely without charm, probably a virgin, and likely a closet case)

# My final objection to the book was the profusion of passages like this one:

And, proud and happy in the thought that Edward
loved her, and that she loved him, she did not even listen to what
Leonora said. It appeared to her that it was Leonora's business to save
her husband's body; she, Nancy, possessed his soul--a precious thing
that she would shield and bear away up in her arms--as if Leonora were
a hungry dog, trying to spring up at a lamb that she was carrying. Yes,
she felt as if Edward's love were a precious lamb that she were bearing
away from a cruel and predatory beast. For, at that time, Leonora
appeared to her as a cruel and predatory beast. Leonora, Leonora with
her hunger, with her cruelty had driven Edward to madness. He must be
sheltered by his love for her and by her love--her love from a great
distance and unspoken, enveloping him, surrounding him, upholding him;
by her voice speaking from Glasgow, saying that she loved, that she
adored, that she passed no moment without longing, loving, quivering at
the thought of him.

Between this book and "Mr Peanut", it's been a bad month for marriage. But at least "Mr Peanut" was interesting. For me, "The Good Soldier" was kind of a snooze.



#

Ο καλός στρατιώτης είναι ένα κλασικό δείγμα παρωχημένης γραφής που κάποτε συγκινούσε μέσω του σαρκασμού και της οξύτητάς της, αλλά πλέον δείχνει σχετικά εκτός εποχής. Μπορεί να διαβάσετε στο οπισθόφυλλο ότι "αναγνωρίστηκε ως κορυφαία στιγμή του μοντερνισμού στη λογοτεχνία" και ότι "κάποιοι κριτικοί επαίνεσαν την ομορφιά και τη σοφία του μυθιστορήματος, άλλοι εξέφρασαν αγανάκτηση για τη νοσηρή σεξουαλική ατμόσφαιρα του βιβλίου", αλλά μην πάρετε τίποτε από αυτά στα σοβαρά γιατί θα απογοητευτείτε οικτρά.

Οι αλλαγές στις κοινωνικές συμβάσεις και τα ερωτικά ήθη (γιατί το σεξ μόνο υπονοείται και όχι σ��χνά) έχουν στομώσει την αιχμή της γραφής του Φορντ και το βιβλίο σώζεται κυρίως από την διαρκώς παρούσα ειρωνεία που πάντα αιωρείται στο παρασκήνιο, ή ενίοτε βγαίνει και μπροστά.

Η ιστορία δε διεκδικεί δάφνες πολυπλοκότητας: δύο ζευγάρια ευκατάστατων (ή και πλουσίων), Αμερικανοί οι μεν Εγγλέζοι οι δε, συναντιούνται περί τα τέλη του 19ου αιώνα και σουλατσάρουν ανέμελοι εις τας Ευρώπας. Χάρη στην ειρωνεία του συγγραφέα (που τον σώζει και του δίνει το τριάρι αστεράκια), η δράση ούτε γραμμική είναι, ούτε σε πρώτο πάντα πλάνο, αλλά καθώς χτίζεται η διήγηση, η οπτική αλλάζει καθώς κενά συμπληρώνονται. Kudos, μέχρι εδώ. Ήρωας του έργου με την κλασική έννοια δεν υπάρχει, αλλά την αφήγηση την αναλαμβάνει ο ένας από τους δύο άρρενες της υπόθεσης, ενώ ο τίτλος αναφέρεται... στον άλλο, που έχει και τα ηνία της δράσης, ένεκα χαρακτήρος και ορμών. Kudos κι εδώ. Ο ίδιος ο αφηγητής περνά μόνος του σε ρόλο δεύτερο στην πλοκή, καθώς τον χαρακτηρίζει ως περσόνα μία απάθεια πέρα από τα ανθρώπινα μέτρα, ενώ την αρχική του αφέλεια έρχεται να μεταλλάξει η ζωή -μέσω της επίγνωσης- σε συνειδητοποίηση και ακριβά κερδισμένη γνώση. Kudos, kudos.

Καθώς τα πέπλα της παραπλάνησης σηκώνονται, οι άρρωστοι αποδεικνύονται λιγότερο άρρωστοι απ' όσο φαίνονται, οι καλοί κ' αγαθοί εμφανίζουν υστεροβουλίες, υπολογισμούς και ιδιοτέλεια ενώ ο Φορντ ρίχνει και ένα γερό μπερντάχι στην υποκρισία της εποχής του, αλλά με τέτοιο τρόπο ώστε οι φωνές να μην ακούγονται απ' έξω.

Όλα καλά λοιπόν;

Θα έλεγα... "ισως". Απομακρυσμένο από τα σύγχρονα δεδομένα, πρέπει να διαβαστεί μέσα από το πρίσμα των 100+ χρόνων της αρχικής του κυκλοφορίας, ενώ η γραφή (ίσως σκόπιμα) έχει ένα υποτονικό χαρακτήρα χωρίς εξάρσεις, χωρίς αλλαγές στο τέμπο, χωρίς "βουνά" και "κοιλάδες" που συχνά "κοιμίζει". Βέβαια, μπορεί να κοιμίζει για να είναι πιο βίαιο το ξύπνημα που καραδοκεί δυο ή εικοσιδύο σελίδες πιο κάτω, ωστόσο δε μπορώ να πω ότι είναι πάντα απολαυστικό ή ευχάριστο. Όσο για τη φροϋδικότητα και την ιμπρεσιονιστική μέθοδο που κάποιοι επιμένουν να βλέπουν στη γραφή, ή τις έμμεσες συγκρούσεις Αγγλίας-Ιρλανδίας (από τις εθνικότητες του ενός ζευγαριού), ειλικρινά λίγη αξία έχουν αυτή τη στιγμή που κάθομαι και σας γράφω. Κάποιος έφτασε να γράψει για «αυστηρά ελεγχόμενη δομή μορφολογικά, ενώ συνάμα η δομή του νοήματος παραμένει ανοικτή, ικανή για απεριόριστες διαθλάσεις», αλλά δεν αποκλείω να το είπε σε φοιτήτρια που ήθελε να "ρίξει".

Αυτό που κρατάω είναι η τιτάνια ειρωνεία στην απόπειρα εκλογίκευσης εννέα ετών απάτης, εννέα έτη κατά τα οποία ο αφελής έως τότε αφηγητής εκλαμβάνει τις κοινωνικές συμβάσεις ως απτή και ειλικρινή πραγμαστικότητα και τον απροκάλυπτο αλλά όχι χτυπητό σαρκασμό της μεταστροφής του.

All in all, δεν είναι κακό per se, απλώς... παλιό χωρίς εκείνη τη διαχρονικότητα που κάνει κάποια βιβλία αθάνατα αριστουργήματα και ως εκ τούτου χρήζει ειδικής αντιμετώπισης. Αν απλώς θέλετε να διαβάσετε κάτι για να περνάει η ώρα ή να εκστασιαστείτε με τους χαρακτήρες και την πλοκή, διαλέξτε κάτι άλλο. Το βιβλίο είναι τίμιο ως προς αυτό που είναι και ως τέτοιο πρέπει να αντιμετωπιστεί.

Φυσικά, μπορεί να κάνω και λάθος!

n  

"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? Or are all men's lives like the lives of us good people—like the lives of the Ashburnhams, of the Dowells, of the Ruffords—broken, tumultuous, agonized, and unromantic lives, periods punctuated by screams, by imbecilities, by deaths, by agonies? Who the devil knows?" (221)

nThis was my first encounter with Ford Madox Ford, and it was intense. I had formed basically no impression of what the novel might be like, before reading it; which allowed FMF to use the 'impressionism' that he developed with Joseph Conrad to maximum effect. Stylistically, and in terms of storytelling, The Good Soldier (or, as originally intended, The Saddest Story) is a masterpiece. Once you get caught up in the story of the Dowells and the Ashburnhams, it is impossible not to become taken up in the whirlwind that is partly created by the plot itself, and partly by the way that the writing is structured (you increasingly find out increasingly baffling things, which also force you to readjust what you thought you knew). Some of the parts of the story are a little difficult to believe, which is the only way in which the novel may be said to fall a little short. All the same, reading it has been a most interesting and unexpected experience, and the story will remain with me, gnawing at me, for a long time still.n  

"Isn't there any heaven where old beautiful dances, old beautiful intimacies prolong themselves?" (6)

n

n  
n  
n

I hadn't read this since my university days, some forty years ago; although I didn't recall all of the details, I have to say the technique and brilliance of the writing remained with me and I loved it just as much this time as I did all those years ago. Having spent the last twenty some years teaching literature, and having explained many times the progression of fiction from nineteenth-century realism to Post WWI Modernism, I will go out on a limb here and say that The Good Soldier is the quintessential Modernist narrative, maybe not better than, but a slightly better example of the Modernist novel than The Great Gatsby.

While both novels feature the semi-attached, first person narrator in place of the nineteenth-century omniscient voice, The Good Soldier prefaces the later flexibility with time and narration that becomes an earmark of Modernism. Gatsby, for all its grace and beauty, as I recall, is pretty linear and chronological. Much of the joy of reading The Good Soldier, however, is how our narrator circles around his story, revealing it out of order, criss-scorring his own tracks, changing his mind, and going deeper into the truth of it, without sticking to a strict chronology. Great stuff.

The other thing I really love about The Good Soldier is how it's both a really sad story (although our narrator proclaims it too petty to be a real tragedy) and rather funny--not by turns but rather at the same time and for almost the same reasons. Standard human self interest and our laughably tragic inability to be other than what we are, petty and insignificant as that is for most of us, kept me both pitying and laughing at the characters. We are tawdry beings for the most part born to live the same old experiences of most of our peers, wallowing in life like pigs, as if our experiences were in any way unique or not altogether predictable. Nevertheless, they are, tragically, all that we have. We are deadly serious and utterly risible most of the time and I can think of no other novel that shows both of these attitudes toward life so well. (Oddly, the only other work of art that I can think of that both scares and makes me laugh at the same time is David Lynch's film Eraserhead. It uses totally different techniques, but somehow also captures the laughable absurdity and horrific reality of life, desire, and our semi-codified human interactions.)

My one grouse about the novel is that Ford does not pull off the narrator's Americanness. This is a lesson to me as I recently wrote a short story with a British, female narrator. Reading The Good Soldier, I discovered that it's not enough to add a Britishism here and there, one also has to excise one's Americanisms in order to sound British. While Ford added a distinctly American phrase or attitude here and there, by failing to take out the many, many British usages, phrases, adages, and attitudes, the narrator comes off as a pastiche of the two nationalities. Doesn't matter much overall, but it bugged me he hadn't done better, given how great the writing is otherwise.