In
Michelangelo Antonioni’s film “The Passenger” there is a wonderful cinematographic
moment as Maria Schneider and Jack Nicholson are driving through a forest in a
convertible car. She turns around in the
passenger’s seat and then we simply watch the forest receding into the
distance. It’s a view few, save perhaps unruly children have. In the context of the film it is linked
metaphorically to a recession of experience,
memory and identity.
We’re 14
years into the 21st century and the 20th is now receding
away from us like that forest in Antonioni’s film. The daunting task of how to understand,
appreciate and learn from it remain, as it always will, but, because of its
proximity, the imperative to do so is perhaps as strong now as it ever will be.
Fiction can
be a particularly powerful instrument for such endeavors. For example, anyone trying to understand European
history of the early nineteenth century is supremely lucky: there is Tolstoy and War and Peace. Sure, it’s work, particularly for the casual
reader in translation, but the immense rewards are so disproportionate. It remains prima facie evidence of the towering
value of reading “difficult” books, a pursuit perhaps less appreciated than it
once was, and not unfairly. The last
part of the 20th century particularly suffered from innumerable works
of questionable value which were contrived to be difficult but offered little
in return.
A few books,
many neglected, stand out for me as supremely useful for glimpsing the 20th
century as it was lived. Some are
difficult, some are easy, many are rarely read.
Some I encountered as a child in my grandmother’s small library. Others I’ve encountered quite recently. Nearly all are memoirs.
The first is Seven Pillars of Wisdom. The book
remains as controversial now as when it first appeared. As of late it seems particularly popular to
denigrate it on the grounds of historical accuracy or for T. E. Lawrence’s
presumed heroic self-portrayal. I’ve
even seen it categorized as fiction. It
is not. It is clearly and unambiguously
a memoir and Lawrence is nothing if not self-effacing and often very funny. It is a difficult book. It necessarily portrays a vast set of
characters and it takes place in a rich and exotic geography entirely foreign
to most English readers. But it is the
memoir of an intense, intelligent, supremely perceptive man at a place and time
supremely important to subsequent history and current world events. As proof, consider these two very different
examples. In chapter 2, Lawrence surveys
the history of the Arabian Peninsula and forecasts its likely future
history. He was writing in the early
1920s yet he accurately, and sadly, predicts what did happen in the next
seventy years. In contrast of scale and
immediacy, here is Lawrence writing of the experience of riding a camel in the
desert,
“I seemed at
last approaching the insensibility which had always been beyond my reach: but a
delectable land: for one born so slug-tissued that nothing this side fainting
would let his spirit free. Now I found myself dividing into parts. There was
one which went on riding wisely, sparing or helping every pace of the wearied
camel. Another hovering above and to the right bent down curiously, and asked
what the flesh was doing. The flesh gave no answer, for, indeed, it was
conscious only of a ruling impulse to keep on and on; but a third garrulous one
talked and wondered, critical of the body's self-inflicted labour, and
contemptuous of the reason for effort.”
At once the
physical experience is visceral, metaphysical and psychological. At so many levels you are along for the ride.
Here is
another. Wind, Sand and Stars, by Antoine
de Saint-Exupéry. He is known, of
course, for “The Little Prince,” but the former is by far the much more
important work in this context. Human
piloted aviation remains one of the signal and romantic achievements of the 20th
century, so much so that even now, in the face of contrary evidence, space
flight is portrayed as being like the dogfights of World War II fighter pilots. “Wind, Sand and Stars,” like “Seven Pillars”
captures not only the visceral exhilaration of flight, but the psychology and
philosophical aspirations it created in those few, brave adventurers. One reads “Wind, Sand, and Stars” to
experience not only the feeling and vision of pilots surmounting the Andes or
flying across the sands of North Africa at night in fragile single engine
airplanes but their psychology, and optimistic humanism as well. There was a time when reading St. Ex. Was as
much a part of learning to fly as learning the radio alphabet.
A very easy,
and popular, read is Hemingway’s A moveable Feast, his loving memoir of life
in Paris in the 1930s. Woody Allen’s
enjoyable film “Midnight in Paris,” can be seen as a paean to Hemingway’s
memoir which is simply more fun if only because you’re in 1930’s Paris for the
duration. Here’s a treat: order a café au lait at the Café Les Deux
Magots or at the Café de Flore on Blvd. Saint-Germain on a weekday April
Morning and read a couple of chapters.
You may find you’ll never forget the day, the weather, the people, or
your particular thoughts that morning.
Two memoirs
of Siegfried Sassoon, the World War I poet, are unfairly neglected and probably
rarely read. Memoirs of a Fox Hunting
Man and Memoirs of an Infantry Officer are a discordant pair that suggest questions
that are disturbingly pertinent to the beginning of the 21st century. The first gently eases you into the cares and
interests of Edwardian country life; the second matter-of-factly places you in
the overwhelming horror of infinite trench warfare.
One unifying
aspect of all the books I’ve mentioned is the role of the writer and
narrator. In each, the author not only aspires
to literary excellence, he also is an active participant in the events he
narrates. He seeks to shape those events and consequent adventures, and feels a
moral or aesthetic imperative to do so. It
is a rare gift of insight from a difficult, often seemingly incomprehensible
century. The words of Dylan Thomas come
to mind:
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
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