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Le Grand troupeau
'Un curé traverse la route en portant une pendule. Un canon anglais passe au grand galop, les chevaux fouettés par les artilleurs français. Un colonel sans capote et nu-tête fait ses grands pas dans l'herbe. De sa main gauche il tient une boîte de sardines ouverte. Il trempe le pain dans l'huile et il pompe à pleine bouche. Un officier anglais, penché derrière un arbre, allume sa pipe à l'abri. Tout ça s'en va vers le mont Cassel.'
Un réquisitoire contre la guerre.
Un réquisitoire contre la guerre.
256 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 1, 1931
11 people are currently reading
453 people want to read
About the author
Jean Giono
334 books345 followersJean Giono, the only son of a cobbler and a laundress, was one of France's greatest writers. His prodigious literary output included stories, essays, poetry, plays, film scripts, translations and over thirty novels, many of which have been translated into English.
Giono was a pacifist, and was twice imprisoned in France at the outset and conclusion of World War II.
He remained tied to Provence and Manosque, the little city where he was born in 1895 and, in 1970, died.
Giono was awarded the Prix Bretano, the Prix de Monaco (for the most outstanding collected work by a French writer), the Légion d'Honneur, and he was a member of the Académie Goncourt.
Giono was a pacifist, and was twice imprisoned in France at the outset and conclusion of World War II.
He remained tied to Provence and Manosque, the little city where he was born in 1895 and, in 1970, died.
Giono was awarded the Prix Bretano, the Prix de Monaco (for the most outstanding collected work by a French writer), the Légion d'Honneur, and he was a member of the Académie Goncourt.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 38 reviews
July 25, 2015
'I'll tell you, you who's got three sons, you who eat and continue eating and sleeping. Do you know what you're doing? You're walking over your son's heads with your feet thick with dung. You're trampling in their mouths and eyes, yes, you, Malan even though you're sitting close to the stove here, warming yourself, smoking your new pipe!'
In my head the people were in the same dark spaces as a bones stage play set. Blind hearing powers in the thunder slow quiet voices, spiting the prophetic feelers. Neighbor eyes in the bushes like barren storks for the news. Thank god it's you, it's easy to cry for candlelight when you don't know it won't be, real tears, guilt doesn't wash away first stab for relief.
Foyle's War spoke some truth about con men leeching on the left behind in the name of the war. Get away with murder. Don't complain, boys will be boys the war effort, y'know? War is hungry and there will be more blood, back breaking sweat and hair curdling tears. And then came the bring out your dead processions of beasts of burdens, beasties, the creepy crawlies who only come out for the fallen and standstill's flies. Sometimes they bled in and out together in staring too long unreal. When you focus your sight long enough on one thing and it transforms into something else? Anything you really see doesn't hold its shape BIG TIME slaughterhouse feels. Cows in a field cow-eyed understanding, most unkind interpretation of your affinity from the bottom of Mad cow's guts. Soldier's disease. A father says to not do more than you have to. Soldiers rot on the earth too long, worm balls tire of waiting for dinner. The river styx is a rat. Soldiers brains lie zombified on the road where the stampede slow suicided by way of life happens. I have a train of out of sight dog worlding my mind here. The human woman gazelle fleeing the pack animal she burdened in her arms so he wouldn't die. The shepherd closer to his flock than to the people flock. I can see him in past fires telling himself he loved more than men. Oxen eat the barks off of trees if tied up. Perfect for the wolves to tell their enemies by. Tom Hanks wouldn't be itching to turn their lost way into an HBO mini-series. I read in another story that war monuments position the mount's legs by how their riders died or survived. There has got to be some kind of monumentalizing their love letters in pockets (the one "slut" never writes to her man) before replaced with the dead dreams. I'm fascinated in a way I can't nail down to myself how the soldiers would do something like leave out meat for the one who wouldn't return. Only when they weren't going to return is probably why all I can think of is where statues go to be.
I'm not too sure about the Peter Owens book blurb about "contrasts the wholesale destruction of men, land and animals at the front with the moral disintegration of the lonely and anxious people behind". Julia is the wife of the hair and sweat pillock on the front. His letter kisses and threatens his sister to "remember" the "we talked about " which couldn't have meant anything but his way or the fist way. Julia tells her sister-in-law that he is as jealous of her as of his own wife. I can just see it through Julia remembering the helpless moth light love of before they were married. Run to see Marguerite first, and the hinged on big brother. Dance, big arms, a male. I just know Julia was always there to be there for Marguerite. There's no mother for her, only the always there father. Whenever privacy is needed there he is. Work reminds her of sex. At first I felt like Julia was a willfully sleepy soul that repeats to themselves "I'm only human" for spending their entire lives in the memory of sex. But Julia became my favorite character like she is one of the we all bleed under the skin animals. Brutal in the we fall down statistical circle of life replaces you kinda way. But girl got shit done outside of the namby-pamby life gave you pretty skin and a boyfriend who returns your feelings Marguerite way. I didn't read the book blurb until I was mostly done reading To The Slaughterhouse. It isn't in 'Slaughterhouse' but I have trouble thinking that there weren't villagers the soldier's passed who weren't under the thumb of power (other than giving up all they had by order of war effort). They never got horny, there weren't women (or men) available for the pillaging? Enemies never became unclear, whomever was the villain in their mouth? So I thought "This shit CAN'T be right" because of what the Shepherd says about what they aren't fighting for. Marguerite isn't just going to have a baby as the new life rebirth hope. No freaking way. I could just see her if Oliver never came home. The baby she is going to love in his stead. That son will grow up and have a girlfriend and maaaan do I feel sorry for her if she wants to live her own life without the apron strings of his mother. Because mommy will be smotheringly obsessed with her son over ANYTHING else. 'Slaughterhouse' was published in 1931 so yeah, they didn't know world war II was going to happen. But they were all once baby sheep bleating when their brothers and sisters bleated before once upon a time a sheep was the first to jump off the cliff. If the past isn't tied up by "if they never come home" isn't that enough? If that baby doesn't grow up to never tear and doesn't bear every man's burden... I could live without that last bit but the rest was pretty great. The way time blood freezes when time murders your holding of past, future, not having to beat in your mind's ear that you're only human. I don't care if Julia was supposed to be the immoral one (her unknown days of lying with another man are the same to me as the dying army officer losing his mind for anything else to take from life). Fuck that shit. She was real to me all over the place and I loved her like I loved the shepherd's arms sheep.
A slow smell of ether and carbolic acid seeped through the dune. Night fell. Then the horses called out to each other. They sensed the night coming when it was still far away, pressed into the grey east. Their trembling voices were uncertain, unclear. You could hear the nerves and chests straining. Their voices seemed to come from the pain in their blood. All the same there was a bird-like quality to these voices as they hovered across the night and each horse told what he had to tell.
In my head the people were in the same dark spaces as a bones stage play set. Blind hearing powers in the thunder slow quiet voices, spiting the prophetic feelers. Neighbor eyes in the bushes like barren storks for the news. Thank god it's you, it's easy to cry for candlelight when you don't know it won't be, real tears, guilt doesn't wash away first stab for relief.
Foyle's War spoke some truth about con men leeching on the left behind in the name of the war. Get away with murder. Don't complain, boys will be boys the war effort, y'know? War is hungry and there will be more blood, back breaking sweat and hair curdling tears. And then came the bring out your dead processions of beasts of burdens, beasties, the creepy crawlies who only come out for the fallen and standstill's flies. Sometimes they bled in and out together in staring too long unreal. When you focus your sight long enough on one thing and it transforms into something else? Anything you really see doesn't hold its shape BIG TIME slaughterhouse feels. Cows in a field cow-eyed understanding, most unkind interpretation of your affinity from the bottom of Mad cow's guts. Soldier's disease. A father says to not do more than you have to. Soldiers rot on the earth too long, worm balls tire of waiting for dinner. The river styx is a rat. Soldiers brains lie zombified on the road where the stampede slow suicided by way of life happens. I have a train of out of sight dog worlding my mind here. The human woman gazelle fleeing the pack animal she burdened in her arms so he wouldn't die. The shepherd closer to his flock than to the people flock. I can see him in past fires telling himself he loved more than men. Oxen eat the barks off of trees if tied up. Perfect for the wolves to tell their enemies by. Tom Hanks wouldn't be itching to turn their lost way into an HBO mini-series. I read in another story that war monuments position the mount's legs by how their riders died or survived. There has got to be some kind of monumentalizing their love letters in pockets (the one "slut" never writes to her man) before replaced with the dead dreams. I'm fascinated in a way I can't nail down to myself how the soldiers would do something like leave out meat for the one who wouldn't return. Only when they weren't going to return is probably why all I can think of is where statues go to be.
I'm not too sure about the Peter Owens book blurb about "contrasts the wholesale destruction of men, land and animals at the front with the moral disintegration of the lonely and anxious people behind". Julia is the wife of the hair and sweat pillock on the front. His letter kisses and threatens his sister to "remember" the "we talked about " which couldn't have meant anything but his way or the fist way. Julia tells her sister-in-law that he is as jealous of her as of his own wife. I can just see it through Julia remembering the helpless moth light love of before they were married. Run to see Marguerite first, and the hinged on big brother. Dance, big arms, a male. I just know Julia was always there to be there for Marguerite. There's no mother for her, only the always there father. Whenever privacy is needed there he is. Work reminds her of sex. At first I felt like Julia was a willfully sleepy soul that repeats to themselves "I'm only human" for spending their entire lives in the memory of sex. But Julia became my favorite character like she is one of the we all bleed under the skin animals. Brutal in the we fall down statistical circle of life replaces you kinda way. But girl got shit done outside of the namby-pamby life gave you pretty skin and a boyfriend who returns your feelings Marguerite way. I didn't read the book blurb until I was mostly done reading To The Slaughterhouse. It isn't in 'Slaughterhouse' but I have trouble thinking that there weren't villagers the soldier's passed who weren't under the thumb of power (other than giving up all they had by order of war effort). They never got horny, there weren't women (or men) available for the pillaging? Enemies never became unclear, whomever was the villain in their mouth? So I thought "This shit CAN'T be right" because of what the Shepherd says about what they aren't fighting for. Marguerite isn't just going to have a baby as the new life rebirth hope. No freaking way. I could just see her if Oliver never came home. The baby she is going to love in his stead. That son will grow up and have a girlfriend and maaaan do I feel sorry for her if she wants to live her own life without the apron strings of his mother. Because mommy will be smotheringly obsessed with her son over ANYTHING else. 'Slaughterhouse' was published in 1931 so yeah, they didn't know world war II was going to happen. But they were all once baby sheep bleating when their brothers and sisters bleated before once upon a time a sheep was the first to jump off the cliff. If the past isn't tied up by "if they never come home" isn't that enough? If that baby doesn't grow up to never tear and doesn't bear every man's burden... I could live without that last bit but the rest was pretty great. The way time blood freezes when time murders your holding of past, future, not having to beat in your mind's ear that you're only human. I don't care if Julia was supposed to be the immoral one (her unknown days of lying with another man are the same to me as the dying army officer losing his mind for anything else to take from life). Fuck that shit. She was real to me all over the place and I loved her like I loved the shepherd's arms sheep.
A slow smell of ether and carbolic acid seeped through the dune. Night fell. Then the horses called out to each other. They sensed the night coming when it was still far away, pressed into the grey east. Their trembling voices were uncertain, unclear. You could hear the nerves and chests straining. Their voices seemed to come from the pain in their blood. All the same there was a bird-like quality to these voices as they hovered across the night and each horse told what he had to tell.
September 16, 2017
Magnifique!
Uma pequena e aromática aldeia da Provence- Valensole - vê os seus jovens e robustos habitantes partir para a guerra. La Grande Guerre, como os franceses se referem à I GGM, que matou aproximadamente 15 milhões de homens. Ficam os velhos , as namoradas, as jovens esposas , as crianças e os animais. Apesar da angústia que a ausência provoca, quem fica esforça-se por levar por diante as árduas tarefas rurais. As mulheres tomam o lugar dos homens nas quintas e no campo e, à noite, inquietas, anseiam pelo seu regresso. Ou talvez não, nem todas... pois a guerra raramente devolve os mesmos homens.
Em locais diversos temos as trincheiras, húmidas e fétidas, habitadas por ratazanas e vermes, constantemente debaixo de rajadas de obuses e tiros de canhão. O realismo das cenas é impiedoso. A ação voa no tempo e no espaço: Sapigneul , Amiens, Fleury , Somme , Verdun, Santerre, Mt. Kemmel, Mt Cassel, ... o escritor persegue o ritmo dos sons e dos movimentos das batalhas e usa frases curtas e diálogos breves- é necessário compreender e agir rapidamente.
(Ainda hoje há dezenas de aldeias em ruínas, que não foram reconstruídas deliberadamente. Ainda hoje existe uma "zone rouge", onde não é permitido entrar . )
A natureza e os animais ocupam um lugar de relevo na narrativa. Giono demonstra-nos que não são somente os homens que sofrem com o conflito. Os animais são também vítimas e até a Terra, cujo solo treme ao ser revolvido e esventrado pelos obuses.
A descrição da passagem de um imenso rebanho, "que avança como a corrente de um rio" pela aldeia , logo no início do livro, é soberba mas perturbadora. O estado deste rebanho em nada difere do de um outro que povoa estas páginas. Há ainda um outro, imenso...o maior deles todos.
Giono esteve na guerra, pelo que escreveu com conhecimento de causa. Contudo, optou por não criticar opções, política ou ideologias.
Neste livro não predomina a ação. Ele é construído essencialmente por imagens: horrendas e belas.
E no final , apeteceu-me dizer: Vive la France!
Uma pequena e aromática aldeia da Provence- Valensole - vê os seus jovens e robustos habitantes partir para a guerra. La Grande Guerre, como os franceses se referem à I GGM, que matou aproximadamente 15 milhões de homens. Ficam os velhos , as namoradas, as jovens esposas , as crianças e os animais. Apesar da angústia que a ausência provoca, quem fica esforça-se por levar por diante as árduas tarefas rurais. As mulheres tomam o lugar dos homens nas quintas e no campo e, à noite, inquietas, anseiam pelo seu regresso. Ou talvez não, nem todas... pois a guerra raramente devolve os mesmos homens.
Em locais diversos temos as trincheiras, húmidas e fétidas, habitadas por ratazanas e vermes, constantemente debaixo de rajadas de obuses e tiros de canhão. O realismo das cenas é impiedoso. A ação voa no tempo e no espaço: Sapigneul , Amiens, Fleury , Somme , Verdun, Santerre, Mt. Kemmel, Mt Cassel, ... o escritor persegue o ritmo dos sons e dos movimentos das batalhas e usa frases curtas e diálogos breves- é necessário compreender e agir rapidamente.
(Ainda hoje há dezenas de aldeias em ruínas, que não foram reconstruídas deliberadamente. Ainda hoje existe uma "zone rouge", onde não é permitido entrar . )
A natureza e os animais ocupam um lugar de relevo na narrativa. Giono demonstra-nos que não são somente os homens que sofrem com o conflito. Os animais são também vítimas e até a Terra, cujo solo treme ao ser revolvido e esventrado pelos obuses.
A descrição da passagem de um imenso rebanho, "que avança como a corrente de um rio" pela aldeia , logo no início do livro, é soberba mas perturbadora. O estado deste rebanho em nada difere do de um outro que povoa estas páginas. Há ainda um outro, imenso...o maior deles todos.
Giono esteve na guerra, pelo que escreveu com conhecimento de causa. Contudo, optou por não criticar opções, política ou ideologias.
Neste livro não predomina a ação. Ele é construído essencialmente por imagens: horrendas e belas.
E no final , apeteceu-me dizer: Vive la France!
March 8, 2017
Read this.
and All Quiet on the Western Front
then Goodbye to All That
For a book to do justice to the First World War it is going to be a tough read. This one does and is.
It shows the experiences of two soldiers, in a series of fragmentary episodes. We do not understand the bigger picture, neither did they. It is graphic, but there is still more left not described for us to imagine.
We also get the story of the people and land left at home: a farming area with no young men. The old men and the mothers, wives and sweethearts struggle with their farms and their loss. The writing is lyrical and sensual, so that you can smell the breeze blowing off the hills. It makes a dramatic and powerful contrast with the story of the front line. It is sad, but less brutal, and there are a few moments of hope for the future.
There are also the sheep: a powerful and unforgettable metaphor.
and All Quiet on the Western Front
then Goodbye to All That
For a book to do justice to the First World War it is going to be a tough read. This one does and is.
It shows the experiences of two soldiers, in a series of fragmentary episodes. We do not understand the bigger picture, neither did they. It is graphic, but there is still more left not described for us to imagine.
We also get the story of the people and land left at home: a farming area with no young men. The old men and the mothers, wives and sweethearts struggle with their farms and their loss. The writing is lyrical and sensual, so that you can smell the breeze blowing off the hills. It makes a dramatic and powerful contrast with the story of the front line. It is sad, but less brutal, and there are a few moments of hope for the future.
There are also the sheep: a powerful and unforgettable metaphor.
September 3, 2020
"Le grand troupeau" déçoit. Il commence bien mais s'essouffle très vite. L'idée de base qui est de montrer en parallèle les malheurs des hommes (ou les combattants) et celles des femmes (ou les civiles) pendant la première grande guerre mondiale est excellente mais les personnages sont peu accrocheurs et l'intrigue est trop prévisible.
Les deux premiers chapitres sont de loin les meilleurs. Parce que la majorité des bergers sont pris par l'armée on manque de main-d'œuvre pour surveiller les moutons dans leurs pâturages. Les vieux qui restent n'ont pas de choix que de mener leur troupeau à l'abattoir. Les pauvres bêtes souffrent de faim et de peur. Elles font pitié quand elles font leur chemin à travers les villages paysans. En temps de guerre, l'homme remplit très mal sa mission de régner "sur tout animal qui se meut sur la terre". Le métaphore est bon mais Giono le laisse tomber.
Les personnages ne sont ni lucides ni intéressantes. Les événements avancent lentement. Les soldats ont peur de mourir. Les femmes s'épuisent à faire le travail des hommes sur leurs terres. Une adolescente enceinte pense à s'avorter parce qu'elle a peur que son fiancé va mourir sur le champs de bataille. "Le grand troupeau" est bien intentionné mais très ennuyant. Il reflète très bien son époque mais ce n'est pas de la grande littérature.
Les deux premiers chapitres sont de loin les meilleurs. Parce que la majorité des bergers sont pris par l'armée on manque de main-d'œuvre pour surveiller les moutons dans leurs pâturages. Les vieux qui restent n'ont pas de choix que de mener leur troupeau à l'abattoir. Les pauvres bêtes souffrent de faim et de peur. Elles font pitié quand elles font leur chemin à travers les villages paysans. En temps de guerre, l'homme remplit très mal sa mission de régner "sur tout animal qui se meut sur la terre". Le métaphore est bon mais Giono le laisse tomber.
Les personnages ne sont ni lucides ni intéressantes. Les événements avancent lentement. Les soldats ont peur de mourir. Les femmes s'épuisent à faire le travail des hommes sur leurs terres. Une adolescente enceinte pense à s'avorter parce qu'elle a peur que son fiancé va mourir sur le champs de bataille. "Le grand troupeau" est bien intentionné mais très ennuyant. Il reflète très bien son époque mais ce n'est pas de la grande littérature.
December 14, 2018
Ik las gisterenavond "De grote kudde" van Jean Giono uit.
Het boek beschrijft op fragmentarische wijze en erg plastisch het leven van de jonge plattelandsmannen die gedwongen werden te gaan vechten in een oorlog waar zijn niets van begrepen. Het beschrijft daarnaast ook het leven van hen die achter bleven, in angst en wanhoop.
Het boek begint met een ontzettend grote kudde schapen die uit de bergen omlaag komen, met enkele oude herders want de jongeren zijn opgeroepen.
Het eindigt met een even grote kudde gekwetste, uitgehongerde en uitgeputte soldaten, die na de oorlog terugkeren naar hun vroegere leven dat nooit meer wordt zoals voorheen.
Het is een erg aangrijpend boek, en minder geschikt voor erg gevoelige zielen vrees ik.
Het boek beschrijft op fragmentarische wijze en erg plastisch het leven van de jonge plattelandsmannen die gedwongen werden te gaan vechten in een oorlog waar zijn niets van begrepen. Het beschrijft daarnaast ook het leven van hen die achter bleven, in angst en wanhoop.
Het boek begint met een ontzettend grote kudde schapen die uit de bergen omlaag komen, met enkele oude herders want de jongeren zijn opgeroepen.
Het eindigt met een even grote kudde gekwetste, uitgehongerde en uitgeputte soldaten, die na de oorlog terugkeren naar hun vroegere leven dat nooit meer wordt zoals voorheen.
Het is een erg aangrijpend boek, en minder geschikt voor erg gevoelige zielen vrees ik.
June 26, 2019
An exceptional novel in every way and absolutely one of the finest and most harrowing anti-war novels I have read. Giono contrasts the remote rural life of Provence, with its savagery, lusts and lifeforce, with the First World War, with its own brutalities and yearnings. The characters move through the book ponderously, grimly, determinedly, as if swimming against the currents of destiny, but in fact they are swimming with fate and there is nowhere else for them to go. Giono's prose is magnificent, full blooded, rousing, dark, melancholy, intensely poetic. This novel is a masterpiece.
February 13, 2015
um matadouro que durou 4 anos. Serviu de lição? Agora sabemos que não...
Escrita cativante, e que conseguiu "angustiar-me" com as descrições da autêntica roleta russa que era estar na linha da frente. Agora necessito ler algo mais leve...
Escrita cativante, e que conseguiu "angustiar-me" com as descrições da autêntica roleta russa que era estar na linha da frente. Agora necessito ler algo mais leve...
February 13, 2016
Super
Très bon roman sur la guerre 14 18 qui se passe en provence que tous le monde doit lire au moins une fois dans sa vie et doit avoir dans sa bibliothèque
Très bon roman sur la guerre 14 18 qui se passe en provence que tous le monde doit lire au moins une fois dans sa vie et doit avoir dans sa bibliothèque
Read
April 16, 2023Pouco tenho lido sobre a Primeira Guerra Mundial, pelo que decidi ler o testemunho ficcionado de Jean Giono. Estamos perante uma visão muito humanista do autor, para além da descrição do sofrimento dos homens que partiram, ele aborda também o sofrimento e a angústia dos que ficaram, mulheres, crianças e homens mais velhos.
O romance inicia com a passagem pela aldeia de um grande rebanho. Ao longo da transumância, há animais que ficam pelo caminho, feridos, moribundos, mortos. Imagem terrível, sangrenta, dolorosa dos “ animais [que] baliam em conjunto, um balir plangente, de dor.”(p.21)
"Os animais estavam exaustos, alguns agora doentes. Era um rebanho que nunca mais acabava. Os animais metiam pena, a arrastar-se na estrada. Não suportavam mais sofrimento." (p. 22)
“Está tudo cheio de carneiros mortos pela estrada fora.” (p.26)
Logo de início, percebemos que este rebanho é uma metáfora da guerra, aprendemo-lo pela voz de Clérestin, um habitante da aldeia, “E Clérestin pôs-se a olhar também para longe, para lá dos animais que passavam, como se visse presságios, terríveis profecias do que estava ainda para acontecer, profecias escritas com sangue e sofrimento que aquele rebanho anunciava, ali, diante deles, ao longo da estrada coberta de poeira.” (p.23)
A mensagem é clara! Na guerra, tal como os animais, os homens exaustos, feridos, inúteis ficam para trás, abandonados! Sofrem, agonizam, morrem! Ninguém olha para trás e quem o fizer vai ficar com marcas, com traumas!
Jean Giono descreve os horrores vividos nas trincheiras de forma crua e chocante em oposição à simplicidade, à beleza e aos sons da natureza. Através desta dicotomia, sempre presente ao longo da obra, o autor pretende mostrar o absurdo da guerra e realçar a vida, a esperança. É precisamente com esta mensagem que termina a obra. Uma criança nasce, filha de Olivier, um sobrevivente, e de Madeleine.
"E antes de mais, digo-te: eis a noite, eis as árvores, eis os animais. Mais tarde verás a luz do dia. (...) terás oportunidade de amar (…), como alguém que cultiva a terra com a charrua (...). E amarás as estrelas.
(…) – Deixa, mulher, deixa. É preciso que lhe mostremos desde já o que é a esperança!” (p.220)
O romance inicia com a passagem pela aldeia de um grande rebanho. Ao longo da transumância, há animais que ficam pelo caminho, feridos, moribundos, mortos. Imagem terrível, sangrenta, dolorosa dos “ animais [que] baliam em conjunto, um balir plangente, de dor.”(p.21)
"Os animais estavam exaustos, alguns agora doentes. Era um rebanho que nunca mais acabava. Os animais metiam pena, a arrastar-se na estrada. Não suportavam mais sofrimento." (p. 22)
“Está tudo cheio de carneiros mortos pela estrada fora.” (p.26)
Logo de início, percebemos que este rebanho é uma metáfora da guerra, aprendemo-lo pela voz de Clérestin, um habitante da aldeia, “E Clérestin pôs-se a olhar também para longe, para lá dos animais que passavam, como se visse presságios, terríveis profecias do que estava ainda para acontecer, profecias escritas com sangue e sofrimento que aquele rebanho anunciava, ali, diante deles, ao longo da estrada coberta de poeira.” (p.23)
A mensagem é clara! Na guerra, tal como os animais, os homens exaustos, feridos, inúteis ficam para trás, abandonados! Sofrem, agonizam, morrem! Ninguém olha para trás e quem o fizer vai ficar com marcas, com traumas!
Jean Giono descreve os horrores vividos nas trincheiras de forma crua e chocante em oposição à simplicidade, à beleza e aos sons da natureza. Através desta dicotomia, sempre presente ao longo da obra, o autor pretende mostrar o absurdo da guerra e realçar a vida, a esperança. É precisamente com esta mensagem que termina a obra. Uma criança nasce, filha de Olivier, um sobrevivente, e de Madeleine.
"E antes de mais, digo-te: eis a noite, eis as árvores, eis os animais. Mais tarde verás a luz do dia. (...) terás oportunidade de amar (…), como alguém que cultiva a terra com a charrua (...). E amarás as estrelas.
(…) – Deixa, mulher, deixa. É preciso que lhe mostremos desde já o que é a esperança!” (p.220)
February 2, 2025
J'ai d'abord eu du mal à rentrer dedans à cause peut-être d'un français ancien, un peu patois qui a pu me perdre à certains moments mais j'ai ensuite été happé par des descriptions très vivides de la campagne puis de la guerre qui me faisaient parfaitement ressentir le désespoir, l'inquiétude ainsi que l'horreur des personnages. Je pense avoir eu des images de guerres mieux retranscrites dans ce livre que dans les meilleures chefs-d'œuvre cinématographiques de la période
May 22, 2015
At the beginning of the novel there is something in the air, that’s not good. On the one hand sheep are brought elsewhere, where they are secure. On the other hand, young men are ordered to go to war. Right at the start the reader can feel there’s something rotten in the states of Europe. In the south of France, women will have to do all the work on the farm, to take care of the livestock and fearing for the lives of their beloved ones. The novel is structured in alternating chapters dealing with the rural community, working hard and in anxiety, and with the situation of two lads in the midst of mud and blood, the trench-warfare of World War 1, the realization that military they hardly are individual persons. However, Giono has written his novel in such a way that those two fighting youngsters don’t deteriorate mentally; they sustain their human dignity. Yet the author describes some war effects in small but horrible details, somewhat ‘indirectly’ or rather factual. Not: he was shot dead, but mentioning the sound of a rifle as a fact on itself, than mentioning the blood flood that came from the soldier nearby, letting the reader come to a conclusion, derived from those two facts.
A citation of this approach: “In the mud there was a piece of meat as big as a fist, with red and black blood en some white pieces of albumen in the filaments. There was still a piece of gauze on it, as a sign of life.”
On me, that gives an effect of a very short delay in understanding, but than it gets to me, deep, powerful. That goes for both complementary scenes, those on the countryside and those at the warfront. It works for me, throughout the whole novel, such a marvellous effect of Giono’s style.
On the whole, this novel made a serious impression on me. JM
A citation of this approach: “In the mud there was a piece of meat as big as a fist, with red and black blood en some white pieces of albumen in the filaments. There was still a piece of gauze on it, as a sign of life.”
On me, that gives an effect of a very short delay in understanding, but than it gets to me, deep, powerful. That goes for both complementary scenes, those on the countryside and those at the warfront. It works for me, throughout the whole novel, such a marvellous effect of Giono’s style.
On the whole, this novel made a serious impression on me. JM
September 24, 2015
Dit boek werd geschreven in 1931. Ik verwachtte dus geen moderne roman en toch De Grote Kudde is dat in vele opzichten wel. Giono vertelt zijn oorlogsbelevenis (hij maakte zelf deel uit van het Franse leger) niet als een rechtlijnig relaas van feiten. De gruwelen aan het front, hangt hij op aan 2 boerenjongens uit hetzelfde Provençaalse dorp. Hun wedervaren wordt in pakkende, soms gruwelijke korte scènes verteld. Zowel de verhalen als de taal die Giono hanteert lijken als door splinterbommen uiteen gescheurd. Briljant, macaber en soms best lastig om lezen. Wat dit oorlogsboek echter onderscheidt van vele andere is dat ook het leven van de mensen die achterbleven, wordt beschreven. Deze verhaallijn is zeer klassiek geschreven en zindert van de vitaliteit, de sensitiviteit die symbool staat voor de eenheid tussen mens, dier en natuur zoals het in deze boerengemeenschap altijd is geweest. En op het einde van het boek blijkt ook dat zelfs zo'n moordende oorlog die eenheid niet kapot heeft gekregen. Hoeveel levens de oorlog ook heeft verspild, hét leven is niet dood. Niet dat van de schapenkudde, niet dat de mensenkudde. Knap boek dat 80 jaar later zeker nog het lezen waard is!
December 16, 2014
"O Grande Rebanho" é um romance sobre a primeira guerra mundial, dando uma imagem realista dos horrores da guerra.
Os homens que partem para as trincheiras e não voltam mais porque a guerra lhes rouba a vida, os homens que partem para as trincheiras e voltam mudados para sempre mas inteiros, ou ainda os homens que partem para as trincheiras e voltam mudados para sempre e com membros amputados. As mulheres que ficam sozinhas. As mães que choram desoladas. O cheiro a morte presente por todo lado.
É sobre isto que Jean Giono, ex-combatente na primeira guerra mundial, conta uma história de várias vidas atravessadas por esse rasto de destruição e morte...
Os homens que partem para as trincheiras e não voltam mais porque a guerra lhes rouba a vida, os homens que partem para as trincheiras e voltam mudados para sempre mas inteiros, ou ainda os homens que partem para as trincheiras e voltam mudados para sempre e com membros amputados. As mulheres que ficam sozinhas. As mães que choram desoladas. O cheiro a morte presente por todo lado.
É sobre isto que Jean Giono, ex-combatente na primeira guerra mundial, conta uma história de várias vidas atravessadas por esse rasto de destruição e morte...
November 15, 2015
Sterke ode aan de louterende krachten van de natuur. Tegelijkertijd een van de meest intense aanklachten tegen oorlog en geweld die ik ooit las. Verbluffend hoe Giono pure poëzie weet te stoppen in zijn beklijvende beschrijvingen van scènes die overlopen van ongeziene gruwelijkheden. Een meesterlijke verteller, een groot animistisch denker.
August 7, 2014
La beauté de l'écriture de Giono , sa puissance d'évocation , son engagement : un des cinq plus grands romans sur la 1 ère guerre mondiale .
February 17, 2021
This is a curious, not altogether bad novel about the Great War from the perspective of the Poilus, the French soldiers, who, despite the calumny against their character, fought like dogs and were no more likely to surrender than Germans, Englishmen, or Americans. Except the book is as much from the perspective of the animals, and even the non-sentient, sessile beings like plants and trees (!) in the battlefield as it is from the perspective of the soldiers and civilians suffering through the bloodshed.
Like Alfred Doblin in "Berlin Alexanderplatz," author Jean Giono is fascinated, perhaps obsessed, with how the literal slaughter of animals mirrors what humans do to each other. Sometimes in "To the Slaughterhouse," the brutality of nature and man meet, as in a gruesome scene in which a woman killed in battle has her infant son torn from her by a hungry sow, who then squares off with a soldier willing to fight the pig head-on with nothing but a small knife in order to keep it from the devouring the baby.
The book is peppered with such vignettes. Not of all of them are so horrific; some are touching, minor chord reprieves from the nigh-unrelenting horror, like when one soldier soothes his dying comrade with a vivid description of a recipe for brandy-soaked almonds said to help one fight off the cold if fermented correctly and savored in the right spirit.
And still, despite its merits, "To the Slaughterhouse" doesn't cohere. And maybe it's not supposed to. War, ultimately doesn't make sense or have meaning. Maybe any book true to war's spirit should be a head-scratcher like this one.
Like Alfred Doblin in "Berlin Alexanderplatz," author Jean Giono is fascinated, perhaps obsessed, with how the literal slaughter of animals mirrors what humans do to each other. Sometimes in "To the Slaughterhouse," the brutality of nature and man meet, as in a gruesome scene in which a woman killed in battle has her infant son torn from her by a hungry sow, who then squares off with a soldier willing to fight the pig head-on with nothing but a small knife in order to keep it from the devouring the baby.
The book is peppered with such vignettes. Not of all of them are so horrific; some are touching, minor chord reprieves from the nigh-unrelenting horror, like when one soldier soothes his dying comrade with a vivid description of a recipe for brandy-soaked almonds said to help one fight off the cold if fermented correctly and savored in the right spirit.
And still, despite its merits, "To the Slaughterhouse" doesn't cohere. And maybe it's not supposed to. War, ultimately doesn't make sense or have meaning. Maybe any book true to war's spirit should be a head-scratcher like this one.
April 17, 2024
4 étoiles pour la qualité de la littérature, des descriptions très organiques. Jean Giono aime les métaphores, les odeurs, le toucher.
Les odeurs sont épaisses et coulent comme des rivières, les mitrailleuses ont des griffes et des crocs qui dévorent les ventres mous.
Il y a quelque chose de très charnel dans ce roman. Les femmes, les ventres charnus ou béants, la terre, les plaies, les moutons, la boue fraîche contre les visages. Caresses ou agressions, le toucher est omniprésent.
On ne voit pas la guerre, on ne voit pas les Cévennes, juste des détails, à la loupe. Cet homme qui halète dans un trou d'obus ; cette femme qui fauche les blés sous le soleil écrasant. La transpiration, glacée ou brûlante, sur leurs fronts.
Comme toujours avec Jean Giono, c'est très beau, très organique (c'est le mot), poignant.
Une étoile en moins pour
- la forme : un détail d'écriture qui m'a laissée perplexe : une variation entre présent et passé de manière aléatoire
- le fond : je n'ai pas très bien compris la fin. (Quid du bébé de Madeleine ?)
Les odeurs sont épaisses et coulent comme des rivières, les mitrailleuses ont des griffes et des crocs qui dévorent les ventres mous.
Il y a quelque chose de très charnel dans ce roman. Les femmes, les ventres charnus ou béants, la terre, les plaies, les moutons, la boue fraîche contre les visages. Caresses ou agressions, le toucher est omniprésent.
On ne voit pas la guerre, on ne voit pas les Cévennes, juste des détails, à la loupe. Cet homme qui halète dans un trou d'obus ; cette femme qui fauche les blés sous le soleil écrasant. La transpiration, glacée ou brûlante, sur leurs fronts.
Comme toujours avec Jean Giono, c'est très beau, très organique (c'est le mot), poignant.
Une étoile en moins pour
- la forme : un détail d'écriture qui m'a laissée perplexe : une variation entre présent et passé de manière aléatoire
- le fond : je n'ai pas très bien compris la fin. (Quid du bébé de Madeleine ?)
October 29, 2017
1. dünya savaşında cephede savaşıp evine dönebilen 'şanslı' sayılabilecek bir gazi olan Giono'nun gözünden savaş; cephe ve cephenin ardındaki bekleyiş. Kitapta bariz ama bir o kadar da etkileyici 'sürü hayvanı' metaforlarıyla yüzyıllardır yüceltilen insanlığın, hayvanlaşmasını görüyoruz. Giono, kendi hayatında savaşın açtığı yaralardan etkilenerek yazdığı bu romanda, savaşta kazanan tarafın olmadığını göstermiş ve savaşı, bu insanlık vahşetini, tüm çıplaklığıyla her yönden gözler önüne sermiştir.
October 7, 2025
It can be read as a metaphor for life. The war, or warfare, has nothing to do with the story anymore; it doesnt matter who started it or why. What is obvious is that millions were herded into a slaughterhouse, and that they all went, they all fought, and they all got mangled and died. The land could barely hold the corpses. All flesh was decomposing. This was not war. That was just the excuse. This was life.
March 12, 2022
Un roman typique de l'auteur, poétique, mettant en scène des personnages bien trempés, originaux et ancrés dans la terre et la vie. J'ai néanmoins trouvé certains passages difficiles à lire, car ce récit traite sans détour d'un sujet pénible : la Première Guerre. On y suit le parcours des hommes et des femmes aussi bien au front qu'à l'arrière. Encore un beau livre, puissant et touchant.
October 2, 2021
Un bon livre sur la première guerre mondiale, mais sans plus. Je préfère de loin Les Croix de Bois et À l’Ouest Rien de Nouveau.
Ceci dit le roman de Giono a le mérite de donner un grand aperçu de la vie civile durant la guerre.
Trois étoiles, ce qui est en somme bien payé.
Ceci dit le roman de Giono a le mérite de donner un grand aperçu de la vie civile durant la guerre.
Trois étoiles, ce qui est en somme bien payé.
November 23, 2018
The War and it's effects on the people at home. Beautifully done.
January 12, 2020
2.5/5. Bij momenten heel goed, vooral de taferelen in het leeggelopen dorpje. De stukken aan het front zijn te fragmentarisch om echt te boeien, en zijn soms zelfs verschrikkelijk saai.
August 9, 2020
3.5, lastig te lezen soms maar ook erg aangrijpend
September 13, 2022
Mille étoiles et l'étoile du berger, Giono pour toujours -
September 23, 2022
This is a subjective review!
I am not saying that the book is bad, but it’s 50% descriptions. So if that’s not your thing, just chose some other book about WWI
I am not saying that the book is bad, but it’s 50% descriptions. So if that’s not your thing, just chose some other book about WWI
January 4, 2024
Livre très difficile à comprendre du à l'abondance de personnages...mais intéressant quand même par moments
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April 9, 2025Un récit de la Première guerre mondiale qui couvre tous les "participants", des soldats au front aux familles qui les attendaient à la maison
August 3, 2025
um olhar cru sobre a primeira guerra mundial através de jovens nos campos de batalha e suas consequências físicas e psicológicas .
March 16, 2017
There are not too many novels about the French experience in WWI, this one is worth reading.
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