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345 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1934
A bad Treaty doesn't settle anything—except the causes of the next war.This book is the bridge between Regeneration and '1984'. I realize that, chronologically speaking in terms of each work's publication, this makes no sense. However, if there's one thing I've learned in these days when protesters fighting against antiblackness and the military industrial complex are being plucked off the streets in an aping of brown shirts and co., it's that people love crowing about their imbibement of social critiques when said critiques are safely amputated from their proper contexts, and few works have suffered more from such than Orwell's so frequently cutely monikered creation. Jameson's detailing of the politics showing between the cracks in the pavement under many a traumatized, bewildered, and struggling Londoner, centering around the travails of a young woman writer replete with beloved child and adulterous husband, is hardly as interesting as the tale of some self-righteous masculinity forging a path through a landscape so clownishly obvious in its evil machinations that no one can accept anything but an easy answer as to what ideologies could have possibly spawned such a society.
Pacifism, gentlemen, is not a joke, it is a threat. In my personal knowledge there are men in important positions who are infected with it. It seems not to have occurred to these influential fools that the spread of their sentiments would bring us to a condition in which we should look back at the War as a time of happiness and security.
Because we have survived the War, we have to keep a channel open between us in 1914—do you remember us!—and the future. Before long something new will begin. We three are going to watch for it, and watch the others—the practical ones, who support crucifixions on behalf of the nail and timber interests—watch them that they don't pop the old greasy clapper of their facts on it at sight.Thus the low rating, I imagine, although I'm sure a broad stretch of realism stretched to a thrilling tautness with momentary modernisms, a life where all nobility is either dead or being slowly buried beneath urban development and other idols of capitalism, and a slow and careful delineation of how civilian complacency is cultivated when profit is associated with the blood-born coffers of corporations that swell with the human sacrifices of military investments and loss with the inevitable end of the war and the deflation of said investments. Imagine teaching that alongside the usual talk of 'war is peace' and 'some are more equal than others' in the bowels of high school. However, that would require that English be valued for more than just its ability to teach kids how to play devil's advocate for the sake of winning a place as the most valued cog in the war machine, and with "leftists" politely advocating eugenics and "alt-rights" outright proclaiming the same, I don't see that happening in my lifetime.
English people won't pay out good money to read uncomfortable truths.
There is a moment when the gull, turning, to sweep sideways and downward to the surface of the water, makes a movement of such perfection that it can scarcely be watched without tears.I mentioned Regeneration as the other half of my conjectured bridge, and that's because of reasons of, well. Compassion? Open mindedness? The kind of sensibility that is never satisfied with chalking up the world's ills to whatever scapegoat is proving the most fashionable at the moment, and instead observes the causes and effects for what they truly are, not what is fed piecemeal to those who are too fraught by poverty to have time to care by those who are so bloated by riches that they have bought the rights to use the fields of death as their playground stock market. It's a rare mind that achieves such, and the vast majority of those who believe themselves to be representative of such are just better at following directions and figuring out who it's safe to stamp down upon on both sides of the political divide. It's not as if all of, or even most of, or more than maybe one or two (one of them destined to die as the war cleaned up its losses) or examples of such. The stretch of the swoops and dives into the various minds of the various echelons of society is not done to ferret out a profit, but to demonstrate how the Christian squeeze upon the common soul is coldly opportunistic, and while the popular masses fear the Jewish magnate, their babies are bred for cannon fodder. The main character is no saint, and her struggle for literary prestige, or at least stability, in the face of the usual domestic conflicts is one that, had I based my purchasing decision off the book jacket description alone, I would not have acquired it. As such, it seems there's still some worth in trusting some in the credibility of a publishing house, although the ones where you can do so are few and far between.
She thought humbly that to understand any single person, deeply enough to pass judgment on them, would be work for a lifetime. And then, no doubt, you would be ashamed to judge.
'Oh Hervey, I was mad,' he said quickly. She smiled to keep him from touching her. 'Nothing of the sort. You couldn't stay mad for three years. Or make so many neat plans.'
'If I'd known I was going to risk losing you through it——'
'You haven't lost anything,' Hervey said instantly. 'You threw it away.'
Now, not a city only but whole nations are involved in modern war, and the law becomes general. This impalpable excitement is the reason why delicate women, who could not bear to see a dog run over, can read without turning a hair: 'Our losses were less than three hundred officers and fifteen hundred other ranks.'I wish I could give this book five stars, but I can't, perhaps due to Jameson not quite committing to the kill, or to this work so obviously being the first in a series. I do plan on reading the sequel, and hopefully the sequel to that, although my fortuitous stumbling across underappreciated literary treasures is still largely put on hold as plague rats continue to flock in groups of six in a barely nine foot square space and zombie apocalypse-ready snowflakes spew invective into the masked faces of those that are only there in order to pay rent. I wonder how many children hailing from the lands of the so termed Central Powers had to starve to death in the wake of WWI inflation before Hitler found his fertile ground. I wonder how many people, disproportionately based on racial demographic as befits the United States, will have to suffocate before some do-gooder mewling and puking about "sociopaths" and "psychopaths" gets their measure of power. I could say more about the generation gap, the passing over of the age, the balancing act between retaining a sense of self and putting food on the table, industrialization, gender roles, corporate hegemonies, etc, etc, but there are plenty of others who choose to write on those more comfortable topics. I prefer to take on subjects that will step on a lot more toes while I have the energy for it. In any case, this didn't go as well as Marcella, but they both contribute a great deal to my ongoing love affair with Virago Modern Classics. The print has its fair share of mundanities, but when it's good, it's really really good indeed.
Over vast acres of Europe the destruction itself had not come to an end. In what were still called the enemy countries vast numbers of the enemy were still dying. It is true that most of them were under five years of age.
Luckily it cost less to kill these than to kill soldiers. And it happened with decent modesty. No telegrams were delivered: Regret to inform you...twenty children...death due to starvation...Vienna yesterday. What was an even more serious omission, no disengaged poet seized the chance to picture Heaven joyfully preparing nurseries for this invasion of babies.
The rest of the church was filled with men and women to whom the war had made different gifts, giving to this a death, to another new life, to this one money. There were many people in Danesacre whom the war had fed full with money. Perhaps they came here to thank someone for it.
'My God, I was happier in the War than I've been since,' he exclaimed.
'It was certainly simpler.'