Claude Simon’s style reads like a combination of Faulkner and Proust; the never-ending shift of perspectives and time, the never-ending paragraphs and sentences, ‘The Flanders Road’ is as disorientating as it is beautiful, yet at times the disjointed nature of the prose and story, which is merely Simon’s interpretation of time via his unique narrative style, takes away from the poetic prose style and psychologically harrowing recollection of the brutality of war-Simon’s prose is almost dream-like and this jars against the brutal reality of the story, until it becomes something ethereal and unreal rather than a harrow and unflinching recollection of war;
“….if it had rained spears, all huddled now in the stands with the sculptured gingerbread floating in the sky, with the whipped cream clouds, motionless, like meringues, that is swollen, puffed up on top and flattened underneath as if they had been set on an invisible sheet of glass, neatly aligned in successive rows which perspective brought closer together in the distance, to form, far away, towards the misty horizon, above the treetops and delicate factory chimneys, a suspended, motionless ceiling, until when you looked more carefully you realised the whole drifting archipelago was imperceptibly sliding….then Iglesia saw him, he told them later, separate, disassociated from the binoculars from the anonymous motley of colours, on that filly like a streak of pale bronze, and wearing the black cap and bright pink silk bordering on mauve that she had somehow imposed on both of them, like a kind of voliptous and lascivious symbol...”
Colours combine and coalesce to form the unique tapestry of Simon’s literary style; pinks, blues, reds and greens symbolic of the different themes which run through the novel-from the lustful affair of Iglésia and de Reichax’s wife (which is again echoed in the suicide of de Reichax’s ancestor, which is in itself echoed in de Reichax’s suicide charge) or of man’s mortality and existential angst. Yet the themes and events of the novel are purely incidental, the quiddity of Simon’s prose, the unique rhythm and cadence of his style and words, as if the characters are in fact somnambulists whose lives constantly shift between dreaming and being awake-if indeed there is a difference;
“I drank drinking all of her taking all of her into me like those oranges that despite grown-ups telling me that it was dirty, that it was impolite, noisy I like to make a hole in and squeeze, pressing, drinking her belly the globes of her breast slipping under my fingers like water a pink crystalline drop trembling on the bent blade of grass under that light rustling breeze that precedes the sunrise reflecting containing in its transparence the sky tinged pink by the dawn.”
Dewdrops on a blade of grass as the soldiers retreat, sunshine on the water which contains a corpse, the imperceptible shaking of the hay as a couple make love-one of Simon’s primary concerns is that of language-
“summoning up the iridescent and luminous images by means of the ephemeral and incantatory magic of language, words invented in the hope of making the palatable-the unmentionable reality”
To distort and disguise and make uncertain the fine line between reality and invention and to articulate the inexpressible horrors of the situation the characters find themselves in. ‘The Flanders Road’ is a not an easy read, but is worth exploring the highly original prose style of the author.