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From the internationally celebrated author of No Great Mischief comes a moving short story of three generations of men from a single family whose lives are forever altered by the long shadow of war.
In the early morning hours of November 11, David MacDonald, a veteran of the Second World War, stands outside his Cape Breton home, preparing to attend what will likely be his last Remembrance Day parade. As he waits for the arrival of his son and grandson, he remembers his decision to go to war in desperation to support his young family. He remembers the horrors of life at the frontlines in Ortona, Italy, and then what happened in Holland when the Canadians arrived as liberators. He remembers how the war devastated his own family, but gave him other reasons to live. As the story unfolds, other generations enter the scene. What emerges is an elegant, life-affirming meditation on the bond between fathers and sons, "how the present always comes out of the past," and how even in the midst of tragedy and misfortune there exists the possibility for salvation.
His first new short story in over a decade, Remembrance is a powerful reminder of why Alistair MacLeod is one of the most beloved storytellers of our time.
In the early morning hours of November 11, David MacDonald, a veteran of the Second World War, stands outside his Cape Breton home, preparing to attend what will likely be his last Remembrance Day parade. As he waits for the arrival of his son and grandson, he remembers his decision to go to war in desperation to support his young family. He remembers the horrors of life at the frontlines in Ortona, Italy, and then what happened in Holland when the Canadians arrived as liberators. He remembers how the war devastated his own family, but gave him other reasons to live. As the story unfolds, other generations enter the scene. What emerges is an elegant, life-affirming meditation on the bond between fathers and sons, "how the present always comes out of the past," and how even in the midst of tragedy and misfortune there exists the possibility for salvation.
His first new short story in over a decade, Remembrance is a powerful reminder of why Alistair MacLeod is one of the most beloved storytellers of our time.
65 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2013
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176 people want to read
About the author
Alistair MacLeod
39 books242 followersWhen MacLeod was ten his family moved to a farm in Dunvegan, Inverness County on Nova Scotia's Cape Breton Island. After completing high school, MacLeod attended teacher's college in Truro and then taught school. He studied at St. Francis Xavier University between 1957 and 1960 and graduated with a BA and B.Ed. He then went on to receive his MA in 1961 from the University of New Brunswick and his PhD in 1968 from the University of Notre Dame. A specialist in British literature of the nineteenth century, MacLeod taught English for three years at Indiana University before accepting a post in 1969 at the University of Windsor as professor of English and creative writing. During the summer, his family resided in Cape Breton, where he spent part of his time "writing in a cliff-top cabin looking west towards Prince Edward Island."
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September 2, 2023
حسن ختامی بر آثار کم حجم اما جاندار و داستانگوی مکلاود که الحق داستان کوتاه رو میفهمه. خوش ذوق، پر احساس، محزون و قابل لمس. فقط به دلیل مشابه بودن فضای داستانهاش، بهتره پشت سر هم خونده نشن.
November 29, 2015
Usually I like to review books based around a summary of their plot, but as the title of this story is called 'Remembrance', I'll offer up some thoughts that feel a little more in keeping...
Though he'd long held an iconic – and in some ways almost mystical – status among Canadian writers, Alastair MacLeod really appeared on the radar for most readers in 2001 when his only novel, 'No Great Mischief', a quietly towering, multi-generational treatise on tradition and family ties, won the prestigious IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.
By that stage, he was already one of my small obsessions, had been from the day, some time in the early '90s, that I happened across a collection of his short stories while browsing the shelves of Cork City Library.
It was the title, a six-word poem: 'As Birds Bring Forth The Sun', that not only grabbed me but knocked the breath from my body. Knowing nothing about its author, I sat, started to read, and happily gave up an entire afternoon of my life to those pages. Then I took the book home and read it again and again, peeling back layers, pouring over the seamless sentences and losing myself within their rhythms. And two qualities stood out for me above all else: a sense of place that was absolute, and an utterly authentic voice. No one can read Alistair MacLeod's stories and not believe them.
At that point, I had already begun to write, though without any confidence or direction. His stories were a revelation. They read almost as memoir and had what Hemingway's stories had: an unwavering and indisputable truth, a sense of having been quarried from stone. Cape Breton was MacLeod's world, and the world of his people all the way back to the Highland Clearances, and it insinuated every pore of every word he wrote. But even though he kept his horizons close, the innate honesty of his work, and his relentless weighing of the human heart, ensured that it would always transcend the specific. His were the stories of people everywhere.
In 2010, I was invited, as part of a small group of Irish writers, to attend the 11th International Short Story Conference, being held that year in Toronto. My first question was whether or not Alistair MacLeod would be there. The answer was a thrilling yes.
Meeting our idols can often disappoint. Often, but not always.
On the afternoon of my reading, in a York University classroom, he was part of an audience of less than two dozen people. I attempted to pour a glass of water but was shaking so hard with nerves that I put ice everywhere. When I looked up from my book, his was the first face I saw, looking back at me and smiling ever so slightly. Afterwards he sought me out and told me how much he'd enjoyed my story, and though my natural insecurity insisted that I put his kind words down to politeness and even pity, I still felt immensely grateful, and proud.
And then, little by very little, I got to know him.
He was multiples of everything I had imagined he would be. Shortish, stocky and ruddy cheeked, decked out in a flat cap and with the Order of Canada, his nation's highest civilian honour, pinned proudly to his lapel, he was a man of gentle and generous nature, easy with stillness and easier still with smiles, a man whose voice when spinning some yarn held all the softness of a sigh.
Today, his vaunted reputation rests on a single novel and two books of stories, 'The Lost Salt Gift Of Blood' and the aforementioned, 'As Birds Bring Forth The Sun'. Following his IMPAC win, both collections were combined, along with two new stories for a sum total of sixteen, in a volume called 'Island', which should be essential reading not only for anyone with ambitions towards writing, but for anyone with a heartbeat.
In a career spanning nearly fifty years, he was anything but prolific, yet the precision and musicality of his language, and the wholeness and assurance of his vision, ensured that there was not a single missed note anywhere in the work. Few can boast as much.
Following on from that first time I met him, I had the immense pleasure of interviewing him by phone, an interview that I was doing for the Irish Examiner and which turned into a long, long chat about stories and books, of the sort that I'd hoped would never end. Our paths also crossed twice more, on both occasions in Cork, both for me memorable beyond easy words. The last time, months before his death, he gave a lovely reading from a new work, 'Remembrance', the seventeenth story he'd written and his first in over a decade. Though it's really a long short story (and is most easily accessed as an ebook, through all the usual outlets), it has the density, girth and quiet subtlety common to a lot of his best work and carries the sense of being something greater than its size. It's also a beautiful, poignant tale of war's aftermath, about how the present is always shaped by the past, and stands a most fitting closing note to a perfectly pitched career.
Though he'd long held an iconic – and in some ways almost mystical – status among Canadian writers, Alastair MacLeod really appeared on the radar for most readers in 2001 when his only novel, 'No Great Mischief', a quietly towering, multi-generational treatise on tradition and family ties, won the prestigious IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.
By that stage, he was already one of my small obsessions, had been from the day, some time in the early '90s, that I happened across a collection of his short stories while browsing the shelves of Cork City Library.
It was the title, a six-word poem: 'As Birds Bring Forth The Sun', that not only grabbed me but knocked the breath from my body. Knowing nothing about its author, I sat, started to read, and happily gave up an entire afternoon of my life to those pages. Then I took the book home and read it again and again, peeling back layers, pouring over the seamless sentences and losing myself within their rhythms. And two qualities stood out for me above all else: a sense of place that was absolute, and an utterly authentic voice. No one can read Alistair MacLeod's stories and not believe them.
At that point, I had already begun to write, though without any confidence or direction. His stories were a revelation. They read almost as memoir and had what Hemingway's stories had: an unwavering and indisputable truth, a sense of having been quarried from stone. Cape Breton was MacLeod's world, and the world of his people all the way back to the Highland Clearances, and it insinuated every pore of every word he wrote. But even though he kept his horizons close, the innate honesty of his work, and his relentless weighing of the human heart, ensured that it would always transcend the specific. His were the stories of people everywhere.
In 2010, I was invited, as part of a small group of Irish writers, to attend the 11th International Short Story Conference, being held that year in Toronto. My first question was whether or not Alistair MacLeod would be there. The answer was a thrilling yes.
Meeting our idols can often disappoint. Often, but not always.
On the afternoon of my reading, in a York University classroom, he was part of an audience of less than two dozen people. I attempted to pour a glass of water but was shaking so hard with nerves that I put ice everywhere. When I looked up from my book, his was the first face I saw, looking back at me and smiling ever so slightly. Afterwards he sought me out and told me how much he'd enjoyed my story, and though my natural insecurity insisted that I put his kind words down to politeness and even pity, I still felt immensely grateful, and proud.
And then, little by very little, I got to know him.
He was multiples of everything I had imagined he would be. Shortish, stocky and ruddy cheeked, decked out in a flat cap and with the Order of Canada, his nation's highest civilian honour, pinned proudly to his lapel, he was a man of gentle and generous nature, easy with stillness and easier still with smiles, a man whose voice when spinning some yarn held all the softness of a sigh.
Today, his vaunted reputation rests on a single novel and two books of stories, 'The Lost Salt Gift Of Blood' and the aforementioned, 'As Birds Bring Forth The Sun'. Following his IMPAC win, both collections were combined, along with two new stories for a sum total of sixteen, in a volume called 'Island', which should be essential reading not only for anyone with ambitions towards writing, but for anyone with a heartbeat.
In a career spanning nearly fifty years, he was anything but prolific, yet the precision and musicality of his language, and the wholeness and assurance of his vision, ensured that there was not a single missed note anywhere in the work. Few can boast as much.
Following on from that first time I met him, I had the immense pleasure of interviewing him by phone, an interview that I was doing for the Irish Examiner and which turned into a long, long chat about stories and books, of the sort that I'd hoped would never end. Our paths also crossed twice more, on both occasions in Cork, both for me memorable beyond easy words. The last time, months before his death, he gave a lovely reading from a new work, 'Remembrance', the seventeenth story he'd written and his first in over a decade. Though it's really a long short story (and is most easily accessed as an ebook, through all the usual outlets), it has the density, girth and quiet subtlety common to a lot of his best work and carries the sense of being something greater than its size. It's also a beautiful, poignant tale of war's aftermath, about how the present is always shaped by the past, and stands a most fitting closing note to a perfectly pitched career.
December 6, 2019
This is a beautiful little book of less than fifty pages and Alistair Macleod’s last published story. He died in April of 2014, a Canadian, a proud Cape Bretoner and a writer who did not write many books but each of them is a treasure. This one commissioned by the Vancouver’s Writers Fest to mark its twenty-fifth anniversary in 2012 has been released in a limited edition and like his others is a gem.
This is the story of three generations of Cape Breton men from a single family whose lives were forever affected by World War II. In that grand old Cape Breton tradition where names travel down through generations, all are named David MacDonald, the grandfather now almost ninety, a father in his late sixties and a son somewhere in his forties. As the grandfather waits to be picked up by his son and grandson in the early damp hours of November 11th, he stands outside his home thinking back to times long ago. This is probably his last Remembrance Day Parade, the annual event he has been attending for over fifty years but always felt ambivalent about. He has outlived all his comrades, the men from the Great War are now all gone and those left are men who fought in Korea, Vietnam and Afghanistan.
As he awaits his son and grandson, he relives his decision to join the war in 1942, a desperate attempt to support his young family. Enlisted men with dependents received regular government paychecks and with his wife pregnant again and assuming the war would not last long, he joined the war effort and signed his pay packet over to his wife. At the time he was only twenty-one and had been married a year and half, pushed into marriage by a sexually precocious farm girl who had seduced him. When she became pregnant and they married, they moved in with his austere widowed father. David worked the farm with his Dad, supplementing his income by cutting timber in the woods and fishing. But his wife was never happy there, thinking his father a cheap old man. His father in turn tolerated David's wife but disliked her revealing way of dressing. The arrangement did not last long and after the birth of their daughter, his wife began spending more time at her parents’ home, taking their daughter with her.
While he awaits the arrival of his son and grandson on this cold dark morning, David recalls his time on the battlefields overseas in Ortana Italy. He remembers that long campaign with the earth shattering artillery explosions that hurtled shards of shrapnel everywhere, the mounting losses of men from either injury or disease and the desperate sound of men weeping. He remembers how they retrieved the bodies of their comrades during lulls in the fighting and although some of them were still alive, they were doomed to certain death. In the spring he was shipped to Holland and celebrated the end of the war in Europe.
His wife sent him letters while he was away, written by someone else since she could not write. They contained little news, remarked mostly on the weather and became increasingly infrequent as the months dragged on.
When David finally arrived home he returned to his in-laws’ house to greet the daughter he had left behind and the second daughter born in his absence. Then his wife introduced him to a boy not yet two who she called David MacDonald, conceived and born in his absence.
In the years that followed his daughters paid little attention to him and remained with his wife at his in-laws’ home. But the young boy attached himself to the man for whom he was named. A year and a half after David’s return from Europe, his wife decided to go to Montreal to work in a garment factory, promising to send money home to help support the family. The girls seemed unaffected by her decision and remained with their Aunts, while David became more attached to his adopted father and grandfather.
One day his wife arrived at the farm by car with a man named Jacques, coming to collect her son and take him to Montreal, but the boy hid in the barn with the help of his grandfather and the wife, the man named Jacques and his daughters left without him. The car never made it further than New Brunswick crashing in a snowstorm and killing all its occupants.
These first chapters of the book are told in the third person, detailing the life of the father and his son. The last is told by the grandson who is driving to join his father and grandfather for the Remembrance Day event. Their stories all come directly or indirectly from the war, the event that changed this small family forever. They all lost something of great value in that conflict, yet they never seek the reader’s pity. They carried on with their lives, attached by strands of DNA and respect for one another. They are men of few words who show how they care for one another by what they do. Little needs to pass between them to show they care. Together they will remember with little ceremony or fanfare that terrible event long ago, the sacrifices that were paid, the blood that was spilled in faraway places and that unnecessary sacrifice that still holds them together.
This is a very short but powerful read with the writing though spare, evoking an emotional connection to the characters. Only a writer as skilled with language as Alistair MacLeod could tell the story of three generations of men in so few pages.
This is a simple reminder of war and the havoc it leaves behind, beautifully presented with a cover appropriate to the contents and words on creamy thick paper. It would make a great gift for the right recipient and is quite simply a beautiful and stunning piece of work.
This is the story of three generations of Cape Breton men from a single family whose lives were forever affected by World War II. In that grand old Cape Breton tradition where names travel down through generations, all are named David MacDonald, the grandfather now almost ninety, a father in his late sixties and a son somewhere in his forties. As the grandfather waits to be picked up by his son and grandson in the early damp hours of November 11th, he stands outside his home thinking back to times long ago. This is probably his last Remembrance Day Parade, the annual event he has been attending for over fifty years but always felt ambivalent about. He has outlived all his comrades, the men from the Great War are now all gone and those left are men who fought in Korea, Vietnam and Afghanistan.
As he awaits his son and grandson, he relives his decision to join the war in 1942, a desperate attempt to support his young family. Enlisted men with dependents received regular government paychecks and with his wife pregnant again and assuming the war would not last long, he joined the war effort and signed his pay packet over to his wife. At the time he was only twenty-one and had been married a year and half, pushed into marriage by a sexually precocious farm girl who had seduced him. When she became pregnant and they married, they moved in with his austere widowed father. David worked the farm with his Dad, supplementing his income by cutting timber in the woods and fishing. But his wife was never happy there, thinking his father a cheap old man. His father in turn tolerated David's wife but disliked her revealing way of dressing. The arrangement did not last long and after the birth of their daughter, his wife began spending more time at her parents’ home, taking their daughter with her.
While he awaits the arrival of his son and grandson on this cold dark morning, David recalls his time on the battlefields overseas in Ortana Italy. He remembers that long campaign with the earth shattering artillery explosions that hurtled shards of shrapnel everywhere, the mounting losses of men from either injury or disease and the desperate sound of men weeping. He remembers how they retrieved the bodies of their comrades during lulls in the fighting and although some of them were still alive, they were doomed to certain death. In the spring he was shipped to Holland and celebrated the end of the war in Europe.
His wife sent him letters while he was away, written by someone else since she could not write. They contained little news, remarked mostly on the weather and became increasingly infrequent as the months dragged on.
When David finally arrived home he returned to his in-laws’ house to greet the daughter he had left behind and the second daughter born in his absence. Then his wife introduced him to a boy not yet two who she called David MacDonald, conceived and born in his absence.
In the years that followed his daughters paid little attention to him and remained with his wife at his in-laws’ home. But the young boy attached himself to the man for whom he was named. A year and a half after David’s return from Europe, his wife decided to go to Montreal to work in a garment factory, promising to send money home to help support the family. The girls seemed unaffected by her decision and remained with their Aunts, while David became more attached to his adopted father and grandfather.
One day his wife arrived at the farm by car with a man named Jacques, coming to collect her son and take him to Montreal, but the boy hid in the barn with the help of his grandfather and the wife, the man named Jacques and his daughters left without him. The car never made it further than New Brunswick crashing in a snowstorm and killing all its occupants.
These first chapters of the book are told in the third person, detailing the life of the father and his son. The last is told by the grandson who is driving to join his father and grandfather for the Remembrance Day event. Their stories all come directly or indirectly from the war, the event that changed this small family forever. They all lost something of great value in that conflict, yet they never seek the reader’s pity. They carried on with their lives, attached by strands of DNA and respect for one another. They are men of few words who show how they care for one another by what they do. Little needs to pass between them to show they care. Together they will remember with little ceremony or fanfare that terrible event long ago, the sacrifices that were paid, the blood that was spilled in faraway places and that unnecessary sacrifice that still holds them together.
This is a very short but powerful read with the writing though spare, evoking an emotional connection to the characters. Only a writer as skilled with language as Alistair MacLeod could tell the story of three generations of men in so few pages.
This is a simple reminder of war and the havoc it leaves behind, beautifully presented with a cover appropriate to the contents and words on creamy thick paper. It would make a great gift for the right recipient and is quite simply a beautiful and stunning piece of work.
November 7, 2014
What a wonderful story, what a wonderful gift MacLeod left us with. Read in a timely moment before Remembrance Day, Remembrance is a story that I wished there was more of to savour and enjoy. It is the story of one man's final partaking in Remembrance Day ceremonies, as he's taken part in these every year since the ending of WWII. He wants to pass the torch onto the new and upcoming veterans of the Korean, Iraq and Afghanistan wars (the ones he mentions). He feels his time spent going to the schools, being in the parades, standing at the Cenotaph are done, and besides the veterans from WWI are all gone now and he's one of the very few left from WWII. A wonderful look at the reasons for enlisting, memories of the war itself and the life that awaited him following his return. It's the story of his father, his son and his grandson. I easily could have read far more and wished it were that there was more to read. 4.5 stars.
March 5, 2014
As was hoped for, another short story by macleod and up to his usual usage of temporal language ensconced in dependent clauses to create temporal situations which create the oral story- telling tone and mood. The best thing macleod does is take an ordinary story, inject it with "raw isms", distance the reader from anything unpalatable yet create raw responses. This story looks at three generations of men off to Remembrance Day. They don't communicate openly, and while this is obvious to the reader, the same restraint is able to convey why they don't. A celebration of historic traditions merging with the modern world. It is a very short story but would give those who haven't prior knowledge of his brilliant writing, a morsel to entice them with.
January 20, 2015
In his last published work of fiction, fellow Canuck shines.
His narrative is calm, soothing, detailed and seasoned like good storytelling should.
He passed in the spring of 2014 and one of my writing mentors suggested I check out his work. Too bad he only published a few books. I am curious to know what stories he took with him.
I won't list the description here but this fast read is retrospective, sad, honest and beautiful.
My favourite line "I go to stand and take my place within the continuum of time." As someone who annually pays tribute to our veterans, I think this describes the feeling I get when at the cenotaph.
If you want to read a very short story, make it this one. A must in my opinion.
His narrative is calm, soothing, detailed and seasoned like good storytelling should.
He passed in the spring of 2014 and one of my writing mentors suggested I check out his work. Too bad he only published a few books. I am curious to know what stories he took with him.
I won't list the description here but this fast read is retrospective, sad, honest and beautiful.
My favourite line "I go to stand and take my place within the continuum of time." As someone who annually pays tribute to our veterans, I think this describes the feeling I get when at the cenotaph.
If you want to read a very short story, make it this one. A must in my opinion.
February 10, 2015
Alistair MacLeod's stories are so heartfelt. This one about the David MacDonalds illustrates how war, even if we are not immediately connected with it, affects us. His tale also shows how soldiers are often not patriots, but are inspired by economics. I would guess that this is true even now. The men wait by the wood pile and depart together to remember their roots, their connections and their history. A classic image, not to be forgotten.
May 9, 2014
I loved it. MacLeod is, in my opinion, a supremely gifted writer. He could describe melting snow and make it an epic drama. I wish the story was much longer, but it was still very satisfying.
May 8, 2019
This short little book reminded me why I enjoy Alistair MacLeod's writing so much. He is such a careful craftsman of words. This story is a moving tale of three generations of boys who in their own ways have been shaped by World War 2. Family, war, peace, and as always with MacLeod, Cape Breton Island's beautiful landscape, all feature prominently.
Grab a good cup of coffee, a comfy chair, a quiet hour, and read this fine Canadian story.
Grab a good cup of coffee, a comfy chair, a quiet hour, and read this fine Canadian story.
November 8, 2021
2.5 Rating
March 5, 2022
با خواندن این کتاب یاد این بخش از کتاب میراث هانریش بل افتادم:
خداحافظی سرباز در اصل خداحافظی برای همیشه است. این قطارهایی که سربازها را در سراسر اروپا به مرخصی می برند، چه بار عظیم و جنون آمیزی از درد را جا به جا میکنند. اگر این راهروهای کثیف می توانستند زبان باز کنند، اگر این شیشه های درد گرفته میتوانستند فریاد بکشند و نیز این ایستگاه های قطار ، این ایستگاه های ترسناک، اگر سرانجام همه اینها میتوانستند از دردها و ناامیدی هایی که شاهدش بوده اند، فریاد بکشند! آن وقت دیگر جنگی در کار نبود. اما تنها با ده بیست سطل دوغاب، یکی از همان ایستگاه های ترسناک تبدیل به محیط آزادی برای احمق های الکی خوش شده. با چند قلم موی دو سه نقاش ساختمان که سوت زنان روی داربست ایستاده اند، زندگی ادامه پیدا میکند. مردم زندگی را از سر میگیرند، چون حافظه ضعیفی دارند. قدم زنان از مانع هایی عبور میکنند که زمانی با دلهره می گذشتند، اما امروز، تنها چند سال بعد، خندان برای یاری در ساختمان پوتمکین دیگری روانند. اگر تنها کسانی که بر خاک افتاده اند می توانستند حرف بزنند، و نیز کسانی که با آن چهره های تیره و غمگین و جیب های انباشته از نان مربایی ، سوار بر قطار یا چیز دیگری به سوی مرگ می رفتند . اگر مرده ها می توانستند حرف بزنند، دیگر جنگی در کار نبود. ولی به من نگاه کنید، فقط زبان بازها مانده اند، زیر کار در رو ها، پشت هم اندازها. در اروپا هیچ تله ای نمی تواند آن ها را به دام بیندازد. اگر جز سرباز پیاده چیزی در دنیا نبود، تمام فریادهای جنگ یا صلح زائد بود. دیگر جنکی در کار نبود. همه این قهرمانان به جا مانده، این متخصصانی که جنگ برای شان بازی است، آن هم نوعی بازی که جذابیتش در این است که اندکی خطرناک است، تمام این زبان بازهایی که جنگ را ستایش میکنند و با نگاه به ملال زندگی روزمره شان، غبطه (روزهای خوش گذشته) را میخورند...آری، اگز به جز سرباز پیاده چیزی در دنیا نبود! دیگر نیازی به اثبات این موضوع نبود که جنگ منفور است. همه می دانستند که جنگ ترسناک است، طاعون است، مخوف است. تنها امروز نگاهی بیاندازید به این کله پوک های احساساتی که پوتین های مسخره پر زرق و برقشان را زیر میز دفترهای ملال آورشان دراز کرده اند.
خداحافظی سرباز در اصل خداحافظی برای همیشه است. این قطارهایی که سربازها را در سراسر اروپا به مرخصی می برند، چه بار عظیم و جنون آمیزی از درد را جا به جا میکنند. اگر این راهروهای کثیف می توانستند زبان باز کنند، اگر این شیشه های درد گرفته میتوانستند فریاد بکشند و نیز این ایستگاه های قطار ، این ایستگاه های ترسناک، اگر سرانجام همه اینها میتوانستند از دردها و ناامیدی هایی که شاهدش بوده اند، فریاد بکشند! آن وقت دیگر جنگی در کار نبود. اما تنها با ده بیست سطل دوغاب، یکی از همان ایستگاه های ترسناک تبدیل به محیط آزادی برای احمق های الکی خوش شده. با چند قلم موی دو سه نقاش ساختمان که سوت زنان روی داربست ایستاده اند، زندگی ادامه پیدا میکند. مردم زندگی را از سر میگیرند، چون حافظه ضعیفی دارند. قدم زنان از مانع هایی عبور میکنند که زمانی با دلهره می گذشتند، اما امروز، تنها چند سال بعد، خندان برای یاری در ساختمان پوتمکین دیگری روانند. اگر تنها کسانی که بر خاک افتاده اند می توانستند حرف بزنند، و نیز کسانی که با آن چهره های تیره و غمگین و جیب های انباشته از نان مربایی ، سوار بر قطار یا چیز دیگری به سوی مرگ می رفتند . اگر مرده ها می توانستند حرف بزنند، دیگر جنگی در کار نبود. ولی به من نگاه کنید، فقط زبان بازها مانده اند، زیر کار در رو ها، پشت هم اندازها. در اروپا هیچ تله ای نمی تواند آن ها را به دام بیندازد. اگر جز سرباز پیاده چیزی در دنیا نبود، تمام فریادهای جنگ یا صلح زائد بود. دیگر جنکی در کار نبود. همه این قهرمانان به جا مانده، این متخصصانی که جنگ برای شان بازی است، آن هم نوعی بازی که جذابیتش در این است که اندکی خطرناک است، تمام این زبان بازهایی که جنگ را ستایش میکنند و با نگاه به ملال زندگی روزمره شان، غبطه (روزهای خوش گذشته) را میخورند...آری، اگز به جز سرباز پیاده چیزی در دنیا نبود! دیگر نیازی به اثبات این موضوع نبود که جنگ منفور است. همه می دانستند که جنگ ترسناک است، طاعون است، مخوف است. تنها امروز نگاهی بیاندازید به این کله پوک های احساساتی که پوتین های مسخره پر زرق و برقشان را زیر میز دفترهای ملال آورشان دراز کرده اند.
February 17, 2015
Originally reviewed at Novel Escapes
In just a handful of pages MacLeod created an exquisite story depicting one man’s decision to join up during the Second World War. It is astonishing how much detail was packed into so few pages while still taking the time to describe the surroundings. I got as much information about David MacDonald’s home country as I did about his specific choices for himself and his family.
The three generations of David MacDonalds, grandfather, son and grandson are brought together to attend a Remembrance Day Ceremony, perhaps the grandfather’s last. The mere fact that the grandson is making the journey to Cape Breton to support his grandfather explains the purpose of this poignant short story. The bond between the three generations is clear while being expressed in a way one would expect men to express themselves- the dialogue between them is brief but one wouldn’t be surprised by any more.
What is most unusual perhaps, is the insight into the life of grandfather during that brief period we are given to read. This short story was perfect and I could have happily read so much more- this author's writings will be missed.
Thank you to Random House Canada for our review copy. All opinions are our own.
In just a handful of pages MacLeod created an exquisite story depicting one man’s decision to join up during the Second World War. It is astonishing how much detail was packed into so few pages while still taking the time to describe the surroundings. I got as much information about David MacDonald’s home country as I did about his specific choices for himself and his family.
The three generations of David MacDonalds, grandfather, son and grandson are brought together to attend a Remembrance Day Ceremony, perhaps the grandfather’s last. The mere fact that the grandson is making the journey to Cape Breton to support his grandfather explains the purpose of this poignant short story. The bond between the three generations is clear while being expressed in a way one would expect men to express themselves- the dialogue between them is brief but one wouldn’t be surprised by any more.
What is most unusual perhaps, is the insight into the life of grandfather during that brief period we are given to read. This short story was perfect and I could have happily read so much more- this author's writings will be missed.
Thank you to Random House Canada for our review copy. All opinions are our own.
March 12, 2015
The rhythm of the prose and the depth of feeling in this lovely book made me want to read it aloud to someone. Having had the privilege of hearing Alistair MacLeod read aloud from No Great Mischief, it felt instead, as I read Remembrance, as if he were reading it to me. A compact story that spans generations. It's hard to imagine a writer who could accomplish both things as effectively as does Alistair MacLeod. I'm sorry there'll be no more stories from this fine writer, but what he has left us certainly merits being read and reread.
March 31, 2015
This was my first experience reading an Alistair MacLeod story, but it won't be my last. It is somehow very satisfying to experience a well-written short story (hence the 5 stars). Somerset Maugham was a master at the genre, and so is Mr. McLeod if this, his last published work, is any indication.
Giving a synopsis of the story would give too much away, but it takes place on Remembrance Day, and the tone of the story is appropriately sombre.
Recommended read.
Giving a synopsis of the story would give too much away, but it takes place on Remembrance Day, and the tone of the story is appropriately sombre.
Recommended read.
January 6, 2015
Nice little book...but its really a short story. Its his final published work and, as always, he is able to create wonderfully vivid characters that stay with the reader long after the book is finished.
February 21, 2015
A beautiful edition of MacLeod's last short story, about the effect of war on three generations. His ability to draw the reader in after only a few short pages is nothing short of amazing. A must for every fan of Alistair MacLeod.
June 30, 2016
An epic in 47 pages, beneath the elegant surface of this short work is a cauldron of human passion, simmering slow and enduring. Three generations of David MacDonald embody the changes the world has imposed on them throughout the turmoil of war and dislocation.
November 14, 2013
This a beautiful short story about three generations of men named David Macdonald. It explores how one family is effected by WWII.
June 17, 2017
Excellent
November 27, 2021
آلیستر مک لاود؛ نویسنده کانادایی... این تک داستان، اولین داستانی بود که از این نویسنده خوندم و باید بگم که معرکه بود!
May 11, 2022
مترجم بسیار خوب و کاربلدیه.
November 9, 2017
I can’t remember ever reading a book or story by Alistair MacLeod before today, but I do know I should be ashamed of this fact because he’s one of Canada’s greatest writers. Although he died in 2014, his legacy still lives on in his writing, as well as through his son Alexander MacLeod (pictured below) who is a successful writer in his own right, and not too hard on the eyes either. Just sayin’.
Anyway, I read Alistair Macleod’s last published short story “Remembrance”, in honour of Remembrance Day coming up in a few days. It was commissioned by Hal Wake and the Vancouver Writers Festival as a limited edition chapbook, and Hal being a very dear and generous friend, sent me a signed copy. This is one of the few books that remains on my shelf after I’ve read it, as it means a great deal to me.
To see the rest of my review please visit https://ivereadthis.com/2017/11/09/sh...
Anyway, I read Alistair Macleod’s last published short story “Remembrance”, in honour of Remembrance Day coming up in a few days. It was commissioned by Hal Wake and the Vancouver Writers Festival as a limited edition chapbook, and Hal being a very dear and generous friend, sent me a signed copy. This is one of the few books that remains on my shelf after I’ve read it, as it means a great deal to me.
To see the rest of my review please visit https://ivereadthis.com/2017/11/09/sh...
November 4, 2019
Alistair MacLeod was a master storyteller and his final short story does not disappoint on this grey November afternoon. In Remembrance, MacLeod lays out in sparse, simple language the impact of the Second World War on three generations of men in one family. It begins as the senior man, a veteran approaching 90, prepares for what he expects will be his final Remembrance Day service and waits outside his Cape Breton home for his son and his grandson. There is a lot sketched into a few pages and I believe I wanted more. But perhaps the aching gaps were exactly what was called for when writing about the legacy of war.
August 24, 2018
fantastic Canadian author;
my favourite lines:
“He could smell the smoke from his already lit fire as it wafted forth from his
chimney. The smoke comforted him in a way he could not fully understand, as if it had been part of him for as long as he could remember. “ (Remembrance p. 5). - I have this feeling with the bonfires at the cottage.
“Driving in the dark for four hours by yourself on Remembrance Day is a certain kind of experience, making you think of how the present always comes out of the past.” (p.35)
and "I go to stand and take my place within the continuum of time.”
my favourite lines:
“He could smell the smoke from his already lit fire as it wafted forth from his
chimney. The smoke comforted him in a way he could not fully understand, as if it had been part of him for as long as he could remember. “ (Remembrance p. 5). - I have this feeling with the bonfires at the cottage.
“Driving in the dark for four hours by yourself on Remembrance Day is a certain kind of experience, making you think of how the present always comes out of the past.” (p.35)
and "I go to stand and take my place within the continuum of time.”
November 23, 2020
"They will be standing side by side as they have supported each other for more than half a century. One man near ninety and the other in his late sixties. They are like two adjacent trees that do not touch but share the same root system, although I must admit that this analogy goes a bit too far."
Alistair MacLeod's final story. I thought it fitting to read it on Remembrance Day. A story of 4 generations of Cape Breton men, three of whom are named David MacDonald. Grandfather David looks back on his life, his service in WWII, and the aftermath, on what will probably be his final Remembrance Day.
Thank you to Alistair MacLeod and all our veterans who serve us. Lest we forget 🌹
Alistair MacLeod's final story. I thought it fitting to read it on Remembrance Day. A story of 4 generations of Cape Breton men, three of whom are named David MacDonald. Grandfather David looks back on his life, his service in WWII, and the aftermath, on what will probably be his final Remembrance Day.
Thank you to Alistair MacLeod and all our veterans who serve us. Lest we forget 🌹
July 26, 2022
The final thought is that "All of our lives were affected by a war that brought its changes down upon us. Some of us were saved by actions, and some by accidents, as the past produced the present."
This was the lighthouse of the story as MacLeod explained his approach to writing. It guided everything to that point. Three generations of men are all affected by World War II. One by one they arrive at the home of the eldest who is prepared to go to his last Remembrance Ceremony. Their stories are then revealed. The eldest goes to war and witnesses horrible fighting at Ortona, Italy and then goes on to liberate the Netherlands. He returns to find his wife has had a child with another man; a child that embraces him as his own father and he accepts him as well. When she comes to claim him back the child hides and escapes death as she and her new boyfriend are killed in a car accident. From here he is maimed in a hunting accident with a weapon from World War II and marries a women whose family was liberated in the Netherlands by Canadians and came to live in Canada as refugees. The injury actually helped the son as everyone in the small community felt bad for him and got him a government job in the Highways department and he kept his job even when governments changed. Their child becomes a successful veterinarian.
Lots of stories show how a pivotal personal event shapes the lives of generations. What is of interest is that MacLeod selects a world event to be his pivot point.
MacLeod's descriptive powers are in full display throughout. With this, I have read all of MacLeod's work. He was a master. He was not prolific, but what he did write was always crafted with perfection.
This was the lighthouse of the story as MacLeod explained his approach to writing. It guided everything to that point. Three generations of men are all affected by World War II. One by one they arrive at the home of the eldest who is prepared to go to his last Remembrance Ceremony. Their stories are then revealed. The eldest goes to war and witnesses horrible fighting at Ortona, Italy and then goes on to liberate the Netherlands. He returns to find his wife has had a child with another man; a child that embraces him as his own father and he accepts him as well. When she comes to claim him back the child hides and escapes death as she and her new boyfriend are killed in a car accident. From here he is maimed in a hunting accident with a weapon from World War II and marries a women whose family was liberated in the Netherlands by Canadians and came to live in Canada as refugees. The injury actually helped the son as everyone in the small community felt bad for him and got him a government job in the Highways department and he kept his job even when governments changed. Their child becomes a successful veterinarian.
Lots of stories show how a pivotal personal event shapes the lives of generations. What is of interest is that MacLeod selects a world event to be his pivot point.
MacLeod's descriptive powers are in full display throughout. With this, I have read all of MacLeod's work. He was a master. He was not prolific, but what he did write was always crafted with perfection.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
November 10, 2021
A 47 page story of 3 generations David MacDonalds. Like all MacLeod stories, this one is about the way history follows us -- what happened to the first David in WW2 affects the lives of those who follow. And like all MacLeod stores, beautifully and sympathetically written.
November 11, 2023
Reading this today, on November 11, Remembrance Day, was the perfect way to pause and reflect on the significance of the day. A masterful and moving story, as expected. The last published story by one of Canada's truly great writers.
January 13, 2020
A brief book, but a trademark bit of storytelling from one of my favourite authors. Somehow I'm always filled with a desire to live in Cape Breton while being full of melancholy at the prospect.
October 28, 2020
Beautifully written story about a Canadian family, with 3 generations of David MacDonalds.
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