“I take
another look at the stone, run my fingertip over the meticulous brushstrokes,
and realize that nothing ever returns to time unless it is stored in mute,
voiceless objects; rocks do tell tales after all.”
What is War?
Some
incomplete notebooks of days long gone? Containing echoes of men cut down in
their prime and never to understand where life could take them without death
being always around the corner. Just waiting.
War and
Turpentine deals with this dichotomy that was non-existent during the early 20th
century – as horrific wars ravaged the expanse of the world.
A confession
first, for I need to make it. If only for you to understand why I will reflect
on things the way I will. I have never been a fan of memoirs – fictional maybe,
but ideally never non-fiction. For I always wonder about the flesh and blood
protagonists of such haunted tales and how much they were truly captured in the
words infront on me right now.
Life is
absolute. Memory is interpretation – and there is always a desire to show
oneself in a certain light when reminiscing. I am not kind on history for the
same reason. So, there were misgivings when I picked up this book to experiment
on my reading habits.
The World
Wars are a rich ground for dramatic fodder, for there are true tales etched in
their walls. Here, we travel to Belgium for one such soldier who wasn’t really
a soldier. It all begins with a grandson trying to understand the life of his
grandfather Urban Martien.
Through the
notebooks of a man trying to note down the roads life took him with broken
memories, Stefan chronicles the life of the son of a poor painter and a proud
woman who didn’t back down even when life took a turn for the worse – Celine is
the unsung hero of Urban’s story, reflecting in the days of war and days of
love. Where duty always seemed to override choice.
The
innocence of youth first shatters with the poverty, and soon with the passing of
his father, Urbain becomes hardened in life and finds the warzone his calling.
Over the years that follow, he discovers what rank is, how in war rules and
dignity prove secondary to staying alive – and finally how Death can be
capricious in who falls silent and who braves on.
One of the
more tragic moments is interestingly not in the war, but in normal everyday
life as Urbain falls in love but even here Death strikes to bring forth a cruel
arrangement. The grandmother of our author becomes his true love’s sister and
like the War, our soldier continues in the name of duty.
Love was
never going to win in this.
In years
past, we see Urbain take up his late father’s passion but never depict the war
in any manner – for that would be to bring dishonour to a solemn matter. And
again, war was never meant for his brush.
Written
originally in Dutch, this English translation does a competent job of conveying
the author’s words – but maybe in original diction it was lacking, this comes
across as a dry recollection and the warmth of nostalgic wonder goes missing. The
horror of the war is intact in the words, but emotion is hollow. This feels
like the words of a man who saw a film of the war, and then decided to write on
it rather than that of a man who survived the same. Maybe that is what happens
to notebooks and old men.
Sooner or
later, they crumble and take their pristine memories to the dust. Maybe life,
as the author says, was two digits leapfrogging each other.
So, I give
it 5.5 out of 10.
+Wonderful
recollection of the first War
+Amazing contrast
between the stages of Urbain’s life
-Prose is
too dry to connect well
-Too much
nonlinearity breaks the flow of the reading
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