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124 pages, Paperback
First published October 4, 2012
The tocsin, given the world situation at the time, could mean only one thing: mobilization. Like everyone else but not taking the idea very seriously, Anthime had been rather expecting this, although he would never have imagined it happening on a Saturday. He listened quietly for less than a minute to the bells solemnly jostling one another, then straightened his bike and pushed off again, coasting all the way down the hill before turning toward home.
The artillery having come to the company’s aid too late in their advance, the troop had been unable to gain the advantage all day, constantly moving forward only to retreat right away. Finally, at dusk, with a last effort they managed to drive the enemy back beyond the woods with a bayonet charge: Anthime saw – thought he saw – men stabbing other men right before his eyes, then firing their weapons to retrieve the blades from the flesh via the recoil. Clutching his rifle, he himself now felt ready to stab, impale, transfix the slightest obstacle, the bodies of men, of animals, tree trunks, whatever might present itself: a fleeting state of mind yet absolute, blind, excluding all others, but in the event the opportunity never arose.
As the smoke and dust gradually cleared from the trench, a kind of quiet returned, even though other massive detonations still sounded solemnly all around but at a distance, as if in an echo. Those who’d been spared stood up fairly spattered with bits of military flesh, dirt-crusted scraps rats were already snatching off them and fighting over among the bodily remains here and there: a head without its lower jaw, a hand wearing its wedding ring, a single foot in its boot, an eye.
All this has been described a thousand times, so perhaps it's not worthwhile to linger any longer over that sordid, stinking opera. And perhaps there's not much point either in comparing the war to an opera, especially since no one cares a lot about opera, even if war is operatically grandiose, exaggerated, excessive, full of longueurs, makes a great deal of noise and is often, in the end, rather boring.Indeed. While this book is too short for longueurs – I read it one sitting – it is (despite a few fine passages) completely incidental. Its most interesting aspect is the set of endnotes provided by Linda Coverdale, the translator.