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3.76 AVERAGE
3.76 AVERAGE
Such a valuable book for vivid descriptions of life as a WWI soldier, and how foreign and unexpected this method of war was with all of the new technology and subsequent utter and complete decimation of towns and countryside. The author has done a brilliant job bringing his grandfather's memoir to life, with flavor. Really works quite well in switching POV from the author to the Grandfather. I do wish one of the images shared would have been the sketch of Urbain's first love. And a map would have been nice as well.
(note, not quite nonfiction, but somewhere in the middle)
at times truly evocative language: p 96 As my Aunt Melanie spoke to me, daintily holding her teacup in her wizened hand, adorned with a s single diamond ring, I pictured my grandfather, the little foundryman, with a ratty old blanket draped over his stocky shoulders, posing as Christ in that cold refectory in the quiet years before the Great War, with his father in front of him, sketching away without a word, and it's as if the scene in my imagination becomes a memory, the painter painting a painter, something I seem to have truly experienced and can call to mind right now, right here, now that I too feel the stealthy approach of old age, and the dead grow more and more alive in an ineffaceable fresco, an allegory no living soul can ever revisit or recover, but which has been burned into my being.
p 104 referring to the older generation Their dark forms are larger than life, because memories like that grow along with your body, so that adults from our childhood always resemble an extinct race of old gods, still towering over us.
p 162 The pandemonium died down. Suddenly all we could hear was the flapping of wood pigeons and the crackle of the fires. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled like a wolf. The Milky Way twinkled, endlessly far away from the black hole where this stupid planet was spinning.
p 179 That same morning, the rest of our battalion was massacred by the machine guns and shells of the exceptionally well-entrenched German forces. From Nieuwpoort to Diksmuide, one hundred and fifty thousand young soldiers fell in less than a week.
p 193 We turn tough and get sentimental; we laugh as we cry; our life's a waking slumber, a slumberous wake; we quarrel with our arms around each other; we lash out at each other while shrugging our shoulders; no part of our bodies or minds remains intact; we breathe as long as we live, and live merely because we are breathing, as long as it lasts.
p 212 My story is growing monotonous, just as the war grew monotonous, death monotonous, our hatred of the Huns monotonous, just as life itself grew monotonous and finally began to turn our stomachs.
p 227 The battlefields redolent of crushed grass, the soldiers who saluted even in their dying moments, the rural scenes of hills and glades in eighteenth-century military paintings gave way to a heap of psychological rubble choked with mustard gas, ravaged pastures filled with severed limbs, the physical annihilation of an old-fashioned breed of human being.
p 228 But somewhere a gasket had blown. That much was clear to the soldiers who looked on mutely, without joining in the cheers: the cozy intimacy of Old Europe had been destroyed forever. The war had shot humanism full of holes, and what came rushing in was the infernal heat of a barren moral wasteland that could hardly be sown with new ideals, since it was abundantly clear how far astray the old ones had led us. The new politics that would now flare up was fueled by wrath, resentment, rancor, and vengefulness, and showed even greater potential for destruction.
p 265 As the finely strung philosopher with the hammer once memorably wrote in The Antichrist, I can no longer look at paintings without seeing gestures, because I understand that was has touched my own life is not a book of innocence, but a reading saturated with historical guilt.
(note, not quite nonfiction, but somewhere in the middle)
at times truly evocative language: p 96 As my Aunt Melanie spoke to me, daintily holding her teacup in her wizened hand, adorned with a s single diamond ring, I pictured my grandfather, the little foundryman, with a ratty old blanket draped over his stocky shoulders, posing as Christ in that cold refectory in the quiet years before the Great War, with his father in front of him, sketching away without a word, and it's as if the scene in my imagination becomes a memory, the painter painting a painter, something I seem to have truly experienced and can call to mind right now, right here, now that I too feel the stealthy approach of old age, and the dead grow more and more alive in an ineffaceable fresco, an allegory no living soul can ever revisit or recover, but which has been burned into my being.
p 104 referring to the older generation Their dark forms are larger than life, because memories like that grow along with your body, so that adults from our childhood always resemble an extinct race of old gods, still towering over us.
p 162 The pandemonium died down. Suddenly all we could hear was the flapping of wood pigeons and the crackle of the fires. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled like a wolf. The Milky Way twinkled, endlessly far away from the black hole where this stupid planet was spinning.
p 179 That same morning, the rest of our battalion was massacred by the machine guns and shells of the exceptionally well-entrenched German forces. From Nieuwpoort to Diksmuide, one hundred and fifty thousand young soldiers fell in less than a week.
p 193 We turn tough and get sentimental; we laugh as we cry; our life's a waking slumber, a slumberous wake; we quarrel with our arms around each other; we lash out at each other while shrugging our shoulders; no part of our bodies or minds remains intact; we breathe as long as we live, and live merely because we are breathing, as long as it lasts.
p 212 My story is growing monotonous, just as the war grew monotonous, death monotonous, our hatred of the Huns monotonous, just as life itself grew monotonous and finally began to turn our stomachs.
p 227 The battlefields redolent of crushed grass, the soldiers who saluted even in their dying moments, the rural scenes of hills and glades in eighteenth-century military paintings gave way to a heap of psychological rubble choked with mustard gas, ravaged pastures filled with severed limbs, the physical annihilation of an old-fashioned breed of human being.
p 228 But somewhere a gasket had blown. That much was clear to the soldiers who looked on mutely, without joining in the cheers: the cozy intimacy of Old Europe had been destroyed forever. The war had shot humanism full of holes, and what came rushing in was the infernal heat of a barren moral wasteland that could hardly be sown with new ideals, since it was abundantly clear how far astray the old ones had led us. The new politics that would now flare up was fueled by wrath, resentment, rancor, and vengefulness, and showed even greater potential for destruction.
p 265 As the finely strung philosopher with the hammer once memorably wrote in The Antichrist, I can no longer look at paintings without seeing gestures, because I understand that was has touched my own life is not a book of innocence, but a reading saturated with historical guilt.
I don't know quite what to make of this book, as it's like nothing else I've ever read. I chose it from a list of recommended WWI titles because I wanted to read something to mark the centenary. It was appealing because it was not a British or American author, it was set partly in Ghent, which I had visited on a WWI excursion, and it dealt not just with war but with art. The novel, in three sections, is based on his grandfather's journals, which the author held for 30 years before reading them. The middle section is based on his grandfather's first-person account of his WWI service and is as harrowing an account as I've ever read. The first part of the book constructs a Flemish childhood for his grandfather, while the last part weaves the threads of painting and military service together with clues to the closely held secrets that emerge from his grandfather's paintings. The prose is at times as monotonous as the war (as the author cleverly admits in one passage), but at other times, sparkles with keen observations on life, memory, love, craft, and connection. One example:
"To me, he was still a hero; he gave me fencing lessons, sharpened my pocketknife, taught me how to draw clouds by rubbing an eraser over shapes sketched with a piece of charred wood from the fireplace, and how to render the myriad leaves of a tree without drawing each one separately—the true secret of art, as he called it."
The author has recorded an English-language trailer for the book, which explains how he came to write it: http://www.stefanhertmans.be/sh/?page_id=419
"To me, he was still a hero; he gave me fencing lessons, sharpened my pocketknife, taught me how to draw clouds by rubbing an eraser over shapes sketched with a piece of charred wood from the fireplace, and how to render the myriad leaves of a tree without drawing each one separately—the true secret of art, as he called it."
The author has recorded an English-language trailer for the book, which explains how he came to write it: http://www.stefanhertmans.be/sh/?page_id=419
Wat een schitterende roman! Zeker in de eerste helft van het boek had ik een sterk 'Verdriet van België'-gevoel: niet omdat deze roman daarop lijkt, maar omdat dit net zo'n groots meesterwerk lijkt te zijn. Ik kende Hertmans van zijn slimme en vermakelijke vroege roman Naar Merelbeke, ik wist dus al dat hij kon schrijven maar was hem wat uit het oog verloren. Ik zie in mijn boekenkast dat ik ook Als op de eerste dag heb gelezen, maar kan me daar niets van herinneren, misschien dat het me een beetje tegenviel.
Maar misschien moet ik dat coh maar eens herlezen, want dit boek bewijst wel dat Hertmans niet gewoon dat hij 'kan schrijven', maar dat hij magistraal mooi kan schrijven.
Het valt in drie duidelijk onderscheiden delen uiteen. Hertmans wil de oorlogsherinneringen vertellen van zijn grootvader, die zijn ervaringen in de Eerste Wereldoorlog zelf heeft opgeschreven in een schrift dat Hertmans na zijn dood nog tientallen jaren ongeopend heeft gelaten. Nu het herdenkingsjaar 2014 nadert, heeft hij zich toch aan de taak gezet – en hoe.
Het eerste deel gaat over Hertmans' herinneringen aan zijn grootvader en over diens leven tot de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Dit vind ik het indrukwekkendste deel van het boek. In prachtig proza schildert Hertmans de jeugd van zijn opa. Ik heb de indruk dat zijn proza is beïnvloed door het ongetwijfeld wat gedragen en archaïsche Nederlands van zijn grootvaders tekst: het gaat niet alleen óver iemand die geboren was en opgroeiden in de negentiende-eeuw, ook Hertmans eigen stijl heeft hier een negentiende-eeuwse elegantie en gedragenheid. Daarbij is het ook prachtig gecomponeerd, Hertmans creëert een hecht weefsel van kruisverwijzingen en terugkerende metaforen die prachtig organisch voortkomen uit de beschreven taferelen zelf: zijn grootvaders gefnuikte artistieke ambities, zijn werk in een ijzersmelterij, zijn bezoek aan een fabriek waar gelei wordt gekookt uit rottende paardenkoppen – een prachtig lyrisch beschreven tafereel van vergankelijkheid en verval dat onnadrukkelijk maar onmiskenbaar vooruitwijst naar de verschrikkingen van de oorlog.
Die verschrikkingen worden beschreven in deel II van het boek. Dat deel is nog even magistraal, maar minder opvallend indrukwekkend omdat het vertelt wat al zo vaak is verteld: alle verhalen over soldaten in de loopgraven van die oorlog lijken op elkaar, en zijn allemaal even verschrikkelijk. Alle geijkte episodes passeren de revue: het eerste gruwelijke geweld, dat niet erger lijkt te kunnen en het toch steeds weer wordt; moed en lafheid van de krijgsgenoten; verwonding, verpleging en terugkeer naar het front; arrogantie en stupiditeit van de officieren; uiteindelijke ontgoocheling van de aanvankelijk nog zo moedige soldaat, enz. enz.
Deel III vertelt over het leven van Hertmans grootvader na de oorlog, vermengd met weer wat herinneringen en bespiegelingen van Hertmans zelf. Alle draadjes worden vakkundig aan elkaar geknoopt en er ontstaat zo een ontroerend, generaties omspannend portret – niet alleen van het geknakte artistieke en liefdesleven van de grootvader (een amateur-schilder die niets moest hebben van moderne kunst, een diep romantische ziel die nooit echte liefde lijkt te hebben gekend), maar van een hele familie en vooruit: heel voorzichtig misschien ook van een hele samenleving.
Een schitterend boek, dat me voorbestemd lijkt om een klassieker te worden.
Noot achteraf: extra interessant was het om, geheel bij toeval, kort hierna Marnix Gijsens Klaaglied om Agnes te lezen. Gijsens was ongeveer tien jaar jonger dan Hertmans grootvader, en het verslag van zijn jeugdliefde overlapt dus een beetje met Hertmans verslag van zijn grootvaders oorlog en liefde. De boeken hebben een paar opvallende gelijkenissen, vooral in de (door monsterlijke katholieke preutsheid geïndoctrineerde) mentaliteit van de hoofdpersonen.
Maar misschien moet ik dat coh maar eens herlezen, want dit boek bewijst wel dat Hertmans niet gewoon dat hij 'kan schrijven', maar dat hij magistraal mooi kan schrijven.
Het valt in drie duidelijk onderscheiden delen uiteen. Hertmans wil de oorlogsherinneringen vertellen van zijn grootvader, die zijn ervaringen in de Eerste Wereldoorlog zelf heeft opgeschreven in een schrift dat Hertmans na zijn dood nog tientallen jaren ongeopend heeft gelaten. Nu het herdenkingsjaar 2014 nadert, heeft hij zich toch aan de taak gezet – en hoe.
Het eerste deel gaat over Hertmans' herinneringen aan zijn grootvader en over diens leven tot de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Dit vind ik het indrukwekkendste deel van het boek. In prachtig proza schildert Hertmans de jeugd van zijn opa. Ik heb de indruk dat zijn proza is beïnvloed door het ongetwijfeld wat gedragen en archaïsche Nederlands van zijn grootvaders tekst: het gaat niet alleen óver iemand die geboren was en opgroeiden in de negentiende-eeuw, ook Hertmans eigen stijl heeft hier een negentiende-eeuwse elegantie en gedragenheid. Daarbij is het ook prachtig gecomponeerd, Hertmans creëert een hecht weefsel van kruisverwijzingen en terugkerende metaforen die prachtig organisch voortkomen uit de beschreven taferelen zelf: zijn grootvaders gefnuikte artistieke ambities, zijn werk in een ijzersmelterij, zijn bezoek aan een fabriek waar gelei wordt gekookt uit rottende paardenkoppen – een prachtig lyrisch beschreven tafereel van vergankelijkheid en verval dat onnadrukkelijk maar onmiskenbaar vooruitwijst naar de verschrikkingen van de oorlog.
Die verschrikkingen worden beschreven in deel II van het boek. Dat deel is nog even magistraal, maar minder opvallend indrukwekkend omdat het vertelt wat al zo vaak is verteld: alle verhalen over soldaten in de loopgraven van die oorlog lijken op elkaar, en zijn allemaal even verschrikkelijk. Alle geijkte episodes passeren de revue: het eerste gruwelijke geweld, dat niet erger lijkt te kunnen en het toch steeds weer wordt; moed en lafheid van de krijgsgenoten; verwonding, verpleging en terugkeer naar het front; arrogantie en stupiditeit van de officieren; uiteindelijke ontgoocheling van de aanvankelijk nog zo moedige soldaat, enz. enz.
Deel III vertelt over het leven van Hertmans grootvader na de oorlog, vermengd met weer wat herinneringen en bespiegelingen van Hertmans zelf. Alle draadjes worden vakkundig aan elkaar geknoopt en er ontstaat zo een ontroerend, generaties omspannend portret – niet alleen van het geknakte artistieke en liefdesleven van de grootvader (een amateur-schilder die niets moest hebben van moderne kunst, een diep romantische ziel die nooit echte liefde lijkt te hebben gekend), maar van een hele familie en vooruit: heel voorzichtig misschien ook van een hele samenleving.
Een schitterend boek, dat me voorbestemd lijkt om een klassieker te worden.
Noot achteraf: extra interessant was het om, geheel bij toeval, kort hierna Marnix Gijsens Klaaglied om Agnes te lezen. Gijsens was ongeveer tien jaar jonger dan Hertmans grootvader, en het verslag van zijn jeugdliefde overlapt dus een beetje met Hertmans verslag van zijn grootvaders oorlog en liefde. De boeken hebben een paar opvallende gelijkenissen, vooral in de (door monsterlijke katholieke preutsheid geïndoctrineerde) mentaliteit van de hoofdpersonen.
‘Ik dacht aan het stille, rustgevende geluid dat de handen van mijn vader maakten, wrijvend over het papier, schetsend in de vrede van een verre zondagmiddag, en mijn ogen stroomden zo vol, zo verdomd heet vol, dat ik het papier tot een prop verfrommelde, het van me af wierp en vloekte.’
It’s hard to know how to do justice to a work of this magnitude. It’s much more than WW1 historical fiction, or a Flemish love story with a twist, or a comprehensive primer on how and how not to paint. It’s the equivalent of a symphony in sentence form, and as pretentious and preposterous as that sounds, it’s what I mean. There are recurring motifs and changes in tempo that add up to incomparable literary movements. Truly, I haven’t read writing this luminous in years.
I won this novel in a Goodreads giveaway a couple of months ago. Little did I know it would become one of my favorite books, ever.
I had never read anything by Stefan Hertmans before, and initially I was a little apprehensive about reading a Flemish book in English (as a native Dutch speaker, that just felt silly). I shouldn't have been worried: this novel is AMAZING, regardless of language, and the translation by David McKay is actually really, really good. At no point did I think "Wow, that sounds awkward in English." In fact, I was impressed by the way McKay translated certain "Flemishisms" (I just made that up) into English. Each time, I knew exactly what he meant.
But back to the story itself - wow. I'm not even sure what to say. I'm just sitting here while there's a rainstorm outside, having just spent the entire morning outdoors (up until the advance of that rainstorm) finishing this novel when I should have been doing work. I just couldn't stop reading.
Ever since reading my first book by Dutch writer Simon Vestdijk I've had a growing a fascination with life in early-20th century Europe. After reading "The Go-Between" by L.P. Hartley and watching Downton Abbey that interest grew stronger, and finally reached crazy new heights after reading one of my absolute favorite books ever, De Thibaults by Roger Martin du Gard. So yes, saying that I was "excited" about reading War and Turpentine would be an understatement. And then Hertmans surpassed my expectations.
This is the story of his grandfather, Urbain Martien, which Hertmans reconstructs based on his diaries. While written in old age, the diaries detail events from Martien's youth (roughly 1891-1914) and the First World War. This is not simply a biography, however: Hertmans is such a skillful, poetic writer that the story becomes almost like fiction, without ever becoming overly dramatic or sentimental. Hertmans never takes the story away from his grandfather - it's still very much his story. He just cast it in narrative form, and the effect is stunning.
Take for example this passage, which describes part of his grandfather's wartime experiences:
"Time has abandoned us; we have slipped into a dim, unreal fold in its fabric, with no beginning or end in sight. Season follows season, the clouds drift overhead, fabulous white beasts and capricious gods in the noonday light; we are old before our time, we behave like housebound, fatalistic children, numbed and indifferent to life and death" (224).
I don't want to say too much about the contents for fear of giving too much away, but suffice it to say that this is more (way more) than a story about war. It's the story of a man who wanted to be an artist, and was forced to become a soldier instead, and the story of a man who was greatly influenced by the different women in his life. Near the end of the book, Hertmans calls the wartime experiences an "idyll in hell," and that captures it so perfectly: it was a hell, there is no question about it. Yet, there was something so raw about life lived constantly on the egde of death, at least in the way his grandfather describes it. It is hard to comprehend, and yet Hertmans is able to convey that exact feeling.
Reading this book, I felt as I always do when reading a really exceptional novel: it feels as if I have lived it. Of course, Hertmans is familiar with that feeling himself, as he experiences it reading his grandfather's diaries, and he conveys it in the most beautiful way:
"As my aunt Melanie spoke to me, daintily holding her teacup in her wizened hand, adorned with a single diamond ring, I pictured my grandfather, the little foundryman, with a ratty old blanket draped over his stocky shoulders, posing as Christ in that cold refectory in the quiet years before the Great War, with his father in front of him, sketching away without a word, and it's as if the scene in my imagination becomes a memory, the painter painting a painter, something I seem to have truly experienced and can call to mind right now, right here, now that I too feel the stealthy approach of old age, and the dead grow more and more alive in an ineffaceable fresco, an allegory no living soul can ever revisit or recover, but which has been burned into my being" (99).
Dankuwel, meneer Hertmans, voor dit adembenemende boek.
I had never read anything by Stefan Hertmans before, and initially I was a little apprehensive about reading a Flemish book in English (as a native Dutch speaker, that just felt silly). I shouldn't have been worried: this novel is AMAZING, regardless of language, and the translation by David McKay is actually really, really good. At no point did I think "Wow, that sounds awkward in English." In fact, I was impressed by the way McKay translated certain "Flemishisms" (I just made that up) into English. Each time, I knew exactly what he meant.
But back to the story itself - wow. I'm not even sure what to say. I'm just sitting here while there's a rainstorm outside, having just spent the entire morning outdoors (up until the advance of that rainstorm) finishing this novel when I should have been doing work. I just couldn't stop reading.
Ever since reading my first book by Dutch writer Simon Vestdijk I've had a growing a fascination with life in early-20th century Europe. After reading "The Go-Between" by L.P. Hartley and watching Downton Abbey that interest grew stronger, and finally reached crazy new heights after reading one of my absolute favorite books ever, De Thibaults by Roger Martin du Gard. So yes, saying that I was "excited" about reading War and Turpentine would be an understatement. And then Hertmans surpassed my expectations.
This is the story of his grandfather, Urbain Martien, which Hertmans reconstructs based on his diaries. While written in old age, the diaries detail events from Martien's youth (roughly 1891-1914) and the First World War. This is not simply a biography, however: Hertmans is such a skillful, poetic writer that the story becomes almost like fiction, without ever becoming overly dramatic or sentimental. Hertmans never takes the story away from his grandfather - it's still very much his story. He just cast it in narrative form, and the effect is stunning.
Take for example this passage, which describes part of his grandfather's wartime experiences:
"Time has abandoned us; we have slipped into a dim, unreal fold in its fabric, with no beginning or end in sight. Season follows season, the clouds drift overhead, fabulous white beasts and capricious gods in the noonday light; we are old before our time, we behave like housebound, fatalistic children, numbed and indifferent to life and death" (224).
I don't want to say too much about the contents for fear of giving too much away, but suffice it to say that this is more (way more) than a story about war. It's the story of a man who wanted to be an artist, and was forced to become a soldier instead, and the story of a man who was greatly influenced by the different women in his life. Near the end of the book, Hertmans calls the wartime experiences an "idyll in hell," and that captures it so perfectly: it was a hell, there is no question about it. Yet, there was something so raw about life lived constantly on the egde of death, at least in the way his grandfather describes it. It is hard to comprehend, and yet Hertmans is able to convey that exact feeling.
Reading this book, I felt as I always do when reading a really exceptional novel: it feels as if I have lived it. Of course, Hertmans is familiar with that feeling himself, as he experiences it reading his grandfather's diaries, and he conveys it in the most beautiful way:
"As my aunt Melanie spoke to me, daintily holding her teacup in her wizened hand, adorned with a single diamond ring, I pictured my grandfather, the little foundryman, with a ratty old blanket draped over his stocky shoulders, posing as Christ in that cold refectory in the quiet years before the Great War, with his father in front of him, sketching away without a word, and it's as if the scene in my imagination becomes a memory, the painter painting a painter, something I seem to have truly experienced and can call to mind right now, right here, now that I too feel the stealthy approach of old age, and the dead grow more and more alive in an ineffaceable fresco, an allegory no living soul can ever revisit or recover, but which has been burned into my being" (99).
Dankuwel, meneer Hertmans, voor dit adembenemende boek.
Was warned that this excellent book goes off the rails in the final third. Was curious as to what my friend/mentor meant. After reading it myself, I have to agree: Hertmans could have used a more stern editor, one armed with machete. There are some decent moments--but compression is sorely needed in that third act. Overall, a good book. The first two sections are incredible and more than make up for this failing.
I thought the concept was good but I just found it very boring.
emotional
reflective
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
I'm always sceptic when I start reading a much acclaimed book, because the high expectations usually turn out to be counterproductive. In this case I have to say that it is not too bad, although the book is certainly not the masterpiece that one makes of it.
"War and turpentine" is limping on different legs, and that is where my problem lies. In the first place it's a portrait of the author's grandfather, Urbain Martien, and a family chronicle. Hertmans reconstructs the life of his grandfather on the basis of personal memories, stories told in his family, but mainly on the basis of 2 handwritten cahiers that his grandfather gave him at the age of 90 (that is what Hertmans claims). We get a beautiful, colourful description of Urbain's childhood around the turn of the century (1900), in the city of Ghent and the surrounding area. Especially the mother bond of Urbain is highlighted, his pious queasiness and his (silent) admiration for the fierce creativity of his father, who is a restorer of paintings and sculptures in churches and monasteries.
The transition to the second part is quite abrupt: this part is the version of the war experience of Urbain, edited by Hertmans, as laid out in the 'cahiers' of his grandfather. We are presented with raw war scenes, but with a strong emphasis on the heroic deeds done by himself. And that courage and entrepreneurial spirit contrasts with the coarse image that we got in the first chapter of Urbain. The war description certainly is a strong piece of literature, really captivating. Of course, one has to ask to what extent the description is truthful (because the memories were written down 50 years after the war) and to what extent grandson Stefan Hertmans has contributed to the editing of it.
The third part covers the 70 years of Urbain's life after the war, and here again we see a queasy grandfather, who marries a woman whom he may barely touch, and who quietly undergoes his fate. From a literary-technical point of view this is the most interesting part, because here we see the author Hertmans at work to unravel the mystery of his grandfather, determining how the past is situated in a foreign country, and then constructs a story with small clues and own interpretations. This is the postmodern part of this book. In that way, I think the key to reading this book is already offered on page 27: "grandparents reveal more about your own identity than your parents (who you fight)". In other words: is this book more about Stefan Hertmans than about Urbain Martien?
In short: this is a fascinating and poignant novel, in several ways, but not convincing enough so that I could join the jubileering choirs. To me, [b:The Convert|45834042|The Convert|Stefan Hertmans|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1565755888l/45834042._SX50_.jpg|53058091] (Hertmans' next novel) was a much more succesful book!
"War and turpentine" is limping on different legs, and that is where my problem lies. In the first place it's a portrait of the author's grandfather, Urbain Martien, and a family chronicle. Hertmans reconstructs the life of his grandfather on the basis of personal memories, stories told in his family, but mainly on the basis of 2 handwritten cahiers that his grandfather gave him at the age of 90 (that is what Hertmans claims). We get a beautiful, colourful description of Urbain's childhood around the turn of the century (1900), in the city of Ghent and the surrounding area. Especially the mother bond of Urbain is highlighted, his pious queasiness and his (silent) admiration for the fierce creativity of his father, who is a restorer of paintings and sculptures in churches and monasteries.
The transition to the second part is quite abrupt: this part is the version of the war experience of Urbain, edited by Hertmans, as laid out in the 'cahiers' of his grandfather. We are presented with raw war scenes, but with a strong emphasis on the heroic deeds done by himself. And that courage and entrepreneurial spirit contrasts with the coarse image that we got in the first chapter of Urbain. The war description certainly is a strong piece of literature, really captivating. Of course, one has to ask to what extent the description is truthful (because the memories were written down 50 years after the war) and to what extent grandson Stefan Hertmans has contributed to the editing of it.
The third part covers the 70 years of Urbain's life after the war, and here again we see a queasy grandfather, who marries a woman whom he may barely touch, and who quietly undergoes his fate. From a literary-technical point of view this is the most interesting part, because here we see the author Hertmans at work to unravel the mystery of his grandfather, determining how the past is situated in a foreign country, and then constructs a story with small clues and own interpretations. This is the postmodern part of this book. In that way, I think the key to reading this book is already offered on page 27: "grandparents reveal more about your own identity than your parents (who you fight)". In other words: is this book more about Stefan Hertmans than about Urbain Martien?
In short: this is a fascinating and poignant novel, in several ways, but not convincing enough so that I could join the jubileering choirs. To me, [b:The Convert|45834042|The Convert|Stefan Hertmans|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1565755888l/45834042._SX50_.jpg|53058091] (Hertmans' next novel) was a much more succesful book!