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A review by reader_fictions
The Train by Robert Baldick, Georges Simenon
2.0
Believe it or not, I was a History major in undergrad, not English, although, given my love of literature, that might have been the obvious choice. I do also really enjoy reading about history, although I do it less, since so many academic historians write so dryly and reading their books is like pulling teeth. My favorite historical periods to study are World War I, World War II and the Vietnam War, not the battles so much, but what life was like. I am a sucker for novels about these time periods as much as I am for ya books with corsets on the cover.
I tried, somewhat halfheartedly, to find out some historical background on The Train, but was not particularly successful. Apparently, the book was forgotten after its initial publication and is now being republished in a snazzy new cover by Melville House, which is doing the same for a number of old titles. The initial publication in English was in 1964.
The book itself was somewhat of a disappointment. It had some inherent interest, because Simenon discussed a section of wartime life I knew nothing about, which I always love. The refugees on the trains are reminiscent of Holocaust memoirs, only they had it so incredibly easy. Their trains made so many stops, so they could get out and do their business, and they were given free, pretty plentiful and delicious food at each station. They had enough space to lay down in the train cars. Still, they were pretty cramped and they had no idea where they were going or precisely what would happen to them when they got there. This was all cool.
The main problem I had with The Train was either the translation or Simenon's writing style, although I cannot say which. The syntax was often odd and stilted, making me need to read a few sentences a couple of times to figure out what was going on. Its like the rhythm is just a little bit off somehow.
I also did not appreciate reading yet another book about an affair. Sigh. To be fair though, the affair did support the story and made perfect sense in context. The freedom that everyone felt was a part of the train journey too. It was so different from daily experience that people felt uninhibited: "I wasn't alone in feeling outside ordinary life and its conventions" (126).
Also cool is the question of how reliable of a narrator Marcel really is. Some of his assertions definitely need to be taken with a cellar of salt. At only 153 pages, The Train is well-worth the time it takes to read for the unique reflection on WWII life.
I tried, somewhat halfheartedly, to find out some historical background on The Train, but was not particularly successful. Apparently, the book was forgotten after its initial publication and is now being republished in a snazzy new cover by Melville House, which is doing the same for a number of old titles. The initial publication in English was in 1964.
The book itself was somewhat of a disappointment. It had some inherent interest, because Simenon discussed a section of wartime life I knew nothing about, which I always love. The refugees on the trains are reminiscent of Holocaust memoirs, only they had it so incredibly easy. Their trains made so many stops, so they could get out and do their business, and they were given free, pretty plentiful and delicious food at each station. They had enough space to lay down in the train cars. Still, they were pretty cramped and they had no idea where they were going or precisely what would happen to them when they got there. This was all cool.
The main problem I had with The Train was either the translation or Simenon's writing style, although I cannot say which. The syntax was often odd and stilted, making me need to read a few sentences a couple of times to figure out what was going on. Its like the rhythm is just a little bit off somehow.
I also did not appreciate reading yet another book about an affair. Sigh. To be fair though, the affair did support the story and made perfect sense in context. The freedom that everyone felt was a part of the train journey too. It was so different from daily experience that people felt uninhibited: "I wasn't alone in feeling outside ordinary life and its conventions" (126).
Also cool is the question of how reliable of a narrator Marcel really is. Some of his assertions definitely need to be taken with a cellar of salt. At only 153 pages, The Train is well-worth the time it takes to read for the unique reflection on WWII life.