Last night I started reading Jorge Semprún’s The Long Voyage, the first novel he wrote (and winner of a pair of French literary prizes). I think Helen Graham was right in indicating Literature or Life as his greatest literary accomplishment. Still there is very much of interest in The Long Voyage. Already Semprún deploys his anti-chronological mosaic technique, complete with authorial intrusions (of the sort, ‘this is my book, so I’ll write it as I damn well please’). He moves forward, backward, sideways, etc. Then he draws the reader in with his vivid instantaneos. It is as if his literature were indeed made up of a collection of moments, sometimes even scenes, often fragmented irregularly, like the cracks in a broken mirror. The translation appears to be very good, with a language that is in no way dated at all. This is refreshing. And in addition, he tells it like it is—or was, with no sentimentality. This is something to bear in mind. Semprún allows his characters, all of whom—for the moment—are trapped in the same boxcar, to reveal ugly, perhaps even petty, sides of themselves. The farmer, for example, who got caught up in the Nazi roundup, and threatens to reveal a plan by some within the boxcar to try to cut through the floorboards. He’s not presented as a very sympathetic character, and yet neither is he a villain. I mean, he has a point, since he was a guy—perhaps even a collaborator, or at least someone who was willing to live with the occupation rather than resist it—who just wanted to get on with his own life. Obviously this is extremely selfish at a time of such widespread tragedy. But what I appreciate about Semprún’s even mentioning him, is that there must have been many like him, and in this way Semprún—without lecturing us at all—reveals something of the complexity of French society and the diverse attitudes towards the catastrophic capitulation. And in the end this diversity is not only historically accurate, it’s also psychologically true.
Yesterday I listened to a brief interview with Ken Follett, who abandoned one gravy train for another (speaking of trains) when he made the decision, in 1989, to write a novel about the construction of a cathedral, rather than continue pumping out the thrillers. That novel, The Pillars of the Earth, met with widespread success as well. But what I found interesting about the interview was his comment concerning the research behind his historical fiction. Not simply that he enjoys it, and that it is easier than writing, but that once he begins to write his story he has to relegate the history to the background. This too is important to remember. Readers are interested—and this is what I meant to point out with regard to Semprún’s novel—in the intricate psychological interaction between vivid characters. Even stating it like that makes it sound grander than it is. People are basically attracted to gossip, much as bears are attracted to honey, because gossip is so intrinsically dramatic and satisfying (even when the reported events aren’t all that dramatic, the retelling of these events, especially when it’s done in such a way as to suggest that the information is somehow contraband, and that the listener is privileged to get a whiff of it, is always capable of hooking its listener). And the satisfaction in gossip is very similar to the cathartic effect of fiction, wherein one may witness suffering and grief without participating too much in either one of them.