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A review by natchgreyes
Fear: A Novel of World War I by Gabriel Chevallier
5.0
This is a genuinely good story. I'd call it a novel, but it's not. Not really. All these things happened. They just might not have happened to the author.
I've rarely heard a story which so clearly demonstrates how little society learns through the years. Yet, the opening scene could easily be the epilogue. The story opens with poignant observations about how much society (in this case, French) has forgotten about war. World War I is just declared and civilians are jubilant. La Marseilles is played throughout the streets. In one cafe, an old man - old enough to be a veteran of the last war, I think - refuses to stand. He refuses to join in the celebration. He seems to know what horrors lie ahead. And for that, the mob turns on him. It beats him and berates him. It decides that he is not a patriot and doesn't understand how swift and overwhelming victory will be.
Then we, the readers alongside the protagonist, go to war. The experience is, to borrow a phrase, hell. And through it, we readers understand the title of the novel. Fear. It builds slowly, erupts suddenly, and builds even higher. As the clock ticks down - we know when the war ends - fear builds in us. Will the protagonist make it? Or will he suffer the fate of the protagonist of so many million others? Will his death be just as senseless or will it, in some small way, matter? Throughout the story, the author erodes our hopes. There are no great acts of courage which are meaningful. There are no competent leaders - or none in positions to affect the outcome of the war - the churning death of millions of men running into range of the artillery and the machine guns. There is no hope. There is only fear.
Ending the book, I couldn't help but think back on that opening scene in the cafe in Paris. I could picture the protagonist being that old man at the outbreak of the Second World War. Prematurely aged by his experiences in the First, he stoops low, appearing old to the fresh-faced 19-year-old who sees him refuse to stand in celebration for the outbreak of war. Beaten by the mob. Knowing that the men who beat him believe what they are told, what they are taught, instead of thinking. Knowing that millions would soon be suffering nightmares less terrible than reality. Knowing that millions more would soon know fear.
I've rarely heard a story which so clearly demonstrates how little society learns through the years. Yet, the opening scene could easily be the epilogue. The story opens with poignant observations about how much society (in this case, French) has forgotten about war. World War I is just declared and civilians are jubilant. La Marseilles is played throughout the streets. In one cafe, an old man - old enough to be a veteran of the last war, I think - refuses to stand. He refuses to join in the celebration. He seems to know what horrors lie ahead. And for that, the mob turns on him. It beats him and berates him. It decides that he is not a patriot and doesn't understand how swift and overwhelming victory will be.
Then we, the readers alongside the protagonist, go to war. The experience is, to borrow a phrase, hell. And through it, we readers understand the title of the novel. Fear. It builds slowly, erupts suddenly, and builds even higher. As the clock ticks down - we know when the war ends - fear builds in us. Will the protagonist make it? Or will he suffer the fate of the protagonist of so many million others? Will his death be just as senseless or will it, in some small way, matter? Throughout the story, the author erodes our hopes. There are no great acts of courage which are meaningful. There are no competent leaders - or none in positions to affect the outcome of the war - the churning death of millions of men running into range of the artillery and the machine guns. There is no hope. There is only fear.
Ending the book, I couldn't help but think back on that opening scene in the cafe in Paris. I could picture the protagonist being that old man at the outbreak of the Second World War. Prematurely aged by his experiences in the First, he stoops low, appearing old to the fresh-faced 19-year-old who sees him refuse to stand in celebration for the outbreak of war. Beaten by the mob. Knowing that the men who beat him believe what they are told, what they are taught, instead of thinking. Knowing that millions would soon be suffering nightmares less terrible than reality. Knowing that millions more would soon know fear.