The prologue contains the only known verbal portrait of the author:. Their precise dates of composition are in most cases uncertain. There is some variety in the collection, within the two general categories of romance-based stories and realistic ones. In the 17th century the romantic stories were the more popular; James Mabbe chose precisely these for the selective English version of Nineteenth- and 20th-century taste preferred the realistic ones, but by the turn of the 21st century the others were receiving again something like their critical due. In Cervantes published Viage del Parnaso , a long allegorical poem in mock-mythological and satirical vein, with a postscript in prose.
It was devoted to celebrating a host of contemporary poets and satirizing a few others. The author there admitted that writing poetry did not come easily to him. But he held poetry in the highest esteem as a pure art that should never be debased. Having lost all hope of seeing any more of his plays staged, he had eight of them published in , together with eight short comic interludes, in Ocho comedias, y ocho entremeses nuevos.
The plays show no shortage of inventiveness and originality but lack real control of the medium. The interludes, however, are reckoned among the very best of their kind. It is not certain when Cervantes began writing Part II of Don Quixote , but he had probably not gotten much more than halfway through by late July The book is not without merit, if crude in comparison with its model.
In its prologue the author gratuitously insulted Cervantes, who not surprisingly took offense and responded, though with relative restraint if compared with the vituperation of some literary rivalries of the age. Don Quixote , Part II, emerged from the same press as its predecessor late in It was quickly reprinted in Brussels and Valencia, , and Lisbon, Parts I and II first appeared in one edition in Barcelona , The second part capitalizes on the potential of the first, developing and diversifying without sacrificing familiarity.
Most people agree that it is richer and more profound. In his last years Cervantes mentioned several works that apparently did not get as far as the printing press , if indeed he ever actually started writing them. In it Cervantes sought to renovate the heroic romance of adventure and love in the manner of the Aethiopica of Heliodorus. It was an intellectually prestigious genre destined to be very successful in 17th-century France. Intended both to edify and to entertain, the Persiles is an ambitious work that exploits the mythic and symbolic potential of romance.
It was very successful when it appeared; there were eight Spanish editions in two years and French and English translations in and , respectively. Clear-headed to the end, he seems to have achieved a final serenity of spirit. He died in , almost certainly on April 22, not on the 23rd as had been traditionally thought. The burial certificate indicates that the latter was the day he was buried, in the convent of the Discalced Trinitarians in the Calle de Cantarranas now the Calle de Lope de Vega.
The exact spot is not marked. No will is known to have survived. Don Quixote certainly pokes fun at the adventures of literary knights-errant, but its plot also addresses the historical realities of 17th-century Spain. Yet, far from depicting illusion and reality as equal opposites, their relationship undergoes constant change: if Don Quixote assumes the lead in Part I, Sancho overtakes his master and secures his own independence in Part II. Nonetheless, his innovative reworkings of literary forms—from the pastoral novel La Galatea and exemplary short stories to the acclaimed novel Don Quixote and his one serious attempt at romance, the posthumously published Persiles y Sigismunda —show just how well Cervantes understood not only the 17th-century marketplace but the social effect of literature.
The novel form, according to some late 20th-century critics, has no one origin but began to exist in different countries at different times and for different reasons. It is not coincidental that the writers most influenced by Cervantes— Daniel Defoe , Laurence Sterne , Tobias Smollett , to name only British novelists—initiated radical changes in their own literary traditions. By illuminating the many differences in and surrounding his world, Cervantes placed in doubt the previous ways of portraying that world, whether those were literary or historical.
The question of whether the self-proclaimed knight stands for an idealism never fully attainable or for a laughably meaningless madness continues to shadow interpretations of Don Quixote , as it has since its introduction by the German Romantics. Yet Cervantes was characteristically ambiguous on these issues, and this ambiguity inspired criticism of the later 20th century to reconsider previous judgments on his literary prominence. Translated almost immediately into English, French, and Italian, Don Quixote was viewed primarily as a comic work or a satire of Spanish customs.
Ironically, it was the German Romantics, selectively reading Don Quixote as a tragic hero, who granted his author world standing. Not until the 20th century did the acclaim of foreign critics and Spanish expatriates finally rehabilitate Cervantes in his own country. From the s, French and American criticism viewed Cervantes as a fragmented character not unlike his protagonists.
Feminist and gender studies have increasingly looked to Cervantes for his perceptive approach to portraying the women of 17th-century Spain. Unlike the majority of his contemporaries, Cervantes expressed great empathy toward women. The Exemplary Stories and plays have been plumbed for their engagement with political and economic factors. Jones and Kenneth Douglas. Oelsner and A. A fine modern translation is Exemplary Stories , reprinted in , translated by C. For Ocho comedias, y ocho entremeses nuevos , there is S. We welcome suggested improvements to any of our articles.
You can make it easier for us to review and, hopefully, publish your contribution by keeping a few points in mind. Your contribution may be further edited by our staff, and its publication is subject to our final approval. Unfortunately, our editorial approach may not be able to accommodate all contributions. Our editors will review what you've submitted, and if it meets our criteria, we'll add it to the article. Please note that our editors may make some formatting changes or correct spelling or grammatical errors, and may also contact you if any clarifications are needed. Written By: Anne J.
Cruz Edward C. Alternative Title: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Top Questions. Britannica Quiz. Start Your Free Trial Today. Learn More in these related Britannica articles:. The Spaniard Miguel de Cervantes , in Don Quixote, drew a composite portrait of his countrymen, which caught their exact mixture of idealism and realism.
This particular work of fiction had become an honorary work of English literature. Constant fear of invaders either from neighboring city states or other countries. Bubonic and other plagues. Crappy rulers. Horrifying capital punishments. Bad treatment of women. Sorry but Michelangelo, Da Vinci and other artists are not sufficient incentives for me to live there in that era.
Before picking this up, all I knew about Caterina Sforza was that she was Cosimo de' Medici's grandmother, she was obviously related to the Sforzas in some nebulous way, and she may or may not have flashed her privates at an invading army from the battlements of her fortress. Basically, I just had a dim notion she was some Medici ancestor with a potentially scandalous history. The truth is far better.
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Yes, she was a Sforza, the illegitimate daughter of Galeazzo Sforza, Duke of Milan, brought up a Before picking this up, all I knew about Caterina Sforza was that she was Cosimo de' Medici's grandmother, she was obviously related to the Sforzas in some nebulous way, and she may or may not have flashed her privates at an invading army from the battlements of her fortress.
Yes, she was a Sforza, the illegitimate daughter of Galeazzo Sforza, Duke of Milan, brought up alongside his legitimate children. As such, she received a fantastic Reniassance education that included, among the usual suspects, riding and swordplay. This detail matters—in a different world, Caterina Sforza would have likely had an illustrious military career.
As it was, she was married off at the age of ten, had eight children, held a fortress while seven months pregnant, survived three husbands two of whom she chose herself , had a lifelong interest in herbal medicine and alchemy her recipes were posthumously published as Gli Experimenti , bested Machiavelli whose man pain caused him to concoct the flashing story because he was a dick , and almost got the better—in actual military engagement—of Cesare Borgia, and survived.
Granted, not without repercussions, but surviving a Borgia at the height of the family's power—and doing it solely on the strength of personal merit—is hardcore. Elizabeth Lev adroitly sketches Caterina's story and the chaotic reality of Italian Renaissance politics, although I wish she'd have excerpted more of Caterina's writing. That's my only issue with this otherwise fine and exhaustively researched biography: Lev often summarizes Caterina's voluminous correspondence, but only occasionally lets her subject speak for herself. And when she does, the force of Caterina's personality gives the impression she's fighting to exist beyond the constraints of her biography.
Sep 06, David rated it it was ok. I am left feeling underwhelmed by this book, despite its competence. I rarely venture into the world of non-fiction but I have been curious about Caterina Sforza ever since reading anecdotes about her in Magnifico, the biography of Lorenzo Medici. The story of Caterina Sforza is certainly worth telling. Whether you interpret her as admirable or cold-hearted, there is no denying she was a strong, driven woman who playe I am left feeling underwhelmed by this book, despite its competence. Whether you interpret her as admirable or cold-hearted, there is no denying she was a strong, driven woman who played for keeps.
This book has all the historical facts and presents multiple views of events when scholarship finds conflicts it can't resolve. Events are related in mostly chronological order with a few relevant anecdotes explored when it's necessary to keep the narrative sensible. Although some of the more tangled Italian plots may need one or two rereads to clear up, Lev has done a good job of keeping the narrative clean and understandable.
However, despite containing all the dates and contradictory accounts, I feel that it lacks the soul of its subject. Little is said of the real woman behind the "Tigress. Daily life, character, and motivation are left only cursorily explored. Three-quarters through a biography, I was surprised to discover that Caterina remained the avid reader she was in childhood - and left wondering what types of things she reads. Motherhood is one of the defining traits of Caterina, yet even her children, who she began having in her early teens, are left as ambiguous obligations until the book reaches the end of her life.
Then their careers and personalities are summarized in a handful of paragraphs. I found this to be an excellent account of history, but a mediocre biography of a person. Oct 17, Christopher rated it it was amazing Shelves: biography-memoir , europe , history. Having read Mrs. Lev's first work, I am very glad that I did. In a little less than pages, Mrs.
Lev recounts the life of one of the most amazing women in Renaissance history, if not in all of history. Caterina was stubborn, brave, and passionate throughout all of her forty-six years of life and Mrs. Lev captures all of that in a worthy manner. Caterina could also be incredibly and Mrs. Lev doesn't shy away from her darker deeds.
Through it all, Mrs. Lev ably dispels the vicious libels particularly those advanced by Machiavelli and gets the reader as close to the real Caterina as possible. Of course, introductory chapter on the politics and personalties of Italy at the time of Caterina's birth would have helped. I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in Renaissance Italian history or in fascinating women in history. Apr 05, Karin Gastreich rated it it was amazing Shelves: history. Caterina Sforza is best remembered for her show down with Cesare Borgia at Forli, a military confrontation that humiliated Cesare and converted Caterina into legend.
Despite her eventual defeat and imprisonment at the hands of the notorious son of Pope Alexander VI, Caterina Sforza was one of the very few of her time who bested Cesare at his own game and lived to tell about it. Elizabeth Lev paints Caterina Sforza's story with the expertise of a Renaissance master. We are given the rich tapestry Caterina Sforza is best remembered for her show down with Cesare Borgia at Forli, a military confrontation that humiliated Cesare and converted Caterina into legend.
We are given the rich tapestry of the world she grew up in: its passion, its cruelty, its pride. Set against this background, Caterina comes to vivid life as we follow her development from child bride to fearsome countess. This is a story that inspires at different times awe and horror, but most of all, deep admiration for a life intensely lived. More than a Renaissance legend, Caterina Sforza is a heroine for all times.
Whether or not your interests lie in Renaissance history and women's history, this is a book you are sure to enjoy. I loved this book. But as it kept being in use the walls are completely intact and probably the inside must be amazing to visit.
Having read this book have such an interesting view on Romagna as a region without fo using on it. And reading about this extraordinary woman in those times in Italy wasn't only amazing but gave also a very good idea of the other side you don't re I loved this book.
And reading about this extraordinary woman in those times in Italy wasn't only amazing but gave also a very good idea of the other side you don't read about, when reading about certain important people of that period This is a fantastic bio of a heroine I have longed to know more about. Lev writes her bio as if it is a novel, and it is supremely entertaining and accessible! Sep 13, Tony Tubb rated it really liked it. A superbly researched biography of an extraordinary woman we don't hear enough about except her connection to the Borgias. Her story is a lot more interesting than Lucrieza's.
After Riarlo's assassination by the Orsi, she became the "Se io potessi scrivere tutto, farei stupire il mondo" If I could write everything, I would shock the world. After Riarlo's assassination by the Orsi, she became the regent for her son Ottaviano and immediately hunted down her husband's killers as well as anyone remotely connected to the conspiracy, including the Orsi women and the Pope's governor. She trained her city's militia herself and personally oversaw all manner of public policy. Caught up in the Italian Wars and betrayed by Naples, she earned the enmity of Venice until their ally, Caesare Borgia, eventually captured her.
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It's a wonder Hollywood hasn't come along to do a bang-up job in her life, something better than the schematic portrayal she gets on The Borgias. Dec 01, Faith Ryan rated it it was amazing Shelves: good-reads , interests-borgias. I'll confess, I bought this book solely because of "ten more sons", but I was delighted to find a million more and factual reasons why Caterina is just about the most badass woman who ever lived.
This was an incredibly well-written biography, packed with detail but also very easy to read. Overall, the author did a great job balancing the specifics of certai I'll confess, I bought this book solely because of "ten more sons", but I was delighted to find a million more and factual reasons why Caterina is just about the most badass woman who ever lived. Overall, the author did a great job balancing the specifics of certain historical events with the broader strokes of Italian politics at the time; she gave the reader just enough background so as not to be lost if they were new to the era, but not too many specifics to be bored.
And as always, the primary sources were a treat. Jan 08, Gary rated it it was amazing. This is biography that reads like fiction. Caterina Sforza was the most formidable woman of the Italian Renaissance -- and she was regarded by many as the most beautiful as well. She was painted by Botticelli in the most prominent panel in the Sistine Chapel. But it was her daring that set her apart from other women of the day and most men, as well. She learned horsemanship and swordplay with her brothers in Milan, and at one point, when 8 months pregnant, she donned full armor and led a charg This is biography that reads like fiction.
She learned horsemanship and swordplay with her brothers in Milan, and at one point, when 8 months pregnant, she donned full armor and led a charge to take the Castel'San Angelo in Rome in order to protect her family and her husband who had taken refuge at a safe distance. She was a skilled negotiator, even besting the wily Niccolo Machiavelli himself in one episode that left him grumbling.
Her defense of her fortresses and lands in the territory around the small towns of Forli and Imola are legendary. Her physical passion, while probably exaggerated by her subjects, was her undoing. But her son and grandson were to become famous names in their own right. The maneuvering among the Italian city states was well told, but perhaps more than I really wanted to know.
Along the way, the author acquaints us with life in 15th century Italy. This is political and social history at its very best. Another side of Catarina Sforza. Feb 02, Lizzie rated it really liked it. The author obviously spent a lot of time researching her subject material. Sometimes to the detriment of the story. She gives the names of every solider, servant, and person that appears once in the book. Unfortunately, they all seem to be men with names that begin with G.
Mar 02, Lisa marked it as to-read Shelves: non-fiction. Available on Hoopla in ebook. Jul 28, Dana Smith rated it it was amazing. Well, if there is one thing that I learned from this book, is that it was very bad luck to be a noble person in Italy during the Renaissance. Popes, Cardinals, and Archbishops were corrupt. Landowners spent money raised from taxing peasants to purchase clothing laden with gens and pearls to impress those same peasants that their little duchy w Well, if there is one thing that I learned from this book, is that it was very bad luck to be a noble person in Italy during the Renaissance.
Landowners spent money raised from taxing peasants to purchase clothing laden with gens and pearls to impress those same peasants that their little duchy would be cared for and protected. How could such a culture of corruption, violence and greed beget the development of amazing artists like Michaelangelo and Leonardo? This book is a portrait of a remarkable woman and a remarkable time. Caterina seems like a heroine from a novel. She is clever, smart, brave, and ambitious. She is flawed and vengeful.
She is a political pawn. She plays political tricks and wins her way. She races out on horseback to save the day when she is heavily pregnant. She is thrown to rot in a terrible prison. What a story! Sometimes the book was heavy going. Wading through Italian names, keeping track of who was or was not allied with or plotting against whom. It was an archaic and humiliating problem. I was female — and a wretched poltroon. And perhaps because I was already alert to the theme, I found myself peculiarly affected by her testimony.
I was getting a weensy bit more honest. To confess in public that you are afraid of death — and violent death especially — is to break a powerful taboo.
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Simple people will pity you and say nothing; the sophisticated will accuse you of being insufferably bourgeois. By contrast the bourgeois was dominated by fears of violent death. As Berry and Bostridge point out, she was a delicate woman: small and gamine in appearance, even in her starched VAD uniform. Her brother Edward, who won a Military Cross on the first day of the Somme and died in June , a few days after my uncle Newton, towers over her by at least a foot in family photographs.
And in many ways she was delicate in spirit too. Unable to bear it any longer, she hid her face in the cushions, but only for a few moments; the moon had a dreadful fascination which impelled her, quite against her will, to look up at it again. Four-year-old Virginia was not at any time remarkable in her courage. Similar hallucinations plagued her later in life. In the memoir she attributes the fantasy to the strain she was under and passes over it relatively quickly.
But cowardice, as Brittain herself knew well, was also something more or less imprinted on women. By coddling and patronising its female members, society enforced in them a kind of physical timidity; then, with infuriating circularity, defined such timidity as effeminate and despicable. Both practically and philosophically Brittain rebelled against the linkage. Yet while fearing for his safety Brittain envied him the trial.
They were the skulkers and moochers and tremulous babies of modern life: emasculated beings in need of protection, forbearance and forgiveness. Everyone knows what Brittain did: made herself as manly as possible by becoming a nurse on the Western Front. Her subsequent beard in the mirror fantasy suggests the psychic intensity of her rejection of conventional femininity. It was as if by getting as close to the fighting as she could — within striking distance of long-range German artillery — she sought to subject herself to the same practical test of bravery imposed on Roland and her brother Edward.
Her war diaries make unabashedly clear the impinging wish: to act as a man would and be emboldened thereby. Which is not to say that Brittain entirely mastered her fearfulness. During her two years of nursing she was often afraid, and sometimes abjectly so. On her way by ship to Malta — her first foreign posting — she dreaded being blown up by enemy mines. But always there to sustain her was the faith that one might be inspirited — as if by magic — simply by mimicking, as far as possible, the stoic attitudes of men.
Men had a certain mana, it seemed: a native supply of aplomb and insouciance that a courage-hungry woman might draw on. Blood transfusion technology, sadly, had yet to be invented at the time of the First World War; thousands of soldiers who died from blood loss at casualty clearing stations might easily have been saved in later wars.
Yet if haemoglobin could not be transfused, valour might be. In the weeks after his death she repeatedly sought to assure herself that despite the humiliating manner of his demise he was as brave an English warrior as any Arthurian knight. It proves Him conclusively not to have thrown His life away recklessly or needlessly. He was hit because he was the last man to leave the dangerous area for the comparative safety of the trench, and so was at the post where the Roland we worship would always have wished to be when he met Death face to face. Sunday, 2 January.
None ever had more to live for; none could ever have wanted to live more. I can wish to do nothing better than to act as He has acted, right up to the end. Monday, 31 January.
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There was very much of a Zeppelin scare tonight. The Hospital was in utter darkness, passages black, lamps out, blinds down. I stood at the window of my ward, feeling strangely indifferent to anything that might happen. Since He had given up all safety, I was glad to be in London, which is not safe. Sunday, 22 October. In the nervy state that gripped me after 11 September, such reflections struck me with new and incriminating force. Had I resisted Brittain for so long — cast her off as an important Not-Me — precisely because, deep down, I felt so much like her?
I found out now, with a sudden embarrassed poignancy, precisely how much I sympathised: both with her anxiety and with the florid hope that the men she knew might infect her, so to speak, with physical courage. Not very butch of me, I know. Not very feminist. But I had to confess it: I admired and coveted — quite desperately at times — the insane, uncomplaining, relentless bravery of men. I hear the shrieks. I write this knowing full well that some readers will find such veneration wholly charmless: part of an objectionable idealisation of war or some absurd reversion to worn-out sex roles.
So let me try to be a bit more precise. It seems to have something to do, first of all, with walking. Walking, paradoxically, is one of the great leitmotifs of the First World War. Even in times of relative quiet the typical front-line trench was an ant-heap of comings and goings. How often the physical imagery of the First War anticipates, diabolically, that of the Second. But on disembarking, soldiers usually had to march — sometimes for ten or twenty miles — toward billets, reserve trenches and other staging-areas behind the lines.
The route was long, exhausting and often indelibly frightening — especially for the tyro soldier seeing warfare up close for the first time. Again: Ponk: Ze-e-e-e-ee-E-Bang! A little nearer. The road just there is bare of cover, but a little way along on the right was a large barn, shell-holed. Jack Duncan was in front of me and he received a severe wound from this, our first shell. He was carried onto the pavement and left for the attention of the doctor. Getting into the front-line trench itself meant further dreadful walking: a crabbed, head-down slog along battered communication trenches or over rotting duckboards, sometimes under heavy shelling or machine-gun fire.
The journey to the front lines around Ypres — invariably made at night, through pools of mud and the reamy stench of dead animals and men — was notoriously ghastly. The heavy laden troopers 60 lb of clothing, equipment and weapons were carried per man kept slipping and colliding. Many toppled into shell-craters and had to be hauled out by comrades extending rifle-butts. And falling into even a shallow hole was often revolting, for the water was foul with decaying equipment, excrement, and perhaps something dead; or its surface might be covered with old, sour mustard gas.
It was not uncommon for a man to vomit when being extricated from something like this. And many fell, never to be dragged out. At Passchendaele, in the satanic months of October and November , soldiers going up the line would often see the heads or hands of hapless predecessors protruding from the muck. Animals, it seems, knew better — that such walking was intolerable. His hindquarters are deep in the mud; only his head and shoulders protrude.
In utter despair his head rests in the mud, eyes half-closed. Many mules had panicked, had fought merely to stand on visible portions of the planking, and could be made to move only with much coaxing and punishment. In order to stay in sync with the barrage and each other, attacking troops were strictly enjoined not to run. In the flame and clamour and greasy smoke the British slogged forward deliberately, almost unhurriedly.
They moved from crater to crater, but even in the craters they were not safe, for the German gunners streamed bullets against the edges of the holes and wounded many men lying near the rims. As the British walked, some seemed to pause and bow their heads; they sank carefully to their knees; they rolled over without haste and then lay quietly in the soft, almost caressing mud.
There is something beyond-uncanny in such scenes. On the first day of the Somme, defending German gunners watched in amazement as row upon row of British soldiers plodded calmly towards them, only to be cut down in swathes. For the oncoming troops, it took every ounce of courage not to break formation — even as hellfire raged, crumps exploded and ground churned up around them. Jesus is the first man in history to walk unwaveringly towards his own death.
And ultimate masculine fortitude — at least in the modern West — has never lost its association with this Christ-like, goal-oriented walking. It is striking how many accounts of the destruction of the World Trade Center obsessively replay the image of doomed firemen and police walking into the towers and up the fatal stairwells — with exactly the same steady, flowing motion of attacking soldiers in the Great War. In a recent Newsweek report on the last minutes of Bill Feehan, a deputy commissioner of the New York City Fire Department killed in the collapse of the North Tower, he is seen exhorting his subordinates to walk just so:.
Or should we walk to it? Everyone stepped aside to let them pass, watching them in awe. Cynics will no doubt want to debunk this heroic image of World War One walking: they will call attention to the fact that men who balked at the whistle — the signal for the start of the assault — faced being shot on the spot by their commanding officers. True enough. Kipling — Kipling!
Yet, relatively speaking, very few men seem to have failed thus in their duty. Those who did so were usually blatantly shell-shocked or otherwise unfit. However amazing in retrospect, the vast majority of ordinary soldiers accepted the martial tasks assigned them, even when such tasks were plainly suicidal. The hero, a laconic private soldier named Bourne, commits himself to a night-time trench raid, though he knows it is doomed to fail. He goes; he dies; and the book ends. You regret the appalling, absurd waste of life.
You excoriate the madness of the system. You rail against war. You see the savage toll the cult of heroism takes — has always taken — on men and boys. But painful too — at times exorbitantly so, once you become sensitised to it — the near-total exclusion of your own sex from such primal dramas of unflinching physical courage. You feel at a moral deficit. You wonder, perhaps dubiously, if you would be capable of such nobility under the circumstances — of moving forward calmly.
You fear the worst. For Brittain was right: women have seldom been asked to exert their valour in this direct, theatrical, entirely wasteful and yet sublime fashion. Certainly I never have. From early childhood I have searched with little success for a woman who might show me — in some comparable and quite literal way — how to walk towards death. Few have offered themselves as models. Children and the raising of children.
They have no interest in walking towards death. Given half a chance they walk away from death. But whence my own odd questing? Some retardation of normal development? Some sad hormonal jousting with the male of the species? Some dissatisfaction with simply staying put and waiting for things to happen? Last week I went to see the film version of Lord of the Rings — not having thought about Tolkien since I was As I pondered the dire, cacophonous, corpse-laden wastelands through which Frodo and his friends are forced to travel — now digitalised and Dolby-ised and fiercely estranging like video games and cyberterrorism — I found myself wondering whether Tolkien had been a soldier on the Western Front.
Got home and looked him up: he fought on the Somme with the Lancashire Fusiliers. True, a woman on her way to public execution in some degree resembles a soldier going over the top. As a child, I uncovered a few such women, and studied them as best I could. But a certain intimacy, kinship — even friendliness — was almost always lacking.
They never felt like comrades. There was Joan of Arc, but I found her celebrated visions freakish and her personality aloof. I was not raised a Catholic, so stories of female saints and martyrs made little or no impression. I was too young for the terrible dramas of the Holocaust and Resistance. The Germans had every right to shoot her! She knew it! Only now do I begin to find the high starched collar, iron-grey hair and sweeping black cape oddly alluring. No, sir, I do not require a blindfold. Madame Roland was famously poised on the scaffold: she let Lamarche, a feeble old man being executed with her, go first so he would not have the sight of her own headless corpse before him as he approached the guillotine.
Marie Antoinette, former cocotte, was even more so. Hounded, half-starved, white-haired and decrepit at the age of 34 — from chronic menstrual flux and the gross abuse of her jailers — the no-good Autrichienne became quite staggeringly noble in her final moments. Mortified by her own cowardice, however, she secretly follows her fellow nuns when they are taken to Paris for execution.
Hers is the only voice left, soaring up in triumph, when the last blade-stroke comes down and the curtain drops. But Blanche is a bit of a pill too — a sexless high soprano and one of those blonde, seraphic goody-goodies one could never stand in primary school. And for every Blanche, it seems, there are always women like the unhappy Lange Vaubernier — better known as Madame du Barry, the one-time mistress of Louis XV.
The poet, spokesman of the People, is extravagantly contemptuous:. Tears flowed incessantly from her eyes upon her bosom. Her piercing cries prevailed over the noise of the wheels and the clamour of the multitude. It seemed as if the knife struck this woman beforehand, and deprived her a thousand times of life.
The people laughed and shrugged their shoulders. They showed her, by signs, the pillow of the guillotine, upon which her charming head was about to sleep. The passage of the courtesan to the scaffold was but one lamentation. Under the knife she still wept.
The Court had enervated her soul. She alone, among all the women executed, died a coward, because she died neither for opinion, for virtue, nor for love, but for vice. She dishonoured the scaffold as she had dishonoured the throne. At a certain point one just gives up and decides to go with the men. I sometimes feel I could call him up on the phone. He lives in the same world as I do — the familiar vale of sorrows, fuck-ups and relentless, chain-reaction human disasters.
How acutely one feels the 11 September violence to be, like so much else in our time, simply one of the hundreds of geopolitical aftershocks of the First World War. The worst signs of battle have long disappeared from the Western Front but the war-tourism industry battens still on the morbid hankering of visitors to stroll freely about those very places Loos, Menin, Hooge, Stuff Trench, Polygon Wood, Vimy, Festubert, Beaumont Hamel, Gheluvelt, Neuve-Chapelle where walking — of any sort — was once so foul and frightening. One feels floaty and tall and invulnerable, like a ghost.
After I came back from my trip I found it oddly difficult to brush the Somme mud off my hiking shoes. We are inclined to make fun of Rupert Brooke-style animism these days, perhaps because his creepy brand of dirt-magic is still so weirdly potent:. Almost as soon as the first Great War cemeteries were opened to the public, sentimental grave-visitors sought to absorb the magical rigour of the dead. So I want my great-uncle to make me brave — is that what it boils down to?
To place his hand in the small of my back and give me that first shove up onto the fire-step? It would be nice to be sturdier and less addled: not such a twit on wheels. It would be gratifying to impress everyone with my handsome, jut-jawed selflessness. Glug, glug, glug! At the same time I see how kooky and notional it all is.
How can I be sure, for example, that my great-uncle even died bravely? His service record seems to have disappeared: according to the Public Record Office website, it looks to have been one of the hundreds of thousands of such records destroyed during the Blitz. Perhaps he was a puny little time-serving fellow who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps he was picked off by an errant bullet while using the company latrine. Perhaps he started jabbering in terror one day and his sergeant-major just had to brain him in homicidal exasperation.
I have a great deal invested, I realise, in the image of him not being wasted. I prefer to view him stalking forward coolly, his fellow Poplar and Stepney Rifles at his side, across the muddy, blood-drenched plains of the Ancre. But even if my fantasy about him is accurate, do I really need him to show me the way? The long-legged platform guard skedaddled at once — I can still see him bounding up the escalator steps two or three at a time — leaving a little group of tourists and children and old-age pensioners to scramble along after him. It was like the old French and Saunders skit: my leg-bones have gone away.
So I walked the rest of the way, more or less sedately, ultimately surfacing in Trafalgar Square. The crowds and the pigeons were bustling about as usual. No bomb went off, that week or later. Silliest of all perhaps: whom do I hope to impress with my virile equipoise? My mother? My father? Siegfried Sassoon? Vera Brittain? Miss Coombs? None, I confess, has ever asked for such a proof of character. The dog loves it because he gets to spend the whole day snoozing on the bed with her while she muses. She is interested in evolutionary psychology and selfish genes. Given such an intellectual framework, the First World War, like all genocidal conflicts, poses certain conceptual difficulties.
How could it have been possible for millions of men to squander their DNA in such a reckless fashion? The other day we looked at an old photo in one of my books of a parade of volunteers, still dressed in their civilian clothes, marching down a London street in August War has just been declared. The men look tough and expectant; a military band is playing and women gaze down from balconies and windows.