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A review by richardrbecker
Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Céline
4.0
It's no surprise Charles Bukowski loved the work of Louis-Ferdinand Céline. He was undeniably out of his time as a consummate critic of everything — and enormously influential in authors who write about indulgence, bad behavior, and cynicism. Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Jim Morrison, and Ken Kesey, among others in the United States (alone). Even more — Samuel Beckett, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Jean Genet — around the world.
He is explosive for his times and highly colloquial. It wasn't something anyone expected in the 1930s. Many literary critics didn't even come around until the French public and other writers embraced him. (Bukowski even called him the greatest writer of 2,000 years.) And why not?
Here is a man whose autobiographic adventure likens humans to bloated fat mollusks with no sense. And yet, despite how fun his fiery disposition is on the front end, I'd warn plenty of people it becomes a bit boorish. He may have been needed to give other authors permission to break ranks with what was expected, but his cynicism often overrides everything about the First World War, colonial Africa, the United States, and the poor suburbs of Paris where he eventually becomes a doctor with a lousy bedside manner.
Sure, he's not wrong that we, as people, can be a deplorable lot. And as such, he can cast himself as a protagonist exempt from any transformation. He even plunks down some lines that will stay with you for life ... that we fill ourselves with dreams (as children) before we go out and face the nightmare of the rest of our lives. Or, that most people dwell in past injustices much more than their present or future because the past alone keeps them busy. Yet, sometimes you have to wonder if he needed so many pages to do it over and over and over again.
After a while, his insistence on being the only clear-headed person on the planet — one drowning in his own misery to boot — is like watching someone convulse for days or, at least, until you finish it. And that is also what makes Journey to the End of the Night so tricky to review.
Did I enjoy it? Not really. Is he as good as Bukowski claimed? Heavens no. But do I feel like I've gained something from reading him? Absolutely. It deserves to be considered one of the great works of European literature.
He is explosive for his times and highly colloquial. It wasn't something anyone expected in the 1930s. Many literary critics didn't even come around until the French public and other writers embraced him. (Bukowski even called him the greatest writer of 2,000 years.) And why not?
Here is a man whose autobiographic adventure likens humans to bloated fat mollusks with no sense. And yet, despite how fun his fiery disposition is on the front end, I'd warn plenty of people it becomes a bit boorish. He may have been needed to give other authors permission to break ranks with what was expected, but his cynicism often overrides everything about the First World War, colonial Africa, the United States, and the poor suburbs of Paris where he eventually becomes a doctor with a lousy bedside manner.
Sure, he's not wrong that we, as people, can be a deplorable lot. And as such, he can cast himself as a protagonist exempt from any transformation. He even plunks down some lines that will stay with you for life ... that we fill ourselves with dreams (as children) before we go out and face the nightmare of the rest of our lives. Or, that most people dwell in past injustices much more than their present or future because the past alone keeps them busy. Yet, sometimes you have to wonder if he needed so many pages to do it over and over and over again.
After a while, his insistence on being the only clear-headed person on the planet — one drowning in his own misery to boot — is like watching someone convulse for days or, at least, until you finish it. And that is also what makes Journey to the End of the Night so tricky to review.
Did I enjoy it? Not really. Is he as good as Bukowski claimed? Heavens no. But do I feel like I've gained something from reading him? Absolutely. It deserves to be considered one of the great works of European literature.