What do You think about The Good Soldier (2003)?
Today’s special from the bill of fare: Crow. Market Price. Served with a complimentary slice of stale pumpernickel and a glass of river water.I really did not think I was going to enjoy this book one bit; I also erroneously believed it was included in the collection of crap known as Time’s ‘100 Best 20th Century Novels’, and the fact it isn’t is probably why it was actually enjoyable. This is, however, included on several other ‘hits lists’, such as the ridiculous 1001 Books to Read Before You Die (which is basically 901 lame entries longer than Time’s list) and Another Preposterous List of Over-Hyped Books by Some Barmy Old Codgers Adorned With Glowing Accolades For Their Thorough Understanding of Meritorious Literature. After reading “The Good Soldier”, I have no problem offering my own totally unfounded pronouncement that this book should be considered for inclusion on any such list.tThis is the second story in a row for me (following Martin Amis’s “Success”) in which the central gimmick of the tale is unreliable narration and point of view; and while the p.o.v. and narration are always a key factor to a story, in both of these cases the importance and bearing is decidedly pronounced, every event must be considered and weighed in light of the narration before attempting to discern its ultimate reality. I tend to look at these stories in the light that the author knows that the fibers of the yarn they’re spinning aren’t unique nor profound, but the way in which it is spun is compelling; thus to me it’s more of an exercise in writing than captivating storytelling. tNarrating “The Good Soldier” is Captain Oblivious, better known as John Dowell to his extremely small group of friends, who readily admits that he isn’t a very perceptive fellow, nor is he very good at getting across a story in a straightforward fashion, so he begs that the reader understand that his intention is to lay this saddest of stories out in a fashion as though he was sitting by the fire with a close and attentive confidant (and a bottle of brandy), simply discussing any pertinent events as they come to mind regardless of their rightful chronological juxtaposition. I actually found the technique effective at making John Dowell an extremely likeable character, but at the same time it does completely strip away much of the oomph which should be imparted by any event that might be seen as pivotal or climactic: by page ten you already know the unfortunate outcome of the story, all that is left is to get the details, a difficult feat when your narrator has powers of perception trumped by those of an aardvark in a sensory deprivation tank. There is no way you can really create a ‘spoiler’ for this work, at least not for anyone who has so much as begun reading it.tCapt. Oblivious has to get this story off his chest, and so he’s telling it to you, dear reader. It concerns his deceitful trollop wife, Florence, and the couple which they are best friends with, the well-shod Edward and Leonora Ashburnham. The foursome meet for the first time in Nauheim, Germany, at a spa reputed for their effectiveness in combating cardiac problems, which is required for the well being of Florence Dowell and Edward Ashburnham, and proceed to accompany each other for the next decade to Nauheim, outwardly portraying the ideal friendship of two affluent, successful, and loving couples. Little does anyone know that beneath this veneer, things are worse than can even be imagined, and interestingly enough, Captain Oblivious seems to be on the outside looking in as well, clueless as to what transpires after his nightly blackout from overindulgence of gin. But, it’s been some time since the blinders were removed from our narrator, who has taken his time to collect his thoughts and connect the dots, and he can now make some sort of sense of the proceedings. tBoth couples are of good social standing in polite society, or ‘Good People’, as John Dowell assures us often. Both men proudly hail from old, established wealth, and Edward ended up with Leonora due to an arranged marriage of sorts, and John pursued Florence for what seems like no better reason than to acquire a trophy wife while shirking anything resembling employment or social responsibility (had World of Warcraft existed at the time, he’d probably never have bothered, and would have set a Guiness World Record for most hours logged of online play). The couples share one very interesting aspect in their unions; it appears that neither has ever consummated their marriage. The reasons for this strange lack of passion are similar; Edward Ashburnham is an english Adonis whom women clamor for the attentions of, and he makes sure to perform the gentlemanly duty of never denying a lady, and Florence Dowell was (unbeknownst to Captain Oblivious) quite the tramp before John ever made her acquaintance. John, who has absolutely no clue as to what is going on, is under the belief that Flo has a heart condition, and that the act of lovemaking might potentially sound her death knell, thus the trips to Nauheim and other strange facets of her behavior, which all reek of subterfuge to the normal human. Leonora is completely aware of Edward’s infidelities, which have all taken the form of long-term ordeals with increasing passion for his partners, but in order to maintain the façade of Good People, she dutifully covers these transgressions up, while also taking over her husband’s business affairs to prevent them from financial ruin due to his nature as a wastrel. tAs absurd as it may seem, the easiest time that Leonora has ever had keeping the rest of society’s upper crust from discovering her husband’s true nature is in suppressing the trysts which Edward and Florence have been continuing for years. Naturally, if this knowledge never saw the light of day, there wouldn’t be a story.tThere isn’t a whole lot that keeps me from giving “The Good Soldier” a full five stars. I’ll say this is a four-and-a-half, but will round it down, for the following reasons: First, the end of the novel seems to taper off. I understand that there is a lapse in the amount of time that has passed in the narration itself when John Dowell resumes to tell Part IV, and I interpreted this to be representative of his preoccupation with changes in his lifestyle (most notably Ms. Rufford’s presence), a marked descent into melancholia, and generally a lack of enthusiasm to find the right fit for the remaining puzzle pieces. This is all good and well, but the first three parts are so ecstatically told, that I couldn’t really enjoy his festering ennui. Secondly, his continuous praise of Edward Ashburnham. The way Ford approaches the narration manages to make even despicable frauds like Edward and Florence likable, no easy feat, and Dowell’s conviction even made me like the guy. But his praise was incessant, and left me wondering which of the Dowells Edward was actually buggering.Lastly, one thing which I still haven't quite wrapped my head around; so I don’t know whether to call this a positive or a negative. It is mentioned repeatedly that prior to his ugly demise, Edward went on a long-winded speech/apology/rant to John. As I was personally craving to hear it, it was a tremendous let down that it is completely left out of the story!! Or is it? (cue Twilight Zone music). Sure, Dowell admits to having skipped many significant details from lack of proper recollection, but he does make reference to Edward’s Grand Pronouncement about 30 times, and each reference connects it to some event or sentiment. Could this great confession be surreptitiously dispersed throughout the novel, and one could go back and reconstruct the gist of it themselves? If so, it’s possible that this might be the cleverest trick in storytelling I’ve personally been subjected to. Or I suppose I could just be really baked.
—Chris
Wow, was this well done. I almost wrote 'fantastic', but that didn't seem appropriate to the mood of the piece. It is also throughly soul-crushing, of course, but that shouldn't affect your reading plans in favor of it. It really is a must-read, I think. The book is a thorough condemnation of the principles of Edwardian society and the Victorian society that came before it, made all the more effective by the fact that it comes from the most unlikely source, a timid, quiet American man who has happened to fall into this drama that he never wanted to be a part of. He is a throughly unreliable narrator, telling the tale "as one would to a friend by the fireside," jumping back and forth in time and giving one opinion of a person, place or event, and then remembering something else and adding in details on that later. His own personal feelings on situations also come into play, in the background, affecting his judgement in a really heartbreaking sort of way. I got as interested in the silences of the narrator as his retelling of the tale of the others around him. I think really that /his/ is the "saddest story ever told," or at least on par with the story that he is telling. The unreliable narrator convention works brilliantly here, drawing the reader into the story with a sympathy for the narrator (Mr. Dowell), as well as easily listening to the tale as if they were that friend by the fireside. I will say that it may get a bit confusing for some people, due to its rambling, wandering structure, but honestly, it is worth it in the end. It really makes it all come out beautifully. One really does end up rooting for characters that in the "conventional" sense, would range from vain to mildly despicable to foolish, if all we got was their most basic actions and story. I don't think I have ever rooted for a man's infidelities that much in a novel. But never unambiguously. He does not allow one's opinion to be that simple on either side. Novels that are "grey" are always the best ones. Ford Madox Ford was in the thick of the Lost Generation when he wrote this, so his very bleak outlook on life, and disllusionment with society is not an usual attitude to find. He was friends with Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, after all. It was interesting to me to note, however, the parallels between his statements on pre-World War I society and those of the primordialists, who were the primary intellectual advocates for "change", and saw Victorian/Edwardian society as inwardly rotting, full of ennui, stuck in a rut, essentially. Which is what Ford undubitably belives here. However, it is the primordiailst attitude that promoted the crowds' wild reception of World War I, the cheering masses that came out in support of it, despite how easily it could have been avoided. And yet this book supports all those passions that were a part of that movement. I cannot tell if there is some condemnation of himself in there, some self-hatred, for believing this. He asks of his reader at the end of the novel, "Who really is the villain of the piece?" He has his narrator change his opinion on that several times, and mine also changed. I'm still wrestling over it a bit.Anyway, read it
—Kelly
I shouldn't have liked this book: Two wealthy, idle, hypochondriac couples while away the summers in jaded ennui at a German spa. But I did like it. How does the author pull that off?The answer comes down to the writing, though creative technique also deserves mention. Ford Maddox Ford uses a single member of this foursome to tell the entire tale from an embedded point of view, leaving readers to work through the inevitable gaps. To good effect, Ford also fractures the story according the jumbled way a speaker might tell it, disregarding the actual sequence of events. The vague dissatisfaction that pervades the story resembles that of a French novel. Again, the author uses superior technique to break this up, and the result is two bored couples who turn out not to be boring! But despite the reliance on technique, the book ultimately succeeds simply because it is well done.The society between these couples, one British and one American, unfolds during the Edwardian Era preceding The Great War, so I give the story points for style and atmosphere. As it develops, the lone narrator uncovers for us more to the quiet and correct interaction among the four of them than meets the eye. The tale is a reflection on the curious acquaintance people settle into among themselves, asking if we would have sought out partners of the kind these four finally discover.A couple of distractions irk me. First, the female characters are a bit wooden. Following a naturalist motif, the women get slotted as sexless, at least with their husbands. This oddity of naturalism makes it hard to relate to the women, four in all, the two lesser of whom seem like ciphers sacrificed to the gods of storytelling. Even the female principles the author could have more vividly sketched. The lone narrator is one of the men. I like the male perspective. But the men's relationship, as he represents it, evolves in a kind of rebuke to the stoney trajectory along which the females develop. Did the author intend that? Is that not, say, just a tiny bit sexist? Or is Ford throwing over the females to make some broader observation about men or male bonding? If so, change that tiny bit to a whole lot.Second, and the more irritating to me (after all, I'm a man), the narrator of the story is supposed to be an American, but he doesn't sound like it. Besides "I daresay ... " in place of "I realize ... ", countless other little turns of phrase bear an unmistakeable British imprimatur, an argot I can't imagine even the most upper class Americans using. The language grates on me -- after all, I'm an American.Still, the sheer skill with which Ford writes takes the stage and overshadows such second-tier annoyances. I advise fence-sitters who shudder at the tedious narrative implied by the plot outline to cast aside their fears, for outstanding writing overmasters the deceptively insipid story line.
—Tyler
