William T. Vollmann
Here is a book that, judging by its jacket, sounds right up my alley: a collection of paired, loosely connected stories focusing alternately on the USSR and Germany during World War II. The book itself looks and feels as epic as its central conflict, but unfortunately it is hampered throughout by this very knowledge. Reading the book with the knowledge that it is a recipient of the National Book Award lays bare the book's pomposity and creates an unfriendly image of the author as compromising quality for award-worthiness. It is understandable that the vast Europe Central won an award but unfortunately this accolade does not reflect any sense of enjoyment or coherence when approaching the book, which is weighed down immensely by its cheap attempts at grandiosity and which ceases to be readable in its pursuit of honors. The project itself, to produce paired stories that expose moral dilemmas and reactions during the 20th century's most destructive conflict is interesting and occasionally yields fascinating results which are again muted by the posturing inflicted upon the reader. Vollmann takes an interesting and important structure and buries it beneath self-aggrandizing writing that is overbearing and at times so annoying that it is hard to imagine Vollmann legitimately believing that his sentences are the best way to get his point across.
Readers should know by the first sentences of the book whether they are cut out to be dragged along in this quagmire of metaphor and nonsensical characterization and narration; the opening chapter is absolutely impossible to decipher and, while raising interesting points that are few and far between, succeeds only in introducing a shaky and useless telephone metaphor that occasionally comes back throughout the book. Much of the writing in this tome echoes this useless prelude as Vollmann stretches metaphors well past literary acceptability. Time and again metaphors extend sentences well beyond the limits of reason and, while these are often insightful, drag readers right out of the story and force them to recognize how clever the author is. This kind of writing is nothing but self-serving and, frankly, the importance of the book's core subject matter demands a more serious and mature writing style. Vollmann far too often uses Europe Central as a showcase for his witty insights which go on pompous display instead of being usefully integrated into the narrative (insofar as one may exist). Even more infuriating is the narration that mars most of the Russian chapters and which ends all of its sentences by abruptly dropping them before they say anything. It's almost as if they, so to speak, well, you know.
The subject matter and weight of these Russian chapters is also a problem. It is understandable that the content of this book would fall toward the Russian side; after all, it is no secret that the USSR bore the brunt of the absolute destruction that defines World War II's style of warfare. For a book masquerading as a look at all of Central Europe, however, Europe Central hardly focuses on the German side at all. This is an exceptionally glaring displacement of attention because the German mentality was so central to the war in the first place. Most frustrating, however, is the fact that the German-focused chapters of the book are its most coherent, best written, and to my admittedly biased mind the most interesting chapters by far. These infrequent and unfairly truncated chapters become mere pit-stops, however, as Vollmann travels the boring and incessantly redundant Shostakovich highway. Dmitri Shostakovich is a fascinating character to follow throughout the tightening paired nooses of Soviet oppression and German military aggression. Vollmann again misfires, however, when constructing the famous composer and every Russian ever as entirely obsessed with a certain enigmatic woman who happened to be his mistress for a year. By the end of the book, I would audibly groan whenever her name was mentioned; her legend is an interesting segway into the exposure of certain Soviet crimes and into Shostakovich's personal life, but using her as the sole inspiration for everything he ever did takes it much too far and turns him into a one-dimensional whiny character, hardly one readers want to follow for so much of the book.
Most annoying about this book is the fact that buried beneath the overbearing weight of unnecessary literary posturing and award-baiting are some incredibly moving stories that shed new and intriguing light on certain moral dilemmas faced in conflict. "Woman with Dead Child", an early look at Käthe Kollwitz's life and art, is incredibly moving if hampered a bit by this work's usual literary hang-ups. "Into the Mountain" provides an original look at the parallels between Norse mythology and Hitler's demise. When Vollmann focuses on an intense character portrait and limits it to one story, he belongs in the highest echelon of World War II fiction. "The Red Guillotine" makes a subtle comparison between the Soviet and German regimes and forces readers to face the uncomfortable fact that each may have been equally repressive and, perhaps, equally evil. Vollmann shows complexity and depth when probing his carefully selected and incredibly thoroughly defined characters within the contexts of the tough moral decisions they are forced to make. There are incredibly complex moral distinctions explored in "Clean Hands", the story of an SS officer who joins simply to reveal the organization's atrocities to the world, and "Breakout", the tale of Soviet general Andrey Vlasov and his cooperation with the Nazi regime against the USSR. The subjective and often fluid nature of ethical judgment, both by historical actors and in hindsight, is preserved in these stories especially as they (more or less) objectively expose the reasoning behind each man's actions. Vollmann is at his best here where he allows his stories to concentrate on compact narratives that center around a strong character- neither is drawn out and each shows an impeccable sense of narrative construction both within itself and in relation to the work as a whole. Vollmann positively shines in these select stories.
Judging Vollmann's vast effort, then, is clouded equally in shades of grey as its best narratives are. His best stories deserve to be preserved and read by anyone interested in the psychology of morals along with those interested in the unique mental climate provided by World War II. Here, Vollmann follows through on the jacket's promise to explore moral decisions forced in wartime. Here also the two great powers of Central Europe, Germany and the USSR, are compared in subtle and astoundingly anti-didactic ways: there is nothing forced in these stories; they are completely genuine. This makes the egregious errors which haunt the vast bulk of Europe Central even less forgivable and absolutely maddening. There is great promise but readers are everywhere disappointed and occasionally even despised. Additionally, those wishing to make any sense whatsoever of several crucial elements of the story must be well-versed in musical theory and history, Nordic and German mythology, and the history of World War II before even attempting to read this book. It is entirely an accident that one of my college classes touched on Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony and its relationship to Stalin; without this nuanced exposure most of the composer's chapters, which dominate the book by far, would have made no sense whatsoever. Vollmann often refuses to make anything at all clear and sacrifices meaning for "art", mirroring perhaps Shostakovich's deepest ambitions but creating something extremely inaccessible and deeply difficult to read, let alone enjoy. This book reeks of wasted talent and unfulfilled promises while its best chapters show that it could have been more than worthy of its subject matter. Readers would be well-served to seek out this book's best stories, but its general framework is distorted and reading all of Europe Central is a waste of time for the majority of readers who simply want an engrossing, useful, or intelligible narrative.
Grade: C
Readers should know by the first sentences of the book whether they are cut out to be dragged along in this quagmire of metaphor and nonsensical characterization and narration; the opening chapter is absolutely impossible to decipher and, while raising interesting points that are few and far between, succeeds only in introducing a shaky and useless telephone metaphor that occasionally comes back throughout the book. Much of the writing in this tome echoes this useless prelude as Vollmann stretches metaphors well past literary acceptability. Time and again metaphors extend sentences well beyond the limits of reason and, while these are often insightful, drag readers right out of the story and force them to recognize how clever the author is. This kind of writing is nothing but self-serving and, frankly, the importance of the book's core subject matter demands a more serious and mature writing style. Vollmann far too often uses Europe Central as a showcase for his witty insights which go on pompous display instead of being usefully integrated into the narrative (insofar as one may exist). Even more infuriating is the narration that mars most of the Russian chapters and which ends all of its sentences by abruptly dropping them before they say anything. It's almost as if they, so to speak, well, you know.
The subject matter and weight of these Russian chapters is also a problem. It is understandable that the content of this book would fall toward the Russian side; after all, it is no secret that the USSR bore the brunt of the absolute destruction that defines World War II's style of warfare. For a book masquerading as a look at all of Central Europe, however, Europe Central hardly focuses on the German side at all. This is an exceptionally glaring displacement of attention because the German mentality was so central to the war in the first place. Most frustrating, however, is the fact that the German-focused chapters of the book are its most coherent, best written, and to my admittedly biased mind the most interesting chapters by far. These infrequent and unfairly truncated chapters become mere pit-stops, however, as Vollmann travels the boring and incessantly redundant Shostakovich highway. Dmitri Shostakovich is a fascinating character to follow throughout the tightening paired nooses of Soviet oppression and German military aggression. Vollmann again misfires, however, when constructing the famous composer and every Russian ever as entirely obsessed with a certain enigmatic woman who happened to be his mistress for a year. By the end of the book, I would audibly groan whenever her name was mentioned; her legend is an interesting segway into the exposure of certain Soviet crimes and into Shostakovich's personal life, but using her as the sole inspiration for everything he ever did takes it much too far and turns him into a one-dimensional whiny character, hardly one readers want to follow for so much of the book.
Most annoying about this book is the fact that buried beneath the overbearing weight of unnecessary literary posturing and award-baiting are some incredibly moving stories that shed new and intriguing light on certain moral dilemmas faced in conflict. "Woman with Dead Child", an early look at Käthe Kollwitz's life and art, is incredibly moving if hampered a bit by this work's usual literary hang-ups. "Into the Mountain" provides an original look at the parallels between Norse mythology and Hitler's demise. When Vollmann focuses on an intense character portrait and limits it to one story, he belongs in the highest echelon of World War II fiction. "The Red Guillotine" makes a subtle comparison between the Soviet and German regimes and forces readers to face the uncomfortable fact that each may have been equally repressive and, perhaps, equally evil. Vollmann shows complexity and depth when probing his carefully selected and incredibly thoroughly defined characters within the contexts of the tough moral decisions they are forced to make. There are incredibly complex moral distinctions explored in "Clean Hands", the story of an SS officer who joins simply to reveal the organization's atrocities to the world, and "Breakout", the tale of Soviet general Andrey Vlasov and his cooperation with the Nazi regime against the USSR. The subjective and often fluid nature of ethical judgment, both by historical actors and in hindsight, is preserved in these stories especially as they (more or less) objectively expose the reasoning behind each man's actions. Vollmann is at his best here where he allows his stories to concentrate on compact narratives that center around a strong character- neither is drawn out and each shows an impeccable sense of narrative construction both within itself and in relation to the work as a whole. Vollmann positively shines in these select stories.
Judging Vollmann's vast effort, then, is clouded equally in shades of grey as its best narratives are. His best stories deserve to be preserved and read by anyone interested in the psychology of morals along with those interested in the unique mental climate provided by World War II. Here, Vollmann follows through on the jacket's promise to explore moral decisions forced in wartime. Here also the two great powers of Central Europe, Germany and the USSR, are compared in subtle and astoundingly anti-didactic ways: there is nothing forced in these stories; they are completely genuine. This makes the egregious errors which haunt the vast bulk of Europe Central even less forgivable and absolutely maddening. There is great promise but readers are everywhere disappointed and occasionally even despised. Additionally, those wishing to make any sense whatsoever of several crucial elements of the story must be well-versed in musical theory and history, Nordic and German mythology, and the history of World War II before even attempting to read this book. It is entirely an accident that one of my college classes touched on Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony and its relationship to Stalin; without this nuanced exposure most of the composer's chapters, which dominate the book by far, would have made no sense whatsoever. Vollmann often refuses to make anything at all clear and sacrifices meaning for "art", mirroring perhaps Shostakovich's deepest ambitions but creating something extremely inaccessible and deeply difficult to read, let alone enjoy. This book reeks of wasted talent and unfulfilled promises while its best chapters show that it could have been more than worthy of its subject matter. Readers would be well-served to seek out this book's best stories, but its general framework is distorted and reading all of Europe Central is a waste of time for the majority of readers who simply want an engrossing, useful, or intelligible narrative.
Grade: C
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