The entire book is populated by Eliot's Hollow Men , enacting pantomimes, playing civil servant for a government that is obeyed but not loved; soldier in an army that lives only to fight, but knows neither it, nor the empire it defends, can survive a real war.
Thus do father and son exist, fervently holding on to a fated, holy service to the faltering old man who heads the empire they no longer truly believe in. The same Austrian rigidity and austerity that firms up their belief system—and shores up the peasant virtues they inherited from their simple-but-sturdy Slovenian forebears—prevents either from expressing to the other the pain , the torment of earnest service on behalf of a false belief—and so Herr von Trotta seeks solace in his unvarying routine as a Moravian District Commissioner whilst the son, a Lieutenant in first the Cavalry, and then the infantry, passes his days in soldierly fashion whilst using hard liquor and affairs with older married women to numb his sense of being both a failure and doomed to cause the death of those whose paths he crosses in any meaningful way.
This unexpressed love between father and son, so movingly evoked by Roth's gifted pen, carries within it the grief that permeates the entire novel; things are going to end, and they are going to end badly—and neither parent nor child can give the other what he so desperately needs with the unwavering and stern gaze of the Hero of Solferino—captured for eternity by a painter friend of the District Commissioner in a portrait that glares down from the lofty peaked roof of the latter's home—relentlessly bearing down upon their bodies—even when hundreds of miles intervene.
Duty above all ; though, as one of the novel's Cassandras, the Polish noble Chojnicki, observes, the Empire is dying: and those who serve, maintain, and, most importantly, believed in it are already dead men. Roth saw with his own eyes the terrible results of the partitioning of that great Central European power, and the savage returns paid out for such an inflamed and pervasive investment in nationalist pride. The novel is not perfect—the few female characters are almost indistinguishable, and Roth seemed to grow impatient with certain chapter scenarios that would, inexplicably, terminate just when I felt they had reached their peak of interest; and at times the character's actions don't impart the depth that perhaps Roth believed they were uncovering, but this is all eminently forgivable and forgettable, because the writing is just gorgeous and heartfelt, and the wit, humor, melancholy, nobility, and, crowning all, the grief are given free rein to grace every page and turn it into a marvelous thing.
It's not as great a literary achievement as Musil's; it's not as cohesive and penetrating as Broch's; but it's more moving than both, and, in many ways, more beautiful while being just as true—and in the end that puts it right up there with both of them on the Masterpiece shelf where it so rightfully belongs. View all 7 comments. One of many endorsements that lured me to this, Brodsky's remark that "there is a poem on every page of Roth's" has the ironic effect of making Roth sound like a prose writer prone to elaborate poetic digressions, though, at least in this novel, he's relentlessly focused and economical.
By 'poems' Brodsky means imagery whose sharp cut and compression, whose organic and abrupt strangeness ideally fits the swiftness of Roth's narration: The officers went about like incomprehensible worshippers of s One of many endorsements that lured me to this, Brodsky's remark that "there is a poem on every page of Roth's" has the ironic effect of making Roth sound like a prose writer prone to elaborate poetic digressions, though, at least in this novel, he's relentlessly focused and economical.
By 'poems' Brodsky means imagery whose sharp cut and compression, whose organic and abrupt strangeness ideally fits the swiftness of Roth's narration: The officers went about like incomprehensible worshippers of some remote and pitiless deity, but also like its gaudily clad and splendidly adorned sacrificial animals. Further riders vaulted across a line of twenty beer kegs placed bottom to bottom. The horse always neighed as it prepared to jump. The rider came bounding from infinitely faraway; at first a tiny dot, he grew at breakneck speed into a stroke, a body, a rider, became a gigantic mythical bird, half man, half horse, a winged centaur who then, after a successful leap, halted, stock-still, a hundred yards beyond the kegs--a statue, a monument of lifeless matter.
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Trotta watches Kapturak pull out a virgin deck of glossy cards from his pocket and place it on the table gingerly, as if to avoid hurting the colorful face of the bottom card. The oath he had perfunctorily sworn a few times came alive. It rose up, word for word, each word a banner.
The huge golden sun of the Hapsburgs was setting for him, shattered on the ultimate bottom of the universe, splintering into several tiny solar balls that had to shine as independent stars on independent nations. Being so swift and focused means that Roth could produce a three-generation family novel that clocks in at only pages. A less elegant or disciplined a writer could not have kept a handle on a subject that presents so many opportunities for prolixity. I think Roth could offer an excellent model for contemporary writers who are attracted to the big 19th century saga-subjects--the fate of families, as they change over time and mirror or defy an historical environment--but are pledged to a leaner, more oblique ideal of novelistic form.
Roth's economy obviously leaves out alot: the three generations of the Trotta men are seen principally through the prism of their military careers, and the vicissitudes of morale and patriotic commitment, rather than through, say, that of their sexual or religious disposition.
Captain Joseph Trotta von Sipolje accidentally founds the dynasty by saving the Kaiser's life in battle, and is knighted into a world he never quite understands for feels at ease in; his son Franz is the short dynasty's apex, a high official who lives and breathes imperial service, whose entire cosmology is the Hapsburg imperial edifice; and then his son, Carl Joseph, a bored young officer whose torpid garrison postings in the long peacetime before WWI make his life nothing but a depressed and disillusioned round of adultery, drinking, and gambling, not to mention romantic nostalgia for the unknown peasants from which his grandfather sprang.
There is more to these characters than I've sketched here--but not much more; they are not intricately conflicted people. Fortunately the narrow set of themes that Roth threads through their lives happen to be richly suggestive ones: the sudden mutations of ambition and expectation a family undergoes when its status is raised or lowered ; the persistence, nonetheless, of certain vestigial manners and traits into the new social sphere; and state service as an assimilative engine, a leveller and neutralizer, of contrasting ethnicities. Each Trotta is heavily symbolic, but symbolic of very intersting things.
Oh, and the translation: Carl Joseph's fellow officers often speak with a twangy, folksy belligerence that reminded me of old gunslinger movies, and his orderly, written by Roth as a Ukrainian peasant, occasionally breaks his servile silence with pure Cockney expressions.
The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth - Penguin Books New Zealand
It's very difficult to describe the pitch of this book, its approach to the military and administrative life of the Austro-Hungarian empire in the years before WWI. I'm tempted to use the word 'camp', which Susan Sontag delineates as 'failed seriousness'. It is not quite satire, because it is too sincere, but it is certainly not serious in the sense except in its pathetic, touching sincerity.
All of the Trottas and almost everyone else in the book has this quality. The significant exception is t It's very difficult to describe the pitch of this book, its approach to the military and administrative life of the Austro-Hungarian empire in the years before WWI. The significant exception is the generous, sensible, hedonistic I use these words carefully nobleman Chojnicki, who, in more than one sense sees the gathering storm and its consequences. If it were not for Chojnicki, the book might be unbearable; the intellectual and emotional balance of the book hangs on him as on a tent pole.
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While it is Chojnicki's clear-sightedness that throws the rest of the cast into campy tragic silliness, he himself actively facilitates the carnival atmosphere, relieving the corrosive boredom of military life in peacetime and keeping up the appearance of high old world civilisation in the manner of a string quartet playing on the doomed deck of the Titanic. On the night that the news of Franz Ferdinand's assassination reaches them I trust this isn't a spoiler , our protagonist Carl Joseph and his colleagues are capering about festooned with paper garlands at one of Chojnicki's parties, and as the band drunkenly play Chopin's Funeral March, the guests dance.
This is the decadence that the war crunched up and swallowed, along with Herr Trotta's pantomime of self adornment, along with a generation of men across Europe. Roth's painting of this world is ridiculous, and never even slightly sentimental, but it is impossible not to be moved by it.
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Roth's rendering of physical detail is exquisite, even excessive; I feel it's a modernist device. His lengthy dwellings on food and dinners are as lavish as Woolf's, if less frequent. However, as Michael Hofman's introduction points out, The Radetzky March is full of action, of meaningful plot. Rather than expanding days or hours like Woolf and other modernists, Roth spans generations like a Russian classic, with the result that it feels like an epic.
Actually though, it's not a very long book; it has the tragic brevity of a meagre life cut short. What kept me hungrily reading was Roth's ability to capture the ineffable feelings of transcendence that attends pivotal and sometimes trivial moments of life by dramatising their attire, their context.
The Radetzky March
Somehow he finds the right landscape feature, the right constellation of sense data, to make the sudden overwhelming symphony of emotion audible to me. I take off my hat to Hofman for his luminous, crystalline translation. The fruit of his labour is poetry. The glimpses of Jewish lives offered in this book made me urgently want to read more of Roth's reflections on this subject. I am usually fascinated by books from the pre-war and inter-war periods like Patrick Leigh Fermor's youthful memoirs because they depict this glorious tapestry of life in Europe that was utterly destroyed.
The Radestzky March focusses on the military pageantry of the last days of Austria-Hungary, but it contains, like precious stones, in the obscure yearnings of Carl Joseph, whose life is so disastrously misdirected, flashes of lives not woven of pomp and parade, about which Roth is almost romantically solicitous of sympathy, the lives of peasants and workers, culturally diverse, oppressed, mysterious to officialdom.
Carl Joseph's manservant Onufri and his grand father's butler Jacques read, superficially, like fairytale cliche, but there is an undertow so treacherous and powerful that Roth has to break the wall to begin to express it. These types exist, he insists, and the caricatures of them in literature are 'bad copies'. Herr Trotta and his son are, finally, morally and intellectually unworthy of those over whom they have power.
View all 3 comments. Shelves: winter , paper-read , families , hardback , one-penny-wonder , radio-4x , wwi , historical-fiction , translation , summer Most of the action, however, is set in the early years of the twentieth century and con-cerns the next two generations of Trottas, a bureaucrat and a soldier: the Baron - stiff, guarded, but secretly loving - and his son, the feckless, disaster-prone Carl Joseph. The Radetzky March is a novel about the ending of things: love affairs, friendships, individual lives, dynasties, an empire, a world. It was dedicated to the Austrian Field Marshal Joseph Radetzky von Radetz, and became quite a popular march among soldiers.
It has been remarked that its tone is more celebratory than martial-- Strauss was commissioned to write the piece for a celebration of Radetsky's victory at the Battle of Custoza. Opening: The Trottas were a young dynasty.
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On that silent evening when, for the first time since his recovery, Captain Trotta, in order to perform the correspondence duty, sat down at a table, which was lavishly carved up and notched over by the playful knives of bored men, he realized he would never get beyond the salutation Dear Father. Great writing, right there! May 04, [P] rated it it was amazing Shelves: bitchin. There is a lot said about the gifted but unappreciated, the genius who dies without recognition, or the capable man who never fulfils his potential.
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Are these tragedies? How does the unimaginative man, the middling man, who has little of worth to offer, approach a world that expects something w There is a lot said about the gifted but unappreciated, the genius who dies without recognition, or the capable man who never fulfils his potential. How does the unimaginative man, the middling man, who has little of worth to offer, approach a world that expects something worthwhile from him?
However, far from pleasing Trotta, these gifts appear to burden him; as does his standing as a hero.
With his promotion, and new status, comes certain expectations; expectations from which he shrinks. On the surface his behaviour may seem to be about honour and truth, but, for me, it is about hiding, about wanting to avoid the spotlight, and about not being able to accept an image that is the opposite of how you see yourself.
In the same situation a brilliant man would have made the most of the opportunities afforded him — his promotion and status as a hero etc — but Trotta is an average man, the simple son of a Slovenian peasant. In a kind of butterfly effect, Roth shows how one incident can have far-reaching consequences, can influence the lives of numerous people, across generations. Even his relationship with his own father is changed by it, is, in fact, made impossible. Not long after his promotion, he goes to visit the old man, who, in turn, does not really know how to approach his now-famous son.
Trotta wishes that he would speak Slovenian to him, as he used to, even though he — the son — barely understands the language, but, alas, he does not oblige. At the end of the visit, Trotta reflects that this will be the last time he will see his father; an unbridgeable gap has opened up between them. There is a lot of this sort of thing in the book, episodes involving this emotionally-stunted family fumbling through their interactions with each other, wary of intimacy, unable or unwilling to say what ought to be said or do what ought to be done.
I found it incredibly moving. To my mind, much of The Radetzky March is about identity, about what defines you as a person. While the grandfather is, in a sense, trying to avoid an identity that is being thrust upon him, Carl Joseph is trying to find one.