“His real self as you saw it in a war,” says the narrator and antihero of this novel, of another of its characters. This phrase is central to a long, rambling, and rather improbable account of one man’s life during and after World War I. The narrator, Ferdinand Bardamu, has a life out of a picaresque novel. He goes from one scrape to another, his narrow escapes as often as not taking him from the frying pan into the fire. By the same token, by using his wits, he sometimes is blessed with good luck. Chance and luck rule this novel and, by implication, the world.
Bardamu may often be confused and stunned in the many crises of his life, but in the telling of them, he is never at a loss. He is a man who has reflected intensely upon his experiences and has come to these conclusions regarding them. Readers may not like these conclusions—Bardamu is an incurable cynic—but readers can recognize, enjoy, and even honor them. Actually, Bardamu is less cynic than misanthrope, and one recalls the provocative definition of a misanthrope as someone who thinks too well of people. Bardamu has been deeply wounded in his idealism. One day, he is marching off to glory, awash in patriotic fervor; the next, he finds himself in the thick of horrendous war. What makes this betrayal all the more bitter is that he knew better even before he joined up. Having found that his sardonic armor does not protect him from a passing fit of patriotism, Bardamu has two choices: to allow emotions to deafen the voice of calculation or to redouble his efforts to guard against unpleasant...
(The entire section is 644 words.)