It’s a strange thing about the literature of the First World
War. We can all probably name some of the writers that conflict brought to fame:
Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Isaac Rosenberg, Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke
and the rest. All of them soldiers, many of them dead by November 1918.
And all poets, of course. But where are the great prose works of the Great War? The
first ones that spring to my mind at least are Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front (1929),
Robert Graves’s Goodbye to All That (1929),
Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms
(1929) and Vera Brittain’s Testament of
Youth (1933). All, note, published a decade or more after the Armistice. It
seems strange, doesn’t it, that – contrary to Wordsworth’s dictum about poetry
being “emotion recollected in tranquility” – it was the poetry that was written
during the event, and the prose so much later?
I’m aware, of course, that all this is a large and woolly
generalization. Some important First World War poetry was written long
after the event, such as David Jones’s In
Parenthesis (1937); and of course there were novels and short stories prior
to 1929; but the names I’ve mentioned are the ones that seem to have lasted. It’s
as if prose authors’ experience of the war needed time to settle into a form in
which they felt sufficiently sure of themselves and their own feelings to set
it down. A period of quarantine, as it were.
This train of thought was started by a question that cropped
up while I was writing a piece about female children’s authors in the decades after 1945. I
knew (and more-knowledgeable friends have since confirmed) that during the
Second World War itself there had been numerous children’s books with a contemporary
wartime setting. Elinor Brent-Dyer’s Chalet School fled first from Nazi-held
Austria to Guernsey and thence to Britain during the war years. Biggles took on
Hitler’s airmen just as he had the Kaiser’s. William Brown encountered air
raids and evacuees, and even The Beano
introduced wartime characters (most infamously Musso da Wop – He's a Big-a-da-Flop). But, as with the First World
War, once VJ day passed the well of wartime fiction dried up. A couple of books
with wartime settings appeared in 1946, including Noel Streatfeild’s Party Frock, about a girl who is sent a
beautiful frock from America but has no chance to wear it because of the
general austerity; but I suspect these were already being written before peace
was declared. After that there’s very little, at least from British
writers. True, in 1956 The Silver Sword, Ian Serraillier’s classic story of
European refugees, was published; and around the turn of the 1960s boys’ comics like
War Picture Library and The Victor started featuring stories
from the Second World War on a regular basis, with Germans who could be relied
on to shout things like ‘Achtung, Schweinhund!’ and ‘Hände hoch!’. (Such comics were of course
primarily read by children with no personal memory of the war itself.) However, I’m not
aware of any Second World War children’s novel by a female British author being published
in the twenty years after 1946 – which seems remarkable, if true (and please let me know if it’s not).
Finally, in the late sixties and early seventies, those
authors who had been children during the war began to produce their own novels,
mostly about the Home Front. There are lots of these, many of them excellent. Some
of the best are Jill Paton Walsh’s Fireweed
(1969), Susan Cooper’s Dawn of Fear
(1970), Jane Gardam’s A Long Way from
Verona (1971), Judith Kerr’s When
Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit (1971), Nina Bawden’s Carrie’s War (1973), Robert Westall’s The Machine-Gunners (1975) and Alan Garner’s Tom Fobble’s Day (1977). Like the books by Hemingway, Graves and
Brittain, many are autobiographical or semi-autobiographical in nature.
Looking at this very brief and even more unscientific survey of the literature of the two world wars, I’m struck as much by the absences as by the books themselves – by the fact that such cataclysmic events apparently cannot be turned immediately into fiction, whether because to do so would in some way trivialize the suffering (but why should that be?), or because they were too overwhelming and all-encompassing to submit to the peculiar discipline art demands – to the filtering, the selection, the transmutation of chaotic real-world experience into some kind of half-confabulated order. And what is true of wars is likely true of other traumas, too. We write of them only when we can, which may be decades after the event. That’s why some of us, I’d guess, become children’s writers. To bear our own belated witness.
Looking at this very brief and even more unscientific survey of the literature of the two world wars, I’m struck as much by the absences as by the books themselves – by the fact that such cataclysmic events apparently cannot be turned immediately into fiction, whether because to do so would in some way trivialize the suffering (but why should that be?), or because they were too overwhelming and all-encompassing to submit to the peculiar discipline art demands – to the filtering, the selection, the transmutation of chaotic real-world experience into some kind of half-confabulated order. And what is true of wars is likely true of other traumas, too. We write of them only when we can, which may be decades after the event. That’s why some of us, I’d guess, become children’s writers. To bear our own belated witness.
14 comments:
What there is in the immediate aftermath is an awful lot of children displaced for one reason or another. The meme of the child being sent away is very post WW2.
True - usually because of illness, parents working abroad, etc.
" the fact that such cataclysmic events apparently cannot be turned immediately into fiction " I'm not sure that this ought to be surprising. Most writers think events need some time to osmose in their minds, and in fact if you do react immediately, before you have any emotional distance, you often produce bad writing. What does often happen is that writers who want to react to such material set it in the past, in some similar time - eg Euripides allegedly writing about the Trojan War when in fact he has the Peloponnesian in mind. I'd be interested to look at what hist fic children's writers were doing at the time; were they writing about WW2 indirectly and under the guise of past wars?
It was a flourishing time for historical fiction generally. The Roman invasion of Britain was especially popular, which may allude in a remote way to WWII, though I think it's more complicated than that (for one thing, most of those books think the success of that invasion was a jolly good thing).
You could also see in books like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (nominally a war book) a shifting of the battle into a fantasy world - and of course a lot of later fantasies by people like Alan Garner, Susan Cooper, etc. were heavily influenced by the War (or so I've argued elsewhere).
I'm curious though as to why poetry apparently doesn't need that period of osmosis, at least for some.
Isn't it partly simply the practical question of having time? Poetry could be thought about during the long times of high tension boredom that war provides, then written down fast, whilst fiction requires a bigger, more relaxed, head space as well as opportunity for the writing task? Another fascinating post, thanks, Cathy.
Off the top of my head, there's We Couldn't Leave Dinah by Mary Treadgold, published in 1941, set in the Channel Islands during an attempted Nazi invasion. And apparently written in the air raid shelter. :-)
I think if you're in the middle of war you can't get a big picture, you can't sort out what's happening and where it is all going and what it all means - it's too immediate and confusing and changing all the time. Truth gets lost and there's no tomorrow in wartime, and don't novels especially children's novels) need a tomorrow?
I guess poetry is more fitted for capturing moment and emotion (not for a second suggesting that poetry is not deep...!). I can imagine a novella written during wartime but I think a true novel, to be meaningful and to last, needs distance for the author to be able to process events.
Another advantage of poetry over prose - you don't need as much paper.
That's true! Unless you write a really long war poem, like, say, the Iliad....
You've focused on the motivations of the writers - but some of it might also be about the preferences of the audience.
I've read that many people were suffering "war fatigue" (understandably!) and very much wanted to move on, rather than look back. I believe adult memoirs and writings about the Holocaust, for example, did not attract much interest from either publishers or readers until quite a long after the war - and the same for popular history also.
That's a plausible point. Of course, it's a chicken-and-egg question to an extent.
If I had the time (and a grant!) I might look into whether there's always a ten-year lag for fiction, a kind of no-man's-land between the contemporary and the historical novel, where both publishers and readers feel a bit of genre-queasiness.
More recent disasters too - I'm just starting to notice bombing of world trade centre appearing in fiction, and I think it's going to be a while before it makes it into children's comics.
"Sarah Wells said...
Another advantage of poetry over prose - you don't need as much paper.
11 January 2015 at 13:12
Catherine Butler said...
That's true! Unless you write a really long war poem, like, say, the Iliad....
11 January 2015 at 13:13"
(belated comment!) Of course, as oral poetry in origin, no-one actually needed paper to compose the Iliad :-)
:) Oh all right, the Aeneid, then!
Post a Comment