They just told me what happened, and let it go at that, and as much as I enjoy playing with words I have always liked that kind of story-telling.
It's not that I don't like narrative storytelling. Just not with this, I suppose. I grew up steeped in military history--it was central to my family, to the way our extended family worked and the spaces where people had gone missing. And my grandparents told those direct, no-nonsense stories about farming, and the railroad, and the War, and what it brought. My dad deliberately raised my brother and me with narratives about the ETO and how it was different from the PTO, with how the different campaigns made a difference in how they were fought, in what was considered the right choice to make. WWII and the Civil War were our childhood context.
So I guess what I could get from Sledge's memoir is what I already knew, by the time I found it. My basic issue--and I respect what he's doing, it's an exercise that's both necessary and useful to understand the war--is that for me, as a particular case, I didn't need Sledge to tell me these things. He doesn't give me anything I couldn't (and didn't) get from those childhood stories, from years and years of talking about what happened and why and what that meant. And so I finished reading With the Old Breed in college and basically shrugged and thought, "yeah, so?"
The thing with that kind of storytelling is that, once you've heard the story, what's left to think about? It's just there, the story, sitting in front of you being itself, and there's no way inside.
With Leckie, I can see the struggle he has with finding the words, with crafting something that resonates as more than story, and he succeeds so consistently that I feel like rereading it teaches me something--about people, about this situation, about how to make things clear. It's a book I either love or hate, depending on how I'm approaching it, but Sledge's book doesn't hit me emotionally in the same way. Parts of it are inspiring, and parts are horrible, but there's no uncomfortable disconnect between hating the events described and tasting the language as being something painfully lovely in the midst of it. There's no juxtaposition between those moments of grace and the ones of damnation, and that juxtaposition is what makes it art.
On the other hand, I've always been partial to thread-woven history, rather than narrative, but I suspect that's as much a function of how my brain works as anything else. I generally think that the English-speaking world can be divided into people who love <>Beowulf best, and people who love The Canterbury Tales best--and which one people choose says a lot about how they organize the world and what things are important to them.
It's not that either option is better than the other, just that there's a choice there, and I'm willing to bet that people's liking of Sledge or Leckie falls into the same sort of categorization. Chaucer-folks spend much of Leckie's book annoyed that he doesn't just get to the fucking point, and that the reader can't figure out when and where half the stuff happens. And Beowulf-folks spend a substantial portion of Sledge's book frustrated that he lists things out, like a table of atrocities, without giving the emotional context for a lot of them. Different, equally valid, and it all depends on what you want to see, you know?
Chaucer-folks spend much of Leckie's book annoyed that he doesn't just get to the fucking point, and that the reader can't figure out when and where half the stuff happens. And Beowulf-folks spend a substantial portion of Sledge's book frustrated that he lists things out, like a table of atrocities, without giving the emotional context for a lot of them.
*g* I'm JUST SAYING. There is a pattern to this response! (And now I suddenly want con-buttons with "Team Chaucer" and "Team Beowulf" on them. It would be HILARIOUS, and also TRUE.)
It's not that I don't like narrative storytelling. Just not with this, I suppose. I grew up steeped in military history--it was central to my family, to the way our extended family worked and the spaces where people had gone missing. And my grandparents told those direct, no-nonsense stories about farming, and the railroad, and the War, and what it brought. My dad deliberately raised my brother and me with narratives about the ETO and how it was different from the PTO, with how the different campaigns made a difference in how they were fought, in what was considered the right choice to make. WWII and the Civil War were our childhood context.
So I guess what I could get from Sledge's memoir is what I already knew, by the time I found it. My basic issue--and I respect what he's doing, it's an exercise that's both necessary and useful to understand the war--is that for me, as a particular case, I didn't need Sledge to tell me these things. He doesn't give me anything I couldn't (and didn't) get from those childhood stories, from years and years of talking about what happened and why and what that meant. And so I finished reading With the Old Breed in college and basically shrugged and thought, "yeah, so?"
The thing with that kind of storytelling is that, once you've heard the story, what's left to think about? It's just there, the story, sitting in front of you being itself, and there's no way inside.
With Leckie, I can see the struggle he has with finding the words, with crafting something that resonates as more than story, and he succeeds so consistently that I feel like rereading it teaches me something--about people, about this situation, about how to make things clear. It's a book I either love or hate, depending on how I'm approaching it, but Sledge's book doesn't hit me emotionally in the same way. Parts of it are inspiring, and parts are horrible, but there's no uncomfortable disconnect between hating the events described and tasting the language as being something painfully lovely in the midst of it. There's no juxtaposition between those moments of grace and the ones of damnation, and that juxtaposition is what makes it art.
On the other hand, I've always been partial to thread-woven history, rather than narrative, but I suspect that's as much a function of how my brain works as anything else. I generally think that the English-speaking world can be divided into people who love <>Beowulf best, and people who love The Canterbury Tales best--and which one people choose says a lot about how they organize the world and what things are important to them.
It's not that either option is better than the other, just that there's a choice there, and I'm willing to bet that people's liking of Sledge or Leckie falls into the same sort of categorization. Chaucer-folks spend much of Leckie's book annoyed that he doesn't just get to the fucking point, and that the reader can't figure out when and where half the stuff happens. And Beowulf-folks spend a substantial portion of Sledge's book frustrated that he lists things out, like a table of atrocities, without giving the emotional context for a lot of them. Different, equally valid, and it all depends on what you want to see, you know?
Reply
*cracks up* Hello.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment