In the Wall Street Journal article I mentioned Monday (found!), “Publishing’s Battle to Win the Great War” even a Real Historian laments. “‘The American public has very little understanding or knowledge of WWI,’ says historian David McCullough, the author of ‘John Adams’ and ‘1776.’ ‘When I talk at colleges and universities, many of them have no idea when it happened, and know nothing about it, and seem to have very little interest in it.'”
And who am I to argue? I’m sure he is right. I’m 30 now, so get off my lawn, you kids, and listen: “David Reynolds, professor of international history at Cambridge University, says World War I lays the groundwork for America’s later role as a superpower. …Mr. Reynolds calls WWI ‘the forgotten conflict of America’s war-torn 20th century. Forgotten yet also essential.'” The war “‘helped “define the country’s self-image across the whole twentieth century.'”
But wait, who cares about all that anyway? Sure, the article may be about the US publishing industry, but this blog isn’t. Complaints about how difficult it is to slap an evocative cover on a book about a war that killed millions of people and basically created modernity slash set the stage for the other war, the one you are somehow able to evoke with magical effectiveness, do not impress me all that much.
And why do I care about a centenary anyway? Well, because it led to that daft article (and a whole raft of others I’ve read since then), and I like reading books about the Great War, and I think it’s a shame—just a sad state of affairs—that a woman who wrote a book about the war could say, “‘Quite often it is simplified to the horror of the trenches and going over the top and being blown to bits. …And really, who wants to talk about that?'”
Now I am enough of an appreciationist not just to care about trenches, but even about mud—what could be more boring?—a central feature of much Great War writing. I’m hoping to cover it as a whole topic in itself, but look at this wonderful passage from Timothy Findley’s The Wars (speaking of crying shames, this book’s being out of print in the US is certainly one):
The mud. There are no good similes. Mud must be a Flemish word. Mud was invented here. Mudland might have been its name. The ground is the colour of steele. Over most of the plain there isn’t a trace of topsoil: only sand and clay. The Belgians call them ‘clyttes,’ these fields, and the further you go towards the sea, the worse the clyttes become. In them, the water is reached by the plough at an average depth of eighteen inches. When it rains (which is almost constantly from early September through to March, except when it snows) the water rises at you out of the ground. It rises from your footprints—and an army marching over a field can cause a flood. In 1916, it was said that you ‘waded to the front.’ Men and horses sank from sight. They drowned in mud. Their graves, it seemed, just dug themselves and pulled them down.
Houses, trees and fields of flax once flourished here. Summers had been blue with flowers. Now it was a shallow sea of stinking clay from end to end. And this is where you fought the war.
It just depresses me, the lack of—what, creativity, imagination?—that finds this boring, that finds no evil here. It makes me wonder whether the real lesson of the centenary isn’t just the one that Lady Juliet D’Orsey deplores later in The Wars:
And what I hate these days is the people who weren’t there and they look back and say we became inured. Your heart froze over—yes. But to say we got used to it! God—that makes me so angry! No.
But I don’t think Lady Juliet has the problem of some contemporary authors. “These were not accidents,” she tells her interviewer. “These were murders. By the thousands. All your friends were…murdered.”