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About the author and blogger ...

Anne Goodwin’s drive to understand what makes people tick led to a career in clinical psychology. That same curiosity now powers her fiction.
A prize-winning short-story writer, she has published three novels and a short story collection with small independent press, Inspired Quill. Her debut novel, Sugar and Snails, was shortlisted for the 2016 Polari First Book Prize.
Away from her desk, Anne guides book-loving walkers through the Derbyshire landscape that inspired Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre.
Subscribers to her newsletter can download a free e-book of award-winning short stories.

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How to live after survival? The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan

2/10/2014

16 Comments

 
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Around the sixtieth anniversary of the ending of the Second World War, there were whispers in the media about old men being traumatised by the memories of the horrors of their youth that were triggered by the worldwide commemorations. As a psychologist, I’d long been interested in repressed memories and, as the offspring of a World War II veteran, I was curious about the impact on my generation, one of the themes I wanted to address in my novel, Sugar and Snails. So my ears pricked up when, earlier this summer, I caught a BBC radio broadcast about a novel exploring one of the greatest atrocities of that war by a man whose father had survived it. I liked the way Richard Flanagan refused to provide easy answers: he’d spent twelve years trying to understand what evil was but ended up no wiser. I strongly recommend you listen to his interview with Mariella Frostrup – it starts about two minutes into the broadcast and lasts about 10 to 12 minutes – who does a much better job at selling the novel than I can. But I’ll give it my best shot … 

The main subject of the novel is the construction of the death railway through Thailand by prisoners of war used as slave labour under the brutal management of the Japanese. Like In Paradise, with its focus of the Nazi death camps, The Narrow Road to the Deep North isn’t always an easy read. It’s not just the disturbing content: the novel sets off in a way that makes demands of the reader, with a fragmented timeline and dialogue that eschews the conventions of quotation marks. Yet persistence pays off and I quickly warmed to the style and characters sufficiently to see me through the gruelling central chapters in which a soldier’s failure to fold his blanket in the regulation manner leads to his death. Dorrigo Evans, as camp doctor and commanding officer of the lice-infested prisoners of war, is haunted in later life by his failure to prevent the sergeant’s savage beating by the camp guards.

By following the characters on both sides of the conflict into their post-war lives, the novel pushes the reader to question how ordinary life, and love and beauty, can continue after and alongside such extreme acts of human cruelty:

He thought of how the world organises its affairs so that civilisation every day commits crimes for which any individual would be imprisoned for life. And how people accept this either by ignoring it and calling it current affairs or politics or wars, or by making a space that has nothing to do with civilisation and calling that space their private life. (p 389)

Part of the answer to this question is that the perpetrators don’t consider they’re doing anything wrong. Schooled in obedience to the Emperor, determined to achieve the improbable task of constructing a railway line through inhospitable territory with an inadequate workforce and mediaeval tools, believing his prisoners are less than human by dint of having surrendered, the Japanese commander, Nakamura, interprets his slight sense of unease, not as evidence of wrongdoing, but of his inherent goodness and sensitivity:

Watching the prisoner being beaten gave him no pleasure. But what could you do with such people as these? What? Good and gentle parents had raised him as a good and gentle man. And the pain brought on in him by such suffering as he had ordered proved to him how deeply he was a good and gentle man. For, otherwise, why would he feel so pained? But precisely because he was a good man – who understood his goodness as obedience, as reverence, as painful duty – he was able to order this punishment. (p 287)

One of the ironies of the novel is that the title comes from the celebrated Japanese poet, Basho: the best of Japanese culture sitting alongside the worst. The guards are narcissistically proud of their love of poetry:

They recited to each other more of their favourite haiku, and they were deeply moved not so much by the poetry as by their sensitivity to poetry; not so much by the genius of the poem as by their wisdom in understanding the poem; not in knowing the poem but in knowing the poem demonstrated the higher side of themselves and of the Japanese spirit (p 126)

Dorrigo Evans also loves poetry and, albeit his misdeeds pale in comparison to those of the Japanese, his refinement and sensitivity cannot compensate for his repeated betrayals of his marriage. Unlike the Japanese, he does not believe in his own virtue but nevertheless accepts the men’s projections of his leadership qualities as a way of seeing them through their ordeal:

Dorrigo Evans understood himself as a weak man who was entitled to nothing, a weak man whom the thousands were forming into the shape of their expectations of him as a strong man. It defied sense. They were captives of the Japanese and he was the prisoner of their hope. (p 52)

After the war, he tries to shake off the dullness and loneliness of ordinary life in acts of adultery; another survivor of the death camps, Jimmy Bigelow, tries to protect his children through a bizarre obsession with them folding their clothes correctly:

He would beg and plead, he would order and demand and, in the end, exasperated, he would refold and re-stack their clothes himself as they stood by nervously waiting. He would feel some nameless terror that was beyond him to explain – confusion they too would carry with them for the rest of their lives that was both love and fear (p 300)

As the years go by and the gap widens between the memories of the survivors and the official record, others cope by forgetting:

His mind slowly distilled the memory of the POW camps into something beautiful. It was as if he were squeezing out the humiliation of being a slave, drop by drop. First he forgot the horror of it all, later the violence done to them by the Japanese. In his old age he could honestly say he could recall no acts of violence. The things that might bring it back – books, documentaries, historians, he avoided. Then his memory of the sickness and the wretched deaths, the cholera and the beri-beri and the pellagra, that too went; even the mud went, and later so too the memory of the hunger. (p 432-3)

Given that, to my shame, prior to reading this novel my sketchy knowledge of the Death Railway came from the sanitised version in the film The Bridge over the River Kwai, the novel also speaks to me of societal forgetting. But, Richard Flanagan seems to imply, perhaps that’s inevitable: cruel or virtuous, victim or perpetrator, every life is snuffed out in the end.

The Narrow Road to the Deep North is an important, passionate, profound, deeply moving and beautiful novel that, through its multiple strands, explores humanity’s greatest imponderables. Thanks to Chatto and Windus for my review copy. I’m delighted that it’s made the Booker prize shortlist and, if you haven’t read it already, I hope I’ve inspired you to give it a go. You might also be interested in my other posts that touch on some of the themes raised in this novel: identity; memory and forgetting; war; writing about terror, its aftermath, and impact on future generations; the downside of obedience to authority; survival in adversity; camaraderie; teamwork; evil acts perpetrated by supposedly good men.

Thanks for reading. I'd love to know what you think. If you've enjoyed this post, you might like to sign up via the sidebar for regular email updates and/or my quarterly Newsletter.
16 Comments
geoff link
2/10/2014 05:09:02 pm

This is definitely a book I could read. I've linked this post to one I am writing on Palestine and my dad's letters because I do wonder at the impact the current awful events will have on those involved going forward in much the same way as Flanagan describes, and how our views might change as distance lends perspective. My father, superficially at least, suffered few psychological scars from what he experienced in Palestine, but the whole event stayed with him. What particularly resonates is how he came to describe his time as 'fun' and how he would look back and make unflattering comparisons between his war time and army experiences and the situation in, say, the sixties. He wouldn't be swayed from the belief that it had been the best time of his life, but you only have to read his contemporaneous account in his letters to know that wasn't how he saw it at the time. It was probably just as well mum kept them hidden as to confront that truth would have caused an unnecessary upset.

Reply
Annecdotist
5/10/2014 07:59:58 am

Thanks for this, Geoff. I think both you and Richard Flanagan manage a difficult task of reimagining your fathers' wartime experiences, seeing them as much more (and perhaps in some ways less) than your parents.
That time-of-their-lives aspect is an interesting one, as I don't think it's entirely denial. There is a perverse excitement in living so close to the edge which, I think, is partly why, in this novel, the main character found it so hard to adjust to ordinary life, although superficially he was very successful.
And, of course, they were just kids. I didn't include it in my review (it was long enough as it was) but there were a couple of scenes in the novel that I found quite moving where the men, ragged and starving as they were, fooled around and took the piss out of each other with that bravado that young men often have.
And earlier, when they still had a bit of meat on them, they put on shows (performances) for each other's entertainment, and I suppose there'd be a kind of intensity in those relationships at the time that they'd never have again, and certainly not with their wives.
I'll stop rambling, but if you do read it I'd love to know what you think.

Reply
Charli Mills
2/10/2014 06:19:46 pm

Profound book and profound review. I will be returning to digest and read more from the offered links. And digest some more.

This line: "I liked the way Richard Flanagan refused to provide easy answers: he’d spent twelve years trying to understand what evil was but ended up no wiser." So much is tied up in that idea that no matter how much we unravel the knot or chase the threads, we can't always understand what it all is suppose to be. Can we ever understand evil?

And societal forgetting--or family or cultures--is crazy prevalent! Or else the one who recalls is crazy. I've always been one of those crazy ones, one who didn't slip into forgetting and I've railed against those who forget. Yet, I wonder, why not make it easier on myself and join rank? But I can't. I'm someone who remembers. I try to understand the threads. I hope for a beautiful tapestry in the end.

Interesting to think that the commentaries were triggering repressed memories. My grandfather was in WWII and talked about Marines who were shell-shocked. He seemed to think he was immune, but I also know that he wrote down his stories and talked about them, rather than shuffling them aside. Yet, at the end of his life, he kept repeating one story and was never sure why--it didn't seem horrifying. So I wonder if there was more to it and he told the surface story in a way to hold back the deeper, more troubling aspects of it.

Whew! Quite a post, Anne! The reading, review, the links--go take a walk in the sunshine. This was deep.

Reply
Annecdotist
5/10/2014 08:08:38 am

Thanks, Charli. Your reflections on memory and forgetting tie in nicely with my previous post and your comments there on dementia – but I do realise these are two pretty heavy posts in a row!
It's tough being the one who remembers the stuff others would deny or try to forget but, in the end, I'm drawn to the truth … but I have had a lot of support to find my truth and don't know that I would be strong enough to face it without that.
Interesting about your grandfather – sometimes we borrow others' stories because they are easier than our own. I be very curious about what's behind story he told at the end of his life.
Another one for your research?

Reply
Norah Colvin link
4/10/2014 10:47:28 am

Anne, I think Richard Flanagan should be rather pleased with your review. It does a great job of 'selling' his book to the reader. There is an incredible depth of feeling in your post. I can only assume that the depth in the book must be greater. I often contemplate the way that people are able to rationalise their own wrongdoings, forgiving themselves for actions they would not accept in others. Sometimes, of course, the opposite is true and people are not able to forgive themselves for what others would consider trivial.

Reply
Annecdotist
5/10/2014 08:13:02 am

You're very kind, Norah, and I know we've discussed this a bit already on Twitter. I'd love to know what Richard Flanagan thought of my review! Yes, there's so much in this book and I'd be interested to go back to it again in the light of all your generous comments.
It is interesting, isn't it, how we and others can sometimes forgive ourselves the large transgressions but not the small ones.

Reply
Norah Colvin link
9/10/2014 02:26:38 pm

That's it, the large transgressions but not the small ones!

Claire McAlpine link
5/10/2014 11:25:27 pm

I struggled with this and actually put it aside after reading 50% as it was too horrid and vivid at the same time, so decided to read Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth in the meantime, I needed a woman's perspective of war, from one who got as close as women generally get, without setting out to be a hero.

I will perseve with Flanagan's book, but I don't know that beautiful writing can overcome the dark brutality of it's content and I don't know that I need to absorb in such detail the horrors of the evil that was done, we are now being subjected to daily mentions on beheadings in the media, another reminder that our memories often don't extend beyond our own personal experiences, except in the case of the sensitive, those with an ability to empathise.

Even reading Vera Brittain, I was reminded of how quickly humanity moves on, certainly war changed her life and her direction, she went back to university and changed to studying history, intent on finding out whether humanity had leanred from the destructive forces of war in the past, or whether, something she feared, we were doomed to continue to repeat our mistakes. She discovered international agreements and treaties and joined the League of Nations and became something of an activist for the cause, but she suffered at the ahnds of those youth coming up behind her, those who had been sheltered from war, wondering what her problem was, and she wondering how they could be so unsympathetic or uninterested in the same.

This is a narrative that gave me a little insight into why a whole generation of male youth took up arms and why a certain number of female youth wanted to support them. The evil that is perpetuated is a difficult subject to understand, and not one where I want to put my focus or reading time, because it doesn't feel like we learn or understand or can do anything to prevent it.

Reply
Annecdotist
6/10/2014 08:37:04 am

Thanks for sharing your reflections, Claire. I agree it isn't always helpful to subject ourselves to these horrors if it's difficult to process them. I think it's also been said that in our modern age when we are constantly subjected to instances of man's inhumanity to man we can experience compassion fatigue. Perhaps it's this healthy need to protect ourselves that can lead to cultural forgetting, but enforced remembering doesn't necessarily help either, which is one of the reasons why I'm ambivalent about teaching children about the Holocaust
http://annegoodwin.weebly.com/annecdotal/never-again-in-paradise-by-peter-matthiessen
Interesting what you say about the woman's perspective: I mostly read novels written by women and they often have a more rounded perspective on war. Testament of Youth is one of those books I feel I ought to have read but haven't yet done so – so I'm off to your blog now to see what you say about it.

Reply
Claire McAlpine 'Word by Word' link
6/10/2014 10:05:50 am

Yes, I think we suffer from some kind of fatigue from an overdose of reading, hearing and seeing man's inhumanity to man, I also told my 11 year old this weekend that I've had enough of his documentaries of the animal kingdom doing the same thing. In the span of a human or an animals life, the fearful dramas don't occupy as much time, as it is possible for us to consume them in viewing onscreen.

I think you are right about the question mark over teaching atrocities. I am reminded of the opposite, I remember reading about a study of schoolchildren who were asked to carry out three random acts of kindness a week to see what effect it would have on their lives. The results were positive as you might imagine, teaching empathy and kindness would seem to me to have a better result in bringing about peace than making us imagine the horror of what we can do to each in war.

I do hope you get to read Vera Brittain's Testment of Youth, thank you so much for your comment on my review.

The link to the Kindness study.

http://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-20851434

Charli Mills
6/10/2014 06:20:28 pm

Interesting points that Claire brings up and in the Twitter feed. I was curious as to your response and not disappointed by your insights. I think as writers, that's what we are trying to do--process those ideas, ideals and even horrors to understand. I also understand Claire's point about media showing horrors or focusing on the drama or scare-news. We need kindness, too. But we can't get our heads to far in the sand and deny the atrocities that did, are and will happen. Love your statement that we need to be a society built on truth. And one that can learn and share kindness.

Annecdotist
13/10/2014 10:05:38 am

Thanks for sharing the link to the kindness study, Claire. A great thing to do with kids – or anyone at any age. But for me, knowing the harm that can be done by denying the unkindness and worse, I think there's a place for both.

Norah Colvin link
9/10/2014 02:35:58 pm

This is such a weighty topic and has drawn such depth in the comments, giving me much to ponder. Thank you.

Reply
Annecdotist
13/10/2014 10:02:06 am

Thank you and everyone else for being part of it

Reply
Helen link
13/10/2014 02:09:13 pm

Interesting, thank you! I finished this just a couple of days ago and didn't take from it anywhere near as much as you have. I love your selling of it, and you've given me some food for thought on its value, which I really appreciate. I particularly enjoy the way we think differently about the early parts of the book - you say "the novel sets off in a way that makes demands of the reader, with a fragmented timeline and dialogue that eschews the conventions of quotation marks. Yet persistence pays off" where for me, that was deeply frustrating, almost thwarted my persistence before I was fully into the book, and cried out for better editing.
I suspect you're a more skilled reader than I am, but it shows me how differently an author's style can be interpreted, depending on the reader.

Reply
Annecdotist
14/10/2014 04:10:34 am

Thanks, Helen, and for your own review on which I'll comment shortly (totally agree with you about the annoyingness of established novelists giving their characters similar names unless it's for a very good reason – really, it's one of the basics they ought to know).
I think it's always fascinating how different readers have different experiences and this is a novel that certainly seems to have divided people. I'm puzzling over whether that difficult beginning in The Narrow Road to the Deep North is helpful in that it signals this might be a difficult read or unhelpful in potentially causing extra stress where it's not needed.
I've just read Richard Flanagan's piece in this Saturday's Guardian newspaper http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/oct/10/man-booker-prize-shortlist-author-inspiration
were he points out that there were more deaths on the Thai-Burma railway than words in his novel and that his father, who was one of the few survivors, lost all memory of his time as a POW after the writer had told him of his visit to the most brutal prison guard in Japan. (Not sure that that's so relevant to your comment, except that I didn't know about the author's personal connection to the material before reading the novel, which perhaps also impacted on my reading.)
I'm flattered by your suggestion I might be a skilled reader – and would love to own this label – but if you've seen some of my other reviews it's clear that there are lots of novels that others value and I just don't get. It's a funny old thing, isn't it, sharing our very personal experiences of reading with others – a lovely way of connecting but also great potential to disconnect.
Anyway, we'll find out tonight who's won the Booker prize. Unlike you, I still haven't read any of the others.

Reply



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