By Mercè Rodoreda
Title note: unique identify Quanta, quanta guerra...
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Despite its identify, there's little of conflict and masses of the glorious during this coming-of-age tale, which was once the final novel Mercè Rodoreda released in the course of her lifetime.
We first meet its younger protagonist, Adrià Guinart, as he's leaving Barcelona out of boredom and a thirst for freedom, embarking on a protracted trip in the course of the backwaters of a rural land that you could in basic terms consider is Catalonia, followed through the interminable, far away rumblings of an indefinable battle. In vignette-like chapters and with a story type imbued with the wonderful, Guinart meets with quite a few adventures and weird characters who provide him a composite, if surrealistic, view of an impoverished, war-ravaged society and form his conception of his position within the world.
As in Rodoreda's Death in Spring, nature and dying play an basic function in a story that frequently takes on a phantasmagoric caliber and appears a meditation at the results of ethical degradation and the inescapable presence of evil.
"Rodoreda had bedazzled me by means of the sensuality with which she finds issues in the surroundings of her novels."— Gabriel García Marquez
"Rodoreda plumbs a unhappiness that reaches past historical situations . . . a nearly voluptuous vulnerability."— Natasha Wimmer, The Nation
"It is a complete secret to me why [Rodoreda] isn't greatly worshipped; besides Willa Cather, she's on my record of authors whose works I intend to have learn all of earlier than I die. super, great writer."— John Darnielle, The Mountain Goats
Mercè Rodoreda (1908–1983) is greatly considered as crucial Catalan author of the 20 th century. Exiled in France and Switzerland following the Spanish Civil warfare, Rodoreda all started writing the novels and brief stories—Twenty-Two brief Stories, The Time of the Doves, Camellia Street, Garden by way of the Sea—that might finally make her across the world famous.
Literary Awards
Premi Ciutat de Barcelona (1980)
Premi Crítica Serra d'Or for novel·la (1980)
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Additional resources for War, So Much War
Sample text
Youth is for stroking wood, stone, the tender skin of one’s first love. Even before sunrise, the sun already knows that it is the sun, and that the dew has been waiting for it long before daybreak, waiting even before it was born. He let go of my hand. The wall at the back of the hearth glimmered, as did the eyes of the old man seated in his chair.
Behold: A louse fit for a king! Lice were king there; they were glued to us and played possum when they had had enough. I saw one fly from Ximeno’s shirt to Viadiu’s back. They were eating us alive. Always ready to put their bloodsucking mouths to use. They don’t have mouths, they have ducts! One day, while it was still dark, five or six of us walked down the hill to bathe. I lingered behind the water tank, and then slipped away. The fighting had stopped, and it was as if the tranquility 36 WAR, SO MUCH WAR were spurring me to go in search of a place, any place, where I could rid myself of lice and soldiers.
I will be consumed by rage, the whole of me a bag of envy. Don’t think about your arm. We’ll sing, and our singing will quicken people’s hearts and rouse their minds. They finished eating and walked by without seeing me. The stone wall was warm from the sun. I paused by the portal. The courtyard was large, with brambles in the corners. By a well lay a tattered flag, its pole broken, and a tangle of blood-smeared sheets. The stained glass in three high windows was ablaze with light. The wind picked up and the panting of waves reached me.
