No More Parades by Ford Madox Ford (top 10 books to read TXT) 📕
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No More Parades is the second in Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End series. The book, released just a few years after the close of the war, is based on Ford’s combat experiences as an enlisted man in World War I, and continues the story first begun in Some Do Not ….
Christopher Tietjens, after recovering from the shell shock he suffered in Some Do Not …, has returned to the edge of the war as a commanding officer in charge of preparing draft troops for deployment to the front. As the “last true Tory,” Tietjens demonstrates talent bordering on genius as he struggles against the laziness, incompetence, and confusion of the army around him—but his troubles only begin when his self-centered and scandalous wife Sylvia appears at his base in Rouen for a surprise visit.
Unlike Some Do Not …, which was told in a highly modernist series of flash-backs and flash-forwards, Parade’s End is a much more straightforward narrative. Despite this, the characters continue to be realized in an incredibly complex and nuanced way. Tietjens, almost a caricature of the stiff, honorable English gentleman, stoically absorbs the problems and suffering of those around him. Ford simultaneously paints him as an almost Christlike character and an immature, idealistic schoolboy, eager to keep up appearances despite the ruination it causes the people around him. Sylvia, his wife, has had her affairs and scandals, and is clearly a selfish and trying personality; but her powerful charm, and her frustration with both her almost comically stiff-lipped husband and the war’s interruption of civilization, lends her a not-unsympathetic air. The supporting cast of conscripts and officers is equally well-realized, with each one protraying a separate aspect of war’s effect on regular, scared people simply doing their best.
The novel was extremely well-reviewed in its time, and it and the series it’s a part of remain one of the most important novels written about World War I.
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- Author: Ford Madox Ford
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Never once till yesterday … For perhaps the unfortunate Perowne might just faintly have had the right yesterday to make himself for about two minutes—before she froze him into a choking, pallid snowman with goggle eyes—the perfectly loathsome thing that a man in a railway train becomes … Much too bold and yet stupidly awkward with the fear of the guard looking in at the window, the train doing over sixty, without corridors … No, never again for me, father, she addressed her voice towards the ceiling …
Why in the world couldn’t you get a man to go away with you and be just—oh, light comedy—for a whole, a whole blessed weekend. For a whole blessed life … Why not? … Think of it … A whole blessed life with a good sort and yet didn’t go all gurgly in the voice, and codfish-eyed and all-overish—to the extent of not being able to find the tickets when asked for them … Father, dear, she said again upwards, if I could find men like that, that would be just heaven … where there is no marrying … But, of course, she went on almost resignedly, he would not be faithful to you … And then: one would have to stand it …
She sat up so suddenly in her chair that beside her, too, Major Perowne nearly jumped out of his wickerwork, and asked if he had come back … She exclaimed:
“No, I’d be damned if I would … I’d be damned, I’d be damned, I’d be damned if I would … Never. Never. By the living God!”
She asked fiercely of the agitated major:
“Has Christopher got a girl in this town? … You’d better tell me the truth!”
The major mumbled:
“He … No … He’s too much of a stick … He never even goes to Suzette’s … Except once to fetch out some miserable little squit of a subaltern who was smashing up Mother Hardelot’s furniture …”
He grumbled:
“But you shouldn’t give a man the jumps like that! … Be conciliatory, you said …” He went on to grumble that her manners had not improved since she had been at Yssingueux-les-Pervenches … and then went on to tell her that in French the words yeux des pervenches meant eyes of periwinkle blue. And that was the only French he knew, because a Frenchman he had met in the train had told him so and he had always thought that if her eyes had been periwinkle blue … “But you’re not listening … Hardly polite, I call it,” he had mumbled to a conclusion …
She was sitting forward in her chair still clenching her hand under her chin at the thought that perhaps Christopher had Valentine Wannop in that town. That was perhaps why he elected to remain there. She asked:
“Why does Christopher stay on in this Godforsaken hole? … The inglorious base, they call it …”
“Because he’s jolly well got to …” Major Perowne said. “He’s got to do what he’s told …”
She said: “Christopher! … You mean to say they’d keep a man like Christopher anywhere he didn’t want to be …”
“They’d jolly well knock spots off him if he went away,” Major Perowne exclaimed … “What the deuce do you think your blessed fellow is? … The King of England? …” He added with a sudden sombre ferocity: “They’d shoot him like anybody else if he bolted … What do you think?”
She said: “But all that wouldn’t prevent his having a girl in this town?”
“Well, he hasn’t got one,” Perowne said. “He sticks up in that blessed old camp of his like a blessed she-chicken sitting on addled eggs … That’s what they say of him … I don’t know anything about the fellow …”
Listening vindictively and indolently, she thought she caught in his droning tones a touch of the homicidal lunacy that had used to underlie his voice in the bedroom at Yssingueux. The fellow had undoubtedly about him a touch of the dull, mad murderer of the police-courts. With a sudden animation she thought:
“Suppose he tried to murder Christopher …” And she imagined her husband breaking the fellow’s back across his knee, the idea going across her mind as fire traverses the opal. Then, with a dry throat, she said to herself:
“I’ve got to find out whether he has that girl in Rouen …” Men stuck together. The fellow Perowne might well be protecting Tietjens. It would be unthinkable that any rules of the service could keep Christopher in that place. They could not shut up the upper classes. If Perowne had any sense he would know that to shield Tietjens was the way not to get her … But he had no sense … Besides, sexual solidarity was a terribly strong thing … She knew that she herself would not give a woman’s secrets away in order to get her man. Then … how was she to ascertain whether the girl was not in that town? How? … She imagined Tietjens going home every night to her … But he was going to spend that night with herself … She knew that … Under that roof … Fresh from the other …
She imagined him there, now … In the parlour of one of the little villas you see from the tram on the top of the town … They were undoubtedly, now, discussing her … Her whole body writhed, muscle on muscle, in her chair … She must discover … But how do you discover? Against a universal conspiracy … This whole war was an agapemone … You went to war when you desired to rape innumerable women … It was what war was for … All these men, crowded in this narrow space … She stood up:
“I’m going,” she said, “to put on a little powder for Lady Sachse’s
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