Five went mad in the Pulteney Arms in Bath on 4th June
2015: Neil, Mark T, Chris W, Rob and Steve. Apologies or flimsy excuses were
variously received from Richard, Chris B and Mark W.
This wide-ranging fictional biography of Dorrigo Evans, a
surgeon who finds himself fighting for his life and the lives of an increasing
number of his Australian and Tasmanian countrymen in the death railway camps in
Malaysia in WW2, was, overall, well received. For a couple of us, this was
approaching one of the literary highlights of the well-over-100 books we’ve
read so far, and even for those less moved, everyone found it engaging and
rewarding at some level. Structurally the ‘dotting about’ rather than sticking
to strict chronological order irritated some, though wasn’t the slightest issue
for others. The power of Flanagan’s writing wasn’t in doubt; however there was
more discussion over the main characters. Some ‘got’ Evans’, others found him
unsatisfyingly unfocused; Some found the ‘conversion’ of Nakamura convincing
and meaningful, others didn’t.
A common thread through all comments was the tough read that
Flanagan presented when describing life and death on the railway-building
camps. However, it was remarked that in some ways this wasn’t totally
convincing – some of the descriptions of prolonged beatings seemed to require a
suspension of disbelief to swallow a storyline where someone survives such
hardship; and was it really believable, even in the context of historical
Japanese society and culture, that a man guilty of such atrocities in life
could eventually turn out to be such a pussycat? Others asked whether, as the
general story has been covered many times in film and literature, there was any
merit in digging up the same horrific details yet again, when life and lives
have moved on. However all agreed that the attempt to tell the story from
multiple angles – the camp commander, the Korean conscript and the various POWs
– mingled with the appreciation of what culturally would have driven men to
such deeds (the commander’s love for classical Japanese poetry lent the book
its title), perhaps added something new to the genre, although the suspicion of
stereotyping still hung in the air…
The way the book dealt with the trauma of war, and the
little-understood and often repressed post-traumatic stress disorder was the
subject of some discussion. During the book several characters, including
Evans, talk of reaching a point of separation from a loved one where one can no
longer recall their voice, implying a separation so profound that life can
never really be the same again. And when the survivors are back, and Evans
spends some time trying to track them down, he comes across tragic tales of
lives forever ruined and in some cases foreshortened.
Dorrigo’s love for Amy was powerfully and convincingly told;
the scene in the bookshop particularly resonant for some, as was the sad
non-meeting on the bridge (if it didn’t conjure up parallels with Dr Zhivago).
However it was also asked what purpose this all served – here was a story about
a man who was always not going to conform, and the relationship with Amy didn’t
necessarily add anything.
For the one of our number who had visited Tasmania the parts
of the book set there were atmospherically charged, so well did Flanagan
describe the country.
This summary has rather more than the usual quota
of ‘on the one hand this, on the other hand that’, and for a book that we all basically liked, it’s perhaps surprising that there appears to have been such a
wide range of takes on various aspects of the content. But it is a provoking
book, very well written, and it prompted a 5-star discussion for the BBBC.
