Where Wars Go to Die - The Forgotten Literature of World War I
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As the world commemorates the hundredth anniversary of World War I, the literary canon of the war has consolidated around the memoirs written in the years after the Armistice by soldier-writers who served in the trenches. Another kind of Great War literature has been almost entirely ignored: the books written and published during the war by the greatest English, American, French, and German writers at work—books that show us how the best, most influential writers responded to an overpowering human and cultural catastrophe.
Where Wars Go to Die: The Forgotten Literature of World War I explores this little-known cache of contemporary writings by the greatest novelists, poets, playwrights, and essayists of the war years, examining their interpretations and responses, weaving excerpts and quotations from their books into a narrative that focuses on the various ways civilian writers responded to an overwhelming historical reality.
The authors whose war writings are presented include George Bernard Shaw, Henry James, Joseph Conrad, H. G. Wells, Edith Wharton, Maurice Maeterlinck, Henri Bergson, W. E. B. Du Bois, Romain Rolland, Thomas Mann, Thomas Hardy, May Sinclair, W. B. Yeats, Ring Lardner, Reinhold Niebuhr, and dozens more of equal stature.
Intended for the general reader as much as the specialist, Where Wars Go to Die breaks important new ground in the history and literature of World War I.
Skyhorse Publishing, as well as our Arcade imprint, are proud to publish a broad range of books for readers interested in history--books about World War II, the Third Reich, Hitler and his henchmen, the JFK assassination, conspiracies, the American Civil War, the American Revolution, gladiators, Vikings, ancient Rome, medieval times, the old West, and much more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.
he wasn’t supposed to talk. Well Al they wasn’t no way of keeping him quite and he says “That’s all bunk because I been out here before and talked my head off and nothing happened.” So I says well if you have to talk you don’t half to yell it. So then he tried to whisper Al but his whisper sounded like a jazz record with a crack in it. So he shut up for a while but pretty soon he busted out again and this time he was louder than ever and he asked me could I sing and I said no so then he says
Laureate for almost fifty years; I’m old enough to remember having to memorize his “Sea Fever” in school. Thirty-six when the war broke out, he volunteered at a military hospital in France, went to Gallipoli to report on the battle, then spent weeks walking over the Somme trenches after the front line had temporarily moved eastward. Very much a traditional Georgian poet, “believing that poetry is made out of natural beauty, and plain, traditional words,” he found the war made writing poetry
normal flow of traffic, like the sudden rupture of a dyke. The street was flooded by the torrent of people sweeping past us to the various railway stations. All were on foot, and carrying their luggage; for since dawn every cab and taxi and motor-omnibus had disappeared. The War Office had thrown out its drag-net and caught them all. The crowd that passed our window was chiefly composed of conscripts, the mobilisables of the first day, who were on the way to the station accompanied by their
price. No one can replace it. Seven hundred years ago the secret of the glass died. Diamonds can be bought anywhere, pearls can be matched, but not the stained glass of Rheims. And under our feet, with straw and caked blood, it lay crushed into tiny fragments. When you held a piece of it between your eye and the sun it glowed with a light that never was on land or sea. I have seen a lot of war—and real war is a high-born officer with his eyes shot out, peasant soldiers with their toes sticking
termed “Modern.” “This country is formed for the very expression of peace,” Sinclair writes, as her ambulance carries her toward the fighting, “It is all unspeakably beautiful and it comes to me with the natural, inevitable shock and ecstasy of beauty. I am going straight into the horror of war. For all I know it may be anywhere, here, behind this sentry; or there, beyond that line of willows. I don’t know. I don’t care. I cannot realize it. All that I can see or feel at the moment is this