Not my usual fare at all, but I was mesmerized by the poetic writing. It was sad to realize how little we have improved as a society, but almost heartening to realize that period in our lives is nothing new.

So, while I really wanted to enjoy this one, I felt almost a little let down by it, now I’m not overly sure why that might be but I did struggle with it.

I don’t know whether it was the mix of prose and verse or whether it was the subject matter itself, I’m not too sure. But what I do know is that I am not overly convinced that it was worth all the hype surrounding it.

I did enjoy the view into Los Angeles after the Second World War, and I did enjoy seeing the fast paced growth of America in that post-war period, but other than that I am struggling to think of anything else that I particularly enjoyed.

Faulkner meeting Steinbeck, meeting Döblin, meeting Capote, …
Honestly, not my cup of tea. I love a demanding read, and I love poetic prose. But this didn't really work for me. I recognized the story of the unsettling return of a World War II veteran, incapable of finding his way back to normal life, traumatized by what he saw back in Normandy in 1944. And I recognized the evocation of America at the end of the 40’s and the beginning of the ’50s, with its scores of homeless people, its great urbanistical works, and its tremendous violence between criminal gangs.

But then there’s the connection between the horrible war scenes, the brutal scenes of demolition of neighbourhoods in Los Angeles, and the description of mutilated victims of gang violence. In contrast there are the very intense and intimate nature descriptions. Is Robertson suggesting the violence in all these actions is on the same level? And is he hinting with this towards a meta-level of criticism on the violence of modernity? It’s positive the author doesn’t suggest clear answers, but – as a reader – I’m a bit at a loss.

At times, Robertson poetic prose led to beautiful passages, expressing existential anguish and bewilderment. And this novel reminded me of the urban fever of Alfred Döblin in [b:Berlin Alexanderplatz|243381|Berlin Alexanderplatz|Alfred Döblin|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1298025058l/243381._SY75_.jpg|1473268], the modernist disruptive style of William Faulkner in [b:Sanctuary|18789|Sanctuary|William Faulkner|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1385366876l/18789._SY75_.jpg|1646639], the social focus of John Steinbeck in [b:Tortilla Flat|163977|Tortilla Flat|John Steinbeck|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1400859671l/163977._SY75_.jpg|890203], and the gang scenes of Truman Capote in [b:In Cold Blood|168642|In Cold Blood|Truman Capote|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1424931136l/168642._SY75_.jpg|1940709]. That are no small references, for sure. But – to me – the mix didn’t really work. Maybe it's the film noire character of this story (many references to the Hollywood film scene too) that's standing in the way. I guess I ought to try a second read.

Audio

This book covers war, homeless veterans, racism, and PTSD in the style of film noir.

It's beautifully written, mixing blank verse and prose, but I'm not sure this novella really has anything new to say or express about a time and milieu that have been described MANY times before.

At least, that was how I felt until just over halfway through, when I reflected that publishing The Long Take now acts as a reminder of not just a war that most people today have no tangible memory of, but also how closely present issues mirror those of 70 years ago: PTSD, rampant construction, racism, homelessness, wildfires. Yes, it is still a book that retreads a lot of old ground about the aftermath of WWII and the Golden Age of Hollywood, but it demonstrates such elegiac creativity, such thoughtful composition, that it (just about) justifies its existence.

There are some glowing poetic tributes to nature, but what stuck with me most of all was the grotesque imagery (reminiscent of gallows humour) used to describe war:

"I saw a sudden pink puffball, which was Cargill's head being coughed apart."

"The tide coming in on a soldier impaled on a German tripod, his guts stringing out around him like a kilt."

"A panzer tank, brewed up inside, crew done like a Sunday roast."

Shortlisted for the Man Booker. Loved it from beginning to end. A fantastic tale of a Canadian WWII veteran called Walker who is traumatised by what he has seen and done during and after the D-Day landing and wanders through New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco, watching America fall apart around him as he remembers snippets of the war and his pre-war life as he soaks himself in booze and empathises with the down and outs of Skid Row. He loves the movies and witnesses the filming of various film noir classics (dutifully footnoted by Robertson). Beautifully paced and modulated.

Walker is a veteran suffering from post traumatic stress disorder after the 2nd world war. Drifting alone from the East to the West Coast of America, he gets a job for a paper documenting the homeless in the cities whose histories are being torn down to make space for the new.

Robertson’s poetry is beautiful, though his images are terribly sad and often revolting. He really captures the desperate situation of these traumatised young men, who have seen horrific things and are now being left to drink in gutters by a world which is moving on without them.

The book looks at the powerlessness of the poor, the way progress is performed (the performance in fact often masking the lack of progress), the evil all men are capable of, the loneliness of the post war generation and of course the history of the United States.

The insidious evil and decay present throughout are terrifying and yet there are moments of lightness and beauty here which create flashes of hope: two men stopping their van to watch whales, some others sharing a Christmas together and Billy who despite having nothing works to help others who are homeless.