Three Comrades
by
[Little, Brown, $2.75]
All Quiet on the Western Front, which told with cruel irony of what the war did to some young men, was most avidly read, I think, by members of that generation which just escaped it. They absorbed Mr. Remarque’s realistic descriptions of the physical and mental anguish of warfare and got the feel and sounds and smell of carnage from the pages of what undoubtedly was one of the great books of the war. Many, I am sure, resolved that if this was what war was like they would have none of it, ever. Stricken by the awfulness of what Mr. Remarque told better than anyone else, they rejoiced that they had been too young and made up their minds that nothing could be worth the cost so admirably summed up in that single book.
But that was in 1928. Now, nearly a decade later, he is still interested in those young men who managed to survive. He again looks back: Three Comrades is set in the time when All Quiet had just appeared. This is interesting, for one thing, because so many of those who must have been influenced by his first book cannot possibly be interested in his third: they have forgotten the pacifism it engendered and are seeking the front lines, in Spain or Detroit, and are no longer afraid of the sights and sounds and smells that Mr. Remarque horrified them with a long time ago.
Three Comrades is an account of the personal problems of three members of what once was called the lost generation. As such, and strictly as such, it is a good book. Despite its striking similarity of mood and manner to Farewell to Arms, it can be read pleasantly enough. The love story of Bobby and Patricia is moving; the relationship of Robert, Gottfried, and Oscar is no less well knit than the relationships of All Quiet.
But somehow, in 1937, the book lacks what, to use a loose word, may be called significance. I think this is because few of us are interested any longer in those whose lives are without direction, as these lives are, as the lives of the characters so faithfully reported by Ernest Hemingway were. We may pity these derelicts; and the more so because Mr. Remarque himself has been among the best of those who have told us how they went adrift and how little they had to say about it, twenty years ago. But we have read about them often enough now, and the times seem to call for something else: for instance, the young who, in Germany and Italy, are forbidden to know of the war from the pens of men like Mr. Remarque, and who, in Spain, Care nothing about his horrors, because they have something now to live — and quite possibly die — for.
This, of course, is asking for something which Mr. Remarque, as an artist, did not choose to give. He has every right in the world to use his talents as he sees fit; to write, even in exile, a book which seemingly may be read in Germany without harm. But we also have every right in the world to ask for something else. Recalling All Quiet and the terrific impact it had upon so many million people, one cannot help feeling that as an artist Mr. Remarque has been remiss in choosing as he did. In his first book he gave something that was needed; a memorable picture of cruelty. In this book he gives another memorable picture. What is sad, though, is that we have seen it too many times before.
If we believe, as I do, that the artist has a duty beyond the fulfillment of his own wishes, — although that should come first, — then we cannot help being disappointed in Three Comrades. For one thing, Mr. Remarque shows that All Quiet was not an accident: the man is a writer of excellent capabilities. This third book technically has much to commend it. But technique is not enough. There must be also substance, which this lacks; and understanding, which this possesses. Aboveall there must be significance. And this seems to be missing.
Mr. Remarque wrote first of the European twilight and of those who were thrown to the wolves and torn and mangled without knowing why. His tired, sapped, standardless generation was not strong enough, and did not care enough, to stem the tide of Fascism. It has suffered the coming of dictators and now it leaves the future to those who are coming after. Mr. Remarque has been and still is the reporter of his generation. It is not his fault he is only a reporter and not a prophet. It is because we are looking for prophets that we have not the patience to spend time with one who is able only to tell us what we already know and what does not seem important any more.
KARL SCHRIFTGIESSER