Death on the Installment Plan

The greatest novel of one of the greatest novelists of all time. You would have to write a book longer than Celine's novel to do any justice to analyzing it. Thus I was shocked to find the Wikipedia article about this book was about five sentences long. I dropped what I was doing and spouted off a slightly-edited paragraph about the themes of the novel. It's a flawed and cursory view of a book that is difficult to put into words, but I'll offer it here. "It offers a profound vision of the nature of individual human existence: rooted in loneliness, pettiness, and inertia. The antiheroic genius of Bardamu's search for a livable life in early 20th century Paris forms a direct literary metaphor for modern humanity: to search and search again for happiness and meaning in a complex world and to oftentimes come up empty. Or more precisely: to find words, stories, experiences, and ideas that stretch the boundaries of consciousness while providing little or no structure with which to assign any meaning to life as a whole. Life becomes merely a subjective personal experience in the midst of madness and savagery: beautiful in itself but with overtones of profound suffering and a lack of moral prerogatives, and at the mercy of the strange human forces that are both within and without. We become our own history, and our own suffering, and as as such we live: accumulating the pain, happiness, confusion, and death that life allows us to have on installment. Even if it will all be repossessed at the end, when it becomes less than a dream. And that is a moment we all live for." The modern world belongs to Celine. As it more closely conforms to his vision of a future with little hope, a past with veiled lies and atrocities, and an incredible yet painful and ephemeral present, we see that his vision has only become stronger when referring to the world beyond his immediate comprehension or even prediction. This is a fascinating work of art by a writer at the height of his powers. It belongs on the bookshelf of anyone who has ever cared about the realities of human existence.

Everyone who is something in the 20th century writing, has crawled from under the master's long overcoat (from Queneau to Thomas Bernhard). This book, his greatest opus, still dazzles, towering in its Olympian altitudes. The most hillarious, uproarious book ever written. Yet as brittle and tragic as anything out of Euripides or Aeschylus.

Dr. Destouches, Louis-Ferdinand, whatever you want to call him, this man is the essence of 20th century spleen, frenetic overkill, hyperbolic, high-velocity anathema. He covers all the bases. Nothing is sacred. Everything known to man and then some is fair game for his unhomogynized, vituperative rants. And yet it is not hatred of mankind that informs his venting, it is a weird kind of love. Dr. Destouches was actually a man who would not turn down a poor patient. He had a sincere love for his wife and for his cat. He is the preeminent 20th century answer to Swift and to Pope. He holds mankind up to ridicule. He lambasts the foibles and the rot of civilization. Yet he also displays vestiges of love and of understanding beneath the ravings. He abhors the human condition, yet strangely sympathizes with its common plight. We are all actors in a ridiculous farce. Life is indeed a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing, but we are brother actors, victims of central-casting. There has never before been, nor will there ever again be, such energy displayed upon a page. The man had a vision of hell on earth and was never affronted by it. He was always willing to laugh in response to the pain. His is the consummate howl, the absurd grin, the "barbaric yawp."

This is, quite simply, the best novel I've ever read (and I've read quite a few). At times hilarious, at other times poignant to the point of inducing tears, this book is a roller-coaster ride through the range of human emotions, human foibles, human triumphs. There's more insight on every page here than in most full novels. Far better than "Journey to the End of Night." A masterpiece. (Read ONLY the Manheim translation.)