14

Por Jean Echenoz

¿Cómo escribir sobre la Gran Guerra, la primera guerra «tecnológica» del siglo XX, y la puerta, también, a medio siglo de barbarie sin precedentes? Echenoz se enfrenta a un nuevo reto literario que supera con maestría. La certera pluma del escritor avanza junto a los soldados en sus largas jornadas de marcha por los países en guerra y acompaña a cuatro jóvenes de la Vendée, Anthime y sus amigos, en medio de una masa indiscernible de carne y metal, de proyectiles y muertos. Pero también nos cuenta la vida que continúa, lejos de las trincheras, a través de personajes como Blanche y su familia. Y todo ello sin renunciar a esa sutil ironía que caracteriza su escritura, condimento imprescindible de un relato apasionante. «Esta nueva novela concentra y sintetiza lo mejor de la escritura echenoziana» (Florence Bouchy, Le Monde).

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Editorial Anagrama
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 1 sept 2013
• ISBN: 9788433927941

Jean Echenoz

Jean Echenoz (Orange, 1948) ha publicado en Anagrama trece novelas: El meridiano de Greenwich (Premio Fénéon), Cherokee (Premio Médicis), La aventura malaya, Lago (Premio Europa), Nosotros tres, Rubias peligrosas (Premio Novembre), Me voy (Premio Goncourt), Al piano, Ravel (premios Aristeion y Mauriac), Correr, Relámpagos, 14 y Enviada especial, así como el volumen de relatos Capricho de la reina. En 1988 recibió el Premio Gutenberg como «la mayor esperanza de las letras francesas». Su carrera posterior confirmó los pronósticos, y con Me voy consiguió un triunfo arrollador. Ravel también fue muy aplaudido: «No es ninguna novela histórica. Mucho menos una biografía. Y ahí radica el interés de este espléndido libro que consigue dar a los géneros literarios un nuevo alcance» (Jacinta Cremades, El Mundo). Correr ha sido su libro más leído: «Hipnótica. Ha descrito la vida de Zátopek como la de un héroe trágico del siglo XX» (Miquel Molina, La Vanguardia); «Nos reencontramos con la ya clásica voz narrativa de Echenoz, irónica, divertidísima, y tan cercana que a ratos parece oral... Está escribiendo mejor que nunca» (Nadal Suau, El Mundo). Relámpagos «devuelve a la vida al genial inventor de la radio, los rayos X, el mando a distancia y el mismísimo internet» (Laura Fernández, El Mundo). La acogida de 14 fue deslumbrante: «Una obra maestra de noventa páginas» (Tino Pertierra, La Nueva España). Capricho de la reina, por su parte, «es una caja de siete bombones: prueben uno y acabarán en un santiamén con la caja entera» (Javier Aparicio Maydeu, El País), y en Enviada especial destaca «el ritmo y la gracia de la prosa, una mezcla cada vez más afinada de jovialidad y soltura» (Graziela Speranza, Télam).

Vista previa del libro

Créditos

1

Como el tiempo se prestaba a ello de maravilla y era sábado, día en que su cargo le permitía holgar, Anthime salió a dar una vuelta en bici después de comer. Sus proyectos: aprovechar el espléndido sol de agosto, hacer un poco de ejercicio, respirar el aire del campo y seguramente leer tumbado en la hierba, pues llevaba amarrado a la máquina con un pulpo un libro demasiado gordo para el portabultos de alambre. Una vez salió de la ciudad a rueda libre, y tras pedalear sin esfuerzo durante una decena de kilómetros de llano, tuvo que subir en bailón al presentarse una colina, balanceándose de izquierda a derecha y comenzando a sudar. No es que fuera una colina muy escarpada, ya se sabe la altura que alcanzan esas lomas en la Vendée, apenas un altozano leve pero lo bastante prominente para que pudiera uno disfrutar de la vista.

Nada más llegar Anthime al montículo, sobrevino una bruta y estrepitosa ráfaga de viento que estuvo a punto de arrancarle la gorra y de desequilibrar la bicicleta, una sólida Euntes pensada por y para eclesiásticos, que le había comprado a un vicario aquejado de gota. Ventoleras tan vivas, sonoras y repentinas no son habituales en pleno verano por esos pagos, sobre todo con semejante sol, y Anthime se vio obligado a plantar un pie en el suelo, el otro pegado al pedal, la bicicleta ligeramente inclinada mientras se encasquetaba la gorra azotado por el ensordecedor ventarrón. Acto seguido contempló el paisaje que se desplegaba a su alrededor: pueblos desperdigados y un sinfín de campos y pastos. Invisible, pero presente, a veinte kilómetros al oeste, respiraba también el océano, donde se había embarcado cuatro o cinco veces aunque, en tales ocasiones, al no saber pescar, Anthime no había sido de gran utilidad a sus compañeros, por más que su profesión de contable lo autorizaba a ejercer el papel siempre bien recibido de anotar e inventariar las caballas, pescadillas, acedías, rodaballos y otras platijas al regresar del muelle.

Corría el primer día de agosto y Anthime dejó vagar la vista por el panorama: desde aquella colina donde estaba solo, vio desgranarse cinco o seis pueblos, aglomeraciones de casas bajas apiñadas bajo un campanario, conectadas por una fina red vial por la que circulaban no tanto los contados automóviles como los carros de bueyes y de caballos que llevaban las cosechas de cereales. Con ser un paisaje sugestivo, se veía turbado momentáneamente por aquella irrupción ventosa, atronadora, a todas luces inhabitual en aquella estación y que, obligando a Anthime a sujetarse la visera, colmaba todo el espacio sonoro. Tan sólo se oía aquel aire en movimiento, eran las cuatro de la tarde.

Mientras recorría distraídamente con la mirada aquellos pueblos, Anthime se topó con un fenómeno para él desconocido hasta entonces. En lo alto de todos los campanarios, de pronto acababa de ponerse en marcha un movimiento, mínimo pero continuo: la alternancia regular de un cuadrado blanco y otro negro, sucediéndose cada dos o tres segundos, como una luz alternativa, una parpadeo binario que recordaba el de la válvula automática de algunos aparatos en las fábricas. Anthime observó sin comprenderlos aquellos impulsos mecánicos, similares a disparadores o guiños, dirigidos desde lejos por otros tantos desconocidos.

A continuación, el fragor envolvente del viento, interrumpiéndose tan bruscamente como había surgido, dio paso al ruido que había ocultado hasta entonces: en realidad eran las campanas, que habían comenzado a repicar desde lo alto de los campanarios y tañían al unísono en un desbarajuste grave, amenazador, pesado, y en el que, aun sin conocerlo apenas, pues era demasiado joven para haber asistido a muchos entierros, Anthime reconoció instintivamente el toque de rebato, que suena en contadas ocasiones y del que tan sólo acababa de llegarle la imagen antes que el sonido.

El rebato, habida cuenta de la situación que atravesaba el mundo, anunciaba sin lugar a dudas la movilización. Como todo el mundo pero sin acabar de creérselo, Anthime se la esperaba un poco, pero no se imaginaba que pudiese caer en un sábado. Sin reaccionar de inmediato, permaneció menos de un minuto oyendo repicar solemnemente las campanas, hasta que, enderezando la máquina y pisando el pedal, se dejó deslizar por la pendiente y se encaminó hacia su domicilio. De repente un bache, sin que Anthime lo advirtiese, hizo caer de la bicicleta el librote, que se abrió en su caída para permanecer eternamente en solitario al borde del camino, reposando boca abajo en uno de sus capítulos, titulado Aures habet, et non audiet.

Nada más entrar en la ciudad, Anthime empezó a ver gente salir de su casa y congregarse por grupos para ir a desembocar en la place Royale. Los hombres, que parecían nerviosos, desasosegados con el calor, se volvían para interpelarse y hacían gestos torpes, más o menos inseguros. Anthime entró a dejar la bicicleta en su casa y se sumó al trajín general, que confluía ahora desde todas las arterias en dirección a la plaza, donde bullía una multitud sonriente, enarbolando banderas y botellas, gesticulando y apretujándose, sin dejar apenas espacio a los coches de caballos, que transportaban ya a algunos grupos. Todos parecían encantados con la movilización: discusiones enfebrecidas, risas desmesuradas, himnos y fanfarrias, exclamaciones patrióticas entreveradas de relinchos.

Al otro lado de la plaza, donde se había instalado un vendedor de sederías, en la esquina de la rue Crébillon y ya fuera de aquella bulliciosa afluencia, roja de fervor y de sudor, Anthime divisó la silueta de Charles, cuya mirada buscó desde lejos. Al no lograrlo, optó por abrirse paso hacia él entre la gente. Manteniéndose al margen del evento, vestido como en su despacho de la

Comentarios para 14

[66usma · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I assume that a 100 page novella isn't expected to have a lot of depth and development of characters. The work, however, did provide an interesting insight into the futile aspects of war in general, and specifically pertaining to WWI. Would recommend this quick read for history enthusiasts.

[sigmundfraud · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This little book was a great read and informative for me as it told a tale of what life was like for some Frenchman entering World War I at the very beginning of the war. I was intrigued to find that these men expected to return home in two or three weeks. It was to be over that quick as far as they were concerned. Those who lived and did return home often arrived without an arm, or blind or some other wretched disfigurement. I give the book four stars. It is a quick read and well worth the detour.

[ridgewaygirl · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

1914, by French author Jean Echenoz begins, predictably enough, in August of 1914, as Anthime, out to enjoy the day with his bicycle and a book, hears the tocsin being rung from every church bell in the countryside. He rides home to find that war has broken out and so he enlists although, unlike the others, he doesn't think that it will all be over in a few weeks.There is nothing here that anyone with a passing knowledge of the First World War will be surprised by, but the vividness with which Echenoz describes the life of a soldier in the trenches certainly drives the futility and inhumanity of this war home. And that seems to be the point of this slender novel in which men die or are injured in all the expected ways and those who survive are not always able to pick their lives up where they had left them when they marched off, full of patriotism.

[timbazzett · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Award-winning author Jean Echenoz's novel, 1914, was first published in French two years ago with an even shorter title, just 14. It seems appropriate that this able English translation by Linda Coverdale, just published this year, marks the 100th anniversary of that infamous year that marked the beginning of the Great War, also called "the war to end war." No such luck, of course. Here we are a hundred years hence and wars raging all over the globe. It seems man never learns anything from past mistakes.It also seems more than coincidence that, while reading 1914, I happened to catch on late night TV, COMING HOME, the 1978 film about the Vietnam War, a movie about the lingering physical, psychological and emotional effects of that war, and how it destroyed lives and wrecked marriages and families.Although the wars of Hal Ashby's Oscar-winning film and Echenoz's heartbreakingly brief novel were separated by fifty years or more, the two works both managed to convey the utter senselessness of war and its random destruction of innocent lives. 1914 gives us the story of a small group of French soldiers - four friends and the aloof brother of one of them - and one girl that was left behind, 'in trouble.'1914 is, I think, the first novel of the Great War that I've read that is written from the French point of view, and with French soldiers as the unwilling 'heroes'. These men are poorly trained and kept mostly ignorant, and the omniscient narrator (who often displays a dark gallows sense of humor) notes that soon after the war began, the high command was careful to supply plenty of wine to the troops, "increasingly convinced that inebriating its soldiers helped bolster their courage and, above all, reduce their awareness of their condition." A condition characterized by filth, rats, lice and all manner of unpleasantness that was part of trench warfare.All of the soldiers eventually began to hope for "the good wound," the one that wouldn't kill you but would invalid you back home. The protagonist, Anthime, got one of these, losing his right arm to shrapnel. And even at that, he is perhaps the luckiest of all the characters here.The Ardennes, the Somme. These infamous battles of the war are mentioned only briefly, but the four friends were there. They 'adapted' or they died.The story seems especially significant that, in the opening scene of the book, Anthime, a shoe factory accountant, is bicycling blissfully into the spring countryside on a Saturday to picnic and read - a fat Victor Hugo book, NINETY-THREE, a novel about the French Revolution. Like Echenoz's book, a title with only a number, a year in a war. Interrupted by tolling bells of mobilization, he never does read that book. And yet, despite the unremitting and random horror of the war depicted here, the closing lines of the book suggest at least the possibility of new beginnings. Probably not a "happily-ever-after" kind of thing, but the tiniest suggestion that maybe something good can still be rescued from the wreckage.1914 will, I am sure, take its rightful place in the ever-growing pantheon of anti-war books. With its short choppy chapters, by turn humorous and horrific, 1914 packs a powerful emotional punch, one that will resonate with thoughtful readers for a long time. Highly recommended.

[katiekrug · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

A tightly written and effecting novella about the impact of war on a small group of young men in France. The brief, vivid descriptions of the horrors of war are well-done but less impactful than the quieter, less shocking moments Echenoz describes. A rewarding read for a lazy afternoon.

[sullywriter_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

A lean, somber and poignant novella translated from the French.

[kewing_12 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

A quiet, haunting, elegantly written novella that despite its brevity captures the optimism, horror, boredom, despair, absurdity, and consequences of war. Echenoz does not linger on any one aspect too long, yet the reader feels deeply the effects of each and every aspect. In a few succinct scenes, Echenoz paints vivid pictures of home, of the trenches and bombardment, of the early days of the aerial war, of mud and cold, of rigid bureaucracy, of greedy suppliers, of survivors. One quote in particular lingers in my memory--Well, you don't get out of this war like that [by walking away]. It's simple: you're trapped. The enemy is in front of you, the rats and lice are with you, and behind you are the gendarmes. Since the only solution is to become an invalid, you're reduced to waiting for that "good wound," the one you wind up longing for, your guaranteed ticket home, but there's the problem: it doesn't depend on you. So that wonder-working wound, some men tried to acquire it on their own without attracting too much attention, by shooting themselves in the hand, for example, but they usually failed and were confronted with their misdeed, tried, and shot for treason. Mowed down by your own side rather than asphyxiated, burned to a crisp, or shredded by gas, flamethrowers, or shells--that could be a choice. But there was also blowing your own head off, with a toe on the trigger and the rifle barrel in you mouth, a way of getting out like any other--that could be a choice too.

[alexbolding · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Very short novella, about five men from the same French village going to war in the Great War (***). Echenoz is a famous French writer, who apparently can afford to write such short novels and still receive lots of acclaim. My feeling after reading it, was that I still don’t know why Echenoz is great in France. I still haven’t heard his voice loud and clear in a manner that will allow me to recognize his writing elsewhere. I can see he works with humour. I can see he’s typically French in the sense that he writes in long sentences, that aim to mesmerise. The most witty and memorable section of this short novel is the part where he writes about animals in the Great War. He writes about dogs even forgetting their names in no man’s land, about pigeons being ‘promoted to the rank of courier’, and about ‘all sorts of die-hard parasites that, not content with offering no nutritional value whatsoever, on the contrary themselves feed voraciously on the troops’(lice). The story line is thin and straight forward. Of the five men, two are brothers that play a key role in the shoe factory. Both are in love with the beautiful daughter of the owner. The most wealthy, successful brother is supposed to be kept out of the firing line, a transfer being arranged to get him into the air force. The latter however proves unusually lethal. The other bro gets his right arm chopped off by shrapnel and returns home, to the daughter who has given birth to a girl of his deceased brother. They end up together forming a family of sorts. The others die except for one guy who gets out deaf and cripple. Another nugget of the novel is Echenoz’ descriptions of the horror of the war, the war winning, etc. Nice, but too short…

[kidzdoc_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The latest novel by Echenoz opens in the Vendée region of France, as a lazy and quiet Saturday afternoon in August 1914 is interrupted by the insistent pealing of church bells throughout the region, which signals a call for mobilization for the impending war against Germany. The novel focuses on five ordinary men in one village, and a young woman who loves one man and is fond of another. The men and their commanding officers are convinced that the combat will last no longer than a few weeks, and that all will return home safely. However, as weeks turn into months and months into years, and as the soldiers see their companions felled in action, they are transformed into dispirited men who rely on alcohol to dull their senses. Echenoz writes poignantly about their seemingly hopeless circumstances:Well, you don't get out of this war like that. It's simple: you're trapped. The enemy is in front of you, the rats and lice are with you, and behind you are the gendarmes. Since the only solution is to become an invalid, you're reduced to waiting for that “good wound”, the one you wind up longing for, your guaranteed ticket home, but there's a problem: it doesn't depend on you. So that wonder-working wound, some men tried to acquire it on their own without attracting too much attention by shooting themselves in the hand, for example, but they usually failed and were confronted with their misdeed, tried, and shot for treason. Mowed down by your own side rather than asphyxiated, burned to a crisp, or shredded by gas, flamethrowers, or shells—that could be a choice. But there was also blowing your own head off, with a toe on the trigger and the rifle barrel in your mouth, a way of getting out like any other—that could be a choice too.The lives of the five men are all irrevocably altered by the war, in different ways. However, Echenoz shows us that the trauma of war is not limited to those who have experienced combat, or have had their homes or livelihoods taken away from them. Many seem to lose their basic sense of humanity by taking advantage of their countrymen in battle, overcharging them for food or drink as they march through villages, or supplying them with overpriced, shoddily made equipment.1914 is a quiet and elegantly written novella about the effects of The Great War on a group of ordinary men and citizens of a small French town, whose power comes not from grisly descriptions of combat, but in the benumbed despair that afflicts everyone in its midst. The book is greatly enhanced by notes from the book's translator, Linda Coverdale. Although this book doesn't match my favorite ones by Echenoz, it was still a very enjoyable read.