"From up high where I was, youcould shout anything you liked at them. I tried. They made me sick,the whole lot of them. I hadn't the nerve to tell them so in thedaytime, to their face, but up there it was safe. "Help!Help!" I shouted, just to see if it would have any effect onthem. None whatsoever. Those people were pushing life and night andday in front of them. Life hides everything from people. Their ownnoise prevents them from hearing anything else. They couldn't careless. The bigger and taller the city, the less they care. Take it fromme. I've tried. It's a waste of time." --from Journey to the Endof the Night
Journey is very much what it sounds like -- a looselyautobiographical wandering that starts with the author enlistingalmost by accident to fight in WWI. He doesn't waste time describingthe war as being a giant, immoral waste of everyone's time and life,really, with thesoldier's main mission of the day being little morethan looking for a place to eat without getting his head shot off. Andto treat it as anything more than that, Celine suggests, is somethingof a waste of time: What's more important to any discussion of warthan its inherent stupidity? The same, it seems, goes for the rest ofthe story -- the basic undercurrent of the story is the world's coreidiocity and how you deal with it (if you choose to). Bardamu,Celine's alter ego, heads for the USA and back, into the slums ofParis and the Congo, and never manages to escape the stupidity andbrutality of the men around him. It's not a story of escape,butunderstanding, you do what you can with what you have. Soon the onlyway to keep the rest of the world at bay is to use the terror tacticsof those around you in reverse... and of course, it's only a matter oftime before that backfires as well...