Customer Reviews

Hell

5 star:		(8)
4 star:		(2)
3 star:		(3)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Although sometimes considered as an erotic work, this is in fact a philosophical novel about solipsism.
This theme is treated brilliantly: a man looks through a hole in a wall in a hotel room into another room, where he observes scenes about life and death, like sex or a dying person who insults a priest.
He always asks himself: is this real or are these scenes only in my thoughts? Does the world outside me exist? His answer is negative: I am alone.
It brings him on the brink of schizophrenia. Even science cannot help him. But ultimately he chooses to continue to live, because there is still a sparkle of hope. To find out why, you should read this novel.
An ambitious, not always well understood, but brilliant work about an essential philosophical problem.

It is hard to overestimate the power of this book. A young man (it is regrettable that we never get to put a name to the narrator) cuts a small hole in the wall of his room and watches life, quite literally, 'pass him by'. He bears witness to everything: false love, carnal desire, death (there is an unforgettable scene in which a volatile old man refuses to confess to a priest on his deathbed) all the while making biting observations which strip away, layer by layer, the lies we tell ourselves to keep living. As one reads one almost feels guilty, thinking to oneself "yes, I claimed to love and didn't really love in this situation, I behaved in this way, etc...." It is that true to life despite being a work of solipsism. This is a must.

The dialogue is a bit trite. For example, you have 13 year old lovers each speaking like... well, like despairing 19th century romantics alone in the privacy of their bathrooms. Clearly Barbusse was no master of dialogue. There are some inconsistencies and absurdities (in the ridiculous, not "good", sense) in the plot. However, this is well compensated for by the vivid description of the smallest details; instead of such a thing boring the reader, you find yourself anticipating when Barbusse will next describe the evening light on a cabinet, the formation of furniture, the casual setting of a cafe, etc. This book truly reads like a magnificent painting. Despite the 3 star rating (for reasons above), I highly recommend it.

L'enfer or Hell is a philosophical novel dealing with solipsism and existentialism. The release of "Hell" in English started a burning scandal because of its depiction of voyeurism. The story revolves around a young man in a Paris boarding house peeking through a hole in his bedroom wall to witness love, death, adultery, and birth in the most graphic way.

The topic or the actions described are not the reason for the greatness of this work, rather it is the way this young man describes regular daily events
Endless unforgettable scenes like the helpless exposed position of a woman during childbirth, two doctors discussing a health condition of a dying man, a man discussing religion/God right before his death, two lovers trying to escape emptiness through desire and fantasy. The greatness of the scenes is not the act as much as Barbusse's language:

* "And I think about myself, about myself who can neither know myself well nor get rid of myself; about myself who am like a heavy shadow between my heart and the sun"

* "Nothing can prevail against the absolute statement that I exist and cannot emerge from my self"

* "What's the matter? Nothing is the matter. It's just me"

* "Humanity is the longing for novelty combined with the fear of death"

* "God is merely a ready-made reply to mystery and hope, and there is no other reason for the reality of God but our longing for it"

I don't usually include phrases of the work itself in my reviews, but I'm making an exception for readers like me, who might be fascinated by Barbusse's use of language.

Whether Barbusse intended to deal with existentialism or solipsism or simply the inner hell of a total cynic, he created an absolutely brilliant work; the likes of which has no equal.

Philosophical ideas fall in and out of fashion with time, but the way an idea is delivered, as exemplified by Barbusse, can have a significant impact on how that idea is initially received and how it lives on. Barbusse's Hell is a timeless, great work.

Some books are smuggled into our lives in a way that almost begs supernatural interpretation; thus did I unintentionally come across Henri Barbusse's novel: 'HELL'(LeEnfer,Paris,1908); suspiciously placed in my path as by divine intervention. So profound are my affections for this short 250 page book that I cannot forsee the same fate for myself had I not been challenged into taking "the left-hand path" this devil's pitchfork on the road of life signalled. Our narrator is the very man Colin Wilson used to define "The Outsider" in the opening pages of that influential book; but OUR NARRATOR WHOSE NAME APPEARS NOWHERE is much more than a reference point for late 20th century Art Historical/ Cultural Studies. He is witness to the unspeakable visions of the individual that any sensitive, intelligent young man would see if he were to cast one dark, unholy, voyeuristic eye and the other a tender, humanitarian, all-recording lens that must saturate itself in tears if it is to continue to bear looking any longer at the horrible woes of humankind. Our narrator has barely any hope left, all he has in the world is a hole in the wall in which to view, the world; more specifically, Paris around the turn of the 20th century. He suffers from the existential metaphysical horror of existence so prevalent in young men of his disposition, who are more concerned with deep matters of the soul than with eeking out a life of dull servitude amongst the financial fanfare of society. It is no surprise Robert Baldick, translator of J.K.Huysmans': "Against Nature"(A Rebours, 1884) chose to translate Barbusse's early novel, although vast differences exist between the two they are of like spiritual & reclusive considerations of new ways of experiencing the world on a much more intimate level than Naturalism or Realism; they process their thoughts to an intensive, hitherto unrealized degree that is considered "Decadent" by many. The things our narrator sees are everything that most young men are fascinated about: sexuality being high on the list. But it is not just tender LESBIANS devouring each other's venusian mounds that one must encourageingly suffer: ADULTERY, evoking feelings of jealousy in an innocent bystander(?)made of an eye peering at two lover's guilty squirmings; guilty, but like beauty, only in the eye of the voyeur. CHILDBIRTH is seen in all it's horrifying surgical mystery, bloody as only murder can compare, in which a slimy monster is squeezed out of a hole small as the one our narrator sees through; a hole usually reserved for sublime violation in the mind of a young man. DEATH plays a dirge on our narrator's heartstrings that marks the novel with an "X" on its forehead, setting it apart from other more common scenarios, giving our young man "steeped in the infinite" a chance to further his evolutionary spiritual career in that he may play for a while at being an old man's guardian Angel. These examples should suffice to give those attracted, with perhaps voyeuristic tendencies and a love of immortal Literature an idea of the scale and depths probed by this all-seeing eye in a motel wall. The language is entirely of late Symbolist/Decadent persuasion, poetically lyrical yet realistic and focused in its descriptions; Octave Mirbeau and J.K. Huysmans come to mind. But the book singularly occupies the celestial heights of voyeuristic literature, it has no comparison and is second to none. Its eye is an all-knowing, all-encompassing specimen. I believe it is the only novel of its kind Barbusse wrote, who went on in the surrealist years to be involved with political activities, bearing no evidence of further work in this artistic/spiritual realm in which he wholly succeeded in by birthing this literary only-child of its kind.

A man in his empty room ... witnessing through a hole in the wall all that mankind has to offer of its soul.

And what of this witness? Life greatest mysteries, triumphs, and desperate measures spread out before him, what torture. His reward - understanding. His punishment - the knowledge that he might never have all of those life's moments for himself. If you had the choice, which would you choose - Knowledge or Life?

This book is a deep look into the hidden passions of mankind. A voyeuristic look, but are we all not voyeurs in some way ... as we read the gossip columns, as we watch the so-called reality TV, or even when we read a book, we are choosing to be a voyeur, immersing ourselves in a life not our own for no other purpose than to see how it measures up to the life we have chosen for ourselves, and maybe to gain some small shred of insight into our own souls. Think of the infinite possibilities, the reasons, the rationale ... what do those wall hide from view? What darkness does it smother?

Henri's witness knows the answers to those questions. His Hell: knowing the truth in the intimate lives of others, yet never actually living himself - never feeling worthy of living.

The language has depth, overflowing with romanticism. This gives us valuable insight into the desperation of our witness, how he longs to be part of the world and yet remains so detached from it.

I would recommend this book to anyone who appreciates a bit of narrative philosophy while gazing through the peephole.

I first took up reading this book because I had liked a few other books translated by Robert Baldick, the person who translated this. "Hell" has its moments of Poignancy, although it does get tedious at times; but maybe that is Barbusse's fault or intention, the unbearable lightness of being feel. It has the same feel as many Existential books, and may be a cousin to that movement. The narrator looking through a hole at the lives of others is the primary mode of imput for his self-evaluation, although the book is about as much about voyeurism as Shakespeare's "Hamlet" is about killing your uncle. The medium of the hole could have been tv, or drugs, or any sort of escapism that places pictures/visions in front of you, the escapism as life passes you by, although Barbusse's hole does very well.

The narrator's analyses of why exist and what is life about in ways that touch moments that most people have probably had feelings about but never deeply analyzed. It is interesting that way, in a poetical way Barbusse's capturing of these rare, elusive yet universal thoughts. The end is a manifesto to solipsism which is unfortunate because it got preachy in the end and the author might have done better to let one come to their own conclusion. Mine was different. I thought the narrator chose to live because that's all there is.

The author seemed to preach that I am all there is so the sayings, actions of "others" are really my own conciousness speaking in this nether world of conciousness me, being all there is. Everything spoken by "others" is really just mine own conciousness reasoning with itself and things are just symbols. There seemed to be a lot of fireworks of poetic imagination, I was just a bit disapointed in the development. The parts were greater than the whole I thought.

Is there any relation to "I think therefore I am" which may explain my existance but it doesn't explain others.

The guiding idea to "Hell" was very interesting to me when I bought it and in some ways it lived up to my expectations, but I haven't been able to finish it yet (I'm on page 132) and don't generally agree with the reviews counting it as a great work. The problem for me has been first in the general quality of the writing which (whether it was due to Barbusse or the translator) seems fairly clumsy to me. It aims high and, yes, uses elevated language characteristic of the period in which it was written, but in many cases it became fairly overwrought and overdramatic even by those standards and doesn't so much have a touch for understated and affecting detail as a taste for the grand image. There are places where this did work for me personally, though there wasn't enough of them to make me want to continue as yet.

More distracting for me was the author's (again possibly translator's) habit of mentioning nearly every move that the narrator makes without varying his sentences (ie.- when a book reads to the effect of "I did this. I did that. I did another thing. I then felt sad.") Though this necessarily disappears when he's looking throught the hole, it was still a bit much for me and I believe that one can accomplish the same reporting in a much more fluid and organic style. The problem may come from the age of the book but then Edgar Allen Poe (whose tone Barbusse's is most similar to in my opinion) and Laurence Sterne never came off this way to me and they have a good 50 and 150 years on Barbusse.

"Sudo Mayhap" had a problem below with the dialogue and I think that it's a valid complaint (attacked unfairly and pretty childishly by someone from "Zembla"). I had a problem with the dialogue too but it was because I had a problem with most of the characters that the narrator sees through the hole. In many cases, their words and actions seemed to only serve as an excuse for the narrator or author to make a philosophical (in some cases pseudo-philosophical)comment rather than existing organically of themselves. This is something that isn't necessarily wrong or bad and that appeals to some readers and not to others. I'm one of the ones that aren't terribly impressed or moved by that style. For me, there are more complex ideas dealt with in far more flowing, affecting, and, in that sense, realistic ways with writers like Robert Walser, Jean Genet, Witold Gombrowicz, Proust, Chekov, Thomas Mann, and certainly Fernando Pessoa (whose writing I love very much and would never compare with Barbusse's).

It feels like I'm coming down on the book hard but it does have its merits. It maybe just wasn't as good in my opinion as I thought it might be and if you like philosophy-heavy novels and are used to writing that can be a little mannered, then you'll probably find rewards in reading it and should give it a try.

this novel was better than i expected; it was indefintely better than the synopsis on the back would have led me to believe.
it is one of those books that sadly gets grouped into a vague fetishistic catagory, simply because it looks not at superficial life but at those things that drive and define our existance as people, including sex and death.
it beautifully weaves philosophy and fiction...it's hard to put down.

The back cover of _Hell_ brashly refers to it as "the most highly focused study of voyeurism ever written". Though one would argue that any great French novel is at least part fetishism, the true purpose of _Hell_ is not to study the watched, but to study how the -watcher- uses this data to explore -himself-. More than anything else, Hell is a book of Solipsist philosophy, and one of the best I've read (not an easy title to gain from this reader, by the way).

Barbusse beautifully illustrates that the only reality anyone may know is that subjective reality within his own heart and mind, and that regardless of the objective world taking place outside, the only one which can possibly matter to the individual is that existence which he personally witnesses:

"I do not know whether the universe has any reality apart from me. What I do know is that its reality occurs only through the instrumentality of my thought, and that in the first place it exists only through the concept I have of it."

A treasure for any collector of fine literature, and a particularly good find for the literary Francophile.