War and Turpentine: A novel

by Stefan Hertmans Narrated by Nicholas Guy Smith

Overview

Longlisted for the Man Booker International Prize 2017
A New York Times Top 10 Best Book of the Year
An Economist Best Book of the Year

The life of Urbain Martien-artist, soldier, survivor of World War I-lies contained in two notebooks he left behind when he died in 1981. In War and Turpentine, his grandson, a writer, retells his grandfather's story, the notebooks providing a key to the locked chambers of Urbain's memory.

With vivid detail, the grandson recounts a whole life: Urbain as the child of a lowly church painter, retouching his father's work;dodging death in a foundry; fighting in the war that altered the course of history; marrying the sister of the woman he truly loved; being haunted by an ever-present reminder of the artist he had hoped to be and the soldier he was forced to become. Wrestling with this tale, the grandson straddles past and present, searching for a way to understand his own part in both. As artfully rendered as a Renaissance fresco, War and Turpentine paints an extraordinary portrait of one man's life and reveals how that life echoed down through the generations.

(With black-and-white illustrations throughout)

Editorial Reviews

MARCH 2017 - AudioFile

Thirty years after noted Flemish poet Hertmans inherited his grandfather's handwritten memoir, he found a way to turn it into a book. It is part the author's memoir and part a novelization of the grandfather's memoir—all ably narrated by Nicholas Guy Smith. The grandfather, Urbain Martien, postponed his dream of being a painter for a career in the Belgian military, turning to art after his retirement. Time is fluid here, the original memoir having been written several decades after WWI, which was the pivot point of Urbain's life. As narrator, Smith doesn’t oversell the changes of age, but, rather, hints at them. He also allows the author to tell us who is speaking rather than creating distracting voices for the various people in the two men’s lives. D.M.H. © AudioFile 2017, Portland, Maine

Publishers Weekly

06/27/2016
In this autobiographical novel, Flemish essayist, novelist, poet, and playwright Hertmans draws on his extensive fine arts background in a stirring remembrance of his grandfather Urbain Martien—World War I hero and devoted painter—to create a masterly treatise on the interconnections of life, art, memory, and heartbreaking love. Shortly before his grandfather’s death in 1981, the narrator inherits the notebooks that Martien wrote in the last two decades of his life. “I wasted precious years diligently working on countless other projects and keeping a safe distance from his notebooks: those silent, patient witnesses that enclosed his painstaking, graceful pre-war handwriting like a humble shrine,” Hertmans writes of his reticence to retell his grandfather’s extraordinary life. But the notebooks provide insight into Martien’s many facets, not least his childhood as the son of Franciscus, a talented but poor church painter, his heroism, and a lifetime paying obeisance to the capricious gods of art. In the two bookend sections, Hertmans demonstrates a painter’s eye for the smallest detail, gracefully melding art criticism and philosophy. The book’s middle section focuses on the war. Variously chaotic, horrifying, and hauntingly beautiful, Martien’s war experience ends with his declaration of love for Maria Emilia, a woman from the neighborhood he watched from his bedroom while he convalesced, physically and mentally, from the war that shattered his life. Hertmans’s prose, with a deft translation from McKay, works with the same full palette as Urbain Martien’s paintings: vivid, passionate—and in the end, life-affirming. (Aug.)

From the Publisher

Winner of the AKO Literature Prize
Winner of the Culture Prize of the Flemish Community 2014
Winner of the INKTAAP Prize
Shortlisted for the Golden Owl in Belgium
Shortlisted for the Libris Literature Prize 2014 in the Netherlands
Shortlisted for the Premio Strega Europe in Italy

International Praise for War and Turpentine:

“Potent. . . . Harrowing. . . . Built to last. . . . War and Turpentine is billed as a novel, but that's hardly the word for it. It's an uncanny work of historical reconstruction. . . . a gritty yet melancholy account of war and memory and art that may remind some readers of the work of the German writer W. G. Sebald.” —Dwight Garner, The New York Times

“A masterly book about memory, art, love and war. . . . Not since reading W.G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn have I been so taken with a demonstration of the storytelling confluence of fiction and nonfiction. . . .  War and Turpentine affords the sensory pleasures of a good novel while also conveying the restlessness of memoir through its probing, uncertain narrator, who raids the family pantry in search of existential meaning. . . . One of the triumphs of War and Turpentine is that the style of delivery is perfectly suited to its central concerns—the flux of memory and the unspooling of a human life. . . . In a world of novels with overdetermined, linear plotlines—their chapters like so many boxcars on a train—War and Turpentine delivers a blast of narrative fresh air.” —The New York Times Book Review

“A rich fictionalized memoir. . . . Death, destruction, obligation, duty—Urbain faces them all and yet he still finds joy in life.” —The Times (UK)

“A future classic. . . . War and Turpentine is the astonishing result of Hertmans’ reckoning with his grandfather’s diaries. It is a book that lies at the crossroads of novel, biography, autobiography and history, with inset essays, meditations, pictures. It seems to be aching to be called ‘Sebaldian,’ and earns the epithet glowingly. . . . In David McKay’s lyrical translation, every detail has the heightened luminosity of poetry. . . . The book has such convincing density of detail, with the quiddities of a particular life so truthfully rendered, that I was reminded of a phrase from Middlemarch: ‘an idea wrought back to the directness of sense, like the solidity of objects.’ Hertmans’ achievement is exactly that.” —Neel Mukherjee, The Guardian

“Poignantly nuanced . . . readers will thank an exceptional novelist (and a skilled translator).” —Booklist (Starred Review)

“Wonderful, full of astonishingly vivid moments of powerful imagery. . . . moving moments of mysterious beauty. . . . Hertmans. . .brilliantly captures the intractable reality of a complex man." —Sunday Times (UK)

“Hertmans follows in his grandfather’s footsteps in this brilliant and moving imagined reconstruction, his imagination beautifully filling the gaps as he describes ‘the battle between the transcendent, which he yearned for, and the memory of death and destruction, which held him in its clutches.’” —Sunday Express (UK)
 
“A mesmerising portrait of an artist as a young man, a significant contribution to First World War literature and a brilliant evocation of a vanished world.” —Herald (UK)

“With War and Turpentine, Stefan Hertmans has written one of the most moving books of the year.” —De Standaard

“An exceptionally rich and rewarding piece of writing. It is hard to imagine a wiser and more important book at this point of time.” —Stavanger Aftenblad
 
“A gem of a novel, full of history, full of life, full of wisdom.” —Nederlands Dagblad
 
“Recalls the great W. G. Sebald.” —Espresso

“War and Turpentine is a masterfully written story of a dramatic life, a piece of Ghent family history, and a tribute to Hertmans’ mysterious grandfather. . . . Beautiful.” —NRC Handelsblad
 
“A masterpiece.” —Humo
 
“An unvarnished and moving tribute to [Hertmans’] grandfather.” —De Groene Amsterdammer

“A wide domestic fresco which retraces Flanders' spiritual geography, straddling between two worlds: the world of honor and innocence and the world of the horrors of war." —Alias

“War and Turpentine is literature at its best: giving voice to the voiceless.” —Dagblad De Limburger
 
“A loving memorial. Hertmans paints in words, each one carefully weighed, with sublime composition and stylistic ingenuity.” —Noordhollands Dagblad

“A successful mix of memoir and fiction.” —Il Manifesto

"Using the methods of narrative collage. . . and affectionate detective work—the writer evokes his grandfather's life in full: his impecunious childhood, early work at a relative's smithy and then at a foundry that left his back scarred by red-hot tailings, his asthmatic painter-father's early death, his grotesque experiences in the trenches interspersed with hospital stays during the war. . . . The book is especially eloquent and persuasive about the role that art—especially painting but also music and, by extension, narrative—played in Urbain's life and in the life of the grandson who is his visitant and scribe and portraitist. And Ghent as setting is beautifully portrayed, too. Hertmans provides a richly detailed excavation of a life and a thoughtful exploration of familial memory." —Kirkus

“A multi-award winner in Europe that sold 200,000 copies in the Netherlands and Belgium alone, this broad-canvas work features a Flemish man reconstructing the life of his grandfather. From modest retoucher of church paintings to worker in a dangerous foundry to drafted soldier who married his beloved’s sister, Urbain Martien has seen his life and dreams flattened. For readers of good literature and war stories, too.” —Library Journal

“A masterly book about memory, art, love and war. . . . Not since reading W.G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn have I been so taken with a demonstration of the storytelling confluence of fiction and nonfiction. . . . War and Turpentine affords the sensory pleasures of a good novel while also conveying the restlessness of memoir through its probing, uncertain narrator, who raids the family pantry in search of existential meaning. . . . I experienced Hermans’s book in the crosscurrents of rendered image, historical fact and narrative design, aware that some aspects of it were being curated and invented but feeling incapable of assessing the relative proportions. I was powerless to resist their combined spell. . . . Hertmans is a Belgian novelist, poet and essayist who writes in Dutch, and in War and Turpentine he has found a way to meld the various strands of his professional prowess into a unified whole. David McKay, meanwhile, provides an artful translation of the book into English. . . . the pictures rush at the reader like spectral images of a lost world, a world that’s being constructed for us in the act of telling, as the narrator provides in conjures. . . . One of the triumphs of War and Turpentine is that the style of delivery is perfectly suited to its central concerns—the flux of memory and the unspooling of a human life. . . . In a world of novels with overdetermined, linear plotlines—their chapters like so many boxcars on a train—War and Turpentine delivers a blast of narrative fresh air.” —The New York Times Book Review

Library Journal

08/01/2016
Acclaimed Flemish novelist, poet, and playwright Hertmans won the 2014 AKO Literature Prize for this work, an often poetic account of an author's attempt to reconstruct his grandfather's life based on journals that the grandfather left behind. Covering Urbain Martien's life up to World War I, Part 1 reads more like memoir than fiction, as the author ruminates on his ancestor's early life in Ghent, Belgium, while reflecting upon his own. Some readers will find Part 2 more compelling, as it deals especially with Urbain's experiences as a solder during World War I. Related in the present tense, the narrative is conveyed through its subject's eyes and ends in 1919. In these pages you'll find some of the most graphic accounts of war: "[T]he rumbling of heavy guns…was like the growl of some gargantuan animal…on the horizon, opening its hungry jaws to devour us. We were headed back to hell." Photographs throughout help illustrate the text, and McKay's translation leaves nothing to be desired. VERDICT This work will be especially enjoyed by readers with an interest in recent European culture and history. [See Prepub Alert, 3/1/16.]—Edward B. Cone, New York

MARCH 2017 - AudioFile

Thirty years after noted Flemish poet Hertmans inherited his grandfather's handwritten memoir, he found a way to turn it into a book. It is part the author's memoir and part a novelization of the grandfather's memoir—all ably narrated by Nicholas Guy Smith. The grandfather, Urbain Martien, postponed his dream of being a painter for a career in the Belgian military, turning to art after his retirement. Time is fluid here, the original memoir having been written several decades after WWI, which was the pivot point of Urbain's life. As narrator, Smith doesn’t oversell the changes of age, but, rather, hints at them. He also allows the author to tell us who is speaking rather than creating distracting voices for the various people in the two men’s lives. D.M.H. © AudioFile 2017, Portland, Maine

The New York Times - Dwight Garner

War and Turpentine is billed as a novel, but that's hardly the word for it. It's an uncanny work of historical reconstruction…The details of trench warfare are again laid bare, but here with special vividness. There are moments of unholy beauty as well…This serious and dignified book is old-fashioned…in the pleasant sense that it seems built to last.

Kirkus Reviews

2016-05-17
Flemish author Hertmans' latest offers a grandson's often haunting reconstruction of his grandfather's life.Shortly before his death in 1981, Urbain Martien—an artist, widower, survivor of many a brutal campaign in World War I—left his grandson, a young writer, two notebooks in which he'd recorded (mostly) his harrowing tales of his experiences as a soldier. Decades later, the grandson uses those notebooks as a way to understand, even to reinhabit, his grandfather's life. Using the methods of narrative collage—excerpts from the notebooks (possibly reconfigured), interpretations of his grandfather's paintings (both originals and copies of masters), meditations on childhood incidents he didn't fully understand at the time, decipherings of photographs (these deployed in the text in a W.G. Sebald way), archival digging, visits to various locales of importance to Urbain, and affectionate detective work—the writer evokes his grandfather's life in full: his impecunious childhood, early work at a relative's smithy and then at a foundry that left his back scarred by red-hot tailings, his asthmatic painter-father's early death, his grotesque experiences in the trenches interspersed with hospital stays during the war. Soon after, Urbain's first love was cut short by the influenza epidemic, after which he dutifully proposed to his beloved's older sister, who dutifully acquiesced, and for the next four decades they lived together in harmony and respect and ambient disappointment: his at the loss of his love, for whom his passion never abated, and hers at having to play the role of poor substitute to her long-dead sister. The book is especially eloquent and persuasive about the role that art—especially painting but also music and, by extension, narrative—played in Urbain's life and in the life of the grandson who is his visitant and scribe and portraitist. And Ghent as setting is beautifully portrayed, too. Hertmans provides a richly detailed excavation of a life and a thoughtful exploration of familial memory. Not easy, but worth the effort.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169323719
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	08/09/2016
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***
Copyright © 2016 Stefan Hertmans

In my most distant memory of my grandfather, he is on the beach at Ostend: a man of sixty-­six in a neat midnight-­blue suit, he has dug a shallow pit with his grandson’s blue shovel and leveled off the heaped sand around it so that he and his wife can sit in relative comfort. He has slightly raised the sandbank behind them for shelter from the August wind, which blows over the receding line of waves and out to sea under high wisps of haze. They have removed their shoes and socks and are gently wiggling their toes as they sit, enjoying the cool damp of the deeper sand—an activity that struck me, at the age of six, as uncharacteristically frivolous for this couple always dressed in gray, dark blue or black. Even on the beach and despite the heat, my grandfather keeps his black fedora on his nearly bald head; he is wearing his spotless white shirt and, as always, a black bow tie, a large one, larger than bow ties normally are, with two ends dangling over his chest, making it look from a distance as though his neck were adorned with the silhouette of a black angel spreading its wings. My mother made his peculiar bow ties according to his instructions, and in all his long life I never saw him without one of those black ties with tails like a dress coat; he must have owned dozens. There’s one here somewhere among my books, a relic of a far, forgotten age.

After half an hour, he made up his mind to take off his jacket. Then he removed his gold cufflinks and put them in his left pocket. Next, he went so far as to roll up his shirtsleeves, or rather, he ­carefully folded them over, twice, to a point just under his elbow, each fold exactly the width of the starched cuff, and now he sits with his neatly folded jacket draped over his arm, its silk lining gleaming in the afternoon light, as if he is posing for an Impressionist portrait. His gaze seems to wander over the distant crowd, losing its way among the shrieking, splashing children, the shouting, laughing day-­trippers chasing after each other as if they were children again. What he sees is something like a James Ensor painting set in motion, although he despises the work of that Ostend blasphemer with the English name. Ensor is a “dauber,” and along with “tosspot” and “riff-­raff,” “dauber” is the worst accusation he can make. They’re all daubers, today’s painters; they’ve completely lost touch with the classical tradition, the subtle, noble craft of the old masters. They muddle along with no respect for the laws of anatomy, don’t even know how to glaze, never mix their own paint, use turpentine like water, and are ignorant of the secrets of grinding your own pigments, of fine linseed oil and the blowing of ­siccatives— no wonder there are no more great painters.

The wind is growing colder now. He retrieves his cufflinks from his pocket, rolls down his sleeves, neatly fastens his cuffs, puts on his jacket, and tenderly drapes his wife’s black lace mantilla over her shoulders and over the lustrous knot in her dark gray hair. Come, Gabrielle, he says, and they stand, pick up their shoes, and with some effort begin the ascent to the promenade, he with the legs of his trousers rolled up six inches or so, she with her long black socks stuffed into her shoes. Under their dark forms, I see their four white calves swinging, slow and measured, over the sand. They make their way to the bluestone steps that lead to the promenade, where they will sit down on the nearest bench, brush and pat off the sand until their feet are thoroughly clean, pull their black socks over their alabaster feet, and tie their shoes with what they call drawstrings instead of laces.

As for me, after the collapse of the warren of tunnels that I dug for my large stone marbles—my treasured “taws”—I run shivering to my mother. The tide is rising again, she says, rubbing the warmth back into me as the first puffy clouds form over the dunes behind us. The wind sweeps over the dune tops, as if to muss their grassy hair, and those large, sand-­colored creatures brace themselves for the night ahead.

My grandfather, his gleaming cane of varnished elm wood already in his hand, is waiting restlessly for us to reach the promenade. Then he takes the lead; he is not a tall man—five foot six, I often hear him say—but wherever he goes, people make way. With his head erect, his black boots polished to perfection, a sharp crease in his trousers, arm in arm with his unspeaking wife and his cane in the other hand, he strides out ahead of us with slight impatience, glancing back now and then and calling out that we’ll miss our train if we don’t pick up the pace. He walks like a retired soldier, which is to say not pounding his heels oafishly into the ground, but always landing on the ball of the foot, as a soldier should, the habit of more than half a century. Then he somehow slips out of view in my memory, and overcome by the sudden radiant clarity of this scene from all those years ago, I’m so tired I could fall asleep on the spot.

Without any transition, the next image I have of him is that of a man silently weeping. He is seated at the small table where he painted and wrote, in his gray smock, his black hat on his head. The yellow light of morning shines through the small, vine-­framed window; in his hands I see one of the many reproductions he tore out of art books and used to practice copying (pinning the reproduction to a board that he attached to his palette with two wooden pegs). He holds the picture in his hands; I cannot see what it is, but I see that tears are running down his cheeks and he is silently mouthing words. I climbed the three stairs to my grandfather’s room to tell him about the rat skeleton I’d found; now I quickly, quietly back away, my steps muffled by the carpet on the stairs, and close his door behind me. But later, while he’s downstairs having coffee, I slip back up to the room and find the picture on his table. It is a painting of a nude woman with her back to the viewer, a slender woman with dark hair, lying on some kind of sofa or bed in front of a red curtain. Her serene, dreamy expression is visible in a mirror held up for her by a cherub with a blue ribbon over his shoulder; her bare, slender back and round buttocks are prominent. My eyes drift to her frail shoulders, the delicate hair curling around her neck, and then back to her derriere, which is thrust almost obscenely toward the viewer. Shocked, I put down the reproduction, I go downstairs, there is my grandfather in the kitchen, beside my mother, singing a French tune he remembers from the war.

My childhood years were overrun with his tales of the First World War, always the war and nothing but the war, vague heroics in muddy fields under a rain of bombs, the rat-­a-­tat of gunfire, phantoms screaming in the dark, orders roared in French—all conjured up from his rocking chair with great feeling for spectacle—and always barbed wire, shrapnel whizzing past our ears, submachine guns rattling, flares tracing high arcs across the dark heavens, mortars and howitzers firing, billions of blistering bombs in ten thousand thundering trenches, while the tea-­sipping aunties nodded beatifically and about the only thing that stuck with me was that my grandfather must have been a hero in days as distant as the Middle Ages I’d heard about in school. To me, he was still a hero; he gave me fencing lessons, sharpened my pocketknife, taught me how to draw clouds by rubbing an eraser over shapes sketched with a piece of charred wood from the fireplace, and how to render the myriad leaves of a tree without drawing each one separately—the true secret of art, as he called it.

Stories were meant to be forgotten, since after all, they always came back again, even the strangest stories of art and artists. I knew that old Beethoven had worked on his ninth symphony like a man possessed because he was deaf, but one day a disturbing detail was added: he didn’t even go to the trouble of visiting the toilet while he was working, instead he did “his business” by the piano. Consequently—and I quote—“the man who wrote that lovely song about all men becoming brothers did his composing next to a heap of dung.” I imagined the great composer, deaf as a post, seated in a Viennese interior with the capitals of the columns painted gold, wearing his luxuriant wig, gaiters, and galoshes, next to a towering pyramid of excrement, and whenever the miraculous adagio from the Pastoral Symphony drifted through the house on one of those long dreary Sunday afternoons, while my parents and grandparents nodded off on the brown floral sofa by the radio, I would picture a mountain of crap next to a glossy lacquered spinet as a cuckoo from the Wienerwald warbled along with the woodwinds and violins and my grandfather kept his eyes tightly closed. He was a firm believer in romantic genius; his reverence for it ran so deep that he could not face the mundane world of his home and family at such exalted moments. Not until many years later did it dawn on me that he himself had spent about a year and a half next to a real dung heap in the miserable trenches, where as soon as you put your head above the parapet in search of a better place to do your business, you were punished with a bullet through the brain. Thus the things he wished to forget kept coming back, in shards of stories or absurd details, and whether hell or heaven was the subject, shards and details like these were the puzzle pieces I had to fit together before I could begin to understand what had gone on inside him all his life: the battle between the transcendent, which he yearned for, and the memory of death and destruction, which held him in its clutches.

At home, my grandfather invariably wore a smock—always the same short white or light gray garment, the length of an old-­fashioned dressing gown—over his white shirt and bow tie. No matter how my mother and her mother washed and boiled those old cotton smocks, which he wore with a certain flair, they remained mottled with stains: scattered swipes of oil paint in all the colors of the rainbow, criss-­crossing fingerprints, a composition of careless, intriguing smears, the raffish graffiti left there after the real work.

That real work, which he had carried out uninterrupted since his early retirement as a disabled veteran at the age of forty-­five, was painting for pleasure. The small room where he stood in front of the small window day in and day out smelled of linseed oil, turpentine, linen, oil paint. Yes, even the odor of the large erasers, cut down to size with a knife, could be detected in the irreproducible mixture that gave the room its ambience, the glamour of the endless hours he passed in silence, zealously yet fruitlessly emulating the great masters. He was a superb copyist and knew all the secrets of the old materials and recipes that painters had used and passed down since the Renaissance. After the war he had taken evening classes in drawing and painting in his home city of Ghent, despite all the times his late father, a painter of frescoes in churches and chapels, had warned him against it. Although he was still doing heavy manual labor at the time, he pressed on, and just after reaching the usual marrying age, he earned a “certificate of competence in fine-­art painting and anatomical drawing.”

From his window he could see a bend in the Scheldt River, the slow cows in their pastures, the heavily laden barges chugging past low in the water in the morning, the faster-­moving empty riverboats leaving the city with a shallow draft at day’s end. Countless times he painted that view, each time in a different light with a new set of hues; another time of day, another season, another mood. He painted each leaf of the red creeper from nature—apparently, art sometimes demanded exceptions to its great law of illusion—and when he copied a detail of a Titian or Rubens, he knew himself to be practiced in patience, in sketching accurately with charcoal or graphite, in the secrets of mixing colors and thinning pigments, and in waiting just long enough for the first layer to dry before adding a second, which gave the impression of depth and transparency—another of the many great secrets of art.

His grand passions were treetops, clouds, and folds in fabric. In these formless forms he could let go, lose himself in a dream world of light and dark, in clouds congealed in oil paint, chiaroscuro, a world where nobody else could intrude, because something—it was hard to say what—had broken inside him. His warmth and generosity were always tinged with shyness, as if he were afraid that people would come too close because he had been too friendly. At the same time, he exuded a higher, nobler strain of friendly guilelessness, and that naïveté was at the core of his good humor. His marriage to Gabrielle seemed idyllic, if you didn’t know better. Intertwined like two old trees forced to extend their branches through each other’s crowns for decades in their struggle for scarce sunlight, they passed their simple days, which were punctuated solely by the frivolous-­seeming gaiety of their daughter, their only child. Days vanished into the folds of distracted time. He painted.

The room that served as his studio, three steps up from the small landing, was also their bedroom; it is hard to believe how unremarkable it once was to live in cramped quarters. The bed was by the wall behind his small, makeshift desk, so that his wife would have something to lean against in her sleep—she slept far away from him despite their narrow bed. Clouds and folds in fabric; treetops and water. The finest paintings in his staunchly traditional body of work each contain a few shapeless smudges, strange abstract masses that he regarded as tokens of fidelity to nature, as if he were painting from the model that God laid out before his eyes and bade him unfurl in the meticu­lous patience of his daily work as a lowly copyist. But it was also a tribute he dutifully paid, his way of mourning the untimely death of his father, the lowly church painter Franciscus.

Excerpted from War and Turpentine by Stefan Hertmans. Copyright © 2016 by Stefan Hertmans. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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