Review of Brodeck’s Report by Phillipe Claudel (Quercus 2009, French 2007)

The inhabitants of a village, largely cut off from the outside world, are trying to come to terms with the effects of being occupied during a recent war.  In order to survive the wrath of the soldiers they had colluded and collaborated to various degrees, sacrificing those that had previously been their own.  Threatening the fragile peace and memories is the arrival of the ‘Anderer’ – the other – an enigmatic, wealthy traveller who rents a room in the local inn and wanders the countryside, forever jotting in a notebook.  At the height of a heat wave, tensions stretch to breaking point, and the community rounds on the Anderer, murdering him.  Brodeck, himself something of an outsider, is charged with writing the villagers account of what happened.  As a youth, the village had saved funds to send him to university, but his studies had been cut short by the war.  Having returned home, the occupying soldiers had then sent him to a camp where he survived by any means possible, determined to see his wife once again.  On making his way home at the war’s end he’d discovered a broken woman, now with a small child, and a village on edge.  As he researches and writes the Report, ever mindful of the pressures and responsibilities of the task, he reflects on the complex contingencies of his own life, and the nature family, home and belonging; the rationalities of individual and collective loss, guilt, memory, identity, and difference; the struggle for survival and living with the consequences of succeeding.

Brodeck’s Report is an extended, multilayered parable which weaves a philosophically and emotionally rich tapestry.  Beautifully crafted and plotted by Claudel, the story engages the reader to reflect on the questions that Brodeck seeks to answer; the kinds of moral ambiguities concerning our sense of belonging, community and interpersonal relations, and the consequences of actions that plague our everyday lives.  The characterisation is keenly observed and the plotting is superb, revealing the complex interweaving of Brodeck’s and villagers lives, his and their dark secrets, and how they seek to continue on living together with a vague and uneasy sense of normality.  I found it somewhat of a curious book in that it seemed whole regardless of where I stopped a reading session; I had the sense that I could finish at that point and remain fully satisfied with the story even if I never got to finish the book.  I’m not sure I’ve come across that before.  A quote on the front of the book states ‘deeply wise and classically beautiful … a modern masterpiece’, and a masterpiece it most definitely is.  Brodeck’s Report is cerebral read that will leave you asking questions and reflecting on them long after the final page is read.  Heartily recommended.

Brodeck’s Report

It's not too often that a book blows my socks clean off, but Brodeck's Report has left me sockless.  It's a profoundly moving and wise book that is beautifully crafted by a skilled wordsmith.  I'll post my review sometime next week, but here are two snippets as samplers.

I am trying to return to those moments, to get as close to them as I can, but what I would really like to do is forget them and run away, far away, on light feet and with a brand-new brain. 

I have the feeling that I am the wrong size for my life.  I mean, I feel that my life is spilling over everywhere, that it was never cut to fit a man like me, that it is full of too many things, too many events, too many moments, too many flaws.  It is my fault, perhaps?  Is it because I do not know how to be a man?  Because I do not know how to sort things, how to take what I need and leave the rest?  Or maybe it is the fault of the century in which I live, which is like a great crater; the excesses of every day flow into it, and it is filled with everything that cuts and flays and crushes and chops.  My head – sometimes I think my head is on the point of exploding, like a heavy shell crammed with gunpowder.

That infamous day, the day after the Ereignies, was not so long ago.  And yet, it spite of everything, it is slipping through my fingers.  I remember only certain scenes and certain words, very exact and very clear, like the bright lights against a deep black background.  And I also remember my fear, above all my fear, which I have worn like a garment ever since.  I cannot cast it off; in spite all my efforts it has grown tighter and tighter, as if it has shrunk a little more each week. 

* * *

‘What I’d like to do is understand,’ he confided in me one day.  ‘We never understand anything, or if we do, not much.  Men live, in a way, as the blind do, and generally that’s enough for them.  I’d go as far as to say that it’s what they’re looking for: to avoid headaches and dizzy spells, to fill their stomachs, to sleep, to lie between their wives’ thighs when their blood runs too hot, to make war because they’re told to do so, and then to die without knowing what awaits them afterwards, but hoping that something is awaiting them, all the same.  Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved questions, and I’ve loved the paths you must follow to find the answers.  Sometimes, of course, I end up knowing nothing but the path itself, but that’s not so bad; at least I’ve made some progress.’