Name: The Tartar Steppe
ISBN: 9781567923049

Dino Buzzati

Often likened to Kafka's The Castle, The Tartar Steppe is both a scathing critique of military life and a meditation on the human thirst for glory. It tells of young Giovanni Drogo, who is posted to a distant fort overlooking the vast Tartar steppe. Although not intending to stay, Giovanni suddenly finds that years have passed, as, almost without his noticing, he has come to share the others' wait for a foreign invasion that never happens. Over time the fort is downgraded and Giovanni's ambitions fade--until the day the enemy begins massing on the desolate steppe...

The Tartar Steppe

Bekki

Why did he bring out for his mother nothing but vague, meaningless phrases instead of affectionate, soothing words? 

It was true that his heart was full with the bitterness of leaving the old house for the first time - the old house where he had been born and being born and being born had learned to hope - full with the fears which every change brings with it, with emotion at saying goodbye to his mother, but on top of all this there came an insistent thought to which he could not quite give a name but which was like a vague foreboding as if he were about to set out on a journey of no return..

'but isn't it one of the principal ones?' 

'No, no, it's a second class fort,' Ortiz replied. 

He seemed to enjoy belittling it but with a special tone of voice - in the same way as one amused oneself by remarking on the defects of a son, certain that they will always seem trifling when set against his unlimited virtues.

It was not until they had climbed to the next floor that they met a soldier carrying a bundle of papers. 

From the damp and naked walls, the silence, the dim lighting, it seemed as if the inmates had forgotten that somewhere in the world there existed flowers, laughing women, gay and hospitable houses. 

Here everything spoke of renunciation, but for whom, to what mysterious end? 

Did Tronk still remember that somewhere there still existed millions of men like himself who were not in uniform? 

Who moved freely about the city and at night could go to bed or to an inn or to the theatre, as they liked? 

No, you could see at a glance that Tronk had forgotten other men - for him nothing existed but the fort and it's hateful regulations. 

Tronk had forgotten the sweet sound of girls' voices, what a garden was like, or a river or any tree but the stunted bushes scattered round the fort. 

At last Drogo understood and a slight shiver ran along his spine. 

It was water, that was what it was - a distant cascade dashing down the steep sides of the crags. The wind causing the great jet to quiver, the mysterious play of the echoes, the varying sounds of the struck rocks made of it a human voice which spoke and spoke - spoke of ourige in words which one was within a hair's breadth of understanding but never did. 

So it was not the soldier who was singing under his breath, not a man sensitive to the cold, to punishments and to love, but the hostile mountain. 

What a terrible mistake, thought Drogo, perhaps everything is like that - we think there are beings like ourselves around us and instead there is nothing but ice and stones speaking a strange language, we are on the point of greeting a friend but our arms fall inert, the smile dies away because we see that we are completely alone.

(...) The moon moves on an on, slowly but not losing a single moment, impatient for the dawn.

In Giovanni Drogo's breast his heart beats hollowly.

After all it need only be an ordinary battle, one single battle but a real one, so that he could charge in full unit and smile as he rushed towards the inscrutable faces of the enemy. 

One battle and perhaps then he would be happy for the rest of his life.

The reason is that Gilmore has been waiting too long, and at a certain age hope is very exhausting, one does not rediscover the faith one had at twenty. 

Many, many years ago in happier times there had been a surge of heat and youthful strength and clusters of buds sprang from the boughs.

And now it is spring and in each of it's dismembered parts there still awakens a pulse of life, an infinitely weaker pulse.

Once there were leaves and flowers, now only a dim memory, enough to make a cracking noise and then it is over until next year.

Little by little his hopes grew fainter. 

It is difficult to believe in a thing when one Is alone and there is no one to speak to.

It was at this period Drogo realised how far apart men are whatever their affection for each other, that if you suffer the pain is yours and yours alone, no one else can take upon himself the least part of it, that if you suffer it does not mean that others feel pain even though their love is great: hence the loneliness of life.

Anybody who ever went away from home can relate to the feelings of Drogo.

This book makes you reflect on the sense of why and how we do things. What is worth our time and how is time well spent? 

Anybody who ever went away from home can relate to the feelings of Drogo.

This book makes you reflect on the sense of why and how we do things. What is worth our time and how is time well spent? 

Very worth the read. 

jess

So reminiscent of Malone Dies by Beckett, it speaks of Drogo, walking through the limerence of his life path in its utmost, unlamented. He was stationed, or perhaps, condemned, to relent upon the in-betweens: limbo in the wheel of a soldier life, to a life of desecrating nullity, in the space of utter nowhere. He battled, contradicted, but time passes, memory wanes, actions became inactions, and one find themselves, stuck in abeyance for an eternity that goes unrealized, until one day as one stares themselves into the depths of mirror, they took fright, over the decomposed physical self that triumphs over the youth and virility of their mind. And thus, lamentations near the end come forth, with barely half of a spew of breath, only to reach the ears of oneself, dispersed in the atmosphere, inevitably reaching to no one.

The Tartar Steppe

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