Filled with slang and obscenities and written in raw, colloquial language, Journey to the End of the Night is a literary symphony of violence, cruelty and obscene nihilism. This book shocked most critics when it was first published in France in 1932, but quickly became a success with the reading public in Europe, and later in America where it was first published by New Directions in 1952. The story of the improbable yet convincingly described travels of the petit-bourgeois (and largely autobiographical) antihero, Bardamu, from the trenches of World War I, to the African jungle, to New York and Detroit, and finally to life as a failed doctor in Paris, takes the readers by the scruff and hurtles them toward the novel's inevitable, sad conclusion.

    Backgrounded by these wars, the story follows the history of the Terra-Cambaras, during 150 years, in the southern part of Brazil. The men ... Mais were lusty fighters and lovers; the women pulled the strings and ran their men's lives behind the scenes. They bore them children, legitimate and illegitimate, and buried them when need came. Bandits became respectable. Foreigners, Germans chiefly, made and kept their places in the community. And certain symbols stood, through successive generations, for the family:- the silver dagger, brought by a missionary priest, and kept in site as a reminder of a sin almost committed; old pruning shears, which had cut the umbilical cords of successive new born babies; the wind, destined to herald events in the family history, and the Sobrado, the great castle like mansion, which tempted and betrayed them, and housed them all, though the Cambaras had come by it through intermarriage with the Amarals, titular owners. There's a kind of authenticity in the feel and mood of story and setting, in the characteristic blend of realism, superstition, violence and poetry, but the story itself seems to ride off in all directions, and the thread loses itself again and again. Possibly, the shift back and forth in time, from 1745 to 1895, makes it not wholly successful in what the author aims to do, but at its close, the scattered pieces seem to fit into a whole. Not always easy reading, there are moments when it recalls the traditional novels of the picaresque pattern. The publishers have perhaps more confidence in its sales potentials than we have, so watch it.

    In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years. Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions. They will exhume the memory of their friendship and that of the General’s beautiful, long-dead wife. And they will return to the time the three of them last sat together following a hunt in the nearby forest--a hunt in which no game was taken but during which something was lost forever. Embers is a classic of modern European literature, a work whose poignant evocation of the past also seems like a prophetic glimpse into the moral abyss of the present