Finished: U.S.A Trilogy (Dos Passos). Wow, I finally finished one of the longest books I've read to date. Actually, it's what it says it is...a trilogy of the novels The 42nd Parallel, Nineteen Nineteen, and The Big Money, all written by American born John Dos Passos, but intended by him to be one book, so published that way. Anyway, my copy is all one big 1457 page book! And what a reading experience that was. I think I'm still trying to absorb it all, but it was a very, very good book. It centers around twelve main characters that are introduced throughout the book, who interact with each other quite a bit, but not always. Some characters are the main focus for awhile, and then fall to the background. We hear about their life stories from the time they are children to the time they get to be in their 20's or so. Then, this is when most of them hit the age of World War I, and that time period when America was deciding whether or not to get into the war. Then, it follows them through their experiences in or about the war. Most of the characters are working class, so there is a lot of poverty, yet a lot of gumption as many of them go on to make something of their lives, despite their poor upbringings. There are also several characters who fall into socialism, almost joining the communist party, who work tirelessly for the working man, the striking coal miners, etc. And, most of the characters can't make it through too much without becoming quite accustomed to drinking alcohol. The timing of the book carries on into the 1920's and follows the surviving characters as they are now in their 30's or so, and many of them having regrets.

In the meantime, while reading these fascinating stories about these everyday people, the author will cut off completely from the story and print two or three pages of headlines and snippets of newspaper articles that he calls "Newsreels" that were taken from real newspapers of the time. It's fascinating! Then, every few chapters he does about a four to ten page mini-biography of some famous American, like Thomas Edison or someone more obscure like Isadora Duncan. Whenever he breaks from the story to do one of these, it always goes along with what's happening in the story, yet it's another bit of realistic, true life thrown in. And, then, every so often the author breaks into another mode of storytelling by writing these things called "The Camera Eye", and those are complete stream of conscious, no punctuation, verbal vomitus of the author's thoughts and experiences as he goes from being a child to an adult, and experiences many of the same things his characters experience. It all ties together pretty well, and even though it was a long read, it made for a very compelling read. The writing allowed me to put myself in the shoes of nearly every character, and even feel sympathy, or at least empathy, for even the ones who weren't very likable. A great book!

I have to say that my favorite part was one of the mini-biographies. It was right after a chapter where the president of the United States was welcoming home an unknown soldier from World War I to commemorate him and have him represent the thousands of other soldiers who never made it home from the war. It was just, for me, a breathtaking piece of writing. I think I'm going to include it below, but it's alot to type. I'm so glad to have the book done, but at the same time, I think I'm going to miss it!

I'm going to type out that great passage just like it is in the book, with run-on words and everything:

                                             THE BODY OF THE AMERICAN

    Whereasthe Congressoftheunitedstates byaconcurrentresolutionadoptedon the4thdayofmarch lastauthorizedthe Secretaryofwar to cause to be brought to theunitedstatesthe body of an Americanwho wasamemberoftheamericanexpeditionaryforcesineurope  wholosthislifeduringtheworldwarand whoseidentityhasnotbeenestablished for burial inthememorialamphitheatreofthe nationalcemeteryatarlington-virginia

   In the tarpaper morgue at Chalons-sur-Marne in the reek of chloride of lime and the dead, they picked out the pine box that held all that was left of
   enie menie minie moe plenty other pine boxes stacked up there containing what they'd scraped up of Richard Roe
   and other person or persons unknown. Only one can go. How did they pick John Doe?
   Make sure he aint a dinge, boys,
   make sure he aint a guinea or a kike,
   how can you tell a guy's a hundredpercent when all you've got's a gunnysack full of bones, bronze buttons stamped with the screaming eagle and a pair of roll puttees?
   ...and the gagging chloride and the puky dirtstench of the yearold dead...

   The day withal was too meaningful and tragic for applause. Silence, tears, songs and prayer, muffled drums and soft music were the instrumentalities today of national approbation. 

   John Doe was born (thudding din of blood in love into the shuddering soar of a man and a woman alone indeed together lurching into
   and ninemonths sick drowse waking into scared agony and the pain and blood and mess of birth). John Doe was born
   and raised in Brooklyn, in Memphis, near the lakefront in Cleveland, Ohio, in the stench of the stockyards in Chi, on Beacon Hill, in an old brick house in Alexandria, Virginia, on Telegraph Hill, in a halftimbered Tudor cottage in Portland the city of roses,
   in the Lying-In Hospital old Morgan endowed on Stuyvesant Square,
    across the railroad tracks, out near the country club, in a shack cabin tenement apartmenthouse exclusive residential suburb;
   scion of one of the best families in the social register, won first prize in the baby parade at Coronado Beach, was marbles champion of the Little Rock grammarschools, crack basketballplayer at the Booneville High, quarterback at the State Reformatory, having saved the sheriff's kid from drowning in the Little Missouri River was invited to Washington to be photographed shaking hands with the President on the White House steps;---

   though this was a time of mourning, such an assemblage necessarily has about it a touch of color. In the boxes are seen the court uniforms of foreign diplomats, the gold braid of our own and foreign fleets and armies, the black of the conventional morning dress of American statesmen, the varicolored furs and outdoor wrapping garments of mothers and sisters come to mourn, the drab and blue of soldiers and sailors, the glitter of musical instruments and the white and black of a vested choir

   ---busboy harveststiff hogcaller boyscout champeen cornshucker of Western Kansas bellhop at the United States Hotel at Saratoga Springs office boy callboy fruiter telephone lineman longshoreman lumberjack plumber's helper,
   worked for an exterminating company in Union City, filled pipes in an opium joint in Trenton, N.J.
   Y.M.C.A. secretary, express agent, truckdriver, fordmechanic, sold books in Denver Colorado: Madam would you be willing to help a young man work his way through college?
 
  President Harding, with a reverence seemingly more significant because of his high temporal station, concluded his speech:

    We are met today to pay the impersonal tributes; 
    the name of him whose body lies before us took flight with his imperishable soul...
    as a typical soldier of this representative democracy he fought and died believing in the indisputable justice of his country's cause...

    by raising his right hand and asking the thousands within the sound of his voice to join in the prayer:

    Our Father which art in heaven hallowed be they name...

    Naked he went into the army;
    they weighed you, measured you, looked for flat feet, squeezed your penis to see if you had clap, looked up your anus to see if you had piles, counted your teeth, made you cough, listened to your heart and lungs, made you read the letters on the card, charted your urine and your intelligence,
    gave you a service record for a future (imperishable soul)
    and an identification tag stamped with your serial number to hang around your neck, issued O D regulation equipment, a condiment can and a copy of the articles of war.
    Atten'SHUN suck in your gut you c_____r wipe that smile off your face eyes right wattja tink dis is a choirch-social?   For-war-D'ARCH.

    John Doe
    and Richard Roe and other person or persons unknown
    drilled hiked, manual of arms, ate slum, learned to salute, to soldier, to loaf in the latrines, forbidden to smoke on deck, overseas guard duty, forty men and eight horses, shortarm inspection and the ping of shrapnel and the shrill bullets combing the air and the sorehead woodpeckers the machineguns mud cooties gasmasks and the itch.
   Say feller tell me how I can get back to my outfit.

    John Doe had a head.
    for twentyodd years intensely the nerves of the eyes the ears the palate the tongue the fingers the toes the armpits, the nerves warmfeeling under the skin charged the coiled brain with hurt sweet warm cold mine must dont sayings print  headlines:
    Thou shalt not the multiplication table long division, Now is the time for all good men knocks but once at a young man's door, It's a great life if Ish gebibbel, The first five years'll be the Saftey First, Suppose a hun tried to rape your my country right or wrong, Catch 'em young, What he dont know wont treat 'em rough, Tell 'em nothin, He got what was coming to him he got his, This is a white man's country, Kick the bucket, Gone west, If you dont like it  you can croaked him
    Say buddy can't you tell me how I can get back to my outfit?

    Cant help jumpin when them things go off, give me the trots them things do. I lost my identification tag swimmin in the Marne, roughhousin with a guy while we was waitin to be deloused, in bed with a girl named Jeanne (Love moving picture wet French postcard dream began with saltpeter in the coffee and ended at the propho station);---
    Say soldier for chrissake cant you tell me how I can bet back to my outfit?

    John Doe's
    heart pumped blood:
    alive thudding silence of blood in your ears
    down in the clearing in the Oregon forest where the punkins were punkincolor pouring into the blood through the eyes and the fallcolored trees and the bronze hoopers were hopping through the dry grass, where tiny striped snails hung on the underside of the blades and the flies hummed, wasps droned, bumblebees buzzed, and the woods smelt of wine and mushrooms and apples, homey smell of fall pouring into the blood,
    and I dropped the tin hat and the sweaty pack and lay flat with the dogday sun licking my throat and adamsapple and the tight skin over the breastbone.

   The shell had his number on it.

    The blood ran into the ground.

   The service record dropped out of the filing cabinet when the quartermaster sergeant got blotto that time they had to pack up and leave the billets in a hurry.
    The identification tag was in the bottom of the Marne.

    The blood ran into the ground, the brains oozed out of the cracked skull and were licked up by the trenchrats, the belly swelled and raised a generation of bluebottle flies,
    and the incorruptible skeleton,
    and the scraps of dried viscera and skin bundled in khaki

    they took to Chalons-sur-Marne
    and laid it out neat in a pine coffin
    and took it home to God's Country on a battleship
    and buried it in a sarcophagus in the Memorial Amphitheatre in the Arlington National Cemetery
    and draped the Old Glory over it
    and the bugler played taps
    and Mr. Harding prayed to God and the diplomats and the generals and the admirals and the brasshats and the politicians and the handsomely dressed ladies out of the society column of the Washington Post stood up solemn
    and thought how beautiful sad Old Glory God's Country it was to have the bugler play taps and the three volleys made their ears ring.

    Where his chest ought to have been they pinned
    the Congressional Medal, the D.S.C., the Medaille Militaire, the Belgian Croix de Guerre, the Italian gold medal, the Vitutea Militara sent by Queen Marie of Rumania, the Czechoslovak war cross, the Virtuti Militari of the Poles, a wreath sent by Hamilton Fish, Jr., of New York, and a little wampum presented by a deputation of Arizona redskins in warpaint and feathers. All the Washingtonians brought flowers.

    Woodrow Wilson brought a bouquet of poppies.