Ruin reminds me a little of Hemingway, but more so of Celine's Journey to the End of the Night. There, Celine gives the reader one glimmer of hope when Robinson explodes, revealing all his hopes, ideas, and reservations about the world and his life, only to be gunned down by a jealous jilted lover after he is politely asked if he is finished. In Ruin, no one ever makes any statement about what they want or how they feel; they continue to exist only to die. They wander through their lives, never taking what they want, or doing anything except what they are forced to do. Ruin is a somber, heartfelt, and daunting story of never being able to feel until those feelings no longer matter; isn't that a sad tale. I sincerely hope that the Marlboro Press will bring out more of Fenoglio's work and that readers will take advantage of these fine translations that wouldn't otherwise be available.
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|Publication:||The Review of Contemporary Fiction|
|Article Type:||Book Review|
|Date:||Mar 22, 1993|
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