Literary Picks "Goodbye to All That" by Robert Graves

Author: Edward Pickering

Autobiographies rarely attain 'classic' status. Most are of the airport newsstand variety. Retired generals and politicians transcribe blow-by-blow testimonials and actors and athletes fill pages with self-pity. The life of these autobiographies is short: they fly off the shelves and into oblivion. Rapid disappearance and vapid content are their defining characteristics.
Robert Graves' memoir "Goodbye To All That" stands as antithesis to these run-of-mill works.
First published in 1929, "Goodbye to All That" is a searing book, full of vitriol, thought and conviction. Robert Graves-noted poet, novelist, critic and translator- was 33 when he wrote it. Imagine writing an autobiography at such a young age and then seeing it endure for decades. The raw material of the autobiography-Edwardian England, the trenches of World War 1 and the ensuing emotional and social devastation-grips the reader. The voice that tells it is strong, embittered, incisive and honest. In "Goodbye to All That" Robert Graves says farewell to England and English society, to innocence itself-and to a world irrevocably shattered by world war.
Born in England, with considerable German ancestry, Graves grew up privilege, attended prestigious schools and then, like his peers, went to fight in France. A third of his classmates died in the War, earning his generation the title, 'the Lost Generation.' Severely wounded by shrapnel, Graves distinguished himself for bravery in battle. His battlefield heroism and personal disillusion with the war would seem to be at odds, but he proves they are not. Physically weak and mentally shaken at the time of his discharge, Graves entered academia, accepted overseas teaching posts, and then permanently departed England for the Spanish isle, Majorca. Toward the memoir's end he describes his reaction at the time to news of the Armistice:
"In November came the Armistice. I heard at the same time of the deaths of Frank Jones-Bateman, who had gone back again just before the end, and Wilfred Owen, who often used to send me poems from France. Armistice night hysteria did not touch our camp much, though some of the Canadians stationed there went down to Rhyl to celebrate in true overseas style. The news sent me out walking alone along the dyke above the marshes of Rhuddlan (an ancient battlefield, the Flodden of Wales), cursing and sobbing and thinking of the dead.
Siegfried's famous poem celebrating the Armistice began:
"Everybody suddenly burst out singing, / And I was filled with such delight / As prisoned birds must find in freedom . . ."
But everbody did not include me."