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Just finished The Missing of the Somme by Geoff Dyer - a very idiosyncratic private meditation on World War I and its meaning to the present generation, and an extended meditation upon remembrance and Remembrance. Highly personal in its viewpoint, Dyer's tour of battlefields & cemeteries reads at times like a drunken frat boy road trip that unexpectedly morphs without warning into a starkly elegiac re-telling of the past, still able to bring tears and a profound sense of unimaginable loss - and for what reason?
[N.B. The Kindle edition is poorly formatted - and the photographs do not render well at all - on either eInk or Fire screens]
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