Men at Arms by Evelyn Waugh

To quote Oscar Wilde, 'there is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love', or, in this case for me, the emotions of people whom one has ceased to understand. Not being religious, I have a very hard time understanding (let alone sympathising with) Waugh's incredible burden of Catholic guilt, and I am constantly irritated by the earnestness of his attitude towards religion, especially in contrast to his absolute irreverence for everything else. I did enjoy this book, but not as much as his pre-War novels, for two reasons: the army (it's impossible for me to get too interested in descriptions of military life) and the increased religious emphasis (apparently Waugh had been a Catholic all through the 30s, but starting with Brideshead, religion seems to gain a new centrality in his work). As usual when reading a Waugh novel, my first reaction was that it was so cynical and the main character so pathetic that I simply couldn't bear it, but I quickly got used to it and enjoyed it quite a bit. Towards the end, I was getting along with this book very well, and was very amused. I really relish Waugh's completely deadpan, crisp, devastating humour, but I was sorry (but not surprised) to observe that his increased religiosity did not make his portrayal of women more sympathetic. I am always mystified by the reaction I have to Waugh's protagonists; they always completely repulse me, yet I'm always so sorry for them that I want to cry, so his particular brand of humour often leaves me emotionally distraught.