BOOK REVIEW
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| The Paris Correspondent
The chase for truth—expensive—in a world of commodity
journalism—cheap
Alan Cowell has crafted a black humor classic about
the epic world of war correspondents reporting the truth of hard facts annealed
in the heat of modern war. The reporting of hard facts is done inside a larger
media world of internet journalism defined by the economics of cheap megabytes
floating on a sea of internet lies and celebrity pretension.
The story is about Joe Shelby, a legendary war
correspondent from Vietnam on, finishing out his career as an internet rewrite
guy in Paris, and his epic love for the fearless combat photographer Faria
Duclos. Their story is defined by many shared dangers and many infidelities to a
great love that was not a relationship but something else. The narrator is
Shelby’s less colorful, more sane, editorial sidekick, who becomes part of the
larger narrative as whatever truths that need telling get told as a career
winds down and important things get said.
Halfway through the novel I read the fascinating
account of the life and death of London
Sunday Times war correspondent Marie Colvin in February 2012 in Syria in
the August 2012 issue of Vanity Fair.
Colvin’s is the true story of Faria Duclos and Joe Shelby rolled into one
talented, yet very broken, true character, a reporter caught in the “addiction
to the poison elixir of battle.” Her last assignment in Syria was described by
her cameraman, “Of all the trips we had done together, this one was complete
insanity.” What is the motivation here? The article stresses Colvin’s deep
commitment to reporting the truth.
That also turns out to be the central motivation
ascribed to war correspondents in The Paris Correspondent, the central talisman
of their nomadic existence. But what is the truth here? The war correspondents
are not sending back well-articulated critiques of the wars they are covering.
Other people, more comfortably perched, write the analyses, weigh it in the
scales of “good” policy or “bad” policy. The war correspondents send back the
jarring, blood-soaked facts of human conflict that upturn the bureaucratic
narrative, the thought-out assumptions. Characteristic of Colvin was getting
out to the world images of the death of a young Palestinian woman in Lebanon,
ambushed by Shiite militia snipers, as she lay by a burned-out car, blood
pouring out of her and “the handful of blood-soaked dirt she had clenched in
her pain.”
Simply put, The Paris Correspondent is the backstory
to the life of Marie Colvin. The one resonates with the other in an almost perfect
harmony between art and reality.
But another terrible fact is brought home to us in
both the real-life story of Marie Colvin and the novel: men like Bashir Assad massacre
women and children, with premeditation and no remorse, because the ugliest dimensions
of brutality are effective tools of intimidation; brutality works because it is
so ugly.
This streaming of hard-gained, painful facts from
the world’s war zones to the world public is something that can’t be outsourced
to bloggers. Only so much can be conveyed by youtube uploads. The public senses
that only the real thing will do.
Cowel captures the backstory, the panache of the era,
in his main character Joe Shelby, the archetypical war correspondent. The arc
of experience from Vietnam through all the world’s troubled spots up to the mini-Stalingrads
in today’s Syria is captured in the emotional narrative. There is also a
thriller-type, who-dunnit story stuck in the novel to be “plot.” Compared to
the true story of Marie Colvin, the thriller plot is a weak construct. A
fascinating aside is that the bad guy is a journalist whose style is to be
something of an aggregator, a purveyor of other people’s reporting.
But the charismatic Joe Shelby carries the book to a
tender and satisfying, if somewhat surprising, ending.
Posted on Amazon August 24, 2012
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