The Tartar Steppe

A young soldier (Drogo) rides towards a remote fort in a desert where he is to be stationed. There, by the Tartar Steppe, the soldiers are tasked with watching for any potential movements of the mysterious northern army. Once there, he wants to leave but agrees to do his four month stint. Various circumstances dictate that he ultimately stays for two years. He makes friends, he rises up the ranks, he does his duty. Occasionally, there's excitement at the prospect that the northern armies might be mobilising. But it usually turns out to be an illusion. He is young, he has the best days of his life ahead of him.

A further four years go by. Drogo has been promoted, he continues to do his duty. One day, a soldier sees movement among the desert and the potential for glory appears to be on the same horizon. But again, it's a false alarm. And Drogo and his comrades go back to their marching, their routine, their daily activities. He is still young, he still has the best days of his life ahead of him. Fifteen more years go by. Drogo is now second in command. He is a middle aged man, watching new, younger men, arrive to do their duty. He has never married, has no children, has accomplished little in his career, but he continues to hope, continues to believe that his life has meaning. But he is no longer young.

Drogo is now in his late-fifties, closing in on retirement. He is struck by an illness and becomes withered and guant. Just then, the Northern armies do indeed appear to be on the march towards the fort. But Simeoni (the leader) says that he is too ill to fight and so must return to the city to recuperate. Just as his purpose to life arrives, he is taken away in a carriage, has it snatched away, and dies pointlessly in an inn. The end.

The book is a curious (kafkaesque) look at the repetitive nature of existence, at the wasted years we throw away on working in jobs we hate, at the wasted youth we cannot hold onto, at the desperate search we have for a purpose, a meaning. To find something that will distract us from the ticking of the clock. But in truth, no matter what we do, we waste our lives. Because what purpose is there? Marriage? Children? Being a success? All things designated by others as symbols of a successful life. But what difference does it really make?

This was a truly fascinating book. It wasn't necessarily the most enjoyable read and the prose never fully gripped me. But the ideas explored, specifically the ambiguous (Buzzati never tells us how to feel) notion of a what a worthwhile life is, are enormously powerful.