Great literature

"One day in a small bar, while lacquer and silence, we were conversing in a low voice our travels ...". Here we go, the wonderful storyteller Joseph Kessel takes us far, there at the end of the world, in Vladivostok. "The Pacific comes to die under a hazy sky if it is believed with difficulty that the same rocks ocean waves Honolulu coral and gold." But it's a real woven tale, Kessel was in Vladivostok in 1919 at the age of 21, and a barbaric tale full of rage, sex, and blood.
Vladivostok was then delivered to a city traffic, or refugees all Russia then in full revolutionary chaos are subject to the bands of cruel abuse troopers and usually drunken. Soldiers and sailors from around the world deceive their boredom and satisfy their thirst for sex in the few dance halls or sell poor girls prematurely worn by alcohol, abuse and despair. This trip has something Dantesque if not the hell, here, is not imaginary.
It is a voracious and ruthless humanity but also suffering and miserable we portrayed Kessel, the zest for life is all the more ferocious he meets constantly dying. Yet the pomp of writing manages to magnify this wild epic.
"The day had dawned, if one could call it that, a messy day, ladle, too warm for the season." The story ended, and while this has pale dawn to dawn on the Far East, today's reader is groggy, a little drunk to get out of this orgy of terror. However, it has the feeling of having experienced a moment of great literature.
In their last common book "Catching Fire" Zeno Bianu poets and André Velter write: "Some great dead continue to accompany us, irreducible, ascendants, a thousand times more alive than all the living dead of the global media gallery." Joseph Kessel, certainly, is one of those.