They Should Have Called Him "Fleshman"

This, the second in the Harry Flashman series, covers Flashy's adventures with (or, more properly, against) Otto von Bismarck on the continent. Secret adventures, of course -- you didn't read about any of this in your standard history texts. That's because all of Flashman's deeds are recorded only in the Flashman Papers, discovered years after his death in an attic, and published mostly in the 1970s.

Of the three Flashman novels I've read, the first (Flashman, which covers Flashman's origins and the British withdrawal from Afghanistan) is by far the best. But be forewarned: Flashman is no ordinary hero. In fact, he is, by his own admission, "a scoundrel, a liar, a cheat, a thief, a coward—and oh yes, a toady." Most of the humor arises because virtually no one in Flashman's life recognizes any of these characteristics. It's just you, the reader, who are let in on the big secret that this glamorous Victorian soldier decorated for bravery and accomplishment is a complete and utter coward, whose chief interests in life are protecting his own skin, chasing women, drinking, gambling and letting others take the fall for his actions. Occasionally, another character in the novels sees Flashman for what he is, but the secret never gets out, either because that other character soon dies (though not usually at Flashman's hand; he's not that brave!), lacks the credibility to make a charge against Flashman stick, or has his or her own reasons for keeping quiet.

Parts of these novels are unreadable if you have any moral sensibility if you don't consider it an exercise in seeing deep into the human heart. Even then, it may be questionable as a worthwhile selection. And the sensitive soul will feel for Flashman's many victims, particularly the women he runs over (or at least most of them). But I'm easily drawn in by something that makes me laugh, and these novels certainly do that.

I've recently been thinking that Flashman personifies, if only in a coarse or parodic manner, a central critique of postmodernism -- that most of the explanatory myths people rely on to explain themselves to others are essentially lies, and relationships are really about power and exploitation. (I realize I'm pulling a thread out of the postmodern ball of twine and running down the road with it, but just go with me here.) I suppose a softer way of reading Flashman is that he is just the ultimate illustration of Victorian hypocrisy, an Eminent Victorians in historical fiction, but I was never fully convinced by that attack on the Victorians, as every age and culture has its share of hypocrisy. The postmodern critique carries a little more weight, though of course it has its own problems.

So if you like your historical fiction with a good dose of humor, deep hypocrisy and a frank look into the mind of a man who sees no reason to seek anything beyond his own immediate pleasure, the Flashman series might be for you. Just recognize that we all have a Flashman inside us, and try not to let yours gain the upper hand.