Giono initially thought of The Horseman on the Roof as an episode of a bigger project — a work of architectural proportions — in ten volumes à la Balzac, but it grew on him so much that it became the pièce de résistance of a much shortened ‘Hussar cycle’. Set in 1838, it recounts the hallucinatory journey of a young Italian exile looking for his half-brother in a Provence devastated by the cholera.


There is no great narrative evolution; what we see through Angelo’s eyes is a series of violent deaths, punctuated by chance encounters with fellow survivors. Yet the lyrical descriptions of the putrid smells and the scorching heat are gripping; the contrast between the beauty of Provence and the horror of sudden death most striking. There are moments of pure grace, as when Angelo hears a scream up in the mountain, rushes to help the dying and finds a group of children trying to fly a kite, or when he spends days on the roofs with a cat for sole companion.


The cholera is the main character, it ‘walks like a lion across towns and forests’, a figure representing evil in a novel which, like Camus’ The Plague, was written shortly after the World War II and reflects on human behaviour in catastrophic situations. Giono relentlessly exposes the covetousness and meanness that take hold of men, when fear brings out the worst in them.


Giono believes that one must strive to deserve a place in the world and young Angelo’s journey is such a quest; he possesses a noble soul and heroic aspirations, is constantly in movement and symbolises freedom itself put to the test.


Horseman on the Roof is probably many novels in one; a realistic novel in its depiction of the epidemic, a symbolic journey, and an homage to Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma but it is undoubtedly a wonderful read. Don’t be put off by the awesomely dull film of the same name.

‘Men are wretched thought Angelo. Everything beautiful happens without them. Cholera and catchwords are what they make. They foam with jealousy or die of boredom, which comes down to the same thing, if they’re not allowed to interfere, there’s a premium on hypocrisy and ravin.

One need only be up here or in the wilderness that I rode through the other day, to realize where the true battle lies, to become very particular about the victories one strives for. In short, cease being content with little. As soon as you’re alone, things take hold of you by themselves and always force you to take the roads that are hardest to climb. And even if you don’t get there, what fine views you have, and how reassuring everything is.’ p98-99