Even if life seems like a random harvest between surprising positive and negative meaningless events, love can always find a way to have a life changing purpose. This is a very good novel that examined the peace culture in post World War I England.

Charles, a war veteran severely wounded in the trenches tried to find some sense in his life filled with shell shocked sporadic memory. Like James hilton's earlier novel, “Lost Horizon,” this novel is remarkably prescient considering today's seemingly chaotic peace between the wars.

The precarious peace that was achieved after World War 1 seemed to leave British citizens desperately yearning for return to a way of life that was more an illusion than a reality. Politics had became increasingly aggressive in European countries. One country after another was attempting to assert its former dominance whether large or small.

People seemed to wander here and there looking for some sort of purpose in the culture of Peace. Celebrations of peace were slowly but surely evaporating. The common reaction was to wait and see what happens and try to maintain a peace at all costs.
There was a rise of nations that had not learned anything from the horrors of the First World War. These European nations only needed a single world tyrant to raise the specter of aggression.
Just as we allowed the Vietnam War and our desert wars to spawn the current batch of sociopaths in government, European citizens relied on well-meaning optimists obeying the laws of a rational culture to magically return the world to peace and prosperity.
In Random Harvest Charles the victim of major injuries in the trenches of war wanders around Europe looking for the keys to his vague memory of a peaceful existence.
Sometimes peace on earth is measured in money and property, but these do not phase Charles. He is looking for something in his lost memory that perhaps was worth the risk of dying for in the past and living for in the present. He does not know that it will be a random meeting, a chance encounter with the love of his life that will be the treasure of the random harvest of his life. ( )

a selection from PART ONE: On the morning of the eleventh of November, 1937, precisely at eleven o'clock, some well-meaning busybody consulted his watch and loudly announced the hour, with the result that all of us in the dining-car felt constrained to put aside drinks and newspapers and spend the two minutes' silence in rather embarrassed stares at one another or out of the window. Not that anyone had intended disrespect--merely that in a fast-moving train we knew no rules for correct behaviour and would therefore rather not have behaved at all. Anyhow, it was during those tense uneasy seconds that I first took notice of the man opposite. Dark-haired, slim, and austerely good-looking, he was perhaps in his early or middle forties; he wore an air of prosperous distinction that fitted well with his neat but quiet standardized clothes. I could not guess whether he had originally moved in from a third- or a first-class compartment. Half a million Englishmen are like that. Their inconspicuous correctness makes almost a display of concealment. As he looked out of the window I saw something happen to his eyes--a change from a glance to a gaze and then from a gaze to a glare, a sudden sharpening of focus, as when a person thinks he recognizes someone fleetingly in a crowd. Meanwhile a lurch of the train spilt coffee on the table between us, providing an excuse for apologies as soon as the two minutes were over; I got in with mine first, but by the time he turned to reply the focus was lost, his look of recognition unsure. Only the embarrassment remained, and to ease it I made some comment on the moorland scenery, which was indeed sombrely beautiful that morning, for overnight snow lay on the summits, and there was one of them, twin-domed, that seemed to keep pace with the train, moving over the intervening valley like a ghostly camel. "That's Mickle," I said, pointing to it. Surprisingly he answered: "Do you know if there's a lake--quite a small lake--between the peaks?" Two men at the table across the aisle then intervened with the instant garrulousness of those who overhear a question put to someone else. They were also, I think, moved by a common desire to talk down an emotional crisis, for the entire dining-car seemed suddenly full of chatter. One said there was such a lake, if you called it a lake, but it was really more of a swamp; and the other said there wasn't any kind of lake at all, though after heavy rain it might be "a bit soggy" up there, and then the first man agreed that maybe that was so, and presently it turned out that though they were both Derbyshire men, neither had actually climbed Mickle since boyhood. We listened politely to all this and thanked them, glad to let the matter drop. Nothing more was said till they left the train at Leicester; then I leaned across the table and said: "It doesn't pay to argue with local inhabitants, otherwise I'd have answered your question myself--because I was on top of Mickle yesterday." A gleam reappeared in his eyes. "You were?" "Yes, I'm one of those eccentric people who climb mountains for fun all the year round." "So you saw the lake?" "There wasn't a lake or a swamp or a sign of either." "Ah. . . ." And the gleam faded. "You sound disappointed?" "Well, no--hardly that. Maybe I was thinking of somewhere else. I'm afraid I've a bad memory." "For mountains?" "For names too. Mickle, did you say it was?" He spoke the word as if he were trying the sound of it. "That's the local name. It isn't important enough to be on maps." He nodded and then, rather deliberately, held up a newspaper throughout a couple of English counties. The sight of soldiers marching along a Bedfordshire lane gave us our next exchange of remarks--something about Hitler, the European situation, chances of war, and so on.... About the Author
James Hilton was the author of more than twenty novels, including the bestselling Good-bye, Mr. Chips. He was also a screenwriter, with credits including such classic films as Mrs. Miniver, which won an Academy Award for Best Screenplay in 1942, and Alfred Hitchcock's Foreign Correspondent. Born in England in the year 1900, Hilton emigrated to the United States in the late 1930s. He died in 1954.

Good story about a man's amnesia, life, and love from World War One trauma. ( )

“You saved the family inheritance, you rescued the money of hundreds of outsiders, and you kept intact the jobs of a whole army of workpeople. You did, in fact, everything you set out to do.” “There’s only one thing more important,” he [Ranier] answered, “and that is, after you’ve done what you set out to do, to feel that it’s been worth doing.”

Set in England, from immediately after the Great War to just prior to WWII. In 1937, graduate student Harrison meets Charles Rainier on a train. They discuss the approaching war and Ranier’s service in the last. Ranier confides in Harrison about his war experiences that resulted in a stay in a mental hospital. At the time of their meeting, Rainier is a successful businessman and a Member of Parliament. Eventually, Harrison works for Ranier as his secretary.

Harrison starts out as narrator, then the story shifts to third person to tell Ranier’s backstory – how he lost his memory, eventually found his family again, and ended up rescuing the family’s business from bankruptcy. It is a story of loss, psychological trauma, and change.

Ranier feels his life is incomplete in some vague way. He is going through the motions, but feels no commitment, no passion. The forward momentum of the story is maintained by curiosity as to what happened to Ranier during the years he cannot remember. I got the impression that Ranier may represent what was happening in England at the time.

“The war was over … but now what? The dead were still dead; no miracle of human signature could restore limbs and sight and sanity; the grinding hardships of those four years could not be wiped out by a headline. Emotions were numb, were to remain half-numbed for a decade, and relief that might have eased them could come no nearer than a fret to the nerves.”

This book was published in 1941, so it is a slice of time from the perspective of someone who lived it. Hilton is a wonderful writer. His characters are vividly drawn, even the minor characters such as the traveling troupe of actors and the eccentric country pastor. It is beautifully crafted, with a number of storylines converging at the end in a satisfying and unexpected way.
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Like the film and unlike the film. I was emotionally dragged to the end ( but not against my will, I might add). Small edits may have added to its story, and it was hard to like Rainier at the beginning. But I really liked the layout. Not perfect, not a classic, but not a waste of time either. ( )