What are we in, March or something, and already I'm talking about literary prizes?!? (I alternatively used exclamation and question marks here because I'm not sure which is grammatically correct.) Yes, the year has barely begun and we are already being slapped on the side of the head by the literary equivalent of two dead fish, those being the long lists for the most inconsequential awards anyone could wish not to win.
First up we have the Orange Prize. I know I'm going to anger many in litland by so labelling the book world's toast to female authors and I certainly agree that some marvellous books have actually won it but seriously, does it really need to exist? Aren't women adequately represented in the literary prize world these days not to need an aluminium plated token named after a pretty mediocre citrus fruit (or an even worse Telco)? I side with the likes of A.S. Byatt and Tim Lott - yep, I grabbed one from each gender camp - who see it as sexist and, in intellectual terms, degrading to women. Apparently Silvio Berlusconi is a fan and has offered to present the award so I stand to be corrected. Jokes aside, I feel obliged to point out that a few really good books have made the shortlist, and I truly hope they show up again when real prize time rolls around in September. Of particular note are Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch, The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht and Swamplandia! by Karen Russel. Take note team Booker and Pulitzer!
Speaking of the Commonwealth's most prestigious prize, the folks at the Booker Sausage Factory have not succumbed to Award Fatigue as I might have hoped but instead have announced yet another list. Following hot on the heels of the totally irrelevant Lost Booker and the hardly more relevant (but at least cute) Best of Beryl Booker, they have now rolled out the long list for the third International Booker Prize. Cue excitement. Or yawns. Hey, I'm a big Ismail Kadare and Chinua Achebe fan but neither really needed this particular trophy on their cabinet. The long list boasts many of the usual suspects. Philip Roth, because this would totally make his career. Su Tong, because already winning the Asian Booker apparently isn't enough. John Le Carre because... well... I got nothing. Anyway, stay tuned. May will bring the next Booker Prize announcement: The Booker Prize for Most Nominations Across The Various Booker Prizes. Sweet. I'm tipping McEwan.
One area of the lit world which is unfortunately on the rise but sorely lacking in the prize department is self-published e-literature. Thankfully one such author who clearly cannot write but is greatly deserving of a prize is the unintentionally hilarious Jaqueline Howett. After responding with grammatically incorrect vitriol to a blogger who reviewed her vanity-published e-book, she has hit the heights of internet superstardom. Anyone interested in laughing at the Kindle's answer to the big bang (though I would liken it more to a mass outbreak of dysentery in some huge area - say, sub Saharan Africa - with only one semi-functional toilet) should check out Big Al's Books and Pals at http://booksandpals.blogspot.com/2011/03/greek-seaman-jacqueline-howett.html. Congratulations Ms. Howett. You are the winner of the first and hopefully last Man Booker Prize For Completely Debasing Yourself And A Glorious Profession To Which You Claim To Belong In A Manner Even More Spectacular Than That Time Martin Amis Published Yellow Dog Or Elfreide Jelinek Won The Nobel Or Someone Thought Of Creating The Orange Prize. Sure, it's a wordy name for a prize, but at least it's grammatically correct!
Portrait of the Artist as a Looney Tune: Perec's Short Fiction
on Friday, March 18, 2011
No author's photograph captures the essence of its subject quite like that of the Frenchman Georges Perec. I imagine many of you have seen it, but if you haven't I strongly suggest you pause here and check it out on the interGoogle. Yep, that's him staring out at you with the crazy hair of Einstein (or Don King), the pudgy face of Elmer Fudd and the almost psychotic eyes of Charles Manson. Quite the combination. In terms of appearance, he was the literary equivalent of Salvadore Dali. Come to think of it, his unbridled creative flair isn't all that far removed from the Spanish painter's either. The prime difference though, was that Perec worked within a constantly changing set of strict rules that he imposed upon himself and his work. Perec loved nothing more than the idea of writing as a functional experiment. Like his compadres in the Oulipo movement, he was obsessed with the confluence of deep theoretical mathematics and literature. Hence we have A Void, a mystery written without the use of a single "E", and it's sister volume Three, written with all the leftover E's and not a single other vowel. And then there's the micro-observation of his great masterpiece, Life: A User's Manual, and the imagined autobiographical dystopia of W, Or The Memory of Childhood.
Perec was never greatly in or out of fashion, but he suddenly seems to be experiencing something of a renaissance, at least in the publishing world. Two of his shorter works have recently been released by two different houses. So if you've always wanted to have a go at Perec but found the longer works a bit daunting, this might be your chance. But be warned. Bite size though they may be, each of these books conceals a razor blade making them far from easy to digest.
An Attempt At Exhausting a Place in Paris is exactly as the title suggests - a second by second experiential account of what Perec witnesses as he sits at a cafe watching what goes on around him over three days. It is repetitive, often nonsensical and almost unutterably tedious. Which, of course, is the point! The staccato form punctuates each minute observance with a slap, and you feel Perec's googly eyes darting from one thing to the next.. There is a degree of intrigue in the idea of the project which ultimately seems aimed at forcing the reader to accept just how dull life, when observed closely, actually is.
Of more immediate interest is the compelling, absurd and often hilarious The Art and Craft of Approaching Your Head of Department To Submit a Request For a Raise. Written in a single, seventy-page sentence this book is Perec's attempt to talk through a business flow chart, exploring at each step the two possible outcomes, one of which will send him back to the start, the other of which will allow him to progress. It is stupidly circuitous, but I challenge you to have a go at putting a complex series of ideas, as represented in visual form by single words and arrows, into a coherent narrative. To me, The Art and Craft... is a true triumph of the Oulipo movement, and certainly worth the short time you will spend zipping through it. The flowchart itself is featured on the opening page, and it is fun to flick back to see where Perec is up to at any given point. There is a playful sense of ridicule present too, with Perec making light of the knots into which we tie ourselves when approaching what we consider to be important life moments (in this case asking for a raise).
Perec was clearly nuts, but we as readers are all the richer for it. Fans will find much to ponder and enjoy in these slight volumes and newcomers to one of literature's most playful absurdists can whet their appetites without being clobbered by he author's characteristic obsessiveness. Just keep some brain candy on standby. You're likely to need it afterwards.
Perec was never greatly in or out of fashion, but he suddenly seems to be experiencing something of a renaissance, at least in the publishing world. Two of his shorter works have recently been released by two different houses. So if you've always wanted to have a go at Perec but found the longer works a bit daunting, this might be your chance. But be warned. Bite size though they may be, each of these books conceals a razor blade making them far from easy to digest.
An Attempt At Exhausting a Place in Paris is exactly as the title suggests - a second by second experiential account of what Perec witnesses as he sits at a cafe watching what goes on around him over three days. It is repetitive, often nonsensical and almost unutterably tedious. Which, of course, is the point! The staccato form punctuates each minute observance with a slap, and you feel Perec's googly eyes darting from one thing to the next.. There is a degree of intrigue in the idea of the project which ultimately seems aimed at forcing the reader to accept just how dull life, when observed closely, actually is.
Of more immediate interest is the compelling, absurd and often hilarious The Art and Craft of Approaching Your Head of Department To Submit a Request For a Raise. Written in a single, seventy-page sentence this book is Perec's attempt to talk through a business flow chart, exploring at each step the two possible outcomes, one of which will send him back to the start, the other of which will allow him to progress. It is stupidly circuitous, but I challenge you to have a go at putting a complex series of ideas, as represented in visual form by single words and arrows, into a coherent narrative. To me, The Art and Craft... is a true triumph of the Oulipo movement, and certainly worth the short time you will spend zipping through it. The flowchart itself is featured on the opening page, and it is fun to flick back to see where Perec is up to at any given point. There is a playful sense of ridicule present too, with Perec making light of the knots into which we tie ourselves when approaching what we consider to be important life moments (in this case asking for a raise).
Perec was clearly nuts, but we as readers are all the richer for it. Fans will find much to ponder and enjoy in these slight volumes and newcomers to one of literature's most playful absurdists can whet their appetites without being clobbered by he author's characteristic obsessiveness. Just keep some brain candy on standby. You're likely to need it afterwards.
The Power of the (Wrong) Word
on Thursday, March 17, 2011
As you would know by now, this here bookworm prefers to make his burrow in foreign soil. Consequently, I am always on the lookout for new and improved English versions of books that I have loved in the hope that somehow I might get to experience the work as the author intended it without having to take a crash course in every language imaginable. The other day I was in my favourite bookstore and was intrigued to see what appeared to be a new translation of Antonio Tabucchi's great novel of small-time political rebellion, Pereira Declares. Or should I say, in mid-1990's Prince style, "the artist formerly known as Pereira Declares"? Set in wartime Portugal, it is the story of an ageing journalist, living out his sunset years as editor of the cultural pages of a small-time Portuguese newspaper who meets a young wannabe writer and is drawn into the fight against the country's tyrannical, Nazi-loving regime. What begins as projected affection for a son he might have had becomes an ideological metamorphosis and, ultimately, causes Pereira to take drastic, reckless action of his own. It is a wonderful book about the small man's ability to make moral choices in an immoral environment and is well worth you taking the time to read. But that is all by the by.
What made me believe this was an altogether new translation was that the title has been changed from Pereira Declares to Pereira Maintains, which is supposedly a more accurate rendering of the original Italian title Sostiene Pereira. I, of course, wouldn't know. I don't speak Italian. Yet this seemingly minor change in the title (and consequently most repeated line in the book) completely alters the way we read the thing, especially in our understanding of the consequences of Pereira's final act of rebellion. The book ends with our hero trying to flee the country, having set himself on a path of almost certain torture and death if he remains. So, if Pereira "Declares", it suggests that he is bearing witness from abroad, that he did indeed escape, and that he is letting people know of the murderous activities of the Portuguese authorities. However, if Pereira "Maintains", it suggests that he was caught and he (or his legal representative) is telling his side of the story in a way that paints his actions in the most favourable light. The book becomes a plea for his life. There is also the possibility that it is being told by a member of the secret police or prosecutor, with an air of sarcastic disbelief. No matter what Pereira "maintains", we are invited to believe his fate is sealed. Interestingly, either translation suggests that we are hearing the story from an unreliable narrator but siding with one Sostiene rather the other will change whose unreliable retelling we are receiving.
Alas, readers of the original translation need not rush back. A quick look at the front leaf shows that this is not an entirely new version but merely (somewhat oddly for such a well-regarded novel) the first British edition. The translation is copyright 1995. Which means that, having decided that "Maintains" is the correct translation of "Sostiene" (my rudimentary latin suggests that "Sustains" is, in fact, the literal translation), the publishers simply did a "Replace All" job on the text and sent it off to press. They might have wanted to read through the thing though. On page 149, towards the end of the book, we find the sentence "The next morning, he declared, Pereira was awakened by the telephone." Fairly nondescript, I know. But I wish I could read Italian because I'm intrigued to see if Tabucchi uses a different word at this point, which might give that particular assertion some extra piquancy. If so, it becomes the only definitive statement in the whole novel.
The Pereira switcheroo has shaken my confidence in translations. One word, translated differently, can change the entire meaning of a book. Which gives me a sneaking suspicion that Anna Karenina was pushed. Who's with me on this?
What made me believe this was an altogether new translation was that the title has been changed from Pereira Declares to Pereira Maintains, which is supposedly a more accurate rendering of the original Italian title Sostiene Pereira. I, of course, wouldn't know. I don't speak Italian. Yet this seemingly minor change in the title (and consequently most repeated line in the book) completely alters the way we read the thing, especially in our understanding of the consequences of Pereira's final act of rebellion. The book ends with our hero trying to flee the country, having set himself on a path of almost certain torture and death if he remains. So, if Pereira "Declares", it suggests that he is bearing witness from abroad, that he did indeed escape, and that he is letting people know of the murderous activities of the Portuguese authorities. However, if Pereira "Maintains", it suggests that he was caught and he (or his legal representative) is telling his side of the story in a way that paints his actions in the most favourable light. The book becomes a plea for his life. There is also the possibility that it is being told by a member of the secret police or prosecutor, with an air of sarcastic disbelief. No matter what Pereira "maintains", we are invited to believe his fate is sealed. Interestingly, either translation suggests that we are hearing the story from an unreliable narrator but siding with one Sostiene rather the other will change whose unreliable retelling we are receiving.
Alas, readers of the original translation need not rush back. A quick look at the front leaf shows that this is not an entirely new version but merely (somewhat oddly for such a well-regarded novel) the first British edition. The translation is copyright 1995. Which means that, having decided that "Maintains" is the correct translation of "Sostiene" (my rudimentary latin suggests that "Sustains" is, in fact, the literal translation), the publishers simply did a "Replace All" job on the text and sent it off to press. They might have wanted to read through the thing though. On page 149, towards the end of the book, we find the sentence "The next morning, he declared, Pereira was awakened by the telephone." Fairly nondescript, I know. But I wish I could read Italian because I'm intrigued to see if Tabucchi uses a different word at this point, which might give that particular assertion some extra piquancy. If so, it becomes the only definitive statement in the whole novel.
The Pereira switcheroo has shaken my confidence in translations. One word, translated differently, can change the entire meaning of a book. Which gives me a sneaking suspicion that Anna Karenina was pushed. Who's with me on this?
Bridesmaid Revisited
on Saturday, March 12, 2011
So the folk over at Man Booker land have decided to run a poll on which Beryl Bainbridge book ought to win an honorary Booker Prize. The grand dame was nominated five times but failed to ever win the blooming thing, giving her the rather cringeworthy reputation as the perennial Booker Bridesmaid. 'Tis a pitiable tale. In 1973 she lost out to J. G. Farrell. In 1974 the cake was shared by Nadine Gordimer and Stanley Middleton, with Ms. Bainbridge left to nibble at the crumbs. It took another 15 years before she made her next appearance on the shortlist, only to lose again, this time to A. S. Byatt. Never one to be discouraged she was back in 1996. Yep, you guessed it... K.O.'d by Graham Swift. Master Georgie turned out to be her final Booker appearance in 1998 and, to be honest, she probably should have won. Given that the prize was doled out in consolation to Ian McEwan, who failed to win it the previous year for the very deserving Enduring Love, it beggars belief that any judge hell-bent on licking someone else's wounds would not give it to the poor dame who had missed out four times already. Alas, Amsterdam won the day, probably the least deserving of all six nominees. Bainbridge's final novel, According to Queenie, didn't even make the shortlist and she dropped off the perch in 2010.
Well, thank the book gods for good ol' fashioned guilt. In a genial pat on the back that some might see as more of a patronising slap in the face, team Booker want decaying Beryl to have the last laugh from beyond the grave. They are calling on us, Bainbridge's adoring reading public, to pick which of her wonderful books we believe ought to be handed the 'Best of Beryl" Booker (personally, I suspect they just fancied the alliteration). Needless to say, the winner will be bestowed the third lest meaningful Booker after The Man Booker International Prize and the Lost Booker Prize. At least Bainbridge can't possible lose this one. Results will be conveyed via Oija Board, crop circle or black forest nude communion on April 19. Head over to www.themanbookerprize.com to register your vote.
Well, thank the book gods for good ol' fashioned guilt. In a genial pat on the back that some might see as more of a patronising slap in the face, team Booker want decaying Beryl to have the last laugh from beyond the grave. They are calling on us, Bainbridge's adoring reading public, to pick which of her wonderful books we believe ought to be handed the 'Best of Beryl" Booker (personally, I suspect they just fancied the alliteration). Needless to say, the winner will be bestowed the third lest meaningful Booker after The Man Booker International Prize and the Lost Booker Prize. At least Bainbridge can't possible lose this one. Results will be conveyed via Oija Board, crop circle or black forest nude communion on April 19. Head over to www.themanbookerprize.com to register your vote.
An Explosive Discovery: Beers, Babel and Blowing Nuclear Chunks
on Thursday, March 10, 2011
My Czech cousin was just in town. He barely speaks English. I don't speak Czech. And yet we get on like a house on fire. Years ago, I visited Prague and we spent a rather hilarious evening downing Pilsners until he had to drag me home over his shoulder, stopping every five minutes to let me decorate the 13th century sidewalks with carrot chunks. It was one of the most enjoyable nights I can't remember having in my entire life.
Having just discovered VB, Ludvik is disappointed that I gave up the grog since we last met. I suspect he thinks less of me. Thankfully I still have my love of Czech literature to fall back on. The other day we got to talking about Karel Capek, probably my favourite writer from pre-War Czechoslovakia. I count his War With The Newts among my top ten books of all time. Ludvik likes it but insists Capek's true genius was best on show in "Povídky z jedné a z druhé kapsy". Except he didn't know what that was in English. He kept pointing at his hips. Our usually functional game of conversational charades had hit a wall. Cue Wikipedia. We scanned the selected bibliography and found it was Tales From Two Pockets, a wonderful collection of short detective tales that had been serialised in the Czechoslovak papers in the late 1920's and early 30's.
That is all by the by. What was most exciting for me was the discovery of a book of which I had never heard. On Wikipedia of all places! Somehow, Krakatit (An Atomic Phantasy), first published in 1922, had slipped under my radar. Perhaps it just hadn't been translated into English. Some further research revealed that it had indeed been translated, but in the late 1940's, and has been out of print since then. I instantly hopped onto Abebooks and searched for a second-hand English copy. It cost me nineteen bucks and arrived, sans dust jacket and a little worse for wear, five days later. Thank you interweb. Sometimes I do not hate you.
Now I know how people get all worked up about Kafka's prophetic abilities. But as much as I love ol' Franz, when it came to true prophesy, Capek was the man. With his brother Joseph, he invented the word Robot (in R.U.R. -Rossum's Universal Robots). He foresaw artificial intelligence and the advent of consumer society in The Absolute at Large. And in Krakatit, he pretty much mapped out the trajectory of the arms race that would only start ten years after he died and then go on to cripple the world for the better part of forty years. In the book, Prokop discovers a substance that even in the smallest concentrations can blow up entire cities. He calls it Krakatit. Governments and corporations vie for his affections, trying to get him to hand over its formula. When he refuses, it all turns rather nasty. Like all great Czech literature, Krakatit has its fair share of claustrophobic weirdness. Prokop teeters on the brink of insanity as each new conspiracy adds a layer to the one that came before. Yet, for all its intellectual rigour and narrative complexity, the book remains a fun, easy read. Capek wasn't just a litsnob's writer. He wrote for the people. He had an uncanny ability to make you laugh and think in equal doses, without ever questioning the incongruity that might seem apparent in less capable hands.
As a forewarning of nuclear power and the lengths people will go to control it, Krakatit has no equal. I know it will be hard to track down a copy, but if you can I really recommend you do. If any publishers are reading this (Catbird, I'm looking at you), bring it back into print. But in the meantime, for Capek virgins, check out the Penguin European Classics edition of War With The Newts or read RUR. If you want Capek in bite-sized pieces, read Tales From Two Pockets or Apocryphal Tales. Any of these books will be a great introduction to your new favourite writer!
Having just discovered VB, Ludvik is disappointed that I gave up the grog since we last met. I suspect he thinks less of me. Thankfully I still have my love of Czech literature to fall back on. The other day we got to talking about Karel Capek, probably my favourite writer from pre-War Czechoslovakia. I count his War With The Newts among my top ten books of all time. Ludvik likes it but insists Capek's true genius was best on show in "Povídky z jedné a z druhé kapsy". Except he didn't know what that was in English. He kept pointing at his hips. Our usually functional game of conversational charades had hit a wall. Cue Wikipedia. We scanned the selected bibliography and found it was Tales From Two Pockets, a wonderful collection of short detective tales that had been serialised in the Czechoslovak papers in the late 1920's and early 30's.
That is all by the by. What was most exciting for me was the discovery of a book of which I had never heard. On Wikipedia of all places! Somehow, Krakatit (An Atomic Phantasy), first published in 1922, had slipped under my radar. Perhaps it just hadn't been translated into English. Some further research revealed that it had indeed been translated, but in the late 1940's, and has been out of print since then. I instantly hopped onto Abebooks and searched for a second-hand English copy. It cost me nineteen bucks and arrived, sans dust jacket and a little worse for wear, five days later. Thank you interweb. Sometimes I do not hate you.
Now I know how people get all worked up about Kafka's prophetic abilities. But as much as I love ol' Franz, when it came to true prophesy, Capek was the man. With his brother Joseph, he invented the word Robot (in R.U.R. -Rossum's Universal Robots). He foresaw artificial intelligence and the advent of consumer society in The Absolute at Large. And in Krakatit, he pretty much mapped out the trajectory of the arms race that would only start ten years after he died and then go on to cripple the world for the better part of forty years. In the book, Prokop discovers a substance that even in the smallest concentrations can blow up entire cities. He calls it Krakatit. Governments and corporations vie for his affections, trying to get him to hand over its formula. When he refuses, it all turns rather nasty. Like all great Czech literature, Krakatit has its fair share of claustrophobic weirdness. Prokop teeters on the brink of insanity as each new conspiracy adds a layer to the one that came before. Yet, for all its intellectual rigour and narrative complexity, the book remains a fun, easy read. Capek wasn't just a litsnob's writer. He wrote for the people. He had an uncanny ability to make you laugh and think in equal doses, without ever questioning the incongruity that might seem apparent in less capable hands.
As a forewarning of nuclear power and the lengths people will go to control it, Krakatit has no equal. I know it will be hard to track down a copy, but if you can I really recommend you do. If any publishers are reading this (Catbird, I'm looking at you), bring it back into print. But in the meantime, for Capek virgins, check out the Penguin European Classics edition of War With The Newts or read RUR. If you want Capek in bite-sized pieces, read Tales From Two Pockets or Apocryphal Tales. Any of these books will be a great introduction to your new favourite writer!
Microviews Vol. 10: Tahar Ben Jelloun, Silvina Ocampo
on Saturday, February 19, 2011
A Palace In The Old Village by Tahar Ben Jelloun
I am fascinated by the literature of displacement. Perhaps it is my own family history - having survived the Holocaust, my grandparents fled Czechoslovakia when the Communists rolled in and did their best to start anew in Australia. Whatever the reason, I seem to have an affinity for books that examine the way in which displaced persons come to understand and negotiate their adopted homelands, particularly when they remain spiritually tied to the country in which they were born. Tahar Ben Jelloun is himself an exile, forced to leave Morocco for France when his academic position became untenable under a new regime. It is this that makes A Palace In The Old Village most probably a work of metaphorical autobiography - Ben Jelloun is hardly an 'everyman' like Mohammed, but he understand his protagonist's situation perfectly. Mohammed has slotted into menial French life fairly well, but his hard-fought contentment is thrown to the wind upon retirement. Suddenly, he has too much time on his time to think or, more precisely, overthink his life. Spiritually anomie sets in, with Mohammed coming to realise that all he loved was a mirage. His children are French, his life is meaningless. In many ways, he is a Tevye figure - tragically left to sift through the ashes of his life. He longs for his old village, and decides to take whatever little wealth he has amassed to return and Morocco, to build the grandest house in his old village. Then his family will return, he figures, then his soul will find peace. While the first two thirds of the book is anchored in reality, the last third drifts into a sort of tragic magical realism. Mohammed roots himself to the chair in the middle of the house and awaits his children's return. They don't come home and he dies. Yet again, Tahar Ben Jelloun proves that he is amongst the greatest Arabic writers at work today. His sense of place and its relation to the core of a person's being is without parallel. This might not be This Blinding Absence of Light, but as a telling peek into the soul of the ageing immigrant it is truly remarkable.
The Topless Tower by Silvina Ocampo
Remember The Purple Rose of Cairo, that old Woody Allen film in which the hero steps out of the screen into real life and romances the chick watching in the front row? Or at least that Twisties ad that rips it off? And remember how it's a device done to death in all forms of artistic media? Well, here is yet another book with a similar bent. A boy draws pictures that come to life, rescuing him from the everyday doldrums of his Cinderella-like existence (pre-fairy godmother, that is). But before your gag reflex kicks in, stop a minute. This one is worth checking out. What sets it apart from many similar works is its artisitc authenticity, most likely the product of the environment in which its author was writing. Ocampo was the wife of Adolfo Bioy Casares, one of Argentina's great absurdist literary gods. Oh, and she was buddy buddies with the true master of the form, Jorge Luis Borges. Ocampo's short novel, while sufficiently distinctive to be more than homage, fits perfectly alongside the works of her more celebrated compatriots. Leandro has inadvertently caused his own imprisonment, by laughing at a man who might be the Devil. He is instantly transported to the Topless Tower with only an easel, paints and canvas to keep him company. Leandro quickly sets about creating a cast of strange characters to save him from this awful (for a little boy) solitude. While the book does have a certain Sendak-like air, it can equally be read as a metaphor for the process of artistic creation and it is to Ocampo's great credit that one is never sure if it was intended as a children's fable or an expression of the struggle of writing itself.
I am fascinated by the literature of displacement. Perhaps it is my own family history - having survived the Holocaust, my grandparents fled Czechoslovakia when the Communists rolled in and did their best to start anew in Australia. Whatever the reason, I seem to have an affinity for books that examine the way in which displaced persons come to understand and negotiate their adopted homelands, particularly when they remain spiritually tied to the country in which they were born. Tahar Ben Jelloun is himself an exile, forced to leave Morocco for France when his academic position became untenable under a new regime. It is this that makes A Palace In The Old Village most probably a work of metaphorical autobiography - Ben Jelloun is hardly an 'everyman' like Mohammed, but he understand his protagonist's situation perfectly. Mohammed has slotted into menial French life fairly well, but his hard-fought contentment is thrown to the wind upon retirement. Suddenly, he has too much time on his time to think or, more precisely, overthink his life. Spiritually anomie sets in, with Mohammed coming to realise that all he loved was a mirage. His children are French, his life is meaningless. In many ways, he is a Tevye figure - tragically left to sift through the ashes of his life. He longs for his old village, and decides to take whatever little wealth he has amassed to return and Morocco, to build the grandest house in his old village. Then his family will return, he figures, then his soul will find peace. While the first two thirds of the book is anchored in reality, the last third drifts into a sort of tragic magical realism. Mohammed roots himself to the chair in the middle of the house and awaits his children's return. They don't come home and he dies. Yet again, Tahar Ben Jelloun proves that he is amongst the greatest Arabic writers at work today. His sense of place and its relation to the core of a person's being is without parallel. This might not be This Blinding Absence of Light, but as a telling peek into the soul of the ageing immigrant it is truly remarkable.
The Topless Tower by Silvina Ocampo
Remember The Purple Rose of Cairo, that old Woody Allen film in which the hero steps out of the screen into real life and romances the chick watching in the front row? Or at least that Twisties ad that rips it off? And remember how it's a device done to death in all forms of artistic media? Well, here is yet another book with a similar bent. A boy draws pictures that come to life, rescuing him from the everyday doldrums of his Cinderella-like existence (pre-fairy godmother, that is). But before your gag reflex kicks in, stop a minute. This one is worth checking out. What sets it apart from many similar works is its artisitc authenticity, most likely the product of the environment in which its author was writing. Ocampo was the wife of Adolfo Bioy Casares, one of Argentina's great absurdist literary gods. Oh, and she was buddy buddies with the true master of the form, Jorge Luis Borges. Ocampo's short novel, while sufficiently distinctive to be more than homage, fits perfectly alongside the works of her more celebrated compatriots. Leandro has inadvertently caused his own imprisonment, by laughing at a man who might be the Devil. He is instantly transported to the Topless Tower with only an easel, paints and canvas to keep him company. Leandro quickly sets about creating a cast of strange characters to save him from this awful (for a little boy) solitude. While the book does have a certain Sendak-like air, it can equally be read as a metaphor for the process of artistic creation and it is to Ocampo's great credit that one is never sure if it was intended as a children's fable or an expression of the struggle of writing itself.
Microviews Vol. 9: David Vann, A.D. Miller
on Friday, February 18, 2011
It's been a while since I last posted and ages since I've whipped out a Microview. So killing two birds with one stone:
Caribou Island by David Vann
David Vann's 2009 collection of interlinked short stories, Legend of a Suicide, had many folks heralding the arrival of a new messiah. It was harsh, bleak and packed one heck of wallop... not unlike the works of the old literary messiah, Cormac McCarthy. Comparisons between the two were inevitable. Vann does with the frozen Alaskan plains what McCarthy has long done with the American wilderness; he uses the landscape to choke whoever is unfortunate enough to stumble upon it. Caribou Island is the chronicle of a marriage in freefall, punctuated by a brilliantly realised environment that can quite literally kill. Gary and Irene are building a log cabin on a remote island in an attempt to salvage their relationship. Unwise. Between the weather and the complete isolation, the difficulties are only magnified. Cabin fever sets in and the two unload all of their life's disappointments on each other. Back on the mainland their kids are living equally unhappy existences. Rhoda spends her time trying to please her unfaithful boyfriend in the hope that he might soon propose to her. Mark is a pathetic drifter who has given up on life altogether. Even the peripheral characters are unlikeable, beaten down by a brutally mundane reality. Life is hopeless, Vann seems to suggest, and anyone who thinks otherwise is either stupid or delusional. Caribou Island makes for a harrowing read but it lacks the oracular force of some of McCarthy's great work. Vann is certainly one to watch. The harshness of his Alaska almost explains the brain freeze that is Sarah Palin. But we need not be writing off the old messiah for now. To borrow from Monty Python, he's not dead yet!
Snowdrops by A. D. Miller
Despite the fact that he has consistently disappointed me since the sheer brilliance of his debut Ingenious Pain, Andrew Miller is one of those authors about whom I always get excited. Whenever I see he has a new book coming out I rush to my local store and put in an advance order. Then I count down the days til it arrives, drop everything when it does, and spend the next couple of days wondering why the hell I even bother. A few years ago I saw that he had a book coming out called The Earl of Petticoat Lane, a work of personal family history. Cool. Great name. Should be a little less disappointing. About half way through reading it, I realised it couldn't be the same Andrew Miller. The ages just didn't add up. I did a little digging and sure enough, it was another guy with the same name. I mustn't have been the only one, because now the second Andrew Miller has released his first novel and, to avoid confusion, has changed his moniker to A. D. Miller. Snowdrops is a slow-burning hymn to the corruption that has destroyed post-Glasnost Russia. Nick Platt, is the perfect patsy. A British lawyer living in Moscow, he get sucked in by the opulence of big Russian new money and hot Soviet sex vixens. He is also a massive dumbass. Even the most clueless reader will see that he is being played for a sucker by the girls who use him to facilitate a run of the mill property fraud long before it dawns on him. Ditto the oil field scam he gets caught up in professionally. Just like "snowdrops", the bodies of murder victims that only get discovered during the Summer thaw, these scams dawn on Platt when it's too late for him to do anything about them. There's an air of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels about this book, minus the comic brilliance of Steve Martin and Michael Caine. It seems the whole thing is leading up to a punchline but the joke is too long and when we finally get there we realise that we never really cared. Turns out both Andrew Millers can disappoint with equal gusto!
Caribou Island by David Vann
David Vann's 2009 collection of interlinked short stories, Legend of a Suicide, had many folks heralding the arrival of a new messiah. It was harsh, bleak and packed one heck of wallop... not unlike the works of the old literary messiah, Cormac McCarthy. Comparisons between the two were inevitable. Vann does with the frozen Alaskan plains what McCarthy has long done with the American wilderness; he uses the landscape to choke whoever is unfortunate enough to stumble upon it. Caribou Island is the chronicle of a marriage in freefall, punctuated by a brilliantly realised environment that can quite literally kill. Gary and Irene are building a log cabin on a remote island in an attempt to salvage their relationship. Unwise. Between the weather and the complete isolation, the difficulties are only magnified. Cabin fever sets in and the two unload all of their life's disappointments on each other. Back on the mainland their kids are living equally unhappy existences. Rhoda spends her time trying to please her unfaithful boyfriend in the hope that he might soon propose to her. Mark is a pathetic drifter who has given up on life altogether. Even the peripheral characters are unlikeable, beaten down by a brutally mundane reality. Life is hopeless, Vann seems to suggest, and anyone who thinks otherwise is either stupid or delusional. Caribou Island makes for a harrowing read but it lacks the oracular force of some of McCarthy's great work. Vann is certainly one to watch. The harshness of his Alaska almost explains the brain freeze that is Sarah Palin. But we need not be writing off the old messiah for now. To borrow from Monty Python, he's not dead yet!
Snowdrops by A. D. Miller
Despite the fact that he has consistently disappointed me since the sheer brilliance of his debut Ingenious Pain, Andrew Miller is one of those authors about whom I always get excited. Whenever I see he has a new book coming out I rush to my local store and put in an advance order. Then I count down the days til it arrives, drop everything when it does, and spend the next couple of days wondering why the hell I even bother. A few years ago I saw that he had a book coming out called The Earl of Petticoat Lane, a work of personal family history. Cool. Great name. Should be a little less disappointing. About half way through reading it, I realised it couldn't be the same Andrew Miller. The ages just didn't add up. I did a little digging and sure enough, it was another guy with the same name. I mustn't have been the only one, because now the second Andrew Miller has released his first novel and, to avoid confusion, has changed his moniker to A. D. Miller. Snowdrops is a slow-burning hymn to the corruption that has destroyed post-Glasnost Russia. Nick Platt, is the perfect patsy. A British lawyer living in Moscow, he get sucked in by the opulence of big Russian new money and hot Soviet sex vixens. He is also a massive dumbass. Even the most clueless reader will see that he is being played for a sucker by the girls who use him to facilitate a run of the mill property fraud long before it dawns on him. Ditto the oil field scam he gets caught up in professionally. Just like "snowdrops", the bodies of murder victims that only get discovered during the Summer thaw, these scams dawn on Platt when it's too late for him to do anything about them. There's an air of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels about this book, minus the comic brilliance of Steve Martin and Michael Caine. It seems the whole thing is leading up to a punchline but the joke is too long and when we finally get there we realise that we never really cared. Turns out both Andrew Millers can disappoint with equal gusto!
The Messenger by Yannick Haenel: A Case of Reflected Glory
on Monday, February 7, 2011
A couple of months ago, I was at a function for some Polish/Jewish reconciliation getup when a clearly frustrated Arnold Zable, grappling to find common ground with the misguided Polish apologist he was interviewing, mentioned a new book about the Polish resistance movement's greatest wartime hero, Jan Karski. The book, Zable suggested, was a daring attempt to refocus the lens on this forgotten giant of moral courage through a peculiar combination of non-fiction and fiction. It had already received several accolades in the French-speaking world and was about to be released here in Australia. Naturally, I was keen to get my hands on it, though I thought it would cause only a minor blip on the local publishing radar. How wrong I was. The Messenger, by Yannick Haenel, has been getting all sort of loving in the Australian press. Critics and other book-types alike have been falling over themselves, rushing to sing its praises. Indeed, you could easily be forgiven for thinking it should be held up there with Primo Levi's If This Is A Man and Elie Weisel's Night as one of the greats of Holocaust literature. Take a chill pill, folks. It isn't.
The Messenger is split into three sections. The first is a description and, to a lesser extent, examination of Karski's appearance in Claude Lanzmann's classic Holocaust epic, Shoah. It is an adequate, even moving, description but ultimately adds nothing to one's understanding of Karski himself. I've watched Shoah. All nine-odd hours of it. My grandfather sat me down as a kid and made me. I wasn't allowed to fast forward a single frame. The experience was truly harrowing, even more so for having shared it with a survivor. For those who haven't seen the movie, take my word for it. Shoah is unparalleled as an artistic response to the 20th Century's greatest crime. In it, Karski is an intersting, tragic figure, clearly haunted by his failure to succeed in convincing the allies to stop the killing machine. And herein lies one of the biggest problems with Haenel's book. Watching one minute of the interview with Karski will teach you more than reading the entire first part of The Messenger.
Part Two, rather oddly, is a summary of Karski's own book, Courier From Poland: The Story of A Secret State, in which he describes his terrifying experience in the Polish resistance movement - the beatings, the last-minute escapes, the secret sorties into the Warsaw Ghetto and a concentration camp so that he could bear witness and tell the Allies firsthand what he had seen. And, of course, his failure to achieve anything tangible. There is a degree of repetition, but it is through a new lens, Karski's own. Again, as a summary Part Two adequately fulfils its role, but the reader would be far better off tracking down the original.
Part Three is the most daring and, in my opinion, least successful. Haenel tries to enter Karski's mind and reflect, in first person, on his failed mission to Britain and America. Again, there is rehashing, the same images appear. "Karski" editorialises, commenting on the historical moments about which we have twice already been told. It is a passable attempt at ventriloquism, but having watched the man himself in Shoah, I just wasn't convinced that Haenel's Karski rang true. Perhaps it was my scepticism running on overdrive, but the narrative had a menial, workmanlike flow that never truly engaged me on a moral level.
I think those who have professed their love for this book might have been caught up in the very deserving glory of its subject. Jan Karski was an amazing man. His mission, though a failure, was noble and daring. His moral courage, his willingness to risk his own life to save a people to which he did not belong simply because it was the right thing to do will never receive enough praise. But just because he was great, it doesn't follow that any artistic response to, or interpretation of, him will be just as great. The Messenger is a decent book, but when all is said and done, Karski deserves much better.
The Messenger is split into three sections. The first is a description and, to a lesser extent, examination of Karski's appearance in Claude Lanzmann's classic Holocaust epic, Shoah. It is an adequate, even moving, description but ultimately adds nothing to one's understanding of Karski himself. I've watched Shoah. All nine-odd hours of it. My grandfather sat me down as a kid and made me. I wasn't allowed to fast forward a single frame. The experience was truly harrowing, even more so for having shared it with a survivor. For those who haven't seen the movie, take my word for it. Shoah is unparalleled as an artistic response to the 20th Century's greatest crime. In it, Karski is an intersting, tragic figure, clearly haunted by his failure to succeed in convincing the allies to stop the killing machine. And herein lies one of the biggest problems with Haenel's book. Watching one minute of the interview with Karski will teach you more than reading the entire first part of The Messenger.
Part Two, rather oddly, is a summary of Karski's own book, Courier From Poland: The Story of A Secret State, in which he describes his terrifying experience in the Polish resistance movement - the beatings, the last-minute escapes, the secret sorties into the Warsaw Ghetto and a concentration camp so that he could bear witness and tell the Allies firsthand what he had seen. And, of course, his failure to achieve anything tangible. There is a degree of repetition, but it is through a new lens, Karski's own. Again, as a summary Part Two adequately fulfils its role, but the reader would be far better off tracking down the original.
Part Three is the most daring and, in my opinion, least successful. Haenel tries to enter Karski's mind and reflect, in first person, on his failed mission to Britain and America. Again, there is rehashing, the same images appear. "Karski" editorialises, commenting on the historical moments about which we have twice already been told. It is a passable attempt at ventriloquism, but having watched the man himself in Shoah, I just wasn't convinced that Haenel's Karski rang true. Perhaps it was my scepticism running on overdrive, but the narrative had a menial, workmanlike flow that never truly engaged me on a moral level.
I think those who have professed their love for this book might have been caught up in the very deserving glory of its subject. Jan Karski was an amazing man. His mission, though a failure, was noble and daring. His moral courage, his willingness to risk his own life to save a people to which he did not belong simply because it was the right thing to do will never receive enough praise. But just because he was great, it doesn't follow that any artistic response to, or interpretation of, him will be just as great. The Messenger is a decent book, but when all is said and done, Karski deserves much better.
The Literary Bungy: Tolstoy in One Week
on Monday, January 31, 2011
Call me what you will; a sucker for punishment, an hopeless addict, a complete bore - but having just knocked over Anna Karenina in less than five days I suddenly have it in my head that I should attempt to dash through War and Peace in a week. It's not that I loved the tortuous melodrama of Tolstoy's 'greatest love story ever told'. It was okay. There was the odd moment of greatness. And there were only a few times that I felt a strong urge to slap that bunch of "worried-well" aristocratic prats and champagne socialists with a cold trout. But hey, to paraphrase Samuel L. Jackson, it's Anna F*$#n Karenina! They're allowed to be soap opera archetypes.
To be honest though, I kind of failed to see what all the fuss is about. If Tolstoy was writing today he'd be storyline director in the scripting department of whatever conglomerate of monkeys pens Days Of Our Lives. And no wonder he went totally nuts. Imagine having to read over drafts of this treacle for months or years on end. Ploughing through it once has a tangible effect on one's sanity. Multiple attempts is sure to melt grey cells en masse. This isn't a rant against the Russian greats. I get the Dostoevsky obsession - his moral clarity and narrative verve is unquestionable and his books, for the most part, are damn great to read. But Tolstoy? Well, he's just... kind of alright.
And yet, dear friends, my slightly-addled brain seems intent on doing the War and Peace thang in the near future. For a while I couldn't work out why. Maybe it's like getting a tattoo. Sure, it hurts like all buggery while it's being done but pretty soon the adrenaline rush kicks in, you look down at your latest ink and against all better judgement you want more. Or perhaps, it is the thrill of the challenge. Yes, reading the mega-epic classics is the extreme sports of the literary world. War and Peace is like bungy jumping off Niagara Falls. Giving yourself one week in which to do it is like taking the plunge without measuring the chord or correcting for weight. Now we all know what an absolute coward I am when it comes to risking my bodily welfare so I ain't ever strapping a rubber band to my ankles. But my brain, heck yes I'm willing to risk that. Who needs sanity anyway? I have a few books I really want to read first but I think sometime in February or maybe March I'm finally going to do it. What is a week spent reading the greatest, longest, potentially most boring book of all time when doing so will earn me both accolades and an express ticket to the loony bin? It worked for Leo and it is darn well gonna work for me!
To be honest though, I kind of failed to see what all the fuss is about. If Tolstoy was writing today he'd be storyline director in the scripting department of whatever conglomerate of monkeys pens Days Of Our Lives. And no wonder he went totally nuts. Imagine having to read over drafts of this treacle for months or years on end. Ploughing through it once has a tangible effect on one's sanity. Multiple attempts is sure to melt grey cells en masse. This isn't a rant against the Russian greats. I get the Dostoevsky obsession - his moral clarity and narrative verve is unquestionable and his books, for the most part, are damn great to read. But Tolstoy? Well, he's just... kind of alright.
And yet, dear friends, my slightly-addled brain seems intent on doing the War and Peace thang in the near future. For a while I couldn't work out why. Maybe it's like getting a tattoo. Sure, it hurts like all buggery while it's being done but pretty soon the adrenaline rush kicks in, you look down at your latest ink and against all better judgement you want more. Or perhaps, it is the thrill of the challenge. Yes, reading the mega-epic classics is the extreme sports of the literary world. War and Peace is like bungy jumping off Niagara Falls. Giving yourself one week in which to do it is like taking the plunge without measuring the chord or correcting for weight. Now we all know what an absolute coward I am when it comes to risking my bodily welfare so I ain't ever strapping a rubber band to my ankles. But my brain, heck yes I'm willing to risk that. Who needs sanity anyway? I have a few books I really want to read first but I think sometime in February or maybe March I'm finally going to do it. What is a week spent reading the greatest, longest, potentially most boring book of all time when doing so will earn me both accolades and an express ticket to the loony bin? It worked for Leo and it is darn well gonna work for me!
Hype Hype (But No Hooray)
on Friday, January 28, 2011
Be careful what you wish for. Two entries after starting this blog I bemoaned not having read Jonathan Lethem's Chronic City. I crowned it the "Book I'm Sure Would Have Made the List Had I Gotten Around to Reading It". Critics had been raving. Fellow bookworms had been raving. Jonathan Lethem was raving. Yeah yeah. Turns out they were all wrong. I read it in January and was decidedly indifferent towards it. Sure, it was alright, but what was all the fuss about? Reading Chronic City, I said, was like watching fireworks. Particularly, the fireworks during the handover of Hong Kong to China back in 1997. On that night I sat in a restaurant atop one of the city's great skyscrapers and prepared for the visual feast of a lifetime. It was spectacular for about five minutes, but then the massive cloud of smoke blanketed the city and all we saw were faint flashes, like lightning hidden in stormclouds. Big, expensive whoop-de-doo!
I should have learnt my lesson the first time. When it came to compiling my 2010 lists, I gave the big "I-didn't-read-it-but-woulda-loved-it-I'm-sure" rave to Paolo Bacigalupi's The Wind-Up Girl. Folk around booktown were talking as if Philip K. Dick himself had been resurrected, had furious sex with William Gibson and (this is sci-fi ladies and gentlefriends) produced a new Bible. You see, in the future men can give birth to inanimate objects. But I digress. Set in a futuristic Thailand, the only country to have survived some great cataclysmic meltdown and come out the better for it, The Wind-Up Girl tells the tale of some bloke who peddles genetically modified crap and his liaison with, and perhaps love for, a cyborg-like service robot chick. It's super hot. Until she starts killing people. Now, I realise I'm making this sound awfully exciting but be warned. it is not. In fact, it is shit boring. Sure, the world is brilliantly realised but newsflash sci-fi writers: It is not enough to create a great, believable world if you don't do anything interesting in it. You don't get to pat yourself on the back and rest on your laurels. That is the equivalent of jerking off into a cup, raising a toast to yourself and then drinking it. You ain't producing anything of worth and, if I might hazard a guess, it leaves a pretty average aftertaste!
With that ordeal behind me, I'm taking one final ride on the hype-train. I've set myself the task of reading Anna Karenina, one of the most-hyped books of all time, in five days. If it too leaves me as indifferent as those other two mega-hyped piles of blah then like Anna I shall throw myself in front of its tracks. Run me over indeed, but at least put me out of my misery!
I should have learnt my lesson the first time. When it came to compiling my 2010 lists, I gave the big "I-didn't-read-it-but-woulda-loved-it-I'm-sure" rave to Paolo Bacigalupi's The Wind-Up Girl. Folk around booktown were talking as if Philip K. Dick himself had been resurrected, had furious sex with William Gibson and (this is sci-fi ladies and gentlefriends) produced a new Bible. You see, in the future men can give birth to inanimate objects. But I digress. Set in a futuristic Thailand, the only country to have survived some great cataclysmic meltdown and come out the better for it, The Wind-Up Girl tells the tale of some bloke who peddles genetically modified crap and his liaison with, and perhaps love for, a cyborg-like service robot chick. It's super hot. Until she starts killing people. Now, I realise I'm making this sound awfully exciting but be warned. it is not. In fact, it is shit boring. Sure, the world is brilliantly realised but newsflash sci-fi writers: It is not enough to create a great, believable world if you don't do anything interesting in it. You don't get to pat yourself on the back and rest on your laurels. That is the equivalent of jerking off into a cup, raising a toast to yourself and then drinking it. You ain't producing anything of worth and, if I might hazard a guess, it leaves a pretty average aftertaste!
With that ordeal behind me, I'm taking one final ride on the hype-train. I've set myself the task of reading Anna Karenina, one of the most-hyped books of all time, in five days. If it too leaves me as indifferent as those other two mega-hyped piles of blah then like Anna I shall throw myself in front of its tracks. Run me over indeed, but at least put me out of my misery!
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