I'm actually not going to post a full review here, since mine is forthcoming in the new expat magazine, ,The Madrid Review. Suffice to say that this iI'm actually not going to post a full review here, since mine is forthcoming in the new expat magazine, ,The Madrid Review. Suffice to say that this is a fun read about being young, in love, and very drunk in Spain....more
Here is another book which I cannot be expected to review objectively, as I was at the book release. It took place in the Casa León, a surprisingly orHere is another book which I cannot be expected to review objectively, as I was at the book release. It took place in the Casa León, a surprisingly ornate exhibition space in the center of Madrid; and considering that red wine and cecina (a kind of jamón made from beef) was served, it is safe to say that I enjoyed myself.
After an interview and a reading, the majority of the questions from the audience seemed to focus on one thing: How had the two authors gone about writing a novel collaboratively? How had they coordinated? I was wondering this myself. Once, at another book release (this one a book of musicology), I had the opportunity to ask this question to a pair of authors, who explained that one person primarily did the research, while the other put it into words. But that approach did not seem feasible for a work of fiction.
However, the structure of the book makes this collaboration more intelligible. The chapters in the book are unified only by a kind of skeletal frame-story, of an Irishman who decided to write a book about the people after whom the craters of the moon are named. These include astronomers such as Murakami (Harutaro, not Haruki), Agnes Mary Clerke, and Johannes de Sacrobosco, but also other cultural figures such as Dante, Jules Verne, and Amelia Earhart. Each chapter of the book follows one of these figures, giving us some idea of his or her life, and how their name got affixed to an impact site on the lunar surface.
One can see how two authors might make short work of this task. Simply divvy up the historical characters, and voilà, the book is done. However, this doesn’t explain how they achieved such a uniform style. For I couldn’t tell which chapters belonged to whom, so similar in voice and tone did they appear to me. I suppose it did help that María translated Enda’s chapters from English to Spanish, thus giving at least a patina of uniformity to the language. Even so, it appears that the two co-authors have remarkably similar sensibilities. It’s no wonder they’ve been working together for years.
There are many things to enjoy about the book. Personally, I like any book about an anglophone trying to make their way in Madrid, and this was no exception. The post-modern angle—a book written about a guy writing a book rather than completing his doctoral thesis—added some lightness to the story, while the many historical references gave it an intellectual weight. I particularly appreciated that they chose mostly lesser-known historical figures to focus on, as it gave me an opportunity to learn something new.
My main criticism would be that the frame story involving the Irish writer wasn’t strong or dynamic enough to tie the individual chapters together into a single arc. Rather, each chapter felt self-contained, which perhaps they originally were. The final result is a book that reminded me, somewhat incongruously, of Irene Vallejo’s El infinito en un junco—a celebration of books in their many forms. Clearly, María and Enda are devoted to the world of literature, and this book is a testament to that.
Merged review:
Here is another book which I cannot be expected to review objectively, as I was at the book release. It took place in the Casa León, a surprisingly ornate exhibition space in the center of Madrid; and considering that red wine and cecina (a kind of jamón made from beef) was served, it is safe to say that I enjoyed myself.
After an interview and a reading, the majority of the questions from the audience seemed to focus on one thing: How had the two authors gone about writing a novel collaboratively? How had they coordinated? I was wondering this myself. Once, at another book release (this one a book of musicology), I had the opportunity to ask this question to a pair of authors, who explained that one person primarily did the research, while the other put it into words. But that approach did not seem feasible for a work of fiction.
However, the structure of the book makes this collaboration more intelligible. The chapters in the book are unified only by a kind of skeletal frame-story, of an Irishman who decided to write a book about the people after whom the craters of the moon are named. These include astronomers such as Murakami (Harutaro, not Haruki), Agnes Mary Clerke, and Johannes de Sacrobosco, but also other cultural figures such as Dante, Jules Verne, and Amelia Earhart. Each chapter of the book follows one of these figures, giving us some idea of his or her life, and how their name got affixed to an impact site on the lunar surface.
One can see how two authors might make short work of this task. Simply divvy up the historical characters, and voilà, the book is done. However, this doesn’t explain how they achieved such a uniform style. For I couldn’t tell which chapters belonged to whom, so similar in voice and tone did they appear to me. I suppose it did help that María translated Enda’s chapters from English to Spanish, thus giving at least a patina of uniformity to the language. Even so, it appears that the two co-authors have remarkably similar sensibilities. It’s no wonder they’ve been working together for years.
There are many things to enjoy about the book. Personally, I like any book about an anglophone trying to make their way in Madrid, and this was no exception. The post-modern angle—a book written about a guy writing a book rather than completing his doctoral thesis—added some lightness to the story, while the many historical references gave it an intellectual weight. I particularly appreciated that they chose mostly lesser-known historical figures to focus on, as it gave me an opportunity to learn something new.
My main criticism would be that the frame story involving the Irish writer wasn’t strong or dynamic enough to tie the individual chapters together into a single arc. Rather, each chapter felt self-contained, which perhaps they originally were. The final result is a book that reminded me, somewhat incongruously, of Irene Vallejo’s El infinito en un junco—a celebration of books in their many forms. Clearly, María and Enda are devoted to the world of literature, and this book is a testament to that....more
What struck me, upon reading the second book of Jeeves stories, was how very unusual Wodehouse’s formula for a comedic duo is. From Don Quixote and SaWhat struck me, upon reading the second book of Jeeves stories, was how very unusual Wodehouse’s formula for a comedic duo is. From Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to Laurel and Hardy, comedic duos often include two archetypal characters: the Problem Machine and the Exasperated One. The roles are self-explanatory: the Problem Machine gets them into trouble, and the Exasperated One suffers hilariously.
However, Wodehouse’s formula has a twist. In Bertie we do indeed have an Exasperated One—and one of the funniest ever created—but in Jeeves we encounter, not a Problem Machine, but a Solution Machine. Thus, the comedic duo, in their respective roles, resemble Sherlock Holmes (clever and unflappable) and Watson (clueless and worried) more than the Knight of the Mournful Countenance and his trusty squire.
This formula works quite well for mystery stories but it comes across a difficulty in comedy. For in comedy the characters must find themselves in some sort of a jam, and Bertie is not the type to get mixed up in any funny business. Indeed, from a writerly standpoint, he presents challenges—a person with no close family, no need of money, no strong desire for love, no overwhelming vices—in that he has no reason to be exasperated.
Thus, in this volume Wodehouse introduced a third character, a genuine Problem Machine, in the form of Bingo Little—whose romantic inclinations get them mixed up into all the necessary and appropriate misadventures. It is an admirable solution.
I won’t dwell on the pleasures of the stories, which I think are familiar to anyone who reads them. Yet, I would like to recommend this book—or any in the series—to aspiring writers of fiction. Wodehouse may not have reached the highest realms of literary excellence; but he was a consummate professional and I think his work—much like Agatha Christie’s—is an education in the craft of storytelling....more
The story of how I came to read this book is, I think, necessary to relate before I launch into the review. It began with an invitation to a birthday The story of how I came to read this book is, I think, necessary to relate before I launch into the review. It began with an invitation to a birthday party. There, amid strangers, I met a thoroughly charming Irishman named Enda, another expat (he hates the word, but it seems to fit) with a literary bent. Last year, Enda—along with his writing and business partner, María—commenced on the bold experiment of opening their own publishing company, Ybernia. This book is among the first published by this new enterprise, and I was given a free copy.
For this reason, this review can hardly be unbiased. However, there are other reasons to be suspicious of my opinion. Despite never having met Miller, I could tell quite soon that we have many experiences, tastes, and opinions in common. I am not talking about anything so lofty as a spiritual connection. Simply put, we are both guiris (another word that seems to fit) who enjoy sunny Spanish landscapes and greasy Spanish jamón. And we are both writers.
Beyond this, as another expat author, I have considered the same sorts of writerly challenges that Miller confronts in this book—namely, how to weave together stories of one’s native country with experiences abroad. I remember a review by Orwell of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer (about his depraved time in Paris), where Orwell remarked that life abroad can convey a certain superficiality to one’s experiences—and thus one’s writings—since one is normally single and unattached, both in terms of family and of culture. Orwell himself was quite familiar with this issue, as he wrote about his time in Paris (as a plongeur in a hotel) and in Spain (fighting in the Civil War).
Now, this may seem like a trivial issue to you; but in my experience, even after years abroad, one’s imagination—the images which resonate most deeply—remains tied to where one grew up. Aside from that, in a foreign land, one is inclined to focus on the most salient cultural differences—the cuisine, the weather, the history, the great monuments—which, depending on one’s taste, can be attractive or repellent, but little more. In one’s native land, however, these features move far into the background, allowing one to write about potentially “deeper” subjects.
This, at least, is how I think of the problem confronting an expat author. And unless I am mistaken, Miller (that is, Dermot C. Miller) has confronted this same challenge here in this book. And his solution is interesting.
He settles on a bipartite design. The frame story is a trek on the Camino de Santiago, undertaken by an Irishman haunted by his past. This tragic backstory is then recounted in a series of flashbacks, which take the reader from his childhood to the events that traumatize our hero (who shares Miller’s first name and middle name). Most of this backstory takes place in Miller’s Northern Ireland, and serves to explain how he ended up here on the Iberian Peninsula. He thus hits upon a natural way of uniting his native land and his adopted home.
Both stories, taken separately, are quite well done. The backstory ultimately becomes a kind of thriller, as the protagonist eventually gets mixed up in the IRA. Meanwhile, the frame story is a travelog, in which the protagonist revels in the landscapes, folklore, and history of the Camino de Santiago. The contrast in emotional registers between these two parts gives the book its impetus—as either one, without relief, might have grown wearisome. Nevertheless, the juxtaposition is sometimes jarring, as the reader is thrown from tragedy to tourist brochure rather abruptly. I should say, however, that I did find it believable that a bookish type would use travel as a kind of nerdy therapy. It’s certainly been done before.
In terms of prose style, I actually found myself identifying with Miller—both with his strengths and his shortcomings. To his credit, he achieves the most important quality of prose—namely, readability. I made my way through these pages quite quickly, never put off by any thorny or offensively ugly sentences. If he is guilty of any writerly sins, it is (for lack of a better word) prettifying. That is to say, for my taste, Miller gives a literary polish to some parts which would have been better left simple and raw. Yet, as I am absolutely guilty of doing this myself, it would be hypocritical of me to knock him about for it. I can only say, in his (and my) defense, that if you are a relatively unknown author, it is difficult to resist the temptation to prove that you have serious literary chops.
This overlong and self-important review has been written merely to say that Miller has authored a greatly enjoyable novel. It can be read with profit by readers with an interest in the Troubles or the Way of Saint James (how much overlap is there in the two groups?), or by any reader interested in Irish or Spanish history more generally. Indeed, I would recommend this book to any expats (sorry, Enda) and guiris who want to think of ways their past and present homelands can be woven together....more
I enjoyed this novel so much that I read it twice—first in English, and then in German. This is not, however, because the novel is such a literary masI enjoyed this novel so much that I read it twice—first in English, and then in German. This is not, however, because the novel is such a literary masterpiece—Herzog is a good writer, but not exactly Goethe—but because it is a nearly perfect distillation of Herzog’s work.
Onoda is the quintessential Herzogian figure: a lonely warrior, trying to survive in the jungle. From Aguirre to Fitzcarraldo, from Dieter Dengler to Juliane Koepcke—not to mention Herzog himself—this situation seems to keep beckoning the director to revisit it. Indeed, I would argue that it sums up Herzog’s views of humanity and the cosmos. Anyone who has seen Herzog’s strange rant about the jungle in Burden of Dreams (the making of Fitzcarraldo) knows that, rather than a place of beauty and wonder, Herzog sees the rainforest as a place of horror and misery—in his words, “overwhelming and collective murder.” Herzog seems to value it because, for him, this is reality, unfiltered and raw—the pure pitiless cruelty of the cosmos.
Onoda is also typically Herzogian because he is, well, quixotic. Like so many of Herzog’s characters, he is simultaneously heroic and pathetic. Considering the odds against him—not only enemy troops and police ambushes, but the basic struggle of staying alive and maintaining a weapon in the wilderness—it is difficult not to admire Onoda’s iron will and unconquerable tenacity. At the same time, he is so remarkably stubborn and misguided—and his mission so absolutely pointless—that one cannot help feeling, at the end of it, that he has willfully misspent his life. Indeed, this existential situation seems to be at the core of Herzog’s work. If the universe is overwhelmingly indifferent and our lives ultimately doomed to disappear into nothingness, then are we so different from Onoda waging his lonely war?
Some of my favorite parts of the book consisted of Onoda’s personal theories about the changing world around him. For example, he sees a jet plane and theorizes that it must be a new form of propulsion. At night, he sees a light traveling across the sky periodically, and figures that it must be a new technology in space. Onoda also theorizes about the progress of the war. The war planes and battleships that pass by Lubang help to confirm his conviction that the war is continuing, when in reality they represent the United States’ following wars in Korea and Vietnam. The messages sent to him by the Filipino authorities, informing him of the war’s end, are discounted as fakes. Even a recording of his own brother is interpreted as a ruse. It is a remarkable demonstration of how a highly intelligent person can nevertheless be blind to the most important truths.
The last Herzogian quality I will mention is his tendency to use images to probe metaphysical quandaries. His excellent documentary on the Lascaux caves, for example, ends with the striking image of an albino crocodile, in a nuclear-heated pool near the caves. The crocodile might prompt us to think about how the climate, or technology, or our relationship with animals has changed… but Herzog’s narration verges into the truly incomprehensible at this juncture, and he ends with this head-scratcher: “Are we today the crocodiles who look back into the abyss of time when we see the paintings of Chauvet cave?”
This novel ends with an even more confusing series of images, of which I will quote only a small sample:
Among the terrors of the night was a horse with glowing eyes, smoking cigars. A saint left a deep imprint on the rock on which he slept. Elephants at night dream standing up. Fever dreams trundle the rock of night up the angry boiling mountains. The jungle bends and stretches like caterpillars walking, uphill and down. The heron when cornered will attack the eyes of its pursuers. A crocodile ate a countess. The dead, when turned away from the sun, can be buried standing up. Three men on a horse, the saddle remains empty…
I really have no idea what any of this means. It might be very deep, or it might be absolute nonsense. Nevertheless, I enjoy Herzog even at his weirdest....more
Amazingly, this is the sixth of these books that I’ve managed to finish in German. It corresponds to the second half of A Storm of Swords in English. Amazingly, this is the sixth of these books that I’ve managed to finish in German. It corresponds to the second half of A Storm of Swords in English. It really is quite a pleasant way to keep up my German reading skills—entertaining, consistent, and just challenging enough. Great literature, perhaps not; but even in German it is rather absorbing....more
I decided to pick up this book after O’Brien was featured prominently in Ken Burns’s documentary on the Vietnam War. I expected a harrowing war story,I decided to pick up this book after O’Brien was featured prominently in Ken Burns’s documentary on the Vietnam War. I expected a harrowing war story, and in part that’s what this book is. But it is far more than that. O’Brien, I discovered, is quite a writerly writer—by which I mean he is interested in the formal structure of writing, in writing itself and not just what writing communicates.
Specifically, O’Brien does everything he can to blur the line between fact and fiction. He includes himself as a character, and continually comments on his own writing process. The result is a book that is not so much about war as about how stories are used to try to make sense of something fundamentally absurd and horrible. Ironically, however, by making public his attempt to put Vietnam into a narrative, he effectively gets at the truth by falling short of it. It is a kind of Sisyphean task, where a story must be repeated and altered over and over again—each version deficient, even contradictory, and yet getting ever-closer to the truth.
Yet as impressive and often as moving as these stories were, I was very glad that my edition included a non-fiction piece by O’Brien about a trip he took to Vietnam after the war. For, like so many Hollywood Vietnam movies, these stories examine solely the trauma of the American soldiers. It is only really in this final piece that O’Brien grips with the tragedy of the Vietnamese people, which is in another category entirely.
In the Burns documentary, for example, they interview a Vietnamese woman who herself fought for the North. But she was encouraged to quit fighting and have children, which she did. Less than twenty years later, both of her sons died fighting in the same war. Such an endless, all-consuming conflict—destroying towns, landscapes, and generations—is something that falls completely outside the experience of most Americans, even soldiers.
Reading this, I was often reminded of All Quiet on the Western Front—another book about the trauma of fighting in a war that one feels is pointless. It is dismaying, to say the least, to see the same experiences and sentiments echoed after half a century, and downright depressing to think that, after another half century, soldiers and civilians are still dying for petty political reasons. I suppose all we can do is what O’Brien does: repeat the stories until they finally sink in....more
Despite being—I flatter myself, perhaps—a relatively seasoned reader by this point, this is only my second Agatha Christie novel and my first featurinDespite being—I flatter myself, perhaps—a relatively seasoned reader by this point, this is only my second Agatha Christie novel and my first featuring the iconic detective Hercule Poirot. Yet it is easy for me to understand why both the writer and her creation have become such fixtures, as the book was a pleasure to read. Indeed, I read the whole thing in one plane ride on my way home from the holidays.
Even if you have little taste for murder mysteries, any writer—or any reader, for that matter—must respect, I think, the great care and skill with which Christie wrote this story. From the setup to the clues to the interrogations—her pacing, her attention to detail, her ability to sketch memorable characters without taxing the reader’s memory unduly—all of this, I submit, is a virtuosic literary performance.
If I have any criticism, it is that I think a murder mystery should, in principle, be solvable by the astute reader. But at several points in the story Poirot makes guesses that rely on information unavailable to the reader and, in any case, stretch credulity with their accuracy. However, it is churlish to complain about one of the great classics of the genre....more
This is the second Murakami novel I have read, and again I have a rather muddled impression. Somehow, I quite enjoyed the actual reading of the book; This is the second Murakami novel I have read, and again I have a rather muddled impression. Somehow, I quite enjoyed the actual reading of the book; yet when I put it down, I was unsure whether it was genuinely interesting or merely entertaining.
For one, a lot of potentially heavy themes pervade the story—the power of music, the significance of dreams, the existence of destiny, the nature of identity—and yet, for me, the themes did not really resolve or conclude, but sort of drifted like an aimless melody in the background. The plot itself has this same quality: though there is a definite narrative arc, so many questions are left unanswered that it just seems to float off into the upper atmosphere. As in a dream, there is often a sensation that something terribly meaningful is lying in wait, below conscious understanding but barely perceivable—but is this nagging sensation trustworthy, or merely a kind of trick of Murakami’s writing?
By the conventional standards of a novelist, Murakami is certainly open to criticism. For example, his characters often talk in a highly unnatural way, indulging in long philosophical speculation, emotional confessions, or intently analyzing events of the plot. Yet the characters of Dickens or Dostoyevsky—or Kafka himself for that matter—do not speak anything like living people, and that has not hurt their authors’ reputations. Another potential fault is Murakami’s habit of including lots of extremely banal details into his writing. At one point, for example, the protagonist describes everything he finds inside a refrigerator. Yet I do think the contrast between these mundane facts and the often bizarre events of the plot create a certain aesthetic effect that is one of Murakami’s trademarks.
Perhaps I ought to give the author credit, since I found myself enjoying apparently pointless things without being able to explain why. One of my favorite chapters in the book, for example, consists of a character going to a coffee shop and listening to a Beethoven trio. The prose is nothing special (indeed, Murakami’s style is very plain), nothing much happens, and nothing profound is said. Despite this, I felt a real, solid sense of what it would be like to be sipping good coffee and listening to some exquisite classical music. This in itself is such a pleasant sensation to imagine that it hardly even matters what it has to do with the plot.
There were times, however, that Murakami’s ability to transport the reader worked to his detriment. The many sex scenes in the book, for example, are almost all disturbing—being not only ethically questionable, but simply illegal in most countries I’m familiar with.
I suppose I must end this review with a shrug of my shoulders. All I can really say for certain is that I found Kafka on the Shore to be highly readable and enjoyable. What it means, or whether it means anything at all; what Murakami hoped to convey, or whether he hoped to convey anything concrete; whether it is too complicated or too simple-minded to analyze—I cannot quite figure it out, and so, like the book itself, I will let my review end on an unresolved note....more
It is a cliché to say it, but this book found me. I was in the Madrid airport, on my way back to New York for the Christmas holidays. As I sat down onIt is a cliché to say it, but this book found me. I was in the Madrid airport, on my way back to New York for the Christmas holidays. As I sat down on a bench to enjoy (well, to tolerate) an overpriced cup of coffee I got from a machine, I noticed that a little paperback book was laying, face down, beside me. There was nobody nearby who it would obviously belong to, so I curiously flipped it over—delighted to discover a book I had been meaning to read. Should I take it? That seemed wrong. Then again, it also seemed wrong to leave the book and let it get thrown away, when I could give it a loving home. So I compromised: sitting beside the lonely paperback for twenty minutes to see if anybody came back for it. Nobody did, and I took it. (So maybe it did not find me and I just stole it.)
After being selected by Fate to receive the book, I was disappointed to find that I didn’t quite like the first few pages. The prose seemed both to try too hard and to accomplish too little. (There is nothing worse than prose written by a failed poet.) But the style grew on me considerably when I realized that the author (whom I will be referring to as A. Roy, since otherwise I feel like I’m writing about myself) had chosen this style, not merely to show off her literary chops, but as a device of characterization, in service of the plot. I had a similar reaction to the shifts in time. At first the book struck me as abrupt and disorganized. It was only after a few chapters that I realized A. Roy was in perfect control of her material. By the halfway point, I was prepared to admit that Fate may have had a point.
What emerged was a powerful, intelligent, and observant book. And, honestly, I am not sure how much more I can say without spoiling the plot, other than that The God of Small Things ticks off all of the boxes of a good novel—a memorable story, well told, with social relevance. If the novel falls short in any category, I would say that it is characterization. None of the characters, in my opinion, break free of the narrative voice to live on their own. (This is the danger of a strong narrative voice.) Further, I think A. Roy may have fallen into the modern trap of substituting trauma for character development. Just because somebody is Profoundly Messed Up does not make them interesting.
(view spoiler)[As far as the plot goes, I did think one crucial element was conspicuously weak: the attraction between Velutha and Ammu. They basically fall in love—or lust—at first sight, without even exchanging a word. And considering that this scandalous affair is what sets off the explosive chain of events at the book's conclusion, it felt cheap that there was not a stronger setup or explanation to the daliance. After all, lust alone (and what else could it have been, without conversation) is hardly a reason that propels people to risk their reputations, children, and lives. Or am I just naïve?
Oh, and I also thought that the incest scene felt as if it were included merely for the shock value. (hide spoiler)]
In any case, it is now time for the novel to find somebody else. To pay my respects to Fate, I will leave it in some public place. One must appease all the gods, even those of small things. (Also, if by some miracle you are person who forgot the book in the airport, contact me and I’ll send you a replacement. Sorry!)...more
This is an intriguing little novel. It concerns Adam Gordon, an American living in Spain (difficult for me to relate to), who is supposed to be writinThis is an intriguing little novel. It concerns Adam Gordon, an American living in Spain (difficult for me to relate to), who is supposed to be writing a long poem about the Spanish Civil War, but who is instead busy abusing substances and pursuing Spanish women.
On one level, the book seems to be a character study of a man who, if not quite sociopathic, seems to aspire to be. Though he has pangs of conscience and moments of vulnerability, for the most part he is so concerned with making other people believe certain things about himself that he cannot spare a moment to really care about them as people. He seems to be suffering from a kind of existentialist disorder, thinking that everybody is a phony, including himself, but that he is perhaps superior for knowing that he is acting in bad faith. He is incapable of believing that somebody simply means what they say. Every tone of voice, facial twitch, or gesture becomes a sign to analyze for the deeper meaning. This paradox of both caring deeply about what people think while not caring about them as people—of being both genuine and fake, or genuinely fake—dooms the character to miserable anxiety.
On another level, the book is a meditation on language. Lerner brilliant captures the sensation of speaking, socializing, making friends, and having relationships in a foreign language—how the barrier of language can both foster and negate intimacy, both reveal and hide one’s personality. This is weaponized by the protagonist, who uses his inability to communicate fluently as a way of convincing others that his thoughts are too deep to be expressed, or as an excuse not to have to say his real opinion, or as a reason to utter sphinxlike pronouncements. (Though like most of the narrator’s attempts at manipulation, other people see right through it.)
A poet before he was a novelist, Lerner includes some more philosophical reflections on the nature of language and poetry—specifically, about how poetry ceases to be about anything external to it, but a pure experience of language itself. It occurs to be that this theory of poetry, if tweaked, is an apt psychological description of his protagonist, who cannot relate directly to anything in his surroundings, but whose mind is always lost in a maze of self-referential worrying.
Considering that Lerner was himself a poet who lived in Madrid on a Fulbright Grant, I think it is reasonable to suppose this book contains a fair amount of autobiography (though I hope he is not much like his character). One of the novel’s minor pleasures is Lerner’s ability to evoke the feeling of an American seeing Spain for the first time—the cities, the art, the food, the people—which made me feel nostalgic for my first year in the country. Even if that were not the case, however, I would say that this is an intelligent and enjoyable novel about a rather pathetic man....more
I am not sure whether Baldwin disserves the credit, or the rest of us the fault, but this novel felt remarkably contemporary. Sadly, the social ills tI am not sure whether Baldwin disserves the credit, or the rest of us the fault, but this novel felt remarkably contemporary. Sadly, the social ills that Baldwin addresses—housing discrimination, generational poverty, a racist criminal justice system—are very much with us. Even Baldwin’s direct, graphic, punchy style is very much to modern taste. Insofar as being ahead of one’s time is praiseworthy, Baldwin can be amply praised.
Yet I have to admit that this love story left me rather cold. To nitpick, Baldwin’s choice of a first-person narrator seemed unwise, since he sometimes has Tish narrating things about other people that she could not have known. Further, Baldwin’s own voice—the voice of the activist intellectual—often breaks through, giving Tish (who has no intellectual leanings) a split personality.
A more serious problem, for me, was the over-the-top dialogue. Virtually everyone in this novel speaks like they are in a soap opera, giving dramatic, heart-felt speeches at every moment. For a few special scenes this would have been fine, of course; but maintained for the entire book, it became grating and unconvincing. Here is a typical example (a conversation between Tish and her father):
“Do you want to bring this baby here, or not?”
The way he looks at me, and the way he sounds, scares me half to death.
“Yes,” I say, “I do.”
“And you love Fonny?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to quit your job.”
I watch him.
“I know you worried about the money. But you let me worry about that. I got more experience. Anyway, you ain’t making no damn money. All you doing is wearing yourself out, and driving Fonny crazy. You keep on like you going, you going to lose that baby. You lose that baby, and Fonny won’t want to live no more, and you’ll be lost and I’ll be lost, everything is lost.”
He stands up and walks to the window, his back to me. Then, he faces me again. “I’m serious, Tish.”
To me, this sounds like somebody badly acting the part of a concerned father, not the way a concerned father would actually talk.
Added to this, I thought that the novel embraced a kind of simplistic Hollywood morality, composed of characters who are either wholly good, kindhearted, warm, friendly, and willing to help any way they can, or who are absolute bastards. Indeed, perhaps this is why the novel felt so modern to me, as it often reminded me of a TV show (and a fairly mediocre one at that).
I do hate to be writing this about James Baldwin, whom I greatly admire. I guess melodramatic love stories are just not my thing....more
Set on a small Japanese island, The Sound of Waves is a love story between a young fisherman and the daughter of the richest man in town. While none oSet on a small Japanese island, The Sound of Waves is a love story between a young fisherman and the daughter of the richest man in town. While none of the characters are deeply developed, the book is nonetheless enchanting for its lush descriptions of the simple life led on this island. Mishima clearly aims to establish this as a kind of primordial Eden, untouched by the corruption of the modern, Western world, and he succeeds in painting a lovely portrait of a traditional community. In some passages, such as during the culminating boat voyage, Mishima’s prose becomes nearly intoxicating.
Where this book disappoints, in my opinion, is in the characterization—particularly in the characterization of the women. A good love story, for me, should show why the two lovers in question are attracted to one another. This requires developing their individual personalities and then showing how they change in the presence of their beloved. But Mishima’s fixation with breasts makes this nearly impossible. Shinji, our hero, notices first and foremost the breasts of Hatsue, his love interest. For her part, she demonstrates an extreme devotion to Shinji, yet it is never clear why this is so, since they hardly have a real conversation during the entire book.
Now, if you think I am exaggerating when I say that Mishima has a fixation with breasts, then I must present the following evidence. In one scene, a group of the island’s women are gathered to dive for sea snails (and are thus undressed). What does Mishima imagine these women doing? Discussing their breasts, of course:
The breasts of all the women were well tanned, and furthermore were not distinguished precisely by that mysterious quality that whiteness provides, even lacking in large part the transparency of the skin that reveals the veins. Judging solely by the skin, they appeared totally insensitive, but beneath the toasted epidermis there had been created a lustrous and semitransparent color, like that of honey.
Further down the page, this is what Mishima imagines the mother of the protagonist is thinking (a widow, in dire financial straits):
The mother of Shinji was proud of her breasts, still firm and vigorous, the most youthful of the married women her age. As if they had never known the anxiety of love or the suffering of life, her breasts were raised all summer long towards the sun, from which they obtained their inexhaustible strength.
As a comparison, here is how Mishima describes an insignificant male character in the same chapter:
He was a gaunt man, and on his chest, toasted by the sun, visible through the open collar of his shirt, one could count his ribs. He had very short hair, black streaked with grey, and his cheeks and his temples bore dark spots produced by age. His teeth were scarce and were stained by tobacco, and this lack made it difficult to understand what he said, above all when, such as now, he raised his voice.
I think there is a very clear difference.
(If these passages sound a bit awkward, you can blame me, since I am translating from the Spanish translation.)
Now, I am not ragging on Mishima for being a bad feminist, but because I think his breast-centric portrayal of the women seriously weakened the story. The book would have been a great deal more interesting if the Hatsue were not simply two boobs, filled with desire, and instead she had some reason for liking Shinji—some aspect of her personality that was fulfilled by him.
In any case, I think it is fair to say that the book is still mostly a charming read—a short and sweet love story, on a beautiful island....more
This is a really excellent book. At a very young age, Laforet was in full possession of the essential skill of a novelist: to find the poignant and thThis is a really excellent book. At a very young age, Laforet was in full possession of the essential skill of a novelist: to find the poignant and the profound in the everyday. Nothing very out of the ordinary happens in this book. The characters are people you might encounter in any city. Laforet makes no stylistic or formal innovations. And yet, this little novel is gripping from the very first page.
It is difficult to say exactly in what lays the power of Laforet’s writing. Her prose sometimes reaches a kind of icy beauty, but is often quite plainspoken. Her young narrator is by no means an extraordinary person, although one senses there are unsounded depths to her personality. Perhaps it is the exquisite pacing of the novel. Though not a plot-driven book by any means, there is a sense of unfolding mystery that turns what could have been impressionistic sketch into something that at times feels oddly like a noir film. At the same time, the book is a convincing (if dark) coming-of-age story, as the narrator is immediately—and repeatedly—confronted with the ugly side of things, without losing her hope for a better life.
Yet perhaps the books greatest accomplishment is to serve as an indelible portrait of post-war life in Spain. Without a single mention of history or politics (and thus evading the censors in the dictatorship), Laforet gets across, in no uncertain terms, the poverty, desperation, and demoralization being suffered in the country. One feels, subconsciously but viscerally, how pinched, narrow, and repressed life was for so many people at that time. That Laforet can pack so much into such a little book is a testament to her great artistry....more
One of my vices is the reading of advice columns. The problems of the correspondents are often so bizarre as to be beyond the imagination of even the One of my vices is the reading of advice columns. The problems of the correspondents are often so bizarre as to be beyond the imagination of even the most lurid novelists. My favorite agony aunt (as the British say) is Carolyn Hax, who writes for the Washington Post. And her advice very often boils down to one simple precept: mind your own business.
The Return of the Native is one long illustration of the wisdom of this maxim, as the entire tragedy of the plot could have been avoided if any of the major characters (and, indeed, even some of the minor ones) had simply minded their own business. From the aunt who cannot trust her niece—or, indeed, even her own son—to marry the right person, to the rejected suitor who spies, eavesdrops, and meddles, to the two principal characters—Eustacia and Wildeve—who express their dissatisfaction with their own marriage by tarnishing another’s, and finally to the titular “native,” whose love for his own country is tainted by his savior complex, thinking that he ought to “improve” his fellows.
Now, you may think that the injunction to attend to your own affairs is not exactly a profound subject for a novel. But considering how difficult it is, and how often we try and fail to do this, I think that it is worth close examination. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that minding one’s own business is a bedrock moral principle.
To mind your own business is, in one sense, a way of showing respect, by trusting that others will have the wisdom to manage their own lives. And even if another person evidently cannot act wisely, to refrain from interfering is still very often the best course. The freedom to screw up one’s own life in one’s own chosen manner is an inseparable part of having personal autonomy. In any case, even the kindest intervention can often backfire, as Hardy illustrates with the case of Diggory Venn, who has enough good intentions to pave several superhighways to the fiery pit, and who gets most everyone except himself there in record speed.
However, the injunction to mind your own business is also, potentially, a profoundly conservative one. And as with many Victorian novels—indeed, as with many stories generally—the message boils down to this: do not tamper with the social order. Except for Thomasin and Venn (not coincidentally, the two characters who have a happy ending), all of the major characters consider the Heath to be, in some way, beneath them. Whether their dreams are financial (Mrs. Yeobright), educational (Clym), or romantic (Wildeve and Eustacia), they want to, somehow, get beyond their social reality. And as often happens in stories, the result is a tragic end for them and a return to statis of the society.
I have got caught up in analyzing what I take to be the moral of this book, but I have not said anything about its quality. Unfortunately, I have to admit I found the novel to be quite mediocre. The story is full of cliches (unread letters, mistimed messages, the lover in disguise) and implausible coincidences. I think a good tragedy should show how the end result is an inevitable result of the protagonist’s personality. But with so much seeming bad luck involved in this story, the final impression is that the denouement was just a matter of blind chance.
But it must be admitted that this artificial plot was at least very exciting. Hardy dives right into to the scandalous drama of his story and he never lets up. There is hardly a breath to the ceaseless action, except for the interludes involving the Heath folk, who apparently Hardy conceived of as a kind of Greek chorus to his Sophoclean tragedy. Indeed, as the novel was first serialized in a magazine, I think the experience of reading it must have been remarkably close to that of watching a good soap opera.
Hardy’s characters are only partly successful. His women are more compelling than the men, who are rather stiff, shallow figures. But even the novel’s strongest character, Eustacia, is hampered by Hardy’s penchant for writing dialogue that is pretentious and stuffy, even in moments of great drama. Consider this sample, Eustacia’s reply to her husband during a pivotal scene:
Never! I’ll hold my tongue like the very death that I don’t mind meeting, even though I can clear myself of half you believe by speaking. Yes. I will! Who of any dignity would take the trouble to clear cobwebs from a wild man’s mind after such language as this? No: let him go on, and think his narrow thoughts, and run his head into the mire. I have other cares.
Aside from the strangely epistolary quality of this speech, it is also a good example of a certain psychological implausibility, as Eustacia at key moments withholds explanations which would materially benefit her to provide. That she does this is not a convincing consequence of her character, prideful though she may be, but it is required for the plot to plod onward.
The prose of the novel is not much better. Hardy often seems to be straining for a weighty, literary style that feels both unnecessary and false. He often, for example, includes references to history, literature, and mythology which only prove his own learning, adding nothing to the story. And he gives the impression of choosing words simply to show off. To be fair to Hardy, the writing does improve from the beginning towards the end, which the introduction to this volume attributes to its origin as a serialized novel. Yet even in the final part, we get a sentence like this:
All the known incidents of their love were enlarged, distorted, touched up, and modified, till the original reality bore but a slight resemblance to the counterfeit presentation by surrounding tongues.
Such an ostentatious style may, perhaps, be appropriate in a history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, but it is jarring in the context of a novel about rural folks.
In the end, I think this is only a half-successful novel—certainly entertaining, but so uneven as to be ultimately unconvincing as a work of art. But I can say that Hardy would at least have made a first-class agony aunt....more
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