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| 3.58
| 1,241
| Aug 28, 2014
| May 26, 2022
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liked it
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Winner of the Society of Authors’ Scott Moncrieff Prize for Frank Wynne’s translation Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize In the Ivoiria Winner of the Society of Authors’ Scott Moncrieff Prize for Frank Wynne’s translation Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize In the Ivoirian community in France, security is a profession so deeply rooted that it has spawned a specific terminology, one inflected with the colourful expressions from Nouchi, the popular slang of Abidjan. Standing Heavy : designates all the various professions that require the employee to remain standing in order to earn a pittance. Zagoli : specifically refers to the security guard. Zagoli Golié was a famous goalkeeper with Les Eléphants, the national team of Côte d’Ivoire. Being a security guard is like being a goalie: you stand there watching everyone else play, and, once in a while, you dive to catch the ball. Dans le milieu des Ivoiriens en France, le métier de vigile est tellement ancré qu’il a généré une terminologie spécifique et toujours teintée des expressions colorées du langage populaire abidjanais, le nouchi. debout-payé : désigne l’ensemble des métiers où il faut rester debout pour gagner sa pitance. zagoli : désigne le vigile lui-même. Zagoli Golié est le nom d’un célèbre gardien de but des Éléphants, l’équipe nationale de football de Côte d’Ivoire. Être vigile, c’est comme être gardien de but : on reste debout à regarder jouer les autres, et de temps en temps, on plonge pour attraper la baballe. Standing Heavy is Frank Wynne's translation of Debout-payé, the 2014 debut novel by GauZ', and focus on the experience of immigrants from Côte d’Ivoire working as security guards in Paris during the last 60 years or so, serving at the same time as a social satire on the upper tier of Parisian consumer culture. The novel opens with a group of African immigrants queuing up to sign on as security guards: Everyone here has a powerful motivation, although it may be very different depending on which side of the glass one finds oneself. For the dominant male in the glass cage at the far end of the open-plan office, it is maximum turnover. By any means necessary. Hiring as many people as possible is part of the means. For the Black procession in the stairwell, it is an escape from unemployment or a zero-hours contract. By any means necessary. Security guarding is one of those means. It’s relatively accessible. The training is absolutely minimal. No experience is required. Employers are all too willing to overlook official status. The morphological profile is supposedly appropriate. Morphological profile . . . Black men are heavy-set; Black men are tall; Black men are strong; Black men are deferential; Black men are scary. It is impossible not to think of this jumble of “noble savage” clichés lurking atavistically in the minds of every White man responsible for recruitment and every Black man who has come to use these clichés to his advantage. The novel then proceeds with two main narrative streams: 1) What could best be described as three connected short stories, covering the experience of a group of a connected group of such men over three periods described as: The Bronze Age (1960-1980) The Golden Age (1990-2000) The Age of Lead This last section begins with the Twin Towers which initially causes a drop in demand for undocumented immigrant labour but eventually, post the Madrid and London bombs causes a boom due to the installation of security apparatus even in office buildings. This part of the novel also makes reference to various elements of French, French colonial and immigrant history such as the 1974 French Presidential election (the first in which Jean-Marie Le Pen ran), the 1996 Sans Papiers movement, Amilcar Cabral's theory of class suicide and the rather over-the-top tears shed by Jean-Bédel Bokassa, Emperor of the Central African Empire, at the 1974 funeral of French President George Pompidou: [image] 2) The other section is very different in tone - essentially a collection of aphorisms and observational snippets from security guards working in upmarket boutiques. As the narrator observes, the job comes with a lot of time to think: Those who already have experience in the profession know what lies in store in the coming days: spending all day standing in a shop, repeating this monotonous exercise in tedium every day, until the end of the month comes, and they are paid. Paid standing. And it is not as easy as it might seem. In order to survive in this job, to keep things in perspective, to avoid lapsing into cosy idleness or, on the contrary, fatuous zeal and bitter aggressiveness, requires either knowing how to empty your mind of every thought higher than instinct and spinal reflex or having a very engrossing inner life. The incorrigible idiot option is also highly prized. Each to his own method. A few of the observations are quite learned: LAPLACE TRANSFORM How is it possible to be reminded of the Laplace transform when watching an old woman with a purple rinse rummaging through a dumpbin of Gaby–WAS €24.95: NOW 70% OFF!–goose-shit-green striped cardigans? ... LAPLACE TRANSFORM 2 The Laplace transform is a complex mathematical operation named after its inventor that makes it possible to describe the variation of certain functions (f) over time (t). These days, it is used in financial modelling, i.e. to determine prices. For example, Laplace transforms are used to calculate the ideal markdowns and optimal prices during sales. A complex equation to regulate frivolous pleasures. But most of the commentary is rather acerbic - Frank Wynne has previously translated both Houllebecq and Despentes and this section is in the tradition of irreverent humour which aims to (lightly) insult everyone and goes somewhat further in its use of stereotypes than might be usual in a British novel (although not unusual in UK comedy). One of the tamer examples: FOR WHOM THE METAL DETECTOR TOLLS The walk-through metal detector tolls when anyone enters or leaves with an item that has not been demagnetised. It signals only hypothetical guilt and, in 90 per cent of cases, the item has been duly paid for. But it is striking to note that almost everyone heeds the command of the security gate. Hardly anyone is insubordinate. However, reactions differ according to culture or nationality. • The Frenchman looks around, as though someone else is responsible for this noise and he merely looking for the culprit in the spirit of collaboration. • The Japanese customer stops dead and waits for the security guard to approach. • The Chinese shopper does not, or pretends she does not, hear and continues on her way as nonchalantly as possible. • The French citizen of Arabic or African ancestry accuses the device of conspiracy or racial profiling. • The African jabs a finger at his chest as though seeking confirmation. • The American rushes over to the security guard with a broad smile and all bags open for inspection. • The German takes a step back in order to check that the system is functioning correctly. • The Gulf Arab adopts a lofty, supercilious expression and slowly stops. • The Brazilian puts his hands in the air. • Once, a man actually fainted. He was unable to confirm his nationality. Others, in Anglo-Saxon terms, can come across as rather sizeist, sexist etc - no target is safe (rather as the expensive perfume is not safe from the thieving fingers of various customers). Overall - I'm not 100% sure what to make of this. I think the novel warrants its place on the longlist but it's an odd mix of erudition and crude satire, and the two parts, and the story within the first part, don't entire cohere. 3.5 stars - will round down for now but possibly up when this settles. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Mar 14, 2023
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Mar 14, 2023
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10
| 1782278621
| 9781782278627
| 1782278621
| 3.93
| 2,632
| 2013
| Apr 08, 2022
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it was ok
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Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize The sun was blazing overhead when Saroja and Kumaresan stepped off the bus. Beyond the tamarind tree Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize The sun was blazing overhead when Saroja and Kumaresan stepped off the bus. Beyond the tamarind trees that lined the road, all they could see were vast expanses of arid land. There were no houses anywhere in sight. With each searing gust of wind, the white summer heat spread over everything as if white saris had been flung across the sky. There was not a soul on the road. Even the birds were silent. Just an ashen dryness, singed by the heat, hung in the air. Saroja hesitated to venture into that inhospitable space. ‘Step down with your right foot first,’ Kumaresan had said to her. She was now unsure whether he had said this in jest or if he had meant it. By habit, anyway, she had descended from the bus with her right foot first, but she was not sure he had noticed that. The courage she had gathered until then suddenly vanished, leaving her feeling uneasy. When her feet touched the ground, she had prayed within her heart, ‘May everything go well.’ She could not think of a specific god. She only knew the name of Kumaresan’s family deity, Goddess Kali, but she would not have been able to confidently recognize the goddess’s idol in the temple. The only Kali she knew was a goddess with widened eyes, terrifying teeth and her tongue sticking out. She could not pray to that Kali, who only inspired fear. Kumaresan had already walked quite some distance. Saroja quickly found her bearings and trotted ahead to join him. Shifting the heavy bag to his other hand, he looked at her. Nothing here appeared new to him. He was used to navigating this place even in the dark. He always walked with a spring in his step when he was here, and he felt the same way now. Pyre is Aniruddhan Vasudevan's translation of Perumal Murugan's 2013 Tamil original பூக்குழி. The English translation was originally published in India in 2016, but was published in the UK in 2022 by Pushkin Press (and in the US by Grove Press). This is an interesting story of love across caste boundaries and family opposition which extends to potential violence. But it is rather simple and disappointing in literary terms, and the translator's own afterword, as well as comments from some who've read the original, suggest some aspects have been lost in translation. Perhaps the most effective aspect of the novel is how Murugan keeps the castes unnamed and the story even ambiguous as to whether Saroja, from whose perspective the novel is primarily told, is of a higher or lower caste than her husband Kumaresan. Different readers seems to have drawn different conclusions, and Muragan I think has done this deliberately and has not provided more information even in interview, although the translator in 2016 did draw his own conclusion in an interview: Q: Is Saroja a Dalit? A propulsive read but rather lacking in literary depth. 2.5 stars. ...more |
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Mar 25, 2023
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13
| 1913348040
| 9781913348045
| 1913348040
| 3.53
| 2,368
| Mar 14, 2019
| Jul 14, 2022
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did not like it
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Shortlisted for the 2023 Warwick Prize for Women in Translation Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize ‘I’ve been clear what the question is Shortlisted for the 2023 Warwick Prize for Women in Translation Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize ‘I’ve been clear what the question is throughout and now that I have, in some way, found the answer, there is no reason to continue, no reason at all, as I see it.’ ‘What was the question? ‘Whether there was a system in all this madness.’ ‘And is there?’ ‘Of course, not if there was, it wouldn’t be madness.’ A System So Magnificent It Is Blinding is Nichola Smalley's translation of Amanda Svensson's 2019 novel Ett system så magnifikt att det bländar. The ostensible plot concerns three triplets in their mid 20s, and a family secret (which is heavily foreshadowed from page 1 but revealed on page 200, by which point the book hasn't really got going), one of whom works in a mysterious institute for brain research (from which the novel takes its title), a second travels to Easter Island to join a cult convinced ecological catastrophe will end the world in the coming days, and the third suffers from synaesthesia and a particular aversion to the colour blue. `But we so dearly want the human brain to be a mystery, right? As researchers, we want it to stay like that too, even if we might insist on the reverse. We want to work our way up to a point we can't get beyond, where we can say: okay, here it is, the outermost boundary, the mystery; the golden egg, the ultimate enigma, the unique thing, the soul itself. So we dig around in the abnormal, in the exceptions, the things that contradict everything we actually already know about the brain: that it's logical, structured, that it's an equation. A pretty complex equation, sure, but an equation nonetheless. That's what a human is. A puzzle with a limited number of pieces. They fit together with no need for a sticky soul to glue them together.' She shrugged, reaching up a palm. The enormous cicada landed on it, like a pet. `It sounds so ordinary when you put it like that,' Sebastian said. `Of course you think that, my friend,' Travis sniggered and tweaked Sebastian's nose with her free hand. 'Of course you do. You're a human.' Sebastian must have looked worried, because Travis softened a little, tilting her head to one side. `There's a system in the madness, Sebastian, that's all I'm saying. A system so magnificent it blinds us.' The nose tweaking and head-tilting rather typical of the coy/soppy style of the narration, which is influenced by soap operas (the author has mentioned Skilda världar, a Swedish version of Sons and Daughters, itself an Australian take on Knots Landing, a spin off of Dallas...). This is a novel full of ideas and plot-lines but with little attempt to rationalise them or tie them together. Recurrent, but often irrelevant, motifs include a 'very moral monkey', peacock feathers, Frank Auerbach's paintings, cicadas, Philip Larkin's poems, the moai on Easter Island, Jaffa cakes, Goya, an escapologist hamster, Dakota Fanning and Francesca Woodman. The author is, inter alia, the translator of Ali Smith, and there is even a (gratuitous? coincidental? certainly random) quote of 'Sister brother summer winter' which echoes Daniel Gluck's one-hit wonder 'Summer brother autumn sister'. But whereas there was very careful method behind Smith's apparent madness, here there is just randomness. Taking the last two examples in the list, Francesca Woodman's work Untitled, Rome, Italy, 1977-1978 does actually play a role in the book. [image] But Dakota Fanning is more typical of the novel's approach - she's mentioned throughout by more than one character as someone of significance, finally turns up in person around page 300 ... and then is never mentioned again. I tend to also prefer translated literature, and the International Booker in particular, to also give an insight into different places and cultures, but (faux-exotic mentions of Easter Island and Bangladesh aside) this is mostly set in London and anglo-Saxon in style. Disappointing. ...more |
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7
| 1642861189
| 9781642861181
| 3.02
| 754
| 2021
| Mar 07, 2023
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liked it
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Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize On his return Paschal’s character had changed. He who was always cheerful, always joking, had turne Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize On his return Paschal’s character had changed. He who was always cheerful, always joking, had turned solemn, sententious, and moralising. His origins had become more than ever an obsession and an enigma, which he constantly sought to solve. He became pompous as well. Two of his favourite subjects of conversation were slavery and colonisation, and countries and societies that have been totally ignored or marginalised; but above all he loved to discuss the place and role of God in the world. L'Évangile du Nouveau Monde (2021), which Maryse Condé has suggested is likely to be her last novel, has been translated as The Gospel According to the New World by her husband Richard Philcox. His addition of 'According To' to the title is to give it a scriptural feel, as Condé has said she took permission from Jose Saramago, to whom the novel is dedicated, J. M. Coetzee and Amélie Nothomb to provide her own novelistic take on the life of Jesus and the topic of faith. The book, which is set in a fictionalised Caribbean island similar to but not quite the author's native Guadaloupe, opens, on Easter Sunday, with the birth of a baby in a shed: It’s a land surrounded by water on all sides, commonly known as an island, not as big as Australia, but not small either. It is mostly flat but embossed with thick forests and two volcanoes, one that goes by the name of Piton de la Grande Chaudière, which was active until 1820 when it destroyed the pretty little town that sprawled down its side, after which it became totally dormant. Since the island enjoys an ‘eternal summer’, it is perpetually crowded with tourists, aiming their lethal cameras at anything of beauty. Some people affectionately call it ‘My Country’, but it is not a country, it is an overseas territory, in other words, an overseas department. The night He was born, Zabulon and Zapata were squabbling with each other high up in the sky, letting fly sparks of light with every move. It was an unusual sight. Anyone who regularly scans the heavens is used to seeing Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, the Evening Star and Orion, but to discover two such constellations emerging from the depths of infinity was something unheard of. It meant that He who was born on that night was preordained for an exceptional destiny. At the time, nobody seemed to think otherwise. The newborn baby raised his tiny fists to his mouth and curled up between the donkey’s hooves for warmth. Maya, who had just given birth in this shed where the Ballandra kept their sacks of fertilizer, their drums of weed killer, and their ploughing instruments, washed herself as best she could with the water from a calabash she had the presence of mind to bring with her. C’est une terre entourée d’eau de tous les côtés, une île, comme on dit communément, pas aussi grande que l’Australie, mais pas petite non plus. Elle est généralement plate mais est bosselée d’épaisses forêts et de deux volcans, l’un qui répond au nom de Piton de la Grande Chaudière, qui fit des siennes jusqu’en 1820, quand il détruisit la coquette ville étalée sur ses flancs avant de rentrer dans une totale inactivité. Comme elle jouit d’un « été éternel » , les touristes s’y pressent, braquant leurs appareils mortifères sur tout ce qui est beau. Certains l’appellent avec tendresse Mon Pays, mais ce n’est pas un pays, c’est une terre ultramarine, un département d’Outre-mer quoi ! La nuit où Il naquit, Zabulon et Zapata se battaient dans le mitan du ciel, décochant des rais de lumière à chacun de leurs gestes. C’était un spectacle peu banal. Celui qui a coutume de scruter la voûte céleste voit fréquemment la Petite Ourse, la Grande Ourse, Cassiopée, l’Étoile du Berger, Orion, mais distinguer deux constellations pareilles surgies des grandes profondeurs, c’est inouï. Cela signifiait que celui qui naissait cette nuit-là aurait un destin hors pair. Pour l’heure, personne ne semblait s’en douter. Le nouveau-né avait porté ses poings minuscules à hauteur de sa bouche et s’était recroquevillé entre les sabots de l’âne qui le réchauffait. Maya, qui venait d’accoucher dans cette cabane où les Ballandra rangeaient leurs sacs d’engrais, leurs bidons de désherbant et leurs instruments aratoires, se lavait tant bien que mal dans l’eau d’une calebasse qu’elle avait eu la présence d’esprit d’apporter avec elle. Its mother Maya had been seduced by a charismatic individual, who proves to be something of a modern-day prophet, himself, on a cruise ship, and then does not acknowledge his paternity: Corazón and Maya did not belong to the same class; Corazón was a member of the powerful Tejara family who for generations had been slave owners, merchants, landowners, lawyers, doctors and teachers. Corazón taught history of religion at the University of Asunción where he was born. He bore all the arrogance of a rich kid except this was somewhat subdued by the charm of a gentle smile. Since he was fluent in four languages – English, Portuguese, Spanish and French – he had been hired by the cruise line to give a series of lectures to the second- and first-class passengers. She abandons the child to be found by the couple, the Ballandras, whose shed this is, childless (not for want of trying) and religiously pious, who name the child Pascal and regard his arrival as something of a miracle: A persistent rumor was gradually gaining ground. There was something not natural about the event. Here was Eulalie, who for years had worn her knees out on pilgrimages to Lourdes and Lisieux, blessed with a son from our Lord, and on Easter Sunday no less. This was by no means a coincidence but a very special gift. Our Father had perhaps two sons and sent her the younger one. A son of mixed blood, what a great idea! The rumor gradually took Fonds-Zombi by storm and reached the outer boundaries of the land. It was a hot topic in the humble abodes as well as in the elegant, wealthy homes. When it reached the ears of Eulalie, she gladly welcomed it. Only Jean Pierre remained inflexible, considering it blasphemy. Pascal's life does oddly mirror that of Christ, including, ultimately his death aged 33 (no spoiler added since this is mentioned in the Publisher's Weekly review used to promote the novel), although this is played largely for fun, including by the characters themselves: at a wedding, and where the food and drink is poor quality, of course the guests send Pascal to sort it out, and when it transpires better quality food was on its way anyway, it is still hailed, despite Pascal's reluctance, as a miracle of sort. But this is not a story that purely parallels the gospels but rather one rich in colour of the island on which the novel is set and the rich cast of characters that Pascal encounters, one that for my taste perhaps contained a little too much background detail. This a passage almost at random about one character, Maria - and the information in this paragraph about her history proves largely irrelevant for the rest of the story: At the age of four she had lost her father. He had left her mother with four rabbit hutches where a variety of red-eyed iceberg rabbits scampered around, so called because of their very white fur. At the age of five, she accompanied her mother to the market where she had a stall. She had very little schooling. Yet together with her sister Marthe, she had educated her young brother Lazare, who had passed his vocational training certificate and at one time had taught mathematics at a private school. And yes that's a woman called Maria, with a sister called Marthe and a brother Lazare, who at one point Pascal has to help revive from a (possibly narcotic induced) stupor - an incident the characters later refer to, somewhat tongue-in-cheek and complete with speech marks, as his "resurrection"! The heart of the novel is a story of a man in search of his meaning and purpose in life, as Pascal, while reluctant to acknowledge the believers that grow up around him and hang on his every word, tries (but fails) to make contact with his father, Corazon, aided by an enigmatic messanger who pops up at convenient times, Espiritu. Corazon proves to be rather more of an inspiration to many others that the rich kid who seduces young women on boats introduction would imply, having helped transform communities and lives, although, as father like son, both Corazon and Pascal do seem to be somewhat in thrall to their libido and on a mission to change the world one woman at a time. Pascal gets caught up in the political struggles around the state-backed monopoly that dominates the island's economy, finding himself accused at one point of a politically-motivated murder, and encountering his nemesis, originally his friend, who is inevitably called Judas. And he also encounters various communities who claim to have the secret to an ideal life, most notably in the middle of the novel, a group of descendants of a tribe of slaves, the Mondongues, who have formed a community which has abolished private property, prohibited alcohol and shuns modern media, and where he is served by a young woman, clothed, as he observes, like a character from The Handmaid's Tale. Here he initially finds the sanctuary and spirituality he had been looking for, only to discover, unsurprisingly, that all is not as it seems. The novel's ultimate message seems to be that, in Condé's words on the book's inside cover "inner strength and faith like Pascal's are what count most to change the world, even if we might never achieve it" and the book is in a sense satisfyingly unsatisfying in its conclusions. Overall 3.5 stars - in a weak year for the International Booker one that may make my shortlist but which I would not have longlisted. ...more |
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5
| 1739822501
| 9781739822507
| 1739822501
| 3.69
| 272
| Oct 01, 2010
| May 16, 2022
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really liked it
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Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize After school started again, the castor plants grew yellower day after day, and their seed pods appea Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize After school started again, the castor plants grew yellower day after day, and their seed pods appeared at the tip of each branch, waiting to be gathered, like high school students ready to make their mark on the world. Not one of us went to collect them. This was the fall of 1966, and most of our classmates were busy ransacking people's houses, putting up big-character posters, forming themselves into units, linking up with other students across the country, marching in the streets and the castor seeds no longer mattered. Ninth Building (2022) is Jeremy Tiang's translation of the 2010 work 九栋 by 邹静之 (Zou Jingzhi), fiction writer, poet, essayist, screenwriter, and playwright. Tiang was a member of the jury that chose the excellent longlist for the 2022 International Booker Prize and they are the chair of judges for the 2023 National Book Prize for Translated Literature in the US. He introduces his translation at the PEN website. The book is published by one of my favourite presses, the small, independent Honford Star: Honford Star's mission is to publish exciting literature from East Asia, be it classic or contemporary. We believe there are many ground-breaking East Asian authors and books yet to be read by English-language readers, so we aim to make these works as accessible as possible. By working with talented translators and exciting local artists, we hope to see more bookshelves containing beautiful editions of East Asian literature. The author's introduction explains the origins of the work: Ninth Building was the building I lived in as a child. It's been demolished now, and on the same plot they built a bigger, taller Ninth Building. My words only concern the previous incarnation. Before the block disappeared, I went back to take some pictures of it. A place I spent my early years. With its vanishing, there'd be no traces left of my childhood. In the second half of 1996, after the demolition, I began writing these words, producing a first draft of over a hundred thousand characters. I edited four of these stories into shape, and they were published in 1997, along with a few other pieces in journals. In the summer of 1999, I started editing a dozen more in fits and starts, which still left half the manuscript untouched. I originally wrote this book with the idea that by putting them on paper, these past events would re-lease their hold on me. Instead, it felt as if I'd cemented their grip. Having written them out simply made their shadowing more visible. That's why I edited this manuscript below, then left it alone. The novel consists of - a lyrical present-day preface and afterword, including a number of poems; - the introduction (part of which is above) - and two main sections of narrative. The first section is set in the years up to 1966, when the narrator was aged 13. In one sense this is a standard coming-of-age type tale, but set against the backdrop of the cultural revolution, and the horrors of the moment - parents of friends suddenly denounced and disgraced, often driven to suicide - intrude. The boys themselves get both attracted, and in a sense forced, into joining the revolutionary movement - the vaccination in the following a particularly neat simile: We put on our armbands as soon as we emerged from the hutong. Our arms grew glorious, weighty. Only swinging them vigourously made them feel natural. Swaggering, we strutted into a small eating house and ordered four portions of roast meat. We splayed the food open, pouring soy sauce and vinegar in great streams that splashed across the table. The waiter saw the mess we were creating, but didn’t dare say a word. Our arms moved stiffly, as if we’d just been vaccinated. One memorable episode has rumours spread about the coffin of a princess having been excavated in building works in an area which included the ruins of an ancient tomb. The boys go to see it but the only thing they find is an excavator truck digging in mud. On their way back to the Ninth Building they invent a tale of what they actually saw so vivid it almost convinces themselves and as the rumours spread their own tales return to them, amplified and distorted: We’d never expected that some people, in creating fairytales, would turn their minds to eating flesh and crunching bones. Humanity was all fetid bowels, and the collective of grown-ups, even more so. To use two unfortunate cliches (sorry) the game of Chinese whispers leads to an Emperor's new clothes situation where everyone who visits the site confirms they saw what is not actually there, until the authorities paste a poster to the arm of the excavator truck: “Don’t be a worshipful descendant of the old feudal order”. The second section of the novel begins in 1969, running through to 1977. Again 15 and a half, the narrator is sent with many of his fellows, "educated youths" now a term of derision, to the Great Northern Waste for re-education through poverty: Ten or twenty thousand of us dumped in the snowy plains. There he attempts to maintain his love of music, as a violinist, while again in the midst of suffering -freezing conditions; a lack of food and often sudden and violent death from the manual labour they undertake. I've seen death—pale, cold, and bloodless. Like the words suddenly vanishing from a book, leaving blank paper, page after page of it. Such a death would make even the sunniest day blink, exhausted. Right in front of you. A wind rises, as if blowing from your heart. Two of the stories from this part of the novel can be found here, one of which I've abstracted below: Old Yoo played the round horn, also known as the French horn, in the propaganda orchestra. When he followed the five-line score, his grasp of rhythm was exceptionally accurate. Old Yoo usually didn't practice very much. One time the political commissar overheard him as he was rehearsing and called the little tune he was playing “the stinking fart of the bourgeoisie.” This saddened Old Yoo. He put down his horn and asked Old Qian to teach him the erhu. He learnt to read simple notation, and to play “Waters of the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers.” The commissar listened to his rendition and commented that Old Yoo had improved. The full name of our brigade was “Thoughts of Chairman Mao Propaganda Orchestra.” Apart from our own little concerts, we staged mostly revolutionary operas. Being short-staffed, each of our performers often took on three or four roles each. In Legend of the Red Lantern, I played a liaison officer, a spy, and one of the Japanese devils at the execution ground. The narration itself is via a series of disconnected vignettes. As the narrator explains: Granules are different from pearls, which have holes in them and can be strung up. If you scatter granules across the floor, you have to pick them up one by one. True memories are more granule than pearl—there's no string that links them neatly together. Granules can ferment into stories, but stories are steamed buns, white and pillowy, not granular at all. Yun-ju Temple in Beijing's Fangshan district has Buddhist relics that are said to emit light once every few centuries. They're a sort of granule too, the crystallization of what remains after burning. I've studied them up close, but they still seemed un-imaginably far away, beyond the reach of my life and imagination. Buddhist relics are left behind as a sort of essence, the result of lifelong contemplation. It took countless days and nights of food, drink, thought, scripture, shit, and so forth to produce them. These tiny things, like grains of sand, will never disappear. There's no tragedy, no romance, no politics here. They're there when you see them, gone when you don't. Overall, I found this a fascinating work. A relatively simple story but with a distinctive, and in English literary terms, unusual backdrop and told in a distinctive style. A book I'd like to see on the shortlist. ...more |
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| Aug 02, 2022
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really liked it
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Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize She doesn’t like my name, and gives me a new one. She says I’m like those large, solitary rocks in Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize She doesn’t like my name, and gives me a new one. She says I’m like those large, solitary rocks in Southern Patagonia, pieces of world left over after creation, isolated and exposed to every element. No one knows where they came from. Not even they understand how they are still standing. Boulder is Julia Sanches’s translation of Eva Baltasar’s Catalan original of the same name, and the second in a triptych (rather than a trilogy) of novels, the third part of which Mamut was published in 2022 in the original and presumably will be out in English in 2023-. The first novel was Permagel, translated by Sanches: my review. Both books are published by the wonderful small press And Other Stories, who pioneered the subscription model in the UK: And Other Stories publishes some of the best in contemporary writing, including many translations. We aim to push people’s reading limits and help them discover authors of adventurous and inspiring writing. Boulder opens on a dock in Quellón, a city in Chiloé Island in Chile. Our narrator, whose real name we never learn, has travelled from her native Barcelona to the area, searching not so much for something as for nothing: I’d gone through life fixated on an intangible conviction, tied down by the handful of things that kept me from becoming penniless, an outcast. I needed to face the emptiness, an emptiness I had dreamed of so often I’d turned it into a mast, a centre of gravity to hold onto when life fell to pieces around me. I’d come from nothing, polluted, and yearned for windswept lands. On the island she had worked, as she had in Spain, as a cook, here for 3 months in summer camps for teenagers: I’m not a chef, I’m just a mess-hall cook, capable and self- taught. The thing I most enjoy about my job is handling food while it’s still whole, when some part of it still speaks of its place in the world, its point of origin, the zone of exclusion that all creatures need in order to thrive. Water, earth, lungs. The perfect conditions for silence. Food comes to us wrapped in skin, and to prepare it you need a knife. If I’ve got one skill in the kitchen, it’s carving things up. The rest is hardly an art. Seasoning, tossing things together, applying heat . . . Your hands end up doing it all on their own. I’ve worked at schools, nursing homes, in a prison. Each job only lasts a few weeks, they slip away from me, spots of grease that I gradually scrub off. The last boss I had before coming to Chiloé tried to give me an explanation: the problem isn’t the food, it’s you. Kitchens require team effort. I’d have to find a really small one if I wanted to work on my own and still make a living. She boards a freight ship, originally paying for passage, but persuades the captain to keep her on as ship’s cook, in return for room and board, a job she serves at for a few years, and describes as the best she has ever had due to the simplicity of the kitchen, where she works alone, and the lack of complications and obligations, with the ship’s crew friendly but not inquiring: They relax and watch me work and tell me about their grandmothers – all experts in the kitchen, all queens of humitas and empanadas. The second mate reads out the recipe to me. Humitas are out of the question, but I develop an interest in empanadas. They’re practical and everyone likes them, even though the meat I use is tinned and the olives need more brine. I start the dough in the evenings and let it rise all night. I like to get under the covers knowing that out there another covered body lies awake, working on my behalf. In the morning I’m amazed by how much it’s risen, as if the whole thing – the soft, perfect dome of wheat and its nest-bowl of warmth – were a distant nephew who’s grown up, effortlessly and all of a sudden, in the silence of my absence. I knead the bread, dust it with flour, shape it and take its shape, and imagine I am a simpleminded god about to beget a new tribe. Anything not to feel the hips, the ass, the breasts, the perfect flesh of a woman beneath my hands. But her desire for companionship remains and on one onshore visit in Chaitén she meets Samsa, a Scandinavian geologist who makes her living from a multinational with blood on its hands.. The two begin an itinerant relationship whenever their respective schedules coincide and Samsa christens her Boulder as per the opening quote. But then after many months Samsa announces she has accepted a new job in Reykjavik and asks Boulder to move there with her, who accepts. The beauty of the writing in this novel is that all the above, written in rich prose, takes place on just 15 pages. In Iceland, Samsa works for an oil company (the destruction of nature in which she participates an interesting but purely implicit subtext to the story) and Boulder finds work, first in a pub kitchen and later sets up her own food truck selling her signature empanadas in Parliament Square. But one day, after almost a decade together, and with Samsa approaching 40, their life together is disrupted when Samsa announces she wants a child, an announcement which destroys the peace that Boulder enjoys: The first person who had the idea of building a pyramid must have been insane. What about the guy who thought it made sense to stick someone in a rocket and shoot them at the stars? Samsa is crazier than the two of them put together. ... It seems unbelievable that a single decision, a fucking intangible thought, could so violently upset the flesh-and-bone scaffolding of daily life, the steady rhythm of the hours, the predictable, material colour of the landscapes that gives us nourishment and company. The decision precedes a living thing that already exists and takes over everything. Its presence has dimension; it occupies the house with concrete tentacles and sinks into the skulls of the people who live there, and clings to the fine membrane that sheathes their grey matter. Boulder's rather hysterical, but blackly humorous, reaction continues during the IVF treatment, administered by the high priests of the holy church of insemination, who are ever so wise and down to earth, who are ever so pure, when Samsa falls pregnant (the tyrannical, still-brainless thing inside her, which robs her of all reason while at the same time branding a lessons of undying allegiance onto the hungry, pliant walls of her uterus), through maternity classes (a bit like ultrasound appointments: they generate high expectations and the results are at best confusing. You need either a hangover or an active imagination to be able to appreciate them) and post birth to Samsa's breastfeeding gang. Boulder finds herself excluded from the strong bond between Samsa and their daughter Tinna's, and seeks refuge in the pub, her food truck and eventually the arms of another woman, although her bond with Tinna, when Samsa consents to leave the two alone. A powerful, compact and beautifully written portrayal of motherhood from an atypical perspective, and a strong contender for the prize. ...more |
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| 3.57
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| Jan 01, 2012
| Apr 27, 2023
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it was ok
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Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize With this I've completed the list of 13 books, but unfortunately this was a disappointing conclusion Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize With this I've completed the list of 13 books, but unfortunately this was a disappointing conclusion to a generally disappointing list. The finest of translation fiction this wasn't. Here I think part of the issue is the nature of the book - it isn't so much a novel as a tribute to the author's friends and to the city of Lviv, at the invitation of the mayor of the city, as Kurkov's afterword acknowledges. Three of the key characters are indeed based on real-life acquaintances of his, even if the story is magic-realismised: - the novelist Yurko Vynnychuk who appears as himself - Alik Olisevych, who, like the character Alik in the novel, really was under KGB surveillance for being a hippie. - Oksana Prokhorets, who appears an an actress Oksana in the novel, who features in a trip to Lviv in Kurkov's Ukraine Diaries: Dispatches From Kiev Which means that the story is all very, well, Patrick Nice. I was with my hippie friends, at a memorial to Jimi Hendrix in Lviv, when a stranger came up and introduced himself as a former KGB agent who had us under surveillance for many years. However, through watching us, he and his fellow KGB agents had themselves become Jimi Hendrix fans. And they'd arranged to have his body in the US exhumed and his hand removed and reburied her in Lviv at this very memorial. We soon became firm friends: [image] My business involves driving tourist fast over cobble stones at night to dislodge their kidney stones. I fell in love with the girl who works in the overnight bureau where I exchange the foreign currency I receive. Unfortunately she suffered from severe allergies, even to the money she has to handle, and certainly to be able to touch or kiss me. Fortunately, one of my client's kidney stones actually proved to be a pearl with healing powers than cured her all allergies, so we could get married: [image] The book even concludes with a they all-lived-happily-ever-after coda in case there were any lingering worries in the reader's mind. [image] ...more |
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| 3.95
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| Dec 24, 2004
| Jan 19, 2023
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really liked it
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Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize - and THE WINNER OF THE 2023 SHADOW PRIZE Longlisted for the 2024 National Translation Award in Pro Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize - and THE WINNER OF THE 2023 SHADOW PRIZE Longlisted for the 2024 National Translation Award in Prose. From that day on, the terror of death ruled the girl. Her goal in life became fleeing death. Her mother’s death was the main reason why she left her small mountain village, why she left the harbor city and roamed the country, and why she built an enormous theater that resembled a whale. She wasn’t obsessed with the whale just because of its size. When she saw the blue whale from the beach, she had glimpsed what eternal life looked like, life that had triumphed against death. That was the moment the fearful small-town girl became enraptured by enormous things. She would try to use big things to beat out small things, overcome shabbiness through shiny things, and forget her suffocating hometown by jumping into the vast ocean. And finally, she became a man to hurdle over the limitations of being a woman. Whale is Chi-Young Kim's translation of 고래 by 천명관 (Cheon Myeong-Gwan), a debut novel which won the 10th 문학동네소설상 (Munhakdongne Novel Award) on its first publication in 2004. An earlier translation of the novel, Jae Won Chung, also titled Whale, was to be published in 2016 by Dalkey Archive Press in their (rather poorly promoted) Library of Korean Literature - although this was never actually published and I am unsure if the previous translation was even completed. A comparison of the two translations of one passage is below, and while I haven't sourced the original to check fidelity, if anything I prefer the more vivid atmosphere of the previous version. However, the new release of the novel in a better publicised format (which may for copyright reasons have required a re-translation), and with a more alluring cover, is certainly a positive, as this is a distinctive and fascinating novel. It opens in what I think is around 1980, with one of the two main characters, Chunhui (춘희) returning from a decade or so in prison, now all alone in the world, to the brickworks founded by her mother Geumbok (금복). Geumbok was, with 800 others, killed in a fire, which Chunhui was convicted of starting, that burnt down firstly the Whale-inspired movie theater, which Geumbok had built using her own bricks, and then much of the surrounding town: Chunhui—or Girl of Spring—was the name of the female brickmaker later celebrated as the Red Brick Queen upon being discovered by the architect of the grand theater. She was born one winter in a stable to a beggarwoman, as the war was winding down. She was already seven kilos when she emerged and plumped up to more than a hundred kilos by the time she turned fourteen. Unable to speak, she grew up isolated in her own world. She learned everything about brickmaking from Mun, her stepfather. When the inferno killed eight hundred souls, Chunhui was charged with arson, imprisoned, and tortured. After many long years in prison, she returned to the brickyard. She was twenty-seven. ... For the first time in a long while, she felt refreshed. Her senses felt sharper and she was alert to what was mixed into the wind—the damp darkness of the valley, the smell of racoons sleeping among the rocks below, the scent of various grasses growing in the fields. She was gradually relaxing from the years she’d spent on edge, and she was glad to have returned to where she belonged. 실로 오랜만에 느껴보는 산뜻한 기분이었다. 이제 그녀의 예민한 감각은 목욕을 통해 새롭게 되살아나 바람 속에 섞여 있는 계곡의 음습한 기운과, 그 계곡 아래 바위틈에 숨어 잠들어 있는 너구리의 누린내와, 벌판을 지나오는 동안 묻혀온 온갖 풀들의 향기를 감지할 수 있었다. 비로소 자신이 의당 돌아올 곳으로 돌아왔다는 안도감에... The novel then tells us the story of Geumbok and, later Chunhui, that led to that point, one many diversions (This is neither here nor there, but there is a hard-to-believe backstory about the white suit worn by the man with the scar). The following is an example about part of the 'man with the scar''s history, one of a rich cast of characters, all with their own backstories, that Geumbok encountered in her complex life (although typically the narrator will then expand on these stories): While the man with the scar—the renowned con artist, notorious smuggler, superb butcher, rake, pimp of all the prostitutes on the wharf, and hot-tempered broker—was a taciturn man, he was gregarious with Geumbok, telling her everything about himself. The stories he told her were frightening and cruel, about murder and kidnapping, conspiracy and betrayal—how he was born to an old prostitute who worked along the wharf and was raised by other prostitutes when she died during childbirth, how he grew up without knowing his father, how a smuggler who claimed to be his father appeared in his life, how he stowed away to Japan with this man, how a typhoon came upon them during the journey, how the ship capsized, how the smuggler didn’t know how to swim and flailed in the waves before sinking into the water, how he, who thankfully knew how to swim, drifted onto a beach and lost consciousness, where he was discovered by the yakuza, how he lived with them and learned to use a knife, how he killed for the first time, how he met the geisha who was his first love, how he partedways with her, how he returned home and consolidated power in this city—but she remained enthralled, as though she were watching a movie. The author in an interview described the stories as a revenge play ("이 모든 이야기가 한 편의 복수극") and it is, like the stories of man with the scar—the renowned con artist, notorious smuggler, superb butcher, rake, pimp of all the prostitutes on the wharf, and hot-tempered broker [he is introduced that way more than once] at times frightening and cruel. But it is also a story rich in bawdy anecdotes and exaggerated, even fantastical, characters - such as Chunhui herself, a supernaturally large baby and monstrously strong woman, unable to speak or even understand language, except when communicating telepathically with an elephant, even after the animal passed away. As the narrator warns us: By its very nature, a story contains adjustments and embellishments depending on the perspective of the person telling it, depending on the listener’s convenience, depending on the storyteller’s skills. Reader, you will believe what you want to believe. But the shaggy-dog magic-realist nature of the story disguises a penetrating commentary on Korean story over the period (roughly from the end of the Japanese occupation to the late 1980s), with the impacts of the Korean war, the resulting persecution of anyone expected of being a communist, the military dictatorship (here personified by the General) and the capitalist-fuelled rapid economic growth, in which the entreprenurial Geumbok enthusiastically participates. One of the narrator's favourite refrains after an instructive passage is "That was the law of ..." and the list of Laws quoted gives a good flavour of the novel: Nature The world Reflexes Rumours Inertia Servants Genetics Love Their world Gravity The world she has entered Reproduction Employment Pleasure quarters Acceleration Stupidity Paranoid delusion The streets Geumbok The Man with the Scar Westerns Courtship Obesity Fate The subconscious Habit Action and reaction Ideology Harpoons Beggars Show business Exaggeration Government agencies Being overly confident Wild rumours Slogans Recklessness Capitalism Tithing Management Alcohol Plot, which catered to crass commercialism Prison cells Beliefs Discussion Ennui Intellectuals Dictatorship Ratings and mass appeal And on the last of these, a 4.5 star Rating for me, and this certainly has mass appeal. Translation comparison (a passage describing the pivotal fire) Previous translation (possibly unpublished - source https://muse.jhu.edu/article/694223): [image] She can't breathe. Her eyes sting. Flames. Acrid smoke sears her nostrils. Spine-chilling screams. Black clouds blind her. Columns, the ceiling collapsing. Sparks flying, flames attacking her. A moment later, she opens her eyes. Her body is cool. The shadow cast against the wall by the grating is like a solid net. Someone sobs softly in the dark. She can hear the prison guard's boots echoing in the distance. She can hear someone shouting at the person crying. She curls up. The sobbing dies down. She closes her eyes. The footsteps recede. Tomb-like silence falls. Soon Chunhee is fast asleep again. The conflagration was indeed horrific. Over eight hundred people perished in the fire, and even more in the market where it eventually spread. The damage was massive. It was no exaggeration to say that half of Pyungdae burned to the ground. It was the greatest tragedy since the war. A few days after the fire, government investigators arrived. They were reminded of the horrendous scenes in the war's immediate aftermath, when entire cities vanished in flames. Pyungdae, once flourishing, was now a city of death. Smoke still rose from ruined heaps of former buildings, and though it had not completely collapsed, the ashen exterior of the theater showed just how horrifyingly intense the fire had been. Pungent smoke blanketed the town and the air quivered with the smell of burnt flesh and rotting corpses. Wails emanated from every house and scorched, unburied bodies were strewn in the streets, each attracting swarms of flies. The investigators covered their eyes and ears, confronted with the most hideous scene they had ever witnessed. New translation: [image] She can’t breathe. Her eyes sting. Flames are surging. Toxic smoke fills her nose. She hears horrible screams. Black smoke covers her field of sight. Pillars collapse. Sparks fly. She can’t see. A pillar of fire scorches the sky. The ceiling collapses. Flames overcome her. She opens her eyes. She’s cold. The shadows of iron bars are drawn along the wall, like a net. Someone is crying quietly in the darkness. A guard’s footsteps ring from far away. Someone is threatening the crying person. She curls up. The crying dies down. She closes her eyes. The footsteps go away. A tomb-like quiet comes. A moment later, Chunhui falls back asleep. What was left behind after the fire raged was truly gruesome. Eight hundred people died in the theater. The market next door caught fire, and the losses were astronomical. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say half of Pyeongdae burned down. It was the worst catastrophe since the war. A few days after the fire, a government investigation team arrived. So much of the city had burned down. Once booming, Pyeongdae was now a city of death. The smoldering ruins of the buildings and the blackened shell of the theater were proof of how terrible the fire was that day. Thick smoke covered the town, the smell of decomposing bodies hanging heavily in the streets. Wails came from every house and there were burned corpses everywhere, drawing masses of flies. The investigators had to cover their eyes and plug their ears at this terrible scene. ...more |
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| 3.97
| 1,173
| Feb 28, 2006
| Sep 19, 2023
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really liked it
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Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize But it was the drugs, the bastard drugs that messed everything up, that smashed up our dream, the dr Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize But it was the drugs, the bastard drugs that messed everything up, that smashed up our dream, the dream not even the Markkleebergers, the hools, Engel’s people and all the cops in Leipzig could put a stop to. While We Were Dreaming is Katy Derbyshire's translation of Clemens Meyer's 2006 debut novel Als wir träumten. I've previously read her translations of two of his later (in the original, but earlier in English) works, the novel Bricks and Mortar and the story collection Dark Satellites. My review of the former pointed to the fascinating and complex voice - "multiple perspectives and different voices, told in a non-linear fashion ... we’re not always clear who the narrator is and even within a given narrative points of view and times shift. Characters “reminisce” about the future" - but also my own frustrations as a reader, both in the subject matter, but also the excessive length which combined with the narrative style to make it hard to follow the real story. I concluded: 5 for the literary merit and the brilliance of the translation and 1 for my personal reading experience. Reading While We Were Dreaming one can see how this, as the author's debut, developed in to the more complex later work. It shares the same (for my taste, excessive) length, the dark subject matter and very masculine point of view, and the non-linear narration. However, it's a more accessible work, the narration within each section actually relatively straightforward, and succeeded in holding my interest to the end, and making me unpiece and then engage with each character's journeys. While We Were Dreaming is the story of a group of youths in Leipzig either side of German reunification, the main characters aged c13 at the time the Wall fell. Our narrator is Danny, and his gang of friends include: 'Porno' Paul, known for his extensive collection of magazines and videos although he found his one experience of the real act rather distasteful; Rico, once a promising amateur boxer but who has more success employing his skills are more useful for gang fights; Mark, who becomes addicted to drugs; Stefan who prefers to be known as Pitbull; and 'Little' Walter, who takes his pleasure and meets his fiery end in carjacking. The story is told in vignettes in non-chronological order, so that we may find ourselves at a character’s funeral but only learn of his death later, or jumping from adulthood years after 1989 to school during the DDR era. This is the story of a group from the 'wrong' side of the tracks as well as the 'wrong' side of the Wall, whose behaviour graduates from insubordination at school (Rico is the first to be send to youth custody for burning his pioneer scarf) to shoplifting, carjacking, fights with rival gangs and fans of other clubs, and alcohol and drug addicition. Detention - first in a youth centre that is almost like a summer camp but later in adult prisons - is an occupational hazard. But Meyer also shows us their positive side: - the gangs and rival fans they most despise are those with neo-Nazi sympathies; and they are loyal to one another (although Danny's own honest narration documents some early incidents where he hid rather than helped his friends). A representative incident has them befriend an elderly lady and provide her with companionship and practical help, but the companionship is largely as she enjoys sharing alcohol with them and they help themselves, behind her back, to her cash as 'compensation' for their work. Literature, particularly translated literature, should give on insight and empathy into different lives, and this definitely succeeded. Although I also can’t avoid acknowledging that the book most came to life not in the descriptions of fights, sex, deliquency and narcotic abuse, but rather in the scenes with which I could connect more, such as an amusing incident when two first see and use a microwave and try to make toast (the other character is Paul so no prizes for guessing what the 'mags' are): ‘I can’t see anything,’ I said. ‘We should be able to see something by now, it should be getting brown or something.’ ‘Just wait another minute.’ ‘Hey, the mags, weren’t you going to get the mags?’ ‘Yeah, yeah. But look at this first!’ ‘Come on, it’s crap, I thought we could have pizza or something.’ ‘I can’t help it, Danny. My mum hasn’t been shopping yet, she was going to...’ Ding! The bell rang once, the plate stopped turning and the light went off. Mark opened the door. The bread looked exactly the same as before. He took one slice out and dropped it. ‘Damn, it’s boiling hot!’ The bread was on the floor; I picked it up carefully. ‘It’s all soft,’ I said, ‘and a bit clammy. Not exactly nice crispy toast.’ Mark used a tea towel to take the glass plate out of the microwave. He pressed his finger into the other slice. ‘I dunno, Danny, it really is a bit soft. I must have set it wrong. Look, you can set the power here, it must have been way too low...’ Or the travails of the local club, Chemie whose post-reunification history rather summarises how the society of the DDR vanishes around the boys: We got to Chemie late, Rico and me, that Sunday in the year after the Wall came down, when we played BFC Dynamo. It was the last season of the GDR League, even though the GDR didn’t exist by then. BSG Chemie Leipzig didn’t exist any more either, we were called FC Sachsen Leipzig now, and a few months before that we’d been called FC Green-White Leipzig for a while, but we didn’t understand why, we believed in Chemie and we were Chemie, forever. BFC wasn’t called BFC either any more, they were FC Berlin, but we didn’t care, we hated them either way. Derbyshire explains some of the translation choices she made here, including the titles of her previous translations (this one easier). It's interesting to note how her say "I want the characters’ language to change subtly as they get older, from childhood to youthful bravado to jaded machismo" as she definitely succeeds in this, and generally in the tone of the story, which is all the more striking with the non-chronological nature of the novel, this tone, as well as more explicit references, acting to signpost where we are at any point in time. This is a less ambitious work than Bricks and Mortar but for me a personally more successful one - 4 stars for the literary merit and quality of the translation and 3 for my own reading experience. On a relatively weak International Booker list this is one of the stronger entries so I will round up to 4 stars for now. ...more |
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| 1804270229
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| 3.75
| 1,890
| Sep 03, 2020
| Jan 18, 2023
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it was ok
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Shortlisted for the 2023 Republic of Consciousness Prize US & Canada Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize "Colours, at night, when they ar Shortlisted for the 2023 Republic of Consciousness Prize US & Canada Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize "Colours, at night, when they are exposed to artificial lights, are drowned in a world where they lose all the depth and power they naturally accommodate in the light of day." What a sentence. And it doesn’t mean anything. Or does it? Sure…? Don’t give up painting for a writing career, he’d have liked to tell her. He closed the notebook and tossed it back onto the work table carelessly. Or maybe just in a manner showing the disdain the notes inspire in him, without even saying what he thinks of them, just repeating in his head that this lady had to be pretty damn pretentious to write things about what she did, as though you could both do and watch yourself doing, say and watch yourself saying, like a traveller taking notes on the way his feet sink into the snow as he climbs the Himalayas without taking the time to look up at the mountain rising before him. But for the kind of stationary travel that is painting, in a remote old house out in the middle of nowhere, where each chair, each piece of clothing, each room reeks of dog and dust and is permeated with the smells of paints and chemicals, of turpentine, what point could there be in taking notes on what she does? Is it like a diary, a log book? Do you learn things by reading it that you’re not supposed to know about her life, or about her neighbours’ life? The Birthday Party (2023) is Daniel Levin Becker's translation of Laurent Mauvignier's Histoires de la Nuit (2020). The novel is a 500 page literary-thriller a combination of dense prose and page-turning suspense that treads a fine line between the best and the worst of literary fiction and genre thrillers and on another day (or with a shorter book) I might have loved this. But for me, unfortunately, the novel fell on the wrong side of that line, starting with the very first sentence. She watches him through the window and what she sees in the car park, despite the reflection of the sun that blinds her and prevents her from seeing him as she’d like to, leaning against that old Renault Kangoo he’s going to have to get around to trading in one of these days–as though by watching him she can guess what he’s thinking, when maybe he’s just waiting for her to come out of this police station where he’s brought her for the how many times now, two or three in two weeks, she can’t remember–what she sees, in any case, elevated slightly over the car park which seems to incline somewhat past the grove of trees, standing near the chairs in the waiting room between a scrawny plant and a concrete pillar painted yellow on which she could read appeals for witnesses if she bothered to take an interest, is, because she’s slightly above it, overlooking and thus observing a misshapen version of it, a bit more packed down than it really is, the silhouette, compact but large, solid, of this man whom, she now thinks, she’s no doubt been too long in the habit of seeing as though he were still a child–not her child, she has none and has never felt the desire to have any–but one of those kids you look after from time to time, like a godchild or one of those nephews you can enjoy selfishly, for the pleasure they bring, taking advantage of their youthfulness without having to bother with all the trouble it entails, that educating them generates like so much inevitable collateral damage. I normally love this type of labyrinthine, nested sentence, but this one didn't work for me, it felt a little too random. In terms of the pyschological thriller aspects, the novel flits between the consciousness - or more accurately the close third-person PoV - of the characters, an aspect I find a little problematic when the plot requires withheld information. I recently read a Netgalley of the forthcoming None of This is True by Lisa Jewell (my teenage daughter's favourite writer) that did the thriller aspects rather better and, while initially falling into the same narrative trap, did provide a potential explanation in a last page twist (see https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...). Here it felt the busy characters were too busy making unrealistically astute pyschological appraisals to actually think about who was who and what they planned. So 2.5 stars rounded to 2 for me but clearly a novel that's worked well for others. The publisher Published in the UK by Fitzcarraldo, which is the edition I read as a subscriber, but in the US, and for the purposes of the RofC Prize, by Transit Press. Transit Books is a nonprofit publisher of international and American literature, based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Founded in 2015, Transit Books is committed to the discovery and promotion of enduring works that carry readers across borders and communities. Transit Books publishes a carefully curated list of award-winning literary fiction, narrative nonfiction, essay, and literature for children. Transit authors have received the Nobel Prize in Literature, and been nominated for the National Book Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the International Booker Prize, the PEN Translation Prize, the National Translation Award, the Windham-Campbell Prize, and more. ...more |
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Feb 16, 2023
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| 1839764317
| 3.80
| 4,512
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| Sep 27, 2022
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really liked it
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Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize I’ve come to terms with losing my mum, but I can’t come to terms with Mum coming to terms with losin Longlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize I’ve come to terms with losing my mum, but I can’t come to terms with Mum coming to terms with losing her daughter. Is Mother Dead is Charlotte Barslund's translation of Vigdis Hjorth's Er mor død And given it's her words we are reading, it's disappointing that Barslund's name is absent from the dustjacket, and no biographical details are provided, so to rectify that here's the bio from the National Book Award website: Charlotte Barslund translates Scandinavian novels and plays. Recent novels translated include the Arctic crime novels The Girl Without Skin and Cold Fear by Mads Peder Nordbo, Resin by Ane Riel, which was shortlisted for the 2019 Petrona Award, and A House in Norway by Vigdis Hjorth, which was longlisted for the 2019 International Dublin Literary Award. Her translation of Per Petterson’s I Curse The River of Time was shortlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. She has worked with writers such as: Samuel Bjork, Jo Nesbo, Karin Fossum, Thomas Enger, Jonas T. Bengtsson, Carsten Jensen, Lotte and Søren Hammer, Lone Theils, Steffen Jacobsen, Sissel-Jo Gazan, Jakob Melander, Jesper Stein, and Lene Kaaberbøl. She lives in the UK. Barslund has previously translated three of Vigdis Hjorth' novel of which I've read two: Long Live the Post Horn and Will and Testament.. When the original, Arv og miljø, of Will and Testament was published in Norway there was considerable debate as to whether the work, which Hjorth claimed as fictional, may actually be factual, or at least hinting at this, since many details of Bergljot's story mirror Hjorth's own. And in a bizarre twist, her real-life sister, Helga, recognising herself in the sister-character, wrote her own counter novel Fri vilje, as explained in The New Yorker In Helga’s novel, a family is torn apart when the narrator’s histrionic writer sibling makes false allegations of incest in one of her books.. And as The Guardian explained Hjorth’s mother, Inger, threatened legal action against a theatre in Bergen, which staged an adaptation of Will and Testament. Which makes for interesting context to this novel since, while less directly auto-biographical, the novel centres around an artist whose work caused a major rift with her mother and sister. Our first-person narrator Johanna is approaching 60 and an internationally successful painter living in the US. Thirty years earlier she shocked her family when she left her husband, a lawyer like her father, and moved to the US with her art teacher to live together and to pursue her artistic career (having herself given up on law school). Her parents and sister write to her with an ultimatum to return to Norway and her husband: They reeled of what it had cost them financially and emotionally to bring me up, I owed them quite a lot … They seriously believed that I would give up my love and my work because they had paid for tennis lessons when I was a teenager. As her career develops, her most famous paintings 'Child and Mother 1' and 'Child and Mother 2' were to cause further distress as they depicted an estranged relationship, which the family took as autobiographical. And a final rift came when Johanna did not come back to Norway for her father's funeral, leading to a complete stop of any contact between them. Now Johanna is back in Oslo for a major exhibition of her work and one day decides to call her mother, now in her mid-80s - in part as Johanna realises she may not even have been informed if her mother had died. But her mother declines, or at least doesn't take, the call. I don’t know what I would have said if she had picked up the phone. Perhaps I had hoped that something would spring to mind if she answered her phone and said, Hello? In her own voice. The situation was of my own making. I had chosen to leave my marriage, my family and my country almost three decades before, although it hadn’t felt as if I’d had a choice. I had left my marriage and my family for a man they regarded as suspect and a vocation they regarded as offensive, exhibiting paintings they found humiliating, I didn’t come home when Dad fell ill, when Dad died, when he was buried, what were they to make of that? They thought it was awful, that I was awful, for them what was awful was that I left, humiliated them, failed to turn up for Dad’s funeral, but for me things had gone wrong long before that. They didn’t understand or they refused to understand, we didn’t understand one another and yet I had called Mum. I had called Mum as if it was an OK thing to do. No wonder she hadn’t picked up. What was I thinking? What had I expected? That she would pick up the phone as if it was an OK thing to do? Who did I think I was, did I think I mattered in any way, that she would be pleased? Real life isn’t like the Bible where the return of the prodigal son is celebrated with a feast. I was ashamed to have broken my vow and to have revealed to Mum and Ruth, whom Mum would definitely have told about the call, that I was unable to stick to it, while they, my Mum and my sister, kept their vow and wouldn’t dream of calling me. They must have heard that I was back in the country. They probably googled me regularly, they had found out that a retrospective of my work would be taking place, that I had a Norwegian mobile number now, otherwise Mum would have answered the phone. Johanna finds herself, as this passage starts to suggest, imagining her mother's and her sister Ruth's lives, and hypothesising what they are thinking about her. And she soon takes this obsession another step further, tracking down where they each now live, and stalking her mother. Between her forays, her spying missions, into central Oslo she retreats to a log cabin she had hired in the woods outside of the city, where she both contemplates nature but also thinks back on her time up until she left Norway with her mother and her very strict father. The evenings grow shorter. From my hideaway I watch the last leaves fall, the dwarf birches blush, the moss turn grey, the grass lie down to sleep when darkness falls, insects die or hibernate, everything waiting for winter, for iron nights. A solitary cloudberry quivers in the shadow of the big spruces where memories wait, the hand trembles in November. Branches breathe in the darkness and the moors drink up the vast night there is whistling and creaking and I cling to this exhausted life as if it were a treasure. The novel is told in a beautiful style in Barslund's translations, with nature writing in contrast to the psychological intensity of Johanna's thoughts, and chapters with detailed recollections or current-day scenes mixed with pithy observations that occupy only a fraction of a page. And there is a running Ibsen theme with Johanna identify with a character from Vildanden (The Wild Duck): I’m Gregers Werle with his demand for the ideal who also forces a family to confront secrets from their past. There's a particularly powerful scene in the middle of the novel where Johanna's obsession extends to watching her mother dispose of her rubbish in the communal bins then retrieving the waste bag and taking it back to her cabin to see what she can learn. She finds, in the waste, a broken porcelain cup, the companion of one from a set of 13 that was broken when Johanna was a child. As she recalls the childhood incident she now sees it rather differently - at the time she was blamed for surprising her mother and causing her to drop the cup, but she now believes her mother dropped the cup deliberately as a way of expressing her frustration with her domineering husband, Johanna's father. Johanna reconstructs the recently broken cup as an artwork the style of kintsugi, perhaps representing her desire to repair their relationship. Only eleven Chinese porcelain cups remain in Mum's cupboard now unless other cups have been broken since I broke the thirteenth, perhaps Mum breaks Chinese porcelain cups on a regular basis, they all belong to her now, I imagine her hurling them onto the floor with great force, a liberating sight, Mum swearing like a sailor, Mum is clearing out the closet, but who is she raging against, me? Mum has done a thorough job with the dustpan and broom, all the pieces are here; with the help of a magnifying visor and a pair of tweezers I glue them back together, I paint the splices with liquid gold leaf. As Johanna's intrusions become more direct, Ruth and her mother become aware of them, and make it clear that they have no desire to have any contact. But Johanna is building to one final, direct, confrontation with her mother and with her own assumptions about their relationship and family history, one that doesn't necessarily give her the form of closure she had expected. Impressive and an International Booker contender. ...more |
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Nov 12, 2022
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Nov 12, 2022
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Jul 31, 2022
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| 1324090952
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| 3.75
| 19,054
| Apr 29, 2020
| May 10, 2022
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really liked it
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Winner of the 2023 International Booker Prize Shortlisted for the EBRD Literature Prize 2023 This sudden groundswell of people who have lost their memor Winner of the 2023 International Booker Prize Shortlisted for the EBRD Literature Prize 2023 This sudden groundswell of people who have lost their memories today is no coincidence . . . They are here to tell us something. And believe me, one day, very soon, the majority of people will start returning to the past of their own accord, they'll start "losing" their memories willingly. The time is coming when more and more people will want to hide in the cave of the past, to turn back. And not for happy reasons, by the way. We need to be ready with the bomb shelter of the past. Call it the time shelter, if you will. Time Shelter is Angela Rodel’s translation of Georgi Gospodinov’s Bulgarian original. The key premise of the novel has Gaustine a, somewhat mysterious, acquaintance of the narrator opening a dementia clinic in Zurich (*) where he replicates decades of the past, time shelters for those disorientated by the present. (* a nod to Switzerland’s odd timelessness due to its neutrality, and the presence of Dignitas, but in literary terms also to Mann’s Der Zauberberg, a key reference text) As Gaustine himself admits the premise isn’t totally original in artistic terms, only the effort dedicated to its realisation: What I've come up with isn't a show, Gaustine would always say, in any case it isn't The Truman Show, nor is it Good Bye Lenin!, nor Back to the Future. (Somewhere his critics had tried to slap these labels on him.) It's not recorded on video, it isn't broadcast, in fact there's no show at all. I'm not interested in maintaining some-body's illusion that socialism continues to exist, nor is there any time machine. There is no time machine except the human being. But in literary terms the novel is very different to those precedents. As with Physics of Sorrow from the same author and translator, this is far from a linear narrative. My review of that book (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...) concluded; At it's best, the novel reminded me of Kundera at his most playful, with it’s philosophical but humorous musings on many topics, complete with sub-headings. Here the discussion of the time shelters is non-linear, metaphysical (with various musings on the nature of memory and time) and literary. Other key references, beside Mann, include Auden’s poem September 1, 1939 (https://poets.org/poem/september-1-1939) and Woolf’s famous words from Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown: And now I will hazard a second assertion, which is more disputable perhaps, to the effect that on or about December 1910 human character changed. Another key text is Ernest Renan’s idea that a nation is a group of people who have agreed to jointly remember and forget the same things, and that a nation is a “daily referendum” on this topic - “L’existence d’une nation est (pardonnez-moi cette métaphore) un plébiscite de tous les jours”. [Although oddly, unless I missed it, the book itself doesn’t mention the daily referendum line] The novel develops this into a, Brexit inspired, series of referendums in the EU where the citizens of each country decide to which decade from the 20th century they would like the country to return. This is where the narrator has most fun, as it takes us through the deliberations and choices in each country (everyone else is horrified when the Swiss dabble with the 1940s as it was a rather lucrative time). But oddly this was for me also the novel at its weakest, as rather conventional and closer to Good Bye Lenin! territory. And in meta-fictional terms, Gaustine is a character who has recurred in the author’s work - indeed the opening section of the novel reproduces a short-story, Gaustine from the collection And Other Stories (http://www.percontra.net/archive/6gos...) and the narrator comments at the novel’s end. I can’t remember anymore whether I thought up Gaustine or he thought me up.. The author was asked about the character in an interview: Q: Something, or rather someone, else who has been consistently appearing throughout your books is Gaustine, both as a character and an alter ego. Could you tell me more about him and the process of inventing him? (From https://www.musicandliterature.org/fe...) Overall, a far from perfect novel, and on balance I prefer Physics of Sorrow, but a fascinating one and one where the author does something rather different with his concept. ...more |
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| 4.13
| 18,271
| Sep 2020
| Jun 22, 2022
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liked it
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Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize Who has not plunged headlong into an irreconcilable love affair knowing it has no future, and cling Shortlisted for the 2023 International Booker Prize Who has not plunged headlong into an irreconcilable love affair knowing it has no future, and clinging to a glimmer of hope as flimsy as a blade of grass. Pourquoi durer est-il mieux que brûler ? wondered Roland Barthes, sceptically. Love and common sense are not always compatible. In general, one tends to choose intensity no matter how little time it lasts, and in spite of all that it puts at risk. Still Born (2022) is Rosalind Harvey's translation of Guadalupe Nettel's La hija única (2020). It opens with a eloquent description of the fragility of life expressed through a new born: Watching a baby as it sleeps is to contemplate the fragility of all life. Listening to its soft breath generates a mixture of calm and awe. I observe the baby before me: its face relaxed, squishy, milk trickling from one corner of its mouth, its perfect eyelids. And yet I know that, every day, one of the children asleep in all the cots around the world will cease to exist. It will be extinguished without a sound, like a star snuffed out in the universe, a void amongst the thousands of others that continue to light up the darkness, without its death throwing anyone into disarray. Perhaps its mother will remain inconsolable for the rest of her life; perhaps its father as well. The rest of us will accept the circumstance with astonishing resignation. The death of a newborn is something so common it surprises no one and yet, how can we accept it when we have been so moved by its beauty? I watch this baby sleep, swaddled in its green sleepsuit, its head to one side on the little white pillow, and I wish fervently for it to carry on living, for nothing to disrupt its sleep or its life, for it to be shielded from all the dangers of the world, and for it to be overlooked by the destructive path of life’s whirlwind of catastrophes. ‘Nothing will happen to you while I’m here,’ I promise, knowing, even as I say it, that I am lying, for deep down I am as helpless and as vulnerable as this baby. The novel is narrated by Laura. She and her closest friend Alina are in their mid-30s. both strong feminists, and each has, or had, firmly rejected motherhood, not just for themselves, but generally. But when both women enter relationships, Laura in Paris and Alina back in Mexico, they reach opposite decisions. Laura's partner starts talking about children and she has her tubes tied, behind his back, causing their relationship to disintegrate. When, after a spiritual pilgrimage to Nepal (Laura's philosophical worldview an odd blend of Buddhism and Tarot cards), she returns to Mexico, she finds Alina is undertaking fertility treatment, desparate to conceive. One day Laura gets a call: 'I’ve got good news,’ she told me, ‘and I wanted you to be the first to know.’ She didn’t need to explain any further. I had known her for years and it was enough to hear her tone of voice to know what she was going to tell me. When eventually she pronounced the word ‘pregnant’, my heart leapt in a feeling so close to joy that it threw me. How on earth could I be rejoicing? Alina was about to disappear and join the sect of mothers, those creatures with no life of their own who, zombie- like, with huge bags under their eyes, lugged prams around the streets of the city. In less than a year she would be transformed into a child-rearing automaton. The friend I had always counted on would vanish for good, and here I was, at the other end of the line, congratulating her? I have to admit that hearing her sound so contented was infectious. Although throughout my life I had militated against my sex carrying such a burden, I decided not to wage war against this happiness. This passage is from when Laura accompanies Alina to a first scan to determine the baby's development and, incidentally, its gender, the latter immediately assigning her baby a name, Ines, when she discovers she is having a girl. I wondered what our world would be like if we were given a combination of letters, or images like Cloud over Lake or Ember in Fire, and were left to decide what gender to choose or invent for ourselves. And finally, I asked myself what happens when a child is born with an ambiguous sex, or with two, and, years later– once the doctors, with the parents’ consent, have amputated or closed off the rejected sex forever– this child refuses to accept the gender that was arbitrarily assigned to them? But Alina's pregnancy takes a dramatic adverse turn, when after a later scan she is informed that her daughter's brain is not developing and the baby will likely die immediately after birth: 'But what if she does live?' Alina insisted, perhaps trying to hold on to one last hope, the possibility of a miracle, or perhaps afraid to of this very thing. 'Will she just be a lump without emotions, without any intelligence?' 'If she were to live, then that's how she would be, yes' the doctor said.' But Alina decides to carry the baby to term. Meanwhile Laura becomes increasingly involved with her neighbour and her little boy, both troubled after the death, in an accident, of the neighbour's abusive husband, and takes on a sort of motherhood role of her own. In many respects the novel is a gripping and powerful exploration of motherhood, and indeed of what it means to live. My reservation is the prose style, where powerful passages such as those quoted comes between pages of relatively quotidian story. Perhaps that is deliberate - even dealing (I suspect no spoiler alert needed) with a severely handicapped child - has its elements of routine, but it meant a 203 page novel felt too long. The narrative perspective was also odd - a favourite bugbear of mine - with Laura's story in the first person, and Alina's narrated by her in the third, but with little difference between them (Laura forming at times the role more of an omniscient third person narrator) So I can see why others have found this impressive but 3 stars for me. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Jun 09, 2022
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Jun 11, 2022
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Sep 28, 2021
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