A Review of Foolish Words...

This is what I wrote a year ago - highlighted is what actually happened in 2010...

What does 2010 hold in store for me and my blog? Well, sadly, I doubt I'll be posting as regularly as in 2009. Reviewing each and every book I read is proving to be a bit of a strain (December has seen me struggling to keep up with my posts), and I don't think I could bring myself to cut down on how much I actually write for each review. I see myself limiting my blogging to weekly updates with full reviews for books I feel strongly about. I also see myself winning a Nobel prize for Literature at some point, so don't take anything written here as gospel.

I started off reading more and posting less, but I've actually ended up posting quite a bit recently.  Also, I feel obliged to do full reviews on (the few) books I receive from publishers and those read for the Japanese and Aussie challenges, so it's no wonder I ended up with a touch of RSI :(

While I will continue to read widely and try to get into new authors and countries (just as 2009 brought an interest in Woolf, Wharton and Indian literature), 2010 may well be the year of rereading. As well as continuing my second tour of Haruki Murakami's novels and beginning a trip through Trollope's Barchester Chronicles, I will be reading David Mitchell's books again (in order this time) in preparation for the release of his Dejima novel. George Eliot may have to wait until 2011, but Hardy and Dickens will almost certainly be towards the top of my most-read author list in 2010 (as they were this year). But let's not get ahead of ourselves...

New authors this year included Katherine Mansfield, Natsume Soseki, Goethe, V.S. Naipaul, Albert Camus and Jun'ichiro Tanizaki, so I think I did fairly well on the new authors front (although not quite so well on the new countries!).  I managed to read the Barchester Chronicles and all of Mitchell's novels (including Thousand Autumns...), and I also read a few Murakami books.  However, I've read no Dickens and only one Hardy book this year - maybe next year ;)

Finally, I would like to think that next year will see the gradual development of what I am starting to think of as 'my book'. For Free E-Day on the 1st of December, I wrote a short story entitled 'Far From Home', and I have already written a second chapter following on from the first story. While I already know I will be insanely busy next year, what with finishing my Master's in TESOL and with other family business taking up most of my time, I hope to plod along with the story when I get time and (eventually) publish it on Smashwords, Lulu etc. If I do (which is highly doubtful, especially before the end of 2010), then I may even change the subtitle to my blog. Having said that, maybe it's time for the blurb to go. I mean, I must have written close to 100,000 words in my blog this year; surely that qualifies me as a writer...

I actually finished three chapters of Far From Home (and started a fourth), and I also published a short story on Smashwords too.  I was midway though another when I started to have health issues, and I still haven't got back to doing any writing (real writing - not this blog business!).  I'm getting on a bit, so I really should get on with it...  I did complete my Masters though!

Oh yes...  and I now have a second daughter, with little Hayley (born on the 11th of May) joining big sister Emily :)

Predictions for 2011?  Once bitten, twice shy!

The Subtle Art of Telling Stories

From 2003 to 2009, I worked as an English language teacher at a university language centre in Melbourne, and one of my colleagues throughout that time was a genial fellow named Harry Zable.  Harry was born in New Zealand, but emigrated with his family (of Polish-Jewish background) to Australia when he was a kid.  Which is all well and good, you may say, but what has that got to do with literature?  Well, dear reader, Harry has a brother, Arnold, and it turns out that he is a writer, a fairly successful writer at that, and I recently read one of his books for the first time - and it was a cracker...

*****
As the final piece in the Aussie Author Challenge, I decided to look up Arnold Zable in the library database and was able to reserve a copy of Café Scheherazade, a short reflective novel set in St. Kilda, a bohemian coastal suburb in my adopted hometown of Melbourne, and (via memories) in various cities all around the world.  Scheherazade was, of course, the queen who kept herself alive by weaving spellbinding tales for her husband over a thousand-and-one nights, so it is no surprise that this book is centred on stories and the power they have, even decades after they happened.

The titular cafe, located in Acland Street in St. Kilda and run by Avram and Masha, is a meeting place for immigrants from eastern Europe.  They drop by every day to eat, drink, argue, reminisce... In short, the cafe is a social hub for the displaced.  Martin, a journalist, starts coming to the cafe to interview Avram and Masha for a story he is writing, but he is entranced by the never-ending tales they spin and becomes a regular, sipping his coffee while listening to stories and watching the people walk by.  As he gets to know more of the café's patrons, and hears of their incredible histories, he begins to believe that these stories need to be written down, chronicled for future generations, before the old immigrants slowly fade away.

The stories the old men tell have to do with the Second World War - what they did, where they went and how they lived to tell the tale.  Some escaped eastwards through Asia, travelling through Russia, over to Japan, and then on to Shanghai, a neutral haven for a while.  Others hid behind false walls, hoping not to be found by, or betrayed to, the Nazis.  Still others retreated to the forests, surviving as resistance fighters, living each moment as if it was their last.  Each retelling gives a different gloss to the story unfolding, and each time Martin learns a little more of what happened, the more determined he becomes to let other people know.

The most important story though is that of Avram and Masha, and of how Café Scheherazade came to bear its unusual name.  After their various wanderings throughout eastern Europe, the two meet and fall in love, arranging, once the war has finished, to have their first official date in Paris - not under the Eiffel Tower or in front of Notre Dame, but in a café mentioned in a book by Erich Maria Remarque (Arc de Triomphe): Café Scheherazade (guess what my next purchase from the Book Depository is likely to be...).

One of the strong points of this book is the use of language, with different styles used for different functions.  While each chapter begins with a languid, poetic description of St. Kilda, usually with one of the characters making their way through the streets to the café, the dialogue is very different.  Vibrant, colloquial, argumentative, aggressive - the old men (and Masha!) tell their tales in their own inimitable style.  As the conversations are supposed to take place mainly in Yiddish, the writer throws in some Yiddish words and plays around with word order to give the English text a slightly foreign, off-kilter feel.  It definitely works, and the contrast between the descriptive prose and the lively conversation gives greater emphasis to the stories unfolding in the café.

As much as this book is about the tales though, it is also about Melbourne, a city of stories, and end station of sorts for refugees and asylum seekers from all over the world.  Here, standing on the St. Kilda foreshore, staring in the direction (far in the distance) of Antarctica, you can feel that you have reached the end - the end of your journey, the end of the world.  Many people in Melbourne are either immigrants or children of immigrants, and it's easy to believe that these stories exist everywhere.  Every time you enter the supermarket, every time you step onto a (chronically delayed) train, every time you walk into a café: there are people all around you with similar, fascinating, amazing stories to tell, if only you have the time to listen.

We all have stories - maybe I'll tell mine one day (it's a good one), but I'll leave you with one which Zable unfolds in the book in his typically hypnotic style.  You may have been wondering about the journey I mentioned above, where thousands of Polish Jews fled through Asia.  This was because they were able to obtain Japanese transit visas, allowing them to receive travel documents through Russia and escape to the relative safety of Japan and, later, Shanghai.  But why and how did a German ally allow so many Jews to leave Europe and find sanctuary within its borders?  Go to Wikipedia, and look up the name Chiune Sugihara...

Some stories should never be forgotten.

In Which You See My Face!

Today's offering presents a rather lengthy attempt at a V-Blog post, in which I discuss Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford and a few pieces of her shorter fiction, chat a little about Victorian literature in general, and point in the general direction of my bookshelves.  I guarantee you will not sit through the whole thing :)

Oh, and here's a short bonus featuring the next generation of book bloggers!

Marriage, Actually

What with the dozen novels making up The Barchester Chronicles and the Palliser series (and, of course, the necessity of rereading these wonderful works), it's actually quite difficult to move onto any of Anthony Trollope's other fiction.  I've read The Way We Live Now a couple of times, but I finally got around to buying another of his novels, He Knew He Was Right, earlier this year and, as I'm currently a man of leisure, thought I would spend an idle few weeks working my way through this 820-page monster.  So, nine days (!) later, I'm ready to review and, luckily enough, also in time to participate in the Classics Circuit Trollope Tour - step this way...

*****
He Knew He Was Right centres on the marital problems of Louis Trevelyan and his young wife, Emily.  When an old 'family friend', the slightly sleazy Colonel Osborne, becomes a little too intimate with Emily Trevelyan, her husband overreacts, and his heavy-handed actions are the catalyst for a devastating split.  Emily's refusal to apologise for her lack of obedience and Louis' inability to countenance a reconciliation without her unconditional apology and surrender prevent any possibility of a resolution, and the effects of the separation, not only on the unfortunate couple but also on the innocent bystanders caught in the cross-fire, are sketched out perfectly across a very wide canvas.

Most of the Trollope novels I've read so far have used marriages as a sub-plot, often as a form of light relief from the main proceedings, and at first I was a little disappointed with the book, wondering how the trials and tribulations of a host of star-crossed lovers could possibly fill the pages allotted to the task.

However, I gradually became absorbed by the many differing approaches taken to the subject of holy wedlock.  From Nora Rowley's rejection of a 'suitable' match and her resolute adherence to her true love, to Dorothy Stanbury's willingness to sacrifice her love to the loyalty she owes her aunt and the Reverend Gibson's constant dithering as to which of the Misses French he desires to marry (and eventually, as to which would be the lesser of two evils...) - getting married is a rather complex and worrying affair.  As I have intimated in my title, I was reminded a little of the style of the film Love, Actually with its light-hearted look at various types of love (platonic, unrequited, forbidden, betrayed etc).  When all is said and done, marriage actually is all around...

Anyone reading the book will be struck by the frequent allusions to (and quotations from) Othello, and - according to the introduction in my edition - one of the catalysts for the writing of He Knew He Was Right was a newspaper article bemoaning the lack of a Victorian Othello.  Of course, being Victorian, there was little chance of a full-blown tale of sexual jealousy, and this side of the story is very muted.  However, the parallels with the Shakespeare play, including the addition of an Iago figure (Bozzle), are there for all to see: just like Othello, He Knew He Was Right is the story of an otherwise succesful man laid low by one deadly character flaw.

Another interesting theme touched upon rather too briefly is the growing importance of feminism, portrayed in this book by the rather unflattering figure of Wallachia Petrie, an American poet(ess) who rages against the iniquities of both male domination and hereditary power (and who, therefore, is doubly disappointed when her intimate friend decides to get involved with a member of the English aristocracy).

Trollope was not fond of strident blue-stockings, and this exaggerated caricature is guaranteed to annoy feminists, but the character is a very interesting one, representing a slight shift in Trollope's fiction from an entirely patriarchal anglocentric world to one where America is playing an ever-increasing role, and where traditional gender roles are, if not challenged, then questioned ever so slightly. It may be stretching things a little to think that the writer intended undertones of sexual attraction between Petrie and her protégée (this is Trollope, not Woolf), but there is enough there to make one think that it is not beyond the realms of possibility, especially in the final mention of the American poet:

"In the privacy of her little chamber, Wallachia Petrie shed - not absolute tears - but many tearful thoughts over her friend.  It was to her a thing very terrible that the chosen one of her heart..." He Knew He Was Right, Penguin Classics (2004, p.682)

It is though, of course, the Trevelyan marriage which is the focal, and most important, pillar of this novel.  In his lengthy description of the tragic consequences of a seemingly trivial disagreement, Trollope shows how an unwillingness, or an inability, to overlook an apparent slight can bring a marriage crashing down.  The actual issue of who is right or wrong is not really that important; it is more about a clash of wills and a struggle for marital supremacy.  Louis, despite knowing full well that his wife is completely innocent of the charges he has lain upon her, demands that she bend to his will, insisting on the complete obedience and submission he (and many Victorian readers) believed owing to him as the husband.

When his wife refuses to apologise for something she has not done, his attempts to punish her, while causing her enormous anguish, backfire and affect him much more deeply.  He begins to suffer both mentally and physically, the stress of his marriage breakdown taking its toll on his appearance and, later, his health.  However, even when it is clear that he has been abandoned by his closest friends and that even his paid helpers have decided to wash their hands of him, his obstinacy refuses to let him take his wife back without the profession of submission and repentance he craves:

"Should he yield to her now - should he make her any promise - might not the result be that he would be shut up in dark rooms, robbed of his liberty, robbed of what he loved more than his liberty - his power as a man."  (p.659)

Trevelyan is prepared to go to the grave, if necessary, before compromising his principles and excusing his wife without her apology.  I'm sure modern psychologists would have a field day analysing Louis' state of mind and tracing the progress of his decline into madness - even for someone with no real knowledge of mental illness, He Knew He Was Right is a masterful and intriguing insight into the effects of mental strain on bodily well-being.

Then again, those mental health experts may have been preoccupied looking at the effect these events had on someone who has so far remained unmentioned - Trevelyan's son Louis.  The descriptions of the poor boy towards the end of the novel - apathetic, unemotional, silent - perhaps do more to highlight the stupidity of the quarrel than all the deterioration his father undergoes.  Whoever you think is right in the dispute, there is no denying that both parents are utterly wrong when drawing the argument out has such a worrying effect on their only child. 

The moral of the story?  Think twice (at least) before rushing into marriage; respect your partner and don't jump to conclusions without talking things through; and never ever allow your actions to hurt the children.  There you have it: Anthony Trollope - marriage adviser.

Oh, and yes, it's a very good book.

A Small Amount of Catching Up - Part 3

Hold on, everyone - there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  Would you believe that I am almost up to date with the reviews I missed during my enforced absence?  You would?  Well, aren't you Mr/Ms Smartypants...  Just a few more books to slate review, and we're fully up to speed - a deep breath, and away we go.

*****

The first of today's books is Vikram Seth's An Equal Music, and I'm afraid Seth is one writer I doubt I'll be slating any time soon.  Just like A Suitable Boy, An Equal Music (if nowhere near as long) is quite simply a sumptuous read, one of those books you just lose yourself in, curled up in your favourite armchair on a cold, rainy, November afternoon.  It's the story of a violinist, who unexpectedly meets up with an old flame and falls into the trap of trying to rekindle lost passion and relive past experiences.  Set in London, Vienna and Florence (a place I have never visited but which has appeared alarmingly frequently in my reading recently), the story proceeds quietly, but measured, very much like the music described in the text.

As well as being a story of reignited love, An Equal Music is also, some would say just as much, a novel about music.  Michael, our romantic violinist, is a member of a string quartet, and Seth creates a credible picture of an incredibly complex set of relationships and egos, which must all be appeased and balanced in order to allow the group to make music.  Now, I wouldn't know a Stradivarius from a cheap fiddle, but many other people have hailed this book as a magnificent portrayal of what life as a musician is really like - so believe them, if not me, when I agree wholeheartedly with that sentiment :)

Alas, the problem with Seth is that he hasn't actually written many novels, something I'm rather upset with him for.  He's obviously too busy with his poetry, travel writing and keeping the streets of Gotham City free of crime (actually, that might be someone else) to devote himself to cranking out more fiction.  However, he is currently in the process of writing a follow up novel to A Suitable Boy, set two generations later and entitled (inevitably) A Suitable Girl, and I am greatly looking forward to the appearance of this particular book.  Sadly though, there is a cloud on the horizon.  The release date for the novel?  2013...

*****

No real slating for my second book today either (where is the bile?).  American Gods, Neil Gaiman's epic fantasy/mythology/crime novel, follows Shadow, a recently-released prisoner, across America in the company of a supposed deity who goes by the name of Mr. Wednesday.  As we travel from town to town in the company of the enigmatic Shadow and the much-larger-than-life Wednesday, Gaiman treats us to a story mixing a description of current American society and the origins of its multicultural people.  It's a classic road trip, in the vein of On The Road, but it's also a thought-provoking look at where we're heading.  Oh, and it's also a great whodunnit...

Where Neverwhere was claustrophobic, reading American Gods could make an Agoraphobe have a nervous break down.  Gaiman manages to capture the essence of a vast country of contrasting regions and lifestyles, all the time slowly unfolding his tale, a story of the Gods the immigrants brought with them in their heads, and the struggle between traditional and modern ways of life.  It's an allegorical last battle, where all must stand and be counted, rallying around their standard bearer in a fight to the death.  Or is it?

There's a definite progression from Neverwhere, and Gaiman succeeds in blurring genre lines, creating a book which will appeal to almost everyone who enjoys reading.  Anyone with more than a passing interest in mythology will enjoy seeing the Gods come alive, interact and adapt to modern life.  However, this book doesn't quite make it into the top rank of writing for me, and that's to do with, well, the writing.  Perhaps I've been spoiled by reading Vikram Seth and Natsume Soseki recently, but I missed the elegant prose of Kusamakura and An Equal Music.  Whether that's possible in such a book as this, I'm not sure, and I hasten to add that I still loved this novel: I just wish that the language had flowed just as perfectly as the tale itself.  Is that too much to ask?

*****
So, I'm pretty much up to date - yay!  Stay tuned in coming days for my first submission for The Classics Circuit and something new...

No, not telling ;)

Stories from Across the Ditch

A while back, on the Thursday night Twitter chat-fest we call South Pacific Book Chat (#spbkchat), the topic was New Zealand literature, and I was cast in the unusual position of a mute bystander, having only read works by Katherine Mansfield (exquisite short stories, poignant and thought provoking) and Lynley Dodd (Hairy Maclarey from Donaldson's Dairy).

The one name that came up again and again was Janet Frame, so I decided to check her out and was lucky enough to receive a copy of The Daylight and the Dust, a collection of Frame's short stories, from the lovely Golda at Random House Australia.  Of course, then I had a nasty bout of RSI and a flare-up of my old back issues too, which made both reading and writing (typing) rather difficult - not to mention painful.  Consider this a belated repayment of my literary and blogging debts :)

*****
The Daylight and The Dust is a selection of Frame's short stories, gleaned from her various collections, ranging from the early 1950s to the end of her life.  There is a staggering variety in the selection, with serious, thought-provoking psychological tales brushing shoulders with whimsical childhood memories and ultra-short stories which are over almost before you've realised you're reading them.  Several of the stories are set in London, and this colonial view of life in the mother country reminded me a little of V.S. Naipaul's short fiction, written around the same time.  Of course, as a Kiwi writer, it's rather obvious to say that Frame's writing is influenced by Mansfield (I'm not sure anyone from New Zealand could write short stories without sensing her shadow looming heavy in the background), but there is a definite similarity in some of the themes covered.

One example of this is The Tea Cup, a story about a woman sharing lodgings and tentatively trying to create a connection with a male fellow lodger.  The subtle desperation exuding from the poor, lonely woman reminded me of several of Mansfield's eternal spinster characters, wonderful women destined to live and die alone, unloved.  The idea is also helped by Frame's light, airy style, with both the language and the events of the story appearing at first to be quite trivial while masking great sadness and inner torment.

Another story touching on a sense of unfulfilment (if that's a word!) is The Triumph of Poetry - one of the longer stories in the book -, which follows a man from his very successful school days through his moderately successful life, always reminding the reader of the hero's failure to become a real poet, life having got in the way.  Despite the character's apparent professional and personal happiness, Frame skilfully weaves an air of unhappiness between the lines, leaving the reader with the sense of what might have been.

One of the interesting features of this book was the number of very short stories, ludicrously brief in some cases.  One, the title story, barely reached two hundred words (and I have to say that it wasn't one of my favourites...), and there were several others which were a little over a page long.  However, even in some of these shorter efforts, there was some wonderful writing.  In Dossy, a story taking up just under two pages of very uncluttered text, the little girl featured goes from being a Queen bee to an envious poor girl to a doomed orphan in the space of a few hundred words (and three differing viewpoints) - a wonderful achievement.

In fact, several of the more memorable stories centre on childhood, Frame evoking nostalgic memories of long, lazy holidays long forgotten.  However, for the adult reader, there are often darker undertones lurking beneath the surface, saving the tales from becoming mere descriptive passages and turning them into something a little more interesting.  Good examples of this include The Reservoir, a story about children daring to break an unspoken taboo, and Swans, where a family (sans father) go on a curiously bleak day trip to the beach.  These stories are both familiar and yet slightly unnerving, leaving the reader with a sense of more happening than meets the eye, which (of course) is how good writing should be...

The Daylight and The Dust is a nice introduction to an obviously talented writer, but it is a little like an appetiser before the main meal.  I'm more of a Victorian pot-boiler man than a short-story afficionado, and these stories have merely whetted my appetite for something a little lengthier.  So, to finish up today, I'll turn the spotlight back on my audience and ask: have you read any of Frame's novels?  What would you recommend?

I'd be very interested to hear your opinions :)

*****
P.S. As I began to write this review, I flicked over to Twitter (as you do) and, after following a few interesting tweets and links, I found something which brings a certain symmetry and serendipity to my post.  Apparently, Tim Jones (an NZ Science-Fiction Writer and a regular at the aforementioned #spbkchat event) was awarded a prize this week (and well done to him for that!).  Which one, you ask?  Well, would you believe it was the Janet Frame Memorial Award for Literature?  Life, sometimes, truly is stranger than fiction.  And nicer :)

Hello Japan November Challenge

It's time to add my contribution to Tanabata's Hello Japan! event for November, and this month it's a little meme with a few Japan-based questions - saa, ikimashoo~ :)

My favourite Japanese city is Nara because you get all the temples of Kyoto without the ugly buildings (and with added deer!).

The best Japanese book I've read this year is The Oxford Book of Japanese Short Stories - a wonderful introduction to J-Lit for anyone interested in this area.

What Japanese author(s) or book(s) have you enjoyed that you would highly recommend to others?
Let's try Yukio Mishima, Natsume Soseki, Jun'ichiro Tanizaki and (of course) Haruki Murakami :) - I will be moving on to the two Japanese Nobel laureates, Yasunari Kawabata and Kenzaburo Oe, in 2011, so that list will undoubtedly grow longer...

What is something Japanese that you'd like to try but haven't yet had the chance?
Alas, I never got to attend the Sumo or make it to Koshien for a Hanshin Tigers' game during my time in Japan :(

You're planning to visit Japan next year. Money is not a concern. What is on the top of your list of things you most want to do?
See above :)  Also, I spent most of my time in Japan in Kansai, with one fleeting visit to Kanto, so I would like to skip Honshu and visit the other main islands - a bit of time in Kyushu, Hokkaido and Shikoku (plus a few days on the beach on Okinawa!) would be great!  Not sure I could stomach Will Ferguson's Japanese journey though...

***Thanks to Tanabata for organising this mini-challenge: why don't you all join in next time and learn more about Japan?***

A Small Amount of Catching Up - Part 2

Today, I'll be discussing another trio of books in my desperate (and unnecessary) attempt to get back up to date with my blog, reviewing a rare (for me) non-fiction book, a French magical realism novel and yet another slice of Japanese literature - allons-y...

*****

A Short History of Philosophy is a textbook I read a while back, in preparation for helping students studying an Art & Design theory unit at work.  I am no longer working there, so it probably wasn't the best use of my work time, but it was extremely interesting all the same.  Reading about the long line of Western philosophers, starting with the Greek greats (Socrates, Aristotle, Plato) through to Bertrand Russell in the twentieth century was fascinating stuff; however, a month or so after the fact, I'd be hard pressed to remember more than a few names and ideas (which is thoroughly depressing).

One thing I do remember though is my favourite philosopher, Diogenes the Cynic.  Why is he my favourite?  Well, in addition to living on the streets and being fairly dismissive about adhering to the conventions of polite society (and hygiene), he was also responsible for one of the best disses in history.  When Alexander the Great, one of his admirers, came to visit him and asked whether he could do anything for him, Diogenes replied "Yes, you can get out of my daylight."  As well as being extremely profound, it also showed a lot of balls: if the ruler of the known world showed up on my doorstep (or gutter), I think I'd probably be a tad more respectful...

*****

A good while back, I was dropping off some old clothes at the local second-hand shop when I noticed a book in German on the shelf by the counter.  I'd never heard of it, but it was only $1 (and, in pre-Book Depository times, finding anything in German in Melbourne was nothing short of a miracle), so I decided to take it home - where I soon realised that it was actually a German translation of a French novel (which I am now reviewing in English...).

Der Erlkönig (Le Roi des Aulnes or The Alder King, translated from French to German by Hellmut Waller) is a Goncourt Prize-winning novel by French writer Michel Tournier.  The title comes from a Nordic myth, turned into a poem by Goethe, about a fairy king who pursues a man across the moors to steal his child from his grasp.  This story, set just prior to, and then during, World War II, appears to have little to do with the title at first; however, as the story unfolds, the parallels become very clear. 

Abel Tiffauges is a rather unusual person, a clumsy, lonely giant of a man, living in Paris in the late 1930s, who gets into serious trouble with the law after spending more time than he should with some local children.  Set free to join the war effort, he begins a gradual drift eastwards across Europe, firstly as a soldier, then as a prisoner of war and finally as a civillian helper in Germany.  He becomes a collector of creatures, from carrier pigeons to dogs, until finally he achieves his dream and becomes a hunter of children, seeking suitable young boys for a German military school: to the parents in the area, his tall, menacing figure becomes one with the legendary Erlking...

This book is a wonderful example of magical realism, with Tiffauges seeming both larger than life and somewhat apart from it, a spectral observer of the European war.  Tournier draws from a dazzling variety of sources ranging from Greek myths to European fairy tales and introduces real people (such as Hermann Goering) to complete his rich tapestry of a novel.  At the end, we are no wiser as to Tiffauges' fate as he heads deeper into the east, but the journey was definitely worth it.  If you like slightly unusual, magical novels (à la Murakami or Garcia Marquez), Tournier is certainly worth a read - but maybe try him in English (or French) instead!

*****

And finally, we come to my third book today and the companion piece to The Key, also translated by Howard Hibbett, Diary of a Mad Old Man.  As well as having an absolutely superb title, this book is another of Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's looks at the seedy sexual underbelly of polite Japanese society.

This time our protagonist is Utsugi, a prototypical grumpy old man if ever there was one, who attempts to ease the aches and pains of growing older by lusting after Satsuko, his daughter-in-law.  With each diary entry (probably the reason these two Tanizaki works were joined in one volume), the old man's obsession grows, causing trouble for the rest of his long-suffering family; predictably, Satsuko is portrayed as being slightly less than innocent, only too willing to use the old man's attention to serve her own interests.

For the first half of this book, I would have to say that I was a little disappointed.  If The Key was a poor imitation of Quicksand, it appeared that Diary... was going to be a mediocre imitation of The Key.  The plots were similar, the diary format was the same, and the idea of the seductive outsider was beginning to grate.  However, Tanizaki turns it around in the second half, moving the story away from a story of obsession and into a study of the effects of old age, focusing the microscope on Utsugi rather than Satsuko (which comes as a nice change).  When the obligatory twist ending comes, it's actually very different to what's expected, leaving the reader with a satisfyingly melancholy resolution.

All in all, an interesting read, but I think I'll lay off the Tanizaki for a while.  Individually, I'm sure all of his books are a wonderful read; however, having looked at brief descriptions of some of his other famous works (Naomi, Some Prefer Nettles), I get the feeling that I would be experiencing severe déjà vu were I to dive into his novels again in the near future.  Besides, there are so many other Japanese authors whose books I am yet to sample - so little time (sigh!)...

A Grass Pillow for My Head

Well, I was planning to plough through all my neglected reviews before moving on to new books, but as Robbie Burns pointed out, the best-laid plans of mice and men do, indeed, gang aft agley (especially when it comes to blogging - although I don't know many rodent reviewers myself).  Anyway, I finished a book yesterday and decided that I had to talk about it, and when that happens, you just have to grit your teeth, hit the keyboard, and hope that your body holds out; here goes...

*****
The book which brought on this spontaneous bout of blogging is another novel by the father of Japanese literature, Natsume Soseki.  Translated by Meredith McKinney, Kusamakura (previously translated as The Three-Cornered World) means 'grass pillow' and is a short novel which is the epitome of what people imagine Japanese literature to be.  The main idea of the novel - you couldn't really call it a plot - is of an artist travelling through the wilds of Kyushu at the start of the twentieth century and staying at a hot springs inn while searching for inspiration for a picture.  He comes across Nami, the owner's daughter, and... that's pretty much it.  If you're looking for complications, you are definitely in the wrong place.

You see, Kusamakura, as with many Japanese novels, is more about the path than the destination.  While reading it, the expression 'poetry in prose' continually crossed my mind, and Natsume himself actually described this book (a sort of bridge between his humorous early works and his later, more serious, efforts) as a 'haiku novel' - which probably says more about the book than I could ever tell you ;)  It consists of thirteen short chapters, each around ten to twelve pages long, and I read it as it should be read, taking one chapter at a time, savouring the words, putting it to one side, and then coming back for another slice later.  This is a book for enjoying, not rushing.

The concepts expressed in the book revolve around a few central ideas: the examination of what an artist actually is and what they need to do to live artistically; the contrast between natural rural life and the fevered city existence most people have become accustomed to; and, more allegorically, the difference between the past and the present, East and West.  Soseki's unnamed protagonist is more than happy to just find the nearest rock and drink in the scenery as he ponders these mysteries, gazing into the distance and musing on the challenges of poetry and painting. 

This could get rather repetitive and mind-numbing in the hands of a lesser writer, but Natsume has a subtle and timely sense of humour, allowing his main character to laugh quietly at himself and prevent the thinking from becoming navel-gazing.  When his hero spends a page wondering what has happened to the other occupants of the inn, imagining them lost at sea in an impenetrable mist, or magically transformed into ethereal spirits, the final sentence of the paragraph:

"Whatever may be the case, it certainly is quiet" p.64, Penguin Classics (2008)

pulls us back to the real world with a thud!

One idea I loved was his musing that you don't actually have to create anything to be an artist.  Simply removing oneself consciously from worldly troubles and being able to appreciate nature's artistic qualities requires an artistic temperament; the actual work of art is simply the culmination of this idea (as a lazy writer, I find this idea far too tempting!).  Of course, on a sunny day, relaxing in the mountains (or lounging on the sofa), it's best not to overanalyse these things.  As Natsume himself says:

"To think is to sink into error." p.43

Another point where I am fully in agreement with the writer and his creation is where he discusses the delights of tea (no coffee for me or the characters in Kusamakura!):

"Tea is in fact a marvellous drink.  To those who spurn it on the grounds of insomnia, I say that it's better to be deprived of sleep than of tea." p.87

As you can tell from all these quotes I've provided (something I rarely take the pains to do), I loved this book.  It's less a novel or novella, and more a tract about living life artistically, the Tao of Kusamakura if you will.  I'm sure someone with a bit more energy than myself could create a new religion from Natsume's whimsical musings (and I'm sure it would be a good one), but that would actually defeat the object of removing oneself from daily life.

I'll finish today with a perfect example of how this book can constantly throw up surprises.  After going away for a stroll in the garden, I came back to read Chapter 9 - only to realise on completing it that it was actually Chapter 10...  When I eventually got around to reading the real Chapter 9, our fearless protagonist was conversing with Nami and explaining his method of reading novels, dipping into the book wherever he saw fit and reading a few pages with no context.  When challenged as to the logic of this method, he replies:

"If you say you have to start at the beginning, that means you have to read to the end." p.95

And that is what Kusamakura is all about...

A Small Amount of Catching Up - Part 1

After a horrible bout of RSI and/or nasty neck pain (which made it very painful to both type and read), I am slowly getting back to fairly normal health - yay :)  So, it's time to catch you up with a little of what I have managed to read recently: slowly...

*****
Of course, it's good to start the way you mean to go on, so my first mini-review will be a slating of Henry James' The Wings of the Dove.  Yes, yes, he's very clever, wonderful psychological treatment etc etc, but Henry James is everything that non-readers imagine classic literature to be - impenetrable, over-wordy, meandering and (most importantly) completely up itself.  I've tried with Mr. James, I really have, and there were times where I thought I was glimpsing the good in his writing; however, these few moments of enjoyment were drowned in the sludge of words and lack of momentum.  The story?  Sick rich girl has money, and everyone else wants it (but never actually says it of course).  Apologies to all James fans, but it's three strikes and out for old Henry - I just don't like his style...


*****
Now someone whose style suits me a little better is Jun'ichiro Tanizaki, and after reading the wonderful Quicksand, I immediately snapped up a two-book edition on the Book Depository, the first of which was The Key (translated by Howard Hibbet).  This is a he-says-she-says novel with a difference as it is entirely constructed of extracts from the diaries of a man and his wife.  The extracts show the somewhat perverse turn their marriage takes when the husband decides to spice up their sex life with some rather unorthodox measures.  While both the husband and wife become aware of their spouse's diary, both strongly deny that they would ever actually look inside, thus violating their partner's privacy, but how much can we trust what they are telling us - and who are they really writing their diaries for?


The Key is another wonderful, slow-burning, sexually-charged story, and the idea is an intriguing one.  However, it's not as good as Quicksand and suffers a tad in comparison  The ending is definitely very similar, and it does appear to run out of steam a little, surprising for what is a fairly slim book.  I would also warn potential readers that it does contain a storyline that is actually quite shocking to...  Look, I'm getting onto very dodgy moral ground here, and I don't want to start any kind of cultural debate, so I'll tread lightly and just say that many people will find some of the actions the husband takes ever-so-slightly disturbing.  Let's move on...


*****
Now, I do love a bit of Dostoyevsky, and Devils (translated by the famous Constance Garnett) is a lot more than a bit of Dostoyevsky.  Another rolling epic tale, it depicts events in a small rural town where a group of young anarchists is stirring up the locals, confusing the authorities and preparing for a particularly unspeakable crime.  It's based on a real event, and the novel is every bit as good as some of his more famous works, another wonderful combination of tight plotting, psychological suspense and well-written crucial scenes.

It's funny though that when people talk about Dostoyevsky, it's always as a brooding, masterful writer, someone who writes books to be waded through, akin to walking across a vast river of treacle, yet his books are often a joy to read.  As well as being real page turners, his novels can contain wonderful scenes of humour - yes, Dostoyevsky is funny!  The first part of Devils is especially amusing, culminating in a meeting where about a dozen of the main characters meet under unexpected and confusing circumstances, reminiscent more of Oscar Wilde than Tolstoy.  Of course, with the subject matter being what it is, things do take a turn for the more serious later, but never let it be said that Dostoyevsky neglected the lighter side of the art of literature...

*****
So that's the first of my mini-catch-up pieces; there'll be more to come when I can bring myself to return to the computer.  Forgive the brevity and the shallowness of the reviews - hopefully there's something there to make it all worthwhile :)