A Few Odds and Ends

I've already managed to put up a couple of reviews this month (which constitutes a good month at the moment!), so I thought I'd continue my weekly trend, this time with bite-size reviewettes of the other books I've got through in May so far.  Shall we?

*****

Let's start with a Nobel prize winner (just because).  Orhan Pamuk's My Name is Red (translated by Erdag Göknar) is a mystery set in sixteenth-century Istanbul, involving the beautiful, but fading art of traditional Arabic 'illumination' of literary texts.  One of a group of four master artists has been been murdered,  presumably by one of the other three, and Black, recently returned from a long absence in the East, is charged with finding the guilty culprit.  If he can win the hand of the beautiful Shekure along the way, so much the better :)

The novel consists of many chapters, each having its own voice, told by one of the characters (or a drawing...).  It's an interesting way to tell a story, especially as the murderer actually has two voices - his real character, and that of 'the Murderer'.  It makes for an intriguing tale, but I didn't really love this book.  I was never really able to lose myself in the story, partly because of the, at times, slow pace, but perhaps more due to the unfamiliar setting which (to be honest) didn't really interest me that much.  As a tale of masters of a dying art form struggling to cope with the inevitable overthrow of their way of life, it is a fascinating story - I'll need another example of Pamuk's work before I can really say whether I like his style though.

*****

The Setting Sun by Osamu Dazai (translated by Donald Keene) is, as I'm sure you can guess, a little more in my line.  A fairly short novel, it tells the tale of Kazuko and her family, Japanese minor nobility who have descended in the world following the death of the father, and the financial strains caused by the aftermath of the Second World War.  Kazuko and her mother move away from Tokyo in order to stretch out their meagre reserves, but their lives are turned upside down again by the arrival of Kazuko's brother Naoji, believed lost in the Pacific War.  Far from this being a happy family reunion, however, it is merely the start of a final freefall into poverty and distress.

I've read a lot of Japanese fiction over the past few years, but most of it has been set either before or after WWII, and I have the feeling that there isn't as much literature dealing with this time as is the case in Germany (where it's virtually its own genre...).  While it's possible that I just haven't found these books yet, even Mishima's The Sea of Fertility Tetralogy, which spans fifty years between 1920 and 1970, conveniently skips the war years completely.  The Setting Sun then is a welcome insight into post-war Japan and the problems people had in adjusting to a new style of life and government.  The old aristocracy has lost its importance, the Emperor is not longer a deity, and Americans roam the streets of the conquered people (albeit very much in the background).

This leaves people like Kazuko and Naoji with a lot to work through if they want to carry on with their lives, and, in Japanese literature, that 'if' is never a given.  A quick glance at Dazai's Wikipedia page will soon give you an idea of his, shall we say, lack of optimism for the future, a sense of negativity which is shared by his protagonists.  It all makes for an interesting slice of Japanese social history and a very entertaining read - just don't expect many happy endings here...

*****

A while back, I read Andrew McGahan's 1988 and was impressed enough to make a library request for Praise (written before 1988 but set after), where we meet Gordon on his return to Brisbane.  Fed up with his job, he uses a management reshuffle as an excuse to quit, sinking gently into the bludger lifestyle of drink, drugs and trips to Centrelink.  Still paranoid about his lack of sexual prowess, he somehow slips into a relationship with Cynthia, whose appetite for bedroom activities far outstrips his.  When she decides to forgo a move to Darwin to give their nascent relationship a chance, Gordon isn't entirely sure that it's for the best - especially as his high school crush Rachel is back on the scene...

Praise reminds me a little of Helen Garner's Monkey Grip, and could be seen as making a similar account of early-nineties Brisbane to the one Garner's novel made of mid-seventies Melbourne.  I'd have to say though that it doesn't do it nearly as well.  I liked 1988, with its subtle, psychological undertones, a story of a city boy stuck in the middle of nowhere and forced to face up to his inadequacies.  On the other hand, Praise just felt like a detailed list of one person's sexual exploits and drug-fuelled indiscretions over a particularly unproductive period of his life.  I got through it fairly quickly, and, although I enjoyed reading it, I was happy to move onto something else - and not much of the book has stuck in my mind.

McGahan went on to win the Miles Franklin award with The White Earth (which I'm planning to read at some point), so I trust that his later books are more similar in vein to 1988 than Praise.  I know it sounds like I really hated this book, but that's not the case; it's just that I was expecting something very different - a progression, both in character and writing - to what I found.  I forgot that what I was reading actually predated what I'd previously read...

Has anyone else read this - and do you have a different opinion?  Please let me know :)

Running...

In my little corner of the blogosphere (and twitterverse), there has been a lot of talk of, and love for, Peirene Press, a small, London-based indie publisher that promotes translated European fiction.  Last year, Peirene published their first three offerings, bringing short novellas to the attention of anglophone readers who may be interested in (according to a critical blurb from the TLS) "literary cinema for those fatigued by film."

I'm not sure how accurate that claim is for Peirene's other publications, but it's a very good description for their fifth offering, Dutch writer Jan Van Mersbergen's Tomorrow Pamplona (translated by Laura Watkinson).  In just under 190 pages, the writer takes his characters (and the reader) on a road trip which could come straight from a European film noir.  Interested?  Buckle up, and I'll take you for a little ride...

*****

Tomorrow Pamplona starts in the Netherlands, where Danny, a boxer, is running through the streets: from what, we don't know; to where, he doesn't seem to know himself.  After standing in the rain, waiting for someone to take pity on him and give him a lift to wherever it is that he's heading, he is picked up by Robert, a family man on his usual annual getaway to Pamplona, where he will participate in the world-famous running of the bulls.  And so begins a rather unexpected road trip...

As the story unfolds, we are treated to two separate strands.  The first, told in a present tense which heightens tension and brings us closer to the action, relates the eventful journey Danny and Robert make to Pamplona.  The second, told in the past tense, gradually fills in the few months leading up to the day the two men meet.  Both parts begin very quickly, events following one another rapidly, before slowing down gradually as the protagonists approach Spain.  Towards the end, the pace speeds up again, dragging the reader towards the inevitable (and shattering) climax.  It's a hell of a ride.

I don't want to say too much more about the plot - in such a short novel(la), it's best to leave things between the reader and the author -, but it's fairly obvious from the start that Danny, a man of very few words, is a slightly ambiguous character.  There is a sense of barely restrained rage lurking beneath the taciturn exterior, and part of the fun is trying to figure out just what it is that has got under his skin.

However, Robert gives the reader just as much to think about.  For all his talk about needing to get away for a while to recharge (and I can think of better places to rediscover yourself than at the pointy end of a bull...), there is obviously something not quite right in his life too, a frustration that can only be (temporarily) eased by staring danger, and death, in the face.  Just how happy is he with his life, and to what extent is he prepared to go to feel alive?

Tomorrow Pamplona packs a lot into its slender bulk, but, at times, Danny is not the only one who is sparing with words. Although the middle sections are a little more descriptive, Van Mersbergen begins the story with extremely sparse prose, much closer on the Hemingway-Proust spectrum to the American writer than the French.  Of course, this may well be intentional; the subject matter is reminiscent of old Ernest, and there's even a slight nod in the direction of The Sun Also Rises in a café scene on the Spanish border.  As mentioned above (and I may well be alone here), I felt a sense of lengthening of time though towards the middle of the book as the hour of the running of the bulls approached.  Events appeared to slow down, until time suddenly... stopped.  And then began to speed up again.

The key to the book is the secret of Danny's flight (and silence), but that's something you'll have to find out for yourself - and I highly recommend that you do.  Tomorrow Pamplona is out in June, hopefully available at The Book Depository and Amazon, and it is well worth reading.  There's one thing I got from this book that I can tell you though: you can't run from fate, but you can (and should) run from bulls...

*****

Before I go, I just thought I'd bookend the review with a few thoughts on Peirene (who were lovely enough to send me this review copy).  It's no wonder that so many people are talking about them, because they are filling an awkward gap in the market, and, at the same time, fulfilling an important literary role.  The idea of providing a literary equivalent to a two-hour European film is an excellent one (and I could see Danny and Robert as they wound their way down towards the Iberian peninsula), one that has obviously caught on.  The identity that Meike, Maddy and co. (even if the co. consists of an imaginary friend and a couple of interns!) have created, especially in the look and style of their books is instantly recognisable and fitting for the works they are presenting.

I wonder what the future holds for Peirene.  Will they continue to bring out their three books a year, going for quality over quantity?  Will they stay with the concept of short, one-sitting stories?  Tomorrow Pamplona is noticeably longer than the class of 2010, so is that indicative of a shift in focus?  Will they continue to uncover new (for English-speaking audiences) European writers, or will they build on their successes by going back to the well of their previously published authors?

I certainly don't know (and I doubt Meike has all those answers either), but one thing is certain: Peirene should be congratulated for their efforts in making good European fiction available to a wider audience.  And that's what I'm doing - well done :)

Time Well Worth Taking

As part of my ongoing quest to read more quality Australian novels, I decided earlier in the year to read Steven Carroll's Miles-Franklin-Award-Winning book The Time We Have Taken - then I discovered it was the third in a trilogy of tales...  So, having read the excellent The Art of the Engine Driver in January, and the even better The Gift of Speed in March, almost four months later, I finally got around to reading the final part of the series.

As I settled down on the settee to read the first few chapters, and the familiar, measured prose began to wash over me, I began to realise that I was feeling... well, happy.  A wave of nostalgic anticipation washed over me as I realised how much I was looking forward to reading the book.  Luckily, it didn't disappoint :)

So what is it about Carroll's work that I enjoy so much?  In lieu of actually writing a review (which is actually a bit pointless anyway as it's all about the journey, not the destination), I thought I'd try to pin down what it is I like about his writing.

1) It's a series.

More of a personal thing than a rock-solid recommendation, I know, but anyone who has frequented my blog over the past couple of years will know that I enjoy following writers and characters (e.g. The Barchester Chronicles, The Trilogy of the Rat), especially when the characters develop noticeably over the years and pages.  This is certainly the case here: we have seen Michael grow up from a solitary cricket-mad boy to a young man in love with life, literature and women; we've seen Vic finally pluck up the courage to make a break and start the final phase of his life; and we've seen how Rita copes with the changes, moving on in some ways, staying put in others.

2) It's set in Melbourne.

Again, a personal preference.  I've lived here now for nine years, without actually living in Melbourne proper.  For me, the setting of a novel in Melbourne gives me a glimpse of time past, an alternative history that I could have shared (but didn't).

3) The writing is wonderful.

Carroll's prose is deceptively profound, simple language blending into a greater whole, progressing casually and with a measured step - time is there for taking, and enjoying.  There's no need to rush.  The use of the present tense to describe events, along with the frequent switch in perspectives, gives the novel a slightly detached feel, in the manner of a scientist studying subjects through a microscope.  However, Carroll carefully adds feeling to his characters, like an artist slowly and meticulously creating his subjects on a canvas.

At this point, you're probably expecting samples of this language, but I'm not going to oblige.  Partially because I'm too lazy to copy it out (!), but mainly because the beauty consists not in any particular sentence or passage, but in the continual build up of the prose - the whole becoming greater than the sum of its parts...

4) The way the novels deal with time.

The three books are not plot driven.  Things do happen, but there is no sense of surprise or suspense; in fact, the writer informs the reader of several important events well before they happen.  We know from the start of The Time We Have Taken that Michael's relationship with Madeleine is a fleeting, doomed affair, destined to remain imprinted in his memory as his first real love.  We are also aware of Vic's eventual fate from early on in the first of the three books (and it hasn't even happened yet!).

These glimpses of the future though are part of a global theme of time being less linear than ever present and simultaneous.  All the main characters are seen at multiple points in their lives, occasionally at the same time, either through memories or the intrusion of the narrator. As Vic nears the end of his time, he feels as if he is no longer living his life sequentially, but able to experience all parts randomly, childhood memories coming back and appearing as strong, as real, as his daily routine.

This use of time leads to the idea of multiple selves, the thought that a life consists not of one constantly-changing personality but of a series of versions of the self, the before me, the after me, or as Vic muses, the me-Vic and the them-Vic.  There's something very Proustian about the whole idea (I've just read some Proust, so forgive me if I'm stretching the point at the moment and viewing all my reading in his light...), and I'm wondering if Michael's girlfriend's name is a random, innocent choice...

Oh, there's so much more I'd like to talk about, such as the way certain characters or expressions would mean little to the new reader but speak volumes to anyone who has read the first two books, the style Carroll uses to show several actions happening simultaneously in different locations, the subtle use of real-life figures (Whitlam, the mountain on wheels)... enough.  I think I've managed to get my point across, and that is, of course, that I loved The Time We Have Taken, and I love the three books as a trilogy even more.

I'll definitely be looking for some of Carroll's earlier books, but I can't help feeling, as I always do, a little sad on reaching the end of the series.  Is that how it really ends, or is there room for more adventures, for one more book (or two) - we're only up to 1970, after all.  Perhaps, just perhaps (and I hope Mr. Carroll agrees), there's still a little more time left to be taken...

April 2011 Wrap-Up

It's that time again, a chance for me to tell you about all the books I read in April - don't you feel honoured..

Total Books Read: 11
Year-to-date: 48

New: 8

Rereads: 3

From the Shelves: 6

From the Library: 3

On the Kindle: 2

Novels: 9

Novellas/Short Stories: 2

Non-English Language: 6 (2 Japanese, 2 German, 1 French, 1 Spanish)

In Original Language: 3 (2 German, 1 French)

Books read in April were:
1) Du Côté de chez Swann by Marcel Proust
2) Kokoro by Natsume Soseki
3) The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami
4) 1988 by Andrew McGahan
5) The Multiple Effects of Rainshadow by Thea Astley
6) The Spare Room by Helen Garner
7) Liebe Deinen Nächsten by Erich Maria Remarque
8) The Autumn of the Patriarch by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
9) Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
10) Storm's Short stories and Novellas* by Theodor Storm
11) When We Were Orphans by Kazuo Ishiguro

* A bunch of random selected free e-texts - 
Martha und ihre Uhr, Im Saal, Im Brauerhaus, Im Sonnenschein, Immensee, Auf dem Staatshof, Pole Poppenspäler & Viola Tricolor

Murakami Challenge: 1 (2/3)

Aussie Author Challenge: 3 (7/12)

Victorian Literature Challenge: 2 (11/15)

Tony's Recommendation for April is: Kazuo Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans

A controversial choice?  Well, hard to look past Proust, but I'll reserve judgement on him until I'm further into his epic, seven-part masterpiece A la Recherche du Temps Perdu.  I was very tempted by The Autumn of the Patriarch and (of course) the wonderful - and wonderfully sad - Jude the Obscure, while if this award went on enjoyment factor alone, my German find of the month, Theodor Storm, could have been going home with the honours (metaphorically speaking...).  However, after being pipped at the post before, this month Kazuo Ishiguro gets the plaudits for another well-crafted work, with an intriguing and ever-so-slightly untrustworthy narrator telling us of his life and adventures in inter-war Shanghai.  Do read it :)

That was April- time flies, no? See you next month...

This Side of the Ditch

Last month it was all about NZ writers (here and here) - this time we're on my side of the ditch, catching up with some Aussie books I've read over the past couple of months.  Marg, from The Adventures of an Intrepid Reader (among many others), has declared April 'Aussie Author Month', and this is a good opportunity to do my bit.  Also, it's about time I posted for Booklover Book Reviews' Aussie Author Challenge ;)  Here then are a few short summaries, with musical accompaniment (just because!).

*****
The Book: Monkey Grip by Helen Garner
Where and When: Melbourne, Mid-1970s
What: Nora, a member of a group of bohemian dole bludgers, falls for the charismatic Javo, a rugged heroin addict.  Over a long year of heartache and hangovers, she battles with her misgivings about the relationship, balancing casual drugs and sex with her duties as a mother and her longing for the seductive addict in her bed.  The book of a generation - definitely not my generation though.  Good as it is, it says nothing to me about my life...
Soundtrack Song by The Smiths: This Charming Man

*****

The Book: The Gift of Speed by Steven Carroll
Where and When: Melbourne, 1960-1
What: In the sequel to The Art of the Engine Driver, we return to the Melbourne suburbs to watch the teenaged Michael in his quest to become a fast bowler - and to understand how girls work.  The book concentrates on two other characters: factory owner Mr. Webster and Frank Worrell, captain of the touring West Indian cricket team...  In an absolutely wonderful book, Michael must overcome annoying physical niggles and his shyness (which one could describe as criminally vulgar, I suppose...) to make the most of his golden summer.
Soundtrack Song by The Smiths: The Boy with the Thorn in his Side


*****

The Book: 1988 by Andrew McGahan
Where and When: Northern Territory, 1988...
What: As Australia gears up for its 200th (White) birthday, Gordon celebrates twenty-one fruitless years by heading to the Territory to work for six months on a remote weather station, hoping to kickstart his writing career.  Instead, he finds that when you're feeling down, the problem may not be where you are, but where you're at.  A fascinating Aussie road-trip story (with added crocodiles).
Soundtrack Song by The Smiths: How Soon is Now?

*****
The Book: The Multiple Effects of Rainshadow by Thea Astley
Where and When: Palm Island, Brisbane, Townsville, 1930-1957
What: Another tale of madness in the tropics, Heart of Darkness with a Queensland setting.  Based on a true story, the boss of a small island goes mad, shooting his workers and blowing up his own house - but that's just the beginning...  Told in multiple sections, each with its own different narrative voice, the book explores the endemic racism of pre- and post-WWII Queensland.  Gripping, poignant, unusual and thought provoking, The Multiple Effects of Rainshadow explores the way history has a funny way of repeating itself.
Soundtrack Song by The Smiths: Stop Me if You Think You've Heard This One Before

*****
The Book: The Spare Room by Helen Garner
Where and When: Melbourne, Recent times
What: A Melbourne grandmother prepares a room for the visit of her friend, a bohemian Sydney woman with cancer.  As she watches her friend throw her trust (and money) into the hands of charlatans, she begins to lose her ability to keep quiet and smile blankly at her friend's ever-more-delusional state of mind.  A short, but vibrant, novel, exploring how we cope when hope is all that's left, and what we do to cling onto that hope, even when it's time to let go.
Pessimistic Soundtrack Song by The Smiths: Girlfriend in a Coma
Optimistic Soundtrack Song by The Smiths: There is a Light that Never Goes Out

*****
Plenty more to come for me in terms of Australian literature in the coming weeks.  I finally have the third part of Carroll's trilogy, the Miles Franklin winning The Time We Have Taken, plus Praise, the book to which 1988 is the prequel.  More happy reading to come :)  What Aussie books have you been reading, people?

Yet Another Taste of Japan ;)

As promised earlier this week, after the first of my little summaries, here is the second of my J-Lit round-ups, this time featuring a couple of very familiar names...

The first is a writer who is fast becoming one of those whose entire back catalogue will someday be gracing my shelves.  After reading a few of Natsume Soseki's earlier works last year, I recently obtained one of his final novels, Kokoro (translated by Meredith McKinney), an absolute Japanese classic and a standard high school text back in Japan.

Kokoro tells two stories in one.  The first is that of a young student who makes the acquaintance of an older man he calls Sensei.  After numerous visits to his house, they become friends, but there is always a sense of reserve, something hidden from the narrator's consciousness, perhaps connected with the monthly visits which Sensei makes to a friend's grave.  The narrator is then forced to leave Tokyo, and his friend, behind to return home when his father becomes unwell.  Bored at home, he writes to Sensei constantly without reply until, finally, one day, he receives a letter - a very long, very unusual letter.

This letter is actually the second of the stories and takes up the latter half of the novel, telling the story of Sensei's life as a student and clearing up many of the mysteries that have puzzled the narrator.  We are told of his family background, his romantic aspirations and (most importantly) we finally learn about his dead friend K.  As the narrator returns to Tokyo, at a very critical time for his family, he is left to wonder what will await him there...

Kokoro is another wonderfully-written novel, poignant and elegant, but different from Natsume's earlier works.  Where Botchan and I am a Cat poked friendly fun at Japanese society, and Kusamakura sparkled with wit and sunshine, Kokoro is much darker, building progressively through the novel to a tragic end, for both Sensei and the narrator.

The novel discusses, among other things, the idea of duty and honour, and the way people behave (or fail to behave) under difficult circumstances.  Sensei's story reveals several instances of the dark side of human nature, some explaining his disillusionment with the world, others revealing more about his own character.  Ironically, the receipt of his letter is the catalyst for the narrator's own crisis of conscience, forcing him to choose between friend and family.

This novel began life as a novella consisting entirely of the third 'letter' section, and the section with the narrator came later.  Sadly, this was pretty much the last completed work Soseki produced as he passed away (unusually for a Japanese writer it seems ) of natural causes a couple of years after Kokoro's publication.  When I lived in Japan a decade or so ago, Soseki's face was on the 1000-Yen note, proof of just how important a writer he is in his home country.  It's a shame it took me this long to get into his work :(

*****

Another author whose works cause the slender shelves in my bookcases to groan under their weight (and who himself is a big fan of Natsume Soseki) is Haruki Murakami, and I recently read another collection of his short stories, entitled The Elephant Vanishes.  I had actually read this collection before, and I don't think I was overly impressed first time around, preferring his novels to the bizarre worlds of his shorter fiction.  However, as is often the case, this time around it was a very different story - I loved this book and discovered some excellent writing, as well as further insights into his longer works.

One aspect I had completely forgotten was the use of a female narrator in a few of the stories, something which has not happened (so far) in his novels.  One of my favourite stories, Sleep, a tale of a woman who stops needing to sleep at night, uses this ploy, and it gives the usual Murakami style an added twist.  In the story, a suburban housewife uses her extra eight hours a day to reevaluate her life, finding the time to rekindle her love of literature and think about whether she is actually wasting her life.  As a tale of taking stock of your life, a metaphor for sleepwalking through your daily existence, it's a good one, reminiscent of something Banana Yoshimoto would write (but in reverse!).

Another story, Barn Burning, actually reminded me of my most recent read, Marcel Proust's Du Côte de chez Swann, as strange as that may sound.  While comparing a simple fifteen-page short story to a 600-page epic of descriptive prose may be drawing a long bow, some of the ideas Murakami explores are similar to those Proust expounds upon.  One of these is the idea of memory and time, and the way these are individual, often brought back to our consciousness by random triggers, be they cakes (Proust) or marijuana (Murakami).  Memory, being less than perfect, becomes faded, blurring at some point into fiction - and who can say where that line is....

The collection has two translators, Alfred Birnbaum and Jay Rubin, and I would have to say that I prefer Rubin's style to that of Birnbaum.  A good reference point here is the first story, The Wind-Up Bird and Tuesday's Women, translated by Birnbaum.  This later became the first chapter of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, translated by Rubin, and if you compare the first page of the two versions, Rubin's (for me, at least) has a much smoother feel.  Of course, the two original Japanese versions may have been different too (if only I could read them!).

There are a couple of strange, less-than-perfect stories in this collection, but all in all it's a worthy companion to Murakami's novels and well worth the effort.  I read it over about a day and a half, but I would recommend spacing it out a little more - these are stories to be savoured, individually wrapped.  Very Japanese :)

Another Taste of Japan

I have been avoiding writing posts for a while now, but I thought I might just do the occasional one to catch you all up on certain books I've been reading, and what better way to kick that off than to look at some of the Japanese literature I've encountered over the past couple of months?  None, that's what ;)

*****

After the understated beauty of Snow Country, it's back to the Japanese Nobel laureate Yasunari Kawabata, this time with the (very) slim novella A Thousand Cranes (translated by Edward Seidensticker).  Kikuji, the son of a tea ceremony master, is invited to a ceremony by one of his dead father's mistresses.  This seemingly innocuous event is the start of a tangled web of relationships involving another of the mistresses, her daughter Fumiko, and Yukiko, a beautiful young woman who has been suggested as a future bride for Kikuji.  Oh yes, and we mustn't forget the first mistress, the sinister Chikako...

It is Chikako who is planning events from the background, constantly interfering with Kikuji, pushing women in his direction and then pulling them away from him.  First, the young man falls for Mrs. Ota; then events conspire to bring Fumiko into his life.  For an experienced reader of Japanese fiction, a happy ending is far from expected, and Kawabata doesn't fail to satisfy (or disappoint!).

Thousand Cranes is another beautifully-constructed tale, but that's all it is - in the sense that it is deceptively short.  My beautiful new Penguin Classics edition is just over 100-pages long, with fairly large print, and I raced through it in an evening.  I enjoyed it, just as I did Snow Country, drinking in the elegant, sparse prose, but I was left wanting something a little more substantial, more than a three-act play of a novella.  I have The Master of Go winging its way to me from England as we speak, so we'll see if that scratches the itch ;)

*****

Moving from one end of the J-Lit spectrum to (pretty much) the other, one of the good things to come out of the collapse of Angus & Robertson was my $2.50 purchase of Hitomi Kanehara's Autofiction (translated by David James Karashima).  I'm ashamed to say that even at that price, I still almost decided to leave it as I was a little concerned that it was going to be a bit of a gory slasher book (a lot of contemporary Japanese fiction can be a little... well, let's just say aesthetically unpleasing).  However, I took the plunge, and I was pleasantly surprised :)

Autofiction, as the title suggests, is loosely based on Kanehara's own life.  In the first section of four, we meet Shin, a young, recently-married woman on her way back to Japan with her husband.  He goes to the toilet, she has a panic attack, thinking he is having a good time in there with another woman, and that is how we find out that she is a bit of a... shall we say a nutter?

Of course, where there is stress and angst, there is usually a very good reason for it, and Shin is no exception.  The reader follows her back in time, to when she was 18, 16 and 15, learning gradually what she has experienced and suffered though, and what exactly has made her so damaged.  By the time we make it to the end, or perhaps the start, of the story, we understand, and sympathise, with her feelings a little more.

As mentioned above, I had my reservations about this book as I have heard a lot about writers such as Ryu Murakami and Natsuo Kirino (who don't sound like my cup of tea), and Kanehara is often lumped in with them.  However, I was pleasantly surprised by Autofiction.  There are some graphic scenes, and some mind-boggling attitudes displayed (including a very blasé attitude towards an impending rape...), but on the whole the book is very well written, presenting Shin as a sympathetic character who has been toughened up by life's trials and tribulations.  The more we learn about her ordeals, the more we understand and condone her later erratic behaviour.  If written in reverse (i.e. in chronological order), it would all make more sense, but the effect would definitely be spoiled :)

Autofiction is Kanehara's second novel, and her first, Snakes and Earrings, won the prestigious Akutagawa Prize.  It's one that I may well end up buying one day...

*****
All for now, but not for this topic - look out for another J-Lit round-up in a few days :)

Kiwi Lit - Part Two

...and here's Part Two!  Who will be Number One?  The answer may surprise you...

Kiwi Lit - Part One

Part One of my wrap of the New Zealand Reading Month Mini-Challenge - enjoy :)

Links: Maree's Just Add Books Blog

March 2011 Wrap-Up

Another month gone, a few posts done at least (including a rather serious vlog effort), but the time for individual reviews has long passed - sigh...  Which makes my monthly wrap-up even more important!  Pay attention at the back there...

Total Books Read: 15
Year-to-date: 37

New: 15

Rereads: 0

From the Shelves: 3

From the Library: 6

On the Kindle: 6

Novels: 13

Novellas: 1

Short Stories: 1

Non-English Language: 5 (2 German, 1 Japanese, 1 Czech, 1 Russian)

In Original Language: 2 (2 German)

Books read in March were:
1) Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
2) The Man Who Painted Agnieszka's Shoes by Dan Holloway
3) Autofiction by Hitomi Kanehara
4) The Gift of Speed by Steven Carroll
5) Faces in the Water by Janet Frame
6) The Rector & The Doctor's Family by Margaret Oliphant
7) The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera
8) Tonio Kröger by Thomas Mann
9) The Bone People by Keri Hulme
10) Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee
11) Short Stories by Franz Kafka*

12) The Rope of Man by Witi Ihimaera
13) Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow by Jerome K. Jerome 
14) Plumb by Maurice Gee 
15) Rudin by Ivan Turgenev

* A bunch of random selected free e-texts - 
In der Strafkolonie, Der Kübelreiter, Ein Landarzt, Ein Hungerkünstler, Großer Lärm, Betrachtung, Der Bau, Das Urteil

Murakami Challenge: 0 (1/3)

Aussie Author Challenge: 1 (4/12)

Victorian Literature Challenge: 3 (9/15)

NZ Reading Month Mini-Challenge:  5/1

Tony's Recommendations for March are: Steven Carroll's The Gift of Speed and Keri Hulme's The Bone People

My reading appears very anglocentric this month, due partly to my being English and partly to the NZ Reading Month Mini-Challenge I decided to participate in.  Honourable mentions to Maurice Gee's Plumb (a wonderful book which I hope to say more about in an NZ round-up post!) and Thomas Mann's short but sweet Tonio Kröger.

The Gift of Speed, the sequel to Carroll's The Art of the Engine Driver, is a superb book and was always going to be a contender, especially for its poetical sections on former West Indies skipper Frank Worrell (I don't like cricket, oh no...).  However, it had to share top spot with Keri Hulme's tour de force, a stunning mixture of kitchen-sink drama, Maori mythology and Christ complex.  Sorry, not going to choose a winner here :)

That was March; see you next month...