Literary Giveaway Blog Hop - A Mother of a Book

Greetings to all those visiting Tony's Reading List as part of the Literary Giveaway Blog Hop (and I hope you are going to visit all the other participants too!).  Today on my little blog, there will, as promised, be a giveaway - the down side is that you'll have to sit through the review first (it's a small price to pay, no?).

*****
Friedrich Christian Delius, the recipient of this year's Georg-Büchner Prize, is a well-known and highly successful German author, and as you would expect, Bildnis der Mutter als junge Frau (Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman), a 2006 novella, is a wonderful piece of writing.  For those of you who are not fluent in the teutonic tongue, don't panic - the wonderful Peirene Press have an equally wonderful English-language version available :)

The story follows Margherita, a young, pregnant German woman, who has been left to spend the time leading up to the birth of her first child alone, after her husband was called away on business.  Which doesn't sound so bad until you hear that she is in Rome, in January 1943, and that the business her husband has been called away to is on the North African war front...

In one long sentence spanning 120 pages, we literally follow Margherita on her way through the eternal city.  Ostensibly, we are watching a young woman stroll to her church to watch a concert; in reality, we are privy to her internal musings and are able, by sifting through the confused thought patterns, to gradually build up an image of Margherita, her life, Rome, Germany, the War, Christianity - everything.

Margherita is a product of her time, a faithful member of the German Girls' League, conditioned to love her husband, bear many children and support the ideals of the Fatherland, and it is is tempting to see her as a vapid, clinging woman, unwilling to give an opinion and unable to function properly, even to stray from the straight line between her home and her church, without her husband.  However, the longer the story goes on, the more she opens up, and the less convinced she appears that what is happening back in her homeland (and all around the edges of Europe) is right.

The main source of her doubts can be found in her deep faith, and the quiet warnings from both her father and her husband about the way the Führer has effectively put himself on a pedestal alongside God.  Once we begin to see past her seemingly-blind obedience to her country, cracks appear in the facade.  Margherita worries about the difficulty of reconciling her national and spiritual duties, lamenting:

"die täglichen Konflikte zwischen Kreuz und Hakenkreuz", p.100
("the daily conflicts between the cross and the swastika")

In this light, her seeming indifference to what is going on is in fact a form of defence mechanism, protecting her from her own inner turmoil and doubt.

This Christian theme pervades the book, with Margherita stranded on an island of Evangelism in the middle of the most Catholic city in the world.  She seeks comfort in her church, comparing its rituals favourably with the more ostentatious scenes she sees elsewhere in the eternal city.  However, it's hard to avoid the suspicion that Delius is playing with the reader a little in this respect, with his portrait of the pregnant young woman, wandering around in a time of conflict, the father of the child absent and seen only in her thoughts.  Is it any coincidence that Margherita's trip to the Vatican takes place on the occasion of the holiday of the "unbefleckten Empfängnis" (p.17) - or, in English, the immaculate conception...

Whether this is really the author's intent, or a happy accident (or, more likely, just the blogger's overactive imagination), what it all adds up to is a brief, leisurely, compelling stroll through a beautiful city, a brief moment in time and a period of world history which will never be forgotten.  The magic of this novella is that Delius is able to cover all aspects of his story from the micro to the macro in such a short space of time (and in such a seemingly limited style).

And the sentence?  Well, I'm not 100% convinced, and there were a few times when I really thought it was continuing simply because it had already been going for so long that it would have been a shame to end it.  Still, I'm not going to criticise such minor details when the book is such a success overall - and especially not when (for the writer) it is a particularly personal affair.

If you want to know what I mean by that, just look up Herr Delius' date (and place) of birth...

*****

So on to the giveaway!  I will be giving away a copy of the book reviewed above, either in the original German or in the 2010 Peirene Press English-language version.  If you want to enter, simply:

  - comment on this post, stating whether you want the English or German version
  - write the word 'please' somewhere in your comment; manners are important :)

  - a contact e-mail would be nice, but I will endeavour to track down the winner!
  - commenting on my review is welcome but not obligatory ;)

This competition is open to all, but please note that I will be using The Book Depository to send this prize, so it is limited to people living in countries where The Book Depository has free delivery.  Entries will close at midnight (Melbourne time) on Thursday, the 30th of June, 2011, and I'll be announcing the winner shortly after.  Good luck to all, and to all a good night...

Triple-Choice Tuesday and Other Housekeeping

Today, over at Kimbofo's Reading Matters blog, I am featured on her wonderful Triple-Choice Tuesday feature, expounding merrily away upon some of my favourite reads.  If you want to see my thoughts on a favourite book, a book that changed my world and a book that should be read more, then just click here :)

If you don't, then what are you doing here in the first place?

*****
In my previous post, I challenged my readers to name a female champion to take down the ogre that is V.S. Naipaul in literary single combat.  In addition to my original trio of Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton and the mighty George Eliot, the following writers were suggested:

   - Wendy put forward Canada's favourite not-fantasy writer, Margaret Atwood
   - Biblibio agreed with my favourite, George Eliot.
   - Eva had a terrible twosome of Toni Morrison and Jamaica Kincaid
   - Em also mentioned Atwood, as well as praising Mary Shelley
   - Colleen chose Eliot too, but also thought Hilary Mantel could walk the walk

If anyone has any other suggestions (particularly from non-English-speaking backgrounds), please join in the misogynist-bashing fun :)

*****
On Saturday, June the 25th, there is going to be another Literary Giveaway Blog-Hop - and this time I have decided to join in.  Along with dozens of other bloggers in the literary corner of the Blogosphere (a nice, cosy, comfortable niche, with good books, fine wines and luxurious armchairs), I will be giving away a book to one of the people who comment on my blog post.

The post, specially written for the event, will appear this weekend and will feature an in-depth review of a book plus details on how to win it.  Yes, you have to wade through the review before you get to the freebies - life's like that sometimes :)  And the name of the book... well, to find that out, you'll just have to come back at the weekend, won't you?  Bye for now!

A Challenging Time for Me and V.S. Naipaul

No review today, but while I'm up and typing, I thought I'd just ramble on about a few things.  Belezza's Japanese Literature Challenge 5 started in June, and I'm already well under way, with reviews of Yasunari Kawbata's The Master of Go and Shusaku Endo's Silence already posted.  I have a copy of Kenzaburo Oe's A Personal Matter waiting to be read, and somewhere in transit, at the bottom of a ship in the Pacific Ocean (possibly!), I have Yukio Mishima's The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, and Kawabata's The Sound of the Mountain and Beauty and Sadness straining to reach Australian shores.

This focus on J-Lit is also part of a slight change of emphasis for my blog.  Since the impressive collapse of book-by-book posts earlier this year, I have thinking about how best to balance my desire to review and my various aches and pains.  Recently, I have been trying to keep up with one post a week, particularly related to my favourite challenges, and I think devoting that post to a particular book, rather than madly trying to write one paragraph on everything I read, suits me better.

That doesn't mean that it will all be J-Lit around here though.  I have a German-language copy of Friedrich Delius' Bildnis der Mutter als junge Frau, which some of you may know better as Peirene Press' Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman, and I'm hoping to read and review that very soon.  Also, I'd like to continue to promote good Australian contemporary literature, so look out for more writers like Steven Carroll and Tim Winton.

Time permitting, of course...

*****

Finally today, I just wanted to give you my humble thoughts on the recent V.S. Naipaul incident (in which, as you probably already know, the always-cantankerous writer calmly dismissed all literature written by women as beneath him).  I'm not even going to bother discussing his misogynistic opinions (there is no discussion possible); rather, I want to pick up on something I saw in the reports.  The interviewer, from what I gather, asked his mightiness if he thought he was better than all female writers, even Jane Austen...

...and that's what interests me.  If you were going to choose a knight in shining garters, an Amazon warrior to slay the ugly dragon Naipaul, the one representative to defend female literary honour, would you honestly choose Saint Jane?  Really?  Austen wrote classic novels, stories which will endure long after old V.S. has been committed to the filing cabinet of history, but is she really the automatic choice?

Personally, I think there are other, worthier female writers to saddle the horse and joust with the nasty Nobel Laureate.  How about Virginia Woolf?  I'm sure she'd be handy with a sharp lance and an even sharper tongue.  Or perhaps Edith Wharton?  With her cool observational skills, she would be bound to find the chinks in Naipaul's metaphorical armour.

My choice, however, would be George Eliot, a titan(ess) of the arena, guaranteed to make any male writer think twice about crossing swords (or pens) - and thick-skinned enough to cope much better with any pre-fight trash talk than the demure Austen...

So, dear readers, do any of you have any champions you'd like to suggest for this imaginary grudge match?  Who should don the armour and put the Trinidadian motormouth in his place?

Yes, you're right - it is time I took my pills...

It's Oh So Quiet...

Last year, I read David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, a novel set in 17th-century Japan at a time when Dutch traders were the only westerners allowed into the country.  While I enjoyed the book (it is a David Mitchell creation, after all), I couldn't help but feel that he had missed an opportunity as I was eager to learn more about life in Japan at that time, rather than just the trading post at Dejima where most of the novel was set.  Luckily for me, Shusaku Endo's Silence (translated by William Johnston) fills that gap nicely - and, more importantly, is a very, very good book.

Silence follows a Portuguese Catholic missionary,  Sebastiao Rodrigues, on a quest for the truth behind a rumour which makes its way back to Europe.  Cristovao Ferreira, the most senior priest left in Japan, has apparently committed apostasy (the act of renouncing one's religion) and has taken on a Japanese name.  In order to ascertain the truth of the information that has leaked out from behind Japan's curtain of exclusion, Rodrigues and two colleagues set off amid pomp and cheering on the long voyage to the Orient.  While the start of the quest is a joyous affair, the enormity of the task, and the strength and faith required to undertake it, gradually begin to sink in.  Having picked up an expatriate Japanese in Macao, the suspicious, cowardly and sly Kichijiro, Rodrigues eventually manages to reach his destination, where he goes into hiding and prepares himself for his greatest test of faith...

The first part of the book is written in the form of letters written by the Portuguese priest, and this is apt as the novel as a whole is concerned more with Rodrigues as an individual than with his mission as a whole.  In a country where Christianity, especially for those who refuse to renounce it, can be punishable by death, being a missionary is something of a suicide mission and only possible for someone with the strongest of beliefs.  However, when people suffer for those beliefs, when innocent souls are tortured, burned and killed, when God refuses to intervene... is it possible to maintain your beliefs?  Can you keep the faith in the face of God's continual silence?

As can be expected from the title, silence plays a major role in the novel.  Rodrigues, determined as he is to maintain his faith, must nevertheless question God's lack of intervention at a time when, in his eyes, it is most needed.  As the people he has come to save lay down their lives for his religion, he struggles to accept their sacrifices and see them as part of a greater scheme.

However, it is not only a metaphorical silence which pervades the novel, but also a literal one.  In several important passages, particularly those involving great pain and suffering, God's reluctance to act is married to an eery quiet falling upon events, further trying Rodrigues' strength. Villagers are drowned in the sea, and the only sound is the gentle murmuring of waves; a man is brutally beheaded for refusing to apostatise, and all that can be heard is the occasional cicada; Rodrigues stumbles upon the scene of a massacre, and all that remains are a few cats amidst the wreckage - and still God remains silent...

One of the more interesting points about this book is the idea of a western point of view, written by a Japanese author.  Endo is a Catholic himself, and his sense of confusion and compromise comes across in his portrayal not only of the suffering Rodrigues, but also of the intriguing Kichijiro (of whom more later...).  One thought I had at the start of the story was that it would be very easy to turn this book into a pro-Christian anti-Japanese tale, but the writer balances the sympathies very nicely.  For those Christians among you, it might appear that the Japanese behaviour is unjust, but the reality is that the missionaries were illegal spies in a foreign country, expressly breaking the law and inciting disobedience amongst the local people too.  And let's face it, the Catholic church itself was no stranger at the time to intolerance and cruelty against people with different opinions to their own..

The prevailing opinion seems to have been that whatever the intentions of the Christian missionaries, Japan was a 'swamp', a field in which Christianity's roots could not take hold, and the ensuing perversion of the tenets of the religion (along with the suspicion that conversion was paving the way for later subjugation to the European powers) proved that the best path forward was to eradicate the foreign faith, described by one of the characters as an ugly, barren woman.

Rodrigues suspects several times that the Japanese form of Christianity is not all that it should be, observing that many villagers appear to attach more importance to the Virgin Mary than they should, but is this any different to his own obsession with Jesus - in particular with the beauty and expression of his face?  In fact, in light of the immense sacrifice made by these early Japanese martyrs, who really had the greater belief in God?  This is a thought for the reader to ponder as you follow Rodrigues through all the stages of his own private ordeal, until he is forced to decide what his religion means to him and what is more important - theoretical doctrine or human kindness.

*****
I was going to end my review there until I remembered that I read a short story by Endo in The Oxford Book of Japanese Short Stories last year - and decided to go back to take a second look.  Unzen is the tale of a Catholic novelist who travels to the scene of the torture of early Christians to see for himself the place of their pain and suffering.  At the time, it wasn't one of my favourite stories among the collection, but after reading Silence, the tale takes on a whole new dimension.

The main reason for this, apart from the continuation in the main theme, is the reappearance of perhaps the most fascinating character in Silence, the apostate Kichijiro.  He plays the role of Judas to Rodrigues' Christ, and in Unzen we get a glimpse of his backstory as the novelist reads of his tearful attendance at the torture of those Christians who refused to renounce their beliefs - and were therefore scalded by hot springs for weeks, before being burned at the stake.

Throughout Silence, Rodrigues views Kichijiro with distaste, bordering on disgust, but despite his obvious cowardice, the Japanese apostate is a much deeper character than first appears.  His weakness is tempered by his inability to truly abandon his religion, and he finds himself continually drawn to his former friends, even following them on the road to their martyrdom, hoping to appease his conscience a little with offerings of food to the doomed Christians.  Indeed, it is also tempting to view his apostasy in a more positive light, seeing as he remains alive, yet still a believer.

Whatever you think of Kichijiro, he is somewhat of an enigma.  Is he a coward, a wise man, a traitor or a fool?  Or maybe all of the above?  Perhaps it's best to avoid judgement and leave the last words to Kichijiro himself:

 "The apostate endures a pain none of you can comprehend"

Happy Endings and New Beginnings...

I have spoken before about my guilty pleasure, a German telenovella called Alisa - Folge Deinem Herzen (follow your heart) which I downloaded (free!) from iTunes, and I recently finally made it to the end of the series.  After 240 40-minute episodes (which, considering that there were no adverts, would approximate to around fifteen years of your average American drama!), Alisa and Christian have finally tied the knot!  With the happy couple about to jet off to Canada, and with evil Uncle Oskar, the villain of the piece, safely behind bars, it's time to bid a fond farewell to Schönroda and look around for something else to watch...

Well, that was the plan :)  You see, the good people at ZDF were so pleased with the show that half-way through they changed their minds and decided to extend it for a further 130 episodes.  Thus, about ten episodes from the end, a few new characters began to appear, including Hanna, a chef who, though living in Hamburg, hails from our favourite little town.  On a short trip to the Spanish island of Gomera, she meets a friendly, good-looking German man (as you do), and after an evening of gazing at the stars, they kiss.  So far, so good, but the problem is that they don't ask each other's names!

Before you can say 'star-crossed lovers', Hanna is back in Schönroda to care for her sick father and attend the big wedding.  Meanwhile, her dream man is also there - he happens to be Christian's cousin (!) - and makes a big impression on another woman: Hanna's best friend Alex.  Unbelievably, Hanna and the mysterious Max somehow manage to miss each other completely, despite being in the same building for the same event... If you can't see where this is going by now, then you really have led a sheltered life!

So, I'll be continuing with my weekly visits to Schönroda, this time to see how Hanna, Max and Alex work things out (an unconventional ménage à trois would be interesting, but even the Germans might find that a little risqué for a show which airs in the early afternoon!).  And the best thing of all?  Another new character, Max's mother, Edith, has just visited Oskar in prison and appears to have a bit of a hidden past with him.  It seems that he might just be getting out after all - and that can only be a good thing :)

More than Black and White

It's that time of year again :)  Belezza, of Dolce Belezza, has sent out the invitation to participate in her fifth Japanese Literature Challenge, and, for the third year in a row, I will be participating.  To complete the challenge, you only need to read one Japanese book, but as this is one of my specialist areas, I would imagine that I'll be looking to complete a dozen or so before the end of the challenge (the 31st of January, 2012).  And, entirely (un)coincidentally, here's a review I made earlier...

*****
The Master of Go (translated by Edward Seidensticker) is Yasunari Kawabata's semi-fictional account of a true event, a championship match of Go (an Oriental game played on a board with black and white counters) between the Master and a younger, more aggressive opponent.  The match took place in 1938, and Kawabata actually covered the match for a Japanese newspaper, later turning his heavily descriptive reports into a book.

The result of the match, and the Master's subsequent death, are revealed at the very start of the book, and it is clear that the story has little to do with the details of the match, or even the result.  Rather, the novel is a magnificent detailed psychological portrayal of a person obsessed with the game, a man whose life has been spent improving his understanding of the tactics and the more intangible essence of the art.

The Master is a frail old man, at times taciturn and grumpy, at others garrulous and in need of company, obsessed with spending his free time playing all kinds of games with anyone (un)fortunate enough to be around.  His total focus while at the board, and his 'vagueness' away from it, are in contrast to the challenger's constant chatter during play.  This clash is to be his swansong, his final match at the top level, and the tense atmosphere in the resort where the two players find themselves sealed off from the outside world gradually becomes unbearable, both for the players and the observers.  Mind you, if you were watching - or playing - a game for six months, your nerves would be slightly frayed too.

The match is actually more than a battle between two individuals; it is a changing of the guard, a passing away of the old and an attempt to usher in a new, more democratic age of Go.  Rather than deferring to the Master's wishes on rules, as has traditionally been the case, the association sets down stringent conditions, treating both players as equals.  As the game progresses, however, you begin to wonder whether the conditions are so equal after all - perhaps they have been loaded against the Master...

It is the narrator, a thinly disguised Kawabata, who points us in this direction.  In the vein of one of Kazuo Ishiguro's less than trustworthy speakers, he muses, considers and suggests, all without committing himself, pointing out irregularities in proceedings, hinting at events happening beneath the surface, but always letting the reader decipher the meaning he is half concealing.  Has the schedule been designed to grind down the old man's health?  Is the Master more concerned with the spirit of the game than the actual result?  That's up to you, dear reader, to decide.

Most readers who consider starting this novel are a little daunted by the subject matter, and this is probably the one drawback of this book.  While the details are, for the most part, of little relevance, there are a few sections where the game takes over (and where my attention levels abruptly dropped).  For Western readers, a more fictional approach would probably have worked better, with even more focus on the players, especially during the breaks between sessions, and less emphasis on the play.  Of course, it wasn't produced for our benefit, so we'll just have to take it as it was written :)

All in all, The Master of Go is another wonderful piece of J-Lit and a worthy addition to my quickly expanding Japanese mini-library (the Chinese have been expelled from the top shelf, and an invasion of the Russian-held middle shelves is only a matter of time).  Despite the minor quibbles noted in the previous paragraph, this has probably been my favourite long Kawabata work so far (my favourite work would probably still be the long short story The Izu Dancer), and I'm keen to move on to the next one.  So, when are the Book Depository and Abe Books having their next 10% off sale?

May 2011 Wrap-Up

Not many books on my list for May - that may have something to do with the fact that I spent ten of the last eleven days of the month on something I haven't even finished yet (more of that next month!).  However, there were still plenty of good books around :)

Total Books Read: 9
Year-to-date: 57

New: 9

Rereads: 0

From the Shelves: 3

From the Library: 5

On the Kindle: 1

Novels: 7

Novellas/Short Stories: 2

Non-English Language: 4 (1 Japanese, 1 German, 1 Turkish, 1 Dutch)

In Original Language: 1 (1 German)

Books read in May were:
1) The Time We Have Taken by Steven Carroll
2) My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk
3) The Setting Sun by Osamu Dazai

4) Praise by Andrew McGahan

5) Unwiederbringlich by Theodor Fontane

6) Tomorrow Pamplona by Jan van Mersbergen
7) The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by F. Scott Fitzgerald
8) Indelible Ink by Fiona McGregor
9) Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote

Murakami Challenge: 0 (2/3)

Aussie Author Challenge: 3 (10/12)

Victorian Literature Challenge: 1 (12/15)

Tony's Recommendation for May is: Steven Carroll's The Time We Have Taken

Many worthy contenders this month: my continuing project to read more classic German literature paid off with my first (and far from last ) Fontane novel; Peirene Press have picked another gem with Jan van Mersbergen's macho road novel(la); and I loved the two American classics I finally got around to reading (thanks, as always, to the lovely people at Narre Warren library!).  However, both for the book itself, and the trilogy it caps off, Carroll's The Time We Have Taken was probably the easiest choice I've made this year.  I attempted to explain why in my review, but you really should take the time to find out for yourself - these books are wonderful :)

That was May - I'm sure June will be just as fun ;)

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...