IFFP 2014 - The Longlist

Well, the list has finally been announced (shame I was on holiday at the time...), and we have a new fifteen contenders vying to take out the crown for the best book released in translation in the UK in 2013.  Which, of course, will give it the 2014 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize - most confusing.  Anyway, here is the official list, complete with obvious choices, old friends, happy inclusions and the odd surprise...

*****
A Man in Love by Karl Ove Knausgaard, translated by Don Bartlett (Harvill Secker) 
A Meal in Winter by Hubert Mingarelli, tr. Sam Taylor (Portobello Books)
Back to Back by Julia Franck, tr. Anthea Bell (Harvill Secker) 
Brief Loves that Live Forever by Andreï Makine, tr. Geoffrey Strachan (MacLehose Press)
Butterflies in November by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir, tr. Brian FitzGibbon (Pushkin Press)
The Corpse Washer by Sinan Antoon, tr. Sinan Antoon (Yale University Press)
The Dark Road by Ma Jian, tr. Flora Drew (Chatto & Windus)
Exposure by Sayed Kashua, tr. Mitch Ginsberg (Chatto & Windus)
The Infatuations by Javier Marías, tr. Margaret Jull Costa (Hamish Hamilton)
The Iraqi Christ by Hassan Blasim, tr. Jonathan Wright (Comma Press) 
The Mussel Feast by Birgit Vanderbeke, tr. Jamie Bulloch (Peirene Press) 
Revenge by Yoko Ogawa, tr. Stephen Snyder (Harvill Secker)
The Sorrow of Angels by Jón Kalman Stefánsson, tr. Philip Roughton (MacLehose Press) 
Strange Weather in Tokyo by Hiromi Kawakami, tr. Allison Markin Powell (Portobello Books)
Ten by Andrej Longo, tr. Howard Curtis (Harvill Secker)

*****
Well, my initial reaction was fairly positive.  Of the eight I predicted last week, six made the list (and one of the other two wasn't actually eligible).  I've also read one more of the final longlist, meaning that I only have eight of the fifteen to go :)

While I'm looking forward to trying the rest of the books, the one real omission from my predictions stands out.  I really thought that Elena Ferrante was one writer who would definitely be appearing on the list, and judging by conversations I had with other bloggers and readers before the announcement, I wasn't alone in this.  The Story of a New Name is an excellent book, and I'd urge people to try it, even if it hasn't made it onto this list ;)

*****
So, onward and upward - time to start reading.  Next week, as was the case last year, I'll be posting mini-reminders of the books I've already read (with links to the full reviews) and deciding whether I think they're worthy of the shortlist - and, more importantly, what I think the real panel will decide.  Something to look forward to, then :)

'No One Writes Back' by Jang Eun-jin (Review)

After going back to the 1930s for my first dip into Dalkey Archive's Library of Korean Literature, a balancing look at modern Korea seemed like a good idea.  My second book from the series then was a contemporary novel exploring communication, or a lack of it, in everyday life - and this one was a big hit :)

*****
Jang Eun-jin's No One Writes Back (translated by Jung Yewon, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is the story of a young man who has been travelling aimlessly for the past three years, with only his dog, Wajo, for company.  Every day, he leaves the motel he's slept at, randomly chooses a direction and sees what the day will bring.  If it brings a conversation with a stranger (and if the stranger agrees to swap addresses), then they are added to the traveller's mental database, each being given a number.

Each night, before going to bed, our friend writes a letter about his day, either to his family or one of his collection of encounters; sadly, every time he calls a friend back home to find out if he's had any replies, the answer is always in the negative.  This long-running routine is interrupted one day though when a woman the traveller sees on an underground train decides to follow him - the woman he is to dub 751 thus becomes the first person to join him in his travels...

No One Writes Back is a wonderful little book, simple, subtle and very enjoyable.  The writer starts off by giving the reader very few details, showing us an anonymous man free of ties.  As the novel progresses, information is introduced gradually, making for a perfectly-paced story where the reader is never quite sure where the book is going (but is quite happy to be along for the ride).

The traveller sees himself as a collector of stories, writing down anecdotes about the people he meets every day, a task which has become an integral part of his travels:

"Words penned while traveling do not lie; they're not for showing off, but for making you reflect on, and take care of, yourself."
p.8 (Dalkey Archive Press, 2013)

His letters are merely the outward manifestation of his thoughts.  Each of the random, fleeting encounters is stored away in his impressive memory, waiting to be recalled when needed.

We slowly learn more about the young man and his situation (even learning his name eventually).  For some unknown reason, he is unable to put up with living at home, constant seizures under his own roof forcing him to keep moving on a seemingly never-ending trip around the country.  In his mind, he is waiting for something to end his travels, and he suspects that this might be a letter, a reply to one of the many he has sent during his journey.  However, as we well know, no one writes back...

This is where the woman comes in, an itinerant writer peddling her latest novel, Toothpaste and Soap.  Like the young man, she is travelling for a reason, in her case to gather ideas for a new book.  Curious (and a little nosy...), she desperately wants to know more about the traveller and becomes an interruption, welcome or unwelcome, in an otherwise smooth journey.  She is 751, but who is he?  She decides, using his own logic, that he must be 0, a very apt, and enigmatic, choice.

In No One Writes Back, numbers are extremely important (the book itself is divided into 152 short chapters).  The traveller is able to categorise people thanks to his amazing memory, allocating everyone a number and then writing to them when the time comes.  This focus on numbers comes partly from the young man's mother - as he recalls when thinking of childhood:

"But more than that, you believed that all the truth in the world could be found in math.  All creations are numbers.  That was your philosophy in life." (p.48)

Gradually, however, we move away from the rational, logical world of numbers and into the realm of feelings and words, and as we do, we see a very different side to the traveller.

Even more than numbers though, it's the letters which define the novel.  In a digital world, our hero is an analogue man, preferring to commit his experiences to paper:

"I write letters because I want to convey to someone the stories of these people, but also because I want to let someone know that a day had existed for me as well.  Letters, in other words, are like journal entries to me.  The only difference is that the day does not stay with me, but is sent to someone else.  Journals are monopolized, but letters are shared." (p.13)

He clings to the hope that one of his letters will garner a reply, and when his hopes are dashed time and time again, the reader feels just as crushed as he does.  There is a far greater significance to the letters though, one which only becomes apparent towards the end of the novel.

No One Writes Back is a wonderful story and expertly paced, with Jang drip-feeding new information at exactly the right point each time.  It's written in a very smooth, simple style, and the translation appears to be excellent, making for a fluent, enjoyable read.  There's more than a hint of the Murakamis about the book, particularly his early work.  The start of the novel, with the loner main character calling his friend every day, is especially reminiscent of The Trilogy of the Rat.  Jang has her own style though, and the way she develops the relationship with the woman is excellently done - and even Wajo, the dog, has his own story :)  Towards the end, things get a little manipulative, but the events of the book never seem contrived and make for a wonderful finish.

The idea of the Library of Korean Literature is a great one; it draws people's attention and gets people to try several books, trusting that the publishers have picked a good selection of works.  One flaw though is that a really good book can be buried under the idea of the series, and I hope that doesn't happen here.  No One Writes Back is a wonderful read, one which deserves a higher profile.  It's a book which most people would enjoy, finely balanced as it is between literary quality and readability.  I'm not sure if it's going to catch the eye of IFFP or BTBA judges (although Michael Orthofer did recently sing its praises), but it's definitely one for lovers of translated fiction to look out for :)

'The Good Life Elsewhere' by Vladimir Lorchenkov (Review)

Whether it's Asian boat people sent to Papua New Guinea by a heartless Australian government or phantom Romanians and Bulgarians invading the UK in search of benefit payments, hardly a day goes by without the issue of migrants, illegal or otherwise, causing a stir in the news.  However, it appears that none of these destinations are good enough for the people of Moldova - according to writer Vladimir Lorchenkov, they dream of settling in another country entirely...

*****
The Good Life Elsewhere (translated by Ross Ufberg, review copy courtesy of New Vessel Press) is a novel about the trials and tribulations of the inhabitants of the small Moldovan village of Larga, most of whom want nothing more than to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.  As the story begins, Serafim Botezato, along with forty-five of his countrymen, believes that he has finally made it to the semi-mythical country of his dreams, Italy.  Sadly, on approaching the first 'Italian' they encounter, he realises that the people smugglers have dropped them off a lot closer to home than expected...

Still, one failed illegal migration isn't about to stop our intrepid band of would-be refugees.  Serafim and the rest of the villagers start thinking of ways to leave their worthless, debt-ridden lives, and the ideas they come up with are astounding.  What do you get if you take an old tractor, a stone and a brush, and a fake antique sword?  Three amazing ways to leave Moldova behind, once and for all ;)

The Good Life Elsewhere is a fun, crazy novel which is a joy to read.  It's a book which, in its portrayal of a country in decline (and on the move), swings between side-splitting humour, poignant pathos and macabre violence.  A sample?

"Mingir, a village in the Hincesti region, was famous throughout Moldova for its residents who habitually trafficked in kidneys."
p.53 (New Vessel Press, 2014)

Now that's a sentence worthy of starting any anecdote...  And it's not just the people of Mingir that want out; the list of would-be emigrants stretches across geographical and socio-economic boundaries.  Even the President, dreaming of life as an assistant pizza cook, wants to leave Moldova behind for good.

The destination of choice is Italy, the promised land of wine, pasta and low-paid cleaning jobs, and Serafim, who has dreamt of Italy for decades, is one of the most determined of the villagers.  In preparation for his trip, he has even learnt Italian from a book, although (unfortunately) his language skills are not all they might be.  Still, the problem of actually getting to the promised land remains, and it is in the inventive methods of circumventing the border guards that Lorchenkov excels.

There are three main strands to the book, interspersed with various tales of gallows humour from elsewhere in Moldova.  In the first, Serafim and his friend Vasily Lungu try to escape using Lungu's tractor.  It may not seem like the most useful of escape vehicles, but the two friends are rather inventive when it comes to making the most of their materials.  Meanwhile, the local priest, seeking to catch up with the wife who abandoned him, decides to invade Italy, taking hundreds of thousands of Moldovans with him.  A holy crusade with Italy as its destination?  Why not?

Perhaps the funniest attempt though is the decision of a local to try to play his way to Italy, deciding that emigration through excellence in sport is the best option:

"Our goal?" asked Nikita Tkach.  "What is it brothers?"
  "Italy!" answered the villagers, in unison.
  "Yes, but first our goal is to master the game of curling," explained Nikita.  "This will lead us to Italy.  Our goal is to get the disk-like object with the handle across the ice into the finely drawn target!  And so - what's our goal?"
  "Our goal is to get the disk-like object with the handle across the ice into the finely drawn target!"
  "Amen!" bellowed Nikita (p.30)

Even this laudable ambition doesn't quite go without a hitch, however.  You see, you really need to be careful when learning the noble art of curling - those stones can be quite heavy...

The novel contains elements of magical realism, stretching the fabric of credibility, but there's a stark truth behind the slapstick humour.  Moldova is a poor country where the people are desperate to escape their hopeless lives and make a new start in the west.  In fact, 'Italy' (which several people claim doesn't really exist) is merely a state of happiness, not a place, and what the Moldovans are looking for may be something which is unattainable on earth.  Still, if only the people could start looking for it in their own backyards, they might just be that little bit happier.

Sadly, those heretics who dispute the glory of the heavenly Italian realm are not suffered gladly.  The Good Life Elsewhere contains several brutal stories, with some of the villagers burnt at the stake, or dismembered, simply for making other people uncomfortable.  There's just no future in denying the claim that Italy is the paradise Moldovans are waiting for, a disturbing take on the importance of having a dream.

In short, Lorchenkov's novel is a great read.  It has a very smooth, readable translation, and the book is very funny and bitingly satirical at times.  The writer has come up with an excellent look at life behind the former iron curtain, One Hundred Years of Solitude with more wine and tractors, but beneath the winter sports and holy crusades there is a serious lesson to be learnt.  The good life may seem to be elsewhere at times; however, we're more likely to find it if we start by looking a little closer to home...

'Ekaterini' by Marija Knežević (Review)

It's time for another offering from a small publisher dealing with literature in translation, and today's book comes courtesy of Istros Books.  While based in the UK, their heart is very much in the Balkans, with today's review looking at a very typical choice.  It's a tale of two countries - and one woman...

*****
Marija Knežević's Ekaterini (translated by Will Firth, e-copy courtesy of the publisher) is the story of a life both ordinary and extraordinary.  While the tale is told by a young narrator, the undisputed star is her grandmother, Ekaterini.  Born in Greece, but spending most of her adult life in Yugoslavia (then Serbia), she is a woman caught between two related, but different, worlds.

The story is structured so that we follow her life and the events of much of the twentieth century.  Starting in Greece with Ekaterini's parents' courtship, the novel gradually introduces both sides of the narrator's family, merging the Greek and Serbian strands until we finish up with the birth (and life) of the grand-daughter.  Despite this, we're never in any doubt that it's really Ekaterini's story.

Ekaterini is a personal tale set against the history of twentieth-century Yugoslavia, from the second world war to the Balkan conflicts.  By observing the Greek woman's struggles to keep her head above water, the reader bears witness to the hardships of wartime, the greyness of the Communist era and the dangers of dealing with the secret police.  As a skilled seamstress, our heroine has access to some powerful people (or their wives, anyway) - at one point, even Tito crosses the stage ;)

As much as the book is about history though, it's also about nostalgia and the difficulties of leaving your home behind.  Ekaterini's marriage takes her away from Greece, and she struggles to adjust to life away from home - and, of course, the problems of a new language:

"That's why she so readily became melancholic whenever she heard Greek songs, even if she didn't understand all the words, or when she listened in on Greek students in the bus - not because their relationship problems interested her but because of the words; she longed to hear those words and their sound, their melody, as she used to say.  Language is pure longing.  Our first and final love, although we only discover it through its lack."
(Istros Books, 2013)

The longer she stays in Serbia, the more serious her confusion becomes.  Having forgotten a lot of Greek, and never having mastered Serbian, she becomes trapped in a linguistic limbo, belonging neither here nor there...

It's not just the language she misses though - there's also the small matter of food, films and songs (Ekaterini can get very emotional about Greek music).  Even smells can evoke the memories of her home country:

"She taught Lucija and Ljubica not to throw away the peels but to lay them on the top plate of the stove.  The walls greedily imbibed the aroma.  The beauty of the south lies also in the unforgettable.  Once scented with the orange and yellow peel, the house remembered that smell forever."

The citrus fruit she brings back from her holidays helps maintain a small feeling of Greece in her small corner of Serbia...

Don't be fooled into thinking that Ekaterini is a depressing book though.  The old woman eventually manages to straddle the divide between the two countries, and by the end of the book, we have a woman who radiates calm, enjoying her split personality.  It's an attitude she passes on to her grand-daughter, who also manages to accept life as it is (in a way Ekaterini's daughter can't).  The contrast with the insular American friend who comes to visit Greece at the end of the novel is certainly a striking one.

Ekaterini consists of short scenes, brief snapshots which the reader glimpses before moving on.  In its style of skipping over sadness, it's reminiscent of another short European book I've read recently, Chasing the Queen of Hearts.  In both books, the tragedy of war(s) is evident but glossed over, and the stories of hardship are crisp and factual, told with little wailing.  Like its Polish counterpart, Ekaterini is also a novel where the women are very much in the spotlight - the men here mostly play supporting roles:

"We had protected that moment in its glory, uniqueness and eternal memory from the invasion of pathos which swooped down on our nomadic lives in various formations, sometimes even with the best intentions.  That bond remained and was ours alone..."

This special bond between Ekaterini and her grand-daughter is perhaps what the writer wants to leave us with at the end of her story.
 
It's a simple story, touching at times, but while I enjoyed it, I did have some reservations.  It's a touch too simple in places, and with little plot, I found myself wishing for a more complex style of writing which simply wasn't there.  The prose was very plain, and sandwiched between George Eliot's Romola and Andrés Neuman's new book Talking to Ourselves (the books I read immediately before and after this one), Ekaterini didn't really come off that well.  It's a book which will provide an enjoyable couple of hours - I'm just not sure that it will linger in the memory for that long.

It is a pleasant read though, one which becomes more interesting as it progresses, and as an ex-pat myself, I identify with Ekaterini and her grand-daughter in their efforts to cope with life between two cultures (well, except for the heavy smoking...).  It's hard to balance life between old and new homes, and (from personal experience) I know that it's a struggle which will never go away.  As they say, there's no place like home - unless, of course, you have two...

February 2014 Wrap-Up

February was a fairly quiet month, with a few review copies and even some rereading helping me to relax before things get busy again.  Yep, it was the calm before the oncoming storm...

*****
Total Books Read: 10
Year-to-Date: 17

New: 6

Rereads: 4

From the Shelves: 4
Review Copies: 6

From the Library: 0

On the Kindle: 1 (review copy)

Novels: 8

Novellas: 1
Non-Fiction: 1

Non-English Language: 9 (2 Spanish, Japanese, French, German, Korean, Serbian, Russian, Italian)

In Original Language: 2 (German, French) 

Aussie Author Challenge: 0 (0/3)

*****
Books reviewed in February were:

1) The Happy City by Elvira Navarro
2) Anatomie einer Nacht (Anatomy of a Night) by Anna Kim
3) The Soil by Yi Kwang-su
4) A Treatise on Shelling Beans by Wiesław Myśliwski
5) Calling All Heroes by Paco Ignacio Taibo II
6) Talking to Ourselves by Andrés Neuman
7) Bound in Venice by Alessandro Marzo Magno
8) Romola by George Eliot

Tony's Turkey for February is: Nothing

The Happy City wasn't my kind of book, but it wasn't poor enough to take its place in the pantry - no turkeys this month :)

Tony's Recommendation for February is:

Anna Kim's Anatomy of a Night

To be honest, I was tempted to cheat and name three or four books this month, with none of the main contenders really running away with the prize.  Commiserations then to Neuman, Myśliwski and George Eliot - the Austrian/Korean writer Anna Kim takes the honours in a photo finish ;)

*****
So, we look ahead to March, which (as you should all know by now) means one thing - it's IFFP time!  I've already kicked things off with my post suggesting a few contenders for the longlist, and the real thing will appear on the 8th.  Then it'll be time to get down to some serious reading - and blogging, of course ;)

IFFP 2014 - Longlist Predictions

A week on Saturday, the longlist for the 2014 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize will be announced, putting my anxious wait to an end (I take literature in translation *very* seriously!).  Once again, I'll be part of an elite team of ninja reviewers, led by our esteemed leader, Chairman Stu, which will shadow the real judges, forcing them to glance nervously over their shoulders before they make any rash decisions that will bring the wrath of the Shadow Panel down on their unwary heads (note to lawyers - I'm only speaking metaphorically, I promise...).

Before those five excellent individuals announce their longlist choices to the world though, I thought it was time to put my neck on the line and give you all some ideas as to books I've already read which I'd like to think will make the cut.  If I'm right, please feel free to praise my perspicacity; if not, blame the judges (the shadowy ninja reviewers are on the case...).

*****
First up then is Strange Weather in Tokyo (Portobello Books, translated by Alison Markin Powell), Hiromi Kawakami's delightful novel about a May-to-December romance.  I'd love to see this on the longlist, even if I do loathe the name change (from the American version entitled The Briefcase) and the tacky, cutesy cover.  An equally-good book (with a much nicer cover) is Birgit Vanderbeke's novella The Mussel Feast (Peirene Press, tr. Jamie Bulloch), a short tale of seafood and domestic rebellion which I tipped for the shortlist a whole year ago :)

Continuing the trend of female submissions (or domination, if you prefer) are two excellent books from Europa Editions.  The first, Viola Di Grado's 70% Acrylic 30% Wool (tr. Michael Reynolds),is a biting, sarcastic novel set in Leeds, where the mood is as dark as the wintry northern skies (if only the American translation didn't intrude on a very English canvas...).  The second is by a writer whose fame seems to have soared over the past year; Elena Ferrante's The Story of a New Name (tr. Ann Goldstein), the sequel to My Brilliant Friend, is a book which deserves to be around at the pointy end of the competition.  You never know - if her novel takes out the prize, the mysterious Ms. Ferrante might even be tempted to make an appearance in London...

But, you might ask, are there any books from the boys?  Where are the men?  Well, a couple of likely lads appear courtesy of MacLehose Press.  Andreï Makine's Brief Loves that Live Forever (tr. Geoffrey Strachan)is a beautiful little work which looks at love in a cold (and ideologically-depressing) climate, painting a picture of romance and friendship in communist-era Russia.  Still, compared to Jón Kalman Stefánsson's The Sorrow of Angels (tr. Philip Roughton), Makine's novella is positively radiant.  In the sequel to Heaven and Hell, the Icelandic writer's characters battle across a most inhospitable terrain in order to get the mail delivered on time.  Remember that the next time you whinge about your post being late ;)

Finally, there are a couple of familiar names, real IFFP heavyweights.  Karl Ove Knausgaard is back with A Man in Love (Harvill Secker, tr. Don Bartlett), the second in the six-part My Struggle cycle.  Just as detailed as the first, but much more successful, it would be a huge surprise if this didn't lift Knausi (as I like to call him) onto the longlist.  And the same is true for a certain Javier Marías and his latest book The Infatuations (Hamish Hamilton, tr. Margaret Jull Costa).  A clever tale of love, trust and deception, many have picked it to do well this year.

*****
So there you are - eight suggestions for what should be on the list next Saturday.  It's doubtful that they'll all make it to the longlist (I'm not even sure that they're all eligible - or have even been entered...), but each of them would be a worthy contender for the prize.  Rest assured - once the list is public, I'll be letting you know my thoughts and looking briefly at any which I may already have tried.

And then, of course, it'll be time to start reading ;)

'Romola' by George Eliot (Review)

After spending some time in Renaissance Italy in Bound in Venice, I was eager to read more about the era, so I trudged off to my shelves to see what I could uncover.  Very quickly, I stumbled upon the perfect book, one I'd been meaning to reread for some time.  After a spell in Venice then, it's time to head off to Florence - in the company of a rather accomplished tour guide...

*****
Romola was George Eliot's first attempt at fiction outside her home country (perhaps even her home county).  The reader is transported to Florence in 1492, where the death of Lorenzo de' Medici, the de facto ruler of the city, has initiated a period of uncertainty.  A power vacuum has appeared in the city, and it's a time of unrest, with rival groups vying for supremacy and the charismatic preacher Savonarola waiting in the wings.  Enter Tito Melema, a Greek-Italian survivor of a shipwreck, educated and good-looking, but down on his luck - a state of affairs which won't last long.

The stranger is taken in by some friendly locals, eventually gravitating to Nello's barber shop, a gathering place for intellectuals, and it's here that he receives an introduction to blind scholar Bardo Bardi and his beautiful daughter, Romola.  Melema is handsome, intelligent and cunning, and this is his time; in the confusion of the new world order, power, wealth, fame and love are his for the taking.  But is the fair-faced newcomer as good as he seems?

"Ay, Nello," said the painter, speaking with abrupt pauses; "and if thy tongue can leave off its everlasting chirping long enough for thy understanding to consider the the matter, thou mayst see that thou hast just shown the reason why the face of Messere will suit my traitor.  A perfect traitor should have a face which vice can write no marks on - lips that will lie with a dimpled smile - eyes of such agate-like brightness and depth that no infamy can dull them - cheeks that will rise from a murder and not look haggard."
p.46 (Everyman, 1999)

As the story progresses, we see that there's truth in the painter's view of traitors and fair faces, and we begin to discern hints of what's really beneath the smiles and curls...

Romola is a great vision of the distant past, a picture of renaissance Florence and a superb story of a man who wants it all.  Eliot shows us a visitor who, arriving at the right time (and not having any uncomfortable beliefs or scruples to get in the way), is able to ingratiate himself with various Florentine factions, succeeding in becoming one of the most useful and powerful men in the city.  The (anti)hero of the novel is a man with fatal flaws which threaten to undo him, the writer at pains to show us that then, just as now, beauty was often only skin deep.  Despite having been born in Italy, there is enough of the Greek in Tito to justify a tragedy ;)

This is because Tito is fatally flawed.  While he is outwardly strong and honest, on the inside he is weak, doubting and lazy - and not quite brazen enough to ignore the trouble he has brought upon himself:

"Tito foresaw that it would be impossible for him to escape being drawn into the circle; he must smile and retort, and look perfectly at his ease.  Well! it was but the ordeal of swallowing bread and cheese pills after all.  The man who let the mere anticipation of discovery choke him was simply a man of weak nerves." (p.168)

Despite the bold words, he is not always able to swallow the pills with a smile.  The chain armour he is eventually scared into wearing becomes a physical manifestation of his constant mental fears.

As Tito falls in our estimation, his role diminishes, leaving the way open for the rise of Romola, both in character and importance.  Beautiful and good, she ever so gradually begins to suspect her husband's shortcomings:

"But all the while inwardly her imagination was busy trying to see how Tito could be as good as she had thought he was, and yet find it impossible to sacrifice those pleasures of society which were necessarily more vivid to a bright creature like him than to the common run of men." (p.249)

Romola despises Tito once his true character is revealed; unlike her husband, she prefers helping the sick and poor, whoever they may be, to scheming for wealth and power.  At times, she even ends up helping Tito's enemies...

One of the major themes of Romola is the difficulty of doing the right thing when the wrong thing is so much easier (and much more lucrative), and Eliot frequently returns to her main message of the way in which we justify our bad deeds to ourselves.  She lingers on Tito's decisions to ignore signs that his adopted father, Baldassare Calvo, may not be dead after all, but it's never judgemental - Tito's actions are considered carefully as an ethical dilemma.  It's all very cleverly done, with constant arguments on one side or the other forcing the reader to examine Tito's behaviour (and wonder if we would have acted differently...).

The tragedy is played out against a superbly researched background, and the language, too, evokes the era.  We feel ourselves back in Renaissance Florence, witnessing the fall of the Medicis, and the rise (and subsequent fall) of the ambitious and enigmatic Savonarola.  From within the walls of the city state,  we are witness to the interference of the Pope and the 'visit' of the French army, along with a host of real-life characters (including Niccolò Machiavelli...) - there's even mention of Aldo Manuzio, AKA Aldus Manutius, the master publisher encountered in Bound in Venice!

Of course, there's a little too much research at times, and Romola isn't the easiest of books to get into.  The narrator is looking back at times which seem fairly primitive, and the viewpoint is almost clinically detached, giving the book the air more of a scientific study than a novel.  Also, as mentioned in Leonée Ormond's introduction, the character of Romola is especially problematic.  She's far too modern and anachronistic in the way she thinks and acts (and has the freedom to think and act); just as is to be the case in Felix Holt, the main character here is the least life-like element of a realistic historical recreation.

Romola is one of the least-read, and least-popular, of Eliot's novels.  However, it's still an excellent book, and of course, despite the title, it's Tito who is the star of the show.  While the writer warns us about him frequently, part of you still wants him to succeed in his endeavours, even after we have glimpsed some of the ugly truths lurking beneath the handsome exterior.  It's true what they say though - politics is a very dangerous game...

...especially in Renaissance Florence ;)

'Bound in Venice' by Alessandro Marzo Magno (Review)

I'm very much a lover of novels, and there's not an awful lot of non-fiction on my reading list.  However, when Europa Editions sent me a copy of today's book, it piqued my interest immediately.  The main reason for this is that it has to do with publishing, and let's face it - I'm nothing if not interested in books ;)

*****
Bound in Venice - The Serene Republic and the Dawn of the Book (by Alessandro Marzo Magno, translated by Gregory Conti) is a look at a golden era, both for Venice and the fledgling art of publishing.  We find ourselves in the early 16th century, where the author paints a picture of a Venice which has become the world centre of the publishing trade, a city with books for everyone in a wide range of fields.

The aim of the book is clear from the start - Marzo Magno shows us life in the Serene Republic and explains why and how Venice became a publishing powerhouse.  Thanks to a mix of intellectuals and astute businessmen, available capital and a cosmopolitan clientele, all set against a background of relative liberty and (most importantly) no censorship, the scene was set for the birth of a major publishing industry, the New York or London of the day.

Of course it wasn't just in publishing that Venice was ahead of its time.  It was a fabulous city, a cosmopolitan metropolis with Armenians, Jews, Arabs, Germans and Greeks milling around the streets and piazzas.  There were:

"...books in foreign or remote languages, but spoken by many visitors to the city, which as a melting pot is perhaps rivaled only by present-day New York."
p.17 (Europa Editions, 2013)

In fact, Venice was not just a city, but a powerful empire, with lands in eastern Europe, all throughout the Mediterranean and even reaching far into mainland Italy.  Little wonder then that it became a centre of learning - and literature.

Chapter by chapter, Bound in Venice looks at a different area of the publishing industry, covering topics such as maps, music and medicine.  The recent voyages of discovery had led to a boom in the field of cartography, and maps of new lands were followed closely by newly-made maps of the human body.  Of course, in a volatile political environment, with the Ottoman Empire desperate to make Venice bleed, books on war are also rather popular...

The work is most interesting though when it focuses its gaze on a single topic.  The chapter on the Hebrew publishing industry looks at the creation of the first printed Talmud in the language, appearing (naturally) in the city with the first Jewish 'ghetto' (back when the word didn't quite have the same connotations as it does today...).  Venetian publishers didn't discriminate though; another section looks at the fairly recent discovery, by researcher Angela Nuovo, of a legendary lost Koran.  Printed in Arabic for the first time in Venice in the early 16th century, the book turns up unexpectedly in the library of San Michele monastery (uncovered in a delightful literary detective story!)

Marzo Magno also introduces some of the stars of the renaissance publishing era.  The first is Aldus Manutius, super publisher, father of the semi-colon and italics, as well as a man the writer credits with inventing the first paperbacks (or libelli portatiles).  Small in size, with no academic commentary, these were cheap, portable books allowing the masses to enjoy a hobby previously restricted to the rich:

"Aldus Romanus (as he was fond of signing his name to honor his Roman origins) is the first to conceive of the book as entertainment.  He is the inventor of reading for pleasure, and this invention brings about a bona fide intellectual revolution that transforms what was an instrument used for praying or learning into a pleasant pastime." (pp.43/4)

OK, everyone - say thanks to Uncle Aldus ;)

Renaissance Venice also saw the rise of Pietro Aretino, the first star writer.  He came to public attention with his Sonnetti Lussuriosi (Salacious Sonnets) in 1527 and became notorious as a scandalous writer, a man loved by the masses.  Aretino was also a master of self-promotion (nothing changes...), raising his profile above that of other writers.  Of course, he had the city to thank for his success:

"The symbiosis of writer and city is total.  In no other place in sixteenth century Europe could Pietro have become the Aretino, in almost no other place could he have written such things without landing in jail, in no other place could he have found a publishing network able to guarantee him the press-runs and distribution." (p.202)

As Marzo Magno makes clear on several occasions, Aretino's success was only possible in a free Venice...

There's a lot to like about Bound in Venice, but be warned - it is a bit dry at times.  This is particularly true of the long first chapter, which is full of 'interesting' statistics.  Despite the pictures painted of 16th-century bookshops, this section is rather dull and a poor introduction to what lies ahead.  Another aspect of the book which might split readers is the writer's style as his rambling, comma-filled sentences where tangents (and tense switches) abound may not be to all tastes.

So, will you like it?  Well, it's very much a book for book lovers.  If the hunt for a rare error-filled Koran in a monastery library has you nodding off, then no.  If, on the other hand, you can't wait to get on to Wikipedia and find out what Glagolitic script looks like, this might be one for you.  Come and visit the Serene Republic - and don't forget your reading glasses :)

'Talking to Ourselves' by Andrés Neuman (Review)

After the huge success of Traveller of the Century, many readers have been waiting anxiously for Andrés Neuman's next work to appear in English - and I certainly count myself among that number.  Perversely though, with such a huge weight of expectation (and having met the writer last year in Melbourne), I've found this is a review which isn't that easy to write.

The keyword here is objectivity - and to imagine that I'm talking to myself...

*****
Talking to Ourselves (translated by Nick Caistor and Lorenza Garcia, review copy courtesy of Pushkin Press) is a short novel in three voices, which together reveal the story of how a family deals with terminal illness.  Mario, suffering from an unnamed disease, uses a short grace period of relatively good health to take his ten-year-old son, Lito, on a trip in his truck, his attempt to give his son one last, happy memory of their time together.  Meanwhile, back at home, Mario's wife Elena, physically and mentally exhausted from caring for her husband, sits around and worries - until she finds a way to cope.

After a visit to her husband's doctor, hoping to break through his professional reserve and learn the truth about Mario's prospects, Elena allows herself to become involved in an affair, a brief, physical, charged relationship.  As she details her thoughts in her diary, she struggles to understand what's going on, why she's turning her back on Mario in his final days.  The only place she can search for the answers is in books, scouring her library for any mention of death and illness.  In the end though, the truth is very clear - we all go through this alone...

Talking to Ourselves is an excellent exploration of what it means to live with the knowledge of imminent death, and the way in which we avoid discussing the thoughts constantly circling around in our minds.  By splitting his story into three alternating sections, each told in the first person by one of the family members, Neuman allows each of the main characters a say, all three having their own clear, unique voice (a credit to both the writer and the translators).  While conversations are described in each of the sections, Mario, Elena and Lito are talking very much to themselves - occasionally at cross purposes.

Lito's part is, for obvious reasons, the slightest.  Unaware of his father's illness, he's simply thrilled to be going on a journey he's been looking forward to for a long time, a trip he's likely to remember for the rest of his life.  The writer paints a picture of a boy whose thinking hasn't quite reached the level necessary to cope with his father's illness - he still thinks he can control the weather with his moods and that life is like a rally game (a crash just means you lose time...).

His simple, naive descriptions of the trip are complemented by Mario's story, a digital recording he makes when in the hospital after the trip, waiting for death to catch up with him:

"...will those mp thingamajigs still exist?, or will iPods seem as old-fashioned to your kids as my record player?, formats disappear just like people..."
p.33 (Pushkin Press, 2014)

In a quick, yet rambling monologue, he leaves an oral record to be given to his son at a later date, explaining what really happened on the trip - why they had to take so many toilet breaks, why they slept in the truck, why he hurried Lito out of a bar so quickly...

Of the three family members though, the key to Talking to Ourselves lies with Elena.  The brief respite offered by the trip allows her to think about matters in more depth, which is not necessarily a good thing:

"If Mario accepted the limits of his strength, we would have told all our friends the truth.  He prefers us to be secretive.  Discreet, he calls it.  A patient's rights go unquestioned.  No one talks about the rights of the carer.  Another person's illness makes us ill.  And so I'm in that truck with them, even though I've stayed at home." (p.17)

Elena is obviously drained by caring for her husband, and Neuman examines her emotional instability by allowing the reader to follow her through her relationship with the doctor.

Initially, there's a wall of professionalism between Elena and Dr. Escalante, one which actually frustrates her:

"The cautiousness of doctors irritates me.  Conversing with them is like talking on a phone without any coverage.  In other words, like listening to yourself speak." (p.20)

However, once the ice is broken, it's as if a torrent is bursting through a tiny hole in a dam, thrusting her into a relationship she doesn't know how to handle.  It's a graphic, physical affair, similar to that of Hans and Sophie in Traveller of the Century, but far darker and more twisted; where the two translators are celebrating their bodies in the name of life, Elena and Escalante are merely trying to forget death...

While frank about her motivations and guilt, in her attempts to get to the bottom of her actions Elena does shift some of the blame onto her husband, especially regarding his inability and unwillingness to accept his fate and let his family know about his illness:

"By avoiding the subject of his death, Mario delegates it to me, he kills me a little." (p.49)

Of course, she is no better than her husband in this regard - her thoughts, elegantly set down in her diary, are, just like Mario's words, meant purely for herself.

And this is what the reader is left with at the end of the novel, the feeling that much has been lost in a lack of communication.  Despite appearing to be a close, loving family, each person has their own thoughts and prefers to keep them secret, hidden away inside - together but alone, trapped in their own emotions.  It's honest, but brutally so, and it leaves you with an uneasy sense that this is how it could be for us too.  Something to ponder in a quiet moment alone...

*****
Objectivity.  Hmm.

I could (and perhaps should) leave it there - this has already blown out enough.  However, I'm not a paid reviewer, I'm a blogger, and blogging is all about subjectivity, giving people my opinions and feelings, and I don't think they're amazingly clear from what I've written above.  The truth is that when I first read Talking to Ourselves, I thought it was an excellent, thought-provoking book with three distinct voices, a novel I enjoyed immensely.  But I didn't love it.  So I had to find out why...

The reason, which I suspected on the first reading but confirmed after rereading, is all to do with subjectivity (i.e. my preferences as a reader).  You see, as mentioned above, the key to the book is Elena and the way in which her experiences as a carer have ground her down, leaving her open for the relationship she enters into with the good doctor.  However, the moment she sleeps with him, she loses my good will, and this prevents me from enjoying the novel completely.

Why does this affect my enjoyment so much?  Well, it's just the way I am.  Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary, to name just two examples, are other books where I feel that the writer is expecting me to sympathise with a woman who betrays her husband, and while in each case I can see what drove her to infidelity, I can never quite bring myself to sympathise or empathise with her actions.  Most readers will be able to enjoy Elena's thoughts despite this, but for me her actions cast a very long shadow over her words.

I also thought it would be interesting to imagine what would happen if the characters in the book were (to use an in-vogue expression) 'gender-flipped'.  Let's imagine a story where a terminally-ill woman takes her daughter on one last trip, while the husband stays at home and throws himself into a sadomasochistic affair with his wife's doctor.  I really can't see that one winning over many readers, but with the roles reversed there's an expectation that the decision is more justified - or is this just me?

In truth, Talking to Ourselves is a wonderful book, cleverly constructed and well translated (Neuman told me that he occasionally looked back and tweaked his original after seeing what Caistor and Garcia were making of his text!), even if it's missing the warmth and life of Traveller of the Century.  In its tone, it reminded me more of his first novel, Bariloche, and I wonder if his big, break-out work in English is the exception in terms of style rather than the norm.  With another work out later this year from Pushkin (a collection of short stories), the picture may become a little clearer :)

So, objectivity's gone out of the window then, but that's unsurprising - it's clear that for someone who spends hours each day sitting in front of a computer monitor, subjectivity is a much more common state of mind.  You see, the truth is that while I may occasionally delude myself into thinking I'm communicating with my digital readers, in my rare moments of lucidity and honesty, I realise that what I'm really doing is talking to myself - and that's a very scary thought...

'Calling All Heroes' by Paco Ignacio Taibo II (Review)

Last year, when I was lucky enough to review two books by Japanese writer Tomoyuki Hoshino, the publishers (PM Press) were kind enough to slip in one more piece of translated fiction, a slim novella which has been... shall we say 'resting' on my shelves for a good while?  Anyway, it was high time to give it a go - and it turned out to be a great little read :)

*****
Calling All Heroes - A Manifesto for Taking Power (translated by Gregory Nipper) is a short work by Mexican writer Paco Ignacio Taibo II in which he works through his frustration at the failure of the 1968 student protests.  Although short, it's an action-packed read, a book that looks at what might have been and then tries to make it so...

We start off in January 1970 with our central character Nestor, a journalist recovering in hospital after being attacked by a knife-wielding murderer.  With time to think, he decides that the moment has come to make the government and the police pay for the atrocities committed during the Tlatelolco crackdown (or massacre...), and to this end he dictates a series of letters, summoning an army of legendary freedom fighters to Mexico City to carry out his quixotic mission.  The actions of a deluded invalid?  Perhaps...  But what if all these heroes actually came?

Calling All Heroes is a chaotic, adrenaline-charged story, initially confusing, but eventually simply exhilarating.  The book consists of thirty-one short parts, alternating between two strands.  In the first, an unknown narrator addresses Nestor in the second person, describing the events as the bitter journalist plots his attack on the unsuspecting authorities; in the second, letters to Nestor (letters he has requested) describe his character and history, also hinting at what happened in the crazy few days at the end of January 1970.

Taibo's book is effective as an historical novel, looking at the disappointment felt by students after the government crackdowns of 1968, and several of the letters portray the feelings of helplessness and loss that followed the defeat.  What is described is a city attempting to recover from a traumatic battle:

"In the city the tanks had been replaced by solitude, with similar effects.  The wounds would seem not to have closed.  We would belong to a generation of idiot princes, hemophiliacs, whose skin the blood flowed down at the slightest cut."
p.15 (PM Press, 2010)

In fact, we later see examples of this in the story of a worker who one day decides, in the middle of the street, to set fire to himself in the hope of raising awareness of the plight of the workers...

...which may all sound like grim reading.  However, Calling All Heroes is anything but, sweeping the reader along with a story straight out of an adventure book.  You see, the band of mercenaries Nestor is summoning from around the world is not an anonymous band of guns for hire - there are some very familar names amongst these soldiers of fortune:

"The next sign that the conspiracy was thriving came on Friday, when the doctor, after pointing out that with a period of pleasant convalescence you would be in the clear, took from the pocket of his hospital coat a telegram from Dick Turpin, which gave the number of the Braniff International flight on which he would arrive in Mexico." (p.52)

Yep, that's right - Mr. Stand-and-Deliver himself.

The legendary English highwayman is just the first of many legendary figures to enter the fray, and many of them are not even real.  Still with Sherlock Holmes, Winnetou and the Light Brigade (who do a fair bit of charging) on your side, things are bound to be very interesting - and even when things do get hairy, there's always another legend of classic literature (or four) to save the day ;)

It all makes for a wonderfully-entertaining and (more importantly) well-written story, a personal catharsis disguised as a Boys-Own yarn.  The different strands work well, and a whole variety of voices come through in the letters Nestor receives from his friends.  It won't take you very long to finish Taibo's book (an hour if you're a quick reader), but it'll stay with you a lot longer than that - revolution and comic-book carnage: what's not to like?

*****
Before I leave you, I just thought I'd draw your attention to some similarities with another famous Latin-American writer, a certain Roberto Bolaño.  Last year, I read a couple of his works, including The Savage Detectives, and after finishing Calling All Heroes I couldn't help but compare the two.  The setting is the same, of course, and the letters to Nestor act in the same way as the interviews people give describing the enigmatic Lima and Belano.  The two books also contain their fair share of artists - and wry humour:

"...and René Cabrera, who wrote brilliant poems and then used the paper to fill the holes in his shoes so the rain wouldn't get his socks too wet." (p.25)

Given then that this appeared in English in 2010, a clear example of strong influences and jumping on Bolaño's coat-tails, no?  Not exactly...  You see, Taibo actually got there first - in 1982.  In the words of the writer:

"Under these deplorable conditions, this shortest of novels was created.  brewed in the midst of a premature divorce, following a premature marriage, of a political crisis, of an era of hunger and underemployment, the novel became a pretext, a vendetta, dealing with Power by other means.
 Then it was put away in a drawer and rewritten three times during the following twelve years." (Appendix Two, p.118)

I'm not an expert on Latin-American literature by any means, but it seems possible that Bolaño may have had a quick read of this one at some point ;)

*****
To finish today, a bit of music (something Stu, of Winstonsdad's Blog likes to do from time to time).  I was wondering what could possibly suit a crazy story like this, when it appeared of its own accord, unbidden - and it became clear that there was only one choice...