'The Devil's Workshop' by Jáchym Topol (Review)

'Tis the season for end-of-year book lists, and while there are a fair number of really awful ones doing the rounds, I have seen a few worth perusing.  Among the books on those lists, one book which keeps cropping up is Jáchym Topol's novel The Devil's Workshop (released in the UK by Portobello Books), and as luck would have it, my library has just acquired a copy (I suspect I'm the first person to read it...).  A book which comes highly recommended then - but does it live up to the hype?

*****
The Devil's Workshop (translated by Alex Zucker) starts off with a man in a ditch, hiding from the police and running away from a city in flames (which is always an interesting way to start a novel).  Before too long, we're taken back a little to learn how he got there, ending up in the Czech town of Terezín, the site of a Nazi-era prison, the last stop before the concentration camps.

The authorities want to 'sanitise' the town, focusing the tourist industry on a small portion of Terezín, but a group of outsiders and 'death tourists' hope to keep it all as a museum.  Under the guidance of Lebo, a man born in the prison, they appeal to the outside world for help, using the narrator's computer skills to run a worldwide fundraising campaign.  Although they are initially successful, by the time Alex and Maruška arrive, the writing is on the wall for the project.  However, the two latecomers approach the narrator with an offer of similar work in their home country - and off we go to Belarus...

The Devil's Workshop is a fairly short book, but a lot happens in the space of its 160 pages.  It's a novel which draws the reader's attention to what happened in the Second World War before moving on to later atrocities; while Terezín is fairly well known (especially to anyone who has read Sebald's Austerlitz...), events that took place in Belarus are less understood.  Topol uses the structure of his book, a story in two halves, to compare and contrast the two events, creating some very clever, effective parallels.

The first half concentrates on Terezín and the 'bunk seekers', young people driven mad by their inability to understand how the Holocaust could have happened:

"Ordinary tourists strolled through Terezín like it was a medieval castle, taking snapshots, shooting videos of the dungeons and torture chambers to show the family afterwards.  The bunk seekers would never even think of such a thing.  They showed up here crazed with pain, seized by the eternal question every seeker asked:  If it happened here, can it happen again?"
p.32 (Portobello Books, 2013)

These shattered young people are only too willing to help create a Holocaust tourist industry, one underwritten by rich sympathisers, in an attempt to come to terms with the past.  Sadly though, we also get glimpses of a fascist present when the narrator witnesses the 'Patriot Guards' chasing ethnic kids through the streets of Prague (plus ça change...).

It's only when we get to Belarus that we see things in context - the second half is suddenly much darker.  Once again, we're on the run, but everything here is bigger, worse, scarier.  There are uprisings in the streets, government crack-downs, guns and knives - the people fill the enormous boulevards, filling the poor Czech narrator with fear.  The events back in Terezín now look like a provincial squabble...

It's only here that we get the true idea behind the book.  Angered by the success of memorial sites further west, Alex, Maruška and their leader, Kagan, are determined to spread the message about the massacres in Soviet-era Belarus, a Holocaust which nobody knows about.  Terezín and Auschwitz are famous - why shouldn't Khatyn join the list?  Alex reveals the plan - a museum:

"Museum, I say, looking around.  What museum?  Besides the mannequins there's nothing but crates.  Crates full of specimens.
  The museum we're building in Khatyn, Alex says.  It's going to be the most famous memorial site in the world.  The devil had his workshop here in Belarus.  The deepest graves are in Belarus.  But nobody knows about them.  That's why you're here!" (p.107)

This is no grey building filled with maps and pottery though - it's set to be a 'museum' which makes the Terezín efforts look like a kindergarten display...

The Devil's Workshop is a great, quick read, a novel which is very much action-driven, keeping the narrator (and the reader) constantly on the move.  The book is very cleverly plotted, with two parallel halves, the second being a monstrous, deformed version of the first.  The only drawback for me is that the writing is fairly simple.  It's a great story, full of thought-provoking ideas, but fairly ordinary prose.  That's a minor quibble though, and I suspect that this wouldn't be an issue for the majority of readers.

It won't be on my end-of-year list, but I did enjoy the book, and I suspect that most who read this will enjoy it too.  Given the success Holocaust-themed novels have had in recent years (e.g. Blooms of Darkness, Trieste), there's a good chance that this will be up there for the IFFP & BTBA awards next year too.  It's a twist on Holocaust literature, calling attention to other disasters, equally deserving of notice.  Of course, sadly it's also a reminder that persecution is not just a thing of the past...

'Rustic Baroque' by Jiří Hájíček (Review)

When it comes to Czech literature, my experience is limited to Kafka, Kundera... and that is about it.  Having seen a couple of reviews for a more contemporary Czech novel then, I was curious enough to ask the publishers, Real World Press, for a copy.  What is it about?  A story of life in the country - central-European style...

*****
Jiří Hájíček's Rustic Baroque (translated by Gale A. Kirking) is set a few years back in the Czech countryside, but it is also concerned with the events of the farm collectivisations of the 1950s.  The main character is Pavel Straňanský, a genealogist who reluctantly takes on the task of uncovering an old document - one which will compromise a local politician as it reveals his family's informer past.

In the company of Daniela, an attractive tourist from Prague who is researching her own family tree, Pavel visits the villages of the south Bohemian countryside, interviewing the locals and digging up information.  The more Pavel learns about the events that occurred fifty years earlier, the stronger his pangs of conscience become - should he reveal what he has found or leave the past buried in the sleepy countryside?

Rustic Baroque is a great insight into recent Czech history, the two contrasting stories of past and present making for an interesting novel.  The writer sets the scene nicely, with Pavel escaping his archives during a sweltering summer to search for the information he needs.  The reader is treated to a guided tour of restful, rustic villages.  Be warned though - there is a lot going on beneath the surface...

As much as it is about Czech history though, the novel is largely concerned with Pavel himself.  An intellectual fish-out-of-water, seemingly marooned in the provinces, he faces immense pressure from his brother and the locals in his home village, none of whom can understand his lifestyle (or his obsession with the past).   Although he enjoys his job, he does start to sense the futility of his work:

"The dim monitor displayed the names of people who no one knows anymore, who no one living today ever saw.  They have no faces, most of them even have no story.  Only dates of birth and death, cradles and graves, all over again, and I bring them out into the light from the moldy books of archives and people pay me for that..."
p.54 (Real World Press, 2013)

Is it all worth it, or is he just a loser, stuck in the sticks, after all?

In a slightly clichéd move, the divorced Pavel is provided with the gorgeous Daniela as both a genealogy side-kick and a potential lover (although she also plays the important role of asking Pavel the questions the reader wants to ask).  In many ways, her arrival is the catalyst for Pavel's doubts about what he is doing as her presence brings unrest:

"As always when I waited for Daniela, I felt an uneasiness, not just inside me but somehow all around me as well.  She always wreaked havoc on everything that had previously been in order - such as the files lined up in their shelves, their record numbers in successive order.  The entire archive in ruins." p.113

And what does Daniela want from Pavel anyway - a summer fling, or something more?

Rustic Baroque is a fascinating story of how the future is built upon the past - and a dilemma of whether past wrongs need to be righted.  Pavel uncovers stories that many people would rather he hadn't, and in the wrong hands, this information could ruin lives and careers.  Surely, at some point, it is time to forgive and forget...

*****
I enjoyed this novel, and the four bonus short stories from Hájíček's collection, The Wooden Knife, but it would be unfair (possibly unethical) of me to finish the review without revealing a major issue I had with the book - the translation.  I enjoyed Rustic Baroque despite the translation, not because of it.  I found it stiff, overly formal, unnatural - and (in some places) grammatically incorrect.

Translators have to walk a fine line between conveying the essence of the original text and creating a piece of writing that works in English - Kirking's translation certainly erred on the side of following the original to the letter, even to the extent of using unnatural sentence structure (presumably to stay closer to the Czech version).  This was particularly true for the dialogue, which rarely sounded like natural spoken English.  It is a shame because this is a story that many people would enjoy.

Still, language and linguistics are a large part of what I do every day, and I can sometimes be very sensitive about these matters.  It may well be that others are less bothered than I was about the translation (and I haven't really seen it mentioned in other reviews).  Hopefully, whether they like the translation or not, most readers will still be able to enjoy the essence of Hájíček's novel :)

Das Schloß - The Play (The Director's Cut)

As you may have noticed from my posts this week (and from my earlier reviews of Der Prozeß/The Trial and Die Verwandlung/The Metamorphosis), there's something about Kafka's work which makes writing a parody seem easier than actually reviewing the book.  His works are so obviously allegorical and divorced from reality that I find it hard to summarise the main ideas and interpret what I'm reading.  Nevertheless, I suppose I should explain myself a little, if I am to redeem myself after my little escapades...

*****
Das Schloß (The Castle), like Kafka's other novels, was a work which his executor, Max Brod, was supposed to destroy after the Czech writer's death.  Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how much you like it) Brod ignored the instructions and decided to publish it anyway.  Like Der Prozeß, it's a surreal tale, following a normal man as he attempts to make sense of an increasingly abnormal situation, although this time there is no actual resolution to the story.

The book begins on a snowy night as the Land-Surveyor K. enters a village and asks to stay at an inn.  He has come at the behest of someone at the 'castle', a shadowy, mysterious entity which few people have actually visited.  Not long after his arrival, K. is met by two assistants, Artur and Jeremias, who have been sent to him by the castle, and he also receives a message from an official.  From here though, his attempts to actually get into the castle go nowhere...

It's clear from the outset that the castle is a metaphor for something deep and meaningful.  It's equally clear that anyone who claims to know what it actually is has their pants on fire.  The whole point of Kafka's work is that it defies unravelling; there are several possible keys to the text, each as likely and as implausible as the next.  The best thing to do is just to give it a go and make up your own mind about what is actually going on...

Would I recommend Das Schloß?  Yes and no.  It's definitely not for anyone who has yet to pick up anything by Kafka.  The chapters can sometimes seem like an interminable monologue disguised as one side of a conversation, followed by... well, another interminable monologue disguised as one side of a conversation - Kafka characters do like a good chat.  At times, you can read page after page, or even chapter after chapter, without really thinking you're getting anywhere.  Also, the more desperate K. gets to actually enter the castle, the more unbelievable it all becomes - abandon a sense of proportion, all ye who enter herein!

However, if you're looking for challenging, thought-provoking writing (and are prepared to abandon the concept of any real plot), Das Schloß is well worth reading.  It's easy to see why it's one of those must-read books; it's also easy to see that it's not one I'll be rereading on a regular basis though ;)

*****

Before I wrap-up my work on Kafka's epic though, I thought I'd just help out a little with my posts this week.  I'm sure that most of you Germanophiles will have picked up on all the subtle allusions, but here's a quick key for those who missed some of the feeble jokes:

Act One:

- The Gary mentioned in the play is, of course, Gary of The Parrish Lantern fame, who invented the idea of the German Literature Month Tour Bus during my solo G-Lit month back in August (so basically, you have him to blame for all this!).

- The phone number for the Castle hotline (371883) is actually Kafka's date of birth.

- The recorded message (and the Innkeeper's later refusal to give K. Tony's room) refer to one of Kafka's most famous short stories Vor dem Gesetz (Before the Law) - well worth reading :)

- The last line of Act One, paraphrasing a quotation from The Wizard of Oz, namechecks Gottfried Keller's novella collection Die Leute von Seldwyla (The People of Seldwyla).

Act Two:

- Hohen-Cremmen is, of course, the home of Effi Briest's parents (Effi is also alluded to at the end of Act Three...).

- Barnabas, like the other characters mentioned (e.g. Frieda, the Innkeeper) is actually from Kafka's book.

- Buddenbrooks, a semi-autobiographical tale of the decline of a merchant family in Lübeck, is one of Thomas Mann's most popular works.

Act Three:

- Caroline and Lizzy, the shady people sharing a crafty dram with Gary, are, of course, the hosts of the whole German Literature Month (so you can blame them for all this too!).

- The phrase "add that to the file" refers to the masses of paperwork in the nightmare bureaucracy of the castle, where everything has to be written down.

*****

And that, thankfully, is that!  I hope you enjoyed the show, and don't forget to check out the real thing one day - if you can find your way to the castle, that is...

Das Schloß - The Play (Act Three of Three)

A few hours have passed.  The short winter day is drawing to a close, and the sky is getting darker by the minute.  The Innkeeper is behind the bar, drying glasses and studiously not looking in Tony’s direction.  A barmaid is also behind the bar, using a rather dirty-looking cloth to wipe down the long, wooden surface. Tony is still sitting at the table nursing his beer, staring at the glass, concentrating on the dark remnants inside.  Suddenly, he looks up and, gesturing in the direction of the bar, tries to catch the barmaid’s eye…

Tony: Hello? Could I get another please?

 [The barmaid looks up, nods, and starts to fill another tankard with beer.  A few moments later, she walks over to the table and puts the tankard firmly down.  After picking up the finished drink, she goes to walk away.]

Sorry, could I ask you something, erm…?

Barmaid: Frieda, my name’s Frieda.

Tony: Frieda… could I ask you something about the castle, Frieda?

[Frieda sits down opposite Tony, her manner noticeably less hostile than before.  Tony pauses, smiles, and then continues speaking.]

I was wondering if you had…  if you had ever been up there…

Frieda: [Surprised] To the Castle?  What, of course not! [Giggles]  Why would I have been to the Castle? [She leans forward, and her face becomes more serious.]  I do know a man though, an official called Kramm… have you heard of him?

Tony: No…

Frieda: Well, he’s supposed to be very influential, knows a lot of people… [She pauses, looking Tony up and down.] Of course, he’s a lot older than you… [She smiles coquettishly across the table.]

Tony: [Nervously playing with his wedding ring] Actually, I think I should call my wife…

[The smile disappears from Frieda’s face.  She stands up and storms off in the direction of the kitchen.  A door is heard to slam in the distance.  From behind the bar, there’s a mutter from the Innkeeper.   The only audible words are “add” and “file”.  Tony starts to get up, as if to walk over to the telephone again, when a noise from behind stops him.  He turns around.  The door opens, and the darkness of late evening is framed within its outline .  A man’s figure emerges from the darkness and enters the inn.]

Man: [Looks around] Hello?  Could someone help me please?

[Frieda looks around, and her eyes light up when she sees the handsome face and strong build of the newcomer.  She rushes from behind the bar and addresses the stranger.]

Frieda: Welcome to the inn!  Are you looking for a place to stay?  Dinner?  Drinks?  Or… [She plays with her hair and sends an unambiguous look towards the man.]

Man: [Taking a step backwards] Erm, well, actually… I’m here on business as a Land-Surveyor, at the Castle, I believe, and I was looking for a place to stay tonight.  Do you have any rooms?

[The Innkeeper, who has been drying the glasses up to this point, looks up and speaks.]

Innkeeper: Sorry, no rooms.

[Tony looks up in surprise.]

Tony: But you offered me a room?  I won’t be needing it, so why don’t you let Mr…

Man: K.

Tony: [Sceptically to the man] K.?  [The man nods.] Really? [The man nods again.  Tony turns back to the Innkeeper.]  Why don’t you let Mr. K. have my room?

Innkeeper: No, can’t do that.  That room’s just for you.  And I’m adding that to your file…

Tony: [Jumping up and shouting] Will you stop saying that?!!

Frieda: [To K.] You can share my room…

[The Innkeeper’s face darkens, and he begins to walk around from behind the bar.  Frieda takes a step towards K., and K. takes two big strides back.  Tony takes K.’s arm, and guides him towards the door.]

Tony: Come on, let’s go.  You can’t even get into the castle anyway, so we may as well get out of this village while we can. [Points at the coach]  We’ve still got a seat on the bus if you want to join us…

K.:  Have you got toilets on board?

Tony: Toilets, coffee-making facilities, wide-screen television, extensive library, very comfy seats…

K.: Sounds good. [K. and Tony walk across the road to the coach.  Gary, Lizzy and Caroline, loitering on the pavement across the road, slip guiltily back onto the bus, Gary slipping what looks suspiciously like an empty whisky bottle into his coat pocket.  He says something to the driver, and the engine roars into life.]  So, where are we going anyway?  Anywhere special?

Tony:  Not really.  I’ve got a friend up north, and I thought I’d pay her a visit.

K.: [Hopefully] A friend… Pretty, is she?

Tony: [Thumping K. on the shoulder] Yes… and she’s married.  Anyway, Effi’s not like that…

[The two men get onto the coach.  There’s a loud cheer, and, moments later, the bus drives off down the road.  Very soon, it has disappeared into the darkness and the falling snow.

Back in the inn, Frieda is sitting in the middle of the floor, howling and tearing her hair out.  The Innkeeper is standing behind the bar again, polishing some glasses.  Suddenly, the phone rings.  The Innkeeper puts down a glass, walks over to the phone and picks up the receiver.]

Innkeeper: Hello? [Undecipherable sounds from the other end of the line]  That’s right, two visitors, not one.  And a bus. [More sounds] Understood.  Can you add that to the file?

*****
Still confused?  Click through for a little enlightenment ;) 

Das Schloß - The Play (Act Two of Three)

A few minutes have passed since the previous action.  Tony is now seated at one of the round tables in front of the bar, along with the Innkeeper.  The Innkeeper’s Wife brings over a tray with two beers on it and puts them down in front of the two men.  Tony’s beer is brought down with a crash, sending a small puddle of beer flying towards his fur coat.  The Innkeeper’s Wife sneers at Tony, then turns on her heel and stomps back to the bar.  Tony begins to speak…

Tony: So what you’re saying is that I’m actually inside Kafka’s book?

Innkeeper: [Drinks, then brings his tankard crashing down onto the table] No!  Why do you keep talking about a book?  You are in the Village, the Village which belongs to the Castle, and there is no way to get into the Castle without connections, without working your way into a higher position.  If you start off as a barman, perhaps, if you are dutiful, in a few years, there will be the possibility of moving on to something more substantial…

Tony: [Interrupting] And then I can go to the castle?

Innkeeper: [Sighs] No.  Then you may have access to someone who might know someone who occasionally has access to a person who works in a capacity loosely connected with the Castle… [Pauses] …if you’re lucky.

Tony: Hmm.  [Pauses, then speaks] I was planning to be in Hohen-Cremmen on Saturday...

[There is silence.  Both men devote themselves to their tankards, Tony thinking of how to turn the conversation, the Innkeeper wondering how he can end it.  Suddenly, the door crashes open, and, framed against the streetlights and the swirling snow, a young man appears, still in the doorframe for a brief moment, before moving into the inn.]

Innkeeper: [Standing up] There you are, my friend, the answer to your prayers! [Points to the newcomer]  This is Barnabas, and he is a messenger from the Castle! [Addresses Barnabas]  Do you have a message for our foreign friend?

Barnabas: [Shifts nervously from foot to foot] I do have a message to deliver… [He steps forward and hands Tony a small piece of paper.  Tony opens it and reads it aloud as the Innkeeper tries to peer over his shoulder.]

Tony: [Reads the note] “ Tony, the people on the bus are getting a bit restless – some of them aren’t too keen on Kafka anyway and want to move on to the Thomas Mann trail.  How are those tickets looking?  Gary.” [Tony and the Innkeeper look at Barnabas, who is trying to look innocent and failing dismally.]

Barnabas: [Sheepishly] I never said it was a message from the Castle now, did I?

[Tony scribbles something on the back of the note and then hands it back to Barnabas.]

Tony: Here you are, take this back to the bus for me, will you?

[Barnabas nods, pockets the message, and leaves the inn.]

Innkeeper: [Curious] What did you say?

Tony: [Sitting down at the table again] Oh, I just told Gary to stick the German TV adaptation of Buddenbrooks on the DVD player – should keep the Mann fans quiet for a good few hours.

[The Innkeeper sits back down, and Tony leans across the table to ask him a question.]

So, tell me, what do you think of the castle?

Innkeeper: [Nervously] The Castle?  What I think of it?  Me?  What do you mean?  The Castle is just the Castle, everpresent, everchanging, untouchable… [He leans back, gazing at the wall behind Tony’s head, lost in thought.] …the Castle is a part of the Village, and we, in turn are a part of the Castle…

Tony: Well, yes, but what I’m trying to get at here is the idea behind the castle, what it represents, the metaphor behind the reality if you will. [The Innkeeper nods cautiously.] I mean, look, there are a lot of possibilities, the bureaucracy, that’s one, the castle could be representative of our inability to penetrate the thick red tape surrounding us and preventing us from enjoying our daily lives.  Or, or… [Waves his arms in the air as if clutching for words] …it could all be a religious metaphor, the castle as heaven and all the people down below in the village looking for the best way to get to the castle, confused as to the best way in, distracted by all the earthly, that is to say, village diversions… [The Innkeeper nods again.] …it has to be that, right?  What do you think?

[The Innkeeper leans forward slowly, and Tony leans towards him, eager to hear his thoughts.]

Innkeeper: [Slowly] Do you know what I think the Castle is? [Tony waits expectantly.]  A big stone building – with bloody thick walls.  [Tony’s head thuds into the table, splashing into a puddle of beer.  The Innkeeper pats him on the shoulder and stands up to go.]  I’ll add that to your file…

*****
To see how the story ends, click through to Part Three...

Das Schloß - The Play (Act One of Three)

A large coach pulls up in a quiet street in a small village somewhere in Central Europe.  Through the gently falling snow, the words “German Literature Month Tour Bus” can be seen on the side facing us.  A door opens, a man steps out, struggling to get into a large fur coat, and walks towards the only building in the street with lights on, “The Bridge Inn”.  He crosses the street and opens the door…

Tony:  [Turns to face the bus and shouts] Tell the driver to keep the engine running Gary, I’ll just ask someone for directions.  [He walks into the inn and sees the Innkeeper]  Ah, good morning!

[The Innkeeper looks at him blankly] Good afternoon?

Innkeeper: Hurry in, hurry in.  We have been expecting you, your room is ready, please, take a seat, warm yourself by the fire, you must be tired after your long journey, and cold, very cold, after all, it is winter, and the winters here in the village are extremely bitter, something a stranger like yourself will have to get used to if you are to adapt quickly to our small community.

Tony: [Confused]  Erm, well, I actually just wanted to ask for directions to the castle, you know, the one that’s used in Kafka’s book – a few of us are on a bit of a literary tour.  Do you know it?

[The Innkeeper’s wife, sitting behind the bar, breaks out in laughter.  The Inkeeper grins wryly and, turning to his wife, raises an eyebrow.]

Innkeeper: Do we know the castle? Hah! [Turns back to Tony]  Of course we know the Castle, everyone knows the Castle, the Castle is why we are here, the Castle is, if this is not too much of an exaggeration, the only reason for our, for my, for your existence. [He looks expectantly at Tony]

Tony: [Nervously] OK, so… could you give me some directions up there?  You see, we’re a bit lost…

[The Innkeeper visibly flinches, and his wife stops laughing, gets up and runs out of a door at the back of the inn.]

Innkeeper: You want to go to the Castle?  You think you can just decide to go to the Castle?  You honestly believe, you naïve young man, that you can just make your own way up to the Castle, ignoring the secretaries and assistants and just wander in, unannounced, simply stroll into the Castle?  Do you?  Do you really?

Tony: [A little cowed] Well, no.

[The Inkeeper is relieved]

We’re planning to buy entrance tickets, of course…

[The Innkeeper slaps his hands over his face, and presently a sound of sobbing can be heard.  After standing around awkwardly for a minute or two, Tony starts to look around the inn, and, almost immediately, a telephone catches his eye.  He wanders over, having forgotten the innkeeper – who is now banging his head, slowly, but firmly, against the wall -, and reads a sticker attached to the wall above the phone.  It reads: “Castle Hotline – 371883.  Twenty-four hour connection to your lords and masters all year round (except Christmas Day and Shrove Tuesday)”.  Tony picks up the receiver and dials the number.]

Automated Menu: [A woman’s voice speaks] Thank you for calling the Castle Hotline.  This call will be recorded for quality assurance and legal purposes.  If you are not happy with this, well, tough luck.  So that we can best answer your call, please choose from one of the following options.  If you are looking for a job as a messenger, press 1; if you have a complaint about one of our friendly officials, press 2; if you would like to know our opening hours, press 3; for directions to the Castle, press 4…

[Tony presses 4]

There are many roads to the castle.  These roads are ever-changing and sometimes impassable, and each is accessible only to the person it was created for… [Tony sighs] …to return to the main menu, press the ‘star’ key… [Tony presses the ‘star’ key, immediately followed by 3.]

Our opening hours are infrequent, inconstant, whimsical and unknowable for the common man.  Thank you for calling the Castle Hotline – a transcript of this call has been added to your file.

[There is a click, and the line goes dead.  Tony bangs the receiver against the phone (once, hard) and then replaces it.]

Tony: [To himself] Toto, I've a feeling we’re not in Seldwyla any more…

*****
If you'd like to know how the story continues, click through to Part Two...

Tony's Metamorphosis

As Tony Malone awoke one morning from uneasy sleep, caused partly by reading Kafka's Die Verwandlung, or The Metamorphosis, until far too late for someone with Tony's early-bedtime habits, he found himself changed into a monstrous bookworm.  He looked down at his body and saw a nothing but a long, worm-like torso, and, when he glanced over at the curtainless window, he thought he saw something resembling a puffy, oval face, with large eyes, more suitable for heavy reading than his usual small ones.  He fell back onto his bed, pondering the change which, for no reason he could think of at the moment, besides, of course, the incessant reading he had been undertaking of late, had come over him while he was sleeping or, to be more accurate, slipping in and out of consciousness.  What had happened?  What was he to do?  And, more importantly, what was he to read next?

As he mulled over the situation in his mind, he began, unconsciously, to think back to Kafka's novella, smiling wryly at the coincidental irony of undergoing such a transformation after reading that particular book - although, of course, perhaps it wasn't such a coincidence when you considered that, just like Gregor Samsa, and Kafka himself, he too was a family man, burdened by responsibility, subconsciously waiting for something to take matters out of his own hands and relieve him of his onerous task.  He reflected upon the possibility, perhaps the certainty? No, the possibility, that this rejection of social norms, the role of the man as worker and bread winner, was linked to a regression in Samsa's condition (and it was certainly possible, if not certain, that this was also a factor in Tony's own, recent - and maybe not entirely unexpected - unfortunate accident...), a regression which was nothing more, or less, than a rejection of the load his family was asking him to bear.

Tony was just about to follow this train of thought further, when, suddenly and abruptly, especially for that time of the morning (for, although it was light outside, the sun certainly hadn't risen much above the horizon yet), the door crashed open, and his elder daughter Emily ran into the room.  On seeing her father, or more accurately, the creature lying where her father was usually to be found, she stopped, silent, as if first weighing events and possible explanations up in her mind, before then deciding to speak after all, asking with an, understandably, quivering voice, "Is that you, Daddy?".  Now, this put Tony on the spot, firstly, because he wasn't sure if he would still be able to speak and, more importantly, be understood, but also because, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't quite sure of the answer to this question himself...  As he attempted to move himself into a more upright position, preparatory to responding to his daughter's unexpectedly metaphysical question, Emily, seeing only a creature shifting itself slightly in her direction, turned and fled from the room.

Tony now managed to turn himself over onto what might, or might not, have been his stomach, feeling all of a sudden, although the feeling may have been there for some time, masked by the aches caused by his uncomfortable position, that he was actually very hungry.  Some toast would be nice or... no.  The idea of food repelled him, but a book... a book would be good, preferably something old and long since ideologically rotten.  He paused for thought, wondering where that idea had come from, letting it slip away as quickly as it had entered his head.

Again he thought back to Die Verwandlung, marvelling at more parallels between his and the protagonist's plight, deciding this time to consider the possibility of a metaphor of terminal illness or disability, a theme that had already crossed his mind when reading another of Kafka's works, Der Prozeß.  Perhaps Samsa's transformation was a metaphor for a more mundane, but equally debilitating, disease, one which his family would struggle to accept and adapt to.  Possible...  Nevertheless, Tony couldn't really see his twinges of RSI in the same vein, and he was struggling to see how an inability to type for long periods of time could somehow evolve into a full-body mutation of the kind he was experiencing.  He paused, unsure, unable to understand the logic of the proceedings, cogitating, considering and clarifying events in his mind.  He still felt hungry too.

Just then, in the middle of his musings, he became aware of another intruder into his bookworm's lair, a figure he could just make out through his slightly altered, near-sighted vision.  He slowly recognised his wife as she crossed the threshold, looking around calmly, as if registering slight changes in the environment, before fixing her gaze calmly on the entity lying beneath the sheets.  Tony's heart began to beat faster, and his mouth, or what he still thought of as his mouth, being, as it was, in the place where he was accustomed to find that feature, opened and closed quickly, almost as if the creature, the bookworm, the husband wanted to say something.  The wife took a step forward, looked Tony in the eye, and calmly, but with a barely veiled hint of hostility, said:

"If you think this will get you out of mowing the lawn, you've got another think coming."

With that, she turned and left the room, and Tony, still cowering under the sheets, started thinking about getting dressed - and especially about how he was going to get his t-shirt over his over-sized head...

A Rare Foray into the World of Poetry

As regular readers of my blog (if there are any) will know, my literary preference is most definitely for the novel, and other genres are comparatively underrepresented in my reviews.  You will find the odd novella, a smattering of short-story collections, even the occasional non-fiction text if you look long and hard enough.  However, apart from a rather irreverent look at an Ancient Greek classic, poetry has not had a look in on Tony's Reading List, leaving a small, poetically-shaped gap in my online world.

I know that makes no sense - now you know why I'm not big on poetry.

Today though, I am bucking this trend and talking about a book I recently received for review from the good people at Oxford World's Classics (and indeed am still, and for a long time will be, reading), namely Selected Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke.  German poetry?  That's right - and the best thing is that this brand-new book is actually a bilingual edition, with parallel German and English texts on facing pages.  Brilliant :)

Rilke is one of Germany's most famous poets, and the above-mentioned selection is a hefty one, including poems from the whole of his career, from his first published sonnets to the later, meatier epic poetry of The Duinese Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus, and on to his later, shall we say, more interesting work.  German is a language which seems to lend itself well to poetry, the ebb and flow of the words and the formal sounding rhythms creating soothing patterns of language (well, to my ear anyway!).

The shorter poems are often snapshots of images observed by Rilke on his travels throughout Europe, slices of life interpreted through the poet's eyes.  Whether his subjects are flowers, merry-go-rounds, passionate flamenco dancers or dangerous Venetian courtesans, Rilke sketches an incomplete picture, which somehow says more than a complete one ever could.  One of his most famous poems, Der Panther (The Panther), describes the still beauty of the caged animal:

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht. (p62, l5-8)

Or, if you prefer the English:

The supple, powerful footfall paces softly
in ever-tinier circles, tight-described,
a danced strength, as though about a centre
where a great will stays, stupefied. (p63, l5-8)

Those of you with some knowledge of German will, no doubt, be comparing the two versions above, and it immediately becomes clear that while translation is always a rather inexact science, translating short lyrical poetry is up there with splitting the atom.  To preserve all nuances while adhering to both rhythm and rhyme must, technically speaking, be an absolute nightmare, and the two translators of this version, Susan Ranson and Marielle Sutherland, do a sterling job.  However, the translation will never quite capture the essence of the German.

An example of this is an extract from a poem which I immediately took a liking to, Das Karussel (The Merry-go-round):

Und auf den Löwen reitet weiß ein Junge
und hält sich mit der kleinen heißen Hand,
dieweil der Löwe Zähne zeigt und Zunge

Und dann und wann ein weißer Elefant (p72, l12-15)

Or, in English:

And on the lion rides a boy, quite young,
in white, holding on with sticky hands,
while the lion bares its teeth and tongue.

And now and then a white, white elephant (p73, l12-15)

It's easy to see that the meaning has been altered slightly to fit the rhythm in the first line, from Junge (boy) to 'a boy, quite young', while in the second line mit der kleinen heißen Hand (with the [his] little, hot hand) is changed to 'with sticky hands' - accurate, but perhaps missing the possible connotation of 'eager and excited' which the German contains.  Also, in the final line above, 'now and then' can't compare with the assonance of dann und wann, nor does the repetition of 'white, white' (to catch up on syllables) quite match the simple German weißer.

However, when we come to the longer epic poetry of The Duinese Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus, the translators really come into their own.  The lack of rhyme gives them more freedom to adhere to the meaning and rhythm, and it is here that the non-native speaker (and possibly many native speakers too!) are grateful for any help the translators - and the excellent notes at the back of the volume - are able to give.  When faced with pages of dense imagery, it is easy to tune out to the overall message, and with poetry, unlike with a novel where missing an idea or two dann und wann is not such a big deal, that pretty much defeats the object.


Thankfully, the beautifully spaced print, with the original German on the left-hand page, facing the English on the right, allows you to sneak a peek every so often, dragging you back from the tangential path you thought the poem was pushing you down.  This is a very good thing because when Rilke is musing about angels and the connection between our world and theirs (as he does in The Duinese Elegies), it is very easy to simply slide under the thunder of words and sounds...

I still haven't read this book cover to cover, but that is most definitely not the point.  I will continue to enjoy dipping into its pages, revisiting some of my favourite shorter poems and working my way through the longer fare.  Selected Poems is a must for anyone interested in Rilke, or German poetry in general, but I do feel that there is a need for some German proficiency - otherwise, you will simply be missing the point of the book.  Anyway, I'm off to read another of the elegies and try to work out what is happening now in the plane of existence inhabited by the awesome angels - I may be some time...

Letters from America

"When you gooooo, will you send baaaaack, a letter frooom Americaaa?"

No, today's post has nothing to do with bespectacled Scottish icons The Proclaimers, but the theme today is definitely stateside.  I'm not a big reader of American literature, or even books set in the US, so I've read surprisingly little that other bloggers (or, at least, many American bloggers) would take for granted.  I only have about ten books by American authors lining my bookshelves, and Kerouac's On The Road is the most recent, so while I'm not ready to commit myself heavily, I may attempt to rectify that a little this year.

Then again, I may not.  We'll see :)

*****

The first book in this mini-challenge is a book whose name I have continually stumbled across in recent months, Paul Auster's The New York Trilogy.  As the name suggests, the book contains three separate stories which, as well as being thematically linked, are eventually shown to comprise one whole story.  In City Of Glass, a writer receives a call asking for a detective named Paul Auster, and his decision to assume this identity and take on a case leads to a breakdown in his routine existence, causing him to question his life and the way he lives it.  The second story, Ghosts, is a shorter detective story, where Blue is hired by White to spy on Black (and from there, it gets even more confusing...).  The third part of the trilogy is The Locked Room, and in this story the writer (who may or may not be Auster) attempts to find an old friend who has disappeared, leaving him in charge of his legacy - and his wife.

I was a little nervous about whether or not I'd enjoy this book, but from the first page I sensed that this was my kind of writing.  The idea of an ordinary man catapulted into extraordinary occurrences is very reminiscent of Murakami, and the way in which Quinn, the protagonist of City of Glass, is pulled deeper into a bizarre case, unable to give up something which he shouldn't really be doing anyway, could come straight out of Kafka.  Even Quinn's meeting with the author Paul Auster was familiar, reminding me of a certain Hiraku Makimura from Dance Dance Dance...

By the middle of the third story, I was starting to get a little restless, as the parts were all really too similar for a collection of just three stories; however, Auster pulled it all together by revealing that the three stories were actually linked (sometimes it's good to know nothing about an author or his books!), and the finished article was a very satisfying read.

In some ways, it was a little scary to see how close we actually are to falling off the edge of our lives.  Auster's characters are prompted to make a slight alteration in direction by external events, and before they know it, they have abandoned their jobs, their homes and their way of life.  Of course, you could look at it in a different light; the ties we think bind us to our lives are mostly arbitrary and more easily severed than we believe.  An interesting viewpoint, and a very interesting book - more of Auster to come this year, I'm sure.

*****

The quote I started today's post with is actually more apt for the second of today's reads than for the first, coming as it does from a song about emigration.  Franz Kafka's Amerika (I could translate the title, but then I'd have to bludgeon you to death with a copy of A Suitable Boy) follows 'German' emigrant Karl Roßmann on his voyage of discovery through early-twentieth century America.  An earlier novel than some of his more famous works (e.g. The Trial, The Metamorphosis), Amerika is a little more straight forward than expected but still contains enough of his trademark style to be recognisable as a Kafka work.

We meet the seventeen-year-old Roßmann on board a ship about to dock in New York, staring at the Statue of Liberty.  Sent abroad by his parents to avoid the scandal of his illicit (unwanted) liaison with a maid, Karl is left to his own devices, abandoned to make his own way in the 'Land der unbegrenzten Möglichkeiten' (land of unlimited possibilities - a common German cliché used about America), and the story consists of his repeated efforts to establish himself, followed by failure and a subsequent descent in social standing.

Amerika is a sort of Bildungsroman, just in reverse; Karl never really manages to get on, despite his best efforts, and is dragged down by a couple of unsavoury characters.  The duo of Delamarche, a Frenchman, and the Irish Robinson take advantage of Karl's good nature and innocence in a way which reminded me of how Fagin and The Artful Dodger attempted to corrupt Oliver Twist.  According to Kafka's (English) Wikipedia page, this idea was not as fanciful as it first appeared, as Kafka described Amerika as his attempt at a Dickens-style novel.

As mentioned above, the usual Kafka themes and style are evident.  Karl frequently has to defend himself against unfair accusations from figures of power, launching the usual complicated and lengthy Kafka-esque monologues pleading his case, with little chance of success.  The characters swing quickly in their moods towards each other, strangers becoming close friends (and then sworn enemies) in a matter of minutes, and Karl gets caught up in the affairs of the people he meets, in spite of his lengthy internal promises to the contrary.  Business as usual in a Kafka novel.

Sadly, there's one more thing Amerika has in common with Kafka's other novels, and that is that the story is, unfortunately, unfinished.  There is a huge section missing before the last chapter, which is itself incomplete, a frustration for the reader, but something which we shouldn't complain too much about.  You see, after Kafka's untimely death, he instructed his executor, editor and close friend Max Brod, to destroy all his unpublished materials, and it is due entirely to Brod's decision to ignore this instruction that we are able to read any of his novels at all...


*****
To finish today, I'd just like to tie the two books together a little more tightly.  As well as the setting, there are several parallels, with Auster being influenced a little by Kafka in the sense of his characters' seemingly being unable to free themselves from a nightmare scenario.  And what is the plot for The Locked Room?  A man is instructed to deal with the literary legacy of a writer friend after his (apparent) death.  Now if that's not a Kafka allusion, I don't know what is...

Review Post 14 - Poetry in Emotion

Poets are funny people; at least if you go by the descriptions in my latest bout of reading. In yet another slightly tenuously-constructed post, I'll have a look at two differing views of poets and whether it is nature or nurture that creates and moulds them. Don't worry: there's no chance of any more of my poetry...

*****

The first of our poetic delights is Milan Kundera's Life is Elsewhere, a detached, sardonic description of Jaromil (the poet), a young man growing up in pre- and post-war Czechoslovakia. From an early age, Jaromil has been encouraged - mainly by his mother - to believe that he is special and talented, and this talent manifests itself in the form of poetry.

We follow the young poet through his formative years and see his efforts to make sense of the world and his desire to achieve love (or, at least, lust). Sadly, Jaromil, while possibly gifted with poetry, is a much less perfect human being in most other respects, and as the story progresses, the reader becomes ever more tired of his immaturity and stupidity. Don't worry; that's exactly as Kundera means it.

One of the most striking aspects of this book is the relationship between Jaromil and his mother, who smothers him from a desperate sense of belonging and a desire to live life vicariously through her precious son. I was reminded a little of Paul Morel and his mother (from D.H. Lawrence's novel Sons and Lovers) in the way Jaromil attempts to free himself from the apron strings (although Morel was a lot more successful at it...).

Immature, pathetic, pitiful: this may sound a little harsh, but if you read the book, you'll see that Jaromil is not the most appealing of characters, and Kundera's slightly mocking portrayal gradually exposes his weaknesses. Far from being a great poet and a hero of the revolution, he becomes a cringing, mindless coward who betrays loved ones for pointless (and misguided) ideals. Don't worry: (relatively-) instant karma's going to get him...

*****

Over in Dublin, meanwhile, James Joyce paints his alter-ego Stephen Dedalus (one of the main protagonists of the ever-so-slightly complicated Ulysses) in a slightly more sympathetic light (although the theorists in the introduction to my version would disagree, obsessed as they are with the 'ironic' treatment). A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is a surprisingly readable plotless novel, through which the reader follows Dedalus through his childhood and youth until he embarks on his quest to become an artist.

From his early, relatively comfortable days, we accompany Stephen on selected, important events in his life, defining moments which help to shape his character - and, perhaps his soul. Despite his eventual rejection of church teachings, his language and demeanour remain immersed in his pious upbringing (one of the ironies mentioned earlier). After overcoming his teenage angst and sinning, he briefly considers becoming a priest himself, but a chance encounter on the beach, one of several moments of poetic beauty, strengthens his conviction of the inevitability of his 'fall' back into real life.

The contrasts with Kundera's young poet are numerous. Jaromil is seen through Kundera's usual detached, quasi-scientific viewpoint, more like a specimen in a laboratory than a real person. He is supremely egocentric, seemingly unable to pick up on other people's thoughts and emotions, but utterly convinced of his own worth and talent (which consists mainly of imitation and works which catch the rather feeble zeitgeist). Blindly accepting the communist view of the events unfolding in his country, he quickly becomes a part of the machine, despite his role as a poet. What is worse, it is done knowingly and willingly...

Dedalus, on the other hand, is portrayed mostly from inside. We see things as he sees them, especially in his younger days. Admittedly, the older he gets, the more we see Stephen (as opposed to seeing through Stephen's eyes), but he is never objectified to the extent that Jaromil is. In contrast to the young Czech poet, Stephen has doubts, both about his gift and (more importantly) his soul. The chapter in which he wrestles with the concept of hell and his possible fall shows a beauty of description which Jaromil would be unable to comprehend.

Perhaps the biggest difference though is Dedalus' rejection of the institutions which claim to lead us in the right direction but which, in fact, may tie us down. Stephen rejects both the Catholic Church and the Irish nationalist movement, seeing both as nets which are there to prevent him fulfilling his potential and ambitions. However, he does not impose his beliefs on others, content instead to stand aside and create his own beliefs in preparation for the departure into a new life.

*****

Though I have praised Stephen and cursed Jaromil in the lines above, please do not fall into the trap of confusing my opinions of the characters with my opinions of the books. Both of these novels are wonderful to read, but in very different ways. Kundera's light (unberably light?), ironic style contasts with the brooding intensity and introspection of Joyce's lightly-veiled self-portrait; however, the end result is equally as pleasing. Joyce's book is just a portrait of a young poet; Kundera's is equally valid - and entertaining.

Review Post 7 - Naughty and Nice

February began with the second of the Barchester Chronicles, the wonderful Barchester Towers. The story takes up life in Barchester a few years after the events of The Warden, where the old Bishop is on his deathbed, peacefully passing away just too soon for his son, the ever-formidable Archdeacon Grantly, to get political approval to replace him. A new bishop is appointed, but it soon becomes clear that despite the official decision, there are several people in Barchester who believe themselves to be top dog...

Don't be fooled into thinking that Trollope's stories are too clerical to be entertaining; the Barchester Chronicles are less about religion and the church than they are about petty fighting, internecine warfare and a love of tribal conflict. The invasion of Barchester by the Londoners who now hold the palace represents the incursion of industrialisation and progress into England's peaceful, bucolic heartlands. Mr. Harding's tribulations with The Jupiter in The Warden were merely the first warning shots of the coming struggle: this is the real thing.

Dr. Proudie is the Bishop of Barchester by appointment; Obadiah Slope, his personal chaplain, has the run of the diocese and enough intelligence to make himself pre-eminent in Barchester; Archdeacon Grantly virtually did the job himself during the final years of his father's life and sees no reason why he should not continue to do so; and Mrs. Proudie... well, you'll need to read the book to see how and why this Amazon hopes to take the power for herself!

These petty wars with their mini-Napoleons are beautifully characterised by a writer who had an unerring eye for the beautiful and absurd in the everyday. One of the best scenes in the book is the confrontation at the palace where, for the first time, the contenders for the real power of the Bishopric stand arrayed, each intending to be unrivalled in Barchester, scrutinising the other claimants with an experienced eye and preparing to dive headlong into battle. Of course, also present, standing quietly to one side, is Mr. Harding, whose readmittance to the post of warden is the field upon which the battle is to be fought. Four proud, worldly gladiators - and a modest, sincere, religious man (who, ironically, fades into insignificance whenever his matters are discussed).

Throw in a family of clerical absentees, whose return to Barchester from Italy stirs up affairs in the cathedral town, a wealthy young widow, wooed by three suitors from all the different camps and a couple of deaths and marriages, and you have a wonderful 500 pages of Victorian literary magic, perfect for a rainy day curled up on your favourite armchair. How does it end? Well, I'm sure you'll know after about 100 pages, but that really isn't the point: the writer himself hints at certain points what will and will not happen - and, in some cases, reassures the reader that certain feared events will not come to pass. It's not the destination, but the journey which is the attraction, and I, for one, am happy to go along for the ride. Next stop: Doctor Thorne at the start of March ;)

*****

I mentioned above Trollope's intrusion into his novels as a narrator, albeit an occasional, benevolent and good-humoured one, and Milan Kundera also likes to put himself into his works. However the emigre Czech writer's style is very, very different. Laughable Loves, a collection of (longish) short stories about love, lust and the games consenting adults play, is one of his earlier works; however, in some ways, it is more reminiscent of later works (Immortality, The Unbearable Lightness of Being) than his debut novel, The Joke.

The seven stories relate the interactions in relationships between men and women in post-invasion Czechoslovakia, a place of great cynicism and little hope if one goes by the atmosphere of the book. Infidelity is rife, despite the nosiness of the neighbours, and there seems to be a curious disregard for the notion of staying faithful. It's a very male-centred universe, with an expectation that it is simply part of a man's daily life to pursue, and conquer (if desired), any attractive woman one comes across. This is not to say that the women are the victims; they are quite prepared to use their charms as currency to find an easier life for themselves.

It all sounds a little pessimistic and unappealing (and no wonder given the external context), but the stories are intriguing, a fascinating insight into the battle of the sexes - which is just as much mental as it is physical. The reason for this is Kundera's detached, quasi-scientific style of writing, which treats his characters almost like specimens in a laboratory. The great skill in his stories lies in his ability to take his subjects, drop them into a setting, add a catalyst (in the form of an attractive woman, a weekend out of the city or a political investigation) and watch them continue in their lives as best they can.

This scientific approach comes across especially well in the style he adopts in discussing relationships. In some of the stories, short, alternating chapters tell the reader the thoughts of the two protagonists: we sit in the stark living room or the hotel restaurant, flitting from the mind of the man to that of the woman (and back again). Kundera has been criticised for the lack of development of his characters, with some saying that they are not characters at all, merely vehicles for Kundera to get his ideas across. This may be true; it does not, however, detract from the writing.

Two very, very different books. Trollope makes you laugh and allows you to while away many a pleasant hour - in your study pretending to work with a glass of port in hand. Kundera makes you think; you pause to reflect and stare out of the window as the long train journey you're on takes you through endless bleak, frosty plains. Very, very different ways to spend your time: but both enjoyable...

46 - 'Der Prozess' by Franz Kafka

Tony found himself one day at the end of a long corridor, unmarked by doors, windows or even paintings. Somewhere high above, there must have been some kind of skylight, or porthole, as there was enough light by which the sides of the corridor, for a fair way into the distance, could be seen, but, apart from the light, there was nothing else in view. Clutching his book to his side, Tony ignored the sense of misgiving he felt and started to walk along the corridor, briskly at first, then, as the minutes passed, and the end of the corridor failed to become visible, more slowly. After what seemed to be at least an hour of trudging through the gloom, a faint shadow began to appear at the far end and, with each passing step (which now became brisker once more) became clearer; there was the suspicion of a doorway and more than a hint of someone beside it.

At the end of the corridor, Tony, a little warm, but in no way exhausted from the journey from the other end, stopped in front of the figure sitting next to the doorway. Behind a plain, somewhat aged wooden desk, on which were piled mountains of pieces of paper - forms, essays, reviews; it was impossible to say from the disorder they were part of - , sat a middle-aged man, writing (in what appeared to be German) on one of the many afore-mentioned pieces of paper. Tony shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, hoping to attract the eye of the writer, whose attention appeared to be devoted fully to the writing at hand, before finally deciding to speak and disturb the writer at his work. However, no sooner had Tony opened his mouth, when the man stopped writing and, without looking up from his task, declared (with a booming voice strikingly different to what Tony would have expected from someone of the writer's appearance), "Mr. Malone, you are late." Tony flinched at the unexpected challenge but then managed to stammer out, "I'm here, and I've got the book. Are you The Critic?". The writer looked up and smiled. "Let's just say that I'm a critic."

The Critic placed his pen on the table, crossed his arms and observed Tony with an amused expression. "So, you wish to discuss Kafka's 'Der Prozess'", he said. "That's right, 'The Trial'", Tony relied, to the obvious displeasure of The Critic, who waved his hand quickly in a gesture from which it was surprisingly easy to read that he didn't have time to quibble about names. "I'm a busy man, so, if you want to run your ideas by me, please do so. Now." Slightly taken aback by the abruptness of the command, Tony again shifted his weight from one foot to the other, took a deep breath and started to talk.

"Look, I'll be honest, it wasn't easy to understand exactly what Kafka had in mind when he wrote this book, and, with all the unfinished sections and alterations, it's fair to say that no-one really knows the truth of his intentions...". Tony hesitated slightly at the sight of The Critic's furrowed brow and, after a moment's pause, hurriedly continued, "but I tried to look at it from a number of angles. The first was the role of bureaucracy and the way it is ever present in our lives, making things more difficult, in contrast to the original purpose of ensuring matters run smoothly. It even, you know, stops us from getting to the people with the power, you can't get to talk to anyone who can actually help you, you have to go through, helpers, intermediaries. And that's exactly what Joseph K. experiences. Kafka, knew about that. He was a bureaucrat too, you know." The Critic nodded, the stern expression momentarily absent from his face. "Absolutely hated it though." Immediately, the stern expression returned, becoming, if possible, even sterner, the brow becoming even more wrinkled. Tony realised that he was on the wrong path and went on.

"Yes, it's an attack on bureaucracy, but the main idea is a bit more abstract than that. You see, Kafka was religious, he wanted to, wanted to... try to understand what it's all about, why we're here, and the trial is about that. The courts, the whole process (if you'll pardon the bi-lingual pun), is a representation, if you like, of the church, of the structure underpinning Christianity and the way people try to make sense of it all. At first, it all means nothing to you, but, as life becomes more difficult, finding a truth, finding the truth, becomes more and more important. That's what K. was doing, you see. At the beginning, he thought he could get by on his own, he didn't need any, any... help, support, but, eventually he does, he wants someone to sort it out for him." Tony paused to catch his breath and was gratified to see that The Critic was nodding quietly, his papers seemingly forgotten. Ignoring his pounding heart, Tony continued, trying to make his voice as persuasive as possible; "Because, you see, he doesn't know what the true way forward is, he knows that there is a court, but he knows nothing about it. He turns to the lawyer for help, then the painter,he evens listens to Mr. Block, the businessman... he just wants some truth, no matter who gives it to him. But, the thing is, the more he knows, the less he progresses. You see, he realises that all these people are just the flunkies, the underlings, he never gets past the beginning, and that's just like the priests..."

"So what?", shouted The Critic, storming to his feet in his anger and cutting the, frankly startled, Tony off in mid-sentence. "Anyone can blabber on about religion, the church, God: anyone! Have you no new ideas? Have you got nothing to justify wasting my time like this?" For a moment, there was silence in the corridor, the echoes of The Critic's outburst overcome by the all-encompassing quiet of the emptiness surrounding them. Sweating, legs aching, deeply regretting his decision to make the journey to the end of the corridor, Tony decided to make one last attempt. "There was one more idea I had..." He took a deep breath.

"Terminal illness." There was silence. The Critic slowly examined Tony, his eyes moving up and down, then side to side, before coming to a rest on Tony's own. Then, gently, but decisively, he sat back down in his chair and laid his hands on the table. "Go on."

Tony swallowed and continued speaking. "My idea, and this, by the way, is just something that's been going through my head, not sure if it's relevant or, you know, intended, but my feeling is that perhaps K. is actually a cancer victim, or something. I started thinking about this because I read somewhere that Kafka himself had a lot of health problems. Perhaps he wanted to express them in his writing, I don't know. The start of the trial, the arrest, where the two men come to tell K. about the case, maybe that's where he finds out that he's sick. And he decides that he can overcome it, he doesn't need anyone, he's, well, in a way, you could say that's he's in denial. He can't believe that he's sick, and he thinks that by just ignoring it, it will all go away." Another pause. The Critic was still sitting in the same position, his eyes glued to a point somewhere around the top of Tony's nose, unblinking. Silence.

"And that's where he goes to get help, his family, his uncle introduces him to a lawyer, a professional - that's the doctor, you see, the cancer specialist, oncologist? - so he finally starts to get help. But it doesn't work, the cancer doesn't respond to the treatment, and K. gets frustrated, he doesn't think the doctor's any good, and that's when he finds out about an alternative: the painter or, as I like to think of him, the alternative medicine bloke. K.'s dying, isn't he? He's clutching at straws!" Tony leaned forward, his hair matted with sweat, he too now had his eyes fully focused on the other man, his manner energetic and slightly manic. "And of course, the oncologist, I mean the lawyer, tries to win him back, tries to warn him off the charlatans, tells him about other cases which ended well, but K.'s had enough, he doesn't want to go through any more chemo, he just wants to..." Tony stopped, drawing breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. "And then, he... he accepts it. He knows that it's time. That's why he allows the men to take him at the end; he knows that it's time to go. It's a kind of... acceptance."

The corridor was silent again. The Critic leaned back in his chair, distracted, pondering. Tony felt the wall by his side, for the first time, and half fell against it, using it to support his weight. His legs seemed unable to keep him upright. For a while, the two men were quiet, unmoving. Dust floating in the air was the only sign of life, if you could call it that. Suddenly, The Critic took up his pen again and, before starting to write, said, "You may continue." Tony straightened up and looked uncomprehendingly at The Critic, who merely jerked his head towards the doorway, obviously gesturing for him to move on through. A deep breath, and Tony moved through the doorway into another room, leaving The Critic, and his paperwork, behind.

As Tony walked into the new room, he saw an old man looking out of a large, stained-glass window. The light streaming in through the window lit up the man's face, showing a benevolent-looking expression, an appearance aided by a small, red-framed pair of glasses. Tony stopped again and called over, asking this new apparition, "Are you The Critic?". The man turned slowly with a smile beaming all over his wrinkled face. "Well, young man, let's just say that I'm a critic...".

[This review was never completed]