While I was right on top of what was happening in the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize this year, it's taken me a while to catch up with some of the big guns in the American version, the Best Translated Book Award. In today's post, then, I take a look at this year's winner, a book which (as far as I'm aware) still hasn't come out in the UK. It was the writer's second win in succession - and if you're following my personal comparison of the two big translation prizes, this definitely makes it a third consecutive win for the American side of the pond ;)
*****
László Krasznahorkai's Seiobo There Below (translated by Ottilie Mulzet, published by New Directions) is most definitely not a book for fans of easy reading. It consists of seventeen pieces (calling them short stories would be misleading) which, while not really interlinked, come together to produce a cohesive work. In fact, most reviews have given me the impression that the book is supposed to be considered a novel.
Seiobo There Below is less a novel in the traditional sense, though, than an exploration of the idea of beauty, approached via a series of sketches examining the effects great art has on the human mind and the problems great artists have in producing their masterpieces. Krasznahorkai takes us on a dizzying journey through time and space, where we might find ourselves in modern-day Japan on one page, then in Renaissance Italy on the next. It's a bumpy ride at times, but one thing is certain - the scenery is always beautiful :)
From the very first piece, in which a description is given of a white heron standing in wait in the shallows of Kyoto's Kamo River, the reader senses that this is a book where plot is a minor issue. It's all about words, emotions, about being swept along in the writer's wake:
"...- and that is why it stood there; almost in the middle of the Kamo River, in the shallow water; and there it stands, in one time, immeasurable in its passing, and yet beyond all doubt extant, one time proceeding neither forward nor backward, but just swirling and moving nowhere, like an inconceivably complex net, cast out into time; and this motionlessness, despite all its strength, must be born and sustained, and it would only be fitting to grasp this simultaneously, but it is precisely that, this simultaneous grasping, that cannot be realized, so it remains unsaid, and even the entirety of the words that want to describe it do not appear, not even the separate words..."
'Kamo-Hunter', pp.4/5 (New Directions, 2013)
I hope you're all following this - there are still another four-hundred-and-forty-odd pages to come...
As mentioned above, the main theme is art and beauty, and the writer explores it in great depth, using his stories to examine the effect they can have on ordinary people. Krasznahorkai doesn't confine himself to painting, although many of the stories are concerned with this section of the arts - he also looks at music, architecture and sculpture, leaving characters and reader dumbfounded:
"...finally he made his way around and once again began the slow sliding, here gaping at the ceiling, here at the Tintorettos, and so it went, and he could not even conceive that, in this palatial hall, such bounty as had been created, marvellous but still too weighty for him, could even be possible, because it was too much..."
'Christo Morto', p.114
From the rotund music lecturer thundering away on the subject of Baroque music (to a terrified handful of old people at the local community centre) to the unemployed migrant mesmerised by the figures in a Russian triptych, these consumers of art are anything but passive, almost unable to withstand the beauty of their chosen pieces of art.
While there's a lot about people appreciating art, much is also written about how the works are created. Many of the sections have a two-strand formation, with one showing a modern appreciation, the other looking at the history of the piece. These sections offer the reader interesting insights into the origin of paintings and cultural artefacts, as we are shown teams of artists in Italian workshops scrambling to fulfil an order for a mural, or the lengthy and deliberate preparations for rebuilding a Japanese temple.
However, in many cases, time is kept at a distance, allowing us to see the effect of beauty, but not all its secrets. The Louvre guard who watches over the Venus de Milo every day has his theories on what her lost arms were doing, but he'll never know for sure whether he's right. When it comes to some of the Renaissance masterpieces, even the greatest of art scholars can be unsure as to whether a particular piece was finished off by the master or one of his apprentices. As for the magnificent Alhambra complex, many more questions are raised than answered. Who commissioned it? Who built it? And, more importantly, what is it actually for? This idea of the impossibility of complete comprehension is most clearly portrayed in the short final section where we are privy to a brief glimpse of magnificent treasures buried beneath the earth, their secrets left thousands of years behind...
In addition to writing about the art, Krasznahorkai also turns his gaze to the artists, unveiling the agony and madness which can go hand in hand with greatness. Whether it's an eccentric Romanian sculptor who frees horses from the soil or a Swiss painter whose nerves are shot, the character studies revealed in the book show us that creating a lasting testament has an effect on the creator. In fact, for many of these artists, the act of creation never really stops:
"...in a word, rehearsal is his life, so that for him there is absolutely no difference between rehearsal and performance, there is no particular mode of performance in the Noh, what happens in a performance is exactly the same as what happens in a rehearsal and vice versa, what happens in a rehearsal is exactly the same as what happens in a performance, there is no divergence..."
'The Life and Work of Master Inoue Kazuyuki', p.237
For this famous Noh actor, as for many of the other characters of the novel, genius exacts a cost...
Seiobo There Below is a wonderful book, dazzling in its range of ideas and settings, fascinating stories told in dense, lengthy, multi-page sentences which drag the reader along, breathless and dizzying at the same time. If you're looking for comparisons, books which immediately come to mind include Mikhail Shishkin's Maidenhair, Mircea Cărtărescu's Blinding or even (in terms of scale and time) David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas. However, Krasznahorkai's work is a little more oblique than those, and it's up to the reader to join the dots and make sense of what the writer has offered us.
One of my favourite sections, 'The Preservation of a Buddha', is a representative example of much of what I've discussed. It follows the progress of a statue's restoration, from its departure from the temple to its unveiling a year later. The writer describes the secrets and rituals of the monks in minute detail, but it's only towards the end that we really see the uncanny similarities between the rites of the monks and the meticulous nature of the restorers, who are perhaps the true artists of this piece. There's a fine line between religion and bureaucracy...
The head monk in the story eventually realises that perfection is impossible, and that we can only do our best, despite our limitations, and at this point it's time to take his advice and give up the struggle for a perfect review. There's far too much in Seiobo There Below to cover properly here; it's a wonderful book which has added to Krasznahorkai's already considerable reputation. As always, though, the English-speaking world is behind the game, and with a future Nobel Prize definitely within the realms of possibility, it might be time to finally get more of his work translated into English. I, for one, am certainly keen to see what else he has to say :)
One of the perks of blogging is that sometimes people send you stuff unexpectedly, and that's especially good when it's books in your area of interest. Recently, Daniel Medin, from the Center for Writers & Translators at the American University of Paris was kind enough to send me a few titles from The Cahiers Series, coffee-table books for those interested in translation and translated fiction. The books are short, elegant and visually pleasing - and (as you'll see) the content's not bad either ;)
*****
First today is Diplomat, Actor, Translator, Spy, a fascinating little pamphlet by French translator Bernard Turle (translated into English by Dan Gunn). In this short work, Turle talks about his life as a translator in twenty-six short chapters, one for each letter of the alphabet. The cahier is accompanied by photos from Gunn's childhood (which, while sounding a strange idea, works well), making for a real bilingual collaboration.
It's a fascinating insight into the day-to-day life of a translator, and the changes brought about in this field by technology. Turle explains how the spread of the Internet has allowed for a new relationship between translator and 'translated' and discusses his growing relationship with the English language. It's one he first describes as exciting (an escape from the realities of French) and later intrusive (an imperialistic tongue...). He also talks about how translation can sometimes be confronting as you can't always choose what you need to translate (there's some horrible, gut-wrenching stuff out there which some poor soul has to convert from one language to another...).
For me, the best part was the fact that a French insert of the original text was also provided, allowing me to compare (and criticise!), which just goes to show that translation is an art, one that can be discussed until the cows come home. In fact, this is even reflected in the choice of title. While the original title is Le traducteur-orchestre, the English title has echoes of a John Le Carré novel (Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy), perhaps playing on a comment Turle makes in section E (for 'Espion' or 'Espionnage'):
"Le traducteur est un espion à la solde de l'écrivain." (p.5)
"A translator is a spy whose paymaster is a writer."
p.12 (Sylph Editions, 2013)
Now that's not a description I'd heard before...
*****
The second of today's choices will be of particular interest to many of my readers (well, those who have a passion for fiction in translation, anyway). animalinside (words by László Krasznahorkai, images by Max Neumann, translation by Ottilie Mulzet) is a short collaboration where the Hungarian writer reacted to the German artist's surreal pictures of a dog-like figure (as seen on the cover). There are fourteen pictures, and for each there is one chapter, around two pages in length.
While it may sound short and trivial, it's anything but. From the very beginning, Krasznahorkai fans will feel themselves to be in very familiar territory. The text consists of long sentences, flowing powerful prose (that feels more like poetry). There's a constant, dark feel to the monologues - menacing, threatening, and at the same time claustrophobic.
The focus is on a shadowy 'I', an entity which at times is trapped, constrained and frustrated:
"Every space is too tight for me. I move around, I jump, I fling myself and yet I'm still inside that one space which is too tight for me, unbearably small, although at times it is only exactly just a bit too tight, and it is exactly then, when it is exactly just a bit too tight, that it is the most unbearable..."
Part IV, p.14 (Sylph Editions, 2012)
These ideas occur over and over again, and the repetition adds to the sense of restriction.
At other times though, the 'I' is a frightening, omnipotent force, greater than the cosmos, a being that threatens to rip you apart:
"...if one day I set out, no matter what you do it is completely hopeless, in vain do you try to resist, it will be of no use because you don't know who I am, and you don't know me, and your not knowing me protects me from your preparations, I am an invisible enemy, and you shall know very soon what invisible means, and chiefly, you will know what enemy means, because I am not just any kind of enemy, not even an enemy, but a blow that smites, that strikes down then and there and onto those exactly when, where, and onto whom it wants to..." (Part VI, p.19)
It's tempting to try and pin down just exactly who 'I' is. Is it Death, fate, cancer, ruin? Speculation is fun, but it's easier just to enjoy the rage and anger...
Perhaps animalinside is a work which reflects on our dull human existence, with people trapped in imaginary cages of our own making. The 'I' comes from inside our own bodies - the seeds of our destruction are already inside us...
...and, apparently, it looks like a dog with no fore-legs ;)
*****
The cahiers may only be forty-pages long each, but they are wonderful little books. As well as being interesting in their own right, the texts are complemented by the images chosen, providing a wonderful reading experience. They're well worth a look, and I'm grateful to have had the chance to check them out - merci, Monsieur Medin ;)
When the longlist for the 2013 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize was released, I frantically scanned the list, working out what I needed to do to get through it in time. I had already finished four of the titles (all review copies) at some point in 2012, and I was able to obtain a further review copy fairly quickly. The next stop was The Book Depository, where I bought the French-language version of Alain Mabanckou's Black Bazaar, leaving the bulk of the heavy lifting to my wonderful local library system.
While the majority of the books came in fairly quickly, one remained stubbornly in the hands of a library patron in the north of the state - and as that was the only copy in our consortium of libraries... After weeks of constantly checking online, I began to lose hope, until one day I got the text message I'd been waiting for - Satantango had finally arrived :)
But was it worth the wait?
*****
Satantango by László Krasznahorkai (translated by George Szirtes - from Tuskar Rock Press)
What's it all about?
Krasznahorkai's classic novel dates from 1985, but only appeared in English for the first time last year. It's a dark, demanding tale, a novel set in the Hungarian backwaters of an abandoned estate, where a small group of villagers have been hanging around for years, waiting for someone or something to rouse them from their torpor and lead them to happiness. Deserted by the rest of their group, the remaining families pass their time drinking and sleeping with the neighbours, while all around them nature swiftly takes back what civilisation had carved out of the wilderness.
Just as it appears that some of the characters have summoned up enough energy (and cash) to make a run for it, a rumour reaches the village, news of the return (or resurrection...) of a man long thought dead. The charismatic Irimiás is on his way back to the village, and thoughts of flight are immediately shelved. The poor, deluded villagers are prepared to put all of their trust and belief, not to mention their hard-won cash, into the hands of the prodigal son. While the hope they invest in Irimiás is understandable, given the circumstances, you sense that it's a decision they'll come to regret. You see, Irimiás is no angel - unless it's one of the fallen variety...
Satantango is highly allegorical, of course, a story of people rotting amongst the ruins of a failed forced agriculture project in Hungary. It consists of twelve chapters divided into two parts, labelled I-VI and then VI -I, making up a story which, while moving forwards, also turns in a circle, bringing us back to where we started. It also plays with narrative viewpoints, with the first half of the book consisting mostly of the same day and events told by several different voices - in fact, the occurrence promised in the first few pages of the book doesn't eventuate until we are well past the half-way mark...
Most reviews of Satantango address the style, and Krasznahorkai's way of writing is certainly noteworthy. Satantango is made up primarily of lengthy, one-paragraph chapters, with long, long sentences spiralling off into the distance:
"His
imagination was bewitched, almost to the point of paralysis by the
notion that this estate with its rich, generous soil was, only a few
million years ago, covered by the sea...that it had alternated between
sea and dry land, and suddenly - even as he conscientiously noted down
the stocky, swaying figure of Schmidt in his soggy quilted jacket and
boots heavy with mud appearing on the path from Szikes, hurrying as if
he feared being spotted, sliding in through the back door of his house -
he was lost in successive waves of time, coolly aware of the minimal
speck of his own being, seeing himself as the defenseless, helpless
victim of the earth's crust, the brittle arc of his life between birth
and death caught up in the dumb struggle between surging seas and rising
hills..."
p.58 (Tuskar Rock Press, 2012)
Apologies - my aching fingers just couldn't quite make it to the end of that sentence ;)
The novel is deliberately obscure, confusing and unsettling. There's an epigram from Kafka's The Castle at the start, and this is rather apt for what follows, as the reader spends much of the book in a Kafkaesque muddle, unsure as to what is actually happening (and why...). The second chapter, where we meet Irimiás, has particular shades of Kafka, set as it is in a bureaucratic nightmare, with stairs leading off into the distance, offices leading into further offices and hours spent waiting for appointments. There's another similarity with Kafka here - if you think you understand what the writer is trying to do, you're only kidding yourself...
Of course, there's so much more to Satantango than a stylistic homage to The Castle or The Trial. The slow pace allows for some great characterisation, and Krasznahorkai spends time sketching out a cast of wonderful creations. As the story progresses, each of the characters becomes more fleshed out, and the links between them become more established, allowing us to almost predict how a person is likely to react, and what they might say when events take a turn for the worse.
More than the descriptions of the villagers though, it is Krasznahorkai's portrayal of the environment which is most striking. Satantango takes place amid a winter of mild discontent, and the reader can feel the cold, the wet, the mud, the rot and the decay:
"The Schmidts hadn't used the room since spring. Green mildew covered the cracked and peeling walls, but the clothes in the cupboard, a cupboard that was regularly cleaned, were also mildewed, as were the towels and all the bedding, and a couple of weeks was all it took for the cutlery saved in the drawer for special occasions to develop a coating of rust, and what with the legs of the big lace-covered table having worked loose, the curtains having yellowed and the lightbulb having gone out, they decided one day to move into the kitchen and stay there, and since there was nothing they could do to stop it happening anyway, they left the room to be colonized by spiders and mice." (p.7)
In describing how nature has invaded the village, taking back what was once torn from its grasp, Krasznahorkai shows the extent to which the villagers have given up, retreating into themselves and waiting for an unlikely change.
Enter Irimiás... The star of the show is an enigmatic figure, and it takes a while to find out just who he is (and we never find out exactly what he is doing). There is a lot of talk in the book about networks, establishing connections to insulate the villagers from the realities of the outside world - and this is something echoed by the vast networks of webs spun by the mysterious spiders at the bar. However, what he's really up to is swindling money from the villagers.
What's surprising though is just how easy it is for him to do it, especially in such a short time. He even tells them that there is a good chance that they can lose all the money they eagerly place on the table in front of him. Devoid of hope and desperate for a way out, the jealousy and infighting leaves the villagers easy prey. Mrs. Schmidt's lust, Mrs. Halics' faith, the men's greed... They want to believe, sheep needing to be led.
In fact, Irimiás hypnotises them, to the extent that they are prepared to burn all their bridges, smashing furniture before their supposed impending departure from the village. However, the greater the drunken (mass) delusion, the more painful the wake-up call:
"It was as if they were just now emerging from some evil spell. They were sober at a stroke but they simply couldn't understand what had happened to them in the last few hours: What demonic power had taken possession of them, stifling every sane and rational impulse? What was it that had driven them to lose their heads and attack each other "like filthy pigs when the swill is late"? What made it possible for people like them - people who had finally managed to emerge from years of apparently terminal hopelessness to breathe the dizzying air of freedom - to rush around in senseless despair, like prisoners in a cage so that even their vision had clouded over?" (p.237)
It's a case of fools fooling themselves...
It seems churlish to look for negatives in a book like this, but there were a few things I didn't like. The dialogue was noticeably Americanised in places, especially in the early chapters, peppered with expressions like 'buddy', 'pal', 'asshole', 'sonofabitch', and 'dumb ass', and this jarred (perhaps deliberately so) with the style of the descriptive sections. There was also a rather odd convention where seemingly normal expressions were enclosed in quotation marks, drawing attention to themselves for no real reason. In addition, I wasn't overly convinced by the ending; it all seemed a little too convenient and perhaps unworthy of the book as a whole...
The title? Well, it has to do with both a pivotal scene mid-way through the book, one where the drunken villagers decide to dance while waiting for the 'devil', and the structure of the novel. You see, the way Krasznahorkai has constructed his work apparently reflects the steps in a tango - six steps forwards, six steps back...
*****
Do you think it deserved to make the shortlist?
Of course, I do. While I may have discussed a few minor issues with the book, the reality is that I'm not judging this to see if it's good or not, but on the level of whether it deserves to be crowned best in (Shadow) show. It's a wonderful book, and one which I'd love to try again some time.
Why didn't it make the shortlist?
I have two theories...
One - The panel had just written down the six names on the shortlist (of which Satantango was one) and sealed it in an envelope, when the five of them suddenly froze in mid movement. An alien appeared from nowhere, opened the envelope, erased Satantango from the list with some kind of sonic device, replacing it with Bundu. After resealing the envelope, the alien then disappeared, and the panellists went on their way (none the wiser), only realising what had happened when the envelope was opened and the news was made public - alas, too late to rectify the error.
Two - The five panellists, having read the sixteen books on the longlist, decided that Bundu was a better novel than Satantango, one which would stand the test of time much better than Krasznahorkai's work. Then they all went off for tea.
Yeah, I know - theory two does seem a little far-fetched...
*****
Well, that's it - sixteen books read and reviewed. Very soon, my colleagues and I will begin deliberations to see which of the six works on our shortlist will take out The Shadow Panel prize. Keep an eye out for our verdict...
...oh, and we'll see if the real panel can come up with a worthy winner too ;)
