'Tirza' by Arnon Grunberg (Review)

The last few months on the blog have been taken up with two major projects, shadowing the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize and plunging into the world of translated Korean fiction (and two very good projects they are too).  However, when you devote so much time to particular areas, it's inevitable that something will fall through the cracks, and today's book is one I really meant to get to a good while back - even before it got longlisted (then shortlisted) for the Best Translated Book Award.  Still, better late than never...

*****
Arnon Grunberg's Tirza (translated by Sam Garrett, e-copy courtesy of Open Letter Books) is a fascinating novel, a story of a man's disintegration in the face of events he is unable to control.  The man in question, Jörgen Hofmeester, is a Dutch editor who has been put out to pasture by his employers.  He still receives his pay, but he no longer actually has to go to work, a state of affairs which has thrown his world out of balance.

That's not the only change he has to cope with.  His wife, who walked out on him three years earlier, recently turned up on his doorstep and has walked back into his life as if little has happened in the meantime.  While Jörgen is struggling to adapt to her return, another impending change is causing him even more angst.  His beloved eighteen-year-old daughter, Tirza, having just graduated from high school, is planning to travel around Africa for a few months with her latest boyfriend.  Jörgen decides to throw a party for her before she leaves, but it's at this party that all of his problems finally catch up with him...

Tirza is a novel about a man whose life is slowly falling apart, and what happens at his daughter's party is partly the result of past events, and partly the catalyst for what's to come:

"Tirza has thrown parties before, but tonight is different.  Like lives, parties can be a failure or a success.  Tirza hasn't said it in so many words, but Hofmeester senses that a great deal depends on this evening.  Tirza, his youngest daughter, the one who turned out best.  Turned out wonderfully, both inside and out."
p.8 (Open Letter Books, 2013)

The comment is rather prescient.  A lot will happen during the party, not all of it for the good - the course of the future is set here...

While the novel is named after the daughter, it's the father who is at the centre of everything, a man in the midst of great change.  Hofmeester is a man who lives life by the book, and these life-altering events, particularly the return of his runaway wife, cast him adrift on a sea of uncertainty:

"He didn't understand the reason for this visit, and Hofmeester was a person who wanted to understand things.  He detested the irrational, the way other people detest vermin." (p.15)

Add to this the disappearance of his retirement money, swallowed up by post-9/11 stock-market fluctuations, and you can see that Hofmeester isn't exactly in a good place.

The reader is initially sympathetic towards Jörgen, feeling pity for the confused, abandoned husband.  However, it soon becomes clear that he's really not that nice at all.  He's violent towards his wife, a dictator with his children and penny-pinching (to the point of fraud) with the tenants in the flat upstairs.  The key to understanding Grunberg's book is solving the puzzle he has set for the reader as to what kind of a person his main character actually is.

His experiences with sex provide an interesting window into his psyche.  The relationship with his wife is certainly unusual, based on a mutual loathing and violent 'games', and he looks for satisfaction elsewhere, including with his cleaner.  His attraction to the forbidden, especially what he sees as 'dirty' women, will confront him at the party, in the form of one of Tirza's classmates.  And as for his rather close relationship with his younger daughter...

What Grunberg does well here, though, is create a much more rounded figure than the above would suggest - Jörgen's's by no means a complete monster.  While his wife (justifiably) complains about Hofmeester's lack of understanding, she is a piece of work herself - a flirt, an absent mother, an artist for whom domestic duties simply don't exist.  This leaves Jörgen trying to raise two daughters he doesn't really understand, a clueless father struggling in unfamiliar waters (anyone who thinks reading Tolstoy to a teenage daughter will help with emotional issues really is lost).  These human touches help to make him a complete character and allow the reader to empathise - at times.

The real beauty of the book is the way in which Grunberg constructs his scenes, putting two people together in a seemingly-normal conversation, one which turns uncomfortable and just won't end, no matter how much we'd like it to.  The writer simply won't let the reader go, forcing them to read on, squirming in their seat, and the novel is packed with these lengthy, gripping, horrible scenes.  If it's painful to watch, imagine what it must be like for the characters. 

Tirza is very skilfully written, with an excellent translation which captures the feeling of subtle horror nicely.  Throughout the book, there are scattered hints of what's to come, with clever parallels and echoes of future events.  One obvious one was:

"The remains of his life stretch out before him like a desert." (p.79)

Knowing that Hofmeester will be heading off to Africa at some point lends this chance comment extra significance...  However, it's the little mentions of racism, money, violence and Hofmeester's lovelife which are more intriguing as Grunberg casually places clues as to how things might (or might not) play out.

In short, Tirza is a wonderful book about a very strange man, not a figure you'd like to have in your family.  One book it shares features with is Birgit Vanderbeke's The Mussel Feast, with its focus on a tyrannical father figure.  However, Grunberg's novel is a much longer, more in-depth examination of the pater familias, placing him at the centre of the novel, rather than in the wings.  Strangely enough, though, despite his prominence in the book, Jörgen Hofmeester actually prefers to stay away from the limelight, even at his own parties:

"Hofmeester is standing in the middle of the room with the platter in his hand.  He feels invisible.  Not an unpleasant feeling.  He's there without being there.  The man no one notices, that's what you might call him.  And oddly enough, he is proud of that." (p.217)

It's always the quiet ones you have to be careful of...

'The Foxes Come at Night' by Cees Nooteboom (Review)

A few months ago, MacLehose Press reissued some books by Dutch writer Cees Nooteboom to coincide with his eightieth birthday, and I was lucky enough to receive copies of them.  At the time, I reviewed his debut novel, Rituals, but today's post looks at a far more recent work, allowing me to compare books from very different periods of the writer's life and career...

*****
The Foxes Come at Night (translated by Ina Rilke) is a short collection of eight stories, first published in Dutch in 2009.  The pieces are very much thematically linked, with Nooteboom using the collection as an opportunity to examine age, memory and reflections on the past, usually from the perspective of a character remembering a lost partner or friend.

A common device used is the humble photograph, and the first story, 'Gondolas', is a good example of this.  In the story, a Dutch art journalist returns to Venice to stand in the place where he took a photograph forty years earlier.  Rather than lamenting the loss of a friend, the protagonist muses about how unimportant people are to the world:

"How extraordinary that things should still be the same!  The water, the cormorant-shaped gondolas, the marble step on which he sat.  It is just us making our exit, he thought, we leave the décor of our lives behind."
'Gondolas', p.11 (MacLehose Press, 2013)

By the end of the story, the reader is unsure as to whether the main character is here to bid his friend farewell, or to be rid of her memory...

Another story which uses a photograph to kick things off is 'Heinz', the longest story in the collection, one which sees a Dutchman reminiscing about his time living in Italy, and his friendship with the titular honorary Vice-Consul.  An alcoholic businessman secluded on the Italian coast, Heinz has an aura about him, one which attracts everyone around.  Sadly though, he is destined to burn out after shining brightly, and his friend studies the photograph looking for evidence of this eventual disaster in the faded picture...

While many stories focus on those who have departed, others focus more on the fate of those left behind.  In 'Late September', an elderly woman on an out-of-season Spanish island waits for some afternoon delight in the arms of a (slightly-) younger local, an event which feels more like a transaction than real pleasure.

'Last Afternoon' also focuses on an elderly woman, this time one who is lost in bitter-sweet memories of her late partner.  Her story revolves around amorous adventures, flowers and tortoises(!), but it is really about finally letting go of unfinished business:

"It was only now, at this mysterious moment of the cypress's shadow creeping up against the garden wall, that he was dead to her.  How could you be so sure about something like that?  There had in fact been three such moments, she reflected: the moment he left, that of his dying, and the present, long-drawn-out moment of beginning to forget him, of his passing into a shadow of himself, his real death."
'Last Afternoon', p.97

Once again, the living must realise that there is no point in dwelling on the actions of the long dead.

The Foxes Come at Night is the fourth of Nooteboom's works I've read, and his deceptively light touch is instantly recognisable.  In fact,  I'm also pretty sure that a minor character in a couple of the stories, Wintrop, is the 'hero' of his debut novel, Rituals... The stories should be depressing, but in Nooteboom's skillful hands, they are imbued with a touch of sarcasm, a subtle wink rather than a mournful sob.  We are told stories of loss and grief, but the underlying message seems to be to keep our chin up :)

Most of the stories are one-sided tales of mourning the lost, but the culmination of the collection is a two-part story which has a slightly different approach.  'Paula' shares many of the features of the other stories: we have a man looking at an old photograph, remembering a lost friend, telling us about the good old days in the company of a beautiful, charismatic figure.  He remembers a shared night in bed, a holiday in Africa and the last night he saw her...

...and then she gives her side of the story.  You see, 'Paula II' allows Paula to have her say from beyond the grave, and her memories are slightly different to those of the living.  She allows us to see the events we've just heard about from her angle, and she is actually the one who feels pity for her friend:

"Take your Zen monastery - I saw it coming miles off.  Forgive me for saying this, for someone still among the living you make rather a dead impression, as though you have taken an advance on your mortality."
'Paula II', p.129

It's a chilling reminder that the living have a responsibility to keep on living - even if they would rather mourn their dead...

While I've enjoyed all the Nooteboom books I've tried, I hadn't really found one I loved until now, but The Foxes Come at Night is definitely a work I'd recommend.  This is easily my favourite of the four I've read, a beautiful collection of thought-provoking stories which fit together perfectly - an example of a crafted collection of stories, rather than a selection of tales randomly bundled into a book.  It's one I hope to reread soon, especially the stories 'Paula'/'Paula II', as I think they are pieces which need a second look to appreciate them fully.  Perhaps Nooteboom is one of those rare writers who improve with age...

'Rituals' by Cees Nooteboom (Review)

While I've made a couple of efforts for Iris' Dutch Literature events, I can't say I've read a lot from the Netherlands.  However, one writer I have tried a couple of times (with fair results) is Cees Nooteboom.  I was very happy then to get home from work one day to discover a pile of books from MacLehose Press waiting for me, three of which were by Nooteboom.

A few hours later, I only had two left to read ;)

*****
Rituals (translated by Adrienne Dixon) was Nooteboom's first big success, and it's definitely a book which shows an accomplished writer.  The central figure is Inni Wintrop, a man about town who floats through life, sleeping around and making money through shares and art sales.  When his wife leaves him in 1963, he decides (on a whim) to hang himself - that he fails in his half-hearted suicide attempt is, as the reader will discover, strangely unsurprising.

Nooteboom then takes Inni (and the reader) ten years back in time to meet Arnold Taads, a one-eyed former Dutch downhill-skiing champion, before the story jumps to 1973, where Inni encounters Philip Taads, Arnold's son.  Despite the fact that both struggle with giving meaning to life, there isn't a lot that connects the two Taadses - except that they will both take their own lives too...

Rituals, as the name suggests, is a book about the habits and routines we develop to enable us to get through our daily life.  The writer, in his dry, idiosyncratic manner, shows us several ways of coping with our natural existential angst, perhaps posing a question as to which is the best.  We begin with Inni, and our initial stance is that his woes are wholly due to his pointless, pleasure-seeking ways:

"If he had ever had any ambition, he would have been prepared to call himself a failure, but he had none.  He regarded life as a rather odd club of which he had accidentally become a member and from which one could be expelled without reasons having to be supplied.  He had already decided to leave the club if the meetings should become all too boring."
p.19 (MacLehose Press, 2013)

However, Nooteboom is to spend the rest of the novel showing us that Inni isn't the only one struggling to make sense of it all.

The two Taadses are very different people, and despite knowing Arnold for many years, Inni never even suspects the existence of Philip until they meet.  However, their attempts to deal with life are fairly similar.  While Arnold subjugates daily life to the artificial strictures of time, allowing nothing and no one to interrupt his minutely-detailed schedule, Philip retreats into an invented world of Japanese asceticism, his interest in the culture completely divorced from its present reality.  Both believe that they can cope with life by retreating inside a bubble of their own making - both are mistaken...

Nooteboom is far from judgemental though; he is merely using his puppets to look at the different ways we while away our hours in the mortal realm.  It's easy to criticise Inni and his refusal to commit to making a lasting impression on the world, but his existence of occasional hedonism and random encounters is not the worst of the choices here.  Religion, whether Eastern or Western, doesn't appear to help any of the characters, and money, far from being a help just seems to make it more difficult to motivate yourself...

I loved the style of Rituals.  Nooteboom has a sardonic, occasionally dark, voice, one which seems to know that everything is pointless, but enjoys smirking at the futile efforts people make to convince themselves otherwise.  The sentences are very different to the elegant ones of, say, Javier Marías - they're full of jerky, confronting clauses with little flow (a very Germanic style).  The writer enjoys playing with images too, such as the idea of the sacred chalice, a kind of Holy Grail theme, one which has some rather unexpectedly gruesome consequences.  I also enjoyed his rather unusual view of a lunchtime spread:

"My God, how many ways there are to mess about with the corpses of animals.  Smoked, boiled, roasted, in aspic, blood red, black and white checkered, fatty pink, murky white, marbled, pressed, ground, sliced.  Thus death lay displayed on the blue-patterned Meissen.  Not even a whole school could have eaten all that." (p.99)

I think I'll just have some toast instead ;)

Rituals, then, is an admirable book, a seemingly slight story which makes the reader think a little harder than they might have expected to.  While it's easy to look down on Inni, and laugh at the odd habits of Arnold and Philip Taads, the truth is that we all have our rituals, and we're all just filling our time as best we can in an effort to make our stay on Earth worthwhile.  It's a book which will make each reader reflect: how do you live your life?  And (perhaps more importantly) how should you...

'The Twin' by Gerbrand Bakker (Review)

I'm very keen to take part in blog events for translated fiction, so I was always going to find something for Dutch Lit Fortnight, hosted by Iris on Books.  Surprisingly though, the matter of what to read was also taken out of my hands.  I recently received a copy of The Twin from a kind Twitter follower (@OpShopReading) who had just finished it (thank you!), so when Iris announced that this would be one of the readalong choices, the only thing to do was start reading it ;)

*****
The Twin (translated by David Colmer) was writer Gerbrand Bakker's first novel for adults, and as you can see on the sticker in the picture, it won the IMPAC Dublin Prize in 2010.  It's set in the Dutch countryside, where Helmer, a fifty-something farmer, lives in his family's big, old house, with only his aged father for company.  With his mother and his twin brother, Henk, both long dead, you would think that Helmer would be more friendly to his last remaining family member.  In fact, he appears to harbour deep-seated resentment towards his father, keeping the frail old man locked up in an upstairs bedroom.

The days go by without much change in Helmer's life, despite the changing demands of the seasons - that is, until the farmer begins to suspect that someone is trying to contact him.  A shadow glimpsed outside the house; a ring on the doorbell at night; a phone call where nobody speaks...  Eventually, the stranger announces herself.  The woman trying to summon up the courage to talk to Helmer is Riet - his dead brother's fiancée...

Anyone who has read The Detour, Bakker's IFFP-winning novel, will be on familiar ground with The Twin.  The setting is very similar (if much less hilly), and the central premise of a life interrupted by a chance visitor is too.  However, The Twin is a slower, less urgent book than The Detour, and Helmer is a very different character to Emilie.  This is a man who never really wanted to take over the family farm, and only tragic circumstances have forced him to stay.  Now, he spends his time feeding the cows, checking on the sheep and making polite conversation with the neighbour's wife when she drops by.  There is little evidence of anything else in his life.

Of course, Helmer does have a past, and it is one of missed opportunities, one life cut short and another twisted to take its place.  Part of his resentment towards his father stems from this insistence that Helmer stay on the farm.  The son's dreams of escape, studying literature in the big city and creating a life that doesn't involve cow shit, dissolve in the harsh reality of his brother's death.  It's little wonder that he feels bitter.

Still, the father is not the only one in Helmer's bad books.  Riet, a woman he hasn't seen for decades, is also partly responsible for his situation (as the reader soon finds out).  Quite what her motivation is to send her son, coincidentally called Henk, to work as a hand on Helmer's farm, I'm not really sure.  In any case, in agreeing to take the young man on, Helmer further disturbs his tranquil existence.  After all, Henk is almost family:

"Henk is actually a kind of nephew, I think when I close the door to the stairs and see him standing there.  He is pulling on his overalls, the ones with the crotch that rides up, the sleeves that are too short and the tear in one armpit.  A half-nephew, a could-have-been-nephew, a nephew-in-law."
p.192 (Scribe, 2011)

Just as Bradwen interrupts Emilie's solitude in The Detour, Henk the younger makes Helmer reflect on his life and his relationship with his father.  Perhaps it's time for a change - if only it isn't too late...

The Twin is an interesting book, and with its stripped-back style, it's an easy read too.  I'd have to say though that, contrary to what I've read elsewhere, it doesn't really reach the heights of The Detour.  I much preferred the poetry of that book, the majestic peaks of the Welsh countryside and the hidden depths of the main character.  By contrast, Helmer (and the setting) can come across a bit flat...

However, while The Twin is fairly slow-moving, that's not to say that there's nothing going on beneath the surface.  The story is nicely book-ended by the fleeting visits of canoeists paddling past the farm, and while the image the canoeists have is of an unchanging part of the scenery, the reader is aware that a lot has happened in those few months.  Some people have died, others have moved on, and Helmer's life has been changed for good - and perhaps for the better.

*****
On finishing the book, I had a good think about what else was hidden between the pages, and one theme that kept coming to mind, one I haven't seen mentioned much elsewhere, is Helmer's sexuality.  While it would be jumping to conclusions to pigeon-hole a single middle-aged man as gay (or to assume that studying literature in Amsterdam was code for coming out...), there's enough here to make you wonder.  A lot is made of his sleeping naked in the same bed as his brother (and then the other Henk), and his relationship with the farmhand Jaap also has a slight sense of sexual tension (swimming naked, kisses on the lips).

Overthought?  Perhaps?  Important?  Perhaps not.  The reason the idea keeps coming back to me though is that it helps to explain the antagonism between Helmer and his father, one which seems too strong to be put down to the decision to keep Helmer on the farm.  For me, it's an added layer to the story, one which gives Helmer a depth he'd otherwise lack.  Does anyone out there agree, or am I barking up the wrong tree here?  Comments are always welcome ;)

'The Detour' by Gerbrand Bakker (Review - IFFP 2013, Number 7)

You wouldn't expect many novels on translation prize longlists to be set in Wales (especially when the writer isn't even Welsh), but that's the case with my latest choice from the IFFP longlist.  Today's story takes us to North Wales, in the shadow of Snowdon.  There's a dog, a herd of cows - oh, and some geese...

*****
The Detour by Gerbrand Bakker (translated by David Colmer - from Harvill Secker, US title is Ten Wild Geese)
What's it all about?
The story begins with a figure in an isolated house in North Wales.  A Dutch woman who enjoys her solitude, she appears to be a refugee, a runaway - but from what exactly?  From the start there are hints of sexual misadventures in her former life; more importantly, there are worrying signs of health issues:

"That night she stared at the fire just as she had stared at the water.  She had lit candles and put them on the window sill.  Nagging pain in her back.  Before getting into the bath, she had eaten some bread with cheese and a sweet onion.  Hot meals were too much trouble.  Fruit and vegetables were healthy but, of course, things like that only applied to people who were healthy."
pp.70/1 (Scribe, 2012)

Whatever her troubles, the woman is very clear in her desire to face them by herself, leaving her home country, family and friends, and marooning herself in the middle of nowhere.

It is into this backdrop of solitude then that Bradwen enters her life one day.  He is a young hiker attempting to map out a walking trail across the countryside, and after the woman offers him shelter for the night, he decides to stay on, helping out around the house and running errands for his reclusive host.  It seems that despite her decision to live alone, she does feel a need for male company.
 
Meanwhile, back in the Netherlands, the woman's husband gradually appears on the scene.  Left bewildered by his wife's disappearance, he initially lashes out, resulting in a trip to the police station.  However, once he finds out a little more about the truth behind his wife's decision to flee, he hires a detective to track her down - so that he can follow her... 

The Detour is a fairly short novel, but it is a skilfully woven story.  We start in the middle of an informational void every bit as empty as the countryside setting.  Gradually though, the writer reveals fragments of information, allowing the reader to piece together parts of the story (even if we never uncover the whole truth).  This style of writing, released in short, terse chapters, has the effect of creating characters who are hard to read, people who have secrets that they are unlikely to divulge in a hurry.

     "Not much snow," the boy said, with his mouth full of fruit cake and his face pressed against the window.  "Maybe at the top.  We have to get off in a minute."
     She didn't say anything.  She would say very little all day.  Her suspicions had been aroused. (p.196)

I'd just like to point out that at that point I had absolutely no idea what that last sentence meant...

Bakker's main protagonist is a fascinating creation, a spiky, almost unlikeable woman.  While she gives her name as Emilie, there are reasons to doubt the veracity of the claim (just as everything she says needs to be taken with a liberal dose of salt).  Before her flight, Emilie was working on her PhD in English Literature.  The topic?  The American poet, Emily Dickinson, with whom our Emilie has a few similarities...

While this may all sound a little bleak, Bakker's novel is interspersed with dry humour, setting off the dark tone of the work nicely.  Emilie is continually mistaken for a German, something she contradicts very sharply (any Scot, Canadian or Kiwi will identify with her pain...), and she also finds it hard to convince people that the injury to her foot was caused by a badger.  You see, they're very shy creatures...

There is so much more I could write about here, more than you would think for such a thin novel.  However, it's probably best to leave you to find out the rest for yourself.  I'd definitely recommend your giving it a try - just don't read it if you're alone in a farmhouse in the middle of winter ;)

Does it deserve to make the shortlist?
Yes.  It's a most enjoyable work, one which deserves and almost demands a reread.  There's so much going on in terms of plot, style, pacing, characterisation...  I liked it :)

Will it make the shortlist?
I'm not sure - it might be a book which most will like, but few will champion.  It's easy to get enthusiastic about a book only to have other readers fail to see what the fuss is about.  Will it be able to knock off enough of the big guns to make the shortlist?  I'm not convinced...

*****
Right, time to leave Wales.  The next stop is Prague, where we have a meeting with Himmler's brain (apparently, his name is Heydrich...).  Just the first of several longlisted books set during the Second World War; hopefully, I'll have more luck with them than I did with last year's crop...

All Roads Lead to Berlin

While I had a very detailed plan for German Literature Month, I am always open to suggestions, so when I received another unrequested surprise package from Maclehose Press, I was happy to take the bus on a detour.  Dutch novelist Cees Nooteboom is also a well-regarded travel writer, and his latest offering in English is very relevant to our November travels.  Looks like we're off on another trip to the capital...

*****
Roads to Berlin (translated from the Dutch by Laura Watkinson) is an updated version of a book Nooteboom wrote over twenty years ago.  Back in 1989, the writer received a government grant to spend a year or so in (West) Berlin while he was writing a book about Germany.  In what turned out to be excellent timing, his stay in the country (during which he wrote columns about his experiences) turned out to coincicide with one of the pivotal events of modern history - the fall of the Berlin Wall.

We read it as the writer experiences it, a series of philosophical musings, dated at the end of each section, leading up to the day in November when he returns to Berlin from a reading tour to find the city in uproar.  The borders are opening, people are streaming across from the East and the wall itself is about to be turned into one of the longest dance floors the world has ever seen.  Unknowingly, Nooteboom has been writing a countdown to history...

It's an emotional time, and the reality is yet to sink in:

"As I write these words, church bells are ringing out on all sides, as they did a few days ago when the bells of the Gedächtniskirche suddenly pealed out their bronze news about the open Wall and people knelt down and cried in the streets.  There is always something ecstatic, moving, alarming about visible history.  No-one can miss it.  And no-one knows what is going to happen."
p.72 (MacLehose Press, 2012)

However, once the initial euphoria dies down, reality kicks in, and people begin to question whether this is such a good thing after all.  The 'Wessis' worry about an influx of poor migrants and the possibility of higher taxes; the 'Ossis' wonder what exchange rate they will receive for their massively overvalued Ostmark and whether they will be able to keep their jobs in this brave new world.  And Nooteboom is there to write it all down.

Roads to Berlin is an updated version of Nooteboom's book, supplementing the original work with chapters from later visits to Berlin and various pieces of writing connected with the topic.  After the main event, the writer also branches out a little, turning his Berlin-centred story into a wider, German collection.  In trips to Munich, Regensburg, Weimar (home of Goethe) and the Teutoburger Forest (where, crossing paths with Heine's journey northward, he sees the great statue of Hermann), Nooteboom indulges in his interest in art and architecture - and, of course, history.

It's an excellent book, one I enjoyed dipping into immensely, but I do have some reservations.  For one thing, Nooteboom is a writer who appears to be writing primarily for himself, and he often takes his story in directions which may interest him a little more than his readers.  There were times, particularly when he became sidetracked by paintings and statues, where I was very tempted to skip a few pages (the reading equivalent of having a pint in the pub while your partner checks out an art gallery).

The other issue I had with the book is that it felt like exactly what it is - a slightly uncohesive collection of writings which, while tangentially connected, fail to make up an integral whole.  After the first 100 pages or so, I was never quite sure what Roads to Berlin was meant to be.  Is it a book about Berlin (or Germany)?  Is it mainly concerned with history, geography or politics?  Is it really about Germany, or more about Nooteboom himself?  I really couldn't tell you...

If you're prepared to overlook the (necessarily) messy nature of the book though, there's a lot here to like.  Nooteboom is an accomplished writer, and each of the pieces, taken separately, is of enormous interest to a reader who wants to know more about the topic.  Part of the credit here must go to Laura Watkinson as you really forget that Nooteboom is speaking to you through a third party, such is the quality of the translation.  The voice that comes through is consistent, and very similar to the one I found in a novel I read earlier this year (Lost Paradise).

One idea that comes across particularly clearly is that despite inauspicious beginnings (Nooteboom's first memory is of the Germans invading the Netherlands...), the writer is very fond of Germany, particularly Berlin, and regrets a little the fact that he is no longer a part of the history being made there:

"What happens in this city in the coming years in the coming years will continue to interest me, but when you are not there, you no longer belong.  You drop out of the ongoing conversation, the options, the constant regrouping of possibilities, memories, expectations..." p.201

It's a feeling many people share when they leave a place they have lived in for a long time.  I have similar feelings whenever I look back at my time in Germany, knowing that however much I read and watch the news, I can never quite regain the connection I once had.  In this way, Roads to Berlin, as much as being a story about the city, is just as much a book about a memory of once being a part of its story...

The Wings Of An Angel

Last year, I never got around to participating in Dutch Lit Month, run by Iris of Iris On Books, so I was determined to take part this time.  Sadly, with one thing or another, June has turned out to be rather busy, so I'm afraid that all I have to offer is this one almost belated effort.  Still, it's the thought that counts, right?

*****
Cees Nooteboom is the one name which keeps coming up when people talk about Dutch literature, so I looked him up on my local library database and was lucky enough to reserve a copy of a recent novella, Lost Paradise (translated by Susan Massotty).  It's a slight work, running to 150 sparsely-filled pages, with two main strands, connected late in the book by a surprising reunion - and by the writer's insistence on putting himself in the story...

In the first part, we meet Alma, a young Brazilian woman full of an insuperable sadness.  After a traumatic event back in São Paulo, she and her best friend Almuta decide that it's time to go off on their long-awaited travels around the world, ending up in the place they have always dreamed of visiting - Australia.  A chance encounter with an Aboriginal artist helps Alma to finally rid herself of the shadow which has haunted her for so long, and a chance part-time job over in Perth gives her the opportunity to become the one thing she is obsessed with - an angel...

Meanwhile, over in the Netherlands, literary critic Erik Zondag, a grumpy middle-aged scribbler, is off to an Austrian health farm to detox, hoping to shed not only a few kilos, but also some of the anger and frustration he feels.  In a high-class institution in the mountains, far from the eyes of the outside world, Erik begins to relax and let out the pent-up emotions he has been keeping inside - and then one morning...

...well, that would be telling ;)

When I started reading Lost Paradise, I had my doubts.  The first, introductory, section really grated: the narrator was pompous, the language stilted, the behaviour slightly arrogant and sexist... and it's meant to be.  It's actually the writer himself, introducing his main character personally (literally!).  Once we get into Alma's story, the tone changes, swapping the irreverent tone for an excellent lyrical stretch of writing.  My favourite part of the book was the seventy-five pages that made up this section, a tale which probably could - and should - have been a (longish) short story in its own right.

The idea behind the book is a simple one, and the title, as you would expect, gives the reader a clue to this.  It is the idea of a yearning for something else, a simpler time, an escape from modern life - and a deliberate reference to Milton's Paradise Lost (a book which is both seen and quoted from in Nooteboom's work).  Both Alma and Erik are looking for something that isn't really there; Erik tries to alleviate his ennui in the isolated Austrian mountains, and Alma wants to leave her Weltschmerz behind in the ancient Australian Outback.  As a man Alma meets remarks, this is something that many people are desperate to do:

"For people coming from a place of chaos and confusion, it's quite tempting.  Especially since it has been destroyed, or almost.  That is what everyone has always been looking for, isn't it?  A lost paradise?" p.51, Harvill Secker (2007)

It is a yearning for simplicity, for simpler times, that leads us to run away, looking for our own lost paradise...

There's a lot to like in Lost Paradise, but there are also plenty of things which don't quite work.  As an Australia (of sorts), I'm a little uneasy with the way the writer has used the Aboriginal people and ideas in the novella, playing with this idea of mysticism and exoticism.  He never attempts to really portray the culture beyond the surface clichés, and while this may be deliberate, it often feels... well, just wrong.

I'm also less than convinced by the meta-fictional elements, with the writer lusting after, and eventually speaking to, his young female creation.  Zondag's story also suffers from this, with many a nod and a wink to Nooteboom's fellow Dutch writers.  At one point, as Erik's girlfriend condemns his over-savage critiques of certain works, he says:

"There was no question of making love after that.  Dutch authors had a lot to answer for." p.84 

In fact, if you had no idea of any Dutch authors, a couple of hours in the company of Lost Paradise would be a great place to start learning more ;)

In the end, I was left with the feeling that while Nooteboom is a talented writer, Lost Paradise is a slight, experimental, flawed work.  I've heard that he has written some good short-story collections, and this book almost feels like a couple of short stories extended and blended into something which doesn't quite come off.  I love the writing (for the most part), and I think Susan Massotty's translation is excellent; it's certainly very easy to see the different styles the writer originally used in the different sections.  However, if you're looking for a masterpiece of Dutch literature, I think you would be best advised to try something a little more substantial.

Possibly by the same writer ;)

Running...

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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