'Mr. Darwin's Gardener' by Kristina Carlson (Review)

Before reading today's choice, I'd already tried two of the three books from the Peirene Press class of 2013.  Both The Mussel Feast (runner-up in this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize) and Chasing the King of Hearts were fairly prominent and well received works, and (to me, at least) the other of the Turning Point books seemed a little less discussed.  Today, then, it's time to try the third in the series, to see if the middle child lives up to the standard set by its more illustrious sisters...

*****
Kristina Carlson's Mr. Darwin's Gardener (translated by Emily and Fleur Jeremiah, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a novella in five short parts, set in a Kentish village in 1879.  We start with a certain Thomas Davies, an outsider in the village for reasons other than his Welsh origins.  You see, in a fairly religious community, Davies is the gardener of a local celebrity - none other than the elderly Charles Darwin, and it's surely no coincidence that Davies is the local atheist...

Davies recently lost his wife to illness, and his children both have (undefined) health issues.  Darwin's gardener has many reasons to not join the congregation on Sundays - the issues he's had are enough to make anyone question their faith.  The villagers, safely ensconced in their church, look askance at this modern man, resenting people who step outside the herd.  However, the book slowly reveals that everyone must deal with the question of faith alone...

Mr. Darwin's Gardener is a lovely little book, one with an intriguingly familiar setting for an Englishman (seen from a Finnish perspective!).  However, as much as the place is important, it's the time which is crucial:

"People in future decades and centuries will react to our ideas superciliously, as if we were children playing at thinking.  We shall look most amusing in the light of new thoughts and inventions."
p.72 (Peirene Press, 2013)

Which is an amusing nod to the supercilious reader ;)  The year is 1879, and we are very much at a turning point in cultural history.

Darwin's theories on evolution are now well known, and even devout, church-going people have begun to consider their beliefs more closely.  Life in the village is starting to change as young people yearn for the big city and the chance of more freedom.  This is also the era of electricity, and while the village isn't as yet connected, we sense that big things are just around the corner.

The small English village is a tiny melting pot, a microcosm of society, ideal for a study of the effects of change.  Despite the idyllic surface, there's a lot going on that outsiders can't see, with nasty secrets festering underneath:

"Righteousness spreads like pestilence, Henry Faine thought.
  Revenge brings great satisfaction, everyone has stored up things to avenge, but the victim is not always about.  So when a common enemy is found, people seize the opportunity - in the name of God, the church or a woman.  Or because a country village is somewhat short of entertainment." (p.52)

So what are those net curtains hiding?  Alcoholism, sexual frustration, manipulation, violence - and, above all, a distinct absence of hope...

It's against this backdrop that the struggle between the old order and progress takes place.  Davies, the Welsh gardener, is certainly one who has no time for old beliefs, preferring to pin his 'faith' in science than in an absent deity.  He is roundly mocked for burning his wife's solid wooden bed outside after her death, laughed at for the needless waste.  Obviously, the villagers are not quite up on the latest thoughts on medical hygiene...

The book is well constructed, built upon five 'scenes', each contributing to the overall story.  We see the self-satisfied villagers in church (and at the local pub), sewing for the local poor (and taking revenge on a light-fingered verger), sitting through the cold December - and enjoying the return of spring.  The characters gradually take shape, names taking on features: the snobbish Henry and Eileen Faine, the alcoholic doctor Robert Kenny, wheelchair-bound Hannah Hamilton.  By the end, they're all old friends - it's like a slightly twisted version of The Archers.

Although the story is interesting, it's the writing which makes the book, with Carlson using a range of styles to achieve her purpose.  One of these is a polyphonic chorus of voices, a feature that reminded me of Virginia Woolf's The Waves at times:

"The congregation sits in pews and the jackdaws caw in the steeple.
  We smell of wet dog.  The rain drenched us.  We are cold but singing warms us.  The hymn rises up to the roof.  God lives above the roof, amen.
  We saw Thomas Davies on the hill.  He works in Mr. Darwin's garden.
  An atheist and a lunatic, he stood alone in the field, water whipping his face.
  A godless pit pony wandering in the dark, he hails from Wales.
  Does the heathen think he can avoid getting wet outside?  Did the Devil give him an umbrella, or bat's wings?
Perhaps Thomas imagines he can control the rain.  He thinks he is higher than God.  He has his head in the clouds." (p.16)

The 'I's and 'We's scattered throughout the book are insights into the psyches of the villagers.  However, in other parts, the writing can be a lot more detached, especially when the gardener speaks.  This, perhaps, is a deliberate attempt to differentiate between the emotional villagers and the 'rational' Davies.

In fact, Mr. Darwin's Gardener is a short book full of contrasts.  We have pub bores trading quips, honouring the lord and secretly beating up a man after dark; bored women using their needles while sipping tea, then sleeping with newcomers to the village.  This is certainly a turning point, but we're not quite into the modern era yet, and this delicate balance is what makes the book so fascinating to read.  Like most Peirene books, it's one which needs to be read again if we're to really get behind what the writer wants to say - and I hope to do that very soon :)

'The Blue Room' by Hanne Ørstavik (Review)

When considering books from publishers for Women In Translation Month, one small press definitely stood out.  In addition to releasing sets of three related novellas each year, Peirene Press have also kept the gender balance fairly even, with their first fourteen books equally split between male and female writers.  With that in mind, and having not read the latest Peirene offering, opting for today's book was an easy decision to make.  If only all life's decisions were as simple...

*****
Hanne Ørstavik's The Blue Room (translated by Deborah Dawkin, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a psychological novel set in two different places.  The first is the blue room of the title, the bedroom of Norwegian student Johanne, where the unfortunate young woman wakes one morning only to find that she can't open the door - because it's been locked from the outside.

Naked, confused and distressed about being unable to get to the airport (she was about to embark on a trip overseas), she is forced to spend the day thinking about why she's being kept in her room.  The second setting for the story, then, is Johanne's mind, and we're immediately taken back a couple of weeks to her first meeting with the handsome Ivar, the catalyst for all that has followed.  However, wherever and whenever Johanne's memories take us, one thing is certain; there's a shadowy figure in her subconscious, and it's someone very close to home...

The Blue Room is an excellent book, and after one reading it's up there with my favourite Peirene books (probably my favourite of the ones I've read in English).  A fascinating read, it's also frustrating at times, as the writer takes us on a trip through the psyche of a damaged, submissive young woman.  In following Johanne's thoughts of the past two weeks, we are given a look at the problem of family relationships and the dangers arising when family members become that little bit too close.

Johanne is an intriguing creation.  While she's an intelligent, popular and presumably attractive young woman, she's also wracked with doubts, convinced she's not up to the challenging life path she's drawn up for herself.  She's a psychology student who's keen to jump to conclusions, swinging from happiness to self-loathing in seconds, and the minutely-detailed plans she has are shattered by the appearance of the charming Ivar.  Of all eventualities, it appears that love is the one she's least well-equipped to deal with...

Which is not to say that she doesn't want to be loved; in fact, she's desperate for affection.  However, Johanne is actually looking for a lot more:

"Why can't somebody take care of me?"
p.146 (Peirene Press, 2014)

This simple plea is key to her personality, revealing a longing to be dominated, a wholly submissive nature which is in danger of taking over her life.  The relationship with Ivar, which, for most people, would be a joyous time, is overshadowed at times by her depressing thoughts.  Her mind is full of disturbing images, her fantasies, nightmares, of what might happen if she allows herself to get swept away.

If you're wondering where this all comes from, you don't have to look very far.  A recent Twitter meme was asking for examples of bad parents in literature, and Johanne's Mum would be right up there.  As well as showing us a fragile young woman, Ørstavik also creates a portrait of the mother as a highly damaging influence, a controlling, manipulative shadow hanging over poor Johanne's life.  This is a mother-daughter relationship which goes a little too far (as shown by some quite disturbing scenes on the toilet..).

Of course, she is the one who has locked Johanne in her room, leaving her daughter to have a good think about her actions.  The mother herself, though, is not without her own issues, as we learn through the rare glimpses of the past which slip through Johanne's subconscious.  The daughter's fear of men stems from the mother's own experiences:

"Men are so simple.  Controlled by sex and power.  Like robots", she said. (pp.51/2)

With Johanne reliant on her mother for accommodation and living expenses if she's ever going to achieve her plan of  building up a psychology practice (an idea which someone else planted in her mind...), she feels as if she's using her mother, a feeling which leads to guilt.  In truth, though, it's most definitely the mother who is abusing her position.

Ørstavik's novel is a wonderful piece of writing, with an excellent translation, a book which skilfully inserts occasional, shocking images amongst the stream of mundane thoughts running through Johanne's mind.  For the most part, the book is written in short sentences, but the sentences become longer, and more emotion laden, when Johanne gets excited, the plain descriptive prose being overrun by frantic, violent thoughts.  In addition to the themes covered above, there are several other areas which could be explored at length, such as the importance of Johanne's faith in both helping and suppressing her and the symbolism of her back pain, a feature which comes up again and again in the story.  Someone else will have to follow those themes up, though ;)

As with most Peirene books, intertextual reading is also tempting.  Meike picks her books very carefully, and while the three works released each year form a whole, there are always nods back to previous offerings.  In terms of an unreliable narrator who offers the reader incomplete information, Next World Novella springs to mind, while the focus on a mother smothering her child will inevitably lead to thoughts of Beside the Sea.  Perhaps the guiding ethos of the Peirene empire is that mother does *not* always know best...

However, with its central theme of parental domination, perhaps it's The Mussel Feast which best complements The Blue Room.  Without giving too much away, the book is really all about Johanne's day in her room and what will happen to the mother-daughter bond when she gets out.  While the reader will be hoping Johanne manages to break free, it's difficult to see someone so guilt laden being able to stand up to her oppressor when she appears so trapped, both mentally and physically:

"But what do we do with the guilt?  Being ignorant of the moment things began, we can repeatedly deny guilt, pointing ever further back to a previous event as the starting point - it wasn't me.  I prefer to think the opposite.  To think of myself as guilty of everything, thus giving me a responsibility and a duty to change." (p.15)

It's all very well for Virginia Woolf to ask for a room of one's own - it's of no use unless you're able to go in and out without needing to ask for permission...

'Chasing the King of Hearts' by Hanna Krall (Review)

It's been a while, but I've finally got around to trying another of Peirene Press' two-hour slices of literary pleasure.  Today's offering is the first time the publisher has offered a Polish story, and while the background is a familiar one for most readers, the style is definitely a little different :)

*****
Hanna Krall's Chasing the King of Hearts (translated by Philip Boehm, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is mainly set in Poland during the last few years of the Second World War.  Izolda is a Polish Jew living in the Warsaw Ghetto, and with the writing on the wall, she decides that it's time to start thinking about escape.  On the very first page of the book, she meets fellow Jew Shayek, quickly falling in love with (then marrying) him, and this love is the catalyst for the events which follow.

If you think this sounds like another three-hankie piece of Holocaust Lit though, you'd be mistaken.  Chasing the King of Hearts is not one of those clichéd WW2 novels where the writer ratchets up the tension before playing on the reader's emotions with scenes of torture, death and betrayal.  Instead, Krall focuses on one woman and her quest to save the man she loves - the fact that there's a war going on is just a technicality...

Rather than being a traditional, seamless narrative, the book is divided into many short sections, each lasting a page or so.  This structure has the effect of eliminating dead time, whisking the reader (and Izolda) through the war years, almost without our realising how much time has passed.  Krall's laconic style also means that the horrors of the Holocaust are kept in the background, only very rarely surfacing, and there's a lot of dry humour:

"Izolda understands Lilusia's cunning, but then she takes a closer look at the handbag and sets it on the floor.  How's that?  Does the bag look Jewish there?  She tries the sofa, the stool, the chair.  Because if it does, what exactly about the bag is Jewish?"
p.21 (Peirene Press, 2013)

Even when matters do become a little more emotionally charged, the next section usually sweeps those feelings away - there's no time to dwell on the past here.

The title comes from the fortune-telling Izolda has an acquaintance do for her using a normal set of playing cards.  Shayek is the King of Hearts (Izolda, naturally is the Queen), and the chase takes place both within the deck and all across Europe, as Izolda does her best to keep tabs on her husband, hoping to alleviate his suffering and reunite with him one day.  In the process, she shows herself to be a formidable woman, brave, resourceful and inventive, someone who can always find a way to do the impossible.

Her greatest strength is her adaptability.  She's a woman who's prepared to do almost anything, crawling through sewers, smuggling contraband and marching in and out of the Ghetto, seemingly without blinking an eye.  Her brazenness is also breathtaking, able to lie through her teeth and smile when she's found out, allowing her to charm those who can be charmed and bribe those who can't.  In fact, she's a bit of a chameleon, and at times she begins to see herself as who she's pretending to be, rather than who she was:

"Her suffering is worse, because she is worse.  That's what the whole world thinks, and the whole world can't be wrong when it comes to a sense of good and bad, or rather, better and worse.
 She is worse and that's why she is in disguise.  She has a new name and a new hair colour and a new voice and laugh and a new way of carrying her handbag.  And she prefers her new self to the real thing.  So what does that mean?  That her disguised self... that her pretend self is better than her real self." (pp.55/6)

The key to the whole book though is that it is actually a romance.  From the very start, the reader is told that Izolda is madly in love with Shayek, and everything she does throughout Chasing the King of Hearts is done for him.  However, in the times she finds herself in, this attitude brings with it some moral dilemmas, for in investing so much in one man, Izolda may have to neglect other loved ones - and that neglect may have serious consequences.  Should she be devoting all her time, energy and money to helping Shayek, or would it be better to help the people around her?  It's a rather nasty dilemma to face...

There's a lot to like about the book, one that many people will enjoy.  It's an interesting, different look at a period which, having already been covered extensively, can sometimes leave novels feeling rather stale and old.  I liked it, even if I didn't really love it, and I felt that the short, fleeting sections were both the book's strength and its weakness.  While it kept the reader engaged, I felt that at times a little slipped between the cracks; I would have enjoyed it more if it had slowed down at times, just a little...

I did enjoy the way the book finished though, as we get to experience life after the war and find out what happened to Izolda and Shayek.  The last sections are poignant and force the reader to ask themselves if it was all really worth it, the sacrifices and the suffering.  While we're not sure what Izolda's answer would be, Chasing the King of Hearts is certainly worth the sacrifice of a couple of hours of your time :)

When is a Peirene Book not a Peirene Book?

As mentioned in my post on Sea of Ink a few weeks back, I have now read (and reread) all ten Peirene books published so far, and I'm waiting eagerly for number eleven, Mr Darwin's Gardener, to appear next month.  However, the ladies over at Peirene HQ (particularly, I suspect, the nymph herself) beg to differ.  You see, of the ten so far, I've only read four in the Peirene version - the other six have been bought and read in the original language...

...which got me thinking.  Is there really a difference between a Peirene book and what Meike Ziervogel (founder of the press) dubs 'Peirene choices'?  Is the Peirene experience different if you don't get the book directly from the nymph?  Well, let's have a little think about that, shall we?

*****
The first difference, of course, is one which is immediately evident - the cover.  One of Peirene's strong points is its individual and identifiable branding, and Sacha Davison Lunt's cover designs are a vital part of this.  The cream background, overlaid with geometric shapes, is instantly recognisable, ensuring that the books stand out, and go together nicely.

The covers create connections not only within the Peirene stable, but also within each series.  Most of you will know that the publisher publishes a different series each year, selecting three books which fit together, and for 2013 ('Turning Point') this is reflected in the cover designs, which are slightly different to previous series.  Of course, this is not the case for the original versions, which come from different publishers - and often different countries...

The original books are also stand-alones in terms of content, each one chosen for individual interest, where Peirene's books are carefully selected in groups of three.  The books are thematically linked, each suiting the banner chosen to represent the selection.  Whether it's 'Turning Point', 'Small Epic' or 'Male Dilemma', the Peirene books have a lot more in common than the cover that surrounds them.  In this sense, I would have to say that the first series, 'Female Voice' is probably the most coherent, a set of three books which really should be read as a trilogy.

Another difference I've been weighing up is one of voice.  I've read all the French- and German-language books in the original, and at times I've felt a difference in the way the language comes across.  They seem to be of a more confessional nature, many of them (for example, Beside the Sea, Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman, Next World Novella) consisting of monologues, almost soliloquies.  In contrast, some of the books I've read in English (e.g. Tomorrow Pamplona, The Brothers, The Murder of Halland) are a little more plot based and outward looking.  But then, Stone in a Landslide would fit nicely in the first group, and Sea of Ink wouldn't really... hmm.

Perhaps then we can explain the split with differences in style.  There are some unique writing styles among the Peirene authors, with several experimenting with very long, multi-clause sentences (e.g. Birgit Vanderbeke's The Mussel Feast, Matthias Politycki's Next World Novella), in one case with just one, book-long sentence (take a bow F.C. Delius!).  Again, some of those I've read in English, such as Tomorrow Pamplona and The Murder of Halland, seem to prefer shorter sentences.  So are we getting somewhere?  Probably not - I'd say that Sea of Ink and Maybe Next Time don't really have the same style as the other German-language books...

Perhaps I'm approaching this the wrong way though.  You see, another potential variable in this puzzle is Meike herself.  Perhaps the real difference is whether the books are Meike's personal choices or recommendations from other people, friends or translators.  I mentioned the cohesion of the 'Female Voice' series above, and I suspect that those three (including the Catalan book Stone in a Landslide), plus Next World Novella and The Mussel Feast, are much more personal choices than the others.  Are we perhaps being treated to a glimpse of Meike's own literary preferences?

Before I get too carried away though, it's very possible that I may (!) be reading a little more into this than there is to be read.  Still, it is fascinating to speculate on just what the differences are between the various Peirene books, even if (as you've seen above) it's much easier to pull together similarities.  Whether it's a matter of language or simply personal preferences, I can't help thinking that there is a logic to it somewhere behind the scenes - although that probably says a lot more about me than Peirene...

The main thing is though that while the nymph would undoubtedly prefer readers to pour all their money into her coffers, it's more important that we get to experience great books, whatever language they're in.  In the end, it doesn't really matter whether you're enjoying Peirene books or Peirene choices - just as long as you're enjoying them :)

*****
Anyway, that's my mixture of musings and wild guesses - how about you?  Have you read any of the Peirene books in the original language?  Have you noticed any similarities between any of the books?  Let me know what your thoughts on the matter are!

'Meer der Tusche' ('Sea of Ink') by Richard Weihe (Review)

Although I wasn't quite there at the beginning, I've been reading the European novellas offered by Peirene Press for a good while now, and there was only one which I hadn't managed to get to.  Why?  Well, I've tried to read the ones written in French and German in the original language, and one of the more recent publications was actually fairly tricky to find (on my limited budget, anyway...).  Luckily for me, Meike Ziervogel was kind enough to send me a spare copy she had, enabling me to complete my Peirene reading.  But did I actually like it?  Let's find out...

*****
Richard Weihe's Meer der Tusche (Sea of Ink, Peirene version translated by Jamie Bulloch) is a summary of the life of famous 17th-century Chinese artist and calligrapher, Bada Shanren.  He is born into the royal line as Zhu Da, a prince destined for a life of regal duties and pleasant distractions; that is, until the ruling dynasty is overthrown by the Manchus, forcing him to flee for the mountains.

Seeking refuge in a monastery, he learns about art and life, and decides to devote his days to religion and painting.  After initially being taught by the head of the temple he sought refuge at, Bada Shanren moves on, becoming the spiritual leader of his own temple, and a renowned artist in his own right.  Later in life, he is compelled to undergo exams for the ruling dynasty, and is admitted to the rank of 'Sea of Ink', the highest honour for an artist under the regime.  However, this is not enough for a man like Bada Shanren - he wants nothing less than to create the perfect painting...

Sea of Ink runs to little more than 100 pages, divided into 50 short chapters, and it follows the artist throughout his life, from birth to death (it definitely deserves the designation of small epic).  The start of the book concentrates on the historical events of the period, in particular the change of regime, a bloody, violent seizing of power.  Later though, historical events take a back seat, and it is the artist's gradual development which becomes the focus of the story.

Of course, the book is all about the art, and in addition to the story, Weihe includes ten beautiful ink drawings, examples of the artist's work, which are woven into the fabric of the novella.  In fact, they are an integral part of the story, the foundation upon which the writer builds his (partially-invented) story.  From Zhu Da's early days watching his father painting, through to his years as an acolyte, the artist (and the reader) learns more and more about the great skill involved in creating pictures using just one colour:

"Wenn du deinen Pinsel in die Tusche tauchst, dann tauchst du ihn in deine Seele.  Und wenn du den Pinsel lenkst, lenkt ihn dein Geist.  Ohne Tiefe und Sättigung fehlt deiner Tusche die Seele; ohne Lenkung und Lebendigkeit fehlt deinem Pinsel der Geist.  Das eine empfängt vom anderen.  Der Strich empfängt von der Tusche, die Tusche empfängt vom Handgelenk, und das Handgelenk von deinem lenkenden Geist.  Das heißt die Kraft der Tusche und des Pinsels meistern."
p.35 (Elster Verlag, 2011)

"When you dip your brush into the ink, you dip it into your soul.  And when you guide the brush, it is guided by your spirit.  Without depth and saturation, your ink will lack soul; without guidance and exuberance, your brush will lack spirit.  The one receives from the other.  The brush stroke receives from the ink, the ink receives from the wrist, and the wrist from your guiding spirit.  This is what it means to master the power of the ink and your brush."***

The monk stresses the importance of preparation, practice and patience.  In effect, the whole book (and Bada Shanren's whole life) is leading up to his attempt to paint something unpaintable - water.

While Sea of Ink is a story of the artist's life, it is also a tale of the paintings themselves.  Weihe describes how inspiration arrived for each of the pictures, and how Bada Shanren actually created them.  Weihe's art historian background shines through as he announces each brush stroke, carefully guiding the reader through the process from picking up the brush to the final signature seal.  The pictures really are quite impressive - I particularly like the two spiders ;)

A perfect little novella, then?  Not quite...  One aspect of the novel which grated a little was the description of the actual painting.  Perhaps for someone who didn't get placed carefully in a corner with a box of crayons during school art classes, Weihe's painstaking descriptions of the painting process may have been more interesting.  For me, without an artistic bone in my body, it did get a little old.  Around the fifth or sixth time he picked up his brush and began carefully preparing the ink, my eyes did start to glaze over a little, and I tended to skip over the actual description of the brush strokes.  I suspect that this says a lot more about me than about Sea of Ink...

Still, it is an excellent novella, and a great introduction to an interesting character.  If you're at all interested in art, you'll get a lot out of this - including, perhaps, the secret to the perfect painting:

"Enthält denn der erste Strich nicht schon die ganze Zeichnung?  Er muss lange vorbedacht werden, vielleicht ein Leben lang, um ihn dann, im richtigen Moment, in einer einzigen flüssigen Geste zu Papier zu bringen, ohne einer Korrektur mehr bedürftig und fähig zu sein." (p.107)

"And doesn't the first stroke contain the whole picture?  It must be considered at length, perhaps throughout your whole life, so that then, in the right moment, you can commit it to paper in a single, fluid motion, with neither the need nor possibility of improvement."***

It's all about that first stroke - or should that be sentence ;)

*** The English translations are, as usual, my sorry efforts, and not those of the real translator :)

*****
That's it then - I'm all up to date.  I've read all ten Peirene books published to date, most of them twice.  Or have I...

...you see, of the ten I've read, only four have been actual Peirene books.  The other six have all been the original versions, books recommended by the nymph but not actually a part of the real Peirene stable.  In fact you could call them, Peirene choices, not Peirene books.

Is there a difference?  Well, that's a story for another day ;)

'Stone in a Landslide' by Maria Barbal (Review)

I always enjoy Peirene Press' novel(la) offerings, and I have read most of the works they have published so far.  Despite that though (and the fact that I'm a fairly organised person), I recently discovered an unread Peirene book lying neglected on my shelves.  It is from the first series, The Female Voice - and it is another excellent choice...

*****
Maria Barbal's Stone in a Landslide (translated by Laura McGloughlin and Paul Mitchell) is a story about
the life of a Catalan woman, Conxa.  Over 120 pages, narrated in the first person, she tells the reader about her life, looking back over seven decades of personal events and national history.

The story begins with Conxa's move to her aunt's house at the age of thirteen, leaving her family so that the others can survive on their meagre income.  Despite only living a few kilometres away from her parents, it might as well be thousands.  In the Catalan countryside, people don't tend to move around much.

Conxa's formative years, while hard at times, seem simple and almost idyllic.  She gets on well with her aunt and uncle and gradually grows to enjoy life in the village.  When she meets (and falls in love with) Jaume, an itinerant handyman, her life seems to be falling into place.  However, this is Spain in the 1930s, and the shadows of war can already be seen on the horizon...

Stone in a Landslide couldn't be described as an eventful novella - it is spread over a lifetime but told at a measured pace, in a manner which can almost be detached.  In other hands, it may have been bloated into a three-volume epic, but Barbal instead crafts a simple tale, using short chapters and simple, effective language:

"...I liked the cousins from Barcelona coming up every year.  I enjoyed how they filled the house and embraced Oncle and Tia, wiping away tears and saying, This young lady gets lovelier every time, and what beautiful curly hair!  In Pallarès no one says "young lady" nor "lovely".  I understood those words even if I didn't use them and they pleased me, and I thought that a language is like a tool that each person picks up in their own way, even if it is used for the same purpose."
pp.28/9 (Peirene Press, 2010)

Of course, life in the country isn't easy, and the writer shows us the hardship the farmers go through in their attempts to get through another year.  Jaume, one of the few characters who doesn't always work on the land, can't quite understood their attitudes at times:

"He would say: people are more important than anything else.  I needed help to see this because I had been taught the opposite.  When the land and animals were taken care of, then you turned to people." p.47

This is particularly true for women, who must keep the home running while also helping out with farming duties.  With limited freedom and a mountain of troubles to bear, there is little time to think about your own hopes and dreams...

As well as relating Conxa's personal story, Stone in a Landslide also gives us a glimpse of life during the Spanish Civil War, and the way Spain (and much of the world) developed over the course of the twentieth century.  Conxa's time with Jaume is doomed to be short:

"He'd gone as quickly as a rose cut from the bush and I'd no last memory of him except a little spark as he looked at me during our strange goodbye.  I knew he was dead and I would never again have him at my side, because war is an evil that drags itself over the earth and leaves it sown with vipers and fire and knives with points upright." pp.95/6

She stolidly moves on, as always, ending the story in relative comfort in Barcelona.  However, we get the feeling that progress, running water and a life of ease have come at the cost of something more intangible, yet far more important...

Stone in a Landslide is a slow burner, a quiet yet impressive work.  It is by no means as dramatic as some of the other Peirene books, yet it fits into the stable nicely.  In fact, having now read all three of The Female Voice series, I can see how they do actually form a set, perhaps more so than is the case for the other series.  Along with Beside the Sea and Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman, Stone in a Landslide looks at how women experience life - and how, at times, they are unable to do anything but hold on and hope the storm passes.  It may be a man's world (at least in these stories), but without a woman?  Well, you know the rest ;)

'The Mussel Feast' by Birgit Vanderbeke (Review)

January in Japan, having taken up a whole month of my reading time, is finally over, so it's time to return to a more varied literary diet for a while.  And talking of food, the first Peirene of the year is particularly mouthwatering - and also a very good book...

*****
Birgit Vanderbeke's Das Muschelessen (English version translated by Jamie Bulloch) is a short modern classic very much in the vein of Peirene's offerings so far.  A family sits at home waiting for the father to return from a business trip.  A pot of mussels (his favourite food) is there ready on the table to celebrate the promotion he has been expecting.  However, he appears to be late, unexpectedly so - this is not a family where surprises are common...

The other three members of the family (mother, daughter and son) grow impatient and start to talk - and it becomes clear that this is not a happy family.  Stories unfold,  grievances are aired, hearts are poured out, and soon we realise that they'd be happy if the man of the house never came home at all...

Das Muschelessen is another excellent choice, a work which is surprisingly powerful and layered for its size.  One one level it is a character study of a dysfunctional, cowering family, victims of traditional, patriarchal, German society (where a woman's place is firmly proscribed and the man of the family is to obeyed at all times).  At first, it is tempting to think that they're exaggerating and a little unfair; certainly, without prior knowledge of the family's history, the initial reactions seem a little overdone.  Eventually, though, as the father's personality (and cruelty) is revealed, the reader is certain to take the side of the oppressed.

Vanderbeke sketches out an environment of gender stereotypes and a home ruled by fear.  The mother is described as changing roles and faces as required, subordinating her own will to pander to the father's twisted idea of a 'richtige Familie' (real family):

"In richtigen Familien hat man Verbote nicht nötig, hat mein Vater gesagt, und sie sind wirklich überflüssig gewesen, weil wir uns immer verstanden haben, und wenn ich manchmal trotzig gewesen bin und gesagt habe, keineswegs, hat es von vorn angefangen, und es ist immer so lange gegangen, bis ich auf seine Frage, haben wir uns verstanden, mich beeilt habe zu sagen, das haben wir..."
p.120 (Piper Verlag, 2012)

"In real families rules are not necessary, my father always said, and in truth they weren't needed because we always understood each other, and if I was occasionally a little defiant and said, no way, it started all over again, and it went on until, in answer to his question, do you understand, I hastened to say, yes, I do..."*** 

Just as in any dictatorship, dissent is frowned upon and is stamped out as quickly as possible in particularly nasty ways...

On another level though, Vanderbeke is using a family setting to criticise something much wider.  Das Muschelessen was written in 1990, but set just before the events known in German as 'die Wende' (which Peirene followers may be interested to know translates as 'turning point'...), and even though the nameless protagonists have settled in the west, the book is an indictment of East German society.  The father is a head of state, demanding complete loyalty from his subjects; that he is able to achieve it is due to the same methods used in the DDR.

If there was solidarity between the other members of the family, then the father's castle in the air would soon come tumbling to earth.  However, just as in 'real life', the rest of the family are unable to resist the temptation to seek favour:

"...meine Mutter hat pssst gemacht weil sie Angst hatte, er könnte uns hören, dabei war er doch gar nicht da, aber so ist das bei uns gewesen, jeder hat gedacht, er weiß alles und hört alles und sieht alles, obwohl wir gewußt haben, daß das ja gar nicht geht, und wirklich hat er ziemlich viel herausgekriegt, weil jeder jeden verpetzt hat..." p.36

"...my mother went shhh because she was afraid he might hear us, even though he wasn't even there, but that's how it was in our house, everyone thought he knows everything and hears everything and sees everything, although we knew that this was impossible, and he actually did find out a lot, because we all told on each other..."***

Tonight is very different though - the longer the father's arrival is delayed, the more unwilling the rest of the family is to put up with living in fear.

While the book fits nicely into Peirene's collection with its content and length, its style is also reminiscent of its stable-mates.  The book consists of one unbroken paragraph, with a few long sentences, broken up into waves of short clauses.  The effect of this style (reminiscent of Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman) is to produce a sense of urgency and intensity.  At times, the first-person narrative can slip almost into stream-of-consciousness mode, but this just makes the description of the father's violence even more abrupt and stunning when it comes.

In terms of content though, Das Muschelessen is more similar to Next World Novella.  Both works deal with the unravelling of a lie, the unmasking of a tyrant, in a way over which he has no control.  I would talk about character assassination, but that suggests that the accusations are unfair and ungrounded.  Although we are reliant on our narrator, there is little doubt that it is high time for the domestic regime to be overthrown.

This year's Peirene collection has been entitled 'The Turning Point: Revolutionary Moments', and it is easy to see how Das Muschelessen fits in with this motto.  It is a work which shows that the smallest turning point can prove to be the catalyst for changes which were previously unthinkable.  It all makes for a book which can quite rightly claim to be labelled a modern classic - it is taught in German schools, and rightly so.

All in all, it looks like 2013 is shaping up to be another good year for the nymph ;)

*****
***All translations are my sorry efforts, and not those of the Peirene version ;)

Oh, I Don't Like To Be Beside The Seaside

Although I've been busy recently with review copies and Spanish Literature Month, I wanted to read at least one French book to take part in Paris in July, and I recently received a little work I'd been after for a while, one which gave me the perfect opportunity to do so.  Véronique Olmi's Bord de Mer is a novella which tells the tale of a French single mother who takes her kids on a trip to the seaside - with a rather shadowy motive behind the impromptu journey.  Wait a minute...

*****
If you think that the story sounds familiar, then you're probably right.  Bord de Mer is the original title of Peirene Press' first offering Beside the Sea, the English-language version being translated by Anthea Bell.  It's a dark book, both in its themes and its setting, with a large chunk of the novella happening at night and the rest during an overcast, rain-sodden day.  Meike Ziervogel, the person behind Peirene, has been very vocal in her belief that knowing what happens at the end of the book adds to the pleasure of reading it.  I can see where she's coming from, but I think I'll leave it up to the reader to work that out for themself - all I will say is that you shouldn't read this if you're expecting a happy ending.

The anonymous mother narrates the tale, dragging nine-year-old Stan and five-year-old Kevin away from school for an unexpected trip to a small, out-of-season seaside town.  It is an attempt to bring them a little pleasure in an otherwise bleak existence, but nothing goes to plan.  The hotel is dark, the room is cramped, the streets are full of mud - and the rain falls constantly, soaking the family whenever they emerge from their bolthole, seeping into their clothes, their bones and their souls.

The first impression of the town warns the mother (and the reader) of the type of story to come:

"Il devait pleuvoir depuis longtemps dans cette ville, on avait l'impression d'avancer sur un chantier, pas sur un trottoir, à moins que ce soit une ville sans trottoirs." p.14, (J'ai Lu, 2010)

"It must have been raining for a long time in this town, it was like walking on a building site, not a pavement, perhaps it was a town without pavements." #

The rain comes to symbolise the struggle the mother faces in her everyday life.  Alone, raising two young boys, there is never a break in the metaphorical clouds; her life is spent under a constant drizzle, which gradually breaks her spirit.

A more pressing and literal concern though is a lack of money.  We are told that she uses her last hundred-franc note to pay for the bus tickets, and when she pours her spare change onto the hotel bed in front of her children, Stan soon discovers that the total is very meagre indeed.  More than the amount though, it is the form the money takes, piles of small metal coins jingling in purse and pocket, that reinforces her social status, leading to scornful looks whenever she wants to buy anything for her children.  This humiliation is just one more part of the narrative that has led her - and us - to the (literal) end of the story...

Bord de Mer is an interesting story, one which can be read in little over an hour, but it's not one of my favourite Peirene titles, and I've spent a long time trying to work out why.  One reason for my doubts have to do with the voice of the mother, a very simple, colloquial voice, one which makes the book easy to read.  While the voice is accurate and extremely well done, it doesn't really suit my reading tastes.  It's too plain and pales beside the writing in some of the other books I've been reading recently.

The major reason for not loving this book though is that I found it extremely difficult to empathise with the main character, and I simply couldn't understand why she did what she did.  In many ways, Olmi has constructed the situation beautifully, avoiding any mawkish sentimentality by sparing the reader the details of any brutality or tragedy in the mother's life.  The flip-side of this though is that there are no excuses, no mitigating circumstances for what occurs, leaving the reader to judge based on the evidence of the text - and pretty damning evidence it is too.

Beside the Sea is a book close to Meike's heart, and picking holes in it does feel a bit like kicking someone's puppy.  It is a good book - I just suspect that I'm not the right reader for it.  Which is not to say that I didn't like it, because I did.  Knowing what was to come (and most readers figure it out pretty quickly anyway), I felt the tension gradually build up, hoping in vain that everything would turn out alright, and then...  The last ten pages or so, the release of all the pent-up tension, the horrific, clinical, detached culmination of all that has come before...  That is what makes reading the book worthwhile.

Towards the end of the tale, as the mother looks out of her hotel window on the top floor of the window, watching the rain fall to the ground, she says:

"La pluie, ça tombe pour ceux d'en bas, moi je suis au dernier étage." p.73

"The rain is falling for the people below, me, I'm above all that". #

As luck would have it, on the night I finished Bord de Mer, the rain was lashing down here in Melbourne, and as I finished the book, my five-year-old daughter came in asking to be tucked in.  Before putting her to bed, I gave her a big, big hug.

*****
# The English translations are my own efforts, not those from the Peirene edition.

Death Becomes Him

It's always nice to have beautiful new books come tumbling through the metaphorical letter-box, doubly so when the new arrival turns out to be from one of your favourite publishers.  So you can imagine that I was a tad on the happy side when I recently received my review copy of Peirene Press' latest publication, the eighth book in their short history, and the second of the 2012 Small Epic series.  After the dark, icy historical fiction of The Brothers, we're heading back to Scandinavia for some more-contemporary (but just as dark) fare, this time in Denmark - detective fiction, Peirene style ;)

*****

Pia Juul's The Murder of Halland (translated by Martin Aitken) is a dark, deliberately confusing, literary crime novel, a welcome twist on the wave of Scandinavian detective fiction which has recently been invading our shores.  The novel is told through the eyes of Bess, a forty-something divorcée who left her husband a decade ago for the enigmatic Halland, a wealthy, hard-working older man.  Given the title of the novel, it is hardly surprising that his appearance in the book is a rather brief one - within a matter of pages, poor Halland is found gunned down in the street outside his house.

The first Bess (and the reader) learns about the murder is when a local man knocks on her door and blurts out that he is arresting her for the murder of her husband.  The fact that the man is not a policeman - and that Bess is not actually married to the recently departed Halland - takes something away from this rather dramatic announcement...  Once the initial shock has died down however, Bess is left to answer a few difficult questions.  If she didn't kill her partner, then who did?  Where are his phone and laptop?  And, perhaps most importantly, how does she actually feel about his death?

Over the next 150 pages, the reader is carefully inducted into Bess' world, and a most confusing one it is too.  We start with zero knowledge, but as the book progresses, Juul helpfully fills in some of the gaps.  Unfortunately, most of these gaps are not the ones we really need to know about in order to solve the crime; Bess (and Juul) keep those secrets closely guarded...

And that, of course, is part of the charm of the book.  The writer is playing with both the reader and the crime genre itself, casually throwing a murder into the first few pages of the story, then carrying on as if the identify of the murderer is of negligible interest.  By concentrating on Bess, and not anyone involved in the investigation, The Murder of Halland takes us into an awkward realm where we're not quite sure what we're reading for - is it to solve the crime, or to find out more about our traumatised heroine?

There is definitely a lot to find out about too.  You would expect to feel a lot of sympathy with someone going through what poor Bess is experiencing, but she (or Juul) makes it very hard to empathise with her.  She is rude, aggressive, ignorant, possibly alcoholic, and she apparently abandoned her husband (and her young daughter) for a relationship based purely on lust.  While she is obviously affected by grief, you do begin to wonder whether she's really just a rather horrid person.

It's also hard to decide how genuine her grief is.  The more we learn about her relationship with Halland, the less attached she appears to be.  For someone who has spent ten year's in the man's company, she seems to know very little about what makes (made...) him tick.  And I'm not convinced that the grief can completely explain her wandering eye...

While Bess is a fascinating character, the corpse of the story is every bit as interesting.  The figure of Halland towers over the novella, becoming more and more invasive with every page.  The discovery of a possible second life stuns Bess, forcing her to think hard about what Halland actually did for a living.  Could it be that he knew what was coming?  Did his illness have anything to do with it?  Is there any significance in the film poster Bess finds?  You don't really think I'm going to tell you, do you? ;)

The Murder of Halland is a wonderful little book, a play on a detective novel with a plethora of clues, red herrings and characters suspicious by their very presence scattered throughout its pages.  In many ways, not least of which is the presence of a slightly unreliable narrator, it reminds me of another Peirene offering, Matthias Politycki's Next World Novella.  Like Politycki's book, it's a story which forces the reader to pay attention to detail (including the delightful Inspector Morse-esque quotations which precede each chapter), and it's a book which will definitely stand up to rereading.  But, I hear you ask, do we find out who the murderer actually was?

Well, that would be telling ;)

I've been through the Tundra on a Horse with no name...

As regular readers will no doubt already know, I am a big fan of Peirene Press and their beautifully-presented slices of literary excellence, so I was very happy when I recently received a review copy of this year's first offering.  2012 is to be the year of the small epic, books cramming big themes into slender paperbacks, and I was very curious to see how this idea would pan out on paper.  So, without further ado, it's time to head off to a very wintry Finland - don't forget your thermals ;)

*****

It seems strange in an unusually sun-drenched Melbourne to be turning to a story set in the snowy Arctic, but what's exactly what The Brothers is.  Asko Sahlberg's novella, translated by Emily and Fleur Jeremiah, is a piece of historical fiction, set in 1809 at the end of the war between Sweden and Russia.  Two brothers, Henrik and Erik, return to their family home, hoping to get on with life after their stints in the army.  It's unlikely to be a peaceful homecoming, however, as there is unresolved tension between the brothers - heightened by the fact that they served on different sides during the war.

The novella is narrated by a cast of people from the homestead (including the brothers): the old mistress, the mother of the returning soldiers; Erik's wife, Anna; the farmhand, an old family helper; and Mauri, an impoverished cousin.  The more that pours from the mouths of the narrators, the more we realise that this is not a happy family.  Behind the walls of the crumbling farmhouse, secrets abound - secrets which may well tear lives apart...

The story is told in the present tense, creating a sense of urgency and immediacy, and despite the frequent flash-backs, the overall feel is more of a play than of a novel.  The whole affair is over almost before it has begun, and the claustrophobic setting of the old farmhouse would be perfect for a stage.  There are frequent changes of scene with terse, tense confrontations between the old soldiers, moments which reveal much but promise more.

The Brothers is also full of descriptions of the unforgiving landscape surrounding, and at times cutting off, the house, emphasising the isolation of the family.  As we walk through the chill forests, treading watchfully through the thick snow, taking care not to pass too close to the icy, menacing waters of the river, the farmhouse seems almost inviting...

...but not quite.  The family home is a dark, gloomy, ramschackle edifice, a fitting symbol for the decline of the family fortunes.  On his return from the wars, Henrik sees the building with new eyes:

"This house is a cadaver.  The others are too close to see it, but it has already begun to decompose.  I flinch from its decay." p.48

This decay from years of neglect seems to have infected its inhabitants, most of whom have seen better days, few of whom have hope of a brighter future.  The ticking of clocks echoing around the rooms is a further reminder of how time has slipped away.

In a tight-knit family, this sense of hopelessness might be overcome; however, the cast of The Brothers are anything but.  Secrets abound, memories of events long past, and nobody trusts anyone enough to share them.  As the Farmhand comments, nothing can be taken on face value:

"It has always been this way around here: you say something when you mean something completely different, or at least more." p.17

The importance of sub-text in the story is palpable; things happen below the surface, and only the reader, privileged to watch events from several viewpoints, is able to (eventually) get an overview.

In the end, it is hard to believe that the story could have unfolded any other way.  There is a strong sense of fatalism, from the moment that Henrik sees (and covets) his neighbour's horse to the the pivotal, time-stopping moment in the crisp, snowy hills, where the destiny of the brothers lies in the hands of someone close to them.  Which is not to say that you won't be surprised by the turns the tale takes.

The Brothers is, I'm happy to say, another of Peirene's success stories.  While I would have preferred the book to be a little longer (and while I wasn't entirely convinced that the voices were always as distinct as they might have been), this is an excellent, elegant piece of writing, one I'm sure will stand up to rereading.  And who knows?  With the recent success of the theatre adaptation of Beside the Sea, perhaps this will be another book which will make the jump to the stage.  I'm not sure how they'll get the horse up there though...

Eerie, Austria

Welcome to German Literature Month, thirty days showcasing the best fiction, modern and classic, written in the German language :)  It's very important to note that the month is about celebrating the language, not the country - throughout the month, I'll be trying my best to mix it up when it comes to geography, chronology and genre.

To start off then, it's only fitting that I branch out a little from my usual classic German novels and novellas and introduce a collection of short stories from a contemporary Austrian writer (one which many of you may have heard of...).  Alois Hotschnig's slender collection of stories, Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht, also known by the English title of its Peirene Press translation, Maybe This Time, comprises nine tales, all of which are normal enough on the surface, but which eventually become... well, ever so slightly creepy.

The first story, Dieselbe Stille, dasselbe Geschrei, is a good example of what the collection is about.  A man who has recently arrived in his area tells us about his neighbours, a couple who spend all day lounging around on a deck by the river at the back of their house.  This seemingly innocuous behaviour gradually makes the man feel strangely oppressed, and his waking (and sleeping) moments begin to be filled with his obsession over the neighbours' lack of activity.  Very quickly though, despite the sympathetic first-person narrative, the reader starts to mistrust our guide - especially when he starts using binoculars to spy on the couple...

Hotschnig elegantly plays with the idea of a man unable to move on with his life, caught up obsessing on something he doesn't understand, and it's a theme which crops up several times in the collection.  In Vielleicht diesmal, vielleicht jetzt (the story which gives the English translation its name), it's a whole family which is unable to live their lives, waiting as they are for the mysterious, ever-elusive - and ever-absent - Uncle Walter to join them at a family gathering.  In Morgens, mittags, abends (probably my favourite of the nine stories), a whole area seems to be caught in a loop, people watching people, crossing roads, walking down the street and coming back again, all fixed in time by an event we are unaware of until the last paragraph.  One aspect of this story I loved was a girl playing the flute, practicing the same few bars over and over again, breaking off at the same point each time - very much like a stuck record.

Another idea the writer explores is the idea of watching, and the majority of the stories (if not all of them) contain the verb beobachten, to watch or observe.  In Zwei Arten zu gehen, a woman walks down the street, shadowed by a man who could be either a stalker or a former lover (we're never completely sure which...); Eine Tür geht dann auf und fällt zu, one of the creepiest of the tales, has its hero in a sort of trancelike state, observing himself at various times in the past, while being watched by a rather strange old lady (with a penchant for dolls...); In meinem Zimmer brennt Licht, a story about a man with a hidden past, is full of people observing each other, looking for hints of what might be hidden behind silence.

Most of these observers appear to be watching other people, not because the observees are doing anything wrong, but because the observers are living their lives through other people, needing other people's approval.  This idea is taken to extremes in Du kennst sie nicht, es sind Fremde, a story in which a man's identity constantly changes - an issue nobody has a problem with except the man himself.  One way of interpreting this story is that we are what other people see us as and that our identity is externally created (although this little tale takes the idea further than one would expect!).

The ideas in the stories are excellent, and they are all wonderfully constructed.  I went through the collection for a second time a week after the first reading, and if anything, I enjoyed it more the second time around (a sure sign of a good piece of writing).

However, the success of the book is not limited to the ideas as the writing style is also key to the way the stories unfold.  The majority are told in the first person, unravelling in a near-constant interior monologue mostly uninterrupted by any dialogue (what little conversation there is is reported), and the sense of things being slightly off-kilter is heightened by the frequent use of contradiction within sentences, the narrator backtracking on an idea within seconds.  If the storyteller isn't completely sure of what they are saying, then how on earth can we trust them...

There are a lot more things I'd love to say about Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht, and considering that the book comes in at a mere 120 pages, that probably gives you as much of an idea of how highly I rate this slender tome as a few more paragraphs would ;)  It has been described as Kafkaesque, and I can only agree with that assessment.  While there's little here that could be described as extraordinary or supernatural, you can't help but get the feeling that it's all just a little bit... wrong.  But, in another sense, it's very right :)

What Lies Beyond

Greetings to all those visiting Tony's Reading List as part of the Literary Giveaway Blog Hop (and I hope you are going to visit all the other participants too!).  Today on my little blog, there will be a giveaway - the down side (just like last time) is that you'll have to sit through the review first - it's only fair ;)

*****

Today's offering is another slice of contemporary German literature, Matthias Politycki's Jenseitsnovelle, which some of you may have heard of in the guise of Peirene Press' translated version, Next World Novella.  This slender book begins in a most unusual and dramatic fashion when Hinrich Schepp, a professor of ancient Chinese literature, wakes up one morning to find his beloved wife Doro... well, to put it bluntly, dead.  As he struggles to cope with the shock of her demise, he notices some papers which she had obviously been working on shortly before she died - and this is where the story really begins.

You see, Schepp's claims of a happy and fulfilling married life are not exactly shared by his wife, and in editing an old story of his that she has stumbled upon, Doro lets out her true feelings, revealing that she has been more aware of Hinrich's shortcomings than he could ever have imagined.  In this story within a story, the message to her husband from beyond the grave will turn poor Hinrich's life upside-down - but then should we care?  The more we learn about our academic friend, the less inclined we are to take his part in this (one-sided) argument...

It's a rather Kafkaesque beginning to a puzzling tale, and that's no coincidence.  Hinrich comes across at times like a Kafka anti-hero, full of bluster, monologues and constant contradictions, and (as suggested earlier) our respect for him goes downhill very quickly.  Even taking into account the effects of grief and the possibility of trauma, it's hard to feel sorry for a man who seems more concerned with exonerating himself for past sins than with taking care of his dead wife's body.  Towards the end of the book though, we see that he is not the only one with secrets - and the twist in the tail (or tale!) puts everything in perspective.

While Kafka has already been mentioned as a potential point of reference, another possible influence was suggested by the relationship problems of the hapless Schepps.  With the introduction of the charismatic Dana, a woman who seems to exert a magnetic pull over both Hinrich and Doro, the book began to remind me of a certain Japanese novel, namely Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's Quicksand.  In both, a middle-aged couple flounder in the depths they are lured into by a seductive siren...

...which brings us on nicely to the title of the piece, Jenseitsnovelle.  The Novelle part should be self-explanatory for even the most monolingual among us, but the Jenseits part refers to the next world, the afterlife, which Doro (drawing on her knowledge of Chinese mythology) envisages as an enormous, unending sea, which each of us is condemned to swim into alone.

However, jenseits has many connotations which do not come across in the English translation 'next world': ' the afterlife' is one, and another important interpretation is the idea of 'the other side'.  I found this to be a more accurate translation, and one which works on so many levels - not least of which is the idea that whatever someone tells us about a story, we should always try to hear the other side before passing judgement...

All in all, Jenseitsnovelle is an intriguing book, with a final section which will make you reconsider everything you've read up to that point.  The key to understanding the story is vision: how clearly have we seen the events unfolding, and how clearly do the protagonists see what the other has been doing?  The answer?  Well, you'll find it on the other side... of the cover ;)

*****

So, on to the giveaway!  I will be giving away a copy of the book reviewed above, either in the original German or in the 2011 Peirene Press English-language version.  If you want to enter, simply:

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

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

This competition is open to all, but please note that I will be using The Book Depository to send this prize, so it is limited to people living in countries where The Book Depository has free delivery.  Entries will close at midnight (Melbourne time) on Thursday, the 20th of October, 2011, and I'll be announcing the winner shortly after.  Good luck to all, and... sweet dreams ;)