Review Post 27 - The Gentle Art of Humour

Do not expect a lot from me today (or any time soon): fatherhood is starting to wear me a down a little, and I've come down with a rotten stinking cold and struggle to go two minutes without coughing enough to make me want the strongest drugs money can buy. Of course, on top of all that, I'm slightly distracted anyway; you may have noticed that there's some kind of sporting event going on in South Africa...

*****

Anyway, just to get up to date, I thought I'd tell you about the last section of the book on your left, having already talked about The Suffrage of Elvira and Mr. Stone and the Knights Companion. The third part of this bumper Naipaul omnibus was a collection of stories (some short, some not so) called A Flag on the Island. I'm not a big fan of short stories, but I do like Naipaul, and I was very happy with what I read here.

Naipaul's early work appears to be divided between tales of ethnic Indians on Trinidad and stories set in London's suburban graveyards, and (as hinted at in my review of Mr. Stone... ) my preference is for the sunnier climes. The writer's greatest strength is his command of different varieties of English, switching between patois, Indian English and a relaxed, educated standard English without missing a step, enabling him to deal with the ethnic rivalry (if not tension) from several viewpoints.

My favourites among this collection are all Caribbean-based. The Nightwatchman's Occurrence Book, which is literally composed of entries in the aforementioned book, is a wonderful example of the interplay between pedantic management and canny staff, and teaches us to be very careful what we ask for. The Baker's Story is a delightful monologue about a young islander who has to resort to an unusual tactic in order to fulfil his dream of making a success of his bakery. When God, in reply to his prayers, tells him "Young man, you just bake bread", the baker has no idea that these words have more to them than first appears...

After about ten stories of between 10 and 20 pages, the final story, A Flag on the Island, comes as a bit of a shock to the system, running as it does for over 80 pages. It's a frame narrative (of which I've had a few recently) where an American sailor returns involuntarily to an island where he spent time during the Second World War. The body of the story tells of his life with the locals and the relationships he builds, some of which still hold up on his return to the island. Not a lot of action, but, as is usual with Naipaul, nothing happens in the most enjoyable manner possible.

*****

So that's it for today (and the foreseeable future). All in all, this collection of Naipaul's works has been a great find, and I would recommend it to all my readers in terms of both quality and quantity. However, now I'm off to watch New Zealand take on Slovakia because, playing in post-apartheid South Africa, the 'All Whites' need all the support they can get. Bye for now ;)

P.S.
Don't mention the Australia game.

P.P.S.
Definitely don't mention the England goalkeeper.

Review Post 23 - Short Men

Must be the year of the novella. I started the year with three short works in three days, and it seems to have rolled on nicely from there, with several more books of less than 150 pages read to date. Of course, my new, lazier blogging regime has had a little to do with that. Last year, when I was typing out a full review for every book I read, reading this many novellas would have resulted in the little-known medical condition of Sensory Post Overload Tension Syndrome (SPOTS) as I struggled feverishly to review each one in the style it craved and deserved. believe me, it's not pretty.

Anyway, here are some choice thoughts about two slight works by a couple of wonderful writers. Short ones, of course.

*****

Gabriel Garcia Marquez' Chronicle of a Death Foretold (translated into English by Gregory Rabassa) is apparently a reconstruction of an event from the writer's youth and recounts the death of Santiago Nasar, victim of an 'honour killing' in a small Colombian town. The reader knows Nasar's fate right from the start, and it's only a few pages until we know who carried out the murder - and the reason for it. The beauty of this novella is not in the who and what, but in the how and why, and the way the author unwraps his story, layer by layer, like a beautifully wrapped Christmas present, is a joy to behold. The journalistic approach adopted by the writer reminds me of Heinrich Böll's Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum, but where Böll's work was taut, aggressive and detached, GGM is an integral part of the mazy, rambling story, one of the many extras roaming the streets (and slipping in and out of bed with the madam of the local brothel, not something you often find chroniclers doing).

The story slips back and forth in time, meandering occasionally, before being gently guided back into the semblance of a linear tale. Great care is taken with painting the people populating the story, to the extent of adding interesting details about the most minor of characters (such as a policemen who we learn "...died the following year, gored in the jugular vein by a bull during the national holidays."). In fact, the victim himself seems to be less important than the host of bystanders who look on guiltily or try to find the unfortunate Santiago to warn him of his fate.

You see, by the time of the murder, virtually everyone in the town knows that it is going to happen, with the notable exception of the victim. His murderers, damned to avenge their sister's honour, but hopeful that someone may still prevent them from doing it, tell all and sundry of their intentions. Santiago's friends scour the streets, trying to find him and warn him before it's too late; the police and the priest are informed and several steps are taken to prevent the tragedy from taking place. As we know from page one of the book, somehow they are all unsuccessful.

Less a story than the tale of an old man on a search for an elusive truth, Chronicle of a Death Foretold is a wonderful piece of writing and well worth reading. As with most novellas though, whether it is worth buying is another matter. I devoured the 122 pages of large type in one sitting, and I am very glad that Narre Warren Library had a copy on the shelf...

*****

The wonderful people at the library had also decided to stock up on V.S. Naipaul, and this book would have been worth purchasing. The Nightwatchman's Occurrence Book and Other Comic Inventions is an omnibus containing a collection of short stories and two novellas: The Suffrage of Elvira (which I read last month) and Mr. Stone and the Knights Companion.

Mr. Stone... is an early work by the Trinidad-born Nobel Laureate, which takes place in London in the 1960s. Richard Stone is a lifelong bachelor, nearing retirement, who, after meeting a widow at a friend's dinner party, somehow finds himself married a few months later. Thrown by his change in circumstances, and haunted by a chance encounter which leads him to consider his upcoming retirement, he throws himself into the development of an idea for his work which will have ramifications for everyone in his life: the Knights Companion...

This novella started off as a short story but eventually became too long and was published in its own right, and, for the first half at least, it seemed like a concept extended beyond its natural life. The idea appeared a little drawn out, and I had trouble seeing where the story was going. Eventually though, as Stone stops fighting against the unfairness in the world and the appropriation of his ideas at work, he starts to regain his equilibrium and seeks comfort in the natural world, his garden and the once-hated cat from next door. This sketching of the inner life of an elderly gentleman is one of Naipaul's strengths. Just as he does in A House for Mr. Biswas, here he draws out the inner dignity of a powerless man, surrounded by women at home and eclipsed by pushier, more cunning colleagues in the work environment.

By the end of the novella, the circle of life has turned again. Stone has retired, the trees are in bloom, and a familiar pair of eyes greet him on his return to his little house. Despite the changes around him, the elderly man now feels comfortable with his life again. It's a charming tale, but one that whets the appetite rather than sates it. After reading three of his earlier works this year, I feel ready to move on to some of his later, more famous novels now. Who knows, I may even buy them...

Review Post 19 - Sex and Drugs and Local Elections

If Anthony Trollope had been born a century or so later, of Indian descent, on the island of Trinidad, he may well have written something like The Suffrage of Elvira. Instead, he sketched out his middle-class dramas among the backdrop of 19th-Century Westminster, and it was left to Nobel Prize winner V.S. Naipaul to inform us of the intricacies of Caribbean politics. This book, his second novel, is full of the same humour and social observation as A House for Mr. Biswas but is a shorter, more focused story - and it's a very good read.

The story revolves around a local election in the district of Elvira, and we follow businessman Surujpat Harbans as he discovers the hard way the cost of running for parliament. In order to ensure his victory, he needs the support of a majority of the eight thousand registered voters - four thousand Hindis, two thousand Negroes, one thousand Muslims and one thousand Spaniards. Of course, in a fledgling democracy such as his Caribbean island state, Harbans' strategy is not to campaign door-to-door with convincing policies and arguments but rather to gain the support of ethnic leaders who will deliver the votes for him. One would think then that having sealed deals with Baksh, the leader of the Muslims, and Chittaranjan, the leader of the Hindi community, Harbans would have the election in the bag. Alas, things do not run as smoothly as that in Trinidad...

The bewildered candidate soon finds out that promises are not always kept, allegiances can be changed fairly quickly and that the voters expect compensation for their promise of support. Despite his reluctance to part with his hard-earned money, his election committee (led by Baksh's son Foam, a young man born to work in politics) set out to ensure victory by buying off as many wavering voters as possible. Along the way they must lure voters away from Harbans' rival, Preacher, and contend with his associates, Lorkhoor (a mouthy young man with a van and a megaphone) and the redoubtable Mr. Cawfee. And then there is the dog. And the two missionaries. And black magic. Politics can be so complicated.

It's a chaotic, rambling tale, as much about ethnic rivalry (as opposed to ethnic tension) and corruption as it is about the noble art of politics, and Harbans' descent into a gibbering doler-out of free money is a joy to behold. The description of the actual election is very reminiscent of that in Framley Parsonage, with the roles of the patrons in the background played by the Duke of Omnum and Mrs. Dunstable in Trollope's book and Baksh and Chittaranjan in Naipaul's. The idea of exorbitant spending, despite supposedly strict rules against bribery, is also a common theme (something Trollope was especially big on, being a defeated candidate himself in real life). In Trinidad though, people take this more in their stride; as Baksh remarks, people expect a little something in return for their support, and they're not scared to ask for it.

After 220 wonderful pages, the election race has been run and won, and we get to see what happened to all our friends. The winning candidate makes one last appearance in Elvira and then vanishes, never to be seen again (or, at least, not for another five years). It's a telling reminder that some things never change in politics; the focus on personality is still true today - as is the total absence of any kind of policy throughout the book. However, after all the fun and games, Naipaul is still intelligent enough to raise the reader above the amusement, and in the very last sentence, he causes us to reflect on another side of the story, to think about what might have been and what will be. Just as in politics, there are (at least) two sides to every story...

*****

If Anthony Trollope had been born even later, of Greek descent, in the city of Melbourne, he most definitely would not have written Loaded. He probably wouldn't have read it either. In fact, he may have even decided to burn it. Christos Tsiolkas' first novel, like his later work Dead Europe, is full of illicit drugs and casual sex and is as far from the quaint tales of Barchester as it is possible to get. Loaded reminds me of some of the darker pieces I've seen by Dan Holloway and his Year Zero colleagues; raw, vibrant and slightly disturbing. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy it.

Loaded is a 24-hour tour of Melbourne's inner suburbs in the company of Ari, a nineteen-year-old Greek-Australian. From the moment Ari wakes up in his brother's house on Saturday morning to the time he crashes into his own bed the following day, our hero snorts, injects, dances, flirts and screws like there's no tomorrow. In between the 'action' scenes of sex and drugs, the reader gets occasional glimpses into Ari's mind, receiving a run-down on life in his home city, Melbourne according to Ari: the brain dead middle-class residents of the East, the ethnic ghettos of the North, the Bohemian mix of students and drop-outs of the South and the refuse and scum floating out into the West. Ari hates them all.

Of course, what Ari hates most of all is his life or, at least, the life people want him to lead. He doesn't want to be Greek, gay, unemployed or macho; he just wants to escape to a place where labels don't matter, and he can be himself, whatever that is. Not seeing a place for himself in a hypocritical ethnic marriage, university or work, he seeks to block out the world around him with narcotics and transitory sexual acts with men (and occasionally women) he comes across on his travels around the night-time suburbs. But can he do this for ever?

Loaded is, in essence, a story of identity, a rejection of it, a search for it. Ari is Greek, but he's not; he despises the traditions of a culture imitating the mores of the old country, but he secretly feels a superiority over, and a loathing of, the 'Skips' (the white, as opposed to Mediterranean, Australians). He feels the need for a masculine man, but sex renders his partners feminine and conquered, thus eliminating any desire or possibility of romantic feelings. His upbringing has repelled him, and he wants to break away but doesn't have the energy, or the guts to do it, despite the urgings of his friends. He's stuck in a very bad place.

In portraying Ari's life, Tsiolkas is also painting a picture of modern Melbourne, though it is far from pretty. In contrast to the usual harmonious story of a vibrant, integrated, multicultural city, the view in Loaded is one of a holding pen for the poor and downtrodden of the world, longing to return to their homelands, rotting in ethnic suburbs, pretending they are keeping up their old traditions. The writer doesn't really have a lot of nice things to say about my adopted home town (which is a lovely place to live - trust me) and sees the experiment as a failure, with people walling themselves off in big suburban McMansions as soon as they get enough money. I'm not saying he's completely wrong, but he's definitely Mr. Glass-Half-Empty.

This book is not as compelling as Dead Europe (which, by exposing more of the protagonist's weaknesses, made the story more intriguing and convincing), but it is a highly thought-provoking story of life on the other side of the garden fence. What stays with me after reading this book is the sense of a parallel Melbourne and a life I have never (but could have) lived. There are thousands of Aris all over the city, high on speed and hassling people on trains, slumped in a friend's bedroom in a marijuana haze, or stretched out in their own vomit in a tenement, arms covered in scars and scabs. The life I lead is one which Ari despises; I'm more than happy to be in my shoes rather than his.

Review Post 10 - News from the Colonies

It's been a long time since I last went to the library (and, if you read this post, you'll know why!), but I steeled myself a couple of weeks ago and finally got a few books out. The first was The Woman who Walked into Doors; the third is waiting to be read. The second is Nobel prize winner V.S. Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas. And a lovely book it is too.

I'd never read a Caribbean book before (in fact, the closest connection I have to that part of the world is a Trinidad & Tobago football shirt I bought cheaply after the last World Cup and a love for cricket which confuses and infuriates my wife in equal measures), and it definitely wasn't what I'd expected. Naipaul is of Indian heritage, and the book, set in Trinidad, focuses on the lives of an extended clan, and wider society, of expatriate Indians, the principal of whom being (of course) the titular Mr. Biswas. His full name is Mohun Biswas; however, right from the start, the writer gives him this rather unusual address whenever he is mentioned outside direct speech. Curious?

Not really. This emphasis on his name is part of the point of the book. Living sporadically, from a fairly young age, with relatives and then in-laws, Mr. Biswas's name is part of his identity and the way the writer lifts him up above the hordes (and there are hordes) of other family members living in the same house. It is this desire to be different, not to be more successful or richer, just to live his own life, which leads him to ruffle feathers and make plenty of mistakes in his quest for the ultimate in achievements: a house of his own.

I live in a country where home ownership is seen as a right - and where increasing house prices and interest rates are viewed as unfair and (the most negative of adjectives) 'unaustralian'. However, in WW2-era Trinidad, just having a roof over your head (even if it is shared with a few other families) is seen as a luxury. Mr. Biswas, however, cannot be content with residing in a cacophony of chanting, impromptu school lessons and squawking in-laws; at every opportunity, he attempts, in the face of derision and incredulity from both his relatives and his own wife, to build or buy himself a house: a house of his own.

From the first page we know that Mr. Biswas is, paradoxically, a success story and a tragedy. He will die young, but in a house of his own. The house is shoddy and rickety, but it is his. He has put his ambitions ahead of his family interests, but he is master of his own abode. At the end of the book, there is a tinge of sadness, regret, in contrast with the feelings of pride and success Mr. Biswas radiates in the prelude to his life story. The reader, at the end of 600+ pages of wonderfully-told family drama, is left to answer the question posed by the writer: was Mr. Biswas' life worth it? I won't answer that, but I can say that the book certainly was...

*****

One event I recall from Mr. Biswas' slow social ascent was an invitation to a writers' group where he was asked to read something he'd written. After toiling for a while, he had something, but he couldn't find an ending. Having read plenty of post-modernist literature, however, he didn't see that being a problem...

...which brings me neatly to the second part of my trawl through Katherine Mansfield's Collected Stories. Following on from reading her earliest works, I worked my way through Bliss and Other Stories and The Garden Party and Other Stories last week; to be perfectly honest, 300 pages of short stories, even in sporadic doses was a bit much for my constitution.

These two collections were, as Mansfield herself thought, much more developed than the earlier stories. Aside from the two title stories, I greatly enjoyed Prelude and At the Bay, two longer tales featuring the same Wellington family, and Je ne Parle pas Francais, a wonderfully moody story featuring an enigmatic Englishman, his long-suffering partner and a Parisian narrator who is everything a literary Parisian should be. Some of the twists in the writing in these collections were breathtaking: one particular example was Bliss where the palpable joie de vivre of the main character is frozen in a heartbeat by one simple act. Class tension, domestic drudgery, social roleplaying, repressed homosexuality... all in a handful of wonderful pages.

I suppose it's my own fault for reading the two collections one after the other, but it did become a bit of a chore towards the end. I found myself wanting to get it over and done with, and the pile of gleaming, unread books on my bookshelf caught my eye more than ever before. Still, Mansfield is not completely innocent in all this. I really do not want to read about anyone with 'weak nerves' for the rest of the year, and while stories about spinsters may be all well and good in moderation, they are as bad for you as any drug if you overdose on them.

I suppose the main problem with reading a collection of short stories is that yes, they are great to read - while you are reading them -, but when you are between stories, and you're not currently reading one, there is nothing to draw you back, nothing to tear you away from your i-Pod, your computer, your television. In short, there is little motivation to return to the book as you are, in effect, starting from the beginning.

Please don't think that I am criticising these collections (far from it; as short stories go, they are excellent). It's just that when people describe Katherine Mansfield as the inventor of the modern short story, I'm not sure whether it's meant as praise or blame. At any rate, the final part of the collection will have to wait for a good while; I'm off to immerse myself in a voluminous Victorian novel, and I won't be out for a week or so...