I was bought the subject of today's blog nearly ten years ago. I got about twenty pages into it, stopped reading, and it sat on my bookshelf at my Dad's house until the beginning of August when I went home, needed something to read on the train and picked it up again. This is going to sound ridiculous but I think that that very act of not reading, and then returning to Cloud Atlas, made my experience of the book that much more spine-tingling (come on now: it wouldn't be my blog if I didn't unleash a super-sized hyperbole in the first paragraph). Let me explain why.
Cloud Atlas is a big, fat, interesting book written by a very clever writer (it's not the David Mitchell by the way, although I'm sure he could write books as well). The premise is gargantuan: Mitchell layers together and then pulls apart six narratives spanning several centuries, from the early/mid 19th Century to some point in the distant future with characters that are connected by seemingly more than chance (no spoilers but keep an eye out for a comet-shaped birthmark). Does the structure always hold together seamlessly? No, some of the segues between the narratives feel a bit forced. Should every A Level English student give it a read? Absolutely: it's a tour de force of narrative structures. Fundamentally Cloud Atlas is an ideas book- a terrible phrase but very appropriate, and for a book that wants to make you think, no bad thing.
I love to be swept away by a good, straightforward tale, and there are certainly moments when I did get swept away, but this is definitely a book that, even as it focussed on one storyline, keeps an eye on the wider point of the novel: that everything and everyone is connected. But because of the structure of the novel, as a reader this is an idea that you are drawn into rather than confronted with on the first page. This is how the novel links together.
The first section is the journal of an American, sent on business to the mid-Pacific. This journal is then picked up (literally, in a library) in the early 1930s in Holland by a aristocratic (although destitute) composer, Robert Frobisher writing to his friend. Frobisher's Cloud Atlas Sextet is heard in a based-on-a-true-story novel by the novel's protagonist Luisa Rey, who is trying to expose the dangerous truth of a nuclear facility using the research conducted by Frobisher's friend, Sixsmith. This novel is being read by an ageing editor, Timothy Cavendish, who's farcical life is made into a film. This film is seen by Somni-451 (who's identity I won't spoil) who's interview is then held in biblical esteem by Zachry, who lives in post-apocalyptic Hawaii. Zachry's section forms the heart of the novel, after which the narratives unfurl themselves in the reverse order.
The reason I've explained this is to give a sense of just how much of a mind-bend this book is when you start to think about it as a whole. But individually the sections are not pretentious or deliberately abstract at all- Zachry's section in particular is incredibly well written in melodic dialect. In fact, it would be interesting to re-read both parts of each section together- so that the book becomes a series of short stories through time. Because that is what it essentially is. But what Mitchell does is so much more than that because of the way that each of his stories and characters slot together. And because of his authorial bravery he can ask several colossal questions- what is the nature of the soul? Should we take our own reality for granted? Can we view our own place in the world, and in time, with any real degree of comprehension?
And just as these questions are posed to the reader, so the reader is asked to consider where their own life falls- between wonder and terror, hope and desolation- Mitchell's characters often career between the two. Even if sometimes Mitchell's authorial head pokes above his narrative structures, the journey is wild, goose-bumpy, mind-blowing. And when I finished Cloud Atlas this evening, I felt like my own little story, the seventeen year old who put the book back on the shelf, and the twenty-six year old who picked it up again had completed. Which was nice. But even if you don't leave it nine years between the start and finish, read and enjoy this book. It's a helluva ride.
Thursday, 29 August 2013
Monday, 13 May 2013
Work in Progress - May Day Poem
My own poems come to me quite rarely but tonight I was in luck (though without a pen so I wrote it, bizarrely, on my phone on the tube home). Although I love all the seasons, and particularly the transitional stages between them, this is one of my very favourite times of year. So this little poem reflects that and the image that I took to accompany it. It doesn't feel quite finished/right at the moment (I might add another verse later to the end and to somewhere in the middle) but I thought I'd post it anyway as a little Mayday Elephant-Brained moment...
Monday 13th May.
It's approaching after hours,
And so I move to sit and wait
To have a conversation with the white bird
Hid amongst the pillars and lost chairs.
From up here May sings
Flirtatious, greenish melodies--
As chlorophyll and pigment flaunt and hum
Coquettish with the metropolitan.
I gaze, unseeing
As slight and spiteful breeze
Stirred up and over steps
Glances at me.
The white bird, gladly unperturbed,
Hops, eyes, turns to me and cries again
"May is the time"
He waits, then flies.
Perhaps it is.
But so often, as he drifts away
Becoming blossom dancing far below
The pirouettes of transient confetti
Still spin up into glimmerlets of hope...
Monday 13th May.
It's approaching after hours,
And so I move to sit and wait
To have a conversation with the white bird
Hid amongst the pillars and lost chairs.
From up here May sings
Flirtatious, greenish melodies--
As chlorophyll and pigment flaunt and hum
Coquettish with the metropolitan.
I gaze, unseeing
As slight and spiteful breeze
Stirred up and over steps
Glances at me.
The white bird, gladly unperturbed,
Hops, eyes, turns to me and cries again
"May is the time"
He waits, then flies.
Perhaps it is.
But so often, as he drifts away
Becoming blossom dancing far below
The pirouettes of transient confetti
Still spin up into glimmerlets of hope...
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
Some Thoughts as it's World Book Night... I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith
The 23rd April is a big day in England as it's St George's Day. It's also Shakespeare's birthday. And it's also World Book Night, a night when all things literary are celebrated. 500,000 books are given away absolutely free to encourage people to read something new by 'givers' specifically chosen because they love the 25 books chosen each year. Along with this, there are readings and events going on all over the country in a celebration of the written word. So I thought, in homage to all of the above, (and due to the fact that I'm feeling poorly-sick and not going out to one of these events) I'd write a little bit about my favourite novel I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.
I first read I Capture the Castle when I was fifteen and have read it every year or so since then. The story is quite a simple one: Cassandra Mortmain is a seventeen year old girl writing a diary in 1935 full of thoughts and feelings about herself and her unusual family. The Mortmains comprise of her brilliant, avant-garde novelist father with writer's block, James Mortmain; glamorous former artist's model and nudism enthusiast step-mother, Topaz; desperately dramatic, hopeless, beautiful older sister Rose; younger school-boy brother Thomas; and the late housekeeper's son, the Adonis-like Stephen. They live in a tumbledown castle ruin in rural Suffolk wondering how they're going to survive on the dwindling royalties from Mortmain's Joycean first novel 'Jacobs Wrestling' when the new, young, rich American owners of their castle, and of the neighbouring Scoatney Hall estate, Simon and Neil Cotton, rock up. Instantly Rose determines to marry one of them to help them out of their alarming poverty and her own personal misery, and by the end of the novel she has succeeded as Cassandra looks on. As always, the plot stops here- if you want to know the hows and whys, you'll need to read it yourself.
Alright, so far, so ridiculously twee you think: this is going to be a tale of plucky young women winning round the men of their dreams- a sort of mouldering (Cassandra's word, here borrowed) Pride and Prejudice in a gentle comedy of manners. Well, yes and no (and a P & P comparison is nothing to be sniffed at in my book)- but it's not half as simple as that. The novel is deceptively 'grown-up' despite its very naive narrator. In Cassandra we have a little of the Nick Carraway (I'm half way though a blog on Gatsby and mega-excited for the film hence the slightly left-field comparison): she is a narrator almost buffeted along through the story by seemingly stronger characters, but who nonetheless delivers to her reader a view of the world which is both crystal clear and oddly blinkered. But despite being in amongst these strong, and often nutty characters, the novel is always Cassandra's story and, reflected by the time it was written in, there is a substantial departure from innocence for Cassandra over the course of the novel that Smith achieves with beautiful lightness of touch. Seemingly innocuous transitions of emotion compound on each other to bear witness to Cassandra's profound heartbreak, which occurs about two thirds of the way into the novel, and confusion that everything she has held as truth is not as it seems- which lasts until the end of the novel and, we are led to believe, beyond.
So many novels deal with a coming of age but I've never read a novel that so accurately portrays how miserable that can actually be and how first, or unrequited, love can be agony. Not to say that reading this novel is a morose affair- it is far from that. Cassandra, even at her lowest ebb, has a wonderful capacity for marvelling at the beauty around her and, along with the other components of the novel, happily combines moments of the absurd with a lovely understated reality: 'I write this' writes Cassandra in the novel's famous opening line, 'sitting in the kitchen sink' which is sweet, daft and literally informative all at the same time. Similarly in my favourite section of the novel, which also marks it's tonal transition, Cassandra performs a Pagan-lite Midsummer ritual in the same way she has done since she was a child before being whisked away to Scoatney Hall for dinner by her sister's fiance. Throughout the novel Smith juxtaposes the profoundly innocent with impending, and on occasion almost sinister, adulthood so that Cassandra, and by extension the reader, only just manages to keep up with proceedings. This is helped no end by the fact that Cassandra is often writing the diary to make sense of what has happened rather than her original intention to 'capture' her family in prose. This device also makes the organic unravelling of time over the course of the novel feel very natural.
The first image of Cassandra writing in the kitchen sink tells you almost all you need to know about how the novel works. The novel is undeniably domestic and 'small'- the social commentary that Smith chooses is understated, but that's not to say it's unimportant to the reading of the novel. Smith raises important questions around the nature of class, of the place of women, of the importance of art at a time when all of these questions were very important indeed (and in different ways, still are today). But this is ultimately a story that unites the reader with Cassandra, as Smith explores the notion of growing up, even when this process should be at an end (James Mortmain's regression in his quest to recapture his literary talent to an almost childlike state perfectly encapsulates this). Fundamentally it seems that, although her protagonist is very young, Cassandra is a means by which Smith lets her reader know that we are all going through the indefinite process of growing-up (at twenty-six, I certainly am) and becoming who we are, but that this also never changes.
In this way (brace yourselves) Smith and Sartre share a common bond and Cassandra in I Capture the Castle almost acts as a beginning point for early development that Sartre deems to end at the 'age of reason'. I am exactly half way between seventeen and thirty-five and so maybe that's why this makes sense to me now. And maybe my favourite book will take on another significance when I am thirty-five, or fifty or eighty. I think that it will, and perhaps this is also why it is my favourite book. And I think that's why it is always important to keep reading- even when you think you might have all the answers.
So on that thought, happy World Book Night everyone.
I first read I Capture the Castle when I was fifteen and have read it every year or so since then. The story is quite a simple one: Cassandra Mortmain is a seventeen year old girl writing a diary in 1935 full of thoughts and feelings about herself and her unusual family. The Mortmains comprise of her brilliant, avant-garde novelist father with writer's block, James Mortmain; glamorous former artist's model and nudism enthusiast step-mother, Topaz; desperately dramatic, hopeless, beautiful older sister Rose; younger school-boy brother Thomas; and the late housekeeper's son, the Adonis-like Stephen. They live in a tumbledown castle ruin in rural Suffolk wondering how they're going to survive on the dwindling royalties from Mortmain's Joycean first novel 'Jacobs Wrestling' when the new, young, rich American owners of their castle, and of the neighbouring Scoatney Hall estate, Simon and Neil Cotton, rock up. Instantly Rose determines to marry one of them to help them out of their alarming poverty and her own personal misery, and by the end of the novel she has succeeded as Cassandra looks on. As always, the plot stops here- if you want to know the hows and whys, you'll need to read it yourself.
Alright, so far, so ridiculously twee you think: this is going to be a tale of plucky young women winning round the men of their dreams- a sort of mouldering (Cassandra's word, here borrowed) Pride and Prejudice in a gentle comedy of manners. Well, yes and no (and a P & P comparison is nothing to be sniffed at in my book)- but it's not half as simple as that. The novel is deceptively 'grown-up' despite its very naive narrator. In Cassandra we have a little of the Nick Carraway (I'm half way though a blog on Gatsby and mega-excited for the film hence the slightly left-field comparison): she is a narrator almost buffeted along through the story by seemingly stronger characters, but who nonetheless delivers to her reader a view of the world which is both crystal clear and oddly blinkered. But despite being in amongst these strong, and often nutty characters, the novel is always Cassandra's story and, reflected by the time it was written in, there is a substantial departure from innocence for Cassandra over the course of the novel that Smith achieves with beautiful lightness of touch. Seemingly innocuous transitions of emotion compound on each other to bear witness to Cassandra's profound heartbreak, which occurs about two thirds of the way into the novel, and confusion that everything she has held as truth is not as it seems- which lasts until the end of the novel and, we are led to believe, beyond.
So many novels deal with a coming of age but I've never read a novel that so accurately portrays how miserable that can actually be and how first, or unrequited, love can be agony. Not to say that reading this novel is a morose affair- it is far from that. Cassandra, even at her lowest ebb, has a wonderful capacity for marvelling at the beauty around her and, along with the other components of the novel, happily combines moments of the absurd with a lovely understated reality: 'I write this' writes Cassandra in the novel's famous opening line, 'sitting in the kitchen sink' which is sweet, daft and literally informative all at the same time. Similarly in my favourite section of the novel, which also marks it's tonal transition, Cassandra performs a Pagan-lite Midsummer ritual in the same way she has done since she was a child before being whisked away to Scoatney Hall for dinner by her sister's fiance. Throughout the novel Smith juxtaposes the profoundly innocent with impending, and on occasion almost sinister, adulthood so that Cassandra, and by extension the reader, only just manages to keep up with proceedings. This is helped no end by the fact that Cassandra is often writing the diary to make sense of what has happened rather than her original intention to 'capture' her family in prose. This device also makes the organic unravelling of time over the course of the novel feel very natural.
The first image of Cassandra writing in the kitchen sink tells you almost all you need to know about how the novel works. The novel is undeniably domestic and 'small'- the social commentary that Smith chooses is understated, but that's not to say it's unimportant to the reading of the novel. Smith raises important questions around the nature of class, of the place of women, of the importance of art at a time when all of these questions were very important indeed (and in different ways, still are today). But this is ultimately a story that unites the reader with Cassandra, as Smith explores the notion of growing up, even when this process should be at an end (James Mortmain's regression in his quest to recapture his literary talent to an almost childlike state perfectly encapsulates this). Fundamentally it seems that, although her protagonist is very young, Cassandra is a means by which Smith lets her reader know that we are all going through the indefinite process of growing-up (at twenty-six, I certainly am) and becoming who we are, but that this also never changes.
In this way (brace yourselves) Smith and Sartre share a common bond and Cassandra in I Capture the Castle almost acts as a beginning point for early development that Sartre deems to end at the 'age of reason'. I am exactly half way between seventeen and thirty-five and so maybe that's why this makes sense to me now. And maybe my favourite book will take on another significance when I am thirty-five, or fifty or eighty. I think that it will, and perhaps this is also why it is my favourite book. And I think that's why it is always important to keep reading- even when you think you might have all the answers.
So on that thought, happy World Book Night everyone.
Saturday, 13 April 2013
The Age of Reason- Jean-Paul Sartre
There's a quote from The Simpsons, in the episode where Springfield hosts a film festival, where guest judge and film critic Jay Sherman impresses the Simpson/Bouvier women by saying 'Camus can do- but Sartre is smartrer' (much to Homer's chagrin). I love a pun so I've always thought this quote was quite funny but, although I read a bit of Camus at uni, I could never really claim to understand it as I'd never read any Sartre. This has now changed (hence the title and subject of today's blog) but I thought that starting the blog with a reference to The Simpsons might assure you that reading Sartre doesn't turn you into a cultural snob (which, I have to admit, was a fear of mine before I started).
The story of The Age of Reason could be described as a multi-level exercise in problem-solving. The protagonist Mathieu, a 35 year old philosophy lecturer living in Paris, is trying to find enough money to give to his sort-of girlfriend of seven years, Marcelle, so that she can get a safe abortion from a Jewish doctor who, in light of the gathering spectre of the Second World War, is only in the country for a few more days before leaving for America. At the same time Mathieu is also trying to figure out whether he is in love with a much younger, plainer (and I only mention this because Sartre mentions it repeatedly) woman, Ivich, who is the sister of one of his students, Bruno. Bruno in turn is having an undefined affair with a much older cabaret singer, Lola. Alongside Mathieu there is also his louche, handsome but troubled friend Daniel, who is also involved with Marcelle, although unbeknownst to Mathieu. The novel itself is set over two days- from the time Mathieu finds out that Marcelle is pregnant, to the resolution of Mathieu's predicament. As with Beloved in my previous post I don't want to give too much away about the plot needless to say that these characters interact with each other with the underlying duplicity and savagery of cats competing for territory.
So what with Sartre's rendering of the atmosphere of Paris in the 1930s, where the prospect of war is rarely alluded to but hangs over the novel like a dark cloud (the novel itself was published in 1945), and the building existential crises that permeate every character of the story, the tone of the novel is unrelentingly oppressive. My penguin edition of the novel runs to 300 pages of small type which, when you consider that the novel is set over an almost uninterrupted two-day time period, makes for a very densely written story indeed. Having said this, Sartre's constant manoeuvring between the 'reality' of Mathieu's quest for money with his internal quest for resolution with regard to his feelings for Marcelle, Ivich and himself, is done with a clear and readable prose- no doubt helped by a very good translation, by Eric Sutton in my edition.
One of the main contributors to this feeling of oppressiveness and indeed one of the main themes running throughout the novel is the notion of 'running out of time' and the consequences that procrastination and introspection have on Mathieu and by extension the characters around him. In the most basic sense, Mathieu is running against the clock to secure the abortion, which in turn has existential implications for Marcelle as a woman, a lover and, potentially a mother, as well as for the unborn baby. The potential resolutions of the situation, to obtain the money and have the 'safe' abortion; to risk the cheaper but deadlier, back-alley procedure; or to do nothing and have the baby all have seismic consequences for the characters' lives. Sartre makes his readers aware that Mathieu is being forced out of a world of stasis- where he project-managed his relationship with Marcelle in a seemingly eternal state of nothingness- into a world where whichever direction he chooses he will be entering into a new level of existence which he cannot control. The world cannot stay the same and, even though it initially appears that we are merely witness to a snap-shot of the characters lives, what we read not only fundamentally alters these lives- professionally, socially, mortally- but that these revelations will also continue to have consequences after the novel is finished.
Sartre is certainly, then, smartrer. Because throughout what could be perceived to be quite a melodramatic, self-indulgent story (and it is still that) the novel also takes on a greater significance. From his vantage point in 1945 Sartre knows that in the period of time he is writing about, Europe and the rest of the world is hurtling into a period of human disaster. 'By doing nothing' he seems to say, 'you, and the world, are nothing. By doing anything, you and the world, change'. Mathieu is 35 in the novel and is grappling with the notion that his youth is over, that he has purportedly reached the titular 'age of reason'. Whether this understanding that he has reached the age of reason translates into Mathieu's freedom to exist in a changed world is up for debate, and Sartre leaves it for us to decide. Nonetheless the novel certainly raises an important question about whether the notion of existence is a constant struggle against an ever-changing reality. Which is succinctly summed up for me in another Simpsons quote: D'oh.
The story of The Age of Reason could be described as a multi-level exercise in problem-solving. The protagonist Mathieu, a 35 year old philosophy lecturer living in Paris, is trying to find enough money to give to his sort-of girlfriend of seven years, Marcelle, so that she can get a safe abortion from a Jewish doctor who, in light of the gathering spectre of the Second World War, is only in the country for a few more days before leaving for America. At the same time Mathieu is also trying to figure out whether he is in love with a much younger, plainer (and I only mention this because Sartre mentions it repeatedly) woman, Ivich, who is the sister of one of his students, Bruno. Bruno in turn is having an undefined affair with a much older cabaret singer, Lola. Alongside Mathieu there is also his louche, handsome but troubled friend Daniel, who is also involved with Marcelle, although unbeknownst to Mathieu. The novel itself is set over two days- from the time Mathieu finds out that Marcelle is pregnant, to the resolution of Mathieu's predicament. As with Beloved in my previous post I don't want to give too much away about the plot needless to say that these characters interact with each other with the underlying duplicity and savagery of cats competing for territory.
So what with Sartre's rendering of the atmosphere of Paris in the 1930s, where the prospect of war is rarely alluded to but hangs over the novel like a dark cloud (the novel itself was published in 1945), and the building existential crises that permeate every character of the story, the tone of the novel is unrelentingly oppressive. My penguin edition of the novel runs to 300 pages of small type which, when you consider that the novel is set over an almost uninterrupted two-day time period, makes for a very densely written story indeed. Having said this, Sartre's constant manoeuvring between the 'reality' of Mathieu's quest for money with his internal quest for resolution with regard to his feelings for Marcelle, Ivich and himself, is done with a clear and readable prose- no doubt helped by a very good translation, by Eric Sutton in my edition.
One of the main contributors to this feeling of oppressiveness and indeed one of the main themes running throughout the novel is the notion of 'running out of time' and the consequences that procrastination and introspection have on Mathieu and by extension the characters around him. In the most basic sense, Mathieu is running against the clock to secure the abortion, which in turn has existential implications for Marcelle as a woman, a lover and, potentially a mother, as well as for the unborn baby. The potential resolutions of the situation, to obtain the money and have the 'safe' abortion; to risk the cheaper but deadlier, back-alley procedure; or to do nothing and have the baby all have seismic consequences for the characters' lives. Sartre makes his readers aware that Mathieu is being forced out of a world of stasis- where he project-managed his relationship with Marcelle in a seemingly eternal state of nothingness- into a world where whichever direction he chooses he will be entering into a new level of existence which he cannot control. The world cannot stay the same and, even though it initially appears that we are merely witness to a snap-shot of the characters lives, what we read not only fundamentally alters these lives- professionally, socially, mortally- but that these revelations will also continue to have consequences after the novel is finished.
Sartre is certainly, then, smartrer. Because throughout what could be perceived to be quite a melodramatic, self-indulgent story (and it is still that) the novel also takes on a greater significance. From his vantage point in 1945 Sartre knows that in the period of time he is writing about, Europe and the rest of the world is hurtling into a period of human disaster. 'By doing nothing' he seems to say, 'you, and the world, are nothing. By doing anything, you and the world, change'. Mathieu is 35 in the novel and is grappling with the notion that his youth is over, that he has purportedly reached the titular 'age of reason'. Whether this understanding that he has reached the age of reason translates into Mathieu's freedom to exist in a changed world is up for debate, and Sartre leaves it for us to decide. Nonetheless the novel certainly raises an important question about whether the notion of existence is a constant struggle against an ever-changing reality. Which is succinctly summed up for me in another Simpsons quote: D'oh.
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Beloved- Toni Morrison
This blog is long long overdue (again) and it has been quite some time since I finished reading this book. But I have to publish this abbreviated review mainly to be able to carry on with this blog but also because the book I'm writing about is so important. Here it is.
I'm going to put my cards on the table right at the start of this blog- this is one of the best books I have ever read. For those of you seeking a book review, well I hope you find it here- but impartial this blog will never be. The quality of this novel is truly aspirational and anyone who has ever tinkered with the idea of writing a book should stop what they're doing and pick a copy of it up now and start writing down pointers. It is nothing short of a masterpiece. Right: hyperbole over, let me tell you exactly why I liked it so much.
First of all, the plot- such as I am going to describe it. Beloved follows the story of Sethe, an African-American who twenty years after being freed from slavery, is still coming to terms with the magnitude of terrible actions exacted upon her and that she has exacted. Caught between an imposed and self-imposed ostracization from her community Sethe lives with her daughter Denver and is in the process of rebuilding a life with her erstwhile partner, Paul D. I really want everyone who reads this blog to read this novel so I'm loathe to give out any plot details, suffice to say that just when everything seems to be going well a mysterious young woman appears in her garden, the past and the present begin to collide in a disturbing, haunting way. All of this you can get of the back of the Vintage edition of the novel (although I have paraphrased it a bit otherwise there's no point me writing it).
So plot aside, and in a way it can be put aside in the reading of the novel, the essence of my delight in reading this book is Toni Morrison herself and her mastery both of her prose technique and use of language. Her prose is meticulous, measured in tone from the very first line '124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children'. I'm usually a fan of the swooping narrative, of lines that rise and fall like the melody of a song but this opening line cuts like a knife and sets the tone for the rest of the novel. This sentence immediately subverts the readers expectation- instantly we ask 'how can a baby be full of venom'? This becomes a standard of the novel: as repeatedly Morrison tells you exactly what you need to know, but forever leaves you wanting to know more- an omniscient voice oscillating between comfort and menace for the reader.
It's this extraordinarily structured juxtaposition between the measured and the fantastic, the philosophical and true throughout this novel which makes it so compelling. The story builds through retribution to catharsis, and as such contains the stylistic elements as well as the narrative of an oral folk tale or parable. In this way it feels like the narrative is unfolding organically, even as it moves from the present to the past and back again. But despite its nineteenth century setting, this is a modern book with a confident and talented modern author at its helm. Although I have only read this once so far, I believe this will be a novel that will offer new things to its reader with every reading. And that is perhaps one of the greatest accomplishments any author can achieve.
I'm going to put my cards on the table right at the start of this blog- this is one of the best books I have ever read. For those of you seeking a book review, well I hope you find it here- but impartial this blog will never be. The quality of this novel is truly aspirational and anyone who has ever tinkered with the idea of writing a book should stop what they're doing and pick a copy of it up now and start writing down pointers. It is nothing short of a masterpiece. Right: hyperbole over, let me tell you exactly why I liked it so much.
First of all, the plot- such as I am going to describe it. Beloved follows the story of Sethe, an African-American who twenty years after being freed from slavery, is still coming to terms with the magnitude of terrible actions exacted upon her and that she has exacted. Caught between an imposed and self-imposed ostracization from her community Sethe lives with her daughter Denver and is in the process of rebuilding a life with her erstwhile partner, Paul D. I really want everyone who reads this blog to read this novel so I'm loathe to give out any plot details, suffice to say that just when everything seems to be going well a mysterious young woman appears in her garden, the past and the present begin to collide in a disturbing, haunting way. All of this you can get of the back of the Vintage edition of the novel (although I have paraphrased it a bit otherwise there's no point me writing it).
So plot aside, and in a way it can be put aside in the reading of the novel, the essence of my delight in reading this book is Toni Morrison herself and her mastery both of her prose technique and use of language. Her prose is meticulous, measured in tone from the very first line '124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did the children'. I'm usually a fan of the swooping narrative, of lines that rise and fall like the melody of a song but this opening line cuts like a knife and sets the tone for the rest of the novel. This sentence immediately subverts the readers expectation- instantly we ask 'how can a baby be full of venom'? This becomes a standard of the novel: as repeatedly Morrison tells you exactly what you need to know, but forever leaves you wanting to know more- an omniscient voice oscillating between comfort and menace for the reader.
It's this extraordinarily structured juxtaposition between the measured and the fantastic, the philosophical and true throughout this novel which makes it so compelling. The story builds through retribution to catharsis, and as such contains the stylistic elements as well as the narrative of an oral folk tale or parable. In this way it feels like the narrative is unfolding organically, even as it moves from the present to the past and back again. But despite its nineteenth century setting, this is a modern book with a confident and talented modern author at its helm. Although I have only read this once so far, I believe this will be a novel that will offer new things to its reader with every reading. And that is perhaps one of the greatest accomplishments any author can achieve.
Monday, 12 November 2012
Update (lots of reading, not so much blogging)
Well I've not done very well with this lately. It's been seven or so weeks since my last post and, what's perhaps worse, I've been reading the whole time but- as is fitting with the premise of this blog- I'm already starting to forget what I've read (cue major setback to entire exercise). I've just logged in to my library history to remind myself of exactly what I've read and the rest I'll just have to hope I can remember. I've got an absolute cracker of a book to blog about next but for now here are my one paragraph reviews of the books I've read since mid-September:
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen- Newsflash: it turns out that I love the Emma Thompson film version of the novel so much I'd kidded myself into thinking I'd actually read the book. I had not. I liked it- it goes slow in the middle and, actually, the Elinor/Edward story-line is just weird (they basically meet and then never see each other, and, hello, his previous choice of fiancee is not up to much. Marianne and Col Brandon on the other hand, I totally get). But basically this book is less fluffy and fun than you might imagine. Like novelty slippers the week after Christmas.
How To Be A Woman by Caitlin Moran- I loved this book so much that I was planning on basing an entire blog post about how loudly it was acceptable to gigglesnort (and I'm crediting Isha with that little beaut of a word) on public transport when reading. Alas so high was my regard for this book that I lent it to not one but two literary lasses which tragically meant that I couldn't refer back to it when writing. And that's my excuse. Read it and gigglesnort away is my advice. She is a very naughty girl.
I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron- I really needed the advice from some clever wise and funny women a few weeks ago, hence the authors listed above. Nora is the epitome of all three glorious traits and I cried when she died earlier this year- I credit her with some of my finest lines and opinions about relationships. This book is a gorgeous chocolate box of lovely insights about life and the madness of human interactions, fluffy as a teacake and as full of heart as a card shop on February 13th which makes it sounds nauseating but there's a delicious biting wit that runs throughout (Christ I've actually turned into Nigella- pass me a whisk).
Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys- so still on my feminine insight bent I decided to push into a modern classic. I read Rhys' Goodmorning Midnight at uni- a dark portrait of the cusp of a mental breakdown in a world that seems, for women at least, barbed and treacherous. Wide Sargasso Sea runs along similar lines but here Rhys' use of Bertha Mason (later Rochester) the 'mad woman in the attic' from Jane Eyre hammers home with ferocity the unfairness of the female place and, particularly, desire in a patriarchal society. It's beautifully, hauntingly written- a book that when I'm in the right mood- it's really very dark- I'll go back to.
The City and The City by China Miéville- back now onto very modern ground and Mieville's rendering of a trippy dystopian double-world where two cities, Beszel and Ul Qoma, occupy the same physical space in kind of holographic antithesis to each other. The book raises all kinds of real world parallels, particularly echoing a cold-war dynamic and the protagonist is a Besz detective on a murder hunt across the forbidden divide. I loved the concept of this book and it is well written but the detective story didn't quite hold my attention as I hoped it would. However, I've been told that Mieville is one of literature's great chameleons so I'd be interested in reading another of his books.
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee- another in my series of 'you've got two literature degrees and you have read that' embarrassments. Well thankfully, now I have and I don't know what I was thinking putting it off so long. Quite rightly lauded as one of the greatest books ever written it is unflinching in its portrayal of childhood idealism giving way to the departure of innocence. This book broke my heart in the best possible way by being so powerfully true. And, just to bring it back down to earth, I think it would be a real struggle to find a sexier lawyer than Atticus Finch in literature. Just saying.
The New York City Trilogy by Paul Auster- so from Austen to Auster and back to trippy cityscape. I've in fact only read two of the three of this trilogy but found Auster's more famous story 'City of Glass' to be more compelling than 'Ghosts'. Not for the faint hearted in the meta-fiction stakes these postmodern detective tales force the reader to deconstruct the nature of the author/narrator/protagonist relationships creating layers of 'what's going on? and whodunnit?' questions (I frequently asked both- I'm still not sure of either answer). As the detective aspect of the stories become less important there is a surprising honesty to Auster's portrayal of a never-quite-graspable New York city. In a way it reminded me of a less ephemeral Murakami tale. Such a pretentious closing statement might allow you to make up your own mind about whether you want to give the trilogy a go or not.
So there we have it- my recent life in books. Next time, one book only. But what a book it is...
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen- Newsflash: it turns out that I love the Emma Thompson film version of the novel so much I'd kidded myself into thinking I'd actually read the book. I had not. I liked it- it goes slow in the middle and, actually, the Elinor/Edward story-line is just weird (they basically meet and then never see each other, and, hello, his previous choice of fiancee is not up to much. Marianne and Col Brandon on the other hand, I totally get). But basically this book is less fluffy and fun than you might imagine. Like novelty slippers the week after Christmas.
How To Be A Woman by Caitlin Moran- I loved this book so much that I was planning on basing an entire blog post about how loudly it was acceptable to gigglesnort (and I'm crediting Isha with that little beaut of a word) on public transport when reading. Alas so high was my regard for this book that I lent it to not one but two literary lasses which tragically meant that I couldn't refer back to it when writing. And that's my excuse. Read it and gigglesnort away is my advice. She is a very naughty girl.
I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron- I really needed the advice from some clever wise and funny women a few weeks ago, hence the authors listed above. Nora is the epitome of all three glorious traits and I cried when she died earlier this year- I credit her with some of my finest lines and opinions about relationships. This book is a gorgeous chocolate box of lovely insights about life and the madness of human interactions, fluffy as a teacake and as full of heart as a card shop on February 13th which makes it sounds nauseating but there's a delicious biting wit that runs throughout (Christ I've actually turned into Nigella- pass me a whisk).
Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys- so still on my feminine insight bent I decided to push into a modern classic. I read Rhys' Goodmorning Midnight at uni- a dark portrait of the cusp of a mental breakdown in a world that seems, for women at least, barbed and treacherous. Wide Sargasso Sea runs along similar lines but here Rhys' use of Bertha Mason (later Rochester) the 'mad woman in the attic' from Jane Eyre hammers home with ferocity the unfairness of the female place and, particularly, desire in a patriarchal society. It's beautifully, hauntingly written- a book that when I'm in the right mood- it's really very dark- I'll go back to.
The City and The City by China Miéville- back now onto very modern ground and Mieville's rendering of a trippy dystopian double-world where two cities, Beszel and Ul Qoma, occupy the same physical space in kind of holographic antithesis to each other. The book raises all kinds of real world parallels, particularly echoing a cold-war dynamic and the protagonist is a Besz detective on a murder hunt across the forbidden divide. I loved the concept of this book and it is well written but the detective story didn't quite hold my attention as I hoped it would. However, I've been told that Mieville is one of literature's great chameleons so I'd be interested in reading another of his books.
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee- another in my series of 'you've got two literature degrees and you have read that' embarrassments. Well thankfully, now I have and I don't know what I was thinking putting it off so long. Quite rightly lauded as one of the greatest books ever written it is unflinching in its portrayal of childhood idealism giving way to the departure of innocence. This book broke my heart in the best possible way by being so powerfully true. And, just to bring it back down to earth, I think it would be a real struggle to find a sexier lawyer than Atticus Finch in literature. Just saying.
The New York City Trilogy by Paul Auster- so from Austen to Auster and back to trippy cityscape. I've in fact only read two of the three of this trilogy but found Auster's more famous story 'City of Glass' to be more compelling than 'Ghosts'. Not for the faint hearted in the meta-fiction stakes these postmodern detective tales force the reader to deconstruct the nature of the author/narrator/protagonist relationships creating layers of 'what's going on? and whodunnit?' questions (I frequently asked both- I'm still not sure of either answer). As the detective aspect of the stories become less important there is a surprising honesty to Auster's portrayal of a never-quite-graspable New York city. In a way it reminded me of a less ephemeral Murakami tale. Such a pretentious closing statement might allow you to make up your own mind about whether you want to give the trilogy a go or not.
So there we have it- my recent life in books. Next time, one book only. But what a book it is...
Monday, 17 September 2012
Boys Don't Cry Part 2: Haruki Murakami
'A Folklore for my Generation: A Pre-History of Late-Stage Capitalism' in Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman by Haruki Murakami (short story within the collection)
This post is about a short story from a collection by Haruki Murakami- esteemed Japanese author and surrealist aficionado. If you like books about talking cats, if you like stories entirely about spaghetti, or tales about interlacing, make-believe worlds then Haruki is your man. As a lover of all of the above, I'm a big fan.
I know I've been a little remiss in my previous blogs about actually summarising the plot of what I'm writing about and I've discovered the subsequent ramble gets a bit confusing without it. Well allow me to remedy this. This particular tale is about two men having dinner together, having met by chance in Italy years after they first knew each other at school, in Japan. Our narrator is listening, and also editing together, his dining companion's tale about the relationship he had with his first sweetheart. Now, before I launch into my little analysis, I better define my terms as this will get a bit confusing without some clarification of who I'm talking about in this story. From our point of view there are three layers: Murakami, the author (as previously with Kerouac, the author), the unnamed writer character within the narrative (henceforth called the narrator and closely comparable to Murakami himself) and the focal character of the story, again unnamed- just to be extra-confusing), henceforth known as the protagonist.
Instantly from this you can assume, correctly, that this story isn't going to be the self-flagellation of The Subterraneans. Rather than the narrator stumbling through his own self-assessment, as Kerouac's Leo does with the limited success I've already discussed, Murakami affords his protagonist the luxury of an epistolary voice through narrative layers- here not written but rather communicated as a tale that is then 're-worked'. Think Nick Carroway in The Great Gatsby but with more insight on the part of the narrator (in fact Murakami goes a bit meta-fictive by giving his narrator a chance to explain that he is tidying up the story as he goes along). To tie this point back to the issues I raised in the last part, this use of a third-person, and arguably more emotionally stable, narrator helps to stablise, even as it lessens the intensity of the emotional catharsis that the reader can take from the story. For me this evokes a more satisfying conclusion to the narrative as, although further removed, the results seem more honest, even if I'm not getting it from the horse's mouth.
Not unlike Kerouac, Murakami's interpretation of the breakdown of a relationship is still raw and true, while it also seems rather more evenly handed. The female character in the story, Yoshiko, has a stock phrase: 'these are two different things' which she repeats over the course of her conversations with the male protagonist. The concept of this phrase is given due consideration by Murakami and by his narrator throughout the story and the tension is created where these two different things, or people, become so disconcertingly similar (they are styled by the narrator as 'Mr and Miss Clean') that it makes their inevitable separation that much more poignant. Yoshiko tells the protagonist that she cannot marry him, and thus consummate their relationship, quite matter-of-factly and leaves him in a state of in-consequentiality- something previously unknown to him 'Ever since we were little, people had been pushing us...[and] we met their expectations'. When they meet again, several years later, it is the protagonist's inability to make the sexual contact that his teenage self so craved that finally destroys his hope of their being together. It is an unhappy and rather dark end to what starts as a sweet yarn about first love.
One way of summarising this tale is by using the title, as it is both oddly deliberate but deliberately odd. The word 'Folklore' is an interesting choice- in itself a genre based on the, often oral, re-telling and re-working of the tale to suit the needs of the teller and, by extension, the reader/listener. After the protagonist tells the narrator of the strange phrase he always has in mind when thinking of himself and Yoshiko (' "and when it was all over, the King and his retainers burst out laughing" ') the narrator gently tells his reader that 'there's no moral or lesson' to be drawn. The point of the tale, of love and loss, is simply to be read, and understood by the reader. Stories like these, for all their quirks and apparent ability to define an era, in this case 'Late-Stage Capitalism', will be told time after time through generations. The emotions they evoke and that they describe, will stay the same. And in realising that, and in reading this, Murakami provides us with the best emotional self-help there is.
Next time: the women take over the emotional development and I'll try to answer a very important question: is it socially reprehensible to honk with laughter when reading on public transport?
This post is about a short story from a collection by Haruki Murakami- esteemed Japanese author and surrealist aficionado. If you like books about talking cats, if you like stories entirely about spaghetti, or tales about interlacing, make-believe worlds then Haruki is your man. As a lover of all of the above, I'm a big fan.
I know I've been a little remiss in my previous blogs about actually summarising the plot of what I'm writing about and I've discovered the subsequent ramble gets a bit confusing without it. Well allow me to remedy this. This particular tale is about two men having dinner together, having met by chance in Italy years after they first knew each other at school, in Japan. Our narrator is listening, and also editing together, his dining companion's tale about the relationship he had with his first sweetheart. Now, before I launch into my little analysis, I better define my terms as this will get a bit confusing without some clarification of who I'm talking about in this story. From our point of view there are three layers: Murakami, the author (as previously with Kerouac, the author), the unnamed writer character within the narrative (henceforth called the narrator and closely comparable to Murakami himself) and the focal character of the story, again unnamed- just to be extra-confusing), henceforth known as the protagonist.
Instantly from this you can assume, correctly, that this story isn't going to be the self-flagellation of The Subterraneans. Rather than the narrator stumbling through his own self-assessment, as Kerouac's Leo does with the limited success I've already discussed, Murakami affords his protagonist the luxury of an epistolary voice through narrative layers- here not written but rather communicated as a tale that is then 're-worked'. Think Nick Carroway in The Great Gatsby but with more insight on the part of the narrator (in fact Murakami goes a bit meta-fictive by giving his narrator a chance to explain that he is tidying up the story as he goes along). To tie this point back to the issues I raised in the last part, this use of a third-person, and arguably more emotionally stable, narrator helps to stablise, even as it lessens the intensity of the emotional catharsis that the reader can take from the story. For me this evokes a more satisfying conclusion to the narrative as, although further removed, the results seem more honest, even if I'm not getting it from the horse's mouth.
Not unlike Kerouac, Murakami's interpretation of the breakdown of a relationship is still raw and true, while it also seems rather more evenly handed. The female character in the story, Yoshiko, has a stock phrase: 'these are two different things' which she repeats over the course of her conversations with the male protagonist. The concept of this phrase is given due consideration by Murakami and by his narrator throughout the story and the tension is created where these two different things, or people, become so disconcertingly similar (they are styled by the narrator as 'Mr and Miss Clean') that it makes their inevitable separation that much more poignant. Yoshiko tells the protagonist that she cannot marry him, and thus consummate their relationship, quite matter-of-factly and leaves him in a state of in-consequentiality- something previously unknown to him 'Ever since we were little, people had been pushing us...[and] we met their expectations'. When they meet again, several years later, it is the protagonist's inability to make the sexual contact that his teenage self so craved that finally destroys his hope of their being together. It is an unhappy and rather dark end to what starts as a sweet yarn about first love.
One way of summarising this tale is by using the title, as it is both oddly deliberate but deliberately odd. The word 'Folklore' is an interesting choice- in itself a genre based on the, often oral, re-telling and re-working of the tale to suit the needs of the teller and, by extension, the reader/listener. After the protagonist tells the narrator of the strange phrase he always has in mind when thinking of himself and Yoshiko (' "and when it was all over, the King and his retainers burst out laughing" ') the narrator gently tells his reader that 'there's no moral or lesson' to be drawn. The point of the tale, of love and loss, is simply to be read, and understood by the reader. Stories like these, for all their quirks and apparent ability to define an era, in this case 'Late-Stage Capitalism', will be told time after time through generations. The emotions they evoke and that they describe, will stay the same. And in realising that, and in reading this, Murakami provides us with the best emotional self-help there is.
Next time: the women take over the emotional development and I'll try to answer a very important question: is it socially reprehensible to honk with laughter when reading on public transport?
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