→ April 19, 2023
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A Girl Returned.

Donatella di Pietrantonio’s 2019 novel A Girl Returned (L’Arminuta) was translated into English by Ann Goldstein, the translator for Elena Ferrante’s novels, which seemed like reason enough to read it. That, and it was only about 170 pages, so if it was terrible at least my investment was small. It’s pretty great, though, reminiscent of the better parts of Ferrante’s work in themes and setting.

The title refers to the narrator, who learns at the start of the novel that she’s going to go back to her biological parents, people she doesn’t know at all because she’s been raised since birth by a distant cousin. That cousin was married but childless, so the couple adopted the narrator from her relatively poor parents, who also had a whole mess of children they couldn’t necessarily afford to feed. She gets very little explanation of why she’s going back, but her adoptive mother has taken to her bed and shown signs of illness, so the narrator thinks her mother might have sent her away while recovering, or might even be dying. It’s a shock to her system on multiple levels, as she moves from an affluent life with the people she thought were her real parents to a much less privileged life with people she doesn’t know and who are less educated and cultured than the cousins who reared her. As the novel progresses, we follow her attempts to navigate her new life, including having siblings for the first time, while she also gradually learns more of the truth about both of her families.

There’s a sparseness to A Girl Returned that emphasizes the narrator’s desolation. The prose and the descriptions therein both have the dulled colors of television and films from the 1970s, which also seems to telegraph the hazy nature of every adult’s memories of their teenaged years. Di Pietrantonio captures that feeling of helplessness from the age when you’re old enough to recognize the power of autonomy, but not quite old enough to get it. She’s completely trapped, with brothers who bully her and steal her food, with a mother who appears to have no affection for her, with a father who’s barely there, and with the teenager’s inability to see beyond the next few months. In her case, the light at the end of the tunnel is closer than she realizes, as she’s going to get a chance to move away to attend secondary school before the novel is out, but the combination of the change in circumstances and environments is so dramatic that she can’t see her way out of it.

The twists and turns that come the narrator’s way in this slim novel mean that she never has time to wallow in her misery, at least not on the page, before something else happens, good or bad. It’s all plausible, but the story is condensed enough to keep the novel moving well, even in the most introspective parts where the narrator is pondering how she ended up in this situation.

The result is a coming-of-age story in miniature, taking just a small amount of time, a bit more than a year in the narrator’s life, where a significant number of things ends up happening to her. It’s oddly lovely for a story that’s certainly not a happy one, posing huge questions about identity and family, even as simple as what it really means to be a mother – or what it means to be part of a family. The narrator keeps talking about her two mothers, as if she’s uncertain what to call either of them. The novel offers no answers, simply ending the way a memory does. It’s substantial for a novel so slim, enough to leave you wanting more.

Next up: Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley. I’ve never read it, or seen the movie, in fact.

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→ August 26, 2021
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Red Rising.

I wasn’t familiar with Pierce Brown’s Red Rising series until a review copy of the game, also called Red Rising, showed up a few months ago. My review of the game, which I enjoyed quite a bit, is up now over at Paste, and as part of my research for that game I read the first novel in the series. It’s not as good as the game is, with a fairly juvenile plot married to enough graphic violence to keep it from the YA section, but reading the book did help me understand the character cards in the game more and see how well designer Jamey Stegmaier integrated the two.

The novel tells the story of Darrow, a particularly skilled miner of helium-2 who lives and works in a colony beneath the surface of Mars with other “Reds.” The dystopian society of the novel has humanity stratified into castes identified by colors, with Golds at the top and Reds at the bottom, taking up the most dangerous jobs and unaware of how far civilization has advanced on Mars’s surface. A rebel group saves Darrow from execution and drafts him to infiltrate the world up top, hacking his body to make him appear to be a Gold so he can try to enter the competition held at the Institute to identify future leaders for the Martian government, and thus eventually topple the Golds’ rule from within. After he succeeds, he finds himself in a Lord of the Flies-like environment where some unknown number of teenagers are separated into a dozen Houses and must fight each other – and try to survive without ready sources of food or water – to determine who will be Primus of each House and who will be the ultimate winner of the contest.

The setting of the novel is almost incidental to everything that happens within it – Brown just needed a world where it was plausible that there’d be a de facto slave caste living beneath the surface, believing that they were working towards the noble goal of creating a habitable planet up above, unaware that this had already occurred and they were simply held in bondage. The science aspect here is really shaky, from the idea of terraforming Pluto (surface temperature -226 C) or a thriving colony on Venus (surface temperature 475 C, with rainfall so acidic its pH is negative) to the way Brown introduces random advanced technologies when the plot requires them, but he has created a fairly strong set of core characters around which to build the story.

Darrow is a well-rounded protagonist whose rage often clouds his judgment, so while his rapid ascent to one of the leadership roles in his House in the game is rather convenient, he’s also prone to missteps, from rash decisions to difficulty deciding whom to trust, that create tension and move the story along in more credible ways. Cassius, an early ally who doesn’t know any of Darrow’s secrets, is more complex than the typical “arrogant scion” archetype, while their house-mate Sevro is an endearing nut who runs around in wolf skins and forms a ragtag army of misfits from the House who become the Howlers. Mustang is the most well-defined woman character in the book, which skews heavily male among core characters, although the depth of her personality doesn’t become apparent until near the end of the story. Some of the various lieutenants in Darrow’s armies grow over the course of the book and acquire enough character of their own to be more than just redshirts (or goldshirts), which also made their character cards in the game more meaningful.

The story is gratuitously violent from shortly after Darrow enters the institute, which may be the point, or just a very grim view of humanity, but it has the same problem I have with most superhero movies – solving problems by beating the hell out of your enemy. Darrow eventually comes around to a less-violent approach, but still a violent one, and the way the great game works involves physically subduing your rivals if you don’t actually kill them. Darrow is clever, and often thinks like a master tactician, so when the result of a battle is bodily dismemberment, it’s unsatisfying, because the character should be capable of more than this – but I’m not sure if Brown himself is.

Red Rising has a real conclusion, while still leaving the long-term story intact for future novels, which now number two in Darrow’s story plus two more set in the same universe. I’m not that driven to continue, however, because I’m expecting more of the same – Darrow will co-opt some rivals, kill a few enemies (or have his minions do it and then bemoan their level of bloodthirst), and eventually avenge the death that started the whole ball rolling. It was a quick enough read, but the story just isn’t that different from most of those in the YA fantasy/sci-fi space.

Next up: Jasper Fforde’s recommendation of Mil Millington’s Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About.

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→ December 31, 2014
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Among Others.

Jo Walton’s novel Among Others, winner of both the Hugo and Nebula Awards for Best Novel in 2012, is nothing like any of the other major science fiction or fantasy titles I’ve read. The story is instead a tender coming-of-age narrative with just a dash of magic thrown in, and the book as a whole functions as a paean to the classics of both genres, succeeding because of the appeal of its narrator-protagonist even though there’s minimal action in the novel itself. (The Kindle version is still just $2.99 through that link, more than worth the price.)

Morwenna Phelps (who goes by Mor or Mori) is a 15-year-old Welsh girl who has been left disabled after what is described for much of the book as a battle with her mother, an evil and/or insane witch, a battle that killed Mor’s twin sister. Mor is now at an English boarding school where she’s been sent by her estranged father, with whom she has no relationship (he walked out when she and her sister were babies) but forges a tenuous bond over their shared love of science fiction and fantasy novels – Mor reads more than any human being I’ve ever met, on the order of about 300 books a year given how quickly Walton has her going through titles in the story. As Mor goes through typical teenage stuff – dealing with cliques and ostracism, gaining and losing friends over trifles, taking her first steps into dating – she’s also dealing with the aftermath of what happened with her mother, trying to make sense of everything through books and through her limited magical abilities, which she’s reluctant to use.

Mor reminded me greatly of Flavia de Luce, the chemistry-obsessed heroine of Alan Bradley’s six mystery novels (beginning with The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie), but a few years older and therefore dealing with more real-world issues – the stuff we might see Flavia encounter now that Bradley has agreed to write four more stories with his star moving to boarding school in Canada. Mor’s experiences in boarding school are tame by today’s standards, but the point isn’t to watch her suffer or squirm – it’s to watch her cope using her relationship with fiction both in direct (finding shared interest in books with peers and adults alike) and indirect (taking lessons from the novels she’s read) fashion. Among Others is a wonderful book, but seeing it win all of these genre awards reminded me of Argo and The Artist doing the same in cinema: They won movie awards because both movies were about how great the movies are. Maybe Walton won because she wrote a book about the power of science fiction and fantasy novels, not to mention a guide to the best of the genres up to the late 1970s. The same novel without the elegaic aspect would have been just as successful as literature, but would it still have earned the same plaudits?

The magical/fantasy aspects of Among Others are part of the background fabric of the novel, rather than central to its story, which I believe is essential for genre fiction to be more than just, well, genre fiction. Mor’s magical skills are mostly limited to her ability to see ethereal creatures she calls “fairies” for lack of any more accurate term, and some power to cast spells that she barely uses; when the soft climax of a rematch with her mother occurs, Mor doesn’t use magic to fight, relying on her emerging self-confidence and ability to control her racing mind to defeat her mother’s ambush. But the bulk of the magic has happened already in the book’s past and comes to the reader slowly via Mor’s diary entries as she opens up to a few friends, particularly the fellow outcast Wim, about what actually happened and what she’s able to see. This book is all epilogue, creating a challenge for Walton to grab and hold the reader’s attention; she does it best because Morwenna herself is so compelling, insightful and intelligent beyond her years, yet still in many ways a child, trying to navigate adolescence on top of the challenges of having an crazy, power-hungry witch for a mother. If Walton wants to give us more of Morwenna’s story, before or after the events of Among Others, I’m all for it.

Next up: After I finish Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat today, I’ll start Margery Allingham’s The Tiger in the Smoke, one of the Albert Campion mysteries and apparently an inspiration for J.K. Rowling’s Cormoran Strike novels.

Have a safe New Year’s Eve, everyone.

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→ April 25, 2012
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The Tin Drum.

In case you missed it, I did a redraft of the first round of the 2002 Rule 4 draft for ESPN.com yesterday.

Günter Grass’ novel The Tin Drum stands for critics as one of the greatest novels in German literature, ranking 39th on The Novel 100, 70th on the Guardian‘s list of the 100 greatest novels ever written, and ranking fifth on this list of the best German novels of last century. Reading it for leisure doesn’t quite measure up to reading it as literature, and I believe a good number of allusions flew over my head due to my unfamiliarity with German (and Polish) history, but I hope I can recognize a novel’s greatness even if I wouldn’t say I loved reading it.

The drum of the title refers to a toy drum received by the narrator and main character, Oskar, for his third birthday. Oskar, precocious, cynical, and perhaps delusional, claims his personality was fully developed at birth, and at the age of three he stages an accident to prevent himself from growing physically, giving him an unusual vantage point for seeing and fooling the world, as he can play the innocent child to escape from mortal danger (even as he sends others, including both of the men he suspects of being his biological father, to their deaths), and uses that ruse to survive the German invasion of his hometown of Danzig/Gdansk, the assault on the Polish Post Office, Kristallnacht, World War II, and its immediate aftermath.

Oskar is mischievous, often devious, and has a strong instinct for self-preservation that he executes with one of his two great skills, using his voice to shatter glass, often to get what he wants but sometimes merely for the pleasure of destroying (although he might actually view it as creating, as a form of art). His other skill is to communicate via his drum: By playing the instrument, he can tell extensive stories and communicate his desires even before he’s able to speak – and he can pretend that he’s unable to speak for years beyond the point when he’s learned to do so.

Aside from the rampant symbolism – the drum, art, glass, aromas (Oskar has a hypersensitive sense of smell), Oskar’s obsession with his heritage despite its lack of clarity, and more – the brilliance of The Tin Drum is its use of humor and picaresque elements to lampoon Naziism, the church (and its complicity with the regime), and the willingness of so many Germans to go along with the regime. The book is sometimes crude and bawdy, but it’s in the service of dark, biting humor that tears apart Grass’s targets, such as the Nazi soldiers rotely building a wall and entombing small animals in it. You may often wish to avert your eyes (the horse’s head scene comes to mind), but these passages tend to be the book’s most powerful both on initial reading and after the book is done.

That said, it’s a tough read for two major reasons. One is simply that German syntax, even in this new, improved translation, doesn’t read that well to my English-reared mind. The other is that Oskar rambles, leading me to question whether he’s all there mentally or might even be unreliable as a narrator, producing long passages where nothing happens and I felt like I was reading in circles. The lengthy gaps between passages of action, or humor, or even dialogue, made it a tough slog, especially the final 100-150 pages – ordinarily a time of acceleration as the plot nears its conclusion. With The Tin Drum more of a history of a fictional character than a traditional linear narrative, there are no major plot points to resolve, and Oskar only undergoes one significant (albeit very significant) transformation in the book. It’s a cerebral novel where Oskar has some realizations but generally refuses to grow up, drawing not just from the picaresque tradition but from coming-of-age novels as well.

Next up: Alan Bradley’s second Flavia de Luce novel, The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag.

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→ May 17, 2010
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Norwegian Wood.

Haruki Murakami is one of the most intense, imaginative authors I’ve ever come across. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, #15 on the Klaw 100, destroys the line between our world and the world in our dreams in a way that goes beyond mere magical realism, creating a second, parallel existence for its characters and the reader. Kafka on the Shore (#92) mines similar territory, with a slightly more mystical bent, while Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World mixed in a scientific explanation for a fantastical setting and saw the main character jumping back and forth from reality to a strange world that exists only inside his head.

Norwegian Wood, an earlier Murakami novel that wasn’t translated into English until 2000, is a much more mundane work, a coming-of-age novel that focuses not just on the standard material of that genre (sex, mostly, and there is a lot of it) but on life, death, and the way we must deal with our loss of innocence about our mortality.

The protagonist, Toru, is a stand-in for Holden Caulfield but is more directed and a lot less frustrating to follow. He’s in a relationship with Naoko, formerly the girlfriend of Toru’s best friend who killed himself without warning or explanation one night, and the suicide has left both Toru and Naoko broken inside. Naoko comes undone gradually over the course of the novel as Toru happens into another relationship with the unpredictable, liberated, impetuous Midori, who co-opts Toru to fill the holes but ends up finding more meaning in their relationship than she does in the one she has with her boyfriend. Toru is gradually drifting through university as these various affairs occur, where he has a foil in Nagasawa, a materialistic, cynical boy who mistreats his subservient girlfriend yet can’t seem to feel remorse or stop his selfish behavior.

Even without his usual conceits of alternate realities, Murakami still writes in bold strokes, leaving Norwegian Wood open to quite a bit of interpretation, and the novel’s postscript implies that he wasn’t thrilled when the novel became a favorite among Japanese teenagers who read it as a straightforward story of love, sex, and loss. I found it largely unromantic, but at the same time Murakami was offering a view on what Aldous Huxley referred to in Island as “the Essential Horror” – the knowledge that we must die, and, in Norwegian Wood, that many of the people we love will die before us, leaving us to deal with grief, loneliness, and depression. He litters the book with examples of characters who choose not to deal – some kill themselves, others withdraw from society or flee their existing lives – but, of course, Toru does not choose an easy exit and instead has to face the reality of our existence, first choosing to live …

I’m never sure if it’s Murakami’s style or a loss in translation, but his characters often speak in an unrealistic manner even as what they’re saying is interesting, clever, or witty:

“I’m much better at bringing out the best in others than in myself. That’s just the kind of person I am. I’m the scratchy stuff on the side of the matchbox. But that’s fine with me. I don’t mind at all. Better to be a first-class matchbox than a second-class match.”

I love that analogy, but have never come across anyone who speaks remotely like that. Then again, Norwegian Wood is populated by characters who dance on the edge between sanity and insanity, and over the course of the book several of them fall into the abyss, so one might forgive the author his creation of characters with slightly stilted or awkward speech.

Nagasawa was the one poorly drawn character among those who appear for more than a page or two, and he’s more of a stand-in for a way of life Toru rejects, one that sits between stoicism and nihilism with a healthy dose of selfishness mixed in. But I did enjoy his take on languages, even if I can’t share his view on the fairer sex:

“The more languages you know the better. And I’ve got a knack for them. I taught myself French and it’s practically perfect. Languages are like games. You learn the rules for one, and they all work the same way. Like women.

There is, as I mentioned above, a lot of sex in this novel, and I saw one review that referred to it as Murakami’s “most erotic” work. That deprecates Murakami unfairly, since the novel is attacking larger themes and – I hate to break this to you – people have sex, especially people in romantic relationships, so it’s not as if he went out of his way to include it. More importantly, the different ways various characters in the novel view and approach sex gives the reader windows into their personalities, and to me made it more apparent that, for example, Naoko was a stand-in for an unsupportable path through life, where one refuses to give up one’s innocence and then is unprepared to cope with tragedy or loss.

Next up: Peter Carey’s Booker Prize-winning novel, True History of the Kelly Gang.

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