→ October 1, 2024
→ By

Red Side Story.

Jasper Fforde’s Shades of Grey came out in 2009, his first novel separate from his various Thursday Next/Nursery Crime books, and ended on a cliffhanger. The resolution had to wait for fifteen years, until the release earlier this year of Red Side Story, which picks up right after the end of the previous novel and thrusts our two heroes directly into jeopardy. It’s Fforde’s longest novel to date, and his darkest, as he finally reveals the story behind the alternate universe of both books.

The novels take place in the future, at a date unknown (but revealed within the second book), in a place called Chromatacia, which exists on the island of Britain. Our civilization appears to be long gone, as residents of Chromatacia refer to the Something That Happened before they existed. Their civilization revolves around color: Most humans can see just a single color, and their status in society depends on what color that is and how much they can see it. Purples have the highest status; Greys have the lowest. Our hero, Eddie Russett, is a Red, while he falls in love with the pugnacious Jane Grey, who has a habit of punching people in the nose when they displease her. In Shades of Grey, they discover that all is not right in Chromatacia or with the authorities that run it, National Colour, who profess to abide by the rules of a prophet named Munsell, who wrote the rules that govern the nation. The events that close the first book put Eddie and Jane in immediate danger of a death sentence, giving the sequel a real-time feel, as they must both solve the greater mystery of what exactly Chromatacia is and finagle a way out of execution via the Green Room.

Fforde has always at least dabbled in dystopias. The Thursday Next series takes place in an alternate universe as well, and while it’s mostly a comic and satirical world, he colors it (no pun intended) with numerous negative or simply unpleasant twists. Both of his standalone novels, Early Riser and The Constant Rabbit, depict worlds distinctly worse than ours, the former full of great suffering, the latter a not-thinly-veiled analogue for our own racism and xenophobia, just with bunnies. The truth of Chromatacia does not emerge until near the end of Red Side Story, but once it begins to come out over the last hundred pages or so, it is monstrous at both a micro level and a macro one.

That long, detailed conclusion and the sheer number of characters we met in Shades of Grey make Red Side Story the first Fforde book I’ve ever read that I found slow to start. It didn’t help that I read the first book fifteen years ago, so I didn’t exactly hit the ground running, but there is a lot of exposition here, and a ton of plot for Fforde to set up for his usual denouement to work. He’s a master of this particular form, laying hints and details early that will come back to matter later in a way that makes you laugh or simply slap your forehead for your failure to see it coming, but here he’s also busy building out more color (pun intended) to the world even as he’s placing stones for the conclusion. It’s not a mark against the book that he does so – this universe has so many details and quirks that it requires more work to set it up and keep it running. It does mean that some of the character development that boosted Shades of Grey doesn’t appear until you’re maybe a fourth of the way into Red Side Story.

That development goes far more to Eddie than to Jane, as she becomes more of a supporting player here, with Eddie clearly the star and far more in control of the action (to the extent that anyone is in control in Chromatacia). Jane was the more interesting and fun character in the first book, not least because she would punch anyone who commented on her rather retroussé nose (Eddie describes people’s noses any time he meets someone), but here she has somewhat less to do and ends up off screen more. Some of that is plot-driven, as Eddie is betrothed to the officious climber Violet deMauve, who is also carrying his baby, so she ends up a more significant character this time around, while Fforde also delves into the underworld of Chromatacia more than in the first book, much of which is necessary for the big finish.

Fforde had a long stretch of writers’ block when he was working on Early Riser, but since that book came out in 2018-19, he’s been on something of a roll, not just in productivity but in creativity, as his last few novels before the hiatus began had started to lose a little something, especially the Thursday Next ones. He’s promised the eighth and perhaps final book in that series next, and in February of this year he announced that there will be a third book in this series as well, which is especially interesting given how Red Side Story concludes. I’m already in the tank for Fforde anyway, but Red Side Story is even more ambitious than his typical novel, and seeing him succeed when stretching himself makes me even more eager to read whatever he publishes next.

Next up: Adam Hochschild’s To End All Wars: A Story of Loyalty and Rebellion, 1914-1918.

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→ March 27, 2024
→ By

Prophet Song.

Taking his cues from the devastating civil war in Syria, the COVID-19 pandemic, and the rise of populist authoritarian movements in the West, Paul Lynch has crafted a terrifyingly personal dystopian vision in his newest novel, Prophet Song. Winner of the 2023 Booker Prize, the book follows the decline into tyranny and civil war of the Republic of Ireland through the eyes of Eilish, a mother of four who tries desperately to hold her family and herself together even as the world around her crumbles.

The story begins in the not-too-distant future, where an unidentified party has taken control in Ireland and turned the national police (the gardai) into state security, choosing labor unions – especially the teachers’ union – as their first targets. Larry, Eilish’s husband, is a leader in the teacher’s union himself and after one interrogation finds himself arrested by the national government, disappearing into the state’s growing apparatus for political prisoners and leaving Eilish alone with four kids, ranging from the teenager Mark to the still-nursing Ben. The state gradually increases its authority and rounds up more and more dissidents, even firing on protestors, leading to a near-total breakdown in the social order, food and water shortages along with bread lines, neighbors denouncing neighbors, and the inevitable rise of a ragtag rebel army. All the while, Eilish is trying to keep her family safe, including her father, who is in the early stages of dementia and only half understands what’s happening. Eilish can access some foreign news sources, such as the BBC, to get an outside view of the conflict, and the ubiquity of cell phones changes some of the dynamics of survival, but none of this changes the more fundamental needs to get food, shelter, and medical care, all of which become critical as Eilish has to decide whether to stay or make a dangerous bid to cross the border with Great Britain and join her sister Aine in Canada.

There’s something very It Can’t Happen Here about Prophet Song; this is the kind of collapse we associate with countries where the populace is mostly non-white – Syria, Somalia, Yemen, the D.R. Congo, and now Haiti. Lynch’s Ireland goes from an affluent, stable democracy to a police state that resembles the early U.S.S.R. but with the weaponry and technology of modern conflicts. A staid middle-class life sits on a shaky foundation of civil society that, as we’ve seen in the U.S., depends in large part on people not losing their minds and voting for would-be fascists. (Lynch never identifies the party in power by name or ideology, but they are at the least anti-labor; their specific policies aren’t relevant to Eilish’s story and he doesn’t waste time on them.) Hungary had a functioning democracy for a short while, but its people voted in an irredentist autocrat who has gone after two of the most common targets for authoritarian regimes – Jews and LGBTQ+ people. Venezuela and El Salvador have slid from democracy to dictatorship, with the former’s economy collapsing after its first strongman died. It can happen, but we never dream that it will until it’s too late, often by our own hand.

The real power of Lynch’s work is that he focuses exclusively on one family, and one person, rather than telling the story of the collapse of a country. In that way it’s more in the vein of survivalist or post-apocalyptic fiction, like Testament, In a Perfect World, and The Road than the standard dystopian novel. The leaders of the country are never named; in fact, no one in any position of authority, not even a police officer, gets a name in Prophet Song. Names are reserved for the ordinary people – Eilish, her family, a few neighbors. This choice makes the book more intensely personal, and becomes its own form of psychological horror – will Eilish’s family survive another day, and what calamity might lurk around the corner? You can experience the terrors of the police state from the most granular level, where the lights don’t stay on and food is scarce, where you can’t get across town to see your ailing father and you have to worry one of your kids will be arrested or shot for being out past curfew.

Lynch doesn’t shy away from the inevitable tragedies of his setting; Eilish is fighting a losing battle but refuses to admit it. Even the ending leaves some questions unanswered, and Eilish still isn’t certain if she’s made the right choices for her family, because in that situation you will never have that certainty. Instead, Lynch makes the smart choice to lean into the crises, but move us quickly in and out of them, so the story is never lurid, never ogling Eilish’s misery for the reader’s pleasure. It’s a masterful blending of the dystopian novel, the political thriller, and an exaltation of the power of one person – of one mother – to carry the weight of two different generations and somehow make it through.

Next up: Ann Patchett’s essay collection This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage.

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→ January 24, 2022
→ By

Klara and the Sun.

Kazuo Ishiguro is one of the greatest novelists currently writing in English, a deserving winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature and the Booker Prize (for The Remains of the Day), and author of two of the hundred best novels I’ve ever read (Remains and Never Let Me Go). His latest novel, Klara and the Sun, made the longlist for the Booker, finds him revisiting themes from several of his earlier works in another light science fiction milieu, in a work that is beautifully written but often seems too remote from its real subjects.

Klara is an Artificial Friend, an android that parents buy to serve as companions for their children, since school is now held remotely. Many children are also ‘lifted’ in what appears to be genetic engineering, but it’s a devil’s bargain – children must be lifted to have a chance of going to a suitable school, but there’s some risk of negative side effects, even death, from the procedure. Klara finds herself chosen to be the companion of Josie, a child who’s been lifted but is suffering significant illnesses because of it, and it’s implied that the lifting is part of why her parents are divorced. Artificial Friends get their power from the sun, so Klara comes to believe that the Sun is a god, or the God, and that this omnipotent being will be able to cure Josie – if Klara does something in return.

Because Klara narrates the book, we only get a superficial take on everything that happens, and details you might expect are not forthcoming (do not forthcome?). I’m just assuming ‘lifting’ means genetic engineering of some sort, for example. It arises that someone else in the world of these people has died, and we are left to infer the cause. There are great novels narrated by children or childlike characters – To Kill a Mockingbird is the most obvious example – but they amp up the level of difficulty for author and reader alike. Klara’s commentary is robotic, by design I assume, and it is the first way in which Ishiguro holds us at a distance from the text.

Klara and the Sun might be the loneliest novel I’ve ever read. The mere idea of Artificial Friends seems conjured out of a cloud of loneliness, and every character in this novel comes across as almost desperate in their lack of connection with others. There are few interactions here that don’t involve Klara, who is, to be clear, not an actual person. Josie’s parents are alienated from her as well as from each other, and their nearest neighbors, who live a mile or so away, are further separated from them because Rick, who is Josie’s age, was not ‘lifted.’ This near-future, which also includes replacement of even highly educated workers by robots or automation, seems neither that distant from ours nor that improbable, but it sounds apocalyptic in its isolation.

Klara’s relationship with the Sun feels like a parody of religious faith, or at least of a child’s concept thereof; Klara assumes that anything she doesn’t understand must be the Sun’s doing, and that the Sun can change anything if Klara simply believes enough – or makes an appropriate sacrifice. She also has a child’s conception of the world, seeing one small construction belching out smoke and assuming it is the only source of pollution on the planet. Klara convinces several other people to help her in her odd quest to appease the Sun and save Josie, but, without spoiling the ending, I’ll say that the outcome leaves Klara with next to nothing in the end.

Ishiguro’s prose never fails to amaze; even in The Unconsoled, by far my least favorite of his novels even though its ambition is evident, he still writes beautifully, evoking rich images of time and place. It’s jarring in Klara and the Sun to see such classic, almost poetic prose used for a story that is relentless in its reserve. Klara had to be the narrator, and yet her childlike view of the world, including a limited emotional vocabulary, means that the novel lacks the emotional punch of Ishiguro’s other works – even Never Let Me Go, which had a similarly dystopian setup and story, but had a huge emotional payoff. Klara has the same distinctive voice and meticulous setup as I’ve come to expect from Ishiguro, but the whole is less than the sum of the parts.

Next up: I’ve just finished Jason Mott’s Hell of a Book, which lived up to its billing.

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→ May 7, 2020
→ By

The Parable of the Sower.

I’ve read a lot of science fiction authors, including at least one book by every winner of the Hugo for Best Novel, but had never read anything by Octavia Butler until I read The Parable of the Sower last month. Butler, the most prominent woman of color in sci-fi and a direct inspiration for the highly decorated author N.K. Jemisin, was the first science fiction writer to win a MacArthur “genius” grant, and published 14 novels in her career before her untimely death at age 58 in 2006.

One thing often absent from science fiction novels and short stories, especially those written in the first few decades of the genre, are realistic women characters, something that inspired Butler to start writing her own stories. The Parable of the Sower is narrated by a young woman of color named Lauren who is a “sharer,” born with a condition called hyperempathy syndrome, so when she sees anyone else suffering physical pain she’s hit with the same pain even though she didn’t suffer the injury.

Set in the United States in the 2020s in a post-capitalist collapse that seems like it might have inspired the Purge movies, The Parable of the Sower follows Lauren from her poor but protected compound in southern California on her flight north while she develops her belief system, which she calls “Earthseed.” Her father is a pastor, which is a rare source of guaranteed income in this dystopian economy, but she finds herself unable to believe in his traditional Christian religion, or even in its conception of God, instead writing down verses and descriptions of humans as Earthseed, driving towards a heaven in the stars where man colonizes new planets now that he’s destroyed this one.

The Parable of the Sower is grim and unflinching, especially in its depiction of women as an oppressed underclass in this still-patriarchal facsimile of a society. If you leave the protection of the compound where Lauren and her family live, you put your life at risk; if you do so as a woman, especially alone, you are extremely likely to be sexually assaulted, and Lauren sees multiple women who appear to have been victims of brutal rapes whenever she heads outside of the commune’s walls. In a world where so many people have too little to eat, and very little to lose, and the police are worse than useless, theft is almost expected, and everyone is armed to protect themselves and their property. Butler also adds the wrinkle of a new drug, nicknamed ‘pyro,’ that causes addicts to light fires so they can be mesmerized by watching the flames. This isn’t our world today, but Butler’s prescient writing about the impacts of increased income inequality and food insecurity on top of a country already armed to its teeth feels a lot more possible right now than it would have when she wrote it in 1993 – even before you layer on a global pandemic and the rise of an entire political movement ready to discard tens of thousands of citizens just to goose the stock market.

The Earthseed belief system, which revolves around the idea that God is change and holds that man’s destiny is to colonize the stars, gets some treatment within this book, but the specific tenets are less important than Lauren’s development of the system, and how she uses it to try to build a fledgling community around herself while in flight to northern California. The core idea of Earthseed that God is malleable, and humanity can shape God, conflicts on some level with its idea that God shapes the universe, which I assume Butler would continue to address in the sequel (The Parable of the Talents); even within this book, Lauren is challenged by the people in her ragtag band of followers, who range from ardent skeptics to curious adherents, to explain this and other paradoxes – or even explain why anyone should believe at all in the face of such widespread misery and existential dread.

I read Rivers Solomon’s An Unkindness of Ghosts about a year and a half ago, and was constantly reminded of that book, which also has a young female protagonist struggling against multiple levels of oppression in a dystopian environment, while reading Parable; searching now, I see multiple references to Solomon and their novel as a ‘successor’ to Butler’s work. The connections are undeniable, but it also seems like a reminder that voices like theirs and Jemisin’s remain uncommon in the worlds of science fiction and fantasy writing, and thus these themes of sexism, racism, inequality, and othering are also underrepresented, even as they become so much more prevalent in mainstream literature (e.g., with Colson Whitehead winning two of the last four Pulitzer Prizes for Fiction with novels about race and racism). Butler also wrote with a gritty, unflinching realism that existed in that era but was, at least, outside the more genteel strains of sci-fi that won awards and garnered more attention, a style that probably put her twenty years ahead of her time. It’s a particular shame that she died so young when, if she were alive today, she’d have seen her influence spread so far, and have seen the world of science fiction expand to include voices and styles like hers become not just accepted, but lauded.

Next up: Still reading 24: Life Stories and Lessons from the Say Hey Kid, by Willie Mays and John Shea. John will be on my podcast next week to talk about the book.

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→ December 5, 2019
→ By

Early Riser.

Jasper Fforde was one of my favorite authors in the first decade of the 2000s, from his Thursday Next series (starting with The Eyre Affair) to the two Nursery Crimes stories to his Shades of Grey, a brilliant, dystopian novel that ended on a still unresolved cliffhanger. I even got my daughter hooked on his young adult trilogy that began with The Last Dragonslayer, also still hanging as he decided to make it a tetralogy. All of his output screeched to a six-year halt, however, due to what he termed a “creative hiatus,” that ended with the long-awaited release in early 2019 of a new, standalone, self-contained novel, Early Riser.

Fforde started talking about this novel in the early 2010s, although I think it has undergone many changes since that point. It’s also a dystopian story, unrelated to Shades, this one in an alternate universe where the planet is exceptionally cold and humans must hibernate during winters. Set in Wales, where Fforde lives, the book follows Charlie Worthing as he’s brought into the equivalent of the night police in this world and uncovers a plot around “nightwalkers,” people whose cognitive functions have been severely impaired by interruptions to their winter sleep cycles. Such people, who kind of resemble docile zombies, take on menial labor tasks for the conglomerate HiberTech, which also produces the drug (Morphenox) that allows people to hibernate in dreamless sleep that doesn’t require the kind of calorie-loading other species must undertake before several months of slumber.

Fforde’s genius in all of his books prior to Early Riser was his humor, which played out in multiple ways, from slapstick to wordplay to more ornate situational gags. It’s almost completely absent in Early Riser, and there are a few points where it seems like he’s trying to be funny and failing – none more obviously so in his character names, which has turned from an amusing sideline from earlier books (e.g., just about all characters in the Thursday Next series have absurd names, from the title character to Braxton Hicks to Brikk Schitt-Hawse) into a tired bit here. Just one character has a clever name in this book, and I can’t mention it here because of the spoiler involved, but it’s not even a bad pun – just a smart, slightly esoteric reference that made me think, “yeah, actually, that is a pretty good name.”

The rest of the story, however, just isn’t funny in any way. So many reviews cite how hilarious the book is, but it’s not – the story itself feels serious, and most of the plot itself tends towards the serious side. I can see places where Fforde tried to add some levity, such as the occasional, bold-and-italic “Whump” lines that indicate somebody got hit by surprise, but his light touch with dialogue and story are absent here. It makes sense on some level that Fforde is trying to tell a more serious tale here, with both an unsubtle climate-change allegory and a more directly anti-corporate take than the parodic Goliath of the Thursday Next series, but it’s distracting to read Fforde’s voice as if its affect has gone flat.

As for the story itself … it’s fine, nothing more. I never felt all that invested in Charlie’s story, or the person he ultimately tries to save, in part because I knew the former was going to work out (and had a rough idea of how) and because the latter character isn’t well developed enough before she ends up in jeopardy. It seems like Fforde might have wanted to go to a darker, creepier place than in his other books, but pulled up a little short rather than committing fully to creating something so contrary to his prior work. The dark of the novel – there are multiple scenes set outside in blizzard conditions, so Charlie can’t see what’s happening – doesn’t quite lend itself to the sense of foreboding that Fforde seemed to want. The result undermines a bit of the allegory within the book as well: I could understand the goal of the climate-change metaphor, but it felt distant from the plot itself.

The good news, I suppose, is that the creative hiatus is over, and Fforde’s next book, The Constant Rabbit, is due out in the UK in July of 2020, to be followed by the fourth and final Dragonslayer book within twelve months. He still owes us the Shades of Grey sequel and I suppose one more (final?) Thursday Next novel, but at least now he’s back to writing regularly.

Next up: I’m almost through Manjit Kumar’s Quantum: Einstein, Bohr, and the Great Debate About the Nature of Reality as well as Alan Alda’s If I Understood You, Would I Have This Look on My Face?

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→ October 21, 2019
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High Life.

Claire Denis’ dystopian sci-fi film High Life, which just hit Amazon Prime earlier this month, is a strange and brooding film that uses its setting to distill life to its most basic functions. By putting her characters into tense situations that force them all to confront their mortality in a more overt way than we would normally face, she explores the darkest sides of humanity … but it is a long, slow drag to get there, punctuated by some highly disturbing sequences.

Robert Pattinson plays Monte, the sole surviving member of an interstellar journey whose purpose becomes apparent later in the film. His only companion on the ship is a baby, the one successful child to come from the ship’s scientist’s artificial insemination program – a program that, of course, causes a lot of outrage among the rest of the crew – all of which is explained in flashbacks over the course of the film. Without spoiling too much here, the gist is that these crew members were all criminals, given the choice to go on a mission that takes them well beyond the solar system rather than face life in jail or execution. Living in such close quarters, with the added stresses of both the control of the scientist (Juliette Binoche) and her bizarre effort to breed the crew members, only increases the odds of conflict, which is graphic and violent when it comes.

Before then, however, we see much more of the quotidian lives of the crew members through flashbacks, including their work in the ship’s gardens, the favorite spot of Tcherny (Andre Benjamin), and the use of what fans of the film have called the “fuck box,” a masturbation machine used by most of the crew members but not by Monte. Denis appears to want to strip her characters down to the basics – food, sex, shelter – to dehumanize them, making it easier to follow some of them down into a bestial sort of madness that ultimately leaves all of them dead except for Monte.

I’m not sure why this film exists, though. Pattinson is excellent – he’s turned out to be quite a good actor – and does everything he can to prop this movie up, especially in the torpid first half, but by the end I certainly had no idea why Denis had taken any of us on this particular journey. What does the rising tide of violence that engulfs the crew actually tell us about people as a whole or these characters in particular? Are we just to think that once a violent criminal, always a violent criminal? Or are they driven to madness and violence by the realization that their mission can only have one possible end?

The look and feel of High Life far surpass the content of the film. The spaceship’s exterior has a barebones look by design, as Denis has said she couldn’t imagine this dystopian future country spending on anything superficial for a mission of this kind. The interior also looks stark and grim, again fitting the nature of the mission, also enhancing the general sense of dread around the story and the fatalistic outlook of the various people on the ship. There are little details around things like resource management – including, of course, how they recycle their waste products – that give the film a layer of additional realism that would have really paid off if the story were better.

In the end, though, I never got on board with High Life‘s plot. Pattinson is good, but I didn’t relate to the character, and I think Denis’ decision to tell the story via flashbacks ultimately robs the movie of any real dramatic tension. It’s an experiment, with a decent idea at its core, but the experiment doesn’t succeed.

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→ July 1, 2019
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The Woman in the Dunes.

I’d never heard of The Woman in the Dunes, the 1962 novel by Japanese author Kobo Abe, before literature professor Daniel Burt included it in the expanded second edition of his book The Novel 100, which ranked the 125 greatest novels of all time. This slim, bleak, almost dystopian novel draws on the existentialist traditions of Camus and Kafka, thoroughly dehumanizing its main characters, and pushes its protagonist into a philosophical dilemma that causes him to question the meaning of his life.

The book opens by telling us that a man has been declared dead after going missing seven years earlier, so we know going into the novel at least some of how it ends. The man, Niki Jumpei, is an amateur entomologist, and arrives at a town with interesting specimens, only to find he needs to stay the night. The town is slowly losing ground to endlessly advancing sand dunes, and the home of the woman who hosts him is on the front line of the battle, so that she must work daily to clear some of the sand so that the entire village isn’t lost. The next morning, the man finds that the rope ladder he used to descend into the pit of the house is gone, and within a few days realizes that he’s a prisoner of the village, forced to work on the Sisyphean task of shoveling back the sand with the woman. He rages against her and his captors, and pleads with them, and attempts to bargain with them. He tries to escape once and fails. When the story ends, he’s on the verge of escaping again … but chooses to go back.

Abe rarely refers to Jumpei by name, and never names the woman; their identities are immaterial to their function in the story. The man, as Abe calls him, could be any man, feeling alienated from everything about his life – from other people, from his job, from his community – in an increasingly isolating, urbanized world. I think you can read this novel in multiple ways, but I couldn’t get away from the idea that the sand was time – like sands through the hourglass – and that the villagers’ struggle against it is man’s attempts to deny his own mortality. It’s replayed through the man’s own reactions to his understanding that he’s a hostage with no hope of rescue; even though the book predates Kübler-Ross’ five stages, the man goes through at least four of them once he realizes he’s trapped. While neither he nor the woman fully lose their humanity, Abe writes of them in a disconnected, impersonal way, and he does have them devolve in some ways, like sex, that emphasize our animal nature.

There’s another interpretation that’s a bit less grim, that the man’s decision at the end not to flee when he has the chance is a sign that he’s accepted reality and, given back some agency over his own life, is making a choice on his own terms. It’s a kind of enlightenment that I might associate with Buddhism or even some new age spiritualism, although I couldn’t get to the point where I’d view the man’s journey through the book as any sort of positive.

Abe’s style absolutely presages later Japanese authors, notably Haruki Murakami, whose prose and themes seem to be direct descendants of Abe’s work here. There’s no magical realism here, unless you consider some of the sand stuff to be such; I never could get a reasonable picture in my head of what was happening or what the woman’s house looked like. It probably doesn’t matter, since the point is that the man is trapped on one side by other people and on the other side by an inanimate force that will simply keep on coming and eventually kill him – and lots of other people – unless he starts to help the woman work to hold it back. Abe’s prose is brisk and sparse, presumably influenced by the existentialist masters in that regard as well, but there are passages where I could see a direct influence on Murakami (including the latter’s particular focus on cooking), especially in the dialogue. As bleak as The Woman in the Dunes is, it’s actually a fast read; Abe wastes little time on frivolities and keeps to the plot. I’m not sure why Burt included it in the top 125, but I wonder if it was more for its influence on modern Japanese literature than its own merits.

Next up: I just finished Caitlin PenzeyMoog’s On Spice this morning – and yes, she’s part of the Penzey’s Spices family, although she now works for The AV Club.

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→ July 20, 2018
→ By

Ice.

I get a daily email from a site called Bookbub that highlights ebooks on sale each day, slightly tailored to my tastes by books or authors I’ve indicated I like; I probably buy 20-25 books a year that way, sometimes picking up titles I wouldn’t have heard of otherwise. One of those was Anna Kavan’s final novel, Ice published shortly before her death in 1967, a book and author with which I was completely unfamiliar until I saw the cover in one of those daily emails and thought it sounded interesting enough to pick up (and, at maybe 150 pages total, a small investment to make). It is interesting … and absolutely one of the weirdest things I’ve ever read, defying all conventions of narrative in how it treats characters, time, or even physical reality, giving the reader (well, this reader) the sense of watching or reading someone else’s dream.

Ice is told from the perspective of an unnamed man who is following and possibly trying to protect a frail young woman, also unnamed, in a post-apocalyptic world of nuclear winter, where an ice shelf is pushing civilization back towards the equator. The girl is often with a character called the Warden, who by turns seems to be her lover, her captor, or her protector. But the narrative itself is far from straightforward; the girl is lost, injured, or killed multiple times in the story, only to reappear in the next chapter as if those things never happened. The narrator himself becomes increasingly incoherent as the book progresses, and begins to question his own sanity as the story moves along, and what exactly his feelings are for this girl, who also seems less than happy to be ‘rescued’ by him at several points in the book. Kavan herself called the story a fable, but even that fails to quite prepare the reader for what is now known as slipstream literature, which mimics the jarring, nonlinear nature of dreams or subconscious thought; it’s easier to follow than James Joyce’s attempts to write as the brain thinks, or subsequent authors who’ve done the same (like Eimear McBride), but still brings the sense of being on a rollercoaster in the dark, where you can’t anticipate the turns, drops, or the end of the ride.

Part of what makes Ice simultaneously compelling and offputting is that Kavan never tries to distinguish between what’s real and what is a delusion, dream, or hallucination of the narrator; the prose simply slips from the realistic to the bizarre without any notice to tell you that things have changed or that we’re in the narrator’s head. It’s more than just an unreliable narrator – the narrator here doesn’t seem to know he’s unreliable, and he jumps time and place in dizzying fashion. You have to enjoy that kind of writing to appreciate Ice, and if it were twice the length I would have found it frustrating, but at close to novella size it becomes a sort of thrill ride through a fever dream.

Kavan died mere months after the book’s publication in the UK and a week before its publication in the U.S., so the years of conversation and interpretation that might have followed its release never happened – and the book itself may have come to greater attention because she’d died. There’s an obvious Cold War theme to the story and the setting, both the post-nuclear aspect and the analogy of a frozen world to a war described by temperature, but more interesting to me is the exploration of woman’s agency through the eyes of a man who sees himself as her white knight but may in fact be operating entirely against her wishes. The story starts out in traditional enough fashion, with the Warden the antagonist who is threatening the girl with imprisonment, rape, or death, but it’s never even clear that the narrator and the Warden are on opposing sides, or what the girl, never named and often on the run, actually wants at any point in the book. Her story is actually the pivotal one, yet Kavan gives us barely any details on the girl herself, which seems like a perfect metaphor for the invisible women throughout human history who’ve been ignored by the men who wrote the books.

Next up: I’m reading John Wray’s 2016 novel The Lost Time Accidents.

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→ March 7, 2018
→ By

Blindness.

Sometimes I get hung up on a specific review, and end up going a few days between posts here because that one book or film is clogging the mental road and nothing else can come out until I figure out what I want to say. The most recent title to do this is Nobel Prize for Literature winner Jose Saramago’s book Blindness, a strange, hypnotic, disturbing-on-many-levels parable about an epidemic of “white blindness” that is unexplained and contagious, leading to the total breakdown of civilization in a matter of weeks.

Characters in Blindness don’t even get names, and throughout the book Saramago refers to them as the first blind man, the girl with dark glasses, the old man, and so on. The first man to go blind has it hit him while he’s driving in traffic, and he turns out to be Patient Zero, as the sight loss is highly contagious. The authorities move quickly to quarantine patients, and in their initial sweep they take in the wife of one of the first patients when she claims she’s gone blind as well – but she hasn’t, and lies just to be able to stay with her husband. The patients are thrown in a disused mental asylum (there’s some symbolism right there) and are told they’ll be shot if they try to leave. They’re given food, irregularly, and little else. The people in the asylum try to organize themselves, not realizing one of them can see, but the facilities are quickly overrun, and later waves of patients arrive, including a group that takes over the food supply, extorting first valuables and later women before they’ll release any food to the remainder of the prisoners. The one sighted woman eventually leads a rebellion, after which a few surviving patients leave the asylum to find the city in ruins, haunted by itinerant groups of blind people trying to find food and shelter any way they can. Through unfathomable hardships and privations, their little group – which includes a young boy who arrived at the hospital alone in the first wave, and a “dog of tears” who has followed them since their escape – becomes more than a means of survival, but a familial unit of people who continually sacrifice to help others, and who can thus persevere until the crisis ends.

Saramago was born in Portugal but lived the last portion of his life in exile in the Canary Islands, as his philosophies – he was a militant atheist, communist, anti-fascist, and humanist – ran afoul of the fascist Estado Novo regime in Portugal and later the country’s still-powerful Catholic Church, which objected strongly to his 1991 novel The Gospel According to Jesus Christ. Blindness was published in 1995, after he’d left Portugal, and became his best-known work, one of the novels cited in his Nobel commendation, emblematic of his fabulist style and with his trademark meandering prose that eschews standard sentence structure for something that mimics the nonlinear, stop-and-start path of human thought.

Saramago despised religion and thought that human love and compassion were the solutions to many ills of modern society; Blindness, at its most literal level, takes this to an ungodly extreme. He puts his characters into a post-apocalyptic situation where they’re not dying, but could die from starvation, poor sanitation, or the cruelty of others. Some of the secondary characters are merely truculent or selfish; others are more sanguinary or malevolent. They’re all recognizably human, however, even in their stripped-down state. The one woman who can see – “the doctor’s wife,” in Saramago’s prose – turns out to be, or simply remains, the most compassionate of everyone, even though her sight means she can see the worst that’s happening around her. With her as an anchor, though, her band of vagrants coalesces around each other beyond just the need for survival, with real affection growing among them, and their empathy returning even as they encounter other blind people struggling to stay alive outside the asylum.

The metaphor of blindness lends itself to too many interpretations for me to ever focus on a single one while reading it. The idea of us not ‘seeing’ what’s happening to or around us is the most obvious one that came to me. After finishing, I also latched on to the idea of the blindness contagion as the popular reaction to autocracy, especially fascism, where people choose not to see the suffering of others as long as they are unaffected themselves – the ‘first they came for the Jews, and I said nothing’ idea, written from the perspective of the first group to be rounded up, who then serve as witnesses and victims to atrocities that come afterwards. This interpretation, which I think is consistent with Saramago’s personal beliefs, recasts the story as a parable of the power of caring for others, and how that is what defines us as civilized beings, more than our ephemeral institutions or customs could.

The one truly unbearable part of Blindness isn’t the violence or the deprivations, but Saramago’s excessive and almost puerile attention to bodily excretions. There is so much discussion of shit in this book that just isn’t necessary – yes, I get it, the toilets are going to back up, especially once the municipal water system goes offline due to the plague – but Saramago can’t stop discussing it, and urine, and semen, and menstrual blood, to the point of … what, exactly? Reminding us that we are still biological creatures, and thus subject to the same demands and needs of the flesh that other mammals have? If he were trying to point out how our reliance on the people and technology behind our sanitation systems are the only thing keeping us First Worlders from dying of cholera, then I’d understand his point. Instead, we just get imagery that detracts from any larger points Saramago was trying to make.

Before you ask, no, I haven’t seen the 2008 film version, and don’t plan to, given how poor the reviews were and how graphic the content of the novel could be. At least the images in my own head aren’t as indelible as those I see on a screen.

Next up: Somehow I’m in the midst of three books – Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward, Nudge by Richard Thaler (on the Kindle), and The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson (audiobook). They are, in order, the reigning National Book Award for Fiction winner, the most popular book by the reigning Nobel Prize for Economics winner, and a Pulitzer Prize for Non-Fiction winner.

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→ December 4, 2017
→ By

Smoke.

I can’t remember where I first heard about Dan Vyleta’s novel Smoke, which I think falls somewhere in between the YA and adult literature genres, but I’d had it on my shopping list for a year when the paperback version appeared in June for under $10. Offering a gothic-themed setting in an alternate reality where sin is revealed as visible Smoke emanating from the sinner’s body, Smoke follows its trio of compelling characters through a physical and metaphysical journey that leads them to question everything they’ve been told by their parents, teachers, and every other moral authorities in their lives.

Set some time in the late 19th century, Smoke begins, as so many young adult books do, in a boarding school, where we meet Thomas, a volatile child with hidden rage and some sort of secret in his family background; and Charlie, his new best friend at school, a more mild-mannered, rule-abiding kid. The school is for children of the upper class, who send their kids there to learn to avoid producing Smoke – easier said than done, as it turns out – as part of the complex social hierarchy that has evolved to protect those who don’t smoke, the gentry, from those who do. The opening scene, which does a wonderful job of pulling you right into the story, sets Thomas up against his antagonist for the remainder of the book, Julius, a Malfoyesque character who runs the school’s unofficial but apparently tolerated inquisitorial squad. What appears at the start to be a conflict among boys, two good against one evil, takes a hard and unexpected right turn when they visit Thomas’s aunt and uncle over the holidays, only to find themselves plunged right into the heart of the mystery of Smoke and on a quest to try and solve it, to save Thomas’s life and perhaps overturn the entire autocracy the aristocrats have constructed with Smoke as their weapon.

Vyleta takes the story from there into some surprising places, and does well to create a panoply of opponents for the two boys and Thomas’s cousin, Lydia, as they work on unraveling the knot of Smoke. There are some agents who are clearly evil, but many others who are working at opposing purposes to the kids for independent, moral, or even banal reasons. Eventually, we need and get a showdown with the worst of the baddies, but it is not central to the book the way it is to so many YA fantasy novels. (I’ve seen it referred to in video games, especially for RPGs, as the “Kill the Big Foozle” plot device.) It’s the other stuff that makes Smoke … um, sizzle, because the varying motivations and understanding of what’s actually going on beneath the skin, literally and metaphorically, open up the characters to natural discussions about right and wrong, moral authority, and historical revisionism. The most obvious target of Vyleta’s satire is the Church – Catholic, Anglican, you pick – although much of Smoke‘s subversive subtext works quite as well when applied to the pernicious effects of classism, environmental racism, or how people respond to totalitarian regimes.

By setting up a multi-threaded conflict, Vyleta set up a delightfully unconventional ending with plenty of tension, including the big fight that some readers will demand, but also resolving other plot threads in unexpected ways, not always thoroughly (by design) but at least hinting at what the End of Smoke might entail for whole groups of people whose identities are tied to the status quo. The book itself was inspired by a line from Dickens’ Dombey and Son, but the vibe of Smoke is much more along the lines of Lev Grossman’s superb trilogy The Magicians: It’s a bit dark, but not overwhelmingly so, and there’s plenty of humor and empathy to balance out the sinister elements. It’s too well-written to call it a true YA novel, but the themes would be appropriate for teens.

Next up: I read James Gould Cozzens’ Pulitzer-winning novel Guard of Honor, and it was just so bad – boring in story and prose – that I’m not going to bother with a full review. I’m now 2/3 of the way through Bessel Van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, which is $2 right now for the Kindle.

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