→ October 12, 2023
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The Zone of Interest.

Martin Amis died earlier this year at age 73, leaving behind a bibliography of fifteen novels, several books’ worth of short stories, and eight non-fiction works or essay collections. His penultimate novel, The Zone of Interest, was in the news the same week that he died, as a film of the same name premiered at the Cannes film festival, where it won the Grand Prix (second place, of a sort, after the Palme d’Or). Both are set during the Holocaust at the Auschwitz concentration camp, but while the film – which I have not seen – focuses on Rudolph Höss and his wife, the novel fictionalizes the commandant and adds two more fictional characters for a tripartite narrative that plunges the reader into the contrast of setting and story.

Angelus “Golo” Thomsen is a Nazi officer at the death camp, a scheming womanizer who becomes obsessed with Hannah Doll, the wife of camp commandant Paul Doll, who is the fictional stand-in for Höss. Thomsen pursues Hannah despite the obvious threat to both of their lives, and she’s more than amenable, as she’s become disgusted with her true-believer Nazi husband, who drinks far too much and is becoming increasingly paranoid both of those around him and of his superiors in Berlin. Szmul is a Sonderkommando, a Jew and prisoner who is forced to help dispose of the bodies of victims of the Nazis’ gas chambers, in exchange for slightly better living conditions and little threat of arbitrary execution. Each of the three narrates his portion of the story, with Szmul’s sections the shortest but offering the starkest contrast to the mundane machinations of the other two.

While the story of Thomsen’s bizarre courtship of Hannah is ostensibly the core of the novel, it’s Amis’s development of the setting, presenting us with the contradictions between love, sex, and other ordinary facets of life with the murder, torture, and privation happening on the same grounds. There is no actual separation here – smoke from the crematorium fouls the air, prisoners from the camp sometimes ‘serve’ the Nazis, one prisoner happens to see Doll in a vulnerable moment and pays for it with his life. The Nazis, including their wives, simply choose not to see what is happening around them, like each ethnic group in China Miéville’s The City and the City, and go on with their daily lives as if they were not complicit in, or even actually ordering, the deaths of thousands of Jews, Roma, and others right in their literal back yard. That Amis makes this so plausible, this depiction of the banality of evil and the ways in which humans can justify anything to themselves, is what makes this novel such an odd, impressive work.

It’s often easy to get lost in the trivial nature of the bizarre love triangle here, until reality intrudes somewhere, either when Szmul gets the microphone or when one of the prisoners is forced to do something at one of the officers’ houses, and we’re reminded of the horrendous circumstances in which Thomsen’s and Hannah’s mundane acts and emotions are taking place. It’s a twist on absurdism, where the actions and dialogue are entirely normal, but they all occur at a death camp where over one million people were murdered. I don’t know if that was Amis’s point, to indict everyone involved, to show how easily people can devolve into complicity with genocide as long as they have food and shelter and sex, but I found that idea inescapable while reading this book. In many ways the plot reminded me of some of Graham Greene’s more literary works, such as The Heart of the Matter, where Greene would focus on a very small number of characters and work deep within their emotional cores to tell an extremely human story, often in a setting like British-occupied west Africa. Amis has a similar gift for prose and characterization, but here he shifts a similar story to the worst setting imaginable, yet keeps the diegesis intact, like picking up a house and moving it so carefully that the paintings stay on the walls. The Zone of Interest would be a great book if it were set anywhere, in any time, but Amis’s feat of using a compelling story to expose something darker about humanity turns it into a greater work and a highlight of modern literature.

Next up: I’m reading Liam O’Flaherty’s 1925 novel The Informer, although MC Shan has yet to make an appearance.

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→ December 6, 2021
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Stick to baseball, 12/6/21.

We had a busy weekend of decorating the house, including acquiring the largest tree I’ve ever owned (since we have one room with exceptionally high ceilings, it seemed irresponsible to fail to take advantage of it), which means this post is late. I had a whole slew of posts for subscribers to The Athletic last week, however, including

Over at Paste, I reviewed The Crew: Mission Deep Sea, the sequel to the 2019 Kennerspiel winner, and I think a small but significant improvement over the original. At Ars Technica, I contributed twenty new entries to their Ars Technica’s ultimate board game gift guide.

I sent out a new edition of my free email newsletter last week, with a story about being too judgmental and learning to get past it. And finally, with Christmas just three weeks away, here’s another reminder that I have two books out, The Inside Game and Smart Baseball, that would make great gifts for the readers (especially baseball fans) on your lists.

And now, the links…

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→ July 8, 2019
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The Periodic Table.

Primo Levi’s short story novel The Periodic Table is a strange, interesting, maybe convoluted book, with each chapter built around a single chemical element that usually figures into the story, with Levi’s life from childhood through the Holocaust and afterwards as the book’s through-line. It made the Guardian‘s list of the top 100 novels ever written, and in 2006 the Royal Institution of Great Britain named it the best science book ever written, for which it beat out The Selfish Gene, Double Helix, and Gödel, Escher, Bach, among other titles. It’s also an arduous read, not for the content around Levi’s time in Auschwitz but for his disconnected writing style and prose that is often a difficult slog. I’m also fairly certain there’s some metaphor in here I missed, perhaps because I found his prose so prolix that I couldn’t read the book on two levels at the same time.

The Periodic Table is an autobiographical collection for Levi, a professional chemist who survived World War II in part due to his chemistry skills (and due to some good fortune, like falling ill before the death march out of Auschwitz that killed many surviving prisoners of the Nazis). Two of the stories (“Lead” and “Mercury”) are straight fiction, but the remainder tell some stories from Levi’s life before and during the war, although a few others read like fables rather than renderings of real life.

The two fictional tales and some of the fabulist stories, like “Arsenic,” in which the narrator is asked to examine a sample of sugar that might be tainted, are much easier to follow in prose and story – Levi lets loose, so to speak, and writes more like a fiction writer than a scientist. Some of the earliest stories about his life prior to the Fascist takeover of Italy and his eventual imprisonment are among the slowest to read, with the elements in question also less directly related to the actual story … but when the Nazis arrive, Levi becomes a bit of a different writer too, working with the natural tension that comes from having a murderous regime in charge, with its agents unpredictable and violent. The stark “Cerium,” named for a rare earth element about which Levi knows little other than its use in the flints found in lighters, is set inside the Lager (Auschwitz), where he and a comrade Alberto steal supplies of cerium so they can trade them for rations to survive, making the grim calculus of X flints for Y more days of life.

Levi survives the war, of course, while many of his friends and colleagues did not. The chapters after the liberation skip over some of his worst experiences in the hands of the Russians, but detail his attempts to reintegrate into the greater science world. “Vanadium” has Levi trying to locate an old nemesis decades after their last meeting. “Silver” is a bit of a science mystery, as Levi has to figure out why certain photographic plates are arriving with flaws from their factory. The final story, “Carbon,” is the most literary of all, a fanciful, beautiful meditation on the arc of a carbon atom over the millennia, going from somewhere in rock and earth to forming part of an actual life and back again, a testament to the impermanence of our existence and the survival of the building blocks of the universe beyond ourselves. But I exited the book with the sense that I didn’t fully appreciate what Levi tried to express; it could be the translation, of course, but I think Levi was such an erudite and precise writer that he often sacrificed clarity to find just the right word or phrase, which meant I spent more time trying to follow the literal plot when there was probably a greater layer of meaning I missed.

Next up: Still reading John Berger’s G..

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→ February 17, 2019
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The Resistance Banker.

My meandering through various submissions for this year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film continued with The Resistance Banker (original title Bankier von het Verzet, available on Netflix), submitted by the Netherlands, which tells the incredible, little-known, true story of two brothers who created and ran an underground bank in the country to finance the Resistance to the Nazi occupiers, eventually forging treasury bonds to keep their bank afloat. The story is the star here, told in an almost matter-of-fact way that might mute the emotional impact of what the brothers did, and the sacrifices they made, to help feed Dutch Jews in hiding and fund the national railroad strike, but an expert performance by Barry Atsma as the lead banker, Wally Van Hall, gives the film some pathos beneath the thriller at the surface.

Wally, given name Walraven, and his brother Gijs (Jacob Derwig) are both bankers in the Netherlands at the time of the invasion, and they’re approached near the start of the film by a Resistance member who asks for their help in financing the efforts to shelter Jews and fund the Resistance’s efforts. Wally jumps into the job, despite having a wife (Fockeline Ouwerkerk) and three young children, while Gijs is more cautious, and a bit closer to Meinoud van Tonnigen (Pierre Bokma), a Dutch collaborator who rose to run the Finance Ministry and the national bank under the occupying forces.

The film tells the story at a brisk pace, showing how the brothers built the underground organization, keeping meticulous records, and eventually built a process for forging bonds using government employees sympathetic to the Resistance to help them gain serial numbers and swap those bonds out for real ones that could then be called in for cash. The scheme eventually netted over 50 million guilders for the effort, over half a billion Euros in today’s money according to a note before the end credits. The bolder the underground bank became, the more the occupiers and van Tonnigen tried to find and stop them, and the more people they involved, the greater the chance became of someone finking or being captured and tortured for information – both of which eventually happen, although the bank managed to keep operating until the liberation of the country by Allied forces.

The van Halls put their own lives at risk to do this, powered by both a patriotic fervor and a horror at what they saw happening around them, with Wally depicted as the true believer and Gijs the more reticent of the two, sometimes to the point of reminding his brother that his family would be at risk if he were ever caught. There’s a framing device here of Gijs testifying after the war to a room of men in suits, with their roles revealed at the end of the movie, but Wally is the clear hero, and Atsma infuses the portrayal with the zealotry required for someone to undertake such a scheme, inviting torture and death if he should ever be caught, as well as the affection and pain of a man who flees from his own family partway through the war lest he be caught and put them in further danger. Atsma seems the best of all of the actors in the film at showing real emotion in his facial expressions and body language; almost every other male actor in the movie is restrained, even in distress, or seems to overexert himself to show emotion, while Atsma’s tonal shifts, even the abrupt ones, work naturally.

The Resistance Banker won the Golden Calf awards – the Dutch equivalent of the Oscars – for Best Picture, Best Actor for Atsma, Best Supporting Actress for Ouwerkerk, and Best Production Design, and won the Audience Award (I think by popular vote). The story is just tremendous, one I’d never heard before, and it seems from what I’ve read that the script hews largely to actual events (with one exception I could find – van Tonningen was already on the run by January/February 1945, so he couldn’t have met Wally in that time period). It has the feel of a great British historical spy film, which means that it’s also a bit removed, and very light on flash. If you know the real outcome, you have an idea of what’s coming, but how we get there, and how many near-misses the bankers seem to have had with exposure or arrest, is very compelling, with no lapse in tension or extraneous material here. It’s a quick two hours and a story that I think most people would appreciate. That probably wouldn’t be enough to distinguish it from the other candidates for the Oscar – it didn’t make the shortlist – but I’d find this easier to recommend to people than the mediocre Capernaum or the three-hour Never Look Away (which I haven’t seen yet, but three hours?).

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→ December 13, 2018
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The Narrow Road to the Deep North.

Tasmanian author Richard Flanagan won the Man Booker Prize in 2014 for his World War II novel The Narrow Road to the Deep North, a graphic description of life for POWs forced by the Japanese army to build the Burma Railway in 1943. Through the eyes of its flawed hero, Dorrigo Evans, the novel exposes the brutal conditions for soldiers and civilian slave workers, with estimated deaths over 100,000, as well as the impact of that imprisonment and a failed affair on Evans’ life for decades beyond the war.

Evans is a student rather than a soldier, a man in love with literature and poetry going back to the ancient Greeks, a doctor conscripted to fight in the war and eventually made a colonel, a position that carries over to leadership over the other captives as they’re forced to work on the railway even as malnutrition and disease overtake them. Evans is a paragon of virtue in the literal and metaphorical jungle, sacrificing his own well-being to try to keep as many of his men alive as he can, negotiating without leverage to try to get sick men time off the line so they might recover, setting up a makeshift hospital and even performing amputations and surgeries that increase patients’ odds of survival just to something above zero. Flanagan creates a whole cast of eccentrics around Evans to put a veneer of comedy above both the inherent tragedy that many of these men will die there and none will leave unharmed as well as the unstinting descriptions of the physical degradation of life in the labor camp. (Flanagan gives a lot of detail on how the men’s bodies betray them due to dysentery and other parasites, so if you can’t deal with substantial prose about emesis or defecation, this book may not be for you.)

Wrapped around that narrative is a secondary thread about Evans’ romantic life – his quick but futile attachment to Ella, whom he marries but to whom he is serially unfaithful for decades, and his one affair, during the war, with Amy, the young wife of Evans’ uncle Keith. Amy is very much his one who got away, but after the war their affair does not resume, and he returns to Ella and a life of emotional isolation and meandering. Evans struggles to balance that internal void against his rising profile as a national hero, a man who fought to protect his men from the worst their Japanese tormentors could dish out and who himself survived to be celebrated, even as he feels worse about himself and can’t find any meaning in all of their suffering.

The two subplots don’t tie together particularly well even at the end of the book, however, leaving a disjointed feeling even after the final pages. Keith lies to Amy, telling her that Dorrigo died in captivity, and then after the war, Evans learns from Ella that Amy and his uncle died in a gas explosion at their hotel, so there’s no happy ending or even a continuation of this great, passionate affair between them, and the story barely resurfaces in the remainder of the book. Instead, after the war, we get more of the story from the perspective of two of the captors who also served as main characters in the jungle – a sadistic Japanese officer and a Korean guard who especially enjoyed beating the captives. The former manages to escape punishment and, given a chance, repents, to some extent, and tries to create a new life where he can redeem himself. The latter is caught and tried, finding himself blamed and punished for the atrocities that were ordered by men above him in the hierarchy who often weren’t tried or received lighter sentences. The theme here, reminiscent of Ian McEwan’s Atonement, seems to be that things don’t always come right in the end, and that any idea of justice for the victims or survivors was misguided, so it fell to each individual to make his own meaning out of meaninglessness.

That choice by Flanagan detracts from the center of the novel, which focused on life in the slave camp from the perspectives of Evans and the Japanese officer, by the way it splinters the reader’s focus and fails to adequately tie the Amy subplot into anything else other than the connection through Dorrigo. The storycraft within each plot thread is very well-executed, and the prose, while often difficult to stomach, is erudite and evocative, so that each individual chapter or section works on its own. The finished product lacked some of the unity that a great novel like this, that covers an enormous historical event by casting a wide net, needs to have to truly hit its ceiling.

Next up: Still reading Marlon James’ Booker winner A Brief History of Seven Killings.

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→ August 16, 2018
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The English Patient.

I’d never read Michael Ondaatje’s 1992 novel The English Patient until late May of this year, despite recommendations from multiple people, its status as a Booker Prize winner, and its adaptation into an Oscar-winning film (that I still have not seen). This past week, a public poll voted it the best Booker winner of all time (the so-called “Golden Booker”), choosing it from five candidates, one from each decade of the award’s history, but I tweeted that I wouldn’t even put it top five among the 14 Booker winners I’ve read; my favorite is Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, which wasn’t on the shortlist. While I do like Ondaatje’s writing, I couldn’t possibly have felt less connected to a story than I did to this one, about four people holed up in a damaged Italian villa in the wake of World War II.

The patient of the title might be English, and is certainly modeled after the Hungarian count Count László de Almásy, although the Count didn’t crash and burn in the Sahara as this patient did. The fictional version is burned over nearly his entire body and has no hope of recovery. He’s cared for by the shell-shocked nurse Hana, and they’re joined by the Sikh sapper Kip and the Canadian thief Caravaggio, with their four stories told in intertwined narratives, with the patient’s recollections of his affair with a friend’s wife and eventual betrayal forming the book’s foundation.

Although the patient’s story sits at the center of the book, Kip’s narrative is both more interesting and more insightful, and I think a book about him would have held my attention and my empathy much more than the distant plot about Almásy did. Kip is Indian-born and goes against the nationalist leanings of his brother when he volunteers to become a sapper in the British army, joining an all-white unit that keeps him at arm’s length even when he proves skilled at his job. He is effectively drafted into a more elite group headed by Lord Suffolk (also based on a real person), who trains the best sappers in disposing of new types of bombs, but this brief honeymoon of belonging ends abruptly and cuts Kip adrift, landing him eventually into an abortive affair with Hana. The way that ends is one of the novel’s strongest moments, as an external event bursts the bubble in which Kip has been hiding for some time – the same one that Hana refuses to leave even though the war in Europe has ended.

I suppose part of the popular appeal of both the book and the film is that the patient’s recollections of his affair with Katherine Clifton, portrayed in the film by Kristin Scott-Thomas, depict some sort of great romance – especially founded as it was on a deep intellectual connection – but that scarcely comes across in the pages of the book, between Ondaatje’s fuzzy descriptions, probably to emphasize that we are reading the muddled memories of a gravely injured man, and the absence of any depth to Katherine’s character.

Perhaps the movie develops her character more, or fleshes out other parts of the story, but while I respect Ondaatje’s dedication to historical accuracy in borrowing these personages and his deft writing, I felt utterly detached from this story from start to finish.

Next up: Min Jin Lee’s 2017 novel Pachinko.

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→ September 3, 2017
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Everyone Brave is Forgiven.

Chris Cleave has written several global bestsellers, notably the 2008 novel Little Bee, but his 2016 book Everyone Brave is Forgiven was his first foray into historical fiction. This quick-moving novel of four young people caught up in World War II is heavy on both action and emotion, but the character development lags behind the pace of the text, and it can’t help but suffer in comparison to a contemporary novel that does so much more with the same setting.

The quartet of characters at the heart of the book are Mary, Tom, Alistair, and Hilda, although Hilda is secondary to the main trio and bizarre love triangle that occupies the first half of the book. Mary and Tom are a quick item, meeting by chance at the start of the war when the manor-born Mary signs up and runs into Tom at the war office. Alistair, Tom’s more worldly, witty roommate, meets Mary later and the attraction is instant and mutual – but she and Tom are already engaged by this point and Alistair is heading back off to war after his first stint ended in the evacuation at Dunkirk. Mary is beautiful, so of course Hilda, her best friend, must be ugly, in what I believe is the 4th or 5th law of popular fiction (I get the order wrong sometimes), and attempts to set Hilda up with Alistair go nowhere.

Cleave can really write – the pace is brisk but never skimps on evocative imagery, especially the scenes of Blitz-plagued London or the privations Alistair suffers while stationed in Malta. The section where Mary, Tom, and Mary’s little class of non-evacuated students are caught in a bombing is the most memorable passage in the book, especially in how Cleave communicates the characters’ confusion in the shock of the attack – everything was fine, and now it’s not. His rendition puts the reader in the fog right next to his characters, so you feel the disorientation and the revelations seem to come in reverse, as if time has rewound and played back at half-speed.

He adds to the sense of disorientation, however, through the way he reveals big twists, such as the death early in the book of a side character whom Alistair has just befriended. The nonchalant description of the death, in the final sentence of a chapter, feels manipulative, although Cleave uses the aftermath to explore more of Alistair’s character in the first real window the reader gets into his emotions. But the regular use of jarring reveals wears thin very quickly and gives the novel a pulpy feel that doesn’t marry well with the subject matter.

Alistair is easy the most interesting character of the four, as Tom is a blank page and Mary’s appeal must lie in her looks rather than anything about her personality. Cleave builds the characters and then puts them through the ringer, but they come out on the other side relatively unchanged, just older and short a limb or with a visible scar. This is the real disappointment of Everyone Brave is Forgiven: Cleave set a novel during the Blitz, put real thought and energy into depicting the city in ruins, and then had his characters drift through the setting without sufficient growth or development.

This book appeared just one year and one day after Anthony Doerr won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction with his own WWII novel, All the Light We Cannot See, one of the best contemporary works of fiction I’ve read. Doerr crafted a more complex, meticulous plot, and in the soldier Werne gave readers a memorable, thoroughly-developed character who faces real moral challenges, without falling into the sentiment that traps Cleave. Doerr doesn’t skimp on the narrative greed – his novel moved faster and worked with higher stakes than Cleave’s, but along the way we get much more insight into Werne, and even Marie-Laure, who bears a few marks of the stock character, is better developed than Mary or Hilda. I find it hard to judge the latter novel without considering Doerr’s work, given their settings and how close the release dates were, but even on its own Cleave’s book is more a well-written page-turner than a work of good literature.

Next up: Still reading T.S. Stribling’s The Store, which has managed to pile a dash of anti-Semitism on top of its pervasive racism.

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→ June 25, 2017
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Land of Mine.

The Danish-German drama Land of Mine (Under Sandet) was one of five nominees for the Best Foreign Language film at the most recent Academy Awards ceremony and swept the Robert Awards, the Danish equivalent of the Oscars, last year. The story is fictional but is based on the real-life effort after World War II where 2000 German POWs, many of them teenagers or elderly men, were forced to come to Denmark to clear the up to two million landmines the Nazis had planted along the country’s western coast. Half the Germans either died or were maimed in the work, and the question of whether this constituted a war crime still hangs over Danish history. Land of Mine is sparse and taut, rarely sentimental until the very end, and doesn’t let the Danes off the hook one bit for the choice to force children to pay for the sins of their fathers. (It’s available to rent/buy on amazon and iTunes.)

The kids forced to clear the mines arrive at a Danish beach under the command of Captain Ebbe and Sgt. Carl Rasmussen, both of whom appear to be completely unconcerned with their charges’ welfare – they are human fodder for clearing the mines, and if they die in the effort, that’s the Germans’ fault for placing the mines there in the first place. One boy doesn’t even make it out of the initial training. The group includes Helmut Morbach, who is either the most realistic kid of the group or just an asshole, depending on your view; Sebastian Schumm, who is the de facto leader of the troop; Wilhelm Hahn, a naive kid oblivious to what’s ahead of him either in Denmark or after a return home; and the twins Werner and Ernst Lessner, who plan to go home and become bricklayers to help rebuild Germany now that the war is over. There’s no question over their volition here: the boys are barricaded in their little hut at the end of each work day and aren’t even fed for the first few days at the beach.

The kids don’t stand out much as individual characters, but are vehicles for telling the greater story, including how Sgt. Carl (Herr Feldwebel to the kids) ends up caring about their welfare in spite of his own misgivings and the commands from above to treat them like slaves. I don’t think I’m spoiling anything to mention that some of the 14 kids in the original group aren’t going to live to the end of the movie – they’re crawling on a beach looking for and defusing land mines, so of course there will be casualties. The movie’s impact comes more from how they’re injured or killed than how many, such as the effects of failing to feed the kids adequately, and in some of the cases we don’t really know the characters well enough to feel their losses as individuals.

Sgt. Carl, played by a relative novice actor in Roland Møller, is the moral center of the film, and his evolution over the course of the film becomes the movie’s conscience – he doesn’t want to think of the boys as people, comes to see them that way once the suffering and death begin, then is reminded of how they all ended up in this situation in the first place before he has to make one final decision to do the ‘right’ thing. Møller’s performance is dominant because most of it is so understated, and because his character gets the emotional complexity Ebbe’s and even the boys’ characters lack. That makes the ending of the film a little harder for me to accept – it’s the one true moment of sentiment, and the only part of the script that didn’t ring true. When he develops a little camaraderie with the boys, it seems only natural; he’s with them all day and starts to see them as real people, and struggles to transfer his hatred of the Nazis or the Germans over to them once he knows them. Whether the end works may depend on how much you buy into his personal transformation from the initial scene of abject hatred to the last day of work on the beach.

The characters of the POWs aren’t that well defined, but the young actors playing them at least give them depth in their emotional responses to the series of catastrophes that follow their assignment to the beach. They’re afraid every day, and every time the script seems like it’s giving them a few moments of calm, another mine explodes, setting off a new chain of emotional reactions in the survivors. Joel Basman delivers a strong performance as Helmut, the least likable of all of the boy soldiers, while the twins, Emil and Oskar Belton, playing Ernst and Werner get a small subplot of their own that gives Emil in particular a powerful scene in the back half of the film. The script also adds little details, like Sebastian answering a question about whether his father’s still alive with a long pause followed by a remote “I don’t know,” to flesh out the emotional states of these children even without giving us much in the way of biographical details.

Land of Mine is almost old-fashioned in its anti-nationalism; the easy thing to do in any historical drama about World War II is make any German characters the villains and move outward from there, but the protagonists of this movie are all Germans and don’t show the slightest hint of Nazi sympathies or even of German nationalism. They’re just kids, and all they want to do is survive and go home. The Danes are the nationalists, carrying forward their rage at the Nazi atrocities on to prisoners of war who had nothing to do with the mistreatment of Denmark. Sgt. Carl has to face the reality that the kids who’ve been conscripted to clear these mines are victims of the Nazi regime too, and the difficult decisions that the script gives him could apply to any conflict and any attempts at postwar reconciliation too.

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→ May 24, 2017
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Dragon’s Teeth.

Upton Sinclair is best remembered today for two of his early novels, the expose The Jungle and the novel Oil!, the latter of which was the basis for the movie There Will Be Blood. (Little-known fact: when Sinclair was on his deathbed, he had a clause put in his will that the movie version had to star Daniel Day-Lewis, who was just 11 years old at the time.) Sinclair later penned a series of eleven novels starring the charismatic socialist Lanny Budd, and the third one, Dragon’s Teeth, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1943. It was out of print for years before the entire Budd series reappeared last year in ebook form, which is how I picked up Dragon’s Teeth (on sale one day for $2).

The novel is very much a product of its time, a blend of wartime patriotism and unrealistic action, with Lanny almost too good to be real and yet surrounded by many flawed characters, including his shallow socialite wife. (There isn’t a female character worth a damn in the book.) The story is the real driver here, as Budd, who’s living abroad in Europe for most of the novel, becomes an early prophet of doom as Hitler begins his rise to power in the late 1920s, even as those around him continue to try to do business with the German government or claim that the worst won’t come to pass. The novel’s second half becomes more action-oriented, where Budd has to rescue two Jewish friends, first a father then the son, from imprisonment by the Nazis, where Sinclair also provides a window into what’s really happening in Nazi Germany – perhaps a bit late by the time it was published, but certainly a reaction to the belief by some Americans that stories of Nazi atrocities were exaggerated or false.

There’s a lot more story than I just gave you – in 600+ pages, there had better be – but much of it is window dressing, or weak criticism. Sinclair appeared to have little or no use for the idle rich, and his depictions of their total indifference to the suffering of the poor and of the Jews in Germany are hard to take – although I concede they may have been very real. (We’re certainly seeing lots of indifference to the poor in our country today.) Sinclair ratchets up the tempo by raising the stakes – there’s really no reason to believe either or both of the Jews Lanny is trying to rescue will be found alive, or come out of the camps intact. But he doesn’t give a ton of depth to most of his characters; it’s a serious novel, but breezes along in parts like a comedy of manners.

What did surprise me, however, was Sinclair’s treatment of the two Jews at the heart of the story. American authors prior to 1950 or so tended to depict Jewish characters using hackneyed stereotypes, if they depicted them at all. Sinclair has Lanny related to the family by marriage, which I imagine would have been scandalous in polite society of the time, and his desire to rescue his friends/relatives is both philosophical and personal. The father Johannas is a businessman, but the Germans are the ones obsessed with money here – the price of freedom in both cases is money, everything Johannas has in the first case, then another exorbitant sum to free his son.

Throughout the Lanny Budd series, Sinclair puts the protagonist into major world events, here having Lanny meet with Hermann Göring and Adolf Hitler multiple times, putting Lanny right in the middle of The Night of Long Knives, and sending Johannas’ son (and thus Lanny) to Dachau. Other real-world events appear via news reports so that Lanny can react to them (or expound his socialist views) and scold the Pollyannas who take Hitler at his word or try to continue to do business with Germany after the Nazis took over. In the moment, it probably felt like an important book that captured a time that was eight years in the past but also relevant to ongoing current events. Today, though, it seems heavy and dated, saved by brisk writing and plenty of action in the book’s second half, but not enough to make it stand up like Sinclair’s better-known works.

Next up: I’ve been reading Connie Willis’ Blackout/All Clear diptych, winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards for best novel, and have about 350 pages to go in the second book.

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→ September 16, 2016
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HHhH.

My latest boardgame review for Paste covers the 3D building game Saloon Tycoon, and I wrote a piece for Insiders yesterday on some top 100 prospects who had down years. I also held a Klawchat here on Thursday.

Laurent Binet’s historical novel HHhH won the Prix Goncourt du Premier Roman, an award given to the best debut novel in French literature, in 2010, and has since become a bestseller in multiple languages and even spawned a film version due out in 2017. But it’s far from a typical historical novel; while the novel’s core is the story of the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the “Blond Beast” of Hitler’s regime and a primary architect of the Holocaust, Binet has wrapped that story up in his own metafictional account of the author’s difficulty in writing a novel about the past where the participants are dead.

The Heydrich storyline is fairly simple, and Binet – or, I suppose, the narrator-author within the book – tells it with sufficient detail to inform the reader and keep the plot moving. Heydrich was born into privilege but was dogged by rumors as a youth that he was part Jewish; as a teenager, he joined a volunteer paramilitary unit and an anti-Semitic organization that was a major forerunner of the Nazi Party. He joined the Germany Navy in 1922 and was rapidly promoted through the ranks; he later married a woman who was already an ardent Nazi, but the affair cost him his officer status and he was briefly unemployed. A bit of good fortune put him in front of Heinrich Himmler, who named him head of the newly created intelligence service within the SS, a post that led to another surge up the ranks for Heydrich, culminating in his roles as director of the Gestapo and as Acting Protector of the occupied area now known as Czechia. It was there that Heydrich became the lone high-ranking Nazi official to be assassinated by resistance forces, the result of a courageous and clumsy operation called Anthropoid that resulted in Heydrich’s death, a showdown where the assassins were trapped in a Prague church after a lengthy manhunt, and the Nazi destruction of the towns of Lidice and Ležáky, with over 1300 civilians murdered.

Binet’s approach in HHhH – the title stands for “Himmlers Hirn heißt Heydrich,” which means “Himmler’s brain is called Heydrich” – is to tell the story of the assassination while also telling the story of telling the story. He presents himself through this narrator surrogate as a writer somewhat obsessed with the historical facts, dwelling over the difficulty of recreating events through secondhand materials of questionable veracity, and often presenting a scene complete with dialogue only to tell us in the next section that he made it up.

On the one hand, Binet examines some real questions seldom asked of historical fiction and even non-fiction, not the least of which is how the author could possibly know what was said in the dialogue s/he presents. Eyewitness testimony is unreliable, as are our memories in general, so even asking participants who said what won’t produce accurate answers. On the other hand, it’s distracting as hell to get rolled up in the assassination storyline, only to have Binet’s narrator burst through the door with a “hold up, that’s not really what happened!” tangent that breaks the spell of the narrative. To be fair, that’s more prevalent in the first half of the book; once the story gets cooking, such as the scene when the assassins bumble the actual attempt (which, sorry for the spoiler, killed Heydrich anyway), the interruptions are fewer, and Binet saves some of his final thoughts on the author’s dilemma for the last few pages – a peroration that is as effective as any other passage in conveying his state of mind as an author who became invested in his story and frustrated by his inability to ever get it truly “right.” HHhH thus is more like two nested stories, the outer one of which is about the inner story, with differing styles and levels of interest in both of them, working well together but carrying some of the frustrating hallmarks of all postmodern literature.

Next up: I’m halfway through Clifford Simak’s Hugo winner Way Station.

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