Re-reads 

Hunger – Knut Hamsun (Norwegian)

The unnamed narrator dominates the reader’s sensibilities with a completeness that few novels can match. We’re totally immersed in his actions, thoughts and emotions. He’s a writer living in Christiana (Oslo) who can’t sell his work, and he doesn’t turn to other means of making a living. So he starves, he lives in hovels (or out in the open). The hunger of the title is very real. But most important are his thoughts and emotions (which drive his actions). We’re in a mind that is, to put it mildly, unusual. Most of the time I was bewildered by the man, and, since I couldn’t relate to him, I couldn’t feel empathy. Often I thought he was crazy (a thought he has too). Why did he do this, why did he say that? No halfway normal person would follow wayward impulses as he does. In one instance – involving his encounter with a woman he names Ylajali (nobody in the book has a given name) – I doubted that it had actually happened. Why would a sane woman get interested in such a weird character? Can we attribute his eccentricities to hunger? I don’t think so, for starving people have a sense of practicality, which our character lacks. My edition contains introductions by Isaac Bashevis Singer and Robert Bly (who did the translation). I read both, searching for some reference to the issue of insanity. I searched in vain. What I did learn was that Hamsun experienced a prolonged period of hunger. This was his first novel, written in 1890; in the work that followed he turned more and more to a realistic approach (which I prefer). Anyway. . . This novel kept me interested, it’s vivid, it even has a jaunty quality (which is odd, considering its subject matter). On the last page our character impulsively gets a job on a ship about to leave port. This is good: on the ship he must do practical work, and do it well. He must interact with others in a rational way. He must be a normally functioning man. If not, they’ll toss him off the boat in the middle of the ocean. I never wanted to toss this book into the ocean. But I don’t get, on this reading, the virtues attributed to it by Singer and Bly and others, who see it as a landmark in psychological fiction. 3

A Cab at the Door – V. S. Pritchett

A memoir about the author’s youth (ending when he’s in his late teens). One thing that struck me as peculiar was the detail he included. I’ll make up an example: an aunt Viv he knew when he was six has a mole on her chin and wheezes when she laughs. And there’s more – what she says, etc. Why does it matter to the reader (the aunt will play no role in his life; she just appears on page 14 and never again). And how could he remember all that about her? My surprise was greatly heightened when I learned that the author was 68 when he wrote this book. What we get is a clutter of characters and events, all described with care. These people come and go, and chronology is shaky. His immediate family are not given precedence; some (such as his three younger siblings) are ignored. His mother is composed of a few standard reactions. His father plays a more significant role, and is presented as a pompous fool. Victor seems not to love any of them. We do get to know him, but he doesn’t come across as someone I could sympathize with. His growth as a writer is chronicled, but who cares? Despite all these negative factors, things improved when I changed my attitude toward what I was reading: I gave up trying to make sense of the potpourri, I just let it all wash over me. I took in the moment, and didn’t worry about its significance. The main character is actually London of the early 1900s. Not upper-class London, not slum London, but the lower end of middle-class London. It rises from the pages, a monster of a city, teeming and vigorous. We’re immersed in its streets, shops, parks, offices, weather, etc. And, foremost, its people – their appearance, gestures, speech, attitudes. On that basis, the book works, because these brief snippets are lively. Actually, Pritchett wasn’t a novelist, and it shows. He had a vast array of books published, but only five were novels, and he once stated that he didn’t like writing them. But to write a memoir one needs to have some novelistic skills, and the lack of them shows in Cab. Still, for the passing enjoyment I got out of this odd book, it deserves a weak 3

The Fall – Albert Camus (French)

Two men meet in a bar in Amsterdam (“May I, monsieur, offer my services without running the risk of intruding?”). What follows is a monologue: one man (Jean-Baptiste) talks to another (who never says a single word). This occurs over a number of days, at various meeting places. What we get is a prolonged confession, a dark one, but presented in a witty, offhand way. The speaker examines his life and the motives driving him. What he confesses to is his falsity and pridefulness and emptiness. The book is highly cynical (“Of course, true love is exceptional – two or three times a century, more or less”). Our narrator’s good acts are actually, under his scrutinizing eye, seen to be motivated by vanity, a need to be considered virtuous in his eyes and in the eyes of others. It amounts to a greed that needs to be constantly fed. And, it’s implied, many of the human species act under similar drives. I have few high-minded illusions about human nature, but I found Jean-Baptiste to be an extreme specimen – not a believable one. He merely serves the purpose of allowing Camus to make philosophical points. But to do so in a novel is a tricky proposition. Halfway through this confession I took the place of the man listening and decided that, if I were him, I would avoid meeting up with J-B at all costs. So why take his place and read on? Camus’s acclaim as a writer (the Nobel Prize at the youthful age of forty-four), and his death three years later (car accident), impart a certain glamor to his work. I may once have been impressed. Delete

Re-reads

The Duke of Deception – Geoffrey Wolff

This book elicited a strong reaction in me, so for that alone it’s significant. It’s subtitled “Memories of My Father,” and is classified as a memoir, with Wolff’s father playing the major role. The Duke was a deceiver of epic proportions. His life story (as he presented it), his upper-class mannerisms, his possessions – all false. Oh, the possessions were real, but they were unpaid for. It seemed that he had an aura of authority and wealth that earned him trust from merchants and other victims who were all to ready to accept worthless checks and put items on credit. As for those possessions, they were the best. The best automobiles money can buy, the best clothing, watches, jewelry. The restaurants and hotels he frequented were top tier; he put his meals on his “tab,” he walked out of hotels without paying for his stay. All bills and requests for payment were blithely ignored. He was a man with talents beyond scamming. He got jobs (using a resume that included Yale and the Sorbonne in Paris, neither of which he attended) in aerospace industries, not as an engineer but as a facilitator. Because he was good with people, he was good at those jobs; but he would eventually tire of them and begin to be a no-show. And he would be fired. I could go on (and on and on) about his shortcomings, but it’s his relationship with his son that’s at the core of the book. And here he excelled. He was a good, loving father when Geoffrey was young. A father many would wish for. He spent a lot of time with the boy, taught him things, praised him. And gave him lavish presents. When, in his early teens, Geoffrey caught the boating bug he received the finest in motor boats. When Geoffrey could drive, he received a fancy sports car. Of course, these were unpaid for. But still. It’s the reservoir of love Geoffrey has for his father that becomes a conflicting element in this book. Because, as Geoffrey grows older, he begins to see his father’s flaws, his fakery, his inadequacies. He begins to question the man, and the Duke reacts with anger. Things sour between the two. What bothered me was that, while Geoffrey becomes judgmental, he carries on like his father, as if rules of conduct didn’t apply to him. He borrows money that goes unreturned, he’s deceptive in his dealings with people and institutions; he’s a faker who assumes appearances to impress people. He’s sent to exclusive schools (one in England) and he wastes his time there. Never studies, seldom attends classes. Instead, he parties, drinks far too much. He wrecks his cars. Speed limits? – who cares, he would go 140 MPH if he felt like it. Though how a change came about in Geoffrey’s behavior/attitude is not part of the story, his bio shows that at some point he straightened up and started living an honest life. He graduated from Princeton, wrote books, taught at universities; he got married, had two sons (to whom he dedicates this book). His father’s final years were brutal. If he was to be punished for his faults, he received such punishment in full measure. He was in and out of jails and mental institutions. His body was found two weeks after his death in a shabby room, amid squalor and empty bottles of liquor and empty barbiturate pill boxes. The smell emanating from the room alerted someone passing by to the fact that the police needed to be called. Obviously no friends checked up on him; he had no friends. He had appealed to his son (in an aggressive manner) for help – that he come live with him. Geoffrey wouldn’t allow this to happen. He had his life on the right track, and there was no room for a mess like his aged father. I can’t blame Geoffrey for this decision; his father was beyond help. In closing: If Geoffrey loved and cared for his sons, as his father had loved and cared for him, and if he taught them to avoid all the bad behavior – which he had eventually learned to avoid – then he got valuable lessons from the Duke. 4

Fat City – Leonard Gardner

Billy Tully, at age thirty, has reached the dead end of life. At times he gets an inclination to revive his career as a boxer, but he was never that good to begin with. Now he can only take and deliver punishment, and see who can survive. There’s no glamorizing of boxing: it’s brutal, ugly and, as Billy thinks at one point, insane. He turns to it to make a buck; his other jobs, such a field work (topping onions, etc.) is also brutal in the demands it makes on the body and the spirit. The setting for the novel is Stockton, California, a place you never want to be. At least not the area Billy occupies – skid row. Ratty rooms, bars. Yes, Billy is a heavy drinker – what can be expected? Out of loneliness he briefly gets involved with a woman – also a drinker, but, unlike Billy, an insanely abusive one. Billy emerges as a decent man in a very bad place, and with no discernable way out. There’s another character, a twenty-year-old named Ernie Munger. He and Billy meet at a gym, spar a bit – but, besides youth, Ernie has no gift. He gets a girl pregnant and they marry, though he doesn’t love her. He seems, in his aimlessness, his lack of resources, to be headed to the same fate as Billy. And what is Billy’s fate? He simply disappears; he’s there in a late chapter, then he’s gone from the narrative. I believe a novel so relentlessly bleak has worth because there are many lives like those depicted in Fat City, and their story should be told. The author was almost one of them. Much of what happens to Billy in the book happened to Leonard Gardner: growing up poor in Stockton, boxing, field work, an early marriage that didn’t last. A talent for writing saved him. But, in a very long life (the last time I checked he was in his nineties), he wrote only this one book, when he was thirty-six. He wrote screenplays, notably for the excellent movie version of Fat City, directed by John Huston. 4

Sunday – Georges Simenon (French)

Authors who write a suspense novel which is constructed so that everything points to a surprise twist at the end must be aware of a major pitfall: that twist must not only be believable, but it must offer a jolt to the reader. If it doesn’t deliver that effect, the work is a failure. For half this short book Emile plans to kill his wife Berthe, using arsenic in her food, but all along we feel that things won’t turn out as he expects. Over many months we follow as he carefully – very carefully – devises the perfect crime (which has to occur on a Sunday, when the local doctor is out sailing). Though we’re always in Emile’s mind, I had trouble understanding his motivation for murder, and Berthe remained a mystery. But, still, the writing was clear and concise, the setting – a small town on the Riviera – was well rendered, and the events moved along. So I waited for the payoff with a sense of anticipation. Waited until the last two pages. And what I got there was illogical and dumb. Berthe knew what he was up to all along, and had her own diabolical plan in place? Please – there was absolutely no basis to suspect that. Simenon’s nose dive into the pitfall I mentioned can be attributed to his approach to writing. In an interview in the Paris Review he stated that he didn’t plot his novels and had no idea how things would turn out. This shows in Sunday, in which he found he had no ending. As for why I once thought it was a success – well, there’s a real mystery (as is the fact that Simenon is considered to have been an important writer). Out of curiosity, I went back in Jack London and found four previous reviews of his novels. I thought one of them was fairly good. Of the others, none of which I finished, there’s a recurring complaint: “lacks logic . . . characters act without sufficient motivation.” One of the reviews closes with two words: “What balderdash!” Unlike Leonard Gardner’s one heartfelt effort, Simenon wrote over 400 novels. Delete

Re-reads

The Groves of Academe – Mary McCarthy

Perplexing. First, why is this a re-read? In one sense that’s easy to answer – because it was on my list of Most Memorable Books. But why was it there? In all my other re-reads I had some memory of the book, but this time around nothing was the least bit familiar. No character, no situation, not even the atmosphere or prose style. Also, I’ve always read for entertainment (well, sometimes to impress myself), and this is deadly boring stuff. There’s not even a discernable plot. Mary McCarthy is a very intelligent woman, and can toss off words like pseudepigraphal and anagogical, but she doesn’t show the basic ability to write a novel that moves. This one drags along, the characters and action imbedded in dense, convoluted verbiage. Maybe she saw her audience to be of her ilk – people with big brains who had spent their life in academe and would enjoy a comic skewering of it (if a comic skewering was indeed her aim). Anyway, in closing, Groves, must have arrived on the MMB list by some mistake. But I have another perplexing fact to reveal: this time around I read the whole damn thing, every single word. Delete

Appointment in Samarra – John O’Hara

This first novel, written in 1934 when the author was in his late twenties, is radically different from the one I reviewed above. For starters, it’s highly readable, the pages just fly by. And instead of intellectual matters we get a lot about parties, clubs, drinking, sex. (The sex was considered very daring for its time.) And there’s loads of dialogue; O’Hara was lauded for his depiction of the way people talk. As for a plot, in a period of forty-eight hours Julian English moves steadily toward self-destruction. He’s often drunk (or getting there) and when drunk he does irrational things that alienate people (including his wife). He winds up killing himself. Like I said, it’s a readable book. But though I value clarity in prose and the story line, there’s one vital caveat: that prose and story must deal with authentic human beings. Julian and his wife Caroline had no real substance, and so I couldn’t care about their dilemma. When Julian dies, my reaction was ho hum. That may seem callous, but the guy was nothing but a cardboard cutout. And not even a likable one. As for the dialogue, O’Hara seemed enamored with this knack; people blab on and on (or we follow their thoughts for pages). I was in my teens when I read this, and I suppose I saw the novel as a depiction of adult life. Now I’m old, and I can say that no real adults populate these pages. This is an immature, shallow book. So I was very surprised to discover that the Modern Library ranked it as twenty-second in its list of the best English language novels of the twentieth century. Who’s right – the teenage me and Modern Library’s “distinguished Board made up of celebrated authors, historians, critics, and publishing luminaries” – or the person writing this review? The answer is clear. Delete

The Light of Day – Eric Ambler

Ambler is classified as a writer of international thrillers, but in this novel he eschews the violence common in that genre and instead offers up a logical story – an engrossing one that grabs onto and holds your attention. The first thing he gets right is the first-person narrator. Arthur Abdel Simpson (his mother was Egyptian, his father a British soldier) is quite a piece of work. He cites himself as a journalist, but when the narrative opens he’s working as a guide and taxi driver in Athens (he’s banned from Egypt and the UK due to petty criminal activities). Yes, he’s a crook, but not a gun-carrying one; he’s middle-aged, overweight and avoids rough play at any cost. In the role of guide he will serve as a procurer for sex, and he will steal your money if the opportunity presents itself. I found this scoundrel to be entirely likeable. The situation he gets into in Day is complicated, though Ambler makes it all clear. Arthur is employed as a driver by a Mr. Harper; he will take a car from Greece into Turkey, for undisclosed purposes. But Arthur is stopped by customs at the Turkish border, and the police remove the door panels of the car and find guns, grenades, etc. Harper is obviously up to no good (possibly political in nature). To find out what his plan is, the Turkish police force reluctant Arthur into the role of agent; he will continue to work for Harper and report his findings. But Harper keeps him in the dark for almost the entire novel as to what the “no good” involves; that audacious plan doesn’t begin to emerge until the last forty pages. A film entitled Topkapi was made from the novel, and though it altered the plot and characters, it’s a good flick in its own way. Of course, it couldn’t use Arthur’s voice, which I will share with you from the opening paragraph: “It came down to this: if I had not been arrested by the Turkish police, I would have been arrested by the Greek police. I had no choice but to do what this man Harper told me. He was entirely responsible for what happened to me.” 4

A Charmed Life – Mary McCarthy

I thought I’d give Mary another chance (after Groves). Was she capable of writing a good novel? Well, yes: this outing was a success, though with limitations. She created a handful of vivid characters; I had definite feelings about Martha, Warren, Dolly and Miles (who I detested). She put them in situations (or, rather, messes) that make for fun reading. Her creation of scenes, such as the one involving a courtroom paternity case. is strong. That said, her plotting is weak. This is most evident is the ending, which is no more than a cop out. It’s as if McCarthy threw up her hands in the face of all the complications and said Enough! The setting for the novel is a town called New Leeds, where intellectuals and artists gather, mainly to take advantage of the low cost of living (they’re not successes financially). The natives of the town are depicted as existing on a low scale. Yet the “advanced” types, for all their intelligence and lofty ideas and ideals, carry on stupidly, and McCarthy serves up a wicked look at this type of person. Her braininess sometimes intrudes on the narrative flow, such as in the overly long chapter involving the reading of a Racine play. Also, why are some characters who should play a role left on the sidelines? When we go into Martha’s husband’s mind at the end, one has to wonder why he’s been ignored for nearly 250 pages. I guess it all comes down to this: Mary McCarthy was a very smart woman with a penchant for applying cruel barbs, but she was no novelist. Still, she could be entertaining company. 3

Re-reads

Dom Casmurro – Machado de Assis (Portuguese)

This novel, published in Brazil in 1900 and written by a grandson of a slave, is strange in both its approach and its construction. Machado first tries to make it seem that Bento, the main character, is speaking to the reader. All first-person novels take this tack, but not with the insistence found here. Bento often comments on what he’s telling us. One example, from the second page: when explaining how he got the nickname of Casmurro, he tells us, “Don’t look it up in the dictionary,” for the definition there, he finds, is not fitting. He explains what it means in his case, which is “a quiet person who keeps himself to himself.” This quiet person, a man in his sixties who lives alone, is going to tell us the story of his life solely because he wants to relive the past. Or, more specifically, to evoke “a celebrated November afternoon that I have never forgotten.” Then he adds, “Read on and you will understand what I mean.” So I read on and was soon introduced to Capitu, a neighbor girl he had known and played with since childhood. But he has reached the age of fifteen, she fourteen, and feelings change. He combs her hair on that celebrated November afternoon, and a kiss follows. A kiss he will never forget. Capitu is a very strong character. She seems, from what she says and by her actions, to be intelligent, determined and manipulative. More of a woman than a girl. The two vow to get married, but there’s a hitch: his widowed mother’s first child, a boy, had been born dead, and she had made an oath to God that if her second child were a boy, and lived, she would destine him for the priesthood. Since Bento is an obedient and loving son, there’s that dilemma to be solved. It is, eventually, and he and Capitu get married. But I wondered, from the beginning, how Bento reached old age alone and isolated. The answer emerges late in the narrative; in between there are many digressions, side issues – too many. And there’s a skipping of huge gaps of time; an abruptness sets into the narrative. Capitu largely disappears as the vibrant presence she was for that one scene (a fact which may have significance). The novel is considered to be a masterpiece of Brazilian literature. I found it original and engaging, but in some vital way frustratingly inexplicable. In the end I didn’t understand Bento – the man “speaking” to me. 3

A Member of the Wedding – Carson McCullers

It took McCullers five years to write Member. In a letter she told her husband “It’s one of those works that the least slip could ruin,” and that she had worked over some parts “as many as twenty times.” In my opinion, she should have spent another month working to delete whole sections. All of Frankie’s ultra-sensitive musings needed to go. No human being ever indulged in such delusional thinking. Even the whole premise of the book – Frankie’s intention to live with her newly married brother and his bride, for them to be a threesome – is such a silly idea that I can’t believe any twelve-year-old girl would ever entertain it. Also needing deletion is the whole business with the soldier – again, no twelve -year-old girl would act so stupidly (nor would the soldier). Lastly, delete the entire final Part Three, all twenty-some pages. It wraps things up in a highly unsatisfying way (and does so by using the gratuitous death of one of the characters). What is left after all these deletions? There’s the kitchen where Frankie and Bernice and John Henry sit and talk and interact. This is wonderful. Bernice (the Black cook) serves to blunt Frankie’s extreme words and actions. Bernice is by far the strongest character in the novel, and McCullers should be given credit for creating her. There’s not much to John Henry, except a sweet, unformed little boy (he’s the one who gets sacrificed in Part Three). The atmosphere of a small Southern town is nicely evoked. So there are pluses. The book didn’t get much of an audience, but the play and the film (which I saw, and liked very much) and the TV version made the story famous. I won’t delete this novel, due to its strengths. 2

A Member of the Wedding: A Play – Carson McCullers

This play version happened to be available at my local library. Reading it was quite a surprise. McCullers pretty much fixed all the problems I noted in my review of the novel. Did she see the light? Did someone give her guidance? (The primary candidate is Tennessee Williams, who encouraged her to do a play version and who helped her in writing the beginning.) Did the restrictions of staging benefit in not allowing all that indulgence in Frankie’s musings? The set keeps us in a single location: the kitchen, where the novel was at its strongest, and where we only get to hear what Frankie says and see what she does. Bernice is given the major role she deserves; John Henry is more developed; the soldier is eliminated entirely. The premise – wanting to be a member of the wedding – is presented in a more reasonable way. In other words, there’s an overall toning down of the extravagances. A few characters that were only referred to in the novel make brief appearances – mainly Frankie’s brother and the bride-to-be. This was a stabilizing element, because in the novel they came across as mythical figures. Three good actors could do something with this material, and Ethel Waters, Julie Harris and Brandon de Wilde (at age seven!) surely carried it off admirably. The play ran for 501 performances and won the New York Drama Critics Award. My only gripe (one I had with the novel) was the death of John Henry. When a character in a movie or play mentions in passing that they have a headache, you know that they’re doomed in the last act. But, probably, when Bernice talks of his death, there must have been a ripple of shock throughout the audience. What?! John Henry died? That lovable kid?

Re-reads

Decline and Fall – Evelyn Waugh

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Waugh! He stated that he intended this first novel to be funny – nothing more. It’s a humor based on absurdity in characters and events. But it’s not silly or even far-fetched; it’s an intelligent humor. Our “hero” is Paul Pennyfeather, a name which pretty much defines his personality. He goes from a student at Oxford (he’s expelled for “indecent behavior”), to a master at a disreputable private school for boys in Wales, where one of the students, Peter Beste-Chetwynde, takes the hapless Paul under his wing and guides him on how to act and what to do (which is as little as possible). From there he progresses to the country estate of Peter’s widowed mother, the beautiful and fabulously rich Margot. She and Paul get engaged to be married, but that plan goes bust when Paul is arrested for human trafficking for the purpose of prostitution, and he’s sent to prison for eight years. There’s a happy ending, of sorts. In none of these events is Paul guilty of any misdoing; he’s simply a bystander for more dynamic personalities. One character describes Life as big spinning wheel. Most people on the wheel flounder around under its momentum; some seek the center, where all is calm; others, like Margot, go to the very edge of the wheel, where the momentum is greatest, and hang on. Paul sits on the sidelines and watches. Nothing fazes him, not even prison (“. . . anyone who has been to an English public school will always feel comparatively at home in prison.”) That quote is my only attempt to replicate Waugh’s unique humor. Anyway, read this one, it’s a lark, a sparkling gem, and is written with a lovely simplicity. 5

The Way West – A. B. Guthrie

I have a reference guide to American literature, and I looked up Guthrie, only to find he wasn’t included. They had Zane Grey, but not Guthrie. I’m also aware that few people today have any interest in a novel about a trip by wagon train to Oregon in the 1840s. I consider both of these facts to be regrettable. It was an epic and important event in our country’s history, and a novelist who could so vividly recreate it should not be forgotten. Guthrie gives us the mechanics of how the trip works, the hardships endured, and – most important – the people who did the enduring. These people are a varied lot, and run the gamut of human nature. We get to know them, some more intimately than others, and when tragedies happen they have real emotional clout. I was impressed by the courage and grit and resourcefulness on display, by women as much as men. And I wondered if people today could endure and prevail such a physically and emotionally taxing journey. Someone from a prior novel by Guthrie – the equally excellent The Big Sky – plays a major role. Dick Summers is persuaded to leave his home in Springfield to lead the train. This former Mountain Man, now fifty, is impressive not only in his knowledge, but in his character. The book received the Pulitzer Prize in 1949, but people were different back then, mainly in their values. 5

A Good Man in Africa – William Boyd

For quite a long stretch I found this book to be entertaining. It tells of the misadventures of Morgan Leafy, a British official stationed in the West African county of Kinjanja. Boyd uses the third person, but we’re always in Morgan’s mind. It’s quite a messy mind. Much of the humor – it’s a comic (or, rather, farcical) novel – derives from the difference between how Morgan feels (which is often rage, exasperation, dislike, etc.) and how he speaks and acts (in a proper, acceptable manner). He gets immersed in predicaments romantic/sexual and political (involving a corrupt African vying for power in an upcoming election). This was Boyd’s first novel, and its authenticity of place derives from the fact that he grew up in West Africa. This adds to the book’s virtues. So I’m enjoying myself when, at the halfway point, annoyances began to set in. One involves the sex; all the attention to the needs of Morgan’s penis seemed imposed for cheap laughs. And the plot got so complicated that it became unwieldy; by the last third the book’s structure was tottering under the weight. Then totter some more as Boyd simply piled on more complications. Eventually I got to the point where I didn’t want to continue reading. Well, I did, to the unsatisfying and ridiculously chaotic end (in which nothing is resolved). How can I evaluate a novel for which I had initial admiration that soured so completely? Since my negativity was far greater than my pleasure, I have to relegate it to a Delete.

Re-reads

Morte D’Urban – J. F. Powers

A novel about a Catholic priest? Not interested? Well, it’s your loss. I too avoid novels with a religious orientation, but what Powers gives us is a character study of a man, and we only get the nuts and bolts of the religious life. A leaky roof or a faulty heating system at the remote Minnesota retreat house to which Father Urban is assigned get more attention than spiritual matters. This assignment by the Bishop seems punitive; Urban could have been utilized much more usefully. For many years he “operated” from Chicago. He enjoyed the pleasures to be found in a big city – the high-end restaurants, where he could have a cocktail and champagne with his meal (and an expensive cigar afterward). When he traveled, to deliver sermons (he’s a highly gifted speaker, one with the common touch), he stayed at the best hotels. He seems, at first glance, to be a wheeler dealer. A salesman, a promoter who caters to the wealthy, a man with an innate sense of what is the most diplomatic thing to say or do. But when we get to know Urban – and gradually we do – we see someone worthy of respect. He has flaws, but none are serious; in a real sense he’s a man of the clothe, and his wheeling and dealing is directed at getting those wealthy benefactors to contribute financially to the church (with a few perks coming his way). In all his interactions, decency prevails – at times to his detriment. Powers seems to both hold respect for the moral underpinnings of the Church and to lament its pettiness and limitations. Some have labeled this a “comic” novel, which is way off base. Though it’s infused with a deft humor, there’s an unsettling aspect, which emerges fully in the dark ending: Father Urban is promoted to the office of Provincial in the province of Chicago, but it’s too late – several events have occurred that have broken his spirit. In that sense he dies (the “morte” in the title). As for Powers’ prose, it’s lovely, smooth and unobtrusively inventive. 5

The Old Boys – William Trevor

I looked up Trevor at this Jack London site and saw that I’ve reviewed twelve of his books. Twelve! That must be a record. Obviously, I like his subject matter (life’s outcasts) and his no frills approach. Though most of the reviews were lukewarm, and some novels I thought were failures (though I completed them), four were promoted to my MMB list, one of which was The Old Boys. It was his first novel (he disowned a previous one) and it was awarded a prestigious prize. He wrote it at age thirty-six and populated it with people twice that age. Also, his characters attended a British boarding school, which Trevor did not. The life in that type of school has been often portrayed in a highly negative light, as it is in this book. It suited a certain type of boy, but for many (George Orwell being one) it was a horrendous experience The assigning of a new boy to be a fag for an older boy (a servant, who can be punished by beatings) seems to me a sick tradition. A character named Nox was a fag for Jaraby, and develops a deep hatred for the man. Skip sixty years: Mr. Jaraby covets the job of president of the Old Boys Association, Mr. Nox plans to block his election. That’s the core of the plot, but what Trevor gives us is a look into the lives of a half dozen old men. It’s not a pretty sight. Only one of the men – Jaraby – is married, and his arguments with his wife take up a lot of space. As she says at the end, they are like “animals of prey turned in on one another.” All this is entertaining – often funny – but grim. In my reviews of Trevor’s other novels, I appreciated those in which he shows compassion. He shows no compassion here. Not for age, not for relationships. I once had more of a taste for this type of bleakness than I do now. Still, the novel moves along at a fast clip, it’s engrossing. 3

The Tenants of Moonbloom – Edward Lewis Wallant

Lot of problems. For starters – the number of characters. Must be over fifteen. You’d need a scorecard to keep track of them (I soon gave up trying). The prose has an inventiveness which is laid on pretty thick and is somewhat obtrusive. Then there’s the main character, Norman. We’re to believe that this thirty-something man has lived in a sort of cocoon, isolated from feelings and experiences (eg., he’s still a virgin). But no reason for how he got in this state emerges, nor is any convincing one given for his awakening – his “opening up” to emotions. As for plot, Norman is an agent who collects rent on a weekly basis from the tenants in four apartment buildings owned by his rapacious brother. These places range from one that is marginally decent to outright slums. On Norman’s visits we get glimpses of the various characters. I just let them wash over me as a wave of ragged, despairing humanity. All have problems, and most have complaints about something in their living premises, which they want Norman to fix. The pre-awakening Norman listens politely and does nothing. The post-awakening Norman tries to fix everything. Wallant’s obvious purpose is to make a point about life. He has one character say, “Courage, Love, Illusion (or dream, if you will) – he who possesses all three, or two, or at least one of these things wins whatever there is to win, those who lack all three are the failures.” Does Wallant succeed in making this point – through Norman’s awakening? Well, yes, to an extent, though it didn’t get to me emotionally. The novel is unique, and has a cluttered, rampant energy. It’s a work of passion, an abundance (overabundance) of creative fervor. Interestingly, Wallant existed in a world quite unlike that of his characters. He was an art director at a major New York public relations firm and was married, with three children; he lived in the affluent community of Norwalk, Connecticut. Though you could question what he knew of lost, despairing and often lonely souls, it’s clear that something in him responded to them, for they occupy all four of his books. Wallant had his say about life before his came to an abrupt end. He died at age thirty-six of a cerebral aneurysm. Tenants and another novel were published posthumously. 3

Re-reads

The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas – Gertrude Stein

As you can see, there’s something odd about the title/author. This “autobiography” wasn’t written by Alice, nor is it about her. She exists only as an appendage to Gertrude Stein. It is about their life together, full of people, activities, travel. The writing is straightforward and makes for fairly pleasant reading. Stein occupied a central place in the Paris scene in the early 1900s, when major changes were taking place in painting and writing. But, as for the many artists and authors who populate these pages, a lot of them famous, we get very little in-depth characterization. For example, Picasso appears quite often, but I don’t know much about the man. Parties, visits, talk – Stein loved these things, and, though we’re told they happen, they don’t come to life. Stein deals in externals, not feelings (and this includes her relationship with Alice). The section of the book that had more of a story line concerns the years of WWI, when she and Alice delivered supplies to French hospitals. My picture of Stein herself is a bit hazy. She seems pleasant, intelligent, opinionated, strong-willed. People seemed to have liked her, liked to be in contact with her mind. She has fall-outs with some, but she writes critically of only one of them: Ernest Hemingway. She uses slang for the first and only time to call him “yellow” – a word whose intent is to be hurtful (he was still alive when the book came out). This from a woman who elsewhere never displays cruelty. It doesn’t reflect well on her (nor do I think Hemingway was yellow, and Stein offers no reason for using that word). In closing: Stein was disappointed that her writing was not appreciated – something she dearly wanted (“One writes for oneself and for strangers but with no adventurous publishers how can one come into contact with those same strangers”). Well, Gertrude, I can answer your question (which doesn’t contain a question mark). Just as you appreciated the new movements in art, which turned away from a depiction of humans – cubism, surrealism, etc. – you also turned to writing which was unfathomable to humans (such as the 1000+ page The Making of Americans). Anyway, in a business in which Who Do You Know matters so much – and you knew everybody of importance – your obscure work did get published (though probably read by very few). You were fortunate to live in a time and place when innovation (however worthless) was valued, and even considered to be genius. When you were accessible, such as in this book, people did read and enjoy you. A pity you turned to “experimental” writing. Experiments are for labs. 3

 

Three Women – Gertrude Stein

The first and last stories (“The Good Anna” and “The Gentle Lena”) were about simple, one-dimensional characters, and their portrayals were done with an effective simplicity. But I found the long story, much longer than the other two put together, to be unreadable. I tried, but had quit on it. For starters – the title: “Melanctha.” Whoever heard of such a name, and how the hell do you pronounce it? She’s referred to as Black, but Stein makes her of mixed race. Probably her white blood, in Stein’s mind, qualified her to be a suitable subject to write about, for her characters who are just plain “niggers” (a word Stein uses) are not worth bothering with. I objected to her portrayal of Blacks; I don’t think Stein knew squat about that race. Melanctha (I’m using copy and paste) is exceedingly complex. She engages in long, long, very long conversations with a Black doctor (also of mixed race). Their discussions, full of repetitions and done with a sort of cadence, is monotonous and pointless. This is self-indulgent writing. I think Stein put words on paper, never revising, letting her genius flow, pure and unadulterated. The Melanctha section of Three Women is an early example of the experimental writing that I referred to in the previous review and which would take over most of Stein’s work. (Delete)

A Moveable Feast – Ernest Hemingway

When I first read this memoir I may have been in a stage when I had a romanticized view of authors and writing – and of Hemingway. That’s long gone. Still, I enjoyed his account of how things were when he was in his twenties, living in Paris with his wife Hadley. Not that I believed much of what I was reading. He’s the hero of the piece, in that he’s always in control, a solid, sensible, all-knowing presence. A man who has little to say while others around him carry on, often foolishly. Feast is a falsification of the past – or, rather, a glamorization. Hemingway was in his late fifties and early sixties when he wrote the book, which was done in stages, and he wasn’t sound mentally and emotionally. So maybe he was indulging in a pleasant fantasy. He often claims that he was poor in the Paris years, and this simply isn’t true. He and Hadley had plenty of money. But poverty fits in with the image of a struggling writer living in a garret. As for the many authors he interacts with, one was Gertrude Stein. If you read my review of her Autobiography you probably wonder if he gets revenge for her comment about his being “yellow.” Not really (he even considers “Melanctha” to be “very good”). His portrayal of her isn’t a positive one – she comes across as dictatorial – and there’s a scene where he overhears her begging in a demeaning way. What I did find cruel was how he treated Scott Fitzgerald. Even if what happened between the two was true, it should not have been written. Maybe jealousy played a role, for Fitzgerald was his competitor as a writer. The book ends in an elegiac way: all that was precious would be destroyed. Hemingway blames it on the rich who invade his and Hadley’s lives. He writes of seeing Hadley waiting for him at a railway station: “I wished that I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.” But he would have an affair that would lead to the end of the marriage. As for Hadley’s presence in the book, it’s scanty. Her name doesn’t appear until page 54 (she’s previously referred to as “my wife”). The Scribner hardcover edition has an insert – a strange one, written by Jane Kramer. It mostly criticizes Hemingway and debunks the “facts” of Feast, often harshly. She calls it “an old man’s book, petty and incontinent.” She finds the sentences “pretentious,” as if “some besotted Hemingway student wrote them” (and then she gives a telling example). She attacks him as a man, especially his treatment of Hadley. So, the question arises, why was this introduction allowed by the lifelong publisher of his books? Hemingway committed suicide before Feast was published. It was edited by his last (fourth) wife, Mary, and there’s some controversy about how much was omitted and altered in her editing. It’s all so sad. 3

The Sun Also Rises – Ernest Hemingway

Surprisingly, I thought this novel was very good. My surprise is due to the fact that I normally don’t care for EH’s work, and I thought that Sun was on the MMB list because, when I first read it, I was an impressionable teenager. In my review of his letters I wrote that I liked them because they were spontaneous. This novel has the same spontaneity; we don’t see the author laboring to find the one true word. My interest was constant, and I glided along. The first-person narrator, Jake Barnes, is mostly a detached observer. He gets involved, has feelings, but they’re muted. In place of a plot we get episodes, mainly the Fiesta in Spain, where the bullfighting sequence takes place. The novel is saturated with drinking; people are often drunk. The two main characters that Jake interacts with are Brett Ashley and Robert Cohen. Both people are based on real life figures, and both are portrayed unattractively. Cohen’s Jewishness is a factor in his unattractiveness; there’s a definite strain of anti-Semitism in the book (the word “kike” appears too often). As for Lady Brett, she’s no lady. To me, she isn’t. She’s an alcoholic, a beauty in her mid-thirties, and is a user. She uses men as sexual partners, then drops them. She’s not malicious, but she still causes harm. She claims, and probably believes, that she loves Jake, but there can be no sex between them due to a war injury he sustained. Except in regard to her, no reference is made of this loss; Jake seems detached even from that. Still, as noted, he’s an observer, and the descriptions in the book are excellent (I especially liked the fishing episode). The dialogue, of which there’s a lot, is spot on – Hemingway gets the various voices right. Is there a higher meaning in Sun? I don’t see one. It’s just a well-written, entertaining excursion into a world long gone. It was Hemingway’s first – and, many consider, his “greatest” novel. I would amend that by calling it his best novel. He wrote it while still married to Hadley, but it was published after their separation. He dedicates the book to her and to his son. 4

Re-reads

The Blood of the Lamb – Peter De Vries

The last third of this novel is an emotional experience. Not just for me, but for you too, if you have a heart. Don Wanderhope portrays his daughter Carol and his relationship with her. At age ten she contracts leukemia and, after many remissions and relapses, dies two years later. A child of that age is a golden creature, and De Vries captures her and his responses to her illness. He does it with restraint, understatement. This kind of work would suffer from an outpouring of emotion from the author; the reader must generate those feelings from what is offered. Don does have episodes of anger, but they’re mostly directed at a god who is absent, who offers no help or solace. A child should not go through such an ordeal, should not be so early robbed of life. That she endures it with a simple grace is part of her nature. Is this novel hard to take? Well, yes, but it has value. It must be noted that De Vries wrote it shortly after his own daughter had died of leukemia. Just as the first two thirds cannot rightly be described as autobiographical, the Carol section does not faithfully correspond to De Vries’ life: unlike Don, he was married and had three other children. In Lamb those characters are stripped away, and Don faces things alone. I won’t review the novel as whole; it has its strengths and weaknesses. It’s that last third that matters, to a degree that few works achieve. 5
 
Borstal Boy – Brendan Behan
This is a nostalgia piece, written by a man who would die, at age forty-one, six years after it came out; the cause of his death was rampant alcoholism. But in this book he was sixteen and seventeen, a healthy, physically fit and emotionally strong young man on the threshold of life. Despite the success he would later achieve with his plays, I believe that his three years in a Borstal Prison were the high point of his life. Brendan was arrested because he was found in London with a suitcase full of ingredients for explosives. (This was during the years of the violent conflict between England and Ireland over the issue of Irish independence; Brendan was a fervent member of the IRA.) BB isn’t a bitter book. Though there are instances of cruelty, deprivation, violence, those are largely overshadowed by the positive aspects: the comradery, the generosity, the rough kindness. Not just from one boy to another, but from those who run the prison. Some “screws” are brutes, but most are fair-minded, a few even caring souls. And among Brendan’s fellow inmates, there are boys who are dangerous. But, all in all, Borstal was not a bad place, which is to the credit of the British. I don’t believe there are many women who will read this book, but maybe they should; it’s instructive in showing the male psyche, particularly the need for love and the sensitivity to slights. In a way, Brendan was made for prison life: he was tough, stoic, diplomatic. A born leader. And smart. The Catholic schools in Dublin are to be congratulated: they produced a working class boy who was fluent in Latin. BB is an unrestrained outpouring of memories; it’s a spree of words, particularly dialogue. For me this often went on too long. But it’s Behan’s book, his experiences, and they do come alive. Last observation: has any small country produced as many top-notch writers as Ireland? 4
 
Castaway – James Gould Cozzens
A short book, under a hundred pages, with an interesting premise. A man (Mr. Lecky) is locked in a large department store. In the ensuing days nobody else enters the store. What occurred to bring this situation about is never divulged. Lecky is like Robinson Crusoe on his island, though he has at hand, on the many floors of the store, all that he needs to survive. We follow his efforts to get by. But soon a major problem emerges: someone else is in the store (this man is always referred to as “the idiot”). Lecky immediately considers him to be a threat to his life, and sets out to hunt him down and kill him – which, after much bumbling, he succeeds in doing. That accomplished, we get more pages about “getting by.” As I noted: an interesting premise – and Cozzens manages to make it a colossal bore. The problems are twofold. Lecky never takes on human dimensions that I could relate to. I never cared about the guy, never felt close to him. The only feeling he evoked is dislike (with some puzzlement thrown in). The puzzlement stems mainly because Cozzens seems to be making a point about Life, but I never had an inkling of what that was. The ending is supposed to be a revelation, but my only revelation about it – and the book as a whole – was, “What a mistake.” (delete)
 
Night Train – Martin Amis
Though this novel is not on my MMB list, it was sitting on the shelves with other books that are. And I recalled that I had liked it in some way. But this time around I had major problems. For starters, why does an upper-class British author, the son of the famous Kingsley, write a police procedural mystery set in the USA and told in the first person by a tough woman detective named Mike? The research going on behind the scenes to create a sense of authenticity is way too conspicuous. And, BTW, in case you’re wondering, Mike is not a lesbian; she lives with a guy, though she has no on-page interaction with him; he’s just a name. (So does he exist?) Peculiarities abound. But there’s the Biggie, the central element in the plot: a twenty-seven-year old woman, who has absolutely everything going for her, commits suicide (three bullets into her mouth). Why? – this novel is a whydunit. Mike, who had known Jennifer since she was a child, follows the trail of her life searching for the fly in the ointment. I waited for the reason for the suicide to emerge, increasingly impatient (and annoyed). But all leads led to dead ends. Instead Amis served up a heavy dose of verbiage of a deep and cryptic philosophical nature. There’s no “Aha!” moment because Amis had no solution to the premise he constructed. This book is woefully misconceived and leads to nothing but a cop out.

Re-reads

Burmese Days – George Orwell

A book written in anger can be exhilarating, which is the case here. Orwell spent five years as a member of the Imperial Police Force in Burma, so his anger is based on personal experience. Mostly he’s angry at the mentality of the British administrators who are in charge of exploiting the considerable wealth of Burma. Most of them are contemptuous toward the native Burmese (the word “nigger” appears with monotonous regularity in their conversation). Yet they are not above using the women for sexual purposes. They’re an unhappy, dissatisfied, lonely group of men, who drink to excess (in some cases to unconsciousness). Flory is the main character, and it’s obvious that he is Orwell. But Orwell is in an attack mode, and Flory is not spared; at the end he is destroyed – violently. Which, I believe, is a misstep. One aspect of the discontent among the British is that most are without wives. When a young British woman arrives Flory falls in love with her. A love without a valid basis, for she is the polar opposite of all he believes in. Yet he convinces himself that she can share his innermost feelings, that they can be soul mates. The proper ending, in my estimation, would be for the two to marry. Flory would soon enough find out what a disastrous mistake he has made. But that may be a track Orwell wasn’t willing to pursue; the plot is already quite complex, teeming with characters and situations, and I think he wanted to cut things short. The prose is utilitarian, but the novel has a potent velocity. If Orwell cared enough to write something, it has value. 4

The Night Visitor – B. Traven

In 2009 I reviewed this collection, and deemed the stories to be “good (or pretty good; none are very good).” The reason I’m reviewing it again is that previously I didn’t reread the long title story. I wrote in the review that I would “let that chilling nightmare remain intact in my memory.” And I cite it as the sole reason why the book is worthy of being on my MMB list. Well, this time around I did reread “The Night Visitor,” and it left me cold. No chills, no nightmarish feelings were evoked. I found the premise to be unconvincing, and the Indian from the past who emerges at night seemed no more than a contrivance. My ho-hum reaction brings up the whole problem in these rereads. At some unknown age I was obviously moved by the story. Why? What changes occurred in me? – for the story has not changed. Which evaluation is valid? I’m not sure. Still, since many rereads do hold up, I have to delete this one.

The Collector – John Fowles

This novel disturbed me as very few do. The first section is told from Frederick Clegg’s POV, in his voice. We see his logic, his justifications, and we also see what he doesn’t: the horror of his actions. This is a warped man, and to be in his mind is chilling. Miranda, the person he “collects” (as he does butterflies) and holds prisoner also emerges. Not through any understanding on Clegg’s part (he can’t even understand himself), but through her responses and actions that he duly records. She wants desperately to live, and fights for her freedom in any way she can devise. That makes up the first section of this 300 page book. The next section is told from Miranda’s POV, through her writing in a sort of diary. This section, for me, was a big drop-off. Actually, we already knew all we needed to know about Miranda. Her thoughts are just not that interesting. A lot of pontificating about what is valuable in life, about art, about an older guy she’s infatuated with (to me he came across as a prig). Truth to tell, I found myself dragging through this section. I can understand Fowles’ dilemma. To have a novel, and not a novella, he had to take the path he took. He just wasn’t able to pull it off. Yet I need to be more charitable to the Miranda who is writing in her diary: she’s young, her ideas are important to her, she tries to keep them alive in captivity. After her death we return to Clegg’s POV. Always justifying. Though he’s a prisoner, in his own distorted mind, he victimizes others. What “grade” do you give a novel in which the first half is a tour de force and the second half mediocre? The strengths are so compelling that they win over the day. I can only deduct one point from a five. 4

Animal Farm – George Orwell

Orwell originally subtitled this novella “A Fairy Story.” I’m glad that was dropped, but I see a parallel between Farm and the work of the Grimm brothers. Their tales were indeed grim, full of cruelty and horrific events – and so is Farm. In this reading I had a gut reaction: I truly detested Napoleon and his toadies and I was appalled by the methodical subjugation of the animals. This reaction on my part was, I believe, Orwell’s intent. By framing his story in an almost childlike way he was able to convey what he couldn’t accomplish in a political essay: his hatred of the Communist regime. What he did in Farm was deceptively simple; he wrote that it was “the only one of my books that I really sweated over.” He had trouble finding a publisher; at the time (1945) England and the USSR were allies against Hitler. But Orwell saw clearly what was going on under Stalin’s iron fist. That was his gift: to see clearly and to find a way to express his feelings. In this instance, the way he chose was perfect. 5

Amongst Women – John McGahern

This was the Irish writer’s next to last novel. I had read his final one – By the Lake – and loved it. This one doesn’t evoke love. It’s much harsher, and, though well-written and engrossing, I was left feeling there were gaps that should have been filled. I wound up not understanding what made the main character, Moran, tick. This small-scale farmer could be good natured, charming, amusing, but too often his mood would abruptly change, and he would say things that were extremely hurtful. Where did this cruel streak come from, what provoked it? Was it his youthful participation in the Irish War for Independence, in which he committed violent acts? (Not, in my opinion, a sufficient reason.) The objects of his affection and his cruelty are his five children and his second wife (we know nothing of his first wife, the mother of the children). All in his family are acutely aware – and apprehensive – of his potential black moods, yet are overly grateful for his good ones. He exercised a sort of tyranny over people, yet “Daddy” – at least for the women – is a great man, and they love him. He never uses physical force on the women, though he did on his two sons (both of whom rebel; one breaks ties almost completely). While I didn’t understand Moran, the women came across strongly. Especially Rose, the wife, who is constantly put in a position of peacemaker. Anyway, in closing, I offer my feeling about Moran: he didn’t deserve the love and respect he received from the women in his life. But at least I was interested enough in him and the others to form a strong opinion.

Re-reads

The Big Love – Tedd Thomey

Actually, the cover cites Mrs. Florence Aadland as the author – the book is “As told to Tedd Thomey.” He did the writing, but in her voice. We occupy Florence’s mind – exclusively, with, I believe, no intrusion by Thomey – as she tells the story of her fifteen-year-old daughter’s affair with an aging Errol Flynn. Did Thomey use a tape recorder? Or just take notes? Did Mrs. Aadland approve of what he had written? I think she must have, since she’s listed as the author. This book brought to mind Jean Stafford’s A Mother in History. I objected to Stafford’s attitude toward Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother; she gave us nothing but a hatchet job. But Thomey seems not to include an authorial opinion on Florence Aadland. He lets her emerge. It’s obvious to the reader that she engages in a distortion of the truth to make what occurred seem justifiable. It’s fascinating to see a mind in motion, trying to turn what is lurid into a “big love.” Readers will judge Florence Aadland harshly. She deserves it, for her bad choices. Anyway, she’s fully punished for any mistakes she made. This book is about ambition, and the lure and power that celebrity yields. It’s about victimization when the victim is complicit. Though told in told a most simple way, it can be seen as an American tragedy. 4

The Magic Christian – Terry Southern

Short, even for a novella. Yet I couldn’t make it to the halfway point. The fabulously wealthy Guy Grant devises outlandish projects that reveal how low people will stoop to get money. Well, what’s new about greed, in a society where money is so important? To demean people struck me as cruel. The book is supposed to be comic, but it’s just self-indulgent, juvenile nonsense. I must have been juvenile to have once liked it. (delete)

Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe (Nigerian)

Written by a Nigerian in English, this novel presents us with a rich and complex native African culture. Achebe doesn’t glamorize or sanitize it; it has its good and bad aspects. As for the good, their system of dispensing justice when disputes arise seems sound. But women are decidedly subservient (a role they accept). And some beliefs lead them to brutal acts, such as disposing of twins at birth in the Evil Forest. They are not a peaceable people, though wars between tribes are rare. Many gods, in many forms (quite a few malignant), influence people deeply. Their culture is rich in verbal myths, in origin stories (such as how the turtle got its uneven shell). This is a cohesive society in which there are no un-believers. Then, in the last third of the novel, white missionaries arrive and exert a divisive influence; they slowly but inexorably undermine the old beliefs. This constitutes things falling apart. After the missionaries a governing body arrives, and they use force to exert their dominance. Though a novel, this is mainly an anthropological study because the main character, Okonkwo, is one-dimensional, and evokes no sympathy; also, there isn’t any plot to speak of. Still, I can see the importance of the work: it makes a foreign culture come to life. As for the prose, it is admirably simple, straightforward, strong. 4

Re-reads

The Car Thief – Theodore Weesner

This is the story of a boy in his mid teens who isn’t making it in life. He lives in a shabby apartment with his father, who’s an alcoholic, and  he’s an outsider at school. He’s full of amorphous feelings that bring on a restlessness, and to ease the pressure he steals cars and drives about aimlessly before abandoning them. It’s a purposeless act, and he’s not sure why he does it. He winds up being arrested and sent to a detention center for wayward youths. When released he returns home and tries to get straight. But it’s hard. Weesner makes Alex and his predicament believable. We’re in his mind for over 300 pages, but he isn’t presented in an outwardly sympathetic way; he’s not made a victim, or particularly sensitive or insightful. And yet – as they say – I felt for him. His father plays a big role in his life. He’s a good man – kind and understanding – and he holds a steady job at a factory, but his unhappiness constantly leads him to the bottle. The mother is an uncaring absentee in Alex’s life, and I felt antagonistic toward her. Yes, this book generated strong feelings in me. It was Weesner’s first novel, written when he was in his late thirties. It’s clearly autobiographical; he was Alex, complete with the theft of cars, the stay in a detention center, the dropping out of school and joining the army (which is where Thief ends). It’s very hard to write about oneself – to do it truthfully. But this unadorned work rings true. 4

The Ox-Bow Incident – Walter Van Tilburg Clark

In the first twenty or so pages I had problems. There was too much detailed description of men whose role in this affair had not been established. And then, when news of a cattle rustling and murder are delivered to the saloon, and a posse is proposed, with the intent of capturing and lynching the perpetrators, one character goes into a long speech about Justice and the Law vs. mob rule. He reappears at the end, wrestling with the issue of guilt. These are lapses – readers can arrive at their own conclusions about such issues without a spokesperson expounding them. In his Introduction to the edition issued by the Time Reading Program, Clark writes that the book “overexplains itself, to some extent.” True. The book is at its best when it simply allows the strength of the tale to take over. And with the arrival of the authoritative figure of Major Tetley things start to move with purpose. Move slowly, but the with an inevitability that’s unsettling. Unsettling because the reasonable option of bringing the three accused men into town is rejected. The person telling the story, in the first person, is Art Croft, and he constitutes the novel’s main strength. He’s an observer who sees both sides, but doesn’t back either. In his telling the inner natures of various people are revealed, and the moral issues emerge naturally. The atmosphere Clark creates is as bleak as the lives of people who live in Bridger’s Wells. This is a “western” without one bit of glamour or heroics. Incident was another first novel (I’ve been rereading a lot of first novels, haven’t I?). 4

No Laughing Matter – Joseph Heller and Speed Vogel

No, it isn’t a laughing matter. I’ve started three books by and about writers, and have been hugely disappointed in all of them. I’m reviewing Laughing because I got further into it than I did with the other two (though not to the halfway point). I abandoned ship because I couldn’t bear to spend any more time with Heller and his pal Speed. The story: Heller comes down with Guillain-Bare syndrome and is hospitalized for six months. His chapters alternate with Speed’s. Seems Heller is a quite a character, cranky and rude, but everybody just loves the guy. They’d give their eye teeth for him. And all these people are Somebodies, many with names you’d recognize: Mel Brooks, Zero Mostel, Dustin Hoffman, Mario Puzo. Everybody who runs in the Heller/Vogel gang is a colorful character, and they know all the In Places in New York. They do such things as form a Gourmet Club; every week they go to Chinatown and gorge themselves while carrying on with tremendous wit (according to Speed, they far exceed the Algonquian Club in witty repartee). But I saw no evidence of wit. What stands out – glaringly– from the Speed sections is the word “friend.” If I had the energy I’d count how many times that word appears in one of his chapters; it would surely set a world record. Everybody is a friend if you’re famous and wealthy. If you’re neither, New York can be a dismal place. Sour grapes? Well, back when I first read this book I was young and impressionable. Now I’m old and cynical. Who sees the truth more clearly? This is a phoney book, a lame attempt to make money. Heller offers up descriptions of his condition and treatment, but in only one chapter does he touch (lightly) on emotions like fear and  depression. Instead he meets a nurse who’s just about perfect, and love takes over. That’s when I checked out. The other two books? Both had an ass-kissing feel. In A Friendship Willie Morris gives a loving portrait of James Jones. Too much love for me to stomach. In A Private Correspondence Lawrence Durrell exchanges letters with Henry Miller. It begins with an adoring fan letter, and what proceeds is a high-blown literary discussion. How I was ever able to follow this convoluted nonsense is a mystery to me. I guess it was that impressionable stage I was in. I thought, as someone with literary ambitions, that this was the life fo me. But now I see the callousness and indifference of that exclusionary world. (All three books are deletions)

Re-reads

The Night of the Hunter – Davis Grubb

The tone and atmosphere that envelopes this book is unique and effective. What Grubb establishes is a world far apart from ours. His novel takes place in the Ohio River Valley of West Virginia during the Great Depression. It’s an already impoverished area which holds onto strong fundamentalist religious beliefs. The story he tells is a child’s nightmare with the surrealistic elements of nightmares. What is the basis for the fears the very young have – of a monster in the closet, under the bed? John, at age nine, has to live in an all-too-real nightmare, and there is nobody he can share his burden with. His monster – the Preacher – wants to know where $10,000 in stolen money is hidden, and he knows that John knows where it is. But John has sworn a solemn oath to his father not to reveal the secret – no matter what. This is a boy burdened by a responsibility far too great to bear, and we watch with apprehension the effects on him. That’s the story, and Grubb’s artistry in telling it is remarkable. His  prose is rough-hewn, as if carved out of wood, which is exactly what it should be, and the people speak in the vernacular of their time and place. There are elements of a fable, of a gothic fairy tale, of a religious allegory concerning good and evil. We’re presented with a conflict between Love and Hate, those two words etched on Preacher’s fingers. Read this one – it’s an experience. 5

The Gypsy Moths - James Drought

This is the weakest of my deletes. I can briefly sum up its virtues. It’s an easy read, the scenes of parachute jumping are fairly interesting (Drought was trained as a paratrooper). And it’s short. But the first person narrator is limited in what he knows about the relationships in the family he and two other stunt jumpers stay with; there are dire problems between Mr. and Mrs. Brandon, the narrator’s aunt and uncle, but we never find out what they are. Also staying with them is a college student named Annie who wears the label “love interest” for our young narrator. (BTW, I’m not using the narrator’s name because I don’t recall it; he’s always referred to as “Kid” by the other jumpers). As for those two guys, we never know why Rettig has a death wish, which he carries out after, apparently, having, on his first and only night with the Brandons, a tryst on the sofa with the wife. (There’s a lot I don’t know, right?) Browdy, the third jumper, is only interested in profits. Anyway, after the fatal first jump there’s a second one the next day (to cover funeral expenses) in which the Kid does the dreaded Cape Trick. On the way down he chooses Life over Death. He and Annie decide to get out of the Brandon house, and to take a train to parts unknown. The End. The movie version, directed by John Frankenheimer, was, as I recall, good. It starred Burt Lancaster as Rettig and Deborah Kerr as Mrs. Brandon. Obviously, with those big stars, the script filled in the gaping holes that are present in this amateurish first novel. 1 (delete)

Little Man, What Now? – Hans Fallada (German)

A novel about love and money. Great topics, handled exceedingly well. Fallada presents us with a young couple, Hans and Bunny, who are both believable and appealing. (Especially Bunny – one of the strongest female portrayals in fiction.) That they love one another is presented simply and yet with depth. That’s the key element that marks this novel – it’s simply written and yet achieves depth. I cared about these two, from the first page to the last. The aspect of money comes in because they have very little. The novel was published in Germany in 1932, in the midst of that country’s economic collapse. While prices skyrocketed, wages were low and jobs scarce. This brought out the worst in many (especially those in charge) and the best in others. The novel begins with the couple finding that Bunny is pregnant; Hans promptly proposes marriage (this is not forced on him; they are already fully committed to one another). We follow them as Hans tries to find work, and then to hold onto a position as a salesman at Mandels Department Store. They move from place to place, always trying to make ends meet. When the baby is born, the pressure increases. The novel was immensely popular in Germany; it spoke to millions. The words “Nazi” and “Communist” appear a few times, but the book doesn’t concern itself with politics. Hitler’s name is absent, and, though a few characters happen to be Jewish, anti-Semitism is also not an issue. Again – this novel is about love. I can’t think of anything I’ve read about that emotion that rang so true. Fallada doesn’t give us romanticism; rather, he makes us believe in a bond that cannot be broken. At the end, Han’s self image as a man is shattered – but Bunny will stand by him. Of course she will. This ending is powerful, it left me shaken. I can only hope these two make it – somehow. 5

Angel – Elizabeth Taylor

Angelica Deverell is her name, and we follow her life from age fifteen to her death some five decades later. She’s the author of long novels teeming with opulent fantasy. These novels have no literary merit, but are wildly popular with a certain set of readers, and they make Angel wealthy. She’s a person who, since childhood, escaped into fantasy worlds; she didn’t accept the shabby one she was born into, or its people (including her mother). She sees herself as someone grand, and she fully lives out that role. Reality is rejected, or twisted, to suit her tastes. That she succeeds in self-deception is a mark of a strong personality, and Angel is definitely formidable. A force, one fully capable of plowing over anything or anyone in her way. But how long and faithfully can one carry out self-delusion? That’s the bare outline of the unique story that Taylor tells with ease and artfulness. It’s a complex tale, with many events, many characters. The depth with which those secondary characters are developed is one of the books achievements. This novel is full of remarkable achievements. One of which is the fact that I came to care about Angel, with all her enormous flaws (of which an oblivious selfishness is one). I even felt protective of her. 5

Re-reads

Life in the Crystal Palace – Alan Harrington

This is a study of a corporation. An ideal corporation, but, for Harrington (who worked in Public Relations), not a good fit; he was by nature a rebel caught in a labyrinth of benevolent conformity. So he’s critical of the Crystal Palace, though not in an angry, spiteful way. His approach is analytical, and it’s complete – he leaves no stone unturned. Which made for slow going. I was often uninterested, detached. Maybe, when I first read the book, I was employed in a big corporation, or had recently left one. So the book had relevance. Now it lacks that, and is basically a sociological study, so it does not belong on a list of Most Meaningful Books. 2 (delete)

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne – Brian Moore

This is an angry book, and Moore goes on attack in a brutal fashion. No subtleties or niceties here; even the prose is as blunt as a club. He doesn’t spare poor Judith Hearne, the spinster of meager means who, on the first page, moves into a new boarding house. She isn’t portrayed with much sympathy: she’s not very intelligent or insightful and has many minor faults (such as an unwarranted snobbishness). Yet she’s a desperate soul – desperate for love or friendship; she feels herself at the dead end of a life of emotional deprivation, and can’t accept it. Most of those around her are specimens of humanity at its worst – meanness and cruelty and greed are prevalent. The plot centers on Judith’s hopes for a relationship with a man; not the man of her dreams – far from it – but a man anyway, someone who will care for her, care about her. This dream is, of course, shattered. Then, halfway through the book, Judith’s severe drinking problem is introduced. I didn’t quite buy this, especially since we never see her in her wild intoxicated state; I think Moore was using the alcoholism as a means to hurry his character to her end – an end in which she loses even her religious beliefs. Yet, I must say, at that end, on the last page, when Judy (she liked to be called Judy) is in a nursing home (where she will stay), and she begins to gather the few of her precious life possessions around her, I was truly moved. Yes, we try to carry on. Moore’s anger is at the injustice of life, though he also shows his deep enmity for the Catholic religion and the city of Belfast, which is portrayed as a woefully dismal place. A few notes: The original title was simply Judith Hearne, and the book was turned down by ten (some sources say twelve) publishers before it found a home. 4

Mrs. Bridge – Evan S. Connell

The novel is composed of what I’ll call “snapshots” (117 of them).They are often less then a page long, seldom over two, and all have titles (Good-by Alice, Tea Leaves). These snapshots present scenes – of a quiet nature – that cover the life of Mrs. Bridge from early marriage to elderly widowhood. She has all the things that Judith Hearne desired: a husband, three children, a beautiful house (the Bridges are part of the affluent Country Club set in Kansas City). Yet the husband is a workaholic who’s at his office most of the time, and when he’s home there seems to be no relationship between them; he’s tired, taciturn by nature, and is not the type to discuss feelings. As for the children, two of them turn away from her at a very young age. Why? She loves them and is a dutiful mother. Perhaps there’s one thing about her that they rebel against: her beliefs are conventional; she gently disapproves of anything they do that falls outside of propriety. This is, in fact, the one characteristic about Mrs. Bridge that stands out. Propriety rules her life: she never deviates in her thinking from anything that is not “proper.” She also has too much empty time on her hands, with a live-in cook/waitress/maid and a weekly laundress. Though she sometimes thinks of expanding her horizons – reading a good book or attending a class – all these ideas quickly die on the vine. But Connell has not written a harsh portrayal of a woman who is, as he’s stated, based on his own mother. She doesn’t deserve harshness: she hasn’t a mean bone in her body. And, as time goes by, a fleeting darkness begins to pervade her thinking. She considers her life in which each empty day proceeded like the one before. But she cannot change; that same life moves on and on, and there comes a time when moments of depression and even panic set in, a feeling that she is unloved and unwanted. All is not well in her tidy little world. I felt, despite Mrs. Bridge’s limitations, that the people around her – husband and children – failed her. What came across for me in this portrait was a sense of guilt and regret – embedded there by the author. For the son in the novel is one of those who failed her. This is a fine novel, highly readable and artfully done. 5

Mr. Bridge – Evan S. Connell

Strange. In all my other re-reads I recognized that I had been there before. Often I could remember the endings (in the case of Judith Hearne I knew her shoes would appear on the last page “with the little buttons, winking up at her”). But with Mr. Bridge I recognized nothing. Yet I had it listed as one of my Most Meaningful Books, and I had it in my bookcase. My conclusion is that either it never made any impression or, more likely, I had never read it – it’s on the list solely as a companion piece to Mrs. I plowed my way though most of it before calling it quits. It uses the same format as the preceding book, but is much longer. The snapshots are repetitive in presenting character; we keep getting slight variations on the man’s feelings, words and actions (all ultra-conservative). To be fair, it’s a thorough portrait of Mr. Bridge. But I found him to be a bore, nor did I like him. And whereas Mrs. was artfully done, this was a plodding piece of writing (which is, actually, in keeping with the character’s personality). In it Mrs. is merely an insipid presence and the obnoxious son is given far too much attention. Connell wrote this book ten years after Mrs. (which was his first novel). Maybe he felt he needed to complete the family portrait. Maybe he was searching for something to write. But the creative spark wasn’t there – a sad decline by a writer who always had a struggle producing fiction. And sad too because it serves to detract from its predecessor. 2 (delete)

Re-reads

The Professional – W. C. Heinz

This novel follows a boxer’s preparation for a title bout. One of its unique aspects is its accurate depiction of the world of boxing. (You can throw out all those fight movies you’ve seen – they’re totally bogus and ridiculous.) The novel is primarily about three people: Eddie Brown, the boxer; Frank Hughes, a sports writer who’s doing a magazine story on Eddie; and Doc Carroll, Eddie’s trainer and manager. We’re never in Eddie’s mind – we only get to know him by his words and actions – but Frank is the first person narrator, so we’re privy to his thoughts and feelings. We also get to know Doc, because he talks a lot to Frank, and he’s quite open about what he thinks and feels. The locale, for almost the entire book, is a hotel in upstate New York – a secluded place in the off-season. It’s where Eddie, the contender, prepares his body and mind (under the scrupulous guidance of Doc).You’re not interested? That’s a shame, because this is a novel that digs deep into character. It’s conveyed mostly through dialogue – dialogue that ranks with best I’ve ever read. Heinz (a sportswriter; this was his only work of fiction) was a master of clean, clear prose. It’s interesting that the championship bout, which is the goal being pursued with such dedication and determination, takes up only a single page. 5

Heaven’s My Destination – Thornton Wilder

Twenty-three-year-old George Brush is tall, handsome, intelligent – and a man devoted to passing on his moral beliefs. They stem from his study of the Bible (plus some Gandhi and a touch of Marx). It’s not a private affair (though he lives in accordance with the beliefs he advocates); he takes every opportunity to instruct strangers on how to live the proper life, and he will politely correct any transgressors he comes across. He sees this as a duty. The reception he gets can range from disinterest to indignation to physical attacks. George emerges not as a comic character but as a lonely man unable to relate to flawed humanity (which includes, to his despair, women; he very much wants to be married and have a family). His job as a traveling salesman takes him through the Midwest and South during the Great Depression. He’s very successful at selling textbooks to schools because he has perused every volume, and he believes that Caulkin Press puts out the best product of its kind (if he didn’t believe this he wouldn’t have taken the job). You might get the impression that Destination is heavy going, but the opposite is true. It has a jaunty, buoyant quality, and is often quite funny. That said, it offers up ideas. Though George seems to change nobody, is he right in his beliefs? At any rate, I loved the guy, in all his naive sincerity. This is one of those rare books that I think everybody should read, for both the pleasure it gives, and for those ideas. 5

The Deep Sleep – Wright Morris

The way this book is constructed is unique. There are five characters, three women and two men, and the narrative constantly shifts from one to another. It works like this: we’re in one character’s mind, and then someone else enters the room, and we shift to that person’s perspective. Each character has his/her four or five pages (in the third person, with their name as the title of their section) and this shifting goes on for over 300 pages. We get to know each of these people (though the men come across more strongly then the women). Actually, there’s a sixth character, Judge Porter, who is recently deceased; it’s his passing that has brought his daughter and her husband to the house. The Judge emerges in a vague way – a man respected in the community but a stranger in his home (why this is I didn’t fully understand, but it has to do with his wife). I’ve read a lot of Morris’s work, and it seems to me that he loved the act of writing too much, which can result in words that have no real purpose in developing the plot and characters. Sometimes the book rambles without purpose, and I would become uninvolved. But, still, there’s a lot that’s good – and you won’t read anything quite like it, which counts as an achievement. 3

The Cook – Harry Kressing

This novel has been praised as a diabolical masterpiece, and it’s obvious that at some time I must have been one of its fans. My theory about its success is simple: you have to buy into the premise that Conrad (the cook) is all powerful. His manipulative skills are overwhelming, and he handles the wealthy family where he is employed as if they are as malleable as warm putty. By the end his employers have become his servants – literally, uniforms and all – and he rules at the Prominence mansion. On this reading that premise increasingly became unacceptable. Never a hitch, never a misstep as Conrad moves smoothly to his goal? People are simply weak pawns without wills? Really? It’s as easy as that? It all came to seem contrived, and the predictability of events caused a ho-hum feeling to set in. Not helping matters was my objection to the cruelty – notably a repellant scene where Conrad impales another cook’s hand to a tabletop. Its weirdness gives this book a compelling aspect, and it’s written in a nice prose style. But there’s not enough of substance to make it worth your (or my) time. 2 (delete)

Re-reads

The Big Sky – A. B. Guthrie

In our country’s northwest, in the mid-1800s, there existed a strange breed called mountain men. Guthrie’s considerable achievement is to bring them and their world alive. This panoramic novel rings true, and the truth is often brutal. To survive these men had to be resourceful, courageous, hard. If they were to eat, they must kill. If they were to make the little money they needed (they mostly lived off the land, but certain necessities must be bought), they had to kill beaver and buffalo for the skins and hides. They faced the constant threat of Indians (who are depicted as far from noble), wild animals, the weather – it was a hostile world. Yet it’s the world the mountain men chose, with no personal gain in mind. Populated places were alien to them. That’s not to say they were solitary – they usually traveled in small groups, partly for protection. Boone Caudill, the novel’s main character, makes two friendships that last for many years. Jim Deakins is a philosopher with a humorist’s bent, old Dick Summers is a teller of yarns; both contribute rich, colorful dialogue (Boone uses words sparingly). The Big Sky is a tragedy on several levels. The Native American culture begins its disintegration, the great buffalo herds start to dwindle, the pure and wild land sees the arrival of settlers. But before all that comes to completion, Boone – who’s too hard, too unflinching – will alienate himself forever from the only world he can live in. We understand what makes this deeply flawed man what he becomes, though we shrink from his decisions and actions. When I first read The Big Sky as a teenager I thought it was a great novel. I still do. 5

End of the Road – John Barth

I found the ending of this novel to be very disturbing, and to elicit such a response Barth deserves credit. Mostly the novel resides in the realm of the bizarre. Jacob suffers from an inability to make decisions. A doctor spots him sitting in the same spot, motionless, in a train station on consecutive days, and Jacob enters his therapy (the nameless doctor’s speciality is nihilistic paralysis). Part of Jacob’s therapy leads him to a job at a State Teachers College where he meets another teacher, Joe Morgan, and his wife Rennie. This couple share a marriage based on a highly rigorous dedication to authenticity. All these elements are buried in convoluted intellectual verbiage. And they’re unconvincing. Indecisive Jacob constantly makes decisions, and the authenticity Joe imposes on Rennie (once with a punch on the jaw that knocks her out – simply because she continually apologizes) struck me as insane. At one point Rennie says “I think all our troubles comes from thinking too much and talking too much.” My response was: Exactly! So why did I read the book, why did I get emotionally involved? Partly because for long stretches it was intelligible and inventive, even stimulating. And partly because I grew to care about Rennie. She bears a good deal of responsibility for what befalls her, but if she never met Joe and Jacob she could have led a normal life. Road is early Barth – before he started writing 800 page postmodernistic blockbusters. It’s strong stuff. 4

S. S. San Pedro – James Gould Cozzens

This odd little novel takes place entirely aboard a ship sailing from New York to Argentina. Besides 172 passengers and a full crew, it’s loaded with cargo (cars, cash registers, machine guns, cotton shirts, children’s toys, a million dollars in gold, etc.). We begin in port, where a doctor who has been seeing the captain is about to leave. This doctor, so weird looking as to cause people to recoil, asks for a tour of the ship, and this task is assigned to a senior officer, Anthony Bradell. At one point the doctor makes an offhand remark: “But you do not float quite level, do you?” Bradell will remember these words near the end of the book, when the ship is going through the final agonizing stages of sinking. He will also remember that the doctor, when describing the captain’s condition, says, “People grow old, Mr. Bradell. They break down, they wear out.” This turns out to be true: the captain cannot make decisions, though continuing to demand that he be obeyed. What makes the book odd is the way it’s told. There’s a sense of detachment. With a single exception (and that’s a brief one) we see things only from the perspective of various members of the crew. And though they diligently struggle on, they recognize their inadequacy: the uncaring, devouring sea will have its way. This is early Cozzens – before he, like Barth, expanded his scope. Which was unfortunate. He did his best work when he was short and concise. 4

The Postman Always Rings Twice – James M. Cain

What a disappointment! I can forgive myself for once liking this crime novel, for I was probably in my twenties when I first read it, and its serving of sadomasochistic sex and tough guy action must have impressed me. Now it seems fake and ridiculous (Cora’s “Bite me! Bite me!” made me cringe in embarrassment). The occasional musings by Frank of a religious nature are corny (looking in Cora’s eyes “was like being in church”). Not even the plot, involving the murder of Cora’s “greasy” Greek husband, is convincing. Like the attempts to kill him, the book is an ill-conceived mess. Yet on publication in 1934 it was a huge hit with the public and the intelligentsia (well, some of them). It gained praise from big name critics (Edmund Wilson) and writers (Albert Camus). Dorothy Parker claimed it was a love story; how a cynic like her could have found any love on these pages is beyond me. The Modern Library included it in its list of the one hundred greatest novels of the 20th Century; there are many movie versions, and even an opera. Am I missing something? The terse dialogue and minimalistic approach may have been innovative at the time. Yet even with those virtues, the plot drags on when Cain tries to explain things at length. Maybe the harshness of this review stems from the fact that I’ve actually recommended this book to people. 1 (Delete)

Reviews from the past

Immortality - Milan Kundera (Czech)

Kundera isn’t a novelist. He’s a thinker whose writing serves as a forum for his ideas. He has attained such eminence in the literary world that he can do whatever he wants; this shapeless grab bag of a book is what I’ll call philoso-fiction. In it the author plays a role, as does Goethe and other real-life figures from the past. The fictional modern-day characters are subordinate to Kundera’s larger aims, so they aren’t fully-developed. Free rein can liberate or lead to self-indulgence, or it can do both. Immortality may offer up a unique potpourri for the intellect, but it lost its luster for me (and it did have luster for a while). The overall perspective on human nature is a cynical one. An example: a woman is given the choice (it’s one or the other) of spending the next life with her husband of many years or of never meeting him again; her answer is “We prefer never to meet again.” (She phrases it as “we” because her husband is sitting next to her.) The point being made (with Kundera everything has a point) is that her love is an illusion, and with her answer she’s made to face that fact. Despite invigorating moments, I grew weary. The fictional side wasn’t holding up, and ideas that were intriguing and insightful were examined so rigorously that the freshness was leeched out of them. Plus I had my fill of Goethe; when he reappeared at the beginning of Part Four I called it quits. I did so with absolutely no curiosity, no regrets. I just wanted class to be over. (4 other books by this author reviewed)

Loving - Henry Green

What strikes one immediately is the quirky rhythm of the prose. I don’t think it can be replicated, for to do so a writer would have to try. I don’t think Green tried; he was transcribing onto the page the way he thought. He wasn’t showing off, nor was he trying to be difficult. Reading him is difficult only if you’re inattentive. If you’re alert you get into the flow, and once there you’re able to savor the humor and pathos. About 70% of the novel is dialogue – brilliant dialogue in which the many diverse personalities display their essential natures. As for plot, Green’s subject matter is the mundane (he wrote that “simply everything has supreme importance, if it happens”). The setting is an Irish castle during World War II. We follow the maneuvering among servants and masters (though the servants, being more colorful, are given by far the most space). Throughout Loving there’s an awareness of how conflicted a matter love is. This is most evident in the last words: “ . . . they were married and lived happily ever after.” Those words are an unabashed rejection of the truth; Green knew that life couldn’t be wrapped up with a pretty bow. But he also knew life’s many-faceted richness, and in capturing that richness he produced one of those rare works that makes you see the world in a fresh new way. * (4)

Sappho - Alphonse Daudet (French)

“Come, look at me. I like the colour of your eyes. What’s your name?” So the novel opens, with Fanny Legrand (who had posed for a statue of Sappho and was known in some circles by that name) approaching a much younger man. This encounter takes place at a masquerade ball held at the studio of a rich Parisian. Fanny spends the night with Jean, and so begins their five year affair. This is no gauzy romance about life in bohemian Paris of the 1800s. Courtesans are not glamorized, a la Dumas’s Camille; Daudet portrays them as nothing more than depraved whores. Fanny, however, is not of their ilk. She has a vulgar side and her past is littered with a long string of lovers, but she has retained a core of decency. Her decency makes her formidable; she can’t be easily dismissed. A clue to what the author is up to is found in his dedication: “For my sons when they are twenty.” What he gives his sons is a withering cautionary tale about the ensnarements of passionate love. I can’t embark on a description of the plot – it’s too full of emotional twists and turns – but all can be summed up in that first night, when Jean brings Fanny to his hotel. His room is on the fourth floor, and he takes her in his arms “with the lovely fierce energy of youth” and carries her up the stairs. The second flight “was longer, less delightful.” When he finally staggers to the fourth floor Fanny had become “some heavy and dreadful thing that was stifling him.” She says, “So soon?” and he thinks, “At last!” Yet he’s never able to come to “At last” in reality. As I followed the course of their relationship I reached the point where even the word “love” had become suspect. Yet the confusion and conflict I felt accurately depict Jean’s state of mind. This is not a novel which gives the reader solace; we can understand Fanny and Jean, but we can’t sympathize with them. They’re both right, they’re both wrong, they both deserve what they get. *

Seize the Day - Saul Bellow

What a wordsmith Bellow was! His writing is both smooth and sumptuous, grounded and imaginative. But a novel succeeds or fails on character and plot. In the course of one day (a day fraught with crises) Tommy Wilhelm’s guts are spread out before us. Perhaps this serving of Wilhelm is too rich – he’s like a dish fancied up with so many sauces that the palate becomes confused. As Tommy floundered about in a cascade of emotions I became increasingly detached. In a three character book, the father was the only person I could relate to; at least I could draw a bead on who and what he was. Tamkin, on the other hand, was way too slippery a concoction. For a long stretch in the middle of the book – seventeen pages – he holds forth on matters like the “real soul” and the “pretender soul.” When Tamkin gives Tommy a poem he wrote about Mechanism vs Functionalism, Tommy says to himself, “What kind of mishmash, claptrap is this? . . . What does he give me this for? What’s the purpose? Is it a deliberate test? Does he want to mix me up? He’s already got me mixed up completely.” Tommy could be complaining about Saul Bellow. It cannot be wisdom that Tamkin is spouting (most likely he’s a con man); why, then, did Bellow dedicate a good chunk of this 115 page novel to “claptrap”? Things end in a torrent of tears from Tommy: “. . . they were pouring out and convulsed his body, bowing his shoulders, twisting his face, crippling the very hands with which he held the handkerchief.” This spectacle of grief failed to move me; like his hardhearted father, I had my fill of Tommy and his problems. (1)