The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov (Russian)
I read half the book, often impressed, but I didn’t want to go any further. It didn’t seem worth the effort. (Much of that effort involved keeping the many characters, with their bewildering Russian names, in order.) The first scenes, with the devil arriving at the park, the Pontius Pilate story, the beheading, were very powerful – Bulgakov can make a scene attain a nightmarish intensity. But as the book progressed events were occurring at random, were unconnected and repetitious. I didn’t see any organization or restraint. Maybe this is the work of a self-indulgent genius, but he just tired me out.

Foe - J. M. Coetzee
This is a stylized novel of ideas. The ideas are abstract ones: the process of fictionalization, the nature of truth; and, mostly, the issue of slavery and freedom. It’s spared-down, with the landscapes and even the characters sketched in. The book is mostly one woman talking (or thinking). I wasn’t interested enough in the issues raised, and it’s difficult to relate to characters who don’t exist as fully-developed people. Finally, though still reading, my involvement in the story was almost nil, and at that point the book’s deficiencies came to the forefront. There’s an astringency to the writing that made it seem bloodless. The woman who tells the story does so in such an immaculately-honed prose that it’s unbelievable; how could she express herself like that, being who she’s supposed to be? The mystery of the girl who claims to be her daughter is never solved – just a perplexity, probably with a significance I couldn’t follow (but why would a mother deny motherhood, or why would a girl pretend to be a daughter?). The ending is murky. I thought the book was pretentious – but that can be intimidating. I suspect that Coetzee’s success (two Bookers and a Nobel) comes partly because he seems on a higher plane than most folks, a profound thinker, so people appreciate him to show that they too are profound.

Rates of Exchange - Malcolm Bradbury
Something different. The beginning, made up mostly of descriptions, moves very slowly, but the inventive prose held my attention. Then a plot starts unfolding, but still slowly. The conversations (and, boy, do the women in this book talk!) are bunched together in long paragraphs, so the pages are dense with words. The main character is extremely passive, saying (and thinking) little. Sound dull? It’s not – this is a funny book, partly a sex comedy in which even the cheap laughs work. And the inventive prose is in the Nabokov league. Bradbury can interest the reader even when he dispenses with plot and, to a degree (regarding Petworth’s passivity), characters. Near the end Petworth becomes more active, and I wasn’t sure I bought into the person that emerged. But when he’s betrayed and reveals his suffering, and, in small ways, his humanity and pain, I responded. The book closed on a strong note of pathos.

Alfred and Guinevere - James Schuyler
Unique, beautiful. Childhood captured with a deft touch. Economy of words – Schuyler relies mostly on conversation to achieve his ends. Humorous, appealing. (I love those kids, especially Guinevere.) Light as a frothy cloud, the sun sparkling through. Just plain wonderful. *

Heart of a Dog - Mikhail Bulgakov (Russian)
Dark science fiction, done with bravado. The first part, when the dog is a dog (but we share his thoughts) is better, partly because of the amazing fact that this, indeed, seems to be how a dog would think. The man/dog creation doesn’t have the vigor of the dog alone. As if to compensate for this, the author turns to societal issues. The book holds up to the end – dense, imaginative, strong and brutal – but ultimately it’s a curiosity by an author with plenty of talent.

No Longer at Ease - Chinua Achebe
I thought Achebe’s Things Fall Apart was excellent, and this is as good, though dealing with a totally different world. The book takes place in modern Africa and is about money, obligations, relationships, morality. At no point did I find it less than convincing and absorbing – all was right: characters, scenes, motivations. Achebe writes with directness and economy; no wasted words. The book is deserving of respect for its intelligence and maturity. *

Dead Souls - Nikolai Gogol (Russian)
The Guerney translation was recommended, so I reread the book. This time around it remained vital, teeming, funny, alive. It’s mostly composed of set pieces in which Chichikov is at someone’s house, trying to buy dead souls. In this way we get a diverse view of Russian types, and they come across as gargantuan eccentrics. Gogol the writer (and person) is the most eccentric of all, quirky and undisciplined; his mind pops about, describing in loving detail the food at a meal, or smells, or the interior of a room. Primarily, though, his world is dense with human emotions – mostly greed and suspicion and dishonesty (though sex in any form – love or lust – are conspicuously absent). All this takes place in a dreary but imposingly vast Russian landscape. The problems began near the end (a section which wasn’t – wisely, I believe – included in the first version I read). Gogol dropped the framing device (buying dead souls) and Chichikov is placed off stage. There’s a loss of focus and momentum; Gogol makes asides, clowns around, assumes a grandiose language, but a context for his antics is missing. Confusion and aimlessness set in. What had sparkled and leaped ends in a long drawn out morass. But the bulk of the book has great exuberance and is wonderful in a way that only Gogol can be wonderful. I understand why Nabokov admired him so much. *