Places Where I’ve Done Time – William Saroyan

Saroyan’s approach in this autobiography, which he wrote at age sixty-four, is inventive and, for a while, quite effective. He takes places (The Typing Class at Tech High, Fresno, 1921 or The George V Hotel, Paris, 1959) and devotes a few pages to his experiences there. He skips around in time; we may finish a piece when he’s a boy, then, in the next one, he’s an old man, and in the next he’s in his thirties. A kaleidoscope look at his life emerges. The first half of this book is jaunty, entertaining, often humorous. Then the mood changes. My theory is that Saroyan wrote these snapshots in sequence, and his enthusiasm for the project waned. Maybe depression set in – I get that sense. He achieved success as a writer, and he did it without any advantages – almost no schooling, an upbringing in poverty (he spent his early years in an orphanage). But it becomes obvious that this much-sought-after success didn’t make him happy. What emerges is a man who has a serious gambling problem; he was married, and in writing about his ex (the “little woman”) he can be caustic with hatred. He fills much of the second half of the book with the names of hotels, many in foreign cities (Dublin, Moscow, Bucharest); he seems most at peace when he’s walking the streets of a new place – always alone. One of the problems with this second half is that he turns to philosophizing about Life. His conclusions are affirmative, but it’s always a mistake to make wise proclamations (especially when mixed with resentments). Last note: I don’t believe Saroyan revised his work. What he put down on paper the first time was what the reader gets. In My Name Is Aram the stories seem to have been tossed off in one sitting. Readers at the time took to his sweet, naive, colorful immigrant characters (mostly children) who embody simple virtues, but for me they’re mawkish. Places is  not mawkish, the writing is good, and it succeeds – at least for a while. I wish he had been able to retain the spirit of the first half, but, sadly, I suppose we all have to live with our state of mind.

Winter Notes in Summer Impressions – Feodor Dostoevsky

When Dostoevsky was forty-one he traveled to various cities in Europe. This book is definitely no travelogue; in his “In Place of a Foreword” he admits that he stayed for a very brief time in the many places he visited, and therefore had no right to draw conclusions. Yet he does draw many conclusions regarding social/political matters. He concentrates on Paris, though there’s a bit about London. He does not look approvingly at what he sees in either city. I found his thoughts of little interest, especially since they refer to conditions in 1862, and so I won’t go into them. What did interest me is the image of Dostoevsky that emerges. When I think of the author of Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov I conjure up a grim, brooding presence. In this book he comes across in an amiable light, someone with whom I could have pleasant conversation (though it would be devoted to Ideas). He even has a sense of humor. The mild enjoyment I got out of this slim volume derives from getting to know the man better.

The Savage State – Georges Conchon (French)

Conchon served as Secretary General of the Central African Republic from 1958 to 1960, so I expected an insider’s view of race relations. I suppose I got that (and the relationship is depicted as very bad). But this is a novel, so how about creating credible characters? The main one, Avit, arrives in Africa as a representative of UNESCO, and discovers that his wife, who had run away with another man while they were living in Paris, is now in Fort Jacul (small world, isn’t it?), as is her lover. But, when he happens to meet this lover, he finds that Laure has left the guy for Doumbe, an African government official. Avit comes across as an overly emotional boy who flounders about indecisively (one wonders about the hiring practices at UNESCO), and when we enter Laure’s mind we wonder at how such a mature, self-assured woman would marry a kid. And, considering her dubious track record of skipping from man to man, how she did she get to be so stable and wise? Doumbe is a noble prop, wrestling with his love for Laure and the censure that their living together is bringing down on him from the natives. I believed in nobody, and after laboring past the halfway point I called it quits. Last note: after writing this review I learned that The Savage State had been awarded the Prix Goncourt in 1964. Big sigh . . .