H. M. Pulham, Esquire - John P. Marquand
If taken on a superficial level, this fictional autobiography is a pleasant read, in a lulling sort of way. Yet I finished it with misgivings. For beginners, is that “Esquire” meant to be mocking? Though Henry Pulham has the outward trappings of success, his personal life is devoid of pleasure or purpose. He’s alone in his family, unable to relate to his wife and two children. He can cope with things, but not with emotions. When his wife has an affair Marquand provides information so that the reader is fully aware of it, but Henry remains clueless. His youthful romance with Marvin Myles stands out as the brightest episode in a humdrum existence, but in this depiction of first love Marquand (like his protagonist) isn’t able to connect; not helping matters was my persistent doubt that a vibrant woman like Marvin could feel strongly about someone as bland as Henry. His relationship with his wife is more convincing. Kate is a discontented woman; she doesn’t love Henry and it shows in her constant carping. Though he has bouts of irritation (which he immediately chides himself for), he never becomes bitter or despairing; such feelings are not options for a person brought up to put the best face on whatever life hands you. So there it is, the story of Henry Pulham, told in his own guileless words, and what am I to make of it? Marquand’s light-handed approach gives it a humorous aspect, but I think the author had a darker agenda in mind. On the final pages Henry writes the “Class life” that he’s been putting off for the entire novel (his class at Harvard is having its twenty-fifth reunion). The closing sentences: “We spend our winters in town and our summers in North Harbor, Maine. In either place the latchstring is always open for any member of our Class.” What struck me was that only one member of his Class has remained a friend, and he’s the man with whom Henry’s wife had an affair. I think that J. P. Marquand was not unaware of this sad irony.

On Overgrown Paths - Knut Hamsun (Norwegian)
This book was written during the three years when the author – nearly ninety years old – was held in custody by the Norwegian government, facing charges of collaboration with the Nazis. Hamsun gives a defense of his wartime actions; you can accept it or not, though I can vouch for the truth of his claim that there’s no anti-Semitism in his many novels. In my readings of ten of them I recall a Jewish watch-seller who would cheat anyone gullible enough to let him, but he’s a benign rascal, not a Fagin. Hamsun faces most of his incarceration with resignation; the exception is a four month confinement in a Psychiatric Clinic. He doesn’t provide details of this stay, but it seems that the constant probing into his mental faculties was, for him, unbearable. He writes that when he went into the Clinic he was in good health; when they released him he was “turned into jelly.” Age, physical infirmity (he was deaf and partially blind), and his situation make this book a sad farewell. In the first part a buoyant spirit sometimes shines through, but as time passes his capacity to find pleasure in the simple things of life wanes. Paths is mainly made up of “trifles” that include routines, observations, encounters, memories. Near the end he recounts events that took place when he was a young man in America; he is, for the last time, a storyteller. Shortly thereafter the court verdict comes down; the final words in the book are: “I end my writing.” I’ll end this review with a quote in which Hamsun encapsulates his special gift: “ . . . I was no stranger to the field of psychology . . . during a very long career of writing I had created several hundred figures – created them inwardly and externally like living people, in every condition and aspect, in dreams and in action.”

The Government Inspector - Nikolai Gogol (Russian)
The director of a play must be faithful to the author’s intent. This rendition, directed by Peter Raby, didn’t ring true. Most jarring was the use of vulgar language, which I haven’t come across in any of Gogol’s other works. Later, reading Raby’s “Adaptor’s Note,” my suspicions were confirmed. He talks of “cuts, amalgamations, modifications” (one of these cuts is the omission of an entire scene). So this is an adulterated version of the real thing and should be avoided. I’d like to see (for a play should be seen) a faithful production. Despite Raby’s tinkering, Gogol launches into his story of mistaken identity with a madcap exuberance. Every character is a villain of one stripe or another, but they’re too grotesque and foolish to condemn. One can simply gape at them in wonder and amusement.

The Easter Party - V. Sackville-West
I assume that Miss Sackville-West was acquainted with real people. Possibly, in her fiction, she allowed herself the indulgence of dreaming up unreal characters. Even the dog in the story – the noble Svend – is unlike any dog that ever existed. The plot involves a group of people who gather at a country estate. One of the guests, Lady Juliet Quarles, a woman notorious for her love affairs, sweeps onto center stage: “Dar-lings! Oh, my sweets, I do apologize, I grovel.” (She’s outrageously late, you see.) I have to admit, somewhat guiltily, that for a while I was curious as to why cold, controlled Walter never consummated his decades long marriage. But I soon recovered my senses and abandoned this contrived bit of nonsense. I’ll let the inside dust jacket summary take over; it captures the novel’s tone of feverish extravagance so well that Miss Sackville-West could have written it. Regarding the characters: “Delicately, and with the supreme perception which has distinguished the author’s previous works, she sets their dormant, ruling passions in motion, probes their secrets, catalyzes their problems.” About the author: “Few writers can match the quiet dignity of Miss Sackville-West’s prose or the maturity of her understanding. In The Easter Party the rare technical adroitness with which she fashions her characters into contrapuntal patterns, renders their conversations into brilliant fugues, and . . .” Well, Dar-lings, enough of that.

Yonnondio - Tillie Olsen
A very effective proletarian protest novel. Olsen creates people we care about, then she shows them gripped in the maw of poverty. She makes us feel the destruction going on in the bodies and, worse, in the minds and spirits of her characters. The Holbrooks could have been happy, could have had fulfilling lives. They have tremendous potential, yet it’s wasted in the all-consuming struggle for survival. Olsen was a smart enough author (even at nineteen) to show the faults of her characters; Anna and Jim and their children are all distorted and brutalized by the daily obstacles they face. Much of the novel is told through the eyes of Mazie, and since she’s a dreamy, impressionable child (her form of escape), the prose in her sections is dreamy, impressionistic. Other parts of the novel are gritty and realistic. These different styles mesh because they reflect two realities, two sensibilities. Yonnondio is more than a lament – it’s an indictment of the greed that fosters inhumanity (the description of work in the slaughterhouse is appalling; one shrinks from the suffering of man and beast). This is one of those books that should be read. *

Elbow Room - James Alan McPherson
Four stories were entertaining, written with fluency, but none added up to a satisfying whole. So I jumped to the title story, hoping to find one where everything worked. But it was such a bloated mess that I abandoned this Pulitzer Prize winning collection.

The Late George Apley - John P. Marquand
This novel takes the form of a biography written by a friend of the recently-deceased George Apley (a very proper Bostonian blue blood). It’s made up mainly of letters from and to George. Marquand uses his faulty narrators exceedingly well; we read between the lines and we judge from omissions. Remarkably, a true portrait emerges, though the subject of the portrait seems to stand off to the side. Which is true to the man – at the end of his life George Apley was aware of not having been capable of fully experiencing life. Though there’s an elegiac aspect, the book is quite humorous in a quiet, understated way. The muted quality that Marquand sustains throughout is unique. He also gives us a look at a time and a set of values that was in the process of passing away. *

Life Is Elsewhere - Milan Kundera (Czech)
Other books don’t go where this one does. Kundera explores his characters at a deeper level. To read this is to experience something new – and honest and brave. Brave because Kundera brings up things – such as Jaromil’s relationship with his mother – that other writers (and readers) avoid out of “good taste.” Not that Kundera is vulgar. He’s concerned with a degree of intimacy that we mostly look away from, even in our thinking. That’s a problem in reading the book – it’s often ugly and hits uncomfortably close to home when it exposes cruelties and selfish motivations that are common in human interactions. Also, Kundera demands a rigorous attention – he can tire you out. It’s not a fun read, but I was left mostly with respect. *

Wickford Point - John P. Marquand
This novel’s main virtue is the elegance of the writing. Though the plot held little intrinsic interest for me, I was carried along pleasantly for over 400 pages. I was never vitally engaged; rather nicely lulled, fairly interested in the cast of characters – maybe, at times, doubting their authenticity, but never enough for me to lose faith. Yet, days after I finished the book, it turned out to be more than a diverting read; I found myself missing its people and wanting to be with them again.

A Month in the Country - J. L. Carr
A short book, well-written (simplicity, ability to catch the essence of a person or place with a few words) and a big theme: how life passes us, our regret at that loss. The plot interweaves the mysterious uncovering of a sacred wall painting with the mundane aspects of country life. An evocative novel, gentle, loving, melancholy. However, the feelings evoked are diffuse; it’s a mood piece, and as such it lacks force.

King, Queen, Knave - Vladimir Nabokov (Russian)
Nabokov reworked this book, which he wrote in his twenties. It’s brilliant – its colorfulness, verve, audacity. The characters and scenes are vivid, the language glitters and dances, maniacally at times. He takes the shopworn theme of a love triangle/murder plot and, about two-thirds way through, the reader finds himself in the middle of a nightmare. That’s where a ferocity sets in. Things turn horrendous, sickening – moral corruption emerges as the theme. But Nabokov is not a moralist; he’s a cold and cruel writer, examining people like he would chloroformed butterfly specimens. His only mistake in this tour de force is that he overdoes the fantastic element. (Did he need the human-like dummies and the crazy landlord?) *