To an Early Grave – Wallace Markfield
There’s hardly any plot to this comic novel: someone dies and four of his friends assemble and try (successfully, though after many setbacks) to attend the funeral. The humor is based mostly on dialogue and wacky events, and it was working for me because of Markfield’s inventive prose and his ability to generate a rollicking energy. But gradually it turned sour. Part of the problem has to do with the word “friends.” Spite and resentment between these four men far outweigh affection; most of their conversing is abusive in nature, and even their feelings for the deceased are mixed with rancor. The negativity is wide-ranging. One character says, “You look at families, you don’t have to wonder why there’s war in the world.” Indeed, in these families, with these women (who play an off-stage role), life is an unruly combat zone. It was a relief when Markfield occasionally changes gears and takes on a gentler tone, as when Morroe, the main character, does a bit of self-evaluation: “I am no big intellect. I am no bargain. I watch too much television. I read, but I do not retain. I am not lost, exactly, but still I am nowhere. I am the servant of no great end.” But when Morroe parts with the last of the four, and is being told a sort of confession, he thinks, “Tough shit and tough titty.” So he could add mean-spirited to his flaws, as could everybody in the novel. A few last notes: all of Markfield’s characters are Jewish, and they talk in a Jewish cadence. Morroe remembers an argument (of course, an argument) he had with a Jewish tailor over a suit: “By me is the lining no lining. By me – you should pardon the expression – is a piece toilet paper.” There are also untranslated Yiddish words sprinkled throughout. (What does fahrblunged – and at least fifty other words – mean?) From the blurbs, it seems that Jewish reviewers – Heller, Shapiro, Levin – didn’t share my objections. They found the book to be spirited fun. Members of a culture tend to enjoy self-deprecating humor, at least when it comes from one of their own.

The Village – Ivan Bunin (Russian)
Bunin portrays Russia as a wretched place populated by malignant and degraded people. We see things from the perspective of two brothers. Both, though of different natures, are mired in unhappiness. What we get is a series of brutish events and sordid scenes and a procession of characters (men only) who contribute their bit of malice and then move on. The book was written in 1923, when Bunin was living in exile; he had fled Russia in 1918, during the revolution (in an Autobiographical Note he describes that upheaval as a time of unspeakable horrors). The czarist regime must take a large portion of blame for producing a wretched peasantry. As for its replacement, how can any government make good citizens out of men sunk into such cynicism and bestiality? And what can be accomplished in so severe an environment? But there’s another consideration: the misery is too much of a bad thing and leads to doubts as to the validity of Bunin’s depiction of Russia (a point that critics at the time took issue with). Judged on literary terms, reading this novel was like looking out a train window at a monochromatic landscape devoid of any trace of beauty, and two-thirds of the way through I pulled down the blind.

The Gourmet Club – Junichiro Tanizaki (Japanese)
Decades ago, when I set out on this ill-fated “Jack London” endeavor, I wanted the first book I reviewed to be a great one. Tanizaki’s The Makioka Sisters received that honor. It’s a realistic and sensitive portrayal of three sisters written in a clear, elegant style; in its stateliness it reminded me of Buddenbrooks. I don’t regret my choice, even though the collection of six short stories I’m now reviewing shows the same author at his worst. In the first story a ten year old boy is drawn into sadomasochistic sex games; in the last, “Manganese Dioxide Dreams,” the elderly protagonist (who seems to be Tanizaki himself) is studying his feces (throughout the book there’s an obsession with all manner of bodily discharges). Reading “Mr. Bluemound” (about weirdly realistic sex toys) one wonders that a human mind can contrive such depravity and that a self-respecting author would put it down on paper. But for all their shock value the stories are so silly that they’re boring. And they’re poorly written – the prose is amateurish and the construction slipshod (for no good reason “Dreams” includes a four page summary of the plot of the film Les Diaboliques). How can a writer capable of excellent work sink to such artlessness? And, if he’s compelled to indulge in gross fantasies, why not destroy the results? Another question arises: why, in 2017, did the University of Michigan Press deem these worthless pieces to be worthy of publication? In his introduction Paul McCarthy (one of the two translators) writes that he and Anthony Chambers “have been planning some sort of Tanizaki collaboration for many years; this collection of stories is the fruit of those plans.” They found their fruit rotting in the dumpster. Tanizaki must take responsibility for sullying his reputation, but all involved in the publication of The Gourmet Club have done no favor to an author they claim to respect.

The Makioka Sisters - Junichiro Tanizaki (Japanese)
I was fully engrossed in the lives of three Japanese women. This long book moves slowly, in prose that’s simple and smooth, accumulating depth by an accretion of detail, much of it about mundane matters. The sisters are quite different; one is happily married, one is looking to be married (which makes up the bulk of the action – finding Yukiko a husband) and the other is single but “liberated.” The book has a gentle, melancholy mood, though the harsh aspects of life are not avoided (a near-fatal case of food poisoning, after eating sushi, is depicted in appalling detail). The last sentence, which refers to Yukiko having diarrhea as she travels to her wedding, is a perplexing ending. Tanizaki seems to have a hidden agenda, which may add to the novel’s weightiness. Depth, weight: this book has the substance of a major work. Written during WWII, it’s as if the author turned in sadness from the atrocities being committed and went back in time, to tell about the daily lives of people he knew. *

Loitering with Intent - Muriel Spark
This book has interest for a writer, since it’s concerned with Muriel Spark’s first attempts at creativity. It has a pleasant air to it, a look back at a carefree time of youth and hope. Yet the plot is unwieldy and frivolous. I was surprised that Loitering was short-listed for the Booker Prize. It was published long after Spark had written the fine novels which never received that honor. In this slight book she’s not competing with the young woman she once was, she’s just remembering her.

The Folded Leaf - William Maxwell
Very atmospheric, muted, dreamy. Rather beautiful and strange. It’s mostly mood and character. The personalities of the two very different boys are drawn in great depth. Their unlikely relationship is believable, probably in part because Maxwell leaves it inarticulate; you’re made to sense a bond. The problem with the book involves plot. In the last third Maxwell introduces characters and situations that need to be resolved. But these elements are not convincing, nor is their resolution. Still, this fault is outweighed by the mood the book evokes in the beginning, one so strong it stays with you. *

Vacant Possession - Hilary Mantel
The weaknesses won out over the strengths. Mantel is one of those writers who, I suspect, is capable of writing something I would like very much; this, the first book by her that I read, wasn’t it. She goes in for the bizarre, but she left me lagging behind. I couldn’t relate to or understand many of her characters, so I lost interest in them. Also, the ugliness of their lives is mind-numbing. She ends the book with a scene that I found inexplicable. What happened? The fault was mine – I hadn’t paid much attention to the complexities going on. Or was it Mantel’s fault, for not holding my attention? The ending left me with a final annoyance.