That Awful Mess on the Via Merulana – Carlo Emilio Gadda (Italian)
Reading this novel was like being in a traffic jam of words; a side road would occasionally open up and I would be able to move along – only, alas, to soon find myself again stuck in congestion. Sentences like this were constantly barring my path: “In a way, a pseudo-justice assumes a legal course, a pseudo-severity, or the pseudo-habilitation of the finger-pointings whose manifest countersigns seem to be both the arrogance of the ill-considered magistrate’s investigation and the cynobalanic excitement of the anticipated sentence.” Adding to the density are phrases in French, German, Latin and Greek; the translator, William Weaver, saw fit not to render these into English. What results is such laborious going that I could only make it halfway through. Yet I quit with regret. On those side roads, when an accessible story emerged (the “awful mess” is a murder), I was impressed by the psychological intricacies, the atmosphere of festering corruption. If this novel were stripped of its excesses and digressions it would be at least a hundred pages shorter; it might be readable, yet it would be violated. Whatever the book is – and I’m not sure what that is – it’s exactly what it was meant to be. I wouldn’t dispute the claim that Gadda was a genius, but one who made no concessions to the reader. And, to me, such insularity is a failing.

Some Tame Gazelle - Barbara Pym
Pym’s first novel could be her tenth. Spinster church ladies are her subject, her prose is smooth and unruffled, the tone she sets is mildly amusing, mildly sad. Two sisters cope with their single state in very different ways. One’s feelings are deep; for thirty years she has faithfully held onto her undeclared love for a married Archdeacon. The other sister flamboyantly toys with love. This contrast between sincerity and superficiality is initially interesting, yet it isn’t developed. Pym seemed to realize this; she introduces odd characters to liven things up, but they only serve as passing distractions. I got into a state where I was lulled; then, in the last fifty or so pages, the absence of variety and depth sometimes made me wonder why I was still reading. Pym deals with loneliness and lovelessness in her typically light way; when she strikes a plangent note, it’s muted. Gentleness prevails, and many people read Pym for just that quality. Only in Quartet in Autumn did she delve into the dark side of the solitary life, and that novel will stand as her greatest accomplishment.

Charlotte’s Web - E. B. White
In this reread the book retained its freshness and charm. This is due, in large part, to the prose, lovely in its simplicity. The animal characters come alive, and their dialogue is pitch perfect (the geese talk like geese should talk). But it’s the rat, Templeton, who steals the show; his unrepentant greed and cynicism provide an antidote to the naive goodness of Wilbur and the wise goodness of Charlotte. The plot revolves around words written in a web, which folks take to be a miracle. Only by deft sidestepping is the author able to avoid any religious connotation. The precious miracle at the heart of this book is life. White closes by writing of the barn: “It was the best place to be, thought Wilbur, this warm delicious cellar, with the garrulous geese, the changing seasons, the heat of the sun, the passage of the swallows, the nearness of rats, the sameness of sheep, the love of spiders, the smell of manure, and the glory of everything.”

And Then - Natsume Soseki (Japanese)
This novel is the second of a trilogy. I read – and liked a lot – the first, Sanshiro, and the last, The Gate. Both stayed grounded in the daily lives of the characters; Soseki presented their personalities and their emotions as they coped with circumstances, other people and themselves. But in And Then he takes a radically different approach. He concentrates on the main character’s angst and ennui, his existential despair. When the novel deals with everyday events, it’s good. But I quit reading because I ran into too many boring and pointless stretches. Boring and pointless – that’s usually what results when an author tackles the big questions of life directly. Those questions can’t be made vital or relevant by having somebody ponder about them.

The Wayfarer - Natsume Soseki (Japanese)
I have high regard for three Soseki novels – and then this. The plot makes no sense. Do the characters and events in the first section, “Friend,” exist simply to be dropped? Increasingly the book concerns Ichiro, the narrator’s brother; at first the issue is Ichiro’s unhappy marriage (with his wife playing a major role), but the marriage (and the wife) are dropped too. Supposedly Ichiro’s problem is very, very deep, and involves existential matters. What’s the meaning of life? – that type of thing. Ichiro is supposedly brilliant and as a result he’s unable to live simply, unquestioningly, happily. The book ends (the last section is entitled “Anguish,” and it was, for me) with a long letter which supposedly sheds light on the enigmatic and tortured Ichiro. I’m overusing “supposedly,” right? I didn’t buy any of it. Ichiro is an ugly-tempered, self-centered bore. He wasn’t worth my time. But he was worth Soseki’s time. Why? Could he be the author’s alter ego? I don’t know. But I do know that a major peril in writing about oneself is that you reveal yourself without even knowing it.

The Vicar of Bullhampton - Anthony Trollope
This novel is earthy (who could be more down-to-earth than the miller?). I believe that common people, rendered honestly and without condescension, are of great interest; so did Trollope. The novel’s central issue is “The Woman Question,”and it’s presented through two very different characters. Mary Lowther’s dilemma has to do with whether she should marry a man she doesn’t love. He’s an excellent match and various forces push her towards the marriage. Her struggle in making this decision is depicted with all the doubts and conflicts she feels. Then there’s the miller’s daughter, Carrie Brattle, who’s a “fallen woman.” Her predicament is hard for a modern reader to comprehend. Because of one misstep this unmarried girl becomes an outcast from society; even her father disowns her. I had a problem with how Trollope handled both women. Mary is given an easy way out: she meets a man who stirs real love in her. Okay, but why the Perils of Pauline-type obstacles thrown in her way (and then conveniently removed)? We’re constantly left hanging with the question of “What happens next?” (wait for the next installment to find out). As for Carrie, she clearly had Trollope’s sympathy, and he shows the hypocrisy and insensitivity of the so-called upstanding, moral people who find her soiled beyond redemption. But his portrayal of her is so flat! She’s often referred to as “poor Carrie” and she’s little more than an abjectly sad victim. Still, these problems don’t sink the ship. There’s much about the novel that makes it a success. It’s emotionally rich, engrossing and written in a smooth, reader-friendly style. Trollope shows compassion for all his many characters, even the deeply flawed. The eponymous Vicar is someone of importance: a good man who diligently tries to do the right thing. His efforts sometimes fail to achieve their goals; but he, like all the people of Bullhampton, is merely human.

Hemlock and After - Angus Wilson
I had mixed feelings as I was reading this; admiration was offset by fault-finding. Wilson is intelligent (he makes sure you know it) and his prose is graceful and inventive (though its intricacies serve mainly to impress). Then there were the people he assembles. The book is under 150 pages, but it has a list – one I had to constantly refer to – of twenty-five characters. Many are homosexual; almost all, of whatever sexual persuasion, are distasteful. Some only indulge in backbiting, but one woman is outrageously evil. Wilson has a cultured taste for the kinky, and he displays a cynicism that’s downright acidic. Kinkiness and cynicism can be entertaining – they are entertaining as presented here –but they can turn rancid. Perhaps Wilson realized this was happening to his wicked brew, because near the end he tries to impart a higher purpose to the proceedings; I was unconvinced by the sudden emphasis on self-revelation and compassion. Hemlock is a poison, and this book has a poisonous heart. Though Angus Wilson is surely an artist, is he a person whose work I want to spend more time with?

Light and Darkness - Natsume Soseki (Japanese)
In rigorous detail Soseki examines the minds of two characters through their words and their thoughts. I had to take the novel in small doses – it’s that concentrated. But this approach reveals the desires and fears and everything else that goes on between a husband and wife. Selfishness, in its various manifestations, dominates. I suppose this is the darkness of the title – the darkness of the human heart, shown not on a dramatic stage but in everyday encounters and occurrences. And the light? The last word on the last page is “unfinished.” The author died at age forty-nine, before he could complete the novel. It’s thought that about fifty more pages remained to be written. I can’t imagine what light Soseki could bring to his story. *

Troubles - J. G. Farrell
The author died in his forties. A shame, for he was gifted with the ability to entertain. That said, the trouble with Troubles is that Farrell employs tactics that are too obviously manipulative. He uses eccentric characters that exist merely to amuse and baffle. The setting – a crumbling, once-glorious hotel in Ireland – is falling apart, grotesquely. The novel is filled with crises. The Major stoically tries to keep order in the mess around him. He has a crush on Sarah, who’s confined to a wheelchair (why? – we never find out, but soon she’s walking just fine). She acts erratically towards the Major, sometimes sweet, more often sour (mean and hurtful, actually). What’s her problem? We don’t know. But she drops him – hard – and any normal man would make an exit and get on with his life. But the Major hangs around until some Sinn Feiners attempt to kill him (in a quite horrible manner). The demise of the Majestic Hotel comes when the mad butler sets fire to it (it goes up in grand fashion, including burning cats leaping out the windows). Sarah marries a brutish military man, the Major drifts to London. On the last page, after many years have passed, he’s still mooning over her. I have no idea why.

David Golder - Irene Nemirovsky (French)

Nemirovsky recounts the last days of a man who dedicated his life to the pursuit of money. She doesn’t condemn cold, stony David Golder – he’s the most sympathetic person in a cast of characters composed mostly of leeches, and his physical suffering and fear of death give him a humanity one can relate to. In the grasping world presented here a few people still value simple sensuous pleasures; the chapter that takes us with Joyce and her lover is a needed diversion from the rest of the book, which is dominated by gloom. This gloom eventually becomes monochromatic and overpowering. When the cruelties pile up (such as when Golder’s wife tells him that his daughter, the one bright thing in his life, is not his) the novel loses balance. Negativity (the first word of the book is “No”) is too extreme. And the ending is melodramatic; the author tries to give Golder a hero’s stoicism and to make his last moments evocative. But, whatever its flaws, this is a serious, ambitious novel. That Nemirovsky wrote it when she was twenty-three is beyond impressive.

Mrs. Eckdorf in O’Neill’s Hotel - William Trevor

Most of the people in this book are life’s losers, and many are deluded, but Trevor treats them all with compassion. This is an intricate, strange novel, but it works (e.g., the revelation about the Terrible Thing that happened at the hotel is handled in a way that’s surprising but believable). The characters form a dense tableau of thoughts and spoken words as each pursues his or her way of getting by in the world. They may not be ideal ways, but even the repulsive Morrissey is made comprehensible. And though Ivy Eckdorf is dangerously crazy, her transformation in the last chapter is moving. She finds the only possible way to bring peace and happiness to the suffering residents of O’Neill’s Hotel – and to herself. *

Botchan - Natsume Soseki (Japanese)

This second novel by Soseki was hugely popular in Japan. Though an easy read, it’s superficial, the humor is juvenile, and the main character is a one-dimensional blowhard. It gives no indication of the darkness and depth that would mark Soseki’s later work.

The Call of the Toad - Gunter Grass (German)

A well-written bore. The widow and widower’s cemetery plan is leeched of any interest it might have had by the oblique way in which it’s framed. An author (Grass, I guess) potters around with reams of material the widower has sent him. He reconstructs their story, but his many interjections and digressions slow everything to a toad’s pace. I stopped short of the halfway mark.

Time Must Have a Stop - Aldous Huxley

There are two Huxleys. One I love to read, the other I can’t tolerate. There came a turning point in his life. He had been writing acidic comedies in which people carry on absurdly; he scrutinized their self-delusion and hypocrisy. I think he reached a moral crisis. Is this all there is? He turned to spiritualism. He was going to lead people to what he discerned as an enlightened way of thinking. Unfortunately, when he goes into his spiritual mode, I decline to follow. Half of this book is brilliant early Huxley, and at its center is Eustace. He’s a sybarite and a non-believer; in fact, he despises Belief. Halfway through the book he dies. But he doesn’t die. Huxley has him exist between life and death. Eustace won’t give in to the bliss of Nothingness (which takes the form of “the Light”) because he’s too strongly attached to his individual identity; he cannot give up the gross world. Eventually he makes his appearance at a seance; although this could be high humor, Huxley treats it seriously. My problem with the enlightened Huxley is this: what are his credentials to instruct me on the Truth of existence? I respect the man, but I think I’ve read all the cynical Huxley (those early novels I love), so I’ll read no more.

Fancies and Goodnights - John Collier

Diversions. Well done and entertaining, but of little substance. And I don’t have a taste (as Collier most definitely does) for jinns, witches, spells, etc. I read about half the stories. The shame of it is that Collier – when he planted his feet firmly on the ground and dealt in deadly logic – could produce a wickedly wonderful little piece like “De Mortuis.”

Mon (The Gate) - Natsume Soseki (Japanese)

With patience and calm authority (I’m reminded of the meticulous care Japanese artists take in flower arrangement) Soseki makes the reader feel the love that a married couple have for one another. Sosuke and Oyone come alive, fully. But quietly! They’re so quiet a couple. Soseki accomplishes his purpose through simplicity, dwelling almost entirely on mundane events. There are no declarations of love, no lovemaking (not even a kiss), and the woman plays a subservient role – yet we know. The problem I have with the novel may stem from its belonging in a different culture and time (it was written in the early 1900s). The fact that Sosuke and Oyone had sexual relations before marriage has ostracized them forever from family and society. They’re guilt-ridden by their sin. This dark cloud makes the isolated world they live in a somber one. Even Sosuke’s chances of having a good job have been ruined. But Soseki does not tell us how others learned of their indiscretion (and why, if they knew the consequences of what they did, wouldn’t they keep it secret?). The ending is enigmatic and unsettling (for what I’ve described as a love story). Sosuke goes to a zen retreat to try to find peace. He’s asked to give an answer to a koan: “What was my face before my parents were born?” He comes up with an answer (one the zen master considers contemptible); he repeats the same answer when asked for it again, but we are never told what this answer is. That Sosuke fails at the retreat is believable, but when he returns home to Oyone he seems to have changed; it’s as if the fact that he has her does not matter so much. Is he fated to live in gloom? What’s to become of their love? These questions illustrate how deeply I was involved in the lives of these two characters. *

Sanshiro - Natsume Soseki (Japanese)
I was surprised at how this novel – Japanese, written in 1908 – seemed so modern (including the direct, clear style of writing). Pleasurable throughout. The main character is real and appealing; what concerned him concerned me. The other, secondary male figures are strong too. Yet there’s something elusive about this novel: I couldn’t understand Mineko. I found her to be an intriguing character, but I could never gain access to her emotions and motivations. What were the demons troubling her? She made mysterious statements that were never resolved – and I wanted them to be. Perhaps the mystery surrounding her is one Sanshiro, and thus the reader, can never penetrate. One more note is struck here – Soseki recreates the golden world of youth, just before disillusion sets in. At the book’s end it seems that Sanshiro has undergone an experience that he’ll look back at with deep regret, yet he remains resilient and hopeful. I’ll read more of Soseki. *

The Farewell Party - Milan Kundera (Czech)
Kundera is a cerebral writer, more a moral philosopher than a novelist. Plot is subservient to his intellectual pursuits, and though we’re constantly in the minds of his characters, they function mainly to convey his ideas. Because they aren’t fully-developed individuals, I was only mildly involved in their unlikely predicaments. Still, if you’re in the mood for a cynical look at human nature in the abstract, Kundera does it at a high level.

All the Little Live Things - Wallace Stegner
An elegant prose stylist, an intelligent mind at work. Yet this novel suffers from tidiness – everything is arranged too perfectly; I was aware of the author fussing over his craft. And once Stegner sets up his premise, there’s no forward momentum. We get the main character’s thoughts in monotonous and repetitive detail. I couldn’t finish the book.

Chatterton - Peter Ackroyd
Everything in this novel is aggressively bizarre. Initially this quality was intriguing; the plot had mystery, the main character was interesting. Then other characters were introduced who were exceedingly nasty. The book took on an ugly aspect; even the humor was distasteful. When Chatterton finally made his appearance he was a crucial disappointment – just another bizarre and nasty player on a stage already crowded with them. At this point I had enough of an author whose aim is to fascinate and repel.