After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie – Jean Rhys
The meager plot has Rhys’ waif-like heroine wandering around Paris and London, trying to scrounge money from former or new lovers. She has no inner resources except a waning survival instinct; she fears the day (not too far off) when age will erode her looks. She’s very cynical about life and bitter about people (I wonder how many times a character is described as “cold-eyed”). Again and again we get observations like this: “People are such beasts, such mean beasts. They’ll let you die for want of a decent word, and then they’ll lick the feet of anybody they can get anything out of.” I must be one of the mean beasts, because I didn’t have much sympathy for Julia. I wondered why men got involved with such a mentally off-balance and rage-filled individual, and why they continued to fork over money (though usually with the caveat that no more will be forthcoming). I suspect that early on Rhys was given bad advice about her writing. In Quartet and Mackenzie (her first and second novels) her prose is clipped to the barren bones, but the minimalism comes across as an affectation. And when Rhys concentrates on her own unhappiness the only mood she conveys is a stifling glumness; that mood remains intact even when she enters the minds of other characters. Her third novel, Voyage in the Dark, was better because it was more expansive, with different locales and a supporting cast that added color and verve. Thirty years later Wide Sargasso Sea came out, and in that work she got it all right. Last word on Mackenzie: it seems pretentious to divide a less than two hundred page book into three parts (Part III is thirteen pages long). That’s another thing Rhys should have been warned about: pretentiousness.

Honey in the Horn – H. L. Davis
After finishing a section of this book I often thought “How did this guy get so good?” By “section” I mean a stretch of one to three pages in which Davis describes a place or person or event. The place is Oregon in the early 1900s, the people are settlers looking for ways to get by, and the events concern the various ways that most fail to reach that goal. It’s a raw and often treacherous country, full of characters of all stripes (most of them nefarious in some way), and it’s rendered with an earthy and unsentimental authenticity. I have great respect for Twain’s Roughing It, and I think Davis was every bit as good a writer of prose as Twain (and as funny). But unlike Twain’s account of his travels, Davis wrote a novel, and plotting and long-term character development weren’t in his arsenal of strengths. We follow the misadventures of a young man named Clay, but he never attains much substance, and his relationship with Luce is so vague that I couldn’t understand how they felt about one another. A weakness that would be fatal to another book doesn’t detract a whole lot from Honey because Clay’s wanderings are a means by which Davis moves to those vigorous and pungent anecdotes he excelled at. He writes about a garrulous people, most of whom are isolated. “Loneliness is supposed to make people reserved and taciturn, but it didn’t work that way with them . . . What solitude had lost them was the habit, not of talking, but of listening.” Take Mrs. Yarbrow, “who raised bees in the fireweed slashings on Upper Thief Creek. She was so enslaved by the habit of unbosoming herself before strangers that she deliberately worked into a lawsuit regularly every year so she could explain to the jury, from the witness stand, what a hard life she led, and how worthless her last four husbands had been, and how much trouble her children had given her to raise, and how her roof leaked and her cow had run off with a stray bull and her bees swarmed when they weren’t supposed to and stung her when she went after them, and how her female disorders (which she described in minute detail) gave her hell all the time and no doctor in the country had been able to do them a lick of good.” When it came out in 1935 the novel was appreciated: it was reviewed by the likes of Mencken and it won the Pulitzer Prize. As for my question regarding how Davis got so good, Honey was his first novel, written when he was forty-two, so he had a store of life experiences and the ability (unlike Mrs. Yarbro) to listen. He also was diligent about staying away from any publishing or literary establishment. He declined to go to New York to pick up the Pulitzer because he didn’t want to be a “subject for exhibit.” Which is exactly what one of his cantankerous and idiosyncratic characters might say.

The Inspector General – Nikolai Gogol (Russian)
After I finished this play (in a translation by Constance Garnett) I read the chapter in Vladimir Nabokov’s biography of Gogol devoted to The Government Inspector. He considers it to be one of Gogol’s three masterpieces (the others being Dead Souls and “The Overcoat”). He goes on and on about how it was misunderstood; he even rejects Gogol’s explanation of his intent. But if you rail about misinterpretations, isn’t it necessary to say what it’s really about? Nabokov buries his point in obscure verbosity (something about “the mimetic capacities of the physical phenomena produced by almost intangible particles of recreated life”). I have a more down-to-earth opinion (for Gogol was a down-to-earth writer). When he wrote Inspector Gogol wasn’t the isolated oddball he may have become later in his life; he was a worldly and very observant man. He sets up a mistake in identity, and then lets the characters (every one of them) display a wide array of commonplace vices and weaknesses. The play is about people acting badly, and Gogol makes it a lively, high-spirited romp. Along the way he ridicules the human tendency to grovel before power. If someone is considered to be of importance he’s treated as (and is considered to be) a noble creature; those who are unimportant are treated like dirt. That’s how the world works, both in Russia in 1836 and here, today. The most revealing moment comes at the end, after it’s learned that the inspector was an imposter. A letter from him is intercepted and is read aloud; in it he mocks each of the assembled townsfolk. The Mayor goes into a frenzy: “It’s not enough to be made a laughingstock – there will come some scribbler, some inkslinger, and will put you in a comedy. That’s what’s mortifying! He won’t spare your rank and your calling, and everyone will laugh and clap.” Then he turns on the audience: “What are you laughing at? You are laughing at yourselves.” *

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.

The Overcoat and Other Tales of Good and Evil - Nikolai Gogol (Russian)
“The Overcoat” stands firm as a masterpiece in world literature. But of the other stories only “Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Aunt” impressed me; it was funny, gentle and insightful. “The Terrible Vengeance,” though it had energy, was over-the-top, full of superstitions and the supernatural; it could have been a tale from the Dark Ages. “The Portrait” and a long section of “Nevsky Avenue” were too fervent; when Gogol got onto the subject of the artist he let his passions boil over, and the results are rather foolish. He was better dealing with common folk. As for “The Nose,” I don’t get its appeal. Kafka had a man turn into a giant beetle, but all was logical. “The Nose” never overcomes its ridiculous and unwieldy premise. A satire? Of what?

Royal Highness - Thomas Mann (German)
A stately, dignified, slow-moving book. All these elements are part of the nature of the main character. From boyhood Prince Klaus’s personality has been stifled by the constricting life of royalty. When he finds a woman he loves there’s a sense of awakening. Imma is unusual, fascinating and formidable; she cares for Klaus, but she finds something missing in him. There’s a fairy tale quality to this love story, with the Prince winning the maiden in a highly unusual way. His nation is in dire financial straits, and tied to his marriage proposal is the stipulation that Imma’s father use his enormous wealth to help pull them out of their plight. This is exactly what she needed: for Klaus to stop being a royal prop, to show initiative and to act with conviction. All the emotional and psychological forces at play are believable. The book is engrossing, in a reserved way, though there are key scenes that stand out vividly. One major moment involves Klaus’s withered left arm; we wonder, for many pages, what Imma’s reaction to his lifelong infirmity will be. We find out, in a scene that is strange and moving. *

They Came Like Swallows - William Maxwell
Maxwell divides the book into three parts, each told from a family member’s point of view. First comes Bunny, the little boy; the expressionistic style of writing in his section conveys the imaginative, emotional way he experiences his mother. But she dies from influenza (the novel takes place after World War I). His father and brother try to cope with the loss of the beloved center of their lives. Twelve-year-old Robert reacts with a muted stoicism; the father moves about numbly, in a daze of grief. Maxwell’s strength – the creating of atmosphere and mood – is used to great effect. We understand how this death is a wound that will never heal for any of the three. *

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. *