Fun with Problems - Robert Stone
This short story collection should have been called Drunks, Druggies, Nut-Cases. But it’s a literary work by a National Book Award winner, so the title can’t be blatantly lurid. It has to have class (albeit of the quirky variety). Still, the book is far from a class act; I won’t attempt to do justice to its many failings. If you’re at the library, read the four page “Honeymoon” and tell me why an author with discernment or self-respect – if they wrote such nonsense in the first place – wouldn’t have tossed it in the wastebasket. Granted, the prose throughout is fine and the title story is good, in a slummy way (it’s the only story that can be called “good”; most are bad, and the two long ones are so tediously bad that I couldn’t complete them). The problem with Problems – a huge one, endemic in today’s literary world – is content. Pandering is the name of the game. Freakiness, outrageous behavior, violence, obscenity – these make up the content of work by many young writers and some elder statesmen (like Stone). No person I can relate to appears on these pages because no real humans are depicted. Real people in real situations, though a subject of vast potential, have been largely abandoned. So why did I read the book? I heard Alan Cheuse, on NPR, highly recommend it, and I liked Stone’s Dog Soldiers (written in 1973 and also containing the content I’m condemning here); but twenty-seven years ago I was young, and the novel was fresh and had vitality and drive; now I’ve matured, but Stone, though he’s seventy, hasn’t; he’s just gotten angrier – the prevailing attitude in these stories is a mean and abusive one. In the blurb on the back cover Madison Smartt Bell writes “American fiction has no greater master than Robert Stone.” What hope is there if Cheuse and Bell (and many others who heap praise on this dismal book) can’t recognize its faults and emphatically condemn them? A last comment, regarding Stone’s anger. He heavy-handily bludgeons caricatures: an insane Secretary of Defense, a rich Silicon Valley entrepreneur; and, in a broader sense, he attacks an American society phony to its diseased core. But if he wants to see, up close, the disease that’s killing literary fiction, he simply needs to look in a mirror.  

All the Days and Nights - William Maxwell
Since this story collection is the last work of fiction that I’ll read by Maxwell, a summing up (and a tribute) is in order. His difficulty with plot persists in the short form; he’s great at capturing an isolated moment or feeling, but he can’t tell a story; often he doesn’t try. In “The Front and Back Parts of the House” he describes the writing of his first novel; beyond the initial idea he hadn’t a clue where events were headed (the results of such lack of direction can be found in Time Will Darken It). He’s a strongly autobiographical author. When he didn’t have a close emotional involvement with his subject the results lack depth and resonance. His best work concerns people he cared deeply about – wife, father, brother. He doesn’t give himself a major role, nor does he overtly express his feelings, but we come to know Maxwell in how he presents others. What shines through is his empathy and compassion. Some stories are grim, but no villains are to be found. He shows anger only once. When he and his wife revisit “The Gardens of Mont-Saint-Michel,” where they had spent a cherished evening, they find that the beautiful, ancient and irreplaceable gardens are gone, a victim of Progress and the Almighty Dollar. My favorite in the collection is “The Thistles of Sweden,” about the early years of Maxwell’s marriage, when the couple were living in a brownstone walk-up in New York; it’s poignant and evocative. “Over by the River,” which takes place later in their lives, has a suggestion of something dark and disturbing at prowl in the world (and in the hearts of Maxwell and his wife and children); that the book begins with this atypical piece is perplexing and intriguing. As for his prose – it’s beautiful; Maxwell can make the act of reading words pleasurable. And he has such mastery that he’s able to accomplish with ease whatever he attempts. In “The Lily-White Boys” he lets the “material witnesses” of a robbery – the carpet, phone directory, wall clock, a Sheraton sideboard, a bottle of Elizabeth Arden perfume – have a conversation in which each plays a crucial role or has a bit of wisdom to offer. What other author could do this so charmingly? A description of the clothes someone is wearing is interesting because Maxwell is primarily concerned with the person inside those clothes. The collection ends with “twenty-one improvisations.” In his introduction Maxwell states that he wrote these short pieces to please his wife. Only a few are good, but I forgive him for this indulgence. Fittingly, the best of the lot is “A Love Story,” about two moles whose lives are disrupted by the coming of bulldozers. It ends happily. Madame Mole shows affection for her husband by chewing on his ear. *

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. *

The Chateau - William Maxwell
I’ve always thought that, as a writer, Maxwell had something special. That special quality is at the core of this novel. It presents a married couple on vacation in France; the man relates their experiences, observations, conversations – all the little and large events that occur. It’s pleasant enough, interesting enough. But what matters, underlying everything, is that this is a book about love. Harold and Barbara are inseparable – one is not complete without the other. The word “love” is not bandied about, but it’s implicit on every page. And there’s more. Maxwell (who is Harold) is aware of what he has; he’s also aware of the other side of life: loneliness, loss, depression (Maxwell didn't marry until he was 37). So there’s an appreciation of joy and a recognition of sadness. In The Chateau the author and his wife relive something precious to them, and Maxwell lets us share it. *

Kafka’s Other Trial - Elias Canetti (German)
In this book Canetti studies, with his stressful, nitpicking intensity, the letters Kafka wrote to Felice. I could only read half the book, then skimmed the rest. What struck me forcefully is how miserable Kafka was and how he tried to make others miserable (poor Felice). I suppose one can see his work as the only redeeming element in all the suffering. I was left disturbed and depressed.

Lucy - Jamaica Kincaid
I disliked Lucy. Maybe I have a problem with women being so blunt, especially when it comes to sexual matters (such as Lucy’s having sex with two men in the same day, with no compunction – ugh). Since we’re in her mind, we get a big dose of Lucy (Lucifer – and she likes that name). She’s selfish, extremely self-absorbed, depressed, ungrateful (she’s blessed in her circumstances – blessed!). She acts badly, has errant emotions that are mean-spirited, and she blames it all on her overpowering mother. On the last page she’s weeping about wanting so much to love someone, but she didn’t devote one lousy sentence in the book to the four little girls she was au pair to. Spare me your tears, I thought. Still – here’s the rub: my strong response shows how honest a writer Kincaid is; surely she knew what a bad impression she was making, but she did it anyway. I was left wondering about Lucy: did she grow up to become a decent person; did she get the love she wanted; did she relinquish her consuming hatred for her mother?

Unwelcome Words - Paul Bowles
Bowles dabbles at the typewriter, working over his old themes: world-weary sophistication, depravity, ornate cruelty. Yet he writes well, and he does have an ingrained world view, an alarmingly bleak one. The last story, which seems to be real letters written by him, is nastily effective – unwelcome words indeed!

Disgrace - J. M. Coetzee
I respect this book, though it failed to reach the heights to which it aspired. For over a third I thought it was a great novel. Then it weakened, before recovering some of its power at the close. The lapse occurred after the attack on David and his daughter (a brutal, frightening scene); the action of the plot ceased and the two characters simply circled their situation. When things became static the book exposed itself to scrutiny. The bare style started to seem affected, with its suggestion of great depths of meaning. Also, people began to behave unbelievably – most notable was the daughter’s refusal to act sensibly (and not explaining her actions in any way I could relate to). Coetzee lost my sympathies to a degree, never to fully regain them.

Of Human Bondage - Somerset Maugham
I never finished this. The overblown writing (the word “agony” is used again and again) and the phoniness of emotions alienated me. There was no valid psychological reason for the relationship between Philip and Mildred – so much so that I became suspicious of the author. (What’s really going on?) Beware of novels with titles like this one’s.

So Long, See You Tomorrow - William Maxwell
As stated by the author, this book was an effort to expunge an ancient guilt. (Fiction as therapy?) It was effective in the first half, when the story was about the boy (Maxwell) and his close friend Cletus. Then comes a wonderful scene when the two, now estranged, pass in a high school hall as if they were strangers. At that point Maxwell takes the wrong path. He delves into the lives of Cletus’s parents, whose actions will be so disastrous to his friend. This exploration of adultery is a gloomy and repetitive stretch. The book becomes a conceit – the author presumes to be absolving guilt by giving Cletus understanding on the pages of this novel (he even presumes to go into the mind of a dog). This should have been a short story about a failed friendship. The ending should have been in that high school hall.

The Sound of the Mountain - Yasunari Kawabata (Japanese)
This is a study of a man contemplating the meaning of his life. Shingo is going through a lot in his old age, and he responds in a troubled, puzzled way. He’s afflicted by disturbing thoughts and dreams. What concerns him most is the relationship of his son with his wife (and his, Shingo’s, attraction to her). Kawabata stays firmly in the quotidian; much attention is given to nature – animals, what’s growing in the ground. The book has a fragmented feel, like a painting composed of many small strokes that, when one steps back, make up a whole picture. And yet the picture is not whole in the sense of being resolved. Kawabata presents the possibility of a resolution on the last page, but turns away from it. Life is not that simple, nor that pleasant. *

The Bell - Iris Murdoch
Murdoch was preoccupied with serious matters, and this gives the novel weight. But she was a careless keeper of her literary house; there’s a lot of clutter for the reader to maneuver around. I don’t think prose or structure were of much concern to her; psychological and philosophical matters were. Though she gives her characters a human dimension, they do double service as props through which she can present her ideas. Murdoch’s mind was unique: dark, dramatic (sometimes melodramatic) and a bit childlike. She ends the book with an artful flourish - the last sentence suddenly opens up an intriguing new vista.

Time Will Darken It - William Maxwell
Maxwell can create a mood so palpable it seems to rise from the page. At its core is love for the sensuous world around us; he shows commonplace things with fresh eyes. He’s a moral humanist – people do not act without right and wrong being an issue, and he treats them with compassion. The beginning, which involves a visit by relatives, is a rich display of his gifts. But Maxwell’s problem is plotting, and the second part, in which the premise set up in the beginning is worked out, is weak. The final resolution is unconvincing and hurried, as if Maxwell decided to wrap things up – somehow.

Shuffle - Leonard Michaels
The book is composed of diverse parts, a lot of it a journal that gave me a too-intimate look at Michaels’ life; I stopped reading it with relief. But the long story “Sylvia” was very good, a study of a relationship that is intense and destructive. Though Sylvia is disturbed, I never felt that she did harmful things out of maliciousness; she seemed a sad victim of her emotions. Michaels portrays himself as passive, confused and almost helpless; to survive he succeeds in getting away from Sylvia. The ending, which is about the cost of his freedom, is harrowing. Part of the story’s success is the detachment with which Michaels tells it – flatly, almost clinically, like conducting an autopsy. Or maybe it’s the muted tone of one in shock.

Mason’s Retreat - Christopher Tilghman
The novel starts out nicely, with interesting characters and an engaging premise. But things begin to unravel when the house, depicted in a horrid state, is suddenly presented to the reader as a pleasant place, without the author showing us how it got this way. Then the father leaves the scene, depriving the book of its most complex personality. It’s as if Tilghman lacked the staying power needed to sustain a high level of writing. Loose ends and discarded characters abound. The affair the wife has is with a man too much like a romantic lead in a TV soap, so she loses credibility (and my respect). A drowning scene is very strong, again showing Tilghman’s ability when he applies the pressure, but after that the book limps along to a sketchy and uninspired ending.

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.