Reading Well: Open City by Teju Cole

Posted on September 2, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Teju Cole‘s Open City (2012) is one of the finest written contemporary novels you’ll encounter. It tells the story of Julius, a Nigerian graduate student in psychiatry living in New York City.

It’s a classic intellectual novel: Julius wanders the city, meeting people, thinking deeply about art and philosophy and life. There is a love interest, and there are challenges in his career, and there is, quite memorably, a random incident of violence that punctures the internal existence that dominates most of Julius’ time.

Little happens, but the musings make the trip memorable and fascinating, and in this, Open City sits at the intersection of two traditions: first, the displacement, isolation, and loss of agency inherent in being an immigrant and, second, novels which sparkle with the intelligence of the narrator, where their intellectual concerns are communicated in a way that sparks and holds the reader’s interest.

Race and class are both treated with some complexity: Julius is black in New York City, a position that marks his travels in the city; but he is also privileged, and studying for a comfortable professional career.

It’s an excellent book, and one that deserves its various accolades and awards (Pen-Hemingway winner, finalist for the National Book Critics Circle, etc.). It’s not a page turner but it’s well worth the time and thought it demands.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Be comfortable weaving intellectual discourse into my fiction. When it’s pulled off, it’s such a pleasure to read, combining a deepening understanding of the character with musings that are interesting in their own right. Cole does it excellently.

 

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Reading Well: The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan

Posted on August 19, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Eye of the World (1990) is the first in a 16 (!) book series by Robert Jordan. He said he envisioned it a sextology, but things clearly got a little out of hand. It’s easy to see why: not only is the world richly realized, but the premise is one that encourages a sprawling, cyclical set of narratives: since creation, there has been an ongoing struggle between the forces of light and darkness, resulting in an ongoing pattern of near-destruction and near-salvation across ages so vast as to practically speaking be entirely different worlds.

It’s classic swords & sorcery stuff: a hero with mysterious parentage, two friends with their own parts to play, a set of travelling companions that include an inscrutable magician and her even-more-inscrutable protector-king, all arrayed against ghouls and trolls and demons and, at the core of it all, the dark one himself.

There are some nice touches: a Romany troop that combines a semi-Buddhist ideology with gypsy leanings and a search for a single song that will transform the world; a race of anti-trolls with tufted ears that search for ancient forests; a well thought out, gendered, system of magic that portends well for the rest of the series.

The book is engrossing, and a page-turner, and if the ending feels a bit rushed, tying up too many loose strands with a single moment, it’s an enjoyable ride. Whether you’re up for the other 15 volumes is a matter of personal taste: I am unsure, personally, as Jordan’s world seems to hover on the edge of providing enough innovation and surprises. Still, he’s a skilled writer, and I never felt like abandoning the quest, even if its overall contours were well expected.

One more note: I was surprised this book was published in 1990. There is something that feels older than that about it, as if it were spawn from a time when editing of genre books–especially fantasy and science fiction–was much less intense than it is now. A single chapter jumps around oddly in time, one character’s looming transformation is foreshadowed again and again in the same way, etc. Oddly, for me at least, this was endearing: this is not a slickly packaged creation by someone trying to emulate George R.R. Martin; it’s an original attempt at creation that walks along similar, yet personal, paths.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Be this comfortable in genre. Calling something derivative is usually seen as an insult, but Jordan’s world is more a re-assemblage of his view of the world, contemporary myths, and a liberal dash of Tolkien. Doing that with enough skill that a reader is engaged takes an a lot of craft, and I think that using familiar tropes to introduce new combinations of characters and plot is a highly successful strategy. And, one I can’t seem to do very well.

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Reading Well: The Dirty Dust by Máirtín Ó Cadhain

Posted on August 5, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Dirty Dust, published in Máirtín Ó Cadhain‘s original Irish as Cré na Cille in 1949 and translated into English by Alan Titley in 2015, rests on a fantastic premise: after the residents of a small Irish town die, they remain as spirits in the graveyard, carrying all of their social concerns–the alliances and grievances, the foibles and the gossip mongering and the attempts at reconciliation–with them.

The story is told in three registers: chapters often open with a short, elegiac statement by “the voice of the graveyard,” but most of the story is either jumbled snatches of overlapping conversations amongst the buried or conversations occurring with the lead character, Caitriona Paudeen, one of three Paudeen sisters, but the only one that is buried in the graveyard. A new burial occurs in most chapters, adding a character to the mix, and eventually it becomes clear that Caitriona’s perspective on events is only one of many, and perhaps unreliable at that.

The central conflict of the book is Caitriona’s deep and consuming hatred for her sister, Nell. This plays out in several streams: concerns over the pending reveal of the will of the third sister, who has moved to America and done well for herself; whether Nell or Caitriona will have the grander funeral and grave marker; and what will happen to Caitriona’s land and house with Nell angling for their use and possession.

But that’s not really the point of The Dirty Dust. Instead, it’s the constant conversation, the often hilarious, often hard-to-follow overlap of reminisces and arguments, revelations and insults that fly around the graveyard. Issues of social status, of class, and of the relationship between a largely closed-off village and the wider world all play a part.

I think The Dirty Dust could make a side-splitting play: the characters are all there, and the book, as much as any I’ve ever read, is meant to be read aloud, with different voices for the characters. It’s not an easy book to read: it takes close attention to track who is speaking and why and what their relationship is to the extended Paudeen family (her in-law’s play a significant role as well).

The language–coarse and direct at times, but also overflowing with the rhythms and patterns of Irish–of the book is a wonder, and often the sheer energy of it carries entire scenes that would otherwise lag. Characters become recognizable through their favorite curse words, or their obsession with a sporting match they missed by dying weeks too soon, or their purported-yet-highly-disputed ability to drink 42 pints at one sitting.

If that sounds like your cup of tea, The Dirty Dust will prove entertaining and enjoyable; if reading dialog for 200 pages is not for you, nor is this book.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Master idiom with this much ease. It’s very hard to write in a linguistic tone, yet keep the book accessible to those unfamiliar with that dialect, whether it’s urban slang, the awkwardness of a foreign language, or an entirely invented culture. Titley’s translation manages to remain readable, but also always generates a feeling of being deeply grounded in a unique culture, a tribute I would assume to both his work and Ó Cadhain’s source material.

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Reading Well: The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan

Posted on July 24, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Published in 2013, and winner of the 2014 Man Booker Prize, Richard Flanagan‘s The Narrow Road to the Deep North is really two stories woven together. The first recounts the harrowing experience of Australian soldiers in Japanese PoW camps; the second, the life of the protagonist, Dorrigo Evans, both before the war and after his return home.

The first narrative thread is likely to carry more immediate impact: it’s brutal and sad and violent and full of the kinds of detail that make it all too real. The emaciated bodies driven beyond their capacity, the callousness of their Japanese captors, the futility of their efforts, all combine to pack a significant emotional punch. But it is the other story–that of Evans, hailed publicly as a hero, but carrying a devastating level of self-doubt and guilt–that shows, I think, Flanagan’s consummate skill. The portrait of the successful man, rationalizing his infidelities and haunted by his past, is quite memorable.

Just be warned: this is a “man’s book,” fully concerned with war and brotherhood and whoring and father-son (and uncle-son) relationships. There are strong female characters, but they orbit around the men in the book as decoration or reward or foil. As long as that–and the unrelenting brutality of the PoW camp material–doesn’t put you off, this is a deeply rewarding read, a book fully deserving of its accolades.

As far as I know, there is no movie deal, but that has to just be a matter of time: Evans is a role built for a star vehicle for a male lead.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Other than be this successful? Tackle a monstrous topic while retaining the humanity that lives at the core of great fiction. Evans remains a compelling character, despite the setting and his various peccadilloes. That’s a great accomplishment.

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Reading Well: A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan

Posted on July 7, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

A Visit from the Goon Squad (2010) by Jennifer Egan purports to tell the story of two people, however the cast of characters is much larger. Each chapter is written from a different perspective, and while Bennie (a musician and record producer) and Sasha (his protégée for a while) are either directly or indirectly involved in each storyline, the focus wanders quite a bit.

As you may guess, your openness to this–and your ability to track who’s who as the novel also moves around in time–will have much to do with your enjoyment. Egan is most skilled at character beats, and many of the smaller scenes will remain with you long after you put down the book: a young woman losing her way in Rome, vibrant descriptions of early punk shows, a woman working her way through a compulsion to steal from strangers.

The skill with characters runs deep enough that even the chapters that feel somewhat stilted–most notably one entirely in PowerPoint slides–contain enough information about the people involved to retain a clear place in the narrative.

I would have preferred the chapters to be chronological, finding it hard to track especially the peripheral characters as it moved, but m. had no such troubles (on the whole, she enjoyed the book more than I did, and that may be a testament to how well Egan captures a sense of the struggles and possibilities of the young). This also points to a difficulty in the book: the “Goon Squad” of the title is age itself, and Egan’s hold on the motivations of the older characters is a bit strained at points. But, her literary skill does shine throughout, and I would not be surprised if she has a masterpiece somewhere in her future.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

There is a confidence with which Egan sketches the way a character’s habits at one age impact them later in their development that is quite elegant. Her characters feel continuous and consistent, even the ones we meet as pre-teens and follow into early middle-age.

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Reading Well: We by Yevgeny Zamyatin

Posted on June 26, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Yevgeny Zamyatin‘s We has a bit of a tortured publishing history: written in 1921, it was first published–in English–in 1924. Further translations followed (Czech in 1927, French in 1929) but, due to the nature of its political critique, it was not until 1952 that it appeared in full in the original Russian.

There are claims (both at least partially disputed) that We partially inspired both 1984 and Brave New World. Regardless of accuracy, it clearly belongs in the same space as those two early dystopias: the world of We is one that takes a fascination with early 20th century logic and mathematics to predictable conclusions. Society is perfect in that it is ordered, perfect in that the evils of choice and non-conformity have been eliminated in a glorious, absolute perfection.

Zamyatin has some creative touches on this theme: his discussion of mathematics is nicely handled, names have been replaced with alphanumeric designations (our hero is D-503), the buildings are all made of glass to ensure “transparency,” and everyone–in ordered groups of four–take afternoon walks in perfect order through neatly segmented walkways. The plot is consistent with the genre: female sexuality is the gateway to rebellion against the state, and the spark that opens the protagonist’s mind to the possibility that there may indeed be alternatives to the dominant governing structure; and sexual jealousy provides the basis for a constant threat of betrayal. And, yeah, that is all a bit problematic, but also (unfortunately) pretty standard for both the era and genre.

There’s nothing too surprising here, but it is deftly handled, and the plot carries a “page-turner” dimension to it that was surprising: We is more engaging than I anticipated and, especially if you liked 1984 and Brave New World, well worth your time. It deserves a wider audience than it has received.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

The voice of the main character is simultaneously anguished and uncomplicated in a way that propels the novel forward. That is a hard balance to strike, and Zamyatin is at his best when he is deepest in D-503’s head.

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@TheMovies with PopPop: Tangerines

Posted on June 18, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Tangerines is a 2013 Georgian-Estonian film, directed by Zaza Urushadze, and nominated for a 2014 Oscar (not to be confused with 2015’s Tangerine about a transgender sex worker). The film is set in Abkhazia, a region of Georgia that fought a stalemate of a war for its independence in the early ‘90’s. Chechen mercenaries and local Abkhazians fought against Georgian troops. A number of the local residents were Estonian, most of whom returned to Estonia when the conflict broke out.

The film centers on 4 individuals: 2 Estonians who remained, Ivo, an elderly carpenter who is making crates for his neighbor, Margus, a tangerine grower, who intends to hold on until he can harvest his almost ripe crop; and two soldiers on opposing sides, one Chechen and one Georgian, who survive a local skirmish, badly wounded. Ivo takes them into his house and nurses them back to health. They each are committed to kill the other, delayed only by Ivo’s extraction of a promise that they won’t do it in his house.

The film focuses, first on the question of why Ivo and Margus have stayed (clearer for Margus), and then the evolving relationships between the soldiers and among the four of them. Over all this is the film’s real center: war, its destructiveness and unpredictability, and ultimately its inhumane foolishness.

While not a great movie, it’s a very good one, delivers quite a strong and universal anti-war message (I thought it ranks among the finer of that category), is well acted, captures a very realistic sense of life in Abkhazia, and is well worth the time to watch it.

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Reading Well: The Gate to Women’s Country by Sheri Tepper

Posted on June 11, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Sheri Tepper‘s story is personally encouraging: since her first novel was published in 1983, when she was 54, she has released over 30 more and has received a World Fantasy Award for “Life Achievement.” So, note to self, late-starting and incredibly prolific are not necessarily contradictory.

The Gate to Women’s Country (1988) is neither her first novel, nor her best-known, but it was the first I have encountered. It is the story of Stavia, beginning when she is a girl and ending in mid-life, and it is the story of Women’s Country, a territory that has survived an apocalyptic destruction several centuries earlier. It feels like Women’s Country is situated in North America, but it’s never clear; at the start of the novel, it seems like Women’s Country is all there is, by the end it is clear that it represents only one of many modes of survival in a landscape that is riddled with wastelands sown by the violent historical event, which is never fully described.

What is made clear is that–at least for Stavia, her mother Morgot, and the rest of the denizens of Women’s Country–the destruction of the old world was explicitly the fault of men, of their aggression, of their mechanized violence, of their need for warfare. The society that has emerged is cleanly bifurcated: women live inside the walls of small villages; men live in garrison’s outside the walls, determined to protect them. Except for servitors, men who choose to abandon the warlike garrison camps and serve inside the walls.

So, yeah, this is a novel committed to its own feminism. If that turns you off, avoid it. But if not (and, especially, if that attracts you), The Gate to Women’s Country is an engaging, evocative read. The politics are also not simple: indeed, the stance of Women’s Country towards homosexuality is simultaneously consistent with their internal logic and very problematic. I see that as a positive accomplishment: creating something in the society that readers will struggle with, a reminder that this is not utopia.

The plot is oddly meandering (to the point where I wonder if it would survive the contemporary editing process). There are characters and dramatic arcs that seem important initially that fade into the background, and it’s not clear that the story is actually Stavia’s (and her young love, Chernon’s) story until halfway through. Others may see them earlier, but I was pleasantly surprised by some major plot reveals, and while the dominant other culture that Stavia encounters is a bit of a caricature of the worst possible manifestation of gendered fundamentalism, the societies that Tepper envisions are well thought-out.

The denizens of Women’s Country perform a transformed version of ancient Greek plays each year, and perhaps 15% of the book is the text of the (re-conceived) story of Iphegenia. I found the plays distracting and while I could appreciate what she was doing, found Tepper’s prose more convincing than her drama.

Even with that, though, especially if you are looking for something that is feminist, post-apocalyptic, and not of the 21st century, this is a good and occasionally thought-provoking read.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Allegorize. I tend to make things far too complicated, which makes it harder to illustrate political situations through social structures. I blame Foucault: while perhaps in massively differing proportions, we are all both oppressed and oppressor.

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Reading Well: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell

Posted on June 2, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Mary Doria Russell‘s The Sparrow (1996) is one of the most satisfying reads I’ve had in a while. The core idea is fantastic: contact is made with an alien species, so the Jesuits decide to send a mission to make contact with them.

The book alternates between the near-future (the 2010s and 2020s), when we meet our main characters, the initial discovery is made and the mission is being assembled; and the 2060s, when our protagonist, Emilio Sandoz, has returned from his time on the alien planet. This is often a problematic structure for me as a reader, as we already know, in broad strokes, the outcome of the mission before we know much about its details. We know who lives and who dies, and we have a general sense of the outcomes.

What we don’t know is the how and the why, and it takes an awful lot of skill to keep the narrative moving along and engaging. But we still care about characters whose death is known, and when it comes, an emotional weight is still maintained. This is one of the strengths of Russell’s writing: she handles the different character motivations with clarity, deftness, and directness, and while two of the astronauts are significantly thinner (in terms of character depth), the warmth and solidity of the rest make up for it.

The core of the book, though, is the role of faith, both in terms of a rationale for space travel and the specific role it plays for Emilio, who has to reconcile a concept of an engaged and loving God with great personal tragedy and pain. This is not a religious book, but it uses religion to explore some big ideas: fate, hubris, celibacy & sexuality, the possibility of understanding other people (let alone other races). At heart, well constructed variations on the story of Job remain deeply compelling. The fact that this occurs in a creative narrative involving a thickly constructed alien culture adds even more yumminess.

This is a memorable book, and one that I highly recommend. Clearly, if either science fiction or the presence of Jesuit theology make you break out in hives, avoid; but otherwise, this was an enjoyable surprise.

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Reading Well: The Three-Body Problem by Cixin Liu

Posted on May 20, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Cixin Liu (刘慈欣) is probably the best-regarded contemporary Chinese science fiction author, and The Three-Body Problem (2007, 2014 in English) his best known novel (certainly, at least, in the English reading world). It is what is sometimes referred to as hard science fiction, which usually means there is at least as much attention on the science as on the fiction.

That is certainly the case here. The protagonist, Wang Miao, is a nanomaterials specialist who is gradually drawn into a plot involving interstellar contact with a race that lives on a planet orbited by three suns. Gravitational attraction and orbital relationships between four bodies (the planet and the three suns) are incredibly complicated, and the title of the novel refers to a classic set of problems in physics concerned with predicting future states given initial positions, mass, and velocity of three objects in relation to each other.

The novel is most interesting, however, in the window it gives into Chinese scientific society in the second half of the 20th century. The devastating impact of the Cultural Revolution is in play, both in the immediate death and dislocation of many, but also in the way scientific advances in the later Maoist and post-Maoist years required a philosophical justification for their adoption.

The response to the Trisolarians is also fascinating: Cixin Liu posits an underground, yet sizable (and global) movement that welcomes the arrival of the Trisolarians as a disruptive and even destructive force. The notion is that the cultures of Earth are beyond redemption, and the necessarily violent intervention of a more advanced alien culture would be a welcome “reboot” of the whole thing.

The bleakness of this outlook is never really questioned, and its relationship to the cultural context is never explicitly raised, although I think such links can be inferred.

There is an intriguing use of a role-playing video game that simulates life on the Trisolarian’s home planet, but most of the novel is heavier on the science and its potential advances than on traditional characterization or plot. Still, an interesting read, and if the Hugo Award given to the book feels more like a lifetime achievement for a foreign writer, there is enough here to warrant picking it up ≡ (if you don’t know that stand for if and only if, this book may not be for you) you are interested in the science behind the fiction.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Ground my alternative universe settings as deeply in understood scientific principles. One of the challenges of writing magic is ensure that it has rules, costs, benefits, etc. If you aren’t careful in that construction, books bottom out in well, why didn’t they just fix it with magic to begin with?

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