Reading Well: The Ten Loves of Nishino by Hiromi Kawakami

Posted on September 20, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Originally published in 2003, Hiromi Kawakami‘s The Ten Loves of Nishino was translated into English for the first time in 2019. There is something very sweet about the novel, which follows the protagonist–Nishino of the title–through his life and, yes, his relationships with ten different women.

Kawakami’s ability to articulate the variety of views of the ten loves is impressive, and the motivations for their engagements remain varied throughout the novel. As implied by the title, none of the relationships are particularly permanent, although many overlap and impact each other.

There are a lot of cross-cultural issues to unpack in thinking about Kawakami’s novel. First, there is plain old Orientalism, and the Western tendency to exoticize, sexualize, and fetishize the East. Second, there is the narrative’s repetition of a trope where a man who is repeatedly described as fairly nondescript and only moderately successful moves from attractive lover to attractive lover with such ease. Women pursue Nishino far more often than he pursues them, and, overall, it’s not terribly clear why, although several of the relationships are far more grounded in character motivation than others. Finally, something that may not be obvious to Western readers, Kawakami is female, which–at least for me–further complicates the first two points.

I would strongly recommend the novel if the paragraph above seems interesting: that is, if these are issues that you enjoy thinking about, it’s a very strong novel. The other potential in-road is how smooth and easy of a narrative it is–much like Nishino himself, the novel flows fairly easily through Nishino’s life, with scenes that are both memorable and endearing.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Create such a compelling and simple structure for a novel: the plot, in many ways, is embodied in the title. The details of each of the relationships are uniquely presented, but the novel really is the story of Nishino and his ten loves. Elegant and simple.

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Reading Well: To the Break of Dawn by William Jelani Cobb

Posted on September 8, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

William Jelani Cobb‘s To the Break of Dawn (2007) joins the ranks of hip hop memoirs–narratives that are both a personal declaration of the impact of the art form on someone’s life and an academic and/or political examination of the impacts, meaning, and role of hip hop.

If you are new to the genre, it’s hard to argue with To the Break of Dawn as an entry point, although I would urge reading it alongside the work of Tricia Rose, for example.

If you are well familiar with the genre, there are still some nuggets here to make it worth your while. Specifically, I thought Cobb’s reflections on the relationship between the narratives of “gangster rap” and the narratives of the American West was interesting, especially in his explorations of the role of film and filmic storytelling. Equally skilled was his total dismissal of Eminem. (The usual narrative about the most successful white rapper of all time is to balance discussions of his whiteness and cultural appropriation with admiration for his flow and his ability to capture a particular cultural moment. Instead, Cobb interrogates both sides, finding virtually nothing to recommend.)

The 2007 date of To the Break of Dawn matters: I would imaging Cobb has some compelling thoughts on Kendrick Lamar and the slight resurgence of “conscious hip hop” seen over the last decade or so.

Recommended.

#MoreCobb

Cobb represents his day job as a scholar of African-American history as one of the “talking heads” in the amazing 13th by Ava DuVernay. You will know him by his deep and resonant speaking voice. If you have any curiosity about the history of American prisons–hell, if you aren’t curious but need to learn important truths about America–go watch it.

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Reading Well: Doxology by Nell Zink

Posted on August 26, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Nell Zink‘s Doxology (2019) traces America through its fin de siècle and entry into the 21st century, following a set of characters combining family of origin and family of choice, and centered on the East Coast.

A doxology is a short hymn of praise, a declaration of fealty to a God from whom all blessings flow–a formal declaration of sacred gratitude, if you will.

It’s an engaging read, punctuated by tragedy, and if you have affection for–especially–some of the communities in New York City or Washington, DC from the 1990s through the early 2010s, there will be much that resonates (including some deft handling of the impact of the September 11th attacks). While there are key characters that are High School dropouts, professional musicians, and teenage parents, Doxology is largely a novel of the privileged: the characters frequently need safety nets, but those nets are always present and generally provide the support that is needed, practically if not always emotionally. As such, the glimpses of DC and NYC are relatively narrow in scope.

Some of the characters will remain with you past the end of the novel, and for writing like this–where the internal development and relationships of the characters are truly what matters–there is little higher praise.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Incorporate news and current events this seamlessly. Zink never falls into historical exposition and, as importantly, her characters’ reactions are never tinted by authorial hindsight. This is the hardest part of it, I think: it is so challenging to remember what we thought about something as it happened, as opposed to after we believed we understood it.

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Reading Well: Only Human by Sylvain Neuvel

Posted on August 13, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Only Human (2018) is the conclusion of Sylvain Neuvel‘s trilogy that started with Sleeping Giants and continued with Waking Gods.

If you liked those, you’ll enjoy the conclusion of the series. For me, I was happy to see the story end, and I found the final book more inventive than Waking Gods–the protagonists do, after all, spend time on a foreign world.

The most striking feature of Only Human is Neuvel’s continued rejection of prose and description: the entire book is told in either dialog or journal entries. There is literally zero prosaic description.

It’s an admirable effort in experimentation, and Neuvel is successful with a handful of characters in keeping their voices unique enough to maintain a distinct narrative flow. As a reader, it also releases the imagination virtually entirely: your picture of what is happening may vary dramatically from my picture, and there is no “authorial truth” for reference.

Only Human also retained the page-turning nature of the earlier entries. A solid conclusion, for sure.

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Reading Well: John Crow’s Devil by Marlon James

Posted on July 26, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

As a big fan of A Brief History of Seven Killings and Black Leopard Red Wolf, I decided to look at the rest of Marlon James‘ output, starting with his debut novel, John Crow’s Devil (2005).

The novel traces the conflict between two preachers in a small Jamaican town, one a drunk and the other an authoritarian, as they vie for control of the souls of the congregation. But it’s also a novel about two women, rivals since their youth, who align themselves as allies to the preachers. And of the town itself, and it’s willingness to isolate from the rest of the island, its dependence on wealth that sits outside its boundaries, and an ugly history of violence and abuse that continues to infect its present-day.

That’s a lot. Especially for a short novel–while both Brief History and Black Leopard Red Wolf are fantastic, they are also long journeys–that’s pretty impressive.

And James is more than up to the challenge, evoking characters and moments in a combination of dialect and description that is immersive and compelling, leaving the reader’s affections and loyalty shifting as more layers of the story emerge. There are light touches of fantasy here and there, moments that capture the impact of practices both inside and outside the church that are quite effective, and reinforce the atmosphere quite effectively.

All of this plays out against a structure where the opening of the novel is actually a chapter from the denouement–that is, you know where everything is heading all along. The fact that John Crow’s Devil holds attention and interest given that is quite an achievement. Strongly recommended.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

It’s hard to pick between the structural twist and the moments of not-quite-magical-realism, but I’ll go with the latter. At the end of the day, I would classify John Crow’s Devil is a “realistic” or “historical” novel, doing that while also having these moments where the linear narrative is interrupted by explosions of magical force or foresight is really impressive.

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Reading Well: Ginger Bread by Helen Oyeyemi

Posted on July 14, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I’ve been a fan of Helen Oyeyemi since her debut novel, 2005’s Icarus Girl, which I thought was one of the best ghost stories I had read in a long, long time.

I read Ginger Bread (2019) having skipped many (but not all–The Opposite House (2007) is also excellent) of her intervening works, and it only served to remind me of what I was missing, so look for a healthy dose of Oyeyemi throughout the rest of the year.

Ginger Bread starts incredibly strong, with Oyeyemi’s brand of magical realism in full view. There is a family recipe for gingerbread with magical powers; a country that appears on no maps, but has extensive Wikipedia entries; and two families with intertwined histories unfolding simultaneously. Even Gretel–yes, that Gretel, the one famous in association with Hansel–makes an appearance.

The novel goes a little awry in the final third or so, but it was compelling throughout, and the intelligence–and occasional creepiness–will stick with you for quite some time. Oyeyemi is one of the compelling voices of our generation, perhaps along the lines of M. Night Shyamalan in that, when she nails the landing, it’s is truly spectacular, and when her work falls short, it’s still an intriguing and often successful journey.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

There is such vivid imagery in Oyeyemi’s writing, and it often is startling, unexpected, and brilliant. Her voice is her own, a location any writer hopes to reach.

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Reading Well: Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse

Posted on June 30, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Trail of Lightning (2018) is the opening novel of a YA duology set in, well, I guess technically it’s a dystopia, but it really is focused on the world after the dystopian events. I think it is Rebecca Roanhorse‘s debut novel, but it’s not clear–she has published quite a few short stories, and a novel that is part of the Star Wars canon.

In Trail of Lightning, climate change has flooded most of North America, and earthquakes have ravaged the rest. The novel is explicitly steeped in the traditions of the native peoples of the American Southwest, whose lands have been isolated from the rest of the devastation by the appearance of massive walls that encircle the area.

The heroine is a young woman who is inhabited by spirits, giving her powers that can be used to help fight against demons that pose a threat, as well as, more often than she would hope, against other people.

It’s a very, very good YA story: solid characters, nice world-depth, and a protagonist that is heavily conflicted in ways that make sense. It also incorporates native traditions in an end-to-end way, from the subtle to the overwhelming. This makes it potentially unique: this isn’t a Rick Riordan style novel that adapts the trappings of a foreign mythology into a traditional narrative. Instead, it’s a different narrative.

This is expressed in many ways–how characters relate and bond, how comfortable with violence the heroine is at times, and perhaps most obviously in how Coyote is presented as a trickster figure in the novel.

Overall, Trail of Lightning is a highly recommended YA entry, especially if you are looking for something with fantasy/magical elements outside of the typical European traditions. I will certainly read the sequel, as I do want to know what happens next to the core characters.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Roanhorse’s characters are, for the most part, nicely inconsistent. That is, they contain contradictions, they contain flaws, they contain motivations that are not always perfectly aligned. I love that, as it’s wonderfully human. Doing that in fantasy novels is especially daunting–the temptation to fall into “pure characters” once magic is introduced is awfully strong, and she resists it in a way I admire.

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Reading Well: The Minotaur Takes His Own Sweet Time by Steven Sherrill

Posted on June 19, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

I didn’t even know that Steven Sherrill‘s The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break (2000) had a sequel until quite recently. The initial emergence of the ancient Minotaur into modern times was one of my favorite novels of the early 21st century, so I picked up the sequel, The Minotaur Takes His Own Sweet Time (2016), with some anticipation.

It delivers.

Sherrill’s voice is lyric and surprising, and his characterization of the Minotaur remains striking in its insight and consistency. The Minotaur is tired. Century after century of existence has worn him down, with the foibles of human nature about the only thing remaining that holds his interest. He is deeply and profoundly aware of existing in a world that has no place for him–his horns are continually awkward in public places, he is a constant object of unwanted attention, and his innate goodness remains hidden to the general public.

He spends his time trading handyman skills for lodging at a motor inn run by a first generation family from the Indian subcontinent and acting as part of a local Civil War re-enactment show, and the plot is driven by the arrival of a young woman and her brother, who is suffering from a serious brain injury and is, at least temporarily, under her care (there are some parallels to the plot of Cigarette Break here).

There is a rival for her attention, and a mis-step puts his war re-enactment duties at risk, and the novel moves from there.

Overall, it’s pretty entertaining stuff, and occasionally even engrossing. It’s not as good as the original, but it’s worth reading after you read Cigarette Break for sure.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Nail a consistent voice for a character with this much sophistication and nuance. The Minotaur is thoroughly complicated and his speech and descriptions all just work, from casual interactions to the rare moments he reaches back into his well of ancient power. It’s quite an accomplishment.

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Reading Well: Half Brother by Kenneth Oppel

Posted on June 11, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Reading Half Brother (2010) was somewhat surreal. I kept having this memory of reading not this book, but another book, quite similar to this book, but somehow darker, but maybe the same book?

Turns out I was remembering Karen Joy Fowler‘s We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves (2013), which I read way back when before Reading Well started. The two novels share a core structure of a family raising a chimpanzee as if it were a human child, and both are told from the perspective of an older human “sibling” (in We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, it’s a sister; in Half Brother, it’s a brother). There’s more–issues of animal cruelty are, predictably and understandably, central to both; some of the settings and observations of human/ chimpanzee interaction are strikingly similar, etc.

I have no idea if they had any effect on each other’s development or not, nor do I know how or why Half Brother crossed my path.

Fowler’s book has some darker moments, so I had this feeling of dread reading Kenneth Oppel‘s novel, which is actually much, much lighter–it falls squarely in the YA realm, tracing both the relationship with the chimp as well as the protagonist’s social development in his early teens.

It’s lightweight and enjoyable, and the chimpanzee angle adds depth to the usual tropes of parental struggles and early romantic attractions and the like. If that sounds too YA for your taste, pick up Fowler’s book, which is quite a bit more demanding.

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Reading Well: House of Names by Colm Tóibín

Posted on June 2, 2020 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Sitting in a long tradition of revisiting the Greek classics, Colm Tóibín‘s House of Names (2017) tells of the House of Agamemnon. Agamemnon fought in the Trojan War and, when things weren’t going so well, agreed to sacrifice one of his daughters to the Gods in favor of the Greek cause.

Tóibín begins in the voice of Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, who has been summoned to battlefield along with their daughter Iphigenia under the pretense of celebrating the imminent Greek victory. Instead, Clytemnestra is imprisoned and then, after Iphigenia’s murder, is sent back home, where she, along with her son Orestes and surviving daughter, Electra, plots her vengeance.

The novel shifts between these characters’ points of view, and the degree their perspectives resonate with the reader is the most likely key to whether you enjoy the novel. For me, the Orestes chapters are the most successful, especially in their description of his exile and return. Tóibín’s brilliance shines through in Orestes’ interiority, and in his gentle longing for the consummation of a relationship with his erstwhile best friend.

The other voices are well-rendered, especially as they drift towards madness at different points, but the palace-intrigue was, for me, less successful than the psychological insights. Still, Tóibín is a master of language, and the confident, steadfast writing carries the book along at a quick pace.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I’ve often wondered about retelling a well known story. It would seem to address some of my endless struggles with plot, allowing me to focus on some technical components where I think I’m more successful.

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