Category: The Purge

Delirio is not a long book, but it took me a while to finish it. For one thing, it’s in Spanish and my Spanish is just so-so. But even aside from that, it’s a difficult book to decode. There are multiple and sometimes mystifying shifts in time, speaker and point of view. At first I thought that these changes could easily have been more clearly signaled by using more paragraph breaks and more punctuation. Gradually I came to love the style for being just the way it is and I saw that the addition of more formatting marks would have only got in the way. Thank goodness, though, that all those unbroken passages are just a few pages long. 

Certainly the novel is worth the effort. It is set in 1980s Bogotá, which was of course one hell of a place and time. Within the relatively small country of Colombia, there were a half dozen armed revolutionary groups, a vast and violent cocaine industry, and a heavily armed national security force that largely made its own rules. The U.S. partially funded this force and also firmly supported the small group of oligarchs who ran the Colombian government. The government was only nominally democratic and in fact was only nominally a government at all since it was never quite clear how much Colombian territory they actually controlled at any one time. It seemed that no part of the country was safe from terrorist attacks and crime was rampant. Surface travel was especially risky, as many major highways were controlled by armed brigands of one kind or another. A number of good-sized cities were safely accessible only by air.

But of course life went on. And life on the personal level is what Delirio is mostly about. One of the main characters is a man named Aguilar. Aguilar used to be a university professor, but his university has shut down due to political turmoil. He’s now working for Purina, distributing bags of dog food. He lives in a middle class area of Bogotá and is married to Agustina, who is some years younger than he. This is Aguilar’s second marriage. His ex-wife and their two sons live in another town. The novel begins when Aguilar returns home from a business trip. Agustina isn’t home when he arrives. Instead he gets a message from a man whose voice he does not know informing him that his wife is in room such and such of a rather nice hotel and that she needs him to come immediately to bring her home. When he goes to the hotel room, he finds that Agustina has fallen into madness; it seems to Aguilar (and I am directly paraphrasing the text here) that she is lost inside her own head, living on a parallel plane, which is quite nearby, but which is inaccessible. When she speaks, it is as if her words are in a foreign language, one that is vaguely familiar to Aguilar but which he cannot understand. 

The chief narrative drive in the story comes from Aguilar’s attempts to find out how and why this has happened, and especially to discover what transpired while he was absent. It is a kind of detective story and as the book goes on, we begin to understand more and more about Agustina and about the roots of her madness. But Aguilar’s detective efforts are not the only source of information. We learn much more from other voices telling other stories, stories connected to Agustina’s family history. One of the speakers is Agustina herself, remembering her childhood. Another is Midas McAlister, her former lover. Others are members of her family, including her mother’s older sister and her German immigrant grandfather, Portulinus. 

For the first third of the novel it was hard for me to see how all the disparate voices could be connected, either to each other or to the mystery of Agustina’s madness. As the story went on, my reading of it slowly changed. As the main stories each came to their climax, the connections between them became clearer and more powerful. At the same time I began to feel that the story was not really about Agustina, but rather about madness itself, the many forms that it can take, its long relation to wealth, power and privilege, and how it so often includes a connection to sexual repression. This novel begins with interesting characters and is carried forward by what its characters do and say, but it ends up somewhere else, somewhere with a different kind of truth. This is not a book called Agustina; it is a story about Delirio.

Restrepo was 54 when Delirio was published in 2004. By that time she was firmly established as a teacher and writer. But she didn’t start out that way, and what little I know of her early life I find both fascinating and instructive. Laura Restrepo was born in Bogotá in 1950. She was the elder of two sisters. Her father, despite having left school at age 13, had come to own a successful business–one that required or at least allowed long periods of residence abroad, during which his wife and daughters accompanied him. The family’s constant travel meant that during the time when most children would have been in elementary and middle school, she received little formal education. Instead, her father was a believer in the educational value of literature, history, architecture and art and made the effort to expose his daughters to all these as they travelled. He also encouraged reading and in an interview Restrepo remembered being much influenced by three of his suggestions:  William Saroyan, John Steinbeck and Nikos Kazantzakis.

At fifteen Restrepo returned with her father to Bogotá and attempted to earn a high school diploma. Despite being far behind her peers in almost every formal subject, she obtained her diploma–the first person in her father’s family to do so. During this time she rebelled against her father’s controlling ways and broke off with him. This was the last time she saw her father as he died just a few years later. Restrepo went on to earn a university degree in Philosophy and later an advanced degree in Political Science. 

Restrepo had become a Trotskyite during her time at university and for a period of roughly nine years, when she was in her mid twenties and early thirties, she worked as a socialist activist, first in Colombia, then in Spain and then in Argentina. She then returned to Bogotá and began working as a political journalist, most notably for Semana, a weekly review of politics and current events.In 1983, Belisario Betancur, the president of Colombia at the time, added Restrepo to the high level commission that would attempt to negotiate peace with the M-19 guerrillas. The negotiations were difficult and the atmosphere highly charged. As the process went on, Restrepo become increasingly skeptical of the government’s true motives and intentions. She began receiving death threats and had to flee to Mexico, where she lived in exile for six years. During this time she left off journalism and began writing fiction. She was finally able to return to Colombia in 1989, which was also the year her first novel was published. Since then she has written nine more novels. She was a Cornell University Professor-at-Large from 2007 to 2013 and for several years was an adjunct Professor at the University of Seville. She had resided for various periods of time in Colombia, Mexico, Spain and the United States. 

It is worth noting that Delirio is set in Bogotà in the 1980s, a time when Restrepo was tapped to help negotiate with M-19 and also a time when the single most powerful person in Colombia was Pablo Escobar. Restrepo’s first book about this period was also her first published work. It was published in 1986 and focuses on the M-19 negotiations that the author had been a part of. Though technically a novel, its main purpose seems to have been to expose to the world some of what went on behind the scenes in that process. The book’s title is generally listed as Historia de un entusiasmo (Story of a Fascination) but other sources show it as Historia de una traición (History of a Betrayal). Delirio, which was published almost twenty years later, deals only very generally with revolutionary terrorism and makes no specific mention of M-19. It does, however, touch on some of the more complex relationships between the government in Bogotà and the drug lords in other parts of the country. One of the pleasures of Delirio is that Pablo Escobar, though seemingly far away from Bogotá, is a major force in the lives of some of the characters. Escobar himself has a few scenes in the novel and threatens to steal the show. 

I can’t help thinking of Restrepo as having been seriously plugged in to this era, as having been a participant and not just an observer. This gives Delirio credibility and an unusual sharpness. This comes from our strong sense that many of these characters and their histories are based closely on some of the people Restrepo personally knew, people whose actual stories she learned. I have no hard evidence for this; I could well be deluded. But many readers have suggested that Restrepo’s general intentions as a novelist are often at least quasi-journalistic. She wants us to know the truth about events. 

I don’t mean to suggest that Restrepo feels that the truth about events is the only thing that matters, that it is somehow more important than the personal or inner truths that constitute our deepest understanding of the world. On the contrary, I think this later sort of truth is exactly what she is after. She insists, though, that the truth of events is where we have to start. She reminds us that there are things we may not want to face, and also that in both the public and the private spheres there are those who are tenaciously committed to lies and deception, mostly with an eye toward enlarging their own privileges and devaluing even the most basic rights of others. You need to get past all the bullshit, says the old Trotskyite, and see it for what it is. And for that you need to pay attention. As Aguilar tries to discover what precipitated Agustina’s descent into madness, he remembers how in days gone by he had often failed to really listen when Agustina talked about her past, about things that happened in her family or with her old friends. He remembers one particular time when he ignored her and just continued with his reading. And now events have overtaken him. Now it seems too late. 

In public and in private, ain’t that just the way it goes. 

 

Poor Ricardo Somocurcio, in love with an amoral adventuress, who both enjoys and despises his devotion and who does not hesitate to inflict emotional harm in pursuit of her own self interest. Their series of passionate encounters, spaced years apart, provide him both joy and suffering and her with a bit of bemused comfort–or something. The episodes end badly for Ricardo and after each one, he swears off her forever. And yet, when eventually they meet again…

Love is a piano dropped from a fourth story window, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  –Ani Difranco

When love is not madness, it is not love. –Pedro Calderon de la Barca

For most of us, romantic love is a pretty big deal. Most people understand that it is both emotional and physical but not very rational. Hardcore hedonists and hardcore moralists have attacked this notion from their different directions, but thousands of songs and stories have affirmed it. The Bad Girl is just one more. But Mario Vargas Llosa is a merciless writer; so if you haven’t read this one, let me warn you, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. 

When we first meet Ricardo, he is a teenager growing up in 1950’s Lima. In the magical summer of his fifteenth year, a new girl appears on the scene. She is different from the other girls and mesmerizes everyone with her vitality, her scandalous mambo moves, and her exotic accent. Ricardo falls for her in a big way. When he can afford it, he takes her to movies and to a place called The Little White Shop for tea and pastries. They stroll together around the streets of Miraflores and sit beside each other on the beach. They hold hands; he kisses her cheek, her ear, and her neck. And once, her lips brush briefly across his. Soon, however, after a surprising revelation, the two are separated. 

His parents having died in an accident when he was twelve, Ricardo is being cared for by his aunt. His dream is to leave Peru and live in Paris. When he was younger, his farther had given him books by Paul Fèval, Jules Verne and Alexandre Dumas. Those books, he says, “filled my head with adventures and convinced me that life in France was richer, happier, more beautiful, more everything than anywhere else.”* He convinces his aunt to let him take French lessons at the Alliance Français in addition to his English lessons at the Instituto Norteamericano. 

When next we meet Ricardo, he is managing, just barely, to live in Paris. He has a Peruvian law degree but struggles to find work. A Peruvian friend who works in a restaurant helps him out with occasional leftover food. The friend is part of a group of radicals who plan to bring a Castro-style socialist revolution to Peru. Soon Ricardo meets the bad girl again, then loses her again. 

Soon afterward, Ricardo finally finds work as a translator/interpreter. He throws himself into his work and tries to forget her. But of course he does not, because he is in love. He stays in love, just barely, even as he finds out just how bad the bad girl can be. He makes a few friends, buys a small apartment, and obtains a French passport, but always feels rootless, no longer Peruvian but never really French. In his work as an interpreter he travels a great deal. Millions of words pass his lips, but none of them are his. He sometimes wonders who he really is. But that’s only when the bad girl isn’t around. When she is, the issues are generally much more serious. For better or worse, that’s when he is most alive. 

It is Ricardo who tells us the story, which is all in first person. I suspect that most readers are going to identify with him and have sympathy for him. He may be a romantic fool, very unwise. But what is wisdom, really? And what else exactly was Ricardo ever meant to do? Arguably, the bad girl is an even more interesting character. Hers is an incredible story and as we get to know her, we see more and more clearly how she goes wrong, but less and less clearly how she might have gone right. 

I know of at least one reader who objects to the implausibility of the whole thing, not only the love story but also certain mechanics of the plot. I don’t argue with that, but for me it has little importance. I loved the details of places and times and the wealth of interesting secondary characters. The Bad Girl is a wonderful book, well worth keeping around, at least for a little while.

*Picador edition translated by Edith Grossman

Orhan Pamuk’s fictional worlds are a little more complicated than David Weber’s. In the Honor Harrington books, an omniscient narrator tells us about the hero’s ongoing battles for the cause of decency and justice, qualities that can almost always be clearly discerned. Her manifest virtues earn her admiration and respect from all sides, eliciting fear and loathing only from a few truly evil galactic scumbags. In the place where Pamuk’s characters live, no one is omniscient, decency and justice are harder to find, and very little of anything can be clearly discerned.

The hero of Snow is Ka, a young Turkish poet. Ka has just recently returned to Istanbul from Germany, where he has spent the last few years in lonely exile. He had fled to Germany after getting into trouble with the Turkish government for engaging in what they considered subversive political activities. He has felt safe in returning partly because the political situation is a bit different now; the very conservative but also very secular government has become somewhat less concerned about leftists like Ka and more concerned about the rise of the Islamists. (This is the period that we now know was the run-up to Recep Erdoğan era.) 

Ka still believes in what he calls “human rights, freedom of thought, democracy and related subjects.” But he also sees now that much of Turkish leftist political discourse on these topics consisted of repeating “the wild simplifications of so many well-intentioned but shameless and slightly addled Western intellectuals.” Ka is also in love, or more precisely he is in love with the idea of being in love, with a beautiful woman named İpek. Ka knew her in Istanbul when she was married to a friend of his, a fellow social activist. Now Ka has heard that İpek is divorced and living with her father and sister at the other end of Turkey in the city of Kars. Ka travels to Kars, ostensibly to write an article about the head scarf issues there, but in reality hoping to convince İpek to accompany him back to Germany. 

Ka arrives in Kars in a snowstorm. The snow continues to fall heavily and soon the roads and rail lines are closed. The main action of the novel all occurs during the next several days when the city is cut off from the world. Ka is intensely excited when he reconnects with İpek and between them arises a powerful sexual tension. Ka has been unable to write poetry for a year or so, but this new environment inspires him and he writes a whole series of new poems in his green notebook. But he cannot escape the political situation. The many factions in town–several  of whom are quite willing to kill and/or die to advance their cause–begin taking steps either to use Ka for their own purposes or to thwart him what they imagine his purposes are. Though he longs to spend time with İpek, Ka can’t help getting involved in complex and violent political events. At first it seems that he is forced to be involved against his will. Once he is involved, however, he begins to think that he can be a player, that he can influence events for his own purposes. Oh yeah. 

Snow is not easy reading. Every time I’ve read it I’ve come to a point somewhere in the middle when I’ve wondered if it was worth the effort. Other readers have told me they felt the same. So very much is going on all at the same time. So very many things don’t work out the way you expect them to or the way you wish they would. But as the book continues, as you gradually shed your expectations, you see that it all fits together, that Snow tells a fantastic story, both surreal and heart-rending. The characters are not like the ones you’ve met in other novels. In speech and in action their foreignness is shocking. But, as in all great literature, magic is afoot. A penetrating portrait of strange events in an alien context, something that at first seems interesting but irrelevant, suddenly begins to illuminate the darkness of other places and other times, including the reader’s own.

 So, yeah, Snow is worth the effort. And it’s not the only kind of book in Pamuk’s large body of work. Orhan Pamuk is, as my friend Eve puts it, crazy as a coot, but he’s an impressive writer. I really liked The Museum of Innocence, a somewhat unusual love story, and Istanbul: Memories and the City, a beautiful and melancholy memoir of a mostly vanished cultural milieu. It is for their sake also that Snow was saved from the purge.

David Weber’s Honor Harrington books are set in a far distant future, a time when humans have spread out to settle on hundreds of other planets far, far away. The title character is an officer in the Royal Manticoran Navy, Manticore being an independent star kingdom comprised of a small group of planets that were settled a century or two previously. The series tells of Honor Harrington’s career, from her time in military academy, through her first assignments and then to her promotion to ever increasing levels of responsibility. In this far future, navies consist of spaceships rather than sailing ships; but Weber’s universe is very much analogous to that of C. S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower series, which is set in Europe at the time of Napoleonic Wars. The first novel of Weber’s series, On Basilisk Station, is dedicated to Forester and it is surely no accident that Weber’s hero has the same initials as Forester’s. 

The Honor Harrington Universe, as the marketers call it, consists of a large number of works, some of which are collaborative projects of various kinds. But the ones I have in my remaining four and a half feet of books are eight of the early Honor Harrington books, all written by David Weber himself and published between 1993 and 1998. The eight volumes take up a full eight and a half inches of shelf space. Zounds! How could I have saved so much Weber, when so much else went by the board? Well, basically they are great stories superbly told. The situations are complex and so are the characters. Also, the hero of the series has a pet: a twenty-pound, six legged, telepathic animal called a treecat that often rides on her shoulder. That’s really all you need to know. (But I’ll blather on a while anyway.)

Great adventure stories benefit from great settings and in creating this fictional universe Weber really covers the ground. For one thing, there are detailed discussions of military armaments and tactics. As the series progresses, new and more powerful weapons systems are being developed and deployed by Honor’s navy and also by her enemies. If you’re nerdy at all, you’ll find these discussions fascinating, especially as they relate, literally, to matters of life and death for the characters. These details also help prepare the reader to better appreciate Weber’s stirring and suspenseful descriptions of battle scenes, sometimes with our heroes outgunned and desperate, and sometimes with our heroes having a bundle of aces up their sleeves. Besides all that, Weber also wants us to understand the political and diplomatic context of military action, so the stories always include extensive scenes showing the thoughts and interactions of the civilian leaders as they strategize about how best to deal with their interstellar rivals. In this area, Weber covers the leadership of the both the good guys and the bad guys, giving great attention to the decision making of the bad guys and to the internal rivalries among them.  

At this point I can imagine someone saying, “I’m sorry, but that sounds totally dull!” Ah, but that’s just the beginning. What Weber really cares about and what he spends most of his time on is character development. Beginning with Honor Harrington herself, Weber creates dozens of fully realized characters, all of whom have their own virtues and weaknesses, their own kinds of insight and their own kinds of blindness. Weber is interested in courage, both moral and physical, and in its opposite. And he is very interested in honor, something we don’t run into very much in the universe that we inhabit, at least not in the public sphere. But his characters also run the gamut of human behavior and psychology. He gives us high-minded idealists, cynical political hacks, weary pragmatists, nerdy technicians with unsuspected depths, devious plotters, religious fanatics, and a host of military types including useless blusterers, deadly tacticians, far-seeing strategists, raw recruits, small-time racketeers, and long-time NCOs who are martial arts masters, to mention just a few. It’s important to note that Weber’s characters often make mistakes. If they are lucky enough to survive, the smart ones always learn something, sometimes on their own, sometimes with the help of their friends. Weber’s characters must also deal with injustices from time to time, and–as in our world–some of these can be remedied and some cannot. The key to the success of these novels is that they’re only partly about politics or technology or war. They’re mostly about people, about the qualities that they bring to the table and how they interact with one another, with good intent or ill.

Weber provides these imaginary people with a massively detailed alternate universe in which to operate. It is not, of course, our world, but it is not so different either. Way back in February, when I looked at Vladamir Nabokov and John Hawkes, I noted that both of those authors wanted to be clear that they were not trying to represent the reality of this world but rather wanted to create new worlds with their own realities. The writer of science fiction and fantasy doesn’t have say that; it’s obvious that the world of the novels is different from our own. And yet, we find that the work of all these writers is jam packed with obvious analogues to our world and that many of these offer implicit commentary on our real world.

One such theme is Weber’s vision of the military virtues: courage, fighting instincts, analytical thinking, sacrifice, perseverance, honor and loyalty–both loyalty to one’s nation and personal loyalty to one’s immediate group. In our country, these virtues are somewhat out of fashion. It’s hard for people to admire anything military because in the last fifty years our forces have so often been used for distinctly non-admirable purposes. For me, it is a pleasure to be reminded of these virtues and to see them exemplified by soldiers in fictional situations that are less ethically challenged than our real ones. 

Another matter of relevance to us is that Weber’s imaginary world is very much politically correct in many ways. It starts with the fact that Weber’s military hero is female and that most of his interstellar cultures are gender neutral. I haven’t counted, but my impression is that about half of his characters are men and half are women; certainly that is the case when we consider characters in positions of authority. Equality of opportunity and of achievement is a given. There are, in fact, a couple of planets in the Weber’s universe on which women are very much subordinate, but this becomes a major issue that plays out over the course of several novels as these cultures find themselves having to interact more and more with the mainstream interstellar culture in which equality and inclusion are the norm.

Also on the PC side, race is basically absent from Weber’s worlds. Skin color is mentioned here and there, notably in regard the royal family of Manticore who are very dark skinned, but in these worlds skin color doesn’t mean anything and racial issues as we know them do not exist. There are no LGBT issues either, but that’s because there are no LGBT people and such matters are never or very rarely mentioned. I’m not sure how PC that is! There is hardly any sex or romance of any kind in these stories, but there are a lot of marriages and all of them are het.

The many  analogues between Honor’s universe and our own include religious fanaticism, rogue states, social welfare schemes, entrepreneurial capitalism both enlightened and not, and the difficulty of rational compromise among competing interests. Weber’s discussion of the varying political styles of his various star nations forms an implied critique a some of the nations of our own time and in so doing presents a kind of sanitized version of what we call democracy. Weber’s model societies, such as Honor Harrington’s home nation of Manticore, face some of the same problems we have. There are corrupt officials, dishonest business people, psychopathic criminals, and one or two aggressively imperialist star nation neighbors. Then too, voters in a democracy are not always reliably sensible and some portion of the population are gullible enough to believe the big lie.

But there are also certain problems that Manticorans don’t have to deal with. In Manticore there are no arguments about environmental pollution, no immigration problems, no racial issues, no crumbling infrastructure, and no history of having built their new society by destroying the native culture that originally inhabited the land. There is no unemployment and no mention of any citizens who are unable, for whatever reason, to be fully functioning and productive. Also, disease has been eliminated and natural resources are abundant. Manticoran citizens tend toward mild religious beliefs chiefly involving ethical behavior and tolerance. On the other extreme, Weber’s evil individuals and collectively evil societies are really, really evil and often succeed in causing a great deal of suffering. So it’s a great pleasure to see them defeated. No wonder you can lose yourself in one of these novels and then want to start right up with the next one. Weber’s world is clearly a nicer place to live than ours is. 

Do these books have weaknesses? Hmm. Well, my only real complaint is the these eight novels together comprise 3,850 pages and that’s too many. There’s a little too much back story and quite a bit too much talking, especially in the later novels. You might have to skip a page or two.

Once the great purge was complete, my fiction collection was reduced to just twenty-seven novels. Three of the twenty-seven are by Haruki Murakami. Why this disproportionate number of books by one author?*  Do I just happen to be crazy about Murakami? Well, kind of, but it’s also that in the latter stages of my reading career I have become more and more focused on foreign language novels. The peoples of the world are all so different and yet all so much the same, a lesson that must be learned and relearned. It is because of this that in the final six chapters of the After the Purge project, I will be discussing only one Anglo writer–and that one a cultural outlier in his way. 

So what about Haruki Murakami? The great thing that strikes me is that his work is so absorbing, so difficult to put down, and at the same time so much of it is so quotidian, so unspecial. Murakami is one of the least poetical authors I know. The events that take place in the lives of his characters and the emotions that they feel are not really narrated in the manner of most novels. Rather, they are carefully and analytically described, as if each sentence had been prepared as part of an official report. Why is this not boring? It’s true that some interesting and extraordinary events occur in Harukami’s books, including magical ones, but even these are usually described in a spare, dry style. You could easily say that much of Murakami’s writing is–to use his word–colorless. So why is it that his books so quickly and thoroughly draw us in? Well, for one thing, the writing is often really funny. But that’s only a part of it.

Let’s look first at Norwegian Wood, the novel that made Murakami famous. Before NW, Murakami had published several earlier novels and had enjoyed moderate success. His 1985 book, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, had been a magical fantasy. Appearing in 1987, Norwegian Wood was much simpler, at least superficially, with no magical elements at all. It was something of a nostalgia piece, whose main characters were all college age students back in the sixties, twenty years prior to the year the novel was published. It was partly a portrait of that era and in it Murakami critiqued both sides of the classic sixties divide, that between student revolutionaries on the one hand and amoral careerist climbers on the other. But that wasn’t all. It was really about young love, idealistic and uncompromising. And it had sex in it. There wasn’t too much of it and it was more reported than narrated, but that was surely one reason that the book sold ten million copies in Japan plus two or three million more copies world-wide. And speaking of sales, the website Ranker.com (as retrieved on 7/11/18), lists Norwegian Wood as the 76th highest selling novel of all time. (Reaching for a grain of salt here? You wonder about their methodology? Never mind.) Wikipedia reports that world-wide sales of Norwegian Wood totaled about 12.6 million. For what it’s worth, that’s at least two million more copies than The Cat in the Hat, The Joy of Sex, or A Brief History of Time; but it is also roughly thirty-five million fewer copies than such true classics as The Bridges of Madison County, Anne of Green Gables, or The Hite Report. In any case, it is, as I have confirmed on rereading, a classic and sadly beautiful story in the coming of age tradition. 

Published twenty-five years after Norwegian Wood, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage is another Murakami book that doesn’t depend much on magical elements. It recycles the themes of youth remembered, but it is more focused on a single mysterious event, something that the title character has never understood and which he strives to come to terms with many years later. This book is distilled Murakami: no magic, no sex, very few cultural signifiers from either the past or the present, and no final answer to the central question. It is a quest novel consisting of some not particularly dramatic events and some potentially important conversations that don’t always seem to move things along very much. But there are waves beneath the surface, events that are neither explicit nor explainable, currents powerful enough to move the reader as well. (The word that can be spoken, says the Tao, is not the true word.) Like other Murakami protagonists, Tsukuru is indeed rather colorless in some ways, but not so colorless as he thinks he is. He has the reader’s sympathy immediately and constantly; the fact that we care so much about him is mostly what keeps us turning the pages, unable to turn away. The novel’s finale is both undramatic and unforgettable.

Kafka on the Shore is also a quest novel, but this is Murakami vivid and unbound, and I have to say that it is my favorite novel of the three. It has a younger but also quite sympathetic hero. The plot is picaresque, a fundamentally magical journey to escape an Oedipal curse; it rocks, rolls and rambles. The characters range from unusual to bizarre. There are a host of political and cultural references as well as several talking cats. It also features a Mazda Miata MX-5, a car model with which this writer is quite familiar and that Murakami himself is said to have owned. 

Judging from my brief forays onto the Internet, Murakami is something of a divisive figure. Earlier, I wondered why his sort of writing wasn’t boring. Apparently, for some people, it is boring, as boring as all get out. Stultifying. Some call Murakami one of the most overrated novelists ever. Oh well. Count me on the other side of that divide.**

 

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*I have also kept three John Hawkes novels, but as I explain in my posting on Hawkes, that’s because two of them are really skinny (easy to keep and transport) and because they all have beautiful cover art. My Murakami books, on the other hand, are all fat and their covers are so-so.

**But though I did keep three Murakami novels, you may notice that  1Q84 was not among them.

 

In both these novels Louis de Bernières first creates a portrait of ordinary life in some sort of peaceful, out-of-the-way place. In Corelli’s Mandolin (1994) the place is a Greek island in the early days of World War 2. In Birds Without Wings (2004) it’s a village in southwestern Anatolia during World War 1 and its aftermath. In both places, we meet characters who immediately engage our sympathy. We see their struggles with issues large and small. From the older people we hear about past joys and sorrows. Their children live in a kind of eternal present. Young people slowly come of age and begin to find their way. The details are tender and beautiful and remind us how wonderful life can be. We see how the members of the community are connected to one another, how they squabble with each other one day and support each other the next. Political and social abstractions have little value to these people, while tolerance and mutual respect have numerous practical advantages. A cynic might ask how de Bernières knows all this stuff. He didn’t live there in those villages. Shush. Never mind. You need to enjoy the miracle. 

Especially you need to enjoy it because at some point de Bernières is going to change tack and tell you a about some other people, much more famous people, and what they were up to during those same years. These people are government leaders, actors on the geopolitical stage who are interested in conquest and control, people for whom political abstractions are extremely useful and for whom individual human lives matter very little. And then, inevitably, once we know a little about these people, de Bernières is going to tell what happens when the wars and the mass slaughters initiated by this  group begin to affect the lives of the first group, those innocent ones, the nice people that the reader has come to love. It won’t be pretty. In fact, it will be awful. For some, it will be as bad as life can possibly get. Good people will die for little or no reason in an variety of horrible ways; others will be twisted into monstrous shapes or simply go mad. Some will survive, but all will suffer and none remain unscathed. 

Sounds pretty depressing, eh? So why do I admire these two books so much? Because they are full of light. They are very funny and very romantic. That’s what keeps you reading and it’s also where all the light comes from. Plus you can learn some history from these books. You can learn about how a war that you’ve always known about had effects that you didn’t know about. And, amidst all this, you can learn about good and evil. That’s one thing that the light does; it makes it harder for evil to hide. It’s not that de Bernières provides some magic answer, an inspired way forward that will keep it all from happening again. No. But his stories can remind us what’s really behind the lies our leaders so often tell us, the fear, hatred, ego,  greed and pure bone-headed ignorance that are normally what it takes to get a war started. The light  can help us see understand where happiness and security really come from. 

Of the two books, Corelli’s Mandolin is more immediately accessible, with unique and memorable characters, some broad humor, and an underlying historical setting that will not be totally unknown to most readers. Birds Without Wings tells of a lessor known and even more fascinating cultural milieu. Its philosophy is more nuanced, its ironies more open-ended. But both of these are books in the great tradition of novels. They are about individual people in very particular places and yet they also tell a story about everything else; they tell us how to live.

This next book on my list of survivors is an oddity, a novel that wasn’t meant to be one. In the late 1940’s author Graham Greene and film-maker Carol Reed were looking for a new project. Their previous collaboration–The Fallen Idol, based on a Green short story–had been a great success. They wanted to follow up with another film and Greene had the germ of a story in mind. What was needed was to turn that idea into a screenplay. But as Greene explains in the preface, he did not want to finish creating his story in the “dull shorthand of a script.” He had to write it as a prose story first. Once the novel version was done, Greene and Reed reworked it into a script, making a number of changes in the process.

The film version of The Third Man is on many lists of the greatest movies of all time. To understand why, you need only read Roger Ebert’s 1996 review. Directed by Reed with cinematography by Robert Krasker, it stars Orson Welles, Joseph Cotten, Alida Valli and Trevor Howard. Music for the film was written and performed by zither musician Anton Karas. We have to credit Carol Reed for putting it all together, for insisting on shooting on location in postwar Vienna, for discovering Anton Karas playing in a beer hall and hiring him to create the sound track, for working with Krasker to create the expressionistic visuals, for allowing Welles to add one of the film’s best monologs, and for insisting on a less happy ending than the one Greene had proposed. But credit Greene for accepting and approving Reed’s ideas, and of course for the fact that his story, the one presented in the novel version, was where it all began.

My project here, as I stated long ago when I started it, is to write something about each of the twenty or so novels that remain to me after the great purge, the day when I reduced my personal library from thirty-two feet of shelf space to just over four feet. When it recently came time for me to write about this particular book, my first reaction was dismay. What had I kept this thing? What on earth would I have to say about it? I realized after a while that I hadn’t kept the book just for itself. Instead, I had kept it as a symbol or stand-in for a whole complex of associations and ideas. For one thing, since the novel and movie versions are inseparable, the novel will always call up the most memorable aspects of the film, and that includes the presence of Orson Welles, a towering figure whose performance in The Third Man is one of the best of his career.

More importantly, perhaps, is the moral vision of the novel, the kind of vision that is seen in many of Greene’s books. It starts with the awareness that some very bad things are going on in the world. Those who are aware of the evil are of three main types. First there are the perpetrators, who see their personal benefit as far more important than the damage and suffering that their actions cause. Second there are the innocents, who are sure that by having a clear understanding and getting to the bottom of things, the evil can be ended. Third, there are the world-weary, the not-so-innocent, those who have learned that only certain small evils can ever really be ended and that the illusion of clarity can so easily mask complicity. In The Third Man, the American hero starts off in the second group and is dragged, ever so reluctantly, into the third.

For me there are important ideas here about personal morality, about the American identity, and about the relation of the United States to the rest of the world. In the U.S. we still like to go on and on about how we won World War 2. People who really lose a war can sometimes learn something from it. They might, for example, learn to be more careful: that a combination of greed, irrational fear, massive ignorance and buoyant optimism is a recipe for toxicity and self-destruction. Winners, though, learn very little. They believe that their own greed, fear and ignorance are non-problems. They remain optimistic and on the lookout for easy answers.

Another Graham Greene novel, The Quiet American, very clearly prefigures the whole disastrous American adventure in Vietnam. It was published in 1955 and tells of a young American CIA operative in Vietnam in the 1950’s who believes that he understands just what that country needs. He is perhaps well-intentioned, but his actions lead only to the deaths of many innocent people and to his own. A Hollywood movie based on the book was released in 1958. Predictably, the young American in the film has no connection with the CIA and his actions are all heroic victories over evil communist forces. On the romantic side, he rescues a beautiful young Vietnamese woman from a sordid affair with an older man, and the two live happily ever after. The young American was played by Audie Murphy and the Vietnamese woman by Italian actress Giorgia Moll. Greene was angry about seeing his story turned upside down and called it “a complete travesty.” Fortunately for us all, another movie version, a very good one, was made in 2002. It stars Michael Caine, Brendan Fraser, and Do Thi Hai Yen.

One last piece of all this is that Graham Greene is very closely associated with another of my favorite authors. In the great family tree of literature, John le Carré is a direct descendent of Greene, starting from a very similar moral vision and taking it to new levels of complexity and ambiguity.

So there you have it. This is what Greene’s  rough draft for a seventy-year-old black and white movie means to me. It’s a good story that was made into a great film…and that resonates far beyond itself.

Marilynne Robinson grew up in Sandpoint, Idaho, on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille, which is French for Lake Hanging Ear. As place names go, Hanging Ear is pretty interesting, in a picturesque sort of way. It makes us think “There must be quite a story there!” The fictional locale of Housekeeping is also a smallish town next to a large lake. Robinson gives both lake and town the name of Fingerbone. Now there’s a place name for you–more evocative than Sandpoint, more complicated, more precise, and somehow even more intimate than Hanging Ear. The fictional name also entails a history, but what kind of history? Sure, there’s a story there, but are we sure we want to hear it?

Well, it is a wonderful story, superbly told. It is about two sisters, Ruth and Lucille, and how they come of age. Their mother, Helen, grew up in Fingerbone, but when she married she went to live in a large city, presumably Seattle. Ruth remembers a top floor city apartment from when she was young, and remembers too their downstairs neighbor, named Beatrice, who watched the girls while their mother worked at the cosmetics counter in a drugstore. The girls’ father was long gone and they have no memories of him. One day, when Ruth is seven and Lucille a year or two younger, their mother borrows a car and brings the girls back to their grandmother’s house in Fingerbone. She chooses to arrive at a time when she knows her mother will be at church. She settles the children on the porch with a box of graham crackers and leaves them there. So the girls live with their grandmother for a few years. Their grandfather is long gone, having died in a railroad accident many years before. When their grandmother also dies, the girls discover that she has arranged for her two maiden sisters-in-law to take over their care. The two old maids leave their tiny hotel room in Spokane and move into the old family house in Fingerbone.  But the situation is challenging for them and after a year or so they begin to speak fondly of their old lodgings and their old way of life. They decide  to return to Spokane, leaving the house and the two girls behind. To care for the girls, they manage to locate Sylvie, Helen’s younger sister. Sylvie had left Fingerbone long ago–not long after Helen–and had married a man named Fisher. Mr. Fisher was long gone by this point and Sylvie herself was heard from only infrequently. In the crisis, however, she is located and prevailed upon to return to Fingerbone, where she will move into her mother’s old house and care for her sister’s two girls, who by this time are entering their teens. As soon as she arrives, the maiden sisters-in-law make their escape.

In the course of their childhood, then, the girls are subject to four regimes of housekeeping: first their mother Helen assisted by their neighbor Beatrice, then their calm and practical grandmother, then the two old maids, and lastly their aunt Sylvie. The last regime is the heart of the book; the others, powerful as they are, just set the stage. I won’t try to describe Sylvie or reveal what happens during her time with the girls; let the book do that. But there is one thing that we come to see soon enough: Sylvie is not meant for housekeeping. Sylvie crystallizes everything that has gone before, all the previous regimes, all the characters of all the other women, the whole meaning of transience and stasis. Let’s not keep house at all, she says, let’s do something else.

You wouldn’t know it from what I’ve just described, but part of the genius of Housekeeping is that it brims with humor. The humor is not always obvious and there is never a moment when you feel like Robinson is trying to tell a funny story. On the contrary, it is an aching and poignant story. But the feeling here is that sadness comes from imagining things as they could be or could have been, if only. It comes from our ego and our desires, our wish for the world be the way we wish it to be. But if you look at the world without desire and see it the way it is, it’s pretty funny. As Elizabeth Jane Howard says, “Robinson’s humor is of the kind that makes you smile from its truth.”

Inseparable from all this is the style and tone of Housekeeping.  Robinson’s language, says Walker Percy, is “as sharp and clear as light and air and water.” It is distilled and pure, as close to truth as words can come. There are a lot of novels around; this one is the real deal.

  

Dancing Bear is my last remaining detective novel. As such, it has the burden of representing all the other detective stories that I’ve loved over the years. That means people like Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald, John D. Macdonald, Robert B. Parker, Walter Mosley, Robert Crais and a bunch of others. Is James Crumley worthy of carrying this load? Well, let’s see.

Dashiel Hammet, Chandler and Ross Macdonald set the basic parameters of the genre. Their successors stay with the basic formula, but they all add some color, some new variation in setting and character. The color Crumley goes for, especially in Dancing Bear, owes something to Hunter S. Thompson. Classic tough guy detectives drink a fair amount, for example, but in terms of substances the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s were a different time. The hero of Dancing Bear, Milo Milodragovitch, has a serious alcohol problem that he tries to control by drinking peppermint schnapps, hoping that its awful taste will keep his intake down. This being the 80’s, however, alcohol is not the only drug with which Milo gets involved.

Which brings me to this example of the evolution of the detective hero. Here is Chandler’s character Philip Marlowe commenting on a potential client’s mansion at the start of Farewell My Lovely:

The house itself wasn’t much, it was smaller than Buckingham Palace, and probably had fewer windows than the Chrysler Building.

Near the beginning of Dancing Bear, Milo Milodragovitch also visits a client’s home:

The solarium was even larger than it looked from the street…sunlight flooded the huge room through three walls of French doors and two huge skylights; so much light so suddenly that I seemed not only blinded but deafened too…An array of Oriental throw rugs broke up some of the light as it reflected off the pale oak flooring, but most of sunlight glanced off the floor and plunged like tiny knives into my already bleary eyes. I had done either too much coke or too little, a constant problem in my life.

Like many a detective novel that came before, Dancing Bear begins when our hero is offered a detecting job by a wealthy client, a simple matter that promises a generous fee for a few days of easy work. Like other detectives before him, Milo is an ex-policeman whose was fired from the force; but unlike most of the detective heroes we have nowadays, he has had little success on his own. Milo is in fact working as a security guard, perhaps the lowest form of life in the detective novel world. All the more reason for him to accept this new job. His understanding boss allows him a leave of absence so he can go private for a few days. As it happens, Milo’s client hasn’t told him the whole story of the case, not even close. In fact, Milo probably should have been suspicious, should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. Other modern detectives might have asked more questions, might never have taken the job. Milo, though, is a sentimentalist and a sucker for a pretty face and figure. He is also a drunk; good judgment is not his strong suit.

The plot of Dancing Bear is hectic and a little confused, touching on toxic waste, poaching, drug smuggling and quite a bit more. It features numerous costume changes and lots of long distance driving in a succession of rented cars. But plots, per se, don’t matter all that much in noir detective stories. They’re just convenient racks upon which to hang the important stuff: the characters, the places, and the voice. And that’s exactly where Crumley shines. Dancing Bear is set mostly in Montana and centers on the fictional town of Meriwether, which seems likely to be modeled on Missoula. But, as I said, there’s a lot of traveling involved, from Elk City, Idaho to Butte, Montana to Seattle. And wherever we go, there is a tremendous authenticity of place in the novel, as there must be in any good detective story. And just as with Travis McGee’s south Florida, the place of this novel is the whole region. It’s wintertime up here in the north, dark and bitter cold, with lots of trees. Milo hasn’t had much success as defined by civilization; it is he, of course, who is the bear, uncomfortable and only half alive in the city. When Milo runs into trouble, he flees deep into the forest, where the bear is competent and powerful. Similarly, when Crumley runs into trouble resolving his plot, he simplifies things by taking the action to some cabin far away from town.

I can’t help comparing Dancing Bear to the classic British style mystery stories, the kind where the detective’s job is simply to find and reveal. In these stories some unknown person’s jagged passions have rent the fabric of polite society. Through this flaw, more atavism threatens to spill out. Fears arise and old wounds start to ache. Someone call the doctor! We need logic and classical intellect. The detective arrives and begins asking questions, all the while watching and thinking. Though it may be an arduous process, the investigator eventually determines the motive and identifies the guilty party, who is then removed. The fabric is repaired.

In Milo’s world, anyone who cares to look can see that the fabric of society is already tattered past repair. The central issues are not so much logical as existential. What was the crime exactly? How did I get in so deep so fast? How do I get out of this alive? Milo, too, asks questions and watches and thinks, but he is a romantic figure, not a classical one. Finding and revealing in themselves are useless. Trying to out-think the villains doesn’t help; desperate action is required, and even the best outcomes are ugly, the victories partial at best. The seeds of this are all in Chandler, as is the notion of the flawed hero, and to some extent these ideas figure into the noir styles of the other authors that I’ve mentioned. But Crumley goes the farthest. Other detective heroes are smarter and in various ways more successful–think Spencer, Travis McGee, or Easy Rawlins. Milo is flailing and confused. But let the bad guys of the world be warned; you should never wake up the bear.

The first John Fowles novel I ever read was also the first one he wrote: The Magus. It must have been in 1968 and I was still in high school. It made a big impression on me. It was both exotic and intellectual, plus it was a mystery, plus it had definite erotic elements! I was enthralled. My copy was hardbound, with a light green cover. I kept it for years, and re-read it at least once, possibly twice. It was still part of my 32 feet of books until just a short time ago, nestled next to The French Lieutenant’s Woman, The Ebony Tower, A Maggot, and Daniel Martin, all masterpieces. When it came time to purge, though, I had to let The Magus go. It seemed a limited book, a little young and a little silly. (And now of course I’m thinking: So what?)

Compared to The Magus, Daniel Martin is less exotic, less overtly mysterious, and quite a bit more adult. It is set in more familiar locations, mostly English, and it deals with issues of both youth and age. It concerns the choices we make and the experiences we have when we’re young and how we come to see those events in the light of years. And more importantly, it concerns the question of just what it is we should be doing now, now that we’ve had all that time to learn and reflect. I liked its ending, all the more because it comes only after a long and very satisfactory period of suspense about what that ending will be. It is about love, but it is about love among people who seriously care about their own values. In that sense, this moral theme makes me think of Riders of the Purple Sage. Both Daniel Martin and Riders are didactic novels that teach us to think seriously about who we are and to be as skeptical of our own rationalizations as we are of the ones we hear from others.

Nice as it is, I could have let Daniel Martin go and kept A Maggot. The former is a conventional novel, long and rambling, set in the present time, and populated with characters who think more or less the way we do and talk an awful lot about themselves and their feelings. Its suspense lies in the classic question: What’s going to happen to these two? Will they get together or not? Not so A Maggot, which is set in the winter of 1736-37 and whose most important characters speak very little and in one case not at all. It poses different questions: What really happened? What did these people intend? Can we ever know? Is it possible to transcend the ugly, violent prejudices that are so much a part of our world? By what magic do better things even survive? We learn from Fowles that the word maggot has two meanings. Besides referring to the insect that feeds on dying flesh, it was also once used to describe a whim or a fancy, perhaps an obsession. This being Fowles, all these meanings come into play.

I can’t say that any of the Fowles novels were life changing for me; none of them radically transformed my vision of the world. Yet I found them deeply satisfying. His characters are wonderful. I don’t feel personally very similar to his main actors and they don’t necessarily make me wish that I could be like them. But their actions and rationales are always meaningful and there is always much to question and much to admire. Daniel Martin, especially, acknowledges that life is complicated and that no matter how long we live we are always half blind. But there is a layer of decency and deep calm in the fabric of the narrative. It serves as reassurance. Our case may be hopeless, but never completely.

Besides all that, I love Fowles’ language. There is great subtlety and complexity, but the terms of engagement are always clear, the syntax smooth and approachable. You can choose almost any paragraph and marvel at its rhythm, the way it begins, builds and resolves, how it contributes to the whole. Great stuff.