Hello Gentle Reader
Reviewing an anthology is always difficult. It’s not a work in a singular composition. It’s a collection of stories or poems. However each work is written by a different author. This makes it difficult to review, and to judge the work on any level. Before I had started to read, “The Best European Fiction of 2013,” I thought that I would read each work individually, and write a quick blurb or review about that work, by that author. After a few attempts, and numerous notes taken, this idea was abandoned. Once again faced with this anthology of Albanian short stories, I am left to wonder how I am going to start this review:
Albania is a small country south of Italy. Its history has been divided between being ruled over by two more dominate empires. First the Ottoman Empire: for five hundred years, Albania was under the rule of the Ottoman Sultan. Their culture was stifled; and language repressed. It was during this time that a mass majority of Albanians converted to Islam. In nineteen-twelve, Albania declared itself independent and free. However this independence was short lived, and disastrous. From nineteen-fourteen to nineteen-twenty five, a short lived monarchy was abolished. From nineteen-twenty five until nineteen-twenty eight, Albania, attempted being a republic. Again this was another failed attempt. From nineteen-twenty eight until nineteen-thirty nine, a constitutional monarchy was in place, with the former Kingdom of Italy as its de facto protectorate. In other words, the Kingdom of Italy would oversee Albania’s military power, and security from outside threats. This would prove to futile in the end. Nineteen-thirty nine until nineteen-forty three, Albania was ruled by fascist Italy; and therefore ceased to exist as a independent and sovereign nation. After fascist Italy’s armistice, with the allied powers in World War II, Albania was left for a year, in the hands of the Nazi Germans. At this point in Albania’s history a new controlling force consumed the country. The Soviet Union, consumed Albania along with other former Eastern and Central European states. Enver Hoxha. What followed was decades of oppression and caprice, and political instability for the people; and the intellectual crack down, on all who thought differently than the pre-approved party ideology.
Now Albania is giving independence another chance. When I read the essays in his travelogue “Fado,” by the Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk; there is a feeling that Albania has moved forward, and enjoys its location in the Mediterranean. Lazy walks on the beach; siestas under trees; a game of chess with the blue sea in the distance. There was also a sense of age old beliefs and superstitions from the rural world, of tribes and Sheppard’s; such as the north savage and barbaric and populated by demons. Then of course, Albania’s relationship with China and the Chinese technocrats, that continue to help mine and support Albania in its industries and exports; much as they did as Hoxha had moved away from Soviet Union, and began to further strengthen relationships with Communist China.
If one knows Albanian literature, and or Albania as a country it is most likely thanks to the Albanian writer in exile Ismail Kadare. The author of such novels as: “The General of the Dead Army,” “Broken April,” and “The Pyramid.” Kadare is a strong force in Albanian literature, and language; because of his restoration of the language – all of Kadare’s books are written in natural Albanian language, and do not utilize foreign words; as well as moving Albanian literature, into more contemporary means. In regards to this anthology Kadare was supposed to have three of his short stories, published in it. However before publication, he retracted his stories. This works well for the authors in this anthology as they are forced to prove themselves, on their own merit, and therefore cannot be compared to an already well known writer, such as Kadare. This way they rely and thrive or fail on their merits and talents alone.
One of the greatest parts of this contemporary anthology of Albanian short stories is that, as old as Albanian literature is; prose is a new form of style within Albanian literature. This anthology showcases how writers from Albania are utilizing this still relatively new form. Many of the authors are excelling in the form of the short story and prose as a whole. Each of these stories have a sense of being written after the fall of communism and after the death of Enver Hoxha, and his anti-intellectual paranoia and fear. Now writers, are no longer forced to spout and speak the dribble of the ruling party; but are free to creatively bare witness, and reminisce of the past, and the historical situation that had taken place during that time of oppression, and cruelty. Literature, can act as the measuring instrument, in to which we can gauge society and civilization, in regards, to civility and general ideals of humanism. However, the works here, strike the paradox of the country, as it was, and as it is one line from: “Stars Do Not Dress Up Like That,” reads as the following:
“If I were not depressed, I might even be happy.”
That sentence comes from the novel: “Stars Do Not Dress Up Like That,” by Elvira Dones. It begins with the interior monologue of a young woman Leila, who offers snippets of her story. As a reader, one is aware, that our narrator named Leila, is neither happy, and comes to realize after a while she is in a torment of pain. Two pages later, the scene shifts, to Leila’s father, bringing his daughter home, back to Albania. But not as one would think. Leila is dead. She is in a coffin; and is being transported back to Albania, under the watch of her father. She has been stabbed death. After a while Dones’ sample of her work, becomes a cautionary tale, of how Albanian women, with no education and no prospect of employment, leave Albania and end up in human trafficking; and then into sexual services, which will eventually lead to the death of these young women. It’s a piece of work that tackles the social issues, facing Albanian young women; but also the young women of former Soviet states.
Ylljet Aliçka has three of his stories published, in this anthology. “The Slogans in Stone,” is standout story. A strange story in its absurd premise; but after a while, becomes a allegorical message to some degree of the former government; and communist rule. In this story a school teacher, is sent out to a remote village, where each teacher and class, is assigned a slogan, in which they are painted on stones – letter per stone; and are tended by both the teacher and the class. They are to be kept in pristine condition; so as to be admired from all over. The care each teacher and class puts into the maintenance of these slogans, and the obsessive need to continually check and maintain them. They become an allegory of false ideologies, that one is forced not only to believe in, but to act within their approved guidelines; but also to uphold these ideologies on a physical level.
Another story worth mentioning of this work was: “The Mute Maiden,” by Lindita Arapi. Its short and sweet, and very concise, but not simple story. However it does falter, because of its length as well. It begins with a very strong tone, and is told in a very direct but at times elusive manner. The story is about the youngest daughters, relationship to an ever present but distant father. It’s a memory of childhood, and growing up; and the eventual passage of childhood into adulthood. However the abrupt ending, in which the writer, leaves the story relies on the sense or the need for the reader to feel outrage, and that’s it. A bit more work would have achieved a far stronger ending.
My favorite two stories of the entire anthology though were from Teodor Laço. Both of his stories: “The Pain of a Distant Winter,” and “Another Winter,” that were published in this anthology are connected; on the basis of each story. Both of these stories detail the same memories of a man, and his love for his mother, and her love for him. In a sense they have a tinge of autobiographical feel to them; this allows for the reader to understand that they hold a deeper meaning for their writer; and this shared empathetic relation, with the reader, and writer, gives both the stories, a greater understanding and a deeper connection to the work. They are great stories, and are the strongest works of the entire collection. Neither of these stories are political. They are by all means personal ruminations, and have a sense of melancholic loss and a need to escape into the memory, to escape the changing present that one is not comfortable with or does not wish to face.
The entire anthology is a good introduction to Albanian literature, especially its budding experiments with prose; and the release of the stifling socialist realist desire, to make the writers, write in the sense that is politically pure to the ruling party’s ideology. Some of the works are political – some more so then others; but the best ones, are the ones that have a sense of personal connection, and describe the landscape around them, both in a historical and present fashion.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 27 November 2014
Friday, 21 November 2014
The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts
Hello Gentle Reader
When you have read an authors work, it is often difficult not to compare their work, to prior reads. Such is the case with J.M.G Le Clezio and his two short story collections: “Mondo: and Other Stories,” and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts.” “Mondo: and Other Stories,” came out, in the late seventies; and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” followed suit in the early eighties. Both publications, did not find an English translation until, decade(s) after their initial publications. “Mondo: and Other Stories,” deals heavily with an innocent and dream like atmosphere; each stories focal point is growing up – generally in the ways of, a rite of passage. Young people are at the centre of the book; and their eventual departure from childhood, into the greater (and wider) world of adulthood; often in small cases. With the said collection, Le Clezio was able to write evocatively, about growing up; the slow process of shedding ones innocence and the eventual understanding of one changing and becoming an adult. Reading “Mondo: and Other Stories,” often left me with a feeling of nostalgia. As a reader – at any age – the ability to associate with an authors work is a great pleasure. Some literature is meant to educate; some bears witness. Others however, come to into a reader’s life, and allow there to be some form of association, with the written text, and the author who writes it. It is this moment of shared nostalgia – that allows for a sense of empathy to, be reached beyond geographical boundaries, and beyond the limitations of language. As an avid bibliophile – to the point that it is painful to look at the bank account; reading such literature is a great treat; and it is often few and far between. That being said; when such publications do come across ones path, they are to be treasured, and to be held dear. They hold a special place on the bookshelf. These books do not sit higher than others; nor do they sit lower. But upon a passing glance at them they are immediately recognized, by that sudden resurfacing of the enjoyment of reading them. Not through the technicalities of the text; not through the linguistic acrobatics of language; not through story or plot; but rather though that shared empathetic link of a shared understanding. That is why “Mondo: and Other Stories,” was a great enjoyment to read, and a book to treasure and hold dear.
“The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is a lot different, then “Mondo: and Other Stories,” it goes back to Le Clezio’s themes as a “new novelist,” (Nouveau Roman) in the same vein as other such authors like: Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarruate, Marguerite Duras; as well as fellow Nobel Laureate, Claude Simon – who disagreed being grouped with the other authors; as well as literary philosopher Maurice Blanchot, and German speaking writer Peter Handke. In “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” it rehashes the themes of Le Clezio’s early work. The failure and boundaries of language, existential crisis, nihilistic desperation, and a world engulfing alienation and loneliness that leads to self-imposed solitary confinement and exile from all human contact. That also being stated, the stories, are written in Le Clezio’s more mature style. This can clearly be seen in the following passage from the story: “Ariadne,”
“The people aren’t anywhere to be seen; they’ve disappeared. The hulls of parked cars stand alone, just like these out in the immense car graveyards a little way upriver. This is their day, a day for abandoned carcasses with no motors, no doors, no wheels, with headlights gouged out, windshields shattered, hoods gaping and showing the black holes from which their cylinder heads have been torn.”
Immediately, it shows Le Clezio’s more well known mature style, that he had become famous for, and would later help him to go on to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. However the themes here are certainly pay homage to his rebellious youth; his pessimistic leanings in a modernized and consumerist world. The world, in which Le Clezio writes about, is a lament. A lament, of a world that is overdeveloped and in the process loses its self. The story: “Villa Aurora,” is a prime example. It’s a story that depicts a childhood paradise of memory, and nostalgia, slowly be consumed by the ever progressing world. However it had a lot, of that similar prose, that drew me into: “Mondo: and Other Stories.”
“Still, it's strange too when I think about those days--it's as if we all knew she was there, that she lived in the house, that this was her realm. Without even knowing what her real name was, we were aware of her presence; we were her familiars, her neighbors. There was a part of her that dwelled in the place, up there on the hilltop back them. Something we couldn’t really see but that was present in the trees, in the palms, in the shape of the white house, in the two stone pillars of the gateway, and in the high, rusty gate chained shut.”
It held true, to my preconceived notion of what the story would be like. It is draped in ethereal evocations and mixed with a heavy atmosphere of dream like, uncertainty. It was by far the only story that allowed me to truly conceive the notion that it held that similar sliver to the works that I have read before, and held dear, because of that capability. However “Villa Aurora,” was still off. It didn’t quite strike the same chord. This bothered me the most, because I know that the capability was there, it truly was. Somehow Le Clezio lost that ability. He was unable to reproduce old results; or I had come into the work with higher expectations. Yet I read on, holding my disappointment aside. The story finishes with, a portrait of times progression forward, and its lack of care or understanding of what it leaves behind:
“A year later, I was able to return to the hilltop. I'd thought about it constantly, and despite all the activity and futility of student life, deep down, there was still that feeling of uneasiness in me. Why? I think that ultimately I'd never quite been able to get used to not being what I had been, the child who went through the breach in the wall and who'd found all those hiding places and passageways there in the great wild garden among the cats and insect calls. It has remained within me, alive deep down inside me, despite all the wide world that had drawn me away.”
In a sense this story about the childhood homecoming, to only find one’s own childhood being engulfed in a world of window dressing and superficiality is, quite melancholic. One word that is associated with “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is “depressing.” The story “Villa Aurora,” begins with an air of uncertainty in one’s own memory. It shifts then towards tainted and rose tinted memories that are akin to that of a fairy story. It then ends, with the note that a childhood paradise becomes a lonely beacon of hope – that will eventually meet its own demise, in a forever progressing world. When the light keeper dies so does the light.
Le Clezio is a rich writer. His work is wealthy and detailed, and written with such a beautiful style. His eye is trained to the landscape. It showcases his well traversed life. It comes to such a pity that, Le Clezio has depicted the landscapes here as deserted and alienated worlds. These worlds showcase human suffering in solitude, and alienated to the point of being disenfranchised. Le Clezio has compassion for these characters. They are the overlooked; the underprivileged. Le Clezio offers his compassionate gaze to these characters; and in doing so, has in a sense written this book about them, in a sense, to try and offer justice to their situations. The truth of the matter is, one must first know, and be acquainted with these harsh realities. If not, they come across, as someone standing on their soapbox crying out in monotonous voice, of how those who allow these atrocities to continue are as much to blame for the suffering of their fellow mankind/humankind then those who crack the whip. This is what leads “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” to become monotonous in its reading. To call it literary indigestion, would not be far off. However, it does offer a portrait into Le Clezio’s personal obsessions in regards to the disenfranchised or lost. However, I prefer Le Clezio when he is not taking up the mantel of social injustice writer. I prefer Le Clezio when he evokes nostalgia; not detailing the failures and limitations of society or of language. Perhaps after “Mondo: and Other Stories,” becomes less apparent in my memory, I can come back to “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” with a less biased tone and understanding of the author.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
When you have read an authors work, it is often difficult not to compare their work, to prior reads. Such is the case with J.M.G Le Clezio and his two short story collections: “Mondo: and Other Stories,” and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts.” “Mondo: and Other Stories,” came out, in the late seventies; and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” followed suit in the early eighties. Both publications, did not find an English translation until, decade(s) after their initial publications. “Mondo: and Other Stories,” deals heavily with an innocent and dream like atmosphere; each stories focal point is growing up – generally in the ways of, a rite of passage. Young people are at the centre of the book; and their eventual departure from childhood, into the greater (and wider) world of adulthood; often in small cases. With the said collection, Le Clezio was able to write evocatively, about growing up; the slow process of shedding ones innocence and the eventual understanding of one changing and becoming an adult. Reading “Mondo: and Other Stories,” often left me with a feeling of nostalgia. As a reader – at any age – the ability to associate with an authors work is a great pleasure. Some literature is meant to educate; some bears witness. Others however, come to into a reader’s life, and allow there to be some form of association, with the written text, and the author who writes it. It is this moment of shared nostalgia – that allows for a sense of empathy to, be reached beyond geographical boundaries, and beyond the limitations of language. As an avid bibliophile – to the point that it is painful to look at the bank account; reading such literature is a great treat; and it is often few and far between. That being said; when such publications do come across ones path, they are to be treasured, and to be held dear. They hold a special place on the bookshelf. These books do not sit higher than others; nor do they sit lower. But upon a passing glance at them they are immediately recognized, by that sudden resurfacing of the enjoyment of reading them. Not through the technicalities of the text; not through the linguistic acrobatics of language; not through story or plot; but rather though that shared empathetic link of a shared understanding. That is why “Mondo: and Other Stories,” was a great enjoyment to read, and a book to treasure and hold dear.
“The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is a lot different, then “Mondo: and Other Stories,” it goes back to Le Clezio’s themes as a “new novelist,” (Nouveau Roman) in the same vein as other such authors like: Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarruate, Marguerite Duras; as well as fellow Nobel Laureate, Claude Simon – who disagreed being grouped with the other authors; as well as literary philosopher Maurice Blanchot, and German speaking writer Peter Handke. In “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” it rehashes the themes of Le Clezio’s early work. The failure and boundaries of language, existential crisis, nihilistic desperation, and a world engulfing alienation and loneliness that leads to self-imposed solitary confinement and exile from all human contact. That also being stated, the stories, are written in Le Clezio’s more mature style. This can clearly be seen in the following passage from the story: “Ariadne,”
“The people aren’t anywhere to be seen; they’ve disappeared. The hulls of parked cars stand alone, just like these out in the immense car graveyards a little way upriver. This is their day, a day for abandoned carcasses with no motors, no doors, no wheels, with headlights gouged out, windshields shattered, hoods gaping and showing the black holes from which their cylinder heads have been torn.”
Immediately, it shows Le Clezio’s more well known mature style, that he had become famous for, and would later help him to go on to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. However the themes here are certainly pay homage to his rebellious youth; his pessimistic leanings in a modernized and consumerist world. The world, in which Le Clezio writes about, is a lament. A lament, of a world that is overdeveloped and in the process loses its self. The story: “Villa Aurora,” is a prime example. It’s a story that depicts a childhood paradise of memory, and nostalgia, slowly be consumed by the ever progressing world. However it had a lot, of that similar prose, that drew me into: “Mondo: and Other Stories.”
“Still, it's strange too when I think about those days--it's as if we all knew she was there, that she lived in the house, that this was her realm. Without even knowing what her real name was, we were aware of her presence; we were her familiars, her neighbors. There was a part of her that dwelled in the place, up there on the hilltop back them. Something we couldn’t really see but that was present in the trees, in the palms, in the shape of the white house, in the two stone pillars of the gateway, and in the high, rusty gate chained shut.”
It held true, to my preconceived notion of what the story would be like. It is draped in ethereal evocations and mixed with a heavy atmosphere of dream like, uncertainty. It was by far the only story that allowed me to truly conceive the notion that it held that similar sliver to the works that I have read before, and held dear, because of that capability. However “Villa Aurora,” was still off. It didn’t quite strike the same chord. This bothered me the most, because I know that the capability was there, it truly was. Somehow Le Clezio lost that ability. He was unable to reproduce old results; or I had come into the work with higher expectations. Yet I read on, holding my disappointment aside. The story finishes with, a portrait of times progression forward, and its lack of care or understanding of what it leaves behind:
“A year later, I was able to return to the hilltop. I'd thought about it constantly, and despite all the activity and futility of student life, deep down, there was still that feeling of uneasiness in me. Why? I think that ultimately I'd never quite been able to get used to not being what I had been, the child who went through the breach in the wall and who'd found all those hiding places and passageways there in the great wild garden among the cats and insect calls. It has remained within me, alive deep down inside me, despite all the wide world that had drawn me away.”
In a sense this story about the childhood homecoming, to only find one’s own childhood being engulfed in a world of window dressing and superficiality is, quite melancholic. One word that is associated with “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is “depressing.” The story “Villa Aurora,” begins with an air of uncertainty in one’s own memory. It shifts then towards tainted and rose tinted memories that are akin to that of a fairy story. It then ends, with the note that a childhood paradise becomes a lonely beacon of hope – that will eventually meet its own demise, in a forever progressing world. When the light keeper dies so does the light.
Le Clezio is a rich writer. His work is wealthy and detailed, and written with such a beautiful style. His eye is trained to the landscape. It showcases his well traversed life. It comes to such a pity that, Le Clezio has depicted the landscapes here as deserted and alienated worlds. These worlds showcase human suffering in solitude, and alienated to the point of being disenfranchised. Le Clezio has compassion for these characters. They are the overlooked; the underprivileged. Le Clezio offers his compassionate gaze to these characters; and in doing so, has in a sense written this book about them, in a sense, to try and offer justice to their situations. The truth of the matter is, one must first know, and be acquainted with these harsh realities. If not, they come across, as someone standing on their soapbox crying out in monotonous voice, of how those who allow these atrocities to continue are as much to blame for the suffering of their fellow mankind/humankind then those who crack the whip. This is what leads “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” to become monotonous in its reading. To call it literary indigestion, would not be far off. However, it does offer a portrait into Le Clezio’s personal obsessions in regards to the disenfranchised or lost. However, I prefer Le Clezio when he is not taking up the mantel of social injustice writer. I prefer Le Clezio when he evokes nostalgia; not detailing the failures and limitations of society or of language. Perhaps after “Mondo: and Other Stories,” becomes less apparent in my memory, I can come back to “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” with a less biased tone and understanding of the author.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 6 November 2014
Radio
Hello Gentle Reader
Compression versus augmentation is a constant debate that is waged with my own reading preferences. Does a novel of shorter length, more lyrical prose, and a more focused approach, thrive better; than the sprawling novel of five hundred pages or more, with its expansive gestures and movements, as well as its cast of characters, that can afford the occasional monologue, and philosophical discussions and debates. It continually appears, that shorter novels are more my preference then their longer counterparts. If it takes a writer, five hundred to a thousand pages (or more) to say anything of profundity or at least anything of interest; then there is no point in reading such a novel. The current fashion trend, in American letters is a desire for the larger scale novels. The most recent example that comes to mind is “The Goldfinch,” by Donna Tartt which comes in at about seven-hundred and eighty four pages long. Before Tartt’s novel, there was DeLillo’s novel “Underworld,” at eight hundred and twenty seven pages; and between these two authors and their novels there was Pynchon’s novel “Against the Day,” at one thousand and eighty five pages long. Yet America is not entirely alone in this literary verbose event. The Hungarian writer Peter Nadas novel “Parallel Stories,” clocks in at one thousand five hundred and twenty pages long. Its best described as a phone book. Why some authors feel a desperate need to write ‘big books,’ is beyond me. Perhaps the subject matter requires it; or the style; or the plot. The last large novel, that I have read, and had exhausted me was Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook.” This novel reaffirmed to me the exhaustive powers of a ‘big book.’ It was long and had its moments; but its ambitions were not always fruitful or full filled.
“The Golden Notebook,” had its moments of awe, and profound understanding. At the same time, it appeared that Doris Lessing had bit off more then she could chew at times. The yellow notebook, was supposed to be a novel on its own – which ended up becoming a tedious read. The red notebook, was idealistic, and showcased Lessing’s eventual distrust of all ideologies – organized and not. The black notebook detailed memories of her time in Africa, and the eventual roots of her communist leanings; later to be distanced in the red notebook. The blue notebook was the one that tied them together. In the end “The Golden Notebook,” suffered at its own length. The book moved like a heart monitor. There are moments of progression that lead to intense passion, and intellectual stimulation until they reached their zenith. Then the slow decline, and the final rut and nadir become complacent once again. It becomes a rollercoaster read. After a while though, it becomes tedious reading. What saved Lessing’s novel? Her ability to write the novel during a social changing time; also to place the novel in this social movement; but also to look into the individual in a fragmented concept of different beings and facades and slowly pull back the layers bit by bit.
“Radio,” by Tõnu Õnnepalu, falls into this big book trap. Admittedly Gentle Reader, I did not finish this book. After countless attempts getting through the novel; and a attitude that: ‘I must persist,’ it eventually became clear; that Õnnepalu’s second English translated novel was by all means, weightless, flat and plotless. The greatest disappointment with “Radio,” is that: I knew Õnnepalu could do better. To compare “Border State,” and “Radio,” is not fair. “Border State,” thrived on its poetic language, its drifting narrative – between memories, confession, and meditation. “Radio,” on the other hand, was filled with observations and commentary; but by a conceited narrator, whose views of the world are of a jaded nature. The back of the book even states the grotesqueries of the narrator by stating that he is: “oversensitive and narcissistic,” two statements that turned out to be unfortunately true. The narrator of this novel is the centre piece; but he is self-absorbed, superficial, and has a condescending view of the world around him. The narrator continually juxtaposes, memories of his homeland: communist Estonia; to that of his experiences in Paris, France. The consensus of the narrator is: capitalism did not beat communism in some ideology war. Capitalism has just become the preferred state of living for the time being.
One of the greatest faults of this novel is the lack of any engaging character. Characters are filtered through the narrator’s eyes; and are open to his opinions, judgments and biases. Any sense of personality or individuality is quickly disregarded as unnecessary and irrelevant. This leads all other characters; all other individuals that may come up throughout his novel, to become flat, and as tasteless as cardboard; and it quickly becomes apparent that, when they are reintroduced, it is hard to remember who they are and their relationship to the narrator. The only character, which is given any room to breathe and develop, is that of: Liz Franz. She is the narrator’s infatuation and obsession. A memory that has since disappeared, and now is a constant reminder of the narrators alienation and loneliness, in the greater world. Despite this however, her story is quickly watered down with the endless bombardments and commentaries of soviet history, and local history, folklore, and other mundane and menial observations.
“Radio,” is a novel of details – of every kind of detail; filtered through the lenses of a self-absorbed, narcissistic, middle-aged homosexual filmmaker. The novel is filled with this narrators opinions of modern society; the fashion faux pas, called communism; and general observations wrapped with condescending remarks, acerbic judgments; and fantasies that could never come true, or have since fallen into memories ashes. While reading it, until the point that I stopped; I realized that there was no way that I could read a five hundred and sixty five page novel; of one individuals constant vitriolic assessments of society on one side or the society on the other hand. There was nothing engaging in this novel; despite the promises that were given by the publisher; and the promises of reading Õnnepalu prior to this book. The novel suffers in its concepts it wishes to convey without the proper way of doing so. It’s a sluggish book; wrapped up in its own ideas, rather than presenting them in a unique format, that will engage a reader.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Compression versus augmentation is a constant debate that is waged with my own reading preferences. Does a novel of shorter length, more lyrical prose, and a more focused approach, thrive better; than the sprawling novel of five hundred pages or more, with its expansive gestures and movements, as well as its cast of characters, that can afford the occasional monologue, and philosophical discussions and debates. It continually appears, that shorter novels are more my preference then their longer counterparts. If it takes a writer, five hundred to a thousand pages (or more) to say anything of profundity or at least anything of interest; then there is no point in reading such a novel. The current fashion trend, in American letters is a desire for the larger scale novels. The most recent example that comes to mind is “The Goldfinch,” by Donna Tartt which comes in at about seven-hundred and eighty four pages long. Before Tartt’s novel, there was DeLillo’s novel “Underworld,” at eight hundred and twenty seven pages; and between these two authors and their novels there was Pynchon’s novel “Against the Day,” at one thousand and eighty five pages long. Yet America is not entirely alone in this literary verbose event. The Hungarian writer Peter Nadas novel “Parallel Stories,” clocks in at one thousand five hundred and twenty pages long. Its best described as a phone book. Why some authors feel a desperate need to write ‘big books,’ is beyond me. Perhaps the subject matter requires it; or the style; or the plot. The last large novel, that I have read, and had exhausted me was Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook.” This novel reaffirmed to me the exhaustive powers of a ‘big book.’ It was long and had its moments; but its ambitions were not always fruitful or full filled.
“The Golden Notebook,” had its moments of awe, and profound understanding. At the same time, it appeared that Doris Lessing had bit off more then she could chew at times. The yellow notebook, was supposed to be a novel on its own – which ended up becoming a tedious read. The red notebook, was idealistic, and showcased Lessing’s eventual distrust of all ideologies – organized and not. The black notebook detailed memories of her time in Africa, and the eventual roots of her communist leanings; later to be distanced in the red notebook. The blue notebook was the one that tied them together. In the end “The Golden Notebook,” suffered at its own length. The book moved like a heart monitor. There are moments of progression that lead to intense passion, and intellectual stimulation until they reached their zenith. Then the slow decline, and the final rut and nadir become complacent once again. It becomes a rollercoaster read. After a while though, it becomes tedious reading. What saved Lessing’s novel? Her ability to write the novel during a social changing time; also to place the novel in this social movement; but also to look into the individual in a fragmented concept of different beings and facades and slowly pull back the layers bit by bit.
“Radio,” by Tõnu Õnnepalu, falls into this big book trap. Admittedly Gentle Reader, I did not finish this book. After countless attempts getting through the novel; and a attitude that: ‘I must persist,’ it eventually became clear; that Õnnepalu’s second English translated novel was by all means, weightless, flat and plotless. The greatest disappointment with “Radio,” is that: I knew Õnnepalu could do better. To compare “Border State,” and “Radio,” is not fair. “Border State,” thrived on its poetic language, its drifting narrative – between memories, confession, and meditation. “Radio,” on the other hand, was filled with observations and commentary; but by a conceited narrator, whose views of the world are of a jaded nature. The back of the book even states the grotesqueries of the narrator by stating that he is: “oversensitive and narcissistic,” two statements that turned out to be unfortunately true. The narrator of this novel is the centre piece; but he is self-absorbed, superficial, and has a condescending view of the world around him. The narrator continually juxtaposes, memories of his homeland: communist Estonia; to that of his experiences in Paris, France. The consensus of the narrator is: capitalism did not beat communism in some ideology war. Capitalism has just become the preferred state of living for the time being.
One of the greatest faults of this novel is the lack of any engaging character. Characters are filtered through the narrator’s eyes; and are open to his opinions, judgments and biases. Any sense of personality or individuality is quickly disregarded as unnecessary and irrelevant. This leads all other characters; all other individuals that may come up throughout his novel, to become flat, and as tasteless as cardboard; and it quickly becomes apparent that, when they are reintroduced, it is hard to remember who they are and their relationship to the narrator. The only character, which is given any room to breathe and develop, is that of: Liz Franz. She is the narrator’s infatuation and obsession. A memory that has since disappeared, and now is a constant reminder of the narrators alienation and loneliness, in the greater world. Despite this however, her story is quickly watered down with the endless bombardments and commentaries of soviet history, and local history, folklore, and other mundane and menial observations.
“Radio,” is a novel of details – of every kind of detail; filtered through the lenses of a self-absorbed, narcissistic, middle-aged homosexual filmmaker. The novel is filled with this narrators opinions of modern society; the fashion faux pas, called communism; and general observations wrapped with condescending remarks, acerbic judgments; and fantasies that could never come true, or have since fallen into memories ashes. While reading it, until the point that I stopped; I realized that there was no way that I could read a five hundred and sixty five page novel; of one individuals constant vitriolic assessments of society on one side or the society on the other hand. There was nothing engaging in this novel; despite the promises that were given by the publisher; and the promises of reading Õnnepalu prior to this book. The novel suffers in its concepts it wishes to convey without the proper way of doing so. It’s a sluggish book; wrapped up in its own ideas, rather than presenting them in a unique format, that will engage a reader.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)