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
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M. Mary