Sometimes the judges get it right! I was excited to read that the Independent Foreign Fiction prize was awarded to Santiago Roncagliolo which [to quote the Guardian] puts 'the 36-year old Peruvian author in a star-studded line-up of former winners, from Milan Kundera to WG Sebald'.
Readers of my blog may remember I posted a review of Red April last March and strongly recommended you read it!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Forgotten Waltz
Anne Enright has indeed lived up to the promise of caustic wit in her new novel, Forgotten Waltz, published by Jonathan Cape, a worthy follow-on to the award winning, The Gathering, and confirming her position as one of our great living authors.
In this book, she moves her dateline up and sets it in the flourishing tiger economy years but straightforward narrative is not Enright's literary style. By the end of the first chapter we know the bones of the story and the remainder of the book mulls backwards and forwards over an idea, the concept of adultery. The story is told in the first person by Gina Moynihan and in retrospect, in the harsh winter of 2009, harsh in weather and harsh in the now failing economy. She looks back to 2002 when she first met Sean, her lover-to-be, in her sister, Fiona's new posh house in Enniskerry. Through Fiona, Gina comes in contact with the new rich society who had the kind of parties 'where no one ate the chicken skin' and women who 'had the confused look that Botox gives you, like you might be having an emotion, but you couldn't remember which one' and whose husbands 'stood about and talked property: a three-pool complex in Bulgaria, a whole Irish block in Berlin'. Fiona has two children and Sean and his wife, Aileen, have a little girl who seems 'not quite right'. Gina then takes us through the progress of her affair with Sean and her failing relationship with 'the love of her life', Conor.
But to say that the novel is just the story of an affair is to do an injustice to Enright. Her skill is not only in the wit she brings to it but the surprising depth of thought and observation. There is pathos as well as humour. Her account of her mother's illness is haunting. She was a woman for whom 'illness was not something she allowed herself. It was so unattractive. And terribly hard on the skin'. And Gina's relationship with Evie, Sean's subteen daughter, is brilliantly and sharply told.
Enright is a wordsmith and her descriptions are precise and captivating. On just one page we sit around Fiona's 'witty formica table', we see 'a tight little herd of nine-year-old girls' and sit 'in the secret hum of his scent'. And she does sex well though Gina says she doesn't know if 'sex' is the word for it. 'We didn't talk much. Silence made it that bit filthier of course. And people do not speak, in a dream'. Enright has taken a theme as old as the hills and somehow makes it new and a concept to be pondered and reconsidered in a society no longer so sure of its moral values. She does 'dark' as well as the master of the genre, McGahern, but, unlike him, she has now shown she can do something quite different just as brilliantly.
I wondered about the title. Each chapter is given the title of an old love song like 'Will you Love me Tomorrow' 'Paper Roses' and so on and I tried to discover if 'Forgotten Waltz' was one but had no luck in my search. Perhaps someone out there has an answer.
In this book, she moves her dateline up and sets it in the flourishing tiger economy years but straightforward narrative is not Enright's literary style. By the end of the first chapter we know the bones of the story and the remainder of the book mulls backwards and forwards over an idea, the concept of adultery. The story is told in the first person by Gina Moynihan and in retrospect, in the harsh winter of 2009, harsh in weather and harsh in the now failing economy. She looks back to 2002 when she first met Sean, her lover-to-be, in her sister, Fiona's new posh house in Enniskerry. Through Fiona, Gina comes in contact with the new rich society who had the kind of parties 'where no one ate the chicken skin' and women who 'had the confused look that Botox gives you, like you might be having an emotion, but you couldn't remember which one' and whose husbands 'stood about and talked property: a three-pool complex in Bulgaria, a whole Irish block in Berlin'. Fiona has two children and Sean and his wife, Aileen, have a little girl who seems 'not quite right'. Gina then takes us through the progress of her affair with Sean and her failing relationship with 'the love of her life', Conor.
But to say that the novel is just the story of an affair is to do an injustice to Enright. Her skill is not only in the wit she brings to it but the surprising depth of thought and observation. There is pathos as well as humour. Her account of her mother's illness is haunting. She was a woman for whom 'illness was not something she allowed herself. It was so unattractive. And terribly hard on the skin'. And Gina's relationship with Evie, Sean's subteen daughter, is brilliantly and sharply told.
Enright is a wordsmith and her descriptions are precise and captivating. On just one page we sit around Fiona's 'witty formica table', we see 'a tight little herd of nine-year-old girls' and sit 'in the secret hum of his scent'. And she does sex well though Gina says she doesn't know if 'sex' is the word for it. 'We didn't talk much. Silence made it that bit filthier of course. And people do not speak, in a dream'. Enright has taken a theme as old as the hills and somehow makes it new and a concept to be pondered and reconsidered in a society no longer so sure of its moral values. She does 'dark' as well as the master of the genre, McGahern, but, unlike him, she has now shown she can do something quite different just as brilliantly.
I wondered about the title. Each chapter is given the title of an old love song like 'Will you Love me Tomorrow' 'Paper Roses' and so on and I tried to discover if 'Forgotten Waltz' was one but had no luck in my search. Perhaps someone out there has an answer.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Monsieur Linh and His Child
This slight novel - only 130 pages - is the third of the trilogy written by Philippe Claudel which includes Grey Souls and the inestimable Brodeck's Report. The thread linking the three novels - though Monsier Linh is more a novella - is survival, specifically the survival of war and the associated guilt of surviving.
Written with his accustomed lack of specificity which in itself contributes so much to the narrative lifting it from a simple story to the more involved realm of ideas, it clearly however concerns the French war in Indochina - modern Vietnam - and a city, possibly Paris or Marseilles. Monsieur Linh has lost everyone who knows him in his little bombed-out village with the exception of his grand-daughter from whom he refuses to be separated even for a minute. With great delicacy of language and economy of prose, Claudel chronicles his bewilderment in a city where he understands not a word of the language, finds the food unpalatable and is confused by the ministrations of the impersonal though benign officials caring for refugees from the war.
He meets then on a street bench the second character of the book, a Monsieur Bark with whom he establishes an extraordinary friendship given that neither understands a word the other is saying but rather rely on tone of voice and body language. Monsieur Bark is also bereaved - his wife has just died - and clearly finds relief in pouring out his heart to this odd refugee clutching possessively his little grand-daughter. It is a measure of Philippe Claudel's consummate command of language that we acquire an intimate understanding of the two men in such few pages. There is an astonishing dream sequence in which Monsieur Linh brings Monsieur Bark to his village and the contrast of the world he has lost with the bleakness of the modern city is a very powerful antiwar sequence. Monsieur Linh's one link to his vanished world is his adored baby grand-daughter.
The book has an extraordinary twist but even if you spot it coming, it in no way detracts from this brilliant and moving story. On the contrary, when I came to it, I immediately went back and reread the entire novella!
Written with his accustomed lack of specificity which in itself contributes so much to the narrative lifting it from a simple story to the more involved realm of ideas, it clearly however concerns the French war in Indochina - modern Vietnam - and a city, possibly Paris or Marseilles. Monsieur Linh has lost everyone who knows him in his little bombed-out village with the exception of his grand-daughter from whom he refuses to be separated even for a minute. With great delicacy of language and economy of prose, Claudel chronicles his bewilderment in a city where he understands not a word of the language, finds the food unpalatable and is confused by the ministrations of the impersonal though benign officials caring for refugees from the war.
He meets then on a street bench the second character of the book, a Monsieur Bark with whom he establishes an extraordinary friendship given that neither understands a word the other is saying but rather rely on tone of voice and body language. Monsieur Bark is also bereaved - his wife has just died - and clearly finds relief in pouring out his heart to this odd refugee clutching possessively his little grand-daughter. It is a measure of Philippe Claudel's consummate command of language that we acquire an intimate understanding of the two men in such few pages. There is an astonishing dream sequence in which Monsieur Linh brings Monsieur Bark to his village and the contrast of the world he has lost with the bleakness of the modern city is a very powerful antiwar sequence. Monsieur Linh's one link to his vanished world is his adored baby grand-daughter.
The book has an extraordinary twist but even if you spot it coming, it in no way detracts from this brilliant and moving story. On the contrary, when I came to it, I immediately went back and reread the entire novella!
Man Booker International Prize
I have disagreed with Carmen Callil from time to time both in her role as an author and that of publisher but this time my sincerest congratulations to her on the stance she has taken in resigning from the judging panel because of its decision to award the Man Booker International Prize to Philip Roth.
Granted that the shortlist for the prize was not earth-shaking with people like Philip Pullman, Marilynne Robinson, Anne Tyler figuring but Roth!! As Callil said, 'he goes on and on and on about the same subject in almost every single book. Its as though he's sitting on your face and you can't breathe'. Beautiful! Well done Carmen!
Granted that the shortlist for the prize was not earth-shaking with people like Philip Pullman, Marilynne Robinson, Anne Tyler figuring but Roth!! As Callil said, 'he goes on and on and on about the same subject in almost every single book. Its as though he's sitting on your face and you can't breathe'. Beautiful! Well done Carmen!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Round-Up
A quick round-up for any of you that didn't do the weekly grind through the papers!
Phillippe Claudel, author of the amazing Brodeck's Report, has a new novel out in translation, Monsieur Linh and His Child. According to the reviewers it is written with his customary lack of specificity that intrigues me and it is the second part of the haunting trilogy that concluded with Brodeck and started with Grey Souls. Anne Enright gets massive coverage for her new novel, Forgotten Waltz. This promises to be less dark than The Gathering but with plenty of her caustic wit, this one using the Celtic Tiger economy as her backdrop.
The Guardian persists with its genuflections to the gods of English writing with a panegyric of Christopher Hitchens by Martin Amis last week. One would almost be forgiven for thinking the Hitch had passed on and this was his eulogy. Or maybe Amis just wants the 'great man' to know what a sound fellow he, Amis, is. Amis quotes, at length, various examples of what he considers great witticisms by Hitchens, the 'rebel', as he calls him. It is a grave error to confuse witticism with plain rudeness. Far cleverer ripostes can be heard in any Dublin pub!
Phillippe Claudel, author of the amazing Brodeck's Report, has a new novel out in translation, Monsieur Linh and His Child. According to the reviewers it is written with his customary lack of specificity that intrigues me and it is the second part of the haunting trilogy that concluded with Brodeck and started with Grey Souls. Anne Enright gets massive coverage for her new novel, Forgotten Waltz. This promises to be less dark than The Gathering but with plenty of her caustic wit, this one using the Celtic Tiger economy as her backdrop.
The Guardian persists with its genuflections to the gods of English writing with a panegyric of Christopher Hitchens by Martin Amis last week. One would almost be forgiven for thinking the Hitch had passed on and this was his eulogy. Or maybe Amis just wants the 'great man' to know what a sound fellow he, Amis, is. Amis quotes, at length, various examples of what he considers great witticisms by Hitchens, the 'rebel', as he calls him. It is a grave error to confuse witticism with plain rudeness. Far cleverer ripostes can be heard in any Dublin pub!
I cannot pass over the brief dismissal of Damon Galgut and his book, In a Strange Room, by Alfred Hickling. This was one of the titles nominated for the Booker and is Galgut at his best. It is a departure from his normal stamping ground of post apartheid South Africa, being set worldwide from Greece to India and finally Africa. The narrator always referred to as ‘he’, in the third person but who not surprisingly is called Damon - a device popular also with Paul Auster - is an inveterate traveller who on each trip either meets or is joined by different characters. The very act of travelling has a curious meaning for him. He says at one point that ‘everything at times of transition takes on a symbolic weight and power. But this too is why he travels. The world you’re moving through flows into another one inside…’ So the reality of travel becomes fiction and memory. Borders are lines on a map but also drawn inside himself somewhere. Memory is a key factor in his writing and he refers to ‘him’, the traveller, as buried under his skin. He frequently claims he cannot remember some details, that there is a memory gap as if he were a travel writer not telling a story.
The book is divided into three sections titled the The Follower, The Lover and The Guardian. If one could have any quarrel with Galgut is that these sections might well, with editing, have worked almost better as three novellas. Tightened up to that format, they would almost have a ring of Zweig. However, in their present format what obviously links them is our narrator. True to his propensity for travel caused by restlessness when too long at home, he is further uncomfortable in any relationship that might tie him in any way. This can lead to a vacillation that at times makes one want to shake him but it is a state of mind that Galgut is very at ease writing about. At times, one almost feels one is back with the Good Doctor – also shortlisted for
the Booker - so maybe Galgut puts more of himself into his main characters either consciously or unconsciously.
The characters Damon meets and links up with on his travels are distinct and remarkable. It is a tribute to his skill that they stay in one’s mind long after the book is finished almost like old friends. Though in Damon’s case, none of them are destined ever to be old friends and his depiction of their foibles and idiosyncracies is
masterly. Galgut’s writing has justly been described as both powerful and hypnotic and I would defy anyone to read him and not feel a personal attachment to some of his thoughts.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Crusade for Modernism
I continue my crusade in support of Josipovici though now it seems it means taking on a mighty opponent - the literary pages of the Guardian!
The English continue their love affair with their perceived giants - Amis, McEwan et al. Nicholas Lezard's choice of the week was The Pregnant Widow by Martin Amis on whom he lavishes praise commenting on the 'dazzling artistry of his style'. While Amis writes with a certain cleverness and wit, there is little challenge, depth or innovation in his novels. The characters do not surprise any more than the plots. Lezard maintains that this novel is 'much more than a novel about the passing of time, or missed opportunities, or wasted talent. Although it is all those things too'. Well, what is the 'much more' please Nicholas!
In the same paper, Ian McEwan maintains that he has become over the years 'consciously, expressively aware of the traditions of the English novel, the treasures that are laid up for us by the great 19th century expositors of character and psychology' on which he draws for his work. And who does he specifically cite? Austen and Agatha Christie. In rebuttal can I mention Joyce, Beckett and Flann O'Brien - the Father, Son and Holy Ghost of modern literature [as they were recently referred to].
The English continue their love affair with their perceived giants - Amis, McEwan et al. Nicholas Lezard's choice of the week was The Pregnant Widow by Martin Amis on whom he lavishes praise commenting on the 'dazzling artistry of his style'. While Amis writes with a certain cleverness and wit, there is little challenge, depth or innovation in his novels. The characters do not surprise any more than the plots. Lezard maintains that this novel is 'much more than a novel about the passing of time, or missed opportunities, or wasted talent. Although it is all those things too'. Well, what is the 'much more' please Nicholas!
In the same paper, Ian McEwan maintains that he has become over the years 'consciously, expressively aware of the traditions of the English novel, the treasures that are laid up for us by the great 19th century expositors of character and psychology' on which he draws for his work. And who does he specifically cite? Austen and Agatha Christie. In rebuttal can I mention Joyce, Beckett and Flann O'Brien - the Father, Son and Holy Ghost of modern literature [as they were recently referred to].
IMPAC 2011
In case any of you missed the papers or the news yesterday, the short list for the International Impac Dublin Literary Award was published. While, the judges have to be congratulated on working through 162 books in the last five months, I am saddened to see no work of translation included. We have lost Brodeck's Report [Claudel], Red April [Roncagliolo] and Your Face Tomorrow [Marias], all superior literary works, all demonstrative of the extraordinary literary talent and challenging work being produced in the non-English speaking world.
For better or worse, the ten titles in the short list are: Galore [Michael Crummey], The Lacuna [Barbara Kingsolver], The Vagrants [Yiyun Li], Ransom [David Malouf], Let the Great World Spin [Colum McCann], Little Bird of Heaven [Joyce Carol Oates], Jasper Jones [Craig Silvey], Brooklyn [Colm Toibin], Love and Summer [William Trevor] and After the Fire, a Still Small Voice [Evie Wyld].
It might make a useful reading list for the coming weeks though I think you can all safely skip Joyce Carol Oates!
For better or worse, the ten titles in the short list are: Galore [Michael Crummey], The Lacuna [Barbara Kingsolver], The Vagrants [Yiyun Li], Ransom [David Malouf], Let the Great World Spin [Colum McCann], Little Bird of Heaven [Joyce Carol Oates], Jasper Jones [Craig Silvey], Brooklyn [Colm Toibin], Love and Summer [William Trevor] and After the Fire, a Still Small Voice [Evie Wyld].
It might make a useful reading list for the coming weeks though I think you can all safely skip Joyce Carol Oates!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)