After two vigorous and haunting novels, Virgin Suicides and Middlesex, another Jeffrey Eugenides was an exciting prospect but The Marriage Plot is a rum do! There seems to be a lot more going on here than is immediately apparent in the deceptively simple narrative.
On the surface, it appears straightforward involving a triangle of students in their final year in Brown University in the eighties [Eugenides' own alma mater]. Madeleine is pretty, WASP, rich, an English major student with a passion for the works of Austen, James and Eliot. Her final year dissertation centres on the marriage plots in their works. However, in the course of the year she began hearing people dropping names like Derrida, Foucault, Baudrillard and, intrigued, she signs up for a Semiotics module where she meets the second of our protagonists, the love of her life, Leonard. Leonard is a Biology and Philosophy major, poor, of humble origins and, as we discover, a manic depressive. Madeleine, however, is smitten, to the distress of her 'treasured friend' Mitchell Grammaticus, a religion major, who is totally devoted to both God and Madeleine, convinced that one day she will be his.
The book opens on Graduation Day when Madeleine is going to confront her parents with her decision to go with Leonard to Cape Cod where he has secured a research fellowship in a lab and to cohabit with him. Mitchell is more than unhappy with this decision but still considers God is on his side in the long term and is planning to take the obligatory year out with the standard tour of Europe and India where - if you're into religion - they have everything. The book goes forward then with the progresss of the three over the following year.
Madeleine is given the lion's share of the narrative and Eugenides tells it convincingly in a well constructed manner. Nevertheless, his treatment of her is shallow in many respects. While Leonard and Mitchell pretty much limp from day to day, Madeleine has a firm plan and is applying to graduate school with a definite project on Victorian novelists in mind. We hear nothing however of her progress with her work and Eugenides occupies himself almost entirely with her relationship with Leonard and, to a lesser degree, with Mitchell. At the same time, there is no 'marriage plot' as such. Rather, underlying the story, is a polemic against modernism and the seeming pretentiousness of students taken with the new philosophers of semiotics and deconstruction. He pokes fun at a student who ridicules the idea that a book should be 'about' anything. At her first class meeting in semiotics, eight of the ten students showed up in black t-shirts and ripped black jeans, one with his eyebrows shaved off! It seems that Eugenides is turning his back on the inventiveness of his earlier work and the idea of experimentation in favour of social realism and the traditional narrative. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why the character of Madeleine is drawn with such empathy. In a recent interview with Eileen Battersby, Eugenides said he loved the 19th century novels and it does seem as that is what he trying to achieve with this work. But the 19th century novels worked because they reflected the zeitgeist of the time and the institution of marriage was a commitment of a totally different nature from today. To impose such a structure on the mores of the 21st century does not convince which possibly explains the ending.
Eugenides tells his story with in a straightforward fashion - more Updike than Franzen - and he tells it well. His characters are likeable, even the self-destructing Leonard - but it lacks the originality of both Virgin Suicides and Middlesex. It is not a little autobiographical including not only his time in Brown but also his own stint working with Mother Teresa in Calcutta from whom Mitchell eventually flees! One could almost forgive him - but not quite - for his diatribe against Europeans who, he claims in one section, had produced no decent rock music of their own and 'whose relationship to the sixties ... was essentially spectatorial'. I know some French and German students who might heartily disagree!
It is an easy read but it is not a literary masterpiece sadly.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
This week they said ...
What joy! Nicholas Lezard has discovered What Ever Happened to Modernism? by Gabriel Josipovici. Followers of my blog may remember that I have several times referred - and deferred - to this amazing work of literary criticism over the past year. Lezard rues how the Booker shortlist went horribly wrong this year having been 'on the point of recognising the influence of modernism' last year with Tom McCarthy's C. As he points out, the modernist canon has been around too long to deserve the sideswipes it receives from the likes of Amis. Read his piece in full in last Saturday's Guardian Review, p.19.
This was followed by Robert McCrum [today's Observer, 13 November, Review section, p. 42] recognising that English fiction 'is in the doldrums' and opining that the 'cultural recession mirrors the economic downturn'. In his opinion, the book market promotes quantity before quality producing what he terms the Ikea novel. 'Ikea novels are the kind of fiction that comes direct from the factory, with no intercession of craftsmanship or artistry en route to the consumer'. It has all the ingredients of a novel but is a simulacrum of fine writing. 'Ikea fiction is not original, and not distinctive, with no inner vision or humanity'.
Its reassuring to know that my criticisms of the gods of the English literary scene are not totally off base.
This was followed by Robert McCrum [today's Observer, 13 November, Review section, p. 42] recognising that English fiction 'is in the doldrums' and opining that the 'cultural recession mirrors the economic downturn'. In his opinion, the book market promotes quantity before quality producing what he terms the Ikea novel. 'Ikea novels are the kind of fiction that comes direct from the factory, with no intercession of craftsmanship or artistry en route to the consumer'. It has all the ingredients of a novel but is a simulacrum of fine writing. 'Ikea fiction is not original, and not distinctive, with no inner vision or humanity'.
Its reassuring to know that my criticisms of the gods of the English literary scene are not totally off base.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Booker Prize 2011: RESULT!
I have broken my own record! After years of unfailingly wrong guessing the result, I have finally got it right! Well done, Julian Barnes. Literature triumphs! As he himself said, Sense of an Ending is a beautiful book - beautiful to look at he meant. But it is also a beautiful book to read. Go for it!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Booker Prize 2011?
The result of the jury in the 2011 Man Booker Prize will be announced next Tuesday 18 October and I have been slow to keep up to date with the short list. As always, the list is controversial and omits some biggies - though I must agree with the decision to drop Hollinghurst and Barry, neither of whose books represent their best. The full list for anyone who missed it is: Sense of an Ending [Julian Barnes], The Sisters Brothers [De Witt], Halfs Blood Blues [Edugyan], Jamrach's Menagerie [Carol Birch], Pigeon English [Kelman] and Snowdrops [Miller]. I have already reviewed at length Sense of an Ending which, if there is any justice out there, should win - but then I have never guessed accurately the winner of the Booker!
If there should be a different book chosen, I could not argue about The Sisters Brothers. This is a book to give one pause and reverse many long held opinions. This is a Western! And I have to say that I was as far outside my comfort zone as I could be when I started reading it. Patrick deWitt is a Canadian, born in British Columbia, though now living in Oregon. This is his second novel and it is set in Oregon and California in 1851 around the time of the gold rush in the Sierra Nevada and the Coen Brothers must surely film it! I have to say that I never imagined I would find myself rooting for two psychopaths - but I did!
The two psychopaths are Eli and Charlie Sisters, hired killers, who are on a job taking them from Oregon to California and the book is, on the one hand, the story of that odyssey, the characters they meet on route and the events that occur, all told in a dead-pan, in-your-face manner, at times weirdly humorous; and, on the other, it is an almost spiritual odyssey for the younger brother, Eli, who is considering quitting his 'career' to open a trading post. The brothers' reputation precedes them and at every stop they only have to mention their names to secure instant fear and respect. Inevitably, they are challenged from time to time but always at the cost to the challenger. The story is narrated by Eli and, consequently, we are party to his laboured arguments with himself and his relationship with his brother. He is greatly attached to his horse and takes utmost pains to look after him in contrast to his easy acceptance of the deaths of various men en route. Indeed, the wonders of a tooth brush and tooth powder to which he is introduced by one character, a dentist, is more noteworthy than the deaths of four men who refused to loan Charlie their axe.
The 'job' takes an unexpected turn - enough of a spoiler! deWitt's writing is lucid and flowing. He eschews any descriptions of the landscape through which the brothers pass in favour of character development which is gripping. His language is particular and the dialogue appropriate to the period but beautifully phrased. At one point, a whore with whom Charlie has spent the night remarks to Eli, 'you got all the romantic blood, is that it?' to which Eli replies, 'our blood is the same, we just use it differently' which neatly encapsulates the gradually widening fissure between the brothers.
If you think Westerns finished with the Coen Brothers True Grit, think again! Just read it and see!
On the other hand, if you never get to read Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch don't worry. It is neither as magical or 'completely original' as A.S. Byatt maintains on the jacket cover. As a blurb on the back says, this is Dickens meets Moby Dick but I think if you want either, then read a Dickens novel or Moby Dick. The book was also longlisted for the Orange Prize so is clearly highly considered by some. I found the narrative uneven, at times tedious, and the conclusion disappointing if obvious. In its favour, I was relieved that Ms Birch did not try to emulate cockney slang or any dialect in her writing sticking to plain English with no anachronisms.
Without wanting to spoil the story, should you read it, there is one particularly interesting and well described section but at the same time, it has been done equally well elsewhere and is not original. The narrative is told by a Jaffy Brown, a cockney, who goes to sea as a teenager on a whaling ship with an extra purpose, that of capturing and bringing back a 'dragon' as they term an extremely large member of the lizard family, for Jaffy's employer, a certain Mr Jamrach who deals in exotic animals. His best friend, Tim accompanies him and the narrative describes their life on board which has none of the usual hardships associated with sailing in Victorian times in that they have a kind captain and friendly crew. The events at sea form the core of the story.
A tour de force this is not.
Half Blood Blues by another Canadian, Esi Edugyan, is a better read altogether. I have to admit the jacket and story blurb at the back of it put me off initially but I am glad I persisted despite them. Edugyan is a product of John Hopkins Writing Seminars from which she has a Masters in Writing and, I would guess, some expertise in jazz and music groups. Or else, she did some very good research.
The narrative concerns a jazz group formed in Berlin in the thirties three of whom escape to France but get trapped again there with the fall of Paris in 1940. The story is told by one of the group, Sid Griffiths, and deals primarily with him, his friend Chip Jones and the star of the group, a young black German, Hieronymous Falk. It moves between the events of that time and the early nineties when Chip and Sid return to Berlin and Poland following receipt of a mysterious letter that seems to indicate that Hiero is still alive.
Though I am often a little wary of the products of creative writing courses, this is a beautifully written novel with just the right element of suspense. The music scenes are well described with great veracity including the trials and heartache of cutting a record in the forties and Edugyan appears to have a genuine feel for the rhythms of jazz which percolate the novel. The intonations and language of her characters are perfect and she captures the atmosphere of Paris during the 'phony war' with great delicacy and skill. Definitely worth a read.
Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman still awaits me. Snowdrops by AD Miller does not appeal. Though well written as one might expect by a long time contributor to The Economist, the story falls short of what might be expected on the Booker List. It is a crime story set in Putin's Russia with elements of Bond and, as the Guardian review said, 'standard issue characters' in a Russia that one can happily think the worst of. Not my cup of tea!
If there should be a different book chosen, I could not argue about The Sisters Brothers. This is a book to give one pause and reverse many long held opinions. This is a Western! And I have to say that I was as far outside my comfort zone as I could be when I started reading it. Patrick deWitt is a Canadian, born in British Columbia, though now living in Oregon. This is his second novel and it is set in Oregon and California in 1851 around the time of the gold rush in the Sierra Nevada and the Coen Brothers must surely film it! I have to say that I never imagined I would find myself rooting for two psychopaths - but I did!
The two psychopaths are Eli and Charlie Sisters, hired killers, who are on a job taking them from Oregon to California and the book is, on the one hand, the story of that odyssey, the characters they meet on route and the events that occur, all told in a dead-pan, in-your-face manner, at times weirdly humorous; and, on the other, it is an almost spiritual odyssey for the younger brother, Eli, who is considering quitting his 'career' to open a trading post. The brothers' reputation precedes them and at every stop they only have to mention their names to secure instant fear and respect. Inevitably, they are challenged from time to time but always at the cost to the challenger. The story is narrated by Eli and, consequently, we are party to his laboured arguments with himself and his relationship with his brother. He is greatly attached to his horse and takes utmost pains to look after him in contrast to his easy acceptance of the deaths of various men en route. Indeed, the wonders of a tooth brush and tooth powder to which he is introduced by one character, a dentist, is more noteworthy than the deaths of four men who refused to loan Charlie their axe.
The 'job' takes an unexpected turn - enough of a spoiler! deWitt's writing is lucid and flowing. He eschews any descriptions of the landscape through which the brothers pass in favour of character development which is gripping. His language is particular and the dialogue appropriate to the period but beautifully phrased. At one point, a whore with whom Charlie has spent the night remarks to Eli, 'you got all the romantic blood, is that it?' to which Eli replies, 'our blood is the same, we just use it differently' which neatly encapsulates the gradually widening fissure between the brothers.
If you think Westerns finished with the Coen Brothers True Grit, think again! Just read it and see!
On the other hand, if you never get to read Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch don't worry. It is neither as magical or 'completely original' as A.S. Byatt maintains on the jacket cover. As a blurb on the back says, this is Dickens meets Moby Dick but I think if you want either, then read a Dickens novel or Moby Dick. The book was also longlisted for the Orange Prize so is clearly highly considered by some. I found the narrative uneven, at times tedious, and the conclusion disappointing if obvious. In its favour, I was relieved that Ms Birch did not try to emulate cockney slang or any dialect in her writing sticking to plain English with no anachronisms.
Without wanting to spoil the story, should you read it, there is one particularly interesting and well described section but at the same time, it has been done equally well elsewhere and is not original. The narrative is told by a Jaffy Brown, a cockney, who goes to sea as a teenager on a whaling ship with an extra purpose, that of capturing and bringing back a 'dragon' as they term an extremely large member of the lizard family, for Jaffy's employer, a certain Mr Jamrach who deals in exotic animals. His best friend, Tim accompanies him and the narrative describes their life on board which has none of the usual hardships associated with sailing in Victorian times in that they have a kind captain and friendly crew. The events at sea form the core of the story.
A tour de force this is not.
Half Blood Blues by another Canadian, Esi Edugyan, is a better read altogether. I have to admit the jacket and story blurb at the back of it put me off initially but I am glad I persisted despite them. Edugyan is a product of John Hopkins Writing Seminars from which she has a Masters in Writing and, I would guess, some expertise in jazz and music groups. Or else, she did some very good research.
The narrative concerns a jazz group formed in Berlin in the thirties three of whom escape to France but get trapped again there with the fall of Paris in 1940. The story is told by one of the group, Sid Griffiths, and deals primarily with him, his friend Chip Jones and the star of the group, a young black German, Hieronymous Falk. It moves between the events of that time and the early nineties when Chip and Sid return to Berlin and Poland following receipt of a mysterious letter that seems to indicate that Hiero is still alive.
Though I am often a little wary of the products of creative writing courses, this is a beautifully written novel with just the right element of suspense. The music scenes are well described with great veracity including the trials and heartache of cutting a record in the forties and Edugyan appears to have a genuine feel for the rhythms of jazz which percolate the novel. The intonations and language of her characters are perfect and she captures the atmosphere of Paris during the 'phony war' with great delicacy and skill. Definitely worth a read.
Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman still awaits me. Snowdrops by AD Miller does not appeal. Though well written as one might expect by a long time contributor to The Economist, the story falls short of what might be expected on the Booker List. It is a crime story set in Putin's Russia with elements of Bond and, as the Guardian review said, 'standard issue characters' in a Russia that one can happily think the worst of. Not my cup of tea!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Sense of an Ending [Julian Barnes]
This has to be one of the saddest books I have ever read, It is an attack on the smugness of youth and the complacency of old age. It is a warning that our early actions can come back to haunt us. Cliches are after all founded on truth.
It is the story of a man, Tony Webster, who is comfortably retired, amicably divorced with one safely married daughter, who takes pleasure in history and music, keeping his apartment well maintained and volunteering in the local hospital library once a week. His only close friend appears to be his divorced wife but he seems perfectly content with this. Though he admits to moments of self-pity, he thinks that 'we end up all belonging to the same category, that of the non-young' and claims 'I've never much minded this myself'. He says that 'I rarely ended up fantasising a markedly different life from the one that has been mine'. He is not odd enough not to have done the things he ended up doing with his life and he neither looks back or obsesses about death. Though Barnes has written on death, this novel is not about death though three deaths occur and it is the third of these that leads to a cataclysmic result for Tony.
The novel is divided into two parts. In the first part, Webster is a callow sixth-former, one of a trio who draw into their clique a new-comer, the intellectual and clever Adrian Finn. They were - as Tony at age 65 remembers - 'book-hungry, sex-hungry, meritocratic, anarchistic. All political and social systems appeared to us corrupt, yet we declined to consider an alternative other than hedonistic chaos'. In other words, they were the pretentious children of the sixties with a fear that life wouldn't turn out to be like literature and, as Barnes writes, 'most people didn't experience the Sixties until the Seventies'. The group splits up when school ends and they go their separate ways, Tony to university in Bristol and Adrian to Cambridge. At Bristol, Tony gets into a relationship, fraught at times, with Veronica Ford, a wayward and opinionated young woman. When Tony takes her to London to meet with his friends, Veronica is clearly taken with Adrian who is fulfilling his early promise successfully in Cambridge. Tony's relationship with Veronica does not last his time in Bristol but its effects and reverberations are to impinge greatly on his life.
In the second part, Webster is now 65 and retired when an extraordinary event catapults Veronica back into his life. He receives a lawyer's letter regarding a small bequest which becomes the source of agonizing memory searches and a re-evaluation of his entire life.
It is hard to believe that this small book is only 150 pages long so replete is it with ideas, philosophy and subtle - and not so subtle - aphorisms. Barnes has excelled himself with this one. One critic has compared it with Chesil Beach where the backgrounds and characters are not dissimilar but perhaps it would be truer to say that this is the book that McEwan would like to have written. The main character, Tony Webster, is beautifully drawn. Barnes develops Tony's character with deftness so we are remarkedly at ease with the accumulation of events in his life and his thought processes. Though this book, as I said, is not about death but about life, I can't do better than quote John Self who said, in his review of the book, 'Death, getting close every day, is always personal. In Frank Kermode’s work of literary criticism from which Barnes takes his title, “the sense of an ending” refers to apocalypticism, the end of the world. Barnes’s concern here is far more serious than that'.
It is the story of a man, Tony Webster, who is comfortably retired, amicably divorced with one safely married daughter, who takes pleasure in history and music, keeping his apartment well maintained and volunteering in the local hospital library once a week. His only close friend appears to be his divorced wife but he seems perfectly content with this. Though he admits to moments of self-pity, he thinks that 'we end up all belonging to the same category, that of the non-young' and claims 'I've never much minded this myself'. He says that 'I rarely ended up fantasising a markedly different life from the one that has been mine'. He is not odd enough not to have done the things he ended up doing with his life and he neither looks back or obsesses about death. Though Barnes has written on death, this novel is not about death though three deaths occur and it is the third of these that leads to a cataclysmic result for Tony.
The novel is divided into two parts. In the first part, Webster is a callow sixth-former, one of a trio who draw into their clique a new-comer, the intellectual and clever Adrian Finn. They were - as Tony at age 65 remembers - 'book-hungry, sex-hungry, meritocratic, anarchistic. All political and social systems appeared to us corrupt, yet we declined to consider an alternative other than hedonistic chaos'. In other words, they were the pretentious children of the sixties with a fear that life wouldn't turn out to be like literature and, as Barnes writes, 'most people didn't experience the Sixties until the Seventies'. The group splits up when school ends and they go their separate ways, Tony to university in Bristol and Adrian to Cambridge. At Bristol, Tony gets into a relationship, fraught at times, with Veronica Ford, a wayward and opinionated young woman. When Tony takes her to London to meet with his friends, Veronica is clearly taken with Adrian who is fulfilling his early promise successfully in Cambridge. Tony's relationship with Veronica does not last his time in Bristol but its effects and reverberations are to impinge greatly on his life.
In the second part, Webster is now 65 and retired when an extraordinary event catapults Veronica back into his life. He receives a lawyer's letter regarding a small bequest which becomes the source of agonizing memory searches and a re-evaluation of his entire life.
It is hard to believe that this small book is only 150 pages long so replete is it with ideas, philosophy and subtle - and not so subtle - aphorisms. Barnes has excelled himself with this one. One critic has compared it with Chesil Beach where the backgrounds and characters are not dissimilar but perhaps it would be truer to say that this is the book that McEwan would like to have written. The main character, Tony Webster, is beautifully drawn. Barnes develops Tony's character with deftness so we are remarkedly at ease with the accumulation of events in his life and his thought processes. Though this book, as I said, is not about death but about life, I can't do better than quote John Self who said, in his review of the book, 'Death, getting close every day, is always personal. In Frank Kermode’s work of literary criticism from which Barnes takes his title, “the sense of an ending” refers to apocalypticism, the end of the world. Barnes’s concern here is far more serious than that'.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Guardian Review of 'C'
Alfred Hickling is rapidly turning into my personal bete noir for his pocket reviews of books he apparently has not fully read. Last Saturday [Review, Saturday Guardian 27.08.11] he did an inaccurate thumbnail sketch of C by Tom McCarthy which did little justice to this powerful novel, probably the best published in the UK in 2010. This is a book which has been described as an historical novel but it is concerned less with history than with ideas and minds. It is full of philosophic allusions and learned references that sit comfortably in what is at times a highly amusing book and most readable.
The protagonist, Serge Carrefax, does not wind up in Egypt installing transmitters [as AH says] but is asked to come to Alexandria to write a report or reports on the advancement of a company alluded to as the Empire Wireless Chain. His 'aerial adventures' [to quote Hickling] give one of the best descriptions I have ever read of flying as an observer over the front lines in the First World War in France [not Egypt, AH]. And the cocaine he uses on his eyeballs is to sharpen his vision, not to get high [AH] - vision being a deep theme of the book. Serge is at once both in and not in the world; not so much suffering any existential angst but rather with a phenomenological grasp of life around him. Studying art with his tutor as a boy, he experienced great difficulty with perspective viewing the world as flat, an image that is reinforced as an observer flying with the RFC in the war.
These thumbnail reviews of newly published paperbacks are a useful aid to books one might have missed when published in hardback. It does us no service to misconstrue them.
The protagonist, Serge Carrefax, does not wind up in Egypt installing transmitters [as AH says] but is asked to come to Alexandria to write a report or reports on the advancement of a company alluded to as the Empire Wireless Chain. His 'aerial adventures' [to quote Hickling] give one of the best descriptions I have ever read of flying as an observer over the front lines in the First World War in France [not Egypt, AH]. And the cocaine he uses on his eyeballs is to sharpen his vision, not to get high [AH] - vision being a deep theme of the book. Serge is at once both in and not in the world; not so much suffering any existential angst but rather with a phenomenological grasp of life around him. Studying art with his tutor as a boy, he experienced great difficulty with perspective viewing the world as flat, an image that is reinforced as an observer flying with the RFC in the war.
These thumbnail reviews of newly published paperbacks are a useful aid to books one might have missed when published in hardback. It does us no service to misconstrue them.
Friday, August 12, 2011
New Finnish Grammar
Last week the Guardian lamented the malaise in 21st century [English] publishing but there is hope as long as they continue to buy and translate the gems being published on the European mainland. One such is the New Finnish Grammar by Diego Marani, first published in Italy in 2000 and now available in English thanks to Dedalus Books. Nicholas Lezard commented that he couldn't 'remember when I read a more extraordinary novel, or when I was last so strongly tempted to use the word "genius" of its author'. Perhaps 'genius' is rather strong as he leaves many questions unanswered in the text but nevertheless, as Josipovici said of it, 'what he has produced is still a cut above what passes for serious fiction in this country'.
The story is deceptively simple and straightforward which will reassure those who tire of the time leaps and split narratives of the postmoderns! A severely wounded unidentified sailor is found in Trieste in 1943 and taken on to a German hospital ship where he comes under the care of a Dr Friari. When the wounded man awakes from his coma, he has no memory, no knowledge of either where he comes from or who he is but most profoundly, he has no language. As he himself says, 'All linguistic feeling, all interest in words, had died away'. Dr Friari, himself an exile from Finland since childhood, assumes the man is Finnish as the label sewn on his jacket has the name Sampo Karjalainen, a Finnish name. The doctor determines to get Sampo well enough to return to Finland and, in the meantime, starts to teach him Finnish which he assumes to be his mother tongue. He could hardly have started on a more difficult course as Finnish has to be Europe's most complicated language where even the nouns have multiple declensions.
Sampo does get to Helsinki where his recovery continues and language skills grow apace under the guidance of an extraordinary pastor, the military chaplain, Olof Koskela. an ebullient, extrovert giant of a man, steeped in Finnish folklore and fond of a daily tincture of koskenkorva. He also attempts a relationship with a nurse, Ilma. He realises quickly enough that to rediscover his true past is an impossibility and that Dr Friari was right - 'language is our mother, and it is through language that we come into this world'. The account of his time in the military installation in Helsinki is fascinating and Marani maintains the suspense and keeps us avid to learn his identity to the very end.
This is a story about war and love and memory and particularly about language - not surprising as the author, Marani, is a linguist in the EU. There are thorny questions that Marani dodges as he ignores the Ghost in the Machine. Sampo discovers at an early stage that he recognises objects and what they are for - he has therefore retained the concept of 'knowing how' but not the one of 'knowing that'. He also acknowledges early on that without language there is no memory but nevertheless he says on the second page that 'even in my confusion I remembered that there was a war on ... my thoughts seemed to well up out of nothingness and then sink down again into the porous soil of my unfocused consciousness'. Thoughts? Was he picturing to himself in auditory or visual images? Thinking is normally interpreted as an operation with symbols such as words and sentences but Marani does not go there. [For any reader interested in this aspect, Gilbert Ryle has written a very original text on the subject called The Concept of Mind]. The story is told by both Dr Friari and Sampo and Sampo's language in writing gets rather sophisticated at a stage when he apparently can barely make himself understood to others. However, none of these thought-provoking questions in anyway detract from Marani's exquisite piece of work.
I agree with Lezard that this is definitely an extraordinary book.
The story is deceptively simple and straightforward which will reassure those who tire of the time leaps and split narratives of the postmoderns! A severely wounded unidentified sailor is found in Trieste in 1943 and taken on to a German hospital ship where he comes under the care of a Dr Friari. When the wounded man awakes from his coma, he has no memory, no knowledge of either where he comes from or who he is but most profoundly, he has no language. As he himself says, 'All linguistic feeling, all interest in words, had died away'. Dr Friari, himself an exile from Finland since childhood, assumes the man is Finnish as the label sewn on his jacket has the name Sampo Karjalainen, a Finnish name. The doctor determines to get Sampo well enough to return to Finland and, in the meantime, starts to teach him Finnish which he assumes to be his mother tongue. He could hardly have started on a more difficult course as Finnish has to be Europe's most complicated language where even the nouns have multiple declensions.
Sampo does get to Helsinki where his recovery continues and language skills grow apace under the guidance of an extraordinary pastor, the military chaplain, Olof Koskela. an ebullient, extrovert giant of a man, steeped in Finnish folklore and fond of a daily tincture of koskenkorva. He also attempts a relationship with a nurse, Ilma. He realises quickly enough that to rediscover his true past is an impossibility and that Dr Friari was right - 'language is our mother, and it is through language that we come into this world'. The account of his time in the military installation in Helsinki is fascinating and Marani maintains the suspense and keeps us avid to learn his identity to the very end.
This is a story about war and love and memory and particularly about language - not surprising as the author, Marani, is a linguist in the EU. There are thorny questions that Marani dodges as he ignores the Ghost in the Machine. Sampo discovers at an early stage that he recognises objects and what they are for - he has therefore retained the concept of 'knowing how' but not the one of 'knowing that'. He also acknowledges early on that without language there is no memory but nevertheless he says on the second page that 'even in my confusion I remembered that there was a war on ... my thoughts seemed to well up out of nothingness and then sink down again into the porous soil of my unfocused consciousness'. Thoughts? Was he picturing to himself in auditory or visual images? Thinking is normally interpreted as an operation with symbols such as words and sentences but Marani does not go there. [For any reader interested in this aspect, Gilbert Ryle has written a very original text on the subject called The Concept of Mind]. The story is told by both Dr Friari and Sampo and Sampo's language in writing gets rather sophisticated at a stage when he apparently can barely make himself understood to others. However, none of these thought-provoking questions in anyway detract from Marani's exquisite piece of work.
I agree with Lezard that this is definitely an extraordinary book.
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