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wolfdan9's reviews
269 reviews
The Penguin Book of Japanese Short Stories by Jay Rubin
1. Bee Honey
"It occurred to me that the pigeons and the pickpockets, the immigrant beside me, the tourists, were all just here."
Bee Honey struck me as a surprise, despite really enjoying Kitchen and Moonlight Shadow, my other experiences with Yoshimoto have been fairly negative. Yet I loved this story. In a few short pages, Yoshimoto captures the healing process of a woman whose relationship has failed. She travels to Argentina to vacation, and discovers a ritual of women wearing white scarves, who are mourning the loss of their children after a violent incident in the country. I found this juxtaposition quite effective at generalizing the pain of loss. Loss, in various forms, is all part of the human experience, which transcends all ethnographic barriers. Yoshimoto's point is accentuated by her narrator being an outsider to Argentina and making her observations from "the outside looking in." She, and the reader, are confronted with this "spoilage" of her vacation. It becomes the centerpiece of her experience that day. And she (impassively, but nevertheless importantly) considers the pain they must be feeling.
But it's quite evident to the narrator that the loss of life experienced by the white scarved women is greater than her own loss. This provides her with some bittersweet solace, an important stepping stone in her healing process, as she reflects on the weight of sorrow through the lens of these women. Her pain is a pebble compared to their boulders, and while she doesn't acknowledge this directly, it's quite clear from what she does not say. She also ruminates on her mother (after seeing a woman who reminds her of her mother -- a rather clever way of driving home the point of humane interconnectivity). She comments on how while she was living with her mom as a child, being spoiled by her love and care while sick, other mothers' children were dying. This is something of which we are all aware, yet she writes about how her mother's special drink for her was called "bee honey," whereas the narrator feels "honey lemon" is a more appropriate name. I found this anecdote affecting. It shows how words and names can have such interchangeable meaning. Personal meaning. Or really no meaning. While this anecdote is such a small mirror, it reflects the grander theme of the story powerfully: that simultaneously, all around the word, significant things are happening. We are enclosed in our personal little worlds, and while we occasionally break out to see how others are living, we have our own cultures, languages, views of the world, etc., and these things inform how we act and more importantly, how our lives may be decided (to a great extent). The way our lives look may be clearly distinct (as is the difference between "honey lemon" and "bee honey"), but the essence of life (i.e., the ingredients of the drink) -- that we are all living a human experience with the same contents of loss, gain, happiness, and sorrow -- is largely the same.
2. Dreams of Love, Etc.
Like Yoshimoto's Bee Honey, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this story. My only other experience with Kawakami had been Ms. Ice Sandwich, which I found juvenile. Dreams of Love, Etc., for a rather modern story, follows a traditional story-telling formula. There is a distinct flow -- a beginning, middle, and end -- with a bit of foreshadowing, a climactic moment, and symbolism. I was impressed with, rather than put off by, the incorporation of story telling essentials. I felt that it demonstrated Kawakami's grasp over writing conventions, which I had been suspicious of prior to reading. Even the subject matter is nothing new: a dissatisfied housewife seeks an escape. However, Kawakami's twist to the narrative made it somewhat remarkable. To briefly summarize the story, the narrator is a bored and unhappy wife to a typical overworked Japanese man, with whom she has brief and insubstantial engagements. In her life at home, she is unfulfilled by the housekeeping tasks she is occupied with while alone and is lonely yet unmotivated to do much else. Her emptiness leads her to some light front porch gardening, which isn't much of an improvement.
She begins to take walks seeking out suggestions from others' gardens when she encounters a mysterious neighbor, a woman in her sixties who she has heard playing the piano from her home every day while stuck inside. The woman plays beautifully, but cannot play in front of others, so they strike up a friendship and spend 2 hours each day together while the woman practices. It is an odd relationship, but Kawakami suggests that this neighbor is probably an older avatar for the narrator herself: someone who is dissatisfied by their state of being unable to be with others in a moment of greatness. This mirrors the narrator's own wish to escape her humdrum life. Interestingly, she introduces herself as "Terry," an extremely unusual name for a Japanese woman, which leads the narrator to impulsively introduce herself as "Bianca." This was the first moment of brilliance in the story for me. The names that they chose were uncharacteristically western and reflected a "far-awayness" that both women clearly sought. It suggested a sort of play acting. Together, they could be Bianca and Terry, subtly acknowledging in their interactions that they both don't want to be themselves (notably, the narrator is otherwise unnamed -- her actual identity does not matter).
Terry plays for her for about two weeks, until finally she succeeds at playing the piano piece in front of Bianca. This succeed promptly leads to their separation. It is a revelatory moment. Yet Kawakami demonstrates another brilliant writing flourish here. While it may seem that this success is a message to the narrator that through perseverance, it is possible to make a true escape from one's malaise, the successful playing was completed by Bianca (and Terry), not the women as they truly are. Kawakami seems to suggest at the end of the story that this moment led to no real change -- the narrator simply returns to her boring routines and plants -- because the narrator merely inhabited a character who was capable of facilitating change, not transforming herself. And yet, the story ends with a beautifully optimistic note, as her flowers from that summer died: "I put the petals in my palm, one by one. With no particular ceremony or celebration in mind, I placed the petals next to one another on the sunny windowsill."
3. The 1963/1982 Girl from Ipanema
This story ranks as one of the worst I've read from Murakami (alongside Dabchick) for its seemingly hollow non-sequiturs and shallow message. The story seems to want to convey a dream-like feel (all too heavy-handedly) while communicating a sense of otherwordliness through our blurry memories. The beauty of an imagined foreign woman, in this case, is meant to symbolize something, in typical Murakami fashion it is a bit ambiguous, but the issue with this story is that there is no clear connection between the symbol of this woman and -- what he is quite direct about -- the union of ourselves and our imagined selves (either through memory or imagination). Even if she is meant to represent a stand-in of this union, as a figure that defies time and space, there is a great lack of context in the story that would help to establish it. There are also a few tangential non-sequiturs. I guess the story works in a sense since it does feel so fragmentary, like a vague memory, but I also worry that it just seems unfinished, not fleshed out, and a bit throw-away.
4. Same As Always
Same As Always gave me a pretty big shock with its subject matter, especially as a new father. It's about a woman who wants to kill her 6-month-old infant, but doesn't want to emaciate it because it "creeps her out" and doesn't want to beat it, "not because I'd feel bad" but because it would be disgusting and a lot of trouble to clean up. I read online later that Yuya had been influenced by Oe, who also delves stoically into disturbing subject matter, so that made sense. It's one of the more disturbing stories I've read, but it was also quite effective at using this jarring subject matter to convey how man-made disaster has instilled a trauma-derived detachment from others. It does this because, after the 2011 Fukushima nuclear disaster which had irradiated fruits and vegetables, the mother plans to ignore television advice and feed them to her child. The interesting tidbit about her rationale is that, although she is doing it purposefully, every other mother is doing the same thing. Even if they go to great lengths to avoid irradiated food, the children inhabit a world where these dangers are unavoidable. This underlying nihilism seems to inform the narrator's world-view: not just her rationale toward killing her child, but toward the detachment she feels toward him and the world. The story ends abruptly after her mother-in-law and husband decide she and the baby need to move to a more rural part of Japan where the effects will be lesser. She acquiesces, saying finally "There was nothing I had to do. Keep nursing, changing nappies, and following orders. Same as always. Which is why I had felt so relieved to learn that hell was spreading all around us." The reader is forced to be disgusted with her, which leads them also to reflecting: I can't believe this situation would drive her to such an extreme minds state. Why is our world like this?
I found that Yuya was so effective at using this story's extremely dark plot to gather the reader's interest. And upon accomplishing this, it subtly sends a message (contrary to the narrator's feelings of defeat) that the issue at stake -- nuclear disaster -- is serious and requires immediate attention.
5. Factory Town
Factory Town was a little slice of brilliance, to be honest. More of a parable than a short story, it highlights the absurdity of how people (group-)think in a capitalist society. A mysterious factory appears alongside a quaint and economically secure town, and the townsfolk walk by this factory with great intrigue at what's being created. They accept the great deal of pollution contaminating the town without a second thought -- in fact, their only concern is that jobs in their respective fields will be displaced by the factory. Finally, it is revealed comically that one of the machines is a cough drop machine was being made (for all of the smoke being made). The other machine? Simply a smoke machine. It is a funny and rather cutting critique of capitalism and how our minds are programmed to prioritize capital. The subject matter is quite Vonnegut-esque, but the storytelling had rhythms of Marquez. Overall, a nice pick.
6. Cambridge Circus
This is another weaker story from the anthology. I don't have much to say about it. It's an exploration of how memory is unreliable and how "the butterfly effect" could or could not have a huge impact upon us. But there's nothing insightful worth mentioning.
7. In the Box
This was another nice story, and quite effective considering its short length. It's about a man who enters an elevator in his apartment building and is shortly thereafter joined by a woman holding many boxes. She presumptively assumes the man will press "floor 9" for her, but he interprets her request as rude. So he hits all of the buttons to delay her. In recalling this story, I was amused by how elaborately the narrator explained how he hit all of the buttons but chose not to hit the "door close" button. The author seemed to want the reader to experience the feeling of being meaninglessly held up. But as the story progresses, the narrator explains that he encountered another woman (perhaps the same one, he can't recall what she looked like), who once again requests the ninth floor while holding boxes, but this time says "or if you like, press them all." This odd remark sets off the narrator, who does just that. This time though, it breaks the elevator and they are stuck. They briefly discuss hitting the emergency button, but neither does. They contentedly lean back, showing their face to one another. I love the ambiguity of the ending's meaning, despite its rather simple resolution. It seems that both characters are being petty to the end -- that they both must waste the others' time to get their revenge. But I suppose a separate interpretation could be that their both content with being even. Perhaps he shows his face to her as a matter of showing interest. It's an odd tale but very well done.
"It occurred to me that the pigeons and the pickpockets, the immigrant beside me, the tourists, were all just here."
Bee Honey struck me as a surprise, despite really enjoying Kitchen and Moonlight Shadow, my other experiences with Yoshimoto have been fairly negative. Yet I loved this story. In a few short pages, Yoshimoto captures the healing process of a woman whose relationship has failed. She travels to Argentina to vacation, and discovers a ritual of women wearing white scarves, who are mourning the loss of their children after a violent incident in the country. I found this juxtaposition quite effective at generalizing the pain of loss. Loss, in various forms, is all part of the human experience, which transcends all ethnographic barriers. Yoshimoto's point is accentuated by her narrator being an outsider to Argentina and making her observations from "the outside looking in." She, and the reader, are confronted with this "spoilage" of her vacation. It becomes the centerpiece of her experience that day. And she (impassively, but nevertheless importantly) considers the pain they must be feeling.
But it's quite evident to the narrator that the loss of life experienced by the white scarved women is greater than her own loss. This provides her with some bittersweet solace, an important stepping stone in her healing process, as she reflects on the weight of sorrow through the lens of these women. Her pain is a pebble compared to their boulders, and while she doesn't acknowledge this directly, it's quite clear from what she does not say. She also ruminates on her mother (after seeing a woman who reminds her of her mother -- a rather clever way of driving home the point of humane interconnectivity). She comments on how while she was living with her mom as a child, being spoiled by her love and care while sick, other mothers' children were dying. This is something of which we are all aware, yet she writes about how her mother's special drink for her was called "bee honey," whereas the narrator feels "honey lemon" is a more appropriate name. I found this anecdote affecting. It shows how words and names can have such interchangeable meaning. Personal meaning. Or really no meaning. While this anecdote is such a small mirror, it reflects the grander theme of the story powerfully: that simultaneously, all around the word, significant things are happening. We are enclosed in our personal little worlds, and while we occasionally break out to see how others are living, we have our own cultures, languages, views of the world, etc., and these things inform how we act and more importantly, how our lives may be decided (to a great extent). The way our lives look may be clearly distinct (as is the difference between "honey lemon" and "bee honey"), but the essence of life (i.e., the ingredients of the drink) -- that we are all living a human experience with the same contents of loss, gain, happiness, and sorrow -- is largely the same.
2. Dreams of Love, Etc.
Like Yoshimoto's Bee Honey, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this story. My only other experience with Kawakami had been Ms. Ice Sandwich, which I found juvenile. Dreams of Love, Etc., for a rather modern story, follows a traditional story-telling formula. There is a distinct flow -- a beginning, middle, and end -- with a bit of foreshadowing, a climactic moment, and symbolism. I was impressed with, rather than put off by, the incorporation of story telling essentials. I felt that it demonstrated Kawakami's grasp over writing conventions, which I had been suspicious of prior to reading. Even the subject matter is nothing new: a dissatisfied housewife seeks an escape. However, Kawakami's twist to the narrative made it somewhat remarkable. To briefly summarize the story, the narrator is a bored and unhappy wife to a typical overworked Japanese man, with whom she has brief and insubstantial engagements. In her life at home, she is unfulfilled by the housekeeping tasks she is occupied with while alone and is lonely yet unmotivated to do much else. Her emptiness leads her to some light front porch gardening, which isn't much of an improvement.
She begins to take walks seeking out suggestions from others' gardens when she encounters a mysterious neighbor, a woman in her sixties who she has heard playing the piano from her home every day while stuck inside. The woman plays beautifully, but cannot play in front of others, so they strike up a friendship and spend 2 hours each day together while the woman practices. It is an odd relationship, but Kawakami suggests that this neighbor is probably an older avatar for the narrator herself: someone who is dissatisfied by their state of being unable to be with others in a moment of greatness. This mirrors the narrator's own wish to escape her humdrum life. Interestingly, she introduces herself as "Terry," an extremely unusual name for a Japanese woman, which leads the narrator to impulsively introduce herself as "Bianca." This was the first moment of brilliance in the story for me. The names that they chose were uncharacteristically western and reflected a "far-awayness" that both women clearly sought. It suggested a sort of play acting. Together, they could be Bianca and Terry, subtly acknowledging in their interactions that they both don't want to be themselves (notably, the narrator is otherwise unnamed -- her actual identity does not matter).
Terry plays for her for about two weeks, until finally she succeeds at playing the piano piece in front of Bianca. This succeed promptly leads to their separation. It is a revelatory moment. Yet Kawakami demonstrates another brilliant writing flourish here. While it may seem that this success is a message to the narrator that through perseverance, it is possible to make a true escape from one's malaise, the successful playing was completed by Bianca (and Terry), not the women as they truly are. Kawakami seems to suggest at the end of the story that this moment led to no real change -- the narrator simply returns to her boring routines and plants -- because the narrator merely inhabited a character who was capable of facilitating change, not transforming herself. And yet, the story ends with a beautifully optimistic note, as her flowers from that summer died: "I put the petals in my palm, one by one. With no particular ceremony or celebration in mind, I placed the petals next to one another on the sunny windowsill."
3. The 1963/1982 Girl from Ipanema
This story ranks as one of the worst I've read from Murakami (alongside Dabchick) for its seemingly hollow non-sequiturs and shallow message. The story seems to want to convey a dream-like feel (all too heavy-handedly) while communicating a sense of otherwordliness through our blurry memories. The beauty of an imagined foreign woman, in this case, is meant to symbolize something, in typical Murakami fashion it is a bit ambiguous, but the issue with this story is that there is no clear connection between the symbol of this woman and -- what he is quite direct about -- the union of ourselves and our imagined selves (either through memory or imagination). Even if she is meant to represent a stand-in of this union, as a figure that defies time and space, there is a great lack of context in the story that would help to establish it. There are also a few tangential non-sequiturs. I guess the story works in a sense since it does feel so fragmentary, like a vague memory, but I also worry that it just seems unfinished, not fleshed out, and a bit throw-away.
4. Same As Always
Same As Always gave me a pretty big shock with its subject matter, especially as a new father. It's about a woman who wants to kill her 6-month-old infant, but doesn't want to emaciate it because it "creeps her out" and doesn't want to beat it, "not because I'd feel bad" but because it would be disgusting and a lot of trouble to clean up. I read online later that Yuya had been influenced by Oe, who also delves stoically into disturbing subject matter, so that made sense. It's one of the more disturbing stories I've read, but it was also quite effective at using this jarring subject matter to convey how man-made disaster has instilled a trauma-derived detachment from others. It does this because, after the 2011 Fukushima nuclear disaster which had irradiated fruits and vegetables, the mother plans to ignore television advice and feed them to her child. The interesting tidbit about her rationale is that, although she is doing it purposefully, every other mother is doing the same thing. Even if they go to great lengths to avoid irradiated food, the children inhabit a world where these dangers are unavoidable. This underlying nihilism seems to inform the narrator's world-view: not just her rationale toward killing her child, but toward the detachment she feels toward him and the world. The story ends abruptly after her mother-in-law and husband decide she and the baby need to move to a more rural part of Japan where the effects will be lesser. She acquiesces, saying finally "There was nothing I had to do. Keep nursing, changing nappies, and following orders. Same as always. Which is why I had felt so relieved to learn that hell was spreading all around us." The reader is forced to be disgusted with her, which leads them also to reflecting: I can't believe this situation would drive her to such an extreme minds state. Why is our world like this?
I found that Yuya was so effective at using this story's extremely dark plot to gather the reader's interest. And upon accomplishing this, it subtly sends a message (contrary to the narrator's feelings of defeat) that the issue at stake -- nuclear disaster -- is serious and requires immediate attention.
5. Factory Town
Factory Town was a little slice of brilliance, to be honest. More of a parable than a short story, it highlights the absurdity of how people (group-)think in a capitalist society. A mysterious factory appears alongside a quaint and economically secure town, and the townsfolk walk by this factory with great intrigue at what's being created. They accept the great deal of pollution contaminating the town without a second thought -- in fact, their only concern is that jobs in their respective fields will be displaced by the factory. Finally, it is revealed comically that one of the machines is a cough drop machine was being made (for all of the smoke being made). The other machine? Simply a smoke machine. It is a funny and rather cutting critique of capitalism and how our minds are programmed to prioritize capital. The subject matter is quite Vonnegut-esque, but the storytelling had rhythms of Marquez. Overall, a nice pick.
6. Cambridge Circus
This is another weaker story from the anthology. I don't have much to say about it. It's an exploration of how memory is unreliable and how "the butterfly effect" could or could not have a huge impact upon us. But there's nothing insightful worth mentioning.
7. In the Box
This was another nice story, and quite effective considering its short length. It's about a man who enters an elevator in his apartment building and is shortly thereafter joined by a woman holding many boxes. She presumptively assumes the man will press "floor 9" for her, but he interprets her request as rude. So he hits all of the buttons to delay her. In recalling this story, I was amused by how elaborately the narrator explained how he hit all of the buttons but chose not to hit the "door close" button. The author seemed to want the reader to experience the feeling of being meaninglessly held up. But as the story progresses, the narrator explains that he encountered another woman (perhaps the same one, he can't recall what she looked like), who once again requests the ninth floor while holding boxes, but this time says "or if you like, press them all." This odd remark sets off the narrator, who does just that. This time though, it breaks the elevator and they are stuck. They briefly discuss hitting the emergency button, but neither does. They contentedly lean back, showing their face to one another. I love the ambiguity of the ending's meaning, despite its rather simple resolution. It seems that both characters are being petty to the end -- that they both must waste the others' time to get their revenge. But I suppose a separate interpretation could be that their both content with being even. Perhaps he shows his face to her as a matter of showing interest. It's an odd tale but very well done.
Felicia's Journey by William Trevor
4.0
“Strange, how people are allocated a life.”
...
“Act on an impulse and you have a landscape all over you for the rest of your days.”
(spoilers ahead) Felicia's Journey is a hard book for me to pin down. It's rare in the sense that it's a literary thriller that is actually literary and actually a thriller. The blending of beautifully rendered contemplative and gentle prose with a tense narrative containing high drama like attempted rape, suicide, abortion, etc. is a challenge to find. I think of Crime and Punishment (which is obviously far superior) as a novel that accomplishes something similar by having a strong literary underpinning while presenting a plot and characters that are thrilling to read. The story is about a teenage Irish girl who falls in love with a charming boy and is impregnated by him while he's visiting home. Unbeknownst to her, he is a soldier and gives her a phony backstory before leaving home. Felicia, discovering that she has become pregnant, leaves Ireland for England in an attempt to track him down. In England, she meets Mr. Hilditch, an ostensibly saintly older man who manipulates her at every turn to cure his loneliness and make himself feel like he has a girlfriend. Hilditch, one of the most unsettling characters I've ever read, is captured with such a keen psychological insight that I don't recall reading since Humbert Humbert in Lolita. I was impressed by how Trevor captured his creepiness by dedicating chapters here and there to how he spent his days without Felicia, his yearning for any female attention or interaction and the great contrast between his inner monologue and actions out in the world. I was engrossed by his game of lying to Felicia; how easily he was always a step ahead of her and despite her instinct that something was wrong with him, how he always managed to make her feel like she was being paranoid or had no other options to turn to but him.
For such a slim novel, there is a lot to unpack. While the victimizing of Felicia by Hilditch is central to the novel, the many reflections this relationship casts create a thought-provoking experience. The "thriller" element is inherent in the plot; in one respect it's rather unrelatable -- a teenage girl leaves home pregnant to find her lover in another country and meets a master manipulator -- and this unrelatability is what makes the story exciting. But the reality of the world of Felicia's Journey is undeniable. Trevor, known for his ability to sympathetically portray the poor, destitute, and disadvantaged without a touch of sentimentality, doesn't disappoint in this novel and captures a society that is largely indifferent to the needs of the downtrodden. Felicia, who symbolizes the ultimate victim of circumstance, is sort of our guide through the world through her eyes and we learn a lot about it and how it feels about people like her (i.e., disadvantaged strangers, many of whom Felicia also meets on her journey). It seemed to me that Trevor’s message regarding society is that the world of adults is unfriendly and occupied solely with their own affairs. Sure, Felicia meets a few kind strangers, but very few offer her any meaningful help. There’s a lack of any true kindness or warmth from strangers – the strange middle-aged Hilditch and precocious Felicia are noticed together in various cafes and restaurants but nobody interferes – and those who do help her are doing so out of a sense of occupational obligation. Hilditch, who appears to be a beacon of light for her throughout the vast majority of the novel, is in actuality a predator. Her lost boyfriend, Johnny, is never directly admonished by Trevor (nor is anyone – he attempts to show the characters as they are, but in such a way that the reader draws the “right” conclusions about them) but is also a real piece of shit and one can infer that he has been cast as a more charming/handsome version of Hilditch. Interestingly, Felicia’s brothers knock him out cold and brutally beat him at the end of the novel and Hilditch’s fate also ends brutally. I did wonder if Trevor holds some notion that bad people are generally punished for their actions or a belief in karmic retribution.
Trevor’s society is one burdened by their own troubles. Whether they are the aforementioned cafe workers, or the drug addicts whom Felicia meets during a desperate escape from a fundamentalist religious group home, people are shown to be motivated by their own needs. There is a prevailing religious undercurrent throughout the novel, which I won’t spend time writing about because I’ve already almost used up my daughter’s whole nap, but it seems that Trevor scoffs a bit at the helpfulness of religion. It seems that religion is dichotomously either an asset to one’s reason for existence or an annoyance depending on which side of the fence one lands. As far as Felicia herself, her journey is a failure in almost every sense. The “process” of her journey is seeking out her manipulative lover and being manipulated once again by Hilditch for the entirety of her journey. She gains nothing – she is seeing and implicitly taking in all her surroundings but not clearly making sense of any of it (sort of like all of us moving through life?) — and loses her unborn child to an abortion that Hilditch manipulates her into receiving. She ends up homeless in London but receives some closure, learning of Hilditch’s death and seeming generally accepting of her fate. Whether or not that is any consolation for what she has been through, I’m unsure.
Cold Spring Harbor by Richard Yates
1.5
“Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn’t much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.”
Cold Spring Harbor is a disappointing Yates novel. His final one, -- and by no coincidence I think -- Cold Spring Harbor is Yatesian in the sense that it covers loneliness, troubling family and relationship dynamics, and an inability for a young man to fit into the traditionally accepted social image projected from living a quintessentially American life. Its themes are familiar for Yates, but the story, clocking in at a lean 180 pages, is so basic that it's boring. It's interesting that Yates and so many writers of his ilk (e.g., Ford, Cheever, Updike, etc.) have made stories about "relatable dysfunctional American families and relationship dynamics" for decades and many of them are excellent. Revolutionary Road, for example, is one of my favorite novels. But the sense I get is that Yates, who wrote this novel in the mid-1980s, had exhausted himself of this sort of content and couldn't reinvent himself any other way. It's a shame on the one hand, but on the other the prose is also unexpectedly poor, and that is somehow even more unforgivable considering Yates' reputation as a brilliant writer. Characters are cliche-ridden and act in predictable and arbitrary ways. The reader often feels like they're reading a scene from a movie, not a scene from real life. To put it simply, there's no impetus for this story to exist. Certainly, there's no push or passion from Yates to compel. It's thematically vacuous and unsatisfying.
Cold Spring Harbor is a disappointing Yates novel. His final one, -- and by no coincidence I think -- Cold Spring Harbor is Yatesian in the sense that it covers loneliness, troubling family and relationship dynamics, and an inability for a young man to fit into the traditionally accepted social image projected from living a quintessentially American life. Its themes are familiar for Yates, but the story, clocking in at a lean 180 pages, is so basic that it's boring. It's interesting that Yates and so many writers of his ilk (e.g., Ford, Cheever, Updike, etc.) have made stories about "relatable dysfunctional American families and relationship dynamics" for decades and many of them are excellent. Revolutionary Road, for example, is one of my favorite novels. But the sense I get is that Yates, who wrote this novel in the mid-1980s, had exhausted himself of this sort of content and couldn't reinvent himself any other way. It's a shame on the one hand, but on the other the prose is also unexpectedly poor, and that is somehow even more unforgivable considering Yates' reputation as a brilliant writer. Characters are cliche-ridden and act in predictable and arbitrary ways. The reader often feels like they're reading a scene from a movie, not a scene from real life. To put it simply, there's no impetus for this story to exist. Certainly, there's no push or passion from Yates to compel. It's thematically vacuous and unsatisfying.
The Dark by John McGahern
4.0
“Shame and embarrassment and loathing, the dirty rags of intimacy.”
...
“…or had your life been the haphazard flicker between nothingness and nothingness.”
The Dark is one of McGahern's earlier novels (my 3rd in a short spurt from him personally), and immediately it will remind the reader of his most famous work Amongst Women. Mahoney, the father in the story, is a prototype for Moran, and each are equally detestable. It's clear the McGahern grew up with a father like Mahoney, and there is a particular chapter early in the novel that is unforgettable (in addition to the opening scene) for the "ickiness" it instills in the reader, so much so that it is hard to read without wincing, and really is a testament to McGahern's steeliness and stoic writing hand. I'm referring to two scenes, the first of which is when Mahoney forces his son to strip naked in front of his entire family to accept a beating as punishment for saying "fuck." Mahoney scares him to tears, and makes him rear himself naked to accept a humiliating beating, but he never actually hits him. This opening scene is rather symbolic of their tension and relationship, which is a cycle of arbitrary punishments that far exceed the son's transgressions, in which a "finality" is never delivered.
While Amongst Women focused on the family dynamics in Moran's household (to great success), this one is more of a bildungsroman of the family's son. But considering both utilize a similar father archetype -- that of the implacable, unsociable, and disagreeable Irishman -- to such great effect as a vehicle for the novel's themes is admirable. The Dark's powerfully simple prose and well-written, introspective main character help it stand toe-to-toe with other great bildungsromans like Stoner (which coincidentally came out in the same year), whose dark tone and unflinching portrayal of an inner misery rang to mind as I read.
The novel is rife with scenes that highlight the extreme tension between father with son, which rarely but occasionally do boil over into conflict (only for the son to quickly realize the futility of fighting back and to fall back into the routine of appeasing his father). There are countless examples of the father's arbitrary resistance to his son's wishes and goals and his abusive nature. One to mention is the son's motivation to study and win a scholarship. Clearly, the son is highly motivated and quite brilliant. He does extremely well on a practice exam and seems like he will score top marks on the actual exam. Mahoney, however, is instantly resistant to the idea of him using a fire to study because it will waste money. He doesn't care that the home environment is loud and assumes the son can tune it out while studying. He thinks a career in academia is a waste of money, a scam, etc. He is jaded by any and all possibilities. Yet despite Mahoney's discouragement, the son is motivated to escape his home life and eventually does receive the top score on the exam, winning himself a scholarship.
The son seeks solace through escapism but finds himself ultimately unsatisfied. He masturbates countless times a day, finding himself obsessed sexually with women, but represses these urges and does not actually pursue any women. He is attracted initially to the idea of priesthood as a fix to his problems, but concludes that this lifestyle isn't for him after having another odd (and sexually ambiguous) private meeting with a priest who invites him to stay at his church for a week. I found the son's sexual awakening (a common bildungsroman theme) to be interesting considering how it was tied into the novel's other contextual pieces, like the influence of the church on the rural son and the patriarchal influence of his father. There is an inappropriate intermingling of sexual influence from these institutions during this period of sexual awakening that confuses and erodes his mental state.
The nameless son, whose namelessness may be symbolic of the ubiquity of these young men who must endure similar abuses, is also referred to interchangeably as "he" and "you." This clever, and rather sly, change to the character's point of view draws the reader in even more as McGahern "forces" the reader into the son's shoes. The reader feels a sense of discomfort being called "you" -- being told they are someone who they are not in moments of great discomfort for this character -- which is how the son feels through his father as well. I found this literary trick rather brilliant.
The ending was interesting. The son calls his father to the university after deciding that he is going to leave the school, to which he received a full scholarship, to instead take a well-paying job in a bank. I didn't know how to feel about the ending, but I interpreted it as positive. It seemed like the boy was able to escape his father on his own terms, call him back into his life on his own terms, and make a decision on his own terms (which happened to coincide with what the father thought was right too, and the fact that this did not bother the son shows personal growth on his part).
The Dark is one of McGahern's earlier novels (my 3rd in a short spurt from him personally), and immediately it will remind the reader of his most famous work Amongst Women. Mahoney, the father in the story, is a prototype for Moran, and each are equally detestable. It's clear the McGahern grew up with a father like Mahoney, and there is a particular chapter early in the novel that is unforgettable (in addition to the opening scene) for the "ickiness" it instills in the reader, so much so that it is hard to read without wincing, and really is a testament to McGahern's steeliness and stoic writing hand. I'm referring to two scenes, the first of which is when Mahoney forces his son to strip naked in front of his entire family to accept a beating as punishment for saying "fuck." Mahoney scares him to tears, and makes him rear himself naked to accept a humiliating beating, but he never actually hits him. This opening scene is rather symbolic of their tension and relationship, which is a cycle of arbitrary punishments that far exceed the son's transgressions, in which a "finality" is never delivered.
While Amongst Women focused on the family dynamics in Moran's household (to great success), this one is more of a bildungsroman of the family's son. But considering both utilize a similar father archetype -- that of the implacable, unsociable, and disagreeable Irishman -- to such great effect as a vehicle for the novel's themes is admirable. The Dark's powerfully simple prose and well-written, introspective main character help it stand toe-to-toe with other great bildungsromans like Stoner (which coincidentally came out in the same year), whose dark tone and unflinching portrayal of an inner misery rang to mind as I read.
The novel is rife with scenes that highlight the extreme tension between father with son, which rarely but occasionally do boil over into conflict (only for the son to quickly realize the futility of fighting back and to fall back into the routine of appeasing his father). There are countless examples of the father's arbitrary resistance to his son's wishes and goals and his abusive nature. One to mention is the son's motivation to study and win a scholarship. Clearly, the son is highly motivated and quite brilliant. He does extremely well on a practice exam and seems like he will score top marks on the actual exam. Mahoney, however, is instantly resistant to the idea of him using a fire to study because it will waste money. He doesn't care that the home environment is loud and assumes the son can tune it out while studying. He thinks a career in academia is a waste of money, a scam, etc. He is jaded by any and all possibilities. Yet despite Mahoney's discouragement, the son is motivated to escape his home life and eventually does receive the top score on the exam, winning himself a scholarship.
The son seeks solace through escapism but finds himself ultimately unsatisfied. He masturbates countless times a day, finding himself obsessed sexually with women, but represses these urges and does not actually pursue any women. He is attracted initially to the idea of priesthood as a fix to his problems, but concludes that this lifestyle isn't for him after having another odd (and sexually ambiguous) private meeting with a priest who invites him to stay at his church for a week. I found the son's sexual awakening (a common bildungsroman theme) to be interesting considering how it was tied into the novel's other contextual pieces, like the influence of the church on the rural son and the patriarchal influence of his father. There is an inappropriate intermingling of sexual influence from these institutions during this period of sexual awakening that confuses and erodes his mental state.
The nameless son, whose namelessness may be symbolic of the ubiquity of these young men who must endure similar abuses, is also referred to interchangeably as "he" and "you." This clever, and rather sly, change to the character's point of view draws the reader in even more as McGahern "forces" the reader into the son's shoes. The reader feels a sense of discomfort being called "you" -- being told they are someone who they are not in moments of great discomfort for this character -- which is how the son feels through his father as well. I found this literary trick rather brilliant.
The ending was interesting. The son calls his father to the university after deciding that he is going to leave the school, to which he received a full scholarship, to instead take a well-paying job in a bank. I didn't know how to feel about the ending, but I interpreted it as positive. It seemed like the boy was able to escape his father on his own terms, call him back into his life on his own terms, and make a decision on his own terms (which happened to coincide with what the father thought was right too, and the fact that this did not bother the son shows personal growth on his part).
Amongst Women by John McGahern
4.5
”He would not take part at all.”
Amongst Women is my second McGahern novel, his most critically acclaimed, perhaps one of my favorite novels, and one that demonstrates a mastery of characterization. Moran is skin-pricklingly real; so much so that I had assumed that he was based on McGahern himself or his own father (before lightly researching the novel and confirming it), as one can only develop a character like him by observing and really living with someone like him. But I felt an embarrassed insecurity as I read that there was some of Moran within myself. Rarely will I read a character, who really is 99% different than me, but whose 1% of shared personality is so acrimonious that I vow to never to be like him. Which is interesting as I interpreted the end of the novel as somewhat of a vindication for Moran. But before I comment on that I should describe who Moran is. His family, which consists of his 3 daughters, 2 sons, and their recently married stepmother, mainly lives with him in fear of his wicked mood changes (although his oldest son is estranged). He is easy to indirectly control; the women and his son Michael know which topics to avoid, when to stay out of his way, etc. and when he does become venomous they all mutually understand that it'll pass. It's comical how Moran, who takes himself so seriously and believes he is a good father instilling principles in his children through tough love, is so easily seen through by his family (and particularly the saintly Rose, his second wife, who holds the family together in spite of him at all turns). Every page is rich with Moran's bitter nature and petulant nastiness. He is passive aggressive, emotionally detached, insulting, stuck in his ways and stubborn to the point of impossibility. The best exemplar of his need for control, which is acquiesced but secretly belittled by his family, is the saying of the rosary every night before dinner. Moran makes a big deal out of this routine, which exemplifies the pointlessness of his strongly held principles, that ostensibly represent some great moral foundation, but in actuality only illustrate his sanctimoniousness.
The story is really framed around an encounter between Moran and his war-time buddy, who is visiting Moran for an annual festival. The frame story, which details their conversation, reveals how they've deviated in their values after the Irish War of Independence (whose geopolitical complexities I won't feign to understand). Moran reveals himself to be unmovable in his feelings about the war and his refusal of his military pension, and McQuaid correctly observes that "some people simply cannot accept being second place" as he leaves the night early, never to be seen (or mentioned) by Moran again. Moran is a man whose identity exists in his refusals, his non-participation in events, his disdain for familiarity or comfort, his distrust in everyone and assertions that he knows best. There is plenty of family drama that occurs in the novel, although there is no real plot of which to speak, that I won't dive into. But Moran's death at the end of the novel did occur to me as somewhat of a redeeming moment for him. At the end of the story, "...as they left him under the yew, it was as if each of them in their different ways had become Daddy." I found this touching. We all gain something from our parents and the hold they have on us, while perhaps greatly negative while they're alive, becomes an important lesson once they're gone. The girls are freed from Moran, but his influence holds stronger. Moreover, the title of the novel "Amongst Women" suggests (beyond that Moran simply lived amongst four women) that these women in his life have gained and become greater as a result of their association and "sticking with" him than Luke or Michael, his two sons. They inherit some spirit of his values, that I felt McGahren implicitly suggested are more valuable than the materialistic financial success of Luke or romantic success of Michael. These two children, who escape Moran's control, become successful by modern social standards of what it is to be a man (wealthy, polyamorous, etc.) but fail completely to be like Moran. The girls, who continue Moran's useless rosary tradition and enjoy their quiet rural lives after his death, are more principled and perhaps spiritually fulfilled in the long run, although this is never confirmed by the author.
Amongst Women is my second McGahern novel, his most critically acclaimed, perhaps one of my favorite novels, and one that demonstrates a mastery of characterization. Moran is skin-pricklingly real; so much so that I had assumed that he was based on McGahern himself or his own father (before lightly researching the novel and confirming it), as one can only develop a character like him by observing and really living with someone like him. But I felt an embarrassed insecurity as I read that there was some of Moran within myself. Rarely will I read a character, who really is 99% different than me, but whose 1% of shared personality is so acrimonious that I vow to never to be like him. Which is interesting as I interpreted the end of the novel as somewhat of a vindication for Moran. But before I comment on that I should describe who Moran is. His family, which consists of his 3 daughters, 2 sons, and their recently married stepmother, mainly lives with him in fear of his wicked mood changes (although his oldest son is estranged). He is easy to indirectly control; the women and his son Michael know which topics to avoid, when to stay out of his way, etc. and when he does become venomous they all mutually understand that it'll pass. It's comical how Moran, who takes himself so seriously and believes he is a good father instilling principles in his children through tough love, is so easily seen through by his family (and particularly the saintly Rose, his second wife, who holds the family together in spite of him at all turns). Every page is rich with Moran's bitter nature and petulant nastiness. He is passive aggressive, emotionally detached, insulting, stuck in his ways and stubborn to the point of impossibility. The best exemplar of his need for control, which is acquiesced but secretly belittled by his family, is the saying of the rosary every night before dinner. Moran makes a big deal out of this routine, which exemplifies the pointlessness of his strongly held principles, that ostensibly represent some great moral foundation, but in actuality only illustrate his sanctimoniousness.
The story is really framed around an encounter between Moran and his war-time buddy, who is visiting Moran for an annual festival. The frame story, which details their conversation, reveals how they've deviated in their values after the Irish War of Independence (whose geopolitical complexities I won't feign to understand). Moran reveals himself to be unmovable in his feelings about the war and his refusal of his military pension, and McQuaid correctly observes that "some people simply cannot accept being second place" as he leaves the night early, never to be seen (or mentioned) by Moran again. Moran is a man whose identity exists in his refusals, his non-participation in events, his disdain for familiarity or comfort, his distrust in everyone and assertions that he knows best. There is plenty of family drama that occurs in the novel, although there is no real plot of which to speak, that I won't dive into. But Moran's death at the end of the novel did occur to me as somewhat of a redeeming moment for him. At the end of the story, "...as they left him under the yew, it was as if each of them in their different ways had become Daddy." I found this touching. We all gain something from our parents and the hold they have on us, while perhaps greatly negative while they're alive, becomes an important lesson once they're gone. The girls are freed from Moran, but his influence holds stronger. Moreover, the title of the novel "Amongst Women" suggests (beyond that Moran simply lived amongst four women) that these women in his life have gained and become greater as a result of their association and "sticking with" him than Luke or Michael, his two sons. They inherit some spirit of his values, that I felt McGahren implicitly suggested are more valuable than the materialistic financial success of Luke or romantic success of Michael. These two children, who escape Moran's control, become successful by modern social standards of what it is to be a man (wealthy, polyamorous, etc.) but fail completely to be like Moran. The girls, who continue Moran's useless rosary tradition and enjoy their quiet rural lives after his death, are more principled and perhaps spiritually fulfilled in the long run, although this is never confirmed by the author.
The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor
3.5
“‘It is our tragedy in Ireland that for one reason or another we are repeatedly obliged to flee from what we hold dear…. Exile is part of us.”
The Story of Lucy Gault is a beautifully sad novel about the tragic and lonely life of an Irish girl. William Trevor is well equipped to write such a novel; his prose his stoic, clear, and unsentimental. As I dive into some Irish writers whom I had never heard of prior to researching this year, I am learning that the spirit of Joyce lives on strongly in Ireland's more contemporary literary talent. Trevor's writing talents are so evident in every sentence; the naturalness of his storytelling is magnetic. There are no pretenses between writer and reader; one is simply carried on the river of Trevor's narrative. There are very few tricks or impressive flourishes in Trevor's prose. He writes to tell a story lucidly and seems to know exactly how to bring his story to life. He can introduce a character by their name, write a sentence or two about their posture and outfit, and somehow that character emerges in the world of the reader's mind. To say Trevor taps into a spirit of simplicity is not meant to undermine the literariness of this work. The story is dramatic and has some twists and turns, but never anything that would lead one to doubt the realism of Lucy's life. There is also a historical undercurrent in the novel. Like in Turgenev (whom I felt reverberated most strongly in Trevor's writing, moreso than Joyce or anyone else), the everyday lives of Trevor's characters are always rumbling atop the context of the times. World War I and II are especially notable, but Trevor begins the story with some historical context as well.
To briefly summarize the story, Lucy, an 8-year-old girl, is being forced by her parents to move homes from Ireland to somewhere else in Europe. As most petulant children would respond, she runs away from home. However, she gets trapped in a forest and is lost, believed to be dead, and abandoned. She is later found but her parents have long since left and nobody can get in touch with them (until decades later her father returns, and the events proceed until the late life of Lucy). In lesser hands, the novel's story could be written by anyone from a YA writer to a talent as supreme as Trevor himself. But as Trevor writes it, there is always a delicate tension between Lucy's desires and the disappointing outcomes in her life. As her wait for her parents, in her lonesome and purposeless life out in the country, transforms into a passionate obsession with a man (Ralph) who leaves her for war and eventually marries someone else, her pain only deepens, and with age her life becomes considerably more lonely and sad.
I felt that the story is ultimately a cynical one. There is no silver lining -- not that there is only pain and loneliness either -- just that life is not so contrived that something like a silver lining must necessarily exist. But Lucy's life is catapulted from a young age into one of misfortune due to a childish mistake, and it never really improves. She simply exists, waiting and waiting and waiting. At the core of the novel’s conflict seems to be the theme of "running away" (underscored by how war and national tragedy has pervaded Ireland's history, displacing its people or involving them in international conflict) -- Lucy from integrating within society and pursuing her own passions and desires (ironically, she is portrayed as her happiest when she travels abroad to her mother's grave), the Gault couples unwillingness to face Ireland again, Ralph's running away from his feelings for Lucy to be a married man to someone who his heart rejects, etc. But even characters like Henry and Bridget (Lucy's caretakers after her parents leave) are not especially happy or better off. They're also simply just existing. If I took away anything from Lucy Gault, I think it is that life is going to happen and keep happening. We can't hyperbolize its virtues and live in some sort of delusion, but we also risk delusion if we obsess over regret and what cannot be (as in the case of Horahan, the man who antagonized the Gault family in the very beginning of the story, setting off the rest of the novel's events). There is much more to pick at here, too. I'm looking forward to seeing what else Trevor has in store, maybe in some short stories next.
I felt that the story is ultimately a cynical one. There is no silver lining -- not that there is only pain and loneliness either -- just that life is not so contrived that something like a silver lining must necessarily exist. But Lucy's life is catapulted from a young age into one of misfortune due to a childish mistake, and it never really improves. She simply exists, waiting and waiting and waiting. At the core of the novel’s conflict seems to be the theme of "running away" (underscored by how war and national tragedy has pervaded Ireland's history, displacing its people or involving them in international conflict) -- Lucy from integrating within society and pursuing her own passions and desires (ironically, she is portrayed as her happiest when she travels abroad to her mother's grave), the Gault couples unwillingness to face Ireland again, Ralph's running away from his feelings for Lucy to be a married man to someone who his heart rejects, etc. But even characters like Henry and Bridget (Lucy's caretakers after her parents leave) are not especially happy or better off. They're also simply just existing. If I took away anything from Lucy Gault, I think it is that life is going to happen and keep happening. We can't hyperbolize its virtues and live in some sort of delusion, but we also risk delusion if we obsess over regret and what cannot be (as in the case of Horahan, the man who antagonized the Gault family in the very beginning of the story, setting off the rest of the novel's events). There is much more to pick at here, too. I'm looking forward to seeing what else Trevor has in store, maybe in some short stories next.
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
3.0
“‘Where there is no vision,’ Miss Brodie assured them, ‘the people perish.’”
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is a novella about a narcissistic teacher and her impact on a small group of children. The thrust of the novel is seemingly a commentary on corrupted youth. Miss Brodie, while a charismatic oddball -- endearing to the reader even --turns her students against "the world" while deifying herself through her romantic stories and manipulation/grooming. Prime is a brisk story and therefore Spark moves quickly through the novel's events; the writing is indeed economical, but the narrative itself is stripped. There is a focus on the broader picture of Jean Brodie's influence over a number of years -- it's more of an overview than a story in the traditional sense. This compressed narrative style is not normally my preference, but it's done quite well here. You get the sense that each event is a building block for a bigger picture. Spark's prose is also stunning. Her dialogue and character writing (concerning Brodie particularly) is impeccable and she has a distinctively "British" writing style that contains its typical hallmarks: a certain sense of formality, irony/wit, and psychological nuance. She is able to do a lot with very little. There are some religious underpinnings whose significance I could only brush up against (e.g., Calvinism), but I nonetheless was able to take away something from the novel. Brodie represented a charismatic leader, in which it is always "us vs. them," and her set were her followers. Sandy is successfully groomed by Brodie to have sex with another teacher whom Brodie loves. She uses her position to have these inappropriate relationships and ruin her pupils' lives, but she is portrayed throughout the novel as benign and wacky. It's hard to know how much of Brodie is genuine. I assume all of it, although it of course doesn't excuse her predatory behavior.
As Sandy ages, she breaks free from Brodie's influence and "betrays" her, ruining her life. Brodie, while a role model who is placed on a pedestal by the girls in their early years, is a shell of a person who really has nothing except for her pupils and her affairs with her colleague teachers. The girls all break away and mainly reminisce on how amusing she was in their adult years, although more than one meet comically tragic deaths (the narrative jumps around quite a bit chronologically). I found the novel to be an effective portrayal of a charismatic leader in the natural world. It explores how individuality develops and how a single person can impact our lives and direction. It makes me wonder about the trust we place in ordinary, everyday people who wield so much influence over our children's lives. I do feel like I'm just missing some piece with this novel, though. It is, nonetheless, a marvel of economical writing that generates several laughs and brings a character to life from the page using so little that it is rather impressive.
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is a novella about a narcissistic teacher and her impact on a small group of children. The thrust of the novel is seemingly a commentary on corrupted youth. Miss Brodie, while a charismatic oddball -- endearing to the reader even --turns her students against "the world" while deifying herself through her romantic stories and manipulation/grooming. Prime is a brisk story and therefore Spark moves quickly through the novel's events; the writing is indeed economical, but the narrative itself is stripped. There is a focus on the broader picture of Jean Brodie's influence over a number of years -- it's more of an overview than a story in the traditional sense. This compressed narrative style is not normally my preference, but it's done quite well here. You get the sense that each event is a building block for a bigger picture. Spark's prose is also stunning. Her dialogue and character writing (concerning Brodie particularly) is impeccable and she has a distinctively "British" writing style that contains its typical hallmarks: a certain sense of formality, irony/wit, and psychological nuance. She is able to do a lot with very little. There are some religious underpinnings whose significance I could only brush up against (e.g., Calvinism), but I nonetheless was able to take away something from the novel. Brodie represented a charismatic leader, in which it is always "us vs. them," and her set were her followers. Sandy is successfully groomed by Brodie to have sex with another teacher whom Brodie loves. She uses her position to have these inappropriate relationships and ruin her pupils' lives, but she is portrayed throughout the novel as benign and wacky. It's hard to know how much of Brodie is genuine. I assume all of it, although it of course doesn't excuse her predatory behavior.
As Sandy ages, she breaks free from Brodie's influence and "betrays" her, ruining her life. Brodie, while a role model who is placed on a pedestal by the girls in their early years, is a shell of a person who really has nothing except for her pupils and her affairs with her colleague teachers. The girls all break away and mainly reminisce on how amusing she was in their adult years, although more than one meet comically tragic deaths (the narrative jumps around quite a bit chronologically). I found the novel to be an effective portrayal of a charismatic leader in the natural world. It explores how individuality develops and how a single person can impact our lives and direction. It makes me wonder about the trust we place in ordinary, everyday people who wield so much influence over our children's lives. I do feel like I'm just missing some piece with this novel, though. It is, nonetheless, a marvel of economical writing that generates several laughs and brings a character to life from the page using so little that it is rather impressive.
The Story of Tomoda and Matsunaga by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki
3.5
”To the West! Where a world existed that was the very opposite of this land of subtle hints and things left unsaid....”
The Story of Tomoda and Matsunaga is an early novella by Junichiro Tanizaki, one of my all-time favorite writers. In typical fashion, the story explores Tanizaki's fascination/obsession with the West, particularly focusing on the tension he feels between desiring the hedonistic western lifestyle and traditional Japanese values. The novella is presented as a mystery, although it is quite self aware that it is one (and is narrated by Tanizaki himself -- an insertion of author into fiction, which is always a technique I enjoy). To briefly summarize, a woman writes Tanizaki a letter about her missing husband. He leaves and returns every 4 years to their quiet Japanese village. Enclosed in the letter is a picture and a ring, which contains a name that Tanizaki realizes he is familiar with. The wife, who suspects her husband is living a double life as this Tomoda, spurs Tanizaki to investigate.
I found the writing a bit inconsistent; for the first 60% or so of the novella it felt like the translator was attempting to ape one of Murakami's translators. For me, that isn't a bad thing as I enjoy Murakami's novels, but it felt odd to read. The rhythm of the dialogue mimicked some of Murakami's typically stilted interlocutors and the humor even came off the page a lot like Murakami's. Also the element of a mystery with an invested yet emotionally detached protagonist was strikingly similar to Murakami (I've read all of Murakami's novels and most of Tanizaki's work, so I'm only making this comparison because it struck me as bizarre and not because I'm conflating two Japanese writers because they're both Japanese).
Ironically, the character of Tomoda is equally representative of Tanizaki as Tanizaki himself is in the story. In a very fun and entertaining but quite simple sort of way, Tanizaki writes this story about Tomoda who travels back and forth from his quiet Japanese village to "western" hubs in Japan and elsewhere for wild sex, parties, drink, etc. His body physically changes so he is completely unrecognizable between one place to another (oh right, the story delves a bit into magical realism in this way too). He is an entirely different person, both physically and personality-wise, in his Eastern and Western lives. Tanizaki illustrates the east and west in starkly different, and frankly hyperbolic, terms that really suggest more about himself than the realities of the differences of Japan and the West. It's clear, especially with the context of his other works, that the "West" is an outlet, or an excuse, for Tanizaki's sexual urges, which he feels are repressed by Japanese culture.
I found it interesting that Tanizaki -- who as mentioned -- throughout his career revealed himself as somewhat of a sexual obsessive, portrays the Japanese Matsunaga as weak, meager, frail, polite, etc. (all stereotypes) and the western Tomoda as confident, fat, outgoing, boorish, lustful, etc. (also all stereotypes). It's hard for me to decide whether the polarity of Matsunaga's two sides was Tanizaki's way of making his point clear or if he illustrated this difference so starkly because his own inner conflict was based on such an exaggerated way of viewing the two cultures. The simplicity and directness of Tanizaki's analogy is offset by the meta-narrative that he is expressing himself through Tomoda, not through himself in the story. It creates a layer of humor and self-awareness that pairs well with the ridiculousness and impossibility of the narrative. In this way, Tanizaki's writing talents shine.
The narrative (sort of hilariously) devolves into Tomoda admitting to being Matsunaga in the last chapter. It's clear that Tanizaki is projecting his own feelings in Tomoda's confession, and the story ends with Tanizaki concluding in a tongue-in-cheek-way that Tomoda still looks "three or four years younger." It is a brilliant way to end the story, and in a very simple comment highlights Tanizaki's expectation that he (Tanizaki himself) will continue to be torn between east and west, and that all of Tomoda's feelings had (also) applied to himself all along.
Very nice introduction to Tanizaki, but he will later eclipse this work exploring the same themes with stories like Naomi.
I found the writing a bit inconsistent; for the first 60% or so of the novella it felt like the translator was attempting to ape one of Murakami's translators. For me, that isn't a bad thing as I enjoy Murakami's novels, but it felt odd to read. The rhythm of the dialogue mimicked some of Murakami's typically stilted interlocutors and the humor even came off the page a lot like Murakami's. Also the element of a mystery with an invested yet emotionally detached protagonist was strikingly similar to Murakami (I've read all of Murakami's novels and most of Tanizaki's work, so I'm only making this comparison because it struck me as bizarre and not because I'm conflating two Japanese writers because they're both Japanese).
Ironically, the character of Tomoda is equally representative of Tanizaki as Tanizaki himself is in the story. In a very fun and entertaining but quite simple sort of way, Tanizaki writes this story about Tomoda who travels back and forth from his quiet Japanese village to "western" hubs in Japan and elsewhere for wild sex, parties, drink, etc. His body physically changes so he is completely unrecognizable between one place to another (oh right, the story delves a bit into magical realism in this way too). He is an entirely different person, both physically and personality-wise, in his Eastern and Western lives. Tanizaki illustrates the east and west in starkly different, and frankly hyperbolic, terms that really suggest more about himself than the realities of the differences of Japan and the West. It's clear, especially with the context of his other works, that the "West" is an outlet, or an excuse, for Tanizaki's sexual urges, which he feels are repressed by Japanese culture.
I found it interesting that Tanizaki -- who as mentioned -- throughout his career revealed himself as somewhat of a sexual obsessive, portrays the Japanese Matsunaga as weak, meager, frail, polite, etc. (all stereotypes) and the western Tomoda as confident, fat, outgoing, boorish, lustful, etc. (also all stereotypes). It's hard for me to decide whether the polarity of Matsunaga's two sides was Tanizaki's way of making his point clear or if he illustrated this difference so starkly because his own inner conflict was based on such an exaggerated way of viewing the two cultures. The simplicity and directness of Tanizaki's analogy is offset by the meta-narrative that he is expressing himself through Tomoda, not through himself in the story. It creates a layer of humor and self-awareness that pairs well with the ridiculousness and impossibility of the narrative. In this way, Tanizaki's writing talents shine.
The narrative (sort of hilariously) devolves into Tomoda admitting to being Matsunaga in the last chapter. It's clear that Tanizaki is projecting his own feelings in Tomoda's confession, and the story ends with Tanizaki concluding in a tongue-in-cheek-way that Tomoda still looks "three or four years younger." It is a brilliant way to end the story, and in a very simple comment highlights Tanizaki's expectation that he (Tanizaki himself) will continue to be torn between east and west, and that all of Tomoda's feelings had (also) applied to himself all along.
Very nice introduction to Tanizaki, but he will later eclipse this work exploring the same themes with stories like Naomi.
By the Lake by John McGahern
4.0
"Happiness could not be sought or worried into being, or even fully grasped; it should be allowed its own slow pace so that it passes unnoticed, if it even comes at all."
McGahern's By The Lake is a slow-paced, very Irish, and very "chill" novel. It's not that nothing happens, although there really is no plot in a standard sense, but the narrative has a leisurely and rural pace. Essentially, the story is a single narrative that is comprised of various episodes in the interconnected lives of community members around a lake in Ireland (post-1950s, I want to same sometime relatively modern -- maybe 70s or 80s if not later?). Characters drink together, write letters to family, make business deals, reflect on the grass and hay, etc. There is some death and drama, but the purpose of McGahern's novel is to paint a picture of what rural Irish lived like, without much of a pointed theme. And with that he is incredibly successful. I found the writing, particularly the dialogue, to be superb: among the best I've read. McGahern has a real talent for writing characters, particularly in their interactions with one another, and can create a clear visual of his scenes and the nuances of interaction. He often will include just the right phrase to capture a characters internal feeling of annoyance, pride, embarrassment, etc. in a social situation. As a narrator, McGahern aptly unfolds scenes that require the reader to notice and enjoy the subtle shifts in mood or comfort among his interlocutors. Not only that, but his descriptions of Irish nature are rich with authentic imagery. He is an unfussy and unpretentious writer who ably crafts scenes through simple word choice and effective characterization and/or description. You can see the beauty of Ireland and its people through McGahren's clear grasp of the subject matter. This is a beautifully written Irish novel.
The quote I selected above does seem to capture what interested McGahern about these characters, that as they lived about their ordinary, quotidian routines -- mostly peaceably, although with some expected stresses and drama -- they were living within a normal happiness of life. McGahern showed this the only way that it is probably possible, by eschewing a "story line" and merely showing people as they lived. They did not appear particularly happy, or necessarily find happiness, but they were happy as McGahern defines it above. If happiness exists, its within the normal, everyday moments that we're living through: not necessarily appreciating or feeling, but simply living through. It's a gentle reminder that life is a wonderful privilege.
McGahern's By The Lake is a slow-paced, very Irish, and very "chill" novel. It's not that nothing happens, although there really is no plot in a standard sense, but the narrative has a leisurely and rural pace. Essentially, the story is a single narrative that is comprised of various episodes in the interconnected lives of community members around a lake in Ireland (post-1950s, I want to same sometime relatively modern -- maybe 70s or 80s if not later?). Characters drink together, write letters to family, make business deals, reflect on the grass and hay, etc. There is some death and drama, but the purpose of McGahern's novel is to paint a picture of what rural Irish lived like, without much of a pointed theme. And with that he is incredibly successful. I found the writing, particularly the dialogue, to be superb: among the best I've read. McGahern has a real talent for writing characters, particularly in their interactions with one another, and can create a clear visual of his scenes and the nuances of interaction. He often will include just the right phrase to capture a characters internal feeling of annoyance, pride, embarrassment, etc. in a social situation. As a narrator, McGahern aptly unfolds scenes that require the reader to notice and enjoy the subtle shifts in mood or comfort among his interlocutors. Not only that, but his descriptions of Irish nature are rich with authentic imagery. He is an unfussy and unpretentious writer who ably crafts scenes through simple word choice and effective characterization and/or description. You can see the beauty of Ireland and its people through McGahren's clear grasp of the subject matter. This is a beautifully written Irish novel.
The quote I selected above does seem to capture what interested McGahern about these characters, that as they lived about their ordinary, quotidian routines -- mostly peaceably, although with some expected stresses and drama -- they were living within a normal happiness of life. McGahern showed this the only way that it is probably possible, by eschewing a "story line" and merely showing people as they lived. They did not appear particularly happy, or necessarily find happiness, but they were happy as McGahern defines it above. If happiness exists, its within the normal, everyday moments that we're living through: not necessarily appreciating or feeling, but simply living through. It's a gentle reminder that life is a wonderful privilege.
On the Eve by Ivan Turgenev
3.5
"Not for nothing did my father used to say 'You and I, my boy, are... not favorites of Fortune or Nature... We're workers, double-dyed workers. Put on your leather apron, worker, and stand by your bench in your dark workshop! Let the sun shine on other people! Even in our humdrum lives there is pride and happiness.'"
On the Eve is my 4th Turgenev novel, so I have grown somewhat accustomed to his style and themes. He leans heavily into realism, a style that I enjoy, yet this story has been criticized for being narrated dispassionately and without much weigh-in from Turgenev despite its heavy themes of love and war. Nonetheless, there is some reflection at the end of the novel, and Turgenev makes a poignant analogy between Death and a fisherman who catches a person in his net, allowing it to swim around until he decides --whenever he decides -- to pull it out. I think, without exception, each of Turgenev's stories that I've read has been about young love, and On the Eve continues that trend. What might be interesting to look at when studying these stories is everything happening in the world while the love affair occurs. Certainly, that is the point of On the Eve, whose title even refers to the impending Crimean War. And yet, I found Bersenev's character most compelling. The story begins with him, and rather quickly (or so it felt in this sub-200 page novel), he transitions out of the lead role in favor of Yelena. I found the rapid pace of the story, which is largely centered around Yelena's feelings for the immigrant Insarov and their blossoming (and doomed) relationship, to be suitable for Turgenev's commentary on young love. As mentioned, he describes the events of their relationship in an entirely matter-of-fact way, and yet he felt somehow critical, in a chuckling, amused and interested sort of way of how emotionally young adults think about love. Yelena is convinced she loves Bersenev, but very quickly changes heart after wanting to fall in love with Insarov and finally doing so after one occasion where she sees a different side of him. After she finds out from him that the love is reciprocated, she immediately chooses to upend her comfortable life in Russia to emigrate to war-torn Bulgaria with him. She stays with him even after he nearly dies of illness and becomes permanently impaired. She even stays with him after his death and lives in Bulgaria, perhaps as a nurse, or dies herself on the way there (it is never made clear). Turgenev suggests that she is obstinate to follow him to her doom, but is she naive? Or is the power of true love such that it is greater than all challenges, worthy of all sacrifices? Is her dogged commitment to be admired or scoffed at? I personally felt the latter, but it did raise this interesting question. Lastly, back to Bersenev, I found that he was a smartly designed character to contrast Yelena. He is a dispassionate (or so he presents himself) academic who badly wants to be loved by Yelena, but does not even attempt to gain her love. He gives up almost immediately and attempts to hook her up with Insarov, essentially challenging her to not fall for him. It's fascinating because this behavior is on the other side of the "true love" coin. It can easily be argued that Bersenev feels true love toward Yelena because he wants to be genuinely loved by her, no matter who else enters the picture as his competition. She fails his test, and he dispassionately carries on with his life. The quote I used above is excellently included in the story by Turgenev to reinforce this characteristic of how he sees himself: not as someone "special" who deserves whimsical love, but as a hard-working, reliable person. A good friend. Someone who will ultimately find happiness in his work.
I would be remiss not to mention Shubin, who is one of the funniest and most well-written characters I have read in recent memory. He is incredibly realistic as the "lovably annoying" best friend trope and has many laugh out loud moments. Something random I will also take away from this story is the scene where the group of friends has an outing at the lake on a beautiful day. It was a nice moment in the story; it didn't have to be there, but seeing the friends' dynamics in an otherwise lean and precise narrative was a nice surprise.
I would be remiss not to mention Shubin, who is one of the funniest and most well-written characters I have read in recent memory. He is incredibly realistic as the "lovably annoying" best friend trope and has many laugh out loud moments. Something random I will also take away from this story is the scene where the group of friends has an outing at the lake on a beautiful day. It was a nice moment in the story; it didn't have to be there, but seeing the friends' dynamics in an otherwise lean and precise narrative was a nice surprise.