wolfdan9's reviews
269 reviews

”We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do—we do it all the time.” 

I found this quote, which is the final sentence of Munro's story collection, especially poignant in light of her recent child sex abuse cover-up allegations, but it also echoes the overall sentiment of the collection, which is that life is filled with both missed opportunities and beautiful moments, which are sometimes one in the same, sometimes intertwined, and sometimes totally distinct and unrelated but nonetheless resonant in our minds as one. But we merely exist and experience these moments -- they are somehow out of our control despite how much personal autonomy we have -- and we are so blinded in the moment of crucial decisions and so dependent upon those whom we love and who affect and are affected by these decisions, that we can only simply exist, never "control." 

This is my 3rd Munro collection -- her final one -- and it, which has been carefully sculpted with the tools one acquires only through a well-lived life, is by far her best of the 3. Each story is distinct in its plot and message but all somehow overlap coherently. Munro reflects on the lives of individuals that could by any or all of us as well as semi-fictionally (an incredibly effective technique) in the final four stories, which she has curated in a section entitled "finale." There is not a weak story in the bunch and each one renders the reader somewhat pensive as a result. I'll touch upon a few of my favorites, but I'll note that while each story has a different plot and pokes at diverse areas of human behavior and psychology, they all share an interest in one or more of the following areas: reflection, relationships (typically male and female), the naivety of youth, and the blending of present, past, and a further past. 

"Gravel" is one story that nicely highlights Munro's talents. Munro likes to juxtapose childhood choices with adult (typically parental) responsibility. She is fascinated by the egregiousness with which adults act and often their stupidity, and how this could possibly be explained to a child. While she never directly asks these questions, she very quietly hints, "could I have misremembered why this tragedy happened?" or "was I, in my youthful innocence and ignorance, actually at fault for this terrible event?" Then, she likes to explore, in entirely unemotional language, how these tragedies affected (or many times, had no effect but... why wouldn't it?) her throughout or later in life. In Gravel, these questions are on full display as Neal, the narrator's stepdad, fails to supervise the narrator's sister, who drowns as the narrator watches. He is repeatedly wrong throughout the narrative (for example, claiming dogs can swim and not to worry when the dog runs away from home), and is unpunished despite the sister's death. This tragic moment lives inside of the narrator until the end of the story, when she meets with Neal decades later. His advice to her? "The thing is to be happy. No matter what. Try that." The narrator is left no better off from this advice (of course). She knows it to be true, what choice is there really? But she cannot escape the image of her sister dying. 

There are more layers to this story and there is a lot to chew on among the dynamics of the family, including the mother and somewhat estranged father, but so much is packed into Munro's stories despite their relative simplicity and breeziness to read. I am not going to talk about each story because it's just too time consuming but I also liked "Haven," which emphasizes how we learn gender roles as a child by observing extended family, "Amundsen," which takes place in a sanatorium and demonstrates in an intense episode how an older man can manipulate and destroy a young woman's heart, and "In Sight of the Lake," which contains a brilliantly ambiguous ending and explores self-doubt that arises from age. "Dolly" and "Train" are also fantastic. 

The final four stories, collected into a "Finale," are probably the highlight of the collection though. They contain semi-fictionalized episodes of young Munro's childhood. Moments in which she had a breakthrough into maturity -- the first death of a loved one, the first realization that her father was a flawed man, and the first glimmer of the attention and love that a man can adorn a girl. She finishes the story with "Dear Life," which strongly reinforces her theme of memory -- how personal it is, and how it is a foundation, more so than reality, for our feelings, decisions, and convictions. It is how we decide right and wrong and how we decide how we are and who we all are.

 “The potential for salvation is contained within the sin.”

Scandal is a very good novel by Christian Japanese writer Endo. While Christianity does factor into the story, there is (thankfully) no endorsement for it in the novel; instead, Endo considers the pure/good aesthetic of Christianity a counterpoint to the inherently depraved nature of humans. The story is more thematically shallow than a contemporary like Ishiguro’s, but also similarly interested in how memory impacts judgment and self-trust. It’s also not as psychologically deep nor nearly as dark or interesting as Abe’s fiction, yet Endo presents some cool ideas nonetheless. 

One interesting idea that is more tangential to the larger key theme of identity is the desire to return to an infantile state. There is some Freudian (and other psychological theory) influence. Endo ponders how aging and death intertwine with sexuality. 

The story raises questions about a true inner self. There is a disassociation of our “public” (non-sexual) self from the “true” (sexual) secret self. This disassociation is extreme to the extent of one forgetting about it or not believing the secret self exists. Endo comments on coexisting with these different “faces,” which he shows in extreme form by presenting the main character as a virtuous Christian (the story is a Roman a clef) with repressed dark sexual urges. 

Suguro (the main character) hears rumors that he is engaging in untoward sexual activities and even sees a doppelgänger as he investigates. It causes him a lot of anxiety and we see his mind unravel a bit as he secretly hunts down the truth. Interestingly, he never mixes his wife up into his secret affairs — ironic that he’s so puzzled by his rumored sexual exploits when he exhibits a capability to lead a double life. 

The narrative alternates between Suguro and the jealous, unsympathetic journalist Kobari. Kobari is the threat that may force Suguro to (openly) reconcile his public and private life. The beautiful young girl Mitsu’s sexual appeal and availability is a test of Suguro’s true character, which he fails by groping her. The climactic scene portrays Suguro as uncontrollable and out of character, which supports Endo’s view that there is a separate version of each of us who animalistically seek out sexual pleasure without regard to consequences (either spiritually or in regard to our personal and professional lives). 

Endo concludes that sex brings out a person’s true identity. I suspect that he feels that this is universal, and therefore that all people are inherently evil. The word evil is important because Endo is careful to draw a distinction in the novel between evil and sin, which I appreciate as someone who doesn’t believe in sin. I’m not sure exactly what Endo feels is the prescription to this evil, if anything. He does not assert faith (he seems to actively deny it as a solution to this inherent evil?).

Naruse’s letter - one of the best passages I’ve read in a while. Naruse, who functions as an enabler of Suguro’s worst urges, uncovers the secret of her husband’s horrific war crimes (which is surprising given his goofy and patient disposition). She is immensely aroused during sex by the brutality of his killing women and children. Her arousal reinforces Endo’s theme about sex and true identity being linked, but also highlights the multidimensionality of personality in both Naruse and her husband. What he was capable of despite being a scholarly, normal man reveals something about our identity being based partly on our external environment, although this contrasts with Naruse’s sexual epiphany, which is something subconscious/instinctual. Interestingly, dark sexual urges (and the accompanying desire that reflects one’s true self) is painted as uncontrollable. The outlying factor of spiritual faith and how it may tie in remains a puzzling curiosity.  

"The beauty of a single flower is enough to reawaken one’s will to live."

Hot off the heels of "The Lake" I decided to purchase this newly translated novel by Kawabata and read it in a fairly short time. "The Rainbow" is much more akin to Kawabata's other works in terms of style and substance. The prose is incredibly delicate and fairly minimalistic. Kawabata is the actualization of what I believe Soseki sought to achieve with his prose. The depth of Kawabata's writing is not merely in its layers, but in its "interwovenness." A spare bit of dialogue or an ordinary scene can become quite powerful with the assumed context. For example, the very first scene contains a young woman meeting a young father on a train, who is taking care of his daughter alone. The woman's admiration is a hint that she may have some issues with her father/family, which later becomes clear. As Kawabata fleshes out the characters, normally through their dialogue with one another or their stray thoughts or observations, the pieces connect and a fuller picture of who these characters are, and how their relationships speak to some powerful theme, becomes clear.

"The Rainbow" is rich with nature metaphors, so many that I would not attempt to extract them all, but there is a constant reminder of the beauty around us. Kawabata ensures that he frequently juxtaposes the rife and drama-filled relationships of his characters with the ever-present beauty of flowers, mountains, or a river. Kawabata seems to be suggesting that at all times, this answer to our human problems exists and just needs to be seen. Nonetheless, Kawabata does tackle some heavy themes with a delicate hand. Central to the novel is the relationship among 3 estranged half-sisters, 2 of whom are emotionally damaged by their respective relationships with their father and by their respectively deceased mothers. There is some vague tangential mirroring of Mizuhara's 3 daughters and the post-war generation of changed Japanese people. You have Momoko, who is problematic and promiscuous, Asako, who is dutiful and traditional, and the 3rd daughter (can't remember her name!), who is completely estranged. I have not fully parsed out the meaning of this, but the sense of a deeper narrative is palpable while reading. The relationship among the family members itself is also quite captivating and raises questions about how one's current actions/choices are impacted to such an extent by one's past that they no longer matter.

 Death is common in the novel and there are plenty of suicides as, quite honestly, you may expect from a Japanese novel. Kawabata ties together the post-war changes to Japan (illustrated not just through its people and ideas, but its changing infrastructure/architecture -- all of which are lightly commented on but impossible to miss) to the trauma that each person carries with them throughout the novel. This is most obvious with Keita, a young man who is killed in the war, and Momoko (Mizuhara's most emotionally damaged daughter) his girlfriend. Keita's death acts as a domino effect that leads to Momoko manipulating other young men, one of whom eventually commits suicide because of her. Kawabata gracefully illustrates their relationship in a single chapter, which ends with Keita crafting a bowl using a mold of Momoko's breast. This is the only item remaining of his upon his death, and years later when Momoko curiously inserts her breast once again into the bowl, it no longer fits.

I'm struggling to really capture the heart of this novel, and of Kawabata's greatness, but I'll lastly mention that the individual stories of each character is so powerfully written in so few words that I can't help but think Kawabata is a genius. "The Rainbow" is the sort of novel where you can somehow peer into the minds and hearts of each character and where everything that happens feels interconnected and purposeful, even if you're not fully sure why (or even how this effect is being created).

Elevated YA fiction (not unlike Never Let Me Go, but even worse I think, as that story did have effective world building and a relatively unique conceit and even some good characterization despite numerous weaknesses) that betrays Ishiguro’s gifted story writing talents to, I assume, sell a movie out of this book. Like most bad literature, it’s written like a movie. It’s hard to pinpoint what that actually means, but you know it when you’re reading it. One component is the dialogue. You’ll notice that all of the dialogue feeds into the plot, not in a “Chekhov’s gun” kind of way, but characters will only have conversations that either advance the plot or develop character traits of which Ishiguro wants you to be aware. Maybe the issue isn’t that he’s doing this, but the problem is that it’s so obvious. There’s nothing organic about the dialogue. I envision two actors in my head interacting, not two actual people. The trendy blending of genre fiction and literary fiction has perhaps never worked for me, but it’s very far away from working in this story. The AI theme is absolutely nothing new. I can’t glean a single new idea from this book. It’s simply a story about a robotic woman trying to “make sense of the world” and Ishiguro contemplates her compatibility with humans/human relationships. His conclusion is that faith and the power of love can save a sick girl’s life. Nauseatingly saccharine. It’s the most boring subject I can think of and it’s a rather boring book too. Something else that bothered me — why does Klara continually refer to Josie’s mother as “the mother” and not “her mother”? With her sophisticated understanding of 99% of all things she perceives, Ishiguro chose for her to talk “robot-like” for this SINGLE thing while she’s fairly human-sounding throughout the rest of the novel. WHY?! Would nobody have corrected her or would the use of this very common adjective “her” for some reason have alluded her? Also, now I’m being nitpicky, but how did Klara write this narrative in the first person? It just doesn’t make sense considering she “shuts down” toward the ending. When did she find time to write it? Whatever, fuck this book. I’m sad that Ishiguro has declined so much but I’ll still check out his next project. 🤷‍♂️