The Cat’s Table, a book review

The Cat’s Table is the first Michael Ondaatje novel I’ve read, but it won’t be the last. The book is deceptively simple; at first, its depths lurk below the surface.

The novel begins as a coming-of age tale; the narrator, Michael, an eleven year old boy, strikes out on a three-week boat journey from Sri Lanka to join his mother in England. Michael meets two other boys on the boat and they become a rambunctious trio, enjoying many adventures onboard. Michael also meets an interesting retinue of adults, each with secrets.

Interspersed in the book are glimpses from the narrator’s adult life, the last half of the novel in particular (for me, the second half of the novel turned a pleasant story into a gem). The behind-the-scenes lives of the adults on the boat voyage are slowly revealed.

The book has an autobiographical thread running through it as well; the narrator’s name is Michael, he travelled from Sri Lanka to England as a boy, and he grew up to be a writer in North America. There is an interesting, third-person introductory section to the novel (the rest of the novel is written in first-person), which includes a wistful statement, as if from the mind of a man looking back at the child he was, or possibly the author inventing the character in the story:  “I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there…” (p.4).

Ondaatje writes wonderfully; occasionally, I would pause for a moment to appreciate a turn of phrase: so effortless, so well crafted.

Recommended.

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Dhalgren, a book review

Samuel R. Delany’s Dhalgren, as a novel, doesn’t fit the mold: there isn’t a linear plot, events re-occur as echoes and distortions, it is unclear what the story is about, and the mind cannot easily detect a natural reading rhythm: it is classified as a novel, I suppose, because there is no other word to describe it. Dhalgren makes the mind work (unless the reader gives up, throws the book into the fireplace, and picks up something else). As I read it, I became — in no particular order — confused, bored, angry, disgusted, and enlightened (these states — in various permutations — were repeated throughout my reading experience). The novel could be viewed as many different things, some of which I’ve outlined below (page numbers refer to the Vintage Trade Edition pictured):

• It could be read as science fiction literature; the labyrinthine city-setting could be on another world (in Dhalgren, the story takes place in a city called Bellona, purportedly in mid-America; interestingly, in Delany’s novel Triton, Bellona is a Martian city. Mars has two moons and, in Dhalgren, there are two moons at one point in the story). The city of Bellona may be situated at the edge of a singularity, within a rift in space-time that allows no communication with the rest of the universe. Science fiction elements are referred to several times in the book’s pages (e.g.: p.372-373, p.432, and p.439), but I sense that Delany didn’t appreciate being marginalized, or categorized, in a particular genre.
• It could be read as a panoramic view of the world from the mind of a schizophrenic: there are countless fragmentary episodes

 

The Road, a book review

In The Road, Cormac McCarthy unveils a bleak notion of humanity’s dark side, similar in many ways to the brutality that developed in José Saramago’s Blindness; but whereas the blindness of Saramago’s novel is milky-white, in McCarthy’s brutal world the view is as dark as coal and ash: Night dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world (p. 3). Ash is everywhere, the vestiges of a once vibrant world, destroyed in an apocalyptic event. The cause of the event is never revealed: it is the aftermath that we are immersed into as we follow an unnamed father and son along their nightmarish journey along the road to the sea (the novel takes no prisoners: there is no escape, and no relief for the reader).

Food is scarce (there seems to be no living things other than humans), and cannibalism is rampant. Groups of bestialized humans roam the road, hunting for human livestock. This is the backdrop for the story’s relationship between a father and his son, who are survivors with little hope of redemption (no names are shared in the story: the only time a character shares a name, it is false: names are trappings from a different world). The father explains to his son that they are the good-guys (the civilized, the ‘carriers of fire’), but the son witnesses his father’s descent: the man has begun to lose his sense of humanity because his son must be protected at all costs. Their relationship —expressed in sparse conversations — is complex; filled with faith, love, desperation, codependence, and a tenuous grip on hope.

The father’s stifled memories of the time before the disaster are poignant: …he would begin to sob uncontrollably but it was not about death. He wasnt sure what it was about but he thought it was about beauty or about goodness. Things that he’d no longer any way to think about at all (p. 129 – 130).  [McCarthy, for the most part, shuns punctuation].

We should appreciate this world and hold it dear; The Road is a disturbing, cautionary tale; and, as such, it succeeds wonderfully. It is a quick read, seemingly simple, but it hooks the reader, and evokes an astonishing, emotional response.

Recommended.

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The Map and the Territory; a book review

In the past, I’ve often considered reading a Michel Houellebecq novel, but I kept discovering reviews that left me cold; fortunately, when The Map and the Territory was translated (from the French, by Gavin Bowd), I read an interesting review that induced me to read the book (there was another contributing factor: it won a French literary award — The 2010 Prix Gongourt).

As the novel unfolds, the author persistently distorts the fourth wall: the protagonist, Jed Martin, is an artist who is curiously attached to the author:

The artist in the novel paints a portrait of Houellebecq, who is a character in the novel. When Jed Martin gives the painting to Houellebecq, the author seems reluctant to accept and acknowledge the painting: Houellebecq’s reluctance in the novel may allude to his reluctance in parceling out private thoughts; the author’s personality is exposed (warts and all) while the artist plans and completes the painting.

Houllebecq-in-the-novel also writes a lengthy catalogue blurb for Jed Martin’s first vernissage [which is apparently another term for varnishing day, and is also “…a reception at a gallery for an artist whose show is about to open to the public.” — Dictionary.com].

Jed becomes a wealthy man; his early successes come with his photographs, especially his work with Michelin Maps; and, later in his career, his series of portrait paintings solidifies his name; coincidentally, his bank account swells.

The novel explores themes such as: the creative process, relationships, social decay, the challenges of an introverted existence, the evils of assembly lines, and aging.

There is hope and happiness, but a melancholic thread runs through the book, and one character is the (somewhat surprising) victim of a ghastly murder, but it all seems apropos after the book’s epigram (a quotation from Charles d’Orléans):

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“The world is weary of me,

And I am weary of it.”

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Recommended

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Ryokan

Zen Master Taigu Ryokan (1751 – 1831) was known for his equanimity and compassion, his aura, and for his smile. Ryokan was — and still is — a literary treasure, but he refused to publish his works while he lived.

He was a Zazen practitioner, loved to walk in the forest, and supported himself as a mendicant.

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He penned his famous Haiku in response to the theft of his meager possessions:

The thief left it behind:

the moon

at my window

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The Sisters Brothers; a book review

The Sisters Brothers, by Patrick DeWitt, is set during the Gold-rush of the 1850s and could be classified as a literate western; a genre that doesn’t usually enthuse me, but I may have to revisit my preconceptions.

Eli and Charlie Sisters are infamous guns-for-hire. Charlie is formidable and serious about their occupation; unfortunately, Eli doesn’t have an aptitude for the work, but he follows his brother through a series of violent episodes.

A vein of gritty realism runs through the story, which is Eli Sisters’ version of his final assignment as a hired killer. As they travel, the brothers meet a host of interesting characters, such as: the prospector who uses dirt to make coffee; Tub, the one-eyed horse; and Herman Kermit Warm, who has invented an extremely profitable chemical (and it is Warm who is the Sisters Brothers’ target).

The novel is easy to read, yet contains remarkable depth.

Recommended.

 

 

 

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Snow Country, a book review

Snow Country (originally, Yukiguni, 1948), a novel by Yasunari Kawabata, takes place at a mountain resort on the west-coast of one of the Islands of Japan. In the introduction, the translator, Edward G. Seidensticker, explains that the novel is filled with the ‘essence’ of Haiku.

The arc of the story portrays a bleak love affair between a geisha and a somewhat cold-hearted dilettante. It is a story filled with loneliness; both characters strive for a connection, but they are unable to cross the gulf of differences.

The book also acknowledges the shadow of western influence and its effects on Japanese traditions.

Komako, though partially trained in Tokyo, is a geisha at a mountain resort. Mountain geishas are considered to be unsophisticated (compared to the geishas of Tokyo) and are little more than stylized prostitutes. Komako falls in love with Shimamura; but, in her heart, she knows that the love-affair has no future and she is destined to fall from grace as she ages. She suffers through Shimamura’s indifference, is filled with bitter melancholy, and longs for salvation.

Shimamura became wealthy through inheritance. He visits the mountain resort three times during the length of the novel. He is married, with children, and comes to the resort to ‘relax’ in the hot springs. Apparently, this type of vacation (without family) was common in Japanese society. Shimamura enjoys Komako, but has designs on a younger woman, Yoko. So, here we have a married man, cavorting with a geisha (and he knows Komako is in love with him), thinking about yet another woman. He wants to feel like a sophisticated man, but he is immature and indolent, as demonstrated by his belief that he is an expert in western ballet, but has only read about them and has never bothered to watch one.

The novel relates the story subtly. Many authors would have further enumerated, dissected, and analyzed the story-line; but, in this little gem of a book (not quite two-hundred pages), the reader must pay attention. The ending is quite abrupt, and it is left to the reader to decide what happens to a certain character, although there are hints throughout the book that signify the author’s intent.

Recommended.

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For Whom the Bell Tolls

Many of the books that I admired decades ago have fallen flat when I’ve returned to them. Fortunately, For Whom the Bell Tolls is not among them. It’s not perfect, but the perfect novel doesn’t exist: one must leap over innate weaknesses to understand genius.

This was — and still is (I’m about half-way through the re-read) — my favorite Hemingway novel, and includes one of my favorite fictional-female characters (a strong, metaphysical, forty-eight year old gypsy woman, Pilar: the de-facto leader of a small group of resistance guerrillas). It is set during the Spanish revolution — the prelude to WW II — and has a vein of carpe diem (and Buddhist sensibility) running through it:

“You have it now and that is all your whole life is; now. There is nothing else than now. There is neither yesterday, certainly, nor is there any tomorrow. How old must you be before you know that? There is only now…” (Robert Jordan’s thoughts; Chapter 13, p. 185)

I’ve read reviews that claim the novel moves like cold molasses, and I understand readers thinking that way, but the matrix of the story has a depth that is unusual in fiction. The characters are diverse and the tension is palpable.

Highly recommended.

 

Addendum, 2012-06-06: I just finished the novel and enjoyed it more than the first time I read it a couple of decades ago. Hemingway was a journalist in the Spanish Civil War, and I think he saw himself in the role of Robert Jordan. Like the ‘Englés,’ Hemingway’s father committed suicide; unfortunately, unlike Roberto, Ernest Hemingway’s demons arrived before he had the opportunity to escape his father’s paradigm.

For Whom the Bell Tolls is a book about humanity: love, loyalty, cowardliness, courage, the enjoyment of the present moment, comradery, altruism, and fighting for an ideal against reason.

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When We Were Orphans, a book review

I was looking forward to this book, but was ultimately disappointed; for me, it didn’t live up to the standards of The Remains of the Day or Never Let Me Go.

The protagonist, Christopher Banks, is reminiscent of Stevens, the butler in Remains of the Day, but — even though Ishiguro uses similar narrative techniques — I had difficulty detecting Bank’s humanistic qualities: he was too analytical.

His childhood was spent in Shanghai and his parents were both kidnapped, leaving him as an orphan. Banks was relocated in London and was raised by his aunt. He was an awkward child — though he is gifted at fooling himself — but, as an adult in pre-WWII London, he becomes a celebrated detective (at least by his accounts: how he solves his cases is never revealed). As the novel unfolds, it becomes more and more apparent that his childhood memories are unreliable and he retains an illogical, childish scenario regarding his parents: he is sure that they are still being held captive somewhere in Shanghai. Banks’ motivation comes from a need to fit in and be respected: he longs to experience the approval he was never able to receive from his parents.

There is certainly some captivating writing, and there were sections that were inspired; but, as a whole, I felt that it was the weakest of the Ishiguro novels that I’ve read.

I felt strangely disconnected from the main character. Christopher Banks was separated from his parents, separated from the other characters in the novel, and separated from me, the reader.

I agree with Michiko Kakutani’s analysis of the novel, and her thoughts were summarized well (albeit somewhat harshly) in the final sentence of her review: “…the reader is left with the impression that instead of envisioning — and rendering — a cohesive new novel, Mr. Ishiguro simply ran the notion of a detective story through the word processing program of his earlier novels, then patched together the output into the ragged, if occasionally brilliant, story we hold in our hands.”

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