Archive for the ‘The Year of Reading Dangerously’ Category


June 21, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Patrik Ourednik

Europeana was the first of Czech writer Patrik Ourednik’s novels to be translated into English, though another two have since followed (all published by the wonderful Dalkey Archive Press). It is subtitled ‘A Brief History of the Twentieth Century’, and that is exactly what it is, reaching only 122 pages in its coverage of those hundred years. Ourednik has explained the book’s origin as follows:

“Is it possible to express a period of time, a specific historical time, without using narrative means, however direct or elusive they are, such as a historical novel or an intimist narrative? To find a form that would enable the narrator – like History itself – to be terribly banal, while pretending to be original.”

We should therefore not be surprised when we begin not at the beginning but halfway through, and with the following fact:

“The Americans who fell in Normandy in 1944 were tall men measuring 173 centimetres on average, and if they were laid head to foot they would measure 38 kilometres.”

Here we see evidence immediately of both originality (not only is it not an obvious starting point, it is not a statistic that you would be likely to include in even a detailed history of the twentieth century), and banality – any suggestion that it is being used to make an emotive point relating to the number of casualties is quickly undercut by the next sentence:

“The Germans were tall too, while the tallest of all were the Senegalese fusiliers in the First World War who measured 176 centimetres…”

Ourednik sustains this flat, detached but pedantic, tone throughout, using not only an array of bald statistics, but a limited repertoire of connectives (largely ‘and’), and even repeating information: for example the fact that the Germans invented gas and the English invented tanks first mentioned on page 1, reappears as quickly as page 2. This is perhaps most effective when presenting attitudes; the lack of commentary is starkly reductive:

“The Germans said they were the natural upholders of European civilisation because they knew how to make war and carry on trade, and also to organise convivial entertainments. And they said the French were vain and the English were haughty…”

This doesn’t just work for out-dated national stereotypes, however:

“Sex became very important in Europe in the twentieth century, more important than religion and almost as important as money, and everyone wanted to have sexual intercourse in different ways and some men rubbed their sexual organ with cocaine to prolong their erection even though cocaine was banned in all circumstances.”

Here, the juxtaposition of the general with the specific creates a jarring comedy: from an accepted truth to a ridiculous example.

Ourednik focuses largely on the West, and does not attempt, as, for example Eduardo Galeano does in Mirrors, to present a balanced world history. He returns again and again to the First and Second World Wars (the First World War is last mentioned on page 120). But on the way he covers the Barbie doll, the invention of the bicycle, the hippy movement, scientology and psychoanalysis among many other topics. Never has history been so delightful.

Danger rating: a hundred years in a couple of hours can be slightly overwhelming, but Europeana is both thought-provoking and entertaining (and great for trivia).


The Accident

June 14, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Ismail Kadare

When Ismail Kadare won the inaugural Man Booker International Prize in 2005 it was a statement of intent: here was a writer largely unknown in the English speaking world, the kind of name that we normally associate with Nobel Prize (i.e. one we don’t know from a country we wouldn’t want to live in). Cannily, Canongate had recently signed Kadare and published his most recent novel The Successor with some success (sorry) in 2006. This was followed by reissues of some of his older work: the autobiographical Chronicle in Stone, the stories in Agamemnon’s Daughter, and the revised translations of The Siege (previously The Castle) and The Ghost Rider (previously Doruntine). The Accident (originally published in 2008) is Kadare’s first new novel since The Successor, and similarly takes the crime genre as its starting point.

The novel begins with the titular accident: an Albanian couple are killed when the taxi carrying them to the airport veers off then road. The cause is unclear:

“The driver admitted that nothing unusual had happened just before the accident, except perhaps that…in the rear-view mirror…maybe something had distracted him…the two passengers on the back seat had done nothing…nothing but…only…they…had tried …to kiss.”

The first part of the novel consists of the investigation into the accident, by the police, the European Road Safety Institute, the Serbian and Albanian secret services, and an unnamed researcher. The couple are Besfort Y, an analyst working for the Council of Europe, and Rovena, an intern at the Archaeological Institute of Vienna. Besfort is somehow implicated in the decision to bomb Serbia; a “quarrel over Israel” is also hinted at. Their relationship seems largely to consist of meeting in hotel rooms in various European cities. She is devoted to him but recently their relationship has changed: Rovena tells a friend that, “B. is trying to persuade me we don’t need each other anymore.”

“Our meetings are now in a new zone. It’s no exaggeration to say a different planet. Ruled by different laws. It has a chilly quality, frightening of course, but still I must admit it has its strange and attractive side.”

This ‘new zone’ includes treating Rovena “almost like a prostitute.” Rovena’s female lover (chosen so that Besfort will not become jealous) insists that she has been murdered:

“You could tell a mile of that he was the murderous kind. That dream of his, or rather his nightmare, about the Hague Tribunal showed that.”

(In Kadare, dreams are admissible in evidence) The perfect set up for a thriller, then. But Kadare is not interested in answers, only questions: they are not simply in the reader’s mind, but in the narrative itself (seven in the first brief chapter; six in the second, often following one after the other). The novel’s style might be summed up as follows:

“Dark surmises, grave suspicions, ambiguous phrases, obscure scraps of dialogue drawn from half-remembered phone conversations loomed out of the fog and vanished again.”

After the inconclusive investigation, the novel then moves into the realm of imagination to solve the mystery as the researcher imagines the last forty weeks of the couple’s lives. As we learn very little about their lives beyond their relationship, it is clear that the relationship is central to understanding the novel. Largely presented for Rovena’s point of view, Besfort remains an enigma – it is hardly surprising that she says, “I first got to know him through his back” and that their first rendezvous happens on a “day of fog and rain.” Their first taxi journey together has echoes of their last:

“I limply waited for him to kiss me, but this did not happen. He seemed even more dazed and absent than I was.”

Absent he certainly is as a character, almost a vacuum at the centre of the story. As a result of this we must take Rovena’s “crazy, inhuman desire to please” him on trust, accepting such clichés as, “Life with him was difficult, without him it was impossible” as accurately reflecting her feelings. We have some sympathy with the researcher when even his imagination gives up and:

“…the final week – usually the most keenly anticipated in a story of this kind – was omitted.”

For this novel to be regarded as successful it seems to me that one of two things must be assumed. Either it is to be interpreted as a fable (as with much of his work), perhaps exploring the relationship between a person and his or her country, and my lack of expertise in Balkan politics has prevented me from deciphering this. Or it is an examination of paranoia and the pointless interrogation of mysteries where none exist, and the researcher’s occult solution to being unable to arrive at the truth is in the spirit of satire. Neither explanation, however, do I find entirely satisfying.

Danger rating: By far Kadare’s most frustrating novel. If you have never read him before (and you should), better to start almost anywhere else. I would recommend The Successor or The Palace of Dreams.

Born Yesterday

June 4, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Gordon Burn

Still on the subject of non-fiction narrative, a more daring example than Zeitoun can be found in Gordon Burn’s Born Yesterday, subtitled ‘the news as a novel’. Published in early 2008, it centred on the major news events of 2007 and was apparently written in a very short period at the end of that year. The events are connected by the ‘character’ of the narrator, who is eventually revealed as Burn through discussion of his novel Fullalove. While this narrator is portrayed in various settings, there is no story as such – the most narrative friendly moment is when he attempts to visit Gordon Brown’s house in North Queensferry, when the novel does become briefly more akin to journalism. For the large part, however, it is a rumination on news, media and celebrity, drawing connections across its cast of real-life characters.

Burn’s work has always lived on the border between fact and fiction. His first novel, Alma Cogan, featured not only the singer living an imagined life beyond 1966, but the Moors murderer Myra Hindley. He has also written a number of non –fiction books, including one about the Yorkshire ripper, and another on Fred and Rosemary West. Throughout there has been a fascination with celebrity:

“Almost everything I have written has been about celebrity, and how for most people celebrity is a kind of death.”

Born Yesterday, too, is concerned by how celebrity is created and the effect it has on the individuals who experience it. It focuses on Kate and Gerry McCann, Tony Blair as he leaves office, and Gordon Brown as he succeeds him, John Smeaton, hero of the terrorist attack on Glasgow airport, and Kate Middleton attempting to escape the attentions of photographers (the one area where the novel has become more topical). He begins, however, with Margaret Thatcher, post-celebrity, walking in a park:

“Where does she go in between all the times she is not being ‘Margaret Thatcher’? The answer, sometimes, it seems, is here, where the short, purposeful steps of her performance self are allowed to dwindle into the short, tentative steps of pensionerdom and widowhood and she is allowed time away from the big emphatic colours she uses to identify herself for the cameras – her blazons.”

This in contrast to the “famous picture of her standing in the gun turret of a Saracen tank.” Throughout Burn juxtaposes the celebrity identity with the other. When Blair leaves London having tendered his resignation to the Queen, he carries his own case:

“The bag was open bulging, a brown woollen sleeve trailing, the buckle of a strap bouncing along in the dirt.”

For Thatcher and Blair it is the beginning of life after celebrity; for the others it is life before that provides the contrast. So we learn about the rugby accident that almost blinds Brown, Gerry and Kate’s working class upbringings, John Smeaton’s dead-end job as a baggage handler before he landed that punch. Burns has a knack of sketching these moments both on and off camera, and drawing connections. At times they imply the tiny celebrity world: Smeato on the Richard and Judy sofa; Brown on the GMTV sofa; Smeato at Number 10; Gerry McCann at the Edinburgh Television Festival; Smeato at the Edinburgh Fringe…

At other times Burn over-reaches himself in his search for connections, for example in the pages devoted to Madeleine’s eyes, “stylised into media emblems”, through suspect Robert Murat’s similar defect, to Blair’s “bonkers eye” as depicted by cartoonist Steve Bell, to Gordon Brown “lying immobile in a darkened room to save the sight of what is now considered his ‘good’ right eye”, and, finally, to Damien Hirst. It’s not that this aspect of the novel isn’t interesting, it’s simply isn’t all that meaningful, unless we are to take it symbolic of the media’s narrow vision.

The novel, however, is a fascinating picture of Britain at a particular moment, both from behind the lens of the media and from one step further back. Burn was always a sharp-eyed observer of fame, and this novel is no exception. Born Yesterday -like all news of course, and a reference perhaps to gullibility, but also to the Philip Larkin poem (Burn quotes Larkin in the novel), a warning against being special:

“In fact, may you be dull –
If that is what a skilled,
Vigilant, flexible,
Unemphasised, enthralled
Catching of happiness is called.”

Danger rating: ironically, the novel feeds off the very fascination with celebrity that it examines. While not quite tomorrow’s fish and chip paper, the more time passes, and the news stories it echoes fade from view, the less interesting it may become.


May 29, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Dave Eggers

Thinking about David Shields’ proposal that non-fiction is the new literature sent me searching through my book shelves for other writers who seem to share this view. The example of Dave Eggers is a striking one: few writers can be hipper than Eggers, who seems to have left his early experimental work (which did, after all, begin with a memoir) for stories solidly rooted in fact. He is an auteur who now spends his time making documentaries. This decision appears to be a moral rather than artistic one, but this in itself links it to Shields’ idea that non-fiction is somehow more ‘real’ than fiction.

Eggers’ latest book, Zeitoun, is about one family’s experience in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. It is quite clearly billed as non-fiction (though its predecessor, What is the What, which I thought was created under similar circumstances, is listed under the ‘fiction’ heading of his bibliography inside) and described more than once in the endorsements both front and back as ‘narrative non-fiction’. What this seems to mean is that it tells a ‘true’ story (getting a little fed up of the quotation marks myself now) in the style of a novel. This means that the focus is on the experience of the individual; interior life is as important as exterior life; there is a lot of dialogue, most of it not concerned with imparting information; and that the narrative is structured beginning to end but with numerous character-creating flashbacks and even the use of a cliff-hanger.

Characterisation is probably the main component that differentiates the book from other factual accounts of Hurricane Katrina. The opening section, the build up towards the storm, is also concerned with building a picture of the two central characters, Zeitoun and his wife Kathy. It seems likely (though whom am I to say) that these individuals might be described as atypical. Zeitoun (his surname, but generally used to refer to him) is originally from Syria; Kathy is an American who has converted to Islam. Both have the kind of interesting back stories that one would expect from a novelist, and Eggers uses these in the opening section of the book to make us care about what happens to them. We learn of Zeitoun’s childhood in Syria, Kathy’s previous marriage and her conversion, how they met and decided to marry, the decorating company they run together. Does this make them more ‘real’? Perversely, it does not.

Partly this is the suspicion that they are appearing as they would like to be seen. True, Eggers is not suggesting they are perfect – but nor do they have any obvious faults. Perhaps this is because they have final editing rights, or because the story is being told from their point of view, or maybe it is simply that Eggers likes them. Whatever the reason, their life off the page prevents them from living on the page. This in turn leads to Eggers adopting a style that can only be described as bland:

“Kathy was a mess. Stories like this just wrecked her.”

Is this Eggers mimicking the register of his character? What then are we to make of Zeitoun waking up surrounded by water:

“He felt strangely lethargic, ethereally content.”

Or the description of the camp where Zeitoun will be imprisoned as “entirely martial”. At the most extreme points of his story (Zeitoun is arrested without charge and imprisoned without being allowed a phone call – Kathy assumes he is dead) Zeitoun’s point of view either disappears or is strangely muted. When he is first picked up by soldiers we are told:

“Zeitoun was not panicking.”

When he is attacked by soldiers on arrival at the camp, his consciousness disappears from view:

“The moment Zeitoun and the other three men were led off the boat a dozen soldiers descended upon them. Two men in bullet proof vests leapt on Zeitoun, tackling him to the ground. His face was pushed into the wet grass…”

Later, when he is imprisoned with no contact with the outside world, we are told:

“Zeitoun could think of no indication so far that any measure could be taken to advance his case.”

I would imagine my thoughts would be slightly more colourful by this point.

It seems unfair to criticise Eggers – he has set out to reveal how some individuals were treated after Hurricane Katrina and he has succeeded in this. As far as I’m aware, he has never argued that Zeitoun is the future of literature. The book is readable and it will hopefully shock and anger any reader. However, is it more ‘real’ or more ‘truthful’ than fiction? I would argue no. Its factual basis simply limits the writer, making his characters less real, and his truth shallower and less panoramic.

Danger rating: a little bit too much worthiness and not enough art.

The thing about life is that one day you’ll be dead

May 20, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – David Shields

The experience of reading Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom was one of the reasons that I decided to challenge myself with some more experimental writing in the course of this year. I’m not alone in worrying about the comfortable feel of Franzen’s fiction: here’s David Shield’s view of novels like Franzen’s:

“I read these books and my overwhelming feeling is, you’ve got to be kidding. They strike me as antediluvian texts that are essentially still working in the Flaubertian novel mode. In no way do they convey what if feels like to live in the 21st century. Like most novels, they are essentially works of nostalgic entertainment.”

Shields has come to prominence lately as a result of his manifesto on the future of the novel, Reality Hunger. He argues that the traditional, story-telling novel (the one I, too, have attempted to reject this year) is out-dated and should be replaced by something that better reflects reality. He proposes a collage of different genres, a blurring between fiction and non-fiction, and particularly champions the memoir. But we don’t need to read his manifesto when we can see his ideas in action in the book he wrote prior to Reality Hunger, The thing about life is that one day you’ll be dead, recently published in the UK by Penguin to cash in on his recent fame / notoriety.

Shields describes The thing about life is that one day you’ll be dead as follows:

“This book is an autobiography of my body, a biography of my father’s body, an anatomy of our bodies together…”

The catalyst for the book seems to have been the rapid physical decline of his father, 97 at the time it was written, who had, up until very recently, still lived an active life, able to run and swim and exercise. This physical deterioration leads Shields to consider his own health and to meditate on the inescapable approach of death. The book is divided into four sections: Infancy and Childhood; Adolescence; adulthood and Middle Age; and Old Age and Death. Shields’ memories tend to appear chronologically throughout the narrative; his father’s life, whether presented as biography or autobiography (the book contains small sections written by his father, a journalist), tend to appear more thematically (to put it kindly) or randomly (less kind).

We are told enough to suggest his father led an interesting life, but not enough to make him seem an interesting person: in fact, I left the book with only a vague impression – sportswriter; served in the army; once completed a tennis match after having a heart attack; possibly related to the actor that played Otto in The Diary of Anne Frank. Of Shields I know about the sports he enjoyed playing when he was younger, and a little about his daughter – but of his relationships, his intellectual or emotional life – almost nothing.

Much of the book is instead taken up with swathes of information about the body. This might be biological:

“You’re born with 350 bones (long, short, flat and irregular); as you grow, the bones fuse together: an adult’s body has 206 bones.”

Or statistical:

“As people get older their ideal age gets higher. For 18- to 24-year-olds, it’s 27; for 25-to-29-year-olds, it’s 31; for 30- to 39-year-olds, it’s 37; for 40- to 49-year-olds, it’s 40; for 50- to 64-year-olds, it’s 44; and for people over 64, it’s 59.”

Of course, facts, even presented in this dull, text-book type way, can be used powerfully in literature, but this is difficult when they contribute 50% of the text. For a start, the reader feels slightly cheated: half the book is largely undiluted research, and in a digital age (something Shields likes to remind us we live in) research can seem particularly unimpressive. Shields use of collage also seemed pedestrian and predictable; not once did his juxtapositions surprise or amuse me. Above all, in literature, it is not enough for information to be interesting; it must also resonate emotionally and intellectually. We respond to art with both our hearts and minds: this book’s big idea is on its cover; and, despite it being about a dying father, it is rarely moving.

Danger rating: this book will make you feel old, and not because it intimidates you with its cutting edge.

The Erasers

May 16, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Alain Robbe-Grillet

At one time, certainly, anyone interested in the novel read Alain Robbe-Grillet, one of the leading French writers of the Nouveau Roman movement. He probably wrote his most important novels during the 1950s (The Voyeur, Jealousy, In the Labyrinth), and in the 60s and 70s also became involved in writing and directing films. The influence of cinema can be seen in his work, with its emphasis on the exterior, with mood and psychology being created through the description of scene and action, and his flirting with genre.

The Erasers, his first published novel, is superficially a detective novel, yet right from the beginning it confounds our expectations. It opens with the report of a murder –

“…The victim, critically wounded and taken at once to a nearby clinic, died here without regain consciousness.”

– that isn’t a murder – Daniel Dupont, we quickly learn, is only wounded in the arm. We see him in his doctor’s surgery (“he indicates his left arm wrapped in a bandage”); we see the events of the previous night from the assassin’s point of view (“Garinati has fired, only one shot, trusting to instinct, at a fragment of an escaping body”); we see the his house keeper phoning for help from a nearby bar (“his arm had only been grazed by a bullet”). While this montage of scenes makes it clear that Dupont lives, clarity is not Robbe-Grillet’s aim. In a narrative sense, he raises a further question (Why has Dupont faked his own death?) which will only be answered in the vaguest of terms:

“In the last nine days there has been a murder committed regularly, between seven and eight at night, every day, as if they had made this little detail into a rule.”

In a traditional detective novel, this would form the basis of the investigation; here it is simply a further example of the patterned nature of the text, with scenes and motifs regularly repeating throughout (the most obvious one being the visits the detective, Wallas, makes to various stationery shops to buy an eraser). Instead we have novel in which a detective searches for the perpetrator of a crime that has not yet been committed.

From the beginning, Wallas is presented as a vague, murky character. Robbe-Grillet’s use of repetition often parallels him with Garinati. After shooting Dupont Garinati goes to a drawbridge over a canal:

“Leaning over the handrail, Garinati has not moved.”

A few pages later we first meet Wallas:

“Wallas is leaning against the rail at the end of the bridge.”

Similarly, descriptions of Wallas’s visits to the scene of the crime frequently use phrases that evoke Garinati’s approach. This is a technique Robbe-Grillet uses throughout to blend separate events, giving the impression that they are rippling through the narrative. Here, for example, are the openings to three consecutive, but independent, scenes:

“The latch clicks as it falls back into place; at the same time the door has just slammed against the jam and vibrates noisily, producing unexpected echoes in the frame as well.”

“Wallas, already half turned around, hears the latch fall back into place…”

“Fabius, having closed the garden gate behind him, inspects the premises…”

The constant, careful opening and closing of doors becomes a motif for investigation, intrusion, and risk (the danger of being caught; the danger of what lies behind the door). Similarly, Wallas’s endless walks through the city suggest he is circling his destiny. Again, in a traditional detective novel, this would be bringing him closer and closer to the murderer; here it is drawing him towards the crime.

Although repetitive, and despite apparently presenting the solution before the puzzle, The Erasers is remarkably tense and claustrophobic. Passages of description seem imbued with layers of meaning while at the same time grounded in a superficial realism. The patterned artifice of the narrative often seems to better correspond to our experience of life within its endless repetitions and undiscovered meanings than the traditional novel. Certainly, anyone interested in the novel should read Robbe-Grillet.

Danger rating: it’s no surprise that Robbe-Grillet wrote a novel called In the Labyrinth as his narratives can feel like mazes where time seems to escape the clock and we can never be sure if we have passed that particular turn before.


May 10, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Christine Brooke-Rose

There is a game you can play with Christine Brooke-Rose’s Amalgamemnon if, like me, you have the blurb-free Carcanet edition: first read the novel; then check out the blurb for the Dalkey Archive Press version (available online); and, finally, see how much of this description of the text you recognise. This is not to suggest that the blurb of the American edition is in any way inaccurate; rather, Amalgamemnon is not a novel that lends itself to easy précis, or even comprehension. Therefore, rather than attempt my own summary, let’s be up front and start with theirs:

“A woman about to lose her job as a professor of literature and history delivers a passionate, witty and word-mad monologue…blurring the texts of Herodotus with the callers to a talk-radio programme, and blending contemporary history with ancient: fairy tale and literal/invented people (the kidnappers of capitalism, a girl-warrior for Somalia, a pop singer, a political writer), connected by an elaborate mock-genealogy, stretching back to the Greek gods, move in and out of each other’s stories.”

The references to Greek myths come early and frequently, from the punning title – Agamemnon and amalgamate (presumably a reference to the mixture within the text) – to the narrator’s identification with Cassandra. These allusions serve a number of functions (beyond simply emphasising the fictionality of the text). The narrator is indeed a woman who has lost her job as a Humanities professor:

“The programme-cuts will one by one proceed apace, which will entail laying off paying off with luck all the teachers of dead languages like literature philosophy history…”

Although covering all of the Humanities, “dead languages” is likely to lead us to the conclusion that the narrator, who also has the Greek sounding name Mira Enketei, is a professor of Classics. The narrator’s knowledge of Greek myth permeates the text, mixing with numerous contemporary references. Interestingly, Brooke-Rose’s fear that technology would lead to the downgrading of the Humanities is now more relevant than ever. Equally relevant is her questioning of the identity of Europe:

“…shall we ever make Europe?”

Here the allusions to Classical culture provide a historical basis for European identity, as do the numerous references to Charlemagne, who features in the exotic family trees the narrator creates containing names originating in many European languages. Greek myths are also important in one of Brooke-Rose’s other themes, the position of women in society: Cassandra, famously ignored by all and taken slave by Agamemnon after the fall of Troy; Andromeda, chained to a rock; Io and Europa, both seduced by Zeus.

But here lies one of the novel’s difficulties: Brooke-Rose is interested in so many themes, and her text is so allusive (Greek myth is only one strand), that it quickly feels dense as an Amazonian forest. It undeniably contains many fascinating ideas (I particularly liked the kidnapping of capitalism), but so many of them it is hard to feel that any one is done justice, either by author or reader.

The novel also wears it style on its sleeve. Brooke-Rose rejoices in long, often unpunctuated, lists; she loves alliteration, puns and made up words (sexplode, wifman, mimagree, fibstory); and, most alienating of all, the novel is written largely in the future tense:

“In a white village of some unpromised land a group of soldiers will advance cautiously with mine-detectors. Behind them others will be searching derelict houses, machine-gun at the ready.”

Each of these techniques can be effective; together they are overwhelming. Amalgamemnon is without doubt the most ’difficult’ novel I have yet read this year. Short as it is, I can’t say I enjoyed the experience. Yet, strangely, as I was looking over it again to write this, some part of me wanted to read it again.

Danger rating: a blizzard of words and allusions that, while invigorating in short bursts, can be numbing after a while.

A Visit from the Goon Squad

May 3, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Jennifer Egan

If you had asked me about the ‘goon squad’ a few months ago I could only have directed you to the David Bowie song ‘Fashion’ – a not entirely inappropriate link given that A Visit from the Goon Squad is a novel about both music and time. Bowie even merits a mention, though only to ascribe the shortness of the pause in ‘Young Americans’ to chickening out. A goon is either a fool or a thug – and therefore often a mindless thug – and the goon squad in Egan’s novel is time, trampling over the lives of her characters, pushing them around with brutal insistence. In Bowie’s song the goon squad is (I think) the trendsetters, equally merciless in deciding direction. Egan’s novel is also about trendsetters: all her characters are involved in some way in music, trying to be, spot or sell the next big thing.

The novel revolves around the character of Sasha, whom we meet her in the first chapter on a “lame date”, stealing a wallet from a woman’s handbag. She steals not out of necessity but out of compulsion: hording the objects she takes in her small flat, each one able to remind her of a particular moment:

“It contained years of her life compressed.”

The novel itself is like that heap of objects (“illegible yet clearly not random”): it may revolve around Sasha but only inasmuch as she is the strongest link between the chapters, each of which captures its own moment in time. This strategy is clear by chapter 2 where the narrative slips back in time and we find Sasha working for Bennie Salazar, who in the first chapter is “her old boss”. This is not, however, simply a time shift – narrative focus also shifts from Sasha to Bennie. This is a gentle introduction to Egan’s intentions as by chapter 3 we’ll have reversed to Bennie’s youth and first person narration.

This interest in time is also evident in the narrative itself, particularly in the music business obsession with youth. In chapter 2 we meet the band Stop/Go, no longer “young and adorable” but “pushing thirty.” Bennie, meanwhile, spends the chapter ingesting gold flakes in order to reinvigorate his sex drive, “his own having mysteriously expired.” Lou, Bennie’s mentor, is found in chapter 3 claiming, “I’ll never get old,” but is quickly revisited as a bed-bound old man in chapter 5. This obsession with youth is taken to extremes in the future set chapters towards the end:

“Now that Starfish, or kiddie handsets, were ubiquitous, any child who could point was able to download music – the youngest buyer on record being a three-month-old in Atlanta, who’d purchased a song by Nine Inch Nails called ‘Ga-ga’.”

The other over-arching theme is the compromises we make as we grow older. As Bennie says to Alex in the final chapter:

“You don’t want to do this…You think it’s selling out. Compromising the ideals that make you, ‘you’.”

When Bennie and his wife, Stephanie, move out to the suburbs, Stephanie’s brother, Jules, is appalled: “You and Bennie? Hanging out with Republicans?” Stephanie keeps her tennis matches at the club a secret from Bennie as if she were having an affair. For those who refuse to compromise the outlook is bleak. Jules ends up in jail after a break down because he will not turn his journalism into publicity pieces for actors; Scotty ends up working as a janitor; Drew drowns. The structure obviously emphasises these compromises, but also removes elements of the character development that lead to them: frequently the reader is left to fill the gap.

The most interesting chapter stylistically is chapter 12, presented as a PowerPoint created by Sasha’s daughter, Alison. While this suffers a little from being very easily read, which makes it seem slight in comparison with the rest of the novel, it does have a number of interesting benefits. The graphics and layout can have a considerable influence on the meaning, and it rejects the left to right bias of normal text giving the impression that you are reading simultaneously all the separate textual elements of each slide. It struck me as both an apt and accurate way to represent a child’s point of view.

A Visit from the Goon Squad is an interesting and entertaining novel. It is not quite the sum of its parts, however. Not all the chapters seem equally relevant: chapter 8 in particular, though possibly my favourite, seems rather tangential – included perhaps more for quality than importance. The stylistic innovation of chapter 12 is off-set by the sameness of the narrative voice throughout the rest of the novel despite a number of different narrators. The excursion into science fiction also seems rather obvious. But it does possess an engaging cleverness in terms of structure and it avoids most of the potential pitfalls of writing about the music business.

Danger rating: tracking characters across time can be tricky, but it’s not nearly as confusing as recent episodes of Dr Who.

The art and craft of approaching your head of department to submit a request for a raise

April 23, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Georges Perec

No year of exploring the experimental novel would be complete without at least one work by Georges Perec. Perec was one of the leading exponents of Ouilpo, a group of writers whose works were created on the basis of rules. Presumably this was partly for the challenge, partly for the creativity stimulated by the restrictions imposed, and partly to emphasise the rules already in place in all writing. The most famous example is probably Perec’s own novel A Void, written entirely without the letter e (and, quite incredibly, translated into English by David Bellos). His masterpiece, Life A User’s Manual, is also written according to a series of rules, and it was that I intended to read again – that is, until I was pleased to see that Vintage had published a translation into English of The art and craft of approaching your head of department to submit a request for a raise (again by David Bellos) under its classic imprint.

The art and craft of approaching your head of department to submit a request for a raise is clearly one of Perec’s minor works, both in terms of its length (under a hundred pages) and its place in his oeuvre. It was written in 1968, only three years after his first novel, Things: A Story of the Sixties, and ten years before Life A User’s Manual. According to Bellos’ excellent introduction, it was written after a French computer company set the challenge to write like a computer, and is based on a flow chart which is reproduced at the beginning of the book. As each stage in the story has a yes / no option, Perec could have written in a format that still appears among children’s novels, where each choice takes you to a different page; instead he chose to write without punctuation or capitals, mimicking the processes of a computer program as it happens. A single example should illustrate the style:

“…if he has not heard your knocking it would be quite inappropriate and even unseemly to persist so if he does not raise his eyes you go back to your desk and decide to try your luck afresh in the afternoon or tomorrow or next tuesday or forty days later obviously when you do go back he will have to be in his office if he is not then you would await his return in the corridor and if he were to be a long time coming you would go see ms wye…”

Rather than empowering the reader to make choices, Perec adopts a style that makes choices themselves seem unimportant, each one treated equally and unemotionally. It also becomes deeply repetitive on every level: word, phrase, connective. In this way Perec creates, whether intentionally or not, a critique of the workplace, which appears as a soulless labyrinth where employees are subject to the whims of chance – for example, whether your boss swallows a fish bone at lunch or one of his daughters has measles.

Bellos twice describes The art and craft of approaching your head of department to submit a request for a raise as unreadable in his introduction, but I found its repetitive nature leavened by a lot of humour. Clearly, it is best read in one sitting, something that does not take long, as it does not lend itself to the bookmark. A fascinating curio.

Danger rating: repetitive nature, much like a roundabout, may cause dizziness. Vintage have also reprinted a number of Perec’s other books, and it would be safe to say that it would be best to leave this one to last.

Near to the Wild Heart

March 14, 2011

The Year of Reading Dangerously – Clarice Lispector

As part of its World Book Night coverage, the BBC did manage to finally produce a reasonably interesting programme about books, focusing on twelve debut novels. Whether the novels, or the writers, will live up to the hype remains to be seen, but at least the programme was forward-looking and engaged with writers and writing, while providing a historical context with glances back at the Granta lists, and some fake(it had already been announced) drama as the list was chosen. There was also some discussion of the influence of creative writing courses, and, although no conclusions were drawn, it struck me that the days of the anguished, autobiographical first novel are clearly gone. These were writers who wanted to be someone else, often someone living at a different time, providing them with a distanced irony that was frequently used to create humour. In contrast, Clarice Lispector’s first novel, Near to the Wild Heart, originally published almost sixty years ago, isn’t funny. How autobiographical it is I cannot tell (it is not really a novel about what happens anyway), but it is certainly the work of a writer who took life, and writing, seriously.

The novel tells the story of Joana both as a child and as a married woman. The first half moves between the two; in the second Joana’s narrative is occasionally interspersed with those of her husband and his pregnant mistress. The narratives are not first person, but are entirely immersed in the consciousness of the character. Joana’s mother is dead at the beginning of the story and she is being raised by her father. He soon dies too and she taken to an aunt who finds her so cold and unresponsive she sends her to boarding school. There is a brief infatuation with a teacher, but the rest of the novel deals with her marriage to Otavio and his affair with his ex-fiancée, Lidia. From the very beginning, Joana’s thoughts are often bleak:

“Resting her head against the cold, shiny window-pane, she looked into the neighbour’s yard, at the great world of chickens-that-did-not-know-they-were-about-to-die. And, as if it were right under her nose, she could smell the warm, beaten earth, so fragrant and dry, where she knew perfectly well that some worm or other lay squirming before being devoured by the hen that the humans were going to eat.”

This appeal to all the senses also continues throughout: there is no real separation between emotional, physical and philosophical feelings. The novel is about her search for her identity, particularly In relation to her sex:

“Her whole life had been a mistake, she felt useless. Where was the woman with the voice? Where were the women who were merely female? And the continuation of what she had initiated as a child?”

It is clear that she feels disconnected from herself as a child, and this is one reason for the disconnected narrative structure. She often refers to herself as a child in the third person (“She remembered Joana as a little girl…”). She searches for happiness but is not sure that she will recognise it – “What do you get when you’re happy?” she asks a teacher. She discovers that the happiness she wants cannot be found through marriage:

“Happiness was effacing her, effacing her… She now wanted to know herself again, even with sorrow.”

Although Otavio makes her happy she also resents him:

“Now all her time was devoted to him and she felt any minutes she could call her own had been conceded, broken into little ice cubes which she must swallow quickly before they melted.”

The feeling she is looking for is something more profound than domestic bliss:

“I can scarcely belief that I have limits, that I am defined. I feel myself to be dispersed in the atmosphere, thinking inside other creatures, living inside things beyond myself.”

I began by saying the novel wasn’t funny: if you can read the above with a straight face then you will cope with what now seems the old-fashioned naivety of its modernism. While the novel’s register can be powerful, it can also verge on the banal in trying too hard to be interesting, and its refusal to ever be satisfied could be seen as either heroic or wearing. These are the thoughts of an adolescent so we shouldn’t assume that Lispector endorses them completely, but neither does she present them to be sniggered at. Joana’s search for meaning as an individual and a woman is urgent and intense – which, among today’s novels, makes Near to the Wild Heart something of an antique.

Lispector can provide one final warning for the debutants, however: her novel caused a sensation when first published in Brazil, but she struggled to publish each of her books after that.

Danger rating: a dizzying percussion of stream of consciousness can feel a little like a hailstorm experienced in a caravan. Written in 1944, this wasn’t translated into English until 1986 by Giovanni Pontiero, who has also translated some of her other work. It’s published by the wonderful New Directions Press.