AFTER DARK Haruki Murakami
Translated from the Japanese by Jay Rubin
Night-time in Tokyo. Jazz and pop standards play at seedy restaurants while a trombonist tries to befriend an insomniac teenager in a café, a former wrestler-turned-manager of a ‘love hotel’ called Alphaville deals with a bloody assault on one of the residents, and an American Psycho-type character recuperates after a dark deed. Hovering above all of these is the spectre of another young woman, in a coma in a room with a TV set that has mysterious powers of absorption.
This, then, is trademark Murakami, dealing with one surreal night in the lives of disaffected young Japanese searching for connection. (Along the way, he has fun with the conventions of third-person point-of-view, making it as much of a disinterested observer as the rest.) Murakami fans will find nothing to let them down here, although it must be said that his novels work best when stringing together a series of unsettling, unfathomable images – without relying too much on dialogue that descends into the banal, which is the case with After Dark.
Worth your while? If you’ve read and liked Murakami before, go ahead; if not, you’d be better off with some of his earlier works such as Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World or The Wind-up Bird Chronicle.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Hunt And Peck
RISKY BUSINESS Al Alvarez
Al Alvarez is, famously, the person who befriended Sylvia Plath during her last days, going on to write The Savage God, a study of suicide. Of course, there’s a lot more to the man than that: he’s a poet, champion of other poets, poker player, amateur climber and more – as these essays demonstrate.
Many have appeared earlier in the NYRB, among other publications. And though each one is singularly well-crafted and written, to collect all together is to make the whole a mixed bag that flirts with the theme of "risk taking". Profiles of pianist Alfred Grendel, entrepreneur Torquil Norman and Philip Roth sit side-by-side with Alvarez’s views on Andrew Marvell, and John Berryman (among others) which rub shoulders with thoughts on poker and other risk-taking activities.
A hunt and peck approach, then, is called for to locate pieces of interest – some of which are the profile/interview of Philip Roth, meditations on the genteel state of British poetry, an assessment of Alice Munro and his thoughts on Plath’s biographers. It ends with a rather sweet piece on the Grateful Dead – which, ironically, smacks of the same gentility that Alvarez so abhors in poetry.
Worth your while? Find a bookshop with a comfortable place to sit and you ought to be able to read the pieces of interest without having to buy the whole thing.
Al Alvarez is, famously, the person who befriended Sylvia Plath during her last days, going on to write The Savage God, a study of suicide. Of course, there’s a lot more to the man than that: he’s a poet, champion of other poets, poker player, amateur climber and more – as these essays demonstrate.
Many have appeared earlier in the NYRB, among other publications. And though each one is singularly well-crafted and written, to collect all together is to make the whole a mixed bag that flirts with the theme of "risk taking". Profiles of pianist Alfred Grendel, entrepreneur Torquil Norman and Philip Roth sit side-by-side with Alvarez’s views on Andrew Marvell, and John Berryman (among others) which rub shoulders with thoughts on poker and other risk-taking activities.
A hunt and peck approach, then, is called for to locate pieces of interest – some of which are the profile/interview of Philip Roth, meditations on the genteel state of British poetry, an assessment of Alice Munro and his thoughts on Plath’s biographers. It ends with a rather sweet piece on the Grateful Dead – which, ironically, smacks of the same gentility that Alvarez so abhors in poetry.
Worth your while? Find a bookshop with a comfortable place to sit and you ought to be able to read the pieces of interest without having to buy the whole thing.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Nothing Fishy About It
SALMON FISHING IN THE YEMEN Paul Torday
Some novels tell stories through diary entries. Some, through e-mails. Some, though letters. Salmon Fishing in the Yemen uses all of these, in addition to interrogations, newspaper reports and more. What ought to have been a shapeless hodge-podge is instead a charming first novel.
It deals with the London-based Dr Alfred Jones, a fisheries scientist, asked to implement a project at the whim of an influential sheikh to introduce the pleasures of salmon fishing to the citizens of the Yemen. Also involved is the charming Harriet, working as consultant. Though Dr Jones pooh-poohs the idea, the Prime Minister’s director of communications sees this as a way to divert the media’s attention, showcasing Anglo-Yemeni cultural and scientific co-operation. Subplots involve Dr Jones’ strained relationship with his career-obsessed wife and Harriet’s concern over the fate of her boyfriend, a soldier in the Iraq.
As a satire on the habits of media-savvy politicians, it works well; as a novel, there’s no denying that most characters are a bit flat and the narrative devices wear thin after a while. (Perhaps to offset this, Torday opts for a farcical and then bittersweet ending.) Adjust your expectations, and it’ll make for a diverting evening.
Worth your while? Yes, if all you’ve been reading lately are novels dealing with the existential angst of alienated characters at war with soulless universe.
Some novels tell stories through diary entries. Some, through e-mails. Some, though letters. Salmon Fishing in the Yemen uses all of these, in addition to interrogations, newspaper reports and more. What ought to have been a shapeless hodge-podge is instead a charming first novel.
It deals with the London-based Dr Alfred Jones, a fisheries scientist, asked to implement a project at the whim of an influential sheikh to introduce the pleasures of salmon fishing to the citizens of the Yemen. Also involved is the charming Harriet, working as consultant. Though Dr Jones pooh-poohs the idea, the Prime Minister’s director of communications sees this as a way to divert the media’s attention, showcasing Anglo-Yemeni cultural and scientific co-operation. Subplots involve Dr Jones’ strained relationship with his career-obsessed wife and Harriet’s concern over the fate of her boyfriend, a soldier in the Iraq.
As a satire on the habits of media-savvy politicians, it works well; as a novel, there’s no denying that most characters are a bit flat and the narrative devices wear thin after a while. (Perhaps to offset this, Torday opts for a farcical and then bittersweet ending.) Adjust your expectations, and it’ll make for a diverting evening.
Worth your while? Yes, if all you’ve been reading lately are novels dealing with the existential angst of alienated characters at war with soulless universe.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Black Literature
CHRISTINE FALLS Benjamin Black
Baffled, middle-aged Irishman confronts the ghosts of his past in a lyrically-written account peppered with dark revelations. Sounds like a new book by John Banville – only, this is a mystery novel written by debutant Benjamin Black (whose real name, by the way, is – er – John Banville).
Set primarily in 1950s Dublin, Christine Falls introduces us to pathologist Garret Quirke who discovers, late one drunken night, that his pediatrician brother-in-law is falsifying the death certificate of a young woman who’s died during childbirth. His investigations lead him to the “confusion, mistakes, damage” related to his deceased wife, daughter and members of his extended family, all centered on a Catholic orphanage in Boston.
Since this is Banville, after all, the prose is a delight: superbly-crafted sentences revealing interior and exterior landscapes that, at times, afford an almost sensuous pleasure. (The author’s formidable vocabulary, so clearly on display in his other books, creeps in occasionally: consider the word ‘phthisic’, for example.) There is, too, a masterly pattern to the release of information, and the resonances between past and present. Quirke is an interesting and intriguing creation whose befuddlement and melancholy waft off the page.
Worth your while? Perfect for the dark monsoon days that, we’re told, will be here soon.
Baffled, middle-aged Irishman confronts the ghosts of his past in a lyrically-written account peppered with dark revelations. Sounds like a new book by John Banville – only, this is a mystery novel written by debutant Benjamin Black (whose real name, by the way, is – er – John Banville).
Set primarily in 1950s Dublin, Christine Falls introduces us to pathologist Garret Quirke who discovers, late one drunken night, that his pediatrician brother-in-law is falsifying the death certificate of a young woman who’s died during childbirth. His investigations lead him to the “confusion, mistakes, damage” related to his deceased wife, daughter and members of his extended family, all centered on a Catholic orphanage in Boston.
Since this is Banville, after all, the prose is a delight: superbly-crafted sentences revealing interior and exterior landscapes that, at times, afford an almost sensuous pleasure. (The author’s formidable vocabulary, so clearly on display in his other books, creeps in occasionally: consider the word ‘phthisic’, for example.) There is, too, a masterly pattern to the release of information, and the resonances between past and present. Quirke is an interesting and intriguing creation whose befuddlement and melancholy waft off the page.
Worth your while? Perfect for the dark monsoon days that, we’re told, will be here soon.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Lively Lives
WRITTEN LIVES Javier Marias
Translated from the Spanish by Margaret Jull Costa
Marias says in his prologue to this collection of quirky profiles that he wanted to treat “well-known literary figures as if they were fictional characters” – and he does this through a series of oblique glances at some literary icons. The author insists that nothing here is invented, though he concedes that some episodes have been “embellished”.
And so we have cheeky, affectionate and sometimes sly essays that concern themselves with the sadness of Turgenev and Mann; the silence of Djuna Barnes; the post-gaol life of Oscar Wilde; the death of Mishima; and the poses of Joyce, among others. What he’s doing, of course, is using small entryways to provide potted biographies -- the-profile-as-short-story, as it were.
Somewhat disappointingly, Marias isn’t too interested here in the prose and concerns of these writers, but speaks instead of how events (some well-known, others not) and traits have influenced their lives. There’s no academic posturing: for instance, the essay on Kipling forgoes any debate of whether he’s an unabashed colonialist or not. He saves the best for last, however: the essay on writers’ images is quite delightful.
Worth your while? Not to be taken too seriously, which makes it a perfectly agreeable companion during long commutes.
Translated from the Spanish by Margaret Jull Costa
Marias says in his prologue to this collection of quirky profiles that he wanted to treat “well-known literary figures as if they were fictional characters” – and he does this through a series of oblique glances at some literary icons. The author insists that nothing here is invented, though he concedes that some episodes have been “embellished”.
And so we have cheeky, affectionate and sometimes sly essays that concern themselves with the sadness of Turgenev and Mann; the silence of Djuna Barnes; the post-gaol life of Oscar Wilde; the death of Mishima; and the poses of Joyce, among others. What he’s doing, of course, is using small entryways to provide potted biographies -- the-profile-as-short-story, as it were.
Somewhat disappointingly, Marias isn’t too interested here in the prose and concerns of these writers, but speaks instead of how events (some well-known, others not) and traits have influenced their lives. There’s no academic posturing: for instance, the essay on Kipling forgoes any debate of whether he’s an unabashed colonialist or not. He saves the best for last, however: the essay on writers’ images is quite delightful.
Worth your while? Not to be taken too seriously, which makes it a perfectly agreeable companion during long commutes.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Post-apocalypse Now
THE ROAD Cormac McCarthy
(A longer version of this appeared in yesterday's Sunday Times of India.)
Winter in America. The land has been devastated and people are on the move, alone or in packs. Food is scarce; death, ubiquitous; cannibalism, common. Through this terrain trudge a man and his young son, pushing a ramshackle cart containing food and other essentials, heading towards the sea.
This is the setting of Cormac McCarthy’s chilling new novel, which intermittently brings to mind Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ – if that can be seen as a response to the horrors of World War I, this is equally a response to our age’s globalisation of terror.
As before, McCarthy’s prose is Faulknerian in quirkiness, yet Hemingwayesque in rhythm. His stomach-churning scenes are undercut by moments of tenderness between father and his son -- he seems to imply that the best place to look for redemption is in the bonds between people; but when it comes to his characters, there is only a hopeless vigilance.
McCarthy’s landscapes are always evocative: here, the land is “barren, silent, godless”, and “ash” is a funereal incantation, on almost every page. Yes, one can quibble about the puzzling indications that the son will become the conscience-keeper of a new generation, and the coincidence in the conclusion. Yet, in its entirety, The Road is a powerful testament with the hypnotic power of a Biblical passage.
Worth your while? Yes, but may require some hours of mindless TV soap viewing to get over its impact.
(A longer version of this appeared in yesterday's Sunday Times of India.)
Winter in America. The land has been devastated and people are on the move, alone or in packs. Food is scarce; death, ubiquitous; cannibalism, common. Through this terrain trudge a man and his young son, pushing a ramshackle cart containing food and other essentials, heading towards the sea.
This is the setting of Cormac McCarthy’s chilling new novel, which intermittently brings to mind Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ – if that can be seen as a response to the horrors of World War I, this is equally a response to our age’s globalisation of terror.
As before, McCarthy’s prose is Faulknerian in quirkiness, yet Hemingwayesque in rhythm. His stomach-churning scenes are undercut by moments of tenderness between father and his son -- he seems to imply that the best place to look for redemption is in the bonds between people; but when it comes to his characters, there is only a hopeless vigilance.
McCarthy’s landscapes are always evocative: here, the land is “barren, silent, godless”, and “ash” is a funereal incantation, on almost every page. Yes, one can quibble about the puzzling indications that the son will become the conscience-keeper of a new generation, and the coincidence in the conclusion. Yet, in its entirety, The Road is a powerful testament with the hypnotic power of a Biblical passage.
Worth your while? Yes, but may require some hours of mindless TV soap viewing to get over its impact.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
It's All In The Details
SO MANY WAYS TO BEGIN Jon McGregor
Coming across a debut novel with a unique style is always a pleasure, and such was the case with Jon McGregor’s If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things. His follow-up is a lot more ambitious -- with mixed results.
McGregor tempers his charged, poetic prose to tell the story of David Carter who, because of an aunt’s slip of the tongue, realises he’s an adopted child. David’s life so far has been unexceptional though not always pleasant – his wife, Eleanor, is prone to fits of depression, and this also affects the couple’s relationship with their daughter.
David is a Coventry museum curator and, fittingly, his search for fulfillment over the years is told though the artifacts that fill his life – each section begins with memories related to identity badges, cinema tickets, catalogues, birth certificates, wine corks and the like.
The structure is ingenious, the prose skilled and the characters’ lives attended to with care. However, such total immersion in the minutiae of middle-class British life makes the novel more dreary than delightful. As Andrea del Sarto said of his work: “A common greyness silvers everything”.
Worth your while? Certainly not to be discarded outright, but too long and cheerless, alas.
Coming across a debut novel with a unique style is always a pleasure, and such was the case with Jon McGregor’s If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things. His follow-up is a lot more ambitious -- with mixed results.
McGregor tempers his charged, poetic prose to tell the story of David Carter who, because of an aunt’s slip of the tongue, realises he’s an adopted child. David’s life so far has been unexceptional though not always pleasant – his wife, Eleanor, is prone to fits of depression, and this also affects the couple’s relationship with their daughter.
David is a Coventry museum curator and, fittingly, his search for fulfillment over the years is told though the artifacts that fill his life – each section begins with memories related to identity badges, cinema tickets, catalogues, birth certificates, wine corks and the like.
The structure is ingenious, the prose skilled and the characters’ lives attended to with care. However, such total immersion in the minutiae of middle-class British life makes the novel more dreary than delightful. As Andrea del Sarto said of his work: “A common greyness silvers everything”.
Worth your while? Certainly not to be discarded outright, but too long and cheerless, alas.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Young Einstein
TANGLEWRECK Jeanette Winterson
Jeanette Winterson’s first novel for so-called “young adults”, Tanglewreck is a fast-paced, imaginative tale involving travel through time and space and an attempt at world domination foiled by Silver, the 11-year-old heroine.
It all revolves around the secrets of Tanglewreck, an old mansion inhabited by Silver and her conniving guardian, and attempts by sundry sinister characters to unearth the Timekeeper, a clock that gives the owner control of the universe. There’s enough material to keep you wholly absorbed: clever applications of Quantum Theory (earlier explored in Winterson’s somewhat affected Gut Symmetries); a Dickensian cast (Thugger, Fisty, Mrs Rokabye and Abel Darkwater, not to mention Bigamist, the evil rabbit.); and a plot that, despite getting a bit too, well, tangled, isn’t wrecked by any means. (Devout Catholics beware: along the way, uncomplimentary things are said about Popes)
The prose is free of pretension and Winterson doesn’t let ingenuity get in the way of warmth – though some may balk at the novel’s overriding sentiment that the only thing faster than the speed of light is “the speed of love”.
Worth your while? Yes, even if you don’t have an intelligent pre-teen at home.
Jeanette Winterson’s first novel for so-called “young adults”, Tanglewreck is a fast-paced, imaginative tale involving travel through time and space and an attempt at world domination foiled by Silver, the 11-year-old heroine.
It all revolves around the secrets of Tanglewreck, an old mansion inhabited by Silver and her conniving guardian, and attempts by sundry sinister characters to unearth the Timekeeper, a clock that gives the owner control of the universe. There’s enough material to keep you wholly absorbed: clever applications of Quantum Theory (earlier explored in Winterson’s somewhat affected Gut Symmetries); a Dickensian cast (Thugger, Fisty, Mrs Rokabye and Abel Darkwater, not to mention Bigamist, the evil rabbit.); and a plot that, despite getting a bit too, well, tangled, isn’t wrecked by any means. (Devout Catholics beware: along the way, uncomplimentary things are said about Popes)
The prose is free of pretension and Winterson doesn’t let ingenuity get in the way of warmth – though some may balk at the novel’s overriding sentiment that the only thing faster than the speed of light is “the speed of love”.
Worth your while? Yes, even if you don’t have an intelligent pre-teen at home.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Town And Country
A FAR COUNTRY Daniel Mason
A quaint, old-fashioned word comes to mind while reading Daniel Mason’s second novel, and that word is “integrity”. Though it isn’t mentioned anywhere in the book, the country of the title is clearly Brazil, and, with his heart in the right place, Mason speaks to us of the age-old opposition between the city and the village.
It’s the story of Isabel, from a sugarcane cropping family that has, for ages, been a victim of the region’s cycle of droughts. Isabel’s musically-inclined brother Isaias leaves for the city (Rio de Janeiro) hoping for a better livelihood like many before him. When he vanishes, the preternaturally sensitive Isabel sets out in search, taking her chances among the impoverished in the city’s slums.
Though Mason’s writing is knowledgeable and descriptive, the narrative meanders and strikes the same note time and again, contrasting urban and rural ways of life with a clear bias towards the latter. It’s as though he started out with a premise and then peopled it with characters, rather than the other way around. Very well-intentioned, but also very lethargic.
Worth your while? Not as evocative and accomplished as Mason’s debut, The Piano Tuner, which you ought to pick up if you haven’t done so already.
A quaint, old-fashioned word comes to mind while reading Daniel Mason’s second novel, and that word is “integrity”. Though it isn’t mentioned anywhere in the book, the country of the title is clearly Brazil, and, with his heart in the right place, Mason speaks to us of the age-old opposition between the city and the village.
It’s the story of Isabel, from a sugarcane cropping family that has, for ages, been a victim of the region’s cycle of droughts. Isabel’s musically-inclined brother Isaias leaves for the city (Rio de Janeiro) hoping for a better livelihood like many before him. When he vanishes, the preternaturally sensitive Isabel sets out in search, taking her chances among the impoverished in the city’s slums.
Though Mason’s writing is knowledgeable and descriptive, the narrative meanders and strikes the same note time and again, contrasting urban and rural ways of life with a clear bias towards the latter. It’s as though he started out with a premise and then peopled it with characters, rather than the other way around. Very well-intentioned, but also very lethargic.
Worth your while? Not as evocative and accomplished as Mason’s debut, The Piano Tuner, which you ought to pick up if you haven’t done so already.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Nine Reasons To Read This One
THE RELUCTANT FUNDAMENTALIST Mohsin Hamid
Because it’s short, yet evocative: a relief at a time when authors needlessly pile on the pages.
Because it’s hard enough to sustain a distinctive voice for a dramatic monologue in a poem (ask Robert Browning), leave alone an entire novel.
Because the voice is just right – formal without being sombre; precise without being stiff.
Because, unlike in John Updike’s Terrorist, you can empathise with and understand Changez, the fundamentalist.
Because of the delicious ironies, among them the fact that Changez works in a US firm that evaluates companies ripe for takeover; virtually the first piece of advice he receives is to stick to the fundamentals.
Because Changez’s disillusionment comes about in a nuanced, progressive manner and as such is completely believable.
Because there’s ample evidence of the author’s craft, especially in Changez’s many responses and descriptions while narrating his tale in a Lahore bazaar.
Because yet another example of such craft is that Changez’s ill-fated relationship with the USA is matched by his ill-fated relationship with Erica – without being heavy-handed about it.
Because in less than 200 pages, Hamid creates both a compelling protagonist and a compelling argument.
Worth your while? Should be obvious by now.
Because it’s short, yet evocative: a relief at a time when authors needlessly pile on the pages.
Because it’s hard enough to sustain a distinctive voice for a dramatic monologue in a poem (ask Robert Browning), leave alone an entire novel.
Because the voice is just right – formal without being sombre; precise without being stiff.
Because, unlike in John Updike’s Terrorist, you can empathise with and understand Changez, the fundamentalist.
Because of the delicious ironies, among them the fact that Changez works in a US firm that evaluates companies ripe for takeover; virtually the first piece of advice he receives is to stick to the fundamentals.
Because Changez’s disillusionment comes about in a nuanced, progressive manner and as such is completely believable.
Because there’s ample evidence of the author’s craft, especially in Changez’s many responses and descriptions while narrating his tale in a Lahore bazaar.
Because yet another example of such craft is that Changez’s ill-fated relationship with the USA is matched by his ill-fated relationship with Erica – without being heavy-handed about it.
Because in less than 200 pages, Hamid creates both a compelling protagonist and a compelling argument.
Worth your while? Should be obvious by now.
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