Friday, 11 April 2014
LITTLE FAILURE is a memoir that recounts the experience of a man who emigrated from Russia to the US. He bangs on and on about Russia. Guess what age he was when he left Russia? A) 40 B) 20 C) 7. Yes, SEVEN. He tells us about how he goes to a little liberal arts school to study creative writing, and you just KNOW that the professors there encouraged him to write about his 'interesting' background, to the point where he has virtually nothing else to say. It's totally fakey. I appreciate you need to find your USP in order to sell, but COME ON.
Let me give you a sample of how American he is: "St Petersburg is a sad place. Its sadness lies in a mass grave in its northeastern suburbs along with the 750,000 citizens who died of hunger and German shelling during the 871 day siege." Imagine saying something like that to someone actually from St Petersburg! What: your city is sad? What nonsense. On the basis of past atrocities, every single big city is sad, and Rome must be a non-stop funeral. It's just so ridiculous and exoticising I can barely stand it.
But its not even the immigrant bit that annoys me the most; it's the heavy layer of cheese over the entire enterprise. There is a big set-up at the beginning, about how the author has a panic attack in a New York book store when he sees a picture of some church, and this church is referenced over and over again, so you think something really major is coming: but no, his dad once him in the face there. That's it. That's the big reveal. Or try this melodramatic language: "On so many occasions in my novels I have approached a certain truth only to turn away from it, only to point my finger and laugh at it and then scurry back to safety. In this book, I promised myself I would not point the finger. My laughter would be intermittent. There would be no safety"
I don't know if I am being a huge hater, or what. Perhaps I am influenced by the fact that I just read a great memoir, A MAN IN LOVE, which comparison is making it most particularly painful.
Tuesday, 8 April 2014
A FINE BALANCE tells the story of four people who all end up living in a small flat together. There's the owner, a single lady of mature years; the two tailors she employs; and her paid guest, who is the child of a school friend. We move back and forth in time, hearing the story of each person, but the centre of the novel is the time in the flat. The co-habitation in the flat begins out of economic necessity, but over time the four develop into a little family, which is very sweet and touching.
Hold up there, because here is where I started to get suspicious. Why are they so happy? Why are so many threads resolved, and I'm only at about 70%? I HOPE MISTRY ISN'T SETTING ME UP TO CARE ABOUT THESE PEOPLE JUST SO HE CAN MAKE A POINT ABOUT INDIA'S SOCIAL ILLS, IS HE? Oh yes. Oh yes he is. He makes you care about the characters so that when they run into the above social ills, you feel terrible. And he sure lays on the ills/ These four characters experience:
- Caste violence
- Slum dwelling
- Slum clearance (ie, you think slum dwelling is bad, but it's nowhere near so bad as when they won't let you live in the slum)
- Forced sterilization
- Forced labour
- Religious mob violence
I mean, I'm not playing: this is all in there. And it's not even that long. At the end, one kills himself, and you feel almost relieved.
That said, Mistry is a talented writer, and its an absorbing book, with entirely believable characters, neatly detailed and overlapping, and many delightful turns of phrase. (Here's his description of a village: "There, where typhoid and cholera, unchallenged by science of technology, were still reaping their routine harvest of villagers"). So I recommend, but only on a good day when you're feeling strong and won't get depressed when imagined terrible things happen to fictional poor people.
Sunday, 6 April 2014
A MAN IN LOVE is Volume 2 of his series, which is bizarrely called MY STRUGGLE. It covers his move from Norway to Sweden, his marriage and first children. He gives you a detailed account of absolutely everything, and as with Proust, this is both boring and strangely comforting. The older I get, the more I coming to the conclusion that everyone's life, when closely examined, is weird and embarrassing, and virtually nobody is leading the life we all feel we ought to be: rational, well thought out, properly managed. So for example, when Karl Ove (one can't possibly call him Knausgaard) first meets his wife to be, she shows little interest, and he drinks too much and gets cuts from a broken mirror all over his face, and everyone knows why, and it's horridly awkward. Then when they do get together, he is so happy when she kisses him for the first time that he actually faints. But then he still can't help ogling women on the sidewalk, even while madly in love.
He explains what has pushed him to memoir: "Over recent years I had increasingly lost faith in literature. I read and thought this is something someone has made up. Perhaps it was because we were totally inundated with fiction and stories. It had got out of hand. Whereever you turned you saw fiction. All these millions of paperbacks, hardbacks, DVDs and TV series, they were all about made-up people in a made-up, though realistic world. And news in the press, TV news and radio news had exactly the same format, documentaries had the same format, they were also stories, and it made no difference whether whether what they told had actually happened or not . . . ... The only genres I saw value in, which still conferred meaning, were diaries and essays, the types of literature that did not deal with narrative, that were not about anything, but just consisted of a voice, the voice of your own personality, a life, a face, a gaze you could meet. What is a work of art if not the gaze of another person? Not directed above us, nor beneath us, but at the same height as our own gaze. Art cannot be experienced collectively, nothing can, art is something you are alone with. You meet its gaze alone.
This is all very well, but sometime it degenerates into this: "I went into the supermarket down in the Metro station by Stureplan, bought a grilled chicken, a lettuce, some tomatoes, a cucumber, black olives, two red onions and a fresh baguette". No, this is going anywhere. That's his grocery list. There's also a good hundred pages on a child's birthday party during which he is bored. Yes, a hundred pages on a boring party. That takes balls.
On the other hand sometimes this daily detail is very fun, when he gives you a view of normal life in Sweden. Apparently, normal life in Sweden is mind bogglingly safe and controlled and modern. Karl Ove's wife looks after the kids while he finishes a novel, and then he looks after them while she finishes drama school, and apparently he is just one of many men with hipster glasses pushing prams around Malmo. He hates domestic work, finds it boring and frustrating in a way I would say that women are not 'allowed' to, and as he puts it - re: the pram - "I was bound to it like Odysseus to the mast: if I wanted to free myself I could do that, but not without losing everything. As a result I walked around Stockholm's streets, modern and feminised, with a furious nineteenth century man inside me." Hilariously, for someone not from Scandinavia, one of Karl Ove's biggest issues how foreign he feels as a Norwegian living in Scandinavia. Let's try not to fall apart laughing, but as he puts it: "I know nothing about life here. Everything is deeply alien." I hope in some later section of this project he has to go STRUGGLE with Mogadishu. I can't wait to find out.
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