Stikkord: novel

A Little Life – Hanya Yanagihara

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Advarsel 1: Denne teksten inneholder (vage) spoilers.

Advarsel 2: Boka trenger triggervarsel for (barne)mishandling, seksuelt misbruk, voldtekt, selvskading og selvmord.

Rett etter at jeg hadde lest ferdig skrev jeg på Instagram: «What a terrible, horrible, no-good book. And by that I mean, of course, that it is a very good book. A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara was not at all what I expected (though I don’t know why, or even what I DID expect), and had I known what I was letting myself in for, I am not sure I would have read it, but I guess I am glad I did. Maybe? It’s an uncomfortable story, and I guess I’m stuck with it now, it will live, rent-free, in my brain (and my heart) forever. So perhaps «glad» is the wrong word.»

En uke senere er jeg mindre sikker på konklusjonen. Joda, det var en opplevelse, og Judes historie rørte meg (selvsagt, du må jo være et monster for å ikke bli berørt), men… Hva var poenget? Lærte jeg noe nytt eller led jeg meg gjennom mildt sagt grusomme beskrivelser av barnemisbruk «til ingen nytte»?

For hva er det egentlig Yanagihara «vil» med historien? Eller, for å spørre på en annen måte: Hva sitter jeg igjen med? Har jeg lært noe nytt? Har jeg fått en dypere forståelse for verden, for mellommenneskelige relasjoner?

Vennskapet til de fire sentrale personene (Jude, Willem, JB og Malcolm), mellom Jude og Andy og mellom Jude og Harold – det vil si mannlige vennskap – blir av mange trukket fram som et viktig tema i boka, men for å være helt ærlig var det mye som ikke overbeviste meg i de relasjonene. Jeg synes ikke Yanagihara klarte å vise hva det er med Jude som gjør at disse sterke vennskapene utvikler seg, og selv om jeg absolutt ikke tror på Judes bedømmelse av egen verdi – at han ikke fortjener vennskap eller kjærlighet på grunn av fortiden – så hadde jeg ønsket at det kom tydeligere fram hvorfor han frembringer en så betingelsesløs lojalitet hos så mange «tilfeldige bekjentskaper».

Det Jude (eller Yanagihara, da) derimot klarer å vise er hvordan selvskading kan oppleves som en slags befrielse fra den psykiske smerten, så der lærte jeg noe. Men ellers? At barnemishandling er fryktelig og setter spor som ikke nødvendigvis kan leges, selv med kjærlighet, var liksom ikke noe nytt. Og selv om det finnes mange lyspunkter i Judes voksne liv får han ikke akkurat noen happy end. Og var nå den der ulykken mot slutten egentlig nødvendig?

I følge Wikipedia skrev Andrea Long Chu i New York Magazine at «Reading A Little Life, one can get the impression that Yanagihara is somewhere high above with a magnifying glass, burning her beautiful boys like ants», og det uttrykker mye av det vage ubehaget jeg føler rundt utviklingen i historien.

Vel. Jeg er ambivalent. Men enn så lenge tror jeg at jeg lander på den konklusjonen jeg har sett mange andre uttrykke: Jeg likte boka, men jeg vil ikke anbefale noen å lese den.

Boka har jeg kjøpt sjøl.

Et liv forbi – Helga Flatland

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Jeg tenkte jeg skulle klare å lese alle bøkene på Bokbloggerprisens kortliste for Årets roman i år, men da må jeg begynne å få opp farten. Det er ikke bare min feil, som nevnt i hjertesukket over pocketpriser tidligere i vår har jeg stått på venteliste på biblioteket. Flatland fikk jeg hentet og lest før ferien, Renberg venter jeg fortsatt på. Fonn har jeg, så den burde jeg jo ha klart å lese, men har ikke kommet så langt. Vel, vel, nå skal det altså handle om Helga Flatlands Et liv forbi.

Et liv forbi handler først og fremst om Anne og datteren Sigrid. De har et anstrengt forhold, mye forårsaket av at Sigrid føler at hun ble forsømt i barn-/ungdommen, da Anne ikke hadde energi til noe særlig mer enn Sigrids far, Gustav, som fikk flere påfølgende slag og ble mer og mer pleietrengende. Nå har Anne fått uhelbredelig kreft, og boka handler om de månedene hun har igjen i livet. Temaet er foreldre-barn-dynamikk, hvordan vi forvalter minner og hvordan vi i en relasjon forholder oss til at vi husker ting helt ulikt.

Historien fortelles vekselsvis fra Anne og Sigrid sitt synspunkt, de får fortelle annethvert kapittel (i jeg-form). Det er et grep som tidvis fungerer veldig godt, særlig når overgangen skjer midt i en samtale, som overgangen fra kapittel tolv (der Sigrid forteller) til kapittel tretten (Anne):

Viljar og jeg er ute og mater ender ved Bogstadvannet da mamma ringer en lørdag formiddag i begynnelsen av mars (…) Jeg stålsetter meg, som vanlig.
– Hallo, mamma, sier jeg.

13
– Kreften har spredd seg til lungene, sier jeg.
Sigrid blir stille.
– Er du der, sier jeg etter et par sekunder, hører Viljar i bakgrunnen, savnet etter ham, etter dem, banker i meg.

Men jeg tar meg i å tenke at jeg savner et tredje perspektiv. Eller… Kanskje ikke Sigrids datter Mia hadde tilført historien noe viktig som forteller, men jeg følte det som unaturlig at hun ikke fikk sjansen. Alternativt kunne kanskje Magnus, Sigrids eldre bror, fått komme til orde, annet enn i bruddstykker viderefortalt av Anne og Sigrid. For det gjøres klart at han har en helt annen oppfatning av hvordan oppveksten deres fortonte seg enn det Sigrid har.

Magnus har flere ganger sagt at han tror det ville vært bedre for mamma om pappa hadde dødd av det siste slaget, kanskje til og med det tredje, eller andre, at det å ha kroppen hans her, med blikk og pust og hud og smil, men likevel bare som en fysisk avstøpning hun ikke kan kommunisere med, har framkalt et større savn, mer dårlig samvittighet, enn om hun hadde en grav å gå til. Magnus var eldre da pappa ble syk, han har mer å savne, men sier sjelden mer enn det, enn hva han tror ville være best for mamma. Den andre gangen han nevnte det, ble jeg irritert, mest av den udelte omsorgen for mamma. Vi satt i bilen hjemover etter at han for en gangs skyld hadde blitt med ned på sykehjemmet. Det er vel minst like viktig hva som er best for pappa, sa jeg. Herregud, han er jo en grønnsak, sa Magnus overraskende hissig, han sitter jo bare der og suger energien ut av andre, slik han har gjort hele livet sitt. Hva, hvordan kan du være sint på ham, og ikke henne, spurte jeg høyt. Hun har i alle fall vært der, svarte Magnus, snudde hodet og stirra ut vinduet på passasjersiden. Vi kjørte i taushet en lang stund før han snudde seg og så på meg igjen. Det må være lov å stille noen spørsmål, sa han. Du har jo ikke stilt et eneste spørsmål, svarte jeg, så jeg forstår ærlig talt ikke helt hva du mener. Jeg spør hvorfor vi skal holde ham i live på denne måten, og for hvem, sa Magnus. Hva mener du, holde ham i live, spurte jeg, han lever jo.

(Side 53-54.) Ett eller annet savnet jeg i hvert fall. Men kanskje skyldes det bare at jeg ikke likte verken Anne eller Sigrid noe særlig og hadde langt mer sympati for både Mie og Magnus.

En annen ting er at selv om jeg synes boka var helt ok mens jeg leste den har den ikke festet seg. Jeg måtte lese gjennom sitatene jeg skrev av før jeg leverte boka tilbake i slutten av juni for overhodet å huske noe mer enn de helt basale tingene; mor, datter, minner om oppvekst, uhelbredelig kreft. I det store og hele sitter jeg igjen med inntrykket: En helt middelmådig leseopplevelse.

Boka har jeg lånt på biblioteket.

I am J – Cris Beam

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I am J by Cris Beam is another book the teen brought home from the school library and read first. While being majorly frustrated by the actions and words of some of the characters, the teen’s final judgement was that it was a good book despite everything and I should read it.

I guess I beg to differ. It is not a good book.

Ok, it has some redeeming qualities. J’s descriptions of how it feels to not present outwardly the way you feel inside ring true (and I suspect Beam has drawn heavily on her interviews with trans teens in these sections), but J himself is… not particularly likeable. At the very start of the book he is completely uninterested in the news that a younger girl is doing sexual favours for money in another room at the party he’s at, even calling her a stupid bitch and briefly fantasising about being one of the guys in line. And he kisses his best friend non-consensually (while she’s asleep), and is completely confused when she’s not happy about it. Nor is anyone else in the book particularly likeable. Those that come close are so undefined and caricaturish that they still fall short. There is also the fact that everything seems to fall into place just a little bit too smoothly for J once he starts attempting transition. Not as smoothly as J would have liked (he imagines just turning up at a clinic and getting testosterone immediately), but definitely unrealistically fast, up to and including J’s plans for college.

And so I guess I’d say that the book is not particularly well written. However, it is almost hard to judge, because the main problem with the book is the feeling of raging queerphobia. J himself reacts very negatively to people asking him if he’s a lesbian (because they think he’s a girl, obviously). Ok, I get it, he can’t be a lesbian because he’s a boy. BUT the reaction seems to contain more than just «that’s not me», there’s a distinct flavour of «gay is bad» as well. Which is sort of understandable considering his upbringing, his parents are obviously not queer friendly, but it is never resolved/discussed/problematised.

Even the good sections are marred by J’s complete disrespect for other people.

Once, when he was in the car with his mother, he heard a radio program during which the announcer asked people whether they’d rather be invisible or able to fly, given the choice. Practiacally everyone chose flight, and J was shocked. Of course he’d be invisible. Not only could he spy on people’s conversations and watch how other guys had sex, but he could stop feeling so many things. That was the problem – these feelings. He felt angry and confused, and then lost and embarrassed, and all these emotions tumbled together like the bad murals at school, all the colors running into one another, making him lash out at people, like Blue.
(…)
And would being invisible mean he wouldn’t have feelings anymore? Somehow, he thought it would. Like, if people couldn’t see him and react to him in all their complicated and terrible ways, then he wouldn’t have anything to feel _about_. And, of course, he wouldn’t have this body that betrayed him all the time.

(Page 147-148.) The confusion here is well presented, and I marked the passage because of it, and because of the interesting idea that being invisible would also mean not feeling so much, which is understandable for someone who has a lot of feelings around how he looks and especially how other people see him. But am I the only one thinking that fantasising about watching other guys having sex – without them knowing, since he’s invisible, I’m not going to kink-shame here, if consensual go ahead – is… not ok? And where are the girls these guys are having sex with in J’s mind? I presume he doesn’t want to watch guy-on-guy-action, since J is straight, but I guess the girls are unimportant? Or what?

Then when he starts at a new school downtown which is – as it turns out – a school for queer kids who have run away or been thrown out (mostly, I guess? It’s never actually stated), the other students are equally unpleasant and prejudiced. And yes, I know being queer yourself does not automatically make you a good person in every way, but the ratio of jerks to not-jerks here is definitely not reflective of the queer communities I’ve ever come into contact with.

I mean… First J is hassled in math over possibly being intersex. Which… ok, he’s not, but what if he were? It’s never made clear that intersex is not supposed to be a slur, either. And then there’s the unchallenged biphobia. And Sw-phobia. And just the whole of the interchange in the classroom when reading Whitman:

«A poet was with a prostitute?» The slender boy was still fixated. «Was that legal in the olden days?»
(…)
[Charlie, the teacher:] «And Whitman did also love men.»
«You mean he was bi?» someone said. «Eww.»
«That’s nasty,» the girl in the leather jacket agreed.
Why? J thought. He didn’t expect this from queer kids.
«Bisexual wasn’t a term widely used in Whitman’s day, so we shouldn’t ascribe language that isn’t historically accurate,» Charlie said. «But he did love both men and women.»
J raised his hand, just a few inches from his desk.
«Yes,» Charlie said. «Tell me your name again?»
«J,» he said quietly. He didn’t like speaking in class, but he was feeling less afraid of these kids. He’d already been hassled in the math class and survived. » If there isn’t a term for something, then does it even exist?»
Charlie scooted back on her desk and looked at him straight on. «That’s actually a very big and difficult question. Does anyone want to try to answer it?»
«What’d he say?» asked the slender boy.
Someone else shouted, «Tyrone exists, and we don’t know what to call him!» Everyone laughed and looked at a chubby boy sitting by the window. Tyrone tried to smile, but J could tell he was stung.
(…)
«For reals, this poet shoulda picked men or women or prostitutes. Bisexual’s nasty,» the slender boy said.
Forget it, J thought.

(Page 142-144.) How the hell is Mr. «Bisexual’s nasty» allowed to have the last word here? In a book that’s attempting to tear down prejudice, I’d call it irresponsible. Just to be clear: J’s «Why?» is never answered. His «Forget it» is the last that’s said on the subject.

Another problem, and this REALLY is irresponsible, is that J makes himself a binder early on in the book, giving a detailed description on how. Basically, the book provides instructions on how to make your own binder. From ace bandages. Which is not safe. As in: You can seriously damage your health. Towards the end it is mentioned that he has a hand-me-down binder now, but it is never mentioned that his home-made one is actively dangerous. So this book in the hands of a closeted trans boy is an instruction booklet for disaster. After talking to the teen about this, they talked to the school librarian, who will put a note in the book to warn future readers. I’m not in favour of censorship, so I don’t think removing the book from the shelf is the answer, but future readers ought to know there are other, better, safer alternatives for binding and not to follow J’s example.

On the whole, I guess, my advice is to skip this one. There are (now, at least, the book was published in 2011) better books about trans experiences out there. Not least are there books about trans experiences written by actual trans authors, which Cris Beam is not.

 

 

Girl, Woman, Other – Bernadine Evaristo

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I read Bernadine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other this summer, but the book, and it’s characters, have stayed with me. And this is just going to be a very short review, partly because my backlog is looooong, partly because I find I have very little to say when I come to talk about excellent books (it’s much easier to elaborate criticism than praise).

Really the only thing I have on my con list is that when I got to the end of the first section about Amma and realised that she would only figure as a supporting character in the other sections, I felt the same kind of loss or frustration that I do when I come to the end of a short story; «Is that it? Is that all I get?» Which is why I hardly ever read short stories.

But, I don’t know, the narrative technique grew on me, and though I would have LOVED a whole novel about Amma (and several of the other characters), this particular novel works precisely because you get 12 different stories. And then the last chapter and epilogue wraps it up so splendidly that I really cannot fault the book at all.

Boka har jeg kjøpt sjøl.

The Buried Giant – Kazuo Ishiguro

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The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro was the March pick for the reading circle. For obvious reasons, our March meeting never went ahead, and so I have not had the chance to discuss this book with the others, which is a pity, because I really need to talk to someone about it in order to figure out what to think. Because… It’s weird.

Even after finishing the novel I still don’t know what genre it is. It’s historical fiction, I suppose, but it’s also… fantasy? Magical realism? Allegorical? A bit of all of them? The setting being «post-Arthurian Britain» means it can’t be straight-up historical, the addition of mythical creatures does not help, but on the other hand it’s not very like any fantasy I’ve ever read, either.

And then we get to the, well, I suppose we have to call it the plot. Axl and Beatrice, our main protagonists, set out from their village (where we get the impression that they are… not outcasts, exactly, but certainly on the margins) to find their son, who has moved somewhere else. A mist covers the known world, and this mist seems to make everyone forget who they are and what has happened to them. So exactly why their son is living somewhere else is not known, and Axl and Beatrice are at times wanting to find him to make up somehow and at other times seem to think that he is expecting them and awaiting their arrival anxiously.

On the way they meet various confusing situations and eventually end up travelling in the company of a Saxon warrior, a young boy who has been marked as an outcast by his village and is in the Saxon’s charge and an elderly knight, who is supposedly on a mission to slay a fierce dragon, but has been on this mission for an indeterminable length of time.

There is a portentious meeting with a ferryman. There are self-flagellating, or perhaps blood-thirsty, monks. There are guards on the lookout for the Saxon warrior. Maybe.

And there is this mist. And as it starts to lift, memories come back, but are they welcome memories?

I found it slow going at first and kept reading past page thirty or so only because it was a reading circle book. And then I was somehow sucked it and after a hundred pages it was hard to put the book down, but more from the sort of horrible fascination that makes it hard to look away from a train wreck than because I actually in any way enjoyed what I was reading.

I can see that Ishiguro is trying to say something about memory and the act of forgetting, and especially of the role forgetting plays in forgivness. Can we move on and live in peace after a horrendous war if we do not, at least to some extent, forget?

But. It doesn’t work for me. I fully accept that this might be my fault as much as the author’s. The mist that makes people forget keeps the peace, perhaps (though that is a moot point) but it also hampers any sort of meaningful progress (if we can’t learn from the past, how are we supposed to improve?). And in any case the mist is part of the magical realism-ish elements, and so this forgetfulness is not actually a) a choice or b) a realistic one if one would want to chose it. We are stuck with remembrance. And the whole ferry-malarkey is obviously an allegory of sorts, but I really don’t understand what it’s supposed to signify.

I like the novel best when it touches on religion and it’s role in «forgiveness» or «just punishment»:

«What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing.»

(Page 151.) But that is drowned in the whole mist and dragons and Merlin and what-did-Axl-actually-do-in-the-war and why-is-Axl-and-Beatrice’s-son-estranged plotlines. Neither of which are really resolved to my satisfaction, either, but that’s by-the-by.

And I really, really hated Axl’s insistence on calling Beatrice «Princess» in every other sentence. That may have had some deeper meaning, too, for all I know, I just know I wanted to shake him each and every time.

So. I have so far abstained from rating the book on Goodreads, because I can’t make up my mind whether it deserves a «didn’t like it» one-star, a «meh, it was ok» two-star or a «well, at least it was interesting in a way and hard to put down» three-star. I might just leave it unrated.

Boka har jeg lånt på biblioteket.

Vernon God Little – DBC Pierre

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Jeg plukket med meg Vernon God Little fra Bookcrossinghylla på Østbanen søndagen etter bokbloggertreffet i høst, og foreslo den for boksirkelen der den ble valgt. Når vi skulle diskutere den i desember var jeg bare halvveis selv, men ganske begeistret. Flere av de andre hadde enten gitt opp eller ikke engang prøvd etter å ha hørt at noen hadde gitt opp (vi har lavterskel boksirkel, det er lov å møte opp uten å ha lest boka…) En av de andre hadde lest den (ferdig) og likte den. Skillet mellom oss som likte boka (jeg er nå ferdig og er fortsatt begeistret) og de som prøvde, men ga opp gikk på språk. Vi som ga tommel opp leste på engelsk (altså orginalspråket), de som ga tommel ned leste den norske oversettelsen.

Derfor er dette innlegget på norsk, selv om det er en engelsk bok jeg har lest (og de omtaler jeg jo normalt på engelsk). For selv om det skal handle om Vernon God Little, og hvorfor jeg likte romanen, blir det nødt til også å handle om oversettelsens begrensinger. Jeg hadde nemlig lurt på, før boksirkelmøtet, hvordan i alle himmelens dager denne boka overhodet kunne fungere i oversettelse.

Vernon Gregory Little er fortelleren av sin egen historie, og historien starter med en skoleskyting, utført av Vernons beste (eneste?) venn som også skyter seg selv. Vernon blir mistenkt for å ha medvirket, han blir i grunn forhåndsdømt, ikke bare av politiets etterforsker, men av mesteparten av lokalsamfunnet, inkludert sin egen mor. Media camper i byen og noen journalister er mer skruppelløse enn andre når de skal grave frem historier og nye vinkler. Det hele kulminerer i reality show – med utstemming – direkte fra death row.

Det er en ganske mørk historie, med klar kritikk både av media og av det juridiske systemet i USA.

Og det som bærer boka er Vernons fortellerstemme. Den er mildt sagt unik. For det første er det ikke en bok du bør lese om du misliker banning, for det er det nok av. Det er «fucken» både det ene og det andre. Men det er også lek med ord, som av og til fungerer som vitser og av og til heller framhever alvoret og patosen. Som her, fra retten, der foreldrene til de skutte barna har møtt opp for å se på (side 72):

Faces disfigured with memories of black blood and gray skin dot the crowd. Kin of the fallen. Mr Lechuga stares death-rays at me, and he ain’t even Max’s real daddy. Lorna Speltz’s mom is here, like a damp kind of turtle. I get waves of sadness, not for me but for them, all mangled and devastated. I’d give anything for them to be vastated again.

Eller her, når Vernon har blitt nær sodomert (det vil si voldtatt) av psykiateren som skal vurdere hans psykiske tilstand (side 70):

I sit under a personal cloud in back of the jail van, like a sphinx, a sphinxter, to the beat of that rude orchestra music by Goosestep Holster. It does nothing to erase memories of the shrink, and his fucken ass-banditry.

Hvordan oversetter du noe sånt?

Vel, jeg måtte rett og slett låne boka på norsk for å sjekke, og akkurat den setningen er blitt til:

Jeg sitter under en privat sky, bakerst i fengselsbilen, som en banal sfinx, en anal dings, i takten til den rå musikken av Go’stav Holster. Den gjør ikke noe for å viske ut minnene etter hjernekrymper’n og det forbanna rævrøveriet.

For å være ærlig er det en ganske god oversettelse, men den når jo likevel ikke opp mot orginalen. De før omtalte «fucken» som Vernon slenger rundt seg med oppnår en slags egen poetisk kvalitet etter mange nok repetisjoner. I oversettelsen er banneordene langt mer varierte, det veksler mellom jævla, forbanna og fuckings. Jeg tror boka taper noe på det, og ikke bare på grunn av det språklige skillet i tommel-opp vs tommel-ned i boksirkelen vår, altså.

DBC Pierre vant forresten The Man Booker Prize 2003 for denne boka, som var debuten hans som forfatter.

Vel, jeg anbefaler også Vernon God Little. Men les den på engelsk.

Denne kopiens Bookcrossing-side finner du her. Om du er interessert i å overta boka, meld fra, ellers blir den kanskje med til London for vill-slipp i slutten av måneden.

Sweet Masterpiece – Connie Shelton

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I’ll readily admit that the only reason I read Sweet Masterpiece was that it popped up in one of the Bookhub-emails that I actually read as a free book for Kindle, so I downloaded it to my «emergency library» (i.e. my phone), and then started it one of those times I was suddenly stuck somewhere without a book. It seems to be self-published, which would not normally be something I consider as a selling point. «Free,» however, sometimes works.

On the other hand, I would hardly have continued past the first few pages unless I found something to interest (cue trying to pick the next phone-read and dropping No Game for a Dame by M. Ruth Myers, also downloaded because it was free, like a hot potato after only a few sentences). Because I did. I also found quite a few things to irritate, though, so whether I’ll ever read another book of Shelton’s remains to be seen.

Sweet Masterpiece is the first in a series which belongs to the sub-genre «cosy mystery». I’m not neccessarily averse to a bit of cosyness or a bit of mystery, even in combination, however, a little bit of origininality could perhaps have been nice. The mystery is… well, not very mysterious. The cosyness dominates to the exclusion of much of an actual plot. Add to that a magical element – and fond as I am of fantasy, there is a time and a place for magic and I’m not sure this was it – and an ending which was… Well, both unpredictable in a «they lived happily ever after» sort of way and quite, quite as unbeliveable as that phrase is at the best of times.

On the other hand, I liked Shelton’s characters. Sam is charming (dare I say «sweet») in the way which makes you want to curl up with a glass of wine with her and get her to tell you her life story. And the, well, I guess I could call it extended family do their best to liven up an otherwise lumbering story. Add to that some snippets of local detail from an area of the USA I’m not that familiar with and you have enough to keep me going through the 200 odd pages. But, well, unless the next story in the series turns up as a freebie, I guess I’m unlikely to revisit Sam Sweet.

Burial Rites – Hannah Kent

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kent_burialritesBurial Rites was the book club pick for June, and I finished it late. However, I’m not sure the fact that it’s not been very long since I finished is going to make this note a long one. Still, anything is better than nothing.

Hannah Kent’s first novel has had praise heaped on it, and I guess I’m going to join the choir. I was fascinated, and in a way I didn’t really expect. I suppose I expected to be bored by the gloominess and the hopelessness of it all. But instead the changing points of view and the way the story is told from several perspectives of time as well as of character leaves me wanting more, and the tale is at times as gripping as a crime novel (which, in a sense, I suppose this is): Who did it, and why?

The novel is based on actual historic events, Agnes Magnúsdóttir was the last person to be executed in Iceland, in 1829 and each chapter starts with an excerpt from official papers regarding the case; letters or court documents. The framework, therefore, is a true story, and much of the detail is based on thorough research into the lives of people in 19th century Icelandic society. The motives, the thoughts and the actions of the characters, are, of course, fiction, but they, also, ring true.

Agnes is a cleverly drawn character and she wins the reader over, just as she wins her unwilling gaolers over in the end.

If I was young and simple-minded, do you think everyone would be pointing the finger at me? No. They’d blame it on Fridrik, saying he overpowered us. Forced us to kill Natan because he wanted his money. That Fridrik desired a little of what Natan had is no great secret. But they see I’ve got a head on my shoulders, and believe a thinking woman cannot be trusted. Believe there’s no room for innocence. And like it or not, Reverend, that is the truth of it.

(Page 132.)

Snowdrops – A. D. Miller

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snowdropsI have some catching up to do, so I am going to zip through a couple of book reviews. Well, I’ll try to, anyway. First off is Snowdrops by A. D. Miller, which we read in the book circle last month.

Snowdrops was a fairly quick read, the story was engaging, despite the fact that the narrator pretty much lacks a personality and for a long time nothing much happened.

The narrator is a British lawyer stationed in Russia, mostly because he doesn’t really have a life in Britain:

I found myself entering the thirty-something zone of disappointment, (…) The time of ‘Is that all there is?’ (…) People started running marathons or becoming Buddhists to help them get through it. (…) The truth is, the firm asked me if I’d go out to Moscow, just for a year, they said, maybe two. It was a short cut to a partnership, they hinted. I said yes, and ran away from London and how young I wasn’t anymore.

(Page 35-36) He falls in with a couple of Russian girls (and in love with one of them), Masha and Katya, sisters they say, and gets tangled up in some pretty unsavoury dealings. He is also involved in a rather unfortunate, equally unsavoury deal at work. All in all it’s a bit of a disaster and he is sent home in disgrace. Perhaps the most interesting thing about the novel is the way the story is framed, it’s written as a sort of a letter to the narrators fiance, whom he met after his return from Russia, as a sort of confession prioror to their nuptials. I can’t help thinking that the wedding will have been called off, because he really doesn’t come out of the sorry mess very well (he’s either a cynical douchebag or a pretty pathetic, naive dumbass – take your pick).

Where the novel failed, I think, is in creating the duality that I suspect the author intended. I had some sympathy for the narrator, be he ever so wishy-washy, and wanted to belive he was trying to act for the best, at least until he as so far in as to make backtacking almost impossible. However, I thereupon found myself having to remind myself that the end result of both «deals» was actually pretty horrendous. I wasn’t feeling it at all, I had to step back from the story and say «Wait, what, that is really not very nice.» Interestingly, those in my book circle who really felt how horrible the outcome was had had no sympathy for the narrator from the start (even before he’s really done anything). I should imagine what the author had in mind was for the reader to have some sympathy for both sides, so to say, to think of the narrator as a decent guy to start with and then gradually to realise (as he is supposedly realising it) what atrocities he is actually able to take part in.

The other main point that arose from our discussion of the book was how one-dimensional and distasteful the population of Russia appear in the novel. Well, there are two types of Russians, judging from this book: The scheming crooks who’ll swindle you out of your home, money and everything else, and the naive, kind-hearted souls that are there mostly to be swindled. Hardly the most flattering picture of a nation.

The best thing about Snowdrops was the occasional flash of lingustic brilliance. The quote above, especially the phrase «how young I wasn’t anymore» appealed to me, as did random sentences such as this one:

My nostrils froze together, the hairs inside them hugging each other for survival.

(Page 114) It’s not enough to save the novel, though. Not bad as such, but underwhelming, on the whole.

Factotum – Charles Bukowski

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factotum1Factotum was on our book circle summer reading list, so it’s been a couple of weeks since I finished it, but it takes a while to get around to blogging, obviously.

Factotum is surprisingly readable considering the synopsis is «Henry Chinansky travels around the US, being regularly hired and fired all the while constantly drinking and having quite a bit of sex.» I mean, really. That’s the plot.

As usual Carmen was wearing a very tight knitted dress that fit her like a balloon fits the trapped air, maybe tighter.

(Page 68) Much of the charm has to do with language, of course. There are little nuggets of beautifully formed thoughts throughout the book. I found it hard to pick just one or two for this blog entry, so you get a slew of them

He jumped up on the dusty seats, began walking along ripping out old posters with his can opener. So that’s how those things get up there, I thought. People put them there.

(Page 27) This is not life-changing literature. Well, not for me, anyway. But despite Henry hardly being the sort of person you’d trust with… well, anything, really, and despite having more than a little sympaty for his father who insists Henry pay rent and board while staying «at home» for a stretch in the book, it’s hard not to like him.

The problem, as it was in those days during the war, was overtime. Those in control always preferred to overwork a few men continually, instead of hiring more people so everyone might work less. You gave the boss eight hours, and he always asked for more. He never sent you home after six hours, for example. You might have time to think.

(Page 38) And though the hiring and firing gets a little repetitive, the insight it offers into the unskilled, odd-job market is interesting. Most of the time Henry is quite deservedly let go, but occasionally he is fired through no fault of his own, and those occasions serve to illustrate why, perhaps, he cares so little about trying to keep any job. He seems  to think that sooner or later he’ll be fired anyway, so why bother actually doing a good job, and to some extent he may be right.

I always started a job with the feeling that I’d soon quit or be fired, and this gave me a relaxed manner that was mistaken for intelligence or some secret power.

(Page 99-100) If the book has a fault it’s that it sort of peters out at the end. Henry doesn’t get a job as a writer and get his act together, neither does he die in squalour of alchohol poisoning. There you are reading about Henry drinking and losing another job and then on the next page the book ends. No closure, so to say.

Still, I rather enjoyed it.