I know three reblogs in a week is lazy but all other posts had to be pushed aside because I had something published, so here’s a shameless plug for myself and the book I did some editing work on last year, and which will be out in the summer.
Pictures of Anna is a story of people caught up in the tide of world-defining events, fighting for love, peace, and ultimately their human rights. The predicament of those who sought a safe harbour in World War II, and ended up once again being the focus of suspicion and hostility, is a subject that […]
via Pictures Of Anna: A Story Of Unfulfilled Love — Arrow Gate Publishing
In a Tokyo suburb, a young man named Toru Okada searches for his wife’s missing cat – and then for his wife as well – in a netherworld beneath the city’s placid surface. As these searches intersect, he encounters a bizarre group of allies and antagonists.
Reading this novel is certainly an arresting experience. There is a cold aspect to the writing, a sense of detachment, which makes it nonetheless strangely compelling. The relaxed tone of the narrator makes this a novel of normality and functionality of life, which heavily contrasts with the extraordinary and the imaginative (or is it supernatural?) rabbit hole it soon encompasses.
Murakami doesn’t always join the dots, or at least not in an obvious way. I like that. Instead he encourages the reader to consider the bigger themes. It’s a thought-provoking piece of literature in many ways, crammed full with lots of symbolism and elusive connections, and one exceptionally gory scene which was a bit much, when it came to the details.
There is a rare insight into the Japanese people and their history, regarding the occupation of Northern China and the Manchurian campaigns of World War II. The themes of how different types of power and pain that can drive a person, and how different spaces can affect the mind are a constant companion, the book is about the physical as much as the psychological. Continue reading “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle – Haruki Murakami”
In the summer of 1956, Stevens, the ageing butler of Darlington Hall, embarks on a leisurely holiday that will take him deep into the English countryside and into his past.
A contemporary classic, The Remains of the Day is Kazuo Ishiguro’s beautiful and haunting evocation of life between the wars in a Great English House.
For some reason I never got around to reviewing this book the first time but I loved it and reading these words again, it was just as enjoyable with all its understated, unreliable reminiscences. It’s about time Eowyn Ivey had some company (after four years) of being the only other author beginning with ‘I’ that I have thus far reviewed.
The blurb doesn’t really seem to give much away to the inquisitive peruser but it in fact describes the plot succinctly enough. The reader is treated to a story of past times, and a present that is quickly changing in many aspects. Class erosion, and the forebodings at the possible onset of a(nother) world war are both integral to protagonist Stevens’ life, and are explored with the personal. Namely the degrees of relationship we allow ourselves with people we spend the most time with.
Stevens himself is an extremely engaging narrator, a measured voice of self-reflection. He is a man of introspection with an analytical mind, whilst being a totally unreliable narrator, contradicting his remembrances and; one gets the impression, avoiding the thoughts too troubling to confront. A lot is left unsaid or, at best left ambiguous which just adds to the study of his character.
There is such a wonderful evocation of Englishness here, and of the national character, both the good and the bad. The book works as a meditation on the identity of the personal, and of where the English fit in on a continental and world scale. With the class structure slowly corroding, the changing of political thought and the reader’s hindsight into the future events of World War II, make this all the more poignant. Stevens’ vulnerabilities are a neat mirroring of his country’s.
Continue reading “The Remains of the Day – Kazuo Ishiguro”
Continuing the chronicles of life experience via narrator Nicholas Jenkins, this spoiler free review focuses on books seven to nine of the series: The Valley of Bones, The Soldier’s Art, and The Military Philosophers.
Obligatory warning to those people who feel it necessary to pick up a series at the half way point for reasons only known to them: whilst not spoiling anything of these or previous books, if you do like what you read, start with the Spring books as the Autumn omnibus will be pretty impenetrable at this point to newcomers, who will lack the sense of nuance created in previous volumes.
This third mini trilogy in greater narrative is another 720 page tome which is a joy to spend time with. By now its obvious that I love this masterwork otherwise I wouldn’t still be endeavouring to carry on but the more I engage with the characters, the richer the books become. As with the previous books the reader is in for a treat, discovering and rediscovering characters full of wit, eccentricity and intricacy.
Another phase of life begins anew for Jenkins et al. and the effects of the war lead to some unexpected changes in familiar personalities, whilst exploring the impact of some exiting characters. The impact of the second world war is far-reaching not just in geographical and emotional ways but also to the shaking up of social class structure. This book is one of acute change on all sides.
In this modern world of ours where everybody wants to talk (or shout) about themselves, it is refreshing to find a narrator who reveals little of himself throughout the books and focuses on what is going on around him. Whilst he retains the same detachedness that has seen him through school to this point there is now, more than ever, a justifiable sense of experienced world-weariness. The books he name checks – most noticeably Proust and to a lesser extent Balzac – give a tantalising hint to the man behind the narrative voice and the author himself.
There are the usual slew of new characters introduced and getting to know them counteracts the very real boredom of the war as seen from the backwaters and offices of the UK. This dullness of duty is offset by Powell’s wonderful prose, it is rich in both depth and message and gives the right amount of balance to delivering bright spots in what is a very downbeat (to say the least) time in history. Few authors would be able to be as precise and delicate in this depiction. Continue reading “A Dance to the Music of Time: Autumn – Anthony Powell”
In September 1943, German soldiers advance on the ancient gates of Gjirokastër, Albania. It is the first step in a carefully planned invasion. But once at the mouth of the city, the troops are taken aback by a surprising act of rebellion that leaves the citizens fearful of a bloody counter-attack.
Soon rumours circulate, in cafes, houses and alleyways, that the Nazi Colonel in command of the German Army was once a school acquaintance of a local dignitary, Doctor Gurameto. In the town square, Colonel von Schwabe greets his former classmate warmly; in return, Doctor Gurameto invites him to dinner. The very next day, the Colonel and his army disappear from the city.
The dinner at Gurameto’s house changes the course of events in twentieth-century Europe. But as the citizens celebrate their hero, a conspiracy surfaces which leads some to place Gurameto – and the stone city – at the heart of a plot to undermine Socialism.
Thanks to Sarah over at Hard Book Habit for bringing this book to my attention and thanks to the well-known chain of bookshops that actually bothered to stock it, rather than just pander to the popular books and terrible novelty things clogging up the entrance that one has to wade through before getting to the good stuff.
World War II is a natural hotbed for history and literature (although perhaps it is reaching saturation point on the latter), yet Albania and its inhabitants aren’t mentioned in anything I have read. Neighbour Greece has plenty written about it but it is surprising that Albania hasn’t had as much coverage as it makes for an interesting study. Part of Italy’s empire until their eventual capitulation, taken over by Germany and then under the yoke of communism, there is certainly plenty of scope for exploring the political and human aspects of the conflict.
Mixing fact and fiction Kadare creates a thought-provoking story, filled with satire and darkness where fact and fiction mingle to manufacture confusion and fear at every turn. From the outset there is a feel of magical realism to the book, slightly reminiscent of Gabriel García Márquez but this is layered over with a nightmarish quality that runs through the book, hinted at in the beginning and coming to brutal fruition towards the end. Continue reading “The Fall of the Stone City – Ismail Kadare”
Paris 1918, Bernard Jacquelain returns from the trenches a changed man.
The city is a whirl of decadence and corruption and he embarks on a life of parties and shady business dealings, as well as an illicit affair.
But as another war threatens, everything around him starts to crumble and the future for him and for France suddenly looks dangerously uncertain.
Irène Némirovsky has long been a favourite author of mine and is definitely one of the best 20th century authors, sadly still criminally under recognised by readers out there. Her ability to clearly convey human nature is incisive and dramatic but most of all beautifully accomplished.
The first chapter contains a wonderful Champs-Élysées family scene, which was perfectly executed and was made all the more poignant knowing the events that history is rushing inexorably toward. I would have been happy to stay in that place and just wish these people well but sadly that is not life.
Perhaps they have now gone too far to step back and feel we’re on the brink of an abyss? But what is certain is that it will be the young men who are first to fall into that abyss.
It’s a hard book to read knowing what will befall nations and tear apart of families. The problem with Némirovsky’s characters – which goes for all her books – is that they are so well realised and penned that it becomes hard to see them suffer on their journeys. Even the characters one dislikes demand a certain sympathy as their flaws are something we can all relate to as much as their fears and expectations. Continue reading “The Fires of Autumn – Irène Némirovsky”
Just behind (or in front of depending on your orientation) these particular remnants of the Berlin Wall the museum building stands. it’s a modern cube that sits (it changed position between sentences) surrounded by wide open spaces and to the right of it are two art galleries and the home of the Berlin’s State Parliament, not too long ago the situation was very different, as this location once – as a handy plaque informed us:
housed the most important institutions of Nazi terror: the national central headquarters of the Secret state Police (Gestapo), The Reich SS leadership, The Security Service (SD) and the Reich Security Main Office
The open and airy lay out of the gallery is a good thing as the reading material is at best challenging. It shouldn’t be, I’ve read plenty of history books and I’m familiar with the appalling numbers of casualties, of the terrible fates suffered by innocent people, of the mass slaughter and cruelty and senselessness of it all and yet when on such a site as this I just couldn’t read about these events.
It is considerably harder to reconcile these events than usual when, where you happen to be makes it tangible, visceral, much more real. With propaganda films and footage of executions, photos aplenty and sickening headlines in papers it was all a bit too much for me. it was plenty shocking, sickening and gruelling to the point where I had to sit down on the many handy benches to write some notes. Continue reading “The Topography of Terror”