There is such an insane amount of excellent writing coming out of Ireland, and even though not every single one of Barrett's short stories hit the marThere is such an insane amount of excellent writing coming out of Ireland, and even though not every single one of Barrett's short stories hit the mark for me, he is a fascinating writer with a recognizable voice. This collection consists of eight stories, mostly set in County Mayo, that stand out due to the knack for evocative details and the beautiful, atmospheric sentences. There is emotion shining through the rough dialogue, and humor even in the more dire tales about addiction and death. From time to time, Barrett drops dead-serious aphorisms on life and its inherent cruelty that can only be fought with mercy (look close enough, and there is some Catholicism to be discovered).
While I found myself skipping over some pages - the pacing is not always ideal, and some stories feature a bunch of unnecessary characters -, the parts that grabbed me where outstandingly effective. I particularly enjoyed how the author, who often focuses on struggling male figures (themes include death of parents, alcoholism, writing as a career, depression, loneliness, lack of direction, sibling relationships), combines gloomy outlooks and events with the weird: A desperate, aspiring poet who earns his money by drawing perverted comic fan art on request? A night at the local pub where someone brings a katana? Yes, please. I know Barrett specializes in the short form, but I love to read a novel crafted by him. Astute observations, sharp, punchy writing, great stuff. ...more
While the international bestseller Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 illuminated gender-based discrimination, the dystopian social critique "Saha" now tackles clWhile the international bestseller Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 illuminated gender-based discrimination, the dystopian social critique "Saha" now tackles classism: Set in a country called Town that was first overtaken by a corporation and is now said to be ruled by a faceless, anonymous Council (capitalism! authoritarianism! lack of accountability!), the novel tells the story of the inhabitants of the Saha Estates, the disenfranchised underclass of Town. The remote land separates its people in three classes: Citizens (L), workers with 2-year-visas (L2), and the aforementioned Sahas who exist in a dire, inescapable circle of hopelessness, exhaustion and desperation.
Cho Nam-Joo evokes this world by stringing together numerous vignettes focusing on different inhabitants of the Saha Estates, both in the present and the past, that highlight different aspects of this class-based society, mainly posing the question why - except from the historical "butterfly riot" - the people of Town mostly don't stand up to the injustice and cruelty that forms the basis of their state. Slowly, it becomes clear what happened to those who dared to rebel...
Now it's kind of silly to criticize a dystopian novel that aims to fight classism for being crude, because let's face it: 1984 is unbelievably crude, and it's also unbelievably great. But Cho Nam-Joo's text starts to get out of control in the last third, when human experiments come into play and a stand-off in a lab turns farcical: The resolution is just too over the top, it has an upsetting effect on the reader who, during the first half, is inclined to agree with the author regarding the overall message - but this message then warps into a far-feteched hero's tale that doesn't really work.
This is unfortunate, because the destinies of average Sahas who fight a merciless system that does not care whether they live or die is emotionally impactful and resonates with phenomena like the opening gap between rich and poor and the corrosion of societal solidarity (not to talk about authoritarian regimes that, let's say: use slaves to build soccer stadiums etc.). The characters are well-rendered, the atmosphere is effectively bleak, the claustrophobic, oppressive social fabric is palpable.
So I wish Cho Nam-Joo would have been able to maintain the strength the story is build on. Still, an interesting text, and this remains a writer to watch....more
This autofictional work about a 20-year-old man who is involuntarily committed to a psych ward is Mencarelli's English-language debut: Mainly crafted This autofictional work about a 20-year-old man who is involuntarily committed to a psych ward is Mencarelli's English-language debut: Mainly crafted as a chamber play set in the hospital room where the protagonist and narrator spends seven days with five other patients, the text displays the failings of a system that is supposed to treat mental illness. Fictional Daniele hopes for salvation from his psychological state, but can the doctors achieve that?
Now the question what "normal" even means and to pose it in the context of psychiatric treatment is not exactly new, but it is still relevant - this novel might be set in 1994, but fortunately, more and more people are willing and able to discuss mental health in a non-discriminatory, constructive way, and we need literature that reflects and pushes these discussions. Mencarelli introduces troubled, deeply affecting characters, like former teacher Mario, queer Gianluca, and traumatized Giorgio, people stuck in a hellish circle of mental torment that we as readers can hardly stomach - which also goes for the narrator, who struggles with the random cruelty of the world, bouts of aggression and self-medication with drugs and alcohol.
What bothered me about the book was that it doesn't quite illuminate how the system of mental health treatments in such hospitals does not only tend to fail patients, but also the staff responsible for taking care and helping those patients - it is worth pondering what it means to have this job under the given circumstances: It is a mental health hazard in itself. The personnel needs support and better working conditions to be able to do their job properly over long periods of time.
So granted, this short novel does not make groundbreaking statements, but as someone who has spend quite some time in a psych ward (fortunately, only as a visitor), I believe that this deeply emotional novel adds to an important conversation and is crafted in a way that even people who never set foot in a mental hospital can relate.
Apparently, Netflix has turned the book into a series, and I hope they haven't transformed it into cutesy uplifting nonsense. Here's the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhJT5......more
Lozano's novel is based on the destiny of real-life Mazatec (an indigenous people of Mexico) shaman María Sabina who performed healing ceremonies usinLozano's novel is based on the destiny of real-life Mazatec (an indigenous people of Mexico) shaman María Sabina who performed healing ceremonies using magic mushrooms and was consulted by the likes of Keith Richards, John Lennon, and Bob Dylan. Her fictional version Feliciana has to mourn the death of her teacher Paloma, and her storyline is interspersed by a second narrative arc that depicts the life of journalist Zoe who is assigned to report on Paloma's murder.
Lozano tells the life stories of both women and the gender-based violence and prejudice they encounter, but the most intriguing character clearly is Paloma, a muxe (third gender) healer who turns away from her occupation and trains Feliciana instead. Throughout, the text plays with ideas of stigmatization and intuition, the power of women and how non-male individuals are violated. The language has a very particular sound which is apparently reminiscent of traditional Mexican storytelling (unfortunately, I'm unfamiliar with Mexican narrative traditions).
What bothered me was the extensive narration about Zoe, the journalist who shares a similar familial constellation with Feliciana, which did not captivate me at all: I wanted to hear more about Paloma and her life as muxe, about her healing traditions and destiny. Feliciana's part was fine, but there was too much detail regarding minor characters that distracted me from her interior worlds. Still, the topic was certainly highly interesting and I'd love to read more about it....more
Now Winner of the Women's Prize for Fiction 2023 *aaargh* Joint Winner of the Pulitzer Prize 2023 with the equally simplistic Trust A twist on David CopNow Winner of the Women's Prize for Fiction 2023 *aaargh* Joint Winner of the Pulitzer Prize 2023 with the equally simplistic Trust A twist on David Copperfield, focusing on an Appalachian boy whose life is overshadowed by the opioid epidemic? That sounds like a fantastic idea. And Kingsolver does a great job crafting Demon Copperhead's voice, making the resourceful boy (and later young man) sound witty, empathetic, and engaging, infusing his whole vibe with some The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird. Of course we're also dealing with an important topic, and Kingsolver is here to give the overlooked and left-behind a voice - but this is where the problem starts.
I am not at all saying that a successful, famous writer is generally unable to convey what it means to be a person like destitute Demon in the rural South, it just doesn't work very well in this particular text, and the reason can be found in the plot itself: While Kingsolver has a lot of empathy for her characters and is obviously very upset about the societal situation - this book is rooted in her impetus for change -, everything that happens to Demon is already present in the readers' preconceived notions of socially unstable, "backwards" Appalachia: Teenage single mom with substance abuse issues who dies? Check. Mean step-dad? Check. Abuse in the foster system? Check. Demon gets addicted to opioids? Check.
Sure, the language is often evocative due to the strong narrator Demon, but at the end of the day, Kingsolver activates stereotypes that already exist in the readers' repertoire, and then adds some social commentary (capitalism is bad; rural communities deserve respect; the Sackler family is trash, etc.), so we all can feel like we are standing on the correct side, that we who are reading this are the good ones. This unchallenging outrage activism, no matter how well-intentioned, has a tendency to be patronizing and to serve as a narcissistic tool of moral self-assurance. It's, to put it bluntly, intellectually lazy, and it certainly does not help to show people from Appalachia in a new, more nuanced light - on the contrary: It only tells us what we already believe to be true.
I, for once, want literature to challenge my beliefs, especially regarding communities I am not familiar with, so groups of people that only exist as reflections in my head to begin with (I am German, but I think Appalachia is a region that is unfamiliar to many Americans as well). When a novel relies so heavily on widespread notions and then adds clichéd narrative devices (of course Demon, in the most classic of all classic Bildungsroman motifs, is also an artist; and there is the tragic twist; and a football coach; and the good-hearted grandmother, ... *argh*), it becomes rather annoying, especially because this novel is way, way, way too long. Boy, it is long. It's insane. It just goes on. And on. And then it goes on. And finally, the ending is pure kitsch.
So I guess this has solid chances to get Booker-nominated as the Oprah book club crowd-pleaser with the socially relevant message that outstays its welcome and is of dubious literary merit. If so, I'm glad that I can already cross it off my list. Demon as a character is great though....more
Set in Romania in 1988/1989, Partenie tells the story of Fane, a high school student who befriends first-year philosophy major and drummer Paul – and Set in Romania in 1988/1989, Partenie tells the story of Fane, a high school student who befriends first-year philosophy major and drummer Paul – and as we learn in the first sentence, Paul will at the end be shot to death. But at the beginning of the story, the musician dreams of living unbothered by the strict rules and oppressive climate of the ruling Ceaușescu regime, he manages to (intentionally) get thrown out of uni so he can take a job at a restaurant band, before realizing that this will not get him the peace of mind he dreamed of – so Paul flees… Meanwhile, the regime starts to collapse.
Told from the point of view of an older Fane, a young man who during the narrated time was trying to figure out what he wants from life, I was intrigued by the descriptions of the feelings and experiences of young people who grow up in a dictatorship and dream of self-expression (there are some parallels to The Short End of the Sonnenallee: A Novel, but Partenie’s novel is way less funny). Paul and Fane befriend a young waitress, Oksana, and turn an old storage hall into their meeting place, shelter and music room, the title-giving „golden burrow“. Outside, history plays out, and the novel made me realize that I want to lern more about Communist Romania and the Romanian Revolution.
Partenie works with humor to illuminate the absurd state of affairs, like a staging of Gogol’s The Overcoat where the audience had to keep their coats on, because the theater can’t be heated, or a picture of Proust that illustrates the search for lost time. Every action, every decision, every joke and every piece of music that sees the light of public becomes a litmus test for the „right“ communist attitude, and growing up means finding ways to cope with that. What bothered me about the story was that Fane, the narrator, remained too pale (although Paul is clearly supposed to be the main character, as the end reveals), and the many minor characters do not develop a real life of their own: They are just too numerous for a text with under 200 pages. The pacing is also slightly off.
This is the foil against which we should discuss next year's Booker Prizes as well as the German Book Prize: Baßler dissects the complex relationship This is the foil against which we should discuss next year's Booker Prizes as well as the German Book Prize: Baßler dissects the complex relationship between the market (what sells?), the books written and published (what is produced?), and what is celebrated by critics and prizes (how do we define literary quality?). I think I have never read such a zeitgeisty pageturner that deals with literary theory, it's stimulating, exciting, and highly relevant - plus it has already triggered quite some reactions, as it questions the standards of literary discussions.
Baßler's thesis is that in contemporary literature, "popular realism" is the dominant form of fictional writing, both in Germany and internationally. It is important to note that realism does not mean that the plot is actually realistic; rather, the style lets the plot seem plausible, because it refers to preconceived scripts that exist in the readers' heads, which is why modernism underlined realism's potential to become ideological: It doesn't challenge preconceived notions, it activates them.
This leads directly to the discussion about the democratization of art: Popular realism activates common scripts and aims to make novels accessible to many people by abolishing potential barriers to understanding, but it also intentionally uses markers to try to indicate that here, readers participate in high art. As these markers, as shown, can't be part of the aesthetic presentation, they feature in the content: "Important" topics are addressed, often combined with "authentic" writers who write about their own experiences, which leads to a discussion whether or how it is even valid to criticize these texts. What is often overlooked here is that this form of democratization (if it even is one!) also a means to turn novels into products that sell better, because it's easier to stomach them aesthetically, as the language is only there to seamlessly evoke worlds we like to spend time in. When it comes to the content, this style of writing further stabilizes preconceived beliefs and does not challenge readers, but employs conventional codes to reinforce their worldview. Baßler calls these books "midcult", referring to a concept developed by Umberto Eco and Dwight Macdonald in the 1960s.
Is this still art? I think that if bubbles start to deny the possibility of aesthetical debate, because the topics are important or the texts represent personal experience, this is the end of the truly communicative character of storytelling. Baßler also points out that the opinions furiously defended by these bubbles are often mainstream, which serves to stabilize the ideological status quo. The obvious is not worth narrating. Trauma alone is not enough to qualify a text as well crafted. To state that some writers are exempt from criticism means to disrespect them as artists.
What leads into the future, Baßler argues, is paradigmatic, tentacular storytelling; texts that do not equate, but open a field of similarities, of debate; texts that acknowledge digital worlds and move away from classic family structures to navigate wider nets of kin.
Sure, I tend to agree with Baßler as we perceive the same writers as relevant: Kracht, Randt, Krusche, Setz, Guse, Groß, Sanyal, etc. - and I love how he dissects Kehlmann, as I agree that he is extremely overrated. I'm really excited to discuss Baßler's observations during 2023, when looking at prize lists and book debates, because these are some astute observations.
So macht wissenschaftliche Literatur Spaß: Die Autor*innen verhandeln den Stand der Dinge in Sachen deutschsprachige Gegenwartsliteratur, feat. Texte So macht wissenschaftliche Literatur Spaß: Die Autor*innen verhandeln den Stand der Dinge in Sachen deutschsprachige Gegenwartsliteratur, feat. Texte über Christian Kracht, Leif Randt, Juan S. Guse, Benjamin von Stuckrad-Barre, Moritz von Uslar etc. pp. ...more
Ideas don't become more interesting when they are wrapped up in convoluted language - this is the curse of German-language academia.Ideas don't become more interesting when they are wrapped up in convoluted language - this is the curse of German-language academia....more
Now Nominated for the PEN/Hemingway Award for Debut Novel 2023 Hokeah tells the story of Indigenous Ever Geimausaddle from his childhood up to his thirNow Nominated for the PEN/Hemingway Award for Debut Novel 2023 Hokeah tells the story of Indigenous Ever Geimausaddle from his childhood up to his thirties - and he does so by letting eleven of his family members narrate one chapter each, thus evoking both the motif of the quilt (blankets that are also used as storytelling devices through their designs) and the round dance. Only in the last chapter do we hear from Ever himself. Over the whole novel lingers the question whether Ever is cursed due to a traumatic event that occurred in his childhood: Corrupt police rob his family and beat up his father so bad that he becomes permanently disabled. Ever tries to overcome intergenerational trauma that includes this event, but expands beyond it.
Now to be honest, my first impulse was to be very skeptical here: Tommy Orange's There There, which I LOVE, uses a similar polyphonic narration to illustrate the destiny of various indigenous people living in Oakland, with one of them being the alter ego of Orange (who is half Cheyenne and Arapaho, half white). But Hokeah has a different focus: Like himself, Ever is of Cherokee, Kiowa and Mexican descent, and he uses this heritage to ponder inter-tribal relations as well as the situation of Mexicans and people with Mexican roots in the US. In the bio on his website, Hokeah stresses that he sees himself as a regionalist Native American writer particularly interested in two tribally specific communities: Tahlequah and Lawton, Oklahoma, where his novel is set, and where his own family resides.
So there might be some autofictional aspects in this story full of vivid characters that exemplify problems like drug and alcohol abuse, racism, historical injustice, and poverty, but also the potential of familial solidarity, love and perseverance. Ever and many characters aim to carry on their ancestors' legacy, but while leaving theitr trauma behind. While Ever searches for a home for himself and his family, all other narrators frame him after their ideas (which they must, it's their perspective) - but what is Ever's idea of home? This question moves the story forward, as well as the looming curse that readers wish him to evade.
A fascinating round dance of a story - I'm very curious what Hokeah will write next....more
Loneliness and sadness pervade the pages of this novel about beauty and cruelty, as exemplified by the friendship between Allison, a model, and VeroniLoneliness and sadness pervade the pages of this novel about beauty and cruelty, as exemplified by the friendship between Allison, a model, and Veronica, an older, less attractive women who dies of AIDS at a time when the illness was hardly understood. The story is crafted as a look back by Allison, now in her late 40's and working as a cleaning woman. What disturbed me most is how the 80's model and party scene is depicted as utterly depressing, a place and time where young people drift through New York and LA, and everything is void - and, surprisingly, boring (and this is probably not what the text is trying to convey).
Allison's parents, the melancholic father who flees into music and her cheating mother, are wonderfully rendered, but Allison herself quickly bothered me as a person about whom I had to learn quite a bit that didn't captivate me: I wanted to learn more about Veronica, so for me, the book picked up in the last third, when she comes into a clearer focus. The women meet at an ad agency, where Veronica is a proof reader. And she is a complex female character: Not young, not beautiful, not cool, not successful, frequently degraded by her surroudnings - but in love with bisexual Duncan, who dies of AIDS. Then, Veronica gets the diagnosis and is abandoned by almost everyone she knows.
It is only then when Allison steps up to help her, and she struggles with complicated feelings towards Veronica. This is the interesting story here, not all the oh-so-shocking sex scenes, the unsurprising depiction of the 80's modeling world as predatory, or the minor characters that remain pale and forgettable. The pacing is off, and the cut-up style montage technique that is supposed to mirror random thoughts flashing through Allison's mind does not work: The effect is not intensity, but distraction. Hey, Gaitskill: Stop throwing random bits of info at me, I want to hear about Allison and Veronica, not some randos Allison dates and then doesn't date, and a sister who does stuff I've already forgotten (I just finished the book).
I want to hear more stories about the early days of the AIDS epidemic, including female perspectives, and I want to read more stories about non-conforming women and women who do not fulfill societal standards. But this ain't it, unfortunately. ...more
This smart and hilarious short novel tells the story of two frenemies who, as art critics, try to replace life by art while denying the communicative This smart and hilarious short novel tells the story of two frenemies who, as art critics, try to replace life by art while denying the communicative and social nature of creative human expression. The unnamed narrator befriends his companion-turned-opponent Schmidt at Oxford, where the two re-discover the title-giving painting "Saint Sebastian’s Abyss" in a textbook – from then on, both dedicate their lives to studying this early Renaissance artwork and promoting it as the most important painting ever conceived. The narrative is interspersed with the life story of the artist who produced the image, German Count Hugo Beckenbauer, who was not only a fake count, but also a sex-addicted maniac who went on to die from syphilis.
To a German, this character is particularly funny, as everyone around here knows that Beckenbauer is of course not a fake count, but a fake Kaiser: "Der Kaiser" is the widely popular nickname of soccer icon Franz Beckenbauer. Also, Count Hugo spends a considerable amount of time stumbling through Düsseldorf, a city that is inextricably linked to Joseph Beuys who believed in the power of human creativity and thus claimed that everyone could be an artist.
Schmidt, on the other hand, spends his waking hours gatekeeping art and defending that only experts are allowed to judge it – when the narrator speaks out against this distinction fetish, it causes a rift between the two that builds up to a feud which extends to the "disciples" of both critics, fueling a quasi-religious crusade about true art and "Saint Sebastian’s Abyss" in particular. To Schmidt, an Austrian who likes to indulge in Thomas Bernhard-style rants, all art created after Cézanne's death in 1906 is trash, and he and the narrator loose themselves in their delusions of grandeur so much so that they wreck all their human relationships over their obsession with Count Hugo and his so-called masterpiece.
While the narrator claims that their publications on the painting are widely read and praised, still convinced of the rationality of their obsession, the reader realizes that these art critics, as Franz Kafka famously put it, stared long enough into the abyss – and now the abyss stares back into them (not only Schmidt dies of a lung condition, Bernhard (sarcoidosis), Kafka (tuberculosis) and Beuys (heart failure due to the inflammation of lung tissue) did as well). Those two are intellectual fanatics, constantly pondering the meaning of the "holy donkey" depicted by Beckenbauer as well as the apocalypse and its significance for "Saint Sebastian’s Abyss". The prison-like character of their ruminations are mirrored by Haber’s fantastic use of circular phrases and how he conveys the real nature of the men’s dedication while it also remains clear that the narrator does not realize his mental disposition.
This novel is a hilarious satire on the perversion of art as a pure means of distinction, as a way not to interact with, but turn away from the world, as everything Beuys wanted to (and did) shatter. I frequently thought of Clemens J. Setz and his text Kayfabe und Literatur. Rede zur Literatur, in which he, another Austrian, rants against writers who "develop their style as if it was their character", authors who have no interest in acknowledging the social nature of storytelling. Mark Haber is with Setz and Beuys, and the way he makes his case is unbelievably smart and entertaining....more
A novel about delusions of grandeur, and their deathly consequences: At JFK airport, the unnamed narrator, a writer, meets a former UCLA classmate whoA novel about delusions of grandeur, and their deathly consequences: At JFK airport, the unnamed narrator, a writer, meets a former UCLA classmate who invites him to the first class lounge and feels compelled to tell him his life story. This sets in motion the story-within-a-story structure, in which we learn that the classmate, Jeff, has saved a man's life (via mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but the book title of course also refers to oral storytelling), and then became obsessed with this very man, aiming to find out what he did with his second chance. Turns out the man is a wealthy art dealer named Francis, and Jeff wiggles his way into his life, becoming his assistant and dating his daughter. But Jeff is not all too pleased with the way Francis spends the part of his life he enabled him to have by saving him...
Yes, there is a "Saw" vibe to it, and I think to call this book, as many reviews did, a "morality tale" is a little too overblown; rather, I enjoyed it for its discussion of megalomania, and I found it rather entertaining. The characters and from some point on the plot are pretty predictable, and if you'd like to read about the art world, the gold standard is still The Map and the Territory. But as a text about manipulation and conceit, this is cleverly done.
A short, fun read, but not overwhelmingly innovative or riveting....more
In his autofictional debut novel, journalist and photographer Frédéric Schwilden ponders male roles and how to fulfill them – and it’s fast, smart, anIn his autofictional debut novel, journalist and photographer Frédéric Schwilden ponders male roles and how to fulfill them – and it’s fast, smart, and, considering many subject matters the text touches upon, far too hilarious. The unnamed narrator grows up the son of a medical professor with two doctoral degrees, an alcoholic who enjoys degrading his children, and an apothecary, who stands by claiming to have no agency in the events that unfold. The narrator struggles with impulse control and autoaggression, but finds some solace when he falls in love with Riccarda, a curator (her real life version being Amely Deiss, Schwilden’s wife). As the story progresses, the father dies in France (you can look at the obituary of Schwilden’s real father and make of that what you will), his best friend disappears, and the narrator becomes a husband, then a father himself, all while puzzling over the meaning of these events and how he as a man and an artist wants to be in the world.
In best Benjamin von Stuckrad-Barre / Rainald Goetz style, Schwilden’s literary journey takes us through the living rooms, galleries and event spaces of artistic and political movers and shakers. Most of them appear with their real names, from Jens Spahn (former Minister of Health) to Carl-Jakob Haupt (the late fashion blogger), musicians like Malakoff Kowalski and Billie Eilish, actor Lars Leidinger and many others. Only one galerist is probably, well, veiled, probably for judicial reasons: A wheelchair-bound man named Kaiser who at a party is accused of sexually exploiting young women is pretty reminiscent of the visually impaired galerist and author Johann König, who is under pressure for the exact same accusations.
Between the main settings Erlangen (Bavaria) und Berlin, the narrator takes a fair amount of drugs and empties many a bottle while fighting the demons of his past, the trauma caused by the abusive father and the family members that enabled him. He experiences sexual aggression while intoxicated, which questions ideas of vulnerability regarding the male body. And talking about the body: Schwilden uses many graphic images regarding physical sensations, and this made me realize that the exploration of male physicality from the interior, so perceiving the body not as a shield, but as an organism, is still pretty rare. Due to his penchant for eccentric self-presentation, the narrator is often perceived as gay, another gendered box he is just put in. Crying and raging are equally present in his expression of emotion, and frequently, he is helplessly torn between the two.
And Schwilden also joins the larger discourse about wokism, safe spaces, and trigger warnings: This book offers many poignant and hilarious depictions and statements, some of them clearly crafted in a pop lit manner to provoque reactions. It’s not about always agreeing with the narrator, it’s about engaging with this absorbing narrative. As a working class kid, I’m certainly not predisposed to feel sorry for the children of rich academics, but it’s easy to sympathize with this narrator, and to join him in asking questions about the roles that men have to and want to play.
I was glued to this book and greatly enjoyed reading it – I hope it will spark some conversations, just as the author intends it to....more
If you're looking for advice on how to become a writer, this book will not provide all too much help - but that's also its strength, because Murakami,If you're looking for advice on how to become a writer, this book will not provide all too much help - but that's also its strength, because Murakami, in his trademark humble and calm way, mostly shares personal experiences and attitudes regarding his writing process. Riffing on broad topics like creativity, target audiences, and marketing, the author goes off on several tangents, which gives the text a highly conversational feel. And Murakami is clearly the antidote to the (in Germany still highly relevant) genius cult: For him, writing is about talent, yes, but even more about discipline and determination. He stresses the importance of structure, toughness, and diligence, which isn't exactly glamorous, but certainly very honest and true. In addition (and of course), the process of writing to him also means joy.
While this is not the most comprehensive, stringent book about writing novels (it also suffers from a certain repetitiveness in places), I enjoyed spending time with the highly sympathetic, fascinating author and had fun gathering tidbits that further illuminate his literary work (and they are in there - this book will prove useful for Murakami exegetes). To me, a currently particularly relevant argument was Murakami's insistence that not only are his novels for everyone to enjoy, he as a writer can also be anyone he wants in his texts, from the 20-year-old lesbian to the old man: It's the beauty of literature, and the power of empathy that can render stories successful, not the close connection between writer and character (which is not an argument against amplifying marginalized voices; rather, both standpoints are equally true and do not contradict each other).
Murakami also writes about his success abroad and how he went about it, so let me mention that there's a German edition of this book, Von Beruf Schriftsteller, translated by the wonderful Ursula Gräfe (who told me about her work with Murakami and other Japanese lit-related things in this interview). I'd love to read a proper autobiography of Murakami at some point, although I doubt that he - a man who hardly gives any interviews - will write one. His life and work remain endlessly fascinating to me.
...oh, and thanks to this book, I can now confirm: Haruki highly appreciates the work of his evil twin Ryū Murakami!...more
Gün Tank's debut novel about her mother's generation of female migrant workers focuses on a part of history that tends to be overlooked: That of womenGün Tank's debut novel about her mother's generation of female migrant workers focuses on a part of history that tends to be overlooked: That of women who left their home countries to become so-called "Gastarbeiterinnen" ("guest workers") in Germany during the 60's and 70's. The book alternates between the story of 22-year-old Nour from Turkey, who comes to Germany in 1972 and first works in a porcelain factory in Bavaria and later in Berlin, and that of Nour's daughter (apparently an autofictional alter ego of the author), who reflects about her heritage in order to understand her present and future. A central concern for Gün Tank is to show the migrant women not as victims, as weak and helpless, but as pioneers who fought their marginalization and the unjust treatment they received in an oh-so-modern Germany during a time when women still needed their husband's permission to work.
In intentionally simple language and short sentences, Tank shows the strong spirit, optimism and solidarity of migrant women who wear mini skirts and go on strike, while the majority of German women were housewives. I would love to read more of these stories, to hear a multitude of voices representing female immigrants in the second half of the 20th century, as this is central to understanding today's Germany. Still, Tank fell into a trap that probably stems form her being one of the pioneer's of telling these stories: She tries to cram in too much.
The plot tends to read like an enumeration of historic events that miraculously all somehow relate to Nour and her friends: There is them always meeting up at a grave in Bavaria where a woman is buried that in the 1920's was involved in the strikes in a porcelain factory in Thuringia (probably Metzler & Ortloff) and, at 22, died from the fumes she inhaled, so the same age Nour is now. There are also numerous other strikes and historic events, like the women's strike at Pierburg in Neuss, where one of the characters super-coincidentally gets involved. The description (and it is VERY descriptive) of the familial constellations and destinies of family members also remain highly enumerative, and the alternation between the timelines is clumsy.
Because there is so much information forcibly connected, there is a lack of immersion and a problem with uneven pacing: When Nour gets married, it's fully enigmatic why the hell she chooses this guy. The baseball bat years after the fall of the wall, a crucial time period, are shortly and unsatisfactorily mentioned. Nour's daughter lives between Berlin and Istanbul, and her search for identity remains theoretical. The dialogue between the characters reads as unnatural, more like a political agenda, an ad for the possible power of union(s). And one might also argue that none of the migrant characters are allowed to be bad, although the humanity of them shouldn't be connected to them being model migrants: They deserve rights as human beings, as workers equal to their male German counterparts.
But of course I see that it is Tank's whole agenda to write against racist hate, stereotypes and cliches that persist particularly against Muslim women, and she is fighting the good fight. But political agitation is not the same as good literature, and in this case, I feel like the impetus, the message sometimes takes precedent over writing a truly riveting, complex novel. I want to read more novels about the topic, also some that take a different aesthetic approach....more
I love the unsettling, uncanny atmosphere of this wonderfully disturbing feminist novel about grief: Song Yan is haunted by her past dream of becomingI love the unsettling, uncanny atmosphere of this wonderfully disturbing feminist novel about grief: Song Yan is haunted by her past dream of becoming a concert painist, which she traded for becoming a wife - music was her home, now she hopes her husband will be just that. But when her mother-in-law moves in, Song Yan gradually discovers that she never really knew her husband, that he carries traumas and secrets (including an ex-wife and a kid, while he refuses to have a child with Song Yan). While the marriage becomes more and more precarious, Song Yan mysteriously receives a letter from her father's favorite concert pianist who was presumed death, and she starts to play again. And then there are the deliveries with different mushrooms that appear at her door, as well as a talking orange mushroom that manifests in her dreams...
While I struggled with her debut Braised Pork, I really enjoyed how An Yu amps up the weird in this deeply humane novel that relates each plot development to freaking fungi: They seduce the mother-in-law to spill secrets, they help Song Yan ponder her identity, and they suddenly grow in apartments, letting the line between reality and hallucination oscillate. There is a The Vegetarian feminist vibe involved, as Song Yan tries (and partly really wants to be) the traditional Chinese wife she is expected to evolve into, but the music at the core of her identity is a ghost she cannot shake, she cannot replace it as a partner in this symbiosis.
I was intrigued how complex the plot is crafted, how the imagery is open to different readings, and that Song Yan is not simply a victim of society, but a messy individual that often makes the reader wonder how intimately she knows (and can know) the inner workings of her soul, and that of the people around her. The enigmatic star painist that re-appears is searching for the sound of being alive, and composer and mushroom enthusiast John Cage is invoked, who famously knew about the sonic resonance of silence (see: John Cage: A Mycological Foray / Silence: Lectures and Writings). Alas, what can the silences of the characters in the novel reveal about their grief, about the absences and ghosts they wrestle with?
Interestingly, Icelandic artist Björk has recently released a "mushroom album" (her words), Fossora, which is, of course, great. The album also deals with grief, in this case the passing of her mother. Nevertheless, she explains that her "fungus period has been fun and bubbly" and stresses the connection to the soil and the unruly nature of wildly growing, various fungi - also an interesting foil to read An Yu's novel, and see the fungi as creative, resistant forces of hope.
An exciting novel, that should get some award recognition for its daring, weird nature and its sovereign refusal to neatly answer all questions it asks....more
This Russian bestseller has recently been turned into a movie that already won the Vulcan Award for cinematography at the Cannes Film Festival, now thThis Russian bestseller has recently been turned into a movie that already won the Vulcan Award for cinematography at the Cannes Film Festival, now the translations are starting to pop up. Stoic protagonist and aspiring cartoonist Petrow has experienced the collapse of the Soviet Union. Now it's the mid-noughties, he works as a car mechanic and lives in Yekaterinburg at the Ural with his (ex-)wife (Petrowa) and young son (Petrow Jr.). As the title tells us, Petrow is sick, but lives in a pre-Corona world: He, his whole family and many other citizens have caught the flu, a hallucinatory atmosphere fueled by fever and medication permeates the text - or is the collapse between the real and the surreal due to the powers of trickster Igor? In many flashbacks and through conversations, the story presents the contrast between SU and contemporary Russian society, and humorously critiques the (unhealthy) state of affairs, stressing disorientation, loneliness and decay.
The book starts with Petrow going on a drinking binge, later we meet his librarian wife and learn about her violent urges. Many hilarious and grotesque details and outrageous micro-plotlines are interspersed with literal fever dreams that evoke states of psychological emergency, and it's all rather ambitious and inventive. What challenges me though is the reliance on lengthy, intricate descriptions of everyday scenes: Sure, it's a stylistic choice to speak about greater issues by dissecting apparently minor occurrences, but the detailed scenes illuminated in slow pacing are frequently tedious to read, IMHO, even if they are sometimes contrasted with sparse action sequences.
We learn about the Soviet Jolka festivities (introduced in 1937 as an alternative version of Western Christmas), public transportation, everyday conversations etc. pp. The clash of tradition and cold modernity leads to a stasis that immobilizes the novel's personnel, and even Petrow Jr., the future of this society, is already lost. Salnikov's biting sarcasm is both hilarious and depressing.
An interesting read for those who want to dive into psychological ponderings about the state of Russian society, but not without humor....more
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