A Separate Peace - John Knowles

Most of what I knew about A Separate Peace before reading it was that it was one of those 20th century curriculum books like Catcher in the Rye and Lord of the Flies that schools like to assign, and that Lisa and Grandma Simpson hate it. I also struggled to see how it fit in with Knowles’ other work until I realized I was mixing him up with John Fowles. That’s what they get for having names that rhyme.

The story takes place at a New England boarding school called Devon during the middle years of World War II. The narrator, Gene Forrester, is a top student who is enamoured with his roommate Phineas, a preternaturally gifted athlete whose breezy way of life and effortless charm make him Gene’s perfect foil. Despite their difference, the two are close friends, though Gene harbours a one-sided resentment of Phineas that festers into a paranoid assumption that his pranks and amusements are intended to undercut Gene’s academic success.

Gene eventually realizes his mistake, but rather than clean the infection, understanding merely drives it deeper, ultimately causing him to knock Phineas out of a tree and cause him a life-altering injury. The rest of the book deal with the consequences of this action. Like the bone in his leg, Phineas’ friendship with Gene reforms in the following, lumpy and misshapen yet in some ways stronger than before. Much is left ambiguous regarding why Gene did what he did, how conscious of an act it was, and to what extent Phineas realizes what happened. He rebuffs Gene’s initial confession and the whole things gets papered over, though later revelations make you question how Phineas really feels.

The book is interesting and well-told, convincingly narrated by an educated man looking back on his life. Perhaps not truly the ninth-grade level for a precocious student, but hardly pre-school.

The Tin Drum - Günter Grass

I feel a little defeated that I didn’t read The Tin Drum in the original German, but I think that would have been a pretty painful experience. The book is dense enough in translation, rife with euphemisms, call-backs, extended metaphors, and narrative cul-de-sacs.

The story is narrated by Oskar Matzerath, a man born in Danzig between the World Wars whose growth was stunted (by his own telling, deliberately) at the age of three and whose abiding love for his tin drum is such that attempts to take it from him evoked the power to destroy glass with his screams. The story bounces between Oskar’s present, where he resides in an insane asylum, and his past--or indeed that of his family; he goes back several generations to give familial context.

As one might surmise from the summary, it’s a weird book. A bent and hyper-sexed One Hundred Years of Solitude, complete with the extended family history and magic realism. It’s also quite funny at times. Oskar’s detached and ribald commentary makes for good reading, and I genuinely enjoyed his company, even as I struggled to place names for characters that reemerged after a hundred and fifty pages.

This is not a book where plot is paramount, and there is a whiff of a shaggy dog tale about it, as instances that seem like they may explain his current predicament fizzle into nothing. When you do finally figure out why he’s in the insane asylum, it feels a bit anticlimactic. Still, I enjoyed reading it.

The Man in the High Castle - Philip K Dick

I first read The Man in the High Castle in grad school. It wasn’t my first encounter’s with his fiction (that was, bizarrely, the largely forgotten We Can Build You) but I hadn’t read much of him at the time, and while I liked it, it didn’t grab me the way his other seminal works did (especially Ubik). That’s a bit surprising, as I’m a sucker for alternative history, and on rereading I found it displayed many of Dick’s usual strengths: nuanced characters understated but eloquent description, heady concepts. There is always an iceberg quality to Dick’s fiction, in that you sense you’re seeing only the small portion of the story peeking above the surface, while a mountain of detail lurks below, unexposed but supporting the visible tip.

The premise of High Castle is pretty well known: the Japanese and the Nazis won World War 2 and now fight for hegemony in a conquered America. Interestingly, the characters are all fairly unremarkable people: a Japanese bureaucrat, a store owner specializing in Americana fetishized by the Japanese, a fired metalworker, a judo instructor. As always with Dick’s work, tiny, fascinating details lurk in the corners: in this case, it’s society’s fascination with the I Ching, a Chinese book of divination that guides the behavior of many of the main characters.

The titular Man in the High Castle, Hawthorne Abendsen, only appears at the very end, though he looms throughout as the author of a book called the Grasshopper Lies Heavy, which posits an alternative alternative history in which the Us and Britain (but not Russia) won WW2. The Nazis are as expected not fans (they never did like books much), and attempt to assassinate him. Such attempts originally drove him to retreat to the eponymous High Castle, but one of the characters (Juliana Frink, Judo instructor) finds him living in a regular house, having resigned himself to whatever fate may bring him.

It is here that Dick’s universal fascination with the nature of reality—a cornerstone of essentially all his fiction—peeks through, just a little. Despite being a book about an alternate reality, the nature of what is true doesn’t feature in High Castle the way it does in, say, Ubik or Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? or A Scanner Darkly. That is, we presume throughout the novel that what we are reading is, in the context of the story, true. It is only at the very end, when Abendsen reveals to Juliana that he used the I Ching to compose every bit of the Grasshopper Lies Heavy. This leads Juliana to suggest that the I Ching actually used him, and through his words told a fundamental truth deeper than reality: that Germany and Japan actually lost the war. This is such a Dickian idea—that there exists a reality more true than the factual universe the characters are experiencing, and that such a truth mirrors (but is distinct from) the universe of the reader—and I’m embarrassed to say I missed it the first time around.

Dick truly is one of the great American writers of the Twentieth century. I’ve always bristled at the notion of some genres as more inherently “literary” than others, but if that term means anything, it is the idea of words and stories being able to convey a deeper understanding of humanity and the world. And Philip K Dick’s novels do that as well as anybody’s.

Up In Honey's Room - Elmore Leonard

This was a weird one. Most of the Elmore Leonard I’ve read has been contemporary crime fiction, so if it took place in the 70s it’s because it was written in the 70s. Up In Honey’s Room is set during World War II, and is a follow up to another historical crime thriller, the Hot Kid, which I haven’t read. The setting might not seem that different, but Elmore Leonard’s dialogue is so distinct that it felt weird coming out of the mouths of these characters. Maybe people talked like that in 1944, but I found it jarring.

Leonard’s novels are never particularly plot heavy, and the principal plan or focus tends to shift midway through. I like that about them, as it feels more realistic, but it can also muddy the action. In this case ,the story is ostensibly about Carl “the Hot Kid” Webster chasing down a pair of escaped German POWs. His pursuit brings him to Detroit, where he encounters Honey Deal, a young woman previously married to a pro-Nazi German immigrant named Walter.

Carl suspects Walter might be involved in hiding the POWs, and enlists Honey to help interrogate him, under the reasoning that her presence will throw him off balance. There are some other characters, including a spy named Vera and an officer named Kevin, but their roles aren’t always that clear, and Walter’s plan to murder president Roosevelt is mentioned suddenly and comes to nothing when the man dies of natural causes. Walter’s lame attempts to make people think he was responsible were funny, but they leant to the overall sense of narrative drift.

I wouldn’t want Leonard to write tight, plotted novels like Frederick Forsythe, as the meandering stories and bumbling criminals are part of the charm, but for whatever reason this one didn’t feel like it came together as nicely as his previous work.

Bloodlands: Europe Between Hitler and Stalin - Timothy Snyder

I came across this book after reading an article by Timothy Snyder on the history behind the Russian invasion of Ukraine. In his piece, Snyder discusses the long history of invasion experienced by Ukraine and other Eastern European nations existing in the dubious space between belligerent powers. This is an area he explored more broadly in Bloodlands, the title of which refers to a swath of land roughly contiguous with Poland, Belarus, and the Ukraine. where the vast majority of civilian death in the European theatre occurred between 1933 and 1945.

Much of this death was part of the Holocaust, but Snyder demonstrates that the Nazis were not the only genocidal force operating in that particular time and place. He provides a detailed rundown of the atrocities that the Soviets committed in these lands as well, from the imposed famine in Ukraine to the Great Terror to the purging of Polish intellectuals. He emphasizes that many of these places were subject to not just one invasion, but two or three, as the Nazis and the Soviets moved from allies to belligerents, and the Nazis from invaders to a broken, retreating army.

Of course, the Holocaust is given much focus, as its deliberate and racist intentions arouse particular loathing, but Snyder makes it clear that the Ukrainians and Poles were at times targeted almost as deliberately by the Soviets, if not with the same absolutist intention to eliminate them.

Snyder’s prose is academic but approachable, engaging and clear without much ornamentation. He had a tendency to repeat certain points, which I suspect is an effective way to ensure the general thesis is clear, though it sometimes grated a bit to hear the same fact several times. Overall, an important study of a particularly brutal stain on human history, one which it is hard to look at but must never be forgotten.

Too Naked for the Nazis: The True Story of Wilson, Keppel and Betty - Alan Stafford

I sometimes come across books through odd channels. In this instance, I read a review for a movie (I don’t even recall exactly which movie) that made a passing reference to the Sand Dance. Curious, I looked it up on Youtube, and found an intriguing video of two extremely thin men with fake moustaches in what likely would have bee described at the time as “oriental garb” doing a tap dance routine on a carpet of sand. After a bit more digging, I discovered the duo was really a trio, and that there was a book about them called Too Naked for the Nazis.

With a title like that, how could I resist?

As the full title suggests, the book tells the story of the vaudeville trio Wilson, Keppel and Betty, largely forgotten now but nearly a household name in Britain during their heyday. Wilson and Keppel began as a duo, but made an inspired addition of a talented young chorus girl named (or rather, stage named) Betty Knox. A young mother with a history as a runaway and a love of performing, Betty helped shape the act for over ten years before departing on good terms, lending her name to a host of other Bettys, including her own daughter.

The book chronicles the ups and downs of the troupe’s career, but the real star is Betty. We are treated to a description of her early life in much greater detail than Wilson or Keppel, and follow her in depth long after she leaves the trio. I can’t blame Stafford for this decision, as her life post-Wilson and Keppel was as intriguing as her life during her days with the troupe. Drawn almost by happenstance into journalism, she became a war correspondent, first known for her lighthearted articles on Anglo-American relations during the war, and later for her coverage of the Nuremburg trials, where her sense of justice for all, even former Nazis, earned recriminations from many in the press. To be clear, Betty was no Nazi sympathizer, but she felt that the trials of lower-level defendants lacked the rigor of true justice. She even claimed to have been writing a book to this effect, but the manuscript has sadly never been found, if it ever existed in the first place.

Stafford has a good, breezy writing style, unornate and clear. It reminds me of Irwin Chusid’s writing in Songs in the Key of Z: clearly the work of a devotee, but well researched and discussed without gushing. Too Naked for the Nazis provides a neat snapshot of a period in entertainment history far removed from what we have today, using one longstanding and widely celebrated act as a lens to view music hall as a whole. Recommended for anyone interested in such things.

The Diary of a Young Girl - Anne Frank

I don’t think this one needs much explanation. Anne Frank lived in Amsterdam, where she moved as a child from Frankfurt. When the Nazis sent a summons for her older sister to report to a German “work camp,” she and her family went into hiding in an annex stowed away in the back of her father’s office. She lived there for a little over two years with her family and four others: Otto’s buisiness partner Mr. van Daan, his wife Mrs. van Daan, their son Peter, and a local dentist Mr. Dussel (the names are all pseudonyms; the Van Danns were Van Pels and Dussel’s last name was Pfeffer. But I know them better by the names Anne gave them, so I’ve used them here).

During her time in the Annex and a bit before, Anne kept a diary where she recorded her thoughts and feelings, alongside events both quotidian and newsworthy. Life in the annex, with its myriad indignities, frustrations ,and small joys are recorded in great and evocative detail, interspersed with news gleaned from their helpers or the contraband radio. Every entry is addressed to Kitty, a fictitious figure that Anne invented to make her diary feel more conversational.

There is little to say about the structure, since it’s a diary and not beholden to pacing or format in any real sense. Still, it is an engaging read. Anne was a gifted writer, and very well would have been famous in her own right, had not the tragic and evil events of World War II taken her life before she had a chance to bring her gifts to fruition. She also speaks with much frankness (I’m sorry for the pun; I can’t think of a more approriate word) about her sexual feelings and maturity, which is surprising from a book of its time (apparently these passages were excised on original publication and only added back later).

The one other thought that struck me as I read, which never occured to me when first reading it as a teenager, was what it must have been like for Otto Frank to read and edit his dead daughter’s diary. Her love for him is clea,r but not everything she wrote is flattering ,and she was quite hard on her mother. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to do that. It was truly an act of bravery, and of love.

Anne’s diary should be required reading in school. It remains accessible and humanizes an awful period in history that is so huge, so monstrous in its evil, that it can almost feel impersonal. Six million murdered jews is a loss on a scale too large to easily wrap your head around. But thinking of that one girl, with her jokes and her dreams, murdered for the stupidest and pettiest possible reason, gives a foothold to the tragedy.

The Caine Mutiny - Herman Wouk

The Caine Mutiny is one of those books that has simply been in the ether lately. I saw it mentioned in several different places over a one week period (technically it was the movie being referenced, but close enough), and eventually my interest was sufficiently piqued to check it out. The story follows a young man named Willie Keith from his beginnings as a rich layabout slumming as a nightclub pianist, through midshipman school to life aboard a minesweeper called the Caine. It is here Willie meets Captain Queeg, an outsized character whose megalomania, cowardice, and paranoid persecution complex have drawn apt political comparisons of late.

Willie is not actually the pivotal character in the eponymous mutiny, but rather something between an active participant and an observer. Yet it is his perspective that provides the lynchpin for the story, despite its willingness to venture off into different perspectives where necessary. Wouk rounds out the story with a rich cast of supporting characters, including Maryk, a dutiful lieutenant and former fisherman who becomes a reluctant mutineer; Keefer, an erudite writer who resents Queeg but lacks the courage to oust him; and May Wynn, a nightclub singer and daughter of a lower class fruit vendor, who plays the role of star-crossed lover for Willie.

In a foreword provided by my edition of the novel, Wouk notes that the book initially received a lukewarm reception, and that its success coincided with that of another book about the Pacific theater in World War II: From Here to Eternity by James Jones. The superficial comparisons are obvious, but the books actually offer a significant contrast to one another. Jones’ prose is more lyrical, his tone darker and more fatalistic. Wouk injects a fair bit of comedy into his novel, and while it falls short of satire, there is a broadness to some of the characters that reminded me, in their most extreme moments, of Evelyn Waugh’s Men at Arms (though never reaching the zany intensity of Catch-22)

Robert E Lee Prewitt is also a much different protagonist than Willie Keith, with the former being a hard-bitten ex-boxer from a poor southern family, and the latter a rich northern Princeton grad whose status consciousness causes him much inner turmoil. Prewitt is a man aged beyond his years, Willie a boy in a man’s body who goes to sea to grow up. The ultimate fates of the two characters is about what you’d expect.

The book was gripping in its rich use of detail, first of life at sea, and later of the legalities of the court martial process. Wouk clearly knows his stuff, and presents it in a way that feels natural. I look forward to reading his other war novels.

Nuit - Edgar Hilsenrath

You try to stay human, but afterwards, what does it get you?*

I first heard about Edgar Hilsenrath after reading his obituary in the paper, so I guess you could say I was late to the party. Still, his work sounded interesting and I thought I’d check it out. Unfortunately, the only book of his available from the Ottawa library was a French translation of Nacht. I don’t typically read French books in translation, as it seems kind of pointless—if I’m not reading a novel in its original form anyway, I might as well read it in a language in which I’ve written multiple books, instead of one in which I still struggle to order things effectively in restaurants. But you take what you can get.

It’s interesting to compare this book to John Hersey’s The Wall, especially since I started and finished Hersey’s book during the period in which I read Hilsenrath’s (French books take me forever). Both stories are about Jews living in ghettos in Eastern Europe under Nazi occupation: The Wall takes place in Warsaw, Nuit in a city in Romania. Both describe the harrowing circumstances in great detail. The chief difference is in their tone. While The Wall doesn’t shy away from the horror of the Warsaw ghetto, its nevertheless retains a level of hope cut with realism. Life is hard, and people do turn on each other, but their remains a certain camaraderie, and even heroism.

No such nobility is to be found in Nuit. Life is simply about survival, and brutality reigns. The book’s “hero,” Ranek, eagerly awaits his own brother’s death so that he can in good conscious snatch the gold teeth from his jaw and trade them for food. The caustic indifference of the characters to their own suffering and that of their neighbors and friends is cut with the darkest of dark humor. Put next to The Wall, Nuit paints a very bleak picture of ghetto life (and while The Wall is based on the true and profoundly heroic tale of the Warsaw uprising, it’s worth noting that Hilsenrath actually lived in a Jewish ghetto under Nazi occupation; Hersey didn’t.)

But that’s too simplistic a take. There is heroism of a sort in Nuit, and as shabby as it may seem, it’s nonetheless remarkable given the circumstances in which the characters find themselves. This heroism emerges in simple moments of humanity. Every choice a character makes in which self-interest is not the pervading driver is in itself heroic, because the substance of their lives has worn so thin that the slightest yielding could cause them to rip in two. To offer shelter to two orphans may seem like basic human decency; asking them to pay for the privilege in cigarettes sounds downright mercenary. But for Ranek, who does just that, taking them on costs him dearly in the goodwill of his neighbors, and such a currency is the only in which he remains even remotely solvent. When you look at it that way, trading a roof for a few cigarettes seems generous.

I can’t comment much on Hilsenrath’s prose, since I observed it through the double filter of translation and a foreign language, but on a purely practical level it appeared ornate enough to push my facility with French to the limit. I’m picking up Camus next, and just thinking of his prose in comparison feels like a relief. As for his story and characters, there is a richness here, one leavened with a bitter sort of humor without being cheapened by it. A powerful book.

*On essaie de rester humain… et après? Qu’est-ce qu’on y gagné?

The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich - William Shirer

The title pretty much says it all. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich is an exhaustive chronicle of Germany under Germany. It takes its time with background, reaching all the way to Martin Luther and giving a detailed biography of the Hitler clan as well as Hitler himself’s early years, but the bulk of it fixates on the period between 1933 and 1945 when the Reich held Germany by the throat. There is little postscript, apart from a couple pages about the trials at Nuremberg.

In addition to the copious research supporting it, the book also benefits from Shirer’s unique perspective. He was a news correspondent in Berlin during Hitler’s rise to power and subsequent rule, and consequently the narrative takes surprisingly intimate turns from time to time as he recounts his personal experience of absorbing and reporting on a particularly large bit of news.

Shirer makes no effort to hide his feelings about particular actors, and though such a lack of objectively might rankle in a different context, it works fine here, since Hitler and his ilk are well beyond defending. If anything, his invective provides a bit of a release valve for the reader, as we absorb accounts of atrocity after atrocity. The flip side of this candid approach is that some passages have not aged particularly well. There are several instances where Shirer references the homosexuality of some Nazi officials in a manner than does not distinguish between it and other traits that you’d actually call morally reprehensible: things like corruption and violence. His attitude was probably not out of step with the day, but it catches on a modern ear in a way the writer probably didn’t intend.

The prose is unadorned but eloquent, and the content surprisingly accessible given the book’s scope. There are some chapters that began to drag a bit, as Shirer provided voluminous accounts of various diplomatic exchanges, but as the book strove to be comprehensive I don’t feel justified in calling this a fault. Shirer’s objective was to tell the whole story, and that he did.

The Wall - John Hersey

The Wall tells the story of the Warsaw Ghetto during the second world war, from the creation of the wall that formed its perimeter to the final savage thrust of noble—if ultimately hopeless—rebellion in which the Jews finally struck back at their oppressors.

The story itself is inherently dramatic, based as it is on a true and monstrous period of history, but the most defining feature of The Wall is not the plot or the characters, but the way it is told. The entire book, from its editorial introduction to its final pages, purports to be extracts from the copious notes of Noach Levinson, a citizen of the ghetto who becomes its de facto archivist.

The opening pages, written in the style of an introduction by an outside academic, describe how the archive was found, and give us a first glimpse of Levinson through outside eyes. The remainder is structured as an assembly of different notes, with each passage marked with the date of its occurrence, the date of its recording, and the source of the material, though every word with very few exceptions is supposed to be written by Levinson.

It’s an interesting structure, giving the impression of something between an oral history and a non-fiction account, and the frequent use of dates helps situate the reader in the broader story. Occasionally notes from other “entries” are inserted as asides to add context, thereby circumventing one of the challenges of the epistolary novel, with its rigid limitations of chronology and perspective.

There are times where the format can be a bit distracting, and while I admire Hersey’s commitment, I occasionally wanted him to just write the novel in a more traditional way, with multiple POV characters undergoing experiences in real time, rather than having everything filter through Levinson’s notes. However, it’s not fair to judge a book on something it’s not, and I have to say it held my interest, and the second half moved much quicker than the first. Hersey apparently wrote a non-fiction account of Hiroshima, and given the talent for historicity he demonstrated in The Wall, I intend to check it out.