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 Satanic Verses - Salman Rushdie

The Satanic Verses is one of those books more famous for the events surrounding it than for the text itself. I don’t have much to say about that side of things, as I think the events of the fatwa are pretty well known. What I didn’t know was what exactly it was about the book that aroused such ire. Having now read the whole thing, my impression is that Rushdie touched a nerve primarily by writing about Muhammed (or Mahound as he’s rendered in the book, which was apparently insulting as well) as a man with vested interests in his own divine inspiration, and by expressing ambiguity regarding the truth of his revelations. Yet while these discussions could potentially insult muslim readers, there is nothing in the book overtly designed to offend, and, as is the case with most controversial books, the controversy likely arose mostly from people who had never read the book and had only the roughest, least charitable impression of what was in it. So it goes.

The book is all over the place in the usual Rushdie style, but the story, insofar as it sticks ot one, revolves around two Indian citizens of muslim backgrounds, Gibreel Farishta and Saladin Chamcha, who miraculously survive an explosion in an airplane over London and are imbued by divine and infernal avatars, respectively. Gibreel adopts the holy visions of his angelic namesake, while Saladin grows the horns and cloven hoofs of a demon. Having described these startling events, the narrative promptly swerves in a dozen other directions, leaping backwards to the founding of Islam or describing a bizarre pilgrimage to the Arabian Sea led by a prophetic young girl clad in butterflies. Rich images abound, plot is thin on the ground, and diversion are plentiful. Things do eventually swing back around to Saladin and Gibreel, but never in the way you expect (Saladin’s cursed form disappears abruptly with little explanation and never bothers him again).

Rushdie’s prose is verbose and playful, full of puns and references and crackling images. It can be a little much at times, but his gift for language is indisputable, and he’s a lot of fun to read when he’s not exhausting you with 26 zigzagging sub-clauses in a row.

Having read only this and Midnight’s Children, I can’t claim to be a Rushdie scholar. However, there are clear parallels between the two books that suggest possible preoccupations common to his work: the entwining of the supernatural and the mundane; a deep drawing on history, particularly that of his country and his faith; main characters endowed by circumstances with powers that are both blessing and curse; a twinning of protagonist and antagonist.

There is also something about the way he writes women that struck me in both books. He by no means falls into the typical traps of lesser male authors writing women. They are neither passive objects of rescue nor empty vessels of desire. They are strong and capable, but also strangely cold. They seem less human than deity, and imbued with a cruelty that is not mortal but divine. It’s not a personal, vicious cruelty, but a sort of dry pitilessness. They seem always composed, never weak or vulnerable, and the violence men try to visit upon them is as pointless as fists on stone. There are certainly exceptions to this—most notably Alleluia Cone—and you could point to moments that contradict this impression for most of his other female characters as well. The general impression, however, remains. His women seem just a little farther removed from the reader than his men.

If on a Winter's Night a Traveler - Italo Calvino

What do you even say about a book like If on a winter’s night a traveler? I normally start these things by writing what the book was a bout, but what would that be in this case? I suppose Winter’s Night is, more than anything else, about the act of reading itself.

The story—or should I say, the book, since we’re not being told a story as such at this point—starts with a description of our physical act of reading, presupposing a specific example of us (the book is in second person, so it really is you, assuming you’re a guy, but he’ll get to that) going to the bookstore and purching the eponymous title. From there, we begin a type of espionage story in which a character follows cryptic advice in order to deliver an unspecified package at a train station. Except the story cuts off at a key moment, leaving us (the fictional us, and maybe also the real us) wanting to know more.

A second trip to the bookstore brings a new book and a chance encounter with a fellow reader—a woman, and presumed love interest—who was likewise bamboozled by the misprinted copy of Winter’s Night. What follows is a trail of different books, each masquerading as something they are not, juxtaposed with an increasingly byzantine—dare I say Kafkaesque—quest to retrieve this growing wishlit of incomplete literature, as stories pile upon stories, styles upon styles, and mysteries upon mysteries. The story caromes satircally of such topics as editors, the fidelity of translation ,and repressive regimes, all the while maintaining a throughline from its very disorientation.

You can’t say much for the character,s since they are either the reader themself or set up as a clear archetype, yet strange undercurrents keep their appearances form feeling cheap or lazy. Even Ludmilla, the prototypical love interest, becomes more than she seems in an interesting passage where the perspective flips, second person beocmes third, and the “you” the narrator speaks to becomes female instead of male.

The entire thing is a metaphysicla exercise that should be taxing, but isn’t. I’m not sure how many writers could have pulled it off. Between this and The Baron in the Trees, it’s clear Calvino is one of the 20th centuries greatest writers. I’ll be reading more soon.

The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor

As the name suggests, The Complete Stories compiles every short story Flannery O’Connor published. Apart from her two novels, a collection of essays, and personal correspondence, the 31 stories in this volume are the sum total of her literary output, and while her death from lupus at only 39 left us sadly bereft of a lifetime of what would doubtlessly have been phenomenal work, the stories she wrote in her short time as an author still bear more heft and talent than any writer of her generation could possibly boast.

Most of The Complete Stories is a repackaging of her two earlier collections, A Good Man is Hard to Find and Everything that Rises Must Converge, though there are also some early stories that she chose not to include in her debut collection, works that likely were intended for collection number three, and extracts form her novels, bot hthe two she published and a third, Why do the heathen Rage, which remains only a tantalizing fragment. The excerpts from her other two novels were interesting to read, as they are earlier versions tha tunderwent significant revision before appearing in their final forms. Seeing them in what amounts to draft stage offers a fascinating glimpse into her craft.

I have little to say about the stories except that they are incredible, and that Flannery O’Connor is one of the all time greatest writers of America, if not the world. I think her novel work gets short shrift, but reading or (in most cases) rereading the stories that form the foundation of her legacy, it’s easy to understand why she is revered as a short story writer first. It really was her strongest genre, allowing her to paint vignettes of her native south with startling clarity, rich characters that reach far beyond the limits of the page, and an all-encompassing faith that deepens the meaning of her words without succumbing to ham-fisted preaching.

Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

There are, in fact, three Madame Bovarys in Madame Bovary, all of whom bear some relation to Charles Bovary, the character who begins the novel as its protagonist and whose life is, in large part, defined and dictated by the three women who share the eponymous moniker. The first two are his mother and first wife, who oversee his transition from shy country boy to competent if not brilliant country doctor. After his first wife’s death, Charles remarries a young woman named Emma, the daughter of a patient, with whom he has grown smitten.

It is this Madame Bovary who becomes the focus of the novel, usurping it from her well-meaning but bumbling husband, for whom she feels more pity than love—that is, until the former emotion sours into contempt. Educated in a convent and devoted to stories of high romance, Emma chafed against the banality of life as a country doctor’s wif,e taking solace in affairs and exuberant spending, which together prove her ruin and that of her husband.

Though very much Emma’s story, the novel is populated with other memorable characters who, though not broad enough to be caricatures, are penned with enough acid to satirize provincial life. There’s Homais, the conceited pharmacist, who speaks in soliloquies and fancies himself an expert in everything; Lheureux, the scheming merchant, who gouges everyone in town and finds a pair of ideal marks in Charles and Emma; Rodolphe Boulange, the wealthy Don Juan who seduces Emma as easily as he eventually discards her.

The writing is elegant and teeming with detail. While I lack a refined ear for style in French, I know enough to appreciate the fluidity of Flaubert’s prose, and though his vocabularity strained the limits of my knowledge, his writing was clear enough to comprehend with only accasion dips into the dictionary. It took me a while to finish, but it was never less than enjoyable to read.

Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

Dickens has long been one of the more embarrassing gaps in my literary knowledge. Prior to picking up Great Expectations, the only book of his I’d read was A Tale of Two Cities—a good book, but one not very representative of his typical themes. With its orphaned protagonist, family intrigue, and dissection of the English class system, Great Expectations is much more the quintessential Dickens novel—exactly the sort of story one thinks of as “DIckensian.”

The story is narrated by the aforementioned orphen, a boy named Pip, who begins the novel in the care of his overbearing and resentful sister and her kindhearted but simple husband Joe. A chance encounter with an escaped convict echoes through his life in unexpected ways, though at the titme it seems only to cause him a few days of fear and discomfort. As he grows older, Pip makes the acquaintance of an eccentric shut-in named Miss Havisham, who wears a wedding dress in lamentation of her betrayal by a jilting lover, and her beautiful but cold adopted daughter Estella, whom Pip falls in love with. The story teaks an unexpected turn when Pip learns that a mysterious benefactor has provided him with the financial means necessary to become a gentleman, and he departs for London under the guardianship of the lawyer Jaggers.

The story is full of melodrama and the characters are drawn broadly, demonstrating the heights of either vice or virtue, but both of these characteristics are so dinstinctly ties to Dickens that it would be naive not to expect them. They are simply part of his style, and the richness of his prose and the power of his stories makes them work.

One aspect of the story that surprised me was its humour. It’s been a while, but I don’t recall A Tale of Two Cities as being particularly funny, so some of the great turns of phrase in this book struck me off guard. Dickens wields an erudite wit, dealing slashes of irony so sharp and fine their presence isn’t felt until a couple of sentences later. His writing is rewarding for this, along with its imagery, but it can be dense at times to a modern reader, so my pace was a bit slower than it would be typically be. The book definitely whetted my appetit for more Dickens, though I’ll likely take a break with lighter fare in the meantime.

Bringing Out the Dead - Joe Connelly

I came across this novel through a safari of hyperlinks through Roger Ebert’s review site. In the review of one movie (I forget which one now), the reviewer referenced a Scorsese nmovie I’d never heard of called Bringing Ou the Dead. I’m hardly a Scorsese expert, but I like what I’ve seen of his, so I looked into it and discovered the source novel by Joe Connelly.

Bringing Out the Dead is narrated by Frank Pierce, a burned out paramedic who works the night shift in Hell’s Kitchen, where he encounters a seemingly endless parade of human misery. Drawn from Connelly’s real life experiecne as a paramedic, the novel nevertheless takes on a surreal, otherworldly quality, as the scenarios encountered seem too harsh, too bleak, to bizarre to be a straightforward image of life in that time and place (though maybe I’m just naive).

This sense of unreality is reinforced by Frank’s dry description of ghosts from cases past, some who haunt him mutely from the edges of perception, others who insert themselves into his reality in an endless series of loops. He encounters the same girl, Rose, about a dozen times, each instance revealing a little bit more about the original Rose, a girl who he failed to save and who has thus inserted herself into his psyche, sliding in deep like a sliver of guilt.

Some of the cases seem medically impossible, such as the corrupt garbage kingpin who (briefly) survives having his head crushed by onbe of his garbage trucks, and the cases form the dispatcher grow increasingly strange, dissolve into litanies of suicides and informed by details a 911 dispatcher couldn’t possibly know. There are moments of shocking violence described without hyperbole or ramification. At one point one of Frank’s partners runs over an injured person. Was it a ghost? A hallucination? Did the guy know what he’d done? Did he care? Frank doesn’t say.

The novel seems less interested in reporting the veracity of events than in capturing a mood. Five years as a paramedic in a poor neighbourhood is no doubt a tough gig, and the story does a good job of illustrating what burnout probably feels like. Frank’s nights as a medic seem less like an occupation than a curse, a sisyphean ordeal foisted on him from some past misdeed.

The prose is hallucigenic but believable, a tough combination in first person, where overwriting can easily become apparent. A good book overall.

Spartacus - Howard Fast

Sometimes, a book suprises you. I picked up Spartacus expected a straightforward telling of a fraily well-known story: a slave rises up against his masters, raises an army, and fights against the tyrannical forces of Rome until cut down in a blaze of glory. What I did not expect was a strange, cubist masterpiece that resonates across time and place, to make a profound statement on what society is and what it costs us.

The novel begins in the months after the Roman general Crassus has defeated Spartacus and put down his rebel army, and returns to the life of the eponymous character only in flashback. His story emerges through the recollections of various characters who either knew him or knew his reputation: Crassus, the above-mentioned general, who did not meet Spartacus on the field of battle but came to admire his tactics even as he abhorred his insurrection; Batiatus, the owner of a gladiator school whose scouts rescued Spartacus from a Nubian mine; Gracchus, a corpulent Roman senator, whose dealings with Spartacus, however indirect, spurred an existential crisis; David, a Jewish gladiator who fought beside and idolized Spartacus.

The narrative shifts fluidly between these characters, and is not bound by the limits of their own knowledge. We gain direct access to Spartacus’ thoughts on some occasions, even though the ostensible teller of the story whould have no knowledge of them. The result is a panoramic tale that is less about historicla accuracy—much of the occurences Fast recounts are completely lost to history, and he plays fast and loose with details even in situations where they are known—than about the creation of myth, and the way such myths can ripple through time.

Fast’s prose is sumptuous, grandiloquent, unafraid of lofty pronouncements and detours into philosohpical speculation. He manages this without growing tedious or unduly absorbed in his own musings. Rather, it captures the broader tone of the book, pulling out the few threads of fact (or assumed fact) that remain of Spartacus’ legacy, and weaving them into something wondrous and whole.

Rarely has a book so exceeded my expectation. And what makes its triumph as a work of art all the sweeter is this: Fast was forced to self-publish the book after blacklisting censors bullied every publisher in America into rejecting it. It ended up becoming a runaway best-selle,r and inspired the movie that arguably delt the deathblow to the blacklist itself. All this from a book about rebelling against impossible odds.

If that isn’t justice, I don’t know what is.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey

I first read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest when I was maybe 19. It made a strong impression on me at the time, and remained at the back of my mind as an example of a Great Novel. Picking it up again at 33, I realised how much of my recollection was on the broad strokes of the plot, and on Randle Patrick McMurphy as a character. McMurphy is a solid character, a prototypical 60’s system-bucking hero, and it’s not surprising that we would become the focal point of the novel for most readers. But as I read through the book a second time, I found my attention drifting more and more to the narrator, Chief Bromden.

Books like Cuckoo are written in what we creative writing workshop dorks call “first person pedestal.” This means that the narrator is a character in the story, but unlike a standard first person novel, the narrator and the hero are not the same person. First person pedestal works to give an intimate portrait of an exceptional person from someone who knows them well, but whose own light shines a little less brightly. The Great Gatsby and To Kill a Mockingbird are probably the two most famous examples. Cuckoo is another.

But while Nick Carraway and Scout Finch can never match the allure of Gatsby and Atticus, I actually found Chief Bromden to be an even more interesting character than McMurphy. Kesey drops in details of the Chief’s past life with elegant restraint, and paints an evocative picture of his madness. A lesser author would take the fact that he pretends to be a deaf-mute as a simple narrative device and make his thinking otherwise normal, but it is clear that Bromden really does suffer from some sort of psychological ailment, quite possibly schizophrenia. Much of the narrative richness comes from Bromen’s interpretation of emotional states as affected by the Combine, a nefarious mechanism that controls everything it touches. The recurring images of machinery and fog play into common tropes among schizophrenic patients. It is interesting that Bromden’s paranoia seems to heighten rather than obscure his perception—we don’t question that Nurse Ratched controls the ward, even if we don’t take Brmden’s insistence that she does so through a fog machine literally. This device might not be medically accurate, but it makes for very rich prose.

Darkness at Noon - Arthur Koestler (Translated by Daphne Hardy)

If I had to describe Darkness at Noon in one word (why would I ever have to do this? It’s not important), I’d call it “brooding.” The book details the imprisonment and confession of Nicholas Rubashov, a member of the communist old guard who has been accused, somewhat arbitrarily, of crimes against the state.

The majority of the novel is set in Rubashov’s cell, where he communicates with his neighbours using a tap code, and the interrogation room, where he undergoes questioning by two men: Ivanov, an old friend who retains some sympathy for him, and Gletkin, a younger man who represents to Rubashov the changing face of the party he helped build. The action briefly flashes to other times and places, mostly through Rubashov’s recollections of events that are being used against him in the accusation.

The story is lean, slow, and meditative, with most of the action occuring inside Rubashov’s head as he reflects on his situation and explores his shifting attitudes towards communism. Koestler’s creates a rich and conflicted character in Rubashov, a man too intelligent to buy the absurdities of communism, yet nevertheless dedicated to the movement and not yet ready to disavow it. At the start of the book, Koestler provides a brief note explaining that Rubashov is a composite of many individuals who were purged during the Soviet show trials of the late 1930s, and this authenticity bleeds into the narrative.

The prose was rich and engaging, full of sumptuous images that chronicle Rubashov’s inner and outer turmoil. It’s worth noting that the English version of the novel is actually a work of translation, despite appearing on the Modern Library’s Top 100 Best English Language Novels of the 20th Century. I imagine it was deemed to qualify because Koestler’s original manuscript (written in German) was lost, and Daphne Hardy’s English translation was the first version to see publication. I question whether it counts, personally, but translation or no, it’s an excellent novel, and the psychological richness of Koestler’s account cannot be denied.

The Baron in the Trees - Italo Calvino

My god, I wish I came across this book when I was 13. I loved it at 33, and don't doubt I'll love it just as much when I eventually reread it (which I'm sure I will), but I think I would have loved it even more then. And not simply for its content—though as an avid tree-climber it would doubtless have gripped me--but for its melancholic whimsy. It reminds me in tone of Winnie the Pooh and, in a sense harder to define, of Louis Sachar’s Wayside books. Stories that seemed so fully realised that as a child I fell into them, walked about their pages for a while, and emerged at the final chapter ever so slightly changed.

The main character is Cosimo Piovasco di Rondo, who at the age of 12 has a fight with his father over dinner that leads him to climb into the trees and never come down. The story is narrated by his younger brother, who often relies on secondhand information and freely admits that certain passages are supposition on his part--a device that lends both uncertainty and verisimilitude to the story. The rest of the book is an episodic chronicling of Cosimo's life in the trees, with passages both prosaic (his inventive solutions for toiletry, sleep, and commerce) and heroic (battles with pirates and treacherous Jesuits). I loved the former as much as the latter, and the whole story flows effortless as a long campfire fable.

The prose is translated from the Italian, but retains a bit of Mediterranean flavour, evocative but not florid. It avoids the common pitfall of first person narratives where the narrator takes on the cadence of capital N Narration, losing the voice of the person who is supposedly telling the story. I never doubted the voice used here.

Italo Calvino is a name I'd heard for some time but never pursued, knowing nothing about him apart from that he was an author. I found The Baron in the Trees as a fluke, as it was mentioned in the comments of a Guardian article about a man who spent 2 years in a tree. Such happy accidents reinforce the value of always keeping an ear out for new titles. Sometimes the best stories come to you from unexpected places.

Clock Without Hands - Carson McCullers

What a great and burdensome thing it must be, to have written as your debut novel something as immensely powerful as The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Where do you go from there? How can you compete?

Clock Without Hands is McCuller’s fourth and final novel, written 21 years after Hunter. It opens and closes with J.T. Malone, a middle-aged pharmacist diagnosed with terminal cancer. His remaining lifespan serves as a timeline for the novel, though he quickly recedes into the background of the main story, which instead centers around Judge Clane, an elderly ex-congressman who epitomizes the arrogant bigotry of the Old South, and Sherman Jones, a young blue-eyed black man who was orphaned shortly after birth and carries a large—and not wholly unjustified—chip on his shoulder.

The story builds on the themes of racism and homosexuality that first appeared in Hunter, and while they were less obvious in her first novel (particularly those of homosexuality), their subtlety lent them power. In Hunter, the ruthless racism of the south is shown directly through the visceral descriptions of savagery against Dr. Copeland and his son, whereas in Clock it emerges through the musings of the Judge, who longs for an antebellum era he never actually knew and abhors integration of the races.

However, where a lesser novelist would tumble into saccharine cliche, McCullers strengthens the story by playing against type. Sherman, the black orphan who gets a job as the judge’s secretary, would in a lesser novel be a sympathetic and heroic character. But in Clock Without Hands, he is downright unpleasant—arrogant, rude, untrustworthy, quick to lash out at anyone and everyone. We see his wounds more clearly by what they have made of him, and McCullers makes the more difficult choice of showing that the scars of a hard life, mental and physical, aren’t always attractive.

In mediocre stories, underprivileged protagonists often present with the psychological equivalent of the single scar across the eye favored by rugged action heroes: a disfigurement that lends character and gravitas without damaging handsomeness. The truth, which is at its core the subject of all great literature, is much messier. Often wounded people are hard to be around. We want our underdogs to be polite and heroic, but sometimes politeness and heroics are themselves the result of privilege.

The character of the Judge presents the same idea in reverse: while the novel is unabashed in its implicit criticism of his worldview, and is not above a satiric tone at times, the overall picture it paints is one of pity more than anything. The Judge’s supreme arrogance is pared away and revealed as a hollow varnish painted over a great gaping emptiness. In the book’s closing pages, when he learns of the Supreme Court’s decision to integrate the school system, his final charge for segregation becomes a pathetic farce ,and the last bit of that varnish is torn away. The people in Clock Without Hands are neither heroes nor villains. They’re simply people. And while the story lacks the peerless power of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, it is nevertheless a strong and moving novel by one of the twentieth century’s greatest novelists.

Bear - Marian Engel

I knew Bear by reputation many years before I actually read it, and now that I’ve done so, the controversy that surrounded its publication—already a bit ridiculous on the face of it—seems positively quaint. Only in a place like Canada, where Queen Victoria’s prudish reign hung on in spirit until the final days of the twentieth century, could a novel like Bear be controversial. After all, we’re talking about a book published in 1976—17 years after Naked Lunch, 42 years after Tropic of Cancer, 54 years after Ulysses. If its sole aim was to shock through depiction of sexual debauchery, then it was decidedly too little too late.

Fortunately, Bear’s sole purpose is not to shock. I’m honestly not sure whether that was even among its purposes at all. Its risque subject matter aside, Bear reminds me less of the taboo-probing forbears listed above than of Surfacing, Margaret Atwood’s novel published only a few years earlier in 1972. It’s been over a decade since I read Surfacing, but my thoughts turned in its direction as a read Engel’s novel. Both books feature female protagonists facing some profound but largely unspoken emptiness in their lives, and both venture into the Canadian wilderness in an effort to address it. It is in these wilds that Engel’s protagonist, Lou, meets the eponymous Bear while on an assignment to catalog the possessions of the late Colonel Cary.

What follows is a subtle and often unspoken portrait of loneliness. There are a few short passages with explicit language that strike with surprising keenness amidst the literary prose, but my takeaway from Bear was less the protagonist’s peccadilloes than than the yawning and undefined hunger inside her. It’s a rich story well told, and one deserving of continued appreciation beyond its seamy notoriety.

The Interpreters - Wole Soyinka

I often put a hold on books at my library that don't arrive for months, and by the time I get them I don't remember what they are or why I wanted them in the first place. The Interpreters has been a similar experience, only I bought it instead of borrowing it. I don't recall when or why, but I'm glad I did.

The novel concerns a wide-ranging cast of young intellectuals in Lagos, Nigeria. There is little by way of an overarching plot. Instead, stories come and go and cross paths with one another, not in an episodic faction, but rather a fluid and ever-shifting narrative flux. Targets emerge for satire--politics, the news media, universities, religious cults--before dissolving into the textual mists. The result is disorienting, though Soyinka's rich prose and dark humor propel things along.

The book offers little by way of narrative signposts. Characters are introduced with no context for who they are or how they relate to one another, and names take a central role before disappearing for chapters at a time. Egbo opens and closes the novel, and his traumatic memory of seeing his parents drown acts as a thematic bookend, but other characters play a much bigger role in the novel's center. Kabo, the disillusioned painter, is one example. Sagoe, a beleaguered journalist, is another. A few white visitors emerge as peripheral characters, where they serve as both targets of satire in their own right and ammunition aimed at the obsequious treatment they receive by black intellectuals in some circles.

The prose is rich with imagery, the dialogue quick-witted and playful. It reminds me, in a free-association sort of way, of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. The stories are nothing alike, and the writing styles are different—Soyinka’s more florid and poetic, Heller’s more jokey—but both authors deal with a fluctuating cast of characters, through which they paint a stinging picture of of a community, and through it society at large.

This book is a real find. I just wish I remembered where it was I found it.

(An additional point: none of the characters are interpreters by profession, and no one does any interpreting, so I’m at a loss as to the meaning behind the title. I could probably come up with some sort of symbolic reason, but it would be a guess and probably wrong)

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers

There are a handful of books that seem to make in on every “best of” list for 20th century fiction. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter is one of them. And rightfully so.

Centered around a deaf mute man named John Singer in a Georgian Mill Town, the book slowly expands to encompass a group of characters who are superficially unrelated, but share a profound inner pain that Singer, in some strange way, seems to soothe. Though fundamentally good, Singer is not some beatific healer, but is himself deeply wounded, and seeks his own solace in a friendship with a Greek man named Spiros Antonapoulos. Though their friendship is platonic and there is no hint of romantic affection between the two, their interactions have a subtext of unrequited love, as Singer’s devotion to Spiros is not mirrored by Spiros’ behavior towards Singer. This is not necessarily because Spiros is manipulative or selfish, but more likely from an undiagnosed mental illness or developmental issue. Much remains unspoken and unlearned, which is an accurate reflection of how mental illness was treated at the time.

McCullers’ prose is excellent in a graceful, understated way. She writes in a style I admire in no small part because I can’t emulate it. It takes a special gift to write prose that is lyrical but not ornate, that carries poetry in simple, declarative sentences. Whole paragraphs can pass without a single comma, and her use of metaphor is restrained, giving the few that she uses greater power. The book is a masterpiece.

Mosquitoes - William Faulkner

Mosquitoes is the second novel that William Faulkner published, appearing only a year after his debut Soldiers’ Pay. Though it is uncertain which of them was written first, Mosquitoes certainly feels like the sophomore work, as its tone and style place it somewhere between the more straightforward Soldiers’ Pay and the mad rush of stream-of-conscious fervor to come. The story concerns a party hosted by a socialite named Mrs. Maurier, whose fascination with artists leads her to invite various luminaries from the New Orleans literary and artistic scene on a four-day cruise aboard a motorized yacht called the Nausikaa.

Faulkner employs many of the techniques that would become his signatures, including a rich and somewhat archaic diction, bursts of stream-of-conscious writing to underscore moments of great psychological insight or strain, and a tendency to write around key events rather than describing them outright, leaving it up to the reader to infer what happened based on the shape of the hole made by its absence. This technique even extends to the titular insects themselves, who plague the characters on multiple occasions but are never actually mentioned by name (note: this only occurred to me midway through my reading, so it’s possible I missed a mention early on. In any case, he seemed to take pains not to write the word “mosquito,” whatever the reason for that may be)

Another common trait in Faulkner’s work—at least the ones I’ve read—that also appears in Mosquitoes is his tendency to avoid having one character stand out as a clear protagonist. Reflecting on the story, there are a number of candidates for the title: Mrs. Maurier, whose desire to host a gathering for artists launches the entire novel; Mr. Talliaferro, whose presence bookends the novel; Fairchild, a slightly gone-to-pot novelist who seems a focal point for many of the other characters; Patricia, Mrs. Maurier’s niece, whose complex and combative relationship with her aunt and brother drive much of the story’s tension. However, none of these characters feel truly central to the story.

If the book has a key character, it is probably Gordon, the terse and enigmatic sculptor who acts as a source of fascination for many of the other characters, but hardly says or does anything himself. In this way, he is oddly reminiscent of the doomed pilot Donald Mahon in Soldiers’ Pay. While Gordon is a less sympathetic figure, both men cast outsized shadows across the stories they inhabit, where they act more as symbols and foils for the other characters than as characters themselves. It will be interesting to see if this tendency appears in Faulkners’ other books. Certainly the dead mother in As I Lay Dying is a good example of such, though it’s been too long since I read his other work to recall accurately.

The Moviegoer - Walker Percy

The Moviegoer is one of an assortment of books that I read in my early 20s and of which I retained basically no memory. Lately I’ve made a point of revisiting these books to get a sense of what I missed the first time. In some cases ,such as One Hundred Years of Solitude, I found myself surprised that they left so little an impression at the time. In the Moviegoer’s case, I’m less shocked.

The story, such as it is, concerns a New Orleans stockbroker named Jack “Binx” Bolling, the eponymous Moviegoer, as he passes an indeterminate period of time, primarily in the company of one of two women: his secretary, Sharon, a young Southern girl who has recently moved to the city; and his cousin, Kate, for whom he retains a complex romantic affection that is not exactly reciprocated.

There’s really not much more to say in terms of plot. The novel belongs to one of the more ponderous sub-genres of literary fiction, in which a well-to-do male protagonist in his early middle age undergoes some form of slumming—financial or, as in BInx’s case, intellectual—and Thinks Big Thoughts. It’s not a genre that appeals to me, as I prefer books that hew more towards story or style, and don’t park themselves so squarely in the realm of pure philosophy. It’s an aesthetic preference, and as such not a reflection of the book’s quality or lack thereof, but ti doesn’t change the fact that the story left me pretty cold.

The prose is strong for the most part, with rich imagery and a compelling voice. Percy pulls off a neat trick by having me buy Binx as a character despite the fact that no human being would really talk the way he talks. It’s a pet peeve of mine when authors select a first-person perspective and then write in a grandiloquent style that would have been much better suited to a third-person narrator, and while this decision still rankled on occasion, Percy gets away with it better than some (I’ve had to put down more than one book unfinished for that very reason).

Lastly, I can’t think of The Moviegoer or Walker Percy without acknowledging that he is the person who is second-most responsible for the publication of John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces (the most responsible person being Toole’s own mother). That buys an awful lot of good will from me, but it also invites an inevitable comparison between the two works, and in any match with Dunces, the opponent is going to come up short.

Soldiers' Pay - William Faulkner

Soldiers’ Pay is the first novel that Faulkner published. It isn’t necessarily the first he wrote—there is uncertainty there—but it is unquestionably among his earliest novel-length works. His most famous novels—the Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Sanctuary, Light in August—would emerge in a flurry of astonishing literary fecundity a few years down the road. Soldiers’ Pay contains the seeds of these works, and if it is not quite at their level, it is nevertheless an impressive debut.

The story centers around Donald Mahon, a pilot in the First World War who was shot down and grievously wounded. While the story involves Mahon’s journey home and the reception he receives when he gets there, his character is less the nucleus of the novel than a hollow core around which the other characters orbit. Blind, weakened, and largely mute, he acts as a mirror, reflecting the wants and intentions of those around him.

The most prominent of these characters are Joe Gilligan and Margaret Powers, a solider-in-training who never saw combat and a war widow, who take Donald under their wing and shepherd him home. When her arrives, he is greeted with a mixture of joy and horror by his fiance, Cecily Saunders, who feels an obligation to marry him despite her disgust at his appearance, and is at once dismayed by this prospect and attracted by its romantic implications.

The prose is more straightforward than what might be thought as “Faulknerian,” as the more experimental aspects of his writing are used only sparingly. However, hints of the talent more fully unearthed in later works peek periodically through the topsoil. One lyrical passage struck me in particular: “an overcast sky, and earth dissolving monotonously into a gray mist, grayly. Occasional trees and houses marching through it; and towns like bubbles of ghostly sound beaded on a steel wire.”

Soldiers’ Pay is a novel of a developing author, but given who he developed into, it is still well worth reading.

One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I first read this book about ten years ago, and for some reason it didn’t stick. I could only recall one thing about it in detail: a trail of blood winding its way through a rustic Latin American town. Re-reading it now, I’m surprised more of it didn’t stand out for me, as the story is bristling with rich, poetic images.

One Hundred Years of Solitude is the story of a family, but it’s also the story of a town, as the Beundias and Macondo are inextricably linked. From Macondo’s founding by the Beundia patriarch, José Arcadio, to its foretold destruction, the town holds the Beundia family at its turbulent center, and the fate of one feels reflected by the fate of the other.

The story is complex and roughly chronological, with regular lurches forward and backward in time. The structure creates a sense of disorientation, which increases with the introduction of each new generation, which inevitably takes the names of some or all of its predecessors. There’s some realism to this, as family names are common, but I can’t help but feel that it was also a deliberate choice by Marquez to underscore the cyclical, Sisyphean nature of the family’s struggle. In any case, the profusion of José Arcadios and Aurelianos can be a challenge at times, not least because the family’s prodigious longevity and propensity for becoming ghosts can mean that five or six generations are in the story at the same time.

As with all translated books, I hesitate to comment about the prose, since it comes to me filtered ,but in this case I can only say that it reads beautifully, with lush, loping sentences overflowing with imagery, reaching nearly half a page at times. Bursts of absurdist humour leaven the largely tragic story, which, alongside the vicissitudes of life and death in a hardscrabble rural village, covers such pivotal events as war, political upheaval, and the encroachment of colonialism.

All told, it’s a brilliant book, and one I’m surprised I didn’t connect with more strongly the last time.

The Bridge of San Luis Rey - Thornton Wilder

Max Boot’s book was fine, but The Bridge of San Luis Rey was a lovely palate cleanser after a dense tome on warfare—not simply for its slender page count, but for the spare, breathy urgency of its prose. Wilder wields a fleet style that I admire in no small part because I just can’t do it. His writing isn’t colloquial, but it gains its literary sheen without becoming comma-clotted and dense. It sits at the opposite end of a spectrum counterbalanced by Thomas Wolfe and WIlliam Faulkner, and while I can rival neither of those masters, I am much more an eager (if incompetent) disciple at their feet. With Wilder, I don’t even know where to start.

The book is interesting in structure as well as style, a quasi-religious meditation on causality and faith. The eponymous bridge lasts barely an instant, collapsing in the very first sentence only to be raised repeatedly through jaunts backwards in time. Five people fall to their death while attempting to cross it, and a devout friar named Brother Juniper seeks out every detail of their life in hopes of summising some grander purpose that will prove the existence of God.

Most of what follows is a biography of the five ill-fated individuals, with particular focus on three of them: the Marquesa de Montemayor, an epistolary savant pining after her indifferent daughter; Estaban, a man grieving his lost twin brother; and Uncle Pio, an avuncular figure managing a tempermental actress. Their stories intersect in different ways, some of which seem to defy their own causality (Im not sure if this is a deliberate effect, an error on Wilder’s part, or simply a result of my own misreading). Each chapter inevitably ends with the bridge’s collapse, lending a strange air of fatalism to the proceedings.

A great book. I’ll read more from him one day.