The Unpassing

Chia-Chia Lin

The Unpassing by Chia-Chia Lin explores the challenges of assimilation experienced by a Taiwanese immigrant family of six in Alaska. Set against Alaska’s beautiful but stark landscape and its unforgiving climate, the family struggles to adjust to life an unfamiliar country while dealing with personal grief.

The story unfolds through the first-person voice of Gavin, the eldest boy in the family. It flashes back to 1986 when the family experienced a terrible tragedy. Gavin was ten years old at the time. He wakes from a week-long coma after contracting meningitis to learn his three-year-old sister, Ruby, died from the virus.

Rather than openly grieving and sharing their loss, each family member reacts to the trauma by withdrawing emotionally. Their failure to discuss Ruby’s death prevents them from healing. Gavin’s profound guilt at infecting his sister permeates his perceptions through the rest of the novel as Ruby is never far from his mind. The mother, a strict, harsh, abrasive, and distant matriarch, is prone to erratic behavior and fits of verbal lashings. The father, riddled with grief at the death of his daughter, tries to do what is best for his family, but he is fragile and not up to the task. Gavin’s older sister, Pei-Pei, is headstrong and determined to go her own way. Five-year old Natty, the sibling closest to Ruby in age, cannot comprehend her loss. He worries she may be lost in the woods and insists they look for her.

Compounding the family’s grief is their poverty and alienation at being in an unfamiliar country. Gavin inherits his parents’ distrust of outsiders, including medical personnel and police. He feels his “otherness” in school because of the way he looks, dresses, and the food he eats. His life at home is fraught with an underlying tension ready to surface at any moment. His mother seethes with resentment at his father, constantly reminding him of his failures and inadequacies.

Gavin struggles to find a secure foothold, to make sense of what is happening as he watches his family slowly unravel before his eyes. His narrative unfolds in a series of half-understood, murky events peppered with snatches of his parents’ conversations. The absence of a cohesive plot reinforces his sense of bewilderment. The structure is episodic in nature. By the time Gavin is able to piece together what happened to Ruby, his parents have separated. As an adult, Gavin visits his extended family in Taiwan. But, here, too, he is an outsider. His feelings of alienation and separation haunt him wherever he goes. He recognizes he will “un-pass” for the rest of his life.

Told in spare, haunting prose, this is a complex, understated novel that intertwines several themes: the challenges facing a first-generation immigrant family; coping with the traumatic loss of a child; suppressed grief; isolation; alienation; poverty; the struggle to survive; detachment as a coping mechanism; a coming-of-age story; the failure of adequate parenting; the search for identity; the pain of childhood trauma; and the long-lasting legacy of outsider status.

A compelling novel exploring challenging and difficult themes. Highly recommended.

The Familiars

Stacey Halls

The setting for Stacey Halls’ The Familiars is 17th-century England during the Pendle Hill Witch Trials. It is told in the first-person voice of Fleetwood Shuttleworth, the wife of Richard Shuttleworth. Both Fleetwood and Richard are historical figures.

Having suffered multiple miscarriages, Fleetwood is desperate to give birth to a healthy baby. She meets Alice Grey, a young midwife, and clings to her as her only hope to survive and to give birth to a healthy baby. She places complete trust in Alice and the healing plants and herbs she provides. But this is 17th century England, a time when women healers and midwives, whose knowledge of medicinal plants and herbs were transmitted from mother to daughter for many generations, were viewed with suspicion by male authorities. These women were hunted down, persecuted, tortured, and executed in part to curry political favors with powerful male elites, in part to keep women afraid, and in part to reinforce a patriarchal power structure designed to subordinate women.

When Alice Grey is accused of witchcraft, Fleetwood spurs into action to save her midwife in a frenzy of activity as Alice’s trial looms on the horizon. Fleetwood visits Alice in prison, travels across the countryside talking to people who knew Alice, and obtaining letters that prove her innocence. When all appears lost, Richard Shuttleworth saves the day. He speaks in support of Alice during her trial and provides letters of her innocence obtained by Fleetwood.  

The novels strength lies in showing the corrupt system which accused these women, put them on trial, and executed them on the flimsiest of evidence. Much of the evidence was hearsay fueled by politicians eager to make a name for themselves by persecuting helpless, impoverished women. This was not just a war against women healers who were poor and illiterate. It was a war waged against all women to intimidate them and reinforce their subordinate status.

Although the narrative had potential, it fell short. With its exclusive focus on Fleetwood, the opportunity to shed insight on the women put on trial as witches was squandered. The characters were superficial and uninteresting, frequently speaking in clichés. The events felt contrived, including the hurried ending with the last-minute rescue of Alice Grey.

Probably the most problematic issue was Fleetwood’s transformation. From a meek and mild nobleman’s wife intimidated by her own household servants, she transforms into a courageous pregnant woman who dashes about the countryside on her horse, determined to rescue her midwife. She goes to unseemly places, interacts with unseemly men and, yet, somehow, manages to emerge relatively unscathed. She defies her husband and challenges an unscrupulous former magistrate intent on his political advancement at the expense of innocent women. Although she rails against the injustices toward women, she casually accepts her husband’s betrayal as if it were an acceptable norm. Above all, she risks her life, her marriage, and her freedom to save a midwife. And she does all this at the ripe, old age of seventeen.

An entertaining novel but it stretched the limits of credibility.

Weep Not, Child

Ngugi Wa Thiong’o

Published in 1964, Weep Not, Child by Ngugi Wa Thiong’o tells the story of a young boy growing up during a period of civil unrest between British colonial authorities in Kenya and the indigenous population—a period of escalating tensions and the Mau Mau uprising. The events are seen through the eyes of a child.

As a young boy, Njoroge is full of hope and potential. His ambition is to obtain an education. With family support, he passes the required exams and is the first boy in his village to attend high school. He feels the weight of the village on his shoulders and dreams of his education as a means to better equip him to support his people. Meanwhile, the country suffers from escalating tensions between the indigenous population and the white government; harsh repercussions for workers striking for a living wage; increased brutality; killings; the Mau Mau uprising; disappearances; and torture.

The struggle is multi-faceted. It pits one family member against another. It is a struggle over land appropriated by the white colonists from the original owners. It is a struggle to control resources. It is between Kenyans co-opted by the colonial powers to fight against their own people. It is between Christianity and the indigenous belief systems. It is between those who believe Western education as the only weapon to achieve justice and those who take up arms against the oppressor. It is between those who have hope in the future and those who have lost all hope.

Njoroge is swept up in forces completely beyond his control. He witnesses the collapse of village ties and the disintegration of his family. His father is tortured to death; one brother is incarcerated; and the remaining brothers have been killed. His hopes of an education are dashed, and his one love rejects him. He changes from being a child full of hope and promise to young adult full of despair. The outcome is bleak.

Told in simple, almost rhythmic language, Weep Not, Child is a complex, multi-layered exploration of the deleterious impact of colonialism on every aspect of the lives of the indigenous population. It also shows how the colonizer becomes increasingly brutalized in a desperate attempt to hold on to what he deems is rightly his. For a short, quick read, the novel packs a powerful punch.

Recommended.

Antigone Rising: The Subversive Power of the Ancient Myths

Helen Morales

In Antigone Rising: The Subversive Power of the Ancient Myths, Helen Morales, a classics professor, interrogates classical myths through a feminist lens.

Using a variety of Greek and Roman myths, Morales contests traditional interpretations of myths to glean their current relevance and to show their continuing influence on our culture. She argues some myths reinforce a patriarchal agenda, while others can be reclaimed to challenge the dominant ideology by unveiling their subversive power. Her insights are fascinating. For example, she argues that the killing of girls and women by men can be seen as continuing the legacy of Greek heroes lauded for killing Amazons since they rejected male domination. She claims the words of Hippocrates have been misappropriated by the diet industry “to promote misery and sickness” and to enforce gender and racial norms. She traces the policing of dress codes for girls and women back to the gunaikonomoi, the women controllers of ancient Greece who enforced women’s dress and behavior as a means of control. And Euripides’ The Bacchae is interpreted as a cautionary tale of the dangers and futility of trying to control women.

Morales deconstructs several rape narratives and shows how they inform our perspectives on sexual violence. The myth of Procne and Philomela demonstrates the refusal of rape victims to be silenced and the importance of women’s collaboration to effect retaliation against abusive men. Antigone is faulted for acting alone. The myth of Erysichton is interpreted as an allegory for climate change. Abuse of the environment is connected to the abuse of women. Myths are explored for their gender fluidity. And Morales celebrates Beyonce for casting herself as a pregnant Venus in photographs and for her APESHIT music video with Jay-Z at the Louvre. By dressing as African goddesses in her stage performances, Beyonce makes visible black women’s pasts.

Some of Morales’ insights and connections are intriguing. Some have barely a tenuous link with the myth. But all are interesting. Morales peppers her discussion with personal anecdotes about her herself and her daughter. Prior familiarization with the myths is unnecessary since she provides brief summaries. She comments on modern interpretations and iterations of the myths. By shifting the focus and changing the lens, Morales opens up the myths to new interpretations, thereby demonstrating their power and continued relevance. Her writing is engaging, accessible, and witty. Her contribution to feminist critiques of Greek and Roman myths is both refreshing and welcome.

Highly recommended.

Cry, the Beloved Country

Alan Paton

The opening lines of Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country exemplify the beauty and sheer lyricism of his diction:

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond the singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa. About you there is grass and bracken and you may hear the forlorn crying of the titihoya, one of the birds of the veld.

Paton sustains this level of lyricism for the rest of the novel. His language sings, rolls, and skips along the tongue, much like the poetry of Dylan Thomas. The beautiful language accentuates the poignancy and heartbreak of the narrative as the story unfolds.

Set against the background of a South Africa fraught with racial tensions and the injustice of apartheid, an elderly Zulu pastor, Stephen Kumalo, sets off for Johannesburg in search of his sister, Gertrude, and his son, Absalom. Unfamiliar with large cities, Kumalo is bewildered by its size and activity. Fortunately, several people generously give of their time to assist him in his search. He retrieves Gertrude from a life of prostitution. He eventually locates Absalom, finding him in a jail cell awaiting trial for murdering a white man.

Threaded throughout this tragic story are insights on the impact of imperialism: the exploitation of the indigenous population, the struggles they face, the desperation and poverty, the breakdown of the family unit, the loss of a cohesive belief system, and the corruption and betrayal of those in relative positions of power. Paton takes an even-handed approach to the challenges. While castigating a system built on segregation and economic exploitation, he scrupulously avoids portraying the struggle as black against white. The corrupt and the advocates for equality and racial justice can be found on both sides of the racial divide, as are their acts of forgiveness, kindness, compassion, and generosity.

The characters are authentically rendered in a series of heart-wrenching scenes. Kumalo’s encounter with Absalom as he grapples to understand why and how his son could have killed a man is deeply moving. His son’s confused and halting replies reflect his fear and inability to fully grasp what has happened. A distraught James Jarvis, the victim’s father, as he reads the final words of his son, is heart-wrenching. Ironically, his son was composing an eloquent statement advocating for racial justice before he was so tragically interrupted. But perhaps the most poignant scenes are those between James Jarvis, the father of the man who was killed, with Stephen Kumalo, the father of the man who killed him. Overcome with emotion, Kumalo struggles find the right words to apologize for his son’s senseless act. The shared pain of the two fathers is rendered with compassion and delicacy.

This is a beautiful story, beautifully rendered with compassion and understanding.

Highly recommended.

Gilgamesh: The Life of a Poem

Michael Schmidt

Gilgamesh: The Life of a Poem by Michael Schmidt explores various aspects of this very ancient poem from Mesopotamia. In this relatively short but densely packed book, Schmidt provides an overview of the discovery of the clay tablets scattered across the Arab world, Turkey, and southern Iran; the fragmentary nature of what has survived; the many translations, interpretations, and iterations; its influence on modern writers; and speculations as to why the poem continues to fascinate.

Gilgamesh is a work in progress. There is no single, complete copy of the poem. It is a patchwork of fragments from different time periods, in different languages, discovered in different locations. Some of the many gaps can be plugged by referring to a more recent tablet, while others cannot be filled at all and are indicated by ellipses and/or plus signs. To complicate matters further, the meaning of the cuneiform symbols has changed over time, so the same symbol may mean something different elsewhere. And as new discoveries are made, the meaning behind existing symbols will have to be revisited.

A chapter is dedicated to each of the 12 surviving tablets. Schmidt outlines the content and weaves in and out of the Old Babylonian and Standard Babylonian texts while examining the differences between them. He compares different translations of the same passage, critiquing them and noting where a translator has been lax by taking unwarranted liberties with the text or by injecting a modern perspective on this ancient poem. He is not shy about expressing his opinions, arguing that because the nature of the poem is “uncertain, porous,” it has attracted a variety of translations. He eschews translations not performed by Assyrioligists since they have not relied on original sources but are translations of translations. And he will not suffer any distortions when it comes to a translation although he does allow for imaginative retellings that don’t claim to be translations.

What emerges from this study is Schmidt’s unwavering passion for the poem and his insistence that it should be allowed to speak for itself so as to be appreciated on its own terms. He is wary of translations that aim for accessibility to a modern audience by glossing over the poems “otherness.” He celebrates the original scholars who poured over the tablets, meticulously and conscientiously deciphering each symbol. And he describes the intense sensation he experiences when handling one of the copyist tablets.

Michael Schmidt has offered a very informative and engaging commentary on the life of this very ancient poem and the challenges it presents. His work is informed by his unabashed love for the poem and his attempts to dive into its possible meanings while adhering faithfully to the actual text.

Highly recommended for its informative exploration of this very ancient, enigmatic poem.

The Red Sofa

Michèle Lesbre; Trans. Nicole Ball and David Ball

The Red Sofa by Michèle Lesbre, translated by Nicole Ball and David Ball, is a quiet, unassuming novel consisting primarily of flashbacks exploring the interior landscape of Anne, the central character.

Seemingly adrift in the world, Ann sets off to locate her former lover, Gyl. Although it had been twenty years since they last saw each other when he took off to live in Siberia, they had continued to communicate through letters. When his letters end abruptly, Anne is convinced he is in trouble and needs help. She decides to find him.

She travels on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Her journey to the small village where Gyl presumably lives takes several days. Punctuated by bouts of sleep, Anne alternates between describing the desolate Russian landscape and observing her cabin companions. The swaying motion of the train lulls her into reflecting on her own life and past loves in a series of flashbacks.

Prominent throughout these recollections is her friendship with Clémence Barrot, an elderly neighbor in her Paris apartment building. She remembers her first meeting with Clémence. She remembers Clémence firmly ensconced on her red sofa. She remembers Clémence pulling out an old photo of her first love which she kept hidden behind the sofa cushion. She remembers sitting next to Clémence on the sofa as she read her stories of courageous women of the past who defied convention and fought for justice. And she remembers how they celebrated these women by raising a glass to them in a nearby café. The two of them connect. Their bond deepens. They exchange stories of their loves and lives. It soon becomes apparent to Anne that Clémence has led a life of passion. Her zest and enthusiasm to embrace all life has to offer is unwavering in spite of her frail body and failing memory.

Anne drifts seamlessly in and out of flashbacks in a dream-like state lulled by the rhythmic movement of the train. She describes the train ride, her observations of the passengers, her previous relationships, Gyl, and her unlikely friendship with Clémence. Peppered throughout her interior meanderings are expressions of self-doubt. When her sought-after meeting with Gyl fails to materialize, she returns to Paris eager to share her adventure with Clémence only to learn that Clémence has died.

What starts off as a train journey through the Russian landscape gradually assumes a different dimension. It becomes a transformative experience. The Anne who returns to Paris is no longer adrift or disenchanted with life. Paying homage to her deceased friend, she goes to the river where Clémence died and reads her a poem that celebrates life. She feels Clémence’s presence so deeply, she seemingly imbues her persona. The novel concludes with Anne embracing her friend’s love of life, making it her own.

A quiet, thoughtful novel that packs an emotional punch.

Recommended.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Carson McCullers

Set against the backdrop of a small town in the deep South where violence, poverty, prejudice, and economic discrimination abound, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers poignantly explores loneliness and the yearning for human connection.

The central figure is John Singer, a deaf-mute. The novel opens with Singer and his closest friend, Spiros Antonapoulos, also a deaf-mute, on their daily routine of work and home. The two keep to themselves and rely solely on each other for company. All is going well until Antonapoulos’ behavior becomes seriously problematic and he is institutionalized. Singer is broken-hearted, bereft of his only companion.

With his world turned upside down, Singer changes his routine. He leaves the home he shared with Antonapoulos, rents a room in a nearby house, and eats his meals at a local café. Gradually, he attracts a disparate group of people who hover around him like moths to a flame. They include Mick Kelly, the homeowners’ young daughter who harbors a secret passion for music; Jake Blount, a Marxist alcoholic; Dr. Copeland, a black physician, alienated from his own children and with a burning ambition to educate the black community about their oppression; and Biff Brannon, the lonely café owner.

The characters are sympathetically drawn. They drift in and out of Singer’s room sharing their dreams, frustrations, and heartaches. Each feels better after the encounter, convinced Singer is a kindred spirit who understands. He is their only source of comfort, someone who listens. Meanwhile, Singer, who understands little of what they say, welcomes them warmly, offers food and drink, smiles pleasantly, and nods sympathetically. The conversations are one-sided, not only because they don’t understand sign language but because Singer shares nothing of himself, remaining a blank slate for their projections.

The irony is that as each character projects on to Singer what he/she wants to believe, Singer projects on to Antonapoulos in the same way. He, too, needs to be heard. His devotion to his friend is palpable. He visits him laden with gifts, which Antonapoulos dismisses. He pours his heart out to him in a flurry of sign language, which Antonapoulos ignores. His enthusiasm is not reciprocated as Antonapoulos is more intent on food than he is on his friend. And yet Singer continues to make excuses for him, convincing himself that their bond is unique and unbreakable, and that he, alone, understands him.

An omniscient narrator alternates between the characters, revealing their innermost thoughts. The tragedy lies in their inability to alleviate their loneliness by communicating honestly with one another. They talk at cross purposes, misunderstand, miscommunicate, and prevaricate. Their hunt for connection and a sympathetic ear leads them to Singer whom they endow with wisdom and insight. In reality, he barely understands them and cannot respond to their deepest outpourings.

At twenty-three years old, Carson McCullers was able to fathom the depths of loneliness and the need to be heard with a level of maturity and sophistication far beyond her years. Her portrayal is heart-felt, timeless, profound, and starkly desolate.

A masterpiece and highly recommended.

The Law of Inheritance

Yasser Abdellatif; trans. Robin Moger

The Law of Inheritance by Yasser Abdellatif, translated by Robin Moger, is a series of vignettes that tell the story of a young man growing up in Egypt in the 1990s. The snapshots include stories of his Nubian grandfather and the family’s relocation after their village was flooded by the Aswan Dam; recollections of his childhood and schooling; his involvement in the student riots at Cairo University in the 1990s; his pill-popping experimentation with hallucinogens; and his fledgling attempts at becoming a writer.

The fragmentary nature of the vignettes is reinforced by a lyrical prose that give it almost a dream-like quality. The movement is fluid. The vignettes move back and forth in time; characters appear, disappear, only to reappear later. Questions of belonging and identity permeate the atmosphere. Bouts of smoking and pill-popping with friends pepper the narrative as does the fate of family members and school friends. The student riots and violent reaction of the authorities is described in chaotic, almost surreal terms. The overall impression is of a series of snapshots revealing a people in transition, floundering to find a foothold and struggling to forge connections in a changing society.

Unfolding in poetic prose, these fragmentary sketches and memories, shifts in time, and the depiction of a generation adrift encapsulate the zeitgeist of Cairo as it experiences the dramatic changes of the 1990s.

Recommended.

Three Men in a Boat

Jerome K. Jerome

First published in 1889, Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome has withstood the test of time and remains a comic masterpiece. The three men are George, Harris, and J, the narrator; the dog is Montmorency, an intrepid fox terrier. Ignoring Montmorency’s whimpering objections, the three men decide to take a boat trip on the River Thames to cure them of their maladies—real or imaginary.

What follows is one hilarious episode after another. From the hysterical scene where they pack for the trip to the self-inflicted mishaps during the actual boat ride, the various antics of the three men and their dog will have the reader doubled over with laughter. J includes hilarious anecdotes, recollections, and digressions along the way, which he tells with very dry humor and a pinch of sarcasm. He evokes in vivid detail the charming and idyllic scenery of the river and its surroundings. The serenity prompts his reveries back to a time long since passed where toil and trouble were presumably non-existent. He peppers the narrative with interesting historical tidbits about the various locations they pass—which poet lived in the area, the location of the historic signing of the Magna Charta, the many locales where Henry VIII chased after Anne Boleyn, and so on. He reflects on the meaning of life, laughs at himself and others, and pokes gentle fun at some of the foibles of human nature, including his own peccadillos.

The humor is timeless. The dialogue between the three buddies is fresh, witty, unpretentious, and injected with irony and sarcasm. In addition to its laugh out loud humor, what makes this book so delightful is its ability to strike a nostalgic tone—a time when life was much simpler, when boating along the river afforded an escape from the frantic hustle and bustle of life.

A deliciously funny book and one that is highly recommended for anyone in need of some hearty laughter.

Tortilla Flat

John Steinbeck

Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck is a charming story loosely based on King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The central figure of King Arthur is Danny. His knights are a motley crew of itinerant paisanos, men of mixed Spanish, Mexican, Indian, and Caucasian heritage. A hillside in Monterey, California, is Camelot. And King Arthur’s round table where the knights gather is Danny’s ramshackle home.

The story opens when Danny, much to his dismay, inherits two houses. He lives in one and rents another to his friends. In one of their drunken reveries, these gallant friends accidentally burn the house down. Although he chastises them, Danny is secretly relieved to be rid of what he considers to be the burden of owning two houses. He allows his friends to settle in with him. Other homeless friends gradually filter in until there are five people and several dogs living with Danny—Pilon, Pablo, Pirate, Jesus Maria, and Big Joe Portagee.

The only ambition in life of these goodly knights is to spend their days and nights drinking, spinning yarns, philosophizing about life, carousing with women, and drinking, again, until they pass out in a drunken stupor. They eschew worldly possessions. Their activities are punctuated with the occasional brawl and the theft of other people’s property which they rationalize by claiming it is for a good cause—the purchase of more wine. Their intentions may be good, but more often than not, they are waylaid by personal considerations.

Although they appear to be lawless vagabonds, this motley crew of friends adheres to a strict code of honor with only the occasional lapse in judgment. They are swift and severe in punishing the transgressor but equally quick to forgive the wrongdoer and embrace him back into their fold. They have a fierce loyalty to each other and are willing to share their few, meagre worldly possessions.

The diction is simple, honest, and engaging with the occasional use of “thee” and “thou” thrown in for good measure to echo the Arthurian legends. Their antics and dialogue are peppered with humor. Each character is meticulously drawn and has a distinct personality. Their warmth, generosity of spirit, and compassion shines through their bedraggled clothing and humble surroundings.

The narrative flows seamlessly in prose that borders on the poetic. Humor ripples through the pages. And although Steinbeck pokes fun at his characters’ antics and ribaldry, he paints them with a gentle and loving paintbrush so they emerge from his pages as endearing and warm. Under their rough, drunken exterior, these paisanos have hearts of gold.

Highly recommended.

Blue Jewellery

Katharina Winkler; trans. Laura Wagner

Blue Jewellery by Katharina Winkler, translated from the German by Laura Wagner, is based on the true story of a young Turkish woman.

At the ripe old age of 13, Filiz, a young Turkish woman, marries Yunus, the love of her young life. She moves in with her husband and his mother. The horror begins. Filiz is a victim of atrocious domestic violence. The blue jewellery of the title, described in colorful, graphic detail, refers to the bruises all over her tender body. Yunus beats her up with such ferocity and frequency that Filiz not only comes to expect it, she calculates how many beatings she anticipates receiving for each supposed transgression.

What makes her situation all the more horrifying is the complicit behavior of her mother-in-law in the abuse. She denies Filiz food and begrudges her the little she does eat even while she is pregnant with each of her three children. Filiz is treated like an indentured servant. She does all the housework and all the cooking even while pregnant. Her work is punctuated with regular beatings. Yunus extends his control over his family by beating his own children.

The family finally settles in Austria. The beatings continue until Filiz tries to take her own life in desperation. The neighbors call the police when Yunus inflicts a particularly brutal beating. After recovering in the hospital for three months, Filiz moves into a shelter with her three children. She divorces Yunus who is forbidden by the courts to have any contact with her or their children. This opens the path for her and her children to obtain an education and become contributing members of society in their chosen careers. Meanwhile, Yunus returns to Turkey after getting into trouble with the Austrian authorities. He re-marries and has three children. One is left wondering what feast of horrors he is serving up for his new wife and children.

The narrative unfolds in the first-person voice of Filiz. There is a rhythm and lyricism to the manner in which she strings words together. It is almost poetic, setting up the contrast with the horrifying subject matter. Her diction is simple, almost child-like. And she describes the events in the present tense, as if to suggest she continues to re-live them.

This is a quick and important read. But it’s not an easy one because of the extensive incidents of domestic violence and psychological abuse, all of which are described in such graphic detail.

Recommended, but not for everyone because of its subject matter.

Oblomov

Ivan Goncharov; trans. Ann Dunnigan

Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov, translated by Ann Dunnigan, is a novel about a nineteenth century Russian landowner who turns the persona of the much-maligned couch-potato into an art form.

We first meet Oblomov as he reclines in his bed, draped in his Persian dressing gown. He calls for his trusty servant, Zakhar, and the two proceed to snap and snarl at each other. They feud about money, the accumulating dust and dirt in the bedroom, the poor quality of food, and Oblomov’s impending eviction from his apartment. Oblomov declares his intention to write to the steward overseeing his estate at Oblomovka. Meanwhile, he wants Zakhar to convince the landlord to delay his eviction as the thought of moving overwhelms him. All this thinking and anxiety exhausts him, so he slumps back into bed and takes another nap. As a first-class procrastinator, his motto is, “Delay, delay, delay.” Meanwhile, the steward of his estate is mismanaging his affairs and cheating him of his money; his income is declining; and he will soon be thrown out of his apartment.

While in this semi-somnambulistic state, Oblomov receives a series of visitors to whom he complains about his state of affairs. The visitors come with varying intentions. Some urge him to get up and get on with his life, while one exploits his good nature by stealing from him. And then comes work-oriented Stolz, Oblomov’s half-German/half Russian childhood friend. Stolz brims with energy. He will not tolerate Oblomov’s delay tactics and introduces him to the lovely Olga. Oblomov falls in love, shakes off his hibernation, and feels life’s energies animating his body. Alas, it is only a temporary hiatus. Since not even love can purge him of his lethargy, he soon reverts to his semi-somnambulistic state.

Oblomov’s orbit of characters are carefully drawn and well-developed. His back and forth banter with Zakhar is delightful and has echoes of another famous duo in literature—Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. The delicate Olga who tries to draw Oblomov out of his lethargy is sensitively portrayed. But perhaps one of the most sympathetically drawn characters is Agafya Matveyevna, Oblomov’s landlady. An uneducated, simple woman, she is totally devoted to Oblomov and unselfishly commits to his every comfort. She is abuzz with activity—ironing, cooking, cleaning, kneading bread, sewing, and baking. Oblomov enjoys watching her work from the comfort of his couch, deriving special pleasure in the movement of her fleshy elbows.

Oblomov can be seen as satirizing the Russian landowning elites who refuse to embrace progress while they continue to live off the labor of others. The satirical intent may be valid. But as a character, Oblomov transcends this designation. He speaks to the Oblomov in all of us—the part of us that wants to disengage from the flurry of daily striving in order to sit back, relax, and dream.

 In Oblomov, Goncharov has created one of the most loveable giant sloths in all of literature. Oblomov is lazy, lethargic, unambitious, indecisive, and reclusive. But his goodness draws people to him. As Stolz says of him, “ . . . he possesses something that is worth more than any amount of intelligence: his honest, faithful heart! That is the innate treasure which he has carried through life unimpaired. . .  A whole sea of evil and depravity could be surging around him, the entire world poisoned and in turmoil—but Oblomov would never bow down to false idols; his soul will always be pure bright, honest, and clear as crystal. There are not many like him. Such men are rare: they are the pearls in the multitude.”

 Lazy, lacking in ambition, a giant sloth, a dreamer with a heart of gold draped in a Persian dressing gown. What’s not to love?

 A wonderful, heart-warming masterpiece, in a very readable translation, with memorable characters, and an unforgettably endearing protagonist.

Very highly recommended.

The Sea, The Sea

Iris Murdoch

The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch, winner of the 1978 Booker Prize, unfolds in the first-person narrative of Charles Arrowby, a famous theatre director. Much to the surprise of his theatre cohorts, Charles decides to retire to a secluded home by the sea to write his memoirs. He enjoys the quiet life of a small village, celebrates the isolation, the occasional swim in the sea, and the simple meals he prepares for himself. He seems content, sensible, and likable. His prose is elegant and engaging. All goes well until he encounters an elderly woman who, by the strangest coincidence, turns out to be Hartley, his childhood sweetheart, the first woman he ever loved, and the memory of whom has lingered with him for decades. And so the games begin.

Hartley is now considerably older and no longer the blushing schoolgirl who was the love of his life. Charles assures himself she is unhappily married and that she never stopped loving him. He feels duty bound to rescue her from an unhappy marriage in spite of her desperate pleas to be left alone. He is determined to resuscitate their love and goes to bizarre lengths to convince her to run away with him, temporarily imprisoning her in his upstairs bedroom. He becomes increasingly delusional, living in an alternative reality where everything Hartley says and does is twisted to conform to his vision.

Charles is interrupted in his quest to rescue Hartley by unannounced visits from theatre acquaintances, former lovers, his cousin James, and Hartley’s estranged adopted son. Charles’ cottage becomes a virtual stage with a motley cast of characters entering, reciting their lines, staying for extended visits, and exiting. They are depicted as unique, fully fleshed-out individuals, some of whom are prone to histrionics and a have flair for the dramatic. They are realistically drawn and bring vim and vigor to Charles’ life. Charles tries to direct their entrances and exits as would a director of a play. Add to the mix Charles’ vision of a sea monster, a series of improbable coincidences, an accidental death, an attempted homicide and you have the makings of a whirlpool of dramatic activity.

From a sane, articulate, and likable narrator, Charles gradually transitions to become totally unreliable and emotionally unstable. He is narcissistic, ego-driven, selfish, manipulative, cruel, delusional, obsessive, irritating, insanely jealous, and a pathological liar. His unveiling is handled skillfully. Murdoch doesn’t lighten up on him. By forcing us to inhabit his mind, we witness first-hand his delusions and twisted rationalizations.

In Charles, Murdock has created a complex character who has the gravitational pull to lure people into his orbit, exploit and manipulate them, while being totally oblivious to the suffering he causes. He is a sympathetic character in so far as he wants to resurrect the innocence and promise of young love. But his insanity lies in believing he can forcefully resurrect it through the sheer force of his will.

A gripping exploration of love, friendship, and jealousy in their various guises and as manifested in a delusional protagonist and his colorful cast of characters; situated against the backdrop of a wild, tempestuous sea; and peppered with drama, humor, and irony.

A compelling novel and highly recommended.

A Tiger for Malgudi

R. K. Narayan

A Tiger for Malgudi by R.K. Narayan is a delightful tale told in the first person of Raja, the tiger. Raja looks back on his life, beginning as a cub in the jungle. He roams freely, striking fear in beast and human alike. But his life changes when he is captured. Incarcerated, bullied, cajoled, and starved into submission, he becomes an obedient circus star, Raja the Magnificent.

While on short-term loan to a movie producer to co-star with a muscular Tarzan-type, Raja decides to make a run for it. He finds temporary refuge under the desk in the headmaster’s office of a local school. Crowds gather in panic. There is talk of shooting the tiger when a sannyasi (someone who has renounced everything in life) enters into the fray and quietly walks out of the building with a docile tiger in tow. Raja and his master lead a quiet, solitary life in the mountains where his master teaches him some of the principles of Hindu mysticism. They grow old together until a now aging, toothless Raja is sent to a humane zoo to live out the rest of his days in peace and comfort.

Threading throughout the story are Raja’s contemplations about life and human nature, all of which are imparted to him by his master. Raja observes our foibles with humor and depth.

Seeing the world through the eyes of a tiger brings into focus just how foolish and short-sighted people can be.

The accessible and simple language couches some profound insights about human behavior, the arrogance of human beings, and their exploitation of animals. Laced with humor, irony, and satire, the novel gently offers some profound philosophical precepts on opening the door to a meaningful life by ridding oneself of superficial distractions.

Recommended.

Mama Hissa's Mice

Saud Alsanousi; Trans. Sawad Hussain

Mama Hissa’s Mice by Saud Alsanousi, translated by Sawad Hussain, is set in Kuwait and covers a period of about 30 years. It unfolds through two parallel threads.

The first thread opens with the narrator, Katkout, now in his early forties, regaining consciousness as the result of a terrible explosion. Entitled “The Present Day,” this thread occurs in the year 2020 and follows Katkout throughout the day as he searches for his friends through the streets of a Kuwait ravaged by sectarian violence. He flashes back in time recalling fragmented images of his childhood, his friends, and what his life was once like in the now virtually abandoned neighborhood of his youth.

The second thread takes the form of the narrator’s novel which has been accepted for publication. In it, the narrator/author fleshes out the details of his life, beginning with his childhood. He chronicles the rising sectarian tensions in Kuwait, as well as recent events in the Arab world, including the Iran/Iraq war; Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait and its impact; and 9/11. His childhood friends, coming from different ethnic backgrounds and varying sectarian affiliations, form Fuada’s kids, a clandestine group protesting sectarian divides and warning of impending disaster if sectarianism is allowed to fester unchecked. Their radio broadcast garners popular support, making them vulnerable to attacks from extremists of all sides. Their warnings go unheeded as evidenced by the cataclysmic opening of the novel in which the narrator/author is injured as a result of the explosion.

The novel is rich in detail. Alsanousi captures the fabric of the life and characters that populate Katkout’s neighborhood. He traces the disintegration of Kuwaiti society as it slowly descends into sectarian violence. The impact of the Iraqi occupation of Kuwait is long-lasting and further fuels sectarian divides. Decades old grudges between neighbors don’t wane with time. Bodies litter the streets; family members disappear; friends are killed. The outlook is horrifying. Throughout it all, Katkout tries to build bridges between opposing factions and hungers for the vestiges of how life used to be.

The content is compelling and intense with an intricate, multi-layered plot. The writing is clear and accessible. The intertwining of the two narrative threads creates complexity and adds depth. But the frequency of the narrative shifts in time generates some confusion. And the references to political leaders in the Arab world as well as to popular musicians and movie stars may be lost on an audience unfamiliar with Arab politics and culture.

 The strength of the novel lies in its ability to act as a cautionary tale. It illustrates the principle that we are our own worst enemies. Unless we see beyond what separates us, unless we are tolerant of difference, and unless we recognize that what we have in common binds us together, we may be hurtling toward a cataclysm of our own making.

 Recommended.

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman

Laurence Sterne

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne is an 18th Century novel that was far ahead of its time. It is a pre-cursor to the stream of consciousness technique that was later developed by early 20th Century writers.

The novel unfolds in the first-person point of view of a rambunctious personality. Tristram takes the reader on a boisterous exploration of his thoughts, opinions, and general frame of mind. He meanders, digresses, digresses within his digressions, expresses opinions, interrupts his narrative with unrelated incidentals, includes interesting tidbits about his time and place, sermonizes, and engages in heart to heart conversations with the reader. In short, he throws everything in but the kitchen sink. He taunts the reader with promises to expand on a certain point and then fails to deliver. He throws in a bit of Latin every so often just for good measure. He can be charming, boring, long-winded, and laugh-out-loud funny. In his depiction of Uncle Toby, he has given us one of the most loveable characters in literature.

Don’t expect a plot because there isn’t one. Don’t expect a logical sequence of events because you will be disappointed. And don’t expect closure because you won’t find it. But what you will get instead is a delightful romp through an 18th Century mind that is educated, opinionated, intelligent, witty, playful, eccentric, philosophical, unconventional, quick to discern and to poke gentle fun at the foibles of human nature, kind-spirited, charming, with a well-developed sense of irony, and a great sense of humor that veers toward the bawdy.

This book isn’t for everyone. But if you’re ever in the mood for a delightful frolic through the mind of an 18th Century literary genius, and if you’re in no hurry either to find or to get to the point, pick up a copy of this novel. Just follow Tristram to wherever his fancy takes him. Then sit back and enjoy.

A Meal in Winter

Hubert Mingarelli; trans. Sam Taylor

A Meal in Winter by Hubert Mingarelli, translated from the French by Sam Taylor, is set in Poland during World War II. Three German soldiers, one of whom is the first-person narrator, set off from their camp on a mission. As they trudge through the frozen landscape, clambering knee-deep in snow, the nature of their mission gradually becomes clear. They are to search for Jews and bring them back to camp for execution.

After trudging for several hours, they finally locate a young man hiding in the forest. They take him prisoner and decide to spend the night in an abandoned house before heading back to camp. They are joined by a Polish soldier who makes his distaste for Jews obvious. The soldiers turn their focus on cooking a meal with the bits and pieces of food they have salvaged. They share the food with the Polish soldier, and after much debate, they invite the Jewish prisoner to share the meal. But when one of the soldiers suggests they release the prisoner, they are forced to confront a moral dilemma. If they return to camp empty-handed, they will be required to participate in the execution squad. If they turn in the prisoner, they will be tormented by the knowledge they were responsible for killing an innocent man with whom they had once shared a meal.

This very simple plot told in straightforward, declarative sentences has a profound impact. The simplicity of the story, the camaraderie of the three soldiers, and their mundane preoccupation with preparing a meal is in stark contrast with the horror of their actions. The soldiers share a bond and have a common outlook. Their conversation as they trudge through the snow reflects their compassion and concern for each other. They have depth. Their humanity toward one another shines through. But this only serves to accentuate the magnitude and chilling horror of what they do as members of a death squad.

For such a short, understated work, this novella packs a potent punch in its exploration of complex moral dilemmas. Through contrast and irony, it illustrates the process of othering. Exposure to violence and barbarism in war desensitizes and gradually erodes a person’s own humanity. Normal people, capable of demonstrating concern and compassion for one another, are also capable of so distancing themselves from others that they no longer perceive them as human. They deny the other any vestige of humanity. But to do so, they must suppress a part of their own humanity and smother the ravages of their guilty conscience.

A simple story, simply told, but with a very powerful impact. Brilliant, concise, dark, and chilling.

Highly recommended.

A Fist or a Heart

Kristín Eiríksdóttir; trans. Larissa Kyzer

A Fist or a Heart by Kristín Eiríksdóttir, translated by Larissa Kyzer, is the winner of the 2017 Icelandic Literary Prize, the 2018 Icelandic Women’s Literature Prize, was nominated for the 2019 Nordic Council Literature Prize, and was the recipient of several other awards.

The novel unfolds in the voice of Elín Jónsdóttir, a woman in her early 70s who leads a solitary existence in Reykjavik. She makes props for theatre productions and movies. She is asked to make props for a play written by Ellen Álfsdóttir, the young, illegitimate daughter of a famous writer. Their encounter stirs up Elín’s memories of the long ago past she would prefer to keep buried.

Possibly for maternal reasons that may have something to do with their first encounter when Ellen was just two years old, Elín develops a fascination for Ellen, begins stalking her, and observes her at home with her mother. Although generations apart, the two have much in common. They are both illegitimate with dysfunctional mothers and absent fathers, live on the margins of society, and are generally misfits. And although they say a few words to each other, they never connect in a meaningful way. The novel concludes with Ellen drifting in a fog of alcohol and drugs after her mother’s abandonment, and Elín slowly deteriorating into the abyss of dementia and memory loss.

The narrative alternates between Elín’s recollections of her past, including what she remembers of being sexually assaulted as a teenager, and Ellen’s backstory told in third person. The details are revealed slowly and intermittently. Very little happens in terms of plot, but the novel is a rich psychological exploration of the two main characters, capturing their loneliness and marginalization with poignancy and sensitivity.

An atmosphere of uncertainty permeates and is reflected in the title with fist suggesting violence and heart suggesting compassion. The ambiguity and unresolved issues maybe due to Elín’s unreliability as a narrator. How much of what she describes about Ellen is accurate, and how much is simply the fabrication of a mind on the brink of losing touch with reality? When a man mysteriously appears in her home and demands the few boxes her deceased grandmother left her, she doesn’t question his right to be there. She gives him the boxes only to find them mysteriously reappear in her home later. There is no explanation as to who he is, why he is there, or why he claimed the boxes in the first place.

Kristín Eiríksdóttir is a talented writer and well-deserving of the awards and accolades she has received. Her prose is lyrical and compelling with a haunting subtext of something gone awry. The fragmentary nature of Elín’s recollections and her obsession with Ellen keep one guessing as to how much is real, how much is due to the residual impact of the traumas she experienced, and how much is the product of her oncoming dementia. It is a credit to Kristín Eiríksdóttir’s skill as a writer that she is able to portray authentic characters and sustain interest in the narrative without providing clear answers.

The Sun Also Rises

Ernest Hemingway

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway is considered a masterpiece for its characterization of the Lost Generation.

The novel opens in post-World War I Paris. The characters are a group of disillusioned British and American ex-patriots. They drift aimlessly from one bar to another, from one coffee shop to another, from one restaurant to another. They drink, talk, drink, argue, drink, flirt, drink, fight, drink, whine, and drink. They engage in meaningless conversations and relate inept anecdotes. And then they’re off to Spain to fish and to watch the bullfights.

The first-person narrator, Jake Barnes, survived the war but did not do so unscathed. He received a wound in his groin that has rendered him impotent. He narrates the events and conversations in between bouts of profuse drinking. He seems as bored with his narrative as we are with reading it. To add tension to this wholesome gathering, the men are in love with Lady Brett Ashley who, for her part, engages in casual sex with virtual strangers. Her promiscuity seems to be more a result of apparent boredom than anything else. She is quick to cast her lovers aside once she loses interest in them, indifferent to the pain she may have caused. And why all these men are in love with her is a mystery since there is nothing remotely attractive about her other than she just happens to be the only female in their circle.

For the most part, the sentences are short, simple, and pile on the details, one after the other, with little variation in sentence structure, as in “first this happens, then this, then this,” etc. etc. The sentences are almost as monotonous as the endless bouts of drinking and staggering back to hotel rooms in a drunken stupor.

If the point of the novel is to depict a generation aimlessly adrift, drinking themselves to death, failing to connect with one another in a meaningful way, substituting sex for love, suffering from ennui, spouting ineptitudes, etc. etc. then it has succeeded. The trouble is that in capturing the qualities of this Lost Generation, Hemingway may have lost some of his readers by frustrating them with the monotony, the repetition, and the lackluster characters.