this is a tough one, because in sprawl, vision, and story construction this novel is great and it kept me mesmerized all the way through (and it's a lthis is a tough one, because in sprawl, vision, and story construction this novel is great and it kept me mesmerized all the way through (and it's a long one!); but the writing is so infuriatingly sloppy... ugh. my best guess is that someone was in a hurry to put this out, and no one had time to go over it and edit it. many sentences are simply atrocious -- really badly written. this is by anyone's standards. just open the book at random and you are basically guaranteed to come across one of them. but farah has such an absurd gift for storytelling, i found the slog worth it anyway. after a while i grew to like the language, too, especially when the choice of word was so out of place (you can kind of tell what word he meant to use instead of the one on the page) that it's actually interesting. on some other occasions, you know farah *meant* to use a specific word, bizarre as it is used in that context, and that makes his language at the very least whimsical and maybe brilliant (it is certainly brilliant in _Links_, a much shorter, tighter, better-written book).
i read a review somewhere in which a critic claimed that farah doesn't know english well because he started using it only in the 60s. dude, the 60s were forty years ago! this critic, of course, had not read any other novels by farah and so didn't know that in them the language is also idiosyncratic but by no means incompetent.
_Knots_ is a fairy tale about conquering barbarism by sheer force of civilization. well, not really, because the forces of civilization make quite abundant use of violence, though the violence is only alluded to, never shown. this is one of the dilemmas of the book (and it is explicitly voiced by the protagonist on quite a few occasions): the compromises we are forced to embrace to make the world better. it's all pretty dirty out there, even when we are mercifully spared the sight of it.
but, with blood safely out of sight, idealism wins the day and art, friendship, compassion, and solidarity triumph over the dark forces of moral and civic dissipation. i especially like how friendship and moral bonds come to substitute clans as forces around which people coalesce with one another and keep each other safe.
if this sounds a bit too easy, it is. i said this is a fairy tale. and an uneasy one it is, too. there's a lot of cash thrown around by our various heroes, and a lot of influence, and, clearly, the assumption is that wealth won't hurt if you plan to reconquer ground lost to mayhem. but i didn't mind. there are bad characters and good characters, and the bad characters are really bad -- repulsive, irredeemable, unbearable. they are weak, smelly, petty, vicious, lost. the good characters, though, are almost saintly and you grow to love them. maybe it'll be difficult for someone to love them, they are so steeped in contradiction, but i don't mind contradiction and i loved them.
this is the most feminist book written by a man i have ever read, and that electrified me. he places all the blame for the bloody, meaningless somali civil war squarely on the shoulders of men, no qualification necessary.
at the end of the day, i felt hopeful for this world of ours. maybe farah wanted to show us that there are somali people in the world who know what it is to be good, refined, intelligent, sophisticated, and unbelievably good. maybe he used his bad characters as a metaphor for the sorry state his country is in, and his good characters as a metaphor for redemption and hope. it worked for me....more
i'm some 150 pages into it and, around the 100 page buoy, i decided i'd give it another 100 then, if i wasn't satisfied, send it on its merry way to oi'm some 150 pages into it and, around the 100 page buoy, i decided i'd give it another 100 then, if i wasn't satisfied, send it on its merry way to other shores (have no idea what this metaphor means). but it's beginning to gather steam, so i'm more optimistic.
there are some people who are Novelists, then there are all the people who write novels. i feel that mike (if he reads this) will bristle at this. i hold fast by it. caputo is writing a perfectly well-written novel, albeit one that would benefit from some cutting (though i'm happy to grant that people might like the meticulous descriptions). what keeps him (for now), in my eyes, from being a Novelist is that his characters aren't alive, even though he's already spent a lot of time talking about them. some writers will give you a character in a paragraph. i'm just saying....more
perfect book on the endless personal and collective repercussions of reckless colonial gestures. i found the beautiful but elaborate language a littleperfect book on the endless personal and collective repercussions of reckless colonial gestures. i found the beautiful but elaborate language a little tiresome. the characters are not entirely sympathetic, which is of course the point, and brave on the part of the author, yet that, too, drew away from my pleasure in reading this book. it is, however, a truly valuable and beautiful book, and and it deserves a higher rating than than the subjective one i gave it....more
***finished this book, and this endless, sprawling review!***
i'm finding myself liking this a lot, yet also being a bit tired of it. i wish it were sh***finished this book, and this endless, sprawling review!***
i'm finding myself liking this a lot, yet also being a bit tired of it. i wish it were shorter. at the same time, i deeply enjoy the language and a part of me will be sad when this ends.
as people have pointed out here, soueif is consciously reprising the style of the massive 19th century novel centered around the plight of an unhappy heroine, and the references to Anna Karenina and Middlemarch abound. i have not read Anna Karenina, and i read Middlemarch some time ago, but my impression is that such novels pivoted on more stories and more narrative threads than Eye of the Sun. in fact, Eye of the Sun stays pointedly focused on its protagonist, Asya, who is almost the sole point of view. since the side-characters are multiple and potentially rich (the novel opens with a striking representation of asya's uncle, hamid, who however recedes to the background in the rest of the novel), you wonder whether she would not have done better to give them more room in which to expand.
but maybe the narrowness of the focus is the novel's point, and, if so, i most certainly do not feel in any position to say that soueif fails. this is a striking book in a number of respects, and i'm really looking forward to finishing it and being able to say more about the themes it covers.
let me now talk for a second about genre and audience. if amazon.com and goodreads are any indication, many people have read this book, which is encouraging. i wonder though about contemporary tolerance for the sprawling psychological/realist 19th century novel, with its pleasure in the act of storytelling, its desire to immerse us in the story, anticipating and meeting our delight in the scene, the texture of the moment, the substance of places, and, above all, the rich emotional and mental reverberations that are unleashed in the interaction between the characters, their stories, and their surroundings. maybe this is an outmoded way of telling stories, and not only because we have in the meantime picked up a variety of ways in which stories are told and transmitted. i wonder whether the outmodedness of the large realist/psychological novel, if there at all, is not due to a restlessness we have acquired with the act of deep, nuanced, and unrelenting psychological probing, its fixed focus on the characters' inner lives, its fascination with melancholy and pain.
i'm babbling. i'm probably entirely wrong. i'll come back to these thoughts. but i'm struck by simon's current impatience with fanny burney, and wondering whether we might not have outgrown the genre. which is not to say that all examples of it are outgrowable, and that there aren't superb and timeless models of this and any style. still, Middlemarch could not be written now, and neither could the Iliad.
-------------------------------- TAKE TWO *** spoilers ***
i'm almost at the end but i can't finish this book at this time. this is one painful book. soueif builds such a relentless, single-minded, deeply nuanced yet jaggernaut-like destructive path for young asya, i feel that i'm getting destroyed at the same pace as she is. even if she survives the book unscathed (and we know that, to some extent at least, she does), the psychic erosion she undergoes, the systematic emptying out of her self and her strength, the demolition of her life and vitality seem almost irremediable.
this book is most certainly about sexual politics (it is about sex), but i am not sure that, as edward said suggests in his write-up, it's specifically about the sexual politics of the arab world. asya, her family, her husband are deeply westernized people. in fact, the book takes great pains to represent them as sophisticated, erudite, and, to a large extent, liberated. they are the cairo elite, university professors enamored of english lit, and they consider themselves -- at least asya does -- pretty much bicultural. of course the arab influence is massive, and negotiating it while navigating the western world is one of these characters' most watchable enterprises. at the same time, though, it seems to me that what asya experiences, her sexual martyrdom, this terrible calvary, is something any western woman can relate to with great ease. at bottom, this is a novel of domestic abuse, seen from the p.o.v. of the woman. what's so remarkable about it (and it is a remarkable novel) is that the abuse is portrayed subtly and over such a large number of pages (soueif's narrative patience is astounding). asya is barely aware of it, and so are we. asya assumes much of the blame for it, and at first we are tempted to blame her, too. in other words, soueif does not even try to simplify the terrible situations men and women build for themselves and each other, often in perfectly good faith and equally perfect ignorance. asya's damnation is not the violence she endures, but her constant need to investigate, probe, understand. no one else in the book asks her or himself this many questions. asya is the book's relentless questioner.
i'm still a bit sorry that the book's secondary characters fall by the wayside, but asya's story is sure powerful, and has good and sturdy legs on which to carry this novelistic tour-de-force.
-------------------------------- and now that i've finished this, some words on what it's about. oh, it's about egypt and thriving/teeming/alive third-world cities. cairo surely plays a big role here, even though unfortunately much of the pleasures of the city are lost on me. but i love novels that celebrate cities: avenues, small streets, quarters, life-styles, old homes, poor homes, street vendors, shops, markets, monuments (the pyramids!), cemeteries, universities, botanic gardens, riverfronts, little niches where lovers kiss and passersby don't bother them. london is similarly celebrated, and england in general, which becomes delightful and alive in spite of its grayness and its mud the moment asif joins asya in it.
asif brings life with him. he also brings a peculiar death, the death -- for asya -- of foreclosed communication, the presumption that you know the other therefore do not need to listen to her, a misguided protectiveness, adoration, infantilization.
a lovely scene, towards the end, between asya and her mother; and a great celebration of women, mothers, non mothers, lovers, sisters, friends, beautiful and rash and smart and brilliant and oh so on top of everything, amazingly resilient.
and asya's resurrection (i didn't think it possible, but this is fiction and you can do anything you want), her return to her family, to egypt, which is however a transformed country, more westernized for sure but also changed by war, the constant strife with israel, the bullying on the part of the americans, the political imprisonments, the palestinian question, the rise of fundamentalism.... great book, not for the faint of heart. ...more
i was entirely captured by the first two sections of this book. unlike my good friend jeff, i found myself totally taken by pretty boys writing booksi was entirely captured by the first two sections of this book. unlike my good friend jeff, i found myself totally taken by pretty boys writing books and talking music and philosophy in a villa on the italian riviera in the middle of the mediterranean summer. maybe it's because i know the mediterranean summer, though i have never spent it on the riviera or, for that matter, in a villa. there's some scott fitzgerald that takes place in a similar environs, and i dare same some hemingway. i thought i had had enough of decadent descriptions of life on the riviera in the summer, but nope, i hadn't and haven't.
this is all foil. the real story is the depiction of unbearable adolescent longing and lust, mixed with guilt, self-hatred, impossibility, and an overwhelming sense of doom. i found the subtle description of the tiny nuances of these complex feelings riveting, pitch-perfect, and heartbreaking (because, let's face it, none of us ever entirely outgrows his or her adolescence, the same as we never outgrow our childhood: rather, we pile all these former selves inside us, perching the adult precariously on top).
i lost interest, instead, when the novel moved into the third part. but this is probably me. after all that skin and sun, nighttime rome felt contrived to me. it is also more difficult to describe perfect happiness than perfect misery, and less interesting to read about it.
i would like to mention the fact that, to the best of my judgement, this egyptian author makes his protagonist italian (yes?), and that both lovers are jewish, one sephardic the other one presumably ashkenazi (aciman is himself a sephardic jew). quite a bit is made of the jewishness at the beginning; later, though, it gets dropped out of the novel. since the beginning is the part in which longing and loss are most prominent, this seems significant to me. elio's isolation (he doesn't have any friends, he spends all day alone with is music, his parents are worried about him, he is not much interested in girls) is a mixture of gayness, overcultivation (at some point oliver asks him, "do you know everything?" and, truly, he does!), and jewishness.
equally intriguing, in the same melancholy and doomed way, is the little girl vimimi (what kind of name is that???), who lives with her leukemia and her certain death like a top-notch stoic.
*** SPOILER ***
i'm angry at this book for the violence it consciously does to one's heart strings, and i'm particularly angry at the very last part, in which the description of failed lives made out of missed chances reaches a truly tragic pitch. but the first part, with all the sun and the lust, with the uncertainty and the despair and the intolerable longing, with the blind heartache that hits kids who haven't yet gotten used to life, that spoke to me....more
as best as i can judge, lawrence hill reproduces here the style and tone of the classic slave narratives, which he also credits at the end (in particuas best as i can judge, lawrence hill reproduces here the style and tone of the classic slave narratives, which he also credits at the end (in particular, he directs to reader to The Classic Slave Narratives collected by henry louis gates in one volume that includes olaudah equiano's, mary prince's, frederick douglass', and harriets jacobs' autobiographies). i have taught a couple of slave narratives (douglass and jacobs) and i must say it was a labor of love, because, well, because they sound dated. their authors describe their lives in vivid and horrific terms, yet our contemporary sensibility, latched as it is to the psychology of the individual, relying as it does on introspection, inner conflicts, and psychic shadows, remains somewhat cool at these depictions. and then there's the fact that we are habituated to descriptions of horror. and the fact that we understand the pain of others only when these others are our friends. hundreds of people blown away on the screen don't move us unless: a) we have gotten to know and like at least one of them or b) there are cute animals involved. for some reason, the powers that manipulate the responses of our heart strings have not yet gone to work on immunizing us against the pain of animals.
but yeah, they have worked long and hard at immunizing us against the pain of the human "other," so narratives of slavery, the jewish holocaust, and various other genocides leave us a lot colder than they should.
hill cuts himself a pretty arduous task in writing a slave narrative using the classic conventions of the genre (if one can call it that) yet trying to make us feel what it is like. i think he succeeds.
maybe he should have abandoned the genre conventions, written a different kind of story, made the characters more tridimensional and complex and nuanced, instead of sticking to black-and-white (pun totally meant) representations, the way the original writers did. there are some efforts, especially towards the end, to penetrate motivations, ambiguities, and the power that political pressures have on personal motivations, but at heart this is a story of white people being horrible to black people.
if you have already read the classic slave narratives you'll appreciate this book better, because you'll see what hill is trying to do. if you are looking for a contemporary novel with all the hallmarks of the contemporary novel, this will let you down. well, except for the remarkable historical details, which, judging from the acknowledgments, have been researched with painstaking meticulousness.
okay, i've finished with my caveats. now to what i like about this book:
* aminata is a remarkably strong, vibrant, and sympathetic character. she's a leader and a role model and you will love her. the parts when she describes her present life give perspective to the parts where she recounts her story of slavery. put simply, sophisticated, multilingual, erudite, worldly, wily, skeptical, witty, and non-religious blacks are not part of the pop culture or even the high-culture canon of the western world (this is bound to change rather dramatically now that we are past january 20, 2009, a day that must have made lawrence hill deliriously happy).
* the subtleties of the politics of the slave trade and of all large historical events that subsume individuals and force them to collaborate are depicted mercilessly and in a savvy and clear-eyed way. this is also something that comes to fruition particularly towards the end.
* because he puts us inside the head of aminata better than douglass and jacobs (the only two ex-slaves whose narratives i've read) put us inside their own heads, hill makes us feel the pain of loss and dehumanization more strongly, to the point that, as someone else here on GR pointed out, we feel that this could happen to us. one of the reasons why white students tend to remain cool when they read douglass & co. is that it is abundantly clear to them that this is something that can only happen to "others." i almost feel that, having to choose one slave narrative for a class, this would be the one to choose.
* from the point of view of those interested in historical trauma, the african sections of the story are non-pareil. africa as it was when aminata was little is gone, never to return. it is the devastation, not only of one or many peoples, but of a whole continent, and it all takes place in the space of one generation.
* also from the point of view of trauma and survival, it is exceedingly moving that aminata's inner strength comes to her till the very end from the memory of her parents, even though she lost them when she was only 9.
* **MINOR SPOILER** the book analyzes very poignantly the dynamics of race and belonging. as an african-born, aminata is always considered different from her american-born fellow slaves, at least until she learns their language fluently. but it is not until she goes back to africa that her difference becomes a mark of her identity. in spite of her fluency with their language and, obviously, of her appearance, the villagers among whom she takes refuge are tempted to identify her as a white person instead of as an african: "In South Carolina, I had been an African. In Nova Scotia, I had become known and a Loyalist, or a Negro, or both. And now, finally back in Africa, I was seen as a Nova Scotian, and in some respects thought of myself that way too" (385).
rather than the psychological complexities of the contemporary novel, this book adds to the traditional slave narrative a transnational, multicultural, race-studies dimension. and i didn't mention that it is written beautifully and wisely and grippingly, and that i admire it very much....more