Alta Ifland's Blog: Notes on Books, page 7
August 1, 2011
Jane Gardam's The Man in the Wooden Hat
Jane Gardam’s Man in the Wooden Hat (2009) is a sequel to Old Filth (2006), though both novels can be read independently. The Man…is written from the perspective of Betty, married to Sir Edward Feathers, while Old Filth (Filth being an acronym for “Failed in London, Try Hong Kong”) is told from Filth’s point of view.
The Man in the Wooden Hat is one of those novels that are hard to summarize because what “happens” resides mostly in the interaction between characters—a character-driven story, as they say. The chapters’ titles themselves are emblematic: “Happiness,” “Marriage,” “Life…” Indeed, the only “events” in the novel are the marriage of Eddie and Betty—preceded by her one-night adventure with Eddie’s professional rival (also a lawyer, like Eddie), and in the end, Betty’s death. Yet, this is a very captivating book, and once you begin to read it, is hard to put down. Moving between London, Hong Kong and an idyllic location in the Doneheads, the texture of the novel borrows something from the atmosphere of all these places, so the reading experience translates for the reader into the sensuous feeling of being enveloped in an alien, fascinating fabric.
The Man in the Wooden Hat is one of those novels that are hard to summarize because what “happens” resides mostly in the interaction between characters—a character-driven story, as they say. The chapters’ titles themselves are emblematic: “Happiness,” “Marriage,” “Life…” Indeed, the only “events” in the novel are the marriage of Eddie and Betty—preceded by her one-night adventure with Eddie’s professional rival (also a lawyer, like Eddie), and in the end, Betty’s death. Yet, this is a very captivating book, and once you begin to read it, is hard to put down. Moving between London, Hong Kong and an idyllic location in the Doneheads, the texture of the novel borrows something from the atmosphere of all these places, so the reading experience translates for the reader into the sensuous feeling of being enveloped in an alien, fascinating fabric.
July 9, 2011
2017 by Olga Slavnikova
2017 by Olga Slavnikova
Translated from the Russian by Marian Schwartz
Overlook Press, 2010
2017 was published in 2010 by Overlook Press, one of the contemporary American presses dedicated to publishing quality literary fiction, and particularly fiction in translation. This novel, which was awarded the Russian Booker Prize a few years ago, has gone virtually unnoticed in this country. This overlook—no pun intended—is hard to explain, especially since the translation was done by an accomplished translator, Marian Schwartz. True, the editorial job leaves to be desired, but considering that the author has a tendency toward complicated sentences with many subordinates, and a very complex vocabulary (let’s mention only the vocabulary having to do with rock hounding), the English version is impressive. Some people may not like the author’s exaggerated penchant for comparisons and metaphors, and I myself think that in places the novel is “overwritten,” but there are also numerous instances in which one is simply carried away by its beauty.
One of the ways one can tell a great work of art from merely a good work is the perfect coherence between “form” and “content.” In such cases, the style’s beauty isn’t simply a beautiful envelope for a more or less interesting “story:” the style is a continuation and a representation of the content itself. 2017 is a perfect example of this: the novel, focused on gem hunters and precious stones, seems to radiate a transparent beauty one usually associates with the mineral world (transparency is, by the way, one of its major themes).
For the readers who get impatient with descriptions—even very beautiful ones—the first…hmm…hundred pages might be too slow. But then, the pace changes, and contemporary Russia with its multicolored universe of nouveaux riches, crooks, poor babushkas, politicians that seem a cross between a cheap crook and Dr. Evil, vulgar divas, sophisticated divas with the charisma of a TV star and the intuition of a prophet, becomes the background of a quest whose hero somehow manages to keep a certain purity in spite of all the odds. The hero is coveted by two women, who, apparently, couldn’t be more different: Tanya (whose real name he doesn’t even know, and with whom he has an unusual love affair) and Tamara (his former wife, gorgeous, still in love with him, and immensely rich).
But the true character is here 21st century Russia, a country in which, like everywhere else in a world dominated by new technologies, there are two parallel worlds: the one of the virtual, or, in Baudrillard’s terminology, of the copy—a world in which people play roles, and the costumes they wear dictate what they feel and do; and the one of the authentic—a world made of poor people, who can’t play any other role save for what they are and have always been. In 2017, a hundred years after the Russian revolution, these worlds clash, and a new revolution begins. A fascinating novel.
Translated from the Russian by Marian Schwartz
Overlook Press, 2010
2017 was published in 2010 by Overlook Press, one of the contemporary American presses dedicated to publishing quality literary fiction, and particularly fiction in translation. This novel, which was awarded the Russian Booker Prize a few years ago, has gone virtually unnoticed in this country. This overlook—no pun intended—is hard to explain, especially since the translation was done by an accomplished translator, Marian Schwartz. True, the editorial job leaves to be desired, but considering that the author has a tendency toward complicated sentences with many subordinates, and a very complex vocabulary (let’s mention only the vocabulary having to do with rock hounding), the English version is impressive. Some people may not like the author’s exaggerated penchant for comparisons and metaphors, and I myself think that in places the novel is “overwritten,” but there are also numerous instances in which one is simply carried away by its beauty.
One of the ways one can tell a great work of art from merely a good work is the perfect coherence between “form” and “content.” In such cases, the style’s beauty isn’t simply a beautiful envelope for a more or less interesting “story:” the style is a continuation and a representation of the content itself. 2017 is a perfect example of this: the novel, focused on gem hunters and precious stones, seems to radiate a transparent beauty one usually associates with the mineral world (transparency is, by the way, one of its major themes).
For the readers who get impatient with descriptions—even very beautiful ones—the first…hmm…hundred pages might be too slow. But then, the pace changes, and contemporary Russia with its multicolored universe of nouveaux riches, crooks, poor babushkas, politicians that seem a cross between a cheap crook and Dr. Evil, vulgar divas, sophisticated divas with the charisma of a TV star and the intuition of a prophet, becomes the background of a quest whose hero somehow manages to keep a certain purity in spite of all the odds. The hero is coveted by two women, who, apparently, couldn’t be more different: Tanya (whose real name he doesn’t even know, and with whom he has an unusual love affair) and Tamara (his former wife, gorgeous, still in love with him, and immensely rich).
But the true character is here 21st century Russia, a country in which, like everywhere else in a world dominated by new technologies, there are two parallel worlds: the one of the virtual, or, in Baudrillard’s terminology, of the copy—a world in which people play roles, and the costumes they wear dictate what they feel and do; and the one of the authentic—a world made of poor people, who can’t play any other role save for what they are and have always been. In 2017, a hundred years after the Russian revolution, these worlds clash, and a new revolution begins. A fascinating novel.
July 5, 2011
Alina Bronsky's Hottest Dishes
Alina Bronsky is a young German novelist who emigrated from the Soviet Union at thirteen, and who is now at her second novel. I had read and enjoyed her first novel, Broken Glass Park, which had given her international fame, but I am often skeptical when it comes to young novelists who become famous too fast and too soon. That’s why I was surprised to see that her second novel, The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine, is not only better than her first, but that its main character, Rosa Achmetowna, is so different from Sascha Naimann, the main protagonist of Broken Glass Park.
Rosa is the archetypal Soviet Matriarch, a grotesque Communist female who reminds me of countless women I’ve known in Communist Eastern Europe, yet, at the same time, she has a unique personality. She is both emblematic and singular: a powerful, vivid character whose voice will stay with you long after you close the book. Anyone who wants to understand what Communism has produced should read this novel. This isn’t, however, some kind of moralizing history lesson! What Bronsky has written is an extremely entertaining novel with a hilarious narrator whose hilarity is a reflection of a deeply disturbed world. The Hottest Dishes… is a novel that you won’t be able to put down.
Rosa is the archetypal Soviet Matriarch, a grotesque Communist female who reminds me of countless women I’ve known in Communist Eastern Europe, yet, at the same time, she has a unique personality. She is both emblematic and singular: a powerful, vivid character whose voice will stay with you long after you close the book. Anyone who wants to understand what Communism has produced should read this novel. This isn’t, however, some kind of moralizing history lesson! What Bronsky has written is an extremely entertaining novel with a hilarious narrator whose hilarity is a reflection of a deeply disturbed world. The Hottest Dishes… is a novel that you won’t be able to put down.
June 20, 2011
Alessandro Piperno, a Contemporary Proust
Piperno’s The Worst Intentions (Europa Editions, 2007) has been compared, with some justification, to Ph. Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint. In fact, Piperno’s novel is better. As a big reader of Proust (I had read all the volumes of A la Recherche… by the time I was 22, and wrote my BA thesis on it) I can say that this is the closest equivalent to Proust’s masterpiece. I usually don’t like such comparisons because they are rarely founded, and even when they are, they indicate that the author of the “equivalent” is no more than a talented epigone. But what makes the comparison to Proust justified in this case is not only the fact that Piperno has deeply absorbed the work of his predecessor—a French scholar, he is the author of a work of literary criticism, Proust Anti-Jew—but also the fact that his novel is extremely contemporary. It is an updated version of Proust in the sense that it gives us a remarkable portrayal of Italian “high” society from the fifties until 2001. The snobbery of this society, while reminiscent of the old-fashion mannerisms of Mme Verdurin’s and Mme de Guermantes’s inner circles, is at the same time very contemporary. Piperno’s snobs are universal because any high-school student who wishes to be “popular” can recognize himself/herself in them; and yet, they are so…Italian. Never before have I read a novel whose protagonists are so concerned with appearance, especially fashion.
Another Proustian element of the novel is the construction of desire (with its corollary, jealousy and/or envy). Daniel, the half-Jewish narrator—who later becomes the author of a successful book with a provocative view on the Jews—is hopelessly in love with the most beautiful, the richest and most popular girl in his school, Gaia. Gaia is a cross between Nabokov’s Lolita and Proust’s Odette—inaccessible (though, as in Proust, it turns out that she is inaccessible only for the narrator, and quite accessible for the others), very desirable and very shallow (the narrator compares her to Britney Spears).
What I find amazing about The Worst Intentions, a novel written in long, complicated, Proustian sentences (translated with sophistication by Ann Goldstein), is that it was a best-seller in Italy.
Another Proustian element of the novel is the construction of desire (with its corollary, jealousy and/or envy). Daniel, the half-Jewish narrator—who later becomes the author of a successful book with a provocative view on the Jews—is hopelessly in love with the most beautiful, the richest and most popular girl in his school, Gaia. Gaia is a cross between Nabokov’s Lolita and Proust’s Odette—inaccessible (though, as in Proust, it turns out that she is inaccessible only for the narrator, and quite accessible for the others), very desirable and very shallow (the narrator compares her to Britney Spears).
What I find amazing about The Worst Intentions, a novel written in long, complicated, Proustian sentences (translated with sophistication by Ann Goldstein), is that it was a best-seller in Italy.
May 25, 2011
Book Expo America 2011: Third Day, Wednesday, May 25th
It turned out that, indeed, there was another area of the exhibit that had more publishers of literary fiction than the area I’d previously visited. By the end of the day I had a bag full of so many goodies I had to ship them home. First, I stopped (again) by Europa Editions’s table because I’d been told that they would give books away. I had the unexpected luck of meeting the publisher himself, Kent Caroll, who let me choose two novels. I picked The Worst Intentions by Alessandro Piperno and The Art of Losing by Rebecca Connell.
Then, I found Other Press, another publisher I like not only because of the authors they publish but also because they respect and promote their authors. I know a very good writer, Michelle Hoover, who had a great experience with them, and whose novel, The Quickening, I highly recommend. The people there were all friendly and let me pick whatever I wanted among their advanced reading copies. I took Alberto Moravia’s Two Friends, and the intriguing Calling Mr. King by Ronald de Feo, both forthcoming in September. And, finally, I made a discovery: Biblioasis, an independent publisher from Canada. They have just published The Accident by Mihail Sebastian, a very interesting Romanian writer from the first half of the 20th century.
With my bag full I headed for the autographing table of Carmela Ciuraru, author of Nom de Plume: A (Secret) History of Pseudonyms. As on Tuesday, the autographing area (which included about thirty tables) was swarming with dozens of passionate readers who were patiently waiting in line to get a signature from an author. I asked an organizer where I could buy the book and...I found out that the books were FREE. Well, that explained the passion of all those readers.The QuickeningNom de Plume: A (Secret) History of Pseudonyms
Then, I found Other Press, another publisher I like not only because of the authors they publish but also because they respect and promote their authors. I know a very good writer, Michelle Hoover, who had a great experience with them, and whose novel, The Quickening, I highly recommend. The people there were all friendly and let me pick whatever I wanted among their advanced reading copies. I took Alberto Moravia’s Two Friends, and the intriguing Calling Mr. King by Ronald de Feo, both forthcoming in September. And, finally, I made a discovery: Biblioasis, an independent publisher from Canada. They have just published The Accident by Mihail Sebastian, a very interesting Romanian writer from the first half of the 20th century.
With my bag full I headed for the autographing table of Carmela Ciuraru, author of Nom de Plume: A (Secret) History of Pseudonyms. As on Tuesday, the autographing area (which included about thirty tables) was swarming with dozens of passionate readers who were patiently waiting in line to get a signature from an author. I asked an organizer where I could buy the book and...I found out that the books were FREE. Well, that explained the passion of all those readers.The QuickeningNom de Plume: A (Secret) History of Pseudonyms
The French-American Foundation Translation Prizes
In an effort to increase their cultural visibility in the States, The French have been sponsoring for a number of years various translation prizes, and helped the winning translators find publishers. This year the reception celebrating the finalists and the winners was on Tuesday, May 24th, and since I was in the City for the BEA, I was more than happy to honor the invitation I’d received. David Bellos—celebrated translator of Ismail Kadare and Georges Pérec—was Master of Ceremonies.
There were two fiction and two non-fiction prizes: in the former category, the winners were Mitzi Angel for Jean-Christophe Valtat’s novella 03, and Lydia Davis for Flaubert’s Madame Bovary; in the latter category, Frederick Brown for Tocqueville’s Letters from America, and Jane Marie Todd for Dominique Charpin’s Reading and Writing in Babylon. Surprisingly, Mitzi Angel is not a professional translator; in fact, she has never translated before, but the book had a strong supporter in a Farrar, Straus and Giroux editor. Lydia Davis wasn’t there, so John Siciliano from Penguin accepted the prize on her behalf. I had met John before, when he was working with my other half, poet and translator Stephen Kessler, on the editing and translation of Borges’s Complete Sonnets. He is a charming, intelligent young man, and it gives me some hope to see that there are still people in his generation—he is barely thirty—who are so devoted to books and serious literature. Jane Marie Todd--whom I didn't know before--gave a great speech. She started with a list of all the things she doesn’t have as a translator: no regular paycheck, no library and interloan privileges, no promotion, no sabbatical, no title; and yet, she said, whenever she thinks of all the things she had to put up with while working in academia, she considers herself fortunate. Now she works at home in her pajamas, reads and translates whatever it pleases her and satisfies her intellectual curiosity, and she doesn’t need to specialize. I am not a hugger, but I felt like hugging her.
After this intellectual feast, we were offered wine and (some very good) champagne. Not to mention the delicious appetizers: they were international in origin (Chinese rolls, crab fried puffs, salmon sandwiches, Mediterranean feta pastries) but the chef must have been French. A fabulous reception!
There were two fiction and two non-fiction prizes: in the former category, the winners were Mitzi Angel for Jean-Christophe Valtat’s novella 03, and Lydia Davis for Flaubert’s Madame Bovary; in the latter category, Frederick Brown for Tocqueville’s Letters from America, and Jane Marie Todd for Dominique Charpin’s Reading and Writing in Babylon. Surprisingly, Mitzi Angel is not a professional translator; in fact, she has never translated before, but the book had a strong supporter in a Farrar, Straus and Giroux editor. Lydia Davis wasn’t there, so John Siciliano from Penguin accepted the prize on her behalf. I had met John before, when he was working with my other half, poet and translator Stephen Kessler, on the editing and translation of Borges’s Complete Sonnets. He is a charming, intelligent young man, and it gives me some hope to see that there are still people in his generation—he is barely thirty—who are so devoted to books and serious literature. Jane Marie Todd--whom I didn't know before--gave a great speech. She started with a list of all the things she doesn’t have as a translator: no regular paycheck, no library and interloan privileges, no promotion, no sabbatical, no title; and yet, she said, whenever she thinks of all the things she had to put up with while working in academia, she considers herself fortunate. Now she works at home in her pajamas, reads and translates whatever it pleases her and satisfies her intellectual curiosity, and she doesn’t need to specialize. I am not a hugger, but I felt like hugging her.
After this intellectual feast, we were offered wine and (some very good) champagne. Not to mention the delicious appetizers: they were international in origin (Chinese rolls, crab fried puffs, salmon sandwiches, Mediterranean feta pastries) but the chef must have been French. A fabulous reception!
May 24, 2011
Book Expo America 2011: Second Day, Tuesday, May 24th
I was happy to find some of my favorite publishers: New Directions, NYBR Books, Overlook Press and Europa Editions. (Speaking of Europa Editions, the book I am reading now is published by them: The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine by a young German novelist of Russian origin, Alina Bronsky. I haven’t been so totally immersed in a novel in a long time—this is a hilarious, engrossing novel, one of those rare books that can appeal to a very diverse readership.)
My best BEA moments today were two sessions, both on literature in translation: “Spanish and Latin American Fiction in Translation” and “Translating Italy.” In my experience, translators are the most interesting—definitely the most intelligent and knowledgeable—creatures one can meet at literary events. This is not by accident since a translator is, by definition, someone who attempts to inhabit someone else’s mind. By the way, at the session on Italian literature, the first question asked by the moderator was: “What is a translator?” Anne Goldstein’s definition was the one I liked best: a translator is someone who solves puzzles—but the puzzles don’t have a good or wrong answer; there could be a hundred good ways of solving a translation puzzle. The other two translators at the Italian session were Jonathan Galassi, who has recently published a much talked-about rendition of Leopardi, and Michael F. Moore. One piece of good news was that today, in Italy, the majority of books on the best-sellers lists are not only by authors of Italian origin, but also by writers of literary fiction (rather than genre fiction, as is usually the case).
The session on Spanish literature was very good too, though, unfortunately, I only caught the last half. Among the panelists were the ubiquitous Chad Post, editor of Three Percent (one of the best online literary magazines of reviews on books in translation), and celebrated translator Natasha Wimmer (who confessed that every single book she has translated was a book on which the publishers lost money, in spite of the fact that the authors were world-famous—this statement alone speaks volumes about the situation of books in translation in this country).
My best BEA moments today were two sessions, both on literature in translation: “Spanish and Latin American Fiction in Translation” and “Translating Italy.” In my experience, translators are the most interesting—definitely the most intelligent and knowledgeable—creatures one can meet at literary events. This is not by accident since a translator is, by definition, someone who attempts to inhabit someone else’s mind. By the way, at the session on Italian literature, the first question asked by the moderator was: “What is a translator?” Anne Goldstein’s definition was the one I liked best: a translator is someone who solves puzzles—but the puzzles don’t have a good or wrong answer; there could be a hundred good ways of solving a translation puzzle. The other two translators at the Italian session were Jonathan Galassi, who has recently published a much talked-about rendition of Leopardi, and Michael F. Moore. One piece of good news was that today, in Italy, the majority of books on the best-sellers lists are not only by authors of Italian origin, but also by writers of literary fiction (rather than genre fiction, as is usually the case).
The session on Spanish literature was very good too, though, unfortunately, I only caught the last half. Among the panelists were the ubiquitous Chad Post, editor of Three Percent (one of the best online literary magazines of reviews on books in translation), and celebrated translator Natasha Wimmer (who confessed that every single book she has translated was a book on which the publishers lost money, in spite of the fact that the authors were world-famous—this statement alone speaks volumes about the situation of books in translation in this country).
May 23, 2011
Book Expo America 2011: First Day, Monday, May 23rd
After so much anticipation, some disappointment was expected. The REMAINDERS PAVILION: I had imagined a huge hall full of devilishly tempting books, all waiting to be bought at ridiculously low prices. The hall was big, all right, but the construction of the setting for the book exhibit was still going on, so there was a lot of unpleasant construction material around; there were some enticing books (by which I mean literary fiction, which is what I am mostly interested in) but most of the books on display were colorful travel guides or children’s books. And, after finding a collection of short stories by Primo Levi and one by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and getting ready to pay, what do I find out? That I can’t buy them because all that was for wholesale not for individual buyers. So much for my book orgy!
Monday, was, in fact, the pre-BEA day (officially, BEA starts on the 24th). The main event of the day was the Italian Forum, which consisted of conferences regarding book publishing in/from Italy. I had traveled all night, so being very tired, I only had the strength to attend the last part of “Buying and selling Rights,” and “Import and Export of Italian Books in the USA.” All the panelists confirmed what I already knew: that importing books from other countries (in this case, Italy) and publishing them here is a HEROIC enterprise. American publishers want to export their authors, but are not interested in buying anything (one of the reasons being that they don’t have the governmental aid other publishers have). Still, it appears that there is another country even less open than the States: Great Britain. An Italian publicist said that if she tries to sell a book to a Chinese publisher, her chances of success are about 80%; in the case of an American publisher, her chances drop to about…2 in a thousand! The one good thing (from the publishers’ perspective) about publishing in the States is that when a title is successful, the success can translate into huge profits (because the market is so large). And there were some “success stories” of some Italian publishers who have managed to penetrate the American market, but even those were depressing. One of them (whose name escapes me) publishes “art books” on famous topics (eg., the history of Harley Davidson, the Rolling Stones), travel guides, calendars. They sell hundreds of thousands of copies (!) per title, and most of their sales are through…Costco or other similar clubs. As if the junk produced in the States were not enough, and we need Italian publishers to give us more of the same!
Monday, was, in fact, the pre-BEA day (officially, BEA starts on the 24th). The main event of the day was the Italian Forum, which consisted of conferences regarding book publishing in/from Italy. I had traveled all night, so being very tired, I only had the strength to attend the last part of “Buying and selling Rights,” and “Import and Export of Italian Books in the USA.” All the panelists confirmed what I already knew: that importing books from other countries (in this case, Italy) and publishing them here is a HEROIC enterprise. American publishers want to export their authors, but are not interested in buying anything (one of the reasons being that they don’t have the governmental aid other publishers have). Still, it appears that there is another country even less open than the States: Great Britain. An Italian publicist said that if she tries to sell a book to a Chinese publisher, her chances of success are about 80%; in the case of an American publisher, her chances drop to about…2 in a thousand! The one good thing (from the publishers’ perspective) about publishing in the States is that when a title is successful, the success can translate into huge profits (because the market is so large). And there were some “success stories” of some Italian publishers who have managed to penetrate the American market, but even those were depressing. One of them (whose name escapes me) publishes “art books” on famous topics (eg., the history of Harley Davidson, the Rolling Stones), travel guides, calendars. They sell hundreds of thousands of copies (!) per title, and most of their sales are through…Costco or other similar clubs. As if the junk produced in the States were not enough, and we need Italian publishers to give us more of the same!
May 11, 2011
On N.P. by Banana Yoshimoto
I had read Asleep, which was very good, but N.P. is more immature. It has in commun with Asleep a dreamy atmosphere, but in N.P. this atmosphere is more contrived. The novel is made mostly of scenes that take place in enclosed spaces--dialogues between the protagonists. This is a good premise, as far as I am concerned, but the problem is that the novel doesn't live up to its premise. One has the feeling that we are supposed to be fascinated with the characters and their incestuous relationships in the same way that the narrator is. We are told over and over how "weird" the characters are, and how uncanny "this all seems," but the fact is that the characters are far too normal. The descriptions of the hot summer are the best part.
A serious problem with this novel is the translation. In places, the translation is very awkward, and it's hard to tell how much of the blame should go to the translator, and how much to the author.
I can see why the author is such a sensation in Japan--there is an undeniable talent in these pages. She walks a fine line between serious art and pop culture, but in the end she is closer to the latter.
A serious problem with this novel is the translation. In places, the translation is very awkward, and it's hard to tell how much of the blame should go to the translator, and how much to the author.
I can see why the author is such a sensation in Japan--there is an undeniable talent in these pages. She walks a fine line between serious art and pop culture, but in the end she is closer to the latter.
April 29, 2011
On Josip Novakovich’s Salvation and Other Disasters
(Josip Novakovich is a writer of Croatian origin, who moved to the States when he was twenty.)
While reading Novakovich’s highly captivating stories in Salvation and Other Disasters (Graywolf Press, 1998), I kept wondering what makes them so different from other contemporary American short stories. The most obvious difference is, for me, the fact that his writing appears very “natural,” as if there were no “craft” or struggle involved in it. Many contemporary American short stories are very “well crafted” from a technical point of view, yet one often wonders what was the point of writing them. With Novakovich, the opposite happens: every single story tells us something essential about the human being, but it does it in a way that appears very simple and natural. I say “appears” because a “very simple and natural” surface is often the result of a very sophisticated mind. Apparent simplicity is far from simplistic. In fact, Novakovich’s simplicity is on a par with that of great storytellers. The lack of apparent artifice is due, at least in part, to the fact that his stories often come from an oral tradition. They sound as if he were telling them to a friend in a bar. Sometimes they even sound like, “A man (usually a Croat) walks into a bar…”
Reading Salvation and Other Disasters I managed to articulate a thought I never quite succeeded in putting into words before: that a certain Eastern European aesthetic specificity that cannot be categorized either entirely under “realism” nor under “magic realism” or “surrealism” (as it is often improperly called) belongs to a different aesthetic category, which I would call “aesthetic exaggeration” or “exaggerated realism” or “hyperrealism.” The idea came to me from a remark by Thomas Bernhard, who, referring to his own exaggerations, noted that “Exaggeration is the best way of telling the truth.”
Many of Novakovich’s stories are told in a realist way—some are based on the horrors of the Balkan wars, others on the horrors of WWII, and others on his childhood in Croatia in the 1960s, which resembles uncannily my own childhood in Romania in the 1970s. But almost every single story has some detail that escapes realism, and which, nevertheless, is not gratuitous. For instance, in “Sheepskin,” a Croat man is so hungry during the war in the 90s that he eats sheepskin. (Personally, I doubt that the Croats, no matter how hungry they might have been, ate sheepskin in those years.) This man, who had been tortured by a Serb, meets him later by chance, follows him to a restaurant (yes, that is a restaurant, not a store) where the Serb negotiates with the waiter the purchase of a sheepskin jacket, and eventually shoots the Serb from the back. In the end, the Croat realizes that he’d been wrong and the man he killed was not the one who’d tortured him. He then meets the man’s wife and falls in love with her. One can tell that there is a point to everything that happens in the story, and that no matter how absurd or non-realist things might appear, they are not gratuitous—nor are they used to “spice up” the gory details.
Or, take “Real Estate”—a story whose humor, I think, can be entirely appreciated only by an Eastern European. A Croat man confesses that he hates all the Serbs and he tells us why. In his youth, his chances of becoming a great basketball player were ruined when a Serb player hit him during an important game; the enraged Croat violently attacked the Serb and his career ended there. As it happens, the same Serb stole from him the Serb woman he was courting. The Croat ends up marrying another woman, and when, later, he meets the Serb again, the latter is a successful psychiatrist and is married to the Croat’s former lover. But the Serb gives him a different version: he hadn’t hit him on purpose while playing, and the woman he married had been his lover before being with the Croat.
When the war between the Serbs and the Croats ends, the Croat realizes that now that he is on the winners’ side, he could use this to his advantage and appropriate the beautiful house of the Serb if he were to convince him to leave the country. The two men agree on a price, and during the negotiations, the Croat, who never got over the woman who is now married to the Serb, asks him to include her in the deal. The Serb advances a counterproposal: to swap wives. This is the point where the idea of aesthetic exaggeration (and Eastern European dark humor) comes into play. The absurdity of the situation—of which the two enemies are quite aware—is pushed to its ultimate limit, so in the end, the insanity of it all seems rather funny, and even the two men laugh at it together. In the end, none of them sleeps with the other’s wife, the Serb leaves the country, the Croat gets his house, and eventually becomes a successful real estate agent.
But the story that deserves a prize for dark humor is “A Free Fall”—one of the funniest stories I have ever read. It is about a man with a wooden leg, which he calls “Oaky.” Having said this, I realize that some people might think, “a story about a handicapped person”—and I wonder if contemporary American readers could read this story by using a different frame than that of a “disability.” Obviously, such a story would not be funny. But Novakovich’s story is NOT about a “handicap.” The mode in which the story is written is not that of dramatic realism—which is the customary mode of contemporary American stories (unless they are written in a fantastic mode). This story is neither realist, nor fantastic. It is an aesthetic exaggeration in the same way that a caricature is an exaggeration. It is funny in the same way a caricature is funny. In the story, the wooden leg becomes a “fragment” of a man’s body—the narrator, with whom the author, obviously, identifies. This man has a problem not only with his leg, but also with other parts of his body that have become fragmented (his hair, which is falling), his penis, and his balls (or rather, his ball because he had lost one during an operation). I would put this story on a par with some of the most absurd stories ever written (by such authors as Kobo Abe, Gogol, Daniil Kharms or Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky).
While reading Novakovich’s highly captivating stories in Salvation and Other Disasters (Graywolf Press, 1998), I kept wondering what makes them so different from other contemporary American short stories. The most obvious difference is, for me, the fact that his writing appears very “natural,” as if there were no “craft” or struggle involved in it. Many contemporary American short stories are very “well crafted” from a technical point of view, yet one often wonders what was the point of writing them. With Novakovich, the opposite happens: every single story tells us something essential about the human being, but it does it in a way that appears very simple and natural. I say “appears” because a “very simple and natural” surface is often the result of a very sophisticated mind. Apparent simplicity is far from simplistic. In fact, Novakovich’s simplicity is on a par with that of great storytellers. The lack of apparent artifice is due, at least in part, to the fact that his stories often come from an oral tradition. They sound as if he were telling them to a friend in a bar. Sometimes they even sound like, “A man (usually a Croat) walks into a bar…”
Reading Salvation and Other Disasters I managed to articulate a thought I never quite succeeded in putting into words before: that a certain Eastern European aesthetic specificity that cannot be categorized either entirely under “realism” nor under “magic realism” or “surrealism” (as it is often improperly called) belongs to a different aesthetic category, which I would call “aesthetic exaggeration” or “exaggerated realism” or “hyperrealism.” The idea came to me from a remark by Thomas Bernhard, who, referring to his own exaggerations, noted that “Exaggeration is the best way of telling the truth.”
Many of Novakovich’s stories are told in a realist way—some are based on the horrors of the Balkan wars, others on the horrors of WWII, and others on his childhood in Croatia in the 1960s, which resembles uncannily my own childhood in Romania in the 1970s. But almost every single story has some detail that escapes realism, and which, nevertheless, is not gratuitous. For instance, in “Sheepskin,” a Croat man is so hungry during the war in the 90s that he eats sheepskin. (Personally, I doubt that the Croats, no matter how hungry they might have been, ate sheepskin in those years.) This man, who had been tortured by a Serb, meets him later by chance, follows him to a restaurant (yes, that is a restaurant, not a store) where the Serb negotiates with the waiter the purchase of a sheepskin jacket, and eventually shoots the Serb from the back. In the end, the Croat realizes that he’d been wrong and the man he killed was not the one who’d tortured him. He then meets the man’s wife and falls in love with her. One can tell that there is a point to everything that happens in the story, and that no matter how absurd or non-realist things might appear, they are not gratuitous—nor are they used to “spice up” the gory details.
Or, take “Real Estate”—a story whose humor, I think, can be entirely appreciated only by an Eastern European. A Croat man confesses that he hates all the Serbs and he tells us why. In his youth, his chances of becoming a great basketball player were ruined when a Serb player hit him during an important game; the enraged Croat violently attacked the Serb and his career ended there. As it happens, the same Serb stole from him the Serb woman he was courting. The Croat ends up marrying another woman, and when, later, he meets the Serb again, the latter is a successful psychiatrist and is married to the Croat’s former lover. But the Serb gives him a different version: he hadn’t hit him on purpose while playing, and the woman he married had been his lover before being with the Croat.
When the war between the Serbs and the Croats ends, the Croat realizes that now that he is on the winners’ side, he could use this to his advantage and appropriate the beautiful house of the Serb if he were to convince him to leave the country. The two men agree on a price, and during the negotiations, the Croat, who never got over the woman who is now married to the Serb, asks him to include her in the deal. The Serb advances a counterproposal: to swap wives. This is the point where the idea of aesthetic exaggeration (and Eastern European dark humor) comes into play. The absurdity of the situation—of which the two enemies are quite aware—is pushed to its ultimate limit, so in the end, the insanity of it all seems rather funny, and even the two men laugh at it together. In the end, none of them sleeps with the other’s wife, the Serb leaves the country, the Croat gets his house, and eventually becomes a successful real estate agent.
But the story that deserves a prize for dark humor is “A Free Fall”—one of the funniest stories I have ever read. It is about a man with a wooden leg, which he calls “Oaky.” Having said this, I realize that some people might think, “a story about a handicapped person”—and I wonder if contemporary American readers could read this story by using a different frame than that of a “disability.” Obviously, such a story would not be funny. But Novakovich’s story is NOT about a “handicap.” The mode in which the story is written is not that of dramatic realism—which is the customary mode of contemporary American stories (unless they are written in a fantastic mode). This story is neither realist, nor fantastic. It is an aesthetic exaggeration in the same way that a caricature is an exaggeration. It is funny in the same way a caricature is funny. In the story, the wooden leg becomes a “fragment” of a man’s body—the narrator, with whom the author, obviously, identifies. This man has a problem not only with his leg, but also with other parts of his body that have become fragmented (his hair, which is falling), his penis, and his balls (or rather, his ball because he had lost one during an operation). I would put this story on a par with some of the most absurd stories ever written (by such authors as Kobo Abe, Gogol, Daniil Kharms or Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky).
Notes on Books
Book reviews and occasional notes and thoughts on world literature and writers by an American writer of Eastern European origin.
- Alta Ifland's profile
- 171 followers
