metafiction · review · science fiction

Same Same, by Peter Mendelsund

If anyone could work out the precise formula for productive creativity would never have to worry about money every again–or for their children, or grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, etc. etc. But one has to wonder, especially after reading Same Same by Peter Mendelsund (or seen Hollywood’s lineup for the last several years), if devising a formula wouldn’t strip the life out of whatever the mass produced artists came up with. In this strange, constantly morphing novel, Percy Frobisher arrives at the Freehold, an experimental artists’ community. Percy arrives with a vague plan to create something and a drug habit. This art makes sense. Subsequent events get distinctly surreal.

As soon as he arrives at Freehold, Percy begins to take stock of his new environment. Freehold is an elaborately landscaped dome in the middle of an unnamed desert. Everything the residents want will be provided, so long as they always wear their uniforms and make progress on their projects. There are poets, various species of artists, data analysts, archaeologists, philosophers, and others, all working on elaborate, highly conceptual work that might only be comprehensible to people with very specialized PhDs. The residents must also attend group sessions, document their progress, and give a Discourse™. In the group sessions and in Percy’s interactions with the other residents, I saw that all of the residents seem to have the same problem. They have gone so deep into their minds that they’ve lost the ability to communicate with others. They also can’t stop digging. One artist, who labels things for their project, noticed that the labels needed labels—a train of though that will clearly lead no where sensible.

As Same Same progresses (unlike the artists at Freehold), disturbing events occur and equally disturbing themes arise. Percy sees a strange attack that no one will talk about. The director and the admins hound Percy for progress. The other residents seem to be sliding further off kilter. Perhaps most unsettling of all is that it all seems terribly futile. Creativity can’t be forced. If anyone tries, they just end up with incomprehensible nonsense. And copying anyone’s method strips the life and soul out of the work.

Just when I thought I was getting the hang of Same Same, events fall even further into chaos. Percy’s drug habit gets worse. The other residents act even more strangely. Freehold starts to collapse under the weight of heat, sand, and curiously purposeful paper. The only way to understand this part, I think, is to read it metaphorically—a strategy that works very well as I started to wonder just how reliable Percy is as a narrator. Anyone who wants to know who Percy really is and what Freehold actually is will have to read Same Same themselves.

Same Same is a challenge to read, but fascinating. It’s definitely the sort of book I would want to read with other English majors because there is so much to pick apart and talk about. It’s got so many layers that I’m sure one reading doesn’t do this book justice. This is one of the smartest books I’ve read in a long time.

I received a free copy of this book from the publisher via NetGalley.

historical fiction · literary fiction · metafiction · review

The Brahmadells, by Jóanes Nielsen

Imagine a triangle with its points in Iceland, Norway, and Scotland, skewed a little closer to Scotland than the other two countries. That’s roughly were the Faroe Islands at located. The Faroes, a long time colony of Denmark and a place few have heard of, is the setting for Jóanes Nielsen’s The Brahmadells (translated by Kerri A. Pierce), a metafictional family historical saga that runs from the 1840s to the early 1990s. The family stories that make up the bulk of the novel support a variety of tangents that attempt to explicate the Faroese character. The people in this novel eat partially decomposed meat, live dangerous lives, believe strange things, and sometimes fall prey to their worst impulses.

In the 1990s, writer Eigil Tvibur (the descendant of a Norwegian soldier who was garrisoned in Tórshavn before becoming a landowner), feels that his life is falling apart. His lover has definitively left him. His political career has imploded. He is angry all the time. And his house might be haunted. I might have felt more sympathy for him if it hadn’t been for the terrible, violent rage that he inherited from that Norwegian ancestor. Eigil’s anger and sense of entitlement leads him into a series of awful mistakes. Thankfully, only the beginning and end of The Brahmadells focuses on Eigil. The rest is about the twinned history of the Tvibur family and the Brahmadella family. 

I had a lot more sympathy for Tóvó í Giel. Tóvó is a scion of a family nicknamed the Brahamadellas because of their supposedly otherworldly knowledge. We met Tóvó during a terrible measles epidemic when he’s just a boy. Because the boy’s plight (a lot of his family members succumb to the disease), a prominent doctor takes the boy under his wing. Tóvó ends up traveling across a good chunk of the Faroe Islands before heading out to sea to see the world. Eventually, he returns home and inherits a house from the man who turns out to be Eigil’s Norwegian forefather. 

The oldest neighborhood in Tórshavn. (Image by Vincent van Zeijst, via Wikicommons)

Sadly, we don’t stay with Tóvó or even get much inside this character’s head. Instead, we are treated to an often bewildering montage of Faroese history. We are treated to chapters about Danish exploitation and oppression, Faroese literature, weather, cuisine, coal mining, a failed attempt at creating a union, and more. I suspect these tangents are part of the reason why this novel was chosen to be translated into English; it offers a full meal of Faroe-ish fare, rather than just a taste. The tangents definitely explain the novel’s comparisons to Moby-Dick. Unfortunately, the book jumps around so much that it’s hard to tell who we need to focus on, what’s important to remember, and what the point of it all is. The Brahmadells also suffers from what are either typos or translation errors, or possibly both, that just put me off the book even more. This book is a shaggy dog and while I got to mentally travel to a place that fascinates me, I had a tour guide that ruined the experience with his bluster and frightening anger.

historical fiction · metafiction · review

Insurrecto, by Gina Apostal

40237027Insurrecto, by Gina Apostal, is a strange hybrid of a novel. It encapsulates the Balangiga Massacre of 1901 inside of the story of a woman trying to explore her auteur father’s disappearance through file, wrapped inside of a translator’s attempts to write a mystery novel about a famous woman director who visits Manila, Philippines. Confused? I suspect we’re supposed to be. But all this confusion left me with interesting thoughts about how labels color the stories we tell about history, and about the ability of stories to shape reality for the audience.

The novel opens in Manila with Magsalin, who works as a translator but wants to be an author. There’s more to her backstory, but the focus of the book is mostly on Chiara and the main character of the movie Chiara wants to make. Chiara hires Magsalin for her fluency in two Philippine languages, as well as her familiarity with the island of Samar. This where her father disappeared while filming a new movie in the 1970s. Chiara plans to make a movie about a bloody massacre that occurred during the Philippine-American War, which will reference her father’s masterpiece about the Vietnam War.

I’m not sure I can untangle the plot threads in Insurrecto any more than this. It’s a tightly woven blend of historical fiction and literary metafiction. While it weaves in and out of Chiara’s movie, her plot, and Magsalin’s story (plus some sections that feature Chiara’s mother), it also touches on what the correct term is for freedom fighters/revolutionaries/insurgents, parental abandonment and the pain that comes from not being able to say good-bye, Philippine food, Philippine pop culture, false history, and plenty of other topics. There is so much in this surprisingly fast read that I feel like my brain is still processing everything.

Insurrecto is perfect for readers who like fiction that plays around with the idea of fiction, breaking the fourth wall left and right. Speaking for myself, I enjoyed the metafictional elements and Magsalin’s jaundiced view of Chiara, but the characterization in this book suffers because of all the writerly pyrotechnics. Readers who prefer a straightforward narrative might want to look elsewhere for a fictional take on the Philippine-American War and the crimes committed during the conflict.

I received a free copy of this book from the publisher via Edelweiss, for review consideration. It will be released 16 November 2018

historical fiction · metafiction · review

The Book of Dirt, by Bram Presser

35215661Unless a family is particularly close knit, garrulous, and practice good document management, the histories of specific members will be forgotten after a generation or two. Documents and photos can give descendants hints about the full, rich lives that were live (except for all the Norwegian potato farmers in my family). When disasters, war, and other destructive events swept through, we lose clues to the past. In the case of the narrator of Bram Presser’s The Book of Dirt, the greatest disaster—the Holocaust—not only meant that there were few documents to trace his family’s story, but also that the survivors were unwilling or unable to share their stories. So, the narrator (who is also named Bram Presser) set out to write stories for his maternal grandparents. The Book of Dirt is the product of Presser as narrators’s research and imagination.

Presser the Narrator (a character separate from the actual author of the book, for the sake of this review) only has a few pieces of information about what happened to Jakub Rand and Daša Roubíčková between 1939 and 1945. Rand was incarcerated in Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, and a subcamp of Sachsenhausen. Roubíčková had a similar journey. After the war, they found each other in Prague, married, and emigrated to Australia. Decades later, Presser the Narrator sends emails and letters, then visits Yad Vashem, Beit Terezín, and museums in Prague to try and find out more. This story would have been enough to fill a book, but there are also tantalizing hints in Rand’s story that point to his possible participation in the Talmudkommando, a group of Jewish scholars assigned to sorting and cataloging looted Jewish artifacts and written materials.

When Presser the Narrator tries to find out more about his grandfather’s part in the Talmudkommando, the documentary trail goes cold. The limited paper trail about the group doesn’t mention Rand at all. The lack of evidence suggests that Rand was either mistaken or fabricating his experiences. Presser the Narrator, nothing daunted by the gaps in the record, sets out to write his grandparents’ stories as they might have been. Using his memories of his grandparents’ stories; genealogical research; and research about Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, and the Holocaust, Presser the Narrator creates a fuller version of their hardships and how they managed to survive. Presser the Narrator builds a joint memoir that explains why Rand and Roubíčková tried so very hard to never look back or talk about their long, terrible, incarceration.

The Book of Dirt is one of the most metafictional books I’ve read in a long time, so much so that I am reminded of HhHH, by Laurent Binet, in which the author writes as much about his struggles with his research and writing process as he does in actually writing a history of Operation AnthropoidThe Book of Dirt contains family photos and historical records, which are spread through chapters in which Presser the Narrator talks about his research travails and longer chapters that follow his grandparents from the 1930s through the end of World War II. All of these things are blended together into a Frankenstein-like whole.

It’s hard to tell what’s real, historical fact and what Presser the Author invented. Some readers might be bothered by this. At times, I was, because I didn’t always like the liberties Presser the Author took with the historical record. Other readers may like Presser the Author’s premise and find The Book of Dirt a meaningful tribute to his grandparents. There’s a fine like between presumption and audacity, and I’m on the fence about which side I think Presser the Author falls on. If nothing else, I appreciate the thought that Presser the Author wanted to bring back into reality what was previously lost.

I received a free copy of this book from the publisher via NetGalley, for review consideration. 

historical fiction · metafiction · review

Atonement, by Ian McEwan

6867Novels that feature writers as protagonists almost always remind me of the fact that, when I read, I am essentially forcing myself to hallucinate based on inky squiggles on a piece of pulped tree. Reading is really weird when you think about it. And yet, I will still argue with every fiber of my being that stories hold truths. Ian McEwan’s Atonement is the most elegant expression of both the power of story to shape reality while also reminding us how powerful that story can be once it sinks its hooks into you.

Briony Tallis is the kind of character that I loved to hate. She’s incredibly selfish. She’s got control issues. She’s jealous of almost everyone in her family. Her desire to write just seems to make it all worse. The fact that she can’t control the living people around her the way she can the characters she creates frustrates her no end. Allowances might be made for her, given that she’s barely 13 years old when we meet her in the hot summer of 1935 at her family estate, but she has more power than any 13-year-old should. In her arrogance, she ruins two lives (possibly more).

The first half of Atonement tells the story of the bare handful of days that summer that changed everything. We see Briony putting the finishing touches on her dreadfully baroque novel, then getting annoyed with the lack of enthusiasm from the visiting cousins she’s pressed into service as actors. We also see her sister, Cecelia’s frustration with her place at home. She’s at the awkward age where she’s struggling to become an independent adult while her parents imagine that she will follow the path of marriage and motherhood. Meanwhile, Cecelia and an old family friend, Robbie, realize that they are in love with each other. As the reader, we have a broader view than any of the characters. We know what’s really going on in the scenes that Briony consistently misinterprets. Plus, Briony is telling us the story from much later and she is liberal with the hints that she does something terrible and unforgivable that summer. The tension is almost unbearable while I waited to find out what she did.

The last half of the book tells the story of what happened to Robbie just before the Dunkirk Evacuation and to Briony as she learns how to be a military nurse. Then there’s an extended epilogue that turns everything we’ve read on its head. To say anymore would ruin the effect of the book, so I’ll stop with the plot summary.

Atonement is the kind of book I absolutely adore. Not only are the characters so fully realized that I could see them in my head (although sneaky peeks at the imdb listing for the 2007 film didn’t hurt) and the setting so well drawn that I felt like I was wilting in the summer heat along with the characters, but it also plays around with story in ways that I just love. Because Briony, even as a child, is a writer, she is constantly thinking about the best way to tell a story. How should it end? What should the reader think and feel after reading that story? Ultimately, she wonders if a great story can overwrite the appalling thing she did. Through her story, she is asking us to forgive her, if we can.

I read this book is great big gulps over the course of one day. It is so well done, so masterfully constructed, that I completely agree with the hype that surrounds it. The critics are right about Atonement. Some readers may be annoyed with some of the more obvious writerly touches (echoes, very pointed letters, etc.), but those touches were catnip for me. I enjoyed the book so much I’m a little reluctant to return it to the library. I kind of want to put it on my shelf so that I can reread it whenever I like and see McEwan at work through fantastically awful Briony. Before I reread Atonement, however, I need to let the bruises on my heart heal first. This book packs a hell of a wallop.

historical fiction · metafiction · review

The Tale of the Missing Man, by Manzoor Ahtesham

36376808Character can mean either a person imagined up by an author, but also the strengths and flaws that make up a person’s personality. In The Tale of the Missing Man, by Manzoor Ahtesham and translated by Jason Grunebaum and Ulrike Stark, we have a meditation on both. Zamir Ahmad Khan has lived in Bhopal, India for the length of his sad sack life. We meet him in his doctor’s office, where he complains of symptoms of dissociation and malaise. Then Zamir takes us back to his childhood to show how he became who and what he is. At the end, we’re left to think about the missed opportunities of Zamir’s life. Could things have been different if he’d made different choices? Was it even possible to choose other paths?

A third of the way into the book, the narrator interrupts to explain (emphatically) that Zamir Ahmad Khan is not the narrator. The narrator chides any readers who might draw comparisons between Zamir and the narrator, to ignore the many similarities between the two. Instead, the narrator asks us to think about what might have happened if. The problem with thinking about the what ifs of Zamir’s life is that Zamir seems pathologically incapable of making good choices in his life. He falls in love with the wrong people, then fails them. He goes to the wrong school. He makes the wrong friends. He lies, all the time. He just can’t seem to help himself.

Apart from the interruptions from the narrator, The Tale of the Missing Man is written as a series of memories centered on people who have since passed away. Zamir’s life is full of wonderfully flawed people, sometimes hilariously so. To be honest, I enjoyed the other people in Zamir’s life a lot more than I liked him. Zamir, unlike those other characters, doesn’t seem to have anything he wants. Where other characters pursue careers or build families, Zamir only seems to know what he doesn’t want and avoids commitment wherever possible. I don’t mind unlikeable characters normally, but the ones who don’t know what they want or have no ambitions annoy me. Zamir annoyed me a lot.

Grunebaum and Stark do sterling work translating Ahtesham’s novel. In their afterword, they write about Ahtesham’s skill with Hindi and Urdu, as well as a Persian style of storytelling called dastan, in a way that makes me strongly suspect that I’m missing layers of meaning in The Tale of Missing Man. This isn’t the fault of the translators. They captured Ahtesham’s meandering and highly detailed writing. The liveliness of the characters and the grit of Bhopal come through brilliantly.

The Tale of the Missing Man will be best enjoyed by readers who love detailed character studies. Readers who also like to think about a writer might be thinking about and trying to accomplish by creating characters will definitely find food for thought. I found the book overlong. The longer it went on, the more I skimmed. I just didn’t care enough about Zamir to stay glued to the text. There were parts of the book I really liked. The character studies and the ending were very good. The Tale of the Missing Man just wasn’t for me.

I received a free copy of this book from the publisher via NetGalley, for review consideration. It will be released 15 August 2018.

metafiction · review · short stories

Sentimental Tales, by Mikhail Zoshchenko

36906165I am a staunch advocate of New Historicism. This school of thought argues that, in order to understand a text, one has to understand its social, historical, and cultural contexts. I don’t think this has ever been more true than when I read Sentimental Tales, a short story collection by Mikhail Zoshchenko and translated by Boris Dralyuk. This strange and blackly funny collection is written from the perspective of a frustrated writer who doesn’t know how to tell a story that will please himself, his potential readers, and the Soviet Writers’ Union.

After a series of introductions to the collections editions (which reminded me of the opening credits notes in Monty Python and the Holy Grail), our narrator gives us a series of stories that are as much commentary on writing under the Soviet Union as they are portraits of scoundrels. Each story begins with the narrator lamenting his latest problem. Sometimes it’s not being able to write beautiful language to set the scene when lovers are sighing at each other under blooming lilacs. Sometimes it’s not coming up with characters worthy of writing about. Mostly it’s about not being able to write the way the Union wants while also writing in a way that pleases the narrator. I’m glad I at least knew something about the Writers’ Union. It’s possible I would have been so frustrated by what these stories were doing without knowing their context that I would have given up after the first story.

The stories are difficult to summarize—which is odd considering that not a lot happens. Each story in the collection is a portrait of a man who also doesn’t fit in the new order of things. These men who don’t fit aren’t outsiders because of their philosophies; they don’t fit in because they’re scam artists and dreamers. They don’t want much, in general. They want their creature comforts: warmth, food, a decent place to sleep. The wastrels mostly achieve this by marrying and scamming a woman with a steady income. These stories are completely different from anything I’ve read from an early Soviet writer. Zoshchenko’s characters aren’t heroic in any way, shape, or form. They’re not even anti-heroes, as in Babel’s stories.

I found the narrator’s metafictional whining hilarious. Reading the introductions to the stories was like sitting on the writer’s shoulders while he tears his hair out in frustration, before cracking open a bottle of vodka while he tells you half-formed stories about what he has seen lately. I was entertained and intellectually challenged by Sentimental Tales. I would recommend it for readers who like to see inside writers’ processes—especially readers who might want to be writers themselves.

I received a free copy of this book from the publisher via NetGalley, for review consideration. It will be released 31 July 2018.