Bagful of Books

Posted on by under bookbuying, Uncategorized

The Friends of the Library had their sale last week. Here’s what I found:

Peter Lovesey, The Last Detective & The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

Robertson Davies, The Deptford Trilogy (Nice Penguin omnibus edition. Bad Canadian, never read them. Put off by all things Jungian, so might not be a success. But.)

The Autobiography of Arthur Ransome (Probably self-serving, because I gather he was a pretty lousy human being. But he gave me some of the happiest reading hours of my childhood, so I owe him a chance.)

Nahum N Glatzer, The Loves of Franz Kafka

Elizabeth Bowen, Eva Trout, or Changing Scenes (Lovely US First Edition)

Henry James, The Princess Casamassima

Laurie R. King, A Letter of Mary

E. F. Benson, Queen Lucia Part I: Make Way for Lucia (If I love this I will kick myself for leaving the other five volumes behind, but it seemed like a lot of pages to take a flutter on. Isn’t Sarah Waters’s new novel based on one of Benson’s?)

Alain de Botton, How Proust can Change your Life (Skeptical about the book, but not the idea—he changed mine.)

May Sarton, Journal of Solitude (My sabbatical has made me appreciate how much I need solitude.)

Dorothy Dunnett, Queen’s Play (Because I have the first in the series and am apparently convinced I will love them.)

Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim (Perfect. How about this one:

The rabbi of Lublin once asked the rabbi of Apt, who was a guest in his house: “Do you know the old rabbi of Neshkizh?” “I do not know him,” he replied. “But tell me: what is there so special about him that you asked me this?”
“The minute you make his acquaintance, you would know,” said the rabbi of Lublin. “With him everything: teaching and prayers, eating and sleeping, is all in one piece, and he can elevate his soul to its origin.”
Then the rabbi of Apt decided to go to Neshkizh. His carriage was at the door, when he heard that he had been denounced to the authorities and found it necessary to go to the official magistrate of the district. By the time he returned, it was two weeks before Passover and he again postponed his journey. After the holidays, he was told that the rabbi of Neshkizh had died in the week before Passover.

It’s a straight line to Kafka!)

Total: $5.50

Then I walked across the street to the Friends of the Library bookstore and found:

Connie Willis, Blackout

Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (recently possessed by burning desire to read this book.)

Thomas Berger, Little Big Man (RIP)

Those 1800-odd pages brought my day’s total to $20.25. Take that, Amazon!

Madame Bovary–Gustave Flaubert (1857, English translation Lydia Davis, 2010)

Posted on by under Uncategorized

For the past eight years, my wife and I have met with a mutual friend each summer for several days to discuss a novel. For the first seven years of this cherished exercise, we read Proust. But having finished the Recherche last year—undoubtedly the greatest reading experience of my life—we needed to look elsewhere. (Although we briefly considered starting Proust all over again.) After deciding to continue with French literature, precisely because none of us has any particular special knowledge of it, we chose Madame Bovary. In what follows I’ll be assuming you know what happens in Flaubert’s book, so be careful if you’re worried about finding out what happens. Much of what does is quite dramatic, but suspense isn’t the point. What matters is the novel’s way of telling. In brief, though: Emma Bovary is married to a doctor, Charles, whose talent for medicine is as middling as his affection for her is devoted. By temperament and through experience she yearns for more than what provincial Normandy offers her. A desire for passion and intensity leads her to commit two affairs, rush headlong to financial ruin, and experience desperation so intense it can only be stilled by suicide.

At the end of our discussion we agreed that we might enjoy teaching the novel more than we did reading it. It’s not that teaching has nothing to do with liking. In fact, it’s easier, for me at least, to teach things I like. But sharing my tastes with others is not what teaching is mostly about. (Though it’s not insignificant.) Helping students to see how literature works—how a novel or poem or play does what it does—is what teaching is about. I often like a book more once I understand what it’s up to, and I hope my students do too, but the two experiences don’t have to go together.

As my wife put it, teaching the book would require us to be devils’ advocates, championing or at least reconsidering some of the things we found difficult about it. Because make no mistake, Madame Bovary is difficult. Not in its syntax, which is at once perfectly clear and surprisingly abrupt, with little regard for sonority, parallelism, and extended metaphor. (The opposite of Proust, basically.) But in its approach to characterization, its use of irony, and its particular narrative voice, the book sharply challenges readers’ expectations.

Over and over again in our conversations we came back to the question of which of the characters, if any, we could sympathize with. It’s a bit surprising that we did. After all, a book named after a character prompts us to expect our identification—the energy we invest in attaching ourselves to another—to be both straightforward and intense.

But it isn’t. Neither Emma nor any of the other characters in the book’s milieu of bourgeois and petit-bourgeois provincial society in the years of the French Restoration is particularly likeable. For Madame Bovary is a cruel book. (Here the contrast to Proust is striking: Proust casts a sharp eye on cruelty—cruelty could even be said to be his great subject—but his book never seems cruel, for we are asked to understand as much as to judge.) What is said of one character, a famous doctor who makes a brief appearance to tend to the dying heroine, might be said of the book itself, particularly its narrative voice:

His gaze, keener than his lancet, would descend straight into your soul, past your excuses and your reticence, and disarticulate your every lie.

Lest we think the novel approves of Doctor Larivière, I should note that he abandons what he immediately realizes is a hopeless case for fear of being associated with a medical failure. And lest we think this description is a disguised idealization of the task of the writer, as I initially did, I should note, as my friends did, that every instance of writing in the book is an exercise in the (usually willful) misrepresentation of reality. But that “disarticulate” is wonderfully appropriate, since it alludes both to speech, or rather its failure or undoing, and to anatomy. In the latter sense, we can’t help but think of one of the book’s many terrible incidents, when Charles Bovary is convinced to operate on the clubfoot of the groom Hippolyte, botching the job so badly that the leg must be amputated.

But I was talking about the book’s keen, sharp narrative voice. It spends most of its time criticizing things, through the irony and bathos that drive its unwillingness to shrink from, to the point of even seeming to delight in, sordidness (of behaviour, bodily functions, disease, etc). A lengthy description of Emma’s outfit for a ball is followed by this sentence: “Charles’s pants were tight around his stomach.” The brunt of that critique, as this example suggests, is born by the habits, beliefs, and expectations of the bourgeoisie. Emma herself bemoans their stupidity and crudity—and here the novel seems to agree with its heroine—yet fails to realize that she is indisputably one of them. Her tragedy isn’t that she flouts bourgeois morality but that she adheres to it. She cares what people think of her. Admittedly, as a woman it’s hard for her to ignores their opinions. She suffers from being a woman in a man’s world. Gender oppression is one way to explain Emma’s behaviour sympathetically (the stakes are much higher for her in having an affair than they are for a man, as the example of the roué Rodolphe clearly suggests), yet readings of this sort don’t get us very far. The novel is as uninterested in women as Emma is herself. After all, there are no other substantial female characters in the book. Even her own mother appears only fleetingly, in the (perhaps unreliable) memories of her father.

But for all Emma’s interest in men, they don’t come off much better. The ones she’s involved with are mediocre: Lèon is timid, Rodolphe a second-rate Casanova. Even the ones immune to her charms are unsympathetic, from the sententious and ultimately rather diabolical pharmacist Homais to the mediocre priest Bournisien; the former’s reductive materialism is as tendentious as the latter’s belief. Perhaps only the minor character of Binet—a tax collector obsessed by duck hunting and woodworking—comes across well. The villagers disdain his hobby as useless (he doesn’t sell his carved figures), but the book seems to value it.

But Binet is a minor character. Of the major ones only Emma’s father, Père Rouault, is at all sympathetic, although he seems to care more about marrying her off than in assuring her well being. He is shrewd enough to know that she is bound to have been dissatisfied had she stayed on his farm, but not enough to realize she is bound to be dissatisfied no matter where she ends up. That leaves Charles, Emma’s husband, a man so enamored with his wife that he connives at his own cuckolding. Charles is utterly clueless, and as such poses an intriguing test case for readers. Can we sympathize with someone so out of his depth all the time, who misses the signs that his wife is cheating on him and consigning him to financial ruin, and who hasn’t the awareness to be self-deprecating? If we can, it is only because is kind, although his kindness extends only to Emma (and perhaps their daughter, Berthe). He doesn’t bear a grudge—even when he comes face to face with one of his wife’s lovers he refuses to blame him, or her. But is this response laudable, or insipid? My friends and I considered the possibility that Charles is the happiest person in the book, yet we were unable to overlook, since the book never lets us, the delusory nature of that happiness.

The ambivalence we felt towards Charles was only heightened when it came to Emma. Her faults are numerous. She lies, cheats, swindles, ignores her child. She is unable to live in the present, preferring a romanticized past or a fantasized future. She models her actions and desires on others’. She thinks she is much more special than she is. And yet we would have to be unbearably sanctimonious or unreflective to condemn her too quickly. Don’t we think ourselves special? Don’t we model our actions and desires on other people’s, even or especially fictional ones? Flaubert’s most sophisticated move, the final turn of his authorial screw, is to have created an unsympathetic heroine with whom we must nevertheless at least in part identify. We will not find our vanity flattered here.

Susan Sontag once described irony as a force so destabilizing and endlessly undermining of itself that it must end either in despair or a laughter that leaves one without any breath at all. Despair may be more appropriate than breathless laughter in describing the effects of Flaubert’s narrative voice. The only thing that seems to escape this coruscating fate in Madame Bovary is the landscape of Normandy. The newly wed Emma, already bored, takes to wandering the countryside:

Sometimes, sudden squalls would blow up, winds that rolled in from the sea over the entire plateau of the Caux region, carrying a salty freshness far into the fields. The rushes would whistle close to the ground, and the leaves of the beeches would rustle, shivering rapidly while the tops of the trees, still swaying, continued their loud murmur. Emma would pull her shawl tight around her shoulders and stand up.

As the last sentence suggests, Emma is not smitten by this landscape—having grown up on a farm “she knew the country too well; she knew the bleating flocks, the milking, the plows”—and it might be too much to say that the narrator is. But I can’t help but think the narrator prefers the murmurs of trees to those of people. It seems to tip its hand, regarding what it values, in its commentary on Emma’s response to the landscape she does like: storms, tempests, greenery that grows over ruins:

She needed to derive from things a sort of personal gain; and she rejected as useless everything that did not contribute to the immediate gratification of her heart, —being by temperament more sentimental than artistic, in search of emotions and not landscapes.

In its own search for landscapes, the narrator, describing the country near the village of Yonville, is moved to a rare metaphor:

The grassland extends under a fold of low hills to join at the far end the pastures of the Bray country, while to the east, the plain, rising gently, broadens out and extends its blond wheat fields as far as the eye can see. The water that runs along the edge of the grass divides with its line of white the color of the meadows from the color of the furrows, so that the countryside resembles a great mantle, unfolded, its green velvet collar edged with silver braid.

But even descriptions like these are soon ironized. A few lines after this last example, the great mantle is forgotten for decidedly prosaic conclusions: “It is here that they make the worst Neufchâtel cheeses in the whole district, while farming is costly, because a good deal of manure is needed to enrich this crumbly soil full of sand and stones.”

And what about the people who live amongst this land? Is there no hope for them, especially as they become less tangibly connected to it? (I was struck by the relative gentleness of the description of Emma and Charles’s country wedding, in comparison to later scenes, similarly crowded, at a ball, an exposition, and the opera.) In the end, the thing that bothered me most about Madame Bovary was its inability or refusal to imagine fantasy as anything other than a dupe or (narrowly conceived) ideology. Which might be another way of saying I wish the novel were more Freudian. (I recognize the anachronism.) Freud showed us that some of our fantasies are rigid, blinkered, disfiguring. But he also showed us that we need fantasy, and that a healthy person is one who seeks to make her fantasies as enabling as possible. (One name he gave to good fantasy was sublimation.) We can’t take Emma as a warning of how fantasy goes wrong, because there are no other examples in the novel that oppose her way of being. It’s important to be able to be carried away from our lives, especially when they are boring or sordid or cramped, because that’s the first step in changing those lives. In this sense, Madame Bovary doesn’t just diagnose rigidity. It is itself rigid.

A few other thoughts:

• The novel seems tailor made to support the scholar Mark Seltzer’s contention that free indirect discourse in fact distances us from characters rather than, as is usually assumed, drawing us closer to them. This effect fits with the novel’s repeated reference to the opposition of intimacy and distance. Distance—and the critique that accompanies it—is certainly what results from the novel’s use of italicized phrases to indicate clichés, received wisdom, banalities the narrator can’t bear to be associated with. A simple example, chosen at random: “Homais suspected it [the reason Lèon goes to Rouen each week] was some young man’s business, an intrigue.” But it’s equally true of more conventionally expressed free indirect discourse. For example, “Her trip to [a ball at] La Vaubyesssard had made a great hole in her life, like those great chasms that a storm, in a single night, will sometimes open in the mountains.” These sentiments, that language of storm and chasm, are Emma’s more than they are the narrators, even if she doesn’t express them directly. My friends and I spent a long time talking about less clear cut examples of narrative voice. For example, when Charles meets Rodolphe after Emma’s death, and makes an unusually grandiose pronouncement: “ ‘Fate is to blame!’”, the text continues:

Rodolphe, who had determined the course of that fate, found him very compliant for a man in his situation, comical even, and rather low.

Who speaks that appositional phrase? Is the narrator just pronouncing that Rodolphe did determine Emma’s fate? Or is it (as I ‘m inclined to think) Rodolphe who thinks this, thereby expressing his pompous ego? Being able to talk at length over textual intricacies like this is one of the reasons we all make the effort to continue this annual exercise.

• One of the pleasures of the book is that it is clearly rooted in a particular time and place. Thus attempts to make it relevant—to call it the first novel of shopping and fucking, as I believe Julian Barnes has done, or Emma the first desperate housewife—are as misguided as they are trite. Lydia Davis’s version seemed the best of the three we consulted (the others were the Francis Steegmuller and the Paul de Man revision of the Eleanor Marx Aveling). She never tries to smooth over the novel’s abruptness or awkwardness, and she spends a lot of time, in unobtrusive notes, filling us in on the particulars of the material objects—and perforce the ways of life embedded in them—that fill the book.

• I became fascinated by a series of motifs: of open mouths (from Charles Bovary’s bawling of his name when he arrives at school to his posture in death), of tempestuous seas (used as a sign of passion throughout and, fittingly, utterly conventional and thus contemptible in a novel where the sea is nearby but never directly present), and, especially, of a particular mode of comportment, namely, leaning on one’s elbows. So many of the characters—Emma and Charles, of course, but Rodolphe and Lèon as well, really I’m not sure anyone is spared—are described in this posture. So much so that what I had at first taken as an indication of melancholy and the saturnine, in homage, perhaps, to Dürer’s engraving of Melancholia, came to seem pointed, yet another criticism of the bourgeoisie, as if its members hadn’t the integrity, even the backbone to stand up on their own.

• Famously this novel is about a woman, the bits that have stayed with me most involve girls. I can’t shake the memory of Emma and Charles’s daughter, Berthe, taken up by an aunt after the death of her parents and sent to work in a cotton mill (however contemptible the bourgeoisie, leaving it in this way seems worse) and of the serving girl Félicité, only 14 when Emma takes her on, and at first so lonely and afraid that each night she creeps to the sideboard where “she would help herself to a small supply of sugar and eat it alone, in bed, after saying her prayers.” This meager theft foreshadows a larger one at the end of the novel, when Félicité absconds with her deceased mistress’s wardrobe. It surely says more about my own readerly need for pathos than anything about the novel itself that I remember this as a scene of a lonely girl rather than an incipient thief. Félicité can look after herself; poor Berthe’s future is much less assured. Surprisingly, the very astringency of Flaubert’s method allows pathos its full due.

Miscellany (2)

Posted on by under Uncategorized

Catching up on some recent reading:

The Singing Sands – Josephine Tey (1953)

I think the book that has stayed with me most so far this year is Tey’s The Franchise Affair (1948), which I read just before starting this blog and about which I can say nothing as interesting as Rohan does. I’d read a couple of Tey’s earlier books before, and they’re pretty vivid, too: a mouth-watering breakfast scene from A Shilling for Candles (1936) has stayed with me for years. The other night, needing a break from a long Kafka biography I’m making my way through, I picked this, Tey’s final novel, off my shelf and sank into it with relief.

Tey became a better plotter over the years (her first book, The Main in the Queue (1929) is a notorious failure in that regard) but plots aren’t really her thing. Solving the mystery isn’t what this book is about. What we get instead is an interesting (and ever-more pertinent) portrayal of a psychological infirmity that afflicts her protagonist, Inspector Alan Grant, specifically a pretty debilitating case of claustrophobia caused from overwork. Interestingly, that very same work, his desire to solve crimes, is paradoxically shown to be the most enlivening part of his life.

Grant, on forced sick leave, takes the night mail to Scotland to recuperate with friends. Leaving the train he finds a dead body and even though the case is nothing to him, and in fact not even a case, since it is ruled an accidental death, he can’t stop thinking about it. The time in Scotland, especially on a side-trip to the Hebrides where the wind scrapes some of his tension away, is indeed restorative, and there is even the possibility of a romance, which the novel surprisingly does away with, by having Grant return a week early from his leave to complete the investigation on his own. The ending feels rushed, not quite a part of the rest of the book, but I can’t help but feel that the artificiality of the conclusion is a comment about the cost, however necessary, of seeking to impose order on the world. It’s as if Tey were saying: all right, then, I’ll resolve this plot for you, but not the other.

Tey writes thrillingly of “the uncanny feeling that is born of unlimited space, the feeling of human diminution,” as she puts it, and evokes the pleasures of the Scottish countryside without being cloying or patronizing.

The Singing Sands left me sad that Tey wrote so few books, curious to think more carefully about her work, particularly her politics, and eager to read the rest of her books.

The Beekeeper’s Apprentice – Laurie R. King (1994)

Strikingly good Holmes pastiche, in which Holmes, in apiary retirement on the Sussex Downs, meets Mary Russell, a teenage, orphaned heiress and, more importantly, genius that he trains to be his apprentice and eventually partner. I appreciated the structure of the book, which takes its time, passing through an early episodic phase before reaching the main story line, which itself is split into two substantial parts (with, in between, a fascinating excursus to Palestine in the early years of the Mandate). Holmes really is the character that keeps on giving, and King handles him with aplomb. Russell’s wonderful, too. Is the rest of the series as good? I plan to find out.

Natural Causes – James Owald (2013)

Reasonably competent but utterly forgettable Scottish procedural. Inevitable Rankin comparisons do Oswald no favours. Though, true, even Rankin started small. It’s Oswald’s first book. Maybe the others are better. But I don’t much care to find out.

Transit – Anna Seghers (1951, English translation Margot Bettauer Dembo, 2013)

I read this as background material for something else I’m working on, and because I never need an excuse to see what the NYRB Classics people have been up to. Without having looked at the original, I can say that the translation seems excellent, and I note it’s been shortlisted for one or two awards recently. I must admit, though, that I was a lot more excited about this book before I read it than after.

Seghers brilliantly portrays the nightmarish bureaucratic snare that refugees from Hitler faced in leaving Europe, the whole series of exit, transit, and entrance visas that had to be obtained from largely indifferent foreign consulates, in the right order, always at the risk that one of them would expire before the next could be processed. (The US Holocaust Memorial Museum and Yad Vashem have copies of the flow chart prepared by Adolf Eichmann depicting the stages Jews needed to pass through before they could leave Germany in the 1930s, stripped of assets and dignity—assuming of course that they could find somewhere that would take them. It’s chilling in its meticulousness, like some demonic school project.) And she vividly conveys the atmosphere of louche desperation that characterizes the exiled masses in Marseilles. Their lives are so different than the everyday ones of the locals, who are partly contemptuous, partly ignorant, and partly amused by them.

But I became impatient with the existentialist philosophy that underpins the novel, the various references to suicide, the acte gratuit, the tension between fate and will, etc. And I didn’t care for the irritating love affair, if that’s the right word, that the narrator has for a woman who ceaselessly awaits the arrival in Marseilles of her husband, a well-known writer who, unbeknownst to her, has committed suicide in Paris and been reincarnated in the person of none other than the narrator, who happened to find the body and took his papers. Part of my frustration might be with the narrator’s inaction, his apparent will to abandonment. And yet one of my very favourite writers is Jean Rhys, whose books are filled with characters that cannot and will not act.

Whatever the reason, Transit left a bad taste in my mouth.

Seghers’s own story seems fascinating—she made her way from Marseilles to Mexico on a ship that also carried Victor Serge, Claude Levi-Strauss, and Andre Breton—and I’m curious about her other work, particularly the one she set in Mexico, Excursion of the Dead Girls. But my experience of Transit was such that I’m in no hurry to hunt it down.

Ice Moon – Jan Costin Wagner (2003, English translation John Brownjohn, 2005)

Risible German police procedural set in Finland. The protagonist’s wife dies of a long illness in the first pages, and the description of survivor’s grief is the most interesting part of the book. Far less interesting is the actual investigation, and the book seems hardly interested in its purported genre.

Annihilation (Book 1 of the Southern Reach Trilogy) – Jeff Vendermeer (2014)

I used to read a lot of science fiction. But that was a long time ago and I seem to have lost the trick of it. I thought I should expand my genre horizons and see what’s new. I’ve no idea where Vandermeer fits into things (I came across the title in a Facebook thread on good books for long train rides), and I’m hoping others can point me in better directions. I finished the book, but only by gritting my teeth. (And it’s barely 200 pages.)

Annihilation is about an expedition into the mysterious Area X, a borderland area that’s encroaching upon civilization and which previous expeditions have failed to return from. The narrator is the group’s biologist; she is quickly its only surviving member. I think the book is about sentience and language, maybe about what it means to resist authority. But I don’t really know. I thought the mystery element—what the hell’s going on in Area X? what happened to the other expeditions?—would help me return to the genre. But maybe that’s exactly the problem. Maybe it’s neither fish nor fowl genre wise. I don’t know. It just didn’t do it for me. But I want to read more science fiction. Can anyone help me decide what to read next?

Purgatory – Ken Bruen (2013)

Latest Jack Taylor novel. These are worth reading, especially the early ones. This one is perhaps somewhat less dark than previous iterations—though I’m not sure there is a darker series than this one—but Bruen’s signature style, the almost demented aping of speech rhythms in the prose, has become mannered to the point of near parody. I always enjoy Bruen’s shout outs to other crime fiction, though.

Jack of Spies — David Downing (2014)

New series for Downing (after the brilliant Jack Russell books), this one set before around the time of WWI. I really like Downing. His history lessons—for example, about the Kiautschou Bay Concession (German leased territory from 1898-1914 in China), where the book begins before making it’s way across the Pacific to the US and eventually across the Atlantic to the UK—never feel gratuitous, clunky, or potted. I’m already keen for the next book.

Two Books by Jo Walton

Hope to write a separate post about these—partly because I want to share how much I like them and partly because I wonder how they complicate what I’ve said about my experience with science fiction above: are they in fact even science fiction?—but for now, this is just a note to say that Among Others and My Real Children are really worth your time, especially the latter.

Least Favourite Book by Your Favourite Writer

Posted on by under Uncategorized

What is your least favourite book by your favourite writer? I came across this question at Jonathan Gibbs’s blog the other day and it’s stayed with me. As Gibbs notes, this exercise (however artificial—can you really have just one favourite writer?) is quite revealing. In explaining what we don’t like, we see more clearly what we do.

I have many favourite writers (and I don’t care if this vitiates the proper meaning of favourite). But there are hardly any of whom I can say I have read all, or even most, of their books. There are a few more if I include writers who have (so far) only written one or two books. But the wording of this question seems to favour writers who have written a lot.

The writer who best fits these parameters for me is D. H. Lawrence. Some people would say that all his books are their least favourite. He’s certainly hard to be dispassionate about; that’s one of things I like about him. And by dint of predilection and circumstance, his work is of unusually variable quality. A few of his books are pretty generally recognized as bad, that is, as books that might well be suited to being a least favourite. (But least favourite isn’t the same as bad.) I’m thinking about books like Kangaroo or The Plumed Serpent.

As it happens, I’ve not read either of those books. But I’ve read a fair number of the others. And even when Lawrence is bad, he is always interesting. And when he is good, there are few better. It is hard to top that miraculous string of novels from Sons & Lovers (1913) through The Rainbow (1915) and Women in Love (1920) to The Fox (1923)

Any one of these could be my favourite. If forced to choose, I’d settle on The Rainbow, which everyone should read, especially if you care about the great tradition of 19th century English literary realism.

For my least favourite, though, I’d have to look just a little bit later in Lawrence’s career, right after those novels I love so much. As I was thinking about the question, I first hit upon his two books on psychoanalysis and the idea of the unconscious. Psychoanalysis of the Unconscious (1921) and Fantasia of the Unconscious (1922) are pretty nutty. (A little of Lawrence’s quasi-physiological explanations of the source of the life force—all that talk of the solar plexus and the loins—goes a long way.) But ultimately they aren’t my least favourite, even though they’re not much fun to read, because they’re saved by an incisive question about whether it is possible to understand the unconscious, as Freud seeks to do, without robbing it of its power.

So I abandoned those candidates and looked elsewhere. And then the choice was obvious: The Captain’s Doll (1923), a shrill novella that rewrites the glorious Women in Love as reductively and schematically as possible. The Lawrence I love is generous, kind, stirring. The Lawrence I’m bored by is petty, small-minded, point-scoring. Whenever Lawrence tries to be funny, things go badly. His jokes take the form of weak satire. He turns straightforwardly reactionary. (In my favourite works, which some readers have also taken to be reactionary, he’s revolutionary in a way that transcends the conservative-progressive distinction.) Another way to say what I mean is that for Lawrence to be good he has to take himself utterly seriously, with all the risks inherent to that way of being.

In my favourite works, Lawrence marries ideas with intense sensual description of the known world better than any other English-language writer. In my least favourite ones, The Captain’s Doll in particular, he loses interest in the description, resorts to shorthand, so that there’s nothing for the ideas (about, in this case, how men and women ought to relate to each other) to grow out of and be challenged by.

And you? How do you answer the question? What’s your least favourite book by a favourite writer? And what does your choice tell us about why he or she is your favourite?

Open City–Teju Cole (2011)

Posted on by under Uncategorized

On the admittedly stringent criterion of Walter Benjamin—“All great literature either founds a genre or dissolves one”—Teju Cole’s Open City is not great. That distinction would have to go to the works of W. G. Sebald, the writer to whom Cole is so obviously indebted. But even if Cole’s book isn’t great on Benjamin’s terms it is really good. It even does some things Sebald’s do not, even though, to Cole’s own dismay—he has said that he isn’t particularly interested in novels—those things have to do with bringing a certain novelistic idea of character to Sebald’s model.

If you don’t know Sebald’s work, I recommend it to you wholeheartedly. But I bet you do, especially if your first language is English. Even though Sebald wrote in German (despite living most of his life in England), he has been championed by the English speaking literary world, which has almost universally taken his work to be something entirely new and compelling. Personally, I think interest in him has been a little overstated (he flatters critics by seeming so open to interpretation and thus has received more attention than other, less accommodating writers might) but he’s certainly pretty terrific. His influence on younger writers, even though his untimely death left his corpus smaller than it should have been, only continues to grow. One of the things that makes him so influential, and so open to critical canonization, is that his work is characterized by a series of distinctive elements: solitary, old-fashioned, even courtly first-person narrators, all of whom seem to be versions of Sebald himself, rather as the narrator of the Recherche seems to be a version of Proust; a digressive yet highly patterned style composed of complex, sinuous sentences; a melancholy fascination with the various crimes of the Western modernity.

We find these qualities in Open City. Its narrator, Julius, who is completing his residency in psychiatry at a hospital in New York after coming to the US from his native Nigeria as a teenager, takes long walks through his adopted city (the walk as an analogue for a certain idea of style being the conceit of Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn). These walks enable extended meditations on an array of erudite, even recondite subject matter, the various strands of which can all be grouped under the concept of change: changes of light, of seasons, of the almost physiological ebb and flow of the city, of the history of the city and the socio-material system of which (through immigration and trade, for example) it is a part. The narrator doesn’t simply bemoan those changes, but he does dwell at length upon the loss that accompanies them, especially in its most painful and even traumatic instances (also true of The Rings of Saturn and The Emigrants.) In so dong, he reveals himself as a cultured sophisticate, a modern-day flaneur, fond of Mahler and Peter Altenberg.

Yet Open City is more straightforwardly fictional than anything by Sebald; it gestures, not always convincingly, at something approaching a plot: in addition to walking around New York, the narrator completes his studies and begins to work in his field, pays infrequent visits to an old professor from college, takes a vacation to Brussels, survives a mugging. One other important thing happens, about which more in a moment; the implications of this events have everything to do with Cole’s particular use of first person narration.

I really can’t think about what Cole is up to in this book without thinking about what Sebald sought to do in his. In fact, I think that’s what Cole wants me to do. He’s so overt in acknowledging his source that he is saved from being merely derivative. Sometimes I had the sense that Cole was messing about with me, so faithfully did he seem to allude to Sebald. So, for example, the narrator’s meditations about subways, underground cities, the Egyptian Heliopolis, in which we find the line “I thought too, about the numberless dead, in forgotten cities, necropoli, catacombs” offer a pitch-perfect parody of Sebaldian concerns. (He’s thinking these things as his plane circles Brussels; isn’t there a similar scene in Saturn in which the narrator’s plane can’t land due to fog or something?) His description of “the dead returning” echoes the famous line in The Emigrants, “And so they are ever returning to us, the dead.”

Less overt, but more important, both in terms of the homage to Sebald and to the concerns of the book itself, is an extended scene from the middle of the book set in a quiet but overflowing shop in Chinatown. Gazing at the tschotchkes crowding the shelves, the narrator experiences a curious doubling that conflates different times and places:

Standing there in that quiet, mote-filled shop, with the ceiling fans creaking overhead, and the wood-paneled walls disclosing nothing of our century, I felt as if I had stumbled into a kink in time and place, that I could easily have been in any one of the many countries to which Chinese merchants had traveled and, for as long trade had been global, set up their goods for sale.

I think your feelings about Cole can be calibrated by your reaction to that “mote-filled.” If it seems precious or stilted to you, you’re probably going to be put off by this book. But if it seems elegant or atmospheric, you’re probably going to admire it. Either way, this passage offers the book’s narrative and structural modus operandi in miniature. Julian’s peregrinations around New York invariably lead him to just such “kinks,” forgotten, abandoned, even fenced-off spaces (sometimes even within otherwise bustling areas like Wall Street and Battery Park) in which he is vouchsafed glimpses into the city’s past. These spaces are usually prompted by memorials of the kind most city-goers pass by (forgotten statues, plaques and the like which paradoxically allow us to forget what they memorialize), but sometimes they are summoned by memories of things he’s read or studied. Frequently these places and moments are connected to the city’s painful relation to globalization: encounters between Europeans and Native Americans, slavers and slaves, settlers and the nonhuman animal world they encroached upon.

The book thus reveals a pervasive substrate of pain under New York’s glittering, cultured, and moneyed façade; perhaps in keeping with the narrator’s profession of psychiatry this latent-manifest opposition abruptly turns personal and psychological at the end of the book. Despite all this unacknowledged pain, these unexamined traumas, the book isn’t depressing or despairing. Walking helps the narrator, responds to some need inside him; it’s as existential and even instinctive as the migrations of the birds he tracks throughout the book. And he’s always stumbling upon extraordinary things: a silent gallery full of paintings by the deaf painter John Brewster in the American Folk Art Museum (isn’t that the one that’s about to be torn down?), a woman davening in the apartment across the way, a secluded fire escape at Carnegie Hall.

The scene in Chinatown offers another such moment of surprising discovery. As the narrator muses amongst its wares, his attention is caught by the sight and sound of a Chinese brass marching band coming down the street. The narrator is immediately reminded of the songs he used to sing at his boarding school in Nigeria. He reflects:

Whether [the music] expressed some civic pride or solemnized a funeral I could not tell, but so closely did the melody match my memory of those boyhood morning assemblies that I experienced the sudden disorientation and bliss of one who, in a stately old house and at a great distance from its mirrored wall, could clearly see the world doubled in on itself. I could no longer tell where the tangible universe ended and the reflected one began. This point-for-point imitation, of each porcelain vase, of each dull spot of shine on each stained teak chair, extended as far as where my reversed self had, as I had, halted itself in midturn. And this double of mine had, at that precise moment, began to tussle with the same problem as its equally confused original. To be alive, it seemed to me, as I stood there in all kinds of sorrow, was to be both original and reflection, and to be dead was to be split off, to be reflection alone. (My emphasis)

An immediate reference here (alluded to directly elsewhere in the book) is Borges’s lovely and sinister parable about the cartographers of the realm, those overweening researchers who make a map of the kingdom so commensurate to its dimensions that it suffocates everyone who lives there. The point of this little tale isn’t to follow the King’s example in the conclusion and banish representation. Instead, it’s to suggest that copies oughtn’t to pretend to be more than what they are. What’s valuable about a copy (or model, any representation at all) is that it is at once like the thing it copies and not like it. In the difference lies the possibility of understanding something about the thing itself.

I think the narrator comes to a similar conclusion in the passage’s final sentence, though it’s hard to be sure. This passage is confusing—it is, after all, about the vertigo of the mise-en-abime. (And the use of the word “reflection,” primed by the mirrored wall but of course also naming the mental activity which the narrator is always performing, combined with the suggestion that “reflection alone” equals death, would seem to trouble our feelings about the narrator.) The strangest moment for me in this passage is the unmotivated comparison of the narrator’s blissful disorientation to the doubling experienced by a person “in a stately old house and at a great distance from its mirrored wall.” (I’ve italicized it in the quotation.) Where on earth does this metaphor come from? Whose experience is it to routinely wander around stately old houses? (If anything, it sounds like something that would happen in a book by Sebald.) And what sort of peculiar mirrored wall would such houses regularly have? The metaphor is so strange that it lingers on, infecting the rest of the passage. It seems as tough the narrator returns to his current location—the store in Chinatown—in his next sentence, where he describes the porcelain vases and the teak chairs, but it’s hard not to furnish that imagined old house with these objects. Yet why would the narrator insert himself (“I”) in the generalized metaphor (“one”)? I honestly don’t know what’s gong on here.

At the risk of unduly domesticating the wildness of this textual moment I do wonder if the function of this moment is to suggest that the narrator might be a bit mad. The more we pursue this thought, the more we find to support it. Indeed, there seems to be something troubling wrong with Julius. To be sure, plenty of things might license his despair: ominous changes in the climate, the whole almost-buried history of violence and oppression that New York is built upon, the aftermath of 9/11, not to mention events from his personal life, like the recent break of up of his relationship with his girlfriend, the casual forms of racism he encounters in daily life, the death of a mentor from college, the unexpected suicide of a patient. But these events pale in relation to the most shocking thing that happens in the book, more shocking even than his being mugged, or his visits to a detention facility in Queens where would-be immigrants are held and “processed” for deportation.

If you haven’t read Open City and think that you might (and I hope it’s clear by now that I think you should) maybe you’ll want to stop reading here.

Two thirds of the way through the book, Julius runs into the sister of an old classmate of his from Nigeria who is now an investor on Wall Street. Moji is introduced as a ghost from the past (“apparition” is the narrator’s word), and that seems sinister in light of later revelations: in this book in which so much that happens is generated via what Proust called involuntary memory there are some very important things, it seems, that the narrator does not want to remember. At first it seems that Moji will disappear from the book: the meeting is desultory, for the narrator seemingly inconsequential, another tedious daily interaction to be navigated and then forgotten. But later we see her with the narrator and some friends having a picnic in Central Park. The two walk to the subway station; the atmosphere between them is uncomfortable. Is the narrator attracted to her? Why is she so irritable? Still later, she invites him to a party at her boyfriend’s apartment. The narrator is one of several guests who, we learn very near the end of the book, several pages after the description of the party itself, spend the night at the apartment. In the morning, the narrator and Moji are briefly alone, and she tells or reminds him that many years earlier, eighteen to be precise, when she was fifteen and he fourteen, he raped her at a party and then acted as if nothing had happened, to the point of pretending not to recognize her when they met all these years later.

The narrator tells us that Moji continues speaking for “six or seven minutes,” describing the details of what happened at that long-ago party, and of the hurtful aftereffects of his actions on her life. She concludes:

I don’t think you’ve changed at all, Julius. Things don’t go away just because you choose to forget them. You forced yourself on me eighteen years ago because you could get away with it, and I suppose you did get away with it. But not in my heart, you didn’t. I have cursed you too many times to count. And maybe it is not something you would do today, but then again, I didn’t think it was something you would do back then either. It only needs to happen once. But will you say something now? Will you say something?

Julius will not. He gets up to leave, but not before telling us what he thought of in that moment: a story told by Camus about something that the young Nietzsche did, namely, mimicking the action of the Roman hero Scaevola, who put his hand in a fire rather than give up his accomplices to a crime. (This material is presented as convolutedly as I have here.) He adds that a few days later he looked up the story and found he hadn’t remembered it quite right.

And that’s it, even though there are another ten or fifteen pages in the book. He never returns to the incident. He neither denies it nor explains it nor admits to it. We could take his reaction—his silence, his rather preposterous, complicated memory—as a sign that the book wants to condemn him. And the “facts” of the anecdote from Camus, and the more important fact of misremembering them could be taken as a suggestion that our relation to the past (whether as individuals or as nations) can only be untrustworthy and self-serving.

But Cole’s bombshell (that is, Moji’s accusation) is so serious, so enormous, and, in its introduction of the personal and psychological history of the narrator, so apparently out of keeping with the predominantly public emphases of the story that it threatens to fracture his book irreparably. Which I suppose is part of the point. But I’m not sure what Cole is going for here. Is he aiming to be less like Sebald than I thought and more like, say, Nabokov or Ishiguro? Is his aim to make us reassess the narrator we have been led to identify with on the basis of a sophisticated and cultured exterior that only papers over the heart of darkness beating beneath the skin?

It sure made me rethink Julius. (And reading some other critics who claim to have found him bombastic and self-serving from the start it made me question what unpleasant parts of me were responding so warmly to him.) As I did, I started to think more carefully about some of his otherwise harmless or understandable actions: the narrator’s brusque dismissal of a man who he suspects is trying to pick him up; his exhaustion at other Africans and even African Americans who seek some kind of solidarity with him based on some shared relation to an imagined motherland, a response that comes to a head at the post office when a clerk asks him if he will meet to talk about his negritude-inspired poetry, a scenario that ends with the narrator agreeing to do so yet silently resolving never to visit that post office again; and, perhaps most pertinently, his experience in Brussels of picking up a woman for what seems like a mutually satisfying one-night stand but, in the light of the later accusation, is perhaps really only an ominous self-serving delusion. I began to indict him in my mind, and asked myself, if he’s not sinister, if he’s not guilty, why doesn’t he say anything, either to Moji or to us? It occurred to me that the book’s otherwise puzzling title, which I’d previously taken to refer to his encounters with New York, Brussels, and Lagos, might refer to his personality. For an open city, I learn from Wikipedia, is one that its leaders have given up defending. Is Julius’s silence a capitulation, an expression of defeat?

There is something ingenious in the way the ending demands we return to the beginning, re-reading for clues that might cast some light, if nothing so consoling as an answer, on Moji’s claims. But there is also something manipulative and unearned about it, too, as if Cole hadn’t played by the rules of novels. It’s fine to cast doubt on a character we’ve been forced to identify with, even on the very qualities of identification itself. But shouldn’t we have a sense earlier on that this is coming? I don’t know why I feel this way. Maybe I’m just upset and embarrassed at having been caught out liking a rapist. Is there any way we can read the book and think he didn’t do it? Wouldn’t thinking he didn’t put us in the position of blaming the victim? Of course, it is only too true that perfectly good people do get accused of things they haven’t done, do get caught in the crossfire of other people’s ignorance or need for attention or what have you. But if the book wants to be about false accusations, it needs to reflect on that possibility more clearly than it has. (Maybe there are examples of false accusations in the book that I hadn’t thought of. Even as I write this I’m reminded of the experience of Julius’s college mentor, Professor Saito, during the war, when he and his family were interned by the US government simply by virtue of their Japanese heritage.)

After all, Open City is so carefully constructed that it would make sense that this revelation has in fact been prepared for. But I wasn’t prepared; I was genuinely shocked. It makes we wonder about the relation between literary form and shocking events. Can a shocking event that isn’t prepared for be experienced by readers as anything other than a misstep, or, worse, a violation of the contract between reader and writer? (Woolf explored similar questions in the “Time Passes” section of To the Lighthouse.) Or are we to read these shock as a mimesis of the effect of trauma itself—in other words, is Cole trying traumatize readers, by making them go through an overwhelming experience that by definition cannot be prepared for?

If you have thoughts about the ending, please share. The problems, like the passage describing the narrator’s experience in Chinatown, only get more complex the longer I consider them. The greatness of Open City might not be Benjamin’s greatness. But there’s clearly a lot to think about in this book, alongside a lot of gorgeous writing.

The day after I finished Open City I swung by the library (have I already told you how much I love the Central Arkansas Library System?) to pick up Teju’s new book, Every Day is for the Thief. (It’s both new and old: written before Open City but published in Nigeria it has been revised (though how extensively is unclear) and published in the US.) Thief is a much slighter book, in all ways: I read in two short sittings and enjoyed its insights into contemporary Nigeria and the emigrant’s dilemma, but I found the book too uncertain of its own aims. Is it reportage, an indictment of Nigerian corruption? Is it autobiography, of a fractured and multi-racial family? It’s never clear, but the muddled quality of the book works best when it mirrors the uncertainty, even guilty conscience of the person who has returned to a home he no longer belongs in. In The New York Review of Books, Gideon Lewis-Kraus, who liked it more than I did, interestingly described the relation between Cole’s two books as “two very different experiments with the same character, run in parallel rather than in a series.” Note the importance to this reading of character. Again, this seems a grafting of a different kind of literary mode on to a Sebaldian one. For the most part, the Sebald influence is less apparent here, but the book does include photos, as Sebald’s famously do, though in Cole’s case they are his own. (I didn’t find they added much to the text.)

I read somewhere that Cole wrote these two books as ways of avoiding writing the art history dissertation he had embarked upon. All I can say about that is that if my own dissertation procrastination had been even a tenth as productive I would have been extraordinarily pleased with myself. Given the greater scope and sophistication of Open City the only question, to which I eagerly await an answer, is what Cole has in him next. In the meantime, his enjoyable twitter feed will have to tide me over.

Reading Style: A Life in Stentences–Jenny Davidson (2014)

Posted on by under Uncategorized

The cover of Jenny Davidson’s engaging and inspiring Reading Style: A Life in Sentences features a drawing of a box of chocolates. In the book itself she refers to that box in considering personal aesthetic preferences, which might differ from generally agreed-upon excellence. (If she were buying for someone else, she says, she would choose dark chocolate for its “clear gastronomic superiority,” but if she were buying for herself, she would choose milk chocolate because she happens to like it better. (“Truth is debatable,” she quotes Hume, “but taste is not.”) The box of chocolates might also serve as a metaphor for the structure of her book, an idea suggested by one of Davidson’s most interesting insights.

Prose is Davidson’s preferred genre; thus, as her subtitle suggests, sentences are at the heart of the book. And sentences perform a double function. On the one hand, they are freestanding entities, as we see most clearly in the example of the aphorism. But on the other they are what Davidson calls “load-bearing” structures, connected to the sentences that proceed and follow them. Sentences can be a vector, always leading on to the next, and therefore subordinate to a larger whole. Or they can be an aria, a self-contained unit of meaning the demands that we linger over them, playing them again and again.

Although most works offer both tendencies—and Davidson is often interested here in untangling their effects, as in her marvelous reading of the opening of Emma—it is the aphoristic, aria-like aspect of sentences, what she also calls “sentences of acoustical elegance,” that most preoccupies Davidson. In terms of the metaphor suggested by the cover illustration, then, the individual bonbons matter more than the box as a whole. Even as I write this, though, I think the opposition I’ve made is too neat. Because what Davidson really likes, as she explains in her discussion of taste, is neither the individual chocolate nor the box as a whole but instead the piece of paper her family used to call “the suggester,” the textual explanation of what awaited within each chocolate.

How could it be otherwise for a critic? Her book is itself a kind of suggester, a description that is ultimately an interpretation of the delights that await readers in the box of what Borges called the universal library. All these metaphors threaten to run away from me: I’ll move on, but only after noting that “suggester” seems a strange and wonderful term, an acknowledgement that the interpretation is never quite fully commensurate to the object it describes, but also that there is no failure in that fact, only generosity. After all, what could be kinder than a suggestion? Indeed, Davidson is a kind and generous critic (which doesn’t mean naïve or indiscriminate). Her governing principle seems to be delight and fascination. She’s at her best in showing how the texts she likes do the things they do.

Fittingly, then, the sugester’s book is suggestive. Another way to put it is that the book doesn’t have an argument as such. (Davidson seems a little defensive about this, apologizing for it when she doesn’t have to. I take this to be an occupational hazard of being an academic, where the idea of argument still reigns supreme.) Instead it’s more a list of jottings, a kind of field book of observations as she puts it at one point. Davidson’s close readings do just what they should: they make we want to read or re-read the thing she’s talking about. They help me slow down, they teach attentiveness, they make me see what I hadn’t noticed before, couldn’t have noticed on my own. But even more impressive, to me, are the ideas that Davidson keeps coming out with, some of which are central, we might say structural, and some of which are casual. Here’s an example of the first sort: Davidson contrasts W. G. Sebald with Alan Hollinghurst as exemplary contemporary inheritors of two great literary traditions, the first centered on first person narration and culminating in Proust and the second centered on third person narration and culminating in James. (Her reading of The Line of Beauty is especially fine and has made me keen to read it as soon as possible.) And here’s an example of the second: in a discussion of the limitations of the contemporary Anglo-American short story (exemplified, interestingly, maybe fittingly, by a Canadian, Alice Munro), we get this terrific digression on literary modernism and Davidson’s lack of interest in literary representations of sensation (as opposed to thought or emotion): “it seems to me that the challenge the modernists imposed on themselves, of radically extending what sentences could do vis-à-vis the physiological moment to moment intensity of lived experience, was not in the end a really fruitful one.” That struck a cord with me (and explained the surprising absence in the book of Woolf, surely an important figure to reckon with if we are thinking about sentences). Even though I’m trained in the study of modernism, I’ve always had an ambivalent attitude towards it, drawn to its outliers or problematic figures. In my book about sentences, for example, no one would loom larger than Lawrence, who, I think (although I know this is a minority opinion), is best read closely at the level of the individual sentence.

At any rate, the point isn’t whether one agrees with Davidson here or elsewhere. (Though, as I’ve said, she’s in general awfully convincing.) Instead the point, and the pleasure, is to see a mind at work. So even when Davidson doesn’t convince (she likes Perec and Koestenbaum a lot more than I do) or feels hasty (as in her too-brief discussion of the great Peter Temple—in general, her references to genre literature aren’t developed enough) there’s more than enough here to admire. It’s a book to dip into, to return to once one’s own reading catches up with Davidson’s.

 

In this sense, Reading Style is a bit like Anthony Burgess’s 99 Novels: The Best in English since 1939, a book I thought no one but me knew, but clearly a touchstone for Davidson, and a key reference point in the autobiography of her reading life offered in the first chapter. As it happens, this book was important to me too as a teenager. From grade 9-12, so from the age of about 14-18, I had a job shelving books at the neighbourhood branch of the public library. (I was a Page: a delightful metonymy.) I got the job the second time round. The first time I failed the test—to order a shelf of books—because I got the Macs and Mcs all mixed up. This failure was all the more embarrassing because the head librarian, my future boss, was a delightfully astringent Scot of the kind you used to find so often in Canada. (I remember her telling me once, many years earlier, as I checked out a copy of Ivanhoe, “That’s a good book by a good Scot.” I was too nervous and unformed to get the joke.) This failure hurt me a lot (and I think it surprised her too; she’d asked me to apply for the job). Happily, about a year after the debacle, she needed more staff and gave me another try. This was just one of many instances in which it took me a long time to follow the natural and inevitable path of my life.

The job wasn’t always exciting, in fact, it was often pretty boring. (Even now the thought of an entire cart full of fiendishly thin Juvenile Nonfiction—inevitably the most disorganized section of the library—fills me with despair.) But there is no pleasure like wandering the stacks and happening upon things, and that’s basically what the job allowed, two hours at a time, three times a week. One day I stumbled across Burgess’s idiosyncratic little book. Although I would eventually check it out dozens of times and read its suggestions avidly, unlike Davidson I never actually went out and read any of the books he suggested, though I certainly planned to. I can’t remember his suggestions clearly—part of me doesn’t want to go back and look; I’d rather keep it as a muzzy memory—but I’m pretty sure Henry Green was in there, and I like to think Burgess’s choice unconsciously motivated my decision, many years later, to write about him in my dissertation. I think Gravity’s Rainbow was, too. And I do remember checking that out from the library. (I had to go downtown to the central branch to get it. Serious stuff.) I remember that I even started to read it and that I was fascinated by the idea of it and dearly wanted to love it. But it was too hard for me, too out of any context I’d had in my readerly or actual life. (That one had to wait for graduate school, where, happily, I adored it.)

Davidson, by contrast, read those books and a whole lot more besides. Her long-running blog fascinates me in part because it’s a repository of her really extraordinary reading life. It’s not just that she reads a lot; it’s that she does it without being off-putting or pretentious. In fact, it kind of freaks me out how fast she must read. By “freaks me out” I mean it amazes me and it makes me jealous too. There doesn’t seem anything aspirational about her when it comes to reading. All the things I mean to/want to/promise myself that one day I will read she simply has—or so it seems, anyway. (And I’m not just talking about “classics” or “literary fiction”—she reads heaps of things.) Her prodigious intake is matched by a similar output. As someone who for many years found writing to be a burden, a real psychological difficulty, I am awestruck and envious of this apparent facility. (I recognize there’s nothing healthy in either response.)

In the end, then, perhaps the best thing Reading Style did for me was help me reflect on the double meaning of its title. Davidson is reading instances of style. But she is also suggesting a style of reading, a disposition or way of being towards one’s reading life. My own reading life, I’ve realized, has been divided between what might be called, in a therapeutic vocabulary I’ve found helpful, the critical parent and the nurturing parent. The critical parent is the voice that reduces me to tears, the one that is so compelled by ideas of mastery, of filling holes in one’s education, in reading the things one should have read, that it makes reading, the thing I like to do best, no fun any more. (One name for this parent is “graduate school.”) The nurturing parent, by contrast, which I’m glad to say I’ve been able to hold on to, even if not as effortlessly as I’d like, is the voice that fills me with joy, the one that blesses my decision to read whatever I want for whatever reasons, and not necessarily to any particular end.

I suppose the thing I liked best about Davidson’s book, the thing I’m most proud of myself for in my response to it, is that it didn’t make me envious at all. I didn’t berate myself for not writing it (or any other book). I took what I could from it and continued on with what Davidson in her final sentence calls “our real lives of reading and writing.” That’s an utterly personal conclusion, to be sure, and unlikely to resonate for any of you. But it’s fitting for a book that feels so personal to its author too.

Summer Reading

Posted on by under Uncategorized

I don’t really believe in this as a way to categorize books, but I definitely cherish it as a way to name experience. “Summer reading” means, for me, the time of the activity rather than its content. For in summer, thanks to the academic schedule, the schedule I’ve lived for almost all of my life, the schedule that is at once the best and worst thing about my life, I have the luxury of time to really read.

When it comes to reading I am governed by opposed, almost equally powerful imperatives: on the one hand, the felt need to catch up with some author or period or genre for a writing project or class I’ll be teaching and, on the other, the desire to be led down whatever wayward readerly paths fancy and happenstance take me. The latter usually wins out, but not without the guilty throbs of the former. (Actually, it’s more complicated than that, because the things I feel I should read are also things I want to read, just maybe not right now.)

So here are some things I plan to read this summer, even though of course I won’t:

Something by Victor Serge

More Israeli fiction

Parade’s End (had to put on hold 100 pp in due to vacation and deadlines)

The Long Ships (Frans Bengtsson)

Madame Bovary (definitely happening, because my Proust reading group is transforming into a 19th century French literature group)

The rest of the Martin Beck series (only read volumes 1-4)

Those new Kafka biographies

Pawel’s biography of Herzl

The Levant Trilogy (Olivia Manning) (Read the first volume last summer; excited to finish, especially after now having been to Jerusalem)

The Odd Women (George Gissing)

Esther Waters (George Moore)

Jenny Davidson’s new book on sentences

Elizabeth George (stevereads made me curious)

Dance to the Music of Time (Anthony Powell)

Stay tuned to find out what I actually read!

And you? What’s on your list?

Neuland–Eshkol Nevo (2011) English translation by Sondra Silverston, 2014

Posted on by under Uncategorized

I didn’t know until after I’d finished Eshkol Nevo’s engrossing and frustrating novel Neuland that Nevo (b. 1971—the older I get the more I want to know writers’ ages) is the grandson of Israel’s third Prime Minister. I can imagine readers for whom this biographical fact accounts for certain qualities of the book, what we might call its status as a “condition of Israel” novel. But what matters for me about this information is the light it sheds on my position as a reader of this book, namely, one of ignorance.

Consider the title. I knew, going in, that it references a book I haven’t read, Theodor Herzl’s utopian novel and founding text of Zionism Altneuland (1902), Old New Land, or, in the words of its first Hebrew translator, the Zionist leader Nahum Sokolow, Tel Aviv. (One of my fascinations with Israel is the way a literary and intellectual tradition has so clearly and powerfully incorporated itself into the political and material fabric of the emerging state: so, for example, its self-created metropolis takes its name from a novel.) I knew, in other words, what I didn’t know, and I can only wonder what it would be like to read Nevo’s book knowing Herzl’s.

Nor did I know anything about Nevo himself. Cursory online research tells me he’s an important Israeli writer, translated into many languages, a mentor to many younger writers, the recipient of various prestigious prizes. Where he fits in relation to other Israeli writers, or the Israeli literary scene as a whole, however, is a mystery to me. (Does anyone have ideas about that, or suggestions for what Israeli literature I should read next, beyond Appelfeld, Oz, Grossman & Yehoshua, with whom I have at least glancing familiarity? Names of women writers would be especially welcome.)

But even though I read this book somewhat in the dark, I took a lot from it. Neuland is a mixed bag, to be sure: it attempts too much, its various strands don’t work equally well, hidden inside it is a different, maybe more interesting book, it’s at once too long and too short. But it’s well worth reading: ambitious, thought-provoking, engaging.

 

In 2006, in the weeks before and during the Second Lebanon War, Dori Peleg travels to South America to search for his father, Manny, who has disappeared after leaving increasingly erratic and enigmatic email messages to his children. Manny, a hero of the Yom Kippur war and successful management consultant, has taken this unusual journey—he is known, to his family, his colleagues, and indeed to all of Israel, where he is a public personality, as a master of controlled rationality—following the death of his wife.

Dori, escaping difficulties of his own (a wife he feels disrespected by and whom he no longer understands, a small child about whose developmental peculiarities he is overly protective), hires an Ecuadoran who specializes in tracking down Westerners (usually young adults) who have gone off the rails, in one way or another, in Central and South America.

Don Alfonso is one of the book’s missteps, more a way to comment on the foibles of Israelis than a fully developed character, and the back-story introduced late in the text to explain his particular interest in Dori’s search is unconvincing, just as his sexism, fatalism, and scorn for Western rectitude are uncomfortably clichéd.

A much stronger character is Inbar Benbenisti, an Israeli who has fled to South America after an unsuccessful visit to her mother, Hana, who, to Inbar’s dismay, even fury, lives in Berlin with a German. At the airport awaiting her flight back to Israel, Inbar impulsively changes her ticket to the next available flight, to Peru. The sudden flight to the Andes has its roots in traumas both professional (a caller to the therapy talk radio show she produces is shot by her son after the on-air psychologist has urged her to cut ties with the boy) and personal (her younger brother killed himself in murky circumstances during his Army service). Inbar lives with Eitan, a loving soul who designs lighting fixtures. (It says something about the novel’s preference for the irrational over the rational that the man who sheds light for a living should have such a small role.) Dori and Inbar meet cute in Peru; she joins him in his search, and the two enter into a protracted (and smoldering) not-quite-relationship.

The novel’s narrative form fuels our desire that they get together, even as it keeps us sympathetic to the partners and families they’ve left behind, by switching perspective amongst these and the other characters in separate sections. The same event is focalized, for example, first through Dori, then Inbar, and then Alfonso. A separate narrative strand is centered on Inbar’s grandmother, Lily, an early Zionist who arrives by boat in Palestine in 1939 just as the Germans overrun her native Poland.

Lily’s sections, sensitively and vividly written (a whole book could have been made of them, a good book, though maybe a less visionary one, almost certainly the book an Anglo-American writer would have written these days, with the current mania for historical fiction) provide the historical context for the idea of homeland that is Nevo’s real subject, one he both extols and chafes against. That is, even as Nevo seems to think that what has become of the Zionist experiment is problematic and flawed, he never repudiates the experiment itself, he neither devalues the experience of the early pioneers nor upholds them as heroes.

The journey to Palestine and the creation of a new Zion is the historical road taken (yes, the characters discuss Frost’s poem—subtlety isn’t really Nevo’s thing) to the one not taken, at least by the characters in this book, the road proposed by the nineteenth-century philanthropist Baron Maurice von Hirsch who founded the Jewish Colonization Association in 1891 to enable mass emigration of Jews from Russia and Eastern Europe, by creating agricultural cooperatives in the Americas, particularly Argentina. (At one point, 200,000 Jews lived on such cooperatives in Argentina alone.) Nevo reminds us, but wisely does not recreate, the famous meeting between Herzl and Hirsch in 1895, when the former attempted to convince the latter that the Jewish question required a political solution, that is, a Jewish homeland; Hirsch dismissed him out of hand.

Manny, overwhelmed by his wartime traumas in the absence of his wife’s soothing presence, decides to fuse the two men’s dreams after himself having a hallucinatory-induced vision. On the place where Hirsch’s emigrants first made a life for themselves, he will found a new community that will soothe the psychic wounds of Herzl’s descendents. This is the Neuland of the title, at which Dori and Inbar arrive after a journey that owes much to Heart of Darkness, with Manny as Kurtz. Manny’s utopian community is at once the most interesting and most disappointing part of the book. It takes us many hundreds of pages to reach Neuland’s gates (which are inscribed in Hebrew, Spanish, and English with the words “Man, You are my brother.”) But then we spend only a short time there; we’re never sure what the place is all about. Manny defines it as “a communal therapeutic space based on the principles of Benjamin Ze’ev Herzl” and the idea that there is a psychic dimension to the Zionist experience that its ‘actual,” that is, socio-political unfolding has repeatedly neglected is compelling and timely. (A more sophisticated version of this claim can be found in the work of Jacqueline Rose.)

Too bad Nevo doesn’t develop the workings and contradictions of the utopian community. (Reading Neuland I was seized by a strong desire to reread Norman Rush’s Mating, the best novel about utopias that I know, one of the best novels period.) Is Manny a charlatan? The business guru in him hasn’t been entirely displaced by the spiritual one: he’s capitalizing on the so-called Hummus Trail, the journeys made by young Israelis after their army service all over the world, especially South America. For Manny, these young people, who are the primary settlers/inhabitants of Neuland, are damaged in a way that a trek in the Andes cannot repair. He argues that for the “source land” (the name Neulanders use to refer to Israel) to be remade, for Zion to be psychologically healed, the work of redefining how to live in community must happen in an entirely different place.

The novel, then, is a dialogue about the differences between Zionism and diasporism as ways of thinking about Jewish identity. This is of course a discussion, even dispute with a long history: to take only the most recent, disappointing instance, consider the recent accusations made by the Israeli writer A. B. Yehoshua to the Jewish American writer Nicole Krauss that there can be no authentic Jewish life in the diaspora, an affront that matched a comment made that very same week to me by our Israeli tour guide. It’s interesting that Nevo’s novel doesn’t seem to countenance the possibility of the diaspora. Herzl still trumps Hirsch in that the project of Neuland is a project that renovates rather than dismantles Zionism. You might even get a sense from the novel that Hirsch’s plan was a failure. His cooperatives no longer exist, to be sure, but Jewish life remains robust in Argentina (though admittedly less so since the years of the junta in the 1970s and 80s.) I’ve no idea what Nevo’s personal ideas on Jewish life in the diaspora might be, and I can’t imagine he’d be hectoring and bullying the way Yehoshua was, but the absence of diasporic life in the novel is only the more strongly felt by the presence of a particularly weak and confusing plot strand, about the idea of the Wandering Jew (the subject of Inbar’s mother’s dissertation) who is momentarily incarnated in one of the young people at Neuland.

The point of Neuland is neither to give up on Zionism nor to export it elsewhere nor to imagine other alternatives to it. The point is to create a para-Zionism to revitalize the existing one. That’s Manny’s dream, at any rate. I can’t quite tell if it’s Nevo’s. Manny is appealing but also faintly ridiculous. Dori, for one, is clear in his response: his father has gone off the deep end and abandoned him, even though that abandonment paradoxically takes the form of recognition in a way it never did in Dori’s childhood. Dori is disgusted when, with the outbreak of the Second Lebanon War, Manny refuses to leave the children of Neuland for his children in Israel. The novel seems to share that disgust—it never returns to Neuland, nor do Dori and Inbar comment or reflect on it in the novel’s brief denouement, back in Israel. They are too preoccupied with whether they will leave their families for each other.

I can’t decide how much of the cursoriness of the novel’s treatment of Neuland is a flaw of the novel’s construction or a critique of the place itself, and perhaps Israel, too. We learn, for example, that some Lebanese have arrived at Neuland, and the community has yet to decide whether to allow them to stay. (Neither has it ruled yet on the request by some of its religious members that the dining hall be koshered.) These dilemmas of course reflect tensions in the existing state of Israel as it struggles to reconcile its multi-ethnic aspects with its desire to be a Jewish homeland. Nevo might be criticizing Israel for failing to resolve these tensions. But in practice it feels more like something he just doesn’t want to get into.

What does he want to get into? The story of Inbar and Dori’s relationship, I think. But of course that is a political story, too. Inbar’s grandmother, Lily, the Zionist, had a lover on the ship to Palestine. Her lover, a klezmer musician named Pima, turns out to be Manny’s father and Dori’s grandfather (though the characters haven’t figured that out yet). Inbar and Dori could have been siblings. Instead they seem fated to take the road their grandparents never did and become a couple. It makes no sense, in the world of this book especially, to separate the personal from the political. But sometimes I think Neuland is seduced not by the idea of political utopias, but by the idea of personal ones: the idea that people can start all over again, and that Israeli people, in particular, can relate to others without the burdensome, even damaging vicissitudes their history has submitted them to.

 

Neuland has given me a lot to think about. In a way, it’s followed me about. I bought it in the gift shop at Yad Vashem. Then, a day after we’d stumbled across the balcony of the hotel in Basel where the famous photo of a brooding and bearded Herzl was taken at the Fifth International Zioist Congress in 1901, a photo displayed prominently at Independence Hall in Tel Aviv, I opened up a Swiss newspaper to find this perceptive review. The reviewer criticizes the novel’s tone, its inability to clearly reconcile fantastical elements with realistic ones. (I haven’t even mentioned Nessia, a character created by Inbar in her diary but who intervenes in the world of the novel.) I agree with the criticism, but I think the difficulty is more instructive than it is a sign of inability. Perhaps the failure to integrate fantasy and reality, dream and actuality, without simply subordinating the first to the second, is the tragedy of Israel.

 

Farley Mowat and Me

Posted on by under Uncategorized

As has been widely reported in Canada (here, for example) and even in the US (NY Times obituary here), the author and conservationist Farley Mowat has died at the age of 92.

I admit I hadn’t realized he was still alive. But the news made me sad. I’ve had many literary heroes in my lifetime, many of them much more important to the person I am today than Mowat. But he was the first, the first writer I loved more as a presence (and, in his case, a conscience) thank as a mere name attached to whatever book I happened to be reading.

I believe it was my mother’s friend Thea, a kind of surrogate mother to me in my early childhood, who first gave me one of his books, Never Cry Wolf (1963) the story of Mowat’s time in the “barren lands” of Northern Manitoba in 1948-9, where he was charged by a governmental agency to investigate the unexplained disappearance of the caribou population.

As a child I loved wolves, all animals really, but wolves especially. I’m not sure if that love predated my reading the book, and that’s why she gave it to me, or if it was reading this book that made me love them. At any rate, I read it many times, and what sticks with me most is what sticks with most people about it: Mowat eating mice to see what they were like, since they made up the bulk of the wolves diets. This fact puzzled Mowat—how could such large creatures live off of such tiny ones?—but more than mere curiosity was at stake. If wolves lived almost entirely off mice, they weren’t the ones responsible for the decline of the caribou. Mowat’s conclusion that wolves were not to be feared and exterminated was a minority opinion at the time, though it is accepted wisdom among scientists today.

Wolves were good animals for me to love. They were underdogs, a position that has always appealed to me. They were beautiful and smart. And they were remote from my daily life; even growing up in Western Canada, where wildlife was a part of life, I never saw a wolf in the wild. Wolves were something to think or dream about, not something to have to reckon with.

That suited me because my interest in animals—which lasted a long time; for many years I wanted nothing more than to be a zookeeper when I grew up—had one particularly strange aspect. I did not actually like animals very much. My father forbade animals in our house, and it wasn’t until my sister and I were teenagers that she circumvented (by which I mean simply ignored) his interdiction by bringing a cat home one day. (It seems fitting that it was father who gave me, a little later in my childhood, a book that would prove even more important to me than Mowat’s, Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals, which was as much about people as about animals.) You might think that the absence of any real animals in my life would make me all the more eager for contact with them. But I don’t think so. Instead, that absence allowed me to love animals in the abstract. I was never one of those children who mucked about in woods or fields or swamps with specimen jars. I did not ride horses and volunteer at a wildlife sanctuary (not that children volunteered in those days; we didn’t have to do nearly as much as children do today, thank God).

Truth be told, animals kind of freaked me out. (In retrospect this seems quite a reasonable response to the otherness of animals—a sentiment Mowat would certainly not have shared, since his lonely childhood was spent largely in their company, and he thought of them as friends.) I liked my animals in the zoo, or seen from the car in the mountains where my family spent most of our weekends. The detachment of the zoo-going experience—me watching them through the glass or bars, or, increasingly, as this was the 70s and ideas about zoos were changing, over a moat—suited me just fine.

There was something hopeless and false about my passion for animals, which was, it seems to me now, really a blind for a more genuine passion, one that still drives me today, to know about things, to achieve mastery through knowledge. If I am honest, I think it was mostly a way for me to accumulate books about animals. Accumulating books on whatever subject matter rules my current fancy has been my greatest life-long passion.

At any rate, I liked Never Cry Wolf a lot. I can still picture my edition, the cheap white Seal paperback with the photo of the wolf on the cover. Many years later, when I taught my first self-designed course in graduate school—a course on foundlings and feral children—I called the course “Never Cry Wolf” in private homage to Mowat, even though his book or its ideas had almost nothing to do with the course.

I was a very serious and dutiful little boy, as you can imagine, and so I read most of Mowat’s other books about what we would today call environmental topics, including the controversial People of the Deer (1952), a study of the Ihalmiut people of the border between Manitoba and what is now Nunavut, and their starvation and suffering as the caribou population dwindled. I remember getting its sort-of sequel, The Desperate People, as a birthday present when I was probably about eight or nine. My best friend David Wilson, brash, a bit of a wag, looked at the picture on the cover of Inuit people in a stark northern landscape and said, “Of course they were desperate, they didn’t have any bathrooms!” Part of me thought that was hilarious and part of me thought it was disrespectful. These were serious books about serious matters. I didn’t know that the books had been controversial, had been derided at by some at the time of publication (Mowat was called “Hardly Know-It” by Northern Hands). Nor could I have known they would be savagely debunked in the 1990s by an investigative journalist who argued that Mowat didn’t know what he was talking about, hadn’t seen most of the things he described, had seriously overstated his experiences.

Mowat defended himself by distinguishing stentoriously between facts and truth. That seems to me both tendentious and appropriate, but what mattered to me at the time, and even perhaps now, was the sense I first got, as a young liberal in training, of a cause that one could feel sentimentally and self-righteously exercised over. (In this regard, these seem to me very Canadian books.)

No matter how badly I felt about the Inuit and the caribou and the natural world in general—I once wrote a letter to the Premier of Alberta protesting a planned hydro-electric plant that threatened the nesting grounds of whooping cranes, a letter that got a patronizing reply devastatingly, to my insecure self, addressed to Miss Stuber—I read these books of Mowat’s more from duty than from love. And in my defense, if one is needed, they were hard books for an eight year old. But Mowat wrote lots of other books, for children or at least about children, and those were the ones I loved and read over and over. The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be, The Boat that Wouldn’t Float (strange, the intransigent refusals of these titles), A Family of Owls, The Black Joke: I enjoyed them all.

But there were two books that I returned to again and again until they became a part of me. These were Lost in the Barrens (1956) and, most importantly, because I actually owned it, its sequel, the deliciously named The Curse of the Viking Grave (1966). These were adventure stories, again set in that Northern Manitoba tundra landscape so formative in Mowat’s life. They featured three boys, an orphaned white (Jamie McNair, who lives with his uncle Angus, a trapper—ah those Scots names!), a Cree Indian (Awasin) and an Eskimo (Peetyuk). (We called them Eskimo back then.) I learned a lot from those books: how easy it is to tire yourself out walking through the snow (always go single file, so the second person can follow in the first one’s tracks, and be sure to trade places regularly); how dangerous it is to walk through snow all day on a sunny day (you’ll get snow blindness, the description of which I remember to this day, like fine sand ground into the eyes, although you can try to avoid by making glasses from strips of birch bark with slits cut into them). Without making a big deal of it, these books, I now observe, were strikingly inter- or multi-cultural. Mostly they were exciting as all hell and I never tired of them

Thinking about these books today, so many years later, I see that they helped me, a child of immigrant parents, solidify my identity as a first-generation Canadian. In a sense, Canadian identity was born in the 1970s by various initiatives of the Trudeau government; part of that developing identity lay in acknowledging and generating a profound, if problematic because sentimental, interest in the North. (Previously it has been either ignored as meaningless or valued only as an empty space from which to extract resources—a view lamentably still prevalent, with deadly consequences for the people and creatures that live there.)

I didn’t think about any of this at the time. Nor did I read only books by Farley Mowat. I read pretty voraciously, and loved all kinds of books. I had many deep readerly loves, like Gerald Durrell, L. M. Montgomery, Arthur Ransom, and, a bit later, P. G. Wodehouse. But Mowat was the first, and so meant a lot to me, even though he would probably have despaired of me.

 

For a long time I would get up very early on Saturday mornings and read in bed while the house was quiet. (Now that I have a small child, I think what a wonderful gift I gave to my parents. I can hardly wait until my daughter can entertain herself that way.) I remember shaking off my sleepiness, plunging into my book, having long unadulterated stretches of time entirely to myself with no other purpose than to create myself. However fraught or wrongheaded or sketchy Mowat’s ideas and practices—but if he’s remembered at all, it will be as a prescient figure, as one who saw early on that human beings cannot be understood apart from the environment that surrounds them and of which they are a part, and not the most important—I will always remember fondly both him and the gifts he unknowingly gave that slight, reserved boy alone in his bedroom.

I wonder who will be my daughter’s Mowat, that first role model she’ll stumble across who will have nothing to do with me.

Rue Ordener, Rue Labat–Sarah Kofman (1994, 1996 English Translation by Ann Smock)

Posted on by under Uncategorized

I think the French have a word for the genre of Sarah Kofman’s next-to-last book: the récit, an account. Perhaps that implies more of a narrative through-line than this book offers. It could be called a memoir, though it is too fragmentary to be one. It is autobiographical without being an autobiography. Maybe sketch is the best term? There’s always that useful term the French like to use: the text.

Rue Ordener, Rue Labat asks us to think about what to call it because it is always pushing against the very idea of form, as if it were a pure manifestation of the unconscious, of its author’s deepest recesses.

I first read this intriguing little work when it came out in English translation in the late 1990s. I returned to it yesterday as part of my efforts to create the syllabus (or at least the reading list) for a new course I’m teaching in the fall, Literature after Auschwitz. Lately I’ve dipped into lots of books, looking for ones that will fit the story I want the course to tell and that will be effective pedagogically. All the while I know that I won’t really know what I want from the course until I’ve taught it at least once.

My first thought was that Rue Orderer, Rue Labat probably won’t serve my purposes. But I’ve found myself returning to it over and over again in the twenty-four hours since finishing it. So maybe there is something in it I need to listen to.

In eighty pages and twenty-three chapters Kofman tells us about some of the things that happened to her as a child in and around Paris during the war and its aftermath.

Her father was arrested in the infamous roundups of July 16th, 1942, when the French police brought 13,000 Jews to a velodrome on the outskirts of Paris before deporting them, via the transit camp at Drancy, to Auschwitz.

The book begins with that day, the last time Kofman ever saw her father. More precisely, it begins with a description of his fountain pen, which Kofman kept with her throughout her life. The pen, she suggests, was the impetus for all her subsequent work, not least these pages.

I’ve been dipping into Seamus Heaney’s Death of a Naturalist lately and I thought about “the squat pen” in “Digging.” That pen, though, is so much more ambivalent, so much more a weapon (however ambivalently wielded) than Kofman’s father’s. Her book is full of ambiguity, but none of that attaches to her father, an Orthodox, unassimilated rabbi who had arrived in France in 1929 and who Kofman clearly adored. He appears in the book only through his traces—that pen, a photo, a single postcard written from Drancy asking for cigarettes and sending love to the baby, presumably the one Kofman’s mother pretended to be pregnant with in a futile attempt to save her husband from deportation, though perhaps Kofman herself—and his daughter’s memories. She remembers his inveterate smoking: because he kept Shabbat he couldn’t smoke until sundown on the Sabbath and so, towards the end of the day, he would soothe his cravings by humming melodies with the family. Kofman later recognizes one in Mahler symphony.

The father is gentle, wise, capable. The mother is another story. Most of the book is about her, and her substitute. From that day n July when so many were disappeared, life got harder for the remaining Jews of Paris. Kofman describes wearing the star, suffering abuse at school, living in increasing fear. Her mother tries to save her six children. (Interestingly, Kofman tells us almost nothing about her siblings.) Each is given another, Gentile name. Together they are sent to the countryside. But Kofman makes trouble. She loves her new school—her love for her teachers before and after the war is a repeated theme in the book—but hates everything else. She won’t eat pork, she cries for her mother. Her eldest sister writes home to say that Kofman can’t stay, she’ll give them all away. Her mother tries to hide her in other places, both outside and inside Paris. Kofman always cries, and her mother always has to take her back. One day in February mother and daughter receive word that they must leave their apartment immediately; the police will be coming that night. Desperate, Kofman’s mother visits “the lady on Rue Labat,” a former neighbour with whom she had become friendly, largely over the woman’s affection for Kofman and her siblings.

Rue Labat is two metro stops from Rue Ordener. Kofman vomits repeatedly on the way there. In fact, she vomits over and over again in these memories. The restrictions on eating in Leviticus, the laws of kashrut, symbolize Kofman’s refusal to incorporate otherness, to accommodate to situations beyond that of the family. This bodily instability is a sign of Kofman’s resistance, a refusal to compromise her identity. It is also dangerous, the result of an intransigence and recklessness to herself and to others, even or especially those who want to help her, who are in fact risking their lives for her. And of course it is also, perhaps primarily a sign of her conflict with her mother, which intensifies over time.

As a child Kofman had been so attached to her mother that she could hardly bear to part from her for even a short time. Now, hidden in the apartment in Rue Labat, devouring the books she finds there, eventually eating the foods the lady is convinced she needs for her health, Kofman repudiates her mother and becomes attached to this other maternal figure, who she calls “Mémé.” Mémé saves Kofman from deportation, but that doesn’t mean she particularly likes Jews. She disparages Kofman’s Jewish nose, for example. Under her care, Kofman forgets her Yiddish (the language she spoke with her mother).

The liberation comes. Unlike many wartime memoirs, Rue Ordener, Rue Labat doesn’t end here. One of the things I like about the book is that the war is really the least of it, here. Which isn’t to say that the events depicted here are simply universal psychological dramas. Here is a Holocaust memoir in which the Holocaust as we usually consider it barely figures. Without the heavy-handed language of “second generation” or “postmemory” created at around the same time by critics like Marianne Hirsch, Kofman tells a story of the psychological ambivalences of assimilation in which the war is necessary but not sufficient.

Kofman’s mother takes her back to live with her. Kofman doesn’t want to, she wants to be with Mémé. She runs away to her repeatedly. Hard to imagine Kofman’s mother’s frustration and despair; Kofman doesn’t try to. Instead she lists the mother’s responses: beating the child, negotiating desperately with her: she can have one hour a day with Mémé. Nothing works, the child always wants the surrogate. Eventually the mother takes the other woman to court. But the court sides with Mémé. The mother hires two strong men who lay in wait for the child and steal her back. But some time later, the mother must go to the country for an extended time to collect her other children. Remarkably, she entrusts Kofman to Mémé. The back and forth between the women continues for some time. In a brief moment of theoretical reflection, Kofman refers to Melanie Klein to explain the situation, using Klein’s distinction between the good and bad breast to speak of her experience of these two mothers. (The breasts are just a metonymy: the “good” one is bounteous, plentiful, always ready whenever the child needs anything; the “bad” one is unavailing, desiccated, not there when the child wants it. The child—an infant—has no sense yet that the mother is an independent person. Some people never learn this, to their peril.) But in the Kleinian narrative of development, the child must learn that the good breast and the bad breast, the good mother and the bad mother, are the same; in other words, the child must learn how to handle ambivalence. (The one you love can—and will—be the one you hate.) It’s unclear whether Kofman does, though she eventually exits the orbit of both women, once again through books and education, the things that had most sustained her during the war.

We sense, more than see, because the end of the book is particularly fragmentary, that Kofman comes to dislike both women. The enigmatic, almost perfunctory last lines are:

I was unable to attend her funeral. But I know that at her grave the priest recalled how she had saved a little girl during the war.

How ironically should we understand this? Does it matter that Kofman killed herself the year after writing them?

 

In her otherwise admirable introduction, Ann Smock says something you would never expect from a translator. Contrasting this autobiographical writing with Kofman’s other, philosophical works she says: “That splendid mask of feminine brilliance is not apparent at all in Rue Ordener, Rue Labat, which, I would say, does without literary qualities,” adding that “It is simple, but it does not have a simple style or any style.” Surely Smock of all people—trained in the French intellectual tradition of Barthes & Blanchot—doesn’t imagine that there could be such a thing as writing without style. The style is unadorned, definitely, and the book is not obviously patterned. But its qualities are certainly literary. The sense that there is so much more at work here than its author can understand is one of its chief attractions.

The more I think about Rue Ordener, Rue Labat the more I think it would pair interestingly with Sebald’s Austerlitz. Maybe I will teach it after all.