BOOKS @ VOLUME #54 (16.12.17).
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![]() {Review by STELLA} | The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood is a classic that is having a revival since the very successful TV series. When a very handsome volume arrived in the bookshop (red edged hardback with a stunning black cover) it seemed like a good time to re-read this novel. (In fact, I realised on beginning to read that I knew the story but hadn’t read the book). Offred is living in the era of Gilead. She has a choice: breed or be sent to the colonies to die slowly from toxic poisoning or overwork and starvation. As a fertile woman, she is in demand and can be a handmaid - a special class of woman (both cherished and despised) whose role it is to provide their commanders and their wives with offspring. Offred’s memoir takes us into a bizarre world where women’s rights have been obliterated and arcane rules keep everyone in line, where as a woman you are either a wife, a martha (servant) or a handmaid, unless you are outcast or a jezebel. As Offred attempts to navigate her life without her husband or child (who has been taken from her) she finds herself increasingly mystified by the behaviour of those around her, particularly her commander, who behaves in unorthodox ways. Meetings and sexual contact are tightly controlled and ritualistic, so the Commander’s insistence that she meet him in his library puts her in great danger. The longer she stays in the household, the more tenuous her links to the past. Is there an escape from this situation in which she is obliterated as a person? Can she trust her fellow handmaiden Ofglen, or Nick the chauffeur? And what is Mayday? Atwood explores ideas of patriarchy, power and control over reproduction in this tautly told tale. If you’ve read this already or seen the TV series, you should read excellentThe Power by Naomi Alderman, and for younger teen readers, Maresi is worth investigating. And if you're looking for more Atwood, there’s a stunning new edition of Alias Grace. |
![]() | Insane by Rainald Goetz {Reviewed by THOMAS} "What do I have to think to really understand what I feel when I see what happens?" asks Rainald Goetz. Insane, first published in German in 1983 and only now appearing in English, in a translation by Adrian Nathan West published by the remarkable Fitzcarraldo Editions, interrogates the validity of the distinctions society makes between sanity and insanity, between the acceptable and the unacceptable, between what we call order and the rest of what we call chaos. If it is not the case that there is no such thing as insanity, as had been proposed by the antipsychiatry movement, it would be more reasonable to assert that there is no such thing as sanity, that in reality there is nothing but insanity, that distinctions between sanity and insanity are non-actual, an artifice wrought by the powerful privileging and ring-fencing a portion of the territory and calling it sanity, despite the irony. The border between one thing and its opposite, when laid across a continuous field, falls in the greyest area between the two, the zone of least distinction, and therefore these borders are constantly and often brutally defended. The more brutally and the more desperately they are defended the more they seem to exist, and the border is dotted with institutions which, by helping those who are held over the border, even though such distinctions are matters of scale rather than of kind, give validity to and guard that border. An institution dictates the currency of exchange within it and between it and its hinterland (or, rather, the currency of exchange dictates the institution and its relations with its hinterland), but the criteria of preference within that institution, however, are marked equally and completely upon all members of that institution, who are to some extent, because of this, interchangeable. Distinctions of scale are the most mutable distinctions. The first of the three sections that comprise Goetz’s novel contains a multitude of unattributed voices expressing metal states that would generally be classified as insane (or in any case dysfuntional) if classification were to be made, and notably in this section it is not, interspersed with others seemingly from doctors attached to a psychiatric hospital, one of the last in Germany in which electroconvulsive therapy is still practised, lecturers and theorists addressing madness and psychiatry. The classification regimes of psychiatry (“countless diagnoses but only five drugs”) are destabalised, the writing clinically precise but without presumptive diagnoses, Goetz dealing only particulars without generalities or labels, providing a sort of anti-DSMguide to psychological dysfunction. The second section follows the path to disillusionment of a young doctor, Raspe, who learns, with increasing despair, that he is in fact incapable of helping the patients. “You must constantly stifle the burning sorrow of your helplessness. Habit grows alongside weakness in the doctor and becomes his crutch. A man erased did the work of a doctor.” The third part applies the nondiagnostic approach beyond the institution to the narrator himself (though to call him Raspe or even the narrator by this stage is problematic). “After years of differentiation I had only just learned non-differentiation,” he says. Without the institution, without diagnoses, without the prescription of medication, without the divided roles of doctor and patient, the illusion of the sane society is dissolved. And without these in this novel there can be no first person, only a mutable third person, each individual observing themselves from without in the same way they observe other persons, like persons observed in a film, unable to make adequate distinction between themselves and other persons. The pace now becomes (even more) manic, the tone pugnacious and mocking, that of a frustrated joke approaching a punchline it will never attain. The introduction in this section of the ‘Rainald’ character, appearing either as the author himself or as a character narrated by Raspe, undercuts all we had previously presumed about Raspe and destabilises the momentum, so to call it, call it vibratory energy rather, of the later part of the novel. Raspe/Goetz left psychiatric medicine when he realised that his interests were inquisitive rather than therapeutic (that he was more a writer than a doctor). “Rainald no longer believed he was capable of helping the patients. They were interesting, though. Through them, he was trying to understand how we must learn to talk about ourselves again, without psychiatry.”
>> A trailer for the 2017 film Irre (Insane).
>> Goetz cuts his head open for the 1983 Ingeborg Bachmann Prize (a sort of Germany's Got Talent). |
![]() | Tinderbox by Megan Dunn {Reviewed by THOMAS} If there had been any rain he would have opened his mouth and tasted the drops but it wasn’t raining and it hadn’t rained for some time. The vegetation everywhere was dry, what they call tinder dry because to be useful tinder needs to be dry, suggesting that dryness is a requisite quality of tinder, though what then to call it when it is wet, he wondered, wandering from the task at hand. It would take only a spark struck from a flint, he thought, trying to climb back aboard his earlier train of thought, to set the whole thing off. But even this wasn’t the thought he had started with. He had been thinking of tasting the raindrops, a sort of conceit for opening a review of the book Tinderbox by Megan Dunn, the raindrops, or rather the tasting of them, an awkward motif isolated by Dunn from the book Fahrenheit 451 and Truffaut's film based on the book upon which her book is based. What was he thinking? Perhaps he would write a story in which a character, call that character Miss Ingram for reasons outlined in Tinderbox, he won’t go into that now, writes, or attempts to write and fails, due to fatigue perhaps, or insufficient time or focus, or perhaps brain-power, a review of Tinderbox by Megan Dunn, which is an account of Dunn trying, and failing, for reasons other than those just listed, to write a novel based on the novel Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, in one iteration a novel of Fahrenheit 451 from the point of view of its female characters, which iteration, when completed, made the Bradbury estate uncomfortable, in a legal sense, leading directly to the non-publication of this iteration and thence to the writing and subsequent publication of Tinderbox, a book about someone writing a book about a book, or, more often, a book about someone writing a book about a film about a book, or about the Spark Notes about that book, or, sometimes, about the actors who play the characters in the film of the book, in other words a metametametametametanovel, but so much fun, with each wheel within the other wheels turning and picking up, in its treads, if that’s the right extension of the metaphor, who wants it, all sorts of stuff in the life of the author-character, the putative Megan Dunn, the outer wheel, so to call it, or the outer wheel at least until the story about the pseudonymous Miss Ingram, or, indeed, the account of the writing of the story about Miss Ingram, who tries and fails to write a review of the book about the putative Megan Dunn, which includes Dunn’s employment as a bookseller in the failing Borders chain, the evanescence of a relationship, her writing of a book based on Fahrenheit 451, the failure to bring this book to readers, the writing of a novel on the NaNoWriMo scheme, a sort of reverse Alcoholics Anonymous programme for writers, and Tinderbox itself, the book about all this, and all that mentioned above, and other things, such as merchandising, that you will need to read the book to find out about, each part or layer or vector or whatever contaminating the others and yet handled so deftly by Dunn, with equal measure of attachment and detachment, to build a subtle depiction of the mutable but enduring force of literature in individual and collective lives and of the forces arrayed against it, not least of them failure, the book is strong on failure, and what could be more compassionate, even to Miss Ingram, who has failed to establish herself as a character in someone's story about failing to write a review of Tinderbox, not that the fault is hers, perhaps that conceit should be abandoned, than treating to failure in all its guises and agencies, failure being an essential quality of anything worth doing. Could writing about failure ever be anything but a success? Dunn knows what temperature books burn at. Half price. Such weighty matters should always be this lightly held. |
![]() {Reviewed by Stella} |
Ali Smith's Winter is dazzling. The second in her ‘Seasons’ quartet, she again, as in Autumn, draws richness out of desolation. Strangely, the novel opens with Sophia, lonely and retired, conversing with a detached head. Not too far along we meet Arthur, her son, who has just fallen out with his girlfriend Charlotte, who has accused him of being a fraud and politically disconnected. Charlotte, aggrieved by his uselessness, has drilled holes through his laptop, taken off and taken over his ‘art and nature’ blog, posting false and possibly libelous material. Arthur (Art as he is affectionately known to his family) has to travel to Cornwall to visit Sophia for Christmas, and he is meant to be arriving with Charlotte. In desperation, he finds a stand-in, Lux, who he pays a thousand pounds to pretend to be Charlotte for the long weekend. Arriving at Sophia's home, they find Sophia sitting huddled in layers of clothes in a cold house, not quite herself. Lux takes it upon herself to make Art contact Iris, his aunt. And here the novel starts to unfold. The fraught relationship between the sisters, one the seemingly conservative businesswoman, the other the 'wild child' activist who chained herself to the fence at Greenham Common, still protesting and aiding the disempowered. The conversations between the sisters reveal much to Arthur about his upbringing. Yet more is revealed to Lux, the stranger in the mix, who Sophia seems to trust. Lux is a recent migrant, studying English literature before she ran out of money and now making do with low-pay jobs and sleeping anywhere she isn’t noticed. Her brief interlude in this winter Christmas family tale is inspired - a catalyst for change. Ali Smith draws us in with cool, icy precision - Winter, like the season, is deep, dark and melancholic when we enter the novel - yet she gives us love and hope, and lets us see the green shoots waiting for the snow to melt. Like Autumn, Winter is a book about time and place, about now - refugees, fires in substandard towers - about what binds families and also what splits them asunder. Smith can take a simple series of events with a cast of few and tell us so much about ourselves, and the culture (art, literature, language) and choices that shape us. And she does it with intelligence, wit and style.
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Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward {Reviewed by STELLA}
In Jesmyn Ward’s book we meet thirteen-year-old Jojo, living with his grandparents, Mam and Pop, in Bois, Mississippi. He takes care of his toddler sister, Kayla, while his mother, Leonie, is out on another bender. Life in the South is much the same as it’s always been with black communities watching their backs and poor whites living on the edge. 'Do Not Trespass' signs mean what they say and can be followed up with a shotgun fired. Jojo’s Pop is a stable anchor in a life that could be erratic. Hardworking, tending their land and raising the animals, he’s at the centre of Jojo’s world, caring for Mam, who is in the last months of cancer, and watching over his grandchildren. Leonie is indulgent and selfish and it’s hard to warm to her, yet, as the novel progresses, you get a sense of what has made her behave irresponsibly. Addicted to drugs, unhealthily obsessed with Michael, the father of her children, whose white family won’t accept either Leonie nor the children on any terms, Leonie is a collision waiting to happen - in fact a devastating series of crashes. Jojo is a young man who you want to walk alongside and hold as a reader - both naive and mature, he has surprising insights and abilities in spite of his youth, an amazing capacity to ‘see’ yet still remaining baffled by society's workings. When Michael, who’s been in Parchment, the jail which was once run like a slave plantation, calls to say he’s being released, Leonie decides that she’s taking Jojo and Kayla to meet their daddy. The road trip is a nightmare, Kayla is sick, Jojo is worried and wary, and Leonie is edgy. Sing, Unburied, Sing is a story about slavery, racism and the terrible personal cost of disempowerment. It is also a beautiful story about the pain of the past that needs to be faced and forgiven, and the power of individuals, through love for each other, to carve out new existences. Ward weaves history into the novel through the ghost characters of Given and Richie - the former Leonie’s dead brother shot in a supposed hunting accident, and the latter a young boy at the penitentiary who Pop, in the past, had tried to shelter. In the hands of a lesser writer this might have seemed trite, but Ward is masterful. In November this book won the American National Book Award for Fiction. Comparisons have been made to Toni Morrison and William Faulkner. The judges described Sing, Unburied, Sing as “a narrative so beautifully taut and heartbreakingly eloquent that it stops the breath." Stunning, powerful and tender. |
Border Districts by Gerald Murnane {Reviewed by THOMAS}
“I am not writing a work of fiction but a report of seemingly fictional matters,” writes Gerald Murnane in this, his declared final work of what we would probably, for convenience at least, call fiction. An elderly writer, who probably no-one would object to our thinking of as Murnane, having moved to a small town inland close to the border of the Australian state he had never in his previous life left, postpones an intended trip over the border after having glanced in passing at the stained glass window of a small church and been struck by a string of associated mental images. “A glance or a sideways look often reveals more than a direct gaze.” Murnane reveals his discipline as a writer: he “guards his eyes,” not looking directly, noticing things at the edges of his vision that seem almost to be “signalling or winking”, and then recording whatever occurs to him after noticing this signalling or winking. This recording is objective and exacting, even if the mental states upon which it is applied are what people other than Murnane would generally term highly subjective. “The image in the mind is itself real, whether or not it may be said to denote some other class of entity.” For Murnane what he calls the image-world is the absolute, and the everyday world and writing and reading and music are merely modes of access to this image-world, which is itself shared by a world beyond it to which we have no access. In this book, Murnane has reduced the palette further than ever before (it is not for nothing that he invokes Robert Walser, who reduced the content of his writing to the extent that he squeezed himself out of the world common to others), dealing with the most subtle of impressions, with what he terms “the life and death of mental states”, the persistence and evanescence of images in the mind. When reading a book, for instance, Murnane is interested not in the text, but in whatever occurs to him when reading it. “My image-world was often only slightly connected with the text in front of my eyes. I decided long ago to take no further interest in the theoretical and to study only the actual, which was for me the seeming-scenery behind everything I did or thought or read.” Although he insists that he possesses no imagination, the topographies of Murnane’s image-world may have strata of associative occurrence that take them further from shared actuality than any imaginative effort, even though “this is a report of actual events and no sort of work of fiction. As I understand the matter, a writer of fiction reports events that he or she considers imaginary. The reader of fiction considers, or pretends to consider, the events actual. This piece of writing is a report of actual events only, even though many of the reported events may seem to an undiscerning reader fictional.” Murnane’s incredibly precise, deliciously pedantic recording of mental states and associations and memories, loneliness and longing (not identified by him as such) make him the closest thing yet to an Australian Proust, and he undoubtedly writes some of the most perfect sentences of any living writer in English. The key to reading his work, perhaps, is to “guard your eyes”, noticing things at the edges of the text that seem almost to be “signalling or winking”, and then following your response to this signalling or winking. At times, we begin to suspect that an identification of Murnane with the narrator of this book, and therefore the positioning of its entire contents, may be a little less straightforward than we had first suspected (despite what I said upon opening this review). The narrator is an image-Murnane in the mind of Murnane the writer, and as such has access to experiences that the writer-Murnane does not. If he were to type up his report, writes the narrator at the end of this report, and take it to the elderly woman writer whom he believes has moved into a farmhouse just over the border from where he now lives and with whom he wishes to make contact, he would add some further information (which he then proceeds to outline) but, he tells us, his “reluctance to make any sort of show of [his] interests or motives” means that this report will in any case never be read by anyone. |