BOOKS @ VOLUME #120 (23.3.19)
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Review by STELLA![]() | Steve Sem-Sandberg’s The Tempest is a dark and atmospheric novel. On a small Norwegian Island we meet Andreas, who is returning to the place of his childhood, unwillingly drawn by his foster father’s death and his search for answers: answers about who his parents were, about his sister’s decline into rebellion and later oblivion. Andreas, in confronting his past, is digging up the bones of the island - its landscape and its people. Its disturbing history of secrets has been papered over with mythology, making the task of untangling the relationships within the small community difficult, and the only person who might shed light on Andreas’s queries is the least trustworthy, but, unlike many of the other protagonists in his life story, Carsten is still alive - bitterly so. Drawing on his own childhood remembrances (some of which are, not surprisingly, inaccurate and the view of a child), snippets of written material (letters, newspaper clippings and diary entries), and enduring confronting conversations with Carsten, he is able to piece together a truth of sorts. Johannes, the foster father to Andreas and his sister Minna, was a parent who cared for both children but was incapable of moving beyond his guilt, sinking his life into a bottle. While Minna departed from their lives, Andreas would periodically visit the island, attempting to make Johannes's life more palatable, to little effect. In his final return, Andreas’s desire for the truth about his parents and what happened to them on the island during the war years, and the repercussions this had on future generations, burns at him. Throughout the book there are real and metaphoric fires that engulf the island, create distractions, and possibly free those who wish to depart. The island had been in the Kaufmann family for generations. During the war years, the younger Kaufmann, with the farm manager Carsten at his side, took on the rule of the island. An ‘intellectual’ with a keen interest in botany and biological science, he was intrigued with creating a communal society where workers would contribute to the island in return for small land plots - yet this concept in practice made the people virtual servants to the master and his whims. During the war years, Kaufmann was able to gain an audience in Berlin, making the island a complicit player in the Nazi regime. As Andreas digs down into the depths of the past, the revelations are disturbing, yet as the truth is revealed the behaviour of those in his childhood begins to make sense. Minna and Andreas’s histories have been overwritten by lies, mythologies and multiple stories - “your parents had to leave suddenly”, “they promised to return”, “they died in a fiery plane crash”. The island’s story has been buried, but the impact of collaborating with the Nazi regime is written on the faces and bodies of the inhabitants and pushes up through the landscape. Sem-Sandberg’s writing (and the brilliant translation) is compelling - his prose is alive on the page, rich and wild. He breaks all the rules, swiftly moving from one voice to the next with little breath, between past and present without hesitation, his empathy and anger rising off the page. Add to this his drawing on Shakespeare’s The Tempest in a covert rather than overt manner: the play vibrates under the surface of the novel, contributing layers of meaning and complexities that enhance this very astute and confronting piece of writing. |
![]() | Concrete by Thomas Bernhard {Reviewed by THOMAS} In a single brilliant book-length hysterical paragraph, Rudolph, Bernhard’s narrator, a middle-aged invalid both incapacitated and sustained by his neuroses, obsessed with writing his great work on the composerMendelssohn Bartholdy but of course incapable of even beginning to write, neurasthenically procrastinating and irritated, riven by every possible ambivalence, unable to write whilst his sister is visiting and unable to write unless she is present, hating his sister but dependent upon her, needing his home but stifled by it, rants about everything from making too many notes to the idiocy of keeping dogs. Bernhard’s delineation of an individual whose interiority and isolation has attained the highest degree is flawless, devastating and very funny. No sooner has Rudolph made a categorical assertion than he begins to move towards its opposite: after describing the cruelty of his sister towards him, we become increasingly aware of her concern for him and his mental state; no sooner does he attain the solitude of his grand Austrian country home (soon after the book opens he makes the categorical assertion, “We must be alone and free from all human contact if we wish to embark upon an intellectual task!”, a common fallacious predicate that one commonly inclines towards but which subverts one’s ends (he follows this swiftly with another self-defeating assertion: “I still don’t know how to word the first sentence, and before I know the wording of the first sentence I can’t begin any work.”)) than he is absolutely certain that he must travel to Palma if he is to write his book on Mendelssohn Bartholdy. Towards the end of the book, we learn that Rudolph did indeed go to Palma, where he is writing this account (instead of his work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy) after learning of the recent suicide of a young woman he had met there on a previous occasion following the death of her husband (who was discovered fallen onto concrete beneath their hotel balcony). Such was the isolation of Rudolph’s interiority that he was incapable of taking timely action to help the unfortunate young woman, though it was easily within his means to do so, incapable of making authentic human contact, stifled by his own ambivalences and self-obsession (the undeclared ironic tragedy being that he may possibly have returned to Palma in order to help the young woman but that he is of course too late, her suicide triggering the self-excoriation that comprises the book). |
![]() | Hazel and the Snails by Nan Blanchard, illustrated by Giselle Clarkson {Reviewed by STELLA} The first book off the press for Annual Ink under the umbrella of Massey University Press is a gentle and thoughtful story about a young girl, her love of her snails, and mortality. Hazel is collecting snails, ten of them to be precise. They are friends who aren’t sulking like her older brother, who don’t always wear pink like her friend Meg, and are not telling her to be quiet while Dad is having a lie-down. Told in the voice of a young child, the author Nan Blanchard gets the tone just right. Descriptions of people and happenings, the imaginary wanderings of a child and the silliness of children’s games and wordplay make the setting familiar and comfortable for a young reader. Hazel hassles her brother; describes her two grandmas to perfection (down to their turning up in wet togs with their coats on top because it’s just too hot = damp hugs); has a funny time at the supermarket with Mum when a the woman in purple runs into a stack of post-Christmas shortbread biscuits, sending the tins rolling down the aisle; and hides in the woodshed when the going gets tough. The snails live in the shoe-box and go most places with her - to school, to Meg’s house, to the beach. She cares for them and worries about whether they are happy or not. Do they like the rain? Are they lonely? In this quiet and simple story, there are funny and sad moments. It is a story about being a child and seeing the world from this - sometimes quirky - perspective. It is about illness and mortality and would be useful for any child that has the need for a story that they can relate to, and for any child who has questions. Gentle, thoughtful and undeniably charming, Blanchard has created a compassionate tale, with Hazel, a young child, at its centre - a child who is full of life and questions. It reminds us that children understand more than maybe they let on. Reminiscent of Rose Lagercrantz’s 'Dani' series, it has the same lightness of touch without avoiding life’s rollercoaster of experiences and the impact that this has on all, especially the youngest in our lives. Playful language, delightful descriptions (with a few words much is conveyed) and illustrations (note the snail on the foot of each page) provide the icing on the cake. A debut author to watch. |
![]() | The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg {Reviewed by THOMAS} Natalia Ginzburg writes the eleven essays in this collection with such clarity, precision and directness that they slip easily back and forth across the line between the particular and the general. Written between 1944 and 1960, the pieces are arranged in two strands. The first strand takes a very particular approach, and are, in my opinion, the most effective. Ginzburg’s evocative account of a damp winter living in Italy’s rural Abruzzi region is full of details of rain and people and mud and walks that shelve perfectly as memories. The reason for their heightened effect becomes apparent when we reach the end of the essay and learn that this winter was the last she spent with her first husband: when they returned to Rome from their exile he was imprisoned and murdered by the fascist wartime government. The four-page essay on her worn-out shoes, written in Rome in 1945 when she was sharing a room with a friend and waiting out the war, says so much about hardship, mental focus and the longing she felt for her children, but is written with such lightness that it conveys much more than it tells. Two essays in this section tell of Ginzburg’s experiences as a foreigner living in England, and maintain an equilibrium between gentle satire and razor-sharp perception: “The English seem somehow aware of their sadness and of the sadness which their country inspires in foreigners. When they are with foreigners they have an apologetic air and appear always anxious to get away,” or, in the very funny essay concerning English food: “As far as the eye can see the countryside stretches - beautiful, green, rustling and damp, wild and at the same time gentle like no other in the world, silent, inedible and odourless.” The character study of her friend, the writer Cesare Pavese (unnamed in the essay), following his suicide in 1950 is full of subtle and succinct observations that evoke the complexities of his existence, and the essay contrasting her personal habits with those of her second husband is revealing without providing any biographical details. Through Ginzburg’s autobiographical writings the reader feels quickly that they know her, even though, even by the end, they still don’t really know anything about her. This ability to compound resonance through detail without resorting to exposition is subtly effective, making the essays independent of their contexts and thereby as fresh to read today and they were when they were written. The second section, or DNA strand, of the collection moves in the other direction across the line between the general and the particular. More theoretical, occasionally approaching being didactic, Ginzburg approaches subjects like ‘My Vocation’, ‘Silence’ or ‘Human Relationships’ and develops her arguments with such a light touch and clarity that the personal is called forth by the general rather than annulled by it. ‘Human Relationships’, describing a lifetime being altered by relationships with friends, lovers, and, most drastically, children, is written in first-person plural throughout. At first this seems like a universal bildungsroman but soon the specificity of the experiences make them clearly the experiences of a single person. Through this specificity, however, the narrative reaches back to the universal, but at a deeper level. The effect reminded me a little of Annie Ernaux’s The Years, which simultaneously tells the author’s own story and the history of twentieth century France in a flat third-person account. Both works clip the tether between experience and its subject and allow experience to fit itself to others. |

![]() | Lunch Witch Knee-Deep in Niceness by Deb Lucke {Reviewed by STELLA} What could possibly go wrong for Grunhilda the Black Heart? Grunhilda, the lunch lady extraordinaire, sets out for a usual day at the school canteen: for a day of horridness, grouchiness and mean little plans. After all, she has to live up to her reputation as a wicked witch, and keep the ancestors satisfied that all is gloom and doom in the little town of Salem. Yet back at home, her dog (who used to be a tax accountant) Mr Archibald Williams smells a rat: Grunhilda has been hiding something from Mr Williams, the bats and Louise the spider. She’s been hiding a spot of niceness! Mr Williams, in an attempt to keep this news from the Ancestors, makes a terrible mistake. He retrieves the book, The-Book-That-Is-Not-To-Be-Used-For-Good, from the recesses of the room (from well under the bed), and sets out to rectify the situation. Despite dire warnings from Louise the Spider, Mr Williams is determined, and unfortunately accidentally casts a spell. A spell of shocking results - Vince’s Potion of Positivity! While Grunhilda is doing her best to make special ‘ham’ and bean slop (strangely, all the erasers have gone missing) a scent is wafting across the town of Salem, filling everyone with good thoughts, confidence and a 'can-do' attitude. The dullard School Principal is suddenly full of vim and enthusiasm, the children are asking for second helpings of lunch, and poor Scout (a helpful lad) can’t find anyone to help (and so can’t earn his scout badges for good deeds) as everyone is ever-so-confident and super-positive. Dancing in the streets and way too much good fun, not to mention the smell of ‘positivity’, rouses the Ancestors from their coffins and they are not happy! What will Grunhilda do to rectify the situation and get back into their good (bad) books? Deb Lucke’s graphic novel for children Lunch Witch Knee-Deep in Niceness is hilarious fun and wonderfully illustrated complete with splats of spell ingredients. |
![]() | Proleterka by Fleur Jaeggy {Reviewed by THOMAS} “Children lose interest in their parents when they are left. They are not sentimental. They are passionate and cold. In a certain sense some people abandon affections, sentiments, as if they were things. With determination, without sorrow. They become strangers. They are no longer creatures that have been abandoned, but those who mentally beat a retreat. Parents are not necessary. Few things are necessary. The heart, incorruptible crystal.” Fleur Jaeggy’s unforgettable short novel, named after the ship upon which the narrator, aged fifteen, and her estranged father (unreachable, “aloof from himself”) spend an unprecedented and unrepeated fourteen day cruise in the Greek Islands with members of the Swiss guild to which the father belongs, is a catalogue of mental retreat, relinquishment, estrangement, loss, and turning away: enervations towards a non-existence either hurried or postponed but inevitable to all. Jaeggy’s short sentences each have the precision of a stiletto: each stabs and surprises, making tiny wounds, each with a drop of glistening blood. When the narrator looks at her father Johannes’s diary, “written by a man precise in his absence,” her description of it could be of her own narration: “It is proof. It is the confirmation of an existence. Brief phrases. Without comment. Like answers to a questionnaire. There are no impressions, feelings. Life is simplified, almost as if it were not there.” Jaeggy writes with absolute, clinical precision but narrow focus, as if viewing the world down a tube, to great effect. Johannes, for example, is described as having “Pale, gelid eyes. Unnatural. Like a fairy tale about ice. Wintry eyes. With a glimmer of romantic caprice. The irises of such a clear, faded green that they made you feel uneasy. It is almost as if they lack the consistency of a gaze. As if they were an anomaly, generations old.” The account of the Greek cruise forms the core of the novel, but it is preceded, intercut and followed by memories of childhood and of subsequent events (mostly the deaths of almost everyone mentioned), all related closely in the present tense, but non-sequential, resulting in a sense of time not dissimilar to that experienced when repeatedly tripping over an unseen obstacle. Most of the book is narrated in the first person but the narrator achieves a degree of detachment from incidents that threaten “the exceedingly fine line between equilibrium and desperation” by relating them in the third person, referring to herself as “Johannes’s daughter”: the death of Orsola (the maternal grandmother with whom she lived after her parents’ divorce, her mother’s effective disappearance, her father’s sudden poverty and his effective exile from her life) and the violent sexual experiences to which she opens herself with two of the sailors: “I don’t like it, I don’t like it, she thinks. But she does it all the same. The Proleterka is the locus of experience. By the time the voyage is over, she must know everything. At the end of the voyage, Johannes’s daughter will be able to say: never again, not ever. No experience ever again.” The narrator writes her memories not so much to remember as to forget, to relinquish. Words turn experience into story, which interposes itself between experience and whoever is oppressed by it. As Jaeggy writes, “people imagine words in order to narrate the world and to substitute it.” |

![]() | Wundersmith: The calling of Morrigan Crow ('Nevermoor' #2) by Jessica Townsend {Reviewed by STELLA} First there was Nevermoor, and now there is Wundersmith: better, wilder, and more magical than ever. Morrigan Crow, the cursed child, is now well ensconced in her patron’s home, the Deucalion Hotel. Accepted into the elite school of the Wunderous Society, Morrigan is now a member of Unit 919 along with her best friend, the irrepressible and adventurous dragon-riding Hawthrone. So why does half her class fear or despise her and why do the Elders at WunSoc keep such a close eye on her, to the extent that she isn't allowed to attend the same classes as the rest of her Unit? She’s a Wundersmith, someone the Society fears and is in awe of. With her patron, the great Jupiter North fighting her corner, they can’t cast her out but they are determined to keep her in the dark and curtail her powers. And her only class, with the dull Professor Onstald, a minor Wunanimal, part-human, part-tortoise, teaching her all the evil ways of the past Wundersmiths from his book the Missteps, Blunders, Fiascos, Monstrosities and Devastations: An Abridged History of the Wunderous Art Spectrum, Morrigan feels like her talent has once again reduced her to a cursed child, shunned by her class-mates and disliked by some of the Elders of the Society. Luckily there is their Conductor, Miss Cherry; the staff at the Deucalion; Hawthorne, ever loyal; Jake (Jupiter’s nephew); and a new friend to counter the disappointment of school. Yet all is not well in Nevermore. Ezra Squall is still working his magic from afar through the Gossamer Line, people and creatures are disappearing (especially those with valuable talents), and Bonesmen (skeletal creatures that assemble themselves from bony debris of animals and humans they find in depths of rivers and the dark recesses of alleys) are rising up to kidnap the unwitting for the Ghastly Market, a ghoulish spectacle of a black market auction where the wealthy and unethical can bid for talented beings, to use them or steal the talents for nefarious means and their own money-making evil purposes. In addition to this, Morrigan is finding out more about the city of Nevermore and its magical wonders; a live map where you can see people walking about, getting caught in the rain, running for the Brolly Rail; the mysteries of trickster alleys, from the strange, yet safe (coded Pink) to the Red (danger ahead) to coded Black (certain death); an angel who sings to crowds of fans - his voice addictive; and the varied talents of her classmates, friends and foes (mesmerist, oracle, witness, wundersmith). This second book in the series will have you entranced. The pace picks up in Wundersmith, as, alongside Morrigan, we are plunged into danger, confusion and the need to be brave. Underlying the forward momentum of the plot are issues of loyalty, prejudice, bullying, resilience, fear, doubt and trust. This is a magical series for those who love Harry Potter, with the darkness of Gaiman’s Coraline, the humour of Percy Jackson, and a heroine who both makes mistakes and takes action in the face of adversity. |