Hux

a woman got on the bus who looked familiar. It was the Nobel prize winner writer Olga Tokarczuk. I had some questions about her work and how to pronounce her name so walked over to her and said...

Drive Your Plow Over The Bones of the Dead (2009) Olga Tokarczuk I really enjoyed this. It wasn't what I was expecting. It begins with a woman in her sixties, Janina Duszejko (the narrator), being woken by her neighbour (who she refers to as Oddball) because another neighbour (Bigfoot) has been found dead in unusual circumstances. At first this seems like a simple starting point for an altogether more introspective narrative but what follows is a series of deaths which produces a slight whodunit quality I wasn't anticipating. While other dismiss the deaths as accidents Janina (being so inclined) suspects that the animals are somehow involved. Eventually, the book reaches, what seemed to me, to be a somewhat inevitable conclusion given the slow development of events but which others might describe as a twist. I don't think it can be viewed that way however. The prose is crisp and clean (with occasional flourishes) but never becomes anything truly outstanding or exquisite. Olga Tokarczuk is a Nobel prize winner, however, so I would need to read more of her work to make a better judgement. For me, the book was very readable but the majority of my pleasure came from the story and the character of Janina herself, more than from the actual writing. Janina is not a sympathetic character, she believes things which are absurd (astrology) and has cantankerous traits which make one think of those elderly women who 'demand to see the manager.' She is outraged by the behaviour of young people, makes haughty complaints, and thinks certain people are scandalous. As a character, she is one of the most wonderfully realised I've ever come across. You have absolutely met women like this. And yet there are moments when, even as she maintains her disdainful qualities, she surprises you. Her love of animals, for example which, like the book itself, is a strong feature. And her cool indifference to social etiquette like the way she describes having sex with a younger man she has only just met. "I raised the quilt and invited him to join me, but as I am neither maudlin nor sentimental, I shall not dwell on it any further." As such, she is the the embodiment of the unreliable narrator. But it's hard not to take her at her word. I really liked this woman. I really loved this book. And I suspect that she and John Wick would have lots to talk about. Will definitely be reading more of her work. 8/10

But I told her to bugger off because I had an appointment with...

Fart. It had the combined scent of death and beetroot and...

The Opposing Shore (1951) Julien Gracq Two fictional European states have been at war for 300 years though, in recent decades, there have been no military engagements, only the constant, ongoing threat that such engagements might, at any moment, be reignited. The protagonist, Aldo, is sent from the comfort of his home in Orsenna to a fort on the coast in Syrtes where he is increasingly intrigued by the idea of sailing towards the enemy coastline of Farghestan. The book slowly (very slowly) builds to a feverish, almost dream-like desire for the war to return, for the waiting to have a purpose. If this reminds you of 'The Tartar Steppe' then that makes sense because they are both inspired by the trope of 'Waiting for the Barbarians.' The book is hard to review because there are moments of great literary quality otherwise lost in a swamp of turgid language that drowns these moments out. It is written in a baroque style of dense verbosity which becomes (for me at least) an altogether unpleasant experience to read. When it's good, it's superb but when it's bad (which it is the majority of the time) it's a gloopy treacle of meandering nonsense lost in a quagmire of simile and metaphor (the word 'like' is massively overused). There are times (few and far between) when it reaches glorious heights of exquisite prose: "just as a landscape painted against the background of a black room loses its vital iridescence but thereby acquires a mineral stability and seems to filter out things what best translates their dim reverie of inertia, it was as if the sounds here were decanted, filtered through a cloak of snow, whereby they lost their ordinary meaning in order to swell to a deep and indistinct murmur which became the very sound of returning life." But these moments are ultimately lost within the general swell of ornate and elaborate molasses which is Gracq's style. I would read a paragraph of viscous word salad several times before even grasping what he was saying only to discover (after my headache had abated) that it was something banal about the shape of the trees in a valley. Where seven words would suffice, Gracq gives us seven hundred and spirals them around an esoteric dream of intoxicated obscurantism until you're either enchanted or (in my case) losing the will to live. Despite my misgivings, I would definitely recommend the book as the writing is good (and the pointlessness of waiting for life to happen theme is intriguing) but ultimately it's a style of writing that doesn't speak to me. Others might be seduced by this kind of technique but I was left (much like Aldo) craving an ending. 5/10

Just bought... 'Mysteries' by Knut Hamsun. 'Drive Your Plough Over the Bones of the Dead' by Olga Tokarczuk. 'The Setting Sun' by Osamu Dazai 'The Appointment' by Herta Müller.

One Moonlit Night (1961) Caradog Prichard Dew, I just read this book. Dew, I really enjoyed it. Dew, it was really quite charming. Dew, I liked the way he described people as Price the School, Owen the Coal, or Bob Milk Cart. A young (nameless) boy (around ten) narrates his experiences of the many moonlit nights he experiences in a small village in Wales during and after the first world war. This is very clearly based on Caradog Prichard's own life. He hangs about with his pals Huw and Moi, dreams of the lovely Ceri (roughly ten years older than him), and loves listening to the men in the choir. He helps his mam as she irons and cooks and goes shopping; he watches as she gradually descends into mental illness. There is something very romantic about the book. It deals with childhood memory very effectively but also with the tribulations of small village life. And it is, of course, very Welsh (having been translated from the Welsh to English). Sometimes the book is charming and light (the chapter with the football match which evoked a real sense of community and nostalgia) and sometimes it is profoundly sad and introspective (his best friend Moi's illness). At other times it simply details life as it was then, drinking, mining, quarries, funerals, boxing, bread and butter, the war. It was a nice window into another time and place. It is a small story with a melancholy heart. There are moments of genuine beauty in the writing, almost a touch of magical realism, and the occasional flourish of such lyrical fluidity that it feels close to being stream-of-consciousness when, in reality, it is anything but. And never has Christianity or the bible seemed more beautiful than in the hands of Prichard. The book must be even more wonderful in the original Welsh. And who doesn't love a book with a character called Mary Plums? 8/10

River Deep Mountain High -Tina Turner

Just as long as it's not the Yanks or the Germans.

Seven Years (2009) Peter Stamm This is a tricky (more nuanced) review to write. Because on the one hand, I thought the writing was very basic and forgettable, dry and matter-of-fact, with very little in the way of creative or imaginative prose. The language is sparse, to-the-point and, truth be told, of little literary significance. That being said, it's immensely easy to read and goes along at a pace. I enjoyed reading the book (especially the middle section) a great deal. But what really got me was the book's exploration of the existential trauma of love. This really fascinated me. The story is a straight forward one about a student (Alex) who has a casual one night stand with a stranger, a slightly dull Polish girl called Ivona. Meanwhile he develops a serious relationship with Sonia (she being among his architect student friends). As the novel progresses, his relationship with Sonia intensifies until marriage inevitably comes along. But he continues, almost against his will, to keep seeing Ivona. He doesn't entirely understand why. Sonia is beautiful and clever, middle-class, has a wonderful future ahead of her. Ivona, by contrast, is not physically attractive, an uneducated immigrant, poor, and not very interesting, she is devoutly religious and lacks opinions on most subjects. The book goes from being a rather bland love triangle into something far more existential. Sonia is a good match, who he should be with, the perfect woman. But she doesn't need him. She doesn't crave him. Her love has conditions. Ivona, on the other hand, is almost a slave, utterly captivated by Alex and accepts him in totality as her spiritual husband. She will not disagree with him, she will not resist him (especially when he wants sex), and she will always be on his side, unconditionally. Alex tries to grasp the pull she has on him but can't quite do it. There are some people that want us but there are others who need, crave, and live for us. Sometimes two human beings simply connect in a way that burrows deep into the soul. Sometimes, it is inexplicable. It would tempting to dismiss this book as yet another insight into the bored lives of middle-class people (and yes, there is a lot of that), but for me the narrator (Alex) is not the point. Neither is Sonia, nor their daughter Sophie, nor their aunt Antje. This book is about Ivona. She is something quite remarkable. 7/10

It's arrived and a quick flick through it shows that (unlike Satantango and Melancholy) it has... breaks in the chapters. Looking forward to it now.

A Certain Smile (1956) Francoise Sagan I managed to read this little book by accident due to not realising that my copy 'Bonjour Tristesse' also contained it (that was not made clear by the front cover). Anyway, it took a few chapters before I even realised because... well, because it's more of the same. The only thing that actually changed was the character's name. Otherwise, it's the same girl, the same life, an alter ego for Sagan and her experiences. The character is simply Cecile but a few years on, with the same spoiled entitled outlook, the same apparent boredom with people who don't marvelously entertain her, the same selfishness, the same ignorance of other human beings being as important as her. Nonetheless, the book is well written and easy to read, this time the story being focused on Dominique's affair with a married man (Luc). It's all very French and (ooh look how little I care about things and how shockingly liberal I am) and it plods along nicely but I never really cared. This is ultimately the problem with literature by teenagers; it's like a 50-year-old reading what he tweeted when he was 20. CRINGE!! It's made even worse when it's a young girl bragging about her love affair with an older man as though this is an accomplishment. Shooting fish in a barrel, love But the banal, self-obsessed narrative aside, she can certainly write and I would actually say I enjoyed this more than Bonjour Tristesse. Both end with a somewhat unconvincing moment of realising that other people matter too. That there are consequences to your actions. But I never really belived Sagan actually learnt that lesson, she simply needed an ending. Overall, it was fine. 6/10

immediately seduced me. Off we went to bed and made love like...

Bonjour Tristesse (1954) Francoise Sagan I appear to have accidentally finished this without realising and continued reading 'A Certain Smile' thinking it was the same book (which it frankly could be). I didnt realise it was both books. Anyway, I guess I should review it. The story is of 17-year-old Cecile and her father, Raymond, who are essentially spoiled hedonists who are summering by the coast. She swims in the sea and they laugh together and adore one another. Raymond has regular girlfriends, often young and not much older than Cecile which Cecile entirely approves of and enjoys. She views them as mildly amusing distractions. He is currently seeing Elsa while at the same time Cecile is seeing a young man called Cyril. Then, one day, Anne arrives, an old friend of her mother and very quickly begins a relationship with Raymond. Elsa is dropped and Raymond and Anne announce that they're getting married. Cecille is not happy about this and, with the help of Elsa and Cyril, intends to sabotage the relationship. It was very easy to read and for the most part, I enjoyed it. The chapters breezed by (so much so that I started reading 'A Certain Smile' without even realising (my copy of the book only says 'Bonjour Tristesse). Anyway, it was a fun romp but nothing more. In truth, these characters are spoiled brats and immensely unlikeable (with the possible exception of Anne). If this book had been written by a man, the reviews would be an endless slew of screaming about privilege and so on. But it's written by a woman so we can skip that. Yes, Cecile is awful, spoiled, privileged, mercurial and ungrateful. Yes, she endlessly complains of being bored. But it was fun. I guess I should carry on reading 'A Certain Smile' now. 6/10

Bought 'War and War' by Krasznahorkai and 'Seven Years' by Peter Stamm.

I'm gonna try War and War next.

The Melancholy of Resistance (1989) László Krasznahorkai The story (as loose as it is) revolves around a small (always bleak) town where people traipse from street to street, from pub to cemetery, from house to square, etc. Then, one day, a circus arrives with an enormous dead whale as a unique spectacle. This seems to upset everyone, almost to an existential point and results in a riot that requires the presence of the military. The primary characters all know each other but seemingly have their own interpretations of what is happening. Eszter, his wife, Valuska, his mother. What follows is a decent into madness and death, a confused paranoia and fear which, in swirling, never ending sentences, creates an atmosphere of desolate claustrophobia and isolation. As always with Krasznahorkai, this book could be set on the streets of communist Hungary in the 1980s or, just as easily, could be set in a windswept wasteland of the future, some dystopian nightmare 300 years from now. Either would work. My experience of this book was much like that of my first Krasznahorkai book (Satantango) in the sense that I could see how accomplished the writing was, how bleak and apocalyptic the setting (which I adored), and how fascinating the man's insights are. But (equally) I just didn't ever enjoy the reading experience that much. There are times when it's great (the opening chapter really had me) but then there are times when the chapters (that last for a billion pages) and the walls of text (without a solitary paragraph break), become oppressive and exhausting. And while that might all be viewed as part of the experience (Krasznahorkai deals with oppressive landscapes after all), the bottom line is I, as a reader, occasionally need to breathe. That isn't to say I didnt enjoy the book because, for the most part, I did. It's more the case that I actively want to do more than simply like it, I want to adore the man's writing but... I just never quite do. Every page has something wonderful in it, a sentence, a phrase, a stream-of-consciousness moment that is lyrical and captivating. The final section describing the cold mechanical process of death is truly stark, blunt and mesmerising. And at every turn, you can sense how good the prose is, how wonderfully bleak his ideas are and yet... and yet... it never quite makes me feel any joy or excitement at the prospect of reading the next page. Having known what to expect with the walls of text this time, I paced myself a little more than I did when reading Satantango and found it less gruelling as a result; and while I suspect this book wasn't as good as Satantango, this approach did ultimately help. Hopefully this means I will enjoy the next one a little more too. 7/10

...pulled a lemon from the most unexpected orifice. I could hardly believe my eyes.

Still waiting for 'Annihilate' by Houellebecq.

A Heart So White (1992) Javier Marias Took me a while to get into this. The first few chapters were dense and heavy, bogged down in dry, often dull, writing, and I honestly struggled to engaged with any of it. It wasn't until the chapter where he meets his wife, Luisa, working, like him, as an interpreter for a Spanish and British politician that I began to feel the writing was becoming more fluid and interesting. What follows, once those initially stolid chapters are done, is a rather wonderful look at relationships and the secrets we keep within them. Juan explores all manner of experiences which are idiosyncratic of monogamous relationships and does all this whilst simultaneously investigating his own father's marital secrets. The book opens with a woman leaving the dinner table, going to the bathroom, and shooting herself in the heart. She is the wife of Juan's father. As the book continues with Juan detailing the intricacies of his own recent marriage, his experiences and beliefs, we also have this mystery of his father's (second as it turns out) marriage to solve running parallel. Why did she kill herself? What secret did she discover? It beautifully allows for Marias to follow this intriguing story but also to express his own views on relationships. I especially enjoyed when he (through the narrator, Juan) spoke about the differences between an abstract future and one which is fixed. When we're single, we have an abstract future where anything can still happen, where tomorrow is uncertain and thus our dreams and hopes can forever be maintained. But when we're in a relationship, this is taken away from us. 'Tomorrow, I will be with this person. I will wake up next to them. I will go to the pictures with them. I will walk down the street with them.' Yet, the 'what next' feeling always stays with us, we carry it with us. And it's this, among the many other facets of relationships, that gives insight into our fears of other (potential) lives we might have missed out on. In other words, an abstract future is always just a little more romantic. Suffice it to say, the book is an extraordinary piece and, despite those early chapters failing to grab my attention, develops into (and combines) superb writing with a fascinating subject matter. Excellent. 8/10

Started 'A Heart So White' by Javier Marias.

I am a human person. Here is my opinion. It is a good opinion. Error.

Nadja (1928) Andre Breton Not sure how to review this. It's a book which is less about story and more about ideas. But it does have a story of some fragile state, one which is broadly understood to be a man meeting a woman (Nadja) and developing a relationship with her before she succumbs to mental illness. There are themes regarding art and beauty and pictures throughout the book, their intention (I suppose) being to reiterate the grounded reality of such an ethereal narrative. Really, it's the writing that's fascinating. It's like being trapped in a dream where the words are light as a feather and have no tangible quality. It would be tempting to describe it as stream-of-consciousness but it goes beyond that (and certainly beyond my interpretation of that writing style). Here, the writing is at once academic and yet matter-of-fact, poetic but simple. Again, it's hard to describe what I mean but all I can say is that while I was reading it, I felt like I was slightly intoxicated, swirling around in the surrealist ideas of Breton, his gentle touch, but never wandering too far from reality itself (or a comforting version of it). It reminded me a little of Tropisms by Sarraute in the sense that you can't entirely pin it down. It's always vague and obscure but always very readable. I really can't clarify more effectively than that other than to say, I enjoyed it. Plus any book that starts with the words 'Who am I?' has to be worth reading if you ask me. 7/10

Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky 'witb.'