Maus: A Survivor’s Tale

 Art Spiegelman, 1991 (May 2014)

 I avoided reading this book for a long time because I thought I’d heard enough stories about surviving the Holocaust. And the idea of reducing it to a story of cats and mice did not seem appealing. Probably I would not have read it had Spiegelman not been the subject of a feature show at the Vancouver Art Gallery where I was intrigued enough to pick up the book. Nevertheless, I found the story compelling at several levels.

  As a personal tale of survival, the story that Art Spiegelman’s father, Vladek, tells his son is extraordinary – the schemes to get through the early years of Nazi-occupied Poland, the trade-offs in the concentration camp and extermination camp, the forced march and train transport, the German death camp, these are hard enough to imagine, but Vladek’s ingenuity in finding ways to gain enough advantage to survive shows his forceful and resourceful personality. The fact that his wife, Anja (whom he portrays as more feeble), survives as well, while all of their family are killed, is even more extraordinary. Discovering the details of how an individual survives under such extreme circumstances is an interesting story in itself.

  On another level is the psychological impact of the story on the survivors. We know that Vladek’s strong personality is key to his survival (although we know little about how Anja survives). It’s not surprising that this takes a warped form when his son Art knows him as a demanding, bullying tyrant who scrimps and hoards even after building a secure and comfortable life in the USA. Anja commits suicide when Art is in his 20s, and Vladek seems to have an intolerable relationship with his new wife, Mala. (He seems paranoid and misreads Mala’s motives as venal, which leads one to wonder about his characterization of Anja, too.) Of course, Art finds him impossible to live with, or even visit, but he is drawn to his father out of a sense of loyalty or guilt, and wants to understand Vladek’s story. He presents the story and his reaction to it in an unadorned way as if he understands little beyond the surface, with little comment beyond his own editing of the story and his frustration in trying to capture it.

  While initially I felt that the drawing style was simple and crude, the imagery does add a great deal to the story line, making it both concrete and abstract at the same time. The horrors are expressed economically, showing the details without extensive description, but they still require an act of imagination on the part of the reader to make them meaningful. The animal characters are highly arbitrary and sometimes troubling (Poles as pigs? French as frogs?). If they make it easier for some readers to approach the topic, then perhaps that is sufficient justification, but it’s hard to avoid stereotypical characterizations and a fairy-tale-like story.

  And while this is an attempt to record a specific historical event, the animal story seems to take it out of any historical context. Certainly there is no attempt to describe the social and political context of Europe in the 1930s and 40s, and this is just a story of one person’s experience and how it marked him. I suppose other books have to describe the context, but in a sense this just becomes a bogey-man story of good animals and bad ones when the story is decontextualized in this way.

  This is a worthy and compelling story, but it raises questions about historical story-telling which may be as valuable as the story itself.

The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö (trans: Joan Tate), 1966 (May 2014)

  Combining the everyday drudgery of police detective work with the daily life of a police detective who has a hard time making the two fit together was, according to the notes, a departure for the genre in the 1960s. Certainly this novel, interesting if low key, is far from the English parlour detectives or the hardboiled American ones. By comparison with the flawed detectives of modern fiction, this is a slow, even plodding, story, although filled with detail that seems typical for the times. The procedural and psychological detail gives the story interest, in spite of its lack of action. Instead of a gruelling cross-examination, for example, the detectives sit in the suspect’s room for half an hour saying nothing, as the suspect grows increasingly nervous and finally accepts that he has to explain what he did. Since most criminals are not masterminds, I think that is a more likely outcome in the circumstances than the notion of a criminal toying with the detectives, leaving clues or holding out until the lawyer comes to save him.

  I thought the homey details were interesting – ironically, except for the place names, the Stockholm scenes could have been taking place in London or its suburbs. However, the picture of Budapest, an urbane tourist destination even under the Stalinist regime of the 1960s, with an efficient and helpful police department, was slightly surprising (possibly because of the authors’ Marxist interests). They make Budapest seem more attractive than Stockholm, which perhaps it is.

  Another reflection of the authors’ Marxist thinking lies in the crime and the perpetrators. There are no clever criminals here, just an unlikeable victim who got pretty much what he deserves, and a bunch of ordinary, competent people who get caught up in some unplanned violence. This is what the vast majority of crime involves. The attention that crime writers give to masterminds and elites reflects their own job as entertainers, and I do find it absurd and a little tiresome when improbable criminals are the main focus of crime writing. Interestingly, a theme in some modern crime fiction is not so much the elites committing crimes against each other, but the crimes perpetrated through pharmaceutical or industrial companies to generate wealth for the elites. Such stories, however, reflect a contemporary sentiment of mistrust against corporate elites rather than a mistrust of the corporate system. Sjöwall and Wahlöö seem to be more interested in exploring the circumstances of realistic crime and how decent, self-respecting police officers respond to it.

 It will be interesting to see what themes they develop in their other novels.

1Q84

Haruki Murakami, 2011 (May 2014)

  It seems that people have strongly divided opinions on this book, and I am among those who liked it. But I can see why some criticize it.

  It’s long and allusive and there is not much action –although it has suspense and a lot happening on a level below the surface of the storyline. To enjoy the book, or to get much from it at all, a reader has to surrender to it and enter into the world Murakami has created. It is a world where strange and magical things happen, some creepy, some very discomforting. But underlying the story line is a simple romance, the story of Tengo and Aomame, connected in some inexplicable way, who overcome personal challenges and physical threats to come together – reminding me at times of The Magic Flute or Dr. Zhivago. At this level, the story is a touching one as we learn about the strange turns in their lives (and the mundane details) and the slow path by which they finally come together. The sweet scene in which they re-unite is touchingly simple. It would not feel so satisfying if we readers had not gone through so much waiting and expectation.

 Of course, there’s much more than this and most of it is very mysterious, so for a reader who likes to know what’s going on (and often I am), this could be frustrating. Just what this parallel world is, why the bill collector keeps knocking so insistently at people’s doors, whether some of the characters are even real – for me as a reader, these are puzzles that keep me interested while the plot makes its slow progress. That they are mostly unresolved in the end is somehow okay, because in surrendering to the book, I know that the world is just different here.

  I think this is one of the themes of the book: how the writer creates a new world for the reader, which can come to exist in the reader’s mind for a while and allow the reader to experience something that would not be possible in the mundane world. Writerly preoccupations often come up in the story, as Tengo is an aspiring novelist who proceeds to create the world in which the story takes place (twice), a sort of Moebius strip plotline. And this is what authors do, they create a world that is more or less like the reader’s world and allow the reader to live in it for a while, accepting the realistic or illogical details as part of the story. When Murakami describes the concrete details of his characters’ lives, he makes his imagined world more real, and gives the reader a way to relate to the sometimes strange events that his story describes. And perhaps this has something to do with his frequent references to other books and authors who create rules for writers (such as Chekhov’s rule that if you introduce a gun in Act 1, you have to fire it by the end of the play, a rule that Murakami shows is not necessarily true in this world, and perhaps in others) or long meditations on life (such as Proust’s Remembrance of Times Past). And his frequent humorous notes, including the reminder that, in a story so focussed on the moon, it’s only a paper moon. 

 Also, I love the creative book design with its mirrors, shifts adn layers, imaginative, playful and entirely appropriate to the text.  

The Night Manager

John Le Carré, 1994 (December 2014)

  Complex, tense and, as is usual for Le Carré, futile, this book explores the internal life of a man drawn into the most dangerous of roles, a secret agent operating a criminal gang, and the personal conflicts that allow him to be drawn into this work. The psychological profile is Le Carré’s stock in trade, and he applies it adeptly in a new setting, making the story less of a typical spy novel and more a study of character and circumstance. It would be a misnomer to call the book a spy novel (as the term is commonly used in marketing), but in fact Le Carré’s preoccupation with this theme is probably truer to the actuality of spying than the action adventures that usually go under that name. But this has always been Le Carré’s theme, and he excels at it.

  The troubled characterization of the agent Jonathon Pine seems convincing enough, although internal verbalizing about his desire for the boss’s wife seems a bit overstated. Perhaps it is standing in for the passion that drives Pine – the reason he accepts such a role in the first place is his fury over the murder of another woman linked to the gang and his own propensity for uncontrolled rage. (But this is another recurring theme for Le Carré – men driven by an unattainable passion for a woman. Also as usual for Le Carré, the women’s roles are thinly sketched, primarily being just an object of interest for the male protagonists.) Pine’s passions underlay his military past, and carry him through the mistakes and betrayals to his heroic if unsuccessful achievements.

  Interesting here is how the betrayals that, in other Le Carré books come from conflicting national interests and organizations, here come from corruption, careerism and conflict within the British secret services. And equally bad is the way that the protectors of international law profess to be against crime, but turn away when commercial interests are at stake. In this scathing characterization, the internal conflicts lead to the destruction of good operators who try to protect honor and truth, and to the torture and near death of the agent Pine. It is one of the few (somewhat) happy endings in Le Carré’s books that sees Pine’s handler make a trade with an utterly venal and despicable criminal for Pine’s life. It’s interesting to see how the bureaucrats manoeuvre to gain and lose control, and how a principled operator tries to rescue his operation. This seems much more realistic than the spectacular technology and personal heroics of the trashy spy novels.

  Like Le Carré’s other novels, his tone is that of a distanced observer, even when describing the internal workings of his character’s mind. This again distinguishes it from the more conventional spy novels, where the point is the visceral excitement of the action. That isn’t the point with Le Carré, although he does build suspense and tension as his plot develops. But for a thoughtful examination of ambiguous morality, deceit and corruption in and between governments, Le Carré succeeds in illuminating what is really going on.

Sea of Poppies

Amitav Ghosh. 2008 (November 2013) 

  This book is a fascinating story of a diverse group of people, mainly from the Calcutta region, linked in the opium trade of the early 1800s and brought together on a schooner taking them all to Mauritius. Of particular interest for me was the depictions of the lives of each of them and their associates under British rule. The various characters receive a sensitive portrait, including a high-caste peasant woman who depends on the crop of poppies she grows; an Indian aristocrat who loses his lands to the British and ends up in a British jail; a river boatman and the French woman he grew up with; a religious devotee who wants to become, and thinks he is becoming, the female god he adores; and an American seaman of mixed African and American heritage. Ghosh portrays each member of this diversity of class and culture with such care and detail that each has a unique setting and character, and all have depth and solidity. Even the minor characters, such as the British traders who show up from time to time are given detailed portraits, if less sympathetic ones. The fortunes of some rise, while the fortunes of others (the majority it seems) plunge.

  Also fascinating are the evocative images he paints – the opening descriptions of the poppy fields, or the opium factory, or the shipboard life, are clear pictures in my mind and remain with me after reading. The extraordinary incidents of setting the sail on the jib masts, or the monsoon tidal bore that sweeps up the Hooghly River, stand out like the stories that Jack London told of life at sea.

  Ghosh’s language is playful and gives another level of appreciation. He picks up words from a variety of local languages, as well as maritime slang, and if the meaning is not always obvious, the sense of it is. This gives a bit of a sense of the complex ethnic inter-relations in the region and the apparent ability of local residents to communicate effectively, if not perfectly, over language barriers. Puzzling, though, is what looks like a glossary at the back of the book, apparently compiled by one of the characters, in a highly idiosyncratic style with meanings that sometimes seem to be entirely made up. But then, that is the nature of explanatory texts – they reflect the writer’s bias and sometimes mislead. Perhaps, given the history of the region, that’s why it’s such a central preoccupation in the writing.

  More than character or exotic colour, what gives the book depth is the sociological observation – the relations between castes, between the imperial powers and their various underclasses, between genders, between religions. It’s a fascinating tapestry of different themes that gives me a much richer picture of southeast Asian lives than the simple types I had before reading the book. And, I like the way that Ghosh has some characters articulate imperialist rationalizing, although he is completely convincing in the language and attitudes expressed. His characters are not stereotypes in a set game, but complex individuals who hold certain beliefs that were, I believe, well established in their time (and it’s not hard to find reflections of them today).

  The ending is abrupt, but simply sets up the next volume in the trilogy. I look forward to reading the next books to follow the stories that are introduced in this book.

The Invention of Paris: A History in Footsteps

Eric Hazan. 2010 (November 2013) 

  This book is not for everyone, but for those interested in revolutionary history or the way that social forces shape, and are shaped by, urban geography, this is wonderful. Hazan’s rich and detailed knowledge of the history of Paris gives the reader a deep understanding of how a city develops, how each neighbourhood keeps (or doesn’t keep) its unique character and social context. Hazan describes, for example, the impact of diverse factors such as street lighting, the royal promenade, the need for railways to find a level access to the city (I always wondered why the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l'Est were so close), and sales tax policy.

  The book is in three main parts that are not linked to each other except by reference to the same regions. It seems to be a collection of essays by Hazan on different themes relating to Paris. The longest section describes each arrondissment, and the next situates the nineteenth century revolutions in specific parts of Paris. The third reflects on the literary and visual heritage of the city. Each has a different appeal, although I found the first two of greatest interest.

  Especially rich is Hazan’s frequent quotation of the descriptions by social and literary figures of the melieu in which they lived and worked. They add imagery and a sense of the atmosphere (very dark and dirty in most of the city until the twentieth century) that will certainly colour my own appreciation of Paris when I next visit or read about the city.

  This isn’t a tourist guide, although it provides a street-by-street view of many neighbourhoods that would illuminate many walks through the city. Reading it, I found many sections were much easier to follow with Google maps handy, so I could search for the street references. Even better, I could go into Street View, and look at the intersections or lanes that he describes.

  Hazan writes from the perspective of a social revolutionary, so his acidic comments on the bourgeoisie of the nineteenth century or the governments of the most recent decades are strong and entertaining. (He refuses to call the Centre Pompidou by its name, preferring to call it the Centre Beaubourg after the neighbourhood that was flattened to build it.) If you are sympathetic to his point of view, this will add an entertaining quirkiness to his text – otherwise, it will likely come across as opinionated and irritating. Tant pis, as the French say. I spent many pleasurable evenings reading through the book and thinking about the city.

Murder in the Marais

Cara Black. 1998. (October 2013)

Sadly disappointing. I had heard that this was an atmospheric detective novel set in one of my (everyone’s?) favourite cities, and had hopes for it. But it’s an action genre novel with characters of little depth who exist primarily to push the plot from one improbable point to another. It’s set in the Marais, and refers to many sites and buildings that are fond recollections, but they are used as little more than flat background. They don’t add atmosphere, just setting. The neo-Nazi plot could have been intriguing, but again it’s just a plot device in which some bad guys play, and is no more illuminating than the crime scenes in a gangster novel. There’s no emotional involvement in the characters because they are too limited, and even the attempts to give them a back-story don’t go anywhere. The final confrontation is so absurd, with literally a Deus ex machina resolution, that I had to wonder if the author was having a sly chuckle with us about the conventions of the made-for-tv novel. But I think not – it’s more like the hopeful scenario for a series that the author wants to sell to a movie or television production company. Perhaps I was expecting too much – this isn’t Victor Hugo, although it is set in his city (and home) – but I’m not drawn to try her other novels.