Han Kang‘s The Vegetarian focuses on Yeong-hye, who decides to become a vegetarian after a dream, although exactly why isn’t clear. Her story is told in three novellas, each from a different point of view, starting with her callous husband, then her obsessive brother-in-law, and finally her overworked, deeply troubled sister.
As the narrative progresses and Yeong-hye’s behavior becomes more puzzling, her reasoning doesn’t quite come into focus, but we gain a greater understanding of her motivation, even if she seems unable to articulate it herself. Each of the three narratives gradually deepens the disconnection, desperation, and sadness underlying the characters’ interactions.
I don’t want to reveal more about the meager plot, as I feel it would ruin the experience of reading it. But this is a remarkable book about the tensions between societal expectations and an individual’s sense of agency. It’s an unsettling dissection of the isolation and disconnection plaguing South Korean society, somewhat similar to the work of contemporary Japanese authors like Hiroko Oyamada and Sayaka Murata.
I feel that the less said about the plot of Sea of Tranquility the better. It’s best to go into this novel with no expectations and just let Emily St. John Mandel take you along for the ride. And it’s a great ride. You meet richly drawn characters that you care about, but you never quite know where this expansive, yet efficiently-told story is going. This is a literary science fiction novel that touches on big, existential questions: who you are, the choices you make in life, and the forces beyond your control. St. John Mandel, who also wrote Station Eleven and The Glass Hotel, has definitely become one of my favorite authors. Very highly recommended.
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, about a trio of young video game creators, is a very well-crafted novel. Gabrielle Zevin perfectly executes the kind of approach you learn from novel-writing workshops. Zevin moves the puzzle pieces around with skill and efficiency to achieve the desired beats and outcomes right on schedule. It reads quickly, although with random vocabulary words thrown in to show that it’s meant to be taken as a serious novel.
That’s not in itself a bad thing. There are plenty of excellent books written this way, but I’ve led with this impression because I found other aspects of this book lacking. I’m not a gamer, so I can’t speak to how realistic these characters are, but they came across as thinly drawn to me. They seemed to act in service of the plot rather than feeling like people who had their own agency. The reader is given identity markers for the characters (half Korean, Japanese, gay, etc.) and the traumas that define them (childhood car accident, illness, sexual abuse, etc). These are the kind of distinguishing characteristics that writer’s workshops encourage you to develop on worksheets. But in this case, these facts seemed arbitrary rather than an integral part of who any of the characters are, as if people can just slip on identities like clothing or, well, video game characters.
This is the second Gabrielle Zevin book I’ve read, after The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry. That was a bit thin with characterization, too, but it was quirky and interesting in a way this novel wasn’t. It also seemed to have a bit more soul to it. Here, there was some nodding toward greater themes–the creative process, how trauma shapes us, etc.–but none was explored in any depth. The characters just reacted and moved to the next stage, as if they were in a video game themselves, deciding their next moves without really thinking through why and how it might affect those around them. It’s possible this was the whole point of a story about video game creators, but there was nothing in the novel that suggested a deeper critique like this.
In the end, the novel comes across as a depiction of creative people in a specialized world, but it held little interest or insight for someone who wasn’t already interested in it before. It’s a quick enough read, though, and I can see why people who are into video games would love it.
The poems in Olena Kalytiak Davis‘s collection And Her Soul Out Of Nothing, which won the 1997 Brittingham Prize in Poetry, can be hard to pin down. They meander and circle around topics, poking at them from different directions. Mostly, the poems concern Davis’s interior life, questioning what makes the self, the soul, and how to exist in this world.
But everything here isn’t inward-looking. The imagery in this collection is fresh and vivid. And as heavy and serious as these topics are, Davis has wit, too. Here’s the opening of one of my favorites, Around the Edges of a Cold Cold Day: “Under the ice they’re dragging the river, / but I don’t mean for this to signify / some kind of casualty, some kind of loss.” Davis, living in Alaska, is actually thinking about a man whose body is thought to be under the ice, “his wife still sweeping / the river with the hook of her mind.”
There are many standouts in this collection, but amidst all the fragmented soul-searching, this sad, beautiful poem may be my favorite:
Postcard
Lately, I am capable only of small things.
Is it enough to feel the heart swimming?
Jim is fine. Our first garden is thick with spinach and white radish. Strangely, it is summer
but also winter and fall.
In response to your asking: I fill the hours then lick them shut.
Today, not a single word, but the birds quietly nodding as if someone had suggested moving on.
What is that perfect thing some one who once believed in god said?
Please don’t misunderstand: We still suffer, but we are happy.
I’ve only recently discovered this poet, but will definitely be reading more of her work in the future.
The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry may be the breeziest book I’ve ever read about dealing with tragedy and finding meaning in life. A.J. Fikry is a curmudgeon whose wife has died and whose bookstore, which they had opened together on the small New England island where she grew up, is struggling. Gabrielle Zevin details the chance occurrences and spontaneous decisions that enable Fikry to build a fulfilling new life and create a thriving bookstore at the center of the community.
This charming, whimsical book is a fun, quick read, as if John Irving had set out to write a contemporary Silas Marner. Zevin name-drops both of these in the course of this short novel, along with a slew of other literary references. It’s a smooth ride considering all the death and tragedy it depicts, and by then end, everything wraps up in a sad, somewhat sappy bow. The book isn’t marketed as a young adult book, but it’s very much written like one. Zevin is more focused on making a tribute to the importance of books and reading than on delving into the characters and situations she depicts. I enjoyed it, but would have preferred a little more nuance and depth given the characters and setup.
I blame Tammy Greenwood for many late nights. Her books are difficult to put down, and The Still Point is no exception. Written in short chapters that rotate among a group of young ballet dancers and their moms, it reads more like an action novel than you’d expect of a novel about the world of ballet. The book is almost Dickensian in its multi-stranded plot and larger-than-life characters, and I enjoyed it very much.
I should add two caveats. One is that I’ve taken novel-writing workshops with Greenwood and have found her guidance on plotting and character development extremely helpful in my own writing. Second, my children were competitive ice dancers (a sport built on ballet and ballroom as well as skating), and the characters in this novel, as over-the-top as they might seem to some readers, struck me as believable and realistic. Greenwood’s own daughter is a professional ballet dancer, and she captures the cult-like extremes to which some of the people in such competitive pursuits will go.
But what makes this book special is that, while Greenwood does show people behaving very badly, she doesn’t go for the easy satire or dark, scathing critique. She captures the beauty of ballet and the hard work, sacrifice, and dedication of those who truly love dance. Despite whatever hardships they are experiencing in their lives, teachers, students, and parents bond together and persevere to support the dancers and their dreams. That’s what’s special about endeavors like this, and what Greenwood beautifully depicts in the world of ballet. As she says in her introduction, The Still Point is first and foremost a love letter—to the joys and struggles of raising a dancer, to the other parents who’ve taken this journey with her, and to ballet itself.
From 1648 to 1658, some 100,000 Jewish people were killed in Poland during a Cossack rebellion. The Cossacks committed mass atrocities against civilians, with Jewish people among their primary targets. After this calamity, the idea began to take hold among the traumatized survivors that these events were a sign that they were on the cusp of the ultimate battle of Armageddon and the coming of the Messiah, who would lead the Jewish people back to Israel. Into this void stepped a Jewish mystic and rabbi named Sabbatai Zevi, who claimed to be the Messiah and declared that the year 1666 would be the fated year. But when he went to Constantinople in February 1666, he was imprisoned and given a choice: be impaled by a spear, be shot at with arrows (in which case if they missed, it would prove he was the Messiah), or convert to Islam. He chose the latter, gutting the religious movement and sending his followers into despair.
This is the background for Isaac Bashevis Singer‘s Satan in Goray, a dark, disturbing tale of messianic madness gripping a small town. It describes how in 1648, the Cossack’s “slaughtered on every hand, flayed men alive, murdered small children, violated women and afterward ripped open their bellies and sewed cats inside.” The survivors fled for nearby Lublin, where many were converted or sold into slavery. Goray, once known for its scholars and men of accomplishment, was deserted.
Years later, some destitute citizens return and begin to rebuild. Among them are the renowned Rabbi Benish Ashkenazi and Reb Eleazar Babad, formerly its richest member and leader, with his daughter Rechele. But the town can never return to what it was. As Singer writes, “Its best citizens had been slaughtered.” The novel details how traveling men first bring rumors to this struggling town of the coming Messiah, and then settle there to seed the growth of what would become a mass delusion that tears the town apart. Sabbatai’s followers take over the town and drive out the traditionalists. After Sabbatai’s conversion, their leaders decide that they must embrace evil in order to eventually ascend to Heaven. Poor Rechele soon becomes the center of the ensuing insanity.
Satan in Goray was Singer’s first novel, published in installments in a magazine in 1933. Its ideas about how people can so easily turn to false prophets and other charlatans for hope is still clearly relevant to our society. But the novel is never fully involving, as it is told at something of a remove. Singer may have seen this as a necessity, considering the horrific events he depicts. The novel is graphic and shocking, sort of like The Exorcist on steroids. The last section takes yet another step back, describing events with a religious writing style, as if it were a 17th century document. One character’s name, for example, is always accompanied by “may his remembrance be a blessing”.
Overall, though, this is a fascinating book. I find it sad that 90 years after it was written and more than 350 years after the events it depicts, people are still subject to believing the lies and promises of leaders who are clearly looking to take advantage of their desperation and hope.
Toska is a Russian word which, as Alina Pleskova writes in the title poem of this collection, has no equivalent in English. I don’t speak Russian, but read that it’s an unhappiness, a deep sadness or melancholy. It’s sort of akin to the Portuguese word “saudade,” a term for bittersweet nostalgia, something that might have been, which is somewhat well-known in English poetry. Toska is indeed a sad, melancholy collection. Pleskova, as a queer woman and Russian immigrant living in Philadelphia during these tumultuous times, is an outsider in many ways, and her searching lack of belonging pervades these poems.
I bought this collection after hearing Pleskova read the brilliant “Our People Don’t Believe in Tears.” That turned out to be my favorite of the collection. I thought “Take Care” and “Sacred Bath Bomb” were also standouts. I find poems to be more effective on paper, but you can read these through the previous links and, if you enjoy them, give the collection a try. The notes at the back, which explain the cultural references, are helpful in order to fully appreciate the poems.
I enjoyed this collection overall, but did find the consistent tone of despair grueling. I would recommend reading it alongside other things and maybe not taking it all in at once.
I recently saw David Bergman at the Baltimore CityLit festival, at a session about publishing later in life. He was in the audience, and one of the panelists unexpectedly asked him to read a poem. The one he chose, “The Man Who Was Not a Robot,” is a wonderful piece from his latest collection, Plain Sight, that prompted me to purchase the book.
This is Bergman’s third book of poetry, and his first in 25 years. He has Parkinson’s disease, and his poems are tempered and shaped by the specters of aging and disease. He is a great storyteller, writing with clarity, wit, and a very distinctive voice. Reading through these often conversational poems, even though I’d only met him once, I could almost hear him reading them.
Bergman tackles difficult topics head on with humor and grace. A series of “The Man Who…” poems forms the core of the collection, and many are outstanding, including the aforementioned poem, “The Man Who Could Not Smile,” and “The Man Who Knew Wonder.” Other standout poems include the heartbreaking “The Memory Sharer” and the beautiful closing poem, “Grace.”
Overall, this is a thought-provoking, welcoming collection. Highly recommended.
The Idiot begins with the young Prince Myshkin coming back to Russia after years of treatment for epilepsy in Switzerland. Poor and sickly, he is hoping to see the one distant relative that he knows of. He meets the gruff Rogozhin on the train to Saint Petersburg, who tells him of his love for the beautiful Nastasya Filippovna. The book’s core is Myshkin’s involvement with this couple, with several subplots and countless characters moving in and out of the story.
There’s an interesting concept here, as Dostoevsky, after Crime and Punishment, decided to write a character quite the opposite of Raskolnikov. Myshkin is an innocent man in a corrupt world, almost a Christ-like character. But Dostoevsky doesn’t really do much with this idea. Myshkin wins many people over with his frank honesty, although it’s unclear whether most of them pity him or really admire him. In the end, his followers get him nothing as he gets tangled up in a tragic mess of crisscrossing love interests that eventually lead to his downfall.
The book seems intended to be a critique of late nineteenth century Russian society, although to this modern reader it lacks bite or humor. I also found the characters to be fairly generic, created to express different points of view rather than being fully fleshed out characters.
As translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, the prose and dialogue do read easily, but the book still felt like a very long slog. There are several very lengthy scenes with pages upon pages of exposition. There is lots of talk about morality, the Russian character, and philosophies of Christianity, but to me it seemed to be little more than nationalist and religious ranting. Much is made of a painting, The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb by Hans Holbein the Younger. Dostoevsky and his character see this work as confronting and negating Christian faith, but I think Dostoevsky missed the point of this sixteenth century German painting, which was to drive home the suffering that Christ endured, not to imply that Christ wasn’t divine. This misguided, forced argument, to me, represents what is wrong with the novel, as Dostoevsky seems to force actions and opinions on his characters to prove points he wants to make. One way to read this is that he believed their society was hopeless and wouldn’t recognize a Christ-like figure if it encountered it. But in the end, it just doesn’t amount to much more than a yarn.
Making the book even more difficult to read is that there are more than 25 characters to keep track of, each with multiple names. As the translators explain, Russian names are composed of first name, patronymic (from the father’s first name), and family name. Then there are two forms of diminutives used among family and friends–the familiar and the casual or disrespectful. The translators use these as I assume Dostoevsky did, but to this Western reader, keeping track of dozens of unfamiliar names for characters with little to no distinguishing features was extremely difficult.
I did want to love this book. Crime and Punishment was one of my favorite books in high school, and other books with similar approaches are among my favorites, like Don Quixote, The Pickwick Papers, and Being There. But I found this one kind of a mess. Despite an intriguing concept, it just wasn’t worth the time spent on it.
