Christopher's Top Ten of 2024!

Famously, a year has 525,600 minutes, but you hardly ever count them up as you go. Reading a lot, and keeping track of what you read, has a way of bringing time into measurement in a way that's sobering. I read 115 books this year. If I wanted to, I could count out the number of books I might have left to read, if I'm able to keep up this particular clip, and if I am blessed to live an average life. I don't think I want to do that just now. But as large the number 115 might seem--and it is a lot, more than I've ever been able to read in a year before--it seems to me quite a paltry measurement to capture a whole year of life. Perhaps this is just another way that reading good literature forces one to confront the limitations that life imposes.

Maybe I'm in a morbid mood this New Year's season, or maybe just a contemplative one. Let me be more celebratory. I read some really wonderful books this year, and as always, going back over them for this list allowed me to appreciate them anew. Few people read these reviews, I know, but they do so much for me, both in the writing and in the revisiting, when I get to, in some sense, read them a second time. (I always think that you can't really judge a book's greatness immediately after finishing it; the really great ones have a way of living on in memory.) 

This year, I read 58 books by women and 57 books by men. I read books from twelve new countries: Malaysia, Bangladesh, Lebanon, Guyana, Egypt, Bulgaria, Palestine, the United Arab Emirates, Afghanistan, Cote d'Ivoire, and Greenland. I got to visit with some old favorites, like Vollmann and Munro, Greene and Green, Joy Williams and Patrick White. I reread a few books that are dear to me, by Spark, Welty, and Cather. You know what they say, some books are silver and some are gold, etc., etc. Here's what I really loved this year.

Honorable Mentions:

Cuyahoga by Pete Beatty
Falling Man by Don DeLillo
Galactic Pot-Healer by Philip K. Dick
Lesser Ruins by Mark Haber
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson
S. S. Proleterka by Fleur Jaeggy
The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann
Rabbit Boss by Thomas Sanchez
Minor Detail by Adani Shibli
Winter Wheat by Mildred Walker
The Heartsong of Charging Elk by James Welch

Top Ten:

10. Blu's Hanging by Lois-Ann Yamanaka - Yamanaka's Moloka'i is a side of Hawaii not seen by tourists: a run-down jungle of rusting scrap and stray cats, where children live on the knife-edge of poverty, hunger, and exploitation. The story promises cloying heartwarmishness--young Ivah is forced to act as a mother for her little brother, Blu, after the death of her mother--but sex and death here are real, and the childish fantasies of young Blu, who nearly hangs himself imitating what he's seen in TV westerns, are just as dangerous. I was really moved by the way, with a late reveal, Yamanaka links the hardship and resilience of Blu's family to the island's longtime use as a colony to isolate those who suffer from leprosy. When I went to Hawaii in July, I often felt that it was hard to see the real place behind the false images for sale in the gift shops. But you can see that Blu's Hanging captures the real Hawaii, because only a real place could be so full of life.

9. Divorcing by Susan Taubes - Ever read a novel narrated by a dead woman? A few pages into Divorcing, the narrator, Sophie Blind, is hit by a car, and she narrates the rest of the novel inside her coffin. It's the kind of authorial move that makes you sit up and pay attention. And you do need to pay attention, because Taubes is taking you on a kind of modernist amusement park ride, through various loops and falls. What's more, you have to do the whole thing backwards: Memento-like, Divorcing moves backward in time through Sophie's divorce and marriage back to the psychotherapeutic sessions of her childhood with her therapist father. By the time you realize the book is mimicking the shape of psychotherapy by plumbing the deaths of Sophie's past, regressing to the infant state, you've forgotten it's already too late for her life to change--she's already dead.

8. The Dog of the South by Charles Portis - It's as great as they say. More importantly, it's as funny as they say. The Dog of the South is a road novel with no destination, a shaggy dog novel that's all shag and no dog. On the surface, it's about Ray's journey through Mexico to Belize to find his wife, who's run off with the no-good Dupree, as well as his car and his credit cards. But The Dog of the South is really about what happens between the stops: the clowns, the broken-down bus, the Belizean child grifters, the self-help pamphlets. The Dog of the South never gets to the point, it's all distraction and digression, but maybe that's what life is, anyway: one long, entertaining digression on the way to the same place everyone else is going.

7. Solenoid by Mircea Cartarescu - Of all the books I read this year, the image that will probably stick with me the most is the narrator of Solenoid becoming a Jesus figure to the world of the mites: communicating through stomach waves and spells, crucified in a way that only a mite could be crucified, trying to reproduce Christ's message of love and redemption in a world that is utter alien to us. It's a freshened version of an old thought, that we can analogize God's difference from us by contemplating our own difference from that of the world's lowliest creatures. But never before has the thought experiment felt so poignant as it does here, and somehow this strange digression becomes part of a larger whole with the rest of Solenoid's batshit images: the giant robot that stomps people, the boat-shaped house where you sleep while floating in the air, the man who takes a hammer to his own teeth. Solenoid is a phantasmagoria of a size and scope I've never encountered before, and yet its ultimate vision of mankind railing fruitlessly against the strictures of existence is filed down, like a point, into the simplest phrase: Help! Help! Help!

6. In the Eye of the Wild by Natassja Martin - In 2015, Natassja Martin was attacked by a bear in Russia's Kamchatka Peninsula, losing a piece of her jaw and much of her face. To the Indigenous people she studies, this makes her a medka--a kind of bear in human form. In the Eye of the Wild suggests that this is not merely a piece of local superstition, but that Martin left with the piece of the bear in her just as the bear quite literally walked away with a hunk of her jaw. In the Eye of the Wild is non-fiction, memoir, but these words pale against the experience, and there is the suggestion that their methods cannot encompass what has happened, nor can the kind of anthropological writing that is Martin's professional arena. What Martin writes is much more like poetry, in the oldest sense of the word, something primal and pre-literary. Such an encounter demands new language, even as it eludes language perforce. This is a book that understands when barriers are broken down--between animal and man, between fact and myth--blood comes out.

5. Whores for Gloria by William T. Vollmann - This book made me think about the purpose San Francisco serves in our national conversation about drugs, homelessness, and crime. You always hear people with nefarious agendas talking about San Francisco as a city ruined by liberal policies, but the focus of these harangues--the Tenderloin District--has always been a containment zone for those sifted out of respectable society. Whores for Gloria comes out of the experience Vollmann had "embedded" with the prostitutes of the Tenderloin in the 80's, and it's a moving portrait of a place where passions, even love, have not yet been killed. The protagonist, Jimmy, is a torched-out Vietnam vet who channels all of his ardor for the various prostitutes, both cis and trans, into an imaginary love named Gloria. He borrows their personalities, their stories, and even their hair, fashioning it into an ideal that can not disappoint or fail; the way Gloria becomes an avatar for all the dream-loves we'll never acquire--because they are dreams--is among the most moving things in all of Vollmann's fiction.

4. The Largesse of the Sea Maiden by Denis Johnson - The five stories in The Largesse of the Sea Maiden seem to speak from beyond the grave. At times, I felt sure that Johnson, when writing them, knew that he would not live to see them published; in the nested stories of dying men in "Triumph Over the Grave" (such a bitter title) there is a sense that we are venturing into the writer's own death-consciousness, which is underlined with a final line that stopped me cold and made tears come to my eyes. There are other, showier stories here, like "Doppelganger, Poltergeist," which manages to be both and Elvis story and a 9/11 story, but "Triumph" is the one that I've carried with me. I'll carry with me, too, the wildly optimistic sentiment of the title story, which ends with the narrator leaving his house to hunt down the magic of a fairytale. That, too, was Johnson's bread and butter--the misery, but also the magic.

3. White by Marie Darrieussecq - OK, here are the top three, any of which I think might justifiably take the top spot. Ever year has its discoveries, and I hope that Darrieussecq will be this year's--though I think you can't really say until you read at least a second book by any particular author. I loved the strangeness of White, a strangeness that begins with the concept--a pair of loners fall in love at a remote Antarctic science station--and reaches down to the sentences themselves, the very words. I have a thing for the Arctic/Antarctic, and Darrieussecq is one of the few who captures something fundamental about the blankness, whiteness, of these landscapes, that quality that makes them both frightening and alluring. Did I mention it's a science fiction book, set at the same moment as man's first arrival on Mars? Did I mention it's narrated by ghosts? Being so balls-to-the-wall ambitious is a virtue on its own, but here it works, because it all adds up to a book that is about wrenching meaning from mystery--and from abject failure. No joke, I can't wait for next year because I can't to see if Darrieussecq's other books live up to this one.

2. The Sea Wall by Marguerite Duras - Duras was my "discovery" of a couple years ago. I loved The Lover, and then I was underwhelmed by L'Amante Anglaise. I can't even really explain why The Sea Wall hit me so squarely. Maybe it's because it's something I didn't really expect a Duras book to be: it's funny. It follows a French colonial family whose poor luck and poor planning--the failure of the titular sea wall, which inundates the meager crops--lowers them to the level of the indignities suffered on a daily basis by the (much more resilient) Vietnamese locals. Duras wrings great humor and great drama out of this, a French colonial who thinks they ought to deserve better, and whose catastrophism infects their entirely family: the cynical, feral son; the beautiful, teasing, farmer's daughter-type daughter. There's nothing better than a comic novel that is just the right amount of mean-spirited. And this on eof the best I've ever read.

1. Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon - I think this is the first time ever my #1 book of the year has not been a book of fiction. William Least Heat-Moon's travelogue, Blue Highways, scratched a very specific itch I'd been having for a long time. For a long time, I had yearned for a travelogue written with a fiction writer's spirit, by someone who understands something of the magic of the traveling, a magic that is not merely the accumulation of abiding knowledge or the happenstance of the random moment, but which lies somewhere between, at the intersection of these. Perhaps it affected me strongly in part because the kind of journey Heat-Moon took in 1978 is no longer sensible, if perhaps not even possible: sticking to the "blue roads" on the map, avoiding highways in exchange for discovering the tiny, unseen places where visitors don't go. Can you even do such a thing, in the age of Google Maps? Or perhaps it's that Heat-Moon knows that traveling is not just about a line on the map, or a landscape, but about people: few writers, fictional or non-fictional, are so adept at capturing the small details that bring a person to life. I loved seeing the American landscape anew through Heat-Moon's eyes. And I will forever live with this image: Heat-Moon, coming upon a reservoir that has covered the grave of a long-ago relative, bending down to drink: "In my splashing, I broke the starlight. And then I too drank from the grave."

Happy new year, everybody. Time to turn the page.

The Real Life of Sebastian Knight by Vladimir Nabokov

I have endeavoured to form a coherent picture of what I saw of my half-brother in those childhood days of mine, between say 1910 (my first year of consciousness) and 1919 (the year he left for England). But the task eludes me. Sebastian's image does not appear as part of my boyhood, thus subject to endless selection and development, nor does it appear as a succession of familiar visions, but it comes to me in a few bright patches, as if he were not a constant member of our family, but some erratic visitor passing across a lighted room and then for a long interval fading into the night.

Sebastian Knight, the critically acclaimed but aloof writer, has died. His brother, the narrator of The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, dreams of writing a biography of Sebastian, one that will counterbalance a recently published hatchet job by his former agent full of falsehoods and misinterpretations. The problem is that the two brothers have never been close; they are only half-brothers, sharing the same father--killed in a duel defending his first wife, Sebastian's mother, while married to the second--and as they grew up they rarely saw each other. The narrator becomes especially fixated on recovering a blank period of Sebastian's life while he was at a Swiss sanitarium, where he seems to have met a mysterious woman whose identity the narrator struggles to reveal.

Sebastian Knight is awfully straightforward for a Nabokov novel. Seeing that Sebastian's spurned lover is named Clare Bishop, I considered for a second the possibility that we're supposed to read the whole novel as a kind of allegory for a game of chess: pawn to queen four, and all that. But I think, in the end, it's only a little joke, the kind of situational rhyming that Nabokov loved so much. Rather, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight struck me as a surprisingly realistic attempt at dealing with the modernist themes of writing and fashioning that made up so much of Nabokov's career. That is to say that the problem that confronts the narrator, V.--whether a true life can be cobbled together out of written words, or if writing itself is actually primarily and by its nature made up of gaps, misprisions--is one that confronted Nabokov, too, but it seems to confront him here less than it does his narrator.

It must be observed that this was Nabokov's first book written originally in English. The confidence of his style is already here, fully formed; that he could become one of the 20th century's leading stylists in two different languages is a marvel so fully explored it hardly seems worth mentioning. But it interested me that Nabokov made his writer-protagonist a native Russian who becomes an English language writer. Sebastian's novels sound like Nabokov's novels, though I think there are moments where Nabokov cheekily has V. (Vladimir?) outshine the passages quoted from Sebastian. Sebastian's letters were burned after his death (shades here of Nabokov's own unheeded demand that his unfinished novel be burned), so V. must turn to the novels for an indication of Sebastian's experiences and feelings. He claims that Sebastian had an uncanny ability to write his own feelings into his characters, even critically: "The light of personal truth is hard to perceive in the shimmer of an imaginary nature, but what is still harder to understand is the amazing fact that a man writing of things which he really felt at the time of writing, could have had the power to create simultaneously--and out of the very things which distressed his mind--a fictitious and faintly absurd character." Is this Nabokov writing about Nabokov writing about Nabokov?

V. eventually identifies a woman named Helene as Sebastian's likely lover. Calling on her, he finds her out, but her friend, Nina Lecerf, promises to arrange an audience between them, and in the meantime spills all she knows about the stormy relationship between Sebastian and Helene. It's only later, in the wake of his own confused attraction to Nina, that V. realizes that Nina really is Helene; everything she has been divulging has been from behind the safer veil of another identity. It's possible, the ending of the book suggests, that V. really "is" Sebastian in the same way that Nina really is Helene. Although The Real Life of Sebastian Knight isn't the most accomplished of Nabokov's books, Nina is one of the small characters and moments I'll remember, like the kindly German private eye who refuses payment, or the moment when, having rushed to his brother's sickbed, he accidentally spends the night outside the wrong man's room, Sebastian having died the day before. Perhaps he is Sebastian, too, this man, Nabokov suggests: "any soul may be yours," V. writes, "if you find it and follow its undulations."

Booth by Karen Joy Fowler

They talk about their futures. John says that he wants to do something important, something with weight and consequence, something that will leave a mark. Asia can have no such hopes, but she is excited to think that someone might read the book about father. In her own small way, she wishes to add esteem to the Booth name. John is not so interest in that. "No," he says, "I want to be known for something more than simply being father's son."

You know, when you think about it, the fact that John Wilkes Booth killed Abraham Lincoln is pretty crazy. It's like if Luke Hemsworth, or maybe Stephen Baldwin, killed Joe Biden: the lesser-known scion of a great acting family. Credit where credit is due, Booth's actions did the unthinkable, in that they were so momentous that they entirely eclipsed one of the most famous family names in all of America. Although many might be able to tell you that Booth was an actor, few might be able to remember that his father, Junius Booth, was one of the most famous actors of his generation, and that his brother Edwin, following in Junius' footsteps, is considered one of the country's greatest stage actors of all time. John Wilkes Booth was an actor, but not, we're told, anything like his brother. Yet it's John we all remember.

Karen Joy Fowler's book Booth starts from a simple observation: though the assassination of Abraham Lincoln has hidden the Booth family from the sight of history, they were all pretty interesting in their own right. Booth tells the story of the Booth family from its early days until just after the assassination; John, though lurking darkly throughout the book, can't be said to be the novel's center. I had never heard the story that dominates the early part of the novel, about how Junius Booth turned out to be a bigamist, living in America with what turned out to be his second family, while a wife and son still wait for him in England. Fowler's version of Junius Booth is a true actor, a drunk and a rapscallion whose antics put his family constantly on edge. Edwin inherits all his talent, but it seems to be John that inherits his instability, his megalomania, and his flair for the dramatic. The story of the bigamy--which ends with the legitimate British son wresting much of Junius' property away from Edwin, John, and their siblings--also calls into question what gets passed down, and to whom. Edwin, John, and their actor brother June all want to step into their father's shoes, though they are each in their own way to imitate him.

There are a pair of sisters, too, the beautiful and ambitious Asia, and Rosalie, whose sickly and malformed physical nature keep her more or less at home. Asia seems like the most normal of the siblings, seeking middle-class stability while her brothers live the peripatetic and inconsistent lives of actors. But the times in which the Booths lived are not normal times, and the steady march toward the Civil War is always present. Interestingly, Fowler makes much of the fact that the Booths were a Maryland family, right on the border of the conflict, and so it makes sense somehow that while the more respectable siblings are supporters of the Union cause, the unstable John becomes an ardent defender of the confederacy.

Booth has that flaw that most historical fiction has, a dedication to the truth. The story of the Booth family is complicated and strange, and I enjoyed reading about it, but I couldn't always shake the feeling that I was reading thinly-disguised non-fiction, which might have served the material better. Yet, I also would say that, despite a kind of book clubbish present tense that got on my nerves, Fowler is better at pulling out the threads of history than many who do similar things, and effectively manages to write those threads into a convincing "arc" for each of the Booth siblings. Mostly, the impression I was left with was foreboding. In this John Wilkes Booth--his cynicism, his machismo, his delusion, his yearning for a greatness that we see outpaces both his skill and his understanding--I see a familiar avatar for our own political landscape. I think there are many out there who would like to take history into their own hands, and like Booth, some of them may just succeed.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre by William Shakespeare

PERICLES:

O Helicanus, strike me, honour'd sir;
Give me a gash, put me to present pain;
Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me
O'erbear the shores of my mortality,
And drown me with their sweetness. O, come hither,
Thou that beget'st him that did thee beget;
Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus,
And found at sea again! O Helicanus,
Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud
As thunder threatens us: this is Marina.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre is in that grab-bag of lesser Shakespeare plays, rarely performed, rarely read, except among the real Bard-heads. It's easy to see why: it's largely unsatisfying, an unfocused series of episodic melodramas that never quite seems to add up to a real play. It was one of the firt of Shakespeare's plays to be considered a collaboration (in this case, with John Fletcher), and it shows. And yet, it's easy to imagine its strangeness working on the stage, where costumes and sets might play up its oddities, and the exotic ports that the Prince of Tyre calls upon might come alive.

The story goes something like this: Pericles attempts to win the hand of a princess by solving a riddle; when he realizes that the princess is in an incestuous relationship with her father, he is forced to flee the king's vengeance. In a port of refuge, he joins a tournament for the hand of another princess, which he wins, securing the hand of the beautiful Thaisa. But when Thaisa dies in childbirth at sea, he has her tearfully buried overboard and his daughter Marina put in safekeeping with (yes, another) king Cleon. Cleon and his jealous wife try to kill Marina, but she is kidnapped by pirates and sold into a brothel, where her virtue converts her customers to chastity--much to the chagrin of her bawd. Cleon tells Pericles that Marina has died, and he gets really upset, until he finds Marina again, where she has been rescued by the local governor. Then, in a dream, Diana tells him to go to her temple, where he finds Thaisa, having been resurrected by a sorcerer and made a priestess. It's really quite a happy ending.

Pericles is among those plays that seem unclassifiable--are they a history? a tragedy? a comedy?--but to me, it clearly forms a trio with Timon of Athens and Titus Andronicus, a trio of plays that use the characters and settings of ancient literature to create a kind of elevated reality or fantasy world. When Pericles joins the contest for the hand of Thaisa, he is reminiscent of Odysseus, playing games and contests in foreign lands for favor of foreign kings. There are other similarities: the shape of Pericles is dictated by the Wheel of Fortune, the rapid rise and fall of luck and disaster, and this structure, to me, seems to share a lot with the forms of ancient literature. And of course, the happy ending--perhaps the happiest ending in all of Shakespeare's play--is reminiscent of Odysseus' return to Penelope.

One of the things I liked best about Pericles was actually the part that Shakespeare likely didn't write: the creepy opening where Pericles solves the riddle of king Antiochus's incest. Antiochus stresses to Pericles that all who have tried to solve the riddle have failed, and the punishment for failure is death. Pericles--invoking another Greek story, Oedipus and the Sphinx--is smitten and courageous enough to try anyway, but as soon as he reads it--like, instantly--he realizes that Antiochus has hidden his dirty secret inside the riddle, more or less in plain sight:

I am no viper, yet I feed
On mother's flesh which did me breed.
I sought a husband, in which labour
I found that kindness in a father:
He's father, son, and husband mild;
I mother, wife, and yet his child.
How they may be, and yet in two,
As you will live, resolve it you.

I thought this was one of the more interesting scenes in the play, the way Antiochus both reveals and does not reveal his deed. There's something here about the fragile justifications we set up around ourselves, not exactly denying what we are unable to deny, but couching it in such a way that we soothe our own conscience and hide it from others. Of course, it's all very stupid; he should have just made a riddle about something else. It also, especially in the hands of a brave director, brings unsettling layers to the recognition scene, in which Pericles and his daughter Marina have their reunion. After all, Marina has been plucked from the brothel from the governor, who came first as a customer, and is now perhaps not entirely reformed by her virtue; he offers her to the distraught Pericles because he thinks their experiences will draw them together. It's not un-erotic, is all I'm saying.

So, Pericles is not my favorite. And yet, I think if someone were to stage it, I'd go see it, and with more excitement than even some of the plays which I like better. 

Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty

It seemed to Shelley all at once as if the whole room should protest, as if alarm and protest should be the nature of the body. Life was too easily holy, too easily not. It could change in a moment. Life was not ever inviolate. Dabney, poor sister and bride, shed tears this morning (though belatedly) because she had broken the Fairchild night light that the aunts had given her; it seemed so unavoidable to Dabney, that was why she cried, as if she had felt it was part of her being married that this cherished little bit of other peoples' lives should be shattered now. Dabney at the moment cutting a lemon for the aunts' tea brought the tears to Shelly's eyes; could the lemon feel the knife? Perhaps it suffered; not that vague vegetable pain lost in the generality and the pain of the world, but the pain of the very moment. Yet in the room no one said "Stop." They all lay back in flowered chairs and ate busily, and with a greedy delight anticipated what was ahead for Dabney...

I felt compelled to revisit Eudora Welty this month, one of my favorite authors who has been absent from my life for some time because I have finished everything she's written. In that she joins Muriel Spark, Penelope Fitzgerald, who live in the back of the mind like old friends you never see. I wanted to re-read Delta Wedding specifically because I remember it both as something incredible and as a kind of challenge, a book that drops you in a Jim Crow plantation world that's so rich, so intricately peopled, you can easily get lost. The titular wedding is between young Dabney Fairchild (of Fairchilds, Mississippi, if that tells you something) and the plantation overseer, Troy Flavin. The wedding has brought together dozens of Fairchilds and their spouses and children, who arrive at the plantation Shellmound and thicken the scene with their histories and characters.

What do I notice now, re-reading it? Well, despite the fact of the large cast and the whirlwind way that Welty jumps between points-of-view (look how effortlessly she skips from Shelley to Dabney and back again in the paragraph above--they're thinking similar things without knowing it!), there are actually only a small handful of characters whose perspective is explored in a sustained way. There's Laura, the little cousin who arrives at Shellmound having recently lost her mother; Dabney, the bride; Ellen, Dabney's mother; and for a little while, Robbie Reid, the outsider who has married George. The Fairchilds are brutal to outsiders, who have trouble penetrating the family's bonhomie. At the beginning of the book, Robbie has left George because of a convoluted scene in which he puts himself in front of a moving train to save Maureen, a mentally handicapped cousin. What Robbie really objects to, it seems, is the feeling that George would not do the same for her; that she is permanently on the outside. And yet, she's not the only one: Ellen is a Virginian who has had to bend and adapt to the ways of the Delta. And of course, there's Troy, who is of a different class than the Fairchilds, but seems too stupid to feel like an outsider. By contrast, those who are deepest inside are almost inaccessible, like the dreamy George, who is the most beloved of all the Fairchilds, or Denis, the long-dead cousin who was the most beloved before him. (The way George blends into Denis in the book is really fascinating.)

This time, I paid more attention to the Black characters of the book. Shellmound is populated by servants whose labor make the wedding possible. Many of these characters are well-drawn, and come alive through Welty's keen eye for the characters of the Mississippi world in which she grew up, characters like the loyal Partheny or Aunt Studney, who carries a sack on her back everywhere that no one knows what's inside, and whose name seems to come from her suspicious refrain: "Ain't studyin' you." But these characters are undoubtedly at the margin, and a modern reader, if they're like me, quickly becomes uncomfortable with just how marginal they really are. Is Welty as blind as her characters to this invisible labor?

There's a moment I'd forgotten about, though: Shelley comes upon Troy, in his capacity as overseer, pointing a gun at a couple of Black fieldhands. There seems to have been some kind of conflict; what it was, we never know, but we see Troy--who moments ago has been all idiot chuckling--shoot the fingers off one of them. Shelley, who is older than Dabney and has been jealous of her marrying, suddenly sees "the reason why Dabney's wedding should be prevented. Nobody could marry a man with blood on his door... But even as she saw the reason, Shelley knew it would not avail. She would jump as Troy told her, and never tell anybody, for what was going to happen was going to happen." Welty never possesses the undercurrent of rage possessed by McCullers, whose books look squarely at injustice as if to say, "Why isn't anyone doing anything about this?" But Welty is no fool, and this moment gives us, I think, a momentary glimpse into the dark machinery that keeps the charmed life of the Fairchilds going. How can we go back to the room of the flowered chairs, the wedding cake, the bridesmaids with their shepherd's crook staffs, after seeing this? Of course, like Shelley we know it's meaningless; everyone knows what happens in the fields and they choose not to see. This time around, I wondered what it meant to have someone like Troy incorporated whole into the body of the Fairchilds. Perhaps once they kept that kind of necessary violence at arm's length, but now they have brought it to their heart and embraced it.

I have a high opinion of Welty. I think she does things no one else could even attempt. There are times when reading Delta Wedding that I think she is among the two or three best writers the 20th century United States produced, and I mean that without hyperbole. Perhaps, as she recedes back into that "old friend" corner of my mind, I'll feel differently. But returning to these books leaves me with awe.

I is Another by Jon Fosse

...I go into the main room and over there on the easel I see the bad painting with the two lines that cross in the middle, no, I can't look at it, I can't even take the picture down from the easel and put it in the pile with the other paintings I'm not totally done with yet, that I'm not totally satisfied with, I just can't, I think and I look at the easel and I think that when I look at the easel now, isn't it like, the thought comes into my head, like God is looking out at me from the easel? I think, and now I just have to not go crazy, I think, because it's like God is looking at me from every single thing, I think and look around and it's like God is in everything around me, I think, and like he's looking at me from every single thing, I think and I think isn't the round table clearly saying with its silence that God is nearby? and the two chairs? and the one Ales always sat in, especially clearly, God is so clearly looking at me from that chair, I think, and I think that it's when I'm most alone, in my darkness, my loneliness, because it really is lonely, to tell the truth, and when I'm quiet as I can be, that God is closest, in his distance...

The second part of Jon Fosse's Septology picks up where the first has left off: the narrator, Asle, has dropped his friend, also named Asle, off at a hospital in Bjorgvin where his addictions are close to claiming his life. He has gone home with the other Asle's dog, to confront there the loneliness of the Christmas season without his wife Ales, who has died, and his friend Asleik, who is demanding one of Asle's best paintings this year as a gift for his sister. The stark, wintery landscape of Norway's fjords is full of memory for the narrator Asle, about Ales and about his childhood, his experience getting into Norwegian art school and leaving his family. We finally see the moment where the two Asles meet, introduced by a mutual friend, both as prospective art students. The other Asle is called here "The Namesake."

Is it sloppy reading on my part, or an essential trick on Fosse's part, that the Asle I thought he was talking about for 200 pages was the Asle in the hospital, and not himself? I think the latter, though perhaps an eagle-eyed reader might have figured it out all before. The narrator's memories come sudden and swift, introduced with a simple transition like "I see Asle..." I see Asle with his sister, who died young; I see Asle, having a panic attack over the thought of reading in class; I see Asle, moving away from his parents for the first time to pursue his dreams of art school; I see Asle, giving up on the kind of realistic paintings of Norwegian domestic landscapes that made him popular, etc., etc. And all the time I was trying to find an answer to that essential question--if these Asles are the same, even perhaps to the point of being the same person, or avatars of one another, where do they diverge? Why is one Asle a success and the other a failure? I thought I was finding it, perhaps, in the death of his sister. But with one quick movement, Fosse reminds us that this is the narrator Asle remembering his own life.

Ultimately, I don't think Septology has an idea of why people end up the way they do. On the question of nature vs. nurture, it's agnostic to the point of disinterest. It sets up for the reader a kind of fool's game, forces you to search for the differences and divergences, when really the thrust seems to be that human personality remains a kind of inexplicable mystery. The elision between the two Asles is maybe the most bravura thing about Septology, a project of great skill and subtlety that justifies and illuminates the pale featurelessness of the story and the prose.

And reading this time, I was struck by the novel's interest in grief and the possibility of the divine: the narrator Asle has painted this painting of two lines crossing, one purple, one brown, that he alternately considers the worst painting he's ever done and the best. But the painting is where God enters the scene, and in studying it--pointedly, a cross--Asle begins to see the presence of God everywhere. Perhaps, I began to think while reading I is Another, God is another name for that power of chance or providence that turns a life in one direction and another in another, just as God is the name for what takes away one's wife before her time.

Olav Audunsson: Providence by Sigrid Undset

But he couldn't escape from the childhood memories that arose--including the once secure knowledge that he and Ingunn belonged to each other and would always stay together. The very notion that something might come between them had never entered their minds, and for that reason being together had never stirred their hearts either to joy or astonishment. They had simply taken it for granted. That was how it would always be, precisely as it had been decided for them. Until the summer, that is, when, wrapped in each other's arms, they had tumbled out of their childhood and innocent state, frightened yet also giddy with joy at the new sweetness they had discovered in each other--regardless of whether it was right or wrong for them to surrender it. Even after Olav had roused himself to defy and fear everything and everyone who tried to intervene in their fate, he had been convinced that in the end they would win their case. Such memories would suddenly come upon Olav, and the pain burned like the stab of a knife.

Vows, the first book in Sigrid Undset's tetralogy about the live of Olav Audunsson, ends with Olav killing Teit, the Icelander who impregnated his wife Ingunn, and burning down the shack in which his body lay. I wrote that Olav had left his ornate ancestral axe within the shack, thinking that this would turn out to be the clue that led to Olav's downfall--but this turned out to be incorrect, as a kind reader pointed out: it was just an ordinary axe that Olav left. And I should have known better. This being Undset, author of the Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy, I should have understood that Olav's sin would not be revealed by simple detective work, that it would gnaw at Olav's heart until he was forced to reveal it himself.

In Providence, the second book in the series, Olav finds himself trapped by this secret. He vows to expiate his guilt by bringing Eirik, the child of Ingunn and Teit, back to his manor of Hestviken and pretend that he is his biological son. This presents several problems: for one, Eirik is really annoying. He turns out to be a very fanciful and imaginative child--we are reminded of the playful, reckless Teit--who has trouble distinguishing the real from fantasy. And he talks too much. Secondly, by raising Eirik to the heir of Hestviken, he has disinherited any legitimate son he might have with Ingunn. This is, perhaps, why Ingunn goes through several miscarriages; the one time she manages to birth a son, he withers and dies quickly. Ingunn withers, too; over the course of the novel she is struck by a terrible sickness that seems to emerge from her guilt and the frailty of her soul. It takes from her her sons, and then it takes her ability to walk. Olav keeps the secret for her sake, and yet keeping the secret gives the pair no happiness or joy.

Olav Audunsson, or the first two novels at least, is a much bleaker series than even Kristin Lavransdatter, which is also about living through the consequences of the choices of one's youth. Kristin is rewarded for her unfaithfulness to her father and her fiancee with a marriage to the romantic Erlend, and though it causes her much pain, and they even separate for a time, they are both rewarded with a kind of fiery love that is shared between them. When one reads about the chilly relationship between Olav and Ingunn, how they cling to one another out of duty and obligation but without joy or affection, one wonders, what was it all worth? When--spoiler alert--Ingunn dies at the novel's conclusion, we are left with the bitter sense that all the wreckage and faithlessness of their lives has had very little in the way of recompense.

Like Kristin Lavransdatter, Olav Audunsson is in some respect an apology for the Catholic model of confession and repentance. Olav knows that he would be doing his duty to God by confessing his sins and taking the appropriate consequences, but the possibility of cleansing is closed off to him. And for good reasons--his obligations toward Ingunn and toward Eirik, who is innocent of his own making--but these are worldly reasons, and not God's, and like Kristin, Olav suffers because he is too frail to trust in God's ideas of what constitute one's highest obligations. At the end of Part II, Olav finds himself without a wife and someone else's son. In a moment of weakness, he impregnates Torhild, the steadfast handmaiden of the household, and though he provides for her and her--his--son, it's not too hard to see that the next two parts of the tetralogy may set up a conflict between these two sons, innocent both of their circumstances, and yet neither of whom quite "deserves" to become the inheritor of Olav's estate. I'm looking forward to reading those, but it'll be next December, when another cold and chilly season rolls around--perfect for Undset's Norway, but also for the the themes of suffering and contrition that are at the heart of these incredible books.

The Enigma of Arrival by V. S. Naipaul

I had lived with the idea of change, had seen it as a constant, had seen a world in flux, had seen human life as a series of cycles that sometimes ran together. But philosophy failed me now. Land is not land alone, something that simply is itself. Land partakes of what we breathe into it, is touched by our moods and memoires. And this end of a cycle, and in the life of a manor, mixed up with the feeling of age which my illness was forcing on me, caused me grief.

For many years, V. S. Naipaul lived in (some kind of) caretaker's cottage on the grounds of a large manor in Salisbury, England, not far from Stonehenge. It was, as Naipaul describes it, a kind of permanence and stability after years of uncertainty and moving around; among other things The Enigma of Arrival describes in touching detail what it was like for a young man from Trinidad to move to England for the first time, a place which was represented in his imagination by the works of classic English literature, and also by the pictures of green fields dotted by dairy cows that appear on the cartons of milk children drank in Trinidad. That experience captures much of what Naipaul wrote about, the anxiety of Empire, of being unable to see either the colonized homeland or the imperial center well because one has been so trained in seeing the myths that regulate the relationship between them. Naipaul struggles, writes, moves back and forth between England, Trinidad, the U.S., and Canada. The manor in Salisbury, coming alongside literary success, gives the man an anchor in the world.

Much of what The Enigma of Arrival has to say, I think, is that such stability is essentially an illusion. The essays collected here are mostly in the pastoral mode, describing the life of the gardens, the fields, the hills, the woods of the manor and its environment. Naipaul is deeply interested in the lives of the lower- and middle-class workers who keep the manor going: caretaker Jack, the Phillipses, the gardener Pitton, the driver Bray. He learns that where he sees stability and continuity there is also change; few of these people have been at the manor any longer than he has and have little claim to its magisterial aesthetic or history. Some are sacked, some die--there is a strangely incommensurate story of an affair that leads to murder--and the sands of the manor shift beneath Naipaul. He, too, grows ill, and must face his own aging and the possible end of his life at the manor. Perhaps this is the enigma of arrival--that it keeps going on, keeps changing, that arrival as such never really comes.

I enjoyed this--Naipaul can really write. In this setting, his English inspirations are worn very openly. But I also found it difficult to penetrate the specific milieu of the English countryside he clearly loves; something about it seems too private, to personally experience, to really resonate. I liked most those images of the young Trinidadian seeing the world the first time from the air.

Last Night in Nuuk by Niviaq Korneliussen

She sings. Our song. Which is precisely when my heart begins again. Beats once more. It was meant to be. It was meant to be you. It was meant to be me and you. She walks over to me, and my world is totally silent. I only look at her, and the sensation within me is infinite. She takes hold of me and escorts me out of the door, and I don't resist. The spring night is invigorating. Nature has quietly come to life again, and that's all I hear. There's something beautiful in front of me. From Greenland to infinity, and back again... What a day to be alive. She reads the note I have been carrying around for two weeks. The spring night gives me life, and Sara kisses me. What a day to realise I'm not dead. Love has rescued me. And I realise that this is my coming-out story.

'Crimson and Clover,' she says.
'Over and over,' I reply.

Last Night in Nuuk follows a set of loosely associated living in Greenland's capital city: Fia, Inuk, Arnaq, Ivik, and Sara. Their lives, like the lives of people their age all over the world, are taken up with dating, sex, and partying, to different degrees. Fia is left by her boyfriend and, hooking up with Arnaq after a night of partying, discovers she's gay. Inuk knows he's gay, but Arnaq--the hard-drinking whirlwind at the novel's center--recklessly lets slip that he's been carrying on an affair with a well-known right-wing politician. Ivik is dumped by Sara, and discovers that she--he--is trans. There's a lot of self-discovery going on, this one night in Nuuk.

What is most surprising about Last Night in Nuuk, I suppose, is how familiar the lives of the protagonists is. A reader from outside Greenland who turns to the novel to get a glimpse of the unique features of life in the remote island's largest city will no doubt be, as I was, disappointed. Though it must be said that for Korneliussen, to the extent the novel is written for a world audience at all, this must be the point: look, we're not so out of the ordinary up here.

But even as a novel about hard-partying young people, Last Night in Nuuk really falls flat. Mostly, the prose lies at a level of abstraction that veers into cliche. ("She walks over to me, and my world is totally silent... the sensation within me is infinite...") The specific feelings and sensations of self-discovery are in short supply, and without them, the resonance between Fia's discovery of her sexuality and Ivik's discovery of his gender feels manipulative and cheap. Sara's choice to end every section of her chapter with a hashtag is near unforgiveable. Oh well. 

Galactic Pot-Healer by Philip K. Dick

Had he not met Glimmung he would never have thought this--realized it. But in Glimmung he witnessed eternal, self-renewing strength. Glimmung, like a star, fed on himself, and was never consumed. And, like a star, he was beautiful; he was a fountain, a meadow, an empty twilight street over which dwelt a fading sky. The sky would fade; the twilight would become darkness, but Glimmung would blaze on, as if burning out the impurities of everyone and everything around him. He was the light who exposed the soul and all its decayed parts. And, with that light, he scorched out of existence those decayed portions, here and there: mementos of a life not asked for.

Joe Fernwright is a "pot-healer": an expert in repairing ancient ceramics. In the polystyrene world of a Philip K. Dick novel, it's a rare skill, and one not much in need. He scrimps and saves, hoping to save enough dimes for a few minutes phone-call to a kind of robot advisor named Mr. Job. If that sounds pathetic, it is: the world described by Dick in Galactic Pot-Healer is one of his dreariest, and the most familiar. Knowledge has been partitioned off into artificial intelligences like Mr. Job and Mr. Encyclopedia, who parcel it out stingily; the robotic systems that organize human life seem almost intentionally withholding and hostile. In this atomized existence, Joe and many others retreat to trivial distractions like "The Game," a silly pastime in which players are made to guess the titles of classic movies and books that have been translated into and out of English, like "The Male Offspring in Addition Gets Out of Bed" for The Sun Also Rises. (Remember doing this with, like, Alta Vista?) It's a meaningless pastime for a meaningless life, one whose diminishment of spirit becomes close to death:

The energy and capacity to fiddle away a lifetime without dignified work, and, in its place, the performance of the trivial, even the voluntarily trivial, as we have constructed here in The Game. Contact with others, he thought; through The Game our isolation is lanced and its body broken. We peep out, but what do we see, really? Mirror reflections of our own selves, our bloodless, feeble countenances, devoted to nothing in particular, insofar as I can fathom it. Death is very close, he thought. When you think this manner. I can feel it, he decided. How near I am. Nothing is killing me; I have no enemy, no antagonist; I am merely expiring, like a magazine subscription: month by month.

Suddenly, Joe is contacted by a mysterious presence: an alien life form calling itself Glimmung. Glimmung is something of a divine figure, a shapeshifter who can appear in any form to Joe, but he needs Joe's help, and the help of hundreds of others. On his home world, called Plowman's Planet, Glimmung plans to raise an ancient cathedral called the Heldscalla from where it lay under the planet's great ocean. Joe's pot-healing services are crucial to the cathedral's restoration, and in return for his help, Glimmung promises to bestow upon him a literally inconceivable amount of money. But more improtantly, Joe realizes, he has been given an opportunity to do something non-trivial--to take part, even in a small way, in a great undertaking that might give meaning and purpose to his life.

Any attempt at raising Heldscalla is fraught with risk. Plowman's Planet is peopled by giant rat-like figures who carry around a tome called The Book of Kalends, which is continuously being filled with the dictums of fate, including that of Joe and his new colleagues (like his new bronze-colored alien girlfriend, Mali). The Book of Kalends says that the attempt at raising the cathedral will fail, and Joe and everyone else will be destroyed in the process. But this only means that the raising of Heldscalla takes on a greater metaphorical importance; not only will it mean bringing purpose to the lives of those who raise it, but raising it will mean a victory over the mechanical and deterministic forces of fate and entropy. A sassy robot butler assigned to Joe and Mali explains that all things, even robots, are victims to entropy and fight against it, but there are forces in the world, too, of restoration and recovery, like Joe's pot-healing. The raising of Heldscalla lies at the nexus of the metaphysical and the political: is it more like Christ's victory over Death, or more like the collective seizing the means of production and the path of history?

Galactic Pot-Healer is--well, I guess you can't say it's one of Dick's strangest books, since every book that man wrote seems impossibly strange in its own way. You might say it's his most symbolic. When Joe and Mali descend into the ocean of Plowman's Planet to see the cathedral for themselves--against the wishes of the Glimmung--they discover that there's actually two cathedrals, a black cathedral and a white cathedral. They discover, too, there is a kind of anti-Glimmung who is locked in battle with the Glimmung, and who wishes to raise the black cathedral instead of the white one; this is the image of the eternal agon or something like that. You know, the Manichaean struggle between good and evil, or perhaps, knowing Dick's predilection for Eastern philosophy, something of the yin and yang. The image that will stay with me from this scene, though, is Joe discovering his own dead body, flapping up like a strange fish to advise him on what to do. A lesser writer might feel the need to explain this as a kind of time travel trick, but Dick is content to let the image be just the powerful image it is, a man confronted by the inevitability of his own destruction.

The climax of Galactic Pot-Healer offers Joe the ultimate choice: will he, like the other workers on the project, allow himself to be absorbed into the Glimmung and raise the cathedral with the combination of their skills and consciousnesses? Or will he cling to his individuality and be sent back to his former life, playing stupid word games? How far are we willing to take our dreams of partaking in greatness? I won't say what Joe chooses, but I will say that the novel's final line is possibly Dick's blackest, bleakest joke.

Winter Wheat by Mildred Walker

It's just winter wheat to the people who raise it, only to me it means more than that. It means all the winter and all the cold and the tight feeling of the house in winter, but the rich secret feeling I have, too, of treasure in the ground, growing there for us, waiting for the cold to be over to push up strong and green. They sound like grim words without any comfort to them, but they have a kind of strength all their own.

Ellen Webb, the heroine of Mildred Walker's Winter Wheat, grows up in the wheat country of Montana. The mountains are not so far away, but not visible; the house her father built lies at the bottom of a remote coulee, and all around them the fields of wheat. It's a scene she treasures, but when her college boyfriend Gil comes to see her, the visit becomes tense and awkward. She sees her life from the outside out for the first time: how lonely the house in the coulee must be, how marked by hard labor and the brutal chance of the weather. Gil sees, too, something she has never really seen, a simmering resentment between her father, a native New Englander who came west to farm, and her mother, a Russian peasant girl he picked during World War I.

After Gil leaves, Ellen overhears her parents arguing, and learns a bitter revelation: her mother had pretended to be pregnant to get her father to marry her and take her to the States. This revelation colors not only Ellen's understanding of her parents, but her understanding of her whole life, and casts a pall over the life that she loves. Suddenly, the Cather-like pastoralism of the novel is tinged everywhere with sadness. Ellen reaches to her familiar wheat to understand every new and unfamiliar thing; at the college she observes that the fried eggs are "like daisy heads with their yellow centers and white petals"; she describes her disconsolate suitemate as resembling a "bum lamb that's going to die." The lovely pastoral prose of Winter Wheat is the kind of thing you might call "a love letter to rural Montana," but Ellen's dislocation from her family and her life shade them with sad and subtle layers.

The wheat harvest does not come in; Ellen's experience at college ends after a year. Instead, she takes a position as a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse in a place even more remote. She becomes close to the father of one of the pupils, and becomes entangled in their own drama of alienation and discontent--the young boy identifies with his evangelical mother and distrusts his father for his (relatively mild) drinking habit. The book is punctuated by a moment of utter tragedy when (spoiler alert) a "feeble-minded" student disappears in the middle of a raging snow storm and is frozen to death. Her attempts to find him are heroic, bordering on recklessness, but she cannot save him, and the death of the boy seems to come at the hand of the same cruel chance that kills the wheat at the root.

I really enjoyed this. I'm just a sucker for Cather, and while she is, of course, the goat, it seemed to me that Walker shares something of that keen eye that sees the fine distinctions in a landscape that might seem featureless to the rest of the world. I thought the story was simple, sweetly sad, and persuasive.

Two Books About Vergil and The Aeneid

No doubt I will eventually fade away and be lost in oblivion, as I would have done long ago if the poet hadn't summoned me into existence. Perhaps I will become a false dream clinging like a bat to the underside of the leaves of the tree at the gate of the underworld, or an owl flitting in the dark oaks of Albunea. But I won't have to tear myself from life and go down into the dark, as he did, poor man, first in his imagination, and then as his own ghost. We each have to endure our own afterlife, he said to me once, or that is one way to understand what he said. But that dim loitering about, down in the underworld, waiting to be forgotten or reborn--that isn't true being, not even half as true as my being is as I write and you read it, and nowhere near as true as in his words, the splendid, vivid words I've lived in for centuries.

The Aeneid, Vergil's masterpiece about the founding of Rome by Aeneas, a fugitive from the Fall of Troy, was nearly lost to history: as he lay sick at the port of Brundisium, Vergil famously demanded that the unfinished manuscript be burned. The emperor Augustus countermanded the poet, who was his friend and client, and it could be argued that, of all the emperor's most lasting achievements, this is the one with the most persistent and important legacy. But why was it that Vergil demanded his masterpiece be burned? Was it simple deathbed despair, knowing that he'd be unable to shape it in the final way he desired? Or was there a deeper, more profound change of heart at work?

Ursula K. Le Guin's novel Lavinia gives us brief glimpses of the poet, lying at Brundisium, tortured by the incompleteness of his work. Vergil appears as a shade--a ghost--to Lavinia, a character in The Aeneid, and, as Le Guin argues, the greatest avatar of the poem's incomplete nature. Through these visits, Lavinia becomes aware that she has no historic reality in the same sense that the poet does, that she is a character in the poem, and she responds with force and insight to the poet who is unable to explain why she has no voice--literally, I think, she never speaks--in his poem. Lavinia is attracted to the dying poet in all sense of the word attraction; throughout the novel she describes him as one of her life's true loves--the other, of course, being Aeneas himself. Her livingness and liveliness are reproof to Vergil, who has enough will left to despair about what he has forgotten to include, but not enough to make the necessary edits that would recover Lavinia's perspective.

Lavinia seems now like a forerunner to a micro-genre that focuses on the "unspoken" stories of women in ancient literature, like Madeline Miller's novel Circe and Pat Barker's The Silence of the Girls, written from the perspective of the captive Trojan Briseis. I haven't read Circe, but I do think Le Guin achieves what Barker only attempts: a convincing version of the "other side of the story." Le Guin does this by making the composition of the narrative the subject of the novel; Lavinia's reflections on her own fictionality are its most persuasive and moving parts. Le Guin has Vergil appear to Lavinia at a shrine, blurring the lines between the writer and the divine. Lavinia accepts the poet's control over her life as she might accept the will of the gods; in this way the novel offers a meditation on contingency and powerless that transcend narrower themes of gender and patriarchy.

In The Aeneid, Lavinia is the subject of the war between the newcomer Aeneas and the Rutulian prince Turnus. A novelist like Miller and Barker might have had Lavinia resist both men, but Le Guin's Lavinia is content to live out the will of the author-god that she marry Aeneas, and her marriage to Aeneas proves a happy one. (You can see the impulse toward a weaker kind of novel, in which Aeneas' heroic nature is subverted, and he's made into a brute or a monster--not here.) Lavinia has no desire to change the story, but she does want to fill in the gaps, and in doing so she becomes an equal to the poet, or perhaps even his superior, because she has a kind of eternal life that he himself can never possess.

---

Only at the edge of his fields had he walked, only at the edge of his life had he lived. He had become a rover, fleeing death, seeking death, seeking work, fleeing work, a lover and yet at the same time a harrassed one, an errant through the passions of the inner life and the passions of the world, a lodger in his own life. And now, almost at the end of his strength, at the end of his search, self-purged and ready to leave, purged to readiness and ready to take upon himself the last loneliness, now destiny with all its forces had seized him again, had forbidden him all the simplicity of his beginnings and of the inner life, had deflected his backward journey once more, had turned him back to the evil which had overshadowed all his days, as if it had reserved for him just this sole simplicity--, the simplicity of dying.

Hermann Broch's landmark modernist novel The Death of Virgil begins with the same question as Lavinia: why did Vergil want to burn his masterpiece? Broch's answer is different, but perhaps the same, having to do with incompleteness and insufficiency, not in a narrative sense, but a metaphysical one. Broch's novel followed Vergil in the last twenty-four hours in life, being ferried by Augustus to Brundisium, fighting with the emperor and his literary executors about his final wishes, and succumbing to a raging fever. The fever brings the poet close to death, and close to death he begins to understand the true nature of the world, and the more he understands this true nature, the more he understands that literature grasps at something it by nature can never achieve, and its attempts are perhaps more than fruitless, but a lie.

The Death of Virgil's stream-of-consciousness is no easy read. I couldn't tell you honestly that I understood more than half of it, but there are pleasurable incomprehensibilities as well as frustrating ones, and I enjoyed the rolling, rollicking nature of Broch's writing, which recalls the rocking of the sea on which Vergil arrives at Brundisium. What I did understand is that Broch's metaphysics hinge on the falseness of perception and the seduction of beauty, which substitutes a pleasing falsehood in place of true perception, which might instead reveal a fundamental unity in the universe. Literature is metaphor, and can only point toward the unity, but in doing so it cannot participate in that unity, and so the poet's words, like all words, can only ever be false. I could be wrong about some of the particulars there, but it did seem to me that Broch shares in the general modernist suspicion of the literary project and its ability to describe the world, and like other modernists he reaches back to the literature of the past to try to provide a framework that expresses the growing slippage at the same time that it stabilizes it.

Broch's Vergil passes in and out of lucidity. He's visited by real people, like the emperor and his doctor, and sometimes he's visited by phantasms, including a beautiful servant boy, a mercurial slave, and the likeness of his beloved, Plotia. At times it's not clear who's real and who's a phantasm, but of course, we are asked to understand that such hard dichotomies belong to a world of limitations that Vergil is currently leaving behind. One of the most interesting sections of the book is a long, drawn-out argument with Augustus, who rebukes Vergil for his wish to burn The Aeneid, claiming its importance in expressing the myth of the Roman state. Augustus' resemblance to 20th century European fascism is hard to miss: he claims the superiority of the state over the individual, and claims literature for the state. Vergil's response to Augustus preserves not only the primacy of the individual but the individual as the locus of metaphysics. If the true world is to be perceived and experienced, it can only be done as the individual, and though the literary project can only fail, it must fail on the individual's terms.

Both Lavinia and The Death of Virgil seize on the doubts inherent in the legend of The Aeneid: what was it that so important, so lacking, so insufficient, in a work now considered one of the greatest produced by history? For Le Guin, the answer lies in the narrative itself, teasing out its blind spots, placing the writer and the text in a kind of generative dialectic. For Broch, the answer lies in the failure of literature itself. Both books, I think, return us to the greatness of The Aeneid by enlarging it, rather than diminishing it.

Lesser Ruins by Mark Haber

...my book, I thought, once complete, would be a towering wall of scholarship, difficult to approach, harder to ascend, wholly original in its design, but once admitted, a universe would emerge like a solar flare or the birth of a galaxy, yes, I thought, the birth of a galaxy and sure, only the strong would survive, but deep inside a colossus burgeoned, and just because I envisioned the book but hadn't yet written the book, hadn't in fact even begun writing the book, didn't mean the book didn't exist, I thought, because the groundwork had been laid, the seeds planted, and to conceive hundreds of titles for a book but no book seemed the pinnacle of cruelty.

Mark Haber's new book Lesser Ruins extends over a single moment, not much more than five or ten minutes. The scholar-narrator is trying to begin his book about the French essayist Montaigne, but he has no real material to work from; all he has is a list of titles like The Intrusion of Distraction and The Boots of Stupidity. He finds himself unable to conjure up the kind of slow thinking he needs to really work on the book. Slow thinking, he tells us, is in deep decline, and he blames the damn smartphones, but the truth is that his mind is just elsewhere: on the recent death of his wife after a long struggle with dementia, on his dismissal from the college after what has come to be known as "the espresso incident," on coffee, of which he is a connoisseur who speaks with much more knowledge and passion than he seems to be able to about Montaigne, about a disastrous residency in the Berkshires, about his son, Marcel. It's Marcel, actually, who's calling him to talk about his obsession with house music; the novel takes place almost entirely from the point that the phone rings to the moment when the narrator finally picks up the call and hears Marcel's voice.

You get about a third of the way through Lesser Ruins before you realize something: this guy hasn't really said anything about Montaigne at all. He doesn't seem to be lying, necessarily, or stupid; he quotes liberally from other writers, but there isn't a single scrap of text from Montaigne in the book. The stuff he does talk about is irrelevant, like his association with a Russian duelist or his dandy manservant, details which, if I had to guess, are actually made up by Haber. In a book that is often cruel and sad, the cruelest and saddest moment may be when the administrator in charge of the residency in the Berkshires admits that each year they admit a mediocre non-entity, just in the off chance that they'll be surprised. Our narrator, it seems, is this year's non-entity, but he hasn't surprised anyone, except in the sense that he has been rude and off-putting, and that everyone kind of wants him to leave.

Lesser Ruins is less a book about literature or scholarship and more a book about the desire to produce literature, the yearning to produce scholarship. Just as the legendary painting in his previous book, Saint Sebastian's Abyss, suggests a kind of pretense of Renaissance art but really has nothing to do with it, so Lesser Ruins is not about Montaigne but about the sort of person who longs to write something meaningful about Montaigne. There's a master stroke in this, frankly, not only because we don't want to be lost in the details of the "real" Montaigne, but because it allows us to see the link between the narrator's obsessive inadequacy with his son Marcel's, Marcel who longs to create the perfect "club mix," or whatever. Lesser Ruins, it must be said, knows much more about house music than it does Montaigne, and the ironic contrast is deeply funny. Perhaps the most sympathetic thing about the deluded narrator is that, though he can't stand his son's music, he clearly listens to everything his son says, otherwise how would he be able to regurgitate all the terms that Marcel throws out, like "four-on-the-floor" and "Balearic Disco" and "Four Tet?"

Lesser Ruins is structured in three parts, each as a single kind of stream-of-consciousness without paragraph breaks. The transitions are of the "French door" variety, in which the narrative slips from scene to scene and subject to subject without declaring itself. And yet it's never a challenge to read. Just the opposite: the way it moves quickly from humor to pathos and back again draws you in and pushes you forward. For the narrator, as perhaps for all of us, everything comes back to a handful of obsessions. Some are silly, but some of them touch the deepest parts of us, like the death of the narrator's wife, which haunts the novel heavily. Her dementia, we understand, is not to blame for his distraction or inadequacy--but it doesn't help. And it suggest to us that perhaps there is a link between the kind of obsession with writing, with making music, with leaving your mark, and the black despair of loss and grief. It's important that his wife doesn't merely die, but loses her powers of reason. Our narrator is committed to his writing because, in some sense, he understands how brief and rare reason and creativity are; they are much briefer, in fact, than life itself. And even in the face of their insufficiency, and the frightening prospect that distractions are pulling you away from them at every moment, you plow on, to try to get the words on paper.

Woman Running in the Mountains by Yuko Tsushima

For an instance Takiko closed her eyes and pictured herself holding a baby lightly to her breast and running at top speed. This was the way she had gone on imagining herself, while her mother's crying and her father's shouting echoed around her, ever since her mother had found out she was pregnant. At school she hadn't actually liked running at all, yet now she couldn't stop seeing this image of herself. It was not that she was running away. She just wanted to be tough and free and to move. A state that knew no emotion. To be allowed to exist without knowing emotion.

Early one winter morning, Takiko rises and finds that her water has broken. She gets up and calls herself a cab to the maternity ward while her mother, father, and brother sleep. She is too young to have a child, they think, and the father--a married man with whom Takiko had a brief, passionless affair--has no idea that she got pregnant. Her father beats her; her mother implores her to have the child aborted. But Takiko yearns to have her child. For her, the birth of her son, Akira, is an entrance into a world of independence and freedom, in which perhaps she can become a caretaker rather than a subordinate, driftless and subject to the whims of others. She has vivid dreams of herself on a field of ice, or running through the mountains (hence the title), and yet, in these images of isolation and movement the child is always with her.

What I liked best about Woman Running in the Mountains is the way that author Yuko Tsushima recognized the inherent drama in the everyday experiences of a mother. Takiko is carefully and specifically drawn, unique, and yet her experiences are not so different than those of other Japanese mothers, the kind she often comes into contact with at the maternity ward or the cooperative daycare. Tsushima avoids reproducing certain conservative ideas about the way motherhood ennobles a woman, or gives them purpose, or depicting Takiko as a reluctant mother who must learn to embrace the maternal nature of femininity. Instead, the novel does something quietly powerful in recognizing the possibilities that motherhood provide in fostering independence: it's becoming a mother that ultimately gives Takiko the strength to turn away from her cruel father and overbearing mother. 

As a single mother without employment, Takiko faces a number of obstacles, both practical and cultural. (Apparently, as the notes describe, it's very rare for a Japanese child to be born "illegitimate.") She struggles to find a childcare placement for Takiko; she struggles to find a job. The jobs she do find demand more of her time than she, as a new mother, can afford. Akira turns out to have been born with a hernia, an issue requiring a surgery she can scarcely afford. Tsushima solves Takiko's problems by providing her a job at a nursery whose greenhouses are high in the mountains where her dreams take place. And yet, this job comes with its own obstacles: she falls deeply in love with a gruff older gardener who cannot return her affections. And yet, in the nursery, Takiko herself flowers. It's a job she's pushed toward by her motherhood, a process, Tsushima suggests, by which she becomes more herself.

Fire by George R. Stewart

He slapped at a spark, and in new panic at the thought of spot-fires, stood up to look ahead. Smoke was rising from a spot-fire well in front of him, to the left. But he felt sudden relief when he saw that the closest fir tree was scarcely a hundred feet away. Energetic again with the thought of safety and rest, he plunged ahead, just as a white sheet of searing-hot flame went up from a bush not thirty feet behind him. He burst through the bushes, climbed and walked across them, crawled beneath them. His face and hands, and his bare arm, were crisscrossed with bleeding scratches. He kept his eyes half-closed  to protect them from smoke and from twigs. Almost blindly, in an animal-like intensity to live, he struggled on, keeping direction by the drift of the smoke.

George R. Stewart's Fire is, in obvious ways, a companion book to his novel Storm. Both deal with enormous, large scale natural disasters; Fire only replaces the water with, well, fire. Both take an ultra-wide view, taking as subject hundreds of people whose jobs are to manage the impacts of the disaster. In Fire, that means fire-spotters, foresters, firefighters, weathermen, pilots, ranchers, and more. But there are certain differences that make Fire an interesting contrast to Storm, largely downstream of the nature of a forest fire vs. a storm. The view, which is only as wide as the disaster, is necessarily shrunken, down to a few thousand acres, rather than hundreds of square miles and several states. The result is that the human drama comes to the forefront more easily; instead of distant figures working independently--Storm's linemen and weathermen have nothing to do with each other except the fact that they are working to respond to the same storm--the crew arrayed against the forest fire must work together, in concert and in close quarters.

I really enjoyed, for instance, the tension between the young Supervisor and the section chief, Bart. "The Super" is intelligent and capable but anxious about how he's perceived by his subordinates; he tells people to call him "Slim" but the nickname never takes. Bart is an experienced old hand responsible for the section of the Lassen National Forest that is burned. The Super astutely wonders if Bart is too close to the forest, too sentimental, to exert his judgment properly, but he knows that if he removes the popular man as fire chief, his authority and respect will be undermined. I thought that Fire did a good job of illuminating the ways that disasters are helped along by human limitations: the fire is contained until one of the fire fighters gets spooked and runs, starting a general panic that allows the line to be broken and grow out of control. It's a stark reminder that the systems we rely on are actually made up of people, with all their human flaws.

The book doesn't do very well by one of its more interesting characters, Judith, a young woman who takes a lonely job as a fire lookout for the summer. Judith is a woman in a man's world, and in one sense this makes her thoughtful and interesting, quoting literature to herself in her lonely outpost, but it also means that every male Forest Service employee who comes across her has to remark on how hot she is. There's an interesting connection between the way the novel makes use of Judith's femininity and the paranoid fantasies of Bart, who imagines his section of the forest as a virginal young woman being preyed on by the lascivious fire. In the end, Judith is married off, paired to a shy young man who literally carries her out of harm's way when the fire approaches her lookout. So much for the independent woman in her tower.

But for the most part, I really enjoyed Fire. It's an old book, written in 1948, presumably before much of modern fire suppression technique was created--no one, for instance, thinks about doing a controlled burn anywhere in the forest. But to my understanding, much of the job is the same: people dig big ditches around a fire to keep it from spreading. As in 1948, the coordination and spur-of-the-moment planning must be enormous. The "Spitcat Fire" of the novel ends up burning something like 13,000 acres, a number that seems almost quaint in the climate change era. The Park Fire that burned through the Lassen area this summer torched over 400,000 acres. So perhaps it would do well for us to remember the book's lesson about the human courage, and the human toll, that disasters demand.

Family Lexicon by Natalia Ginzburg

My parents  had five children. We now live in different cities, some of us in foreign countries, and we don't write to each other often. When we do meet up we can be indifferent or distracted. But for us it takes just one word. It takes one word, one sentence, one of the old ones from our childhood, heard and repeated countless times. All it takes is for one of us to say 'We haven't come to Bergamo on a military campaign', or 'Sulphuric acid stinks of fart', and we immediately fall back into our old relationships, our childhood, our youth, all inextricably linked to those words and phrases. If my siblings and I were to find ourselves in a dark cave or among millions of people, just one of those phrases or words would allow us to recognise each other. Those phrases are our Latin, the dictionary of our past, they're like Egyptian or Assyro-Babylonian hieroglyphics, evidence of a vital core that has ceased to exist but that lives on in its texts, saved from the fury of the waters, the corrosion of time.

Natalia Ginzburg's Family Lexicon details the life of a middle-class family in northern Italy before, during, and after the advent of fascism. There's Natalia herself, of course, though she sort of disappears in the book, becoming the "invisible eyeball" of the text; her father, a chemist prone to outbursts of comic anger; her more diffident mother; her brothers, many of whom become mixed up to some degree in the resistance movement against Mussolini. It's a family that's unusual but not that unusual. You may not have a father who loves skiing to a fault, or who speaks in nothing but exclamation points, but you may recognize the rhythms of a family who are knit together by a series of phrases and quotations that emblemize, for each one, the experiences of growing up together. We may not have a mother who, as Ginzburg emphasizes, tells the same stories over and over again, but who among us does not recognize their parents by the little linguistic quirks that formed the environment in which we came of age? 

Family Lexicon has a strange relationship with the Mussolini years. Clearly they hit the family hard: many of them spent time in jail, and Ginzburg's brother was forced into exile in France; her own husband, Leone Ginzburg, died in one of Mussolini's prisons. But it's hard to shake the feeling that the advent of fascism is an unwelcome distraction from the true subject of the book, something that must be dealt with as an external force that saps the focus on the inner dynamics of the family and their various friends and hangers-on. Ginzburg's death is, at first at least, dashed off with a single line; only after reading several pages about the family's changing habits do we come to understand that the fascist government has ended; Mussolini has been hung from the Esso station somewhere out of the novel's sight. One result is that the book remains light and comic even in the face of the war, yet it never seems morally compromised, nor does the irony of the distance between style and setting become bitter or unpalatable.

It's hard to shake the feeling, too, that Ginzburg herself represents the same kind of problem for the novel. She manages to keep herself invisible for most of the novel, except by necessity: we learn much about the family friend Leone before Ginzburg lets it slip that they become married. In her preface, Ginzburg makes much of her fealty to the truth, saying that the thought of fictionalizing her family's story repels her. And yet, she writes herself out of the story in a way. We know so little of her desires or conflicts, and yet she manages to communicate powerfully the feeling of being swept away on the current of a powerful family environment.