Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Where the Clay Revolts








The Wake by Margo Glantz

Le cœur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît point.

                        Blaise Pascal

If you like the novels of Thomas Bernhardt (I’m reading his Extinction right now), you are certain to enjoy this deft, erudite, intellectually relentless short novel about one woman’s struggles to come to terms with the death, by heart attack, of her former husband and friend, a well-known Mexican pianist and composer.

Told in retrospect by cellist, Nora García, in a single, swirling, vertiginous narration, the novel begins with Nora’s reluctant return to the small house and village, where she’d lived with her husband, to attend his wake. Reminiscent of Juan Rulfo’s classic novel, Pedro Páramo, and Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, the narrative turns round and round its subject with all the rapacity of a vulture on a high. Nora is clearly haunted by her late husband, by their fraught if artistically charged relationship, and by the labyrinthine complexity of her own voluminous grief. As the oft-repeated epigraph of this post implies, surfacing as it does throughout the story like a musical motif, the novel is first and foremost about Nora’s attempt to uncover the many cryptic reasons of her heart—how and why she feels the way she does.


Almost equally compelling, however, are her detailed and lengthy recollections of the many conversations she’d had with her late husband, Juan, heady, erudite, often contentious late-night discussions of music and musicians—of Bach and Beethoven, of  pianos and castrati, of Franz Schubert, Sviatoslav Richter, José Alfredo Jiménez, and András Schiff. Of all the topics, however, there is none more central to the story, more stubborn, more plainly musical, in its recurrence, than that of Glenn Gould himself, a musician with whom Juan (like Thomas Bernhardt, like the author, Margo Glantz) was particularly obsessed. Reading this novel is a bit like eavesdropping on a literary salon in Á la recherche du temps perdu—only set in Mexico, around a wake, and in the mind of a single person. And there are mariachis, too!
 
Margo Glantz, an award-winning novelist, is one of the most prolific and respected writers of Mexico. Lecturer, critic, journalist and translator, she teaches literature at the University of Mexico and has been a writer and scholar in residence at numerous universities in the United States, including Yale, Harvard, and Princeton. Her father, a man deeply devoted to Modern Mexican art, had been friends with such Mexican notables as Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. 


* Lead illustration by Mexican political printmaker and engraver, José Gaudalupe Posada (1852-1913)

Peter Adam Nash

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Death, and Not Only in the Afternoon

A. L. Kennedy, On Bullfighting



Can there be beauty in cruelty? When a man stands alone in an arena before a thousand pounds of bloodied brute force, an animal blind with pain, when the matador flashes the muleta before the bull and raises the estocada or killing sword for the final thrust--the faena--is there something sublime in this dance of death, something ugly yet touching in ritualized violence?

My father was a fan of the "sweet science"--as a kid he'd boxed flyweight--and he and I took in many bouts at local venues, and once, memorably, saw Sugar Ray Robinson box at the Garden. But these were fair fights. Aside from the palooka who took on Sugar Ray, all the fights I ever witnessed were evenly matched. Not so in the bullring, where the victim comes to the matador already pierced by the banderillas, weakened by loss of blood, crazed with fear. Boxing is fighting. The corrida is killing, pure and simple.

First the lance, then the barbed pikes (twenty-seven of them), the cape passes--tanda--that exhaust the bull, and finally the thrust of the sword into the rubio, the point where the razor-sharp blade enters the bull's heart, and the beast, gloated over by the matador in his baroque attire, topples into the dust.

Hemingway found beauty in death--in the deaths of bulls and wild animals and, perhaps too, in the deaths of men. He was, it seems, in love with it, with the sharp edge of danger, the way all things tip toward dying. I never finished Death in the Afternoon, not for dislike of Hemingway's flirtation with self-destruction, but out of disgust at the pleasure he took in the slaughter of a wounded animal. Perhaps if it were a fair fight....I know, the corrida is culture, sacred ritual, an expression of machismo or Catholic piety or something else incomprehensible to the outsider. Bulls, as A. L. Kennedy demonstrates, have a long history in European societies. I remember viewing frescoes of frolicking bulls in the Palace of Knossos, the auroch, a symbol of fertility and (male) power.  This very fresco--a leaping bull, worshiped, not slain, worn to white but still dazzling is pictured below--note the grace of the animal's form, two curved creatures, one atop the other, suspended in mid-air for the past three thousand years.  Was it the Catholic Church that needed the bulls to be killed, for their blood to be offered to propitiate the millennia of pagan animal worship? The earth was given to man to dominate, and animals to use--to slay a bull at the tail end of a hot afternoon in Seville, to prance about in the costume of a courtier wielding a sword, processing through a catechism of almost sensual rebolera (cape passes), to flirt with goring (like the death of St. Sebastian, impaled)--isn't this a kind of sacrament? Someone, or something, has to die so that we can go on living. Better the bull than the man.



 But A.L. Kennedy, who I have been reading obsessively for the past two weeks, isn't interested, or isn't only interested in the deaths of bulls. Her little book is about her own dying, or near dying, and about how she hoisted herself up from the grave on the blood of what is, to any but an aficionado, a macabre spectator sport:

"And if it does so happen that a human being finds death in the corrida's rarefied afternoon, if a torero, or perhaps one of his cuadrilla, is fatally wounded, then the corrida is intended to redefine the moment of death, to act as our translator. Even the almost always inevitable death of the bull is meant to be controlled within the corrida's physical language, the structure and the sad necessities of its world. The corrida can be seen as an extraordinary effort to elevate the familiar, mysterious slapstick, the irrevocable, indecipherable logic of damage and death, into something almost accessible. The corrida can be seen as both a ritualised escape from destruction and a bloodly search for meaning in the end of a life, both an exorcism and an act of faith."

If I were to encounter this paragraph in the work of a literary theorist I'd blanch--what would be coming would be a dense "reading" of the corrida with much deployment of jargon and a lot of references to Nietzsche. But Kennedy is an artist, a novelist and short story writer who just happened to be unable to write, who was in several kinds of pain, close to suicide, when she set off for Spain to write an account of bullfighting. While On Bullfighting is learned, its preoccupations are personal in the way that the investigation of the universal always feels personal: the book is a quiet, and beautiful, meditation on death. Not on its sublimity, but its inevitability.



When Kennedy describes the faena, the stylized and "almost religious" posture of the matador as he drives the sword home, her tone flattens, as if she too felt the anti-climax. One imagines that at the end, were the bull to be granted speech, he would say, "Let's get it over with. All this fuss. And what have you proved?" For in the end, as Kennedy's vivid account of the corrida shows, the bull's dying isn't the point, and neither is the sad spectacle of the "fight." In the end the corrida has the pointlessness of a Mass or an exorcism--when it's over, and if you've survived, you must go on. And the beauty of Kennedy's book, and of her stories and novels, is that everyone finds a way to go on, whatever the cost.

The last words of the book? "I don't know what to do."



















George Ovitt 9/23/14

Monday, September 15, 2014

The Death of Sulh-i Kul




Sunlight on a Broken Column by Attia Hosain

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

            T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

The people of India are indebted to the British for many things: their railways, their educational system, their civil service, and their basic governmental structure. Ironically, they are indebted to British as well for their widespread mastery of the English language, as evidenced by the extraordinary colonial and post-Independence flourishing of native and émigré Indian writers writing in English, authors as varied and remarkable as R. K. Narayan, Ved Mehta, Mulk Raj Anand, and Khushwant Singh to Raja Rao, Gucharan Das, Anita Desai, Salman Rushdie, Indira Mahindra, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, Rohinton Mistry, Thrity Umrigar, Amitav Ghosh, Upanmanyu Chatterjee, Shashi Tharoor, and Nyantara Sahgal, to name just some of my many favorites. Yet such benefits (whatever their worth today) came at an exorbitant, still-incalculable price.

Surely one of the most devastating and long-lasting consequences of British rule in India was the systematic, essentially Evangelical destruction of the Mughal Empire—and with it its extraordinary spirit and policy of universal toleration, known as sulh-i kul, which for centuries had bound Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and Christians in an intricate, often radiant fabric of sympathy, fellowship, and love. Writes William Dalrymple in his book The Last Mughal, “The rip in the closely woven fabric of Delhi’s composite culture, opened in 1857, slowly widened into a great gash, and at Partition in 1947 finally broke in two.” One has only to scan the papers today to know that life in India has never been the same. 


Attia Hosain’s gentle, often highly evocative novel, Sunlight on a Broken Column, centers upon an orphaned Muslim girl named Laila and her struggle, in the midst of the larger Independence movement, to find her footing as a Muslim woman in the modern world. Set in in the city of Lucknow in the twilight years of the British Raj, when only the faintest traces of the Mughal Empire remained, the poets Mir and Ghalib but ghosts in the many ruined gardens, the story explores, through a host of sympathetic characters, the many tangled issues—tradition, modernity, democracy, nationalism, sectarianism, feminism, and class—that bedevil the country to this day.

This novel is nostalgic to its core, yet complexly so, involving a harkening back, a genuine affection for the past, that is made compelling, persuasive by Hosain’s distinctly unsentimental  approach. Rather than glorify and romanticize the past she glimpsed as a girl and loved so well, she lets us see it for ourselves. “A monument suggests a gravestone—grey, cold and immutable,” writes Anita Desai in her introduction to the novel. “Her books are not: they are delicate and tender, like new grass, and they stir with life and the play of sunlight and rain. To read them is as if one parted a curtain, or opened a door, and strayed into the past.” 
 
Attia Hosain, born in Lucknow, India, in 1913, was the first woman from amongst the feudal “Taluqhdari” families to graduate from college. A journalist, broadcaster, and short story writer, she divides her time between India and England.


Peter Adam Nash

Sunday, September 7, 2014

"The Seismologist of a Chaotic History"

Drago Jančar, Joyce's Pupil




There is no literature I enjoy more than Eastern European--for its melancholy, for its hard-won irony, for its historical consciousness, for its inattention to the glib conventions of American writing--are there Slovenian MFA programs? I'm giddy when I see diacritical marks above vowels in names I cannot dream of pronouncing. I scour the most obscure and dusty shelves of our few remaining bookstores for novels by Romanian or Polish or Czech writers; I can't imagine wasting time on a NYT's bestseller when there are books by László Krasznahorkai I have yet to read. The moment I open Norman Manea's The Black Envelope I imagine cloudy skies and drably attired, pale-faced, chain-smoking, chess-playing Romanians scurrying through freezing rain to attend subversive political meetings. No blue skies, no Hamptons or Martha's Vineyard (please, spare me the details of what New York intellectuals are up to on this poison-ivy infested island!), no phony angst recounted by the neurotic denizens of Brooklyn--no more! America has a literature of sorts, but little history (what we've had we've forgotten), no civil life, no politics, and certainly no politically-obsessed novelists. Which is why I relish the hours spent with a book like Joyce's Pupil, a fine example of the kind of writing I most admire--stories of desperation set in claustrophobic cities in periods of political turmoil or in the memory--the ever-haunting memory of the turmoil that seeminly began with the election of Charles V as the first Hapsburg Emperor half a millennium ago.

Krasznahorkai: "There are no masks."


 Now I'm sitting in sunshine, but would leave in an instant for a place like this: "The wind stirs the tops of the poplars, clumps of white acacias toss in the breeze, somewhere up river it is raining, while here a dull and foggy light can be seen through the clouds. Organ music emanating from the church of St. Egidio rolls over the cobblestones [cobblestones!], and it bounces off the houses whose empty facades look like inside-out city walls; the powerful sounds chase each other and swirl around the Gothic building." Each of the twelve stories in Joyce's Pupil is set in either literal or metaphorical twilight; nothing much transpires, no one has an epiphany. The title story reprises a disappointing life whose one luminous moment was born in a cryptic comment of James Joyce--the point being that we never understand the truth of our lives until it is too late. There's a bit of Chekhov in a few of the stories ("Death at Mary of the Snows" and "A Tale About Eyes"), cross sections of lives we would have trouble imagining for their unique circumstances, and yet the narrative economy is such that the lives open to us like the lowering clouds of Ljubljana. There are Marxists in these stories, and secret agents, and men and women on the run from their past, professors and writers, political hacks and poor souls. As with my other preferred East European writers, the aura of menace saturates not only the landscapes and the city streets but has been internalized to such an extent that even an innocent moment is rotten with fear and sadness ("The Look of An Angel").  History lies across Jančar's stories in the way dampness pervades the tales of Dubliners, the most east European of west European story collections--but then Ireland's history is not unlike that of Slovenia. In Jančar, as in Joyce, the great curse of living is that no character forgets; but--what do they remember?




Joyce's Pupil is published by Brandon Books of Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland and available on Half-Price Books here http://www.hpb.com/

George Ovitt 9/7/14

Friday, August 29, 2014

Silent Lies The Lake


Efraim's Book by Alfred Andersch

The Homecoming

All the great voyagers return
Homeward as on an arc of thought;   
Home like a ruby beacon burns
As they crest wind, scale wave, soar air;   
All the great voyagers return,

Though we who wait never have done   
Fearing the piteous accidents,
The coral reef sharp as the bones   
It has betrayed, fate’s cormorant   
Unleashed, whose diving’s never done.

Even the voyager of mind
May fail beneath behemoth’s weight;   
Oh, the world’s bawdy carcass blinds   
All but the boldest, rots the sails
And swamps the voyaging of the mind.

But all the great voyagers return
Home like the hunter, like the hare
To its burrow; below, earth’s axle turns
To speed their coming, the following fair
Winds bless their voyage, blow their safe return.

                              Barbara Howes


“Silent lies the lake,” remarks the narrator at one point in this troubling, digressive, often oddly humorous 1967 novel by German author, Alfred Andersch. “What have I come here for?  I have no news story, no feature for the news telephones. Then what am I doing here?” Set largely in post-war Berlin, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, Efraim’s Book tells the story of English newspaper reporter, Georg Efraim, a disaffected German Jew who, having been sent into exile during the war, has finally returned to the scarred, still-haunted city of his birth. Ostensibly sent to Berlin to find out if morale there was high or low, he also returns there to search for clues as to the whereabouts of a Jewish girl gone missing during the war, his former Berlin neighbor and current London editor’s estranged and illegitimate daughter, Esther Bloch.
 
The city Georg finds is drably, un-poignantly familiar to him: the river, the rain, an old synagogue in ruins. Even his return to No. 12 Bismarckstrasse, the house in which he was born and had lived as a boy, is profoundly anti-climactic. Hoping, without malice (‘I didn't come here to look for murders. I don’t hate anybody.’), to meet the people who took possession of the house after the arrest and deportation of his parents, he is disappointed when the woman of the house, the wife of a geologist and professor named Heiss, declares frankly, as if she’d been expecting him all along, “You’d like to visit the house. Do come in.” Of course the Heiss family is not the family that displaced his own, having taken possession of the house only years later—after a string of tenants and refugees—in 1948. Embarrassed, indifferent somehow, Georg feels compelled to reassure her:

“Don't take it to heart,” I say in an attempt to smooth things over. I almost manage to laugh. “It’s always been that way, in every period of history, people losing their homes, their property being divided up as spoils, other people moving in as victors, and so on.”

While surely Frau Heiss is surprised by his reaction of his, the reader herself is not, as even by this early stage in the novel she knows this hero well, at least well enough to appreciate, if not expect, such anguished and cynical twists. Still, and for all the narrator’s candor in these pages, this ‘man without qualities’ remains elusive—difficult, if not finally impossible to know. While a naturalized British subject, Georg Efraim feels neither English nor German nor Jewish even, except to the extent that he is bound to the race by recent history, by the murder of his parents at Auschwitz as Jews. His is a world governed by chaos, a world ruled not by God or fate or logic but by randomness alone. There is not a trace of history or faith in him, nothing but the cold, blunt recognition of chance:  

It’s pure chance twenty years ago Jewish families were exterminated, and not  other families twenty years before that, or later, or now, for example… In half an hour Frau Heiss and her daughters will be sitting down to lunch. They could just as well be dragged out of their house and murdered…

Or so it seems. Not long after this scene, and despite his friends’ insistence upon the very particularity of Hitler’s dream, its stringent, naked rationality, Georg reflects, “It makes no difference where one lives, what one does, who one is.” Of course—and this proves one of the virtues of this novel—it is a cynicism without passion, too wooden, too hollow to believe. Sure enough the motives for his return to Berlin are more complex, more muddied than even he himself seems willing to believe. A newspaperman on assignment, yes, a friend determined to discover the fate of his editor’s daughter, surely, yet his return to Berlin is motivated first and foremost, so the reader learns in time, by his vexing desire to write a book, which he does—a novel about his life, no less! Were that not enough he is writing it (the very story the reader is reading, what the narrator belittles as ‘a certain arrangement of signs’) in German, a language he hasn’t spoken, let alone written, in years. And so the plot thickens. 






Yet there is still another layer to the complexity of this novel, one far from intentional. In the end, what is perhaps most intriguing about this engaging, if imperfect tale, is author Alfred Andersch’s often bumbling and transparent struggle to come to terms—long after the fact—with his own complicity as a German during Hitler’s reign. While briefly interned in Dachau for his Communist sympathies, he—like his fellow Group 47 members, Heinrich Boll and Gunter Grass—spent the war years living comfortably in Germany, if perhaps grudgingly, working and writing unmolested in what, following the war, Andersch defined dubiously as a state of ‘internal emigration’: “I could have emigrated,” he said, “but I did not. To go into internal emigration under a dictatorship is the worst alternative of all.” It was an assertion, a claim, that did not sit well with many of his compatriots, most notably the writer W.G. Sebald who takes him to task in his illuminating essay “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.” At the heart of Sebald’s criticism is what he views as Andersch’s all-but-blind ambition as a writer during the war, a literary avariciousness, a moral and artistic failure, that is only highlighted, compounded, by his efforts in Efraim’s Book. If indeed Andersch was opposed to the Nazis, particularly to their treatment of the Jews, what, wonders Sebald, could have induced him to stay?

Peter Adam Nash

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Talking to Ourselves, But Who Is Listening?

Andrés Neuman, Talking to Ourselves

"It's true, pleasure brings hope."

 

 


The photogenic, talented, and prolific Andrés Neuman--born in Buenos Aires in 1977 and currently living in Granada--has created a wrenching series of disjunctive voices in Talking to Ourselves. Mario is married to Elena and dying of cancer; Lito is their ten-year-old son. The novel reprises monologues by each character, though the strongest and clearest voice belongs to Elena, a complex, literate woman who both grieves for and betrays her dying husband. I was reminded of operatic recitative as I tried to fit together the contrasting voices: it is as if the trio were standing on stage at the same time, but, in the conventional manner of operatic performance, none of the three is at all aware of the presence, never mind the feelings and actions, of the other two. Mario appears to have no awareness of his wife's unhappiness; Elena'a sorrow for Mario's dying is genuine, but it also disguises the disappointments in her own life; and poor Lito, shunted about like a loyal poodle, is deceived by both his mother and father. Near the end of the novel, Lito is effectively written out of the story, which seemed to me an unsatisfying way to deal with a character who had no real role in the story's unwinding.  Neuman is a fine stylist--but I was puzzled by the story's premise, by the notion that three people could have so little knowledge of one another's hearts, and, frankly, so little interest in knowing anything at all about those whom they purport to love.

Then again, why should I have been surprised by the isolation and loneliness of the characters? Isn't this the rule--in families, among friends, between strangers? We talk, but who listens? Perhaps in my summer stupor I've misjudged Neuman's book and misunderstood the novel's core contention: it isn't that we speak to ourselves, it's that we only speak to ourselves.


This next part is about sex.

Apart from the plot--its deficiencies or illogic--I was struck by the fact that Neuman writes about human sexuality better than any writer I've read in a long time, maybe ever. I won't name the couple so as not to spoil the story, and I won't quote the loveliest blue passages, but I will say that at the heart of the novel are long erotic meditations that are both raw and aesthetically stirring. I confess that when I read the "older American stylists" (Roth, Mailer, Updike, and their ilk) I am embarrassed by the ham-handed way in which they depict the sex act--I won't have been the first to notice how phallocentric, laughable, and unbelievable the lovemaking or just plain fucking are in any number of novels, and not only those by older men.  Let's face it, writing about sex without producing pornography is difficult--Henry Miller was, of course, a lecher, but at least Sexus was joyful; coitus in P. Roth often seems like hard work and seldom is erotic, at least to my way of thinking. 

On vacation this past month, and on a whim, I picked up a Gillian Flynn novel to get me through an airplane ride.  I thought, "How bad can it be?" Here's page 12; the speaker is Amy Elliott: "He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly. I would like to be fucked properly!...The Fitzgerald fellows tend to be ineffectually porny in bed, a lot of noise and acrobatics to very little end. The finance guys turn rageful and flaccid. The smart-boys fuck like they're composing a piece of math-rock...I sound quite slutty, don't I?" How bad? Very.  Does this passage sound realistic? Probably. More to the point, does it sound literary? I've just met Amy and already I think: she's seen too many movies, is too fond of stereotypes, is too full of herself.

But Neuman: here's someone who knows his way around a human body: "Tradition has it that sex results in the little death. I now believe those who say [they] haven't experienced the pleasure of harm. Because with [x] I find the opposite is true: each fuck results in resurrection. We insult each other. We tear into each other. We cause each other pain in order to make sure we are still here. And each time we reaffirm the other's presence, the other's suffering, we are as moved as if it were a reunion. Then I have orgasms that stretch the limits of my existence. As though my existence were a vaginal muscle. I want to avenge myself on my own flesh." There's much in these pages that is raw, even shocking--but also real and beautiful. Neuman's novel, ultimately, is about the body--its decay, its death, its resurrection.




George Ovitt 8/21/14

Monday, August 4, 2014

Him



The Portage To San Cristóbal of A.H. by George Steiner

On April 30th, 1945 Adolph Hitler and his newly married bride, Eva Braun, had a quiet lunch, then met with Hitler’s inner circle in the anteroom chamber of his personal bunker in Berlin to say their farewells. Included among the staff members were Martin Bormann and Joseph Goebbels. Earlier, Hitler had given instructions to his personal adjunct, Otto Gunsche, that once he and his wife were dead their bodies were to be burned to ashes. Despite Hitler’s claim that the war would “one day go down in history as the most glorious and heroic manifestation of a people’s will to live,” he’d known by then that the German cause was lost and had ordered two hydrogen cyanide capsules to be prepared for him and his wife. As a typical precaution, he first had the dosage tested on his beloved dog Blondi and her puppies, all of which died. At round 14:30 that day, Hitler and Eva retreated to his sitting room and closed the door. Staff witnesses report hearing a single shot. When they entered the room they found Hitler slumped on the sofa where he sat, blood dripping from his right temple where he had shot himself with his own pistol, a Walther PPK 7.65. On the sofa beside him, his young wife Eva sat slumped away from him, dead from the capsule she had swallowed. In the air was the telltale scent of burnt almonds.


As per Hitler’s instructions, their bodies were carried outside, doused with gasoline and burned to ashes. What little remained of them was covered up in a shallow bomb crater just hours before the advancing Soviet Army seized control of Berlin. 

Stalin, wary about accepting the news that his nemesis was dead, indeed sensing a trick, was the first to suggest the possibility that Hitler was still alive and in hiding somewhere. In the years to follow, the Soviets helped to spawn a variety of international theories regarding Hitler’s fate, most of them ridiculous, some of them cynical Cold War ploys: that he was given refuge by Western allies bent on destroying the Soviet Union, that he and Eva had escaped to Argentina or Brazil, that the Nazis had a secret moon base, that Hitler was an avatar of the Hindu god Vishnu and could never—no matter the weapon—be killed.

Now imagine yourself one of the many Jewish Nazi-hunters who went to work after the war. For there were dozens of them (most notably the relentless and successful Simon Wiesenthal), each of them hell-bent on tracking down such infamous Nazis as Adolf Eichmann, Klaus Barbie, and Josef Mengele. Imagine yourself one of these men, these hunters, at your wit’s end deep in the Brazilian jungle where you have been wandering for months with little contact with the outside world. Imagine one morning—hungry, delirious, stung to madness by the midges and gnats—stumbling upon a clearing in the swamp through which you’ve been slogging for days, a ring of charred stumps, a sudden blue break of sky, and suddenly finding yourself face to face with him, an old man now, der Führer himself, in the flesh.

Such is the engaging premise of George Steiner’s 1979 novel, The Portage To San Cristóbal of A.H.. Yet Steiner is no conspiracy theorist, to be sure, but uses the idea of Hitler still living as a means of getting at more pressing, more philosophical things. A Jew himself, he was more interested in the larger implications of what it would mean to find Hitler, capture him, and bring him to justice. While not the least bit didactic, the novel raises an array of compelling and provocative questions: What would you feel when you first saw him, this butcher, this monster, this all but mythical man? How would you react to the sight of him before you? Would you kick him, curse him, punch him in the face? What, if anything, would you say? And what about justice, revenge? What, once you’d found him, caught him, and seen him tried, would be the significance of your efforts—to Jews, to History, to humanity at large? Would it have any real impact at all? Finally, the novel presses one to wonder how, if ever, a person, a people can comes to terms with such profound and extraordinary grief. Would the killing of Hitler be enough?

As one might imagine, the novel gave rise to instant and bitter controversy, so that for a time its translation into Hebrew and German was strictly forbidden. Clearly Steiner’s aim was to be provocative, to complicate (for Jews especially) what already threatened to become a fixed, hidebound understanding of Hitler and the horror he’d wrought. “The Portage To San Cristóbal of A.H is a parable about pain,” explains Steiner himself in his 1999 Afterword to the novel, “about the abyss of pain endured by the victims of Nazism.” If as a parable it pushed the limits of what was acceptable at the time, it did  so with a wisdom, courage, and conviction we could stand to see more of today.


George Steiner is a French-born American polyglot and polymath philosopher, literary critic, academic, and writer who has taught Comparative Literature and Poetry at Oxford, Harvard, and the University of Geneva. He now lives in Cambridge, England where he has been Extraordinary Fellow at Churchill College at the University of Cambridge. His best known works include Heidegger, The Death of Tragedy, Leo Tolstoy or Fyodor Dostoevsky, Language and Silence, and the extraordinary After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation. 

Peter Adam Nash

Monday, July 28, 2014

The Second Circle


"Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
   esser basciato da cotanto amante,
   questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,
la bocca ma bascio tutta tremante.
   Galeotto fu 'l libro e chi lo scrisse:
   quel giorno piu non vi leggemmo avante."

Inferno, V, 120-125

"That day we read no more." Never will I forget my Dante professor in graduate school reading these lines, and those that follow--Dante, upon hearing the tale of the eternal torment of Paolo and Francesca, swoons ("con corpo morto") at Virgil's feet, so deeply does he feel the story of the young lovers. This Canto also contains one of Dante's most unforgettable images: "As winter starlings riding on their wings/form crowded flocks, so spirits dip and veer/Foundering in the wind's rough buffetings/Upward of downward, driven here and there/With never ease from pain nor hope of rest." (V, 36ff. trans. Robert Pinsky). Thus are the lustful souls of the Second Circle driven hither and yon by the winds of passion. William Blake placed the spirits in a kind of diaphanous digestive tube, generic flesh whirling eternally; Dante lies at the Leader's feet, and, in the background, a nimbus shining with, perhaps, "those two who move along together, so lightly."


I was eager to read Clare Messud's new novel, The Woman Upstairs, since I so enjoyed The Emperor's Children, her story of New York just before September 11, 2001. The Woman Upstairs, multilayered with literary references ("the madwoman in the attic"), also merges two fairy tale themes: Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Nora Eldridge is an unhappy teacher of third graders in Cambridge, Massachusetts--a frustrated artist who creates Joseph Cornell-style boxes, dioramas, or who once did, but who has surrendered her dreams for a more mundane life. She mourns her beloved mother, yearns some of the time for love--she's single, childless, empty, and a part-time or perhaps incoherent feminist--and seems resigned to sadness. Then she meets the extraordinary (too-good-to-be-true if you don't live on Brattle Street in Cambridge) family of Reza Shahid. Reza is Nora's eight-year-old pupil, his mother Sirena is an Italian artist, and his father, Skandar, is a Lebanese-born, French-educated philosopher of history (vaguely looking for morality in the past--rather like looking for wisdom in Congress) who is teaching for a year at Harvard. Nora falls in love, one by one, with each member of the family--first with the precocious little boy with the beautiful eyes and the soul of the Buddha, then with the eccentric but brilliant Sirena who is deeply engaged in a Judy Chicago-like installation called "Wonderland"--yes, the metaphors are piled on thickly, and Ms. Messud, so deft at subtle characterizations, escalates the emotional pitch--Nora's anger, Nora's yearning--by creating a kind of whirlwind of escalating emotion, a series of set encounters (Nora with Skandar, Nora with Sirena, Nora with her gay friend Didi) without a moment of calm reflection and with no sense that Nora's self-awareness increases as she is buffeted about by the winds of her passion.

"Wonderland" will be installed in Paris, and will be a kind of feminist "We are the world," and since Nora is smitten to her mousey core by the scarf-wearing, frizzy-haired, chain-smoking Sirena (with her charming accent; this business of accents was rather embarrassing), she becomes the older woman's confidant. And, of course, eventually, reluctantly, that and more to the husband, who comes across as an out-of-focus Edward Said: cosmopolitan, charming, a sort-of intellectual, but utterly incredible as the lover of Nora. And Nora herself? Her back story is hastily assembled, as if her life was lived in one of tiny boxes she makes to satisfy some dark yearning of her soul. Messud invokes Emily Dickinson and Andy Warhol's Edie Sedgwick in Nora's portrait, and that seems about right: Nora is both cloistered madwoman and modern wild woman, Emily and Edie; prim schoolteacher, overworked Cinderella, but, around the Shahid's, her inhibitions vanish, and her deep yearning for meaning, for love, blows her about like a starling in the wind.  I pictured Nora as Edie--see above--with a look of perpetual surprise, or perhaps of ingenuousness, on her face as she slipped into and out of the lives of Reza, Sirena, and Skandar. That Nora will be betrayed is a foregone conclusion. How could she not be? Everything about the Shahid's feels shallow--but it's worse than that--they're evil in the way of all narcissists and self-seekers. Reza's affection for his teacher is genuine, but what is it exactly that the parents want from this attractive, vivacious, but self-pitying woman? Messud puts the reader in a difficult position: she needs Nora to be vulnerable and therefore open to the overtures from this glamorous academic family; but in making Nora vulnerable, she also makes her weak, a victim awaiting attractive predators. I happened to be reading an essay of Karen Horney's as I was reading The Woman Upstairs. Horney's remarks on "Inhibited Femininity" seemed almost a gloss on Nora Eldridge's character: so willing was she to surrender to "stronger" types, so eager to find fault with herself and to childishly place her faith in those who appear to have life figured out.

Or perhaps she is Francesca da Rimini, blown about by desire--not sexual desire, but a desire for life. As Nora says of herself, she is "ravenous" for living, she "wants it all," and in her eagerness to live fully and deeply, she places her life in the hands of those who cannot value it. The Woman Upstairs seemed to me above all a novel about social class, a Jamesian meditation on the innocence of Americans when confronted by the decadence of Europeans (the French!).  Harvard elites and elementary school teachers, lions and lambs, upstairs and downstairs. Poor Nora! Like Ibsen's Nora Helmer, she's crushed by her family, even if it isn't hers.








George Ovitt (7/28/14)




Thursday, July 10, 2014

To She Who Loves So Sadly / A la del amor más triste











Against Heaven: Selected Poems by Dulce María Loynaz








To She Who Loves So Sadly

You who love a phantom love.
You who give a name to the fog
and to the ash of our dreams.
You who bend down over your
self like a willow bending
over its shadow reflected
in the water. You who cross
your empty arms over your
chest and whisper the word
nobody hears. Come and teach me
to bore through this stony silence.
Teach me to light loneliness on fire
and to keep it aflame.

“The poetry of Dulce María Loynaz is, above all, a poetry of solitude,” writes James O’Connor in his introduction to this marvelous collection. Indeed in reading these poems one comes to treasure her particular solitude like a darkly burnished gem. It is a quality, this reclusion of hers—a relationship to the world, to the word, to herself as a woman, a Cuban, a writer—that gives her poetry (even in English) a grave and lyric beauty, a frankness and aestheticism that is nearly monastic in its clarity, restraint. Yet the object of Loynaz’s  reverence in these poems is as much Death and Love (and paradoxically the solitude they afford her) as it is some hidebound conception of God. “Loynaz,” observes O’Connor, “is a religious poet in the way that Kierkegaard is a religious thinker: melancholy, not ecstasy, is the door to paradise.”

Detachment

The sweetness of feeling more detached every day.
More detached and more lethargic
without knowing if it’s because
all things fade away or oneself fades away.
The sweetness of oblivion like a light dew
falling in the darkness, the sweetness
of being untouched by anything, of transcending everything
like an infinitely distant star
shining in silence.

                                                         In silence?

God help me.

As a poet Loynaz thinks often of oblivion, of death, but less as an end to worldly things, to the burdens of this earth-bound life (which she also recognizes), than as a consummation of them, a means of transcendence, a mundane, temporal, ultimately secular rapture that exhilarates, even as it moves one to sadness and dread.

Always, Love

Always, love.
Above the kiss
that proved food for worms,
above the roses that rot
every blue morning in a coffin,
above the thousand moons in the slime
on the floor left behind
by the pale mollusk,
above the bread mixed with as,
above the clenched fist beside the iron.
Always, love. Beyond every flight,
beyond every bitterness, beyond every thought,
beyond mankind, beyond space and time.
Always, love. At the very moment
the body frees itself from its shadow,
at the very moment darkness begins
to feed on the body.
Always, love. (two shipwrecked words
between body and soul nailed to the wind!)


Loynaz’s life itself, spent all but entirely in Cuba, was not without its own melancholy hues. Born in Havana in 1902, the daughter of Enrique Loynaz del Castillo, a famous general in Cuba’s War of Independence, Maria Dulce lived the privileged, sheltered life of most young women of her class, though she traveled widely, earned a Doctorate of Civil Law, and—thanks to her family’s reputation for patronizing the arts—made the early acquaintance of many great writers of the time, such as Gabriela Mistral, Alejo Capentier, Juan Ramón Jiménez, and Frederico García Lorca, each of whom spent time in their home. 

After trying her hand at the law (and not liking it), Loynaz directed all of her energy to the challenge of writing poetry. Though she had written and published poetry since she was a teenager, it was not until the 1950’s that she really hit her stride as a writer. In a span of eight years the Madrid publishing house published four works of hers, including three collections of her poetry (Garden, Poems with no Names, and Lyric Poems) as well as a highly successful novel of hers called A Summer in Tenerife, which Luis Bañuel tried without success to adapt for the screen.


Around 1959, having refused to join the communist party (for reasons more personal than political), Loynaz gave up writing and publishing altogether to live in seclusion in her family’s old house. It was not until the late 1980’s, after nearly thirty years of anonymity and solitude, that her work was rediscovered, earning her a flood of national and international distinctions, including the National Order of Carlos Manuel de Cespedes, the Order of Felix Varela of the Culture, the National Culture Distinction Award, the Alejo Carpentier Medal, the Cuban National Prize for Literature, as well as the Nobel Prize equivalent for the Spanish-speaking world, the Miguel de Cervantes y Saavedra Literature Prize, awarded to her in 1993 by King Juan Carlos I of Spain. 

Spanish Nobel Laureate Juan Ramón Jiménez had many names by which he knew this modest, elegant, extraordinary woman: “Sister Dragonfly, Saint Lawyer of Lost Jonquils, of Lost Mosquitos, of Lost Rowboats, of Lost Pins, of Lost Toothpicks, Ophelia Loynaz the Subtle, archaic and new…” In his prologue to Cuban Poetry in 1936 he described her as a cross between “the gothic and the overreal,” “a singer desiccated, nailed by her own heart” whose deeply private poetry was alive with a “mystic irony.”

While Loynaz was not the first or last of the world’s great melancholy writers, she is undoubtedly a singular strain of the breed. Neither misanthrope nor bully, neither narcissist nor suicide nor drunk, she spent a nun’s life as a poet, keeping her own grave counsel, admiring her own dark and furtive saints. In his eccentric and magisterial work The Anatomy of Melancholy, first published in 1621, the English writer Robert Burton not only defines the condition of melancholy at length (virtually ad infinitum, and with a garrulous digression on human anatomy), as well as its causes, symptoms, and ‘prognostics,’ but devotes some 261 pages to describing its remedy. What would he have said, I wonder, to the likes of Dulce María Loynaz, a woman, a poet, with no interest in a cure?

Peter Adam Nash