The story of a new name by Elena Ferrante (Europa)

storyofanewnameferrante“In the spring of 1966, Lila in a state of great agitation, entrusted to me a metal box that contained eight notebooks”.

NEW readers do not start here. The second part of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan passionatas is not a sequel, just the next chapter, the explosive repercussions post the wedding as the girls run their new found sexuality up against brooding, entrenched towers of machismo.

We are in a full fury. Two new shops are to be built. Leila hovers between narcissistic muse and volcanic evil. Nerdy, bespectacled Lina is torn between her true love and her lover, between her friend’s adult freedoms and new wealth and her own striving with academia and poverty. She takes her first (luxurious) bath.

And behind all this we feel the shadowy politics of Naples. We are reminded that Don Achille was perhaps murdered by a woman, that Stefano was always the actor, that others are also being swept up in a torrent of hormones. The Solaras have the money and connections while looming for the other boys is a different kind of purgatory, conscription into an Italian army representing just what at this stage in Italian history – the re-built state, a re-run of fascism, a police to a settlement that has its own laws of omertà?

“The months ahead were packed with small events that tormented me a great deal,” Lina declares as she moves through each mood, each shift of politic, each emotional re-alignment, each dilemma aggrandising the petty into this great opera of four books. The scale here is Proust or Balzac which is to say any small detail can assume an import as much as another. Through this, fittingly, the plot has more than a few eye-popping twists.

The deliciousness is all in the detail, the sense of capturing a time, of the emergence of the girls, of the sheer excitement of their presences, being a part of their world, their sisterhood, of living each moment with them, daft, cruel, spontaneous, spiteful, of their femininity, told as it were like a great, uncontainable gush of tenement gossip while each incident resonates through a band of families and a wider society.

The girls are intertwined but opposites, the product of the tenement, the post war scramble to make something of themselves, a determined duo.

Not speaking Italian well enough I am curious of the sub text in which they speak in dialect, in Neapolitan, in higher Italian which doubtless infers more subtleties which is only referred to in translation, but also oddly why, in what is after all a beautifully translated book, the title was changed from the Italian where it is literally a Bad Name.

NB: The final book of the four The Story of the Lost Child has been listed for the first Booker International prize.

 

 

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Being mortal by Atul Gawande (Metropolitan)

beingmortal

“I learned about a lot of things in medical school, but mortality wasn’t one of them.”

ON the surface this is the story of the death of Atul Gawande’s father, who, which makes it the more poignant, was also a doctor. And it is filled out with detailed accounts of other deaths he has witnessed primarily as a clinician. Or as he concludes “our most cruel failure in how we treat the sick and aged”.

Gawande takes us non medicos on a unique, chronological journey from the hated poor houses at the turn of the last century. He offers one image of the treatment of an elderly dementia patient who wandered at night. The prescription was a ball and chain.  The very term nursing home was an insurance tactic to move old people out of hospitals. “You would have thought we would have burned the nursing homes to the ground. We haven’t…”

Part of the failure in confronting how we deal with our last days, he argues, is one of imagination. Or not our imagination but that of his own profession. There comes a point at the end of life where the Hippocratic oath to keep a patient safe and healthy starts to become obsolete. All we might want is what he terms “sustenance of the soul” and probably no pain. He enlists one revolutionary example of an old folks’ home where first dogs, then cats and then birds were introduced as companions to give patients ownership. One of the most important things he suggests that any of us might want is our own front door and control of who comes through it.

All of this he backs up with froths of statistics. “Our medical system is excellent at trying to stave off death with $12,000 a month on chemotherapy, $4,00 a day intensive care, $7,000 an hour surgery….” all of which accounts for 25% of all American health expenditure being spent at the end of a lifetime, when at the end of the day, death is, after all, inevitable and much of these expensive treatments both intrusive and often unnecessary.

The argument is that doctors and nurses have not worked out dying as well as they, or, more crucially, as we might, like…best read this before you are too infirm to think for yourself.

 

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My brilliant friend by Elena Ferrante (Europa)

mybeautifulfriend

“This morning Rino telephoned. I thought he wanted money again and I was ready to say no.”

WE start with a mystery, a disappearance. And also a set of family trees, in case you might need to flip back quickly to check your Scannos from your Sarratores who form an enormous backdrop. We swiftly pick up with the central friends Lena and Lila, with their dolls, Nu and Tina. Although we start in childhood, in first grade, Lena’s voice is the autobiographer who will slowly bring in all this cast of Naples in the ’50s and will quickly explain the brilliance of her new pal.

“We lived in a world in which children and adults were often wounded, blood flowed from the wounds, they festered and sometimes people died”. Lena then gives a few choice examples.

There is a sense of the Italian in the very words and phrases, elegantly translated by Ann Goldstein (who just happens also to be head of copy at the New Yorker), which convey a warm, expansive affection, of the telling of a story in the grand manner, suitable and fitting tributes to all who appear, good and bad, frightening (Elena’s mother), more frightening (the ogre next door) or a rival school beauty Gigliola, daughter of the pastry maker.

Central to all this is Raffaella Cerullo, called Lina but Lila to her friend, a girl of determination. “…she was skinny, dirty and always had a cut or bruise of some sort…with us she spoke a scathing dialect, full of swear words…”

The spinning of the narrative is quite masterful.  Innocuous details assume an unexpected import. There are no crutches, no conceits, or for that matter sentiment but a driving imperative to get on with the important things, the story, the Italianness, the 1950s and as the girls agree, to make some money and get the hell out of their claustrophobic tenement.

As the first of the quartet of Neapolitan novels you might be tempted to fear some hybrid Inspector Montalbano meets the Forsythes, but not at all, it is as original as Don Corleone’s smirk and has its own brio and bustle.

“I hoped to detach myself from that sum of misdeeds and compliances and cowardly acts of the people we knew, whom we loved, whom we carried…”

I especially like this description, for example:

“Rino got angry. Not only that: right before my eyes, he went through a kind of transformation. he became red in the face, he swelled up around the eyes and cheekbones, he couldn’t contain himself and exploded in a series of curses and expletives…”

Transformations are really at the heart of things here, from girlhood, from the legacy of war, from school friends…

Ferrante keeps her own identity as a writer a secret, although her family secrets are surely here. And she is a natural storyteller. Each chapterette opens with a train of thought which then moves usually into a supportive, forward looking episode. And then on Thursday…

She has the sense of a tabloid reporter unearthing the most headline catching nuggets while carefully holding back from interfering. She lets her characters’ dialogue set up the drama. Although effusively, even lavishly Italian in rhythm and rolling lilt, you would not say there is a word out of place.

And we are drawn into the friendship of the two girls, as if a part of their own clique…her friend is not the only brilliant one here.

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In the cafe of lost youth By Patrick Modiano (MacLehose Press)

lostyouth

“Of the two entrances to the cafe, she always used the narrower one, the one they called the shabby door.”

CLEVER, this. Modiano drills down into a euro-psyche of paranoia, of living in a world of secret policemen, of secrets themselves, a balance or imbalance of freedom and oppressions. The strange Captain keeps a diary of everyone who drinks in a bar because, he says, he wants to fix a moment in time, to bring order to the anarchy of the city, he is a chronicler of imbibers, for what reason, is the rub.

Modiano further stamps the text with repeated and detailed street names almost like a guide book to Paris, a Paris that has now gone perhaps, as have other things. This is what you might call psyco-geography at its best.

At the centre is Louki (not her real name, of course), a beautiful obsession along with her “dark-haired man in a suede jacket”.

Louki prefers to watch movies for the colourful, exotic landscapes  rather than the plot. So her own story is dwarfed by its moody surroundings, by its bagfuls of details. Our heroine is in flight, because she prefers to be leaving not arriving, she likes running away…

As with Modiano’s other books MacLehose Press has produced an edition that is fittingly elegant for a Nobel prize winner, the choice of paper, typography, white space all compliment Modiano’s succinct style. It is a nice thing to hold aswell as to read.

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The 100 best novels in English by Robert McCrum (Galileo)

100bestnovels“The first classic of English literature I remember reading is Animal Farm. I must have been about 11 years old.”

THE very first novel, Robert McCrum argues, was a protest by a puritan dissenter written from inside prison, Pilgrim’s Progress, in 1678. Fifty years later a pamphleteer and sometime spy Daniel Foe (he would add the De before Foe as an affectation) introduced the conversational story teller as a first person in Robinson Crusoe. In 1726 the satirist Jonathan Swift dreamed up Gulliver’s Travels and then Samuel Richardson wrote the cruel downfall and shame of Clarissa in 1748. Richardson though was not a writer as such but a printer, looking for a profitable use for his machinery.

The little, scholarly background vignettes – the dramas behind the dramas –  to each of these books, most of which we already know, and also to other books – at least another 500 which get a mention in passing – present almost as a thesis in themselves. Straightaway McCrum draws a link between John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress and Charlotte Bronte, Mark Twain, John Steinbeck and even Enid Blyton. The story of a man in search of the same kind of a truth can also be found, he holds, in modern works as disparate as Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy or even Portnoy’s Complaint.

Great novels share, he suggests, the story telling, the characters, the use of English here as a first language (no translations) and dialogue that moves the narrative along.

The list is cleverly arranged chronologically ending in 2000 with Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang.

Each author only gets one mention so Jane Austen gets Emma, Thomas Hardy has Jude the Obscure. Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Danoway appears ahead of the Lighthouse while DH Lawrence earns a mention for the Rainbow rather than the more populist Lady Chatterley. The device sidetracks arguments as to which might be their best work (that is another discusion). In that sense it is a list about authors to be explored further, but it also manages to detail how and why the books were written and published at all, some to pay debts, some out of professional jealousy, some politically inspired. The first to be actually commissioned, it seems, was Little Women by Louisa May Alcott in 1868. Alcott had a local reputation around Boston as a “bit of a scribbler”.

The first American work comes from Edgar Allen Poe in 1838 as the Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. Many early books had such long, lavish titles. David Copperfield had no less than six monikers before its first, rather splendid, incarnation as The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield, the Younger of Blunderstone Rectory (Which He Never Meant to be Published On Any Account).

There are are half forgotten classics like the first detective writer Wilkie Collins (‘the godfather’) for Moonstone in 1868 but that does not preclude the presence of Dashiel Hammett’s Maltese Falcon nor Raymond Chandler’s Big Sleep.

Of course, any list is there to be disagreed with, but McCrum makes light of even trying to be definitive.

(What? No Forsyte Saga?  John Galsworthy won the Nobel Prize? Albeit he was published in the same year as James Joyce’s Ulysses, as was the not so often mentioned Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis which McCrum concedes has a difficult opening 50 pages).

The choices have been bitchily criticised for the lack of women writers but given that he is spanning 400 years perhaps he was just reluctant to artificially redress a balance. The earliest female writer is Jane Austen with Emma in 1816 followed by Mary Shelley with Frankenstein in 1818. In fact four of his preferred top 10 books are by women.

He also makes an interesting point that since the arrival of Amazon, sales of books overall have increased, as has the number of books published which makes this road map more relevant (as it does this blog) and essential for anyone who thinks they have a novel in them.

Most of all McCrum encapsulates in one place the great triumph of imagination that is fiction writing and which as Harari argues is a cornerstone of our civilisation and our species.

 

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The wallcreeper by Nell Zink (Fourth Estate)

wallcreeper

“I was looking at the map when Stephen swerved, hit the rock, and occasioned the miscarriage.”

A WALLCREEPER is a small, blue grey mountain bird, similar to a nuthatch except it has striking crimson wings which only show in flight.

Nell Zink skillfully uses the title imagery not least in hovering dispassionately above her heroine Tiff to record her whirlwind marriage to researcher geek and bird spotter Stephen.

The writing and plot are scaffold tight, the humour sharp as a beak.

“Tiffany, he said, that means a divine revelation. From Theophany.”

“It means a lampshade,” I said. “It is a way to get round the problem of putting your light under a bushel. The light and bushel are one.”

Three weeks later they are married. Stephen is not quite all he seems, and nor is she. “I was pretty bad as wives go”. We have a love story in reverse. They discover each other slowly after the event, almost an emo-detecto. The tempo is Ramones brisk. Her punchline at the end takes less than half a page.

Her characters are articulate; the imagery precise; the environmental backdrop in Berne and Berlin topical and relevant.

It is an accomplished piece which might/could have been one of those trashy me-and-my-sex tomes, or the underpinning how I-became-an-eco-warrior by mistake, but elegantly Zink weaves personal and professional together, a kind of literary Prada, or as it is set in Germany, say Oska, probably for sure wearing feathers.

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Intermission by Owen Martell (Windmill Books)

intermission

“It was late in the evening, after dinner and Debby, before Harry got a chance to open the paper.”

OWEN Martel told me that Dylan was probably not the greatest Welsh writer called Thomas, but only the second, or perhaps third best after…Wikipedia lists seven notable literary Thomases….

In the same way Bill may not be the best known Evans to surface in America, Wikipedia lists more than 50 pages to choose from. Ostensibly this is the story of the jazzman’s traumatic silence after the death in a car crash of his bassist Scott LaFaro. Equally it could be the story of Welsh expatriates like Bill’s father, Harry snr who might, after a few glasses of whisky, mention that it was a pity Wales did not follow the Irish secession from Britain in 1916. Instead he and many other families headed to New York…

Some background: Bill Evans was the pianist for Miles Davis. He formed his own trio which recorded one of the seminal jazz albums Sunday at the Village Vanguard. Days after, the double bassist Scott Lafaro died in a car crash. Evans went into shock and called a hiatus which is the story, or parenthesis in his life, of this book.

One mark of a good writer is that he/she can write about anything, so “the meeting of eyes had something zoological about it, a scoping out of caged beasts”.

The story is told from the perspective of each of the Evans family who dance obliquely around Bill’s silences, careful not to upset him like he is a prized piece of fragile family porcelain…a trip to the golf course becomes an event, a small triumph. The only person he really responds to is his niece Debby, for whom another album from the sessions Waltz for Debby was taken. The little girl tends him with imaginary lemonade and efficient kindness.

The piano is also a part of this story.  “The white keys, exposed again to the lamplight, are oysterous, the black lace with silver where his fingers, for all their apparent glide, have left snail-trail deposits”. And so is summer in New York. “The heat hit him like waves, yielding the day’s accumulation slowly, like a poisoner dosing his victims”.

It is also a story about a blank, nothing happening, faithfully, nothing happens, although Evans real life was not short of dramas  like heroin addictions, running off with a young waitress, and older brother and narrator here Harry’s ultimate schizophrenia and suicide.

Martell waves a flag for jazz and for Welsh writing.

Btw: StuffAboutNames.com tells me there are 75 other Owens listed as writers, but only four other Martells and while we are on the etymological, Windmill is an imprint of the galactic Random House, dedicated among other things to exceptional new talent. Good tilt, boys and girls.

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David Bowie’s 100 best reads

The late David Bowie was an enthusiastic reader. In 2013, he posted  his 100 favorite reads on his Facebook page. Here it is:

Interviews With Francis Bacon by David Sylvester
Billy Liar by Keith Waterhouse
Room At The Top by John Braine
On Having No Head by Douglass Harding
Kafka Was The Rage by Anatole Broyard
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
City Of Night by John Rechy
The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Iliad by Homer
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Tadanori Yokoo by Tadanori Yokoo
Berlin Alexanderplatz by Alfred Döblin
Inside The Whale And Other Essays by George Orwell
Mr. Norris Changes Trains by Christopher Isherwood
Halls Dictionary Of Subjects And Symbols In Art by James A. Hall
David Bomberg by Richard Cork
Blast by Wyndham Lewis
Passing by Nella Larson
Beyond The Brillo Box by Arthur C. Danto
The Origin Of Consciousness In The Breakdown Of The Bicameral Mind by Julian Jaynes
In Bluebeard’s Castle by George Steiner
Hawksmoor by Peter Ackroyd
The Divided Self by R. D. Laing
The Stranger by Albert Camus
Infants Of The Spring by Wallace Thurman
The Quest For Christa T by Christa Wolf
The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin
Nights At The Circus by Angela Carter
The Master And Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Herzog by Saul Bellow
Puckoon by Spike Milligan
Black Boy by Richard Wright
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With The Sea by Yukio Mishima
Darkness At Noon by Arthur Koestler
The Waste Land by T.S. Elliot
McTeague by Frank Norris
Money by Martin Amis
The Outsider by Colin Wilson
Strange People by Frank Edwards
English Journey by J.B. Priestley
A Confederacy Of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
The Day Of The Locust by Nathanael West
1984 by George Orwell
The Life And Times Of Little Richard by Charles White
Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom: The Golden Age of Rock by Nik Cohn
Mystery Train by Greil Marcus
Beano (comic, ’50s)
Raw (comic, ’80s)
White Noise by Don DeLillo
Sweet Soul Music: Rhythm And Blues And The Southern Dream Of Freedom by Peter Guralnick
Silence: Lectures And Writing by John Cage
Writers At Work: The Paris Review Interviews edited by Malcolm Cowley
The Sound Of The City: The Rise Of Rock And Roll by Charlie Gillete
Octobriana And The Russian Underground by Peter Sadecky
The Street by Ann Petry
Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon
Last Exit To Brooklyn By Hubert Selby, Jr.
A People’s History Of The United States by Howard Zinn
The Age Of American Unreason by Susan Jacoby
Metropolitan Life by Fran Lebowitz
The Coast Of Utopia by Tom Stoppard
The Bridge by Hart Crane
All The Emperor’s Horses by David Kidd
Fingersmith by Sarah Waters
Earthly Powers by Anthony Burgess
The 42nd Parallel by John Dos Passos
Tales Of Beatnik Glory by Ed Saunders
The Bird Artist by Howard Norman
Nowhere To Run The Story Of Soul Music by Gerri Hirshey
Before The Deluge by Otto Friedrich
Sexual Personae: Art And Decadence From Nefertiti To Emily Dickinson by Camille Paglia
The American Way Of Death by Jessica Mitford
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
Lady Chatterly’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
Teenage by Jon Savage
Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh
The Hidden Persuaders by Vance Packard
The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin
Viz (comic, early ’80s)
Private Eye (satirical magazine, ’60s – ’80s)
Selected Poems by Frank O’Hara
The Trial Of Henry Kissinger by Christopher Hitchens
Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes
Maldoror by Comte de Lautréamont
On The Road by Jack Kerouac
Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet of Wonder by Lawrence Weschler
Zanoni by Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Transcendental Magic, Its Doctrine and Ritual by Eliphas Lévi
The Gnostic Gospels by Elaine Pagels
The Leopard by Giusseppe Di Lampedusa
Inferno by Dante Alighieri
A Grave For A Dolphin by Alberto Denti di Pirajno
The Insult by Rupert Thomson
In Between The Sheets by Ian McEwan
A People’s Tragedy by Orlando Figes
Journey Into The Whirlwind by Eugenia Ginzburg

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The paying guests by Sarah Waters (Virago)

PayingGuests“The Barbers had said they would arrive by three. It was like waiting to begin a journey, Frances thought.”

SARAH Water’s writing career follows the trusted big crimo formula. She does not have a central hero/ine but her themes are distinct. You know what you are getting. A one girl crusade to offset the heterosexuality of Mills and Boon. Girls to the fore, skiving their cares away. A carefully prepared period backdrop. The conversation in the publisher’s office might have been: Can you write the same book again? But different? Yes, another 600 pages, please. Waters crimes though are not to be solved but rather committed with awe, angst, glee.

Her Little Stranger was listed as number 45 in the flakey BBC poll of the best English novels, sandwiched between Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. Umm.

Her new novel is a forensic analysis of a passionate affair that barely overlooks a heart flutter or a floorboard creaking. It won the Sunday Times fiction book of the year.

Her singular skill is to let her story unravel through her characters so the plot unfolds in a present tense. Her period is picked off with timely adjectives…pluck… queer…a fizz of impatience… leisurely yodelling yawns.

As you might argue about Fifty Shades of Grey, it is firstly a love story, yes between women but not so you would say it was seedy: “How well she filled her own skin. She might have been poured generously into it, like treacle”. Waters can write.

Or this early meeting on the stairs. “Her kimono parted as she landed, exposing more of her night-dress, and giving an alarming suggestion of the rounded, mobile unsupported flesh inside.”

We are on the cusp of the end of world war 1. There is a sense of, as yet undefined, hope and freedom to come. Frances’ two brothers have been killed. Her father has died leaving a  financial mess. Her mother and her have let go the servants and taken in the paying guests.

Here is a rather splendid image: “Their friendship sometimes struck Frances as being like a piece of soap – like a piece of ancient kitchen soap that had got worn to the shape of her hand”.

The asphyxiating, inevitable denouement gets the same meticulous chronicling, a whole closet of angsts, guilts, deceits which can hardly be as sexy as the chase of the first half and are more testing of our sympathies…the formula badly needed a gear change but eventually France’s demons become flesh, the chain slips back onto the cogs for a final disentanglement of limbs post the protracted clinch between passion and guilt.

There is an elegant appraisal of early lesbian fiction by Margaret Talbot here in the New Yorker.

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Into the wild by Jon Krakauer (Pan)

intothewild

“Greetings from Fairbanks. This is the last you shall hear of  me Wayne”.

JON Krakauer wrote one of the great Everest books Into Thin Air, which I have not included here because it was written in 1997. This work is from the same time, originally published as a magazine article commissioned by the magazine Outside about a disappearance in 1992. Then Krakauer retraced the last months of his would-be vagabond hero for this book.

His style has the concision, the name checking of Truman Capote and the story more than a little of Modiano except we are in the netherlands, underneath the comfortable blanket of the American dream, armed only with a journal, a few postcards, a few reminiscences.

Chris, aka Alex, McCandless, college educated, from a good family,  renounces everything to live the life on the road, giving his savings to Oxfam, hopping freight trains, scoring mission beds. His dream is to travel to Alaska, inspired by his hero Jack London in tales like White Fang and Call of the Wild. But as the reporter in Krakauer points out, London was not perhaps the best of role models, killing himself at 40, “a fatuous drunk, obese and pathetic”.

But Alaska, it seems, “has always been a magnet for dreamers and misfits”.

Krakauer skilfully picks up this mystery and turns it into an exquisite examination of the psychology of taking risks in general, the quest for danger and the thin line between bravery and foolishness. On the way he manages to include a terrifying climb of his own and end on a detective story twist to boot.

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