“Are national memories related to individual memories and if not how do they differ? What is the relationship between national memory and national identity – the latter subject now being acutely foregrounded by political events since 2016 both in Europe and in the US. And yet if warnings of the dangers of nationalism are never far from the surface of Ishiguro’s work, the past two years have shown us that those warnings are not being heeded. The ground beneath us is shaking as the giant stirs.”
“Perhaps Jesus made me a painter for people who aren’t born yet.’
This line, spoken to a priest charged with assessing Vincent for possible release from the asylum in Saint Remy where he has been interred after a latest bout of his illness, seems to me central to the director’s vision. With more than a century of art market hindsight, it’s an easy enough line, although I do not know for sure if the artist ever said it. It feels unrealistically self-confident.”
“He was probably only looking for a partner. So begins one of Mary Oliver’s short essays from this collection ‘Who cometh here?’about a black bear. This poor bear having struggled long and hard to reach Provincetown (‘crossing Massachusetts, swimming the channel, striding the length of the Cape’) got tranquilised and put in a van and returned to, as far as the rangers knew, the point where he had begun.”
I reviewed Caroline Criado Perez research on the data bias that causes invisibility of the female in data about ‘mankind’. Essential reading for anyone who assumes that in the 21st century equality of the sexes is a done deal.
“her service is even more remarkable for covering a time when women didn’t register on the heroism scale – or any other scale much. Even more incredible, is that despite the fact Virginia Hall was disabled by a shooting accident which left her as an amputee she personally oversaw and took part in some of the most daredevil exploits to help the allies win WW2.”
At once both ultra contemporary and completely ageless, this book sums up societies both sides of the Atlantic as they ruthlessly are rather than as we might like to see ourselves.
” Thank goodness for his genius to humanise modern America, to bring the worlds of Saigon, Dunkin donuts, food stamps and nail bars crashing together as the voice of his lived experience. How Vuong skewers the appalling opioid scandal which has decimated the US and is making its way to the UK.”
“I was worried that the book might be quite technical and I wouldn’t understand it. But I need not have worried. Permanent Record is much more about the why rather than the how. Why a young man might give up his whole life as he knows it – home, family, friends, extremely well paid job – for his principles.”
“Written with a sense of irony perhaps but also not so far from the truth of what many endured at such institutions – many were scarred for life by such experiences. I found this early section of the book the most interesting as Lewis negotiates life without his mother, surviving the horrendous Wynyards, his closeness to his brother Warnie (a closeness later lost) and their father Albert’s struggles to raise two motherless boys.”
Review of #Becoming C.S. Lewis: A Biography of young Jack Lewis (1898-1918) (Crossway)
Harry Lee Poe
This biography of C.S. Lewis (1898-1918) covers the formative years: his childhood, his mother’s untimely death, family relationships with especial emphasis placed on the rather miserable scool years in a place called Wynyards, which thankfully doesn’t exist any more, and later on, Malvern College.
“In September 1908, without benefit of trial by a jury of his peers, contrary to magna carta, and in the absence of habeas corpus, young Jack Lewis found himself interred in a concentration camp.”
(aka boarding school)
Written with a sense of irony perhaps but also not so far from the truth of what many endured at such institutions – many were scarred for life by such experiences. I found this early section of the book the most interesting as Lewis negotiates life without his mother, surviving the horrendous Wynyards, his closeness to his brother Warnie (a closeness later lost) and their father Albert’s struggles to raise two motherless boys.
The latter half of the book deals with Lewis as a teenager from leaving Malvern to being tutored for Oxford Entrance in the private home of a man called Fitzpatrick – a friend of his father’s. There is also a lengthy section dealing with Lewis’ literary influences including:
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, Chretien de Troyes. William Morris’ tales of Siegrfried and The Well at the World’s End – a story set in an historical medieval world where the four sons of King Peter of Upmeads set out to explore the world. Spenser’s Faerie Queene, The Norse myths.
The horrors of the First World War, in which his brother Warnie was fighting for his and everyone else’s lives, scarcely impinged upon the young Jack sheltered in his mentor Kirkpatrick’s house in Great Bookham in those days surrounded by open country. Jack’s letters to his friend Arthur continue to reflect his literary obsessions. Lewis referred in other writings to that sense of longing and desire that nothing in ordinary experience could satisfy and doesn’t strike me as being anyone who ever wished to engage with the world. Given what was happening at the time perhaps that’s unsurprising.
But the values that he cared about in literature were not reflected in the ‘brute universe that consisted of a meaningless dance of atoms’
But then oddly after such arguments Poe states of Lewis:
“He could be dismissive of imaginations as a teenager because he thought the world of imagination was not real.”
Yet it seemed the imagination is where Lewis mostly dwelt. Rejecting his father’s faith in his struggle for his own identity and independence “the last thing Jack wanted was an interfering God from whom one could never escape,” there followed a struggle with various ideologies, materialist and metaphysical. Lewis embraced theories such as ‘logical positivism’ (the view that only what can be verified by sensory evidence actually exists and has meaning) and a confusion of scientific and philosophical strands.
Describing him as a typical teenager – a construct that barely existed at the beginning of the 20th century – Poe’s descriptions of Lewis immersing himself in classics, philosophy, literature and history from a young age, in Homer, Spenser and Ruskin, show a young man earmarked for the ivory towers of Oxford, where he meets and befriends J.R.R. Tolkein.
The book covers Lewis’ entry into Oxford and his concerns about the possibility of conscription. In 1916 apparently oblivious to the fact that his brother was fighting in the Battle of the Somme, Jack and his father were making plans regarding his entrance examinations into Oxford. Until a letter arrived from his brother describing being surrounded by “things which were once men”.
The author describes Jack as being adolescent and rebellious and perhaps for those days he was but he comes across more as complacent and the idea of a seventeen year old being considered rebellious because he doesn’t want to do what his father tells him is a bit old hat. Certain sections of the book covering whether or not Jack would enlist, or with whom he would spend the Easter holidays, which operas he may or may not have attended, struck me as being superfluous.
For fans of the Chronicles of Narnia and other of Lewis’ writings, there is some interest here in following the trail of white stones that led through the forest of his young psyche.
But for those who wish to find the wardrobe and pass through behind the fur coats to the forest where it is always winter, never Christmas – and especially for those who wish to meet Mr. Tumnus carrying his packages wrapped in brown paper – you are much better off reading the books.
Thanks to #NetGalley and #Crossway for this review copy.
I didn’t think I was going to review this joyous book. It won the Booker Prize which restricts the conversation a bit. What is there left to say? Yet I was fortunate to be in the audience to attend a talk given by the author at the Hay Festival and this changed my mind. So here are my thoughts.
Evaristo’s prose sits on the page in all its poetic wholeness with scarcely a capital letter or full stop to be seen. Yet unlike Woolf who can sometimes leave you scrabbling for a handhold or for a breath, this work flows perfectly like a river out of Eden. It’s not officially stream of consciousness. I have no idea how she did it, but Evaristo’s background is in poetry and her knowledge of scansion must have helped.
The book which in unBooker-like fashion is not a challenging read, follows the lives of 12 women in modern Britain.
The first question that Peter Florence, the Director and co-founder of Hay Festival who also happened to be Chair of the Booker panel this year asked was: We understand ‘girl’ and ‘woman’ but what about ‘other’ The reply from Evaristo was that she wanted to show how these women come to be perceived as being ‘other’. What it is about societies that ‘others’ people.
What does it mean to be ‘other’. Race, identity and belonging – the topic that gave birth to a thousand and one theses and to which we can add gender and sexual orientation, are all things which can confuse, emotionally and intellectually. Which of us really knows ourselves? But the author does not seem in the least confused about any of it, getting inside the heads of each of her characters, taking them from childhood to the epiphanic moment when they find a way to be.
It is not just a matter of being black in a society in which to be black meant you could not book a bed for the night because your putative landlady thought your colour might rub off on her sheets (welcome to Great Britain pre-Race Discrimination laws). It is not just a book about having a particular skin colour – to be a woman even in 2019 is to be ‘other’ from the standpoint of many aspects of our societies in which our institutions are still crawling out of Victorian patriarchal attitudes and doing so relatively slowly, changing only when forced to do so by law or scandal or both.
A lot of books (thankfully) are now written by women – some treat of the reality of lived female experience in a modern world. Many do not. Some writers of both sexes add female characters – even strong female characters – as a box ticking exercise or as characters to be exploited in some way by men.
Girl Woman Other is a breath of fresh air in the contemporary literary scene and I am so happy that Evaristo has been recognised.
Elif Shafak. 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in this Strange World (Viking) 2019
Elif Shafak I regard as one of today’s greatest writers. I loved The Forty Rules of Love and Three Daughters of Eve although I struggled a bit with the Architect’s Apprentice but that’s OK. It was an earlier work and it’s not always possible to love everything.
Leila is the author’s masterwork so far. 10 minutes 38 seconds in this Strange World was on the shortlist for the Man Booker when Bernadine Evaristo won with Margaret Atwood. It must have been an unenviable task to judge this year’s prize.
Like Evaristo, Shafak takes a culture – her culture –and shows us how it excludes, abases and abuses women in a way that is culturally so normal that it is invisible. Such invisibility does not extend to the minds of writers and artists, of course, many of whom are currently subject to persecution in Turkey. In a moving tribute to her grandmother, whose funeral she did not feel able to attend for political reasons, the author says that she felt the fictional character of Leila and her grandmother had met and become good friends:
“… sister-outsiders. After all boundaries of the mind mean nothing for women who continue to sing songs of freedom under the moonlight ….”
Leila, Or Tequila Leila as she is called – is the lead character in 10 minutes 38 seconds. ‘Is’ I say. Not ‘was’. It’s important to Leila to be counted among the present tense, we find that out in the prologue before the story proper even starts. The reason being that she is dead by the time the story starts. She still narrates the story. Raped by her uncle as a child (and blamed – look what you made me do) her life slowly falls apart. She ends up working in a brothel in Istanbul. But life is regenerated in a human and beautiful fashion by a strange and curious circle of friends that come into being. Shafak’s storytelling seems to me second to none in so many ways but her characters are particularly wonderful. Magic realist, perhaps, but wonderful nevertheless.
“Perhaps it was not that different when it came to death. People thought you changed into a corpse the instant you exhaled your last breath. But things were not clear-cut like that. Just as there were countless shades between jet black and brilliant white, so there were multiple stages of this thing called ‘eternal rest’ If a border existed between the Realm of Life and the Realm of Afterlife, Leila decided, it must be as permeable as sandstone.”
I believe in the permeability of that sandstone. And the book’s ending is a celebration of freedom.
Week 5 is upon us and I’m just getting to Week 4. Story of my life. Apologies for the brief post.
Week 4 is:
We’ve talked about how you pick nonfiction books in previous years, but this week I’m excited to talk about what makes a book you’ve read one of your favorites. Is the topic pretty much all that matters? Are there particular ways a story can be told or particular writing styles that you love? Do you look for a light, humorous approach or do you prefer a more serious tone? Let us know what qualities make you add a nonfiction book to your list of favorites
I definitely don’t do light and humorous in my reading. Maybe I should. I’m not sure if I’ve ever laughed enough, or if any of us laugh much at the moment.
I Iook for inspirational lives, with the substance of that inspiration made real in some way. The style of writing is very important– it doesn’t matter how amazing someone is its still difficult to read long, rambling and off focus thoughts. Nor is it enough to make a lot of money and get famous although that’s great and wouldn’t we all love it. Some who achieve are wonders, those are the stories that interest me. Some who achieve this got lucky and someone ghost wrote them into a shallow form of importance. Not interested in those. I don’t like hype or the next big thing.
I’m partial to a bit of lyricism. I’m also interested to know what drives us to read about other people’s lives: sometimes I think I’m looking for a key, the hermeneutic secret. If such exists, it is not to be found within the pages of a book. But knowledge, yes. Wisdom even? Maybe. Right from wrong? Hopefully.
One of my all time favourite books is by Katherine Swift – The Morville Hours (Bloomsbury, 2009). I’ve probably talked about this book before and will talk about it again because it’s sublime. A beautiful combination of history, topography, philosophy, religion and life writing. The author was a rare-book librarian at Oxford and then Trinity College, Dublin before moving to Shropshire turning to full time gardening and writing.
The book is structured around chapters named after the Hours of the Divine Office: Vigils, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, which were an essential part of her mother’s Catholic faith.
The passing of time – how it has perplexed us, fascinated us, and terrified us every since man walked upon the earth. Few are better than Swift at evoking a response to what it means to be a part of the history of something, a house, a faith, a love.
Of carvings of Mathew, Mark, Luke & John in her local church she says they have presided over four hundred years of the village:
“What secret glances, what lovers’ trysts, what hopes and fears, faded now into dust! What spring mornings, what early frosts, what mothers’ tears – writing it all down, their pens scratching away into the night.”
It’s taking Swift forever to write her next book (those time consuming gardens!)and some of us are waiting impatiently.
Continuing the theme of philosophy and mysticism:
Rumi’s Secret: The Life of the Sufi Poet of Love by Brad Gooch (HarperCollins, 2017) describes the life of Rumi, poet and Sufi mystic and his complex relationship with Shams of Tabriz who was reputed to be Rumi’s teacher and the source of much of his poetry. Gooch is interesting on the tensions that inevitably arose between these two men from their interdependency and ultimately the sense of betrayal felt by Rumi when Shams left.
1000 years after he lived we are still comforted by this man’s words.
There’s a wonderful story that Gooch tells about Rumi.
“When his daughter Maleke complained of the stinginess of her husband, Rumi told her a story of a rich man so miserly he wouldn’t open his door for fear the hinges would wear out.”
Only a few words yet It perfectly highlights how we imprison and make ourselves miserable with our obsession with the material.
The connection between poetry and spirituality is a massive interest of mine. It was going to be the subject of my Ph.D before it wasn’t.
Summer has come and gone. The expiry date for my ten books of summer has passed. I only made it to No. 6. I apologise.
Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous outshines anything else on my reading list. In fact, I would go so far as to say it outshines anything else on anyone else’s reading list. In whatever genre. Forget genres. Here is something new.
Vietnamese and from a refugee family which immigrated to the US when he was two years old, the poet burst out of his allotted lowly refugee status and on to the literary scene with a T.S. Eliot prize winning poetry collection Night Sky with Exit Wounds (Cape Poetry, 2017) On Earth we’re Briefly Gorgeous is his first novel.
I do not know what there is to say about this book. Next to Vuong’s poetry and prose any routine use of language that I might come up with would instantly collapse under the weight of its own inadequacy.
On Earth takes the form of a letter to Vuong’s mother who was violent towards him and who married a man who was imprisoned for violence towards her. In short Vuong grew up surrounded by violence, whether or the domestic or other kind, in Hartford,
…where we made a kind of life digging in and out of one brutal winter after another, where nor’easters swallowed our cars overnight. The two a.m. gunshots, the two p.m. gunshots, the wives and girlfriends at the C-Town checkout with black eyes and cut lips who return your gaze with lifted chins, as if to say mind your business
… where entire white families, the ones some call trailer trash, crammed themselves on half broken porches in mobile parks and HUD housing, their faces Oxy-Contin gaunt
Thank goodness the author does not mind his business. Thank goodness for his genius to humanise modern America, to bring the worlds of Saigon, Dunkin donuts, food stamps and nail bars crashing together as the voice of his lived experience. How Vuong skewers the appalling opioid scandal which has decimated the US and is making its way to the UK
“OxyContin, first mass-produced by Purdue Pharma in 1996 is an opioid, essentially making it heroin in pill form”.
If you find this a totally inadequate review, so do I. “Brilliant “shattering” “luminous” “a masterpiece” are some of the epithets I took from the publisher’s back cover. But I would say this. Ocean Vuong is a writer whose work will appear on exam syllabi into the future. This is a writer whose work will be studied, written about, lectured on, whose work will be the subject of dissertations and doctoral theses.
But loos are the least of the gender data gap problems, a symptom of a much wider malaise. Structural male bias is everywhere. Accurate data is vital for research and appropriate solutions. Yet accurate data is not available if half the human race is excluded from its gathering simply because no-one has thought to consider whether one size really does fit all. If you base your research on skewed data, you get a skewed result. This is obvious, perhaps, when it is baldly stated but not at all obvious in the accepted course of knowledge production which has been going on for millennia. This term ‘gender data gap’ is something I barely understood before reading Perez; now I understand it, it is frighteningly omniscient, and it is costing female lives.
I have chosen to look at two areas that the author discusses, health and the formulation of GDP.
I start with health – the most important thing for a human being before you get to the wealth or happiness bit. Go into any bookshop (assuming you can still find one) and look at the medical and anatomy sections, Perez suggests, you will discover that the human figure is male. The author found that:
‘as recently as 2017, the covers of books labelled ‘Human Anatomy’ ‘were still adorned with be-muscled men’
Because it is assumed that the human body is male and that on a one-size fits all model (ie, apart from the reproductive bits there is not much difference) what works for the guys will work for the gals. Horrifically this appears to be current medical thinking! Women are as a result largely being excluded from medical research. Why? Because the results of clinical trials are being presented as valid for both men and women, even when women have been excluded from the study and even though as a result of this data on whether a particular drug will be efficacious for a woman is unknown.
This despite the fact that researchers have found sex differences in every tissue and organ system in the human body as well as in the ‘prevalence, course and severity’ of the majority of human diseases.
“Sex differences appear even in our cells: in blood-serum biomarkers for autism; in proteins, in immune cells used to convey pain signals; in how cells die following a stroke. A recent study also found a significant sex difference in the ‘experssion of a gene found to be important for drug metabolism’. Sex differences in the presentation and outcome of Parkinsons disease, stroke and brain ischaemia … have also been tracked all the way to our cells …”
The inclusion of sex specific information in textbooks is dependent on the availability of sex specific data, but because women have largely been excluded from medical research this data is severely lacking. And because this data is lacking, it is not being taught in medical schools.
Most early research into cardiovascular disease was conducted on men
Women represent 55% of HIV positive adults in the developing world … we also know that women experience different clinical symptoms and complications due to HIV. Yet a 2016 review of the inclusion of women in HIV research found that women made up only 19.2% of participants in antiretroviral studies, 38% in vaccination studies and 11.1% in studies to find a cure.
And because of their routine exclusion from clinical trials we lack solid data on how to treat pregnant women for anything. Perhaps it is understandable that pregnant women would not want to take part in clinical trials, but that is no reason Perez states to throw our hands up in despair and do nothing.
The absence of female representation in clinical trials also means that drugs are not sex specific and drugs that work for men are finding their way into general use without anyone knowing if they work for women. Conversely, drugs that do not work for men are discarded during the clinical trial process without anyone finding out whether they would have worked for women.
The formulation of a country’s GDP is an inherently subjective process, states Perez.
She quotes Diane Coyle, Professor of Economics at Manchester University.
‘A lot of people think GDP is a real thing. But actually it’s a confection, with lots of judgements that have gone into its definition. And a lot of uncertainty.
Measuring GDP is, she says, not like measuring how high the mountain is.’
In the 1970s – a period which has always been seen as a ‘golden’ window for productivity GDP rose (in the UK).
But what was actually happening during that period is that women were leaving the domestic sphere and starting to do out to work. Work in the home had never been counted as part of GDP, as presumably it still is not.
So the things done in the feminised private sphere which were invisible, suddenly got visible and added to the male-dominated public sphere.
The failure to measure unpaid household services is perhaps the greatest gender gap of all. Estimates suggest that unpaid care work could account for up to 50% of GDP in high-income countries and as much as 80% in low-income countries. If we factor this work into the equation, the UK’s GDP in 2016 was around $3.9 trillion (official figures $2.6 trillion). In 2015, unpaid care and domestic work in Mexico was valued at 21% – ‘higher than manufacturing, commerce, real estate, mining, construction and transportation and storage’.
None of this is the result of some dire scheming or deliberate policy, it is because of structuralised, self-perpetuating sex discrimination which has become so natural to us that we no longer see it. Because women are invisible, it is not deemed to be necessary to collect sex specific data. Because there is no sex specific data, women are invisible.
“Failing to collect data on women and their lives means that we continue to naturalise sex and gender discrimination – while at the same time somehow not seeing any of this as discrimination. Or really we don’t see it because we naturalise it – it is too obvious, too commonplace, too much just the way things are to bother commenting on. It’s the irony of being a woman: at once hyper-visible when it comes to being treated as the subservient sex class, and invisible when it counts – when it comes to being counted.”
“There is an overwhelming need for women to be more involved in research, the author concludes. “When women are involved in decision making, in research, in knowledge production, women do not get forgotten.”
This book must have entailed a huge amount of work. It is thorough researched and detailed. Thank you Perez for showing us the male bias by which our still achingly patriarchal society is structured. Sisters, there remains a long road ahead of us.
Caroline Criado Perez is a writer, broadcaster and award-winning feminist and human rights campaigner. She is best known for getting a woman put on the Bank of England banknotes and for campaigning for a statue of suffragist Millicent Fawcett to be erected in Parliament Square.
This Summer I will be taking part in 20 Books of Summer. A great idea from Cathy@746 Books to review twenty books over the summer period except my 20 will be more like 10. I realise there are not quite ten books in the photo above! My other three titles are not yet available to be photographed but will be within the next two days. A Big Thank You to Sister Rune for trekking to the Hay Festival to make these purchases for me. The remaining three titles are:
Heida: A Shepherd at the Edge of the World by Steinunn Siguroardottir
Coleridge, The Wordsworths and Their Year of Marvels. Adam Nicholson
River Voices: Extraordinary Stories from the Wye by Marsha O’Mahony
Caroline Criado Perez. Invisble Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men(Chatto & Windus, 2019
Women are used to queuing when they go out. Says Caroline Criado Perez in her book “Invisible Women” Exposing Data Bias in a World designed for men”. She meant for the loo of course. Any lady who has been to the theatre or opera or ballet or cinema in London or any city is used to queuing round the block in the interval, while the men pop in and out of their unencumbered spaces and have plenty of time to rock up at the bar for a nice cooling drink. Gender neutral only makes things worse. Because guess what. Women need cubicles and can’t use urinals. Men don’t – and can. Sorry if that came as a bit of a shock, Barbican management.
Apparently the Barbican hadn’t thought of that when they casually announced that all their loos – simply by changing to the sign on the door – were now Gender Neutral. Tada!! Fabulous. How many politically correct boxes that must have ticked with no effort or cost whatsoever.
But then, shock horror. It was discovered that the ‘gender neutral’ urinals were only being used by men who were of course also entitled – should they choose – to use the cubicles. All the Barbican had succeeded in doing is increase provision for men and exclude women. Needless to say, no sanitary bins had been provided in the so called ‘gender neutral’ urinals. The supposedly equal provision of loos had been done with men in mind. A male dominated management team, you think?
Another anecdote – if it can be called that – related by Perez is when a senior member of Google Sheryl Sandberg became pregnant and her feet swelled up, it came to her notice that she was having to walk miles across the car park because there was no provision for pregnant women to park nearer the main entrance. When she approached Google’s founder Sergei Brin about reserved parking for pregnant women he said he had never thought of it but that arrangements would be made. No wonder he had never thought of it. He is a man and will never be pregnant nor have to consider policy for those that will and are unless it is spelled out to him in words of one syllable. It had never presumably occurred to Sandberg either until it happened that she found herself unable to struggle across the car park.
And no, this is not a mere inconvenience if you’ll excuse the pun, easily rectified. It is part of a cultural and economic exclusion which even in the 21stcentury is still rampant across all cultures. One of the most important things to say about the gender data gap, says the author is that it is not generally malicious, or even deliberate. Quite the opposite it is a way of thinking that has been around for millennia, and is therefore a kind of not thinking.
The Little Girl on the Ice Floe
Adélaïde Bon, trans. Ruth Diver
This is a tough read but beautifully written and poetic if such a thing is possible on dealing with the subject of child rape. The author was raped at age 9 by a man who is finally brought to justice on the chance of a random DNA sample – more than two decades later. By this time the author has married and had a son. But she painfully charts her mental and physical collapse – and her efforts to recover, the therapies she undergoes, the Court case. Traumatic memory is such that the part of the brain that deals with autobiographical memory (the prefontal cortex) cannot access the trauma which has been buried away by the amygdala that can only be treated by those with specialist knowledge of PTSD relating to sexual violence, all too often poorly recognised or understood.
‘How ugly ignorance is when it is concealed under learned airs,’ says the author. And she has good reason to know.
One of the most poignant parts of the book is the list of names, not unlike a eulogy, of those women (all victims of this same man) who could not bring themselves to attend Court. Who risk criminal penalties for failing to answer a subpoena rather than be forced to recount in public over and over again lurid details of what happened to them when they were six, seven, eight or nine. They are part of what is described as the ‘black number’ of victims of sexual violence. An estimated 90% of the victims of rape do not report it, and this number is even higher for child victims
Many are the books that I have read and many are the books that I have joyfully completed during my life. But then there are always those that I couldn’t quite get through and that’s fine. No-one can like everything and life isn’t long enough so, next please.
Having a week’s holiday recently I took a copy of Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red. This is a considerable and beautifully crafted tome coming in at 666 pages just perfect for hours spent in a hotel room when I should have been enjoying the aprés ski if only (a) I drank alcohol and (b)I wasn’t so shattered from falling over on the slopes.
I spent my week and two plane journeys happily engrossed in it. But lo and behold at page 425 (the number is significant) with less than a quarter of the book to go I couldn’t read it any more. For some reason the magic had gone. When I got home I replaced the semi-finished copy on my bookshelf, but found to my amazement a second copy of – guess what – Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red that I had forgotten I owned bookmarked at the last read page 415!
What led me to read over 400 pages of this excellent book and then give up on it in almost exactly the same place, twice? This required in literary terms a surgical examination. It almost felt like there was a point in the writing when the whole style of the book changed. Did I entirely understand the arguments about erroneous religious teachings or the disquisition on the philosophy of art? Probably not but up until that point I had been enjoying them – but they were not what caused me to stop reading.
I think the reasons I stopped reading were far more pragmatic and plot related.
I decided I couldn’t take Shekure’s two whining children another minute, thought Black somewhat feeble for giving in to her conditions regarding their marriage (he had to find her father’s murderer before she would sleep with him but the poor guy is an artist not a detective) nor regrettably did I any longer care who pushed Elegant Effendi down the well .
Ding dong bell.
Two other books I am struggling with: the Booker shortlisted Everything Under by Daisy Johnson an examination of a relationship between mother and daughter which can only be described as savage it’s words seeming to jump off the page and scrape at the bones; and the Booker prize winning The Milkman. Although I love what Anna Burns has done with the narrative voice, even a Booker judge admitted it was a bit of an uphill struggle to keep reading.
I‘m nervous about books from the Booker shortlist but every year I forget my nervousness and pile in. I’ve had failures before including Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries and Ben Okri’s The Famished Road. Although I adored (and definitely finished) The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro and David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas – the book that didn’t win the year it was nominated but should have.
But then no reading is every wasted. And reading is like life. A work in progress. I certainly don’t intend to spend precious time feeling guilty. Next please.
Are we the unreliable narrators of our own lives with our porous memories, shaky realities, versions of our own truth? If so, where does this leave history or perhaps the question is where does history leave us. These are matters which have concerned Nobel Laureate Kazuo Ishiguro since his first novel A Pale View of Hills was published in 1982.
It is fascinating listening to Ishiguro’s Nobel Lecture which I highly recommend.
The author speaks of how he pieced together what he termed his fragile ideas of Japan (a country he left with his parents at the age of 5) from his own childhood memory, from books and comics sent by his grandparents, from ancecdotes and stories told to him by his own parents who for years talked of ‘returning to Japan next year’ and who therefore saw themselves as visitors to these shores, rather than immigrants.
It was never a given that Ishiguro would set a book in Japan, a country which had been Britain’s bitter enemy during the second world war. Now, in a time when writers leap to tell their stories of ethnic or linguistical differences to set themselves apart in a crowded field, it is hard to remember how in the 70s and 80s that was not at all the case. Race was a linear thing and in terms of English Lit it was preferably white and British.
Thankfully, as a student of Malcolm Bradbury and Angela Carter on the far-sighted and, back then, completely innovative University of East Anglia Creative Writing course, Ishiguro was encouraged to write a story about Japan, set in Nagasaki. That story became his first book.
After A Pale View of Hills he went on to write a second ‘Japan’ book An Artist of the Floating World
“Shintaro, I said, why don’t you simply face up to the past?”
A pertinent question which runs through much of the writer’s oeuvre. Answer: because its too difficult and we often don’t either individually or as a nation.
The Booker prize winning The Remains of the Day later made into a film starring Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thomson, is a story which concerns itself with that acme of Englishness, the butler in a grand house. There is a moment in the book when the main character Stevens, realizes not only that he has lived his professional life to the exclusion of any possibility of a personal one but, shatteringly, that he has faithfully served a master who serves a false, nay evil, ideology.
These books were followed by: The Unconsoled a story about a pianist which I have attempted and failed to read three times, and in which nothing is what it seems to the extent that it drove me mad; Never Let me Go, a dystopian science fiction story also made into a film; When we were Orphans and The Buried Giant, another study of memory and loss set in the deeps of anglo saxon history where giants still lie. The problem of national memory, is examined in this book.
Are national memories related to individual memories and if not how do they differ? What is the relationship between national memory and national identity – the latter subject now being acutely foregrounded by political events since 2016 both in Europe and in the US. And yet if warnings of the dangers of nationalism are never far from the surface of Ishiguro’s work, the past two years have shown us that those warnings are not being heeded. The ground beneath us is shaking as the giant stirs.
During the lecture the author talks about a visit that he made to Auschwitz/Birkenau; how his guide showed him the gas chambers which Ishiguro describes in his lecture as ‘neglected’, a choice of word which initially shocked me. Why would you choose to preserve the gas chambers? Let them rot away into the ground. But that which we allow to rot away is not by definition going to be around to inform the future. If we erase the gas chambers – or rather neglect their preservation to the point where they self-erase – don’t we also erase the murderous ideology which produced them?
This is the great dichotomy and it is one which museums of the 21st century will increasingly face. How to remember and what to remember. Not only Museums but writers too have a responsibility to address the major issues of their time. It is a responsibility that Ishiguro has not failed to shoulder. (https://wordpress.com/post/volatilerune.blog/354).
Since 2016 both Europe and the US are finding out that the tide of liberal humanism which washed over our western democratic societies in the second half of the twentieth century – and which we thought was forever – wasn’t. How will writers of the future address the history that is being made now.