¡No Pasarán!: Writings from the Spanish Civil War, edited by Pete Ayrton, reviewed for the Bookbag.
“In ¡No Pasarán!: Writings from the Spanish Civil War, Pete Ayrton has chosen a majority of texts by Spanish writers, arguing that the conflict has long been written about from the point of view of the international brigades.
The anthology starts with an extract from Luis Buñuel’s autobiography, My Last Breath. The passage begins in Madrid July 1936, when Franco arrived in Spain with his troops. Madrid is under siege and Buñuel describes his shock when the revolution he had so ardently desired starts. We get an understanding of the first months of the conflict, when the Republican side was disorganised and split into factions (Communists, Socialists, anarchists and the Trotskyite group POUM). He reminds us of an often forgotten aspect of the Civil War: the revolutionary attempts by the anarchists to organise their ideal world. After persecuting and murdering priests and anyone they suspected of being powerful, they attempted to start communes and to impose free love in villages such as Calanda. Buñuel’s clear exposition is a great way to start the anthology; the reader becomes familiar with the protagonists and their rivalries and grasps the state of utter confusion created by the war. (…)”
Fools, Frauds and Firebrands: Thinkers of the New Left by Roger Scruton reviewed for the Bookbag.
“Fuelling his critique is also the plentiful well of the atrocities committed by communist regimes, and glossed over by thinkers as varied as Sartre and Hobsbawm. More obscure maybe is the tale of Lukàcs, a Hungarian left-wing thinker once in vogue, who denounced ‘bourgeois’ thinkers as part of a self-righteous witch-hunt. In one moment of casual savagery, Lukàcs is partially responsible for sending Hungarian philosopher Béla Hamvas to work as an unskilled labourer in a power plant. Imagining the hard-hearted single-mindedness required to send a colleague into a life of hardship makes it easier to see where Scruton is coming from. There is danger in following ideas so blindly, while believing one is fully on the side of good, and ending up harming others without a qualm.”
Just reviewed Mary Higgins Clark’s new page turner, due to come out on 23rd June. The Melody Lingers On, reviewed for the Bookbag here.
“(…)Characters are sketched effectively, sometimes according to strangely corporate principles. A sign of a strong moral character is arriving to meetings on time – this is frequently referred to, and lateness is not the only failure. Adams, a man “with a full head of mostly gray hair and an aura of confidence” is “equally dismissive of people who arrived much too early. It was a sign of insecurity, which made him suspicious.” Sometimes the descriptions are nearly clichéd – an academic has a “receding hairline” and “rimless glasses”, as though chosen by the casting director of a Hollywood blockbuster. But it works, and the characters come alive as soon as they appear.
As in most Mary Higgins Clark thrillers, class features heavily and is alluded to in blatant terms. People with “impeccable backgrounds” interact with strong-willed individuals who have made it into highest ranks of society from humbler beginnings. Here, the cast features a countess with uncertain credentials, a self-made millionaire, a grocer’s daughter, a construction worker, the child of a congressman and many, many others.
The references to class would be indelicate, except that no moral judgment is made about characters relative to their background. Rather, human values are what prevail, and the narrative can sometimes show leniency towards a character with dubious ethics but guts and charm. The only unforgivable behaviour is Evil, and in Higgins Clark’s books the baddie can originate from any background. Rather, the setting of high society gives us interesting views of characters who perform, who pretend to be what they are not. In The Melody Lingers on, this impossibility of guessing who is wearing a mask keeps the reader wondering and results in a satisfying and surprising finale.
The Melody Lingers on starts more slowly than other Mary Higgins Clark thrillers but picks up and acquires an unputdownable quality half way through. The sometimes lazy writing is swept away as the vital force of the story keeps the reader glued to the page. Another compulsive read by this maestro of suspense.”
Chernobyl Strawberries by Vesna Goldsworthy reviewed for the Bookbag.
“A book about a woman from a war-shredded country, who discovers she has breast cancer… Not a bundle of laughs, one would assume. One would be wrong. Chernobyl Strawberries is, amongst other things, very funny.
Goldsworthy decided to write this memoir after her cancer diagnosis, as a record for her son. She plays on the contradictions of her life to great effect. A bourgeois from a socialist country, she doesn’t have any misery stories about Tito’s dictatorship. Indeed, she concentrates on the ridicule moments of a government in decline. The reader also witnesses the high level of education offered by the communist country. State subsidies helped poetry magazines and festivals to survive. One of the nicest things about being a poet in socialist Yugoslavia was the idea that poetry mattered, Goldsworthy observes. She was invited to read her poems in front of an audience of thirty thousand people at a commemoration for Tito, an event discreetly supervised by the police. As a student, she was also a presenter on a radio station funded by the government. These skills prove useful when she moves to London and works for the BBC.
Her early life in Belgrade is presented to us non-chronologically so that the reader constantly dips in and out of it. We get to know the young Vesna well. A confident young woman, she seems to have been successful in every ambition, while intelligent and good-looking young men courted her. The one who she finally settled on was English, and Goldsworthy moved to London.
We see her settling into her new country and the funniest moments of the book are when she contrasts her English life with the very different customs of her native country.
As a woman caught in history, Goldsworthy appears remarkably adaptable. Rather than try and influence events or engage politically, she adapts and survives with ease. She comments on the chameleon-like quality of her youth and concludes that, at forty-one, I discovered that I was no longer able to change colour at all. I stretched my white body on my big green leaf, a bald, wounded caterpillar. I was free. This journey is intelligently written. The beauty of Belgrade provides a melancholic undertone and we can only mourn, with the writer, the lost world which she conjures up.”
How to be a Heroine : Or, what I’ve learned from reading too much by Samantha Ellis reviewed for the Bookbag.
“How to be a Heroine is a pleasant and addictive read. Playwright Samantha Ellis looks back at her childhood as a voracious reader and remembers the characters that influenced her. These are as diverse as Sylvia Plath, Little Women and Scheherazade.
Each chapter is titled after a heroine (Anne of Green Gables, the Dolls from the Valley), in which Ellis focuses on that particular heroine and lets her thoughts seemingly drift to other characters. Some of the heroines who inspired her are young women who write, like Anne of Green Gables or Jo March. Often their writing career ends abruptly and Ellis looks for the reasons behind this. For instance, LM Montgomery, who wrote the Anne of Green Gables books, had a disappointing marriage with a man who resented her success and Ellis wonders whether this could be the reason why Anne stopped writing after getting married. This habit of standing up for her heroines, defending them against unfair treatment from their creators, makes Ellis a formidable and endearing narrator. It also shows us how characters in literature escape the confines of their books and belong to the readers rather than to their creators.
Ellis, with the experience of adulthood, revisits earlier allegiances and sometimes changes her mind about them. For instance, she had always admired Cathy in Wuthering Heights but after re-reading the book, decides she is snobbish and too dramatic. Is Jane Eyre, with her calm intelligence, a better role model?
Ellis’s style is clear and frequently amusing. At one point, she wonders what Lizzie Bennett from Pride and Prejudice would have made of the Twilight series. She also looks at her heroines in the setting of their times; while Lizzie in Pride and Prejudice navigates the rules of Regency society, the women in Shakespeare refuse to play the game and instead break the rules.
Ellis allows her life to shine through until she becomes as familiar as one of the heroines. It is an interesting life; the daughter of Iraqi Jewish immigrants, she is expected to marry a man from the small pool of Iraqi Jews, a fate she rebels against. She becomes a playwright after going to Cambridge and trying out different career paths that distract her from her vocation.
These glimpses into the author’s life are fascinating. In the chapter about the women in The Valley of the Dolls, she describes her time working as an editor for a vanity press, proof-reading novels from deluded writers in which the characters change sex midway through. The description of the office and of her colleagues is precise and vivid and the publishing house comes to life in a few lines. The young Ellis’s fears are also relatable to: if these bad writers are convinced they are good, how can she be sure that she herself can write? Luckily, she has now more than answered that question.”
Here are the Young Men by Rob Doyle, an exciting first novel set in Dublin.
“Here are the Young Men surges forward, oozing edginess, from the very first sentence. Is that a bad thing? Probably not. It just means that readers may at times slip out of the story, feel themselves taking a step back and admiring the spare coolness of the novel before easing back into the narrative.
The characters, teenage boys who are awaiting the results of their Leaving Cert, feel alienated. They take drugs and walk the streets of Dublin during the Celtic Tiger boom years. The novel shines an interesting light on this recent period in Ireland’s history. In fact, viewing it from a teenage perspective is effective – everyone else seems gripped by the country’s newly found riches, living the moment and unable to see its negative aspects. The city’s wealth is obvious, flaunted in the trendy haircut of a young woman or in the impregnable gates encircling Bono’s mansion. In contrast, the young men’s dejection and aimlessness make them seem wiser than their countrymen…”
Honeyville by Daisy Waugh.
“Honeyville is like a glass of champagne: light, sparkling and impossible to put down. Daisy Waugh excels at immersing the reader in a historical era, a skill she has displayed before in Last Dance with Valentino and the Melting the Snow on Hester Street.
The story is told by Dora Whitworth, a call girl in one of the most exclusive brothels in Trinidad, Colorado. At the time, the town was the only place in the West where prostitution was legal and it was infamous for its red-light district. Dora’s voice rings true and her life is convincingly described. The sumptuous brothel in Plum Street, with its smells of perfume and disinfectant, is as claustrophobic as a prison and Phoebe, the madam, particularly chilling.
Dora becomes friends with Inez, a younger woman from a wealthy local family. The friendship would be unlikely in normal circumstances. The town is owned by men and they’ve managed to keep their women separate, with the marrying type living alongside the ‘fallen women’ but both sets divided by an invisible barrier. But this is the start of tumultuous times. The union is urging the miners to strike, pitting them against the mining company and the town’s rich owners. Lawlessness takes over. This will result in the Ludlow massacre of 1914, the tragedy which inspired the novel.
There is something thrilling about novels set amid traumatic historic moments. Graham Greene did it and so did Ronan Bennett in The Catastrophist, in which Patrice Lumumba’s Congo is the backdrop to a hopeless love story. It should be wrong to use history in such a way but nothing beats the atmosphere it creates or the political and ideological questions which arise as a result. Waugh, in an after note, says she was annoyed at how biased journalist Max Eastman was when reporting from Trinidad (Eastman plays an important role in the novel, too). A socialist, he denounced Trinidad’s elite for its attitude to the miners. Waugh’s own belief that things are never as black and white comes across in her narrative.
Also, placing characters in such troubled times enables the writer to reveal unexpected facets of their personalities as they react to extraordinary events. Here, the story rests on a strong cast of characters. Each has a set of qualities and foibles which brings them vividly alive. Dora is a worldly narrator. Hers has been a hard life but she is neither petty nor bitter; she appears to be de-sensitised and it is a pleasure to witness her starting to feel again as a result of her new friendship.
Indeed, friendship is an important theme in Honeyville – the meeting between the two women is shown as a precious, fragile occurrence. Love, or lust, on the other hand, is depicted as an overwhelming force, impossible to resist. The sexual chemistry between the exquisite Inez and tough union man Lawrence O’Neill jumps out of the page and makes the ensuing mystery all the more credible. The plot, spanning twenty years, is both subtle and solid and readers will be rewarded with a satisfying ending.“
I have just reviewed By Night The Mountain Burns by Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel for the Bookbag and you can read the full review here. It is an excellent book and the first by the author to have been translated into English. Back in 2011, we’d heard about him because of the hunger strike he started in protest of President Teodoro Obiang Nguema’s dictatorial rule. The ensuing harassment by the authorities led him to having to move to Spain. He writes an interesting blog and his previous books can be found on various Spanish websites including casadellibro.com.
“(…)It raises so many issues, both political and economic, caused by the dictatorship in Equatorial Guinea, that it attracts attention for its scope alone. The story transcends the small island and its protagonists. It is the classic and ever tragic tale of a wealthy and repressive elite keeping its subjects in poverty and isolation.
It is the perfectly pitched tone, however, and the simplicity of the recounting that make it a truly polished work. The writer has excised anger and moralising from his writing and his craft is neatly at work in the background, leaving the illusion of a story that weaves itself as it goes along. The result is a luminous tapestry of people reacting in different ways to the assaults of natural catastrophes, accidents and economic hardship.
This is the first book by Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel to have been translated into English. Jethro Soutar has done an exquisite job, in particular in rendering the rhythm of the writing. It is to be hoped that he will also translate the author’s other works. ”
Recent review for TheBookbag of Clara’s Daughter by Meike Ziervogel.
Clara’s Daughter, in the short space of 144 pages, paints the portrait of the relationships threatening to destroy a family unit. The intensity is conveyed with sharp stabs from Ziervogel’s spare sentences.
Michele’s mother Clara can no longer live on her own. Should she be put into a home, as Jim, Michele’s husband, insists on? Or should she move into Michele’s basement? Filial love doesn’t seem to play a part in the ultimate decision. Concerns over the inheritance on the part of Hilary, Michele’s emotionally manipulative sister, and Michele’s own guilt are the driving forces. The daughters are caught up in the demanding routines of busy lives, leaving little time to analyse and feel. Clara is more clear-eyed. In her role of matriarch, she will eventually see the extent of the unfolding tragedy much more accurately than the others do. The pain this causes her will jolt her out of her own dejection.
We feel sorry for Michele, who is a bound by her unemotional personality (a ‘cold fish’, in the words of her mother). But Clara is the most tragic character. A complex woman, mother of two middle-aged daughters, she’s always been defined in relation to them. Yet when she works at her pottery, we get a feeling of a potential misused talent, of a yearning to do other things. But Clara finds it impossible to escape domesticity and after a promising sculpture of a mother and daughter, spends years making indifferent vases. The symbolism of the mother/daughter sculpture is potent. It looms over the book. Is it Clara’s best sculpture because its subject was so important to her? Michele is aware of the honour of receiving the statuette as a gift, but her husband scoffs at it.
Jim is described as ‘accommodating’ yet it is his intransigence, brought on by an untimely middle-aged crisis, which endangers the couple’s relationship. His character is subtly drawn, even though his reactions are no different to those of similar men, in similar novels and films. In such a situation, the range of gestures available to people is limited, especially in the setting of an upper middle class Hampstead household. But the force that drives him, the final, mulish single-mindedness, we recognise as one of the tragic masculine waves capable of destroying everything before them. The area of the potential disaster is small – a comfortable family in North London – yet Ziervogel’s talent means the reader cares about the outcome of the drama. She uses flashbacks of the couple’s warm embraces to precisely convey how harmonious their marriage used to be. She circles the defining incident between them with these flashbacks and with leaps forward in time. This structure works well; it feels like the autopsy of a network of family relationships, with the writer as a highly skilled pathologist and the readers as mesmerized medical students.
Wreaking by James Scudamore, reviewed for The Bookbag.
A derelict mental hospital, gloomy railway arches, the bleak countryside of the English coast. It all comes at us in grey flashes. If Wreaking was a film, it would saturated with cool tones. It’s an easy novel to visualise: Scudamore’s spare, elegant style creates an almost palpable atmosphere.
The main characters, Jasper Scriven and his daughter Cleo, are estranged. Their difficult relationship is based on painful past events, which for most of the book we can only guess at. Their attempts at communication have us holding our breaths. Indeed, the intricacies of the father-daughter relation are the most gripping elements of this novel. Each tentative telephone conversation is like a battle between them. There are no screaming rows but silence proves to be as important as words and is certainly more threatening. It is easy to relate to both characters. Both are loners; they have a self-sufficiency which is close to harshness yet is laced with vulnerability. But it’s Cleo who we fear for during the phone conversations and during the flashbacks to the past.
The flashbacks take us to Wreaking, the derelict psychiatric hospital which Scriven bought when Cleo was a child and where he continues his reclusive existence. Roland and Oliver, who were teenage friends of Cleo’s when she lived at Wreaking, were also affected by events there.
In particular, Roland, a hulking man who works for seedy characters in a labyrinth of railways arches, is still haunted by what happened. We follow him around the rainy London streets, tortured by his thoughts and uncomfortable in his large body. In fact the other characters are constantly aware of their bodies too – Scriven needs an oxygen mask to breathe and Cleo often fiddles with her glass eye.
If the bodies cause discomfort, mental health looms large over the characters, which is unsurprising in a novel featuring an old psychiatric hospital. As the story unveils in complex layers, we realise that nothing is definite. Sanity, memory and identity prove unstable. The structure of the novel, told in a mix of flashbacks and of present and past tenses, mirrors this (…)
Summer Half by Angela Thirkell reviewed for TheBookbag. Virago have been reprinting Thirkell’s books for their Virago Modern Classics list.
If one didn’t know of Angela Thirkell’s distinguished background as a granddaughter of Sir Edward Burne-Jones and daughter of a classicist, it would be tempting to describe her as a kind of country cousin of P.G. Wodehouse’s. An unaffected and intelligent one, whose humour is less sophisticated but bubbles over with just as much glee. The middle-class world she has created, where young men come from families that are comfortably wealthy rather than outrageously so, offers a counterpoint to the Mitford or Wodehouse worlds with their aristocratic characters who travel the world and mingle with more louche, bohemian ones.
There is no bohemia in ‘Summer Half. It tells of Colin Keith, a university graduate who is supposed to be training for the bar but decides to take a teaching job at Southbridge school instead. He’s spurred on by a sense that at his age, he should be earning his keep. He feels both heroic and dejected by his decision; how will he fare, faced with a classroom full of bright, sarcastic boys? The adventures that follow make for an excellent comic novel inhabited by teachers, pupils and Colin’s family members.
The environment is typical middle England, with a gentle suspicion of anyone who stands out too much. Two men are described as having ‘middle’ political opinions. Indeed, throughout the book, the characters who come out best are the commonsensical ones who hold no extremes of political or personal views. The atmosphere brings to mind the Twins at St Clare’s series by Enid Blyton, in which people are good sports, where vanity and affectation are relentlessly bulldozed over by timely doses of ridicule.
For instance Rose Birkett, the vain and feather-headed daughter of the headmaster, is far too pretty; such prettiness is suspicious and comes out a loser when compared to the unselfconscious sartorial disorder of Colin’s young sister Lydia. Thirkell opposes Rose, a delightful apparition in ‘pale pink organdie,’ to Lydia, who was sitting on the ground, her feet straight out in front of her, her face, neck, arms and legs bright red, and her hair tied back with an old tie of Swan’s that she had borrowed.
Less suspect than beautiful Rose is Kate, Colin’s other sister, a practical young woman. Thirkell pokes kindly at her obsession with sewing people’s buttons on for them, darning socks or and worrying about navy thread having been used instead of black.
In one funny passage, well-bred Kate tries to make polite conversation with Philip Winter, a communist teacher who is in a bad mood because he’s in love with flirtatious Rose. He replies with sour rejoinders about poor people ‘in the depressed areas’ and the evils of fascism, much to Kate’s bewilderment. A general conversation ensues; other people butt in, good old common sense wins out and Philip is made to look pretentious.
In such scenes, Thirkell’s exquisite observations skills are apparent. Out of a deceptively simple mix of people she creates conflict to great comic effect. The characters are multi-layered and yanked in different directions by their moods and internal worries, just as people are in real life. And Thirkell displays subtlety in the development of her characters; they evolve realistically, learn from each other and avoid becoming caricatures.
The setting of a school, its rituals and daily life, is entertaining and informative to a contemporary reader. Teachers and pupils alike show a deep passion for literature. Their lively discussions offer a respite from the intrigues and crossed lovers’ quid pro quos . As young Colin hesitates between his law studies and his school-teaching job, we get an insight into what the two different careers would mean, both socially and intellectually.
This portrait of parochial England in the 1930s is enlightening and charming. It is striking to be reminded of the impending war (the book was first published in 1937). When Rose comes back from an outing with two admirers, they describe the man in a black shirt they saw outside the cinema. Fairweather Junior says: It was a man selling little books. One of those blackshirt fellows, you know, like Puss in Boots in a polo jersey. I don’t know why, but it was awfully funny. Lord! It was funny!
The blackshirts are treated with derision. Lydia adds that no one knows who they are; they are ‘seedy’ whereas the communists, like Philip, are people you meet having tea at people’s houses:
I’ll tell you another funny thing about these blackshirts, said Lydia. No one knows who they are, or where they go. I mean, have you ever seen one, except standing on the pavement in waders, looking a bit seedy?
Such historical nuggets add to the interest of Summer Half. Virago is reprinting Thirkell’s books, with three coming out this May, for which readers will be thankful. The writer’s ability to create a fully formed world peopled with attaching characters should ensure her success lives on.
Collection of Michael Oakeshott’s notebooks reviewed for the Bookbag.
Michael Oakeshott is usually described as a conservative thinker. According to Perry Anderson, his work influenced John Major’s style of politics; he named him in the London Review of Books in 1992 as one of four ‘outstanding European theorists of the intransigent Right’. Luke O’Sullivan, who edited this collection of notebooks, has often said that he considers such descriptions limiting. O’Sullivan is clearly enthusiastic about Oakeshott’s work and strove to enable these notebooks, spanning a period of over sixty years, to be published.
For those interested in Oakeshott, this book will be valuable. As O’Sullivan tells us in the introduction, the philosopher frequently mentioned the notebooks and kept each series of them in a numbered sequence. As such, they were probably meant to be published, or at least pored over by students and followers. The book’s layout is clear, with each notebook presented separately and each note numbered. These can range from one line to a couple of pages in length. The book offers an interesting corollary to the thinker’s published work, giving us a ‘behind the scenes’ glimpse into his mind.
O’Sullivan’s introduction gives us an idea of how useful and sometimes surprising these notebooks are. For instance, while Michael Oakeshott’s published work discussed Hobbes a lot, using his ideas to build a theory of the state, the notebooks refer little to him. O’Sullivan explains that Oakeshott probably used loose papers and annotated the books he was working on. Conversely, the notebooks demonstrate that their writer had an interest in Nietzsche, interest which is not mirrored in his published work.
This hardback is obviously aimed at admirers of Oakeshott’s work, and for them the book will be of definite interest. Now what of those who don’t know or like him? For many such readers, the first hurdle would be getting over the instantly repelling title of ‘conservative thinker.’ Curiosity may compel readers to pick up the book, as well as an urge to reach out beyond one’s political views and be as widely read as possible. And the notebooks are a pleasant and informative read. Oakeshott taught at the LSE for nearly twenty years and has much of interest to say on the subject of philosophy, history, politics, literature and art.
This can lead to surprisingly different takes. From Oakeshott’s point of view, Voltaire as historian was prejudiced in his view of the church, a ‘“barbarous” absolutism.’ The common stance is usually to applaud Voltaire’s clear-headed dislike for what was then a repressive institution.
Similarly, a one-liner goes: ‘Hardy clearly preferred his women dead.’ The double-take occasioned by such comments can be refreshing, the equivalent for the brain of swapping Pilates for yoga and stretching one’s muscles in an unexpected and slightly painful new direction.
Intriguing too are the ‘Belle Dame’ notebooks. In them, a young Oakeshott speaks of women he is in love with and discusses the various aspects of love and attraction. In October 1931, we find an elegant description of post-coital gloom: after an encounter in London with a woman called Elizabeth, he laments ‘the inherent impossibility of satisfaction, the impossibility of penetrating another self, & the foolishness & the misery of attempting.’
Oakeshott was a prolific creator of aphorisms and there are many here that will entertain and inform. Some offer us witty perspectives on the philosopher’s role: ‘It is the fortune of the philosopher to be an outcast, useless to men of business and troublesome to those of pleasure.’ Others are simply beautiful: ‘Decadence, Venice as it is now, is not a defect, it is the fruit of which power & glory were only the flower.’ Yet others, like the stark ‘The woman whom love & youth have deserted takes offence at everything’ will shock by their narrow-mindedness.
Religion is a recurrent theme. Oakeshott takes a sometimes dispassionate view yet lauds the importance of religion in society. He compares primitive Christianity with the times he is living in and its different beliefs. There is often a functional edge to his notes on religion’s role and in notebook 10 he reflects on Kant’s and Schleiermacher’s thought about religion, concluding with Durkheim for whom ‘society is the primary object of religious devotion.’ In notebook 15, he says: ‘God is not a being or a person, it is a way of thinking about human life.’
Oakeshott himself comes across as iconoclastic and his writing is stylish. One to buy for those who can afford it. For the others, it is well worth borrowing.
Reading letters by writers affords a particular pleasure. They give us access to the functioning of a writer’s mind when it’s somewhere between work and rest. Sometimes they reveal secrets, offer startling revelations about their writers and insights about the times they lived in. Here and Now, an exchange of letters between J M Coetzee and Paul Auster between 2008 and 2011, describes itself as ‘an epistolary dialogue between two great writers who became great friends.’
Accordingly, the theme of friendship runs through the book. It is at first theoretical as Coetzee, in his first letter, reflects on its enigmatic nature. As the correspondence goes on, the men’s friendship cements, helped along by face-to-face meetings all over the world.
The book is understated and thoughtful, led by Coetzee’s observations and questions and Auster’s attempts to answer them. The exchanges show us two curious people intent on understanding things as varied as sport on TV and the 2008 financial crash.
There are interesting insights. Auster is bewildered by a set of coincidences. Coetzee shows exquisite self-awareness when he tells of his inability to remember anything distinct about his travels, wondering why all he picks up are signs that tell me that life is the same everywhere in the world, rather than signs of the distinctiveness of every tiny part of creation?
As the book progresses and the reader gets attuned to the writers’ voices, it takes on a hypnotic rhythm, with references to sports becoming a friendly leitmotiv. By the end of it you feel like you’ve spent time with two intelligent friends.
However, these letters, riveting as they are, seem to be the result of an experiment rather than respond to a need. Now that letters are an optional mode of communication, they have lost their vital nature. When you hear about letter-writing nowadays, it is often preceded by the words ‘death of.’ This means that such an exchange can seem contrived, especially as the letters are devoid of personal revelations or strong opinions about contemporary writers. The writers remain composed throughout and the enjoyment in reading these letters comes from the intellectual exchanges.
Of course, the loss of letter writing is to be lamented and in a way this collection reminds us of what we have lost. It shows us just how important writing was in building a rapport between two people. Letters used to be the only way in which friends living far away from each other could communicate. Everyone got a chance to experience the particular alchemy that happens when you express a thought or describe an event, however minute, in writing. As Paul Auster says, soldiers from the American Civil War used to write better letters than many English professors do now.
So yes, a delightful journey in the company of Coetzee and Auster, but a peaceful rather than a startling one. The tone is never urgent. When the writers discuss the financial crisis or foreign affairs, it is not with an ardent desire to solve these things. Does this stem from the place of the writer in our society, no longer as ‘engagé,’ or from the fact that the two men have reached a placid stage in their life and writing? They are after all established writers, approaching the third stage of a life in art brilliantly described by Coetzee in one of his letters.
Review of a ‘Florida Noir’ thriller for thebookbag. No Regrets, Coyote, published by Serpent’s Tail.
You may or may not be aware that there is a style known as the South Florida Noir. The action tends to take place in daylight, in the glare of the Florida sun rather than in nightclubs or dark alleyways. If you’re not familiar with South Florida Noir, No Regrets, Coyote is a good place to start. And if you are, well, be assured that it is a perfectly crafted example of the genre.
Wylie ‘Coyote’ Melville, the hero of the book, is not your usual cop or private eye. He’s a therapist and has his own practice where he sees dysfunctional patients. He even has certain days reserved for couple counselling. The therapy sessions are both dark and funny; we get to quite a selection of strange characters, such as a porn-obsessed shelf-stacker. Coyote also volunteers as a forensic consultant with the Eden police force.
When the action starts, on Christmas Eve, the police call him to request his services. When he turns up, a scene of carnage awaits him. A man, Chaffin Halliday, has apparently murdered his wife and three children before turning the gun on himself. Murder-suicide, or something else? That’s what Coyote wants to find out. From then on, the case obsesses him. He keeps remembering all the small things that didn’t make sense and starts digging for more information.
The brilliant thing is that we sometimes wish he’d stop, drop the case and get on with his life. Do normal things, look for a girlfriend and above all keep safe. Because we fear for our hero. He’s faced with brutal enemies and doesn’t seem to know it. The reader realises the dangers Coyote is in, but he himself seems unable to understand how nasty people can be.
He’s genuinely nice, a guy who analyses his own dreams and shows endless compassion to those around him. He’s the opposite of macho. When he catches his friend, tough cop Carlos, staring into space over his breakfast sandwich, he asks him, ‘where did you just go?’
Coyote uses his keen observation skills and his understanding of what makes people tick to get himself out of sticky situations. And how sticky they are! We tremble for him as his honesty makes him enemies so ruthless that they seem to be just about to kill him or at the very least set him up for a life in prison.
But he goes on, delves deeper into the investigation. He finds out that Halliday owed gambling boats and that his wife may have had a mysterious past. He’s determined to get to the truth. Coyote is clinging to his own sense of order and this drive is a recurring theme. He wants to believe that justice will win out in the end. The tough guys tell him that his reality doesn’t exist. They are convincing – the bullies do seem to be in control in the corrupt little town of Eden, Fl.
But Coyote, soft though he looks never deviates from his sense of what is right. Luckily, his friend Bay Lettique, a professional poker player with useful links to the underground, is on hand to assist him. Bay, a charismatic character, always turns up just when things are getting desperate.
Apart from Bay, Coyote is surrounded by a little network of dysfunctional people. His family, an obese sister and father with Alzheimer’s, is needy. His adorable cat Django relies on him for survival. He befriends a homeless man and his cleaner is a schizophrenic patient of his. Coyote is generous and kind to them. These qualities are unusual in a sleuth and make him easy to relate to.
The novel has it all – suspense, psycho killers, sleaze and corruption, gangsters and explosions. Dufresne’s style is clear as glass, polished as steel, with beautiful sentences bubbling up here and there. The action is taut and thrilling and the denouement satisfyingly unexpected. Above all, No Regrets, Coyote has an original voice. It’s a high definition mix of magic, humour and menace under the unrelenting Florida sunshine.