Duong Thu Huong,
Memories of a Pure Spring +
I read
Novel Without a Name (1995) and
Paradise of the Blind (1988) and was quite impressed with both. This was written in 1996 and is much longer than the first two. (She has two other novels that I know of translated into English:
No Man's Land (2002) and
The Zenith (2009).) Though there were sections that I enjoyed, this is easily my least favorite of the three. I thought it often predictable, didactic, and even occasionally lazy. In addition, though all three books were translated by the same team (Nina McPherson and Phan Huy Duong), this translation seemed awkward from time to time with odd word choices, syntax, and a reliance on cliches (a comment echoed a number of times on goodreads as well). Unlike the other works of hers that I have read, this one treats the war far more incidentally, focusing instead on life in post-war Vietnam and in particular on the marriage of Hung, a gifted composer. and his wife, Suong, an exceptional singer. Hung loses his job in a political power play and he quickly spirals into self-destructive behavior. He is mistaken by the regime as a āboat personā seeking to flee the country. As a result, he is sent to a re-education camp and his life and marriage take a drastic turn for the worse. I wonāt spoil the ending but I will say that I found partsāif not much of itāhard to accept. There is plenty of social, political, and even philosophical commentary. Minor characters tend to be stick figures except for one relatively significant one who disappears from the narrative without a trace. I will admit much of my disappointment relates to my great respect for the other two novels, but despite the segments of the writing I liked here, despite the (generally) excellent portrayals of Hung and Suong, despite some moving and powerfully wrought sections, I canāt bring myself to recommend it. Iām sorry to see no other reviews here and eagerly await othersā opinions.
Mishima Yukio,
The Sound of Waves +
Mishimaās third novel and, as it followed a trip to Greece, is said to be a re-telling of the classic Daphnis and Chloe. I think the differences far outweigh the similarities but, in the end, the story has to stand on its own. And while the writing is fine, I donāt think this is in any way among Mishimaās better books, either in terms of writing or of plot. The story is straightforward enough: Shinji, a young man who is the sole support of his widowed mother and young brother. He and Hatsue, daughter of the richest man in their village, fall in love. Her father opposes the marriage even though Shinji is a paragon: there seem to be few virtues he does not embody. Likewise Hatsue, though the story falls primarily on Shinjiās broad and capable shoulders. Lots of local color (the story is set on a tiny island), rivals, and even three entire pages devoted to an exposition on womenās breasts. I wonāt spoil the ending but I will note that the book has received at least two four-star ratings here (redhead and Daniel). Me, I canāt see it. Some strengths notwithstanding, itās simply not an impressive work. Although Shinji and Hatsue are nicely drawn (but no more) and the local color is interesting, there just isnāt enough here to make this a rewarding read.
Elechi Amadi,
The Concubine
A rare work set in colonial Africa (Nigeria in this case) that does not have a single white man in it. Kind of refreshing! We are in a small village, among other small villages, in eastern Nigeria. It is a highly traditional society, subject to traditional rules and gender roles, a place where custom rules. Early in the book, Inhuomaās husband dies and what follows deals with her life in the village and her future. Ihuoma is a remarkably good (and good-looking) woman and she, as well as most of the characters in the book, is particularly well-drawn. Amadi spends a good deal of the narration on daily life and, because of the story line, more than a little time is devoted to the gods, their likes and dislikes, their powers and weaknesses. It also deals in a wonderfully nuanced way with the role of what are often called witch-doctors: those skilled in healing and in witchcraft (both in causing things to happen or preventing them from happening). Amadiās writing is enjoyable enough that I look forward to reading another of his novels. Well-written, well-constructed, well worth the time.
Philippe Claudel,
Dog Island +
Claudel is very good at parables and this, like many others he has written, fits that definition: ā a short fictitious narrative of something which might really occur in life or nature, by means of which a moral is drawn.ā Claudel has an extraordinary talent for telling what at first seems to be an uncomplicated story only to have the reader suddenly realize how layered, how subtle, and how impossibly complex that āsimpleā story truly is; tug on any one element and the entireledifice shakes. Nothing is unrelated. The bodies of three black men wash up on the shore of an isolated island in the Mediterranean. The small group of villagers who learn of this fact decide to dispose of the bodies, hoping to bury whatever secrets the men had with their bodies. Of course, it canāt work. The bodies arenāt discovered; they donāt need to be. The villagers themselves take care of the rest. Claudel is an absolute master of the chillingānot āchillingā as in causing you to be scared but āchillingā as in creating a fear for the future of us all. The characters are or could be Everyman; each embodying an aspect of our shared humanity. We read along, recognizing, criticizing, even condemning the faults and flaws of the characters until suddenly it dawns on us: thatās us.