On Reading and Writing about Fiction from India

Writing here yesterday (12/31/11) about Anita Desai’s new book reminds me of how much fiction by Indian writers, and about India, I have read over the years. This is yet another result of my childhood there. It also reminds me of how for several years -- I believe in the late 1970s and early 1980s, but I could be wrong about the years -- I wrote a column on books by Indian authors and about India; this column was published in the alumni magazine of my school in India, Kodaikanal School, widely known as Kodai. I believe the magazine, and the column, were published twice a year. I loved researching, finding, reading, and writing about the books. There were fewer India-related novels available in the United States back then than there are now, and I didn’t have the benefit of the Internet in finding them. But I kept my eyes open when reading magazines with book reviews and publishers' catalogs, and when visiting bookstores and libraries, and occasionally got recommendations from fellow Kodai alumni and other friends. Each column discussed several books, so the “review” of each book was brief. In a way, that column was an ancestor of this blog... At a certain point, I stopped the column because I was too busy to continue, but I remember being reluctant to give it up. Writing about Desai’s latest book brings me back to that time, as I remember reviewing some of her earlier books in my column: definitely “Fire on the Mountain” and “Clear Light of Day,” and also, I believe, “In Custody.”

On another note: I wish you all a very Happy New Year, and plenty of good reading, in 2012!

"The Artist of Disappearance," by Anita Desai

Anita Desai’s first novel was published in 1963, and I have been reading her books for about four decades. Desai, whose mother was German and whose father was Indian, grew up in India (much of the time in Mussoorie, in the Himalayan mountains, which is, parenthetically, home to Woodstock School, the friendly rival of the school I attended in India, Kodaikanal School). Her novels are beautifully written, carefully observed, insightful, a little bit “triste,” and a pleasure to read. I have just read her latest fiction, “Artist of Disappearance” (Houghton Mifflin, 2011), a collection of three novellas, all set in India. It did not disappoint. The first novella, “The Museum of Final Journeys,” tells of a surprising art collection found in the deteriorating estate of a formerly wealthy family in a small Indian town. The tone is elegiac, evoking the time of the Raj and its remnants. The second novella is titled “Translator, Translated,” and tells of a scholar and frustrated writer languishing in a minor woman’s college where she teaches Victorian British literature. But reading a collection of short stories by an Oriya woman writer inspires her, and she translates and publishes the novel in English. Oriya was the language of the translator’s mother, and she finds herself inspired and coming alive as she reads and translates this fiction. Unfortunately, this triumph is the high point of her life, as she overreaches and infuses too much of herself into translating the author’s next book. (As a side note: Oriya is the language of one of the places we lived in India, and my parents spoke it quite well at one point; we children spoke a little as well; it is one of four languages that we learned at least a little bit of.) The final novella, “The Artist of Disappearance,” is the sad story of a man whose parents neglected him as a child, and whose only consolation was the beauty of nature in Mussoorie, where they lived. After a few years at college and with extended family in Bombay, and after his parents die, he returns to Mussoorie and lives in the family home as a kind of recluse; he continues there even after most of the house burns down. His happiness is interrupted by the intrusion of a heedless group of young documentary makers, but in the end -- thanks to a faithful servant, and despite a big loss -- he is able to continue his life in private and in communion with nature. These three novellas are all stories of disappointment, of loss, of mourning, and yes, of disappearance. Yet there is tribute to, and honoring of, what was present and vital in the lives of the characters at least for a while: history, art, intellectual and artistic achievement, nature, and solitude. One wonders if Desai feels that India itself has lost some of these -- at least in their past forms -- forever…

"The Stranger's Child," by Alan Hollinghurst

I very much liked Alan Hollinghurst's 2005 Man Booker Prize-winning book, "The Line of Beauty," his breakthrough novel (he had written several earlier novels, most notably his first, "The Swimming-Pool Library"). So I looked forward to reading his new novel, "The Stranger's Child" (Knopf, 2011). It did not pull me in immediately, as "The Line of Beauty" did, and at times I put it aside for a few days at a time. I believe this is because it takes place over a century and several generations of families, friends, and biographers, making the forward movement of the novel less easy and accessible. At times I had to remind myself of the complicated interlocking relationships of the various characters over various time periods. But in the end, I definitely liked the book, and found it impressive and worth reading. The central character, although we only know him for a very short time, is Cecil Valance, the Rupert Brooke-like poet who lived large and then died in World War I. He was a vivid, charming character who was gay, or possibly bisexual, and more or less closeted, although everyone knew that many members of the Oxbridge literary set were gay. Before he went to war, he wrote a poem in his lover's young sister's autograph book, a poem and event that sent reverberations through the decades after. This young woman, Daphne, considered herself Cecil's fiance, and the poem became an iconic one, one that most English people learned in school and could quote, although critics deemed it second-rate. After his death, Daphne is defined for the rest of her life, despite three marriages, the first to Cecil's brother Dudley, who was also gay or bisexual, by her short but famous connection to Cecil. There are too many characters and too many events in the novel to list here, but much of the second half of the novel is seen through the eyes of Paul Bryant, a working-class aspiring literary man, also gay, who becomes entangled with Cecil's descendants and eventually writes a biography of the poet that causes some controversy. "The Stranger's Child" is suffused with literary history, gay history, English history, British (mostly) upper-class life, intriguing characters, a few secrets, and many closely observed conversations and scenes. Readers also are reminded of how each generation is inexorably influenced by its predecessors, and of how hard it is to escape one's past, whether one wants to or not. I finished the novel feeling I had had a privileged and rewarding inside look at a certain sort of life in several overlapping worlds.

"Death Comes to Pemberley," by P. D. James

Although I have had periods in my life of reading a lot of mysteries, I haven't been much interested in them for a few years now. (Which doesn't mean I won't be interested in them again in the future.) However, when I saw the new mystery novel "Death Comes to Pemberley" (Knopf, 2011), by the inestimable British writer P.D. James, a novel based on characters from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice," I knew I couldn't resist it. I even bought it in hardcover and gave it to myself as a Christmas gift. What a great combination: P. D. James and Austen! And sure enough, it was, as my friend B. put it, "delicious"! Pemberley, you will probably remember, was Darcy's grand estate and home, where Elizabeth Bennett moved after marrying Darcy. This James novel takes place six years after the couple's marriage; all is going well, until the night before their planned traditional annual ball, when Elizabeth's flibbertigibbet youngest sister Lydia (who, you may remember, had married the charming but very irresponsible Wickham) unexpectedly arrives at Pemberley in a careening carriage, screaming hysterically that there has been a murder in the Pemberley woods. And so the mystery begins, with James' classic twists and turns. What is fascinating is not just "whodunit," but the way James portrays the various characters and their interactions. At times she makes us start to doubt the most upright and likable characters, while softening us to the less admirable ones, all in service of keeping us off balance in trying to solve the mystery. An enjoyable touch is that James briefly includes, offstage so to speak, some characters from Austen's novels "Persuasion" and "Emma," more "old friends" to those of us who have read and re-read Austen's novels many times. I often dislike "sequels" to Austen's novels, but this one, by the grand dame of British mysteries, and clearly a sort of tribute and love letter to Austen, is on another level than most of those sequels, and is most enjoyable and satisfying to read. In short, a real treat!

"Stir-Fry," by Emma Donoghue

I very much liked, and wrote about here (on 7/20/10 and 7/31/10), Emma Donoghue's 2006 short story collection "Touchy Subjects," her 2007 novel "Landing," and her 2008 novel, "The Sealed Letter"; reading her work felt like a major discovery. Earlier this year, I started to read her 2010 breakthrough bestseller novel, "Room," but found the topic too claustrophobic and disturbing to continue. However, this last issue is just my own, and I am quite willing to believe that the critics are entirely correct in their praise of that novel. Just recently, I picked up at a library sale Donoghue's first novel, "Stir-Fry" (Alyson Books, 1994). Understandably, it isn't as accomplished as the other books listed here, but it clearly shows the promise that is later fulfilled in those books. It is the story of 17-year-old Maria during her first year at university in Dublin. She moves into a flat with two slightly older women students, not realizing until a month later that they are a lesbian couple. Being from a small suburb and inexperienced, she is surprised and confused, but likes the two women very much, and they all get along well. Gradually a surprising situation develops. Maria is a likable character, and the novel is a coming-of-age story. As such, there are some well-worn elements, but there is also much in the novel that is original and keeps the reader intrigued with the story and characters.

Happy Holidays, Dear Readers!

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate Christmas, and Happy Holidays and Happy New Year to all, dear readers. I appreciate so much being able to communicate with you through this blog about books and reading. I am glad we share a love of books, and I wish you all much good reading in the coming year!

Why I am not Drawn to Magic Realism

Although I have read, enjoyed, and learned from my share of novels often categorized by the term "Magic Realism," including some by Franz Kafka, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Salman Rushdie, Toni Morrison, and Mario Vargas Llosa, I am generally not drawn to fiction of this type. For example, I read and very much liked Isabel Allende's first novel, "The House of the Spirits," and later one or two other novels by her, but the magic realism aspect kept me from reading more. (Parenthetically, as I have posted here, I admire Allende herself, have heard her speak twice, and was very impressed.) Whenever I think about why I tend to avoid novels labeled "magic realism," I realize that what keeps me reading and loving novels is pretty old-fashioned: I want good plots, I want wonderfully observant and thoughtful writing, and most of all, I want to read about interesting and realistic characters. This is not to say that magic realism excludes good plots and characters, but I guess I just want the realism without the magic. I am not sure what this says about me. Do I lack imagination? Am I too narrow in my reading interests? (I have previously written about my lack of interest in, for example, science fiction/fantasy.) Whatever the reason, and despite my willingness to deviate from my main reading preferences occasionally, I know this about myself: magic realism does not speak to me in the same way that "real" realism does.