The OF Blog

Sunday, December 04, 2011

Yumeno Kyûsaku, Dogra Magra

Often, reviewers will settle for analogues whenever they are unable to devise an explicit explanation for what a particular story contains in its form and content.  For example, "Kafkaesque" and "surreal" are often used to denote works in which the inexplicable is occurring, often in ways that seem to indicate a fatalism that underlies complex and often fractured narratives.  It is a handy catch-all, as it allows the reviewer to say with a straight face and with some gravitas that "this shit is weird, fo' sure."  Yet there are times where such catchphrases are useful shorthands for describing works that defy traditional description.  Japanese author Yumeno Kyûsaku's 1935 novel, Dogra Magra, is one of those novels.

Describing the premise for Dogra Magra will illustrate the problems reviewers have had in attempting to distill its essence in a few pithy comments.  Ichiro, the protagonist, wakes up one day suffering from amnesia.  He is in a psychiatric ward.  He comes to learn, through the eponymous "Dogra Magra," that he has attempted to kill his fiancée.  Yet there is much more to this than just a psychological portrait of what leads one to kill what one loves.  Turns out that much of the writing in the middle section is in the form of psychiatric reports written by two doctors who may or may not be characters in Ichiro's narrative.  Furthermore, the narrative fractures into an exploration of Buddhist concepts surrounding karma, particularly how it applies to Japanese culture in the period immediately following World War I, two generations removed from the beginning of the Meiji Restoration and Japan's rapid industrialization.  And if this does not sound complicated enough, Ichiro and a female character may or may not be reincarnated souls that are experiencing the memories and mental anguish of their ancestors.

Yumeno's novel easily could be a mess, given the elements listed above.  Yet it is a strangely coherent novel in which the narrative fractures reflect off of each other to create a fascinating detective novel in which the detective is an apparent criminal (or perhaps a victim of fate) and his search (a word often repeated in the narrative) for understanding leads him further and further down the rabbithole of madness and despair.  Ichiro's entrapment may remind readers of the mysterious imprisonment and trial of Joseph K. in Kafka's The Trial.  There are certainly some parallels with how Ichiro's search for his forgotten past resembles Joseph K.'s trial, particularly in how the damning information is revealed and the effect it has on the reader.  Yet there are key differences, namely Yumeno's narrative is even stranger, more weird, than Kafka's, particularly in how the mechanics of the psychological reports are employed within the novel.  These long, oddly clinical accounts, heavily dependent on the then-current Freudian theories of the mind and its impulses, provide a sharp contrast to the portions of the novel told through Ichiro's perspective.  Here we see ideas on how the psyche works clashing with the more metaphysical, philosophical notions expressed by Ichiro and a woman he comes to meet in the psych ward who talks of how ancestral memories may be transmitted through generations to affect (infect?) the descendents.  This alternation between the scientific and the Buddhist-influenced folk belief creates a narrative tension in which the boundaries of the "real" become stretched and one is left with a sense of estrangement occurring, as if one is stepping outside the bounds of a traditional plotted novel and into something that is odd, off-kilter, not "true" or "false," but lying somewhere beyond them.

It is in the latter half of Dogra Magra where this sense of surrealness occurs most often.  Before this midpoint, the story does resemble in form and structure a detective novel, albeit one that is odd in that the protagonist seems to be either truly amnesiac or insane.  Once the reader manages to process the contents of the psychiatric reports, one begins to question as to whether or not everything is as it seems.  Yumeno's digressions into the ancestral memories, into the repetitive nature of certain memorable (and perhaps infamous) actions, causes the narrative to careen sharply away from earlier reader expectations and toward something that is inexplicable for the reader.  Furthermore, there are hints that even those reporting on Ichiro may not be what they seem.  This results in a conclusion that loops back, creating what appears to be an infinite loop that alters slightly at its end what it had begun narrating.

Dogra Magra succeeds in creating a sense of alienation and purposeful confusion.  The reader, unlike in many detective novels, is no "smarter" than the characters and if anything, they (especially Western readers reading this in French translation – it is not yet available in English translation) are perhaps even more perplexed by what is transpiring than the characters, who seem to take the incipient weirdness in full stride before the narrative almost completely fractures in the latter third of the novel.  For those readers who love weird fictions and who can read Japanese or French, Dogra Magra may be one of the best examples of 20th century weird/detective/psychological literature available.   It is certainly a novel that will need several re-reads before I am certain that I have gleaned everything essential from it, which perhaps is the greatest compliment that can be paid to this seminal work.

Inherited Bookshelf and Portuguese, Italian, and German books


Yesterday, I received the bookcase that I inherited from my maternal grandmother (my grandfather built the case) and I moved my Library of America editions (46 so far) there, along with my old and newer Mark Twain editions and the Thomas Ligotti books I've managed to collect.  The other books are placeholders until I decide if I want them to remain there or return to the few stacks I still have.


To fill the void on another bookshelf left by removing the above-mentioned books, I moved several of my foreign language editions over to the vacated bookshelf.  Here is a picture of most of the 26 Portuguese-language books that I currently own, including three excellent books by David Soares that I wish were available in English translation so I could urge others to read them.


I have just over as many Italian language books (29).  Featured in this picture are the six Umberto Eco novels that I have in Italian editions (all of his novels).  Hope to write more reviews of his earlier books to go with the ones I've already written for The Prague Cemetery (the only one of his books I don't yet own in English translation) and The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana.  Slowly reading Foucault's Pendulum around other works.


Here, among other authors, are my Italian editions of Italo Calvino and Dino Buzzati's works. Plan on reviewing some of these in 2012, either here or elsewhere.


Although my German is too rusty after 15 years of neglect, I've collected 54 German language books, making it the third-most foreign language books I have after Spanish (over 400) and French (around 120).  Here are some of the Goethe and Heine books I have, as well as a three-volume anthology.


Schiller and Kafka, two of my favorite playwrights/writers in any language.  I might devote part of 2012 to relearning German enough to read them without much need of a translation or dictionary.


A smorgasbord (almost the only Swedish I know) of other German writers.  I even have the German edition of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels' The Communist Manifesto in there.  The Herman Hesse and Michael Ende books just missed the picture cut, alas.


Here's the German translation of Eco's Foucault's Pendulum, some Hegel and Thomas Mann, a Romanian book, and Romanian, Greek, and Polish translations of some of Jeff VanderMeer's work.  No, I'm not fluent enough to try to read the latter three without assistance, although the Romanian I can puzzle out through knowing the cognates in other Romance languages.

Friday, December 02, 2011

Follow-up on yesterday's rant

Yesterday's rant on the William Morrow letter to online reviewers has stirred the pot, I suppose, as even the LA Times' Jacket Copy blog has linked to my previous post and to others tweeting/blogging about that situation.  A lot of interesting points were brought up in the comments to my post, in a couple of forums where I linked to the letter, and on other blogs reacting to either those forum posts or to my original post here.  Some agreed with what I said, some had reservations, and a few disagreed completely, seeing little to nothing wrong with the situation.

I had planned on elaborating on a few of my concerns in the near future, but thought it might be best to strike while the iron is hot, so this sequel post will be more of an apologia than anything else.  What I'd like to cover here is a few points related to the receiving of review copies, perceived expectations, and the dangers associated with certain relationships.  Some will agree with what I have to say, others will disagree, and a few will likely shrug before going off to do something of a productive nature.  C'est la vie.

One common preconception about review copies is that the reception of them ought to imply a quid pro quo situation in which both the reviewer and the product producer have certain obligations.  To some small extent, this is true.  A reviewer should be expected to write reviews of something at some indeterminate date lest s/he be a fraud, but there is a fallacy here.  Some seem to think that there is an understood contract in which services are provided in exchange for material supply (reviews for books), but that is not how traditional reviewing has taken place.  I come from an academic background, having written critiques of fellow grad student papers and having mine critiqued as well.  It was there where I learned how to write reviews and where I derive my review ethics.  Scholars receive materials to consider for review; they often decline to review a work or if they accept it, it is not with the expectation that the review is payment for services rendered by the initial reception of materials (i.e. books).

As a fairly successful online reviewer (with hundreds of thousands, if not over a million – depending on the stat device used –, of page views over seven years), I was one of the earliest people to receive books from genre publishers, way back in 2004 (although that was because I headed wotmania's Other Fantasy section then).  For years now, I've received hundreds of books from a wide variety of publishers, from large conglomerates down to smaller "indie" presses.  I did a few contacts at first to have my name put on mailing lists, but I never considered myself a reviewer for hire by any press.  Instead, I viewed it akin to how a professor or school may solicit samples from several publishing firms in order to do textbook selections (something which I've helped in a minor role in my main career as a teacher).  They might receive dozens of materials and select only 1-3 out of those.  Only difference being there is no feasible way of returning the promotional ARC materials, this is how I've always viewed the process.  I am a potential user/reviewer, the publishers are vendors advertising their wares in hopes that I select one for consideration and then possible favorable recommendation to others.

Others do not see it this way.  They see it as an unspoken obligation between the two parties.  Some in the comments I've read on this issue get hung up on the "well, they requested the copies" quip.  People request information or, in this case, materials for a variety of reasons.  They may want to investigate further to see if the material warrants a full read/review (and in many cases, the story is unappealing to the reviewer and they would rather not finish the book than to write a negative review).  Some may view it as an obligation or paid-in-kind job that they must complete in order to be "paid."  Regardless of the rationale, there is that common belief that obligations exist for reviewers.  Here, it seems the main obligation is to read/review a book because the publisher expects that of reviewers and that to refuse to do so is somehow dishonest.  I think this is a misleading expectation, in large part because for some of the more well-known online reviewers (those at my modest level to those who receive tens of thousands of page views daily), we receive a lot of unsolicited materials in hopes that we will choose 1-5 a month that will gain enough visibility that they might start a daisy chain of other reviewers hunting down those books, posting reviews, and perhaps increasing potential sales by 10% or more.  Is it cost-effective for publishers?  Depends on the firm and their market strategy.  It may not be as lucrative as some thought, viz. the William Morrow marketing letter, which hints at a restriction on these unsolicited copies due to the gross inefficiencies of this scatter-shot approach toward distributing review copies.  It does make sense for those bearing the cost of review distribution to reassess and refine distribution.  That is not a problem for me and never was, as my perceived part in this is someone who sifts through what is sent unsolicited.

As I've said in the past, I no longer solicit copies and I seldom respond to direct publicist requests because I do not want to get into the game of promising tit for tat.  This is an important distinction to make here, as it also implies that I do not care one way or the other if a publisher feels these terms of engagement are not conducive to good marketing for them.  I would have no qualms about dropping publishing firms who demand that I cover X number of books by Y date, nor should they have any hesitation in dropping me from their mailing lists if I won't play by their rules.  Some commentators have made disparaging comments regarding "blogger entitlement," as if the reviewers somehow expect they should receive "free books" without obligation.  That's not the issue here:  reviewers ought not to be viewed as a (mostly) unpaid extension of a publisher's marketing branch.  I may read a book, say Karen Tei Yamashita's I Hotel, and praise it, but I'm not going to be a taint weasel and praise every single thing that Coffee House Books has done in hopes of receiving more copies (I should note that I bought the book and have never had any dealings with Coffee House Books other than buying a few books that I later thought were excellent).  To do so would compromise my ethical position when it comes to reviewing books.  Others might disagree, arguing that people such as myself cannot hold themselves distant from the fray and look down upon those who are trying to find good books and to promote those to their readers.

A related view, expressed in a comment to a post here, is that receiving review materials is a "privilege."  It is the different side of the obligation coin, where now the reviewer is somehow (unjustly?) exalted because s/he receives something that others do not and that therefore they better be sure to keep that in mind lest it be yanked away from them.  I disagree.  Reviewing is separate, or at least ought to be, from the means in which the reviewed materials are acquired.  I am no more or less of a reviewer because I bought my copy of Helen Oyeyemi's Mr. Fox before receiving a commission to write a short review of it for the upcoming issue of Bull Spec magazine.  I review because I want to and because I worked hard enough at my craft that I occasionally agree to write columns, reviews, and conduct interviews for paying venues.  There is no coercion there; my reviews, columns, or interviews could have been rejected or I could have not accepted the commissions.  There is neither privilege nor entitlement involved in reviewing.  I could have every single publisher-sent review copy dropped tomorrow and it would not affect me as a reviewer because I would then just buy what interests me, explore a few curiosities, and only be a few hundred dollars poorer every year.

This admittedly cavalier attitude is not a universal one.  There are those who are caught up in how to receive the copies, on how best to cover them, and how not to upset the hand that "feeds" them.  These are the ones who will work hardest on "Maggie's Farm," as they want to work harder to win the prize at the end of the day.  These bloggers are so earnest that I cannot help but marvel at them while being dismayed at the sometimes servile tone they strike.  For several, reviewing is something done in order to continue to receive something that they hope they can share with friends and other like-minded individuals who want to know what "the buzz" is going to be and where.  For these reviewers, the relationship between reviewer-product supplier is not that of vendor model (my attitude) or employer/employee as much as it is a cozy connection in which the blogger becomes a willing participant in the book promotion game, sometimes crossing over and joining the publisher in a paid position (this is not condemning those who take such jobs, mind you).  Perhaps the better term for this type of reviewer-publisher relationship is that of the lobbyist or advocate, where the blogger sees their main role as advocating (or recommending) certain books and not attempting to be critical or to place distance between themselves and the publishers.

This is where I have the largest problems.  I didn't address it fully (or adequately) in the William Morrow piece I wrote yesterday, but beyond the annoying claims put forth in that letter was this sense that it was written in part to address those who may be receptive to being a book lobbyist sort of reviewer.  This galls me.  Not the WM letter as much as the growing sense I've had that too many erstwhile critics are becoming too close to their clients and that the relationship does not have the necessary "distance" that would benefit both the reviewer and the publisher who wants a firmer gauge on what stories appeal to which audiences.  Giveaways by themselves are harmless, but the perception that the review is the "hook" for the giveaway is an insidious one that hints at a possible internal decay of the review infrastructure.  Who can trust those who may have lost their critical eye?

These issues outlined above have troubled me long before the latest teapot tempest.  While I don't expect people to agree with even part of what I have said, hopefully there is some food for thought here.  Later this month, I plan on reviewing several titles.  Virtually all of them will be bought and not received, but a few might be review copies.  When those reviews appear will depend on my health (I am scheduled to have dental surgery on the 13th to remove an infected wisdom tooth) and my time (I will begin shortly writing biweekly columns for Weird Fiction Review).  What I do hope readers will do is read what I write, look and see if there are other reviews, and make up their own minds, as I don't write reviews for fame, review copies, or much of anything else other than a love to spout off on occasion.


Thursday, December 01, 2011

I Ain't Gonna Work on Maggie's Farm No More: William Morrow and Blogger Reviewers

I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
No, I aint gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I wake up in the morning
Fold my hands and pray for rain
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin' me insane
It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.

– Bob Dylan, "Maggie's Farm"

A little over a year ago, I made the decision not to solicit review copies or advanced review copies (ARCs) any more due to certain constraints that I felt might compromise my ability to write honest, reflective reviews.  I do not regret making that decision and even though I still receive a few unsolicited review copies, I do not promise to review any of the books I receive in case I find there is little to say about the book or because I do not care to read it at all.  That decision has worked well for me and I have found that I have reviewed more diverse books over the past year than I had done previously.  This may not be to the liking of those readers who want "the new shiny" when it comes to books and want to be able to compare reviews of particular "buzzworthy" books, but tough.  This blog has been dedicated to reviewing an eclectic range of works and if you hadn't heard of Donald Ray Pollock before reading this blog and then discovered that he writes darker, more twisted (in a good way) stories than the average Joes (Abercrombie, Piscopo), then this blog has served its purpose.

Other online reviewers probably enjoyed (and maybe still enjoy) the interactions with publicists, authors, and editors more than I have.  Maybe there's some fun in arranging contests, giveaways, and other promotional matters.  That's never been of interest to me, even when I arranged them at wotmania as perfunctory matter.  I preferred keeping my distance and viewing the review copies et al. as akin to textbook adoptions, where the districts (or in my case, the reviewer) consider what is offered but make no commitments, with none expected unless an arrangement is made.  Others might not like that reduction of all this down to its business core, but that's how I've viewed it for a long time, which probably has enabled me to sleep better at night than others who have fretted and worried over their "review commitments."

But I would imagine that even those who have cozier relationships with publishers than I ever will might be upset to learn of a letter sent to several online reviewers by William Morrow, a branch of HarperCollins.  I saw this posted today on Twitter and I was disgusted by what I read:

"Under the new system, you will no longer receive titles piece-meal.  Instead, you'll receive 1-3 emails during the month with all of our upcoming titles available for your review, one month ahead of the on-sale date.  You'll be directed to a Google form where you can request up to three of your choices.  Of course, we'll still happily pay the shipping.  Your job is simply to review the book within a month of receiving it and post your thoughts on your blog or site.  Ideally, we'd like for reviews to appear online within two weeks to a month after the on-sale date, so you might keep this in mind when selecting books."
Your job?  Uh, Hey-ull nah!  I ain't workin' for you!

"When you've reviewed a book you've chosen and sent us an email with a link to the posted review, you will be eligible for a free giveaway copy.  Just let us know in the email that you'd like to host a giveaway.  We'll pay for the shipping to the winner within the US and Canada."
How nice.  Write us a review and we'll be oh-so-kind as to offer you a promotional copy to promote your blog and our product.  Backs will be scratched, almost gratis!

"Additionally, you'll no longer receive books that you didn't order.  No more random books showing up on your doorstep!  You'll only receive the titles that you want."
Sounds super!  But what's the catch, dad?

"If it isn't already clear, WE LOVE THAT YOU LOVE OUR BOOKS!  And to allow us to continue to offer free copies and free shipping to you committed book reviewers, we will be tracking how many reviews we receive from you.  If we notice that you request books but aren't posting your comments or sending us the link, we may suspend your ability to receive review offers from us.  We know you're busy bloggers – if you don't think you'll be able to post a review within a month, please pass on that offer so we can continue to offer you free books in the future!"
And now we see the stick lying behind that dangling ARC carrot.  It's not enough that it is "your job" to review their books within a one month span before or after its release date, but they couch in sweet talk the threat to pull review copies because you don't want to play their game.  In other words, it's not the neutral relationship between a critic and a publishing firm, but it is a quasi-working relationship where it is implied that the blogger reviewers will act as paid-in-kind promoters for the publisher and get a few (up to three a month!) books in a quid pro quo arrangement.  No, I ain't gonna be working on Maggie's farm no more...and neither should any who actually received that letter from the William Morrow Marketing Team.

It's bad enough when some publishers imply such an arrangement is necessary for online reviewers to receive books, but to go so far as to baldly state it?  It's just a perversion of what a literary critic/book reviewer should be doing and seeing such a missive sickens me.  What's worse is that I know there are some out there who will readily grovel to receive such titles, even if it meant forfeiting any possibility of having a neutral, critical approach toward reviewing any titles received from William Morrow or any other publisher that might demand terms such as that.

Sadly, this letter is but a symptom of what I perceive to be an unbalanced and unhealthy relationship between those who produce objects and those who write about said objects.  Too often we hear these days of those "reviewers" who have been bought and sold by the companies whose products they are supposed to be evaluating.  I recently saw a link on Conversational Reading that dealt with "a crisis in literary criticism."  It is worth reading, but what I noticed was an implied reference to reviewers who are "careful" about what they say about books.  Let's be honest.  A large reason why reviewers in print publications have to be "careful" is that too often the ad/marketing people call the shots.  If the review pisses off a client, then money might be lost, so the reviewer is often reminded to tone it down.  There really are few firebrands out there blasting both barrels at works that suck donkey dong.  Whether it be online reviewers on their nascent blogs that receive a few score visitors a day or those who enjoy a regular readership in the hundreds of thousands, one doesn't want to lose their supply and/or money, so one just meekly parses their words to make scathing complaints into the mildest of rebukes while providing blurb-friendly comments to works that are disposable and easily forgotten after the sales cycle is complete.

What a sad state of affairs.  Maggie and her brother seem to have the upper hand for now.




Progress on "to finish" books for 2011

Nine days ago, I posted a list of 21 books/series I wanted to finish before 2011 was complete.  Thought I'd update the list for the beginning of December.  The titles in bold mean I have completed them and the ones underlined I expect to finish before the weekend is over.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón, La sombra del viento (re-read)
Carlos Ruiz Zafón, El juego del Ángel (re-read)
Carlos Ruiz Zafón, El prisionero del cielo (copy should arrive in the next 2-7 days)
Umberto Eco, La Misteriosa Flamma della Regina Loana (hoping copy arrives in the next few days)
Umberto Eco, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana (re-read)
Umberto Eco, Тајанствени Пламен Краљице Лоане (Serbian translation I received as a gift)
Milorad Pavić, Drugo Telo (re-read)
Milorad Pavić, Second Body (re-read)
Milorad Pavić, Unique Item - Delta Novel
Milorad Pavić, Blue Book
Catherynne M. Valente, The Habitation of the Blessed

Catherynne M. Valente, The Folded World
Caitlín R. Kiernan, Two Worlds and In Between
Geoff Ryman, Paradise Tales
Marcel Proust, volumes 3-7, in both French and English, of In Search of Lost Time
Russell Banks, Lost Memory of Skin
J.M. McDermott, Women and Monsters
Christopher Bollen, Lightning People
Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
Péter Nádas, Parallel Stories (in-progress)
Various, The King James Edition of the Bible (halfway through)

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Umberto Eco, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana

"...I no longer knew how to go forward, and I didn't know how to go forward because I had lost what came before.  That's it, that's how I am.  I'm holding a long note, like a stuck record, and since I can't remember the opening notes, I can't finish the song.  I wonder what it is I'm supposed to finish, and why.  While I was singing without thinking I was actually myself for the duration of my memory, which in that case was what you might call throat memory, with the befores and afters linked together, and I was the complete song, and every time I began it my vocal cords were already preparing to vibrate the sounds to come.  I think a pianist works that way, too:  even as he plays one note he's readying his fingers to strike the keys that come next.  Without the first notes, we won't make it to the last ones, we'll come untuned, and we'll succeed in getting from start to finish only if we somehow contain the entire song within us.  I don't know the whole song anymore.  I'm like...a burning log.  The log burns, but it has no awareness of having once been part of a whole trunk nor any way to find out that it has been, or to know when it caught fire.  So it burns up and that's all.  I'm living in pure loss." (p. 37)

What makes each of us a "human being?"  Even that compound word, "human being," implies a sort of dynamic action, where the living person is in a fluid state between conception and death.  What are we "being?"  A series of actions, thoughts, mistakes, deceptions, and attempts to wrest order out of chaos seem to delineate human beings from rocks, trees, or even squirrels.  We are constantly "being" because of our attempts, benighted as some might see them, to remake and reorder our environs, to utilize that evolutionary tool called "memory" to recall, however imperfectly, our past experiences, never permits us to be static; we have to keep living in order to postpone dying, whether that be a metaphorical or biological death.

But what if our memories were taken from us?  What if we could not recall why that ray of sunshine shining through the patio makes us sigh and smile wistfully?  What if we hear a voice and do not associate that voice with a lover, with a child, or with a friend?  If our identity, those things that we devise to center ourselves at the crux of so many semantic associations, is lost, then who are we?  Are we that burning log described above, burning but without knowing that it was once part of something grander?

This is the issue that Umberto Eco tackles in his fifth novel, 2004's La Misteriosa Fiamma della Regina Loana, published in English translation in 2005 as The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana.  A late middle-aged (roughly 60 years old) rare books dealer, Yambo, wakes up in a Milanese hospital in 1991 (roughly around the time that the Persian Gulf War ends, based on internal evidence) with no memory of his individual past, only the snippets of information that he learned from songs, comic strips, poetry, and prose.  Over the next couple of months, he is reintroduced to his family, his assistant (and possible mistress?) and friends before visiting his childhood home in Solari, where a treasure trove of material from his youth is stored at the family residence.

Eco is renowned for his erudite cataloging of minutiae, errata, and other material evidence of belief structures (he was a leading semiotics professor before he became a novelist in 1980).  At first glance, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana would seem to share little with works such as The Name of the Rose, Foucault's Pendulum, The Island of the Day Before, or Baudolino, as the narrative is grounded firmly in the present and there are no esoteric theories on reality or the structure of the universe on display.  Even the narrative contains a deceptively simpler, more personable tone to it.  Yet appearances can be deceiving.  Re-reading The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana two years after reading his non-fiction The Infinity/Vertigo of Lists, there are certain parallels can be made between those two works and from there with his other novels.  Yambo's exploration of his past through the comic books and penny dreadful-type pulp novels that were common reading materials of Italian youth in the 1930s and 1940s opens up new possibilities.  How would we be affected if we were to see beloved childhood texts for the first time in years?  Would we have deep associational memories attached to say Harold and the Purple Crayon or Happiness is a Warm Puppy (two of my earliest books that I read)?

As Yambo delves into this obscured literary/personal history, he begins to recall more and more information.  The "fog" that he often would note (and quote from divers literary sources) starts to dissipate, with interesting new connections being revealed.  When I first read The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, I found these recalled memories and associations to be almost impenetrable, as they were not images of my generation (just as perhaps the post 9/11 generation might not fully grasp what the Iranian hostage situation or the Challenger explosion meant to my age cohort) and there was a barely-perceived invisible barrier that kept me from understanding what was transpiring during the latter quarter of the novel.  Although still difficult at times to process during the recent re-read, the combination of nostalgia and recalling of past dreams and memories is more understandable to me now that I'm nearing middle age.  Interesting how perceptions can change with time and experience, something that I suspect Eco had at least partially in mind as he was constructing this novel.

Despite The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana being different in structure and focus from his previous novels, I still found it to be a challenging yet ultimately rewarding read.  It may not present at first the formidable challenges that his most famous works do, being that it is centered around a nearly-average man's struggle to recall his life and first love, but it too contains layers of depth that make it a novel that deserves several re-reads spaced out over a long period of years for more of its hidden treasures to be revealed to readers.  Eco is never an "easy read," but like its predecessors, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana is a worthwhile read for those readers who want a deeper challenge than what they typically find in most literature today.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Epic fantasy or non-speculative fiction?

Let's see who can identify which is which based on small descriptive passages:

He cleared his throat, preparing the way for words, but as had happened more than once, decided at the last minute not to say anything.  There is no knowing if it was from a wish to irritate her with silence or simply the result of contented laziness, or perhaps an unconscious fear of dealing a final blow to something he wanted to preserve.
He had the strangest sensation, the only way he could have described it was to say that it felt like her, but he had never touched her, nor any woman that he could remember.  Still, the touch seemed to carry her signature, the note of her, like a distinctive perfume, almost.  The pain and the indignities had not daunted him.  This did.  No one had touched him but to lift or bathe him since he had been seven years old.  A chill went through him, a delicious cold tingle from his forehead to his knees.

Jons Allanbridge, who found this reaction from his native city somewhat galling, proceeded to get straight into a row with the man and the exchange became sufficiently heated for the passengers packed below to come up to see what was going on.  Because they were who they were, and in a foreign land, they came up fully armed and expecting trouble.
Sometimes you'll see nothing but blue skies; sometimes you'll see the muck in the mud piles along the road. And you'll accuse the man carrying the mirror in his basket of being immoral! His mirror reflects muck, so you'll accuse the mirror, too! Why not also accuse the highway where the muck is piled, or, more strongly still, the street inspector who leaves water wallowing in the roads, so the mud piles can come into being.

The steady clang of iron on stone sounded to Will like the remorseless proclamation of a funeral bell.  He felt the vibrations run through his Spanish leather boots, up his black-clad legs and into the pit of his stomach as he crouched on Paul's Walk in the dark belly of the cathedral.  His stomach responded with a queasy sensation that only added to his feeling that the world was out of kilter.

"A caged bird reserves to herself, by the good will of her gaoler, her material liberty.  The joy of the fowler would surely be greater if he knew that he had captured a soul – but that can never be known, can it?  How can one penetrate the mysteries of metempsychosis, to assure oneself that the quarry is animated by some divine breath?"

He found he couldn't answer her.  What if he did think that the length of a person's grief was a measure of their love?  He was as troubled by the simple fact of her asking that question as by his own inability to answer.

Death stalked the field.  As the last of the sun's rays winked out of the sky, a heavy shroud settled over the fields beyond Byora.  It was followed by an unnatural hush that rolled in like sea-fog.  Bird calls became distant before gradually fading into nothing, but as the gloom deepened there came other sounds:  whispers and low, mournful cries from the torpid fens.  Uncertain lights winked in the misty distance in cold imitation of life, but then even the voices of spirits and daemons quietened in the presence of something more terrifying yet.  In the broken silence the darkness on the edge of the fens slowly deepened and took form.





 
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