This is a rich study of an artist. As with other Kazuo Ishiguro novels, the narrator is unreliable. The action here is in trying to figure out what the narrator believes, what’s artifice, and so how far he is lying to us and himself in the presentation of his thoughts.
This was enjoyable for me because even though the artist–a Japanese painter who served as a propagandist for World War II–technically claims that what he did was morally wrong, you feel that he cannot quite accept that. He is a stubborn, proud man. At the end, the narrator reflects tranquilly on the path his life has taken, like Mr. Stevens at the end of Remains of the Day, but here this is sinister.
Without fully owning up to what he did, and the consequences of what he did, as well as being cast off by a progressing society that would rather pretend those years didn’t exist, his summing up and self-satisfaction represents an revocation of responsibility. It is an revocation of responsibility, demanded by the rhythms of life, that allows for the sins of the past to be conveniently forgotten.
Book Review: 8.5/10: Ishiguro’s historical novel: Is a man a player in history or does history play him?
Well, the Nobel Committee got this right! Kazuo Ishiguro wins the Nobel Prize for Literature. I have been a fan of this British writer since high school. The Nobel Press Release is simply:
The Nobel Prize in Literature 2017 was awarded to Kazuo Ishiguro “who, in novels of great emotional force, has uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world”.
The “Uncovered the Abyss” line shows that they must have read The Unconsoled the most unconventional and experimental of his books, which I think is one of his best. In celebration of his work, I will post some reviews of his novels here in the next few days.
Halt is reaching its conclusion, but instead of settling in with a safe ending, it is pushing the series further than it has gone before. Is there a more realistic show on television than this?
The way the showrunners concluded a story line was unconventional and dazzling. Dazzling because it was quiet. It felt more like real life–reconciliation, hesitancy in opening up, satisfaction in being a part of your life–than, again, any other current television show. Can any other show blur the focus from the plot and grow stronger? People will look back at this show as this decade’s The Wire.
This is a story a cynic or skeptic wouldn’t think is possible. A Somali man in jail reads Anna Karenina and it changes his life. The man doesn’t read it strictly speaking, but hears in tapped out in a type of Morse code from an adjacent doctor cellmate and he deciphers it. And it is the features of Tolstoy’s writing–the shift in perspective of several scenes; his portrayal of the trapped circumstances of the Russian noblewoman–that wrest a pulsing empathy from this man. He regains faith in his wife and direction in his life. There is a wonderful circle of relations here between the man, the doctor, the wife, Tolstoy, and “Anna Karenina.”
I have been reading more short stories lately. I took a Short Fiction online course from Jennifer Caloyeras. I have been looking over some of the links provided and have been searching out paper journals as well.
I was lent two issues of One Story, a relatively new journal / literary magazine. With its slim profile of about twenty pages, cover rich in color, crisp text, and focus–there is indeed only one story per an issue–it has a memorable design that lingers after you close the back.
They publish many new or emerging authors. A story I read “Prairie Fire, 1899” was a portrait of the lead-up and that blaze as it ripped through a Dakota frontier town. Click here for an interview with the author and a brief excerpt. Worth checking out.
Wong Kar-wai’s 2046 is a lavish, flurrying piece on love in its dizzying expansive heights and its restrictive chambers of regret and obsession. As a sequel to In the Mood for Love, Kar-wai follows Chow Mo-wan (Tony Cheung), a journalist and a writer of romances, after his rejection by his lover Su Li-Zhen (the regal Maggie Cheung). The superstructure of the stories in this film is a science-fiction story written by the Chow set in 2046. In it, he imagines himself as a Japanese man (Takuya Kimura) stuck on a train in an endless loop; he falls for an android (Faye Wong) on board. He can’t escape, but nevertheless he doesn’t want to escape (Hotel California-style).
In the present tense of the film, Chow falls in and out of love with a frisky, petulant call girl Bai Ling (Ziyi Zhang), lands a trusting, short-lived friendship with Wang Jing-wen (Faye Wong), and relies on and almost devours another woman called Su Li-Zhen (the stunning Li Gong). Throughout his longing and feeling of loss can’t be restrained or quieted, but reoccurs in all his future relationships. In a dazzling scene, Chow pushes Su Li-Zhen to a wall with a violent, long kiss goodbye-it is as if to say this is what kind of passion I have for you (and her) but if I stay with you, I can never be content as I would have been.
Wong does as masterful job of getting those scenes of riotous feeling, angst, and regret just right. Though its sci-fi escapade seems inessential and excessive and sometimes the characters dawdle around too much (cutting down on the pace), Wong delivers another insightful, bare treatment of love.
I picked up Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Women Warrior at a local used bookstore. As I went through the pages, I noticed that almost every page had extensive annotations in red, green, and black Sharpie. There were brackets, underlines, circles, and notes. The first page had the name of the previous owner, a New York state campus, and a date “1992.” I purchased it. Reading this book, which is subtitled “Memoirs of a Childhood Among Ghosts,” took longer than a spell at the end of 2016 when I went through a couple in succession. This book took several months. Not because of its length at 209 pages, but because of the author uncompromising method which fights against the signposts we seek in a memoir: an narrator from a future time speaking about the past; a this-then-that chronology; the sketch of the growth of relationships; and all that explanation.
While the subtitle states this book is a collection, it is a memoir. At first, I thought that each story was a segment of the narrator’s life from a different perspective. While it has that in it, each piece starts with the narrator and then segues into another story from or about her aunt, mother, younger aunt: it is storytelling about storytelling. Once all the pieces are read, you start to fill in the gaps a-chronologically but with the guide of context from the collective body of these voices and how they shape and express the narrator’s psyche. I would only realize that the urgency of those annotations from grappling with this maze.
I return to the word uncompromising because Kingston’s vision does not rest. For one, it does not abide by the traditions of Asians in American letters. She sees the transitory state of immigrant not as a recent phenomena, a challenge or fulfillment of to the American ideal, or solely a particular socioeconomic condition, but a state carrying through human history. She does not simply externalize this, but shows through her method how that state also a personal even literary one. It is one thing to be written about and for a story to be told about you. It is one thing even to take advantage of a story for oneself. But only rarely would one wield the power of the immigrant, outsider, or warrior–like the Mulan of this book’s title no less–to bring forth and articulate a new vernacular: true to one’s own and polyglot and American. Here Kingston clasps the hilt.
Book Review: 8/10: A singular memoir that breaks and re-imagines the genre.