Book Review: An Artist of the Floating World

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.

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“Fisherman” by Yamamoto Kanae 1904

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?

Here’s a good piece on the aesthetics in the book and how it is when the artist becomes political does his art degrade: https://johnpistelli.com/2014/06/17/an-artist-of-the-floating-world-kazuo-ishiguros-aestheticism/

 

Nobel Prize for Kazuo Ishiguro

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.

Here is a link to a review of his latest work: The Buried Giant.

Book Review: The Woman Warrior

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.