Haruki Murakami has a lot to answer for

This is another slim, provocative novel by the author of The Factory. I think Haruki Murakami has a lot to answer for. This is another Japanese work that starts as a realistic picture of contemporary Japanese life and then—suddenly without warning—slips into an alternate universe.

Asa Matsumura’s husband is being transferred to an office in the country. His parents live not far from the new office and, providentially, own the house next door, which is about to be vacated. The childless young couple can live there rent-free. What could go wrong?

Asa has to quit her job. The new house, much bigger than their city apartment, is much too distant from her company for a daily commute. Besides, she’s not a permanent employee. Her winter bonus is only ¥30,000 while permanent employees receive between ¥600,000 and ¥700,000 (($5,171 - $6,033).

Neither her husband nor her in-laws pay much attention to her. Her husband barely looks up from his cell phone screen. Her mother-in-law works and her father-in-law works and plays golf. Asa begins her new life, one without a car or anyone to talk to. A bus passes once an hour. Her husband’s grandfather waters the garden next door rain or shine; he does not respond to Asa’s greetings.

There is a river not far from the property and one summer day Asa spots a big, black animal, not a weasel or a raccoon. “It had wide shoulders, slender and muscular thighs, but from the knees down, its legs were as thin as sticks. The animal was covered in black fur and had a long tail and rounded ears.”

She follows the animal, which almost seems to be guiding her. “I saw the animal’s tail slip through the grass, and I leapt after it, but there was nothing there to catch me.” She has fallen into a four- or five-foot deep hole, and the animal has vanished soundlessly. It is the beginning of her adventures.

A mysterious woman helps her out of the hole. A scruffy man tells her he is her husband’s older brother, someone her husband has never mentioned. This “brother-in-law” talks about the animal and its propensity to dig holes.  But he does not know what kind of animal it is. 

He points out the animal is trapped in an old well that is covered by a grate. “You can’t get it off unless you put a finger in there and lift, but this guy’s a smart one. He can push it open with his fangs . . . If you’re wonder why I bother putting the cover on when he’s only going to get out again, I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer for you.”

In addition to Haruki Murakami, Lewis Carroll also has a lot to answer for. Asa does not fall completely underground like Alice, but her adventures are also remarkable and mysterious. And at one point a character tells Asa he’s white rabbit Alice followed underground. But who is this person who claims to be her husband’s brother? Doe he even exist?  What is the animal? Possibly Asa’s own unconscious? Do the holes represent emptiness’s in Asa’s heart? Does anything mean anything? And should we care?

The Hole is interesting because it does provoke such questions. On one level the novel is a realistic description of a trash-filled rural landscape and polluted marshland and river. On another level, we have mysterious creatures and inexplicable happenings. Are they symbolic or simply Asa’s delusions?

As the book’s narrator, Asa asks some hard questions: “Can you really hide your brother’s existence from you spouse? Is it even possible? And more importantly—why would anyone do it? Were they worried about the world finding out that the family had a shut-in? Or was there more to it than that?” 

Good questions Asa, and you’re living with someone who can answer. But no: “How could I ever as my husband about any of this? So—you have an older brother? How could I say anything to his mother? So—you have another son?” So, she doesn’t.

Other readers may find The Hole more rewarding than I did. Laura Van Den Berg (author of I Hold a Wolf by the Ears and other works) says that “Hiroko Oyamada is brilliant on work, families, and the sacrifices women are so often asked to make. The Hole is a haunting and transformative work of fiction: as Asa begins to see the world in new ways so do we.”

I have two complaints about the publishing company. A convention to make scenes with dialogue easy to read is to make each separate speaker’s words a new paragraph. The Hole does not do that, so the reader has great blocks of type filled with quotation marks. That the Japanese original is the same does not in my mind justify the English typography.

Also, why isn’t the translator’s name on the cover? David Boyd, who’s done a skillful job of turning Oyamada’s fantasy in the English, gets a line on the back cover; he’s assistant professor of Japanese at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Good job, David. Shame on New Directions.

How poetry can change a life

We never learn exactly why Edwardo lost his driver’s license and was sentenced to a year of community service (there was an accident) but thanks to his sister’s confessor who knew the mayor personally he was assigned to reading books to the elderly and the infirm in their homes rather than scrubbing toilets in some hospital or prison.

Eduardo, unmarried, in his early thirties, lives with his dying father in Cuernavaca, the “City of Eternal Spring,” fifty miles south of Mexico City. His has mother died seven years earlier, and Celeste, a faithful caregiver, an important character in the novel, is the only person who can communicate with Papá.

Edwardo’s family has owned and operates a small furniture store with one employee, so Edwardo is free to drink coffee in the middle of the work day. The story pay protection money to an ex-employee, Güero, picks up the cash while a more senior member of the gang stays watches guard outside. The criminality sounds so pervasive and established in the society that going to the police would mean only that your business would be burned out.

Edwardo is required to read for an hour a week to a rich cast of characters: a retired Colonel who loves the readings, even though he’s only awake for a few pages; a deaf family who reads Edwardo’s lips not realizing their children can hear; a pair of brothers who pull bizarre pranks; and a stunning, wheelchair-bound opera singer with an aggressively flirty housekeeper.

The book jacket tells us that the author, Fabio Morábito is a writer, translator, and professor. He was born in Egypt, grew up in Italy, and relocated to Mexico when he was fifteen. He has published four books of poetry, four short-story collections, a book of essays, and two novels. He has translated into Spanish the work of many great Italian poets of the twentieth century, including Eugenio Montale and Patrizia Cavalli. Morábito has been awarded numerous prizes including Mexico’s highest literary award, the Xavier Villaurrutia Prize, for Home Reading Service. He lives in Mexico City.

The translator, Curtis Bauer, is a poet and translator of prose and poetry from Spanish. He received a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant and a Banff International Literary Translation Centre fellowship. He teaches creative writing and comparative literature at Texas Tech University. The translation here is smooth and engaging and I was particularly taken by Bauer’s translation of a poem by Isabel Fraire, a Mexican poet who died in 2015, a poem that plays a key role in Edwardo’s growth.

Although he reads great (or not so great) literature to the elderly and the disabled, Edwardo does not listen to a word he reads. But when he comes across a Fraire poem that his father, now dying of cancer, had once copied out, it affects him as no literature has affected him before: “Your skin, like sheets of sand, and sheets of water swirling/your skin, with its louring mandolin brilliance . . .” (The book includes the Spanish original as an appendix.) In sharing the poem, Edwardo is astonished at what the words are capable of bringing out in others.

Complications ensue. Edwardo, a man who’s spent most of his thirty-four-plus years on earth simply allowing things to happen to him, has to cope with a dying father, a dying retail furniture business, and the demands of the people to whom he must read for an hour a week or find himself scrubbing toilets. And, of course, there’s the “protection” he’s paying and the gangsters behind it.

Home Reading Service is a fascinating picture of contemporary middle-class (?) Mexican life. Without knowing better, I accept Morábito’s picture of how things work. That a man can be sentenced to a year of community service and that the service be to read for an hour a week to a variety of shut-ins. Moreover, that the act of reading and being read to can change your life. An interesting and satisfying book. 

Stories set in pre-Tokugawa Japan

I picked up this 1983 collection of Japanese short stories because Charles Johnson recommended it in his book The Way of the Writer, making a special point of discussing John Gardner’s introduction, “Meditational Fiction.”

Gardner points out that most Western fiction offers a causally related series of events with a beginning, middle, and end. Or it did until recently as more books are being published as “fiction” are more like life with coincidences, accidents, and the inexplicable.

What makes Kikuo Itaya interesting, Gardner wrote, is his use of “storytelling as a façade: the deeper impulse of the fiction is what I shall call meditational.” As readers are lured into Itaya’s stories by the graceful surface—"the apparently coherent but sometimes puzzling line of action”—we gradually realize that nearly everything is symbolic.

The symbolism, however, is not Western symbolism where a rabbit in a medieval painting symbolizes fecundity and a book symbolized learning. “In Eastern symbolism the distinction between vehicle and tenor—the thing said and the thing meant, or the temporal instance and the eternal principle—is illusory. To see only the temporal instance (this character in this story or life-situation) is to be unenlightened.”

The symbolism in a Itaya story may look like traditional Western symbolism, Gardner wrote, “but it is no more the same thing than wings are to, respectively, a butterfly and a bird. The two are products of distinct evolutionary lines.”

Kikuo Itaya was born in November 1898. His father became a nationally famous ceramist and Kikuo began following his father’s craft. In his early twenties he decided to enter Waseda University to study Japanese literature and gave up ceramics. When he graduated from Waseda after almost dying of pulmonary tuberculosis he began teaching at a prestigious Tokyo boys school. He published only one story, “Tengu Child,” during his fifty-four years of teaching. He did however continue to write and polish the stories that make up the book, however.

The tengu images I’ve seen have red faces and giant noses. In Japanese folklore, they are supernatural creatures that inhabit mountains and forests and are found in both Buddhist and Shinto traditions. They are goblins with a human body and wings, carry a feather fan, and able to fly and perform miracles. 

In the title story, boy named Tengu Doji—"Bird-creature child”—lives in a village with his carpenter father who maintains a small shop that sold canes and straw sandals to the travelers who passed through the village on the way to Kyoto. One day, the child’s father finds an unusual stone beside the house. It has fine shape, a beautiful crack, and beautiful blue moss. When an itinerant monk passes through, the villagers ask him about the stone. 

It is no ordinary stone, he announces. “This is a sacred treasure called a Tengu stone, which the great noble Tengu living high up in Mt. Kurayama lets fall occasionally.” The monk uses the magical powers of the stone to cure a woman’s headaches and a man’s aching hip. He tells villagers to build a shrine as a sanctuary for the stone and he will perform further religious rites on his return trip.

The carpenter builds the shrine beside his house having risen to the rank of a priest at one bound. His son however grows more and despondent and finally admits that one day while he was in the great persimmon tree beside the house he saw passing armed monks pass. The halberd of one “struck the eves of our house with great force, and one of the stones on the roof fell off to the ground”—the Tengu stone.

Everything turns out well. The boy is forgiven, the carpenter is reconciled to being a carpenter, and the villagers laugh at the monk on his return. “The incident of the Tengu stone shook the lives of the commoners’ district for only a short time and then was gone. Nothing in particular was gained, though perhaps it could be said that after this incident the hears of the people seemed more united, somewhat warmer. The child’s mind, however, was swinging and swaying in a complex thought. The grown-up world seemed to him empty, ridiculous, and shameful. He was weary of having to live in such a twisted world.” The story concludes with the Tengu child at the top of the persimmon tree.

The fifteen stories in Tengu Child all take place in the Heian era (794 to 1185) or during the Warring States period (1467 to 1615). Many read like folktales and have elements of the supernatural. For example, a fox becomes a human woman to become the wife of “a soldier in the Right Division of the Imperial Guards,” the men responsible for protecting the Emperor and his family in Kyoto. It does not end well.

Although I did not enjoy all the stories equally—a few seemed hardly more than anecdotes or shaggy-dog stories—the Gardner introduction and several of the stories are both fascinating and informative. 

An interesting novel worth reader attention

Part of the pleasure Dinatia Smith’s novel The Prince offers is comparing her work with Henry James’s The Golden Bowl to see where it resembles the original and where Smith has diverged. I suspect James lovers will malign the book because follows the original so closely.

According to her agent, Smith is the author of four earlier novels, The Hard Rain, Remember This, The Illusionist, which was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and most recently, The Honeymoon. “Her stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Hudson Review. She has won a number of awards for her writing, including fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Ingram Merrill Foundation. Until recently, Smith was a cultural correspondent for the New York Times, specializing in literature and the arts.  She has taught at Columbia University and New York University.”

In The Prince, Smith has changed the names, moved the action from London to New York and a private island off the coast of Long Island, and changed the date from 1904 to the (pre-Covid) present. Otherwise, the story is the same.

Obscenely rich Emily Woodford has fallen in love with virtually penniless Prince Federico Pallavicino. A year before meeting Emily, Federico had enjoyed intimate relations with virtually penniless Christina who broke with him because he would not marry her. Coincidentally, Christina is an old, close childhood friend of Emily.

Federico and Emily marry and have a child. Emily, who has been close—perhaps too close—to Henry her 61-year-old, widowed father, encourages him to marry Christina, who like Emily is in her late twenties. Henry does marry Christina and you just know there’s trouble ahead.

Alone together in Henry’s mansion on the East Side, cannot resist one another. Besotted to the degree they will have sex against a Central Park tree, they resume their affair midway through the book. They are able to maintain their secret for a time, but events conspire against them.

Prince Federico is not malicious. He finds his title almost an embarrassment. He has no realistic career ambitions; he and friends formed an unsuccessful rock band in Italy. He was happiest coaching a soccer team of Roman street urchins—and seeing him do so was a reason Emily was attracted to him.

His father-in-law found him a position in a New York bank where his title was used to impress potential clients. “In the intervals between meetings, he sat in his office staring at the rooftops, or tried to teach himself about the stock market, but he’d never know enough to be of real use to Ricardo [his immediate boss]. He watched Italian soccer on his computer, quickly switching to another screen when the secretary came in. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep, then force himself awake and there would be a bitter taste in his mouth.”

Emily has been sheltered, although Smith writes, “Anyone would have been charmed by Emily’s natural beauty, her radiance, her bright, eager manner. Everything about the young woman belied her wealth. She seemed entirely unaware of her beauty and there wasn’t a hint of snobbery in her.” Federico meets her and her father at a Rome dinner party. The next night, he invites her to dinner. The third night he takes her back to his place and they make love. I don’t think that’s the way it happens in Henry James.

Christina has a hippy mother and no money. She is trying to finish her degree, working in a vintage clothing store. “Christina observed her mother coolly, pragmatically, and didn’t complain about her except to remark ruefully on her latest escapades. Christina had an utter lack of self-pity, a cool self-confidence . . . She never complained, and went about her day with energy and forcefulness.”

In some ways, Henry is the most admirable and interesting character in the novel. The family’s money is old money, so old and so immense Henry does not have to demonstrate how rich he is. He trained as a lawyer and spent his years working pro bono for worthy clients who could not have afforded him. The first chapter in The Prince is a scene in which Federico is signing a generous pre-nuptial agreement, one Henry had offered, one that will leave the prince a very rich man should the marriage fail. 

The family money came out of the coal mines, railroads, and blast furnaces that built a West Virginia town that now, with the steel industry gone to Asia and the coal played out, is polluted and decaying. Henry plans to revive the town with an art museum built around his personal collection.

All the family’s wealth, of course, will not protect them from their histories and their characters. And while Henry James may persuade readers of the situation’s plausibility (Colm Tóibin called The Golden Bowl James’s best work), it’s much more difficult for Smith. I do not see what Emily sees in Federico; he seems shallow and aimless.

 I’m not convinced, given what we know about Henry, that he would marry a girl forty years his junior. I know it happens, but not between Henry and Christina. 

Finally, that Federico and Christina would risk the economic wrath of the family and Federico risk losing contact with the daughter he adores by resuming sexual relations seems to this prudent reader virtually unhinged. But that may be the point.

Nevertheless, The Prince an interesting novel and well worth reader attention. If nothing else, it may send readers to the original, the way a movie adaptation will send views to the book. Not a bad result.

Delightful stories that evoke a Japanese neighborhood

The twenty-six stories this slim paperback (159 pages) are all short, most no more than four or at most five printed pages. The jacket describes them as “palm-of-the-hand” stories, “fictions small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand and brief enough to allow for dipping in and out.”

Perhaps the most famous author of palm-of-the-hand stories is Yasunari Kawabata, who won the Nobel Prize, and who first experimented with the form in 1923, and included thirty-five of the stories in his first book.

The difference between a palm-of-the-hand story and flash fiction is not clear to me. According to my extensive research (two minutes on the web) flash fiction is a story of less than 1000 words that emphasizes plot. It not a vignette or reflection but a story. So what’s a story?

According to E.M. Forster in Aspects of the Novel, a story “can only have one merit: that of making the audience want to know what happens next. ‘The king died and then the queen died’ is a story” but it has no plot. “A plot is also a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality. ‘The king died and then the queen died of grief’ is a plot. The time-sequence is preserved, but the sense of causality overshadows it.”

I still cannot tell whether the short works in Kawabata’s wonderful Palm-of-the-Hand Stories (translated by Lane Dunlop and J. Martin Holman) or Hiromi Kawakami’s People from My Neighborhood (translated by Ted Goossen) are vignettes, plotless stories, or flash fiction. I don’t think it matters. Both books are chockablock with brief small gems.

Kawakami’s stories all involve—what else?—people in the narrator’s neighborhood. (The English title is a literal translation of the Japanese, or “people from around here.”) Some of the stories are fairly straightforward and take place in a recognizable if curious reality:

In “The Office” child sits most days in a gazebo in the park that he calls his office; he says only three things: “Shall I sign here?” “Final balance, please,” and “It’s raining hard today.” 

In “Brains,” the older sister of a friend shows the narrator a box of doll brains. “Doll brains looked dark and somehow unclean around the edges—they weren’t pure white at all.”

In “Sports Day,” a bank takes over sponsorship and events would include “competitions for best loan evaluation, best anti-fraud strategy for direct deposits, best marketing of financial products, best check-clearance procedure, and best cartoon for their bank ads.”

But the neighborhood is not all sports days and playmates. There are mysteries and uncanny events.

In “The Secret,” the narrator discovers a child under a white cloth that was lying at the foot of a zelkova tree. The child, who may be a boy or a girl claims to live under the cloth, but one day follows the narrator home and moves in with her. Thirty years later he has not changed, and “I’ve come to realize that he can’t be human after all.” 

“The Tenement” is the home of an old cab driver. He still has a cab which he takes out for a drive around the local district but does not apparently pick up fares. He disappears at night, and one time when asked where he goes, he replies, “I go driving with the girls”—three women who lived in the tenement and who all died before the Meiji Restoration in 1868. 

Characters in one story appear in another, but People from My Neighborhood is not a novel of linked stories. As I indicated above, I’m not sure what to call the book, only that the stories are delightful and evoke a Japanese neighborhood I am willing to be convinced exists even with the touches of the mysterious and the supernatural.

Does art have a purpose other than occupying artists?

It feels as if Rachel Cusk continues to push the boundaries of what one can do in a contemporary novel. Best known for her Outline trilogy—Kudos, Transit, Outline—but as also the author of seven earlier novels and four books of nonfiction, including the wonderful essays in Coventry.

Her newest work is Second Place reminds me of an I-novel, one of the key literary movements in twentieth century Japan. As the name implies, it’s essentially autobiographical (semi-, if not totally), confessional and, in the genre’s later works, exposes the author’s dark side. Second Place reads like a confession, and some of the elements reflect what is publicly known about Cusk’s life. (But then, doesn’t every novel contain elements that reflect the author’s life?)

In a November 2018 interview in The New Yorker, Cusk said, “all of my thoughts about writing come through living—through observing how I live. Mainly, that’s because I am the person that I know myself to be, but also because I know how other people are living. In the end, my determination is to really get to the bottom of that in writing.”

The unnamed narrator in Second Place—she’s eventually identified as M (Mabel? Margaret? Mary?)—chronicles the book’s events for Jeffers. It’s not clear whether this is a letter; it is too polished to be a transcribed monologue. We learn little about Jeffers (he’s a novelist, a moralist), but the device is a way for Cusk to tell the story without addressing the reader directly. Rather we overhear M tell Jeffers the story.

M and her husband Tony live on a tidal marsh, “a place of great but subtle beauty” where twice a day “the sea rises over the marsh and fills its creeks and crevices.” They have built a second place (thus the title) on a parcel of wasteland that bordered their land “to prevent it from being misused,” which I assume means developed by someone else. They have been inviting artists and writers to stay in this second place as guests “sometimes for days and sometimes for months.” The summer is the best time.

Much the way Mabel Dudge Luhan invited D.H. Lawrence come stay with her in Taos, New Mexico, M invites L, a famous painter to come share their solitude, and after some backing and forthing, L eventually agrees. 

His acceptance means that M’s twenty-nine-year-old unemployed daughter Justine and her boyfriend Kurt have to move out of the second  place and into the main house, but better that than M and Tony share their digs with L. When L shows up, he is accompanied by Britt, a lovely young woman in her early thirties, that is, twenty years or more younger than L.

M had first seen L’s paintings years earlier when she was in a bad place after an ugly divorce, cut off from Justine, alone in Paris. The paintings had a powerful effect on her. “There is no particular reason, on the surface, why L’s work should summon a woman like me, or perhaps any woman—but least of all, surely, a young mother on the brink of rebellion whose impossible yearnings, moreover, are crystallized in reverse by the aura of absolute freedom his painting emanate, a freedom elementally and unrepentingly male down to the last brushstroke.”

M had hoped L would use the beauty of the local landscape, marsh and copse and sea, as inspiration for his art. After his early, prodigious success L’s recent work has not attracted critical praise or collector dollars. In fact, he is almost broke, living off the grudging charity of his few remaining friends and admirers. And he’s not interested in painting the local scenery.

In a relatively thin book—180 pages—Cusk is able to engage the reader thoroughly in the lives and relationships between M and Tony, M and Justine, Tony and Kurt, M and L, L and Britt, who apparently has joined L for the summer on the marsh on a whim. She is the daughter of a wealthy family that owns residences around the world; she can always stay in one in which her father is not living. 

While Second Place has a plot—an interesting plot no less—what makes Cusk’s writing appealing (to me at least) are her sentences and what they reveal about her intelligence. “I was naïve to expect that other people would merely allow me to change when those changes directly interfered with their own interests, and the revelation that my whole life, which appeared to be built on love and freedom of choice, was in fact a façade that concealed the most craven selfishness was deeply shocking to me.”

One more example: “For the first time, Jeffers, I considered the possibility that art—not just L’s art but the whole notion of art—might itself be a serpent, whispering in our ears, sapping away all our satisfaction and our belief in the things of this world with the idea that there was something higher and better within us which could never be equalled by what was right in front of us.”

One of the conflicts (disagreements? differences?) between M and her husband is that Tony doesn’t believe in art; “he believed in people, their goodness and their badness, and he believed in nature.” It is this sort of throwaway speculation and discussion that makes Cusk’s books so solid. 

Readers who are interested in art, women’s lives, male privilege, and human relationships will thoroughly enjoy Second Place. As did I. 

A Florida author writes brilliant stories set in . . . Florida

I picked up Lauren Groff’s 2018 story collection Florida because I was dazzled by piece of hers in the Summer 2021 issue of the Michigan Quarterly Review, “Craft and Inspiration, or Serious Play and Moral Ferocity.”

She begins the piece, a slightly modified lecture, by acknowledging the premise is a fallacy, “that in building any kind of creative work, inspiration and craft do not exist in some imaginary oppositional binary, but are rather muddled and confounded into a great inextricable knot, aspects of the same tentative and exploratory and wildly thrilling process.” I was so inspired, I saved the essay and plan to reread it whenever I begin to wonder just what I think I’m doing.

Once I was sensitive to Groff’s name of course I began seeing it elsewhere. She published a new novel, Matrix, last fall. I caught her review of hers in The New York Review of Books and a story in The New Yorker. She’s been around the block a couple times. Her website lists her prizes: The Story Prize, the ABA Indies’ Choice Award, and France’s Grand Prix de l’Héroïne. She is s a three-time finalist for the National Book Award for Fiction (Florida was one of them) and twice for the Kirkus Prize. She has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, and was named one of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists. Her work has been translated into over thirty languages. She lives in Gainesville, Florida.

As the quote above hints, she writes scintillating sentences and has the intellectual chops to provide more than surface glitter. Not every one of the eleven stories in Florida is equally brilliant (how could they be?), but even the ones that do not reach the standard of the best are better much of the short fiction to which I am exposed. Consider the first sentence/paragraph of the first story:

“I have somehow become a woman who yells, and because I do not want to be a woman who yells, whose little children walk around with frozen, watchful faces, I have taken to lacing on my running shoes after dinner and going out into the twilit streets for a walk, leaving the undressing and sluicing and reading and singing and tucking in of the boys to my husband, a man who does not yell.” That one sentence contains an entire novel and—trust me—it gets better. 

Groff tells four of the stories in the first person, and they all star young, or youngish, women. Most are set in Florida; two of the strongest, “Salvador” and “Yport,” are set in Brazil and France where the character has to negotiate only partially successfully the foreign setting and her own perceptions and assumptions.

Not surprisingly for a writer who lives in Florida, Groff is particularly good at conveying really, really bad weather. “The house sucked in a shuddery breath, and the plywood groaned as the windows drew inward. Darkness fell over the world outside. Rain unleashed itself. It was neither freight train nor jet engine nor cataract crashing around me but, rather, everything. The roof roared with water, the window blurred. When the storm cleared, I saw a branch the size of a locomotive cracking off the heritage oak by the lake and falling languorously down, the wet moss floating outstretched like useless dark wings.”

First, I am generally unsympathetic to the pathetic fallacy—“The house sucked a breath . . . rain unleashed itself.” Yet it works. (It works all the way through the book although I was so caught up in the stories, I was not looking for nits to pick.) Second, Groff’s adjectives are just right: “shuddery,” “languorously.” And the final metaphor is wonderful.

I’ve spent time talking about Groff’s writing because I don’t know how to convey the impact of the stories as complete works, and a story’s effect may be entirely individual anyway. (A copout, but there you are.) For the most part I sympathize with the main characters as they negotiate relationships, families, life. More than enjoying their company, they and their author have taught me a few things. (If only don’t be afraid of the pathetic fallacy.) 

How fragile is our sense of reality?

 Peter Stamm’s new collection of short stories, translated by Michael Hofmann, are interesting if only for the diversity of the main characters sketched in each:

—A middle-aged writer, snowed in at an artists’ residency in Vermont, recalls another Christmas and a woman he met thirty years earlier. (“Marcia from Vermont”)

—A young woman models for a sculptor but, disturbed by the finished product, she follows her double to the collector who buys it. (“Sabrina, 2019”)

—A teenager decides to rob a bank wearing a squirrel mask. (“Nahtigal)

—A woman, annoyed that her husband keeps taking work calls during their vacation, abandons him at a highway rest stop. (“First Snow”)

—A man, surreptitiously reading his wife’s email, begins to suspect she is having an affair. (“Dietrich’s Knee”)

Unfortunately, while these snippets indicate Stamm’s range, they say nothing about his writing, which is spare, clear as an Alpine lake, or the effect at finishing each story. It is often as if in each story we are introduced to the known world populated by perfectly ordinary people doing ordinary things—or at least nothing bizarre or unbelievable —when abruptly we are no longer in quotidian reality. It’s an impressive trick, and I’d like to know how he does it.

Stamm, born in 1963, grew up in Wenfelden, Switzerland, the son of an accountant. After completing school, he spent three years as an apprentice accountant and then five as an accountant. He went back to school at the University of Zurich taking courses in English studies, business informatics, psychology, and psychopathology. During this time, he also worked as an intern at a psychiatric clinic.

After living for a time in New York, Paris, and Scandinavia he settled down in 1990 as a writer and freelance journalist in Zurich where he has written prose, radio dramas, and plays. Since 1997 he has belonged to the editorial staff of the quarterly literary magazine Entwürfe für Literatur (Drafts for Literature), and since 2003 he’s been a member of the group Autorinnen und Autoren der Schweiz (Authors of Switzerland). He has been widely translated; Michael Hofmann has fluently translated nine of his novels into English.

In a 2012 New Yorker interview, Stamm said, “It has always been my goal to make literature out of ordinary people’s lives. I don’t like the extremes; I don’t think that they teach us much about ourselves. And very often extreme or willfully original stories are just trying to make up for a lack of empathy on the part of the author.”

In each of these stories, the characters face a decision that will alter the course of their lives. He explores the spaces between reality and daydreams, between the choices his characters make, and the infinite possibilities that are lost with every decision. 

It’s Getting Dark plays with memory and time, even death, to indicate how fragile our reality really is, and how susceptible it is to tricks of the heart and mind.

Four octogenarians solve crimes on the Kentish Weald

Richard Osman is a funny guy and he’s written a mystery that made me laugh out loud.

The Thursday Mystery Club has four members: Joyce, a former nurse; Ron, a former labor leader; Ibrahim, a retired psychiatrist, and Elizabeth, who may not admit it but sound as if she is former MI6 agent. They are all elderly residents of the Coopers Chase Retirement Village, an upscale facility in the Kentish Weald, a scenic area in southeast England that includes parts of Kent and Sussex. 

The Village includes recreation rooms, swimming pool, beside which is “a small ‘arthritis therapy pool,’ which looks like a Jacuzzi, largely for the reason that it is a Jacuzzi. Anyone given the grand tour by the owner, Ian Ventham, would then be shown the sauna. Ian would always open the door a crack and say, ‘Blimey; it’s like a sauna in there. That was Ian.” Ian is the second murder victim.

Elizabeth formed The Thursday Murder Club (they meet on Thursdays) with her friend Penny, a retired Kent Police Inspector. Until she was incapacitated by a stroke, Penny brought files of unsolved murder cases to the facility’s Jigsaw Room, and she and Elizabeth would go over every case file line by line looking for anything the police might have missed. Over time, they called on Ibrahim, Ron, and Joyce for specialized help and then Penny had her stroke. They may have solved cases to their satisfaction, but no one was actually brought to justice. Then a contractor who happens to own 25 percent of Coopers Chase is killed and the club has a real murder to solve.

The Thursday Murder Club is Osman’s first novel. He is the creative director of a production company and is best-known in England as a co-host of Pointless, a game show where contestants aim to score the fewest points possible by guessing the least popular answers given by people in polls on various subjects. He has had  his own BBC quiz show,  House of Games along with Insert Name Here and Child Genius. He is a regular on panel shows such as Have I Got News For You and Would I Lie To You. 

He told the Guardian he did not want to be seen as someone who just “dashed off a celebrity novel.” 

“I’ve always known how hard it is to write a crime novel and I have such respect for people who do it. I never felt I was in a position where I could do it properly and give it the time it deserved until about 18 months ago. I decided I would start it and once I got going, I found that I couldn’t stop.”

The novel was inspired by a lunch visit to a friend of Osman’s mother's in one such retirement community. “The setting felt familiar because you're in beautiful countryside but I was surprised because it was really busy with people everywhere. Then, when you start talking to them, aged seventy and above, you think, ‘My god, there's some talent, wit, wisdom and sense of mischief in this generation, everything is there.’ I thought this would be a great setting for a murder story. Let's throw the worst at them and see how they deal with it." 

They deal with seven murders by my count, but don’t hold me to that figure. It is stuffed with characters including the club members, two local police officers, Coopers Chase residents, figures from the past (the murdered contractor is a former drug king-pin, or maybe just a minor prince-pin). 

I expected book club members to grouse about the number of characters and the plot’s complex threads, but Osman is able to tag the characters so distinctly, most people I know had no trouble keeping them apart.

(Not everyone though. As one, representative Amazon one-star reviewer wrote, “The Thursday Murder Club is an amateuristic, long, poorly written mystery novel. There are too many characters, plot twists, and deaths. Most of the characters are flat and fail to attract a reader's interest or sympathy. The ending is convoluted and disappointing.”)

Still, The Bookseller reported that Viking acquired the novel and one other, “for a seven-figure sum, after triumphing in a ten-publisher auction in one of the biggest auctions of 2019. It sparked a string of deals across the world including a six-figure auction in the States.” 

The Thursday Murder Club reads a little like a TV mini-series treatment. Short chapters. Quick cuts. Multiple points of view. Snappy dialogue. It makes sense given Osman’s background. I would also go out of my way to watch such a series.

And The New York Times identified Osman’s second book, The Man Who Died Twice as one of the best mysteries of the year.

All of which is to say, The Thursday Murder Club is a hoot. Read and enjoy.

How do you explain the inexplicable?

Hervé Le Tellier has set himself an interesting challenge: To explain—or at least to write convincingly about characters who try to explain—the inexplicable. The Anomaly requires a willing suspension of disbelief, but Le Tellier writes so well and with such conviction (or his translator Adriana Hunter translates so well) that I, a thoroughgoing skeptic, was more than willing to go along for the ride. 

The opening chapter introduces Blake, an “extremely meticulous, cautious, and imaginative” hit man. Blake carries out his murder in the States and the chapter ends in Paris on Sunday, June 27, 2021 (watch the dates; they’re significant). 

The next chapter introduces Victor Miesel, a depressed author of literary fiction who, after experiencing terrifying turbulence on an Air France flight to New York—a flight that Blake was also on—writes a new novel “as if following dictation.” It’s his seventh and will be called The anomaly. He sends it to his editor and falls or jumps from his balcony, killing himself on April 22, 2021.

The next chapter, dated June 28, 2021, introduces Lucie Bogaert, a film editor, who is the lover of André Vannier, an architect. André “looked about fifty, but who could well have been older.” He is at least twenty years older than Lucie. They too are on the harrowing Air France flight, and when they return to Paris, “slowly everything started to sour.”

In the next chapter, dated May 28, 2021, a character named David learns from his oncologist brother that he has inoperable Stage 4 pancreatic cancer that has metastasized into his liver and small intestine. In other words, a death sentence.

What do these people have in common? They are all on Air France flight 006 from Paris to New York that after flying through a violent and unforeseen thunderstorm lands at JFK on March 10, 2021.

They are also on Air France flight 006 from Paris to New York that requests emergency landing instructions from Kennedy Approach on Wednesday, June 24, 2021— a hundred and six days later. It’s the same Boeing 787, the same crew, the same passengers, and the same hail damage from an identical storm. Rather than allow a plane that cannot exist land at JFK, the government directs it to McGuire Air Force base outside Trenton, NJ, and cordons it off to figure out what happened.

A mathematician brought in to explain compares the situation to being asked the possible outcomes of flipping a coin. Heads, tails, and the remote chance of the coin resting on its side. But what “if the flipped coin stays suspended in the air?” What if 250 duplicates of random airplane passengers abruptly pop into existence?

As The New York Times reported, Le Tellier has long been fascinated by the idea of the double. “Returning home one evening, he thought: ‘It would be interesting if I found my double awaiting me. How would I react?’ This was the genesis of a book he took one year to write.”

He said he inverted the usual approach in a novel, “where you invent a character and plunge that character into a situation. Instead, I took the situation as my starting point, one that would allow me to confront seven or eight characters with their doubles, after 106 days have elapsed. A lot can happen in 106 days! How would different characters react?”

Le Tellier, 64, is a writer, journalist, mathematician, food critic, and teacher. He’s published fifteen books of stories, essays, and novels, none of which made best-seller lists. The Anomaly was an enormous best-seller in France (more than a million copies), and won the 2020 Goncourt prize.

“I am surprised by the book’s success given that it’s so experimental, bizarre and a little crazy,” Le Tellier told the Tines. “Perhaps reading it was a means of escape.”

Because Le Tellier is telling a number of stories in the novel, he cannot round out his characters thoroughly or give them much depth, but it hardly matters. He provides enough that we understand their situations and conflicts. In addition, he considered plausible moves by the US Government to control and explain the situation. Also, how would Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Buddhists explain it? How would mathematicians? How would philosophers?

Because Le Tellier is willing to engage in some philosophical speculation—what is reality? how do we know what is real?—The Anomaly is more than a boy’s adventure story. And on the last page we are left thoughtful and shaken.