Posts Tagged ‘Novels’

I’m lingering in Duluth. The eclispe-that-never-happened is on no one’s mind here though the echo of the librarian’s microphoned voice has barely dissipated.

I’ve begun my revision of Twelve: lives with(out) drink, pulling back on that author-horse that wants to run away with the wagon. No galloping. (more…)

Advertisements

The response to the tour in North Dakota and the far reaches of Minnesota (Ely for instance) has been strong. That in itself is not surprising though the readers come from the four corners – New England, Florida, San Diego and Washington. More surprising is (more…)

Cover imageI have a special interest in David Landau’s work: he edited Observation Hill, my second novel due for release August 1, 2015. Perhaps I wouldn’t have selected this book out of thousands, millions, of others, but that is the way of books. They come to us in many ways: assigned, gifted, recommended by older brothers, found on airplanes, selected from shelves because of title or cover, touted by their authors.  Death Is Not Always the Winner, once in my hand, burned in my mind and still burns there. Let the review speak for itself.

Death Is Not Always the Winner by David Landau

David gave me two books a sunny day in North Beach; in his off handed, jovial fashion he said, “Don’t hurry to read them.” Then he laughed. I was definitely going to read them, if not immediately, as fast as I could work through my cue. He filled the balance of our lunch time with stories of “mischief” he was stirring in Guatemala, confounding a corrupt far-left and an empowered far-right. Until I read Death Is Not Always the Winner, something he’d penned a few years ago, I had little idea just how “mischief” informed who David Landau is.

The current resurgence of interplay between the civilian US population and Cuba and the immanent un-cooling (does one dare say warming?) of relations and hope for social commerce, this book is one we must read. We must read it lest we be ignorant of subterfuge on both sides, lest we forget the lessons our government (and Cuba’s) should have—but did not—learn in the last half century, or lest we miss the sense of who Cuban truly are and who they have been. Perhaps we may also learn why.

In 9th grade social studies I asked Mr. Trochel, “Is there going to be war?” Krushchev and Kennedy were at loggerheads over missiles in Cuba. That is as much as I ever knew about Cuban relations. Now, I feel better informed, wiser, attentive.

Landau’s hero, Rodrigo, a nom de guerre, proves his dedication to revolution and his mettle as both a man and a counterrevolutionary. His fortunes and misfortunes are concerning, but both he sets below his work: “It was a beautiful play [on the part of the CIA], and it should have worked with any man – but Rodrigo was not any man.” Rodrigo’s life fighting Batista, Castro, the net of spies and informers living off Castro’s revolution, is our narrative thread through history, a history we must keep in mind as we go forward. His story gives the lie to most of what we hear about Castro’s Cuba and, in a straightforward way to much of what we suspect we know about our government’s activities. Far from being just a history lesson, Rodrigo’s story is a hornbook of culture demonstrating what El Nouevo Hearld said about Landau: [he] “knows the Cuban mind and history better than most Cubans do.”

We begin the story with death, Rodrigo’s impending, promised death. Near the end, we visit the wall of the firing squad with the same man—he, of course, politely refuses the blindfold. Tension, thrilling action, and enough sex even for a quintessential Latin, pepper the hard historical tutelage clothed in a fictional garb of intrigue. It is a breathtaking tale. A story for past times and for today.

Peter Geye in The Lighthouse Road has successfully captured, perhaps immigrated, the chill reality of Nordic life found in such stories as Knut Hamsun’s Growth of the Soil and Ib Michael’s Prince bringing them to new life in the New World.

Geye tells tales set against wilderness and sea (Lake Superior), fraught with willful living and near-sinfulness. Twined in a hidden fixating past are Odd Eide’s beginnings—orphaned near birth and raised side by side with his future lover/sister, the much older Rebekah—and his bondage to Hosea Grimm his adoptive, overbearing father (and Rebekah’s as well).

If Odd’s story is about breaking away, it is as much about making a way to live under dire and difficult circumstances. His life is both baneful and desolate. He loses an eye to a hibernating she-bear to prove to himself he is not a coward. Odd dissembles against his employer-father, taking what he will of Hosea’s ungenerous wealth, and insists on the impossible: to provide for his own son a loving mother. His undaunted skill and hardihood match the unforgiving spirit of water and wilderness but are no match for twisted spirit of human want and wantonness.

The story is haunted by the same unworldliness Ib Michael brings us to on the Titanic in Prince and the same earthiness grounding all of Hamsun’s Growth of the Soil. Geye’s hard edged telling is as merciless as a Lake Superior storm, and as powerful too.

“a rose by any other name:” New Finnish Grammar, by Diego Marani translated from Italian to English by Judith Landry

This book tickled my interest in all things Finnish, in language and its acquisition, and in our conception of identity.

The Finnish part is of less interest to those who have no Finnish heritage, but New Finnish Grammar also tells a little known and compelling part of living between two strong nations, in this case Germany and Russia from 1900 to the end of World War II. And its lessons both inside Finland and from without are apt for Americans in this early 21st Century. Perhaps we can capture a glimpse of the angst and hatred generated in people caught up in movement of great powers, America (its allies) and the Muslim world. The protagonists Dr. Petri Firari and his patient Sampo Karjalainen are men without country and men held fast by a foreign tongue (Firari is a Finnish expat who speaks German; Karjalainen an Italian learning Finnish after losing his memory).

The language part is fascinating. Diego Marani more than being a simple polyglot is a student of language, a professional linguist, who writes in Europanto (his invented language).   His insight into the importance of language to who we are and the processes we must employ to acquire our first and successive languages plays a central role in the plot. The Finnish stamp is upon Dr. Firari and though he can never live there he uses every means possible to stay current with the news and the language. Karjalainen on the other hand is no one; without a language he owns no identity and lives on the side lines listening, noting, studying.

Karjalainen’s identity—his name is early on told, Massimiliano Brodar—reforms behind the language and culture of Finland during the last years of World War II. He recovers his health after a nasty head injury. He slowly acquires Finnish as a “relearned” language. He even more slowly acquires a real Finnish identity: Sampo Karjalainen becomes a Finnish patriot facing the Russian army at Viipuri on the Karelian isthmus. Dr. Firari, telling the story from his own experience and from a manuscript Karjalainen left in the Helsinki hospital, is the unlucky man who must live a life in a dual identity (Finnish and German). Sampo Karjalainen gains a single, heroic identity, although it is the wrong one.

In a single word, the book is FASCINATING / Tämä kirja on KIEHTOVA.