You will want to read Sean Michaels’ *Us Conductors* as soon as you can (in April of 2014) both because it is a brilliant novel and because everyone will be talking about it and you’re going to want to be hip and have already read the latest ‘hot’ book. Continue reading
Tag Archives: prize winner
The Orphan Master’s Son: Choose Your Own Identity
So there are a few people who suggest books to me and I immediate go and get the book. Actually only two – my mum and N. And this isn’t because I play recommendation favourites, but more because these two a) consistently take MY recommendations (so it’s a selfish thing, really) b) consistently suggest books that I find fascinating c) happily talk about the book with me when I’m done reading it
In any case, I read The Orphan Master’s Son on the recommendation of my mum. She suggested I’d enjoy it because of its introduction to North Korea. Yeah, stop and ask yourself: what do you know about North Korea? If your answer is “axis of evil” and nothing else, then I can’t urge you strongly enough to pick up this book. While written by an American, the book provides what I think (and granted this is an extremely limited thought given how little I *do* know about North Korea) is a thoughtful introduction to North Korean history and the current political climate in the country. An introduction that covers everything from naming practices, to economic policies, to familial and international relations, to marriage practices and forced labour camps/prisons.
This introduction is accomplished by following the chameleon character Commander Ga/Pak Jun Do as he navigates the worlds of North Korean society. His shifting identity – routinely created and recreated – focuses the thematic interest of the novel: what makes us the people we are? The novel makes a case that identity is something as simple as a chosen declaration: you are Commander Ga, or something as complex as the assembled memories of a person, written down in biography and stashed on a forgotten shelf. The questions of how we determine who we are, how others decide who we are, and how we will remember/retain identity in a world of shifting expectations makes this a novel much more complicated that a simple introduction to NK.
That said, the novel really only has this one thematic focus and for better or worse (I think for worse) the narrative makes really, really sure that you know that this is the thematic interest. Some passages explicitly calling out: I changed my name and changed my identity. More frustrating is the predictability (to some extent) of plot events given the thematic interest. And while the theme is attacked with some complexity and some nuance, the narrative as a whole lacks a certain depth because it is only (thematically) about identity, and misses opportunities to be asking other kinds of questions.
Is this a minor quibble? I’m not sure. I think so, because on the whole the richness of the setting, the complexity of the narration – switching narrative voices require some dexterity on the part of the reader, but great reward too as the layers of the plot are unpeeled – and the fascinating exploration of North Korea far outweigh any gripes about heavy-handed theme. And it’s not even heavy-handed (all the time) so much as it is overdetermined. Yeah, that’s my beef.
(If I was marking a first year essay right now I’d tell myself that I’ve just arrived at the thesis of this blog post and that I should go back to the introduction and revise, but I’m not, and I’m not.)
Filed under Fiction, Prize Winner
Norweigan Wood: A Sexy Tale
I only very recently learned about Haruki Murakami, which is scandalous on a number of counts, not the least being he is a Big. Deal. The Guardian describes him as “among the world’s greatest living novelists,” friends who worked at book shops report his books “flying” off shelves, and colleagues who don’t read – ever – know of his work. So. There you have it, self-proclaimed “reader” that I am, I can still be blind to bestselling and award winning sensations. Of course now that I have read Norwegian Wood I’ve started to see Murakami’s name all over the place – in The Globe and Mail this morning! It all makes me wonder what other brilliant novels are hiding in plain sight, obscured by my dedication to all things Can lit and my haphazard method for choosing what to read. All this to say I’m glad I morphed a category of 10-10-12 to allow for books recommended. It now becomes incumbent upon you to look after the breadth of my reading…
In any case, the book itself: I wanted very much to like Norwegian Wood. It had all sorts of things a good novel might have – sex, sadness, suicide (take that alliteration snobs!). For awhile I thought it might be the overwhelming sadness of the story that kept me from fully committing to the narrative, but by the end of the book I’d realized that I just didn’t believe the protagonist, Toru. Despite first person narration, I never felt like I had a good explanation for why Toru felt or acted the way he did. The emotional thrust of the narrative are Toru’s relationships with Naoko and Midori, but I was never convinced that Toru felt much of anything for either of them, despite his claims to the reader and to the women that he loved them.
That said, the novel has some great sexy scenes (and so the basis for the recommendation) that I’d reread if they weren’t also pretty sad. Speaking of, the novel does sadness very well, which feels like an odd thing to praise a novel for, but there you have it. A sadness born of the unwitting loneliness of all three characters who try, mostly unsuccessfully, to reach out to other people, only to find that relationships of all sorts are complicated by unrealistic or unacknowledged expectations, personal limitations, and the ambient circumstances of lives led. I suppose on the metatextual level I found the narrative itself a lonely one – reaching out to this reader, but finding another instance where feeling cannot be adequately conveyed and so reasonably shared.
Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction, Prize Winner
The Accidental: Salty
The Accidental doesn’t feature Vivian Leigh. Or Scarlett O’Hara. But it nevertheless reminded me of selfishness, of women who don’t know what they want until they can’t have it, and of the impact of single interactions.
The novel switches narrative point of view in each chapter, rotating through the cast of five family members in each of the three parts. Each point of view fully realizes its protagonist, but none perhaps as fully as in the chapters narrated by the son, Magnus. The family members are all sad, until touched by the singular arrival of Amber, who compels each of them to reconsider their lives so far, and to ask themselves what they really want out of life. That the answers are not necessarily original (life!) does not make them less compelling. Deciding to change and then actually changing… well, such bravery does not often go recognized the way it might.
I can’t say I understood Amber’s point of view (is she meant to be an angel? possibly?), but I don’t suppose that matters much. We might more be meant to see her as any catalyst that arrives in our own lives and asks us to imagine both how our life could be different, and how (much)/whether we want to change.
Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction, Prize Winner
Literary Vice 