One Steppe Forward, Two Back

Well it seems that, in my nostalgic tour of short favourites, I kept the best for last …

Review: The Tartar Steppe by Dino Buzzati

In some imaginary country, bordered to the north by a vast desert, separating it from unnamed hordes of potential invaders, Giovanni Drogo comes of age and signs up for a military career. Posted to Fort Bastiani, he senses almost immediately that he wanted more, and yet …, he yearns for action, honour and heroism.

This is a book about the passage of time and the human tendency to wait for a “cheque in the post”. Time passes, little happens, routine sets in. Already, at only 25 years of age …

Drogo no longer thought of the others, of the comrades who had escaped in time; … he consoled himself with the sight of the officers who shared his exile; it never occurred to him that they might be the weak ones, the ones who had been beaten, the last people to take as an example.

Chapter 22,Page 205

Written on the eve of World War II, it is easy to imagine that Buzzati captured perhaps the mood of the time, the sense of the inevitability of history and the uselessness of trying to swim against the tide.

Most of all though, this is a work of sublime, exquisite writing, the kind of book I read in total awe of a writer who can articulate thought and experiences I have imagined but could never hope to express.

Bookworm

… and next …

If on a Winter’s Night, a Traveller … by Italo Calvino

If on a winter’s night a traveller

outside the town of Malbork

leaning from the steep slope

without fear of wind or vertigo

looks down in the gathering shadow

in a network of lines that enlace

in a network of lines that intersect

on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon

around an empty grave

what story down there awaits its end?

I’m not a great one for reading poetry, but the above reads like one. It’s the chapter headings for the book. Nice, and part of the artistry that is this postmodern work from Italian intellectual Italo Calvino. The following definition which I came across, I’ve forgotten where, aptly describes this work:

Postmodernism seeks to disrupt the grand narrative, and expose the artifice of writing.

Review: I had fond memories of reading this, 30 years ago. It seemed to me that this was a book for bibliophiles, drawing out in detail what it means to us to choose a book and read it. I had forgotten that it is also a very difficult book. Actually, researching it a bit I learned that Calvino later “explained” the structure of the book as springing from his collaboration with some French mathematicians and writers (the Oulipo group) and I have to say it went right over my head. Suffice it to say that the book is experimental. Alternate chapters (titles above) launch us into new and completely different books, and reveal the extraordinary imagination and writing ability of Calvino. The remaining chapters are numbered and speak directly to us and draw us into them. Indeed, the story chapters sometimes speak to us too. I found the numbered chapters increasingly difficult as the book progressed; not a sentiment I remember from my first exploration.

Two writers sprang to mind as I read: My first impression, a new one since I hadn’t come across Butor when I first encountered Calvino, was of stepping into Michel Butor’s La Modification which centres you, The Reader, in the action and is written in the formal second person (vous). The second was Paul Auster who is most striking for his liberal shrinking of ideas for novels into the pages of his novels, showing an extravagance with his ideas which suggests the prospect of writer’s block is one he doesn’t fear.

My conclusion: a landmark book which I remembered for decades as a truly notable work and which drew my taste firmly towards postmodernism, but, a book you need to work with to appreciate.

Exactly what it says on the tin

Review: Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel García Márquez

“On the day they were going to kill him, Santiago Nasar got up at five-thirty in the morning to wait for the boat the bishop was coming on.” Chronicle of a Death Foretold

Great unforgettable opening lines – see below for another. It must be Nobel Prize winner Gabriel García Márquez, the man responsible for magical realism. He has a way of sucking you into his stories. Don’t miss this one; it can be consumed in a single sitting. I give it 6 stars out of 5.

What’s left to say? Before writing this, really just to record that I read it [again], I checked out Goodreads. 137k ratings and 6,900 reviews. I doubt I can add anything.

The book does exactly what it says on the cover and yet is completely enigmatic prompting long debate by readers. What is it about: revenge for a deflowering or even a rape? a documentary on the collective guilt of silent neighbours? was the victim even the right target?

When you close this short novella, you know you’ve been privileged to witness some of the finest artistry in literature, told in plain language but capturing the enigma of motivation. Unwilling killers stalk a possibly innocent victim while his neighbours, friendly or indifferent, fail to prevent the tragic and inevitable outcome.

“Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice”. One Hundred Years of Solitude