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hozoneb's review
dark
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
sian's review
I reviewed The Memory of Salt on my blog: http://siancampbell.wordpress.com/2012/11/10/the-memory-of-salt-by-alice-melike-ulgezer/
The story centres around the Turkish musician Ahmet and the Australian doctor Mac, narrated by their child, Ali. Dealing with intense themes that go deeper than just tumultuous love, The Memory of Salt is at times confronting and tense. The novel’s chronology spans from the moment Ahmet and Mac meet to Ali as a twenty-something adult, and Ahmet’s mental illnesses and alluded alcoholism remain the focus throughout. Ahmet is constantly plagued with visions and delusions, unintentionally violent, and refuses to seek treatment for what is revealed to be paranoid schizophrenia. The effect that this has on Mac and Ali is explored over a landscape of different countries, in a way that leaves you almost feeling as though you’ve suddenly found yourself as the reader with a whole array of new stamps on your passport.
Being a gender studies nerd, I was interested to read in reviews before I finished the book that Ali’s gender was left deliberately ambiguous, and that Rebecca Howden read the character as male while Sam van Zweden read the character as female. Perhaps because I read that the novel was autobiographical in parts and also perhaps like Sam I was reading through my own lens as a woman, I did initially read the character as female at first – but, in the end, it seemed obvious to me at least that it was a male character. The different mentions of other male characters by the name of Ali, the way women are referenced by and around Ali several times in a certain way, the character being punched unprovoked, the character breaking in a door with their body and almost punching a tree when angry, cultural practices and several other confrontations and inferences through the novel seemed quite masculine to me. I’m not sure how I would have read the book without having learned early into the reading that the character’s gender was meant to be ambiguous – I did find myself often after that point reading into things that perhaps weren’t really important. The choice to leave the gender ambiguous was a fascinating one, and highlights the importance it seems to hold for readers generally. It should be no surprise to anyone that I love shaking up ideas of gender and questioning preconceptions of masculinity and femininity. However, at times towards the end of the book I felt that this meant that a layer to the character of Ali was sacrificed and the writing constricted – the character seemed so obviously meant as male to me, it seemed almost that the meat of the character was skirted around with vague pronouns and a hazy focus. That being said, this approach did really highlight that the story was really Ahmet’s and to a lesser extent Mac’s – not Ali’s.
At times I found the chronology unintentionally confused, the jumps in the story almost too inelegant, and dialogue at some points felt to me quite stilted, especially in regards to the character of the mother, Mac, who I would have liked to have been even more of a focus. That being said, I am a fiend for commas, so my desire for extra punctuation should of course be taken with a gain of Salt, ha. Overall, Ülgezer’s first offering is refreshingly raw, gritty, and distinctly both “Melbourne” and “UnMelbourne” at the same time. The book above anything else is about alienation, and so universally relatable as such that it becomes less about schizophrenia and Turkey and more about what life is like when control seems to be snatched from our hands.
The story centres around the Turkish musician Ahmet and the Australian doctor Mac, narrated by their child, Ali. Dealing with intense themes that go deeper than just tumultuous love, The Memory of Salt is at times confronting and tense. The novel’s chronology spans from the moment Ahmet and Mac meet to Ali as a twenty-something adult, and Ahmet’s mental illnesses and alluded alcoholism remain the focus throughout. Ahmet is constantly plagued with visions and delusions, unintentionally violent, and refuses to seek treatment for what is revealed to be paranoid schizophrenia. The effect that this has on Mac and Ali is explored over a landscape of different countries, in a way that leaves you almost feeling as though you’ve suddenly found yourself as the reader with a whole array of new stamps on your passport.
Being a gender studies nerd, I was interested to read in reviews before I finished the book that Ali’s gender was left deliberately ambiguous, and that Rebecca Howden read the character as male while Sam van Zweden read the character as female. Perhaps because I read that the novel was autobiographical in parts and also perhaps like Sam I was reading through my own lens as a woman, I did initially read the character as female at first – but, in the end, it seemed obvious to me at least that it was a male character. The different mentions of other male characters by the name of Ali, the way women are referenced by and around Ali several times in a certain way, the character being punched unprovoked, the character breaking in a door with their body and almost punching a tree when angry, cultural practices and several other confrontations and inferences through the novel seemed quite masculine to me. I’m not sure how I would have read the book without having learned early into the reading that the character’s gender was meant to be ambiguous – I did find myself often after that point reading into things that perhaps weren’t really important. The choice to leave the gender ambiguous was a fascinating one, and highlights the importance it seems to hold for readers generally. It should be no surprise to anyone that I love shaking up ideas of gender and questioning preconceptions of masculinity and femininity. However, at times towards the end of the book I felt that this meant that a layer to the character of Ali was sacrificed and the writing constricted – the character seemed so obviously meant as male to me, it seemed almost that the meat of the character was skirted around with vague pronouns and a hazy focus. That being said, this approach did really highlight that the story was really Ahmet’s and to a lesser extent Mac’s – not Ali’s.
At times I found the chronology unintentionally confused, the jumps in the story almost too inelegant, and dialogue at some points felt to me quite stilted, especially in regards to the character of the mother, Mac, who I would have liked to have been even more of a focus. That being said, I am a fiend for commas, so my desire for extra punctuation should of course be taken with a gain of Salt, ha. Overall, Ülgezer’s first offering is refreshingly raw, gritty, and distinctly both “Melbourne” and “UnMelbourne” at the same time. The book above anything else is about alienation, and so universally relatable as such that it becomes less about schizophrenia and Turkey and more about what life is like when control seems to be snatched from our hands.
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