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Bagombo Snuff Box by Kurt Vonnegut
“2 B R 0 2 B” is one of Vonnegut’s earlier stories, featuring his trademark sarcastic style and blend of speculative science fiction and humor. It stands out in Bagombo Snuff Box as a distinctly Vonnegutian story—most of the other selections in this collection were written before Player Piano and have some weaknesses that I’ll outline in another post. But 2 B R 0 2 B easily blows away the rest in terms of humor, succinct storytelling, and thematic delivery.
2.5
Bagombo Snuff Box is a short story collection published late in Vonnegut’s life that assembles 24 or so stories from early in his career. Early, as in most of them were published in various magazines before even Sirens of Titan, his landmark second novel, had been released. There aren’t many sci-fi or speculative fiction themes in the collection and it seems like Welcome to the Monkey House had already gathered his best stories from (before and?) after this era. After a handful of stories, the reader will start to notice that there are plenty of Vonnegutian elements present and many other missing. I wouldn’t go so far as to classify the works in the collection as juvenilia, but their quality is really inconsistent. Some, like “The Cruise of the Jolly Roger” have an odd charm. Others end with a punchline, like the rather smartly designed “Der Arme Dolmetscher.”
I guess my main issue with Bagombo is that, even knowing how Vonnegut is a largely humorous/satirical writer, I don’t know how contrived some of these stories are meant to be for the sake of humor vs. with the intent of having popular appeal in the magazines in which they were published. Surely, the titular story is meant to parody the character archetypes that are portrayed (the beautiful but dumb woman, the clueless husband with the gorgeous wife, the loser-ish ex-boyfriend trying to impress the beautiful married woman), and it does so to great effect. Runaways is similarly obvious. But other stories are quite stale or stiff — still providing the odd giggle or two — but lacking the teeming frustration, masked by ridiculous humor, that permeates Vonnegut’s best works. The only exception to this is 2 B R 0 2 B, easily the best cut in the selection, which I’ll cover below.
“2 B R 0 2 B” is one of Vonnegut’s earlier stories, featuring his trademark sarcastic style and blend of speculative science fiction and humor. It stands out in Bagombo Snuff Box as a distinctly Vonnegutian story—most of the other selections in this collection were written before Player Piano and have some weaknesses that I’ll outline in another post. But 2 B R 0 2 B easily blows away the rest in terms of humor, succinct storytelling, and thematic delivery.
The story is set in a futuristic world, maybe a couple hundred years from now. In this future, global population is strictly controlled: for a baby to be born, someone must volunteer to die. Otherwise, people can live indefinitely. The conflict centers around a man who has triplets but only one death volunteer. After some philosophical musings disguised as witty dialogue—between a painter creating a portrait of the doctor who discovered immortality, a government worker who oversees voluntary deaths, and the doctor himself—the story reaches a brutal finale. The father, unable to secure two more volunteers, ends up shooting and killing both the doctor and the government worker before taking his own life, fulfilling the three deaths needed for his children to be born. In a final darkly comic twist, the painter, disillusioned by it all, calls the gas department to schedule his own death. They casually inform him they can fit him in that afternoon.
The humor is obviously there—Vonnegut referring to God as a “happy hooligan” is pretty hilarious—but the story’s message is also clear about the dangers of taking science too far. It raises questions about the lengths we go to in order to improve and progress, and how that pursuit can ultimately strip us of our own humanity. There’s a point where the obsession with achieving perfect practicality becomes less about actual betterment and more about the process itself, and I think that’s part of what Vonnegut was getting at.
What really stood out to me, though, is how the story explores control over death. As we advance scientifically, we seem to gain more control over mortality. But the protagonist—by directly taking death into his own hands, not just for himself but for others—completely undercuts that idea. His actions expose the illusion that humanity can ever truly master death. In the end, the story suggests that no matter how much progress we make, we’ll never really be ahead of it.
The Book of Evidence by John Banville
4.5
“My world, and I an outcast in it.”
The Book of Evidence is my first Banville novel, after getting off to a slightly rough start with The Sea (I stopped after about 10 pages -- maybe I was just tired, but I wasn't enjoying the language, somewhat ironically). At first, I read this book like an odd mixture of Camus, Nabokov, and Thomas Bernhard. It had that Bernhardian "novel-length-monologue" type of thing he does with that aura of darkness that permeates his work. The theme appeared philosophically to be in Camus' wheelhouse, and the language and character writing seemed to be pure Nabokov. As I read more, Banville's distinct authorial voice began to come through. To continue some random comparisons to other writers though, I found myself thinking of John Updike and Don DeLillo as I read. I feel like this is the kind of novel Updike could've/would've written -- a novel-length confessional of a murder committed by an unreliable narrator -- and maybe he would've written the story as compelling, but he would've failed to write Freddie Montgomery himself with the absence of too much "theatricality" and -- I don't know -- awareness of his dramatic irony that Updike's more colorful characters sometimes lack. I also thought of DeLillo, not because he would ever be interested in writing a story like this, but because of the gorgeous stylistic flair to Banville's writing. Many of Banville's sentences were breathtaking, making me think of DeLillo who is a similarly strong stylist. I wouldn't yet go so far as to compare Banville favorably to DeLillo, whom I hold in very high regard. But here's just one example of Banville's writing: “In the hot, hazy dusk the streets seemed wider, flattened, somehow and the cars scudded along, sleek as seals in the sodium glare.”
The Book of Evidence is my first Banville novel, after getting off to a slightly rough start with The Sea (I stopped after about 10 pages -- maybe I was just tired, but I wasn't enjoying the language, somewhat ironically). At first, I read this book like an odd mixture of Camus, Nabokov, and Thomas Bernhard. It had that Bernhardian "novel-length-monologue" type of thing he does with that aura of darkness that permeates his work. The theme appeared philosophically to be in Camus' wheelhouse, and the language and character writing seemed to be pure Nabokov. As I read more, Banville's distinct authorial voice began to come through. To continue some random comparisons to other writers though, I found myself thinking of John Updike and Don DeLillo as I read. I feel like this is the kind of novel Updike could've/would've written -- a novel-length confessional of a murder committed by an unreliable narrator -- and maybe he would've written the story as compelling, but he would've failed to write Freddie Montgomery himself with the absence of too much "theatricality" and -- I don't know -- awareness of his dramatic irony that Updike's more colorful characters sometimes lack. I also thought of DeLillo, not because he would ever be interested in writing a story like this, but because of the gorgeous stylistic flair to Banville's writing. Many of Banville's sentences were breathtaking, making me think of DeLillo who is a similarly strong stylist. I wouldn't yet go so far as to compare Banville favorably to DeLillo, whom I hold in very high regard. But here's just one example of Banville's writing: “In the hot, hazy dusk the streets seemed wider, flattened, somehow and the cars scudded along, sleek as seals in the sodium glare.”
Banville has keen powers of observation. Divinely so, I think. He has a knack for putting an image into words that bring it to life, as contrived as this may sound as praise. It's like he has a photographic memory of an infinite amount of highly specific feelings. Here's another: “I could feel my horrible smile, like something sticky that had dripped onto my face.” During some passages, it's like he's pulling from a bank of experiences deep within the human subconscious. There's something “hyper real” about how Banville brings Freddie’s murder episode to life. It's both thrilling and literary. He makes this episode -- one that the vast majority of all people will never experience anything like -- believable and real.
And that's really just scratching the surface of the novel. The story itself has an interesting thematic core. Banville seems interested in some themes like compulsivity, reliability of narrator, and moral detachment. Freddie's flippant attitude toward his crime and all of its associated events raise questions about his humanity. His hyper-intelligence contrasts interestingly with the brutality of his crime, and how he interacts with and retrospectively comments upon the bevy of characters in the book highlights the tension between his learned facade and his criminal nature. The reader is forced to confront a highly unusual situation (in the best written segment of the novel, by the way) in which Freddie murders a woman in cold blood -- actually leaving her to die after bludgeoning her rather than finishing her off -- and can't really explain why he did it. It sort of "just happens" -- this horrible act. Banville may be using this situation as a symbol for life in the grand scheme. While very few of us are murderers, all of us make idiotic mistakes, decisions that have no explanation. In this condensed form, Banville shows us that life simply flows; our actions merely come out of us. This absence of free will may be something Banville wished for us to consider.
And that's really just scratching the surface of the novel. The story itself has an interesting thematic core. Banville seems interested in some themes like compulsivity, reliability of narrator, and moral detachment. Freddie's flippant attitude toward his crime and all of its associated events raise questions about his humanity. His hyper-intelligence contrasts interestingly with the brutality of his crime, and how he interacts with and retrospectively comments upon the bevy of characters in the book highlights the tension between his learned facade and his criminal nature. The reader is forced to confront a highly unusual situation (in the best written segment of the novel, by the way) in which Freddie murders a woman in cold blood -- actually leaving her to die after bludgeoning her rather than finishing her off -- and can't really explain why he did it. It sort of "just happens" -- this horrible act. Banville may be using this situation as a symbol for life in the grand scheme. While very few of us are murderers, all of us make idiotic mistakes, decisions that have no explanation. In this condensed form, Banville shows us that life simply flows; our actions merely come out of us. This absence of free will may be something Banville wished for us to consider.
The Overstory by Richard Powers
And yet, the third portion of the novel, the aftermath of a protest gone wrong, is the strongest. It beautifully ties together the novel's themes, of which there are several strong ones, and provides a satisfying conclusion to its stories and characters. I can't realistically outline everything, but there are four that stood out to me. The first, which is quite clear from the onset, is the acknowledgement of American resourcefulness as told through the immutable story of nature’s cycles. The motif of "cycles," and things changing, or never changing (negatively, from the stubborn human perspective, and positively, from the resilience of the long-living trees), is a point of interest for Powers. Many of the characters' immigrant roots are also highlighted to accentuate it as one of America's great strengths. Powers' nuanced view on trees, while of course being celebratory, is that they can and should be used responsibly by humans. The key word is responsibly, and Powers' deep criticism of people living in our capitalist world is that they are wasteful, not that they are "tree killers" or something. The Overstory is as much of a tree novel as it is a human novel. And while we are infantile in the timeline of trees, we're now inextricably linked with them and our use of them is unavoidable.
Another interesting idea Powers has is the transition of people into tree, not literally, but as a subject of some other superior burgeoning force like AI. Powers uses a character's story, Neelay's, to progress this narrative thread: that science will advance beyond us and supplant us. He also interestingly never interacts with the other characters (although neither does the Brinkman couple).
The last bit is that The Overstory is a quietly transgressive work - Dorothy’s suicide, Ray’s rationale for his defense of Adam, and Neelay’s "learners" are all rather contradictory to what's considered acceptable to think or say in our society. Despite containing some logical reasoning. The powerful suicide scene especially (labeled an "unsuicide") is really difficult to think of as anything else but an endorsement from Powers that only the perishing of people will result in the recovery of trees. I found it laudable that he would present such a controversial view in our age of self-censorship and fear of public consequence, even if I could not bring myself to agree with it. Dorothy, the character at the novel's heart, has a beautifully sad character arc and is perhaps the best representative of the trees that our world could ask for. It is her kind of story that expands a reader's consciousness.
4.5
“There are no individuals in a forest. No separable events.”
“This is what people do — solve their own problems in others' lives.”
The Overstory is a rarity in that it's a modern literary epic; even rarer that it addresses an entirely novel concept (unlike something like The Corrections, which may fulfill the modern epic criteria, but is rather derivative in its themes) and even utilizes a fairly novel organizational structure. Many people love Cloud Atlas, a book that I found to be pretty bad, but what I did appreciate about it was how a grand narrative was stitched together with discrete stories that were "nestled within" one another. The Overstory doesn't do that exactly, but it creates a similar effect by spending about 20% of its length diving exclusively into the backstories of its cast, jumping around in time and place as needed. And Powers does not hesitate to go way back, sometimes centuries, to explore the roots of his characters. Each of the 7 or so characters carries with them a unique perspective that is tied to their family history, trauma, experiences, etc. and Powers thoughtfully recounts them in each individual's chapter. Therefore, the impact of these characters meeting in the second part -- and even the sudden realization ~50 pages in that these powerfully illustrated characters will meet -- is great.
Powers' prose is absent of poetic pretensions. He writes clear and true, with a stunning balance of empathy and emotional detachment. It's impressive how Powers, who clearly chose a diverse cast purposefully, can write any sort of character from anywhere in the world with seamless authenticity. Something I truly loved is how this novel featured non-traditional featured characters, those with disabilities and non-native English speakers for example, whose appearance didn't seem shoehorned, nor even just thoughtful, but necessary even. Powers is incredibly knowledgeable, probably the writer with the vastest range of knowledge whom I've read, and it's clear from his characterization that he does his research. These random topics that appear in the lives of different people, arboriculture, fishing, psychology, histories of various countries, you name it, are all written about with the confidence an expert teacher may have discussing his subject matter. I felt during this first portion of the novel that Powers can write practically any scene, about any topic, and make it interesting. He has a raw talent for getting to the heart of the matter, then moving on, sometimes to the next logical scene, or sometimes to decades ahead if that's what the plot calls for. His storytelling confidence is remarkable. It's also evident that Powers has done tremendous research going into this book, and that's not even touching on the main motif of the tree, about which Powers seemingly knows everything.
The second portion of the novel, its largest, was the weakest unfortunately. I think Powers' ambition of writing a "thriller-ish" storyline within the novel ultimately hurt him. His backstories were flawlessly carved out, and he did quite well having pairs of characters meet once the timelines converge too (with a few notable complaints which I'll outline). Each character's motivations were logical and it was interesting watching them change as they interacted with one another. But the "action" of the novel, particularly when a key character dies, definitely creates a dramatic tone that betrays the otherwise impassioned stoicism of the book. It's certainly not bad by any means. It's just a jarring transition from the slow, meditative build-up of the first 300 or so pages to be thrown into some action during the protests. The imagery and writing is still good, but the urgent tonal shift is a let down for me.
The Overstory is a rarity in that it's a modern literary epic; even rarer that it addresses an entirely novel concept (unlike something like The Corrections, which may fulfill the modern epic criteria, but is rather derivative in its themes) and even utilizes a fairly novel organizational structure. Many people love Cloud Atlas, a book that I found to be pretty bad, but what I did appreciate about it was how a grand narrative was stitched together with discrete stories that were "nestled within" one another. The Overstory doesn't do that exactly, but it creates a similar effect by spending about 20% of its length diving exclusively into the backstories of its cast, jumping around in time and place as needed. And Powers does not hesitate to go way back, sometimes centuries, to explore the roots of his characters. Each of the 7 or so characters carries with them a unique perspective that is tied to their family history, trauma, experiences, etc. and Powers thoughtfully recounts them in each individual's chapter. Therefore, the impact of these characters meeting in the second part -- and even the sudden realization ~50 pages in that these powerfully illustrated characters will meet -- is great.
Powers' prose is absent of poetic pretensions. He writes clear and true, with a stunning balance of empathy and emotional detachment. It's impressive how Powers, who clearly chose a diverse cast purposefully, can write any sort of character from anywhere in the world with seamless authenticity. Something I truly loved is how this novel featured non-traditional featured characters, those with disabilities and non-native English speakers for example, whose appearance didn't seem shoehorned, nor even just thoughtful, but necessary even. Powers is incredibly knowledgeable, probably the writer with the vastest range of knowledge whom I've read, and it's clear from his characterization that he does his research. These random topics that appear in the lives of different people, arboriculture, fishing, psychology, histories of various countries, you name it, are all written about with the confidence an expert teacher may have discussing his subject matter. I felt during this first portion of the novel that Powers can write practically any scene, about any topic, and make it interesting. He has a raw talent for getting to the heart of the matter, then moving on, sometimes to the next logical scene, or sometimes to decades ahead if that's what the plot calls for. His storytelling confidence is remarkable. It's also evident that Powers has done tremendous research going into this book, and that's not even touching on the main motif of the tree, about which Powers seemingly knows everything.
The second portion of the novel, its largest, was the weakest unfortunately. I think Powers' ambition of writing a "thriller-ish" storyline within the novel ultimately hurt him. His backstories were flawlessly carved out, and he did quite well having pairs of characters meet once the timelines converge too (with a few notable complaints which I'll outline). Each character's motivations were logical and it was interesting watching them change as they interacted with one another. But the "action" of the novel, particularly when a key character dies, definitely creates a dramatic tone that betrays the otherwise impassioned stoicism of the book. It's certainly not bad by any means. It's just a jarring transition from the slow, meditative build-up of the first 300 or so pages to be thrown into some action during the protests. The imagery and writing is still good, but the urgent tonal shift is a let down for me.
And yet, the third portion of the novel, the aftermath of a protest gone wrong, is the strongest. It beautifully ties together the novel's themes, of which there are several strong ones, and provides a satisfying conclusion to its stories and characters. I can't realistically outline everything, but there are four that stood out to me. The first, which is quite clear from the onset, is the acknowledgement of American resourcefulness as told through the immutable story of nature’s cycles. The motif of "cycles," and things changing, or never changing (negatively, from the stubborn human perspective, and positively, from the resilience of the long-living trees), is a point of interest for Powers. Many of the characters' immigrant roots are also highlighted to accentuate it as one of America's great strengths. Powers' nuanced view on trees, while of course being celebratory, is that they can and should be used responsibly by humans. The key word is responsibly, and Powers' deep criticism of people living in our capitalist world is that they are wasteful, not that they are "tree killers" or something. The Overstory is as much of a tree novel as it is a human novel. And while we are infantile in the timeline of trees, we're now inextricably linked with them and our use of them is unavoidable.
Another interesting idea Powers has is the transition of people into tree, not literally, but as a subject of some other superior burgeoning force like AI. Powers uses a character's story, Neelay's, to progress this narrative thread: that science will advance beyond us and supplant us. He also interestingly never interacts with the other characters (although neither does the Brinkman couple).
Also, the brilliance of the betrayals at the end of the novel highlights the “problem” of our species as Powers attempts to paint it -- our tribalism based on familial relationships and essentially individual feelings is impossible to override (and whether it should is another impossible question). We are programmed to prioritize the people closest to us over the whole species: “The world is full of welfares that must come even before your own kind.” And for that, we as a species are destined for a short lifespan.
The last bit is that The Overstory is a quietly transgressive work - Dorothy’s suicide, Ray’s rationale for his defense of Adam, and Neelay’s "learners" are all rather contradictory to what's considered acceptable to think or say in our society. Despite containing some logical reasoning. The powerful suicide scene especially (labeled an "unsuicide") is really difficult to think of as anything else but an endorsement from Powers that only the perishing of people will result in the recovery of trees. I found it laudable that he would present such a controversial view in our age of self-censorship and fear of public consequence, even if I could not bring myself to agree with it. Dorothy, the character at the novel's heart, has a beautifully sad character arc and is perhaps the best representative of the trees that our world could ask for. It is her kind of story that expands a reader's consciousness.
Star by Yukio Mishima
3.0
Star was originally published as Suta in Japan with Patriotism included, so I'll be reviewing both novellas.
1. Star
This was a minor work by Mishima, who wrote a ton within his short life including some pulp fiction and "throwaway" works like these. It's interesting too that within this text Mishima seems to defend the artistic merit of "artless" works. During one reflective aside, his narrator considers how the tropes of certain pop fiction (yakuza storylines in this case) are intrinstically artistic, because of, rather despite their redundancy. The timelessness of certain tropes imbue them with a relatability not different than what a piece of art may evoke. That's not to say that the novella is entirely weightless; it certainly has some interesting reflections on fame and the blurring of reality and unreality that acting immerses an actor within. And this discussion is really just a tangent of the overall narrative. The work more closely concerns itself with an actor's ambivalence toward fame and his work.
As an avid Mishima reader, Star was a bit of a lukewarm read. For one, it felt rather short. Normally, I don't criticize works for their length, but I actually wish this could've been fleshed out a bit more. Rikio was a fascinating character and his relationship with his assistant in addition to the descriptions of his work held some interest for me. But mainly, I wasn't thrilled with the ambiguity with which Mishima attempted to convey the text's theme. I understood that Mishima wished to show the "star," Rikio, as an outsider precisely, and ironically, because of his popularity. His exhaustion from his work and dissatisfaction despite the many perks he attained from stardom causes him to seek an odd and inappropriate romantic relationship with his assistant, who is a frumpy woman who greatly contrasts Rikio's actorly handsomeness. Their relationship is explored a bit, and it is clear that it's the only bright spot in Rikio's life. They have fun in their private get-togethers mocking beautiful actresses, for example, or keeping evil secrets. Rikio feels like an actual person with this normal woman, who treats him nothing like a star and in fact playfully mocks him for it if anything. I gathered that this relationship reflected Rikio's wish for some normalcy. Mishima seems to comment favorably on the appreciation of normalcy, especially within an abnormal life, and perhaps suggests to readers that we should hang on to the established, the conventional, and the normal within our own lives. To summarize in a cliche sort of way: love whatever brings you joy, not what you should love.
2. Patriotism
“His was a battlefield without glory, a battlefield where he could display deeds of valor to no one; it was the front line of the spirit.”
1. Star
This was a minor work by Mishima, who wrote a ton within his short life including some pulp fiction and "throwaway" works like these. It's interesting too that within this text Mishima seems to defend the artistic merit of "artless" works. During one reflective aside, his narrator considers how the tropes of certain pop fiction (yakuza storylines in this case) are intrinstically artistic, because of, rather despite their redundancy. The timelessness of certain tropes imbue them with a relatability not different than what a piece of art may evoke. That's not to say that the novella is entirely weightless; it certainly has some interesting reflections on fame and the blurring of reality and unreality that acting immerses an actor within. And this discussion is really just a tangent of the overall narrative. The work more closely concerns itself with an actor's ambivalence toward fame and his work.
As an avid Mishima reader, Star was a bit of a lukewarm read. For one, it felt rather short. Normally, I don't criticize works for their length, but I actually wish this could've been fleshed out a bit more. Rikio was a fascinating character and his relationship with his assistant in addition to the descriptions of his work held some interest for me. But mainly, I wasn't thrilled with the ambiguity with which Mishima attempted to convey the text's theme. I understood that Mishima wished to show the "star," Rikio, as an outsider precisely, and ironically, because of his popularity. His exhaustion from his work and dissatisfaction despite the many perks he attained from stardom causes him to seek an odd and inappropriate romantic relationship with his assistant, who is a frumpy woman who greatly contrasts Rikio's actorly handsomeness. Their relationship is explored a bit, and it is clear that it's the only bright spot in Rikio's life. They have fun in their private get-togethers mocking beautiful actresses, for example, or keeping evil secrets. Rikio feels like an actual person with this normal woman, who treats him nothing like a star and in fact playfully mocks him for it if anything. I gathered that this relationship reflected Rikio's wish for some normalcy. Mishima seems to comment favorably on the appreciation of normalcy, especially within an abnormal life, and perhaps suggests to readers that we should hang on to the established, the conventional, and the normal within our own lives. To summarize in a cliche sort of way: love whatever brings you joy, not what you should love.
2. Patriotism
“His was a battlefield without glory, a battlefield where he could display deeds of valor to no one; it was the front line of the spirit.”
Patriotism is an unsettling short story by Yukio Mishima. Anyone familiar with his life, particularly the end of his life, will not be utterly surprised by the nature of this story, which involves the Japanese seppuku ritual in rather grave detail. Yet, despite being familiar with Mishima’s death, I was nonetheless unsettled by the extremely graphic imagery of the story. It was not really the blood or violence in the story that unsettled me, but rather the intimacy of detail with which Mishima wrote. To his credit, he demonstrates a remarkable capability for writing about an act that is impossible to experience and write about, since it causes the death of the actor. Yet, remarkably, Mishima’s passion for Japan and its age-old principles is reflected through his stark depiction of the seppuku act and its preceding events.
In this story, it’s clear that Mishima is idealizing the soldier who commits this act, and from my point of view, it seems like the story is entirely a test run for what Mishima planned to do in 1970 when he died. I’m not exactly sure when this story was written, but it seems like he was, for himself, creating a reference for what he would expect, as he foresaw his own death being similar to that of the soldier in the story. The difference, it would seem—and this still ties into my suspicion of idealization—is that the soldier’s (beautiful, perfect, obedient) wife also follows him to his death with her own seppuku.
I think that the theme of the story is quite difficult to comment favorably upon—one, because of its radically violent nature, which I simply can’t condone, and two, because of the cultural gap between myself and the logic and reasoning behind the soldier’s actions. There’s no historical context linked to my own culture and experiences that would ever allow me to really understand Mishima’s point of view regarding seppuku.
Still, it’s clear from Mishima’s depiction of the act as a sort of yang to the yin of beauty—which is shown through the man’s handsome ruggedness, his wife’s beautiful innocence, and their sexual acts immediately preceding the deaths—that Mishima has a radiant appreciation for the end of life and the end of beauty, especially as a sacrifice for a greater ideal, and seemingly even more so as a mutual sacrifice based on personal bonds that achieve this higher ideal.
That leads me to consider the irony in the text, which Mishima was certainly aware of—he does include a paragraph or short section about this—but whether or not he thought it was ironic, I’m not fully sure. He sacrifices the soldier through this act, and then his wife follows immediately after, yet the seppuku is a response from the soldier to his inability to fulfill his professional obligation to kill his friends who are traitors of the government. His wife’s death, however, is based entirely on obedience. The irony in this, for me anyway, is that the soldier’s entire existence is as a protector—somebody who should be responsible for protecting, most notably, his wife. One’s wife or child, in this sense, is a reflection of the larger citizen community, the non-combatant community. So where there may be some justification from Mishima’s point of view for the seppuku of the soldier, his wife’s, at least for me, as I understand it, is really an act of obedience. Yet it is depicted as equally beautiful, equally necessary, and as an act of patriotism—hence the title of the story.
I question whether that should be a duty of citizens. The purpose of soldiers is this honorable death—that I can buy into. But for citizens, innocents—women and children—I don’t know. I don’t know how he is able to explain that obligation on their end.
3. Three Million Yen
Three Million Yen is a story by Yukio Mishima that is a bit unusual in its presentation but simultaneously rather familiar in its themes and details. It’s a short story, around 13 pages, and for about 11 of those, the reader is merely following the nighttime date of two young Japanese people. It’s clear that there is some contrast in values between the man and the woman, and there’s an obvious element of childishness in the young man’s behavior and frugality in the young woman’s that are clashing. Yet there’s also a tenderness between them that muddies the waters of our perception just enough so that their differences don’t appear to spell doom for them.
3. Three Million Yen
Three Million Yen is a story by Yukio Mishima that is a bit unusual in its presentation but simultaneously rather familiar in its themes and details. It’s a short story, around 13 pages, and for about 11 of those, the reader is merely following the nighttime date of two young Japanese people. It’s clear that there is some contrast in values between the man and the woman, and there’s an obvious element of childishness in the young man’s behavior and frugality in the young woman’s that are clashing. Yet there’s also a tenderness between them that muddies the waters of our perception just enough so that their differences don’t appear to spell doom for them.
Anyway, the story ends with the revelation that the young couple was killing time before an appointment with an older woman who is essentially a prostitute, and the two of them are engaging in sexual acts for bored, wealthy older people. It’s a critique of commercialism I think — that younger people will go to great lengths to abandon their values in exchange for financial gain. They meet in a sort of mall or entertainment district called the New World, which is an obvious criticism of the progressive direction Japan’s economy was taking—something Mishima seemed to detest.
Before the revelation at the end, it seems like Mishima’s merely commenting on a clash of traditional and non-traditional values. The wife, annoyingly so, is constantly bringing up that they can’t spend money on various parts of their date—on the roller coaster they go on, the food they buy, and all kinds of other things. Meanwhile, the husband is more impulsive, more boyishly simple. He just wants to play with the toys in the toy store, have fun, go out, and do whatever he wants.
At the center of the story is this cracker, this million yen cracker, that the husband impulsively buys, believing it will bring good luck. They carry it throughout their date, both taking bites out of it, which seems to suggest that this date is their way of buying into the dream that they’ll escape their current life—this life of essentially prostituting themselves for money. But at the end of the story, it’s revealed that the wife is completely content with their arrangement. She tells him to just break the cracker, not realizing how important it is to him. He tries, but he physically can’t — showing the immutability of his nature.
Black Swan Green by David Mitchell
3.5
“Green is made of yellow and blue, nothing else, but when you look at green, where’ve the yellow and the blue gone?”
David Mitchell is the most unevenly talented writer whom I’ve read. He’s occasionally a master storyteller, inventive in his story structure and sequencing of events, capable of writing beautiful sentences and using language in mind-bending ways, and yet writes some truly atrocious dialogue and scenes. He's frustrating to write about. I'd almost classify him as a guilty pleasure read because he's so heavily invested in themes of sci-fi and fantasy in many of his books that it muddies the water of his literary merit. Take Cloud Atlas for example, a novel with some very nice sentences and a unique structure that effectively establishes universality among the contained-within stories' themes, but whose stories themselves held very little weight for me -- overly long, badly written, and/or shallow. Ghostwritten had a similar impact. And yet, I was entranced by Number9dream (granted, I had read it a while ago) and Jacob DeZoet was quite good as well. Fortunately, Black Swan Green is the most traditional novel in Mitchell's bunch. While it does have a (very well executed) storytelling gimmick, in which each chapter is a discrete story from one month of the narrator's year, it is otherwise a fairly simple bildungsroman, leaning toward autofiction.
Jason Taylor is as realistic as any thirteen-year-old boy character I've read, and Mitchell (writing about his home town in Worcestershire) nails the slangy dialogue of his youth. More impressively, he quite accurately and impassively (for all of his other emotive faults) captures the precocious, harsh social dynamics of male adolescence. The bullying in the novel especially feels quite severe. And yet, it is frustrating that there is this sense of "bad writing" as I read Mitchell. It's quite confounding. Maybe I am simply less open to some of his writing choices. For example, his moderately heavy usage of italics and "all caps" dialogue creates a sense that I'm reading a book, in which characters are talking like characters and not real people. Yet conversely, I will read some of Mitchell's interactions between Jason and his speech pathologist and identify the authenticity in their interactions. If I had to summarize the book's writing strengths and weaknesses, I would point to Mitchell's world building as particularly strong -- his depiction of the people, their interactions and beliefs, and the historical context of Black Swan Green clearly comes from some personal place -- and his creation of Jason Taylor and his coming-of-age moments fleshed out in each chapter and how they connect and culminate in a kiss (corny, I know, but definitely realistic for an adolescent) and the divorce of his parents as rather strong too. But some of his writing needs work and takes the reader out of the story at moments. Otherwise, if you can tolerate that, Black Swan Green is a very nice novel.
Among the chapters themselves, none of them were weak (with Solarium probably being the weakest due to the poorly written Crommelnyck), but I was gripped mostly by Rocks. All of the stories could exist as short stories, and in fact for a good portion of the novel I was second guessing whether I was reading a short story collection. Yet they all connected quite beautifully as they slowly develop a character arc for Jason, underpinned by his popularity with peers and shifting family dynamics. Rocks took the cake for me though because it very smartly revealed the irreconcilable and fatal philosophical/moral difference between Jason's mother and father through a seemingly small financial disagreement. As the chapter progresses, the background noise of Cold War conflict seems to mirror the long-going fight between mom and dad, and ends with a clear result (as does the fight between parents that leads to a devastating embarrassment for Jason's mother). But Mitchell beautifully ends the chapter with Jason representing an (otherwise absent in the presence of conflict) empathetic perspective of youth: "...not hurting people is ten bloody thousand times more bloody important than being right."
And lastly, the book ends with this beautiful interaction between Jason and his older sister, which puts a bow on the novel with a sensitive understanding that Jason is merely in the throes of adolescence:
"It'll be all right." Julia's gentleness makes it worse. "In the end, Jace."
"It doesn't feel very alright."
"That's because it's not the end."
Jason Taylor is as realistic as any thirteen-year-old boy character I've read, and Mitchell (writing about his home town in Worcestershire) nails the slangy dialogue of his youth. More impressively, he quite accurately and impassively (for all of his other emotive faults) captures the precocious, harsh social dynamics of male adolescence. The bullying in the novel especially feels quite severe. And yet, it is frustrating that there is this sense of "bad writing" as I read Mitchell. It's quite confounding. Maybe I am simply less open to some of his writing choices. For example, his moderately heavy usage of italics and "all caps" dialogue creates a sense that I'm reading a book, in which characters are talking like characters and not real people. Yet conversely, I will read some of Mitchell's interactions between Jason and his speech pathologist and identify the authenticity in their interactions. If I had to summarize the book's writing strengths and weaknesses, I would point to Mitchell's world building as particularly strong -- his depiction of the people, their interactions and beliefs, and the historical context of Black Swan Green clearly comes from some personal place -- and his creation of Jason Taylor and his coming-of-age moments fleshed out in each chapter and how they connect and culminate in a kiss (corny, I know, but definitely realistic for an adolescent) and the divorce of his parents as rather strong too. But some of his writing needs work and takes the reader out of the story at moments. Otherwise, if you can tolerate that, Black Swan Green is a very nice novel.
Among the chapters themselves, none of them were weak (with Solarium probably being the weakest due to the poorly written Crommelnyck), but I was gripped mostly by Rocks. All of the stories could exist as short stories, and in fact for a good portion of the novel I was second guessing whether I was reading a short story collection. Yet they all connected quite beautifully as they slowly develop a character arc for Jason, underpinned by his popularity with peers and shifting family dynamics. Rocks took the cake for me though because it very smartly revealed the irreconcilable and fatal philosophical/moral difference between Jason's mother and father through a seemingly small financial disagreement. As the chapter progresses, the background noise of Cold War conflict seems to mirror the long-going fight between mom and dad, and ends with a clear result (as does the fight between parents that leads to a devastating embarrassment for Jason's mother). But Mitchell beautifully ends the chapter with Jason representing an (otherwise absent in the presence of conflict) empathetic perspective of youth: "...not hurting people is ten bloody thousand times more bloody important than being right."
And lastly, the book ends with this beautiful interaction between Jason and his older sister, which puts a bow on the novel with a sensitive understanding that Jason is merely in the throes of adolescence:
"It'll be all right." Julia's gentleness makes it worse. "In the end, Jace."
"It doesn't feel very alright."
"That's because it's not the end."
The Hunting Gun by Yasushi Inoue
3.5
The Hunting Gun is a powerful epistolary novella, which skillfully sets up a frame story that highlights the power of fiction and explores the desolation of love. The narrator, a relatively low-celebrity poet, hesitantly and regretfully submits a poem to a hunting magazine. He forgets about it for several months, but then receives a mysterious letter from a man who believes he was the subject of the narrator's poem. He is deeply touched, and shares some intensely personal letters that he received that reveal he had an affair with a dying woman that ruined his marriage and the woman's family. As the letters that the narrator receives are one-sided, so too are the perspectives on Misugi.
The nature of the letters contain some interesting and rather poignant reflections on the pain that an affair can cause. But beyond that, the story shows the subject of a fiction “coming to life” in an extraordinary way, but amazingly still grounded in reality. While the narrator writes a poem, ostensibly about the silhouette of a man he once saw by happenstance, that is meant to represent a possibility, a symbol, or a device to tell a story, the actual man exists. And the reality of who he is may be more interesting and significant than what the narrator imagined. Despite having the limitless tools of imagination at his disposal, the narrator receives real-life letters from this same ostensibly hypothetical man that are greatly more impactful in their meaning and message than the poem. The transformation of idealized subject into real person is fascinating as we see how a portrait of a man, and by extension the meaning we attribute to it, is such a meager glimpse at who is actually within.
The nature of the letters contain some interesting and rather poignant reflections on the pain that an affair can cause. But beyond that, the story shows the subject of a fiction “coming to life” in an extraordinary way, but amazingly still grounded in reality. While the narrator writes a poem, ostensibly about the silhouette of a man he once saw by happenstance, that is meant to represent a possibility, a symbol, or a device to tell a story, the actual man exists. And the reality of who he is may be more interesting and significant than what the narrator imagined. Despite having the limitless tools of imagination at his disposal, the narrator receives real-life letters from this same ostensibly hypothetical man that are greatly more impactful in their meaning and message than the poem. The transformation of idealized subject into real person is fascinating as we see how a portrait of a man, and by extension the meaning we attribute to it, is such a meager glimpse at who is actually within.
And yet, paradoxically, the power of the word is what inspired Misugi to write the author and send these intensely personal letters. Therefore, there is an inextricable story being told through our fictions and our realities. The two dimensions are intertwined and feeding off each other in such a way that, at a certain point, they can blend seamlessly. This metafictional springboard is what allows Inoue to write this story as a piece of fiction.
And as far as the novella as a whole, the hunting gun appears ultimately a symbol of protection (against feeling utterly alone), which we learn in the brief coda at the end as we revisit Misugi's words to the narrator. That there is ultimately a meaning to the titular hunting gun establishes Inoue's purpose of demonstrating this relationship between reality and fiction.
The Gate by Natsume Sōseki
3.5
“…from the moment of his birth, it was his fate to remain standing indefinitely outside the gate.”
The Gate is a novel about dissatisfaction with normality and mortality. Its main character, Sosuke, committed a horrible crime in his past that also led to him being with the woman whom he married. Years later, he is completely changed -- from a promising youth, he has rapidly become a childless, stifled, stagnant, and boring man. His wife, though traumatized by a series of miscarriages, is wholly devoted to him and vice versa. Their bond is unbreakably strong, yet they reinforce each other's indecisiveness and deferment by enabling each other to put things off or ignore problems. Sosuke is vaguely aware of this flaw (yet much more aware of how unexciting his life has become) and the years trickle by. Another element of the novel is that Sosuke's younger brother is relying on Sosuke to make good on a promise to help him pay for his room and board -- a tale too complicated for me to summarize -- but one in which Sosuke bungles over and over as he looks for ways to rationalize his indecision and poor communication that leads to his brother being in such dire straits.
I loved the comic elements of this novel and how frustratingly indolent Sosuke is. It makes the reader truly annoyed by him. Especially as it seems that all of the progress Sosuke makes is due to sheer luck. Yet, the tragedy within his backstory and the love he and his wife share are quite powerful and buoy the reader's opinion of him. I found myself questioning my own feelings: "are their flaws so bad? Is this kind of life so pitiable? They do share a powerful love and connection." Yet it is quite clear that the life they're living is so mundane and that time is meaninglessly slipping by for both of them. It is a cautionary tale for young married people in this sense, the reader may find himself saying "I hope my marriage never gets like this." The story is phenomenally well-executed by Soseki and perhaps could only be told this well by him or a writer of his caliber. It contains a pure, minimalistic, lyrical realist Japanese style.
I loved the comic elements of this novel and how frustratingly indolent Sosuke is. It makes the reader truly annoyed by him. Especially as it seems that all of the progress Sosuke makes is due to sheer luck. Yet, the tragedy within his backstory and the love he and his wife share are quite powerful and buoy the reader's opinion of him. I found myself questioning my own feelings: "are their flaws so bad? Is this kind of life so pitiable? They do share a powerful love and connection." Yet it is quite clear that the life they're living is so mundane and that time is meaninglessly slipping by for both of them. It is a cautionary tale for young married people in this sense, the reader may find himself saying "I hope my marriage never gets like this." The story is phenomenally well-executed by Soseki and perhaps could only be told this well by him or a writer of his caliber. It contains a pure, minimalistic, lyrical realist Japanese style.
The Gate ends with very little changed. Sosuke receives a raise at work -- pure luck once again -- and despite dabbling in religion for a paltry 10 days, he decides it's not for him and goes back home unchanged. He goes on this "religious retreat" to avoid an uncomfortable meeting with someone from his past, which works, and upon realizing this he goes back to his usual self. I interpreted the ending quite cyncially; people rarely change themselves for the better, and oftentimes people are rewarded and punished by chance (even in this case of Sosuke's brother, his conflict is resolved by a chance encounter).
My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante
5.0
As in all of my reviews: spoilers ahead.
“When there is no love, not only the life of people becomes sterile but the life of cities.”
“When there is no love, not only the life of people becomes sterile but the life of cities.”
My Brilliant Friend truly surprised me. Despite its acclaim and reputation, for a novel that's only about a decade old, I wasn't expecting such a perfectly written bildungsroman, that at once fulfills every criteria of a rich coming-of-age story and simultaneously explores, through the maturation of Elena, the crisis of a city and its people on the verge of a vile transformation, one that is in constant motion, that threatens the very character of the people it impacts, yet invisible to the eyes of its people, inexplicable, as it is to all civilizations on the verge of total change. But somehow, Ferrante convincingly captures the small moments of such a change and lets the reader put together the many pieces that she presents into a clear picture.
The inseparability of Elena's story and perspective from the destitution of the world around her is so solidly evident -- and so a purpose for Elena is so clearly illustrated -- that there is a mutual reinforcement of Elena's individual challenges by the challenges of her family, peers, and fellow citizen and vice versa. The lens from which Elena views her world is unimpeachably authentic. And, like Turgenev, Ferrante merely reports, rarely drawing conclusions on a scale grander than a personal one, about her perceptions of the way impoverished people live and are tempted, deceived, and ruined by money.
Not only does Ferrante demonstrate an unpretentious and sincere prose style, one that is steeped in the monumental influences of world literature (and referential and reverential toward it -- a touch of Turgenev here, a dash of Marquez there, etc.), she displays a psychological depth and profound understanding of the perceptions of youth. She paints scenes that are so realistic that they almost certainly must contain an element of autobiography. Yet what is so impressive about them is the universality of their imagery and themes; any reader can relate to elements of Elena's story, her jealousy, her insecurity and self-awareness, her sexual awakening, and her quest for understanding of self. Ferrante perfectly captures the changes of adolescence. How the mind transforms from a child’s to an adults — through love, the crushing realization that one’s dreams are impossible dreams, and the meaning we derive from comparisons to our peers.
The inseparability of Elena's story and perspective from the destitution of the world around her is so solidly evident -- and so a purpose for Elena is so clearly illustrated -- that there is a mutual reinforcement of Elena's individual challenges by the challenges of her family, peers, and fellow citizen and vice versa. The lens from which Elena views her world is unimpeachably authentic. And, like Turgenev, Ferrante merely reports, rarely drawing conclusions on a scale grander than a personal one, about her perceptions of the way impoverished people live and are tempted, deceived, and ruined by money.
Not only does Ferrante demonstrate an unpretentious and sincere prose style, one that is steeped in the monumental influences of world literature (and referential and reverential toward it -- a touch of Turgenev here, a dash of Marquez there, etc.), she displays a psychological depth and profound understanding of the perceptions of youth. She paints scenes that are so realistic that they almost certainly must contain an element of autobiography. Yet what is so impressive about them is the universality of their imagery and themes; any reader can relate to elements of Elena's story, her jealousy, her insecurity and self-awareness, her sexual awakening, and her quest for understanding of self. Ferrante perfectly captures the changes of adolescence. How the mind transforms from a child’s to an adults — through love, the crushing realization that one’s dreams are impossible dreams, and the meaning we derive from comparisons to our peers.
The major symbol in the novel, Lila and Rino’s shoes, embody the goodness — the “love” — of the people in the community. They’re a product of hard work, innovation, and family togetherness. Yet, they’re tainted by their inherent nature as a product. They’re sold as such, and become a vessel for Stefano, the wealthy young grocer, to win Lila’s heart and eventually betray her. The brilliant Lila (and as an extension of her greatness' influence, Elena as well) had been disillusioned by the glamour of wealth. While Elena acknowledges its crucial role in maintaining the foundation of the community, Lila is led astray by its overwhelming power. Ferrante shows, carefully but critically, that wealth is a necessary evil and an unavoidable and pervasive essence in the lives of everyone. And those who are captured by its influence seem destined for ruin. Yet those who live without it are ruined as well.
The power of Lila and Elena’s friendship is made evident by Ferrante’s deep understanding of scene writing. The girls are together in either person’s most tense or intense moments; or if they’re not, they share with each other and speculate about how and where to move forward. Even as the girls grow apart, with Elena adhering to her childish obedience to studies with Lila moves on toward womanhood and marriage, they are forever intertwined. They never waver in their love for each other, even as they go through bumps in their relationship attributable to their maturing personalities (and appearances). The depth of their friendship, and particularly of Elena's fixation with Lila and yearning to make sense of her brilliant mind, is simultaneously touching, raw, and relatable, as it highlights, more than Lila's personal greatness, Elena's own concept of self-understanding. She compares herself to the greatest person she knows, tries to unravel her, and use this image of her as a way to see into her own heart and discover who she is.
Throughout the novel, there is a foreboding feeling that Lila and Stefano’s seemingly perfect relationship, which has notably changed Lila’s personality, will fail due to the undercurrent of constant financial dealings on which the relationship is floating. The novel ends perfectly, with Stefano betraying Lila -- inviting her most hated person to their wedding (after agreeing explicitly to keep him out), and selling the shoes she worked painstakingly on to him. Ferrante perhaps views financial gain as the antithesis of love, a challenging desire to overcome, not necessarily because it is tempting, but because it is required to survive. Ferrante seems to demonstrate that it exists in a superlative form -- either we are very rich or very poor -- on either end of this spectrum people are destined to behave in such a way that moves them further in the direction they're already in.