11/22/63: A Novel

The story: Given that the novel is so long, please pardon me for pasting the blurb and adding a few titbits afterwards. Here you go:

“November 22nd, 1963 was a rapid-fire sequence of indelible moments: Shots ring out; a president slumped over; a race to the Dallas hospital; an announcement, blood still fresh on the First Lady’s dress. But what if President John F. Kennedy didn’t have to die; if somehow his assassin could have been thwarted? For Maine schoolteacher Jake Epping, those hypothetical what if’s become real possibilities when he walks through a portal to the past. Without special skills and still unfamiliar with his new/old surroundings, he struggles to discover a way to change the history he left.”

Al, the propriety of the eponymous diner is dying of cancer. He calls Jake over when he realises his days are numbered and reveal the rabbit hole to him. Through this conduit, 35-year-old Jake returns to America in 1958 and luxuriates in ginger ale that was …”full. Tasty all the way through”. Jake’s entree in the past’s menu is served up by an essay that was written by one of his students, a man named Harry Dunning who has studied for his GED. Harry, who is old enough to be Jake’s father, had an assignment to write about a day that changed his life. He wrote about when his father went all Amityville on his mother and siblings with a sledge hammer when Harry was a boy in 1958. So off goes Jake, armed with a few supplies by Al and a few nuggets of information to save the Dunning family and return to 2011 to see what would change if he succeeded. His first attempt fails and so he returns to 1958 to try again. He succeeds this time. Homeboy has 5 years however, with which to while away time until JFK is assassinated. Or not if Jake has it Al’s was.

Jake is charmed by 1958 America but not all parts of it. He hates Dallas (where Oswald lives) so he moves to small-town Jodie where he falls in love with the local librarian, Sadie. She’s a smart one and realises something is askew with her new lover. His use of ‘dude’ and singing a Rolling Stone’s song about shagging drunk chicks or something along those lines gives the game away.

Anyho, he admits his otherworldly-ness to Sadie and in true Bonnie style, she goes along for the ride with her lover to ensure that JFK’s presidency remains uninterrupted. Jake succeeds in thwarting Oswald’s assassination but Sadie gets killed in the process. Mission accomplished and heart torn apart, Jake returns to 2011. It is Armaggedon – the world is a terrible, terrible wasteland. He happens to meet Harry Dunning who tells in him in so many words that Kennedy’s decisions in the white house caused this.

He promptly returns to 1958 to reset his actions; each time he goes down the rabbit-hole, the past resets itself. The novel ends with Jake finding 80-something-year-old Sadie who has no clue who he is. And how they danced.

Rewa’s take on things: If you this equation, King = Horror, resonates with you, you’re dead wrong. Ok, maybe dead  isn’t apt – you’re very wrong more like. Most people unfairly pigeon hole King into the Horror category but he delivers so much more than that. Mr King is a certified don. I had forgotten how much I liked his work until Amazon’s wonderful marketing machine churned the 11.23.63 recommendation my way. I finished this novel in 3 days (even with my 9-na-5) because I was that eager. King just has a way of captivating his audience; he certainly cast a magical spell on me.

 In 11.23.63, the premise of time travel rooted deep in sci-fi doesn’t appear far-fetched or ludicrous because King makes it so credible, so desirable. I found it refreshing that there was no faffing around; within the first 25 pages, Jake descends down the invisible steps in Al’s pantry and into 1958 Maine. The characters had depth; I like Jake Epping’s unobtrusive narration. Small, marked touches like Sadie’s unusual height (she’s 6 feet tall, 2 inches taller than yours truly – so jealous!!!) in a period where women were so dainty, made the story that much more real. Usually when authors give a key character the limelight, in a bid to make them memorable, they give them irritating habits (see Zuba in The Shadow Of A Smile for example) which detract from the story. None of this was evident in Jake Epping. It may sound strange but I felt that Epping was King’s Adam (created in his image and all that jazz). In the author’s afterthought, King confirms as much.  Lee Harvey Oswald was a worm and I HATE any man who raises his hand to a woman, no matter the circumstance (Chris Brown might still get it though ;-)). The subliminal prevalence of the jimla was another way that King kept my interest piqued – King could have easily used this to turn the novel into a cheap horror flick but he didn’t. The Yellow Card Man was also an interesting character I wish could have been explored in a bit more depth; we only understand his part in the bigger picture in a few pages. Who else wondered what would have happened had Jake given him a dollar instead of 50 cents?

And oh wasn’t 1958 lovely? Girls in long poodle skirts were lindy-hopping and jitterbugging with boys with crew cuts. Reading of Jake’s meanderings and interactions with the people of erstwhile days had a hazy, surreal feel to it, akin to viewing the world on an old reel. Simply magical. For a moment, history is in your hands and then you lose it again. A bit like a child who accidentally lets go of a balloon. Goodness, I’m such a pretentious, pseudo- literary arty-farty!

The sheer amount of effort and research King must have invested to construct this period piece is astounding and for that he deserves a Birkin. Hmm actually make that an IWC horology extravaganza (proceeds from this novel probably got him that anyway). In 11.23.63, King’s craftsmanship, like an IWC, is fine. He has you begging for more of the nostalgia that he engrains so well in his readers, you yearn for more pages on the world that is not here anymore. The minutia of Oswald and Marina’s decrepit lives add to the brevity of the story.

I wasn’t quite sure how King would end this one, how on earth would he go on to depict America if Kennedy had lived? I was a bit let-down with this denouement. I felt that the Armageddon, Chernobyl-esque America was rather farfetched and bombastic. Whilst still enjoyable, I was quite ready for the novel to end once Epping returned back to the 2010 for the last time and I give King credit for ending the novel when he did and the way he did. The slight, and I mean slight, let-down for me was the Jake-embraces-Jodie-life-and-falls-in-love-with-Sadie longueur.  

Whatever the novel’s flaws, it is a rich reading experience laden with pathos. One thing though, I’m very grateful for my Kindle because Lord knows I don’t have the muscular capacity to lug this tome around . Oh and if you didn’t hit google the minute you were done to search “JFK Assassination” “Lee Oswald Marina” and most importantly, “Jackie Kennedy Pink Chanel Suit”, you’re either a liar or a weirdo!

 

 

The Tiger’s Wife

The story: based in the Balkans, The Tiger’s Wife is told from the perspective of a young Serbian doctor, Natalia, a character I felt the novel could have done without.

It begins with her receiving news of the death of her grandfather, the news of his death, while earth-shattering, doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Natalia as she’d known for a while that he had cancer. It is rather the circumstances of his death that the novel follows. It courses through the history of the fictional village of Galina, where her grandfather lived as a young boy. We follow the narrative through to the advance of the escapee tiger to his village. He happens to know what a tiger is because of the pictures he’d seen in The Jungle Book – a novel that remains about his person for the rest of his life.

When sojourning from tales of the grandfather, Obreht tells us the background stories of the bear-man (his name alludes me, it isn’t important anyway), the butcher aka pseudo-musician aka wife batterer aka arschloch, the deaf-mute Muslim wife of arschloch, the alchemist and a few other unimportant characters.

You learn more of the grandfather’s life and how much he influenced Natalia with their ritual visits to the zoo amongst other things. With all the flashbacks, you also get a glimpse of Natalia’s current day activites; stuck on a farmland where a bunch of superstitious migrants are trying to uncover the body of a long-dead cousin whom they believe has placed a curse on them and other such niceties. Natalia’s life isn’t as interesting as her grandfathers. It really isn’t.

I’m a bit bored of relating the story back to you so I’ll go straight onto my opinion on the book…

Rewa’s take on things: I was really looking forward to reading this but I found my brain taking regular vacay’s. Normally I absolutely love novels that are entrenched in different cultures/eras (Janice Lee’s The Piano Teacher for example) that are beyond my living sphere but this did nothing for me. I wasn’t any more curious about sampling rakija than I was about eating cheese (one of the most disgusting accompaniments on earth – yuk!).

Natalia stirred no sentiments in me whatsoever – I found her bland and uninspiring. The child inside me was disappointed to find that she didn’t meet Gavo at the crossroads, I was hoping that she’s meet her demise then *evil laughter* or at least prove the deathless man’s existence. Gavo was the most fascinating character by far. I’d much rather have read about the grandfather’s life and encounters with Gavo through his own narative and not through Natalia’s. I also liked the deaf, mute Tiger’s Wife. She seemed to possess an inner strength that her sadomasochistic husband could never break. Why the alchemist poisoned her, I’ll never know and he deserved more than a quick hanging at the gallows. What a douche.

The story switching irritated me. I was so keen to move onto her grandfather’s dalliances with Gavo that I was frustrated to have to be held up by narratives on the Bear, the wife batterer, the Alchemist and other such irreleavants!

What I found especially poignant about the novel was the behaviour of the animals at the zoo during the war. Foxes eating their cubs, tigers eating their own body parts, ducks cracking open their own eggs to prevent the ducklings from entering this ugly world. It was very sad. But as my boyfriend says, I have a penchant for anything furry with four legs and big eyes J.

 I also liked the following of the tiger’s journey from the destroyed zoo to the comfort of the Tiger’s Wife, I felt that Obreht was trying to link this to the state of her country during the war but I can’t quite make the connection.

 Oh and by the way, the title, Tiger’s Wife, is allocated to the deaf-mute girl, the superstitious villagers thought she was indulging in bestiality because she and the tiger shared a bond.

On the whole, I got to learn a bit more about the Balkan wars and folklore (on which Gavo and a few other characters are based) but beyond that, I’d rather have spent the evening sampling cheese!

 

Anthills Of The Savannah

The story: I won’t dwell too much on trying to explain the story to you my fellow readers for two reasons. One, I hope that you have already read this wonderful book and two, it is far too difficult to summarise a story as thought-provoking and multi-faceted as this one in a few paragraphs. It is far too all-encompassing. In a nutshell, it follows four main characters, His Excellency, Sam, who rules the fictional country of Kangan (an allegory for Nigeria I believe). Chris Oriko, the Commisioner of Information, Beatrice Okoh, Secretary of Finance and Chris’s girlfriend and Ikem Osodi, editor of the National Gazette newspaper. Elewa, another noteworthy character is Ikem’s pidgin English-speaking, fiery girlfriend. Chris, Ikem and Sam were former classmates.

Sam has Ikem “fatally wounded”, these words specifically used to misdirect the masses, when Ikem is arrested in his home for supposedly engaging in a coup. Prior to this, Chris and Ikem seemed to be on the path to reviving their strained friendship though a communal fear and dislike for Sam. After learning of Ikem’s “fatal wound”, Chris goes into hiding and the faeces hits the fan.

Some of the mastery of Anthills Of The Savannah so powerful is the way in which Achebe oscillates between first person narratives of Ikem (a few hard-hitting poems thrown in here and there), Chris and Beatrice and switches to third person for the denouement. In this way, we are aware of the maelstrom into which the characters have been thrown but we still aren’t ready for the volcanic eruption that is the state of affairs in Kangan.

 Rewa’s take on things: In keeping with Things Fall Apart and No Longer At Ease, Achebe runs the aftermath of colonialism and ever prevailing political corruption. Of the three novel, Anthills Of The Savannah, although very powerful and masterfully written, has been my least favourite. I don’t know why. Achebe’s prose is as intelligent, succinct and commendable as ever but I found it so difficult to engage with the story or the characters. This could have something to do with the fact that I was down with a cold and trying to liberate my nasal passages and concentrate at the same time!

Chris I found to be sanctimonious, Ikem who seemed to suffer from chronic weltschmerz, His Excellency a general weakling who sought to make scape-goats out of those that he deemed a threat to his illusionary authority. As for Beatrice, I couldn’t identify with her as a woman, Desdemona complex and all. Elewa was probably my favourite, I loved reading her pidgin English. I found her brave, amenable and unpretentious.

From the beginning, Achebe sets the tone for what the novel will be about. He reflects on the state of affairs in Kangan through Chris’s words, “…looking back on the last two years it should be possible to point to a decisive event and say: it was at such and such a point that everything went wrong and the rules were suspended. But I have not found such a moment or such a cause…”. The rest of the novel sets about on a journey which shows the reader that there is no one cause for the plight of Kangan but rather, as the old axiom goes, one things leads to another. We see that a confluence of interwoven and seemingly inconsequential events trigger off a ticking time bomb. Ikem uses the magazine as  a vehicle through which his own voice and opinion can be heard but he is ousted, set up and silenced. Chris’s demise soon follows suit whilst he is on the run, although his own death was avoidable.

What is interesting about the progression of the novel is that as the men fall, the women emerge and commandeer the ruins the men have left behind. Elewa gives birth to the late Ikem’s baby girl. Elewa’s elderly uncle is  late to the naming ceremony and so against the grain of deeply entrenched customary traditions, the women name the child and a typically male name at that. I read two things into this. Firstly, that the elders were late and unable to perform their duty suggested to me that Achebe was alluding to the fact that in order for change to become manifest, fresh blood, untainted by fossil ideologies and corruption. The second thing was the position of women in society, this was touched upon in the novel in a dialogue between Ikem and Beatrice.

Achebe wants you to see that Nigerians, Africans in general, accepted the subjugation from the colonialists all too readily, that they did not put up a fight. And now, they still allow this to continue, under dictators and such parodists. They are complicit in their own shame. Anthills Of The Savannah tells you that African society needs to be integrated, with women as important as men, and equality amongst all classes.  

Irrespective of my feelings towards the characters, I am in awe of Achebe. I found myself highlighting so many paragraphs in my kindle to return to just so I could re-capture the sheer brilliance of his writing. I would read some passages and think to myself, how does one sit and write such? He is one gifted man and anyone who studies English literature needs to read every single one of this man’s novels. Unlike the much hailed Salman Rushdie, Achebe makes no pretences (some people will probably want to lynch me for berating Rushdie but hey, my opinion). His writing is simple, adroit and so elegant. That Booker Prize was well deserved indeed.

The House Of The Mosque

The Story: Based in Iran in the 1950’s, Abdolah tells the fictional story of the family of the mosque who live their lives blissfully unaware that they are on the brink of tragedy and revolution. Its story is difficult to regurgitate because there are so many interwoven stories and characters each carrying their own significance but I’ll try my best. It is centred around Aqa Jaan, a carpet merchant and head of the city bazaar and his family who have lived in the house of the mosque in the Iranian province of Senejan  and have done for eight generations.

Although largely fictional, Abdolah throws in some non-fictional characters in i.e. Sadam Hussein and follows through a pivotal period in Iranian history as the reign of the hated Western (specifically American) backed Shah’s reign comes to an end under the fanatical reign of Ayatollah Khomeini.

Abdolah begins by ingratiating you into the family in a sense. You get to learn of Aqa Jaan’s love of his renowned carpets whose patterns are based on the plumage of emigrating birds his wife, Fahkri Sadat, traps on the roof. The two grandmothers who sweep the compound daily and dream of visiting Mecca before they kick the bucket. Blind Muezzin who always knows the time of day. Fahkri Sadat’s love of silky underwear. Sadiq, Aqa Jaan’s daughter, who sits and waits for a suitor to come and ask her hand in marriage (little does she know she will marry a crazy fundamentalist and bear him a deformed child, Lizard, I liked him, he seemed sweet). Shahbal’s yearning for a television set from which he can watch the landing on the moon. Everything is seemingly idyllic and you wish you could awake to the muezzin call, visit the bazaar and sit and smoke some opium with Nosrat under the watchful eye of the storks in that reside in the minarets.

Like a delicious broth, he sprinkles in a few embellishments here and there which render the story even more interesting. These flavours come in the form of KhalKhal who comes to marry Sadiq. He later becomes “Allah’s Judge” under Khomeini’s rule and see’s to the execution of many wretched souls with complete sangfroid.  There is also Ahmad who becomes the mosque’s Imam after Khalkhal’s departure, characterised by his opium addiction and lust for women. Crazy Qodsi always full of portent, who ominously prophesies to Aqa Jaan, “You won’t die. You will stay until they’ve all gone and come back again”. Nosrat, Aqa Jaan’s wayward brother of many vices who later becomes Khomeini’s proverbial court jester (this leads to his demise). And let’s not Zinat Khanom, a harpy who later meets her end with her flesh about to be gorged on by vultures and the like by a salt-water lake.

Using these characters, Abdolah explores fanaticism, tribalism and Islamic fundamentalism. As the story continues to unravel, the consequences of political unrest in Iran begin to trickle into Aqa Jaan’s peaceful household. Small trickles to begin with but these soon become a downpour and everything that Aqa Jaan and his ancestors built begin to crumble around him and he is powerless to stop it. The fall of the Shah and the return of Ayatollah Khomeini destroy the established order of the house of the mosque. The world turns upside down: Shahbal backs the Islamic revolution, while Aqa Jaan’s other nephew, Nosrat, a westernised film-maker, becomes a member of Khomeini’s inner circle. The characters you thought you knew become totally unpredictable, gentle becomes callous and kind becomes cruel.

As the Persians say, ‘our story is over, but the crow still hasn’t reached its nest’.

Rewa’s take on things: I was drawn to this novel because of the photo on the cover. The little boy just screamed of culture, history and running through the saffron-smelling streets of the bazaar. I must say, initially I found the story a bit confusing because there were so many characters weaving in and out, so many names to remember, so many Imam’s whose stories drew in the crowd etc. I found it difficult to keep up. I picked up this novel to read about 3 weeks ago but put it down to read “Never Let Me Go” and “Let Me In”. I finally returned to it last week and finished it over the weekend (I was too excited by my new Kindle and reading stories on there). By the time I returned to it, I had sort of lost the cadence of the story and just wanted it all to be over (sorry Abdolah :-S). The story only really starts to spice up when Shabal smuggles a television set into the house. I found this quite interesting as the t.v. set in my opinion symbolises the West and after its entry, things start to go topsy turvy, just as Qodsi predicted.  

My favourite character by far was Aqa Jaan as I think will be the case with most readers. I found him to be honourable, compassionate and all in all a good man. After the death of his son Jawad, you felt like being his best friend – poor man! In this complex novel, while things around him are changing, Aqa Jaan and the house of the mosque remain unchanged and it is interesting to see how it pans out as they try to resist both the influences of the West and the clutches of Islamic fundamentalism.

 For all the ebb and flow in my interest levels, I was grateful for its many offerings. For a start, I was totally ignorant to the Iranian revolution. You see wannabe-cool people saying “peace in the middle east”, throwing up lame peace signs without stopping to think of the meaning behind it and what it meant. I got to know a bit about what it was like for Iranian denizens living under the rule of the Westernised shah and then the fanatic rule of the Ayatollah. How your neighbour could easily become your enemy after listening to the Ayatollah’s aphoristic-filled frenzied speech. I also got to read some beautiful sulahs that were extracted from the Quoran. My wonderful boyfriend is muslim and though I got to know a bit more about the basics of Islam and the messages of peace that it seeks to perpetuate, this was the first time I had ever had any sort of emotional connection with it. It was alsi a great insight into how people can be brainwashed by the fundamentalist ideologies of one man.

 In summary, I would describe the novel as enlightening. For me, it was most certainly ‘putdownable’ but I am grateful to Abdolah for giving me the insight into why the beautiful religion of Islam is so lionized (when practised as intended). Needless to say, while I may reach for my boyfriends english-translated Quoran to learn a bit more about those poetic sulahs, I will not be donning a chador anytime soon…

Island Beneath The Sea

I am a huge fan of historical fiction; the image on the paperback of the girl running through what appears to be cane fields on a plantation had me in a state akin to that of being let loose in a Marc Jacobs store! I just had to read it!

The story:  Set in 18^th century Saint-Domingue(now Haiti), it spans four decades and follows the lives of plantation owner, Valmorain and that of his slave, Varite (Tété) through the French revolution.  It begins at a time when Saint Domingue was the richest French colony in the new world due to its hefty profits from sugar, indigo and coffee exports. It then follows the character’s lives from Saint-Domingue through the slave rebellion that resulted in the banishment of whites, to Cuba and finally New Orleans.

Valmorain arrives on the island of Saint-Domingue, wet behind the ears, ready to take ownership of his father’s fledgling plantation in Saint-Lazare. He assumes it will be a fleeting, financially gainful experience and he’ll return to France eating croissants and wearing Louboutins sooner rather than later. This doesn’t happen – c’est la vie. He marries a crazy Spanish chick – think Mr Rochester’s wife in Jane Eyre.

Violet Boissier, a beautiful mulatto high-class v-jay-jay exchanger purchases Tété for Valmorain’s new wife. From very early on, Valmorain repeatedly rapes Tété (as every plantation owner seemed to do to their slaves) and she bears him a child, Jean-Martin, whom we hear nothing of until later on the book. Tété continuously tries to find little joy and solitude in the things around her; she finds some of this in Gambo, a young slave who eventually becomes a respected advocate of liberation for the slaves. Valmorain also has another legitimate son, Maurice, with his demented wife. Maurice is the polar opposite of Valmorain; he is effeminate, compassionate and totally against slavery. Maurice grows up with Tété’s second child, Rosette (sired again, by Valmorain) whose beauty defines her as she doesn’t seem to have much else going grey matter-wise.

To summarise, Maurice and Rosette have loved each other since childhood, what started off as harmless philos turns into incestuous eros once the teen hormones start raging. Maurice is disowned by Valmorain because of his love for Rosette and refusal to
bear the slavery mantle and the evil influences of his second Lady Macbeth-esque wide. Rosette gets a gut full of Maurice seed during their night of passion but dies soon after childbirth after a stint in prison (due to Valmorain’s jealous wife) makes her weakened and incapacitated.

Rewa’s take on things: I loved many aspects of this book. Dipping into magical surrealism at times; her ability to weave real and fictional characters into a complete and colourful whole is masterful.  Allende definitely scores major points there. The mystical way she describes the island, the people, the scenery; I felt I was actually there breathing in the smells of the island, feeling the heat etc.

By far my most likeable characters were Violet and Sancho – I imagine Violet looks something like the actress, Denise Vasi. I also admired her savoir-faire and strong-will. Tété had a hard life but I couldn’t empathise with her much because I found her to be a bit spineless at times. Even when she was set free, she still seemed to place herself under Valmorain’s thumb.

If we look at the novel this way, Valmorain represents Slavery and Tété represents Emancipation. As Valmorain’s character develops, what started off as powerful and invincible slowly degenerates into decadence and deterioration. In parallel, we see the slow decline of slavery in Saint Domingue. Tété’s character starts of weak and abject but steadily develops into something hopeful and heartening. Using Tété as a conduit, we start to witness the slow but sure liberation of the slaves of Saint-Domingue.

The novel offers a gruelling eye-opener to slavery; Allende sends a bolt of horror and revulsion down my spine with every description of the condition in which the slaves were kept and the brutalising of the women. It’s HORRIFIRC.

While Allende drew in characters from all ranks from petit blancs, grand blancs, and affranchis to slaves, it is clearly the latter she finds the most compelling. Her characters engage in a dalliance around African drum rhythms, spirits and animistic deities. Sometimes it seemed that Allende was more interested in divulging all she learnt whilst conducting her research than in engaging the reader. She jumps at any opportunity to showcase what she has learned about voodoo, medicine and the mélange of European and Caribbean histories. Such a grandiose display of savvy sometimes renders the novel as inert as a history textbook and removes the empathy required for tackling a
subject as delicate as slavery. The references to African spirituality and animism sometimes seem superficial and token, unfairly presenting Allende as yet another writer too entranced by the myth of African cultural primitivism to see the brainpower behind it.

I found the denouement to be a bit of an anti-climax. I was curious to see what would become of Maurice and Rosette around whom the story seemed to gravitate. I found that for all the hoo-hah made about her, Rosette seemed quite vacuous and dull. Also, for all the weeping and wailing Tété did over her first child, Jean-Martin, I thought the story sidelined to the periphery.

Allende dabbled in forbidden love, insanity, violence, voodoo, incest, betrayal and many more with this novel and yet, with a title like that, the story still feels lacking. And this is fair enough, because in order to reach this Island that lies beneath the sea, the reader would have to dive deep Allende barely seems to skim the surface. Shame really, as past works suggest she is a writer with durable snorkel gear.