Hari Kunzru, Gods Without Men

Perhaps you know the feeling:  you obtain a copy of a book you've seen praised to the skies by reviewers, it's as thick as a brick, you find a couple of hours to get started, and you look at how many pages remain and lose heart.  (That happened to me with David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, for example.)  Gods Without  Men is creative and unconventional, laying out several parallel stories that span several centuries, and the author shifts tone and diction effectively as he runs his literary time machine.  But it just didn't seem to be going anywhere in the first hundred pages.

And then it did.  The different stories become more interesting, even if some of the characters remain ciphers.  The overarching themes -- something about communicating with other civilizations that are observing us from elsewhere in the universe, something about Native American spirituality, something about drugs and trickster figures -- are sketched in lightly.  In some of the concluding sections a central character seems to be discovering a religious reality to which she had previously been blind.  But this is all rather fuzzy, and it's hard to take seriously.  

In the end I was not sorry I took the time to finish the book.  (Not that much time:  I began it while traveling last week, then decided yesterday evening to give it another chance and finished it after church today.)  It's not really about gods, and maybe not about men:  it's about a rock formation in the Mojave Desert that may or may not have some unique capacity as a passageway to other worlds, and about people who experience it in that way in the 19th and 20th and 21st centuries.  This is the first novel I've read by Kunzru.  His writing is fluid and expressive, and his ability to convey different sorts of worlds through his character's eyes and minds is impressive.  And although I'm not sure it deserves the rave reviews it got, it's an interesting work.

Sefi Atta, Swallow

This is by another writer new to me but recommended by colleagues at the Africa Network (see notes on the Ugandan stories posted yesterday).  Like Tropical Fish, and like an older novel I have used in my class, Tsitsi Dangarembga's Nervous Conditions, it recounts the experiences of a young woman caught between tradition and modernity in contemporary Africa.  Unlike Dangarembga the narrator begins the story when her protagonist has already reached adulthood, and the story concerns the challenges a city like Lagos puts before a young woman trying to make her way, dealing with officemates and a lecherous boss as well as friends whose  judgment about how to get ahead sometimes proves disastrously wrong.  Yoruba tradition makes its appearance primarily in imagined or recalled conversations with the protagonist's mother, who becomes a flesh and blood presence when the protagonist flees the pressures of the city to return to her village for a time.

As a window into contemporary urban life in West Africa this is a valuable book.  I'm not sure what to make of it as a novel, though:  some scenes and events unfold in ways that are too easy to see coming, and some characters seem underdeveloped, occupiers of certain places in the story more than real people.  Leila Aboulela, a Sudanese writer whose work I admire (and whom Susan and I took out to dinner at last year's Festival of Faith and Learning here at Calvin), hails Swallow on the back cover as "a bold, distinctive novel from a writer who doesn't compromise her integrity."  That may be right, but I'm not entirely convinced.  I have another of Atta's novels from the library--her first, and a winner of some awards--and I look forward to reading it.

Jose Saramago, Cain

This was one of the books highlighted in the New York Times roundup of best books of 2012, and I picked it up at the library on that basis even though I had missed the original review.  One of the best decisions I have made in the new books section of Loutit Library.

This was the last book Saramago wrote before his death, but it will not be the last one I read.  The translation from the Portuguese no doubt involves some compromises, but after the first paragraph a reader is so utterly captivated by the mode of narration that you no longer even think about what might have been lost in translation.  Cain recounts the Genesis story of fratricide, exile, and rejection by God in language that is not directly Biblical (which is to say, of course, "like the oldest Bible translations"), nor distinctively contemporary, but direct and personal, yet unlike any other narrative voice I have encountered.  The narrator uses the third person throughout and yet conveys Cain's inner thoughts as well as the events he experiences. The book contains rich and intriguing dialogues -- between Cain and Abel, between Cain and God, with the traveling merchants who pick him up when he is famished and desperate for water and bring him to a nearby city, with the workers and the tyrannical queen of that city -- without using any paragraph breaks or quotation marks.

The story becomes more fantastic as it proceeds, with Cain mysteriously walking or riding his donkey from one key Biblical story to another.  He becomes part of the encounter between Abraham and his three mysterious visitors, the tower of Babel, and, finally, the building and launching of Noah's ark.  Cain's role in that story is a startling departure from the Biblical narrative, in ways that are disturbing, if not entirely satisfying.  I felt (as did Susan) that the story began on a higher plane than it finished.  Yet it's a book I would love to discuss with friends and colleagues, and one that I recommend without hesitation.

Kathryn Harrison, Enchantments

I picked this from the new books shelf after reading a glowing review in the NY Time Book Review last year.  On the whole it lives up to the hype.  It is a very vivid recreation of the life of an actual person, a daughter of the "mad monk" Valery Rasputin, murdered by his enemies in the chaos of the fall of Russia's czarist regime and the rise of Bolshevism, who is adopted by the royal family and lives for a time in the Catharine Palace (an incredibly lavish palace, built by the czars to outshine Versailles, magnificently restored after it was nearly destroyed by German forces who occupied it in World War II.)  Eventually Nicolas and Alexandra are deported to Siberia, supposedly for their safety but in fact to await their execution, while Masha and her sister are released to find their own way.  The story is complex, and told in language that is always engaging and sometimes quite entrancing.  I won't recount it here, except to say that the seemingly implausible story of Masha becoming a circus performer, performing across Europe and the United States, is part of the factual skeleton on which Harrison builds her tale.

A. J. Jacobs, Drop Dead Healthy

I listened to the first half of this book by the author of The Year of Living Biblically on tape as I commuted to work in late December, and then Susan joined me in listening to the second half on our drive from Michigan to Florida.  I nearly gave up after the first CD because both the author's voice (he reads his own book) and his persona are rather grating -- a nasal and flat voice, a personality that leans toward narcissism.  But I kept going, got used to the sound of his voice, and was won over by the huge range of information he presents in a helpful and informative way.

The book is the story of (this is the subtitle) "one man's humble quest for bodily perfection."  Well, forget the humble part, and of course perfection proves elusive.  But he does try all sorts of things we all think about for a minute or two:  the raw diet, calorie restriction, chewing everything long after it's been reduced to mush in the mouth, incredibly burdensome exercise routines, biowave feedback, and so forth.  And on the whole he strikes just the right balance between popular exposition and scientific argument:  he reviews relevant findings in a general way (albeit with too much deference to his favorite health guru, Mehmet Oz, who also blurbs the book) and tells us "it looks like this is how it works, but I could be wrong."

Definitely a good one to pop into the car CD player while commuting.  Books with no plot and no characters to forget from day to day have advantages for this purpose.  But this book does have several interesting characters besides the author, most notably his longsuffering wife.

Jesse Bering, Why is the Penis Shaped Like That?

If you are one of the half-dozen readers of this blog (dream on, David!) the title will have caught your attention, as it caught mine on the new book display at Loutit Library in Grand Haven.  (Side comment:  Loutit does a remarkably good job ordering, and then highlighting, many of the books that come to my attention from reviews in the New York Times, Christian Century, and other sources--far better than I would have expected from a small-town Michigan public library.  Granted, three-fourths of its book purchase budget is devoted to crime fiction, chick lit, weight loss, and other ephemera, but serious books are not neglected.  Indeed, I've found several times that an important book of social science was available at Loutit but not in Calvin's library.)

And here's the subtitle, which induced me to check the book out and read it one evening in Florida:  " . . . and other reflections on being human."

The book lives up to its title, to a limited extent.  It is a breezily written review of biological and sociological data on sexuality, with a focus on human sexual biology.  If I tell you the first chapter title that may be enough for you to decide definitely to seek the book out, or to put it entirely out of mind:  "Darwinizing what dangles," which recounts the unique way in which the human species (unlike most of its primate relatives) protects the family jewels from excesses of temperature.  Bering speculates (it's only speculation) that the extraordinary sensitivity of the testicles to physical injury is an evolutionary trick that induces men to be less cavalier about injury to their bodies in that critical and highly vulnerable zone, for the benefit of future generations.  

"Breezy" sometimes shades over into "annoyingly jokey," and the author can't seem to resist a pun or a lame joke.  There is lots of information here worth pondering, but I'm not sure it's worth the time spent reading the book.  (Granted, that need not take long -- it took me maybe 3 hours to read it quickly.)  Here's a later chapter title that may win you back:  "The Bitch evolved:  why are girls so cruel to each other?"  And there is an answer based on a number of observationsl studies:  "Findings indicated a clear difference in aggressive responses, with women overwhelmingly compelled to retaliate by attacking the offender's reputation, mostly through gossip" (p. 165).  Boys hit; girls gossip.  Evidently this is a well-established pattern, at least in modern Western societies.  

There is a sort of answer to the book's title question, by the way, having to do with competition among partners in a species that is neither reliably monogamous (as the great apes tend to be) or ceaselessly promiscuous (like chimpanzees).  But it's sort of complicated, and icky, so I won't reveal it here.

Doreen Baingana, Tropical Fish

My reading journal will begin this morning, when I have an hour or so before I leave for church, with a number of books that I read over the holidays and will return to the library today.  I will try to provide just enough detail on each, with some evaluative comments, to be useful when I look back in a few years trying to remember "that story collection about growing up in Entebbe."

Baingana is a new name to me. (And also to Google, it appears:  when I tried a search with one character missing it helpfully suggested, "did you mean 'vagina'?  No, not at all.)  This is one of a number of books I am reading as possibilities to assign for my spring course on African Thought and Culture (Philosophy 226) at Calvin, in which I always ask the students to supplement readings specifically addressed to philosophical topics (the political implications of Africa's colonial history, the relevance and viability of traditional wisdom traditions and their relation to academic philosophy, the meaning of race) with some memoirs and literary works, which provide a vivid sense of how 20th and 21st century Africans understand their lives and their prospects in relation to their societies and the rest of the world.  This (and the next book reviewed) were suggested to me by colleagues at the Africa Network national conference, which I invited to meet at Calvin in early November.

Baingana is a Ugandan who completed graduate work both in law and in writing in the US, and she received an artist grant from the Washington, DC, Arts and Humanities Commission, suggesting that she now lives in the DC area.  Her loosely linked stories all describe the experiences of a young girl growing up in Entebbe (just outside Kampala, in central Uganda) and then negotiating the challenges of adolescence, boarding school, and university, and of the discovery of sex and romance and other complications of adulthood, set in Uganda except for a story about being "Lost in Los Angeles."   No doubt they are autobiographical in a general way but not in the particular events and characters.  

Strengths of the stories:  they are recounted in a direct and personal way, recreating the experiences of a young woman unsure of her place between parents and peers, between strict rules and high expectations of her father (somewhat remote, but respected) and new opportunities that come with new environments.  "Passion" is a particularly vivid recollection of schoolgirl life, with much talk of what boys and girls want from each other and a very funny description of the main character's silly (and ultimately rebuffed) attempt to secure the sexual interest of a teacher.  "A Thank-You Note" offers a much darker perspective on sexuality, and it is the most disturbing, if not the most successful, story in the collection:  it is a note from a woman to her former lover who has infected her with AIDS.  The title story is about a young woman who has outgrown her conservative Christian inhibitions and becomes involved with a young British export merchant--his business is the tropical fish of the title--with ambiguous consequences.

Weaknesses:  unlike some of the blurbers I did not find the author's voice particularly compelling or distinctive, and the religious and moral dimensions of her characters' lives were hardly mentioned, let alone explored in a thoughtful or insightful way.  There is a lot to be learned here about the many conflicting demands on someone who seeks to remain part of an African culture and an African family while making a new life in the global economy.  But this is not  a book I will be adding to my reading list (or to my shelf of indispensable African fiction).in Los Angeles.  

Some photos from the holidays

We celebrated Christmas early and late this year.  Klaas and Krista and two-year-old Addy were with us for part of the previous week.

Addy is an inexhaustibly energetic and endlessly curious little girl, with a great deal to say about the world, some small portion of which is comprehensible to the rest of us.  On opening the tiny djembe, a gift from Janna and Barb, she immediately began a rhythmic beat

We spread out the gift opening over several days.  The wrappings were at least as interesting to Addy as what they contained.

Out at the end of the deck with  Uncle Helen and Aunt Marv, a few days before Christmas.
No snow to speak of yet this year.

22 hours' driving and we were in Palmetto, Florida, to spend Christmas Day and a few more days at a cottage we rented in a charity auction and shared with Janna and Barb.  This gigantic live oak grows atop a shell midden in the Emerson Point Preserve, just a mile from our cottage.  On the right are Janna and Barb overlooking Terra Ceia Bay.

For more photos, with captions, go to:

https://picasaweb.google.com/100079659810642183204/Xmas2012?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCIi6xbPm3pn8ag&feat=directlink

A new blog for a new year

Some New Year's resolutions for 2013:

(1) Use my month of monastic life (while Susan is in Arizona with her parents and I am teaching a January Interim class at Calvin) to organize books and papers and closets, give away books we will never read and CD's we will never listen to, and other clutter.

(2)  Walk on the beach with Bo every day that I am at home during daylight hours.  (So far, that's just one of the four days since I arrived home from spending Christmas in Florida and New Year's in Texas.)

(3)  Get out on my skis, if we ever get any snow.

(4)  While increasing energy output in the ways just mentioned, limit energy input with a view to diminishing my equatorial circumference by a couple of inches and my corporeal substance by about 10 percent (this to be accomplished by summer).  

(5)  Create a new blog, whose title reflects the book discussion group that exists only in my imagination, and there keep a record of my reading, viewing, and reflection on books and films, together with other personal notes from time to time.  

I realize that this blog will be read mostly by me, some months or years down the road, and if my expectations are exceeded and the number of readers soars into, say, two figures, I will be delighted.

Consider this a small subversive response to the hegemony of Twitter and Facebook and the like, which are misleading termed "social media" as if they promoted sociality and thoughtful conversation.  A better term would be "tools for narcissists with short attention spans."  I will continue to visit Facebook from time to time, where I can find photos and videos of the cutest two-year-old on the planet.  But thinking about this blog, on my beach walk with Bo today, brought me to the realization of why I dislike and distrust those media.  My vocation is to be a philosopher and a philosophy teacher, and the founding assumption of that field is that careful and systematic thought matters profoundly in a satisfying life, and that the wisdom of those who pursued philosophy centuries or millenia ago still matters to us today.  The founding assumption of Facebook and Twitter is that brevity and wit are the highest values and that all of one's thoughts become useless after a few days.  

Having passed the threshold of 62 half a year ago, I am ready to assume the mantle of a dyspeptic old grouch.  But the purpose of this blog will be reflections on good books and good films, not whining.