Showing posts with label Kipling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kipling. Show all posts

Monday, November 28, 2022

Book Review 034 / Kim by Rudyard Kipling


Kim 

by Rudyard Kipling 

1901


A review

There is a fine antidote to all manner of morbidness in the brilliant pages of Kim. Mr. Kipling's last work is, to my mind, his best, and not easily comparable with the work of any other man; for it is of its own kind and of a novel kind, and fairly amazes one by the proof it affords of the author's magnificent versatility. "Not much of a story" may perhaps be the verdict of the ruthless boy reader who revels in the Jungle Book and Captain Courageous, and derives an unholy gratification from Stalky & Co. Kim is, in fact and upon the surface, but an insignificant fragment of human history; a bit out of the biography of a little vagabond of Irish parentage, orphaned when a baby, and left to shift for himself in infinite India. But the subtlety of the East and the "faculty" of the West are blended in this terroe filius, this tricksy foundling of earth's oldest earth. His adventures are many and enthralling. He joins himself, as scout and general provider,—incidentally, also, as chela or disciple—to a saintly old lama from Thibet, "bound to the Wheel of Things," and roaming India in search of the Stream of Immortality. The pious people of the country are permitted to "acquire merit" by feeding and lodging these two, between whom there grows up an odd but very beautiful affection.

Sunday, November 6, 2022

The Curious Symbolism of Dogs in Literature and Myth



The Curious Symbolism of Dogs in Literature and Myth


Perhaps the two most important and prominent qualities which dogs have symbolised in literature and myth down the ages are vigilance and loyalty. However, there are also some curious and lesser-known aspects of dog-symbolism which are worth probing; we’ll get to these in time. As the vast and informative The Penguin Dictionary of Symbols (Penguin dictionaries) notes, the symbolism of the dog in different cultures is ‘extremely complex’, with many religions and myths linking the dog to death, hell, and the Underworld.

Saturday, November 5, 2022

Garm – A Hostage by Rudyard Kipling

 


Garm – A Hostage by Rudyard Kipling


I drove one night to a military cantonment called Mian Mir to see amateur theatricals. At the back of the Infantry barracks a soldier, his cap over one eye, rushed in front of the horses and shouted that he was a dangerous highway robber. As a matter of fact, he was a friend of mine, so I told him to go home before anyone caught him; but he fell under the pole, and it was then that I heard voices of a military guard in search of someone.

Friday, November 4, 2022

10 of the Best Novels and Short Stories about Dogs

Picasso


10 of the Best Novels and Short Stories about Dogs

Novelists and short-story writers have created some classic narratives about man’s best friend, the dog. But what are the very best stories and novels about dogs? Where should we begin in assessing the classic, canonical literature that features dogs?

From Homer’s Odyssey onwards – where the hero’s faithful hound remembered him upon his return to Ithaca – the annals of literature are full of famous literary dogs. Here are ten of the best works of fiction to feature our four-legged friends.

1. Mark Twain, A Dog’s Tale.

My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much education …

This 1903 tale is one of several stories on this list which are told from the dog’s perspective. The dog in question is sold to a new owner and is sad to leave her mother behind, but the family she goes to live with are kind to her. One day, a fire breaks out in the nursery of the house – and the dog comes to the rescue …




2. Eleanor Atkinson, Greyfriars Bobby.

Bobby slipped out, dry as his own delectable bone, from under the tomb of Mistress Jean Grant, and nearly wagged his tail off with pleasure. Mistress Jeanie was set in a proud flutter when the Grand Leddy rang at the lodge kitchen and asked if she and Bobby could have their tea there with the old couple by the cozy grate fire …

Perhaps the most famous novel ever written about a dog, Greyfriars Bobby (1912) is a Scottish tale about the faithfulness of dogs towards their owners. Written from the perspective of the Skye terrier which gives the novel its title, the novel also features Auld Jock, Bobby’s owner, who has a close bond with his pet terrier.

When (spoiler alert) Jock dies, Bobby refuses to leave his master’s side, even when Jock is buried. Bobby ends up guarding Jock’s grave, by day and night, thus neatly symbolising the two main features associated with dogs: fidelity and vigilance.

3. O. Henry, ‘Memoirs of a Yellow Dog’.

But you needn’t look for any stuck-up literature in my piece, such as Bearoo, the bear, and Snakoo, the snake, and Tammanoo, the tiger, talk in the jungle books. A yellow dog that’s spent most of his life in a cheap New York flat, sleeping in a corner on an old sateen underskirt (the one she spilled port wine on at the Lady Longshoremen’s banquet), mustn’t be expectcd to perform any tricks with the art of speech …

In this 1903 story from one of America’s greatest writers of the short story, the yellow dog of the story’s title recounts his life, his owners, and his love for his master (and his dislike for his master’s wife). Man and dog really do have a stronger bond in this story than man and wife – but we won’t spoil the ending …

4. Rudyard Kipling, ‘Garm – a Hostage’.

First published in 1899, this short story from the writer who also gave us the poem ‘The Power of the Dog’ – tells of a man whose friend gives him a bull-terrier as a ‘hostage’. However, ‘Garm’ – the name the narrator gives to his newly acquired dog – misses his original owner, who visits his beloved terrier on a regular basis. This is another tale tinged with sadness, but shot through with the strong bond between a man and his dog.






5. Jack London, The Call of the Wild.

The 100 best novels / No 35 / The Call of the Wild by Jack London (1903)


London (1876-1916) was the first writer to become a millionaire from his writing, and although he wrote a vast number of different books including an early dystopian novel (The Iron Heel) and a novel set in the days of early man (Before Adam), he is best-known for his two short novels set in the Yukon Territory in Canada during the Gold Rush, The Call of the Wild (1903) and White Fang (1906).

The first of these is probably the most famous and widely read, and focuses on a dog which is stolen from its home in California and made to work as a sled-dog in the snowy wilds of Alaska. As the novel’s title suggests, The Call of the Wild is about the canine protagonist’s transition from a life among civilisation to the relative freedom he finds among the wilderness of the Yukon.


6. Virginia Woolf, Flush: A Biography.

Although it’s subtitled A Biography, this short 1933 book is as much fiction as non-fiction. However, its subject was real enough: the Victorian poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s pet dog. The cocker spaniel, Flush, is acquired by Barrett Browning and taken from the countryside to London, where he lives among the London literati before travelling out with the Brownings to Italy. This is Woolf’s funniest book, and although it’s wildly different from The Waves or Mrs Dalloway, it shows off her distinctive modernist style.




7. Franz Kafka, Investigations of a Dog by Franz Kafka.

Midnight Madness / Franz Kafka’s “Investigations of a Dog: And Other Creatures”


Kafka is a master of the weird, the unusual, the not-quite-right, his stories and novels haunting us long after we have finished reading them. And although he’s well-known for longer works like The Castle and The Trial, he was also a master of the short story form, including the long short story (witness his masterpiece, ‘The Metamorphosis’).

"Investigations of a Dog" (German: "Forschungen eines Hundes") is a short story by Franz Kafka written in 1922. It was published posthumously in Beim Bau der Chinesischen Mauer (Berlin, 1931). The first English translation by Willa and Edwin Muir was published by Martin Secker in London in 1933. It appeared in The Great Wall of China. Stories and Reflections (New York City: Schocken Books, 1946). Told from the perspective of a dog, the story concerns the nature and limits of knowledge, by way of the dog's inquiries into the practices of his culture.

"Investigations of a Dog" was written in September and October 1922, soon after Kafka ended work on his unfinished novel The Castle. Similar to other Kafka stories such as "A Report to an Academy", "Josephine the Singer", and "The Burrow", the protagonist is an animal.

The unnamed narrator, a dog, recounts a number of episodes from its past, in which it used quasi-scientific and rational methods to resolve basic questions of its existence that most of its peers were content to leave unanswered, such as: "Whence does the Earth procure its food?".

Many of the seemingly absurd descriptions employed by the narrator express its misapprehension or confusion about the world, centering on dogkind's apparent inability to realize (or, some passages suggest, unwillingness to acknowledge) the existence of their human masters: the narrator is shocked into scientific investigation by witnessing seven dogs standing on their hind legs and performing to music (a troupe of circus or performing animals), and spends much time investigating "soaring dogs", tiny dogs lacking legs who silently exist above the heads of normal dogs while sometimes constantly talking nonsense, and what actions or rituals summon forth food.




8. Richard Adams, The Plague Dogs.

Everyone knows of Watership Down, Adams’ bestselling 1972 novel about a group of rabbits, but his 1977 novel The Plague Dogs is not as well-known. The novel focuses on Rowf and Snitter, two dogs which escape from a government research station in the Lake District in northern England.

They survive among the wilds of Cumbria, which Adams describes with great power and skill, but there’s a price on their backs – especially as it’s feared they may be carrying a deadly strain of plague which they acquired at the research station …

9. Philip K. Dick, ‘Roog’.

This story was written in 1951, and is an early work by the prolific science-fiction author – and a patron saint of the counterculture – Philip K. Dick (1928-82), best-known for writing the novel that inspired the film Blade Runner as well as other classic novels and stories such as ‘The Minority Report’ (also made into a film) and for the alternative-history novel, The Man in the High Castle.

This is another story told from the point of view of a dog. Boris believes the garbage-men who come to collect the trash from his owner’s house are aliens invading from another planet. He calls the strange creatures ‘Roogs’, but his attempts to warn his owners about the alien invasion are futile. But Dick leaves enough doubt in our minds that the dog may, after all, be right, and the ‘garbage-men’ may not be all they seem – as usual with Dick’s fiction, our understanding of reality and everything we take for granted is given a good shake.




10. Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.

Perhaps no pick of the best novels and stories about dogs could be without this more recent example, this 2003 mystery novel loosely inspired by the Sherlock Holmes adventures and featuring a teenage protagonist, Christopher, who goes in search of the neighbour’s missing dog. Although people tend to assume that Christopher has Asperger’s, Haddon has refuted this, and the book makes no reference to it. Instead, as Haddon has said in a blog post, the novel is about being an outsider.

INTERESTING LITERATURE


Sunday, February 25, 2018

School of hard knocks / The dark underside to boarding school books



REREADING

School of hard knocks: the dark underside to boarding school books


Violence, cruelty and sexual confusion are as much a part of boarding school literature as japes and cricket. Alex Renton surveys a troubled genre from Kipling to Rowling

Alex Renton
Saturday 8 April 2017 12.00 BST



“M
ichael was ordered to take down his trousers and kneel on the headmaster’s sofa with the top half of his body hanging over one end of the sofa. The great man then gave him one terrific crack. After that there was a pause. The cane was put down and the headmaster began filling his pipe from a tin of tobacco. He also started to lecture the kneeling boy about sin and wrongdoing. Soon, the cane was picked up again and a second tremendous crack was administered upon the trembling buttocks. Then the pipe-filling business and the lecture went on for maybe 30 seconds. Then came the third crack of the cane ... At the end of it all, a basin, a sponge and a small clean towel were produced by the headmaster, and the victim was told to wash away the blood before pulling up his trousers.”
The writer is Roald Dahl, on his school, Repton, in the early 1930s. Apart from one fact, it isn’t remarkable: it echoes accounts of boarding school stories in the 19th and 20th century that tell quite blithely of extraordinary violence and psychological cruelty. These appear to have been as traditional an element of the curriculum for the privileged child as were fagging, rugby, chapel and Latin. The notable detail Dahl provides is that the “great man” was a clergyman named Geoffrey Fisher, later to become the archbishop of Canterbury.
Savage discipline, along with sexual confusion and formalised bullying, are so common in the schooldays memoirs of the British elite in the 19th and 20th centuries that you have to conclude that parents wanted and paid for their children to experience these things. To most of the class that used them, the private schools were factories that would reliably produce men and women who would run Britain, its politics, business and culture. Boarding school was a proven good investment. So thousands of men and women who had suffered awfully, by their own admission, sent their children off for just the same.
At St George’s school, Ascot, the eight-year-old Winston Churchill was whipped hard for damaging the headmaster’s hat and for taking sugar from a pantry. “Flogging with the birch in accordance with the Eton fashion was a great feature of the curriculum,” he wrote in My Early Life. Churchill’s headmaster was another clergyman, the Rev Henry Sneyd-Kynnersley. Another St George’s old boy, the artist Roger Fry, wrote in his private diaries of these “solemn rituals”, which sometimes resulted in not just blood but excrement splashed around the caning block; Virginia Woolf, Fry’s first biographer, censored this information, along with details of both Fry’s and Sneyd-Kynnersley’s sexual arousal during the ceremony.
What all the published memoirs, from Churchill’s to Christopher Hitchens’s and a host of others, share most obviously is their tone: wry, tolerant and rather proud. It didn’t do to make a fuss or – more important – betray the caste. There are few men or women who went through the boarding school system who were prepared to wholly deny the benefits of the experience, at least before the later 20th century. George Orwell and his schoolmate Cyril Connolly had a go, using – and in Orwell’s case, fictionalising – the baroque horrors of their south coast prep school, St Cyprian’s.
 ‘Lifeless prunes and spiritual vampires’ … WH Auden was scathing about his teachers at Gresham’s.
Photograph by Jane Bown

Among the intellectual left in the 30s, a perception grew that Britain’s social divides, and the peculiar psychology of its ruling class, might just owe something to the uniquely bizarre education the elite underwent. In a 1934 volume of reminiscences, The Old School, edited by Graham Greene, writers including WH Auden, the diarist Harold Nicolson and the novelist Eileen Arnot Robertsoncompared the bulldozing of children into conformity at their schools to fascism. Auden dubs the teachers at Gresham’s in Norfolk “lifeless prunes and spiritual vampires”. Robertson’s essay about Sherborne School for Girls – “The Potting Shed of the English Rose” – sums up the ethos: “Run about, girls, like boys, and then you won’t have to think of them.” It is a portrait of a prison-factory designed to machine the girls into spiritual clones – reliable spouses for rulers.
There are few negative accounts of the traditional boarding schools by women. That may be in part because physical violence was less common, though the emotional abuse and neglect they encountered could be just as damaging. These institutions were founded later – there were only five “public” schools for girls by the end of the 19th century, all of them quite deliberately aping the boys’ ones. But in the late 1960s, 150,000 British children were boarding, about a third of them female. By then, the girls’ schools had their own literature: the addictive, unambivalent stories of japes, hockey and simple social quandaries turned out by Angela Braziland Enid Blyton. Like JK Rowling, Blyton did not board and Brazil only did in her late teens. The only anti-boarding school novel by a woman in the first half of the 20th century is Frost in May, Antonia White’s fictionalised account of her rigid Catholic convent school, Woldingham. There, sexuality was so feared that the girls were not permitted to see their own bodies: baths were taken in tents made of calico.
Novelists were telling of the dark and brutal times to be had at boarding school much earlier than the essay-writers. Dickens sent Nicholas Nickleby to Dotheboys Hall and Charlotte Brontë put the orphan Jane Eyre into Lowood Institute: at both of them hypocritical, grasping adults set out to break the children, physically and spiritually. In 1888, Rudyard Kipling published a heart-rending short story about little children dispatched – as he was, at five years old – from the colonies into the hands of uncaring adults back in Britain. Ten years later, he invented a school fiction subgenre with the rebellious schoolchild as hero, battling dictatorial and stupid adult teachers: Stalky and Co leads to Just William, to Molesworth and Down With Skool and finally to Harry Potter. The anti-authoritarian pranks of Stalky and his friends reappear again and again in subsequent English fiction – not least in the post-second world war tales of British officers in PoW camps, fooling dim German guards.
Having set The Longest Journey (1907) around his snobbish, militaristic school Tonbridge – called Sawston in the novel – EM Forster delivered the harshest of all one-liners about the products of the British public school. They go out into the world, he wrote in 1927, “with well-developed bodies, fairly developed minds and undeveloped hearts”. But by the 1920s, more of them were opening. To most Britons, possession of limited knowledge and not too much emotional intelligence must have seemed a sensible preparation for joining the club that ran the world. “They say that Eton taught us nothing,” crowed the first world war general Sir Herbert Plumer at a dinner of the school’s old boys’ society in 1916. “But I must say they taught it very well.”
The cricket field triumphs and the practical jokes, the floggings and the bullies of the traditional boarding school were by the 1890s the staples of a literary genre with an audience far beyond the class that used them, or even that aspired to them. The simple cast of brave, true sportsmen, of swots and of cowards, cads and bullies invented by Thomas Hughes in Tom Brown’s School Days marched on through hundreds of comics and novels for children; if you read accounts of British foreign policy before and after the second world war, it seems as though the playground precepts and stock characters of the schooldays novel have peopled the world. School and sport provided metaphors for proper Britishness. “Play up! and play the game!” – the refrain of Sir Henry Newbolt’s immensely popular poem “Vitaï Lampada” – was a guiding motto for everything from war to marriage.
It was clear that a stiff upper lip, loyalty to the team and a smile at adversity were the attributes most useful in life – and you obtained these at the right schools. By the 1920s, no crime, no brutality of those establishments was too much for their customers, or the wider public. Evelyn Waugh portrayed a shambolic prep school in his first novel, modelled on one at which he had taught. Decline and Fall features fiction’s first account of another traditional cast member of the boarding school drama, the predatory Captain Grimes. His actual crime is only hinted at in the novel; the BBC’s current rollicking TV adaptation is much more open about the “peg-legged pederast”. But the sophisticated reader would have had no problem understanding what Grimes did – and had been sacked from the army and many boarding schools for doing. Grimes is acclaimed as one of the century’s greatest comic creations. In his diaries, Waugh writes with loving admiration of Grimes’s original, the disgraced former army officer WRB “Dick” Young. A serial molester, certainly, but also, according to Waugh, a resourceful and witty man of “shining candour”, and they remained friends until Decline and Fall was published. Later, by way of revenge, Young wrote a school novel in which Waugh was the paedophile teacher.

And so to Hogwarts. With all its gothic filigree, this most exclusive college looks very like the 19th century Fettes College. The series has the archetypes – sinister teachers and over-friendly ones, sporty heroes and school bullies. While the books don’t have any flogging in them, they do have other key elements, including the arcane ritualistic training to join an elite.
Harry and his friends may well have been the best advert for private boarding schools since the Duke of Wellington boasted that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. It could be coincidence, but the 30-year decline in numbers came to an end in 2000, just as the third Harry Potter novel was published. Since then, though average full-boarding fees are now around £35,000 per annum, the pupil count has been stable at 70,000, a third of them the children of wealthy foreigners. Later this month, when the Easter holidays end, more than 4,000 children under 10 years old will say goodbye to their families, shipped off to where there is the promise of adventure, but not love. Some of them – as one mother, “forced” by her daughter to allow her to board, told me – will pack Harry Potter wands too. Your heart breaks for them still.
 Alex Renton’s Stiff Upper Lip: Secrets, Crimes and the Schooling of a Ruling Classis published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson.



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Sunday, January 28, 2018

Top 10 talking animals in books





Top 10 talking animals in books


From Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat to Franz Kafka’s ‘Ungeziefer’, linguistically gifted beasts have made for some of the most luminous characters in fiction

Pajtim Statovci


A
nimal characters in works of fiction have generally been used in a rather anthropomorphic wayThis can be seen as a problem, though, and many say that reading animals as symbols of us reduces them, makes them smaller, steals their right to be seen as subjects who have their unique, distinctive way of existing. Others say that it’s not a problem at all because it’s not as if animals – even though they’re each different in shape and thought – will ever get to know what we write about them, how we place, use and interpret them and give them meaning through human filters.

Placing myself in the discussion as a writer of animal characters (as I am in my novel My Cat Yugoslavia) is extremely difficult. Does a writer of fiction that includes animal characters commit an act of theft? Can nature really be appropriated? Who does it belong to, and who gets to say what counts as “animal culture”? Is it scientists, biologists, scholars in humanities, people who have lived with animals, or no one? The question is exceptionally complex. However, it is interesting and most welcome, too, that we continue to discuss the rights of beings that are unarmed, incapable of defending themselves through language that’s not clearly understandable to us.

All that being said, here they come: my top 10 talking, zoomorphic animal characters.


1. Behemoth in The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

This demonic beast, this marvellous shape-shifting creature, this sarcastic, vodka-loving cat, is one of the most iconic talking animals, and justifiably so. Behemoth, a member of an evil entourage led by Satan himself, will leave an everlasting mark on the reader. I promise you this. His whimsical, absurd and ingenious character inspired me tremendously when writing My Cat Yugoslavia.




2. The Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

This talking feline won’t terrify you with Behemoth’s cutthroat insults and deranged actions, but it will make you laugh just as copiously. Famous for its broad grin, it appears and disappears as it chooses, while tormenting Alice with philosophical statements and giving her advice that seems irrational. But that’s part of its alluring magic.




3. “Ungeziefer” in The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

Gregor Samsa wakes up one morning as a bug-like, monstrous vermin. A busy salesman who slavishly follows the rules, he immediately knows he’s in big trouble. While Gregor himself doesn’t seem to be bothered by his new clumsy shape and unsightly appearance, he’s rejected by his family and ends up suffering a terrible fate. There are many possible interpretations of the story. To me, it’s about how our battles and confrontations don’t necessarily make us stronger – sometimes they just make us weaker, sadder and more pathetic.




4. Maf in The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog, and of His Friend Marilyn Monroe by Andrew O’Hagan

Frank Sinatra gave Mafia Honey, a Maltese terrier, to Monroe as a Christmas present in 1960. O’Hagan’s fourth novel follows the final years of the actor from the point of view of this singular pooch. This well-educated and articulate dog will not only give you a unique perspective on Monroe’s life, it will steal your heart away. He’s that charming and spot-on.






‘Some animals are more equal than others’ … a still from the 1954 animated film of Animal Farm.
‘Some animals are more equal than others’ … a still from the 1954 animated film of Animal Farm. Photograph: Allstar/Cinetext/Halas/Batchelor

5. Napoleon and Snowball in Animal Farm by George Orwell

Napoleon and Snowball, two pigs greedy for power, start off as allies. As the story continues and violence proliferates, they become dedicated rivals. What the hatred and violence between them generates is simply more hate and violence. This novel feels more current than ever.




6. Bagheera in The Jungle Books by Rudyard Kipling

This black panther is one of my favourite talking animals in children’s books because he’s just the coolest. In Kipling’s Mowgli stories, as well as in various adaptations of them, Bagheera is a real class act. He’s smart, reliable and thinks ahead, and on top of that he has perfect timing. Mowgli would be in terrible trouble without the awesome Bagheera. Shere Khan has nothing on him.




7. Red Peter in A Report to an Academy by Franz Kafka

Here is an ape who has mastered the art of being a human being by leaving his “ape self” behind. After being captured on the Gold Coast he’s given two options: he can either live in a zoo or become a turn at a music hall. Red Peter chooses the latter, and adjusts to the highly oppressive and judgmental people around him. I guess sometimes it’s easier to adapt to being othered in various ways than to fight for the right to be seen and heard as an individual.




8. Pig Tales by Marie Darrieussecq 

A young woman in her 20s lands a job at perfume counter. Soon after that, she understands that she’s expected to have sex with male customers. Then she starts gradually transforming into a sow. Darrieussecq’s debut novel – Truismes in the original French – was a massive success on publication in 1996. It offers one of the most distinctive and unique transformation stories of our time and explores questions of sexuality, identity and gender with much-needed insight and superb creativity.



9. The Cowardly Lion in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L Frank Baum

I have great sympathy for the Cowardly Lion. He is expected to be brave, powerful and courageous. Instead, he is terribly scared of the world around him. What makes him adorable is that he’s so freaking sensitive and sentimental, and extremely self-conscious about it. To me, he is a symbol of self-hatred. I’m sure everyone who has been told that they can’t do something, that they should act in a certain fashion, that they are not good or smart or capable enough can relate. We become blind to our strengths when our weaknesses are brought up more frequently, when we begin to think that we don’t deserve more and feel shame for what we should be proud of.




10. Sharik or Comrade Sharikov in The Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov

Overshadowed by The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov’s novella is an equally remarkable and momentous work of fiction. It tells the story of a wealthy and successful doctor who surgically implants human testicles and a pituitary gland into a stray dog, a mongrel he names Sharik. Sharik narrates the story until the surgery transforms him into something like a human being. Then the man/canine becomes Comrade Sharikov, a cat-killing nuisance who tortures and harasses virtually everyone in sight.

  • My Cat Yugoslavia by Pajtim Statovci, translated by David Hackston, is published by Pushkin Press, priced £14.99.
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