'Mr. Darwin's Gardener' by Kristina Carlson (Review)

Before reading today's choice, I'd already tried two of the three books from the Peirene Press class of 2013.  Both The Mussel Feast (runner-up in this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize) and Chasing the King of Hearts were fairly prominent and well received works, and (to me, at least) the other of the Turning Point books seemed a little less discussed.  Today, then, it's time to try the third in the series, to see if the middle child lives up to the standard set by its more illustrious sisters...

*****
Kristina Carlson's Mr. Darwin's Gardener (translated by Emily and Fleur Jeremiah, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a novella in five short parts, set in a Kentish village in 1879.  We start with a certain Thomas Davies, an outsider in the village for reasons other than his Welsh origins.  You see, in a fairly religious community, Davies is the gardener of a local celebrity - none other than the elderly Charles Darwin, and it's surely no coincidence that Davies is the local atheist...

Davies recently lost his wife to illness, and his children both have (undefined) health issues.  Darwin's gardener has many reasons to not join the congregation on Sundays - the issues he's had are enough to make anyone question their faith.  The villagers, safely ensconced in their church, look askance at this modern man, resenting people who step outside the herd.  However, the book slowly reveals that everyone must deal with the question of faith alone...

Mr. Darwin's Gardener is a lovely little book, one with an intriguingly familiar setting for an Englishman (seen from a Finnish perspective!).  However, as much as the place is important, it's the time which is crucial:

"People in future decades and centuries will react to our ideas superciliously, as if we were children playing at thinking.  We shall look most amusing in the light of new thoughts and inventions."
p.72 (Peirene Press, 2013)

Which is an amusing nod to the supercilious reader ;)  The year is 1879, and we are very much at a turning point in cultural history.

Darwin's theories on evolution are now well known, and even devout, church-going people have begun to consider their beliefs more closely.  Life in the village is starting to change as young people yearn for the big city and the chance of more freedom.  This is also the era of electricity, and while the village isn't as yet connected, we sense that big things are just around the corner.

The small English village is a tiny melting pot, a microcosm of society, ideal for a study of the effects of change.  Despite the idyllic surface, there's a lot going on that outsiders can't see, with nasty secrets festering underneath:

"Righteousness spreads like pestilence, Henry Faine thought.
  Revenge brings great satisfaction, everyone has stored up things to avenge, but the victim is not always about.  So when a common enemy is found, people seize the opportunity - in the name of God, the church or a woman.  Or because a country village is somewhat short of entertainment." (p.52)

So what are those net curtains hiding?  Alcoholism, sexual frustration, manipulation, violence - and, above all, a distinct absence of hope...

It's against this backdrop that the struggle between the old order and progress takes place.  Davies, the Welsh gardener, is certainly one who has no time for old beliefs, preferring to pin his 'faith' in science than in an absent deity.  He is roundly mocked for burning his wife's solid wooden bed outside after her death, laughed at for the needless waste.  Obviously, the villagers are not quite up on the latest thoughts on medical hygiene...

The book is well constructed, built upon five 'scenes', each contributing to the overall story.  We see the self-satisfied villagers in church (and at the local pub), sewing for the local poor (and taking revenge on a light-fingered verger), sitting through the cold December - and enjoying the return of spring.  The characters gradually take shape, names taking on features: the snobbish Henry and Eileen Faine, the alcoholic doctor Robert Kenny, wheelchair-bound Hannah Hamilton.  By the end, they're all old friends - it's like a slightly twisted version of The Archers.

Although the story is interesting, it's the writing which makes the book, with Carlson using a range of styles to achieve her purpose.  One of these is a polyphonic chorus of voices, a feature that reminded me of Virginia Woolf's The Waves at times:

"The congregation sits in pews and the jackdaws caw in the steeple.
  We smell of wet dog.  The rain drenched us.  We are cold but singing warms us.  The hymn rises up to the roof.  God lives above the roof, amen.
  We saw Thomas Davies on the hill.  He works in Mr. Darwin's garden.
  An atheist and a lunatic, he stood alone in the field, water whipping his face.
  A godless pit pony wandering in the dark, he hails from Wales.
  Does the heathen think he can avoid getting wet outside?  Did the Devil give him an umbrella, or bat's wings?
Perhaps Thomas imagines he can control the rain.  He thinks he is higher than God.  He has his head in the clouds." (p.16)

The 'I's and 'We's scattered throughout the book are insights into the psyches of the villagers.  However, in other parts, the writing can be a lot more detached, especially when the gardener speaks.  This, perhaps, is a deliberate attempt to differentiate between the emotional villagers and the 'rational' Davies.

In fact, Mr. Darwin's Gardener is a short book full of contrasts.  We have pub bores trading quips, honouring the lord and secretly beating up a man after dark; bored women using their needles while sipping tea, then sleeping with newcomers to the village.  This is certainly a turning point, but we're not quite into the modern era yet, and this delicate balance is what makes the book so fascinating to read.  Like most Peirene books, it's one which needs to be read again if we're to really get behind what the writer wants to say - and I hope to do that very soon :)

The Nature of Art

Some of you may well have heard of the name Tove Jansson in connection with her famous series of stories about the Moomins.  Others may even know that she went on to write works of fiction for grown-ups too.  However, I doubt that anyone is aware that I have a very big bone to pick with Ms. Jansson...

You see, I read Comet in Moominland when I was a child - at about the same time as Halley's Comet was being discussed on television, leaving me with the horrible feeling that the world was about to end.  Luckily, I (eventually) got over the trauma; otherwise, I could never have brought myself to try any more of Jansson's work ;)

*****
All of which brings us to today's book, Art in Nature (review copy courtesy of Australian publishers Allen & Unwin), a short collection of stories linked loosely by the theme of art and artists.  Thomas Teal's excellent translation from the original Swedish, combined with a fairly light, playful style, makes this a book you can whisk through in a couple of reading sessions.  Despite this though, there's a lot below the surface for the reader prepared to dig a little deeper into Jansson's world...

Many of the stories focus on artists, creators of all kinds who are connected by their inability to separate their talents from their personal lives.  While this can lead the reader to sympathise with their plight, for example in the case of the titular hero of The Cartoonist (a man who is worried about exactly what happened to his predecessor), some of these people are simply not very nice.

In A Leading Role, a reasonably successful stage actress, about to take on her first major role, realises that the perfect model for the character she is to play is her cousin, a shy, dowdy, middle-aged woman.  The actress invites the cousin to spend some time in her summer house, where she proceeds to intimidate and bully her poor relative - just to see how she reacts under pressure...

This charming woman is nothing compared to another of Jansson's creations though.  The Locomotive is narrated by a nasty, unreliable character, a man who spends his spare time meticulously painting pictures of trains - despite never having been on one himself.  An habitual loner, he becomes obsessed with a woman he sees at the local station, only to turn on her when she starts to get a little too close.

The story is told as a series of diary entries, but the writer continually interrupts himself, unable to write down his ideas clearly enough for his liking.  At one point, he even decides to switch from first- to third-person, in order to achieve a more objective sense of detachment.  The actual effect is to heighten the feeling that the writer is a little detached from reality...

Several of the tales feature characters who have their best years behind them, and The White Lady, a story about a group of women out for an evening at an exclusive restaurant situated on an island, is probably the most telling of these.  A night that starts with levity and humour ends with the women feeling old and past it, faced with the reality of youth and beauty.  In a nice touch, the story ends with a heavy irony; as the friends wait for the boat to take them back to the city:

"Look!" May cried.  "There it comes.  Isn't it like Charon's ferry or something?  You like similes."
"By all means," Ellinor said.  She was tired and in no mood for anyone's similes but her own. (p.64)

I wonder how many writers secretly feel like this ;)

Although the English title of the collection is Art in Nature, the original Swedish-language version was named after another of the stories, The Doll's House.  This was one of my favourites, a story centred on a retired craftsman who decides to fill up his dull, empty days with a project to build a two-metre high edifice.  The project begins on a whim, organically, seemingly building itself, but once the craftsman starts, he is unable to cut corners:

"Alexander was in the grip of a passion for perfection.  He was not aware of how closely, how perilously, perfectionism and fanaticism are related." (p.76)

Gradually, the fanaticism begins to overshadow the perfectionism, causing some issues on the home front...

On the whole though, the title for the English-language edition is an apt one.  While not all the stories have art and artists as their focus, most of the better ones do, and the title story itself (the first of the collection) is actually a fitting summary of the book as a whole.  An old man is the caretaker of a temporary, outdoor art exhibition, a huge success which is scheduled to be wound up when the weather gets colder.  One night, when he discovers a couple who have stayed behind in the park to celebrate a new acquisition, we see that the artistic aura of the exhibition has rubbed off on him.  His thoughts as he gets ready to sleep that night could act as a motif for the whole collection:

"But what I said was completely right, he thought.  It's the mystery that's important, somehow very important." (p.21)

 And that mystery is the beauty of all art :)

Run, Rabbit, Run!

Those of you out there who (like me) are edging ever closer to forty, may, from time to time, ponder the form your inevitable mid-life crisis will take.  Will you blow your savings and splash out on a Lamborghini?  Will you ditch your partner and run off with a pneumatic, barely-post-pubescent stunner?  Or, more interestingly, perhaps you'll pick up an injured animal and hitch-hike up to the Arctic Circle...

*****
Before you all have me carted off in a white coat, I am (of course) referring to the events of today's offering, Finnish writer Arto Paasilinna's excellent novel, The Year of the Hare (translated by Herbert Lomas), a book I first came across in the review Ann Morgan wrote in her fascinating blog, A Year of Reading the World.  The story is about Karolo Vatanen, a jaded, middle-aged journalist who hates his job, his wife and just about everything else in his life.  When the van he's driving home in hits a hare crossing the road, Vatanen gets out, picks the poor animal up and puts a splint on its leg.  He then pauses, glances at the van and decides to walk off into the woods.  He never looks back.

What follows is less a description of a mid-life crisis than a rejection of modern society and a return to older, simpler times.  Vatanen travels around with his new friend, taking on manual labour jobs as he penetrates further and further into Finland's untamed wilds.  Most of the people he meets, while initially suspicious (and a little confused by the presence of the hare), end up helping him by giving him food, accommodation, transport or a job to keep him going.

Compared to some of the people he encounters though, Vatanen's eccentricities seem positively harmless.  As he meanders northwards, he comes across a retired police chief with a monomania about the Finnish president, a gun-toting vicar who doesn't appreciate animals in church, a cow in a very sticky situation, a heathen with a penchant for sacrificing defenceless animals - in this company, a man with a hare's ears sticking out of his backpack barely warrants a second glance...

The further Vatanen travels into the wilderness, the better things become.  The work he picks up (repairing cabins, herding cows, clearing trees) does wonders for his health and physical fitness, but the real benefit is to his soul.  Away from civilisation, he feels more alive and at peace with himself.  It's no coincidence that his bad days tend to coincide with incursions from the society he has decided to leave behind.

The Year of the Hare is an excellent story, a novel you can knock off in a couple of hours, but one which leaves a deeper impression than this would suggest.  Initially, I was a little sceptical about the translation, particularly the dialogue, peppered as it was with unusual linguistic choices ('a lark', 'goodness gracious', 'skedaddled') which, however true they were to the original, seemed oddly out of place.  Once I'd got a bit further into the book though, I no longer noticed this, drawn onward and upward as I was by the compelling story.

It's tempting to think of The Year of the Hare as a bit of a fairy tale, particularly after reading some of the more far-fetched events of the final quarter of the book.  However, I suspect that someone more versed in Finnish culture than I am (i.e. anyone with any concept of Finnish culture at all) may read this book in a different light.  There's the faintest of suspicions that with his poking of fun at the Finnish president, and the list of crimes that Vatanen is supposed to have committed (many of which hardly seem like crimes at all), Paasilinna may have been subtly criticising the rigid social constraints in his homeland.  Then again...

But, I sense you all asking, what about the hare?  What happens to him?  Unfortunately, I'll have to disappoint you - after all, I'm not about to give away the whole plot.  One thing I will say though is that our furry friend is an integral part of the book, not a passing character who disappears into the forest thirty pages into the novel.  He's not a very chatty character (this is not Watership Down!), but he does get into a lot of scrapes - just like his new master...

I've been through the Tundra on a Horse with no name...

As regular readers will no doubt already know, I am a big fan of Peirene Press and their beautifully-presented slices of literary excellence, so I was very happy when I recently received a review copy of this year's first offering.  2012 is to be the year of the small epic, books cramming big themes into slender paperbacks, and I was very curious to see how this idea would pan out on paper.  So, without further ado, it's time to head off to a very wintry Finland - don't forget your thermals ;)

*****

It seems strange in an unusually sun-drenched Melbourne to be turning to a story set in the snowy Arctic, but what's exactly what The Brothers is.  Asko Sahlberg's novella, translated by Emily and Fleur Jeremiah, is a piece of historical fiction, set in 1809 at the end of the war between Sweden and Russia.  Two brothers, Henrik and Erik, return to their family home, hoping to get on with life after their stints in the army.  It's unlikely to be a peaceful homecoming, however, as there is unresolved tension between the brothers - heightened by the fact that they served on different sides during the war.

The novella is narrated by a cast of people from the homestead (including the brothers): the old mistress, the mother of the returning soldiers; Erik's wife, Anna; the farmhand, an old family helper; and Mauri, an impoverished cousin.  The more that pours from the mouths of the narrators, the more we realise that this is not a happy family.  Behind the walls of the crumbling farmhouse, secrets abound - secrets which may well tear lives apart...

The story is told in the present tense, creating a sense of urgency and immediacy, and despite the frequent flash-backs, the overall feel is more of a play than of a novel.  The whole affair is over almost before it has begun, and the claustrophobic setting of the old farmhouse would be perfect for a stage.  There are frequent changes of scene with terse, tense confrontations between the old soldiers, moments which reveal much but promise more.

The Brothers is also full of descriptions of the unforgiving landscape surrounding, and at times cutting off, the house, emphasising the isolation of the family.  As we walk through the chill forests, treading watchfully through the thick snow, taking care not to pass too close to the icy, menacing waters of the river, the farmhouse seems almost inviting...

...but not quite.  The family home is a dark, gloomy, ramschackle edifice, a fitting symbol for the decline of the family fortunes.  On his return from the wars, Henrik sees the building with new eyes:

"This house is a cadaver.  The others are too close to see it, but it has already begun to decompose.  I flinch from its decay." p.48

This decay from years of neglect seems to have infected its inhabitants, most of whom have seen better days, few of whom have hope of a brighter future.  The ticking of clocks echoing around the rooms is a further reminder of how time has slipped away.

In a tight-knit family, this sense of hopelessness might be overcome; however, the cast of The Brothers are anything but.  Secrets abound, memories of events long past, and nobody trusts anyone enough to share them.  As the Farmhand comments, nothing can be taken on face value:

"It has always been this way around here: you say something when you mean something completely different, or at least more." p.17

The importance of sub-text in the story is palpable; things happen below the surface, and only the reader, privileged to watch events from several viewpoints, is able to (eventually) get an overview.

In the end, it is hard to believe that the story could have unfolded any other way.  There is a strong sense of fatalism, from the moment that Henrik sees (and covets) his neighbour's horse to the the pivotal, time-stopping moment in the crisp, snowy hills, where the destiny of the brothers lies in the hands of someone close to them.  Which is not to say that you won't be surprised by the turns the tale takes.

The Brothers is, I'm happy to say, another of Peirene's success stories.  While I would have preferred the book to be a little longer (and while I wasn't entirely convinced that the voices were always as distinct as they might have been), this is an excellent, elegant piece of writing, one I'm sure will stand up to rereading.  And who knows?  With the recent success of the theatre adaptation of Beside the Sea, perhaps this will be another book which will make the jump to the stage.  I'm not sure how they'll get the horse up there though...

Something(s) Borrowed...

I've been more of a buyer than a borrower over the past few years, content to shell out for a few books every now and then to add to the growing mound in my rapidly-shrinking study.  However, this year has seen a lot more library visits and the appearance of a fair few borrowed novels on the pages of my little blog.  I'd like to put it down to thriftiness, an increase in public spirit or a desire to make use of community facilities; in fact, it's completely down to the fact that there are only so many places you can take a three-year-old on father-daughter outings, and the library is most certainly one of them.

Whatever the reason, 2010 has produced many more library book reviews than 2009, and as we head rapidly towards the end of the year, here are another three novels which won't be finding a permanent home on my bookshelves.  A good thing or a bad thing?  Well, read the reviews, and you'll find out...

*****

Kazuo Ishiguro's Nocturnes is a collection of five short stories, all connected, either loosely or inseparably, by the theme of music.  The quintet of tales are set in different countries, but most involve some sort of chance meeting and a hefty element of nostalgia and regret, before tailing off into a quiet - diminuendo?  I think I'll stop looking for musical metaphors now...

As always, Ishiguro's writing is impeccable, capturing the right tone of voice whether his characters be Swiss tourists, Hungarian cellists or Hollywood stars.  The stories slip by comfortably, each one forming intriguing questions in your mind before fading out, only to be followed by the next one.  The only criticism you could really lay at the writer's feet is that 222 pages of extremely spacious type hardly seems like the fruit of a few years' hard labour - then again, if he needs to relax that much before making his literary music, who am I to complain?

All in all, more Eine kleine Nachtmusik than Der Ring des Nibelungen, but that's not a bad thing.  Sometimes, you just need a little something to relax to, and, in this sense, Nocturnes certainly hits the spot.  I've recently acquired a couple of his novels to join the two on my shelves, and with the other two on my Book Depository wishlist, 2011 may well be the year of Ishiguro.  Nevertheless, whether this happens or not, one thing's for sure - it's time to cut down on the musical puns :)

*****
Now Ian McEwan is a slightly less-relaxed writer, but he still produces some entertaining work.  Saturday is one day in the life of a man, neurosurgeon Henry Perowne, as he enjoys his day off and roams far and wide through the streets of London.  Of course, on this particular day, in 2003, he doesn't just stay in bed and watch telly later (that wouldn't really fill out 250 pages); he has a packed schedule, and his day unfolds against the backdrop of a massive demonstration against the decision to go to war in Iraq.

This post-September 11th world is an important background, as McEwan, through Perowne's eyes, is exploring the idea of a world which has seemingly come to an impasse, a machine which has developed itself so far that the only way to improve it further is to tear it all down and start again.  Traffic-congested motorways and antiquated hospitals full of junk and paperwork which nobody can find the time to throw away are used as examples of our inability to keep up with the pace of progress.  In a time of global uncertainty, it really seems as if the whole thing could come crashing down at any moment.

Perowne's occupation is no coincidence either, as McEwan makes parallels between the ageing, crumbling city and the natural ageing of the human body - and the brain.  As he drills inside heads, exploring the neural pathways in an attempt to improve his patients' lives, he is only too aware of the limitations of his craft.  Even in his own family, he can see the inexorable march of time at work, both in good ways (the maturing of his adult son and daughter) and bad (the effects of dementia on his mother).
 
I almost bought Saturday a few weeks back, and I half wish I had.  McEwan tries to pack a lot into a short space, and while comparisons with Ulysses (one of the blurbs!) are a little ambitious, you can see where the idea is coming from, with the book's focus on one man on one day in a major city.  I did have a few quibbles with the story though.  Perowne comes across as a little unlikeable and aloof (hardly an ordinary man in the Leopold Bloom mode), and the dramatic events around which the day revolves (and which I haven't really mentioned here) seem a little contrived, and even superfluous.  Oh, and McEwan can't get through a book without a sex scene, even when there's not really much call for it - still, don't let that put you off :)

*****
The third of my borrowed trio is a little different from my usual fare, and I put a hold on it after reading several glowing reviews from other bloggers.  Purge, by Finnish writer Sofi Oksanen (translated by Lola Rogers), is a book which has made lots of waves in the European literary scene.  In a flash-back/forward framework, two women - Aliide, an old Estonian woman, and Zara, a young Russian - meet under unusual circumstances, and as the story progresses, we get to learn details of their earlier lives and the bond which connects them.  With themes of war, occupation, identity, betrayal and sexual slavery, this promised to be impressive.

But.  I don't think it got there.  I had real problems getting into this book, and if I were one of those people who only gave books a certain grace period before giving up, this novel would have been going back to the library unfinished.  Luckily, after about 115 pages (just after I'd tweeted complaining about how slow the book was!), the story picked up, probably because we started to learn more about Aliide, by far the more interesting of the two characters.

I think that one of the main issues was with the development of Zara's side of the story.  It felt slow, plodding, contrived, and for such a controversial and emotive subject, it just didn't make me feel anything except a desire to skip a few pages.  The sizeable gaps in her story didn't help me to warm to her either...  The format was also a little strange, with very short sections at times, almost inviting me to put the book down and come back later (if I could be bothered).  As for the last section, consisting of Soviet police reports...

I hate it when I read books other people have recommended and then feel obliged to be less than complimentary (and this book does have a lot of good points, especially the way Oksanen slowly unveils Aliide's true nature), but I'd be less than truthful if I were to say I really liked Purge.  It's worth reading if you're interested in the content, but I think that there are much better books and writers around.  In the interests of fairness though, I will finish on a more positive note.  When I searched for reviews of this book, I quickly found out that I was pretty much on my own here; virtually every blog review of Purge gave it five stars...