So here it is, the moment of truth, my final Armchair Audies post. You may have noticed an increase of non-fiction in the blog lately and that’s because I chose to listen, review and predict the winner of the History category of the Audies, the awards of the American Audio Publishers Association. These were the nominees:
Unfortunately, I couldn’t get my hands on Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil by Hannah Arendt, narrated by Wanda McCaddon (sample), for love or money. Audible and other online audio stores imposed geographic restrictions on the book and I decided against ordering the (much more expensive) CD. This book was actually the one I was more looking forward to, not only for the topic, but because it’s the only in the category with a female narrator. I tried everything, promise, including calling Audible costumer service to grovel and using credit cards from three different (European) countries.
So, I must underline that my prediction for the winner compromised by the absence of one of the books.
I started off with In The Garden of Beasts (sample), narrated by Stephen Hoye, who was also nominated for The Emperor of All Maladies (sample). He did a great job with both books, especially considering the different languages in Garden and the complex medical terms in Emperor. Both books were about difficult topics, full of emotional moments which Hoye nailed perfectly.
Marc Vietor, who narrated 1812: The Navy’s War (sample), is also at a disadvantage with me because I didn’t care enough for the topic to listen to the full 19 hours of audiobook. Still, it was Vietor’s narration that got me through the five I did manage. There’s a “manliness” and confidence about his voice that fitted well with the descriptions of military strategy and naval battles. I’d love to listen to him read the Audrey/Maturin series.
Finally, Jonathan Davis’ wonderful job in 1861: The Civil War Awakening (sample). I was surprise by how much I actually enjoyed the book. It’s full of inflamed speeches and proclamations, so it wouldn’t do to have a flat narration or one that goes the other way and becomes theatrical. I though Davis found the right balance.
In the end, my prediction for the winner goes to Stephen Hoye and his narration of In The Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson. It was a tough choice considering the quality of the other nominees, but in my humble opinion this one deserves it because of its higher degree of complexity. It’s full of names, places and expressions in English, German, Russian and French. There are also extensive quotes by men and women from different nationalities.
It’s a credit to Hoye’s skill that I almost didn’t notice the narration. In these cases, not being aware of the narration is a good sign because it means you’re not being disturbed by an unrealistic accent or a misspelled word.
My vote is casted, so now I’m looking forward to what the real judges will say.
A patient, long before he becomes the subject of medical scrutiny, is, at first, simply a storyteller, a narrator of suffering – a traveler who has visited the kingdom of the ill.
Microhistories are probably my favorite sub-genre of non-fiction (after biographies), and of all the ones I’ve read so far, none was as epic and all-encompassing as The Emperor of All Maladies. I’m now convinced the history of cancer reflects (and sometimes even leads) global movements. I’m still in awe of the task that Dr. Mukherjee set out to accomplish and of the amazing result.
This book’s philosophy is that the history of cancer is not only a story of scientific activity, but also of the doctors, researchers and lobbyists that fought it, and, most especially, that of the patients:
Resilience, inventiveness, and survivorship – qualities often ascribed to great physicians – are reflected qualities, emanating first from those who struggle with illness and only then mirrored by those who treat them. If the history of medicine is told through the stories of doctors, it is because their contributions stand in place of the more substantive heroism of their patients.
Together with the stories of individuals struggling with cancer, Dr. Mukherjee tackles an impressive number of topics, from cell theory to the cultural movements of millions of people, from scientific achievements to political will, and he’s able to summarize this in close to 600 pages (or 21 audio hours) of clear and compelling story-telling.
Even the parts I found less interesting – genetics, methodology of medical trials – were still surprisingly accessible, and the most interesting ones like the fight with Big Tobacco, the story of palliative care and the rise of patient’s right, were downright gripping.
About 90% of The Emperor of All Maladies focuses of the USA, but on the other hand, most of the book is set in the 20th century, a time when the US led cancer research. Still, I missed a bit of a geographical range. which is my only little quibble with an otherwise fantastic book.
At the beginning of the book we’re told the story of Atossa, a Persion Queen born in 550 BC, who was the first registered case of breast cancer. At the end of the book Dr. Mukherjee imagines Atossa being diagnosed and receiving treatment over the centuries: in the Middle Ages her problem would become a blackbile unbalance (or trapped melancholia), to be cure with goat dung or holy water; the radical mastectomy favored in the 19th century would probably have cost her not only her breasts, but also muscles, lymph nodes and bones in her chest cavity; the 20st century’s passion for aggressive drugs, radiation and chemotherapy might have almost killed her without any results; and 90s/2000s’ doctors would be able to identify the mutation in her genes and better adjust her treatment to her cancer type.
This imaginary birds-eye view of Atossa’s life was my favorite scene because it illustrates perfectly the way Dr. Mukherjee associated cancer’s history to our history as humans.
Today, Atossa would live decades longer than she would have in the past, but, if instead of breast cancer she’d had metastatic pancreatic cancer, her prognosis wouldn’t change more than a few months over the last 2,500 years.
I appreciated the book’s balanced tone that avoided the cheerful optimist about developments and cures that always sound too cheerful, too optimistic, when compared to reality. We still have a long way to go. There’s hope, there’s life extension, but still no universal cure.
A little aside to say that as A Reader I loved all the literary metaphors and references used throughout the book: Alice in Wonderland, Calvino’s Invisible Cities, Anna Karenina (“Normal cells are identically normal; malignant cells become unhappily malignant in unique ways.“), Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s Cancer Ward, etc. I was also strangely excited by getting his reference to HeLa cells, which I got to know through the wonderful The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.
About the narration: Stephen Hoye was the only narrator in the Audies History category that was nominated for two books: this one and In the Garden of Beasts. This distinction is well justified. The Emperor is full of technical explanations and complicated drug names that are accessible in part because of Hoye.
There’s a cadence to his reading that’s very particular to him. I usually get a bit annoyed by this in other narrators, but surprisingly not with Hoye. I also appreciated how you could really notice the emotion in his voice during the last “pages” of the book, when he’s describing the brave, fearless but ultimately vain struggle of a cancer patient.
I have this little project going on on Pinterest which involves collecting as many paintings and illustrations depicting women and girls reading as possible. So far, the board has 998 images (possible a few repeated), and I add to it almost everyday, mostly with the help of sites like Reading and Art, thomerama and Women Reading.
I’ve been meaning to post here about my favorites, but as the collection grows it becomes more difficult to choose. With some effort I managed my gather my top 50, which I’m sure would change if I chose them tomorrow. The images below are just a sample chosen at random (really randomly, using a number generator!).
What fascinates me about these paintings is how varied they are. You’ll find little girls and old matrons, mothers and maidens, aristocrats and their cleaning ladies, religious women reading the Bible and women on the beach reading Tropic of Cancer, women enjoying some time alone and others reading in a group or out-loud. Some are seen from a distance, almost spied on, others look into our eyes. Some are serious, others on the verge of a giggle, some bold, others shy. They all make me want to go up to them and start up a conversation about what they’re reading and how they’re find it so far.
One thing is clear: artists from different times and cultures have been fascinated by images of women reading. There’s something very intimate and tranquil about them, or maybe the painters (mostly men) are curious and jealous of this personal time. It fascinates me.
I haven’t been able to find the author of two of them – maybe you can help? Any of your favorites that I missed?
This was the the cover of The New Yorker in November 2004. I love the “comics” feel to it and the serendipity in theme. If it was a movie, they’d sit opposite each other the following week.
This is definitely a pose (her choice or the painters, I wonder?) and she knows she looks great. My favorite thing about this one is the color arrangement between the pastels and the black background. Gorgeous dress.
“I wanted to create a retreat, a secluded little nook filled with art and books where a woman could really get away from it all. Here, the tension melts away as lilting strains of lute music drift across the overstuffed cushions. The objects in the room represent the things that I believe are important to a full and satisfying life: Rembrandt’s painting ‘Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of Homer’ (culture and the arts); the medieval Unicorn Tapestries (magic and belief); maps (curiosity and exploration); sheet music (music and creativity) and the books, treasures which represent the collected wisdom of the ages. Take a close look at the books – there’s one of my very favorite new books buried in there somewhere!”
Lovely colors. All nine muses are there, I wonder which one is sharpening her pencil – Calliope of Epic Poetry maybe?
?
David Hettinger (USA, 1946-)
One of the few in my top-50 without a name. I’ve looked on the artist’s website with no luck. The mother is there but her mind somewhere else. Have the feeling I’ve witnessed many similar scenes. Very summer-ish.
This is one of the most repined and liked images in my collection. It could be me in thousands of similar moments in my life, only replace the Rhine with the Tagus.
Elegant Women in a Library
Edouard Gelhay (France, 1856 – 1939)
Yes, they’re elegant, but that’s not what strikes me the most. They look curious, intent, absorbed.
This is one of my favorites of all. She’s so comfortable, so immersed in her book. Is that a party dress and she’s making time until someone picks her up, or is it a morning/afternoon dress and she was distracted away from her knitting duties?
The Communicant (1900)
Julius Garibaldi Melchers (USA, 1860-1932)
How striking is this one? She’s all cool perfection and statue-like. I was surprised the artist was American because there’s something very Dutch about the whole thing. Have you noticed that the girls’ shape is the opposite of blue holy water holder?
Girl in a Red Dress Reading by a Swimming Pool (1887)
Sir John Lavery (Ireland, 1856-1941)
Everything is blue, but she’s red. Like the one above reading by the Rhine, I’ve been in this pose countless times.
Just like the recent 1812: The Navy’s War, this is another book from my Armchair Audies History category, another book about 19th century US, and another book clearly written by an American for an American audience (e.g. sentences like “the people of this country” and sorry Mr. Goodheard, but, President Garfield who?!).
Fortunately for me, this was where the similarities ended. I was afraid it would also focus too much on military and political strategy, but my mind was soon put to rest when Goodheart explains in the Prologue that
… to get the full story of that moment in American History, it is necessary to go much further afield, to the slums of Manhattan, and the drawing-rooms of Boston, to Ohio villages and Virginia slave camps and even to the shores of the Pacific.
It is also necessary to consider people and ideas that were migrating from the old world to the new. It is only then that this defining national event can truly be understood as a Revolution, and one whose heroes were not only the soldiers and politicians. That Revolution began years before the guns opened, as a gradual change in the hearts and minds of men and women, until suddenly, months before the attack on Sumter.
(…) One person at a time, millions of Americans decided in 1861 – as their grandparents had in 1776 – that it was worth risking everything, their lives and fortunes, on their country. Eighteen sixty-one, like 1776, was – and still is – not just a year, but an idea.
Sorry for the long quote, but I thought it was a great one, and one that can apply to all major events. A non-fiction author that feels like this is half-way towards writing a book I’d really enjoy reading. 1861 might be another of the thousands of books about the American Civil War, but it offers a fresh perspective by staying away from legislative bills and instead following the cultural movements of the day and people who inspired them.
The most surprising part for me was understanding the national feelings towards slavery of the time. I realized that even though the North despised slavery they weren’t abolitionists, who were considered dangerous radicals hell-bent on dividing the country. In these early days, Lincoln himself was willing to sacrifice abolition to preserve the Union (*gasp*).
From here Goodheart describes how the North came to a position where it was willing to accept (and even welcome) war as the only solution against secession. Lincoln of course couldn’t be excluded from the story, but Goodheart also focuses on almost-forgot figures, like the dashing Elmer Ellsworth (photo), founder of the New York Fire Zouaves regiment, who inspired unprecedented patriotic passion. He also describes how states who were divided between Secession and Union came to a final decision. Ohio in particular went through a fascinating process.
There were only a couple of things that didn’t make me give it a 5/5, the most important of which is that the story is told from the Northerners’ perspective and I often wondered about what was going through the minds of their Southern counterparts. Also, Goodheart is prone to unapologetic flights of poetic patriotism that are a bit uncomfortable for someone from a much more self-effacing culture like mine (1861 is the story of Americans who rose up to the situation “not just with anger and panic but with hope and determination, people who, amid the ruins of the country they had grown up in, saw an opportunity to change history.”).
About Jonathan Davis’ narration. As I’ve mentioned above, it’s a very passionate book and Goodheart even includes the odd piece of poetry. It’s also full of inflamed speeches and proclamations, so it wouldn’t do to have a flat narration or one that goes the other way and becomes theatrical. I though Davis found the perfect balance.
The only thing I have to point out is that sometimes it was hard to differentiate between normal text and quotes – often there was just the slightest hint of change in tone or subtle accent. Probably this doesn’t apply to Davis, but don’t you sometimes have the feeling that narrators are ashamed of using a strong accent (or maybe insecure about it?)?
We’re in a non-fiction mood here chez Sleepless Reader, also helped by the Armchair Audies, which are almost at an end. I’ll post and overview and my predictions for the History category early next week.
I’m usual curious about anything historical, but I’m afraid I didn’t finish 1812: The Navy’s War. I’ve probably only reached as far as I did (about five of the almost 19 hours) because of Marc Vietor’s narration.
The book was clearly well researched by a naval historian in love with his field of expertise, and I’m sure anything of importance about America’s first great naval war was there, but my attention wandered off once too many times. There were almost none of the personal histories that I so love in historical non-fiction, Daughan focusing instead on political and military macro-strategies.
It also included extremely detailed descriptions of ship-to-ship combat, which lost me after the first couple of starboard broadside descriptions and lists of the sails which were up during a particular battle.
These are the kind of details I really try to understand in the Aubrey/Maturin series – I look at maps and boat diagrams, Google strange naval words – but I just wasn’t as invested in 1812, so got lazy and then disinterested.
It’s also a book clearly written by an American for an American audience. Not only because it’s a given the reader has heard of certain people, political processes or historical events, but also because of the patriotism the book exalts. The blurb reflects really well the tone found inside:
In 1812: The Navy’s War, prizewinning historian George C. Daughan tells the thrilling story of how a handful of heroic captains and their stalwart crews overcame spectacular odds to lead the country to victory against the world’s greatest imperial power.
In short, not my cuppa, but I wouldn’t hesitate recommending it to a naval history buff or an America history buff with a thing for naval detail.
Regarding the narration (at least the part I’ve actually heard), it must have been an easy book to read – no foreign names or languages, only a quote here and there with no strange accents – but Vietor nailed it without flaw. His voice fitted perfectly with the book because it has a certain… manly low pitch (here’s a sample, notice especially the end of sentences).
Next stop, another book about American History: 1861: The Civil War Awakening by Adam Goodheart, narrated by Jonathan Davis.
At some point in Casablanca, after a conversation about the refugees who’re trying to reach Lisbon, Rick goes “What’s in Lisbon?” and Renault answers “the Clipper to America”. This book is about what was happening in that city during that time and why so many people where trying to reach it.
In WW2 Portugal was in a unique and complex situation: it was a neutral country with a large colonial territory and little international influence, it was under a dictatorship that was sympathetic to Hitler’s fight against communism, it had close diplomatic and commercial ties to Britain, was surrounded by Nazi-friendly Spain and was also the main and safest port in Europe to cross to the United States.
During those years, Lisbon was a city of refugees, espionage and counter-espionage, negotiations, corruption, scheming, smuggling and counterfeiting. Portugal went from a poor and peripheral country in Europe’s tail to a player of strategic importance in the war theater.
I’d recommend Lisbon: War in the Shadows of the City of Light to anyone with an interest in WW2. Lochery focuses on how Salazar (the Portuguese dictator) out-maneuvered both sides but also paints a compelling picture of the daily life of a city with a fascinating double(or triple)-life. He also maintains a good balance between the macro-history and the personal stories of the locals and refugees who were passing by.
It’s a book especially interesting to Portuguese (and Lisboners like me) who would like to know more about a time often over-looked in our history classes. I come from a very left-wing family who tends to villainize Salazar without mercy, but in this occasion I must give him some credit. He played a risky and cunning game during WW2 and achieved his goals: maintain neutrality, independence, territorial integrity and get rich by negotiating with both sides.
Commemoration of the Allied victory in front of Lisbon’s British embassy
He kept the Axis happy by selling them precious wolfram (my grandparents worked in one of the mines) and the Allies happy by helping to persuade Franco to remain neutral. He allowed many Jews and other refugees to leave Europe through Lisbon, and Jewish relief organizations to work freely in the capital, but the Portuguese secret police was pressured on both sides to hand over people and occasionally gave-in.
The balance of the country hanged by a thread, yet Salazar played the game like the best of them until the end of the War. It was probably the height of his career and, as Lochery also thinks, when he should have counted his blessings, implemented democracy, released the colonies, returned the Nazi gold, and retired to write his memoirs quietly. Instead, he tightened his regime, stagnated the country and eventually entered a colonial War that only ended with the Carnation Revolution of ’74.
Interesting facts I didn’t know before Lisbon: War in the Shadows of the City of Light:
Salazar was considered by many to be the handsomest European dictator.
Portugal was one of the only countries to keep its Nazi-gold, most likely through a deal with the US, that in return kept their military base in the Azores Islands until this day.
Leslie Howard (Ashley in Gone with the Wind) died in a flight from Lisbon to the UK. Supposedly because the Germans though Churchill was on that plane.
Spain was on the brink of invading Portugal during the War. The British, and later the Americans, were on the brink of invading the strategic Azores.
During the pre-War negotiations, British Prime-Minister Chamberlain offered Hitler the Portuguese colony of Angola without consulting Lisbon.
Portugal was one of two countries that offered official condolences upon the death of Hitler. The other country was (also neutral) Ireland.
Salazar, posing.
I’ve only started reading about Portuguese history as seen from foreign eyes in the last 10 years or so. Until then most of what I knew had the official sugar-coat of history classes – the golden period of Discoveries, owning half the world, the brave struggles to gain and maintain independence from Spain, the honor to have the Guinness record for the longest standing alliance between two countries with England.
And then I started travelling, talking to people from different backgrounds, reading in other languages (books like this one), and entered a hard process of reality-adjustment that’s still ongoing today. It’s almost like being re-programmed with the growing pains and resistance that come with it.
I remember meeting for the first time an Indian at a party in the US and her saying, after I mentioned I was Portuguese, that we had done some horrible things in her region during the Discovery period. Wait – WHAT?! But… but… we were “nice” colonizers! Look at what Spain did in the Americas! We opened trade! We brought civilization and globalization! We discovered you!
Like I said, it’s a hard process, but an enriching one. Sometimes people and events I put on a pedestal crumble, and sometimes, someone like Dictator Salazar is shown in a different light. Still, he saved Portuguese lives by keeping us neutral, hurrah for him, but was it the brave and honorable thing to do while other nations fought? He prevented Spain from invading, but also ensured that most of the population was illiterate and compliant. ”Orgulhosamente sós“, or “Proudly alone“, was his motto, which reflected his taste for economic and cultural isolation.
There’s nothing like travelling and reading to put everything into a healthy perspective and force you to confront those pesky grey areas. In Brussels, city of expats, I’ve had many interesting conversations with people from other countries who are going through the same process of building and re-building old dogmas.
I was in lovely Verona last week for work, but still had the time to visit some of the city’s literary locations.
Juliet’s Balcony:
Piazza Dante
Shakespeare’s statue on Verona’s Wall, put there the Juliet’s Club, the association who answers all letters to Juliet. The inscription quotes Romeo and Juliet:
“There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence-banished is banish’d from the world,
And world’s exile is death.”
1. Locke and Jean’s ability to find themselves at the center of a serious mess seems unparalleled. At this point, do you think that Stragos will get the return he expects on his investment in them?
During these chapters Locke and Jean completely lose control over their lives, nearly die, are saved, begin to enjoy that lack of control and then, as said in the last question, the Thorn of Camorr is back. I was ready to believe that from that point on they’d start planning how to con the Priory and the Spire. But then they have the argument.
I’m hoping Locke will find a way to get revenge with the help of the PoisonOrchid, not over their dead bodies.
2. Merrain’s activities after our boys leave Windward Rock are interesting. What do you think her plans are?
Sneaky, sneaky! It’s still possible that she’s doing it at the command of the Priory. It might be all part of the Archon’s plan to hit the magi and get rid of evidence (i.e. Locke and Jean).
3. Does anyone know why having cats aboard the ship is so important?
The Ship’s Cat tradition/superstition goes way back, so in that, Lynch mirrored our world. Where he twisted the rules was in the one about women. Many seamen even today believe that having a woman on board the ship makes the seas angry and is an omen of bad luck for everyone aboard.
4. The word “mutiny” creates a lot of mental pictures. Were you surprised? Why or why not?
I have to admit I was surprised. Even after Caldris’ death, I thought Locke would be able to talk his way out of everything. I guess no women and no cats onboard really is bad luck!
5. Ah, the Poison Orchid. So many surprises there, not the least of which were the captain’s children. Did you find the young children a natural part of the story?
I figured that as of the moment women are accepted and even required to be at sea, the rules of life on board need to be adjusted to accomodate them, including the presence of children. I’m sure there’s even some sort of day-care system in bigger boats.
I was more surprised about not seeing more children aboard the Poison Orchid.
6. Jean is developing more and more as a character as we get further in to the book. Ezri makes the comment to him that “Out here, the past is a currency, Jerome. Sometimes it’s the only one we have.” I think several interesting possibilities are coming into play regarding Jean and Ezri. What about you?
Last week I was asking for a romantic interest for Jean and voilá! It’s great they started bonding over books and fighting techniques. She’s a way for Jean to come into his own and for that he needed a bit of perspective away from Locke. No matter how great their friendship is, Jean has always been the “shadow”. A good example is how, because of his knowledge, he should have been the Captain of the Red Messenger (imho) – as far as we know, no one even considered that option.
I’ll do them both good.
I think that, even without Ezri, Jean would have rebelled against Locke’s willingness to sacrifice the crew for his revenge.
7. As we close down this week’s reading, the Thorn of Camorr is back! I love it, even with all the conflict. Several things from their Camorri background have come back up. Do you think we will see more Camorri characters?
I’d say no. They’re being saved for the third book.
Random thoughts:
My favorite chapters so far. Maybe because of female characters that aren’t brilliant-but-evil?
I’m hoping that part of the next books will be set in the Captain’s home-land. It sounded interesting!
For the Africa Reading Challenge I’ve decided to read one book from each of the five Portuguese-speaking African countries. The Last Will is the Cape Verde choice. I’ve read it in the original but I’m happy to report that there is an easily-found English translation, as well as a great movie adaptation.
Scribacchina from Paroles/Words was also planning to read it for a while, so we’ve decided to have a little chat about it, which I’ve included below. I’m always surprised at how much more you take out of a book by discussing it with other book lovers.
In the island of São Vicente, Senhor Napumoceno Silva Araújo led the life of a respectable self-made business man. He was famous for owning the island’s first car, but also for being a man of habits and routine. There was nothing extraordinary about his life, or so everyone though until the opening of his last will and testament…
Alex: Did you think there was an “African feeling” to the book? It somehow reminded me more strongly of South American story-telling. I often thought of the Brazilian Jorge Amado and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the way one describes Salvador da Bahia and the other the fictional village of Macondo. There’s no magic realism in The Last Will, but a the sort of other-worldly feeling about life in São Vicente, that had the same effect. It also reminded me why I love books set in islands, there is something about the feeling of isolation that’s perfect for growing eccentric characters and habits
I found the funeral (sorry to say it) delightful to read and couldn’t help but smile at all the loops the heir had to jump to be able to fulfill Napomunceno’s last wish to be buried to the sound of Beethoven’s Funeral March. Any favorite moment?
Scribacchina: It is interesting that you cite Marquez, because from the start I kept comparingThe Last Will to his Chronicle of a Death Foretold, if just for the structure: the death (or the last will) of a man is the excuse to tell different histories about several people in a close society. But I feel the parallelism (if there is one) ends there. To me, it did feel more like another African novel I read, Mia Couto’s A River Called Time, which was my first experience with African magical realism — and while there is no magical realism in The Last Will, the society feels very much alike. But I do see what you mean, and I do agree that in a way all of them talk about closely-knit societies and how they influence the type of characters that live in them.
At the same time, I feel The Last Will is much more focused on identity than society. Little by little we are told how Napumoceno’s saw himself. How he tried to be more European than he was — the Beethoven March is part of that effort, I think. But because the book is so much focused on real and perceived identity, I was completely baffled by the last chapter, which basically contradicts everything that we have been told previously: we are told that no one knew about his affair, but then Carlos says that everyone knew Maria da Graça was Napumoceno’s daughter; we are told that he was one of the most influential men in town, but then it looks like everyone still considered him the small-village poor he was when he was young… How did you react to the ending? Did it come out of the blue, or do you think it was expectable?
One of the things that made me LOL was Napumocenos’ reaction to green: basically, he’s so passionate about the Sporting football club that when he sees his cleaning lady dressed in the team’s green, he takes her on as his lover. (Of course that is not exactly what happens. It is a rape, but nobody seems to perceive it that way. What do you make of that?)
Alex: I was reading the green parts to my boyfriend who’s a hard-core Benfica fan First about the ending, I wasn’t surprised because I assumed that over time the “affair” slowly came to light, it’s just that Carlos expected the money to go only to him. We’re told even her husband knew, and Napumoceno’s regular rent must have become suspicious. About the way the village saw him, I spend long months of my childhood and early teens in a small village in Serra da Estrela and I recognize those “mood swings” as typical of a close community. It’s very hard to forget that a stranger is a stranger, especially if the person is envied.
Interesting that you saw identity over society, because I did the other way around. I think the humor and witty language is used expose the public and private morality of village life. I wouldn’t be surprised it some stabs were private Cape Verdean-jokes, that we just don’t get. I’ve read in another site an interesting quote that might shed some light into why the novel reminded us of South America, Europe and Africa:
Discovered in 1462 and settled before Columbus’ arrival in America, the arid Cape Verde archipelago is arguably home to the oldest, most thoroughly Creolized culture in the world. Indeed, the Portuguese used the islands as an advertisement for their missao civilizadora or assimilationist colonialism. (…) Cape Verdeans, scattered around the Atlantic Rim by geography and economics for centuries, intuitively understood the idea of “transnational identity” long before it became a buzzword in cultural studies journals.
It must be a very interesting society and I look forward to visiting it at some point (maybe in my honey-moon). (Did you know there’s going to be an Observatory of the Portuguese Language there?) I felt Almeida captured that peculiarity of the country well and subtly.
What do you think about Napumoceno the man as a metaphor for Cape Verde: isolated, with an apparently controlled and repetitive life, but full of secrets and adventures. He’s a serious business-man, with a good dose of the comical about him (he became rich by selling umbrellas in a country where it doesn’t rain!). He’s the poor foreigner, who cannot be part of the exclusive club, no matter how rich and philanthropist he becomes (Cape Verde vs. Portugal after independence?).
Scribacchina: I love your interpretation of Napumoceno as a metaphor for the country, it fits perfectly! At the same time, I know too little about Cape Verde to judge (I had to go and check out history and geography on the Internet), but I think that parallel to that metaphor there may be another, less subtle one: Napumoceno as a symbol (or even as a satire) of part of the local society, struggling to identify themselves less and less as African and more as Westernized. Or am I just mis-constructing Cape Verdean identity here? I would love to know how the locals reacted to the novel — I’m sure there are inside jokes as you mentioned, but also because they have the first-hand knowledge of the place that we lack.
Moving back from society (thanks for the links!) to plot, what do you think about Adélia, the lifelong love/lover that no one seems to know about? I wonder if it was some kind of wishful thinking on Napumoceno’s part, a fantasy that he created to redeem his bleak life and give it some color?
The late and very missed Cape Verdian singer Cesária Évora, singing one of her most famous songs, a love-song to São Nicolau Island, where Senhor Napumoceno was born (she makes an appearance in the movie).
Alex: That is also a great point! And I guess it can be applied to every country that was under some sort of restriction and then became infatuated by the wonders of the west and all its status symbols (Napumoceno’s car, the office gadgets). Regarding Adélia, I’m still convinced she’s the toothless old woman. We only see her described by Napumoceno and who’s to say he didn’t embellished her here and there? If the old woman is really Adélia, I can’t but to admire her pride and stubbornness.
Regarding the whole individual vs. societal focus we discussed above, I was thinking: there is a strong sense of place, but surprisingly little about history or politics in the book (unless we count our guessed metaphors). In the end, it’s really a story about a man trying not to be the poor child who arrive in São Vicente penniless. He wanted to exit this social limbo, so he divided his live between the boring bachelor business man that everyone esteemed (but maybe didn’t really respect?), and the man to whom the color green was so irresistible that he basically raped his cleaning lady when she wore a green skirt.
I really liked Germano Almeida’s style of writing: the ironic and witty way he gradually built this extraordinary character and I’m looking forward to reading more by him.
Scribacchina: You really think that woman is Adélia?! She doesn’t fit Napumoceno’s description at all, nor the character I had imagined! I’d rather set for the interpretation that Adélia was some kind of fantasy. But then again, nothing in the will completely mirrored his life, so…
In the end, I think I was less impressed by this book than you were, but the best thing about it (apart from the witticism you mentioned) is that it can be read on so many level. It is just the story of a man who tries to overcome his poor origins. It isjust the story of a man who basically missed each and every chance at happiness he had. And at the same time it is the social satire, and the reflection on identity, and probably many more things that we don’t see yet.
I’m ever so glad to see that Guy Gavriel Kay (GGK) is back on track! Before reading Ysabel I truly believed he could do no wrong. Even his less-good books were still good, and his good books were amazing, but Ysabel made me fear he’d lost his mojo, especially because it followed The Last Light of the Sun, which was in the “less-good” category. It was with a sigh of relive that I finished Under Heaven and could confidently still say he’s one of my favorite fantasy authors.
One of the best things about his books is that each is set in a place very similar to our own world: Tigana could be medieval Italy, The Lions of Al-Rassan Moorish Spain, The Sarantine Mosaic Constantinople, etc. In Under Heaven, the country of Kitai was inspired by China’s 8th century Tang Dynasty and the events leading to the An Shi Rebellion.
For the first time GGK moves outside “Europe” and away from the world of all his earlier novels. In Under Heaven there’s only one moon (instead of the usually two), and there’s no reference to the mythical Fionavar, a legend common to all his previous societies and where The Fionavar Tapestry is actually set. I felt sorry for the break in tradition, but I’m also looking forward to see what he’ll do with his next books.
The story starts with Shen Tai, who’s honoring the death of his father, a great General of the Kitai Empire, by burying the dead of an old battle between Kitai and their arch-enemies, the Taguran. No one dares living in that place because the spirits of the dead roam in the night, so for his extraordinary courage, the Taguran Empress offers Shen Tai 250 prized Sardian horses.
This is such an amazing gift that Shen Tai’s life is immediately in danger. The gift forces him out his self-imposed exile to join the highest rank of Kitai’s society their complex political and dynastic power-struggles.
Kitai is an intricate society with strict rules that dominate every aspect of life and a lot of importance is given to pleasures such as music and poetry. For instance, young men who want to entre civil service have to go through several tough exams that involve history, law and philosophy, but they also have to write several styles of poetry. GGK published a poetry book in 2003, and you can tell that in Under Heaven he expanded on what’s clearly one of his passions.
I heart fictional maps…
Two things that make GGK’s books right up my alley: the characterization and his tangent ways of telling a story.
Under Heaven is filled with fascinating characters, like “The Banished Immortal”, the greatest poet of his age, who’s constantly drunk but never the less has great discussions with Shen Tai about everything. Although in Katai society women don’t have any official power, we see that many (most?) of the major events in the book are set in motion by women. From the Emperor’s Favorite Concubine to Shen Tai’s sister or his kick-ass body-guard, there’s enough female presence and variety to enrich a story that at first sight seems about a strictly-patriarchal society.
If you’ve read any of GGK’s books you’ll probably know what I mean about a tangent way to tell the story. Not only it’s not linear in time and place, but it also jumps between points of view and shifts between macro and micro events. For instance, he might be telling you about an impending major battle, the way the troops are moving and the Emperor’s intentions, and then shift to the thoughts of an obscure guard in an obscure fortress. A few pages are dedicated to this character, even though he’ll be of no importance to the story. You’ll find out about his hopes and fears, something about his past, and quickly you’ll become emotionally invested in him. Because of him you’ll realize the human impact of the battles recently described in only a strategic way.
Often, many chapters later (and probably by something a main character says in passing) you’ll find out that the guard died or was rewarded and, incredibly, it makes you strangely sad or happy. In Under Heaven, Shen Tai’s horse keeper is a good example of this, as is the head of the mountain fortress, or the beggar outside the closed garden. GGK is a master of this gimmick – I wonder if it has a name? May I propose “GGK 360o”?
I didn’t connect with Under Heaven as much as I did with some of his other books. The pace at certain points was too slow and the story of Shen Tai’s sister, given as a bride to the leader of a savage Mongol-like tribe, was more interesting than his own. I felt a bit frustrated whenever the story moved away from her. The same happened later on with Shen Tai’s former lover (her final chapters were actually my favorite of the whole book).
Although GGK does a great job with his characters, I have the feeling they weren’t the most important part of the book. They’re just instruments to illustrate the decline and fall of a dynasty that seemed immortal. There’s something very nostalgic about Under Heaven, like it’s an ode to a long-lost art form or beautiful language. This is something common to the best of his earlier books and it never fails to get a tear or twenty out of me.
In the end, my prediction for the winner goes to Stephen Hoye and his narration of In The Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson. It was a tough choice considering the quality of the other nominees, but in my humble opinion this one deserves it because of its higher degree of complexity. It’s full of names, places and expressions in English, German, Russian and French. There are also extensive quotes by men and women from different nationalities.
