Eve's Alexandria

That Ferocious Wind

(Milford Sound, Fjordland, NZ - 27th October 2009)
 

So, we're back from New Zealand.  In body if not in spirit.  Ever since we landed at Heathrow, nearly two weeks ago now, it has been nothing but lashing rain and that ferocious wind.  The day has barely been with us, at its best in the very early morning when the winter sun is theatrical and everything looks stark and backlit.  On the other side of the world it was late spring, turning into summer, and we were lucky with the weather; it was blue skies when we needed them, and if it rained it rained at night or when we were travelling from one beautiful place to another.  We had some extraodinary experiences: flying over Fjordland in a tiny Cesna Caravan; cycling across the Maniototo; standing on a beach on the Otago Peninsula in a perfect dusk watching yellow-eyed penguins come in from the sea; sailing Lake Taupo on a yacht once owned by Errol Flynn; trekking 14 kilometres through native bush on Waiheke Island, just Esther and I all alone, just to paddle on a glorious, deserted golden shoreline.  It was, and probably will remain, one of the most wonderful and impulsive things I have ever done.

While I was there I learnt several things about New Zealand.  First, it is true what they say about the sheep - sheep, sheep, sheep, everywhere you look in their ruminating millions - and the mountains.  You look up and there are mountains; if not mountains, volcanos.  Every town has a mountain range for a backdrop, even Christchurch which stands on the edge of the notoriously flat Canterbury plains.  If you take in a vista without a peak or two you feel a strange sense of emptiness.  Second, it is a young country.  For Europeans, a very very young country.  Permanent white settlement of the islands only really began in the mid-nineteenth century, by which point the Maori had been there perhaps 800 years at most.  When William the Bastard was conquering England in the eleventh century the Land of the Long White Cloud was nothing but birds, bugs and trees.  This has the effect of making New Zealand's history very intimate, uncanonised, like a breath on the back of your neck.  It is also very manageable, but no less mysterious and compelling for it.  In Dunedin we visited the Otago Settler's Museum and spent a fascinating hour in a room filled from floor to ceiling with photographs and portraits of settlers who arrived on the first ships in the late 1840s, mostly from Scotland.  It was a potent experience, to think of their long journey across the sea and their prospects of building a new life on completely alien and strangely inhabited shores.  They tried to bring home with them in the form of animals and plants, to transform what they found.  The legacy of it is everywhere you look - every hillside in Otago is sown with gorse and broom like a Scottish hillside; today's farmers spend hundreds of thousands of pounds trying to uproot the stuff.  (Because sheep can't eat it.)  Not to mention the devastation wrought on native bird species like the kiwi and flightless wren by introduced predators, like stoats and cats.

(Flying over Queenstown, NZ - 27th October 2009) 

Another thing about New Zealand: books are very expensive there.  Very expensive.  A regular paperback will set you back $25 NZD, about £11.00, while a hardback will cost anything up to $50 or £35.  And so I didn't buy any, not a single one.  I could have bought dozens; NZ seems to have a flourishing trade with lots of independent bookshops to inspire impulse buys, but alas alack the cost and weight stopped me.  I am determined to read some Janet Frame now though, and more Katherine Mansfield.  To my surprise I read surprisingly little while I was there, even on the flights there and back.  When I wasn't sleeping (on the flights, I mean), I was being plyed with plasticated foodstuffs or watching movies or wandering up and down the aisles.  I flicked through a couple of magazines; read a couple of hundred pages each of Shirley and Acacia but was never seriously in danger of finishing either of them.  Shirley I finished this morning; Acacia, dare I say it, is still stuck around the three hundred page mark.

It isn't that I haven't enjoyed what I've read of David Anthony Durham's book so far.  It is all well and good, and the world-building is solid.  But solid, perhaps, at the cost of its spark.  Acacia puts its feet firmly in the grooves worn by others that have gone before it - decaying Empire, devastating secrets, betrayal, the fate of the world on the shoulders of children.  And there is something missing in the characters for me.  I can't put my finger on it yet; I am simply not convinced by them.  If I want to read on and (and at present I do want to) it is because of a primitive desire to find out what happens, to see through the endgame, not to spend more time in Durham's world with the individuals of his making.  They haven't become enough of themselves yet to warrant being of interest in their own rights.  This is precisely opposite to the way I have felt about Shirley (and note, I'm pretty sure this is the only time and place in the world you will see these two books compared).  From very early on in Bronte's novel I knew what the end would be.  The end is inevitable, and all the gentle twists of the plot are visible a mile away through mist, but the desire to read on was strong.  The difference was that I wanted to hear the characters speak and think and interact again, and then again.  They were their own reward, entirely predictable in action but thoroughly unpredictable in personality - one minute witty, the next obtuse; one minute arrogant, the next vulnerable, like real people moving about.  I feel I know Durham's characters because they are familiar to me from the dozens of fantasy sagas I have read before; I feel I recognise Bronte's characters because, like individuals in the flesh, they are barely knowable at all.  Their convincing realism, and what makes them so compelling, is the sense that we do not and cannot perceive them in their entireties. 

~~Victoria~~

The Best Possible Name

Though no longer pregnant, she continues, at times, to mix Rice Krispies and peanuts and onions in a bowl. For being a foreigner, Ashima is beginning to realise, is a sort of lifelong pregnancy - a perpetual wait, a constant burden, a continuous feeling out of sorts. It is an ongoing responsibility, a parenthesis in what had once been an ordinary life, only to discover that the previous life has vanished, replaced by something more complicated and demanding. Like pregnancy, being a foreigner, Ashima believes, is something that elicits the same curiosity from strangers, the same combination of pity and respect.

Jhumpa Lahiri's first short fiction collection, The Interpreter of Maladies (2000), was one of the best impulse purchases I ever made: each subtly wrenching story was a small revelation of measured prose and luminous insight. Thanks to my chronically over-stuffed TBR shelves, it took me a little while to get round to reading her debut (and, to date, only) novel, The Namesake (2003), but I'm glad I did. On balance, it isn't as successful as Lahiri's short fiction: she is at her most effective when exploring, in detail, short periods of her characters' lives - quiet emotional crises that bubble up over several weeks, that is, rather than the (unavoidably soap operatic) ups and downs of decades; there is also, perhaps not unsurprisingly in a novel, more incident, not all of it satisfying. Yet this remains a sensitive and illuminating work.

Like the stories in Interpreter of Maladies, The Namesake is concerned with the experiences of first- and second-generation Bengali immigrants to the US - specifically, with their experiences of East Coast university towns. The first part of the book focuses on Ashoke Ganguli, a graduate student at MIT, and his young, pregnant wife, Ashima. It is 1968 and they are recently married, and are still getting to know each other even as they're setting up home together in a new country. Ashoke has his work and his colleagues to ease some of the shock of transition. He also has something of a new lease on life, having survived a vividly-depicted train crash - and resultant serious injuries - seven years before. His salvation came mostly through the workings of chance; he was reading Nikolai Gogol's Diary of a Madman at the moment of the crash, and was spotted in the wreckage because he had a page from the book clutched in his hand, which caught the rescuer's search lights:

None of this was supposed to happen. But no, he had survived it. He was born twice in India, and then a third time, in America. Three lives by thirty. For this he thanked his parents, and their parents, and the parents of their parents.

Ashima, though, is adrift, abruptly bereft of the extensive support network of family and friends she has been raised to expect:

"We are expecting a perfectly normal delivery, Mrs Ganguli."

But nothing feels normal to Ashima. For the past eighteen months, ever since she's arrived in Cambridge, nothing has felt normal at all. It's not so much the pain, which she know, somehow, she will survive. It's the consequence: motherhood in a foreign land. [...] She is terrified to raise a child in a country where she is related to no-one, where she knows so little, where life seems so tentative and spare.

This and other passages struck a chord for me, recalling tales of my late grandmother's early experiences as an immigrant to the UK - specifically, her experience of going into labour alone in the flat she shared with my grandfather (on a long shift in the mines), lacking both access to a telephone, and enough spoken English, to even call an ambulance. (Her landlord eventually roused an ambulance; the paramedics arrived to find the job already over, and my grandmother lying exhausted beside her firstborn, whom she'd wrapped in the bed cover.)

When Ashima's son is born, she feels pity for him ("She has never known of a person entering the world so alone, so deprived"). One symptom of this deprivation is that the new child cannot be named immediately, as Ashoke and Ashima are waiting for a letter - long promised, and, it becomes apparent, long lost in the international mail - from his great-grandmother, which is to advise on what the name should be. He can be given a pet name,

daknam, meaning, literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persistent memory of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too that one is not all things to all people.

But he cannot yet be given a 'good name', the formal name by which will be known to the world ("on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories"); for this they must wait, because any link with the family so far away is too precious to abandon. Back in India, this delay would be less of a problem ("It wasn’t unusual for years to pass before the right name, the best possible name, was determined"), but in the US the customs are different, of course, and the child's pet name becomes, by default, his official name.

Thus their son is named Gogol. This is chosen by Ashoke, and even amid her loneliness and dislocation it brings Ashima some joy, as she recognises this very personal gift for what it is: "the name stands not only for her son's life, but her husband's". As he grows up, their son, of course, does not:

For by now, he's come to hate questions pertaining to his name, hates having constantly to explain. He hates having to tell people that it doesn't mean anything "in Indian".

It comes to stand instead - not least because Ashoke doesn't actually tell him the history behind the name - for the lack of communication between father and son, which only worsens as the years go by and that early promise of a bond between them, greeted with such pleasure by Ashima, is lost. When Ashoke gives his son a copy of his namesake's short stories, it means nothing to Gogol, and the gesture goes painfully unremarked.

But the name also stands, more broadly, for the gulf of expectation and experience that separates US-born Gogol (and his younger sister), desperate to fit in and live a 'normal' American life, from his Indian parents, who feel each step towards acculturation as a lost part of themselves. Ashima and Ashoke feel the separation from their families in India more keenly with the passing years, as their own parents' lives disappear at the other end of crackly, borrowed telephone lines, the deaths events reported from another time zone, not shared or relieved by the presence of relatives. Although they can occasionally afford to visit home, it only increases their loneliness when they return ("in spite of the hundred or so relatives they've just seen, they feel as if they are the only Gangulis in the world").

This, again, put me in my mind of my own grandparents: my grandmother, who came to England at the age of 18, had neither money nor leisure time to visit her family for several years (by which time she was already married, and had the aforementioned child); my grandfather, who came from the Ukraine, had even less chance to go home by the late 1950s, of curse. While I still find it hard to imagine the scale and finality of this utter removal from all that is dear and familiar, or the notion of going through so many life changes without being able to share them with my parents, reading The Namesake gave me some insight.

Of course, the experience of being a white granddaughter of immigrants in a majority-white country is very different from that of Gogol, in the novel - from having a heritage and a skin colour that forever mark you out as different in the country where you were born and raised. Ashoke and Ashima do adapt, in some senses, to their surroundings, even though doing so entails loss:

And yet to a casual observer, the Gangulis, apart from the name on their mailbox, [...] appear no different from their neighbours. [...] They learn to roast turkeys, albeit rubbed with garlic and cumin and cayenne, at Thanksgiving, to nail a wreath to their door in December, to wrap woolen scarves around snowmen, to color boiled eggs violet and pink at Easter and hide them around the house. For the sake of Gogol and Sonia they celebrate, with progressively increasing fanfare, the birth of Christ, an event the children look forward to far more than the worship of Durga and Saraswati.

Nonetheless - as we come to see increasingly through Gogol's eyes - they can never completely 'fit in' in the white, middle class suburbia that Ashoke's career opens up to them. Small slights accumulate, and Gogol becomes aware that his parents' identity is at odds with, and viewed with hostility by, their adopted home:

For by now he is aware, in stores, of cashiers smirking at his parents' accents, and of the salesmen who prefer to direct their conversation to Gogol, as though his parents were either incompetent or deaf.

The racism, and its internalisation, is subtly portrayed, but pervasive. Gogol's inevitable period of teenage rebellion becomes focused on kicking against the things that make his parents (and himself) different. He resists their efforts to maintain a measure of Bengali culture in their American home. They speak Bengali to him, he speaks English back; he sighs, as only a teenager can, over the festivals they "force him, thoughout his childhood and adolescence" to celebrate (as he recalls it later); he resists pressures to date Indian and Indian-American women, and occasionally goes out of his way to shock his father with his choice of girlfriends. He even, albeit with his parents' blessing and not without a "twinge of sadness", changes his name (to Nikhil).

It is in this context that he really begins to feel what his parents have felt since they moved to the US: the same nagging conflict between past and present, between his upbringing and the life tries to make for himself:

[H]e doesn't feel like Nikhil. Not yet. Part of the problem is that the people who now know him as Nikhil have no idea that he used to be Gogol. They know him only in the present, not at all in the past. But after eighteen years of Gogol, two months of Nikhil feel scant, inconsequential. At times he feels as if he's cast himself in a play, acting the part of twins, indistinguishable to the naked eye yet fundamentally different. At times he still feels his old name, painfully and without warning, the way his front tooth had unbearably throbbed in recent weeks after a filling.

What Gogol/Nikhil comes to realise, as we follow him through (the unsuccessful relationships of) his 20s and beyond, is that his parents' identity and heritage, the one marginalised and viewed with suspicion by the society around them, is shared by him. He cannot simply deny that part of him (not least because the American culture surrounding him will never let him forget that he is different); nor, at length, does he wish to. But their Bengali identity is not the whole story of who he is, either, because his experiences growing up in another country have shaped his expectations and selfhood in all sorts of difficult ways; this he discovers in a separate process of realisation and growing up, and another unsuccessful relationship. There are no straightforward answers here.

Ultimately, it seems, Gogol is unmoored, partaking of several worlds but never (allowed to be) entirely at home in any. In the end it seems his displaced, accidental name may indeed be the best possible one for him.

~~Nic

Enlargement of the Imagination

Imagine a vast sheet of paper on which straight Lines, Triangles, Squares, Pentagons, Hexagons, and other figures, instead of remaining fixed in their places, move freely about, on or in the surface, but without the power of rising above or sinking below it, very much like shadows - only hard with luminous edges - and you will then have a pretty correct notion of my country and countrymen. Alas, a few years ago, I should have said "my universe": but now my mind has been opened to higher views of things.

In such a country, you will perceive at once that it is impossible that there should be anything of what you call a "solid" kind; but I dare say you will suppose that we could at least distinguish by sight the Triangles, Squares, and other figures, moving about as I have described them. On the contrary, we could see nothing of the kind, not at least so as to distinguish one figure from another. Nothing was visible, nor could be visible, to us, except Straight Lines.

It's an ingenious set-up: a first-person account of a two-dimensional world. Flatland (1884), by Edwin A Abbott (1838-1926), is a slim, fascinating little fable: part social satire, part musing on the limitations of human perception, and all inventiveness.

The book is couched as a description of the ways of Flatland, for the benefit of an audience in another world, glimpsed briefly and with the force of revelation by our narrator: Spaceland, where three dimensional shapes are the norm (i.e., our own world). The narrator is a Square, which - in a society where an individual's status rises with the number of their sides - makes him (self-consciously... it is a Victorian novel, after all) lower middle class. Herein lies one of the book's pleasant surprises: for the lead figure in an allegorical tale, whose role it is to channel the themes, our Square is an unusually complex and interesting character.

Much of the time, he presents a conservative, rather priggish image of himself - as when he explains, for example, the hierarchical structure of his society in terms of the essential qualities of its inhabitants. One's disposition depends upon, and can be readily predicted by, the acuteness of the angles one presents to the world: thus, for example, triangles are reckless and violent (all the more so if they are of the isosceles variety...), and are fit only to be soldiers or the lowest of labourers.

By extension, he is firmly convinced that the number-of-sides hierarchy is fundamentally a Good Thing, although he does condemn the hazardous, rather cruel ways that ambitious upper-class parents seek to improve their children's standing - by fracturing their young sides repeatedly to increase said sides' number. (As if hothousing them at some horrific boarding school wasn't bad enough...)

Nonetheless, he considers efforts to offset/undermine the hierarchy, by the introduction of colour into Flatland, to be "diabolical", since "the road would then lie open for a total destruction of all Aristocratic Legislature and for the subversion of our Privileged Classes". People whose sides are of irregular lengths, moreover, are a threat to the fabric of everything, because - the horror - one cannot easily judge who they are and where they fit into the hierarchy simply by examining their angles:

[I]t does not need much reflection to see that the whole of the social life in Flatland rests upon the fundamental fact that Nature wills all Figures to have their sides equal. [...] if no one could calculate the Regularity of a single figure in the company, all would be chaos and confusion, and the slightest panic would cause serious injuries, or - if there happened to be any Women or Soldiers present - perhaps considerable loss of life.

He considers irregularity to be a condition (analogous to physical or mental disability, or perhaps more broadly to simple non-conformity) that must be remedied by "the art of healing" with "compressions, extensions, trepannings, colligations, and other surgical or diaetetic operations"; or, if absolutely necessary (!), euthanasia.

The reference to women's violence in the passage above stems from the fact that women, in Flatland, are not shapes but straight lines, and thus the pointiest of all:

If our highly pointed Triangles of the Soldier class are formidable, it may be readily inferred that far more formidable are our Women. For, if a Soldier is a wedge, a Woman is a needle; being, so to speak, all point, at least at the two extremities. Add to this the power of making herself practically invisible at will, and you will perceive that a Female, in Flatland, is a creature by no means to be trifled with.

It is the familiar rhetoric of misogyny: women, by their very nature, are dangerous to men (not to mention devious); since it is their nature they cannot be trusted to do any better, and must be confined to special quarters and follow certain social rituals to minimise the harm they might cause to men. If there is a social hierarchy, women are always at the bottom of it. He is splendidly deadpan about the more extreme consequences of the arrangement:

On the whole we got on pretty smoothly in our domestic relations, except in the lower strata of the Military Classes. There the want of tact and discretion on the part of the husbands produces at times indescribable disasters. [...] The result is massacre; not, however, without its advantages, as it eliminates the more brutal and troublesome of the Isosceles; and by many of our Circles the destructiveness of the Thinner Sex is regarded as one among many providential arrangements for suppressing redundant population, and nipping Revolution in the bud.

(I especially like the combination of the dry, detached tone with near-hysterical words like "massacre" and "Revolution", here, and "the Thinner Sex" also made me chuckle; in places, Flatland is very funny indeed.)

But women are one topic on which our Square clearly entertains doubts about the wisdom and justice of the status quo; he anticipates, and agrees with, his audience's belief that the condition of women in Flatland is "truly deplorable". But what he deplores must surely have carried a ring of familiarity for the book's Victorian readers (as indeed it still does today):

About three hundred years ago, it was decreed by the Chief Circle that, since women are deficient in Reason but abundant in Emotion, they ought no longer to be treated as rational, nor receive any mental education. The consequence was that they were no longer taught to read, nor even to master Arithmetic enough to enable them to count the angles of their husband or children; and hence they sensibly declined during each generation in intellectual power. And this system of female non-education or quietism still prevails.

He goes on to note how many of the assumptions about differences between men and women are essentially in the eye of the beholder, and that ideas and actions which are considered irrational and silly in women become perfectly correct and admirable when they are done or felt by men ("'Love' then becomes 'the anticipation of benefits'; 'duty' becomes 'necessity' or 'fitness'; and other words are correspondingly transmuted.") He also notes how the language of chivalry - special regard for, and protection of, women - hides contempt:

Moreover, among Women, we use language implying the utmost deference for their Sex; and they fully believe that the Chief Circle Himself is not more devoutly adored by us than they are: but behind their backs they are both regarded and spoken of - by all but the very young - as being little better than 'mindless organisms'.

This particular passage ends with a restrained but heartfelt plea for the education of women that seems very clearly aimed as much at Spaceland as it is at Flatland.

Whether or not he always had such doubts about the inherent rightness of his world, as he narrates this account Square has undergone something like a religious conversion or a conceptual breakthrough. Towards the end of the book, the Square describes how he was, for a brief time, exposed to the world of three-dimensionality. He recounts his encounter with a Sphere, who urges him to "proclaim the Gospel of Three Dimensions to your blind benighted countrymen in Flatland" - something that lands him in prison, assumed to be insane, once he is back home.

But while Square is awestruck at the sight of solid shapes in Spaceland, he is inevitably led to wonder whether there are not further dimensions beyond the ordinary perception and comprehension of Spaceland, just as Spaceland is beyond his own; the Sphere, predictably, scoffs at the very notion:

I. And even as we, who are now in Space, look down on Flatland and see the insides of all things, so of a certainty there is yet above us some higher, purer region, whither thou dost surely purpose to lead me - O Thou Whom I shall always call, everywhere and in all Dimensions, my Priest, Philosopher, and Friend - some yet more spacious Space, some more dimensionable Dimensionality, from the vantage-ground of which we shall look down together upon the revealed insides of Solid things, and where thine own intestines, and those of thy kindred Spheres, will lie exposed to the view of the poor wandering exile from Flatland, to whom so much has already been vouchsafed.

Sphere. Pooh! Stuff! Enough of this trifling!

Abbott - a theologian, philosopher, and mathematician - was undoubtedly interested in the realms of imagination and thought that lie beyond our experience, and the ways in which such realms might call into question the things in our social order that we take for granted as 'natural' and 'correct'. For all the fun of the scenario, this is a book that punches above its weight; nineteenth-century postmodernism, anyone?

Still, the end result for our visionary Square is not a cheerful one; whether or not he is ultimately correct, being right in a cosmic sense isn't necessarily much help when faced with the daily realities of social expectations, which don't take kindly to either reformers or holy fools:

It is part of the martyrdom which I endure for the cause of Truth that there are seasons of mental weakness, when Cubes and Spheres flit away into the background of scarce-possible existences; when the Land of Three Dimensions seems almost as visionary as the Land of One or None; nay, when even this hard wall that bars me from my freedom, these very tablets on which I am writing, and all the substantial realities of Flatland itself, appear no better than the offspring of a diseased imagination, or the baseless fabric of a dream.

~~Nic

Actual Conditions of Life

The thick light of night stuck to our bodies. We moved slowly and with effort. At such times you had to save your strength to hold out for the end of the story, for death, or for whatever else.

Following on from The Foundation Pit, here's a tale about the end of Soviet collectivisation: Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk's Tales of Galicia (1995; English translation 2003), a nicely put-together little volume from Prague-based Twisted Spoon Press. (Twisted Spoon is a nifty small press specialising in translations, particularly from Eastern European languages, and I picked up the book in a Prague bookshop, while visiting my fellow Alexandrian Jo there some years ago.)

Tales of Galicia is a collection of short stories, all set in and around the same fictional village, in the same period (1989). Each tale is recounted by the same anonymous, first-person narrator, who assumes the detached tone and method of an ethnographer, but who cannot quite resist a certain emotional involvement in the exchanges he recounts. (Or a certain wordiness - for the most part the prose is fine, but several descriptive and analytical passages go on a few sentences too long.)

There are a number of shared themes: social fragmentation, looming change, boundaries and their transgression. But as you make your way through the stories, connections begin to emerge. This is slow at first - a glance of a character met in a previous tale, return visits to the village pub - and then more obvious - family members are met, personal histories are explored from other angles - and gradually pieces of a larger story can be seen.

It's never all tied together (and is all the better for it), and this larger story certainly never resolves into a linear plot; but it makes for a neat and reasonably effective sort of meta demonstration of how people's lives, even the lives of those who barely know each other, are entwined within the broader current of life in the village. This blurring of the lines between short form and novel is matched by a breaking down of the boundaries between observer-narrator and subjects: he goes from being the unobtrusive, unseen interlocutor listening to an old man recount how the area has changed over the generations (in 'Blacksmith Kruk'), to getting drunk with one of the villagers ('Lewandowski'), and ultimately in the final story to sharing a character's reflections as she lies alone on her death bed ('The End').

That said, the narrator undoubtedly begins with an agenda, or at least with an expectation about what he will find in a village emerging from collectivisation: people stripped of their identity and community by would-be altruistic values ("to each according to their needs" etc.), values that collapse when exposed to the real world. It is a reading of the situation that he pushes early on:

Certainly, those values are beautiful, but too abstract and inadequate to withstand the actual conditions of life. The system's logical and mechanical, as well as abstract, structure shattered to pieces because Jozek and his brothers and sisters lived in it - a legion of all those who had been disinherited and liberated from the harsh dictates of morality, religion and memory. Surrendering themselves to instinct, listening intently to nature's murmured temptations, they became a mass that the most ingenious structure could not contain. (--'Jozek')

But over the course of the book we, and the narrator, are presented with a number of challenges - if never a complete refutation - to the notion that the villagers are "a mass", without "morality, religion or memory". It could hardly be described as wildly optimistic, but nonetheless there are signs of hope, signs that humanity has not been wholly obliterated by the horrors of collectivisation.

Certainly, people's lives are grim (although not noticeably grimmer, I have to say, than the accounts of Russian peasant life in some of Anton Chekhov's stories, like 'Peasants' (1897) and 'In the Ravine' (1900), which at times reach wrist-slitting levels of despair'; but then, Chekhov was a much more powerful writer). Still, Stasiuk's descriptions repeatedly emphasise the monotonous, cold decay of the village and its surrounding landscape, in a way that melds pathetic fallacy with an explanation of the way of life that has developed there:

A few buildings like heavy barges, lichen-covered and dilapidated, taken on a journey to nowhere, motionless on a giant white wave. Sheds for wood, shelters for hay. Clothes on lines buffeting against each other, smacking like pieces of frozen meat. The wind from over the mountain pass laden with clouds of snow. That is how Jozek's world looked. (--'Jozek')

Even where the events of the stories are not explicitly linked, life on this iron-hard, unforgiving land entails many a shared - indeed, in some senses collective - experience for its inhabitants, and for the most part these experiences are difficult and draining. In places, reading about the experiences induces a similar feeling in the reader; much like the narrator, it was not until the final few stories (in particular those centring on 'Grandma' and her family) that I found myself really engaging with the characters.

Everything revolves around hard physical labour (predominantly agriculture and mining), unremitting cold, drink, and the ending of things. Alcohol is an escape primarily for the village's men, a framework to their lives as fundamental as the church ("It was a safe and familiar legacy, the limit of their patrimony, their christening, their Sunday mass and their graveyard", is how it is described in 'Janek'). Women who drink are questionable, difficult, and ultimately pitiable figures ("She started to hang around the pub even though, you know, around here that's not a place where women just stop by", we're told of the title character in 'Maryska'). The pub is a space for men, although women "sometimes showed up on payday to get their hands on the earnings" ('Janek'), because of course women are killjoys who have the strange idea that families can't be fed on their patriarch's vodka fumes alone.

Initially, at least, this is not a world that has much space at all for women's experiences. But around halfway through the book, female characters begin to appear, and even to speak. We begin to see that men and women share the hardships of labour and borderline survival, if not the vodka:

But raising grain was by this time art for art's sake, and probably just force of habit, since he had to do something else besides haymaking and potato farming. And thus, abundance will always assume the shape of lesser or greater poverty. (--'Wlodek')

Afterwards, Grandma wrapped herself up in an old quilt, huddled in a corner of the wooden shed, and fell into a shallow doze. The night's luminosity was airy - nothing like the day's massive brightness that her body had to make an effort to get through, bent over, creaking and animated only by the hope of eternal rest in darkness. If it was September, hoarfrost would cover the ground before dawn. (--'Maryska')

There is little comfort here. Death, too, haunts everyone. Literally, in fact, for while we see a number of characters die (including Jozek, in the very first story, and Grandma at the end), some of them return later in the book to interact with the living. Another boundary transgressed. (The village, I should note, is itself located on a borderland.)

I can't help but wonder, indeed, whether part of the fear of death doesn't stem from a fear that it won't be the end - that dying will be no escape:

The men would wake up and sober up in the same place, the place where they would resume their labours. Because life was round, it moved in a circle, and if someone did manage to tear himself away from it, then someone else would immediately appear to take his place. (--'Janek')

Is this a place, then, lost to morality, religion, and memory? One story ('Place'), discusses the removal, by anonymous external forces, of a local church (it is apparently taken brick by brick to a museum); hard to deny the symbolism of that, although the narration of its loss is intercut with an account of its founding and memories of its role in the community. Several characters are indeed morally repulsive, Grandma's abusive son-in-law, for example ("he worked, he drank, he fought, he slept", he locked his mother-in-law in the attic while she lay dying... the final story really does pack an emotional punch). Yet towards the book's end we meet a man who comes back from the dead, no less, to report the truth of a crime he witnessed and thus free an innocent man, which seems above and beyond the call of neighbourly duty ('Confession').

In terms of memory, the monotony of daily life clearly takes its toll:

Then there came a morning, maybe Monday, maybe Thursday. It was hard to tell, because as usual, yesterday's day had fled from memory, and today's trembling hands weren't any different than they had been the week before. (--'Janek')

But the narrator finds no shortage of people to tell him what life used to be like in the village, even if largely so they can contrast it with the uncertain present ("everything is changing so much now you wouldn't recognise it a week later", 'Blacksmith Kruk' notes). Indeed, the further into the stories we go, the more we encounter not "a mass" but a host of distinct individuals, from the violent Kosciejny (described in a fantastic thumbnail sketch: "The two fiery substances in his body - blood and alcohol - made him resistant to seasons and to weather") to the irrepressible Lewandowski, who meets a woman "who was as essential and accidental as he was, and he married her and started to build a house". Each is shaped by his or her own, various memories; Grandma, in the final story, provides the most vibrant, vivid imagery in the book as she sees and remembers the village in a light new to us:

Grandma was lying on her back on the white, bony bed, which had likely wandered its way there from some hospital. Through her half-open lips she breathed in the past, which blossomed out in her head like tissue-paper flowers in a magician's hand, exploded like fireworks at a village fair and lasted for just as short a time. She saw the sky, tinted deep blue with the sweltering heat and the reddened crest of the grassy hill. (--'The End')

The Soviet era has left deep scars on the village, and the changes it is undergoing look set to leave more; Stasiuk is clear-eyed on this, without belabouring the point. But some changes, at least, have produced outcomes both rich and strange, as in the transformation of a "penitentiary fiefdom" (former prison camp):

That time was long gone. The prisoners married the jailers' daughters, and even though barbed wire was still hanging here and there, the windows didn't have bars on them any more. The doors were knocked out between the cells, and a mixed breed of the guarders and the guarded was maturing in the two-room apartments. (--'The Pub')

~~Nic