The June 12th issue of the New Yorker has seven writers reflecting on ‘life during wartime.’ There’s Neil Sheehan on Vietnam, 1966; Robert Stone on Antarctica, 1958; Roger Angell on New York, 1967; Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie on Sierra Leone, 1997; Tony D’Souza on Ivory Coast, 2000; Aleksandar Hemon on Yugoslavia, 1991; and Wendell Steavenson on Iraq 2004.
My friends A. and R. both wrote me, separately, to rave about Chilean author Roberto Bolaño’s Last Evenings on Earth, a collection of short stories translated by Chris Andrews. Writing for the San Francisco Chronicle, Daniel Alarcón shares their enthusiasm:
If the earlier pieces are less convincing, it is only in relation to the sheer brilliance of the collection’s second half. Bolaño’s stories meander, following no logic except that which exile imposes: a yearning that cannot be articulated, only acted out, often with desultory gloom. His protagonists wander through the streets of Europe’s great cities and are unmoved. They are constantly arriving, and leaving just as suddenly, and the whole of the world is reduced to a single detail: These places are not home. Every conversation is vaguely recalled, every detail slightly blurred. Plots are arranged with startling asymmetry. Life, in other words, bumbles along, love appears and dissolves, men and women make half-hearted attempts to escape their lives. Naturally, the successes are fleeting and the failures sublimely tragic.
You can read it all here.
In the past, novelist Ahdaf Soueif has spoken forcefully against the repression of pro-democracy activists by Hosni Mubarak’s police. But now things have taken on a somewhat more personal note. In a letter to the New York Review of Books, she asks readers to support a petition demanding the immediate release of all those who have been put in prison over the last few weeks, including prominent Egyptian blogger Alaa (of Manal & Alaa fame) who is her nephew. Alaa has just been given another 15 days in jail, which prosecutors can renew indefinitely, and without charge.
Soueif is also interviewed (briefly) by Hugh Miles in the Telegraph about the protests and detentions.
“Despite her passion for reform in Egypt, Soueif maintains that writing is still her first priority. She said: “I don’t expect or want to be more involved with politics. I am too involved already. I spend half the day trying to be an advocate and half the day trying to write. It would be marvellous if things were sorted out and I would not be needed any more.”
I think of Soueif not just as a novelist but also as a public intellectual, and in a way I’m not sure if she’ll ever be in a position where she’s “not needed.” She is needed.
Novelist Orhan Pamuk has written a stirring denunciation for The Guardian of the charges that the Turkish government has brought against journalist Perihan Magden. She is being accused of “turning the people against military service.” Why, you ask? Because:
In the offending column, entitled “Conscientious Objection is a Human Right” Magden defended Mehmet Tarhan, who found himself in deep trouble after insisting on his right to refuse military service for reasons of conscience. She reminded her Turkish readers that the UN has acknowledged conscientious objection as a human right since the 1970s, and that of the signatories of the European Council, only the peoples of Azerbaijan and Turkey did not enjoy this right. Mehmet Tarhan is a homosexual, and because the Turkish army views homosexuality as a defect or a disability, he would have been “excused” from military service had he been willing to undergo a physical examination, but he “refused absolutely” to subject himself to such wrongful and degrading treatment.
Pamuk sounds fairly confident that “the judges presiding over the case will, no doubt, proceed with great care.” But it’s wait-and-see at the moment.
Over at the Independent, Catherine Taylor warns that those “eagerly turning” to Monica Ali’s new novel, Alentejo Blue, might “initially be appeased, but will ultimately feel disappointed.”
Ali’s bold style is apparent in flashes, but overall it lacks depth. The locals are just so much background: stereotypes who watch Brazilian soap operas all day or slide into doleful, platitudinous observations. Ali seems more confident with the English characters, but abandons them once their stories ignite a flicker of interest. The landscape is faithfully, if monotonously evoked. It is as if the major themes of Brick Lane – community, displacement, the telling of tales, passion, political undercurrents – have been awkwardly transplanted to another environment, where they cannot flourish.
You can read the review here. An alternative (and perhaps no more flattering) take on the novel can be found here.
A couple of weeks ago, the New York Times Book Review published its list of the “Best Work of American Fiction of the last 25 Years,” which was promptly, and predictably,met with collective groans from the lit blogosphere. And apparently, the editors are loving it: They’ve included a sampling of blog reactions in the Sunday edition.