Monthly Archives: January 2024

The Return of the Gothic:  Le Fanu’s “Wylder’s Hand”

J. Sheridan Le Fanu has fallen out of fashion. 

One wonders:  how can this superb Gothic writer be overlooked? 

Victorian novel fans are rather like the Maenads, celebrating Dickens instead of Bacchus at secret rites. They adore sensation novelists like Wilkie Collins and Mary Braddon but Le Fanu has fallen into a ravine that devours neglected writers.

J. Sheridan Le Fanu

And yet Le Fanu remains a secret superstar.  In 2022 I lauded The Rose and the Key as my favorite book of all time. Was that rash?  This year it is his intriguing Gothic,  Wylder’s Hand, published in 1864, the same year as his famous novel, Uncle Silas

Wylder’s Hand, a chilling Gothic mystery, revolves around the disappearance of Mark Wylder.  For hundreds of years, the Wylders, the Brandons, and the Lakes, have quarreled about who owns the huge estate.  It passes from feuding family to feuding family, and Mark has just become the heir.  He and his beautiful, statuesque, silent cousin, Dorcas Brandon, who owns Brandon House, have decided on a marriage of convenience to keep the entire estate together. 

The marriage never takes place.

Chapters III and IV are called, respectively, “Our Dinner Party at Brandon” and “In Which We Go to the Dining Room and the Party Breaks Up.”  The narrator, an outsider, does not know the family well, but his dispassionate voice as he introduces the characters and situation makes the narrative all the more mysterious.  Fragments are missing; when will we find out what happened?  Just when you’ve got it figured out, everything changes.

Conspicuous at the party are  two attractive siblings,  the vivacious, impoverished Rachel Lake, who lives alone on a tiny income in a tiny house,  and her glib, unscrupulous brother, Stanley, who schemes to marry Dorcas.

Mark disappears, and we don’t know why.   We know that Stanley visits Rachel late at night and persuades her to go on a mysterious journey.  But we don’t know the details.  Has Mark bargained to spend a night with her in exchange for keeping silent about Stanley’s vices and troubles?  Is Mark is in a madhouse? In Mark’s absence, Stanley persuades Dorcas to marry him. 

Rachel is by far the strongest character, doing all she can to make peace and to save Mark’s brother, William, the vicar, from a scheming lawyer.

I have read somewhere – perhaps in a detective story – that the most common causes of murder are money and love.  This is certainly true in this spellbinding novel, a Gothic mystery with elements of the supernatural.

Three Books I’ll (Probably) Never Read

Some books never make the  TBR, though I have owned them for years. I shiver with apprehension every time I look at them, and yet I cannot give them away because they might make me wittier or thinner, or provide escape reading in February, the month devoted to The Green Hat and Terry Pratchett.   

Kathy Acker’s Don  Quixote was published in 1986. Neither my spouse nor I remember buying it. It’s as though it grew from the shelf like one of the pods in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Though I have tried to read it several times, I am repulsed by her profane, potty-mouthed, post-modern  prose. And yet reading it would make me  hip and fabulous, because Acker is the Patti Smith, or is it the William Burroughs? of “punk” literature. 

Acker was relentlessly hip, and her writing relentlessly dull.  In this boisterous little novel, a female Don Quixote has an abortion and then travels with dogs across America and London, meditating on the insane cultures.  There is  one amusing bit:  Quixote believes that Prince should be the president of the United States, because “all the presidents since World War II have been stupid anyway.”  He would have been better at show biz than Reagan, an actor.

Acker’s prose is awkward.  “Don Quixote decided the only thing was to be happy.  Since the only reason she went out of the house was to fuck, she decided that to be happy’s to fuck.”

But isn’t that clumsy writing? 

Edna Ferber is an underrated, once popular, writer who won the Pulitzer Prize in 1924 for her novel, So Big, a page-turner about the struggles of a successful woman farmer and her worthless son.  Not surprisingly, Ferber never attained the kudos of comparable male Pulitzer winners, like Sinclair Lewis and  Booth Tarkington. 

I discovered Ferber’s historical novels when I found a Ferber omnibus at a sale.  She reminds me slightly of Willa Cather, and I’m surprised Ferber is not in the women’s sub-canon, if not the traditional academic canon.  I enjoyed her novel Showboat, which was made into a Broadway musical and movie. And her melodramatic, fascinating novel, Giant, which was adapted as movie starring Elizabeth Taylor, traces the drama and dysfunction of an unhappy, rich oil family in Texas. 

But there is one Ferber’s novel I cannot read, Cimmaron.

Cimmaron is, in a way, a Western, set during the Oklahoma Gold Rush. I read 125 pages, but the dreary landscape undid me In every scene, Oklahoma is dry and dusty, or muddy and dirty, and if I remember correctly, there are boards instead of sidewalks. 

It is culture shock for Sabra, a young woman from a Southern family, who follows her husband, Yancey, a lawyer, into the wilds, because he wants the free land: there is “a land rush.”  Sabra has the impossible task of turning of shack into a home, while Yancey, a lawyer, has to prove himself to their rough neighbors.  And everybody has a gun. Nobody in Oklahoma in Cimmaron ever thought of gun control. 

Depressing, yes? But will I finish Cimmaron in 2024?

It does feel like the time of year when I should read a historical novel.

Richard Garnett’s biography, Constance Garnett: A Heroic Life, is, in many ways, an appealing book. Fans of Russian literature will be curious about Constance Garnett, the famous early translator of Turgenev, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky.

Her grandson, Richard Garnett, has written a thorough, if plodding, biography, with fascinating source material, including letters from Chekhov and Tolstoy.

It’s the size of the pages I don’t like,  This attractive paperback has oversized pages crammed with print.  Mjnd you, it’s not the size of the print so much as the size of the pages. But I might finish this in the summer, when the natural light is brighter, and it will seem more readable..

Do you hang on to books you positively dislike or will never read? Do tell.

Starbuck and Feline Rights:  A Trip to the Pound

Starbuck with her arm around Louisa May.

Imagine yourself at the pound in the twentieth century. Hundreds of dogs and cats sit in cages waiting to be adopted.  This is not a no-kill shelter:  this large city, known to truckers as The Big Dirty, is basic in its approach to unwanted animals.  You walk past rows of cages.  The dogs and cats are frantic, terrified, bewildered, listless, or have given up.  They whimper or wag their tails.  They bark or meow.  They stick their paws through the wire.  They can smell death; they can smell the euthanized animals burning in the incinerator behind the building. 

I try not to think about the incinerators, about the animals smelling burning flesh.  The incinerators are monitored by the EPA and state air pollution agencies, because they generate  toxic emissions, as do the incinerators at human crematories.  Bodies are mostly  water, but the gas-fueled incinerators emit carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, and oxide nitrogen.  

An anxious employee told me a horror story that haunts me.  She was traumatized and going mad, or she wouldn’t have told a stranger. Someone had dropped off a litter of kittens stuffed in a paper sack. These poor terrified mutilated kittens had to be euthanized. I gave her a pack of kleenex from my purse.

I took a deep breath. I did not share the sad story with my husband, because this was supposed to be a happy day.

And at that moment, a tiny black-and-white kitten demanded our attention. She climbed up the wire cage door, stuck to it with her claws, and meowed plaintively. 

She was the one.

We called her Starbuck.  She relaxed as soon as we left the building.  She purred in my lap in the car.  A car was a better living space than a cage.  And soon we were at home.  Wow, she loved running around that space.

Starbuck was so small that she had to be fed tiny morsels by hand for the first few weeks.  When she caught a cold, I sat with her in the bathroom and ran the shower so the steam would clear up her sinuses. And perhaps because I gave her so much attention, she became not only a good friend to cats and humans but a social worker and feline rights activist.  

A few years later, we adopted a kitten named Louisa May.  Starbuck washed her, cuddled with her, and taught her how to use the litter box. 

Starbuck and Louisa May were inseparable. One of their favorite activities was breaking into the attic. They would claw at the carpet under the door for hours, having figured out by kitty engineering or instinct that the door might open if they dug their claws in the right spot for long enough. One day I found the door open and the two cats happily  burrowing in boxes of books.  Louisa May left tiny claw tears on the cover of a Willa Cather book. I was so impressed with their break-in that I couldn’t stop laughing.

Starbuck also became a social worker.  When our oldest cat, Martian, who really was ancient, began to spend most of her time dozing in the Barcalounger, she was bullied at meals.  Emma was a feline rights activist:  she escorted Martian to the food bowls and batted away the bully while Martian ate.

Nowadays, in our small city, a no-kill shelter seems to have taken over the work of the pound.  And what a good thing that is! We loved our cats from the pound, but I am so happy that the animals now have a better chance of finding a good home. There are many adult rescue cats, as well as kittens. And the adult cats often are “buddy cats,” who come from the same home and cannot be separated.

An automatic family!

Lonely Insomniac: Why Aren’t All Our Cats Named Chloe?

I lived at the square in a cozy railroad apartment. At the time, I was an insomniac who devoted hours to studying classics.  I translated the Gettysburg Adress into Greek in the style of Lysias,  a whimsical task assigned by my Greek Composition professor.  Who thought these things up, I wondered?  It was in the tradition of the nineteenth-century gentleman reading classics at Oxford or Harvard.   I would never become  a nineteenth-century gentleman, but I might well be the reincarnation of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who also translated Greek.

But what to do about the loneliness?  There I was, stuck in a carrel at the library, consulting reference books, dictionaries, classical journals, re-translating Lysias’s speeches, and skimming a biography of Abraham Lincoln (that was unnecessary). Sometimes I dragged my books down to the cafeteria for a snack and coffee.  It was the refuge of raggedy, wild-eyed, incoherent students who had not slept in days and barely remembered their names.  There should have been a sign above the coffee pot:  WE NEVER SLEEP.

And then it happened: someone was giving away free Siamese kittens at the market.  She was wild, but it was love at first sight. Here’s what no one told me:  Chloe knew Greek.

It was no longer necessary to live in the library. Chloe helped me:  she batted at my Bic pen when I wrote in a spiral notebook,  guiding me to refine my prose.  She sat in the dictionary when I tried to look up kakodaimon (“evil genius”).

“Chloe, don’t you want to look up kakodaimon?”

She did not.  And so I affectionately called her Kakodaimon if she left footprints in the cornbread, ripped the curtains while speedily climbing them as if they were Mount Everest, or knocked over the Christmas tree.

Chloe was not thrilled when we adopted other cats.  One day she led them through the back of cupboard to a crawl space between the floors.  One of the cats got lost.  We called her name repeatedly to guide her back through the portal.

I wonder why we didn’t name any of our later cats Chloe. Some people do that. If their dog is Fluffy, all their later dogs are called Fluffy.

But we have never had another Siamese. And it wouldn’t be right to call a calico or tuxedo cat Chloe. 

And they probably wouldn’t answer to it anyway.

Doris Lessing’s “The Four-Gated City”:  Politics and the Old Woman

Doris Lessing

Readers of this blog know that I am a Doris Lessing fan. Not all of her books are equally brilliant, but the best are classics. I recently reread parts of The Four-Gated City, the fifth in her Children of Violence quintet, which Lessing considered a bildungsroman. And yet I find that claim very strange. It is true of the first four books in the series, which follow the life of Martha Quest from her teens to the age of 30. But the  final volume is a novel of ideas that gradually abandons the semblance of a conventional narrative.

It is not, however, surprising that Martha, a former Communist, would become the subject of an experimental novel.  After moving to London in the late 1940s, she takes a  job as a live-in secretary-cum-editor-cum -housekeeper to Mark Coleridge, a factory owner and leftist writer of a best-selling utopian novel: 

In the course of the novel, Martha and Mark analyze post-war politics, the evolution of the extended family to gird up Mark’s floundering dysfunctional nuclear family, the Laingian theory that the mentally ill are psychic, and the unity of the Aldermaston marches against nuclear disarmament.

And in the final section, Lessing one-ups the level of defiant rule-breaking by embracing science fiction in the form of describing a world-wide disaster, documented by the surviving characters in the form of letters and other papers.

Lessing is best-known for her naturalistic writing about women’s lives, and, indeed,  one of the most interesting sections of of this novel is a portrait of  Martha’s unhappy mother.  Mrs. Quest, a widow who lives on an African farm with her son and his family,  has always disliked her radical daughter.  But suddenly she writes a letter to Martha announcing plans to visit her in London.  Martha promptly has a nervous breakdown. 

 Martha knows exactly what her relationship with her mother is like.  And Mrs. Quest has no conception of the changes in London:  she imagines the  England of her youth before World War I.  And who can she possibly imagine Martha to be now?  But in a way, Mrs. Quest knows the visit will be a disaster.  She keeps postponing the visit. 

The voyage to England is not the happy adventure Mrs. Quest had hoped for.  Her disillusion and disappointment on the the cruise ship is sad, even terrifying, because Mrs. Quest’s life is rather like this voyage, and she would rather not face it.  She perceives with dismay that the passengers drug themselves with food, sleep, silly games, and drinking.  And this is her first glimmering of the sadness that the trip will bring.

Lessing devotes some remarkable pages to Mrs. Quest’s old age as it is revealed to her on the ship.  She writes,

Mrs. Quest, an old lady among old ladies, all of them widows (for women live longer than men), sat in her deck chair, which had been placed well out of the wind.  She would much rather have been in it.  She had a rug over her knees, and she knitted something or other:  they all knitted or sewed, and they watched others at play. When Mrs. Quest had said how much she loved a voyage, a good deal of what she loved was the games….  She always had… but had she, she wondered?  Well, she had always been a good sort, of course.  Now a good sort, obeying, as she always had, she played whist and bridge.

And this is the fate of a certain generation of women. Mrs. Quest goes along with the games and even pretends to have rewarding relationships with her children and grandchildren, as do the other women of her age. In reality, her family tolerates but does not love her. And Mrs. Quest wonders if this is true of any of the other old women.

Mind you, not all old women in Lessing’s books are tragic figures.  In her 1995  novel, Love, Again, Sarah Durham, a vigorous woman in her sixties, is  a writer and director of a small, prestigious theater. Then one days she happens to read the memoirs of a society woman, written in old age.

A strange thing, Sarah thought, that she had picked the book up.  Once, she would never even have opened a book by an old person: nothing to do with her, she had thought.

Of course Sarah does not lead the life of an “old woman.” Over the course of a summer in France, where the theater is rehearsing a production of a new play, Sarah falls in love for the first time in years.  She had forgotten the bloom and intensity of love. But iove is a challenge. Love is mortal. Love is irrelevant, Sarah thinks at the end of the summer.

In short, Sarah is an old woman of Lessing’s generation, who believed in themselves but were faced with the knowledge of a sell-by date in the eyes of others.  But Lessing’s Martha Quests and Sarah Durhams have more freedom than the Mrs. Quests: let us pray in this strange age that freedom will continue.

A Mysterious Weekend: Three Mysteries in Three Days

Mysteries are practically proscribed at our house. An invisible banner above our mystery shelves reads:  “If it is not Simenon, it is not worth reading.” I cannot coax my husband to read Dorothy Sayers, James M. Cain, Ellery Queen, or even Agatha Christie. He simply is not interested.

I became a mystery fan after I saw the Peter Wimsey series on Masterpiece Theater years ago: I enjoy Golden Age detective fiction, police procedurals, some thrillers, and historical mysteries.

This weekend I lost myself in genre fiction. I  read three mysteries in three days.  The first two were Golden Age mysteries: Margery Allingham’s Black Plumes (1940), which is set in an art gallery where a slashed painting is one of many senseless, malicious acts that end in murder; and Anthony Boucher’s Rocket to the Morgue (1942), a locked-room mystery in which a detective and a nun strive to prevent the murder of of a greedy literary executor who has been attacked. I thoroughly enjoyed these, and may write more about them later.

But the third one is the knock-out: Julian Symons’s  The Man Who Lost His Wife (1970), a psychological thriller about a publisher’s psychotic, violent breakdown.

Mild-mannered Gilbert Welton is a bit of a bore. He likes a quiet life and has a strict routine. When his charming wife, Virginia, announces that she plans to go on vacation alone to consider the state of their marriage, Gilbert is convinced that she got the idea from a women’s magazine.  He envisions the headlines:  “Do You Need a Holiday from Your Husband? … The Strain of Being Happily Married… Are You a Robot Wife?’

Gilbert does not have a high opinion of Virginia’s intelligence. But he becomes madly jealous at a dinner party when he notices that other men find her attractive.  He is furious at his pushy, flirtatious partner, Max, who poaches best-selling writers and is saving the company from ruin with dicey practices. Gilbert wonders if Virginia is having an affair with Max.  (It is possible.) When  Virginia and  Max, too, incidentally, are out of the country, Gilbert settles down to his routine again.

The first part of the novel is delightful, set mostly in Gilbert’s publishing office, and reminds me a bit of a novel by Angus Wilson or perhaps Barbara Pym.  There are lost manuscripts, arguments about whether to publish an art book about the new Spatial Realists (conservative Gilbert nixes it),  lunches at the club, and conversations with an unconventional, emotional American writer who has been recruited by Max. 

But we do get the feeling that something is wrong with Gilbert.  He goes to a Spatial Realists art show and is convinced that his wife is the subject of one of the paintings..  And then his obsession takes a more disturbing turn.  He is indirectly responsible for his drunken ex-wife’s s suicide, and one aggressive incident leads to to another. He travels to Yugoslavia to find Virginia when he cannot contact her at the hotel, has a violent encounter on the road , and eventually there is a murder.

And after that, I am not at all sure about Gilbert’s perceptions.  Needless to say, this violence does not go undetected. Does he actually go home to a docile wife, who says, “A woman’s place is with her husband.  I mean, she should live his life, not the other way around.”  Or is that his imagination? It doesn’t sound at all like Virginia. There are a few other scenes that seem off.

Is this meant to be realism, or psychosis?

At any rate, I raced through this brilliant, suspenseful novel.

Snow Days:  “It’s Like This, Cat,”2024

It’s a snow day… and another snow day… and another snow day…

We have had a week of snow, with temps below zero.  Graceful patterns of frost on the windows, but so cold that I wear my coat inside.  Today I walked around the block, or rather I scrambled and skittered.  There was climbing involved, over heaps of snow dumped at the intersections by plows.

:There was even more snow, as I recall, when I was a girl.  Winter lasted from November to Easter (sometimes later). We had few snow days, unless there was a life-threatening blizzard. Mom drove us to school, very cautiously, on the coldest, snowiest days.  

We had fun on those snowy days at school.  Our teacher, Mrs. W,  made the days magical.  We played games when we couldn’t go outside:   “Hide the eraser,” word games (perhaps Password?), and Twister. (Many of us volunteered to bring in Twister games.)

Mrs. W also had a talent for choosing the best books  to read aloud:  The Pushcart War (now available as an NYRB book), Berries Goodman, Rascal, Snow Treasure, A Spell Is Cast, and Borden Deal’s A Long Way Home (which is $95 at Abebooks – what the hell?), among others.

Our enjoyment of Emily Cheney Neville’s Berries Goodman led us to the library to check out her earlier book, It’s Like This, Cat, which won the Newbery Award. I adore the first sentence:

My father is always talking about how a dog can be very educational for a boy.  This is one reason I got a cat.

Even the title made us giggle.  “It’s Like this, Cat!” we shrieked with laughter. We  considered the title a bit of Beatnik slang, followed by the vocative of our favorite animal – the vocative of all us Kats, Kathys, Katrinas, Kates, etc..

I feel a bit like a Cat these days at bookstores.  I crawl or slink on the floor to see the books on the  bottom shelves. One bookseller thought I was having some kind of seizure. ”No, I’m just looking.”  Have you ever tried to read the titles on the tiny Slightly Foxed books? Especially on the bottom shelves.  You have to stand on your head.

It’s like this, Cat.  But will I ever reread you? 

Olga Slavnikova’s “The Man Who Couldn’t Die”

I love the nineteenth-century Russian literary giants, Pushkin, Gogol, Goncharov, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, and Chekhov, who wrote exquisite, brilliant fiction and poetry despite censorship and threats of exile. I wish I could equally admire the Soviet writers, but the repressive Soviet regime clamped down too hard. If they wrote at all, they were not published, or were likely to be incarcerated. Better to hang on to your controversial manuscripts, as Buglakov and Pasternak did.

As for post-Soviet literature, I feel more at home. I loved Ludmilla Ulitskaya’s beautifully-written novel, Jacob’s Ladder,  and am enjoying Olga Slavnikova’s The Man Who Couldn’t Die:  The Tale of an Authentic Human Being (2001). 

The premise seems at first morbidly funny. The Kharitonovs, a Russian family without much earning power, depend on a relative’s war pension for survival. And when Alexei Afanasievich Karitonov, the World War II veteran, is paralyzed by a stroke, his wife, Nina Alexandrovna, quits her job to care for him. Nina’s clever daughter, Marina, a freelance journalist who earns a pittance, though she was at the top of her class at the university, decides they must keep her stepfather alive in order to collect his pension.

So the half-mad Marina dictates that her stepfather must never learn of the fall of the Soviet Union.  She edits Pravda for her mother to read aloud to him and splices film scenes on videotape to create fake news about Brezhnev and the continuation of the Soviet Union. 

But this novel is not actually a comedy. The two women suffer, especially Marina, whose slacker husband scarcely works, and whose rage at politics in the workplace is comical but also sucks the joy out of life. Slavnikova portrays her struggles to survive in a toxic workplace and the turmoil of corrupt politics  and elections.

Nina Alexandrovna enjoys her quiet life, but is startled to learn that her husband is suicidal.  He has managed to make a noose, loop it over the bed, move himself to the edge of the bed and attempt to hang himself.  She is grateful that he is sentient, and in a way feels closer. 

Here is an excerpt from the book that reflects the tone.

No one could say for certain whether their playacting was fooling the sick man, of course.  Nina Alexandrovna, at least, thought she picked up a certain agreement, a semblance of approval in the signals emitted by his asymmetrical brain…. The pseudo-events, those spectral parasites, began to take increasing hold over the Kharitonovs, though, and feed on them.  It was like a change in focus that reveals at least two landscapes in one. 

Marion Schwartz, an award-winning translator, deftly spins the complexity of Slavnikova’s design into simple sentences.  There is black humor, but Slavnikova also sympathizes with her characters’ struggles. Nina Alexandrovna feels more connected to her husband after she discovers he is sentient, even though he wishes to die.

i am briefly on hiatus from the book due to the small print.   Next time I’ll go with the e-book, so I can adjust the size of the font. 

A Soviet Classic:  Bulgakov’s “The White Guard”

In that winter of 2018 the City lived a strange, unnatural life that is unlikely to be repeated in the twentieth century.  — Bulgakov’s The White Guard

Mikhail Bulgakov’s best-known novel, The Master and Margarita, is wickedly satirical and surreal. The characters include the Devil, a talking cat, Pontius Pilate, a witch, and a temporarily insane poet.  In the 1930s this political satire was  considered  unpublishable. In the mid-1960s, a censored version was serialized in a Russian journal.  In 1973, the  complete novel was published in Moscow. 

Compared to The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov’s early work has struck me as very slight. I changed my mind when I read The White Guard, set in 1918 in Kiev during the Civil War.  Tjis short, realistic first novel, published in 1925, balances scenes of everyday life with the horrors of war, like a miniature War and Peace, which influenced Bulgakov.

In smooth, understated, impersonal prose, Bulgakov portrays the life of the city as a single, living entity. It “steamed and hummed like a many-layered honeycomb. All day long smoke spiraled in ribbons up to the sky from innumerable chimneys.”  On all sides they are besieged by different armies: there are the Ukrainian nationalists, the Red Guard, the White Guard, and the Germans. The people are terrified. They especially hate the Bolsheviks.

Bulgakov contrasts the daily lives of civilians with the chaos of battle and army life.  Like Tolstoy, Bulgakov describes the ineptness of battle plans and the unpredictable pandemonium which skews all strategy and is the cause of victory or defeat. No one understands what is going on, or even which army is fighting which when.

Bulgakov’s focus is on a single Russian family, the Turbins, three siblings who share an apartment. Alexei, 28, is a doctor who despises the men lining up to fake illness to escape military service; his sister, Elena, 24, is left on her own when her husband, Talberg, flees the city middle of the night; and Nikolka, the idealistic adolescent, volunteers as a raw cadet for the White Guard. 

Life is grim, food is scarce, and the war rages on senselessly.  Yet Alexei’s friends socialize: they have card parties, discuss politics, and drink too much.  When Alexei volunteers as a military doctor for the White Guard, Elena is terrified.  And, indeed, the brothers are both in danger. They know so little about combat.

Bulgakov depicts cynical army officers and bewildered cadets.  Mikhail Shpolyansky, a poet-soldier who has velvety sideburns and “looks exactly like Eugene Onegin,” belongs to a poetry club.  When he gets bored, he says it is because he hasn’t been throwing enough bombs.lately.  And he goes off to reap chaos and death.

On the other hand, Nai-Turs is a canny, experienced colonel who recognizes the humanity of his platoon of 200 men.   When Nai-Turs demands felt boots for his men, the general  of the supply division refuses. Nai-Turs forces him to sign the requisition and calls in his platoon to load up the felt boots.  And later, in the city, when a battle is lost, Nai-Turs saves lives by ordering his men to run away and go home.  Nikolka is confused:  aren’t they supposed to be heroes?  But Nai-Turs repeatedly commands the “stupid boy” to run away through the back lots. Finally he obeys.

Alexei also is incredulous when an officer tells him to run out the back door of the house and run.  Both brothers want to be heroes, and are bewildered by the lost battles. Elena anxiously waits for them to come home. Survival is difficult on one’s own.

There are a few awkward scenes, but it is a remarkable war novel.  And the more I think about it, the more I admire it. I read Michael Glenny’s excellent translation.

Who Wrote the Great Rock Novel? & My Cats’ Favorite Rock Video

Who wrote the great rock novel? I posted this list at my old blog in 2013 and do not yet have the answer. Any recommendations will be appreciated.

Marcelle Clements’ Rock Me (1989).   I LOVE Marcelle Clements’ writing:  she is a  journalist as well as a novelist.  Her first novel, Rock Me, is about a woman rock star, and very few rock novels are about women.  The heroine, Casey, needs some time to herself.  She goes to Hawaii and…  Grade: A

Don Delillo’s Great Jones Street (1973).  Rock star Bucky Wunderlick needs a retreat, but when Happy Valley Farms Commune finds him and drugs him, everything goes downhill. Grade: A

Clyde Edgerton’s The Night Train (2011).  A beautifully-written, humorous novel about two boys, one black, one white, who perform rock and roll in a small Southern town in 1962.  Jazz piano may be African-American Larry Lime’s ticket out of town, as he studies with a brilliant hemophiliac musician knows as the Bleeder; meanwhile, the privileged Dwayne, son of the owner of the furniture refinishing shop , learns the power of  rock and roll through talented Larry Lime’s patient explication of James Brown’s “The Night Train.”  Grade:  A

Roddy Doyle’s The Commitments (1987).  An Irish band wants to bring soul to Dublin.  Grade:  A

Nick Hornby’s Juliet, Naked (2009).  The heroine, Annie, breaks up with her boyfriend, a middle-aged man obsessed with Tucker Crowe, a rock star who retired in 1984.  After th dieysagree about Tucker Crowe’s new album, “Juliet, Naked,” Annie posts a bad review on the website that  sparks a friendship between Annie and Tucker.  Grade:  A-

Dana Spiotta’s Stone Arabia (2011).  The protagonist analyzes her relationship with her brother, a rock musician who has recorded his own original music at home, and distributed the limited editions of his records to his family.  Grade:  A-

Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad (2010), winner of the Pulitzer Prize.  Beautifully written, interwoven stories about characters in the music business. The novel falls off a bit in the last few chapters, one done as a Power Point presentation, the other about a dystopian concert.  Grade:  A-

Jonathan Lethem’s You Don’t Love Me Yet (2007).  A very light novel about  a Los Angeles alternative rock band, and, yes, there are women in the band. Lethem’s Fortress of Solitude and Chronic City are masterpieces, but I have to say this very short book is not his best.  Lethem does long better. Grade:  A-

Sylvie Simmons’s Too Weird for Ziggy.  A collection of linked short stories about rock musicians. In one of the stories, a male rock star grows breasts and likes them.  Simmons is a British rock journalist.  Yes, it is a weird book. Grade:  A-

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You may want to know: What is my cat’s favorite rock video? The answer is…