Ferdydurke

Ferdydurke
by Witold Gombrowicz, 1937
translated by Eric Mosbacher
London [England] : M. Boyars, 1979
272pp

A parody of common literary forms in prewar Polish literature, in Ferdydurke a 30-year-old complacent narrator, Johnnie (who, like Gombrowicz, has also published a book called Memoirs of a Time of Immaturity), is dragged by an old, all-cultural imposing professor Pimko back to secondary school, where everyone believes him as another poseur juvenile, “inclined to pose in order to appear grown up”. Absurdism of pomposity, immaturity, posed masks, unapologetic mysogyny, with short stories about Philifor and Philimor Honeycombed with Childishness inserted in the middle, Gombrowicz presents a madcap comic parody with intense underlying analysis of the way the externals shape one’s (re)actions.

The Monkey’s Wrench

The Monkey’s Wrench
by Primo Levi
translated from the Italian by William Weaver
Penguin Classics; Reprint edition (July 1, 1995)

Narrative is contained within another narrative in this novel, as Faussone, an exuberant rigger, tells his stories of working to a chemist-writer narrator (no doubt Levi’s alter ego):his constructions, an adventurous monkey, a machine that caught stardust, a name gone wrong, overcoming the fear of water, from India, Russia to Alaska.

Under the Glacier

Under the Glacier
by Halldór Laxness
translated from the Icelandic by Magnus Magnusson
Vintage (March 8, 2005)

A young, unnamed emissary is dispatched by the Bishop of Iceland “to conduct the most important investigation at that world-famous mountain since the days of Jules Verne”, i.e. to investigate Kristinihald undir Jökli (the original title which literally translated means Christianity under the Glacier) and the strange going-ons in Snæffels glacier.

The Periodic Table

The Periodic Table
by Primo Levi
translated from the Italian by Raymond Rosenthal
Schocken; Reissue edition (April 4, 1995)

One itty-bitty superfluous whine: back when I was assigned The Diary of Anne Frank as a compulsory reading in secondary school, with all due respect to Frank, I remember thinking, “Why can’t we be given The Periodic Table instead?!”

Conjugal Love

During (and a few decades after) the wars Moravia was probably the most widely-known Italian novelist in English-speaking countries. The Conformist and Contempt have been made into films by Bertolucci and Godard. Then there’s also the friendship with Pasolini (another Italian chap I regard with the same mix of repulsion & reverence). Yet these days one hardly heard of him, jostled by popular favourites such as Eco and Calvino. Perhaps all his realistic pessimism sealed him into old days’ obscurity? Perhaps.

So enter NYRB’s enthusiastic revival of ‘underappreciated’ authors. And a recent adaptation of Boredom, L’Ennui by Cedric Kahn. While! To the coquettish delights of my scanty collection of Moravias, a newly-acquired ‘vintage’: Conjugal Love.

Libraries, and thanks

A few things have been hampering my ability to get words down out of the cranium. Before I forget, thanks to everyone who wished me a happy day of exiting (no, not exciting) the womb. I’ve tried my best to say my thanks to each one of you lovelies, but I think I’ve missed one (or twelve), my apologies. I received my first ever, wish-list present: the pages read and re-read, scribbled, dog-eared and lovingly snuggled to sleep. Dearest long-lost twin, thank you very muchly. I can’t put it into words that’d do it justice, perhaps after I’ve dusted the cobwebs and wisps of cotton from my head. In the meantime, I’ll just stick this old review up.

A Son Called Gabriel
by Damian McNicholl (2004)

Backcover said, ‘Evoking a sense of time and place as compelling as Angela’s Ashes and At Swim, Two Boys, and the courageous spirit of Billy Elliot . . .’ Should’ve known better: After all, praises for At Swim, Two Boys has already made me wonder if reviewers know any other Irish writers than Joyce. Aside from the fact that A Son Called Gabriel is set in Ireland (but in the 60s-70s) and the main character is struggling with the issues of homosexuality (among others), it doesn’t ‘evoke’ anything that remotely reminds me of At Swim, Two Boys. Frankly I think it’s rather… flat? It’s an easy read, one that you can easily finish in a few hours, and—having grown in a strictly Catholic family (and Catholic school) myself—I can somewhat relate to the ‘loving’ but stifling atmosphere. It has some good moments, but nothing that would leave you dazed or compelled to reread.

And you bundled-up folks in Melbourne, your promised packages will be sent come the afternoon. I’m sure the paperbag will make a nifty, crackling bonfire.

We’ll be politely encroached by their politely evil culture

Unbearable Lightness of Being and Norwegian Wood made it to the top bestsellers. Whoddathunk? Although for the life of me, I don’t know why NW is the one Murakami’s novel that made it. (Unbearable, I can understand, but I’d rec Hard-boiled Wonderland and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle over NW anyday.) Then again, bestseller list never makes sense.

Still, can’t help but noticing the growing popularity of Japanese novels (and of course manga/anime, and films, and music, and food, and architecture, and gift wraps, and, well, basically everything except for the most crucial: green tea pocky) lately in English-speaking world. Currently some of the most famous names: Murakami (Haruki, and Ryuu to a lesser extent), Banana Yoshimoto, Koji Suzuki, Koushun Takami (must be the film–Battle Royale is another one on the best-seller list). The following are some that I’m familiar with.