January Reading Summary

So what has my first month of reading freedom brought me? By freedom, I mean of course not having to read any books for review, following my own whims and jumping into rabbit holes. There was only one book that I had already promised to review, and that was the controversial story of child killers The Flower Girls by Alice Clark-Platts. But other than that, I was free as a bird or a butterfly, so which flowers have I alighted on?

11 books, no less, and some of these were massive 500+ books, so great in terms of quantity, but also of quality.

First and foremost, January has got me obsessed with Romanian playwright, novelist and essayist Mihail Sebastian. I read his polemical novel about being Jewish in Romania, his essay in response to the outrage he experienced upon publication of that novel, and his diaries which pick up the story from where he left it off in the novel. I am also now rereading his novels and trying to get hold of his plays (in Romanian, of course, but some of his work has been translated into English, with more forthcoming).

Traditional uniform of Hungarian Hussars.

I’ve become equally absorbed with the work of Miklos Banffy, as I read the second and third books in his Transylvanian trilogy after a year’s break following the first volume. I was so reluctant to reemerge into the real world after bathing in that beautiful description of a vanished world, although I was slightly disappointed that the story stops with the outbreak of the war (and Balint’s family all gaily setting off as Hussars in the army). I will be reviewing the trilogy shortly for my #EU27Project, and beware! It might end up being a bit of a mammoth post.

The third obsession this month has been poets talking about poetry, where they find inspiration, the craft of poetry, what a poet’s role is in society etc. I’ve started with Denise Levertov and Maxine Kumin, but have a few others planned for next month.

Idyllic landscape of Rwanda today, hiding the scars of yesterday, from Africa.com

I read a lot of women this month too. In addition to the two poets, I also read Scholastique Mukasonga’s remarkable account of a rapidly disappearing traditional way of Tutsi life in Rwanda just prior to the genocide The Barefoot Woman. Another woman’s account of war was Pat Barker‘s The Silence of the Girls, a very different book, not based on personal experience, more shouty than understated.

I’ve also read Jana Benova‘s Seeing People Off, a Slovakian entry to my #EU27Project. I still have to write the full review of this short, snappy novel, a series of vignettes offering an often hilarious, satirical account of post-Communist life in the artistic milieu in Bratislava.

Another short but biting satire was Fernando Sdrigotti’s Shitstorm, forcing us to take a good hard look at ourselves and how we conduct our lives and debates online, moving quickly onto the next scandal that we can be indignant about, without really being fully implicated. I can’t help but wonder what Sebastian would have made of it all. I think this may become my theme when looking at any present-day news: ‘What would Orwell and Sebastian say about this?’, although Sebastian, with his gentler, more forgiving approach, is perhaps closer to me in spirit.

So much happier now that I’m following my own interests in reading, with no qualms about abandoning books that promise to be average or not quite captivating. This month I didn’t finish The Binding for example, a new book just out which sounded great in concept, but failed to set my heart alight. I’m sure it will do well commercially though, it has The Miniaturist success written all over it.

Advertisements

The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

Pat Barker is famous for her brutal depictions of the realities of war, n essence making her books anti-war narratives. In the past, she has written about the First World War (the Regneneration trilogy), but on this occasion she turns her hand to the Trojan War, that ten year stand-off between the allied Greeks and the probably Asia Minor city of Troy (and its allies). It is essentially a retelling of the Iliad from the perspective of the women. So that we no longer only hear the deafening silence of the female perspective.

I beg your pardon, the title is ‘girls’, not women, and this is probably deliberate. Many of the protagonists are very young, but all of them, even the older ones, the noble ones, the wives of great rulers, are little more than objects to be used, cast aside, bartered over, plundered – a bone that dogs fight over. ‘Girl’ is used pejoratively by their captors, it diminishes them.

The events Barker recounts stick pretty close to the Iliad and traditional Greek mythology. The main protagonist is a lesser-known secondary character, however, which means that we have little knowledge or preconceptions about her and her role in the war. She is Briseis, wife of Mynes, king of one of the lesser Trojan city states, Lyrnessus. Her husband and brothers are slaughtered and she is given to Achilles as a prize after he conquers her city. The author has some leeway with where she takes her character, because by and large her fate is unknown.
She disappears from the story after the arrival of Achilles’ son to fight in the final days of Troy, which is precisely when the author tells us that her ‘own story’ finally starts.

At first I thought: ‘What a novel concept! How refreshing to hear about the futility and tragedies of war from women, and to have these heroes like Achilles, Ajax, Agamemnon discussed with refreshing candour of a woman forced to have sex with them. Very much like prostitues might discuss their clients’ foibles with disdain.’ These women are victims, but they take revenge too on these powerful men, albeit with the weapons of the weak, i.e. gossip.

But as I read on, two things struck me. First of all, the concept is not all that novel. It has all been done before, above all in the tragedy by Euripides Trojan Women – the final chapters about the fall of Troy and the fates of Andromache and Polyxena directly reference that work.

Secondly, I became somewhat annoyed by the Stockholm syndrome that Briseis seems to display towards her captor. While I appreciate that the author is trying to convey the complexity and charisma of Achilles as a character, show that he was not all bad (although stupidly stubborn and brutal), Briseis’ ambiguous feelings towards him did jar. (It worked better in her relationship with the more gentle and empathetic Patroclus, Achilles’ best friend and possibly his lover.)

Typical representation of Achilles, here in a painting by Franz von Matsch.

Where this book does excel is in the sharp-tongued, zingy cutting down to size of abstract concepts such as heroism and glory, friendship and love. So perhaps it felt wrong to me that Achilles is still too heroic and larger than life in this story. The change of voice from first person Briseis’ account to something approaching the omniscient third person didn’t quite sound right to me either.

But here are some of the quotes which did strike me:

Nothing happened. Well, of course nothing happened. Isn’t nothing what generally happens when you pray to the gods? (and yet plague like symptoms decimate the Greek camp very soon)

Yes the death of young men in battle is a tragedy. I’d lost four brothers, I didn’t need anybody to tell me that. A tragedy worthy of any number of laments – but theirs is not the worst fate. I looked at Andromache, who’d have to live the rest of her amputated life as a slave (and see her child slaughtered), and I thought: We need a new song.

Finally, let me end with this quote about Agamemnon, who duly sacrifices Polyxena (Priam’s daughter) to ensure a safe journey home for the Greeks.

Though on second thoughts I doubt if Polyxena’s death affected him much. This was a man who’d sacrificed his own daughter to get a fair wind for Troy. I looked at him as he turned and walked away and I saw a man who’d learnt nothing and forgotten nothing, a coward without dignity or honour or respect.

Collective Artistes performing Trojan Women, directed by
Femi Osofisan

This reminds me of the puzzled hatred I’ve felt since I was a child for Agamemnon, Oedipus, Jason and so many other so-called Ancient Greek heroes, and the poor women who have to suffer their crassness, obstinacy and stupidity but end up getting the bad rap. Surprisingly, there is a lot of reading between the lines that you can do with all these ancient tragedies, which makes me think the Greeks were very subtle and good at psychology, or else that women were involved in the writing too somehow. Anyway, here is an earlier poem I wrote about that.