This is my review of Go, Went, Gone by Jenny Erpenbeck.

In the original German of “Gehen, ging, gegangen” the title conveys more effectively the pathos and irony of rootless migrants having to learn the niceties of German grammar in a society putting them under pressure to move on, preferably to a place where ironically their German will not be required.

Living alone since his wife’s death, clinging to routine but at a loss in the recent retirement from his long-held post as a professor in Berlin, introspective Richard becomes aware of the growing number of African migrants squatting in the city. When some are evicted from a square, he obtains permission to interview them, reading several books on refugees to help him devise the questions.. What seems at first like an academic’s automatic response of viewing them as a topic for study, soon grows into a sense of empathy with the refugees, which it seems to be the author’s prime aim to arouse in readers as well.

As Richard’s life becomes more enmeshed with those of the migrants, he realises that actions which cost him little can transform lives. In return, puzzled by his decision never to have children, some refugees reciprocate by including him in the strong sense of friendship and community which is all they have. Richard rails against the rigid bureaucracy: the crazy world in which the refugees are not permitted to work, even in areas of skilled work where there is a labour shortage, and therefore doomed to become a burden to society, the motivation which led them to escape their past life sinking into apathy or boiling into rage.

Jenny Erpenbeck is keen to show the arbitrary nature of the boundaries which divide us. For a boy who has grown up in the Sahara, the borders drawn by Europeans are “perfectly straight lines” with no relevance. During his family’s wartime flight from Silesia to resettle in Germany, Richard himself was only saved from being permanently separated from his mother by the kindness of a vigilant Russian soldier. “What would have become of the infant if the train had pulled out of the station two minutes earlier?” He then lived for decades on the communist side of the Berlin Wall, so that post-unification, he still gets lost on trips to the still unfamiliar west side.

In a key passage, which also highlights the translator’s skills, Richard muses how to him and his friends, “the sense that all existing order is vulnerable to reversal..has always seemed perfectly natural, maybe because of their postwar childhoods, or else it was witnessing the fragility of the Socialist system under which they’d live most of their lives and that collapsed within a matter of weeks”. Have “long years of peacetime” made politicians believe that we have reached an “end of history” status quo which has to be protected from change by violence? Has growing up in “untroubled circumstances” distanced ordinary people so far from the suffering of those in war-torn lands that they are afflicted with a sort of “emotional anemia”? Must living in peace – so fervently wished for throughout human history and yet enjoyed in only a few parts of the world – inevitably result in refusing to share it with those seeking refuge, defending it instead so aggressively that it almost looks like war?”

The author has drawn on the experiences of real-life refugees, although one cannot know to what extent she has altered them. In what often seems quite a disjointed approach, it is hard to keep the refugees in mind as distinct characters and engage with them. The text also gets bogged down at times in over-detailed explanations of the various, probably no longer applicable, regulations imposed. I wondered at times if the book would have been more effective if written as a straightforward account and analysis of actual events. As it is, the novel gives scope for artistic licence, creating the stream of consciousness in Richard’s head, leavening the grimness with wry humour and occasional diversions into magic realism. At times, Richard recedes as a character, but the book clearly begins and ends with him, understanding and developing himself more as an individual through his encounters with the refugees.

This is an original book full of insights, which repays a second reading to absorb all the ideas. However, although in many ways profound, it is also quite subjective, conveniently ignoring “other sides of the question”, such as the long-term implications of very high levels of unrestrained migration, and the need to grasp the nettle of managing it in some way.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars

This is my review of The Red Collar by Jean-Christophe Rufin.

In the small French town of Berry where life is returning to normal after the First World War, Jacques Morlac is the only prisoner left in the barracks, while his faithful dog Guillaume, somewhat battered after his own spell in the trenches, barks mournfully for his master for hours on end. Lantier, the bourgeois young judge appointed to investigate the case and decide Morlac’s fate is fascinated by the stubborn working class man who has a foot in both camps, having been decorated for bravery only to commit an “outrage” against his nation, although we have to wait until the final pages to discover exactly what Morlac has done. Apart from the suspense this generates, the interest lies in the surrounding questions. What motivated Morlac to act as he did? Why does he seems so bent on being punished, rejecting the extenuating circumstances Lantier suggests? Why is he avoiding his former lover when he clearly wishes to see the son she has borne him? And why does he appear to hate his faithful dog?

This is one of those carefully constructed tales which depend totally on how the information is dripped out to keep us hooked. Rufin, who seems more in his element with short stories and in this case what is almost a novella, is very skilful in the deceptive ease with which he spins out and reveals a simple plot which could be summarised in a few words, itself inspired by a colleague’s anecdote about his grandfather.

Although the English translation has been praised, this is particularly worth reading in the original French if possible for the clear, economical prose which captures a sense of rural France, with locals spearing trout or hurrying to harvest the wheat as autumn storms threaten. This is also a subtle exploration of human – and canine – psychology: issues of loyalty, duty, wounded pride, jealousy, questioning of the accepted system and traditional class divides. Cynicism lurks beneath the lip service paid to patriotism even in a conformist like Lanvier, set off to fight as a “youthful idealist”, only to end with the private subversive thought that the suffering of the soldiers seems more worthy of respect than the ideals of those who inflicted it upon them. “No one could have lived through ths war and still believe that the individual has any value”. Yet when it came to condemning people, justify required that they be presented to him as individuals.”

Even if one is not a dog lover, it is hard not to be moved by the rapport Lanvier in fact everyone apart from Morlac seems to develop with the dog. Although the description of his wounds make Guillaume sound almost repulsive, his eyes are remarkably expressive, not merely conveying his own emotion but seeming to empathise with others.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 Stars

 

This is my review of Theory Of War by Joan Brady.

In the aftermath of the American Civil War, a penniless soldier sells a small boy called Jonathan, who may or may not be his own son, to Kansas farmer, Alvah Stoke, in search of some cheap and malleable labour. The irony is that, just after America has been torn apart in the cause of abolishing black slavery, a white boy is effectively made a slave, as it appears was actually the case for the author’s own grandfather whose life inspired this novel.

Deprived of love and affection, not merely education but even decent living conditions and food, Jonathan is soon the butt of bullying from Alvah’s son George, jealous of his intelligence, practical ingenuity, good looks and natural grace. So he is inexorably transformed from a sweet, inquisitive chatterbox into a wary and embittered youth, eventually able to make his escape on one of the new steam trains which capture his imagination. Despite his ability not merely to survive but to succeed against the odds, Jonathan’s psyche is poisoned by his very understandable fury over the years of abuse, and the desire for revenge focussed on George. Moving between scenes from Jonathan’s life to that of his granddaughter as she pieces together his story from his coded diary and the ramblings of his son, alcoholic doctor Atlas, Joan Brady shows how the destructive effects of slavery can blight a family for three generations.

This original, quirky novel drips with cynicism and venom (which happens to be the title of another of Brady’s novels) and includes some at times gratuitously unpleasant scenes, one of which almost caused me to give up. Yet despite this, and the extreme mental or physical ills which seem to beset many of the main characters, this book is a page turner. Apart from being “a good yarn”, with dazzling verbal pyrotechnics and some telling observations, it brings alive a sense of the landscape and pioneering spirit of the States, as railroads are forged west to California, new towns are formed, only to die in a few years, as in the brilliant descriptions of the town of Mogul, “ferried out in the desert” for the purpose of mining stignite. “Mogul was growing up with America, no sewers, no trees, no street lights, no running water: a full-blown boom town geared to the quick sale of everything, alive or dead, worldly or divine. Walls of saloon and Methodist chapel alike advertised whiskey, shaving cream, dried beef and – without so much as a change of paint colour or script style – God Himself and the virtues of cleanliness” and so on for page after page of wry, sparkling prose. Despite the perhaps over-laboured attempt to apply theories of warfare to Jonathan’s battle with George, regardless of the recurring message that life has no meaning, much as we may wish that it did, that “truth’s a convention, a fashion: it changes every year”, being alive is miraculous and wonderful.

It is a pity that this deservedly award-winning novelist, whose own life seems quite intriguing, has not written more and is not better known in this country.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars

This is my review of Conclave by Robert Harris.

In his role as Dean, steeped in the rituals and politics of the Vatican, which may well be the cause of his recent crisis of faith, Cardinal Lomeli is peeved when the Pope refuses his request to retreat to a religious order, insisting that he is needed as a manager. Yet when the old man unexpectedly dies, all Lomeli’s skills are needed to ensure that a suitable successor is found out of the clearly far from perfect candidates. Inevitably, Lomeli’s diligence in this respect may give the impression that he is clearing the way for his own election. Since he is a decent man of integrity, would this be such a bad result? Could he be tempted by the prospect of power, or is the weight of responsibility and loss of freedom to roam through the streets unrecognised and browse in a bookshop too high a price to pay?

This psychological drama which I felt compelled to finish in a single day can be read on two levels: a simple question of who will win out in a fiercely fought competition to gain the coveted yet also daunting position of Pope, or a deeper analysis of the condition and influence of the Catholic church in the modern world. Robert Harris seems to me to be making a stinging indictment of the excessive wealth and privilege of the Vatican hierarchy and its ostrich-like divorce from real life. I was struck by the irony of the meek nuns who serve the meals, clean the rooms and provide secretarial support for the male staff and cardinals who take it all as their due.

There is no need for belief to be intrigued by the survival of the medieval ritual of locking 118 cardinals in the Sistine Chapel, segregating them from the rest of the world in the Vatican, until they have chosen one of their number by ballot to become the next Pope. Continuing his preoccupation with the pursuit and exercise of power, possibly offending some Catholics in the process, Robert Harris, has fleshed out the arcane process by his portrayal of the cardinals scheming like a typical bunch of secular politicians in the desire to advance the cause of a favoured candidate, or obtain the role in person.

All too human in their personal flaws, the main protagonists represent a range of characters from different continents and cultures: from the self-styled man of the people to the self-effacing intellectual; the socially progressive and tolerant to highly conservative. The most unworldly and principled may resort to dubious means for a good end or at least to avert what they regard as a bad one. An ambitious liberal may manipulate matters to a point bordering on the criminal, while a wheeler-dealer may destroy his chances through a sudden insistence on what he really believes.

How essential is it for the Church to maintain its unity against growing external pressures from say, atheism, secular moves for social equality, or an ever more militant Islam? Is this unity even feasible, when the ground-breaking step of electing an African cardinal as Pope would mean having a leader intolerant of homosexuality?

The detailed coverage of the prayers and rituals which Robert Harris has researched so thoroughly, the repetition of the procedure of casting the ballot until it is possible to ignite the chemicals which will give the pure white smoke of a result, has proved too dry for some readers. Admittedly, the lists of cardinals and their lengthy titles may have been overdone, but all this creates the necessary context for the drama.

I understand why some have found the ending implausible and somewhat abrupt, but on reflection I decided it was quite a clever, ironical twist, leaving matters open and the reader with further food for thought.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 Stars