Thursday, August 13, 2015

Comments on My Struggle

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I read this book, mostly aloud, sometimes listening to it aloud, in the Bartlett translation, partly from paper copies, partly for the Kindle edition.

First question: what does this book have to do with Hitler’s Mein Kamp?  The titles are even more alike in Norwegian.  The two books have a general resemblance in that both portray the author’s struggle, but Hitler’s struggle is mainly expressed through politics and doctrine whereas Knausgård’s is mainly in literature and personal relations.  Mein Kamp devotes part of its first chapter to Hitler’s childhood and includes serious conflicts with his father.  But his father died suddenly of a heart attack when he was 13.  Politics crops up only occasionally in My Struggle in connection with characters' allegiance to one or another of the political movements of contemporary Norway.

Second, is this a novel?  Or does it matter?  And if so, or if not, why?  Knausgård asserts that everything in it is true.  He adds that he does not have a particularly good memory, that this rush of material appeared only when he set out to write something about his father; it just came out, and we read it unedited except for some details in the first part that were changed in the routine way of publishing, or under pressure, among other things, from lawsuits.  He asserts that, though it is not made up, it is a novel.  It is constructed like a novel.  That is, his report on his struggle is highly selective and reordered and written in the conventional style of contemporary realistic fiction. He does not narrate the whole of his life, he does not present it in chronological order, and he omits substantial parts of his life.  The same could be said of most memoirs.  For example he mentions but omits any stories about his second marriage.  He begins with an occasion when his father humiliated him as an eight-year old, continues to his life around the time the birth of his first child by his second wife, then portrays incidents in his early teen-aged years, then in his middle childhood years, and so on to the last volume, which is set in his 18th year.  All along he freely interpolates flashbacks.

Besides, there is no such thing as memory that records the past in the sense that a surveillance camera preserves the actions that take place before it year after year making a tape that some one might edit.

Memory, and some contemporary lab research supports this, seems to me like a large garden.  Only the plants we, consciously or unconsciously, tend flourish there.  In tending them we alter them.  Stories or images are either modified or forgotten.  For example, all find ourselves with childhood memories of events we are unsure we experienced-; we may only have heard about them from others sufficiently to construct our own images.  We live in a building made of memories, and as we live in it we constantly reconstruct it.  So, if you stay in an Italian hotel said to have been a nunnery in 1200, the concierge may be able to point to you that a particular feature was built in 1400 or the spot where something happened in 1568, but we have no such concierge, or no reliable one at any rate.  Perhaps there are some exceptions in what Proust called involuntary memories.

Such is the process from which Knausgård’s manuscript poured fourth.  Such is the building he reconstructed with the reliability and unreliability of our own.  It would be interesting to review evidence like the memories of other witnesses as they appear in he lawsuits.

Calling it a memoir or a novel, then, really is only a question of labeling.  We have been offered a credible tale either way.

Some say that this book has no plot.  In the step-leading-to-step sense that an Agatha Christie or the Count of Monte Cristo has a plot, that’s true, but in the wide sense of plot, in the sense Moby Dick has the plot of Ahab’s struggle for vengeance on the whale, or that Ana Karenina has the plot of how Anna is to deal with her marriage, or A la recherche du temps perdue has the plot of Marcel’s struggle to recapture the past -; in that wide sense, it has a plot.  That is why it is called My Struggle.  The struggle is to escape the oppression of his abusive father.  In the course of his life this struggle takes various forms, among others: as a child to get out of the house and play with friends or go to school, later (not in the sequence of presentation in the book) to get laid, or to understand and even get on with his father, or to become a sort of literary rock star, later to be a good father.  The struggle wrings shame out of the story.  Awareness of shame surfaces only occasionally in the 3600 pages, but it hangs always in the background.  It arises from the author’s breach of Scandinavian reticence, from his father's constant shaming him as a child, and from the sometimes disgusting details of his father's later life and death.  Knausgård has spoken of this novel as purging him, and it seems that it is shame from which he is purged, or would be.

Don’t get the impression, however, that this is a dower or oppressive read.  It is not.  Liveliness and anticipation animate it with a feeling of Knausgård’s openness to experience and willingness to take things on.  It jibes in that way with his personal impression, which is extraordinarily open, frank, and present.

There are several fully realized characters, mostly associated with family.  His father, his mother, his brother, his grandparents, his second wife, even his oldest child, who is about four the last time we see her.  Characterization is partly through description of action, partly through dialogue, and partly through attribution of taste.  Clothes are as meticulously and frequently described as in stereotypical chick lit, and preferences for rock bands and soccer clubs often appear.  But this is not a-show-don’t-tell novel, for the most important part of characterization is the protagonists’ description of people.  In the case of characters who appear at widely different times, the protagonist's descriptions of them change.  But this is not an author teasing us with an “unreliable narrator”; rather it realistically reflects how we see people differently as we mature.

The protagonist analyses characters in the sense of thoughtfully describing them, but avoids analysis in the psychodynamic sense.  We may suppose that Knausgård’s desperation comes from his treatment at the hands of his father, but he seldom makes that sort of supposition.

Here, for example, he is describing his children in order of age, youngest first:
“Their character traits, which slowly began to reveal themselves after only a few weeks, have never changed either, and so different are they inside each of them that it is difficult to imagine the conditions we provide for them, through our behavior and ways of being, have any decisive significance.  John has a mild, friendly temperament, loves his sisters, planes, trains, and buses.  Heidi is an extrovert and talks to everyone she meets, she’s obsessed with shoes and clothes, wants to wear only dresses, and is at ease with her little body, such as when she stood naked in front of the swimming pool mirror and said to Linda, “Mommy, look what a nice bottom I’ve got!”  She hates being reprimanded; if you raise your voice to her she turns away and starts crying.  Vanja, on the other hand, gives as good as she gets, has quite a temper, a strong will, is sensitive, and gets on easily with people.  She has a good memory, knows by heart most of the books we read to her as well as lines in the films we see.  She has a sense of humor and is always making us laugh when we […]”
Excerpt From: Karl Ove Knausgård & Don Bartlett.  “My Struggle: Book 2.” iBookshttps://itun.es/us/0e-1L.l

The excerpt above is a fair sample of his prose as it appears in this translation.  It’s good, but unremarkable.  It is seldom awkward, and seldom thrilling. On rare occasions he waxes philosophical, for instance a discussion of Heidegger or the reflections on death that open the book.

 The detail is sometimes tedious.  He devotes c. 150 pages to his 14-year-old efforts to secretly (from his father and others) acquire a couple of cases of beer and get drunk at a party.  It’s pretty boring at times.  He devotes about 100 pages to himself, his wife, and children at a preschool party.  His account is spot on, but, again, boring at times despite it’s exactness.  If he described his whole life up until his late 30's in such detail, he would still be writing.

Yet in the long run, and it is long, the detail is what engages us.  In the long run you find yourself thinking about Knausgård as a friend, some one you know as your own memories, some one with whom you can compare your life in a way that fictional characters can seldom support.

My Struggle is some times compared to A la recherche du temps perdue.  There are many differences.  Whereas Karl Ove’s prose is plain but effective; Marcel’s is ornate, sometimes obscure, and often thrilling; whereas Marcel is trying to recapture his childhood; Karl Ove is trying to escape his.  Whereas Karl Ove treats his family with carful realism, Marcel tends to idealize his; whereas Karl Ove worries about being trapped, Marcel suffers excruciating separation anxiety; whereas Karl Ove is forthcoming about characters, Marcel tends to make successive discoveries, often disreputable, like a detective; whereas Karl Ove’s world is narrowly middle class or occasionally working class, Marcel is preoccupied with High Society; whereas Marcel is trying to recaptured the past, Karl Ove, although he notices and sometimes reflects on the passage of time, lives in the present; whereas A la recherche du temps perdue ends with Marcel looking anxiously back, My Struggle ends with Karl Ove entering adulthood eagerly looking forward.



Thursday, May 28, 2015

Comments on No Country for Old Men

This is a moral tale, and, as usual, Evil is more interesting than Good.

The plot shifts smoothly toward the end of the novel. It beings by following a working-class west Texan, a welder, a good citizen but inured to violence by fighting in Vietnam, who stumbles by accident on the remains of a drug shoot out in the desert. He finds only corpses except for one mortally wounded survivor. The welder picks up the very substantial suitcase of cash left by and makes off in perfect anonymity. But he has a flaw as a thief: — he has a twinge of empathy for the man he left dying. The later had asked for water, and the welder was carrying none. After he has hidden the stash, compunctions grip him, and he drives, hours later in the night, back to the crime scene to succor the thirsty man. But newly arrived killers spot him. He escapes, but his truck has been identified. The novel thenceforward recounts hunting him down and ancillary confrontations and shootouts.

The representative of Evil is an Eastern European hit man; the representative of good is the local sheriff.  The scenes of hunting and confrontation are tense and enthralling.

Another hit man, who was hired to kill the first and, predictably, is killed by him, describes him as a pathological killer, but he very self-consciously operates by a moral code, one that, like the welder, he sometimes fails to follow. There is something mythical about him; he kills with an unusual weapon that appears to shoot people through the head but leaves no exit hole. He is dark of hue with piercing blue eyes, perhaps a throwback to the Pleistocene European hunter-gatherers who bore that coloring. He has no empathy whatever and unhesitatingly kills people who even passingly impede his way, or merely irritate him by momentary contradiction. He is a sort of embodiment of Shopehaurian will ; by that I mean something like a mindless, aimless, non-rational urge.  In his most complex scene he ambushes some one he has morally obliged himself to kill. He swore to the welder that he would kill this victim if the welder did not do something. Death prevented the welder from fulfilling his promise, but the hit man feels he is honor bound kill the second whatever the circumstance. He debates the question with his victim, and, contrary to his sense of his own freedom and power, the hit man in the end evokes fate by allowing the flip of a coin to decide.

The sheriff seems to have wandered in out of a Western Movie or Larry McMurtry.  He is near to retiring from a life dedicated community service.  The community he serves is the old West Texas, but his calling is disintegrating under him because of crimes related to drug smuggling.  During most of his tenure no murders went unsolved, as in Westerns, but now strangers are killing one another in his world for strange reasons. He is well ware that without drug users there is no smuggling, and is puzzled by hippies, whom he sees as the substrate of moral degeneration that is making it impossible for him to continue to serve his real community and fulfill himself. He is the old man who no longer has a country. He is uxorious, emotionally reticent, and garrulous

I specify these characters by naming their roles.  This is a moral parable after all.  But each one is fully realized.

After the death of the welder the book waxes talkier.  The hit man waxes philosophical; the sheriff calls on people significant to him merely to talk with them.  Near the end he dutifully calls on a young woman to tell her her husband has been killed. He stands on the doorstep, 5-gallon hat in hand, and says he is sorry. She responds feelingly about what her husband's death means to her. He repeats that he is sorry. She says, "If you stand there and say you're sorry one more time I'm going to get my gun and shoot you." It a dark comic moment, but we share her feeling.

The title is the first line of Yeats' poem Sailing to Byzantium.   The title of another West Texas novel, Horseman Pass By by Larry McMurtry is taken from Yeats' self-elegiac last poem, Under Ben Bulben. What is it that draws raw, dry West Texas to misty Ireland? Pride perhaps.

There are many immanent descriptions both of the vast, harsh country and of the tacky motels and roadside stops where the pursuers stalk their victims. The prose is only sometimes as breathtaking as it is in Blood Meridian, but it is always exciting. 

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

John Williams' novel Augustus

From about 90 BC until about 30 BC, the Roman Republic suffered from Civil Wars. They were complicated. In general they were between  aristocrats, who controlled the Senate, and  plebeians, who controlled other political offices, but in practice they were often between generals, caudillos, who maintained private armies only nominally allied with either class and they involved many shifting alliances and betrayals among leaders and clans. Octavius Caesar, the grandnephew and protégé of Julius Caesar, the most famous of these generals, ended these civil wars with his victory over Anthony and Cleopatra in 31 BC. He also ended the Republic and made Rome an Empire, which was free from major civil wars for about 200 years thereafter. Thus did he acquire the title Augustus. This is an epistilatory novel based on the life of Augustus and on his times.

Historiography was just getting started in the West, and, inspired by Greek historians, this period is one of the first in human history to be at least moderately documented. Several histories by eloquent and diligent historians survive, but they are far from perfect. Some of them wrote long after the event, some of the histories are partially lost, and of course the historians have their various biases. Augustus, the person, is notoriously hard to pin down. Shakespeare in his plays Julius Caesar and Anthony and Cleopatra, working from the Greek historian Plutarch, portrays him as merely coldl and power-hungry except for his affection for his sister. Other historians portray him as dutifully patriotic, the savior of his country, and the bringer of peace.

Like Napoleon, Augustus was noted for his stare. Several portrait sculptures survived from his lifetime, but it is hard to learn from them. Besides a tendency to show him as stereotypically heroic, Roman sculpture was embellished with colorful painting, gilding, silvering, and inlay that have worn away, so we are left with inscrutable stares.  But are they those of Augustus?

This is the author's fourth and last novel. In his illuminating introduction Daniel Mendelsohn points out that the heroes of each the first three are of no political stature and reflect how the forces of life shape men of very modest accomplishment rather than the hero shaping his life. Two are set in the author's lifetime and one in the 19th-century American frontier. Each has autobiographical overtones. So it is surprising that for his fourth novel he turned to Roman history and a very powerful man.

Williams both exploits and struggles with the historical ambiguity of Augustus' character by choosing to write an epistolary novel. We hear about him from the point of view of several generals, several close friends including the poets Horace, Virgil, and Ovid, from both of his wives, from his most important mistress, from his beloved only child Julia, from spies working both for and against him, from several intellectual hangers on, not to mention from Julius Caesar, and Augustus himself. A wide and varied canvass. Williams does a fine job writing in these various voices. He carefully delineates their biases and somewhat less carefully their styles. Yet for me a sense of foreignness is lacking. I'm an amateur in Roman culture, but I feel that for all their historical standing, the Romans had a very different sense of self than we have, more based on the intersection of face and domination, to put it glibly. This foreignness does not fully emerge through Williams' letter writers. One thing that emerges from these letters is the importance of friendship to William's version of Augustus. In the beginning we see him as a student with a group of close friends. Gradually in the course of his life one of these friends betrays him and others die. It is as if in each betrayal or death he loses part of himself. Augustus' own letters appear only at the very beginning of his career and to the end.

An epistilatory novel demands flexible prose more than anything else, and Williams prose is consistently flexible and effective.

Surprisingly for the man who emerged triumphant from a risky struggle and ruled the Mediterranean world for most of his lifetime (He died in 14 AD.), as Mendelsohn points out, this novel is like Williams' other novels in showing how the struggle with life shapes the hero, rather than the other way around. Augustus in this novel did it not set out to become the ruler of Rome but to avenge the death of his beloved grand uncle Julius Caesar and to survive. But victories lead to obligations until he can only survive by defeating Anthony and Cleopatra.

The novel falls into two halves. The first, though it is far from a military history, portrays Augustus and his associates in the period of his rise to power. Marriages arranged for the purpose of family alliances are almost as important as battles, and Augustus' friend. and in effect prime minister, Maecenas, known to history as a patron of the arts, appears here mostly as a match maker. The second half portrays his intimate world and its public reflection during his life as emperor. It largely neglects Augustus' extension of the empire, vast public works, and establishment of a bureaucracy that served the empire well for hundreds of years. It does display his personally modest style of living.

Williams devotes much of the second part of the novel to Augustus' relations with his daughter and only child, Julia. Her letters take up more pages than any other correspondent. She comes off as something of a protofeminist, seeking self-realization within the constrained role of upper-class Roman women. In her letters Williams fails most, for me, to give a true feeling of Roman self-image. Augustus’ fondness for her is mentioned in the histories and dwelt on by Williams. But, for political reasons he married her off to three men, for two of whom she was dutifully indifferent, the third she hated, and to whom she bore in total seven children.

Around 18 BC Augustus promulgated a series of laws promoting what we might call family values, with only mixed success as is witnessed by Ovid's witty and explicit handbook, The Art of Love. In an atmosphere of erotic scandals and assassination conspiracies in 2 BC Augustus exiled Julia to a small barren island off the coast of southern Italy. Since then there has been endless speculation about his motives; her possible involvement with Ovid lends notoriety. Williams has a theory. He portrays it movingly, and it is as good as any other.


The final letter from Augustus, by this time in ill health and surveying the increasing emptiness of his life, is vivid and eloquent as is the last letter in retrospect from his physician. But something remains missing in the decades when we read only other people's thoughts. I came away feeling I had read a rich and moving novel, but not that I had seen into the fears or longings of Augustus.