A Gem

I knew Jeannette Haien when I worked at The Mannes College of Music in the 1970’s and 80’s. She was one of the strongest forces on the piano faculty at that time. She had few students, but she chose wisely. Her presence on a jury was formidable; indeed she was not always an amiable colleague. She demanded respect, and she could be very abrasive if she thought she wasn’t getting her full share. Over the years she helped to form some big talents, but her role was always a bit controversial. I respected her judgment and her taste even as I feared her scorn and dreaded having to cross her. There was only one Jeannette; yes there was probably only room for one Jeanette Haien on the planet.

Jeanette Haien

I do remember vaguely that she had published something close to when I left the school, but at that time I paid little attention. So last week I got to wondering what had happened to Jeanette and I was sad to discover that she had died in 2008; but I was happy to learn that she had published two novels, and I quickly acquired copies of both. The All of It is the first, published initially in 1986 when Jeanette was in her sixties.  I have no idea how someone could publish a first novel of this quality at that age.  She was an accomplished musician and teacher.  Where from this skill with words, literary form, dialect, structure, and character?  These are techniques that writers develop over decades, but Jeanette published this gem late in life seemingly from out of nowhere.

It’s a compact novel, traditional in structure; it takes place in Ireland.  Yes, there’s a priest and also some mysterious racy conduct. But this is a book with great regard for both literary and cultural tradition.  No modern touches here, no tricks, no self-referential mirrors.  But there is great beauty of language, and much subtlety in morality and human values.  The language recalls Banville minus his modern touches. The brevity makes the narration riveting. Once you get a bit into the 140 pages you’ll read it straight through.  I was both captivated and moved. This is one of those side lines that spin off from the main railroad line of literary evolution.  It probably won’t lead anywhere important in the future; rather it looks back to other times, other places, other techniques.  I’m glad to have it with us.

Jeanette, I understand from this book that I knew only small parts of you.  My loss. But I’m glad to have read your first novel, and I look forward to reading the second (and last) novel as well.  Your teaching continues.

Is Hollywood Listening? Bollywood? Anywood?

When Aravind Adiga’s first novel, The White Tiger, won the Booker Prize in 2008 I read it with high expectations, and for the most part I was not disappointed. It’s high energy fiction that is both serious and dark.  So his second novel, Last Man in Tower, has been on my list for a while. Having just finished the latest Lahiri I decided to stay in India for a bit longer and see what Adiga has been up to.

One aspect of Mumbai

Again, it’s high energy.  The hustle and bustle of modern Mumbai jostle the reader along on every page.  And that aspect I did enjoy. Economic development against the backdrop of colonialism, extreme poverty, diverse religious traditions, and deep-seated corruption are jarring, but both the voltage and the financial stakes are high.  Nonetheless this book is not nearly as dark as his first. I didn’t feel the same power of potential violence around every corner nor did I ever feel threatened in any way. It’s a modern tale that weaves together historical forces, individual idiosyncrasies, historical baggage, and old-fashioned storytelling. We do sense the outcome from the outset.

Another

Here, the real protagonist is modernization. It has its own momentum, and all characters pale alongside its brilliance.  It’s an unstoppable force, and the real interest is in how various individuals react. Some accommodate, some resist, some abdicate, some flourish. But it is unstoppable, and the inevitability is the only scary part here. It will happen, like it or not.  You can laugh (there are many funny passages); you can cry. Choose your stance in reaction; place your bet. But the country will careen forward even without a carefully charted course. That momentum is the one truth that cannot be questioned; it is today’s faith in India.

In essence the story and the narrative technique are very traditional.  The characters are not especially memorable, mostly because the writing is not unexceptional and fairly shallow. But I do think this book could make a very good movie.  With the right director and good casting this would be fabulous cinema.  The high energy would push the movie along from scene to scene, and the quirky characters could provide lots of foreground interest. This Is more Slumdog Millionaire than The Lowland. 

I hope Adiga feels empowered to move towards a more serious literary approach in his next book. There were plenty of signs in the first book that indicate he’s fully capable of it. This book is a bit of a step back.  A good read, but not the forward progress I had hoped for.

A Canadian Thanksgiving

Thank you, Nobel Committee.  Alice Munro, Nobel Laureate. Finally.

Alfred Nobel.  Made his fortune in explosives.

So gratifying to see that a writer who has devoted her career to cultivating a relatively small bit of land exquisitely well has finally been recognized with the biggest prize of all. Yes, it may be a bit old-fashioned, but her prose is exquisite and sparse, and there are many doses of truly modern thought hidden within. The space between the words is just as important as the words themselves. What's not said is crucial.

And no ego.

Speaking of ego, when will Philip Roth be recognized by the Swedes? So often we (they) get things wrong. As Roth put it in American Pastoral:

'You fight your superficiality, your shallowness, so as to try to come at people without unreal expectations, without an overload of bias or hope or arrogance, as untanklike as you can be, sans cannon and machine guns and steel plating half a foot thick; you come at them unmenacingly on your own ten toes instead of tearing up the turf with your caterpillar treads, take them on with an open mind, as equals, man to man, as we used to say, and yet you never fail to get them wrong. You might as well have the brain of a tank. You get them wrong before you meet them, while you're anticipating meeting them; you get them wrong while you're with them; and then you go home to tell somebody else about the meeting and you get them all wrong again. Since the same generally goes for them with you, the whole thing is really a dazzling illusion empty of all perception, an astonishing farce of misperception. And yet what are we to do about this terribly significant business of other people, which gets bled of the significance we think it has and takes on instead a significance that is ludicrous, so ill-equipped are we  all to envision one another's interior workings and invisible aims? Is everyone to go off and lock the door and sit secluded like the lonely writers do, in a soundproof cell, summoning people out of words and then proposing that these word people are closer to the real thing than the real people that we mangle with our ignorance every day? The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It's getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That's how we know we're alive; we're strong. Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that -- well lucky you.'

Alas, Nobel Committee, you got one right this year, but your track record leaves quite a bit to be desired. You are in good company.

Broken Ties

Jhumpa Lahiri has always excelled at depicting both the value of close human connections and the inevitable pain when those connections are broken. Sometimes the cause of the break is a geographical move, hence she writes often about those who move across the globe to start a new life. Sometimes the break is brought about by a more personal change or failure.  Nonetheless the pain is real and the loss palpable. And when the fractures compound one another the losses build over time and the effects deepen to the point of irrevocability.

Her latest novel, TheLowland, contains more breakage than can be inventoried here. Invaluable relationships are shattered by circumstance, by intent, bu politics, by individual shortcomings. Most of the damage is never repaired, but in fascinating ways the characters each react in their own way.  One continues to invest in new connections, sometimes not so wisely, but always with an open heart and good intent.  Others never heal, remain closed forever, and reflect and inflect their own pain on their peers and on subsequent generations. 

Lahiri. Part of a truly international generation of writers.

The writing is straightforward and effective.  No pyrotechnics here, just good old-fashioned well edited affecting prose.  If there are few outstanding gems to be found,

there are many pleasing semi-precious stones scattered throughout.  And, maybe more importantly there are very few real clunkers.  The result is a moving if rather pessimistic book that shows us over and over again how difficult it is to protect even our most valuable relationships.  The prevailing feeling from the book is the long-term dull pain that comes from those losses. There is hope. We can move forward and strive to make new connections, we can try to heal and minimize the pain, but we are all inevitably deeply scarred.

Interesting that a book with such a dark message can be both moving and uplifting.  My own personal circumstances involve some major recent personal upheavals, so I could easily relate to Lahiri’s characters. But I was not depressed by the book at all.  I took some comfort in knowing that others experience pain similar to my own, and that some do manage to move forward in deeply meaningful ways. Others don’t.  There are lessons to be learned there.

We'll Always Have Beijing

This summer I enjoyed my first visit to China, a week in Beijing and the surrounding countryside.  So glad to have made the trip; not sure I’ll be going back soon.

The Forbidden City.  The scale is hard to show in a photo.

It really is another planet.  Pollution, over-crowding, odd foods, capitalism gone wild:  it’s the wild, wild west all over again.  But also strong cultural traditions and confidence, really good food, and a positive attitude about the future that probably will conquer all in the long run.

We did get to see The Forbidden City and The Summer Palace, two important sites in Chinese history, so I thought I should honor that experience by reading a little about it.  Anchee Min’s Empress Orchid is the first half of the story of Tzu Hsi, an important figure in late 19^th-century and early 20^th century Chinese political history.  Shes was the controversial Dowager Empress that essentially ruled the country for many years. She lived in The Forbidden City, and The Summer Palace as we see it today exists in its present form because of her.

The Summer Palace

It is incredibly difficult to bridge the cultural gap between American and Chinese cultures.  Maybe even impossible.  This book is a valiant attempt.  We learn that power plays in The Forbidden city many years ago are essentially the same as those today in The White House today. And the privileged life enjoyed by the Emperor’s family had its own hardships, both physical and emotional.

The Great Wall. Yes, it is great.

Nonetheless it should be said that this is not great writing.  The historical research is all too obvious, and the prose is often clunky and rarely pleasing.  The story itself is interesting, though I’m not sure it makes a satisfying book.  But such is the lot of historical fiction; you don’t get to contrive the larger plot. It is what it is, and you have to do your best to make an appealing book out of it.  Not sure this one entirely succeeds.  I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t visited China the book would have left me cold.  But I did make the visit, and that’s why I read it.

Beijing is one of the few large Chinese cities to preserve significant historical sites.  It’s not Hong Kong or Shanghai.  It’s not just another international city with skyscrapers and incredible shopping.  It is the site of a huge piece of history, and it’s there for us.  Enjoy it if you can.  I highly recommend a visit.  It’s available to us now and the sites are accessible.  Who knows how long that will be the case?

Schumann Fantasy in C Major, op17

Ever since I first heard the Clifford Curzon recording many years ago, this piece has held a special place in my heart.  I was also privileged to hear Curzon teach the piece in a a master class in France in 1972.  I find it to be one of the most enigmatic pieces in the repertoire.  It lives in the guise of a traditional three-movement large-form piece for piano solo, but it is anything but traditional. Some aspects are truly bizarre, almost supernatural. The irrationality, yes insanity of it all is apparent, as is the searing talent at its core, as well as the incredible innovation in its composition. Stunningly, even disturbingly inventive, it contains some of the most beautiful pianistic inventions of all time, and also some of the most unusual juxtapositions and transitions.  It’s a piece that can’t be easily categorized, but it’s an important part of the canon of the Romantic solo piano repertoire.

All of the formal flaws of the piece can be excused in the light of its remarkable inventiveness, spontaneity, and most of all its sincerity.  If there’s a ‘New Sincerity’ in modern rock music, this is the ‘Old Sincerity’, the original.  I can’t imagine anything more heartfelt, more sincere, and ultimately more sad and at the same time uplifting.

The technical difficulties are daunting, but I think I've got my arms around them now.  I've worked on it for several months, and have played it from memory a few times for friends.  It is, after all, a virtuoso piece, and there is the circus element here.  “Will he fall? Is there a net?” No, there is no net, and the tension from the technical difficulties in the second movement is palpable.  I think it’s almost acceptable to fail, to have it all come off the rails.  That too is sincere, and sincerity is the most important element here.

I cannot imagine what it was like to be Robert Schumann.  Today he would surely be diagnosed as schizophrenic or manic depressive, medicated, and his great creativity suppressed.  Nonetheless his life was a chaotic and unpredictable combination of the greatest euphoria and the deepest depression.  That chasm is the essence of his music, and his great sincerity is the only way to bridge the chasm.  He doesn't fully understand, and neither do we.  But the great depth of sincerity makes us accept that conundrum nonetheless.  In essence, this was his experience.

I do find it thrilling to walk a few steps in those shoes. But I’m so grateful they’re not mine; I can discard them at will.  He could not. 

I cannot imagine.