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The Somnambulist's Dreams by Lars Boye Jerlach
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The Somnambulist’s Dreams by Lars Boye Jerlach is a unique lyrical odyssey, a tale at the intersection of existentialism, magical realism and postmodern minimalism, a saga of a lighthouse keeper in his isolation living through dream sequences as he reads and ponders entries written by one Enoch S. Soule to his wife Emily, entries with such titles as Kenya, The Antarctic, The Cemetery, The Musician, The Well, The Chess Player, The Actress, The Taxidermist, The Cell. Reading Jerlach's short novel I am reminded of passages in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, dreams recounted in Michel Leiris' Night as Day/Day as Night, and most especially the Edgar Allan Poe tale, Silence.
Since a number of keenly perceptive reviews have already been posted here, for the purposes of my own review, I will take out my jeweler’s loupe and zero in on several sections of Soule’s accounts and then share my own associations and reflections on each Dali-like surreal sequence. For, the more I read The Somnambulist’s Dreams, the more I feel this unique novel as an invittion to travel to wondrous, magical worlds of dreamscapes and dreamtime, of imaginings opening out to that point in space where parallel lines bend to meet at infinity. Here goes:
From: The Antarctic: When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the middle of the cold stone floor in the watch room with my arms spread out from my body. I was wearing my overcoat over my pajamas and my untied boots on my naked feet. I had on my hat and my gloves, and my scarf was wrapped tightly around the lower part of my face. I was, in truth, bewildered by the dream. ---------- Completely disoriented and lying in the middle of a cold stone floor – the famous opening of Poe’s tale The Pit and the Pendulum. I recall my own disorientation lying on a floor as a kid after I held my breath as my cousin squeezed my chest. My first introduction to altered states of consciousness. This happened in the same year, I was twelve at the time, when I witnessed an older woman pulled up on the beach, lying on the sand, having drowned from a heart attack. I must have been hallucinating since I clearly saw one of the first aid squad open her chest and, as if escaping from captivity, the woman’s ribs functioning as a birdcage, an entire flock of seagulls swirled up and circled overhead.
From The Musician: There were some large, extremely colorful prints on the walls. A couple of them were merely presenting an arrangement of lines or shapes, others where bizarre smeary portraits of women, conspicuously reminding me of clowns. On my irregular visits to the museum of art, I had never seen anything like it, and I couldn’t think of a living artist who could have produced work such as these. However, I did recognize a large print of a Campbell’s Soup can. ---------- Bizarre smeary portrait of women – ah, Willem de Kooning. And, of course, the Campbell Soup can is Andy Warhol’s iconographic pop art. No matter how unfamiliar and clown-like those modern abstract paintings, the familiar commercial cans and boxes for soups, cleaning pads and cereals can twist us in weird and wacky ways. I recall my own dream in my twenties when I was crushed when a giant Wheaties cereal box came crashing down on me.
From The Chess Player: The chess pieces where not of a design with which I was familiar. They were asymmetrical and quite outlandish looking and although I am a reasonably seasoned chess player, it was difficult for me to tell them apart. But the pieces and the board looked like they were carved from Ebony and Maple and the shadows cast from the large pieces fell on the checkered pattern, creating a series of narrow recondite bridges between them. ---------- One image has burned itself in my memory: As a teenager I was a member of a class club, mostly adults, mostly professionals. We would have our meetings and play our games at a lawyer’s house. On evening the lawyer opened a box and showed us his new chess set - each piece a slick, space-age design. A “space-age” chess set. The design haunted me and shortly thereafter I gave up playing chess and never came near the game since. I’ve never been able to figure out, then or now, how the combination of a futuristic design and a traditional ancient game cast such a spell.
From The Taxidermist: There were a couple of birds placed in sand filled frames on the ground. One of them I recognized as a guinea fowl, but the other one I hadn’t seen before. It was some type of Ibis. Its body was white, but its neck, downwards curved beak, long legs and rump feathers were all black as velvet. The head was turned and its neck was bent downwards, as if it was looking for something on the ground. ---------- Sounds like the inspiration for the novel’s cover! Also the cover from Irving Welsh’s Marabou Stork Nightmare, a novel containing one of the most unforgettable lines in all of literature: “I wasn’t born so much into a family as a genetic disaster.” Additionally, I can’t forget how as a kid riding my bicycle I came upon four turkey vultures, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, sitting up a fence along a country lane.
From The Cell: I got up from the stool, took two small steps forward and leant down to run my hand over the wall above the bed, were the inscriptions were most prevalent. Besides the many obscenities, both written and clearly delineated in drawings, one of the more intelligible inscriptions caught my eye. Although small, the lettering was concise and rather elegant. It looked like it could have been scraped into the wall with a needle or a very thin nail and the person who wrote it had obviously endeavored to arrange the sentences so that they aligned. ---------- Words appear on the stone above a door in an old section of the city for Harry Haller in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. I’ve been waiting for those words to likewise appear for me at night during my walks. They haven’t yet, but at least I have my reading of The Somnambulist’s Dreams. Thanks, Lars!
Lars Boyle Jerlach - Danish born author and artist currently living in Portland, Maine, USA.
5.0
The Somnambulist’s Dreams by Lars Boye Jerlach is a unique lyrical odyssey, a tale at the intersection of existentialism, magical realism and postmodern minimalism, a saga of a lighthouse keeper in his isolation living through dream sequences as he reads and ponders entries written by one Enoch S. Soule to his wife Emily, entries with such titles as Kenya, The Antarctic, The Cemetery, The Musician, The Well, The Chess Player, The Actress, The Taxidermist, The Cell. Reading Jerlach's short novel I am reminded of passages in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, dreams recounted in Michel Leiris' Night as Day/Day as Night, and most especially the Edgar Allan Poe tale, Silence.
Since a number of keenly perceptive reviews have already been posted here, for the purposes of my own review, I will take out my jeweler’s loupe and zero in on several sections of Soule’s accounts and then share my own associations and reflections on each Dali-like surreal sequence. For, the more I read The Somnambulist’s Dreams, the more I feel this unique novel as an invittion to travel to wondrous, magical worlds of dreamscapes and dreamtime, of imaginings opening out to that point in space where parallel lines bend to meet at infinity. Here goes:
From: The Antarctic: When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the middle of the cold stone floor in the watch room with my arms spread out from my body. I was wearing my overcoat over my pajamas and my untied boots on my naked feet. I had on my hat and my gloves, and my scarf was wrapped tightly around the lower part of my face. I was, in truth, bewildered by the dream. ---------- Completely disoriented and lying in the middle of a cold stone floor – the famous opening of Poe’s tale The Pit and the Pendulum. I recall my own disorientation lying on a floor as a kid after I held my breath as my cousin squeezed my chest. My first introduction to altered states of consciousness. This happened in the same year, I was twelve at the time, when I witnessed an older woman pulled up on the beach, lying on the sand, having drowned from a heart attack. I must have been hallucinating since I clearly saw one of the first aid squad open her chest and, as if escaping from captivity, the woman’s ribs functioning as a birdcage, an entire flock of seagulls swirled up and circled overhead.
From The Musician: There were some large, extremely colorful prints on the walls. A couple of them were merely presenting an arrangement of lines or shapes, others where bizarre smeary portraits of women, conspicuously reminding me of clowns. On my irregular visits to the museum of art, I had never seen anything like it, and I couldn’t think of a living artist who could have produced work such as these. However, I did recognize a large print of a Campbell’s Soup can. ---------- Bizarre smeary portrait of women – ah, Willem de Kooning. And, of course, the Campbell Soup can is Andy Warhol’s iconographic pop art. No matter how unfamiliar and clown-like those modern abstract paintings, the familiar commercial cans and boxes for soups, cleaning pads and cereals can twist us in weird and wacky ways. I recall my own dream in my twenties when I was crushed when a giant Wheaties cereal box came crashing down on me.
From The Chess Player: The chess pieces where not of a design with which I was familiar. They were asymmetrical and quite outlandish looking and although I am a reasonably seasoned chess player, it was difficult for me to tell them apart. But the pieces and the board looked like they were carved from Ebony and Maple and the shadows cast from the large pieces fell on the checkered pattern, creating a series of narrow recondite bridges between them. ---------- One image has burned itself in my memory: As a teenager I was a member of a class club, mostly adults, mostly professionals. We would have our meetings and play our games at a lawyer’s house. On evening the lawyer opened a box and showed us his new chess set - each piece a slick, space-age design. A “space-age” chess set. The design haunted me and shortly thereafter I gave up playing chess and never came near the game since. I’ve never been able to figure out, then or now, how the combination of a futuristic design and a traditional ancient game cast such a spell.
From The Taxidermist: There were a couple of birds placed in sand filled frames on the ground. One of them I recognized as a guinea fowl, but the other one I hadn’t seen before. It was some type of Ibis. Its body was white, but its neck, downwards curved beak, long legs and rump feathers were all black as velvet. The head was turned and its neck was bent downwards, as if it was looking for something on the ground. ---------- Sounds like the inspiration for the novel’s cover! Also the cover from Irving Welsh’s Marabou Stork Nightmare, a novel containing one of the most unforgettable lines in all of literature: “I wasn’t born so much into a family as a genetic disaster.” Additionally, I can’t forget how as a kid riding my bicycle I came upon four turkey vultures, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, sitting up a fence along a country lane.
From The Cell: I got up from the stool, took two small steps forward and leant down to run my hand over the wall above the bed, were the inscriptions were most prevalent. Besides the many obscenities, both written and clearly delineated in drawings, one of the more intelligible inscriptions caught my eye. Although small, the lettering was concise and rather elegant. It looked like it could have been scraped into the wall with a needle or a very thin nail and the person who wrote it had obviously endeavored to arrange the sentences so that they aligned. ---------- Words appear on the stone above a door in an old section of the city for Harry Haller in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. I’ve been waiting for those words to likewise appear for me at night during my walks. They haven’t yet, but at least I have my reading of The Somnambulist’s Dreams. Thanks, Lars!
Lars Boyle Jerlach - Danish born author and artist currently living in Portland, Maine, USA.
An Enlightening Tale by Clark Zlotsew, Fernando Sorrentino
I've read this amusing, quizzical short-short tale by Argentine author Fernando Sorrentino over and over again since it reminds me of a number of Zen koans and the below pithy quotes from a wise Greek philosopher.
“Be moderate in order to taste the joys of life in abundance.”
“He who is not satisfied with a little, is satisfied with nothing .”
“The wise man who has become accustomed to necessities knows better how to share with others than how to take from them, so great a treasure of self-sufficiency has he found.”
― Epicurus
AN ENLIGHTENING TALE by Fernando Sorrentino
This was a very honest beggar.
One day he knocked at the door of a luxurious mansion. The butler came out and said, "Yes, sir. What do you wish, my good man?"
The beggar answered, "Just a bit of charity, for the love of God."
"I shall have to take this up with the lady of the house."
The butler consulted with the lady of the house and she, who was very miserly, answered. "Jeremiah, give that good man a loaf of bread. One only. And, if possible, one from yesterday."
Jeremiah, who was secretly in love with his employer, in order to please her sought out a stale loaf of bread, hard as a rock, and handed it to the beggar.
"Here you are, my good man," he said, no longer calling him sir.
"God bless you," the beggar answered.
Jeremiah closed the massive oaken door, and the beggar went off with the loaf of bread under his arm. He came to the vacant lot where he spent his days and nights. He sat down in the shade of a tree, and began to eat the bread suddenly he bit into a hard object and felt one of his molars crumble to pieces. Great was his surprise when he picked up, together with the fragments of his molar, a fine ring of gold, pearls and diamonds.
"What luck," he said to himself. "I'll sell it and I'll have money for a long time."
But his honesty immediately prevailed: "No," he added. "I'll seek out its owner and return it."
Inside the ring were engraved the initials J. X. Neither unintelligent nor lazy, the beggar went to a store and asked for the telephone book. He found that in the entire town there existed only one family whose surname began with X: the Xofaina family.
Filled with joy for being able to put his honesty into practice, he set out for the home of the Xofaina family. Great was his amazement when he saw it was the very house at which he had been given the loaf of bread containing the ring. He knocked at the door.
Jeremiah emerged and asked him, "What do you wish, my good man?"
The beggar answered, "I've found this ring inside the loaf of bread you were good enough to give me a while ago."
Jeremiah took the ring and said, "I shall have to take this up with the lady of the house."
He consulted with the lady of the house, and she, happy and fairly singing, exclaimed, "Lucky me! Here we are with the ring I had lost last week, while I was kneading the dough for the bread! These are my initials, J.X., which stand for my name: Josermina Xofaina.
After a moment of reflection, she added, "Jeremiah, go and give that good man whatever he wants as a reward. As long as it's not very expensive."
Jeremiah returned to the door and said to the beggar, "My good man, tell me what you would like as a reward for your kind act."
The beggar answered, "Just a loaf of bread to satisfy my hunger."
Jeremiah, who was still in love with his employer, in order to please her sought out an old loaf of bread, hard as a rock, and handed it to the beggar.
"Here you are, my good man."
"God bless you. "
Jeremiah shut the massive oaken door, and the beggar went off with the loaf of bread under his arm. He came to the vacant lot in which he spent his days and nights. He sat down in the shade of a tree and began to eat the bread. Suddenly he bit into a hard object and felt another of his molars crumble to pieces. Great was his surprise when he picked up, along with the fragments of this his second broken molar, another fine ring of gold, pearls and diamonds.
Once more he noticed the initials J.X. Once more he returned the ring to Josermina Xofaina and as a reward received a third loaf of hard bread, in which he found a third ring that he again returned and for which lie obtained, as a reward, a fourth loaf of hard bread, in which ...
From that fortunate day until the unlucky day of his death, the beggar lived happily and without financial problems. He only had to return the ring he found inside the bread every day.
5.0
I've read this amusing, quizzical short-short tale by Argentine author Fernando Sorrentino over and over again since it reminds me of a number of Zen koans and the below pithy quotes from a wise Greek philosopher.
“Be moderate in order to taste the joys of life in abundance.”
“He who is not satisfied with a little, is satisfied with nothing .”
“The wise man who has become accustomed to necessities knows better how to share with others than how to take from them, so great a treasure of self-sufficiency has he found.”
― Epicurus
AN ENLIGHTENING TALE by Fernando Sorrentino
This was a very honest beggar.
One day he knocked at the door of a luxurious mansion. The butler came out and said, "Yes, sir. What do you wish, my good man?"
The beggar answered, "Just a bit of charity, for the love of God."
"I shall have to take this up with the lady of the house."
The butler consulted with the lady of the house and she, who was very miserly, answered. "Jeremiah, give that good man a loaf of bread. One only. And, if possible, one from yesterday."
Jeremiah, who was secretly in love with his employer, in order to please her sought out a stale loaf of bread, hard as a rock, and handed it to the beggar.
"Here you are, my good man," he said, no longer calling him sir.
"God bless you," the beggar answered.
Jeremiah closed the massive oaken door, and the beggar went off with the loaf of bread under his arm. He came to the vacant lot where he spent his days and nights. He sat down in the shade of a tree, and began to eat the bread suddenly he bit into a hard object and felt one of his molars crumble to pieces. Great was his surprise when he picked up, together with the fragments of his molar, a fine ring of gold, pearls and diamonds.
"What luck," he said to himself. "I'll sell it and I'll have money for a long time."
But his honesty immediately prevailed: "No," he added. "I'll seek out its owner and return it."
Inside the ring were engraved the initials J. X. Neither unintelligent nor lazy, the beggar went to a store and asked for the telephone book. He found that in the entire town there existed only one family whose surname began with X: the Xofaina family.
Filled with joy for being able to put his honesty into practice, he set out for the home of the Xofaina family. Great was his amazement when he saw it was the very house at which he had been given the loaf of bread containing the ring. He knocked at the door.
Jeremiah emerged and asked him, "What do you wish, my good man?"
The beggar answered, "I've found this ring inside the loaf of bread you were good enough to give me a while ago."
Jeremiah took the ring and said, "I shall have to take this up with the lady of the house."
He consulted with the lady of the house, and she, happy and fairly singing, exclaimed, "Lucky me! Here we are with the ring I had lost last week, while I was kneading the dough for the bread! These are my initials, J.X., which stand for my name: Josermina Xofaina.
After a moment of reflection, she added, "Jeremiah, go and give that good man whatever he wants as a reward. As long as it's not very expensive."
Jeremiah returned to the door and said to the beggar, "My good man, tell me what you would like as a reward for your kind act."
The beggar answered, "Just a loaf of bread to satisfy my hunger."
Jeremiah, who was still in love with his employer, in order to please her sought out an old loaf of bread, hard as a rock, and handed it to the beggar.
"Here you are, my good man."
"God bless you. "
Jeremiah shut the massive oaken door, and the beggar went off with the loaf of bread under his arm. He came to the vacant lot in which he spent his days and nights. He sat down in the shade of a tree and began to eat the bread. Suddenly he bit into a hard object and felt another of his molars crumble to pieces. Great was his surprise when he picked up, along with the fragments of this his second broken molar, another fine ring of gold, pearls and diamonds.
Once more he noticed the initials J.X. Once more he returned the ring to Josermina Xofaina and as a reward received a third loaf of hard bread, in which he found a third ring that he again returned and for which lie obtained, as a reward, a fourth loaf of hard bread, in which ...
From that fortunate day until the unlucky day of his death, the beggar lived happily and without financial problems. He only had to return the ring he found inside the bread every day.
From Beyond by H.P. Lovecraft
Hail to those visionaries of the nineteenth century and early twentieth century who invented highly sophisticated machines propelling them to a time or space beyond the boundaries of everyday experience. For such explorers, science and technology were a kind of primordial fire lighting the way to unlock the mysteries of the universe.
And where do we find these bold, eccentric adventurers? Why, of course – in books! For example, we have the English scientist in H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine who ventures into the future, the French madman in Jean Richepin’s The Metaphysical Machine exploring cosmic truth via excruciating pain, and, not to be outdone, in H.P. Lovecraft’s 1920 tale From Beyond, we have American philosophic mad-scientist, Crawford Tillinghast.
Lovecraft’s gothic tale of horror is told by an unnamed first-person narrator, a friend of Crawford Tillinghast. And the narrator begins by telling us while paying a visit to his friend’s laboratory, Tillinghast bemoaned the constricting limitations of our meager five senses and went on to say how he was on the verge of a breakthrough. What kind of breakthrough, we might ask? Tillinghast explains how he has constructed a wave-generating machine that will awaken dormant human capacities to gaze at the full range of the cosmos. Sound crazy? It is crazy! And the narrator tells his friend what he thinks of such a project. Tillinghast responds by kicking him out.
Ten weeks later, when a desire to share his discoveries overcame his bitterness, Tillinghast invites the narrator to return. Upon entering the house, the narrator discovers his much-transformed friend: Tillinghast has a shaky, ghoul-like frame, a squeaky, high-pitched voice and is forever muttering to himself. After following this wasted specter of a man up the stairs by candlelight (Tillinghast tells him having the electricity on would create too much of a disturbance) and entering the laboratory, he is directed by his bony friend to take a seat next to the glowing machine. Meanwhile, Tillinghast sits directly opposite, face-to-face and uncomfortably close. The narrator remains still and after some moments begins to see a series of fantastic phantasms and astonishing visions.
The visions intensify and at one point the narrator relates, “Indescribable shapes both alive and otherwise were mixed in disgusting disarray, and close to every known thing were whole worlds of alien, unknown entities. It likewise seemed that all the known things entered into the composition of other unknown things and vice versa. Foremost among the living objects were inky, jellyfish monstrosities which flabbily quivered in harmony with the vibrations from the machine. They were present in loathsome profusion, and I saw to my horror that they overlapped; that they were semi-fluid and capable of passing through one another and through what we know as solids. These things were never still, but seemed ever floating about with some malignant purpose. Sometimes they appeared to devour one another, the attacker launching itself at its victim and instantaneously obliterating the latter from sight.”
More horrific beings are seen and the narrator’s living nightmare is punctuated by Tillinghast’s voice commenting on the monstrous apparitions and conveying the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of all the servants. So much for relaying the details of this tale. I hope my brief review has piqued your interest in this Lovecraft story. To find out what happens next and the entire sequence of events, please read for yourself.
For me, what gives this tale a decided eeriness is speculation about the fullness of space isn’t the exclusive domain of science-fiction. I recall listening to one yogi trained in the esoteric Tibetan Buddhist tradition speak of exactly this phenomenon: unseen beings from a parallel dimension inhabiting our space. He went on to say how, by our good fortune, we can’t see them, since, if we did see them, we would all be driven crazy. All one need do is read passages from the Bardo Thodol (usually translated as The Tibetan Book of the Dead to get a flavor for what the yogi was talking about. Also, there are the discoveries of quantum physics: spatial realities beyond our familiar three-dimensions.
You can read many stories about multiple facets of space, but you will not encounter any more gripping than this H.P. Lovecraft’s tale.
5.0
Hail to those visionaries of the nineteenth century and early twentieth century who invented highly sophisticated machines propelling them to a time or space beyond the boundaries of everyday experience. For such explorers, science and technology were a kind of primordial fire lighting the way to unlock the mysteries of the universe.
And where do we find these bold, eccentric adventurers? Why, of course – in books! For example, we have the English scientist in H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine who ventures into the future, the French madman in Jean Richepin’s The Metaphysical Machine exploring cosmic truth via excruciating pain, and, not to be outdone, in H.P. Lovecraft’s 1920 tale From Beyond, we have American philosophic mad-scientist, Crawford Tillinghast.
Lovecraft’s gothic tale of horror is told by an unnamed first-person narrator, a friend of Crawford Tillinghast. And the narrator begins by telling us while paying a visit to his friend’s laboratory, Tillinghast bemoaned the constricting limitations of our meager five senses and went on to say how he was on the verge of a breakthrough. What kind of breakthrough, we might ask? Tillinghast explains how he has constructed a wave-generating machine that will awaken dormant human capacities to gaze at the full range of the cosmos. Sound crazy? It is crazy! And the narrator tells his friend what he thinks of such a project. Tillinghast responds by kicking him out.
Ten weeks later, when a desire to share his discoveries overcame his bitterness, Tillinghast invites the narrator to return. Upon entering the house, the narrator discovers his much-transformed friend: Tillinghast has a shaky, ghoul-like frame, a squeaky, high-pitched voice and is forever muttering to himself. After following this wasted specter of a man up the stairs by candlelight (Tillinghast tells him having the electricity on would create too much of a disturbance) and entering the laboratory, he is directed by his bony friend to take a seat next to the glowing machine. Meanwhile, Tillinghast sits directly opposite, face-to-face and uncomfortably close. The narrator remains still and after some moments begins to see a series of fantastic phantasms and astonishing visions.
The visions intensify and at one point the narrator relates, “Indescribable shapes both alive and otherwise were mixed in disgusting disarray, and close to every known thing were whole worlds of alien, unknown entities. It likewise seemed that all the known things entered into the composition of other unknown things and vice versa. Foremost among the living objects were inky, jellyfish monstrosities which flabbily quivered in harmony with the vibrations from the machine. They were present in loathsome profusion, and I saw to my horror that they overlapped; that they were semi-fluid and capable of passing through one another and through what we know as solids. These things were never still, but seemed ever floating about with some malignant purpose. Sometimes they appeared to devour one another, the attacker launching itself at its victim and instantaneously obliterating the latter from sight.”
More horrific beings are seen and the narrator’s living nightmare is punctuated by Tillinghast’s voice commenting on the monstrous apparitions and conveying the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of all the servants. So much for relaying the details of this tale. I hope my brief review has piqued your interest in this Lovecraft story. To find out what happens next and the entire sequence of events, please read for yourself.
For me, what gives this tale a decided eeriness is speculation about the fullness of space isn’t the exclusive domain of science-fiction. I recall listening to one yogi trained in the esoteric Tibetan Buddhist tradition speak of exactly this phenomenon: unseen beings from a parallel dimension inhabiting our space. He went on to say how, by our good fortune, we can’t see them, since, if we did see them, we would all be driven crazy. All one need do is read passages from the Bardo Thodol (usually translated as The Tibetan Book of the Dead to get a flavor for what the yogi was talking about. Also, there are the discoveries of quantum physics: spatial realities beyond our familiar three-dimensions.
You can read many stories about multiple facets of space, but you will not encounter any more gripping than this H.P. Lovecraft’s tale.
The Daisy Dolls by Felisberto Hernández
Gabriel García Márquez, Italo Calvino and Julio Cortázar all acknowledge Felisberto Hernández (1902-1964) as a major influence. Not bad for a writer from the city of Montevideo, Uruguay who was a self-taught pianist and who earned his living playing in cafés and silent screen theaters. His writing is so dreamlike and surreal, so lush, aesthetically refined and artistically polished, I’m hard-pressed to characterize it other than observing on a scale of one to ten for the above literary qualities, I would place Henry James at nine and place Felisberto Hernández at ten since Hernández possesses much of Henry James' aesthetic polish and adds his own generous helpings of the dreamy surreal.
I must say, having authored over 400 book reviews to date, composing this review was one of the most challenging I've faced. I feel my words only touch the surface; it’s as if I’m attempting to describe the paintings of Salvador Dali for someone unacquainted with the great Spaniard's art. With this in mind, in order to share a glimpse of what a reader will encounter in this sixty-page, ten chapter novella, I will focus exclusively on the first chapter. And please note, The Daisy Dolls is available as a PDF (second website down) using this link: https://www.google.com/#q=the+daisy+dolls+by+felisberto+hernandez
THE DAISY DOLLS
The Really Odd Couple: The novella’s first lines: “Next to the garden was a factory, and the noise of the machines seeped through the plants and trees. And deep in the garden was a dark weathered house. The owner of the “black house” was a tall man.” The tall man living in this black house is an extremely wealthy eccentric by the name of Horace who lives with his nearly equally eccentric wife, a lady by the name of Daisy Mary. Also, we are well to bear in mind how the rumbling from the factory machines next-door rumble relentlessly, twenty-four-seven, a rumbling not only seeping through the plants and trees by also through Horace’s waking and sleeping hours.
Bizarre Obsession: Horace is a collector of lifelike dolls a bit taller than real women. In one of the larger rooms of his mansion, he has fashioned a showroom with three glass cases, cases especially built for the purpose of having men come in to invent scenes for his dolls, set designers and costume makers as well as caption writers who compose a caption describing each scene. Horace will read the caption, usually placed on a piece of paper in a drawer, after he has had an opportunity to mentally create his own story of what the scene is all about. Sound crazy? It is crazy, and this is only the beginning as the novella's constant crescendo of craziness will keep you turning the pages in near disbelief of what Horace and Daisy Mary dream up next.
Prelude: One evening after dinner in the dining room, Horace is drinking wine with Daisy Mary (Filesberto almost comically repeats ‘wine from France’ throughout the novella). Their butler Alex enters to inform Horace that Walter, the pianist, has arrived. Horace tells Alex to let Walter know he should play the first piano piece on the program repeatedly until a light flashes and under no circumstances speak or ask questions. At this point, Horace rises, walks over and kisses Daisy Mary, then moves to a chair in the little parlor next to the showroom where he begins to sip his coffee, smoke and collect himself until he feels completely isolated in preparation for his entrée into the showroom.
Soundtrack: Horace hears both the piano and the factory machines as if through water, as if he is submerged and wearing a diver’s helmet, but when he tries to concentrate on the sounds, “they scattered like frightened mice.” Being a piano player himself, in all likelihood Filesberto particularly enjoyed including a piano player – piano music along with the sound of the factory machines are a constant presence, either directly or indirectly, so much so I can imagine a film adaptation of the novella with piano music and the rumbling from those factory machines comprising the entire soundtrack.
Showtime, One: Horace opens the door and moves toward the first glass case. He switches a light on in the case and through a thin green curtain scans the scene: there’s a doll sprawled on bed. Inside the case there is also a small rolling platform with a chair and little table; Horace mounts the platform and takes a seat for a better view. He ponders: Is the doll dead or is she dreaming? She’s dressed as a bride, eyes wide open, starring at the ceiling and her arms are spread in either abandon or despair. Is she a bride waiting for her groom who will never arrive, having jilted her just before the wedding? Or is she a widow remembering her wedding day? Or, perhaps, just a girl simply dressed up as a bride? Sidebar: The author’s depiction of this scene and setting of mood is so stunning and surreal, it’s as if we step into a René Magritte painting to imagine for ourselves what the scene entails.
Showtime, Two: Horace opens the drawer of the little table and reads: “A moment before marrying the man she doesn’t love, she locks herself up, wearing the dress she was to have worn to her wedding with the man she loved, who is gone forever, and poisons herself. She dies with her eyes open and no one has come in yet to shut them.” Horace reflects that she really was a lovely bride and savors the feeling of being alive when the bride is not. He then opens a glass door and enters the scene itself in order to have a closer look, but right then he thinks he hears a door slam. He leaves the case and sees a piece of his wife’s dress caught in the door leading to the parlor. Horace rips open the door and Daisy Mary’s body falls on him. But wait . . . Daisy Mary’s body is so light. Ah, Horace recognizes the body he is holding isn’t his wife’s but Daisy, the doll who resembles her. His wife has played a little joke on him.
Deep, Dreamy Surreal: This chapter continues with Horace conversing with Mary (yes, his wife retains the name Mary while bestowing the name Daisy on the lookalike doll) before retreating to his bedroom to pen an entry in his diary and then returning to the showroom to view the scene with the doll in the second glass case, which, as it turns out, really rattles and unnerves him. And, again, this is only the first of ten chapters with mounting surreal weirdness. We feel as if not only have we entered a René Magritte painting, but the paint begins to drip down the canvas and occasionally morph, twist and magnify, all to the sound of those rumbling factory machines and piano music, sound turning visual and the visual turning into sounds. Synesthesia, anyone?
5.0
Gabriel García Márquez, Italo Calvino and Julio Cortázar all acknowledge Felisberto Hernández (1902-1964) as a major influence. Not bad for a writer from the city of Montevideo, Uruguay who was a self-taught pianist and who earned his living playing in cafés and silent screen theaters. His writing is so dreamlike and surreal, so lush, aesthetically refined and artistically polished, I’m hard-pressed to characterize it other than observing on a scale of one to ten for the above literary qualities, I would place Henry James at nine and place Felisberto Hernández at ten since Hernández possesses much of Henry James' aesthetic polish and adds his own generous helpings of the dreamy surreal.
I must say, having authored over 400 book reviews to date, composing this review was one of the most challenging I've faced. I feel my words only touch the surface; it’s as if I’m attempting to describe the paintings of Salvador Dali for someone unacquainted with the great Spaniard's art. With this in mind, in order to share a glimpse of what a reader will encounter in this sixty-page, ten chapter novella, I will focus exclusively on the first chapter. And please note, The Daisy Dolls is available as a PDF (second website down) using this link: https://www.google.com/#q=the+daisy+dolls+by+felisberto+hernandez
THE DAISY DOLLS
The Really Odd Couple: The novella’s first lines: “Next to the garden was a factory, and the noise of the machines seeped through the plants and trees. And deep in the garden was a dark weathered house. The owner of the “black house” was a tall man.” The tall man living in this black house is an extremely wealthy eccentric by the name of Horace who lives with his nearly equally eccentric wife, a lady by the name of Daisy Mary. Also, we are well to bear in mind how the rumbling from the factory machines next-door rumble relentlessly, twenty-four-seven, a rumbling not only seeping through the plants and trees by also through Horace’s waking and sleeping hours.
Bizarre Obsession: Horace is a collector of lifelike dolls a bit taller than real women. In one of the larger rooms of his mansion, he has fashioned a showroom with three glass cases, cases especially built for the purpose of having men come in to invent scenes for his dolls, set designers and costume makers as well as caption writers who compose a caption describing each scene. Horace will read the caption, usually placed on a piece of paper in a drawer, after he has had an opportunity to mentally create his own story of what the scene is all about. Sound crazy? It is crazy, and this is only the beginning as the novella's constant crescendo of craziness will keep you turning the pages in near disbelief of what Horace and Daisy Mary dream up next.
Prelude: One evening after dinner in the dining room, Horace is drinking wine with Daisy Mary (Filesberto almost comically repeats ‘wine from France’ throughout the novella). Their butler Alex enters to inform Horace that Walter, the pianist, has arrived. Horace tells Alex to let Walter know he should play the first piano piece on the program repeatedly until a light flashes and under no circumstances speak or ask questions. At this point, Horace rises, walks over and kisses Daisy Mary, then moves to a chair in the little parlor next to the showroom where he begins to sip his coffee, smoke and collect himself until he feels completely isolated in preparation for his entrée into the showroom.
Soundtrack: Horace hears both the piano and the factory machines as if through water, as if he is submerged and wearing a diver’s helmet, but when he tries to concentrate on the sounds, “they scattered like frightened mice.” Being a piano player himself, in all likelihood Filesberto particularly enjoyed including a piano player – piano music along with the sound of the factory machines are a constant presence, either directly or indirectly, so much so I can imagine a film adaptation of the novella with piano music and the rumbling from those factory machines comprising the entire soundtrack.
Showtime, One: Horace opens the door and moves toward the first glass case. He switches a light on in the case and through a thin green curtain scans the scene: there’s a doll sprawled on bed. Inside the case there is also a small rolling platform with a chair and little table; Horace mounts the platform and takes a seat for a better view. He ponders: Is the doll dead or is she dreaming? She’s dressed as a bride, eyes wide open, starring at the ceiling and her arms are spread in either abandon or despair. Is she a bride waiting for her groom who will never arrive, having jilted her just before the wedding? Or is she a widow remembering her wedding day? Or, perhaps, just a girl simply dressed up as a bride? Sidebar: The author’s depiction of this scene and setting of mood is so stunning and surreal, it’s as if we step into a René Magritte painting to imagine for ourselves what the scene entails.
Showtime, Two: Horace opens the drawer of the little table and reads: “A moment before marrying the man she doesn’t love, she locks herself up, wearing the dress she was to have worn to her wedding with the man she loved, who is gone forever, and poisons herself. She dies with her eyes open and no one has come in yet to shut them.” Horace reflects that she really was a lovely bride and savors the feeling of being alive when the bride is not. He then opens a glass door and enters the scene itself in order to have a closer look, but right then he thinks he hears a door slam. He leaves the case and sees a piece of his wife’s dress caught in the door leading to the parlor. Horace rips open the door and Daisy Mary’s body falls on him. But wait . . . Daisy Mary’s body is so light. Ah, Horace recognizes the body he is holding isn’t his wife’s but Daisy, the doll who resembles her. His wife has played a little joke on him.
Deep, Dreamy Surreal: This chapter continues with Horace conversing with Mary (yes, his wife retains the name Mary while bestowing the name Daisy on the lookalike doll) before retreating to his bedroom to pen an entry in his diary and then returning to the showroom to view the scene with the doll in the second glass case, which, as it turns out, really rattles and unnerves him. And, again, this is only the first of ten chapters with mounting surreal weirdness. We feel as if not only have we entered a René Magritte painting, but the paint begins to drip down the canvas and occasionally morph, twist and magnify, all to the sound of those rumbling factory machines and piano music, sound turning visual and the visual turning into sounds. Synesthesia, anyone?
The Odyssey by Homer
Ever since I first read Homer’s epic describing the adventures of Odysseus back in my school days, three of those adventures fired my imagination: The Lotus Eaters, The Cyclops and the Sirens, most especially the Sirens. I just did revisit these sections of this Greek epic and my imagination was set aflame yet again. How much, you ask? Here is my microfiction as a tribute to the great poet:
THE SIRENS
This happened back in those days when I was a member of an experimental performing-arts troupe down in Greenwich Village. We would read poetry, dance and act out avant-garde plays in our dilapidated little theater. For a modest charge people could come in and watch for as long as they wanted.
Somehow, a business executive who worked downtown in the financial district heard of what we were doing and spoke with our director about an act he has all worked out but needed a supporting cast and that he would pay handsomely if we went along with him.
Well, experimental is experimental and if we were going to be well paid we had nothing to lose. The first thing he did was pass out our costumes. In addition to himself, he had parts for three men and three women. The play we were to perform was so simple we didn’t even need a written script. He was to be Odysseus from Homer’s epic and three men would be his sailors. As for the women, we would be the singing Sirens.
So, after he changed – quite a sight in a loincloth, being gray-haired, jowly, pasty-skinned and potbellied – we went on stage and he told the sailors how no man has ever heard the hypnotic songs of the Sirens and lived to tell the tale but he, mighty Odysseus, would be the first. He instructed the sailors to tie him to the ship’s mast. They used one of the building’s pillars and when he cried out as the Sirens sang their song the sailors, who had wax in their ears, were to bind him to the mast even tighter.
Meanwhile, three of us ladies were on stage as the Sirens, in costume, bare-breasted and outfitted with wings. We began singing a sweet, lilting melody. Mike – that was the businessman’s name – started screaming and the sailors tightened the ropes that bound him. The sailors were glad their ears were plugged as Mike screamed for nearly half an hour.
When the ship passed out of earshot of the Sirens, the sailors unbound mighty Odysseus and he collapsed on our makeshift stage, a mass of exhausted middle-aged flesh. The audience applauded, even cheered and we continued our performance of Odysseus and the Sirens every night for more than a week. Then one night Mike outdid himself. His blue eyes bulged, the veins in his neck popped and his face turned a deeper blood-scarlet than ever before. And what I feared might happen, did happen – Mike had a heart attack. We had to interrupt our performance and call an ambulance.
We all thought that was the end of our dealing with Mike aka Odysseus until our director received a call from the hospital. Mike told her he was going to be just fine and would be back on stage next week. We called a meeting and everyone agreed that we would suggest Mike seek psychiatric help but if he insists on playing Odysseus, he will have to take his act elsewhere.
5.0
Ever since I first read Homer’s epic describing the adventures of Odysseus back in my school days, three of those adventures fired my imagination: The Lotus Eaters, The Cyclops and the Sirens, most especially the Sirens. I just did revisit these sections of this Greek epic and my imagination was set aflame yet again. How much, you ask? Here is my microfiction as a tribute to the great poet:
THE SIRENS
This happened back in those days when I was a member of an experimental performing-arts troupe down in Greenwich Village. We would read poetry, dance and act out avant-garde plays in our dilapidated little theater. For a modest charge people could come in and watch for as long as they wanted.
Somehow, a business executive who worked downtown in the financial district heard of what we were doing and spoke with our director about an act he has all worked out but needed a supporting cast and that he would pay handsomely if we went along with him.
Well, experimental is experimental and if we were going to be well paid we had nothing to lose. The first thing he did was pass out our costumes. In addition to himself, he had parts for three men and three women. The play we were to perform was so simple we didn’t even need a written script. He was to be Odysseus from Homer’s epic and three men would be his sailors. As for the women, we would be the singing Sirens.
So, after he changed – quite a sight in a loincloth, being gray-haired, jowly, pasty-skinned and potbellied – we went on stage and he told the sailors how no man has ever heard the hypnotic songs of the Sirens and lived to tell the tale but he, mighty Odysseus, would be the first. He instructed the sailors to tie him to the ship’s mast. They used one of the building’s pillars and when he cried out as the Sirens sang their song the sailors, who had wax in their ears, were to bind him to the mast even tighter.
Meanwhile, three of us ladies were on stage as the Sirens, in costume, bare-breasted and outfitted with wings. We began singing a sweet, lilting melody. Mike – that was the businessman’s name – started screaming and the sailors tightened the ropes that bound him. The sailors were glad their ears were plugged as Mike screamed for nearly half an hour.
When the ship passed out of earshot of the Sirens, the sailors unbound mighty Odysseus and he collapsed on our makeshift stage, a mass of exhausted middle-aged flesh. The audience applauded, even cheered and we continued our performance of Odysseus and the Sirens every night for more than a week. Then one night Mike outdid himself. His blue eyes bulged, the veins in his neck popped and his face turned a deeper blood-scarlet than ever before. And what I feared might happen, did happen – Mike had a heart attack. We had to interrupt our performance and call an ambulance.
We all thought that was the end of our dealing with Mike aka Odysseus until our director received a call from the hospital. Mike told her he was going to be just fine and would be back on stage next week. We called a meeting and everyone agreed that we would suggest Mike seek psychiatric help but if he insists on playing Odysseus, he will have to take his act elsewhere.
The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosiński
The cover of the Mass Market Paperback edition from the 1970s of The Painted Bird features a small section of Hieronymus Bosch hell-landscape -- dressed in sickly green and wearing a white hood, a creature with a man's body and head of a long-beaked bird walks on crutches carrying a large wicker basket on its back, and in the basket a small black devil with spiky fingers touches the shoulder of a wary young boy as he whispers into the boy's ear. This is an apt cover for Jerzy Kosinski's fictionalized autobiographical novel set in Poland during the reign of Nazi terror in World War 11.
I first read this harrowing tale thirty-five years ago. I have read many dark, disturbing novels filled with brutality of every stripe, including such works as Malamud's The Fixer, Dostoyevsky's The House of the Dead, and Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, but, in my view, perhaps because the narrator is a ten year old boy, no novel has its main character live through a more painful hell than in The Painted Bird.
Several months after reading this novel, the author himself made a visit to a large bookstore in Philadelphia for a book-signing, so I had an opportunity to actually meet him - a small man with a thin, high pitched voice and sharp, chiseled fine features, a man who struck me as being both sensitive and friendly. He appreciated my words of thanks and told me, when asked, that he was heading to New Orleans and expected to have some exciting times.
Anyway, that was then. Several days ago I saw my local library had a copy of The Painted Bird audio book and immediately checked it out. I started also rereading the printed book as I listened to the audio. The reader, Fred Berman, did his homework - his accent and inflection and manner of speaking is spot-on Jerzy Kosinski.
If you are unfamiliar, this story is of an orphan boy with black eyes and sharp nose, labeled gypsy-Jew, forced to wander from village to village, subjected physically to beatings, rape, tortures, as well as murder attempts, while subjected psychologically to being treated as a messenger of the devil and an evil spirit who casts spells with a glance from his black eyes.
The boy is so traumatized from unrelenting abuse, he completely losses his capacity to speak for many months. The abuse reaches such a pitch, at one point he reflects on the nature of evil: "I tried to visualize the manner in which the evil spirits operated. The minds and souls of people were as open to these forces as a plowed field, and it was on this field that the Evil Ones incessantly scattered their malignant seed. If their seed sprouted to life, if they felt welcomed, they offered all the help which might be needed, on the condition that it would be used for selfish purposes and only to the detriment of others. From the moment of signing a pact with the Devil, the more harm, misery, injury, and bitterness a man could inflict on those around him, the more help he could expect." Quite the musings from a ten year old! Just goes to show how extreme was his direct experience of the forces of evil.
If you are up for an unforgettable experience of terror expressed in the clear, vivid literary language of a fine writer, then you are ready for The Painted Bird.
“There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.”
― Jerzy Kosinski, The Painted Bird
5.0
The cover of the Mass Market Paperback edition from the 1970s of The Painted Bird features a small section of Hieronymus Bosch hell-landscape -- dressed in sickly green and wearing a white hood, a creature with a man's body and head of a long-beaked bird walks on crutches carrying a large wicker basket on its back, and in the basket a small black devil with spiky fingers touches the shoulder of a wary young boy as he whispers into the boy's ear. This is an apt cover for Jerzy Kosinski's fictionalized autobiographical novel set in Poland during the reign of Nazi terror in World War 11.
I first read this harrowing tale thirty-five years ago. I have read many dark, disturbing novels filled with brutality of every stripe, including such works as Malamud's The Fixer, Dostoyevsky's The House of the Dead, and Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, but, in my view, perhaps because the narrator is a ten year old boy, no novel has its main character live through a more painful hell than in The Painted Bird.
Several months after reading this novel, the author himself made a visit to a large bookstore in Philadelphia for a book-signing, so I had an opportunity to actually meet him - a small man with a thin, high pitched voice and sharp, chiseled fine features, a man who struck me as being both sensitive and friendly. He appreciated my words of thanks and told me, when asked, that he was heading to New Orleans and expected to have some exciting times.
Anyway, that was then. Several days ago I saw my local library had a copy of The Painted Bird audio book and immediately checked it out. I started also rereading the printed book as I listened to the audio. The reader, Fred Berman, did his homework - his accent and inflection and manner of speaking is spot-on Jerzy Kosinski.
If you are unfamiliar, this story is of an orphan boy with black eyes and sharp nose, labeled gypsy-Jew, forced to wander from village to village, subjected physically to beatings, rape, tortures, as well as murder attempts, while subjected psychologically to being treated as a messenger of the devil and an evil spirit who casts spells with a glance from his black eyes.
The boy is so traumatized from unrelenting abuse, he completely losses his capacity to speak for many months. The abuse reaches such a pitch, at one point he reflects on the nature of evil: "I tried to visualize the manner in which the evil spirits operated. The minds and souls of people were as open to these forces as a plowed field, and it was on this field that the Evil Ones incessantly scattered their malignant seed. If their seed sprouted to life, if they felt welcomed, they offered all the help which might be needed, on the condition that it would be used for selfish purposes and only to the detriment of others. From the moment of signing a pact with the Devil, the more harm, misery, injury, and bitterness a man could inflict on those around him, the more help he could expect." Quite the musings from a ten year old! Just goes to show how extreme was his direct experience of the forces of evil.
If you are up for an unforgettable experience of terror expressed in the clear, vivid literary language of a fine writer, then you are ready for The Painted Bird.
“There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.”
― Jerzy Kosinski, The Painted Bird
Camp Concentration by Thomas M. Disch
Camp Concentration – American author Thomas M. Disch’s 1968 science/speculative fiction, alternate history set in the near future where the United States has declared war on the entire world and features main character Louis Sacchetti, a poet who resists the draft and chooses prison rather than the army. But what a prison! The poet is sent to a secret camp where prisoners are given an experimental drug without their knowledge or consent, a drug that increases intelligence but in less than a year will most certainly cause death.
Written at the height of the US involvement in Vietnam and in the aftermath of CIA experiments with LSD on unknowing subjects, Disch’s novel is a hornet’s nest of vicious stings. Below are a number of stinging direct quotes from the pages of Louis Sacchetti's diary that, in effect, comprises Camp Concentration. I have included a modest comment of my own coupled with each quote. Here goes:
“The cells are as bony-clean as a dream of Philip Johnson (Grand Central Bathroom), while we, the prisoners, carry about with us the incredible, ineradicable smell of our stale, wasted flesh.” ---------- The irony of much military mentality – make sure all objects are scrubbed antiseptic clean as counterpoint to minds of the dehumanizers that are little more than open cesspools inflicting a life of psychic filth on inmates.
“Nasty as this prison is, there is this advantage to it – that it will not lead so promptly, so probably, to death. Not to mention the inestimable advantage of righteousness.” --------- Sounds like our poet is a bit naive. Little does he know that the prison officials will subject any prisoner they want to any torture they want. If things get a bit touchy, well, those officials can have their guards snuff out a prisoner’s life with no more hesitation than stepping on a cockroach. And a prisoner’s righteousness! Such nonsense can be dealt with via all sorts of manipulations, including bad diet, light deprivation and powerful drugs.
“I have an almost desperate desire to understand him, for it is R.M. and his like who perpetuate this incredible war, who believe, with a sincerity I cannot call into doubt, that in doing so they perform a moral action.” ---------- During the Vietnam War, many were the officers and soldiers who, like R.M., thought their participation in the war was highly moral. But many in the country, both in and out of the service, did not agree. It is this contrast the author’s narrator finds fascinating - Louis Sacchetti endeavors to understand the mindset of those like R.M..
Sidebar: During George W. Bush’s war, a huge number of cadets from the Air Force Academy were pumping Mel Gibson’s film about Christ, attempting to bully all cadets, even Jews, into watching and supporting. This to say, when the goal is achieved, when everyone upholds a common religious zeal linked to their inflicting war, there is nobody left like Louis Sacchetti to question the morality of the military action.
“Not since the playground tyrannies of childhood have the rules of the game been so utterly and; Knowledge arrogantly abrogated, and I am helpless to cope.” ---------- Again, the narrator is naïve in assuming just because he is a United States citizen protected by the law that as a prisoner he will retain his rights. Sorry, Louis, the military mentality here says the ends justify the means. As a conscientious objector you have not only surrendered your rights but also your humanity.
“It is an investigation of learning processes. I need not explain to you the fundamental importance of education with respect to the national defense effort. Ultimately it is intelligence that is a nation’s most vital resource, and education can be seen as the process of maximizing intelligence.” ---------- In similar spirit to the LSD experiments conducted by the CIA on unknowning subjects, the death producing drug Louis and others are given will ultimately produce much more intelligent military personnel. Thus the sacrifice of their lives is a contribution to a worthy cause.
“Before you were brought here you may be sure we examined every dirty little cranny of your past. We had to be certain you were harmless.” ---------- Ah, the government has no scruples or misgivings in prying into the privacy of any individual. After all, if you have nothing to hide, you have no grounds to object.
“If I should ever start feeling subjective again, I need only say the word and a guard will bring me a tranquilizer.” ---------- Drugs and counter-drugs to the rescue. Those in power can be so kind and considerate - as long as it servers their ends, that is.
“And it isn’t just Camp Archimedes. It’s the whole universe. The whole goddammed universe is a fucking concentration camp.” ---------- Rather harsh words from one of the other prisoners. To discover why he would say such a thing, I encourage you to read this distinctive novel for yourself.
Thomas M. Disch, age 28 in 1968, the publication year of Camp Concentration
5.0
Camp Concentration – American author Thomas M. Disch’s 1968 science/speculative fiction, alternate history set in the near future where the United States has declared war on the entire world and features main character Louis Sacchetti, a poet who resists the draft and chooses prison rather than the army. But what a prison! The poet is sent to a secret camp where prisoners are given an experimental drug without their knowledge or consent, a drug that increases intelligence but in less than a year will most certainly cause death.
Written at the height of the US involvement in Vietnam and in the aftermath of CIA experiments with LSD on unknowing subjects, Disch’s novel is a hornet’s nest of vicious stings. Below are a number of stinging direct quotes from the pages of Louis Sacchetti's diary that, in effect, comprises Camp Concentration. I have included a modest comment of my own coupled with each quote. Here goes:
“The cells are as bony-clean as a dream of Philip Johnson (Grand Central Bathroom), while we, the prisoners, carry about with us the incredible, ineradicable smell of our stale, wasted flesh.” ---------- The irony of much military mentality – make sure all objects are scrubbed antiseptic clean as counterpoint to minds of the dehumanizers that are little more than open cesspools inflicting a life of psychic filth on inmates.
“Nasty as this prison is, there is this advantage to it – that it will not lead so promptly, so probably, to death. Not to mention the inestimable advantage of righteousness.” --------- Sounds like our poet is a bit naive. Little does he know that the prison officials will subject any prisoner they want to any torture they want. If things get a bit touchy, well, those officials can have their guards snuff out a prisoner’s life with no more hesitation than stepping on a cockroach. And a prisoner’s righteousness! Such nonsense can be dealt with via all sorts of manipulations, including bad diet, light deprivation and powerful drugs.
“I have an almost desperate desire to understand him, for it is R.M. and his like who perpetuate this incredible war, who believe, with a sincerity I cannot call into doubt, that in doing so they perform a moral action.” ---------- During the Vietnam War, many were the officers and soldiers who, like R.M., thought their participation in the war was highly moral. But many in the country, both in and out of the service, did not agree. It is this contrast the author’s narrator finds fascinating - Louis Sacchetti endeavors to understand the mindset of those like R.M..
Sidebar: During George W. Bush’s war, a huge number of cadets from the Air Force Academy were pumping Mel Gibson’s film about Christ, attempting to bully all cadets, even Jews, into watching and supporting. This to say, when the goal is achieved, when everyone upholds a common religious zeal linked to their inflicting war, there is nobody left like Louis Sacchetti to question the morality of the military action.
“Not since the playground tyrannies of childhood have the rules of the game been so utterly and; Knowledge arrogantly abrogated, and I am helpless to cope.” ---------- Again, the narrator is naïve in assuming just because he is a United States citizen protected by the law that as a prisoner he will retain his rights. Sorry, Louis, the military mentality here says the ends justify the means. As a conscientious objector you have not only surrendered your rights but also your humanity.
“It is an investigation of learning processes. I need not explain to you the fundamental importance of education with respect to the national defense effort. Ultimately it is intelligence that is a nation’s most vital resource, and education can be seen as the process of maximizing intelligence.” ---------- In similar spirit to the LSD experiments conducted by the CIA on unknowning subjects, the death producing drug Louis and others are given will ultimately produce much more intelligent military personnel. Thus the sacrifice of their lives is a contribution to a worthy cause.
“Before you were brought here you may be sure we examined every dirty little cranny of your past. We had to be certain you were harmless.” ---------- Ah, the government has no scruples or misgivings in prying into the privacy of any individual. After all, if you have nothing to hide, you have no grounds to object.
“If I should ever start feeling subjective again, I need only say the word and a guard will bring me a tranquilizer.” ---------- Drugs and counter-drugs to the rescue. Those in power can be so kind and considerate - as long as it servers their ends, that is.
“And it isn’t just Camp Archimedes. It’s the whole universe. The whole goddammed universe is a fucking concentration camp.” ---------- Rather harsh words from one of the other prisoners. To discover why he would say such a thing, I encourage you to read this distinctive novel for yourself.
Thomas M. Disch, age 28 in 1968, the publication year of Camp Concentration
The Roaches by Thomas M. Disch
To my eye, Marcia confronting a cockroach in Thomas Disch's unsettling tale.
Disch’s science fiction is so “soft” on the science and technology, one could also categorize his work as “weird fiction.” But whatever the label, Thomas M. Disch is one first-rate writer, shaping his tight, well-honed tales with subtlety and nuance, without any words, phrases, images or metaphors wasted. If you are unfamiliar with his books, you will be in for a pleasant surprise.
SPOILER ALERT: My analysis covers The Roaches in its entirety. Usually I wouldn’t want to give away a tale’s surprises but I do so here to underscore just how abrupt and unexpected the twist at the end. I hope my review prompts you to investigate the author’s writing.
The ROACHES
Miss Marcia Kenwell, a young lady from the wholesome state of Minnesota currently residing in Manhattan, is horrified by cockroaches. Most unfortunately, she lives in an apartment infested by the vermin, prompting poor Marcia to constantly reach for her Black Flag and spray, spray, spray, spray.
And poor Marcia keeps her apartment so immaculately clean; she simply cannot fathom how so many people in New York City do not take on the role of exterminator, scrubbing and spraying until all those evil cockroaches are no more. Thus she is prompted to conclude scathingly how vast numbers of New Yorkers must be none other than dirty Puerto Ricans. Sidebar: Thomas Disch doesn’t pass up this opportunity to highlight a longstanding American racial prejudice linking cockroaches to Puerto Ricans.
You may ask: When did Marcia have her first revolting encounter? Answer: down in her employer’s stockroom cellar when the Midwestern lass noticed dark spots moving on the side of a sink. She takes several steps for a closer look. Ahhh - horror of horrors!. Those spots are, in fact, big, black, ugly insects. A philosopher at heart, Marcia turns over in her mind how those very things that repel us can simultaneously attract us.
And, go ahead, look at the way those dark insects scatter randomly, their antennae fluttering. Marcia wonders if her mere presence is having a morbid effect on the black insects. Oh, yes, these are the very same vile creatures she recalls her dear Aunt back in Minnesota warned her about - none other than cockroaches. At this point, the trauma is simply too much - Marcia falls back in a nearby chair and faints.
Not long after this cellar episode, cockroaches invade her apartment for the first time. Immediately, Marcia initiates ruthless extermination – she scrubs and waxes, spreads pastes and powders, washes and rinses everything in sight. Finally, after all her efforts, she reaches a point where any of those repugnant cockroaches who so much as think of trespassing will turn right around and scurry off in hasty retreat.
All is well, somewhat, at least, until disaster hits: the Shchapalovs move in the apartment next to her, three Shchapalovs, two men and a woman, all looking as if they are worn by age, as if all three have been put through one of life’s meanest meat grinders. Not only does Marcia discovers these Shchapalovs are all drinkers but they constantly yell at one another and, if you can believe it, they also sing songs together in the evening, a practice Marcia finds particularly distressing.
And, to top it off, these Shchapalovs have cockroaches that swarm into her kitchen through the common pipes and plumbing. Egad! Sidebar: A family of Eastern Europeans and their cockroaches, a connection reminding us of both Kafka’s famous tale and America’s nasty history of xenophobia. Anyway, in her bed at night, Marcia must watch the cockroaches crawl over her walls and ceiling, tracking in Shchapalov filth.
One evening when poor Marcia lies in her bed with flu, the roaches are especially bad and she begs them to all go away, to get out of her apartment, begs the cockroaches with the same intensity with which she occasionally prays to God. Strange but true, her prayers are answered – all the cockroaches immediately flee her apartment as fast as their little black legs will carry them.
One last cockroach comes down the cupboard. “Stop!” Marcia commands. The cockroach stops. Marcia barks out more commands: Up! Down! Left! Right! The cockroach obeys. At this point, Marcia got out of bed, walked over to the cockroach and orders it to wiggle its antennas. The cockroach antennas obligingly wiggle.
With an unexpected thrill, Marcia realizes the cockroaches will obey her every command. Too bad for the Shchapalovs with their disgusting drinking and vile singing. The very next night Marcia puts her plan into action - obeying her orders, thousands of cockroaches attack the singing Eastern Europeans. Bye, bye Shchapalovs - they flee down the stairs and out of the apartment building forever. Marcia knows this is only the beginning when, telepathically, she hears the cockroaches chiming in unison: “We love you we love you we love you.”
The author ends his tale thusly: “I love you too,” she replied." "Oh, I love you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me.” From every corner of Manhattan, from the crumbling walls of Harlem, from the restaurants on 56th Street, from warehouses along the river, from sewers and from orange peels moldering in garbage cans, the loving roaches came forth and began to crawl toward their mistress.
5.0
To my eye, Marcia confronting a cockroach in Thomas Disch's unsettling tale.
Disch’s science fiction is so “soft” on the science and technology, one could also categorize his work as “weird fiction.” But whatever the label, Thomas M. Disch is one first-rate writer, shaping his tight, well-honed tales with subtlety and nuance, without any words, phrases, images or metaphors wasted. If you are unfamiliar with his books, you will be in for a pleasant surprise.
SPOILER ALERT: My analysis covers The Roaches in its entirety. Usually I wouldn’t want to give away a tale’s surprises but I do so here to underscore just how abrupt and unexpected the twist at the end. I hope my review prompts you to investigate the author’s writing.
The ROACHES
Miss Marcia Kenwell, a young lady from the wholesome state of Minnesota currently residing in Manhattan, is horrified by cockroaches. Most unfortunately, she lives in an apartment infested by the vermin, prompting poor Marcia to constantly reach for her Black Flag and spray, spray, spray, spray.
And poor Marcia keeps her apartment so immaculately clean; she simply cannot fathom how so many people in New York City do not take on the role of exterminator, scrubbing and spraying until all those evil cockroaches are no more. Thus she is prompted to conclude scathingly how vast numbers of New Yorkers must be none other than dirty Puerto Ricans. Sidebar: Thomas Disch doesn’t pass up this opportunity to highlight a longstanding American racial prejudice linking cockroaches to Puerto Ricans.
You may ask: When did Marcia have her first revolting encounter? Answer: down in her employer’s stockroom cellar when the Midwestern lass noticed dark spots moving on the side of a sink. She takes several steps for a closer look. Ahhh - horror of horrors!. Those spots are, in fact, big, black, ugly insects. A philosopher at heart, Marcia turns over in her mind how those very things that repel us can simultaneously attract us.
And, go ahead, look at the way those dark insects scatter randomly, their antennae fluttering. Marcia wonders if her mere presence is having a morbid effect on the black insects. Oh, yes, these are the very same vile creatures she recalls her dear Aunt back in Minnesota warned her about - none other than cockroaches. At this point, the trauma is simply too much - Marcia falls back in a nearby chair and faints.
Not long after this cellar episode, cockroaches invade her apartment for the first time. Immediately, Marcia initiates ruthless extermination – she scrubs and waxes, spreads pastes and powders, washes and rinses everything in sight. Finally, after all her efforts, she reaches a point where any of those repugnant cockroaches who so much as think of trespassing will turn right around and scurry off in hasty retreat.
All is well, somewhat, at least, until disaster hits: the Shchapalovs move in the apartment next to her, three Shchapalovs, two men and a woman, all looking as if they are worn by age, as if all three have been put through one of life’s meanest meat grinders. Not only does Marcia discovers these Shchapalovs are all drinkers but they constantly yell at one another and, if you can believe it, they also sing songs together in the evening, a practice Marcia finds particularly distressing.
And, to top it off, these Shchapalovs have cockroaches that swarm into her kitchen through the common pipes and plumbing. Egad! Sidebar: A family of Eastern Europeans and their cockroaches, a connection reminding us of both Kafka’s famous tale and America’s nasty history of xenophobia. Anyway, in her bed at night, Marcia must watch the cockroaches crawl over her walls and ceiling, tracking in Shchapalov filth.
One evening when poor Marcia lies in her bed with flu, the roaches are especially bad and she begs them to all go away, to get out of her apartment, begs the cockroaches with the same intensity with which she occasionally prays to God. Strange but true, her prayers are answered – all the cockroaches immediately flee her apartment as fast as their little black legs will carry them.
One last cockroach comes down the cupboard. “Stop!” Marcia commands. The cockroach stops. Marcia barks out more commands: Up! Down! Left! Right! The cockroach obeys. At this point, Marcia got out of bed, walked over to the cockroach and orders it to wiggle its antennas. The cockroach antennas obligingly wiggle.
With an unexpected thrill, Marcia realizes the cockroaches will obey her every command. Too bad for the Shchapalovs with their disgusting drinking and vile singing. The very next night Marcia puts her plan into action - obeying her orders, thousands of cockroaches attack the singing Eastern Europeans. Bye, bye Shchapalovs - they flee down the stairs and out of the apartment building forever. Marcia knows this is only the beginning when, telepathically, she hears the cockroaches chiming in unison: “We love you we love you we love you.”
The author ends his tale thusly: “I love you too,” she replied." "Oh, I love you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me.” From every corner of Manhattan, from the crumbling walls of Harlem, from the restaurants on 56th Street, from warehouses along the river, from sewers and from orange peels moldering in garbage cans, the loving roaches came forth and began to crawl toward their mistress.
The Devil Tree by Jerzy Kosiński
“So this is insanity. How interesting. What happens next?”
― Jerzy Kosiński, The Devil Tree
Jerzy Kosinski's novel The Devil Tree takes place in 1970s America, a world of the Me generation, where an entire population had easy access to multiple partner sex, powerful mind-bending and sense-enhancing drugs and a plethora of self-help books ranging from jogging, diet, and speed-reading to primal screams, transactional analysis and do-it-yourself psychodrama. Being an adult and holding a philosophy of self-indulgence and pleasure, especially the pleasure of enjoyable sensations, is one thing, but, since as an adult, one is usually obliged to hold down a fairly routine job and attend to the round of family and everyday practical matters, one's hedonism must be tempered with a good measure of pragmatism and stoicism, which is to say, one has to learn to delay one's pleasure-seeking and bouts of self-absorption.
But what of those men and women who have enormous piles of money given to them, and thus freed from any need for job or work, and miles removed from taking on the responsibility of family and children? Well, meet the novel's main character, Jonathan James Whalen, one such man, a man in his 20s, with a huge family fortune but no family- no wife and children, no brother or sister, and, most dramatically as the result of two separate tragedies, no mother or father. Whalen is a family of one - himself. And being super-rich in the 1970s this mean Me with a capital "M", which, in turn, means Me and my desires and pleasures - many, many desires and oh-so-many pleasures.
Similar to Kosinski's autobiographical first novel, The Painted Bird, this work is nearly free of dialogue. And the story is not broken into chapters but rather told in short first person and third person vignettes revealing in spurts and bursts the character of Whalen and others around him, including Karen, his friend and lover he's known since childhood, as well as his departed parents -- emotionally distraught mother and famous entrepreneurial father . The vignettes seem to match the mind-set of the super-rich, especially Whalen: staccato, psychological, intensely preoccupied with self and with the unending search for satisfaction and a meaning in life through other people. Not a happy formula. And, predictably, Whalen and Karen experience more frustration and dissatisfaction than satisfaction and happiness.
And speaking of the psychological, Whalen belongs to that 1970s Me generation mass-phenomenon: the encounter group, which prompts his musing: "I don't like to think I'm as confused or simple-minded as others, but if I really am more complex, more experienced than they are, why should I want them to understand me?"
Here is a one of Whalen's reflections on his life and wealth: "When I was a child, I thought my possessions and properties belonged to me because I was pretty, as everyone continually assured me. Now I know I despise people who associate the way I look with my money and family connections, as though physical attractiveness is merely a matter of expensive shirts and custom-made suits. But even now it's hard for me to imagine being very wealthy and ugly at the same time: money and beauty are still my God-given rights."
How different are Whalen's reflection on money and beauty than most other Americans in the 1970s or any time, for that matter? Before devoting his complete creative energy to fiction, Kosinski studied and wrote in the social sciences. We can read this novel on a number of levels, including a work of keen sociological insight. The Devil Tree as a mirror on an entire society and culture. What do you see when you look in the mirror, America? Do you see any differently now that you are 40 years removed from the 1970s and the Me generation?
We follow Whalen going round and round and round for years in a high-speed, money-glutted, drug and liquor induced whirlwind, when finally he gains a measure of control of his emotions and can choose freely. But what a choice. Halfway through the novel we read: "My depressions are no longer such natural urges as sex, sleep and hunger. Now they are completely calculated. I could as easily have done something else yesterday afternoon, but I chose to enact a familiar ritual, to dull my mind and lose myself completely. I went to the liquor store and bought a fifth of Jack Daniel's. I went upstairs, poured myself a drink and put on a record. By six I had finished half the bottle and was thoroughly depressed, but comforted by the thought that I had selected my mood. I felt that at last I had total emotional control." So there we have it: freely choosing depression. What a statement on the super-rich lifestyle.
Toward the end of the novel, Whalen finally realizes he has been followed for quite some time, which leads to some real drama and propels him into real action fueled by the real emotion of revenge. Within this episode of revenge, Whalen relays the meaning of `the devil tree', a meaning involving the devil getting tangled in the tree's branches and turning the tree upside down. Considering his horrific childhood, Kosinski developed a sharp, penetrating observation of the plight of human entanglement when money is the tree.
5.0
“So this is insanity. How interesting. What happens next?”
― Jerzy Kosiński, The Devil Tree
Jerzy Kosinski's novel The Devil Tree takes place in 1970s America, a world of the Me generation, where an entire population had easy access to multiple partner sex, powerful mind-bending and sense-enhancing drugs and a plethora of self-help books ranging from jogging, diet, and speed-reading to primal screams, transactional analysis and do-it-yourself psychodrama. Being an adult and holding a philosophy of self-indulgence and pleasure, especially the pleasure of enjoyable sensations, is one thing, but, since as an adult, one is usually obliged to hold down a fairly routine job and attend to the round of family and everyday practical matters, one's hedonism must be tempered with a good measure of pragmatism and stoicism, which is to say, one has to learn to delay one's pleasure-seeking and bouts of self-absorption.
But what of those men and women who have enormous piles of money given to them, and thus freed from any need for job or work, and miles removed from taking on the responsibility of family and children? Well, meet the novel's main character, Jonathan James Whalen, one such man, a man in his 20s, with a huge family fortune but no family- no wife and children, no brother or sister, and, most dramatically as the result of two separate tragedies, no mother or father. Whalen is a family of one - himself. And being super-rich in the 1970s this mean Me with a capital "M", which, in turn, means Me and my desires and pleasures - many, many desires and oh-so-many pleasures.
Similar to Kosinski's autobiographical first novel, The Painted Bird, this work is nearly free of dialogue. And the story is not broken into chapters but rather told in short first person and third person vignettes revealing in spurts and bursts the character of Whalen and others around him, including Karen, his friend and lover he's known since childhood, as well as his departed parents -- emotionally distraught mother and famous entrepreneurial father . The vignettes seem to match the mind-set of the super-rich, especially Whalen: staccato, psychological, intensely preoccupied with self and with the unending search for satisfaction and a meaning in life through other people. Not a happy formula. And, predictably, Whalen and Karen experience more frustration and dissatisfaction than satisfaction and happiness.
And speaking of the psychological, Whalen belongs to that 1970s Me generation mass-phenomenon: the encounter group, which prompts his musing: "I don't like to think I'm as confused or simple-minded as others, but if I really am more complex, more experienced than they are, why should I want them to understand me?"
Here is a one of Whalen's reflections on his life and wealth: "When I was a child, I thought my possessions and properties belonged to me because I was pretty, as everyone continually assured me. Now I know I despise people who associate the way I look with my money and family connections, as though physical attractiveness is merely a matter of expensive shirts and custom-made suits. But even now it's hard for me to imagine being very wealthy and ugly at the same time: money and beauty are still my God-given rights."
How different are Whalen's reflection on money and beauty than most other Americans in the 1970s or any time, for that matter? Before devoting his complete creative energy to fiction, Kosinski studied and wrote in the social sciences. We can read this novel on a number of levels, including a work of keen sociological insight. The Devil Tree as a mirror on an entire society and culture. What do you see when you look in the mirror, America? Do you see any differently now that you are 40 years removed from the 1970s and the Me generation?
We follow Whalen going round and round and round for years in a high-speed, money-glutted, drug and liquor induced whirlwind, when finally he gains a measure of control of his emotions and can choose freely. But what a choice. Halfway through the novel we read: "My depressions are no longer such natural urges as sex, sleep and hunger. Now they are completely calculated. I could as easily have done something else yesterday afternoon, but I chose to enact a familiar ritual, to dull my mind and lose myself completely. I went to the liquor store and bought a fifth of Jack Daniel's. I went upstairs, poured myself a drink and put on a record. By six I had finished half the bottle and was thoroughly depressed, but comforted by the thought that I had selected my mood. I felt that at last I had total emotional control." So there we have it: freely choosing depression. What a statement on the super-rich lifestyle.
Toward the end of the novel, Whalen finally realizes he has been followed for quite some time, which leads to some real drama and propels him into real action fueled by the real emotion of revenge. Within this episode of revenge, Whalen relays the meaning of `the devil tree', a meaning involving the devil getting tangled in the tree's branches and turning the tree upside down. Considering his horrific childhood, Kosinski developed a sharp, penetrating observation of the plight of human entanglement when money is the tree.
Fatherland by Robert Harris
Fatherland, by Robert Harris, a 1992 novel of alternate history conceived as: "What might have happened if the Nazis won World War II?" Set in 1964 Berlin, all the novel's characters are sharply drawn and passionately motivated in decidedly political directions. The author has done his research and knows the Nazi world inside out, sticking with a number of actual high-ranking Nazis such as Reinhard Heydrich and Wilhelm Stuckart imaginatively projected into his fictional Germany. Other Nazis in the novel are consistent with those who followed their Führer back in the day. The novelist's language is as crisp as a Nazi goosestep, making for one fast-paced page-turner.
At the center of the action is Xavier March, homicide investigator with the Nazi SS, applying his detective skills to crack a case quickly spiraling into a complex political drama. Along the way March teams up with young attractive American journalist Charlotte Maguire, thus, this Harris tale is not only alternate twentieth century history but a sexy international thriller.
That’s all I intend to say about plot since my specific interest in reading this novel was to see how all the arts are faring in the land of Hitler and the Nazis thirty years after the war. To this end, below are some quotes along with my comments:
The image of the superior blonde, blue-eyed Ayran is still alive and kicking. We read: “The press portrayed Reinhard Heydrich as Nietzsche’s Superman sprung to life. Heydrich in his pilot’s uniform (he had flown combat missions on the eastern front). Heydrich in his fencing gear (he had fenced for Germany in the Olympics). Heydrich with his violin (he could reduce audiences to tears by the pathos of his playing).”
Hitler despised modern music, actually any music other than ninteenth century classical, usually saccharine operas such as The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár. Most Nazis in 1964 Germany still share their seventy-five year-old Führer’s musical taste. And, alas, there is mention of a group of young Englishmen from Liverpool with their “pernicious Negroid wailings,” a clear example of modern degenerate music, singing I Want To Hold Your Hand.
A tour guide talks about the main buildings of the new Berlin to all the foreigners on a tour bus: “Construction of the Arch of Triumph was commenced in 1946 and work was completed in time for the Day of National Reawakening in 1950.” Actually, that appalling monolithic architecture Hitler envisioned, including the 1000 ft. Great Hall designed by Albert Speer, a building that can hold 150,000 participants, is very much part of the novel. The book’s inner cover has a two page drawing of Hitler’s main buildings, including Great Hall, Grand Plaza, Hitler Palace and the 400 ft. Arch of Triumph.
Other than a slight reference to the subversive novels of such writers as Günter Grass, there isn’t that much mention of literature and for good reason – this is a tightly controlled police state, similar to Stalinist Russia. Any novels or stories that do not adhere to the official party line are deemed subversive, perverted, the products of sick minds. Such was the language used by the Nazis when they staged their infamous exhibit of Degenerate Art in 1937.
When main character March enters the office of a leader of the Gestapo, he observes: “On the walls were prints of Thorak’s sculptures: herculean figures with gargantuan torsos rolled boulders up steep hills in celebration of the building of the Autobahnen. The immensity of Thorak’s statuary was a whispered joke.” Ah, the aesthetics of the Nazis is showing some cracks at the foundation! Thorak was a prime Nazi sculptor, one of Hitler’s very favorites. However, his Nazi versions of cartoon superheroes left many Germans cold back in the 1930s; by the 1960s even the Germans in Harris’ novel could see the silliness of such bloated, muscle-bound monstrosities.
And March views the paintings on another wall: “Schmutzler’s Farm Girls Returning from the Fields, Padua’s The Führer Speaks – ghastly orthodox muck.” How about that - even a no-nonsense, action-oriented SS detective judges the official Nazi art as "orthodox muck." The German Hall of Art (right across the street from the exhibit of "Degenerate Art" featuring such moderns as Marc, Nolde, Kandinsky, Chagall, Grozz) exhibited what Hitler decreed as acceptable art. In the 1930s many art critics judged this Nazi art as, at best, mediocre and by the 1960s, a clearer vision has reached the man and SS officer in the street – all that realist art that Hitler loves is so much schmaltzy crap.
Toward the end of the novel, March and Charlotte Maguire enter an empty elementary school where March makes the observation: “Childish paintings decorated the walls – blue meadows, green skies, clouds of sulfur yellow. Children’s art was perilously close to degenerate art; such perversity would have to be knocked out of them.” The author did his homework. Hitler, an aspiring artist himself as young man (so much will; so little talent), loathed the expressionists painting grass that was not green, skies that were not blue, clouds that were not white – he simply could not enter the imaginative world of a true artist; and he would become violent when someone suggested he had provincial, limited tastes.
This is a fascinating novel on a number of levels. I focused on the arts since this is one of my main interests and as Frederic Spotts demonstrated in his well-researched Hitler and the Power of Aesthetics, Hitler valued art as the ultimate end of his world vision. In Harris’ 1964 alternative history, his vision proved to be narrow, lackluster, the product of a totalitarian police state. Thank goodness a 1964 Nazi Germany never became a reality.
5.0
Fatherland, by Robert Harris, a 1992 novel of alternate history conceived as: "What might have happened if the Nazis won World War II?" Set in 1964 Berlin, all the novel's characters are sharply drawn and passionately motivated in decidedly political directions. The author has done his research and knows the Nazi world inside out, sticking with a number of actual high-ranking Nazis such as Reinhard Heydrich and Wilhelm Stuckart imaginatively projected into his fictional Germany. Other Nazis in the novel are consistent with those who followed their Führer back in the day. The novelist's language is as crisp as a Nazi goosestep, making for one fast-paced page-turner.
At the center of the action is Xavier March, homicide investigator with the Nazi SS, applying his detective skills to crack a case quickly spiraling into a complex political drama. Along the way March teams up with young attractive American journalist Charlotte Maguire, thus, this Harris tale is not only alternate twentieth century history but a sexy international thriller.
That’s all I intend to say about plot since my specific interest in reading this novel was to see how all the arts are faring in the land of Hitler and the Nazis thirty years after the war. To this end, below are some quotes along with my comments:
The image of the superior blonde, blue-eyed Ayran is still alive and kicking. We read: “The press portrayed Reinhard Heydrich as Nietzsche’s Superman sprung to life. Heydrich in his pilot’s uniform (he had flown combat missions on the eastern front). Heydrich in his fencing gear (he had fenced for Germany in the Olympics). Heydrich with his violin (he could reduce audiences to tears by the pathos of his playing).”
Hitler despised modern music, actually any music other than ninteenth century classical, usually saccharine operas such as The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár. Most Nazis in 1964 Germany still share their seventy-five year-old Führer’s musical taste. And, alas, there is mention of a group of young Englishmen from Liverpool with their “pernicious Negroid wailings,” a clear example of modern degenerate music, singing I Want To Hold Your Hand.
A tour guide talks about the main buildings of the new Berlin to all the foreigners on a tour bus: “Construction of the Arch of Triumph was commenced in 1946 and work was completed in time for the Day of National Reawakening in 1950.” Actually, that appalling monolithic architecture Hitler envisioned, including the 1000 ft. Great Hall designed by Albert Speer, a building that can hold 150,000 participants, is very much part of the novel. The book’s inner cover has a two page drawing of Hitler’s main buildings, including Great Hall, Grand Plaza, Hitler Palace and the 400 ft. Arch of Triumph.
Other than a slight reference to the subversive novels of such writers as Günter Grass, there isn’t that much mention of literature and for good reason – this is a tightly controlled police state, similar to Stalinist Russia. Any novels or stories that do not adhere to the official party line are deemed subversive, perverted, the products of sick minds. Such was the language used by the Nazis when they staged their infamous exhibit of Degenerate Art in 1937.
When main character March enters the office of a leader of the Gestapo, he observes: “On the walls were prints of Thorak’s sculptures: herculean figures with gargantuan torsos rolled boulders up steep hills in celebration of the building of the Autobahnen. The immensity of Thorak’s statuary was a whispered joke.” Ah, the aesthetics of the Nazis is showing some cracks at the foundation! Thorak was a prime Nazi sculptor, one of Hitler’s very favorites. However, his Nazi versions of cartoon superheroes left many Germans cold back in the 1930s; by the 1960s even the Germans in Harris’ novel could see the silliness of such bloated, muscle-bound monstrosities.
And March views the paintings on another wall: “Schmutzler’s Farm Girls Returning from the Fields, Padua’s The Führer Speaks – ghastly orthodox muck.” How about that - even a no-nonsense, action-oriented SS detective judges the official Nazi art as "orthodox muck." The German Hall of Art (right across the street from the exhibit of "Degenerate Art" featuring such moderns as Marc, Nolde, Kandinsky, Chagall, Grozz) exhibited what Hitler decreed as acceptable art. In the 1930s many art critics judged this Nazi art as, at best, mediocre and by the 1960s, a clearer vision has reached the man and SS officer in the street – all that realist art that Hitler loves is so much schmaltzy crap.
Toward the end of the novel, March and Charlotte Maguire enter an empty elementary school where March makes the observation: “Childish paintings decorated the walls – blue meadows, green skies, clouds of sulfur yellow. Children’s art was perilously close to degenerate art; such perversity would have to be knocked out of them.” The author did his homework. Hitler, an aspiring artist himself as young man (so much will; so little talent), loathed the expressionists painting grass that was not green, skies that were not blue, clouds that were not white – he simply could not enter the imaginative world of a true artist; and he would become violent when someone suggested he had provincial, limited tastes.
This is a fascinating novel on a number of levels. I focused on the arts since this is one of my main interests and as Frederic Spotts demonstrated in his well-researched Hitler and the Power of Aesthetics, Hitler valued art as the ultimate end of his world vision. In Harris’ 1964 alternative history, his vision proved to be narrow, lackluster, the product of a totalitarian police state. Thank goodness a 1964 Nazi Germany never became a reality.