Reading is sexy XVIII
[image: photo by Tim Walker from series "Tales of the Unexpected" published in British Vogue, December 2008, via Le Divan Fumoir Bohémien]
38. José Saramago, Death, with Interruptions is an interesting and unusual novel, which is a little difficult to categorize. The story begins New Year's Day, in an unnamed, Catholic, landlocked, constitutional monarchy - a day on which no one dies. This seems like cause for celebration, until it is followed by another, and another and so on. Though people continue to die in other countries, in this country, no matter how ill or destroyed a body becomes, it just remains in a suspended not-quite-living, not-really-dead state. Soon the celebrations end and the government, undertakers, retirement homes, hospitals, insurance industries and of course, the Church become rapidly aware of impeding doom, as society members continue to age and decay indefinitely, without dying. The insurers, of course, figure how to make money regardless. The more general solution becomes to sneak across the border with the almost-dead, whereupon they die. Neighbouring countries protest, leading to embargoes, leading too an underground economy run by the 'maphia' (with a ph to distinguish themselves from the mafia, of course). So the first half of the novel reads like satire, with a hint of fable. It reminds me of The Eagle's Throne by Fuentes, in the satire of the state and the way it jumps to differing points of view seemed reminiscent of the epistolary novel. Eventually, death (with a little 'd', she's quite insistent) decides to stop this little experiment and recommence the killing - with a new twist. She decides to allow the soon-to-die one week's notice in which to sort their affairs out. She announces their impending demise by violet-coloured-letters. We meet death, and her scythe, in her subterranean room, with her impeccable files. The novel now seems more magical realism, or outright fable. One letter refuses to be sent. Remarkably the novel ends as the least likely genre.
39. Julia Alvarez A Cafecito Story. A pretty fable, about coffee (and people)- with woodcuts.
40. Haruki Murakami, What I talk About When I Talk About Running is a memoir of sorts. It is autobiography from the point of view of the novelist's other life as long-distance runner. Really it is a series of essays about his training, the marathons he's run over a quarter century, the one ultra-marathon (62 miles!) he ran, and his experiences competing in triathlons. I enjoyed this book, but I really like Murakami. This isn't necessarily profound. It's like a series of New Yorker articles or something. But it will appeal to his fans, who might want to know more about him, and it has a lot to say, incidentally, about becoming a writer in one's early thirties, and it would appeal to runners. Basically, he runs in order to clear his mind, in order to be a novelist. It is a sort of philosophy. Personally, I hate running. I have since I was a girl and my father would sometimes take us along with him on his runs; I could never keep the pace and my throat would get all raw and I would generally feel dreadful.* But, I can associate if I translate it to swimming; I'm a pretty decent distance swimmer, and in fact, if longer distances had been in vogue as they are now, I might have kept up the competitive swimming longer (as I am no sprinter).** Also I was fascinated by how he re-imagined himself at 30. He was a chain-smoking jazz club owner, who decided to write a novel. He followed this by ditching the club, starting to run, and becoming a world class novelist.
41. Salman Rushdie, East, West I just started this book of short stories, and I am quite enjoying them. Amazing how succinct he can be, when for the most part, he writes epic novels.
*I mentioned this a couple of years ago to Dad and was stunned when he volunteered that he'd been stupid and should have gone at my pace- something which never even occurred to me (let along any expectation of apology from one who is quite parsimonious on that front).
**I was surprised at his slow swimming times, quoted in the essay on triathlon. That I could so easily out-swim someone who runs daily and regularly competes in marathons was unexpected. It's all about efficiency, I guess.
__________________________________
In other news, since my officemate moved to Berlin, I have my office to myself. It's oh so quiet...