Archive for The Remains of the Day

reading highlights

Posted in Books, Kids with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on January 10, 2021 by xi'an

A reading questionnaire I picked somewhere I cannot remember, a while ago, and filled in the lazy days after X’mas… Could have substituted each entry with dozens of others.

  1. Your first memorable reading experience : La Panthère Blanche (a pre-1960 children book about an albinos jaguar in the Amazonia I kept reading as a kid, and then I switched to compulsive bi-yearly reads of David Copperfield…)
  2.  Your hidden masterpiece : Kent’s Burial Rites
  3. An official masterpiece you could not complete : Melville’s Moby Dick (too much technical jargon)
  4. A writer you would dream to meet : Patrick Rothfuss (so that I could hear the end of the trilogy!), Karen Blixen, Victor Hugo, many others
  5. A favourite writer you would rather not meet : Louis Céline (definitely not a favourite person!)
  6. A book you would like to be the main character : Zeno in Yourcenar’s L’Œuvre au Noir (The Abyss)
  7. A book you offer by default : Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day
  8. A book that makes you laugh out loud : Paasilina’s The Year of the Hare
  9. A book you would rather read in the vernacular : every book not written in French or English

a journal of the plague year [lazier August reviews]

Posted in Books, Kids, pictures with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 5, 2020 by xi'an

Read a wonderful collection of short stories set in the same universe and spirit as Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, The Ladies of Grace Adieu, by Susanna Clarke. With the same pleasure as I read the original novel, since the style is similarly subtle and refined, with a skilled work(wo)manship in relating the stories and a bittersweet pleasure in contemplating this alternative England where some magic lingered, although in a vanishing way. The first short story is incredibly powerful, especially for being a “first story” Susanna Clarke wrote for a writing course. To quote Neil Gaiman on his reception of the story, “It was terrifying from my point of view to read this first short story that had so much assurance. It was like watching someone sit down to play the piano for the first time and she plays a sonata.” Plus the book itself is beautifully made, from its old-fashioned binding to its pastiche of 19th century Romantic drawings. (I cannot make sense of the “Grace Adieu” village name, which would mean farewell to Grace or graceful farewell in French. Or yet thank Dog if misspelled as grâce à dieu…)

Followed a should-watch suggestion from a highly positive review on the New York Times and watched The Half of it, not to be confused with The Other Half which I did not watch… Nor the other The Other Half. The story is one of a love triangle (that the NYT relates to Cyrano, rather grandiloquently!, even though the notion of writing love letter for someone else and as a result the writer falling in love… is there indeed). Taking place in a sleepy little town on the Pacific North-West, near Wenatchee. The story is far from realistic, as far as I can tell, with almost invisible adults and with senior high teenagers behaving like adults, at least for the two main female characters, most of the teens working after class while also writing essays on Sartre and Plato, and discussing Remains of the Day for its philosophical implications. A wee bit unrealistic, with some allegoric scenes such as floating head to head in a hot spring, outing their love declaration like tragic Greek comedians in a full church. But the actresses are brilliant and escape the paper-thin constriction of their character into something deeper, by conveying uncertainty and then more uncertainty while building their own life into something grander. Not the unbearable lightness of being but certainly with enough substance to reach beyond the “charming queer love comedy” summarised in The Guardian.

Ate tomatoes from the garden for almost every lunch in August as there were so many, surprising free from bugs and birds. And had a toasted squash lunch, skin included. Peppers are still at the growing stage… And my young olive tree may have irremediably suffered from the heatwave, despite regular watering.

Also per chance noticed that the one-hundred year-old man who climbed out of the window and disappeared hilarious book had been turned into a film. And had an enjoyable time watching the understated play of this hundred-year old and his hundred year story. And listening to the multilingual if mostly Swedish original sound-track. (Incidentally, yet another intrusion of the 1930s eugenism with a racialist (!) doctor sterilising the central character to stop his fascination and experimentation with explosives.)

Rewatched Manhattan Murders Mystery, which I had not seen since it came out in the early 1990s. Once I got into the spirit that this was filmed theater, rather than fixating on the (ir)realism of the plot, it became hilarious (starting with the urge to invade Poland when listening to Wagner for too long) and I could focus on references to older movies, although I must has missed the bulk of these references. For instance, the pas de deux of Allen and Keaton at the melting factory has a strong whiff of Astaire and Rogers step-dancing. The shooting scene in the movie theater is explicitly linked with Orson Wells, seen behind the screen in The Lady from Shanghai.

never let me go [book review]

Posted in Books, Kids, pictures, Travel with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 15, 2017 by xi'an

Another chance occurrence led me to read that not so recent book by Kazuo Ishiguro, taking advantage of my short nights while in Warwick. [I wrote this post before the unexpected Nobelisation of the author.] As in earlier novels of his, the strongest feeling is one of melancholia, of things that had been or had supposed to have been and are no longer. Especially the incomparable The Remains of the Day… In the great tradition of the English [teen] novel, this ideal universe is a boarding school, where a group of students bond and grow up, until they face the real world. The story is told with a lot of flashbacks and personal impressions of the single narrator, which made me uncertain of the reality behind her perception and recasting. And of her role and actions within that group, since they always appear more mature and sensible than the others’. The sinister features of this boarding school and the reasons why these children are treated differently emerge very very slowly through the book and the description of their treatment remains unclear till the end of the book. Purposely so. However, once one understands the very reason for their existence, the novels looses its tension, as the perpetual rotation of their interactions gets inconsequential when faced with their short destinies. While one can get attached to the main characters, the doom awaiting them blurs the relevance of their affairs and disputes. Maybe what got me so quickly distanced from the story is the complacency of these characters and the lack of rebellion against their treatment, unless of course it was the ultimate goal of Ishiguro to show that readers, as the “normal” characters in the story, would come to treat the other ones as not completely human… While the final scene about souvenirs and memories sounding like plastic trash trapped on barbed wires seems an easy line, I appreciated the slow construct of the art pieces of Tommy and the maybe too obvious link with their own destiny.

When searching for reviews about this book, I discovered a movie had been made out this book, in 2011, with the same title. And of which I had never heard either..! [Which made me realise the characters were all very young when they died.]

when we were orphans

Posted in Books, Kids, Travel with tags , , , , on February 9, 2014 by xi'an

Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day is one of my favourite novels for its bittersweet depiction of the growing realisation that the main character has wasted his life. This other novel has the same thread of backward perspectives and of missed opportunities, however the main character (Banks) is of a very different nature. The way When we were orphans is written, one starts thinking this is all about an English detective trying to uncover the truth behind a very personal  tragedy, the disappearance of both his parents in Shanghai when he was a child. But progressively the narrative gets fractured and incoherent and we progressively doubt the author’s story, then his sanity. By the end of the book, it is just impossible to sift reality from imagination, daydreaming from life accomplishments. For instance, Banks presents himself as a detective with a certain degree of fame in London circles. However, there is no description whatsoever of his methods or of specific cases. The closest to a description is a child murder (and worse?) where a local constable pleads for the detective to hit at the heart of evil, in a completely incoherent discourse. The storytelling qualities of Ishiguro are so perfect that the character remains a mystery till the end. It is not even sure that he has at all left the acting as a detective he used to indulge in with his Japanese neighbour in Shanghai! The most disturbing section occurs when he revisits Shanghai at the time of the Japanese invasion and thinks he can link his parents’ disappearance with the said invasion and solve both of them at once. It is only when he enters a battle zone in the slums of the city that reality seems to reassert itself, but even then the reunification of Banks and the Japanese friend from his childhood is so unrealistic that the most likely interpretation is that Banks is in a permanent denial and that the Japanese officer he rescued plays the game to stay alive. Still, the story is told in such a way that one can never be sure of any of these interpretations and this is what makes it such a great book, more complex than The Remains of the Day in its construction, if less compelling because of the unfocussed nature of most characters, which we can never grasp hard enough…