Catching up

I.
I read The Remains of the Day a while ago, since I had a copy of it and was compelled by Nerzhin's post about Ishiguro. This is a deeply sad, fascinating book.

When the narrator writes, you get the idea of a detached intelligence maneuvering a separate physical entity. Mr. Stevens doesn't talk about getting out of the way; he speaks of moving his "person" into a more convenient location.

Whenever he comes close to expressing his own real feelings, Mr. Stevens slips into the third person. "Naturally, one disapproved of the dismissals." One cannot underestimate the difficulty some people have admitting they have feelings -- and this is what makes the book's ending so powerful. When Mr. Stevens says a sentence that would be banal and idiotic coming from anyone else, it's devastating. One wonders if the author wrote the whole book to show how much meaning that one trite phrase could have in the right hands.

This book could be read as a condemnation of someone who suppresses their feelings. That seemed to be the impression of my peers when we saw the movie in high school. But I think, in a way, Mr. Stevens's professional convictions are actually very strong feelings that get out of hand. It's not that he's cold and rigid; he just gives his heart away to the wrong thing. He was as irresponsible, in his stodgy loyal way, as every starry-eyed romantic youth.

This butler is not all pitiable. One admires his analysis of his life and his place in the world. He was so painstaking and careful in his expressions, and I thought he was admirable in his beliefs about dignity and greatness. It just all went really wrong.

II.
I recently finished The Great Influenza, recommended by a doctor on my employer's Avian Flu Task Force. It was very interesting, and I brushed up my knowledge about hemagluttinin and neuraminidase, which was getting decidedly rusty (oh, all right, my knowledge of them before this book was null. But I am looking for an excuse to bring them up because they're the H and the N in H5N1, which I think is worth knowing. And they have really cool shapes).

I was sort of disappointed by the framing of the story. I kind of thought it was the story of the disease, and thus at the end we would have some exciting description of how we found out what we know now about the flu. During the entire pandemic of 1918-1919 they never figured out exactly what it was, and that seemed to be one of the elements of suspense. But then when they actually do discover it was a virus it's mentioned almost as an aside in a couple paragraphs with no fanfare and no dramatic descriptions of test tubes or bunsen burners or lab coats or anything.

I could have done with less of the sensational writing about the political atmosphere, although I suppose it's better to get mildly annoyed and keep reading than be bored out of one's skull and never finish the book. The author does well with suspenseful hooks to make you want to read on.

It's weird that such a boring and normal disease could still be such a threat. I'm not living in desperate fear of the avian flu, but it's clear that we really don't have that much control over influenza whenever it may mutate into an especially destructive form, as it does from time to time. But it will still be only one of an endless variety of ways to die. We can be comforted by that.

Gilead

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson is literary fiction of the good kind, with little plot to speak of, full of introspection and character study, but masterfully written and ringing true to life. I was reminded of Leif Enger's Peace Like a River, which is also highly recommended. Both books have Christians at or near the center of the plot, and, without hitting the reader over the head with theology or preaching, speak some profound words of truth. I do not know if either author is a Christian, but I would call both Christian works. (Wheaton graduates say together: "All truth is God's truth.")

Gilead takes the form of a journal written by a preacher, John Ames, who has married late in life and fathered a son, whom he knows he will not live to see grow up. So he writes the journal to his son, trying to tell him all at once what most fathers would be able to tell their sons gradually over time. Of course, life does not stop while John writes, and we see him struggle with friendships, forgiveness, jealousy, and worries both weighty and petty as he goes through life. There are many jewels of quotes, which I wish I had written down. As I said before, this is highly recommended, a book to savor.

Bloomsday

My piece on Bloomsday, however obscurely, has been published.

This was really meant to be an introduction to the list of activities and readings I had suggested throughout the day, so it doesn't make quite as much sense as it could have if they had included them, but I'm not complaining. You can also sign up for the re:d Raves eZine, which will allegedly include my contribution this Wednesday, at the site.

Out

"Out" begins in a soulless situation, a lunchbox factory in industrial Tokyo, and it goes downhill from there. Four women who work together at the factory have become friends, partly out of necessity, because it's a grinding environment - men (the men who work in the factory are resident aliens, from Brazil) and women share a changing room where they dress in their work outfits (like scrub suits). Before going on the factory floor they're twice checked for contamination, clean their hands raw with scrub brushes, put their hair in weirdly shaped hats. They stand six hours straight on concrete, working constantly to keep up with the automated assembly line - one job per person: smashing down the cold blob of rice that's plopped out of a tube, over and over; or spreading out the slices of fish, over and over; or whatever. They can't go to the bathroom without first asking for a replacement, and it may be hours before the replacement arrives.

We don't find out until much later, but one of the women had worked in a more upscale place, a savings and loan, until she realized she would never get a higher position, no matter how competent she was, simply because she was a woman. This woman, Masako, becomes the main character in the book, taking charge of the grisly situation the four friends get into.

The book opens with Masako, on her way to work in the factory, thinking, "I want to go home." The thought surprises her, because she doesn't know what home is, let alone where. The things she does in the story ultimately seem like a kind of rebellion - anything, no matter how vile, is better than the hopeless life she leads as a proper woman in Japan. The ending chapter is almost surrealistically violent - but Masako walks away from it free, completely cut off from her past.

I was surprised by this book; it shattered any images I'd had of Japan-as-bonsai, cherry blossoms, silk, politeness. I had lunch with a Japanese friend after I read it - she says it's still true, even in modern Japan, that women are expected to accept situations that are deadening to their hopes. There really are lunchbox factories like that. And it's not just women; evidently Japanese society is undergoing huge changes. "Out" caused a sensation in Japan. It's possible to find an interview online with the author, Natsuo Kirino (accent on the first syllable of each name: NA-tsu-o KI-ri-no) where she talks about Japanese youth using violence as an escape from the traditional societal system.

I'm not recommending this book. It isn't enjoyable to read. But it is thought-provoking, and caused me to reflect on the factors that lead to human choices.

Herzog does nothing

Saul Bellow's Herzog is about 350 pages. For the first 250 pages nothing happens. For the last 50 pages nothing happens. And the action in the intervening 50 pages is not really worth the effort.

The title character's main neurosis is a tendency to sit down at odd hours and write letters to people, people from his past, politicians, scholars, dead people, his ex-wives. Much of the text of the book is made up of these letters, which are never sent. I am sure they reveal deep insights into the psyche of the modern man. I am sure they are profound. I found them boring.

Your opinion please

I'd kind of like to move the blog to a new hosting site, Wordpress, and I would have done it already, but the problem is that all the old posts in the archives would then be marked with my name. I think all new posts would be able to have the name of the person who posted them. You would all have to sign up with a new username and password at Wordpress. Does any of that annoy you?

I think Wordpress is a better system. You can have extra pages (for example, I would put my list of 100 books on a separate page and link to them rather than us all having to scroll down for years every time we consult that post, which I'm sure is frequently). I think Wordpress is more attractive and more versatile than Blogger. And Blogger seems to be going down for maintenance a lot lately.

Any thoughts?