My year in books
Twenty-twentyfour in books
I tend to read a book at times. Usually in the language it is written in, but as I speak two meager languages I have to read a translation of anything that is not either English or German. Hence the titles provided will give you an idea which version I consumed.
Week One: Nachmittage
by Ferdinand von Schirach
Sometimes we carry prejudices against certain authors for no particular reason. I think in the case of Ferdinand von Schirach, of whom I had not read a single line beforehand, it was based on the fact that he had received so much acclaim that I lost any interest in him and his work right away. I mean, seriously, who wants to partake in any form of hype, right? Last week I had to bridge an hour between two appointments and chose to do so in the local branch of a book store chain that had more in common with the decor department of IKEA than a place where you actually would buy books. The text by Schirach stood out because it was in the shelf with those titles that currently rank high in one of the major bestseller lists. Not that those lists bear any meaning anymore, but those books are usually presented more prominently than anything else. The title of the book was 'Nachmittage', 'afternoons'. A quick glimpse on my phone to check the time confirmed that this was the right text for the ocasion.
That the author was von Schirach I only noticed at the till and as I generally shy away from the embarrassement of carrying goods back to their shelf I was stuck with buying the book. Long story short, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The book is a collection of very entertaining and educating miniatures, short stories and fragments. All of them narrated masterfully and with a Hemmingway-esque brevity and precision. Von Schirarch collected some stories he (over)eard at various places, at airports, in hotels or whilst working for a client. I am glad that I found this little collection by mistake, as the bigger mistake would have been to miss this author. Lesson learned.
Week Two: Kaffee und Zigaretten
by Ferdinand von Schirach
After last week's very pleasant discovery of von Schirach I had ordered another collection of the same kind that he had released some two years earlier. The making is very similar as is the style. So I need not say much about the quality, both in terms of presentation and of narration. It is very well crafted, the stories are entertaining, sometimes surprising, sometimes subtle. Like the other volume reading this collecion felt indeed like having a pleasant and enjoyable conversation over a coffee and a cigarette. The latter not only having found their way into the title but also appearing as some kind of communality between the stories.
Week Three: Glory
by NoViolet Bulawayo
This book had been lying on my bedside table for a good few weeks. Like my first von Schirach it had found its way into my collection by some kind of mistake. I saw a copy at the counter of my local bookstore while I was picking up some other titles. The Guardian had praised the book about a year or so ago and so I recognised the title. Unfortunately the German publisher had kept the English title for the translated version and so I ended up buying a copy in my native language rather than that of the author. A mistake that led to me almost not finishing the book, as the brilliantly constructed collocations used by author were translated in such a painful manner that the title became hard to read. So, after the hardcover lying dormant next to some other titles I was reading I decided to give it another try. The idea of narrating recent politics in the form of an Aesopian style fable sounded too intriguing, and apart from the clumsy translation the first hundred odd pages felt as if the book was very well done. I bit the bullet and ordered another copy, this time in English. It was money well spent. The book is both, the history of the Mugabe regime in Zimbabwe and a general tale about the corruption that befalls those in power. I do not know if all of the (at times otherwordly) expressions used by the narator are genuine vernacular or a child of the authors imagination, but I know that, tholukuthi, they work very well.
Week Four: A Shining
by Jon Fosse
This book had been recommended to me by my wonderful physiotherapist. It is one of those curious titles that leave you with more questions than they answer and although I know from experience just how much a translation can take from a book, I find it hard to believe that the Norvegian original could be any more dense or intense. This novella tells of a protagonist that out of sheer boredom drives down a dirt road leading into an unknown forest. The car gets stuck, the unnamed driver leaves his car behind, still with no clear destination. Or goal for that matter. By the time it starts to snow he had long got lost. What follows are two encounters that feel so otherwordly and yet so believable that I, for lack of better words, can only describe it as uncanny. This book is a must read for reasons that are very hard to put into words. So I shall leave it at this. Just you go and read it.
Week Five: Sieben Jahre in Tibet
by Heinrich Harrer
I start to think that whenever you have the feeling that you do not want to read a book, you should do it anyways. My expectation was that the book fell into one of these two categories:
a) A cheesy coming-of-age story for both Harrer and Tenzin Gyatso like depicted in the film of the same title.
b) An autobiography in which Harrer tries to talk himself out of the fact that he was a member of the SS.
Thankfully neither was the case, it was —in a sense— a travelogue, a warm and forgiving description of a culture that must have felt Martian to readers in Harrer's days. One gets a good feeling of what life in an independent Tibet was like. When I say independent Tibet, then that obviously does not refer to the vast majority of the population, as they were serfs in a thorougly feudalistic society. And this is what one could accuse Harrer of; that these inferiors play almost no role in his book. And if they do, they are painted as simple people who are more than happy to have their hands cut off for minor offences. But then again, Harrer describes how their Dharmic believes allowed them to integrate such atrocities into their daily lives and actually make sense of them. The Vajrayana flavour of Buddhism with all its deities and add-ons leaves a lot of wiggle-room for interpretation. Crime rates supposedly were low, but Im am sure there are not official statistics regarding that matter. So we will never know.
In the end I have learned a lot of things, not only about Tibet, the incumbent Dalai Lama and their history, but also about humanity and how to deal with hardship. Last but not least, I do understand now, how on Earth the Buddhist Tenzin Gyatso can eat meat without breaking his oath as a monk. It is an educating and to a large extent entertaining book. I like it.
Week Six: Siddartha
by Hermann Hesse
It is hard to comment on this book. Not because I do not like it, quite the opposite, it was the third time I read it. Yet everytime it felt like I was reading a different story. Maybe I did. And not unlike the protagonist I have undergone a transformation or the other.
The story is thought-provoking and raises many a question. Frankly I find it hard to say much more about it, as reading this book is more of a dialogue with oneself. A bit of digging into Hesse's biography shows that writing this text certainly was for him, as he certainly went through some hardship during the creation. A must read classic. Not only for hippies and new agists.
Warning: you will learn very little about Siddartha Gautama, 'the' Buddha, but possibly quite a bit about yourself. I like to think that the Buddha would have approved of 'our' Siddharta's rebellion against the Zeitgeist; he made his own experiences and learned from them.
Week Seven: Men Without Women
by Haruki Murakami
I never wonder what to think about Murakami (he is brilliant, full stop) but rather what I think with him, meaning 'what can I think while I trod along —it is never running with him— while he is unfolding his thoughts?' This books makes no difference and therefore I love it. What adds value for me is that the format of short stories is much better digestible for my misbehaving conscience as I posses the attention span of Jack Russel Terrier on cocaine.
All the stories are masterfully crafted and although one might think so, not monothematic at all. The idea of 'men without women' is merely a seed that flowers in very different ways. One of the stories, 'Samsa in Love' I read previously, as part of another collection, 'Ten Love Stories'. This hommage to Kafka is not the only time where the author lets his own taste shine through. The unavoidable Jazz references culminate this time in a story about the owner of a Jazz bar. It probably cannot get any more autobiographical, not even for Murakami. Good book, I like it.
Week Eight: The City and Its Uncertain Walls
by Haruki Murakami
Week Nine: Sie sagt. Er sagt
by Ferdinand von Schirach
Week Ten: What You Are Looking For Is in the Library
by Michiko Aoyama
Week Eleven: The Year of the Dugong
by John Ironmonger