Petite Book Reviews:

Dead Souls, Nikolai Gogol. Who said 18th century Russians can’t be funny? Dead Souls follows the exploits of a strangely charming anti-hero as he travels over Russia buying the “dead souls” of peasants from an assortment of eccentric landowners. Gogol is able to hold his own among the Russian literary elite. Everything is here: social commentary, a careful dissection of human emotion, musings on ethical improbables, but Gogol goes one step further by adding an element of black humor. While not as consistently funny (or bizarre!) as his short stories, Dead Souls does have its moments of genius and hilarity. However, the overall experience was weakened by the fact that this novel, Gogol’s first and last, was never completed. Towards the end, brief Editor’s Notes bridge the gaps between large segments of missing text. Because of this, the end comes abruptly and no satisfying resolution is achieved. It’s unfortunate as this broken conclusion mars an otherwise wonderful book.

Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, Haruki Murakami. This marvelous collection of short stories is a perfect illustration of Murakami’s mastery of tone. While all 24 stories deal with widely divergent topics, such as a man made of ice, a kidney shaped stone, and vanishing persons, each story is unparalleled in its ability to evoke a sense of mystery, fate and the all encompassing magic of the human condition. I have never encountered another writer who could create such a hypnotic atmosphere with such few words and with such simple events. Murakami’s style is almost zen; less is more, great depth is found in minutia, all the most profound secrets are hidden within the negative space. His writing is calm, poetic and patently brilliant. You could easily lose yourself in Murakami then emerge hours later, never to be the same again.

Sayonara, James Michener. Published in 1953, this book charts the romance between an American Air Force pilot and a Japanese actress, which was socially, racially and politically unacceptable at the time. In this sense, there’s a strong whiff of the Romeo & Juliet “love vs. the system” vibe, though it’s infinitely more profound here as it’s culture vs. culture, not family vs. family, and of course, these systems in Sayonara were institutionalized and, amazingly, completely real. Romeo & Juliet had it easy. Pansies.

This work is short for Michener (no, he doesn’t describe the pre-historic geology of the Japanese islands), but what little is said, is said amazing well. This book doesn’t reek of Western domination and Eastern sexualization like many similarly themed books do, and is able to avoid stereotypes or use them ironically. Michener also, incidentally, married a Japanese woman and it is clear he has a profound respect for the culture and handles his subjects with honesty and care. This is not your typical love story but it is achingly beautiful.

As She Climbed Across the Table, Jonathan Lethem. I’ve often wondered what would happen if my wife fell in love with lab-created black hole named Lack which defined itself by the things it devoured, like homeless cats, and the things it rejected, like ice-pickaxes. Well no, that’s not entirely true, I’ve never pondered this before – but it was an interesting ride. This book provided some fascinating glimpses into the arcane world quantum physics, such as the issue of the subjective observer, but little in the way of anything else. This is a conceptual book. It’s about one peculiar idea and fails to extend this to the human sphere. While there was human drama, it was performed by two-dimensional cardboard facsimiles. Strangely enough, the most artificial thing about this book was the characters, not the miniature black-hole which possessed signs of consciousness. Nope, good science doesn’t make good literature. But it was fun. So I suppose that’s a testament to Lethem, he turned quantum physics into something light, airy and playful.

Atonement, Ian McEwan. The influence of Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf is welcome and wonderful in this expansive novel which begins in England on the cusp of WWII. Simply put, Atonement traces the effect of a childhood mistake over the course of 60 years. The (meta)narrative covers domestic English priggishness, the horrors of the Dunkirk evacuation of 1940, the insight of old age and the raw emotional power of literature. Atonement is one of those strange novels that left me lukewarm until the final 20 pages slugged me in the stomach. Viewed through the lens of the final section, the whole novel upends itself and becomes an entirely new, deeper creature. I’ve read my share of pre-war ruminations on English socialites (thanks to Huxley), but McEwan delivers something entirely fresh. I hear there’s a movie out based on this book but I’m skeptical. At its very pith, Atonement is about the power of literature and language. Film is neither of these things and lacks their subtle devices. I think the very soul of the novel would be lost in translation. But then again, it got nominated for an Oscar and Keira Knightley is hot.

On Beauty, Zadie Smith. Smith is a master chronicler of human motivation and interaction. This book, one of my recent favorites, follows the unraveling drama of two multi-national, multi-ethnic academic families. While the fathers of each are embroiled in an academic rivalry, the remaining members of both families are linked together by a series of unusual circumstances. And to sweeten this polarized stew, religion, politics, art and current social controversies play an integral role in the characters’ actions and psychological states. It is in this combination of extremes that On Beauty blossoms. Everything is finely observed and skewered. Smith gives a spot-on depiction of the inner workings of academic bureaucracy, and at times I found myself laughing in agreement. And of course, love plays a large role in the book. But it never becomes saccharine; each manifestation of love is unorthodox and imperfect, though at its very core, hopeful.