When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on the events begin to seem more and more extraordinary, and the characters take on a chiaroscuro effect without grays, and the melodrama builds, most people reading the novel will think it’s a bunch of lies, and that such things are impossible in real life. And the truth is exactly the opposite: if you just write down the characters and the “permutations” you can find in a city like ours – right here in Barcelona . . . Believe me, there’s no need to wait for a dark, sensational crime, the kind that scare concierges stiff when they read about them in the newspapers. These splashy, absurd crimes and criminals are not at all important, you see. But, if you could look within high society gentlemen and ladies who appear to live perfectly gray and proper lives, whom no one would ever suspect of anything, who appear incapable of a violent gesture or of any slightly spectacular and interesting act . . . If you could follow in their hideous footsteps, you would have more plots than you could ever know what to do with.

The irony of this quote is that the speaker is one of these “high-society gentlemen” who happens to be partially responsible for a shocking event involving an acquaintance. While this gentleman has been involved in some sketchy business in the past, people would never suspect that he would have anything to do with the events that transpired that very night. Even though he may not have legally done anything wrong, his actions earlier in the novel began a chain of events resulting in the death of this acquaintance.

In Private Life, Sagarra follows the footsteps of the speaker and his associates, and he certainly does find more plots that one could ever know what to do with. In fact, after spending most of the first half of the book focusing on the Lloberola family, Sagarra introduces a bevy of characters just as questionable as the speaker before returning to them. Instead of interrupting the main storyline, though, Sagarra actually manages to weave the different plot strands into a rich tapestry equivalent to the one that the family’s patriarch, Don Tomàs de Lloberola, was forced to sell.

Don Tomàs is not the only one with money problems, though: His oldest son, Frederic, is always trying to get himself out of financial trouble. An acquaintance of Frederic’s, Antoni Mates, also known as the Baron Falset, is willing to give him a loan to help him pay some debts, but only if he can get a co-signer. Frederic tries to get his father to help, but Don Tomàs refuses. As if things weren’t bad enough for Frederic, he and his wife are on the brink of a divorce, and his children don’t care too much for him either. Instead of trying to improve matters, however, he just prefers to ignore them until things come to a head.

Meanwhile, Don Tomàs’s younger son, Guillem, is involved in some shady business with the Baron, his wife, and a seamstress who brings them together. When Guillem learns that the Baron can help Frederic with his financial problems, he interferes despite that fact he “certainly didn’t have any feelings for his brother” and “kept his distance from him, just as he kept his distance from his parents.” After a while, though, Guillem takes things too far. Eventually, his interference in Frederic’s affair leads to consequences that are both tragic and ironic.

But as mentioned before, Private Life isn’t just a story about the Lloberolas and their problems and schemes: It’s about a society dealing with the changes that come during the end of the Restoration and the beginning of the Second Spanish Republic. Toward the end of the book’s first half, the older Lloberolas find themselves even more estranged from the city’s aristocracy and begin to recede into the novel’s background. In their place, socialite Hortènsia Portell puts together an “eclectic crew,” a crew that worships Josephine Baker over the Virgin of Montserrat and includes one of the dictator’s generals. Later, characters with minor roles start to become more prominent; these include Conxa Pujol, the Baron’s widow who ends up in a kind of power struggle with Guillem, and Níobe Casas, the gypsy dancer who is a “powerful magnet for devotees of communism and transcendental nonsense.” Also, as Frederic’s children, Maria Luïsa and Ferran, become adults, they connect with some of their father’s old associates, including Rosa Trènor, Frederic’s on-again, off-again lover; and Robert “Bobby” Xuclà, his former friend whom he had a falling out with. As a result, Rosa and Bobby find themselves tangled in the lives of the next generation of Lloberolas.

As intriguing as the lives of these characters and their connections to each other are, though, what really makes Private Life a compelling read are Sagarra’s vivid details of this crumbling society and his keen observations about it. Sure, they’re not always pretty, especially since many of characters have a tendency to neglect not only their dilapidating properties, but their physical appearances and moral upbringings. Then again, any novelist who begins with scene where a man wakes up to the sight of a stuffed dog isn’t going to marvel about how beautiful life can be. Still, thanks to Mary Ann Newman and her sparkling translation, Sagarra’s masterpiece is finally available in English.

(We love you, Wakefield!!!)

Here’s the beginning of Chris’s piece:

In Joris-Karl Hyusmans’s most popular novel, À rebours (Against Nature or Against the Grain, depending on the respective translated edition), there is a famous scene where the protagonist, the decadent Jean des Esseintes, starts setting gemstones on the shell of a tortoise. The tortoise, of course, is defenseless to Esseintes, who attaches so many gems that the creature cannot move. Eventually, their weight causes the tortoise to die, and the scene shows how the rich can use their wealth to crush the poor.

In A Dilemma, which was first serialized soon after the publication of À rebours in 1884, Huysmans once again gives us a satirical look at this cruel power. This time, however, the victim is not an animal but a poor, unmarried, pregnant woman named Sophie, the unlucky mistress of Jules—unlucky because Jules died without marrying her or leaving behind a will. Now, Jules’s father (Monsieur Lambois) and grandfather (Maître Le Ponsart) will do anything to protect their fortune and reputation from this woman, who only asked them for a little money just to get by.

For the rest of the review, go here.

In A Dilemma, which was first serialized soon after the publication of À rebours in 1884, Huysmans once again gives us a satirical look at this cruel power. This time, however, the victim is not an animal but a poor, unmarried, pregnant woman named Sophie, the unlucky mistress of Jules—unlucky because Jules died without marrying her or leaving behind a will. Now, Jules’s father (Monsieur Lambois) and grandfather (Maître Le Ponsart) will do anything to protect their fortune and reputation from this woman, who only asked them for a little money just to get by.

Legally, Sophie is not entitled to anything. She’s also not much of a threat to the two men, but that doesn’t stop them from waging war against her. After all, Lambois and Le Ponsart have spent their lives chewing up women and spitting them out, so why should they treat Jules’s mistress any differently? In fact, they’re not convinced that Sophie’s some naïve, innocent girl. In one scene, Le Ponsart, a notary who does most of the dirty work, goes through Jules’s desk to look for a will. Sophie doesn’t know how to handle him, but Le Ponsart takes her silence for scheming:

“Goodness!” thought Maître Le Ponsart, “this cheeky little hussy is tough; she’s afraid of compromising herself by opening her mouth.” He turned his back to her, his belly before the table; he began to feel exasperated, trying to decide where to begin; given the mean he presumed that this woman had adopted, he would have to dot every i, grope his way forward, haphazardly attack an entrenched enemy lying in wait for him. “Could she have a will in hand?” he asked himself, his temples suddenly damp with sweat.

The irony is that despite his ability to make people fear him, Le Ponsart has a weakness for certain types of women. In one of the novella’s more amusing scenes, he spurns the advances of a prostitute but then changes his mind when she decides to go with a younger man. He doesn’t like to lose to anyone else, yet after all is said and done, the prostitute ends up robbing him.

Meanwhile, Sophie turns to Madame Champagne, a so-called “helper of the poor.” (It’s no coincidence, by the way, that she shares her name with an alcoholic beverage: throughout the novella, there are plenty of references to drinking and the artificial good-feelings it can sometimes bring.) Champagne, who thinks her gift of gab and ability to keep track of gossip makes up for a lack of business sense, isn’t much help; in fact, she takes on Sophie’s cause more to serve herself rather than to truly help the woman in need.

Even though the novella is just under 80 pages, it is packed with venom. Although Huysmans’s main target is the bourgeois, he also shows how Champagne’s tactics—and her ignorance of people like Le Ponsart—only end up making things worse. He also exposes the folly of people in Champagne’s circles, such as Madame Dauriette, who “bore the classic characteristics of a leech” and reveres her benefactor as much as she does the Virgin Mary. Even Sophie’s parents, who are only mentioned in passing, and Sophie herself, who ends up placing too much faith and trust in Champagne, are not spared.

Yet, what’s rather surprising is that Hyusmans—who, according to translator Justin Vicari, “thrived on irascible contradictoriness”—tries to balance his attack on Le Ponsart and Lambois with psychological insight into their motives. He also shows how these men, who live in the country, are products of the dog-eat-dog culture that thrives in Paris. For example, as a young man, Le Ponsart started his career in the city and learned that to save money, you have to be cleverer than other people. Later, his son-in-law, a former hosier, lived by the cutthroat ways of the Parisian political system.

It’s this contrariness that makes this novella such an intriguing work, and as Vicari points out in his introduction, set Hyusmans apart from his contemporaries like Gustave Flaubert, who preferred a more journalistic approach to his subjects. Its viciousness may not be for everyone, but for a lesson on how powerful greed can be—a lesson that is still relevant today—one should definitely pick up A Dilemma.

Here’s the beginning of Chris’s review:

In 1899, Maurice Ravel wrote “Pavane pour une infante défunte” (“Pavane for a Dead Princess”) for solo piano (a decade later, he published an orchestral version). The piece wasn’t written for a particular person; Ravel simply wanted to compose a pavane (a slow procession) that a princess would have danced to in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Even though it’s an elegant piece of music, Ravel has claimed that the title is meaningless: According to a story that appeared in the Rocky Mountain News in 1970, he told someone, “I simply liked the sound of those words and I put them there, c’est tout.”

Korean novelist Park Min-Gyu was obviously inspired by Ravel’s work, but he’s not offering a strict interpretation of it. Unlike the French composer, Park writes about a time he lived in (the mid-1980s), a time when people in his country were beginning to get wealthier (thanks to the housing boom and the stock market), but didn’t know what to do with their new wealth. It was also a time when women, regardless of whether they were beautiful or ugly, were exploited for business purposes. In fact, his novel looks at society’s obsession with beauty by pairing a good-looking narrator with a love interest—the “princess” in this story—who is “extraordinarily ugly.” The result is a haunting (albeit flawed) love story, as well as a commentary about our obsession with money and beauty.

For the rest of the review, go here.

Korean novelist Park Min-Gyu was obviously inspired by Ravel’s work, but he’s not offering a strict interpretation of it. Unlike the French composer, Park writes about a time he lived in (the mid-1980s), a time when people in his country were beginning to get wealthier (thanks to the housing boom and the stock market), but didn’t know what to do with their new wealth. It was also a time when women, regardless of whether they were beautiful or ugly, were exploited for business purposes. In fact, his novel looks at society’s obsession with beauty by pairing a good-looking narrator with a love interest—the “princess” in this story—who is “extraordinarily ugly.” The result is a haunting (albeit flawed) love story, as well as a commentary about our obsession with money and beauty.

The nameless 19-year-old narrator was not among the wealthy, but he did inherit the good looks of his father, a D-list actor who one day abandoned him and his mother. The narrator gets a job at a department store, where he falls for an ugly co-worker. “What is this?” he writes. “In the same way I’d have sat stunned before the TV, I stood in that office, transfixed by her. I had seen quite a few unattractive girls, but I’d never seen a woman this ugly before. Just as the world’s most beautiful woman, the world’s ugliest woman is no less powerful in completely disarming a man.”

Though, as we later learn, the woman experienced a lot of pain growing up because of her ugliness. Despite being a great student and a hard worker, not many people want to hire her. In fact, an employer refuses to give her a job, even though she receives a recommendation from one of her teachers. Later, when she gets a promotion, she only gets it because the manager figures she’ll never leave her job because she’ll never get married. At other times, co-workers tell her to leave because she’s scaring the customers.

It’s this pain that causes the both of them to be uncertain of each other. However, their friend and co-worker, Yohan, who spends a lot of time observing the foolishness of human beings (especially rich ones) over beer and junk food, gives the narrator advice about love:

When someone’s light is lit, she’ll look beautiful. The stronger the lightbulb, the blurrier the curves of the light and the shape of the bulb. Most women—those women who look so-so or aren’t too attractive—and most men, for that matter, are like dim lightbulbs. Once they’re lit, though, anyone can shine, and that is more beautiful and marvelous than any lightbulb that has lost its light. That’s love. Humans are basically electric cords with a single charge running through them. And when two people meet, they light up each other’s soul.

At first, readers may be surprised that someone who lives alone and who is considered “weird” by one of his co-workers would be able to give this kind of advice, but Yohan ends up taking on a much more significant role. Unfortunately, though, this role convolutes the ending. As a result, the reader cannot help but feel somewhat cheated, since Park uses a device akin to making the whole story seem like a dream, an unnecessary tactic in a novel that would have been better without it.

Another problem with the novel is that, at times, the myriad references to Western pop music overwhelm the story. For example, in the chapter called “Strawberry Fields Forever,” lines from the Beatles’s song weave in and out of the narrative so much that it becomes a distraction. Later on, Park does the same with Roberta Flack’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” and Bob Dylan’s “Blowing in the Wind.” Sometimes, though, the references seem to serve no greater purpose other than to remind the reader of when there is a shift in time (e.g., Britney Spears’s “. . . Baby One More Time” during the few scenes that take place during the late 1990s.)

That said, Pavane for a Dead Princess still has a lot going for it. It’s a pleasant read in the vein of Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami’s classic love story set during a period of great change. The characters are appealing enough that readers will want to follow them on their journey to adulthood. And like his Japanese counterpart, Park shows that regardless of the dark that surrounds us, true love can shine a light.

Here’s the beginning of Chris’s review:

Last year, NYRB Classics introduced English-language readers to Catalan writer Josep Pla with Peter Bush’s translation of The Gray Notebook. In that book, Pla wrote about life in Spain during an influenza outbreak soon after World War I, when he was a young law student and aspiring writer. Readers got to meet many of the colorful characters who inhabited both the town of Palafrugell (where he was from) and the city of Barcelona (where he went to school). While Pla socialized with many of them, he preferred to spend time alone, especially along the Rambla in Barcelona. Even though Pla could be both ironic and pessimistic, he would write about humdrum moments in his life in such amazing detail that the reader couldn’t help but want to follow him along his journey.

Now, fans of that book can continue the journey with Life Embitters, the second of Pla’s works to be translated into English. Like the first book, Life was translated by Peter Bush, who has not only captured the spirit of Pla but has maintained a consistent quality over more than 1,200 pages. Life contains many of the hallmarks mentioned above, but it has some noticeable differences, too.

For the rest of the review, go here.

Now, fans of that book can continue the journey with Life Embitters, the second of Pla’s works to be translated into English. Like the first book, Life was translated by Peter Bush, who has not only captured the spirit of Pla but has maintained a consistent quality over more than 1,200 pages. Life contains many of the hallmarks mentioned above, but it has some noticeable differences, too.

For starters, Life Embitters consists of self-contained stories (most of which take place after the events in Notebook) rather than chronologically arranged anecdotes. Although Pla revised much of the material that made up The Gray Notebook decades after he had first composed it, he kept the diary-like format of his original writings. For example, one day Pla would write about a day at the beach, and the next he would give an opinion about another Catalan writer’s work. As a result, while it’s still highly recommended, Notebook can at times be an overwhelming read.

Life Embitters doesn’t feel as overwhelming because this time the writing is more focused. For example, in the first story, “The Central Tavern,” Pla writes about an event that took place in the title location that involved the owner, Sra Vincetita (Pla refers to many of his characters formally), whom he describes as “a vivacious, middle-aged woman with rather glazed, artificially rejuvenated features.” And even though her monologues are “endless” and “nonsensical,” she probably could have given Pla plenty to write about. Instead, though, he concentrates on Sra Vincetita’s relationship with the dubious Sr Vinardell.

Pla prefaced the story by saying that his doctor had recommended a stay in Cerinyola, the town where the Central Tavern is located, because of its dry climate and its quietness. However, even if his doctor hadn’t suggested it, he would have eventually ended up there anyway, since it becomes apparent that Pla likes to travel. While in The Gray Notebook, he wrote that he was “fated to be a wanderer,” in Life Embitters, he truly proves it, as he rambles through different parts of Europe, including France, Italy, England, Portugal, and Germany. Once again, Pla gives some dazzling—and occasionally surprising—observations; for example, here is what he wrote during a train ride to Portugal:

The lower reaches of the Tagus are astonishing. It is a broad, fatherly river with a gentle flow. The land is moist and flat. River barges glide by on the horizon hoisting square sails tinged with nicotine or orange juice hues. The appearance of these vessels amid the fields makes you wonder: “Where are we? Are we in Holland? Are we in the Po valley, with Venice as its grand finale?” No. It’s not Holland. Holland is even greener, softer, and spongier. It’s a watery, feathery pillow. There is a similarity with Venice. I think the European landscape most resembling what we know generically as Venetian is the lower stretch of the Tagus.

Of course, a book titled Life Embitters isn’t going to be simply a travelogue or collection of amusing stories. As mentioned above, he was a pessimist, and there are plenty of moments where he shows the dark side of human nature. For example, during his stay in Portugal, he writes about a man who became addicted to gambling after his doctor recommended it as a way to forget about the pain in his tooth. Later, while in Nice, Pla writes again about gambling and the effects casinos have on people: “Anyone standing in front of a gaming table automatically ages ten years.” And gambling isn’t his only target: While visiting a zoo in England with a friend, he observes a penguin eating an innocent sparrow and considers it a lesson in justice. In addition, some of the tales, especially the ones that make up “The Berlin Circle” toward the end of the book, show just how bitter life can be.

Yet, despite this tendency, Pla tries to understand the people he encounters or reads about on a much deeper level. For example, in the story “A Death in Barcelona,” Pla witnessed most of the events in the story, but not the final scene between two men walking down the Rambla after leaving a boarding house. Even though he may have added the dialogue decades after the event took place, he gives the story an appropriate conclusion. Besides filling in gaps in his own stories, Pla also dedicates entire chapters to the “jottings” from his friend Albert Santaniol, who has had some pretty interesting adventures of his own. Pla most likely modified these, but once again, he probably did it to better capture the spirit of his friend. Finally, he retells an old Scottish tale about St. Mungo, the founder and patron saint of Glasgow, with the same kind of irony found in his other stories.

That said, if you’ve read The Gray Notebook and enjoyed it, then you’ll definitely want to read Life Embitters. If you haven’t read either, it may be worth your time to read both books. It sounds like a lot, but like all great works of literature that make considerable demands on a reader, these works demonstrate that Pla is not just writing about life—he’s trying to make sense of it as well.

Snow day! We’re still recovering, mentally as much as with street parking. Hope everyone’s staying warm. Here’s the beginning of Chris’s review:

One hundred pages into Birth of a Bridge, the prize-winning novel from French writer Maylis de Kerangal, the narrator describes how starting in November, birds come to nest in the wetlands of the fictional city of Coca, California, for three weeks. While this may seem insignificant in a novel about the construction of a $3-billion project contracted to an international consortium, it actually plays an important role in the novel (more on that later). The birds also serve as a metaphor for Coca itself: Unless you were born and raised there, you stay just long enough to get the job done and leave.

For the rest of the review, go here.

Maylis, with the help of translator Jessica Moore, makes this clear a little later in the novel:

Coca promises the high life. People come here from all over, bodies impatient, pockets holding just enough to get by for a few days; constant turnover of people and desires, burning cheeks and boiling pupils, fast streets like centrifugal motors and skyscrapers opening onto a sky that dispenses good fortune: the power of territory in action. Here you come into contact with everything that concrete and the violent scansion of hearts immersed in a common turbulence. Yet the secret of this incomparable flow that makes the blood pump harder in the arteries and sweat pearl in the small of the back, this secret is no secret to anyone, it circulates through all possible networks like breaking news: don’t come to Coca unless you’re ready to join the hustle! Don’t lay down roots here, and certainly don’t come for fun or for some rest. Approach it like an ambitious wild beast, breathe deeply and kick open the door, show up without waiting to be announced, without checking in, go ahead and put your plan into action.

The last line in the above quote can certainly apply to the earliest settlers, who made a lot of sacrifices in order to own a piece of this land, which consists of a plateau and a valley with a large, mysterious river running through it. If they survived the naturally harsh conditions or the wildlife that preyed on them, then they had to battle the natives. Ironically, the descendants of those settlers are now trying to protect their land (or somehow make money) from a new group of people who are showing up “without checking in” and “putting their plan into action”: those who work for Pontoverde, the consortium of French, American, and Indian companies that is charged with constructing the bridge.

Engineering this project is Georges Diderot, who acts as a “bridge” between the motley crew of workers and the executives. Not only does Diderot’s no-nonsense approach and experience with major construction projects all over the world qualify him for the job, but in a way, his lack of attachment does, too. “They describe him by turns as an engineer without a homeland, a mercenary of concrete, and a patient clearer of tropical forests . . . the laconic cowboy, from nowhere, bent on his without a single wasted gesture.”

Katherine Thoreau, one of Diderot’s subordinates, is in a different situation: She and her family are always moving, but they’re also distancing themselves from each other. By working on the bridge, she’s just trying to keep her family together. Ever since her husband, Lewis, became disabled during an accident at work, she’s been the sole breadwinner, struggling to pay the bills. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, she also has to deal with her husband’s anger and his inability to properly help her with their very demanding children. Fortunately, she gets some respite from Diderot, who eventually becomes more than just her boss.

Katherine isn’t the only bridge worker with dysfunction in her life. One of the others includes Summer Diamantis, whose abandonment issues cause her to be an overzealous concrete manager. Then there’s Mo Yen, who went through great lengths to flee the Chinese mining town where he grew up. Finally, Soren Cry was in a relationship that ended badly, and now finds himself mixed up with some locals who want him to atone for past sins by bringing an end to the whole project.

These locals are not the only ones who want to sabotage the construction or even cause harm to those who work on it. Early on, Diderot is confronted by Jacob, who, despite being known as “the professor” among some of the locals, uses violence to try to get his point across. Opposition also comes from a group of ornithologists, who successfully shut down the site for three weeks so birds will be allowed to nest in the nearby wetlands. Being three weeks behind is bad enough, but Diderot also has to deal with workers who want to be paid in case the site shuts down for good.

The action in this novel (de Kerangal’s first to be translated into English) is fast-paced with long sentences that sparkle and flow like that under the sun; just as the characters in the story occasionally mingle, so do references to nature, artifice, and culture. For example, the narrator follows Diderot on a bike ride: “Bike along slowly, first rolling alongside the river, then for two miles follow the black paved path that weaves back and forth beside the frozen river, solid and intense as Chinese ink against the uncertain murk of the static waters, pass the juvenile financial district, effulgent, bristling with cranes that are too red . . .” In such passages, the reader never feels bogged down because of the passion and intelligence she displays in her subject, as well as her inventive use of language. In addition, Moore’s translation manages the impressive balancing act of maintaining the originality of Kerangal’s French prose while making it accessible for non-French readers. Overall, unlike the characters that constantly move from place to place, Birth of a Bridge will stay with readers long after they finish it.

Chris is a regular reviewer for Three Percent, and happens to be taking the next month off to participate in NaNoWriMo. We wish him endurance and good writing juju!

Here’s the beginning of Chris’s review:

From the late 1940s to the early 1950s, Egypt was going through a period of transition. The country’s people were growing unhappy with the corruption of power in the government, which had been under British rule for decades. The Egyptians’ performance at the 1948 Summer Olympics didn’t help bolster nationalism: of the 85 athletes who participated, only five won medals. Meanwhile, a group of Egyptian officers, including future Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser, formed the Free Officers Movement. Originally organized to reinstate institutions removed by the government, the movement grew in strength—and ambition—during the Arab-Israeli War. By 1952, the officers not only overthrew King Farouk, but they ended the British occupation and established Egypt as a republic.

Egyptian writer Sonallah Ibrahim lived through the period leading to and following the revolution, and he has written about the effects it has had on his country. His first novel, That Smell (1966), was written 12 years after Nasser’s rise to power, and according to an article in the New Yorker, which called Ibrahim “Egypt’s oracular novelist,” anticipated Nasser’s fall: a year after it was published, the Israelis defeated Egypt during the Six-Day War and took control of the Sinai Peninsula. Ibrahim wrote That Smell after spending five years as a political prisoner; it was during that time when, according to an article in the National, he conceived the idea for Stealth, which was originally published in Egypt in 2007.

The period of history leading to the revolution forms the backdrop of Stealth; however, it isn’t so much a political novel as it is a coming-of-age story. The narrator is an 11-year-old boy who closely observes the actions of adults, including his father, Kahlil, a retired military officer, whom he lives with in a dirty, bug-infested apartment in Cairo. The boy spends a lot of time spying on his father, as well as his friends and acquaintances. If he’s not peeking through keyholes to spy on their private, intimate moments, then he eavesdrops on their conversations. In fact, he seems much more interested in the world of adults than other children, as he only seems to play with other children when he’s forced to.

For the rest of the review, go here.