Books I Read April 18th, 2021

London opens with the slow arrival of Spring. The themes has a certain grotty grandeur. Being near a dozen Turkish supermarkets helps when it comes to buying spices, although, strangely, I've had to make great efforts to find paneer. I read the following books this week.

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Apartment in Athens by Glenway Wescott – A brooding German martinet occupies a room in the eponymous apartment of a bourgeois Greek family, to ensuing misfortune. A thoughtful and engaging depiction of a peculiarly parasitic relationship, the national characters of the two nations, and the (generally though not exclusively) miserable effects of war and deprivation on the human spirit.

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A Heritage and Its History by Ivy Compton-Burnett – Several generations of Englishmen feud over a title and estate with the sort of linguistic complexity generally reserved for the House of Commons. As a rule I try not to criticize writers for succeeding in what they've set out in doing, and Ms. Compton-Burnett's dialogue (the book is almost entirely dialogue) is exceedingly clever. That said, every character speaks in a fashion which is 1) virtually identical and 2) bears no resemblance whatsoever to actual human conversation. It probably didn't help that the fundamental consideration of the novel--which tedious gentleman will inherit the ancestral office – is not one, thank God, which has ever much occupied my thoughts.

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The Book of Swindles by Yingyu Zhang – A collection of scams befalling the unlucky and unwise in 16th century China. I now feel myself well equipped to navigate the riverboats and hostelries of the late Ming Empire.

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Death Going Down by Maria Angelica Bosco – A dead woman is found in a Buenos Aires apartment elevator, mystery unfolds. Competent but unmemorable.

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Record of a Night Too Brief by Hiromi Kawakami – Dreamlike vignettes, surreal bordering on nonsensical. Uneven, but I liked the one about the snake.

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Death is a Lonely Business by Ray Bradbury – The author's youthful surrogate searches for the killer of a menagerie of despairing losers in 1950's Venice. Existentialist neo-noir of the highest order. I've never been a huge Bradbury fan and was shocked at how good this was. It's less a mystery novel than a reworking of genre tropes used to explore the rapidly fading grandeur of 50's Los Angeles and the occasional tragedy of human existence. Its slapstick surrealism reminded me somewhat of Inherent Vice, but its earthy, honest sentimentality, the lived in feel of the scenery and setting, renders it a clear notch above Pynchon's work. In fact there are a lot of over-hyped literary types who've attempted to mine similar territory, more pretentiously and to less effect. In short, Paul Auster would give his left nut to write something half as good. You should really give it a gander.

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I Am a Cat by Natsume Soseki – An arrogant cat (are there other kinds?) observes the hypocrisy of Meiji society. I'm indifferent to cats as animals and actively dislike them as literary devices, and nothing really happens in these 1200-odd pages, but Natsume's wit sparkles so incandescent that I largely didn't mind.