The Buried Giant

What follows here is a blogpost I wrote but never finished and so never published. It's a pity because I'm interested to see where I was going with this, especially since I recently re-read Never Let Me Go and I have thoughts.

Kazuo Ishiguro is a one-trick pony. The trick happens to be the equivalent of a naturally born unicorn-pegasus hybrid (apparently known as an alicorn (or even hornipeg, thank you Wikipedia but that cannot possibly be correct, can it?) but which I will call a princess twilight sparkle and await a copyright infringement suit from Hasbro). Now that I have set the tone of my return to the blogosphere, I ask you: Who doesn’t like ponies?

A little while ago, I read an article about intelligent animals that appear to count or answer questions, but are really responding to subtle cues in the examiner's behaviour. Like Clever Hans, a pony that could do simple addition with single-digit numbers, but was really responding to an unconscious tic his owner tacked when stating the correct answer.

Clever Hans and his owner

This article reminded me of the week that I briefly, but with the best of intentions, adopted two puppies. My flatmate’s girlfriend had found a litter of strays playing in the street, but could only catch two of them. Since it was December, and my flatmate and co were visiting family for two weeks, the pups were mine to house-train. So, a few times a day, the pups and I would walk outside and I would pretend not to watch them do their business, but because I was watching them, once they had done their business, I would praise them to make sure it stuck that peeing outside was almost as good as being a princess twilight sparkle.

But then, once inside again, the female would immediately pee on the carpet. E-v-e-r-y t-i-m-e. I started to suspect she was messing with me. I watched her like a hawk to see whether I could find some clue in her behaviour as to her behaviour. Each time she peed inside I would discipline her by lowering my voice and repeating her name, and each time she peed outside I would praise her by raising my voice and repeating her name. But, still, she peed inside. E-v-e-r-y t-i-m-e.

Then I realised that she was just squatting outside and not actually doing her business, but because I was praising her thinking she was doing her business, she thought she was supposed to just squat outside and, since she still needed to pee, would do her business inside even though it led to her being called by name in an ominous tone of voice. She also hollowed out the couch from underneath, so that she could nap inside the couch, and hid the stuffing.

Ishiguro's novel The Buried Giant is about an elderly couple named Axl and Beatrice who are on a journey to visit their son. Their journey takes place in sixth-century Britain, a period I confess I know very little about. The highlights according to Wikipedia are: plague, famine and drought.  The highlights according to the novel are that the Romans are gone, and the Saxons and Britons have been at war, but the Saxons have won, and there is a kind of tense truce between them. Ogres are real, but not a problem "provided one did not provoke them". After all "in those days there was so much else to worry about. How to get food out of the hard ground; how not to run out of firewood..."

The one-trick pony that is Ishiguro's writing style physically takes form in the novel as a "mist" that is erasing the corners of people's memories and a dragon named Querig (which is dragon for princess twilight sparkle thank you very much). The main characters share a Alzheimer's-like amnesia of their own lives that affects even their memories of their son and where he lives, so that their entire journey is tinged with anxiety. Along their tense journey, the elderly couple meet villagers, children, soldiers and miscellaneous ferrymen, all affected by the mist.

This pony has been called many names by many readers, including "level banality" and "rhetoric in search of a form", an insult so snide it hisses. But let's call it Clever Hans princess twilight sparkle here. All of Ishiguro's stories slowly, so slowly that it's almost painful, unveil their secrets in layers as they speak, as they act, as they reason, as they dream. In Ishiguro's other novels, this amnesia that slowly builds a model of itself protects and hides secrets, both historical and intimate. In Never Let Me Go, the dilemma is the ethics of cloning. In Artist of a Floating World, it is Japanese actions during World War II. (I am not even going to pretend I understood The Unconsoled, however,)

On another level, the novel is a good analogy for its author’s style - here the metaphor becomes a bit strained...

And? And ...? I guess I'll never know now. To avoid cross-contamination, I'll blog my thoughts about Never Let Me Go in a different post.  

1Q84

Two moons, the one paper-like, a cheap lantern, lit from behind and green with dust. Together the moons are a signpost of an alternate reality that the protagonist of Haruki Murakami's novel calls 1Q84. Get it? I'm not sure I do, but it is best to embrace your weaknesses when reading anything written by the master of relativity, Murakami.

I am back, dear reader, albeit not in one piece and not without a few scars. One is a pretty star shape and positioned like a gangster tat. There is only one moon here, but it is anaemic-pink with pollution and on sale.

So it is fitting that 1Q84 is my first review in a few months. It is the codex to my present. It is my white rabbit. It is a post-modern Ulysses sitting next to said tome on my bedside table. It is 1000-and-something pages light, and I read the first 100 pages three times and each time it was a different novel.

The novel is actually a trilogy, but what isn't in the aftermath of Peter Jackson's assault on Mordor? It was first published in three parts in Japanese in 2009 before being translated and published in English in 2011. Since then Murakami has written one more novel: Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, which is news to me too.

My books travel with me. I never know when I may find an opportunity - and an almost physical need - to read, from doctors' waiting rooms to coffee breaks to shop queues. I have been (interrupted and) asked to describe this book many many times in many many contexts and each time I flapped my cheeks a few times before sighing, hoping this would suffice. When it didn't, I squinted at the back cover:

The year is 1Q84.

This is the real world,
there is no doubt about that.

But, in this world, there are
two moons in the sky.

In this world, the fates of two people
Tengo and Aomame, are closely intertwined.
They are each, in their own way,
doing something dangerous.
And in this world, there seems
no way to save them both.

Something extraordinary is starting.

"So," I would start. "This 1321-page book is set in an alternate universe, where everything is the same as ours except that there are two moons." I would look up from the blurb then, hoping this would have answered the question. "Um, ok. The story is told from the perspectives of two characters: an assassin-cum-gym-instructor and a writer-cum-maths-teacher. They are separately part of a conspiracy that is loosely bound to a cult that believes in faeries. The Old World kind of faerie. The nasty kind.

"I haven't finished reading it, yet," I would apologise. Still, my audience would stare.

Stop staring.

This standoff reminds me of a mistake I made once of asking an elderly sculptor what one of his pieces 'meant' - I was chewed out in Italian before being given the cold shoulder for the afternoon. Yes, meaning is relative - but meaning is also democratic, sir, and you are responsible for mowing the grass along your stretch of road whether you vote or not. Or something.

I imagine Murakami chewing me out for turning to the blurb for meaning.

In a previous novel, Kafka on the Shore, loose ends flip around like live electrical wires in the street after a violent storm. (The same street whose sidewalks you mow.) In 1Q84, the street is not only triple the length, with triple the number of sparking wires, but it also inhabits all 26 possible dimensions and then some. In other words, the novel is too long to safely sustain relativity.

The problem with the author scrapping his name from the voting ballot and setting fire to all evidence that he was ever there is that, the longer the novel, the more frayed plot points spark in the street and many of these streets are cul de sacs, each with kaleidoscopes of authors hightailing it in all sorts of directions, possibly dimensions, and while I don't mind singing for my supper, I would prefer it if we could stick to one metaphor. Right?

1321 pages is too long for the author to leave me to my own devices.

As if to punctuate this, my pet bunny ate the last 6 pages of the novel before I could finish reading. So, technically, I have not finished the novel. But neither do I have the urge to acquire those 6 pages and read them (imagine me curled up behind a bookshop bookshelf, listening for the footsteps of a bookseller who will politely ask me to buy the book if I want to know how it ends - they don't believe the story about Munroe the paper-munching rabbit).

This review is like one of those puzzles where you have to count how many shapes you see and you are supposed to count shapes in the shapes and shapes made of shapes and the shapes these shapes make. There are multiple blurbs in this post and not all of them belong to the same union. I was going to count them out for you and then I thought, nah, you could do with some exercise after your six-month break from my meanderings.

MaddAddam: Part 1 of 2

My introduction to the works of Margaret Atwood was Oryx and Crake. I used to work at a bookshop which hosts a huge sale every quarter. It is a good place to pick up hardcover first editions. (Sorry, peeps, but if you can't find anything good on sale, it's because the staff nabbed them while they unpacked boxes.) Deckle edges (when the page edges are rough and uneven) are a red flag. This habit is mostly for novelty value than for any misplaced hope that this one book of thousands will become valuable. Anyway, I have this book and I have read it.

Let's retreat even further in time and test your patience. Because it is entertaining to imagine anyone is reading this and that you are on tenterhooks to see where I am going with this.

I read Dorothy Lessing's The Golden Notebook in high school (y'know, as normal learners spend their free time) and adored it. It opened up a new world of politicised literature for me, as a natural and nurtured feminist, although I didn't know where to find more of the same or how to exercise it.

Later I would read AS Byatt and fall in love for the same reason - together with her representation of the post-Modern psyche: by definition ultimately and completely apathetic. The last few pages of Possession sealed the deal.

Around this time, a friend was surprised that I hadn't yet read any Margaret Atwood. 'As a feminist of your own devising, I would think you would have devoured her work.' (Or something as cultured.) I am otherwise like that, as you know (as above), so I didn't read any just because he said I should (a reflection on our friendship, too). Until, while rooting around in my collection of books, I found the book and couldn't resist those deckle edges (they get me every time).

I was ambivalent. I was also confused. I was ambivalent because I was confused. The ideas of Oryx and Crake rooted around in the recesses of my brain and unravelled things I did not want to see in the dark of an alley or in the light of day. (An older me is more comfortable in alleys than sunlight.) So I ravelled those things up again while Oryx, Crake and Snowman-the-Jimmy weren't looking, and packed those three characters along with them.

Burying them didn't help. They kept popping up in my mind, while I was thinking about genetically modified anything (not often), overgrown grass (more often than you'd think), apocalypse (very often), the destructiveness of the human species (very, very often) and things that have little to do with the book, like apples. Each time, I would wander down one of the many paths in that greenhouse and whisk myself out when I realised what half of me was doing while the other half wasn't looking.

Excuse the pun but it grew on me (actually, don't excuse me - that's a pretty good one). One day I realised that other half have shoved my dislike over onto the 'like' side and closer to 'craving'. Muttering under my breath, I read others, like The Blind Assassin and The Handmaid's Tale. To be honest, I can't remember what any of them are about. They weren't Oryx and Crake. They were too packed with ideas and my brain kept overheating (it does that. Even a bibliophile has limits).

Lucky me, Oryx and Crake was about to become... wait for it... a trilogy. Even an author needs to make money. Thank you, JRR Tolkien. Again, I was ambivalent. I don't like being coerced into spending my money (although, let's be honest, that's how capitalism works). But I craved more.

I caved and read The Year of the Flood, fairly recently, although it had been out for several years. Hammer - nail - head. Down to the squirming ambivalence. Except, as I mentioned, the older me is far more comfortable with squirming and finds it more comforting than the safety of ignorance. Oryx, Crake and Snowman-the-Jimmy didn't play as crucial a role, appearing mostly as backstory. While Oryx and Crake was set after the pandemic that wipes out a very destructive human race, The Year of the Flood is set around it.

Now came MaddAddam! I waited and waited for the Kindle version but eventually couldn't handle the suspense and went with the hardcopy. Which poses a problem because I have two of the three in hardcopy and other as .mobi. Hmmm I also object to the waste of paying for something twice. Hmmm

Conundrum aside, I am halfway through. This book knits together the two stories, in a different narrative style: one character takes centre stage. His story is told as a story to his lover who turns it into a (almost Biblical) story for a species of not-but-almost-human beings, who are depicted as childlike in their ignorance but are probably better suited to the world, honestly.

All of these stories tell the story of how pre-pandemic society became further divided than ours (pre-pre-pandemic) into haves and have-nots, both brainwashed (sometimes violently) into maintaining the status quo. Except, as we all know, sometimes wolves make their way into the herd and these wolves were called the MaddAddamites, and named themselves after animals we have made extinct. Whatever, because the pandemic happened and now they're telling stories in the aftermath.

No spoilers there, I promise.

I haven't finished the book so cart - horse, y'know, but based on The Year of the Flood, there is none of the same crypticness and magic of Oryx and Crake. That book punched me in my stomach, because Snowman-the-Jimmy's story was impossible to fully untangle. It also ended with another punch that physically made me blink and try to block the memory out. Although there have been moments of unveiling, where clues have fitted together, there hasn't been the same kind of (almost Biblical) revelation.

That said, I can't get enough of Zeb's story in MaddAddam, where he (so far) plays an incidental role in the pandemic, although we already know he is critical after it. (It's always the people prepared to hit under the belt that survive in a pandemic. Remember this, peeps, when you play guns and crossbows in your minds.) This is exactly the reason I am slowplaying my reading. (No, not to learn how to use a crossbow, because I am comfortable with the under-the-belt people doing it for me.) Because, based on my experience of Oryx and Crake, I will have to manage the craving after I have put it down.

Forget the apocalypse, this is a far more important (and imminent) problem.

All of the books are narratives within narratives: told first by the character (almost self-consciously because they are pretty much telling their stories to themselves, old loud, which is not considered crazy in an apocalypse), and then revised for an audience, even if we aren't always privy to the telling. Although AS Byatt hits - nail - head with Possession about post-Modern society, universally people enjoy stories. In a story, you are the maker of your own destiny.

Stories lead you into the garage of your mind, to topple the piles of things you prefer to ignore. That may be as damaging in the lead-up to a pandemic than how it is executed. With stories, and in the toppling, we imagine the means of our destruction into being.

Discworld

Generally (except for the writings of a good friend, which is why I say 'generally'), I do not enjoy satire. I am easily riled, upset, impassioned. "Silly women drivers" is enough for me to train the beady little eyes on you like the laser beads of a sniper rifle. So you can imagine what happens when someone is turning my pet issue into a seeming joke. Even if they are unpacking an argument using humour as a kind of common ground.

I care not. By the time I see an empty suitcase, I am already peeved, anywhere in a range from sniper rifle to air attack.

See, I am facetious; which is like being satirical except the satire is a prank (a stapler set in jelly being a favourite), intended to give the writer room to explore the cupboard drawers of the position while everyone else is looking in the other direction. Which is not the same thing. A satirer knows what her position is.

Generally... Remember that disclaimer? Yep, I have packed away the rifle and begun being facetious.

Terry Pratchett gets away with it because his novels double as fantasy, which I have always been a fan of. Meaning that like any child I dreamed of a dragon who was more friend than pet - he hangs around because we enjoy each other's company. He is not a fan of other people though, and my instruction to generally not burn people into shadows is the only thing he doesn't like about me. I prefer not to think about how he feeds himself.

The world is divided into People Who Have Read Pratchett and Those Who Haven't. We each feel sorry for the other, but my side has a dragon, so...

Pratchett, for those of you on the side of Haven't (pitying look), has created a world called Discworld. Even the name is satirical. The world is literally a disc, but as per some legend or other, the disc sits on four elephants who stand on the shell of a giant turtle who is swimming through space (according to Book 2, there are may be a few turtlettes swimming alongside the erm adult (gender is indeterminate here)).

The joke is layered: Most obviously, this is a dig at people who used to think the world was flat. Less obviously, it is a dig at the mentality of the people who thought the world was flat. Because human nature isn't many things but (contrary to popular opinion) it is stuck in juvenilia. Those people still exist (not literally, maybe as atoms) but now they voraciously argue against global warming (FYI, a natural occurrence, peeps, else we would be (not) breathing nitrogen right now) and believe in democracy (that is a long story).

And that's just the name!

My favourite characters are the Patrician and Captain Vimes of the Watch. The Patrician is the for-all-intents-and-purposes the Prime Minister of Ankh Morpork (a city, not a state, because maintaining just the city is enough of a job). He never seems exhausted though. Or surprised. He is mildly amused sometimes, but usually that means someone is about to regret being amusing. Vimes is sometimes amusing, and often exhausted, but seems to be protected by rubber tyres, like a go-cart track.

Why am I reminiscing? For your edification. No. It's my blog, so unless I am educating you (another pitying look) on civil rights and recycling, I am not really interested in your edification, you.

No, I am reading my way from Book 1 all the way through to wherever in the 30s we will be when I get there. No, this is not a case of a trilogy with 30 books or 10 trilogies. Discworld had solidified from the giggles of the readers long before this trilogy fad set in. Pratchett writes one book a year (sometimes two) and releases them round about Christmas. Clever bugger.

Why am I rereading these books? Full of questions today (whatever day it is that you are reading this), aren't you?

I hadn't read a Discworld novel in yonks (which is a year or two). Then I picked up Making Money, as sorbet (which will (perhaps) mean something to you if you have read this blog before or understand words). What surprised me was the simple way he picks up an idea and turns it inside out, so it's still the same shape but it looks different. (Mostly all the threads are poking out and there's fluff along some of the hems. I am picturing a fleese-lined onesie.)

In this case, the gold standard. The protagonist points out, in a matter-of-fact way, that gold doesn't really play any large part in our daily lives or in the grander life of society, unless you are a jeweller. It is meaningless when compared with, say, iron. Genius. (He then goes on to apply that concept to bank notes, but let's not quibble.)

I enjoyed the satire (which is not as high-brow as that in the quality daily publication of your choice, perhaps, but definitely funnier), so naturally I thought, let's read all of them. Again. In order. Of course. This was about two months ago. I am on number 4, Mort, which is generally agreed to be a favourite (I'd put the odds at 1:8, so place your bets now folks, before it slips down). The reason being my third favourite character: DEATH. (That's how he speaks, WITH EMPHASIS.)

DEATH in Discworld is a pragmatic man - he isn't fussed about whether you are a good or a bad person, because he has seen the (very dull) infinity through which the turtle swims and lost that sense of morality like a coat. On the other hand, he named his horse 'Binky' (lower caps intentional). So he's not entirely lost to the dark side.

In this particular installment, DEATH has an apprentice (who seems, like the deceased, unsurprised to be visited by a skeleton in a black coat who SPEAKS WITH EMPHASIS). Like most of Pratchett's protagonists, poor Mort is insecure and trying to come off as a James Dean, but his tongue keeps giving him away. Also his shaking hands.

As with all Pratchett novels, the author sets up a moral or social quandary, and then shows you there is another, more natural way to approach it. (It usually helps if you are a bit dense but a good person, or have a suitcase made of sapient pearwood (perhaps the most terrifying... thing in Discworld).) Rather than let the apple of his eye be killed, Mort does away with the assassin trying to kill her and upsetting Fate. No, actually, Fate carries on as if nothing has changed, which is a whole other problem.

What now? Does he kill his apple and let her disappear into the afterlife? (This is one of those relationships where he was struck dumb by her presence and has now spent five minutes talking to her. Obviously they are meant to be together...) Does he carry on while Fate carries on and she is stuck in limbo? Well, I'm not going to spoil it for you!

And this is what I enjoy about Pratchett's satire: Him. He is an eternal optimist, in a world where it is healthier to be a cynic. He believes in good and bad, evolution, and people. He is genuinely indignant about people who exercise power over others, about decision making and about ignorance. Not in order of indignance - ignorance probably comes first.

So expect regular updates as I plow through 30-odd books and guffaw a lung (I find myself lightly snorting at the jokes before actually laughing). If you haven't read them yet, hopefully I can bully you into trying one, and if you have, hopefully I can bully you into reading another one. We could prove Pratchett right by guffawing the world until it rocks on the backs of four elephants standing on top of a turtle swimming through space with turtlettes swimming alongside.

V: on hold

The real world has me in its claws but I promise not to let this become a habit. Granted, a mole can't do much against the eagle attached to the claws except become a very unpleasant meal. All this really proves is that this metaphor has limits. The real world has me surrounded but the Law of Cowboy Films says that the fewer the men, the craftier they have to be to survive. In this case, I intend to go down in a blaze of words and few inappropriate pranks.

For instance, is it safe to put a goldfish in a bowl in the fridge for long enough for someone to find it?

I haven't abandoned words in this stake-out - that would be just ridiculous. At the moment, all I really have brain real estate for is crosswords. Yep. You, stop sniggering. Quit - lay off - end - halt - cease - terminate - desist from snickering - simpering - sneering - laughing.

Really, I rarely finish a crossword without cheating: using dictionaries, thesauruses, and an app that allows you to match words and reveal blocks. But I can live with this because I get bored when I reach an impasse and rules are flexible.

Before my two-week hiatus from blogging, I was still ploughing my way through V and 1Q84. Ok, don't look at me like that - that's not exactly true because the latter has been kicked under my bed, behind my hairdryer. I had reached the point where one character's married girlfriend is pregnant and the other is recovering (in uncomfortable detail) from a night of debauchery she doesn't remember. I stepped on it as I got up out of bed and slipped.

V is on my Kindle, which is less slippery. However, it does not have a solution to being distracted. Every time I pick it up to read it, I have to flip back to find something I recognise. The novel is made up of stories that branch off from the main story. These branches usually handstand back in time, pulling certain characters with it. The point being that you have to pay attention otherwise you may find yourself unwittingly a soldier without a past on Namibia's Skeleton Coast.

The chapter set in Namibia is gruelling, as is another set close by, in an estate that houses one continuous party a la The Great Gatsby. Not only do events depict the brutal violations of human rights that were colonialism, but the protagonists experience a flux of emotions, from bravery to insipidness, activism to self-preservation, care to the need for care.

The main story is set in post-World War II America and follows an ex-naval officer. Although Wikipedia says he was discharged, I remember vividly that he went AWOL, although perhaps this insert is the reverse of my loss of memory. He is part of the Whole Sick Crew, an incestuous bunch of naval officers and some women. He describes himself as the most popular man among the women but also the most virginal, even though he and Rachel have something destructive going on.

Now we reach My Point - congratulations, pick up 50 000 Air Miles when next you visit your local bookshop.

V reminds me of Cloud Atlas, but only in the sense that Mercury and Jupiter orbit the same star. Cloud Atlas depicts several stories set in several genres, with no main narrative except that forced on it by the movie. Instead, it is the themes that bind them - themes that range from esoteric (producers of the movie) to literary and semiotic (me).

Having said this, certain elements recur, just as they occur in other novels written by the same author. Mostly, these elements are characters. They recur as actual characters, or just references or blurry pasts.

In V, the stories are more interbred, with a single protagonist, and more consistent voice and genre. I am twisting myself into contradictions now, which is fitting, because the author also experiments with genre, particularly historical drama. His prose is consistently highbrow, even when he is slinging slang between the Sick Crew and rival gangs.

Am I recommending fans of Cloud Atlas to read V? a) I can't because I haven't finished and who knows what asteroid could be hiding in the last few pages. b) These are two different but similar books, and it depends on whether you enjoyed the games the first played with genre (different) or that they played games with genre (similar).

Don't quote me on it. My opinion can only be trustworthy once I have finished the book and I haven't. I also cannot promise to finish anytime soon, since isolated synonyms and antonyms comprise the sum total of my attention right now, as I figurre out how to twist myself to bite the claws that hold me, or crawl out of the frontier cottage I am crouched in, in the hopes that my attackers will wait there until their toes chafe.

1Q84: Part 1 of many

The blurb of the book promises: "Something extraordinary is starting." Starting? Does this refer to a point within or beyond the covers? Because this thing is 1300 pages thick, sir. I am a fan. A fan strong enough to blow back the strings of a willow tree. But 1300 pages? I'm not sure I could generate more than a whiffle. A wheeze. A not-quite sigh. So please, by the alveoli of my heaving lungs, let the extraordinary something start, happen and resolve itself with enough space for a conclusion.

Ok, resolution and a conclusion is asking a lot from an author these days. But this is Haruki Murakami. If anyone can bend a convention until its toes meet its scalp, he can. But this is Haruki Murakami. He's allergic to resolution.

1Q84 came out first in Japanese in, wait for it, Japan. Writing in his first language? He's just contrary like that. The English translation came out a year later. Sorry, translations, because three's company - no, wait, that isn't how it goes. Yes, a trilogy. If people started having triplets at the same rate as they write trilogies, the race to inhabit deep dark space (which, fyi, we already do) would intensify out of necessity.

The benefit of having to wait for the translation(s) was that we could read all three together. Like Game of Thrones which I read consecutively. All five and some halves of consecutive.

At 1300 pages, we're talking slightly more than 400 words per book. (I worked that out in my head.) That's a decent length, unless you're a new author and the publisher isn't prepared to waste reams of paper on your mad skills. Then you get 200 pages and really big font. It's a decent length in which to resolve the "something extraordinary", I'm thinking like an amateur allergic reaction.

Kafka on the Shore is my favourite of his books (all three and a bit that I have read). That book has a conclusion. Of sorts. The conclusion being that we make meanings out of symbols we happen to latch on to, like a spiderweb in that willow tree. This has a twin benefit: you can write anything you want and call it literature, and you don't have to commit to anything afterward. Luckily for us readers, Murakami is not anyone and his books are not anything. But still, it's annoying.

The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is more contradictory. There are episodes that are so symbolic they shine, but  apparently no one else can see them. Just to make sure we know no one can see them and that the symbols are actually dull and ugly, more shiny symbols show up, like rival gangs in West Side Story. Only one can survive. Or neither, but that's another book.

As usual, I'm being facetious, because that is so much more fun than simply liking something. This way, my resolution and conclusion are more surprising, as if I had jumped out from behind your bathroom door first thing in the morning. (This depends on you being there, in both cases.) My readings are imposed, which is the point of all of Murakami's writings, after being entertaining.

I started 1Q84 about a month ago. Today I am 204 pages in. (That's part of Book One, just fyi.) I knew, but still only just remembered, how overwhelming every scene is. Every scene shines, whether the radioactivity spills from people's hands, the material they are wearing, the appliances in the kitchen and their purposes, or a family in a car in traffic. You can't tell whether you are supposed to notice them, you notice them because of your particular neuroses or you are being paranoid. Your neck muscles lock in defence, but you can't be sure you aren't imagining that too.

I haven't quite reached this point in the book, but forewarned is forearmed, and paranoia is a kind of arm.

Another kind of arm is to read other books between chapters. Not Neil Gaiman because I have made the mistake of parading Gaiman (whose plots and characters are so consistent he could write Mills & Boon novels. Maybe he does) in front of Murakami. Murakami wasn't mean, which made it all worse. He was like a Buddhist faced with the pacing and ranting of a fundamentalist. He listened and smiled, and went on adventures in his mind.

Terry Pratchett has survived scrutiny well so far. Maybe because he's so far off in his own direction that he caught up with the Buddhist in his mind. (Which is not to compare them directly, no. But the metaphor ran away with me.) I have read one new Pratchett and reread an old one. Which I realise is probably double what I have read from 1Q84. So it's more like I am reading Terry Pratchett, with some Murakami on the side. Murakami would listen to this and smile, and skip stones across the Amazon River until an alligator came by to debate vegetarianism.

I am trying to describe what I have read so far and what shines and what it shines on and whether perhaps I am imagining it. There are events that stick out, but honestly I would sound crazy if I wrote them here and told you they are a legitimate part of a legitimate novel. There's this and the fact that I am less than one-sixth of the way through the novel, which hopefully is the start and not something else but I cannot guarantee it. I cannot guarantee that page 867 doesn't tell me to go back to the beginning or that it begins to repeat on page 292 and then again on page 1287.

You guessed it, this "part 1 of many" cheat is a device meant to keep you reading. But I could be setting myself up for failure here if I give up just like I did Ulysses (which is not to say I have given up - I am just making a point). James Joyce also swanned around, making faces at meaning, but he also made faces at sentences and the English language. Murakami may have written in Japanese, but this novel (so far) is still easier to read.

The American greats, and Oprah

When Oprah added William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury to her bookclub list as a summer read, said bookclub gulped and shrivelled in the path of The Establishment's raucous laughter. The plebs fell for it and sales of books by Faulkner increased (I know because I sold a few to unwitting fans of Marianne Keyes and Jodi Picoult). This was after the James Frey A Million Little Pieces, which he sold as memoir but was really almost entirely made up, and the 'almost entirely' is debatable.

This introduction is a red herring, but now you know that I know what I'm talking about. To add to your store of Oprah trivia, her bookclub really did shrivel (maybe not gulp). (Although it did come to life again a few years ago. Because, this is Oprah.) Put those two facts together, bind them with logic, and you realise Oprah rarely actually read the books she touted - they were chosen by assistants and publishers' publicists. (What they were thinking when they included Faulkner is a mystery.)

I recently tried to read The Sound and the Fury, but read no further than three pages (read being a misnomer: I daydreamed through three pages - I cannot remember a thing). I don't abandon books after I have committed to them, ever. Even Atomised, and that was at least as traumatising as something I saw in the supermarket the other day (and which shall forever remain wordless, so don't even ask).

Oprah generalised that 'Faulkner is the greatest American writer, like, ever' (sure, along with Hemingway, Twain, Poe, Steinbeck, McCarthy...). But I would imagine even the most stalwart Faulkner fan would harbour a teensy bit of bitterness at having to work so hard to read for fun. I felt that, at present, the only author deserving of that degree of effort is James Joyce. (We have a tempestuous relationship. He channels through the book on my dresser and I ignore his cursing.) He was using up my time with Joyce, even though I haven't so much as picked up the cursed (har!) book in six months (I was polishing the furniture).

Imagine if Oprah had nominated The Odyssey... Now there is a book to bury a bookclub near to the centre of the earth.

Having said this, I am a Faulkner fan (and a Joyce fan - I swear I will finish that book one day, you Irishman!). As I Lay Dying is on my list of books that will haunt me for life. Ok, no, it is silly to lay claim to choices in your future. It haunts me and I hope it haunts me for life (at least because there are way worse types of ghosts to be haunted by... Actual ghosts, for example). In two sentences, the characters sum up the world for me in a Cormac McCarthy-worthy musing:

"It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That's how the world is going to end."

The book is set in the American south, among a po' family, the matriarch of which has just died. The novel tells of the the family's efforts to arrange her funeral, which chiefly consist of couriering her body on the farm's wagon to another, more affluent part of the family. Really (because this is how literature works), it is about the relationships between the characters, how they live, their relationships with the matriarch and the wisdom that comes from being po'.

That last bit is facetious, but Rousseau's Noble Savage is still alive and well, just now living in shacks constructed from the cardboard of cellphone ads. Faulkner can be forgiven, by historicity, but what is our excuse?

To climb up that tree of great American authors (figuratively, because I tried to climb a tree the other day and found I no longer have the muscles), Faulkner inspires the work of Toni Morrison, the sun of Oprah's universe together with Maya Angelou and her dogs. We studied Morrison every. single. year. of my degree, largely because one of our lecturers was Obsessed with her. Because of this I can name every novel she has ever written, have read them, and know that she is a frightening woman who use to be an editor at Faber & Faber and now terrifies undergrads.

I would sell organs to be terrifying. Or to work at Faber & Faber (I would even volunteer my services as a fridge-cleaner. Someone would see the obsessive way I scrubbed at stains hidden under shelves and would know me for a perfectionist and would let me edit manuscripts so they could take the credit and I would be happy).

Morrison's characters are almost exclusively Southern, African-American, discriminated against, they discriminate against and tattooed with mythology. Slavery, chauvinism, racism, all the meaty -isms. Her novels are uplifting and inspiring, and (I'm going to be serious now) brilliant. Songs of Solomon is my favourite and Paradise my least favourite. Where Faulkner plays devil's advocate, Morrison pursues abuse single-mindedly, creating her own mythologies.

Now, along the way up that greatness tree, we missed two brown-tipped offshoots (like that of the bamboo in my bathroom), titled Zora Neale Hurston and Carson McCullers. I am starting to feel like I am trailing in Oprah's shadow - Oprah ('s assistant) picked books from both authors for her bookclub. In fact, Hurston is (allegedly) her favourite author. Huh, perhaps I and The Establishment have been overly judgemental. Though, still, Faulkner?

Carson McCullers has featured on this blog, more than once, so for equality's sake (it's election day!), let's stick to Hurston. I read Their Eyes were Watching God a couple of months ago, set in... if you have been reading carefully, you, you can guess... yes, the American south, that muddy well of discrimination and abuse (drinking game: take a shot every time this post uses 'discrimination' or 'abuse'. Or 'southern'. Or 'and') and muddied vowels. In this book, the abuse is persistent but limited to the background.

Written in the vernacular (like As I Lay Dying), the novel tells the story (a secondhand account of her telling of the story) of a woman from her childhood to the death of her husband. Based on your cultural dips into Faulkner and Morrison, you expect a certain theme and for a while Hurston gives it to you, until she begins to channel Faulkner, and soon we know that we are all abusing one another, which makes for another less than uplifting tale, but a poignant one.

Zora Neale Hurston, not on Oprah...

At this point, I am wondering why I have read so many of the American greats, when the first great South African title I think of is Cry the Beloved Country (partly because it is long and long equals great, obviously) and authors are Nadine Gordimer and Andre Brink (neither of whom write... enjoyable fiction). (JM Coetzee? This is one of the few instances where man and work deserve to be equated. In short, there is no need to bolster his egoism by acknowledging him.) Oh, and a couple of Fugard's workshopped plays.

(Please don't redirect me to African fiction, because Chinua Achebe is about as close to Nadine Gordimer as spaghetti is to curry.)

While I want to tell you that I am replacing my to-read list with South African greats, to rectify this situation, I would be lying, and why lie in cyberspace? Every culture seems to have an inflection in its writing, some style that is unique. American fiction is vast, given its very nature as a land of immigrants made up of many states. These four authors have been chosen, by me (and Oprah), artificially, by the links I make between them. And perhaps the same could be said for Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Calvino and Eco, Marquez and Bolano.

South African fiction, especially the political works - sometimes it feels like they're all political - is dry. Metaphors are like kites tied to a fence, like wallflowers that can't dance, like colours mixed into a muddy brown. These works remind me of the Karoo, which I think of fondly but would not live there. When I read, I want to be tossed around, not by emotion, but by the acrobatics of the words. I read to read. To consume the experience and feel bloated with it - and the only way a plot can catch up is to jump and freefall.

We don't have an Oprah (I don't have a TV, but no, whatsherface who used to have an afternoon show on SABC 3 does not count), so there is no one to nominate setworks for the nation to read over the December holidays. If we did, what would she pick? Disgrace? Confessions of a Gambler? Agaat? Fiela se Kind? Maybe Coetzee would admit that his fiction is actually straight-up memoir. We definitely need an Oprah.

Stranger in a Strange Land: Part 1 of 2

Once again, I demand your patience. Yes, demand! A reviewer should never review a book when she has not finished said book. She should also never review a book straight after finishing. But a) rules only apply 75% of the time, b) rules bore me 75% of the time and c) Stranger in a Strange Land could be divided neatly into two Kindle singles, the second of which would be filed under a different category - some synonym for 'strange, even for science fiction'.

Despite my claims to unconventionality (literally), this is the 25% of the time when I seem to have introduced my topic in, um, the introduction. Don't worry, no doubt I will have meandered by the conclusion. But just where will I meander to, huh? The mind boggles.

The conundrum here is: What happened to the author, Robert A Heinlein, when he had completed 46% of the book? Here's a clue - or a red herring - he published the book in 1961, a few years after he had written it. Before that, he had written children's books (heavens!). Did he write it and then realise he could use dirty words and sex and indulge in aesthetic, political and humanist dialogues, under the guise of the free love espoused by people who didn't shower or wash their hair (I want to say something nasty here but shall refrain. Unlike Heinlein)?

Enough suspense. I am hungry and my leftovers from dinner are a-calling. From the fridge. I should probably get it checked it out then.

Space travel deposits and then 20-ish years later reclaims a human raised on Mars by, yes, Martians. Martians we now know to be either fossilised single-celled somethings or invisible. These somethings are an advanced civilisation who live for more than 100 years and once they die they become Old Ones who talk to and guide the living Martians. They can control pretty much everything: their minds, growth of their bodies, objects around them and so on. They can also die on command (!), called 'disorporation', and make things not be by reducing them to singularities. (This might also explain why they're invisible to dear Curiosity.)

The Man from Mars (nicknamed 'Mike') automatically becomes the richest and most powerful man ever, through some series of silly laws that are sillier than the ones the colonialists imposed. He finds refuge in the home of a philanthropist named Jubal, who is surrounded by lascivious women and two willing servants, who gets him out of his mess by handing power over to the Secretary General of the world. After Mike makes some policemen disappear (the official story is they got lost. Yes. In a suburb).

Aaaaaand this is where the bar at the bottom of the Kindle screen says '46%'. It should also say 'end of Book One - proceed to the book labelled 'strange, even for science fiction'?' In Martian, 'grok' means something apparently indescribable in human language but, to take some liberties, seems to be a verb for true understanding, where the objective truth and our subjective delusions meet. (Did I mention the Martians are highly advanced? Also in the way of the spirit. That's how they control things. (They sound like hippies to me.)) I don't grok Book Two.

Mike adapts quickly to human life, but he doesn't grok it. So he takes his show on the road, together with someone else's sweetheart. He begins to speak with all the idioms and double entendres of a fluent English speaker raised in America. He also delivers monologues on the philosophies of religion and human relationships, between orgies that to him symbolise having a glass of wine together, and trips to the zoo. And he still can't make or understand a joke.

Meanwhile, back at Jubal's ranch, amid pregnancy (implied to be the progeny of the Man from Mars) and a wedding with - wait - a celibate Muslim (shock, horror!), the ranch-owner delivers his own monologues on the philosophy of aesthetics, with so much passion that I am beginning to suspect the author is speaking through these characters. I fell asleep at this point.

At the end of Book One, I thought, this is unusual: to continue past what feels like the climax and resolution of the novel. Fun; it reminds me of Star Wars (that's a compliment). Sometimes it's best to stop while you're ahead (one valuable rule).

As I said, a reviewer should never pass comment before the end of the book. (Note this, my future reviewers. It's not polite.) Maybe there will be a plot development that says (from the author): "I know this has all been a bit much to stomach and I apologise for offending the sensibilities of sensible people. Here is why I did it and see, it works! Continue reading and praise my book in your blog post." Perhaps just an endnote. Even a footnote.

It won a pretty impressive prize, a Hugo Award (not a Booker or a Nobel though), if you're impressed by that sort of thing. Neuromancer won the same award in 1985 and I thought that was grand (seriously, no one has answered my question). (Also, did you know that they give out the award to films and that Jurassic Park won in 1992? Don't roll your eyes - deny you watch the repeats when they come on the movie channel, I dare you.)

Brontosaurus had been my favourite dinosaur since I was a child. Even though he may not exist. I like an underd-ino (har!)

Essentially (because this is the most conventional post I have written in a while, I will summarise My Point(s) - even though I am listening to Thom Yorke!) the characterisation reduces to the author's opinions (mostly negative) of the human race, thus losing the subtlety of Book One and makes it grand. These opinions are dated: diatribes on modern art, misanthropism, religion as akin to commercialism, how media distort reality and so on. We have heard them and read them ad nauseam. People waiting to cross the road talk about this!

Essentially (revised) in Book Two we're being preached to. By characters who think that orgies are a valid way to encourage social empathy. Granted, Mike is revealing (haha) social norms and mores for what they are: artificial. But that's a little ridiculous from a man who will choose the moment he will die - sorry, discorporate - and believes he is being educated by ghosts. Norms and mores are necessary for the existence of any life form with a brain. Watch your pets introduce themselves to other pets.

Having potentially stuck my foot in my mouth, I am going to finish the book and hopefully not have to retract this post (I won't delete it, that seems unethical somehow, like copying a picture of a model from a website and uploading it as your profile pic. Yeah, I'm talking to you). At the very least, I will grok the philosophies of aesthetics, economics and human relationships in the 60s. I always wanted to take that course at varsity, but it conflicted with the rest of my schedule.

Neuromancer

Being culturally aware and intelligent folk, you know that the Matrix (starring that master of expression, Keanu Reeves) was based on certain premises in Neuromancer by William Gibson. Which in turn drew from a rich philosophy of talk and debate and drunken theorising about the nature of 'reality' and our place in it. Don't be fooled by Cartesian Maths. That Descartes didn't need drugs to see that our senses are fallible and perhaps wholly untrustworthy. (Insert the rest of Western philosophy here.)

I didn't know all of this. Some filtered through during first-and-only year philosophy class, some of it I live and the rest I looked it up on Wikipaedia.

One of the articles includes a link to various religions. What now (brown cow)? I think. Buddhism, ok, I can see that. Certain sects of Buddhism believe we are living in a dream state, from lesser to more degrees. Some types of Hinduism believe we are ignorant to the 'real' reality. Sikh's believe that the natural world has two states and that we see the superficial layer. Huh. Who knew? I didn't.

The two things I really gleaned from that first-year class are:

• Choose an object, like a table. Define that class of object so it is unique from every other type of object in the world. A chair has four legs that support a rectangular piece of wood. So does a bench. So do certain raised buildings. Anyway you'd have to prove that your senses are accurate and you can't. Philosophers have been arguing this for years and some of these were smart. The senses cannot be trusted, but they're all we have, so let's move on.
• What if we are strapped up to a machine called the Experience Machine? This machine generates only pleasant experiences and we could pre-programme these experiences before plugging in. Would you choose to live in that world? Why? And could you consider that world 'real life'?

These are serious questions, folks - look lively.

Neuromancer is set in a world of wealth and poverty, with no middle class to mediate between them. Case, our hero (such a loose word), is a freelance hacker for various types of smugglers (he doesn't question what of). He is recruited by a new cowboy in town, Armitage, and his leatherclad sidekick, Molly, whose superpower is using sex instead of expressing emotions (she's a liberated woman). 'Recruited' isn't exactly the right word, because it suggests voluntary consent. No, he has a surgically implanted timebomb in his belly and only Armitage knows how to turn it off.

Off the three go, and then three become four when they pick up a heinous character named Riviera whose real superpower is manipulating reality - well, your sense of reality.

Case has a past (involving a woman, obviously), Molly has a past (involving sex, obviously) and Armitage has a past (very Jason Bourne-like - book Bourne not Matt Damon-Bourne, not obviously (although he obviously has a past)). Riviera has a past but he is all past. In another context, this might be touching (a sad but witty comedy where three misfits and a scumbag tackle their demons) except this is sci-fi, where very little is touching, bar occasional revulsion. But this is a post about the real and simulated, about meaning and value, and the matrix.

Early in the novel, a character suggests that Case is a simulation. He hushes the man hastily - perhaps the author hushes the man hastily. Loudly suspiscious, but it is never addressed again. Except, Case is extraordinarily good at what he does. He actually dies more than once in the matrix, where even death is death. Case also recalls a simulation of his early mentor (the one who taught him to run drugs) in the matrix, and the simulation insists he is that a collection of habits and thought patterns. But he can adapt to situations and assimulate new information. He also arranges for Case to switch him off i.e kill him.

On the other hand, the matrix Case plugs in to seems inflexible; it reminds me of the old dos software: black screen, glowing green characters and flickering cursor. You couldn't use it unless you could translate words into a syntax of '\'s.  These characters form the outlines of a city on top of the real city.

Then again, someone implies that the digital city is the real one. What happens next seems so bizarre it could only take place in a simulation. Shying just short of a spoiler and just to muddy the waters, an artificial intelligence named Wintermute keeps interfering. He actually convinces someone to adopt another personality and periodically takes over people's bodies. From the matrix. A dos-like thing.

I sense a ruse - yes, a ruse, people! I have a theory but my theory is a spoiler, and I took a vow never to, uh, spoil. Again. Although no doubt my opinion is scattered all over the previous paragraphs.

Instead let's dabble in some minor philosophy, in questions that actually take up large chunks of my week, as if tomorrow someone will knock on my door or the partition of my cubicle and ask me to choose a coloured pill. (I will look at them suspisciously and tell them I don't do drugs.) But, yes, let's pretend these are not life-defining issues. My burning question (no, it's not heartburn) is: what is the exact relationship between Case's world and the matrix? And is there a third 'reality'?

Which translates into: what the heck is going on around here? (Here being the world in which you are reading this blog. If you are reading it. And if this isn't part of the multi-verse, which would mean there would be realities in which you are reading my blog spiking out all over the place.)

I will stop there because you know what I mean and if you don't you have your own ideas and that's fine too. I must know (what the matrix is - I can wait for the answer to the other question until Morpheus knocks on my cubicle wall)! Someone fetch William Gibson, bring him here and I shall force him to tell. I shall read the original manuscript to him and point out all the errors until he breaks down and tells me. Or until he lies. Then I will go easy and read him my manuscript. He will be so charmed he will tell me the truth (probably 'I don't know') and publish my book under his own name.

The book was phenomenal, astronomical, universinomical. Whatever, just read the book, kidnap Gibson and one of you tell me.

Seriously though, I couldn't put it down. You could argue that there was too much unexplored, but that's what cinched it for me. I laced up my running shoes and hitched a ride. I was on my own journey (I won't say quest because my object eludes me still; although I know there aren't answers, any more than the Holy Grail exists, Dan Brown), supported by mounds and mounds of talk and debate and drunken theorising. I like a mystery that has no answer, as much as I like a tragedy.

The Prague Cemetery

The Prague Cemetery by Umberto Eco is not on my list. Go ahead and check. The Name of the Rose is not on my list of 'books that never leave you'. I think. If it is, I didn't put it there. Then there's Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, which I defend only because a polymath such as Eco is entitled to brag about said polymathical... polymathicalness... polymathicy. (FYI, spell check says the middle is correct. And this confirms that spell check knows everything. More than Eco, perhaps.)

Now, I can brag about having read these books because a) they were difficult and b) I wish I were an Eco or a Joyce or a Woolf. (At what point in your life do you become a polymath? Do you have to be able to read Chaucer at age 5 or are you suddenly gifted with a voracious appetite for learning on an auspicious birthday, like 21 or 25? Do you sleep? Do you eat? Do your children like you?)

Also, I just finished The Prague Cemetery, and once again, Ayn Rand and Neuromancer must move aside. Not really for any good reason except that I just finished it and have An Opinion.

If you have ever read Eco, you know that a flash mob's worth of characters break the waves of any protagonist's life. Sometimes as guest stars and sometimes as extras. It doesn't matter; we are expected to remember them all. The same applies to the Youtube channel's worth of actual flash mobs. I know, another reason Eco writes these novels is for his bookclub of learned colleagues who read it twice and make notes (not in the book, you, that's... sacrilege).

Speaking of sacrilege, the plot of the novel is a history of European sects in the late nineteenth century. Christianity, Jesuits, Judaism, Masonry, Freemasonry, nationalism and more. The joke is that most of these folks have a handful of cash hidden in their sweaty palms, in return for cheating someone out of something. Our 'hero' is no different and has a stack of neuroses to boot. We travel with him through Italy and France as he forges documents, particularly last will and testaments.

I call him a 'hero' because he is on a 'quest', an existential mystery around a series of black-outs. To colour those missing moments in, he appropriates Freud's then-untested strategy of psychoanalysis. In other words, he talks - writes - it out (pun!). Although it only really features at the beginning and end of the novel, psychology is also portrayed as a sect, albeit a divided one.

No doubt I was oblivious to many in-jokes shared between the types of people who 'post-it'ed the pages of the novel. I picture them tagging their favourite jokes and telling them at the next dinner party (which looks like a LAN party except there isn't any technology beside the microwave). I'm glad though, because the novel is dense enough (yes, the book is literally thick, too). As it is, I only just remembered most of the people's names. Unfortunately mostly not what roles they play in the plot.

Book reviewer cynicism aside (it's stuck on with superglue, so I'm just going to nudge it aside - there!) I enjoyed the superficial layer of the plot (or in other words, the parts of the plot I understood). It is less absorbing than Name of the Rose but easier to read and less self-indulgent than Mysterious Flame (although it does also have pictures).

Superhero costume back on (yes, reading is a superpower, you) the end of the novel - of the quest - caught me by surprise. I can imagine Eco has a dinner party that he doesn't want to go to, to get to by 19.00. He is feeling malicious because he has just written 400 pages about a man who is afraid of women, so he organises a set of bizarre, gratuitous events and ends with the obvious conclusion. He smiles because ending with the obvious is a joke in itself.

While I frowned in confusion and occasional realisation during most of the novel, it ended with my mouth open in surprise. Ok, not just surprise; horror. No blood, no explicit suffering, no violence, but some serious violation of society's moral code. And my personal one.

I read somewhere that Eco is one of the only polymaths - if not the only one - alive today. (As if they teach courses in this sort of thing. I wonder what the requirements are.) But be warned that being European and/or the last remaining member of an academical sect entitles you to be offensive. Perhaps the offenses are justified because they are realistic (ummm?) or are part of an in-joke (UMMMM?). Luckily there are no pictures showing these ummm's. Or the publisher wasn't invited to the dinner party and revenge is sweet and those pictures fell into the bucket of water being used to clean the floor.

Here's an in-joke: I am going to a dinner party and so I shall plop a slapdash conclusion here. I don't have in me to be offensive but to be obvious: I read the book, I finished it and I liked most of it except the ending. And the parts where I felt stupid. Bye.

Parts 2 & 3: Reading Mara and Dann

Dear Reader, I cheated you. This spiderweb's thread of trust that twangs between us? I danced on it. Stomp-style, not Swan Lake. Oh, that's called taking the high ground by jumping up and down on a thread in the middle of a sandstorm? Ok, then that's how I cheated you.

It's a metaphor.

No, I can't really dance on a spiderweb thread.

See, we have an arrangement between us: I post and you read. Sometimes I post and you read a year later because it popped up in a web search and you thought, lookee, another angsty literature major/writer/editor/publisher/nihilist who has taken the option of publishing her opinions without being peer reviewed.

If you could read before I could post, would we be using quantum computers? Or would you be like Kevin Spacey in that movie called Sum'in' Sum'in'? Or Bruce Willis in 12 Monkeys?

The pet guinea pig called My Point has nudged us home. While reading Mara and Dann, I wrote multiple posts. In my head. Yes, on the inside of my skull in smelly permanent market. Despite this, I can't recall a single one. Not so permanent, or so permanent they have sunk into the fleshy folds of my brain.

I finished Dann and Mara at least a week ago. Since then I have been restless. What now? The conclusion is double-edged: will we leave the characters in stasis or do we choose to hear a matching restlessness in the tone of Dann's voice? Also, what do I read next? I could choose Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood, but I don't want to pollute either with proximity to the other.

I paced along my bookshelf, read a set of satirical essays, paced some more, eyed Ulysses again (now that would exorcise Lessing's dusty, starving refugees from my brain) and, without looking directly at it, pulled The Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog ('General Dann' at least five times the rest of the type).

As I crawled into bed (lots of pillows to arrange in just the right geometric puzzle, y'know), I thought perhaps I had picked up the wrong one - the spines of a couple of other books look the same: dusted, with one or two purposeful figures, long titles. I was relieved. I would read whatever else it was because it wanted me to. (Self-justification is a wonderland of talking creatures and bullying objects. It's where the tooth fairy comes from.)

You know what happened, because you too come from this magical land. Or you are versed in the conventions of different types of text in different media. Or you just know I like to string you along, while really wanting to tell you my point. (Even reading is its own story.)

The average-sized, average-weight paperback with the sandblasted spine was The Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog. (While the cover of Mara and Dann is a classic Vintage design, with bars of gold and black, and one simple dominating image. The card stock is lighter, I think, but feels luxurious. The paper too: thinner but silky. A reader knows this is Literature of Some Weight (excuse the pun)).

Now, I was in my own sandstorm (you can replace 'sand' with an appropriate word), partly of my own making. But, and tell me if I'm alone here (knock once on your computer screen for 'yes'), deep in the recesses of my brain, next to the other posts I 'wrote', I believe everything is my fault. War, poverty, spilt ice cream. So, in my mind (but not in reality, because the upper echelons of my brain are rational), it is up to me to fix everything. Because clearly I am the only grown-up in sight. (That's 10-year-old me talking.)

At first the book was a paperweight I used to exercise my fingers and thumb. (A Kindle switches off after five minutes, which is an annoying reminder you aren't reading. Amazon can do many things, but not fix that.) Then I started to read because no one puts me in a corner, and gorged on images of war, poverty... and a puppy.

In Mara and Dann, the relationship between brother and sister is a powerful counter to the sandstorms of war and poverty around them. For me, it is the most important theme (but not the only - that would be dull) in the novel. This is up for some interesting debate, when you finish the book. The snow dog is that for me in the second novel (so far. If anything happens to that dog, I will find a portal of crazy into that world and maim the person who did it. And I don't have much (real...) experience in maiming, so it could get ugly).

Ms Doris Lessing's experiments in dystopian (is it postapocalyptic if you don't know what happened and whether everyone really did die and aren't holed up somewhere in Asia? And when an entire continent survived...?) landscape are dark but solidly knitted together. They accept the stupidities of human nature but offer some hope in the individual who is tried and found... to be a survivor. (This is a flash-summary (except, like, expanded) of what the posts stinking up my inner brain would have looked like.)

These books remind me that the world is, war and poverty aside, mostly a sandstorm (for many of us, at least). But that the world is also something to explore. If you are curious, you will experience many things, not always pleasant, but the trick is to maintain your distance, be an individual and be curious.

More to come. No, really this time. I vow on the twanging spiderweb thread. And my pillows and permanent marker. Ok and the guinea pig.

Part I: Reading Mara and Dann

Last visit I told you about Doris Lessing and my profound encounter with her early feminist novel, The Golden Notebook. I also confided about my guilt - it's not confidential any more, is it - nothing's confidential on the internet - unless you're an NSA hacker who can hack into iPhones. Then I guess you know how to keep the lesser (Google) hackers out. Nah, Google'd just use a hybridised Gmaps to find it. And so begin the Cyber Wars. Bring it. Just wait for me to find a techie minion with something to prove.

I have a foolproof (and I mean 'fool') strategy: Say nothing, write nothing, but hear and see everything. The middle one being problematic. Do as I say, not as I do, friend!

I was fretting about how to tie my conspiracy rant (is it a conspiracy if it's true? Let's ask Wikileaks) and the sidelined subject of this post: Mara and Dann. Then I told you what to do (like in an autocrat and that's exactly what this - my blog is an autocracy, paeon - friend) and if I had an advisor (where do I get one? For free?) she would have said, "the What Did You See game! In that game, say what you can afford to, write nothing, see and hear everything."

Mara and Dann is set on a continent named Ifrika (ingenious, that) in an unspecified and difficult to decipher time. The sister and brother are born and grow up in the middle of southern 'Ifrika'. A drought is spreading from the south out, pushing columns of refugees north before it. In these columns, the only prejudice is against people who have more than others: water or food. And there is often little to stop the stronger taking what they want from the weaker.

The size of the animals is bizarrely exaggerated: water dragons and stingers about the size of dogs lurk in and around water holes, picking off the weakening animals - and people. The former is usually found on Darwin's islands and the latter is a mutant scorpion.

These scenes, in pencil on tracing paper, are laid over the southern Africa in which I live and have travelled through. I know this feeling because often I feel like a foreigner in my streets, cities, country, region and continent. I suspect this is intentional (although who can ever pin down the intentions of an author - Future Author Me plans to contradict everything anyone says - it's boring to repeat "The answer is in however you see it." Yes, well, you're not dead and the book exists in black and white, not as a hologram, so say something, dammit!) to mimic the characters' confusion and sense of displacement.

But I (the reader) have my own reservations (always!) about viewing the foreign, too. About pasting (not glue, obviously, but ctrl + v) pictures of the smiling and obsequious people you meet next to photos of oblivious animals. (Oblivious unless you smell like a fleshy meal or have a gun in one hand.) When you meet someone foreign to yourself, you catalogue their differences, right? And, be honest here, you perceive these differences as wrong or inexplicable, friend. Even ridiculous.

In Mara and Dann, these differences are mostly threatening - remember: food and water, pursuit by mutant animals, racial difference. Is this not how war curdles, whether offensive or defensive? (Ok, usually not with mutant animals.) (War, a truly ridiculous custom.) This war is not addressed in the first half of the book, but it is there traced over people's interactions, particularly in Mara's answers to the What Did You See game. (This is not your monotonous I Spy - this is how 'Mahondi' children are taught to reason.) She senses destruction, knowledge and cunning, where others see a kopje or prison.

Although, as a reader primed to read the signs, all this and more seems obvious.

Knowing what we do about the psychology of the strong confronted by the weakened (and the nature of stories), that the North is a pipedream or unreachable seems obvious. But then, I don't like (nor do I believe in, but that's another story) happy endings. So I'm betting on the sure thing: war. (FYI I think war is ridiculous, but I would also like to see a return on my money. You know, if you're interested, I know someone ...) But I think Mara already knows. I think that because of what she did see, she knows what she will see.

PS. I am halfway through the book. There is so much more to say, so I am concentrating on the political issues, as a base in her oeuvre. Also, because I want to and I am autocrat here. Though I am still thinking of a fitting designation: Queen - too haughty; Tsar - too haunted; Prime Minister - so boring ... 

Doris Lessing, 1919-2013

A dull yellow (impersonating gold) trade paperback, in library-grade plastic and accompanying Dewy-decimal-system label on the spine. This was when I first met Ms Doris Lessing. (Disclaimer: it was not The Grass is Singing, because a BA degree is an overdose in colonial and post-colonial fiction. Even Gabriel Garcia Marquez is tainted by my grand nemesis The Heart of Darkness - Mr Achebe, while I'm with you about the layers upon layers - no, actually, just one deep layer - of racism, it is also one deeper layer of boring.)

The Golden Notebook. My first handshake with Ms Lessing. Not literally. Read above, please. Read the title. Focus!

I was about 20, in my gap year between one degree and the next, naively contemplating the theme of my adult life (naively because, as you know, dear reader, that theme snaps at your heels, accuses you, does back flips and takes your spot on the couch endlessly - right? Or is this just me?).

In brief (this book is anything but brief), the novel is comprised of five, different coloured (not literally, fool) notebooks and a binding story set in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. The protagonist is a middle-aged woman named Anna Wulf, living in London. (For those who know Ms Lessing's own story or have the power to Google, the plot(s) resonate.)

The book was written in 1962. We could ascribe the politics of the novel to the time - and this probably didn't hurt sales - but these themes could be traced back to the novel of the singing grass and Ms Lessing's liberal but tempered temperament. The themes (of both novels) include feminism and socialism (loaded terms, but that's why there's Wikipedia (again, encyclopaedia is spelt with an 'a', open source dorks).

Even as a teenager, perhaps even a tot, I have gravitated toward these liberal movements - I shudder as I type 'liberal' - literature tells me liberals are too impassioned to be rational, misguided and unfocused, appealing to human nature rather than the greed, envy, lust and basic selfishness that natural selection rewards. Trust me, I went to a politicised university and have seen two riots. Wait, now I'm a voyeuristic, liberalesque pseudo-intellectual. Still, call me a liberal and I will... moderate your comment. You.

The novel stalks the measure of the terms - from the perspective of the times, obviously; I later learnt more about the revolutions before and after (and no I'm not talking about #Occupy-a-park) - setting my principles in some sort of shape, like water in an ice block (just way more haphazard). Feminism was the one that immediately appealed to me. Given that a comment about women drivers is still enough to incite me to violence - or wait, my favourite "She's a smart cookie." Do I look like a gingerbread woman?

Today, when I think about the novel, some shadow of the experience of reading projects on the back of my head. Of sitting on a forest-green couch in a room painted yellow. Of the view from a kitchen window of a London street. The aura of importance that being involved in grand ideas provokes. Of a mother and her children, with the realisation that a child is a separate being to her. Of gritted teeth as a man, of common mind, tells a woman what feminism means.

None of these are necessarily written in the book - but they are what I see when when I think of it. They are a set of first dates with the world around ideas I thought were mine. A world which the mass media do not quite grasp.

Ms Lessing passed away about two months ago. The literary world is reeling. AS Byatt and Margaret Atwood have written tributes to her. Did you know she won the Nobel Prize for Literature five years ago? Did you know she had the same effect on me as touching a bell as it swings? Why is the whole world not reeling?

I had ordered two of her novels online and they were delivered the day before she passed: Mara and Dann and The Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog. Predictably (for me) they are dystopian novels, predictably (for her) written to explore political and social issues. Reading them feels like a ritual honouring her and her effect on me. What else will she teach me? What other ideas will she help me shape?

Doris Lessing was one of the greats, unassuming but influential. This post is my tribute to her and acknowledgement of her influence on me. And an assuaging of my guilt. I confess I have undervalued the author over the last few years. Read my archives and she doesn't appear, except as a passing reference. As often happens, it has taken her death and the reeling of my world to make me appreciate Doris Lessing and The Golden Notebook.

Footnote: Stay posted (har!) for reviews of Mara and Dann and its sequel. I will try to keep the soppy to a minimum.