Another thought on "literature"

There’s been much blogging in recent weeks about the definition of “literary”, so here’s another idea to throw into the mix.

My good friend the Ink-stained Toe-poker recently recommended (nay, insisted) I read The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro, as a great example of what he deems literature to represent.

For him, literary fiction involves the most important parts of the story occurring between the lines. Having now read The Remains of the Day, I fully understand what he means – and agree that the “between the lines” concept is a good way to define quality literature.

For those who haven’t read this Booker Prize-winning novel, the story is told in the first person by Mr Stevens, an esteemed butler of a once renowned house, now in the latter stages of his career.

In this sad and moving story about repression and self sacrifice, it is what’s not said in the narrative voice that has the most power.

During a rare cross-country journey, Mr Stevens begins to recall important moments in his life, which more and more centre around his relationship with Darlington Hall’s house keeper, Miss Kenton – the very person he is on his way to visit.

The more he reminisces about the past, the more painfully obvious it becomes that Mr Stevens has lived a life denial. He spends an inordinate amount of energy justifying his choices in life as being the epitome of dignity and service, as befitting his station his life. But in fact, he has robbed himself of a chance to experience life, not just view it from the periphery.

At face value, Mr Stevens is proud man who has faithfully served his lord and household with a level of dignity to be admired by all who aspire to "domestic service".

In between the lines, lie the regrets and longings of a man whose true feelings are hidden even from himself, under layer upon layer of discipline, reasoning and “dignity”.

And it’s discovering those poignant truths – which even the narrator seems oblivious to - that make The Remains of the Day such a remarkable and memorable novel.

Of course, not every novel offering itself as “literature” provides the same experience, but The Remains of the Day has given me a new way to approach books in that often ambiguous category.

Speaking of literary...

I've just finished reading Peter Carey's new novel, His illegal self.

Carey is one of Australia's best known literary novelists, and I really wanted to like this book, which has been described as possibly the best fictional work to explore the militant radical underground of the late 1960s and early 70s.

It wasn't the era or political content that attracted me, but the story at the novel's centre: of a seven-year-old boy on a journey of discovery about his identity and his need to be loved.

Che is a seven-year-old boy raised in isolated privilege by his New York grandmother, who also happens to the son of radical student activists. Yearning for his famous outlaw parents, and denied all access to television and news, he thinks his dreams have come true when a woman whose smell he recognises appears at his New York apartment.

What's meant to be a brief visit turns into something else entirely, as Che and the woman he calls Dial end up on the run. After passing through several cities, their life on the run takes them across the world to tropical Queensland, Australia, where they take refuge in a hippy commune.

Carey's narrative style has its own unique rhythm, and he plays with chronology to keep the reading guessing. The other effective tactic he employs is to switch viewpoints between Che and Dial, so the reader gets to the glimpse events through both sets of eyes.

And yet … I felt no connection to these characters. I wanted to empathise with them, but so often found myself struggling to understand them. Often, I felt like I was groping in the dark to follow what was going on, but then, so were the characters, so perhaps this was the author's intention.

The whisper of menace throughout the story left me uneasy for most of the journey, which is not necessarily a bad thing, and again, perhaps was intended to give the reader a greater sense of what the characters were feeling.

The jacket blurb said the book may make me "cry more than once". It didn't - I didn't even come close, which is unusual for me.

So now I'm wondering why I didn't connect enough to be moved to tears. Is it a generational thing? The attitudes of militant radical underground and its commune-dwelling hippy cousins are the driving force in the plot. As a Gen-Xer, I have only read about that time in history - I have no emotional connection to it. I imagine readers who remember - or participated in - that era may respond quite differently.

I thought the human element of the story would be enough to engage me, but on this occasion it wasn't. Having said that, I devoured the book in three days, so it certainly wasn't a difficult read.

Perhaps the story, on this occasion, is as much about making the reader feel, rather than understand. And in that case, maybe I experienced exactly what the author intended...

Booking Through Thursday - Lit-Ra-Chur

I've discovered a fantastic blog called Booking Through Thursday, and am participating in the "meme"* for the first time. Here's the question:

· When somebody mentions “literature,” what’s the first thing you think of? (Dickens? Tolstoy? Shakespeare?)
· Do you read “literature” (however you define it) for pleasure? Or is it something that you read only when you must?

And my response:

When I hear the term "literature" I immediately interpret that to mean a book in which the way language is used has more importance than the story itself.

Although I enjoy a beautifully constructed sentence and the poetry of language, I've found I can't always sustain interest for an entire novel unless the story is compelling.

Thankfully, I've realised there are plenty of absolute gems that meet both criteria, like The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, The Life of Pi by Yann Martel, The Patron Saint of Eels by Gregory Day etc.

For me, "literature" also represents the classics. My criteria for reading and enjoying the classics is the same as with contemporary literature or pop fiction: if it's a good story and well written, I'll enjoy it.

In the last few years, I've re-read some of those classics that were compulsory reading in school - e.g. To Kill A Mocking Bird and Animal Farm - as well reading works by Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, Maya Angelou etc for the first time. Not surprisingly, I got more out of them as an adult.

So yes, I read literature for pleasure, but I'm pretty picky about what I tackle (and tend to rely on reviews or recommendations to guide my choices).

*For those like me unfamiliar with the concept of meme, here's a definition (thanks to Booking Through Thursday):

Memememe n (mëm): A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. From the Greek mimëma, something imitated, from mimeisthai, to imitate

Books you know you should read, but can't get into

It's the topic we book lovers avoid discussing, the thing we like to keep secret: books we know we should read, but just can't get into.

You know what I'm talking about: that award-winning, critically acclaimed book that everyone's talking about. The one you pick up to read, struggle through for 50 pages or so, and look longingly at the next title waiting on your to-read pile.

You want to read it. You want to enjoy it. You want to be able to talk to your friends about it. But every time you try to get going, it's like exercising. You have to concentrate and it's hard work.

I used to push through the pain and force myself to finish those books. Now, I figure life's too short, there are too many other books to read. So I give myself 50 pages, and if I'm not hooked by then, it's all over.

(A librarian friend tells me the number of pages you should give yourself to like a book should reduce the older you get.)

Of course all this has been leading up to a confession. I couldn't get into The Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. The great Pulitzer Prize-winning novel published 10 years after the author committed suicide.

I really wanted to like this book, and I persevered longer than I usually would because it was loaned to me by a friend. And I know exactly why I couldn't get into it: the story's protagonist is the most obnoxious character I've ever read. I had no sympathy for him, and truly couldn't give a crap what happens to him through the story (particularly when I learned he undergoes no redemptive process whatsoever).

In fact, there were no sympathetic characters at all, leaving me very little interest in what happened to anyone.

Now, clearly, this sort of characterisation and intentional lack of redemption is a powerful way to tell a story and make a point, but apparently it doesn't necessarily engage me as a reader (and yet, I don't have the same issues with stories told on the screen - eg, Napoleon Dynamite, a movie I love).

In looking for the cover artwork to put with this post, I came across more reviews raving about this novel, and have had a fresh bout of literary guilt (promising myself I will attempt it again one day). Maybe my mistake was trying to make it holiday reading, when it clearly is not…

Am I the only one afflicted by such struggles?

How to talk about books you haven't read

It turns out the trick to good literary conversation isn't reading books - it's just being able to talk about them.

Pierre Bayard, a professor of literature at Paris University, has written How to talk about books you haven't read, a bluffer's guide to literary chatting (reviewed by Barry Oakley in The Weekend Australian's Review this weekend).

According to Bayard, it's not the book itself that's important, it's the ideas - and the connections between them - that give literature value. For this reason, it's easy to talk about books you haven't read if you have an opinion on the ideas they are exploring.

Bayard says even the most thorough reading of a book soon shrinks into a summary. It's a reasonable point: you can spend a week reading a book and then explain it to someone in less than a minute. He says it then disappears even further over time (unless, of course you have a blog!).

It's an interesting viewpoint, but I can't quite embrace the idea that reading books isn't important. What would be the point in writing a book if people only read the synopsis and then launched into a discussion about it? What's the value of the author's viewpoint if nobody reads it? And if only one person needs to read a book to be able to summarise it for everyone else, who decides who gets to do the actual reading?

Bit too hard really. I like the idea that people read books, taking from them what they need or want (consciously and sub-consciously) and then those people further discuss the themes and ideas to expand and explore their own understanding. Discussion about literary ideas should complement reading, not replace it.

But then, of course, I've just blogged about ideas in a book I haven't read ...