From Oz to Ondaatje
This is my belated “favourite books I read in 2011” post. Along with Coetzee’s Summertime and Malouf’s Ransom these two books I read in December were among the best from my reading pile last year.
In Scenes from Village Life Israeli writer Amos Oz does disquiet better than just about anyone. Disquiet is not bleak, and it is not nihilistic. It’s awfully life-affirming actually, because in order to shudder, one must be wholly taken in and convinced by what potential horror is being presented, and, as is often the case in this book, is also a blunt matter of fact. For what it’s worth, it occurred to me while reading this new collection of stories—stories that make irregular orbits around a remote town in Israel—that exploring disquietude as a state of being in literature, is not much in fashion presently. Shame, that. Because stories like Oz’s often earn the disquieting moment by facing it head on. These moments, honest and bravely pursued, resonated for days after I finishing the book.
The village of the title is the central character. Hero as setting, in other words. Oz does fear and regret a lot in the book, and he is not shy of the (purposefully) untidy ending. I was moved by his memoir of a few years back, A Tale of Love and Darkness. This new one is further proof of his enviable powers, and that the short story form can deliver rare insight into the human condition when crafted by the likes of Oz.
Now to the other “O”. Over the long view, Michael Ondaatje’s career is a wonder to behold. Yet, as far as I can tell, he had a growing problem on his hands. Fans of his last two novels formed only a short, dutiful line. Was the love affair with one of Canada’s most important authors coming to a sad end? Having read the wonderful except from the Cat’s Table in the New Yorker last year, I, for one, was hopeful for a comeback. Thankfully, mercifully, indeed the book proved to be charming, beautifully written, tender, strange and smart. It’s a simple story, but like only Ondaatje can, he reinvents the novelistic structure to tell his story obliquely, leaving the reader with a sense of mystery into how it hangs together so well. While many believe he’s gone too far before, in this case I’d argue he gets it right as things never dissolve or break apart into cold fragments; his reader is pushed not shoved, and never abandoned or abused. For me, the voice of it was what I liked the most. Yes, it’s somewhat sentimental, but is always searching for the missing moments, the explanations, the real truth of the journey they took together on that ship. It’s a big metaphor, expertly carried off in this big book.
I would point those interested to a great review of The Cat’s Table by Annie Proulx, and to this first rate interview with Amos Oz by Charlie Rose.
