Category: Book Review

Only recommended for travellers who haunt museums and galleries. I read it because I liked Eucalyptus so much.
Inventive for the sake of being inventive. A show-off adolescent kind of clever. More a series of (forced) vignettes than a novel. There is no red line tying all the incidents together. Incoherent, in short, with more than one non sequitur.

Travel and traveling companions. What did Sartre say about other people? He must have met Garry Atlas of this book, loud, leering, and humourless joke-teller. Travel is enough work on its own but in this package tour the thirteen Aussies are always on duty. Noisy, sneering, crude, insensitive, imperceptive, well some of them. Nothing is as good as home, they bellow. They had to leave home to discover that, it seems, especially the beer.
The blind man is the mad photographer though his pictures seldom include the subject. The author is trying too hard to be offbeat.
Yet there is much to like: holographic equations from the science museum and the corrugated iron collection exhibiting its many uses. Then there is the leg museum in Ecuador. The marriage institute in the United States. I left out the Pygmy Collection in Africa. Yes, ‘Collection’ and that confused the travellers, too. ‘Have you ever met an interesting Canadian?’ That is a stumper on page 298. The Ayers Rock nose show, the aside on aerogrammes, the exhibition of extremities, the superfluous chapter on Russia, the centre of gravity, it just got to be show-off stuff, not a story, not a plot, not character development, not a study of relationships. Though I did like the demonstration at Lenin’s tomb, I admit, Comrade.
The reference to airport architecture as Esperanto was good. The same everywhere and soulless. The flag falling onto one of the travellers was cute. Voss is mentioned as if a real explorer along with Leichhardt, Flinders, Cook, etc. I read that one years ago and swore off the sanctimonious Patrick White forever, filing him with Samuel Marsden.
Not as whimsical and enchanting as Eucalyptus but the same motif, a cast of characters with short stories inserted in it making it a novel comprised of short stories or vignettes.
Inventive, yes, but no plot, no story, no character development, no relationship among them. And no sense of place in any of the places. Still a prize winning novel that made his name. Go figure.
The introduction by Peter Conrad is just a summary.
Read it in Darwin, August 2013.

Cloudstreet (1991) by Tim Winton.
Exhilarating, depressing, amusing, frightening, confusing, boring, exciting, just like life. Recommended for adults. If you liked Iron Man III, do not read this novel.
The novel is a ramshackle chronicle of two families, the Pickleses and the Lambs. By twists and turns they come to share a house owned by the luckless and penniless Sam Pickles. Over more than twenty years at 1 Cloud Street the two clans together become a tribe through many trials and tribulations. Sam supports the bookies and his sodden wife Dolly likes men with pants. Their daughter, Rose, the oldest of three children, hates her mother a little more than her father (a deliberate ambiguity). Brothers Ted and Chub are, be it said, no more than ciphers. Oriel Lamb has the drive of a sergeant-major and her husband Lester was trained by the army in two wars to obey. Their children are Quick, Fish, Lon, Hat, Elaine, and Red. The first three are boys and the last girls, these being family nicknames.

From 1945 to 1965 they bounce off each other, spin out of control, try out the temptations of Perth, hate and love one another, punctuated by long periods of mutual indifference.
The Monster of Nedlands appears to remind us all how vulnerable the gravity is that holds us to this life. He also figures in Robert Drewe’s Shark Net (2000). There is a pig who seems a relative of the one in In the Winter Dark by Winton.
The Lambs are noisy Baptists and the Pickleses are … Nothing much. But Sam Pickles needs the rent and Lester Lamb needs the roof so they accommodate each other. Over the years an elastic modus vivendi keeps them in orbit around each other.
Sam waits for his luck to change while doing as little as possible, apart from blaming everyone else for making him a victim. Oriel does too much, too often, and makes her own luck with the loyal Lester at her side, when he is not in the kitchen turning our pastries and pies for the shop. That is the overarching theme, these two attitudes to life: the fatalism of luck or the energy of work.
The story line is the gradual convergence of Rose and Quick. Oops, that is a spoiler. He is called Quick in the way a giant is called Tiny. Rose reads books, including novels like Jane Eyre. Moreover, she is diabolically smart though needs must and she leaves school at the legal age of 16.
I did not know what to make of Quick’s wall of misery, newspaper cuttings of loss and destruction he cut out and stuck on the wall in his room when he was 14 or so. Still less did I know what to make of Quick’s guardian angel, the aboriginal, who several times advises him, and appears at least once to another. More importantly, I did not know what to make of the house-mysticism in the book. It is often implied that the house itself has character or an aura but it is not manifested in the prose.
Some things are elided to concentrate on the story, like the paper work associated with running a small business.
I have read a couple of Winton’s books before and liked them, e.g., In the Winter Dark and The Riders.
One of the blurb writers on the back cover says it is a working class novel. Well that is Sam Pickles but not the shop keeping Lambs, surely. As usual the bourgeoisie does not understand what working class means, never having done it themselves. It does not mean owning and running a shop (Lamb), or living off the rental of property (Pickles).
I read this in anticipation of going to a conference in Perth in September. I have several more Perth titles in readiness.
Read it in Darwin, August 2013.

Carson McCullers’s (1917-1967) first novel is The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940), a book that is often listed among the top twenty American novels. Yes, she was a prodigy, twenty-three when the book was published. Twenty when she started to write this detailed and absorbing study of varieties of loneliness in the five protagonists: John Singer the deaf mute, Biff the widowed cafe owner, Dr. Copeland the black physician, Jake the rootless labor organizer, and Mick the tom-boy of thirteen who is McCullers’s alter-ego. It is set in a wooded Georgia mill town of 30,000, remote and isolated in 1938-1939. How could McCullers with a high school education in Columbia, Georgia have breathed life into these five souls? Well, she could see Mick in the mirror, but even so that leaves the other four.

A brief glance at web comments indicates a learned debate about whether the central character is Singer, a confessional figure to whom each of the others turns for solace, or Mick who passes among them. She and Singer know them all, but they do not all know each other. Only someone with a PhD could fail to see that Mick is the unifying character into whose mind we see. Singer is indeed a sun that the others turn to for warmth but there is no interior. He is a silent blank onto whom others project what they seek, and he patiently accepts them for that. He is no messiah leading them to a promised land, but a reassuring confidante who accepts them as they are and let’s them talk. (He reads lips, and occasionally writes notes in response.) He is so compassionate he cannot live on this earth.
For the time and place the portrayal of Dr. Copeland is striking. A black man of dignity and forbearance who named one of his sons Karl Marx and the other Hamilton for Alexander Hamilton. But like the other principals Copeland can neither communicate nor connect with his children or anyone else. He oscillates between ice cold reason and blind anger. He certainly has cause to be angry.
When Copeland and Jake argue directly or indirectly about whether the root of all evil is racism or capitalism, the writer knows that both are right and that both are wrong. Racism and capitalism each have their evils, but neither is the root. The root is the people who do those evil things. Both are also right that religion plays no part. Religion is conspicuous by its absence in this novel.
When published this book did not make its way onto the shelves of many bookstores in Georgia. In its pages racism is the United States is likened to Nazi fascism. This is not a passing remark, but a repeated theme in the latter part of the novel. In her sympathy and insights in the lives of blacks she is far ahead of that other Southern prodigy William Styron though not to the bone as is William Faulkner.
Throughout, Biff keeps his prodigious file of newspaper cuttings organized by local, national, and international news. He follows the Munich negotiations with interest. The novel draws to a close with Biff filing the cuttings from 31 August 1939. (Germany invaded Poland on 1 September 1939 at that very time.)

As is all her novels and most of her stories there is music. Here is one sample, Mick wanders around the town on hot summer nights and sits in the darkness outside open windows to listen to the radio in the homes of others. It seems she was unbeknownst to herself on a quest and what she sought was this:
“Then the music started. Mick raised her head and her hand went up to her throat. It was like God walking through the night. The outside of her suddenly froze and only that first part of the music was hot inside her heart. She could not even hear what followed, she sat there waiting and frozen, with her fists tight. After a while, the music come again, harder and loud. It was her, this music, walking in the daytime, in the hot sun. The music boiled inside her. She wanted to hang onto it, to all of it. The whole world was this music and she could not listen hard enough to remember it all. Then the opening music again, but this time with different instruments. It was like a hard hand had punched her. And then it ended. This music did not take a long time or short time. It had no time; it was time.”
This is Mick’s reaction to Beethoven’s Third Symphony (Eroica).
By the way, Mick listens at the windows of others because her family cannot afford a radio. Indeed the family is very hard up, and more than once Mick and her seven siblings go to bed hungry. Nothing is made of this in the novel. It is just the way it is, a fact of nature.
This edition is an Oprah BookClub selection. Hooray for Oprah! She and J.K. Rowling have done more good than all the blowhards at the ABC ever have. (I thought I would insert that reference to the ABC in to see if I get any blowback.)
McCullers was driven, and a reader senses that in these pages. The words on the pages burn with an urgency. She kept burning words until she died of a heart attack at age 50. A reader also senses the sorrow in those words. She wrote because she had to write. There is no cause; there is no effect. No label, racism or capitalism, means anything. The truth is that there is sorrow. There is neither relief nor rescue but life goes on.
I know there is a film but I feel no need to see it, and fear it would despoil this fragile creature, this novel. A part of me wants to read another McCullers novel, but another part wants to rest from the emotional despair that envelopes her pages.

Continue reading “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter”

A superbly researched and written study of Chinese and American relations during World War II told through the experiences and career of Joseph Stilwell, who first went to China in 1911 and left in 1944. He was a twenty-eight year old lieutenant when he arrived and a sixty year old four star general when he left. The book is detailed in its 530 pages of text and supplemented with nearly a hundred more pages of appendices and notes. Tuchman wears her scholarship lightly and the book reads itself. There is far too much to summarize so I offer a few conclusions.

First as to China, the inescapable fact is that Chiang Kai-Shek was a warlord who pretended to be the national government, and credulous and desperate Americans accepted that claim. The credulous spoke no Chinese and did not venture beyond Chiang’s court. They included diplomats, journalists, missionaries, business men, and soldiers. The desperate wanted to keep China in the war to hold down the Japanese occupation force estimated at one million men who would not then be fought in the Philippines or Malaya. They included FDR and George Marshall. FDR long nursed the hope that China would emerge as a friendly great power in Asia after the war, and was willing to pay an enormous price toward that end until even this great optimist gave up on Chiang.
What distinguished Chiang from the other warlords who ruled fiefdoms when the dynasty decayed and collapsed was his pretentious claim to the nation (over the corpse of Sun Yat-Sen) and Madame May Chiang, a Wellesley graduate, who acted as his press agent to good effect. They affected Western ways and talked airly of sovereignty and democracy while their death squads reduced the competition. Think of Ann Coulter with a Uzi.
What Chiang wanted was to stay out of the war and let the barbarians fight each other, the barbarians being Japan and the Allies (Britain, USA, and Holland). Invaders come, the Manchu, the Mongol, but then they go. Insofar as he had a strategy it was to retreat and retreat until that happened, and then to reassert his authority by being on the winning side.
To reassert his power he needed the material wealth of American Lend-Lease which he took as a gift and offered no lease in return. Rather he cached this wealth for inevitable conflict with the Communist Chinese in the distant north. The Communist being Chinese were the real threat. To secure American largesse and protection to some degree, Chiang went through the motions of fighting the Japanese. At times this took the form of press statements describing gigantic battles in which the noble Chinese defeated, against all odds, the Japanese. The credulous took these press releases at face value. Stilwell did not.
Stilwell went to the alleged battlefields to see for himself, and he knew the lies for what they were. But because of the desperation to keep Chiang, read China, in the war, Washington did nothing, and there was probably nothing that could be done.
Turning then to the man: Stilwell loved and hated China. He had a facility and interest in languages before he went to China, and there he learned Chinese and became fluent. He was a driven man, restless, energetic, determined, smart, and over the years very knowledgeable of China and Chinese. He was also tactless and volatile, and Chiang was a ready catalyst. Stilwell came to despise Chiang and to see the Kuomintang regime as a nearly impotent fascist dictatorship – a message no one wanted to receive in Washington. True to his calling Stilwell as a soldier tried to make the best of the bad marriage, often by staying as far away from Chiang as possible, in Burma.
He did try to paper over the cracks for the sake of the war effort. Witness this picture, three people who hated each other smiling for the camera, which certainly does lie. (I say it this way because one infers from Tuchman’s pages that there was little love-lost between Madame Chiang and her husband; it was a family alliance.)

In Burma Stilwell did the impossible. He built the Burma Road over impossible terrain after having been told by British colonial officials it was impossible, technically, politically, and militarily. He created an army out of the rejects Chiang let him have, hoping that he would fail and be recalled to be replaced by a more compliant officer. This army defeated the Japanese and drove them out of Burma again after being told it was impossible by the British, whose principal interest was to retain the colonies after the war, not to fight Japanese.
Stilwell found the Chinese soldier cheerful, durable, quick to learn, and responsive to leadership. A hopeless generalization of course: ‘the Chinese soldier.‘ Stilwell respected Chinese people as much as he despised the warlords who misruled them. And that respect is part of what kept him in China. He could have left at nearly anytime by asking to be relieved.
Stilwell was a leader, of that there is no doubt. He was creative and resourceful, using what he had, starting where he was, and doing what he could. If the Chinese troops were untrained he would train them, and he did that sometimes personally, lying on the rifle range with recruits showing the action of the rifle. If they were hungry he would find food for them. If they were wounded he would supply doctors, nurses, and medicine. If they were low on ammunition he would get it somewhere, somehow. The miracles were daily.
Perhaps the most famous example is the best. When defeated by the Japanese the first time, he led his headquarters staff of 114 on a walk out of the northern Burmese jungles. He was a gruelling task master on the walk at 105 paces a minute. He was a tyrant over the food and water, and all but assaulted stragglers. As the Commander-in-Chief he was expected to fly out and direct the retreat from India, but Stilwell wanted to show to his defeated troops that he was one of them, one with them and so he walked just like they did. Their fate was his fate.
On he went at 105 paces a minute, at the end of the walk most of the 114 men hated him, and that was a tribute to Stilwell, because all 114 of them survived. Not one was lost on the two weeks in the circle of hell through which they walked. Rain, jungle, no road, no maps, dehydration, no local guides, no porters, Japanese planes, out of touch, occasional rifle fire from Japanese patrols, exhaustion, wildlife, malnutrition, and disease; the list goes on.
Stilwell ate with his men, ate what they ate. He stood in line at the mess tent for food or for the barber’s chair. He wore one set of clothes until they rotted away. He seldom wore the stars of his rank. When he did it was to show the soldiers that their general was there with them. When he went to Chiang’s court he borrowed a uniform because he had none. He carried a rifle in Burma and used it more than once. When he sent men on forced marches through terrible terrain, he went with them to see for himself what it was like. He accepted the promotions and medals that came without ceremony, no photographers present to immortalize his genius recognized. The only medal he valued was the Combat Infantry Man’s Badge, the only general to earn this medal. He was holding it when he died about a year after he left China.
The warlord generals, including Chiang, were not like this. In defeat Stilwell became something of a legend in the minds of many Chinese solders and this made him all the more frightening to Chiang. After that first encounter with the Japanese, Stilwell publicly admitted defeat and silently vowed to return, which he did without the histrionics of Douglas MacArthur.
The puzzle of Chinese politics gave the red baiters in post-war American politics much with which to play. Stilwell was duly blamed for not giving Chiang enough support (material) and for concentrating on fighting the Japanese rather than heading off the Communists, etc. Such hindsight as is given to the gods. All drivel to be sure, but it happened, as much drivel still does. Check the news today.
George Marshall figures in much of this story and as always seems to be both a pillar of strength and a sage. I single him out since I reviewed a biography of him earlier on this blog.
John Stuart Mill said one man with an idea can do a lot. Stilwell was such a man. His idea was that the Chinese deserve better than Chiang and his kind. His example also shows what one person with enormous energy and good will cannot do: the impossible.
His story has parallels with others. In the Peloponesian War Sparta sent one man, the general Brasidas, to northern Greece and he, too, very nearly won the war. Stilwell was that Spartan.

Pat Conroy, The Cookbook: Recipes and Stories (2004).

Another title read in anticipation of visiting Charleston, South Carolina. Like K-Paul Prudhomme’s and Diane Kennedy’s cookbooks it is as much an insight into the people and places as the food and recipes. While K-Paul and Kennedy are each rooted to one place, NOLA for him and Mexico for her, Conroy’s book is also travelogue, recounting experiences from his travels as an aspiring and then successful writer.

It has the features of all of the Conroy books I have read: a wry humour, self-deprecating, modesty, a sharp eye for detail, well-turned phrases that lift the mundane to a higher level, and, of course, the burning fires of his dad-hatred. Give that last a rest, Pat!

The travels are domestic as well as international. There are stories from markets and restaurants in France and Italy, as well as such exotic places as Atlanta.

In the course of these travels, at one point Conroy said this, and I almost forgave him for his Oedipus complex. He knows whereof he writes because he was a school teacher for a time.

‘Because their impact cannot be measured, the teachers of the world drift through their praiseless days unaware of the impact and majesty of their influence. I want to fall on my knees in gratitude whenever I conjure the faces of the men and women who spent their finest days coaxing and urging me to discover the best part of myself in the pure sunshine of learning. Because the country dishonors its teachers and humiliates them with lousy pay and a mortifying deficiency of prestige among other professions, they do not receive the gifts of gratitude that brims over in men and women like me when we remember their patient, generous shaping of us into ourselves’ (p. 77).
Amen, brother.

Allow me to add that the humiliation is not limited to money but also to the easy social opprobrium that falls on school teachers. For example, ‘those who can’t, teach‘ and the assumption that the work begins when the students arrive and ends when they leave. Even we jumped up school teachers in universities cop this, too. Long ago I gave up resisting these lazy stereotypes from those satisfied with lazy stereotypes.

Pat Conroy, My Losing Season: A Memoir (2002).
I liked The Lords of Discipline so much I wanted more Conroy. This book appealed to me because it was about basketball. First the good, then the not so good.

The modesty is disarming. The description of the atmosphere of games is intoxicating. The account of plays is exhilarating. The attributes ascribed to other players, especially opponents (which made me think of Jerry Nicholarson, Mike Aspen, and Fred Hare – an honour to mix with them) are graceful and generous. The unity and division of the team through the season is moving. It started as a band of individuals but through the season often played like a team where the whole is greater than its parts. The descriptions of hot and cold players is right. The figures of speech and turns of phrase are easy and, at times, elevating. The recitation of the responsibilities of the point guard is informative, and that made me think of Captain Leo. The accounts of talented athletes who threw it away reminded me of Bob Krebsbach.
The effort in the last chapter to sum up the book from the point of view of a point guard, however, is not based on those responsibilities, and so occasions more dad-hating. The modesty becomes repetitive and even cloying.
Mel, the one-dimensional toxic coach, who never has a good word to say, who thinks screaming is motivation, who seems to have nothing to offer but the above is cardboard I am afraid. It is only at about 300 pages of chronicle of Mel’s malice is it implied that he taught Conroy some things about the game.
Dad-hatred piled high and deep enough for a PhD in the Oedipus complex, though there is nothing complex about it. (I also bought his cookbook, and guess what, dad-hatred is to be found there, too.)
Ditto his love-hate relationship with The Citadel. He just cannot say it often enough, well yes he can say it too often.
It is a gym rat’s adage. Only leave the gym when you have made your last shot. Never leave the gym on a miss. Superstition perhaps. But more practice never hurts.