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Short book, interesting hook and a chance to read something different? Sure, I will give it a shot.  As you might have guessed, Thirst ties into alcohol:

Masterfully translated from the original Russian by award-winning translator Marian Schwartz, Thirst tells the story of 20-year-old Chechen War veteran Kostya. Maimed beyond recognition by a tank explosion, he spends weeks on end locked inside his apartment, his sole companions the vodka bottles spilling from the refrigerator. But soon Kostya’s comfortable if dysfunctional cocoon is torn open when he receives a visit from his army buddies who are mobilized to locate a missing comrade. Through this search for his missing friend, Kostya is able to find himself.

It is a spare and impressionistic story of a veteran trying to makes sense of his life after having his face and body disfigured in the war in Chechnya.   Hunkered down in his apartment with so much vodka it wont fit in his small refrigerator, Kostya occasional rehabs apartments for the Euro-rich – working alone of course. His interaction is limited to his neighbor calling on him to scare her son into going to bed.

When his buddies call on him to assist in their search for another fellow vet, he ends up meeting up with his estranged father and his young family. These interactions shake him out of his depression and allow him to see the wider world rather than just his internal struggles.We learn of Kostya’s childhood and background through flashbacks which reveal that his father humiliated him and his mother by flirting with young women before leaving for good. His early interest in, and apparent talent with, art is fueled by an alcoholic school director who soon disappears taking the drive to draw with him.  Riding around in an SUV looking for their friend, watching the fallout from his friend’s business deal gone bad, and interacting with his father’s family allows him to deal with these memories and come to terms with his emotions. And of course, he has to make peace with his injury and its impact on his life. Being with people and drawing them seems to give him space to heal.

This was a quick read (my paperback is 112 pages) and it held my attention for the most part.  The cultural aspect of the new Russia and veterans of the Chechen war made it interesting to me. But the writing was uneven and the story as a whole lacked a structure. At times it felt like you were beginning to get a sense of the backstory of Kostya and how he ended up in that armored vehicle but in the end it is just a glimpse and doesn’t quite hang together.  And the drive around and look for their missing friend seems like an almost artificial plot device.  Put together it feels unfinished.

My reaction: hmm, interesting, but didn’t really grab me.

Related articles

• A Q&A with Andrei Gelasimov, Author of “Thirst” (omnivoracious.com)

But I am neither savvy nor dedicated so what you get is a little of this and a little of that – whatever happens to catch my attention at the time and/or whatever I get the time and energy to write about.

I bring this up because it has been a while since I have read a more “literary” work and particularly one that is translated (Fame if memory serves).  But when the publisher brought The Break by Pietro Grossi to my attention I was intrigued.

Here is the publisher’s description:

Dino is a placid, unambitious man. Living in a small provincial town, he and his wife spend their time planning journeys to faraway places–journeys they never take. Dino’s only passion is billiards, and he spends his evenings in the local billiards hall honing his technique.

One day, however, Dino’s quiet life is interrupted–his wife falls pregnant. This the first in a series of events that shake him from his slumber and force Dino to test himself for the first time.

It may sound like a cliche, but what I enjoy about works like this is how the author drops you into another  character’s world and mind. What I admire is the way skilled writers create this world and describe both the physical and psychological reality in such artistic and though provoking ways. In literary efforts the power of words and ideas come together – the reader can enjoy both the art of the sentence and the larger art of how these words and the story come together.

This is exactly what The Break achieves.  With an economical yet philosophical style Grossi slowly sketches the exterior and interior world of Dino. His personality and habits are revealed and in such a way as to fit within the larger world and his particular worldview. Despite the economical prose their is an emotional punch.

More below.

Dino is a man who keeps his head down – both literally and metaphorically. Sure, he hopes to see the wider world but he is also aware of the risk of broader horizons: disappointment and yearnings which are unlikely to be met plus the chaos that seems to rule the universe. Dino prefers to keep things in front of him and to embrace efforts that have a symmetry and a logic that makes sense. So he focuses on billiards and laying stones to make roads – these things he understands. Even as he finds out his wife is preganant he seeks to keep things contained; to adjust as necessary but without radical change.

But chaos can slip in unawares – in the form of being entered into a billiard tournament and winning or the petty politics of the small town in which he lives – and Dino’s reactions to these actions change the course of his life. He goes from laying stones – an artistic approach to life – to pouring asphalt – a chemical assault on the world and ones senses. Dino tries to adjust but the ripples eventually reach him and one seemingly simple choice changes everything.

Yes, with this chaos comes tragedy, but it also forces him to lift his head up – to see the larger world and his place in it. With the freedom comes risk but Dino is now willing to face that risk.

Grossi, and the translator Howard Curtis, do a wonderful job of evoking the atmosphere and environment of this blue collar small town. Amazing how the characters can be flushed out in a story of a couple hundred pages. And just as you begin to think it will all be billiards and Dino’s thoughts there is a twist and an emotional punch. It plays out with plenty left for the readers imagination, but in a way that feels natural in Dino’s world. There is a sadness in the ending but also a wistful hopefulness; a sense that Dino is open to more now.

The Break is further proof that you don’t need a thousand pages to create evocative and beautiful prose – or to create a compelling story.

Related articles

• The Break by Pietro Grossi – review (guardian.co.uk)
• The Break, By Pietro Grossi (independent.co.uk)

Tattoo: A Pepe Carvalho Mystery (Pepe Carvalho Mysteries)

Publishers Weekly

Those who prefer getting inside characters’ heads to figuring out whodunit will enjoy this mystery in Montalbán’s series featuring food-loving PI Pepe Carvalho (Buenos Aires Quintet, etc.), first published in Spain in 1976. When the corpse of an unknown man with the words Born to Raise Hell in Hell tattooed on his shoulder surfaces off the Barcelona coast, Ramón Freixas, a hair salon owner, asks Carvalho to investigate. For reasons he doesn’t share with the gumshoe, Freixas wants the victim identified. The tattoo’s trail takes the detective to Amsterdam, where he figures out the murder was related to the drug trade. Carvalho’s cynicism (he divides the world into those who go to jail and those who might go to jail) will make him a familiar figure to hard-boiled devotees. The final twist will appeal to readers comfortable with some ambiguity.

Publishers Weekly

Altun’s second novel to be made available in the U.S. has a premise almost as intriguing as his first, Songs My Mother Never Taught Me, but the execution is less successful. Kemal Kuray’s meteoric ascent to the top of the Turkish Air Force comes to an abrupt end after the engine of the plane he’s piloting fails. Barely escaping serious injury, he’s assigned to coordinate a secret translation project, during which he befriends Suat Altan, a technology consultant working on the project to complete his military service. Later, Kemal learns from Suat’s identical twin, Fuat, that Suat, who’s vanished, has left behind a cryptic note for Kemal and arranged for monthly payments to him of $5,000 a month after his retirement. Kemal spends the rest of the book seeking the purpose, as well as the true meaning, of Suat’s message. If Poe’s fans are meant to be enticed by the title, taken from Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee,” they will find little to chew on.

–> The Last Supper by Pawel Huelle

Library Journal

Twelve men make their way to a theater to pose for a photo to be used as the basis for a new painting of The Last Supper. This pastiche is set in the near future in Gdansk, Poland, paralyzed by terrorist attacks during the 19th-century travels of a painter and in much earlier times in real and imaginary Middle Eastern locales. A few problems prevent this book from being a near masterpiece: the irony is laid on too thick, and pages 99–100 contain a terrible spoiler. It’s like revealing “whodunit” right in the middle of a mystery, so readers should be strongly advised to skip those pages, which take a little power out of an otherwise spectacular final chapter. VERDICT Huelle addresses some of the same issues found in Nikos Kazantzakis’s The Last Temptation of Christ or Christopher Moore’s Lamb but in a very different way, yet fans of those authors might enjoy this book. The ultimate ironic act would be to use The Last Supper as a Christmas present.

I am sure readers here know by now I am a sucker for well packaged and illustrated young adult books.  So I guess it is no surprise that I am a fan of Nicholas by Rene Goscinny & Jean-Jacques Sempe brought to US readers by Phaidon.

These 19 collected tales about a French school boy (originally published in French 1959) are published in English with a simple but elegant design that matches the simple but classic New Yorker style illustrations.

The stories are narrated by Nicholas himself.  And of course, he sees life as rather simple.  He likes to have fun with his friends wherever and whenever they can. But he finds himself puzzled by the adults around with their complex emotions and surprising reactions to life.

Adults on the other hand are constantly surprised to find out just how much chaos young children create in such a short period of time.  Whether it is picture day at school, a pickup soccer game in the empty lot, or a play date with a friend the well intentioned Nicholas and his classmate soon have the adults on the verge of breakdown in short order.  And anyone who has young children – especially boys – can relate to this all to well.

The stories are droll, tongue-in-cheek, and have a sense of nostalgia about a simpler world (despite the Cold War at the time of their writing) of provincial France. But they are also timeless in that they so perfectly reflect the reality of human nature in both children and adults; and are able to laugh at both.

I have been vaguely aware of the series for some time and have often been tempted to pick this first volume up while on my various jaunts to bookstores.  Someone mentioned the stories on Twitter recently, however, and I decided it was high time I read them.  I am glad I did.

During a recent illness I needed something simple and fun to read and they fit the bill perfectly.  They brought a smile to my face and often an out loud chuckle.  I plan on reading them out loud to the family soon.  If your family hasn’t discovered this classic series I highly recommend them.

I bring this up because at face value Elina Hirvonen’s When I Forgot is not the type of book I would normally put on my summer reading list. Here is the publisher’s intro:

An astonishingly assured and compelling debut, When I Forgot explores the relationship between a sister and her brother, the past that they share, and the painful memories that shape their lives forever.

Anna is on her way to the hospital where her brother has been institutionalized when she falters, and in that pause her world splinters in a blazing display of memory and madness, of childhood security treasured and shattered, and of families blighted by psychological trauma—her brother’s and that of her boyfriend’s father, a Vietnam vet. September 11 serves as a backdrop for the story, and the Finnish perspective on America and its politics is as uncomfortable as it is compelling. In Elina Hirvonen’s skillful hands, the grimness is illuminated by firecracker insight and surprising beauty. And, above all, there is hope.

I mean, mental illness, family abuse, Vietnam and IRaq war protests, and the world’s anger at the US?  This is not really beach reading.

I know what you are saying: “Kevin, grow up and embrace some culture for Pete’s sake!” As I said, I am just being honest with you.  But obviously I did put aside my beach reading instincts and read the book.

This is one of those times where the publisher matters.  Tin House has yet to send me a bad book, so I decided to try something I might otherwise not. And it proved to be an interesting read.

It is sometimes hard to pin down what exactly this slim novel is “about.” Memory, 9/11, relationships, the repurcussions of family history, the impact of certain events on the way we see the world, etc.  The easy answer is, of course, all of the above.

The thread that ties them all together is the interplay of memory and self; the way we see the world from inside our own head versus “reality.” The question is seems to ask is: “Can you escape the haunting of the past?”

The novel opens in a Helinski cafe where the central character Anna Louhiniitty sis drinking coffee and attempting to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virgina Woolf (or is it Michael Cunningham’s The Hours?). But her mind is unable to focus on the novel, except in tangential ways, and instead she finds herself swept up in a flood of memories and emotions from the past.

Those of her boyfriend, Ian, an American teaching in Finland having left New York City in the aftermath of 9/11.  Those surrounding her brother, Joona, who is in a mental facility whose breakdown seems to have been triggered in some way by the towers falling. Those of the struggles of both her and Ian’s trouble family history (Ian’s father came back from Vietnam unable to function and died in a VA facility).

Sitting in the cafe, Anna desperately wants to be a different person with a different history; she wants to somehow break free of these burdonsome memories and be free.  But how can she do this without leaving behind the people she loves?

Hirvonen, not surprisingly, doesn’t offer an answer but she captures this struggle and the role of memory in our lives with amazing grace and a crispness, or maybe an electrical current, that jumps off the page.

I was taken with her style from the start.  Here’s Anna in the novel’s start describing this complex day:

I can make it. This day.

There’s the smell of sun-warmed dog shit and damp earth. A bent woman in winter boots from the eighties and a child in muddied jeans whose tongue darts out around his ice-cream moustache. There’s the long morning when you don’t have to look at your watch.

There’s the café where you get old-fashioned coffee and thickly iced mocha squares and where you feel like someone’s just told you a secret. There are the clacking trams and the footdragging kids on their way to school and the grey-headed women who prop each other up as they cross the street. There’s the book I got from Ian. There’s Ian, who loves me.

There’s the book.

There’s the world I am allowed to enter. Three women on a single day in different time periods. The writer Virginia Woolf, who filled her pockets with rocks and walked into the water.

She is both describing the day as it exists but also the day as she wants it to be.  She does this and set up the books arc in a page and a half.

I suppose in many ways, the novel structures would be see as unconventional.  The narrative jumps around in time and frequently slips between the outside world and Anna’s mental universe.  The story is also told through notes and letters from her brother.

But the story is an amazingly quick and powerful read; it pulls you forward and flows almost naturally.  This comes from the way Hirvonen seems to have so perfectly captured the way our memories and thoughts flow.  People don’t think in a straight line and our memories and emotions are complex, intertwinned, and rarely objective.

There is, however, a depth to the story as well.  There are literary references, psychologicalal insights, and political/cultural commentary running throughout the story. There is an anti-war element to the story.  Not from the protests that form part of the backdrop, but in the pictures of the veterans that come back in succeeding generations damaged an unable to function.  And yet there is a sense in which war is a fact of history that can’t be avoided.

Like all great stories, in my opinion, what you bring to the story changes how you view and interact with it, but it changes the way you see the world.

In the end, the novel leaves you with a bittersweet feeling.  The pain and tragedy are still there, and always will be, but there is a hope in knowing that each person can make a difference in the relationships they have in their lives; that in giving yourself to those you love you can change reality. There is a fierce sense of hope that lingers even in Anna’s struggle not to drown in the tragic nature of her family.

When I Forgot is anything but escapist literature.  It is deep, dark at times, and serious.  But it is also beautiful, touching, and a pleasure to read.  It is an example of humane literature; language that both captures something about what it means to be human while at the same time illustrating the incredible creativity and skill that writers can bring to that quitesential human habit: the story.

The simple plot belies the novels complexity, but here is Booklist’s quick take:

This latest Turkish import, set in Istanbul, is written entirely in the first person, from the points of view of the two main characters, Arda, a child of privilege and a smothering mother, and Bedirhan, an orphan turned assassin. The reader is rapidly drawn into the innermost thoughts and feelings of both characters, as Arda decides how to live his life after the death of his mother, and Bedirhan vows to get out of the assassin business. The tension is gradually ratcheted up as Arda discovers his father was assassinated and sets out to hunt for the killer, even as the reader learns of the strangely intertwined lives of Arda and Bedirhan.

You could easily imagine a typical thriller with this setup.  Alternating first person chapters leading the reader on a quest to figure out how these two characters are connected and racing to find the conclusion/resolution.

But the novel never had that thriller feel for me.

Glenn Harper explains:

What’s happening has the hallmarks of a thriller or crime novel, but not the tone, which in Altun’s novel is light rather than tense, with numerous literary references that are at least in part clues to the author’s intentions (the references include Grahame Greene but also Jorge Luis Borges and Paul Auster, and the title is a reference to music by Dvorak). Among Turkish novels widely available in English, Altun resembles crime novelist Mehmet Murat Somer (even though Somer’s novels are frequently comic) than the postmodern novels of Orhan Pamuk (though Altun’s tone is lighter and more playful than Pamuk’s). Fairly early in the novel, Arda mentions a family friend named Selçuk Altun, a banker and novelist. That bit of metafiction becomes more important in the last third of the novel, when Altun becomes a puppetmaster within the novel, as well as its author, giving a series of clues about Bedirhan in the form of locations around Istanbul. Arda’s quest becomes an unconventional tour of the city and its history rather than a hot pursuit of the killer.

In its basic form the plot may seem like a thriller but is just doesn’t read that way.  It really isn’t that suspenseful or mysterious or tense.  Altun’s light style and meta-fictional bent give it a literary feel; even if rambling and discursive one at times.

Much of the subject matter is more traditionally literary as well: his relationship with his mother growing up and his change in perspective after her death; his infatuation with a neighbor girl and his coming to terms with their platonic relationship as adults; his feeling about his dad now that both his parents are gone; etc.  Altun brings a very psychological focus to these relationships; as if Arda’s telling of the story is therapeutic – Arda on the couch.

But these threads are all weaved into the larger mystery of who killed his father and why.  And Altun inserts himself as a character into the story to guide Arda through a series of clues.  This takes the reader through an exploration of Istanbul’s architecture, culture, and history.

If you get the sense there is a lot going on, despite the short  length, you are right.  This was a book that had the feel of one I should re-read.  The first time you are just getting a sense of the lay of the land. In a second reading, I could pick up on the literary references more and enjoy the detailed explorations of the city. I often feel that way with layered or complex works whose style and subjects I am not familiar with.

And that brings up another point, if you don’t know anything about Turkey (its history, geography, politics, etc.) you – or at least I – feel at a disadvantage.  There are clearly some arguments  – point counter-point style – about the city/nation/region that would have more impact and clarity if you knew more about them.

Even with these weaknesses going in, I enjoyed reading Songs My Mother Never Taught Me.  Altun has a light witty satirical style and the book is only a couple hundred pages.  The two central characters are interesting and entertaining.  It just didn’t quite seem to come together for me.

Anyone with an interest in Turkish literature and culture will want to check this one out.  But those who enjoy a satirical meta-fictional type twist on the thriller/mystery genre will enjoy it as well.

If you like your crime thrillers complex and dense then you will want to check out Norwegian crime writer Jo Nesbo’s latest Nemesis.

Being the lazy blogger that I am, allow me to reproduce the publishers copy to introduce the plot:

Grainy closed-circuit television footage shows a man walking into an Oslo bank and putting a gun to a cashier’s head. He tells the young woman to count to twenty-five. When the robber doesn’t get his money in time, the cashier is executed, and two million Norwegian kroner disappear without a trace. Police Detective Harry Hole is assigned to the case.

While Hole’s girlfriend is away in Russia, an old flame decides to get in touch. Former girlfriend and struggling artist Anna Bethsen invites Hole to dinner, and he can’t resist a visit. But the evening ends in an all too familiar way as Hole awakens with a thundering headache, a missing cell phone, and no memory of the past twelve hours. That same morning, Anna is found shot dead in her bed. Hole begins to receive threatening e-mails. Is someone trying to frame him for this unexplained death? Meanwhile, the bank robberies continue with unparalleled savagery.

As the death toll continues to mount, Hole becomes a prime suspect in a criminal investigation led by his longtime adversary Tom Waaler and Waaler’s vigilante police force. Racing from the cool, autumnal streets of Oslo to the steaming villages of Brazil, Hole is determined to absolve himself of suspicion by uncovering all the information needed to crack both cases. But the ever-threatening Waaler is not finished with his old archenemy quite yet.

Now let me confess that I didn’t read The Redbreast or any other of Nesbo’s earlier works.  To be honest I didn’t want to read a 500 plus page book to see if I wanted to read another almost 500 page book.  Call me closed minded but that is quite a commitment in my world.

So instead I just dived into Harry Hole’s world with no background.  And it worked just fine for the most part.  I am not sure, however, if my not having read the back-story as it were lead to my frustration with the dense and over-layered plot.  And the ending was clearly a “to be continued” situation; which is unsatisfying to a degree.

But as noted above, Nesbo creates a complex – if at times convoluted – story with lots of characters, a dash of psychology and philosophy and enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing.

The question is how complex is too complex?  As noted above, I am not sure if my frustration with the story comes from not having read the previous work.  The more I thought about it the more I realized that expectations are just different when it comes to series or reoccurring characters.  We expect them to be less tidy and more roaming in nature.  Because part of the fun of series is that we explore the world and the character across a number of books; part of the interest is just exploring not always clear conclusions.

Kirkus described it as “threaded through a series of Chinese boxes revealing one false solution after another before the brilliantly inventive final twist.”  But at times I felt that there were too many threads to follow.  It felt like being trapped in a room with fun-house mirrors; like the author got carried away.

I also didn’t find it quite so “briskly paced” or that much of a “nail-bitter” as some of the reviewers.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed and clearly Nesbo is a skillful writer.  Hole is a great character and Nemesis has some great themes and plot twists (revenge; the twin passions of love and hate; is it about a bankrobbery or murder or about getting even; etc.).  It certainly kept my interest and me in suspense.

It just felt a little too thick; a little overdone in places.  Every major character had a back-story with a secret or was involved in a plot twist.  At times this made it hard to focus on the central story.  But perhaps part of this is explained by the nature of the series and some by the style Nesbo uses.  He wants you, like Hole, to be chasing your tale trying to make sense of all the information.  And while I can see the appeal, and appreciate the skill, it isn’t my preferred style.  I like my thrillers a little tighter.

In my younger years I am sure I would have just dived into the series and enjoyed every minute.  Call me lazy, but I don’t read a lot of 500 page books these days.

But as noted above, if you enjoy complexly plotted mysteries with a reoccurring character I am sure you will enjoy Nesbo and Harry Hole.  But you might want to track down the earlier books in the series and start there.  If you are going to enjoy the adventure you might  as well start at the beginning.

Or you could just be a curious reader like me who comes to the novel with less background, but who can still appreciate the work and the skill involved.

The only Mann novel I have read is Death in Venice, and I am certainly not overly-familiar with the literature of this period, so I don’t have the background to pick up on all the nuances.  I was simply drawn to the book because I had enjoyed Huelle’s previous work Mercedes Benz.

And I enjoyed this work as well.  I may not have understood all the literary references, or fully appreciated how Huelle captured the tone and style of Mann and the character of Castorp, but I did enjoy it as an interesting period piece that explores the psychology and sociology of pre-war continental Europe.

For a smattering of quotes from some other reviews that I found interesting click below.

CJ Schuler in The Independent does a nice job of highlighting the way Huelle explores the relationship between Germans and Slavs – between East and West – while weaving in literary references:

Aside from Mann, Huelle weaves a skilful web of cultural references. He is drawn to his compatriot Joseph Conrad: a shipboard argument between a Belgian commercial traveller and a German missionary plunges us into the world of Heart of Darkness, while Castorp’s ensnarement in Russian émigré society, with its revolutionaries and spies, recalls Under Western Eyes. Castorp is no meretricious attempt to cash in on a classic, but an intelligent, intriguing and atmospheric novel worthy of its inspiration. It is admirably served by Antonia Lloyd-Jones’s nuanced and readable translation.

Ian Beetlestone has one of those two paragraph reviews that I am so jealous of and I think sums up my feelings well with two sentences:

Huelle’s novel is a delightful period piece, interested in the psychology of a prewar continent. His style is charmingly effective, the book written with an understated wit very much of the era in which it is set, and gently, deceptively provocative.

Nelson Wattie in the New Zeland Listener points out in greater detail the intereaction between Mann’s work and Huelle’s and literary references and symbolism involved.  He concludes:

With its wide range of literary reference, its readable, its witty style and its multiple dimensions of meaning, Castorp deserves to be read closely – and then read again.

That is probably very true.  In fact, I was tempted to read Magic Mountain and then read Castorp again.  But the length of Mann’s work – 900 pages – disuaded me.

Lastly, I also found this short interview at Polish Writing interesting.