Captain Corelli's Mandolin

This novel, by Louis de Bernieres is charming, funny, and one of those novels that, though brilliant, knows of its own brilliance and aims for accolades while reaching mediocrity.

I picked up Captain Corelli's Mandolin from the shelf in my room, because it was there. I'd heard of the movie, and seen an excerpt in one of the students' books in school. I figured I might as well give it a try, since the World War II theme is ever-popular (and often present) in conversations I seem to be having - with others and myself. Plus, I've been contemplating writing my own historical novel. So far it's been without success, but the thought still surfaces now and then.

The story takes place just before the outbreak of World War II on the Greek island of Cephallonia, where the locals live as their ancestors did one hundred years prior, simple lives without electricity or running water. A love story emerges, that of the local doctor's daughter, Pelagia, and the young fisherman Mandras.

However, Madras enlists once the war begins. He wants to be a hero and prove himself to Pelagia. During his absence, she loses her love for him because he does not reply to her letters (he is illiterate) and once he returns, she wants nothing to do with him. He joins the communists and holes up in the mountains with the ELAS.

Meanwhile, Mussolini's troops roll into town. Heading them is Capatian Corelli, a consummate musician. He plays the mandolin, and would like to become a professional in an orchestra after the war. He meets Pelagia, and the two fall in love, slowly but deeply.

Trouble brews in 1943. The Germans demand Italy turn Greece over to them, and the Italians refuse. A massacre ensuses, and Corelli escapes. Pelagia knows he must flee - this is best, the only way for them all to survive. Years (and I'm talking years) later, Corelli and Pelagia are reunited. Happily ever after, it seems.

The novel is expansive, over 400 pages, and spans several decades, focusing for the most part on the 1930s and 1940s and the occupation of Cephallonia by the Italians. It is ultimately a love story that incorporates war, music, a critique of antiquity versus modernity, and the idea that, according to de Bernieres, "history ought to be made up of the stories of ordinary people only."

This idea, though noble, seems to be the reason novels exist; histories are for the victorious politicians and memoirs are for the famous. As a historical novel, Captain Corelli's Mandolini did its duty. I enjoyed every bit of the gripping, gory, thrilling and romantic story. I found the characters human; I could relate to them, I could love them and worry about them and want the best for them. But, it must be said: I knew it was made up.  That neither changed my feelings about the novel, nor did it prompt me to dismiss everything I'd ever heard about World War II. It did make me think that there is more to history than what meets the eye in the average text. For that, I'm glad I read it.

But, frankly, the ending sucked. I'll have to watch the movie to see if they changed it to be more "Hollywood." I which case, I might just change my mind about the book's ending...

Worlds Apart and Worlds We Live In

Last week, I went to a talk at the university given by Swanee Hunt, the former American ambassador to Austria during the Bosnian War (1992-1995). She recently wrote a book (possible her memoirs...I picked up a copy but haven't looked at it yet) and, certainly, part of the reason for the talk was to promote it, but I'm sure her other reasons for coming back were to reconnect with old friends and acquaintances from her time in Vienna as ambassador.

No matter her reasons (though I had anticipated a completely different type of talk), I found what she had to say interesting and rather enlightening. First, she called Angelina Jolie a saint for directing and producing In the Land of Blood and Honey. Then she went on to explain the personal disconnect she was feeling during her time as ambassador, after she began keeping a journal which her husband had recommended she do during her post. She had wanted to be posted to India as ambassardor (I guess as a foreign service officer, one must take what one can get) and, at the beginning, she wanted to do her best in the post she was given, i.e. do a good job so President Clinton would reassign her to where she really wanted to go after a few years posted in Austria.

At the time, there was no American ambassador to Bosnia and Herzegovina. It was considered too dangerous. After the break up of Yugoslavia, the Bosnian lands had been claimed by Serbia; thus, it wasn't even officially a country. Despite ethnic cleansing and snipers stalking the streets of Sarajevo, the EU said "Hands off!" to the United States. NATO and the UN knew bad things were happening to the Bosniaks, but didn't know how to do anything about it.

Thus enters Swanee Hunt.She mentioned, during a ceremony commemorating the 50th anniversary of the liberation of the Mauthausen concentration camp, she had a crisis of conscience: here she was at this state dinner eating off of gold-rimmed bone china, boozing it up and rubbing elbows with big wigs from around the world patting themselves on the back for how far the world had come in 50 years, when, 800 km away, the same damn thing was happening in Bosnia.

She knew, because a stack of memos a mile high were waiting for her on her desk, all about the Bosnia situation.

That's when Swanee Hunt decided to tell the president. Bill Clinton didn't want to do anything, until a car bomb exploded, three American diplomats were killed, and, upon attending the funeral, met their children who were all about the same age as Chelsea. The rest, as they say, is history.

It's interesting to think of this, since many of the refugees from the conflict ended up living in Austria. I have several Bosnian students who, though they weren't alive at the time, do have parents who lived through the conflict. It's amazing to me to think of living through a civil war - or any war at all. For though we (the United States) are still at war, it is so far removed from my self, my daily life and my being that, aside from an academic, philosophical, or political discussion, I sometimes forget there's any conflict at all.

To be honest, that scares the hell out of me.

A Single Man

I saw the film by Tom Ford when it came out in 2010, and was impressed by Colin Firth preparing a role that was, in essence, a one-man-show with props of other actors (he was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actor but did not win). Mr. Firth, unfortunately, was all that could be recommended for this film. I thought it was a little too something - ostentatiously gay? Visual? Superficial? Self-promotional? I'm not sure.

So, I liked the movie, but not as much as I thought I would. I saw a spot for it on Sunday Morning With Charles Osgood and various commercial spots...it seemed a lot deeper and artier than it actually was. In fact, I thought it was actually complete crap, and Colin Firth's character was a sleazy and maladjusted type for attempting an affair with a student.

Nonetheless, I have been looking for some Christopher Isherwood stuff, specifically the Berlin Stories or Mr. Norris Changes Trains and Goodbye to Berlin, as they were published in Europe. I'm planning to write my own "Vienna Stories" and would like some inspiration as to how to format my collection. Since these stories are more famously known (and set to music) as Cabaret, and in that form likely Isherwood's most famous works, I figure they're a good place to start.

However, when I went to the library, I didn't find what I wanted. They did have A Single Man on the shelf, however, and I decided, well, any Isherwood is better than no Isherwood.

What I love about A Single Man is that George is overtly and unapologetically gay in 1960's California (before the hippies, mind you - circa 1961). Isherwood's writing style, choice of scene and structure, never let the reader forget George's sexuality. In fact, Isherwood's style is pretty sparse, borrowing a page from Hemmingway's book in that it has very little physical description of characters or place; though it is better (i.e. not as bare bones) as The Sun Also Rises, for example. In concentrating on  the sensual aspects of live, the novella is charmingly and grippingly sensory - not erotic, not bogged down in details or description, just sensual. The ocean scene, where George goes for a dip (naked midnight romp?) with Kenny in the Pacific is one of the few exceptions to this, but in its description, continues to center on emotions George feels, rather than the temperature of the water, as an example. And it is critically important to George's psyche - the ocean, the young man, symbolize George's rebirth after Jim's death.


I was pleasantly surprised that the novella far exceeds the film. Isherwood's character George, far from being the superficial, self-conscious and self-promoting type of gay man Tom Ford made him out to be, is down-to-earth, sarcastic and outrageous as only a gay man can be, and though wounded by the loss of the love of his life (Jim, who passed away in a car crash visiting his folks in Ohio), George perseveres, does not assault himself by minimizing his love, like society is wont to do, or falling into an almost-affair with a student - he more or less fantasizes about sex, but does not delude himself into grander emotions, or actually committing any acts. Besides, Kenny (the student) doesn't have much to offer George beyond a nice body. Aside from scratching an itch, Kenny's not much of a catch. He's pretty dopey.


The one thing I hate about A Single Man (which was ambiguous in the book, but more ambiguous in the film) is that George dies at the end. Why does he die, when the book is about persevering despite obstacles?! It was so annoying, because it implied that a person cannot be total, complete, without another person to live with, love, and more importantly, have sex with. Most of the time protagonists in such situations are women falling all over themselves for a man, but obviously anyone can fall victim to the mentality - the sex part almost always shrouded in innuendo in anything pre-Woolfe (or pre-Anais Nin) for the woman. Gotta keep those Victorian double standards in working order...

Anyway, I think it's ridiculous that anyone should ever want to be defined by another, in any way. Yes, love is powerful, and I think true love does exist, but it is not the be-all and end-all of an existence to get married (or move in together) and "become" that other person, or have that other person become you. Sure, people need relationships, another to guide them, help them and give them the chance to become the best they can be through love and support and faith in their love. And it is painful to lose someone so dear and necessary to you. But that does not mean when you lose someone, you should not go on living! You are still you, not the other person and you deserve to continue your life, perhaps diminished, but hopefully not for long!

Losing love and losing faith are not one in the same, and though losing both can be devastating, no one says you have to.

What's in a Dream?

I've been having some weird dreams lately. So much so that I (ironically) wanted to try to find some solace in psychoanalysis. Specifically the granddaddy of it all - Freud.

I figure, while I'm in Vienna, who better to turn to? Of course, many of Freud's theories have (rightly) fallen out of favor; but, many of his discoveries on sleep patterns and hypotheses of how dreams come to be are still the mainstay for psychiatrists and dream interpreters.

The interesting thing about Die Traumdeutung is that, with little more than a hunch, Freud's theories on dreaming ended up being proven in clinical trials - for example, dreaming in sequential order; the idea that a person cannot invent new faces, but uses faces that already exist for "dream people" be they familiars or strangers; colors and objects as symbols rather than literal. Though Freud did have a penchant toward interpreting things phallically.

Freud was also the first to point out that mere seconds elapse during a dream. The feeling we often have of a dream (especially a nightmare) going on forever is, simply put, an illusion. It only feels like hours - or days, or weeks - have passed. Most dreams do not last more than one minute, though they can be linked in our subconscious, which is why in your dreams you may be sitting on a bus in one instance and be "magically" transported to the beach in another. Although dreams do have a beginning and an end, the brain does not make the distinction.

Lucid dreams happen when the dreamer realizes, or remembers, that he or she is dreaming. I often have dreams of this type, and, according to this website (also where I got the lovely photo at the beginning), that means I am highly evolved. That's kind of neat!

Although the text of Die Traumdeutung is sort of a snore (pun intended), it is good to remember that Freud was writing for the 19th century science crowd - most anyone picking up his book during his lifetime would have been a fellow doctor. Thus, the language is a bit outdated, cumbersome and - ahem - Austrian. That is, more convoluted than it has to be. Still, I hope to find new insight into my subconscious self, now that I know the theory behind it.

Superstitious?

Superstition - it's not just a Stevie Wonder song. Austrians seem especially keen on exploring them, actually, which I find fascinating in a quasi-pagan sort of way. Several examples have recently cropped up in my life. I'll share a few of them with you.

Two of my teachers asked me to do a lesson on superstitions around the world, for example, the number 13 vs. the number 7, breaking a mirror, black cats, opening an umbrella in the house, spilling salt...the list goes on. In my search for cohesion in the topic, I stumbled upon this website, which has a nice little A-Z list of superstitions.

The list my students came up with was pretty basic, and unfortunately the accompanying book lesson (from the less than stellar More!) had a completely awful version of The Monkey's Paw which is an excellent story if you read the original short story by W.W. Jacobs. But, the kids also came up a few unexpected superstitions: wearing red in China symbolizes good luck, and white bad luck; in Serbia, hiccups are caused by people talking about you.

My landlady has a book called "Guided by the Moon" (in English, written by an Austrian) which outlines all of the things you're supposed to do or not do depending on the cycle of the moon.

For example, clipping your nails after sunset on a Friday will keep you from having hang nails or ingrown toenails. Cutting your hair when the moon is waxing will make it full and beautiful - if the moon is waning, you will go bald. Felling a tree on New Year's Eve Day in the morning will make the wood easier to work with - and more durable - if you are planning on making furniture or tools out of it.

Christmas trees need to be felled during the waxing moon in December. If they are, they will keep their needles for months. Always water house plants on a water day (when the moon is going through on of the water signs - Pisces or Cancer, but not Scorpio). Do gardening: planting, weeding, harvesting; on an earth day (when the moon is going through one of the earth signs - Virgo, Taurus or Capricorn).

Sure, these superstitions can be a little silly, and I doubt whether most people actually still believe in them. But remember, this is Freud's country, and a lot of weight is still given to dream interpretation! I suppose anything is possible.

Love

Another one of those "found gems" i.e. found in my apartment, Love is a novel by Elizabeth von Arnim, a cousin and contemporary of Katherine Mansfield.

Very Mansfield-esque for fans of her work (though von Arnim was also quite popular and widely read in her lifetime as well), the novel is about a woman and a man who share a love of The Immortal Hour, having seen the play nine times and thirty-six times, respectively. They fall in love despite social norms: she is forty-seven, he twenty-five. She is also the mother of a married woman (only nineteen, but still), and a soon-to-be grandmother.

But this love reaches across boundaries and social norms. Christopher loves Catherine determinedly, and she becomes enveloped in his love, just by the act of his loving her. Although during their courtship (one could say stalking on Christopher's part), Catherine think he is just a silly little boy, until she goes to visit her daughter (actually to escape Christopher). Once there, she realizes that her daughter and new son-in-law - actually older than Catherine at forty-nine - who are seemingly full of love, have no room for her. And his mother is a buzzard who makes things practically impossible for Catherine.

She basically goes running back into Christopher's arms.

However, since there is such talk among their acquaintances once they marry, Catherine feels she has to keep up with Christopher age-wise and invests in expensive hair and facial treatments to make her look younger. Ultimately, she looks haggard and decrepit without them, to Christopher's horror. He had never before noticed how much older she was than he, when she left well enough alone.

Actually, according to the afterward, the novel was based on an affair von Arnim had with a much younger man, Michael Frere. When they met in 1920, she was fifty-four and he twenty-four. Their affair was torrid, and though they did not last long as lovers, she helped him to hone his writing abilities and got him published for the first time. She also got an experimental and terribly unfortunate face life in the 1920s to "keep up" with Frere, just as Catherine does for Christopher.

I really enjoyed the book, I think because it appealed to my secret sentimental side but also discussed the idea of blindly accepting social standards as if they were God's will, and put in a good word about double standards in the context of "social norms."

Although the ending is tragic, and leaves the fate of its characters in an ambivalent state - definitely the last thing I wanted, actually, when I got into it and thought, "Oh, goody. A light and fluffy and fun romance." And then I read the forward to realize Elizabeth von Arnim was related to Katherine Mansfield.

All in all, an excellent read. My college professors would all pat me on the back for picking a real and literary novel over what I could have chosen (among them a murder mystery set in Vienna). And for reading the forward AND afterward. *Pats self on back.*

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

A book I found in the apartment that looked interesting, The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, is a touching, stream-of-consciousness gem that, I think I can say, moved me.


I read it in English (grace à the copy available) though it was originally written and published in French. The story revolves around a concierge named Renée in a ritzy Parisian apartment building who has had to hide her intelligence and love of art and culture all her life, and a 12-year-old girl  named Paloma living in the apartment building, daughter of a university professor and a French parliamentarian, who has the same problem.


I liked the book from its cover, which originally made me want to read it. Also, Johanna collects hedgehogs, and I wondered if this had been given to her based on the title.


It turns out, Renée is compared to a hedgehog by Paloma: tough and prickly on the outside but soft and uassuming on the inside. For some reason that makes them elegant. Not the word I would choose, but whatever. Eventually Renée and Paloma develop a friendship, and become confidants for each other's inner lives, until tragedy strikes. 


The format of the novel is a bifurcated narration, half Renée, half Paloma, and centers a lot on interior monologue and journal entries. Literary and high-brow cultural references abound, as well as some pop culture stuff, mostly pertaining to France. The book is very French - that is, catering to a French audience and written by a French person. It has the same sort of set-up, mistakes, poignant details and allusions as a Truffaut film, with tone and style elements borrowed, it seems, from a Marguerite Duras play, or a Philippe Claudel novel.


The extreme intelligence of both main characters is at first a bit hard to believe, as we only have their opinions to go on, and irksome later on, when they seem so absorbed in absorbing culture, literature, the beauty of the world, etc., that they become static - unmoving, uninterested, and yes, even selfish - vessels of such intelligence. If there really were two geniuses residing at 7, rue de Grenelle, Paris, shouldn't they be doing something more proactive and constructive than whining about how they're so smart that no one will understand them, and the world is so bleak that it's best not to get involved - or just end it all? 


That's not to say Barbery didn't pull off the characters. The book did have remarkably funny parts, and was great fun to read.  Considering myself an intellectual, and tickled especially when I come across obscure references to things I like (Mozart, Kant, Tolstoy, etc.), I loved the characters and the idea behind what Barbery was trying to accomplish. But upon finishing The Elegance of the Hedgehog, I found the idea underdeveloped as a whole. It lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. 

Café Europa: Life after Communism

wrong one, but it'll do

I recently finished a book I bought while visiting a friend in Poland. Café Europa, its contents as well as how it and I found each other, are of equal story-telling merit. Thus, I must begin with our first encounter:

It was a dark and stormy night... No, wait.

Krakow, bleak December. Just a minute.

Imagine you have decided to visit your friend from university who is teaching English in Poland, while you are teaching English in Austria. Imagine that you decided to pick the perfect time to visit, when you had a bit of time off from work because of one of the many, many Catholic holidays Austria celebrates: The Immaculate Conception. Which just happens to be 8 December. Perfect.

You arrive in Krakow early in the morning, having left before dawn on a bus with no heat from the small town where your friend teaches. It is snowing and freezing and it is quite possible you have not felt this kind of cold in several years - if ever - a dry, scratchy cold, sort of what you get in the plains of the American Midwest...for example, North Dakota.

Your friend suggests keeping warm above all else. You agree, your survival instincts kicking in. You dash into the mall next to the bus terminal, and suddenly everything becomes familiar...civilized...except that all of the shop signs are written in Polish. Aside from that, this could be any mall in any city in the world. It is very warm, and you think about buying a cup of coffee, but your friend scoffs.

"Don't you want to see the real Krakow?" she asks.

"Of course," you acquiesce.

You trot along the main square, survival mode breaking out again and quashing your enjoyment of, admittedly, a very beautiful city. The facades of the buildings seem to belong to the middle ages. The locals are dressed in fur and waterproof boots. Smart of them. You are in your normal black boots (decidedly not waterproof after going through snow drifts) and parka and woolen hat with a Green Bay Packers logo. Your friend suggests going to an English language book store, one of her favorites, she professes. Now you are only thinking about warmth. But, certainly, book stores are always nice, too.

Slavenka Drakulić

And here is where you find: Café Europa. The front cover looks interesting, but the back cover hooks you. Café Europa happens to be a collection of essays about life in post-Communist eastern Europe. Score! you think. This is just your ticket. For some reason, you have had a mild obsession with former Soviet bloc countries for the past two or so years. And the author, Slavenka Draculić, is not only a prominent Croatian writer and journalist, she hails from the former Yugoslavia (having spent most of her life in Croatia while it was still part of Yugoslavia). Living in Vienna when she wrote most of the essays (between 1992-1996), you think, again, this is perfect, since you, too are living in Austria. And you are not disappointed.

Draculić's prose is simple, yet poignant, informed to a high degree without being pedantic, and hilariously funny. Think the Croatian, female David Sedaris, but replace "being gay" with "living under Communism" and throw in feminist themes for good measure. Definitely the most satisfying 49 złoty ever spent.

*For those interested (and planning on visiting Krakow) here is the book store's website.

Dreams from My Father

2004 UK-published book cover

Typically, I try to avoid memoirs written by politicians. To me, most of what's out there seems doctored, another bid at election or reelection, a way to color the past in an attempt to keep reputations intact, or prove no wrongdoing while in office. As Winston Churchill once said, "History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it." That's all the proof I need.

I balked originally at reading Barack Obama's memoir Dreams From My Father for these reasons. A copy sat on a shelf in my apartment all year, and I decided, only after getting favorable reviews from one of the teachers at school, that - as an American - I might as well read about my president and his past. In any case, I knew it would be better than Arnold Hautnah ("Arnold: Close-up"), a biography of the former "Governator" Schwarzenegger... It appears the former inhabitant of my flat had a penchant for biographies, which I do not possess.

I was surprised, in a way, and pleasantly so, with the story. President Obama's experiences as a boy, his situation growing up, were not only unique from any other US president to date, they were also unique for the time in which he was young (1960s in Hawaii) and for most Americans. Here's and example. For one of my classes this year, I dug up the statistic that  only 37% of Americans (114,464,041 people out of 307,006,550 from the latest census data) have passports, and only 25% of Americans have valid passports. In addition, only 9% of Americans speak a second (non-native) language fluently. Half of Europeans, according to a recent EU survey, speak two languages. I found these statistics (and more) at The Expeditioner, an online travel magazine.

Despite many dissenters who've recently popped up in the media (Mr. Donald Trump being just one of many examples), I find it refreshing that the current American president spent part of his youth in Indonesia, and had one immigrant parent. This shows that he has perspective that reaches beyond the United States, and an understanding of global affairs. I may be biased as an American living abroad, who got her degree in languages, but it seems to me that a global perspective in today's world is a very, very good thing. It doesn't mean being less patriotic, or less American, to have an understanding (if ever so slight), appreciation and respect for other cultures. Half of the problems in the United States come from a lack of respect for those different from ourselves - a lack of experience with foreign cultures, a disinterest in even trying to get to know anyone who is not just like you.

And here is where I found Dreams From My Father particularly moving. Not only do we get stories of the president's childhood, but as he grows, so do his reflections about race, culture, identity, belonging, the American Dream, his father. What it means to be a black man in America. His reflections become less about him and more philosophical, even spiritual. He talks about his quest to belong, from elementary school days in Honolulu where he looks for acceptance from his father in their one and only encounter, to confused party-monster evenings at Occidental where he admits dabbling in drugs (a phase he quickly grew out of), to community organizing in Chicago's South Side, to going back to his roots in Kenya. 

W.E.B. DuBois in 1946

In a class I took on diversity in the classroom, as part of teacher training, we read W.E.B. DuBois' The Souls of Black Folk which, although dated, was a particularly enlightening read on race relations in the 1900s. In particular, the interviews of former slaves struck me as particularly pertinent. This is part of American history which is less discussed. Of course, everyone knows what Slavery was, but in your average American history classroom, far more attention is paid to the intricacies of the Battles of Bull Run, Antietam, and Gettysburg, to Lincoln's speeches and Grant's horse, than to the end of slavery in the 1860s. In fact, your average American history classroom mentions slaves all of twice: the first slaves who come from Africa in the 1700s and the Emancipation Proclamation. In short, much of this part of history is never explained. Americans ignore the shameful bits of history, hoping they will just go away if no one talks about them.

This is quite the opposite in Austria. Nowadays (though this used not to be the case) the Holocaust, Nazism and World War II are openly discussed in classrooms, as a way to enlighten students, to explain the perils and stupidity of prejudice, which is still rife in many parts of Europe, unfortunately - mostly toward newer immigrants from Africa, Turkey and Southern Europe (the former Yugoslavia particularly). How can a nation as a whole relate such atrocities to its people? Ignorance and blatant honesty are two options, but there must be more, with integrating acceptance into the cultural pathos the end result.

As I followed the story of Barack Obama's return to his roots in Kenya, meeting his family, discovering ever more pieces to the puzzle that was his father, I came to realize that many Americans who travel abroad are looking for this same thing: a place to belong, culturally. A place to call home. A return to the homeland, to the ancestors. Not everyone needs this, of course. I suppose I'm getting this from a number of other American teaching assistants who learned German in the first place because their ancestors immigrated however long ago from Central Europe, be it Austro-Hungary, Germany, Bohemia, Switzerland.

I guess that was part of my idea, too. But after living in Austria for nine months, I don't feel any real need to find my family roots, to explore genealogical pasts, retrieve distant cousins from Bavaria or East Prussia, as I probably could if I looked hard enough. It does make me a bit sad when some of  my students ask, "What is the American national costume?" The Austrian one, of course, is the Tracht consisting of Lederhosen or a Dirndl, Alpine hats and sturdy shoes, varying by region in slight ways. I find the question funny - of course, I could always answer "Jeans and a T-shirt" which seems to be the American national dress code. But I always reply that we don't have one. Some people wear the national costume of their ancestors, but since over 90% of Americans stem from immigrant backgrounds (at one point or another, be it one or seven generations removed), and the USA has such a huge population compared to Austria, it would be impossible to categorize us all as one thing or another.

Going back to DuBois: mixed-raced himself of almost equal parts European and African descent, even he found solace in Europe where none could be found in America, saying at one point that he was treated with more respect as a scholar in Nazi Germany than from white American colleagues. Such remarks today are inflammatory, one of the reasons DuBois has fallen out of favor, even to an extend with the NAACP, which he helped found. However, I think this shows the fervent human need to belong. To be accepted, respected, and acknowledged. President Obama, in his travelling to Kenya to confront his father's ghost, recognized his need to unite the bifurcated parts of his being: his white American half, and his black African half.

The true power of the memoir is the acknowledgement that with an understanding of one's self, of identity and one's place in the world, fulfillment and happiness are more easily attained. I'm not going to go into politics or anything, or conjecture that Barack Obama feels fulfilled. That's really not my place - I've never even met the guy. But his ability to take something so personal and apply it broadly is the real power of the memoir.

As the oracle at Delphi said, "Know thyself." Sometimes more easily said than done.

Plötzlich Shakespeare

Cute and enjoyable, "Suddenly Shakespeare" is another novel by David Safier - the author of Mieses Karma.

This time, however, the female protagonist Rosa finds herself, thanks to a past-life regression session with a carnival stunt man, all of a sudden living at the end of the 16th century: in the body of William Shakespeare! The gist is that Rosa once lived as Shakespeare, the Bard, the greatest English language writer the world has ever seen (according to popular opinion). Her quest is to find the meaning of true love. And she does find it - very touching. Very sentimental (but also quite funny). I found the story trite at times, but also, considering the audience, fun and and enjoyable read. Very similar to Mieses Karma, but with the past life regression trick.

However, I must comment on one big gaping error in the plot: Shakespeare's greatest love ("soul mate") was supposed to be his wife, Anne Hathaway, who has died in the novel. In reality, Anne Hathaway survived her husband - although she was eight years his senior - and was bequeathed his "second best bed" in his will. Takt that as you wish. Other historical details (I am particularly picky when it comes to historical, or even "historical" novels) are well documented enough - for example, the Earl of Essex's close relationship with Queen Elizabeth I, Shakespeare's best friend Kempe...

According to certain para-psychologists (also known as occultists) would argue against certain aspects of reincarnation present in Safier's novels. I, however, do not have the knowledge base nor the gumption to truly attest one way or another for or against reincarnation - aside from my own opinions, which are more or less
as informed as I am in general. Thus, I will skip that debate (I know what's good for me).

Again, this was a novel written in German (like Mieses Karma) and recommended to my by a student, who said that these novels convinced her of the truth of reincarnation. And perhaps other things helped along the way? Such as personal experiences, etc.? I can only guess.

A funny side note: it seems that Canadians are particularly fascinated with reincarnation, and particularly believing that they are reincarnations of certain famous people (don't as me why) including the woman who believes she was once Alexander the Great, and the woman who more recently declared she was the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe. Edgar Cayce also had something to say on the subject. In any case, in any incarnation, we are us - and we make of our lives what we deem necessary, and good. We do not - and cannot - live in the past. Fame, after all, is still a four letter word.

Mieses Karma

This novel, translated into English as Bad Karma, was recommended to me by one of my students. The plot, roughly, is about Kim Lange, a TV talk show moderator in Berlin, who is hit and killed by a rogue satellite and reincarnated into an ant - because she was really mean to other people. Throughout the novel, she tries to become reunited with her family, her husband and young daughter, and gather good karma to eventually be reincarnated into a person. Or reach Nirvana. Whichever.

I would describe the novel as Bridget Jones' Diary meets a primer on Buddhist philosophy -- but without a lot of actual "philosophy" attached. It's mostly a chick-lit driven plot. Reading how Kim is still obsessed with this man she had an affair with right before her death basically explains how she was reincarnated into a bug. I enjoy the novel, and found it an entertaining read, but I wouldn't put much weight into the description of reincarnation. It doesn't actually follow any spiritual tradition...unfortunately. And it's no Cloud Atlas, another novel dealing with reincarnation on, I think, a more metaphysical and philosophical level.

I can say with conviction, however, that I would read more David Safier (his other two novels, Jesus lebt mich and Plötzlich Shakespeare also deal with reincarnation and past life regressions) over most other chick-lit novels, including the English-language writers Meg Cabot, Sophie Kinsella and Laura Weisberger. And, yes, although I hate to admit it, I've read them all, Shopaholic included. Everyone likes a little trash and escapism every once in a while, and if you say you don't, you either need to relax or check your ego.

The message of Mieses Karma is a great one. Any pop-fiction dealing with reincarnation on a level where the average person can understand is bound to not only bring the issue of spirituality and reincarnation into the mainstream, but also to allow people to think about life after death in a way that maybe they hadn't before. To paraphrase this review: I will never step on another ant as long as I live. 

The Best American Short Stories of 2010

I recently finished a book I purchased in the O'Hare airport waiting for my plane to arrive as I prepared to return to Austria from Christmas at home.

Well, I have been reading other things in between. In my defense, I would like to say it took me so long to finish the collection because I wanted to savor each story - I didn't want to gorge myself of these stories and then have nothing left!

As a writer, I most identify with the short story form. I find novel writing tedious...a bit too much of a commitment. I never think of enough to say, and I like the impact a good short story can make. The brevity, the irony, and the element of surprise. Call me old-fashioned. Maybe I should have been born in the 19th century when O. Henry was running around making it big?

But, no. I hate 19th century literature. I mean, Dickens, for example. The guy didn't know when to shut up! Who gives a damn about the lace curtains? The wedding cake rotting on Miss Havisham's boudoir table? Answer: No one. Or Hawthorne. The Scarlet Letter - yawn! Stop. Moralizing. Every. Single. Character. Who are you, anyway, to presuppose your morality onto anyone else? Like you're so perfect. Or Melville? Moby Dick? Aside from being the punchline to some teenager's joke, what merit does it have in today's world? Whaling is evil, not whales.

Anyway, onto the CONTEMPORARY writing, of which I am very fond! These stories, it must be said, were also hit or miss. Unfortunately, I cannot agree with publishers of literary journals 100% of the time, and, well, Richard Russo (editor) did a pretty good job, but I still have a few bones to pick.

First, what I loved:

Safari - Jennifer Egan

Someone Ought to Tell Her There's Nowhere to Go - Danielle Evans

Delicate Edible Birds - Lauren Groff

Painted Ocean, Painted Ship - Rebecca Makkai

Further Interpretations of Real-Life Events - Kevin Moffet

All Boy - Lori Ostlund

The Seagull Army Descends on Strong Beach - Karen Russell

The Netherlands Lives with Water - Jim Shepard

And what I hated:

Donkey Greedy, Donkey Gets Punched - Steve Almond

The Cousins - Charles Baxter

The Laugh - Tea Obreht

The ones I loved relied on irony, twisting expectations, relationships, the beauty of a double entendre, and had fabulous characters I could relate to. They were each quite different in style and setting, but to me the style and setting matter little, as long as they are relevant to the content, well done and well researched (if the setting is historical), or well thought-out (if the setting is sci-fi or fantasy). I noticed quite a number of stories this year were set in the near future and had some sort of global warming hypothesis...sort of scary, since we're living it (or our children will live it) and pretty cool at the same time.

The ones I hated, I'll admit, maybe I didn't get. But they were either god-awful boring, had a stupid ending or just plain didn't make sense. I think Charles Baxter get into anthologies like these just because he's Charles Baxter. But I may be wrong.

The rest were more or less average, unmemorable or otherwise OK - nothing to report.

Memoiren eines mittelmäßigen Schülers

A book loaned to me by one of the teachers at the HAK, Memoiren eines mittelmäßigen Schülers (tr: Memoirs of an Average Student), is a semi-autobiographical and historical journey by German writer Alexander Spoerl.

I enjoyed the book very much. The style is easy to get into. The writing is simple and informative - almost conversational. The story begins as Jakob van Tast waits in the hospital for his son to be born. The time is late 40's or early 50's. Jakob, with nothing else to do, returns to his own childhood within the narrative. This story takes us from a little boy behaving badly to a young man (uninterested, not finding his niche) desiring to be free of school, to a young man working as an apprentice in Berlin, to a young man drafted into Hitler's army. Later, through each of these adventures, and frames of mind, we come to recognize the whole man who has formed from these fragments of persona. At the end, Jakob not only discovers the birth of his daughter (an ironic view of men and their perception of their offspring as an extension of themselves?) but reunites with (i.e. sees) an old teacher of his from the Gymnasium, who has completely forgotten who he is. Only "average" students are rarely remembered by teachers, sorry to say. We remember the excellent ones and the terrible ones - with behavior problems - most of all, especially after 20, 30 or 40 years...

I loved the irony. I loved the honesty. I loved that Spoerl made no bones about Hitler, the Third Reich and all that bullshit in 1950, no less, right after the war! Jakob falls in love with a Jewish girl, has an affair with the wife of an officer while in the army...things that make for a juicy story. And yet, that's not the point. Jakob's growth as a human being is of importance, not the juicy details of plot, but his existential qualities. It reminded me of Camus. Without all of that freaky-weird imagery.

That Summer in Paris

Here is a testament to my lack of focus...

I recently finished (by recently, I mean yesterday) a book I bought in Montreal at a used bookshop, The Word. It came highly recommended in Lonely Planet, but was unfortunately disappointing when we got inside. But that is beside the point. The point is, I started it in Montreal and lugged it around since, to finish it...yesterday. In Austria.

The title, as you may have guessed, is That Summer in Paris, written by Morley Callaghan (who? Yes, I'm getting to that). Famous in his own right in the 1920s and 1930s, Morley Callaghan was a Canadian writer who grew up in Montreal and ended up hightailing it to Paris with the best of them in the 20s and became part of the ex-pat community, including Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway - and the less well-known of them: Robert McAlmon, Sherwood Anderson, etc.  

Furthermore, I have a thing about ex-pat writers in general, and a really big thing about the Summer of '29 - and most things Hemingway. I read a now out-of-print collection of short stories, Men without Women while I was living in Paris in the summer of 2008, finishing out an internship. The book had been left in the apartment I was renting, and, seeing as I had an hour commute every day to get from one side of the city to the other, I ended up reading a lot that summer - a book a week, at least. I now regret not stealing the book from the apartment, considering it has been out of print for several years and I am unlikely to ever find it the way I read it. However, I hope the current inhabitant of my former apartment in enjoying it as much as I did.

Unfortunately for poor Morley, he wasn't very popular outside of Canada, except for a few short stories. I had never heard of the guy, to be honest, and what drew me to the book was the fact that Hemingway and Fitzgerald were both on the cover (a first edition - 1963, which would be worth something if a) Morley Callaghan were actually famous and b) it were not a paperback). 

Callaghan seems to think, however, that he was the inspiration for one or other character in The Sun Also Rises and suffers under the expectation of greatness - don't we all, though? I was originally enraptured by his name-dropping, which, by the end became tedious:

"One September afternoon in 1960 I was having a drink with an old newspaper friend, Ken Johnstone,   when unexpectedly he told me he had a message to pass on from Ronnie Jacques, the well-know New   York photographer. Jacques had been in Sun Valley taking some pictures of Hemingway, and they had gotten to talking about me." 

No doubt, Morley. Surely his ears were always burning.

The central theme of That Summer in Paris is this boxing match between Callaghan and Hemingway during that summer, where Callaghan knocked the $#^& out of Hemingway while Fitzgerald kept time (poorly), against which Hemingway took personal grievance - his relationship with Fitzgerald was never good to begin with - and is coincidentally (or not) mentioned both on the first page and used as the climax of the story arch. Why? This was obviously the highlight of Morley Callaghan's life, and he didn't have much else to write about. Certainly it could not have been because the scene was so intensely interesting. 

I continued reading, despite flat prose and excruciating ego because I decided I might as well, having bought the book. And the funny thing is, I have a character who is Morley Callaghan - I just didn't know it until I read That Summer in Paris and could compare my ideas on the aspiring (but ultimately doomed) writer and his real-life counterpart (poor baby - would have ended up teaching in a community college were it not for Hemingway) which I hope will prove fruitful. Otherwise, I wasted $6.50 CAD and almost 3 months...

The Kite Runner!

OK, I had wanted to post this earlier (thus the exclamation point...I somehow had a theme going...), but time ran away from me...and I went to Prague. But this is still relevant information pertaining to my incredibly exciting and fulfilling life in Amstetten! Well...you can be the judge.


For one of the English classes (5th form), the students recently read The Kite Runner.  Never having read it, but sort of wanting to, I decided to catch up with them and read it myself...also, the teacher strongly recommended that I read it so I could follow along in class.


I was not disappointed. Touching, memorable, well-written and easy to follow, I found myself intrigued and enlightened by the story. Although it was a little forced at times (i.e. Hassan being pure good and Assef being pure evil), the story ultimately explores relationships, devotion, redemption, and the human soul.

I can say that I found Amir (the main character) a complete spoiled brat and a wimp. Unsurprisingly, so did the students. What I found more impressive than the novel was the idea that a bunch of 19-year-olds could read a complex, 350+ page novel in a foreign language and come up with enlightened, meaningful things to say about the characters, the plot, and the overall concept of the novel. You would never in a million years find that in a German class in the US. In my high school, we covered verb conjugation and adjective endings. No literature, no cultural musings. Nothing. Zip. Zero.

Which is totally why students in the US don't take foreign languages...or don't take them seriously...and don't like them when they do take them. You get the boring stuff in school, and then maybe - just maybe - if you take a 300-levelish course at university, you can get something like Faust to analyze to death. Well, OK, as a German major I read a hell of a lot more than just Faust, but think of all the people who casually take a foreign language. They never get past Ich heisse John and Wo sind die Toiletten? and Das ist gleich um die Ecke and useless shit like that.

So, to make a long rant short(er), keep literature in the classroom. Kids eat it up. They crave it. Their souls yearn for an explanation of the human soul - that only literature can provide - and they're never going to get it otherwise because they barely know where to look for it. Give the kids what they want before they burst all their braincells on Facebook.