Umberto Eco’s fifth novel, The Prague Cemetery is the headline choice for this year’s Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, the winner of which is due to be announced on May 14.
Eco’s sprawling tale of gluttony and global conspiracy heads an eclectic and surprising six-strong shortlist, which also includes stories rooted in 17th-century Iceland, wartime Ukraine and Finland, and modern-day Germany and rural China. Yan Lianke’s pitch-dark Dream Of Ding Village makes another appearance having also been shortlisted for this year’s MAN Asian Literary Prize.
Uniquely among literary prizes, the £10,000 fund is split equally between the winning author and translator.
Alice by Judith Hermann (from German; trans. Margot Bettauer Dembo)
The clarity of Judith Hermann’s prose won her a place on the shortlist for Alice, a collection of five inter-linking short stories based around a single central protagonist and the death of a different friend or acquaintance. Technically it’s hard to fault, but the repetitive nature of the stories sometimes drags. The problem is not in the book’s observational qualities, but in its fundamental lack of insight. People die and she moves on, illuminating little about the process of grief, and prompting the reader to question precisely what Hermann had in mind when it came to creating this slim volume. She’s a novelist of considerable repute in Germany, so she’s probably way better placed to answer the question. Until she does, in the context of a major literary shortlist, Alice will remain entirely, perplexingly unremarkable.
Blooms of Darkness by Aharon Appelfeld (from Hebrew; trans. Jeffrey M. Green)
Appelfeld is a prominent Israeli novelist who has written over 40 works of fiction, most concerning the Holocaust. Blooms Of Darkness tells the story of Hugo, an 11-year-old Jewish boy, who escapes the Nazis in an unnamed town in Ukraine by hiding out in a cupboard in a local brothel. Hugo befriends a prostitute, Mariana, and as the novel develops so does their relationship: some might say, given Hugo’s age, in a somewhat unlikely and/or disturbing fashion. Appelfeld’s story is based on truth: he escaped a Nazi concentration camp in 1941 and hid out in a forest with, as he puts it, “underworld figures.” Appelfeld would be the first to admit Blooms Of Darkness is nothing particularly new, but it is nevertheless a worthy addition to the literature of the Holocaust. Its most significant triumph is its understated prose — so heartfelt it could almost have been written in a whisper.
Dream of Ding Village by Yan Lianke (from Chinese; trans. Cindy Carter)
Lianke’s grim tale of a Chinese blood-selling scandal which sweeps an HIV epidemic through countless small communities was also shortlisted for the MAN Asian Literary Prize. Unsurprisingly banned in his homeland, Dream Of Ding Village serves as a damning indictment of China’s irresistible push towards a form of controlled capitalism. It serves as a vicious allegory of the whole bust-up Chinese communist machine. With the villagers dying in scores, the rabidly profiteering blood-sellers must seek out ever more inventive ways to maintain their cash flow. Blackmail and corruption are rife: this is a society rendered hopelessly naïve by long years of bludgeoning single-party rule. Lianke is merciless in heaping misery upon his subjects, which makes this a terribly bleak book. But it is also highly readable, and undeniably important.
From The Mouth of the Whale by Sjon (from Icelandic; trans. Victoria Cribb)
From the Oscar-nominated composer Sjon comes his second novel, From The Mouth Of The Whale, which is every bit as baffling and brilliant as his first, The Blue Fox, which was previously longlisted for the prize. Set in volcanic 17th-century Iceland, where snow burns and whales grow to the size of mountains, Sjon conjures a fantastical tale of the purging of pagan rituals and the banishment of a scientist and doctor, Jonas Palmason The Learned, to a remote island as punishment for his alleged heresy. There are exorcisms, infant deaths, an uproarious sketch involving unicorn horns and, in the book’s most unforgettable scene, the brutal slaughter of a band of visiting Basque whalers. Sjon’s rich, almost mythical prose never falters for a moment, and the extraordinary success of Victoria Cribb in losing none of its potency in her translation from its original Icelandic deserves to be celebrated. This is a wild, tumultuous, utterly unique novel.
New Finnish Grammar by Diego Marani (from Finnish; trans. Judith Landry)
New Finnish Grammar is a wholly admirable book, telling the story of a sailor found grievously wounded on the quayside in Trieste towards the end of the Second World War. He has lost both his memory and his language, and carries no identifying documents. Taken in by a passing Finnish doctor, Petri Friari, the pair struggle to rebuild his identity: Friari convinces himself the man is also Finnish, on account of a nametag found in his jumper, and sends him to Helsinki in the hope of reigniting some dormant memories. There, he (re-) introduces his subject to the notoriously complicated Finnish language, evoking myths and legends of his country’s past as the mystery of the man’s identity slowly begins to unfurl. Marani highlights important issues surrounding language and identity, and if it is a little dry at times, valuing intelligence over intimacy, he has written a technically excellent and thought-provoking book.
The Prague Cemetery by Umberto Eco (from Italian; trans. Richard Dixon)
The extrovert, octogenarian Italian is back with a book many are calling his best yet. Fans of Eco will recognize his style from the start: grueling, disconcerting and often frustrating, it often feels that Eco is deliberately taking liberties with his reader, and yet The Prague Cemetery is astonishingly vivid, and never less than engaging. Eco weaves fact and fiction to devastating effect to unveil the mystery of a real-life document entitled The Protocols Of The Elders Of Zion, which was contrived to unite nations against the (supposed) Jewish plot for world domination, and would later by cited by Hitler in Mein Kampf. A master forger, Simone Simoncini, who has tricked and murdered his way through Turin and Paris, is tasked with creating the document. It is its inherent truth which gives The Prague Cemetery an extra dimension. It serves as devastating proof of how falsehoods can shape history, and misery can be heaped upon whole peoples by the stroke of a pen.
I haven't read Johnson's novel yet, but I suspect Sarvas made the right choice: "slight" seems to fit with my impression of Vida's book as well. There are stunning pieces to her writing, and I was entranced by the setting, but there were so many missed opportunities to take the story deeper (not necessarily longer), that I finished the book rather frustrated. Vida's talented, and I'll look forward to her future work, but this novel is underwhelming.
Since when can a novelist not be a critic as well?
The word 'slight' must be stricken from one's vocabulary after being published? Many of our greatest novelists have also been our greatest critics… I really hope that our best writers can recognize when a book fails to achieve that special something… and many are able to look back on their own work with an equally critical eye.
While I remain unconvinced by Sarvas' appreciation of "Tree of Smoke" (for me, the action/'longueur' combo was exactly the point…), I feel the need to defend his right as a critic.
Oh, and "Tree of Smoke" was amazing.
Though my money's on "Remainder", which was equally great (better?).
Aside; am I the only one who hated "Oscar Wao"?
Winjer, I respect Mark Sarvas as a critic (I like his blog a lot), and of course I think one can write novels and discuss them in the public sphere, but certainly it's not as easy as doing just one or the other. Since I didn't read Tree of Smoke or Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name, I can't say which I'd "advance" to the next round (which, is a pretty funny way to read books anyway, but so entertaining!).
For the record, I loved Oscar Wao, and absolutely hated The Remainder–but I seem to be the only one who had a hard time with that one…
Thanks for your comments!
winjer —
While I certainly didn't hate Oscar Wao (Diaz can flat-out write, there's no doubt about it) I found myself very frustrated by the jumping around between characters. I felt like Diaz went through all this trouble to create a compelling, interesting, empathetic lead character in Oscar, and just when I would follow Oscar anywhere, poof!, we're in someone else's story. Maybe some felt this deepened the story, but I felt it made the story more superficial. Of course, that may be personal taste.
It also left me with the nagging feeling that Diaz didn't really have a story to tell, and when he ran out of ideas, he would just simply turn to a different character.
(It also, frankly, made me wonder what in this book took 10 years to write, when not only does it draw heavily on Diaz's own experiences, but his previous book of short stories, Drown. Here's hoping Diaz will broaden his horizons with his next book.)
For my money, Diaz also went to the pop-culture/geekery/nerdlinger well for references far too many times, and I felt like he used it as a crutch to avoid tackling real human emotion.
Of course, all of these tactics could just be his attempt to dress up what is essentially a story about a nerd trying to get laid.
I think the novel works best if it's looked at as a collection of loosely collected short stories, and not a "novel" per se. And once I realized Diaz wasn't going to be writing a story-driven novel, it became more enjoyable.
(Though I have to ask, why title the book that way? I think that also helped create a false impression.)
Anyway, this got a little long, but while I don't know if I would recommend this book, I do know I will at least pick up the next thing he writes, as long as he stretches his wings some.