Nobels: 2008: J M G Le Clézio

J M G Le Clézio won the prize in 2008 for his life's work, as an "author of new departures, poetic adventure and sensual ecstasy, explorer of a humanity beyond and below the reigning civilization".

I'm not sure about that. Here's the only book of his I've read, which I picked up a couple of years ago in the Blackheath Amnesty booksale. I'm grateful that I've now given myself the incentive to read it.

The short book is a memoir about Le Clézio himself, and increasingly about his father, tracing his history as a doctor, trained in London but mainly practising in British west Africa (now Nigeria and Cameroon) before and during the Second World War. He seems to have been always a fairly contrary man, but the experience of colonialism and war made him a hard, unforgiving one, bitter at the destruction of what seemed a kind of Eden.

It's beautifully written, capturing the sights, sounds and smells of Africa, while avoiding any over-simplification or sentimentality.

It hasn't been translated into English and is probably hard to find so there'd be no point in my recommending it. Le Clézio seems better known in France as a novelist, though, and if you find one of his novels on sale - perhaps at the Amnesty sale on 16 June - it'd be worth a go.

Nobels: 2009: Herta Müller

I could have skipped over Herta Müller, but shouldn't really. Before I started writing these entries, she was one of the first laureates I searched out, simply because I hadn't heard of and probably should have. So this entry is relying on my memory of what I read a few months ago.

She writes in German but lived under the Ceaușescu regime in Romania until exile (to Germany) in 1987. The book I read, The Land of Green Plums, is clearly, although not explicitly, about life under that oppressive government. The West's relationship with Romania was always uneasy; it was given a lot of leeway on the enemy's enemy principle, and it was only with fall of Ceaușescu around Christmas 1989 that the extent of the totalitarianism became more widely known. The book was published in 1994.

It's quite a depressing book. As well as the ideological oppression, the country was dirt poor, hence the (English) title: unripe plums were coveted, and they are fairly obviously symbolic of pervasive stunting. The pervasive joylessness, lightened only by occasional tiny victories, is convincingly portrayed. When I read it, I was deeply concerned about the tide of authoritarianism rising in this country, headed by a xenophobic and illiberal prime minister and aided by economic decline. We're a long way from Ceaușescu, of course, but nothing's impossible.

So I would recommend it, as a warning from recent history.

(Incidentally, let's look at that title: Land of Green Plums. The German title is Herztier, which literally means Heartbeast. I think the German word is as made-up as the English would be, and its significance is explained in the book. Why not translate it literally? I'm seeing a trend in these books for the translated title to be more generic than the original. Lituma en los Andes became Death in the Andes and Rue des Boutiques Obscures has been translated as Missing Person which is much less intriguing. But less perplexing too and I suppose that's the point. Translators and their publishers don't want any obstacle putting potential readers off.)

Nobels: 2010: Mario Vargas Llosa

Mario Vargas Llosa is one of those South American writers everyone is supposed to like but I can't really get into. Still, it's surprising I've never tried him before. On the basis of this one, Death in the Andes, I don't think I'll try again and what follows is, I'm afraid, a list of reasons why.

First the title. The original is called Lituma en los Andes and Corporal Lituma is the principal character. He previously featured in an earlier novel, Who Killed Palomino Molero? and so the original title is both a bit of branding and - perhaps deliberately - reminds us of Tintin books. The English title removes both of those and doesn't replace them with anything. It's too generic.

The translation is by Edith Grossman, a highly regarded translator from Spanish but I often found the tone incongruous. Lituma often refers to women as "broads" and while no doubt this accurately conveys contempt and a certain misogyny in the character, the word just seems dated, and the kind of thing Frank Sinatra would have said. Is it still current in US English?

And threaded throughout the book there's the story of Lituma's adjutant Carreño's romance. Lying in their shack at night, he listens to the younger man's story, making interjections which you know are meant to be funny, but aren't. Humour is very hard to translate.

The main story, though, is of disappearances. Three men from an isolated building camp in the Andes disappear and Lituma's job is to investigate what happened to them. He eventually finds out, but doesn't - can't - do anything with the knowledge. But there's no ambiguity left for the reader on that central issue.

Meanwhile the story has been intercut with tales of innocent people being in the wrong place at the wrong time when Maoist terrorists are about. Horrifying tales, for sure, and in some ways the most compelling parts of the book, as the victims gradually realise what is happening, but barely connected with the main narrative. To be positive, you could see it as two books for the price of one.

The worst thing, though, is the inelegance of the writing. I don't think it's just the translation. Clunking similes and worn-out expressions plod past wearily. It's quite a late book in Vargas Llosa's career (1993). Maybe all his best work was earlier. Not a recommendation from me, then, but I'm quite sure a lot of people will disagree.

Mario Vargas Llosa Death in the Andes trans Edith Grossman Faber 1997

Nobels: some skipping

As I mentioned at the outset, I'm going to skip over some laureates. Mainly those I've read before but also some where the difficulties of reading and/or appreciating the work aren't worth it.

But it's only fair I should mention those I've skipped.

Kazuo Ishiguro 2017. I've read Remains of the Day (who hasn't?) and obviously it's a damn good book but it didn't inspire me to read anything more by him. My loss, almost certainly, but it struck me as too perfect in a way. The imitation of a buttoned-up, emotionally repressed butler was impressive but somehow loveless. That may be the point, but the eventual warming was something completely linguistic.

Bob Dylan 2016. Everyone knows Bob Dylan. What to say about him? There's only thing more boring than a Dylan fan raving on about him, and that's a Dylan sceptic ranting on about him. I'm in one of these groups and that's all I need to say.

Mo Yan 2012. I've read one of his books. I can't even remember which one. It didn't make much of an impression.

Tomas Tranströmer 2011. A Swedish poet. "His poems captured the long Swedish winters, the rhythm of the seasons and the palpable, atmospheric beauty of nature" according to Wikipedia. While I could perhaps find some of his poetry, with translations you may be able to tell if lyric poetry is good - and I'm sure his is - and you may be able to know if it's full of smart ideas, but you can't appreciate it fully.

So that brings us to Mario Vargas Llosa (2010). Fairly surprisingly, I've never read anything by him. However the postie has just delivered Death in the Andes, which is pleasingly short, so I'm on it.

Nobels: 2013: Alice Munro

Picture by J Munro

My exploration of Nobel prize winners will obviously present me with some writers I've never heard of, and some I have heard of but had no idea of how good they were. Alice Munro is one of those.

(If you want to go off short stories, take a creative writing class. For practical reasons, short stories are all anyone ever does and for the most part, they all, including the ones you write, are terrible. At least half the people on the course, including you probably, are doing it for therapy and while that's great, it's something you ought to and get out of the way before you start expecting other people to read what you've written. And of course you have to be nice about them, and in return other people are nice about your stories and inevitably a low standard becomes the norm. You forget what a good short story is like.)

These stories (I'm reading Selected Stories which covers Munro's early years, from 1968 - 1994) are just brilliant. I've been reading them slowly because they are packed solid with observation and nuance. She is a very kind writer, although it's a kindness based on knowledge: her characters' thoughts and feelings are coolly examined, in all their complexity and contrariness, and, if not fully understood, fully accepted. The longer stories approach the scope of novels: an entire life portrayed in 30 pages. Of course the stories are mostly female-centred, but no apology is needed for this. They also focus on people from disadvantaged communities and the conflicts they face in their life between their past and their future. So, unless you are Jacob Rees Mogg, you can relate to them.

I strongly recommend these stories. And with a run of male authors coming up - Mario Vargas Llosa and Orham Pamuk to start with - I'll be saving some to read in between.

In researching this post I've found that the Royal Canadian Mint commemorated Munro's award with a coin. It's a pretty naff design (in my opinion) but contrasts sadly with Britain's recognition of its writers: the most modern writer to figure on English currency is Jane Austen. Again, how many times do we need to say, one thing that Britain does well is writing: why don't we celebrate this?  

And I also found this: a contentious but provoking defence of women novelists.

As if they needed one. 

Nobels: 2014: Patrick Modiano

pic by Frankie Fouganthin CC BY-SA 4.0

Patrick Modiano is a French writer with a complex racial background. His novels are said to frequently explore questions of identity and memory, particularly with reference to French history during the second world war. His Nobel citation referred to "the art of memory with which he has evoked the most ungraspable human destinies and uncovered the life-world of the Occupation".

It's no surprise to find that he was a pupil of Raymond Queneau, and as well as that writer, I picked up reminiscences of Michel Butor and Georges Perec. I should have heard of him but, like most people outside France, hadn't until he won the prize.

The book that I read for this entry, Rue des Boutiques Obscures (translated into English as Missing Person) is fairly short, around 250 generously spaced pages, and easy to read: any philosophy is woven lightly into the narrative. It won the Prix Goncourt in 1978.

The basic story is of a narrator, initially known as Guy Roland, who has suffered amnesia and is trying to piece together his earlier life. He frames the question as one of identity (the opening sentence is "Je ne suis rien"/"I am nothing") and his initial search is for a name to give himself.

As the quest goes on, the reader is more interested in the question of why he has forgotten everything, a question that is only partially answered.

The book uses a variety of narrative techniques, from straightforward first person narration, unattributed third-person passages, and documentation. Set mainly in Paris, it also travels to Megeve in the French Alps for one of the most atmospheric sections.

Like Perec's La Disparition there's a hidden theme, a void at the heart of the book, the unspoken horror that might explain the amnesia. An amnesia which we can transfer to the whole of French post-war history, I think.

The writing isn't always perfect. There are some tics that irritate. No character is introduced without a perfunctory description of the colour of their hair, and minor characters tend to be greyish men of around sixty, with no other attributes.

But on the whole it's a really good, provocative book. I would be tempted to read more by Modiano.