Silent House - Orhan Pamuk - Man Asia Literary Prize 2013 & Independent Foreign Fiction Prize 2013

I’m starting this review off with a disclaimer. I know nothing about Turkish literature, this novel would probably be the first Turkish novel I have read (if I have read something previously it didn’t leave enough of a mark to quickly be recalled). Therefore I may have missed some of the subtle references to the Ottoman Empire, even though there are plenty of not so subtle ones. I could well have misinterpreted the “Westernisation” theme, or completely missed a number of cultural references. For this I can only apologise.

This novel is written in five different first person voices over 32 chapters. The narrative being linear and picking up with a new set of eyes where the last narrator left off.

Narrator One – Recep the servant of the household, the illegitimate child of the grandfather who used to run the house. He laments his dwarfism, and his lower status in the family circle.

Narrator Two – Grandmother, she is awaiting the yearly visit from her grandchildren and spends her days and nights recollecting her marriage to a failed Doctor who spent his days writing an encyclopaedia of all knowledge and drinking (and obviously spawning out of wedlock children) at night. Her sections are also filled with contemplation on simple material objects and the passing of time.

I’m still lying here and I still can’t sleep. When night comes and I’m all alone, then I’ll breathe in the scent of these things, taste them, touch them with my hand, and I’ll think: The water, the pitcher, the keys, the handkerchief, the peach, the cologne, the plate, the table, the clock…They all sit there, just like me, all around me in the quiet emptiness, they creak, they rattle, in the silence of the night, they seem to be purifying themselves of sin, of guilt. It’s then, at night, that time is truly time, and all the objects come closer to me, just as I come closer to myself.

Narrator Three – Hassan, the child of Recep’s brother (who is also an illegitimate child of Grandmother’s husband and crippled). He is uneducated, bored and trapped in the former fishing village which has now become a haven of the nouveaux rich who sunbathe and do little else. He is drawn to the friendship and styles of the local right-wing nationalists.

Narrator Four – Faruk, one of the grandchildren here on his annual visit. He has a failed marriage, is following in his grandfather’s footsteps of being a failed writer (he is a historian) and a drinker.

But this renewed excitement did not last long, and again the galactic haze dissipated and disappeared. My obstinate mind, following its old habits, was making its customary demand of me: I had to find a little story, to make up a convincing tale! The structure of our brain probably has to change if we are ever to see and understand clearly, not just history, but also the world and life itself. That passion for listening to stories leads us astray every time, dragging us off to a world of fantasy, even as we continue to live in one of flesh and blood…

Narrator Five – Metin, another grandchild, who dreams of working in America, he quickly slots in with the nouveaux rich of the town. He’s aimless, empty and falling hopelessly in love with another of the local rich girls. Drugs, alcohol, fast cars and boats is Metin’s thing.

But the five voices are living through a politically turbulent time in Turkey, and with Nilgun (another grandchild visiting) being a Communist and a childhood friend of Hassan there is sure to be an explosion of ideals, families and prejudices. Even though we have the different voices the narrative does feel seamless, however there were some narrators (and styles) that I preferred to others. The repetitive nature of Faruk’s historical notes, which show us the melting pot of Turkey but also the insignificance of random past events, personally became quite tedious and I question their length. The inane ramblings of the love-sick Metin also seemed contrary to the plot, although the modernisation and Westernisation of Turkey could be seen through his character he felt a little thinly sketched for mine.

Interestingly enough “Grandmother” is the character name in five of her seven chapters, however there are two where she is known by her name Fatma. These are the chapters when her female force (not her Muslim suppression) is shown, and it’s not always a pretty picture.

A nice introduction to Turkish Literature as Orhan Pamuk must be considered a master, given his Nobel Prize, but personally not my favourite from the Man Asian Shortlist which I previously mentioned being “The Garden of Evening Mists” which was announced as the winner a few weeks ago.

the briefcase - Hiromi Kawakami (aka Strange Weather in Tokyo) - Man Asian Literary Prize 2013 - Independent Foreign Fiction Prize 2014

Here’s a challenge for you, write a novel about loneliness without becoming boring. Write one about emptiness without being melancholy, how about deep love without sentimentality? “the briefcase” is a moving sparse and deeply emotional tale of loneliness, emptiness and love but in a style that that is removed and scant enough to elicit a sadness that lingers long after the final page has been read.

This is the story of Tsukiko, in her late 30’s, a loner and a food aficionado who crosses paths with her former high school teacher, 30 years her senior, at a local eatery, she simply refers to him as Sensei (“Teacher”).  Their common love of food, saki and beer but their extreme yin/yang opposites is highlighted simply but effectively on page one:

Taking my seat at the counter, I ordered “tuna with fermented soybeans, fried lotus root, and salted shallots”, while the old man next to me requested “Salted shallots, lotus root fries, and tuna with fermented soybeans” almost simultaneously.

A novel that explores the Japanese food culture, with a hint of barfly behaviour as well as moving seamlessly through the seasons we become engaged with the first person narrative of our female lead through her thoughts, despair, awkwardness and speech (which is not always acknowledged with inverted commas, sometimes it just slips onto the page).

Her chance meeting with Sensei leads to further companionship through their shared love of the seasonal foods, mushroom hunting, and of course alcohol. Not all the seasonal changes are made as obvious as mentioning the weather, at times it is through the consuming of certain seasonal fish or vegetables or through the observations of the birds in empty or full blossoming trees. However the passing of time is understated enough for the reader to know it is significant without becoming laboured. The real story here is love but unacknowledged love whilst still suffering loneliness and emptiness:

It seemed strange to be surrounded by so many living things. When I was in Tokyo, I couldn’t help but feel I was always alone, or occasionally in the company of Sensei. It seemed like the only living things in Tokyo were big like us. But of course, if I really paid attention, there were plenty of other living things surrounding me in the city as well. It was never just the two of us, Sensei and me. Even when we were at the bar, I tended to only take notice of Sensei. But Satoru was always there, along with the crowd of familiar faces. And I never acknowledged that any of them were alive in any way. I never gave any thought to the fact that they were leading the same complicated life as I was.

I am not in anyway an expert on Japanese culture or writing and don’t understand enough of haiku to comment accurately, but I’m sure there are numerous meters and patterns throughout this novel that draw on traditional Japanese themes. Some sections are quite sparse and empty with just enough hint of relevance to the story to obviously delve into the lonely theme.

Old bastard, I said to myself, and then I repeated it out loud. “Old bastard” The old bastard must be taking a brisk walk around the island. I should just forget about him and go soak in the little outdoor hot spring at the guesthouse. Since I’m here on this island anyway. I’m going to enjoy myself on the trip whether Sensei is with me or not. I’ve managed on my own until now anyhow. I drink by myself, I get drunk by myself, and I have a good time by myself don’t I?

This is a difficult novel to review as I don’t want to give away the outcome of the deepening relationship between Tsukiko and Sensei. A short book (my edition is 176 pages) the awkwardness of a younger female having a relationship with an older man is not explicitly addressed whilst their deepening concern and love for each other becomes more apparent throughout, as does Tsukiko’s justification for her irrational actions (why remain lonely and empty when you have love on your doorstep?).  

I had given up worrying about Sensei’s intentions. I wouldn’t get attached. I wouldn’t distance us. He would be gentlemanly. I would be ladylike. A mild acquaintance. That’s what I had decided. Slightly, for the long term, and without expectations. No matter how I tried to get closer to him, Sensei would not let me near. As if there were an invisible wall between us. It might have seemed pliant and obscure, but when compressed it could withstand anything, nothing could get through. A wall made of air.

The title of the novel refers to Sensei’s constant companion “the briefcase” its relevance only becoming clear in the last sentence of the novel (and I’m not going to give that away). A moving but sad novel that covers an awkward subject matter, not just an affair between two people of different generations but the depth of Tsukiko’s emptiness and loneliness. Not my favourite novel of the shortlist to date (at this stage it goes to “The Garden of Evening Mists” just a smidgin in front of “Narcopolis”) but one I would highly recommend, a great shortlist this year.

The Garden of Evening Mists - Tan Twan Eng - Booker Prize 2012, Man Asia Literary Prize 2013

I must admit, gardening is not really my thing, I do appreciate a beautiful garden and I have seen a number of Japanese gardens in my time, obviously without fully appreciating the abstract message being conveyed. This novel is a contemplative one, hence the week or so since I finished it before getting to this review. It was a slow read, only due to the fact that I was letting it slowly sink in, as I’m sure Tan Twan Eng intended.

Set in Malaya in the mountains we have our narrator Yun Ling Teoh returning to the gardens of the evening mist to relive her story of being apprenticed to Nakamura Aritomo, a former gardener of the Emperor of Japan. Judge Teoh is a former war criminals prosecutor who had spent time in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, where her sister perished. She despises the Japanese for those atrocities but at the same time her story of her relationship with Aritomo and her wish of building a garden for her sister’s memory is slowly drip fed to us. Her time working Aritomo’s garden (Yugiri) and her relationship with the gardener and the locals is revealed slowly through the mists of her recollections.

At each turn in the path, Aritomo drew my attention to an arrangement of rocks, an unusual sculpture, or a stone lantern. They looked as if they had been lying there on the beds of moss and ferns for centuries. ‘These objects signal to the traveller that he is entering another layer of his journey,’ he said. ‘They tell him to stop and gather his thoughts, to savour the view.’

And our story unfolds in this manner, long winding passages with detailed descriptions of leaves, or clouds and then the occasional blooming of Judge Teoh’s story, we as readers have entered another layer of our journey. Although you could simply follow the narrative plot here this is a multi layered novel one that slowly encompasses “the art of setting stones” and a miniature view of a much broader landscape. We do have tea ceremonies, Buddhist references, raked sand to represent various elements, holes in hedges to focus your attention and more. All sub plots to the main story by our  narrator, who is losing her memory but revealing her story to us at the same time. A story which contains local terrorists, tea growers, tribes who harvest bat nests (for soup), kamikaze pilots and a mystery of hidden Japanese war wealth.

Despite my fears of a CT attack, I enjoyed living on my own again, in these mountains where the breath of trees turned to mists, where the mists entered the clouds and fell to earth again as rain, where the rain was absorbed by the roots deep in the earth and drawn out as vapour again by the leaves a hundred feet above the ground. The days here opened from beyond one set of mountains and ended behind another, and I came to think of Yugiri as a place lodged somewhere in a crease between daybreak and sunset.

This is a beautifully styled novel and as I mentioned before one that I allowed to slowly sink into my conscience. Judge Teoh’s life and the journey through war camps, through varied relationships and her attachment to Japanese gardens as well as woodblock prints and tattoo was not a journey I could quickly skim through. Personally I could understand frustration at a number of reader’s hands and if Japanese gardens, meditation and slow awareness is not your think then this would probably infuriate you no end.

Overall a very enjoyable novel which taught me a great deal about Japanese gardening, post war Malaya as well as narrative style. A worthy inclusion to the Booker Shortlist and a serious competitor for the Man Asia Literary Prize – the shorlist being:

Musharraf Ali Farooqi – Between Clay and Dust

Hiromi Kawakami – The Briefcase

Orhan Pamuk – Silent House

Tan Twan Eng – The Garden of Evening Mists

Jeet Thayil – Narcopolis

One of which I have reviewed here and the others will be forthcoming (once I’ve received or read them).