Climates by André Maurois

First published in French in 1928; published in translation by Other Press on December 4, 2012 

The nature of love and the different ways in which men and women experience it are at the heart of Climates. As a young Frenchman in the early years of the twentieth century, Philippe Marcenat's opinion of women is divided: he admires the female form but feels contempt for the female mind. Desire leads to boredom that can be overcome only by embarking on another conquest. He tells himself that he is searching for the "perfect, almost divine creature" he has imagined since his boyhood, but he finds true love only in the characters of the fiction he devours. Climates is the story of Philippe's relationships with three women -- women he loves in very different ways, and who influence his understanding of love.

Philippe's philandering life changes when he meets Odile Malet in Florence. Odile removes him from his "solitary meditation," makes him take note of the colorful world that surrounds him. It is only after they are married that a crack forms in the "transparent crystal" of Philippe's love. He discovers that Odile has a streak of independence. She lives in the moment, he lives mostly in the past, and they have the usual quarrels about which of them needs to change to accommodate the other's needs. Yet even after Odile gives Philippe good reason to think ill of her, he can form only positive thoughts of "her charm, her mysterious melancholy, her profound childishness."

The novel's second half shifts point of view from Philippe to Isabel, the woman Philippe marries long after losing Odile. Whether due to the change of perspective or because of his experience with Odile, we see a very different Philippe. He has no patience for "superficial sentimentality." While he doted on Odile, he is distant from Isabel. While he consciously overlooked Odile's flaws, he is critical of Isabel's taste and personality. While he wanted to spend all his time alone with Odile, he resents Isabel's desire to be alone with him.

In one respect, however, Philippe never changes: he spends his life searching for an ideal woman. He desperately wanted Odile to be that ideal, and then Isabel, although he recognizes that Isabel is no Odile. Eventually he befriends a woman named Solange, who is closer to Odile than other women he has known. Isabel finds it sad that "poor little Odile lived on in other women, in Solange, in me, each of us striving ... to reconstitute her long-lost grace." The futile search for an ideal (more than one woman accuses Philippe of placing women on pedestals) and the eagerness of women to attempt fulfillment of that ideal is one of Climates' most interesting themes. In one respect, it may be dated -- modern women are less likely to climb atop the pedestal -- but the futile search for imagined perfection retains currency.

The novel invites the reader to ask whether Philippe gains maturity from his relationships. He clearly develops a new (but not terribly flattering) understanding of women after his marriage to Odile: they are "unstable creatures always trying to find a strong directing force to pin down their wandering thoughts and longings," requiring a man to provide "a wealth of constantly changing interests and pleasures" to assure that his mate remains faithful. Near the end of the novel, Philippe lists his revised ideas, including the notion that women are governed by love rather than morality. Readers can form their own judgments as to the accuracy of the lessons that Philippe learns.

Readers can also ponder the conclusions that Isabel draws from her experiences: women in love have no independent personality, but adapt to meet the needs of their lovers; whether the people we love also love another isn't important so long as they love us when they are with us. Do her conclusions reveal her strength or, as her mother-in-law opines, her weakness?

André Maurois' lush, elegant prose and the directness with which he tells the story make Climates a quick read. A touch of melodrama is probably inevitable in a love story written in 1928, but it doesn't overwhelm the novel's subtle points. Fans of romance writing will find much to like in Philippe's heartfelt descriptions of Odile and of his love for her. In the end, I admired Climates for its differing perspectives of love and for the questions that the characters answer in their own ways.

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Pandora's Temple by Jon Land

Published by Open Road Media on November 20, 2012 

Nine Blaine McCracken novels were published between 1986 and 1998. I haven't read any of them, but I gather that McCracken was once a CIA operative who, at some point, turned freelance. In the tenth book, Pandora's Temple, McCracken is pushing sixty and hasn't worked in a couple of years, but quickly proves he is still worthy of his "McCrackenballs" nickname. Yeah, that's really his nickname. Homeland Security hires McCrackenballs to rescue some kidnapped college students who are imprisoned in a drug lord's fortress. Homeland Security can't send in Special Forces commandos because that might disturb delicate trade negotiations. Apparently, Homeland Security doesn't think Mexico will notice the Hellfire missiles that an American drone fires into the fortress to give McCracken an assist. The missiles are probably unnecessary because McCracken is backed up by his buddy Johnny Wareagle, who carries an M-16 in each hand, firing both unerringly at scores of aim-challenged Mexicans.

The mayhem in Mexico is just a prelude to the real adventure. A drilling rig named Deepwater Venture, operated by a company called Ocean Bore, is in the Gulf of Mexico, drilling in an unlikely spot to yield oil. When the drill reaches a record depth, what it releases isn't a fossil fuel. The crew disappears in a flash of light, an event that (for no obvious reason) prompts Homeland Security to declare a Level Six emergency (end of the world imminent). McCracken and Wareagle, being retired and having no official connection to the government, are naturally sent to the Deepwater Venture to find out what's going on. I mean, why would Homeland Security send Navy SEALs to investigate a Level Six emergency on a drilling rig when it can send two old guys instead? Of course, when killer robots and ninja warriors attack the offices of Homeland Security (don't ask), McCracken and Wareagle are the only two people in the building who aren't cowering or dying, so they are clearly the right men for the job.

The mystery beneath the sea could be a new source of unlimited energy. It could be a weapon. Or it could be a force too powerful to imagine. I'll leave it to a physicist to decide whether Jon Land's explanation of the mystery is based on plausible science or gibberish, although my money is on the latter.

From shaky science to Greek legends, I was unable to suspend my disbelief of the story told in Pandora's Temple. Not for a second. The plot is outlandish and the characters aren't within spitting distance of credibility. I suppose that makes my enjoyment of Pandora's Temple a guilty pleasure. I'm almost ashamed of myself for liking it. The story is filled with stereotyped heroes (including Wareagle, the Indian warrior with connections to the spirit world, and Captain Seven, the dope smoking Grateful Dead fan with a genius for technology) and cartoon villains (including a reclusive billionaire who wants to control the world's energy supply, the leader of a Japanese doomsday cult, and an environmental terrorist bent on revenge). The plot is so absurd that it borders on comedy.

So why did I enjoy Pandora's Temple? For all the silliness -- maybe because of all the silliness -- the fun factor is supercharged. Actions scenes are vibrant. Many of them are unexpectedly creative and would probably look great on film. In one scene, Land found an excuse to put a sword in McCracken's hand, giving him a chance to play gladiator. Land's prose is unchallenging but never dependent upon cliché. The story surges forward with the fury of a hurricane and, like a hurricane, it moves in unexpected directions. As outrageous as the plot might be, it consistently held my attention. All I ask from escapist fiction is to be entertained, and in that regard, Pandora's Temple delivers. Guilty pleasure or not, I enjoyed every word of it.

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Spilt Milk by Chico Buarque

 

First published in Brazil in 2009; published in translation by Grove Press on December 4, 2012

Spilt Milk begins with the rambling narrative of a hospital patient, Eulálio Assumpção, speaking to a girlfriend who, it soon becomes clear, is present only in his imagination. Assumpção is old -- he says his life has become "unbearably long, like a fraying thread" -- although whether he is actually one hundred years old, as he sometimes believes, is not entirely clear. Assumpção's connection to reality is tenuous. At times he believes his long-dead parents will be coming to rescue him from captivity. Other times he believes his daughter is arranging his discharge. Some days he is convinced he will not survive the night and asks for a priest to perform the last rites; other days he thinks he is being kidnapped.

Assumpção lives in his memories but his memories are indistinguishable from his dreams. "Memory is truly a pandemonium," he says, yet by rummaging around all sorts of things can be found. His memories resist chronology or any other order; they are called to mind by free-association. Whether those memories are reliable is another question. Assumpção recognizes that his memories have increasingly become memories of memories, copies that degrade each time they are reproduced. The reader is left to sort out truth from falsity in the confusion that is Assumpção's life in recollection.

With a minimum of well chosen words, Chico Buarque sketches Assumpção's long life and the colorful lives that surrounded him: the father ("the most influential politician in the old Republic") who took him whoring and introduced him to cocaine while he was still a child; the mother who wears tragedy well; the relatives who are misfits, criminals, and victims; the wife who taught him the true meaning of desire; the daughter whose husband leaves her during her pregnancy; the great-grandson born in prison, or perhaps in an army hospital, depending on how Assumpção remembers the story. Of course, whether we should accept these characters at face value is doubtful. Does Assumpção really have a great-great-grandson named (as are all his male descendants) Eulálio, "already a strapping young man of my size," who set fire to his school and stole jewelry from Assumpção's home so he could buy the latest mobile phones and phosphorescent tennis shoes? Not knowing quite what to make of Assumpção's stories -- no matter how confidently Assumpção tells them -- is part of the novel's appeal.

Assumpção's strongest memories are of his wife Matilde, his first and irreplaceable love, yet even here his account of their relationship is confusing and marked by contradiction. Assumpção was a jealous husband; whether that jealousy was founded is, like so much else in this novel, never clear. Assumpção believes Matilde abandoned him, although the timing and circumstances of that abandonment change each time Assumpção recalls them, as does Matilde's eventual fate. What shines through as trustworthy are elemental emotions: Assumpção's desire for Matilde and his despair at her loss. His life was full when they were together. After she left, the story of his life "would consist of many pages and little ink" -- empty pages. Perhaps his malleable memories of his daughter and of the offspring of his offspring are just an old man's last attempt to put words on the page.

Buarque's evocative prose captures the Copacabana of Assumpção's youth like sepia-tinted photographs. Still, it is the poignancy of Assumpção's life -- a long transition from privilege to poverty and perhaps, in the end, a life not entirely lived -- and the stark contrast of his memories of Matilde that make Spilt Milk memorable.

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The October Circle by Robert Littell

First published in 1975

Although it was written by a spy novelist, The October Circle isn't a conventional spy novel. In fact, it isn't a spy novel at all. Nor is it an action novel. Through much of the story, nothing of consequence happens. The October Circle is instead a novel of characters and ideas. Taken for what it is, The October Circle is both enjoyable and inspirational.

The celebrated members of the October Circle are Bulgarian patriots. The Flag Holder is known for his bravery in battling German invaders in 1944. The Racer set the world record for speed on a bicycle. Both are pictured in Bulgarian history texts. Along with a magician, a dwarf, a trash collector, an opera singer, and a painter, they are notable supporters of the uprising that abolished monarchist rule in Bulgaria, and strong believers in communist principles. When Soviet troops cross into Czechoslovakia in 1968 to suppress reforms instituted by communist leader Alexander Dubček, they feel that those principles have been betrayed. Given their prominence in Bulgarian society, they consider themselves uniquely situated to make a statement in opposition to Soviet aggression. But what form should the statement take? One suggests writing a poem, carefully shrouding political criticism in metaphor to avoid political repercussions. Another suggests writing a letter to a newspaper while another wants to petition the government. Since none of those tactics are likely to be noticed, they finally settle on a demonstration. Not only does it prove to be ineffective, but it leads to the imprisonment of one of the Circle's members.

Betrayal is one of the novel's large themes. In times of repression, the weak and fearful betray each other to protect their positions. Even worse, they betray themselves, subordinating their ideals to the whims of a totalitarian state. This the magician learns during a sham trial as friends take the stand to testify against him. His fate leads the other members of the Circle to consider more drastic forms of protest, but none of them anticipate the actions of the Flag Holder who, weary of betrayal, makes a grand gesture. At this point -- well into the book, when the plot begins to soar -- Robert Littell creates an inspired story of political repression and individual idealism. The Bulgarian government does everything it can to erase the Flag Holder's defiance from the public record, while the Racer does everything he can to honor his friend's memory by making sure the Flag Holder's protest will not go unnoticed.

Littell's great strength is his masterful ability to create memorable characters. From a witch whose prophecies shape the Racer's life to a trash collector who creates poetry from lists of broken and discarded items, Littell's characters carry the novel. The Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia inspires what might loosely be termed a plot, but it is the enduring friendships of the characters, their loyalty not just to Bulgaria and their shared belief in an ideology but to each other, that makes The October Circle so likable.

In the end, The October Circle is a stirring tale of one man's determination to hold true to his ideals, to stand his ground (not just on his own behalf, but on behalf of his compatriots) against the seemingly unlimited power of repression. In a sense, the novel's message is realistically bleak: neither the Soviet government nor western democracies have any use for the purity of idealism if it gets in the way of political propaganda. Yet the novel's last few paragraphs are a stirring reminder that ideas cannot be forever suppressed, and that idealism survives short-term setbacks, even if the idealist does not. 

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Sweet Tooth by Ian McEwan

First published in Great Britain in 2012; published by Nan A. Talese on November 13, 2012

Intellectually interesting more than emotionally engaging (until, perhaps, the very last pages), Sweet Tooth tells a languid tale before taking a surprising twist that alters the reader's perspective of everything that passed before.

In 1972, Serena Frome graduates Cambridge with an undistinguished third in maths. On the strength of some anti-communist essays she's written and a recommendation from a history professor with whom she is having an affair, Serena is recruited to work for the British security service. Although she's initially treated as a clerk and servant girl, her interest in modern literature draws the attention of her superiors, who are launching a new project to attract and fund young writers who reliably promote democratic ideals, as least as those ideals are envisioned by the security service. The goal is to create a counterweight against the left-wing bent of British intellectuals without overtly influencing the content of the writing. The project's code name is Sweet Tooth.

Serena's first task is to vet Thomas Haley, the only writer of fiction that Sweet Tooth is considering. Serena reads Haley's published stories, giving Ian McEwan the opportunity to tell those stories in outline form -- a sort of literary bonus for the reader, who is treated not just to McEwan's novel but to unrelated stories within the novel. Yet the stories are also a tool to open up Serena; while Serena examines Haley's stories, the reader examines Serena. The conclusions Serena draws from Haley's stories tell the reader as much about Serena as the stories tell Serena about Haley.

Serena has a tendency to become ridiculously attached to men she barely knows. Since she believes she knows Haley, having read his stories, it is in keeping with her character that she becomes obsessed with him, a process that starts before they meet. An earlier obsession led to an unhappy affair with the professor who introduced her to the security service, a man who initially seems to play a tangential role in the novel, only to resurface in a way that forces Serena to rethink their relationship. The need to rethink relationships is a constant in Sweet Tooth. It happens again when Serena flirts with her superior, and still again when she becomes attached to Haley, putting her career and Haley's integrity at risk.

Despite McEwan's customary winning prose, my initial reaction to Sweet Tooth was one of indifference. I was never able to warm up to the character of Serena. While that troubled me, by the novel's end I understood my reaction -- it is exactly the reaction McEwan intended. I suppose it is a mark of literary genius that McEwan was able to fashion a character who is full of insecurities, fearful (with some justification) that she is shallow and dull, easily manipulated, politically myopic, a bit judgmental (even snobbish), and ethically challenged -- in short, a less than admirable character who, for many small reasons, isn't easy to like -- while making it possible, at the novel's end, for the reader to view the character with a sympathetic eye. The misdirection that McEwan employs is quite remarkable. More than that I cannot say without spoiling the surprise.

Sweet Tooth gives McEwan the opportunity to address invention, the indispensable tool of both writer and spy. The novel's greater theme is the cultural cold war, the indecency of governmental attempts to manipulate (however indirectly) the content of fiction, film, or journalism, and the blow to artistic integrity that results when the government promotes art for propagandistic reasons. All of that is interesting, but it is McEwan's deft manipulation of the characters and plot that finally won me over. While it was difficult to set aside the chilliness I felt while reading most of the novel, in the end I admired the cunning way in which McEwan structured the story.

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