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.

RECOMMENDED

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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The Rise of Ransom City by Felix Gilman

Published by Tor Books on November 27, 2012 

Harry Ransom made a brief appearance in The Half-Made World, as did his light-making apparatus. In the sequel to that novel, Ransom's goal is to build the city of the future, with parks and tall buildings, where freedom and democracy reign. The Rise of Ransom City, Ransom's autobiography, recounts his travels and exploits, his successes and (more often) failures. As you would expect, the stories told in this novel and in The Half-Made World overlap, but only slightly.

The Great War between the Line and the Gun has been ongoing for two decades when Ransom sets out to make his fortune. Agents of the Line serve the Engines and know the secret of electricity -- an expensive secret monopolized by the Northern Lighting Corporation -- but Ransom has created an Apparatus that produces light without cost, based on ideas he acquired (or stole) from the First Folk. He calls it the Ransom Process, and it is a work in progress that he doesn't fully understand. The Ransom Process creates heat and light and magnetism but it also has unpredictable (and sometimes violent) impacts on time and gravity. In its later versions, it seems to attract phantoms.

In search of investors, Ransom travels with his mechanic (the secretive Mr. Carver) and, along the way, picks up two fellow travelers who introduce themselves as Elizabeth Harper and her father. We eventually learn that these characters are not who they appear to be. Ransom later meets a feisty woman named Adela who invented the player piano. Ransom's journey brings him into contact with both the Line and the Gun, as both forces (and others) would love to weaponize the Ransom Process.

The Rise of Ransom City is an odd but intriguing novel. I appreciated the relative absence of expository writing. It might not appeal to readers who need to be spoon-fed but I think it's refreshing to find a writer who doesn't feel the need to explain every detail of the world the writer has created. Felix Gilman thrusts the reader into the world as Ransom knows it. Ransom, writing his autobiography in the first person, assumes the reader lives in that world and therefore doesn't bother to explain much about it. The reader is left to puzzle out the background, a task that becomes possible as more information comes to light over the course of the novel. In that regard, having read The Half-Made World would be useful but not critical.  The sequel stands nicely on its own.

The Rise of Ransom City incorporates a large dose of fantasy (or at least creates a world where the laws of physics as we understand them are a bit cockeyed) and a little bit of horror. There are echoes of post-apocalyptic fiction and of alternate histories. There are elements of steampunk and of westerns. The Rise of Ransom City is at various times an adventure story, a road novel, a romance, a political thriller, a comedy, a melodrama, and a twisted version of a rags-to-riches story. The novel's defiance of categorization is one of its most attractive features.

The book's success is largely due to the richness of Harry Ransom's personality. Part inventor, part philosopher, part con-artist, part adventurer, part dreamer, part schemer, Ransom is at times full of himself and at other times full of remorse. Often cowardly but occasionally brave, often confused but occasionally seized by a clarity of purpose, Ransom is engaging because, despite his all-too-common flaws, he is a good-hearted idealist who struggles (albeit with little success) to make the world better. His complexity is a welcome relief from the one-dimensional heroes who populate so many science fiction and fantasy novels.

Felix Gilman is an imaginative writer and a first-rate storyteller. In this wide-ranging story, Gilman pokes fun at religion by inventing one of his own (the Smilers), lambasts business tycoons, skewers the inclination of the judicial system to protect the powerful, and metaphorically comments upon Guantanamo-style interrogations. I'm not a fan of demons and spirits and supernatural characters of that sort, so I am happy to report that they play a relatively small role in the story (and the phantoms, at least, can be explained without relying on the supernatural). Ultimately, this enigmatic novel worked for me not just because the story is entertaining, but because it focuses on flesh-and-blood humans, with all their flaws, foibles, inconsistencies, and uncontrolled emotions.

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Every Day Is an Atheist Holiday! by Penn Jillette

Published by Blue Rider Press on November 13, 2012 

If you read God, No!, you know what you're in for with Penn Jillette's new book. Penn rambles. Digression should be Penn's middle name. He can't talk about Christmas songs without launching into an analysis of the lyrics to the "Theme from Shaft." The books are nonetheless noticeably different. Where God, No! has an organizing theme (not that the book is in the least bit organized), this one aspires to be nothing more than a collection of stories. In a strange way, however, that makes Every Day Is an Atheist Holiday a better book. If Penn is just sitting back and telling story after story without aiming for a broader point, it doesn't matter so much that he rambles. And on the whole, the tone of Every Day is an Atheist Holiday is less angry than the last book, seemingly written by a kinder, gentler Penn, although one who is still acerbic when the mood strikes. The stories are funnier, or at least more consistently funny. Some are brash, some are sweet, some are both at the same time.

The title notwithstanding, Every Day Is an Atheist Holiday is even less about atheism than God, No! One of Penn's longest and best riffs on religion examines Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech, pointing out that King reached out to all Americans, not just religious Americans, and included relatively little religious language in the speech. Penn suggests that the concept of inclusion has been lost in the rhetoric of those who incorrectly proclaim America to be a "Christian nation," a phrase that deliberately excludes every American who isn't a Christian. He then meanders into a biting discussion of evangelical politicians and of cynical politicians who aren't particularly religious but nonetheless make a big show of attending church (particularly when they get a chance to make a speech). He skewers Republicans and Democrats alike, and does so with sustained coherence. Every Day is an Atheist Holiday is worth reading for that chapter alone.

Apart from a concluding chapter that equates morality with atheism (rehashing an argument from God, No!), Penn returns to storytelling for most of the rest of the book. In that regard, Every Day Is an Atheist Holiday can be viewed as a celebration of life (as opposed to the celebration of a deity), particularly naked life. Penn likes to be naked, especially in public, and he likes to write about naked people and about his reproductive organ. A photograph of Penn receiving oral gratification resulted in a blackmail attempt that Penn turns into an amusing story. Other, seemingly random stories he tells focus on pranks he's pulled, mishaps he's endured, and celebrities he knows (no surprises: Donald Trump is a pompous a-hole, Clay Aiken is bitchy, Bob Dylan is a nice guy). He talks quite a bit about the history of Penn & Teller and a little bit about magic. Occasional stories pertain at least tangentially to atheism, including a dustup with Disney, a company that is no friend of freedom.

When he stays on track (which isn't often), he philosophizes -- and actually has interesting, carefully considered things to say -- about comedy and the art of performance, death and the passage of time, tolerance and friendship. He even devotes a brief chapter to denigrating atheists who insist on labeling all Christians as racist or sexist, thus indulging in the same sort of name calling to which religious extremists resort when they attack atheists. Fortunately, he tends to espouse libertarianism less in this book than he did in the last one. Despite his tendency toward redundancy (it's great that he loves his kids, but I got that the first twenty times he said it), much of what Penn says in this book provokes laughter and/or thought, and that's more than enough to make it worthwhile.

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Shoggoths in Bloom by Elizabeth Bear

Published by Prime Books on October 23, 2012 

Elizabeth Bear is a graceful, imaginative writer who skillfully illuminates the depths of the characters she creates. While the social relevance for which she often reaches sometimes seems a bit forced, she deserves credit for pushing the boundaries of science fiction and fantasy.

The stories in this collection I liked best tended to be science fiction. My favorite, "Tideline," won a Hugo. It is a poignant and memorable story. Chalcedony, a malfunctioning derelict of a war machine, combs the beach looking for pretty objects she can string together to make necklaces. She needs the help of a boy named Belvedere to carry out her final mission. Bear blends science fiction with one of Lovecraft's monsters in "Shoggoths in Bloom" as a black scientist in 1938 confronts a moral dilemma. This Hugo-winning story explores the ethics of enslaving a species that was created for the purpose of being enslaved. While full of entertaining ideas about future living, "In the House of Aryaman, a Lonely Signal Burns" is primarily the story of a murder investigation, complicated by shifting identities and an engineered cat that seems to have lost its memory. "Dolly" gives a slightly new twist to the "fine line between androids and humans" theme.

Other stories in the collection are less impressive but still worth reading. After she receives a brain implant for pain management, a young girl in "The Something-Dreaming Game" makes herself pass out from oxygen starvation so she can visit aliens who have a use for her implant. A former rock star and guitar goddess -- "The Girl Who Sang Rose Madder" -- while pondering the approaching end of her life, learns the meaning of life and death from dead guitar players. Whether brain repair is a euphemism for mind control is the question asked in "Gods of the Forge," a tale of industrial espionage that ends too abruptly. "Annie Weber" is about parasitic aliens who enjoy drinking cappuccino. An HIV-positive kid must decide whether to live her life as a harpy in "The Horrid Glory of its Wings."

Some stories don't have much to do with science fiction or fantasy but were nonetheless interesting, if unspectacular. "Sonny Liston Takes the Fall" is an odd story about Sonny Liston and Muhammed Ali and the experience of being black in America during the middle of the twentieth century. "Sounding" is about a whale that helps a struggling fisherman find some tuna. "Confessor" is an attempt at a thriller with the addition of genetic engineering.

There are also stories that didn't do much for me. With advice from a witch, "The Cold Blacksmith" tries to manufacture a heart for a demanding girl. A witch also turns up, along with a princess, in "Love Among the Talus," a story about which potential suitor the princess will marry after the battles cease. A dragon named "Orm the Beautiful" negotiates with the Museum of Natural History to preserve his Chord. The last shark eats the last people in "The Inevitable Heat Death of the Universe." In "Cryptic Coloration," three giggly girls stalk their professor who, when he's not teaching, uses his abilities as a magi to track down mythical creatures -- the sort of creatures who prey on giggly girls. In "The Ladies," women have the right to vote and Thomas Jefferson persuades John Adams' wife to run against her husband in the presidential election.

On the whole, while the collection is uneven, the best stories are exceptional and even the stories I didn't like so much are readable. The collection is an excellent introduction to Elizabeth Bear for science fiction and fantasy fans who would like to become acquainted with her work.

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