Non-fiction

The contents of John Hersey's book Hiroshima first appeared in the New Yorker in August 1946, the editors choosing to dedicate an entire issue of the magazine to the series of articles which he had been commissioned to write. The introduction to this slim volume describes the incredible response that the article received around the world and the impact that it had. The dropping of the first atomic bomb had huge political and historical significance. What this book is trying to do is put a human face on the event, to remind us that it was real people who suffered and died, and it is important to hear and remember their story as well.

I found myself reading it a little dispassionately, partly, on reflection, because it is written slightly dispassionately. Although John Hersey uses directly the accounts of the people he met he does not report their exact words but describes everything in the third person, so you get a disconcerting sense of being disconnected from the events. I feel everything about the story and the way it is told, and the public reaction to it, is a reflection of when it was written. Nowadays we have such instantaneous access to news from all over the world, seeing people's reactions to disasters in the most intimate of detail, practically being 'in the thick of' real events as they happen, but in 1946 this was not the case. During WW2 it might be months before a family learned of their loved ones' death, now every individual loss is announced on the evening news bulletin. To have such personal stories retold around the world only a year after such an event was much more startling then than it would be today.

Hersey tells the stories of six individuals in some detail, moving abruptly from one person to another to progress the chain of events. He describes first a brief background of their life and then what was happening to them in the period immediately before the bomb exploded. Then he gives us their individual experience of the moment of the explosion. You get a sense of how unexpected and unreal the experience was for them all, a white flash and then the blast hitting whatever building they were in, and of course the strangest little aspects of their situation that meant they survived rather than died. Then you have what they did in the minutes, hours and days that followed. Nobody knew what had happened, nor could any of them envisage the scale of what had happened, people mainly assumed it was an air raid (which they had been anticipating for some time), and it is not until months later that there is any understanding of the nature of the weapon used against them.

I think the book tells us a great deal about Japanese society and people, the strange (to me that is) things people talked about doing or thinking about, or what was important to them in the aftermath of the bomb. There is no hysteria or panic, people help each other as much as they are able. Those who are uninjured bring food and water for others, one of the interviewees ferries people across the river to escape the fires, people just get on and try and do what needs to be done, faced with a horrific situation. And yet by the end of the day it is almost as if they become immune to the suffering of others and resigned to their own fate. In such a short space of time each of them witnesses such extremes of suffering that you can only assume you stop being able to take it in. No one complains; Mr Tanimoto describes the crowds of people who arrive at a park, many horribly injured, and they just lie down and wait patiently, in hope that someone will help them. Many, many of them die overnight the first night, of injuries or the first effects of the radiation sickness, but there is almost complete silence. The atmosphere in the description of this first day is quite eerie.

I think the book gives a true picture and that the people involved were brutally honest, no one tries to make themselves heroic or to exaggerate their own personal suffering or loss. The other thing you notice is the total lack of self pity, that they accepted that their country was at war and that they themselves could be a target of that war, and that in effect they were suffering for their Emperor. This loyalty and patriotism was most strikingly shown when someone describes hearing the Emperor announcing the end of the war on the radio, and how important that was, because they had never heard his actual voice before. As a group there did not appear to be any lasting resentment or anger towards America, in fact, just as they stoically endured their suffering, they appear to dismiss as not so important the discovery of the nature of the atomic bomb, seeing it as just another part of war and not some especially evil weapon. It is as if we (in the West that is) have given it so much significance, but for the people of Hiroshima it was not viewed like that. They don't dwell on what is done but focus more on the future and rebuilding their city.

Being a student of politics I was very interested to learn about this event from a more human level. There is quite a mythology surrounding the dropping of this bomb, and the impact that it has had and the way it is presented in history does not tell the full story. I am left thinking that Hiroshima has become symbolic only of the worst that human being are capable of; there was most certainly horror and immense suffering, but there was also great human strength and resilience.

Science Fiction?

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. What an interesting man, I've just been reading his wikipedia page (I will resist the temptation to waffle and let you read it yourself.) This is another from mum's collection. Strangely in two years the price of books seems to have doubled, since in 1976 this one cost 50p. I picked it out because his name was familiar from my teenage years. I recall discussing my university application with the Head Teacher and his querying my having 'reading' listed as an interest and asking me what I was reading, so I said 'Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut' (weird how such tiny things stick in your memory).

Anyway by the time I reached the bottom of the first page I knew I had read this one as well (probably this copy), I mean you're not going to completely forget something as crazy as an invented religion called Bokononism. As a philosophical novel I think this book has got to be up there with Candide and good old Dr Pangloss, the procession of events has something of the faintly ridiculous about them. In fact I am left with the impression that Vonnegut (as a humanist) was giving the message that all religion is simply a means by which people struggle to make sense of how ridiculous life is. And Bokononism makes about as much sense as a means of looking at the world as any other religion.

The story is written by Jonah, who is writing a book about the Hiroshima bomb called 'The Day the World Ended', and finds himself caught up in the lives of others that sets him on a path towards the real day the world ended. It is funny also how, when you read and reflect (which has been partly the purpose of this blog), you find all sorts of links and themes running between books you encounter. In common with Any Human Heart this book is centred round an invented character who is part of the 'real world'. So Dr Felix Hoenikker is one of the group of scientists who created the atomic bomb, and in researching his life Jonah find himself caught up with the lives of his slightly strange children, whose decisions and actions are destined to have profound repercussions.

The book is written in retrospect, as the author looking back, not recounting things as they happen, so he is constantly referring to events and relating them to his new found belief in Bokononism. Shakespeare has his sonnets, the Bible has the psalms ... and Bokononism has Calypsos, in keeping I felt with it's Caribbean origins, like little mini songlets that expound some philosophical point. I don't think it is meant in any way to be mocking the ignorance and gullibility of the people of San Lorenzo, but more pointing out how easily human beings in general are taken in. I loved the way Johnson and McCabe take over this island, create a religion and then ban it, thus making it all the more appealing and romanticising the prophet Bokonon as a outlaw. I think the most telling and interesting term in Bokononism is the 'granfalloon'. In Bokononism the most important thing is the 'karass', a group of people with whom you are linked in some mysterious way in order to fulfil some higher purpose. A granfalloon is a false karass, where people create in their imagination a bond with other people that is not real; his prime example of this in the book is Hazel Crosby and her obsession with 'Hoosiers' (people who come from Indiana). I think it is quite a profound concept because it says so much about human nature, and the need to belong and to connected to other people in a significant way. The karass is the other side of the coin in a way, the idea that God (in whatever form) has plans for you and there is real meaning and real connections to others involved in these plans, and that is exactly what is attractive about religion.

I like the structure of the book, very short chapters, mostly only one or two pages, each with a nice helpful title giving progress to the story. The characters are quirky and occasionally slightly outrageous but totally believable. There is no waffle, everything is important, with snippets of information and details scattered throughout that add authenticity to the tale. I am not sure why it is labelled as Science Fiction. It is not futuristic nor is it set in outer space, and the 'ice nine', although it is mentioned regularly through the book, feels merely like a vehicle for precipitating the ultimate ending that ensures life really is ridiculous and meaningless. So if I were to catalogue it by subject it would be put with the philosophy books, a really thought provoking 'what is the meaning of life' book; at the end of the book you finally meet Bokonon, smiling and "thumbing my nose at You Know Who."

Books and more books

So Peter over on Kyusireader is conducting a 'bookshelf project' and has up some pretty impressive photographs of people's book collections. What a lovely eclectic mix, some all neat and tidy and others just piled up in a wonderful jumble of reading pleasure. So I decided to take photos of the current state of my own collection.

As an aside I'll just fill you in on the background. Most of the books were, post divorce, stacked on an old and increasingly tatty stained pine shelving unit. Then we were flooded in July 2007 and the books were hurriedly stacked in the boys bedroom. They were subsequently put in boxes under the bunk beds when Jacob moved to live with us and some were moved to the loft (during this time we were still without carpeting and repairs were non existent). Then we moved out while repairs were done. We moved back after 5 months (just over a year after the flood) and the books remained in the loft while bookcase plans were made. After a visit to Ikea mine and Dunk's relationship underwent it's first real test as were put the two bookcases together. You can't see in the picture but one of the shelves is unfinished on the front edge. We put it together before we discovered this ... we thought we had done it wrong and so pulled it apart again ... and found that it was not us, it was Ikea's fault. I arranged for a new piece to be sent but by this time I just wanted to get the job done so put all the books on them anyway. So there is a nice new shelf in the loft, for some occasion when we might move house and I feel so inclined to deconstruct and reconstruct the bookshelf.

First picture is the fiction/poetry/biography shelf (and my politics stuff on the bottom shelf). My only system was honestly based on size, the gap at the top was tiny so only certain books would fit there. Both shelves were pretty much full so new acquisitions have been stacked on the front. The photo you can see clearly is my mum, the home made paper chains are from last Christmas, the pale blue thing is a toy M made at school, the envelope rack I made at school, the pile of fluffy stuff is the camel hair I still have not spun and the hat was Tish's for her Borneo trip. The lovely lamp on the table was made from an elm tree that my parents had to have taken down from their garden at Lewdon Farm (they don't live there now by the way), and they had lamps made with some of the wood.
The other side is the non-fiction shelf. Now I think the books on the other one are pretty much all mine, but probably at least half of these are Dunk's. He has another bookcase in our bedroom which is almost entirely computer books but I am not including them here. This one does have a plan, but you still get the size problem so the big ones go on the bottom shelf. We have education stuff, philosophy, history, music, art (all very vaguely), a small knitty/crafty bit, and then a miscellaneous bit for anything that didn't fit elsewhere. There are more paper chains, the little wooden box M made at school and the wooden calendar came from my dad's office in Liverpool when I was about 13. It was something he acquired when they redecorated and because I was the only person who ever changed the date he gave it to me, so probably another of my most long standing possessions.

Catching Shellfish ...

.. between the Tides by Rosalyn Chissick.

A strange little book that I picked up at a charity shop, probably attracted by the esoteric title, and the fact that Helen Dunmore's name is on the front recommending it.

It is a story about stories. Magda has a life that is going nowhere and falling apart at the same time and she tells stories, probably invented ones, about her past life to people she meets and to the reader. She seems to be always trying to escape to something better, she suffers very badly from 'the grass is greener' syndrome. And never finds anything better nor people who can give her what she appears to so badly need. All in all not a very satisfying tale, none of the characters have much solidity to them, many are even nameless, as they float past on the breeze, and Magda is not in any way sympathetic. As it comments on the back she lives in some kind of fantasy world where she no longer knows or remembers which bits are real and which aren't. She clings to people but seems strangely emotionally detached from everything. The only thing that I did like was the quiet little observations she makes about life, the universe and everything.

"The tick of her watch as the seconds fall away. She imagines she can catch them, one by one, dropping off the end of her wrist. Catch them before they disappear." (p.105)

And then towards the end when she is abandoned once again by someone she thought she could trust:

"After an hour, she knew. Though she fought against knowing.

After two hours, she thought: Sheboy has gone, I should be crying. But when what you have most feared happens, suddenly, and for a moment, there is nothing to fear." (p.154)

But mainly I just found the book somewhat depressing. There is no link to anywhere as I could find very little information about the author. She appears to have collaborated on a book called The Gift with a psychic called Mia Dolan, which I refuse to link to because I find all such things to be utter tosh.

crazy old women

I don't do this much, I mean what's the point of writing a blog and just directing people to go somewhere else instead, but I was random browsing and found the most fabulous tale.

So now you can pop over to Sue's Blog and read about what crazy old women get up to when they are not busy knitting and reading, in fact the rest of you should be grateful for all the knitting because it keeps us off the streets and out of this kind of trouble.

Not to Disturb

Not To Disturb by Muriel Spark

I acquired (borrowed) this book from my mum's extensive collection. It was printed in 1974 and cost 25p. I love the idea that you could once buy a book for 25p. It is also nice to have a family who reads as you always have a source of new suggestions and books to borrow. It wasn't until I read the mini biography that I learned that she also wrote 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie', which I have never read, but it is one of my most favourite films.

This book reminded me very much of 'Chronicle of a Death Foretold' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (there is a review of this on my other STB site, but I am thinking of moving it all over here review can now be read on the 'More Reviews' page) but I mean just the theme, nothing else about they way it is written, in fact it would be hard to find two more different novels. In this tale it is the Baron and Baroness who are going to die. Everyone else in the house knows it but them. We barely get to meet them, they are peripheral to the tale, which focusses on their staff, and their excited anticipation of the event in question. It was a dark and stormy night, and as the rain comes down in torrents and the thunder crashes about the castle everyone from the butler to the pregnant maid is keeping vigil in the kitchen and making arrangements to sell their stories to the highest bidders. They don't seem to see anything strange in the way they are already discussing the Baron and Baroness in the past tense.

It is a book about characters: Lister the butler, who's only concern is carrying out his assigned duty of ensuring that they are not disturbed; Eleanor, I think, the housekeeper, who goes on about her carrot juice for much of the book; Heloise the maid, who cannot figure out who is the father of her unborn child; Clovis the exasperated chef; and through to minor players like Theo and Clara, the porter and his wife who live at the gatehouse. Then you have a rather confused Reverend, who ends up marrying Heloise to the mad brother in the attic in a somewhat surreal ceremony, Prince Eugene, a neighbour who pops round trying to get some of the staff to defect and come and work for him and Mr McGuire and Mr Samuel, there to make a record of the events.

So the Baron and Baroness Klopstock are locked in the library with Victor Passerat, the secretary, and a revolver (it feels like a scene from Cluedo). It has been decided that after a night of heated discussion they will reach an inevitable situation who's only resolution is the death of all three. The other people in the house wait the night out, in both eager anticipation and resigned acceptance of the events. In fact they mostly spend their time preoccupied with their own petty concerns and determinedly ensuring that nothing will disrupt the preordained outcome. It comes as no surprise when the door is forced open the next morning by the police that this is exactly the case, the Baroness and Victor dead at the hand of the Baron, who then shot himself after writing an efficient explanation for the situation. The staff all play their parts magnificently, looking suitably shocked and horrified and convincingly feigning absolute ignorance of what might have occurred.

"Clovis leads the way to the servants' quarters while the Inspector says to Lister, 'Didn't you hear anything during the night? No shots? No shouting or screaming?'

The wind encircles the house and the shutters bang. From the attic comes a loud clatter. 'No Inspector. It was a wild night,' says Lister"

Just so you know, Hadrian had loosened the shutters on purpose, to make sure they banged loudly.

Not sure I will suggest people rush out and read this one. A curious little book.

Fragile things

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

I have not read anything else by Neil Gaiman, though I have started reading The Graveyard Book. I am not sure (yet again) what to say about this book. Many of the pieces are very brief, many are not exactly stories, all of them are totally bizarre. I think my favourite was one about a student going to interview an elderly woman who turns out to be Susan from the Narnia stories. Gaiman's writing comes across as somewhat stream-of-consciousness, as if an idea occurs and he just runs with it in the moment, but who knows, maybe every word is meticulously planned.

I am just going to quote the final part of my other favourite, it is called The Day the Saucers Came:

That day, the saucer day the zombie day

The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came

And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day

All the plants died, the plastics dissolved, the day the

Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day

Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,

And all the bells of London sounded, the day

Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,

The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,

You didn't notice any of this because

you were sitting in your room, not doing anything,

not even reading, not really, just

looking at your phone,

wondering if I was going to call.

I am not going to be able to do justice to the variety and ingenuity of this book so I'll just leave it at that.