Archive for the ‘As cold as the grave’ Category
I hope I never meet Viola Di Grado. Her latest novel, The Hollow Heart, has the authentic ring of autobiography. Pure imagination is incapable of inventing something this assured, this intense and vivid. It must be drawn from life.
And what a sick, doom-laden, psychotic life it is! The narrator, Dorotea Giglio, is a sensitive soul, quirky, morbid, self-obsessed and glum. But the most disconcerting thing about Dorothea is the fact that she is dead.
She is dead from the first sentence. She remains dead until the last.
You might wonder if there can be a plot in a novel when the main character, who is also the narrator, is dead throughout.
Well, let me assure you, this novel holds quite a few surprises. There is more than just a back story. Things happen to Dorotea after she dies.
First, things happen physically to her corpse. We are not spared the details. If you are squeamish you can skip the bits in italics but I don’t recommend this. The close-up scrutiny of her putrefying corpse is intrinsic to Dorotea’s story.
For although Dorotea has a scientific interest in bodily decay, she discovers there is more to death than this. There is spiritual change too. There is growth.
There is also an awful, chilling moment towards the end of the novel when you think something truly shocking and unforgivable is about to happen. I had my still pumping heart in my mouth.
I won’t spoil one of the best moments in the novel by telling you more about it. Suffice to say that Dorotea likes to tease.
She is playful with language too. “I died of optimism,” she laments. “I thought my suffering would end after I died.”
Suffering is only part of the process. Through suffering comes revelation. After revelation, something else. I’m not sure what to call it. Perhaps you could call it redemption but that sounds inappropriately religious. The novel is too subversive to fit into the tradition of religious doctrine suggested by the themes of suffering, revelation and redemption. It is a meditation on death that becomes a celebration of life. It celebrates, above all, a life rooted in the senses and expressed in words. Life holds possibilities the dead can only envy.
Because of this, the dead need psychiatric help. Your help.
As a disembodied ghost, Dorotea loses the ability to read. She can see the words on the page but she can no longer decipher their meaning. She can, however, write, and in writing she hopes to be rescued — rescued by you, the reader.
If that seems paradoxical, a greater paradox was that in reading her words I found myself rescued by Dorotea.
Yes, I think the word rescued is not too strong to describe what happened to me. It happened on a subconscious level. I didn’t realise the connection at first. But towards the end of the novel, having put it away in my bag and finished with it for the morning, I received a text from a friend whose father had just died. I didn’t know her father well but I suddenly had a strong conviction that I wanted to go to the funeral. Normally I avoid funerals. But this time I felt an irresistible compulsion to bond with my friend and pay respects to her father. What can I say? It was an epiphany. I felt different, very different inside.
It wasn’t until the next day when I pulled The Hollow Heart out of my bag again and found where I’d left off, that I realised that Dorotea had changed my attitude to the dead.
I am not going to attempt to put this feeling into words. I cannot begin to come near Viola Di Grado’s proficiency with language. I will just say that it was her words that brought about this change in me.
I no longer fear death. In fact I want to make friends with the dead. I long to embrace Dorotea as a sister.
Alas, I can’t say the same about Viola Di Grado. A writer this powerful is scary. I really hope to God I never meet her.
I’m a bit concerned that, because I give so many 5-star reviews, people might think I am indiscriminate.
On the other hand, my reading time is so precious that I don’t like to squander it reading a book I’m not enjoying. There are so many thrilling ones.
So I’ll compromise.
I’ll review this book without reading it.
To be fair, I tried to read it. There are six stories in this collection and I gave each of them a go. I read the first one for over twenty minutes but I couldn’t find a single thing to like.
The others I devoted much less time to. I found the accumulation of mundane sentences and banal dialogue overwhelmingly tedious. I think my flatmate’s incoherent ramblings are more literary than this.
I read (or, strictly speaking, didn’t read) these stories in English but it’s not the translator’s fault. She has also translated “Lust, Caution” by Eileen Chang, which is absolutely brilliant whether you read it in English or Chinese.
So, sorry, this gets a thumbs down from me.
No, no, no. No, no, no. This is not how to write erotica. This is not how to write romance.
I was lured by the prospect of sin, tricked by the allusions to Lou Reed and Edgar Allan Poe. This was supposed to be Gothic, dark and dangerous.
Instead it was insipid and stale.
There is no passion in any of these sentences. The characters are so under-developed they are hardly there at all. The sex is as tame as a glass of tepid milk.
No. Let’s try another one, quick.
My flatmate was just telling me about a bad experience with anal sex in Malaysia (where she couldn’t go to the doctor afterwards) and for some reason I thought of this book. It wasn’t pleasant but I forced myself to go through with it. Why, God only knows.
I was surprised to find this in a bookshop and bought it out of curiosity. I thought, since it had made it onto the shelves of a mainstream bookshop, it must have some merit. I am also interested in exploring the extremes of sexual experiences. I want to read about what people think of as edgy, dangerous and cool. I want to encounter people with imagination who can go beyond convention and routine.
My expectations of this book were not high but it was still a huge disappointment. It was a struggle to find a single story in here that held my interest let alone one that I could recommend. Some are better than others. Some should never, ever have been published.
This is really scraping the bottom of the barrel.
I believe there is nowhere to hide when you are a writer. Try as you may, your personality will shine through. Sooner or later. This is not a James Bond novel. This is a Jeffery Deaver novel.
I can say this with certainty even though I have never read a Jeffery Deaver novel. Not all the way through. I have read bits.
Jeffrey Deaver likes bits.
I prefer people whole.
That’s why I didn’t finish this book.
I wouldn’t date this guy. I would have dated Ian Fleming for sure. He would have been fun. But Jeffery Deaver? No, sorry.
I am very interested in the life of the woman who wrote these stories. There is no doubt that they are a first rate contribution to world literature. They are serious, controlled, thoughtful and deeply felt. But I hate reading them. They are like a bitter pill to me and I don’t want to take it. There is a China that is not shown here. You might think that this other China doesn’t exist, could never exist. Yiyun Li doesn’t want these stories to be published in China. Perhaps it’s because the China she writes of isn’t there anymore. I haven’t read her other collection of stories or her novel but I think they are still trying to purge her past. Let’s move on.