Babel by R. F. Kuang

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

This book was our selection for this month for the Literary Lush Book Club. It was on my list already both because I read one of Kuang’s other books, Yellowface, and liked it; and because several friends liked Babel. 

 

These books are, shall we say, very different. Which is an indication that Kuang is versatile in multiple genres.

 

I ended up listening to this on audiobook along with my wife (also part of the book club) since we had a couple of trips out of town together. We finished most of it, then set aside an evening to do our ironing and listen to the rest. 

 

Before I get into the book itself, I want to say at the outset that I very much enjoyed the book. Its strengths include excellent and consistent worldbuilding, a sympathetic yet complicated and messy protagonist, a compelling story, and so much delicious discussion of translation and words. And also, an ending that felt inevitable and satisfying, which isn’t always the case in modern fiction. 

 

The weaknesses are several. First, the book does way too much preaching about the evils of colonialism. If I were here editor, I would have insisted on cutting 50 to 100 pages worth of preachiness. The thing is, it isn’t necessary. The story itself is ample argument, and the preaching detracts, rather than adds. 

 

In my opinion, the core problem is that Kuang (who was in her mid-20s and a grad student when she wrote the book - so youthful follies) doesn’t trust her readers. She sees them as being like Letty - who I suspect was based on a person or persons the author knew - rich white girls who fail or refuse to understand how racism affects people of color. Thus, too many explanations. 

 

I would like to assure Kuang (in the unlikely event she runs across this blog) that many of her readers already are on her side regarding colonialism, and also can draw their own conclusions from the story itself. We don’t need the preaching. And I suspect that most of the people who would be drawn to this kind of book are that kind of reader already. 

 

The other flaws are more minor. There are a few minor plot holes that astute readers can find, although they are not significant to the story. A few in our club, myself included, wish that we had gotten Victoire’s back-story sooner than the epilogue. And perhaps more of Victoire herself, because she is a great character. 

 

Finally, I think that there is the question of ostensibly 19th Century characters talking using modern ideas of sexism, colonialism, racism, and so on. In some books, this importation of modern ways of thinking irritates the hell out of me. On the other, since this book was clearly set in an alternate reality - one in which, most notably, women are allowed to attend Oxford in the 1830s - I found it to be just part of the worldbuilding along with the silver-based magic/technology. 

 

Okay, so all of that out of the way, what is this book anyway?

 

The book is an alternate history or perhaps alternate universe version of Oxford University in the 1830s. In this world, Britain’s worldwide empire is sustained by a peculiar form of magic - aka technology - that doesn’t exist in our world. 

 

The technology requires silver bars, inscribed with similar words in different languages - words that could be translated as synonyms, but, because translation is never entirely exact, have very slightly differing meanings or connotations. This gap in meaning creates the power to create in reality the difference in nuance. 

 

These silver bars and their magical (or technological - a distinction without a difference, perhaps…) powers are the basis for everything that England is able to do, from steam power to weapons. And a lot of mundane things too, like making flowers smell better and have brighter colors. 

 

This particular magic is well thought out, and developed in fascinating ways throughout the book. It is a brilliant idea that happens to be a lot of fun, while also carrying meaning in our own world.

 

One could see the silver-based industrial revolution in the book as a stand-in for several ideas in our own world. The real-life Industrial Revolution, for example. As the book points out, industrial technology had a number of nasty consequences, from mass unemployment to environmental degradation. 

 

One could also, perhaps, see the silver as a metaphor for fossil fuels, which powered the Industrial Revolution. Or for extractive capitalism. Or capitalism more generally. Or for whatever technologies enabled Empire. 

 

The fact that any or all of these can be seen in the silver bars is why they work so well in the book. They are a reduction of a spectrum of factors that enabled the existence of the British Empire, and now enable the existence of an American Empire, and all the exploitation, enslavement, genocide, and other evils that those empires have brought to our world.

 

Unlike the more complicated reality of our own world, in the book, all that sustains Empire is concentrated in one single - and thus vulnerable - base of material, knowledge, and technology. Because of this, taking down the Empire is far easier than it was and is in our world. 

 

Born into this alternative world is Robin, a Chinese boy whose mother dies of Cholera at the beginning of the book. Robin is saved by a mysterious professor from Oxford, who whisks him away to England to study to gain admittance to Oxford, specifically the Royal Institute of Translation, aka “Babel.” 

 

This institute has its own tower at Oxford - yeah, not at all subtle with the Biblical references, although I wonder how many of Kuang’s generation are familiar with those stories now. In that tower is contained all the knowledge of languages collected over the centuries, which is necessary to discover new translation pairs to power the silver bars. 

 

As Robin discovers, he was literally created to be a cog in this Institute - to take a fluent knowledge of Mandarin and Cantonese along with English (he was provided an English nanny as a child) to mine the translation possibilities. To this end, Professor Lovell fathered him with an impoverished Chinese woman, and took him to England to train him for the task. 

 

At first, Robin loves Oxford and all it stands for. He makes friends with his “cohort” of translators: the English Letty, sent to Oxford after her brother dies a drunken death; Victoire, a Haitian woman born into quasi-slavery; and Ramy, born in British India. All four are linked by their experiences of discrimination at the mostly all-white-male Oxford, and their backstories containing loss in various ways. 

 

Soon, however, Robin realizes that all is not well. His father, who never acknowledges his paternity, sees Robin as a pawn in the larger game of Empire, not a fully human person. Babel’s silver bars seem to be used, not to better the lives of colonized people, or even working class Brits, but for either frivolous or nefarious purposes. And the once close cohort begins to fray as time goes on. 

 

Robin also meets his older half-brother, Griffin, who faked his own death and left Babel to work for a mysterious organization called the Hermes Society, which works to undermine the Empire in various ways, from lobbying work to sabotage and theft. 

 

And finally, the British Empire is on the brink of starting the Opium War - a true parallel to our world. This would serve both to cement the Empire and devastate China, which horrifies Robin. 

 

I’ll stop there, because I don’t want to give any further spoilers. 

 

I did want to discuss a few more things about the book, however. 

 

First, the Opium Wars. I remember reading about them in high school, and being thoroughly appalled and disgusted. It is difficult to think of a more thoroughly evil and deplorable action than what the British Empire did. There is literally nothing remotely redeeming about it. The only “good” to come of it was that it made a handful of merchants obscenely rich. And that came at the cost of British and Chinese lives, the destruction of far more lives, and the establishment of a precedent that money would govern foreign policy. 

 

I mean, the slave trade is still probably the worst, but the Opium Wars are pretty damn close. 

 

One wonders if there had been a chance for an ordinary student like Robin in our own world to prevent the Opium Wars, if he would have taken it. Morally, it would seem he would have been compelled to. 

 

In this way, Kuang, by carefully choosing a historical event that was morally sickening, makes her point very well indeed. And thus, in my view, didn’t need to preach about it. 

 

The book is notable for a near-complete absence of sex. It is hard to tell how much of this is due to Kuang’s choice of era - how to write convincing sexuality in early-Victorian England. I mean, this was the era of Jane Austen, who used a lot of dialogue to create frisson, but carefully avoided anything actually physical. 

 

But the other thing that is possible, in my opinion, is that Kuang just didn’t feel like sexuality was necessary. All we get are a few hints here and there. So, we know, for example, that Letty has a thing for Ramy, but we are also teased very subtly that Ramy and Robin are the actual lovers. Very subtly indeed. I think it is there, but you have to pay attention. 

 

The book is, in my opinion, a classic tragedy. Like an old Greek play, or a modern Shakespeare like, say, Hamlet, it is laid out in five parts which correspond well to the acts in a tragedy. You can find the inciting event (Robin going to England), the turning point (the inciting of the Opium Wars), and the final catastrophe. 

 

The arc of Robin’s character is in many ways similar to Hamlet, and the end result equally morally ambiguous. Which, perhaps, depends on what you think of Fortinbras, or what would have come after a British Empire that collapsed in the 1830s. 

 

This was another thing I greatly enjoyed about the book. It taps into the things I love about Shakespeare and about the ancient Greeks and their stories. 

 

As I noted early in this post, I personally loved all the stuff about translation. Even if I disagree with the one character who opined that all translation is lying - it is untrue to the original meaning. 

 

For me, I think that all human communication suffers from that problem. We never entirely communicate our meaning to each other, both because words are imperfect substitutes for human experience of ourselves, and because humans are all imperfect in their ability to use words to express meaning. 

 

One of the things I have experienced over and over throughout my 16 years as a blogger is that try as I might, what I type on my screen is at best a translation of what I intend to say, a reduction of my feelings and experiences and reactions to the straitjacket of language. Some days, I feel I have come close, and that this translation is “good” in some way. And I have certainly been told by readers that what I communicated resonated for them. 

 

Perhaps even more so, all of us are confined by our own literacy. I am (sadly) monolingual, able to think in English, but not in other languages. This is Robin’s superpower - that he can think in multiple languages - a power shared by his friends, of course. But any language contains its limitations, and to a disturbing extent, our ability to think and reason and express happens within the confines of the language we speak and the meaning of words in our time and place. 

 

As a philosopher might say, “here lie dragons.” It is certainly uncomfortable to think one’s ability to think depends that much on one’s learned communication forms as an infant. 

 

While I am monolingual, I very much enjoy reading books in translation, and even with my own limited knowledge, I can appreciate the art that goes into it. Reading multiple translations, for example, one can see the different compromises and approximations and how different readers choose to prioritize the different nuances. 

 

As a result of this, though, I realized as a young person that translation was an art, not a science, and that translators bring their own selves and biases and ways of thinking to their work. Which is why it frustrates me to see ancient works like the Bible used as if our English translations, with all their theological baggage, are somehow word-for-word straight from the mouth of Almighty God. Rather than what they are: an attempt at communication across millennia and culture and distance and language - an attempt that is not always even in good faith on some points. (See: male supremacist decisions in translation) 

 

And, with that, it circles back to my point that all human communication is in some sense translation - an imperfect but necessary art. Arguments over meaning tend to overlook this, and too many demand certainty and the superiority of their own views rather than accept the spectrum of existence and meaning and connection that define us as humans. 

 

As a final thought, I want to talk a bit about the ending and the message of the book. If you haven’t read the book yet, I would advise skipping this part, as it definitely has spoilers.

 

I have seen two different subtitles for the book, but the one that I want to focus on is “Or, the Necessity of Violence.” 

 

There is a lot going on here, and I do not think the subtitle expresses the message of the book at all. 

 

Most obvious is the dispute between Griffin - pro-violence and impatient with non-violent resistance - and Antony, committed to non-violent means of protest. In the end, Robin chooses Griffin’s way. 

 

Or does he?

 

I don’t think that is at all clear. Robin certainly destroys property. And human life is lost as collateral damage. Indeed, the destruction of Empire - any Empire - inevitably causes great suffering. But so does the continued existence of Empire. The moral calculus is impossible for any one person to truly make. 

 

But with the one notable exception, Robin doesn’t do direct violence to anyone. Rather, he takes down the system by direct sabotage. Which isn’t the same as violence, exactly. 

 

This isn’t the classic “assassinate the king” with the expectation that everything will get better. It isn’t the “start a war” ploy either. 

 

Conveniently, the Empire in the book depends on a single point of failure. If only it were so in our own world. (And, believe me, if such a point existed, someone would have utilized it long ago.) Robin simply causes that point to fail. 

 

The book also conveniently stops at a dramatically satisfying place. It is an ending to a story. 

 

But what comes afterward is actually more important than what Robin has done. We do not know the outcome, only that the Empire has lost its overwhelming advantage. Will something better be built? Or will it just lead to another Empire taking its place. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss…

 

It is the building that comes afterward that matters the most in our own world. What will we build? How will we build it? It isn’t enough to collapse and Empire; the rebuilding will make all the difference. 

 

In the end, it will be left to people like Victoire, with her ability to communicate across geography and language, who will be most necessary in finding an alternative to the exploitation of Empire. It is an interesting thought to end the book with, for sure. 

 

So, as I noted, I really did enjoy this book a lot. Yes, it had its flaws and felt at times like a first novel, but so much was very good, and I was drawn into the world and the story. 

 

 

Topdog/Underdog by Suzan-Lori Parks (Empty Space 2026)

In its 20+ years of existence, The Empty Space has always been willing to take risks, to put on plays that weren’t guaranteed to sell. Plays that challenged audiences in various ways. And, admirably, that brought the stories of marginalized groups to the stage. 

 

In this case, Topdog/Underdog is a Pulitzer-winning play by African American playwright Suzan-Lori Parks, who has written for both the screen and the stage. It explores both family dynamics and the challenges faced by African American men in America.

 

I wouldn’t say I exactly enjoyed this play. It is pretty traumatic, and doesn’t end happily. It also can be triggering for everything from domestic violence to child abuse to firearm violence. So be warned. Also, a lot of x-rated dialogue, if that is a problem for you. 

 

That said, it is a compelling play, and the production at The Empty Space was excellent. Even as everything goes to absolute shit by the end of the play, you can’t look away, and you genuinely care about the characters, as flawed and difficult as they are. 

 

This is a two-man play, with brothers Lincoln and Booth sharing a crappy apartment in the city somewhere, and trying to get by in a world that isn’t exactly eager to give young black men good jobs. 

 

Abandoned by their parents as children, and left with $500 each as an “inheritance,” the two have a close but fraught relationship. 

 

Lincoln formerly hustled a Three Card Monte con, but after his buddy was shot, has gone straight and is impersonating Abraham Lincoln in whiteface at a carnival. Booth is unemployed, but has the apartment, and assists by “boosting” merchandise. 

 

Oh, and don’t worry, this is definitely a “Chekhov’s Gun” play, and the names are a portent. 

 

The plot itself isn’t the most important element in this one. Rather, the relationship between the brothers, with jealousy, resentment, family trauma, and poverty making for incredible tension and difficult is the center of the play. 

 

One could see this as a retelling of a combination of Cain and Abel with Jacob and Esau, although with the birth order reversed. It feels kind of Biblical in its own way. 

 

Because of the small cast, the chemistry between the actors is crucial, and I can say that in this case, Ty Halton as Lincoln, and Nasiyr Johnson as Booth played off each other superbly. Both truly inhabited their characters, and the sibling rivalry felt very real. 

Booth (Nasiyr Johnson) and Lincoln (Ty Halton) 

 

Halton has been a regular on stage for years, in a variety of roles and genres, and on literally every stage in this town. He has been reliably excellent, and brings a distinct personality to every role. 

 

I’m not sure I have seen Johnson in a big role before, but he matched Halton’s jaded elder brother with a certain manic energy and seething resentment. It was a compelling performance. 

 

The set for this play was a good part of the attraction. The bathroom in particular was a work of art, with all the stains and grime and even a magnet-powered cockroach. It didn’t help that for the first act, the place looked like the caricature of a bachelor pad, with dirty clothes and porno mags everywhere, pinups on the walls, and a general lack of cleaning. 

 

I’ll also note my pleasure at the perfect coordination of the light operator (Michael Hendrix, who also directed) with the actors on the various light switches on stage. Little details like that make me smile. We saw opening night, and the only possible technical issue I saw was a doorjam that came loose when slammed. Which might have been intentional, come to think of it. It worked. 

 

Topdog/Underdog has had its share of big-name headliners on and off of Broadway since it was written a couple decades ago. I think our local guys have every reason to be proud of the work they did in this production. 

 

This play had a limited run of three performances, which I get, since it didn’t sell out the night we were there. It isn’t the sort of play you see to escape reality or leave feeling good. But it is compelling, and I’m glad we saw it. 

 

This show has already run its course, but The Empty Space has a bunch of other stuff coming up that I hope to see. Check out their season, and give our local theaters some love. 

Elektra by Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal (San Francisco Opera)

The story of Electra is the middle episode in a trilogy of Greek stories about the family of Agamemnon. Each of the three great Greek tragedians - Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides - wrote a version of the Electra story, each with different takes on the central character of Electra. 

 

For Aeschylus, Electra is certain that her father’s murder must be avenged, but is conflicted and unable to commit to doing the deed herself. Hence why her brother Orestes must take the lead. 

 

For Sophocles, Electra is consumed with hatred for her mother and stepfather, perhaps even unhinged and obsessed with revenge. In this account, Orestes is at most an equal participant, and perhaps even a victim of Electra’s revenge. 

 

Euripides portrays Electra as cold and clinical, carrying out the revenge the gods demand. Orestes becomes a mere tool in her hands. 

 

In addition to the three ancients, there are many others who have retold versions of this story. I previously wrote about Electricidad by Luis Alfaro, which our local community college put on. If you want a good summary of the backstory and plot, that post has it. 

 

For this version, the librettist, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, took the Sophocles version as his starting point for his stage play. He then added a bunch of Jung’s psychology - Jung coined the term “Electra Complex” after Hofmannsthal wrote his play - to Elektra’s obsession with revenge. 

 

Composer Richard Strauss saw Hofmannsthal’s play in 1905, and knew it would make a great opera. However, having just written Salome, he worried that it was too similar in its plot and ideas. 

 

Hofmannsthal, however, kept encouraging Strauss to take on the project, and eventually prevailed. The playwright was also a good sport about all the cuts that Strauss insisted upon - much of the overt Jung and Freud was too wordy for an opera, and Strauss pared the action down to make it more stage-friendly. 

 

(In retrospect, Strauss was probably on the right track, as the opera is more often performed than the play.) 

 

For this version, there is a lot more emphasis on Chrysothemis, the forgotten younger sister, who wants a normal life and a family, but is essentially held prisoner along with Elektra by their domineering mother. For both, they hope that young Orestes, sent away as a child to prevent his murder (because he is a rival to the new guy, Aegisth), will return and set things right. 

 

The interplay between the sisters - Elektra consumed by her desire for revenge, and Chrystothemis yearning to marry and have children - makes up a good bit of the first half of the play. 

 

When Aegisth and Klytemnestra announce that Orest is dead, Elektra decides to take matters into her own hand - and nearly convinces Chrystothemis to assist. 

 

Whether the sisters would have carried it out will never be known, because Orest, who is definitely not dead, reappears in disguise, reveals himself to Elektra, and does the dirty deed himself. 

 

Hofmannsthal largely takes the Sophocles version as his model for the play, and focuses a lot on Elektra’s obsession with revenge. However, there is no doubt in this version that Orest is no child manipulated by his older sister. He comes back with a swagger, fully aware that his mother has it in for him, having sold out to her new lover. There is zero hesitation on his part to kill. In fact, he doesn’t even need to use the axe that murdered his father - he has his own. (A bit of a metaphor for coming of age there…) 

 

The other twist that Hofmannsthal puts on things is that Elektra dances herself to death at the end, having accomplished her goal, but finding no ultimate satisfaction in it. 

 

So much for the libretto, which focuses mostly on Elektra’s inner state. This opera is hugely demanding on the singer in that role, as she gets nearly one half of the hour and three-quarters of time. 

 

Strauss’ score is wonderful, lush, rich, and modern. It isn’t atonal, exactly, but it, like Salome, lacks a true tonal center most of the time, with nothing ever quite resolving. 

 

It felt to me a lot like a movie score. While there are arias and so on, they run into each other with no breaks. Indeed, the entire opera is presented in one act, without any pauses. 

 

The music supports the emotions throughout, swelling at each climax, and wringing every bit of pathos out of the conflicts. I love the entire experience of listening to it. (That’s why I picked this opera as the one we went to see this year - Strauss’ music fascinates me.) The emotional landscape of the score makes it a true masterpiece. 

 

The orchestra is huge. According to the program, it requires 95 musicians. It includes a few unusual instruments: four Wagner tubas, and a heckelphone. (Kind of a bass oboe, but not quite the same thing.) 

 

To sing over this group is a challenge, which I am pleased to say, the cast of this one did admirably. 

 

The War Memorial Opera House first hosted Elektra in 1938, and it quickly became apparent that the orchestra pit, although large, would be unable to fit the epic ensemble required. Thus, an additional tunnel under the stage, nicknamed the “Torpedo Room,” was added to accommodate the extra players. 

 

For this production, the San Francisco Opera added a framing story. The set is a museum with artifacts related to the Greek myth. A visitor hides herself inside after becoming obsessed with the story. In the process, the story comes to life, and the visitor herself takes the role of Elektra. 

 

The set was quite creative, with various rooms sliding out on stage - a bedroom, kitchen, foyer - and each of the exhibits becoming a prop in the drama to follow. 

 

Another interesting choice was to use the role of “Tutor of Orest” as a stand-in for the ghost of Agamemnon. I thought that worked well, as it made the entire story haunted from start to finish by the dead father. 

 

As a professional opera company, it was no surprise that the musicianship was top notch. The singing too was excellent. I want to specifically call out Elena Pankratova as Elektra - as I noted, she sang much of the time - at least close to half, although I would not be surprised if she got more than that. 

 

Also notable were Michaela Schuster as Klytemnestra - her malevolence was apparent, and matched Elektra’s unhinged psyche. The two, shall we say, matched. And also Kyle Ketelsen as Orest. It is a baritone part, and his projection and diction were superb. He filled that hall completely.

 

I should note here that my approach to professional concerts is generally to buy cheap seats and go to more concerts. That was the case here, as we were in the balcony. So I can confidently say that the singers filled the hall to the back. 

 

The dates worked out so that seeing this opera became part of an anniversary trip for my wife and me. We also saw the “Monet in Venice” exhibit at the De Young, which was also a real treat. 

 

In a very real way, the two different art forms as interpreted by Strauss and Monet are connected. Monet painted subjects over and over again as he sought to portray the effects of light and haze as they changed throughout a day. Strauss utilized a primary motif for Agamemnon - it appears not only when his name is sung, but thematically throughout the work - and changed its color as the emotions in the drama changed. 

 

Like Monet, Strauss didn’t use his music to paint a literal, photographic, representation, but instead painted the less literal but deeper truth of the drama using unexpected colors. As Monet did, he found colors that might not have literally appeared, but due to the interaction of light, the human eye, and more importantly, the human brain. So did Strauss in this score, creating colors that seemed almost beyond the spectrum, tapping deep into the human psyche. 

 

To understand both requires standing at a distance, taking in the whole, not just granular detail. The meaning of a Monet painting, like Elektra, isn’t just the plot, or just the music, but the entire picture of obsession, of betrayal, and of reunion. It was quite the experience. 

Purgatorio by Dante

Source of book: I own this. 

 

It is hard to believe how much time has flown by. I read the first installment of Dante’s Divine Comedy a full 14 years ago. 

 

I had intended to go back and read the other two parts, but harbored a hope that Robert Pinsky would translate them like he did Inferno. Alas, he is now 85, and his translation is 31 years old, so I strongly doubt one will be forthcoming. 

 

For this post, I read the two very different translations that I own: the classic Melville Best Anderson poetic translation from 1921, complete with the illustrations by William Blake; and a prose translation by H. R. Huse from 1954. 

 

There are literally over 100 English translations to choose from, including ones by such luminaries as Dorothy Sayers and Clive James. I guess I could have purchased one of the well-regarded alternatives as well. And who knows? Maybe I will when it comes to Paradiso. 

 

 As I noted in my previous post, I liked the Pinsky one best. All translation is a compromise, an approximation of meaning. This is doubly true for poetry, where the form is as important as the individual words. I talk about this at greater length in my earlier post. 

 

In this case, I will be contrasting a highly poetic version which preserves the stanzas and the terza rima, but stretches meaning quite a bit, and is also pretty obscure, with the prose version which has no meter or rhyme, but is more literal and easy to follow. The former is great to read aloud, but the latter is definitely easier to follow and understand. 

 

I confess that, despite my fairly large vocabulary, I had to look up a number of words in the Anderson translation. He often picks ones that haven’t been in common usage for centuries - archaic even when he wrote it. For example, “benison” is one of his recurrent favorites. It kinda-sorta means the same thing as “benevolence.” But with one fewer syllable, it fits the meter better. 

 

There are some other fascinating choices. Anderson translates not only the Italian, but also the quotes from Latin. Huse, in contrast, translates only the Italian, and leaves the Latin intact. The Latin is then translated in a footnote. This is interesting in that it clearly signals which language is being used at any given time. 

 

Because Divine Comedy is filled with references to literature, history, and contemporary figures, any translation needs some explanation. Anderson leaves these to endnotes, and doesn’t signal in the text itself when to refer to them. Huse, in contrast, introduces sections with a brief explanation, and inserts further information in brackets in the text where needed. I found this helpful in many cases. My knowledge of classic mythology is decent, but not every metaphor is obvious. Even more than that, though, Dante includes a lot of contemporary Italian history and people in this book, few of which I was familiar with. 

 

That, of course, is the truth about the book: it is really the OG “diss track,” where Dante wreaks literary revenge on the people who exiled him from his city. He is talking shit and naming names, and relishing the ability to damn his enemies to hell, or sentence them to lengthy penance in Purgatory, while rewarding those who treated him well. It’s pretty epic. 

 

As someone raised Evangelical, I was taught that Purgatory was a made-up false doctrine, and that people either went to Heaven or Hell, based on mental assent to a particular doctrine of atonement. So, it was kind of interesting to read this and see what Dante’s vision of the process was. 

 

I’m kind of an agnostic about the afterlife these days - Shakespeare called it “the undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns,” and Rabelais labeled “the great perhaps” - but I think there is something morally necessary about the existence of Purgatory as part of any coherent afterlife. After all, pretty much all of us would be skeptical about, say, a Hitler who repented at the end of life walking scot-free into a Heaven where his victims never received restitution. 

 

The idea that all of us, but particularly those who have done the most damage in life, would need to be “purified” of our sins, and pay some sort of penance or make some sort of amends for what we have done, makes a lot of moral sense. 

 

I could write a whole post or more on my thoughts on this matter, but that is beyond the scope of this review. 

 

Dante envisions Purgatory as a combination of carrots and sticks - there are negative examples of bad behavior and positive examples of good behavior, combined with the penitents experiencing the opposite of their sins. The proud must be made humble, for example. 

 

As with the entire work, everything is built around the number three. There are 33 cantos in each of its three parts. The form is terza rima - an interlocking series of tercets. There are 33 syllables in each tercet. Each of the three parts is broken down into nine circles. There are undoubtedly more that I am missing. 

 

Leaving the horrors of Hell behind, this middle section represents the rise from the lowest point to the brink of heaven. Having passed all the way through the earth, Dante and his guide, Virgil, emerge at the base of the mountain of Purgatory.

 

From there, we get what are essentially nine layers, a mirror of the circles of Hell. 

 

First is a kind of waiting room outside of Purgatory proper. Here are the souls yet to be admitted to the purging process. According to Catholic doctrine, the prayers of the living are crucial here for the release of the waiting souls. (And, historically, rich people could pay an “indulgence” to the church to kickstart things…cue Luther and his hammer…) 

 

After that, there are levels for the purging of each of the seven deadly sins: Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust. With these completed, Dante emerges into an earthly paradise: the Garden of Eden restored. 

 

It was particularly fascinating to me how Dante ties all of the deadly sins to love in some way. To him, vices come from love that is inappropriate, or, more accurately, misdirected and out of balance. Envy is in a way the opposite of love, for example, because to envy someone is to fail to love them. But it is also misdirected love: love of what one envies, rather than for the one whom one envies. There is much that could be said, but I did find Dante’s conception to be worth thinking about. 

 

I won’t get into all of the specifics - there are plenty of online guides for that. What I do want to do is highlight some passages that I particularly enjoyed. Throughout the process of reading, I started with the poetic version, usually out loud, then followed up with the prose, primarily to figure out who the historical characters were.

 

Here is the opening, as Anderson translates it: 

 

Sets sail the little vessel of my mind

And henceforth better waters furrowing

Leaves such a cruel ocean far behind.

 

And of that Second Kingdom will I sing

Wherein the human spirit, purged of stain,

Grows worthy to ascend on heavenward wing.

 

This is one of the sections where the poetic seems superior to the prosiac - the gist is easy enough to understand, and the music of the meter adds to the experience. In contrast, here is Huse:

 

To move over better waters now hoists sail

The little vessel of my mind

Which leaves behind so rough a sea;

 

And I will sing of the second realm

Where the human spirit is cleansed

And becomes worthy to rise to Heaven. 

 

Huse is more literal and true to the original, but Anderson catches the cadence so much better here. 

 

Later in Canto I, Virgil explains for the first - but definitely not the last time - exactly how the non-dead Dante manages to get to the afterlife. 

 

This man has never seen his final night,

But by his folly had come near it, so

That little time was left to turn aright.

 

I was sent to him, as I let thee know,

For his redemption, and there was no road

Save this whereon I set myself to go.

 

I have shown him all the bad and their abode;

And now intend to show him the array

Of spirits who are purged beneath thy code.

            (Anderson)

 

Next is a bit from Canto VII, still outside of Purgatory proper, where certain souls wait in an analogue to Limbo. Here again, the contrast between prose and poetry is striking. It was easier to understand in the prose version, but the poetic version sung. 

 

There is a place below not otherwise

Tormented save with gloom, where the laments

Are uttered not in wailing but in sighs;

 

There I abide with little innocents

Bitten by fangs of Death and all undone

Ere yet exempt from man’s maleficence;

 

There I abide with those who put on none

Of the three holy virtues, yet who knew

The others, following guildless every one.

 

And the other version:

 

There is a place down there not sad through torment

But from darkness only, where the laments

Sound, not as groans, but as sighs.

 

There I stay with the little innocents

Bitten by the teeth of Death

Before they were exempt from human sin.

 

There I stay with those not clothed

With the three holy virtues, but who, without vice,

Knew the others and observed them all. 

 

The opening of Canto VIII is really beautiful, particularly in the poetic translation. 

 

Now was the hour that melts the heart anew

In voyagers with yearning for the shore

The day beloved friends have said adieu

 

And the new pilgrim feels the pang once more

Of love, on hearing from the far-off land

Bells that belike the parting day deplore

 

In Canto XIII, which is about envy, various historical and contemporary figures appear. One of the contemporary figures is noblewoman Sapia Salvani, who probably would be little known if Dante hadn’t gotten a bit of revenge at her in this part. One of her lines is excellent, however:

 

Sapient was I not, though named of it

Sapia; greeting with far greater glee

Another’s bane than mine own benefit.

 

Alternately:

 

Sapient I was not, though named Sapia.

I was much happier at others’ harm

Than at my own good fortune.

 

This is, in my opinion, the core value of MAGA: a glee at the harm Trump causes other people, who they hate, even as he makes things worse for everyone. 

 

In the next Canto, Guido del Duca gives an extended commentary on the downfall of various towns along the Arno - this is serious diss track smack talk. But he too notes that envy is, at its core, a desire that other people suffer. 

 

So Envy did the blood of me imbue,

That, had I seen a man grow joyful there,

Thou wouldst have seen me tinged with livid hue.

 

Or:

 

My blood was so on fire with envy

That if I had seen a man becoming happy

You would have observed my face grow pale.

 

In Canto XV, Dante expounds on this idea that the opposite of vice is divine love. Virgil, a personification of the intellect and of wisdom, talks at length about this. Envy is excessive desire for earthly good, a selfish grasping that does not admit of sharing. In this passage, I think Anderson buries the meaning in his attempt to preserve the poetry. The Huse version is more clear. Here are the highlights of the passage:

 

Because your desires are directed

Toward things diminished by sharing, 

Envy moves the bellows of your sighs

 

But if the love of the highest sphere

Lifted up your desires

That fear would not be in your hearts,

 

For the more up there who say “our,”

The greater the good each possesses

And brighter love glows in that cloister.

 

***

 

And he said to me, “Because you still

Set your mind on earthly things,

You gain darkness from the light itself.

 

The infinite and ineffable good above

Runs toward love for itself

As a ray of light to a bright surface.

 

As much brightness as it finds, so much it gives

So that the more widely love extends

The more eternal goodness grows upon it,

 

And the greater number who comprehend

And love each other, the more love there is, 

Since one gives to another, like a mirror.”

 

In the next Canto, there is another discussion, about whether things are fated, or brought about by human decisions. Here, Virgil comes down firmly on the side of free will. (Fascinating in this connection, of course, is the tension throughout Shakespeare’s works between fate and free will - it is Cassius, after all, who has the famous line, “The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”) 

 

You who are living consider every cause

As originating in the heavens

As if they determined all, of necessity.

 

If this were so, free will would be destroyed,

And there would be no justice,

No joy for good nor sorrow for evil. 

(Huse)

 

In Virgil’s argument, the fates are not passive, but humans are given the ability to tell good from evil, and to choose good. So don’t go blaming the stars. 

 

In Canto XVII, Dante takes the position that Wrath isn’t mere anger, but a desire to harm others. Hence, he contrasts Wrath with peacemaking. 

 

I felt a fanning on my face like beat

Of wings, and heard, “Blest the Peacemakers are,

For wrath unrighteous hath in them no seat!”

(Anderson)

 

There is so much in here that I didn’t specifically write down. To a large degree, I just read and let the words wash over me through the poetic version, then went back to the prose version to make sure I understood things. 

 

I’ll end with the opening stanza of Canto XXIII, because, well, I feel seen. 

 

Because these eyes of mine yet never stirred

From the green foliage, like such an one

As wastes his life to hunt the little bird

(Anderson)

 

Divine Comedy is such a curious blend of history, personal grudges, theology, and above all imagination. I find it a bit disorienting to read at times, yet at its best, it contains glorious language, amazing word pictures, and an underlying ethic that feels so much more Christian than the individualistic faith tradition I was raised in. More than anything, it is a work that demands to be read out loud, and pondered. 

Afterlife by Julia Alvarez

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

I had previously listened to another of Alvarez’ books several years ago, How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, which is somewhat autobiographical. I suspect that Afterlife, with its quartet of sisters - Antonia (the narrator), Izzy, Mona, and Tilly - also contains autobiographical elements, although the plot itself is probably entirely fictional. 

 

There are actually two plots in the book which are interwoven. The first is the disappearance of Izzy after what appears to be a mental health break. The second is an immigration drama involving Mario, an undocumented immigrant who works for Antonia’s neighbor Roger, who is like so many MAGA farmers where I live, simultaneously anti-immigrant racist and dependent on undocumented immigrants for his business survival. 

 

Undergirding all of this is Antonia’s grief at the sudden death of her beloved husband, Sam, of an aneurysm. He was many things to her - beloved husband of course - but also the bleeding heart of their marriage, a link to white American culture, a connection to the volunteer groups they participated in together, and more. He is present throughout the book, as he continues to live in Antonia’s head. 

 

The first plot involves a certain amount of familial frustration. The four sisters are simultaneously close knit and also capable of driving each other crazy. Izzy is the oldest, worked as a mental health professional, yet has, for some reason, let her impulsiveness lead to a near-complete break from reality. 

 

When she fails to show up to a gathering, after calling and saying she was on her way, it sparks a weeks-long search. And when she does show up, it triggers even more catastrophic results. I won’t say more than that, but a potential trigger warning for mental health issues. 

 

The difficulties here are obvious to anyone who has siblings, or family with mental health issues. Which, well, that covers most of us, right? 

 

How do you get an adult to get help when they need it? Particularly when the line between illness and personality are a bit blurred? How do you separate sibling conflict from genuine illness? Can relationships survive changes in the hierarchy and structure? 

 

The second plot is perhaps even more complicated. Mario is barely an adult, but has come to the US to try to better his family - like pretty nearly every immigrant ever. He seeks help from Antonia when his underage girlfriend, who has been trying to join him here, gets held up by the coyote who is smuggling her, in order to extort further money. 

 

When she finally arrives, after a combination of Mario calling on help from his fellow immigrants, and a loan from Antonia, things go badly south. 

 

Estela is clearly very pregnant, and the timing indicates Mario cannot possibly be the father. Oh boy. So, trying to get Estela medical help without getting her deported, talking Mario into at least looking after her even if they do not reconcile, and more take a certain amount of Antonia’s time and energy even as she is trying to locate her sister. 

 

All while processing her own grief. 

 

Alvarez is a good writer, so all this actually stays fairly clear throughout the book. I didn’t have any difficulty following things. And, with the exception of a couple of plot points the felt contrived, the book felt quite realistic. 

 

In particular, the emotional landscape of the book, and the way characters reacted to their circumstances, all felt true to life. 

 

Antonia’s ambivalence toward both Estela and Izzy. The complicated sibling web of relationships. Roger’s cognitive dissonance regarding immigrants and latinos. The sheriff’s similar double-mindedness. His love for the street taco vendor competing with his white good-ol-boy-cop tendencies. And his understanding that if he becomes a flunky of federal immigration enforcement, this will cripple his ability to serve his own community well. Mario’s battle between his love for his unfaithful girlfriend and the demands of machismo honor culture. Estela’s ambivalence toward her own child. It’s all there and all real. 

 

I should also mention that there are no true villains in this book (unless you count ghouls like Trump and Stephen Miller, who profit off of stirring up bigotry) – everyone is complicated and has good and bad in them.

 

The book is set in rural Vermont, but so much feels like my own part of California. We too rely on undocumented labor - everyone knows this - but the Republican Party and Trump and his minions have done such a thorough job of stirring up racial hatred that we are drowning in cognitive dissonance. People are still surprised when it is their undocumented employees that are kidnapped and deported. 

 

Overall, I thought this book was good, although it isn’t exactly sunny. It’s also fairly short - not quite a novella, but definitely a short novel. It has more of a true plot arc than How the Garcia Sisters Lost Their Accents as well. 

 

The audiobook was narrated by Alma Cuervo, who did a fine job. Also, the sound levels were good for listening while driving, which isn’t always the case. This book could work either as an audiobook or as a physical copy. 

A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

This book is a classic from 1929, and was made into a movie in 1965, but it really isn’t that well known in the 21st Century United States. 

 

I will say, after reading it, I can see why it might have fallen out of favor. It is a book about children, told mostly from the children’s point of view, but definitely not a book for children. It is set in a previous era, when slavery had been abolished in the Caribbean, but colonialism remained. 

 

Oh, and it involves pirates and dead bodies and a shocking degree of amorality, not least by the children. It has enough shocking incidents that come out of nowhere to make it a bit of a traumatic read. 

 

Weirdly, the book is at least somewhat based on a real incident in the 1820s - although I suspect that the author of that story, like the children in this book, was somewhat of an unreliable narrator. 

 

But it also is quite a page turner, and a rather unique take on how humans respond to completely unexpected and impossible situations. 

 

I will warn of spoilers in this post. Sorry. Go read the book before you read on, unless you want to risk them. 

 

The title refers to the colloquial term for a hurricane. One occurs early in the book, and sets the stage for all the craziness that follows.

 

In the aftermath of the abolition of slavery in the British Caribbean colonies, the great plantations fell to pieces, slowly, then all at once. (To steal from Hemingway…) A few of the white families hung on for a decade or two, growing poorer and poorer. 

 

There are two such families in the book. The Bas-Thorntons, are British. There are five children, the eldest of which, Emily at age 10, is the primary perspective of the book. The others are the younger John, Edward, Rachel, and Laura, the youngest of whom is age 3. 

 

The Fernandez family is described as “Creole,” which probably means that they were of mixed race - white and black. There are two children in that family, Margaret, the oldest at 13, and Harry. 

 

While the other children get some attention, it is primarily Emily whose inner life we see the most of. 

 

During a visit to the Fernandez home, there is first a mild earthquake, then a catastrophic hurricane which destroys the home, while its occupants cower in the basement. 

 

After this, the parents decide to send their children to England, and supposed safety. 

 

On the way, their boat is captured by pirates, who, certain that the ship has cash on board, takes the children hostage. The captain of the ship believes the pirates have murdered the children, and flees, inadvertently leaving the children behind on the pirate ship. 

 

From there on, the story gets crazier and crazier. The pirates unsuccessfully attempt to pawn the children off on a rich woman in Cuba. John dies in an accidental fall. Rachel drops a marlin spike that injures Emily. They capture a ship which is filled with zoo animals. Emily freaks out and kills the captain of that ship. Emily fights off sexual advances by the pirate captain, but Margaret becomes his lover and ends up pregnant. 

 

And on it goes, crazier and crazier. 

 

Because the perspective is mostly Emily’s, we get trauma, stockholm syndrome, repressed memories, and more from the very naive and confused ten year old brain. In that sense, the book is fascinating and perceptive. 

 

And disturbing. 

 

Don’t expect a feel-good ending, and don’t expect psychological closure. One of the things the book does is push back hard against the Victorian idea of childhood innocence. The cold-blooded way in which the children forget about John, Emily’s vicious stabbing of the captain, their ambivalence about the pirates and their own parents - this is not whitewashed. It isn’t what adults want to think. But there is certainly evidence of this sort of childhood response to trauma. I have heard people talk about their childhoods and the author isn’t stretching. 

 

The audiobook was a digital file, but was also clearly recorded a number of years ago. The “this is the end of disc one” stuff was still there, and the pace seemed to be of an era. 

 

The narrator was Michael Maloney, who took everything at a leisurely British pace, with the accent, adding to the feel of the book as old. The main issue I have with it is, as often is the case, the recording compression. I listen while commuting, and large differences between loud and soft make it frustrating to listen to. At the softest parts, my stereo was up at its max, and I still struggled to hear the words at freeway speeds. And then, the loud parts would blast. 

 

I think that maybe some of the older recordings (and it is particularly the older recordings with this issue) assume a person sitting quietly and listening, rather than driving or running or otherwise occupied in environments with background noise. 

 

Anyway, the book is worth checking out. It’s not for kids, though. 

 

The Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories by Susanna Clarke

Source of book: Audiobook and physical book from the library

 

This is another book I started on audiobook with my wife. Because it is short stories, we figured it would work even if we didn’t finish all of the stories, which is how it worked out. I read the last few in physical form.

 

While I haven’t read Clarke’s gigantic magnum opus, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, I did read Piranesi. 

 

The Ladies of Grace Adieu is set more or less in the same world as Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, and they do in fact make a very brief cameo in one story. However, knowledge of the other book isn’t necessary to enjoy this one. 

 

Really, all you need to know is that it is set in an alternate Victorian Era, when the fairy folk still exist, and interact with regular mortals. That, and it might help to know some of your darker traditional fairytales, as a few of the stories are retellings of those. 

 

As with many short story collections, I will go through each story individually. 

 

The Ladies of Grace Adieu

 

This story involves the three young ladies of Grace Adieu, a fictional country estate. It is set in the Strange and Norrell universe - they make cameos - but also, it was written before the longer book. It was Clarke’s first published short story, and is referenced (apparently) in the book. 

 

The three women may loosely fit the “threefold goddess” idea, but they are also very much in the “witch” category. The tale takes a deliciously dark turn when some vapid young men decide foolishly to take on the ladies, and run afoul of their magic. 

 

Like a few other stories in this bunch, it reads like one of Grimm’s more proto-feminist stories, except even more overt in flipping gendered power. 

 

On Lickerish Hill

 

This one is a retelling of the Rumplestiltskin story. But it is also done in a way that spoofs antiquarian John Aubrey - it has all the archaic spellings and writing style of his works, and also has the character that resembles him give totally worthless advice. This is another story that puts a feminist spin on a classic idea. 

 

Mrs. Mabb

 

Another story that draws on older tales, this one too explores feminist themes. When Venitia’s fiance, Captain Fox, disappears, and rumors are heard that he has abandoned her for the mysterious and venerated Mrs. Mabb, she takes matters into her own hands. Multiple times, she sets out to find the fairy’s abode, and finds herself injured and lost. Eventually, her persistence pays off, and Mrs. Mabb gives in and returns Captain Fox, who is bewildered by his strange adventures. 

 

This one looks at accusations of “hysteria,” as well as the way that “respectable” men often function to protect the powerful. 

 

The Duke of Wellington Misplaces His Horse

 

This one is pretty short. The Duke wanders into fairyland and finds a woman creating a tapestry that appears to be his future. And it is not a good future. So, when she leaves, he unweaves what she has weaved, and creates his own. 

 

Mr. Simonelli, or The Fairy Widower

 

This is a particularly surreal story, with an atmosphere that is as rainy and dark as any Bronte tale. It is also narrated by the central character, who is a thoroughly unreliable narrator. Indeed, nobody is reliable in this story, everyone is amoral, and the story is a bit difficult to follow. I heard it on audiobook, but went back and read it again, just to figure it out. 

 

It is another one where the line between fairy and human isn’t as clear as one might think. It also has some interesting parallels and references to Jane Austen, if you pay attention. 

 

Tom Brightwind, or How the Fairy Bridge was Built at Thoersby

 

This is another story deliberately written in an archaic style, as a parody of other writing. It features a Jewish doctor and his fairy companion (Tom Brightwind.) The two of them travel to see one of the doctor’s distant patients, but end up embroiled in a local situation about a bridge that never got built. I did find it amusing that the introduction to it dissed the story, by claiming it suffered from all the faults of melodramatic stories of its time. 

 

Antickes and Frets

 

An alternative history of Mary, Queen of Scots, where Elizabeth I, through one of her female friends, Bess of Hardwick, kills her enemies by magic. 

 

John Uskglass and the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner

 

Another story that is heavily influenced by older tales. It is kind of a variation on the early Christian “devout person outwits the magic pagan” story. But it is also the “peasant outwits the king” kind of story as well. This story was apparently not previously published. 

 

Overall, I found the stories to be interesting, but not as compelling or engrossing as Piranesi. The title story and the Queen Mabb ones were my favorites. The audiobook was fine, but the physical book has delightful illustrations by Charles Vess, so that might be a factor in determining which to read. 

 Mary, Queen of Scots...