A reader's manual of painting and calligraphy

I shall go on painting the second picture but I know it will never be finished. I have tried without success and there is no clearer proof of my failure and frustration than this sheet of paper on which I am starting to write. Sooner or later I shall move from the first picture to the second and then turn to my writing, or I shall skip the intermediate stage or stop in the middle of a word to apply another brushstroke to the portrait commissioned by S. or to that other portrait alongside it which S. will never see. When that day comes I shall know no more than I know today (namely, that both pictures are worthless). But I shall be able to decide whether I was right to allow myself to be tempted by a form of expression which is not mine, although this same temptation may mean in the end that the form of expression I have been using as carefully as if I were following the fixed rules of some manual was not mine either. For the moment I prefer not to think about what I shall do if this writing comes to nothing, if, from now on, my white canvases and blank sheets of paper become a world orbiting thousands of light-years away where I shall not be able to leave the slightest trace. If, in a word, it were dishonest to pick up a brush or pen or if, once more in a word (the first time I did not succeed), I must deny myself the right to communicate or express myself, because I shall have tried and failed and there will be no further opportunities. (p. 3, tr. Giovanni Pontiero)

The start of José Saramago's Manual of Painting and Calligraphy is unmistakable in its trademark tone. The lulls and pauses in the phrasing are searching for a way forward. The prose is laden with qualifications, trying to overcome the clauses that skirt away from the general idea. The ideas are spreading like ripples in the pond, while above hovers a unique voice, a singular mind, a ruthless thought process. The only comparison I can instantly think of is the masterful opening of a Javier Marías.

Manual of Painting and Calligraphy is a work of fiction, a novel, but it is an essay in the same way that Blindness and Seeing are essays on blindness and lucidity. It is narrated by H., a fifty-year old painter commissioned by S. for a portrait. The first few pages unfold slowly, telling of H.'s difficulties in producing two simultaneous portraits of his client. In order to get around to this problem, or more like to escape from it, H. decided to produce another third portrait of S., but this time the image will be in words. Through some hidden impulse or instinct or whatever, H. decided to turn into writing (the "calligraphy" in the title).

I never expected this book to develop in the opening chapter a similar theme of another novel I finished last year, also from the Portuguese language. The Stream of Life by Clarice Lispector (tr. Elizabeth Lowe and Earl Fitz) is narrated by a female painter who writes of her innermost consciousness and feelings the way paint drips from her brush pallette, i.e., the way consciousness streams forth from a fountain of imagination. But where Lispector's prose issues forth quick as quicksilver, Saramago's brush paints from a slow easel, building from primary colors as he established his plot. But as in Lispector's "art book," plot is probably the least of Saramago's concern here. Manual is, from the outset, a novel of ideas: ideas about art, about the expressions and forms that art makes, and the relationships of these art forms.

Manual de Pintura e Caligrafia first came out in 1976, only the author's second published novel at that time. The first, the still untranslated The Land of Sin, appeared almost thirty years earlier. In between, he produced some collections of poetry and newspaper articles. The English translation of Manual appeared in hardcover from Carcanet Press in 1994, and in paperback from the same publisher a year later. Among his earliest works in the original Portuguese, this is the first "window" to his works as it remains to be the earliest with an English translation. But the translation has since gone out of print.

Last year The Collected Novels of José Saramago was released in e-book format, as an exclusive compendium of Saramago's fiction (twelve novels and one novella). This collection is missing Manual of Painting and Calligraphy. Why this book was not reprinted or included in the collected edition of his fiction is a mystery to me. Was it due to the quality of the translation? Saramago was known for being very exacting about translation of his books. There was an instance when the novelist requested for a more faithful English translation of Baltasar & Blimunda as the first published version contains editorial amendments that he wished to be overruled. What could be the reason for him to suppress this translation while he was still alive?

Maybe initial sales of Manual were poor so the publisher did not produce any more copies? But Saramago, Nobel laureate, is a big name now, almost a brand. His name recall alone will be enough to pull new readers and drive sales of this book, especially a book with such a lyrical title.

Perhaps Saramago consider this work to be minor, not at par with his later novels which are considered masterpieces? But the book has been released lately in other languages. So is it the English translation again? But Giovanni Pontiero is a multi-awarded translator and well-regarded even by Saramago.

Maybe there are some copyright issues with this book? Or maybe the supposedly overt political theme of the book is the reason? I doubt it. Saramago courted controversy like black ink stain on bright white paper.

Whatever the reason, the rarity of this novel makes it Saramago's priciest book.

Okay. Here's the bragging part.

I happen to own both the paperback and hardcover. A month or so before the Senhor died, the OOP book suddenly appeared online at a very cheap price. Through a friend, I was able to snag a copy of the hardback. The paperback I got from the book swapping site BookMooch, of all places.

Reader Alert: Open Library

I am still navigating Open Library but here is what is exciting:

• Over a million free e-books
• Books can be read or read-to (there is a nice audio integration) - Gutenberg + Librivox say
• Signing up is free; it gives you the ability to add or edit stuff
• You can create lists (woo hoo! though I wonder why I need another listing service for)
• A small but growing lending library

Signing up already? That's what I thought...

The Captive Mind

I started reading this book somewhere in April last year, then abandoned it due to travel schedules, and have been reading it amidst different books since last month. A long drawn read sometimes hampers a reading experience, but not when the book has been written with as much clarity as Czeslaw Milosz has accorded the Captive Mind.

Milosz, a Polish writer, lived through the Warsaw uprising of 1944 and the Russian rule in Poland, and initially lent his cooperation to the Communist government by becoming the Government's Literary attache to Paris. These were the initial times, when the Red Army was trying to win Intellectuals over by giving them some literary freedom, as long as they did not criticize Russia or its theories in their writing. Neutrality then, was acceptable. But soon, the noose tightened to swerve these intellectuals into praising the regime, and it was no longer possible to be a writer without contributing to the party's agenda. Milosz struggled with this acceptance for a while, until his ideas of literary freedom won and he seeked political asylum in Paris. Captive Mind was completed during this phase, even though the seed had begun during his years of cooperation.
This background is essential to a book in which Milosz explains his initial cooperation and the cooperation of several Polish intellectuals. He does this through a couple of concepts, followed by 4 biographies of such writers. The concepts are interesting. Take for example the pill of Murti Bing. In a fantasy written by Witkievicz, an Eastern Invader Murti Bing defeats Poland, and offers a pill of happiness to its exhausted people. People take it willingly, because everyone inherently wants to move to a harmonious state. Milosz likens the pill to Communism - which offers a harmonious existence to all men, dissolving divides. People exhausted from the Nazi rule willingly accept it.
What takes the center-stage in the book are the four biographies of Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta. All of these are Polish writers, and for different reasons are drawn to the idea of Communism. Alpha is drawn to purity and monumental tragedy, which a war-torn country gives him aplenty. Beta is a disappointed lover, a nihilist who has witnessed first hand the society that builds up in a concentration camp, and is a brutal narrator of it. The realism of Marxist regime appealed to his love for brutal truth, as did its materialism.
Gamma, a slave of history was a non-entity in the literary world before the war, but was elevated to a position of prominence & power with his embrace of the socialist regime.Lastly Delta, the troubadour was a jocose storyteller, who liked the regime because it paid him for his popular writing.
These portraits are tremendous, and each presents a different logic for embrace of a tyrannical regime. These writers, including Milosz are making some compromises, but considering the alternative - of not being able to write, or of exile to a nation where no can read your writing, their compromise does not warrant a harsh judgment. I would really like to know who these authors are that Milosz represents, and if possible read something from them - at least from Beta, whose writing seems a harsh portrayal of human nature under duress.
Milosz' language is a little poetic, he is not a debater and he sometimes digresses from the argument into memory lanes, which makes the book a little charming,and melancholy despite the ideological theme.
Once the portraits have ended, the book has become a bit monotonous. Perhaps Milosz should have ended sooner.
An interesting term in the book: Ketman. Act of paying lip service to the authority while holding personal opposition. Wonder why it has not come up in my earlier Totalitarian reads.

Don Q, via Cide Hamete

Do we live in the age of translation?

Cervantes, an early instance of greatness in the "history" of the novel, has a ready answer in Don Quixote. The novel is presented as a translation by a Spanish-speaking Moor, from the Arabic of a certain historian named Cide Hamete Benengeli, of the history of the knight errant Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza. While the unnamed narrator recounts this "translated" history, he constantly reminds us of this fact. At several junctures in the novel, the narrator interjects the (i) translator's and (ii) his own annotations of the Arab's version of the events. In Part II, for example, the narrator interrupts the story to say:

Cide Hamete, the chronicler of this great history, begins this chapter with the words: 'I swear as a Christian and as a Catholic ...'; to which the translator adds that when Cide Hamete swore as a Christian and a Catholic, being a Moor, as he most certainly was, he only meant to say that just as when the Christian and Catholic swears something he swears, or should swear, the truth, and he swears to tell the truth in everything he says, so Cide Hamete was also telling the truth, as if he were swearing as a Christian and a Catholic, in everything he wrote about Don Quixote ... [Part II, Chapter XXVII, tr. John Rutherford]

Ah, the truth! And then Cide Hamete (through the translator, via the narrator) goes on to discuss a seeming "inconsistency" of previous events in the first part of the history, specifically the theft of Sancho Panza's donkey by the convict Ginés de Pasamonte. The inconsistency arises presumably from the "printers' carelessness" that led to the omission of the incident in the publication of the first part of the history. This "has led many people to offer their opinions and blame the printing mistake on the author's poor memory."

It appears then Cervantes craftily introduces a mistake in this long and clumsy history, but its teller (Cide Hamete), its translator, and its narrator are there to set the record straight. The mistake acquires a new kind of significance as Ginés, now a puppeteer and master of a fortune-telling ape, becomes embroiled again in the glorious adventure of our knight errant and his squire.

To answer the question posed above, it may be best to quote again an interruption by our narrator regarding the integrity of the history, demonstrating as it is how the telling of Truth (with the capital t) in every History is ever so relative in every telling of it. At every remove, of the novelist from the story, of the translator from the source, of the teller from the tale, and of the reader from the page (not to mention the English translator's remove from the Spanish prose), the accumulation of subjective interpretations and authorial decisions is staggering.

It is said that in the original manuscript of this history one reads that when Cide Hamete came to write this chapter his translator did not render it as the Moor had written it, with some sort of complaint against himself for having undertaken such a dry and limited history as this one about Don Quixote, always feeling himself restricted to talking about him and Sancho, never daring to venture out into any digressions or more serious and entertaining episodes; and Cide Hamete added that to have his mind, his hand and his pen always constrained to writing about one subject and speaking through the mouths of so few characters was intolerable drudgery, which yielded nothing to the author's advantage, and that to avoid this problem he had in the first part had recourse to certain tales, like those of Inappropriate Curiosity and the Captive Captain, which stand, as it were, apart from the main story – although the other tales narrated there are events in which Don Quixote himself was involved and which could not be omitted. [Part II, Chapter XLIV]

And then the narrator went on to describe Cide Hamete's justifications for the apparent divergence of style between the first and second parts of the history. Both the translator and narrator of the Quixote seem to be acting as apologists for the historian, smoothing out the wrinkles in the narrative, and justifying the choices and style of its composition.


Note: I'm presently on page 792 of the book, which I'm reading intermittently since July as part of a group read. Obviously I was waylaid by other books and failed to stick to the schedule. I still have some 200 pages to cover.

Masque of Africa

I am not enjoying Naipaul's exploration of Africa and its beliefs as much as I have enjoyed some of his other works. I think I can blame it largely on expectation mismatch. I was expecting a look at some African traditional beliefs, their placement in some context, some pattern - and some perspective on what they mean to a people. Au contraire, Naipaul seems to be exploring those beliefs often in a touristy manner, which seems uncharacteristic of him.
He has so far traveled to Uganda, Nigeria, Ghana and is now in Ivory Coast. In Uganda, he goes to the Kasubi tombs, and explores the tradition of Kabaka - the kings of the Buganda, a kingdom/region within Uganda. The one thing that seemed catchy was the way Kabaka were buried:

The corpse of the king would have been dried over a slow fire for three months. Then the jawbone would have been detached and worked over with beads or cowries; this, together with the umbilical cord, also worked with beads, and the penis and testicles, in a pouch of animal skin, was what would have been buried here. The rest of the body, the unessential man, so to speak, would have been sent somewhere else.

In both Uganda and Nigeria, he meets lot of people who fleece him, and while meeting every godman, Naipaul seems to be constantly agonizing over how much money he would have to pay. His distrust and the agony is almost comic, but not quite. It appears like his experience is constantly colored with this agony, and almost always he seems to not want to carry out a plan he himself suggested. So if anything sounds worse than the touristy nature of his exploration, it is the reluctance of that tourism.
There is one story is Nigeria, not so much about beliefs, but related to social customs - the story of Laila and her daughter. Laila marries a Muslim king, against all advice, and finds herself having to live with her husband's other marriages and the 'mess of harem life'. She struggles to bring her daughter out of this life and marries her off to an old Arab doctor who lives in Dubai. In time, the doctor too brings a second wife home. It is a sad tale, and to imagine the frustration of this young woman is heart-breaking.
The Ghana section is almost too touristy, something that I hardly enjoyed. It was also a more political commentary than one on beliefs.
The section on Ivory Coast has begun with the legend of Houphouet who went through an elaborate ritual to gain power. Exotic.

John Banville - The Lemur

The Lemur (a book that can be breezed through in a couple of hours as I discovered yesterday) is a book by John Banville's alter ego Benjamin Black. Banville does not seem to mind blurbs that read 'John Banville writing as Benjamin Black.' In fact it seems like a hint to the reader, John Banville Lite production.

My earlier encounter with the Black version was Christine Falls (oh Quirke!) Both books must be called literary thrillers. There are no agonizing sentences (like in Banville) but some descriptions are so beautiful - a shadow seems like a blotch of watered ink (I can't find the page on the book so that I may quote the exact sentence. One good reason in favour of an ebook.)

John Glass, a former journalist, is recruited by the billionaire Bill Mulholand (also Glass's father-in-law) to write his biography. Glass hires a researcher whom he nicknames the Lemur to gather the 'truth' about his subject. Things start to go wrong when the Lemur is murdered.

Black twists every conventional clue on its head and ultimately whodunnit becomes far less important than the many whys that are subtly pointed to. The Black books are psychological thrillers in the sense that the primary murder takes a backseat to the protagonist's psychological journey through the process of uncovering the murderer.

Still, for thrill, I'd rather read watered ink shadows than ridiculous jumping off helicopters over Rome.

Kitne Pakistan (Partitions)

I am a little ashamed to be reading this book in translation when it has been originally written in Hindi, my native language. I just chanced upon the translation in a Delhi bookstore, and was instantly interested - mainly with the cover, but also with the idea. Given the scarcity of Hindi bookstores, I realized there were slim chances that I would find the original version soon, and decided to settle for the translation (surprisingly, a friend - a Hindi movie fan(!) has the Hindi version, which I some day hope to read)
Everyone born in India and familiar with Indian movies will likely know Kamleshwar - the scriptwriter of some legendary Hindi movies like Aandhi, Chhoti Si Baat, Burning Train, Mausam. But I has never read his written word, and Kitne Pakistan is becoming a wonderful introduction.
In Kitne Pakistan, Kamleshwar has dealt with the cruelty of Indian partition of 1947 in a very unique way. A writer who calls himself adeeb (a litterateur) , and his assistant Mahmood argue cases transcending geographies and times, questioning Gods, kings, autocrats and politicians on their atrocities against humanity. Their trial is against many partitions that have fractured people in the name of religion, justice and more.
The first trial (more like a polite yet accusing letter) concerns the defence minister and prime minister of Pakistan, who, with the aggression of Kargil have violated the promise of peace made in 1972. Soon follows the story of Indra and his violation of Ahilya, rishi Gautam's wife. Adeeb questions Rishi's treatment of his wife and the terrible curse he puts on her, the prime victim of this duplicity. This is the grave partition by the Brahmins - to separate womankind and treat them with different standards.
There is a rather interesting story of Gilgamesh and Sumerian deities, where the deities are shown to be as power-hungry as the human kings, and try to crush Gilgamesh the powerful human king. Centuries later, the land of Gilgamesh is under fire from NATO missiles, and adeeb accuses Kofi Annan, the UN head for his neglect. His summons for Annan are beautiful and reflect the despair of the neglected modern world.

In case he has forgotten, remind Mr. Annan that the world is witness to the conflicts that take place in the name of global economic enterprise and threaten to destroy common man in every country and culture. A dark chapter, based on blind faith has opened in history and leading to genocide. So long as these conflicts are perpetuated, dysfunctional communities will emerge, giving birth to an unjust and unprincipled world. Fish will continue to perish in Danube.

Interspersed with these trials are some love stories (so far I have only read two), which are themselves fractured or left affected by the partition, and depict, a bit sentimentally how partitions kill love, happiness, conversation.
On every page of this wonderful book, there is a new hypothesis, perhaps even new facts. I am currently in the middle of Mountbatten's confessions to Edwina on his role in the Indian partition, and though not shocking, its a bit startling to read this confession.