The Moviegoer (Walker Percy, 1961)

I’ve wanted to read this book since I was a teenager. As a young an, I read the first 30 pages, before I had to return the library copy I’d borrowed. The wait to finish the book was long, but it probably was for the better as I think I could enjoy the book more now that I am a bit older.

The story concerns drifting bachelor “Binx” on the eve of his 30th birthday. He lives in New Orleans, works in insurance and enjoys going to the cinema. He has a colorful family and sometimes goes out with his secretaries for drinks or swimming. The writing style is somewhat confessional and often touches on themes of religion, existence and sorrow. It is said that the whole novel is informed by Danish proto-existential and master angstrider Søren Kierkegaard, whom Percy was deeply influenced by. It is also a comedic book; I find myself many times stopping to savour the funny sentences and well-put phrases. Moreover, I like that the narrator is a movie buff, and that throughout the novel is strewn references to movies and film stars from the 40s and 50s.

I learned upon finishing the book that Walker Percy was a medical doctor who after a reminder of his own mortality decided to quit his job and try his luck as a writer. This book became part of a canon of books by “southern writers”, a group which included Percy and names such as Eudora Welty, Katherine Anne Porter, John Kennedy O’Toole, Carson McCullers and Flannery O’Connor. I watched a program of William F. Buckley’s interview program where Percy and Eudora Welty were invited to discuss “southern literature”, in which Percy returned to the fact that the southern writing has a flavor of the “tragic sense of life”, because they were on the losing side of the Civil War. Percy also had plenty of reason to cultivate a tragic sense of life, because both his father and other relatives committed suicide, which might explain why he was so drawn to existentialist themes. This is a book that easily lends itself to a literary obsession, which is evidenced by several articles across the internet by middle-aged men who write about their annual rereading and contemplation of “the Moviegoer” since their youth. There is also (unsurprisingly) a movie list of all the films referenced in the novel on the film aficionado site MUBI.

The Baron in the Trees (Italo Calvino, 1957)

A young nobleman climbs up a tree in protest when his parents force him to try eating snails. Apart from most other kids who’ve done similar things, this child never comes down to the ground again. He lives the rest of his life in the trees, and makes a philosophy out of it. It is quite the flight of fantasy, this short novel set in northern Italy in the late 1700s. I particularly enjoy all the strange plays on historical events and personages, and young baron di Rondò and his lifestyle becomes an allegory of the life of the mind. It mirrors a lot of the intellectual trends of the time.

There is not much of a plot to talk about, it is rather slowly driven by different takes on ideas. Sometimes the narrative lags because of this overreliance on ideas, but as the writing is so light and easygoing, it doesn’t hinder the reading too much. The book was written over three months the summer when Calvino stopped participating in the Italian Communist Party, and the story mirrors his gradual disillusionment with the movement. I liked the book, despite its intermittent slow parts, and would like to see if the other two stories in the trilogy are as imaginative and fanciful (the other stories being “The Nonexistant Knight” and “The Cloven Viscount”).

San Manuel Bueno, Mártir (Miguel de Unamuno, 1930)

San Manuel Bueno, mártir (Miguel de Unamuno, 1930)

This novella about a country priest who has lost his faith is quite beautiful in its simplicity. It discusses what real faith is, touches on the so called “noble lie” and describes how the priest with his “unfaith” paradoxically manages to awaken the deepest faith in others. It reminds me of the book by George Bernanos, Journal d’un curé de campagne. I first learned of Unamuno in Camus’ 1942 essay “The Myth of Sisyphus”, which I read as a teenager. I have been meaning to read something of his ever since, but first managed to get around to it now. I’ve also had a Spanish copy of Unamuno’s “Abel Sanchéz: Una Historia de Pasion” for almost ten years, that I intended to try to spell through to improve my Spanish. This novella, however, I read in English translation.

I have always been fascinated by the notion of clergymen who lose their faith, or go through changes in ther worldview and how they tackle those issues. Therefore I could easily ingest this story, which clearly bears revisiting.

Unamuno was part of the generación ’98, and was rector at the university of Salamanca. He developed his own type of novella that he called nivola. His most famous essay is “The tragic sense of life” from 1912.

Ancestral Tables (Dilsa Demirbag-Sten, 2005)

Stamtavlor (Dilsa Demirbag-Sten, 2005)

This Swedish book by a Kurdish-Swedish journalist about growing up in Kurdistan and Sweden is filled with stories about her family and relatives, and Kurdish culture. Written when she herself became a mother and started thinking about her own cultural heritage and what she wanted to transmit to her children.

A big part of the book is filled with proud disdain for a lot of the misogynist and patriarchal practices in Kurdish folk tradition. It is quite obvious that Demirbag-Sten is no fan of religion, and she describes her family’s missteps and the dire consequences that the Kurdish “honor culture” can have.

The tone reminded me of Ayaan Hirsi Ali and other overeager pro-secularist writers. I sympathise with the secularist cause when I read these tales of backwards traditions and blind rage, but I am also wary of those who are too hardline about the secular perspective. It’s certainly a balancing act on a razor’s edge to try to reconcile both views.

The book sent my thinking to the Kurdish people and how their history compares to my own closest ethnic filiation, the Jewish people. For instance, the parts when she and her Swedish husband and small children visited military zones in Kurdistan reminded me of how other Swedes have reacted to military presence in cities like Tel Aviv. Demirbag-Sten portrays Kurds as not being a literate people, and that no written sources remain to tell about their origins.

Many of the stories are real gutwrenchers – heartbreaking stories about torture, deceit and love. It made me think of Svetlana Alexievich’s writings, who is quite expert at picking out and describing suffering. The difference when reading these stories compared to Alexievich is that they come closer to my reality since they have been lived by someone raised in Sweden, and someone I’ve heard speak at various conferences, to boot.

It was a timely read for me, as I too will soon have to think about the same issues of transmitting cultural heritage. It’s quite the conundrum.

(This review is based on the Swedish language version of the book, as it has not been translated to English)