I did my best to like Carys Davies's West (2018) but failed miserably. This novella disappointed me on all possible fronts except one: the atmosphere.I did my best to like Carys Davies's West (2018) but failed miserably. This novella disappointed me on all possible fronts except one: the atmosphere. There was something unsettling, something mesmerizing about this story. It kept me reading on although my enthusiasm was dwindling with every page.
The premise of West is engrossing: Cy Bellman, a poor farmer from Pennsylvania, sets out on a lonely journey in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark’s expedition to solve the mystery of the great creatures whose bones have been found and fascinate him to such an extent that he leaves his ten-year-old daughter in the care of his sister. It becomes an obsession: I have to go. I have to go and see. That’s all I can tell you. I have to. After some time, we find out that this risky solitary quest leading to Kentucky is supposed to be a cure for the grave depression Cy has been struggling with since his wife died.
West has the feel of a parable. The advantage of this genre is that if you are blamed for anachronisms, you can always say it is not historical fiction after all. Unfortunately, I have the impression Carys Davies took this freedom a tad bit too far. I have nothing against British writers' books set in America but some details grated on me. The biggest surprise was the existence of a well-equipped library in a little town in Pennsylvania around 1810-1820. Another asset of a parable: you do not have to worry about the probability. The final scenes of West challenge my belief in coincidences to the fullest extent. The deus ex machina denouncement is strikingly cinematographic but the miraculous synchronicity of the events felt truly, truly awkward. Almost grotesque.
A parable should reveal a moral. It is unclear to me what the message of West is. Colonialism was bad? If you do something evil, you will be punished for that? If you pursue your Donquichotian dream, you are not the only one who pays for it? Women are weak and passive, while men are ruthless predators (speaking of which, fifty per cent of the main male characters in this short novella are paedophiles)? Truth be told, I expected something less stereotypical, less cliché. I also wonder why the Native American boy, who is a positive character by the way, has such a ridiculous name, "Old Woman From A Distance". Was it supposed to be hilarious? To the best of my knowledge, the names of Indigenous Peoples' were not given at random and jokingly.
As for the characterization, I do not have good news either. Cy Bellman and his family seemed to be drawn with highlighters, not with fine and subtle lines. I missed nuanced detail. Moreover, the use of literary devices in this novella felt heavy-handed, particularly the cliffhangers. While reading West I had the impression this was just a rough sketch of a novel that Carys Davies was planning to flesh out further but for some reason gave up and decided to publish the draft instead. If you have ever been served a dish that showed promise but was undercooked, you can fully understand how I felt while reading West.
[image] Oil painting by Tony Abeyta, Navajo....more
Had Ivan Turgenev and Virginia Woolf written a novel together, the final result might have resembled Winter Sonata (1928) by Dorothy Edwards. I know tHad Ivan Turgenev and Virginia Woolf written a novel together, the final result might have resembled Winter Sonata (1928) by Dorothy Edwards. I know this collaboration would have been a challenge, among other things for logistic reasons, but the association was obtrusive.
It is not the kind of book which captures its reader at once. Most of the time the main characters (five young people living in a village plus one exciting guest from London) wander around idly and we usually see them enter or leave a building. Their vague conversations are the core of the novel. Nobody ever does anything here but talk, complains Mrs Curle. Touché! Everything is shrouded in spleen, apathy and existential anxiety. Three words: headache, tired and sulky pop up frequently in Winter Sonata, like the tiny crocuses in the last scene of the novel, and they encapsulate its lethargic atmosphere accurately.
The lifeline that kept me from drowning in the depths of Weltschmerz was gentle humour. That is why I warmed up to grumpy Mrs Curle and morbidly timid Mr Nettle immediately. The comic aspect they brought to the novel helped me to survive. I was also delighted by Dorothy Edwards's descriptions of nature, subtly parallel with the emotions of the characters. Winter landscapes are quite difficult to capture in words and Dorothy Edwards's descriptions truly feed your imagination. Mine, at any rate. Just a few examples: But the leafless trees were indeed extraordinarily beautiful just here in all their misty colours of black, grey, brown, and sometimes a curious red. Here and there among them was the dark, deep green of fir trees which seemed to stand down there among the shades like heroes who alone can descend living into Hades. [...] It seemed to him that the little trees with their feathery black branches and the soft grey sky had an air of restrained gaiety like a little scherzo in a minor key. [...] He was interested to see how the black branches of the trees looked like little feathers, or like charming black lace through which the delicate grey morning sky showed with an almost transparent softness, and of what a deep green were the branches of the firs against this grey.
The psychological portraits are subdued and intriguing but I had the impression that I was watching the characters from a great distance and could see just the opaque outlines which I was supposed to fill in myself. It might be one of the reasons this novel feels so cold. Perhaps the frustrating abyss between the reader and this book, and between the characters also, resulted from the way Dorothy Edwards herself perceived the world, especially relationships. In her suicidal note, she confessed: I am killing myself because I have never sincerely loved any human being all my life. I have accepted kindness and friendship and even love without gratitude, and given nothing in return.
One of the fortes of this book is the way its structure reflects the title. It is a sonata in words indeed. Not an exact replica though — the only contrast, typical for this music genre, is built upon the differences in the characters' personalities and the change of the seasons. By the way, music plays an important role in the life of the characters. It is not just entertainment, a lovely interval in their boring existence, but also a kind of substitute language which helps to express feelings and that is something everyone in this book struggles with.
It is said that whom the gods love die young. Unfortunately, this is exactly what happened to Dorothy Edwards. The decision was hers though — she committed suicide at the age of 31. There is a danger the dramatic finale of her life might turn off readers' objectivity and that is why I approached the enthusiastic accolades with a grain of salt. I tried hard to be unbiased although of course could not stop thinking about the author and in this context, some passages like I can’t stand this life any longer or She felt in that moment an almost intolerable distaste for life, a kind of nausea. change their shade of meaning and impact drastically. To be honest, I am not sure this novel withstands the test of time though. The lack of dynamism, its sluggish pace, blandness and torpid atmosphere are a hard nut to crack. On the other hand, there is no denying I am still under the spell of the impressionistic transience of Winter Sonata.
[image] Road at Eragny, Winter, Camille Pissarro....more
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