• print • Winter 1997

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  • print • Winter 1997

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  • print • Winter 1997

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  • print • Winter 1997

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    Historical fiction is the bastard child of the literary world. Too often the marriage of vivid characters, colorful locales, and actual events produces bodice rippers, romantic fodder dressed up in a well-researched package. It’s no doubt hard to pen a historical novel that doesn’t succumb to the sensational or get stuck in factual minutiae. But at its best, the genre can be an eye-opener, combining heroic characters and real-life drama, pushing fact through the sieve of illusion yet never losing sight of its ability to inform.

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    Ronan Bennett’s fifth novel, Zugzwang, is populated by double agents, doppel­gängers, counterpropagandists, agents provocateurs, and assassination conspirators so numerous and mutually entangled that you can’t tell them apart without two scorecards—one for their real iden­tities, another for their false ones. The protagonist, Otto Spethmann (Nabokovian punsters, take note), is a Freudian psychoanalyst accustomed to dealing in such dualities. The son of a Jewish baker in prerevolutionary Saint Petersburg, he has learned to sweep Yiddish under the rug, live in a wealthier neighborhood, and eat fluffier bread. He has also developed a sixth sense for digging into his patients’ murky dreams

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    The power of flies; they win battles, hinder our soul from acting, consume our body.” Blaise Pascal proposed this notion in Pensées, his seventeenth-century postconversion writings, which provide the intertext for Lydie Salvayre’s The Power of Flies, originally published in 1995 as La Puissance des mouches. A Pascal devotee—a tour guide in the philosopher’s abbey at Port-Royal-Des-Champs—is on trial for the murder of an unidentified victim; as he narrates his life events in a disjointed coordination of personal anecdotes and literary interpretations, the novel unravels into a testimony of domestic violence. Despite the brutality on display, The Power of Flies

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    Jenny Erpenbeck is fixated on the terrors of childhood. The title piece of her 1999 debut collection, The Old Child & Other Stories, is the tale of a nameless orphan found on the street and brought to a boarding school, where she lives in paralyzing fear of her classmates. “Around me, everything is awhirl,” she says. “No one looks at me, I don’t know what I have done.” The school’s rigid social hierarchy is more than she can bear: She falls violently ill and, in a twist straight out of a gothic fable, ages decades in a matter of weeks.

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    In January 2005, Nadine Gordimer composed obituaries for two friends, Anthony Sampson and Susan Sontag, who died within ten days of each other. Her writing was uncharacteristically stiff, almost numb, as if she’d been forced to comment before she was ready. In “Dreaming of the Dead,” one of the finest stories in her new collection, Beethoven Was One-Sixteenth Black, Gordimer imagines a more fitting remembrance for her intellectual peers. She recounts a dream in which “the dead in their circle”—Sontag, Sampson, and Edward Saidconvene at a Chinese restaurant in SoHo to discuss their latest projects. Said is buoyant with news

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    There comes a point early on in Stewart O’Nan’s novel The Good Wife (2004) when you realize, with dismal certainty, that you aren’t reading the story of a young pregnant woman whose husband is serving twenty-five years to life in prison for a murder he may or may not have committed, but rather, the bloodless story of a woman who waits for her husband for twenty-eight years. It is a novel about marking time, about making ends meet, about a disappointing mother­hood, and about a long, unrewarding marriage. An old-school formalist, O’Nan ensures that we really suffer the passage of

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    Two-thirds of the way through The Match, an exacting yet tender novel about expatriate life, its protagonist, Sunny Fernando, visits Sri Lanka for the first time since childhood. He goes to look for the house he grew up in and finds it gone: “None of the things that had made up his early world, imprinted as images on his brain, existed any more. Everything had been violated. There was no past—no place, no people—except what he remembered. It frightened him.”

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  • print • Dec/Jan 2008

    It’s fitting that Pascal Mercier’s Night Train to Lisbon, which first appeared in German in 2004, has been translated into fifteen languages. The novel, as mesmerizing and dreamlike as a Wong Kar-wai film, with characters as strange and alienated as any of the filmmaker’s, is in fact preoccupied with translation, with all that can be lost or gained in the process. But more than that, it is concerned with the power of language to forge and dismantle people’s experiences, desires, and identities.

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