6 minute read
THREE NOVELS by Yuri Herrera; trans. by Lisa Dillman
three novels
wanted, through any job necessary, was to be able to afford a flat, not just a room, and then to settle in it and invite friends to dinner.” In the book’s second part, however, we find she has moved even further from her objective—living in London, subletting a couch from the friend of a friend for 80 pounds per month, and working as a copy editor at a Tatler-like society magazine. All the while, the narrator notices and reflects on everything: university and office life; racism and anti-immigrant sentiment (readers learn, rather offhandedly, that she is a person of color); the rise of Boris Johnson to prime minister; the hulking remains of Grenfell Tower, where 72 largely immigrant residents were killed by fire. A prismatic portrait of British life and millennial angst emerges, with echoes of Zadie Smith and Sally Rooney, but the presiding spirit of the novel is Virginia Woolf, whose A Room of One’s Own provides the epigraph and the inspiration.
Scintillating prose and sly social observation make this novel a tart pleasure.
THREE NOVELS
Herrera, Yuri Trans. by Dillman, Lisa And Other Stories (376 pp.) $25.95 | Sep. 14, 2021 978-1-913505-24-0
The Mexican postmodernist, heir in equal parts to Cormac McCarthy and Juan Rulfo, delivers a hallucinatory study of his country in this omnibus. Herrera shuns proper names of people and places: Mexico City is the “Big Chilango,” characters bear names such as the Artist, the Witch, and Mr. Q. His ghostly landscapes are reminiscent of Rulfo’s in the iconic novel Pedro Páramo, but his characters are even more ethereal. Many are up to no good, delivering packages whose contents we can only guess at, trying to avoid falling into vast sinkholes and the jails of La Migra. The bad guys speak as if in a Peckinpah film; says one, before putting a hole in a wobbly drunk, “I don’t think you heard a thing. You know why? Because dead men have very poor hearing.” One of Herrera’s central preoccupations is with finding a language to convey the strangeness of our time and, failing that, falling into silence. That language can be knotted and slangy, as when a character called the Girl says in the first novel, Kingdom Cons, “It’s amped here, singer, it’s trick as shit; man, it’s all sauce; it’s wicked, slick, I mean this place is tight; people here come from everywhere and everybody’s down.” The other two novels in this loosely knit trilogy, Signs Preceding the End of the World and The Transmigration of Bodies (the latter a neat play on the Catholic concept of the transmigration of souls and playing again on the dangerous border between two nameless nations), are published in the order in which Herrera wrote them. They’re even more powerful read together, with their nightmare scenes of a Mexican boy who, as in the Civil War, steps in to do military service in the U.S. for a rich kid and of nouveau-drug-rich people who remain in their poor neighborhood: “they just added locks and doors and stories and a shit-ton of cement to their houses, one with more tile than the other.”
A welcome gathering of centrifugal works by one of Mexico’s most accomplished contemporary writers.
THE BOOK OF MAGIC
Hoffman, Alice Simon & Schuster (400 pp.) $27.99 | Oct. 5, 2021 978-1-982151-48-5
In the conclusion to Hoffman’s Practical Magic series, a present-day family of witches and healers wages a final battle against the curse that has plagued them since 1680. Thanks to an ancestor’s bitter curse, anyone who’s been in love with and/or been loved by an Owens family member for the last 300 years has met death and tragedy
the water statues
(with rare exceptions involving risks and personal sacrifice). Hoffman’s prequel, Magic Lessons (2020), detailed the origin of the curse. In this series finale, Hoffman brings the three most recent generations together: sisters Sally and Gillian, whose youthful adventures introduced the series in Practical Magic (1995); their beloved elderly aunts, Jet and Franny, and long-lost uncle Vincent, children themselves in 1960s Manhattan in Rules of Magic (2017); and Sally’s daughters, Kylie and Antonia, whom she’s shielded from knowledge of their unusual heritage and its curse. The novel opens with Jet about to die, aware she has no time to use the knowledge she’s recently gained to end the curse herself. Instead, she leaves clues that send her survivors on a circuitous path involving a mysterious book filled with magic that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Then an accident makes the need to break the curse acute. What follows is a novel overripe with plot twists, lofty romances, and some ugly violence along with detailed magic recipes, enjoyably sly literary references, and somewhat repetitive memories of key moments from the previous volumes. While centered in the Massachusetts town where the Owens family moved in the 17th century, the novel travels to current-day England (briefly detouring to France) and becomes a battle of good versus evil. The Owens women’s greatest challenge is knowing whom to trust—or love. Hoffman strongly hints that the danger arising when someone chooses incorrectly is less a matter of magic than psychology and morality. Ultimately, for better or worse, each Owens woman must face her fear of love. For all the talk of magic, the message here is that personal courage and the capacity to love are the deepest sources of an individual’s power.
An overly rich treacle tart, sweet and flavorful but hard to get through.
THE WATER STATUES
Jaeggy, Fleur Trans. by Alhadeff, Gini New Directions (96 pp.) $13.95 paper | Sep. 7, 2021 978-0-8112-2975-3
A constellation of characters (and their servants) move, shrouded by loss and isolation, through their lives in Amsterdam. Beeklam was born in a house on a hill of boulders. After his mother’s death, he lived with his father, Reginald, a man of “innate cruelty” and “innocent, clueless inhumanity.” As an adult, he lives in a large stone building near the harbor in Amsterdam, where he moves among his basement full of statues. Gaps in the walls reflect the movement of the waves across the stone. At night, Beeklam walks the city, gazing into windows and feeling content to lack any domestic entrapments beyond his servant, Victor: “so much happiness he was happier living without.” In the second half of the book, we are introduced to young Katrin, who “considered everything ephemeral as her property.” She is especially haunted by a childhood spent at boarding school. Disgusted and isolated by her surroundings, she’s seen by the headmistress as being “gripped by some inscrutable witchcraft.” Katrin’s “companion” is the widower Kaspar, and their servant is Lampe, who formerly served Beeklam’s father. This interconnectedness among characters is sketched elusively: The characters never truly interact in meaningful ways, mostly delivering soliloquies, sometimes to themselves, sometimes in the presence of others, though rarely in true dialogue. Jaeggy highlights this disconnectedness by structuring the book as a hybrid between a play and a novel. The work proceeds through these chimeric vignettes, punctuated by Jaeggy’s hallucinatory, nonlinear prose, where phrases recur and echo, and the reader moves as if through a series of dream fragments guided by dream logic, where statues and passing crows can be more real than the human beings we share our lives with.
