McSweeney's 43

McSweeney's 43 is a collection of short stories and non-fiction by various authors, with a supplement of writing from the new nation of South Sudan. (For some reason, I never got McSweeney's 42.)

None of the writing in 43 really stuck with me -- in addition to the letters to the editor, there are four short stories and two non-fiction pieces. The non-fiction pieces are more interesting  than the short stories -- "The Texan from Gaza Does Yoga in Prison," is a young woman's account of her experiences with her father in prison for supporting terrorism. It's a bit meandering, though, and trails off rather than builds to a conclusion. Maybe that isn't a fair observation to make about an account of a close relative's imprisonment, though.

The other non-fiction piece follows the Libyan Revolution in Tripoli.

The fiction from South Sudan is more interesting than the fiction in 43 proper. It mostly concerns village life, although the first (and one of the better) stories is about leaving one's village to avoid arrest. In the introduction, it's emphasized that the region is still young and developing, so there isn't quite anything yet that "illuminates its culture and experiences." Perhaps one of the writers here will provide that.

The Assignment

Reading the foreword to The Assignment, I reached a passage that made me cringe:

The work is described as "a novella in twenty-four sentences." What accounts for this stylistic idiosyncrasy? In her autobiographical account Charlotte Kerr tells us that, while they were both still thinking about projects based on Bachmann's novel, the couple sat one evening over a bottle of wine, listening to Glenn Gould's performance of the first half of Bach's The Well-Tempered Clavier I. When the last of the twenty-four movements had ended, Durrenmatt rose, turned off the record player, replaced the LP in its case, and said, "So, now I'm going to write the story in twenty-four sentences." (The German word for a musical movement is Satz, which also means "sentence".)

The writer of the foreword goes on to expand on the relation of Durrenmatt to Bach, on music to prose, et cetera. It's not that I object to drawing inspiration from other art forms, or  the relation of a style of writing to a style of music, it's that a self-imposed limitation such as the above would seem to lead to a rambling form of stream-of-consciousness that would be tedious to process and absorb. Fortunately, this is not the case; I found The Assignment to be easier reading that the works of Jose Saramago, who often employs a similar style of pages and pages of one sentence. So while each of the twenty-four chapters here is one sentence only, many are extremely short, (the first three are only two pages each), and even the longer ones remain digestible.

This is an odd novel -- the subtitle is "On the observing of the observer by the observed." This is perhaps best illustrated by the anecdote told by our protagonist's friend, the logician D.: that his house is on a mountain, and he often catches tourists observing it with binoculars, while he in turn watches through his telescope. When they seem him observing them, they become upset and withdraw. Some return later and throw rocks. Everyone in the novel is both observing and observed, and the way this is portrayed in the climax gives that moment a bit of a comic tone. It's an unsettling and easy read.

Stand on Zanzibar

The first chapter of Stand on Zanzibar is an introduction to a newsmagazine-type program that will recur throughout the novel. The second is titled "Read the Directions" and intersperses bare bones characterization (such as: "Donald Hogan is a spy") with excerpts from in-universe books, newscasts, advertisements, corporate mottoes, gossip, and recruitment. Every character introduced in that chapter is featured in the novel, some more prominently than others. It's a device designed to simulate the information overload that's prevalent in the setting of this novel -- Earth, 40 years from time of writing (that is, 2010, with the novel written in 1969).

The remainder of the novel is like an expanded version of the first chapter; the main plot is interwoven with ads, snippets of talk shows, and the like. It can be a bit jarring. Additionally, of all the characters introduced in the first chapter, some get an expanded look, while others only get one or two -- an intro chapter that sets up their conflict, and the resolution chapter. However, due to the cutting in, introducing the new characters isn't too distracting, and we're left wondering if any of them are going to join the main plot (most of them wind up tangential to it), or even what the main plot is.

While the plot is the engine that drives the book, I would recommend picking this up for the structure, as the ending is pretty facile, even if the big reveal is a bit unusual.

The Man-Eaters of Tsavo

This book could be more accurately titled East African Adventures, Including that Time I Killed Two Man-Eating Lions, but that might be too conversational (and not nearly Victorian enough) for Col. Patterson. There are twenty-seven chapters in this book, and the ninth one is titled "The Death of the Second Man-Eater", so the majority of this book is clearly the other East African adventures. Luckily, Patterson's writing style is engaging enough that even without the excitement of the lions, it's not bad going.

I doubt that Patterson saw this work getting the audience that it eventually would -- in the brief preface, he states that he wrote this for the benefit of the friends who kept insisting that he put his escapades down on paper. The most famous (and interesting) of Patterson's adventures in Africa is his time building a railway in Kenya (then British East Africa) which was set upon by maneless lions (the man-eaters of the title) who dragged off many workers, to the point where the laborers refused to work on the railway, and many deserted. Patterson devoted much of his time at night to waiting for the lions, progressing to hunting them, finally having one stalk him. He eventually kills them and eliminates the threat, although not before many of his men are eaten. It's a fascinating, terrifyingly primal story, and Patterson renders it laconically, not really conveying the fear or sense of urgency, even though he himself lived it.

The remainder of the book is railway engineering, hunting in East Africa (rhino, hippo, many other lions, antelope, elephant, giraffe, etc). It's never all that boring, because it's easy to digest, but it does get a tad repetitive. The story of the lions is worth reading. The rest? Eh.