Categoria: 3 estrelles

Millorable, però amb qualitat suficient.

Stories from the suburbs: marginality and hope in Beijing

Where By sifuroIn 3 stars , Chinese character , BooksLeave a comment

Today I'm talking about a book called Historias del extrarradio , published by Automàtica Editorial. The author is Xu Zechen, a Chinese writer who has a younger and more current voice than the authors you usually find on this blog, such as Yu Hua or Yan Lianke .

I had already had my first contact with this author when I read Running through Beijing in English. I remember that reading it left me with a slightly strange feeling, perhaps because of the translation. I often find that translations from Chinese to English are not very flexible, a bit garbled, and on that occasion it made the text seem more like a documentary than a literary work. In that case, the story focused on characters who sold fake CDs and the language didn't really give me much. On the other hand, this Spanish edition of Historias del extrarradio has convinced me much more and has reconciled me with the author.

The struggle for survival in marginal Beijing

In this book, Xu Zechen tells the story of Mu Yu, a seventeen-year-old boy from a small village. Like so many other young Chinese, Mu Yu seeks to make a life for himself in the big city (in this case, Beijing), where in theory there are more opportunities. The problem is that in China, changing residence is highly regulated and moving from rural to urban to the wild means becoming, in practice, an illegal citizen.

So, Mu Yu settles in Beijing and lives in a small house with several companions who are also in a precarious situation. His work is curious and clandestine: putting up advertisements everywhere to promote his uncle's business, who is a document forger. The book is built through prints and stories that have Mu Yu as a common link and that are not independent stories, but must be read all of them to understand this choral chronicle about urban marginality.

I think one of the reasons I liked this book so much is the translation by Belén Cuadra Mora . It is so well done that it reads with total fluidity, as if it were the original text (yes, that's what they teach us in college, but it's not always achieved). Thanks to this rich and elaborate style, we enter a Beijing full of street vendors, characters on the margins of the system and dangerous situations that show the less friendly side of Chinese growth.

Conclusion

"Historias del extrarradio" is a very vivid portrait of the Chinese capital. If you are planning to go there or you like urban geography, I recommend reading it with Google Maps next to it, as the author mentions specific streets and neighborhoods that will help you situate yourself in the plot. In fact, it was like going back there!

In short, it is a highly recommended read to discover a young and powerful voice in current Chinese literature that knows how to explain social reality through quality fiction.

In nature things simply grow, with Yiyun Li

Where By sifuroIn 3 stars , Chinese character , Books2 comments

He's only 15 years old, and his fingers are already longer than mine. No, you can't see it in the photo, but he's almost a hand's breadth away from me. He has his own ideas, and his own way of dressing. And he has a brother five years older, who's already on screen and is at university. They both have to bend down to give me a hug. They're Jordi and Guillem, and they're not that different from James and Vincent, Yiyun Li's children. Or rather, they are different: my children continue with their lives while hers are no longer there. By their own decision, too.

How do you feel when, of the two children you had, you have none left? When all you have left are rooms full of memories? When the dog doesn't know where to go to find its owner?

Children die, parents continue to live.

It shouldn't be like that. The "law of life" is different. The author herself says it, which statistically is a very rare case, but the fact is that, six years apart, Yiyun Li's two sons committed suicide. And she wanted to write a book for each of them. I have the one she dedicated to Vincent at home, and I couldn't finish it. Maybe now that I've read the one she dedicated to James, I'll go back to reading it.

Knowing what the book was about, I have to say that I picked up In Nature Things Simply Grow with a pack of Kleenex in my hand. And no, I didn't have to use it much. Why? Well, because Yiyun Li is able to convey sadness, perplexity, suffering, and all kinds of sensations, without having to resort to easy tears. She has a delicious pen, with which she is able to portray the scenario she wants without going through a convoluted text, without having to fill the book with adjectives and complex expressions. With a plain writing, she is able to communicate without her production being of a low level. Not everyone can do that. 

On Instagram I often read statements like "it's a hard book but necessary" applied to books that, often, I consider not so hard. This time I'll be the one to say that it's a hard book. This one is, The Diary of Anne Frank is. Because they explain real events, things that you can put a day and a night on. Is it a necessary book? That's the million-dollar question. I think it's very necessary for the author, who writes with amazing simplicity and integrity about an extremely sad and, in some places, taboo subject: the suicide of two children (and her own attempts). In this sense, I find it very necessary as a vehicle so that she, the person who has suffered it, can get her message across to us, and this message is surely necessary, or useful, for people who have been in the same situation and who, possibly, don't know how to express it so well. Maybe it will make them feel accompanied and understood.

In any case, it's a good read for me to reposition myself and to be able to resume the book she dedicated to her eldest son, Vincent. And, now that I understand her better, I will be able to resume the reading path she has always guided me along with great success. For this reason, I am very grateful to L'altra editorial for sending it to me and, above all, for deciding to publish it.

If you are interested in this author and want to learn more about her, check out the talk about women writers we gave at the Confucius Institute a while ago (in 2018!!!). We talk about her starting at minute 56 (link in bio), and we touch on other authors like Sanmao, Amy Tan and others. Don't hesitate to read this or any other book by her, which you will find reviewed on this blog.

«Nuestra parte de noche», de Mariana Enríquez: una immersió en la foscor

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«Nuestra parte de noche» és una novel·la de sectes, esperits i paternitat, ambientada en una Argentina marcada per la dictadura i el misteri. Mariana Enríquez desplega tota la seva capacitat per incomodar i captivar amb una història que no deixarà ningú indiferent.

Feia molt de temps que tenia pendent llegir alguna cosa d’aquesta autora argentina que, pel que he sentit, és «la reina de la foscor». Fa poc va venir a Barcelona i va fer una xerrada a la biblioteca, i vaig decidir que ja tocava: era el moment de llegir «Nuestra parte de noche».

I, tela, quin moment.

Què és aquest llibre?

Es tracta d’una novel·la llarga (672 pàgines), densa, plena de matisos, d’obscuritats i de malsons. Però també és una lectura addictiva, d’aquelles que et xucla i no et deixa anar. Tot i que hi ha algun tros que vaig trobar més pesat (al terç del mig), en general és un d’aquells llibres que et fan passar les pàgines sense adonar-te’n. I no, no és una lectura per a tothom. Si sou dels que busqueu històries boniques, de personatges tendres i reflexions vitals de postal, aquest no és el vostre llibre. Aquí hi ha dolor, desesperança, horror i una sensació constant que hi ha alguna cosa que s’amaga sota la superfície.

Una de les coses que més m’ha agradat de «Nuestra parte de noche» és que es pot llegir des de moltes capes: com una història sobre la paternitat, sobre l’adolescència i el pas a l’edat adulta (un coming of age amb foscors), com un retrat del moment històric d’Argentina… però jo em quedo amb la part que fa més por. Amb el mal. Amb la presència maligna que ho travessa tot. Amb les sectes i els ritus. Amb la sensació que alguna cosa terrible sempre està a punt de passar. Amb les ombres. És això, el que el fa diferent de la resta de llibres.

La trama gira al voltant d’una secta anomenada «la Orden», que necessita mèdiums per contactar amb unes entitats (esperits? déus? monstres?) que no tenen res de benevolent. En cap moment es busca el bé ni l’elevació espiritual: aquí es busca poder, domini. I per aconseguir-ho els seus membres no dubtaran a fer el que sigui. El mèdium que troben per fer-ho possible és en Juan, i a través d’ell anirem coneixent l’origen de la Orden, la seva estructura, els seus rituals, i els horrors que s’amaguen darrere d’aquesta organització.

Però aquesta novel·la és molt més que una història d’horror sobrenatural. És també un viatge a parts d’Argentina que jo desconeixia totalment, com el nord selvàtic, en contacte amb el Brasil, un entorn fèrtil per a la foscor i el misteri. I, encara que no sigui el focus principal, hi ha la presència constant del context històric del país: la dictadura militar, els desapareguts, el malestar social, Menem, les protestes estudiantils… Tot això hi és, de fons, com un paisatge que contribueix a crear una atmosfera inquietant.

Enríquez té moltes altres obres, i espero llegir-ne més coses en el futur. Ara bé, com a primera aproximació, «Nuestra parte de noche» ha estat una lectura intensa, inquietant i molt satisfactòria. M’agrada com es capbussa sense por en la foscor i ens mostra tot de coses que, sovint, preferim no mirar.

"One, Nobody and One Hundred Thousand" by Pirandello: reflections on identity

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One, Nobody and a Hundred Thousand , by Luigi Pirandello, is a very unique novel by the Italian author, and we can read it in Catalan thanks to editions of the ela geminada , with translation by Marina Laboreo. It is a philosophical novel that puts on the table a universal theme: identity and the perception that others have of us.

The starting point is surprisingly banal. The protagonist, Vitangelo Moscarda, realizes that he has a crooked nose. When his wife confirms it to him and, in passing, adds a whole list of defects that he had never seen, his life is turned upside down. He suddenly realizes that the image he has of himself does not coincide with that of others, and even more: each one sees him in a different way.

This discovery triggers a series of reflections on identity. Are we who we think we are, or are we what others project onto us? Can we be the same person to everyone? Or are we "one" to ourselves, "nobody" when we try to reconcile all the versions, and "a hundred thousand" because each look recreates us in a different way?

Pirandello: between narrative and theater

Reading One, Nobody and a Hundred Thousand is a peculiar experience. Although it is presented as a novel, at many moments it seems more like a theatrical monologue. Pirandello, who was also a playwright and won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1934, knows how to transfer to the text the rhythm and intensity of the spoken word on stage.

This can be disconcerting to the reader (it disconcerted me, wow). Rather than a plot full of dialogue and action, we find a long speech full of banter. But when you get into the game, the book has an indisputable strength.

A thought-provoking read

I must admit that at times it has confused me, but I have also been captivated by its ability to make me reflect. After all, it is a work that shakes the way we understand ourselves. What are we, really? Our own image? The reflection we project? Or a sum of all perceptions? The ending (don't worry, I won't spoil it for you) is coherent with this entire journey and gives meaning to the protagonist's trajectory.

One, Nobody and a Hundred Thousand is not an easy or quick read. If you are looking for a classic plot with action and characters, it may put you off. If, on the other hand, you are attracted to works that question identity and you like to be challenged by philosophy, this is a highly recommended read.

Els nostres infinits dies comptats: infantesa perduda?

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Amb Els nostres infinits dies comptats, Claire Fuller entra definitivament en el grup de les autores que m’agrada seguir. Aquest és el tercer llibre seu que llegeixo (tots tres publicats en català per l’editorial Les Hores), i un cop més m’ha deixat amb aquella sensació d’inquietud i fascinació que tant m’agrada trobar en una lectura.

Una de les coses que més valoro de Fuller és la seva capacitat per explorar, sense estridències però amb profunditat, la vulnerabilitat dels infants davant els adults. Tant en aquest llibre com en el primer que li vaig llegir, Terra inestable, l’autora retrata com els nens poden ser manipulats, ensinistrats, enganyats… tot amb la millor de les intencions (o no). I, sovint, sense que el nen (o el lector) se n’adoni fins que és massa tard.

A Els nostres infinits dies comptats, la història comença amb una premissa senzilla: un pare decideix emportar-se la filla a viure al bosc. El que sembla una aventura, gairebé un joc, un anar de campaments prolongat, es va fent cada cop més estrany. De mica en mica, Fuller ens va mostrant les esquerdes d’aquesta nova vida «lliure» i autosuficient. L’aïllament, la rutina extrema, la por al que ens és desconegut… tot plegat va prenent una forma que inquieta.

La gràcia està, també, en com ens ho explica. La novel·la alterna passat i present, i és justament aquest anar i venir en el temps el que ens permet construir la història a poc a poc. Anem confirmant sospites, descartant teories, descobrint noves veritats que ens fan repensar tot el que ens pensàvem que sabíem. Fuller no té pressa per resoldre els misteris: ens convida a caminar amb ella, a poc a poc, per dins d’aquest bosc carregat de símbols i silencis.

És una lectura que recomano molt. Per la història, per la manera com està construïda, i per la força amb què la veu narrativa (una filla que estima, confia, obeeix) ens interpel·la. Hi ha una barreja de tendresa i tristesa, de llum i ombra, que m’ha semblat molt equilibrada. No és un llibre d’acció, ni de grans girs argumentals, però sí d’aquells que et deixen pensant. Què vol dir protegir? Què vol dir estimar? Fins on pot arribar la influència d’un pare sobre la seva filla?

La traducció, de Josefina Caball, aconsegueix que la veu de la protagonista soni natural, creïble i emotiva. És d’aquelles traduccions que no distreuen, però que ajuden a gaudir plenament del text.

En resum: si busqueu una lectura que us remogui per dins i que us faci mirar amb nous ulls les relacions familiars, aquest llibre pot ser una molt bona opció. Jo, per part meva, seguiré llegint el que publiqui Claire Fuller.