Showing posts with label Europe2026. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Europe2026. Show all posts

Saturday, August 8, 2026

Helen MacInnes' Prelude to Terror


Colin Grant is an art critic. He's recently moved to New York City to work at the Schofeld Gallery. A woman in the art world he knows approaches him on the behalf of millionaire art collector Victor Basset. Could he buy a painting at an auction in Vienna on Mr. Basset's behalf? The painting is a river scene by Salomon von Ruysdael of 1642. It might go for a $200,000, but Basset is worried he has a rival and if it were known Basset was bidding the price would go up.

There's an additional complication. The owner is a Hungarian national who wants to get out of Hungary (this is the 1970s) with this painting that the government would cheerfully confiscate if they knew about it. So for both those reasons it all needs to be hush-hush.

Of course it's Helen MacInnes so there are more complications than that...

This is the first of three spy novels by MacInnes which feature Robert Renwick. He's in Vienna working on a money-laundering scheme run from Eastern Europe. The money's being used to finance terrorist activity in the West. (The Red Army Faction had been in the news in the 70s.) 

I thought this was one of the better MacInnes books. It is fairly dark for MacInnes, though. This is her first novel after her husband Gilbert Highet died. Grant is a widower still in grief when it starts; if you know MacInnes, you won't be surprised that as an American dragged into a spy story, he will be involved in a romance. It doesn't pan out in this one.

It's possible I read this when it came out--both my parents were MacInnes fans--but if so I didn't remember it.

Vintage Mystery Scavenger Hunt

Silver Age (1978). Painting. Is that a von Ruysdael river scene on the left of the cover?   

River Landscape with view of Herwen and Aerdt in Gelderland

Monday, July 20, 2026

Layla Erbil's What Remains (#EuropeanReadingChallenge)

i've no idea why i'm telling you all this my dear readers

i can't know

i feel like i should know everything

before putting my other foot in the grave [208]

Laylâ Erbil's verse novel of 2011 was published by Deep Vellum last year in English translation. 

Lahzen is our narrator; she's an elderly woman of the secular, political left living in Istanbul. She's remembering the events of her life and of Istanbul, her home. She doesn't tell us her story in chronological order, but reflecting backwards on it. There are several recurring themes.

The first is her childhood. She grew up in Fener, also known as Phanar, the once Greek neighborhood on the Golden Horn, the European side of Istanbul. In her childhood, she had Greek, Jewish, Armenian friends. Rosa, the Jew, broke her pencil in half one day when Lahzen had forgotten hers; an act, she tells us, promising forty years of friendship. But in September of 1955, state-sponsored riots against homes and businesses drove out the non-Turks. Rosa's family goes to Israel. Lahzen remembers Greek songs, and songs in mixed Turkish and Greek. Her sister, her aunt go to Orthodox churches to perform magic with candles for good luck. The multicultural Istanbul of her youth is gone, and she misses it. A copy of Marilyn Monroe's skirt from the famous photo over the steam grate remains in a shop window in an arcade:

all that remained

was marilyn's pleated white skirt

in hristo usta's shop window

its white now blotched with purplish rot

the keys to the shop window

remained with hristo usta who fled to athens

do you think he'll come back

one day

you never know

they miss it here [210]

A second thread involves the deaths and disappearances during the years of the military dictatorship in Turkey. As she herself was a leftist, some are people she knew; some are just news items. Her second husband Sabit was in jail, but was eventually released. (There was an earlier husband who was good-looking and had a motorcycle, but oh, well, maybe not such great husband material.)

What it means to be a good person in such a world is a recurring thought for her; she often turns to Kierkegaard, and in particular Kierkegaard's retelling of the story of Abraham and Isaac (in Fear and Trembling):  

...yes we can defend søren as someone who was trying to make the best of the world's fear of raging hellfires in those times; in a sense his love was harmless. he said "how does one become a good christian, that's always been my priority." in his day and age that was what it meant to be a good person. [159] 

In the present her relationship with Sabit is difficult. While he was in jail, she had an affair with his best friend Zeyyat, and maybe she's still a bit in love with Zeyyat. Is Sabit holding that one time infidelity over her head? A bit.

What remains at the end of a life in such a place? History and stones.

The book is billed as a verse novel. I can't comment on the verse, and largely didn't feel it. Probably my limitations, but who knows? Traduttore, traditore. Though it feels like the three ranslators (Ersan, Spangler, Wyers) knew what they were doing. I know nothing about modern Turkish poetry. Mostly I read it as oddly punctuated and capitalized prose, but even as that I quite enjoyed it.

what could the content of the text

be

other than

the writer in her own way

struggling to capture the truth

knowing that it cannot be captured [27]

 I first came across the book here.

 

Sunday, June 28, 2026

Georgi Gospodinov's Death and the Gardener

"Surely this is why we tell stories. To create another parallel corridor where the world and everything in it are in their rightful places. To divert the story down another furrow when danger and death flood in, just as he would divert the water into another row in his garden."

He, in the sentence above, is the dying father of the narrator; the father liked to garden. The narrator is a middle-aged Bulgarian novelist whose name is only given as Georgi, and that only in the flap description.

Of the four novels of Gospodinov's I've read this easily feels the most autobiographical, but Gospodinov in a headnote insists it is a novel.

The father Dinyo had been diagnosed with fatal lung cancer seventeen years earlier. Rather miraculously at that time it had gone into remission, but now, in the late fall of 2023, it's come roaring back. Georgi starts a handwritten diary to deal with his feelings. When the first set of scans comes back, there's basically no hope:

"Well, at least till Christmas, we'll get together, see the snowdrops spring up, my father said, looking at the doctor with such expectation. Christmas was twenty days away, almost no time at all. 
Christmas might be possible, the doctor replied.
And this answer was at once the most merciful and merciless I have ever heard."

Georgi's father was a storyteller himself, not professionally, just in conversation, and when the present becomes too difficult to bear, Georgi recalls one of his father's stories. It's clear Georgi simply likes his father in addition to loving him. Georgi, the writer (and reader,) turns to other writers for consolation. There's Sontag, unsurprisingly, who herself was diagnosed with a cancer that was supposed to kill her, which went away for a number of years, but in the end did return; also Montaigne, various stoics, Borges. Homer, and here as well, is a frequent touchstone for Gospodinov.

There are a few markers this is a novel. Gaustine, a recurring character in Gospodinov's fiction, shows up in this, but mostly to be quoted. Gospodinov uses himself as a character in other novels; The Physics of Sorrow is in some ways a generational family novel, but with an amusing medical/science-fiction-y twist to aid the narration. In the Booker International winner, Time Shelter, the writer Georgi Gospodinov is hired as a consultant for a psychological therapeutic project, because he's good at storytelling; Gaustine, though, makes the plot go in that novel. The distance in this between Georgi the character and Georgi Gospodinov the actual novelist feels much smaller. It's less expansive, less playful than his other novels, but also very touching. 

Monday, June 15, 2026

Leonie Swann's Three Bags Full

 

George Glenn, an Irish shepherd, has been found dead in his pasturage with a spade driven through his chest. Miss Maple, the cleverest sheep in Glennkill, and possibly the world, says, "I think we ought to find out what kind of human. We owe old George that. If a fierce dog took one of our lambs he always tried to find the culprit. Anyway, he was our shepherd. No one had a right to stick a spade in him. That's wolfish behavior."

Turns out there's a suitable list of suspects: an earlier unsolved murder in the village, the drug trade passing through since Glennkill is on the coast, George had a complicated love life. The elements of a decent mystery story are there.

The gimmick, of course, is the sheep, and when I got the book from the library, I wasn't entirely sure I was going to read it. There are a number of ways it could have veered off into ridiculousness. But it does pretty well. The sheep still feel sheep-like, and the different point of view is fun. In fact, if you were looking for an easy-reading, but pretty perfect example of defamiliarization, this would do nicely. 

The sheep also fill the Watson role in an interesting way. Watson sees and fails to understand; it's important to keep the story hidden; the sheep, who live with humans, see them pretty closely and quite often fail to understand the things humans do. (How can they not smell that!) 

It's my visit to Ireland for the year...

 

...but the novel orignally came out in German in 2005, and was translated by the late, great Anthea Bell.  I'm not sure now where I saw mention of the book, but there's a movie version just come out titled The Sheep Detectives, so I'm sure it had something to do with that.

Saturday, February 21, 2026

van de Wetering's Hard Rain

 "It was a regular Dutch summer with heavy rain and fog."

There's corruption in the Amsterdam police force!
 
Martin IJsbreker is dead and it's ruled a suicide; a second bullet was spotted but somehow lost in the investigation. Three junkies died of a heroin overdose in a houseboat across the canal from IJsbreker's house on the same day, and those are ruled accidental death. You don't believe any of that, of course.
 
And neither did Grijpstra and de Gier. They go to their boss, the unnamed Commisaris, and he authorizes reopening the case. But soon the Commisaris is facing an investigation for financial misdeeds; Grijpstra and de Gier are nearly killed in an auto accident, and are then suspended because they were purportedly at fault. (The stop sign had been covered up.)
 
There's not actually much mystery. The bad guys corrupting the police force are big time drug runners; their leader is a childhood schoolmate of the Commisaris (and distinctly not a friend). The story is who can be trusted and who not, and how they're going to do down the bad guys. And it's a pretty good one! That's partly because there's more of the Commisaris in this, and I generally find him the most entertaining character in the series. We even learn his first name: Jan.
 
Janwillem van de Wetering wrote fourteen novels and two volumes of stories about the Amsterdam police detectives, and this, from 1986, is the 11th. 
 
Vintage Mystery Scavenger Hunt
 
Silver Age (1986). Body of Water. 

Tuesday, January 13, 2026

Malcolm Cowley

"...he was mounting one of the most important rescue missions in American literary history..."

Malcolm Cowley was American writer of poetry, essays, and memoirs, as well as an editor. Born in 1898, he died in 1989, thus seeing most of 20th century and watching American literature (as distinct from English literature) come into its own. 

What makes Cowley interesting or important? He's pretty obscure now. Why did Gerald Howard want to write this biography? Cowley's friends with Fitzgerald and Hemingway. Cowley's the literary editor of The New Republic in the 30s, and editor of the Viking Portables in the 40s. It's Viking Portable for Faulkner that Howard is referencing in the sentence at the top; Howard is unwilling to be decisive, but it's been said, and I think it's probably true, without Cowley there's no Nobel Prize for Faulkner.

Cowley was born the son of a doctor in the countryside near Pittsburgh. His Pittsburgh public high school was a good one. He got to Harvard, on scholarship, at an era when that was still a mark against, but he did well there, joining the staff of the literary magazines. But before he finished his degree, and before the US entered the war, he went to France to help out, as did Hemingway, Dos Passos, Cummings, except by the time he got there, there was an overabundance of ambulance drivers, so he drove munitions trucks. He sees only a bit of action as a driver, then returns to Harvard; later he interrupts his studies a second time to join the US Army, but he's still in officer training when the Armistice comes. In 1919, he's a Harvard graduate, but penniless.

What's a young person with literary ambitions to do in 1919? Go to Paris! Cowley wangles a graduate scholarship that pays for him and his first wife, the landscape painter Peggy Baird. He writes a thesis on Racine and improves his French, but he also meets all sorts of literary figures including the French surrealists, Louis Aragon, André Breton, and Tristan Tzara.

He returns to the US, scrapes by on book reviews and translation for a few years. His first book of poems comes out in 1929; he becomes proofreader, then editor, then the chief literary editor for The New Republic. While there he accepts and publishes John Cheever's first story, and sees that two others come out in The New Yorker. The New Republic, with a millionaire benefactor, pays decently well, and that continues even after the Crash.

In 1934, his memoir of the Lost Generation, Exile's Return, appears. 

His first marriage breaks down at the end of the 20s, not helped by affairs and too much drinking on both their parts. His second marriage is a success and lasts until his death.

In the 30s he's not a member of the Communist party, but he's pretty much the poster boy for Fellow Traveller. He goes to Spain and fails to see what the Stalinists are up to, even though Dos Passos tells him they killed my friend Andrés Nin. He signs a letter saying the Moscow show trials were justified and that the victims were indeed guilty. Eventually he changes his mind on Stalin, but it's late. He's eased out of The New Republic and when he takes a job in Washington during World War II, he's almost immediately hounded out of it. 

Then come the Viking years, editing the Portables. He also works as acquisitions adviser, and sees On The Road into print (which required a fight) and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (which didn't). He publishes several other books, mostly late in his life.

He dies at the age of ninety.  

Howard's biography came out last year. I read both a positive review and an excerpt from the book and they convinced me to read it. It's an extremely well done biography, good on both the positive things Cowley did, but also solid on Cowley's dismaying relationship to Communism. And I did wonder if Howard wasn't half thinking of himself when he wrote about that rescue mission up above. If you're interested in the history of American literature in the middle of the 20th Century, it's an excellent book to read.

So then I went on to reread a couple of Cowley's more famous books:


Exile's Return

Exile's Return is his history of the Lost Generation ("You are all a lost generation"--Gertrude Stein, the epigraph to Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises). It's part memoir, part history, part literary criticism, an easy enough mix because Cowley was in the center of it all.  They all go to France; they all come back. 

How aware of money it was: book reviews paid a dollar each for fifty or hundred words, but you only got paid when the reviews appeared. Meanwhile you could sell those half-dozen review copies for thirty-five cents each, and with the $2.10 in your pocket from six books, "you would buy bread and butter and lamb chops and Bull Durham for cigarettes and order a bag of coal..."

The book ends with a discussion of the suicide of Harry Crosby, a minor literary figure now mostly forgotten, but treated by Cowley as representative. Cowley had access to Crosby's journals and it's sad and touching, but as Cowley admits in the introduction to the second edition of 1951, he mostly wrote about Crosby because he couldn't bear to write about Hart Crane, a much closer friend who also committed suicide.

The Dream of the Golden Mountains

Then I went on to reread his similar memoir of the 30s, which comes out in 1980. It's a much more explicitly political book; well, the 30s were a more political decade. Cowley himself is more involved in the fights over Stalin and Trotsky, whether there should be a Popular Front and if the Socialists were friends or enemies; in the book, which comes out in 1980, he a bit regrets his obsessions of time, and discusses the events of FDR's administration on the literary scene, particularly the Federal Writers Project. 

Another fine memoir.

The View From 80

Well, I put that in the picture, but I'm saving the reread of that one for a few years yet...  😉

Friday, January 2, 2026

European Reading Challenge Signup 2026

 

Time to signup for Gilion's European Reading Challenge for the new year. Hers is one of the best challenges going as far as I'm concerned, and I won't be missing it this year. The idea is to visit unique European countries by book, and I'll sign up at the Five-Star/Deluxe Entourage level once again for five books, but suspect once again I'll go past that. I never know what my books are going to be but I'm pretty sure the first country will be France, because I'm likely to finish Malcolm Cowley's Exile's Return about the Lost Generation authors in France later this evening.

Any European books in your future?