Alexander Lernet-Holenia (1897-1976), a distinguished poet, novelist and playwright from Vienna, has recently seen a resurgence in popularity due to his notable novella Baron Bagge (first published in 1936) approaching cult status. The story centres around a lone military officer traversing the Carpathian Mountains on horseback, following the alleged annihilation of his entire squadron in an ambush.
The novella’s construction, highlighting the enigmatic and the supernatural, ensures its timeless appeal despite its origins in a specific historical period. A similar sentiment is shared for the eerily insightful, recently republished Count Luna (Penguin Classics, £9.99), expertly translated by Jane B Greene. Released initially in 1955, the account features another titular character who paradoxically never makes an actual appearance.
Alexander Jessiersky, the affluent offspring of a Polish family and central narrator of this tale, is an industrial magnate in Austria during the Anschluss period. He passively permits bureaucrats from “the German occupation” to seize control of his less affluent neighbour, Count Luna’s estate, consequently driving Luna to a concentration camp. This act of passivity and cowardice deeply plagues Jessiersky. No word is heard from Luna after 1946, with his grieving kin confirming his non-return from “elsewhere” (a euphemistic reference to the Holocaust whose significance remains potent today).
The intrigue deepens with a mysterious individual distributing poisoned sweets to Jessiersky’s children in a Viennese park. Could it be the same individual seen on a hunting trip near Jessiersky’s rural property? Or perhaps his wife’s clandestine admirer? As Jessiersky’s suspicion escalates, his resolve to expose and eradicate Luna turns deadly, steering the storyline towards a dramatic climax in the crypts of Rome. It’s a remarkable literary achievement, equally whimsical, satirical, insightful, and horrific.
Bora Chung’s debut collection of stories, the chilling, magically realistic and sci-fi laden Cursed Bunny, was a contender for the International Booker Prize 2022, having been first published in Korean in 2017. Chung’s second offering is the poignant and sombre Your Utopia (also brought out by Honford Star for £14.99, and expertly translated by Anton Hur), which carries an explicatory closing note composed during Seoul’s summer of 2021. This reflects on the illicit demonstrations she engaged in, serving as a reminder of the pandemic times and the liberties abused by administrations to regulate their people: “it appears all we can do now is to endure.”
Chung’s stories are simply splendid: chilling, unnerving, steeped in global melancholy. The title story is told by an “autobody,” a machine that relies on a steadily depleting battery renewal and which previously had a “human owner.” Its narrative reveals that “since humans vacated the earth”, dying from a widespread fatigue and pain illness, “only machines like 314 and myself” remain. This machine, surprisingly, exhibits more compassion than any real human.
In A Very Ordinary Marriage, a darkly humorous critique of marital expectations, a newlywed man finds out that his wife is not cheating as he initially believed, but is rather involved in a task that is – hypothetically, fictively – utterly alien. This clever twist of role reversal resonates significantly with the narrative in Angela Carter’s Bluebeard’s Castle.
Two other noticeable stories include The Centre for Immortality Research and Maria, Gratia, Plana, where Chung delves into artificial intelligence driven potentialities for human salvation in the midst of existential desolation.
[ Yu Miri explores significant themes in her pivotal work, The End of August ]/
Justin occupies his chair, his sizeable stomach pressed against the table, appearing more like an encumbrance he carries about or some sort of domesticated creature rather than part of his actual physique. This is a scene from Rebecca Gisler’s remarkably unembellished novel, About Uncle (published by Peirene Press, priced at £12.99 and brilliantly interpreted by Jordan Stump). The narrative unfurls around a sister and brother who, reluctantly in the sister’s perspective – since the brother has the upper hand – are burdened with the responsibility of caring for their capricious elderly relative, a war veteran with disabilities. The narrative presents a lethal blend of the sickening and the entrancing, resulting in a confounding piece of writing.
Our Uncle is frequently found engrossed in television, often to the point his food turns cold before him; Uncle occasionally vanishes into the cellar for several days; Uncle has a few repugnant habits that might unsettle the faint-hearted. His residence of many years is a seaside house in France, with a garden gradually transforming into a burial ground, though he has never subjected himself to the pleasures of swimming in the nearby bay, deeming it a mere tourist activity. Gradually, a hidden narrative reveals itself, articulating not just Uncle’s existence, but also gradually revealing the intricate and complex genealogy of the family.
The resurgence of interest in works by the Italian-Cuban writer Alba de Céspedes (1911-1997) is potentially attributable to the growing popularity of her fellow Italian female authors, Natalia Ginzburg and Elsa Morante, whose mainstream recognition is largely credited to the “Elena Ferrante phenomenon”. De Céspedes’s Forbidden Notebook (1952) was translated into English in 2023 by Ann Goldstein, Ferrante’s translator. The novel throws light upon a woman drowning in a sea of domestic woes, who seeks solace by maintaining a secret diary.
Additionally, “Her Side of the Story”, a novel first printed in 1949, has been given a fresh lease of life by Forbidden Notebook’s publishing company (Pushkin Press, £20). It is translated by Jill Foulston, with Ferrante delivering the afterword. Originally titled “Confessions of a Woman,” this nearly 500-page tome narrates the epic journey of Alessandra as she experiences growing up during the lethal grip of fascism and war in Rome.
“Without any formal ingress, the stage is set in a concise yet intriguing manner: “My first encounter with Francisco Minelli was in Rome, on 20th October 1941. At the time, I was devoted to my thesis work, against the backdrop of my father’s cataract-induced near blindness that had persisted for a year. We resided in a contemporary apartment complex on Lungotevere Flaminio, a place we moved into shortly after the loss of my mother. Despite my older brother’s short-lived existence before he tragically drowned at three years old, having displayed prodigious traits, I saw myself as an only child.”
This heart-wrenching incident involving Alessandro casts a long, difficult shadow over Alessandra’s existence. Encouraged to follow a conventional path to matrimony by her family, she instead embarks on a path of rebellion, gravitating towards the clandestine resistance movement through her adoration for Minelli, a more mature academic whom she weds at 19. Although this relationship serves as the crux of the narrative, the true brilliance of the novel lies in its exploration of Alessandra’s formative years and the profound impact her mother and grandmother have on her. As Ferrante conveys in her closing remarks, the hard lesson Alessandra learns too late echoes the fate of her female ancestors: a sombre emergence into death.
Meanwhile, the sombre reality of femicide in Brazil serves as the compelling and pressing backdrop for Patrícia Melo’s engaging, exuberant novel, “The Simple Art of Killing a Woman” (Indigo Press, £11.99, skillfully translated by Sophie Lewis). Seamlessly blending elements of a crime thriller, investigative journalism, and mythological motifs, the narrative centres around an anonymous lawyer investigating a surge in Indigenous women’s homicides in a town on the fringe of the Amazon jungle, primarily perpetrated by their violent partners.
A court case unfolds where three wealthy, privileged men stand accused of the murder of a 14-year-old Indigenous girl. The lawyer navigates her escape from a stifling family and her own domestically abusive relationship, further underscored by her mother’s death due to domestic violence. The book ventures into the ruthless darkness of severe cruelty and explores the rich tapestry of myths and folklore that resonate deeply within this segment of Brazil.”
The book begins tragically, announcing the grim details of a woman’s horrendous murder. Elaine Figueiredo Lacerda, a woman of 61, was ruthlessly shot by her husband on the threshold of her home on a Sunday evening. This sets a ominous tone that permeates each chapter, the content evolving to span more and more horrific events. Yet, amid the gruesome tales, there exists a sense of life affirmation due to Melo and her character’s perseverance.
There’s widespread shock around Kajii’s appearance, her physique raising more eyebrows than her lack of attractiveness. Based on the true account of the notorious “Konkatsu Killer” from Japan, Asako Yukuzi’s novel, Butter (4th Estate, £14.99, adroitly translated by Polly Barton) is not a trifling read, but a dense, layered narrative that combines fiction and gastronomy, designed to intrigue and leave a lasting taste.
The protagonist, Rika, is a determined journalist and the only female on the news desk. She works until the early hours, only managing to sneak out to enjoy a bowl of ramen. Her once ideal boyfriend relationship is now marked by conflicts. An encounter with the imprisoned serial killer, Manako Kajii, offers an unusual opportunity. Kajii provides her beef stew recipe – the last meal served to one of her victims – and coaxes Rika into making and experiencing their shared dishes.
This immersive engagement, coupled with bits of Kajii’s grim past, sets Rika on a path of personal transformation. Prompted by the serial killer’s enigmatic past, her exploration of Kajii’s crimes also inevitably awakens her to the societal misogyny prevalent in Japan. This raises questions around Rika’s potential manipulation by Kajii, and the possibility of an enchantment. Butter is a simmering narrative that turns up the heat steadily, offering a hedonistic and thought-provoking read.