All novels could arguably be seen as engaging in dialogues with other literary works. Nevertheless, specific novels make more straight-forward use of other writers’ ideas or phrases. Such instances of unattributed quoting, like those found in Kathy Acker’s books, can be seen as groundbreaking rather than theft in the context of postmodernist intertextuality.
When Yambo Ouologuem’s ‘Bound to Violence’, translated from French by Ralph Manheim (Priced at £9.99 for 220 pages from Penguin), was first released in France in 1968, there was considerably less acceptance for this kind of referencing. Ouologuem, hailing from Mali, had established himself as an educator in Paris by the time he composed this piece. The initial response to this novel (in French, Le devoir de violence) was so favourable he was presented the Prix Renaudot.
When Manheim’s translated version came out, it came to light that a portion of the book bore marked similarity to three pages from Graham Greene’s ‘It’s A Battlefield’. Additional scrutiny of the text uncovered references from several works, including the Bible, works by Guy de Maupassant, and André Schwarz-Bart (and unlike Greene, Schwarz-Bart was delighted his work was incorporated). However, these instances of “sampling”, didn’t detract from the novel’s unflinching exploration of the roots of the politically induced bloodsucking and kleptocratic dynasties that Chérif Keïta identified in his preface.
Ouologuem’s take on history criticises heavyweight empires while reflecting on the effects of their rule on the populous. This perspective allowed Ouologuem to cast a cynical eye on a German anthropologist’s romanticised depiction of Africa and shed light on the trials, tribulations, and evolution of Raymond Kassoum, one of the few truly compassionate characters in the narrative, who embarks on an unexpected 18-month relationship with a man he meets after falling on hard times in Paris.
The award-winning novel, The Most Secret Memory of Men by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, reaffirms the ongoing dialogue within literature. The narrative reflects a case akin to Ouologuem’s, demonstrating the allure of a bold author whose distinct experiences should inspire rather than discourage prospective readers towards his elaborate exploration of suffering and violence.
A different exploration of history and memory is undertaken in Tanja Maljartschuk’s Forgottenness. Translated by Zenia Tompkins from the original Ukrainian, this book is published by Bullaun Press (272pp, €16). It delves into the protagonist’s struggle with anxiety disorders and probable OCD, showcasing the necessity for an external focus to escape her inner turmoil.
“My world was ending, time inside me was disintegrating, and I couldn’t express this crisis in the way I had been accustomed to, the way I had anticipated. Fresh words were needed, a novel truth, and pursuing them seized my entire thinking process.” This urgency pertains to Viacheslav Lypynski, a fiercely patriotic Ukrainian with Polish roots.
Through intensive study of the political and family dynamics of this late 19th-century man, the storyteller manages to bypass her own immediate distress and failures, though we are informed of her unsatisfying connections and mounting solitude. Lypynski also experienced unfulfilling emotional ties, and severe health issues led to his premature demise at 49.
Promoting the idea of a conservative Ukraine, he envisioned citizens showing allegiance to a monarchical figurehead and thereby grew increasingly alienated from his contemporaries and previous supporters. His declarations resonate particularly nowadays, even though the book was published before Russia’s incursion into Ukraine. Debates on the implications of nationalism generate broader interest.
However, this insightful novel shines when exploring aspects of time and when painting vivid imagery of rural landscapes: “The typical mists dissolved under the resounding bellows of the herd, guided to pasture for the first time following the protracted winter months.”
The sombre tone intertwined in the novel Forgottenness is equally evident in Balla’s ‘Among the Ruins’, a Slovak work translated into English by David Short, available from Jantar for £12.99. While Maljartschuk possesses a sober writing style, the characters in Balla’s narrative are continuously inebriated. The eccentric psychiatrist, Dr Felešlegi, a potential ‘waste of space’ as defined by David Short, is more of a nuisance than a help to his bewildered patients, while remaining reliant on his mother for a simple Sunday meal.
A female character, known by the surname Vargová, pens increasingly distressed letters to Dr Felešlegi, blending nostalgia from Czechoslovakia’s communist era with harrowing accounts of male-inflicted abuse. Her views are both blistering and offensive, disproportionately targeting minority groups. The narrative unfolds in fragmented pieces, prioritising thematic connections over character progression. However, despite the characters’ loathsome nature and the growing darkness of the plot, the narrative maintains a cynical humour through bleak times, epitomised by the phrase, “In the empty ring, the loser fights on”.
The stark portrayal of mental illness is a prevalent feature of Balla’s narrative. Equally, the unnamed protagonist of ‘What Kingdom’ by Fine Gråbøl, a Danish novel translated by Martin Aitken and published by Archipelago Books, resides in ‘assigned accommodation’ due to severe psychiatric disorders. Distinct brief chapters capture the constricting environment in which the main character resides, attributing human traits to lifeless furniture. Despite the comfort she finds in company, the protagonist’s solitude is an unsettling reality and moments of self-harm are challenging to digest. Despite these harsh realities, the prose is poetically beautiful and many of the succinct chapters warrant multiple reads.
The protagonist in the novel, What Kingdom, finds immense pleasure in the camaraderie of people around her. This connection also ties together diverse groups in Selva Almada’s book, Not A River, adeptly translated from Spanish by Annie McDermott and published by Charco Press. In the narrative, a close knit group of boys embark on an ill-fated fishing adventure. Later in life, two out of the three revisit the same place with the offspring of the friend who is no longer among them. Their reckless hunting and killing of a large ray sparks disapproval among local men. The narrative fluidly shifts between timeframes and viewpoints. Experiences are narrated before their context is revealed. Recurring nightmares and a healer who offers help to the dreamer are also portrayed. The story also depicts girls testing the boundaries of their captivating pull.
These narrative elements are juxtaposed as tributaries merging into a river, until they abruptly cease to flow. At this juncture, it ceases to be a river. With such intricate nuances, this allegorical novel undoubtedly merits its nomination on the International Booker shortlist 2024.
Rodrigo Blanco Calderón’s Simpatía, adeptly translated from Spanish by Noel Hernández González and Daniel Hahn, is another worthy candidate which made it to the longlist of the same esteemed prize. Published by Seven Stories Press UK, the novel’s primary charm lies in its innovative storyline that unfolds in unexpected ways, infusing a touch of spontaneity to the narrative. The novel revolves around a protagonist named Ulises Kan. His father-in-law, a high-ranking Venezuelan military general, arranges for Ulises – not his estranged daughter Paulina – to inherit an apartment, on the condition that he establishes a dog rescue centre within four months after his passing.
The requirement for this arose due to the fact that many citizens exiting the nation subsequent to Hugo Chávez’s election as president have abandoned their canine pets. The prevailing uncertainty of the country’s political climate isn’t explicitly discussed in the book, but unexpected plot twists emulate this pervading mood of unpredictability, just like the obscured intentions of deceptive characters who were presumed to be steadfast.
The authorial style of Calderón is laid back and unrestricted, offering the ability to roam freely. He takes delight in highlighting the ridiculousness of outcomes just as much as their solemnity when it becomes evident that the only truly honourable beings are the maltreated dogs, as it often turns out.