Homesick for Another World by Ottessa Moshfegh (2017)

A collection of 14 stories published from 2012 to 2017 by the author of Eileen and My Year of Rest and Relaxation.

Book Review: Homesick for Another World announced Ottessa Moshfegh as the empress of ennui, the princess of pointlessness, and the icon of the isolated. I prefer her longer works to the stories collected here, but that's only saying I prefer ice cream to cheesecake. While the novels pack a harder punch, in the stories I can see the world through Moshfegh's compound eye and piece it together like a shattered mirror. Roaming my reactions to these stories my vocabulary becomes: bleak, pointless, flawed, false, disgust, directionless, illusions, twisted, resignation, unrealistic, unambitious, hopeless, absurdist. One wonders why a pulverizingly intelligent writer is so interested in such people; she must've met Ignatius J. Reilly. A few years from now decoding Homesick for Another World will be a college thesis to jump start some lit-major's career. The stories are short and quick reads, almost more like sketches. I limited myself to a couple a day to let them sink in. Eight of the 14 stories are written from a male (not always hetero) perspective. No other author writes so skillfully and so often from such varied points of view (in the stories it's not all as binary as it sounds). As with her novels, Moshfegh's take on human beings of any sort is done convincingly and blindingly well. But still, the stories in Homesick for Another World have an irony, a skepticism bordering on insincerity, always a shade apart from the world most us live in. Although the characters dabble in the grimy and grubby, the litany of inversions doesn't discourage the reader: we're all adults here. A necessary chunk of the Moshfegh canon.  [4★]

Russia's Lost Literature of the Absurd, ed. by George Gibian (1971)

Selected works by Russian Absurdist Daniil Kharms and a short play by his compatriot Alexander Vvedensky.

Book Review: Russia's Lost Literature of the Absurd is subtitled A Literary Discovery, and further subtitled Selected Works of Daniil Kharms and Alexander Vvedensky. In fact, the book, edited and translated by George Gibian, consists of various works by Kharms (1905-42) and a single short play by Vvedensky (1904-42). This may be the first collection of Kharms' work translated into English. Both authors were part of the Absurdist movement in Russia (the "Oberiu") in the early part of the 20th Century, and both may have been arrested by the Soviets after the Second World War began and died in custody shortly thereafter. The Russian Absurdists were trying to duplicate the radical nature of Communism in their art, but the government was less accepting of creativity and modernism in the arts than in economics and demanded socialist (soviet) realism, art that would serve the state. This didn't fit well with Kharms' vision, as he was a sort of literary Russian Salvador Dali (in Ireland, Daly). Dali isn't a bad choice because Kharms' work depends heavily on the visual. It's difficult to describe or explain Absurdist writing because it's, well, absurd. I can say that for the right mind it's hilarious, for some minds there may be deeper meanings, and for other minds it all will be meaningless (or, I suppose, absurd) at best and frustrating at worst. All I can really do is provide four shorter examples of Kharms' work (ellipses mine):

There was once a red-haired man who had no eyes and no ears. He also had no hair, so he was called red-haired only in a manner of speaking ... He didn't have anything. So it's hard to understand whom we're talking about. So we'd better not talk about him anymore.

The other day a man went to work, but on his way, he met another man, who had bought a loaf of Polish bread and was on his way home, to his own place. That's about all.

When Pushkin broke his legs, he got about on wheels. His friends liked to tease Pushkin and caught the wheels. Pushkin became angry and wrote poems in which he swore at his friends. He called these poems "erpigarms."

Khvilishevsky ate cranberries and tried not to wince. He expected everybody to say: What strength of character! But nobody said anything.

Apparently, this volume was later expanded and republished in 1997 as The Man with the Black Coat: Russia's Literature of the Absurd with the same two authors and the same editor slash translator. This earlier edition contains a useful introduction by Gibian, numerous "Mini-Stories," the longer story "The Old Woman," a play Elizabeth Bam, and two of Kharms' children's stories. To justify the second subtitle, a play by Kharms' compatriot Alexander Vvedensky is included as well as the Oberiu Manifesto. The Oberiuty (including Kharms and Vvedensky) were a group of Absurdists (related to the Futurists) who were working in all forms of the arts in 1920's Russia. The Manifesto seems to be a plea to the government to be allowed to continue their work despite the lack of Soviet Realism or a direct contribution to the regime. Although now there are numerous editions of Kharms' brilliant absurdist creations (e.g., see Today I Wrote Nothing), George Gibian performed a valuable service by gathering, preserving, and translating these works during his trips through Eastern Europe in the late Sixties. Having read Russia's Lost Literature of the Absurd and being introduced to Daniil Kharms, I not only have a better understanding of Absurdism, but a new author to explore.  [4★]

The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing (2001)

The story of a large extended London household in the Sixties, related as much by chance and need as family, and their encounters many years later.

Book Review: The Sweetest Dream was one of the last novels Doris Lessing wrote, and it seemed that here she was trying to publish as many ideas (including various political issues) as possible. This book seems to be three novels awkwardly stuck together to make an uneasy whole. It's slow starting, taking many pages to develop a rationale for the story. Purportedly about the Sixties (can't have a book about the London Sixties that doesn't mention the Beatles), it seems more about showing that communists are poor husbands and worse fathers, that everyone is either inclined to give selflessly until they kill themselves or corrupt, and there's no hope for developing countries (pick your reason). The sweetest dream is the failed illusions of communism and the pipe-dreams of the Sixties (believing that "everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds" -- Voltaire would understand). The "first book" is about Frances, an earth mother who gives (to her own detriment) to an extended "family" who are mostly uncaring or undeserving egoists ("who suck and feed and demand"). She's a giving tree to lost and spoiled children. The most interesting and touching part is her relationship with her mother-in-law, Julia, a stickler for order and by-the-book. Opposites, they gradually, clumsily, come to understand one another. Frances and her ex-husband gather a number of people under the roof who will become movers and shakers on the world stage. The ex-husband, the appalling "Comrade Johnny," is supposedly a significant, international, communist organizer, but as portrayed here is a dud, zero charisma, unappealing and unattractive. How he accumulated followers was beyond me. The second book is the extended "family" grown up, off to shape and mold the world. All of them far from the children they once were, now corrupt, self-serving, and oblivious to the needs and cares of others, even those they claim to love. This was the least interesting and believable part of The Sweetest Dream. The third book is the story of Sylvia, once a child in the household who now a doctor goes off to southern Africa to minister to those hit by the AIDS epidemic. These powerfully evocative scenes show the beginnings of the disaster and the difficulty in getting the victims to understand or the powers-that-be to act. The writing here was the strongest, and saddest, in the book. Once again, everyone is either a savior or a snake. In its mixture of history and the personal, The Sweetest Dream reminds me of Ali Smith or Nadine Gordimer (also a Nobel laureate), but without the clear intent of either. This was my first Doris Lessing and considering she's the author of The Golden Notebook, either I'm missing a whole lot or it was a late-career miss. Even though this was not a necessary read for me, I think she still has a number of books on my must-read list.  [2½★]

McGlue by Ottessa Moshfegh (2014)

A sailor in the 19th Century recalls life, alcohol, and friendship on the high seas.

Book Review: McGlue is both a punch in the gut and as odd a literary debut as we may find. Along with Haruki Murakami, Ottessa Moshfegh is the most troublesome writer I've ever read. Both deliberately try to frustrate, anger, disappoint, and confound their readers. Who does that? I mean, whose 2014 debut novel is the confession of a lifelong-alcoholic sailor in 1851 with an oozing, open-head injury who hates the world and has a single friendship -- who does that? Other than being completely different, this novella is the rough draft for 2018's My Year of Rest and Relaxation, prophesying the same underlying issues, the same frustrations, the same attitudes. Instead of trying to sleep for most of 24/7 for a year, our sailor tries to stay drunk for a lifetime by consuming enough rum to give King Kong alcohol poisoning. Which leads to an examination of friendship that lives only on the edges. Moshfegh is as self-conscious a writer as I've read. She can never wholly let the story go into the reader's hands -- she's always hovering nearby, aware of what she's writing and worrying about the reader's reception. Since McGlue is too out-there for a mass audience, Moshfegh had to go back and write My Year. McGlue has been described as gritty, dark, and repellant; while it's unorthodox, anyone too squeamish for this kind of writing may want to consider giving up literature. Moshfegh's writing has flaws, yes, but that's like saying the Mona Lisa is too small. Despite any defects, I'm loyal to Moshfegh because of her ability to write. The strength of her writing almost eclipses her story, bizarre as it is. McGlue is a book that transcends the concept of imperfections, is too intelligent, is too tough and powerful, to be judged by conventional criteria. Moshfegh writes like Elena Ferrante on methamphetamine. This is love.  [4½★]