Book Report: The Bat

21. Jo Nesbø, The Bat (1997, but not published in English until 2012) (8/28/2020)

Some time ago my sister-in-law Heidi gave me several books in Norwegian, for my Norwegian torture partner, Thelma, and me to crawl our way through. So far we've read four of them: Naiv. Super, Harens år, Doktor Proktors prompepulver, and Pippi går om bord. We started in 2016, meeting once a week (or so). It's been an excrutiatingly slow process. And yet somehow we carry on.

We are currently reading Flaggermusmannen by Jo Nesbø. And we have been for well over a year, judging by the completion date of Pippi. And yet, we are just a little over halfway done. Thelma moved recently to Seattle, so we went on a bit of hiatus, and now we are reading "together"—separately—every Wednesday (that we remember to) at 3 o'clock.

The last chapter I read made me realize I've forgotten so much, I decided to pick up the English and refresh my memory. And once I'd gotten to my recent stopping point, chapter 28, I just plowed on. Reading the Norwegian is about the Norwegian; it's not about keeping up any story suspense. Maybe it'll even make it a little easier to read now that I know what happens—and who dunnit.

Flaggermusmannen (meaning "the bat man"—the bat being an allusion to death in Aboriginal mythology) is the first of Nesbø's books featuring flawed detective (aren't the best ones always flawed?) Harry Hole—pronounced Hoo-leh. Or as all the Aussies in this book call him, Harry Holy.

Because yes, it is set in Australia, mostly Sydney. Harry has been called in to "assist" in an investigation of the murder of a young Norwegian woman. Which right there calls on us to suspend disbelief: does that really happen? Don't most police forces just carry on investigating, even if the victim is a foreign national, without the "help" of an outsider?

I have also read Nesbø's third Harry Hole book (the first one translated into English), The Redbreast, much of it set in WWII, and I was impressed by the writing, the research, the intricate plot, the characters, the motivations. It was excellent.

I can't say the same for The Bat, though it's a fine first novel. Well, "fine" as in good enough. The story isn't smooth; some of its relationships are weak; it's didactic (long-winded accounts of Aboriginal myths, though interesting, that don't actually move the story along); there's irrational violence; lots of coincidence; questionable metaphor. And motivation? It's a stretch.

But one very good thing about this book is that we learn a whole lot about Harry: his backstory. Which is important for the rest of the series.

Part of me thinks Nesbø took a trip down under, and decided to write off the trip by writing a novel. If that's the case, well, good on him; he did a creditable job. And then he went on to write some really good stuff. He became a writer. You've got to start somewhere.

Plus, he got to go skydiving into the bargain. I'm envious.

Okay, that wasn't a report. But it's what I have to say about the book. And now: six more months of Norwegian torture to get to the end of it—for a second time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been nine days since I posted last, so nine days of mounting Covid statistics—only, they may be slowing down? That would be great. Today's numbers: 7,619 confirmed cases (up 957 since the 19th); 475 hospitalizations (up 75); and 55 deaths (up 9).

I am considering Portugal as an escape hatch if Trump wins again in November.

Stay safe.

Fire

In the past several days—beginning around 3:30 a.m. on Sunday August 16, with a lightning strike—fires have been sprouting and spreading, fast, in Monterey County. That first was, and still is (full containment predicted by August 30), the River Fire, about 10 miles from us (though we are not at all threatened), a few miles south of Salinas. We saw the plume of smoke while driving back and forth, and back and forth again, to Best Buy, trying to restore our wifi by purchase of a new cable-modem/router. After the wifi was (a miracle!) reestablished, we drove out to River Road to find a geocache for International Geocaching Day 2020 (and a souvenir). Here's what we saw out there:

Shortly after our visit, the road the cache was located on was closed, and several canyon neighborhoods were evacuated. Here are a few more photos of that fire, from later that evening (courtesy of Scott Davis):

Since then, when it was a few hundred acres, the River Fire has grown to over 4,000 and continues to spread south, with containment at only 7 percent (down from 10). It's destroyed a couple dozen houses. Here it is a little earlier this evening, as seen from Spreckels:

Some friends of ours, Peter Kwiek and Robin Cohen, live near enough to the River Fire that they decided to evacuate. A while ago he posted this on FB: "Holy Shit! And we’re totally okay. I’ll be really sad if we lose our house with all our Warholian collections and our nest egg but we’re safe and employed. No matter what happens, we will continue to be amongst the luckiest folks on the face of the Earth. . . . For me honestly it does not seem terrifying. It weighs on me, yeah, but it’s not terrifying. I don’t really know if I know what terrifying is. I suppose if I feared I might be assaulted or gaslighted, that would be terrifying." I admire his attitude—and seriously hope they get to go back home. 

But as if that wasn't enough, this afternoon a fire was reported up Carmel Valley, in the rugged Cachagua area, and that one, too is spreading rapidly. More structures have been destroyed, already. Firefighting forces are spread thin, and the smoke is so thick that aircraft can't do their work. 1,700 acres as of an hour ago, 0% contained. Carmel Valley Road, closed. (Photo by Kate Cimini)

And then, this evening as of 8:30, a new fire: the Dolan, down the Big Sur coast above Esalen. It, too, is moving rapidly: "extreme fire behavior"—right toward Esalen, which is undertaking structure protection. A sheriff's deputy friend just posted photos and videos of them warning residents to evacuate. Highway 1 is closed there, as is Nacimiento-Ferguson Road over the range. Here's a photo of the Dolan Fire, by Mike Gilson:

And here's another one, from three hours after the fire's start, by David Halterman, from just south of Lime Creek:

Meanwhile, I just now heard that our nephew and his family—whose son will be celebrating (somehow) his tenth birthday tomorrow—has had to evacuate a fire that's been growing up in Santa Cruz County. They live in an idyllic place overlooking the ocean, set off on its own—and I trust it will be fine, because most of the surrounding land is grassland, so not a lot of fuel. But who knows. Everything is so dry now. I'm just glad to know they're out of there and safe.

This afternoon on our walk, I took a photo of the waters of the bay, glowing copper-colored from the sun trying to shine through the heavy pall of smoke hanging in the sky.

We do live in fire country. But the planet is heating up, and that changes everything. The past few days, one fire after another, firefighting resources stretched thin, such dry conditions, friends and family needing to evacuate—it's so unsettling. And it's only August. Fire season hasn't even gotten going.

But really, that's just me, living in town, where fire danger is low. When I read the comments of people, most of them strangers to me, but still, part of my community, talking about being packed and ready to go, or waiting to be able to transport horses, or worrying about an elder's safety with all the smoke . . . I don't really know what to say. I can't imagine living through such a thing.

Well actually, I already did—when I was seven. The Bel-Air Fire in L.A., 1961. I wrote about that here. But I was just a kid. Not the same. Not at all.

Later: Here is an eloquent description of what it's like to live in fire country nowadays, by a poet and a friend of mine, Rae Gouirand: "It is really hard to explain to anyone who hasn't lived through the new version of wildfire season in California just how much it affects a person to see the entire world shot through with a vomity-colored haze, ash raining down 24 hours a day like some kind of nightmare snowglobe, the light traveling wrong routes (is there an eclipse? has the sun come loose?), the way it moves into your head and tightens your skull around your temples. Literally everything looks wrong--the world reads wrong. It makes a person feel like there's something going on with their brain. You can't get away from it. You get up to move to another room in your house so you'll stop looking out this particular window, and that spot in the hall where there's always a sunbeam this time of afternoon is a neon red stripe. It's like a highlighter takes over directing one's attention. It pushes, it demands. The fire is more than 30 miles away but the signal reaches you and continues sounding. You begin to understand how and why we evolved these senses we have."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, back in the age of Covid-19—current figures: 6,662 confirmed cases—1,506 increase since the 15th!!! what?!?!? that's crazy . . . I must have something wrong. I'll just post current numbers:
Confirmed cases: 6,662.
Hospitalizations: 400
Deaths: 46 (that would be up 5 since I last posted, which does make sense)

As if we didn't already have enough to worry about. 2020: the year that doesn't stop giving.

Stay safe. Dammit.

Jan Mankes, painter

There's a person who lives in Ukraine who shows up on my FB feed in the dead of night, when everyone in my hemisphere is safely abed. Her name is Lyuba Komova. She posts pictures by dead artists. Tonight's dead artist was Jan Mankes, a Dutchman (1889–1920) and a symbolist painter, and I quite liked the work she shared (the first one presented below)—which spurred me to seek him out. And I liked more of what I saw. He produced about 200 paintings, 100 drawings, and 50 prints before dying of tuberculosis at age 30. Here are a few of Jan Mankes's works.

Judaspenning in Japanse vaas, 1916

Bomenrij, 1915

Grote uil op scherm, 1913

Vrouw voor haar huis, 1914

Bloemstilleven—Camelia's in glas, 1913

De oude geit, 1912

Zelfportret, 1918

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monterey County Covid-19 stats: 5,156 reported cases (up 734 since I last posted a week ago); 382 hospitalizations (up 61); and 41 deaths (up 6). I am so very ready for these numbers to be slowing down—which, maybe they are . . . but no, not as long as the death toll keeps rising. Which it is.

Stay safe.

Edward Hopper, painter

As I mentioned the other week, I've become a jigsaw puzzler. So far I'd been borrowing puzzles, but when the only one up for grabs was a 1,000-piecer about classic TV personalities, I demurred. I want to have at least some interest in the subject. So, I got on Google. A friend had recommended New York Puzzle Company, and one of the puzzles I'd especially enjoyed doing (beetles, maybe?) was by Pomegranate—so I started there, and yes! Plenty of delightful designs to choose from, some even in stock.

I've finished the easy part; the rest—
sky, trees, and road—is going to be hell

So now I have six puzzles in waiting. Well, five: I started on one the other day. It's called Portrait of Orleans, by Edward Hopper (1950). I could have chosen Nighthawks, but I wanted one I wasn't familiar with. And that got me wondering: how well do I know Edward Hopper (1882–1967), anyway? I know his style—as in, I know him when I see him. But a search of the Internet told me that I don't really know him at all. So I thought I'd render a few of his paintings that I especially liked in my scan of his works.

And they weren't all about loneliness and urban isolation—there are landscapes, and he had a special fondness for theater and the cinema—though there is always a sense of mystery and, if not isolation per se, then maybe apartness? solitude? in his work. I like that about him.

Automat, 1927

Two on the Aisle, 1927

Cape Ann Granite, 1928

Night Windows, 1928

Railroad Sunset, 1929

Ryders House, 1933

Cape Cod Evening, 1939

Ground Swell, 1939

Bridle Path, 1939

New York Movie, 1939

Gas, 1940

Cape Cod Morning, 1950

Morning Sun, 1952

Western Motel, 1957
(and here is an interesting story about a museum that
built a replica of this room for paying guests!)

Second Story Sunlight, 1960

Two Comedians, 1966
This is Hopper's last painting, a self-portrait of himself
and his wife and muse, Jo

Oh, and here, because the partially completed jigsaw puzzle doesn't really give much of an idea of the actual painting:

Portrait of Orleans, 1950

I could go on and on: the man was prolific. And I love the variety of his subject matter. Here are a couple of articles about him: 10 things you may not know and 21 facts. He's an interesting person. And now, thanks to jigsaw puzzles, I know a little more about him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today's Covid-19 stats for Monterey County: 5,156 reported cases (up 190 since my last post on the 4th); 321 hospitalizations (up 19); and deaths stand at 35 (up 1).

Stay safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

P.S. Blogger has switched over to a new interface. I tried it on this post. I hated it. I redid it using the "legacy" version, which they will be discontinuing on September 1. I will be switching to Wordpress. Sad to leave Blogger: it's easy, it's clean—I know how to use it. But the new version is awful. If I'm going to learn something new, I'd rather do it on a fuller-service host. Stay tuned.

Book Report: On Shirley Hazzard

20. Michelle de Kretser, On Shirley Hazzard (2019) (8/4/2020)

It has been over two weeks since my last book report, and when it goes that long, I tend to search about for something short. This book, at 96 undersized, comfortably leaded pages, certainly qualifies. A friend of mine on FB mentioned it, or rather, she mentioned reading a book by Hazzard, and a friend of hers mentioned this one, about Hazzard, in glowing terms.

The two books I've read by Shirley Hazzard (1931–2016) are The Transit of Venus, which won the 1980 National Book Critics Circle Award, and her next book 23 years later, a historical novel, The Great Fire, which won the National Book Award. I remember being very impressed with both, and wonder if it isn't time to reread at least Transit.

But I was intrigued by the fact that de Kretser (b. 1957)—herself, like Hazzard, an Australian novelist, but also an emigrant at age 16 from her homeland of Sri Lanka, just as Hazzard, at 16, left Australia with her family, first for Hong Kong, then New York—would decide to write a piece of criticism—and admiration—about the writer.

The chapters are generally very short. The first few answered my question: she invokes the strong affinity she feels for Hazzard, both in terms of life experienced and reflected in the novels, and in language, writing, the representation of character, morality, telling detail.

One doesn't have to have read the novels she discusses and quotes from to get what she's saying. There's something larger at play here than "what the books are about." Writing about a particular description of Hazzard's, de Kretser says:

There's the moment when you see yourself in a book, and the moment when a book sees you. And a third kind, rare, spooky: when something recognized that isn't a memory comes out of a book to find you; it might be something that's waiting to arrive. When time is revealed not as a flow but a tangle. The moment passes. A shimmer is left behind.

Yes: that description felt like something I'd experienced reading The Transit of Venus, even if I can't remember the specifics now. But I do recall being mightily impressed at the time. De Kretser notes that Hazzard "practices an ethics of noticing," and provides many examples. Those perfect details that somehow can paint a character, a place, a moment, in four dimensions.

The final chapter is perfect, and I will end with it, in its entirety. And soon, when I get back to cleaning the garage, I will see if I can find either of those books. I'm sure they're in there somewhere.

Not Exactly Why

When I look back on half a lifetime of reading Shirley Hazzard, here's what I remember.
 The room in which I first read her: a cold Melbourne room, high above a courtyard, in which a green curtain had been drawn back from the window to admit afternoon light. And a different room—dimmer, filled with books—also in Melbourne, in which I began to read The Transit of Venus for the second time: the scene of a tremendous revelation.
 I remember books that entered my life like events; like meetings with strangers whom one recognizes instinctively as friends.
 I remember writing that made a nonsense of time.
 I remember writing that proposed a larger life.
 I remember writing that expanded my understanding of what it's possible for writing to achieve.
 I remember the tribute, compounded of awe and envy, I wish I'd written that.
 I remember exhilaration. And the ruse of gratitude: that such writing existed, that it had come my way.


I remember the lines from Auden that serve as an epigraph to The Bay of Noon [and also to On Shirley Hazzard]:

  though one cannot always
  Remember exactly why one has been happy,
  There is no forgetting that one was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Map seems to be by
metropolitan areas:
"Hot Spots"

It's been a week and a day since I've shown up here with stats, and boy oh boy, Covid-19 shows no sign of letting up. Today the numbers for Monterey County stand at 4,966 confirmed cases—up a whopping 884 since my last accounting (and there's a note on the Health Department website saying that the cumulative data may be an undercount); hospitalizations, 302—up 47; and deaths now stand at 34—up 11. Since last week. Four new deaths just today, eight since Friday. Monterey County has the tenth-worst case count per 100,000 population—and most of the ones that are worse are, like us, agricultural counties: Kern, Merced, Kings, Colusa, Tulare, Fresno Madera, Lassen (Lassen?), and San Benito. I mentioned the documentary "Covid's Hidden Toll" in another post, but I'll mention it again: it's worth watching.

Stay safe. Stay healthy. Wear a mask, dammit.