The Imperfectionists

In The Imperfectionists, the story of an English-language newspaper in Rome, Tom Rachman utilizes a crystalline, lucid style that doesn't call attention to itself. He goes easy on the similes. He ends scenes early, sharply, rather than letting them peter out. For a young writer, he has a grown-up sensibility about men and women. He is funny. And the book's puzzle-box structure does not come off as a device but as an organic part of the narrative. Rachman joins Linn Ullmann on the list of young novelists whose next works I eagerly await.

Conspirata

Conspirata is the second of a planned three-book series by Robert Harris centered around Cicero. In the first, Imperium, Cicero rises as a "new man," without military honors or great wealth but with his wits and oratory. The second volume picks up at the beginning of Cicero's term as consul, which should be a time of great triumph for him. Alas, there are enemies of the republic lurking all around him. Caesar, who appears briefly in the first book, steps forward here as a steely and formidable rival; likewise Pompey and Crassus, the other two heads of the "three-headed beast." Cicero is admirable for his defense of the republic, for his integrity, and for his intellect. But he is not perfect, and Harris colors him, through the words of his secretary Tiro, in many shades. The parallels between Rome of 63 B.C. and the current day should not be overstressed, but it is probably safe to say that nothing that has happened in politics in the last 2,000 years would have surprised Cicero in the least.

Kant vs. Seneca

I picked up a collection of stories by Heinrich von Kleist, a German writer of the early 19th century, which includes a summary of his life. Kleist bought into everything the Enlightenment had to offer -- that truth is knowable, that one's life should have a plan, that progress is possible -- only to be psychologically damaged and consumed by doubt after reading Kant. Coincidentally I am rereading some of Seneca's letters, which make me think that if philosophy had simply stopped at him the world would be a better place. Seneca believed that philosophy should help make you a better person, and that being a better person, by and large, means living in accordance with nature. The letters are full of practical advice on matters like friendship, wealth, death, dress, and so on. Had Kleist never picked up that volume of Kant, his stories would probably not have been be as weird and ahead of their time as they were, but he also probably would not have blown his brains out at age 34.

Dead Souls

Gogol reminds me of Anatole France: He is a relentless caricaturist, but with a kind heart. He presents the panorama of Russian personalities with a wicked grin, not a sneer. There is something of Balzac here, too. What it is, ultimately, is the ability to make sweeping generalizations that appear to be irrefutable. And to make a reader smile, even laugh. That is no small accomplishment, especially when so many writers cannot even bring themselves to try.

In the story, when the townspeople become baffled by the schemes of Chichikov and the rumors are flying: "They decided to meet and air this subject thoroughly, to decide what they should do about him, how they should go about it, what measures they should adopt, and what sort of man he was -- that is, to decide whether he should be arrested as a dangerous felon or whether he was in a position to have them all arrested as dangerous felons."

Nikolai Gogol

I am about halfway through Gogol's Dead Souls and wondering how it is possible that someone can reach the age of 46 and never have read anything by this Russian giant. Dead Souls is a book that will keep a smile on your face for pages and pages with its descriptions of Russian characters -- odd, stingy, rapacious, insane -- and then, in a flash, pierce your heart with a poignant aside. For example, Gogol starts Chapter 6 by stepping outside the narrative to relate a bit of personal history:

"Long ago, during my youth, in the days of my childhood which have flashed by and vanished irretrievably, I felt a joyful anticipation on approaching a place for the first time. No matter whether it was a village, a small town, or some suburb -- my keen eye always discovered much that was fascinating there." He goes on to describe in detail some of the everyday sights which engaged him, then delivers this lament:

"Today, I feel nothing but indifference when I approach an unknown village, and with indifference I gaze at its commonplace sights. To my eyes grown cold, it is uninviting and I am neither excited nor amused. Things that would have brought a lively expression to my face, made me laugh, and set loose torrents of words now glide past me while my motionless lips preserve a detached silence. Oh my youth, oh my freshness!"

Gogol died in his early 40s, apparently insane, shortly after burning the manuscript of the sequel to Dead Souls.