Memoirs Found in a Bathtub by Stanisław Lem
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

"[...] there's your Splanchology, Innardry, Disemboweling and Reembowelment, Viscerators and Eviscerators. [...] here's flaying alive, there's playing dead, hamstringing, stringing up, tests of personal endurance [...] Bruises on the left, and on the right, Juices. [...] Empaling. Mahagony, birch, oak, ash."

Memoirs Found in a Bathtub (1961) is perhaps the most cryptic and unclassifiable work in Stanislaw Lem's entire opus. Lem began in the late 1940s as a science fiction writer. When in the 1970s he achieved the distinction of the world's most famous sci-fi author, he had already moved forward and became a philosopher of science and technology and a futurologist who widely published about the directions and dangers of the evolution of human civilization. Lem was by far the most favorite writer of my entire youth and early middle age, and I believe I have read virtually every word he had ever published.

The novel is framed as a fragment of a manuscript from distant past, from the times of the Late Neogene civilization (roughly, mid-20th century), that was discovered during archeological excavations conducted in 3146. This was a precious find because (as explained in the Introduction) it came from the period before papyralysis a civilization disaster that had destroyed all papyr, which was the only mass medium of storing information. The document is narrated by an unnamed agent who reports to the Commander in Chief to receive his special mission assignment. However it seems the mission is so top secret that its nature cannot be revealed to anyone, even to the person who is supposed to carry it out.

The entire plot takes place in an immensely huge, labyrinth-like building ('Gmach' in the original Polish) and the narrator wanders through the maze of offices, corridors, and other spaces in search of his instructions, meeting various people, witnessing and often causing strange events. On the very surface Memoirs may remind the reader of Kafka and his nightmarish worlds of existential anxiety and surrealistically depicted alienation of a human being from the society (Kafka was born and spent most of his life in Prague, which is only a short hop away from Krakow, where Lem lived almost his entire life).

However, while the overall mood may indeed be termed a bit kafkaesque, Lem seems to be more interested in posing deep philosophical questions. What is truth? What is the meaning of meaning? The Building may be viewed as metaphor for the world and the search for instructions is akin to looking for life's meaning. A reader who likes political readings of literature may find the Building and the presumed Anti-Building a metaphor for the 1960s-period of two superpowers locked in a deadly embrace.

I have re-read the novel (after the first read, roughly 55 years ago) through the prism of one of the most important themes in Lem's opus: randomness and chance as the forces governing the Universe (I still hope to re-read Lem's main work (in my opinion), The Philosophy of Chance). At some point the narrator begins to believe that his every move so far had been plotted out, planned in advance, including the moment that he realizes that his every move had been plotted out, planned in advance. The plot oscillates between pure randomness and complete predetermination.

In my uninformed view, Lem might have been influenced by the so-called multiple-universes theory, where different histories happen simultaneously. I find the reference clear in the passage where the narrator finds a man lying alongside the tub (the fourth paragraph of Chapter 8). To me, the man is the narrator himself, from a different thread of the time-space. Another bit to support my "theory" is a fragment where the narrator sees people working on drying and combining the torn scraps of paper that have been flushed down the toilet. Soon, the narrator will tear some papers into these scraps and flush them down the toilet.

Now my main point: the prose. Lem's writing, as in most of his books, is a tour-de-force of language, a celebration of exquisitely crafted prose. Memoirs like many other Lem's work is a triumph of the author creating words that do not exist (many of them should!), all kinds of wordplays and puns. I have been asked by my Goodreads friend Jerry (whom I also know personally from way back) to compare the translation with the Polish original. So I have read the two texts side-by-side. I have been deeply surprised by two things. First, the translation by Michael Kandel and Christine Rose is excellent. Obviously, the language in the Polish original is richer, more colorful and stylish (as well as masterfully stylized to sound a little archaic). But the translation conveys the general feel and mood of the prose very well.

My second surprise as to the translation is how loose it is. Naturally, almost the entire text is translated literally, wherever possible. Yet I was surprised at the number of deviations from the original text in places where the deviations are not needed or justified. Let me quote just one example. In the already mentioned passage where the narrator finds a man lying alongside the bathtub the translators omitted the entire phrase that the man was lying in almost the same place where he had been lying before.

Four-and-a-half stars.


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Betrayers by Bill Pronzini
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

"Dimly, through a haze of hurt, she saw [him] come inside and push the door closed behind him, throw the dead bolt to lock it. Then he was standing over her, a smile like a rictus on his ugly, blocky face."

As I mentioned several times in my reviews of Bill Pronzini novels I don't really like the newer installments in the Unnamed Detective series (certainly, the detective is not nameless). Well, they are sort of readable, do not require any thinking on the part of the reader, and provide few hours of marginal entertainment. While the soap opera aspect of the novels and the conceptual continuity - the never-ending stories of interconnected lives of the same group of characters - likely make new books in the series easier to write - same old people, same old problems, same old setups - I find it boring not to meet a different set of characters in each novel. So why am I coming back? Just being lazy, I guess.

Anyway, Betrayers (2010) interleaves three separate criminal threads, with the fourth thread emerging later in the novel. Tamara, who runs the agency together with Bill (Mr. Unnamed's given name), is looking for a guy who

"[...] used her, scared her, made her feel bad about herself just when she'd been starting to get her stuff together again [...]"

and who happened to be a small-scale grifter with a stolen identity. Meanwhile Bill works pro bono for two elderly women who hired him because one of them experienced late-night harassment by a specter. The apparition doing the harassment looks like a ghost of the woman's late husband. In the third thread Jake Runyon, who has grown close to Bryn (whom he met in Fever ), has been hired by a bail bondsman and is trying to find a small-scale criminal who has jumped bail.

The target of Tamara's pursuit happens to be a "switch-hitter" (yay! I have learned a new Urban Dictionary term) and we learn a bit about a sports fan club that groups men with similar sexual interests. Tamara's investigation is by far the most interesting and keeps the reader's attention. Bill's case soon loses any paranormal aspects. Instead, in a somewhat unexpected twist, a new thread appears, one that involves Bill and Kerry's 13-year-old adopted daughter, Emily.

The novel could be separated into four individual short stories without any loss of context. Clichés aplenty and the stories are of "paint-by-numbers" variety. Bad guys and gals are really bad, good gals and guys are really good. The stories have a didactic, edifying feel, almost like in the unbearably moralistic late works by John Shannon. The novel is somewhat readable but maybe I should stop reaching for later Unnamed Detective novels.

Two stars.

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Last Words by George Carlin
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

"Words - the thing he loved the most."
(From Tony Hendra's Introduction to George Carlin's Last Words)

Another difficult review to write. A reviewer of a biography needs to be careful not to let their opinions of the biography subject bias their opinion of the biography itself. I have to be very careful not to let my admiration for Mr. Carlin's worldview influence my perception of this biography as a literary "product." So let me say upfront: My worldview matches Mr. Carlin's almost perfectly. Like him I love words (a right word is worth a thousand pictures!) Like him my heart is on the left side of the political spectrum but I can't stand most leftists. And like him I am disappointed with the human species (including myself, of course). Anyway, I hope that my liking Mr. Carlin is not the main reason for me liking his autobiography - Last Words (2009).

This is a very solid, detailed, insightful, and - I believe - as objective an autobiography as humanly possible. It is also a captivating read that cost me one three-hours-of-sleep night. The book begins with colorful descriptions of Mr. Carlin's childhood in New York. The portrait of his parents is multifaceted and realistic. He berates his alcoholic father's fondness of beatings:

"And off they go to the bathroom, father and son, to continue the grand American tradition of beating the shit out of someone weaker than you."

He also makes it clear that most of the time he was not able to stand his mother with her higher-class pretensions, yet the author's love for his parents clearly shows.

Similarly to many other performers, Mr. Carlin's career as a comedian began at school, where he was a class clown. Military career spent as a deejay led to employment in radio stations. We read about his partnership with Jack Burns, performances in comedy clubs, acquaintance with Lenny Bruce, and his appearances on the popular Merv Griffin Show on TV.

One of the most interesting fragments of the autobiography deals with the "transformational period" of Mr. Carlin's career, roughly the years 1968 - 1969. From a "nice" stand-up comedian whose routines were suitable for all audiences he morphed into an angry anti-establishment performer, an outspoken social critic. From "old-fashioned, square culture" to counterculture. The sources of his radicalization may be found in the turbulent political events of the time, including the assassination of Robert Kennedy and Chicago Democratic Convention riots. Mr. Carlin's most famous routine, Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV (unspeakably dirty words like 'tits', words "that'll infect your soul, curve your spine, and keep the country from winning the war.") Unfortunately Mr. Carlin's career stagnates in the 1970s, likely due to drug abuse. The period of his "financial and creative swamp" lasts until the turnaround which begins in 1982 with the famous Carnegie Hall performance.

The later portions of the autobiography resonate with me particularly strongly. Mr. Carlin, essentially a political left-winger, writes how the "liberal orthodoxy was as repugnant [to him] as conservative orthodoxy":

The habits of liberals, their automatic language, their knee-jerk responses to certain issues, deserved the epithets the right wing stuck them with."

( I have a simple-minded and naive explanation to that: any orthodoxy is repugnant!) I also love Mr. Carlin's passages about "old American double standard" (why only American, I ask; double standard and hypocrisy in general are the trademarks of human species.)

I love the closing pages of the autobiography where Mr. Carlin bares his scathing views on a very basic human characteristic - the instinct to form groups. He demonstrates the superficiality of groups of various types and writes how he has found "all the group stuff: rules, uniforms, rituals, bonding [...] a distraction."

Finally, throughout the autobiography, but particularly towards its end, Mr. Carlin writes about his performance techniques. I have found these passages extremely interesting and instructive. When I teach mathematics at the university I also try to do a bit of stand-up comedy to enliven the occasionally intimidating material; I have learned a few technical tricks from Mr. Carlin. Highly recommended autobiography!

Four stars.


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Fever by Bill Pronzini
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

" Men and women who don't have the skill to consistently beat the odds, who can't quit when they're losing, whose constant need for the thrill of the bet is as addictive as any drug. The estimated number of them is staggering - as many as ten million adults in the U.S. alone, according to the National Council on Problem Gambling. Combined, adult pathological gamblers and problem gamblers cost California nearly a billion dollars annually. "
[By definition, odds can't be beat, skills or no skills - a mathematician's comment on the above passage.]

Well, last October when reviewing Savages I swore that I would never reach for a later installment in the Unnamed (not Nameless!) Detective series because of the smarmy soap-opera feel with the same old same old cast and the boring familiarity of characters. Naturally, I fail to keep my word: I found two Pronzini's novels even more recent than Savages and here is a review of the first one - Fever (2008). Yes, meeting the same cast is boring - the sixty-something Mr. UnnamedButVaguelyItalian, the forty-something Jack Runyon, and the 26-year-old Tamara - but the novel is not that bad after all.

Mr. Unnamed has just located a missing woman: the client is the woman's husband, perhaps more concerned about her spending habits than about her well-being. The woman is a gambling addict and her losses over the last four years have totaled more than $200,000. She does not want to come back to her husband; instead she promises to file for divorce.

In the meantime, Jack Runyon, the other detective in the firm, has been hired by an older woman to find her missing son. Mr. Runyon, whose wife died a few years ago, is still in mourning and has been unable to get into a relationship. He accidentally runs into a mysterious woman and develops a strong attraction to her.

Naturally, both cases get complicated and serious: people disappear, several bodies are found. The stories are moderately captivating and readers who like major plot twists will likely be very happy.

Other than the interesting plot I quite like Mr. Unnamed's extended rant against cell phones - here's just a small fragment

"[...] I've never felt the desire for constant connection to my loved ones, business acquaintances, casual friends, and total strangers. A phone, in my old-fashioned world, is an instrument that provides necessary - emphasis on the word necessary - access to another person for a definite purpose. It is not a toy. It is not a source of public auditory (or visual) masturbation."

I share a lot of Mr. Unnamed's frustration with cell phones (likely because I am of the same age). Alas, one will also find quite a few passages and motifs in the novel that are just exasperating. The annoying, painfully cliché conversation about "intimate plastic surgery." The entire Bryn Darby thread, cheap and exploitative. The silly "How is it hanging?" jokes. The cloyingly upbeat ending. Oh well, I did find some enjoyment from reading the novel, so I am giving it a marginally positive recommendation, but it is the slimmest of margins.

Two-and-a-half stars.


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Nutshell by Ian McEwan
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

" "We're safely on the ground floor, among the busy morning hum of flies that cruise the hallway's garbage. To them the untied plastic bags rise like shining residential towers with rooftop gardens. The flies go there to graze and vomit at their ease. Their general bloated laziness invokes a society of mellow recreation, communal purpose, mutual tolerance. This somnolent, non-chordate crew is at one with the world, it loves rich life in all its putrefaction. Whereas we're a lower form, fearful and in constant discord."

An audacious literary effort! Hamlet rewritten from the point of view of an eight-month-old foetus ready to come out of its maternal closet. Only a writer of the first rank would have a chance to make it all work. While Ian McEwan does not quite succeed in Nutshell (2016) I appreciate his trying. Better that than indulging the readers by offering them what they are used to read.

The Hamletian foetus narrates the story from his mother's womb. The mother, Trudy (wink, wink!) no longer loves her husband, John, a not-quite-successful poet whose publishing business is failing. Instead, Trudy is in a relationship with John's brother Claude (get it?), a boring simpleton who speaks in clichés and banalities but is more successful in business. Yet what he is most successful in are carnal couplings with Trudy: Claude seems to fulfill all her needs. The narrator, who despite his temporary enwombment has full awareness of the goings-on in the external world, has figured out that Trudy and Claude are planning some dreadful event that may harm his father.

Nutshell may be considered a sophisticated, erudite literary thriller; indeed, it is quite suspenseful as the events unfold, even if - and perhaps particularly if - the reader knows their Hamlet. Naturally, I like the novel for the language rather than for the story. As usual, Mr. McEwan delivers stellar, captivating prose, with occasional highly quotable pearls of wisdom, like the following extraordinarily insightful statement:

"Sex, I begin to understand, is its own mountain kingdom, secret and intact. In the valley below we know only rumors."

We find some bravura passages like the following bit about Danish (again, wink, wink!) takeaway food:

"Pickled herring, gherkin, a slice of lemon on pumpernickel bread. [...] Soon I'm whipped into alertness by a keen essence saltier than blood, by the tang of sea spray off the wide, open ocean where lonely herring shoals skim northwards through clean black icy waters."

One will also find lots of humor mostly grounded in sexual context:

"It bothers me that what she swallows will find its way to me as a nutrient, and make me just a little like him. Why else did cannibals avoid eating morons?"

So all would be nice and spiffy, creeping up toward a four-star rating, if not for what I believe is a major inconsistency in the literary device used by the author. Mr. McEwan presents the whole setup on the first few pages of the novel and while I find the main premise inspired and hilarious I question the author's need to explain how the foetus knows so much about the world outside of the womb. The awkward explanations sound contrived. Once we suspend belief to enjoy a fantastic story we do not need attempts to make it partially plausible. I have no problem with assuming that the foetus knows the history of the Western civilization so I do not need to be told that the foetus hearing the words spoken by other characters is not a physically impossible phenomenon. Or this about colors:

"I see the world as golden, even though the shade is no more than a name. I know it's along the scale near yellow, also just a word."

To sum up, the author himself spoils the audaciously original setup and the novel eventually disappoints. The prose is absolutely first class and the whole thing is fun to read yet Nutshell has not touched me in any way, unlike, say, On Chesil Beach or The Child in Time by the same author.

Three stars.

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Dancing Bear by James Crumley
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

"I heard their voices but not the words, and they seemed far away, as if we all stood in the brilliant salt-air haze of some Mexican Pacific beach, paralyzed by the sun and the softly pounding surf, reduced into an infinite languor, language lost in the muffled, sun-struck crash of the waves in the throbbing air."

I have been afflicted by the curse of often finding books that are promising and captivating at the beginning, and then deteriorate into incoherent or implausible mess. I have even begun suspecting that maybe the fault lies with me being too excited about a new book at the beginning and then too fussy about details as the plot progresses. But no, I have checked quite a number of my reviews of crime novels and similar genres and only about a third of them exhibit the deterioration of quality as the plot develops. Alas, James Crumley's Dancing Bear (1983) is a prime example of that unfortunate category.

The novel begins strongly: the Native American tale about a dancing Brother Bear, the description of the narrator's fight with the hapless mailman, and the banter with Gail are captivating. The setup of the plot, where the narrator is hired by an elderly woman, Sarah, with whom he had been "boyishly in love" 40 years ago, is really excellent. The reader will even find snippets of beautiful prose - like the passage quoted in the epigraph above - which show Mr. Crumley's literary gifts. But then... shooting and killing begins. Killing and shooting. Geysers and rivers of blood. Ludicrous, contrived, gratuitous.

Anyway, the narrator is one Milo (short for Milton Milodragovitch), a late-middle-age burnt-out PI and rent-a-cop for a private security company, a heavy coke addict and alcoholic who stays sober by drinking only peppermint schnapps that he hates. Milo is waiting for his father's "ton of money" that he will inherit when he turns fifty-two, which event can't come soon enough for him. Sarah, who happens to be his father's ex-lover, hires him to investigate strange going-ons in her neighborhood. In the meantime, his boss in the security company gives him a tailing job. Naturally, as required by a cliché literary device, the two cases eventually merge.

Yet shooting and killing begins earlier. The reader is offered geysers of blood:

"His left leg was gone below the knee, his right above, and blood gushed from the nerve on his cheek, and most of his fingers were stubs, the pink, pork-chop flesh not bleeding yet."

Wait; there's more:

"[...] I made sure the dead were really dead. Nobody at home in Blondie's head, the little guy swallowed his tongue, choked on his own blood, and the actor's buttocks jiggled like jelly when I shook them with my foot [...]"

The plot takes place in western Montana and neighboring states: the author masterfully depicts the rugged landscapes and the tough people of the land. The prose is full of dark and rather grim humor; being a sworn enemy of private gun ownership I laughed out loud when I read the following passage:

"[...] a private investigator by the name of Shepard, when asked by a journalist if he carried a gun in his work, replied,
'Hell, no. If somebody wants to shoot old Shepsy, they're gonna have to bring their own gun.'"

So, despite the utterly ridiculous plot, despite the incessant shooting and killing and gushing blood, I can offer a very marginal recommendation. For the setup, for Montana landscapes, and dark humor.

Two-and-a-half stars.

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