escaping the THAI maFia

*today I was indadvertedly reminded by a friend’s post about the manner campaign that tOkyoMetro does every year, consisting on one poster per month.

this year’s designs are, I’m afraid, rather weak - if not altogether confusing: if you don’t read the small print you’ll never get the message. 

however, the previous three years were absolutely awesome.

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[amsterdam] ian mcEwan

I think what captivates me about ian mcEwan’s works are not his stories - which I nonetheless undoubtably enjoy -, nor his impeccable and elegant prose; what keeps me coming back is his deep understanding of human condition and the genuine way in which he expresses our innermost feelings, thoughts or perception of ourselves and others. his rendering of that which makes us essentially human - the small details, the flaws and virtues - is so masterfully weaved in his books that the characters come alive with no apparent effort and more than once you feel uncannily identified - not with the experiences described, but with the way they are experienced, processed, mused on by the characters. I have always thought it a case of wonder when I’m faced with a simple sentence that puts into words what I myself can barely grasp about my perception of the world or the self; when the act of reading becomes the act of knowing oneself and the ancestor of an idea takes shape and becomes a certitude. murakami haruki is so far the only other author who connects specially with my inner self.

*amsterdam explores the boundaries of friendship in the face of adverse circumstances and against our innate selfishness. it is entrancing to read the two main characters’ inner discourses and realise how marvelously skilled they are at deceiving themselves whenever the truth is too ugly or undignified to suit them. and how this stubborn self-deception and the failure at trying to understand each other is their final undoing.

if I have any complaint about this book is that it was too short.

[asleep] banana yoshimoto

with this collection I can account for reading four of yoshimoto’s short-fiction works. although I could not find in *asleep the strength that [ミーラ] had had, the author maintains the same dream-like quality and slight magical touch that whets your curiosity and keeps you uncertain about the turn the story might take. 

the three stories in this collection revolve around the theme of *sleep, which always plays a central part in the characters’ lives and sometimes even shapes them. although interesting as a premise, I could not feel the fascination that [ミーラ] had exerted on me - I blame that on the fact that I read *asleep in english instead of in the original japanese, which would have taken me longer… like the sleepers in the book I swayed between brief moments of wakefulness and the deepest of sleeps. although the stories failed to engage me for more than a few pages, in retrospect it might have been the author’s intention to drag you deep within the character’s world of stillness and sleep.

[the elegance of the hedgehog] muriel barbery

I should have known by now not to trust books that come overly recommended - sometimes the praise is well deserved, but rarely so.

however, no matter how mistrustful I might have been of bestsellers, the *hedgehog’s central idea would have invariably appealed to me: the erudite concierge who, as a social outcast in an upper-class apartment building in Paris, lives hiding her true self away from the snob elite she despises; and the young rich girl, whose maturity and intellect surpass her age and has decided to commit suicide by seppuku.

the set-out was very promising: two eccentric, brilliant characters, a pinch of absurdity, space for reflection and a little erudition… for a moment I thought I might have another [the last samurai] in my hands and rejoiced at it. but as the pages went by all I could feel was a growing distaste for a text that I could only perceive as pretentious at best - and plain boring and overly complex all too often - to the point where I thought I might have gone dumb. how could it be that a book which was supposed to be an ode to culture, art, literature and the joys of knowledge left me so completely cold? I dragged myself through all the passages about phenomenology and other philosophical discourses without feeling the slightest interest in a subject that had been a favorite of mine; I even looked upon all the references to japan - country which I love and in which I currently live - with derision and certain detachment, as if it had nothing to do with the real thing. I tried to explain the problems I was having with the style by telling myself that so many subordinate clauses might work better in french and other romance languages than in english - but the fact remained that more than once I had to re-read a sentence to fully understand the meaning (“further proof that I’m becoming stupid”, I thought to myself). 

only two months after finishing the book am I beginning to know exactly what was wrong with it that it could not stir my curiosity further and prompt me to look up all the things I didn’t know about. because my perceiving it as pretentious does not come from the fact that the text is packed with references and topics that I did not fully master - on the contrary, a book that makes me read other books is a welcomed one in my shelf -, but due to the way it was all laid out. I couldn’t help but feel there was something essentially wrong about how the two protagonists protect their knowledge, their reflections and insights so zealously. for me there is no greater joy than sharing culture and knowledge, learning from others who are better read than me and vice versa. their attitudes bothered me and qualified them as no better than the snobs they liked to laugh at so much.

from a more objective point of view there is another fault I detected in the novel: for about the first three quarters there is no apparent plot (only the minimum necessary preparations to rightfully justify the fourth quarter to come). this in itself is not a problem - not all novels have to have an introduction, a development and a conclusion. they should, however, remain constant in what they set out to become from the start, instead of suddenly remembering, with less than a quarter of the book to go, that they have no plot whatsoever and need to conjure up one from thin air. this inconsistency in the weight of the narration leaves the book unbalanced, undermines the potential achievements it might have had and banalises the characters even further. the matter of the predictable ending after a rushed up, sad mockery of a romance makes the book all the more desultory.

*IGARSHIjun exhibition @galleryMA in rOppongi. open until 09/07. entrance is free.

have been fascinated by this young japanese architect’s works since I saw them in a spanish architecture magazine for the first time. [layered house] or [house of trough] are two very interesting housing projects, displaying new approaches in design and different ways of thinking about the living space. alas! most of his works are in his native hokkaido, and therefore difficult to visit. this exhibition could be the next best thing so far. anybody want to join?

info @tokyoARTbeat »»

Jun Igarashi “The Construction of a State”
Venue: Gallery Ma
Schedule: From 2011-05-13 To 2011-07-09
Address: Toto Nogizaka bldg. 3F, 1-24-3 Minami-aoyama, Minato-ku, Tokyo 107-0062
Phone: 03-3402-1010 Fax: 03-3423-4085