Tag: Book Reviews

Whistler's Mother

On The Fatalistic Dichotomy Of A Parent-Child Relationship: Is Mother Dead by Vigdis Hjorth

I’m writing a letter. The letter is addressed to someone. We’ve had a dysfunctional relationship.  There have been highs and lows, peaks and troughs, warmth and resentment. The letter asks one question, “Have we ever really understood each other?”

Maybe we almost did when I was lying on that hospital bed, and all I wanted was to go back home. You wanted the same too. We showed good progress and were discharged within a week.

Or maybe it was after Dad’s funeral when I tried my best to fight back the tears so that I could be a shoulder on whom yours flowed freely. 

There are many instances worth noting. Many where we have both understood and misunderstood each other. Sometimes within the span of the same second. 

This letter is addressed to my mother.

A parent-child relationship is both a pillar and a boulder. A pillar to lean on when we are exhausted to our bones but also a boulder we get crushed under at the most inopportune moment.  It’s a blanket we wrap ourselves in but also a cross whose weight our shoulders could barely develop a callous against. 

Death and the Maiden by Egon Schiele (1915)
Death and the Maiden by Egon Schiele (1915)

Is Mother Dead by Vigdis Hjorth is about one such dysfunctional parent-child relationship.  It is about a daughter trying to understand her mother and a mother trying to reconcile with scars whose depth goes beyond generations. It is a painfully visceral first-person account of both generational trauma and survivor’s guilt. 

An example is the plot thread when the protagonist contemplates about feeling betrayed by her mother because, after her father’s death, her mother appears to have moved on while the protagonist feels left behind. It is especially in this instance when the title “Is Mother Dead” invites contemplation in the reader’s mind. The “mother being dead” is the mother who was once grieving.  The mother, who has moved on, feels like a separate person to the protagonist.  There are many such “deaths” the mother falls prey to in the daughter’s mind throughout the course of the novel. This is in tandem with the daughter trying to connect with her mother in her “current” self while reconciling with the fact that the mothers she has lost over the course of her life are never coming back. 

The mother, on the other hand, is exorcising demons of her own. From concealing her left arm, a bearer of the scars of her multiple suicide attempts, from her daughter to being the victim of generational trauma, which inevitably gets carried on in her parenting.

Is Mother Dead is a scalding examination of the fatalistic dichotomy of a parent-child relationship where the thorns are as prevalent as the caresses.

Still Life With Coffee Mill by Van Gogh

On An Eerily Pleasant Coincidence: Ninth Building by Zou Jingzhi

Cigarette smoke wafting, the coffee grows tepid. This one’s taking longer to finish than usual. The coffee lays in the wake of the flicked ash while a trail of smoke envelopes it. The butler, Alfred Merryweathers, arrives at my table and asks, “Shall I get you another cup fresh from the pot, sir?” To which I reply, “The lukewarm the cup, the bitter the coffee. Complements my smoke in a manner only my palette can explain.” A book lies beside my cup.

It is a book I wrote years back. The book was born out of a dialogue I had with a peer. It had something to do with once-inhabited spaces. Inevitably about where and how we grew up. It was a building the color of cement. It wasn’t exactly sturdy. It had started flicking its crumbs barely a few years after construction. But what didn’t set this building apart from the others was its housing of stories, or rather, it in itself being a plot point in many a subplot.

One of them was a poet. The poet was a war veteran. His poetry was born out of the delirium-inducing hallucinations his brain was prone to. The poetry that flowed echoed the gradual crashing of two cars, each car being a realm of existence and the resulting collision being ink on the paper. This poet was felicitated with an award for his recent collection of poetry, a collection born out of the collected trauma of seeing his peers reduced to literal rubble.

There was another poet. This poet had been part of a “revolution” in his youth. Some business about overthrowing some government somewhere. His business was the usual. Write poetry in favor of the revolution. Nobody knew he did it merely to save up for cigarettes and contraband back then.

There was a movie star. She had been part of an acclaimed film about one of the world wars, or was it the War of the Roses or was it the Cold War? She is now a poet too. Her poetry stems from how the movie set wasn’t too divorced from a battlefield. Almost everyone was at loggerheads, food was rationed, every scene was a battle between the dichotomy of who she lived as and who she was made to become. She did this to pay for the whiskey. The movie business. The poetry flowed after the fourth glass of whiskey.

The Coffee Mill by Juan Gris (1916)
The Coffee Mill by Juan Gris (1916)

And then came my room. And no, I’m not a poet, at least not until now. I write novels. Well, something that almost resembles a novel. I am a grave robber. I steal stories from where they are inhabited. This building is where my mind goes on its nocturnal prowl. From the bits and snatches heard, I write fragments. No, I have never asked for permission. Hence I hesitate to mention names and places. Alfred is in on the secret and has given me his consent to be mentioned voluntarily.

I wouldn’t call my book a collection of stories, though. Stories have a beginning-middle-end. Could I be pretentious enough to call it snapshots of lives? Yes, life has a beginning-middle-end loop as well, but closure, more often than not, is not par for the course.

The above is an excerpt from a book I was working on for the past few years. Just like all my other projects, this book, too, went nowhere, and the manuscript probably is languishing in some nondescript folder of a computer I probably don’t even own anymore.

An eerie coincidence of this year’s Booker International longlist is that almost every title I have read so far is reminding me of some or the other of my unfinished work. Ninth Building by Zou Jingzhi is no different.

What the book is about is something that is easily available to read online, hence, I didn’t feel the need to mention it here. What I instead want to say is that, in spite of being barely a few pages longer than a novella, the novel packs quite a literary punch.

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