Cyn Vargas 'On The Way' / Rey Andújar 'Saturnalia'

So.

First off.

There's not really too much of a reason to lump these two books together. Other than the fact that they are both collections of short stories written by authors living in Chicago, put out by Chicago presses, and I finished reading both on the same day. And the settings for both alternate between various locations in Latin America and the United States. Other than that, there's not much of a connection, and I'm writing about them together solely based on my timing of reading them. Let's start with On The Way.

I picked this book up at City Lit about a month ago. I'm always game to try anything Curbside Splendor puts out, even if the epigraph is a Radiohead lyric. But a blurb on the back from Bonnie Jo Campbell meant I would pick it up anyway.

Let's start with this: these stories are not uplifting. They're not always tragic, but they are often heartbreaking. It's not the fact that death always awaits us (it does sometimes), but that more often, bad things happen and the devastation permeates itself in its wake throughout a life; lucky are we who don't have to identify with many of these stories. The protagonists are generally women. They've been abused, they've been cheated on, they've been divorced, they've been abandoned in physical and existential ways. Vargas writes about women young and old, who've experienced a lot and who've experienced a lot of pain. Rarely do they find redemption. In an interview with Kati Heng, Vargas revealed her personal connection with some of these characters, how she identifies with them, and why they need their voices to be heard: "To appreciate the joy, you have to have the pain too. I think I am able to write bittersweet stories because I have lived through it."

Jhumpa Lahiri - "The Lowland"

The Lowland was my introduction to the works of Jhumpa Lahiri, the London-born, Indian-American author. The novel follows the lives of two brothers growing up in 1960s Calcutta. The brothers are total opposites: Subhash is the more obedient of the two who moves to America to pursue advanced studies, and Udayan is a Marxist who aims at affecting political change at a contentious point in India's history.

The book spans the time period from the 60s until present day (where Lahiri cleverly alters the spelling to Kolkata, the Bengali pronunciation). The settings change from India to Rhode Island and California, varying as Lahiri follows multiple characters and dramas that unfold over the half-century. She subtly engages how globalization has altered India in the span of a few decades. Where tragedy once struck the neighborhood of Tollygunge, now the growing middle class has no recollection of life without a subway system.

I think it's safe to put Lahiri in the collection of writers, like Aleksandar Hemon and Teju Cole, called "bicultural writers." All three have an elegant understanding of two cultures and the bridges that connect them, as well as what keeps them distinct. More important, they all recognize changes that interact within each culture.

Cole in particular writes in both Open City and Everyday is For the Thief about how quickly the collective consciousness forgets. Usually he perceives this as a negative thing, but none of these writers weigh in on the positive. Sure I can argue that since as a white male, I'm always the benefactor of this forgetting, it does allow for cultural interaction. I think of Roger Sterling in Mad Men who refused to work with a Japanese car company because of Pearl Harbor. Is it possible to let bygones be bygones? I'd like to think of my life as richer being able to have a conversation with someone of Japanese descent or Vietnamese (or more personally, German) and not blame the actions of their ancestors on their hopefully more enlightened offspring. It is the topic of an unpublished short story I've written, inspired by Vietnamese students I met when I was studying in Shanghai, who were always friendly with me and other Americans, yet I couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper-seated hatred bubbling beneath that positive veneer.

But back on topic, Lahiri created a compelling story, that despite some issues I have with her writing style, kept me turning the pages. Which is the most important thing any novel can offer. For some reason I can't convince myself it was a great book, but it had me reading. The story offers a unique perspective, even outside of that of an Indian immigrant living in Rhode Island. There is great internal tension, both domestically and politically which does more than raise the eyebrow. The characters are all well-rounded and the non-linear format allows for their formation to creep in slowly like a gas leak; before you know it, you've succumbed to caring about these characters and knowing how they live out their lives.

Previously: Jhumpa Lahiri featured in my Literary Chicago series. 

Teju Cole and Aleksandar Hemon: Bicultural Writers

A couple weeks ago, Teju Cole and Aleksandar Hemon had a conversation posted on Bomb Magazine's website. Cole is possibly my favorite contemporary author, after I was blown away by Open City two years ago. His twitter account is real-time literary insight. The Lazarus Project by Hemon was my only real knowledge of the author until I read last year's memoir, The Book of My Lives, which compiles autobiographical essays written over the past decade.

In the conversation, the two talk about the distinctions between fiction and non-fiction, photography, wandering, urban culture, and more. The two are very illuminating and seem to have a natural sense of humanity they reflect off each other. Says Hemon:

"If we ever find ourselves writing only for the present—which would essentially mean that tweeting is all we can do—I would feel absolutely defeated as a human being and a writer."

And Cole on cities:

"But the other side is that they are simply so congested with material history and the spiritual traces of those histories, including some very dark events. Your contemporary Chicago is haunted by the Chicago of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the Chicago of innovation and of systematic exclusions." 

The whole interview is fascinating and more than worth your time. I will never be able to recommend Open City enough (until I read Everyday is for the Thief at least). For the Chicagoans out there, Hemon's The Book of My Lives is a great read as well. It encompasses stories from his childhood in Bosnia, to his immigration to Chicago. His early days in Ukrainian Village and Edgewater are a particular fun read (while still thought-provoking), and the final chapter about his daughter's illness is sobering.

Cole was born in Nigeria but calls NYC home now. Hemon refers to him as one of the foremost "bicultural writers" (for lack of better term). Whatever the term may be, Hemon is up there as well; I'm glad he's decided to call Chicago his adopted home, expanding the literary scope of our city with a unique perspective.