Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

I’m in the final third of Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood, the second book in a trilogy that also includes Oryx and Crake and MaddAddam. Readers and fellow bloggers know how keen I am on the Canadian author’s writing.

However, my post tonight is not about Atwood’s writing per se but about a peculiar phenomenon I have noticed quite often but which until now I had not dared to mention.

As I said before Margaret is Canadian and yet you would be hard pressed to find traces of her nationality in her oeuvre. I checked the handful of books I own, which does not necessarily mean they are the only ones I have read by her. The Blind Assassin, The Edible Woman and her magnum opus, The Handmaid’s Tale. Of all these, the second one might be the only that comes close to providing a Canadian setting with Canadian characters. But the story it tells is so universal that it transcends its geographical borders (if any).

Atwood: universal writing

This subject of “author semi-separated from her/his own immediate reality” played on my mind as I recalled recently an essay by the Nigerian novelist BenOkri (I have never read any of Ben Okri’s books; however I have read his essays and articles before). In it, the African writer looked at the ways authors from “ethnic” backgrounds are portrayed (some would even say “marketed”). I found Ben’s column interesting as I, an avid reader, have very often wondered the same.

For Mr Okri some people “read Flaubert for beauty, Joyce for innovation, Virginia Woolf for poetry and Jane Austen for psychology”. I shall leave you to assess the veracity of that sentence. However, writers from backgrounds considered to be “ethnic” (for example, Asian and African to mention two) are read for subjects that define and focus on their immediate reality. To wit, a black author’s book will be read for her/his portrayal of “slavery, colonialism, poverty, civil wars, imprisonment and female circumcision”.

I went back to my bookshelf to test Okri’s theory and he was right. At least in regards to my small collection. There they were: the Rushdies, Chimamandas, Morrisons (as in Toni), Levys, Walkers (as in Alice) and Hosseinis. Their works either portrayed stories set in Afghanistan, Nigeria, Jamaica, US and India or had characters that were originally from these countries.

This is where Ben’s essay comes into the picture. I agree with him when he avers that “The black and African writer is expected to write about certain things, and if they don’t they are seen as irrelevant”. I disagree when he states that this repetition can render their fiction monotonous. To me repetition doesn’t equate monotony (I love JS Bach and a lot of the music he composed was based on repetition). But I do worry about capability. Is the writer using the same setting and the same nationalities because she or he can’t do better?

My answer to my own rhetorical question is no. The (sur)names I mentioned above speak for themselves when it comes to top quality writing. However, I would not be lying if I told you that every time I open a novel or a collection of short stories by Salman Rushdie I expect to find at least two Asian characters in it, if not more. I would be telling porkies if I said that when I read Andrea Levy I do not have the sound of Jamaican patois ringing in my ears.

This predictability is my dilemma. As I mentioned before being predictable has very little effect on quality. But as Mr Okri asks: “Who wants to constantly read a literature of suffering, of heaviness?” Surely not the Nigerian or Afghani since that is their reality. I agree with Ben, it is the western reader whose surroundings do not resemble north-eastern Nigeria or Taliban-threatened Afghanistan. The “ethnic” writer tries to reflect the reality of her or his country through the kaleidoscope of fiction. Yet, one of the outcomes of their endeavour is that they provide a form of “escapism” to the western reader. Thus a cycle, chain, system, conveyor belt, you name it, is formed. You “ethnic” writer feed, I, western reader, consume.

What happens if the author decides not to confront their immediate reality?

In vain I searched my shelves for an example to answer that question. I hear that Chimamanda Ngozi’s latest novel, Americanah, changes settings, in that one part of the book takes place in the States. But it still contains Nigerian characters, a very Nigerian plot and the other part is set in Lagos. I’m not knocking Chimamanda, who I think is one the better writers I have read in the last ten years. Nevertheless, read the blurb for Americanah and you will see what I mean: race, identity, military dictatorship and flight are all mentioned. Go back now to Ben Okri’s earlier point. What complicates matters more is that writers like Chimamanda are quite rightly acknowledged for their creativity. Ngozi’s books have been longlisted for the Booker Prize, won the Orange Prize for Fiction and been selected by the Commonwealth Broadcasting Association and the BBC Short Story Awards.

These accolades pose a question: if a writer is having the success they deserve, writing what they know about, why would they change tact? Why would they go looking for subjects on which they might not have as much knowledge?

As a reader, my response would be: because as Ben Okri rightly says, literature’s basic prerequisite is mental freedom. Both for reader and writer. Especially when it comes to demanding readers. Orangesfrom Spain is a superb collection of short stories by the Irish writer David Park. After I finished reading it, I wanted more. But when I searched for more of his books, I realised that all he ever wrote about was Northern Ireland. No matter how beautiful and nuanced his use of language is, I felt somewhat put off.

Mental freedom for the writer carries a danger sign, though. If she or he finds success writing about a particular subject, the public will most likely want them to stick to that subject. Variations on the same topic, like a Kundera, for instance, work wonders. If they so much as deviate one iota from the formula their readers have created for them, the writer will pay the heaviest price: at the till.

I have not even gone into the issue of credibility. That means writer’s credibility when they write about a subject they are not known for or which does not tick one of their identity boxes, i.e., Irish writer writing about something other than Ireland, US writer writing about something other than racism, Latin writer writing about something other than immigration. All of a sudden, we, readers, transform ourselves into judges and experts. That is another can of worms which I might be tempted to open on another occasion. In the meantime, I shall leave you tonight with these reflections to digest. I can’t wait to read your comments.

© 2015

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Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Review)

A couple of weeks ago, Zadie Smith, in the series 'What Makes a Good Writer?', referred to some authors' dream of writing the Perfect Novel (my capitals). Although later on in the same article she explained why the attempt to accomplish this deed is nothing but a chimera, I was left with the impression that indeed many writers do set out to trascend the literary realm in which they inhabit. They want their novels or short stories to be the sole and ultimate authority on the politics, social thinking and economic trends of their time and in order to achieve this they apply an almost mathematical precision to their work.

At the other end of the spectrum, you have writers who effortlessly write jolly good, entertaining books without too much fanfare or razzmatazz and yet capture a country's historical moment with such accuracy that unwittingly they contribute to that nation's collective awakening.

A case in point is the Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. In 'Half of a Yellow Sun', Ngozi deftly weaves the convoluted stories of two couples into one of the most terrible conflicts to befall that African country: the Biafran war. The novel's name is taken after the emblem that symbolised this state in eastern Nigeria.

Odenigbo is an academic with very strong political views. As a member of the nascent intellectual middle-class of 60s Nigeria he hosts soirées in his house where current world events are discussed amongst glasses of wine and heated, nationalistic poetry. His lover and future wife Olanna, a western-educated woman, returns home from Britain to contribute to what she considers to be her duty: building a better society. She takes up a post as an instructor at the Department of Sociology. Her twin sister Kainene, in the meantime, moves to Port Harcourt to manage her father's business. Richard, Kainene's eventual lover, is a British man recently arrived in the country with the intention of writing a book about Nigeria. However, underpinning these four characters we find one of the most enigmatic and interesting members of the cast: Ugwu, Odenigbo's teenage houseboy.

And it is mainly from Ugwu's point of view that we travel through many of the cultural, linguistic and political issues that 'Half of a Yellow Sun' addresses. From Ugwu's desire to speak English like his master - until Olanna arrives in the scene with her 'luminous language' -, to his ardent sexual longing for Eberechi, the girl whose body he craves. The latter is used effectively by the author to depict how quickly human beings can fall into savagery. When Eberechi confesses to Ugwu that she is sleeping with an army officer, following the outbreak of war and the penury into which the whole country is thrown, Ugwu's reaction is one of disgust and repulsion. How hypocritical, then, that a few pages later we find the same teenager, now nicknamed 'Target Destroyer' participating in the gang-rape of a young woman.

Symbolism is abundant in 'Half of a Yellow Sun'. Odenigbo betrays Olanna with a countrygirl with whom his mother has set him up, albeit against his will. Reluctant to accept Odenigbo's defense that his mother has tricked him into sleeping with the innocent girl, Olanna takes her revenge and beds Richard, her twin sister's boyfriend, unleashing in the process a maelstrom of such magnitude that it's not until the last few pages of the book that Kainene's pardon is finally granted, and even this acquittal is not complete. Parallel to this, the whole country slowly starts to break down, this unrest highlighting sectarian divisions within Nigeria. Odenigbo and Olanna's relationship resembles the country in which they live.

Another symbol can be seen in Kainene's transformation from a sang-froid person into almost a Mother Theresa figure following her close brush with death. At the beginning of the novel Olanna comes across as the idealistic sister whilst her sibling has both her feet firmly planted on earth. But by the end of the book, Kainene, like her country, or at least the Republic of Biafra, has undergone a radical change and her critical approach is replaced by a quixotic nature.

'Half of a Yellow Sun' is a rich bilingual map on which both Igbo and English get equally starring roles, even if the novel is written in the latter. Igbo phrases are interspersed in dialogues and one is never sure whether they are translations of their English equivalents or semantic additions. Either way, it does not matter because it is all conducive to making the reader feel more at home with the book's narrative. But this linguistic duality has other functions. Whereas in the first part, early 60s, language serves to convey class and social interaction, in the second and last chapters, lexicon becomes a matter of life and death literally. Anyone caught speaking Igbo by the insurgents meets an untimely and horrible end.

Another element that stands out in this book is the sex scenes. Chimamanda deftly navigates that difficult Bermuda Triangle of intimacy, carnal desire and love. For instance, I giggled at a scene where Ugwu eavesdrops on Odenigbo and Olanna making love. The naiveté of this passage does not detract from the sensuouness of the actual act.

'Later, after dinner, he tiptoed to Master's bedroom and rested his ear on the door. She was moaning loudly, sounds that seemed so unlike her, so uncontrolled and stirring and throaty. He stood there for a long time, until the moans stopped, and then he went back to his room.'

However, to me personally, one of the most enjoyable moments of this novel is when Ngozi reveals the identity of the author of the 'other book', The World Was Silent When We Died. This work, snippets of a piece written by one of the characters of 'Half of a Yellow Sun', is Chimamanda's strongest political point about who should write the stories of Africa. And as her exquisite, literary landmark shows it should be African themselves.

Copyright 2009

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