Last June while reading The New York Times Book Review I stumbled onto an article about Stieg Larsson and his trilogy. The Times article was more about the phenomenon more than the latest release of 'Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest' and is the singular reason I decided to check out the series. I must have anticipated that a dark, Swedish style would appeal to me and made particular note of other author's mentioned in the article as possible recommendations for further reading, in view of the sad fact that Larsson was dead and his novel voice was gone forever.
For anyone that has read one of Larsson's books, not to say all of them, time passes and life goes on. What I intended as a bit of summer reading turned into a marathon of sorts that swallowed whole chunks of my life. When I turned the last page of the third book I needed a break from his voice so it was a good thing there was nothing else of his to choose from. As I have mentioned elsewhere, when writing my own stuff I find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to read fiction. It is too easy to lose sight of your own voice and what tumbles from your fingers to the page cannot but be influenced by phrasing that is not uniquely your own. It follows then that my own work suffered during, what I coin, my surrender to pulp; a matter I am still trying to rectify five months later.
In an effort to cleanse my palette I turned to anything American which in turn led to American literary classic and which itself spurred a poke at some Canadiana legend. A terrible thought process and now annoyed, I returned to an old favorite, Vonnegut in this case. Where that journey took me is decidedly a different stream of thought from this and one which I have already addressed in a manner of words earlier although to a quite 'something else all together' conclusion. The pause that, pregnant in nature and not yet having reached full term, still tosses around in my head, has more to do with linguistics than art yet art is at the very heart of it.
I've read and studied my share of foreign language thought in fits of Dostoyevsky, Ibsen, Chekov and even Homer's Illiad, if that is not too obviously cheating the idea, without once considering the importance and integrity of translation. In Larsson's work I began to wonder, if only for the use of idiom and Western adaptation. The importance of translator is immense and I should have, long before now, recognized the role for what it is, which in my estimation is Intrepreter. Anyone that knows me only a wee bit would understand the scope of that concept roaming the dark and lonely corridors of my mind. A story from my own life recently recalled and laughed at would seem appropriate and timely.
My Kitsilano contingent can skip this part, all of these words have already fatigued west coast reality and most of you already know the punch line.
A period of medical uncertainty, when Prozac and Zoloft were enjoying their moment as fashionable cures, coincided with my own bouts of erratic behaviour, (which had more to do with an 'unhappy' marriage than an 'unhappy' nature). My treatment took on an experimental dimension, then commonly referred to as 'cocktail medicine'. The combination of pharmaceuticals and their respective dosage represented a myriad of combinations that, distilled in the right measure and tailored to the peculiarities of each patient, promised 'normalized' life. It's a balancing act between patient and physician as the side effects could be as off-label as the treatment itself and it requires your strict attention if you do not want the cure to suddenly become the illness. Predictably, (isn't hindsight wonderful), Bi-Polar, Epilepsy and Mental disorders were all on the table and not easily dismissed. Consequently they all were treated. Scans (I had a lot of them) followed as did specialist opinions, all submitted to my family physician to digest and re-present to me, filtered and edited as he felt best and finally summarized in the adjustment of medications just right for me.
A neurologist looking at test results determined that I had suffered a stroke at some time albeit somewhat small compared to how much worse it could have been. I was mildly interested though curious could be a better description. Periods of unconsciousness were common for me what with the pot and booze on top of my prescriptions which, interestingly, I never associated with one another. Effect and cause somehow escaped me on this point probably because I had bigger problems to think about. The stroke got my attention; too many stories to ignore and walking with a cane or permanently slurring my words would be too hard to hide.
My physician helped me put it into perspective. The stroke was obviously a minor incident and the scans revealed only a little damage in the white mass area of my brain. Side effects, if they could be called that, were impossible to predict as, in this type of malady, changes in behaviour were too wide ranging in possibility to accurately ascribe to any patient; we would just have to wait and see. Not satisfied I pressed him to give me a few examples of what I might look out for. After some thought he described two different patient cases. The first was a woman who began having orgasms during routine acts of living like walking down the street. I believed he referred to them as 'spontaneous'. In the second illustration he evidenced a man who could no longer remember any word that began with the letter 'P'. I was still unsure but for the most part satisfied; I would have to monitor myself more closely.
My treatment continued and at one point involved seeing a psychiatrist. I think I attended three sessions before calling it quits and dismissing the likelihood that this line of treatment held any answers for me. During my first visit which included so much more than this, I gave him my summary understanding of the issues that plagued me. He took notes and mostly said nothing, ever. Sometime later events conspired to an ending of sorts and I make the decision to return to Ontario. There were many issues that suggested this was a good idea but in my estimation there were only two. My marriage had ended abruptly; I walked out having had enough and without even thinking there was a possibility I would not land on my feet in a few hours resolutely continued to live out the details of my life. One of these details included a routine surgery which, as it turned out, was anything but routine and the fallout was enormous. However what brought me to my knees was suffering a cooking accident which left me with second degree burns on my left forearm. I can handle just about anything and my pain threshold is pretty damn high but burns are mind blowing, life-changing events, period. I could not cope or in the very least, chose not to.
In the process of liquidating my Vancouver position and getting ready to flee I said goodbye to my family physician and at his suggestion took my substantial medical file to a nearby facility to make a complete copy for my next doctor's reference. I would think that there were thousands of pages and notes and I stood at the photocopier, my mind on auto-pilot, copying one page after another. I was trying not to look at the pages preferring not to get any more involved and just happy to act as a courier between one care giver and another.Inexplicably my eye was drawn to one page and it happened to be correspondence from the psychiatrist to my family physician with his preliminary findings. My jaw dropped when I read "Patient claims not to be able to recall any words beginning with the letter 'P'". Interpretation from an Interpreter. Yes I have strong feelings.
So a Swedish pulp writer and questioning how vested I was in this current entertainment and how much was genre and how much was style. Vonnegut closed and needed something to read I tracked down works from the other Swedish author touted in The Times review, Henning Mankell.
Mankell has published maybe six or seven titles that are a serial and whose key character is 'Kurt Wallander'. I remembered seeing a television listing for a show by the same name on Showcase. Finding the first in the series, 'Faceless Killers', I studied he cover which boasted 'Sweden's greatest living mystery writer'. It is also an international bestseller something which I believe can be said about the entire series. Last night I very nearly finished it saving the last chapter for today.
I'll say this; I have some experience analyzing a writer's early if not first work and was prepared to give him the benefit of a doubt. I purchased the first and second books in the series in order to give 'it' (him?) a chance. Having not yet read the second installment my opinion could change.
It sucks. It blows. It's trash.
What I craved was satisfying distraction and what I had hoped for was 'Scandinavian' 'Noir' 'Thriller'.
'Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' was superb in creating the visual for what Larsson spent hundreds of pages successfully embedding as a minor detail in his book. That is to say the Swedish landscape was not overlooked for it's potential value and interest to a foreign reader. Who does not hear 'Swedish Winter' and immediately think of stark, bone-chilling possibilities and a venue easily as alluring as any created character? Mankell that's who.
Larsson was a pulp writer so we are not talking about a Bergmanesque talent but the suggestion of depth in landscape is hard to resist. My disappointment with Mankell has much to do with the failure of inspiration. His similarity to Larsson stops with 'Swedish Writer'. His appeal should not extend beyond his domestic border and even this is kind.
'Faceless Killers' was written in the early 90's so I was prepared for a different buzz and attraction. But the cover even with warnings disguised as reviews of 'police procedural' could not have prepared for me 'lifeless' spread out over 300 pages. 'Winter' reduced to a 'threat of snow' and 'blowing wind'. The central character (protagonist too strong) also comes to suffer second degree burns only to be treated like a scratch or flesh wound and simple evidence that Mankell is in an emotional vacuum that does not allow for understanding in any way approaching depth. NO soul.
An international bestseller? In what language?
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