Books: O Conde d'Abranhos e A Catástrofe, Eça de Queirós

I've got terribly behind on my book posts, so this is the first of a few catch-ups. Since I wrote last time about Eça's A Cidade e as Serras, I've read three more Eça volumes, and part of another.

The first was O Mandarim, a tiny novella. Unfortunately I forgot to photograph it before leaving for Brazil, so the post will have to wait (you can either believe it's because I like doing things properly, or because it's a convenient excuse for delaying writing the post...).

The second was this, O Conde d'Abranhos e A Catástrofe. It is in fact two works, which seem to be conventionally published together in one volume. The first is quite substantial, and the second only a few pages long. Both are examples of Eça's work at its most political. O Conde d'Abranhos tells the story of - you guessed it - the Count of Abranhos. For most of the story he isn't a Count at all, rather Alípio, a young man climbing the greasy pole of Portuguese politics. As so often in Eça, we have a hilariously slanted account from the narrator, who criticises or praises certain characters and their actions entirely depending on their relationship with the Count. Sometimes the satire drips from the page; at other times it's more subtle. There's never any doubt, though; Eça does not approve of this section of society. Although most of the story revolves around politics - involving intrigues such as Alípio changing party and denouncing former colleagues - there are some compelling episodes of a more personal nature, such as his courting of his wife, in which he demonstrates the same astuteness (or cold-hearted calculation) that dominates his career. The novel gives a very interesting insight into the political climate at the time, being written in 1878 - although not published until 1925. And, inevitably, reading it gives one a sense of politics, and politicians, not having changed much deep down, during many decades and across countries.

A Catástrofe (yes, that's The Catastrophe for any anglophones) gives a brief picture of life in an imagined 19th century Portugal after an invasion by an unnamed foreign power. Eça bemoans the lack of preparation which allowed the Portuguese forces to be overcome quickly, with the associated loss of national pride, although he also portrays the people's resolve to reclaim their independence. The clear implication is that the (real) government needs to act to prepare Portugal better for future threats.

This wasn't my favourite Eça book so far, but I enjoyed getting a feel for the more political side of his work. The beautiful written style and cleverly portrayed characters mean it's always a pleasure to read Eça. I recommend this volume if you really want to go deeper than the most famous novels, or if you're into political satire.

Books: A Cidade e as Serras, Eça de Queirós

Welcome to my third book post - the other two can be found here, using the handy new Books page I've started.

A Cidade e as Serras is another classic Portuguese novel, and Eça is the quintessential Portuguese novelist. I want to compare him to Dickens, because of the approving nods and expressions of slight amazement that I get when I tell Portuguese colleagues that I'm reading his books. That isn't to say that his style, or subject matter, are like Dickens - although they both date from the 19th century (close enough...). Perhaps unlike Dickens, it is very normal for Portuguese young people to claim Eça is their favourite author. And after really getting 'stuck in', I can understand why.

A Cidade e as Serras was the novel Eça was working on at the time of his death, in 1900. The narrator, José Fernandes, tells the story of his friend Jacinto, from the time of their youth, spent in Paris, to middle age. Halfway through the book - without giving too much away - Jacinto's situation is transformed, when he moves from Paris to the rural tranquility of northern Portugal. He leaves behind the ennui and complexity of his Paris life, gaining the simplicity of an idyllic, and bucolic, existence.

Told like that, the story doesn't seem to hold much appeal - a pastoral fantasy of the urban elite. But I don't think it's like that at all. For me, the real joy of the novel is in Eça's wry commentary on pretty much everything. Both Jacinto and Zé Fernandes, the narrator, are by turns laughable and extremely sympathetic characters. Eça has a great knack for casting characters in different lights by showing the various situations they find themselves in. By the end of the novel, I really felt I knew these people.

As ever in my reading, I couldn't help noticing how Eça filters the story through the mouthpiece of Zé Fernandes, although he gives the appearance of telling an unedited version of his and Jacinto's lives. I was intrigued by the way Zé Fernandes glosses over any details of his own existence, which in some cases is frankly ridiculous - a year can pass in a matter of sentences when he's away from Jacinto, but an hour or two with Jacinto can take up dozens of pages.

All in all, I really enjoyed A Cidade e as Serras. Eça's writing is supposed to be 'difficult', and in some ways it is - for example, his descriptive language is very rich in unusual vocabulary, making it harder for a non-native speaker to understand. But in other respects, the construction of the novel makes it easy to get involved in the narrative - who can resist such compelling characters, or the immense variety of backgrounds and atmospheres?

I'm really excited to read more of Eça's work in the near future. I'd definitely recommend A Cidade e as Serras to anyone who likes a good, solid 19th century novel.

(NB this post accidentally stayed as a draft for about two weeks after it was written. Another book post is coming soon!)

Books: Viagens na Minha Terra, Almeida Garrett

Post no. 2 in my series on Portuguese-language literature.

Unlike the first book I wrote about, which was right up to date, this work by Almeida Garrett, dating from 1846, is a Portuguese classic.

I'm not going to pretend this is a rigorous, academic exercise... this post is just a little taster for anyone who's interesting in finding out a bit more about the book. Oxford-standard literary essay it is not.

So, why did I read this? Well, partly because at one stage it was on the list for the book club I went to a couple of times (although it was later taken off). And partly because I read it in English before I went to be interviewed at Oxford (way back in 2011, unbelievable though that seems!) and wanted to see what the real thing is like.

Funnily enough, I didn't really remember much of the plotline, or anything, before starting to read, and it only came back to me very gradually. I wouldn't like to say it's not memorable - it really should be, because the structure of the book and many other aspects are deliberately odd. Maybe I just read it too quickly the first time...

One example of oddness - Viagens doesn't fit neatly into a particular genre. It's not a 'proper novel', but it's not non-fiction either. And the curious reader might well wonder whether the first-person narrator is a portrayal of Garrett himself, or a loose projection of Garrett, or someone completely different. We know Garrett did make the journey described, from Lisbon to Santarém, but at least some of the narrator's experience in Viagens is definitely fiction.

The narrator, whoever he really is, is apparently unable to concentrate on anything for very long, until he gets involved in the very long story of Joaninha. This sub-plot is the only coherent narrative in the whole work - the rest is the narrator's reflections on the state of the world, loosely tied to what he sees and experiences in his journey. It's quite intriguing, in its own way - mainly relating to the Portuguese Liberal Wars (civil war), full of personal (melo-)drama and romance. Garrett was surely contrasting the romanticism of this part with the realism of the rest of Viagens, although, of course, this division is a simplification. Good 19th century stuff.

As another example of the unexpectedness of Viagens, the Joaninha story-within-a-story isn't told simply from beginning to end. Although much of the middle of the novel is given over to the subplot, the narrator interrupts it more and more frequently nearer the end, until the two separate threads are completely interwoven. I could try and explain, but it might ruin things for you, if you ever read it...

At its time, Viagens was ground-breaking for its use of the Portuguese language - rather than sticking to the literary, 'high' style, Garrett mixes in plenty of vernacular speech, which reflects how people actually spoke, rather than how it was considered Portuguese 'should' be written. It's a bit of a strange connection to make, but you could compare it to William Wordsworth writing in the 'real language of men'.

So, it had quite a lot of influence in its day, and still retains a lot of interest for the modern reader, giving you a great insight into 19th century Portugal. What's not to like?

Books: O Meu Irmão, Afonso Reis Cabral

This is the first in a new species of posts, about books (in case you hadn't guessed from the title). The idea is that I'll write a little bit about Portuguese-language literature I've been reading, or re-reading. To begin with, it'll be about 'leisure' reading - maybe later I'll write about literature I've read for university work. Or maybe not...

Anyway, this post is about O Meu Irmão, by Afonso Reis Cabral. As you might know, I was lucky enough to meet Afonso at the book club in the Livraria Ler. I hadn't actually finished reading the book then, but I did finish it not long afterwards, and have been meaning to write a small post on it here.

I really enjoyed this novel. Set partly in a tiny Portuguese village, partly in Porto and partly in Lisbon, it follows the story of two brothers, one of whom has Down's syndrome. The other brother narrates the story of their lives, from childhood to the present day. The narrative is split between the past and the present in alternating chapters, so matters that are mentioned in the 'present' story are gradually explained in the 'past' chapters. This structure makes the book really gripping, because the explanation of a key plot point is left right until the end.

What makes the book so interesting? Well, one of the aspects I most enjoyed is the sense of place. The author manages to completely immerse the reader in the environment the characters are experiencing, whether the middle-of-nowhere village, or the backstreets of Porto at night. The narrator's confidential tone means the reader can feel like they're present at every moment.

The variety of characters is also impressive. Although some of them, particularly the female ones, seem a bit 2D (Portuguese stereotypes), I think this is more down to the narrator's outlook than the author's. There is a real sense of insight into the narrator's slightly twisted mind, helped by frequent 'asides' within the text, which mark out darker thoughts.

Would I recommend the book? Definitely! If you read Portuguese, that is. Otherwise, you're going to have a hard time.