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3.3 AVERAGE
3.3 AVERAGE
Meh. Not my cup of tea. It's like a looonggg poem in the shape of a prose.
dark
emotional
reflective
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
I received this book in exchange for a review.
Unfortunately this book just didn't do anything for me. It takes so long to get going, and I was bored by all the prose in the beginning, at times I lost track of what I was reading.
Unfortunately this book just didn't do anything for me. It takes so long to get going, and I was bored by all the prose in the beginning, at times I lost track of what I was reading.
I received this book through a Goodreads giveaway. I've been interested in Herta Muller since she won the Nobel Prize and one of my classmates recommended her, specifically "The Hunger Angel." My parents fled communist Hungary in 1979; they are only a few years younger than Muller so I am quite drawn to what she has to say. Muller is praised for the "poetry" of her language, which is really beautiful and not quite like any other writer I can think of. So if someone is interested in that, this book will definitely provide it.
The story is told from a few different points of view; I found Adina's to be the most captivating. She seems to have disassociated from her reality, and the fox fur referenced in the title is what connects her back to it, but roughly and jarringly. Some of Adina's parts are almost Joycean, with a few moments lasting pages of odd detail. This book is not for those who prefer a traditional narrative; much of the plot moves forward through small inferences that are not directly referenced.
I would recommend this book to friends and I would love to read more Muller. I'm only giving this 3 stars because I didn't really -love- it.
The story is told from a few different points of view; I found Adina's to be the most captivating. She seems to have disassociated from her reality, and the fox fur referenced in the title is what connects her back to it, but roughly and jarringly. Some of Adina's parts are almost Joycean, with a few moments lasting pages of odd detail. This book is not for those who prefer a traditional narrative; much of the plot moves forward through small inferences that are not directly referenced.
I would recommend this book to friends and I would love to read more Muller. I'm only giving this 3 stars because I didn't really -love- it.
Perhaps I was expecting a bit much of this book in imagining it would touch my soul in a most profound and resonating way. See, The Fox Was Ever the Hunter is the story of a teacher's life (1) during the last few year's of Ceausescu's communist regime (2; 1980s - place and decade of my birth), and moreover, it's written by a Romanian, also an emigre (3). Considering that's 3 for 3, I naively assumed this would somehow be the story of my life, the conundrum of my dual-identity explained, the nostalgia for a horrific yet clearer, more certain time expressed in all its contradictory complexity.
Alas, it was not to be. This book reminds me not at all of Romania, answered no questions for me, resonated not at all with anything I remember, and was written in a style I do not recognize as Romanian at all.
Perhaps the root of my incomprehension stemmed from the translation: of German into English. As any dual-language speaker can probably attest to, there are certain peculiarities of thought and experience that give language its meaning. An example: a quince. Do you know what that is? If you live in the US, most likely not. The word quince meant nothing to me in English, either; until recently I had no idea what this term even referred to (that was until the day I discovered this fruit at Whole Foods, in the bougie section). Of course, a gutuie - aah, that is something very different, a word that immediately conjures up tastes and fuzz and memories of summer and a tartness most unique. Also, of the country-side, of picking fruit from trees on the street in local villages - certainly not a $4.99/pound ritzy experience at the local Gourmet Grocery.
Another example: cotton wool. The stuff cotton balls are made out of. See, in 1980s Romania, there were no fancy bandages or tampons or cotton swabs or cotton balls. No - there was simply "vata" - huge bags of cotton-wool, sold like cotton-candy. You'd roll it around toothpicks to clean ears, fashion it into pads or bandages, multi-purpose style. So when I read "cotton wool" - that means nothing. In English, we don't speak of "cotton wool". In Romanian, however, the word "vata" is imbibed with meaning - meaning that Müller does not always explain.
Perpetually as I was reading this book, I kept trying to translate portions of it into Romanian - I just could not at all conjure the mood of Romania, the place, removed from the language.
BUT, my disconnect from this book arises not just from the translation, but from Müller's style. The entire book is a poem - in prose form, but still, poetry, of a vague, indirect, fuzzy, detached form, completely humorless. If there's ONE characteristic of Romania 1980s I deeply believe was our saving grace: dark, surreal, ironic humor was it- biting sarcasm, cynical deadpan, the view that even in the most dire situation, we could still choose to laugh, to escape. And more than that, I remember a culture of directness, of a very pragmatic romanticism, of a quite attuned/attached approach to life - not the nebulous cloud of uncertainty and pointlessness Müller's writing suggests.
This fearless, laugh-in-the-face-of-impending-death-sentence soul of communism is beautifully portrayed by writers like Bulgakov and by non-fiction studies of the period (such as a brilliant book I'm currently reading, Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets by Svetlana Alexievich). In contrast, Müller's work is about pathetic, paranoid, fearful people, who have no hope of salvation from the hopelessness and helplessness of their situation.
Perhaps my reading is biased by the language-gap I was not able to overcome; perhaps, it's that I remember city-life vs. country-life (Müller is the daughter of farmers); perhaps it has something to do with Müller's Romanian-German identity/lineage vs. my Bucuresti-Romanian one. Who am I to say another Romanian's reading is illegitimate? What I would really like is to (1) read a Romanian translation of this and (2) read other Romanian people's thoughts on this book/review.
In the meantime, I'm going with 2 stars because not only did I recognize nothing of myself/Romania in this (perhaps unfair, but hey this is my review), but I don't necessarily see the broad appeal of this work. Feel free to negate this in the comments. As you can tell, I'm quite conflicted about my feelings on this one and will gladly take any input.
Alas, it was not to be. This book reminds me not at all of Romania, answered no questions for me, resonated not at all with anything I remember, and was written in a style I do not recognize as Romanian at all.
Perhaps the root of my incomprehension stemmed from the translation: of German into English. As any dual-language speaker can probably attest to, there are certain peculiarities of thought and experience that give language its meaning. An example: a quince. Do you know what that is? If you live in the US, most likely not. The word quince meant nothing to me in English, either; until recently I had no idea what this term even referred to (that was until the day I discovered this fruit at Whole Foods, in the bougie section). Of course, a gutuie - aah, that is something very different, a word that immediately conjures up tastes and fuzz and memories of summer and a tartness most unique. Also, of the country-side, of picking fruit from trees on the street in local villages - certainly not a $4.99/pound ritzy experience at the local Gourmet Grocery.
Another example: cotton wool. The stuff cotton balls are made out of. See, in 1980s Romania, there were no fancy bandages or tampons or cotton swabs or cotton balls. No - there was simply "vata" - huge bags of cotton-wool, sold like cotton-candy. You'd roll it around toothpicks to clean ears, fashion it into pads or bandages, multi-purpose style. So when I read "cotton wool" - that means nothing. In English, we don't speak of "cotton wool". In Romanian, however, the word "vata" is imbibed with meaning - meaning that Müller does not always explain.
Perpetually as I was reading this book, I kept trying to translate portions of it into Romanian - I just could not at all conjure the mood of Romania, the place, removed from the language.
BUT, my disconnect from this book arises not just from the translation, but from Müller's style. The entire book is a poem - in prose form, but still, poetry, of a vague, indirect, fuzzy, detached form, completely humorless. If there's ONE characteristic of Romania 1980s I deeply believe was our saving grace: dark, surreal, ironic humor was it- biting sarcasm, cynical deadpan, the view that even in the most dire situation, we could still choose to laugh, to escape. And more than that, I remember a culture of directness, of a very pragmatic romanticism, of a quite attuned/attached approach to life - not the nebulous cloud of uncertainty and pointlessness Müller's writing suggests.
This fearless, laugh-in-the-face-of-impending-death-sentence soul of communism is beautifully portrayed by writers like Bulgakov and by non-fiction studies of the period (such as a brilliant book I'm currently reading, Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets by Svetlana Alexievich). In contrast, Müller's work is about pathetic, paranoid, fearful people, who have no hope of salvation from the hopelessness and helplessness of their situation.
Perhaps my reading is biased by the language-gap I was not able to overcome; perhaps, it's that I remember city-life vs. country-life (Müller is the daughter of farmers); perhaps it has something to do with Müller's Romanian-German identity/lineage vs. my Bucuresti-Romanian one. Who am I to say another Romanian's reading is illegitimate? What I would really like is to (1) read a Romanian translation of this and (2) read other Romanian people's thoughts on this book/review.
In the meantime, I'm going with 2 stars because not only did I recognize nothing of myself/Romania in this (perhaps unfair, but hey this is my review), but I don't necessarily see the broad appeal of this work. Feel free to negate this in the comments. As you can tell, I'm quite conflicted about my feelings on this one and will gladly take any input.
The Fox Was Ever the Hunter is one of those books that it is quite difficult to write a review for. Simply because – at least for me – the book itself is quite difficult to describe. Told in a lyrical kind of prose, the book has a stream of consciousness feel to it. Müller puts so much attention in the settings, bringing them in to such sharp focus, that the human characters fade in to the background.
Looking at other reviews over on Goodreads, I find that I am not alone in my opinions. There are just as many there who are like me, who just do not “get it” when it comes to this book. Likewise, there are a goodly number who sing its praises. The Fox Was Ever the Hunter did win a Nobel Prize, so there is that as well.
Perhaps much of what makes this book appealing is lost in translation. Perhaps I am just too dense to understand.
slow-paced
Very poetic and well written as a book. The pace was way too slow though, because of what for me just felt like fluff.
Du hast es gut, sagt Ilije, du hast noch Angst, mein Kopf ist dunkel, ich habe schon lange nichts mehr geträumt.
Ein wenig brauchte ich, um in den Sprachfluss wieder herein zu kommen, aber kaum war ich drin, packte er mich vollends. Die Geschichte ist rasch erzählt und doch auch nicht. Insgesamt eine passende Erzählung zu der diktatorischen Zeit in Rumänien bis Ende der 80er Jahre. Trotz wenig Charakterzeichnung wurde doch Mitgefühl erweckt, sowie zugleich Hoffnung und Hoffnungslosigkeit.
Ein wenig brauchte ich, um in den Sprachfluss wieder herein zu kommen, aber kaum war ich drin, packte er mich vollends. Die Geschichte ist rasch erzählt und doch auch nicht. Insgesamt eine passende Erzählung zu der diktatorischen Zeit in Rumänien bis Ende der 80er Jahre. Trotz wenig Charakterzeichnung wurde doch Mitgefühl erweckt, sowie zugleich Hoffnung und Hoffnungslosigkeit.
A dark, fragmented series of sketches capturing the mood and tone of the late-period of Ceaușescu's rule over Communist Romania. Müller again has captured the way surveillance and state control warped everyday life and relationships. It can be quite hard going at times, but all up is a bleak and poetic tale that evokes the oppressive feeling of the time.