4 Stars - Strongly recommended by Drew
Pages: 144
Publisher: New Directions
Released: 2011
Reviewed by Drew Broussard
The
Short Version: When César Aira was a boy, a seamstress lived in his town and
had a son about his age. When she believes that the son has disappeared, she
jumps in a cab and tears off into the Argentinian countryside with a hilarious
and fantastical set of pursuers that include her husband, an angry bride-to-be,
the wind, and maybe even the author himself...
The Review: After falling under Aira's spell with An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter,
I rushed out and picked up nearly all of the rest of the works currently
available in English (thanks, New Directions). It was like a compulsion - like
something out of an Aira story, perhaps - in that I simply could not rest until
I had the total sum of his [English] output on my bedside table. I did this,
getting all of them except The Musical
Brain (his collection of short stories) at no inconsiderable immediate
cost... and found myself faced with a whole new problem: which one should I
read next? I knew next-to-nothing about Aira's work, having not even read the
back covers of most of these books, and so I was going in blind. After reading
the first page of several, I opted for The
Seamstress and the Wind.
I
cannot speak to the larger sense of Aira's oeuvre, but I immediately began to
believe that ...Landscape Painter
might well be an outlier. This novel was immediately so much stranger and more
loosey-goosey, opening with some direct address from the author himself -
almost diaristic, in fact. Aira tells the reader that he's had a title -
"The Seamstress and the Wind" - in mind for a while but hasn't
figured out the story to go with it beyond those two characters. He tells
himself to be open and to go with whatever comes to mind - and so he starts
recounting stories of being a young child, of a moment when he disappeared
briefly (and perhaps magically) for a few hours. That moment of childish
confusion, believing that it was his friend who disappeared, is what incites
the novel's "plot", if we want to call it that.
The
thing is, the friend definitely didn't disappear - and so there is a level
of what I think I have to call absurdity to the proceedings from very early on.
Or perhaps not absurdity but fantasticality in the most basic of ways: we never
know what will happen next, except that it will be unconstrained by any bounds
of reality. Even late in the novel, Aira occasionally drops a comment about how
the whole adventure was silly because the boy hadn't really disappeared and, before
long, everyone in the book sort of forgets that that's why they were tearing
off across the pampas anyway. And meanwhile, Aira is interrupting the narrative
with more of these diaristic interjections: he's writing in a café in Paris and
he's struggling to focus (and later, in a scene that felt Ionescoian, to leave
the café).
All
of this unabashed and unconstrained frivolity should've been infuriating. I
could see how this book, taken at the wrong moment or even given to the wrong
reader, could leave a bad taste in the mouth. But this "flight
forward" style of Aira's, this sense of just continuing to invent even if
it flies in the face of everything that came before or even if a plot is left
totally unresolved - it's actually rather joyous. For writers, there is a
lesson to be taken here: allow yourself to just invent without constraints. Let
the story develop however it will and see what happens from there. Aira is
doing that, drawing the reader's attention to it quite deliberately, and it is
through the strength of his imagination that it makes for oddly compelling
reading.
There
are also surprisingly deep thoughts to be found it what might, at first, seem
like nothing more than a yarn spun on a whim. For one thing, Aira's narrative
interjections - that begin to recede slowly but surely before slamming back
onto the page - mirror the process of writing and of our distracted attention
spans as both creators and consumers: we're in it, in it, in it, and then
WHAM-O, something breaks our attention. But even little exchanges like this one
have a marvelous potency:
"Things
happen, Delia."
"But
they've never happened to me before."
"That's true."
On
the one hand, it is the classic adventure story line of having a boring,
uneventful life until adventure strikes. But on the other hand, perhaps because
it comes late in the novel and perhaps because it is a conversation between the
two characters of the title, there is something grand about this sentiment.
Even if the reader has heard it before, it lands quite effectively here -
especially because so much has happened. A car accident, a strange road
chase, a poker game and a hotel and a birth out of David Lynch's nightmares...
so much has happened and so much will continue to happen, things that seem so
beyond comparison precisely because the novel starts with such unassuming
awkward mundanity: an author, struggling to come up with a reason for the story
he has set out to write. It shouldn't work, but it does - and it does so well.
Rating:
4 out of 5. The circuitous opening, a little repetitive and meandering as Aira
tries to land on the story he wants to give to this title he's come up with,
can be a touch frustrating - but once the journey is underway and the reader
has sussed out exactly what the author is up to, it latches on with a
delightful trill of energy. I laughed out loud, both at humor and absurdity,
and I was impressed by the way that Aira writes only to his own satisfaction as
the end draws near. Even though the novella felt slight throughout, it still
was a joy and a delight. Now to go pick the next one...
Drew Broussard reads, a lot. When not doing that, he's writing stories or playing music or acting or producing or coming up with other ways to make trouble. He also has a day job at The Public Theater in New York City.
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