Voice of the Wood
SO YOU’VE REALLY GONE AND DONE IT THIS TIME you are lost in the wood how did that happen? The crazed Scots pines camped all around and blaeberries beneath and bracken shrivelled because it’s October and you stand hearing nothing, the non-sound of one leaf dropping to join its siblings on the ground…
“There is an immediacy and a presence in many of the letters that is hard for any biography to capture. The reader is drawn into a here and now which become both alive and concrete. Sometimes it’s like a diary, intimate and close to the heart, and sometimes it’s narrated like a novel, you just want to read more.”
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“It’s seven years since Sightlines, and seven years more since Findings, the collection which heralded a renaissance in landscape writing. Then, musing on Findings’ gestation, she said, “the draw for me is the sense of time, of the long past still being with us”. The public loved her simplicity, the mix of the domestic with the natural world. The collection defied classification: “We had a horror … of it turning up in the body, mind and spirit section”. Its runaway popularity, she thought, was because “it’s land and landscape described by an indigene. Not someone arriving as a tourist.”
Time moves on. Surfacing (oddly, the name of a rather good Margaret Atwood novel – I wonder if anyone noticed, because the themes are similar) – is about retrenching, ageing, surviving, rethinking things.
We meet the Yup’ik, from Quinhagak. They’re soft-spoken and shy – as are rather a lot of the folk Jamie meets. The permafrost is melting, yielding up ancient artefacts; enter the archaeologists. “For generations the frozen earth had held these objects fast, like charms in a Christmas cake.” That’s quintessential Jamie – using the known to explain the ancient. Also quintessential, the dry awareness that, as an essayist, an interloper, she’s an outsider.
“I said I was a writer … but it sounded lame … they’d had long long years of Europeans colonising and disparaging … then suddenly we were here supplicating, marvelling at their relationship with nature.”
“Just tell ’em we don’t live in igloos.”
So she tells us how they do live – they have a general store, they interrupt a tale about hairy Arctic monsters to answer their mobile phones, they take shop cake on fishing trips.
We meet folk in Orkney trying to document an eroding Neolithic site. “Everything that was chucked away at Skara Brae, or not recognised, we have here.” But the funding is imperilled. What to do? Make it a public, commercial site like the Ness of Brodgar? No, say the diggers ...
“We can’t look to the EU any more … if we were to raise money by opening the site … we’d need toilets … cruise ships.”
There are boxes and boxes of things which have surfaced, heading to Aberdeen. It’s the biggest Neolithic assemblage in the UK. Jamie holds mace heads, beads, pins, scrapers.
“Does this matter?” she asks. “Do we want to know where we’re coming from as we cruise into the future?”
This, it turns out, is the crucial question which makes Surfacing an unsettling read. She gets ill. Her marriage erodes. Her father dies. She searches for memories of her granny, she watches her children leave, she collects china fragments – “dropped by accident, thrown in a temper ... they fill your hands, these fragments … you cast them back”.
What remains, what surfaces, is what preoccupies us as we, and the world, sense loss – of glaciers, habitations, ancient knowledge – and powerlessness. That’s what makes Surfacing a new departure; it feels like Jamie is talking about endings.”
By acclaimed Finnish director Zaida Bergroth Tove is the story of Tove Jansson – artist, lover, author, icon.
The film focuses on her formative years in post-war Helsinki, her fight for recognition for her art and the passionate bisexual love affair that was mirrored in the internationally beloved Moomin books. This is the period covered by the inspiring and revelatory Letters from Tove (which Sort of Books are publishing in Oct) edited by Boel Westin and Helen Svensson and translated by Sarah Death. Casting is in process. Watch here for news.
The upcoming feature-length drama film Tove will be shot in Tove’s native language Swedish and filmed on location in her hometown Helsinki and other places that were central to her life and art.
“We started to crack the code of what we should be doing when we thought it should be a seasonal show.“
The perfect place to discuss the work of leading anti-fascist campaigner and one of the great novelists of World War 2. Look out for the Alexander Baron event at the Stoke Newington Literary Festival.
The Guardian have just broadcast a special reading by Bill Nighy of our Moomin title for Oxfam, The Invisible Child, a book that has changed lives. It’s a very rare treat. See Moomin and Oxfam’s reports on the amazing projects funded by the proceeds of this bestselling gem of a book.
Sophia Jansson: “Standing up for what you believe in is central to the Moomin way of life”
We’re so proud to be continuing this association with Oxfam/Moomin/Waterstones.
“This beautiful new edition puts Jansson’s Comedy of Errors where it belongs: centre stage”
Actor/Director Samuel West on the theatrical imagination behind Tove Jansson’s glorious midsummer title
It’s the World Cup. As I write, on Midsummer Night, Sweden are 1-0 up against the champions Germany. A time of heady excitement if you’re Scandinavian, although underneath lies the fear of last-minute disappointment. This is why we trust Tove Jansson; she shows us joy, tinged always with possible sadness.
Jansson was a lover of the theatre (and the lover of a theatre director, Vivica Bandler, to whom Moominsummer Madness is dedicated). She knew her theatrical onions: I learned the superstition about not whistling on stage from Emma the Stage Manager Rat long before I learned it from following my parents around the theatres of Europe.
Inspired by the magical traditions of Scandinavian midsummer, this has always seemed to me the strangest of the Moomin books, a true midsummer night’s dream. Published the same year as the Moomin comic strips began and sharing their episodic oddness, there’s a decidedly trippy vibe about proceedings. The Moomin family take refuge from a great flood in a floating theatre, and are changed and inspired by their surroundings – at first disappointed that nothing is real, but later realising the freedom this gives them to be heroic and silly and different. When the floating theatre runs aground, Jansson breaks the fourth wall and releases her theatrical imagination out into the world: Snufkin’s showdown with the Park Keeper, in which he sows Hattifattener seed and harvests them like mushrooms, is a brilliantly designed set piece. (This is the book in which Jansson lets her anarchy rip; the bonfire of signs forbidding things still inspires me, and has led to rows with my partner. When I see a notice saying I can’t do something, I get very Team Snufkin).
Like a world-in-negative Moominland Midwinter, with its frozen ground and hard emotion, here all is soft and wet and free. The Swedish title is Farlig Midsommar, “Dangerous Midsummer”, but in fact the disasters (an earthquake, a great flood, being lost and separated) are just opportunities to grow and be brave. The real danger here is emotional: the young cast dare each other to stay up all night and be changed, like Bergman’s Smiles of a Summer Night of the following year.
“All ends happily of course”, Tove wrote to a friend. We meet the shadows and illusions and they become our friends. The theatre is a place to dream in public; at the heart of this book lies its transformative power to welcome and heal, to thrill and transform.
Moominsummer Madness sits happily in the middle of the Moomin canon. A book for everyone and their parents, this beautiful new edition puts Jansson’s comedy of errors where it belongs: centre stage.
What better way to celebrate that with this stunning Special Collector’s Edition of Moominsummer Madness – a summer adventure full of madness, mayhem and floating teacups. Row up! Row up! to all good bookshops and get yourself a copy. Buy at discount here
Oliver Bullough in The Observer praises Other People’s Houses, a book written 54 years ago, for its urgent relevance. Lore Segal arrived in Britain at age 10yrs on the first of the Kindertransports, relief trains that were sent to rescue Jewish children from the Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia.
“Because her tale is stripped of the hysteria that surrounds her counterparts in the Calais refugee camp or at the Mexican border, we can see it as the wonder that it is. Our country did the right thing by this traumatised and lonely little girl; it protected her until the world was safe for children once more. And, at first, that makes the book feel comforting, and uplifting: something to be filed alongside romanticised accounts of evacuees and the blitz spirit.
But if you translate her beautiful, elliptical prose into today’s terms, her story becomes both radical and unsettling. On their arrival by boat from the Netherlands, she and her fellows were “unaccompanied minors”, the kind of refugees that the Daily Mail would want to undergo dental checks; her heroic achievement in securing visas for her parents is an example of the “chain migration”, so hated by Donald Trump. They didn’t speak English, so how – as the White House chief of staff asked recently – could they integrate?
Of course, her story is untypical. This new edition of Other People’s Houses is timed for the 80th anniversary of the Kindertransports, but those relief trains only rescued 10,000 Jewish children, and only a thousand of those survivors ever saw their parents again. However, the fact Segal survived in Britain, then flourished in the US, is an example of how things could be in a more generous world, an antidote to 2018.”
‘I’m not surprised by anti-Semitism when it rises again’ The acclaimed novelist Lore Segal on being a Kindertransport survivor, saving her parents and getting old Neil Munshi FT.Com/Magazine 16/17 June 2018
Lore Segal is very good at being old. She’s funny. She’s sharp. She’s introspective and discursive and a little salty. And, at the age of 90, she’s still working. “I’m writing a piece now about the suspicion that the reason I’m so good at being old is because I was so bad at being young,” she says, in the living room of the Manhattan apartment she moved into on the day of John F Kennedy’s funeral.
“I was really a flop at the beginning,” she says. Her voice is reedy — glottal Viennese that’s melted into old ethnic New York. We are meeting 80 years after a 10-year-old Segal stepped off a boat in England in the first wave of the Kindertransport, which saw a total of 10,000 Jewish children from Austria, Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia welcomed to the UK as they fled the Nazis. In December 1938, Segal’s father had taken her to a burnt-out synagogue in Vienna, where families had been told to gather for selection for the trip to England. “My name was called because my mother’s cousin, Otto, had a girlfriend who worked for the Jewish committee that had made this arrangement with the . . . foreign office,” she says. “I realised that I was being given some preference. Now, I have not sat around all my life grieving over this, but I think about [how that] was somebody’s place I took. What happened to that somebody I will never know. There’s no name attached, but it’s an interesting thing to think about.”
In 1964, she published Other People’s Houses, an autobiographical novel about a young girl named Lore who spends seven years in foster care with families along the entire spectrum of the English class system. It is the story of refugees, newly relevant as a tide of anti-migrant sentiment and anti-Semitism surges in the west.
“I’m not surprised by anti-Semitism when it rises again,” she says. “This [has been] an interim. A fortunate interim, in my head. I’m especially appalled to think about the unaccompanied children who are travelling through the world right now.”
Her story is different from those of the children being separated from their families by American authorities at the US-Mexico border or crossing the Mediterranean or Sahara. But she understands the mindset. “I think refugees are never mentally entirely safe . . . This is hardly my own thing. Many people go through many experiences, and there’s some of us who know that when the gun points at you, it goes off.”
In the book, Segal writes about the first Nazi regiment arriving in Vienna. The family’s yard had been requisitioned as the paymaster’s headquarters. Her parents told her to stay out of the way, but she was a child — she wanted to be seen by these grey-green-suited strangers. So she mildly tormented her cat until it yowled and the paymaster finally took notice. “He asked me if I knew how to skip rope, and I said yes. He ordered one of the helmeted guards to hold the other end of the rope. The line of soldiers stood at ease against the vine-covered walls. I skipped and recited, ‘Auf der blauen Donau/Schwimmt ein Krokodil (On the blue Danube/swims a crocodile) . . . ’
The paragraph breaks. “This was about the time that Neville Chamberlain paid his visit to Hitler in Munich.” Segal is a master at this, leading the reader one way and coming back around with a right cross. Other People’s Houses, first serialised in The New Yorker, bears an unintentional example of something Segal has spent much of her life since then mulling: the mutability of memory. She writes about arriving in England. “What I wrote,” she tells me, “is that I found myself alone on the top deck of the boat and I walked down the gangplank to a perfectly empty area and sat down and cried.” This was her memory. But the makers of Into the Arms of Strangers, an Oscar-winning documentary about the Kindertransport made in 2000 — in which Segal and her family appear — discovered a photograph of that moment: it shows a gangplank full of children. “And there I am, with this little thing identifying me . . . this little cardboard square on a shoestring around the neck,” she recalls. “So what happened? My memory is that I was totally alone, without my mommy or any grown-up . . .[but] the fact is I was surrounded [by other children]. So, when you ask me what happened, it’s such a complicated question. I can give you so many different answers. I can give you the real answer or I can give you the answer that was real to me.”
Segal’s work — five novels in 50 years, eight children’s books, a number of short stories and translations — all deal, in one way or another, with displacement. All are glosses on versions of Lore Segal: refugee, writer, thinker, human.
Before leaving Vienna, she recalls her father saying: “‘When you get to England, you have to ask the English people and get Mommy and me out and your grandparents and Aunt Whatshername and the twins, and you’ve got to talk to all the English people.’ From then on, I had it in my head that it was my job to get all these people out.”
And so she did. She saved her parents through writing: first a letter, composed at a processing camp on England’s eastern shore, that made its way to the UK Refugee Committee, which eventually found her parents domestic service visas — “proving that bad literature makes things happen”, as she writes in the preface to the re-released novel. Her second piece of writing was for her English foster parents, called “the Levines” in the book, who did not seem to understand the horrors of Hitler’s Europe. So she sketched it out in prose, in a notebook “with a white label with a red ring around it and filled the 36 pages, in German, with what had happened . . . Ruth, the youngest of the Levine daughters and my particular friend, got someone to translate it into English. It made Mrs Levine cry.”
Her parents arrived the next year. They ended up working as a cook-and-butler duo. But then her father was interned on the Isle of Man, along with other male “German-speaking aliens”. He suffered a series of strokes and died shortly before the war ended. Soon, her mother, grandmother and beloved Uncle Paul signed up for the visa quota to America, where opportunity awaited. In 1951, after three years in the Dominican Republic, they moved to New York.
Segal says her third novel, Her First American (1985), which took 18 years to write, is her best. “It has the best writing.” It is also deeply complex, honest and funny. It’s a sort of Bildungsroman about Segal’s American awakening via a love affair with a middle-aged, alcoholic, black intellectual named Carter Bayoux — based on the writer Horace R Cayton Jr — and her first glimpse of the reality of American racism. The real Segal arrived in New York on May 1 1951 and took up with Cayton not too long after (10 years later, she married David Segal, a literary editor with whom she had two children, Beatrice and Jacob.)
“It is autobiographical with all the liberty one gives oneself when one’s writing a novel: some things happened, some of them didn’t, but essentially it is that,” she says. “I think of it as myself learning to be an American through the lessons given me by an intellectual black man . . . How much better can you do than have that experience? Not only that, but he was enraged, he was damaged, and he was ironic. When you put that together, you really got in. I don’t know anybody who had the good luck to fall into that, to have that experience.”
In the middle of writing the novel, Segal took a three-year break to write Lucinella, a sort of magical-realist romp about a young writer’s life among New York’s literati. “It was a lark . . . I had a good time — anything goes,” she says. “I re-read it the other day for the first time in 40 years, and I thought, ‘My goodness, I had a lot of ideas.’”
Putting them down on paper has never been a problem for Segal. “I am a good writer. There’s always the grief that one isn’t Shakespeare, and it’s a real grief. If I’m not Shakespeare, the hell with it,” she says. “The reason we do what we do is because we know how to do it. We’ve learnt how to be good at it, whether it’s a sport or an art, or being a marvellous cook, or being a marvellous mommy or whatever it is that we are good at. It’s what we enjoy, I think. There’s a pleasure in getting a sentence right, and it may take a week or so, or a month or a year or so.”
She still follows the same writing routine that Cayton helped her develop decades ago. Up at about 6am, eat breakfast and then start writing at about 7am or 8am. “And then I sit there, till one o’clock, whether anything comes of it or not, seven days a week,” she says. “And I keep wondering, what do people do who don’t write from eight o’clock until one o’clock? What do they do with their hands? I would find it really hard to not do that, to stop right now. And it has been a blessing. I even asked my children, ‘Please, if you’re going to break your leg, do it in the afternoon because in the morning is when I write.’”
She used to write downstairs, in the ground floor apartment of her mother, whom she loved dearly. Franzi Groszmann died in 2005 at the age of 100. “I had the best mother in the world,” Segal says. She has written about her mother getting old, living in a nursing home. I wonder what she learnt while watching her mother age. “That it’s a bad idea. I learnt to know what a nursing home is like and that I didn’t ever want to be in one,” she says. But her mother was quite nice about the whole affair. “My mother said, ‘It’s very nice here. They’re very good to me here.’ I thought I had been a bad daughter because, of course, I could have [tried to care for her at home]. People manage. I did not think I could manage. And my mother said, ‘No, put me here.’ And then I visited her . . . almost every other day. And she told me I was a good daughter, which is gracious, certainly.”
Will she be gracious if her kids decide to put her in a home? “Never, never, never.” But her eyes twinkle. She knows her kids have a “loophole” — “they will know that you put your mother in a nursing home, so that if it happens, actually, they will not feel too bad.”
For obvious reasons, Segal’s recent work has been principally occupied with ageing. But she also thinks a lot about her own youth. “I say to young people, ‘Did you have a good childhood? Did you have a good [adolescence]?’ No! Because you don’t know how things work, you don’t know how to do things . . . In those days, we were keeping ourselves virginal. It was a bad idea. It was a bad deal,” she says. “We were all of us late bloomers because we didn’t know how, and the guys didn’t know how. And there weren’t any guys. What guys were there at the end of the war? I was living with two elderly old maids. I went to an all-girl school. I went to an all-girl college. And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.”
A thought occurs. “I want to show you what I looked like at 19, OK?” She asks the photographer to fetch a picture of her and a friend from her study. “The two of us in the garb of postwar England. Miserable-looking.”
There’s Segal. Frizzy hair, high forehead, glasses, a square skirt and a blouse with wide, flouncy lapels. Beaming and blurry in black and white. She makes the photographer swear not to use it. “You guys look so happy,” I say. “Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s the saddest looking thing,” she says. “To go through the world looking like that at 19?”
“You guys look beautiful!” I protest. She scoffs. It was that girl, a few years later in New York, who thought — against all the available evidence — that she had nothing to write about. Until one night at a party when someone asked her how she’d ended up in America. She began to tell her story, and pretty soon the entire room was rapt. “That was the moment when I realised I had stories to tell.”
I wonder what she’s learnt as she’s got older. “I don’t know. Do I know something I didn’t know before? I haven’t noticed.” The question makes her think of the day she left her parents in Vienna. “The other kids were howling and crying,” she says. But not Segal. “When you do that, you do disconnect from a depth of feeling that you can’t bear, and that becomes a way to manage it. I feel as if I’m a cheerful old person, but it’s perfectly possible that I’m playing that same game. Maybe I’m saying, ‘Oh, isn’t this interesting?’ Because I don’t want to know that I’m 90 and will be dead sooner or later. I don’t feel as if this is a big deal, but I’m not sure. I’m not sure that I’m [not] doing this number on myself at 90 that I did at 10, [thinking], ‘Isn’t this interesting?’, which is much easier to think about than ‘Isn’t this the abyss?’”
Besides a stint in Chicago, Segal has never lived more than a block from Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side since moving to the US. “That’s my America now, you see? In Riverside Drive, I’m at home. I understand this. I know where the lights turn on and where they keep the spoons and I know New York. I know how to talk in New York. I know where to go in New York.
“That’s where my roots went down. You know that wonderful word — I’ve been ‘naturalised’. I used to think, ‘Wait a moment, you mean before I came to America I wasn’t natural?’ It means to be made as if you had grown up there, and I feel very much like that about Riverside Drive. To have grown up somewhere, you begin with roots, right? Well, if you are naturalised, you have to make roots or roots are made for you . . . and I feel very much like that. I am totally comfortable in a very small part of the world, and it’s up and down Riverside Drive.”
Neil Munshi is an FT reporter in New York. Lore Segal’s “Other People’s Houses” is republished this month by Sort of Books Follow @FTMag on Twitter to find out about our latest stories first. Subscribe to FT Life on YouTube for the latest FT Weekend videos
The perfect Father’s Day gift. Tove dedicated her penultimate Moomin novel, Moominpappa at Sea, ‘to some father’. And it’s a book suffused with sympathy for complex, restless and creative fathers, such as her own father, the sculptor and war veteran, Victor Jansson.
Moominpappa attempts to cure his despondency and restlessness by taking his family off to a rocky island with a deserted lighthouse. It’s a test even for the gently empathic and resourceful Moominmama and their adventure loving son, Moomintroll. But it’s a test they pass with lights beaming.
A smart, witty novel embraces love, loss and a man’s obsession with his dead lover
Review by Peter Kemp
Jonathan Buckley is a novelist of unusual excellence, unusual not only because of his exceptional literary skills but in his preference for uncommon subjects and uncommon ways of approaching them. Nostalgia, his 2013 novel about a small Tuscan town, viewed it from a multitude of angles: history, geography, changing residents, flora, fauna, festivals. The River Is the River (2015) called the nature and techniques of storytelling into question. Telescope (2011), a tour de force of imaginative vitality and buoyant wit, gradually revealed its narrator to be prematurely dying of a cruelly disfiguring disease.
The Great Concert of the Night seems a counterpart to that book. Where Telescope focused on a dying narrator, this novel, an equally scintillating display of literary flair, is narrated by a man whose lover, Imogen, has died. Beginning on New Year’s Day, he pens a daily entry throughout the ensuing year in a journal that commemorates her.
Linear narrative is rejected as inadequate. Instead the unnamed narrator, the director of a museum facing closure, opts for accumulating a miscellany of memories interspersed with accounts of his current experiences, reflections, people met and places visited. Descriptions recur of scenes from films featuring Imogen, an actress who gained notability in French art cinema. But she figures more compellingly (warm-hearted, impulsive but riskily impelled to defy taboos) in the narrator’s recollections of their time together.
Always excellent on social and family dynamics, Buckley surrounds Imogen and his narrator with keenly observed characters. Her part-French mother exemplifies a quality that fascinates him: elegant stoicism. At the opposite extreme to her mannerly self-containment is Val, a woman the narrator’s wife left him for years earlier. A voluble “life-coach” (“My promise: to be wholly present to the person I’m working with”) forever spouting modish verbiage and motivational banalities, she is such a relishable comic creation that you grin in anticipation when a journal entry announces, “A new message on Val’s homepage” or “Val’s thought for the month”.
Buckley’s virtuoso irony isn’t only directed at Val. A Gallic film director, whose pseudo-theories about the need for sexual “transgression” Imogen has naively absorbed, also comes under sardonic fire. Witty perfections of phrasing abound. A tête-à-tête with a compulsive talker “wasn’t so much a conversation as an attended monologue”. When the narrator politely declines the advances of a large, nude, genitally bejewelled Frenchwoman at a high-class orgy outside Paris, “ ‘Ah, English,’ she commiserated.”
Museums, the narrator says, offer “constellations of images”. So does this book. As previous novels have shown, Buckley has a mind like a cabinet of curiosities crammed with weird and wonderful stuff. Combining images of Imogen with choice specimens from it, he pieces together what you gradually recognise as a meaningful mosaic. Matching the book’s central subject, post-mortem motifs predominate: descriptions of Roman tombstones, decorated skeletons in German churches, mummified figures in Palermo’s catacombs. There’s engaging information about relics: how fragments of St Stephen are venerated in 300 different places; or, if the remnants of Mary Magdalene were reassembled she would have two heads and eight arms (one of which St Hugh of Lincoln is reported to have reverently nibbled). Among the book’s ravishingly visualised scenes of natural beauty, sunsets noticeably stand out. Transience and mortality suffuse Buckley’s novel but, in elating counterpoint, it sparkles with intelligence and zest for life’s pleasures.
SUNDAY TIMES CULTURE 6th May 2018
...See also the verdict of Neil Griffiths, founder of the Republic of Consciousness Prize for “brave, bold and brilliant” literature:
"This is a subtle, erudite novel - a novel as French cinema, both in form and content. At times it reminded me of James Salter, and yet at the same time it is very British indeed. Jonathan Buckley is one of the UK’s most cultured and original novelists writing today.”
Identity as Irreconcilable Collage in Carl Frode Tiller’s Epic “Encircling” Trilogy
“when I read Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan tetralogy, it was an easy, natural inhaling. I breathed those books as if I had been in a polluted street and was ascending a staircase to clearer air. It wasn’t just the literary quality of the books that drew me in. It was the length and scope of them, the sense of a life lived across more than a thousand pages. When I read Proust, I breathed deep — long, meditative inhales — then returned for half-breaths to be sure the scent of hawthorn had truly penetrated my senses. The two writers’ projects are distinct: Proust meanders through Paris, flâneur-like, while Ferrante arrows across Naples with purpose. Her sense of momentum never lets up, but Proust never has much momentum in the first place. By contrast, when I read Karl Ove Knausgaard, I breathed without much attention. The intensity of his self-study leaves little oxygen for me.
And then there’s Norwegian author Carl Frode Tiller. When I read his Encircling novels, my breath kept halting and restarting as if I were being chased. Or was the one doing the chasing. Because the Encircling trilogy — only the first two books have been published in English — is a kind of chase. It pelts across the landscape of memory, around obstacles of lies, secrets, and vanity. Encircling’s meticulous construction and exhaustive psychological exegesis make it unfit to be called a proper mystery (although that is the section in which I found it in a Scottish bookstore), but it is, nonetheless, an incomparable intellectual escapade.