Andrew Blackman

All is well, despite the silence. I’ve been putting all my energy into winning a short story contest. With a £25,000 prize and a star-studded judging panel, I’m expecting the competition to be fierce. To win, I think I’ll have to write something better than anything I’ve written before.

The deadline is next Monday at 5pm, and at this rate I’ll be taking a taxi across London and hand-delivering it at 4:59. But I will finish, and I will enter the contest. Winning or not winning is out of my hands, of course, but I have promised myself that I will at least enter, and I will take the time to produce a story I am truly proud of.

I’ve also been trying to make a lot of progress on my next novel before taking a long Christmas break. So in other words, I am in a ‘manic phase’. Blog posts (and also email, for those of you who’ve emailed me) have had to be sacrificed for now, along with many other things. It’s not a very sensible way to live, but it’s only for a while. I’ll write more when I next come up for air.

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There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

- Maya Angelou

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Illustration of Lazarus Morell by the very talented Mora at http://artemora.blogspot.com

So I had this great idea to write a separate review for every short story every written by the master of short stories (or short fictions as they’re often called, for reasons that will become apparent), Jorge Luis Borges. I’m not sure how great this great idea is, but I’ll get started anyway.

I’m going to move chronologically, using the order in the Collected Fictions, from the first book ‘A Universal History of Iniquity’ (1935) right through to ‘Shakespeare’s Memory (1983). That means that the first story to review is The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morell. It’s not my favourite story by any means, but it does introduce quite a few typical Borges elements, so perhaps it’s not a bad place to start.

A quick note of warning: in reviewing these stories, I’m going to talk about the endings. It’s pretty much unavoidable with a short story, especially as some of Borges’s fictions are only a few pages long. I hope that people will be more forgiving of having the ending of such short pieces spoilt than they would be if I gave away the ending of a 500-page novel. That said, if you’re desperate not to know the ending, look away now. So here we go.

What struck me when I first read The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morell is something that I soon realised is common in Borges. He uses non-fictional techniques to tell a fictional story, making it seem much more credible and serious than it would otherwise. So he refers to sources (sometimes made-up, sometimes real but grossly distorted), and writes in a historical, almost scholarly way. Even though it’s almost impossible to tell what’s real and what isn’t, the assured scholarly tone does make you believe every word. He’s not trying to convince you of anything – he’s just writing dispassionately about events, as historians do when they know they’re dealing with real events. Fiction writers often try too hard to convince their readers that their world is real, and so make it sound more false.

This first story is about a man, Lazarus Morell, who lives in the deep South of the United States during slavery, making money by tricking slaves into thinking he’s helping them escape, only to keep reselling them to new plantations. In typical historical/scholarly/deliberately obtuse fashion, Borges does not begin with a dramatic episode in Morell’s life – he doesn’t even begin with Morell’s life at all. He starts with what he calls the “Remote Cause”:

In 1517, Fray Bartolome de las Casas, feeling great pity for the Indians who grew worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines, proposed to Emperor Charles V that Negroes be brought to the isles of the Caribbean, so that they might grow worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines.

He then draws up a long list of effects of the African presence in the Americas, one of which is the existence of the cruel redeemer Lazarus Morell. After the “Remote Cause”, he proceeds through more subtitles to discuss “The Place”, “The Men”, then “The Man” himself, then “The Method”, “The Final Freedom”, “The Catastrophe” and “The Interruption”. These subtitles, combined with references to other sources and language like “It is probably safe to assume that…”, give a feeling of an academic text, heightened by the “Index of Sources” given at the end of the collection, in which we are told that this story is based on a book by Mark Twain and another by Bernard de Voto. Yet there are changes and distortions – the real historical figure was John Murrell, for example, but Borges invents the name Lazarus, perhaps referring to the Biblical character who rose from the dead – Morell does give the slaves he frees a new life, even if he then takes it away almost immediately by selling them back into slavery (or, if they show signs of talking too much, by killing them).

“The Catastrophe” is Morell’s betrayal at the hands of one of his men, which leads him to desperate measures – since he is now a wanted man and an outlaw, he decides to start a slave rebellion to overthrow the authorities who are trying to imprison him (the slaves still support him – having seen their friends escaping and not being brought back, they assumed they’d found freedom. Borges sets up the resolution, with Morell killing a man and stealing his horse and riding around the plantations to whip up rebellion.

Then there’s the final passage, “The Interruption”, in which Borges not only frustrates our expectations but even lays out all the better endings there could have been, before giving us a massive anticlimax:

Morell leading uprisings of Negroes that dreamed of hanging him … Morell hanged by armies of Negroes that he had dreamed of leading … it pains me to admit that the history of the Mississippi did not seize upon those rich opportunities. Nor, contrary to all poetic justice (and poetic symmetry), did the river of his crimes become his tomb. On the 2nd of January, 1835, Lazarus Morell died of pulmonary congestion in the hospital at Natchez, where he’d been admitted under the name Silas Buckley. Another man in the ward recognized him. On that day, and on the 4th of January, slaves on scattered plantations attempted to revolt, but they were put down with no greet loss of blood.

An infuriating ending, yes, but for me it’s one that says something about the futility and unpredictability of life, the frailty of human plans, the way in which successful and powerful people can very suddenly fall from power and even die – this happens often in other Borges stories, and often in the same way, with the narrative reflecting the events and the life ended in a sentence or two. I think it also says something about the time and place of the story, a time and place in which heroes were rare, in which victories and happy endings were almost impossible, in which lives just fizzled out while the monstrous system went on and on. Most of all the ending feels true, more true (if less poetic) than the other possibilities, and for some reason that’s what we want from fiction – even though we know it’s made up, we want it to feel absolutely true.

Collected Fictions By Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Andrew Hurley Viking. 565 pp. $40

Chapter One

The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morell

The Remote Cause

In 1517, Fray Bartolome de las Casas, feeling great pity for the Indians who grew worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines, proposed to Emperor Charles V that Negroes be brought to the isles of the Caribbean, so that they might grow worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines.

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With this book, I have to admit defeat, or at least a change of plan. I wanted to review every book I read on this site, but I can’t review this. How to reduce the life work of one of the most brilliant writers of the 20th century to a single blog post? It can’t be done.

If I had skimmed the book or felt more neutral about it, it might be possible. But I loved this book. I read it first when I got a copy from the library a few years ago, and now I own it and re-read it on a regular basis. The stories are mostly very short, too, so there are dozens of them. I just have so much to say about all of them that a blog post just won’t do it.

So my plan is to review each story separately. This is a slightly crazy plan – if I actually do it, it will take months to complete, and my readers will probably be thoroughly sick of Borges. But it’s something I’d like to do. And don’t worry, I’ll be reading and reviewing other stuff as well!

If I have to summarise very briefly what I love about this book, it’s that it completely redefines what short stories can be. Many of them are not stories – they take non-fiction forms, or deliberately misquote from other books. He plays with form and narrative structure, writes mysteries and detective stories as high literature, and has stories with no real plot at all, just ideas played with at length. And throughout, the voice is compelling and assured, so that you stick with him through all the experiments and deceits and frustrations, just because you want to hear what he has to say next.

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These are three essays on the notion of migration for the writer, mostly explained through other writers such as Nabokov, Conrad, Kundera and Naipaul.

In the first essay, The Spokesman & the Tribe, Jin explores the balance between the individual and the collective, and asks to what extent a writer can ’speak for’ his nation or people, especially if he has abandoned them to live in a new country. I was interested in his initial desire as a young writer to write “on behalf of the downtrodden Chinese”. He makes it clear that he later abandoned this position, but I would have liked to know more about how and why.

In fact, throughout the whole book I would have liked to know more about Ha Jin’s thoughts on migration. His journey, after all, was an interesting one – from an uneducated teenage soldier in the Chinese army during the Cultural Revolution to a professor at Boston University and author of five novels, a couple of which I’ve read and greatly enjoyed. I would have liked him to draw on his own experience of migration, but he does so only rarely, in small glimpses like the one mentioned above. Mostly what we have is a survey of other writers and their thoughts on migration – quite interesting, but for me ultimately unsatisfying because there was no clear overall argument or point of view to draw the whole thing together.

In any case, it was interesting to learn about Solzhenitsyn’s life in America, how he lived in rural Vermont but never really settled, never took citizenship, was always waiting to go back to Russia. After the fall of the Soviet Union he got his chance, but the interesting thing was that after moving back home, he struggled to speak effectively on behalf of the new Russia, as he had spoken on behalf of the old while in exile. His later books Russia in Collapse (1998) and Two Hundred Years Together (2001) were coldly received, and he was seen as out of touch. Even his radio show was cancelled due to low ratings. Ha Jin’s point is that he was loved for his earlier masterpieces, but even that did not give him the right to speak on behalf of the people – when his views no longer matched theirs, they rejected him.

The second essay, The Language of Betrayal, deals with the decision to write in another language. Again, Jin does not speak of his own decision to write in English and whether he feels this is a betrayal — instead we hear about Joseph Conrad being criticised for abandoning the Polish language, and Nabokov’s difficulty writing poetry in English even though he was a master of prose.

An Individual’s Homeland explores the difficulty of returning home — the way that Odysseus initially didn’t recognise Ithaka when he returned after his twenty years of exile, because both he and the land itself had changed. As Jin says, “One cannot return to the same land as the same person.” He talks of using art to survive, as the character Max Ferber does in W.G. Sebald’s book The Emigrants. He ends by referring to the Greek poet CP Cavafy, who positions ‘Ithaka’ as a destination for life’s journey, but not necessarily a return to the homeland. The homeland becomes a part of the past that can be used “to facilitate our journeys”.

As you’d expect from an English professor, the analysis of writers and books here is astute and interesting. I just got the feeling sometimes that he was talking about other writers to avoid talking about himself. Using literary examples is a good idea, but I’d have preferred them to be used to support a clearer argument from Ha Jin himself, drawing on his own experiences to give us his unique, original perspective instead of a summary of other people’s.

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If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are honest, people may cheat you. Be honest anyway.

If you find happiness, people may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway.

For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.

- Mother Teresa

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