Nothing ruins a book like a bad ending

I am very particular about the way a book ends. It has nothing to do with whether the ending is happy or sad, uplifting or cynical, but whether it is natural to the story, whether it is believable in the context of the world created by the author, and whether it feels complete. Melville discussed this idea of completeness in our round blog on Incarceron-- whether a book is part of a series or not, the book should feel whole. Although not ALL answers have to be answered and every mystery explained, there should be enough development for the reader to feel as if the story said something. If an author finishes the book with “the wrap-up,” I feel a little disappointed that the characters do not have an interesting life beyond this one story, which deflates the character for me--they end up a little one-dimensional (this is a fault in much young adult fiction).  There is also the abrupt ending, which feels as if the book just sort of stops, leaving the reader wondering what the point was. Then, there is the WTF ending. The story is very interesting, but then the author doesn’t really know how to end it, so he or she writes a rather absurd climax that just tumbles into a conclusion, ending the book in a rush. This brings me to Little Bee.

First off, the first 75% of Little Bee was worth reading. Chris Cleave captures the characters’ voices and details the life of a girl refugee with compassion and thoughtfulness but without sentimentalizing her experience or satisfying white guilt with a perfect conclusion. The story is told from the point of view of Little Bee, a Nigerian refugee whose village was caught in the middle of an oil war, and Sarah, a white British woman who takes Bee in. The story’s shifting narrators remind the reader that what it means to suffer depends on one’s perspective.

The story begins by addressing a white, western audience in the same vein as A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid--not so much with Kincaid’s anger, but with an underlying dejected acceptance of how globalization works to destroy for the sake of a British pound (or dollar). Little Bee calls out this white “you” throughout the book’s entirety, again not necessarily to reprimand, but in an attempt to bridge the gap of difference (maybe to reprimand a little). However, at the same time, she also seems aware that there is no such bridge--our understanding of each other is essentially limited.

What is both startling and expected is the British people’s responses to Bee and other refugees. (The only likable British person is a little boy who won’t change out of a Batman costume.) Bee exposes the horrible mistreatment of those who seek refuge in the very country that is responsible for the violence they try to escape.  The book essentially seeks to point out the ignored racism of places like London that try to claim an acceptance of diversity. Western society has a very “hear no evil, see no evil” position concerning the state of refugees, and the author does not hold back on his depiction of our apathy and resignation to an evil world. Cleave continually points to and laments this modern cynicism about racism and corruption in Africa. 

I don’t really know if it matters that the author is a white male, but it might have something to do with his WTF ending. I usually try not to read with the image of the author in mind because the book’s characters are well-developed and the story is nonetheless interesting or truthful because of his color. However, the ending fizzles in such a way that I can’t help but wonder if it has to do with his underlying awareness of his own difference from a Nigerian refugee girl. Although mostly everything about Bee’s story--up until the end--is interesting and thought-provoking and important in the sense that, as a bestseller, the book has brought a usually ignored set of people to popular culture, the book’s terrible ending shifts the focus back to fiction. In other words, because the ending is so unnatural in the context of the story and so very incomplete, one feels it is only just a story after all, which, to me, undermines the book’s otherwise powerful message and Bee’s horrifying experience. The ending image of a naked blonde boy happily playing amongst the African children seems to be an unnatural sugary coating to an otherwise honest story.  

I end with some questions that I don’t seem to have an answer to: does the author’s race or color matter even if the story is about race and color? Is it something to be acknowledged? Or, does his bad ending speak more to his (in)ability as an author?

RoundBlog Take 3 -- Melville on The Cellist of Sarajevo

The Cellist of Sarajevo was a deeply affecting novel for me.  It was not a book I wanted to read quickly -- and, as you can tell, my schedule certainly ensured that I would follow through on that wish.  It was also not a book I could reflect on immediately as I wanted to see what ideas or images would stay with me even now, almost two weeks after I finished it.  As someone with Yugoslavian relatives, I picked this novel since it was a rare opportunity to learn something beyond the minor details my grandparents mentioned or the dry facts that I've read in history books.

I think what struck me most about the plot was the focus on seeing things through a new or a different perspective.  Each of the characters, by the end of the novel, changes something in their view -- whether about themselves or Sarajevo or both.  There are also constant references to observing others as they go about their daily business of survival while being watched by the eyes of the snipers in the hills, ready to change their fates forever with a twitch of their trigger finger or the tossing of a bomb.

While these instances of "seeing" may seem small at first, they begin to hint at what I believe is the overall question and purpose of this novel:  How often do we observers "see" what happens in a war-torn nation?  How often do we pause to consider the human toll?  Have we become immune to others' suffering?

Of course, if we do learn to empathize with those who are suffering, the next question would be: How would we see or understand ourselves in this situation?  Would we lose our own humanity?

With that idea in mind, I started to realize that it is on these two levels that this novel operates -- with the characters constantly considering the outside world and the luxuries others enjoy while they remain oblivious to Sarajevo's plight.  It is made even more poignant that as these characters ponder the uncaring nature of others,  they too become almost indifferent to their "daily war routines" which involve creating elaborate routes around the blasted-out city to procure water for their family that may end up costing them their lives. 

I also found it particularly poignant that besides the Cellist's playing to memorialize the fallen he saw from his window, many of the characters are also moved by the plight of the dogs struggling to survive.  When the characters are particularly raw, Galloway brings in an animal who also seems to mimic their pain, but in an even more pitiful way.  Do they see their own crawl or ragged jogs between protective buildings similar to animals trapped in a cage?  While it is unclear how deeply this siege will ultimately affect all the characters in the long run, it is certainly clear that they have more and more trouble remembering the Sarajavo they once knew and loved.   

I was struck most by the following passage towards the end of Cellist.  (It's a bit long so bear with me...Here, Dragan, an older man who has witnessed several people wounded/killed by snipers notices one of the dead bodies is still in the street.)

[....] A dead body won't bother anyone.  It will be a curiosity, but unless some viewer knew the  hatless man it will mean nothing.  There's nothing in a dead body that suggests what it was like to be alive.  No one will know if the man had unusually large feet, which his friends used to tease him about when he was a child.  No will know about [all these things that make us ourselves ...]

[...] But these are the things that make a death something to be mourned.  It's not just a disappearance of flesh.  This, in and of itself, is easily shrugged off.  When the body of the hatless man is shown on the evening news to people all over the world, they will do exactly that.  They may remark on the horror, but they will, most likely, think nothing of it at all, like a dog with somewhere else to be. [...]

He won't allow this man's body to be filmed.  He remembers what he told [another character who was wounded earlier] about the cellist, why he thinks he plays.  To stop something from happening.  To prevent a worsening.  To do what he can.

As he looks at the cameraman, however, Dragan realizes that he's missed the point.  It doesn't matter what the world thinks of his city.  All that matters is what he thinks.  In the Sarajevo of his memory, it was completely unacceptable to have a dead man lying in the street.  In the Sarajevo of today it's normal.  He has been living in neither, has tried to live in a city that no longer exists, refusing to participate in the one that does . (208-9)

It is in these moments of clarity and new vision that Galloway sweeps me away.  When the character risks his own life in the line of sniper fire to move the body away from the newsjournalist watching across the street, he is doing it not just for himself and his re-awakening sense of humanity, but also for the Sarajevo of before, a place so beautiful in their memories that even I can see it for what it once was.

If nothing else, for me, this book was an invitation to rethink our reactions to others' suffering and to imagine our world as a better, more amiable place where these realities do not have to exist.  In the midst of this bleak novel, I also recognize a sense that if we can actually SEE and not just glaze over atrocity, we would find a way to peace, just as the Cellist sees a way to offer comfort and dignity in the hearts of great darkness. 

"You don't choose what to believe. Belief chooses you"

Wollstonecraft's take on The Cellist of Sarajevo:

I want to pick up with Shelley’s questions about how the characters maintain their sanity and how they prevent themselves from breaking down. It was this theme that intrigued me those most: the idea that almost anything can become “normal.” I do think that these characters are strong and brave, but I wonder if we think that because the world of war-torn Sarajevo is so unbelievable and removed from our own. It is important to note that these characters do not feel strong. They constantly question their own resolve, and a few do not remain in Sarajevo out of choice. Many remain in the city because they have no where to go. Others realized the reality of the war too late, and by that time, the gates to the city had been closed.

I am not by any means dismissing their strength to survive; in fact, I think that this book is about how people survive: not out of bravery or any heroic impulse other than the basic need to survive and to survive with their humanity intact. What I found fascinating was the idea that humans can survive so much pain, and we can convince ourselves of normalcy no matter how awful the reality. The ability to adapt and to change one’s perception in order to keep living is at the heart of the characters’ struggles.

This is represented by the Cellist and his desire to play despite the obvious dangers he faces by being out in the open. He wanted to create hope by convincing himself that there is humanity in his art and music that can still be touched.

I think this story is more about trying to remain “human” while at the same time deeply concerned with what that even means. Life is made up of thousands of tiny moments that don’t seem to represent anything important other than the importance we want to give it.

In Arrow, the young girl soldier, we see this the most: “This is how she now believes life happens. One small thing at a time. A series of inconsequential junctions, any or none of which can lead to salvation or disaster. There are no grand moments where a person does or does not perform the act that defines their humanity. There are only moments that appear, briefly, to be this way.”

I don’t think these characters want to be examples or heroes. They second guess their accepting attitudes. While I do think they have hope that there is a future for their city, and they are attached to the lives they used to live, they wonder why they can’t do more, or even if there is something they should be doing besides trying to survive.  And, they wonder what it means to be right or wrong, good or evil. What is happening to them seems so evil, but the people fighting in Sarajevo are just as corrupt as those attacking the city. These questions about survival and humanity transcend war because they are questions that we all struggle with, yet only become truly obvious in the worst moments. And, we are then left asking ourselves what we believe in.