Apr. 20th, 2006 04:03 pm
Reheated Turkey
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muckefuckSo I promised snowy_owlet to share some of my thoughts on the novel I'm currently (actively) reading, Barry Unsworth's Rage of the Vulture. I've already posted in aadroma's journal to bitch about his bad Turkish. (In a nutshell: He can't be bothered with consistent anglicisation, diacritics of any sort, vowel harmony, or other niceties.) If only my criticisms stopped there!
First of all, there's the plot. I knew from the beginning it was a see-the-Other's-suffering-through-the-eyes-of-a-white-guy-peripherally-affected kind of set-up, but I didn't think I'd get my nose rubbed in it quite so much. Markham, our protagonist, has returned to Istanbul 12 years after his fiance was murdered during the Hamidian massacres. He's oh-so-tortured as his strolls the grounds of his lavish manor, sups in the Pera Club, or makes the occasional visit to the office to see to some British diplomatic affairs. Somehow, this justifies his forcing himself onto (it's not rape, you see, because they do it again later, so clearly she wanted it) and deflowering the governess (resulting in her disgrace and immediate dismissal, natch) and acting beyond reproach when his trusting wife confronts him on it. Now only does he evince no regret, but her return to England with their only child doesn't even seem to bother him particularly.
The formal parallelism of the novel is such that the affair is bracketed by an Orientalist description of the Sultan's final night with a concubine and Markham's son taking advantage of a prepubscent girl who lives across the alley. It starts out as them making funny faces through a grille in the garden gate and ends up with her lying passively in her playhouse while the boy pulls up her skirt and explores her hairless pubes.
And yet, I'm still reading. Perhaps I'm simply engrossed by the setting and perhaps I'm hoping again hope that the protagonist will get his comeuppance. I'd certainly like to see him suffer some consequences for his assholishness. If he doesn't, you'll know it by the meaty thud of the spine as I fling the damn book against the wall of my bedroom.
snowy_owlet to share some of my thoughts on the novel I'm currently (actively) reading, Barry Unsworth's Rage of the Vulture. I've already posted in aadroma's journal to bitch about his bad Turkish. (In a nutshell: He can't be bothered with consistent anglicisation, diacritics of any sort, vowel harmony, or other niceties.) If only my criticisms stopped there!First of all, there's the plot. I knew from the beginning it was a see-the-Other's-suffering-through-the-eyes-of-a-white-guy-peripherally-affected kind of set-up, but I didn't think I'd get my nose rubbed in it quite so much. Markham, our protagonist, has returned to Istanbul 12 years after his fiance was murdered during the Hamidian massacres. He's oh-so-tortured as his strolls the grounds of his lavish manor, sups in the Pera Club, or makes the occasional visit to the office to see to some British diplomatic affairs. Somehow, this justifies his forcing himself onto (it's not rape, you see, because they do it again later, so clearly she wanted it) and deflowering the governess (resulting in her disgrace and immediate dismissal, natch) and acting beyond reproach when his trusting wife confronts him on it. Now only does he evince no regret, but her return to England with their only child doesn't even seem to bother him particularly.
The formal parallelism of the novel is such that the affair is bracketed by an Orientalist description of the Sultan's final night with a concubine and Markham's son taking advantage of a prepubscent girl who lives across the alley. It starts out as them making funny faces through a grille in the garden gate and ends up with her lying passively in her playhouse while the boy pulls up her skirt and explores her hairless pubes.
And yet, I'm still reading. Perhaps I'm simply engrossed by the setting and perhaps I'm hoping again hope that the protagonist will get his comeuppance. I'd certainly like to see him suffer some consequences for his assholishness. If he doesn't, you'll know it by the meaty thud of the spine as I fling the damn book against the wall of my bedroom.